#weird item

[souplovingwerewolf]

Shoutout to this troll doll mf for being the worst thing my friends and I saw at Target. Why is it just... looking at me and oscillating?

[weirdpngs]

[adobe-outdesign]

hey Neopets can you explain why you have an unreleased petpet that's just a human man on all fours

you can take your time but I do need an answer

[captainpirateface]

Just gonna leave this here...

[rocketbirdie]

bad monster hunter item ideas

[misersdream]

why is he holding a tamato berry

[okayto]

Neopets is so funny right now. It's a 24-year-old website and half its pages haven't been updated in 15 years. Its ostensible audience is children. The core active audience appears to be nostalgic 20-40-year-olds. Old code means no accounts or pets can ever be renamed. The virtual pound is full of virtual pets named after Justin Bieber. It has an economy and inflation is rampant. New ownership is combating this with the stimulus of random super-rare items via daily quests and events, while the equivalent of Neopian Upper-Crust complain that their investments are deflating. You can't say seaweed or grapes.

[always-a-king-or-queen]

The ache will go away, eventually. 

That was what the Professor told them, the day they got back. When they tumbled from the wardrobe in a heap of tangled limbs, and found that the world had been torn from under their feet with all the kindness of a serpent. 

They picked themselves off of the floorboards with smiles plastered on child faces, and sat with the Professor in his study drinking cup after cup of tea. 

But the smiles were fake. The tea was like ash on their tongues. And when they went to bed that night, none of them could sleep in beds that were too foreign, in bodies that had not been their own for years. Instead they grouped into one room and sat on the floor and whispered, late into the night. 

When morning came, Mrs. Macready discovered the four of them asleep in Peter and Edmund’s bedroom, tangled in a heap of pillows and blankets with their arms looped across one another. They woke a few moments after her entry and seemed confused, lost even, staring around the room with pale faces, eyes raking over each framed painting on the wall and across every bit of furniture as if it was foreign to them. “Come to breakfast,” Mrs. Macready said as she turned to go, but inside she wondered. 

For the children’s faces had held the same sadness that she saw sometimes in the Professor’s. A yearning, a shock, a numbness, as if their very hearts had been ripped from their chests.

At breakfast Lucy sat huddled between her brothers, wrapped in a shawl that was much too big for her as she warmed her hands around a mug of hot chocolate. Edmund fidgeted in his seat and kept reaching up to his hair as if to feel for something that was no longer there. Susan pushed her food idly around on her plate with her fork and hummed a strange melody under her breath. And Peter folded his hands beneath his chin and stared at the wall with eyes that seemed much too old for his face. 

It chilled Mrs. Macready to see their silence, their strangeness, when only yesterday they had been running all over the house, pounding through the halls, shouting and laughing in the bedrooms. It was as if something, something terrible and mysterious and lengthy, had occurred yesterday, but surely that could not be. 

She remarked upon it to the Professor, but he only smiled sadly at her and shook his head. “They’ll be all right,” he said, but she wasn’t so sure. 

They seemed so lost. 

Lucy disappeared into one of the rooms later that day, a room that Mrs. Macready knew was bare save for an old wardrobe of the professor’s. She couldn’t imagine what the child would want to go in there for, but children were strange and perhaps she was just playing some game. When Lucy came out again a few minutes later, sobbing and stumbling back down the hall with her hair askew, Mrs. Macready tried to console her, but Lucy found no comfort in her arms. “It wasn’t there,” she kept saying, inconsolable, and wouldn’t stop crying until her siblings came and gathered her in their arms and said in soothing voices, “Perhaps we’ll go back someday, Lu.” 

Go back where, Mrs. Macready wondered? She stepped into the room Lucy had been in later on in the evening and looked around, but there was nothing but dust and an empty space where coats used to hang in the wardrobe. The children must have taken them recently and forgotten to return them, not that it really mattered. They were so old and musty and the Professor had probably forgotten them long ago. But what could have made the child cry so? Try as she might, Mrs. Macready could find no answer, and she left the room dissatisfied and covered in dust. 

Lucy and Edmund and Peter and Susan took tea in the Professor’s room again that night, and the next, and the next, and the next. They slept in Peter and Edmund’s room, then Susan and Lucy’s, then Peter and Edmund’s again and so on, swapping every night till Mrs. Macready wondered how they could possibly get any sleep. The floor couldn’t be comfortable, but it was where she found them, morning after morning. 

Each morning they looked sadder than before, and breakfast was silent. Each afternoon Lucy went into the room with the wardrobe, carrying a little lion figurine Edmund had carved her, and came out crying a little while later. And then one day she didn’t, and went wandering in the woods and fields around the Professor’s house instead. She came back with grassy fingers and a scratch on one cheek and a crown of flowers on her head, but she seemed content. Happy, even. Mrs. Macready heard her singing to herself in a language she’d never heard before as Lucy skipped past her in the hall, leaving flower petals on the floor in her wake. Mrs. Macready couldn’t bring herself to tell the child to pick them up, and instead just left them where they were. 

More days and nights went by. One day it was Peter who went into the room with the wardrobe, bringing with him an old cloak of the Professor’s, and he was gone for quite a while. Thirty or forty minutes, Mrs. Macready would guess. When he came out, his shoulders were straighter and his chin lifted higher, but tears were dried upon his cheeks and his eyes were frightening. Noble and fierce, like the eyes of a king. The cloak still hung about his shoulders and made him seem almost like an adult. 

Peter never went into the wardrobe room again, but Susan did, a few weeks later. She took a dried flower crown inside with her and sat in there at least an hour, and when she came out her hair was so elaborately braided that Mrs. Macready wondered where on earth she had learned it. The flower crown was perched atop her head as she went back down the hall, and she walked so gracefully that she seemed to be floating on the air itself. In spite of her red eyes, she smiled, and seemed content to wander the mansion afterwards, reading or sketching or making delicate jewelry out of little pebbles and dried flowers Lucy brought her from the woods. 

More weeks went by. The children still took tea in the Professor’s study on occasion, but not as often as before. Lucy now went on her daily walks outdoors, and sometimes Peter or Susan, or both of them at once, accompanied her. Edmund stayed upstairs for the most part, reading or writing, keeping quiet and looking paler and sadder by the day. 

Finally he, too, went into the wardrobe room. 

He stayed for hours, hours upon hours. He took nothing in save for a wooden sword he had carved from a stick Lucy brought him from outside, and he didn’t come out again. The shadows lengthened across the hall and the sun sank lower in the sky and finally Mrs. Macready made herself speak quietly to Peter as the boy came out of the Professor’s study. “Your brother has been gone for hours,” she told him crisply, but she was privately alarmed, because Peter’s face shifted into panic and he disappeared upstairs without a word. 

Mrs. Macready followed him silently after around thirty minutes and pressed an ear to the door of the wardrobe room. Voices drifted from beyond. Edmund’s and Peter’s, yes, but she could also hear the soft tones of Lucy and Susan. 

“Why did he send us back?” Edmund was saying. It sounded as if he had been crying.  

Mrs. Macready couldn’t catch the answer, but when the siblings trickled out of the room an hour later, Edmund’s wooden sword was missing, and the flower crown Susan had been wearing lately was gone, and Peter no longer had his old cloak, and Lucy wasn’t carrying her lion figurine, and the four of them had clasped hands and sad, but smiling, faces. 

Mrs. Macready slipped into the room once they were gone and opened the wardrobe, and there at the bottom were the sword and the crown and the cloak and the lion. An offering of sorts, almost, or perhaps just items left there for future use, for whenever they next went into the wardrobe room.  

But they never did, and one day they were gone for good, off home, and the mansion was silent again. And it had been a long time since that morning that Mrs. Macready had found them all piled together in one bedroom, but ever since then they hadn’t quite been children, and she wanted to know why.

She climbed the steps again to the floor of the house where the old wardrobe was, and then went into the room and crossed the floor to the opposite wall. 

When she pulled the wardrobe door open, the four items the Pevensie children had left inside of it were missing. 

And just for a moment, it seemed to her that a cool gust of air brushed her face, coming from the darkness beyond where the missing coats used to hang.

[hedgehog-moss]

I don't often think of issues in terms of generations, e.g boomers vs. millennials, but one thing that does correlate with your generation (in my family at least) is how you feel about unkempt grass. Never had someone from my generation or younger have a negative opinion about the tall grass around my house, while relatives from my parents' generation are so bothered by it. They keep offering to mow when they visit, or even do it as a nice surprise, taking it for granted that everyone wants their grass to be 3cm tall. There are beaten paths from my house to the barn, the coop, etc. so it's not like you're wading through a sea of grass to get there, but that's not enough, the mere presence of untrimmed grass near a human dwelling is offensive and unaesthetic. They'll accept some of my arguments in favour of it but then add "it doesn't look nice though" like that's an established fact and not an opinion...

There's a moral element to it too, like letting nature do its thing is perceived as lazy. Also I once tried to say I find the wildflowers under my window as nice-looking as neat flower beds would be and my uncle said "it makes it look like no one lives there" so maybe it's an existential thing. Affirm your presence in the world by cutting the pre-existing flowers and planting your own. I don't know, I'm not sure what made that generation so hostile to natural-looking vegetation but I'm glad this stance doesn't seem nearly as widely shared among younger people.

[cubbihue]

chimmy changa timmy, why do you hate muffins? am I missing some of the lore?

Timmy doesn't like how they taste. No matter who, how or where they're made, the muffins are all the same to him. It's frustrating because he knows they shouldn't be.

And each time he walks away feeling immense disappointment. Like something should've happened.

He does his best to avoid eating them, but, Timmy found that people react weirdly when you say you don't like muffins. So he eats them anyways. He's unfortunately surrounded by muffin-nuts.

Bitties Series: [Start] > [Previous] > [Next]

[beebfreeb]

The computer! It is my sona character.

[ping-ski]

frick

[icewindandboringhorror]

I made a few new wax seal stamps out of clay (like the ones I did for my worldbuilding stuff forever ago), this time just of random symbols that I thought might look good done in the style of painting over the raised part of the wax or etc. :0c Some of them aren't carved deep enough to really show up that well, but overall they worked okay for being clay lol

[leroibobo]

qabqab shoes originated in syria, possibly in the 14th century. different styles spread across the levant and into ottoman turkey, egypt, and tunisia. these clogs originated for wearing to protect from dirt on the street and inside bathhouses. they later evolved into a fashionable shoe.

the shoe is flat with wooden stilts - up to 26 cm - attached to the bottom. (the name "qabqab" comes from the sound they make when the wearer is walking). they can be decorated with carvings, precious stone inlays, and embroidery. in the past, they were usually associated with wealthy women - the higher the stilts, the more servants a woman would need to help her walk around.

[legokingfisher]

Thinking about the inflatable Dareth autopilot thing again and like what if it becomes a tradition. Every time the bounty is destroyed and rebuilt or repaired after damage, they always make sure there’s a blow up Dareth for the autopilot. There is a stash of spare Dareths in the workshop under the monastery. In DR when Sora is making repairs to the bounty she tests the autopilot to make sure it’s in working order and she sees an inflatable doll with the likeness of Some Guy on it and she’s like what the fuck

[dreadfuldevotee]

literally atp my main desire for iwtv going forward is that they dont tone down the fact that everyone is obsessed with eachother. Yes, because thats how 70 percent of the plot happens in the first place but also because im so petty and the "who is in love with who" arguing makes me want to shoot this place up