#hunger on hillside

[wandringaesthetic]

Once again I must speak of humanity's highest art form, the Japanese Role-Playing Game

So Tales of Berseria ate my free time in a way that it's been a while since a video game did. I just beat it.

I'll get the easy stuff to talk about out of the way first.

Regarding gameplay. I played it on "normal." I should have played it on a higher difficulty, and you should too unless you are just remarkably bad at action RPGs. Starting from about the halfway point I got good enough at chaining combos together with Velvet that the difficulty became trivial. I ignored whole mechanics. I hardly ever bothered switching out characters.

Battles are the thing I like least about the Tales games I've played previously. They mostly translate the "action" part of "Action Role-Playing Game" as "pressing a lot of buttons" in a way that doesn't reward strategy OR skill very much. Berseria isn't an exception here. That said, there's probably a little more to it on a higher difficulty, and it feels a lot more "fair" than its direct predecessor (Tales of Zestiria) did, in that it does reward attacking enemy weaknesses and enemy attacks rarely feel totally unavoidable. The bell-like sound when you successfully KO, stun, etc an enemy and the combo counter going way up in the 50s does feel kinda satisfying in the way I imagine the lights and bells on a slot machine feel satisfying.

Overall visual presentation is uneven. In some ways, it feels like a game of an earlier generation. Like "we are doing as much as we can with these three tile sets, give us a break, let your imagination do some of the work." A few areas, windswept green hillsides and hazy, blooming marshes, are legit beautiful. Dungeons generally feel a little sparse. Towns are bright primary colors vaguely european anime world. Given that the world is being alternately overrun by daemons or under the iron grip of its government and church, the generally bright and sunny aesthetics feel a little discordant and I feel like this story could have benefited from the world backing up its themes and vibes a little better. Don't even necessarily veer away from the anime aesthetics much, just do something with the lighting. One of the moments where the aesthetic best backs up the plot and themes, IMO, comes late in the game. Your heroes are in an abandoned, far northern town. The sun is setting and there's a red glare on the snow....

SO ANYWAY NONE OF THAT IS WHY I WANT TO TALK ABOUT TALES OF BERSERIA.

From one point of view, this is a revenge story. From another point of view, this is a classic JRPG , you're awaking the elemental lords and preventing an ascent to godhood. From another point of view, you are the villain of the piece, on a mission to kill the guy who actually really did save the world, fucking up everything and everyone on your way. You consort with daemons, witches, pirates, and traitors. You eat people.

What is called reason... isn't. What is called selfishness... isn't. The people who are yelling about their feelings are maybe the most reasonable ones and the ones keeping it locked up are absolutely bridled by their emotions. What is luck? What is one's nature? What is free will?

(Why do birds fly?)

The writing, in terms of themes and motifs and meaningful echoes and variations on themes is really, really special. (At least if one understands that this IS a JRPG and this IS an anime and we ARE going to yell about our ideals.) Also the character dialogue (and there is so much dialogue, just SO MUCH both meaningful and unmeaningful this is also a feature of this series hope you enjoy listening to your six new wacky, grimdark anime friends for the next 60 hours) is very good.

Combs, apples, hair, swords, coins, flowers, compasses. Illness, grief, death, loyalty, faith, despair, perfection, children, hunger.

Maybe I'll walk this back when I'm not high on this game's fumes, but as a scholar of JRPGs, I think this is one of the top two or three best WRITTEN of them out there. I feel like I'd have to play it two or three more times to really highlight why, there is so much going on here. Like, if you accept that it is highly, highly character driven and the world's a little underbaked.

Anyway. Good and evil, order and chaos, darkness and light, reason and emotion, all that's illusions and if you must insist on dividing them, if they're not in an ourobourus yin yang, eating each other, keeping each other in check, shit gets fucked real quick.

#this is also the thesis (one of the theses) of the million hours of FFXIV commentary that exist in my brain that I may never get out #tales of berseria

[dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night]

Our Man Flint part nine

TW: religion, Christianity, death wish, homophobia, emotional whump, demonization, self loathing, blades, attempted suicide, referenced suicide, referenced murder, whumper-turned-whumpee, vampire whumpee, referenced vampire whumper

How was Flint meant to survive now? Walking God's earth as a murderer. A monster. A demon. Not worthy to exist on the same earth as mortal men.

He could not die. That, of all curses, was by far the worst. He tried. Of course he tried. Blades, stolen from the camps of the unfortunate men he fed on while they rested, wouldn't so much as scratch his skin, now tougher than the best of iron. Trying to force one through his throat, as he had with the letter opener, proved futile.

Nights spent wide awake honed his loneliness, gazing up at the stars and thinking of what he had tried so hard to scorn. Violent and lustful desires invaded his mind, taking root as firmly as his pine shelter after decades of growth.

Flint craved for the blood of Christian men, longing to creep in through their windows and slit their throat with slender fangs. Then to- no. He could not give that sinful desire true form in his thoughts, lest he cave into the temptation.

Why did the bodies of men hang ethereal in his vision, colored a hazy red with hunger? Nude bodies dancing around blood slicked corpses, laughing high spirited in blazing fire.

The sin he had thought long since vanquished by his faith of heart had grown alongside his fangs and claws. He could no longer bear to exist in such a fashion, caught in the Devil's trap like a helpless fly tangled in the web of a bulbous spider waiting to devour it.

His final decision was a simple one. How terrible that he had not made it weeks before. His victims could have lived, if only his will had been stronger. An eternity in hell seemed far better than eternity in this endless purgatory of inner turmoil, caught between the blood of Christ and flames of damnation.

He had no things to pack, all necessities still within the bowel of the abandoned castle, or the heart of his old home. His only possessions now consisted of makeshift tools, and he had no need for those mortal instruments. He took his casket though, knowing all too well his need of it.

Setting forth from beneath the bowers of his sanctuary, he took advantage of his final opportunity to view God's glorious and divinely created world, though it held no place for him.

Long ago, he had wondered how a demon like Ambrose could care so deeply for holy nature. Now he discovered the answer. Nature truly was the only thing bringing some semblance of comfort to his damnation.

Pine trees rose around him, taller than any church steeple. One had granted him a home, despite his truly despicable nature, and the rest offered him their beauty. Pine cones and needles covered the ground, crushing beneath Flint's boots. A calming and familiar noise for a terror stricken night.

Flint couldn't help but think of how Ambrose would love the flowers scattered across the grassen hillside. Blues, purples, yellows, on and on. Hundreds of breathtaking colors, unblemished by the darkness of night which used to disguise their tender blossoms.

Their scent filled Flint's nose, rivaling the pine which had once drowned them out. So, his heightened senses were good for something other than hunting.

The night clothed Virginia colony came into his sight, silent save for the occasional gust of wind or call of some strange beast. Laundry hung on lines, a cat darted across the street, and dim candle light illuminated a few odd windows, all signs of blessed life amongst the horrors of nighttime.

Flint passed his home, knowing his wife to be inside. He would not inflict his presence nor knowledge of his being onto her. Perhaps she would remarry, finding for herself a good, decent man worthy of her love.

The man Flint had never been, neglecting her in favor of his own pursuits. Leaving home for months at a time without writing, using her as a prop to prove how good of a Christian man he was.

They had never loved each other. Or, if she had loved him, he had been too wrapped up in himself to take notice. Still he wished to rejoice with her over his new found health, as they promised each other they would, should God ever cure Flint of his maladies. But it had been the Devil who took away Flint's daily agony. Not God. So, he would rejoice in nothing.

Though he knew a swift turning on his own terms, aided by a letter opener long forgotten in a drawer, had been a blessing, Flint wished he had but a few more days spent as human, even if they had been not but feverish agony.

The church looked as beautiful as it ever had before, the gift of God's eternal blessed light cast upon a demon stalking the nights of the Virginia colony. Flint stared up at the crucifix on the church steeple, an eternal symbol of God's love for man, and His ultimate sacrifice.

The sacrifice, spilling the blood of His only son over all peoples of the earth to purify them and wash away their sin. Such blessings did not extend to Flint, by any stretch of his hellish imagination. He had need of blood, in either sense. The blood of humanity to quench his demonic thirst, and the blood of the lamb to sanctify him before the Lord.

He knocked on the door of the chapel, knowing he could not enter of his own volition. The great wooden door swung open near instantly, the preacher standing on the other side. How Flint had longed for his face and loathed the idea of gazing upon it.

Timothy had grown so old, yet stayed so young. Smile lines aging his face, but its shape staying the same, framed by mousy hair. He had developed a far more severe disposition since taking his late father's mantle as preacher, lacking the smile Flint had once adored.

"I thought we agreed to never speak to each other again," Timothy said bluntly, seeing no danger in his unexpected guest.

"You have to help me," Flint begged, the first tears since the death of his mother blooming in his eyes. "I went off hunting vampyrs. And as penance for my hubris, I was myself turned."

He grimaced, drawing back his upper lips to show the fangs Ambrose had bestowed upon him. He couldn't not bear to meet the eyes of a man of God.

Timothy gasped, covering his mouth with his hands. Tremors, all too familiar to Flint, wracked his body. Timothy's hands had always shaked, causing him great annoyance, but now they seemed as though they would never lie still.

"If you have any… any love!" Flint screamed, finally voicing that long buried feeling, before continuing in a shaking voice. "Any love left for me, you'll kill me."

Timothy drew forward, as though tugged along on an invisible string. "Flint…"

"I'm sorry." Flint brushed the tears from his eyes. "I'm so sorry. For everything. For being foolish enough to run off hunting vampyrs by myself. For getting myself killed and leaving my wife alone. For all those years ago, falling into the Devil's will and seducing you in his name. For the hell I put you through. I'm so sorry."

He predicted and dreaded many reactions. Timothy would scorn him, surely. Flying off in a fit of rage and rebuking him in the name of Christ, or slamming the chapel door and leave him standing alone on the doorstep.

What he had not expected was for his dearest childhood friend to embrace him, sobbing into his shoulder. His body was imbued with much warmth and strength, crushing Flint in a long needed hug.

Timothy now bore no fear, seeing only his dearest love in Flint's corrupt and monstrous face, devoid of the divinity he had been created in the image of.

"I still love you," Timothy whispered hoarsely. "And I'm sorry I ever let this happen to you. I wish I had been by your side."

In spite of his starvation and the sinful desires taken root in his heart, Flint could not bring himself to harm Timothy. He buried his face in Timothy's chest, pretending they were still reckless teenagers overcome with demonic intent.

They had both gone so astray in their attempts to rid themselves of their shared past.

Flint chased glory and slew monsters, telling tales of his heroism to rid himself of his reputation as a sodomite and blasphemer.

Timothy took up the mantle of a preacher, spreading God's will to the masses and washing away his past sins with the blood of the lamb.

Both of their paths had led them apart, Timothy basking in the light of God and Flint succumbing to the darkness of the Devil, but still they stood together in one embrace, hardly separate people for the time.

They stood for a time in silence, for there was nothing worth saying, until sunlight crept over the homes of the Virgina Colony. Flint scrambled into his casket, lying himself to rest. He clasped his hands over his stomach, not over his heart, which could obstruct Timothy's grim task.

Flint smiled at Timothy, longing to kiss him once more. Then he fell into a quiet slumber, a void of gray where no dream nor poisoned memory dwelled.

Taglist: @hugh-lauries-bald-spot @thedarkmongoose @mx-arsenic @anomalys-taxonomy @devourerofcheesecake @whumpsday @echo-goes-aaa @itsmyworld98 @verysmallandverygay @kisaisacat @whumpycries @whumpshaped @whatwasmyprevioususername @interdimensional-chaos @kira-the-whump-enthusiast @heavenly-whumper @whump-in-the-closet

#Whump #Abraham original: Hot off the press #Vampire whump #Religious whump #Christianity #Vampyrs #Whumper turned whumpee #Death wish #Begging for death #Suicidal whumpee #Historical whump #Fantasy whump #Vampire whumpee #Whump writing

[balladofthewhitehorse]

Old Memories

It was a shock of a blue sky, and the wind carried the promise of a sharp frost and sharper winds. With it, England knew that a cold winter was coming soon and cold winters brought famine, a familiar ache in the pit of his belly even though it had not known hunger in a terribly long time. ‘’Chilly, isn’t it?’’ He spoke in a plaintive voice, mundanity pricking the corners of his mouth into a smile that it just about remembered how to do. Scarf drawn tight, England glanced sheepishly at Wales (muttering something about remembering to pack a hat next time they went up to Scotland’s place - and gloves too), his cheeks flush with embarrassment. ‘’Don’t you ever get tired of it, Scotty?’’ Heavens knew that England would - he practically lived beside his radiator these days, and the cold that closed around him was edged with steel; Something wicked this way came, and his heart thudded in his ears. They were in the middle of a valley, cradled on-all sides by hills that seemed - to England - insurmountable, fringed with grey clouds that suddenly felt like bulwarks that bore down upon the three of them with silent prejudice. It was…unfriendly.

Scotland grunted, shrugging as he held up a pair of binoculars to his chest. A bird was flying overhead - a silhouette that belied the promise of being a raptor of some kind, majestic all the way up so high. ‘’There’s no such thing as bad weather though,’’ He jabbed a finger pointedly towards England, heavy brows furrowed as he stared ruefully at his brother’s shabby coat. ‘’Just bad clothing.’’ He scolded, though Scotland’s voice remained light (fraternal even, in-spite of the growing distance between himself and his brother, England). ‘’What on Earth is this-?’’ Polyester; A dreadful material, in Scotland’s opinion, and he turned up his nose in thinly-veiled disgust. ‘’It’s so thin…no wonder the wind’s fucking cutting through you.’’ Scotland scoffed, the corner of his lips twitching into a vague smirk (He certainly wasn’t cold - having dressed appropriately for it). ‘’We’re cold because it is fucking cold.’’ Chimed in Wales, rolling her eyes as she buried her red-knuckled hands into her pockets; Nothing could be felt anymore, not her ears, nose or toes. It was as though piece by piece, the frost was consuming her slowly. ‘’Aren’t you?’’ She asked incredulously, brows knitting in disbelief. Beside her, England shivered and drew his coat tight around himself - thin-lipped with the cold, Wales casting a sympathetic glance at her youngest brother. ‘’Oh come off it, you’re just bragging.’’ She hissed, head snapping back to Scotland as she prodded him in the side. ‘’Give me your hands-!’’ A grasp, pulling at his gloves. ‘’-You used to get really cold when you were little! Don’t give me that look, Scot-!’’ A scuffle - distracted at the moment, Wales and Scotland scarcely noticed England slowly drifting off to the side. His eyes turned upward to the horizon, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end; The air crackled with a strange energy (Figures could come pouring down the hillsides; Thick rivers of steel and men, this was a perfect spot for an ambush) and England felt something heavy bearing down upon him. ‘’Guys…’’ Whispered a strained voice, his tongue as thick as lead (as thick as blood, pouring into the grass in ropes - from a gash on near the top of his thigh; He couldn’t run as fast now, couldn’t hope to manoeuvre in-time to avoid the axeblow that was coming soon). ‘’I-’’ England’s eyes snapped to the grass in confusion. ‘’I’m not bleeding, am I?’’ 

‘’Eh?’’ Scotland gently pushed Wales’ hands away, peering at England bemusedly. Something ragged lingered in his brother’s expression (torn banners, torn hands - Scotland recognised the sight well, and his jawline tensed in patient anticipation for a snap; Teeth bared, defensive - a dog prepared to bite the hand that fed). ‘’No, no…not at all, Eng.’’ He sighed softly, frowning slightly. ‘’You’re fine, lad.’’ He hummed lightly, clearing his throat sheepishly. ‘’There’s nothing there…’’ A twinkle crept into his eyes, Scotland lifting his chin with a wry smirk on his lips. ‘’You’re not weaselling out of this walk so easily, England.’’ The wind howled across the hill-peaks with a playful roar, tousling hair and tugging at hats with an insistence that made Scotland’s eyes shine. Binoculars swinging from side to side, Scotland shoved his hands into his pockets and raised his chin proudly, marching onwards without much regard for whether his family would be able to keep up. ‘’The view will be worth it all,’’ He boasted. ‘’Shift your arse.’’ ‘’I’m not trying to-’’ England started furiously, trailing off into a soft growl. ‘’Fuck off, I walk plenty.’’ No-longer did the wind howl ill, but tugged at his scarf and hat with a playful insistence. It sang of levity, a weight risen from England’s weary shoulders as he stomped after Scotland, snarling that he’d reach the top of the crest (and from high up, there was a good vantage-point; They would not be ambushed; They would not be swallowed up by the very Earth itself). He scowled quietly to himself, huffing and puffing and scoffing that he was perfectly fine with the pace he was managing and that the view couldn’t really be all that grand, the way Scotland was going on and on about it. ‘’You’ve dragged us all the way out here, in the middle of bumfuck no-’’ 

A sudden pang of dread swallowed his tongue. England swallowed anxiously. They were alone. 

Quietly, Wales padded after him - a shadow at his shoulder, England casting an anxious glance towards her (as if begging her to keep quiet, a phone conversation that she wasn’t meant to hear in the first place; A secret that England thought embarrassing, shameful). ‘’You’ll be fine,’’ She breathed softly, patting him on the back lightly, a rare gesture from England’s childhood - back when the trees used to sprawl across the sky. Before she had tasted steel across her throat. Before she watched England, as she lay dying beneath the trees that sprawled across the sky. ‘’As you say, you’ve walked plenty of times.’’ A conspiratorial smile crept across her lips, across her cheeks as Wales crossed her arms behind her back with a playful hum. ‘’From your armchair to the kitchen.’’ Scotland let out a bark of laughter, as the three of them reached the hill’s summit. Around them, sprawled the scenery - and just as England was winding up a sharp comment of his own, he lifted his binoculars to his eyes. ‘’Guys, belt it-!’’ A silhouette glided effortlessly across the sky, wings cutting a stark shadow against the white clouds. ‘’-It’s an eagle.’’ A rare sight, Scotland couldn’t help feeling mesmerised by it - breathing in slowly and deeply, as if he couldn’t quite appreciate it enough. England’s sharp voice (indignant, defensive; A bristling thing, like a brambleberry bush - anger flashing like shiny berries in the autumn sun) faded away, petering into an equal appreciative silence. ‘’Doesn’t it look majestic?’’ Scotland sighed, feeling warm. Wales stood beside her brother, looking up towards the sky - eyes squinting in the sun. ‘’It is.’’

Slowly - sulkily, glaring at Wales’ back as she joined Scotland - England joined the two of them at last. He looked slowly around, eyes panning over the vast horizon. It sprawled out before him in a patchwork quilt of fields and forests and rolling hills, jagged mountains rising up in the distance; England was not a man who appreciated nature - or at least, he wasn’t before. There were no enemies hiding on the hills, silvery swords rallying in the howling wind, and England exhaled slowly and lengthily. ‘’I suppose it’s alright.’’ He grunted softly, crossing his arms across his chest as he tried to suppress a chill that crept through him (only the cold this time, only the cold). England leaned back towards the open sky, trembling as he slowly closed his eyes against the warmth of the wintry sun. ‘’...Peaceful out there. No trouble, yeah?’’ England mumbled, as if trying to convince himself that there was nothing out there, not anymore. Just him, and his siblings surrounded by miles, upon miles of hills - and they were all getting along.

Just like the old times.

#hws england #hws scotland #hws wales

[dxkk1104]

Shirts were sticking to the back and feet were burning in shoes. The middle of June took everyone by surprise. It had not been so hot for a long time.

Sakura sighed in exhaustion, leaning her palm against the tree trunk, "How much longer, Sasuke-kun?"

Her traveling companion rubbed his sweaty forehead, looking at the surroundings from under squinted eyes.

"Five minutes and we'll reach the next village."

"Oh god. I've had enough." She unbuttoned the top of her blouse, showing more neckline than usual. Sasuke's gaze wandered there, for a moment, because he quickly grunted, handing Sakura a bottle of water "Thanks."

Taking the bottle from Sasuke, their fingers rubbed against each other, causing invisible sparks. Sakura abruptly pushed her hand away, biting her cheeks on the inside. She hoped he hadn't noticed her overly red cheeks, even for this weather. The relationship between them was still... undefined.

Disregarding the feelings and tension floating in the air, she began to drink the cold drink greedily. The thirst was quenched.

"The less stops we make, the faster we'll get to a place with air conditioning." Sasuke whined, moving away.

Sakura ran up to him in three strides, tucking her drink into a backpack and crossing her arms behind her back. The free hand of a friend? A lover? Or perhaps a mere companion - tempted her. All she had to do was straighten her elbow and she could grasp his fingers between hers. But Sakura restrained herself.

They reached the hillside, carefully descending and passing through the village gates. The small town was somewhere on the border of the Land of Fire and the Land of Rivers.

"Welcome." The dignified woman leaned over, greeting Sakura with a smile, but when her gaze fell on Sasuke, she turned away, avoiding eye contact.

The Uchiha was still unwelcome in some places.

Looking back at Sasuke, Sakura noticed that he had lowered his head slightly, hiding his violet eye behind a curtain of hair.

"Sasuke-kun." She caught his sleeve, stopping him in mid-step.

"Nothing happened." he wanted to move on, leaving the subject behind.

"Sasuke-kun..." Sakura's pleading tone did not allow him to go further, however. He stopped and she brushed his fringe away, running her thumb gently over his eyelid (she had no idea how that worked on him) "Your past doesn't define what kind of person you are now."

"But it continues to be a part of my life." he closed his eyes.

Sakura tilted her head, smiling softly "These people don't know you like I do. And to me, you are..." she held her breath, looking into his black irises, now open wider than usual, "a wonderful man. Remember that. You have done and will do more for this world than everyone here." she took a step back, looking at the sincere gratitude painted in his eyes "Come on," she relaxed the atmosphere a little, "let's find that inn already. I'm falling from exhaustion and hunger."

They moved on without even noticing (or wanting to spoil the moment) their joined hands. Two months of travel had brought them inextricably close, but not enough to confess anything more to each other.

Every house they passed was decorated with lots of flowers all around, a stone path leading to the door and small trees on each side. People were eager to get outside, taking advantage of the nice weather - children swimming in pools, adults tending gardens or sunbathing. Only Sakura and Sasuke were unhappy with today's temperature.

"There," he snapped her out of her reverie, leading her to the door, which was wide open.

Stepping inside, the first thing that caught her attention was the beautiful woman sitting behind the counter. Her long brown hair fell in puffs and her long dress framed her shapely body. As soon as she noticed their arrival and her gaze fell on Sasuke she straightened up, tossing a strand behind her ear. The large eyes became even larger; on purpose.

Sakura knew perfectly well what this woman was doing. And she didn't like it. Although, did she have the right to? Theoretically, she and Sasuke weren't together.

"One room."

He placed the pouch on the table, with the same expression on his face as usual. The woman placed the book in front of him along with a pen.

"Please sign here."

Sasuke made a quick signature, and the receptionist's gaze never left his face for a moment. Sakura bit her cheeks, fighting the feeling, which was incorrect at the moment. She moved closer to her companion, practically touching her shoulder to his. She and Sasuke had always kept a safe distance; an invisible line kept them from taking even a step further, though they both strongly desired it.

Handing her the pen, Sakura intentionally rubbed his thumb with her index finger, smiling sweetly at him. She hoped the woman noticed.

The receptionist took the book, sending them both a polite glance, "Enjoy your stay, Sasuke," his name pronounced with a gentleness that a normal person would not show to a regular guest, "Sakura."

The keys landed on the tabletop, and Sasuke took them and nodded, moving away with his friend. Trying not to react too strongly, Sakura intertwined her hands in front of her, just coming close (too close) to him.

They stepped inside - a plain, rather intimate room with two futons on either side.

"What do you want to eat?” He asked, putting his bag aside.

"I'll get some sleep first, Sasuke-kun." She pulled out her clothes to change, "Otherwise I'd fall asleep while eating." She laughed weakly, yawning "And what are you going to do?"

"I have a lot of letters from Kakashi to check."

Sasuke spread out on the floor, placing the scrolls on the table. From the corner of his eye, he watched Sakura disappear into the bathroom and breathed a sigh of relief. Her close presence made him thirsty. Emotions were boiling inside, very extreme and some tactless (because it wasn't right to think that way, even if the woman was stimulating various parts of his body, right?) that he had to keep to himself. Sasuke waited for Sakura to define what they were.

In his mind, he tried to read the words written by his former sensei, but the green eyes, rosy cheeks and pink hair etched into his memory kept him guessing.

Sasuke was sinking.

—

Sakura woke up after two hours. The sun had already hidden behind the horizon, the stars had come to greet the people. Light from torches streamed in through the parted curtains. She opened her eyes, turning to the other side. Her gaze fell on Sasuke sitting and looking out the window.

She yawned louder than she intended, catching the man's attention. He smiled softly.

"I ordered us food. Your favorite."

"Thank you." She slid out of the futon.

"Did you sleep well?"

Sasuke rose as well, taking a small pillow and placing it next to the table. Sakura knelt down on it.

"Yes." he joined her, sitting down practically next to her "Kakashi wrote something important?"

"No. The same as usual. He asked how we were doing."

"And what did you write back to him?"

"All good."

"Just that?" Sakura looked at him brokenly; Sasuke confirmed "Next time, leave the letter writing to me." She nudged him lightly with her elbow, smiling broadly.

Sakura's laughter triggered an immediate reaction in him. His hand hovered in the air, almost touching her forehead, but then the same woman from the front desk entered the room, carrying a tray of food.

"I hope I didn't disturb anything." She blinked her eyes slowly "I brought your order." She turned to Sasuke, ignoring Sakura's wry gaze.

The woman set the plates on the table, sneaking glances at Uchiha. Once again, a feeling of jealousy lingered in her stomach. Sakura bit her lip in anger - just who was she angry at? Herself or the woman? The receptionist, after all, did not know who they were to each other. Sakura's signals might have been too weak. And even though, again, she knew she shouldn't, because Sasuke was still a free person (perhaps), she moved closer to him, placing her hand on his knee.

Her touch sent shivers throughout his body. His heart was beating wildly, but he didn't drop his facade.

"Will there be anything else?"

"That's enough." Sakura said before Sasuke could speak.

The woman now turned attention to her, nodding politely and leaving.

"Something wrong?" he asked, sensing the tension in the air.

Taking the sake, she poured herself a glass and drank immediately, only able to answer him afterwards, "I feel great."

They got down to eating. It was Sakura, as usual, who talked a lot more, causing the heat to escape from the food, becoming cold. They were having a nice time, and the woman fled from her mind as soon as Sasuke located his eyes on her face. He stared at her so hard that she was beginning to think she might have something on her face.

And in fact, she had.

Raising his hand, Sasuke took a piece of rice off the corner of her mouth, her cheeks flamed. She didn't know if she should say something or not.

"I haven't seen any towels other than the ones in the bathroom." he began, unconcerned with the earlier situation "I'll go get two, then we can use the onsen."

"Together?" she asked dumbly.

"A... do you want separately?"

"No." She lowered her gaze downwards, saying quietly "Together will be fine."

Sasuke left, walking to the reception desk, and Sakura piled the dishes, trying to sort out her thoughts. Thousands of different emotions were coursing through her body.

Taking a deep breath she left the room, silently following Sasuke's steps. A quiet conversation reached her ears. Sakura looked out from behind the wall, taking a single step, then stood as if transfixed hearing the last words.

"... on a date?"

This was already too much. No one was going to hit on her man.

Her. Man.

What was going on with her?

"I've already—" before Sasuke had time to finish his sentence Sakura stood beside him, grabbing his arm.

His muscles tensed momentarily, his gaze fixed only on her eyes.

"Any problem with the towels?" she asked in an overly pleasant voice.

"No, I'll get them right away."

"Ah, that's fine. Sorry for the problems, we're just frustrated. Our honeymoon is delayed." she explained, lying all too well.

The woman quieted down momentarily, walking away and returning with towels, wishing them a good night. Sakura felt ashamed. She hadn't done this before, and she shouldn't do it now. Sasuke had a choice, she didn't have to be one.

As quickly as she could she walked back into the room, hiding her face in her hands when Sasuke was right behind her.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't—'"

"I don't have anything for you. I didn't know."

Sakura parted her lips, not understanding anything now.

"What?"

"What?"

"Sasuke-kun, I lied to her..."

"Ah." He nodded, putting his hand in a pocket.

"You thought..." she squinted her eyes, smiling teasingly.

"I wasn't thinking of anything."

"And I think—"

"Were you jealous?" he changed the subject, scaring Sakura.

"...No." she stammered

"You sure? Look at me, Sakura."

She lifted her head, unable to take her eyes off him. Something had changed in him "What if I was?" she asked uncertainly, looking at his lips for too long.

Sasuke ran his tongue over his teeth.

"I liked it."

"You like me?"

He leaned in, his breath brushing her lips "Are you just finding out?"

#sakura haruno #sakura uchiha #sssnippetaday #ss fic #ss fanfiction #blank period #sasusaku

[theantonian]

JULIUS CAESAR AND THE CILICIAN PIRATES

In 75 BC, on his way to Rhodes to study Oratory, Caesar had the misfortune to be captured by Cilician pirates near the little island of Pharmacusa (Fermaco) off the coast of Asia Minor. These men at once demanded a ransom of twenty talents, but with great bravado their elegant young captive laughed at their ignorance of his social importance, and, telling them that he was worth at least fifty, dispatched his attendants to raise the larger sum at Miletus and other not distant cities where his family was known* For five or six weeks he lived in the pirates' camp, treating his bloodthirsty captors with such a mixture of insolence and patronizing banter that it is a marvel his throat was not cut. He insisted upon joining in their sports and exercises, running races with them and jeering at them for not being able to beat him. Around the camp-fire at night he used to read them his own poetry, and when they did not applaud he smacked their heads and called them illiterate savages; or, when he wished to sleep, he sent them peremptory orders to make less noise. At length his messengers returned bringing the ransom-money; and thereupon Caesar bade the pirates goodbye, cheerily promising them that he would come back one day and have them all crucified, at which they laughed heartily, having conceived quite a liking for the audacious fellow. But he meant what he said, and having raised a small force at the port of Miletus, sailed back to the island, took the pirates by surprise, brought them in chains to Pergamus, and there, not waiting for authorization from the Roman governor, had them all crucified. But having gone to jeer at them as they hung on their forest of crosses on the hillside outside the city, he was unexpectedly touched by their sufferings which, in the ordinary course of events, would have lasted for several days until hunger, thirst, and exposure had slowly killed them; and he therefore very kindly ordered his men to get up on ladders and cut all their throats. He then went his way to Rhodes, where he entered the school of Apollonius the orator.

Source:

Plutarch's Life of Julius Caesar

Julius Caesar, Encyclopædia Britannica

#gaius julius caesar #julius caesar #rome #ancient rome #roman history #roman republic #roman empire #plutarch #history

[elypiphoros]

The Answer

“Do you ever miss it?” 

Danian asks, raising a tea cup to his lips, its handle pinched delicately between two gloved fingers. The silence of his vieran consort causes him to give her a side-eyed glance, his eye partially obscured by a long lock of light brown hair, the rest of which was tied behind his back in a loose ponytail. For the occasion, he wore a long gray embroidered coat over a black form-fitting vest, short gloves, and long boots, which his leggings were tucked into. His entire outfit was finely crafted by the best tailors and leather-workers in the highlands. Despite his hyruan years, the viera thinks he is incredibly handsome, his youthful appearance defying the thin wrinkles that had started to form since she had known him.

“Miss…what?” the viera replies, tilting her head ever so slightly at his gaze, giving a slight smile. The smile was one of curiosity, as the question had broken the lingering silence between them. A breeze blew a lock of her silvery-blue hair across her face, a few strands sticking between her lips, causing her to brush it away.

They are both dressed in finery, the viera in a lavender-colored dress made by a tailor on Danian’s commission. The dress was unlike anything she had worn before, its soft fabrics caressing her skin in a way she had not thought possible, a soft leather belt binding her waist. Upon her feet, she wore long thigh boots that felt as if she had been walking on clouds. The outfit was warmer than she was used to, but she thought she could adjust. Danian had insisted that she wear it this day, and the sight of her in it, with her hair braided and flowers tied in, took his breath away, though he was naught to admit it outright. The freckles on her face stand out in the evening sun, inlaid in a face that he thinks is the most beautiful in the land.

“The Range…your homeland.” Danian said, placing the teacup back in its place on the saucer in front of him. The saucer, as well as the two of them, sit on a blue blanket on a hillside, overlooking the northern Dalmascan highlands. The great mountains that bordered Dalmasca and the Skatay Range rested in the horizon. The evening sun was careening ever slowly behind the peaks of the mountain, bathing the both of them in a soft yellow. Everything between them and the mountains is the domain of the Fal’thahn lordship, Danian’s forefathers. They had always had peaceful relations with the viera beyond the mountains. But the peace of both people was now shaken by invaders from the west. It was a land that Danian feared he may not have much longer.

The viera did not respond right away, mulling about the question in her head for a while. She examines him, his eyes seemingly desperate for an answer. Despite his station, and having so much, his eyes hunger for something…else. Yearning to ask a different question, one much more weighty than a concern for the homesickness of his vieran consort. Something that he had trouble expressing, yet secretly pines for with all of his heart. Something made of glass, that he was all but holding out in front of her with hands of steel, that the weight of her answer could shatter, and destroy him. But to her, the answer was simple and obvious, as light as a feather.

She had lived in his lands for nearly fifteen years now, and known him for just as long. He welcomed her and her sister as a guest, protecting them, sheltering them, fostering them as they restarted their lives in Dalmasca. He had always been even, patient, caring, not just to them, but everyone around him. Always been a man of honor, standing against the storm, hoping to make not only his father, but his subjects proud. Under his stern exterior was a man that cared, possibly too much, but had trouble showing it. But she felt it, she felt him, all this time. His words, his touch, the way he addressed her. There was always something more. Something he was, perhaps, too afraid to admit. Something that was blinded by his deep fear, that he and his family line would probably not exist much longer. His question wasn’t one of the homesickness of his consort. She had been brought here, in finery and flowers, for something much, much more.

Without a word, the viera rose slowly, turning her gaze to the vast field down the hill from them. Tall grass covers the hillside and fields before them, swaying gently in the breeze. Danian looks up at her now-towering figure, confusion on his face. She holds out her hand to him, and he takes it, rising to meet her. She offers him a half glance, with a silent laugh and warm smile, then pulls him with her, down the hill. He expresses his confusion audibly, but upon doing so, the viera pulls on his arm harder, breaking out into a jog as the two begin descending the hill together faster and faster. They come to a small valley at the far bottom of the hill, partially obscured by shadows from the evening sun. A bit of privacy, with only the mountains visible from a gap between the two hillsides.

The pair slow to a stop, and the viera turns to Danian, taking his other hand. She stood half a fulm taller than him in height, yet the incline he stood upon made him have to look down at her. A stiff breeze from the valley blows her braided hair to and fro, as she looks up at him, her face bright, attempting to find her words. Danian, finally realizing what was happening, holds her hands gently, a soft smile forming on his face as well.

“You promised me a name.” The viera says, “…answer my question first, and then I will answer yours. I’ve been waiting so long.”

Danian gazes off in the direction of the sun a moment, the rays over the mountain causing him to squint. It was obviously something he had been thinking of for a long time. She had gone nameless since fleeing the Range, giving up her forest name. It was something she had asked him to do for her, and something that he had promised her years ago: to give her a name. He looked back at her with a slight grin, and a gleam in his eye. He didn’t have to think long, she thought.

“Elysea.”

“Elysea…” She repeats the name to herself, taking it in, making it her own.

“Because, to me, you are a gift from the heavens.”

With a tightened grip and a stiff yank, Elysea pulls him from his high-ground, and pushes into him, their lips meeting in a warm, soft kiss. She pushes her body into him, causing him to stumble back into the tall grass of the steep hillside, and her on top of him. They cared naught for the condition of the finery amongst the dirt and underbrush. They cared naught for the invaders on their doorstep, threatening their way of life, threatening to take everything away from them. Danian cared naught what others would think: an unmarried Dalmascan lord with his mysterious vieran consort. Elysea cared naught for her younger sister, who’s safety she was in constant fear of. Not tonight. The only thing that mattered at that moment was each other. For this moment, they would have each other, at last.

The sun’s rays disappeared over the hillside, as the world started to become dark. The entwined couple were framed on the land inside a small clearing they had inadvertently made together amongst the tall grass they had fallen into earlier. Elysea traces the back of her fingernails down Danian’s collar bone and bare chest as it rises and falls. He holds her close, the pair’s breathing finally coming down from the exertion they had just experienced. He watches the dark orange sky as stars begin to illuminate in the absence of the sun, then looks down to Elysea with a soft smile on his face. 

She sensed his gaze, and brought her flushed face up to meet his. She thinks she had made a mess of him, his long hair now loose, littered with bits of grass, and she chuckles at the thought of what she must look like at the moment. The two shared a kiss again. Elysea then props herself up on her elbow, breaking away from his embrace, enough to get a glimpse of the darkened mountains of the Range in the far distance past him. She stares for a long moment, before breaking the silence one last time.

“No.”

A cheesy little romantic short flashback/lore story that I wrote today, about her relationship with Danian, as well as how she got her "city name", Elysea. I thought it was good enough to post.

Life is short. Love as much as you can before it's over <3

#oc: elysea aster #elypiphoros rp #elypiphoros lore #ffxiv #ffxiv roleplay #ffxiv viera

[joeys-piano]

WIP Preview // Scene Descriptions and Setting A Mood

A short excerpt from a fic I'm working on for the Blue Eye Samurai fandom. Some time in October or November, I really started working on my scene descriptions because it's often the last thing I'm thinking about as I'm working. So I'm approaching backgrounds differently nowadays with having them be their own characters within the story, and it's made it much more fun and easier to get better at as a skill.

I think watching traditional and digital artists and their approaches to backgrounds has also helped a lot. There's transferable stuff everywhere, y'all.

The fishing goddess’s humble shrine at the bottom of Kohama Village sits astutely over a hillside if sitting on it is not required. It rides the tall grass veering north, and the short ones to the south, and Wakayama breaks the east, and the earth itself is on the west. It is an old man—an old woman—kneeling cross-legged on a slant. It is a boy of fifty years scratching fiercely to the bone. It is a daughter, not a girl, waiting some day for a knife. As none would think twice about the blade, as none would ever with a gun put in the tiny hands of a boy sent to battle for his lord. The shrine is modest—as in small. One tatami could fit another. Somewhat useful will also work. And no, not at all.  There was once a dragon in the middle, but now it looks more like a candle. There was once the roofing, and the pillars, and the potted dishes for the incense. But now it blends more to a market with several dishes seeking coins. The once-dragon peddles wishes none could seek out nor afford. Unless the Shogunate, local lords, or the equivalence of a god’s, or say the goddess catches wind—and wrings its neck out. But they won’t. Because they won’t—and that was just it. The poor are go-ishi across a board: the men are pieces, the boys are pieces, and the women are merely pieces, and their own daughters are other pieces being traded for divine. Or for monsters. The devils. All and the men and gods fill their pockets. The poor are the white beads and the black beads and the flicked ones in the game; and the once-dragon under Sui-ō lines her pocket with their hunger, it seems to follow them from its post with an empty, cunning stare.

#joey speaks #writeblr #writing community #am writing #blue eye samurai #bes

[fizzingwizard]

To me, this is just the most Snufkin-ish poem. Not one I think he'd necessarily write, but the spirit of it is the well his art springs from. Actually, I think this poem just embodies the spirit of the Moomin novels in general.

"Summer Story" Mary Oliver

When the hummingbird sinks its face into the trumpet vine, into the funnels

of the blossoms, and the tongue leaps out and throbs,

I am scorched to realize once again how many small, available things are in this world

that aren't pieces of gold or power - that nobody owns

or could buy even for a hillside of money - that just float about the world, or drift over the fields, or into the gardens, and into the tents of the vines, and now here I am

spending my time, as the saying goes, watching until the watching turns into feeling so that I feel I am myself

a small bird with a terrible hunger, with a thin beak probing and dipping and a heart that races so fast

it is only a heartbeat ahead of breaking - and I am the hunger and the assuagment, and also I am the leaves and the blossoms, and, like them, I am full of delight, and shaking.

#mary oliver #poetry #moomin #i dont suppose i should really tag this moomin lol its not related anywhere but in my head #but i shall tag it all the same #and yeah this'll definitely end up one of the quotes in my fics... maybe multiple times

[everthewip]

i said i want to pick a new WIP to focus on for a bit and I meant it, but indecisive as I am, I'm gonna need some help. So I'm making a poll. I don't have room to describe each snippet in the poll so im just numbering them and you can read the snippets below the cut

please don't feel obligated, but if you'd like to read and vote to help me out, i would much appreciate it!

These snippets will be very short because I don't want to make this lengthier than it needs to be, but if you'd rather read more let me know and I'll post more.

1. Music echoed from the city center as she guided me away from the crowds. I did not recognize the street she took. Electricity was in short supply and the magic had been focused on the festival, so the street lanterns were dark and cold. There is a reason folk go missing at this time of year; a reason these poorer districts see a rise in theft and murder every festival. Danger always lurked in shadows, but she moved through the darkness like a wraith; swift, silent, and sure of every step. Her hand squeezed mine as if she feared losing me, a silent challenge to the night – I dare you to steal her from me. My fingers were growing numb. My head was heavy from the festival drinks, my thoughts twisted by incense that wafted from the tents of fortune tellers and witches...

2.

Autumn leaves had covered the forest floor, keeping a soft cushion beneath the bare soles of her feet. It was a comfort she did not expect to last. Too soon the trees began to grow sparse, the blanket of leaves giving way to cold dirt and pebbles. Along the border of the woods was a rocky hillside that stretched wide in both directions. Rather than attempt to find a way around, she gritted her teeth and began the ascent over it. Tough as her feet were they could not withstand the sharp edges of the rocks. Blood warmed the cold stone as they cut into her, but she did not stop or give in to the pain. The sooner she passed over the rocky terrain the better.  On the other side lay a valley, surrounded on all edges by the forest. Tall, yellowed grass swayed in the afternoon wind as mountain peaks loomed to the near east. On the northern end of the valley rose a writhing snake of smoke, its source a low-burning campfire. A wagon was stationed near it, along with three figures sitting around the flames. Two horses grazed nearby.  There was a scent in the air, of burning wood and fried meat. For a while she stood there, letting the blood of her feet seep into the grass, watching the distant figures. Her tongue watered at the scents, stirring the hunger rooted so deeply in her belly - in her bones. 

3. They had been dead for three days, of this I am certain. The last threads of their lives still linger; as thin and fragile as the first string in a spiders trap, or the broken wisps of a long abandoned cobweb. I must brush these threads aside to view the bodies more closely, but they stick and cling to my fingers and hair. “Go on,” I urge, only somewhat agitated. “There's no point in staying now.” But they do stay, always; they never listen. I cannot blame them. There are dark things in the shadows, hiding in the crevices of life and death - waiting for the stray thread of a soul to drift onto their tongues, pinned between their teeth. The forest is hushed here and the trees stir without wind, disturbed by the bulk of unseen forms; stalking, waiting. Three days. My stomach turns to think these last few threads are all that remain, to imagine the rest have already been devoured. Perhaps I will let them cling to me after all.

4. The hummingbirds would go no further. Tyah studied the dark pass ahead, where low branches and thorny shrubs curved inward to form a tunnel. The trees were massive this deep within the ancient forest and little sunlight could pierce the near impenetrable canopy high above. No light at all seemed capable of illuminating the tunnel. The young scout could not blame the hummingbirds for pausing here, where scattered ribbons of thin light could still caress the forest floor. “We'll continue on foot,” Rysen stated as he dismounted. “And keep your wings down, lest they snag on the brambles.” Tyah shuddered at the thought and did as ordered, resting her wings against her back before she dismounted, stumbling a little on her landing. A quick glance toward Rysen proved he hadn't noticed, his focus set on the dark tunnel ahead. She exhaled a relieved sigh and adjusted her belted quiver. ... “What will we do if they refuse to help us?” Even in a whisper, her question seemed too loud, bouncing off the darkness as if it were solid. “We will leave, as swiftly as we can, and hope the horrors of the Darkbrier are no more than children's tales.”

#writeblr #wips poll

[frmartinshomiliesandreflections]

12th April >> Fr. Martin's Reflections / Homilies on Today's Mass Readings for Friday, Second Week of Easter (Inc. John 6:1-15): ‘As many as five thousand sat down’.

Friday, Second Week of Easter

Gospel (Except USA) John 6:1-15 The feeding of the five thousand,

Jesus went off to the other side of the Sea of Galilee – or of Tiberias – and a large crowd followed him, impressed by the signs he gave by curing the sick. Jesus climbed the hillside, and sat down there with his disciples. It was shortly before the Jewish feast of Passover. Looking up, Jesus saw the crowds approaching and said to Philip, ‘Where can we buy some bread for these people to eat?’ He only said this to test Philip; he himself knew exactly what he was going to do. Philip answered, ‘Two hundred denarii would only buy enough to give them a small piece each.’ One of his disciples, Andrew, Simon Peter’s brother, said, ‘There is a small boy here with five barley loaves and two fish; but what is that between so many?’ Jesus said to them, ‘Make the people sit down.’ There was plenty of grass there, and as many as five thousand men sat down. Then Jesus took the loaves, gave thanks, and gave them out to all who were sitting ready; he then did the same with the fish, giving out as much as was wanted. When they had eaten enough he said to the disciples, ‘Pick up the pieces left over, so that nothing gets wasted.’ So they picked them up, and filled twelve hampers with scraps left over from the meal of five barley loaves. The people, seeing this sign that he had given, said, ‘This really is the prophet who is to come into the world.’ Jesus, who could see they were about to come and take him by force and make him king, escaped back to the hills by himself.

Gospel (USA) John 6:1-15 Jesus distributed to those who were reclining as much as they wanted.

Jesus went across the Sea of Galilee. A large crowd followed him, because they saw the signs he was performing on the sick. Jesus went up on the mountain, and there he sat down with his disciples. The Jewish feast of Passover was near. When Jesus raised his eyes and saw that a large crowd was coming to him, he said to Philip, “Where can we buy enough food for them to eat?” He said this to test him, because he himself knew what he was going to do. Philip answered him, “Two hundred days’ wages worth of food would not be enough for each of them to have a little.” One of his disciples, Andrew, the brother of Simon Peter, said to him, “There is a boy here who has five barley loaves and two fish; but what good are these for so many?” Jesus said, “Have the people recline.” Now there was a great deal of grass in that place. So the men reclined, about five thousand in number. Then Jesus took the loaves, gave thanks, and distributed them to those who were reclining, and also as much of the fish as they wanted. When they had had their fill, he said to his disciples, “Gather the fragments left over, so that nothing will be wasted.” So they collected them, and filled twelve wicker baskets with fragments from the five barley loaves that had been more than they could eat. When the people saw the sign he had done, they said, “This is truly the Prophet, the one who is to come into the world.” Since Jesus knew that they were going to come and carry him off to make him king, he withdrew again to the mountain alone.

Reflections (8)

(i) Friday, Second Week of Easter

The question Jesus asks towards the beginning of this gospel reading suggests that he fully intends to satisfy the physical hunger of the crowd whom he had been teaching, ‘Where can we buy some bread for these people to eat?’ The disciples, Philip and Andrew, didn’t think it was humanly possible to feed such a crowd, as is clear from the somewhat despairing questions they asked, ‘Where can we buy some bread for these people to eat?’ and ‘There is a small boy here with five barley loaves and two fish, but what is that between so many?’ Andrew didn’t see the presence of the small boy with his few loaves and fish as having any significance when it comes to feeding this very large crowd. However, Jesus saw the small boy and his few resources in a very different way. He knew he could work powerfully through the boy’s meagre resources if he was prepared to part with them. The small boy clearly was prepared to part with them, because Jesus went on to feed the crowd with his five barley loaves and two fish. Indeed, he fed the crowd abundantly because there were twelve baskets of scraps collected by the disciples afterwards. The gospel reading reminds us that if we are willing to place our own human resources at the Lord’s disposal, meagre as they may seem to us, he will be able to work through them in ways that gwill o beyond all our expectations. When we give him our resources of time, energy, he will nourish the lives of others through us. Like Andrew, we might be tempted to think that we have nothing of value that the Lord could work with. Yet, as Saint Paul says in one of his letters, the Lord’s power is often made perfect in weakness.

And/Or

(ii) Friday, Second Week of Easter

I remember some people saying recently when they heard this very familiar gospel story again that prior to this they hadn’t really paid much attention to the presence of the small boy. We tend to focus on Jesus and his disciples, and on the crowd. Yet, the small boy with his five barley loaves and two fish is the key to what happens. In John’s version of this episode, which we have just heard, he is first referred to by Andrew, Simon Peter’s brother, but he is referred to in a way which suggests his relative insignificance, ‘There is a small boy here with five loaves and two fish; but what is that between so many?’ However, Jesus does not consider the presence of this small boy with his meagre resources to be insignificant. Jesus knows that if the boy is prepared to part with his precious little store, great things can happen. Indeed, according to the gospel reading, Jesus goes on to satisfy the hunger of the crowd with the five loaves and two fish of this small boy. Perhaps we can never know what exactly happened on that day, but the gospel reading is suggesting that the Lord can work powerfully through what are apparently very insignificant resources, a small boy and his few loaves and fish. Our human resources, inadequate though they may be, matter a great deal to the Lord. If we offer our own meagre resources to him, he can enhance them beyond all our expectations. All the Lord asks is that we are generous with what we have, little as that may be, and he will work through us in ways that will surprise us. The Lord’s way of working is different to how the world works. As Saint Paul came to realize, the Lord’s power is often made perfect in weakness.

And/Or

(iii) Friday, Second Week of Easter

When we are faced with a challenge or a problem the way we speak about it can be very important. We can speak about it in a way that deflates us and drains us of energy or we can speak about it in a way that makes us hopeful and inspires us. In this morning’s gospel reading, Jesus sees crowds coming towards him. Seeing that they were in need of food, he asked Philip where food could be bought to give them something to eat. Philip’s response to Jesus showed that he felt overwhelmed by the problem. The words he used were very defeatist, ‘Two hundred denarii would only buy enough to give them a small piece each’. When Andrew chimed in, he too spoke in a way that conveyed a kind of hopelessness. Noticing that there was one small boy with five barley loaves and two fish, he asked, ‘What is that between so many?’ However, the way Jesus spoke in response to the problem was much more inspirational. He gave instructions to the disciples, he prayed aloud to God, and somehow the crowd got fed with the young boy’s small fare. We can all be a little bit like the disciples before the challenges that life throw up. We can become limp before it all. The gospel reading this morning encourages us to remain hopeful even in the face of situations that seem very unpromising. The reading suggests that the Lord can work in surprising ways in situations that seem daunting. Saint Paul seems to have a very strong sense of how the Lord can work powerfully in weakness. That is why he could say in his letter to the Philippians, a little written from prison, from a very unpromising situation, ‘I can do all things through him who strengthens me’.

And/Or

(iv) Friday, Second Week of Easter

Jesus and his disciples found themselves before a situation that seemed beyond their ability to deal with. Philip and Andrew were both at a loss. Their inclination was to do nothing because the situation seemed hopeless. Where could food be found to feed such a crowd? Jesus knew that something could be done and he involved his disciples in doing what could be done, calling on them to make the people sit down and then asking them to collect the pieces that were left over when everyone had eaten. With the Lord’s help what seemed impossible became possible. The gospel reading suggests that the Lord can work powerfully through meagre resources. Like the disciples, we can feel hopeless before certain situations. We find it very hard to get started. It all seems too much for us. Yet, there is always something we can do, no matter how small. It may seem as small as the two barley loaves and five fish, but the Lord can work powerfully through our efforts, small as they may seem to us. We can always ask the Lord to do what he can with the little that we have and if we do that we may discover, like the disciples, that something wonderful happens.

And/Or

(v) Friday, Second Week of Easter

In this morning’s gospel reading we find Jesus and his disciples faced with a hungry crowd and little or no means of feeding them. In this situation different people reacted in different ways. Philip made a calculation: on the basis of the number of people and the amount of money available to buy food, and decided that nothing could be done. Andrew recognized that one of the crowd had a small amount of food but he dismissed this small resource as of no value. There were two other reactions in the story. There is the reaction of the small boy who willing gave to Jesus the few pieces of food that he had. This is the reaction of the generous person, of the one who is prepared to give all he or she has, even though it appears to be far less than what is needed. He gave all he had to give. Then there is the reaction of Jesus himself. He took the few resources that the young boy was generous enough to part with and, having prayed the prayer of thanksgiving to God over these small pieces of food, he somehow fed the enormous crowd. The gospel teaches us that if we give generously from our resources to others, the Lord will work powerfully through those resources, small as they may seem to us. 

And/Or

(vi) Friday, Second Week of Easter

It is difficult to know exactly what happened that day in the wilderness when Jesus and his disciples found themselves before a large hungry crowd. However, the message that the evangelist seeks to communicate through his telling of that event is reasonably clear. Jesus is presented as working powerfully through very meagre resources. He feeds a multitude with five loaves and two fish. The Lord can work powerfully through our own rather limited resources, if we are generous with those resources and place them at the Lord’s disposal. A little can go a long way when it is placed in the hands of the Lord. Saint Paul expresses that truth in these terms: ‘God’s power is made perfect in weakness’. The tendency of Philip and Andrew in the gospel story was to complain about the hopelessness of the situation, ‘Two hundred denarii would not buy enough… What is that between so many?’ We are all prone to throwing our hands up to the heavens in exasperation and even despair. The gospel reading calls on us rather to have an expectant faith, a faith in the Lord’s power to work wonders with even the little that we give him.

And/Or

(vii) Friday, Second Week of Easter

In this morning’s gospel reading, Andrew, noticing that a small boy has give barley loaves and two fish, asks the question, ‘What is that between so many?’ His assessment was that the resources available were much too small to meet the need. We can all find ourselves asking a similar kind of question to Andrew, ‘What is that between so many?’ We see some need or other and we recognize that our own personal resources or those of the group are not sufficient to meet the need. Andrew, Philip and the other disciples went on to discover that the Lord worked powerfully in and through the few resources that the small boy made available. The hunger of the crowd was satisfied and there was food left over. The gospel reading reminds us that the Lord can work powerfully through humble and meagre resources if they are made available to him. We are all aware of our limitations, our weaknesses, and, yet, we are not always so aware of the many ways that the Lord can work through us, in spite of that, if we trust him to do so. The small amount of food that the boy had was not enough to feed the crowd in itself, and, yet, Jesus could not have fed the crowd without it. The Lord needs what we have, even if it seems slight to us, and he can accomplish far more than we could imagine with the little we have.

And/Or

(viii) Friday, Second Week of Easter

We are very familiar with the story from the life of Jesus that we have just read. The feeding of the multitude is one of the few stories from the public ministry of Jesus that is to be found in all four gospels. This morning we read the account from the gospel of John. Only this gospel gives us the dialogue between Jesus and the two disciples, Philip and Andrew. That dialogue shows us how the perspective of Jesus differs greatly from that of his two disciples. When Philip saw the large hungry crowd, he also despaired, ‘Six months wages wouldn’t buy enough to give each of them a little’ Andrew was just a little more hopeful. He recognized that there was a boy present who had five loaves and two fish, but he realistically asked, ‘What is that among so many people?’ Jesus, however, saw the rich potential of those meagre resources and immediately began to take control of the situation, ‘Make the people sit down’. In some mysterious way, Jesus worked with those few resources to feed the multitude. When I hear that story, I am often reminded of the comment of Saint Paul that God’s power is made perfect in weakness. The gospel reading this morning suggests that when we ourselves feel at our weakest, our most vulnerable, our lowest, when our own resources seem meagre, the Lord can work powerfully in us and through us.

Fr. Martin Hogan.

[broomsticks]

bc monkey brain does what it wants to do, whenever it wants to do it, have a ridiculously belated

halloween-themed wolfstar rec bingo

🐈‍⬛ halloween '81: October 30, 1981 // Penknife // 1k, M 🩸 blood: The Cartography of the Wreck // berhanes (sqvalors) // 2.6k, T 😱 full moon gone wrong: How to be happy // TheDivineComedian // 6k, T 👹 monsters: Amateur Cartography // montparnasse // 50k, M 🕸️ free space: If We Make It Through December // Suchsmallhands // 14k, G 🍬 trick or treat: they walk in the dark // watfordbird33 // 1.7k, T ⚰️ death: Small Bones of Courage // 15k, E 🎭 costume party: Lie With Me // Squidgilator // 12k, M 👻 ghosts: The Love Song of Sirius Black // kaydeefalls // 7k, M

bingo board by @moonwalker94 for hpfc :)

🐈‍⬛ halloween '81: October 30, 1981 // Penknife // 1k, M. two parallel stories, canon compliant, short and so punchy.

The last good day he will remember, Remus spends the afternoon sitting on the windowsill of his flat pretending to read a book. Actually he is drinking in the deep blue sky and the golden light through the trees and the quiet of the street when everyone is off to work or school. The book is so that he can tell himself he is doing something, because there is no time these days to waste, even though he has nowhere to be until evening.

🩸 blood: The Cartography of the Wreck // berhanes (sqvalors) // 2.6k, T. angsty trust-issues first war wolfstar in interconnected vignettes get me every time. every time.

He thinks about the bruises etching themselves into his bones and the ache settling deeper than muscle. He thinks about how the man tending his wounds is the man holding him together is the man who might be trying to take him apart.

😱 full moon gone wrong: How to be happy // TheDivineComedian // 6k, T. it’s the moon in poa that goes wrong :)

"I want to go," said Harry quietly. "This is my fault, after all. If I had conjured a better Patronus –" "No, Harry" said Lupin. "It's my fault. If I hadn't turned at that precise moment –" "It's not your fault you're a werewolf!" said Harry. "It's not your fault you're an unhappy teen," said Lupin. "Still, we both failed at playing the cards we were dealt with, didn't we? We were playing an unfair game, and this -" he gestured to the corridor, "this is losing. Let's go and face it."

👹 monsters: Amateur Cartography // montparnasse // 50k, M. first war montparnasse fics capture just everything i think and feel and want to say about monsters and this ship so have an extra-long vibe quote (it's two sentences).

Monsters, it turns out, are what Dumbledore has in mind: werewolves mostly, same as it’s been for nearly a year, but now too giants and vampires and hags crouching in the distant crags and cracks of England where the bloodless whispers of war go unheeded by those living unfettered at the knife-edge of constant battles already long lost, strange covens of pale, mud-splattered people huddling under the cowl of their curse with their own dialect, their own dark comforts, their own brutal justice, weighed on the scales of fearful necessity and savage hunger. The cottage in the woods will lend him greater credence than a flat in Camden and a part-time desk job at a Muggle library and, though Dumbledore doesn’t say so, a handsome, reluctant Auror-to-be boyfriend with a last name louder than his motorbike; so Remus hoards what little he has and settles into the hillside, fighting his way through the roses and the mint that’s conquered the old garden and taking tea outside with The Secret Mating Patterns of Boggarts and Misery for Pastime and Profit at sundown, dwindling into the house with the ancient, dusty draught blowing through the kitchen every night and speaking its comfort against his lips and his ears, gently, gently.

🕸️ free space: If We Make It Through December // Suchsmallhands @shipsnsails // 14k, G. this fic is a solace, a warm little shelter in a snowstorm, a temporary respite in between the two wars.

He remembered when it was warm. Sipping absently and staring vacantly, he remembered summer and the heat that touched every memory. Even the warm nights on the parapets of Gryffindor tower, when four boys could gather and smoke cigarettes and grass without bundling up. The stars overhead seemed closer and blurrier in the summertime. Only the moonlight remained untouched by the sweetness of the summers, which brought visits at the Potter’s, and swimming in creeks without a shirt because the only people near enough to see were his friends.

🍬 trick or treat: they walk in the dark // watfordbird33 // 1.7k, T. have a side of james/peter to go with your remus/sirius 😘

They run until they’re somewhere else, and then Sirius is slamming Remus up against the wall, and every other time felt like play, but this doesn’t feel like play. This feels like James and Peter. This feels like Sirius means it. And then he’s molding himself to Remus. He’s fitting his curves and he’s touching him everywhere and there’s fire in between them and they’re kissing. They kiss like the end of the world and the beginning. They tumble and they’re not coming up.

⚰️ death: Small Bones of Courage // 15k, E. small bones small bones my love my baby! i'm not normal about this fic. what writing -- but it is Death, front and center.

Sirius insides tug reluctantly, but he nods. The eternal serpent in his blood rears up and strikes violently at his spirit for rolling over like this, letting the dark creature have its way, losing the only battle worth fighting—infused with the unique strength of resignation, Sirius does the bravest thing he’s done in years and simply ignores the venom. “Alright,” he sighs. Alright, alright, alright. So much of Sirius’ time has been spent convincing himself of that vapid untruth. He thinks fondly of the time that he has now—precious little, but time nonetheless—to spend on enjoying what’s left of Remus’ existence instead of pretending that hell has frozen over.

🎭 costume party: Lie With Me // @squidgilator // 12k, M. all costume no party, i'm reccing it anyway. a polyjuice potion + magical theory-heavy first war fic.

summary: Sirius meets Remus unexpectedly, in somebody else's body. Nobody trusts anybody.

👻 ghosts: The Love Song of Sirius Black // kaydeefalls // 7k, M. ghosts in the sense of a series of canon-divergent vignettes, and ghosts in the sense of --

"You won't be here when I wake, will you?" "No," Sirius says, and he suddenly knows it's true. This is Remus' dream, and he was lucky enough to be a part of it, but his time is running out as surely as sand slips through an hourglass. "No, I won't." He kisses Remus' forehead. Remus nods, very still in Sirius' arms. He closes his eyes. "Remus," Sirius whispers. "Will you do me one favor? Please?"

#wolfstar #remus x sirius #harry potter fanfiction #wolfstar fanfiction #hp fics #my fic recs #fic rec list

[dwynnofficial]

What's your favorite song? :]

My favorite song probably hunger on hillside by Jermaine Cole

[istumpysk]

Operation Stumpy Re-Read

ADWD: Bran II (Chapter 13)

But the air was sharp and cold and full of fear. Even Summer was afraid. The fur on his neck was bristling. Shadows stretched against the hillside, black and hungry.

A little too much hunger happening in this chapter.

+.+.+

All the trees were bowed and twisted by the weight of ice they carried. Some hardly looked like trees at all. Buried from root to crown in frozen snow, they huddled on the hill like giants, monstrous and misshapen creatures hunched against the icy wind. "They are here."

I can't possibly know if there's a connection, but it's worth pointing out these are common words used to describe Tyrion, and once again the giant monster has the next chapter.

"Yes, and I am a monster besides, hideous and misshapen, never forget that." - Tyrion IX, ADWD

+.+.+

"Those wolves are close as well," Bran warned them. "The ones that have been following us. Summer can smell them whenever we're downwind."

Aren't they Summer's new pack?

+.+.+

"Is this the only way in?" asked Meera.

"The back door is three leagues north, down a sinkhole."

A back door and a sinkhole. . . hope I never see it.

+.+.+

That was all he had to say. Not even Hodor could climb down into a sinkhole with Bran heavy on his back

Oh no.

+.+.+

"The white walkers go lightly on the snow," the ranger said. "You'll find no prints to mark their passage." A raven descended from above to settle on his shoulder. Only a dozen of the big black birds remained with them. The rest had vanished along the way; every dawn when they arose, there had been fewer of them. "Come," the bird squawked. "Come, come."

Why? That's strange.

+.+.+

Meera Reed bent down beside her brother. He was settled in the bole of an oak, eyes closed, shivering violently. 

The boy looked at the bowl uncertainly. "What is it?" - Bran III, ADWD

It's nothing, I'm paranoid! He uses bole all the time!

+.+.+

"Jojen just needs to eat," Bran said, miserably. It had been twelve days since the elk had collapsed for the third and final time, since Coldhands had knelt beside it in the snowbank and murmured a blessing in some strange tongue as he slit its throat. Bran wept like a little girl when the bright blood came rushing out. He had never felt more like a cripple than he did then, watching helplessly as Meera Reed and Coldhands butchered the brave beast who had carried them so far. He told himself he would not eat, that it was better to go hungry than to feast upon a friend, but in the end he'd eaten twice, once in his own skin and once in Summer's. 

IT'S NOTHING.

+.+.+

All around him, wights were rising from beneath the snow.

Two, three, four. Bran lost count. They surged up violently amidst sudden clouds of snow. 

[...]

Coldhands was hacking and cutting at the circle of dead men that surrounded him. Summer was tearing at the one that he'd brought down, its face between his teeth. No one was paying any mind to Bran. He crawled a little higher, dragging his useless legs behind him. If I can reach that cave …

"Hoooodor" came a whimper, from somewhere down below.

And suddenly he was not Bran, the broken boy crawling through the snow, suddenly he was Hodor halfway down the hill, with the wight raking at his eyes. Roaring, he came lurching to his feet, throwing the thing violently aside. It went to one knee, began to rise again. Bran ripped Hodor's longsword from his belt. Deep inside he could hear poor Hodor whimpering still, but outside he was seven feet of fury with old iron in his hand.

That's weird, he wasn't consciously trying to warg into Hodor. He's focused on dragging himself to the cave, then a second later he's inside Hodor.

+.+.+

Bran backed away, bleeding, and Meera Reed was there, driving her frog spear deep into the wight's back. "Hodor," Bran roared again, waving her uphill. "Hodor, hodor." Jojen was twisting feebly where she'd laid him down. Bran went to him, dropped the longsword, gathered the boy into Hodor's arm, and lurched back to his feet. "HODOR!" he bellowed.

Can Bran only say Hodor when he's inside Hodor?

That's going to melt my brain if I spend any time thinking about it.

+.+.+

Meera led the way back up the hill, jabbing at the wights when they came near. The things could not be hurt, but they were slow and clumsy. "Hodor," Hodor said with every step. "Hodor, hodor." He wondered what Meera would think if he should suddenly tell her that he loved her.

Lmao.

Bran, Tommen, and Sweetrobin all have a little crush. Aww.

+.+.+

Up above them, flaming figures were dancing in the snow.

That's a funny sentence.

+.+.+

The wights, Bran realized. Someone set the wights on fire.

Summer was snarling and snapping as he danced around the closest, a great ruin of a man wreathed in swirling flame. He shouldn't get so close, what is he doing? Then he saw himself, sprawled facedown in the snow. Summer was trying to drive the thing away from him. What will happen if it kills me? the boy wondered. Will I be Hodor for good or all? Will I go back into Summer's skin? Or will I just be dead?

That's a good question. From my understanding, I think you'd have to quickly pick between Hodor and Summer.

+.+.+

A cloud of ravens was pouring from the cave, and he saw a little girl with a torch in hand, darting this way and that. For a moment Bran thought it was his sister Arya … madly, for he knew his little sister was a thousand leagues away, or dead. And yet there she was, whirling, a scrawny thing, ragged, wild, her hair atangle. Tears filled Hodor's eyes and froze there.

I don't understand where George is taking this whole Arya = Leaf thing.

+.+.+

Everything turned inside out and upside down, and Bran found himself back inside his own skin, half-buried in the snow. 

[...]

"The snow," Bran said. "It fell on me. Buried me."

"Hid you. I pulled you out." Meera nodded at the girl. "It was her who saved us, though. The torch … fire kills them."

I feel like I missed something. Who buried him in the snow?

+.+.+

"Fire burns them. Fire is always hungry."

He was always hungry, her Drogon. - Daenerys I, ASOS

x

Off in the distance, a wolf howled. The sound made her feel sad and lonely, but no less hungry. - Daenerys X, ADWD

+.+.+

That was not Arya's voice, nor any child's. It was a woman's voice, high and sweet, with a strange music in it like none that he had ever heard and a sadness that he thought might break his heart. Bran squinted, to see her better. It was a girl, but smaller than Arya, her skin dappled like a doe's beneath a cloak of leaves. Her eyes were queer—large and liquid, gold and green, slitted like a cat's eyes. No one has eyes like that. Her hair was a tangle of brown and red and gold, autumn colors, with vines and twigs and withered flowers woven through it.

I don't get it.

+.+.+

Bran knew. "She's a child. A child of the forest." He shivered, as much from wonderment as cold. They had fallen into one of Old Nan's tales.

"The First Men named us children," the little woman said. "The giants called us woh dak nag gran, the squirrel people, because we were small and quick and fond of trees, but we are no squirrels, no children. Our name in the True Tongue means those who sing the song of earth. Before your Old Tongue was ever spoken, we had sung our songs ten thousand years."

I don't get it.

"The lightning lord is everywhere and nowhere, skinny squirrel."

"I'm not a squirrel," she said. - Arya IV, ASOS

+.+.+

Meera said, "You speak the Common Tongue now."

"For him. The Bran boy. I was born in the time of the dragon, and for two hundred years I walked the world of men, to watch and listen and learn. I might be walking still, but my legs were sore and my heart was weary, so I turned my feet for home."

Where exactly?

The Isle of Faces? The Neck? Beyond the Wall?

+.+.+

She waved her torch toward the black crack in the back wall of the cave. "Our way is down. You must come with me now."

Bran shivered again.

DON'T GO.

+.+.+

"The ranger …"

"He cannot come."

"They'll kill him."

"No. They killed him long ago. Come now. It is warmer down deep, and no one will hurt you there. He is waiting for you."

By they I guess she means the Others, but you can never be too sure.

+.+.+

The way was cramped and twisty, and so low that Hodor soon was crouching. Bran hunched down as best he could, but even so, the top of his head was soon scraping and bumping against the ceiling. Loose dirt crumbled at each touch and dribbled down into his eyes and hair, and once he smacked his brow on a thick white root growing from the tunnel wall, with tendrils hanging from it and spiderwebs between its fingers.

Ducking, and Bran hitting his head.

What a creepy description.

+.+.+

The way the shadows shifted made it seem as if the walls were moving too. Bran saw great white snakes slithering in and out of the earth around him, and his heart thumped in fear. He wondered if they had blundered into a nest of milk snakes or giant grave worms, soft and pale and squishy. Grave worms have teeth.

Hodor saw them too. "Hodor," he whimpered, reluctant to go on. But when the girl child stopped to let them catch her, the torchlight steadied, and Bran realized that the snakes were only white roots like the one he'd hit his head on. "It's weirwood roots," he said. "Remember the heart tree in the godswood, Hodor? The white tree with the red leaves? A tree can't hurt you."

"Hodor." Hodor plunged ahead, hurrying after the child and her torch, deeper into the earth. They passed another branching, and another, then came into an echoing cavern as large as the great hall of Winterfell, with stone teeth hanging from its ceiling and more poking up through its floor. 

Loving all the teeth. Not.

A tree can't hurt you.

+.+.+

There were more side passages after that, more chambers, and Bran heard dripping water somewhere to his right. When he looked off that way, he saw eyes looking back at them, slitted eyes that glowed bright, reflecting back the torchlight. More children, he told himself, the girl is not the only one, but Old Nan's tale of Gendel's children came back to him as well.

Why!? I still don't understand the point of that story.

This whole summary is me asking questions. Bran chapters are the worst.

+.+.+

"Bones," said Bran. "It's bones." The floor of the passage was littered with the bones of birds and beasts. But there were other bones as well, big ones that must have come from giants and small ones that could have been from children. 

Please leave.

+.+.+

On either side of them, in niches carved from the stone, skulls looked down on them. Bran saw a bear skull and a wolf skull, half a dozen human skulls and near as many giants. All the rest were small, queerly formed. Children of the forest. The roots had grown in and around and through them, every one. A few had ravens perched atop them, watching them pass with bright black eyes.

Bran take a second to think about this.

+.+.+

Down below in the darkness, Bran heard the sound of rushing water. An underground river.

"Do we have to cross?" Bran asked, as the Reeds came sliding down behind him. The prospect frightened him. If Hodor slipped on that narrow bridge, they would fall and fall.

"No, boy," the child said. "Behind you." 

Surely this river will be important in the future?

"Men should not go wandering in this place," Leaf warned them. "The river you hear is swift and black, and flows down and down to a sunless sea. And there are passages that go even deeper, bottomless pits and sudden shafts, forgotten ways that lead to the very center of the earth. Even my people have not explored them all, and we have lived here for a thousand thousand of your man-years." - Bran III, ADWD

+.+.+

Before them a pale lord in ebon finery sat dreaming in a tangled nest of roots, a woven weirwood throne that embraced his withered limbs as a mother does a child.

A throne.

+.+.+

His body was so skeletal and his clothes so rotted that at first Bran took him for another corpse, a dead man propped up so long that the roots had grown over him, under him, and through him. What skin the corpse lord showed was white, save for a bloody blotch that crept up his neck onto his cheek. His white hair was fine and thin as root hair and long enough to brush against the earthen floor. Roots coiled around his legs like wooden serpents. One burrowed through his breeches into the desiccated flesh of his thigh, to emerge again from his shoulder. A spray of dark red leaves sprouted from his skull, and grey mushrooms spotted his brow. A little skin remained, stretched across his face, tight and hard as white leather, but even that was fraying, and here and there the brown and yellow bone beneath was poking through.

Imagine thinking this thing is good news.

+.+.+

"A … crow?" The pale lord's voice was dry. His lips moved slowly, as if they had forgotten how to form words. "Once, aye. Black of garb and black of blood." The clothes he wore were rotten and faded, spotted with moss and eaten through with worms, but once they had been black.

"Who's hungry?" she asked, holding up her catch: two small silvery trout and six fat green frogs.

"I am," said Bran. But not for frogs. Back at Winterfell before all the bad things had happened, the Walders used to say that eating frogs would turn your teeth green and make moss grow under your arms. - Bran I, ASOS

IGNORE ME.

+.+.+

"I have been many things, Bran. Now I am as you see me, and now you will understand why I could not come to you … except in dreams. I have watched you for a long time, watched you with a thousand eyes and one. I saw your birth, and that of your lord father before you. I saw your first step, heard your first word, was part of your first dream. I was watching when you fell. And now you are come to me at last, Brandon Stark, though the hour is late."

The hour is late. Is that about the Others or is Bloodraven running out of life juice?

+.+.+

"I'm here," Bran said, "only I'm broken. Will you … will you fix me … my legs, I mean?"

"No," said the pale lord. "That is beyond my powers."

Bran's eyes filled with tears. We came such a long way. The chamber echoed to the sound of the black river.

"You will never walk again, Bran," the pale lips promised, "but you will fly."

I mean he walks while in Hodor all the time, what's the difference?

Final thoughts:

Were the wights anticipating Bran? Are they always there? Wouldn't that imply they're targeting the children of the forest?

Silly Bran chapters.

-> return to menu <-

#operation stumpy re-read #adwd #bran ii

[proflorax]

Illinois Ghosts

There are ghosts that tread these fields. They remember a time when they could dance with the grasses among birdsong and starlight. Now they twirl dust skirts to the sounds of lonely wind and roaring engines.

Soon these field will be green with corn again, for a season. Tall enough to lose yourself in. Tall enough to hide who knows what.

Corn once meant home, and hot meals, and comfort here. It was not meant to feed machines or dominate the horizon.

What did this place look like when corn meant home? It has been home to more generations of farmers than of consumers, of product buyers. For a thousand years people have grown and reaped corn, laughing over hot bowls of its soup and despairing at failed crops. And there are crops even older than corn that still grow here. But now the people only know these most ancient companions as weeds and food fit for squirrels.

This land has known many many more generations of hunters than both consumers and farmers combined. The hunters knew the other shapers that shared these fields and woods then. You see their bones in the hillsides and the echoes of their hunger in the ways plants still grow here. The trees still make thorns fit to repel mammoths, and fruits to entice the long lost giants. What might people learn from living in the footsteps of such long lost relatives? Can we still learn from them? These giant ghosts the land still remembers. You can hear it whisper their stories when you listen.

We almost lost all the giants that show us how a prairie can be home, but the buffalo are beginning to return. People care enough to help them. Can we be humble enough to let them care for us again?

Does the land feel more like home when you plant seeds, or when you trust it to provide what forage and prey is needed? It does not feel homely when it has been dominated beyond recognition. It no longer provides all you need, and the seeds do not become food. The ghosts dance in the dusts of dry fields, their stories of how to make a home here quieter every year.

I dream of a land where cornfields mean home. Summer skies will be lit with stars and summer fields mirroring the skies, lit by fireflies. We will listen to stories almost lost, and find our way to share the land with its ghosts. And far far in the future, we will join them to dance in grasses and wildflowers

#solarpunk #nature #midwest #firstdraft? #landscape #haunted #Ghosts #illinios

[ritual-unions]

A Feast For You

Pairing: Ubbe x OFC (Verdandi) 

Rating: Explicit (more suggestive) 

Word Count: <900 

Prompt: Feast by @vikingsevents (Thanks for putting on this event ya'll these prompts were fun)

Setting: Season 5, England

It wasn’t a feast by any means but Verdandi had done the best with what was available to her. She wanted to make a meal for Ubbe, fill his belly so full that he could do nothing but lay in bed, not even sparing her a second glance. 

His gaze had followed her, sliding across her figure, every moment following the Great Battle. Watching her, taking her in, like a wolf stalking its prey. 

And he had devoured her. 

Time and time again. Until she was so sore she could hardly take a step without feeling his mark between her legs. 

There wasn’t a place he hadn’t taken her. 

Quickly - in the hallways of the burning Villa. En route to lend her hand to an injured warrior he had grabbed her, pressing her up against the wall, her hands bracing against the cold stone as he thrust into her. Slowly - that night when he found her tucked in bed. Slipping between the covers and her legs until they were one flesh joined. Lazily - that morning as she was trying to dress. He had pulled her back to bed for one more round. 

The fervor of battle had ignited a hunger in him. A hunger Verdandi could hardly satisfy. 

Searching for more food to add to the dinner table, she swayed, walking side to side to try to relieve the pressure between her legs. The Saxons had taken almost everything from the stores, leaving her with very little to work with. She had hoped to make a feast but this would be more of a meal for someone as hungry as Ubbe. 

She had found a jar of herring and preserved blackberries discarded in the cellar. She grimaced when she kneeled down to pick up the jars, her hips shuttering in dull ache. 

The wife of Jarl Eriksson, who had been baking bread the day before the battle, traded for a handful of oyster mushrooms Verdandi had stumbled across while walking the outskirts of the forest that surrounded the Villa. Ver had all but bit her lip off trying to walk up the grassy hillside. The friction had almost been too unbearable. 

The buttermilk had not been as easy to procure. It had taken following a trail of unreliable sources to find Frida. The retired shieldmaiden had made fresh buttermilk that morning. It was not easy for her to let go of her labor but after Verdandi had carefully explained that she would be sharing with Ubbe Ragnarsson she let her walk away with a small container for no exchange, no matter how much Verdandi begged. 

“Go on.” Frida nudged her waist, motioning back to the villa. “Don’t want to keep them waiting. They are not hungry until they are and then there is no satiating them.” 

Verdandi spread out the pickled herring, sliced the bread and fluffed the pillows on the bed, trying to make them look more appealing.

She had hoped to satiate more than one of Ubbe’s hunger. 

She blushed, glancing at the bed they had been sharing. The memory of the morning caused the rush of blood to creep down her throat and into her belly. 

The calloused pads of his fingertips had glided across her hip igniting a fire of her own. The rough hairs of his thighs rubbing against the back of her legs as he slipped into her. Pulling her in closer, his nose nuzzled against her neck. 

She felt a slight slick of wetness spread between her legs. 

Maybe she could handle one more night between the sheets with Ubbe. 

He had tugged on her hair that morning, wanting to look her in the eyes as he - 

“Hares!” Ubbe boomed startling Verdandi. He walked through the door with two gray lumps of fur dangling off his shoulders. “We will eat well tonight.” 

Verdandi turned her cheek, hoping he did not see her embarrassment blanched on her features. She hummed in agreement, smiling when he kissed her on the cheek. 

The hares were plump. She could hardly find their rib cage as she turned them over to start skinning them. Her knife was sharp but skidded across the surface when Ubbe’s hand pulled up her skirt, caressing the roundness of her ass without a word. He pressed his hips against hers letting her know his hunger. 

“Ubbe.” 

She stated his name in hopes of slowing him down but the sound out of her mouth was more a whimper that only encouraged him more. 

She wanted to brush away his wandering hands, slip out of his heated kiss but she found herself leaning into his touch. 

She was just about ready to drop her knife. His teeth raked against her neck, fingers digging deeper into her fleshy bottom. Her eyes rolled up, trying to get a hold of her senses. 

“Hvitserk,” Verdandi yelped in surprise. He was the last person she expected to see hovering in the doorway.

“I invited him for supper.” Ubbe’s breathy laughter at her expense annoyed her. 

She glanced at the sparse contents littering the dinner table. 

She supposed she would be feeding two sons of Ragnar tonight. 

A/N: I've got two more for this event, tomorrow's should be a little more spicy

#vikingsautumn #Ubbe x ofc #Ubbe x Verdandi #vikings history #vikings fanfiction #ubbe fanfiction

[yusyed]

I MISS ALL THE TIMES I USED TO RAID UR INBOX SO GUESS WHOS BACK BACK AGAINN

I GOT A QUESTION I HUNGER FOR HEADCANONS

Would ya happen to have any headcanons for torm x edd?? Sorry they're just so cute I dhhssnnss

Or if u can't think of headcanons maybe just a cute scenario you think would fit them like what'd they do for a first date or smthn?? love youu!!

AHHH I'M SORRY BABY I FORGOT THIS WAS IN MY INBOX ;;

I GOT PLENTY OF HEADCANONS FOR YOU

- Torm and Edd would often drive out to a hillside with a 12 pack of cola on them and they'd just drink it while talking about life.

- Torm tries his best to be a gentleman to Edd, opening doors for him and whatnot. He wants to show that he's more (and better) than Tom and Tord and Edd thinks it's cliché yet endearing.

- Edd finds it funny that even a fusion clone of two of his friends is shorter than him. He squishes Torm's face a lot.

- They've been on plenty of dinner-and-movie dates together. 😳 Something about them is very relaxing for the both of them.

- They love watching Cats together.

#ask #eddsworld #ew rejects #ew edd #ew torm #torm #headcanons