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new me new blog pm if you still wanna write w me

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miss writing him but eh

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my dash is finally full of american gods and myth stuff. it only took like 3 years

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pclunochnaya:

Some nights she would go out and find a different spot to watch the skies. She would pack up her telescope and seek out somewhere e l s e simply for the virtue of being somewhere else. Just being in another place than the block of buildings she found herself confined to made breath come easier and her mind quieten. Her heart was filled with affection for those tired gods she lived with, but even oceans of love wasn’t always enough to keep back a snap of irritation. Her sisters in recent times were suffocating in their negativity and Czernobog was… Czernobog. One too many tales of cracked skulls and gushing blood perhaps.

With no heed for how strange she might look with her telescope and teddy bear, Polunochnaya immersed herself in watching the stars, with her gaze casting across the whole sky and not just Polaris.

Feeling eyes on her, as her own were cast up through the lens, Polunochnaya’s mouth quirked into a smile.

“See? Tonight Simargl rests, it is funny that such a raging beast can do that on a night where I cannot” She turned her head to look over at the other, serene on the surface despite her words.

“You are of the night, miðnætti stjörnu. It calls to you in a way that the rising and setting sun calls to your sisters.” In a way that the rainbow bridge or the world tree does the same to him. In a somewhat similar way that drugs or alcohol or gambling or smoking calls to a person beholden to such devices.

His own eyes drifts to the star in question; hawk-eyed, the beast is easily spotted without a telescope — though hardly as clear as the picture painted on the glass that she has had her eye on. “Better for him to be resting than restless, is it not? He cannot cause anyone any trouble in this state.”

“We don’t rest so others can.” Heimdall sighs; Polunochnaya sleeps when the sun is out, and her sisters take her place — while he gets his rest (when he can get his rest, however sporadic it seems) in the river of Dreams; where time is fluid and hours can be minutes and seconds can be years. (Maybe it was because he had to constantly be on watch, and hence developed the ability to require minimal sleep; or maybe it was the other way around: he had the natural talent of such and thus was rightly suited for the task.)

They are both guardians, both Watchers, unresting, unrelenting in their duty. He, of the Bifröst, the portal between worlds; she (and her sisters), of Simargl, the winged world ender. Curious how almost every religion has a cataclysmic world ending event. Oh, he’ll blow his horn when it happens, and just like Simargl, Garmr will break his chains, leading up to all foretold events of Ragnarök. And yet... there was a different plan at hand, a different war altogether brewing.

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                                    sunburst, bridge guardian, ocean made, all-knower,                                         come meet the one who illuminates the world

modern myth heimdall, written by ty influenced by american gods and runemarks adaptable to overwatch, dragon age, etc.

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cyborn:

       “Money?”

What is MONEY to a woman that can hack a bank in ten seconds flat, that siphons funds as and when she needs to, leaving not even a whisper of her presence as she dips her ghostly fingers into the pockets of the world’s fat cats and feels NOT AN OUNCE of guilt for it. 

       “Is MONEY really the best you can          do?”

She might be stringing him along a little, tugging at the edges of him out of interest. The important, and the toughest part of working with her has been seen through - GETTING HER ATTENTION. He has her ear, and while he is offering nothing more interesting than what she can attain herself, she is willing to listen for more. 

She is HARDLY a loyal soldier, HARDLY beholden unto Talon. They contract her for missions, have her hack targets and buy information from her - but she is not one of their operatives, nor does she view them as anything other than a meal ticket. 

        “I work with them because I get what          I want out of it. But I can get what I           want in different places, and different           ways. It all depends on what you say           next, hombre.”

He catches her meaning, though he would have to be a fool to offer it so easily. “Information then. The ones you can’t just hack for.” The whispers of the future that rare few have access to. Just like he had guessed, Sombra knows who he is and she knows exactly what she wants (and from him), and that he can appreciate, if not the methods.

          “The ones people kill for. The ones            conspiracies are build on. The very            ones you make your life for.”

He has a wealth of information at his fingertips, or more accurately in his brain, much like her. There’s information he’s never going to share, information he can never share — world changing secrets he’ll take to his grave, torture or otherwise. Morals is one thing, but he’s been trained for it, by three different organisations.

But there’s some he’s willing to trade; it just depends on exactly what she wants.

“What do you want?” Both in reference to what kind of information she wants and if not that, whatever else she's willing to trade for her services: favours, debts, etc. Joseph’s not running out of options in his fight war (and neither is he alone, even if he does work — for the most part — alone), and while the woman before him seems to be the fastest way in getting what he wants, she’s not the only way.

He’ll leave first sign of trouble or something he absolute cannot agree with or condone.

Like he said, it just depends on exactly what she wants.

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gladofwar:

everyone is scraping by- barely, most times. but there are some who feast full, and wednesday envies them most of all. hunger of the soul is worst than hunger of the body, all things considered. 

a flash of G O L D in the sun, wednesday turning momentarily aside so as not to be blinded. “there, there,” he says. “we’ll feast again just like we did during the old times. soon.”

it’ll happen. wednesday catches the meaning, paws around with it in his hands. “’course it will. we’re all royally fucked if it doesn’t, and a little damned if it does.”

“but-” a laugh here, sour. “-we were already damned coming here, weren’t we?” 

It — the lack of belief — doesn’t bother him as much as it does Wednesday. Maybe it came with his nature or talents, things that he just knew that gave him a sense of understanding of finality if not calm; even though Wednesday knew things too and had his own unique talents. Maybe it was just the way it was.

Sometimes, sometimes he catches himself dipping into Dream for glimpses of the old times, where ‘scraping by’ was a thing unheard of, foreign and unknown.

Damned because of the brutality of the plan (not that Odin really cared for the morality of such acts) or because it wouldn't be enough (literally — to keep them alive, to keep them going, or figuratively — because there would always be more to want and need) if even it succeeded.

"Ain’t our choice, ain’t really our lives.” Enough people start believing something about them and it becomes the truth. The truth was always what people made it, not what was factually true. Now that leaves him resentful sometimes, much more than the lack of belief.

(Yet, to be completely forgotten was a different issue all together, one he doesn't wish to contemplate often.)

“But we can push and pull. Exert our own gravity, only the gods know you've made enough dents on this planet, on this country.” And there's the word again, “Is it enough? Will it ever be?” For gods they were much like mere humans; they were made in their image and minds after all.

Child of the waves, have you made your own waves here? He'll like to think he did — still does.

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                                    sunburst, bridge guardian, ocean made, all-knower,                                         come meet the one who illuminates the world

modern myth heimdall, written by ty influenced by american gods and runemarks adaptable to overwatch, dragon age, etc.

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screenaltar:

                        a gasp. media wants to play. she’s marilyn and she’s ready for some unconventional fun. she’s sensing another, floating like a ghost. giggling like mischief. bright digits glimmered.

                     “ and they told me diamonds are a girl’s best friend. ” marilyn’s laugh echoed. her breathy voice seducing the drums from those around. “ honey, smile for the camera.    let me see the gold. ”

They’re all caught up in this war, (the seeds have long been sown), not by their own doing — she doesn't know, they all don't know — but that doesn't mean he has to tolerate them, not when they can be just as ruthless and vile.

‘Smile for the camera.’ He scoffs, his principles alone forbids him from doing just that. Not just because he smiles so rarely, but because she gets on his nerves. “Honey, I’ve met Marilyn. Trust me, you're making her look bad.”

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cyborn:

       “I don’t work for free.”

She is quick to mention, unwilling to allow any lateral thought on the matter. Sombra is not a creature of compassion; her long years of SURVIVAL have ground it out of her. She WORKS for money, she WORKS for information, she WORKS for the betterment of HERSELF and no one else. 

Even if she does happen to allow people to believe otherwise every so often. 

        “If you want something hacked,           you’ve come to the right place.           But if you don’t have payment,           then you can keep right on           looking.”

HARD BALL is the ONLY way she plays because HARD BALL is the only way worth playing.

He knows what she’s capable of, what she's done and who she seems to work for. He knows this and more because they — the little bits of the past, the present and the future — whisper it to him.

And he’s betting she knows who he is too.

“That’s not a problem. But I know who you work for, you’re willing to work against them for money? Or you're just working with them because of the very same money, or your best interests, perhaps both.”

It’s a risk coming here — one that's calculated (to be in his favour, but the results fluctuate and fluctuate and fluctuate) — but a risk nonetheless; the mask (the one he wears to give himself another face; a great disguise any other time) does nothing, not when she can disable it as easy as picking her nails. With Talon after him, going to Talon’s best hacker in his fight against them doesn't really seem like the smartest thing to do... but if he's right, it'll pay off, and it'll pay off big.

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i wanna do ag stuff guys

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climxtologist:

even if a prodigy could be re-birthed from the dirtiest of lakes,  beneath pounds of mud,  she was not too special to look at-  at least ;  that`s what she would tell you.  cherub features,  a dip of pink on the apples of her cheeks,  figure tightened to form a faux hourglass-  the era of romans painted masterpieces of women like her.  full bodied and almost angelic.  however,  at such accusations,  she would just laugh sheepishly and turn another cheek.  instead,  she gave him a shake of her head.   ❛ no,  it`s quite alright.  i`ve just been tidying up. ❜   an arm full of beakers and folders,  she made her way to a nearby table and started putting things into place.  a perk of her brow and a cock of her head,  her lips parted.  a liaison was rather unexpected,  but she didn`t question and flashed him a smile.   ❛ that`s wonderful!!  i`m happy to be able to work closely with you. ❜

some mention of side effects made the cogs in her mind begin to turn ;  there were countless of side effects that had appeared on different subjects.  some have been cleared and only considered as specific circumstances,  others were curable and preventable with simple means.  she placed the last beaker down and turned to face him,  hands flattening the front of her lab coat as she approached him.  the height difference was more notable with her being comfortably at 5′1″,  but she carried her head up and held out her own hands.   ❛ have the side effects been damaging??  i`ve been informed of most side effects,  but i haven`t had a chance to look myself. ❜   she tilted her head.   ❛ can i see your hands?? ❜

“Likewise.” A typical exchange of formalities, though still maintaining sincerity in his words and his own offered smile. Something that was a social norm and valued greatly among the higher classed, something he was taught from young; it was different in the middle class, or the slums — not just for the fact that he wasn’t welcomed in the dredges of their society, unless they knew who he was and was similarly aligned — that was just the way it was, they were either more hostile or more friendly, lacking much of the strict formalities, genuine or otherwise.

Joseph held out his hands, bluish tint invisible to all but those with the best eyes or expertise. “It's... nothing really. For me at least. Though I've had men lost arms or nearly, not just from overuse but also inexperience. Devil's Kiss seems to be a good temporary remedy, though that could lead to other problems, as far as we know.”

He frowned then, continuing to elaborate on the other vigors; ones that have been available before Old Man Winter. “Of course there's the other ones. Shards of crystal, suckers too; growing from hands, though these seem to be restricted to a certain few in the force, and the addicts on the backstreets.” He’s heard whispers of experiments being carried out on unsuspecting unwilling individuals, (some of which ended up being dumped back onto the streets to blend in with the addicts — what a great way to cover their tracks), though that’s all they were: just rumours, with no tangible evidence yet. It was true, the suspect list wasn’t small. Was it comstock's people, a mad scientist unaffiliated or perhaps even the Vox themselves? The detective wisely kept his mouth shut regarding this, Mei-Ling proved (at least from what he'd observed and been told about) to be ethical in her research, but it was best to not be too careful or to create any false alarm without something credible and concrete.

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iviaw:

         He  smiled  at  the  almost  childish  response.  The  wolf  leaned  forward  on  the  counter  and  fixed  him  with  a   N A R R O W E D   gaze.  Lincoln  rested  his  breaded  chin  in  the  palm  of  his  hand,  his  elbow  the  anchor  against  the  painted  wood  of  the  counter  itself.  Unblinkingly,  he  stared  with  the  smile  still  stretched  across  his  lips.

❛   Workin’  here,  mon  ami.   —- -  En  attendant  que  vous  me  demandiez  de  dîner.  ❜      He  added  with  a  mischievous  perk  to  the  smile  HE  WORE.

Here they were staring at each other, just waiting for the other to crack — or for his food to be ready. “Now you’re just fucking with me. You know I understood about none of that.” He waved it — whatever it was, (his mild annoyance?) — away with a flick of his hand. “‘Sides working then?”

“Doubt your life was that boring and uneventful.” Definitely more than his, at any rate; not much bound to happen when you were bound to a bed almost lifeless. And if he heard anything about this town itself being rather uneventful in general, (other than the odd wild animal attack or freak storms of course), God help him, Alistair will punch Lincoln. (Not that he'll actually do it, but it was the thought that counted.)

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‘ the leaves change, but nothing else does. ’

From that really old meme

From shades of green to that of oranges and browns and white. She was correct in the first part of her statement but he had to disagree with the second. “Ea, the winds, the seasons, the breath of life, the beat of a heart, the fleeting existence of an individual, and the seeming finality of death. We all change… we’re all different people; all through our lives, your experiences define you and shape you, do they not? Yet, does it matter if we change?” Belief changes him. Whether he liked it or not, he changed much more based on others than on himself. “Does it matter at all? When everything else changes alongside us?” He knows what his answer will be; but what was hers?

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tired of not knowing where the fuck your life is headed? want to know the future but without all the lies and trickery? look no further as mr “you’ll miss your train by 3 seconds and will be forced to take a taxi but that’s better than not missing and thus boarding the train that will get into an accident just before your stop” know-it-all is here.

like or reblog this post if you’re interested in writing with a modern interpretation of myth HEIMDALL (heavily influenced by american gods and runemarks) written by ty, aka daddy of mankind, psychotic serial killer, god of the gays (credit: @thequarrelsome), smug sob, master of rune magic, norse guardian of the bifröst, yggdrasil and the gods themselves.

not to mention heavily adaptable to multiple verses, including but not limited to: sense8, dragon age and overwatch.