#Feeding creativity

[marymccartneyphotos]

Olivia Harrison in Los Angeles, with corn fritters

Photographed by Mary McCartney

[hawkeye221b]

'Exactly' he said.

EXACTLY

[vulcanette]

EVEN IN ARCADIA: VISUAL UNIVERSE

twitter user leave_not_liv shared a link to this interview with Noruwei Studio:

in which Noruwei, directed by Timcet, gives details and insight into the collaborative process with Sony/RCA’s creative team to create the visual universe for Even In Arcadia. The visual work was conducted entirely without the use of AI.

The interview contains:

sketches;

banners/the work of Alex Tillbrook;

faction and character design process images, as well as insights into their design and creation;

animation process videos (as well as the final visualizers themselves);

environments/setting/background process and hi-resolution images and insight into the designs;

images from the “glitches”/battle sequences;

and credits to the design teams!

check it out!!

[blackkatdraws2]

There are more things in the Parable than Stanley knows about. [Blank Scripts AU]

[avvail]

Hi, hope you're having a good day today! I was wondering if you could do a scenario where a detective relucently lets a vampire superhero feed on him? mlm, perhaps?

“This is usually the other way around,” the detective hums, one hand in his pocket and the other tapping away the ash at the end of his cigarette. The superhero stands on the rooftop, spine stiff and his expression one of anxiousness.

The detective can practically smell his uneasiness in the air. He’s hiding in the shadows, almost as though he’s too frightened to come out.

It makes him scoff.

“If you need my help on a case, I’m balls deep in the copycat killer case right now,” the detective told him firmly, already building a strong wall to the hero’s protests. Not that he’s making any. “So stop lurking in the shadows like you’re gonna bite my heart out. Jesus, it’s creepy.”

The superhero hesitates, and then steps out of the shadows. He looks worse for wear, and the detective’s eyes roll up and down his form with a clear air of judgement.

“Man,” he hums. “You look like shit.”

The superhero frowns at the cloud of smoke tumbling from his lips, his nose wrinkling in grim annoyance. “Can you put that out?”

“It’s a free country.”

“It stinks,” he snaps.

“Not my nose, not my problem,” the detective raises a brow. “What’s got your panties in a bunch? You’re gloomy.”

The superhero bites his tongue, deciding not to bite. He swallows the insult, his stiff shoulders sagging with a small sigh. The detective steals a few scrutinizing glances at him. Just to observe.

“I need...” He sighs sharply. “I need to feed.”

The detective’s gaze hardens. He already knows what he’s going to ask. “No.”

“Please?”

“I said you keep that shit away from me and I won’t hurl your ass in the nearest prison cell for taking a bite out of those innocent folk,” he reminded him sternly, a flicker of anger sparking in his eyes. “Don’t make me go back on it.”

“I’ve not been feeding,” the superhero whispers urgently. “I can’t. You know I’m new to this and I don’t know what to—”

“The answer is no. Jesus, I can’t believe you dragged me from my work for this.”

The superhero’s gaze softens. He looks crestfallen. “Please...”

The detective swallows back the words teetering on his tongue, drilling an intense gaze into the hero. He notices the eye bags, the pale complexion, and he definitely looks worse for wear. Sickly; the detective’s expression hardens, spitting out a sharp curse. He runs a hand through his hair, stamping the cigarette out under his boot. The orange tip fades into the rain soaked cement.

Why him? He almost wants to ask. He’s a detective, and he should figure this stuff out. He remembers when he pulled the superhero from the wreckage those few months ago, the bad shape he had been in.

This vampire stuff had really knocked him down. The detective hadn’t seen that old confidence in months.

He groans. He should say no. Instead, he rolls up his sleeve.

“Make it quick,” he growls. The superhero’s eyes brighten, and he takes a hesitant step forward.

He goes to grasp at the man’s arm, hesitating just before their skin touches. He notes the way his throat bobs, and then those eyes dart nervously to his neck. The detective knows the question before he even asks.

“Your neck, can I—”

“No,” he snaps, jerking his arm to redirect his faltering attention. “You’re already on thin ice. It’s this, or it’s nothing. Take your pick.”

The superhero’s lips press into a thin line. Then, he nods tersely, and flounders around him for a moment.

“You should sit,” he urges. “You’ll probably get dizzy, and—”

A sharp glare cuts him off. He gets the command. Shut up and hurry up.

The superhero takes a deep breath, thumb prodding the smooth surface of the detective’s flesh for a moment. He seems to simply admire the rush of blood underneath, before he pierces the flesh with his fangs. The detective holds back an instinctive hiss of pain, the sharp pricks almost zapping right up his spine. The superhero might have stopped to make sure he was okay before feeding, but he’d been starved for so long, that he lapped at the beads of blood straight away.

It’s an odd feeling; not unpleasant, but not easy to ignore.

The detective’s jaw clenches, and when the superhero is done, he hides the wound.

“Let’s not make this a habit, huh?”

[stanfiction]

MABEL RECIEVES A LETTER....

her response...

( inspired by @cravingpepsimax 's fujoshi bill AU )

[miyakuli]

Stayed Gone - 3D Animation by Trixel

Guys you have to watch this fan animation, IT IS AMAZINGLY WELL MADE!!!!!!!!

[catboythanatos]

oh i just realized i never posted my stobotnik collages here ???

they took over my brain and my journal

created by me ♡ with scissors and a glue stick in my two hands and yaoi on my brain. using various magazines, ft some stickers from the dollar store, & the black n white images r printed from a thermal label printer !

the last one isnt technically stobotnik but the vibes are related i think so it gets to be included in the spread

[marymccartneyphotos]

Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr

Photographed by Mary McCartney

[sskybooks]

#55 What would your character do if a lost child came to them?

I know you all have amazing creative juices in you and some amazing characters. This prompt is just for you to have fun and to help you explore your Character in a different setting. I would LOVE to hear what your Characters would do.

[melooooo17]

@openphrase123 your fanfic(s but i mainly made art of the mira and siffrin one because i cant remember words for the life of me for i do not speak french) IS???? ? SO GOOD. SO GOOD IM FOAMING AT THE MOUTH finally something to look forward to in the week fr

Mild spoilers for it ig!! But nothing too explicitly groundbreaking i dont think it'll kill your mom to look at these without having read the ff first

Don't mind the shit quality i??? I drew all these so fast theyre kinda shit and i have yet to fully acclamate isat to my artstyle so it's mid

Teehee me when i make shitty rushed fanart to show my appreciation that i cannot put into words for my faovorite games and also authors

peep the rant in the tags

[raineandsky]

#113

tw: kidnapping

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3)

“Um,” the villain says as he flicks the living room light on. “What are you doing in my house?”

The hero scowls. “Well, it’s not like I tied myself up and put a bow on my own head, is it?”

And in one of the villain’s own dining room chairs, no less. Couldn’t he at least bring his own? “I don’t know,” the villain says slowly, to the hero’s offence, “you might have.”

“Please tell me you’re joking.”

“I don’t know! Tell me what you’re doing in my house!”

“I don’t know either!”

“There is an alarming lack of information here, [Hero].” The villain steps forward to study the knot in the ropes on the hero’s wrists—just a plain, normal knot. Nothing extravagant, nothing telling. “How do you not know?”

“Well, unfortunately, [Villain], I have spent most of this experience unconscious,” the hero snaps a little harsher than necessary. “I woke up, like, five minutes before you got here.”

The villain tuts, moving his interest onto the comically large bow on the hero’s head. This would’ve been a perfect chance to laugh at him if it wasn’t somehow happening inside the villain’s house.

The villain’s just about to hit the hero with a barrage of questions—with the inevitable “I don’t know”, of course—when answers present themselves in the form of the supervillain.

“Ah, you’re home,” they say brightly. A pair of stout glasses are in their hands, generously topped up with what is undoubtedly whiskey. “How do you like your gift?”

The villain throws a glance at the hero. He looks as lost as the villain feels. “My gift?”

“You’ve been working hard recently, [Villain].” They offer him a glass and he takes it without question. “I thought I could at least acknowledge the positive impact you've had on our little business. On me.”

The hero scoffs but they both ignore him. “What…” The question’s going to sound insane, but this situation is insane enough to warrant it, the villain thinks. “What am I meant to do with a… person?”

The supervillain hums thoughtfully, casting a glance about the room. “Well, I was looking around your place and thought you could use a maid.” They laugh at the scrunch of offence in the villain’s face. “Oh, I’m kidding, [Villain]. Maybe they could be target practice, a pet, a plaything.” A sip from their glass. “Anything your mind can conjure.”

The villain tries to look at the hero like he’s thinking on it. The hero watches him back like he’s trying to read his mind.

The supervillain takes another swig of their drink. The villain copies them before they can notice that he’s avoiding it like it’s poison. It sure tastes like it; it burns the whole way down.

“Any ideas?”

The villain taps the glass to his chin with a tut. “A dog would be nice.” The supervillain snorts a laugh, and the hero’s desperate expression turns flat with horror. “I’m sure I can find a nice collar for him.”

“A shock collar, I hope,” the supervillain suggests with a grin. “Oh, I’m so glad you like it, [Villain]. You deserved a little something for everything you’ve done for me.”

This is more than a little something, but the villain doesn’t bother correcting them. “I love it. Thank you.”

“No darling.” A smile; soft, affectionate. “Thank you.”

The supervillain gives him a pat and sets their glass down on the coffee table. “I have business to attend to. I just wanted to see your reaction.” They make for the door, though the villain’s not convinced that’s how they got in. “I’ll see you tomorrow—keep me updated on how you train them.” And with a wink and one last smirk, they disappear outside and off into the evening.

The hero’s gaze snaps to the villain the moment they’re gone. “A dog?” he demands.

The villain carefully unties the bow on his head, collecting the ribbon in a giant red bundle in his arms. “Yeah,” he says brightly. “Are you going to bolt if I untie you?”

“You called me a dog. I’ll goddamn make like one the moment that door’s open.”

The villain shrugs nonchalantly. “Binds stay on, then.”

“Wait, no—” The hero’s voice is bordering on a cry. The villain doesn’t hate the sound of it. “No, sorry, I just— you want me to be your dog.”

“I do.” The villain smiles innocently. “My guard dog.”

That gives the hero long enough pause for the villain to take his knife to some of the rope. “… Guard dog.”

“You’ll be my bodyguard.” The first wisps break free under his blade. “You’ll work for me, cover my back, whatever I need you to do.”

“You want me to… defend you?”

The villain can’t help but smirk. The ropes split, freeing the hero’s hands. “If you don’t like it, [Supervillain] had plenty of good ideas.”

“No!” It comes out faster than the hero seems to have thought it. “No, I– I can do that.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” The villain sighs contentedly, giving him a mocking pat on the head as he gets back to his feet. “Good boy.”

(next part)

[w0efulboopsoul]

A Broken Howa'ahian Ice Bear's Heart

Kaiza's fingers closed around the knife hilt, his grip steady but his pulse erratic under Cara's proximity. The heat of her shoulder against his seared through layers of wool and leather, a contrast to the biting wind. He glanced at her, catching the flush on her cheeks—not just from the cold, he hoped—before forcing his attention back to the hare.

"The seam," he echoed, pressing the blade tip to the carcass. His hand trembled faintly, betraying him. Thrym's low rumble vibrated through the ground, a god's chuckle. Kaiza gritted his teeth, slicing downward. The blade snagged, spilling entrails messily onto the snow. He grimaced. "Elegant."

The cold deepened, frost curling like lace over Cara's braid. Kaiza shrugged off his cloak, draping it around her shoulders without looking up. "You're shivering," he muttered, as if chastising himself. The fur-lined fabric smelled of lightning and pine, still warm from his body.

His next cut was cleaner, guided by muscle memory from her demonstration. He glanced sideways, smirk sharpening. "If Thrym approves of hare butchery, perhaps I'll survive this lesson." A beat of silence passed between them before Kaiza spoke again. "You said his mortal days. What happened to him?"

The question hung, heavy as the stars above. Around them, the night breathed frost and secrets, the fire shrinking under the weight of the wild.

Cara's icy blue eyes burned with intensity as they fixated on the bear's plush, rotund backside, a scene that tugged at the edges of her patience. Her hands quivered ever so slightly, a subtle manifestation of the fierce storm brewing within her—a fury that could rival the flames of a dragon's breath. With a measured inhale, she leaned back, her fingers, both delicate and marred by the scars of past battles, gracefully gesturing toward Thrym. The contrast of her gentle movement against the roughness of her hands spoke volumes, an unspoken tale of strength woven into her very being.

"Tell me, Rich boy… If you were to see Thrym out in the wilds today, and you did not know him… What would you see?" Her piercing gaze held steady, unwavering, and fierce as she boldly confronted him. With an almost primal intensity, she inclined her body forward, her silhouette resembling that of a predatory creature poised to pounce. Crouched low before the crackling fire, the flickering flames danced across her features, casting a fiery glow that accentuated her fierce determination.

"If I saw Thrym now?" He tilted his head, studying the bear's massive form. Thrym lifted his gaze, glacial blue eyes glowing like spirit fire, and Kaiza's voice hardened with reluctant honesty. He crossed his arms, jaw working as he chose his words carefully. "A beast. A predator. Something to fear, own, or conquer." His throat bobbed, a flicker of shame tightening his tone.

"Of course you see something you would want to own, you stupid prince." Cara chided sternly, yet not unkindly. Could she have expected anything less from a royal who knew nothing of their own culture? "I, however, see a king. A force unlike anything your softened brain could fathom. I see a god. I see a being that deserved a life, yet, got robbed of it all. You wish to know his story? You pay close attention then. I will only tell you the story one time, Kaiza." She hissed, her scarred hands balling into fists.

"Thrym started life like any normal Eryndaran beast, here in the lands of Howa'ah." She spoke in a hushed tone, her voice carrying an alluring primal rasp that resonated deeply, more pronounced than it had ever been. The flickering firelight danced in her vivid blue eyes, making them shimmer with an otherworldly brilliance. The aromatic blend of charred PrimePine Oak and the savory scent of sizzling Icehare fat wafted through the air, tantalizing her senses. As a gentle wind picked up, she elegantly positioned her right boot on top of her left, a subtle yet confident gesture that seemed to echo the wild spirit within her.

"He had a mother who was fierce, majestic, powerful, tender, kind, caring, and did everything in her power to make sure that little cub named Thrym survived." Cara murmured softly, her voice barely rising above the crackling of the flames. With a graceful sweep of her hand, she conjured a shimmering silhouette of a majestic crystalline bear of frost and ice that flickered to life within the fire’s embrace.

The bear stood tall on its hind limbs, letting out a powerful roar that echoed through the night, filled with both defiance and pride. Beside it danced the enchanting figure of a chubby cub, its playful spirit captured in the warm glow of the flames as it tumbled joyfully in a fit of gleeful antics. The scene was a breathtaking blend of warmth and magic, a moment where the elements of fire and frost harmoniously coalesced.

The crystalline bears, shimmering like diamonds under the flickering light, nestled comfortably in a warm bed of flames that danced around them like a vibrant thicket. The mother bear, with a gentle nicker, lovingly groomed her cub, her soft, rhythmic movements nurturing and protective, as the warmth enveloped them both like a comforting embrace in a wild and untamed world.

"Then, during the night they came from across the seas. They stabbed his mother in a cowardly fashion, speared her in the back as she slept with Thrym nestled safely between her furry paws, close to her chest." She spoke, her voice trembling as the silhouettes of eerie, unfamiliar assailants materialized—cloaked figures draped in tattered robes that swirled like shadows, their forms wavering ominously in the dim light.

From beneath their hoods, piercing green eyes glowed with an unnerving intensity, casting an otherworldly aura around them. In the present age, they were feared as Necromancers, remnants of a long-extinct race that had once wielded a fearsome mastery over blood and dark sorcery, driven by a desperate ambition to resurrect an ancient entity known only as The Corrupted One—a being that had plummeted from the celestial realm eons ago, leaving a legacy of dread in its wake. With swift, sinister precision, they plunged their blades into the massive crystal bear from behind, triggering a guttural, choked roar that reverberated through the air. Moments later, the majestic creature slumped, its radiant form flickering like a dying star, leaving an unsettling silence in its wake.

The silhouettes began to prowl like famished Wyverns, circling the delicate crystal Thrym ensconced in the flickering firelight. The flames danced wildly, casting deep shadows as they flared dramatically in response to her ongoing struggle. "As I said before, for bears there is an honor code, even when they fight eachother. What these men did, held no honor, and stripped her of her right to fight back."

Nearby, the bear cub stood tall on its tiny hind legs, a fierce, tiny, and pathetic roar escaping its little chest—an endearing yet valiant attempt to appear 'menacing', as if to shield his mother from whatever danger lurked in the shadows. "Thrym tried to wake his mother by pawing at her, nibbling on her nose, and even giving her a playful bite in a way that usually upset her. He was worried and sensed that something was seriously wrong when his mother remained limp and didn't swat his nose as she typically would. Thrym wouldn't leave his mother, either. He was certain she would wake, that she needed protection."

"Cowards," Kaiza spat, his voice jagged with disdain. He tore his gaze from the vision, staring into the snow as if it might anchor him. "Attacking a sleeping mother…" The assailants seized him, their cruel hands clamping a chain around his neck as he roared—a tiny, pathetic sound that broke Cara’s heart anew. Kaiza’s fists clenched, his breath hitching as the vision showed Thrym dragged away, his cries for his mother swallowed by the dark.

“Thrym was taken across the seas,” Cara continued, her voice breaking as tears streaked her face. “Thrown into a box so small he couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. When he reached Amaranth, there was no mercy—only torment.”

The fire roared to life in a sudden, vengeful burst, its amber tongues clawing at the suffocating darkness of the cavern. In that flickering hell light, Thrym’s small form shuddered—the crystalline cub still soft with the downy fur of youth, now caged by writhing shadows that coiled like tormented spirits. The whips came first, their braided leather tails hissing through the air before biting into his crystalline hide. Each lash split the iridescent scales that once shimmered like captured starlight, leaving jagged, weeping gashes that glowed faintly as if his very essence bled through the wounds. They mirrored the fractures deep within him, fissures spreading through his spirit like frost creeping across glass.

Rocks followed, hurled by jeering figures whose faces were twisted into masks of malice. The stones struck with the precision of hatred, chipping away at the tender luminescence that had once drawn creatures to him in wonder. Every impact stole something irreplaceable—a flinch where there had been curiosity, a snarl where there had been playful chirps. His whimpers dissolved into the damp air, swallowed by the cage’s indifferent echoes as if even the earth refused to bear witness.

The chieftain loomed above him, a mountain of sinew and savagery, his eyes twin shards of glacial ice. His laughter was a grating sound, like boulders dragged over bone, as he brought the obsidian-studded cudgel down again and again. Thrym’s snarls grew weaker, his defiance crumbling like ash. The cub’s eyes—once wide with the soft glow of auroras—dimmed to hollow pits, their light smothered beneath the weight of relentless cruelty. Where there had been a heartbeat of wild, untamed gentleness, now thrived only a festering void, an aching absence.

By the time the beating ceased, the fire had dwindled to embers, and the shadows stretched hungrily over Thrym’s hunched form. What remained was no longer a cub but a snarling and menacing creature shattered at the edges and full of rage, his scars etched as deep as the chasms between stars. The wind that slipped through the cavern’s throat seemed to carry his lost whimpers far into the tundra, where they faded into nothing—a dirge for the tenderness the world had carved out of him.

"When the cheiftain got bored of Thrym, he sent Thrym to work the ore mines and the battle arena." The crystalline bear was a striking figure against the campfire's flames, its body a kaleidoscope of shimmering facets that caught the light in dazzling displays. Scars crisscrossed its powerful form, each mark telling a story of past battles and hardships. Heavy chains clinked as they secured it to an equally burdensome cart, the harness digging into its thick fur. The bear's breath came in labored gasps, its sides heaving as the oppressive heat of the environment bore down on it. Around the creature, the flickering flames of the campfire danced wildly, throwing shadows that wrapped around the bear like a sinister cloak, amplifying its struggle to breathe in the stifling air.

The flames surged dramatically, twisting and dancing around the shimmering crystalline bear, enveloping him in a radiant aura before revealing the vast expanse of a grand arena. Before him loomed an imposing Wyvern, its scaled body glistening ominously under the flickering firelight. The bear stood tall on his powerful hind limbs, emanating an aura of strength and defiance, while issuing a thunderous roar that echoed like a battle cry. In response, the Wyvern unleashed a piercing shriek, its elongated wings unfurling menacingly and creating a tempest of air, as if challenging Thrym to a fierce showdown. "Thrym only got to eat when he killed, he was their best fighter. Their champion, until he faced the Wyvern… And when he lost… They locked Thrym away to rot."

Cara waved her hand over the flames once more, the fire flaring briefly before settling into a haunting vision. Within the flickering light, the crystalline bear emerged—not as the proud, shimmering giant it once was, but as a pitiful, emaciated shadow of its former glory. Severely starved, its translucent fur hung dull and matted, clinging to a skeletal frame where every rib jutted out like a cruel mockery of its past strength. Once a majestic creature that roamed the wilds with unmatched grace, it was now reduced to a gaunt specter, its powerful muscles withered into frail whispers of what they had been.

The bear paced in a relentless figure-eight formation, its movements slow and mechanical, as if driven by a madness it could no longer escape. Each step was a struggle, its massive paws dragging across the ash-strewn ground, leaving faint trails that marked the endless loop of its despair. From its gaping maw, thick strands of drool and foam spilled, cascading to the earth in glistening pools—evidence of a body too broken to hold itself together. Its crystalline eyes, once fierce and radiant, were now clouded with torment, darting wildly as though searching for a freedom it would never find.

The flames encircling the bear roared with a cruel intensity, their heat warping the air and casting a hellish glow across its ravaged form. The firelight danced over the cracks that fractured its once-pristine surface, illuminating scars and raw wounds where its shimmering hide had shattered under relentless suffering. Each breath it took was a ragged, shallow gasp, its chest heaving desperately as if every inhale might be its last. The scene was a tableau of anguish, the bear’s every movement a testament to a life stolen, a spirit crushed.

In that moment, the bear let out a low, mournful growl—a sound so raw and broken it seemed to rise from the depths of its shattered soul.

It was a cry that carried the weight of its lost freedom, its stolen dignity, and the unbearable pain of its existence. As the flames burned brighter, fueled by the bear’s sorrow, the vision became almost too much to bear—a crystalline creature, once a king of the wilds, now a prisoner of its own torment, pacing endlessly toward a release that would never come.

As the campfire flickered and flared, its restless flames twisted in an eerie dance, casting trembling shadows across the ground. For a fleeting moment, the fire seemed to pause, then surged with a mournful glow, unveiling a vision so bleak it stole the breath from the night air. There, in the heart of the blaze, lay Thrym—a once-mighty bear reduced to a pitiful shell—sprawled helplessly on his side within the confines of a cruelly small cage.

The cage was a barren prison of despair, its rusted bars pressing mercilessly into Thrym’s matted fur, forcing his massive frame into an unnatural, contorted shape. Bloodstains, some fresh and glistening, others dried to a dark, cracked crust, smeared the floor and streaked the bars—grim evidence of his relentless struggle to break free. Deep claw marks gouged the metal, each scratch a testament to his desperation, a frantic plea for survival and freedom that had gone unanswered. Yet now, those once-formidable claws, which had carved paths through forests and mountains, were ground down to nothing. Blunt, jagged nubs remained where power once resided, their broken remnants scattered across the filth-strewn floor like the shards of a shattered legacy.

Thrym’s suffering permeated the scene. His hulking body, once a symbol of untamed strength, now twitched faintly with exhaustion and pain. His fur, dull and patchy, clung to his emaciated frame, revealing the sharp jut of ribs beneath. Each breath was a labored, shuddering gasp, the sound echoing hollowly in the cage—a rhythm of defeat that seemed to plead for an end to his torment. Drool dripped from his slackened jaws, pooling beneath his muzzle in a sticky mire of saliva, blood, and grime, as though his very spirit were leaking away with it.

The air within the cage hung heavy with the metallic tang of blood and the sour reek of despair, a stench that spoke of endless pacing, of a creature driven mad by confinement. Thrym’s eyes, once fierce and alive with the wild, now stared blankly ahead, clouded with a dull sheen of agony and resignation. They were windows to a soul that had been crushed, a spark extinguished by the weight of his captivity. His massive head rested limply against the bars, too weak to rise, too broken to fight, as if the cage had not only trapped his body but devoured his will to live.

As the flames wavered, the vision of Thrym lingered—a haunting tableau of a creature who had paced, suffered, and drooled in his prison, his every movement a futile cry for the freedom he could no longer reach. The bloodstains and claw marks stood as silent witnesses to his anguish, while his ground-down claws and defeated form painted a portrait of a king brought low, his majesty stripped away by the unrelenting cruelty of his fate. When the fire finally dimmed, the image faded, but the sorrow it left behind was indelible—a piercing reminder of a life reduced to desperation, clinging to survival in a cage that offered nothing but despair.

"How Thrym's bones got back to Howa'ah is a mystery to Thrym and myself both… Thrym died in that cage and woke as a spirit, a beast god. The god of frost to be exact… And he was doing his job up until 300 years ago, when the dragons abandoned Howa'ah and its people… Thrym only got out through death." Cara whispered gently, her voice a soothing melody that floated through the crisp air.

Thrym lingered in the velvety embrace of darkness, crouched behind a twisted tree that had withstood the test of time, its gnarled branches reaching out like skeletal fingers. He whimpered softly, his cries echoing like a lost cub abandoned in an endless, wintry expanse, where the chill seeped into his very bones. Nearby, the majestic Howa'ah ice bear bowed his noble head, the weight of shame pressing heavily upon his broad, fur-clad shoulders. He stood in solemn stillness, confronted by the quietude that enveloped him, a suffocating reminder of his own profound regret.

[radioactive-yuri]

okay but this was an insane slay i cannot lie

[thedreadvampy]

Comfort, creativity, and small acts of vocal protest aren't revolutionary acts. but they can be restorative acts.

I keep seeing posts that posit rest or art or community building as inherently revolutionary and it pisses me off cause I think it stems from a desire to have the Morally Most Good action be the thing you want to do for yourself

but the truth of it is sometimes things don't need to be altruistic or Important To The World to be worth doing. you sometimes need to do things for your own physical, mental and spiritual health because You Are A Person.

I don't go to public legal marches or do graffiti or make zines or break rules or post on Tumblr about how mad I am about politics because I think it will change anything in the world. I do it because it's necessary for my own spiritual and emotional health to remind myself that I care, and that I'm angry, and that I'm able to say no even in small meaningless ways. and that matters because a) that helps me rebuild the energy and space to do things I DO think so something, however small, on a local or global scale, and b) because I'm a person and seeking agency and rest and fulfillment and creative expression and social contract is a necessary part of Being A Person. which is good and it matters whatever else is going on.

I believe in a world where people matter, and much as I sometimes don't want to admit it, I'm a people too. so I do have to matter a bit. and idk to me part of that includes permission to do things for myself that aren't radical altruistic acts of social change.

partially to recognise that not everything we do has to be productive or in service of a larger cause. partially, as well, so that we can recognise the difference between our individual needs and wants and an act of political pressure.

are you doing this to create a specific change? are you doing it for the good of others in your community? are you doing it primarily for yourself, either because you positively want something or because your disgust or anger at something would eat away at you if you ignored it?

cause all of those are valid. but they're not the same. you do have to weigh them against each other sometimes - is your need for rest or moral purity more important than a political or social duty in this case? - and I think it's important to be clear in yourself about why you're doing things, and to positively work towards sometimes being able to say, 'I'm doing this, not because I expect change, but because I need to do it to feel like a person'.

(otherwise you will start thinking that eg watching children's cartoons or making condescending Instagram posts is Activism and a Moral Duty instead of like. actually helping people.)