#self-importance and order

[someweirdoreblogger]

I want to rant about Buddha and how important it is to note that, for one of the least burdened men on Earth, who explicitly prides himself in natural solitude, independent of connection and influence, is one of the most responsible people in not only in Ragnarök but across the realms.

I want to.

So badly.

[achillesunly]

I don't wanna hear any of the emotional-wreckage psycho-sexual deviance comments that my answer might arouse

Soukoku

Klance

Jegulus

Next question.

Bonus point for stsg which takes charge whenever one of em is resting

[artblocked]

OKAY, FINE, I'LL POST MY YUMESHIP ART

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

screaming

[cent-scratchnsniff]

something bad did indeed happen to that man. spent abt 25 minutes trying to find a better picture of that one (1) offical piece with his eyes open that wasnt compressed or tiny

[itsmuffiiee]

ミ✰ BIRTHDAY EVENT! A SONA PARTY! ♪

🎊 toki! I'm Muffin! Let's celebrate by drawing our sonas in silly party outfits 🎊

For my birthday (Dec 2nd) I thought… what would be a better gift than getting to see so many diffrent sonas? Especially if it’s of my friends, moots and possible future friends! I designed a party version of my sona and am hoping others will draw their own sonas in outfits to match that aesthetic

The plan is to draw submitted sonas in a big drawing at the end of the event! If you’re interested feel free to read more but if not please reblog this post anyway so that others can participate!

How To Participate:

1. Reblog this post with the specific tag #RSVP so I know you’re interested! 🎉

2. Submit your sona design! I am gathering the designs beforehand to hopefully get a head start on the group drawing. You can submit a design by sending me an ask with a reference! Simply draw your sona matching the outfit shown below. It can be a quick sketch, I just request it be fully colored- Also please include height or approximate size plus any other important details in the ask!

3. Attend the magma! I will have a magma open Nov 29th - Dec 3rd where I’ll be drawing and doodling throughout the days ( this is optional! But feel free to join me! )

4. I will do my best to draw all sonas submitted to me before Dec 1st in a group photo!

Thank you for Reading! ☆

[bantersnatch]

it's been a full year since i crossed the rubicon (started writing vianca fic, thus dooming myself to all this nonsense)!! what a wild ride it's been <3

[vanitybutcher]

𓏼 𝄞 ．　@VANITYBUTCHER　　 ׅ ۟ ♪ ◟ ͜

⨳　˚　　𖨂　　“ gonna be , gonna be golden ! ”

𓉸ྀི　　 rumi　or　zoey !　　𓏵　　˚　any prns

𓈒 ㅤ꒰𓏼´ `𓏼 ྀིᥩㅤrequests　are　open !　:　2　/　5

OO1　　OO2　　OO3　　edtfght prfl & stamp

[praise-the-lord-im-dead]

Sighs deeply

Stumbles upright and holds up a finger like a drunken bar patron delivering a speech

We don't absorb art with the idea that the creator is morally pure in the first place. We aren't reading books written by minor gods or automatons, but people, people who have yelled at their loved ones and looked the other way when they saw someone who needed help and nodded along to heinous ideas because they wanted to keep the peace. Those things are always part of the art.

I'm tired of seeing conversations about separating something awful done by an author or a director or an actor or a painter from their creations. That's not how it works. The person who did those things also made that art, and art is an expression of how the artist sees the world.

If it's beautiful art, it's because human beings are capable of great contradictions within ourselves; but also, there are often the philosophical seeds of the actions in the art, too.

Ignoring those, either by refusing to absorb the art at all or by refusing to see it in relation to the artist, means that we're ignoring that part of our shared humanity. We're carrying on a pretense, not only that art and artist can be separated, but that we can also be separated from human failings, and that we can achieve total moral purity by inaction. It's not great.

[merakiorder]

As a child in the great city of Omelas, you have never known pain, or hunger, or any of the great discomforts that come to your mind now. You have grown up happy, surrounded by love and beautiful things and all that you could want or need. Any illness treated swiftly; disputes handle fairly and promptly. And at that young and inquisitive age, you could not help but wonder how things could be so perfect.

One day, it was decided you were ready to understand, and you were told of the child in that small, dark room. And you were scared, and angry and you cried that it was not fair- and the one who raised you held you gently, wiped your tears and said "no, it is not fair- but it is necessary. Without the child, we would not have the good life we have. And so we must be grateful to it."

Days passed, and your great joys were shadowed as clouds pass over the sun; your world still bright, but not without thoughts of the child in the room. You wondered what the child ate as you enjoyed your favorite meals, and how the child slept as you laid in your soft bed.

One day you sat in a closet to try and see what it was like. It wasn't long before you started getting bored, and you wondered how the child passed the time in that dark room. But sunlight spilled in from the crack under the door, and soon the one who raised you had opened it and brought you out, laughing about hide and seek. You asked them if the child knew about how wonderful life in Omelas was.

"I do not know," said the one who raised you. "but it is thanks to them that we have this life, and so we must be grateful to it."

You thought the child must be quite a good person. You wondered if maybe, were they not in the cellar, you would be friends.

But you had plenty of friends, and soon the summer festival would arrive and your mind would wander from the child in the dark. In the light of the sun you and your loved ones danced, ate, laughed, sang, watched the riders race and the great parades in the streets.

When you and the sun had both settled into your beds, you thought again of the child, for a moment. All that you had was thanks to them, which still did not feel quite fair. You wanted, at least, to thank them for it, and you told the one who raised you as much.

The next day, an elder came to the house to bring you to see the child. The one who raised you had explained your intention, and the elder was very clear with you that you could not speak to the child. No acts of kindness whatsoever could be extended to it. When you asked why, the elder was silent.

You alone stood with the elder as she opened the door. Dark and dirty as it was inside, you may not have even noticed the child if not for the dark, shining eyes that fixed on you from their dusty face. You wiggled your hand at your side, a kind of half-wave you hoped the elder wouldn't notice.

The child's mouth opened slowly, and their whole body seemed to shake with the effort of speaking.

"please... let me..." the child fell silent again.

Without really knowing why, you lunged forward onto the child, hugging them tightly. The elder quickly followed you, trying to pry you apart as yours tears left streaks in the dirt on the child's skin.

The elder's head whipped around frantically, as if the building would collapse upon you all. "Get off of it," she hissed.

Still you clung tight to the child, and wailed for their freedom.

The elder shook her head. "Don't be foolish. You know it has to be here."

You let go of the child, coughing in the dust. As the elder pulled you to your feet, the child pushed itself further into the corner. Dusting off your clothes, you considered the lot of this child- trapped in this world of dirt and darkness so everyone else could be happy. Why can't everyone just be happy? Guilt flooded you, thinking of how this child's suffering was the cost for all your joy.

"Let them go, and I'll stay here," you said.

The elder took a step back, nearly tripping on the threshold of the door. "Why would you do that? Are you not happy?"

No, you were not. You wanted the child to be happy like you got to be happy. But someone had to stay in the room, so you would do it.

The elder considered this, and agreed. The child would walk free, and you would bear the suffering of Omelas. And so the elder dressed them in your clothes, and locked you away.

And the child was brought to their mother, who cried and held them, washed them and fed them and tucked them into a soft bed. The child, at last, was happy.

The one who raised you cried and cried, and the elder comforted them. "It is thanks to your child that we have this utopia, and so we must be grateful to it."

And you sat in the dark, dusty room as time lost its meaning. You grew thin and sore, and cried to dehydration. You missed your friends, and the sun, and the one who raised you.

But you knew that they were happy. That your misery was what made their happiness so profound and beautiful. And you came to believe that in turn, your misery was profound and beautiful for allowing so much joy to exist. So though you ached and cried and grew ever more thin and sickly, you were grateful.

[lord-squiggletits]

Honestly it annoys me that pride, ambition, and generally having a big ego are always villainous/evil-coded personality traits because personally I think if you genuinely are a prodigy at what you do you are 100% within your rights, perhaps even deserving, of flaunting your skills and being proud of the fact you can do something that only a small fraction of other people can do. Is it even ego at that point if you genuinely are as good at your field/skill as you say you are? Are people not aware that becoming a prodigy at something is something that takes lifelong sacrifice and practice sometimes to the point of giving up on having a normal life, relationships, etc even potentially destroying your own health???? God I fucking hate how pride in your own skills and ambition are so villain coded all the time. As if it's evil to want to be good at something and be recognized for what you rightfully earned

[ladyofchroyane]

question: how can you adore elia when she’s barely a character?

we do not know enough about this character for her to even have stans.

stanning elia is illogical at best, completely delusional and very concerning at worst.

because what even is it that is being stanned and adored? your self insert?

[magpie-trove]

It’s not nature or nurture it’s what you make of what you’re given that is what defines good and evil!!

[hauntina]

❝ It's called love ♡ ❞

reqs : CLOSED ( 2 / 4 ) 〜 do kyu daily clicks !! ♡ ( psd by pinkmiku )

whitelist : pjsk ⌞ any rhythm game in general ⌝ hoyoverse media 、wuwa 、akiyama's work 、pink characters ⌞ this is what we like 2 edit most !! ⌝ 、any media we are comfortable editing / thats not on the blacklist

blacklist : problematic medias , irl people , viziepop's work , lolicon / shotacon medias , south park , proships / comships , countryhumans , boyfriends webtoons , other medias kyu'll usually find in a blacklist ,  media i feel uncomfy doing

credits : banner inspo - @murcuor icon frame - @doveish

[orcinas]

i'm salty but why does law always have this cozy relationship with sengoku in modern aus. he would not trust that cop for a second.

[memento-morri-writes]

random snippet - birthday duels

aka Terrible Time Tuesday (yes, I posted parts of this yesterday. But the new parts, which is most of it, are fun! I promise!!)

Rook was not having a good time on Sunday, and this was before he died from a plethora of stab wounds. Would you believe me if I said this was one of the "best" times he's dealt with bad feelings? pov: Rook wordcount: 1.1k character(s): Rook (D&D), Tyra (NPC), Aki (Other PC) canon status: canon session rewrite trigger warnings: death mention, grief, guilt, self-hatred, very unhealthy coping mechanisms summary: on the birthday of his recently deceased friend, Rook struggles to deal with his emotions and winds up taking them out on his first mate, Tyra.

As the day wore on, the black cloud of grief that had settled over the ship grew thicker and more oppressive. Rook paced the deck, nearly vibrating with tension. It was almost suffocating, pressing down on him with the weight of a thousand regrets. 

Thoughts clawed at the back of his mind, bringing unwelcome reminders of the part he had played in Warren’s death. If things had gone differently, if he had been a little faster, a little smarter, would his friend still be here?

He shook his head rapidly, trying to shake off the guilt that clung to him with barbed claws. The others didn’t blame him. They’d made that point very clear. And yet, he still couldn’t help but blame himself. 

Wrenching his thoughts away from the dark pit they were circling, he marched up the stairs leading to the quarterdeck. Tyra stood at the helm, talking to Tempest. When she saw Rook, she trailed off. 

She opened her mouth in greeting, but before she could say a word, Rook spoke. “I know you’re more than capable of handling the crew, but how do I know you can hold your own in a fight?”

Tyra’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I can handle myself. I’m best with my pistol,” she tapped the beautifully carved handle emerging from the holster at her hip, “but I’m not too bad with a rapier.”

Rook made a contemplative sound. There was a long pause as he looked her up and down. “Show me.”

Drawing his rapier, he turned on his heel and descended to the deck, stepping onto the cargo hatch. The crew moved out of the way, clearing a space around him. Looking back up at Tyra, he beckoned her with his sword. 

Tyra exchanged an unreadable glance with Tempest, who stepped forwards to take the wheel as she slowly made her way down to the main deck. She positioned herself across from Rook. Hesitantly, she drew her sword, a curved cutlass that was shorter and thicker than his rapier, with a wide, flat blade.

Around them, the crew had started murmuring, hurriedly placing bets. Rook let their voices fade away, trying his best to clear his racing mind. He and Tyra stared at each other, time stretching out between them.

Then, in the blink of an eye, Rook lunged, sending his blade towards Tyra’s chest. She stepped back, parrying his strike with the flat of her blade. She tried to keep the momentum going, but he disengaged, dancing out of her reach. Now it was her turn to bridge the gap, lunging towards him. He knocked her blade aside with ease. 

Their blades clashed again and again as he effortlessly parried her every blow. She redoubled her efforts, deflecting his next strike. Drawing her arm back, she prepared to attack, leaving her torso unguarded. Rook struck. In a flash, he had his blade hovering over her chest. She froze.

In the background the crew exchanged money as the two stood there, gazes locked. Rook stepped back, raising his sword into a ready position. His heart pounded in his ears as he said, “Again.”

Tyra’s eyes widened, but she raised her sword. This time, she struck first, trying to gain the upper hand early. But it wasn’t long before he had her on the defensive, trying her best to hold him back.

She blocked him again, and this time, instead of pulling back for another strike, he stepped forwards, pushing his sword down her blade. With a flick of his wrist, he knocked the cutlass from her hand.

She stepped back, breathing heavily. 

Rook crossed to where her sword lay, and with one quick motion from his foot, sent it flying into his hand. He held it out to her, hilt first. Reluctantly, she took it. 

“Again.”

This time, he didn’t even give her a second to gather her bearings before he struck, targeting her with several blows in quick succession. Immediately she fell onto her back foot, desperately trying to match his furious pace.

He kept pushing her back, off of the cargo hatch that had been their arena until her foot caught and she stumbled. He pressed on and she fell, back hitting the wood of the deck with an audible thud as her sword clattered from her hand. Rook stood over her, blade hovering inches above her throat. He stared down at her, heart pounding. 

A gentle tap on his shoulder caused him to whirl around, striking at the source of the gesture. The tip of his blade pierced a translucent blue hand, causing it to dissolve into the air. Behind it, Aki stared at him, eyes wide.

“Rook, stop this.” He frowned. “It isn’t healthy.”

“I don’t care.”

Aki’s brow furrowed. “It isn’t helping you.” When Rook said nothing, he added, “Look at her, she’s exhausted.” He gestured towards Tyra.

Rook turned to look at his first mate, who was slowly getting to her feet. She was disheveled, her clothes rumpled and her locs in disarray. Her chest rose and fell as she panted for breath. Aki was right, she was tired. 

“Let her go,” Aki said gently.

Whatever he had been trying to do by challenging her, it wasn’t working. He was breathing more heavily than normal, but it was more due to the tightness in his chest than a difficult fight. His muscles trembled, not from effort or exhaustion, but from tension.

Rook squared his shoulders. “Fine.” He sheathed his sword and turned away. He could feel the crew’s eyes on him as he headed towards the ratlines leading up to the crow’s nest. Ignoring them, he grabbed the rope and began to climb.

Though it had been years since he’d climbed the rigging, it came back to him easily, his body’s memory of six years of sailing guiding him up to the small basket-like platform near the top of the mast. A member of the crew sat inside. As Rook’s head came into view, she started, eyes wide.

“Get out.”

She nodded and hurriedly clambered over the edge, scurrying down the rigging towards the deck.

Rook sank onto the floor of the crow’s nest, tipping his head back until it touched the low wooden wall surrounding the platform. Closing his eyes, he breathed in, then out, forcing himself to slow down.

He wasn’t sure if it was the gentle rocking of the ship, or the wind on his face, or the sun on his skin, or simply the distance from the deck and all the gloom that hung over it, but slowly the tension faded from his body. 

[ncfan-1]

I have a few wants for Mae’s story next season, with the hope that she gets her memory back relatively quickly being a pretty important one, but it’s not the only want I have for the way things go for Mae that I consider important. There’s something else that feels even more important: namely, that Mae find people in her life that deeply love and prioritize her.

There’s something very pointed going on in Season 1. “Everyone seems to want you,” Qimir says to Osha, but by comparison, nobody ever seems to want Mae. When they’re children, Sol professes a connection to Osha, and Mae is little more than an afterthought; as an adult, Sol ultimately leaves nothing for her but the worst parts of himself. Qimir is visibly fascinated with Osha from first sight, and ultimately doesn’t seem to have thought much of Mae even before she attempted to desert his side; he seems to brush her off the way you’d brush a speck of dust off of you.

And don’t get me wrong, I don’t think that Osha should have chosen to stay with Mae in Episode 8. It doesn’t make sense from a storytelling standpoint, not at this juncture. This is the culmination of Mae’s character arc this season, where she is finally able to stop clinging to Osha, to accept that what she wants more than anything is for Osha to be happy, even if she isn’t with her. For Osha to choose to stay with Mae at that point would feel wrong, for Mae has to prove to the audience that she has reached this kind of peace regarding her relationship with her sister by accepting that Osha doesn’t want to stay with her without bitterness. As for Osha, this is the culmination of her character arc this season, which has been about taking her life and her power into her own hands, and it would be strange for her to stay with Mae when Qimir has offered to help her do what she wants. It wouldn’t feel right from a storytelling standpoint; for things to make sense, they have to part ways at the end of Season 1.

But even if Osha frames it as making sure that Mae is safe from any reprisals on Qimir’s part, and even if it’s what make sense from a storytelling perspective, what it ultimately amounts to is that Osha doesn’t choose Mae, either. Nobody ever chooses Mae.

And it’s so uneven. I’m not saying I want Osha to be this alone, too—I don’t. But it’s wrenching to watch this woman who has nothing and no one at the beginning of the season still have nothing and no one at the end of the season, because even the memory of Osha forgiving her and loving her again has been taken away from her. Even her memory of the one person she had left who actually loved her has been taken away from her. She had nothing then, and she has nothing now.

Like I said, it feels pointed, the way Mae is never chosen, and what I’m hoping is that this means that it won’t be the case anymore in Season 2. Vernestra, you say, and yeah, I have high hopes for that dynamic, but no matter how things shake out between Mae and Vernestra, that is never going to be a relationship of equals, and I don’t think it’s ultimately going to be the kind of relationship where Vernestra would choose Mae, not meaningfully. Not over every other option.

That’s what I want for Mae, really. Someone who will love her deeply and choose her over everyone else, every time. With her memories and without. Knowing what she’s done, the good and the bad, knowing what she’s capable of, the good and the bad, knowing her past, knowing her faults and knowing that those faults aren’t all of who she is. Someone who would choose her without a second thought.

Because I feel like there’s going to be a scene like the one in Episode 8, where this time, it’s Mae who chooses. But Osha had more than one option. Either Qimir or Mae were viable options. Osha had a solid foundation to rely on, whatever she decided to do. But as it stands, Mae only has Osha. Osha is all Mae has. And if we do get a moment like that in Season 2, where this time it’s Osha asking Mae what she wants, if she wants to go with her or not, if Mae’s options are still “Osha” or “be completely alone,” then it's not the meaningful choice that Osha had, is it? My point is, I want Mae, whatever she decides, to have actually had a meaningful choice. To not be completely dependent on Osha for love and acceptance. To have someone else she could turn to if she decided that she didn’t want to go with Osha. To not have her choices be: Osha—or no one.