fallingtowers - Tumblr blog

[fallingtowers]

my dealer pulls up in his squirrel-drawn cart and tells me he's got some straight gas. i take one hit and am instantly filled with apple-cheeked good cheer

[fallingtowers]

does a little jig so you think im just fucking around then grabs your ankle and begins the descent

[fallingtowers]

california girls we’re inconsolable

dreams of doom the visions wont stop

[fallingtowers]

the lady regent, called Aconite Needle for her habit of using poison as a first resort, is interrupted in the thirty-third year of her disastrous interregnum by the return of her country's fated ruler. on the one hand, good; saves her from kneeling for the headsman the next time the riffraff gets temperamental. on the other hand, she's not exactly keen to give up her throne. there's also this to consider: she's never fucked a woman king before. the life of the sovereign is full of these little calculations.

[fallingtowers]

*peter gabriel if he was really into d&d* i wanna be. your spelljammer

[fallingtowers]

i have now reblogged the queen of swords. thank you for your time.

[fallingtowers]

on the planet of serpent cults, where heat lightning always flickers on the far horizon, the queen of swords roams.

a thief, a reaver, a slayer: she is all these things and more. she embraces danger like a lover, and makes a fool of fate. she knows the five secret ways into the cursed temple, where one false move means death. she does battle with skeleton warriors while the stormclouds gather and the rising wind whips the tresses of her hair, which is black as grief or bright as gold—whatever works best for you.

1929, 1932, 1939—the year of publication is irrelevant; the queen of swords is always in her prime, and never grows old or infirm. if she dies, she will die by the sword, and that will never happen as long as she has an audience, and on the planet of jungles and ziggurats the golden age of pulps never ends. she is often wounded, but there is always a hut with dried herbs hanging from the rafters and a kindhearted peasant daughter to nurse her back to health, until the wound is just another scar.

she has so many scars.

she wears a bikini of bronze scales, which is the expected outfit for a woman in her line of work, but she would have worn it even if it wasn't, because she enjoys showing off. her body is muscular and sword-marked. her girlbulge is considerable. her pupils are dilated and her teeth stained red from chewing a root she got in the silver city, where every building is a generations-old repurposed spacecraft, and all the inhabitants are telepathic, and drugs grow freely in every garden. the root improves her reflexes as well as having an aphrodisiac effect, which is a useful combination on the planet of tombs and warlords, where lascivious sorceresses lurk behind every corner.

(when she was just a boy, her entire village was put to the sword. now she scatters deathblows the way a sower scatters seeds, and plumes of blood sprout in her wake. there is nothing wrong or unhealthy about this. it's the natural order of things, on the planet of conquest and savagery.)

the queen of swords, who dances on the razor's edge, who flouts the laws of men and gods! the horse she rides is always rearing; she is always backlit by lightning; her cloak snaps in the boreal gale. vallejo, frazetta, norem—everyone who is anyone has painted her. her name is whispered in the city of knives, where thieves hide in every cellar and hounds of bone and black smoke stalk the roofs, and in the city of sails, and in the city of broken idols. they speak of her even in the city of jeweled thrones, the greatest of all the cities of men, where sleep martyrs take stimulants that keep them awake until it kills them, and sarong-clad princesses burn for her touch.

though she has visited a thousand cities, she has no home. though she has taken a thousand lovers, she has never married. she lies awake late into the night, turning her melancholies this way and that like puzzle boxes.

on the planet of dust storms and pterosaurs, where every swamp teems with lizard-men and eight-foot-tall arthropodal reavers from beyond the stars descend in dropships made of steel and crystallized honeydew, there is always another adventure. but afterwards, in the silence after the clash of steel, she leaves empty-handed. the jewels slip between her fingers, and when her latest woman asks her to stay, of course she cannot accept. there is always another adventure, another forgotten dungeon or distant beckoning city, and as long as she has an audience, the queen of swords must roam.

yes, hers is a lonely life, but look, look: as she trudges through the violet sands of the southern wastes, drops of rain begin to fall, fat and blood-warm, stirring the hot dust—and the desert blooms around her.

[fallingtowers]

i'm gonna reblog the queen of swords again because i'm proud of it. i'm proud of her

[fallingtowers]

“collect my ages” - slendjamin button

[fallingtowers]

Kenna Sharp for Selkie

[fallingtowers]

RIP i lockpicked my chastity cage again so this time instead she's installing two lil guards next to my penis and one of them can only tell lies

[fallingtowers]

happy lesbian day of visibility gang 😘

[fallingtowers]

on the planet of serpent cults, where heat lightning always flickers on the far horizon, the queen of swords roams.

a thief, a reaver, a slayer: she is all these things and more. she embraces danger like a lover, and makes a fool of fate. she knows the five secret ways into the cursed temple, where one false move means death. she does battle with skeleton warriors while the stormclouds gather and the rising wind whips the tresses of her hair, which is black as grief or bright as gold—whatever works best for you.

1929, 1932, 1939—the year of publication is irrelevant; the queen of swords is always in her prime, and never grows old or infirm. if she dies, she will die by the sword, and that will never happen as long as she has an audience, and on the planet of jungles and ziggurats the golden age of pulps never ends. she is often wounded, but there is always a hut with dried herbs hanging from the rafters and a kindhearted peasant daughter to nurse her back to health, until the wound is just another scar.

she has so many scars.

she wears a bikini of bronze scales, which is the expected outfit for a woman in her line of work, but she would have worn it even if it wasn't, because she enjoys showing off. her body is muscular and sword-marked. her girlbulge is considerable. her pupils are dilated and her teeth stained red from chewing a root she got in the silver city, where every building is a generations-old repurposed spacecraft, and all the inhabitants are telepathic, and drugs grow freely in every garden. the root improves her reflexes as well as having an aphrodisiac effect, which is a useful combination on the planet of tombs and warlords, where lascivious sorceresses lurk behind every corner.

(when she was just a boy, her entire village was put to the sword. now she scatters deathblows the way a sower scatters seeds, and plumes of blood sprout in her wake. there is nothing wrong or unhealthy about this. it's the natural order of things, on the planet of conquest and savagery.)

the queen of swords, who dances on the razor's edge, who flouts the laws of men and gods! the horse she rides is always rearing; she is always backlit by lightning; her cloak snaps in the boreal gale. vallejo, frazetta, norem—everyone who is anyone has painted her. her name is whispered in the city of knives, where thieves hide in every cellar and hounds of bone and black smoke stalk the roofs, and in the city of sails, and in the city of broken idols. they speak of her even in the city of jeweled thrones, the greatest of all the cities of men, where sleep martyrs take stimulants that keep them awake until it kills them, and sarong-clad princesses burn for her touch.

though she has visited a thousand cities, she has no home. though she has taken a thousand lovers, she has never married. she lies awake late into the night, turning her melancholies this way and that like puzzle boxes.

on the planet of dust storms and pterosaurs, where every swamp teems with lizard-men and eight-foot-tall arthropodal reavers from beyond the stars descend in dropships made of steel and crystallized honeydew, there is always another adventure. but afterwards, in the silence after the clash of steel, she leaves empty-handed. the jewels slip between her fingers, and when her latest woman asks her to stay, of course she cannot accept. there is always another adventure, another forgotten dungeon or distant beckoning city, and as long as she has an audience, the queen of swords must roam.

yes, hers is a lonely life, but look, look: as she trudges through the violet sands of the southern wastes, drops of rain begin to fall, fat and blood-warm, stirring the hot dust—and the desert blooms around her.

[fallingtowers]

tragic! it's ldov and i'm not feeling very photogenic

[fallingtowers]

hmmm i think that might be the most personal thing i've ever written. well enjoy!

[fallingtowers]

on the planet of serpent cults, where heat lightning always flickers on the far horizon, the queen of swords roams.

a thief, a reaver, a slayer: she is all these things and more. she embraces danger like a lover, and makes a fool of fate. she knows the five secret ways into the cursed temple, where one false move means death. she does battle with skeleton warriors while the stormclouds gather and the rising wind whips the tresses of her hair, which is black as grief or bright as gold—whatever works best for you.

1929, 1932, 1939—the year of publication is irrelevant; the queen of swords is always in her prime, and never grows old or infirm. if she dies, she will die by the sword, and that will never happen as long as she has an audience, and on the planet of jungles and ziggurats the golden age of pulps never ends. she is often wounded, but there is always a hut with dried herbs hanging from the rafters and a kindhearted peasant daughter to nurse her back to health, until the wound is just another scar.

she has so many scars.

she wears a bikini of bronze scales, which is the expected outfit for a woman in her line of work, but she would have worn it even if it wasn't, because she enjoys showing off. her body is muscular and sword-marked. her girlbulge is considerable. her pupils are dilated and her teeth stained red from chewing a root she got in the silver city, where every building is a generations-old repurposed spacecraft, and all the inhabitants are telepathic, and drugs grow freely in every garden. the root improves her reflexes as well as having an aphrodisiac effect, which is a useful combination on the planet of tombs and warlords, where lascivious sorceresses lurk behind every corner.

(when she was just a boy, her entire village was put to the sword. now she scatters deathblows the way a sower scatters seeds, and plumes of blood sprout in her wake. there is nothing wrong or unhealthy about this. it's the natural order of things, on the planet of conquest and savagery.)

the queen of swords, who dances on the razor's edge, who flouts the laws of men and gods! the horse she rides is always rearing; she is always backlit by lightning; her cloak snaps in the boreal gale. vallejo, frazetta, norem—everyone who is anyone has painted her. her name is whispered in the city of knives, where thieves hide in every cellar and hounds of bone and black smoke stalk the roofs, and in the city of sails, and in the city of broken idols. they speak of her even in the city of jeweled thrones, the greatest of all the cities of men, where sleep martyrs take stimulants that keep them awake until it kills them, and sarong-clad princesses burn for her touch.

though she has visited a thousand cities, she has no home. though she has taken a thousand lovers, she has never married. she lies awake late into the night, turning her melancholies this way and that like puzzle boxes.

on the planet of dust storms and pterosaurs, where every swamp teems with lizard-men and eight-foot-tall arthropodal reavers from beyond the stars descend in dropships made of steel and crystallized honeydew, there is always another adventure. but afterwards, in the silence after the clash of steel, she leaves empty-handed. the jewels slip between her fingers, and when her latest woman asks her to stay, of course she cannot accept. there is always another adventure, another forgotten dungeon or distant beckoning city, and as long as she has an audience, the queen of swords must roam.

yes, hers is a lonely life, but look, look: as she trudges through the violet sands of the southern wastes, drops of rain begin to fall, fat and blood-warm, stirring the hot dust—and the desert blooms around her.