folkinghell-blog1 - Tumblr blog

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*forms an emotional bond with the horse i’m riding on the carousel*

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Rozenn Le Gall 

rozennlegallcollages.com

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kate is the kind of girl who channels stevie n/icks energy singing along to ‘dreams’ in the shower, then curses when shampoo stings her eyes and has a coughing  fit when it gets in her mouth, resulting in her audibly cackling @ herself. 

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“As a woman I have no country. As a woman I want no country.” —Virginia Woolf, Three Guineas

“I was made for another planet altogether.” —Simone de Beauvoir, The Woman Destroyed

“(I-woman, escapee)” —Hélène Cixous, The Laugh of the Medusa

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“Rocky Mountains National Park” - 1977

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which tea are you? hibiscus tea !

you’re a lot. But that’s not a bad thing! you’re unafraid to take up space and make your voice heard. you love being the center of attention and are willing to cause a scene to swivel the spotlight toward you. you’ve got a sharp tongue (you’ve probably been called sassy at least once in your life) and you can use that for good or evil. your tartness might not be for everyone, but those who get you love your larger-than-life presence.

brewed by: @luckletting​ brewing for: @everyone ... spill the tea babes

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Jean Dieuzaide. Ma chemise à Ardizas, France, 1960′s. 

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zoneral·:

While Quentin didn’t enjoy being in any trial, he especially hated it when there was a hex totem active. It was just more time wasted wandering around the map, and therefore more time for the killer to find their victims. Sometimes, Quentin thought it best to just deal with the malfunctioning generators, but he tended to doze off more easily if it took too long. Thus, he would sometimes be the one hunting the grounds for the hex totem while everyone else worked on the generators.

A brow was arched upon hearing Kate speak, and soon a grin took shape on his lips while he looked at her from over the generator. “Little skull guys,” he repeated after her, a soft chuckle following. She meant the hex totems, but he didn’t bother correcting her. He understood what she meant. Getting to his feet, Quentin’s eyes scanned the vast area around them for any signs of the killer. It was hard to see through the thick blanket of fog that cloaked the ground, which was beneficial to the survivors, but no so much the killer. (unless, of course, they were dealing with someone like Michael or Amanda) Apart from the sound of the generator, which was barely even working, it was quiet. At least for now.

Turning away from the generator, Quentin began making his way through the trees and tall grass, ducking low to better give him cover. He wasn’t sure where to begin looking, but he’d found them in some pretty sneaky locations before. They weren’t too hard to spot with how brightly they glowed and stood out from all the other totems. “Are you as sick of the little skull guys as I am?” He asked, his voice just barely a whisper to avoid alerting the killer in case they were near. He wasn’t even sure who was lurking around yet, and the silence kept him feeling on edge.

“God, yeah. They’re so annoying... like, as if we don’t get our asses handed to us enough already. It’s like being asked to work overtime at the end of your shift, y’know?” she says in hushed irritation, as if the prospect of having to snag her nails on dismantling a cursed fetish in order to survive was a begrudgingly accepted inconvenience. Their casual and somewhat careless conversation isn’t overshadowed by their careful demeanor, her footsteps treading on the grass with a subdued rustle. Fear is a far-off inevitability when she starts trials at someone else’s side, and Quentin’s simple question encourages her to help navigate their path with a well-worn ease.           Her stare scans each shrouded corner they pass, eyes prying for that indicative glimmer to emanate from a disguised crevice. Soon, each step she takes quickens with impatience, boredom fuelling her to find what they seek -- primarily for the sake of achieving their intended goal. She slows into a less determined pace, however, when a question crosses her mind and immediately leaves her mouth, speaking in a queit address, “So, Quentin, would you rather have to find a little skull guy or...  watch a movie with your parents and it has a super awkward sex scene?”            Kate’s attention span for astute observation of their surroundings was expiring the longer they sifted around brick walls, replaced by the restless need for entertainment and, most of all, genuine curiosity to know his answer. She looks at him, ignorant to any sign their stroll could be impeded upon, as if they owned the space they were walking through, free from the threat of assault or harm. Oblivious; she was always the one who orbited too close to the sun, not even realising it was hanging in the sky before she looked directly into its yellow heat and burned a red halo into the whites of her eyes.

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I, myself, have always found that if I examine something, it's less scary. We always had this theory that if you kept a snake in your eye line, the snake wasn’t gonna bite you. That’s kind of the way, I feel about confronting pain. I wanna know where it is.

Joan Didion, from The Center Will Not Hold dir. Griffin Dunne (2017)

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Photography by Emma Katka

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zoneral‌:

(( @folkinghell didn’t like for a lyrical starter but got one anyway ))

“I’ve tried, but nothing is working.”

Progress in this trial was impossible, the churning of the generator’s engine short-fusing every few seconds -- any effort they made, even with the additional aid of Kate’s toolbox, was for nought. Her jaw clenched each time her fingers were singed by that telltale spark from the machinery, curses dying on her tongue in suppressed mutterings. If not for Quentin’s presence, she would have fallen prey to her frustration and kicked the generator until her toes went crooked in her boots, matching his own grief that she hears voiced to her left.            “You’re tellin’ me...” She looks at him and heaves a heavy sigh. Then, rising from knees sodden with damp grass to her feet, says, “C’mon, we gotta find one of those, uh... little skull guys. Show ‘em who’s boss.”

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@miistwalkers​:

She remains unphased by the cold silence that thickens the air between them. In some manner, there is respect in her ability to withstand the near-inevitable brutality that awaits in an itching hand and hovering blade; but overconfidence is the fool’s carriage, a wall quick to crumble to reality’s ruthlessness. Empty eyes stay locked onto her own even through the challenging words ( oh, she spoke BIG for one so short ) and there is a flicker of amusement that warms the features beneath a painted mask. 

He supposes he is not so immune to the rush of power himself–the knowledge that she is so easily downed strains the limbs to simply LUNGE and take the hit. It is a hunter’s instincts. A beast’s. 

The statue keeps to a lack of motion through careful calculation ( he thrives on the problem, acts as a shadow to complete objectives ) though there is more hesitance in taking the slam of wood against the shoulder when they are not in trial. What effects has it on the suspended existence of their kind? A flick of eyes between the pallet and herself–how boldly she holds the sword of possibility–before a conclusion is settled upon. 

A break in that stillness as the fiend yields the weapon back to an idle state at his side and a bend digs mud covered fingers against the ground at his feet, a seeming search for something more specific–ah, there it is. Fingers close around his object of interest ( the Wraith is a curious creature, and it would seem they are not bound strictly by the rules of the entity’s game here ) in a moment of thought, an ever so slight narrow of the eyes before– THWACK. 

A swing of the arm flings a stone in her direction.

Both sides stand equal in ego but her self-assurance isn’t solidifed by any weapon. There isn’t the deceptive equality in a flashlight and even if she had a gun she never learned to shoot, never equipped to control something that kills for its own sole sake. Her hands are empty, shaped by six-string fret boards and microphones wired to sternum-rattling speakers. Only cowards wielded subjugation through harm and came out of the beating thinking they were all that. Some kind of fallacy where anyone was expendable as long as the perpetrator was untouchable.            She expects him to lack her exact conditions of conviction, glancing between his face and the hooked blade hanging from his grip. Getting a read on someone who was made of wood was as easy as it sounds, as conclusive as trying to rationalise the motivation of a tree by talking to it. So self-consuming is this concern that the pelt of a stone, fired from his hand towards her face, has her blindsided. Gasping, she raises her arms to shield herself but it’s too late, the rock collides with her wincing cheek, hitting its mark with a blunt, bruising force.           “No fair!” she protests, much like a child whose playmate has broken the rules of a game. Retaliating, she looks down and grabs the first retrievable object that crosses her vision. The compressed walls of crushed metal offer a range of options; tetanus-ridden plates of steel, dented tire rims and -- if luck was on her side -- a disposed exhaust pipe that could swing a heavy arc between them and force him to take a step back. But it was by hapless chance that Kate grabbed what she did due to its bright blink of artifical colour: an empty Coca-Cola can.            Always one to make do with what little she has, she bites her lip, arm bending back behind her head before she catapults the can at him. Breath-stilling anticipation that her aim may be accurate and hit her aggressor supercedes any satisfaction in hurting him.

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my dbd blogs, listed from most sexy to least sexy:

@folkinghell ( kate. personification of the sun, uses strings from her broken guitar to strangle killers. the sexiest).

@wellhvng ( bubba. bloodmouth, thinks salad is fictional. sweats a lot when camping. only sexy on sundays).

@voidvoyeur ( michael. this bitch empty!! suburban gothic. only sexy when being stabbed / shot / set on fire / incapacitated / injured / locked in a basement ). 

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Katie Cruel-Karen Dalton

best. female vocalist. ever.