#Devil's nettle

[thebotanicalarcade]

n8_w1150 by Biodiversity Heritage Library Via Flickr: D. Io. Hieron. Kniphofii pathol. et prax. in Acad. Erfurt. prof. publ. ordin. facult. med. senior. et adsess. primar., Acad. Caesar. nat. curiosor adiuncti, et bibliothecarii Botanica in originali, seu, Herbarium vivum : Halae Magdeburgicae :Opera et studio Ioannis Godofredi Trampe, typographi halensis,MDCCLVIII-MDCCLXIV [1758-1764]. biodiversitylibrary.org/page/60734182

[faguscarolinensis]

Achillea millefolium 'Sassy Summer Taffy' / 'Sassy Summer Taffy' Yarrow at the JC Raulston Arboretum at North Carolina State University in Raleigh, NC

[aleksandra-czudzak]

Aleksandra Czudżak 

[slumberingrose-fandom]

Time Travel S3 (Comic) #2

[bohemian-nights]

HBO probably saw how much quickly popular became Daemyra and decided to not ruin them. Remember they've rewriting the script and at this point im expecting them not to fall out but to be reunited. Probably they will pretend the choking never happened. Deja vu, reminds me Jaimie and Cersei after Joffrey died.

Naw we rebuke that for now. A lot of these accounts saying that were the same ones who didn’t even bother to look for Black(ish) women who were following the cast/crew. We are thinking positive over here because if not this show is dumb, anti-Black, and needs to be boycotted if they are catering only to crazy white shippers

[sweetsmellosuccess]

The devil, as they say, is in the details, or in the case of David Gordon Green's "Exorcist" extension, the lack thereof: The film's reasonably creepy first act laboriously sets up what might have been something good and jarring, only for the script to become a mishmash of barely considered ideas that mostly end up as demonic-hued piffle.

[rragnaroks]

walking in the woods past midnight, picking wildflowers, listening to ruin. every song has a backtrack of birdsong now

[baiika]

//don't mind me just doin a tag dump

[srndpt2024]

[isekai-ed]

Every week I'm trying not to succumb and watch that dragon show bc I know it would be a hate watch and I don't want to touch the books

[ravenyenn19]

Six of Crows future head cannon:

Alby Rollins joins the Dregs.

Picture it: 1920’s-esque Ketterdam, 10 years post Sweet Reef/ Ice Court. Slick Rolls Royce cars line the cobbled streets, a city spiraling toward a new age. Rain drenches the obscure signs & hidden arrows pointing to the Speak-Easy halls. In a time of prohibition… down, down, down must one go in the Barrel to find the most notorious of them all. A slice of sin, six feet under. A crowd drunk off vice served in black tea cups.

The young man walks into Kaz Brekker’s office (after fighting his way there), sits himself in a chair opposite a great obsidian desk. Winded & lip still bleeding from his tousle with the men at the doors, Alby wheezes: “Teach me.”

In turn, A near 30 year old Kaz smirks. “I thought lions preferred their pride.”

Alby, barely pushing 17, gives a smile of a golden boy, nervous but strong enough to hold the gaze of a devil. (He’s practiced.) “I thought Crows scavengers. Here I am, a shine for the taking.”

“Still have that crow, little lion?” A feminine shadow whispers from the corner. Unnoticed by the young man previously, he clicks his teeth but still refuses to show fear. A serpent-like bead of sweat slides down his spine, a shiver chasing after. He holds firm, biting his cheek to hide the startle.

He knows this shadow, this phantom. She haunted him, once.

“I buried it with my father,” the Kaelish prince whispers, “or rather, in place of him. Never did find a body. Pity.” He shrugs.

Kaz’s eyes glint like a cat’s, his smile a loaded gun. A gloved hand stretches halfway across the table in offering. “All right, cub. What do you want?”

Alby reaches forward, feeling the cold black leather of Dirtyhands’ grip between his fingers. The moment is a stormy crossroads, a whip between his shoulders reminiscent of his father’s favorite belt. He smiles, for this is a pain Alby has been walking toward since the day he woke up clutching stuffed black feathers.

(His blood never did bleed emerald.)

More than one answer to Kaz’s stinging question come to mind, nettles along the path of his thoughts. Yet, only one pricks Alby into speaking, the rage in his voice real rather than bravado. “Revenge.”

The Wraith giggles roughly, slipping herself to the arm of Kaz’s chair on silent feet. Alby swallows.

“On me?” The leader of the Dregs rasps, a brow peaked with amusement. His wife smiles with closed lips, knives glinting along her body like hungry specters. For here, her teeth are shown. Alby knows she Captain’s a fleet of the deadliest ships in the True Sea. He drags his gaze from her quickly.

“No.” Alby stutters, but he does not lie. Kaz Brekker bested his abusive father, and he does not care about Pekka’s death. In fact, sitting with the suspected murderers, Alby finds he rather prefers their company.

Kaz reclines in his chair, a hand lazily splayed on Captain Ghafa’s knee. He regards Alby with black eyes, a sharpness that pierces through his strength but doesn’t shatter it. A blade meant to probe. A test of mettle. Alby has waited too long for this audience, he cannot lose it. A moment passes.

Dirtyhands looks to his wife, his Wraith. She quirks her head in the silent exchange. Six heart beats have passed, and Alby Rollins is certain he won’t leave this room. He waits for the snap of a cane to bank his vision, a warm blanket of red to cover him from the jugular down.

He waits for death, but does not invite it. It does not come.

Instead, a voice like choking smoke, “Then let us begin.”

Alby Rollins releases a breath. His knuckles loosen in parts. A tattooist is called in.

The Crow & Cup bleeds as it settles, accepting the fresh skin as it’s master’s tithe.

Alby sits taller, a prince of a different kind, a darker throne.

I don’t make the rules but this is now my personal agenda & important that u agree

Crap now I have to put it in a fic

Should I do it?

[greenwitchcrafts]

Yarrow

Achillea millefolium

Known as: Allheal, angel flower, arrowroot, bloodwort, cammok, carpenter's weed, death flower, devil's mustard, Devil's nettle, eerie, field hops, gearwe, green arrow, herbe militaris, hundred leaved grass, knight's milfoil, noble yarrow, nosebleed plant, plumajilo, seven year's love, snake's grass, soldiers thousand seal., squirrel tail, stanch grass, tansy, thousand-leaf, thousand weed, woundwort, yarrowway & yerw

Related plants: Is a member of the daisy family Asteraceae that consists of over 32,000 known species of flowering plants in over 1,900 genera within it such as chamomile, coneflowers, dahlia, daisy, dandelion, goldenrod, lettuce, marigold, mugwort & sunflower

Parts used: Leaves & flowers

Habitat and Cultivation: This hardy plant is native to temperate regions of the Northern Hemisphere in Asia, Europe & North America

Plant type: Perennial

Region: 3-9

Harvest: Harvest yarrow when the blooms only when they have fully opened. It should be cut right above the leaf node to encourage the plant to potentially flower again. Many choose to harvest the flowers in the late morning when the dew has dried before so that the plant is not stressed by the extreme heat. Hot, dry spells right before bloom seems to be ideal for producing the most fragrant leaves.

Growing tips: Plant in an area that receives full sun to encourage compact growth and many flowers about 1-2 feet apart. In partial sun or shade, yarrow tends to grow leggy. Yarrow performs best in well-drained soil. It thrives in hot, dry conditions; it will not tolerate constantly wet soil. Loamy soil is recommended, but yarrow can also be grown in clay soil as long as it does not always stay saturated with water. While this plant is technically considered invasive only in noncultivated settings, common yarrow still needs to be planted in an area where you don't mind proliferation. 

Medicinal information: Yarrow has a history of being used for fever, common cold, hay fever, absence of menstruation, dysentery, diarrhea, loss of appetite, gastrointestinal (GI) tract discomfort, and to induce sweating. Some people chew the fresh leaves to relieve toothache. Yarrow is applied to the skin to stop bleeding from hemorrhoids; for wounds; and as a sitz bath for painful, lower pelvic, cramp-like conditions in women. Some people chew the fresh leaves to relieve toothache.

Cautions: Yarrow is commonly consumed in foods, but yarrow products that contain a chemical called thujone might not be safe because it is poisonous in large doses. Yarrow is not recommended for use during pregnancy or chestfeeding as it causes risks of miscarriage. Yarrow might slow blood clotting. In theory, taking yarrow might increase the risk of bleeding in people with bleeding disorders. In some people, it also might cause skin irritation & is toxic to cats & dogs.

Magickal properties

Gender: Feminine

Planet: Venus

Element: Air & Water

Deities: Achilles, Aphrodite, Cernunnos, Faeries, Oshun & Yemaya

Magickal uses:

• Add the flowers to a satchet or dream pillow to encourage prophetic dreams

• Hang a bundle above your bed on your honeymoon night to ensure lasting love for 7 years

• Place across your thresholds or plant near doorwaysto prevent negative energies & influences from entering your home

• Burn as an incense before or during divination to increase psychic abilities

• Wear as an amulet to attract love, friendships & give courage

• Place yarrow under your pillow & if you dreamt of your love, it was a positive omen. If you had a bad dream, or dreamt of other people, it wasn’t

• Combine with mugwort as tea to drink before divination to increase psychic powers

• Put near yourself while practicing divination to increase your psychic abilities

• In spells, use to re-establish contact with long-lost friends or relatives & attract their attention

• Braid into your hair to tap into inner wisdom

• The I-Ching divination was originally performed with dried yarrow stems

• Wash crystals& crystal balls with a yarrow rinse to bring about clarity of vision

• Drink yarrow tea & a cinnamon stick to  release hidden truths

• Place on a coffin or grave to help the spirit cross over/ let go

•For powerful protection, pick yarrow flowers and charge them in the sun. Once charged, take the flowers and sprinkle them outside your home to prevent negative influences and energies away from entering your home

Sources:

Farmersalmanac .com

Llewellyn's Complete Book of Correspondences by Sandra Kines

Wikipedia

A Witch's Book of Correspondences by Viktorija Briggs

The Encyclopedia of Natural Magic by John Michael Greer

Wild Witchcraft by Rebecca Beyer

Plant Witchery by Juliet Diaz

A Compendium of Herbal Magick by Paul Beyerl

The Herbal Alchemist Handbook by Karen Harrison

The Book of Flower Spells by Cheralyn Darcey

[see-arcane-scribbles]

I’ve read through mountains of excellent meta to do with Mina’s cleverness in working around the manfulness+ in the room and semi-cornering Jonathan with her own very blatant (and widely seconded by the others) desire for total destruction versus vampirism, proving Jonathan is outnumbered in the cause as well as low-key nettling him with the Morality of it all. And I agree with all of that in the strict context of the novel. But I’m forever chewing on the less pleasant metaphor buried under it all.

In the novel, on paper:

Jonathan is being romantic, but selfish. He is planning to go against his wife’s wishes, planning to potentially betray the others or worse if they attempt to destroy her as asked, and is generally playing Russian roulette with God and the Devil on top of offering his soul last week. Van Helsing, the Suitors Three, and Mina the Martyr are all clearly in the right. 

Under the novel, in the message:

Jonathan is romantic wish-fulfillment on a level rarely seen in heroic characters at the time (or even in the present). More than that, he’s a champion against what society claims is Right in these situations.

“You’ve identified someone you love as becoming too much like the Other (New Woman/disabled/mentally ill/queer/divergent in literally any way beyond their intended perfect mold), and they are/will be a monster because of it! You must kill (out/disown/change) them for the Greater Good..!”

Jonathan flies entirely in the face of that message. He is the character who embodies wholly unconditional and unwavering love. Even when the person he loves refuses to love themselves, and would seek to be unmade rather than be the Other. 

In a less extreme metaphor, he’s also the kind of partner who steps in when his loved one falls into a self-sacrificial spiral--giving and giving and giving of themselves because it’s the Right Thing to Do and they will be Evil and Sinful if they don’t give everything of themselves to the Greater Good--and acts as the voice of self-care for those who simply do not have it.

“I will love you forever, no matter what you become. I will share whatever pain you have. I will never abandon you. I will not let you throw yourself on the pyre.”

Oh, Jonathan. Mr. Harker. I love how you love.

[talonabraxas]

Walpurgis Night. Hexennacht. April 30.

A Short History of the Night of the Witches The origins of the image of Walpurgis night being a witches’ sabbath are unclear. However, it is striking that it coincides with Beltane and maybe other pagan festivals in earlier time. Goethe presumed in one of his poems such an origin.

St. Walpurga For Christians, Walpurgisnacht is also known as the Feast of Saint Walpurga, that is celebrated from the evening of April 30 to the day of May 1st. Saint Walpurga or Walburga was the daughter of St. Richard the Saxon Pilgrim and sister of St. Willibald and St. Winibald. When her father went on a pilgrimage with her two brothers to the Holy Land, he left Walpurga, who was only 11 years old at the time, with the nuns of Wimborne Abbey, where she was educated and learnt how to write.

She traveled in an attempt to bring German pagans to the Christian faith and she also authored Winibald’s biography, which is why she is considered as one of the first female authors in Germany and England. Walpurga became a nun in Heidenheim am Hahnenkamm, the monastery founded by her brother Willibald, where she became the abbess after his death in 751. Walpurga herself died on February 25 on 777 or 779 and she was canonized by Pope Adrian II on May 1st, around 870, when her relics were transfered to Eichstätt, Germany.

St. Walpurga is prayed to for protection against witchcraft and it is believed that during the night of April 30, she is able to ward off spells, witches, and evil spirits. This belief may stem from the overlapping of her canonization with Hexennacht or the Night of the Witches, the celebration that has its origin in ancient fertility celebrations. Hexennacht is a Germanic tradition more prevalent in the 17th century, when witches and sorcerers gathered together celebrate.

To protect against their magic, the Western Christian Church appointed the night of April 30 to St. Walpurga’s Feast. In the 18th and 19th centuries, Walpurgisnacht was popularized and its witchy connotations were revived through the literature of the time, such as in Jacob Grimm’s work who wrote in 1833: “There is a mountain very high and bare… whereon it is given out that witches hold their dance on Walpurgis night”.

Goethe also dedicated a poem to the celebration called “Die erste Walpurgisnacht” (The First Walpurgis Night), which was set to music by Felix Mendelssohn and published as his Opus 60 in 1843. The poem contrasts sharply with the Walpurgisnacht described in his main work “Faust”. In his ballad, Goethe relates the superstitions around Walpurgis night to the usage of devil’s masks by pagan’s in order to exploit the superstitions of their Christian suppressors and to protect their identities.

[slumberingrose-fandom]

Time Travel S2 (Comic) #1

[yuesgirlfriend]

of birds and honey

(simon "ghost" riley x reader) medieval AU

part 1/part 2/part 3

warnings: canon typical violence, masturbation (afab)

A week passes without much happening.

Excitement over new knights has died down, and the people go back to their regular routine. Wool is spun, gardens are weeded, new straw with sweet smelling sprigs of rosemary is spread over the floor. Peasants in distant fields begin planting and tilling as spring slowly settles into the dreary air. 

 She feigns reading when her father discusses defenses with the Knight Commander Price, hears gossip of French ships breaching southern shores by the kitchens, and overhears one of the knights (Garrick, she heard his name was) express worry about leaked battle plans and French spies. 

She does not see the man called Ghost again, until one afternoon she is practicing embroidery while balanced on a windowsill overlooking the courtyard. 

Shouts sound out from down below- when she glances down, a small crowd has gathered around two figures circling eachother.  

She rushes to the scene when sounds of steel striking steel begin to ring out. Down the stairs, past the hall, through the kitchens, and there he is- Ghost- swinging a blade towards another knight.

 A duel, a duel! Sir Graves and the Ghost!

Says one of the stable boys as the other man- Graves- dodges another strike. She pushes her way to the front of the crowd, needing to see every line of Ghost’s armored body as he grunts and dodges. He moves like he is dancing, brutal and calculated. 

Duels are vicious, bloody ordeals- very few have ever happened under her fathers watch, the clergy under his thumb finding the merciless bloodshed godless. But now her father watches from his balcony as Ghost parries Graves thrust and, with one fluid motion, takes his head. 

Something wet and warm splatters across her face. She doesn’t flinch. 

While Ghost holds the mans head by the helmet and roars warnings of what happens to traitors to the rest of the watching, silent knights and crowd of stunned servants, she stares at the red hot blood splattered across her shoes and silken surcoat and tries to put a name to the feeling coiling in her stomach. 

The sky is streaked with red as the run sets into the horizon, as if God saw the blood in the courtyard and took inspiration. Every sound and color seems muted, unable to break through the buzzing in her ears. She spends the rest of the evening picking flecks of blood off her face, feigning a headache and skipping dinner. 

Her hands don’t stop shaking, and she’s filled with the need to run, to move. Once the sun sets, she slinks out of her room. Favoring the shadows and moving only when sentries are turned away, she makes her way to the highest peak of outer wall. The stars peek over the horizon, the moon hanging above them like a pearl. 

A shiver runs through her when her eyes land on the hulking form standing over the parapet. She moves on soundless, slippered feet towards him. 

“Lady.” He says as if in greeting. How he heard her, she’ll never know. 

“It must be true, what the cook says.” She steps up beside him, overlooking the dark his surrounding the castle, the plains muddled together under the blanket of night. 

“And what is that?” His voice is gruff, his hood up over his masked face. 

“That you have got eyes in the back of your head.” 

That’s the abridged version of what the cook had said; she had overheard the old man telling the maids of rumors he had heard- that the Ghost was the spawn of the devil, a witches son, a biblically deformed creature hiding 9 eyes and countless heads beneath the mask.

Something vindictive and admittedly childish had rose up in her and led to her placing several handfuls of nettles in the cooks bed. 

She refused to feel guilty, even when she spotted the irritated welts on the mans skin the next day- was it not the prophet Amos who said to let justice roll on like a river, and righteousness like a never-failing stream? 

He lets out a huff. Something tells her this is as close to a laugh as he will give her. For a long moment, there is only silence broken by the occasional scurry of a rat, as they stand watching the night where it’s unfolded before them. 

“There’s a storm on it’s way, lady.” His gloved fingers tighten where they grip the stone. She wishes he would turn, so she could see his eyes. “It’d be wise if your father sent you somewhere far.”  

“I’m stronger than I seem- have faith, I can weather any storm, sir. And the stronghold is well defended.” 

“‘S not the stronghold I worry about. It’s the people.” Finally, he turns to face her- in the moonlight, his eyes look like moons themselves, haloed by a dark night of greasepaint. 

“Be careful who you trust, lady.” In one fluid motion, he takes off his cloak and wraps it around her shoulders before bodily turning her away. “Get back inside. You’re father would have my head if I let ya freeze.” 

She follows his orders without question. Maybe he really is a witches son,  she thinks as she slinks back into her quarters. 

The fire is nothing more than a collection of dim coals, now. Wrapping the Ghost’s cloak tighter around herself, she tosses another log onto the fire and crawls into her bed. 

The feeling from earlier that day is back- the tensing, the coiling in her stomach, the heat in her abdomen as if someone is churning her chest over hot coals. Usually venturing out at night cures her of this incessent, shaky need to move, but this time, it had only exacerbated it. 

Squirming around, she buries her nose in his cloak. Ghost’s cloak. It smells of lye soap, wood ash, cold night air.  

Some kind of hot and heavy pressure hangs in her stomach- her thighs rub together, twisted around her sheet, and that seems to help for a moment, but then it gets worse. 

Without thinking, she sends a trembling hand down between her legs- to her womanhood, as her old governess would have said- and adds more pressure. And, oh-  that is new.

She hesitantly moves this wetness around, up and down, until her back arches off the mattress, until she masters this new feeling and she has to bury her moans in the rough frabric of Ghost’s cloak.