#i hope i will stay here now

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Bros before Ho(oh my god is that Hanguang-Jun?)

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[seventh-district]

Making Incorrect H:SR Quotes Until I Run Out of (hopefully) Original Ideas - Pt. 4 - Nuthin' but Boothill Edition

[Pt. 1] [Pt. 2] [Pt. 3] [Pt. 5] [Pt. 6]

[wyvernity]

quick personal update -- i've been in chinaaaa for the past few weeks! plus a few days of layover in tokyo, so i got to visit japan for the first time! good experiences good food all around \(^_^)/

now that i'm officially back, i can share some of the soulsilver i've been stockpiling since march..... and since i'm too lazy to make multiple posts, you guys get the full dump. warning! there are a few!

[ch1zzie]

The original in the bottom

Plus the picture I mainly drew but decided to draw the rest for funny

[kangtaebins]

… hi my loves, it’s been a while <3

[aslaanjade]

endless coai moments (21/?)

[existentialcrisis-24-7]

I made a winx sona! Fairy and witch forms bc I could see myself as either.

I don’t really know what I’d be fairy/witch of, but if we’re going by the traditional magic system of winx, probably somewhere in the light category.

I really wanted this to match my more current warm-coloured outfits, but yellow just looks terrible on a witch and I didn’t want the colour difference to be too drastic.

[greenerteacups]

oooh please someday tell us what you think of GOT

oh, no, it's my fatal weakness! it's [checks notes] literally just the bare modicum of temptation! okay you got me.

SO. in order to tell what's wrong with game of thrones you kind of have to have read the books, because the books are the reason the show goes off the rails. i actually blame the showrunners relatively little in proportion to GRRM for how bad the show was (which I'm not gonna rehash here because if you're interested in GOT in any capacity you've already seen that horse flogged to death). people debate when GOT "got bad" in terms of writing, but regardless of when you think it dropped off, everyone agrees the quality declined sharply in season 8, and to a certain extent, season 7. these are the seasons that are more or less entirely spun from whole cloth, because season 7 marks the beginning of what will, if we ever see it, be the Winds of Winter storyline. it's the first part that isn't based on a book by George R.R. Martin. it's said that he gave the showrunners plot outlines, but we don't know how detailed they were, or how much the writers diverged from the blueprint — and honestly, considering the cumulative changes made to the story by that point, some stark divergence would have been required. (there's a reason for this. i'll get there in a sec.)

so far, i'm not saying anything all that original. a lot of people recognized how bad the show got as soon as they ran out of Book to adapt. (I think it's kind of weird that they agreed to make a show about an unfinished series in the first place — did GRRM figure that this was his one shot at a really good HBO adaptation, and forego misgivings about his ability to write two full books in however many years it took to adapt? did he think they would wait for him? did he not care that the series would eventually spoil his magnum opus, which he's spent the last three decades of his life writing? perplexing.) but the more interesting question is why the show got bad once it ran out of Book, because in my mind, that's not a given. a lot of great shows depart from the books they were based on. fanfiction does exactly that, all the time! if you have good writers who understand the characters they're working with, departure means a different story, not a worse one. now, the natural reply would be to say that the writers of GOT just aren't good, or at least aren't good at the things that make for great television, and that's why they needed the books as a structure, but I don't think that's true or fair, either. books and television are very different things. the pacing of a book is totally different from the pacing of a television show, and even an episodic book like ASOIAF is going to need a lot of work before it's remotely watchable as a series. bad writers cannot make great series of television, regardless of how good their source material is. sure, they didn't invent the characters of tyrion lannister and daenerys targaryen, but they sure as hell understood story structure well enough to write a damn compelling season of TV about them!

so but then: what gives? i actually do think it's a problem with the books! the show starts out as very faithful to the early books (namely, A Game of Thrones and A Clash of Kings) to the point that most plotlines are copied beat-for-beat. the story is constructed a little differently, and it's definitely condensed, but the meat is still there. and not surprisingly, the early books in ASOIAF are very tightly written. for how long they are, you wouldn't expect it, but on every page of those books, the plot is racing. you can practically watch george trying to beat the fucking clock. and he does! useful context here is that he originally thought GOT was going to be a trilogy, and so the scope of most threads in the first book or two would have been much smaller. it also helps that the first three books are in some respects self-contained stories. the first book is a mystery, the second and third are espionage and war dramas — and they're kept tight in order to serve those respective plots.

the trouble begins with A Feast for Crows, and arguably A Storm of Swords, because GRRM starts multiplying plotlines and treating the series as a story, rather than each individual book. he also massively underestimated the number of pages it would take him to get through certain plot beats — an assumption whose foundation is unclear, because from a reader's standpoint, there is a fucke tonne of shit in Feast and Dance that's spurious. I'm not talking about Brienne's Riverlands storyline (which I adore thematically but speaking honestly should have been its own novella, not a part of Feast proper). I'm talking about whole chapters where Tyrion is sitting on his ass in the river, just talking to people. (will I eat crow about this if these pay off in hugely satisfying ways in Winds or Dream? oh, totally. my brothers, i will gorge myself on sweet sweet corvid. i will wear a dunce cap in the square, and gleefully, if these turn out to not have been wastes of time. the fact that i am writing this means i am willing to stake a non-negligible amount of pride on the prediction that that will not happen). I'm talking about scenes where the characters stare at each other and talk idly about things that have already happened while the author describes things we already have seen in excruciating detail. i'm talking about threads that, while forgivable in a different novel, are unforgivable in this one, because you are neglecting your main characters and their story. and don't tell me you think that a day-by-day account tyrion's river cruise is necessary to telling his story, because in the count of monte cristo, the main guy disappears for nine years and comes hurtling back into the story as a vengeful aristocrat! and while time jumps like that don't work for everything, they certainly do work if what you're talking about isn't a major story thread!

now put aside whether or not all these meandering, unconcluded threads are enjoyable to read (as, in fairness, they often are!). think about them as if you're a tv showrunner. these bad boys are your worst nightmare. because while you know the author put them in for a reason, you haven't read the conclusion to the arc, so you don't know what that reason is. and even if the author tells you in broad strokes how things are going to end for any particular character (and this is a big "if," because GRRM's whole style is that he lets plots "develop as he goes," so I'm not actually convinced that he does have endings written out for most major characters), that still doesn't help you get them from point A (meandering storyline) to point B (actual conclusion). oh, and by the way, you have under a year to write this full season of television, while GRRM has been thinking about how to end the books for at least 10. all of this means you have to basically call an audible on whether or not certain arcs are going to pay off, and, if they are, whether they make for good television, and hence are worth writing. and you have to do that for every. single. unfinished. story. in the books.

here's an example: in the books, Quentin Martell goes on a quest to marry Daenerys and gain a dragon. many chapters are spent detailing this quest. spoiler alert: he fails, and he gets charbroiled by dragons. GRRM includes this plot to set up the actions of House Martell in Winds, but the problem is that we don't know what House Martell does in Winds, because (see above) the book DNE. So, although we can reliably bet that the showrunners understand (1) Daenerys is coming to Westeros with her 3 fantasy nukes, and (2) at some point they're gonna have to deal with the invasion of frozombies from Canada, that DOESN'T mean they necessarily know exactly what's going to happen to Dorne, or House Martell. i mean, fuck! we don't even know if Martin knows what's going to happen to Dorne or House Martell, because he's said he's the kind of writer who doesn't set shit out beforehand! so for every "Cersei defaults on millions of dragons in loans from the notorious Bank of Nobody Fucks With Us, assumes this will have no repercussions for her reign or Westerosi politics in general" plotline — which might as well have a big glaring THIS WILL BE IMPORTANT stamp on top of the chapter heading — you have Arianne Martell trying to do a coup/parent trap switcheroo with Myrcella, or Euron the Goffick Antichrist, or Faegon Targaryen and JonCon preparing a Blackfyre restoration, or anything else that might pan out — but might not! And while that uncertainty about what's important to the "overall story" might be a realistic way of depicting human beings in a world ruled by chance and not Destiny, it makes for much better reading than viewing, because Game of Thrones as a fantasy television series was based on the first three books, which are much more traditional "there is a plot and main characters and you can generally tell who they are" kind of book. I see Feast and Dance as a kind of soft reboot for the series in this respect, because they recenter the story around a much larger cast and cast a much broader net in terms of which characters "deserve" narrative attention.

but if you're making a season of television, you can't do that, because you've already set up the basic premise and pacing of your story, and you can't suddenly pivot into a long-form tone poem about the horrors of war. so you have to cut something. but what are you gonna cut? bear in mind that you can't just Forget About Dorne, or the Iron Islands, or the Vale, or the North, or pretty much any region of the story, because it's all interconnected, but to fit in everything from the books would require pacing of the sort that no reasonable audience would ever tolerate. and bear in mind that the later books sprout a lot more of these baby-plots that could go somewhere, but also might end up being secondary or tertiary to the "main story," which, at the end of the day, is about dragons and ice zombies and the rot at the heart of the feudal power system glorified in classical fantasy. that's the story that you as the showrunner absolutely must give them an end to, and that's the story that should be your priority 1.

so you do a hack and slash job, and you mortar over whatever you cut out with storylines that you cook up yourself, but you can't go too far afield, because you still need all the characters more or less in place for the final showdown. so you pinch here and push credulity there, and you do your best to put the characters in more or less the same place they would have been if you kept the original, but on a shorter timeframe. and is it as good as the first seasons? of course not! because the material that you have is not suited to TV like the first seasons are. and not only that, but you are now working with source material that is actively fighting your attempt to constrain a linear and well-paced narrative on it. the text that you're working with changed structure when you weren't looking, and now you have to find some way to shanghai this new sprawling behemoth of a Thing into a television show. oh, and by the way, don't think that the (living) author of the source material will be any help with this, because even though he's got years of experience working in television writing, he doesn't actually know how all of these threads will tie together, which is possibly the reason that the next book has taken over 8 years (now 13 and counting) to write. oh and also, your showrunners are sick of this (in fairness, very difficult) job and they want to go write for star wars instead, so they've refused the extra time the studio offered them for pre-production and pushed through a bunch of first-draft scripts, creating a crunch culture of the type that spawns entirely avoidable mistakes, like, say, some poor set designer leaving a starbucks cup in frame.

anyway, that's what I think went wrong with game of thrones.

[osamusriceballs]

Kinktober Day 3 <3

Akaashi x anal

Warnings: NSFW, fem reader

Words: ~ 1,5k

Kinktober Masterlist II -> Next Day

"You're doing so well, love."

You claw your nails into the wood of the table, taking a deep breath to calm your nerves. Akaashi has been talking you through it, easing you into it, calming you with his words until the nervousness had faded. And you feel safe with him, safe with the way he kisses you, safe with the way his hands ever so soft and gentle while he roams them up and down your sides, his gaze soft and loving, yet still filled with a fire and passion most failed to see. His reassuring words, always reminding you that you can tell him to stop anytime if it's too much or if it hurts- that is exactly the gentle and caring man you fell so hard for. And when he had asked you if he could fuck your ass- his eyes basically sparkling behind the black rimmed glasses, and his voice barely containing his excitement- who are you to deny him when he motions you to bend over his desk and to pull up your skirt after you agreed so enthusiastically?

Now, he's got you bound over his desk, the papers under your chest crumbling, and you pray internally there is nothing important among them that he needs to edit. Your backside is exposed, your panties doing not much to hide your arousal, yet you still feel the slightest ting of nervousness in your stomach for what is about to come. His hands caress your ass, ever so gently tugging on the waistband of your panties before he pulls them down your legs and discards them on the floor.

"I'll go slow, don't worry. I'll make sure to make you feel so good." His voice is soothing, and you hum approvingly, subconsciously arching your back when two of his fingers press against your folds. "I'm not taking your ass just now. I'll just start with a few fingers today, okay?" Your eyes widen at his words, but a shiver of excitement runs down your spine despite your nervousness. A few?

"Okay," you gasp, your walls fluttering while he makes sure to thoroughly rub along your folds, your legs shaking every time he rubs against your clit, and your breath starts to come more rapid and airy at his ministrations. "All for me?" he suddenly asks, his fingers halting at your entrance, clearly coated in your arousal. "All for you, Keiji. Always for you-" your jaw drops when he slowly pushes one finger inside of you, slowly, one centimeter at a time until he's knuckles deep, and his palm presses flatly against your clit. He stills for a second, not moving until he feels you wiggle against him; only then does he curl his finger and slowly pulls it out. "Oh, fuck, Keiji-" you gasp at the action, clenching around his finger, your arousal allowing him to easily repeat the motion, curling it inside of you again and making sure to brush against your sweet spot. "More," you whisper, pressing your ass against the hardness that you feel in his pants- he's obviously very much turned on by this. "I'll give you more. Everything," he responds, his voice a tad bit deeper than usual, giving away his feelings and showing how much he is affected by this.

He adds another finger, making sure to not hurt you while doing so, his pace slightly picking up when he feels you clenching around him again and again. "Does that feel good?" he rasps as he leans down, bringing his lips right next to your ear. "Yes- really good," your eyes almost roll back while his fingers keep fucking you, his palm rubbing against your clit, making you feel so, so good. His lips graze along your neck, his free arm now coming down to rest on the table right next to your face, and you feel your legs shaking as he brings you closer to your high.

Your breath stocks when he suddenly slows down the movement of his fingers, a whine leaving your lips when he starts to pull them out completely. "Shhh, I know. I know, my love. Just wait a bit longer, I'll make you feel really good."

Akaashi leans back, his hands on your hips softly turning you around until you face him, and your cheeks heat up when he pushes you to sit on his desk, your ass and pussy exposed to his gaze when he stands between your legs. His eyes search for any signs of hesitation in your face, but you bring one hand to the back of his head and pull him to kiss you- and he does. His lips ever so gentle and soft, the kiss making you feel warm, and you lean back after a few moments, your head dizzy with lust and affection for him. "Can we keep going?" he whispers, his hands roaming along your thighs.

You nod, your body subconsciously tensing when his fingers glide along your folds, starting at your clit, making sure to pay extra attention to the sensitive bud, before he follows the same path down again, collecting even more wetness at your entrance before his fingers glide between your cheeks.

"Breathe. Breathe for me. Deep breaths and relax." He reassures you, waiting a few moments until he's heard you taking a few deep breaths before his wet finger presses against your hole. You gasp for air, your legs almost trying to close but his body between your thighs keeps them wide opened for him. A moan leaves your lips when his fingertip slowly pushes inside, his eyes focused on the way your body seems to suck in his finger, the tight ring of muscles slowly relaxing and allowing him to enter while you keep on taking deep breaths and try to relax. Your eyes and mouth are wide open when he continues to push in his finger inside, the feeling so foreign, yet still pleasant. "Is this okay?" You nod at his question, unable to form words, too overwhelmed at the new sensation. His finger is now fully inside of you, pausing for a second, but his pupils are blown wide from lust behind his glasses, and you basically see his erection twitching in his pants while he waits.

A few moments pass, and he slowly retreats the finger, just the tiniest bit before he pushes it back again. He moves, pushing back a bit further, and the small movement makes you moan, whining his name while your walls flutter around nothing. You grab the edge of the table harder when you feel another finger prod at your stretched hole, and it doesn't take long for him to work a second finger in, carefully moving them in and out, your eyes rolling back at the new sensation. "You're doing so well, taking my fingers so good," he praises, his words only adding fuel to your desire. You arch your back, eager for more, eager to have him give you more of this.

"Touch yourself for me," he rasps, his voice deep and filled with desire. You frantically nod, your fingers quickly moving to your clit, starting to rub the sensitive nub in the same pace that he thrusts his fingers, moans now spilling from your lips and whimpers of his name. He picks up the pace, now boldly moving his fingers, his other hand holding your waist to make sure that you can't move away from him. Your legs start to shake, your body getting close so fast after he edged you before, too overwhelmed from all the sensations. "Cum for me, love. You can cum anytime." His eyes focus on your face now, your expression fully blissed out at how full you feel, your fingers restlessly rubbing at your clit to bring you even closer, and you moan loudly one last time before you clench around his fingers, his pace not changing to prolong your high, your fingers rubbing and pausing in the rhythm of your clenching cunt, while your body arches from the table. His breath is heavy too while he watches you writhing in pleasure, his fingers only pulling out when he sees how your own fingers weakly stop moving, your body going limp on the table after all the tension leaves you.

He leans down to plant kisses on your face, kissing your cheeks, your nose and finally your lips when he sees you smile, his excitement still evident on his face. "Did you like that, love?" you feel his hard cock pressing against your bare ass, while your body is still trying to calm down from your high. "Yes, so, so much. Wanna do it again, next time with more," you gasp when he carefully thrusts his hips at your words, your legs automatically wrapping around his waist at the action. His eyebrows lift at the way you eagerly press against him, your body aching for another release- and he smiles while he kisses you one more time, clearly knowing what to do next.

"Everything you want, my love."

[wonder-worker]

"Administratively, too, [...] queens were considered the legal lords of their landholdings. [...] Grants noted that the queen's officials had administrative autonomy without being subject to the king or anyone else, and evidence of the same assumption can be gleaned from court rolls that were recorded with headings indicating the lord of the manor whose court proceedings were being enrolled. As an example, some court rolls for the manor of Haveringatte-Bower specified that it was the court of [Margaret of Anjou] that was in session, while later rolls recorded Elizabeth Woodville as the lord of the manor court."

-Michele Seah, 'My Lady Queen, the Lord of the Manor': The Economic Roles of Late Medieval Queens", Parergon, Volume 37, Number 2, 2020.

[ouroboros-hideout]

Happy Birthday, Hound Dog

OTP: Like Napalm 04/???

inspired by a sketch @blackrevell did some while ago of Aon sitting at a campfire at a lake. I thought it might be nice if she didn't need to go there alone.

[mspaint-flower]

AUGHGUHGHGGHH ANOTHER MILESTONE ACHIEVED????!??! I HONESTLY HAVE NO WORDS ,,..,.,.,.,THANK YOU SO MUCH TO EVERYONE WHO DECIDED TO SUPPORT MY CONTENT 🥹🥹 i love you all SO SO MUCH

this time flower decided to make a lavender and blueberry cake for everyone,,.,.,..SHE ALSO IS VERY SURPRISED BY THIS INFORMATION i never expected this blog to hit this many blooming flowers,,,..,.,🥹hope the new people enjoy their stay!! and remember SLAY HARD

[zer0point5ive]

guy who uses his most friendly customer service voice to record tapes for saw traps

[misericorsalvator]

An Epitaph

Henry didn't know where he was. It was cold, freezing, but that was all he could tell, from the sharp chill that tore through his damp clothes, to the frigid air that felt like icicles in his lungs when he breathed. Even if he was someplace familiar, it would have been impossible to tell through the veil of rime in the air, the thick hoar that coated the ground. But wherever he was, he had to find shelter. soon, before his limbs grew any number that they already were and he lost the three fingers he had left on his right hand to frostbite. It took a good deal of walking, trudging through the snow, before he found something resembling sanctuary. A rocky hovel dug deep into a mountainside he hadn't even noticed was there. The crooked mountaintop loomed far overhead like a wind-swept pine tree, towering over the barren expanse and shielding the small patch of land near the cave's entrance from the worst of the snowfall. It was a narrow fit, the opening more narrow than a coffin, but it opened up into a wide chamber beyond, dark, lit only by the little light reflecting on the snow outside.

Panic stabbed at him suddenly. That chamber felt familiar, though he couldn't recall from where. The rockface of the walls was smooth, man-made, and the stalactites hanging from the domed ceiling above were unnatural, all the same length, jagged and sharpened to fine points. But he had no time to waste on the unnerving interior. The weather outside was getting worse, the wind howling like wolves on a hunt, and soon his shelter would be just as cold and dangerous as the outside. He had to think, find a way to keep the warmth in. Henry returned to the entrance. He twisted around in the narrow space as best he could and began piling up snow with his numb hands, stacking it, pressing it into shape, mouthing breathless curses to himself, until he had built a solid wall halfway up to his neck. It should last. He didn't know for how long, but at least for now, until he could catch his breath. It had to last.

Henry slumped against the wall of the cave. The barrier he had built offered some protection, but he could still feel the cold creeping in, seeping through the gaps and cracks in the snow. A damp chill gnawed at his bones, freezing the air in his lungs. He knew he had to keep moving, to do something, anything, to stay warm and awake. He couldn’t afford to fall asleep. Not here. Not now. But his limbs were leaden and his body creaked in protest with every movement. His teeth chattered as he tried to think, tried to remember where he was and how he had gotten there. The harder he tried, however, the more his thoughts seemed to slip away, like sand through his fingers. Panic clawed at his chest once more as he looked around the cavern. The walls seemed to close in, the smooth stone shimmering with a thin layer of rime frost. The ceiling above with the unnaturally sharp stalactites, loomed over him like a mouth full of fangs. He had to get out.

Henry pushed himself off the wall, his legs shaking beneath him. The snow was piling up faster now, further in through the entrance than the wall he had built, and he frantically began to shovel it away with his hands, trying to clear a path through the narrow gap. He shovelled harder, floundered, grappled til his fingers were too numb to move, but for every tiny hopeful opening he made, more snow took its place, as if the storm outside was determined to bury him alive. The cold was unbearable now, seeping into his very soul. Outside, the wind roared, a feral sound that echoed through the cavern and made the air thick with cold. Each breath now was a knife to the chest, each inhale burning his lungs. The snow crawled closer, blocking the entrance fully, and began to cover the cave floor inch by painful inch, forcing the hunter back step by painful step.

Henry's mind was reeling. He stumbled further into the cave, away from the encroaching cold, the bones of his legs creaking in protest. The deeper he went, the more the walls seemed to close in on him, the smooth rock pressing down, suffocating. The quiet there was unnerving, an oppressive stillness that made him painfully aware of his own laboured breathing and the pounding of his heart. The silence of the grave. For what felt like an hour, he pushed himself forward against the stone walls, cowering under the stalactites which were now low enough to graze the top of his head. No matter how far he went, the snow followed close behind, blocking the way back. Henry's movements grew slower, more sluggish, until he could no longer outrun it, and that white frost began piling up around his boots. He felt the fight leave him, his breathing weakened, his heartbeat slowed.

Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw it—a single snowflake, delicate and perfect, drifting down from the ceiling above. His breath caught in his throat as he watched it fall, impossibly slow, through solid rock. It glowed faintly in the dim light and Henry’s eyes followed its descent, almost hypnotized, until it landed softly on the ground. On something dark, something that wasn’t stone. He crouched down, his stiff knees cracking in protest, and wiped away the snow, his fingers brushing against a cold, unyielding surface.

A hand.

His hand.

His breath caught in his throat. He was looking at himself, at his own lifeless body, crumpled and broken, half-buried in the snow. The wounds were horrific—deep gashes and punctures that were draining the life out of him-- and the realization hit him like a sledgehammer.

This wasn't real.

The snow, the cold, it was all in his head, growing blurry as his brain ran out of oxygen. And the cavern wasn’t just familiar—it was the place he was dying, right now, in the real world. The place where his body was lying, bleeding out into the cold ground, his blood darkening the stone ground.

For a third time, panic surged through him, but it was laced with a deep, bone-weary exhaustion. The wind howled louder, and now Henry could make out voices, battle cries, screeching and yowling in twisted satisfaction. The snow now poured into the cave through the solid ceiling above, burying everything in its path. He wanted to claw his way out, to escape this nightmare, but his limbs wouldn’t respond. The snow was too thick, too heavy, pressing down on him from all sides. As his vision began to blur, the walls of the cave pulsed, breathing with a life of their own, in tandem with his own slowed breaths. The snow continued to fall, endlessly, burying him, until all he could see was white. And then, from the heart of the storm, he saw a figure—a tall, imposing silhouette that moved with unnatural grace, cutting through the blizzard as if it were nothing. Henry tried to focus, but his mind was slipping, the edges of his consciousness fraying like old cloth.

His final thoughts drifted to Bran. A deep guilt welled up inside him. He wouldn’t make it home for Christmas this year. He wouldn’t see his boy’s face light up when he opened his presents, wouldn’t hear his laughter echoing through the house. Regret gnawed at him, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. In his last moments, as the darkness closed in, Henry barely registered the sharp pain in his chest—a bite, cold and searing, as if winter itself had latched onto his heart, and his eyes froze over with unshed tears until the world faded and he breathed his last.

In a long-forgotten catacomb in Wales, as the last drop of Henry's blood soaked into the humid ground, something ancient stirred. Beneath the layers of earth and stone, within the crypt that had long been forgotten, a pair of eyes snapped open. After centuries of entombment, something awoke. The blood of the dying hunter seeped into its consciousness, filling it with the remnants of Henry's life, his memories, his regrets. And once the blood had ran dry, the ancient knight rose from his tomb, his eyes burning with a cold, unholy fire.

He tore through the killers, the blood-thirsty beasts who had chased their prey to the ancient tomb, splattering the walls with their undead blood that burnt to ash, until none were left. Then, he looked down at the broken body of the hunter who had unwittingly become his saviour. With a grim sense of purpose, the knight knelt beside Henry’s lifeless form. He whispered words in a dialect long dead, a prayer, perhaps, or a vow. Then, with a reverence reserved for fallen comrades, the knight lifted the hunter’s body and carried him deeper into the crypt, where heroes were once laid to rest, where the knight's own tomb stood, broken apart from within. The hunter was gone, his spirit entwined with the ancient knight’s own, but his legacy would live on, honoured by one of the very creatures he had once sought to destroy.

The knight sealed the tomb with a final, solemn gesture, then left the catacombs behind and stepped out into the warm summer night, into a world which had long outlived him.

[mirabel-on-a-bicycle]

hey maybe I'll just stop watching shows from now on :) maybe that's an idea. never love anything and all that

[moregraceful]

max and i are closing in on launching [redacted sports rpf charity fest] and i am once again pondering how do i write "experience with writing form emails and manipulating google forms in ways no one has dreamed of" in a cover letter without saying "i did it for the rpf grind"...like there's no way unless everyone in this microsoft teams meeting gets really cool about a bunch of stuff really quickly. you know