#impenetrable

[random-xpressions]

They may steal my wealth, not my peace, not my joy, not my love. My fortress is too invisible for their hands to ever reach...

Random Xpressions

[daily-spanish-word]

raincoat el impermeable

A coat that is impermeable (impervious, impenetrable) by water. (spelled the same, pronounced differently)

Who’s the girl in the red raincoat? ¿Quién es la niña en el impermeable rojo?

Picture by Quim Gil on Flickr

[ernestdescalsartwok]

SANT SALVADOR DE LA VEDELLA-MONESTIR-ART-PINTURA-AQUAREL·LA-BOSC-IMPENETRABLE-BERGUEDÀ-PANTÀ-LA BAELLS-PINTOR-ERNEST DESCALS por Ernest Descals Por Flickr: SANT SALVADOR DE LA VEDELLA-MONESTIR-ART-PINTURA-AQUAREL·LA-BOSC-IMPENETRABLE-BERGUEDÀ-PANTÀ-LA BAELLS-PINTOR-ERNEST DESCALS- El Monestir de SANT SALVADOR DE LA VEDELLA es todo lo que queda del pueblo arrasado por el agua cuando se construyó el Pantano de LA BAELLS en el Berguedà del centro de Catalunya, ahora podemos disfrutar de nuevo de la presencia del Santuario por la sequía y la bajada del agua en el embalse, el viejo edificio religioso ha emergido y se alza entre las tierras enfanfagas y los impenetrables bosques, puedo asegurarlo por mi trabajo com artista excursionista para Pintar el Alma y las Esencias de los lugares olvidados, el bosque casi da miedo por su oscuridad y acentúa el contraste con las blanquecinas paredes con ventanas del antiguo monasterio, estoy disfrutando mucho de estar encontrando estos lugares mágicos y pintando estas obras sobre el entorno y el interior de la cerrada Central Térmica de Fígols, las dos contrucciones se encuentran casi juntas en el espacio físico y geográfico, sus mensajes son la permanencia en el tiempo que se ha empeñado en su destrucción, ellos son persistentes, por el momento. Pintura con acuarelas que son sensoriales, mi interior conecta con el exterior, mi Espíritu habla con el paisaje y sus testimonios, Cuadros del artista pintor Ernest Descals en sus detalles.

[maskeraith]

Progynova + androcur unboxing & tutorial video

[e-c-i-m]

Dear Child of God,

Jesus, we submit to You!

Love, ECIM

Video: Canva Music: At the Cross - Kaleb Brasee Cover

[richo1915]

"How can one choose to reason falsely? It is because of a longing for impenetrability.

The rational man groans as he gropes for the truth; he knows that his reasoning is no more than tentative, that other considerations may supervene to cast doubt on it. He never sees very clearly where he is going; he is “open”; he may even appear to be hesitant. But there are people who are attracted by the durability of a stone. They wish to be massive and impenetrable; they wish not to change. Where, indeed, would change take them? We have here a basic fear of oneself and of truth. What frightens them is not the content of truth, of which they have no conception, but the form itself of truth, that thing of indefinite approximation. It is as if their own existence were in continual suspension.

But they wish to exist all at once and right away. They do not want any acquired opinions; they want them to be innate. Since they are afraid of reasoning, they wish to lead the kind of life wherein reasoning and research play only a subordinate role, wherein one seeks only what he has already found, wherein one becomes only what he already was. This is nothing but passion. Only a strong emotional bias can give a lightning‐like certainty; it alone can hold reason in leash; it alone can remain impervious to experience and last for a whole lifetime." (Satre 1944)

And this is true today of all people who hold extremist views.

[fanaticalthings]

Just a cute lil thought:

Since Bruce's kids all love to play around and hide in his cape as Robins, I wonder if he makes them blankets out of the same materials as his cape so they can have a piece of security when Bruce isn't there?

I remember in Dick and Jason's older comics (correct me if I'm wrong), they used to stay up late waiting for Bruce when he'd go out as Batman alone, so I'm gonna take this as confirmation that all his kids have done this at some point.

So now I'm totally gonna hc that in order to encourage his kids to not stay up late for him or as a way to help them feel more safe and secure when he's not there, he makes them all blanket replicas of his cape for them to snuggle with :')

And also just imagine his kids all grown up, and they STILL have the blankets with them, regardless of if they've moved out.

[klimthiii]

No girls allowed

Stop studying my strengths and weaknesses. You will never create a fortress I cannot penetrate

[svearehnn]

where flowers go to die | azriel x reader

Summary: Years ago, Azriel was dying on the battlefield, his shadows fading with his heartbeat. She was the Inner Circle’s quiet healer—steady hands, warm laugh, and fiercely in love with the spymaster who didn’t yet know he was hers. In desperation, she made a bargain with Koshei: Azriel’s life for her gift.

She survived the war, but everything she touched afterward began to rot. Her hands, once known for healing, now spread decay. Ashamed and cursed, she vanished into the wilds, letting the world believe she’d died in the chaos of war.

Now, strange withering magic has begun creeping across the Night Court’s border. Azriel is sent to investigate. When he finds the source…it’s her.

Content Warning: descriptions of injury, angst

The wilds did not treat her kindly. But then again, they were never known to be kind. They were thick with dread and rot, Koshei’s reign seeping through every root. Once, she had walked through forests that bloomed at her touch. Now, they recoiled, green turning black beneath her every step.

Even though Koshei had been dead for a century now, his death magic still lingered in her veins—in the tattoo that now marred her skin like a scar, in the way the trees seemed to whisper warnings as she passed. 

She tried to stick to old paths, ones that had already turned barren beneath her, but they still did not welcome her. Stones shifted beneath her boots. Branches sagged, gray-limbed and brittle, as if bowing under the weight of her presence. Under the weight of what she had done.

Each step she took left ruin in her wake. Petals curled. Grass withered. A trail of blackened soil marked where her feet had passed, and still she walked—slowly, steadily—toward the crumbling shrine she’d found years ago. The only place the rot didn’t spread quite as fast. As though the stone, ancient and solemn, held a memory of who she used to be.

She was wrapped in layers of thick green wool, gloves pulled high over her wrists despite the early summer heat. The hood cast shadows over her face, not that anyone ever saw her now. Not that anyone ever should.

She’d buried her name long ago. Left it somewhere in the snow outside Velaris, the night she made the bargain.

But she still remembered his.

Azriel.

His name lived in her like marrow. She tried to forget it. The way his blood had soaked her hands. The way his shadows had curled around her ankles, gentle as breath, even as his eyes fluttered shut and she felt the bond lock into place—quiet and devastating.

He hadn’t known. He never had the chance to.

That was the point.

She had bargained with a god of decay, gave up everything she was so the male she loved could live. She never thought she’d survive it. Never thought she’d walk out of that battlefield, her gift twisted into something monstrous, her hands cursed.

Now, everything she touched died.

And still, she kept breathing.

Still, she dreamed of him.

Still, she walked through a forest that hated her, carrying the unbearable ache of a bond that only went one way.

Until today.

Because today, the forest paused. It’s whispers ceased, as though it was holding its breath. She felt it first through the soles of her boots, the low hush that fell over the trees. Then her own heartbeat, rising. Then something more—an itch between her shoulder blades. A pull in her chest, like a string finally going taut.

Her breath caught.

The shadows moved.

And she knew he had found her.

Her eyes widened just a fraction, her hand reaching for her chest. She couldn’t let him see her like this.

So she hid, just as she always did—within the fading trees, behind gnarled, rotted trunks—and she watched. 

She saw his shadows before she saw him. They furled in like clouds of dark mist, low to the ground. He walked within them, silent as the night, his own eyes searching. Azriel eyed the rot that seemed embedded into the land, inhaled the death that wafted in the air. But he didn’t stop to analyze. 

His gaze was set on the shrine and the sigils that glowed cobalt blue upon it. His gloved fingers traced the etchings, breath hitching in his throat. He recognized the curling loop of her name hidden within them, and it made his blood run cold.

A name that hadn’t been spoken in a century. A name that had become a scar on his heart.

He hadn’t said it aloud since the day they lost her. Not even to himself.

Azriel pulled his hand back slowly. His shadows were already crawling outward—low to the forest floor, quiet, curious. They moved like they did when they sensed something almost familiar. Not danger. Not an enemy. Rather, something his shadows knew was missing.

He turned, scanning the trees. There was no breeze, no birdsong. Just the stillness of a forest that held its breath.

And then—a hitch.

The smallest sound. A breath drawn too sharply, a heartbeat out of rhythm with the woods.

His shadows paused. One tendril curled around the edge of a rotted trunk, brushing against the hem of a dark green cloak.

He said nothing at first. Just… looked.

Even hidden in shadow—even after all these years—he knew.

He knew the shape of her. The way she stood like she was always bracing herself. The way her magic, once golden and warm, now sank into the earth like poison.

Azriel’s voice came softly. Like a blade being drawn.

“I thought you were dead. We all did.”

He didn’t move—didn’t dare. He just stood there, staring at the hollow between the trees where he could see the slightest glimpse of a boot.

She stayed silent even as her heart pounded in her chest, her eyes welling with tears.

“I shouldn’t have come,” he admitted. “I was following the rot. The way it spreads like—” He stopped himself. The words felt cruel now.

His voice softened. “But I didn’t expect it to feel like you.”

That made her flinch.

She pressed her back to the tree, clutching the edge of her cloak like a shield. She had imagined this moment a thousand times. In dreams, in nightmares. She’d imagined him furious. Grieving. Confused.

But she hadn’t imagined this.

Azriel sounded… lonely.

She shut her eyes. Her breath trembled in her chest. The bond, ever present, pulsed weakly under her ribs like an old wound that never healed.

He didn’t know.

Of course he didn’t. And he could never.

Because if he knew—if he felt it now—it would destroy her. Because it wouldn’t be real. He’d think it was some cruel twist of the Cauldron, some pity-thread tugged too late.

So she stayed quiet.

Azriel sighed through his nose, and something in it was so heartbreakingly tired.

“I just wanted to know,” he said, “if you were still breathing.”

A pause.

Then he turned—slowly, deliberately—and walked back to the shrine.

He didn’t see the way her hands shook. Didn’t hear the ragged breath she bit down. Didn’t feel the bond quiver with every step he took away.

But she watched. She saw the way his wings drooped; the effort it took for him to keep them from dragging on the forest floor. The shadows still searching around him, not with suspicion—but with something softer. Familiar.

He didn’t leave. Of course he didn’t.

Azriel wasn’t the kind of male who walked away from ghosts.

He stayed near the shrine, tracing the sigils with a gloved hand. His presence was like a balm to her soul. Yet, even as the bond tugged her closer, begging her to run into his arms, she couldn’t move. She refused to.

She didn’t save him just for him to die by her own wretched hands.

Her throat tightened. Her gloved hands curled into fists.

She heard him speak again—quiet, like he was willing the wind to carry his words to her.

“I know you’re there.”

She swallowed thickly. A shadow brushed her ankle, curling around it. She took a shuddering breath. She could keep hiding. Let him think it was just grief. Just memory.

But he deserved more than that. He’d always deserved more than what she gave him.

So she stepped out.

It was only one step. Her hood still drawn, her hands still hidden. But it was enough. Azriel’s breath caught audibly.

He turned, and for the first time in ten years, his eyes met hers. He didn’t say anything at first. Didn’t move. Didn’t run. Just… looked.

Like he was afraid to blink.

Her voice came thin and brittle. “You weren’t supposed to find me.”

Azriel shook his head slowly. “Then you should’ve hidden better.”

She let out a broken sound—a laugh, or maybe a sob. She didn’t know.

“I’m not who I was,” she whispered. “Not anymore.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.”

He took one step closer. Carefully. Like approaching a wounded animal.

“I don’t care.”

She blinked.

Azriel’s voice didn’t tremble when he said, “You’re alive. That’s all I care about right now.”

The bond pulsed beneath her skin. But still—he didn’t feel it. And she said nothing. She couldn’t risk losing this moment, not even for the truth she so desperately ached to speak into existence.

She didn’t mean to lead him to her.

She meant to keep her distance. To stand in the shadows, let him see her just long enough to prove she was breathing, and disappear again before the rot remembered it could devour everything she loved.

But then Azriel moved—just a few steps, never closer than she could tolerate. His shadows followed her, not him. They brushed her wrist, the hem of her cloak, the edge of her gloves. They didn’t recoil.

She said nothing as she turned toward the shrine. He fell into step behind her.

The earth beneath her blackened, dead things curling inward as she passed. But when she reached the ancient stone and laid a hand upon its mossy edge, the rot didn’t spread.

Azriel said nothing, though she could feel his gaze fixed on her back.

“This is the only place it doesn’t follow me,” she murmured.

His voice was gentle. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe it remembers who I was. Maybe the magic here is stronger than mine. Or maybe… maybe this is where the gods go to forgive things.”

She didn’t know why she said that. Maybe she just wanted someone else to say it was possible.

Behind her, Azriel exhaled like he was steadying himself. “I remember these sigils. You used to draw them in the sand outside the House of Wind. I never knew what they meant.”

She nodded, one hand still on the stone.

“They’re meant for old magic,” she said. “The kind that bargains. The kind that takes more than it gives.”

Azriel was quiet for a long time.

Then, softly: “Is that what happened to you?”

She flinched.

When she turned, her hood slipped just enough that the edge of her face was visible in the dying light. He stepped closer without thinking—half a foot between them, his eyes searching hers.

“I can’t be near people,” she whispered. “I destroy things. I can’t control it. I—”

Her voice broke.

“I tried to save you.”

The words were out before she could stop them. Her heart lurched. Not the whole truth. Not the bond. Just the first crack in the dam.

Azriel’s expression didn’t change—but something in the air did.

A pull. Sharp. Low in her ribs. For one heartbeat, she thought—No. No, not now.

But it faded just as quickly. A flicker. A whisper.

Azriel blinked once, brows pulling slightly together. He looked at her like he felt something, too—but didn’t know what it meant.

She stepped back instinctively. “Don’t.”

He followed.

“I don’t care about the rot,” he said. “I don’t care what bargain you made. I care that you’re here. That you came back.”

“I didn’t come back,” she said, almost choking. “I was never meant to be found.”

He reached out—not to touch her, but to be closer. His shadows swept between them like a tide.

“Too bad,” he said gently.

She froze.

“I already found you.”

The words lingered like mist between them. She hated how warm they made her feel.

Azriel stood a foot away now, close enough that the edge of his shadows brushed her boots like a question. The silence stretched. His gaze searched her face, trying to understand something she hadn’t spoken aloud in over a century.

“What happened to you?” He asked, quieter this time.

Her stomach twisted.

“I told you,” she said, voice flat. “I made a bargain.”

“You said you tried to save me,” Azriel murmured, hazel eyes gazing into hers with a kindness she hadn’t seen in years. 

She looked away as she felt that familiar knot rise up in her throat. Her eyes squeezed shut as a shaky breath left her lips.

“Please don’t make me say it.”

Azriel’s voice softened further. “Why not?”

Her hands trembled. Her gloves were old, worn thin in the fingers. Her magic pulsed underneath, black and ruinous.

“Because if I say it out loud,” she whispered, “I’ll never come back from it.”

Azriel didn’t move. But she felt something shift in the air—again. That pull. That ache in her chest, like a violin string plucked once and left to ring.

The bond.

Cauldron, not now.

She turned her head away. “You should go.”

“No,” he said, firm but not unkind. “I won’t. You don’t have to tell me everything. But I won’t leave you here. Not again.”

Not again.

The words undid something in her.

“I was the only healer left,” she said suddenly. The confession slipped out like blood from a wound. “We were losing. I was trying to save too many at once. And then… and then you went down.”

Azriel stiffened.

She didn’t stop, even as tears blurred her vision. She had to look away—she couldn’t see his face.

“Your chest was open. Your wings were shredded. There was too much blood. Too much. I knew I wouldn’t reach you in time. And the bond—” she swallowed hard—“it snapped.”

He blinked.

“What?”

“I felt it,” she whispered, voice quivering. “And I knew—I knew you never would. You were dying. I couldn’t let you go.”

Azriel stared at her.

She shook her head violently, stepping back. “Don’t say anything. Just—don’t.”

But his shadows surged suddenly—not menacing, not cold. Just startled. His breath hitched.

The air thickened.

A hum between them. Low. Old. Alive.

His hand lifted slightly, like his body was reacting before his mind could.

And the bond flickered again. Harder—like a heartbeat. Like a second heart awakening under the first.

She gasped softly, turning away with a hand clutched to her chest.

“I traded my magic,” she said hoarsely. “To Koshei. To keep you alive.”

A sad laugh bubbled from her throat. “I thought I wouldn’t survive—I wasn’t supposed to. But now look at me. I’m a walking plague. Everything withers away at my touch.”

She swiftly wiped her cheeks, destroying the evidence of her sorrow. He stepped closer.

“Not everything.” 

She glanced up just as a shadow curled around her arm. It was content to be there, unburned, unafraid. 

“I’ll hurt you,” she murmured, her voice so small—so certain.

Her gaze was wary as she watched him step closer, the toes of his boots tapping against hers. It made the blood freeze in her veins.

“I don’t think you will.”

And then his hand lifted, cupping her cheek—she expected the rough leather of his gloves, but all she felt was the warmth of his palm, scarred and steady.

Her eyes widened. She flinched, ready to bolt, but he wouldn’t let her.

“Am I withering?” He whispered, voice barely a whisper. “Am I rotting?”

Azriel’s lips brushed hers like the sweetest lullaby. 

The bond pulled taut in her chest. She leaned into his touch, breath catching, eyes fluttering shut. His thumb swept against her bottom lip in a gentle caress.

“Open your eyes, my mate.”

She did. And beneath her boots, the earth bloomed. Soft green shoots curled from the blackened soil. Tiny buds unfurled like hope from ashes. Flowers—violets and blues—burst into being where decay once reigned. A laugh fell from her lips and he swallowed it with his own.

His hand slid around her neck, pulling her into him as though anchoring himself to the world again. She clutched his tunic like he might vanish if she were to let go.

The bond glowed around them like a thousand fireflies at dusk. The sigils on the shrine flickered once, then faded to rest.

And in the place where flowers came to die, life began again.

[tenth-sentence]

'(...) By contrast with the brilliancy outside, it seemed at first impenetrably dark to me. (...)'

"The Time Machine" - H. G. Wells

[heritageposts]

No, this is not footage from Gaza or Lebanon; it's Iranian missiles hitting "Israeli" soil.

– From @/War Monitor on Twitter. The same footage if also being shown on Al Jazeera and other mainstream news outlets right now (1st of October 2024).

[edorazzi]

Finally - page 1 of my Miraculous Mentor AU webcomic A Matter of Trust! I'm so excited to finally start releasing this monster project! ( ♡ᗜ♡)

Index | Prev | Next (coming soon!)

Weekly updates each Sunday! You can also read ahead early on Patreon, and/or buy me a Ko-fi if you'd like to support my work! 💖

[raindeathlily]

Maybe it'll work if you turn it off and on again.

By Hook or By Crook - @grubus @primtheamazing

[shorthaltsjester]

if i keep seeing so many people refer to ayden as an indication of an unknown softness in pelor i will start setting things on fire. just because YOU cannot handle nuance does not mean the story of exandria has not contained it and done so consistently. in fact the first in depth interaction that any party had with pelor (vex becoming his champion) was a portrayal of him that was explicit in his complexity. taken straight from the transcript for 1x104 elysium, “[vex you] spin and look, whereas there once was a burning star-- and to the rest of [vox machina], you see the painful, endless light that averts your gaze-- it doesn't hurt your eyes as much, and you can see the faint features, the soft cheeks, the hairless head, and the bright warm eyes of he who brings the dawn. And you can see the smile there, behind the light. “there is hope.”” sunlight can warm you and burn you in equal measure.

that burning image of the sun has much in common with a teenage boy who steps into a dark room, and reminds the dm that it’s not dark. the same way that a teenage boy who stands by as a woman who will not give up her worship of pelor is punished because he has more important responsibilities he must honour has much in common with a seemingly benevolent lord of the dawn might respond harshly to a cleric who asks if he is worth saving while he is trying to find a way to survive so he might keep helping to provide light. the gods aren’t simple and they never have been. i am as psyched about the particular angle that downfall is taking as anybody but it is already frustrating watching people act like the gods are suddenly more nuanced because they’re in literally mortal bodies when the entire Point of the gods in exandria in the various stories we’ve seen so far is that the only difference they have with mortals is the bounds of their power. they carry all the same flaws and the same profundity. just because so much of the fandom has reduced that to black and white flatness or faulty mapping onto real world religions (or the various traumas those might have caused individuals) doesn’t mean that complexity has been missing at all from the story.

[butchhamlet]

"The problem epilepsy poses for the early modern cultural imagination—and perhaps for our modern sensibilities as well— resides in this illegibility. Epileptic seizures are transitory episodes that only temporarily register disability on the body and then seem to disappear. In this way, epilepsy forces a particularly rigorous exercise in discernment that might fail at any moment. The epileptic Caesar, in his ability to appear able-bodied, is unidentifiable as "Other" and thus eludes categorization as disabled. Julius Caesar acknowledges this dilemma, performing Caesar's ability to go unrecognized amongst the able-bodied—to "pass" as "normal." For nearly all his time in the play, in fact, Caesar enacts just such a strategy. He resists his non-normative status in what Simi Linton elsewhere has described as either "a deliberate effort to avoid discrimination or ostracism, or . . . an almost unconscious, Herculean effort to deny to oneself the reality of one's racial history, sexual feelings, or bodily state" (19). Caesar, in his efforts to pass, creates for himself a "minifiction" in which his disability has no place.

...

Just as these scenes affirm Caesar's ability to "pass" so too does the entire play in its refusal to formally stage Caesar's condition. In other words, although various characters comment on Caesar's disability, it never shows itself in the actions of the drama. In fact, word of Caesar's "falling sickness," the suggestion that he "fell down in the market-place, and foamed at mouth, / and was speechless" (1.2.250-51), appears to be nothing more than rumor. In noting his unconfirmed disability (the lack of actual performance of fit, swoon, or seizure in the drama), I am not denying Caesar's epilepsy but instead further confirming its illegibility. Put another way, this absence of "proof" throughout the play renders epilepsy an unrecognizable condition that, even as it is named disability, resists categorization as such."

—Allison P. Hobgood, "Caesar Hath the Falling Sickness: The Legibility of Early Modern Disability in Shakespearean Drama" (emphasis mine)