#limestone cycle

[transingthoseformers]

Been doing a head story that What if Megatron was prescribed psych meds at one point and just. Threw them out the second that the medic turned their back.

"Frag that those taste like chalk"

[hylianengineer]

I’m loving the 666k note self care post for many reasons, including the fact that I can just go to the comments section and infodump about whatever I want. Tonight it was the earliest life on earth and the evolution of life from the first microbes to the first trees. Now I’m sentimental about how COOL biogeochemical cycles are.

[the-ashford-arms]

Discover the best day trips in the Peak District with Ashford in the Water as your base. Explore Monsal Dale, Chatsworth House, and Bakewell. Enjoy walking the Limestone Way, visiting Eyam, and water sports at Carsington Water. Plan your visit and stay at The Ashford Arms for an unforgettable experience. Book now!

[bestanimal]

Round 1 - Phylum Echinodermata

(Sources - 1, 2, 3, 4)

Echinodermata is a phylum of animals which are bilaterally symmetrical as larvae but radially symmetrical as adults. It includes starfish, brittle stars, sea urchins, sand dollars, sea cucumbers, and sea lilies.

Echinodermata is the largest marine-only phylum, and echinoderms can be found at every ocean depth from the intertidal zone to the abyssal zone. They make up a large portion of life in the deep sea. They are diverse, with some being sessile (lacking self-locomotion) while others are motile (able to move independently). Many are restricted to crawling slowly across the sea floor, while some can swim through the water column. They have a skeleton beneath their outer layer of skin, which is composed of calcite-based plates called ossicles. This would be heavy if it was solid, so it is instead porous. The ossicles may be fused together or articulated, and may have external projections such as warts or spikes. Echinoderms are often brightly-colored, and some of their pigment cells may even be light-sensitive, causing many echinoderms to change appearance completely as night falls. Their diet varies, with some species being predators, some being filter-feeders, some being herbivores, some only eating algae, and some being detritivores. Some injest food through a mouth and expell waste through an anus, while others can only expell waste back through their mouth. The ventral side of many echinoderms is covered in tube feet, each of which typically end in a suction cup pad. They primarily use their tube feet for movement, though some sea urchins will also “walk” with their spines.

Almost all species have males and females, though some are hermaphroditic and at least one reproduces by parthenogenesis. Eggs and sperm are released into open water, where they are fertilized externally. Some species may aggregate during reproductive season to increase the likelihood of fertilization. A small handful of species have internal fertilization. Some echinoderms, especially in colder areas, brood and carry their eggs until they hatch. Echinoderm larvae are usually planktonic, swim via cilia, and have bilateral symmetry. During metamorphosis, the left side of their body grows at the expense of the right side, which is eventually absorbed, ending with the body arranged in five parts around a central axis. Some species reproduce asexually. They do this by splitting in two, like a cell, and generating a new body half from the old one. Some larvae may also reproduce by budding.

The first echinoderms appeared in the Early Cambrian.

Propaganda under the cut:

Echinoderms are able to regenerate tissue, limbs, organs, and sometimes full bodies from a remaining portion of limb. Starfish and brittle stars may detach an arm as a defense mechanism, swimming away while a predator is distracted by the wiggling limb. Some sea cucumbers, on the other hand, take this to the extreme by expelling their cuvierian tubules (respiratory tubes) to entangle potential predators. Sometimes this is also accompanied by a discharge of toxic holothurin. It can take 1.5 - 5 weeks for the tubules to regenerate, depending on species.

The hard endoskeletons of dead echinoderms are geologicallly important, contributing to limestone formations.

Echinoderms sequester about 0.1 gigatonnes of carbon dioxide per year as calcium carbonate, making them important contributors in the global carbon cycle.

Sea stars are heavily muscled, and are able to go from soft to rigid in order to pull open the shells of their mollusc prey.

Sea urchins are among the main herbivores in reefs and there is usually a fine balance between the urchins and the kelp and other algae on which they graze. In the past, mass mortalities of sea urchins have led to algae blooms.

Some sea cucumbers have webbed swimming structures that allow them to swim freely through the water column. Pelagothuria natatrix (seen below) is the only truly pelagic echinoderm known so far.

(source)

Echinoderms seem to have an innate internal clock. Even at the depths of the ocean where no light penetrates, they are still able to synchronize their reproductive activity.

We don’t know much about Sea Pigs (Scotoplanes globosa) (seen in gif) other than that they’re poisonous sea cucumbers that feed on detritus at the sea floor. But we do know that they are often seen clutching young king crabs (Neolithodes diomedea) and carrying them around. One possible theory is that these crabs latch onto S. globosa to gain access to nutrients and movement, and sheltering beneath the poisonous sea pig allows them to hide from predators. As sea pigs are sometimes plagued with parasites that bore holes into their bodies, the crabs may also help the sea pigs by keeping them clean of parasites. For now, all possibilities are just hypotheses, but we can stil Awww at the globby pink sea cucumbers cuddling their little pet crabs.

Along with Hemichordata, they are the closest relatives of Chordata (aka our phylum!)

Some sea urchins pick up rocks, shells, and other debris and carry them around to shade themselves from the sun. Some people who keep them as pets have come up with creative ways to allow them to do this without dismantling the architecture:

(source)

Silly hats aside, these seemingly simple animals are using tools.

[astralnymphh]

before the flora.

knight!ellie x princess!reader teaser. beginning is essentially just lore. bonus excerpt with ellie and princess interaction below the sketch. wrote the intro in january. no warnings tbh. illustration by @trackinglessons :P READ THIS . PALESTINE MASTERPOST

When the universe was born, there was only fire; a slowly waning blaze. And so hence when death begins to unfurl its low, groaning bloom— there will only be ice.

Yet the heavens and earth are nay alike, as death— and life, are interwoven by the timeless nuptial that is humans, and Mother Nature. Cordial and tepid heartbeats meet with her frigid and frightening marrow this season. Flakes are falling, a howl swells in the wind, and hearths stay an undying tongue of flame in the province of Istenad. Isle of riches and hedonism gone rampant amongst those who proved meritful of a conversation spat over gilded chalices. Or those who wiped a famished tongue stroke over the sole of His Majesty— The King's tan leather boots in entreat, declaring the hide a tenfold more gullet–watering than their stale, daily spare of bread. Where high life reins, low life is there to scrub their steeds.

The wintry pearlescent tundra fringing around uncharted woodlands hums your name— it carries by gale, an airy reed of vowels pulled through your ears. 

Tut, tut, tut, the pecking of bark.

Everything seems to resound much heavier over the windows thick limestone sill. Woodwinds, the sough of pine boughs— a chorus wafted. Woodpeckers, they beat rigid timber with their sonnets of calling. The echoed tut starts to sound awfully kindred to a beckoning call of your name. And at daybreak, when the tangerine sun dips its head under the coast, you feel a magnetic lull to traverse your truest passions and slip away into the night, arctic chilled steel in hand. The quantity of hay sticking beneath your shoes collected by skittering across the night–doused thoroughfare was well enough to concern your maids on duty to dress you, brows fuddled at the streaming of straw near your door come morning.

Loop of your knuckles, bend of your wrist, a hand flexed on the hilt of a meticulously poached sword. A swing 'round your waist, a cold hale grip the air could taste, fighting off many mythic brutes of moonlight, however only conceived where dreams are airtight. The mind, it plays. The play it perceives, a viewing spread like tawny butter. Ghouls and ghastlies encircle a quaint pond, chanting away in cryptic grumbles and beastly bumbles, enraged with their slobber frothing at the fangs you tore from their sockets— deeper than artless, juxtaposed to the blinding ruby reds and dyed paper sunflowers of the theater. Your mind’s play felt real.

Unfortunate to your heart, dreams will stay dreams.

Nary a princess was meant to tune into melee, especially at your courting age. Nevertheless, your psyche has spurned from what a maiden is expected of and is completely in a haven of your own structure, your signature sanctuary. 

In the farmsteads, a forthcoming soldier harvests not just crop— but dexterity. Derived and nurtured in the faraway prairie village of Dunwich, where the fertile seasons prove flaxen of corn and the trickling sweat of every farmhand turns to gold. Any newborn granted to this quaint village is fated to form calloused hands with labor written in their palm lines as time unfolds. In their— well, her— adolescent years, the yearning for practices of gallantry in knighthood swiveled her sights to the colossal stone castle way.. way far away. Sprouting beyond the earth line, far as the eye can see.

So, she learned, she trained, she slept, partaking in a ranged cycle taught by her ruthlessly departed father: Sir Joel. Reprisal became her nemesis; never able to rend the barrier of hesitation and cleanse her shut eyes of revolting imagery. The horseman of death was not omitting the trauma of this hazel-haired soldier. A weight so burdensome, her speckled skin remembers the tales of every scar clawed into it. Like how the lips of a bard cling to an everlasting ballad.

Every knight knew well to exile any lingering ties to the past. It's been years since he passed, she understands that. Though, the heart never lies, and certainly never covets forgetting.

Ambitions stemming from legions of knights in waiting have fallen short, submerging within the moat of the castle and sinking deep into the catacombs with no elegy sung. An allegory for dreams long since vanished. A domain so valued longs for those biding life with rigid bones, such as she. Tempered by the hardships, endured like metal meeting the blacksmith's chisel. 

A vividness to her movements, flowing like a river. For it is water that soothes the most cosmic fires, carves veins into the earth's soil, descends from the heavens above and proves iron soluble. A knight so pinpoint and poised like a painter, yet so daring and baneful like a warrior of evenfall. An artisan of her craft, this knight-to-be is. Born to thrive in matters regarding protection of their kingdom and its nobility. By the sheer tenacity of her skill, she will excel. From the self–instructed lessons in a verdant pasture, basked by undying light in her hometown— to the ordained priming within the royal court. 

They were forged to be dutiful. 

You are a daughter of the illustrious King, Sagard, and swan–grace queen, Sagard— maiden name Adela, and sister of your highly revered and cherished kin, Prudence. Subsequent to her fabled rise, was your fall. A pratfall you plainly turned a serene ear from, for you foresaw its coming. Clandestine adventures and lollygagging in the marketplace earned you right in the clasp of consequences. You knew that, knowing it kept you on the balls of your toes before you'd be caught suiting into an act more repugnant— be it, no.. befogging yourself in a peasant boys' dire–in–muck rags, merely to play "boy" games as a young one? 

Sacrilege! 

Prudence was there, at every occasion, scolding with her youthful finger at the palace fore, sucking her fingertip wet of spit and dragging a stroke over your soot–strewn cheek, just before scuttling the halls in search of father, cawing, “Father, Father! My sisters become a boy again!” until it rang his fucking ears to a pulse. Hmph, father even countered his own remark of squawk, pouring through the walls, “Hah! The second son I wish I reared! Tell me, what peasants skin does she clad: butcher's boy, or of the farmer?”

Rebuking the role of royalty isn't your entire bastion of vengeance. You purely long for a world of your own color. Your self-brewn arcadia of art. In a concise phrase, desire for sovereignty. And your family chastised you curtly for every scant display of free will, short of the Queen, she is fair.

Daughter of the King, Princess of the thicket. You retain your fortunes. Modestly.

“Why don't you resemble your sister more?”

A ruby crested box designed by the best of goldsmiths is lodged at the margin of your beds footboard, safekeeping of your esteemed regalia. You possess a bedazzled amassing of circlets, veils, brocade and velvet tunics of long lengths within this box. But do any of them revel in the blessing of being worn on regal skin? Never. You opted for garbs of less gilding and jewels, so that you might taint it with whatever adventures mold under the ribbing of your foot. That shit offended your skin with its indelicacy of forgetting a human will don its fabric golds and woven jewels.

Even— court gatherings. You don the likeness of simplicity and temperate elegance. This morning's virginal aurora, a broach of light swoll from the windows arch, to the footing of your bed, made the wake of your eyes begin upon a lighting behind sheer skin. Your box of regalia shone in that incandescence momentarily. It danced, fleeter than you, irkingly so. You had to squint whilst flipping the clasps and hauling the heavy lid slanted against your bed, or else you may be heaven–blinded. “Every inch of Princess,” you intoned in quietude at the sight of glamored fabrics, “—whom I shant mirror.” and reached for the homelier fabrics, scratch of cobalt-blue linen delight brushing under your prints, you grasped your reserve tight.

“I was not made aware that there is a village wedding to be, dear sister— from what river does this dress of rags hail from?”

“It is not a brides dress, nor rags, leave me Prud—”

Prudence had blocked the shut of your chamber door with her hand flattened, pursuing, “You glum your gems. Rotting in that chest, tasting no light, no glory.”

You kept your lips thickly sown shut, casting dimly eyes to the ground.

“Shall I send for the steward so he may sell—”

“No need.”

“Hmm, most stubborn, are we? Then I—”

“I am least stubborn,” you wedged your fingers beneath her palm, prying the door loose, “—it is you, who strays your own counsel, unmoving as a mountain.” ending with the trudging shut of your door, ceasing in silence.

[++ bonus excerpt from act 2, scene 1]

“Uh–huh..” she draws out. Legato; a sarcastic reply, and wipes her tongue through the press of her lips together, “This far out? You must rebel quite often to have made a friend, I bet?” she tilts her head, a bit playful.

“You bet well— a lot, I assume?” 

Cannily, she winks, “Indeed I do.” and aligns her face onward. Gesturing to her horse's rump a second— third? Eh, whatever time— she jerks her brow with a head cock back, “Hop on, I'll take you there.”

Both brows fall, and you flinch bemused, “Wh– uh,” as you hem and haw for words, grating a stutter, “But not a moment ago you spoke of the roads recent perils—”

“Surely it's not far?” she spoke presumptuously, “I mean, you've come this far, My Lady. Nobody would travel the woods past sunset, besides you it seems.” now a matter–of–fact vocal barricade that shoves itself into your ears and winds the cogs to think cleverly.

You shan't know my transgressions, sweet Knight. You may talk.

Trust is sparse as a puddle marched in.

“‘Tis but a mile out. Bravo on your convincing, Williams.” you wry and scoff. 

“Can't fumble that name, huh?”

“I would not want to dishonor your knighthood.” 

“You honor me with your coincidental presence, Princess.”

“Honor in your mind.”

"Hmph," her breathy chuckle, a sweetness you luckily caught with ears even numbed by the snowsquall. Do not blush. Do not smile. Fuck. Guess you'll be visiting Malina after all, the gale of a displeased sigh icing your lips over as you approach that dangling stirrup.

[boreal-sea]

So, I'm both an artist and a scientist, right? Specifically, on the science side, I'm a geologist. So let me infodump my thoughts about marble as an artistic medium.

What is marble? Marble is a metamorphic rock, meaning it is a rock that has been changed by heat and pressure. Originally, marble was limestone, which is on the chemical scale calcium carbonate. Where does limestone come from?

Two separate processes: biological and nonbiological. The biological sources are ocean organisms, constructing tiny shells for themselves, pulling the calcium and carbon out of seawater. They then die, and their shells accumulate on the sea floor. The nonbiological process is precipitation: the water becomes saturated with calcium and carbon, and it solidifies out of the water and settles down onto the ocean floor below.

After deposition, the calcium carbonate undergoes diagenesis which turns it from layers of shells and carbonate mud into a solid rock called limestone. Then the limestone has to endure heat and pressure, often due to tectonics - the plates of the Earth moving and weighing down what was once the ocean floor, baking it and crushing it with immense heat and pressure for even more time. We're talking older than the dinosaurs here.

Marble is ancient rock, formed from the never ending cycles of our planet, the carbon cycle, tectonics, life, and the ocean - and then finally we humans find it, and see it is beautiful, and then! Then we make art of it. Art of something our planet has spent millions of years crafting. A rock that has been on an incredible journey before it makes it to the hands of the artist. And the artist takes something that has been through so much, and makes life out of it again - soft shapes, organic curves.

[in-memoriam-tgwk]

There, in the mouth of a cave, stands a cat.

He stands many lengths below its ceiling, his long tabby fur bristled against a chilly southernly wind, staring into the darkness ahead of him. He has only been in this cave once before; a cat gone seasons before led the way down, down, down to its center, following the ancient limestone walls with twitching whiskers and anticipatory breaths. At its lowest sits a cavern bathed in the blue light of glowing toadstools, full of dripping stone teeth and stale mineral air. It’s where he earned his name from Fate; it’s where he was gifted Her blessing. He remembers looking on in awe and wonder back then.

He stares with less reverence than before. His brow is set and his eyes are steely in the growing dusk hour. No hesitance trips his steps as he walks into the maw of the cliffside.

The darkness quickly eats him whole as he walks, relying on vague memory and intuition to guide him to where he seeks. He walks with purpose, old paws landing one by one on older stone, pushed along by determination and, to a lesser extent, grief. The last time he came here he was promised safety and security, plentiful food and peaceful moons, a life made better by banding together instead of not. She had promised him these things, had filled him with the pain and the warmth of one thousand fires, had given him the lives needed to defend his new family with every fibre of his being. He needs to know why She lied to him.

It left as quickly as it had arrived; sickness weaved its way through the Colony, affecting more cats than not with its rattling lungs and sour stench. Oaktrail and Emma had little time to prepare, and very few herbs to help. It was a battle lost before the fight had begun.

Iciclestalk, Frozentuft, Hailkit. These names hug his mind like a barbed vine, drawing blood as their spines dig into his flesh.

Iciclestalk was older, tall, perhaps too thin even for his age. His brows hung in a perpetual scowl, but there was a softness in his blue eyes. Perhaps he was the only one who saw it; perhaps he was the only one Iciclestalk would let see. The sickness stole the air from his lungs in less than a sun cycle.

Frozentuft, the adopted daughter of Hollyspeckle. She had been healing from a broken bone, having taken a terrible fall two moons prior from the cliffside. She was young, but she was weak. The sickness in the medicine den infected her lungs, and she lost her battle in her father’s paws.

Hailkit was… She was a kit. One of the Colony’s first, the only daughter to Rainpool and Heatherdash. She was spritely and kind, inquisitive and talkative, and had so much more life to live. Her mother became ill, and in turn she did too. She was too young to stand a chance.

Iciclestalk. Frozentuft. Hailkit. Their names slice through his bones like gnashing wolf fangs, alighting the fire burning in his soul. He picks up his pace, scraping against walls, baring his teeth and unsheathing his claws. There is a rage broiling beneath the grief, battering against his ribcage and climbing up his throat, stinging his nose and eyes.

He rounds the corner and arrives to a room of spikes and blue light, and he bellows out the flames scorching in his belly.

“Blasphemy!” he cries out, his raspy timbre echoing out in all directions. He stands, fur bristled not by the wind but by anger and pain, broad and challenging at the mouth of the cavern. He glares eagle talons to the air around him. “Your tongue ought to be fed to crows for the lies behind your teeth!”

He expects no answer, but the rhythmic drip, drip, drip that follows only fuels his fury. “Cowardice is unbecoming,” he continues, venom coating his abrasive taunting. “Reveal yourself to me, o Dictator of Fate, I demand an audience!”

He stalks to the center of the room, surrounded on all sides by stone daggers taller than they are wide, splashing through tiny pools without care or trepidation. He harbors little respect for the One he calls out to.

“I offered my service to You,” he says. “I’ve lived by Your guidance, by Your blessings, by Your will. You promised me— You promised us your protection. You promised our moons would be without strife! You promised!”

He stomps a paw into the puddle he occupies, spraying droplets in every direction. His lips curl as he seethes.

“Tell me, where are Your blessings?! You took my healer from me! You took his mate! You took two warriors in their prime, my mate, a child! You stole a child from her mother! In what way is that a blessing, My Lady?!”

His caterwaul reverberates back to him in antagonizing waves, as though they mock his plight. His claws scrape terribly against silt and stone below.

“ANSWER ME!”

One moment, he is bathed in the pale blue glow of underground fungus. He blinks, and he finds himself in a pine forest. The pine forest, shrouded in cool spring morning mists. His home. His shock cuts through his brimstone ire in an instant.

He opens his jaw to speak, but a translucent white tail just catches the edge of his vision. It flickers, disturbing the fog around it, before disappearing behind a wide tree trunk. He narrows his eyes. “Your ways are no clearer than a muddied pool,” he hisses, trailing after the elusive feline.

He walks until the tree line breaks, and the familiar sight of cliffs and a cascading waterfall greets him. The wisp of starlight zips along with him in tow, across the large stepping stones that disturbs the river’s flow, up the well-worn path that weaves its way up the sharp incline, around the corner…

He pauses. Not for the tail of Fate, which has now hidden itself from view entirely.

Ahead of him, cats of all shapes and sizes envelop his vision; kits come bounding from the Nursery, their mothers following closely behind. Cats with soft, round faces and kitten fluff clinging to their cheeks brush noses with their mentors, ready to start the day right with patrol or training. There are a few he recognizes; his deputy Amberfuzz speaks to a pair of dark grey tabbies and sends them to collect a grey and white cat for what looks like a hunting party, and they brush past him as though he is nothing but a stone on the path. Mottledwhisker presses his muzzle to the head of a grey tabby lying across the sunning boulder, mumbling something intelligible before leaving their side. Oaktrail lounges nearby, and it’s here he realizes something odd; Oaktrail looks to be moons older than the tom cat he knows now. His thin brown muzzle is tinged with silver, and his sallow cheeks are a startling sight.

“Is…” he mumbles, his brows creasing in confusion. “Is this my Colony? My family?”

No voice responds, but a warm breeze blows his fur the wrong direction. It sends tingles up his spine.

“Alright… Why show me this? What do you want to tell me?”

The wind blows harder, buffeting his back with staccato gusts.

“Use your words, My Lady,” he says, glaring to his left. “I know you are capable enough.”

Another gust brushes past his ears, his eyes, his nose— A scent on the wind, warm amber and cool evergreen, painfully familiar. It seizes his lungs. His head whips to the right, and he sees… He sees…

“Hello, old man.”

The voice belongs to a tall frame, an older frame, one perhaps too thin for its age. He’s not thin any longer; he looks strong, well-fed, like a weathered face on a youthful body. His brows are not furrowed, and his soft blue eyes crease at the corners.

“You,” he breathes, unable to keep the quiver from his tone. “You… Mouse-brain.”

Iciclestalk chuckles, the fond expression growing even brighter. “I told you I’d go first, didn’t I?”

The shaking in his voice bleeds into his limbs, and he falls forwards to bury his face in his mate’s neck fur. He inhales the sharp scent like anything else would be inadequate.

“You left me too soon,” he whines, lifting his paws up to circle around Iciclestalk’s shoulders. “Why did She let you leave me? Why did She take you away?”

A tail wraps itself around his own, as Iciclestalk’s response rumbles through his head. “It was my time, love. I was getting old and slow anyway.”

The anger threatens to bubble back up, but his mate’s presence keeps it at bay for the time being. “She took a child, Icy. She took Hailkit… Rainpool didn’t deserve that.”

The tail tightens slightly. “I know, I know… It’s an unfortunate thing. But she is safe with us. Frozentuft, Mousetuft… Cliffclaw and Shinefreckle, too. We’re all safe here.” His tongue rasps gently across his ear, and then his nose nuzzles the top of his head. “Please don’t fret, alright? We’re okay. And the Colony will be okay, too.”

He glances away from Iciclestalk’s neck, towards the bustling camp before them. There looks to be many more cats than he realized, more than who he can recall at home. The confirmation of a surviving generation brings a sort of calm to his troubled heart. The Colony will be okay.

For a long time they rest like that, entwined and pressed together in every place they can, living within the other’s scent in silence. Long is still not long enough when Iciclestalk begins to pull away.

“Don’t go,” he mumbles into the taller cat’s fur, tears prickling behind his eye lids. He feels he’s cried too much the past few days.

Iciclestalk gives him a sad smile, one that breaks his wounded heart all over again. “Not a goodbye,” he replies, tipping his head to bump their foreheads together one more time. “It’s not a goodbye. It’s a ‘see you in a little while’. I’ll be here waiting.”

His eyes open, and just as swiftly as the vision began, he finds himself back in that damp, dreary cave. His paws are soaked nearly to his ankles, sending a shiver up and through his spine in an unpleasant way. He huffs to himself, and glares back and the dagger-encrusted ceiling above.

“If what you’ve shown me is true,” he says, his tone now lacking the ire and accusation from before, “then I expect you to keep your word to me. You will ensure the prosperity of my Colony— my family. I will not let your will be its downfall. Do what you must; I will do the same.”

There, at the mouth of a cave, stands a cat. A warm wind blows in from the north, and in spite of loss, Glowstar cracks a smile; spring has arrived.

[angel-of-the-moons]

Nothing Is Lost

Khonshu x Fem!Reader

TW/CW: NSFW, Smut, fingering, teasing, unprotected PiV, voyeruism/public sex (kinda)? Sort of sex with you and the old man? Said old man being creepy and watching you sleep again, as usual!

MINORS DNI I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR CONTENT YOU CONSUME

A/N: Ok so I couldn't push this off for a later chapter lmaooooo And I figured after what happened last chapter and the hypnosis, it was bound to trigger some "other" memories ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Taglist: @drinkingwithkhonshu @astrosphereblog @themostegotisticalgirl124 @patchesofwork

Chapter 12:

Forgotten Graces

You were pissed the whole walk back to your apartment. You walked with a heavy stomp, muttering under your breath, your brow furrowed so hard you were almost worried about a permanent chasm forming in your skin.

You exuded such annoyance that people gave you a wide berth to avoid accidentally bumping into you. You would have enjoyed the looks of concern(fear?) on their faces had you not been so enraged at the sheer audacity of that quack "doctor".

She didn't even let you explain that you weren't even sure who that man was in your dream! Yeah, the guy was definitely close to Merit in an intimate manner, but... still! She dismissed you so easily. Bullshit!

You just wished you could see his goddamn face. You knew any likelihood of recognizing him were pointless, but you just... you felt like you needed to, y'know?

You slammed your door just a little too hard, and marched over to your bed and tossed yourself onto it; pulling your pillow tightly against you with a frustrated sniffle. Great. Now you were crying.

You knew your paid leave was diminishing. You needed to sort this out before you went back to work. You couldn't risk fainting on the job. That meant you could get hurt, or worse--fired. And then you were really screwed.

No. You wouldn't think about that right now. It was too much to pile onto your psyche for the moment. You checked the time on your phone and sighed deeply.

Time for a nap. You deserved one.

As you closed your eyes, you just couldn't imagine what your subconscious had in store for you this time... Or why you hadn't seen your unwanted companion in a couple of days.

The temple was empty at this time of night. Unsurprising, given it was the time of year the priests and priestesses went back to their families for the next several months until their religiously significant cycle began once again; but it wasn't uncommon for some to return even at night or varying times of day to worship in their spare time.

Some, like you. And given it was the dead on night on a young moon, it only made sense for you to be at the temple at this hour. The silvery thread of the moon barely shown down on Egypt this early in the cycle; so the hollows in the ceiling meant to allow the soft cool rays to illuminate the temple at night were only allowing glimpses of the Milk of Hathor and the Body of Nut as she stretched out over the land.

Your bare feet padded softly through the limestone halls, humming a song as your fingers trailed the walls and reliefs painted on them; Khonshu's figure being the most prominent.

Some images showed him smiting the unrighteous--those who hurt and abused those who they perceived as beneath them, those who killed senselessly, and those who committed crimes. But others showed him standing in fields surrounded by cows, the Moon Disc on his head illuminating them, giving fertility to the peoples' livelihoods. Others had the same manner of paintings, only Khonshu sat on a golden throne; resting his hand on a woman prostrate before him, pleading for his blessing to help conceive a child, a man kneeling next to her asking for Khonshu to heal his ailing father...

You stopped walking to peer up at one relief in particular, the torchlight dimly dancing across the surface of the wall.

This one was of Khonshu, looking down over Egypt; his hand resting on the shoulders of his Chosen; his Fist. The writing painted around them tell the tale of one who was blessed by Khonshu to carry out his will through mortal hands--to do what he technically could not do from his divine position--showing versatility through his righteous Fist.

Your brows furrow as the torchlight flickers in an unfelt wind and gets snuffed out, casting the hall in complete darkness. That was odd... Why did--

You opened your mouth to yelp in fright as an arm encircled your waist, another slipping over your mouth to silence you.

"Hush," His honeyed voice soothed you, "It's only me."

"Ohhh!" You laugh as he pushes you against the wall and turns you around. You smack his shoulder playfully as you settled your back against the wall; your voice bubbly as you scold your lover. "You absolute scamp! You scared me!"

His laughter washes over you like the sweetest warm waters of the Nile as you catch the faint glowing of his irises in the pitch black. "You are so easy to scare. Like a little mouse."

"You take that back!" You grin, blindly encircling your arms around his shoulders as his hands grip at the sheer fabric of your gown. "I am not a mouse."

"Oh?" You can hear the grin in his voice as he leans in, his tone dropping low and seductive, "But you are as soft as one..."

"That flattery of yours can only get you so far, my love."

"Ah, it seems I should try harder, then." He chuckles darkly, slipping his knee between your legs and forcing them apart as he pushes the edges of your gown out of the way.

Your mouths find each other in the dark--a well-rehearsed dance you both knew by heart at this point--ad your lover's hand creeps up the smooth skin of your thigh before sliding over it and settling between your legs, his fingers spreading your damp folds teasingly as you grunted into his mouth.

"I couldn't wait to see you." He rasps softly as your lips part; one of his fingers circling your swollen nub. You still couldn't see his face in the dark, but you just knew he was smirking at you as you tried to hold in your moans, could see the flame of mirth dancing in the faint glowing of his irises; "It seems you couldn't wait for me, either..."

"You're terrible..." You moan softly, your head falling back against the wall as you feel him slide a finger into your waiting heat, stroking your insides with such glorious friction. Your voice raises softly in pitch as he leans in and inhales the blue lotuses hanging from your wig, mixing with your oils and perfumes.

"W-we shouldn't do this h-here..." You sigh shakily, your legs trembling as you fight the growing swell of wetness between them; an instrument that your lover played with adept dexterity.

His lips on yours silence you; "Hush. Do not fight this."

You whine against his mouth as you feel the swelling heat of his erection begin to press against the confines of his shendyt; teasing you with the pleasure you knew was to be had tonight. Your voice comes from you in shallow pants as another finger joins the first, stroking and pressing on that oh so delightful spot inside of you, beginning to pluck the strings of your growing release by the second.

"Please," You whisper in the dark.

You groan deeply at the loss of his fingers; a shiver slipping down your spine when you hear him sigh in approval. You can just imagine him admiring the slick nectar of yours as it coated his fingers, the way his tongue wrapped around his finger to taste you.

You feel his wet fingers tap on your lips and you open up without even needing any words of instruction; tasting the acidic but slightly sweet taste of your essence mixed with a bit of his saliva as your tongue traced the pads of his fingers.

"I think you're ready for me, love." He purrs.

You hum around his digits in concurrence, letting him pull them from the wet cavern of your mouth with a soft pop.

"I want you to leap and wrap your legs around my waist." He commands gently; parting the folds of his shendyt to allow his aching manhood freedom.

You comply with his wishes, letting him grip you tight and help you up so you could wrap your legs around him; leaning back just enough to allow him to guide the weeping tip of him to your fluttering entance.

The moment he sheathed himself within you was always a moment of sheer bliss, so pleasurable it knocked you speechless and blind. His mouth kissed at your throat, teeth nipping the soft skin as he began to slowly begin thrusting within you.

"Agh--ohh..." You whine, your voice seizing in your throat as you feel him stretch and mold you around his length; the heat of his body almost burning you from the inside out.

"Merit." He hisses against the strands of your wig, "You are tight... relax for me, love. Do you intend to choke me with your body?"

You bite your lip and whimper, a breathy laugh bubbling up from somewhere within you as he gives you a slow and languid thrust, trying to coax your muscles to soften and allow him a more seamless entry.

"Ahh... isn't this--mmmh--considered--oh!--b-blasphemy?" You say as he increased his pace just a bit. "I am not s-supposed to have s-sex before c-coming into the temple."

"You will come in this temple, love." He grins against your ear at his own crude joke, his breath tickling the skin of your neck as his breathing becomes uneven.

"And as for--ngh--this blasphemy that you speak of..." He groans in between the punishing rolls of his hips against yours.

He drags his tongue up the rapid pulse in your throat before speaking again, making you gasp and mewl for him, your nails scraping his back, snagging the golden collar he wore as he ravished you.

"I would consider this--haah--the highest form of worship... in your case..." He grunts softly in-between thrusts, "A body... as pure as yours--as beautiful--being worshipped... in a temple dedicated to a god--ugh--is a delicious offering."

"You're... terrible." You say once more, your mouth opening in a long moan, feeling the peak of your release beginning to crest.

"You would not have me--ahh--another way." He laughed into your skin, his eyes rolling back at how your body squeezed him in the most heavenly way.

"Come for me." He commands with a snarl, thrusting into you now with reckless abandon; like a wild stallion bucking against a rider attempting to tame him. And he knew you were possibly the only one in all of creation to even come close to taming him at your whim.

He would bring you the stars and a piece of the moon if you asked it of him. He would black out the sun if it meant seeing you smile under the cooling shade of an eclipse.

You were as divine as a mortal could be, your body providing him sublime pleasure even gods and goddesses could likely be unable to give; and he knew this for a fact when you came undone for him and only him, soft words of love and drunken pleasure babbling from your lips as your tight, fluttering depths gushed around him, milking--no, demanding he empty his seed into you.

And it was a demand he would gladly give in to.

He growls deeply, wrapping his arms around your body tightly, crushing you against him as you sob and struggle to keep the sounds of your pleasure quiet, lest anyone hear you and catch the both of you in the throes of your passion.

He pulls you down onto his length with every rough and almost angry thrust, the vein running along him thumping in anticipation as his end approached.

If he were to die, this would be how he wanted it to be; wrapped in your embrace--you in his--your bodies locked together in a wonderful portrayal of physical bliss.

He shuddered, biting down softly on your shoulder with a deep groan as he thrust into you once, twice, and the and third time, his seed flowing into you and being pushed deeper with every growing lazy roll of his hips.

You both come down from the heat of your lovemaking, and you both smile at each other in the dark.

And laugh.

Your eyes snap open with a start and you gasp, your body jolting as you sit up in your bed, the blankets wrapped around your legs in an uncomfortable cocoon; your hair messy and sticking out in some places.

Your heart fluttered in your chest as you blinked, staring down at yourself in a mix of shock, confusion, and... arousal.

Since when was the last time you ever had a wet dream that vivid?

Oh, right. They weren't dreams. They were "visions", according to Jezebel.

So why did your visions feel the need to show you such a vivid dream of a tryst in the dark of night? Why did--

"Well," A dark voice says, the edges of each word tinged with faint amusement. "It seems that you had a very nice dream. For a change."

You couldn't contain yourself, you let out a shriek and spun around, hurling your pillow at the speaker on sheer instinct as you scramble to try and free yourself of the snake your blankets had become around your legs.

Khonshu batted the pillow away with little difficulty, an annoyed huff coming from him as it drops to the floor.

He sat, his ghostly appearance illuminated by the warm glow of your bedside lamp; draped in his usual linen robes and divine garb, the soft fabric dancing in an imaginary breeze, with one leg propped over his other knee, hands clasped in his lap as he scrutinized you in your panic.

"Calm down. It is only me."

"Shhhhhutttt the fuck uuuuup!" You shout, kicking your blankets off of you finally, standing on your knees to glare at him. God you hated how hot and bothered you felt thanks to that stupid dream, right now...

"The hell are you doing here?" You demand, feeling frustration and irritation at his, once again, self-entitled appearance in what should have been the safety and privacy of your own home.

He tilted his head, "I came to see you, of course."

"You came to annoy me, you mean." You accuse, narrowing your eyes.

"Call it what you wish," He said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I will not stop until I figure out why you are such an enigma to me."

"I'm not some rubik's cube for you to play with, you old bastard." You huff, throwing your legs over the side of your bed.

"You are indeed a puzzle." He says matter-of-factly, "One I intend to solve."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah..." You sigh, rubbing at your face. You didn't feel as tired or exhausted as you normally did after your dreams/visions. If anything, you felt a buzz from your toes all the way to the ends of your hair. Maybe this had something to do with that stupid hypnosis session that quack put you under? Maybe--

"You are rather loud in your sleep, you know. I pity whomever you share your bed with." Khonshu snorted derisively.

You felt the flames of embarrassment consume your face, a flush planting itself firmly in your cheeks as you glare at the ancient god, shooting to your feet with a frustrated shout as you make your way to your bathroom. "Ugh!"

"So..." He said, his voice once again becoming smarmy, almost humorous; "I suppose this means you won't tell me what you were dreaming about?

"Fuck off, you stupid pigeon!" You snap, slamming the bathroom door shut.

Yeah. You needed a cold shower.

A very cold shower...

Chapter 13: Link

[snaggie-t00th]

hey what if i

that'd be so crazy right

ch 1 。・°°・

gender neutral pronouns, no use of y/n, clones know mando'a, crosshair doesn't turn, no beta we die like tech.

The sun had begun to slump lazily in the sky. Outcroppings of clouds blotted around it, allowing the rays to gleam down rather than the barrage of heat from early this morning. Hues of bronze and amber were slathered across the atmosphere, partly due to the dust in the air. Here past the city limits, one became acutely aware of the planet’s true climate. Roves of sand and limestone were all the eye would be met with for miles. Large, twisted succulents shot randomly out of the ground, their insides bitter and viscous with water from a long many cycles ago. The stubborn fauna was a mirror image of the people that inhabited this planet. Fierce and unyielding, hoarding what little resources are to be found, if only to assure survival for longer than tonight.

While the sun had dipped in severity, your emotions seemed to not get the memo. In fact, your heart was rattling your ribcage and wracking your nervous system. In a matter of hours you had your first customers in days, albeit shallow pocketed, and instead of doing the proper salesperson-like thing and talking Echo down to another product, you ran his pockets and asked him out.

And he said yes.

Well, not in those words. But it wasn’t a No. Or a Sure, why not. And that’s more than enough for you.

Unbeknownst to you, Echo was relying on the speeder handlebars in front of him to maintain his grip on reality.

Echo tried not to get his hopes up whenever he noticed wandering eyes on him in the past. He’d said it jokingly, but he wasn’t kidding when he’d said he was just happy you weren’t looking at him in disgust.

Or worse, someone to pity.

You hadn’t given him the sad eyes when you noticed his metal arm and scomp. You hadn’t given him the sad eyes when you noticed his gait on the way to the counter. Hell, you didn’t even make mention of the piece wrapping around his skull. He didn’t even have to ask.

And now you were wrapped around his back, pushing your weight into him as he ripped across the wastes. Your arms were slinked around his core, hands folded and your pinky ghosting across the tip of his navel. While Echo’s own hands on the speeder was his current tether to reality, the warmth of your hands was equally coaxing him back out. Coaxing him backwards to rest his shoulder blades on your chest, coaxing him to let go of the handlebars, coaxing him to close his eyes, savor the moment. But he doesn’t. The same steadfast, battle-tested resolve that made him an ARC Trooper, all of that resolve, is being called upon at this moment.

Echo flicked the gear shift forward and pressed his foot down evenly, eyes honing in on the gray dot of the Marauder coming into view on the horizon. You gripped tighter with the increase in speed, and Echo’s cheeks got warm. Omega tailed closely behind.

Earlier, before the three of you had broken the city limits, Echo gave you the rundown of his ragtag family.

Tech. Wrecker. Hunter. Crosshair.

You mentally listed the members of the Batch, trying your absolute best to commit them to memory. It’ll be a lot easier once you actually see them, trust me. Echo’s words rang through your head, a metaphysical balm to your mild-yet-steadfastly brewing social anxieties.

A loud, metallic groan roused you from your thoughts. The ramp of the Marauder began to descend, and an overwhelmingly large figure appeared at the lip of the ramp.

“9-1 odds, that's Wrecker?” You call out loudly, desperate to be heard over the speeder engine. Before Echo could respond, a surly, thickly accented voice cut through the air.

“What stray did you bring in from the rain this time, eh Echo?!”

“You would be correct.” Echo glances over his shoulder at you, before turning back and calling out to his brother. “Adoption is Hunter’s speciality. Is your chip acting up again?” Wrecker answered with a barking laugh, walking off the ramp that is now level with the planet’s surface.

Echo brought the bike to a rolling stop, the engine softly tut-tut-ing before being kicked off. Omega came up beside the two of you, parking respectively. Echo stepped off the bike and stuck his hand out for you, while Wrecker came over and swooped Omega off the bike and onto his shoulders. You coyly took his hand. “Still keeping up this smooth charade?” You chide, throwing your leg over the bike and pulling yourself up with his assistance.

“Charade? Now that’s just rude.” Echo stuck his nose up, fake indignantly.

You grin, leaning into the bit. “Oh my, how may I make up for this transgression Milord?”

Wrecker and Omega watched on with shit eating grins. Neither of them were going to be the ones to break the moment, nor were they going to be the ones to tell either of you about the matching blush the two of you were wearing.

“I’m sure I’ll find a remedy in time, fret not serf.” Echo smiled as he stuck his elbow out for you to take.

“Serf? I’ll have you know my father was a knight!” It was your turn to act fake indignant, huffing and whipping your head away from Echo. Both of you erupted into laughter at the shared moment, closing in on the ramp.

Unbeknownst to you, Hunter was in the hallway, up the ramp and around the corner, a soft smile stitching its way onto his face. He, like Wrecker and Omega, was deeply enthused about his brother’s stroke of luck with you. Hunter had heard the two of you before you’d arrived, his acute senses hearing the rumblings a few klicks away.

Hunter decided to make his presence known, slipping out of the shadows and into the main doorway.

“What’s this about me adopting someone else?” Hunter says, eyes casually shifting about the group, seeming to do a mental headcount.

“Well I’m terrible with a blaster, but I can sell exhaust pipes something fierce!” You reply sarcastically, and you offer your name and a handshake. Instead, the clone claps your forearm and shakes it once. You follow the motion, entirely through muscle memory, clapping his forearm with similar force. A soft smile sits on your face at the gesture, it was something you hadn’t done in a few cycles at this point.

“Hunter, though I’m sure Echo’s filled you in already.” He offers a pleasant smile, now more curious about the stranger aboard his ship.

“He’s only given me names.” You shrug. “But, I’ve run into two of you now, and it’s a 50/50 on whether or not your moniker’s obscenely obvious. So I think I’ll be okay.” You finish the statement with a soft, mildly forced laugh, hoping to make it as obvious as possible that you’re joking.

I just made sure Echo can kinda stand my presence, I can’t have his brother be the hard sell now.

Hunter nods and closes his eyes with a soft chuckle. “You got nothing to worry about, kid. None of us bite.”

“Except maybe Crosshair.” Three separate voices say at the same time.

Laughter erupts from the hallway and cockpit. From the gunner’s nest, a hissing grimace. Hunter beckoned Wrecker and Omega into the cockpit, nodding to you and Echo as he went. The aforementioned biter slunk his way down the ladder and towards the cockpit, casting nary a glance to the new person aboard the Marauder. A toothpick flew from in front of him, twirling in the air nonchalantly before sticking upright in a crack between the durasteel paneling of the floor. Your eyes honed in on it.

“He won’t actually bite you, but good luck getting more than three words that aren’t snarky outta the vod.” Echo spoke quietly and clasped a hand between your shoulder blades, noting your gaze. “I wouldn’t let him.” He said even quieter, barely above a hum.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Once again, Echo’s simple words are a balm for mental wounds he did not cause, and completely unintentionally. You relax your shoulders, and pull them in a circle.

“So, Tech’s left, right?”

Echo nodded, and gestured with his scomp for you to lead the way. You obliged, and went up the stairs. Through a small hallway filled with a myriad of colors and buttons, you led the two of you into the cockpit.

A somewhat larger space opened up, with similar durasteel walls peppered with buttons and lights. However bulletproof panes of glass took up a majority of the wall space, looking out at the expanse of the wastes. It made the desert look even more swallowing, seeing it from a slight elevation. Nothing else for miles and miles had the view you did right now. Something about Desert Fever slung its way through your brain, some whispers you had barely overheard from stallworkers about afflicted moisture farmers on the outskirts.

“Also colloquially known as desert mania, desert fever is usually characterized with bouts of irrational behaviors and depressive episodes, as a result of the absolute nothing around you. Some hypothesize it to be an amalgamation of chronic understimulation.” A tall clone materialized next to you from the pilot’s chair.

“That was supposed to be internal, my bad. I take it you’re Tech?” You say sheepishly, rubbing a hand on your neck as you extend the other, introducing yourself.

“You are correct. Pleasure.” He replies, holding his hand up softly as to say None for me, thanks in response to your hand out. You quickly pulled it back to your side, eyes flicking to Echo behind you for mild reassurance.

Getting the message, he cleared his throat. “Where’s everyone finding themselves tonight?”

“Hunter’s busying himself inventorying the supplies brought in, Crosshair is brooding on top of the ship, and Wrecker and Omega are outside testing her ability to detonate multiple delayed explosions.” Tech replied curtly, understanding Echo’s meaning instantly. “I will retire to the bunks if you need me. I have my holopad and charger. Kandosii, vod’ika.”

Echo’s fingers twitched at his thigh again as color shot up from his collar. “Thank you Tech!” He said, very abruptly. He politely spun you around and began to push you towards the copilot’s seat.

A part of Echo prayed you weren’t paying attention to Tech all that much.

A bigger part of him knew you understood every word thrown about.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

"From the saw-pit I went to the stone quarry, where the mercilessly hard limestone of Fontainebleau Forest was being quarried to build the Russian bath. A burly young Russian named Tchekhov Tchekhovitch was in charge of this work. The second day I was on this task a very large block of limestone broke away. Tchekhovitch said it was just what Gurdjieff wanted to make the lintel of the Russian bath. It was far too heavy for us to remove, and we tried to break it up with stone chisels and crowbars. After two hours, during which we had made no impression on the stone, Gurdjieff suddenly appeared in his town clothes. I learned later that he had just come from Paris, having been up all night. He did not say a word, but stood on the edge of the pit and watched us. We went on hacking away at the stone. Abruptly, he took off his coat and jumping into the pit, took a hammer and chisel from one of the Russian workers. He looked closely at the rock, placed the chisel carefully and tapped three or four times. He walked half round it, and after a careful examination tapped again. I am sure he had not struck the rock more than a dozen times when a huge flake, weighing perhaps a hundred pounds, cracked off and fell away. He repeated the operation three or four times and behold, a slab remained less than half the size of the original. He said: “Lift." We put out all our strength and the rock came up, and we carried it over to the bath.

It was a telling exhibition of skill that has remained in my memory as vividly as when I saw it. But this is only half the story. More than twenty-five years later I was sitting beside Gurdjieff at meal in his flat in Paris, and Tchekhovitch, now grey and almost bald, was standing facing us. Gurdjieff was talking about Ju-jitsu, and saying that he had learned a far more advanced art in Central Asia than that of the Japanese. It was called Fiz-lez-Lou, and he had thought of introducing it in Europe and was looking for someone to train as an instructor. As Tchekhovitch had been in his youth a champion wrestler, he had been the natural candidate. He then spoke to Tchekhovitch, and said: “Do you remember at the Prieure when we were making the Russian bath, how you tried to break the rock for the door frame and could not? I watched you then, and saw that you did not know how to look. I could see just where the rock would crack, but you could not see even when I showed you. So I gave up the idea of teaching Fiz-lez-Lou in Europe."

Tchekhovitch, who adored Gurdjieff as if he were a divine incarnation, stood motionless and said: “Yes, Georgy Ivanitch; I remember." Then tears began to roll down his cheek. I trembled in sympathy. This incident, which had taken twenty-six years to complete its cycle, was not only characteristic of human ineptitude, but terrifyingly applicable to my own condition."

~ J.G. Bennett, 'Witness'

[Thanks Ian Sanders]

[yoga-onion]

Celtic beliefs in trees (12)

N for Nion (Ash) - February 18th - March 17th

“The World Tree, Tree of Life - Third month of the Celtic tree calendar”

Colour: white; Stars: Sun, Neptune; Gems: turquoise; Gender: female; Elements: air, water; Patrons: Odin, Nemesis, Poseidon, Neptune; Symbols: balance + harmony, cosmic power, positive thinking, power of the sea

Ash is native to northern Europe and the British Isles, grows well on moist limestone soils and is one of the most common trees found in lowland forests. It is a graceful tree with thin, bird's-feather-like leaves and grey bark. The leaflets are usually odd-numbered, and finding a leaf with an even number of leaflets is said to bring good luck, the same as a four-leaf clover.

In the old days, wearing green ash bark as a garter would repel a wizard's curse, and eating ash buds on the night of the summer solstice would nullify a spell of witchcraft. The ash leaves were also believed to bring luck in love and building wealth. Sleeping with a young leaf under your pillow is said to bring psychic dreams.

Ash forms the centre of belief in a number of ancient cultures. In Greek and Norse mythology, the first humans were born from ash trees. Such ash trees were always cherished by the ancient Irish as trees with very magical powers. According to the lore of the ancient Irish olavs ( ollamh, ollam: one of the highest ranks of druids), these trees were cut down in 665 BCE. This would seem to indicate that Christianity uprooted paganism in ancient Ireland. 

For the Celts, the ash tree, symbolising the cosmic order, held the key to the truth of the universe. The Druids referred to the different phases of existence as the 'three rings of existence'. This eternal 'trinity' can be interpreted variously as 'past, present and future', 'body, mind and spirit' or 'chaos, harmony and creation'. Since the rings of existence cannot be unrelated to each other, what happens at one level will spill over to the other two levels. Every action causes a reaction and nothing is complete on its own, the Celts believed. We are part of the elements that make up the cosmic order, and in the endless cycle of life, we can never escape its flow. For the Celts, the ash was such a guardian of the universe.

According to Norse legend, the ash tree is the world tree, the Yggdrasil that occupies the centre of the universe. All events take place around the ash tree. And its roots and branches travel around the world, symbolising the universality that connects the world of God, this world and the underworld.

木にまつわる伝説・神話

ケルト人の樹木の信仰 (11)

NはNion (ﾄﾘﾈｺ) - 2月18日～3月17日『世界樹、生命の木〜ケルトの木の暦の第3月』

色: 白; 星: 太陽、海王星; 宝石: トルコ石; 性: 女性; 要素: 空気、水; 守護神: オーディン、ネメシス、ポセイドン、ネプチューン; シンボル: バランス＋調和、宇宙の力、ポジティブ思考、海の力

トリネコは北ヨーロッパとイギリス諸島が原産地で、湿気を含む石灰岩土壌でよく成長し、低地に広がる森で最もよく見られる木のひとつ。鳥の羽根ような薄い葉と灰色の樹皮をもつ優美な木である。葉片はふつう奇数で、偶数葉片をもつ葉を見つけたら幸運が訪れると言われるのは、四つ葉のクローバーと同じである。

昔はグリーン・アッシュの樹皮をガーターがわりに身につけていると魔術師の呪いを跳ね返し、夏至の夜にトネリコの芽を食べると魔女の魔法を無効にすると言われていた。トネリコの葉は恋愛運をもたらし、財産を築くと考えられ、若葉を枕の下に入れて眠りにつくと予言的な夢をみるとも言われている。

トリネコは古代の数多くの文化の中で、信仰の中心を成している。ギリシャ神話や北欧神話では、最初の人類はトネリコの木から生まれたとされている。そんなトネリコの木を古代アイルランド人は非常に不思議な力を持つ木としていつも大切にしていた。古代アイルランドのオラヴ (ﾄﾞﾙｲﾄﾞの最高位のひとつ)たちの言い伝えでは、これらの木は紀元前665年に切り倒されたとなっている。これはキリスト教が古代アイルランドの異教を根こそぎにしたことを物語っていると思われる。

ケルト人にとって、宇宙の秩序を象徴するトネリコは、宇宙の真理を知る鍵を握っていたのである。ドルイドたちは、存在のさまざまな段階を「存在の3つの環」と呼んでいた。

この永遠の「三位一体」は、「過去・現在・未来」、「肉体・精神・霊」、「混沌・調和・創造」など、さまざまに解釈することができる。存在の環は互いに無関係ではいられないので、あるレベルで起きたことは他の2つのレベルにも波及することになる。すべての行為は反作用を引き起こし、それだけで完結するものはない、とケルト人は考えていた。私たちは宇宙の秩序を構成する要素の一部であり、無限に循環する生命という存在において、決してその流れから逃れることはできないのものである。ケルト人にとって、トネリコはこうした宇宙の守護神であった。

北欧の伝説によれば、トネリコは世界樹、宇宙の中心を占める��グドラシル。すべての出来事はトネリコの木の周辺で起こる。そして、その根と枝は世界中を巡り、神の世界と現世、黄泉の国を結ぶ普遍性の象徴である。

[inquisitorius-sin-bin]

Headcanuary Challenge - One Headcanon per Day

Day 1: Flowers

___________________________________

As there is no permanent surface water on Utapau, most plant life remains dull and woody during the arid seasons.

However, hyperwind storms are a frequent occurance, bringing much needed rain (and occassional fire) while uprooting any shrubby matter beginning to shade over the grassland.

In the wake of these storms, the flora takes full advantage of the desalinated water soaking into the rich soil, rushing to complete their blooming cycles.

Some plants, like the grass species themselves, have small, unremarkable flowers that do not require much water and are pollinated by the wind.

Other, more spectacular flowers burst forth in the early morning and late afternoon, using bright colors and big, delicate petals to attract insects. During the hottest parts of the day, they retract these blooms to prevent water loss.

A few plants even open at night, in the hopes of attracting nocturnal animals such as moths, beetles, groundbats, and even Pau'an themselves.

One such example is a celebrated native of the savannah spires region- the merete flower. It is a pale, fleshy flower lying close to the ground. It produces a meaty smell as its fruit matures inside the plant's thick petals. Plainsmen from the Dactillion clan go out in groups to harvest and feast on them, helping to spread their seeds.

Near the sinkholes, the plant life changes significantly. Water is more abundant in the air and on surfaces, but proximity to the ocean makes the environment high in salinity. On the high reaches of the pits, air plants dominate. With no roots, they rely on their stiff, long, tangled leaves to hold them into place amongst the crumbling limestone.

Further down, ice plants and stone plants, with thick, colorful leaves resembling flowers root themselves, and use their own alkaline-rich tissues to draw water from the salty environment. This makes them unpalletable or even toxic to most animals, but ginntho will still scrape these plants from the rocks to incorporate them in their webs - perhaps using the bright colors to deter dactillion from flying through them. They are also occassionally cultivated for their attractive appearance, finding their way inside Utai and Pau'an homes.

Under the surface of the ocean, sea grasses flourish. During certain tidal and moon conditions, they will grow creeping vines which break the surface, floating with air badders or climbing cave walls. These vines burst vibrant red flowers, heralding a festival in Pau City known as "bloom rush".

End of Entry.

Next Entry | Ride or Die Series

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Let me know if you would like to be tagged for this series! It's not the usual, polished material I use my taglist for, but it could be of some interest to those who follow my fics.

[kissedbyghosts]

In Silent Depths

The way was steep, descending in tight shafts through sedimentary layers into the pulse-haunted quietude of dark spaces below. I hammered my anchors and tested the protection before rappelling deeper. As the rope spiraled away like a thin snake into the aphotic throat of silence, I lowered myself down. My lantern glowed amber, creating a thin blister of light around me that swayed with each movement. Precariously, I dropped further into the depths. I was squeezed through a maze of tunnels, down broad fissures, and out of claustrophobic cracks into wet chambers. Limestone, gypsum, and dolomite took strange liquous forms, carved as they were by the slow flow of water over time. Occasionally, when I raised my lantern, strange fossils and ancient relics would cast worrisome shadows amid the looming stalactites and stalagmites. As my footfalls echoed into the shadowed stillness the warm glow of my little lantern was my dearest companion. In a place that dark and isolated, time passes differently. Without the Sun and Moon to pull one through their days, time vanishes into a permanent Night in which the only stars are phosphene flashes in the optic nerve, the false lights of the so-called “Prisoner’s Cinema”. But I was no captive here. I had come in search of something. Something lost. Something precious. After several cycles of resting and moving (what day was it?) I reached at last a vast chamber hollowed out long ago by heat and pressure into a natural cathedral. My lantern sent waves of light shimmering through a sea of dancing refraction. I shivered in the vaulted womb and listened to the sound of my breath. Eventually, I found it: a low mound of dirt on a bald island in the center of the prismatic chamber.

Though tired and sore, my heart fluttered in anticipation. I set down my pack, adjusted my lantern, and set to work with my shovel. How long I labored there in that crystalline abyss I cannot say. My face dripped sweat and strained muscles weakened as exhaustion set in. On I went, giving myself fully to the task, until at last I uncovered a feminine form beneath the moist soil of that secret place. I was struck with a sudden fear, and for a moment, I was frozen. I could hear the subtle sound of slow moving-water as I set to using my hands to clear away the dirt. It was then that I saw her face. How long had she lain there? Gingerly, I wiped the mud from her eyes, my hands gently clearing the muck from her cheeks and brow. When she opened her eyes I saw myself in them, and taking her into my arms, we wept. When at last she would emerge into sunlight, it would be without me. My body slid neatly into the impression. As I lay motionless in the mucky indentation, I closed my eyes. “I love you,” I said. “I know,” she spoke softly. I smiled as I felt each shovelful of earth add its weight upon my body. It was strangely comforting. Finally, I could rest. I closed my eyes and dreamt of her. © JM Tiffany 2024

[the-ashford-arms]

Discover the best activities near Ashford in the Water in the Peak District. From scenic walks in Monsal Dale to exploring historic Chatsworth House and cycling the Tissington Trail, there's something for everyone. Plan your visit and stay at The Ashford Arms for a perfect getaway. Book your stay today!

[maryellencarter]

since the current controversy at the top of the news cycle, i.e. the hugos ballot count fuckery, has nothing to do with plagiarism (and therefore the sorts of people who trawl the tunglrs looking for people to death-threat are mostly looking at other search terms), it seems as good a time as any to ask:

what *is* the Actual Adult Scholarly Official definition of plagiarism that everybody who attended postsecondary school is assumed to know, anyway?

because, as some of you know, my homeschool experience was Nonstandard, and usually the essays I was assigned to write were things like "Read this biography of a saint and then retell it in your own words", which I'm gathering is apparently The Plagiarism in higher levels of learning, but i don't exactly know where the cutoff is.

my postsecondary school experience... did not help. i had, i believe, one class that ever brought up plagiarism, and it was geology lab 101, being taught by an extremely over-earnest student TA who was (i can only guess) trying to impress the department head who was overseeing her by being As Strict As Possible. her definition was "you have to cite every single statement or it is plagiarism and you will get an F. you cannot assume anything is common knowledge, because this is a 101 class and therefore none of you know anything about geology already. also if you lift any phrase of 5 words in a row from any of your sources that is also plagiarism and you will get an F."

(small tortellini who had been actively studying geology for nearly two decades went to the coffee shop after class, cried a great deal, and then called my latin mass choir director who also happened to work as a 200-level english professor at the college. while still crying. she helped calm me down and suggested just citing the textbook for everything, which helped.)

(i took the choir director's english class later. i do not recall what she said about plagiarism, although i assume she must have addressed it. she did teach me to identify a reliable source, which i had never been able to find out before, and which... probably backfired when i reliable-sourced myself right out of the catholic views of gender and sexuality some years later. irrelevant.)

the same geo lab TA also threatened to mark us down a grade if we used... i forget if it was staples or paperclips, but only one of those options was acceptable to hold the pages of our essay together, and it was the one i didn't have, so i had to make a special expedition to the bookshop. still resent that.

anyway my point is. i'm... pretty sure the definition of plagiarism that Every Adult Should Know falls... somewhere between those two endpoints, probably? i know when hbomberguy did that video about the plagiarism guy that was big recently, everyone was saying that if you take an idea and just thesaurus it around, that is still The Plagiarism for reasons that I will frankly admit I don't have the basis to understand (that's why I'm asking), but how close does it come to "you have to cite that limestone is a rock"? and what if you have an original thought? do you have to mark it somehow to indicate that just because it isn't cited doesn't mean you plagiarized it, or am i taking ms paperclips too seriously

[goodomensafterdark]

In Your Orbit

Delay-action bomb by sub user Zenathewimp unearthed after the Angst War truce. So watch your butts!

He’s been waiting for millennia. His heart has broken and healed and broken again, and again, and again- calcified with the grief, barely beating. Marble and limestone chips off with every beat, only for more to take its place. A cycle too fast even for the original speed demon to escape. He’d always been an optimist, the dribbles of hope breaking through every few decades enough to keep it running. A brush of fingertips here, a shared moment on a rooftop there- something would come out of it eventually. He just had to keep waiting. 

He drives far, fast, and most importantly, away, hoping the distance he puts between them will be enough to close the hairline cracks forming through his very soul. The splinters chip off and lie behind in his wake- a trail of breadcrumbs for the angel to follow. Perhaps it could wear down to nothing at all. Perhaps something new would grow to replace it. Perhaps a gaping void would remain, swallowing whatever else rattled around inside him (It’s alright. He didn’t actually need those organs.) 

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. But he was being over dramatic. He could handle rejection. It was one of his specialties- and by Someone, was it a skill he’d needed. Of course, your definition of “handle” would have to include sleeping for a century and drowning your sorrows in enough alcohol to kill an elephant- but that was just semantics. No need to kick up a fuss, really. Really!

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