#or during his chapter two

[pink-november]

here's your daily stp trivia

cheated is the only voice that prevents you from turning around and leaving the cabin during a chapter 3

[ruporas]

i’ll find you again in every universe. let us be a little more honest, let us have a little more time.

[fujii-draws]

OKAY! Chatot rant in tags below! Read at your own discretion.

[cienie-isengardu]

Mortal Kombat 1 Behind the Scenes AU: Stop closing your eyes!

[Cage’s Mansion] [Waiting for Liu Kang] [Special Bonus] [Grandmaster’s commentary] [Climbing scene] [Madam Bo’s Inn] [Cage’s Mansion 2 (fire extinguisher)] [Medic] [Shang Tsung’s sad face] [Smoke’s Fall] [Scenography (1)] [Scenography (2)] [Show off!] [Favorite brother] [Climbing on the wall (nonsense)] [Tomas’ commentary] [Perfectly fine] [Sexy, sexy man~♪] [Brothers between filming - Scenography(3)] [Wrong team!] [Since when you two are friends?!] [I like being evil sorcerer more] [I forgot my line, sorry!] [Read the script Kuai!] [Get. Lost.] [Dating] [Permission] [Why date a punk like him…] [Panic (Mom is visiting)] [Decapitation then] [Deep in trouble (Mom is visiting #2)] [Cultural differences (paid leave)] [Why date a punk like him… (Lin Kuei Mom)] [Why date a punk like him… (General Shao)]

[thesimperiuscurse]

mako’s summer villa in malibu / may 2020 / inspo. 

[autumnalwalker]

Heads Up, 7 Up

Thank you for the tag, @theprissythumbelina.

Passing the tag (with no obligation) to @oh-no-another-idea, @on-noon, @stesierra, @writernopal, @talesofsorrowandofruin, @sleepyowlwrites, @wordwizards, and an open tag for anyone else who wants to join in.

More from the next Empty Names chapter:

“Right, so, the idea is that if you put all those things together, you could enchant something to start playing an accelerated ritual incantation on command.  And then if you also had the glyph circle to go along with that enchantment inscribed on the object, you’d basically have a portable high-speed ritual ready to go on command.”

Glassheart goes silent for a moment and tilts his head in consideration.  “Theoretically one could do that, but why would you?”

“Because it’s more portable than an entire lab and server room and while it’s less flexible than a phone full of pre-saved audio and video files you wouldn’t have to worry about durability and battery issues.”

“But why not enchant the object to produce the desired end effect directly?  The extra steps are additional points of failure.  Potentially catastrophic ones.”

A small smile creeps onto Lacuna’s face. That is the question she’d been building up to.  She lifts her feet and tilts her body just enough to cause the office chair to rotate with what she tells herself is dramatic slowness until she’s facing in Glassheart’s direction.

“Flexibility!  A normal enchantment produces the exact same effect each time - at most with some conditional modifiers set at time of creation - but since a ritual’s output can be modified to some degree at runtime based on will and intent…”

“You seek to emulate a mage’s spellcasting,” Glassheart finishes, eyes wide. 

[a-very-fond-farewell]

tried to take a day off from writing. still woke up at 5am. let’s write then 😈🔥

[leonardcohenofficial]

having a brief emotional breakdown over phil ochs and antonin artaud and the ways the pathologization of what we call madness and the failures of capitalism doomed these men yeah the writing process is clearly going well 

[terukitime]

Hey uh Nightow what the fuck was that for

[alpinelogy]

just in, ao3 dot com writer is a clown yet again and underestimated word counts. this might be a problem...

[tiredassmage]

[ruporas]

chapter 90 vash

[secretmellowblog]

hey love your blog!

i’ve got a really random specific question.

so I read les mis over 10 years ago and there was a passage in it i’ve been trying to find since but i just can’t… it was a description of a garden and i remember it being soooo lyrical and beautiful but for the life of me i can’t find it again …. any chance it rings a bell????

Gardens are a big motif in Les Mis, and there are lots of lyrical descriptions of gardens in the book! So it is hard to say, but- I'll put other possibilities in the tags, but I think the most likely candidate is probably the longest and most lyrical garden description we get in the book-- the description of the garden in the Rue Plumet, where Jean Valjean lives with Cosette. This is Volume IV, Book 3, Chapter 3, "Foliis Ac Frondibus":

There was a stone bench in one corner, one or two mouldy statues, several lattices which had lost their nails with time, were rotting on the wall, and there were no walks nor turf; but there was enough grass everywhere. Gardening had taken its departure, and nature had returned. Weeds abounded, which was a great piece of luck for a poor corner of land. The festival of gilliflowers was something splendid. Nothing in this garden obstructed the sacred effort of things towards life; venerable growth reigned there among them. The trees had bent over towards the nettles, the plant had sprung upward, the branch had inclined, that which crawls on the earth had gone in search of that which expands in the air, that which floats on the wind had bent over towards that which trails in the moss; trunks, boughs, leaves, fibres, clusters, tendrils, shoots, spines, thorns, had mingled, crossed, married, confounded themselves in each other; vegetation in a deep and close embrace, had celebrated and accomplished there, under the well-pleased eye of the Creator, in that enclosure three hundred feet square, the holy mystery of fraternity, symbol of the human fraternity. This garden was no longer a garden, it was a colossal thicket, that is to say, something as impenetrable as a forest, as peopled as a city, quivering like a nest, sombre like a cathedral, fragrant like a bouquet, solitary as a tomb, living as a throng.

In Floréal this enormous thicket, free behind its gate and within its four walls, entered upon the secret labor of germination, quivered in the rising sun, almost like an animal which drinks in the breaths of cosmic love, and which feels the sap of April rising and boiling in its veins, and shakes to the wind its enormous wonderful green locks, sprinkled on the damp earth, on the defaced statues, on the crumbling steps of the pavilion, and even on the pavement of the deserted street, flowers like stars, dew like pearls, fecundity, beauty, life, joy, perfumes. At midday, a thousand white butterflies took refuge there, and it was a divine spectacle to see that living summer snow whirling about there in flakes amid the shade. There, in those gay shadows of verdure, a throng of innocent voices spoke sweetly to the soul, and what the twittering forgot to say the humming completed. In the evening, a dreamy vapor exhaled from the garden and enveloped it; a shroud of mist, a calm and celestial sadness covered it; the intoxicating perfume of the honeysuckles and convolvulus poured out from every part of it, like an exquisite and subtle poison; the last appeals of the woodpeckers and the wagtails were audible as they dozed among the branches; one felt the sacred intimacy of the birds and the trees; by day the wings rejoice the leaves, by night the leaves protect the wings.

In winter the thicket was black, dripping, bristling, shivering, and allowed some glimpse of the house. Instead of flowers on the branches and dew in the flowers, the long silvery tracks of the snails were visible on the cold, thick carpet of yellow leaves; but in any fashion, under any aspect, at all seasons, spring, winter, summer, autumn, this tiny enclosure breathed forth melancholy, contemplation, solitude, liberty, the absence of man, the presence of God; and the rusty old gate had the air of saying: “This garden belongs to me.”

It was of no avail that the pavements of Paris were there on every side, the classic and splendid hotels of the Rue de Varennes a couple of paces away, the dome of the Invalides close at hand, the Chamber of Deputies not far off; the carriages of the Rue de Bourgogne and of the Rue Saint-Dominique rumbled luxuriously, in vain, in the vicinity, in vain did the yellow, brown, white, and red omnibuses cross each other’s course at the neighboring crossroads; the Rue Plumet was the desert; and the death of the former proprietors, the revolution which had passed over it, the crumbling away of ancient fortunes, absence, forgetfulness, forty years of abandonment and widowhood, had sufficed to restore to this privileged spot ferns, mulleins, hemlock, yarrow, tall weeds, great crimped plants, with large leaves of pale green cloth, lizards, beetles, uneasy and rapid insects; to cause to spring forth from the depths of the earth and to reappear between those four walls a certain indescribable and savage grandeur; and for nature, which disconcerts the petty arrangements of man, and which sheds herself always thoroughly where she diffuses herself at all, in the ant as well as in the eagle, to blossom out in a petty little Parisian garden with as much rude force and majesty as in a virgin forest of the New World.

Nothing is small, in fact; any one who is subject to the profound and penetrating influence of nature knows this. Although no absolute satisfaction is given to philosophy, either to circumscribe the cause or to limit the effect, the contemplator falls into those unfathomable ecstasies caused by these decompositions of force terminating in unity. Everything toils at everything.Algebra is applied to the clouds; the radiation of the star profits the rose; no thinker would venture to affirm that the perfume of the hawthorn is useless to the constellations. Who, then, can calculate the course of a molecule? How do we know that the creation of worlds is not determined by the fall of grains of sand? Who knows the reciprocal ebb and flow of the infinitely great and the infinitely little, the reverberations of causes in the precipices of being, and the avalanches of creation? The tiniest worm is of importance; the great is little, the little is great; everything is balanced in necessity; alarming vision for the mind. There are marvellous relations between beings and things; in that inexhaustible whole, from the sun to the grub, nothing despises the other; all have need of each other. The light does not bear away terrestrial perfumes into the azure depths, without knowing what it is doing; the night distributes stellar essences to the sleeping flowers. All birds that fly have round their leg the thread of the infinite. Germination is complicated with the bursting forth of a meteor and with the peck of a swallow cracking its egg, and it places on one level the birth of an earthworm and the advent of Socrates. Where the telescope ends, the microscope begins. Which of the two possesses the larger field of vision? Choose. A bit of mould is a pleiad of flowers; a nebula is an ant-hill of stars. The same promiscuousness, and yet more unprecedented, exists between the things of the intelligence and the facts of substance. Elements and principles mingle, combine, wed, multiply with each other, to such a point that the material and the moral world are brought eventually to the same clearness. The phenomenon is perpetually returning upon itself. In the vast cosmic exchanges the universal life goes and comes in unknown quantities, rolling entirely in the invisible mystery of effluvia, employing everything, not losing a single dream, not a single slumber, sowing an animalcule here, crumbling to bits a planet there, oscillating and winding, making of light a force and of thought an element, disseminated and invisible, dissolving all, except that geometrical point, the I; bringing everything back to the soul-atom; expanding everything in God, entangling all activity, from summit to base, in the obscurity of a dizzy mechanism, attaching the flight of an insect to the movement of the earth, subordinating, who knows? Were it only by the identity of the law, the evolution of the comet in the firmament to the whirling of the infusoria in the drop of water. A machine made of mind. Enormous gearing, the prime motor of which is the gnat, and whose final wheel is the zodiac.

[emelkae]

Gonna gush about my own writing for a sec, don't mind me

[yuridovewing]

There was a bit when Alderpaw was about to get his full name where he was anxious about Puddleshine not being there (because at that point, the Kin was forcing him to be their medic) and he was like "but I want Puddleshine to be here at this really important moment for me :(" and I know im grasping at straws here but.... gay

[justyourtypicalwriter]

The fact that one of my oldest friends came up to me during R&J rehearsal today and asked if I still wrote fanfiction killed me. And I lied write to his face and said no when I knew damn well the Dead By Dawn doc was open right in-front if my face