#that...was pretty rough

[dailyfloory]

[talesfromtheenchantedforest]

the number of swords with incredibly hyperspecific powers in Arthuriana really delights me:

Then they girded on a sword: it was such a sword that any woman in labor — even if her life hung in the balance — would be delivered of her child at once if struck on the head with the flat of the naked blade.

— First Percival Continuation, Nigel Bryant translation

this is just a sword that Gawain is using for normal quest stuff btw

[girlnut]

"boys will be boys" yeah boys will whine like a pup in heat while their pretty cock gets edged and overstimulated by a pretty girl over n over again until they cant take it anymore. boys will be boys though

[buttonheart]

happy touya saturday

[princemick]

[OSCAR] bahrain grand prix 2025 // post race

[ink-the-artist]

Another animation test. I like how in some versions of the Golem story the first thing Rabbi Loew has the Golem do is run some errands lol. ive created you to defend the jewish ghetto against antisemitic violence, could you pick something up at the grocery store for me pls

[last-to-the-rottmnt-party]

Part 1/2 NEXT

Ah shit, here we go again. Ummm, I wasn't gonna post this comic but a few of y'all were actually interested in it so I coloured it a bit and Bob's your uncle. Be warned, this is pretty text heavy so sorry for making you read a bunch! There's also swearing, sorry! They do be teens though so, I figured it's fine.

This is KIND OF a sequel to my last comic (even though I drew this before the last one) bc Leo's insomnia finally gets attention. However, Donnie is wildly uncomfortable at having to be the one who has to confront his bro about it, but he does it anyway bc he ✨cares✨

I also have a continuation of this comic which connects it to the last comic more in the works but it's REAL depressing so I may not finish it/post it lmao we'll see.

Also, I still don't know how to colour/storyboard comics so you're welcome for the chaos haha

[mela-g]

[erinstired]

that one shot

[inbabylontheywept]

Memories of Grandpa Hank

I'm eating a bag of mormon gorp that tastes like gasoline while watching the rain run down the mountain. The taste doesn't even bother me anymore - all homemade gorp tastes like this. It's just a natural consequence of everyone keeping their prepper shit in their garages. 

My dad's out in the clearing, wandering around with his GPS. He's got some pieces of wire out on top of it to try and make the effective antennae bigger, but it just makes it look like he's dowsing. Another mormon tradition. I ask him if he's close to find water yet, and he looks up at me, little rivers flowing off him, and says yeah - he can feel it. 

I'm sure he can. I settle under my tree and watch the droplets roll down the needles. Awaiting the final judgement of Judge GPS. 

A few minutes later, it provides: 

Turns out my dad forgot to record the location of the car this morning. The GPS remembers where we parked yesterday, but by luck my dad knows how to get from there to our car. Downside is that it's a nine mile walk just to get to yesterday's position, then another five miles to backtrack. That's fourteen miles total. 

I'm only thirteen. 

Think you can make it? my dad asks. And it's a kindness that he's worried, but it's not like there's an alternative. What else would I do, sit down in the murk and cross my fingers he finds me again? Ask him to carry me 14 miles? 

I'll be pretty jelly legged, I say. But yeah. I'll make it. 

Attaboy, he says. He fishes a bag of poptarts out and offers me one as - I think - a peace offering. A, sorry you're gonna have to walk 14 miles in the rain because I goofed kind of gift. 

I take a bite and, despite being individually wrapped, it still manages to taste like diesel fumes. We start hiking our incredibly long distance in terrible weather for foolish reasons, and I joke to my dad that the only way to make this day any more mormon would be by pushing handcarts. 

He laughs. Neither of us laugh again until 11 pm, when we stumble like drunkards into camp. My grandpa has stayed up late to make sure we weren’t lost, but he only stays up long enough to see us arrive. We try to eat a dinner of sweet potato stew, but after falling asleep in the middle twice, we agree to just go to bed. 

I sleep in well past nine and wake up to nobody in camp but my grandpa. My dad left with my sister to keep hunting around 5 am. I know that everyone assumes that their dad is invincible when they're 13, but I'm 28 now and part of me still thinks he's gonna live forever. That God made exactly one perpetual motion machine, and it raised me in the desert. 

---

Around noon my grandpa suggests hunting again. If it was my dad, I'd probably tune him out, but I like my grandpa's style of hunting. My dad hikes and hikes and hikes until the elk get tired and just let him shoot them. My grandpa finds the sleepiest, sunniest, coziest field and takes a nap there, figuring if the elk have any decent taste they'll come there at some point.

Man's got a knack for knowing what elk like - he's right more often than not. I think he might've been an elk in a previous life. 

I go with him, and much as I hate to admit it, the hike is good for me. I start off walking like a pirate on two peg legs, so stiff I might as well not have knees, but by the end of the mile and a half walk I'm almost normal. We make it to the edge of the clearing, and my grandpa finds a patch of grass taller and softer than the beds inside the trailer, and he curls up to sleep there. I look across the grass and I watch the comings and goings of critters through the field. Sometimes I use the scope to get a magnified view, but I never do so with my hand on the trigger. The thought of accidentally looking a person through that glass is something that sends a chill up my spine. 

Some deer wander through the glen, but it'd take a fool to mistake one of them for an elk. A few hours later, my grandpa wakes up and asks if I want to wander around a little. It's a lovely day. Rain comes in bursts in Arizona, and the day after is almost always clear as can be. And for a short while, all the desert browns turn green and lush. Hard mosses turn squishy and cacti swell up like fresh baked muffins and for a while you can get why people settled in these god forsaken wastes. 

So I go with him, and we walk on, me with my gun, him just taking in the forest. He looks so peaceful that I get a little jealous, but it's not until my grandpa stops and looks at me that I even notice it myself. Takes a mirror, sometimes, to know yourself.

Being near my grandpa is always a strange thing for me. He's quiet, and he doesn't talk much, and I don't ever get the feeling that he's particularly emotionally intelligent - but it's like he's interacting with a reality more raw and real than mine. Like I'm watching symbols on a screen and he's counting atoms. And sometimes, just being near him gives me access to that raw matter. Just something about how he is breaks the illusions of the world.

He looks at the gun like a foreign object, like he doesn't recognize it, then he looks at me. He speaks and he doesn't mince words. 

What would you do if an elk came across the path and you shot it right now? he asks. 

Well, I'd start cleaning it, I say, and he waves the words away like cobwebs in his face. 

But would you celebrate? he presses.

And I look at him, and I don't actually see any judgement staring back. He knows the answer, and he's at peace with it. He’s asking so I can see it too. He’s being a mirror so I can see my own face.

I think I might actually cry, I admit. And he nods along in agreement before reaching forward to take the gun off my shoulder. 

Lets just walk today, he says. No chance of killing anything. No worrying about that. 

Right, I say. 

He pops the chamber open and tosses me back my bullet. I catch it, and the relief I feel is palpable. 

Can I change my mind? I ask, and he shrugs.

Whenever you want. Hunt or don’t. It’s not the hunting that I’m worried about. It’s seeing you ignore your conscience.

And for a moment, I'm there in the real world with him, and my gloves are off, and reality is a metal cube in my hand: Sharp and cold and heavy.

Or maybe that’s just the bullet.

---

We make it back to camp a bit later than my dad. We get there and he’s waiting for us. If he's tired, he doesn't show it. 

How'd it go? he asks. My grandpa looks at me, and I don't know how to respond. I don't know how to explain it, and I am scared. 

Great, he replies. It's a shame Babs only has a doe tag. We saw a five-point out there. Close enough to hit with a football. 

No, my dad says. If his grin was a half inch wider, both ends of his mouth would meet in the back of his head and everything above his tongue would slide off.

Tell him Babs, grandpa says. And, not for the first time, and especially not the last, I try my hand at spinning a yarn. 

It's pretty good. But at 13, I still have a lot to learn.

[theegh0st]

[miss-anaa]

[asmodeauxx]

I want you to Know Me! (Finally finished!! Lost tons of motivation forgive me huhu)

[somnas-writes]

Hc that by Illyrian standards Azriel is considered unattractive.

Illyrians are a more practical group, they’re strong and have traditions they want to follow. They live in cold mountains in camps. Strength and endurance is a top quality, and while Azriel embodies this— He doesn’t look it.

Illyrians want someone whose body reflects their strength. Huge arms, wide wings, tall and bearing tokens of war (scars but not too many scars because that then signifies defeat). Azriel is trained for reconnaissance. His job is to be unnoticeable, being a huge hulking figure doesn’t make that easy. He’s tall and large yes, but he’s not that ideal Illyrian man. Hes just slimmer that average and plays sneaky. Not the big bold way that they believe is honorable. So by the cultures standards, he’s not attractive.

Cassian and Rhys both know this, that their sworn brother is considered “unattractive” by their peers. They never really think about it because that’s their brother, you don’t go around agreeing that your partner in crime is ugly. (Also because he could totally kick their asses and hey you don’t call the guy who is covered in conscious shadows ugly)

It becomes irrelevant as azriel ends up sticking to his job and doesn’t have to often interact with large groups of Illyrians (that gets to be Cassians job).

On the flip side, other groups of fae need that man CARNALLY. What makes him unideal in Illyrian standards makes him the perfect man in theirs. Strong beyond what they could achieve, skilled, quick witted and mysterious—he’s a 10/10.

Rhys learns about this after Azriel makes a rare appearance at a large event to let Rhys know about a new development in one of his missions, the crowd immediately hones in on this hunk of a man. Later, Rhys has to deflect multiple offers of marriage from court nobles.

[mela-g]

[noodles-and-tea]

i’ve just finished reading Saving Sherlock Holmes, do you have any teen johnlock art?

Sure :)