#threnodic

[toastedclownery]

A series of loosely related doodles

[redsrainbows]

VAJE CHARACTER MOODBOARDS‼️

this is to all my dream world, jovial playground, tralude, and general roskaa123 game fans :3

hope you enjoy!!! feel free to use these for anything if you like the characters!!!!!

If you’ve never checked out Jovial Playground or Dream World, please give the neocities site a look around and check out all the info!! (Linked above at the word Vaje)

[zou-pa]

[kleptomori]

[thatbratcohen]

drawings of elegiac, liminal, and threnodic from dream world on roblox

[o-craven-canto]

https://blog.plover.com/lang/anagram-scoring.html (Mark Dominus, 2017)

I found the best anagram in English...

A few years ago I mentioned in passing that in the 1990s I had constructed a listing of all the anagrams in Webster's Second International dictionary...This was easy to do, even at the time, when the word list itself, at 2.5 megabytes, was a file of significant size.

This article is about how I was unhappy with the results of the simple procedure above.  From the Webster's Second list, which contains about 234,000 words, it finds about 14,000 anagram sets (some with more than two words), consisting of 46,351 pairs of anagrams.  The list starts with

aal ala

and ends with

zolotink zolotnik

which exemplify the problems with this simple approach: many of the 46,351 anagrams are obvious, uninteresting or even trivial.  There must be good ones in the list, but how to find them?

I looked in the list to find the longest anagrams, but they were also disappointing:

cholecystoduodenostomy duodenocholecystostomy...

This example made clear at least one  of the problems with boring anagrams: it's not that they are too short, it's that they are too simple...

This gave me the idea to score a pair of anagrams according to how many chunks one had to be cut into in order to rearrange it to make the other one.  On this plan, the “cholecystoduodenostomy / duodenocholecystostomy” pair would score 3, just barely above the minimum possible score of 2. Something even a tiny bit more interesting, say “abler / blare” would score higher, in this case 4...

Sorted by score, there were treasures at the end, and the clear winner was

14 cinematographer megachiropteran

I declare this the single best anagram in English. It is 15 letters long, and the only letters that stay together are the E and the R. There was another 14-pointer, but both its words are Webster's Second jargon that nobody knows:

14 rotundifoliate titanofluoride...

If you are the type of person who enjoys anagrams, the list rewards casual browsing.  A few examples:

5 notaries senorita

6 yttrious touristy

7 admirer married 7 admires sidearm  

8 negativism timesaving 8 peripatetic precipitate 8 scepters respects 8 shortened threnodes 8 soapstone teaspoons  

9 earringed grenadier 9 excitation intoxicate 9 integrals triangles 9 ivoriness revisions 9 masculine calumnies  

10 coprophagist topographics 10 chuprassie haruspices 10 citronella interlocal  

11 clitoridean directional 11 dispensable piebaldness

38333 anagrams, scored

[rossthren]

Rossthren

(Ross)(thren)

Ross, my name.

Thren = threnod/threnody, an ode, ballet, song or poem. Typically about death, sorrow or mourning.

[saevus-brutalis]

— WIP Wednesday Thursday

tagged by; @katsigian thank you sm 😌 i've got qute a few WIPs, not necessarily art related but-

1. but i have this pic of Ragan that has been a WIP for idk how long but i started it in June 2022 and at this point i'm thinking of just redrawing the whole thing

2. attempting to slowly gather mods and resources to mod Vince in-game one day 🤡 so far im only gathering clothes, but i'm thinking of working on a custom complexion and tattoos for him sometime in the future 3. HUGE WIP project - making a comprehensive, full biography, timeline of events for Vincent (that noone but me will probably read fully). it's been stagnate for a while but yeah, need to get back to it. also thinking of making a character/muse profile/sheet kinda thing, so it's easy to navigate and not just a long ass word document

so far im only halfway through his whole life and some of these aren't fully filled, nicely written. i'm quite proud of his early life tho.

4. been working on 2984723198 kerry x vince fics since late 2020, half of them abandoned, half written or not up to date lore-wise; but i have a few that i'm currently working on the most: — ❝shoulder to cry on❞ — ❝kerry's collection of threnodes❞ or ❝you don't get to pick and choose❞ — ❝love on auction❞— ❝trouble at the marina❞ — ❝for old time's sake❞

— [description] — Having lived in Night City for over half the century V expected pretty much everything. His preem ride getting stolen despite best ani-theft tech installed into it, getting ripped off by a goddamn ripper or being poisoned by the only bartender he trusted in town, because someone bribed them to do it. Every possible scenario he had covered; every possible good or bad outcome. Nothing could've taken V by surprise at this point.

What he didn't expect though, not in a billion years, was to get a call from a number that has been silent for the past eight years.

"Hey V. Got one last jobs for ya."

Or in other words - Kerry asks V after 8 years apart to be his bodyguard again. Just like the good ol' days.

will they ever come one? maybe? hopefully?

[nurthor]

Visite d'une chapelle du Temple du Nuage de Laelith et une IA qui remporte un concours d'art

Visite d’une chapelle du Temple du Nuage de Laelith et une IA qui remporte un concours d’art

Visite d’une chapelle des Threnodes (chants sacrés) du Temple du Nuage de Laelith à l’acoustique époustouflante, où nulle parole prononcée ne peut rester secrète ! Dans cette chapelle ont parfois lieu des rencontres au sommets secrets, y compris certains Conseils Restreints Élargis du Roi-Dieu en personne, pour s’assurer qu’il n’y ait pas de messe basse ! Cette chapelle abrite également divers…

[toastedclownery]

Hello gang

[errantnight]

Music and Mischief, Chapter 2

(Also on AO3 under errantnight!)

(A bit edited and changed on my AO3)

For all that everyone is singing songs about her, Threnod is pleasantly surprised to discover that not one single person in the Bard’s College knows who she is. It probably helps that she’s dumped her chain mail in the bottom of her satchel and put everything else on top; even with a sword on her belt she’s gloriously anonymous. Who doesn’t go armed these days, anyway?

Somehow it must be in the way she walks that lets people know she’s competent with that weapon and probably a lot more likely to survive in some far flung dungeon than anyone else in residence… so she gets asked a favor. A very dangerous favor, one she really doesn’t want to do if she doesn’t have to… but Viarmo had actually asked nicely, explaining that although they often ask potential students to do small errands and tasks in exchange for admittance… well, not many of them showed up looking like they could handle the one thing no one else felt up to doing.

It was a familiar sort of task, one she’d been doing for years before she’d been conscripted into hero-dom… She shakes her head and shoves that word deep down where she won’t be bothered by it. She’s getting better at that, the longer she goes insisting on telling people her name. And, of course, she’d been told to have fun… Getting King Olaf’s Verse and then having a drunken party where they burn an effigy and sing sounds, well, fun definitely.

Dead Man’s Respite doesn’t sound like a pleasant place, so she stops and exchanges her empty potion bottles for fresh at a small discount. She always tries to hold onto the empties, most alchemists appreciate not having to buy so many of them when most customers seem to toss them aside when they’re finished.

When she gets inside the barrow she sees how right she is and groans when her eyes fall on the familiar shape of a dragon’s claw and the ghostly figure that silently beckons her forward.

She follows reluctantly, drawing her sword. Her free hand falls on the long stem of the carved rose on her other hip, biting gently at the inside of her cheek and curiosity nips back at her as the pad of one finger catches on a thorn. She sticks her finger in her mouth, a terrible habit, and continues on into the dungeon. She doesn’t want to waste it, most artifacts like this only summon something for a minute or so and eventually burn out if you use them too often.

She’s expecting the traps, she’s almost used to the giant venomous spiders, she’ll never quite get used to the draugr. When she was a child the bitch who ran the orphanage had told her stories about how the draugr woke and gathered grave goods and offerings to distribute to the dead - they were the ones who tended the fires and lit the lamps, who reset the traps to protect the dead who hadn’t been warriors in life. Even if you struck them down, they’d be back at it in a few days. And, of course, they ate little children and dragged their bodies into the barrow to slave away their undeath forever.

Some of them were… a bit more aggressive than others. Once the power inside of her had been unlocked, she’d often screamed back when the Speakers among the dead would loose their own power from dry dusty throats. But it was a bit more difficult when her sword has been Shouted right out of her grip and she can’t find it anywhere.

She’s backed against a wall just out of sight, trying to control her pounding heart and working through the words she knows and wondering if any of them will do much good against a Deathlord, when her finger throbs and she feels the wooden Rose burning through her hip. She pulls it free from the sheath she’s made for it and holds it out in front of her, passing her will into it as she would any other magical device, and a searing red light explodes forth to materialize into a red and black armored Dremora.

He tilts his head in her direction, a slow smile tugging at his lips to bare sharp teeth before he spins about and begins to lay waste to the Draugr Lord and the lesser draugr around him. She’s summoned Dremora before, with scrolls, and they’re usually annoyed at the interruption of whatever they’d been doing on their plane - staying only the brief alloted time they’re bound to their task and then growling at her as they vanished again.

This time is different. The sounds of battle continue for several minutes at least, the Dremora obviously taking his time as he hunts down each and every enemy in the area and doesn’t stop until he’s finished. Perhaps, she thinks, the summoning lasts longer since the Rose was Lord Sanguine’s gift to her personally.

The Daedra has wandered back in her direction, heavy mace leaning against his shoulder as he stalks back and forth in front of her. She swallows as he releases the weapon and it dissipates, his hands coming up to pull the sharp edged helmet from his head and dropping it on the cracked floor with a dull thud.

“Ah,” he says, “Threnod, isn’t it?” His voice is low and rough, a strange accent twisting her name on his tongue as though he hasn’t spoken her language in a thousand years - and that might be true.

She straightens and nods, her own throat going dry as he smiles again and his eyes move from her face down to her chainmail covered chest and lower, gaze pinning her in place as he steps closer. She’s quickly pinned against the wall in truth as he chuckles quietly, the sound echoing through the silent barrow.

He flicks his hands to the side and, just like any other conjured armor, the metal plates shrouding his body dissipate in a wreathing swirl of smoke and flecks of glowing embers. His body is lean and scarred, some of the cuts are from wounds but more of them are in deliberate designs excised into his flesh in jagged patterns and runes.

“There’s been bets, you see,” he says as he hooks two fingers into the top of her mail shirt and jingles it in an obvious demand, “about who would get a chance to… visit you first. I won, it seems, and I’m going to take my reward now. For services rendered, you understand.”

Threnod shivers, as she pulls the armor over her head and dumps it to one side. She’s not fast enough, apparently, in unlacing the leather cord closing her trousers. His fingernail slides through it like the leather were an errant thread.

“Eager little thing aren’t you?” He stops and stares down at her, waiting.

“Yes,” she can’t stop the sigh at the end of her reply and he grins again.

“So we’ve heard,” he purrs, stripping the soft cloth away from her neck that had hidden the golden collar and sliding both of his hands around her throat with the smallest squeeze. Fear thrills through her, but at the same time her knees go weak with need and for a brief moment she can’t breathe as he holds her upright.

He releases her all at once and she’s on her knees, anticipation curling in her stomach and rolling lower as his fingers run through her hair and make a fist - a small pained sound whimpers from her mouth and he shakes her head back and forth as his free hand slides up and down his cock. He’s not as terrifyingly large as her… their master, but it’s thoroughly intimidating all the same - particularly without the relaxation of mead and wine to soften her. He lets her go and bends his knee and rifles through the pile of cloth at their feet, twining the longest piece of cut lacing between his fingers.

“Turn around,” he says, the amusement seeming to vanish from his voice and countenance as he slaps the side of her head and her sudden cry at the unexpected blow bouncing back along the twisting corridors.

Her first instinct is anger, glaring up at him and scrambling back. Her hands find her empty sheath and she remembers she hasn’t even looked for her fallen weapon…

She falters as his own glare roves over her bare skin and she’s suddenly uncertain…

“You will obey me,” he says, “as you would obey our lord. The covenant,” he says, “is unbreakable - but you, little one, are not.”

Firelight flickers over his face, reflecting back in his black eyes.

“Alright,” she drags the word out of her tight throat, her eyes burning as she feels unexpected tears welling up.

“That’s better,” he says reaching down and grabbing her hair again, “now be a good little thrall and put your hands behind your back.”

He walks behind her as she obeys, feeling the thin leather cord wrap around her wrists and gasps as it’s pulled painfully tight.

“Spread your legs,” the Dremora taps the inside her thighs with a finger, “no, wider than that,” he directs until her muscles are twinging in discomfort and her sex is nearly touching the filthy floor. She cringes as the thought and the Dremora makes an amused sound, “you’d lick this spot clean if I told you to slave, but I won’t order that sort of thing when I have better uses for your mouth.”

There’s a moment of silence, “Say, ‘thank you, lord K’tarn’.”

“Th… thank you,” she says, catching herself and forcing the volume of her voice above a whisper, “thank you, lord K’tarn.”

“That’s a good little slave. It doesn’t matter who you are to anyone on this wretched plane of Mundus - you’re not a hero, you’re not a <i>descendant</i> of the gods, you’re an obedient thrall and belong on your knees amongst your betters. Meaning, of course, we undying of the Daedra and especially beneath the heel of our Lord Sanguine who you will never hesitate to obey. Yes?”

“I would never,” she gasps out as he walks around to her front, whatever else she might say is cut off as he thrusts himself into her open mouth and then more slowly works his way into her throat.

“Of course you won’t,” he says, his rough voice deepening and trailing into a soft groan.

He runs his fingers through her hair, cupping the back of her head and drawing himself out to give her space to breathe and then beginning a rough rhythm that leaves her half sobbing and gasping until he finally pulls back and growls down at her, “Keep it open, yes just like that.”

He spends himself on her tongue and wipes the the rest of the mess onto her cheek.

“Don’t you dare waste any of that,” he smiles, “let me see.”

She closes her mouth, eyes rolling back in her head as she swallows and then opens her mouth again to show she’d done as she was told.

“Very nice, now what do you say?”

She tilts her head back and blinks slowly, “Thank you lord K’tarn.”

“Stand up,” he says, then laughs when she nearly collapses - legs aching from the long held position trying to keep her sex from touching the stone beneath her. He grabs her by the back of the golden collar and drags her to her feet, then higher until she’s on her tip toes and trying desperately to breathe.

He lets her feet touch the floor, pushing her head down and guiding her away through the empty halls of the barrow until he’s found what he wants. From the corner of her eye she sees him sweep the scattered tools and scrolls from atop an offering table, an urn crashing to pieces on the floor before he lifts her up to lay face down on top of it.

“Beg me to fuck you,” he runs his fingertips down her back, trailing down her sides and then digging his nails into her hips. She gasps at the sharp pain, knowing without looking he’s drawn blood.

“Tell me you’ll let me do whatever I want so long as I let you come.”

She squirms as he presses between her legs, so much hotter than a human man, so much better now that she’s had both.

“Please,” she yelps as his nails claw deeper into her skin and she can feel her blood now running down to drip on the table beneath her, “fuck me, and…,” she stills and then writhes back against him, “hurt me, whatever you need, I’ll let you. No, no I want you to hurt me!” Her eyes are wide, this new horizon opening up inside of her and uncurling a white hot need in her belly to spread through her body.

The nails digging into her hips drag her backward and she moans, “Yes, please!”

“You’re such a good learner little thrall, I’ll give you what you want then since you asked so nicely.”

He thrusts himself inside of her, not waiting even a second to let her become accustomed to his size and she screams - all thought blotted out as he grabs her bound hands in one fist and the back of her collar with the other and begins rocking in and out of her with a punishing speed.

He’s laughing softly as she cries out, coming so hard that she can barely breathe between screams - but it doesn’t stop, the next wave of pleasure bleeds into the previous one, “Just look at you,” he’s growling, “in the hall of your ancestors, a wonton slave giving yourself to a demon.”

He slows, thrusts harder even than before, draws slowly out and releases her collar to let her speak, “How does it feel?”

She whines quietly, throat raw from screaming and tears running down her cheeks, “I… I love it, please don’t stop.”

He draws away, sliding out of her and eliciting a whimper. “I’m not done yet,” he says, “and I don’t take orders from thralls.”

The tie around her wrists loosens, “I’m only undoing this so you don’t lose your hands,” he explains, flipping her over and patting her cheek, “if you move your arms or try to touch me or yourself you’ll regret it.”

“Now, where were we? Oh, yes, pain. Not too much, this time, because we wouldn’t want you getting used to it. You’ll have to earn it next time.”

She fights to stay still, to not raise her head or move her hands as he steps away silently and disappears from her peripheral vision. Her ragged breathing catches and slows as she waits, wondering what would happen if she did move but she realizes she’s more afraid that he’ll stop and leave her rather than what he’ll do to her when he returns.

When he comes back he has a handful of… things, soft sounds of whatever they are being arranged beside her. When she tries to look he slaps her, hard enough to whip her head to the side and further hide the plans he’s made.

“Ah, no,” he bares his teeth at her, “you’ll just have to wait for the surprise.”

(Oh no, a cliffhanger! Don’t worry, the rest will get finished tonight. I just thought this was a good torture device I mean a good point to stop the chapter before I have to go to bed!)

[zou-pa]

[janumun]

Hai I just wanted to say ur pureblood sandwich fics are giving me 𝘓𝘐𝘍𝘌! My praise kink has been satisfied 🥵🥵 also never knew id be interested in poly but ig u learn smth about yourself everyday🥲

😂♥️♥️♥️ Welcome to the (gentle, hard, ruinous BDE) club, Nonny. You will be swaddled in love until it's — frankly — impossible to tell up from down and then, and only then, will le Comte and Leonardo move to fit themselves into you and destroy you again, entirely. 🤸🏽‍♀️🤸🏽‍♀️🍑

I'm glad (happy! thank you 🤸🏽‍♀️) to know you're on board with my Leo/Comte agenda, I cannot ever see them as being separate (or ever separated) when it comes to their love for their partner. They're both stubborn, threnodic fools and their Love™️ is the missing piece to bind all of their broken together. Praise and worship are included in the package because can you ever imagine the Comte not adoring and pressing words of deference against your skin? Perhaps only when he is being strict (in love) with his love. 😌

[cicatrid]

𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓  𝐈𝐒  𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐃 . 𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍  𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄 is  what  keeps  them  from  succumbing  to  winter’s  bitter  chill  . Everyone  is  - or  should  be  - tucked  away  in  their  own  tents  to  recharge  after  what  was  a  successful  train  robbery  .  Jewels  and  gems —  bonds  and  priceless  silverware  all  tucked  away  to  be  sold  all  for  a  fortune  that  could  surely  support  the  legacy  that  preceded  them  .   Wolves  don’t  sleep  .  Arthur  is  wracking  his  mind  for  a  next  step  .  Another  calculated  advance  that  could  make  or  break  the  morning  .  Always  ahead  of  himself  .  With  that  distant  gleam  in  his  eye  that  could  only  bring  bloodshed  when  he  formulated  something  solid  .  Burly  hands  cling  to  his  hat  .  The  snow  squeaks  when  he  stands  ,  the  outlaw  sparing  Jack  a  glance  that  could  only  be  a  doorway  into  a  tender  conversation  .  It’s  saying  something  he  doesn’t  need  to  vocalize  .  Something  too  raw  for  his  brutal  maw  .  He  was  never  one  for  theatrics  —  rebuked   tenderness  in  favor  of  cruel  red  thievery .  He’s  caught  in  a  snare  and  all  he  can  do  is  stare  .  ( The  light  illuminates  his  face  in  such  a  way  –  if  it  weren’t  for  the  ruggedness  of  his  mien  then  surely  — -  he  could  have  been  angelic  .  )

He’s  far  from  .  They  both  are .  That  is  where  the  agony  festers  .  The  mere  idea  of  losing  him  to  a  life  that  prevents  Jack  from  disappearing —  deathless  .  “  I  know .  I  ain’t  tryin’  to  run  you  off  .  You  know  that  .  M’  just  sayin’  :  you  ever  need  t’  run  —  you  know  what  to  do .  ”

𝚆𝙾𝙻𝚅𝙴𝚂    𝙳𝙾𝙽’𝚃    𝚂𝙻𝙴𝙴𝙿  .        he  does  ,   under  one  great  ,   sallow   eye   ;   the  holy   moon ,      pale  &  silvered   as   a   scar   ,   the   sin   breathing    inside   him   like   a    blackened    tumor      /      like     that   eye  ,   constricting  .   the   weight   of   his   loneliness   seeps     /    like   a   poison  ,     &   the   moon  ,   as    always   ,   that    pale   confessional  ,   the         cratered    maiden’s   palm       (. . .)         &   yet  ,   the   silence   of   the   world   so   loud  ,   the    sacrament    of    spilled     blood   ,        stalking   him      /    teasing   him   with   a   shard    of    the   word       𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘦.     “i’m   offended   you   keep   suggesting   that   .”    in    this   quiet    place   ,   pregnant    with    sin  ,     /      every   ache   ,   every   murmur     is     an     𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧    ,      every     ellipses      begins     &   ends    with   a   breath   of    the    syllable      hope       /       staggering   ,    a    pulmonary   threnode  .   𝚒    𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕   𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎   𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛     ,       excise   it   with    tooth   &   cudgel       /      tear    its   fragile    white    neck    at     its     haematic    seam    .   (   yet   ,   his   stare        sounds    like    the    word      naked   ,   raw   ,   deboned  .    tastes   dangerously    like    hope  ,   redemption   ,    forgiveness    /     again  ,   he   genuflects    to     the    loneliest   star    ,    the     viscera    of    a   long   dead   prayer   .   his    angel    straight    from   hell  .  )      he   pushes   himself   off   the   doorframe   ,    watching    the    smoke   from    his   cigarette    lumber     into    the   sky     /     a    fragile   ,   yet    inimitable    &    envious     disappearing    act    .    unspoken   ,    the    words    untranslatable       &    from    a      war      country   :     the    dangerous    contract       i   love    (    .   .   .      𝘪𝘵 𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘻𝘦𝘴  .   )             “i’ve    told    you   time   &   time    again   .  .  .   i    ain’t    leaving   you  .   not    for    anything   .”

[littletootler]

UNFINISHED ESCAPADES

My mind is a ruin for unfinished escapades. Masqueraded lies are all I hear creeping from under the wreckage- a graveyard of thoughts. A hero has died here. But somehow his picaresque soul wanders off to the Heavens without any need for a grand funeral or an inspiring obituary. No need for bleary eyes and salty tears. After all, what good is a hero without a tombstone to cement his legacy onto the hearts of those beloved? To them that’s a brutal tragedy, one pertaining to melancholy, blood and death. To me, it was merely melancholy, blood and death.

The real tragedy, however, came crashing from the cerulean skies. The hero would plummet, head first, onto the hard terra, his wings clipped. And as he skydived, the zephyr whispered in threnodic fashion: a battle cry for the world soon to be devoid of song or sound alike. And so he fell…… That day, Gods allover spoke of mighty thunders, yet not a witness to speak of such power or beauty. As for the hero, he was soon no more than a child’s bed time story (So much for that loquacious talk on cementing one’s legacy).

Nevertheless, after The Great Thunder the hero had left behind one last souvenir: his deathbed in the form of a massive crater, one which reeked of purposelessness. And from that emptiness that bore into the Earth rose another hero, as terrified of existing as his predecessor. Perhaps that’s how all thoughts are born. Each of them are shaped with a fear of the apocryphal and gilded by the hope and expectation that it might become something even greater; a dream, a story passed onto generations or simply a mirthful journey. This hero needs only to live.

Soon after, the wind began its customary whisper, thunders were marveled upon and another Earth-bending crater was forged: yet another hero, another escapade, another tragedy. This was the endless cycle of my mind and there would be no end to this. A most devious torture I’d say. My mind is a ruin for unfinished escapades; in other words, a dreamer’s worst tragedy.

By The Little Tootler

Illustration: Ending scene from Nomadland

[jshatan]

@danielroumain’s Why Did They Kill Sandra Bland? in an impassioned performance by @ArlenHlusko opened the @bangonacan Maerz Musik (@berlinerfestspiele) marathon, with the cello being the ideal “voice” for this threnodic piece, and to ask this question, which has no rational answer. #newmusic #sandrabland #bangonacanmarathon #maerzmusik https://www.instagram.com/p/CMsWYFaAjga/?igshid=dela3po27w86