tuulikannel - Tumblr blog

[tuulikannel]

When people get a little too gung-ho about-

wait. cancel post. gung-ho cannot be English. where did that phrase come from? China?

ok, yes. gōnghé, which is…an abbreviation for “industrial cooperative”? Like it was just a term for a worker-run organization? A specific U.S. marine stationed in China interpreted it as a motivational slogan about teamwork, and as a commander he got his whole battalion using it, and other U.S. marines found those guys so exhausting that it migrated into English slang with the meaning “overly enthusiastic”.

That’s…wild. What was I talking about?

[tuulikannel]

Here’s one silly scene for you about Gakushuu having a little (Freudian) slip of the tongue, as he’s thinking about Karma (who he is not crushing on, dammit, he’s not!)

The setting: The student council of Kunugigaoka high is meeting to plan some kind of a spring event. It’s a beautiful spring day, and Gakushuu’s mind is strangely wandering. He stares out the window at the blooming plum trees and for some reason he just keeps on thinking about Akabane…

“…so, should we use the beginning of The Pillow Book for that? What do you think, Asano-kun?” one of the girls asks.

“Hmm?” He glances at her. “Well, it’s definitely a classic. Why not.”

“How does it start again?” someone asks. “Something about… early morning being the best time in the spring?”

Gakushuu sighs. How do they not remember this by heart? “Haru wa akabane,” he says.

There’s a moment’s silence. “What?” Ren breathes then.

Gakushuu frowns. Shouldn’t Ren of all people know this? “Haru wa aka—” he starts to repeat but pauses, his mouth open. What did he just say? “…akebono!” he exclaims. “Haru wa akebono! In spring, the early morning! Don’t you all know that?”

“You… did you say Akabane?” Araki asks slowly.

“Of course not! I said clearly…”

“Haru wa Akabane,” Ren says with a grin. “So spring equals to Akabane for you, huh?”

“You’ve a crush on him or something?” Seo asks, incredulous.

Gakushuu denies that quite vehemently, but in vain. Some of the girls look like they might start crying. It takes a while before they can focus on planning the event again. The idea to use The Pillow Book is scrapped.

(Okay, so, I confess: this scene is based on me suddenly forgetting the word akebono cause Akabane was the only word coming to my mind >_>)

[tuulikannel]

For the WIP Titles Game may I ask about Quest? :)

This is in fact a crossover, between Korosensei Quest and a Danganronpa side game, Despair Dungeon XD

There is a competition between high schools (yes, everyone is in high school for this), Hero Games I call it atm, for the lack of a better name. After the preliminary rounds, 3 best teams enter the dungeon to determine the winner. Gakushuu's team, consisting of the virtuosos, naturally is placed number one. The second place is snatched by a team from Hope's Peak. And then the third place... well.

“With 93 points out of 100,” the announcer went on, and Gakushuu frowned. Team B really had been slacking off. “The third and final participator in the finals: Kunugigaoka’s Team E!”

“What the fuck.”

The Hope’s Peak students fell quiet and gave him startled looks, but Gakushuu didn’t notice. He could only stare in deep shock as a red-haired boy walked triumphantly to the stadium, leading his team to them. He came to a stop in front of Gakushuu, grinning widely.

“Look at that! Here we are on the same platform with the one and only, Kunugigaoka’s super star, the mightiest of them all, the all-powerful Ice Paladin!”

“Karma, take it easy,” a blue-haired boy whispered to him. “It’d be embarrassing if washtubs started falling down now.”

Washtubs. That was all that was lacking from this situation. “Why. Are you here.” It took all his self-control not to scream out the question. He took a deep breath and told himself strictly to remain calm. “You people aren’t even supposed to be in this contest.”

“Whatever do you mean?” the redhead devil smirked at him. “E class has always had a chance to participate. For whatever reason they’ve not done that before, but… hey, this makes me wonder why!” He turned to wave at the audience, who cheered even louder. “These games are a piece of cake!” And… there came the washtub, falling on his head.

“And now,” the announcer went on, “it is time to send these young heroes to their final test!”

-------

... which of course goes very smoothly, without any surprising or despair-inducing twists whatsoever. ^^

In fact, I don't have any idea what I'd call this fic, and at one point I gave it this long and ridiculous name: The Epic Tale of How Students of Two Grand Schools Set Aside Their Differences and Join Forces to Combat Despair. (I do pity Hajime, though. Yes, he's leading Hope's Peak team. Trying to work with the other teamleaders... might not be that easy.)

(Out of sheer boredom, I put that title through several layers of google translate and ended up with this: Breakups aside, a good story about two high school students struggling with depression Sounds like a very different story, but who knows? It might be good. I mean… it even says it's good. Not epic anymore tho)

[tuulikannel]

Rapunshuu🍳

My first thought of it was about three (or maybe four) years ago with @tuulikannel and even drew Rapunshuu for 100 followers on my first acc back then. And it went back on my mind again about two months ago…yeahh it’s still not full coloured now (maybe one day)

[tuulikannel]

WIP Titles game

Rules: post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! And then tag as many people as you have WIPs.

In no particular order, except that the first 7 ones are AC and the last two are Hikago. (Seriously... I had forgotten the existence of some of these. >_>)

tabula rasa*

Yotsuba

quest

Dangan

secrets

Helen

Medusa

DR wheel

Thomas

Heian ghosts

Chicago seq [this will seriously never be written]

* not the file name but the current working title, which is def bound to change. file name would give everything away ^^

Yeah, so. Not tagging 11 people... >_> So I just tag everyone, feel free to do this if you wish! XD

[tuulikannel]

Okay to reblog to help sample size!f

[tuulikannel]

If you dare come at me about banning straws, I will throw you into the sun cannon. I’m disabled, I’m crippled, I need disposable plastic straws, and all those pricey ridiculous alternatives aren’t working as well. Plastic straws were invented for the disabled.

Way to shit all over a vital access need because you think straws are worse than corporate greed.

We all care about the turtles, the seals, the oceans, obviously. Notice how the easiest thing to yell about was something that would barely affect anything but appealed heavily to emotional discourse.

The disabled community is huge, and it can be joined by anyone. Most of those As Seen On TV products were invented for us. Society still mocks us and ignores us, and often outright harms us in multiple ways.

Communicate better. Listen better. But stop putting us out in the cold because you are inconvenienced by our simplest needs.

[tuulikannel]

Hey! So, I know it seems like I've just suddenly disappeared, and I have! Just like Deshi, I got whisked away to another world. This world is so crazy, and it seriously bugs me that everyone here is magical except me. You'd think if I was brought to this world that I could have magical powers too. 😒

Yeah, well, whatever.

So now I'm a beast tamer! Which would be cool, if the weasel wasn't such a dick.

Anyway, there's this festival happening now and I was forced into wearing this weird getup, but after wearing it a while now, I guess it's not so bad. What do you think?

I'll try to keep you updated on more strange things I experience here, but later. There are these guys trying to swindle free shit from my friend's mom's stall and now I gotta go beat 'em in a race. Shame I wasn't picked to run or we would've had an easier time winning. Oh well. At least the weasel doesn't get to run either. Chat with you later!

[tuulikannel]

here’s a story about changelings

reposted from my old blog, which got deleted:   Mary was a beautiful baby, sweet and affectionate, but by the time she’s three she’s turned difficult and strange, with fey moods and a stubborn mouth that screams and bites but never says mama. But her mother’s well-used to hard work with little thanks, and when the village gossips wag their tongues she just shrugs, and pulls her difficult child away from their precious, perfect blossoms, before the bites draw blood. Mary’s mother doesn’t drown her in a bucket of saltwater, and she doesn’t take up the silver knife the wife of the village priest leaves out for her one Sunday brunch. She gives her daughter yarn, instead, and instead of a rowan stake through her inhuman heart she gives her a child’s first loom, oak and ash. She lets her vicious, uncooperative fairy daughter entertain herself with games of her own devising, in as much peace and comfort as either of them can manage. Mary grows up strangely, as a strange child would, learning everything in all the wrong order, and biting a great deal more than she should. But she also learns to weave, and takes to it with a grand passion. Soon enough she knows more than her mother–which isn’t all that much–and is striking out into unknown territory, turning out odd new knots and weaves, patterns as complex as spiderwebs and spellrings. “Aren’t you clever,” her mother says, of her work, and leaves her to her wool and flax and whatnot. Mary’s not biting anymore, and she smiles more than she frowns, and that’s about as much, her mother figures, as anyone should hope for from their child. Mary still cries sometimes, when the other girls reject her for her strange graces, her odd slow way of talking, her restless reaching fluttering hands that have learned to spin but never to settle. The other girls call her freak, witchblood, hobgoblin. “I don’t remember girls being quite so stupid when I was that age,” her mother says, brushing Mary’s hair smooth and steady like they’ve both learned to enjoy, smooth as a skein of silk. “Time was, you knew not to insult anyone you might need to flatter later. ‘Specially when you don’t know if they’re going to grow wings or horns or whatnot. Serve ‘em all right if you ever figure out curses.” “I want to go back,” Mary says. “I want to go home, to where I came from, where there’s people like me. If I’m a fairy’s child I should be in fairyland, and no one would call me a freak.” “Aye, well, I’d miss you though,” her mother says. “And I expect there’s stupid folk everywhere, even in fairyland. Cruel folk, too. You just have to make the best of things where you are, being my child instead.” Mary learns to read well enough, in between the weaving, especially when her mother tracks down the traveling booktraders and comes home with slim, precious manuals on dyes and stains and mordants, on pigments and patterns, diagrams too arcane for her own eyes but which make her daughter’s eyes shine. “We need an herb garden,” her daughter says, hands busy, flipping from page to page, pulling on her hair, twisting in her skirt, itching for a project. “Yarrow, and madder, and woad and weld…” “Well, start digging,” her mother says. “Won’t do you a harm to get out of the house now’n then.” Mary doesn’t like dirt but she’s learned determination well enough from her mother. She digs and digs, and plants what she’s given, and the first year doesn’t turn out so well but the second’s better, and by the third a cauldron’s always simmering something over the fire, and Mary’s taking in orders from girls five years older or more, turning out vivid bolts and spools and skeins of red and gold and blue, restless fingers dancing like they’ve summoned down the rainbow. Her mother figures she probably has. “Just as well you never got the hang of curses,” she says, admiring her bright new skirts. “I like this sort of trick a lot better.” Mary smiles, rocking back and forth on her heels, fingers already fluttering to find the next project. She finally grows up tall and fair, if a bit stooped and squinty, and time and age seem to calm her unhappy mouth about as well as it does for human children. Word gets around she never lies or breaks a bargain, and if the first seems odd for a fairy’s child then the second one seems fit enough. The undyed stacks of taken orders grow taller, the dyed lots of filled orders grow brighter, the loom in the corner for Mary’s own creations grows stranger and more complex. Mary’s hands callus just like her mother’s, become as strong and tough and smooth as the oak and ash of her needles and frames, though they never fall still. “Do you ever wonder what your real daughter would be like?” the priest’s wife asks, once. Mary’s mother snorts. “She wouldn’t be worth a damn at weaving,” she says. “Lord knows I never was. No, I’ll keep what I’ve been given and thank the givers kindly. It was a fair enough trade for me. Good day, ma’am.” Mary brings her mother sweet chamomile tea, that night, and a warm shawl in all the colors of a garden, and a hairbrush. In the morning, the priest’s son comes round, with payment for his mother’s pretty new dress and a shy smile just for Mary. He thinks her hair is nice, and her hands are even nicer, vibrant in their strength and skill and endless motion.   They all live happily ever after. * Here’s another story: Gregor grew fast, even for a boy, grew tall and big and healthy and began shoving his older siblings around early. He was blunt and strange and flew into rages over odd things, over the taste of his porridge or the scratch of his shirt, over the sound of rain hammering on the roof, over being touched when he didn’t expect it and sometimes even when he did. He never wore shoes if he could help it and he could tell you the number of nails in the floorboards without looking, and his favorite thing was to sit in the pantry and run his hands through the bags of dry barley and corn and oat. Considering as how he had fists like a young ox by the time he was five, his family left him to it. “He’s a changeling,” his father said to his wife, expecting an argument, but men are often the last to know anything about their children, and his wife only shrugged and nodded, like the matter was already settled, and that was that. They didn’t bind Gregor in iron and leave him in the woods for his own kind to take back. They didn’t dig him a grave and load him into it early. They worked out what made Gregor angry, in much the same way they figured out the personal constellations of emotion for each of their other sons, and when spring came, Gregor’s father taught him about sprouts, and when autumn came, Gregor’s father taught him about sheaves. Meanwhile his mother didn’t mind his quiet company around the house, the way he always knew where she’d left the kettle, or the mending, because she was forgetful and he never missed a detail. “Pity you’re not a girl, you’d never drop a stitch of knitting,” she tells Gregor, in the winter, watching him shell peas. His brothers wrestle and yell before the hearth fire, but her fairy child just works quietly, turning peas by their threes and fours into the bowl. “You know exactly how many you’ve got there, don’t you?” she says. “Six hundred and thirteen,” he says, in his quiet, precise way. His mother says “Very good,” and never says Pity you’re not human. He smiles just like one, if not for quite the same reasons. The next autumn he’s seven, a lucky number that pleases him immensely, and his father takes him along to the mill with the grain. “What you got there?” The miller asks them. “Sixty measures of Prince barley, thirty two measures of Hare’s Ear corn, and eighteen of Abernathy Blue Slate oats,” Gregor says. “Total weight is three hundred fifty pounds, or near enough. Our horse is named Madam. The wagon doesn’t have a name. I’m Gregor.” “My son,” his father says. “The changeling one.” “Bit sharper’n your others, ain’t he?” the miller says, and his father laughs. Gregor feels proud and excited and shy, and it dries up all his words, sticks them in his throat. The mill is overwhelming, but the miller is kind, and tells him the name of each and every part when he points at it, and the names of all the grain in all the bags waiting for him to get to them. “Didn’t know the fair folk were much for machinery,” the miller says. Gregor shrugs. “I like seeds,” he says, each word shelled out with careful concentration. “And names. And numbers.” “Aye, well. Suppose that’d do it. Want t’help me load up the grist?” They leave the grain with the miller, who tells Gregor’s father to bring him back ‘round when he comes to pick up the cornflour and cracked barley and rolled oats. Gregor falls asleep in the nameless wagon on the way back, and when he wakes up he goes right back to the pantry, where the rest of the seeds are left, and he runs his hands through the shifting, soothing textures and thinks about turning wheels, about windspeed and counterweights. When he’s twelve–another lucky number–he goes to live in the mill with the miller, and he never leaves, and he lives happily ever after. * Here’s another: James is a small boy who likes animals much more than people, which doesn’t bother his parents overmuch, as someone needs to watch the sheep and make the sheepdogs mind. James learns the whistles and calls along with the lambs and puppies, and by the time he’s six he’s out all day, tending to the flock. His dad gives him a knife and his mom gives him a knapsack, and the sheepdogs give him doggy kisses and the sheep don’t give him too much trouble, considering. “It’s not right for a boy to have so few complaints,” his mother says, once, when he’s about eight. “Probably ain’t right for his parents to have so few complaints about their boy, neither,” his dad says. That’s about the end of it. James’ parents aren’t very talkative, either. They live the routines of a farm, up at dawn and down by dusk, clucking softly to the chickens and calling harshly to the goats, and James grows up slow but happy. When James is eleven, he’s sent to school, because he’s going to be a man and a man should know his numbers. He gets in fights for the first time in his life, unused to peers with two legs and loud mouths and quick fists. He doesn’t like the feel of slate and chalk against his fingers, or the harsh bite of a wooden bench against his legs. He doesn’t like the rules: rules for math, rules for meals, rules for sitting down and speaking when you’re spoken to and wearing shoes all day and sitting under a low ceiling in a crowded room with no sheep or sheepdogs. Not even a puppy. But his teacher is a good woman, patient and experienced, and James isn’t the first miserable, rocking, kicking, crying lost lamb ever handed into her care. She herds the other boys away from him, when she can, and lets him sit in the corner by the door, and have a soft rag to hold his slate and chalk with, so they don’t gnaw so dryly at his fingers. James learns his numbers well enough, eventually, but he also learns with the abruptness of any lamb taking their first few steps–tottering straight into a gallop–to read. Familiar with the sort of things a strange boy needs to know, his teacher gives him myths and legends and fairytales, and steps back. James reads about Arthur and Morgana, about Hercules and Odysseus, about djinni and banshee and brownies and bargains and quests and how sometimes, something that looks human is left to try and stumble along in the humans’ world, step by uncertain step, as best they can. James never comes to enjoy writing. He learns to talk, instead, full tilt, a leaping joyous gambol, and after a time no one wants to hit him anymore. The other boys sit next to him, instead, with their mouths closed, and their hands quiet on their knees.   “Let’s hear from James,” the men at the alehouse say, years later, when he’s become a man who still spends more time with sheep than anyone else, but who always comes back into town with something grand waiting for his friends on his tongue. “What’ve you got for us tonight, eh?” James finishes his pint, and stands up, and says, “Here’s a story about changelings.”

[tuulikannel]

Shhhh!

late ANAN magazine art for revenge ‘the cousins reveal’.

template ref: @/9_um_9 (Twiiter)

[tuulikannel]

“I got punched in the nose, I bit my tongue and then got strangled almost to the point of unconsciousness! How do you think I feel?”

[tuulikannel]

re: that last post, ive said it before and ill say it again: no one deserves to die (deserving is fake and death is bad) but some people need to be stopped and choose to make death the only way to stop them

[tuulikannel]

Yes geologists! Doing the important work 💖

[tuulikannel]

The cops to Leon: A lot of people have gone missing around here. Last week there was a search for some missing hikers.

Me: So did you look in that lovely little village with brain dead inhabitants and severed heads stuck upon the gate?

[tuulikannel]

May I complain a bit?

I took the photo on the left a week ago. The photo on the right I took today.

The weather is broken. >_>

[tuulikannel]

The fact that Microsoft Word has to be a subscription is upsetting. I already paid for it why do I have to pay again

[tuulikannel]

“Class, this is Asano Gakushuu-kun, he’s transferring into E class as of today.” The agent introduced, and Gakushuu bowed politely.

The secret version of dear 3E Shuu!

Kitty Cat and 3-E ver.

I have been thinking about it while putting too many colouring layers. His smile could really thinking to a different way just about the light and effect. Also I can’t find the author social acc (if anyone knows pls message me)

here’s the work💜

https://archiveofourown.org/works/33254509?view_full_work=true