vxlravn

[vxlravn]

At first, she doesn’t recognize the small, ruffled bird that steps into the palace. It’s no normal bird, Simon is sure of that at least! There are no birds in hell that can come this far without bursting like a maroon, so she flicks her head at it curiously, first.

The caw is… familiar. It pricks at her ear and she flickers it upwards to listen better, but there’s just silence. She realizes it a few seconds after, then bolts out of the throne in an hurry to welcome her dad back.

But he’s still and unmoving. When the demoness picks up the small, fragile form of her parental figure blood seeps through her fingers and she spots the dryed up clumps of plied feathers that she moves gently, hoping to provide him some relief. He’s probably taking a nap, considering his state. He will heal soon, so she takes upon herself to gather the small form in her lap and curl back on the throne, a soft smile on his face.

“Oh, dad… you’re so silly. I was just thinking about you last day. You’re a dork, leaving me all this time. You old geezer…”

She runs a gentle finger over his birdy head, purring gently and looking happy and fulfilled. War is home! She can stop worrying, now. Or being angry. Both.

It takes her a while to feel the soaking in her lap, or the way War’s little bird form has been standing still for a solid 15 minutes without breathing, or moving at all. At this point, she has her wits together enough to wrap him in her long dress, trying to dry the blood.

“Dad…?! What did you do? Who did you fought? What happened?”

She expects him to crack a familiar eyes open and make a joke about beating around a dead horse. Ha. Stupid old man cannot even pop a new joke.

He doesn’t wake up.

“Dad?”

He’s getting colder.

“Dad…?”

It takes her brain a painful whirring to puncture the situation together.

A scream erupts from her throat, and it never stops.

[vxlravn]

The end.

Cold ash drops from the sky slowly like the snowflakes he last saw around Christmas when he had intended to return home. It lands on his messy featherdress as he crudely flaps his wings against the harsh winds of the dark north, a sailor of air lost in a sea of grey. His feathers are sticky, brown from the dried blood upon them, muddying the feathers that once were of a brilliant obsidian.

He could barely tell where he was, but he knew where he was going. He was functioning entirely on instinct, if supposed immortals even had anything like that. He didn’t feel immortal at all anymore. He felt the force, the scource of his life drain from him with each beat of his wings, and with each flap, he came Closer to the Destination that had enough magical energy to transport him where his mind told him he was meant to be. Make it there, do it, you have to, his mind told him. Otherwise, how would she know? How would she know he didn’t abandon her? How would she know he loved her more than anything he had ever loved? That he wanted to see her prosper and conquer and be the force that creates change in his stead for all those that would come into her life and get to witness her wonderful character, and lovable self? Or who had the misfortune of crossing her and learning how much of a mistake that would be?

The wind blares. It’s drowning his ears. He cannot even hear his own heartbeat. The drums of war within his head had silenced, and for the first and last time in his life, he heard anything but his calling. He could finally hear the world. He could hear life, and he could hear it’s absense. He hears the crackle of energy when he enters the radius of the area designed for interplane travel. A place he had frequently utilized when coming home.The sparks infront of his eyes were smudged in his blurry sight, and a single, hollow caw escaped his burning lungs, his sore, avian throat when he opened the portal, mindlessly diving into it in his frenzied haste. The bright light of the wormhole blinds him. And in what barely feels like a second later, he plunged into a severely hotter place, one he was familiar with. His caws echoed in the hallways of the palace of hell, barely audible anymore as he desperately made his way through them. He had to land and take off anew multiple times, unable to keep a steady flight. He is so tired. So tired. He wants to close his eyes so badly, take a nap, sleep for a while. But he can’t. He doesn’t know why, but he keeps trying and trying and trying again. Each attempt and subsequent failure more futile than the last, and shortly before the throneroom, where he heard her voice, he just. He can’t fly. He can’t. His wings are too heavy. More fresh blood seeps out of his wounds. It stains his formerly brilliant coat in crimson, makes it messy, sticky, ugly. The tracks of blood he leaves in his wake are smeared by his slow, shuffling steps.

He comes into the doorframe. And there he sees her. He sees his daughter. Her pristine, golden hair is just as rich and wonderful as it is in his memory. He caws, sees her head turn, in surprise, in dissappointment then at first, then with shock wide stare at his state. 

War collapses. He cannot even make it to the throne anymore. Cannot make it into the embrace of his child. His wounds, seared into him by otherworldly, uttermost godly influence, drag him into oblivion.

And when he finally gets to close his eyes, all he feels at last is how his small, flayed body is scooped up in a hurry.

War was now dead.

And yet, he left no peace behind.

[vxlravn]

crying in renaissance 

[vxlravn]

[vxlravn]

Dad?

why are dads so thick? like they dont need to work out. you just get thick as hell when youre a parent

[vxlravn]

I made a 16+ homestuck rp server on discord I think it’s really nice to have a lil server to rp and make friends so if you want to join go ahead! PLS REBLOG

[vxlravn]

@floramodus @cutemoniic

[vxlravn]

[ Its already munday over here ]

[vxlravn]

[vxlravn]

[vxlravn]

The next time somebody gives you shit about your late autism diagnosis, remember that Anthony Hopkins was diagnosed as autistic when he was 70 years old. 

People can go almost their whole lives and never know they’re autistic, but recognize they feel different from their peers.

And BTW Anthony Hopkins stims by rubbing his hands together, and being autistic is exactly why he’s such a good actor. He studies people’s mannerisms with an analytical mind, adopts those mannerisms for characters and turns out awesome performances. He’s a chameleon.

And he’s one of us, autistic community.

[vxlravn]

i cant believe my post about fuckteeth is my legacy

[vxlravn]

Dream career: that girl in Kiki’s Delivery Service who lives in the woods alone and draws birds

[vxlravn]

no offense but fly me to the moon and let me play amongst the stars,let me see what spring is like on jupiter and mars

[vxlravn]

My sociology professor had a really good metaphor for privilege today. She didn’t talk about race or gender or orientation or class, she talked about being left-handed.

A left-handed person walks into most classrooms and immediately is made aware of their left-handedness - they have to sit in a left-handed seat, which restricts their choices of where to sit. If there are not enough left-handed seats, they will have to sit in a right-handed seat and be continuously aware of their left-handedness. (There are other examples like left-handed scissors or baseball mitts as well.)

Meanwhile, right-handed people have much more choice about where to sit, and almost never have to think about their right-handedness.

Does this mean right-handed people are bad? No.

Does it mean that we should replace all right-handed desks with left-handed desks? No.

But could we maybe use different desk styles that can accommodate everyone and makes it so nobody has limited options or constant awareness that they are different? Yes.

Now think of this as a metaphor. For social class. For race. For ethnicity. For gender. For orientation. For anything else that sets us apart.

[vxlravn]

w-whats the marriage story can you give teeny tiny summary or smth holy cow

ill gladly retell it but it sounds like complete horseshit, the only thing i have to prove myself is the fact that i made all those lying on the internet compilations because i hate people who bullshit this stuff and ive studied them enough to know that if i wanted to fabricate my own i would have made this way less stupid and more believable. ANYWAY

in like 2006 or 7 i was really into metalocalypse and made a myspace page for my fan character and there was a handful of people who roleplayed as the members of dethklok so i friended and interacted w them as my OC, they had a little following so when people saw us interacting on bulletins or tagging each other they would come and friend me (my OC), obv not knowing its a 13 year old doing it cause all the pics were just drawings of her

so this one guy friended me and immediately formed a weird obsession with my character and would constantly comment on her stupid myspace pics (again - drawings, and not very good ones) with shit like “you look good” “sexy” “we could be together if this was Cool World” and would occasionally message me with more or less the same sentiments but i didnt wanna talk to a random greasy stranger so i never responded with more than a “thx”

he went silent after a while and i didnt think much of it until a couple weeks later he shot me another message to the tune of “hey babe im sorry ive been quiet my wife found our messages and kicked me out” and thats how i ruined a marriage through my metalocalypse OC

[vxlravn]

cop: can you describe the guy who stabbed you

me: yeah he was not very friendly