“But it was not your fault but mine / And it was your heart on the line” 🗡️
“But it was not your fault but mine / And it was your heart on the line” 🗡️
Feel free to spam Larian on twitter (or discord or wherever) with this
thee-radio-host-is-a-kookaburra:
why do people always only expect you to have one thing. one disorder one pet one gender one pronouns one name one favorite movie one crush one best friend. like why do I have an inventory limit
has anyone drawn older Wyll? With his hair totally silver and his horns grown thick and curlier with age?
Now they have
all fanfiction is funnier and sexier and vastly better-written when you read it at three in the morning, in the dark, lying on your side, tucked into bed, with screen rotate turned off. that’s just how it works. that’s just facts.
Sucks that “sleeping together” refers to sex. Sometimes a fella just wants to snooze with a pal.
Reblog if you wanna snooze with a pal
At least once a week I get a comment on my old unfinished fic asking if I’ll finish it and just know that since I last updated that fic I have:
- graduated from my undergraduate
-started my honours
- brought a house
- gotten married
- graduated from my honours
- started a PhD
- started my career
- transed my gender
- gotten separated
- sold the house
- moved back in with my parents
- graduated from the PhD
- gotten divorced (see: gender transing)
- bought an apartment (but didn’t live in it)
- kept working that career, moving into a senior position
- did a whole bunch of world first research
- realised I wanted to marry my best friend
- sold the apartment (still never lived in it)
So. I’ve been BUSY. I’ll get back to it…. Eventually.
do you ever not write for so long that you’re almost afraid to? like what if I’m dumb now
You just gotta unclog the pipe. Are you dumb now? No. The water was sitting stagnant because you were busy doing other things (100% fine btw). If any ‘dumb’ got in the water then it will quickly leave once you let the water start flowing again. Go get all the stupid out into a doc that doesn’t matter. Even several of them. It might take a good while, especially if you’re returning to writing after years or after a period of intense burnout, or both (waves). But you’re just rusty, and letting that stop you will only ensure you stay stuck! Go forth and write some nonsense!
the way that luke tried so hard to get percy to join him in comparison to him plotting percy’s death via scorpion in the books is tbh so so good for story building. percy doesn’t understand luke’s motivations this early in the story so seeing luke beg percy and try to get him to understand is just so painful and makes the betrayal hit so much harder
#yeah i think it make so much more sense than offering once and then being like ‘oop that didn’t work time to die’#like i firmly believe luke doesn’t understand why percy won’t join him#because percy’s not fighting for the gods he’s fighting for the demigods and camp and his friends#and the gods happen to also benefit from that#and percy knows that kronos doesn’t care about them either#because percy KNOWS what unconditional and real love looks and feels like#and luke doesn’t#percy jackson#pjo – prev tags @itsallaces
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Kronos downfall has always been a mother’s love
The Pevensies are foreign when they return home.
The streets no longer know them. They do not seem to fit in their own bodies as they stroll the cobbles, Lucy’s hand tucked carefully into Peter’s, Edmund trailing watchfully behind Susan like a shadow. Their eyes are sharp, their smiles crooked, and those who see them cross to the opposite side of the road, afraid of the ancient gleam they see reflected back at them that does not belong in the eyes of a child.
Water murmurs to Lucy when she flits past, and lamplight follows her wherever she goes, even in broad daylight when the lamps are unlit. Their flames sputter into existence when she walks by, flickering at her in a way that seems to whisper I know you. Lucy looks at them with feral teeth and smiles, and vines twist from the cobbles at her feet. She laughs like a wild thing, eyes glowing, but a moment later she blinks and it is gone. Her feet hardly seem to touch the ground at all as she darts through the alleys.
The sky is clearer when Peter walks the streets, clouds vanishing like they were never there at all. His eyes are too much like a lion’s, struck through with gold and filled with a brooding fierceness, yet he laughs as he twirls Lucy around, and claps Edmund on the back as they share a stupid joke, and smiles with Susan when she tells him of the bow she plans to carve. He is all warmth and friendliness, but there is something about his eyes. There is something about all of their eyes.
The sun caresses Susan as she moves about, and she is graceful, too graceful, her hair seeming to be alive of its own accord as she steps lightly along the streets. Her skin is pale like ice, and sometimes her gaze appears almost silver as she stands by the river, gazing into its depths with a distant, siren-cold smile. She is gentle, but her fingers look a little too long sometimes. Her laugh is a little too unsettling.
Trees lean towards Edmund when he walks past, branches scraping his clothing, leaves showering around him. Books and journals and pages covered in notes perpetually fill his arms, spilling from his grasp but never quite falling. His voice is even-keeled, quiet, but there is something wild about it, something unhinged. He speaks of things none have ever heard before, dark hair falling into his eyes, mouth unsmiling and hands perfectly still, and for a moment he seems to be someone else, fangs beneath his lips, dirt on his tongue. He tilts his head just a little too far, sometimes.
The Pevensies are foreign when they return home. They do not fit their bodies. They do not fit the streets. People who encounter them cross to the other side of the road to avoid them, terrified of the oldness they see in the children’s faces. Such depth does not belong in the gaze of a child.
And yet four sets of eyes, ancient and deep and flickering like candlelight, stare out from the children’s faces, and their smiles are sharp, too sharp. Their laughter is a little too wild as they walk, the oldest and youngest hand-in-hand, the middle children trailing each other like shadows.
There is something about those children’s eyes.
There is something about those children.
Which season has the worst weather?
spring (cold -> warm. rain. mud. nature coming to life. flowers blooming.)
summer (hot. thunderstorms. bright. bugs and nature thriving)
fall (warm-> cool. rain. colorful. nature going to sleep. leaves EVERYWHERE)
winter (cold. snow, slush, and ice. dark. quiet. monotone.)
See Results
As an aroace person when I say ‘I need him’ I don’t mean it sexually. I mean I need to keep him in a jar and study him like a bug.
dropout tv is like . what if there was an animal shelter but it was for 30 yr olds with BAs in Theater
baldursgatekeepgaslightgirlboss:
“My name is Wyll, but the people of the Sword Coast call me the Blade of Frontiers”
Gabe Hicks cosplaying Wyll Ravengard. (Twitter)
Photographer: molkerphoto (Instagram)