I love everything about this.

Why does this feel like something a hobbit would do?

IT’S NOT ‘PEEKED’ MY INTEREST

OR ‘PEAKED’

BUT PIQUED

‘PIQUED MY INTEREST’

THIS HAS BEEN A CAPSLOCK PSA

THIS IS ACTUALLY REALLY USEFUL THANK YOU

ADDITIONALLY:

YOU ARE NOT ‘PHASED’. YOU ARE ‘FAZED.’

IF IT HAS BEEN A VERY LONG DAY, YOU ARE ‘WEARY’. IF SOMEONE IS ACTING IN A WAY THAT MAKES YOU SUSPICIOUS, YOU ARE ‘WARY’.

ALL IN ‘DUE’ TIME, NOT ‘DO’ TIME

‘PER SE’ NOT ‘PER SAY’

THANK YOU

BREATHE - THE VERB FORM IN PRESENT TENSE

BREATH - THE NOUN FORM

THEY ARE NOT INTERCHANGEABLE

WANDER - TO WALK ABOUT AIMLESSLY

WONDER - TO THINK OF IN A DREAMLIKE AND/OR WISTFUL MANNER

THEY ARE NOT INTERCHANGEABLE (but one’s mind can wander)

DEFIANT - RESISTANT DEFINITE - CERTAIN

WANTON - DELIBERATE AND UNPROVOKED ACTION (ALSO AN ARCHAIC TERM FOR A PROMISCUOUS WOMAN)

WONTON - IT’S A DUMPLING THAT’S ALL IT IS IT’S A FUCKING DUMPLING

BAWL- TO SOB/CRY

BALL- A FUCKING BALL

YOU CANNOT “BALL” YOUR EYES OUT

AND FOR FUCK’S SAKE, IT’S NOT “SIKE”; IT’S “PSYCH”. AS IN “I PSYCHED YOU OUT”; BECAUSE YOU MOMENTARILY MADE SOMEONE BELIEVE SOMETHING THAT WASN’T TRUE.

THANK YOU.

*slams reblog*

IT’S ‘MIGHT AS WELL’. ‘MIND AS WELL’ DOES NOT MAKE GRAMMATICAL SENSE.

SLEIGHT - DEXTERITY, ARTIFICE, CRAFT (FROM ‘SLY’) SLIGHT - VERY LITTLE, FRAIL, DELICATE

IT’S ‘SLEIGHT OF HAND’.

DISCRETE - SEPARATE, DISTINCT, PARTED

DISCREET - SUBTLE, STEALTHY, DIPLOMATIC

BORN= existing as a result of birth

BORNE= carried or transported by

LIGHTENING = to make something less dark in color or to lessen its weight

LIGHTNING = bright flash of light during electrical storms

{This is quite helpful. Thank you Rebloggers.}

((adm: I just want to add-

Loose- untight

Lose- opposite of winning))

((ALSO: A fun trick -  Affect = Action  Effect = End Result ))

There = In that place

Their = belonging to them

can’t = a contraction for cannot

cant = a tilt or lean at an angle, usually to accommodate accessibility

Me thinking that this is child’s play and that I know it all already:

Me realising there are some things I didn’t already know:

TO- GOING ONE PLACE TOWARDS ANOTHER

TWO- 2, A NUMBER BETWEEN 1 AND 3

TOO- A DESCRIPTIVE WORD, THE MUSIC IS TOO LOUD, THE SHIRT IS TOO LOOSE.

TOO- A DESCRIPTIVE

WORD, THE MUSIC IS TOO LOUD,

THE SHIRT IS TOO LOOSE.

Beep boop! I look for accidental haiku posts. Sometimes I mess up.

I’m gonna add

ROGUE: CRIMINAL/REBEL/VAGRANT/ETC

ROUGE: RED MAKEUP

it’s rogues gallery, guys. Not rouge gallery. You’re making me think batman has an extensive lipstick collection.

If you’re talking about a weapons CACHE, it’s pronounced cash.

If you say cashay, that’s how CACHET is pronounced which means prestige and does not mean a collection of items stored together in a hidden/inaccessible place.

NO ONE IS ‘PREJUDICE"

PEOPLE ARE “PREJUDICED”

If he’s not moving, he’s STATIONARY.

If he’s a fucking space pencil, then carry on with STATIONERY.

If it’s wet precipitation falling out of the sky, it’s RAIN

If it’s someone ruling over people, it’s REIGN

If it’s holding back someone from (or getting someone to stop doing) something, that’s to REIN [them] IN (…as if you were using REINS on a horse)

(and oh yeah)

If you’re telling someone they’re going to have to reconsider an opinion or course of action, then they have ANOTHER THINK COMING

(because “another thing coming” makes no damn sense whatsoever unless they’re in some kind of monster movie, ffs)

Just adding:

HOARD - (n.) a collection of stuff, (vb) to collect a collection of stuff.

HORDE - (n.) a collection, group, mob or host of people, often unruly or barbaric.

PEEL - (n.) the outside skin of fruit, also (archaic n.) a tower house, sometimes spelled PELE; (vb) to remove the outside skin of fruit; by extension, usually as PEEL OFF, to remove clothing, but also (aviation) to break away, one aircraft at a time, from a larger formation.

PEAL - (n.) the sound of several church bells ringing together or in sequence; (vb.) to ring bells in this manner.

BREACH - (n.) a break or opening, usually in a wall; (vb) to make such an opening, also a whale rising clear of the surface of the sea. (The words BREACH and BREAK are distant relatives.)

BREECH - (n.) the bottom end of a gun-barrel, where it’s loaded; also (BREECH PRESENTATION) a baby being born bottom-foremost; also (n. pl.) BREECHES, a historical style of trousers ending just below the knee and (archaic vb) to BREECH, to dress a boy in breeches (adult clothing) for the first time.

English is…  Complicated.

And my favourite recent one,

It is “TO ALL INTENTS AND PURPOSES” and not “TO ALL INTENSIVE PURPOSES”.

Follower Art Giveaway

Hi everyone! To celebrate reaching the 900+ follower milestone, I'm doing a raffle where I will select two winners and will draw a full-color bust or half-body of the character(s) of their choice (limit is two characters per winner).

Please read below the cut for details:

Woo congrats!!!

Alright, guess it’s time to address the apocalyptic legal elephant in the room:

As someone who lived through the 4th edition/pathfinder schism, the situation is laughably similar:  D&D is flourishing more than it ever has (thanks primarily to the OGL) but the execs at Hasbro want more of the money spent on the hobby to wind up in their pockets. Oblivious to the fact that the opensource nature of the game is what draws people to it,  they task the design team with creating a proprietary virtual tabletop through which they can sell d&d content without having to worry about books or pdfs being pirated. This rightfully outrages the fandom and burns every scrap of good will they had towards WotC, resulting in a dead edition that’s maligned years afterword as folks hop to the newer, easier game system. 

The thing that’s different this time is that the d&d playerbase has grown exponentially since the days of the first OGL, with 5th edition being the easiest version of the game to run/pick up and so many resources online, there’s almost no barrier to entry besides finding a stable/accommodating group.   Hell, with the explosive popularity of liveplay series you don’t even need to be actively playing in order to be in the fandom.  All of these people are networked together in a fandom hivemind spread across twitter/reddit/youtube and WotC just made an enemy of every single one of them with its shameless and destructive cashgrab.  No streamer or 3rd party publisher wants to give Hasbro 25% of their revenue, to say nothing of having their project “cancelled” if WotC sees it as a threat to any of their current projects ( see the huge number of spelljammer materials published after the company dropped the ball). 

It took about two years after the announcement of 4th edition for Paizo to come out with pathfinder, and I have no doubt the OGL leak kickstarted every major 3rd party publisher brainstorming some legally distinct version of the 5e ruleset. In the coming months I expect to see a number of these surrogate systems floating around the internet in much the same way that the onednd playtest content, but spurred on with the added “fuck you Hasbro” energy. After that, it’s only a matter of time till one of the big streamers picks up one of these systems and popularizes it, not wanting to pay the 25%tithe to WotC. Personally my money’s on Critical Role: they were one of the major factors in popularizing 5th edition and they’ve got the fandom pull to legitimize any claimant to the throne. 

To step away from playing oracle for a bit, I’d like to finish up this post by dunking on WotC:  

*ahem*

HOW FUCKING DUMB TO YOU HAVE TO BE TO TURN YOUR ENTIRE CUSTOMER BASE AGAINST YOU IN ONE NIGHT? This is some new coke/Reynolds pamphlet/invading Russia in winter levels of shooting yourself in the foot. Wizards was on shaky ground to begin with given that they’re coming off a series of notably disappointing products AND trying to launch a new edition/virtual tabletop/battlepass system, but to follow that up with a retroactive rules change that lets them outright steal from or shut down creators? It’s laughable.  Maybe, MAYBE they could have made this work if they were knocking it out of the park with new releases every year and cultivating a base of diehard WotC loyalists, but the fact of the matter is that aside from the brand name, the hobby has largely passed them by. Everything that Wizards does, from player options to settings to monsters to rules modules, someone else does better because they’re willing to take risks and put in the effort. Aside from the elegant simplicity of 5e’s base system, I can count maybe two pieces of actual game design (piety from Theros, ship combat from Saltmash) that I consider usable at my table, which is SAYING SOMETHING considering we’re nearing the end of the game’s ten year golden age. 

I know we’ll weather this storm, we always have, and regardless of what happens I still know my friends and I will enjoy gathering around the table and slinging dice even though we might not be playing “dungeons and dragons” in a couple years time.  I’ll keep my eye on the horizon, and let you know where I find safe harbour.

look idk anything about any of this but i just gotta reblog for

“This is some new coke/Reynolds pamphlet/invading Russia in winter levels of shooting yourself in the foot”

I mean it’s a very classic thing to try and this is exactly why: “but the fact of the matter is that aside from the brand name, the hobby has largely passed them by.”

When someone or something that has dominated a sphere or market or platform or even hobby (and this isn’t always “evil companies” - this can literally happen with individual creators/people), and has had a lot of benefit from it (and again, this isn’t always money - sometimes it’s just ATTENTION), and they’re NOT anymore, and for whatever reason having that dominant place was IMPORTANT to them (which it usually is if it’s something they’re making money from) they tend to start getting upset.

And especially if previous attempts to get their dominant position back haven’t worked (if, for example, their previous material releases are lacklustre and being treated accordingly), they start trying to do shit to MAKE people Give Them What They’re Owed.

By this point, whether an individual creator or a company, they also probably already feel super aggrieved: they already feel like alllllll these people are going around NOT rewarding them as they SHOULD be rewarded, so they absolutely end up being stupid as shit about it in how they try to “make” people do it.

With a company*, the thing they want is probably money, and they do shit like this: they try to find some way to use the law to bully their customer base and users into sending their appropriate tithes. But despite it being a money thing, that sense of GRIEVANCE is almost always still at play: AFTER ALL, the company will insist, it’s THEIR property and THEY didn’t HAVE to let people do things like this in the first place - !

etc etc etc. And they don’t see it as “you just dropped a total bomb on your relationship with your customer-base for no good reason”, because they ALREADY feel Very Aggrieved because the customer base wasn’t playing right (ie: showering them with money, praise and market dominance).

Now you can absolutely point out that this is STILL EXTREMELY STUPID and you’re not wrong! But I stg it’s very much based in the human sense of being WRONGED. Cunning and intelligent cash-grabs that are motivated purely by greed tend to be much, much subtler than this, moving carefully so as not to scare the prey off.

THIS stuff comes from people being increasingly aware that they’re not getting what they want, when they feel like they’re entitled to what they want, and being MAD about that as much as just looking for the money. And it leads to the stupidest things, stg.

(*with individuals whose reward is attention or adulation, rather than money, this will usually come out in increasingly Entitled behaviour and complaints and framing themselves as the victim and so on. The monetary and personal can overlap. Humans are good at that.)

I've been watching this train wreck and alternatively laughing at the shitshow and crying at the sheer stupidity and waste.

As far as I'm aware, as of Wednesday Jan 11th at 7 am there is still no real response from WotC. They went from two tweets a day on all their major accounts to radio silence, with a halfhearted "Please stand by," message bring sent out a couple days ago.

Either they really didn't anticipate this much backlash, and are now scrambling to rewrite the 1.1ogl into something better, or they're hoping that if they're silent for long enough we'll all forget and let them do whatever they want.

My dearest, fondest hope for this right now is that there is a mutiny happening in Hasbro right now, that there are people with contracts that are unwilling to allow this and are stonewalling the companies efforts to spin this as a good thing. I know it's not likely, but hey, a person can dream right?

microdosing on catharsis by watching a fictional character or persona i relate to have an emotional breakdown until my chest starts to ache from the amount i've repressed

OK but like... in Encanto, when Maribel is singing right after her little cousin's ceremony and she says "I'm fine. I'm not fine I'm NOT FINE" and her voice cracks just a little on that second I'm not fine?

It gets me. Every time. I sing along and every time i have to stop singing and clear my throat cause of how much it hits me

do you ever form close relationships with people in your dreams and then feel a little sad when you wake up

i had a son in one of my dreams, he was 3 or 4, i loved him so much, i don’t remember his name but i remember loving him so much, and then i woke up and he was gone

Hey um what the FUCk

tldr: boy have i ever

Are you people ok??

Short answer? No.

The Importance of Mary Sue

When I was in Ninth Grade, I won a thing.  

That thing, in particular, was a thirty dollar Barnes & Noble gift certificate.  I was still too young for a part-time job, so I didn’t have this kind of spending cash on me, ever.  I felt like a god.

Drunk with power, I fancy-stepped my way to my local B&N.  I was ready to choose new books based solely on the most important of qualities…BADASS COVER ART.  I walked away with a handful of paperbacks, most of which were horrible (I’m looking at you, Man-Kzin Wars III) or simply forgettable.  

One book did not disappoint.  I fell down the rabbit hole into a series that proved to be as badass as the cover art promised (Again, Man-Kzin Wars III, way to drop the ball on that one).  With more than a dozen books in the series, I devoured them.  I bought cassette tapes of ballads sung by bards in the stories.  And the characters.  Oh, the characters.  I loved them.  Gryphons, mages, but most importantly, lots of women.  Different kinds of women.  So many amazing women.  I looked up to them, wrote bad fiction that lifted entire portions of dialogue and character descriptions, dreamed of writing something that the author would include in an anthology.

This year I decided in a fit of nostalgia to revisit the books I loved so damn much.  I wanted to reconnect with my old friends…

…and I found myself facing Mary Sues.  Lots of them.  Perfect, perfect, perfect.  A fantasy world full of Anakin Skywalkers and Nancy Drews and Wesley Crushers.  I felt crushed.  I had remembered such complex, deep characters and didn’t see those women in front of me at all anymore.  Where were those strong women who kept me safe through the worst four years of my life?

Which led me to an important realization as I soldiered on through book after book.  That’s why I needed them.  Because they were Mary Sues.  These books were not written to draw my attention to all the ugly bumps and whiskers of the real world.  They were somewhere to hide.  I was painfully aware that I was being judged by my peers and adults and found lacking.  I was a fuckup.  And sometimes a fuckup needs to feel like a Mary Sue.  As an adult, these characters felt a little thin because they lacked the real world knowledge I, as an adult, had learned and earned.  But that’s the thing…these books weren’t FOR this current version of myself.   Who I am now doesn’t need a flawless hero because I’m comfortable with the idea that valuable people are also flawed.

There is a reason that most fanfiction authors, specifically girls, start with a Mary Sue.  It’s because girls are taught that they are never enough.  You can’t be too loud, too quiet, too smart, too stupid.  You can’t ask too many questions or know too many answers.  No one is flocking to you for advice.  Then something wonderful happens.  The girl who was told she’s stupid finds out that she can be a better wizard than Albus Dumbledore.  And that is something very important.  Terrible at sports?  You’re a warrior who does backflips and Legolas thinks you’re THE BEST.   No friends?  You get a standing ovation from Han Solo and the entire Rebel Alliance when you crash-land safely on Hoth after blowing up the Super Double Death Star.  It’s all about you.  Everyone in your favorite universe is TOTALLY ALL ABOUT YOU.

I started writing fanfiction the way most girls did, by re-inventing themselves.  

Mary Sues exist because children who are told they’re nothing want to be everything.  

As a girl, being “selfish” was the worst thing you could be.  Now you live in Narnia and Prince Caspian just proposed marriage to you.  Why?  Your SELF is what saved everyone from that sea serpent.  Plus your hair looks totally great braided like that.

In time, hopefully, these hardworking fanfiction authors realize that it’s okay to be somewhere in the middle and their characters adjust to respond to that.  As people grow and learn, characters grow and learn.  Turns out your Elven Mage is more interesting if he isn’t also the best swordsman in the kingdom.  Not everyone needs to be hopelessly in love with your Queen for her to be a great ruler.  There are all kinds of ways for people to start owning who they are, and embracing the things that make them so beautifully weird and complicated.

Personally, though, I think it’s a lot more fun learning how to trust yourself and others if you all happen to be riding dragons.

Mary Sues exist because children who are told they’re nothing want to be everything.

A girl making herself the hero of her own story is a radical act. Stop shaming girls for doing it. Stop shaming yourself for it. 

Who I am now doesn’t need a flawless hero because I’m comfortable with the idea that valuable people are also flawed.

That… that’s important. So’s this whole post, but I just.. wanted to pull that out for a moment and look at it a little longer.

Pro Tip: The Way You End a Sentence Matters

Here is a quick and dirty writing tip that will strengthen your writing.

In English, the word at the end of a sentence carries more weight or emphasis than the rest of the sentence. You can use that to your advantage in modifying tone.

Consider:

Do you pick up the subtle differences in meaning between these three sentences?

The first one feels a little angry, doesn't it? And the third one feels a little softer? There's a gulf of meaning between "what you said didn't matter" (it's not important!) and "it didn't matter what you said" (the end result would've never changed).

Let's try it again:

That first example seems to kind of side with her, right? Whereas the second example seems to hold a little bit of judgment or accusation? The first phrase kind of seems to suggest that she was so sad she couldn't cry, whereas the second kind of seems to suggest that she's not sad and that's the problem.

The effect is super subtle and very hard to put into words, but you'll feel it when you're reading something. Changing up the order of your sentences to shift the focus can have a huge effect on tone even when the exact same words are used.

In linguistics, this is referred to as "end focus," and it's a nightmare for ESL students because it's so subtle and hard to explain. But a lot goes into it, and it's a tool worth keeping in your pocket if you're a creative writer or someone otherwise trying to create a specific effect with your words :)

this is one reason I think people who want to write good prose should spend some time close-reading and learning to write poetry. because this sort of effect is a lot easier to notice and to learn to use in poetry.

Temples are built for gods. Knowing this a farmer builds a small temple to see what kind of god turns up.

Arepo built a temple in his field, a humble thing, some stones stacked up to make a cairn, and two days later a god moved in.

“Hope you’re a harvest god,” Arepo said, and set up an altar and burnt two stalks of wheat. “It’d be nice, you know.” He looked down at the ash smeared on the stone, the rocks all laid askew, and coughed and scratched his head. “I know it’s not much,” he said, his straw hat in his hands. “But - I’ll do what I can. It’d be nice to think there’s a god looking after me.”

The next day he left a pair of figs, the day after that he spent ten minutes of his morning seated by the temple in prayer. On the third day, the god spoke up.

“You should go to a temple in the city,” the god said. Its voice was like the rustling of the wheat, like the squeaks of fieldmice running through the grass. “A real temple. A good one. Get some real gods to bless you. I’m no one much myself, but I might be able to put in a good word?” It plucked a leaf from a tree and sighed. “I mean, not to be rude. I like this temple. It’s cozy enough. The worship’s been nice. But you can’t honestly believe that any of this is going to bring you anything.”

“This is more than I was expecting when I built it,” Arepo said, laying down his scythe and lowering himself to the ground. “Tell me, what sort of god are you anyway?”

“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth. I’m a god of a dozen different nothings, scraps that lead to rot, momentary glimpses. A change in the air, and then it’s gone.”

The god heaved another sigh. “There’s no point in worship in that, not like War, or the Harvest, or the Storm. Save your prayers for the things beyond your control, good farmer. You’re so tiny in the world. So vulnerable. Best to pray to a greater thing than me.”

Arepo plucked a stalk of wheat and flattened it between his teeth. “I like this sort of worship fine,” he said. “So if you don’t mind, I think I’ll continue.”

“Do what you will,” said the god, and withdrew deeper into the stones. “But don’t say I never warned you otherwise.”

Arepo would say a prayer before the morning’s work, and he and the god contemplated the trees in silence. Days passed like that, and weeks, and then the Storm rolled in, black and bold and blustering. It flooded Arepo’s fields, shook the tiles from his roof, smote his olive tree and set it to cinder. The next day, Arepo and his sons walked among the wheat, salvaging what they could. The little temple had been strewn across the field, and so when the work was done for the day, Arepo gathered the stones and pieced them back together.

“Useless work,” the god whispered, but came creeping back inside the temple regardless. “There wasn’t a thing I could do to spare you this.”

“We’ll be fine,” Arepo said. “The storm’s blown over. We’ll rebuild. Don’t have much of an offering for today,” he said, and laid down some ruined wheat, “but I think I’ll shore up this thing’s foundations tomorrow, how about that?” 

The god rattled around in the temple and sighed.

A year passed, and then another. The temple had layered walls of stones, a roof of woven twigs. Arepo’s neighbors chuckled as they passed it. Some of their children left fruit and flowers. And then the Harvest failed, the gods withdrew their bounty. In Arepo’s field the wheat sprouted thin and brittle. People wailed and tore their robes, slaughtered lambs and spilled their blood, looked upon the ground with haunted eyes and went to bed hungry. Arepo came and sat by the temple, the flowers wilted now, the fruit shriveled nubs, Arepo’s ribs showing through his chest, his hands still shaking, and murmured out a prayer. 

“There is nothing here for you,” said the god, hudding in the dark. “There is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.” It shivered, and spat out its words. “What is this temple but another burden to you?”

“We -” Arepo said, and his voice wavered. “So it’s a lean year,” he said. “We’ve gone through this before, we’ll get through this again. So we’re hungry,” he said. “We’ve still got each other, don’t we? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but it didn’t protect them from this. No,” he said, and shook his head, and laid down some shriveled weeds on the altar. “No, I think I like our arrangement fine.”

“There will come worse,” said the god, from the hollows of the stone. “And there will be nothing I can do to save you.”

The years passed. Arepo rested a wrinkled hand upon the temple of stone and some days spent an hour there, lost in contemplation with the god.

And one fateful day, from across the wine-dark seas, came War.

Arepo came stumbling to his temple now, his hand pressed against his gut, anointing the holy site with his blood. Behind him, his wheat fields burned, and the bones burned black in them. He came crawling on his knees to a temple of hewed stone, and the god rushed out to meet him.

“I could not save them,” said the god, its voice a low wail. “I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.” The leaves fell burning from the trees, a soft slow rain of ash. “I have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!”

“Shush,” Arepo said, tasting his own blood, his vision blurring. He propped himself up against the temple, forehead pressed against the stone in prayer. “Tell me,” he mumbled. “Tell me again. What sort of god are you?”

“I -” said the god, and reached out, cradling Arepo’s head, and closed its eyes and spoke.

“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said, and conjured up the image of them. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth.” Arepo’s lips parted in a smile.

“I am the god of a dozen different nothings,” it said. “The petals in bloom that lead to rot, the momentary glimpses. A change in the air -” Its voice broke, and it wept. “Before it’s gone.”

“Beautiful,” Arepo said, his blood staining the stones, seeping into the earth. “All of them. They were all so beautiful.”

And as the fields burned and the smoke blotted out the sun, as men were trodden in the press and bloody War raged on, as the heavens let loose their wrath upon the earth, Arepo the sower lay down in his humble temple, his head sheltered by the stones, and returned home to his god.

Sora found the temple with the bones within it, the roof falling in upon them.

“Oh, poor god,” she said, “With no-one to bury your last priest.” Then she paused, because she was from far away. “Or is this how the dead are honored here?” The god roused from its contemplation.

“His name was Arepo,” it said, “He was a sower.”

Sora startled, a little, because she had never before heard the voice of a god. “How can I honor him?” She asked.

“Bury him,” the god said, “Beneath my altar.”

“All right,” Sora said, and went to fetch her shovel.

“Wait,” the god said when she got back and began collecting the bones from among the broken twigs and fallen leaves. She laid them out on a roll of undyed wool, the only cloth she had. “Wait,” the god said, “I cannot do anything for you. I am not a god of anything useful.”

Sora sat back on her heels and looked at the altar to listen to the god.

“When the Storm came and destroyed his wheat, I could not save it,” the god said, “When the Harvest failed and he was hungry, I could not feed him. When War came,” the god’s voice faltered. “When War came, I could not protect him. He came bleeding from the battle to die in my arms.” Sora looked down again at the bones.

“I think you are the god of something very useful,” she said.

“What?” the god asked.

Sora carefully lifted the skull onto the cloth. “You are the god of Arepo.”

Generations passed. The village recovered from its tragedies—homes rebuilt, gardens re-planted, wounds healed. The old man who once lived on the hill and spoke to stone and rubble had long since been forgotten, but the temple stood in his name. Most believed it to be empty, as the god who resided there long ago had fallen silent. Yet, any who passed the decaying shrine felt an ache in their hearts, as though mourning for a lost friend. The cold that seeped from the temple entrance laid their spirits low, and warded off any potential visitors, save for the rare and especially oblivious children who would leave tiny clusters of pink and white flowers that they picked from the surrounding meadow.

The god sat in his peaceful home, staring out at the distant road, to pedestrians, workhorses, and carriages, raining leaves that swirled around bustling feet. How long had it been? The world had progressed without him, for he knew there was no help to be given. The world must be a cruel place, that even the useful gods have abandoned, if farms can flood, harvests can run barren, and homes can burn, he thought.

He had come to understand that humans are senseless creatures, who would pray to a god that cannot grant wishes or bless upon them good fortune. Who would maintain a temple and bring offerings with nothing in return. Who would share their company and meditate with such a fruitless deity. Who would bury a stranger without the hope for profit. What bizarre, futile kindness they had wasted on him. What wonderful, foolish, virtuous, hopeless creatures, humans were.

So he painted the sunset with yellow leaves, enticed the worms to dance in their soil, flourished the boundary between forest and field with blossoms and berries, christened the air with a biting cold before winter came, ripened the apples with crisp, red freckles to break under sinking teeth, and a dozen other nothings, in memory of the man who once praised the god’s work on his dying breath.

“Hello, God of Every Humble Beauty in the World,” called a familiar voice.

The squinting corners of the god’s eyes wept down onto curled lips. “Arepo,” he whispered, for his voice was hoarse from its hundred-year mutism.

“I am the god of devotion, of small kindnesses, of unbreakable bonds. I am the god of selfless, unconditional love, of everlasting friendships, and trust,” Arepo avowed, soothing the other with every word.

“That’s wonderful, Arepo,” he responded between tears, “I’m so happy for you—such a powerful figure will certainly need a grand temple. Will you leave to the city to gather more worshippers? You’ll be adored by all.”

“No,” Arepo smiled.

“Farther than that, to the capitol, then? Thank you for visiting here before your departure.”

“No, I will not go there, either,” Arepo shook his head and chuckled.

“Farther still? What ambitious goals, you must have. There is no doubt in my mind that you will succeed, though,” the elder god continued.

“Actually,” interrupted Arepo, “I’d like to stay here, if you’ll have me.”

The other god was struck speechless. “…. Why would you want to live here?”

“I am the god of unbreakable bonds and everlasting friendships. And you are the god of Arepo.”

Always reblog Arepo and his god

Just cryin on Tumblr on a Monday afternoon. What a beautiful piece of shared art. 

Spaces

Picture: Lavellan trying to pretend that Solas’ absence doesn’t bother her. She takes extra time each morning to dress herself, smiles a little too hard at everyone who crosses her path, sings a little too loud to the songs in the tavern. “Solas?” she scoffs when she’s asked. “No, I’m not upset. Why would I be? He’s the one missing out.” The edges of her lips are blade-sharp, and are effective in preventing any further questions.

Picture: Solas listening to one of his scout’s reports, trying to pretend he doesn’t care about what Lavellan is up to. He’s just a little too interested in the activities at Skyhold, posts more guards than are needed whenever Lavellan leaves the stronghold, grips the parchments that have details about her a little too tightly. “She seems to be happy,” his scout reports cautiously. “She’s always smiling.”

Picture: Solas and Lavellan in the Fade, together, but apart, each watching the other with fists clenched at their sides (all the better to keep from reaching out), lips pressed too-firmly together (all the better to keep the words in), but their eyes speak of heartbreak and yearning and want. And in the space between them plays out the sum of all their dreams - a home that’s filled with love and warmth and happiness, a future spent together, children with his eyes and her mouth and perfect in every way.

Picture: Lavellan and Solas opening eyes blurred with tears each morning, a gaping emptiness beneath their ribs, their tongues and lips sore from the strain of silence. Solas lets the tears fall, a moment of luxury he cannot afford, and whispers to the wind, hoping it will carry. Lavellan rolls out of bed, shoulders especially heavy, when the faintest of words drifts through the open window.

Ar lath ma.

This first thing I thought when I woke up from surgery was I am so hungry and I need ramen right now! but the second thing I thought was Oh my god, I'm safe.

I was safe.

I thought about having kids someday, but the thought was always divorced from the concept of having to grow them in my body. Whenever I thought about it, I would either start screaming or my mind would shut down. My worst nightmares featured discovering I was pregnant, and realizing I would have to keep it, and go through childbirth. I was terrified.

I got the surgery, and realized I was safe, and I never had those nightmares ever again. It was like finding out I was bulletproof.

Later, I looked at the broken condom, and I didn't see my life flash before my eyes. I didn't see my hopes and dreams turn to ash as I pivoted all my energy into a child I didn't want. I didn't see a possibility of starvation or homelessness because my already modest income went to a child I couldn't afford. I didn't see my disabled body becoming further disabled, or killed, by a pregnancy that I didn't want.

Read more between the pages commentary: https://www.patreon.com/posts/68216364 (free post, no paywall)

This post was flagged as "adult content" but I successfully (and very quickly) got my appeal approved.

To whatever conservative fuckhead who reported this as inappropriate, it didn't work, and it's still here, and I'm going to keep posting it forever so I can help people obtain the medical care they need. I hope poison ivy fills your yard, and may all your pets forevermore be maliciously incontinent.

You’ve been sentenced to 400 years for multiple murders. It’s been 399 years and your jailers are starting to get nervous.

I was twenty… twenty-five, I think?… when I was sentenced. Four hundred years was a length of time I couldn’t even imagine. It was a length of time I don’t think anyone could imagine, even the judge. It was just a big showy number that let everyone know I’d never see the light of day again. The mages who cast the spells were dramatic about it, practically shouting the part about ‘until death claims you, or four hundred years hath passed, forsooth, thou shalt be imprisoned here’. They don’t waste that kind of magic on most prisoners, but I was special.

The Slayer, they called me then. The Monster of Sentan. I’d killed nineteen people… I remember that number because I was so furious that they stopped me so close to my goal of twenty-one. And I didn’t just kill ordinary people, no, but the Chosen of the Gods. The Great and Good. They were terrified of me. So they locked me away, to die forgotten.

It had been a little less than a hundred years when the king died without heir, and a civil war tore the country apart. When the fighting was all over, the losers were dragged down to the deepest cells under the castle, and the new king and his soldiers stopped and stared at me. “Who… who is this?” he asked, frowning. “Some victim of the usurper?”

People like cooks and jailers and scrubbers don’t change as easily as kings. The same man who’d been bringing me my meals since there was still brown in his hair and beard shuffled forward, hunched and grey now. “No, yer majesty,” he said humbly. “That be a special prisoner, from before the old king died.”

“Special? Special how?” He frowned, moving closer to my cell. “The old king died more than ten years ago. This woman must have been a child then. What could she have done to - “

“Don’t get too close, yer majesty,” the old man said sharply. “That’s the Monster of Sentan… an’ she bites.”

That was true. I do bite.

Keep reading

A head’s-up to all my fellow writers (fan fiction and original fiction)

So last night I get an email about a new comment on one of my fan fics. I read the email, and the comment seemed shady as hell to me. But given it was late at night, I didn’t look into it until this morning. 

The comment, screen-capped from my email:

I was able to confirm that this is in fact spam–and a possible phishing scam–on this Reddit thread. The OP on that thread got similar messages on their fanfiction.net account, with the links included being identical to the ones in my comment. 

So just to make y’all aware, if you got this on one of your fics, make sure you’re reporting it as spam to whatever hosting platform you’re on. 

This feels like the start to a horror movie and I love it

From his viewpoint– suddenly this woman he’s been sending pictures of his junk goes from “hey, let’s meet up” to “Hello Brian Smith of 1214 Idyllic Terrace. Does your wife Rose know you’re here? How about your mother?”

He panics and blocks her. He’s sponging off of his wife, and if he gets busted, there goes his gravy train.

And then the woman shows up. In his house. She just got a job working with his wife, who absolutely adores her, and brought her home for dinner. And she’s doing that movie maniac thing where the entire conversation is about Brian, but Rose is clueless and whenever Rose isn’t looking she’s got cold eyes on him.

He tries to stay calm, and act like everything’s normal, and he gets up to get a beer or something and when he turns around from the fridge, Patty is standing there.

“Unlock your phone and give it to me right now.”

“I’m not–”

“Right. Now.”

She installs something on it and hands it back.

“I’ll be in touch. Don’t try to change phones.”

He tries to convince his wife not to be friends with her, even tries the “I think she was coming on to me” line, to which the wife is “Oh, that was definitely in your head. Marge is a lesbian.”

And she just gets progressively scarier throughout the film. He gives her a small payoff. She wants more. She leaves a package for Rose on the front door, but conveniently he gets there first and opens it to find printouts of screenshots. More clues get left behind. He’s only able to keep her from finding out through a combination of sheer luck and her gullibility in believing every explanation he comes up with for his odd behavior. Finally he dips into the secret account he’s been using to hide money he’s been stealing from his wife, and it’s a HUGE payout, but she wants MORE.

And then he comes home to find Marge sitting cheerfully next to Rose’s dead body. And Marge is like “Man, the police always start looking at the husband, and they’re going to find a whole bunch of stuff when they look through your texts. You’ve been promising this woman you’re going to leave your wife. You’ve been sending her money. Oh, she’s a catfish from an untraceable IP, and your wife was talking to the bank JUST THIS AFTERNOON about some odd transactions. You panicked and killed her, and you’ve got NO evidence otherwise. I bet you could be on a flight to a non-extradition country before they find the body, though.” He runs out the door. Marge starts laughing.

Rose joins in.

They kiss.

As the credits roll, you see the events from Rose’s point of view– having drinks with the new girl from work, with whom she’s getting along amazingly, and Marge’s phone goes off. “God, it’s this asshole from Tinder. He keeps sending me dick pics. Sooner or later they’re going to learn. It’s not even a nice dick. LOOK AT THIS. Who finds that attractive???” “I… used to? Holy fuck, that’s my husband. ”

and the hatching of the plan, to just keep fucking with him, up to “Okay, so, I’m gonna leave it on the doorstep. Make sure you’re a few minutes late, HE has to find it” “Oh, god, he tried to tell me it was the mailman. At 8:30. It was so pathetic.”

“WHERE DID HE GET TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS FROM? I’m paying off his goddamn college loans!”

Rose reporting to the police that her husband has been embezzling money from her disabled mother’s trust fund.

The police catching him in the airport. He’s smart enough to say nothing without his lawyer present, and by the time he knows what’s going on, he’s realizes exactly how fucked he is.

The trailer is a slowed down horror version of the Piña Colada Song.