As A Recent Ace Just Realizing How Much More To The Community There Is I WANT TO LEARN! I Had No Idea

Some new sigil designs that will be avaliable on the 30th

Fuck you. This is the coward's way out. This train will not bring you back in time.

It will not take her arm, or his eye. It will not gift your cheeks their stubble. It will heave its way through English fields and English woods and English towns and English rain, and our mother will sit in that compartment with you.

Have you considered that? Mother, who looks at you as a chicken beholds the fox beneath the fence, as a farmer beholds the wolf by the gate, mother, who has long since washed all colour from her face.

Mother, who is grey and damp as the rain.

Hours in a locked tomb. Hours with her. What will she say? How will she sit? What things will she drag from your mouth?

Will she pin you, with those tired eyes, with those faded hands, to the fabric of your seat, to take from you the answers we have been keeping from her for years?

And how could you ever tell her? How could you dare?

Mother, your little boy has died. Mother, your little girl has seen battle. Mother, your children have commanded armies. They've sat thrones and mourned children. They've lost their people.

Twice.

Mother, you are tired. You are weary. You would not understand.

By the lion, you'd despair.

Mother, a witch has spelled your son when his ears still stuck out and he missed your husband with all the violence of a schoolboy. She took him, pointed nails and pearl-teeth, god, she carved flesh and bone and sinew until that paper-thin skin held nothing at all.

Mother, the son you sent to the countryside with the world digging into his shoulders has died. In tiny pieces, at first, and then all at once, as a trickle turns first into a stream and then into a raging river.

Until finally, it spreads into the sea.

Your child lies buried in every decree, every law, and- Christ, who are we kidding, the Narnian soil. The golden boy you wanted so desperately to protect lies in pieces next to the witch, rotting into the earth.

We cannot return him to you.

Will you tell her, I wonder, about the razor blades underneath your floorboards? Will you bare your neck and show her all the mess you've made of the soft skin there when the nights were long and the tremors were terrible?

What of the knives under our little ones' pillows?

Fuck you.

When I was born, I had you. When I was little, I had you. Those terrible, wonderful years - I had you. How am I meant to go on without you? Brother, I don't know how.

Already my lungs are refusing their work. Already my stomach turns. My teeth are aching, my bones have chilled. My cheeks are stained - big red streaks of salt.

Of blood.

I have carved a way for myself through the chalk and the limestone and the mud. With my hands and my teeth, on the last bit of hope I could still heave up in between the cigarettes and the whiskey, I dug my way to sunlight. For days, for months, for years.

With my bare fucking hands, brother.

And you? You've never put the sword down. You've never looked at the dirt. You can't, you say. You're not made for it. Your mouth is the wrong shape and your eyes want nothing to do with the ground.

Instead, you've spent your time picking out the perfect mortician, the right funeral shroud. The coffin. Instead, you've drawn maps and routes into a home that has long been plundered.

Brother, where has your hunger gone?

Dustin Panzino  -   https://www.artstation.com/inkwell  -  https://twitter.com/inkwell_illust  -  https://www.deviantart.com/dustinpanzino  -  https://linktr.ee/Inkwell  -  https://www.instagram.com/inkwell_illustrations/  -                              A Tribute to Studio Ghibli Featuring the following films Kiki’s Delivery Serves Howls Moving Castle Princess Mononoke Spirited Away Castle in the Sky Ponyo Whisper of the Heart My Neighbor Totoro Nausicaa valley of the wind The Secret World of Arrietty

Three years ago, you found an injured werewolf on the edge of your wards. You took them in, helped them regain their strength, and allowed them to stay for a while in return for some work around the place. They had been incredibly grateful, and mentioned how much of a relief it was to find a safe place for a “monster” such as themselves, when so many would deny them care or outright kill them. The comment stuck with you, and even after they left, you couldn’t make it leave your mind. 

Over time, you changed and strengthened your wards turning them into something meant to guide, protect, and offer safety. It didn’t take long for the welcoming magic to draw in a few others as they strayed through your forest, your house now a beacon for those in need, rather than a shielded little bubble of solitude, as it had been for years.

Now, your home is always alive with warmth peace and laughter, the wards and rather blunt rule board above the door and fireplace, ensuring that those who take refuge, know not to start trouble. The few that have tried, are either violently ejected from the premises, thanks to your ever strengthening wards, or removed by other patrons themselves. 

Not only is your home a safe space, but it is now also a functioning bar, with food and drink, and even rooms available for those who need to hide and nurse their wounds a while. Supernatural or human, all are welcome to seek refuge. Its strange watching so many walks of life shed their worries at the door and bond with others within the once lonely walls. 

Whilst your slowly growing little sanctuary is not very well known yet, the rumours of a safe space are now spreading to others in need. Now, one of the biggest and baddest names in the supernatural world has caught wind of your sanctuary, and decides to see if this is nothing more than another trap, made to prey on those who dwell in the dark, or truly a sanctuary, however unlikely that may be. 

𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐬 𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐬 𝐨𝐧

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐬

𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥, 𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧

𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐮𝐩 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞

𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥, 𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐧𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞

𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐬, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐬

𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥, 𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐬 𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝

𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐱𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝟐𝟑 𝐝𝐞𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐬

— cosmo sheldrake, “the moss”

Reelaeshunsheep

ppl: man, it’s gotta be so boring not having a crush. or be in a relationship. like - tf do you do all day?

ppl: *several agreeing nods or scoffs of approval*

ppl: *expectantly turn to me*

me:

me: oh

me: OH

me: oh

me: yeah, um-

me: *coughs*

me: gee - rELaTiONshiPS. yeah. can’t live without ‘em. gotta … uh ….

me: rOmAnCe it up amirite

decay sounds more gentle than rot. when something decays, it is gently taken apart in it's comfortable eternal slumber. when something rots, it's violently taken apart with agony. in this essay i will

since the old version of this post was flagged for 'adult content'...

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