dnd things

Zistopia - The Final Chapter

I had to redraw these scenes because they were so gooooooooooooood

[x]

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.”

… and a folk story was born???

idk who needs to hear this but when your english teacher asks you to explain why an author chose to use a specific metaphor or literary device, it’s not because you won’t be able to function in real-world society without the essential knowledge of gatsby’s green light or whatever, it’s because that process develops your abilities to parse a text for meaning and fill in gaps in information by yourself, and if you’re wondering what happens when you DON’T develop an adult level of reading comprehension, look no further than the dizzying array of examples right here on tumblr dot com

These are amazing — and shockingly accurate. Did you know there’s a “Bechdel test” for female scientist biographies?

Follow @the-future-now​

googles oliver sacks for personal reasons

i had this dream like a month ago that i was playing a dating sim and at the start you create an avatar of yourself and answer a few personality questions

but then when the game starts you’re actually playing as the love interest on the cover of the game, attempting to romance YOURSELF aka the avatar you just made, and the whole point of the game was to try and show you why someone might find your personality and all your little idiosyncrasies lovable

like if in the personality questions u say u like dry humour, then the love interest will comment on how they love how good your comedic timing with that type of humour is, or if you’re always late, they’ll mention how they always watch the door when you usually come through and seeing you arrive late is part of their routine, etc

it was a super cute idea and i was mad into it and then i woke up and realized it wasn’t real lmfao

the territory overseen by a count is called a county.

the territory overseen by a baron is called a barony.

the less said about “”””duchies””””” the better.

Wait... is THAt how you pronouce duchy???

Sadly, no. We were robbed.

I have also heard that we were robbed of British counts because it sounded too much like “cunt” in an English accent, so they went with the title of earl instead. I don’t know if that’s true but I like to think it is because I am a wretched little creature who derived great pleasure from associating aristocratic peerage with prurient and scatalogical humor.

to make things even more confusing for the british using 'earl', the female form is 'countess' because *why not*

Britain shared “baron” and “duke” with France but just awkwardly cleared its throat and stuck with the Viking term. Suspicious.

there's quite a few words in the English language that are from vikings, enforcing the idea English is at least three languages stacked on top of each other in a trench coat

chronological timeline of all MHA manga/anime media!

My Hero Academia: Smash!! (Spin-off) and My Heroine Academia (Spin-off) have no clear timeslot, and their events happen throughout the rest of the above timeline

STOP WRITING OFF OLD PEOPLE

they were not “going to die in a few months anyway”

the average life expectancy at age 70 is 15 years. fifteen years! when i am 70 i can tell you i am going to want every minute of every remaining year i can get because i’m not going to be anywhere near done thinking and talking and traveling and being with loved ones. it’s 2020, 70 is just not that fucking old any more

“okay but what about like an 85 year old” no. fuck you. the average life expectancy at age 85 is 6.5 years. (that’s not a discrepancy ... the longer you live, the likelier you are to be made of resilient stuff.) my father is 84, a bit creaky round the edges, got a few of those underlying conditions, but yanno he’s not fucking done yet either, he’s full of beans, and many many people would prefer him to stay that way

old people’s lives are important. i’m sorry about your generational trauma, i sympathize even, but stop it

THANK YOU.

also the old people most likely to die aren’t rich boomers sitting on a shitload of wealth and privilege. the old people most likely to die are poor people, because they have less access to healthcare and are more likely to be working because they can’t afford to retire. you’re supporting the death of the 75-year-old checkout bagger at Walmart, not some rich eccentric who leaves her fortune to her cats.

Husbando game too strong in this season

Time to say goodbye 

just be friends

Retsuko and Tadano

Not to critique evolution, but I would think orange and black stripes wouldn’t be as good for camouflage in a forest as, say, green and black would.

It turns out a lot of animals can’t see the difference between orange and green!  Elephants, for instance, have dichromatic vision (two types of cones, rather than three like most humans.) 

Check out this diagram from ResearchGate.  It deals with the color vision of horses, who are also generally dichromatic.  (I think, though I’m not sure, that zebras would have the same color vision as horses.)  See how orange and green look to them?

Not to critique evolution but I think prey animals should be better at telling when their predator is dressed like a traffic cone.

It doesn’t matter what zebras see, because tigers are not native to Africa and do not naturally hunt zebra.  Tigers are Asian and mostly hunt animals like deer, elk, and buffalo.  These aren’t animals with great color vision.  They don’t need to have it because they don’t eat fruit and so don’t need to know when the berry is ripe vs when it’s not.  Good color vision is too expensive to have if you don’t need it.  Deer put their vision stats in a wide field of vision that is sensitive to motion, low light capabilities, and possibly seeing UV light.  They don’t have great color and lack a lot of acuity, but have a great sense of smell and good hearing.  That’s way more useful if you’re prey.  Deer see well in the blue end of the color spectrum and less well in the red.  This makes sense because deer are most active in the dawn and dusk periods, when there is more blue in the light.  Tigers are taking advantage of deer eyesight by being orange.

We see tigers are being obviously colored because tigers are fruit colored to our tree ape brains.

I don’t know what the best part of this is: implying that deer chose their attributes on a character sheet, or the fact that we get to see tiger colors because they look like a snack.

Ok but like, I think you underestimate just how well they blend in when actually in the environment. Like, just using tigers as an example.

or how about a leopard?

It’s called ‘disruptive colouration’ because the markings help to break up the animal’s outline against the grasses or rocks. And the rosettes on leopards and jaguars? Sun spots shining through the trees and leaves on the ground.

And this is how hard it is to spot them WITH colour vision. Now imagine the above images but with the limited coloured mentioned above?

I’m sorry but there is not an animal in that first leopard picture

Are you, sure about that?

“Tigers are fruit colored” is my new favorite phrase.

I’m dead. I died. It got me.

And this is why the US military recruits people who are red-green colorblind, because I was like “There’s one. There’s another. Here’s a third.” for all the tigers and leopards. It’s kind of weird how these tricks work GREAT on either REALLY BAD color vision or REALLY GOOD color vision…but slightly impaired color vision just blows them out of the water.

This whole post

A 5,000-year-old tree in Scotland is giving itself a sex change. The male Fortingall Yew has been producing pollen for as long as scientists have been studying it, but in 2015, the tree suddenly sprouted berries in a rare occurrence that means at least part of the tree is now transitioning to female. Source Source 2 Source 3

I support trans grandma tree 

Bigots: transgender people are unnatural!

Trans Tree: what u just say

TIL this tree has been alive long enough to see over 100 generations of bigots die mad about it.

How dare you hide this pun in replies?

Here is my future comic idea about the social media in a short comic and this is the first look of the characters designed by me yeet♥ I gotta look at the feedback if it is good, If you are interested in this idea, I’ll start making a comic about them^^

Hi! I put up a 50 page packet of Storyboard Tips covering some moderate-to-advanced topics (POV, cinematic shots, etc). It’s pay-what-you-want, and all proceeds go to @InnerCityArts.

If you’re not sure how much it’s worth donating for, donate $0, download, decide, then re-donate for whatever amount and then do it again!

(reblogging with previews of random pages)

Hey guys! Our wonderful director has created an excellent guide for others in the field, which I know took a zillion thoughtful hours to render, and will only improve animation from here forward.

But more importantly - my favorite screenshot from the series. And here I ask:::

It’s Branch in ‘I ❤️Cooper’ spankies.

Donate $1-$10 if you support an excellent cause

And Branch in his undies.

https://gumroad.com/l/JMMStoryboardTips

And how bout a pledge. For every drawing of Branch in ‘I ❤️Cooper’ undies from this fandom, I’ll donate $10. Go on now. Create art.

what is it about fungi that’s so mythical and freaky and set in humanities heads as “fable and Other Folk” fodder

the lore

the vibes

the spooky feeling in the Ghosts and Aliens Section of my brain that goes off

like, look at this and tell me that magic isn’t real and doesn’t want to strip us bare and use our souls as bartering chips in cosmic games of poker

mushrooms are an ancient force of growth and decay, life and rot, collapse and creation; they have been here long before us and will remain long after we’re gone- devouring that which kills us and creating that which forgets us.

it is best you tread carefully.

I’m studying biotech and every time someone brings up mushrooms our current professor will look either extremely exited or pained and go “listen.. mushrooms are neither plants nor animals nor something in between. They elude all attempts to categorize them. We do not know what they are. Some are immortal. Some produce live saving substances. Some are so closely related to humans that eating them may cause an allergic reaction against your own body. I cannot teach you about the mushrooms”

Oh to be a biotech professor and wax lyrical about the eldritch immortal mushroom.