KITR from ULTRAKILL
shawty got them evil bottom jeans
boots with the curse
The whole necropolis was looking at her
Some helpful tips for newcomers from Twitter:
- Truch your eglevigater so people don't think you're a voke
- The main way of planding wardic on Tumblr is merming, so always largan your spithers
- You can shooth your resils and lentries to "quotte"
- Nobody wants to get darrupted, so sten your correns offly
- NEVER GREEB; it's bad hootrum
- Remember: we're all in this together
NEW TUMBLR UPDATE:
You can only like 4 posts a day and if you even think of reblogging we're going to blow your brains out
it’s actually baffling how badly (& quickly!!) elon muck managed to fuck up twitter. Truly just the worst job possible.
Dragging my bleeding, broken body up to the last computer and hitting post before succumbing to my injuries…
A mark on your forehead identifies the god you must worship to stay alive, usually by joining its local church or temple. Your mark is unknown, meaning an old, forgotten god sponsored you. To survive, you must either find an old temple to worship at, or do the arduous task of building a new one
Nobody in your small coastal village has ever seen the Godmark that you were born with. It’s a dark russet sequence of criss-crossing lines, with a vertical arrowhead on the left and a circle on the right, just over where your brow meets your temple. Some of the traders who come down from the mountain say it looks like one of the scripts used in the hinterlands, but not a language that any of them recognize.
“If she’s got the temperament for it, she should try her luck inland,” they advise. “No point her starting a temple here if she’d find her people elsewhere, with a little searching.”
At first, your parents are reluctant to send you away. Though you’re well-behaved and diligent in your chores, you’re a sickly child with no God to worship. And besides, you’ve always been the dreamy type–inclined to lose track of time watching the path of rain droplets chasing down the window, or the fronds of an anemone as it sways in a rock pool.
Instead, they send you to the temple of the Storm to learn all you’ll need for your own God. You are happy there, for a time: making up beds and serving food to the castaways who pass through, keeping vigil at the lighthouse, burning incense and praying with the loyal widows and orphans of the drowned.
One such widow, an old, old lady, touches the mark on your forehead. “I recognise those letters. We wrote this way in the town where I grew up, way off past the mountains.”
Your heartbeat quickens. “What does it say!?”
She squints, eyes engulfed by wrinkles and hidden behind smudged glass. “A… Ar… Oh, I can’t remember how to speak it. I left before I learnt my letters properly. There was a war, you know. But I remember,” she says, mistily, “the most beautiful pink and white flowers used to grow, on the borders of the wheat fields…”
You try to ask more questions, but remembering the war distresses her, and so you speak of other things. When she’s drifted off to sleep, you get to your feet, go home and tell your parents: you are leaving in search of your God.
A mark on your forehead identifies the god you must worship to stay alive, usually by joining its local church or temple. Your mark is unknown, meaning an old, forgotten god sponsored you. To survive, you must either find an old temple to worship at, or do the arduous task of building a new one
Nobody in your small coastal village has ever seen the Godmark that you were born with. It’s a dark russet sequence of criss-crossing lines, with a vertical arrowhead on the left and a circle on the right, just over where your brow meets your temple. Some of the traders who come down from the mountain say it looks like one of the scripts used in the hinterlands, but not a language that any of them recognize.
“If she’s got the temperament for it, she should try her luck inland,” they advise. “No point her starting a temple here if she’d find her people elsewhere, with a little searching.”
At first, your parents are reluctant to send you away. Though you’re well-behaved and diligent in your chores, you’re a sickly child with no God to worship. And besides, you’ve always been the dreamy type–inclined to lose track of time watching the path of rain droplets chasing down the window, or the fronds of an anemone as it sways in a rock pool.
Instead, they send you to the temple of the Storm to learn all you’ll need for your own God. You are happy there, for a time: making up beds and serving food to the castaways who pass through, keeping vigil at the lighthouse, burning incense and praying with the loyal widows and orphans of the drowned.
One such widow, an old, old lady, touches the mark on your forehead. “I recognise those letters. We wrote this way in the town where I grew up, way off past the mountains.”
Your heartbeat quickens. “What does it say!?”
She squints, eyes engulfed by wrinkles and hidden behind smudged glass. “A… Ar… Oh, I can’t remember how to speak it. I left before I learnt my letters properly. There was a war, you know. But I remember,” she says, mistily, “the most beautiful pink and white flowers used to grow, on the borders of the wheat fields…”
You try to ask more questions, but remembering the war distresses her, and so you speak of other things. When she’s drifted off to sleep, you get to your feet, go home and tell your parents: you are leaving in search of your God.
[ID: Tweets from Emily 'Soup Lesbian' Gwen (@theemilygwen) on twitter with the following text:
Well, just left a job interview crying because the hiring manager told me they liked my application but were disappointed that I didn't bother dressing appropriately. I tried to explain that I haven't been able to afford new clothes in years but I just couldn't handle it.
That comment and my reaction was one of the most mortifying moments of my life. I thought I put together a decent outfit for the job with what I had, and hearing her say that just destroyed me.
Anyway I'm still looking for work and struggling a lot. Even $5 would help pay for a meal. ko-fi.com/emilygwen
End ID]
Please help Emily Gwen, the creator of the lesbian flag. If you show me that you donated any amount I will draw you something. You can also support them by buying something from their Threadless store!
RIP to the fujoshi who died &left a insane stack of yaoi at the thrift. heaven gained a beautiful angel tdoay.
brb gotta to go splash water on my face in the mens bathroom and look haggardly at myself in the mirror
