i. She has war running through her veins, anger in her heart. Her cries shatter the souls of men and the hearts of women. She loves those who worship her, those who hide their brilliant minds with bloody hands. Leaving tracks in the bloodstained sand, she wanders through the battlefield.
ii. Her mind sees all the moves her opponent makes. These pawns on a chess board, sacrificing and doing the same moves again and again. She blesses the scholar. Her eyes flash as she advises kings and queens, the one whose deed become immortal. She challenges those who are mortal to reach for the stars that she lives in.
iii. How the times spins by her as she sits at her loom, creating stories of strength and despair. To her they are one and the same. The colored strands gleam as she finds her peace. The world wanders in and out of the artwork. The glories of men and gods are proclaimed and she weeps.
iv. The councilor, the warrior, goddess of strength, her fire burns as she kisses the heads of those who still whisper her name. She is unmatched, sainted and sacred. Owl eyed goddess, her hands are claws, dripping with blood as she sings a funeral song
v. where is she? there. she is on the bloody beach, staring at the pyre of the lovers. She’s crying, ichor bleeding, heart breaking, yearning for the stars. She wants what has been denied to her for so long, she wants the gentle touch of a lover, kissing her scars. She wants a hand gripping hers as she marches into battle. She wants. She burns for someone to caress her skin, to run a knife across her heart, to pull her away from the war that threatens to consumes her mind. Whirling, burning, yearning. She needs.
I woke up at 11pm. The text conversation between me and this other person was going left *quickly*. They were blatantly disrespecting me and dismissing me without accountability. One of my BIGGEST pet peeves are people who fuck up and are unapologetic.
Here’s where they fucked up, for real, though. Two Saturdays ago, they were chilling with me at my house. They left a piece of mail with their name and address on it as well as three smoked cigarettes. Something told me to keep them as tag locks…
SO, at 12:30 this morning, I took the mail, cut out their name and address, and found some thorns I’d been saving for an occasion like this. I found a black bag, some black string, and my black salt. I stabbed their name and address with the thorns saying my curse:
I curse you, [their full name]. I curse your name and your deeds. Everything you build will be destroyed. Everything you try to progress will regress. You will remember what you did to me, apologize profusely and beg for my forgiveness. I curse your name, your family, your friends, your love life and your job.
I folded that tag lock and placed it in the bag along with the cigarette butts with their saliva on them and topped them with black salt. I bound the pouch with the black string, saying the curse over and over again.
I was MAD, y'all!
Once finished, I buried the bag in some dirt I have in my kitchen and burned some Dragon’s Blood incense over the spot. I also anointed a candle I have with the black salt and burned it next to the pot for extra kick.
I’M NOT EVEN DONE!
I’m making some Flying Devil Oil tonight for more revenge. It won’t be ready for a week but that is. fine. with. me.
The actions of the heart are the foundation (of belief), and the actions of the limbs follow and complete them. Intention is like the soul, and actions like the body: if the soul leaves the body, the body dies. Therefore, knowledge of the affairs of the heart is more important than knowledge of the affairs of the limbs… How else is a hypocrite distinguished from a believer except by deeds of the heart? The worship and submission of the heart is greater than the worship and submission of the limbs, they are more in number and more continuous since it (worship by the heart) is obligatory at every instances.
Let’s talk about Darth Vader and his (complete and utter lack of) redemption.
So, according to new Star Wars canon, Vader was not redeemed. Once again for those in the back:
The only person in the entire galaxy who forgave Vader for his evils was Luke. Leia still hates him, along with everyone else in the galaxy.
In Bloodline, Leia talks about how, whenever Luke tells the story of Vader’s redemption with awe and hope in his voice, she wants to puke. Because to Leia? Vader was the man who killed her entire family, destroyed her home, and mercilessly tortured her when she was 19. She wants NOTHING to do with him.
Darth Vader was an evil man who led a fascist regime for decades. His final act of destroying the Emperor, while impressive and important, didn’t make up for his evil deeds. ESPECIALLY in the eyes of this victims.
@luminousfinn is that in the ballpark of where you were going with this? I didn’t want to pile onto your post, but I had Thoughts. I can’t wait to read your meta tonight!
Well, stop the fucking presses! Lipstick Alley has fucking spoken and it is now the gospel! LMAO
Just because YOU think she was making it seem like she was going to Atlanta instead of LA, does NOT mean she was making it seem like she was going to Atlanta instead of LA. You all literally sound like the Turnip president of the United States. You say it is so and therefore “it is so”? Really? WOW
It’s a shame Sebastian can’t see right through you all, as you talk out of both sides of your mouths. left side: Love you, Seb! right side: His girlfriend is a wizard-level, master manipulator, using him for her ill deeds.
GRADE: B for creativity. Margarita isn’t posting pictures of Sebastian on her IG anymore, so you’ve become pretty fucking crafty.
At times, it is necessary for the worshiper to be isolated from others in order to pray, remember Allah, recite the Qur'an, and evaluate himself and his deeds. Also, isolation allows one to supplicate, seek forgiveness, stay away from evil, and so on.
It kills me to see young people who are said to be reckless and irresponsible strive for the sake of Allāh, struggle to adhere to the Sunnah and being prevented by their parents.
I don’t get it. It’s in your favor as a parent that your son or daughter seek righteousness and piety, if you encourage them, Insha'Allāh you will be rewarded, even if you’re not as righteous.
One must raise his children to be more righteous than himself and avoid passing his own shortcomings to them.
Who knows, may be that righteous son be the only thing that gets you to Jannah.
The Messenger of Allah (ﷺ) said, “When a man dies, his deeds come to an end except for three things: Sadaqah Jariyah (ceaseless charity); a knowledge which is beneficial, or a virtuous descendant who prays for him (for the deceased).”
Arme Thaumaturgy just sort of…. stares. How could his s/o be pregnant? He’s sure he took the proper precautions the few times they did the deed, but he can feel life in his s/o’s slowly swelling tummy, a little half-breed child growing. Despite his misgivings, he’s strongly against aborting the child. It’s life, after all, and Ishmael wants to preserve life. It’s also both sickening and strangely euphoric to him that it’s life he created when that power is supposed to be reserved for the Goddess.
Erbluhen Emotion isn’t sure what to feel. One moment he’s elated (it’s life he created! It’s a declaration of love for his s/o!), the next he’s worried (what if Ishmael doesn’t approve? What will the child be like, as a half-breed? Will they be okay after Ain disappears?), and the next he’s determined (damn it all, he’ll make this work, he loves his s/o too much to fail at this parenting thing.) If his s/o wants to abort the child, he’ll go along with it - it’s their body, after all, and perhaps it’s best for everyone that a half Celestial and half human baby is never created - but he’ll have misgivings.
Apostasia has to check for himself before he believes it. Unfortunately, his s/o is telling the truth - when he puts his hand on their belly, he can feel the tiny throb of life underneath. He almost trips in his hurry to get away from his s/o. He doesn’t want to corrupt this unborn child. If his s/o won’t abort the pregnancy - which he strongly urges them to do, he doesn’t know what his corruption will do to them - Ain makes every precaution to make sure his child has a healthy and happy life, up to and including bargaining with Henir to get him to leave his child alone.
Nu, bijna een week later, heb ik de rust gevonden om te schrijven over de gebeurtenissen van vorige week donderdag. Na ongeveer tweeënhalf á drie jaar geen contact te hebben gehad, sprak ik mezelf moedig toe dat ik het nu dan toch maar echt moest gaan doen. Ik drukte het nummer in en liet de telefoon overgaan. Er werd opgenomen en ik hoorde de stem die zoveel jaar geleden voor mij zo vertrouwd was. Bijna meteen moest ik huilen. Ik voelde mijn keel dik worden en mijn stem samenknijpen.
Ik vertelde hem wat er van mijn hart moest en hij vond het dapper dat ik nu eindelijk contact durfde te zoeken. Dat deed pijn. Op deze reactie was ik niet voorbereid. Ik had gedacht dat hij boos zou zijn of teleurgesteld of dat hij mij niet zou willen spreken. Dat was allemaal niet het geval. Het werd een gesprek van ruim een half uur en ik heb alles kunnen vertellen wat ik wilde vertellen en ik heb kunnen vragen wat ik wilde vragen. Aan het eind van het gesprek zei hij nog: ‘Je mag me altijd bellen al is het midden in de nacht.’
Toen we hadden opgehangen, huilde ik nog even en droogde mijn tranen. Ik vertelde mama over wat er was gezegd en ik had het met haar nog over de gebeurtenissen van zoveel jaar geleden. Dat gesprek zorgde voor zoveel woede in mijn lichaam.
Ik pakte opnieuw de telefoon en toetste het nummer van de persoon die mijn leven destijds tot een hel had gemaakt. Zij vond het minder prettig dat ik contact met haar zocht (dit kwam hoogstwaarschijnlijk doordat er al een tijdje ruzie hangt in de familie). Ik vertelde haar wat ik haar wilde vertellen en ik sloot het gesprek af met: ‘Alle deuren die ik nog voor je open had staan, gooi ik nu dicht en ik wil niets meer met je te maken hebben.’
Nu, bijna een week later, ben ik opgelucht. Opgelucht dat ik deze twee telefoontjes achter de rug heb en dat ik eindelijk de moed had om deze mensen te contacteren. Iets wat ik misschien veel eerder had moeten doen.
Nu, bijna een week later, heb ik eindelijk de rust gevonden om te vertellen over wat er gebeurde. Nu, ongeveer tweeënhalf á drie jaar later, heb ik eindelijk een oud hoofdstuk grotendeels kunnen afsluiten.
I just went through the Paksenarrion tag on here and I was wondering if you had any long thoughts you wanted to share about the series, Paks herself and the themes presented?
Sure, I love Paks and her story. I even recently a paladin named after her on the vanilla server I occasionally play on.
Paks is the titular protagonist of the Deed of Paksenarrion, and is a very good example of a Paladin who starts her story as a runaway who joins a mercenary company. The first book she learns first how to be a soldier, and by the end she and others realize she has the potential to be a paladin of St. Gird, a benevolent warrior patron. She isn’t initially a devout girdsmen and often questions how she really feels about the gods. She’s also naturally brave, and almost rash in the face of danger. That bravery is taken from her as a result of a curse inflicted and an imperfect cure that took her courage away from her, leaving her in a nadir at the end of the second book, a frightened shadow of the warrior she used to be.
She finds her courage again by learning to be brave a different way, training herself not to be a reckless warrior, but a defender of people, with greater things to protect her than her own life. The third book puts her on a quest that restores both her and much of the world to peace.
Paks goes through some truly harsh stuff that the author doesn’t sugarcoat, including the death of friends, assault, torture, and a very painful scene involving rape in the third book. But the one theme that stuck with me about Paks and her development is that even the most severe scar can be overcome, not by magic, but by learning live with and beyond it. By the end of the story she becomes a true paladin as any I’ve ever seen and she always have a special place in my heart.
Lately I've been thinking about Tyelperinquar, and since I saw where you mentioned he's one of your favorite characters, I wondered what it is about him that draws you to him? How do you envision him, in terms of personality (and appearance, if you have any solid headcanons there)?
The main thing that draws me to him is not only the tragedy surrounding his ultimate downfall but the way how I personally conceptualize him.
He is proud of his Feanorian ancestry, not for their foul deeds done in pursuit of the silmaril of which he condemns eternally, but for the good that was within them and the brilliant works of his father and grandfather. He has very strong happy memories of his uncles at their best, which makes all of their deeds all the more heartbreaking.
His placement in the world is also one that is incredibly attractive to me. He is forever under the shadow of Feanor and there are many of his people that remind him of it unnecessarily and persistently. I do not imagine that he is a hated figure among his people, although there are many who probably are very apprehensive about him.
Tyelperinquar to me is more than just a jewel smith, he is also an engineer devoted to the betterment of his people. He no longer desires to live in Valinor but rather he has a burning to drive to make the homes of all better than what they had in the blessed realm. He has an unceasing desire to surpass Valinor, not due to bitterness but because he has an insufferable amount of pride and independence.
In this way he is very similar to how I perceive Mairon; both have a very clear vision for how a perfect society might function though drastic viewpoints on how to achieve each goal. Both also are stubborn and are willing to take huge risks to reap a large reward (Mairon in his following of Melkor and Tyelperinquar in his acceptance of Annatar despite the warnings).
In The Unfinished Tales he is described as having an obsessive personality with “an almost dwarvish obsession with crafts” which paints a particular mental image that is hard to ignore. He works, and works, and works hard and often neglects his own personal needs until he crashes or concerned acquaintances make well fare checks on him.
He to me is an introvert with a very large heart, he does not have many close friends but those he does welcome into his life and is comfortable with he is affectionate and doting.
Despite how much I do love Shadows of Mordor and how brutal and ruthless his fighting style is in the game, I do not particularly see him as an accomplished fighter. He knows how to fight for sure, but he is no professional warrior. He is more of a huge nerd than a valiant fighter. He will battle when necessary but overall his stance in war is in the forge creating the armor and blades.
Physically to me he is tall and strong, lean but muscular with a broad chest and large upper arms. His hair is long, wavy and black. I tend to imagine him with dark tan skin like ochre clay. His eyes are silver but around his pupils is a strong ring of lavender.
At the Red Flyer, as in the Acid Green and the Turquoise Flyers, campers sat in pairs for daily sermons by their counselors.
Sister WitherLove finished her sermon on the topic of sacrifice. These children of privilege had been blessed with good fortune through no deeds of their own and it was their duty to pay something back to society. Society provided the framework by which their families had become so wealthy. It was only fair that they sacrifice something for the good of the society that made their privileged lives possible.
The sacrifice required at this time was a small one. There was to be an extra round of blood draws from all the campers. This was necessary for monitoring their health and for the advancement of science. It was nothing compared to the sacrifices made by some members of the less privileged classes for the good of all. Some even accepted that they might be killed or maimed in service to others! Others gave up the chance to drink coffee made from beans which had passed through the digestive tract of civets in order to support charities that preserved the environment.
One of the boys felt a twinge of guilt about that last part. He drank civet-mochaccinos daily back home, usually garnished with gold leaf.
“I’m still a bit weak from the last blood draw!” he complained to his sermon partner.
“I know. Me too, They took a lot of blood last time!”