This land is pure

So….. I saw an ask submitted by @fullmetaldonut to @thatsthat24 (aka Thomas Sanders one of my favorite YouTubers~~) about each of his sides having Keyblades….. I couldn’t help myself. I’m sorta sorry. In order it goes Logan (Logic), Anxiety, Patton (Morality), and Roman (Prince). I thought about flat coloring but… I like the lines. Continue reading for some of my thoughts on the blades

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Zima: The Powerful Beauty of Russian Winter

In the words of the artist Elena Chernyshova:

There is no aesthetic like the Russian winter. Yes, it can be grey and dull at times, but at its height, it completely reconfigures the environment. The universal white cover fills the land with a pure, magical beauty, full of dignity and mystery. According to an old saying, truth, in reality, is white, sparkling, frosty cold, silent and endless: something like the boundless Siberian tundra landscape.

Follow the Source Link for images sources and more information.

4

La La Land (2016)
Directed by Damien Chazelle

gods of wood and stone

(this may or may not ever turn into something, so I thought I’d leave it here as the product of my procrastination.)


Obito gets lost on the way back to the afterlife.

It sounds like the start of the worst joke ever, like something Kakashi would mock him for forever after finding out about it, but it is, Obito admits to himself with great reluctance, actually true. This is definitely not the Pure Land, Rin is definitely not waiting for him, and he is definitely alive, because apparently using Kamui to skip out on your path to the afterlife leaves you alive even when you don’t want to be.

The worst part is, Obito can’t even regret it. He’d make the same decision again, because Kakashi needed his eyes so he wouldn’t just stand on the sidelines like a useless lump or throw his life away trying to take a hit. With Kamui, Kakashi has a chance at getting them a victory against Kaguya. Without it—

Without it he’s dead, and Obito doesn’t need the blood of any more teammates on his hands.

Cursing quietly, Obito pushes through a particularly tight net of tree branches, trying to figure out where he is. Another dimension, he can tell that much—Kamui gives him a good sense of such things—but unless he wants to kill himself with chakra exhaustion he can’t teleport back out of it. He could try it to get back to the afterlife that way, or just use a kunai, but—

Obito is a stubborn bastard. He was fine dying to save his friend, because there was no other choice and he was dead at the end of the war anyway, but if he’s alive? Yeah, fuck that, Obito is going to survive. It’s what he’s always done, and even if it’s against the world’s best interests, Obito is going to keep it that way. He’s alive, and no one can take that away from him.

The forest thins out up ahead, the spaces between the tree trunks widening as the ground grows rocky, and Obito makes for it, hoping to find some higher ground so he can at least get a look at his surroundings. The earth is covered with old leaf-litter, soft and silent underfoot, and Obito feels like he should know it, like this whole area is familiar, but he can’t quite place it.

He rounds a thick stand of trees, pushes through a thicket of brambles that curl away from the touch of his Mokuton, and hears—

War. War like the one he just left, the one he started, but without the monstrous roar of the bijuu or the overwhelming lash of chakra from shinobi with no concept of human limits. The earth trembles beneath his feet, the air rings with shouts, and there’s a clang and crack of weapons meeting. Fire roars, the smell of scorched cloth and flesh rising in its wake, and there’s a loud cry.

A familiar cry.

Obito reacts without even thinking. He dodges around the last copse of trees, chakra already surging within him, and bursts out onto the battlefield just as there’s a flash of yellow light.

Years of learning how to craft a plan, how to alter it on the fly, how to act and react and take advantage of every skill he’s managed to cultivate—that’s enough to let him take in the fight in one swift glance, ignoring that fact that it should be impossible. Senju on one side, heavily armored and fighting desperately; Uchiha on the other, backs bared because their stupid pride won’t let them wear armor, but pushing the Senju back. Two sources of chakra brighter than the rest—one on the far right, two heads with long black hair, a dragon made of wood, a familiar gunbai and a curl of scorching flame. The other is at the far end, almost dead-center. A fading glow of gold, black hair, Uchiha symbol, and he’s turning but it won’t be fast enough.

But Obito has faced a man who’s even faster, and he can make it in time.

It’s nothing conscious that drives him—the connections are simpler than that. Half a moment to judge, another bare fraction of a heartbeat to let Kamui whirl to life, and there’s a beat in Obito’s blood that sounds like the cause the cause the cause. Nothing solid, nothing certain, but trained instinct and denial working in tandem as he whirls off the battlefield. A portal into the Kamui dimension, and almost before he fully materializes he has another forming, leading right back out, and he snatches up a staff from a pile of stored weapons and is gone. As soon as he’s through he shifts his body sideways, back into the other dimension as he phases through the man—no armor, just robes, and fuck but Obito can’t believe he’s part of a clan filled with such arrogant assholes, thinking they’re too good to wear armor in a fight—and brings the shakujo around.

A sword collides with it in a flash of yellow light, and red eyes framed by white hair go wide.

Obito snarls, in no mood to call for a truce here and now, and plants the butt of the shakujo in the ground. He leaps, using it as a pivot, and slams a foot into Tobirama’s armored chest with all the force of his chakra behind it. The future Nidaime goes flying, and Obito lands lightly, yanking the staff up as he turns.

Uchiha Izuna rounds on him with a victorious laugh, red-and-black eyes bright with triumph, and opens his mouth.

Obito sweeps his feet out from under him, dumps him on his ass, and buries him in grasping roots that drag him to the ground and pin him there. “When the hell is it ever going to be enough for you bastards?” he snarls right in the man’s dumbfounded face. “How many innocent people need to die in this stupid fucking war before you finally decide that you’ve had enough revenge?!”

There’s no answer, only blank gaping, and Obito growls, pivoting on his heel. Several knots of fighting shinobi are watching him with one eye, clearly wary, but not enough to stop their own battles. It’s not going to be enough to save them, because in a split second Obito has made up his mind. It’s a stupid decision, probably the worst he could come up with, but if there’s a chance in hell of stopping all of this before it starts, Obito will take it.

“Stay there,” he growls at Izuna, leveling his shakujo at him, and then turns. A burst of speed sends him hurtling right at a Senju kunoichi with her hair in a topknot and the ponytailed Uchiha she’s fighting, and he shoves right behind them, knocking the woman into the man and pinning them both with Mokuton. The Senju lets out a startled cry, but Obito is still moving. Branches and roots erupt around him, grabbing for shinobi without discrimination.

Those in Obito’s path don’t have nearly as much of a chance to fight back; Kamui makes him a ghost, and even when he’s tangible his speed leaves him all but untouchable. He plows through the ranks separating him from the other fighting pair, drives forward with a wave of Mokuton subsuming everything behind him. There’s a snarled knot of fury growing larger and larger in his chest, a twist of something that’s very close to grief, and he’s had enough.

With a shout, Madara shoves Hashirama away, then whirls in, sword sweeping down. Hashirama catches it on a thick burst of wood, shoving him back, and in the same moment Madara’s eyes flicker up above Hashirama’s shoulder, taking in the rest of the battlefield in an automatic sweep.

Obito, barely three yards away with his shakujo already swinging, catches his eye and bares his teeth in a wolf’s grin.

Oh, he’s going to enjoy this.

Hashirama must see something in Madara’s face—either that or his instincts give him warning, but Obito likes the idea that Madara’s dumbfounded expression serves as warning enough. The man ducks, rolling to the side, and the ring of the shakujo sweeps across the space he just occupied. It just misses Madara as he leaps backwards, a fireball bursting from his lips, but Obito phases right through it, landing lightly and spinning the staff through his fingers.

Madara feints left, but this is man who trained Obito to begin with, almost a century younger and far less skilled, and Obito easily spots the misdirection. He lunges the opposite way, catches Madara’s sword when he reverses directions, then twists past the blow, drives an elbow into Madara’s gut, grabs him by his long, thick hair, and uses it as a handhold as he spins, knocks Madara’s feet out from under him, and drags him down to the ground.

From above and behind him, there’s a cry, and Obito wrenches the sword from Madara’s hand, keeping the other man pinned with the shakujo against his throat, and half-turns to level the blade at Hashirama. It taps the Senju’s chest as he pulls up short, eyes wide, and Obito snorts.

“One move and I’ll happily put another hole in this waste of space,” he growls, seeing the way Hashirama’s eyes flicker from him to Madara and back.

Hashirama stares at him for a long moment, then nods and takes a careful step in retreat. One half-glance around them and he says very quietly, “You have Mokuton.”

Madara makes a sound like a pissy cat dropped into a pond. “You have the Sharingan,” he spits, as though this personally offends him. “You’re an Uchiha.”

“And that fact has been responsible for pretty much all of the misery in my life,” Obito retorts, and for a breathless, terrible moment he’s back in that clearing under the full moon, a handful of seconds too late to save Rin from Madara’s manipulations. One blow and he can stop all of that here and now, can prevent so much of the pain that might come.

Hashirama must see something of that in his eyes, because he takes a quick stride forward, only to pull up short when Obito snarls and levels the blade at his throat again. “Please, don’t!” he insists.

“Get lost, Senju!” Madara snaps at the same time. “This is an Uchiha matter, I will handle—”

“Clearly it is a Senju matter as well,” Tobirama says coldly, coming to a halt a short distance away, but his eyes are on Obito’s sword where it touches his brother’s collarbone.

“I don’t think so,” Izuna counters, equally chilly and just as biting as he edges closer, Sharingan eyes narrowed and wary. “Just because some Senju bastard couldn’t take no for an answer when it was coming from an Uchiha kunoichi—”

Instantly Tobirama whips around, offended rage written clearly across his face, and he grabs for his sword, only to be pulled up short when Hashirama reaches back and grabs his wrist.

“But—” Tobirama starts to protest.

“Izuna,” Hashirama says, carefully even, and he doesn’t look away from Obito but there’s a spark of tightly contained fury in his dark eyes. “Mind. Your. Tongue.”

Izuna flicks a glance between Hashirama and Tobirama, swallows, and takes half a step away from them. “Brother,” he complains.

Madara gives Obito a dark look, but he doesn’t try to move. “You wouldn’t stand for such an insult to our clan, Izuna,” he huffs. “Don’t expect the Senju to have any less pride.”

Narrowing his eyes, Obito presses the shakujo in a little more firmly. “Don’t bother taking that high and mighty tone, Madara,” he bites out. “You’re the one I hold responsible for all of this, and I’m going to fucking take it out of you hide.”

Red-and-black eyes go wide, and Madara almost flinches away from him, hands rising in something like surrender.

Obito doesn’t want surrender, though. He wants to rip into Madara the way he wasn’t able to before, wants to get a hand in his chest and tear the heart right out of him, pay back every bit of pain that Madara inflicted on the world, through Obito and through Zetsu and by his own hand as well. Wants to rip and slash and hack away until this monster is nothing but a pile of bloody flesh, unable to hurt anyone ever again. It overwhelms him for the space of a breath, white-hot rage the only thing inside of him, and before he can think to stop himself he tightens his grip on his shakujo and—

Big hands grab him, one arm around his waist and the other around his chest, and with a jerk he’s hauled right up off of Madara, dragged back against a broad chest as dark hair tumbles around him. “No,” Hashirama says, halfway to a plea, and his grip tightens enough to force the air out of Obito’s lungs.

Obito freezes, stiff and stunned at the touch of another human. Years, it’s been, since anyone touched him to do anything but inflict pain, and his muscles go tense and tight in anticipation of a blow.

There isn’t one, though. No hit, no pain, no kunai slid into his kidneys to gut him and leave him for dead.

No pain, just—

A trickle, wet and hot, against the back of his tattered robe. Blood, by the smell, and since Obito doesn’t bleed anymore it has to be Hashirama’s, has to be from when he knocked the sword aside to save the man who will eventually kill him.

It’s too much. The thought of it, the reality of standing here over Madara, able to end everything before it begins, and Hashirama is the one to save him—

What Obito did, the people he killed—that’s on his head. But it’s on Madara’s too, on Zetsu’s, on Kaguya’s. Uchiha Obito should have died in a cave-in when he was thirteen, but he didn’t, and the reason for that is right in front of him. The reason he didn’t carved a seal into his heart, killed his best friend, and gave him a twisted, broken vision of the world as an illusion, and then set him to unmake it.

Obito is responsible for his own actions, and he knows it all too well. But Madara was the trigger. If Obito was the sword then Madara was the hand that forged and wielded him, and that has to mean he bears at least a part of the blame from the hell of the past few years.

No,” he snarls, and though he shoves backwards to loosen Hashirama’s grip and get away he doesn’t reach for Kamui, doesn’t try to hurt the man (again, again, something in him whispers, hurt him again you mean). “Let go of me! He deserves whatever I do to him!”

Hashirama’s grip isn’t harsh, but it is immovable, and he’s as solid as an oak as he drags Obito back another step. “Don’t,” he says quietly. “This isn’t the way.”

Naruto, Obito thinks, guilt and grief and regret and anger all wound up and tangled together. He curls his fingers into fists, takes a breath that vibrates with anger, and does the hardest thing he’s ever managed in his life.

He opens his hand and lets the weapon go.

blueoceancall  asked:

If you're still taking requests, lance falling through a frozen over lake and become stuck while his fellow paladins try desperately to break the ice?

The fall had been hard, Shiro doubted that if the planets surface hadn’t been covered in a thick blanket of snow he would of been killed.
He sat up wincing with every movement from his aching muscles.
The sky above was still filled with the raging storm that had caused them to crash in the first place.
Shiro and Lance had been sent on a recon mission on a frozen planet surrounded by storms.
Allura had suggested that with the black lions size and connection to the air the two should be able to reach the surface and try to find any signs of life.
However while flying down Black had been struck by lightning causing her to eject the two Paladins to save them from electrocution.
Shiro had managed to slow his fall with his thruster pack, but through all the tumbling he had lost sight of Black.
And more importantly Lance.
“Lance do you copy?” Shiro asked into his com only getting static for a reply.
“Great.” He sighed as he stood up with a groan and began to walk up the snowy ridge, hoping that the higher ground would provide him a better view.
The hike was long and difficult thanks to how powdery the snow was beneath his feet. However despite the challenge, Shiro reached the top after only half and hour.
The view was simply stunning. Like a scene from a Christmas card.
The land was nothing but untouched pure white snow, the trees glistening with frost.
There was a large frozen lake stretching out beneath him reflecting the dark grey storm clouds above like a giant mirror.
There was a dark lump ruining the perfect scene. Shiro squinted trying to figure out exactly what it was.
Then he saw the mound move and Shiro’s eyes widened at the sight of the familiar dark blue against white armour.
“Lance!”
He yelled skidding down the ridge to get to the edge of the lake.
There was already a trail suggesting Lance had fortunately hit the show and only fell down onto the lake after he landed.
Shiro chose not to think about what could of happened if the boy had hit the hard ice.
“Lance!” Shiro yelled again as he stood at the edge.
He was just out of reach lying face down.
Slowly Lance began to look up. His arm was hanging limply by his side and Shiro knew just from looking at it that his shoulder was dislocated.
“H-hey Shiro.” He tried to smile but it was clear to Shiro that he was in pain.
“Hand on buddy I’m coming for you.”
Shiro stepped onto the ice only for cracks to appear beneath his feet. He was too heavy.
“Lance look at me.” Shiro commanded and the boy obliged.
“I need you to come a little closer, if I go out there the ice could break.”
Lance nodded and tried to stand up. Shiro watched the ice nervously as Lance slowly, agonisingly slowly made his way over.
Just a little closer.
When Lance was less then a fingers length away the ice suddenly gave in.
All Shiro could do was watch as Lance’s expression morphed into that of horrified surprise as he plummeted into the dark icy water.
“LANCE!” Shiro screamed scanning where he had fallen for any signs of the blue paladin.
He spotted the blue armour a little away from the hole.
Ignoring the danger Shiro ran to him powering up his prosthetic and plunging it into the ice.
It took far too long to get the blue paladin out of the water and back on solid land.
By some miracle Black was lying on her side just a little away providing some shelter from the bitter wind.
“Lance buddy?” Shiro asked after stripping Lance down and bundling him up in the Altean heated blankets Allura had provided them with.
Lance seemed dead to the world. His eyes closed and his skin a sickly grey colour.
However what really worried Shiro was that he just wasn’t shivering.
Shiro bit his lip thinking back to his days of survival training at the Garrison.
If he wanted to avoid hypothermia Lance needed to be warmed up, they best way to do that was with body heat.
Shiro quickly pulled off his armour and joined Lance under the blanket pulling him into his arms.
He gasped at the sheer cold that was radiating off him. It made Shiro’s skin ache, he didn’t want to imagine how Lance must feel.
Biting his lip Shiro began to try and rub heat back into Lance’s frozen limbs.
Black had informed him that the others were on their way in the castle ship after Black had sent out a distress signal when her paladin had returned with her sisters cub so still and cold.
All Shiro could do was wait and hope.
Eventually Lance began to shiver and not long after he opened his eyes whispering a weak “Shiro?”
Shiro released a breath he hadn’t even realised he had been holding.
“Yeah I’m hear kiddo, don’t worry the others are on their way.
“M'cold” he whimpered cuddling into Shiro.
“I know, nearly gave me a heart attack when you fell through the ice, I didn’t think I was going to be able to find you.”
“Glad you did, don’t like the cold.”
Shiro chuckled wrapping the blankets around the blue paladin.
“Home was always warm, hated winter at the Garrison since I’d never had anything like it before.”
Shiro nodded glad Lance was a bit more talkative.
“Well you’ll be warm again soon, I promise.”
“Not going to be warm like home though. Not warm like my mamas hugs.” Lance mumbled.
Shiro could only hold him a little tighter not sure what to say to make him feel better.
An hour later they were picked up by the others with Lance placed into a pod after putting his arm back into its socket.
They got lucky that Lance managed to avoid hypothermia. But they were close.
Too close.
When he came out of the pod Lance was laid up in bed for a few days with a cold, Shiro never left his side until he was back to his normal jokester self.
However even when he was better Shiro just couldn’t get rid of the images of pulling Lance’s limp body from the lake from his mind.

You are what you want to become. Why search anymore? You are a wonderful manifestation. The whole universe has come together to make your existence possible. There is nothing that is not you. The kingdom of God, the Pure Land, nirvana, happiness, and liberation are all you.
—  Thích Nhất Hạnh

If all Waddle Dees are pure, then explain those Waddle Dees in Lollipop Land that chase you down with tanks while trying to kill you by shooting exploding candies directly at you. You know the ones.

Linguistic Intimidations...

Today I had an educational experience that I’ve never had before: my entire class this morning was in Spanish.

It was a class on religion and politics in Latin America where it just so happened everyone in the room was a Spanish speaker. So the Professor asks if we could hold our discussion in Spanish. Everyone is cool with it (and I’m, admittedly, thrilled because this has never happened before for me). As folks talk, though, I realize I’m the only Spanish speaker in the class from the United States. That is, there are folks from Puerto Rico, Argentina, Mexico, Spain and I’m the only one who grew up here. And I must admit, I was a intimidated for a good while and it took me a few minutes to jump into the conversation.

I wasn’t intimidated because I wasn’t fluent in Spanish (I am), nor because Spanish isn’t my first language (it is), nor because I wasn’t understanding my colleagues (I did), but because I was worried about my accent. My Spanish is unique. It’s grounded in Puerto Rico, forged in the Diaspora, and influenced by Central America (especially Guatemala, El Salvador, and to a lesser extent Honduras). It’s a blend of saying “coño,” making “r” sounds into “l’s,” dropping letters, using “vos,” adding “eis,” and indicating a question by saying “va” at the end. Meanwhile I’m hearing colleagues speak “pure” Spanish from their respective lands and I start doubting myself.

Will my Spanish be understood? Would it be accepted? And why do I think their’s is “pure” and mine is not? In short, why am I intimidated to speak the language my mother and father taught me?

Then I began realizing my own experiences with being bilingual in the United States. When I was growing up (and still today) some Puerto Ricans and Latin Americans would make fun of my Spanish as “too Gringo” (interestingly, some who learned Spanish in Latin America would say my Spanish is “too Puerto Rican,” which meant too influenced by English, which meant “not good Spanish”). Simultaneously, English speakers would make fun of things like my name or pronunciation of certain words or my parent’s accents because they were too “Spanish.” So this linguistic space formed around me where I (supposedly) wasn’t fully Spanish speaking or fully English speaking. This “ni de aqui, ni de aya” makes it intimidating to enter spaces where your speaking is what defines your participation.

In this particular instance I got over it and just jumped in with a “whatever” kind of attitude, if they understand me they understand me and if not I’ll write it down! And I’m glad I did because it was powerful to hold a class in the language I feel most emotionally connected to (I feel more intellectually connected to English). Nonetheless, it was an interesting couple of minutes of feeling intimidated and needing to figure out why before jumping in.

Language has power in how we are shaped as people and communities. It can be a source of liberation or marginalization, colonization or freedom. In this way language can be an imperial force, one used to intimidate folk or make them feel less than in order to maintain power. It’s what caused some indigenous languages to be wiped out, what empowers nativism and xenophobia, and what can cause students to remain silent for years in and out of classrooms. Yet language can also be a site of empowerment, of pushing back, or refusing to submit to supremacy. Indeed, language has power, perhaps more than we realize…..

Located in the northwest corner of Lake Superior Isle Royale National Park in Michigan is the place to go for solitude. The park is an island of roadless backcountry reachable only by boat or seaplane – making it the least visited national park in the lower 48 states. Photographer Carl TerHaar captured this moonrise from Pickerel Cove, one of the islands’ campgrounds that consists of a narrow ridge accessible by small boat. Full moon photo courtesy of Carl TerHaar.

إن بعض الناس لا تراه إلا منتقداً، ينسى حسنات الطوائف والأجناس ويذكر مثالبهم، مثل الذباب يترك موضع البرء والسلامة ويقع على الجرح والأذى، وهذا من رداءة النفوس وفساد المزاج

Some people have the disease of criticising all the time. They forget the good about others and only mention their faults. They are like flies that avoid the good and pure places and land on the bad and wounds. This is because of the evil within the self and the spoiled nature.
—  ابن تيمية Ibn Taymiyyah
Indeed, the example of a believer is like a honeybee, it eats pure, lays pure and when it lands on something; it neither breaks nor ruins it.
— 

Prophet Muḥammad Ṣallallāhu-‘Alaihi Wa Sallam

● [سلسلة الأحاديث الصحيحة ٢٢٨٨]