carved signs

whoever the next troll we meet will be, they are going to be a greenblood.

there’s the sign carved next to dammek’s in the tetrarch’s hive:

given the fact that its central hoop is smaller than dammek’s, it’s more than likely the sign of an oliveblood - that the olive sign motif is a smaller circle with ‘tails’ is made apparent by the gatherer’s sign:

and then, of course, there’s joey’s simon says game:

which flashes in the specific order of orange (for dammek), red (for xefros), then green.


i’m not sure things will all be fine when joey and xefros finally make it to their destination.

People like to talk about Soulsborne protagonists and their superhuman stubbornness, but I think we also have to mention their nigh-suicidal levels of curiosity. Off the top of my head:

Dark Souls - When the Chosen Undead finds a nest belonging to an enormous crow, they decide to curl up like an egg. Luckily, this convinces the crow to transfer them to its other nest.

Dark Souls - The Chosen Undead finds an enormous magic painting, and obviously has to poke it. When they do, a magical vortex begins to pull them into the painting. Despite having several seconds to react, they don’t take their hand away.

Dark Souls - When the Chosen Undead finds what they know full well is the grave of the legendary Artorias the Abysswalker, they can’t help but put their grubby hands on it, which pisses of its ancient and powerful guardian.

Dark Souls - When the Chosen Undead loses their good friend to a cave dwelling parasite, they remove the still living parasite from his corpse and wear it like a hat, since it works as a convenient source of light, evidently assuming that it won’t also infect them.

Dark Souls - The Chosen Undead finds an open sarcophagus in a haunted crypt full of necromancers. Naturally, they decide to take a nap in it. When skeletons carry the sarcophagus deeper underground to the chamber where the God of the Dead resides, the Chosen Undead decides to join his cult and gets a cool sword.

Bloodborne - The Good Hunter touches a beast skull resting on the altar in Yharnam’s Grand Cathedral, which causes them to have a flashback of it’s previous owners memories. Later, in a warped nightmare version of the Grand Cathedral, they find the warped nightmare version of the same skull, and touch it AGAIN. Luckily it’s just the hidden trigger for an elevator, but still.

Bloodborne - In a research hall where the patients have enormous bloated sacs of fluid for heads, the Good Hunter finds a severed still-wriggling head sac. Naturally, they decide to wear it like a hat.

Bloodborne - The Good Hunter goes to loot the corpse of a woman sitting in a chair along in a big room. Unfortunately, she’s still alive, and grabs them, then chastises them ‘a corpse should be left well alone’ and kicks their ass with dual flaming swords. They continue to loot corpses after this incident.

Bloodborne - The Good Hunter finds three pieces of the umbilical cords belonging to ELDER GODS, so naturally, they decide to EAT THEM. As it turns out, this is arguably a good idea, but the Good Hunter has no way of knowing this.

Bloodborne - The Good Hunter finds a note on a door that says ‘don’t come in, hunters not wanted here’ naturally, they go in anyway. A man on a tower threatens them and tells them to leave. They keep exploring. He tells them to leave, and goes so far as to obliterate them with a mounted automatic weapon. For no reason except curiosity, they keep exploring anyway. While hiding from machine gun fire.

Bloodborne - when the Good Hunter finds a corpse frozen in a strange position with it’s arms out, they decide that corpse must know how to communicate with eldritch beings. This insane troll logic happens to be correct.

Dark Souls 3 - In a graveyard, The Ashen One finds an enormous armored man with a coiled sword through him, naturally, they pull it out, which causes him to come alive and attack. Later, when they travel through a shadowy version of the exact same graveyard, they find a shadowy version of the same sword stuck through a shadowy version of the same armored man. They pull it out. Despite all odds, the shadowy armored man comes alive and attacks again.

Dark Souls 3 - In the deepest chamber of the Catacombs of Carthus, there is no sarcophagus or undead king or anything. There’s just a skull goblet on a pedestal. Naturally, the Ashen One pokes it, causing black haze to seep out and flood the room. After a short delay they are warped into The Abyss and attacked by an enormous skeleton.

Dark Souls 3 - In Archdragon Peak, there’s a big lever with several warning signs carved into the floor that say ‘warning: do not pull this lever’. Obviously, the Ashen One pulls the lever, causing a magical thunderstorm and drawing the ire of the Nameless King.

Everyday Witchcraft

1. Meditate - still the mind, the breath, the heartbeat, open a channel through which the spirits can communicate if they wish to, listen.

2. Walk - honour the genii loci, notice the changing seasons, observe signs and omens, traverse the kingdoms of humanity, flora and fauna, give aid where it is needed.

3. Divine - build relationships with divinatory tools, sharpen skills, train intuition, ask questions, receive answers.

4. Invoke - the presence of spirits to assist in tasks, to protect on journeys, to grant guidance, maintain connections and uphold contracts.

5. Craft - use the hands to create, to construct, imbue each creation with spirit and purpose, a meal, a potion, a carving, a weaving, enchant the mundane and material.

6. Sing - the old songs, the power songs, the prayers, the chants, to heal, to awaken, to enforce, to ward, sing the sun to sleep and the moon to rising, sing in the bath, at the hearth, in the heart.

7. Read - widely and deeply, old and new, academic and popular, across boundaries and taboos, slowly and with full attention, take notes, research, reflect.

8. Write - record experiences, practices, thoughts. keep journals and grimoires, spellbooks and scripts, remember, elucidate, illuminate.

9. Draw - sigils and runes, symbols and signs. Carve, paint, scratch, blacken, redden, scrawl, in the sand, with salt, in the air, with chalk, ink, blood, charcoal, the mind.

10. Collect - herbs, woods, stones, feathers, bones, teeth, soil, the raw materials of natural magic, fill jars, boxes, bags, gather, forage, wildcraft, thrift, take that which is discarded, value the found over the bought.

11. Observe - the cycles of moon, sun, planets, stars, take heed with the eyes as well as the almanac, feel the sap rise, the birds migrate, the bulbs awaken, the leaves wither.

12. Renew - old spells, old wards, protections, and boundaries. Clean what is obscured, recast what has weakened, maintain what is working, replace what is lost. Tie up loose ends.

13. Communicate - with everything, stones, trees, spirits, the dead, that which grows in the garden and that which visits it, other practitioners, mentors, students, seekers, the younger self, the higher self, the wyrd. 

A Simple Job/Prosperity Spell

Green Candle
A knife
A handful of change

Make a circle with the change. With the knife, carve a dollar sign in to the candle. Hold the candle and visualize your goal. Place it in the center of the change circle.

Light the candle. Chant:

Candle of green, fulfill [Name]’s dreams.
Bring a job/money into [pronoun] life.

Chant as little or as much as you want to, while focusing on the end result. Let the candle burn.

You can give this spell a boost by anointing the candle with wealth oil (3 parts patchouli, 1 part vetivert, 1 part cinnamon), but it’s not required.

the signs as fall things
  • Aries: apple picking
  • Taurus: oversized sweaters
  • Gemini: leaves changing color
  • Cancer: warm drinks
  • Leo: the fall festivities and decorations (pumpkins, wreaths, candles)
  • Virgo: pumpkin patches and hay rides
  • Libra: the smells (bonfires, cinnamon, crisp morning air)
  • Scorpio: those cozy rainy days
  • Sagittarius: crunching fallen leaves
  • Capricorn: colder weather
  • Aquarius: fall scented candles
  • Pisces: carving pumpkins
Missing You

pairing ; lafayette x reader

summary ; the need to see your husband has not only gotten you to america, but also lost in the big new york city. 

words ; 1837

warnings ; badly translated french


My dearest Gilbert,

I do hope that you are alive and well over in America. The sudden stop in returned letters has left me quite shaken and worried about you. As your wife, I feel as if it is my place to tell you that I have been questioning you returning home. How do I know if you’ve found another in the “Land of the Free”? Or that you now believe that we should no longer be married? But besides that, I would like to tell you that I love you, and I hope to see you very soon.

Your love,

Y/n Lafayette.

You sighed, looking around you. The area around you was riddled with people, shops, inns, everything. The road in which you traveled to get here were made of dirt, and the bottom of your dress now had a brown tinge to it, something you were sure you would be able to wring out without much trouble. But the roads here were all made of cobblestone, carefully lain to provide the image of elegance and care about one of the most beautiful towns in the up and coming America.

You had absolutely no idea where to go, and you were sure you looked like a foreigner “just passing by” with the way you were standing. You were on your tiptoes, trying to see if there was anything you were missing, though that was simply because you’d gotten used to being as short as you were.

Women were never given the nice end of the stick in the height department, sadly.

So, with a shake of your head, you ran a hand over the top of your head and stopped when the side of your fingers met the bun atop your crown. Tendrils of hair poked out, but otherwise, it felt kempt and managed-looking, especially since you had an image to keep up, being a Lafayette and all.

Taking a few steps in what you thought would be a good direction, you got lost in the view of Manhattan. Alongside the cobblestone paths were buildings of utter beauty – brown bricks, red bricks, maroon bricks, even white bricks made up the walls, the windows were all outlined in gorgeous white wood, complementing the freshly-cleaned glass it framed.

The yards were outlined with metal gates with spikes at the top, a silent message to tell people to keep off the grass and property depending on the time of day. The inns and stores were all clearly marked, their signs elegantly carved with precision.

All in all, it reminded you of the beauty of your home country, France, what, with how everything was cozily pushed together and even the buildings themselves practically floating in regality.

Snapping out of your gaze of the place, you focused back on your mission – find your husband. He had to be around here somewhere, but it would take asking people to figure out where that somewhere was.

Taking quick steps into a store, you walked up to the counter and cleared your throat, “Excusez-moi?”

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forever // jimin

Originally posted by jeonmp3

1.6k words. Ex-lovers au. fluff + angst.

The kids were running about, chortles and giggles tumbling out of their mouths, the parents having had enough of telling them to keep it down as to not disturb the other visitors, couples walking by holding hands and looking at each other with love sick expressions, love letters carved into the signs along the pavement you were walking on, screaming love is in the fucking air in the most obvious, face-rubbing way, and then there was you and Jimin.

Exes forced by their friends to participate in a double date and ending up paired with each other while the friends ran off to fuck knows where.

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An Iron Grip- Chapter 1

I posted about having this Gajevy fic that’s been sitting in my computer for a few years and thanks to all the encouragement I’ve decided to finally start posting it- all in all its about 40 chapters long give or take a bit; I’m going to update about 3 times a week with a new chapter so you guys dont have to wait too long :) This is my first fic so i’d appreciate some constructive criticism <3

Pairing: Gajevy

Words: 3,045

Will update every Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday :)

Summary: There is no magic. There is no wizards or dragons, that was all just make believe- or so Levy had been told. Her world is turned upside down when a dark guild comes after her, searching for a rare book, and everything she thinks she knows turns out to be wrong. Unwillingly thrust into a dark hidden underbelly of Magnolia city she must trust an unlikely band of misfits, a magic guild called Fairy Tail. Will Levy cave under the pressure or will she grow to be more than she every thought she would be and make some new friends along the way?

Chapter 2. Chapter 3. 


         The world swirled around Levy, black and white flashing ever faster. She was falling and falling fast. There wasn’t even enough time for her to scream; the air was sucked out of her lungs as the air cut past her. The fall seemed like forever even though she was sure realistically it was only a few seconds. But everything slowed. She’d hit the ground soon, she was sure of that too. The ground was hard concrete, unforgiving and cold. And she was just so so small. She wouldn’t stand a chance in hell against it. Levy squeezed her eyes shut and let herself fall. There was nothing she could do but wait for the floor to meet her. This was it. This was how she was going to go- alone and weak. This was it.

   'I’m so sorry Gajeel, I’m sorry I couldn’t help you’ she thought to herself.

   And then everything stopped.

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Emoji, Texting and Social Media: How Do They Impact Language?
By Dan Turello
By Library of Congress

Dan Turello: There is much to explore, but it began with emoji, so let’s start there: elevated art form or corruption of language?

Alexandre Loktionov: For me, they’re essentially hieroglyphs and so a perfectly legitimate extension of language. They’re signs which, without having a phonetic value of their own, can ‘color’ the meaning of the preceding word or phrase. In Egyptology, these are called ‘determinatives’ — as they determine how written words should be understood. The concept has been around for 5,000 years, and it’s remarkably versatile because of its efficiency. You can cut down your character count if you supplement words with pictures — and that’s useful both to Twitter users today and to Ancient Egyptians laboriously carving signs into a rock stela.


Dean imagine requested by anon! “In regards to you needing new requests, I was thinking of one where the reader is Sam or Dean’s girlfriend (you can decide) and while Sam and Dean are torturing a demon, they really scare her to the point where she doesn’t know if she can continue with this or not. I don’t know, it was just a thought I was having. I hope it helps.” This imagine has been edited for reposting. Hope you like it!

"You do not want me doing this, trust me.” he whispered, his voice low and gravelly… strained by the task before him, agonized at the inevitability of his upcoming actions, but desperate to escape the future. The room was leaden with thick, uneasy tension in the aftermath of the angels requesting the unimaginable, an impossibly horrific scenario playing out before your helpless eyes. Dean turned his back on you, his broad shoulders hunched, the dim lighting of the factory basement sending the edges of his figure into shadow, his hands balled into fists by his sides. He shook with fear, with conviction, with a crippling sense of duty. His eyes were locked on the hollow shell of a man secured to the enormous star of David beyond the door, bound by metal and ensnared in a devil’s trap of ancient Enochian origin. Castiel sighed, his body strangely relaxed in its rigid composure, his face completely void of emotion despite the task he had just assigned to your boyfriend. He was aware and in agreement that this was the last thing anyone wanted for Dean.

To provoke the eldest Winchester to torture as he had in Hell was madness, brought on by a corrupt system, you were sure of it; Uriel was most likely at the head of whatever sadistic operation he had you all playing parts in as pawns. Disposable, your emotions meaningless. The angel’ selfish derision of Dean’s traumatic experience while he was quite literally rotting in Hell sent waves of livid bile to burn in your throat, your body itching for violence, for silence, and for Dean’s freedom. Castiel turned to face you, his sapphire eyes lacking the empathy you had begun to catch glimmering in his irises, his newfound understanding of human behavior bleached within the confines of his mind to project a much more angelic form of disdain. He had recently been rewired to better fit Uriel’s motives; the absence of his caring demeanor allowed for Dean to be thrown back into his darkest, sickest memories… to select a serrated blade and get right on back to carving. Castiel showed no signs of an emotional struggle, no signs of a changing heart. The Castiel you had come to know would have fought this turn of events tooth and nail to protect Dean from reliving his torturous past. The stoic angel before you made no such effort.

“Want it, no. But I have been told that we need it, Dean,” the angel grumbled, his monotonous voice grating against your eardrums, scratching away at your professionalism. His imperfect facade tore through you, urging you to snap, to attack, to claw his orders from his throat. This wasn’t the Castiel you knew, and every fiber of your being wished to bring him to Death’s doorstep, despite your past friendship; you would disregard your partiality towards your own parents, you would sever all attachment in the blink of an eye if it meant protecting Dean. You were seconds away from going feral, anf it seemed like Castiel knew it. His eyes cautioned you to remain still, his chest rising in a precise, vaguely animalistic display of superior strength. Leave it to the angel to claim the apex predator bill. You ground your teeth, your fingernails biting into your palm as you clenched your fists, the air reeking of iron and grime as your vision grew hazy.

“Find somebody else. No one said it had to be him. You know what he went through in Hell; you’re the one who pulled him out… and you’re still going to send him in there? Have you completely lost your mind? You’re just as much a villain as the rest of them,” you growled, your voice leaking lethality, venom burning your words as they flew from between your lips. Castiel closed his eyes at your words, the smallest visible sign that you had affected him; he remained otherwise unfazed by your verbal attack. Dean’s body was racked with minute tremors, his shoulders slumping further forward in denial, in defeat, and in unadulterated fear. When he spoke, his voice was as far from his own as you had ever heard it.

"You ask me to open that door and walk through it… you will not like what walks back out,” he warned, his tenor all but drained of life, of emotion, of heart. You took a step towards him, your hand outstretched to press a palm against his shoulder, but he flinched away, his face hidden from your view. He raised his hand, unable to meet your eye, his palm warding you away from him. Your hand dropped slowly, falling to your side as a bird falls gracefully from the air after being shot from the sky. You glared daggers at the angel you had come to trust, that you had all come to trust, the angel who would now willingly send your lover back to the pit, just for a shred of information you could most likely live without. That was the worst of it all… you could continue your hunt without the information Alastair possessed. It would be easier, and cleaner, to end the demon and continue on your way. The angel ducked his head in a fabricated form of apology, your blood boiling in your veins. Your face burnt brightly with the intensity of a thousand embers, your vision hazing around the corners. You took a step in his direction, your hand falling to your waistband, closing tightly around the hilt of a blade. It wouldn’t hurt him, no, but it would scratch-up that pretty face of his. “Cas, get her out of here,” Dean whispered, his voice breathy, accepting of his terrible fate. Before you could think to step to his side, he was disappearing through a pair of swinging doors, his hands propelling a cart of torture utensils before him. You caught a glimpse of his demonic superior raising his head from where it hung against his chest, a gut-churning grin playing over his gaunt features. He looked… proud, sickeningly so, to see his protégé stroll through the doors. Castiel moved towards you, his footfall on the cement alerting you of his so sudden movement. You spun on your heel, your fury fueling your refusal. You raised the blade of your dagger to the angel’s throat, fully aware of his immunity to such a basic weapon. The threat in itself was enough to stop the angel’s advance.

“If you touch me, Castiel, I swear to God I’ll find a way to kill you,” his brow knotted, taking offense to your words, opening his mouth to preach of duty, of how he owed it to Dean to obey his commands. You slapped his outstretched hand away from your body as it rose, his fingers recoiling in shock. “I’m not leaving,” you hissed, sheathing your knife in your waistband once more. You turned, pressing your hand against the chilling rust that painted the metal door, your pulse quickening when you gazed through the layer of grime that obscured your view through the glass window. Beyond the film of filth obstructing your view, your eyes fell on the silhouettes of two men, face to face. Dean’s posture was confident, presenting a stark contrast to the broken man you had seen not a minute earlier, your brow furrowing in confusion to see him twirling a blade between his fingers. Castiel stepped back, assuming an infuriatingly calm pace as he walked back and forth between the colossal pipes riveted to the walls, his footsteps hushed by his practiced gait.

You wouldn’t dare open the door; to put Dean in the spotlight like that would surely increase his pain… but there was something else that held you back, something much worse. You dashed the thought from your mind, focusing on the man beyond the glass. He mustn’t know you were watching. He turned to the table, his gemstone eyes dark as they assessed his assorted utensils, his hands wandering familiarly over his instruments. He expertly selected a bucket, swiftly pouring a ladle of the transparent liquid over the gleaming edge of an intimidating knife. As he prepared his weapon, the demon on the rack targeted his every movement, his frail body quaking with malicious laughter potent enough to seep through the door and lap against your ears, shivers rolling down your spine as if the demon were breathing on your neck. Your eyes locked-in on Dean’s face, on the hardened line of his jaw, the professional set of his eyes. The roaring of your frantic pulse was drowning out all other sound, the pads of your fingertips receiving shallow scrapes as they brushed over the clusters of vibrant amber rust on the surface of the door. Your eyes were unmoving on Dean’s face, your breathing shallow, your chest hardly lifting with your inhales as you watched, your stomach knotting around itself painfully as Dean meandered in the direction of his victim.

“If it makes any difference to you,” Castiel spoke, his voice a soft and sincere whisper some ten feet behind you, your eyes welling with tears to hear the familiar tone of his voice, unmarred by the infliction of his angelic superiors, “I would give anything not to have him do this.” What you saw next would be essence of your nightmares months after you witnessed it all.

Dean, still facing away from the demon on the rack… smiled. You could blink and miss it, but smile he did. He turned toward the demon, blade glinting in the dim fluorescents, and the torture began.

Alastair’s face broke in pain and joy as Dean’s buried the blade deep within the ribs of the sickly vessel, his shoulders taut as he twisted his wrist, the demon’s eyes squeezing shut as steam rose from the wound in the opposite direction of his free-flowing blood. You felt your hand lift to cover your mouth, your vision blurred from the onslaught of tears brimming along your waterlines. The horrors of torture weren’t what shattered your groundings; you’d been on both ends of that spectrum before. It was part of the job to inflict and receive pain on the rack. You’d witnessed Dean’s relentless holy water torture before his vacation down under; it was the quickest route to an answer when a demon was on the table… but now… now his tactics were driven, specific, and altogether unfamiliar. His blade charged upward to Alastair’s collarbone, unhindered by the bumps of the vessel’s bones, his broad shoulders turning as he returned to the table to fetch a cask of salt. His eyes were dancing with pride, the vulnerable emeralds you’d come to love were combusting with power, with something very near to lust… with contentment. His lips stretched into the dark ghost of a grin as the demon pleaded with him to step up his game, the slippery words of antagonism reaching you through the metal of the door. Dean’s ears perked up in interest as his teacher complimented him through every instrument the hunter plunged into his skin, every dash of holy water and salt thrown his way. The expression of… of coming home was branded into the tissue of your brain. That was no longer your Dean beyond the glass. Your hand slipped down the door, going slack at your thigh, your body retching forward as your feet carried you back, vomit fighting from the pit of your stomach to rise to the surface. You managed to keep it down, by some miracle, but your heave brought Dean’s eyes to the door. When you rose, his gaze locked firmly on your ashen face, his features crumbling to nothing but shock and guilt. He was horrified, it seemed, to have been caught loosing control. You weren’t sure if he cared that he should have been horrified long before he realized he had an audience. You stumbled backwards, your eyes rolling back in your head as your body collapsed ground-ward, Castiel’s arms catching you as your world slipped in and out of focus. When your vision shifted to clarity a moment later, the cement underfoot cooling the backs of your thighs, his eyes were rock hard on yours, awaiting your command. You squeezed your eyes shut, clutching to Castiel’s trench coat.

"Take me home,” you whimpered, the sickening sound of breaking bones and groans carried on the swells of laughter erupting from the opposite end of the door as Dean returned to his work, an ever-faithful protégé.


| 1 | Chapter 2 | 3 |

Member - Hoseok x reader

Genre - Angst, Fluff, Implied smut

Word count - 5.5K

Summary - On the occasion of your best friends wedding and high school reunion, you happened to meet once again, one of the richest heirs of the country, famous fuckboy Jung Hoseok.

While the world saw him as a cocky arrogant person and you, as a confident, strong woman, only the two of you knew the scars that were hidden, and things you both were unable to fix.

Only the two of you could see right through each others facade.

But could you and Hoseok finally break the gyves holding you back? Or were you the ones who shackled each other in the first place?

[A/N] - forgive me for the errors oops. I shall edit it in about a weeks time.

Originally posted by leojuseyo

Winter 2010

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Suzuri or ink-stone in the shape of an irregular pool over which leans a tiger lapping at the water, the lid of rosewood carved in the form of a rolling mist that covers the water. Of carved, dark black slate, the lid of carved rosewood. Signed on the reverse with a carved, seal-form signature by the artist Amamiya Seiken (Seiken 11th, thego or art name of Amamiya Seiken, 1892 – 1973). Showa 9 or 1934

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