elixir for the soul


Magic Guild Clash Online!
a sorta sequel to the Detention AU fic
…in which Mira manages to rally her girlfriend and her two new friends to help her in her favorite online game.
She’s a goddamn veteran. Cana tries her best. Freed just likes the outfit, and Laxus just wants to collect birb plushies.

Cana: Don’t worry, Laxus. I think you’re a hot girl.
Mira: Same.
Laxus: See, Freed, be proud. Your boyfriend is a hot girl.
Freed: Oh My G O D.

Persephone {pt.5 (FINAL)}

Type: Miniseries Continuation; 7th Sense | One | Two | Three | Four | Five (FINAL) |
Genre: Drama, Fantasy, Fluff, Suggestive (NO SMUT), Demon!AU, Witch!AU
Member: Joshua/Jisoo
Word count: 3,701
A/N: Thank you all for the love this series has received and with bearing the long wait! :)

After so many years you were finally home.

Your yearning wish was finally granted, but not in the way you had in mind.

Your head turns over to the door when footsteps shuffle down the hallway. It wasn’t just one pair of steps, but multiple followed by voices. You grip the edge of the porcelain tub as the door bursts open.

You expected your family to run to you and spoil you with affection, but they only blankly stare into the bathroom.

“She’s here,” your little brother announced.

Your parents and older twin sisters frantically look all over the room, grief upon their faces. The space between your brows twitch. Why were they acting like they couldn’t see you?

“What’s wrong with them, Leon?” You uttered, staring at them strangely.

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when i drink water when im really thirsty it feels like im partaking in a magical elixir that is cleansing my very soul but when im drinking water just because i know it’s good for me it feels like im drinking flavourless pipe juice a la ninja turtle house that is doing nothing but making me pee constantly

Aku Aku Lapu

  • Lemon Hart 151-Proof Demerara Rum - ½ oz
  • Dark Jamaican Rum - ½ oz
  • Gold Puerto Rican Rum - ½ oz
  • Lemon Juice - ½ oz
  • Orange Juice - ½ oz
  • Grapefruit Juice - ½ oz
  • Pineapple Juice - ½ oz
  • Falernum - ½ oz
  • Blend everything with 1 cup crushed ice for 20 seconds. Pour into a snifter or Tiki bowl, add ice cubes to fill. Garnish with a gardenia.

From the Aku-Aku restaurant in Las Vegas, circa 1960. A complex version of the Chief Lapu Lapu, a drink born in the 50s, but without a clear origin.

This version is relatively dry for a Tiki cocktail, which I found to be quite refreshing. It contains lots of citrus juices, with only falernum for sweetness, which is strictly speaking not even a syrup, but more of a cordial.

♛The Dragon’s Euphony♛

-Chapter One-

Author: Jaegeronice
Pairing(s): Midoriya Izuku/Todoroki Shouto, Midoriya Izuku/Bakugou Katsuki
Setting: In a Fantasy world filled with sorcery and species unknown, the dragons rule above all, yet they are unseen by most. Due to the rare abilities of Izuku Midoriya, he has been tasked with the role of “Dragon Keeper” as the human guardian for the entire Wyvern race. But Midoriya, as usual, gets himself caught up in a mess where he has to embark on a quest with a barbaric King of the Wilds, a love struck Prince, and a reckless bounty hunter to get back what he had lost.
- Dragon Keeper!Midoriya Izuku
- Prince!Todoroki Shouto
- “King”!Bakugou Katsuki
- Bounty Hunter!Kirishima Eijiro
(And several others)
Tags: Violence, Blood, Slight NSFW, Slight Angst/Tension, slow burn for the plot. No quirks.

Originally posted by kacchanns

The snake-like olive dragon that coiled over his companion’s shoulders hissed into his ear, digging into the rough embroidery of Midoriya’s tunic with pinched claws. “Are you sure you want to intertwine those vials together, Izuku?”

“I’m sure, Cyril,” the boy lied.

“The book said to add ½ of Arcane Barrier Elixir and a drop of Lion’s Strength,” the dragon pointed out with disinterest.

“So it says, yes.”

“What you have in your hand is essence of brewed mushroom.”

At these words Midoriya sweat noticeably, clutching the little crystal bottle in his shaking fingertips. The luminous colors of deep violet and smokey orange swirled and bubbled like mist, beckoning Midoriya to loose the cap and set the magic free. Yet he did not. He hesitated. “Brewed mushroom? But it’s labeled as Lion’s Strength…”

Cyril, the dragon no bigger than a house cat, flickered his tongue impatiently. “Common blunder, you uneducated swine,” the dragon snapped rudely. Despite Cyril was not all impressive in size, he was vicious and rampant before Izuku got to him. The old kitchen had burst into flames at least six times by the time the arrogant beast was reasoned with. In the end, Midoriya always had a knack for finding a personal connection between him and these undomesticated reptiles.

“You’re tricking me again. I can guarantee that it’s Lion’s Strength,” Midoriya feigned confidence, grasping the cork stopper that plugged the neck of the philter.

Surely he was correct, right?

Midoriya peered down into the dented iron basin, staring at the ingredients that flickered, writhed, bubbled, and even made sounds of their own. Dragon Alchemy was certainly a feat in itself, and despite years of trying to master it even with a real dragon’s help, he still couldn’t get it right.

“Must you wait any longer? The soul will run off if you don’t do something soon,” Cyril warned, flapping his leathery green wings in annoyance.

Midoriya shut his eyes, hastily drawing in a breath as he popped off the flask topper, tipping the silvery contents into the bowl. When said contents mixed in with the others and began to contort to its own will, Midoriya braced himself for an impact in the events that the potion would backfire, as usual.

But nothing came.

“Izuku,” Cyril nudged him, having the boy open his eyes. Peering down, he approached the basin to which his eyes soaked in the wispy fluid that formed in the bowl, glowing a yellowish hue that resembled harvested sunlight.

“Wow,” Midoriya breathed, snatching his tattered journal sewn of animal hides to quickly jot down words with a long feather quill as he mumbled to himself restlessly. “The progress seems to be increasing. Hopefully this time we have the potion correct, albeit the ingredients were really hard to scavenge and-” His string of thought was severed as he felt a sharp sting in the flesh of his ear, seconds later having realized that that was where Cyril had bitten him. He yelped and clutched the side of his face, simultaneously checking for blood. “What was that for!?”

“Look, you imbecile!” Snarled the dragon once more, yanking on his collar fervently.

Midoriya heeded to the beast’s impetuous behavior, dragging his gaze back to the basin. What once was a charming bubbly liquid, was now a hot smoldering mass that glazed with different chroma than the previous. An odd brownish purple tint to the frankly unappealing, murky amber substance. “That’s not supposed to happen, is it?” Midoriya crooked a finger in the direction of the steaming disappointment that now moiled and churned in on itself.

“What do you think?” Cyril cocked his head to the side, his slim reptilian features exuding the very finest dish of sarcasm that a scheming winged creature could offer.

Midoriya cursed bitterly in the language of the dragons, sparing himself none but the sight of the rising sun beyond the window ajar, before the forsaken concoction promptly blew up in his face. He hacked and wheezed, flailing his arms in an attempt to wave away the smoke that plumed into air and permeated every feasible crevice. He tasted the grimy ash and rancid fumes that flavored his saliva bitter and burned the inside of his nostrils. He opened his streaming eyes to gaze upon the char that coated all surfaces, ensuring another week of cleaning ahead of him.

Cyril retracted his claws from Midoriya’s shoulder and leaped away, flapping his razor-like wings in a flurry before landing onto the blackened table, sitting on his haunches stoutly. The dragon extended a claw to prod at the cap of a mushroom that began to grow in place of the backfired potion.

“I told you it was essence of brewed mushroom,” Cyril commented drily with a dull sense of gray humor.

“Kinda figured that,” Midoriya uttered keenly, concentrated on plucking off all of the mushrooms that cultivated, making themselves at home on his handcrafted attire. He leveled his eyes with one of the uninvited fungi, glaring at it as if it was an old adversary come back to haunt him. He rolled the stem between his fingers, thoroughly investigating the outcome of the failed draught.

“These are edible, by the way,” Cyril noted, chewing on a few of them himself. With further inspection, Midoriya could confirm that the mushrooms were undoubtedly palatable - to humans, at least. Dragons bore a staunchly digestive system that wouldn’t feeble to something as tedious as food poisoning.

“Interesting. With half of an Arcane Barrier Elixir, a tuft of dried skull grass, the soul of a toad, and a drop of essence of brewed mushroom; the outcome doubles as both a hefty smoke bomb and a food source!” Midoriya recited to himself as he sifted through his crammed data log again to record his discovery.

Cyril’s cerulean cat-like eyes narrowed, a misty third eyelid wiping across his orbs concurrently. “Izuku, you’re ranting again.”

Midoriya snapped the fattened book shut, tucking it under his arm. “But we have discovered something, nonetheless. Why hunt for toadstools when we can just use Dragon Alchemy to materialize them?”

“I think you’re skipping the point. Your past mentor would not encourage this reckless use of Alchemy,” Cyril picked at his gleaming olive scales with hooked obsidian claws, grooming himself apathetically. The small dragon tucked his head under his wing to gnaw on his itchy leg, while Midoriya found himself sighing wistfully in thought.

True, the previous keeper of the dragons was his teacher and a dear old friend. But only recently did the dragon master pass away, leaving Midoriya in his wake to finish the legacy of the Wyvern patriarchy. It was only natural that the boy take up this job, as he was gifted with the ability to speak the language at birth. But he still had a long winding path to go, with no foresight of where the future would lead him.

“I guess you’re right,” Midoriya slumped down into the nearest chair, disheartened.

Midoriya Izuku was unlike any dragon keeper alive. Mostly due to the fact that he was the last one alive. Dragons have a nasty habit of eating the hand that feeds them - and charring the rest to ash and bones for a light snack.

Midoriya was bestowed the unnatural talent that became his hope to further understand the magical culture birthed from the sacred beginnings of time itself. He was fluent in Draconispök, the long lost language of the Wyvern race. Ever since he was a baby, he could talk to dragons without a thought or care in his head. No matter how much he wondered why, he never really got the answer he desired.

But it was more complex than that, it seemed.

When you first find out that you can communicate with a fire breathing winged animal, you’d be elated. Only, if you knew what they had to say about you, the appeal forms the task to stay sane without hinder. So the journey of understanding the almost unapproachable mighty creatures became all the more difficult. Yet, Midoriya had a luckier break than most that tried to tame the dragons, due to his rare capabilities.

“I am not worthy enough to bear my mentor’s acclaimed title, nor am I ready to tell the world of his unfortunate passing,” Midoriya sank further into his crestfallen ideals, thick of heavy expectations to uphold.

Cyril noticed the boy’s change in temperament, that furtively disturbed his cold and twisted dragon heart. While he did not fancy Midoriya all that much, pertaining to the fact that he was a human and humans were lesser beings than dragons, Cyril preferred Midoriya above anyone else. He was the one who had rescued Cyril - the runt of the dragon spawn, from the fate of being ritually devoured alive by the fresh kin of the nest. So it was safe to say that Midoriya had carved a place for himself in the immoral heart of the wicked little beast.

“It’s been a fortnight since last,” Cyril reminded, reclining his neck back as he shook his wings out in a shiver from a gush of the cold air.

Midoriya perked up, the true meaning behind the statement gripping his attention steadfast. He leaned forward in his old wood chair, an excited grin gracing his plain but admirable features. “Do you think she has awoken from her slumber?”

Cyril was satisfied to succeed in tempting the boy out of his short-lived depressed state. With a practiced nod of his serpentine crested head, he spoke with a hiss accenting his cryptic bestial dialect; “The winds and skies are exceptional at this time of year, it would be unheard of if she did not at least desire to spread her wings for even one flight.”

As if struck by lightning, Midoriya bolted up out of his seat and straightened the hem of his tunic, accordingly brushing his lush basil curls away from his eyes in an attempt to look presentable. After all, she was very important.

“Oh, we’re going now?” Cyril stirred from his comfortable posture on the burned table, his slithery tongue curling out as he broke into a yawn.

“Of course we are! After all, when was the last time you got to stretched your wings?” Midoriya inquired, standing on his tip toes to reach the loop of his leather satchel that hung off the coat hooks in the doorway to his home.

Cyril bared his teeth smugly as he raised his hooked wings in poised interest. “Too long,” the dragon mused, ready to embark on whatever Midoriya had in mind.

The dragon leapt into Midoriya’s awaiting arms, who caught him with a harrowed breath at the realization of how heavy the creature really was. But Cyril had already begun to claw his way up Midoriya’s chest to roost on the boy’s shoulder, his tail swiping side to side incessantly. If anything, Cyril was fond of hitching a ride on Midoriya’s back whenever he got the chance.

Midoriya slung the overflowing satchel over his neck and stomped into his scratchy lamb skin boots like he had done it a thousand times - before reaching after the door handle. With a rusty squeal and a metallic snap, the door swung open to welcome inside the newborn light of day, it’s smooth milky glow glossing over every rustic surface in Midoriya’s modest home. The serene murmur of the ocean waves lapping at the pebbled shore echoed in the distance, accompanied by the blurred streams of sunlight that split apart into gleaming rays as seagulls soared through the air, casting shadows onto the envious ground below them.

Izuku stepped out into the open air, inhaling the sweet scent of the sea breeze, and the nectarous aroma of the perennials blooming in vibrant clusters at the very root of his dwelling. He breathed out with a smile, opening his eyes to the bluest morning sky that stretched to endless longitude. The boy felt like he could just reach out and stroke his fingers through the pearly clouds, quenching his delight.

Midoriya hiked up the handbag securely, then set his right foot forward to bound down the timbered steps leading away from the unsullied porch and onto the gravelly path winding through wispy cattails and berried thickets. He passed by a dip in the groves, where lifeforms resided without a care in the world.

“Good morning Elfin, Sarra, Lilith!” Midoriya hurriedly greeted with a wave as he passed by an aeire of three sluggish dragons that curled in and over one another to conserve heat. A few heads perked up, while ears flicked in annoyance.

“You’re rather noisy for a dragon keeper,” he heard Sarra the dragon grumble to herself, dismissing all known relevance in the boy. The other dragons chuckled among themselves. Midoriya was used to this by now, to be slandered by the cruel tongue of the unsociable beasts; that after time allowed Midoriya as the only human to be affiliated with them. Despite how dragons detested assistance from inferior species, they had accepted Midoriya’s existence a long while ago and finally ceased attempting to fry him into a human spit stick.  

“Express my good wishes to Häeldwrin for me, will you?” Izuku exclaimed as he drew out of earshot. He spoke of Häeldwrin the eldest dragon, near blind in his final days, and without teeth to boast his long since retired ferocity that had drained away over the years. The dragons could not refuse, but a hiss and peeved mutters escaped nonetheless.

At the foot of the mountain, Midoriya began to climb. He craned his neck, dismissing the weight of Cyril on his back that only seemed to get heavier each counting second. “Can’t you just use your wings?”

“You said yourself that you wanted a challenge to achieve your desired physique,” the winged reptile countered, leaving Midoriya with no excuse to uphold. It wasn’t a lie, after all.

“Alright then,” the young dragon keeper huffed dryly. No words were exchanged as the trek up the steep mountainside persevered, yet a single complaint had passed Midoriya’s lips when he lost his footing once and dragon fire nearly singed away his curly tendrils in surprise.

Subsequently, they had arrived at their destination in less time than it had taken them two weeks prior.

Cyril hopped off of the shoulder he had clung to for narrowly an hour, releasing Midoriya from the burn of over-exertion that relaxed his tired muscles. Finally, they had made it to the top of the peak.

“It seems we have more newcomers,” Cyril spoke lowly, the distaste prominent in his tone.

Sitting up, Midoriya found himself greeted by a swarm of pale infant little dragons. The size and stature of the dragons made sense immediately, but what really gave it away was the babbled chirping and excited squawking as the fresh life practically dive bombed him from above with poorly navigated flight capacity.

“Ow,” he simply uttered as a baby spit a weak but painful ball of fire onto the back of his hand. He rubbed it sorely, occupied in patting out all of the little flames that burst onto his clothes. But out of the din, a familiar presence warmed him from head to toe. He ceased his frantic motions and peered up.

“Izuku,” a mellow, enchanting breath of a voice graced his ears, the inviting hum of the beautiful beast seeming to lull the unruly newborns to a quiet. A smile spread, lightening Midoriya’s features as he too was calmed by the sound. Cyril the dragon willingly bowed down to the giver of the voice, as did Midoriya, who payed respect without wither to the ethereal Wyvern of gold and clouds.

“Zephyri, we hope you have slept well,” Midoriya raises his head, blessing his eyes with the sight of heaven on earth once more. There, in the dusk of the shallow cave, emerged the radiant being of light and skies itself. She went by many names; The Ruler of Dragons, the Goddess of the Winds, or as Midoriya has been gifted to call her; Zephyri. Her snowy white scales shone of crested gold, and horns as vibrant as the heavenward fire star.

Some speak of myth; tales of her glorious wings that carried the winds with her wherever she traveled. But Midoriya didn’t care for myth. He had witnessed it with his own unclouded eyes.

“Please, no need to bow to me,” the divine dragon nudged her snout against the boy’s chin, empowering him to rise to his feet again.

Midoriya stood with no question, beckoning Cyril to do the same. He watched as Zephyri sat on her haunches, the size comparison to Izuku fairing well. After all, she wasn’t the biggest dragon in history, but certainly not the smallest. “Look around you, Izuku,” she tilted her head towards the direction of the mountain’s edge. “What do you see?”

Not expecting to start off with a whimsical inquiry as such, Midoriya questioned hesitantly. “I’m not sure I understand?”

“Take a good look beyond, and tell me what you make of it.”

Doing so, Midoriya gazed out into the distance. He could see the valley where he would rejoice with the dragons regularly on starry nights, the small wooden cabin that he called home, the sandy shores of the endless beach, and-

“Oceans. I see oceans as far as the horizon,” he answered earnestly. How could he have not seen it before? It was such an easy question. He was surrounded by oceans, every direction flooded with what seemed like endless deep blue. Seas encircled the very island that he stood upon, claiming it’s peak. It was the only dragon island to still thrive to this very day.

Zephyri strode up behind Midoriya and spread her wings, head sinking down until her nose skimmed the ground. “We’ll soar the skies today, Izuku, and watch the water blur beneath us with unmatched speed.”

The keeper’s heart raced. He knew that we was excited but now he felt unstoppable. Hastily, Midoriya gripped onto the saddle that dipped between her pearly wings, and swung his leg up and over effortlessly. He could feel the purr of anticipation beneath the dragon’s scales. She was just as prepared to fly as he was.

Midoriya already knew where he wanted to go. He had a place carved out in his mind with vivid detail. He imagined a cliff, overlooking a grand palace dipped in silvery rays of sunlight. Izuku knew that was where he had to go, because without a doubt - he’d stumble across a roaming prince.

Silence hastened as Zephyri leaned forward off the edge of the looming cliff, awaiting the one command that would set her free. It fell from Midoriya’s lips flawlessly and unsullied; the superior dialect of the dragons.

“Aeridirys,” he whispered. “Fly with me.”

Faster than the speed of sound, Zephyri leapt from the cliff, gliding through the sky with a swiftness unlike any other.

[To be continued]

Up next: A meeting with the Prince

Filling the Vase

I think we are all just trying to fill and refill our vase. It doesn’t matter if you pronounce it vase like a face, or vase like Oz, it is the glass, crystal, porcelain, steel, plastic, or perhaps any other material that contains something of your essence, that magical elixir that keeps the soul fulfilled.

For me, the filling of the vase can be a simple thing, such as watching children play, listening to music or eating a delicious meal. But the greatest of all fulfillments comes from having a certain level of these simple moments in the company of someone I love. Those, for me, are moments when my vase fills, not with the life giving element water, but rather something unearthly, some supernatural elixir that sprays forth from some fountain atop Mount Olympus, from which the gods themselves drink and celebrate, and when my vase is filled with such ambrosia, I too can savor my little moment imagining what it must feel like to be amongst the gods.

I’ve noticed recently, that without forethought or specific reason, I’ve been taking photographs of flowers and I find myself looking for them, and wanting to share them. How is it that until this point in my life I never appreciated the splendor and simplicity of Nature’s own transient artform, flowers? To have upon my table while eating, a cluster of live, smiling yellow daffodils keeping me company, is so enjoyable. I like simple flowers, and leaves too. Oh my, the variety of flowers I’ve seen just in the last six months! Some flowers remain clearly in my memory over this time, and I should begin to learn their names, that I might recognize them properly, but for now all I can say is, I loved the big blue and purple flowers that were alternated daily in my hotel room in London, the first seasonal bloom of Sakura cut from a tree in Yamagata prefecture and arranged in my hotel lobby in Yokohama, the daffodils that I mentioned before while I enjoyed coffee and drinks in Amsterdam, wild desert flowers in vibrant gold, blue and white, and of course the rainbow rows of tulips being farmed around Den Haag.

It’s the simple things in life, which ultimately we work the hardest for, and which turn out to be not so simple after all, such as a person scratching your back in quiet moments, or the thrill of sitting back and listening to an orchestra perform live, that make the flower in me absolutely blossom with life, and today, at this very moment, if I were to personify myself as a flower, I would be a full bouquet of the richest royal purple, the same color as the dress worn by Tatiana in the final and most emotional scene of the ballet Onegin.

The vase is filled with emotions, and those emotions aren’t easy to come by, nor are they easy to keep, but they make the flower in you exactly what it must be, and if you are a rose, then be a fragrant and soft petaled rose, that someone close to you will enjoy being around. And if you are the stink flower that blossoms once every six years, and only to moonlight, with the pungent smell of meat, then be that tremendous beast and claim your rights to the company of your moon.

As for me, today I am hundreds of brilliantly gleaming purple Irises, with confident and erect green leaves, in a vase full of liquid the color of starlight, that glows white at night, and I am a man, very fulfilled.

anonymous asked:

How about you cover rage? If that's ok I mean!


Rage is the aspect of negative emotions, fervor, and passion

Known Rage players:

  • Gamzee Makara - Bard of Rage
  • Kurloz Makara - Prince of Rage

Finding evidence in the canon of Homestuck for describing Rage is difficult as the two canon examples of Rage players are both destructive and therefore partially ghost Hope rather than portray Rage. In addition, the aspects of Doom, Rage, Mind, and Blood have no human heroes, and Rage and Doom have the least emphasis placed on their characters. Regardless, there is still plenty to go off of to explain why Rage is the aspect of fixation, fervor, passion, and negative emotions.

To begin, let’s look at Kurloz, Prince of Rage and dancestor to Gamzee. He doesn’t say much, due in no small part to his lips sewn shut following a traumatic experience with his former matesprite, Meulin Leijon. When we meet him in Openbound, we learn from Aranea that following a terrible nightmare, he released a sound echoing the Vast Honk that deafened Meulin, allegedly causing Kurloz such distress that he sewed his mouth shut. From what we know, Princes are a destructive class, known for destroying their aspect and destroying with their aspect. Kurloz, following the mold of a Prince of Rage, is an incredibly calm individual, seemingly lacking drive, motive, or passion for much when talking to Meenah or any of the other dancestors. However, this is dispelled when the former object of his desire, Meulin, comes to talk with him. They are excited, almost ecstatic, in their signing to each other. His passion is isolated, from this experience, to those he deems important to him.

This is not the only object of passion that Kurloz possesses, however, for he is an acolyte of the Angel of Double Death and a follower of the mirthful messiahs. When presented with the final piece of the Cod-Tier outfit for Gamzee, he appears to transform into a different person. Driven, focused, and passionate about his religious obligation, he uses telepathy and what seems to be mind control to thank Meulin for her efforts. He goes to meet his fellow Hero of Rage, Gamzee, in a catacomb hidden from all others that networks into various dream bubbles. His passionate rant to Gamzee shows his devotion to the cause of Lord English’s eternal rampage rather well.


Kurloz hides his passion, destroying it in a sense, from others, but his motivation to help Gamzee and LE in any way never fades. People can sense something wrong, but no one seems to know what it is for sure. From Aranea,

“ARANEA: Want to know a secret? Please don’t tell anyone, 8ut I really can’t stand the guy.
ARANEA: It’s pro8a8ly unfair to him 8ecause he is o8viously such a sweet and harmless fellow. 8ut something a8out him ru8s me the wrong way. I guess I can just 8e a little petty sometimes.”

And after their strange telepathic conversation, the conversation between Meulin and Kurloz goes,

* KURLOZ: mime (The Joker from The Dark Knight clapping)

She can sense something wrong, but she doesn’t know either. All anyone gets is a bad feeling, but that’s enough to sense that not all is as it seems.

Gamzee, the more prominent of the two Heroes of Rage, is another destructive Rage player. He, however, has a more distinct split between his carefree attitude towards life and his literally undying passion for his religious crusade. Before he, got lack of a better phrase, went crazy on the meteor, he was a happy-go-lucky, drugged up, religious fanatic who took life as it came and didn’t question much. Gamzee’s calm demeanor seemed to provide half of his title’s meaning: Bard of Rage, one who allows the destruction of their aspect. He had faith, Hope if you will, in his belief, and he truly believed that his faith would pay off.

Of course, as we all know, that’s not how the story goes. He saw the twisted joke that the universe he helped create made of his faith, and he was alone, without Tavros, Karkat, or anyone else in his horrific vision of rapping juggalos and Faygo. Realizing the errors of his ways, he takes the initiative and follows Doc Scratch’s words to truly help his Angel of Double Death, his god, to become all powerful. From there it becomes almost unnecessary to understand the rest of his story aside from the large moments. Gamzee kills Nepeta and Equius, is temporarily reined in by Karkat, hides on the meteor, and in the retcon timeline, somehow ends up on Earth C to raise the cherubs, leading to him working alongside Caliborn, and eventually having half of his being absorbed into Lil Cal.

From our two Makaras, there’s a lot we can gather. First, Rage has very intense religious themes. Gamzee and his capricious personalities are the mirthful messiahs of his religion, and Kurloz is an agent for both Gamzee and Lord English. However, I’m hesitant to claim that Rage is an aspect of religion for two reasons. One, Hope has just as many, if slightly less prominent, references to religion, namely in the Angels that take form on Eridan’s planet. In addition, both Rage players are destructive, meaning they mirror their aspect, making Hope appear to be focused on faith and religion. Regardless, I see Rage as being more focused on passion and determination than faith. Gamzee had no delusions about what he was doing for Lord English after the meteor. He simply focused everything he was, all the potential he was squandering, into his work.

Additionally, the Makaras are masters of negativity, both in and out of canon. In the comic, Gamzee’s black advances on Terezi lead her to question everything about herself, leading her down the road that ends with John retconning the comic after [S]GAME OVER. Aranea doesn’t trust Kurloz but can’t see why, and after using his powers on Meulin, she feels like she just came down from a bad trip. Outside of the context of Homestuck, how many debates have you seen as to the morality of Gamzee Makara? How many people distrust his clown like appearance? How many defend or attack his character as being both brilliant and an unwelcome joke? The Makaras breed negative emotions, destroying others with them while remaining mostly immune to negativity themselves. Remember, Kurloz is always calm and collected, and Gamzee flits from rageful to impeccably calm with every sentence he speaks.

One final aspect I’d like to look into before I wrap up this analysis is the additional meta-narrative implications of Rage. An excellent video by Tex Talks called “A Meditation on Gamzee Makara” goes into the idea that Rage, taken outside of the framework of the comic, is an aspect of contrivance, of deus ex machina, and of the fury that comes from authors failing to fill in the plot holes that leave us wanting. In it, Tex describes Gamzee’s fall as him seeing the story for what it is, and seeing his role of the goofy addict who’s obsessed with a silly clown cult. The fury he follows up with mirrors the anger readers feel to the numerous ways Gamzee complicates canon. For example, his plot armor is described by Hussie’s in-comic avatar saying “you can’t keep down the clown.” I love the theory and I recommend that anyone interested should take a look, but in terms of the aspects within the comic, my points still stand.

The Makaras aren’t the most transparent examples of Rage players given the tendency of Destructive classes to ghost their mirror aspect (in this case, Hope). However, they provide enough information to demonstrate that Rage embodies the concepts of passion, fixation, negative emotions, and fervor.


had this in my drafts, i think i drew em while trying to get back in the swing of things. man i’ve done way too many AUs

that last one is from something i’ve been thinking about in my head lol

The Art of the Vampire at its Peak in the year 1876: Armand's Lesson

Printed in Playboy magazine, January 1979, By Anne Rice

The book “Interview with the Vampire” as published form represents only a portion of the tapes of that interview made by the reporter. Louis told the young man much that was not included,particularly with regard to the master vampire, Armand, whom he had met in Paris. One tale was Armand’s account of his methods of seduction; that is, the art of the vampire at its peak in the year 1876.

(Someone kill me, this is one of the sexiest things I’ve ever read, and I just keep thinking of Louis retelling this to Daniel and GODDAMN).

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

How long to drow live? The forgotten realms wiki says they can live into there 1000 (Baenre) however, Zaknafein Do'Urden was only about 4 centuries old and he was considered really old?????

Ah yes, this has long been a topic of debate, as there are conflicts and contradictions galore in the various d&d editions.

It’s important to note however, that drow often do not live their full life span because they die before they can get there. Most Forgotten Realms drow cities are in the Underdark and most are incredibly deceitful, back stabbing and plot riddled. Many get the stabs before they get to 400 usually :P Which may be why Zaknafein is then culturally considered a veteran.

Also important to note, it is more likely a female drow survives to 400 than a male, simply because the drow society values male life far less than female. So a lot die off, get sacrificed, are killed in battle or…have a little accident when they piss off the wrong female. So this may be another reason that it is specifically surprising that Zaknafein was still alive at 400?

However, drow live as long as most elves do, in the right non stabby circumstances. This is between 700 and 1000 years. But of course, like Old Crusty (Yvonnel Baenre) with the use of magics, being at the top of the “stab chain” and a relatively cushy life combined, well… Long time.

I am curious to see how far Gromph makes it, I’m ever so fond of that one and I really just hope he finds or makes some kind of elixir of immortality~ Oh Gromph, Archmage of my heart, wizard of my soul <3

The Power to Choose ~

I know I’ve said this before, but it’s important so I will repeat it. Be of a happy heart. How we live, how we feel, what we think, and what we become all depend on the way we choose. 

I’ve discovered that I am the master of my life, co creator of my destiny, no matter my gender, race, ethnicity, religious belief, cultural background, social, political or financial circumstance. 

I can choose to celebrate life, live life fully, and make a positive difference. Health is a choice! Happiness is a choice! Peace is a choice! And passion is the elixir that generates change, nourishes the body, and feeds the soul.

When I first moved to Washington D.C. to work the activist circuit, I rented a room at a beautiful condo owned by a wonderful woman named Joan. Joan taught me that enthusiasm, positive thinking, and happiness are the main ingredients in being energetic and staying youthful.

Eighty-three-years-young, Joan had a Ph.D. in anthropology and had studied under the tutorial of Margaret Mead. She had lost her husband to adultery and her first son to the drug culture. She had made countless trips to the Congo and other places in Africa, had contracted and overcome many diseases while working, had survived them all and had already lived and worked and suffered and loved enough to make significant contributions to humanity.

Joan and I would have breakfast together every morning prior to me going to work. She would greet me each day with enthusiasm and lots of energy. After breakfast, I would leave and head down to Pennsylvania Ave and she would head to her rooftop pool.

When I returned at night, I would always find her buried in her books. She would invite me into her study filled with indigenous masks from all over the world and ask how my day went. Still, I was more interested in her and curious about what magnificent stories she had to share.

When I asked her what her secret was for staying so enthusiastic, she responded: “Never think of your age, and never abide by a clock. A woman can do it all, just not at the same time. If it is your time to work, then work. If you must stop and have a child, then stop. Never think you are on some kind of schedule or deadline, and always look to the purpose behind every little thing you do. Try to look at the bright side of everything but if something is bothering you, talk it out. Bend a little. Be tolerant. Compromise. Be a professional but don’t forget you’re a woman and a lady. Expect the chair to be pulled and the door to be opened. Listen. Read. Eyes wide open. Pay attention.”

Gosh, I loved being around her. Being around her reminded me of my own passion and my own innate enthusiasm and feelings about what it meant to be a woman, a professional, and how I could make it in a man’s world without compromising my femininity - without losing the essence of me.

Passion resided in her heart, as it resides in my heart and as it resides in your heart. Therefore, we must bring our heart to everything we do. Let that heart light shine with the rays of passion and enthusiasm permeating everything you think, feel, say and do.

Peace & Blessings, Maritza Alvarez, Creator, Our Journey to Balance

PS: I did eventually lose Joan. When she passed, I was already out of Washington D.C. and living in New York City. Her sister who was well into her nineties sought my whereabouts and had me appear at a reading of her will. She left me something truly special - a ancient geography set of scrolls with an inscription I will always treasure. It read: “To the ancient eyes of a wandering soul, may you travel light with only your heart and awareness. Remember me, for we’ve met before and we’ll meet again.”  


~The Language of Trees~

The language of trees
Tells a story of ease
Showing beauty and grace
In a wonderful place

Where rich history thrives
Beneath sumptuous skies
And the birds sing of love
As they soar skies above

The language of trees speaks
Of summers and springs
Of daffodil trumpets
And quaint fairy rings

The swishing and swaying
Of leaves in the air
The whisper of lyrics
A poet must bare

The language of trees
Inspires humbling thoughts
They teach a man virtue
Bequeathing support

The ears of our minds sense
Each studious word
But lacking connection
Their songs go unheard

Each sapling, each branch
Throws a soul into trance
Granting life from itself
An elixir of health

Every bend, every bough
Pledges life to the ground
Verdant meadows are blessed
Where a tree roots its nest

The language of trees
Fills my heart and my soul
As I roam timeworn forests
My soul declares home

~ © 2016 Amelia Dashwood, All rights reserved

A wise friend reminded me of the importance of just sitting… So, I escaped the family and sat in the yard with my son who was busy picking me presents. Listening to him busily chatter, Birds singing, water gurgling, feeling a gentle breeze…elixir for the soul.

Blue Reef

Light Puerto Rican Rum - 2 oz

Lime Juice - 1 ½ oz

Blue Curaçao - 1 ½ oz

Galliano - ½ oz

Shake everything with ice cubes and strain into a snifter filled with crushed ice.

From Beachbum Berry’s “Grog Log”. Unfortunately no information about the inventor was given.

It’s another blue drink that’s actually delicious; generally speaking, none of the drinks picked out by Mr. Jeff Berry are too bad.

This is a quite a mild drink with a dry base; pronounced lime and orange flavours; the Galliano adds that very needed extra sweetness as well as a beautiful anise and vanilla finish. The drink would have been very boring without it.

Pointy Hats and Boiling Cauldrons! ((New AU with someheartlesslady))

It was dawn in the mystical forest, the misty fog wafted through the blue- leafed oak trees and birches. In a small clearing sat a large hut, where a few people were plucking weeds and dusting the cobwebs from the overhang of the thatched roof.

“Did you get the Blue Milk Caps, that this brew requires?” A tall brown haired lady asked, the wide brim of her pointed black hat hid the back of her head. She stood by her cauldron, stirring a fruity-smelling liquid boiling inside of it. She turned around, showing a dark grey dress underneath her draping black robe. The to-be witch presented the fungi to her teacher. “Very good, Cindra. Now, the next thing we will do is dry them and powder them up in the mortar and pestle.” The tall witch praised.

“What are the mushrooms for, and what is this brew?” Cindra asked curiously, intrigued by the lesson.

“This is going to be a Spiritual Protection elixir, it is supposed to save one’s soul from the phantoms in this part of the forest. I have given the rest of my batch to the other housemates, I figured, since you wanted to join our Coven, that I would teach you how to brew this as your first potion. We will bless this in a circle, with me, Christina, you, and a guest, this batch will be extra strong!” Jenny smirked. “Now, my pupil, set the mushrooms on the drying rack, I will tend to them in a short minute.”


Leo - Love in World Between Awake & Asleep 

All signs love the same, with the same depth, spirit and vibration. Although, if the heart is the organ to which we love, the Chinese shin kara, the mind is located in the heart, and Leo rules the heart, is Leo the sign of love? Their governance of the heart under the ruling of the Sun provides Leos pure radiance and illumination around their mere essence. And they find it necessary to project this light into the worlds of all they love. Leos will do anything to win one’s approval. By nature, the individual embraces the most generous and affectionate adornments in their love. Leo is the lion, the King of the Zodiac, and they will be fierce to defend any predator that dare intrude on their loved one or their habitat.They offer both protection, security and nauseating, idealistic soul saturating romance. Like everything, Leo sees love as mythical, and will wander through life looking, searching for that someone to pour the torrents of feeling and affection into. This is a person they can care for, cherish, protect and be proud of. The Lion may charge through the day independent, alone, self ruling; but by moonlight they are terribly lonely without a lioness and baby cubs to shower with affection. 

Leo feel at optimum functioning when they are involved in a blooming relationship. These individuals carry the scars of a harsh inner critic, one who is quick to remind them of their shortcomings; and more often their loved one becomes that louder voice in their head - a person to cushion the fall from grandiosity to pure self loathing. Leo will not tolerate deceit, dishonesty or pettiness in relationships, and nurture only the most blossoming romance. The individual detests dishonesty; and as a Fixed sign they are deeply loyal, committed and unquestionably devoted. For the archetype in which everything encircles, where everything is larger than life, their love life continues the theme. 

Leos are renowned for their grand displays of affection and hold bruised hearts from giving more than was ever possible. Their resplendent generosity of spirit is invigorating, and they know how to make anybody feel like the only person in the world - nobody knows how to make somebody feel more special than a Leo. July-August born possess a magnetic charisma, and attract people with a diamond eye, disarming aura and warm spirit. Their love is dramatized, rejuvenating and regenerates with the sunshine that lines the lining of their skin; a Leo’s heart is their ornament, the core of their soul, and they will only give it up to the most special and deserving. The sign of Leo combines the magic of enchanted fairy tales, the idealistic romance that endures past forever, tied with the ferocious defender, the fierce lion who tramples those who bring harm to their sanctuary, producing the miracle elixir that is their spell bounding soul enriching life replenishing romance.

frommetrunui  asked:

Do you think there is a limit to Mokou's and Kaguya's immortality? Do you have any ideas how to actually kill them if possible?

I do, actually. Being an immortal comes with various weaknesses: They are their mind and their physical limitations. Allow me to elaborate.

Immortality is a far cry from invincibility. You can keep going forever, theoretically, but that is only true as far as your pain tolerance and willpower to continue go. In Inaba of the Moon/Earth, for example, Mokou intentionally takes danmaku pointblank and answers that it’s to build and maintain a high pain tolerance exactly for this reason. The thing is, there’s things we have called “fates worse than death”, and they are basically the counter for immortals.

The easiest way to go about this is the consciousness/mind of someone. Mokou and Kaguya both keep their minds very busy, because when you are endless, if left unchecked, your perception of time can become such that hundreds of year will end up passing with the blink of an eye. By all purposes, you are a vegetable if this happens. They keep doing their contests and fights, in part, because it keeps them busy, it gives them something to do, it’s a relationship of mutual gain. Hell, this has even happened: In Cage in Lunatic Runagate, Mokou tells Keine about how she went absolutely insane for three centuries (ages 400-700, approx) because she didn’t keep check of her mental state. Keep in mind, Mokou used to be a human, and human minds are not equipped to deal with eternity, unlike a Lunarian’s, so Kaguya doesn’t have to worry about the same problem. Kaguya IS, however, not all right in her head either, as 1000 years of being in Eientei with no one but the Inaba and Eirin had a toll on her (which is why she is so happy post-IN: she can talk to and know more people). Truthfully, I have it that the Elixir preserves your body and soul, but not your mind, as has been shown with Mokou; She regained her sanity after three hundred years because she was so damn bored, went so freaking bonkers, that she rolled back to sanity, not because the Elixir had anything to do with it. So if you can crush/erase their mind, an immortal would surely “die”. They’d be left as eternal comatose corpses.

Another way to end an immortal, as I said first, is through their physical limitations. To explain this, let’s take a look at Mokou’s abilities first, as it is important in this explanation: Powerful fire magic and complete mastery over it (not manipulation), sealing and extermination techniques (as seen by her usage of seals not unlike Reimu, and her being explicitly called a Youkai Exterminator), knowledge of how to possess others ([Possessed by Phoenix], if you will notice, Mokou goes inside of you, and you get her wings to represent this) and the ability to outright become ethereal and phase through things (when you use a bomb on Mokou during a spellcard, she simply turns transparent and she remains undamaged). Now, why these very particular skills? Because she spent her eternal life making sure no one can permanently get rid of her. In all the written works, Canon!Mokou is taciturn, stoic and, while not without her moment of lightness, a jaded survivalist. Expected of a lone person who has fought and fought and fought for 1300 years. She realized the weakness of immortality, that is, an eternity of being “disabled” or “neutralized”. If someone were to seal her, she can just use her own knowledge of seals and talismans to break out of it. If you were to bury her 60 feet down and cover her in concrete, she can turn ethereal and phase through the ground back to the surface. If faced with an enemy that can destroy her mind, she can possess them and kill them from within them safely. I interpret Mokou’s entire skillset as her fears, and her preparations to deal with the methods a crafty enemy could use to permanently neutralize her, which she no doubt encountered during her 1300 years of fighting. She built herself in a way so no one can counter her immortality, because nothing is more terrifying than eternity suffocating to death underground, sealed, or being left a comatose vegetable. If you can manage to find a way to completely neutralize an immortal in such a way that no one can find them and they can’t escape this fate, surely an immortal would “die”.

This is why immortals keep themselves busy, even if it is something trivial, and why they are often skilled and powerful in over an array of subjects: Yes, they have had all the time in the world to learn this, but it’s actually out of necessity. Immortality means being deathless, nothing more. You can still be subjected to fates worse than death, and those, my friend, are numerous.


Light Puerto Rican Rum - 1 oz

Amber Martinique Rum - 1 oz

Lime Juice - ½ oz

Lemon Juice - ½ oz

Maraschino - ½ oz

Orgeat Syrup - ½ oz

Blue Curaçao - ½ oz

Shake everything with ice cubes and strain into an old-fashioned glass filled with crushed ice. Garnish with green and red cherries.

From “Beachbum Berry Remixed”, invented by Clancy Carroll, a Milwaukee-based music journalist, 2000.

Tiki is back! It’s been a long while since I’ve tasted something containing several rums, liqueurs, and fruits.

The Marlin is one of those blue curaçao drinks that are actually good, it shares some obvious similarities to Trader Vic’s Mai Tai: citrus juice, curaçao, orgeat syrup, and rum; all that’s really different is the Maraschino liqueur, which seemed to be teaming with the almond flavour extremely well. Ingredient-wise it may give the impression of being very sweet, but crushed ice will bring that down immediately.

The “marlin” part refers to the marlin-shaped cocktail pick, unfortunately I don’t have one and I don’t know where to get one. So far I’ve only manage to find a Marlin-shaped stirring rod.