Had his bastard brother Jon Snow fallen from the Wall? […] In his wolf dreams, he could race up the sides of mountains, jagged icy mountains taller than any tower, and stand at the summit beneath the full moon with all the world below him, the way it used to be. - Bran IA Clash of Kings.

In the cold night air the wound was smoking. “Ghost,” he whispered. […] He never felt the fourth knife. Only the cold… - Jon XIII, A Dance with Dragons.

Emerald valley (2), by Kordan

I hiked up to this place in Prince Christian Sound without any knowledge of where I got. Deep in the night only northern lights lighted landscape. It took me 1,5 hours to get to the emerald valley beneath jagged mountains. I was amazed by the scenery opened to my eyes: wide river bend lay very calm reflecting South Greenland mountains. Danielkordan.com

In 1998, I found myself in Aparan, a large town an hour’s drive from Armenia’s capital, Yerevan. A local dance troupe was performing that evening, in the open air, with most of the suburb in attendance. The old, the young, everyone was present, sitting hunched on stools or cross-legged on the floor, transfixed. In the background, small mountains and jagged cliffs framed the scene.

As soon as I took my first shot, an old man approached me. Tears streamed down his face. He told me that his son had died. That he had been electrocuted, that he was his pride and joy, and that I looked just like him. He broke into sobs and moved towards me with outstretched arms. His name was Ishran.

I asked if he would dance for me, and he began dancing. The troupe paused and perched on an outcrop of rocks in the background. It was beautiful, not because the man is beautiful, but because he represents something deep inside the collective consciousness of the Armenian community: a celebratory resilience in the face of overwhelming loss.

Antoine Agoudjian, “An Armenian man dances for his lost son”

Snowy Swiss dreams.

The jagged mountains towered over us and the snowdrifts piled high either side of the road made our van feel tiny and insignificant in comparison as we wove through the unforgiving roads of the Alps. Finally, after reaching their peak, our route slowly spiralled down back to earth, and the snow began to melt and give way to luscious green fields below. The dream was over, our drive through the clouds at a bittersweet end.

We could’ve spent another week here easily, another month, waking up by frozen lakes and drinking from crisp, Alpine streams, but our time here was up. Time to wander on back to reality for a spell.

Follow the hashtag #Fromrusttoroadtrip to follow our van conversion project and our travels around Europe! 🌍


A series of heavy panting forced its way through Akashita’s throat, his bare feet raw and numb as they slapped against the hard and jagged rocks of the mountains. His white hair was stained crimson by the blood of both himself and his enemies. ‘Run faster,’ a little voice in the back of his head told him, ‘or they’ll catch you!’ But his legs said no. The demon’s legs gave out, and his body hit the ground with a thud.

Akashita laid there for what seemed like hours, almost his whole body bleeding. His throat burned, making him almost want to beg the gods for even just a drop of water. He could feel his life force being drained from him, and he thought, ‘This is it.’

His eyes fell shut.

“Hello?” A voice as sweet as honey echoed through his head. “Can you hear me?”

Akashita let out a groan, and a sharp pain ran through his body. Slowly, his eyelid peeled back, and his retina was blasted with the warm oranges, yellows, and reds of a sunset. As more details become clear, he found himself laying on a white cot in a little, light pink room. His wounds had been cleaned and wrapped in cotton bandages.

A sudden gasp hit his ears. “You’re awake! Are you okay?”

Akashita coughed in response. Suddenly, a gentle hand propped his head upward slightly, and a smooth wooden bowl was placed at his cracked and dry lips.

“Open your mouth, please.”

Akashita parted his lips slightly, and the bowl tipped back. A cool, sugary liquid dripped down his throat. The drink seemed to instantly revive him, and he jolted into a sitting position. Before he realized it he was face-to-face with another man, his cheeks a little chubby and his yellow eyes sparkling in the dim light. He seemed frightened by Akashita’s sudden movements.

It didn’t take long for Akashita to make out one large set of wings protruding from the man’s lower back, with a smaller set about them. A golden halo hovered above the man’s head at all times.

“My god…” Akashita mumbled. “I was saved by a god damn angel?”

The other man gasped, a little hurt by those words. “I-Is that bad?” He asked.

“Well, no. It’s just… odd.”

“O-Oh, well, I-I myself am a little odd, s-so, I guess it works out?”

“Hmpf, well, Angel Boy, I’m leaving.” Akashita tried to pull himself out of bed, but was stopped by the angel.

“Y-You’re not leaving in this condition. You’ll be staying here with me until those wounds are fully healed. And d-don’t call me Angel Boy, I-I have a name, you know.”

After a brief moment of silence, the angel said, “M-My name’s Tokyo. What’s y-yours?”

“Tokyo? Who the hell names their child ‘East City’?” Akashita laughed softly.

“S-Shut up, my mother picked the name…”

“Ahh, whatever, East City. My name’s Akashita.”

It’s difficult to comprehend the size and scope of the Alaskan wilderness. Jagged mountains rise out of endless snow plains. Huge glaciers fill valleys. Everything makes you feel small. Winter at Lake Clark National Park & Preserve is beautiful, but intimidating. Photo by National Park Service.

I’ve been thinking about what kind of weird-ass weather phenomena the lightning region could be, and my personal headcanon is going to be eroded rock desert.

Imagine a rocky, mountainous region with harsh, unforgiving weather. Strong winds fighting it out with sudden, violent rainfall, lightning storms burning everything that dares stick out of the ground into a crisp, jagged mountain peaks clawing at dark, menacing thunderclouds. The wind screeches when it blows through the canyons, nothing at all like the playful gusts from the Zephyr Steppes, ripping dragons out of the sky and flinging them at the spires in the mesa.

There’s rainfall, yes, but it doesn’t nurture. It erodes. It rips the sand and the dirt from the rock, leaving it bare and sterile. It doesn’t stay in the ground, flows out and away to Sea of a Thousand Currants, and the ground is dry again as soon as the rainfall stops, left in the heavy, menacing heat trapped under the clouds.

The only things that grow are small, dry bushes with tough roots that can split up the rock, and fat, round, succulent-like plants.Things that grow slow to compensate for the lack of nutrients in the ground, things that don’t mind being uprooted and carried along for a few hundred miles, things that dry up and wait for years until the weather is just right to bloom and cover the desert in flowers, for a few hours. Until lightning strikes again and it all goes down in a flash of fire.

I just… I headcanon lightning as really inhospitable, and most things that decide to live there, including dragons, go underground or carve houses into the mesas because anything you try to build in the rocky, mountainous region will just get ripped out and carried away. Air travel is suicide if you’re not properly equipped against lightning, and even then, stormy weather might still claw you out of the sky and fling you into the nearest mountain.

A wild river runs between two jagged mountains at Gates of the Arctic National Park and Preserve, creating a doorway to a wilderness of glacier-carved valleys and aurora-lit night skies. This vast landscape lies north of the Arctic Circle and has no roads or trails – making for adventurous exploration. Photo by Carl Johnson, National Park Service.

Dragon Tales
jongyu, ace!2min, queerplatonic!jongkey ft. aro!key
~10k words / pg-15 / fantasy au, omegaverse

Summary: in which an orphaned dragon brings together a family.

written in a fic exchange for sarah-in-kpopland, to fill the prompts: a smut trope, written without any smut (ie omegaverse) || waking up in another world || something with an aromantic and/or asexual main character

i. The Halfling’s Tale

It was a very cheerful day in the northern Cloud Mountains, with the sun casting a bright and warm golden glow upon the land. The jagged mountains with their high peaks of gray were wreathed in less clouds than usual, the trees swayed gently in a welcome breeze, and the nearby river sparkled in the sunlight as the water danced its way down through the riverbed.

Lee Taemin did not appreciate the lovely vista that surrounded him. He scuffed down the overgrown, abandoned trail with his jaw set and his eyes dark, lost in annoyed memory. He would have preferred the weather to be cold, gray and rainy, for then it would at least have matched his mood.

Keep reading


History has not been kind to the people who scratch out a living in Gwadar, on the arid coastline of the Arabian Sea.

They have received a few exotic visitors over the years, including Alexander the Great’s army and marauding Portuguese explorers. For a couple of centuries, their land belonged to sultans in Oman, just across the ocean.

But the world has mostly passed Gwadar by, preferring gentler and more prosperous pastures to the dust, sand and jagged mountains of what is now southwestern Pakistan.

Now, however, a foreign visitor has arrived who is not only promising to stay, but also to help transform this ramshackle place into the gateway of a major new trade route that some hope — despite daunting odds — may stabilize a turbulent region.

The Chinese have moved in on Gwadar, viewing it as a valuable part of their strategy of creating a modern variant of the ancient Silk Road, a network of paths linking China to the world’s markets and energy reserves.

In A Remote Seaside Town, China Envisions A New ‘Silk Road’

Credits: (top) Abdul Sattar for NPR, (center) Alyson Hurt/NPR, (bottom) Philip Reeves/NPR

This is sooo important to me on so many levels.

4. Not an ugly cover! 3. Richelle Mead. 2. Not connected to VA. 1. Chinese folklore aka DIVERSITY!!!

From Richelle Mead, the #1 internationally bestselling author of Vampire Academy and Bloodlines, comes a breathtaking new fantasy steeped in Chinese folklore.

For as long as Fei can remember, there has been no sound in her village, where rocky terrain and frequent avalanches prevent residents from self-sustaining. Fei and her people are at the mercy of a zipline that carries food up the treacherous cliffs from Beiguo, a mysterious faraway kingdom.

When villagers begin to lose their sight, deliveries from the zipline shrink and many go hungry. Fei’s home, the people she loves, and her entire existence is plunged into crisis, under threat of darkness and starvation.

But soon Fei is awoken in the night by a searing noise, and sound becomes her weapon.

Richelle Mead takes readers on a triumphant journey from the peak of Fei’s jagged mountain village to the valley of Beiugo, where a startling truth and an unlikely romance will change her life forever… Less

This was from this past summer in Southeast Alaska. I was there for 2 months back country sea kayaking the Inside Passage. We paddled 550 miles alongside Humpback whales and Glacial Fjords. We stayed on Admiralty Island for 5 of those nights which has the highest Grizzly bear density in North America. This shot was during our departure from Admiralty. It was a 4ish mile crossing to a set of significantly smaller islands called the Twin Brothers. It was our first moment seeing jagged mountain peaks after a week of overcast, restricting our view to the foothills, so it felt amazing. Not to mention that we saw over 15 whales fully breach and had one surface about 10 feet from me. All during this crossing.

I could describe you by rocky streams and by the jagged edges of the mountain tops.
You toss with the stormy surfaces of the ocean, and fly with the sharp sting of a sandstorm.
I could detail you with the fiery tail of a falling star, and outline you the way sunlight pierces the water.
I see you in the sparks that fly just before a flame erupts, and I feel you in the way the fire burns and the cold bites.
You are the intensity hidden in the ordinary.
The sharp edges of a curve.
You are everything I’m afraid to be. The devil that exists in my details.