purple sail


an incomplete list of LGBT+ characters in (fictional) period pieces [insp]

* much more prominent/explicit in the original book on which the film is based

A Silly Idea;

Stands from Stardust re-named with musical references

The Fool: Castle of Sand

Magician’s Red: Disco Inferno

High Priestess: Iron Maiden

Empress: Fight from the Inside

Emperor: Master of War

Hierophant Green: Green River

The Lovers: Double Dealer

Silver Chariot: Neon Knight

Strength: Smooth Sailing

Hermit Purple: Deep Purple

Wheel of Fortune: Built For Speed

Justice: Master of Puppets

Hanged Man: Hangman Jury (I give up on this one)

Death XIII: Dream Warrior

Yellow Temperance: Feed my Frankenstein

Ebony Devil: Born Again

Tower of Grey: Danger Zone

Star Platinum: Stargazer

Dark Blue Moon: Moon River

The Sun: The Sun is pretty good, actually

Judgement: Money for Nothin’

Za Warudo: Holy Diver, obviously

Geb: Man of the Lake

Tohth: Gypsy

Khnum: Man Behind the Mask

Anubis: Powerslave

Sethan: Child of Mine

Bastet: Electric Funeral

Osiris: Ace of Spades

Horus: Blizzard of Ozz

Atum: Yes

Three Minutes

Rules are: write a title, set a timer for three minutes, and write like mad! Post whatever you come up with, whether it’s turned into a story or not. Feel free to join!


The ships are coming. I can see them on the horizon, their sails bright against the the northern skies. White sails, red, purple. Every color, each as rich as the last. The Merchants are coming, and we aren’t ready for them.
My father was the first to sight them, when he went down to the docks this morning. Their sails appeared on the edge of the stormy sea like a warning, like a seal of blood on a hangman’s parchment. The Merchants govern our cities. They are the wealthiest, the most powerful, although our prince is stupid enough to believe the games they play with him, the gifts they bring and the homage they offer. As if they care whether he gives them his blessing to trade and barter or not.
We all owe the Merchants money. All of us, even the wealthiest, even the men that sleep in soft beds with a real roof over their heads. We all owe, and none of us can pay.

Ficlet: Soggy Saturday

Kurt and Blaine are on vacation, visiting Burt and Carole in Lima, when a family water fight causes them to get a little too competive. Future fic. 1200 words.

It’s wheretheshadowslie‘s birthday today. Happy birthday, Emily! I hope you like this silliness.


Blaine has been wet and dry so many times by this point that he’s not even sure he remembers what fresh clothes feel like. The clouds are beginning to roll in and he should just give up and go inside like Burt, Carole and the kids did ages ago. But he can’t make himself. He’s been searching for Kurt for the past half hour and every once in a while he hears a far off chuckle that keeps him outside. Keeps him on his guard. Keeps him from giving in and accepting defeat. He can’t let his chuckling husband win that easily.

The sun hasn’t been high enough in the sky to dry his shirt for some time now, and Blaine stops to wring out the bottom. It’s no longer dripping, but he feels chilled to the bone. He checks the the water level in his Super Soaker and plucks a balloon off of his DIY ammo belt. He has a feeling that Kurt is close. He thinks he can smell a hint if his aftershave on the breeze. And Kurt, damn him, hasn’t been hit enough times today to wash it away entirely.

“Where the heck are you?” he mutters under his breath. Kurt wasn’t behind the house. Nor on the porch or hiding behind the gardening shed. He has got to be changing position constantly, but surely Blaine would have seen him by now if he was walking around freely. And his stifled laughter seems to be coming for everywhere and nowhere all at once.

Keep reading


Faint and far away the light burned, low on the horizon, shining through the sea mists.

“It looks like a star,” said Arya.

“The star of home,” said Denyo.

His father was shouting orders. Sailors scrambled up and down the three tall masts and moved along the rigging, reefing the heavy purple sails. Below, oarsmen heaved and strained over two great banks of oars. The decks tilted, creaking, as the galleas Titan’s Daughter heeled to starboard and began to come about.

The star of home. Arya stood at the prow, one hand resting on the gilded figurehead, a maiden with a bowl of fruit. For half a heartbeat she let herself pretend that it was her home ahead.

But that was stupid. Her home was gone, her parents dead, and all her brothers slain but Jon Snow on the Wall.