the three trolls

2

The mobile network provider RBB’s phone is connected to confirms that (if the phone is pay as you go) in order for the SIM to stay active, someone needs to perform some kind of chargeable usage (a phone call or a text message, something like that, just topping up the credit should be adequate too).

In other words - we already knew this, but - someone is definitely still maintaining the number, nearly 18 months after OTRA ended and over a year since the phone was switched on for any period of time. (Either by paying a monthly bill or by switching it on and topping up or sending a text.)

[if you want to know why I think the phone is pay as you go and not on a monthly contract, click here. If anyone wants more information, send me an ask. I think I might rewrite my thoughts on that later on anyway.]

The pokemon players
  • The starter: picks pokemon according to their cuteness. They're not very strong and probably lose a lot of battle.
  • The true player: has always a good, balanced party ready for any occasion.
  • The true player 2.0: picks pokemon according to their cuteness. Somehow manages to have a very strong party.
  • The 90s player: if you listen to the winter wind you can hear them lamenting how the second gen was the best. Played a run with only bug type at least twice.
  • The Mom: *point a finger at a ludicolo* is that a pikachu?
  • The random player: probably only started oras and black2 and never finished them. Doesn't remember the names of their starter.
  • The pkmn go player: only watched the anime. Played pkmn go for two weeks and got bored.
  • That Guy: played every single pkmn game but hates the last ones because they are too simple. Is thirty years old and gets angry at kids for liking pkmn sumo.
  • The freak: draws over sexualised antropomorphic pokemons.
  • The troll: first enemy of the 90s player and That Guy. Calls the pokemons by their wrong names on purpose but is actually a very good player.
  • The unaware troll: a random player who run in too many 90s players and called victreebel "upside down pear" in front of them.

Yes. I’m sure he’s “a good kid.” I’m also sure he’s a god damn racist, too. 

In the White House.

White power at the White House – Trump intern flashes ‘alt-right’ symbol used by notorious extremists during group photo with the president

UPDATE: Hey, fuck-head trolls – Google “three percenters” and see what comes up. Is this just a kid flashing the inoccuous OK sign? No. It’s a racist who doesn’t like Muslims.
Mythological Throwback Thursday: Trolls

Welcome to our latest Mythological Throwback Thursday! This week we’re taking a look at trolls. Fol-de-rol. Come and join us!

A troll is a creature from Scandinavian folklore, although there is a lot of conflict about where they come from. Even the etymology of the word is unclear. Originally they were perceived as familial, rock-dwelling, reclusive types. Some believe that this depiction has something to do with Neanderthals, whose bones were sometimes found by early Norse people.

As Norse culture developed, so the depiction of trolls generally settled down into that of an ugly, slow-witted being. When Scandinavia became Christianised, trolls did not, and were sometimes feared as evil pagans that would hurl rocks at churches with their inhuman strength. People even feared that their babies might be switched with troll-children.

In the little town of Kalundborg, Denmark, there exists a story of a famous troll called Fin. This story has close parallels with the tale of Rumpelstiltskin. A man called Esbern Snare was building a church in Kalundborg, but it was hard work. A passing troll offered his services to build the church, but with a catch: if Esbern couldn’t figure out the troll’s name by the time the church was finished, the troll would take his eyes and heart. Esbern couldn’t guess the troll’s name, and as the troll neared the completion of the church he wandered, eventually finding a troll-woman within a hill singing of her husband Fin and how her child would soon have Esbern’s eyes and heart to play with. When Esbern returned to Kalundborg the troll was fitting the final half of the last pillar. But Esbern called him by his name, Fin, and the troll became so angry he flung the pillar into the air. To this day, the church in Kalundborg only has three and a half pillars. At least this version makes slightly more sense than Rumpelstiltskin singing his own name capering round a campfire.

Another common folktale featuring trolls, of course, is the story of the Three Billy Goats Gruff. In it, three goats desire to cross a bridge to a hillside brimming with luscious grass. The smallest billy goat crosses the bridge but is accosted by the wicked troll living underneath, who wants to eat him. The billy goat manages to convince him to save his appetite for the second billy goat, who is larger. But the second billy goat, when he comes, convinces the troll to wait for the biggest billy goat. The greedy troll lies in wait, and attacks the biggest billy goat gruff. However, the goat puts out his eyes and crushes his body, before the three goats go and enjoy the grass. I suppose the moral of the story is don’t have eyes bigger than your stomach. Or you just won’t have eyes any more.

In modern times, trolls have been adapted into many European-style fantasy settings. Tolkien, D&D, Warhammer– the legend of the misshapen, misanthropic monster persists. Join us next week for another Mythological Throwback Thursday!

Derek shows up to his first pack meeting after moving back to Beacon Hills wearing worn out jeans and a faded flannel, chest hair popping out near the top. His beard is full, his hair is longer, almost long enough for a bun, his eyes have smile lines. He’s happy. 

Stiles walks in late, his hair disheveled, his jeans a little tighter than they used to be, his black teeshirt clinging to his arms and chest in a way that made Derek’s mouth go dry. And don’t get him started on the tattoos, the vines and runes that twist up Stiles’ arms.  

“I thought I heard someone brooding,” Stiles says before he really even sees Derek, but when he does his jaw drops, “Who are you and what have you done with Derek Hale?”

And Derek, he laughs, “Hi Stiles, you look good.”

“Me?” Stiles sputters, his heart racing and his eyes wide, “Have you seen yourself? You look like a sexy lumberjack.”

Derek’s eyes go a little wider, his lips tug up in a private smile. It’s like they’re the only two people in the room. All he can hear is the steady beating of Stiles’ heart, all he can smell is the cinnamon and clove scent that is Stiles, all he can see are those honey brown eyes, at least until Scott clears his throat. 

“Uh guys, can you maybe eye fuck some other time? We’ve got three trolls in the preserve and we need to get them out before they kill someone,” Scott says, eyes darting between his returned pack member and his emissary. 

“Yeah, sure, yeah, we can fuck later,” Stiles says sounding a little dazed. Derek swallows and nods, eyes still on Stiles.

“That’s not what I said,” Scott mutters, turning away from the two of them and back to the rest of the pack, “I think we’re going to have to take care of this without Stiles and Derek’s help.”

“Can you manage that?” Stiles asks, shaking his head a little, “Something just came up and I’m busy now.”

“Just go,” Scott says with a small laugh. 

Stiles and Derek are out the door before Scott’s done talking. They emerge from Stiles’ apartment two days later both smiling and holding hands. 

Rosie had heard all of the stories about old mister Bilbo coming home with boxes and barrels of treasure. He had been gone so long everyone had assumed he was dead, but then he had ridden into town with gold in his pony’s saddlebags.

She dreamed about Sam coming home, a feather in his cap, gold tucked into the sensible pockets on his sensible pants. She dreamed about Sam coming home. They made jokes in the Green Dragon about young mad Mr. Baggins, just like his uncle old mad Mr. Baggins, who had run off with three gullible youngsters and gotten eaten by wolves.

Rosie watched her mother during the occupation, the ways she counted curly heads, the way she canned vegetables and fruits, salted meats, then bound them up in cloth and tucked them under each child’s bed, in the hollow in the tree down the road, buried out by Miller’s Pond. Rosie watched her father walk the edges of the property, like he was stomping his ownership into it. He kept his pitchfork sharp. He was preparing to fight for his home and her mother was giving them a way out.

Pippin and Merry came back taller; they would bump their foreheads on low doorways all their lives. Frodo came back wiser; he would feel lost on the wind until the day he stepped onto a creaking deck and let it sweep him away. Sam came back; he had grown, for all miles and hunger had worn him down to the quick.

When Sam came home, there was a feather in Pippin’s cap, a horn on Merry’s hip. All Sam had was a box of dirt with one large, smooth seed tucked inside. Even in Mordor, Sam had only been fighting for the Shire. He spent the rest of his life helping things grow.  


Let’s talk about Sam crying over rabbit stew, because a brace of coneys had been a spot of luck, once; because even then, even when he still had his pots and his pans, when Frodo had not yet snarled at him and told him to go– Mr. Frodo had still been gone too far by then to ever come back again.

Rosie, who did not cry easy, chopped onions so he would not be the only one with wet cheeks to scrub off. She asked him about herbs and spices, about stirring and cooking times, about what loaf would go best with it all. Sam said, “Rosemary, tarragon.” Part of him still rang against the greening metal of a copper pot dropped down a chasm and left somewhere on the edges of Mordor, but she saw him breathe deep and reach for thyme.  

When they brought Frodo a bowl in the little study that had once been Bilbo’s, Frodo warmed his hands in the steam and chuckled when he recognized the smell. Sam pressed his cheek into Rosie’s curls and remembered that not everything was lost.


Sam came back different, but Rosie had not stayed the same either.

Some nights Sam couldn’t sleep on the bed. He laid out with a blanket on the floor and apologized for it. She checked the locks three times, and didn’t trust them anyway. If men came to the door in the night, smashed through the window, set the house on fire– she knew three ways out. She knew the path she’d take through the forests and little hills, two good places to cross the water and three mediocre ones, how to gather and set snares and never have to come back.

She also knew that she would come back. Sam had gone out and met the world, but Rosie had stayed here and staked her claim.


Between helping with the reconstruction, clearing out abused hobbit holes, planting new trees, raising her children, and managing Bag End, Rosie took tea into Mr. Frodo’s little study and let him tell her about his story. 

Some days he sat up, waved his hands, talked about Moria like it was Mr. Bilbo telling hobbitlings about the three trolls. On others he muttered about language and conjugation, dialects of Elvish, and Rosie learned words for things she had never seen. One of her sons would be named for Frodo, and one of her daughters Elanor, for a flower that grew on the floor of a forest no hobbits but four had ever seen. 

He told her about Faramir and Boromir–their adventures, and their family trees to seven generations back. Rosie scattered her younger children over his study floor on those long afternoons, where they got cookie crumbs and sloppy paint all over the sheet she’d lain over his soft carpet. 

It was a late night, the kids abed, when he told her about Mordor, about Gollum and the eagles, and how Sam had not given up, even at the very end. She had come down to turn over some marinade in the pantry and found the study light on, Frodo bent over his desk and scribbling. “I have to get it all down,” he said, and smiled at her unhappily. “Too tired right now to be scared of it all.“ 

So she got some cocoa and a heavy quilt for each of them, and stayed to listen to him mutter and scratch out lines. “Frodo Nine-Fingered and Samwise the Brave,” he told her. “We talked about how we were going to be stories, one day.“ 

When Sam came down the hall in the morning, his wife’s curls were pooled on the desk beside Mr. Frodo’s, inked pages scattered under their cheeks and curled palms. Sam had watched Frodo earn each and every white hair on his head, and he was learning the stories still behind each tired crease and laugh line on Rosie’s face. Sam leaned against the door frame and watched them breathe, in and out, until the kids came shrieking down the hallway and woke them. 

The day Frodo gave him the Red Book and left, Sam cried on the shores of the sea and watched him go. Frodo had sat Rosie down that morning, over a breakfast of two eggs, thick bacon, hearty toast, a little salad– he had told Rosie he was leaving and Rosie had already known. 

There were still burned scars on the soft fertile ground of the Shire. Some of them would never grow over, no matter how many seeds they scattered and watered. Rosie still had emergency kits buried in the yard, tucked in hollow trees down the road, kept under her children’s beds. 

But there were strawberries growing in her window boxes, even if on the worst days she wasn’t sure if they’d be there to harvest them in springtime. On those days, Rosie padded down to the pantry and got out little glass jars of strawberry preserves. So many springs had come and gone, and so many would come again. There were some things you could carry with you. 

Drop your pots, drop your pans–lose weight, faith, a finger–forget the taste of strawberries. There were little white blossoms waiting in the window boxes of Bag End to turn into blushing red fruit. Sam had carried Frodo to the end of his journey, and Frodo had given her this home. The spring would come. 

Sam came back with salt crystallized on his hems and the edge of his jaw. He came back with a red book under one arm–no gold in his pockets, no gems, just his two hands tucked and curled in the warmth of them. 

Their children would read Frodo’s book as they grew (Bilbo’s book, too, and those few words that were their father’s). They would not understand, not all of it, not at first. They would eat strawberries in spring and dream of Fangorn, dare each other to brave the Old Forest on the edge of the Shire. They would climb all over Merry and Pippin’s tall frames and beg to go with them when they went to visit the kings of Gondor and Rohan. 

Rosie would eat strawberries in the spring. She would make jars and jars of jam to keep for long winters. She would keep kits of supplies, for emergencies, for invasions, for the children of hers who had wanderlust in their bare, woolly feet. 

On nights when she could not sleep–too cold, too stuffy, too old–she would pad out to Frodo’s old study and sit among the books and things. She would read about places she’d never seen, languages she’d never heard. She would write her own notes down about the Scouring– the first little resistances, and the final front lines. She would trace her fingers over loving maps of the Shire, tracing the ways out, the places to hide, the ways back. 

When she woke in the morning, her cheek on the old wood desk, a blanket would be draped around her shoulders and Sam would be asleep in an armchair, just close enough to reach out and touch. 

Here is a collection of exclamations to adopt from Trollhunters

Great Groncia Morcia! -Blinky
Grumbly Gruesome! -Blinky
Oh, cragglesnax! -Blinky
What in the WORLD!? -Jim
Fudgeknuckle! -Claire
Bushigal! -Draal
Awesome sauce! -Toby
*roars -Gunmar

vimeo

This is part of the Trolls opening sequence. Concept art and fabrication by Me, AFX animation by Erik Tillmans and storyboards by Joel Crawford. Each asset was hand built with felt, paper and embroidery.

 My process started with presenting an animated gif to directors, Mike Mitchell and Walt Dorhn. Painting and working with the animation tool in Photoshop allowed me to design fluidly. I evaluated the story boards to plan out camera movement and work out character action. I knew the camera needed to push in through the dead Troll atop the cage, so I designed the town path to compliment this movement. Next, I focused on the buildings and set dressing. Bubbly poo shapes felt appropriate for Bergentown, while my colors needed variation within the muted palette. The real challenge of this piece was to find the exact materials that reflected the tonal range in grays and browns. I reserved my blacks for the cage and full saturation for the Troll Tree as it represents happiness. The result was three separate backgrounds, six hero buildings that could be flipped and duplicated in interesting ways, three Troll Trees, cages, and various set dressing assets. Each asset was photographed separately, edited and composited. For each scrapbook peice, I would deliver a psd packet to Erik to animate.

The full hand built set of the Bergentown transition.

All content is property of Dreamworks Animation.

Definitely

Summary: The Company thinks you’re a man so when they find out that you’re not, one dwarf isn’t too pleased.

Warnings: Swearing. Multiple short time skips so it might be a jumbled mess, there is a part where some might get offended: please don’t. I didn’t mean it like that.

Pairing: Dwalin x Reader

Word Count: 2,844

A/N: Holy shit this was longer than I expected. I didn’t expect it to be this long, but as I kept writing, I had a hard time finding a way to end it so this happened. This is probably the longest one shot I’ve ever written. @fandomnationwhore I do hope that this is what you wanted. IF it’s not, let me know and I’ll write another one. Its so bad lmfao

Also, I don’t know if you guys realize this but my requests are always open lmfao

Master Lists: Drabbles/Imagines, and Completed Series

Keep reading

sigma-castell  asked:

Have you ever thought about writing a fic in which Voldemort went after the Longbottoms instead of the Potters?

If Voldemort had chosen the pureblood boy, not the halfblood, as his opponent? This Neville would have had graves to visit, instead of a hospital. He’d still have grown up in his grandmother’s clutches, tut-tutted at, dropped out windows absentmindedly, left to bounce on paving stones.

Let’s tell this story: Alice Longbottom, who was the better at hexing, told Frank to take Neville and run.

She died on the braided rug of their sitting room floor. Frank heard her fall from where he stood in front of the cradle. He did not have time to run.

When the Dark Lord climbed the stairs and saw Frank, he laughed at the small man in front of him. Frank had crooked teeth, a mis-sized nose, big fingers and small, watery eyes. Voldemort looked at him the way children would look at Neville, in almost a decade, at stubby fingers around a rememberall, a wrinkled brow and a stammer. “Move aside,” he said, the way a different Voldemort had once offered a way out to Lily Potter. That had been for the sake of another man’s love, and this was for his own contempt. “Just let me have the boy. Did you really think you could–”

When Neville met Voldemort again, in his fourth year, when Luna’s advice, his own gillyweed knowledge, and Ginny’s Bat Bogey Hex lessons had gotten him through the Triwizard Tournament he’d never signed up to enter, there would be a bubbling scar on Voldemort’s sunken left cheek. His father had had time for one curse. Frank’s love had saved his son, marked him, but his hate had been enough, too, to scar Tom Riddle through every rebirth and transformation he would ever have.

Harry Potter would have grown up as James’s oldest son. I think Lily, who missed her sister, and James, who had found three brothers at school and loved them more than life, would have had more children: a little sister who James taught to fly (little Tuney’d be Keeper to Ginny’s Seeker, in a decade, and gossip terribly about Harry), a baby brother Lily fervently talked James out of naming Lupeterius. Harry would have grown up spoiled and loved, magical, with toy broomsticks and playdates with the other Order kids– stumbling Neville, the Bones girl and the rollicking Weasley bunch.

If the Potters were never the main targets, never hiding and frightened, I don’t think Peter would have turned when he did. Not enough gain. Not enough tail-tucking fear. Peter would have limped through to the end of the war, whiskers shivering in his soul even when they were popping champagne on the night Neville Longbottom’s parents died.

They raised delicate glasses that had somehow survived all the first war, laughing, in Godric’s Hollow, to the Boy Who Lived. Augusta Longbottom planned her children’s funeral and wondered if her grandson’s forehead would scar like that. Lily danced in the living room with James, on the garish rug that Sirius had bought them as a joke and that they had kept just to spite him.

But this was a story about Neville now–it would always be a story about Harry, somewhat, because it had never been the scar that made the boy. When Draco Malfoy stole Neville’s rememberall, this Harry would still jump on a broom; when Hermione, weeping in the bathrooms, didn’t know about the troll, Harry would still run to tell her–that instinct was not something even having loving parents (especially these parents) would have kept from him.

But this had always been a story about Neville, too– unscarred Neville, Neville with his pockets full of gum wrappers, this had always been the story of his rise and his steady soul. But this time he was marked from birth, a scar on his forehead and hands that weren’t any better at holding a wand. This time, his grandmother had even more reason to look at him with disappointment when he spent all his childhood looking powerless.

Neville was not the disappeared savior who they whispered about. Halloween was still a celebration of Voldemort’s fall, but Neville was a lucky object, not a small hero, because where there had been a vacuum to fill when it had been Harry Potter, to fill with wonderment and thanks, here Neville toddled down Diagon Alley and held his grandmother’s hand. The whole world knew this boy was probably a squib, with pudgy fingers and a slow stammer, who didn’t learn to read until it was almost time to go to Hogwarts.

When Neville got his Hogwarts letter, the whole wizarding world was very politely surprised. He got told congratulations from strangers in the street, who in different universes would be shaking Harry Potter’s hand and swooning. Neville was far above smart enough to recognize than none of the other children got congratulated for the victory of being asked to attend school.

He asked the Hat for Hufflepuff and it gave him Gryffindor. He hoped they did not expect him to learn how to roar.

This was a Neville scarred. This was a Neville who would still get a rememberall and still forget it in his room two days out of five, who would eat a Weasley treat and turn into a canary, who would take Ginny Weasley to the Yule Ball and not once step on her toes.

This was a Neville who had had long conversations with the garden snakes in his backyard as a child and who had snuck them bits of his breakfast, kept track of which little serpent liked soft boiled eggs and which would dare to try a bit of sausage if he wiggled it properly. When he first got to Hogwarts, lonely, a lion in lamb’s fleece, Neville hid out behind the greenhouses and made friends with the snakes who curled on the warm rocks there.

Read More

Keep reading