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.

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. 

Tonight is apparently the night I post 1008702834 WIPs.

Here’s Amita / U’thel / Vol’jin in wedding garb. Amita is your “traditional human” wedding dress because I wanted to draw her in a pretty dress. U’thel’s wedding outfit is based on his… other heritage and if you’ve seen his page his last name will probably give that away - other than that, it’s a Celtic mix? Mostly Scottish tho, I think.

As for Vol’jin……………………………..

I totally went and came up with troll wedding headcanon and the TL;DR of it is, Vol’jin getting hitched would be the biggest fucking deal because not only is he a shadow hunter, he’s also the Chieftain. And I’ll just explain now, the other half of his mask?

Yeah. Whoever he gets hitched to has the other half. Kinda like a wedding ring exchange, except they put the mask together and have a whole mask (and if one of them dies the mask breaks). I’ll. I’ll stop there :’D

This is for the Outfit meme and @madmadameem sent me wedding outfits as 1/3 outfits for the prompt for all three of them and I’M WORKING ON THE OTHER ONES.

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.

anonymous asked:

isn't it kinda weird for you to call jeremy the love of your life when he's younger than you

IM SCREAMINT THIS IS THE FUNNIEST ASK IVE EVER GOTTEN IN MY LIFE WE’RE THE SAME AGE OH MY GOOOODDDDDDDDDDDD WE ARE BOTH TWENTY THIS HAS TO BE FAKE

Notable Things That Have Happened Thusfar in my D&D Game

- Party found a corpse that looked exactly like the kid they were trying to save, then they found the kid alive and threw the body in front of this 8 year old child and shouted out “EXPLAIN THIS!?”, because being kidnapped by the boogeyman was not traumatizing enough for a small child.
- A dwarf and an elf decide to go halvsies on a horse; spend an hour debating what to name said horse and whether or not they should buy a saddle or just ride bareback. The horse is named Debutante and they didn’t buy a saddle.
- A party member rolled a natural 20 on a performance check to sleep with a prostitute. The prostitute paid him.
- Party (who work for the monarch of a small Principality) convinces the sister of the monarch that her thoughts of commiting regicide/sororicide are totally well founded. Not because they don’t like their boss or anything, it’s just because the monarchs sister is really hot.
- Party cuts one of the heads off of a three headed troll. The troll head is still alive sans body. The party decides to keep the troll head so they can ask it to share it’s great knowledge and wisdom. The troll head has an Intelligence of 4.
- Party member rolls a natural one to identify a poison deadly enough to kill gods. Believes it to be a potion of eternal youth and beauty. Later when a dragon is demanding the party pay tribute the party rogue (who properly identified the poison) asks the cleric if she would be willing to part with that potion she found. The cleric tells the dragon all the great things about this potion. I roll an insight for the dragon. Natural 20, but also the cleric isn’t lying SO the dragon super believes everything this dwarf cleric is saying and drinks the poison DYING INSTANTLY.
- The elf gets a magic item that turns into a demon horse. Another hour of name debating. The nightmare’s name is Parliament. 


 Oh crap I forgot one from the first session: - Party encounters a Drider (centaur with bottom half spider top half elf). Dwarf cleric “is she hot? Is she single? How many boobs does she have?” I respond “she is half spider. you could ask I guess but she is trying to kill you? probably two.”. “What do you mean PROBABLY two?! Does she secretly have like 20 boobs?!” Ever since then we have started encounters with the party asking for the “titty count” on the monsters. This is when I learned that playing with these women is going to be a mildly different experience than what I am accustomed to.

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

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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.

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Nobody asked but you’ll -shore- as fuck receive anyway! TROLL-FURBIES!!!

Here are three generations of troll furby, lovingly crafted by imperial crocker-tech and beloved of wigglers and hated by rebels everywhere (with the exception of the sometimes-rebellious circuit bending community!)

1. Original, sometimes referred to as ‘listeners’ by the educated. Comes in imperial red, black and white in various combos. They have glistening compound eyes and an antenna disguised as a horn. They detect heat signatures (good for telling castes apart! and if people are in the room!) and, as the name suggests, they -listen-. If they pick up certain keywords in speech, they will record and transmit to empire intelligence channels! Furby circuit benders sometimes reverse engineer them to listen in on empire systems, or just spy on people they don’t like. Some remove the horn on their furby, which is somewhat barbaric considering they’re biotech and probably feel some level of pain, but it effectively ‘disarms’ them from empire comm lines, making them a normal robotic pet.

2. ‘Boom’ edition. More up to date and cuter than ever! These have more aesthetic fur prints in grey and red- ‘diamonds’ is an extremely popular pelt variety and makes them seem like more of an ally and companion to owners. The screen ‘eyes’ will change caste colour depending on the treatment given to the furby. Treat it like trash? It will become a demure maroon! Pamper them? A demanding purple! The different caste modes have different attitudes and this furby can nip you during feeding. There’s also a ‘furby boom rainbow caste’ edition which is ‘caste locked’ with blood coloured fur! …. The ‘Boom’ part? Oh yeah. They can be remotely detonated by the empire. Fun! Be sure to diffuse yours, but be careful, they know if they’re being tampered with<333

3. CrockerNet edition! The fanciest, most up to date and arguably the friendliest on face value! They even have net connectivity and can send and receive your trillion messages for you, sing songs, and learn! Too bad they can also access all your digital devices, accounts, and report findings back to base. Comes in pastels as well as the traditional red-white-black combos.

There are also waterproof ‘sea dweller’ versions, not pictured here!

‘circuit bending’ is a real life phenomena where people hack and mod mechanical and robotic toys, often for use as electronic musical instruments, but sometimes as answering machines, gadgets and other cool robotic stuff! I figure that if humans can do it, trolls probably do this 200% better. I can also see it being popular with kid trolls who dream of being rebels or leet hackers.

Sketch request from last week’s livestream. There were some great requests and we all had a lot of fun, but by far the best suggestion was for a heavy metal troll that soon spiraled out of control. Some brainstorming later we determined he’s a badass necromancer, raising the dead with his magical (three-stringed, because troll) guitar and some SICK SHREDDING!!

This one will definitely be modified, cleaned up, and made available as a T-shirt or print in my RB store in the future. I may even clean it up on a stream.


–Sak
World of Warcraft © Blizzard
Characters and Artwork © Shamine Athena King
Want to see more WIPs, sketches, and pictures up to a week in advance? Support me on Patreon!
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I realize that this has been talked about to death but it’s genuinely bothering me that I’m seeing more outrage about sid returning to the ice than I did about the hit that concussed him in the first place.

screenshotting random tweets and quotes from articles as a sort of “checkmate, sweaty :)” doesn’t do anything except spread a lot of misinformation. sid has his own doctors and medical personnel that he is working with and rehabbing with, and these medical professionals deemed that he was cleared to play tonight.

concussion protocols are definitely sometimes ignored in the NHL, and there is definitely cause for concern with sid’s past injuries, but unless you have firsthand knowledge of sid’s injury and his rehabilitation, anything you contribute to the subject is simply 1.) speculation and 2.) opinion.

Always You- Kili (Part Two)

Pairing: Kili/OC

Prompt: sango-hentaitenshi asked:
Can I request a Kili x Reader where Kili thinks she’s into Fili and it takes someone pointing it out to him that it’s KILI the reader is really crazy for? Bonus points if Fili knows this and uses it to wind Kili up and flirts hella hard with Reader. Thank you!

A/N: Here’s the next part! :) I took this scene from the movie, which I don’t normally do but I absolutely loved this part in the film and saw some potential. And guess what…there’s going to be a part three! Haha because we all know I can’t write anything short ever. Enjoy!

Part One Part Three


Warg riders.

I gritted my teeth against the sound of their shrieks, huge paws thundering across the ground as they hunted us. My mouth felt dry, like cotton or sand. Fear coursed through me, chilling my blood. Trolls were one thing, but orcs were another completely. I would have rather faced three more hungry trolls than a pack of warg riders, and I knew by the faces the dwarves around me that I wasn’t the only one.

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