wild-place

helen + orla = hella  ~*✧*♡♡(ू•ᴗ•ू❁)♡

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Zelda fans have found a huge new timeline clue in ‘Breath of the Wild’

  • The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild is home to several familiar locations that you’ll no doubt remember from previous Zelda games.
  • While there’s no official confirmation that the areas are exactly the same place for sure, the similarities are uncanny. That’s particularly true for Lon Lon Ranch, a popular spot in The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time.
  • Breath of the Wild includes ruins that look just like Lon Lon Ranch.
  • This seems to suggest that Breath of the Wild takes places in the same world as Ocarina of Time, just much much later on. Read more (3/16/17 12:07 PM)

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anonymous asked:

bucky tell us a story about darcy

darcy lewis goes drinking with thor.

that alone should be enough to send your imaginations spinning off to wild places, but that, my friends, is only where our story begins.
it is also something you should know, just in general, in case you happen to encounter darcy lewis.
she’s tazed a god twice, and she goes drinking with thor. on a regular basis.
the first time thor wanted to go drinking after i showed up, lewis was there too. and naturally, if thor was going out so was she. neither of them knew us newbie avengers well yet, but being sociable sort of people, they invited us to tag along. scott immediately agreed, but sam was caught up doing some beta testing in the labs with tony, and said he would catch up when they were done.
so darcy, thor, scott and i went out drinking.
fun fact about thor: it takes him approximately one million alcohols to get drunk, but once he’s there, he likes to sing. preferably epic ballads of victory in battle, but he’s pretty much game for any catchy song that will get a bar excited. that being the case, lewis and thor’s go-to midgardian bar is a karaoke joint.
im sure you begin to see where things are going wrong.
fun fact about darcy lewis? she can also hold her alcohol, but cannot carry at tune. like. at all.
that doesnt stop her from singing, mind you. gotta respect a lady who knows shes terrible but enjoys herself anyway.
scott apparently loves karaoke. i dont know why that surprised me, but it did. even more surprising? hes not actually that bad, although like 90% of his song choices were bruce springsteen. no clue why. anyway, thor was delighted by having a buddy who was not only willing but able to sing with him, and after scott got over his star-struck-ness they had a pretty great time.
it was a good thing that thor and lewis went to that bar on the regular, because im sure any place that hadnt been prepared for them would have kicked all of us out. as it was, they finally booted us out the door after a rousing rendition of ‘wrecking ball’ had most of the bar on their feet. and broke two tables.
(thor apparently settles his tab there in asgardian gold, so no hard feelings from the bartenders.)
the night was young and all of us had enough booze in our systems that we decided to catch a cab back to the tower and see if we could rope anyone else into some shennanigans. thor was buzzed at least, which for thor means his voice is even boomier and his gestures are more expansive–you gotta be ready to duck. scott was drunk, no question about it, and that was probably why theyd wound up singing wrecking ball in the first place. scott’s a cheerful if floppy, “ i love you, i love all of you guys, i love everyone in this bar ” kind of drunk, and was mostly travelling by merit of being wrapped around thors bicep. i was a little buzzed myself, and lewis had had nearly as much as i did. remarkably, she seemed to be chugging along pretty well, some weaving and slurring aside. the lady lives up to her god-tazing reputation.
anyway, we got out of the cab at the tower and started making our way to the doors. scott had partially detached from thors arm and needed extra support, so i was helping keep him from capsizing while lewis trailed a few steps behind the three of us, making color commentary of our three stooges act.
and then out of nowhere, she just…yelled.
all three of us whipped around as quickly as three drunk superpeople can, just in time to see darcy lewis dish out what looked to be a pretty dang textbook perfect roundhouse kick to the chest of some poor guy.
the guy went down. lewis went down too, because the kick had totally overbalanced her. thor and i dropped scott and ran over to help.
which was when sam sat up and said ‘that was a hell of a kick’
because apparently hed finished up his testing and gone out to catch up with us, made it partway down the block to call a cab, then saw us getting out of our taxi. he jogged back–not being particularly stealthy, but we were drunk–and put his hand on lewis’s shoulder to get her attention.
lewis, having pretty poor vision even sober, and worse vision when drunk and without her glasses, just saw some big male figure who’d popped up out of nowhere and grabbed her by the shoulder.
so naturally she kicked him in the chest.
she apologized profusely, but the rest of us thought it was pretty funny. and sam was impressed the next morning when he discovered that she’d left a visible footprint on his chest.
darcy insists she has no idea why she did it. or where she learned to kick like that.
the rest of us have just chalked it up to mysterious darcy lewis powers.

Just Another Bucky Smut

Summary: Just a Bucky x Reader smut. There really isn’t much of a story, it’s mostly smut.

Warnings: Dom!(ish)andJealous!Bucky, smut

A/N: My brother walked in and saw me writing this and just sighed so I hope you enjoy the second hand embarrassment that comes with my life.

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dancing-thru-clouds  asked:

I would like for you to tell stupid tourist stories? Your story-telling style is very engaging.

First of all, thank you very much!

Since flattery will get you pretty much anywhere, allow me to tell you The Tale Of Jar-Jar.

The First year my family moved to Colorado, my family decided to take the annual summer camping trip to Yellowstone, now that we were on the right side of the rockies for it.  So we pile into the car with all my mom’s immortal camping gear from the 70′s (srsly, I still have the Colemann stove and cooler.  They work perfect)  and Cody,The Gentleman Shepherd.  

Due to Wyoming looking mostly like the ugly parts of Mad Max, we got onto the wrong highway and arrived after dark.  Cody waited patiently in the backseat rather than set up in the rain.  Gentlemanly.

The next morning, Mom is doing something miraculous with the Colemann and there is a breakfast of pancakes, eggs and bacon.  The sun is shining.  The birds are singing.  All is serene and beautiful. 

Then the people in the next site pull up.   They arrive in a Brand-spanking new Ford Pickup towing a trailer that looks like it was salvaged of a 50′s atomic test field.  The Husband emerges first and…

I don’t like judging people based on appearance but Man, when a dude walks out of a pickup wearing a confederate flag hat, and half of a mullet one tends to make assumptions.  

The eldest child came out next, a boy of about 12, with a rat-tail.
Followed by his brother, a boy of about 10, with a rat-tail
Followed by his brother, a boy of about 8, with a rat-tail.
Followed by his brother, a boy of about 6, with a rat-tail.
Followed by his brother, a boy of about 4, with a rat-tail.

The wife finally emerges, looking like death warmed over and carrying a boy of about two, with a rat-tail.  It is unclear if she has poor posture or if she is pregnant again.  The Boys capable of standing all immediately do so at the border of our site, staring covetously at my bacon.

Finally, with a loud plop and wheezing noise, comes thier dog, for a given value of dog.  Pugs are not terribly healthy-looking creatures at the best of times, but this poor thing looked like the canine equivalent of a Hapsburg.  One eye was so bulged as to be permanently wall-eyed, and his jaw jutted out in front of him at a distressingly kapakahi angle. 

“C’mere Jar-Jar!” hollers the Husband.

“Good God.” muttered my father.

The adults proved over the course of the next hour to be loathsome creatures- Husband was constant’y screaming at the boys the “fuckin’ get me the thing, you little-”  then getting mad when asked for clarification on ‘which thing?’.  The Wife was a non-stop stream of complaint- the sun is too hot, the shade is too cold, the tent is too far, the birds are too loud, and everything is awful, I’m going to complain to the ranger.  Eventually they got their camp set up, and Husband cracked his first beer of the day as we finished locking the bear box and leaving to hike.  It was about 10 AM.

We return some hours later to a very animated discussion between Wife and the Camp Supervisor about “I have rights you know!” vs. “Ma’am, we are under an extreme fire danger warning, and Fireworks have been banned in the park for ages.”  Jar-Jar, eager to avoid any outbursts, has scuttled under our bear box, wheezing in agitation.  Cody, ever gallant, positions himself between Jar-Jar and his mistress, doing his best impression of a Real Shepherd Who Isn’t Scared of Mice and Snowflakes.  Husband is unseen, but there are several beer cans in the fire grate.

That evening’s campfire, normally a time to listen to nocturnal wildlife and the Quiet noises of wild places, is instead a time to listen to drunken racist jokes, a sobbing toddler and Husband screeching “SAY AI WANNIT” whilst dangling scraps in front of jar-jar, until the dog stood on his legs and danced, garbling “Ai-Wa-War”  in a voice that sounded less like a bark and more like late-stage emphysema, before collapsing on what looked like sore joints.

Late that night, my parents discuss packing up and looking for a site in Teton down the road over the sounds of half-assed drunken sex.

The boys, in spite of their parents, are well mannered, intelligent and engaging to talk to, and seem content to frolic in the woods around the site, examining rocks and plants and the occasional insect.  Dad has a nice time telling them about the Yellowstone supervolcano whilst their parents have vanished to parts unknown.  Jar-jar remains off-lead and un-collared the entire time, huffing and puffing as he tries to keep up.  Still, five boys is perhaps too much attention for an elderly pug, and the too-hard petting and pulling of ears and tail and suchlike is tolerated with an exasperated whine and vacations under our bear-box. 

The second night, Husband was furious about something, cursing up a storm and throwing things and generally having a tantrum.  The eldest boy said something to him and he bore down on him, hand raised and screaming something about ‘useless pieces of shit.”
-When they were interrupted by my mother stepping into their site, all four feet eleven inches of ill-contained fury, staring him down.

“I was wondering.”  She said, eyes not moving from him. “If I could borrow some matches.”
“Ours got wet.” Dad added, immediately behind her, less as support than restraint.

I remember how ghastly quiet the woods got for a moment there, watching the scene unfold from behind Cody, the only sounds the campfire and crickets.

“Uh, yeah.  Matches.”  The Wife muttered, and it was enough to get Husband to back down.

“You have lovely children.”  Dad continued.  “Very smart, very polite.”
“You must be so blessed.” My mother adds, only slightly spitting the word.

My parents take the matches and talk a bit longer but I couldn’t hear.  Husband gave up, flopping down in his chair, but not before giving Jar-Jar a kick.

The next morning, as my family was packing up to head down to Teton instead, The Eldest boy approached us, concerned.

“Sir?”  he asked dad.  “Have you seen jar-jar?”

We hadn’t actually, his gravely groveling notably absent that morning at breakfast.  My sister and I went on a search with the boys through the camp, but to no avail.  We did find Wife, complaining to the campground host that there were too many wild animals around.  In the National Park.  Saddened and trying to give the boys some hope that perhaps jar-Jar had not been eaten by the coyotes, we left.

On the way out the main gate, we ended up behind a Buick with Florida plates, driven by a couple well into their octogenarian period, at about seven miles per hour.  As they stopped at the checkout gate, clearly asking for directions, a dog climbed up to sit in the back window.  A fat, lop-sided, wall-eyed little Pug, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

And that’s the story of how Jar-jar escaped the Hell family to Florida.

Faun Aesthetic ; requested by @rusticca

The faun is a mythological half human–half goat manifestation of forest and animal spirits that would help or hinder humans at whim. Romans believed fauns inspired fear in men traveling in lonely, remote or wild places. They were also capable of guiding humans in need.

I and most of my friends are working or studying in fields that rely heavily on US government funding and support. A week ago, we knew we were future archaeologists, historians, conservation biologists, policymakers, environmental scientists, diplomats, park rangers; now some of us don’t know what we are. For so many, it feels like the rug has been totally pulled out from under us. More so if your dream job was actually in government (like mine), or if you’re a veteran who could’ve expected to benefit from federal veteran’s employment initiatives, or if you’re a research scientist or grad student working on a federal grant funded project, or if you’re a new graduate suddenly plunged into a market where the jobs you’ve prepared for are gone, frozen indefinitely by an administration hostile to their existence.

This isn’t hypothetical angst. Across the US, jobs people were applying for last week are closed. Graduate students whose EPA grants are suspended stand poised to lose not only their work, but their living stipends.

But who gives a fuck about me and my friends, right? Who cares about the futures of we who so foolishly chose to work our asses off to preserve and share our heritage, defend our wild places, support vulnerable populations, understand the forces of nature, create a more sustainable world, alleviate poverty, educate the public, create public policy, and represent our nation? I guess we all should’ve studied to be fucking hedge fund managers.

When the President talked about “bringing back jobs,” which ones was he talking about, exactly?

8

Eleanor Guthrie Memorial Week, Day 2: Most Memorable/Favorite Quote.

For so long, I thought I knew what I was. A daughter who usurped her father. A woman who had taken control of a wild place. Scott was proof of that. The one who saw me that way, too, who substantiated it. And all that time, all he saw was a girl so ambitious… she would never doubt his story. So, she would continue to play the part. Draw everyone’s attention away from himself. You did do all those things. I know I did. But always with a man behind me doing his damnedest to bend it all to his benefit. My father, Scott, Charles, you. So many goddamn men here. Too many goddamn men here.

Wild places are where I feel most like I belong.

Redoubt - 8969 ft