woven-bones

They call him Kenobi, the Wizard of the Black Hills.

He is legend come to life, they say. His boots have stirred the dust at the galaxy’s edge, and the stars trail in his wake.

Some say he has lived for countless years in the Black Hills of Tatooine, his life extended by clandestine arts. Others claim they saw him fall from the night sky, an infant in his arms. They say the child is his heir, rescued from wrath and fire, brought to live a humble existence until his birthright is revealed.

A few have seen a cloaked apparition roaming the barren sands when the skies grow dark and shudder with the gods’ displeasure. They say the lightning on these nights springs from the wizard’s very hands, that they’ve watched as he conjured blue flame from the desert air and danced with it, the sky flashing bright around him.

They speak of him when he passes by, trading legend as fact. He has toppled governments, laughed at enemies, counted royalty as friends. Justice is his battle cry and mercy is woven through his very bones. 

They say he is the last of an ancient race of mages, magical beings who fought for the oppressed. His wrath is terrible, his compassion unconquerable, his life a conduit for something greater than himself, greater indeed than all the worlds he has left behind. 

They call him Kenobi, the Great Wizard of the Hills, the Conqueror of Stars, a friend to the helpless, the bringer of Hope

And he smiles at the name.

The Legend of Kenobi

Lostcauses Fic: The Commander’s House

Yeah.  Still not over it.  Sorry.  

(Any similarity between Levi Ackerman and Emma Hamilton is entirely coincidental.) 


It doesn’t get any easier.  The pain doesn’t dull.  It’s as sharp and bright as it was four years ago in Shiganshina.  It’s just buried deeper.  Carved into his bones, woven into his sinews, twined around his heart, his lungs. Some days it feels like it’s strangling him, suffocating him from the inside out.  Other days Levi knows it’s the only thing holding him together.

But he keeps on going.  He does his job, leads reconnaissance missions beyond the walls, accompanies the surveyors and cartographers as they map every inch of the island.  Strange to think that all this time they have been on an island, and that out there, across the ocean, is a world vast beyond their comprehension. He wonders what Erwin would have made of it all.

There are settlements outside the walls now; farms and villages, homesteads dotted along the rivers and valleys, straggling along the coast.  But Levi always returns to the walls. To Shiganshina.  

He buys the house.  The one where they laid Erwin to rest.  Repairs it with his own hands.  Hanji had it cleared out, burning every last stick of furniture when they removed the body. His body.  When they took Erwin away.  “We can’t risk spreading disease, Levi.”  He knew that of course, he’s not a fucking idiot. Growing up in the Underground, he saw first hand how quickly disease could spread. But he saves the bottle from beside the bed, washes it carefully, and every time he visits, he fills it with fresh flowers.

People call it The Commander’s House now and the local children whisper that it’s haunted. It is, but only by Levi.  He inhabits the house like a restless spirit.  He doesn’t really live there.  He doesn’t really live anywhere. He just exists.  

Levi moves some of Erwin’s belongings into the house; his books, personal papers, a few clothes.  He claims a worn uniform and weathered cloak, the threadbare shirt with the ink stain on the sleeve, old boots, worn and scuffed by wear.  They hang in the wardrobe in the bright upper room now.  Erwin’s dress uniform, the one with the gold braid and the sleeve pinned back, is in the museum at the cenotaph.  Levi tries not to think about tearing open the buttons of that uniform, tries not to picture it lying in a crumpled heap of gilt and braid on the floor beside the bed, tries not to feel the weight of his Commander, lying hot and heavy on top of him, slick with sweat and consumed with desire.

Levi, fuck…Levi…

Sometimes Levi sits in the room at the top of the house and reads or just listens to the sounds from the street below; children playing, a dog barking, the notes of a blackbird singing somewhere.  But if he closes his eyes he can still smell the blood and the ash and the entrails.  Still feel the titan blood evaporating from his skin.  Still hear the words “teacher…how…find out…don’t exist?” more real than the sounds of laughter filtering in through the window.  That was Levi’s world, not this one.

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Villains with a heart - Mother Gothel

she was in love, her head in the clouds heavy with the sun and the moon
she was in love with time itself, youth woven tightly into her bones and skin, stretching the hours and days into eternal bliss
all too soon she realized, that not even love could stop time and that nothing would remain than dust and blissful, dark oblivion

anonymous asked:

Here's something you can write about whenever you have time or feel like: Zuko and Katara are celebrating their anniversary in their bath tub drinking champagne and making love.

        Another Year. Another Life. 

It wasn’t the anniversary he wanted, but it was an anniversary, nonetheless. He could commemorate the loss of a loved one, couldn’t he? Call it an anniversary? Drink to the day… drink to her?

He’d had too much already, but champagne had always been her favorite. He didn’t care if his wife wouldn’t approve. Mai never approved of anything really, unless it involved his silence and her peace. 

     Leave me alone.

     I guess I don’t know you. 

     I didn’t ask for your whole life story. 

Those words rang in his ears day in and day out, but on this day, he could drown the noise out. His thoughts were, instead, filled with brown skin and blue eyes, mirages of the woman he loved in his teens and twenties, still loved.

Imagining Katara was easy— especially here.

He’d drunkenly wandered from his chambers, passed the rooms where his sour wife slept — alone? with another? did he care? —  to the guest quarters in the palace’s west wing. Katara lived here, a decade past, though at the end of that time, she was more so living in his bed and between his sheets. 

Still, this was where it started, those years with her, another life. 

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Keepers of the Dream

feather, flute, and wind
become a child again
and listen,   rise    wide-eyed with wonder
from afar and near the elder gather
the truth tribe forms the sacred circle
rattles drums dancing chanting
wake up, wake up, waken
to the rainbow way again

offer all that is burdensome, your pain, your fear, your forgetfulness
             to the fire with it all

we, who are Here-Now, hold the space of healing
and homecoming, come sit
deeper into the stillness
for we wish you to witness
the Power of This-Here, This Eternal Prayer Song
the phoenix fire tone we carry has been woven to your very bones
attune to it and feel the collapse of centuries of karmic weight
your cells open and begin to remember the footsteps to this formlessness

KAYO KAYO open the doors of the spirit
HaiO HaiO HAIALEAIA follow the rising dragon currents to full awareness
this dream is real

smell the smoke and burning sage
feel the swirl and heat of ecstatic bodies as they spiral the circle to accrue the universal healing energy
in the cadence the gates of the inner eye open
golden-white mists and the welcoming voices of the First Mothers
the lightning flash calls and freedom shouts of the Sacred Warriors

We have never left this place, will not leave until all have awakened
know you now? if so offer your triumph and tears to take your rightful place in the circle
We are here to wipe away the heavy dreams of death
from the first elemental forms, the minerals, plants, animals, and its many peoples, from this planet, and solar system
KAIO KAIO SHota maya
Awake, wake close all doors of illusion
for all that lives and breathes shares the One Spirit

So we sing on the healing remembering song

Great Spirit, Father Mother God Goddess, come to us
Birth the higher heavenly home in the here-Now

with rainbow breath
rainbow heart rainbow mind
rainbow body and rainbow spine
all alit and
a l i g n e d
to the never-ending spiral of At-One-Ment
Now

I am a Guardian of This Earth
I am a keeper of the Codes of KRYSTAL Life and Light
I AM Awake    

unseeliequeens  asked:

lyrium

She touches him then – shakes him – and the anchor in her palm flares with her desperation. The magic under her skin shifts, like a living thing, and it rankles. He snarls something, tries to twist away. But everything is blue, blue, blue, blue. He feels it. The Lyrium. Woven into his bones. The siren-song of it running like an undercurrent through his veins. Even now.

2

When Cal’s warmth wraps around me, his arms around my shoulders, his head tucked against my neck, I lean into him. I let him protect me, though we swore we wouldn’t do this back in the cells of Tuck. We are nothing more than distractions for each other and distractions get you killed. But my hands close over his, our fingers lacing, until our bones are woven together. The fire is dying, flames reduced to embers. But Cal is still here. He will never leave me.

turn on a light

It’s a futile effort
to untangle this chaos
enshrouded in obscurity
as it twists inside
woven through
every bone of thought
my fingers fumble
over each regretful knot
my structure settles
within darkness
my only comfort
are shadows in seclusion
the familiar friends
that console me
take my hand
wipe my tears
keep me here
then hold me back
and smack my hand
each time
that i attempt
turning on a light


Brie

 Within in every death is a thousand stories…..
memories woven through tendons and bone, history and family, tragedy and prevail.
Each corpse gone cold can show you these stories, raw and unfiltered….
through touch, though thought, through energy and the void that lies between realities.
There you will find beauty.
With the passing of life comes the flourishing of birth, of nutrients, of decay and sustain.
Each salvaged creature is an offering of food for the striving plants,
food for the bustling carrion insects, food for the scavengers…
food for the families that need its nutrients to survive and food for the spirits.
Each salvaged creature offers its story in the palms of its hands,
in the worn feathers of its wing, in the glazed eyes of its own self.  
It shows you the scars from nearly escaping predators,
the healed fractures of miscalculated leaps… it shows you the family it bore
and the meal it last consumed.
Deeper still it teaches you of yourself…….
teaches you in the ways of which it knows best.
Each creature has its lessons, each creature has its strengths and underlying weakness.

With bare hands and open mind you can feel the sharp tinges of broken bone
through layered flesh… you can understand the will,
hear the words through stagnant silence…
You can almost see memories through pried eyes…
and feel the rest or uncertainty of what you have found.
Listen close to those you work with…. they are very clear within their communication.
Never take from those that give you pains, never take from those that give you sorrows…..
Only take graciously from those who grant permission, and always give thanks…
always leave offerings, leave song or leave tear.
We often forget the sacrecy of death and preservation…….
we often skip over the essential chapters of exchange,
only to feed our greed of material collecting…….

Next time you collect, preserve and unearth the bones or bodies
of those wild souls who have passed, make sure to leave a little behind….
whether it be an offering of prayers, or libations of spirits…..
whether it be the smoke of bundled herb or the favored edibles of said creature.
Never underestimate the potency of appreciation and respect for those wild ones

They are our peers, they are our ancestors, the are the wild aspects of
ourselves we bury within domestication and material satisfaction.
We are one in the same.

Metatron's "Metafictional" Spell - The Ingredients (spoilers for SPN 9x18)

Let’s speculate…

Metatron was performing a spell in 9x18, “Metafiction”.

He was making sure, as he discusses with Gadreel at the end of the episode, that Heaven stayed securely closed.

And how did he perform that spell?

He ensured that Dean and Castiel did not reunite, but stayed on their separate paths - Cas as a leader of fallen angels, Dean on his further descent into the darkness invoked by the Mark of Cain.

Metatron's spell was performed with Griffin feathers and fairy bones.

Griffins, according to their origins in Greek mythology, have the body of a lion and the wings and head of an eagle. This recalls the description of Seraphim we have from Isiah in the Bible - six winged beings with the faces of a man, an ox, an eagle and a lion.

We know Cas is a Seraph, and he calls attention to his feathered form in the episode, when he tells Dean he misses his wings.

So, Cas links to the Griffin feathers in Metatron’s metafictional spell.

And Dean?

Dean  is already linked to bone through his connection to the First Blade (made from the jaw-bone of an ass - or “old donkey teeth” as Crowley calls it).  

But why fairy bone?

Well, Dean has been abducted by fairies before of course (6x09 “Clap Your Hands if You Believe”) but there is also the "inappropriate" subtext (so-called by Cas in “Metafiction”) which has linked Dean in particular to queerness since the show’s inception (“fairy” as a [derogatory and partially re-claimed] slang for “queer”).

Metatron’s original Heaven-emptying spell involved objects concerned with angel-human love (heart of a Nephilim, a Cupid’s bow, grace of a loving angel - namely Castiel). Here we see him consolidate that spell by keeping that same loving angel (Cas) and the person of his affections (Dean) firmly apart.

As the episode ends we watch Dean and Cas part company unhappily whilst a satisfied Metatron plays the Walker Brothers’ “The Sun Ain’t Gonna Shine”, a song all about losing love:

“The Sun Ain’t Gonna Shine Anymore Loneliness, is the cloak you wear A deep shade of blue, is always there The sun ain’t gonna shine anymore The moon ain’t gonna rise in the sky The tears are always cloudin your eyes When you’re without love, baby” ………….  

Metatron’s spell of “un-love”, woven of feather and bone, is complete.   

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Woven Bones - “Blind Conscience”

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Woven Bones - Your Way With My Life (from In and Out and Back Again, Hozac 2010)

Another fuzztone on Hozac, this time from Texas. They recently got a new drummer but they’re still maintaining their darting prowl. Music videos can look good when it just shows cross-edited footage of the band hanging out and playin’ their music with a sloppy/restless camera. This is one of them. Also, more projections.