halcyonhue:

writing-prompt-s:

A mark on your forehead identifies the god you must worship to stay alive, usually by joining its local church or temple. Your mark is unknown, meaning an old, forgotten god sponsored you. To survive, you must either find an old temple to worship at, or do the arduous task of building a new one

Nobody in your small coastal village has ever seen the Godmark that you were born with. It’s a dark russet sequence of criss-crossing lines, with a vertical arrowhead on the left and a circle on the right, just over where your brow meets your temple. Some of the traders who come down from the mountain say it looks like one of the scripts used in the hinterlands, but not a language that any of them recognize.

“If she’s got the temperament for it, she should try her luck inland,” they advise. “No point her starting a temple here if she’d find her people elsewhere, with a little searching.”

At first, your parents are reluctant to send you away. Though you’re well-behaved and diligent in your chores, you’re a sickly child with no God to worship. And besides, you’ve always been the dreamy type–inclined to lose track of time watching the path of rain droplets chasing down the window, or the fronds of an anemone as it sways in a rock pool.

Instead, they send you to the temple of the Storm to learn all you’ll need for your own God. You are happy there, for a time: making up beds and serving food to the castaways who pass through, keeping vigil at the lighthouse, burning incense and praying with the loyal widows and orphans of the drowned.

One such widow, an old, old lady, touches the mark on your forehead. “I recognise those letters. We wrote this way in the town where I grew up, way off past the mountains.”

Your heartbeat quickens. “What does it say!?”

She squints, eyes engulfed by wrinkles and hidden behind smudged glass. “A… Ar… Oh, I can’t remember how to speak it. I left before I learnt my letters properly. There was a war, you know. But I remember,” she says, mistily, “the most beautiful pink and white flowers used to grow, on the borders of the wheat fields…”

You try to ask more questions, but remembering the war distresses her, and so you speak of other things. When she’s drifted off to sleep, you get to your feet, go home and tell your parents: you are leaving in search of your God.

Keep reading

micro-usb-deactivated20230625:

(via sailoraquila)

sakebytheriver:

Will anything ever bring us as much joy and comedic bliss as the reveal of Jason Mendoza? Will I ever feel as alive as I did in that moment when Jason utters the words “heaven is so racist”? Will there ever be a moment in time that slaps me so hard in the face with surprise as the moment Jianu the monk rapidly turns into Jason the Jacksonville dirtbag? Will we as a society ever capture that kind of magic again?

(via greenbergsays)

petermorwood:

lolawashere:

Meanwhile, on Twitter:

Brain farts, a thread

Reblogging this once again because, once again, it made me laugh.

(via boggmann)

aoikanaria:

NIKE x BALMAIN - ROCOCÒ

(via spoopyskellington)

boyswillbeboxes:

I need everyone to see this ABSOLUTE MASTERPIECE

(via unicyclehippo)

etherialsproing:

toomuchtaylor:

titkoks-old:

This man nearly died to create this for us. The least we can do is watch it from start to finish and then share it immediately.

This song is so beautiful and majestic and every time I crack up when he says to

RUN

(via theladyragnell)

shady-tavern:

writing-prompt-s:

“The stone corrupts all those who wield it, it is fueled by their ambitions and dreams. So we need someone with no ambitions, no dreams, someone who doesn’t care about what the future holds for themselves. That’s why we found you.”

The first thought, in a moment like this, probably should not have been what came to your mind. Well, fuck you too, you thought, half incredulous and half apathetic. You leaned against the doorframe with one shoulder and eyed the group of three wizened people before you. Why was it always the elderly who came with big quests or brought important items that had to be hidden away?

Also, if you didn’t care about the future, didn’t that mean you didn’t care about the stone either? You might as well give it to someone else. Maybe someone better suited than you. There was this little girl across the street who had an acorn necklace and played in puddles and always sat very still until the every last stray cat felt safe enough to eat what she brought them. Maybe the stone should go to her, she at least gave a shit.

You debated arguing or refusing, but your disinterest won out in the end. “Sure,” you answered, holding out a hand for them to plop the stone into. You weren’t scared of it, especially since it looked utterly unremarkable. If you tossed it into a river, no one would be able to tell it apart from the other rocks.

The three wizened elders, apparently the smartest of their magic circle, exchanged grave looks and you waited until they were done with their silent communication and their leader stepped forward.

“We entrust you with the Stone of Possibility, never use it and always hide it,” they said, voice solemn and carrying the sort of undertone that spoke of great importance. You blinked slowly. “Give it to no one, no matter how noble their hearts, how pitiful their tale or how silver their tongue.” You couldn’t help but imagine a genderless person sticking out their tongue dripping with mercury.

Keep reading

(via caffeinewitchcraft)

tikkunolamorgtfo:

flouryhedgehog:

tikkunolamorgtfo:

LMAO I just found out that it’s Stress Awareness week.

Mission accomplished, I am certainly aware of stress.

Happy Stress Awareness week to those who celebrate.

(via sailoraquila)

chatot:

yippee!!!

(via snzical)

moodbig:

(via genderfluid-puddle-of-soup)