1. Ophelia by John William Waterhouse (1910) 2. Imogen by Herbert Gustave Schmalz (1888) 3. King Arthur by Charles Ernest Butler (1903) 4. Sir Galahad by George Frederic Watts (1862) LOTR + art (27/?)

Caitlin Siehl, "Cut" // i.g.p, "Mama Bore a Girl" // Natalie Wee, Letters from Persephone // Sarah J. Maas, Heir of Fire // @klyukvav // @heavensghost // Carol Ann Duffy, "Medusa" // Aria Aber, "Ideology" // Clementine von Radics, "Vigil" // Ocean Vuong, "Prayer for the Newly Damned"

Monastery Garden in Snow, c.1829 - oil on canvas ― Karl Friedrich Lessing (German, 1808-1880)

Freya | God of War Ragnarök

Joe Bolton, from "Alcohol" [ID'd]

Why Lolorito despite being a Ruthless Ammoral Capitalist is actually still a better person than a modern day CEO.

He actually pays those under his employ fairly well from what I can gather considering the kind of loyalty they seem to have for Lolorito. Money is a powerful motivator.

The thing Lolorito cares about above his own wealth, is Ul’dah.

He still has standards as to what he will and will not do for profit.

What does a Modern CEO care about more than profit? Their own Wallet, to the detriment of everyone around them so long as they have fat stacks of cash.

Nidhogg interrupts the peace conference

Heavensward Patch 3.2 Quest: For Those We Can Yet Save

He had first noticed her eyes, the gleam of defiance reflected in dark crimson. She looked so small amidst the Coerthan blizzard, and how painfully she stood out; ink black hair wildly whipping around her face, mouth curled in an insolent scowl, dark leathers and cloth that seemed far too little for the winter winds, though she seemed not to mind. Her glare burned through him like candle flame to parchment. All anger and grief. And confidence and rebelliousness; a sordid reflection of himself, he realized. But against the white of the landscape, those firestorm eyes felt more akin to blood on snow—a splash colour imprinting itself in his mind. How the stain of her gaze haunted him.

Underrated form of intimacy:

The quiet discussion and good-luck affirmations between you and the person helping you don your armor. The comfort of knowing that the straps and buckles are perfectly secure, because the person who did them up loves you more than words can say.

He had first noticed her eyes, the gleam of defiance reflected in dark crimson. She looked so small amidst the Coerthan blizzard, and how painfully she stood out; ink black hair wildly whipping around her face, mouth curled in an insolent scowl, dark leathers and cloth that seemed far too little for the winter winds, though she seemed not to mind. Her glare burned through him like candle flame to parchment. All anger and grief. And confidence and rebelliousness; a sordid reflection of himself, he realized. But against the white of the landscape, those firestorm eyes felt more akin to blood on snow—a splash colour imprinting itself in his mind. How the stain of her gaze haunted him.

The Glass Essay, Anne Carson | Molly Brodak, Molly Brodak

“I’m Geralt of Rivia, the witcher.”

a silver of faith.