Make the right choice folks.

When an artist takes about a week off from drawing there are two outcomes.

Hey you know this meme

Its an anime-only Yu-Gi-Oh card called Dramatic Crossroads

Yugioh dramatic crossroads meme. Mirrored.

Right side, sunny: become Falun Gong practitioner

Left side, cool, lightning, sinister vibes: become lesbian xianxia writer.

Kid on the crossroads: qigong boomer

I was today years old when I found out that one crossroads meme is a Yugioh card

Honestly, I'm scared that it will be a shitty game, like the last CoD that took place in World War 2. But, I will give it a shot when either the beta comes out, or the game comes out

The Papa Bruno experience

[Image Description: The dramatic crossroads meme. The kid at the bottom is labeled "Papa Bruno AU". The sunny side is labeled "Bruno + Mirabel bonding", while the stormy side is labeled "Agustín + Julieta angst". End Description]

13, 22, 1, 84, 29, 34, 78, 57, 99 (im sorry if these questions are bad but when there are too many i just write down numbers at random as;ldklasd)

Thanks Tessa :D

1: Is there a boy/girl in your life? Nooo, still single, and all I want for 2018 is to either get over my crush or finally finally let something good come of it

13: Would you rather have a poodle or a Rottweiler? I’m a cat person, I know nothing about dogs!! I’d ask the bff to choose for me ahaha

22: Would you kiss the last person you kissed again? Every day, every night if I could

29: Who are you texting? Hah no one don’t text me I hate typing on my phone

34: Has anyone ever told you you have pretty eyes? My childhood friend! We were looking at zodiac things, and the article was like “pisces have beautiful eyes” and she was immediately, very seriously, like “c’est vrai t’as des yeux magnifiques” (”it’s true you have gorgeous eyes”), and see how much I loved that I remember the exact words ahahaha. I was really touched by that

59: Green or purple grapes? G R E E N and green only actually. Unless we’re talking about a vinyard, with wine tasting to follow-up

78: Do you remember who you had a crush on in year 7? I’ve had so few crushes I remember all of them yes, and by year 7 I’d had a grand total of none

84: You’re drunk and yelling at hot guys/girls out of your car window, you’re with? Omg I don’t think I ever would, but it would 100% be with my best guy friend. 

99: Do you believe in love at first sight? GDI ok look I know it sounds irrational af but I sorta experienced it once? “Sorta” cause who the hell knows what love really is, but yeah that’s how I’d sum up the experience, it was mutual, it was a huge mess so honestly if it is real it is anything but romantic sorry

Right. So. I have already sent this is the discord, I’m rewriting it here in a slightly more dramatic fashion for maximum angst potential.

On the outskirts of a small village in the Black Forest, there’s a small cottage, which has lain, untouched, for 924 years now, covered in dried, grey vines. They would once have been red, when they were alive; an omen, now just a faded reminder. If you were to touch them, they’d crumble to dust.

You wouldn’t need to touch the vines to enter the cottage, though; they had been hacked away from the door long ago by two near-immortals, investigating the disappearance of a stranger who was nonetheless one of their own; this cottage’s sole inhabitant had been… a friend of a friend, so to speak, and like them, she had been powerful.

Inside, you wouldn’t find many signs of the life she lived. Most of her possessions had been taken by one of the immortals when they returned months later in defeat. It had been a tradition, in the time and place he’d been raised, to bury the dead’s possessions with them, so that they could be taken into the afterlife.

Outside, there is a grave. It, too, is free of vines. It was dug and filled in after their source had left. It isn’t marked with a cross or an elaborately carved headstone, like you would find in a typical graveyard; instead, there is a pile of large rocks, most worn down and covered in moss and lichen. All except one, on which the following words are carved:

Lucia

Died September 10th, 1097

Sister and Friend

I’m sorry

These words are clear as day, despite their age, and they are written in a very old demonic dialect; so old, in fact, that it is less a language of its own and more a sister dialect to the language that demons and angels once shared, long enough ago that only gods and one lonely survivor remember it in its original form. This was not Lucia’s first language; it wasn’t even one she spoke, but it was the closest the other near-immortal, who had been the one to carve these words into this stone with demonic magic, could get to it.

One day, one of the near-immortals, the one who gathered Lucia’s possessions and dug her grave, not the one who had carved the stone bearing her name, (for he was now buried in an all-too-similar grave, in a field in France, marked only by a giant oak tree), will take her son to visit this spot. When the near-immortal had first found him again, he had been terrified. Now he was just relieved.

Lucia’s son will cry, seeing her grave. He has so few connections to her left.

The date carved on the stone is how he will learn his birthday.

-🤺

PS, most of the stuff about Foolish taking Bad to visit Lucia’s grave was from stuff Callie and Crow said.

PPS, I might make a post with just the story part to my main account, just so my mutuals who only know about the ttau through the memes can see how batshit insane it gets sometimes.

Aaaand then Foolish has to carry Bad home and everyone will hold him and rub his back and comb through the top of his fuzzy hair like a cat

Happy ending, temporarily. :)

They'll have to talk about the mother and father issues when they meet that crossroad.

- 🐋

@ofbookshelves​​ suggests  :   a  drabble  about  Vittonio  in  Red’s  point  of  view DRABBLE MEME  /  accepting

           “Are you sure we’re allowed to be here?” No matter how lowly she whispered, it seemed her voice echoed off every surface ( all of which were made of carrara marble ), possibly alerting any prowling guards of their presence. Vittonio seemingly ignores her worry and, while that may frustrate her, she assumes he’s too busy trying to find a way for them to enter the archives without triggering any alarms. Following closely behind, she can spell the determination upon his features when he turns to check, presumably, if she’s still there. Dark, low brows creased together with resoluteness            she smiles as he wrinkles his angular nose, broken so many times its shape has changed. Well, at least, that’s what he’s told her. It’s a bit odd, really, that she’s never seen a picture of him before the broken nose and scarred eyebrow . . . only images of him as a toddler, and even then, she just happened to stumble upon them. Questioning it seemed futile and it seemed the pair was content to live in the togetherness of their now instead of their separate pasts.             Before she knows it, they’re at a crossroads, flanked by mighty statues cloaked in white cotton. They create terrifying shadows from the backlight made by the very modern emergency lights well hidden by the ancient marble walls. She wants to peak under them but dust, above all, deters her from lifting the white shrouds and revealing the hidden marble forms underneath. Mindfully, she steps past Vittonio and into the center of the shelves. She turns back to watch him, squinty - eyed as he, presumably, reads the bronze numbers along the massive shelving. It was all SO MUCH            centuries of western history were stacked on the shelves in this warehouse - type chamber, such a shame that it seemed to collect dust. Red wants to enter one of those bronze - numbered aisles and devour its wealth of knowledge; she attempts to make her way down the rightmost aisle though a calloused hand curtly yet gently grips her arm.           “No. This way.”           She sighs. Oh, rightmost aisle flanked by marble statues, she will have to explore your shelves another day.           They head down the least lit aisle, most ideal for sneaking but not as pleasant and bright as the aisle of white, cotton - covered marble. This one is flanked by newer artifacts, still draped in cotton, with bronze limbs peeking from underneath them.             “They are Baroque           ” Vittonio comments in English with no provocation, back still turned to her.             She smiles            he had been paying attention after all.             “Oh            and the other ones?”             “Baroque             ma, no, del Rinascimento.” Omitting a hum, she is content with the answer that is different from her presumptions. He could be lying to her but it wasn’t like him. As silly and NAIVE as it may sound, their year - long marriage had taught her that while he was dramatic, he never did lie about anything big or small. Embellishments were the closest thing and even then, he made sure she knew the full and true story at the end of it.

          “Rinascimento            Il Rinascimento            ” She repeats to herself, letting the word melt itself into her mind. Her Italian had gotten good, REALLY GOOD, and she was grateful to Vittonio for his tangential ramblings in half-English and half-Italian because that’s how she learned best. She just wished he’d speak it a bit more with her. Maybe he’s afraid of losing his English ( but that seemed unlikely ).           THUD. Her cheek slams into his back and she winces. Ow. Looking up, he’s facing her, dark brows sewn together with worry.       “Are you okay, mogliettina?”       “Yeah,” she manages in a laugh, playfully punching his chest. “Why’d we stop?”       He doesn’t say anything and instead, turns back around. She furrows her brows. Now she was getting worried. Standing on her tiptoes, she tries to peer around his wide shoulders as he fiddles with something. Was it a doorknob? WAS HE PICKING IT? Flanking him, she gets a better view of what he was doing. One would think a prestigious Christian institution            especially one that was the center of Christendom in the West            would have up-to-date security. Red eyes Vitt’s fingers, he wasn’t picking the lock, he had a key. CLICK             and the door creaks open.         Oh? Her hazel eyes lead their gaze up Vitt’s arms to his shoulders, up his neck and to his smiling face, and smile back. Of course he had a key. She continues to watch him as he bends at the waist, extending an arm out to usher her into the dark room.         “After you.”         “Vitt, are you sure?”         He nods and she meekly obliges. Holding her breath, she passes the threshold from bronze dusk into the lowlit darkness. Suddenly, the door behind them closes and they are immersed in pitch black silence. She gasps, hazel eyes frantically searching the darkness. Her anxiety is eased only when she feels Vitt press his chest to her back, their heartbeats synchronizing with three deep breaths. A flicker of a switch and she’s blinded by light.         “God         Vitt.” She curses under her breath, shielding her eyes from the sudden brightness. She feels him peer over her but doesn’t attempt to make eye contact. Instead, she opts for a playful jab to the ribs. Only is she satisfied when he lets out a puff of air, something that could mimic laughter, and finally turns around to face him.       “You know I like history and hearing you talk about history,” she begins gently, “but this seems a bit too daring.”       “And firework-gazing above the Pantheon and cuddling in Roman ruins wasn’t?” Fair . . . fair . . . But breaking into the Vatican museums’ archives seemed to be pressing against the threshold between juvenile trespassing and some serious jail time. Those Swiss guards were kinda scary too.       “No but seriously Vitt . . .”       “Dai, dai, dai . . . I will show you one thing and then we leave.” She concedes tenderly with a shrug and he thanks her with a kiss to the top of the head.       Red steps away as she feels him relinquish his embrace, assuming his position in front of her and leading her down the smaller, more densely packed aisles of this smaller room. She wishes he would tell her what he’s looking for, so they could find it quicker and get the hell out of there. But she’s grateful, noticing Vittonio’s quickened pace in searching for            WHATEVER            he was searching for. Her eyes begin to mindlessly wander the tall shelves. What secrets did these shelves hold? There were so many and yet so little time. She gasps as her husband presses an oddly labeled brown laminate box into her arms.       “Wha          what is it?”       “Let us take it over here,” an outstretched arm indicates a space opposite the aisle they stood, “and you’ll see.”       She does not wait to follow him and makes her way to a pair of elongated tables. Whatever was in the box, it was ridiculously heavy. Setting down the box, she takes the cotton gloves Vitt finds at the center of the table and begins to put them on. She watches her husband, gloved hands lifting the lid to reveal tissue - like cotton. Impatience tickles the soles of her feet          what did Vitt want to show her so badly. He peels back the fabric to reveal a large book, bound in crimson - dyed leather with stamped borders that were painted in gold. Gloved hands lift it and she is almost tempted to assist him, but is resolved to keep her own gloved hands pressed to her stomach.         “Do you like it?”         “It’s beautiful         but what is it?”         “The lineage of my father’s ancestors,” before she questions further, Vitt slowly begins his tale.         “His ancestors from the 18th century sold it to the Church as tithe and here it remains. It details the Talevi Family whose wealth came from spinning, dying, and selling wool in Genoa and how they managed to end up in Sicily,” he delicately flips open the cover and passes portrait after portrait of late 15th Century Talevi patriarchs. She wants to stop him but doesn’t. Time seemed to be of the essence. He pauses on a portrait of a young woman, clad in a gown of muted pink silk, her dark curls piled into two hornets which are strung together with pearls, and a pile of jeweled necklaces rest atop her low cleavage. Red moves her gaze patiently between the chalk-drawn portrait and Vitt, smiling at the realization. They had the same nose and eyes. “Now she . . . . she commanded the Talevi trade for EIGHTY years             ” Red follows his gloved finger as he reads the Latin under her portrait. “From 1536 to 1617. Unfortunately, she had no sons so it all went to her eldest son-in-law . . . BUT I would also like to point out this,” she watches as a gloved finger hovers over the woman’s hand upon her lap.         “She’s wearing lots of rings.” Three to be exact, one on her index, another on her ring, and the last, on her pinky, each all gold encrusted with a variety of jewels. She looks up at Vitt who is squinting to take a closer look at the rings with her.         “What do you think that is             Emerald?” He asks wryly.       “I guess               ?” Red leans further in. Well, it is green. She feels Vitt shift next to her but pays little attention. Busy is she, attempting to decipher the Latin written on the page adjacent to the portrait. She wants to know everything about this ancient woman who looked every bit like her husband. Red shifts to inquire about the inscription in the portrait itself but spots Vittonio standing oddly and bit far away. Her brows furrow.       “Do you think that ring looks like this?”       She takes the offering instinctively as it is handed to her, not questioning the how or why it was in his possession. Oh, it was a pretty gold ring . . . with an emerald. Red takes a double take.       “Wait             stop. It isn’t.” Hazel hues frantically dance between the ring and the portrait.       “It is. Well, the gem is. I had a new band cast because I didn’t think you’d want to wear gold-plated lead.”       She laughs nervously then looks at him quizzically.       “No. Vitt             where’d you get it?” Grave - digging sounds horrible but she didn’t put it past him, and if that was true, well, she’d have to unfortunately decline.       “I bought it from my father. It wasn’t as if he was going to give it to his new bride . . . And since I didn’t have the rights to give you my mother’s ring            I wanted you to have something special.” He’s nervous, she can tell by all his shrugging and the rosy shade kissing the apples of his cheeks.       “May I?”     Speechless, she watches as he removes his gloves and gently takes the ring from her fingers, setting it atop the table. Red overwhelmingly obliges as he pulls her own gloves off tenderly, finger by finger, and sets them aside. Tears well up, heavily weighing down her bottom lids. No matter how much he touted his callousness and crudeness and indifference to the cruelty of the world, she knew he was always so tender-hearted and, dare she say, compassionate below that rough exterior. She laughs back her tears as he smiles, pulling off the wedding ring they had chosen. It had matched his band so, indeed, she was determined to keep it. And she presumes he knows that, watching as he sticks the old ring into his pocket. Now, for the moment of truth. With great diligence and care does Vitt shimmy the emerald ring onto her left ring finger and when he's finished, places a tender kiss to her knuckles.         “Do you like it?”         A fervent shaking of her head before she wraps her arms around him says ‘Yes’. She buries her face into his chest. His arms hold her tightly against him, tears being soaked into his shirt. She could stay there for hours but, unfortunately, time didn’t allow for it.         “Oh god, why do you do this to me . . . What time is it?” Red sniffles, wiping her nose on Vitt’s sleeve as punishment for making her cry. His laugh is a happy reassurance before watching his demeanor change swiftly.         “It’s six in the morning.”         “What does that mean?”         “The head curator will arrive in thirty minutes.”         Red glances around her, in what she thinks is hastily, and back down to where the portrait once was. Oh, Vitt had already packed the book away and made his way to the shelf it rested on. She would have liked to see her one last time. Her melancholy doesn’t last long as she arranges everything as it was before their trespassing and meets Vitt at the entrance to the smaller room. She tugs him as she notices him reaching for the lightswitch. Oh, just one more glance back before they leave.         “Vitt…”         “Yes?”         “I love you.”         “Ti amo tanto.”         CLICK. darkness.

On my calling to The Craft and The Gods

I’ve  always felt called to be a witch. Something about it, the ability to go into the otherworld, the connection to nature, the fascination with death, the honoring of ancestors; after all, if we were dead, wouldn’t we want someone to talk to us? The crossroads, communion with animals, peaceful walks in graveyards and small talk with ghosts, it is a place where my weird little witchy soul finds its home.As dramatic as it sounds I feel that to practice the craft is my life’s purpose, I NEED this. 

Connecting on the internet  with other witches has been good for me. Tumblr has been a great resource, to make friends, share spells and memes, and to to talk about paganism. 

But is paganism my calling? So many see witchcraft and paganism as the same thing, and it is true that they are very closely connected, but does one need to worship the gods to be a witch?

I have posted a lot about gods; and I genuinely do connect with a lot of them, I certainly respect them and think highly of them.  A lot of it stemmed from the fact that all the other witches were doing it, among pagans the gods are so popular. 

But I have never felt quite comfortable with them.  Many nights spent kneeling in prayer when I would rather be doing spell craft. Many a  twilight spent offering devotions when all I want to do is walk through a graveyard and chat with dead people. Many days  dedicated to my craft are often spent at my altar, burning incense to deities, trying desperately to connect with and develop the same yearning for them that I have in my heart to the craft.

But I do not have the yearning.  Of course I  still love the goddess and see her as part of nature, but I would rather focus on my spellwork.  But the deep integral  call to the gods is not in my heart; at least it is not my focus. As much as I respect the religions of other witches, I cannot continue to call myself a devoted pagan. I definitely believe in them, but I no longer recognize them as an integral part of my spiritual work here in this life. It is not my path. 

I have only decided this recently after lots of meditation and dreamwork. And I feel sad, I feel vulnerable. Will other witches accept me? Am I even a real witch anymore, now that I no longer dedicate time to honoring the gods? 

I don’t know what other witches will think, but this is my path. I’m sorry if you don’t approve of me, or if you think my craft is a disgrace to the community. It is not my intention to offend you, but simply to follow my calling. 

some encouragement would be nice. From witches or from pagans, I just want to know I will be accepted. Or not. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea to post about it. 

Either way, I hope to remain your loyal sister, The Closeted Witch. 

blessings )O(

WIP Word Memes

Rules: Find the assigned words in your current WIP, then pick 4 new words and tag some peeps to find them.

I tag specifically anyone who’s feeling stuck on their WIPs at the moment! A lot of this for me is stories I might not revisit, so it’s fun to give them some life here. My words for you are lose, shift, smile, and take.

I was tagged by @lumateranlibrarian, so let’s make this a double-dose meme night! The words I was given were light, space, time, and breath.

---

light - (a seriously weird CR fic I fell off writing waaaay back in mid-campaign 1 mainly because it was an exercise in mood more than any sort of plot, but hey, there’s some prescient stuff here)

“It’s like this,” says Vex, a piece of gold between her fingers, drawing light like a mirror. “Every person you meet is a coin toss.”

“A coin toss,” says Keyleth, nonplussed, watching.

Vex makes the gold disappear into the palm of her hand; a flick of wrist, a glint of light and it’s gone. “A coin toss,” she says. “Every person you meet. You don’t get to choose which way it lands, but you know, every time, that a wish isn’t enough. Won’t keep it from landing.”

“I don’t think I catch your meaning.”

“Catch this,” Vex says, tossing the coin onto the wooden table. It rattles, collapses with one stamped face to the sky. “Every time you meet someone, you know it’s an inevitability that one of you dies first. Neither knows which, or why. That’s just how it goes, but it happens every time. And so by all means, go through life looking for the inevitable loopholes: meet people and forget them, leave them behind, not knowing. But the coin still falls.”

Keyleth tilts her head back. “Does it?”

---

space - (a half-finished CR Jester-centric fic that I think was the first thing I ever wrote for the second campaign, as an exercise in learning character voices)

She stares at the strange nightmare-creature with a sense of satisfaction for a moment, then bellows, at the top of her lungs, “Hey, is anybody else there?! Are you all super dead?! Because they’re not real monsters!”

The words sound weird to her ears, and she realizes belatedly that it’s because she keeps expecting them to echo in the small space, and she’s not actually in a small space, which is starting to get a little confusing. “I hope they’re not all super dead,” she says, to cover a sudden sinking feeling in her gut. She’s not much help with super dead, or even with other kinds of dead beyond ‘almost’, and she’s sort of The cleric, so. “I guess you’re with me, still,” she says, and the universe shifts into something that feels like warm acknowledgement.

“All right,” she says, and sucks in a deep breath. “Sorry about your everything,” she tells the monster, and steps through the wall.

She blinks at the immediacy of the transition into a warm, sunny day; she would’ve at least expected some neat twinkly effects or a shimmer in the landscape, but no, just one step to go from damp cavern to let’s-have-a-picnic.

Which, she remembers, is exactly what she’d been saying when they’d turned the corner and seen this amazing meadow in the middle of the rolling hills, with birds singing and, like, blink dogs frolicking (there may not have been any blink dogs) and celestial beings descending from on high to serenade them (there may not have been any celestial beings, either). So they’d stopped, mostly to let W.C. rest, but mostly mostly for a picnic, and---

She turns slowly enough to keep her dress from whirling out in a really cool way, because this isn’t cool, this isn’t good, this is very, very bad.

---

time - (chapter 3 of a CR novella I need to go back and rewrite because canon keeps doing my plot twists better than me)

Towns on the mainland always seemed to Fjord to be a bit too quiet.

In coastal towns, things changed. Things changed by definition. New faces coming through meant everyone, from the cutpurses on up, had to be adaptable to thrive. He’d always put a lot of stock in adaptability. Always had to.

These landbound towns, though, felt stale, entrenched in their ways. Granted, Port Damali had sometimes been far from a progressive, cosmopolitan outpost, but compared to towns like Crossroads, well. He’d already caught more than a few strange looks---not to mention a couple of hastily stifled signs against evil---aimed at him and Yasha. Nott, in disguise as a young halfling woman, was beginning to attract an even more worrying series of concerned looks. It seemed like it was only a matter of time before someone intervened and demanded to know what she was doing in such mixed company, which would just be all kinds of awkward.

So Fjord slouched a little as he walked, avoiding direct eye contact, matching his posture and stride to that of the quieter breed of workers wandering the town this evening. His fingers twitched with the urge to summon his blade, but he channeled that nervous energy into making himself as unassuming as possible, as near to invisible as he could manage without some sort of magic.

He glanced to his left, where Yasha strode proudly, destruction and devastation writ large on her dramatic features, her piercing, mismatched eyes seeking out challenges in every passerby.

With a sigh, Fjord abandoned all attempts at blending in and nudged Nott in the shoulder.

---

breath - (this is the one I’m most actively working on that I don’t want to say much about, but it’s a Beau-centric CR story with a bit of a weird perspective)

The sound of high, wheezy breathing was audible almost immediately, which meant that this mysterious woman had made it relatively close to the cabin, which in turn meant that she’d bypassed a number of traps along the way. Viev wasn’t yet willing to chase that particular sentence to its logical conclusion, but the heft of the weapon in her hands would provide ample punctuation if she needed it.

As they drew nearer to its source, the breathing halted for a moment, then started up again, faster, more frantic. Jui touched Viev’s arm, either to advise caution or seek reassurance, then backed off while Viev shoved her way through the last stand of bushes, toward the clearing where the trap had been laid.

The figure on the ground was unmoving except for the too-quick rise and fall of her chest, and she seemed really committed to pretending to be unconscious, so Viev was just going to let her go on doing that while she assessed the threat. Looked human, with the kind of wiry, absurdly well-defined musculature that could only be about nine parts extensive martial training, one part vanity, and approximately zero parts farmhand or laborer. The clothing was well-made and richly dyed; Jiu was growing out of half the clothing she owned these days, so if the crossbow did come into play, well, waste not, want not.