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A Small Collection

Roughly Reflecting the Tastes and Attitudes of a Scholarly Woman Residing in the Southern Reaches of Australia
Aug 31 '14

Angel Hunter

ursulavernon:

            Stan Blackwell hunted angels.

            It wasn’t a bad job, not in this economy. The logistics were hard to set up sometimes, but the market for angelhide was always enormous, and no one could send you to jail for harvesting creatures that the government didn’t think existed.

            And it wasn’t like ivory or tiger skins, which Stan considered morally repugnant. Only a right bastard would kill an endangered species, so far as he was concerned. There were always more angels. Every time a human got born, another angel popped out of the aether to guard them.

            Guardian angels were his bread and butter. His system, which he had perfected over the years, was to take a toddler to a high mountain road with no guardrails and set it loose. As soon as the kid got anywhere near the edge, the kid’s guardian angel would come flailing in, pushing it back from the edge with ethereal hands.

            All Stan had to do was hit it with the harpoon gun, pull the kid back, dump the angel in the back of the truck and throw a tarp over it. The harpoon line was tied to the bumper of the truck, so pulling it up was usually easy, and angels were helpless against the devilwood bolts.

            He always took the kid out for ice cream before returning them to the street or the daycare. Daycares made him uneasy. When he had run through all the guardian angels in any particular place, he generally called an anonymous tip in to the authorities. Any daycare shady enough to let a grown man make off with one of their charges, day after day, needed to be closed down. Stan was harmless—at least to humans—but there were some real weirdoes out there.

            He’d run one or two of the kids over to Social Services, written a note that said their home was in an unsafe place, and dropped them off outside. Those kids got two scoops of ice cream and a Beanie Baby, which was pitifully inadequate, but you did what you could.

            Kids like that were the reason that Stan never felt any guilt about killing guardian angels. If the damn things did any good, those kids wouldn’t have been in the mess they were in to begin with.

            They sure weren’t very bright. You’d think that the angels would notice that a guy in a truck took the kids out for ice cream, one by one, and when they came back, their angels were missing.  You’d think they’d get wise to the fact that something was happening. But they never did. Swoop, panic, flail, harpoon, tarp, ice cream.

            (He occasionally thought of just getting an ice cream truck, but he hadn’t worked out the logistics of shooting harpoon guns over the heads of a crowd of children.)     

            Some of the higher orders of angels were different. He’d heard that thrones could tear you in half if you slipped up, and cherubs were downright nasty. You could tell cherub-hunters by how many limbs they were missing. Presumably they had to quit when they ran out of parts, although powdered cherub feathers would cause flesh to regrow, so if a hunter had a high pain tolerance and reasonable luck, they could probably keep going indefinitely.

            Seraphim were easy by comparison. You could always hear them coming because they kept shouting in dead languages.

            Stan mostly limited himself to guardian angels. Depending on which translation of which scholar you read, the other kinds might have limited numbers. You couldn’t just go around clubbing archangels like they were dodos, now could you? You’d run out and then nobody’d have any archangels and whatever ate them or relied on them to spread manna about or whatever would be out of luck. It would have been downright irresponsible to hunt archangels.

            Plus they might be smart. Like elephants. They were smart. He’d heard that elephants would handle the bones of their dead, for all the world like they were mourning over them. Stan could believe it. He’d read an article that said they communicated through super low frequency sounds, practically a language, and once you go shooting things that had a language, what were you?

            Angels, though—you could shoot a guardian angel full of devilwood and the angel standing next to it would look vaguely pained, as if the dead one had done something crass. It wouldn’t try to run. It’d look through you while you set up the next shot.

            Stan would have shot a hundred guardian angels before saying so much an unkind word to an elephant.

(I have no idea what this was or where it’s going—it started nagging me in the small hours last night, and it just seemed easier to slap it out…)

Aug 31 '14
larebellefleur:

Trying to brush up on my Spanish and… Oh okay.

larebellefleur:

Trying to brush up on my Spanish and…
Oh okay.

Aug 31 '14
lawebloca:

playstation 4 3d

lawebloca:

playstation 4 3d

7,287 notes (via lawebloca) Tags: gif
Aug 30 '14
thesylverlining:

maybetwice:

verothexeno:

Le Dragon Noir by YoukaiYume

I WOULD HANG THIS ON MY WALL

I would hang it in my bathroom right next to the actual print on which it was based!

thesylverlining:

maybetwice:

verothexeno:

Le Dragon Noir by YoukaiYume

I WOULD HANG THIS ON MY WALL

I would hang it in my bathroom right next to the actual print on which it was based!

Aug 30 '14
biomorphosis:

Wombats are second largest marsupials in Australia. Despite their size, they are fast runners and can run 40 miles per hour, but only for short distances. Their diet mainly consist of grasses and roots.

biomorphosis:

Wombats are second largest marsupials in Australia. Despite their size, they are fast runners and can run 40 miles per hour, but only for short distances. Their diet mainly consist of grasses and roots.

Aug 30 '14

Anonymous asked:

What do you think Tolkien's Dwarves' religion looks like?

ceruleancynic:

robinade:

vrabia:

But Terry Pratchett’s is taken seriously. Like, a lot. And it’s basically all darkness-and-stone mysticism, there is nothing else.

I mean of course they have songs that go ‘gold gold gold’ and the right to kingship is handed down via a petrified loaf of bread with someone’s butt imprinted on it.

But in the same breath you’ve got the knockermen, who go down mine-shafts with no source of light on them to face fatal explosions, and the ones who come back are regarded as exponents of sainthood, because they’ve done the impossible. And they talk about what they’ve seen down there, and everyone knows seen has nothing to do with the senses, but with the kinds of things that come to you when you are alone in the silent bowels of the earth with no light. Which. If this doesn’t sound like the perfect setting for the birth of mysticism and religion, I really don’t know, man. 

And this, this seen, changes the profession from something dangerous and full of fear into something sought-after, that young dwarves volunteer for. And then you’ve got an entire category of people believed to walk between life and death at all times and not really part of the mortal order of things. You enter this profession, your family will kiss you goodbye and think of you as if you’ve left this world. 

And then there’s something that Tolkien doesn’t have - religion as politics. By tradition successful knockermen become kings. And other knockermen become fundamentalists to the point where they decree that the amount of time you spend above ground dictates whether or not you’re a dwarf. Like, literally this one thing would bring into question your own nature and, more importantly, whether or not you would belong to a community. You’ve got debates on modernity and traditionalism, the generational effects of immigration and who should rule an entire people and why. There are mentions of social practices that sound an awful lot like religion - like how when a dwarf dies their tools should be melted so they can never be used by a living one, or the fact that it does not matter if you are literally six feet tall, you can still be a dwarf if you performed certain rituals.

And the fact that all of this happens in one of the City Watch books and is pitted against champion doubter Sam Vimes and it still leaves you as a reader kind of speechless and wowed, is saying a lot. 

I will argue this always and forever: compared to Terry Pratchett, Tolkien is a pretty lazy writer. A lot of what he did strikes you as extraordinary because he tried to do it systematically and on such a sweeping scale. But going into the smaller details of his world-building, I think the only things he’s ever taken 100% seriously are genealogies and made-up grammar. Tolkien does a lot, and I say this as someone who grew up as a fan of his work. But at the level of story-telling, he builds histories, not societies. He writes with the underlying assumption that we as an audience understand how his world works, because we’ve read what he’s read and have some notions that the Shire is pre-industrial England and the whole War of the Ring thing is basically feudal warfare blown out of proportion etc. etc. Tolkien’s world is fixed, lives in its own past, moves on in forms but not in substance. ‘The King has returned’ is really more of an end of history thing, because past that point evil has been vanquished and everyone will live in peace in an ordered world. 

In Terry Pratchett’s writings history only shows up if it has to, sometimes as exposition, rarely as plot, mostly creeping up on you in the form of remarks like ‘Ankh-Morpork is built on Ankh-Morpork’. And this is because Terry Pratchett writes societies, with all that writing societies entails, including religion.

I have actually rarely encountered an author of fiction who takes religion more seriously, because what Terry Pratchett does is treat it as a source of world-organizing principles and by extension of political power. Which, underneath its substance of faith and hope and consolation, is what religion actually evolved as.

I feel like anyone trying to claim that TPratchett doesn’t take dwarf religion seriously hasn’t read The Fifth Elephant. Or should read it again.

Here’s the pertinent section of TFE:

notbecauseofvictories:

like Terry Pratchett’s, but taken seriously.

Vimes saw the images in his mind as Cheery explained…


The miners would clear the area, if they were lucky. And the knockerman would go in wearing layer after layer of chain-mail and leather, carrying his sack of wicker globes stuffed with rags and oil. And his long pole. And his slingshot.

Down in the mines, all alone, he’d hear the knockers. Agi Hammerthief and all the other things that made noises, deep under the earth. There could be no light, because light would mean sudden, roaring death. The knockerman would feel his way through the utter dark, far below the surface.

There was a type of cricket that lives in the mines. It chirruped loudly in the presence of firedamp. The knockerman would have one in a box, tied to his hat.

When it sang, a knockerman who was either very confident or extremely suicidal would step back, light the torch on the end of his pole and thrust it ahead of him. The more careful knockerman would step back rather more, and slingshot a ball of burning rags into the unseen death. Either way, he’d trust in his thick leather clothes to protect him from the worst of the blast.

Initially the dangerous trade did not run in families, because who’d marry a knockerman? They were dead dwarfs walking. But sometimes a young dwarf would ask to become one; his family would be proud, wave him goodbye, and then speak of him as if he was dead, because that made it easier.

Sometimes, though, knockermen came back. And the ones that survived went on to survive again, because surviving is a matter of practice. And sometimes they would talk a little of what they heard, all alone in the deep mines … the tap-tapping of dead dwarfs trying to get back into the world, the distant laughter of Agi Hammerthief, the heartbeat of the turtle that carried the world.

Knockermen became kings.

(Fun fact: Knockers, also knackers, are mythical creatures that live/exist/dwell in mines. There are two schools of thought on the knocker: one holds that he is a malicious spirit who taps on the walls and props of the drift to cause cave-ins, and the other believes him to be a friendly and helpful spirit whose tapping and knocking on the walls is meant to warn the miners that collapse is imminent and to get the hell out. They are sometimes considered to be souls of dead miners, but whether they are tapping to get back into the world or to warn of impending danger is up for discussion.)

This isn’t even going into the whole Things Tak Wrote, or that Tak does not require dwarfs to think of him; he merely requires them to think. This kind of stuff that makes you blink and go o-oh… isn’t limited to the main Discworld books. Read The Amazing Maurice for another wonderful, creeptastic, moving description of religion: people going into the dark, alone, for the good of the clan; hearing things, coming back changed.

Aaaahhh I just fucking love Terry Pratchett ok

I wouldn’t agree that Tolkein is lazy, per se - he just focuses on very different things to Pratchett.

Things I generally find boring.

But that doesn’t make them bad!

[And I may be biased by my lifelong and bone-deep love of Pratchett]

Aug 30 '14
Aug 29 '14
ursulavernon:

tabbiewolf:

I did not expect @UrsulaV to be Slytherin. I was figuring Hufflepuff!

I don’t know why people assume Hufflepuffs aren’t stone cold killers. Have you met a badger?
The Hufflepuffs will be very kind for a long time and then they will very kindly turn you into mulch and no one will ever know why the roses grow so beautifully in that particular spot.

ursulavernon:

tabbiewolf:

I did not expect @UrsulaV to be Slytherin. I was figuring Hufflepuff!

I don’t know why people assume Hufflepuffs aren’t stone cold killers. Have you met a badger?

The Hufflepuffs will be very kind for a long time and then they will very kindly turn you into mulch and no one will ever know why the roses grow so beautifully in that particular spot.

(Source: harrypotterhousequotes)

Aug 29 '14
deardeerling:

in west narnia born and raisedthrough the wardrobe was where i spent most of my days

deardeerling:

in west narnia born and raised
through the wardrobe was where i spent most of my days

(Source: areyoutoonenough)

Aug 29 '14

stoneandbloodandwater:

forthegothicheroine:

youkoofthelovespot:

jali-jali:

charmory:

this is the most romantic thing i’ve seen all day

No shit. That tom cat was like:

"This thorn invested wall means nothing."

"I will gladly walk on it a thousand times over, if that means I could be with you, my lady."

and the lady cat was all:

"My brave darling."

OOOPS MY HAND SLIPPED!!

Suddenly my muse insisted me to draw the personification version of the last pic, and who am I to reject inspiration when it comes so willingly to me? At least this will help with the artblock issue I currently have to deal with.

Russian imperial era inspired because hot damn.

Note: I tried google reverse image (and other reverse image search engines) those photos and came up with nothing. I wish I knew the original photographer because I want to love hug him/her so hard for capturing such inspiring moments.

OMG that’s the cutest thing ever and the best courtly love ah so brilliant.

Few romantic heroes could do better.

I don’t post cats often but that illustration.

(Source: theamericankid)