“Wandering souls gathered together to form this Pokémon. When trying to make friends with children, Drifloon grabs them by the hand.”
Halloween is approaching so it seemed like a good time to knit a cute hat inspired by a ghost-type Pokémon! This hat makes a good last-minute costume and will keep you warm while trick-or-treating or fighting in the halloween raids on Pokémon GO.
(Don’t delete my caption while reblogging. Thanks!)
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#knitting #crafts #patternsHand-embroidered Cassandra Pentaghast’s character card from Dragon Age Inquisition, 11.5x19.5 cm. 89 hours of work. I learned a lot of new techniques for it including (very basic) needle-lace making!
I miss the days when, no matter how slow your internet was, if you paused any video and let it buffer long enough, you could watch it uninterrupted
Having fun!!🔊🔊sound on
One of those videos where you are 100% certain what the music will be before you turn the sound on and you’re not wrong
Boys will be boys
Imagine if people only worked six months out of the year. Half the people would be winter workers who choose to grind through the dark months and then chill and play during the summer, and half of the people would be ones who would rather work through the warm season and then rest and hibernate in peace over the winter, more or less free to choose whichever you like.
There would be families with a strong identity about which season they work in, and people who say that someone "has only ever worked one season" as a way to imply that someone isn't adventurous by nature. There would be parents who agree to take turns working opposite seasons, so one of them can always be at home with the kids, and old folks who lament that their adult children and niblings were Forced By Circumstance to work opposite seasons from them, while the youths in question welcome the work as an excuse to avoid these inconvenient relatives.
You never know if the construction worker up at 6 am in the summer spends their winters writing murder mysteries, or if the winter shift librarian spends their summer cultivating a rare breed of heirloom apples. Or simply meditating, observing nature, living quietly and baking bread. Asking someone "what do you do in your free season?" tells as much, if not more, about the person than "what do you do for a living?" And nobody answers "nothing". Everyone can think of something that they want to do, perhaps not productive, but still enlightening, constructive and cultivating.
Nobody who is in full health and well rested can stand spending half of the year simply doing absolutely nothing.
I just found someone sharing this on twitter, so sorry that I don’t have the link but omg
Girlboss over here gaslighting the gatekeepers.
Fuck the Home Owners Association.
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.
