Not Exactly A Photo But Not Miles Off.

You have built your dwellings upon the bones of those you damned, your cities upon the mass graves of countless beings, and your countries in the burnt and scarred remains of what was once their homes.

Every last breath, every lineage cut short, every forest, fen and fallow torn asunder feeds it; with every wisp of smoke, every incremental creep of a warming world, and with every drop falling from retreating glaciers it grows. A beast of fire and ice, choking ash and swelling seas, the roaring core of the earth surging forwards and the heartless cold of the endless reaches above plummeting down in its infernal halo.

This is not the gentle, loving death that carries souls softly into that good night, nor is it the wrath and rage of a mere god of war. It is the great equaliser, the callous harvestman scything wheat, wildflower and weed alike so that a new world may grow in its place. And when the slate is cleared, when the Earth’s lungs cough out the last of the soot and the ballard of life rises into a new chorus, you will be forgotten, the king of kings whose shattered ruins are razed by roots and rot, the mocking hand crushed beneath a universe it thought it could command, and its ruins buried not beneath that barren sands of a world that couldn’t live without it but the joyous songs of a planet unshackled from your iron grasp.

Car lights - James Marriot

ATTENTION

If you see this you are OBLIGATED to reblog w/ the song currently stuck in your head :)

The flag of the Faerie Revolutionary Alliance, the first of many resistance and revolutionary movements to collaborated with the Allies during the Faerie War to overthrow the Faerie Empire (names are a work in progress, I know that’s a lot of faeries). The war hammer represents what was seen as a “people’s weapon” due to needing little metal, the tree represents the home trees many faeries build/built their civilisations in.

Pretty basic question but ah well- are the faeries aliens? Or seed world organisms that originated from earth?

The faeries, slaters and formids are all aliens, however the slaters are from an ancient seedworld/colony world of a now extinct alien.

NOT HALF A FOOT LIKE 4 INCHES, I’M TIRED AND DONT’ USE IMPERIAL MUCH

@ mutuals rb this w how tall you are i wanna know

i’m 4’11

Pretty much 6ft spot on, but my brother’s like an extra half foot taller

@ mutuals rb this w how tall you are i wanna know

i’m 4’11

You like spec evo. I have decided that you are now a mutual. You are cool

Cheers!!

Great burgundy flag-goose

The great burgundy flag-goose is part of a clade of grazing tapajarids originating in the eastern continent of the known world and spreading across the planet. Exploiting the now vacant niche of large terrestrial herbivore following the most recent mass extinction, the clade moved from omnivores and frugivores into bulk feeders, evolving into both the heaviest flying pterosaurs of Feorrlund and into a flightless clade. The flag-geese is a polyphyletic grouping of basal members, with Odontorostruvexilla and its relative evolving a cropping beak and psuedoteeth to feed on a variety of grasses, migrating between feeding grounds in vast flocks. Although never domesticated, their seasonal abundance plays a crucial role in a variety of cultures across multiple sophonts.

Perspective is pain

Some say magic died when a hail of shellfire tore an ancient god asunder. Others say it died when the whistle of engines dragged an old world kicking and screaming into a new one. Yet more say it died when the wheels of progress ground the very building blocks of the universe apart into ordered lists and categories. It has been said it died when some long lost soul first harnessed the all consuming light of fire to keep away greater evils that haunted the shadows.

But magic is not dead.

If you venture long enough into the wild lands you can find it, scorched and scarred, battered but not broken. Ancient beings who’s rattling voices sing ballads of fall and fallow; Good People who ask for your name and offer you a deal; silent colossi passing beneath trees that reach to the heavens; beasts that stalked the flickering borders of ancient campfires, and kind travellers who no longer know how long they have wandered these lands.

If you follow the coast you can find it, hear it in faint songs barely distinguishable above the breaking of the waves; see it in the dark shapes that glide over the reefs and shoals; be told of it in epic tales as sailors boast of their victories, and if you stay you might overhear whispers of awe and dread of the rage and might of what dwells within pelagic storms, those spirits who never returned from the sea, and the unfathomable might of leviathans known only to the cachalot and those rare few glimpsing a shadow in the depths.

If you travel through the country you can find it, temples of corrugated metal and bricks; archaic machines held together with welds, duct tape and dimly glowing runes; laughing farmhands heaving clods of soil from the earth to lob at eachother; faerie rocks jeering from the centre of a plowed field; forgotten gods standing motionless amongst the wheat; long abandoned churches that never fall into disrepair; half forgotten sigils carved into fence posts to ward off the Things in the night, and the eyes that yet still burn like red moons between the stalks of corn.

In the cities you can find it, in the prophecies etched and sprayed upon the subway walls by robed sages and masked youths; in the pig iron shrines to gods of the forge tucked in every nook and cranny of a foundry; in the clubs and bars that you can only find when you are shown them or when a full moon looms above; in the figures kneeled in the light of the street lamps and the shapes that lurk beyond their reach; in the graffiti that can race and dance or slowly shift upon the faces of buildings older than countries and refuse to be removed; in the timeworn temples that had the city built around them; in the druids of lawns and weeds; in the mages that carve their baseball bats with symbols of power and fill their trench coat pockets with glador brewed in basements and lifted from stores; in the bards that busk at the city crossroads and send ballads streaking across the globe in a crackle of sparks and binary; and in the warlocks both of new gods with bones of steel, veins of fire and skin a tough as concrete, and of the old gods that seep out like moss from the pavement as they refuse to be forgotten.

So as you go about your busy days, give a swift greeting to the magpies that watch and wait from the roofs and branches; pass a murmur of respect to the faerie oak that stands like an island in a sea of concrete; ignore the shapes glimpsed from the windows at night but draw the blinds and lock the doors. And always remember. That magic is not dead.