THEY KNOW ABOUT THE DORITO POSTS I HATE THIS CAST SO MUCH IT BURNS
tragedy strikes the enterprise
Harry Potter Memes
Not all trees are magical. A crux of wandlore, in fact, relies on the identification of which trees have the ability to channel latent magical energies through their roots and boughs. What, biologically, sets these trees apart from their mundane kin is not understood any better than what separates the magically gifted from their Muggle fellows. Some trees simply seem to have the spark, and when combined with an appropriate core they become potent tools for the channeling of magical power. Other societies across the globe have, of course, found other methods: specially forged rings, properly carved runes, and even fans whose construction is not too far different from wands themselves (being constructed of wood and pulp from magical trees), but few have the same utility or versatility that a wand provides.
A skilled wandmaker can identify a magically inclined tree in a number of ways. The best method involves checking the tree for the presence of tanzerbaums, dryads, or, in Europe, bowtruckles. Likewise, magical birds and other small creatures, like the Brywythian Shrew, often make their nests and burrows in the shade of arcane arboreals. Where this fails, an observant enchanter might notice a number of occult happenings in the presence of such trees: the manifestation of phantom breezes, the warping of seasonal temperatures, and the casting of strange shadows all herald the presence of sorcerous wood. Once, it is believed, such trees grew in abundance, forming vast groves and forests of magic and leading to the introduction of enchanted woods into Muggle folklore and fairy tales.
Of course, just because a tree itself is magical doesn’t mean it isn’t used for mundane purposes. Many are the majestic, wizardly tree that have been felled to make common furniture, crates, and barrels. It is the sad fate of most of that wood to lose its magic overtime; there is nothing mystical enough in a box or a stool to hold onto that sorcerous spark. Some pieces, however, are lucky enough to be cherished in Muggle hands: some become staffs, or wardrobes, or beloved dolls, and something of their power remains intact. And some rare few, American wandmakers have discovered, become ships.
There are no other conveyance, amongst Mages or Muggles, that has the same mythology as a ship. Planes and brooms and automobiles can have temperaments, it is true, but only ships have personality. From the smallest dingy to the greatest frigate, we’ve spent eons giving them names, and stories, and even faces. Back in the days when ships were carved of wood, and Muggle sailors vied daily with the savage sea, a ship could become a person’s whole world; home and fortress, foe and friend, all at once. And it is not surprising, therefore, that some of those fantastic ships had a little magic in their beams and boards, and such ships often became things of legend. It is said Captain John Razor’s ship, The Sea Hag, had a tiller of fine English Oak from a highly magical tree, which moved in the dread pirate’s hands as naturally as a wand in the hand of a master duelist.
Of course such wood was not a perfect prevention for catastrophe, but magical wood, especially seasoned so by sea salt and the swearing and prayers of sailors, is rarely content to rot on the ocean floor. Over the decades, much of it has washed up on the shores of the Americas, where wandmakers have realized its fantastic powers and started using it in their craft.
A wand from the sea is a precious and rare thing, and best suited to wizards who have temperaments that match the ocean’s in scope and strength. Regardless of the wood’s original origin, the sea has reshaped it, and made it their own, and so Mages whose hands bring life to a ship-wrecked wand often seek to change the world themselves, through sheer strength of will. They tend to hint at a gift for transfiguration and the more forceful of charms, though a strange connection with astronomy also tends to emerge in those lucky enough to be their bearers.
Quippet didn’t want to be a shaman.
He didn’t like shamany things. Incense set off his asthma. He wasn’t good at chanting. Fasting made him feel hungry, not enlightened. And the Spotted Mushroom Drink made him throw up, and one time he’d been out getting it and gotten between some reindeer and the mushrooms and…well…it was ugly. He’d needed a whole lot of stitches. Reindeer are hardcore.
The problem was that he heard voices.
Crazy-Wool, the tribe’s shaman, told him that the spirits were tormenting him and his only choice was to become initiated as a shaman, go into the spirit world, and battle them into submission. “The spirits must be bent to your will!” bleated Crazy-Wool, his breath reeking of the Spotted Mushroom Drink. “They will drive you down into madness unless you have the strength to resist their wickedness!”
“Uh-huh,” said Quippet, trying not to cough.
The elder shaman told him, sometimes two or three times a day, how vital it was that he stand strong against the influence of the spirit-voices, that he refuse to listen to their wiles, and that if they ever told him to do anything, he was to come to Crazy-Wool immediately.
Quippet always agreed—and felt guilty—and went to go alphabetize the magic rocks.
Truth was, the spirit voices told him to do things all the time.
They said “It’s snowing out, you better wear a hat or you’ll catch your death.”
They said “You should have a hot cup of tea and everything’ll look better in the morning.”
They said “You try to have a nice day now, Quippet.”
They said “You’re a good sheep, Quippet, you keep your chin up and watch out for those nasty reindeer.”
And every year on his birthday, they all sang a rousing chorus of “For He’s A Jolly Good Sheep” and took turns telling him how much they valued his friendship and how proud they were of all he’d accomplished. One of the voices even composed a small poem in his honor. (It wasn’t a terribly good poem, but all the voices cheered anyway and Quippet had been very moved and a little confused.)
He didn’t want to go into the spirit world and battle them. He was horribly afraid that if he tried, he’d come back out with a cup of tea and a small note saying that everyone loved him very much and wanted him to be happy.
It was all very worrisome.
Poor Quippet is 15 inches long, 6 inches wide, and 5 inches tall. I am pleased with the design of the front end, but his tail doesn’t look as tail-like as I’d wish, so I may go back to a more rounded butt on the next one. I was pretty happy with his full-body dreads, though.
His face is cast plastic resin, his feet are Super Sculpey, the fur is…err…fur… - Ursula Vernon
Black Widow #2 (2014, Phil Noto)
So imagine a Harry Potter TV series but BETTER than Game of Thrones because seasons 1 and 2 would be Founders, 3-5/6 would be Marauders, 6/7-13/14 would be the books, and then 13/14-forever would be post-Hogwarts Golden Trio and Next-Gen and it would be absolutely brilliant.
I FUCKING LOVE THIS.
I kind of told my sixth grade teacher this in front of the class when she said “Ladies don’t do that.”
zoe washburne appreciation month | 2/5 quotes
"she’s tore up plenty, but she’ll fly true."
Steven Moffat has said that calling Peter Capaldi’s incarnation the ‘Twelfth Doctor’ is wrong.
Speaking in SFX magazine #251, Moffat said: “I’m just going to throw this continuity grenade back at Doctor Who fans and say,…
why the fuck does everyone in the purge movies want to kill people if crime was legal i’d find a way to erase my student debt and also probably steal a bunch of new clothes
"The Back Door" from Treasure Planet