Celebrate Batman’s 75th Anniversary with the Best of Batman on Texts From Superheroes




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(Reblogged from textsfromsuperheroes)



not sure of the drawing but wow the colours are so damn gorgeous *_*

(Reblogged from honnouji-gakuen)



We’re putting the digital copy up for sale by popular demand :)

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Currently we have no concrete plans for a reprint or a 2nd edition, but Season 2 is likely to spurn another book. So keep your eyes out for updates here!

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Got my copy of it in the mail!! It’s so fucking gorgeous ahhhh *_* <3

(Reblogged from feyuca)


it started out as a sketch how did it end up like this (transparent)

(Reblogged from yakitoris)


I could show you love
In a tidal wave of mystery
You’ll still be standing next to me

You could be my luck
Even if we’re six feet underground
I know that we’ll be safe and sound
We’re safe and sound [x]

I was actually listening to K-Pop hence Makos funky fresh outfit I don’t even know
Are youre eyeballs popping out yet
Because mine almost did during coloring.

(Reblogged from welcometoshatterdome)



Every once and awhile I’ll read an excerpt like this and it hits me all over again how astonishing it is that such a wounded man still retained within him a small spark of goodness and honor. And that it was a young girl who believed in that sort of goodness who was brave enough to question his nihilistic outlook and tap into something within him that he might not have even realized was there.

It’s secondary, really, that I’m an endgame shipper of these two. What makes it truly extraordinary is the ages-old tale of how powerful it can be to find someone who is accepting of you, who can see the humanity in you and who cares about you, despite any outward appearances. It reminds me how important it is to treat people with kindness. I think that’s the greatest gift we can bestow on our fellow human beings.

#I can’t even express anymore how much I love Sandor Clegane

When he says “Die, maybe” my heart convulses. He always says things like that, things that could be taken as so hard-hearted, but are really utterly depressing because they show how paper-thin his mental/emotional armor really is.

He’s saying “I’m going to kill people tomorrow. There’s a good chance I could die tomorrow.” and I believe that he means his nonchalance about both of them, and that he has come to believe that people are there for the strong to play with. This worldview is very ingrained, and it’s gradually developed over many years to protect his psyche against the discrepancies between his childhood idealism and the realities of his adulthood.

But it’s interesting that it’s such a fragile world view that he feels threatened by a devout, kind, distressed girl just… existing. He feels the need to force his nihilistic worldview on her because as long as this girl really believes things should be like they are in the songs, there is a chance he is wrong, and his way of life is reprehensible, and has been reprehensible for years. He does all he can to show his resentment.

Even through this terrible conversation, (and really, all of their terrible conversations) you can see that he is the vulnerable one. Sansa is just largely confused about his refusal to verbally be nice and play along with his role in the story. His role: a protector, which, lovely enough, is what he actually does for both her and Arya, despite his words. Sansa’s estimation of him and role for him (a human not-quite-knightly protector who would never let her come to harm if he could prevent it) is closer to the truth than his role for himself (a mindless dog that preys on the weak)

So he is the one at risk in these conversations, his very identity is at risk, and everything he says is so goddamn vulnerable I could die. He is the one saying “I’m maybe going to die tomorrow” to Sansa, nonchalantly like he doesn’t care at all.

But I’m sorry. You don’t say “I’m maybe going to die tomorrow” to another person without a part of you hoping they will respond, “I hope that you come back alive.”

He wants her hopefulness gone so it won’t threaten his identity, but he needs her to hope for him more. And he never knows, but she does have enough empathy in her enormous loving heart to pray for him. She’s the only one in the whole world who hopes for him, who has sympathy for him, who wonders about what his fate is afterward. No wonder he came back to her like a homing beacon through the fires of battle.

#and he returns to end it once and for all #one of them will win the argument and define once and for all who Sandor Clegane is #he tries to prove he is that beast by threatening her with the knife #and making her sing (making her realize her songs aren’t true) #but it backfires on him - the song is a song from his childhood a song of innnocence #a pious song #a gentle loving hopeful song #he is too vulnerable against this onslaught #he is wrong #and his way of life is reprehensible #he is a human man who does remember what it was like to dream like that #vulnerable identity shattered he leaves #and Sansa is left with his not-quite-knightly cloak #(cloaks protect against the elements) #(cloaks protect new brides) #(but she knows of a better protector and she is confused and sad that he’s left her with nothing but this substitute)

(Source: halfprincesshalfgoddess)

(Reblogged from asoiafuniversity)
(Reblogged from repulsor)
Watch as everyone competes to sit on the world’s most uncomfortable chair, while completely ignoring the invasion of ice zombies that threatens to kill them all,
The most accurate summary of Game of Thrones to date via Honest Movie Trailers (via oflionsandwolves)

(Source: brienneofthrace)

(Reblogged from nerfherdersftw)

'He's our prince.'

(Source: wyllamanderly.co.vu)

(Reblogged from psychedelic-defunct)

eunoiabound asked: Bagginshield and GoT!


A/N: So…I have never read, or watched, Game of Thrones. What I know of it comes from gif sets, sobbings, and the knowledge “You do not mess with the Dragon Lady.” Oh, and every character has gone through agony, and it would be faster to list those who have not gone through agony. With that…please don’t kill me?

Also, I have no clue how “three sentence fics” work, because I never make them three sentences long.


It was supposed to be a marriage of convince, nothing more. Bilbo was not one who was sought after and the Dwarves of Erebor were looking to solidify some sort of alliance with them, so Bilbo had been placed on the chopping block, to be married to the cold and distant King.

He hadn’t expected love, or happiness. He hadn’t expected the gentle way Thorin would brush their foreheads together or the way the whispered Khuzdul would soothe him when he grew homesick.

He had not expected the great big rock that Thorin had given him to hatch into an adorable baby dragon (a dragonling? a hatchling?) that was all scales and claws and sharp teeth to match his (or her) sharp wit.

Even now, Thorin glowered and cursed the serpentine dragon (who Bilbo had named Glaurung), golden and sharp witted even just out of the egg merely hissed at the curse before curling protectively around Bilbo, claws careful as they clenched on Bilbo’s heavy Dwarven wear to balance better.

"Oh, darling," Bilbo murmured softly as he stood on his tip toes to nudge his forehead against Thorin’s.

(Bilbo was completely lost when, over the course of the year, each strange rock he had been gifted by loyal subjects hatched into various baby dragons and, each time, Thorin cursed and stormed about while Glaurung practically purred from where he was curled around Bilbo.)

(Reblogged from thorinthesassmaster)


This guest post on Clamenç Llansana (Louis Boone) is taken from the introduction of Kit Schluter’s translation of Goliard Songs, which is available as a free pdf at Anomalous Press.

Certain artists specialize in the art of being overlooked.

In using the word overlooked, I am not thinking of artists who have fallen into obscurity after death, having enjoyed the satisfaction of minor prominence during their lives, or even those who seek recognition only to see it deferred during their lifetimes, but those of whom the general public remains entirely unaware, whose work is known only by family members and, at its furthest reaches, a very select coterie of friends.

Widely known examples of this strange lot are difficult to conjure, for these names do not belong to the public domain, but instead to the introverted storybooks of families and communities bound by esoteric practices, the research of obscurantists and eccentrics, and the caprices of folklore. Certain names do, however, come to mind: Henry Darger, John Barton Wolgamot, Emily Dickinson, among others.

In the cases of the sort of artists I’m interested in looking into here, it’s not a question of not knowing the right people, or not having a lucky break, or not being in the right place at the right time. Rather, the sort of public recognition that graces those artists on the tip of their generation’s tongue means nothing to these artists of whom I’m thinking, who are satisfed by the very possibility that, at some point in time, however remote, a curious soul may stumble upon the work they left behind in a crate of family photographs, their old journals and binders of loose-leaf manuscripts, as she digs through the bric-a-bracs her family has accumulated and left behind, passed along to future generations and close friends.

Or maybe even that doesn’t matter to them. Maybe, to say it simply, they just don’t give a damn about any of that. Maybe making work seems to them as inevitable as the act of shedding seems to a golden retriever in the summer, and its reception is inconsequential. It’s always a possibility.

In my family tree, there exists one Fredric Edward Schluter I (b. 1900, Huntington, IL) who, before giving up his early pursuits in sketching— ostensibly to pursue a life more assured of material security—produced at Fort Bragg a modest body of work, mostly plume and ink sketches, between the ages of eighteen and twenty-three. Of this work there remains only a single self-portrait and three still lives of hardcover books, bottles, candles, desks, and sad-looking women. And yet, however little is left of this Schluter’s output, the few works he left behind have secured a central place in my imagination ; at this point, to say they have allowed me to become who I am today would indeed be no hyperbole. When the day came that I too wanted to try my hand at drawing, for example, I copied the cross-hatching of his sketches. When, as an elementary schooler, I wanted to learn to smile like a gangster to impress a friend who had been swept away by the myth of Al Capone, I studied the wry, upturned lip in his self-portrait. Later, too, his sketches of liquor bottles, candles, and open books seemed to steer my aesthetic taste toward the perverse genre of Vanitas, the memento mori, the only mode of artwork I, to this day, love unconditionally. Looking back, this experience of possessing these works of beauty that no museum would house for the sole reason of their lack of cultural capital—of my family’s having this œuvre all to ourselves in a sense—allowed these drawings to course through my very blood, and encouraged me to savor that overripe fruit that had grown of one of the shadier branches of our family tree.

In one sense, then, it strikes me that having access to these sketches (the self-portrait, most importantly) led me not only to want to leave behind artifacts that would be found by someone in the remoteness of a future I could never even dream up, but also to desire having more of this sort of secret artistic figures in my life. So, in another sense, I have the artist behind those sketches to thank for the curiosity that led me, years after his death, to find come upon poetry of Clamenç Llansana (né Louis Boone).

Born in 1951 in the pastoral city of Figeac, France, located roughly 100 miles North of Toulouse, the poet known as Clamenç Llansana was son of a Canadian father (Éric Boone b. Québec City) and Texan social worker (Clemence Tompson b. Dallas), who met through unlikely circumstances in Boston in the 1940s, of which I will spare you the details, and relocated to the rural city of France at some point in the 1950s under even less likely circumstances, the details of which I will also spare you, out of respect for the family’s privacy.

In his adolescence, Llansana still went by his given name, Louis Boone, but wrote under two pen-names, between which he varied depending on the language of the composition: French or Occitan. If composing in Occitan, aligned himself with the medieval and scholastic lineage the language has to offer, and worked under the name Clamenç Llansana, which was, he said himself, the conscious merging of an Occitan first name with a Catalan surname. If in French, he imagined himself as following the leads of Lautréamont, Arthur Rimbaud, and Henri Michaux’s prose works, and wrote under the admittedly strange Marcel l’Aveugle, or in English, “Marcel the Blind.”

Thus his work vacillates between French, the language of his schooling, and Occitan, the dying language of his local community, spoken now by select communities: the elderly, the eccentrics, and certain Leftist political radicals in the Midi-Pyrenées. Interestingly enough, even though his parents were both English-speaking and he too speaks English fluently to this day, none of the extant writings in Boone’s archive (a milk crate’s worth of poetry, photographs, and drawings) are in English. By the age of twenty or so, the poet had left his given name behind, to make way for the name he goes by to this day, Clamenç Llansana.

Although his output was impressive, this chapbook, Goliard Songs [ed. note: available at Anomalous Press], is, according to the author, the only book he ever published. Released by a micro press in Villefranche de Rouergue named Éditions Igor in 1978, the book has all but entirely disappeared from conversation and circulation. Looking into this publishing venture while working as a public school language teacher in that small city during the 2011-12 school year, I found it has no other publications, and as no local poets had heard of the project, I began to suspect it was merely a one-of vanity project created Llansana himself for the making of this book. Llansana himself confirmed these suspicions, not with words at first, but with a wry grin, when we had the chance to meet in the café below his current apartment in the nearby Rodez, France in March of 2012. That same day, when I asked Llansana if we could expect any more work from him in the future, he said he had given up poetry at some point in his late twenties, with no intention of returning. He then retrieved from his modest archive a prose poem in French, “Le Jour de l’armistic (Armistice Day),” which he asked me to translate as a complement to the Goliard Songs—a task I carried out happily. The copy of this book, which Llansana photocopied for me, is the only copy he has been able to locate until now. The nine others printed and distributed in bookstores in the greater Toulouse area must be out there somewhere. Should you know of another, please do find a way to be in touch.

(Reblogged from writersnoonereads)

From the ashes a fire shall be woken,A light from the shadows shall spring;Renewed shall be blade that was broken, The crownless again shall be king.


From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken, 
The crownless again shall be king.
(Reblogged from thorinthesassmaster)

You must write immediately and do all you can to console me in it, make it rich as a draft of poppies to intoxicate me, write the softest words and kiss them that I may at least touch my lips where yours have been.

(Source: cinyma)

(Reblogged from calantheandthenightingale)


6 year old fan asks Sebastian a question.

#well good thing you’re the Winter Soldier   #because that’s one hell of a burn (via paradisdesbilles)

(Source: missmarvel)

(Reblogged from shop5)

glowri asked: what do you think about daenerys? do you like her?



She’s in my top 5 characters and probably always will be. I don’t want her on the Iron Throne, but that’s more because the Iron Throne makes nobody happy and I think having giant fire breathing dragons is kind of a bad thing.

I have a huge soft spot for Dany because she starts AGOT as the abused terrified little girl who’s basically sold into marriage with a warlord twice her age who rapes her until she takes agency, and then loses her husband, her unborn son, and almost her entire khalasar and then walks into a burning pyre and hatches three dragons.

And once she gains power, she actively tries to make the lives of other people better because it’s not that she thinks she knows better, she asks Jorah “do you know what it’s like to be sold?” And I don’t think that’s fair at all because she’s a teenager and she’s somewhat arrogant of her abilities to save the world but  she thinks it’s her duty to free all the slaves she can, and shut down the fighting pits or any human rights violations she sees, and it’s impractical but she convinces herself it’s because she’s the blood of the dragon that she can do it. And obviously, that fails her.

She’s not this magical Messiah (which is why criticism of Dany as the “magical fairy princess” is blatantly wrong I see you Race for the Iron Throne/Westeros.org) but she is a teenage girl who’s desperately trying to live up to expectations that she protects everybody. And I said this yesterday, but her chapter where she’s being abused by Drogo and wishes she would just die is the only place I think I cried in the books because Daenerys was 13 and I think the magnitude of her story was sort of lost aging her up and casting a 20 something in the role instead of a teenager (though obviously they can’t do that). The quote from Daenerys III is  ”Day followed day, night followed night, until Dany knew she could not endure a moment longer. She would kill herself rather than go on, she decided one night. ” and that just makes me really sad.

Plus her mantra of “if I look back I am lost” struck a chord with me because that’s what I do as well. Force myself to detach from everything bad that’s ever happened to me because if I dwell on it and let myself cry, I’d never stop. She’s still capable of empathy after being abused by her brother her entire childhood, her only family, her only exposure to love and never even knowing a home. It’s why she ends up being so devoted to her people I think, because that’s the first unconditional love she’s ever been shown.

(She’s not perfect has a tendency towards vengeance hence her nailing up 127 people on crosses and cutting their entrails out (albeit sadistic evil people), plus the fact she is a dragon in that she has a lot of her dragons’ tendencies towards violence but half her internal monologue concerns how worried she is about her diminishing morality and if she’s going mad which well, is not evil or terrible but actually heroic. And her story just isn’t about the evils of colonialism because she isn’t the white savior; she is somebody that legitimately wants to derail an economy based on slavery, which is morally wrong always, no matter who does it. Plus this is the girl that runs into her cabin to cry about puppies being strangled and when people are running about calling her crazy and insensitive to suffering and a terrible ruler, I get so mad)

(Reblogged from asoiafuniversity)