Somewhere in Utah. I’m pretty sure this is the road to Dead Horse Canyon
Pentax 645, 45mm, Portra
Substance of the west - 2013
And now the weather…
- - -
Happy Freckle Friday!
Breathtaking photos of sea creatures by Mark Laita. Pair with these gorgeous illustrations of marine beings based on Indian mythology.
At twilight on August the 25th 1999, one week before classes were to begin, Hermione Granger Apparated into Hogsmeade, a wand box clutched under her arm.
Headmistress McGonagall was waiting for her outside the Three Broomsticks. The two women greeted each other warmly, and then set off towards the castle. Or rather, towards the grounds outside the castle.
They chatted amiably as they strolled towards the groundskeeper’s hut. Hagrid, sitting outside and darning a pair of enormous socks, looked up as they approached.
“Good evenin’ Headmistress, Hermione,” he said with some gruff surprise.
“Good evening, Hagrid,” replied McGonagall. “May we go inside? I believe Hermione has a proposition to discuss with you.”
If you had stood outside the hut as the evening darkened and the stars rose into the sky, you’d have heard the rumblings of an argument coming from inside the hut. You’d have heard Hagrid’s gruff refusals, Hermione’s calm (and then not so calm) rebuttals, and the very occasional interjection of the Headmistress.
Hermione did not emerge until the moon had fully risen and darkness enveloped the grounds. But in the light of the nearly full moon, you could see a smile on her face.
The Shrieking Shack was no longer widely believed to be haunted, now that the story of Remus Lupin was fully known. Still, the residents of Hogsmeade and Hogwarts avoided it out of a mixture of respect and residual fear.
This suited Hermione perfectly. The interior of the Shack was now stacked with books and bottles of potion ingredients. A cauldron sat in the corner, a telescope pointed out a cracked window, and cushions lined one wall. A table was covered in parchment, broken quills, ink pots and stains. Once a week, Hermione would apparate into the Shack and go over her notes from the previous session while she awaited her student’s arrival.
Sometimes he was late without explanation. Sometimes he would bring a wounded bowtruckle he wasn’t comfortable leaving on its own. Sometimes Fang would follow him and sit in the corner whining while his master sweated and cursed over a cauldron. Hermione was calm but firm, making adjustments as needed and letting Hagrid’s frustrated words roll off her back like water droplets.
The Hogsmeade residents may have turned a blind eye to the goings-on in the Shrieking Shack, but that didn’t mean they weren’t relieved as time went on and there were fewer and fewer roars of anger echoing through the village.
The OWL testers had been warned in advance that they would have an unusual student that year. That didn’t mean they weren’t taken aback when Rubeus Hagrid appeared on their testing scrolls. They all knew of him of course, knew the role he played in the Second War and of the false accusations leveled against him.
They were worried they would have to be kind.
They needn’t have. No one could have Hermione Granger teach them personally for a year and not improve in all aspects. His potions may not have been textbook perfection, he may not have fully transfigured his toad, but Hagrid had clearly worked hard to master his long dormant abilities.
Rubeus Hagrid may not have followed the traditional path to wisdom. But he had a new wand, the (sometimes grudging) respect of his peers, classes to teach and 6 OWLs.
Including the highest score ever recorded on Care of Magical Creatures.
(written and submitted by ppyajunebug; please excuse me, because I have something in my eye. Oh yes, it is my joyful tears. ppyajunebug has a way of bringing those out of me, you see. Their submissions tackle some of the saddest moments in canon, turning them around and making something beautiful out of them.)
There once was a flammable cat
That Bill Blake had been goggling at.
He said, “It’s so scary,
I’d really be wary
of a god who could make such as that.”
oh my god
this is truly deserving of my “poetry, oh noetry” tag.
- With Samantha Swords, winner of the open longsword competition in Harcourt Park World Invitational Jousting Tournament
- Photography by Rey Alabastro
- Armour by Shari Finn
Copyright: © Rey Alabastro Photography, 2013
Source: via Samantha Swords
This amazing woman is Samantha Mott. You need to know about her. Your life will better after this post, trust me.
Samantha is a competition fighter who won a world longsword tournament.
She owns a lot of swords, as you would imagine, but she also designed some of them herself to suit her particular forms of fighting.
She’s also a writer and artist
and is developing a graphic novel series.
She’s a stunt fighter who has performed in film and on stage.
And, oh yeah, she works for WETA Workshop in New Zealand.
She lead the team that built this armor for the Hobbit trilogy:
She also worked on this from District 9
And most recently was the assistant to the Lead Fabricator for the HULC suit in Elysium
Let’s just be clear - this is a champion swordfighter, a weapon designer, a feature film prop and armor maker, a stunt performer, a fiction and non-fiction writer, and a cute monster drawing artist, all in one amazing woman.
Someone who does this much cool stuff is probably a snob and doesn’t have time for anyone else, right? Nope. Actually she does tutoring and youth work.
Her latest tweet was complaining about DC comics fucking up their continuity. Other tweets were about trans* rights and feminist issues.
This is pretty much the most awesome and inspiring person I’ve come across in a long time.
I guess my only question is - why aren’t there more movies about women like her?
was gonna reblog for great armor and garb ideas…. then I read about my future wife <3
My once-short list of Extreme Crushes grows.
For a long, a very long time, Muggles have been fascinated by the thought of young women trapped in towers. Brittle, fair creatures, their golden hair a stairway to some other plane, their sad eyes pleading for rescue, their thin wrists waving uselessly down at the ground: Help me! Help me, for I’m trapped! I seem to be so far above you, I seem so lovely as to be a goddess from another realm, but it’s a trick. It’s artifice. Oh, spend your blood to free me, sacrifice your eyes so that you might not be blinded by my loveliness, slay dragons and climb my golden stair and then tumble down to your muddy land for rebirth, and if you do all this I will descend, and I will be with you, and we will be together!
And perhaps, once, there really was a girl in a tower, and perhaps some Muggle, coming up and spying her in the window, asked her what he could do for her, what cruel parent had forced her there. And perhaps she looked at him with sad eyes and said he could do nothing, for she was the daughter of a witch, she was a child of magic, and so she would be forever above him.
The Muggles have written a thousand different endings to bring the girl down from the tower throughout the years, as they have spent blood to free themselves from old towers of caste and greed, as they have slain a million dragons with new inventions and new tricks; as they have tried to climb, again and again, a thousand different ideologies, stairs to the stars, only to tumble back down into mud to try all over again. As they have grown.
But the sons and daughters of witches and wizards are taught to hold themselves apart. They are trapped in dungeons, behind hidden doors, and — yes — in towers, where they learn to despise and fear Muggles, where they learn that Muggles are beneath them.
They have never heard this rescue story. They would not understand it even if they did. They peer from the clouded panes of their old houses at the filthy Mudblood (oh, what would they say if they were to learn that mud can be rebirth?), the blood-traitor climbing down to greet him, and they are afraid. They are trapped. They trap themselves.