Watch Me Start Another Fic That I Will Never Write Enough Of To Post

watch me start another fic that i will never write enough of to post

“Look!” cries Lasaraleen, the turquoise veil shading her head from the sun slipping down her shiny black hair. “Isn’t that the Tarkaan Anradin returned from the south, Aravis?”

Aravis squints though the dust clouds sent up by each strike of the warhorse’s massive hoofs, blinking in the the sunlight reflected off her eyelashes.

“Don’t stare,” she rebukes Lasaraleen. “Anradin may decide to scoop you up and make you his wife.”

“Not without my father’s permission,” says Lasaraleen, her laugh fast and twinkling, like the giggling of stars on a cloudless night. “Besides, you would notch an arrow and shoot Anradin straight through the heart sooner than he could bear me away to his palace.”

Slaves are unloading carts outside of Anradin’s palace, leading horses to the stables, and sweeping sand settling in his gardens.

Lasaraleen laughs again. “Where did he find that barbarian so far south?”

Aravis stares at the golden-headed slave boy. His skin is pale under his nut-brown tan, like the accursed barbarians of the north, and his eyes are grey as the mountains in her books in the airy library.

What is not said by men is whispered sweetly

By the wind which caresses the distant mountains

And makes them sing.

She has every character memorized, each a shining inky shape draw with her Khamish pen, a new reed prepared by her father’s servants each moon.

The most beautiful slaves tend to last the least, but he doesn’t know it, by the unhurried way he’s lifting crates into carts, his sinewy muscles working under his rag of a shirt. Whatever dirty hole Anradin Tarkaan found him in, he’s better off there.

For her, always

real footage of working in an ML lab

me: the neural network is overfitting

professor: well it was working before

me: it's because half the data is missing from the folder i was given

professor: oh. lol. here's the other folder

professor: can you reorganise these spreadsheets we get from the neurologist every year but never organise after seeing how much of a pain it is to load into the model

me: sure

me, a few days later: i reorganised the spreadsheet but one of the neurological scores is completely missing

professor: oh

professor: well, here's another spreadsheet

me:

me:

me: ok.

i love tragedy i love circular narratives i love ppl who cannot escape their fate & characters that have been dead since the beginning

more harry potter art!! i am so deep into this hyperfixation help