In the six or so centuries that it’s been floating around, bouncing from scholar to scholar and occasionally disappearing for decades at a time, the Voynich manuscript (as it’s come to be called) has yet to be translated. That might be due to the fact that it’s written in a language no one’s ever seen before or since.
But it does have some grounding in the reality that we know, namely via the dozens of familiar plant species sketched throughout the pages of this manuscript. And some researchers think these botanical illustrations are integral to cracking the code that, as one expert put it, has proven “academic suicide” for so many scholars throughout the ages. Click through for the full story! —MN
Maisie Williams for French magazine Les Inrockuptibles
Found this photo on this blog : moddsblog
creepy story time:
it was night, and i was at camp. me and my friend were sneaking back to the mess hall for dinner after pranking the boys’ cabin. we crossed this little bridge over a little creek, heading to the mess hall that loomed on stilts a little ahead of us, only we weren’t really hungry for dinner. so my friend says, do you want to go back and add to the prank?
i say yes, so we turn back around and head for the bridge. only right over the bridge its pitch black. like the night just coalesced there and faded off towards the edges like a gradient, we can’t even see the other side, even though the light from the mess hall is right behind us and is bright enough to see everywhere else.
then this fear came over me like nothing i’ve ever felt before, (and i’ve had pretty severe panic attacks).
i couldn’t move. i couldn’t breathe. the darkness over the bridge loomed and loomed and it felt so evil and delighted. finally, i ran, my friend right behind me. she was shaking and i was shaking and we looked at each other and then ran to the mess hall as fast as we could.
when we headed back to our cabins for the night, the darkness was gone, and we could see the other side. there were crickets chirping.
thank you so much, dearie!
i usually don’t use psds other than very modified versions of this beautiful psd. so i’ll try to give you some (hopefully simple) photoshop tips aside from that:
1. okay, we’ve got this cute little screencap here (remember when the starks were a happy family and everybody lived *gross sobbing* …); it’s quite dark, so first we’ll need to lighten it up!
2. first i add a layer with a light beige colour (#f3efd6) set to ‘soft light’ and about 50%. the result is a bit lighter as you can see. you can play around with different light colours :) then i added a curves layer to brighten the contrast (i think i also set that one to about 50% here)
3. then i used a colour balance layer and added more pinks/reds/yellows to the picture; i duplicated that layer, the first one i set to ‘screen’ and the next is normal (both about 25%) and changed the saturation a bit
4. okay last step: add a new layer with a bit of a light colour at the top (or anywhere you think the screencap can look less dark?) and set it to ‘screen’ - very bright colours can look really good too! then i added some contrast again and sharpened the image (with a gif action actually, but it works pretty good most of the time) and then here’s the result:
the best thing you can do is to try and try and try again and never give up! also try to understand the psds you use (if you use them), so you know how the different layers work and you’ll soon be able to make your own psds!! and here you can see how these few layers and adjustements changed the whole picture:
There are many reasons why she is drawn to Rolf. The way he radiates peace, a still pool of calm in the middle of the wild storm the world makes as it goes by. The way he tilts his head just so and smiles, lopsided and with crows feet forming at the corners of his eyes. The way he simply smiles when she wears her homemade charms to ward off the nargles, does not sneer - does not even think to sneer. His pure, childlike naivete as he watches the world.
It is his love for the stories, however, which truly draw her to him. Stories the rest of the wizarding world harshly dismisses, shutting their ears and calling these storytellers animals, creatures, inhuman.
It is the stories no one else wants to tell, says her father as he bends over his printing presses, making sure the spells laying the typesets in place are working without any glitches, that we must tell.
And there are so many stories, she knows, that the wizarding world will never tell. Stories which she has spent her life listening to as she drifted through school, lonely and estranged from her fellow classmates. Stories a house elf named Dobby tells her. Stories a centaur named Firenze tells her - and later, other centaurs will learn to trust the fae-like young wand-waver who dares enter their forests, for she is unlike other wand-wavers for she listens.
There are stories that have nearly killed her - the time she nearly drowned, staying underwater without breathing charms, absorbed in the tales a friendly mermaid had to tell, for example, or the time Grawp (yes, she knew about him) nearly attacked her. Stories that she has reluctantly charmed out of recalcitrant tellers - goblins at Gringotts grumbling at this curious witch yet always eager for a chance to tell their story, fae-folk hidden away in their woods long relegated to the pages of myth and legend wondering if this dreamy young child is secretly one of their own.
These are stories they have longed to tell, longed to be heard. Stories of injustices and miseries. Stories of persecution and war and genocide. Stories which tell of the past, present and future in their own words.
She collects them all, precious gems, each with stories behind them. Stories upon stories upon stories. One day, when she and Rolf are ready, when the magical people behind these stories are ready, they will tell these stories to the wizarding world.
But it seems, Luna thinks, that the time for waiting is over; the time to tell these stories has come.
greek mythology - cassandra
noble by birth and renowned for her near-divine beauty and ready wit, her oft-bruised femininity and steady chaste virtue, coveted by lustful apollo, brought about her ruin; when portentous voices whisper to her through the wind and from beneath the ground and she translates them aloud for everyone to hear, she is ridiculed and spurned. her fall prefigures that of troy but no one listens as her distress tumbles from her eyes. she watches troy burn. she knows that she goes to her foreseen execution and yet for a snatched moment she stands in the perished ruins of her faithless city and the ghostliest of smiles rises unbidden from her lips.