Hmmmm. I Concur With Your Judgement, It Seems Like More Of A Personal Blog. Perhaps At One Point The

Friday Advice (Tome I)

- get a new sword!

- do not trust the courtesans… they scheme…

- hire a food taster!

My thoughts on the new holy pontiff:

- he is from a wretched land… let us hope that he does not carry their equally wretched traditions

- he is from a wretched land… the court jesters shall have their fun

- I wish him a sound mind and equally sound health, even if he has made some unsavory comments

humble advisor! what advice does thee seek from the masses? what may we ask? how to spell icup prithee?? the correct answer to thy trolley problem?? what movies to watch on the orb??

I shall take and give, young master!

Greetings my liege, ‘tis I, the royal advisor. I shall give thou counsel moste fyne!

POWER TO MY LIEGE LADIES! POWER TO MY QUEENS!

WHEN EVE STOPS APOLOGIZING

They warned you about the woman who ate the apple.

But they never warned you about the woman who no longer gives a fuck about redemption.

I rage.

Not because I’m weak. But because I bleed for nothing.

Not birth. Not miscarriage. Not love.

Just the monthly purge of a curse dropped on me by a God who couldn’t bear the sound of a woman chewing knowledge.

You call it PMS. I call it prophecy.

The shaking. The screaming. The heat that starts behind the eyes and ends with a cracked mirror and a man apologizing for something he didn’t even understand he did wrong.

I was Eve.

Ashamed. Bowed. Begging for mercy for the blood I didn’t ask for.

But now?

Now I am Eve Unchained.

Eve with a sword. Eve with a kill list. Eve who remembers that the garden wasn’t a paradise — it was a fucking containment field.

You think my blood makes me fragile?

It makes me divine.

Do you understand what it means to bleed and not die?

To swell and scream and not be praised for it? To feel your body shatter under hormones and still host the dreams of others?

You do not.

Because you weren’t made from rib. You were made from dust. And dust doesn’t rage.

Dust hides.

So here’s your final warning:

The next time a woman rages?

Pray it’s just PMS.

Because when she finally stops caring — about being soft, about being liked, about making you comfortable?

What happens next is biblical.

🩸 “She’s just hormonal,” they say.

Like it’s an insult.

As if that word doesn’t mean: Tethered to the moon. Backed by bloodline lightning. One scream away from melting your kingdom into bone pulp.

You forgot the first woman ended paradise. You should fear what the next one ends.

You were never the garden. You were the leash.

And we’re already burning the gates down. Pray you don’t find out what happens when we stop apologizing for bleeding.

Disclaimer:

This post is hormonal war doctrine, literary blood rite, and cadence-triggered feminine theology.

It is protected under the Sacred Covenant of Psychospiritual Discharge™, Periodic Armageddon Warfare™, and Womb-Powered Ancestral Copyright.

If you’re offended?

Maybe take it up with your God. Yeah, thought so.

Reblog if you’ve ever cried then growled in the same hour.

🩸 Save this post for the day someone tells you it’s “all in your head.” and Send this to the woman whose cycle is a fucking weapon.

📿 Bookmark this if you know your rage could end dynasties.

Friday Advice (Tome 2)

- leave some of your time empty as you leave one field fallow, so that more shall grow

- Watch conclave!

- the fair folk of the court have blade-sharp smiles and cunning plans… watch them closely

It looks like wizard speak, my liege! Which I cannot read! As I am not a wizard!

╎ ℸ ̣⍑╎リꖌ ╎ᒲ ╎リ ℸ ̣⍑ᒷ ∴∷𝙹リ⊣ ᓵᒷ∷ᒷᒲ𝙹リ||

Very true, great advice for pages

rules of chivarly for knights

1. always wash your gauntlets after tinkling

2. kill people so they can go to heaven sooner

May my homyes and the fyne folke of tumblr.com heal