Norton's tarot card merch and some facts abt the card
The hanged man is the card that suggests ultimate surrender, sacrifice or being suspended in time.
Sacrifice? Like the miners norton sacrificed in golden cave to find gold? (Ok maybe that wasn't really meant to be a Sacrifice but shhhh)
In astrology, the card is associated with the planet neptune and the pisces zodiac sign.
It can symbolize altruism, self denial, a certain disinterest in worldly things.
There's also different meanings depending on if the card is upright or reversed. Norton is upright in the merch so I'll be putting some meanings of that.
Wisdom, circumspection, discernment, trials, intuition, divination, prophecy.
Circumspection means the quality of being wary and unwilling to take risks by the way. (YK IM TELLING U INCASE U DIDNT KNOW CUZ I CERTAINLY DIDNT)
Info taken from literally a google search so maybe don't take it so seriously I mean it's just merch
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Have you or the mun tried the different Violent Struggle modes? (ex. Duos, Tarot, etc.)
"I have though I am not allowed for BlackJack but i do play the actual card game with everyone. Tarot makes me nervous and while dodge ball is fun I do tend to get very sore with getting targeted a lot. It's nice to have some other fun things to do."
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(Was thinking about the tarot card assignments someone made and I just think Justice suits William so well -definitely not biased- so I had to draw a Hermes inspired design for Will. Hopefully coloring this laterr)
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The Lovers for the tarot ask meme
((Ohohoho 👀
“O-oh! uhm...” The Forensic Doctor said quite surprised before thinking and responding "...W-Well....the person must of course understand me and my feelings quite well that is what I want....but...". She thought for a bit before letting out a sigh, "I want someone who is quiet like me, other than that the person...should always stay by my side... T-they should p-protect me too...I-I shall do the same..." Louise spoke out shyly.
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the sun for the tarot cards !!
[The Sun- Describe a childhood memory]
It was cold, I think. Cold and bright, but in the way frost is bright, in the way white is blinding.
My fingers hadn't turned purple yet, but they were close: red, angry, sore. Each knuckle ached as I looped and relooped that twine, around the bundle of straw and stick I'd pulled from that old mattress. It was no warmer on the mattress than on the floor.
I was perched up, against it. Mama was tending the woodstove, if I recall right. Woodstove, stirring away at the pot atop it. If I had seen her now, detached from who she was, who I was.. If I were a stranger, peering through that old, frosted glass, I wonder if I would've believed those rumors, too.
They called her and her mother witches. We were riding the tide of that loss, then; my eyes still singed and puffed, from standing too close to the stake, and from sobbing over the way they simply let her body fall further into the flames.
But, now, my mother was making güveç, with the little hen we'd raised together.
I laid there, ear to hay mattress, pretending my head was in the lap of the deceased, that she'd sweep my hair behind my ears and out of my eyes, sing me a lovely little lullaby.
Or maybe she'd tell me a story, one I liked to hear. Maybe she'd retell me a folktale from where she helmed, or maybe she'd make one up, and deem the little straw doll the prince, the Duke, the knight that bested the evil at the end.
Maybe she'd show me again how to thread a needle, and we'd spend the time until dinner was made stitching until I got it right; and when my fingers would bleed from the needle poking through, I'd copy her and taper the blood with my tongue.
And maybe, maybe we would have just sat in silence, as she combed through my hair. And when the ends got thick and knotted, she'd suck a deep breath and plant a kiss on my head, to prepare me for the brush to hurt, to prepare me for my scalp to ache.
But she wasn't here, not anymore. And the strawdoll was flawed, and naked. And my hair was messy, and ratted. And dinner didn't taste quite right, salted with my mother's tears, missing the caring hands that used to butcher our hens, missing the caring hands that would join mine for evening grace.
My mother sat the haydoll on the stoop of the fireplace, and lit the great pile of wood, and we huddled around it.
We didn't say grace before, nor after. And when I prayed, she didn't.
When I laid to rest, that night, my mother waited until I was breathing shallow, and then brushed my hair out, pressing that little kiss to my head when she got to the ends.
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