reptilianmessiah asked:
neil-gaiman answered:
I’ve been telling people with questions about the text to pretend that I’m dead for a long time now.
docteryn asked:
neil-gaiman answered:
They don’t. You only think they do. Actually they are speaking to each other in the language of Angels, and we translated it for you.
Dear All,
Come join me in London http://www.londonfilmandcomiccon.com. I would so love to meet you guys and shake your hand in person. And do a lot of the above. I want to see your cosplays, fanart, whatever you have but mostly I want to thank you for all the support you have shown #goodomens.
Any #Knightfall fans out there, Altani is coming! (I won’t be bringing my swords though. Security won’t allow me. 🤷🏻♀️)
See you there, guys! 💙
Thor + some of his under-appreciated intelligence
Thor is like a jock from school who everyone thought was average at best with school. But then one day someone just “Wait a second, he’s in all advanced classes,” and everyone realises that he’s never done anything to make people think he’s not super smart- he’s just so nonchalant about his smarts people didn’t notice
The Antichrist had been on Earth for 24 hours. While in London Soho, an angel and a demon had been drinking solidly for the last 6 of them.
About this:
1) The two damned idiots keep re-drinking the same wine that’s already been in their bodies. Aziraphale that’s basically demon juice you are drinking. Please stop
2) The bottle is still half empty after because that’s how much wine got into the floor, sofa and elsewhere that’s not their mouths. Idiots
consider:
1. crowley: snake-tongue
2. aziraphale: blep
ok but zira’s flawless japanese and then awkwardly spoken french in the flashback later on has me wondering. do all angels inherently know every single language or did he teach himself? because if so, did he focus on the ones he thought would be the most useful or were there a few consecutive years in which crowley found him holed up in different libraries every day just going fucking ham on stacks upon stacks of translation dictionaries
more importantly, do angels have the ability to give themselves understanding of any language when desired, but he made the effort to learn them on his own because he wanted the knowledge to be authentic
#i like this headcanon#because i also found this slightly annoying#remembering him world-hopping with flawless language checking as required#i kind of figured he could just pull the right language out of your head#and maybe he can#but he’s actually tried to LEARN a few#he speaks British English (more or less current which is pretty amazing)#and Parisian French (so-so)#and enough Japanese to eat politely#and that’s it#crowley otoh doesn’t even speak english properly#he just yanks how he sounds out of your back brain and that’s how he sounds to you#he’s just hissing mostly#well okay#british english with mostly current slang#and hissing
He’s hissing??? headcanon accepted!
Anonymous asked:
Ahaha, thanks very much :D
It’s a bit hard NOT to reblog all the Good Omens. I’ve loved the book for a long time. The show is *chef kiss*. And the shitposts, the shitposts are finest-kind.
Isekai stories, but like, at a larger scale
A high school is teleported to Middle Earth with everyone in it, attempts to keep functioning somehow
Due to some strange corporate restructuring, a normal office building gets shunted in one of those typical fantasy universes and is required to act as a dungeon, suddenly
The city of Oakland suddenly disappears from Earth and becomes a suburb of Ankh-Morpork because… let’s say, a mage/social scientist was trying to build some kind of ultrarealistic magitek social-economic model to study and it uh, just sort of summoned the city because that was easier
The country of Switzerland is sent to Hell and has to figure out 1) why (should be obvious), 2) if and how it can survive in its new environment, and 3) what is even the correct thing to do, ethically, if you’re already in Hell
Some sort of terrible problem happened when they activated the Experimental Orbital Warp-Gate Prototype and now the Earth is the 13th inhabited satellite of the habitable-zone gas giant Omm (they’re the ones who built the gate)
Adam Young, to his horror and occasional bleak amusement, had turned out to be extremely good at politics.
When he spoke at public meetings, people came up to him afterwards to shake his hand; when he sent out press releases, people not only read them, but wrote letters to variegated editors with his name bracketed by phrases like ‘integrity’ and ‘bright future in the party.’ He was single-handedly skewing voter turnout for South East England. Labour had done some assessment polling for a run at MP, and Adam had reduced the poor analyst to tears when he told her he wasn’t interested in being anything more than Councillor, sorry. He’d had to sit there for twenty minutes, awkwardly patting her shoulder as she blew her nose on her spreadsheets and sobbed about response rates.
“It’s your hair,” Brian decided. “Makes you look like an RAF pilot in one of those old movies. People look at someone with hair like that and think, ‘Gosh, I bet he knows what he’s doing.’”
After a period of vague muddling, Brian had somehow found his way to medicine and shocked everyone who knew him by doing rather well at it. He was onto his Foundation training now, though Adam suspected that a steady diet of black coffees and biscuits swiped from the blood donor centre had driven him insane.
“I don’t know what I’m doing, though!” Adam said. “Or at least, only very rarely.”
“Well, of course we know that,” Pepper said with an indulgent smile. Pepper had gone into safeguarding, and while it had not made her insane, it had made her slightly insufferable.
“Maybe you could shave it all off,” Brian said. He was squinting at Adam’s head as though proposing a particularly risky cranial surgery. “Nobody’s bald in films.”
“Bruce Willis is bald,” Pepper said. “And Sean Connery.”
Brian rolled his eyes and sighed. “All right, fine, John McClane and James Bond are bald. But Adam’s not exactly an action hero, is he? If you’re going to bald, you have to carry a gun. Adam, do you honestly want to carry a gun?”
“I really don’t think it’s my hair,” Adam said morosely.*
Pepper would later claim that she had written Wensleydale to see if had an opinion on Adam’s hair, and received a very rambling response in which Wensleydale traced the etymological origins of ‘hair’ and opined at length about the cultural meaning of braids, without ever weighing in on the matter. However, while this definitely sounded like Wensleydale, who was holed up doing research in some archive in Seville, Adam strongly suspected it had actually been a love letter to Pepper. Mostly because she refused to show it to him, and went blushing and defensive whenever he asked.
(Pepper had expanded upon her general knowledge of violence with krav maga training and jujitsu classes and probably other arcane martial arts; none of the Them would try it, honestly.)
Despite Adam’s hair and the wild civic adoration it apparently inspired, Adam did not particularly enjoy politics. He had, after all, been offered all the kingdoms of the world and their splendor; once you’d decided against that, being MP of Milton Keynes South lost some its attraction. He probably would have given up the whole charade and gone deep-sea diving or maybe written a novel, if it weren’t for two things:
First, that the boy who had loved Lower Tadfield into a gold-green summer afternoon in the English countryside had never really gone, just grown up; and second, that Adam Young had once been sentenced to a whole summer assisting Mr. R.P. Tyler, Chairman of the Lower Tadfield’s Residents’ Association, and had accidentally fallen in love.
…not, it should be said, with Mr. Tyler.**
Still, Adam Young had spent a whole summer filing camping permits, examining rummage sale forms, deciding whether to approve Ms. Shaddlebrook’s application to build a shed down by her garden, and referencing and re-reading bylaws. He had, as a consequence and quite inexplicably, fallen in love with the complicated, esoteric game of it all. It wasn’t as though the rules were secret or sacred. You didn’t have to always follow them. But if you wanted to play (if you wanted to win) you had to care, very much, about knowing them. To shape the world the way you wanted meant knowing how it was; you couldn’t break, bend or snap what you didn’t understand. And by the end of that dry, hot, sixteen-year-old summer, even Mr. Tyler had seemed somewhat grudgingly impressed. There weren’t many teenage boys who could quote section, chapter and verse, when questioned about why their loitering outside the corner store was actually an expression of freedom of assembly under the Human Rights Act and by incorporation, the Lower Tadfield Charter. So there.
When he passed, Mr. Tyler had left Adam his annotated copy of the Residents’ Association bylaws, with an inscription: To Mr. Young, a Fiend ‘til the end.
Adam had been deeply touched.
Anyhow, what it meant was: that all these years later, MK Councillor Young was good at administration. He liked spreadsheets, comparative studies, charts, references, citations, and ultimately was very good at what he did. He hosted meetings! There were coffee and doughnuts! He talked about statistics and the lack of interest didn’t bother him, since it was hard to imagine anyone getting particularly excited about an Antichrist who enjoyed maintaining the highways register.*** It was better, that way.
Unfortunately, it also meant that by the time the news reached him, it was very likely too late. After all, who would have thought that some third-rate politico, a local councilor notable for being young-ish, left-ish, generally fine if nothing more exciting, would care about the End of Days?
* It was probably being the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness. That sort of thing generally came with the charisma built in.
** He would be horrified by the mere implication.
*** Not that roadworks were necessarily good—Adam knew what Crowley had got up to with the M25. But when people did bad things with transit construction, it generally fell into the category of ordinary, mundane evil that any human could do if they put their mind to it. Adam found this immensely comforting.
arcticflakes
