Book of Invocations of the Demons Vercan, Maymon, Suth, Samax, Sarabotres, Mediac or Modiac & Arcan | written in Latin written on 23 leaves of vellum by an English necromancer (c. 1600) (via Pin by Fra Mon on Petunias | Pinterest)
Not only a bird-man, but a two headed bird-man. With angry knees.
When I die, can I please be reincarnated as one of these?
Great Windmill butterfly, Atrophaneura dasarada, found in Asia. In some regions, is known as the Butterfly of Death.
…[T]his archival document kept in Tresoar (Leeuwarden) is very interesting, as we actually know whose blood is on the page. The writer of this document and shedder of this blood is Frisian stadtholder Willem Frederik. While he was cleaning his pistol on the 24th of October 1664, he accidentally shot himself in the head. However serious this injury, he didn’t die from his wounds immediately. Unable to speak or eat, he scribbled down his last wishes. This is one of the notes that he left, stipulating that his “hofmeester” (magister curiae) was to stay with his wife and children. As he jotted this down, blood must have dripped from his wound onto the paper, leaving us with DNA evidence of the tragedy that had befallen him.There are a whole lot of other fascinating book bits with evidence of human interaction on them over at"CSI: Manuscript Edition" at the Medieval Fragmentsblog.
Yes. Strange things that nobody else can see!
When a librarian overhears a rather innocent question from a parent to a child, which evolves into a complete validation of his career choice (via whenalibrarian)
They staunched the wound with a stone. They drew blue venom from his blood until there was none. When his veins ran true his face remained lifeless and all the mothers of the village wept and pounded their chests until the sky had little choice but to grant their supplications. God made the boy breathe again. God breathes life into us, it is said, only once. But this case was an exception. God drew back in a giant gust and blew life into the boy and like a stranded fish, he shuddered, oceanless. It was true: the boy lived. He lived for a very long time. The toxins were an oil slick: contaminated, cleaned. But just as soon as the women kissed redness back into his cheeks the boy began to die again. He continued to die for the rest of his life. The dying took place slowly, sweetly. The dying took a very long time.
—by Dilruba Ahmed