#unparch | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

carlosalbertomauricio · 2 years

Text

¿Viajará por carretera en moto este puente? 7 accesorios indispensables que debe llevar

Fuente: pulzo.com - Recomendado por Carlos Alberto Mauricio

"Antes de subirse a su vehículo y salir a explorar, es importante asegurarse de estar bien equipado y preparado. Estos son algunos de los accesorios más útiles para un viaje en dos ruedas por carretera.

¿Cómo equipar tu moto para un viaje en carretera?

Aunque el canal español Vengo Viajando compartealgunas piezas importantes para la hora de viajar en una motocicleta, aquí le presentamos otras cosas a tener en cuenta:

1. Un buen casco:es obvio que lo necesitarás para proteger tu cabeza, pero ¿sabías que hay cascos especialmente diseñados para viajar?Tienen una forma aerodinámica que reduce el ruido y la vibración; incluso, muchos tienen espacio para almacenar una gorra o guantes para que no tengas que llevarlos en la mano.

2. Guantes: no solo te protegen las manos del frío o del calor, sino que también te ayudan a mantener un agarre seguro en las riendas. Busca un par que sea cómodo, transpirable y que tenga un buen agarre.

3. Ropa de moto y botas de moto: es importante que sea cómoda y segura. Debe tener un buen ajuste, proteger tus extremidades y tener unparche reflectanteen la parte trasera para que otros conductores puedan verte.

4. Luces de moto: es bueno cuando algunos conductores le añaden pequeñas luces a su manillar o casco. Esto te permitirá estar más seguro de queeres visible para los otros vehículos que te encuentres en la vía.Además, recuerde quelas farolas delanteras y traseras deben estar limpiasy en buen estado.

5. GPS de moto: te ayudará a encontrar el caminocuando estés en una zona que desconociday te permitirá marcar rutas para que puedas volver a ellas en el futuro.

6. Alforjas: son esenciales si planeas hacer un viaje en moto. Te permitirán llevar todo lo necesario contigo, desde ropa hasta herramientas y repuestos.Asegúrate de que sean impermeables y de que se ajusten bien para evitar que se muevan o se caigan".

Conoce más sobre los accesorios necesarios para viajar en moto en el siguiente enlace...

#carrostuning #carros #cartrends #carlosalbertomauricio

1 note · View note

birchbritches · 2 years

Text

Mending Meants

meant mends don't dent the damn, cram more in,

mends meants that predecessed, pre attempt to amend or ameliorate, amends more of the same,

mends in the same darn darn did the darning and dammed with the same damns and all unparching of waters held back,

all flood doubled-up; ain't a mend could undo what was meant

- B B Pine

#poem #poetry

2 notes · View notes

dunmerofskyrim · 5 years

Text

All morning they walked by water and never saw it. The tangle of trees hid it from sight, but surrounded them in its sound. The chattering run of clear bright water.

Simra’s mouth was dry and sour from the heat. He caught himself patting the waterskin looped to his belt, checking it, then caught himself checking again, hopeless and habitual, like a superstition. Why would it have changed? Blighted thing was empty that morning. Of course it was still empty now. Still empty, and still sweat stinging at his back and in his eyebrows. Feet still hurting, but when did they not?

There was no track through all this growth. Every step was a blow struck against the forest. A process of gnawing into its bulk, its mass, chased on by the sense it was healing behind you, would mend quicker than you could travel. Trap you.

Following the Kogaru, Simra stepped where they stepped, weeds and grasses, and Llolamae traipsed behind him. They weren’t comfortable here, he realised. No more than he was. Didn’t know how to move through forest like this, all crashing feet and the cutting switch of a spear against the knit of green ahead. Their people had lived on this island since before time had a name for itself. Generations and generations, living in the icewastes of the coastlines like as not. Life and living balanced between the sea and the hotcaves. Might be this place had still been the greenest piece of the island in Kaliklu’s younger years, but Dalvur Vedith brought the forest. It was recent; newer than anything like this ought to be. Not a forest, Simra corrected himself. A garden.

The light changed. One moment, filtered yellow sun and shadows of midnight green. Now things were luminous, sallow. Fungus reached in fronds, thin-stemmed up to left and right, like fences of growing willow. They ended capless in paintbrush tips, like blossoms almost, or the tendril-mouths of something that lived too deep under the sea to be understood by anything that didn’t. No glow to them that Simra could see, but then again there was no sunlight either. A smell on the air, like wax and turned earth and the sweetness of boiled milk.

Underfoot, nettles and weeds grew high as Simra’s waist. Pale-leafed and sticky on Simra’s clothes, they spooled and hedged together like messes of twine, and he tramped through them in long high clownish strides. Not a path, too thick-grown for that, but then why did the fungus either side feel like it’d been waiting for them? Ushered them into itself. Grown round them, maybe. A tunnel, a passage, a funnel.

To one side a tree was trying to grow, crashing up through the wall of fungus. Colourless craggy bark, dried up, and all its leaves starved to bones. The weeds crowded its trunk and had clambered choking into its branches. They sagged under the weight, overburdened, but up amongst them the weeds were flowering. Each was a pair of petals, lurid yellow and palm-sized, with a long smug purple needle hanging down.

Simra felt his mouth twist and tighten. He strayed as far as the fungus fence would let him, not keen to be under the weed-choked tree. Something pinched at his vision as he passed it by. Motion. He snapped his head up, back. His hand went for his belt, then slacked.

Butterflies. Moths maybe. A swarm of them, all big as his palm, swarmed between the branches in billowing stormclouds, wheeling scattering loops. Simra felt himself frown. Their wings were bright yellow and they searched the air with flickering tongues, thistle-flower purple.

“What in the—…”

Llolamae whooped and clapped her hands. Stopped and turned in place to watch them, mouth open and jaw hanging.

“There a reason Telvanni do things like that?” Simra said, stuck between the wonderment and wrongness of it. “Or is it just for the spice of it. See if they can.”

“Might have a reason.”

“Seeing if you can’s not a reason.”

“Might be an important one, even!” said Llolamae, neck still craned, keeping track of the moths.

“A weed that – let me straight this out – kills trees to make flowers that turn into moths, and then…fuck knows where that journey ends.”

“Seeing if you can’s important sometimes. That’s what Master Vidanu says. Testing principles, intit? You start small, and it might look like nothing, might even seem like a waste. But then who’s laughing when you reapply it somewhere else and of a sudden you’ve up and cured autumnsbone or gripe!”

“With moths…”

“Maybe.” Llolamae looked down, looked full at him, squaring her hips and shoulders.

“Fuck…” Simra muttered. “Well if I was waiting on a sign we were getting close… Come on. Let’s get this done.”

The fungus ended but Simra couldn’t quite place when. Gone in the time it took not to look at it. No fungus, no breeze, and back to daylight through the still leaves overhead, littering the ground like scraps and shatters of noontime gold. The weeds had given way to a dark velvet of moss, tending slippery and slow downhill.

Simra looked up from watching his feet, not wanting to stumble. A bright gap showed ahead in the closure of ferns and trees. The Kogaru disappeared through as Simra watched. He forgot the footing, his care of it, and hurried after them, muttering again, “Come on.”

With one hand he parted the greenery, opening the gap to fit through. Stiff hairy stems, one broken and bleeding what looked like bile. Delicate fronds, complex and intricate. Tiny leaves fitting together like tiles in a mosaic, like teeth in a clenched mouth. His other hand itched anxious at his belt, hovering between the hilt of his sword and handle of his knives.

“Come on…” Didn’t know if the words were meant to speed Llolamae behind him or steel himself for what was ahead. It was this place. Turning him round, putting a fear up him at seeing – what? – a stand of ferns. Then, sky, stark and open. A cut through the woodland, ten strides broad.

A deep narrow ribbon of water cut across the way and the Kogaru haunched down beside it, drinking from their cupped hands. Only the hunter stood back, leaning on his spear and glaring as Simra came through the ferns. Without looking down, the hunter lowered a hand to the bundle slung across his shoulders and brought out a flattened leather bottle, throwing it beside the youngest Kogaru who set to filling it.

Simra eyed the water. Crouched down beside it and sniffed, careful of it. Moss, moths, fungus that found you in the wilderness and fanfared your way with steepled stems — hadn’t yet found a thing in this basin he trusted. Just because he liked the look of this water didn’t mean he’d start trusting it too. How long had they walked beside it while it hid from them?

He wet his cracked lips. Unhitched his own waterskin, crushed the air out, and submerged it, giving it the side of his gaze as it filled. The water was so clear, seemed almost so still and steady in its running, that he scarce knew his hand was under it except by the chill of it. Deep and sharp, flooding up his wrist and into the bones of his arm. He was already longing for it. Thinking how it would ache in his teeth and unparch his throat. Freezing, high-mountain cold.

Wincing, Simra stood up and and passed the skin into his other hand, fluttering the wet one like that might fidget some feeling back into its fingers. Llolamae lurked by him and he passed her the uncapped skin. “Hold this a moment.”

Straight away she made to drink.

“Tscht! Hold on!”

She hesitated, mouth still open and skin raised almost up to it.

“I said hold it.” Simra cocked his eyebrows and jerked his head at the Kogaru, watching a moment. They were drinking free and open now, and weren’t dead yet, but all the same, all the same... He shuffled his old leather satchel round to his front. Picked through, staring into it, and came up with a length of plaited twine round his fingers, the coin-slight weight of a bronze medallion dangling from its length. It was wide across as a fingerjoint and tarnished green-blue by water — centuries of patina, he might’ve thought, if he hadn’t watched the streetmage etch her enchantment into it himself less than three years ago.

“What’s that do?” Llolamae asked.

“Makes water safe to drink,” he said, taking back the skin. Safe, unless someone put poison in it by design.

“By magic?”

He nodded. “Small thing, but it’s saved my life more times than any other blade or bit of magic I’ve ever owned.” Anycase, he liked to think it had. He’d never really know, not while it did its job, but since half the camp at Gelan-Telai went down with a blood-tinged flux, Simra reckoned one never could be too careful.

The medallion went into the neck of the skin and came out wet. No more tarnished though. Simra liked to think that meant something. He drank a measured draught. One clean, cold sip, then a long glug, cheeks filling, throat filling, then stomach cold and glad with it. “Ghosts…” he gasped. “Good.” He swilled out the sour corners inside his mouth, washing away the taste of thirst, and turned his back to Llolamae. Spat.

She took a quick gulp when he passed it to her then drained it dry.

Taking it back, Simra crouched to fill it again. Thoughtless, he found himself thinking, and something he thought stuck like a fishbone in the throat of his mind. Might be nothing. Maybe so, but it still itched. Looking down at the cut of the stream through the forest, it had no banks. No silt, no pebbles or gravel. Just the clean cleave of it, a deep brief trench through the moss and the pale solid stone beneath it. Like a gutter, sliced neat. Like something brand new.

Chewing the inside of his cheek, he dipped the medallion again and made himself look away from the water. Its stone bed, its strange slow run. There’d be no standing up for falling down if he let himself get tripped up on every scrap of strangeness in this place. Best just to carry on. Get this done. He’d been away long enough already.

#TES #Morrowind #Dunmer #Simra Hishkari #SH Forth and Back #SH New Canon

5 notes · View notes

tatteredwords · 6 years

Text

carved and shaped

Corrupting gestures that sway one's resistence, written spells, spewed cursive motions on his back. Delightful blood pouring to the very conjoined space of flesh and nails, they were. Her truth on her motions, her devotion unwavered. His back, beautifully decored, a red deep, a wound deeper and an unparched hoarse whisper comes afloat with the droplets that pool at the surface.

She grins victorious. He is made hers for the evening, her touch is delighted with the texture of harsh sandpaper cuts, the bumps of life and scars and the softness of the reddened, sensitive skin. Her hands have taken over, empowered, with mild red to them, fervent and thirsty for the bloodshed in the name of lust. Tiny villages, paths and ways made crimson rivers, havoc and war by the hands of a dethroned sinner, siren of tiny gentle lungs and wingless back.

Her nails reap the path in her wake like a scythe of passion and deviancy, and she knows a prayer is drawn within every shape and shiver.

She moves taunting and gentle at first, softly, the nails brush past his bare back of so many things, they worship the wholeness, the touched and untouched of it all. Every bit of it is sacred ground that shall be blessed and ointed with a prayer, the place she calls home, where the strength to hold her brews after her torture imbued sanctity is over. He manages to wrap her tight in the arms she persecutes simply out of sheer pleasure, and she goes on with her wicked love, harder by the second.

She claws away a grunt from his lips, life was born from his voice straight to her ears. And she must go and slash at him again, ungrateful pleasures of hers that wound her home like a fog of smothering clouds, asphyxiating and slow.

He is carved and shaped to only her whim. Underneath her touch, unwavered, with parting sounds, strings of voice that pave her way to him. She wounds and gives so much, with such audacity, strength and self. She breaks, digs beneath the surface of his but she gives what his voice sings to her ears.

The love and the pain go hand in hand.

Hands on his back.

Once it is all over, her hands are numb, fullfilled and rested, unwavered lusting claws set to sleep with a cushion called home. Of flesh, reddened, with drawings, lines, notes of raw feelings and emotions.

Call them clawed, the shoulder blades, the arms, the back, the entirety.

Hands on his chest.

3 notes · View notes

theworstjedi · 6 years

Text

The Kyber Lining

The funny thing about confronting the Force in a cave was that the aftermath was disconcertingly calm when one walked out of the Nexus. Friyr had always wondered what would happen if he let the Force pour in to the brink of surreality again, to feel that painfully close to something both greater than the sum of the galaxy and pitched to a feverish omniscience. The answer seemed to be nothing more than an experience that had left him when he had left the cave.

Though of course, She hadn’t. She was here in the lake, lapping at shore, and at the same time the creature shuffling through the sand. Friyr pulled off his boots and dug his toes in. It was the time of day when the coarse warmth was pleasant instead of scorching. It was solid, real, and he needed that more than he needed anything else.

NM was nowhere to be found; the return of the small party had likely interrupted the boredom shutdown he’d been trying to sneak all afternoon, which left Friyr to navigate the beach alone. It was cursory at this point in his life to just grab a practice blade, branch, discarded metal, whatever was near and probe the with the tip as he walked.

There was a light in the distance, and people. Tired muscles carried him there, following the suggestion in the grounded advice of the sand to seek warmth in the only unparched place in this heatstroke of a desert. The voices told Friyr that they belonged to Dontorii and the mirialan master. As’traa.

“Kayin got a meal, and now he’s resting,” she was saying. The statement was punctuated by a sigh. “That was… taxing to say the least.”

The least. Yes, that would’ve been the least. Friyr half wanted to discard the voices into the general ambiance of the oasis and let the Force take him through the repetitive motions of running his tongue over the pulpy edges of false memories imbued by the cave. But Friyr had never been one to nurse bruises, especially his own. He twisted his head toward the pair standing off the side; their silhouettes licked by the glow of fire in the night.

“You seem to be doing okay Friyr,” Dontorii said at the same time Friyr unstuck his throat enough to say, “How’s he?”

Their words ran together, but Friyr’s brain was working quickly, far too quickly. It grasped Dia’s statement and had formulated a tree of answers, all of which were deflective.

“Throat’s killing me, yah. Wha’bout you guys?” he settled on. His already thick Core accent somehow reaching the consistency of disingenuous molasses.

“He’s exhausted,” As’traa responded first. Her tone sounding like the verbal equivalent of an eyeroll. “I’ve no idea how long he was in that desert with only Rejjaet to care for him. “As for me…” The irritation left her tone. Everything left her tone including her voice – which was lost somewhere in the waves. Friyr understood the feeling more than he sometimes cared to.

“I’ll be fine,” Dontorii said in As’traa’s silence. Always diplomatic. Always level-headed, but the twist of the Force around him suggested the answer was more apprehensive than truthful. “Since that cave was such a… trial for all of us. I think it was the equivalent of the crystal caves on Illum. Master Tabris, do you think Friyr and Ylri deserve their lightsaber crystals?”

Brought back to the conversation by her name, the normally firm direct master hummed absently. “Oh, yes. If their visions were anything like mine, they more than earned them.”

Dontorii had steered the conversation in directions faster than Friyr had anticipated, which sent his overdriven mind reeling. It was a skill of the older Jedi and one that Friyr recognized as the a hallmark of an experienced leader type. Not always the easiest people to navigate, but with a little investment and time, it was easy to leverage.

“You don’t gotta give us story time,” Friyr cleared some husk from his throat, then plastered a polite smile on his face. “But nah, I didn’t do anything. I can wait ‘til Illum. Really.”

“It may not be traditional, but the Force works in mysterious ways. There is little point in sending you to Illum after what happened in that cave.” Friyr heard the crunch of the sand and the vague shape of Dontorii sharpened as he closed the small gap between them. “Stand up padawan.”

Friyr’s eyebrows popped. “Wait—wha—I—" The surprise on his face looked a little wild against the shell-shock. Friyr stood, beating sand from the soft leather of his pants.

Dontorii pulled something from the inside of his plain brown robes, and although Friyr couldn’t see it, he could feel it. Smooth and empty but the only ultimate purity in the galaxy and perhaps the next dimension over, if Kayin was to be believed. “This is the Kyber crystal; the heart of the blade;”

Friyr knew relatively little about the gathering, besides what Dontorii had told them. He had listened but the topic interested him little; the glamor of a lightsaber wore after the first wide eyed trial of endurance he’d come back half dead and all sorts of bloody from eleven years ago. The Jedi ritual of building a lightsaber presenting a different challenge than wresting it from the hands of your dead and yet undead betters, but the ends were ultimately the same. A weapon.

“The heart is the crystal of the Jedi;”

And a fragment of soul. Living Force. The Jedi is the crystal of the Force. Friyr had fought for the right to such a privileged weapon - something that many would and did kill for. The Force is the blade of the heart. His mark as a Force User. All are intertwined. To be handed the very heart of a blade he hadn’t held in quite some time and would one day hold again forged by his own hand, felt too easy. The crystal, the blade, the Jedi. His time with the Jedi had emphasized an unforgivable forgiveness the Sith dogmatically purged from their apprentices, lest weakness be their undoing. We are one.

As Friyr thumbed over a smooth facet of Kyber handed to him, unable to deny that the Jedi built themselves from the weakest emotion that a Sith could perhaps offer and found enough fortitude not to give. If he’d seen an example of tenacity, it was what they had all endured in that Force haunted cave gaping, like a wound, from Ambria’s bedrock.

“Here is your homework: I want you to figure out what those words mean. When you do, go to your crystal and meditate on it. You’ll know the true meaning of that poem once the crystal gains a color. Then come back to me for the next step.”

Friyr swallowed the urge to say What’s a color? And instead, the strangest smile on his face and the feeling that he might understand an inkling of the words already, threw his arms around Dontorii and all his composure – who chuckled but took it well in stride. The hug was the most honest expression Friyr knew of.

“Thank you. I mean that. More than anything I’ve said tonight,” Friyr paused, “Or the last two days.”

#IC #Friyr Illustratum #Dialantis Dontorii #As'traa Tabris

1 note · View note