#wood stein puzzle | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

storytelller-fanfics-english · 6 years

Text

Chapter 3: Pain

Notes:

I write in Russian and use a translator. If you find any errors, please let me know about it.

All the names are made up

___

Barry Allen's adoptive father and part-time detective in the Central City Police Department, Joseph West, his daughter Iris, her fiance, and Joe's partner, Edward Thawne, arrived at S.T.A.R. Labs, since Barry called Joe, Thawne asked for him, and Joe's daughter "she just didn't call me right on time, so I had to pick her up," as Eddie put it.

While they were standing in the laboratory discussing Snarts, not very quietly, though, although there was a Golden Glider next to them, about twenty minutes had passed since Barry ran off to look for Leonard's soulmate.

"I have to leave, urgently," Mrs. Raymond burst into the room. She frantically began stuffing the necessary things into her bag, and then hurried to the exit.

"And you will leave him in this state?" Lisa asked Caitlin, looking towards the room where her brother was lying.

"I'm not leaving him, I need to consult with Ronnie and I don't want him to go or fly here through the whole city," the girl quickly explained.

"And why with him?" The younger Snart asked curiously and turned her gaze to Killer Frost.

"We had a similar situation," Snow calmly shrugged her shoulders, taking her outerwear from the hanger.

While Lisa and everyone else stared after her, puzzled, Mrs. Raymond left.

***

"Cait!"

The girl turned to the voice and involuntarily smiled, noticing at the end of the alley the rapidly approaching silhouette of her husband.

He approached her, kissed her gently on the lips, and then asked:

"What happened?"

"We need to find soulmate Snart, but this is too problematic due to the fact that he is... uh... lying and delirious," waving her arms, rammed Snow-Raymond.

"Hush, honey, hush," trying to calm his wife, Ronald spoke in a low voice, noticing how people were squinting at them, "let's go to a cafe now and discuss everything calmly there, and then, if you want, we'll go to S.T.A.R. Labs together," suggested a man.

The girl thought only for a couple of seconds, and then nodded vigorously.

***

"So," massaging his temples with his fingers, Ronnie exhaled wearily when his beloved explained the situation to him, "Barry didn't find him?" the guy and the girl had already run out of coffee, so they could calmly talk about what Killer Frost wanted to discuss.

"No," Caitlin shook her head, "and how, because Snart himself is needed for this."

"Good," the man muttered thoughtfully, and, glancing sideways at the surprised Cait, corrected himself, "or rather, bad, bad."

They were just silent for about five minutes, thinking, and then the man got up from his seat.

"Then why are we still sitting? Let's go, Cait," he smiled and held out his hand to his wife. She, leaning on her, got up from the chair in which she was sitting and, having paid, the couple headed for the exit of the cafe.

***

"...but you shouldn't be there right now!" Cisco's loud voice could be heard even in the hallway.

"And where?" Mrs. Raymond asked curiously as she entered the laboratory.

"Caitlin!" Ramon jumped up on the spot in surprise, "Ronnie!" The guy exclaimed when he saw his friend.

"Yes, I'm here, hello, Cisco," Firestorm grinned.

"I called Professor Stein," the black-haired man addressed his colleagues.

"Who has already arrived," Martin's voice came from the door. He entered the laboratory with Clarissa and looked at everyone gathered with a curious look.

"Is Caitlin and Ronnie there?" Barry's voice suddenly sounded from the speaker.

"Yes!" Cisco and Caitlin shouted in unison.

"And Professor Stein with his wife," looking at the married couple, Ronald said into the microphone.

"Wonderful", the hero in the red suit sighed, calculating how many people were in S.T.A.R. Labs right now, "so where should I run?"

"It seems that their headquarters is located at eleven Main Street, floor nine, apartment one hundred and fifteen, it is registered to Brian Wood.

"Got it", Flash replied and sped up.

Cisco turned to his friends.

"I found the gang that Parker Fox was in, and it seems they are all meta-human there," he explained.

"Show me," Caitlin sat down next to her friend.

"Here," Ramon brought up a dossier on each of the criminals on the computer screen, "Fox's accomplices are named Brian Wood, Jeb Gold, David Green and Michael King. It seems they were all in the same place when the particle accelerator exploded."

"So you think they might have the same powers?" after a moment's hesitation, Bartholomew clarified.

"It's unlikely, but still be careful, please," Snow asked him.

"I will," Flash answered briefly and disconnected.

"So, why didn't Barry ask about how many criminals there were before he ran to save the city from them?" raising an eyebrow and looking at Ramon, Cait folded her arms on her chest.

"Barry ran away so fast that..." Cisco waved his hand vaguely, – in general, I didn't have time to tell him…

"Well, yes, he's a hero, this is his job", Lisa, who was sitting on a chair next to the entrance to the room, smiled mirthlessly.

Caitlin turned to her.

"He sincerely wants to help everyone, Lisa, it does not depend on whether he is a hero or not," Snow—Raymond explained with a heavy sigh, slightly shaking her head from side to side.

***

Four criminals were in an apartment that previously belonged to Brian Wood's mother, and now was registered to Brian himself, and were making plans to rescue their friend Parker from a Central City police station cell created specifically for meta-people, since they said on the news that he was there. Although Michael doubted the veracity of the journalist's words, Brian, who was in charge of their company, decided to take a chance and make sure of it clearly. What if Fox is really there, and they just don't dare to get him out?

"And if he's not there after all? What if this is a media "duck" in order to lure us out?" King said excitedly, "what if we get carried away, but in fact he is not there and never was?"

The faces of his friends instantly darkened. Although they thought about such an outcome, they still hoped that they would be able to find Parker alive and at least relatively unharmed, and then pay off the tormentors of a comrade for the pain that he is probably being inflicted now. Michael's assumption gave them reason to doubt that the plan would be executed.

"Then we need to prepare well, and we can go straight to the police station to find out where Parker is now, anyway, the police should have at least some notes about this case, and judging by the news, the policeman who detained him works there," grinned Wood, getting up from his chair, "we're meta, which means we can fight back against the night guards," he finished stretching his whole body.

"But what about Flash?" Jeb asked him in bewilderment, "we didn't hide so much just to get caught like that.

"Flash is the same human as us," the head of the group drawled mockingly," he also has his weaknesses, you just need to find out which ones and that's it. So are you with me?"

The answer to him was a discordant chorus of voices that dragged only one word:

"Yes!!!"

***

Somehow, imperceptibly, night fell on the city, covering everything around with its pitch darkness. The lanterns that illuminated the area went out, and most people had been in their cozy homes and apartments for a long time and were going about their business. Of course, not all residents of the city were not on the street at that time, some were standing in traffic on the road, someone was just coming from friends, and someone, on the contrary, was heading to work.

Four friends purposefully moved to the Central City Police Department to finally find out where their partner was staying now.

"Does everyone remember the plan?" Brian finally clarified, loading his gun.

"Of course," David snorted, looking around at the others, "we're not morons."

The men nodded and also reloaded the weapons they had, not only the leader had a gun, all the gang members took them, because, although they were meta-people, they preferred to use their forces only at the most dangerous or decisive moment.

"Then let's get to work," Wood nodded his head.

§§§

"They are not here, Cisco!" Barry exclaimed in despair, looking around the apartment, "where else can they be?"

Suddenly, a red dot lit up on the map of the city, which meant that an alarm had gone off somewhere.

"I think they are in the police department building," Ramon replied to his friend, looking at the screen, "it seems that we have been figuring out their location for too long."

"I'm already running," Flash replied.

§§§

"We just need to find these damn notes," Brian muttered to himself, and then turned to David, since only he could help from their company, because he was a great hacker, "can you hack his computer?"

"I think so," he nodded and headed to the table.

"Not so fast," Barry said, appearing behind the criminals.

"Flash..." grinned Wood.

Three people immediately broke away from the search and prepared to attack the Lightning to give their partner time to hack the police officer's computer.

"Did you decide that you could stop us?" The gang leader grinned.

Allen didn't understand what he meant at first, but he instantly realized as soon as he threw a cooler of water in his direction, in which for some reason it wasn't there.

Then Barry realized that Jeb Gold controlled the water because it obeyed the wave of his hand and he could probably use it as much as he wanted, David Green, who was dealing with Joe's computer at that moment, did not feel pain, Brian Wood could make a person sleep with a touch, and Michael King turned out to be a telekinetic: he was with easily moved objects with the power of thought.

Flash focused on finding the weaknesses of his opponents.

After a few minutes, it turned out that Jeb would not be able to use water if it evaporated, because he could not turn steam back into water, David did not feel his pain, but he felt the pain of his friends, which became clear due to the fact that King accidentally touched Wood with a heavy statuette that was on the shelf, Brian needed there was tactile contact with his potential victim, and Michael's ability affected only objects, but not living beings.

Barry used their weaknesses against them. First of all, he neutralized Michael by making sure that there were no objects that could be moved in the man's field of view and he had to go to another office or at least go out into the corridor, somehow bypassing the Flash, then he caused Brian harm, not very big, true, but sufficient for in order to make David bend over in pain and lose his bearings for a while, so the criminal could not finish hacking the computer, and at the same time began to fight with Wood, who could not put him to sleep, since the hero of the city was in a suit, right, the criminal tried to grab him by the face, but Flash deftly dodged unwanted touches, and eventually managed to twist his hands behind his back, and only then began to Jeb, shutting off all the water in this and the nearest offices for a few minutes, as well as taking out all the coolers.

After defeating the enemies, the guy in scarlet transported the criminals to S.T.A.R. Labs, put them straight into the particle accelerator, or rather, into the cells for meta-people and, without looking at his team and those people who were with her now, ran back to the station to bring everything in order there the order, for example, to return the coolers to their rightful place and open the water, and then ran out into the street.

***

"Everything went well, so I'm starting to search again," Flash said with satisfaction in his voice.

His friends simultaneously exhaled with relief.

"Did you connect a medical device to this computer?" Cait suddenly asked Cisco.

"Yes," he drawled and displayed the data of Snart's health status on the screen. Frost nodded and almost calmed down, but a feeling of some vague anxiety settled in her soul.

Suddenly, some wheezing was heard from the room where Leonard was lying. Caitlin exchanged glances with Ramon and they, without a word, jumped up and rushed to Captain Cold.

The girl quickly checked his indicators, his heartbeat and pulse increased, as it seemed to the man that he did not have enough air. Or maybe it seemed to him that someone was deliberately blocking the access of oxygen to his lungs?

"Did your father ever strangle him?" Caitlin asked quickly.

Lisa thought for only a couple of seconds, and then quickly and convulsively nodded, almost not breathing.

"This is bad," Snow muttered, "this is very, very bad…"

"He will survive, right?" The younger Snart's lips trembled.

"Yes, if Barry finds his soulmate," Raymond nodded, frowning.

The criminal's face turned white.

"And if not?.." she asked in a barely audible voice, "if he suddenly doesn't turn up, then what will happen to Lenny?" The girl looked at her brother with fear.

"If not..." Cait took a deep breath and looked at Lisa with a sympathetic look, "if Barry fails to find his soul mate, then I'm afraid Leonard is in danger of an early death from lack of air…"

#the flash #leonard snart #captain cold #bartholomew allen #barry allen #flash #lisa snart #coldflash #leonard snart fanfic

2 notes · View notes

puztopics · 5 days

Text

source: Puzzle Master https://www.puzzlemaster.ca/browse/wood/european/18558-quadrat-5-steine

0 notes

ebottcatacombs · 4 years

Text

Paranormaltale Skelebros

Okay! After hours of brainstorming, frustration, and rewriting, I’m finally done with my Paranormaltale skelebros! Some things have changed since I started the artwork for this project, so UT and SF Sans’ portraits aren’t accurate references for this AU.

These boys all live in or around the same spooky, historical town near the woods btw. I’m working on some reader insert one-shots for them. They are also officially on the list of characters you can request!

---

Paranormaltale Sans – Known as Celo (pronounced like cello, the instrument.) They say he always sees you, but you can never see him. Sometimes mistaken for the hide-behind. He is the feeling of being watched, the shifting eyes of an old painting, the sense you’re being judged. Some say if you stare at the stars too long they’ll morph into his glowing eyes. He is the leader of the town cryptids.

Paranormaltale Papyrus –Known as Puck. He’s a trickster and an illusionist. It’s easy to find yourself in one of his mazes, but difficult to find your way out of one. Puck loves riddles, puzzles, and mimicking voices to confuse people. He’s not malicious, he just wants playmates. He’s also incredibly clever and can warp reality to an extent just through people’s belief. For example, if he convinces you a doorway is in front of you then, bam! There it is.

Paranormalfell Sans –Known as Mercury. Sometimes he’s mistaken for a gremlin since his presence tends to cause machines to malfunction. However, he can also summon storms, headaches, and that sudden intense urge to punch someone in the face for no reason. He’s a spirit of misfortune. If the metal-filled cracks on his body are anything to go by, he’s experienced a fair share of misfortune himself. Oddly enough, he’s rumored to bring good luck on occasion, but only to those deserving.

Paranormalfell Papyrus –Known as Stein. He’s the gargoyle that guards the library. People swear he changes position. People also swear he’s the cause of all the mysterious history books that aren’t in the library’s system and have no indication to who the author is. Not much is known about him other than those speculations. He has short horns and a tail, as well as wings made of magic membrane. The sun temporarily turns him to stone. He can learn the history of a place/person/object through touch.

Paranormalswap Sans –Known as Wisp. Wisp is… Well, he’s a mothman. Mothskeleton. He has reflective eyelights, smooth glowing membrane wings, and soft antenna. He has been mistaken many times for a UFO or alien. He’s a guide. He can see possible futures and give advice based off his visions, or he can be a physical guide and lead you back on path. He is kind, but very few meet him. He is also deceptively strong and a fast flyer, so don’t be fooled by his adorable appearance.

Paranormalswap Papyrus –Known as Piper. Also a moth, but he often has his wings tucked against his back. He can put people to sleep and give them dreams. He can also cause sleepwalking. People misunderstand who he is often. They call him the Pied Piper, the Bogeyman, the Sandman. Honestly, he just wants to protect the children around his town. If that means spiriting a few kids away to a safer place or plaguing a shitty parent with nightmares then hey, it be like that sometimes.

Paranormalswapfell Sans –Known as Reaper. He chose the nickname for himself. Like the grim reaper, he doesn’t actually choose when someone dies. His job is to make sure dead souls 1) understand that they are dead and 2) make it to the river to the afterlife. Once he gets them to the river Mystery Man helps them onto his boat and takes it from there. Reaper also punishes those who try to cheat death.

Paranormalswapfell Papyrus –Known as Hound. Reaper insisted he go by Hellhound, but that’s not the kind of vibe he wants to give off. Hound usually takes the form of a large dog, and in his skeleton form his jacket has fluffy ears and a tail. He can move through shadows, making him quick. His job is to protect graveyards and other resting sites from those who would disturb the dead. His shapeshifting abilities are top-notch, too, so he sometimes goes for walks through town. If you see a scruffy dude buying out the pastry shop, it’s probably him.

Paranormalhorror Sans –Known as Orion. A great hunter. No one knows much about him, and no one cares to. The most agreed upon rumor is that he goes after hunters who only hunt for sport and trophies. Some come back from trips to the woods bloody and mangled, babbling about a rotten smell and a skeleton with fangs. It’s argued that if he’s close you’ll lose your wits and only be left with the primal fear of a prey animal. Others say you’ll feel a bitter cold. It’s hard to say what the truth is since very few that meet him live to tell about it.

Paranormalhorror Papyrus –Known as Wirry. He has vines and brambles growing around his bones, and when the plants die it’s a whole event to remove them. He usually won’t sit still long enough for Orion to untangle them. He’s a gardener, an herbalist, and a cook. Rumor has it if you dare to approach the abandoned farm where he lives, he’ll make you a delicious meal. As in, he’ll make you into a delicious meal. Of course, that’s just a rumor. He hasn’t eaten human since the famine. He can bring decay to a garden or make it flourish. At sunrise he stands outside and looks over his field, causing many to mistake him for a scarecrow.

#paranormaltale #undertale au #puck #celo #stein #mercury #wisp #piper #reaper #hound #wirry #orion #paranormalswap #paranormalfell #paranormalswapfell #paranormalhorror #sans #papyrus #scrappy stuff

67 notes · View notes

aforrestofstuff · 4 years

Note

Okay! I have a burning question for you, my dude. Music is my life, and I wanna know what kind of music the OPM casts listen to. Thanks, my guy!

I had a feeling this would be inevitable lol. I don’t really know a whole lot about music or genres or anything like that so I’m just gonna give you a rundown of each character individually and some song recs along with that just to smooth things out a little. Thanks for your ask, by the way! ❤️ Now my playlists will be put to good use.

A Brief Rundown of the Major OPM Characters’ Music Tastes:

Blast: hc that he doesn’t even have ears since he never fucking LISTENS

Terrible Tornado: Stuff that makes her feel powerful. Loud vocals and good instrumentals. Also, she’s a little angsty since she’s saltier than the gotdamn Pacific almost all of the time. (Recs: Florence and the Machine - How Big, How Blue, How Beautiful, Susanne Sundfør - Delirious, Florence and the Machine - What Kind of Man, Kali Uchis - Dead to Me, Let’s Eat Grandma - Falling Into Me)

Fubuki: some of that real classy shit. Slow songs that are nice to just have a cup of tea with. Nothing too meaty or fast-paced, she enjoys taking a moment to breathe every once and a while since life gets pretty hectic when you’re managing a gang of some 30 hooligans. (Recs: Wes - Midnight Low, any song from Lana Del Rey’s entire discography lol, Florence and the Machine - Grace, The Marìas - I Don’t Know You, Yellow House - Ain’t Gonna Call, Feng Suave - Toking, Dozing)

Silverfang: Stuff from his time. I hc that he was a bit of a party animal back in his prime so he’s gotta have those grooves. Disco to the extremo. Also, another hc: Garou absolutely hates his music. He would play it during training and Garou would contemplate homicide. (Recs: Frankie Valli - Grease, The Edgar Winter Group - Free Ride, KC and the Sunshine Band - I’m Your Boogie Man, Matthew Wilder - Break My Stride, The Main Ingredient - Everybody Plays the Fool, Andrea True Connection - More, More, More)

Bomb: save as Silverfang, although I hc that Bomb was a little more of a nerd growing up. Still, he never missed out on a good party. (Additional Recs: KC and the Sunshine Band - Get Down Tonight, The Trammps - Disco Inferno, Tierra - Together, Cornelius Bros and Sister Rose - Too Late to Turn Back Now)

Atomic Samurai: Old shit. Shit older than Silverfang. He’s really not that old, but his soul is fucking ancient and he’s got that classic “grrr music these days sucks” kind of shithead attitude. (Recs: Jim Croce - Time in a Bottle, Dion - Runaround Sue, The Carpenters - The End of the World, The Band - The Weight)

Child Emperor: Upbeat synth. Stuff to listen to while he’s working on his machines and whatnot. Probably has meaty beats to keep him in tune with what he’s doing, like working around a clock. Probably some groovy citypop in there too. (Recs: Taeko Ohnuki - 4:00 AM, Junko Ohashi - Telephone Number, Tatsuro Yamashita - Magic Ways, Hiroyuki Sawano - NEXUS, Superfly - Kakusei, Mariya Takeuchi - Plastic Love)

Metal Knight: Intrumentals that Disney villains listen to. Deep, dark shit that makes you feel sad. He probably feeds off of negative emotion. What a toolbag. (Recs: Lucas King - Sociopath, Abel Korzeniowski- Table for Two, Max Richter - Never Goodbye, Max Richter - She Remembers, Evelyn Stein - Quiet Resource, Mac Quayle - Adagio in G Minor)

King: video game soundtracks, obviously. Might be some electro funk in there too, as a treat. (Recs: Metal Gear Solid 3 OST - Snake Eater, Mick Gordon - Rip and Tear, Xenoblade Chronicles OST - Main Theme, Persona 5 OST - Last Surprise, Daft Punk - Verdis Quo, Toby Fox - Hopes and Dreams, Disasterpeace - Prologue, iamthekidyouknowwhatimean - Run, Darren Korb - Old Friends)

Zombieman: Dad Music. Old rock that makes you wanna rail some lines of white thunder and dance on top of a car. He’d be reluctant to try out new stuff but does so nevertheless. Just a little bit of weird alternative here and there. (Recs: Poison - Unskinny Bop, Mötley Crüe - Dr. Feelgood, Black Sabbath - War Pigs, Def Leppard - Animal, CRX - Walls, MGMT - Little Dark Age, Pink Floyd - Money, Queens of the Stone Age - Villains of Circumstance)

Drive Knight: Dark synth, obviously. Need I say more? (Recs: El Tigr3 - She Swallowed Burning Coals, Trevor Something - Enjoy the Silence, Greg Drombrowski - Devour, GUNSHIP - Woken Furies, GUNSHIP - Thrasher, Carpenter Brut - Invasion A.D., Kavinsky - Nightcall)

Pig God: this guy probably just listens to ASMR of people eating food lol.

Superalloy Darkshine: Upbeat stuff that’s good for exercise; loving those new jams along with some of the old. He’s got a pretty groovy style. (Diane Ross - Ain’t No Mountain High Enough, Saint Motel - Puzzle Pieces, CRUISR - All Over, Barry White - Never, Never Gonna Give Ya Up, Sade - Kiss of Life)

Watchdog Man: 10 hour loop of wolves howling on a summer night.

Flashy Flash: classical. Some nice instrumentals to listen to while training. Stuff that preferably doesn’t have any or very little lyrics so it’s not too busy on his ears while he’s fantasizing about killing someone. (Recs: Vaughn Williams - The Lark Ascending, Debussy - Rêverie, Grieg - Peace of the Woods, André Laplante - Une Barque sur L’Ocean)

Metal Bat: Modern alternative. A little bit harder than say, Mumen and Kama, but not as hard as Zombieman or Death Gatling. He’s that middle ground where he’s still got some real bangers, but Zenko can listen as well. He’ll play this stuff loudly as he’s doing chores and working out, no headphones ever. It gets pretty annoying. (Recs: Foals - Exits, The Blue Stones - Black Holes, Solid Ground, CRX - Broken Bones, Jungle - Happy Man, The Strokes - Reptilia, We Are Trees - Girlfriend)

Genos: synth. But not just any synth, some heavy, fast-paced synth that’s just like him: speedy, relentless, and powerful. He listens to shit that’ll make you wanna get up and start killing Terminators. Probably. There’s some other synths in the mix too because we love a three-dimensional king. (Recs: Carpenter Brut - Division Ruine, The Protomen - I Still Believe, Carpenter Brut - Leather Teeth, Gunship - Tech Noir, TWRP - Phantom Racer, Le Castle Vania - Red Circle)

Tanktop Master: Dad music but the type of dad music that makes you think your dad was a sappy nerd back in the day. Long tracks that are good for workouts. (Tears for Fears - Woman in Chains, Pink Floyd - Us and Them, Duran Duran - Ordinary World, Billy Idol - Eyes without a Face, A Flock of Seagulls - I Ran, The Alan Parsons Project - Eye in the Sky, Tears for Fears - Sowing the Seeds of Love)

Puri-Puri Prisoner: Pop. Dance music. He doesn’t really get to listen to a lot of music in prison, so he holds on to whatever he can and savors every second of it. (Coldplay - Talk, Bruno Mars - Runaway Baby, Lady Gaga - Bad Romance, Flo Milli - Beef Flomix, Doja Cat - Say So)

Mumen Rider: Hes a lighthearted, soft boy. Likes some fluffy indie tunes. It helps to motivate him when working out or doing hero stuff. He might need to cry every once in a while though, so there’s some sad songs in the mix too. (Recs: Varsity - The Dogs Only Listen to Him, The The - This is the Day, Amarante - Don’t Look Back, Alvvays - Saved by a Waif, The Monkees - As We Go Along, Acid Ghost - Hide my Face, Mogwai - Take Me Somewhere Nice)

Sonic: same as Flash. He’s a little more hip with the times however, so he’s got some more groovy, electronic instrumentals to listen to in addition to some elegant stuff and isn’t opposed to having a little bit of lyrics sprinkled in there as well. In fact, he’s not opposed to uppity pop either. He thinks dancing is frivolous but he secretly does it when he thinks nobody is looking. (Additional Recs: Odesza - Bloom, Pretty Lights - One Day They’ll Know [Odesza Remix], BØRNS - Electric Love, Hembree - Culture, The Cinematic Orchestra - Arrival of the Birds)

Garou: same as Metal Bat. Bang let him have a little MP3 player during his time at the dojo and has since collected a few songs on there. They’re very near and dear to his heart since it’s one of the few good things that came from his absolute disaster of a childhood. (Additional Recs: Foals - Inhaler, CRX - Slow Down, Deep Sea Arcade - Close to Me, Gorillaz - Empire Ants, The Fratellis - Chelsea Dagger, Glass Animals - Take A Slice)

Death Gatling: Shit your old Vietnam-vet grandpa would blast on the back of his F150. He gives me self-righteous asshole vibes, if I’m honest. Like, don’t get me wrong, I like Death Gatling, but he seems like the type of trailer park-dwelling sewer rat to carry a revolver into a Walmart for “self defense” and that’s probably the type of music he listens to, too. (Recs: Megadeth - Trust, Megadeth - Angry Again, Creedence Clearwater Revival - Fortunate Son, Glen Campbell - Southern Nights, Mötley Crüe - Kickstart My Heart, Quiet Riot - Cum on Feel the Noize)

One-Shotter: I hard hc that he had an emo phase he never quite grew out of. He doesn’t quite listen to emo anymore but he’s still into that alternative shit. Homeboy also likes some slow tunes every once and a while because he’s an emotional dude who’s not afraid of a good cry. (Recs: Anything from Blink-182, Arctic Monkeys - Do I Wanna Know?, MGMT - When You Die, Mazzy Star - Fade Into You, Cigarettes After Sex - Dreaming of You, Yon Ort - Other Matter)

Lightning Max: Same as Genos but without the terminator-killing. Fast-paced stuff because he’s a fast lightning dude. A little more upbeat because he’s not as much as an edgelord as Genos, however. (Additional Recs: Carpenter Brut - Hang’em All, The Flaming Lips - Do You Realize, Worn Tin - Sensitivity, B.E.R. - The Night Begins to Shine, Martin Hall - Different Kind of Love)

Stinger: he’s all about that FUNK! Stuff that gets him moving! Stuff that makes him wanna dance! (Recs: Daft Punk - Doin’ it Right, TWRP - Body Image, Wild Cherry - Play that Funky Music, Chemise - She Can’t Love You, Saga - Wind Him Up, Saga - On the Loose, TWRP - All Night Forever)

Okamaitachi: they give me electro vibes! New, modern shit that’s good to dance to or to just sit down and have a listen! Also, some shit that’ll probably play in a coming-of-age teen movie or something. They don’t really vibe with heavy music and that’s alright, babey! Keeping it light and bouncy. (Recs: Tei Shi - Bassically, Varsity - Must Be Nice, Class Actress - Weekend, CHVRCHES - Richard Pryor, Alvvays - Marry Me, Archie, Sobs - Telltale Signs, Goth Babe - Sometimes, ALASKALASKA - Meateater)

Iaian: Nice, low tunes that are good for meditation and to be used for background noise during training sessions. He never really sits down to listen to music, it’s always in the background of something else he’s doing so he prefers to have some soft beats that don’t really interfere with his senses. Tunes so quiet, he sometimes uses them as lullabies; especially since the trauma of losing his arm has since made it hard to sleep. (Recs: Boy Scouts - Saddest Boy, Susanne Sundfør - Mantra, Vashiti Bunyan - If I Were the Same but Different, Starman Jr. - Blue Fairy, Patrick Watson - Je te Laisserai des Mots, Sibylle Baier - I Lost Something in the Hills)

Bushidrill: same as Atomic Samurai just without the shitty attitude. He’s happy to listen to some newer stuff, he just doesn’t like it and that’s okay, baby! Probably some classy shit your wise old grandpa would listen to. (Recs: Dean Martin - Volare, Dion - The Wanderer, Peppino Gagliardi - Che Vuole Questra Musica Stasera, anything from Luis Miguel lol, Franco Micalizzi - Sadness Theme)

Amai Mask: probably just listens to his own music like a putz. If not, he’s listening to the sound equivalent of glittering diamonds. He’s probably got this shit playing at the end of a long day while he’s chilling in a hot bath or something. (Recs: Fergie - Glamorous, Rita Ora - Hot Right Now, Lana Del Rey - Freak, Lana Del Rey - Art Deco, Tame Impala - Feels Like We Only Go Backwards)

Saitama: He doesn’t listen to music much anymore, sadly. He did, however, have a killer motivational mix to get him through his vigorous training prior to becoming a hero. (Recs: Paul Engemann - Push it to the Limit, Journey - Don’t Stop Believin’, College & Electric Youth - A Real Hero, Joe Esposito - You’re the Best Around, Survivor - Eye of the Tiger, The Bee Gees - Nights on Broadway)

Here’s the playlist with all of these songs in order (mostly):

It’s on YouTube because I’m allergic to Spotify. I’ve got a doctor’s note. Also, all of my other playlists are on my little profile thingy so if you want to listen to my pile then go right ahead.

Thanks for your ask, my dude! ❤️ this took up ALL of my energy lol but it was fun.

103 notes · View notes

tabletoptrinketsbyjj · 4 years

Text

Trinkets, 32: Interesting baubles, semi magical objects and items touched by mystery.

A heavy copper coin on which the face on the coin has been carved into an elegant skull. Knowledgeable PC’s will be able to recognize the mark as the symbol of a local thieves guild and can find a saying in thieves cant carved around the edge of the coin.

Genevieve's: A small tin canister containing a few dozen candies that (According to the labelling), were accidentally synthesized by the gnomish alchemist Genevieve Boghopper. They're big lumpy balls that rapidly change colors, each representing a different flavor, until they come into contact with saliva. The instructions mention that trying to put it in your mouth at the right moment to get your favorite flavor is a challenge and fun game.

A worn but well-polished, silver inlaid gavel.

A complex abacus made with snail shells.

A long-stem pipe made of bone, carved to look like a devil.

A palm-sized mechanical crab that looks more like a tin can with metal legs and claws attached to it. Winding up this device causes it to skitter and jump about snapping its claws until it falls over. Apart from amusing small children, the item doesn’t seem to have any practical use.

A bracelet of halfing design, carved from a single moss agate.

A metal cylinder that smells at all times of burnished copper and a slight whiff of sulfur. When shaken, a rattling noise emanates from inside of it.

A slim wand that leaves a trail of faint sparkles behind as it moves through the air when being used as a focus for casting magical spells.

Stone Sleeve: A stone sleeve is little more than a narrow cloth tube that is tied to the inner forearm so the opening rests in the palm. The sleeve can then be filled with up to six good-sized throwing stones or sling bullets. The sleeve can be opened with ease, allowing the bearer to arm himself with one of the rocks stored within as a free action.

—Keep reading for 90 more trinkets.

—Note: The previous 10 items are repeated for easier rolling on a d100.

A worn but well-polished, silver inlaid gavel.

A complex abacus made with snail shells.

A long-stem pipe made of bone, carved to look like a devil.

A bracelet of halfing design, carved from a single moss agate.

A metal cylinder that smells at all times of burnished copper and a slight whiff of sulfur. When shaken, a rattling noise emanates from inside of it.

A slim wand that leaves a trail of faint sparkles behind as it moves through the air when being used as a focus for casting magical spells.

A small sapphire ear cuff carved in the shape of a creature’s fang

Song Collar: A set of iron tubes designed to aid traveling musicians in learning new or complex compositions for the lute, violin, or another similar stringed instrument. Built to fit snugly over a normal quarterstaff, this item consists of a long metal collar that slips down over the top half of the staff, roughly two feet long for a typical staff. The metal's surface is covered with rows of small, dimpled indentations, ostensibly to provide a better grip on the staff. In reality, these indentations correspond with the fingering for a piece of music to be played on a preferred instrument of the owner. Song collars crafted gnome engineers as training tools for journeymen, enabling them to practice chords and notes while traveling without attracting attention. A creature can actively learn or practice an instrument while traveling and maintaining a normal walking pace. While practicing on the move, the bearer suffers disadvantage on perception checks and is only considered to be practicing half as quickly as normal. For example a PC attempting to learn ho to play the lute who trains while walking for eight hours is only considered to have practiced for four hours towards becoming proficient in the instrument.

A knight’s banner consisting of a vertical black rectangle with a black rook eclipsing a white sun on a field of black and purple.

A cut and polished piece of glass that could almost pass for an actual gemstone.

A dwarven brass puzzle cube with runes on it. Numerous rectangular pieces are interwoven with each other, and need to be moved in a particular order to take it apart. After completing the many puzzles require to take the object apart, the bearer can see that the core is just a small sphere with the words “So you think you’re smart do you? Shove off!” written on it.

An acorn with little green sprouts that retreat back into the nut when exposed to sunlight.

A stein decorated with a design depicting a fearsome kraken tearing a ship apart during a tumultuous sea voyage. Golden threads decorate the bottom of the design and line the polished metal lid of the stein.

A little toy wagon with a coffin, drawn by skeletal horses. As the wheels turn a scratching sound can be heard from inside the coffin.

A mirror that shows the reflection of the viewer as if they were the opposite gender.

An ivory flute mouthpiece, noticeably lacking in the rest of the instrument. When held to the mouth, the rest of the flute coalesces. Its ghostly blue form is semisolid and always produces sweet but strangely sad notes.

A simply painted, wooden jester’s mask with an unsettling smile carved in. The eyes show the same glee that a child shows as they burn ants with a piece of glass, not fully grasping the value of life. This mask mildly compels to bearer to tell jokes, pull pranks and play tricks, although cruel and twisted ones more often than not.

A smallish oaken strongchest, bound in bronze. Inside it rests four fat, tightly-packed pouches of waxed linen filled with a brilliant scarlet dyestuff and three dried bundles of the ruddy, weedy herb of unknown type the dye was rendered from. One bundle is tied with a crude map to the source of the herb.

A hollow, seamless, clear quarts cube with unknown beasts carved in negative into the inside.

An ocarina made out of a large beetle exoskeleton. When played, the sound is not dissimilar to a cricket’s chirp.

A cultist's rod made of salt encrusted driftwood. Snail shells and crab claws are attached to twine that wraps around the top of the rod.

A stein made of silver and ivory depicting a scene of a picturesque dwarven mountain village.

A mechanical puzzle made of a blue crystal surrounded by an intricate pattern of pieces of wood, inscribed with strange symbols and fastened together with black cord. The crystal contains a number of interlocking pieces, which can be carefully taken apart and maneuvered through the cords and wood.

A a squat, round bottle with the bottom half wrapped in twine containing a rare distilled spirit from desert regions known as Aleaqrab. More commonly referred to as Scorpion Whiskey, the liquid is a dark, rusty brown, and is similar in viscosity to maple syrup, though it’s not nearly as sticky. The thickener is hidden at the bottom of the bottle: a scorpion tail, severed from a living creature. The tail is removed and immediately dropped into a full bottle of barley spirit; the mixture of blood and venom give the drink its trademark color and flavor, along with an unusual extra kick. Aleaqrab is traditionally drunk as a shot. It smells metallic and vaguely briny. It has a strong copper flavor with notes of honey, and a piquant burn closer to a hot pepper than regular alcohol. Drinkers of weak weak constitutions often find that the scorpion venom causes their mouth and tongue to go numb for hours after taking even a single shot.

A broken crow skull. The missing pieces of the skull have been replaced with carved, polished and smooth green crystal.

A finely crafted silver hand mirror. Whomever looks into the mirror will see an idealized version of the person they are currently thinking of.

A monocle that when looked through shows a brief memory of the wearers biggest regret.

A paper with an illustration of a beautiful woman with ink hearts around it and the name of a city. On the back is a love poem dedicated to the woman. A well read PC will recognize the woman as a purely fictional character from a romance novel.

A handheld sounding post-horn. The instrument has detailed, graphic engravings of humanoids being torn asunder by sword and axe. A single blow of this horn will surely strike fear in any tribe or group that has the misfortune of being a target for conquest.

A scrap of parchment with detailed drawing of a demonic ritual circle

A shuttered bullseye lantern shaped like a screaming mouth. It contains a stubby black candle that burns far slower that should be possible.

A small figurine made of soapstone carved into the shape of a snail wearing a saddle.

A plush doll of a male human wearing hunting clothing, a crossbow and a sword. There's a slit on the doll's back allowing it to be turned inside out, turning him into a black dire wolf. Both only have one eye.

An onyx carved into a small coin. The obverse sigil is a simple flat line denoting the void. The reverse a phrase in common that reads “No barrier will hold back my anger.”

A wooden hand cranked coffin shaped box that, when opened, reveals a set of domino tiles made of grey bones.

A satchel containing a cloth measuring tape, a hammer, saw, shovel, and a small box of nails. All of the objects, including the satchel are sized for a small child to use and a perceptive PC can find stitching on the interior of the satchel that reads “My Little Undertaker”.

A set of panpipes fashioned from a tree struck by lightning.

A sturdy leather wallet branded with the symbol of a pair of spears crossing over a shield. It contains a full set of certified identification papers denoting that the bearer is a corporal with a good service record in a well respected mercenary company. The section containing the member's physical description (Height, weight, sex, race, eye, skin and hair colour) is completely blank and could be filled in by anyone with half decent handwriting.

A rose-cut golden opal wrapped carefully in twine.

A clockwork depiction of a hag stirring a cauldron with two withered cloth arms. As the stirrer is cranked, a haunting tune plays. As the tune crescendos, a scream is heard and a child's head pops out of the cauldron. To reset the toy, the child's head must be pushed back into the cauldron.

A talisman carved from jet, in the shape of a panther’s claw.

A waterproof scrollcase filled with parchments covered in artificer's diagrams for various inventions, mainly those relating to what looks like attempts to create flying machines. The case contains a fair bit of sawdust, metal shavings and other evidence that the arcane engineer may have already started construction.

A glass skull wrapped in taut, tanned humanoid leather.

A bone smoking pipe. Its stem is too short for the smoking of poppy-seed and the bowl is too small for any substantial amount of tobacco.

An artificial hand carved of bogwood with silver inlays indicating the location of every bone in the wrist, palm, and fingers; all labeled in a looping, unknown script.

A perfectly preserved human heart, encased in a clear glass cube.

A box compass, hard leather, scuffed, and no larger than a snuffbox. Reveals a sphere struck through by a red needle, suspended in a crystal ball filled with clear liquid. The needle points north, even if rotated in three dimensions.

A cast iron fly, large as a chicken's egg. The legs are bent, and a wing is missing. Tucked between the legs is the remnant of a mounting track, the kind used to attach ornaments to connection pins on metal armor.

A cloisonné dreidel. Each face, gold-leafed lead set with colored garnets, depicts a geometric face, each bearing a different expression: Bare-toothed anger, sneering disgust, white-eyed fear, and twisted, wretched misery.

The Pipe Pipe: A smoking pipe that doubles as a musical pipe. If the bearer smokes and plays the instrument at the same time, he can magically control the shape of the smoke, creating small billowing forms.

A copper cicada tarnished blue-green. Large enough to fill the palm. The hump of its thorax is set with a large malachite cabochon. Some examination reveals said cabochon is a button. Its mechanism, though somewhat stuck with age, causes the cicada's wings to lift, revealing a small, oblong storage space in the abdomen. The wings must be reset manually. They click into place, locked tight.

A fragment of bone, obviously the concave top plate of a human cranium, edged with pitted gold. Three inches wide and carved on the inside with cramped script. A reader adept in Abyssal will discern an outdated version of a prayer to the Dark Lord of Random Evil Domain carved within.

A heavy glass heart that is perfectly to scale with a human heart. The object is crafted of dark, smoky glass and has a hole for dipping in the gaping atrium that is filled with the gummy remnants of old, reddish resin, perhaps ink.

A flute, tuned to an odd key, made from bone of an unknown creature.

A red brass sphere, slightly pitted. It rings dully when shaken and feels as though some thick liquid or sand shifts inside. If shaken vigorously, it becomes chillingly cold. A shallow mark has been stamped on one side: A long triangle, perhaps a tooth or an icicle.

A hairwork needlepoint displayed under a cabochon of greenish glass. Mounted on a nickel silver brooch. The needlepoint depicts, in black and blond, presumably-human, hair, a smiling black skeleton beckoning to a quizzical, robed child.

A set of gray and red robes with threadwork made to resemble teeth and mouths around all of the openings. The sleeves and wristcuffs always stretch until they extend past the bearer's hands making it seem like objects he holds are being eaten and swallowed.

A head-sized dodecahedron; bronze and blackened. Each of the twelve sides has a wide hole in its center. Visible through the holes is the indistinct form of a lead-dipped skull, evidently entrapped there when the hedron was forged.

A lensed brass tube, like a spyglass, but not collapsible. Anyone who peeks through its cracked and dusty lens sees the world upside down and in faded, red-monochrome negative.

A lock of human hair preserved in a cylinder of yellowing resin capped by false-gold ends. The lock is purple black, a color rarely seen these days, in humans.

A defaced iron insignia shaped like a shield. Someone has taken a sharp knife point and defaced the thing with a rough X symbol, then crushed it flat. Under the X, the shape of a crudely molded fir cone barely shows.

A smoked glass mask bearing a serious expression. Its eye sockets are straight and focused. A nine pointed star is carved into the forehead and the lips of the mask are covered in a thick layer of glossy black lacquer.

A needle file, steel, a foot long, and slightly dull at the point. The file itself is unexceptional, save some rust, but the handle is long and fashioned like a bone. A very human bone, recognizable by the knobbly epiphysis of a femur at its end.

An ivory playing piece shaped like the bust of a muscled, eyeless man with interlocked fingers and palms rested atop the pummel of some weapon haft. He is eyeless, for the metal dome of a lead skullcap covers his ears, nose and eyes. Only thin lips show below.

A leather mask that covers the face above the upper lip. The fangs of a vampire are set into the mask, so that they almost seem to be the wearer’s own teeth.

A small clay bust of a bald woman with instructions to dampen the head daily. If the instructions are followed, after 1d4 days the head begins to sprout long fine vines of poison ivy

A pewter acorn with a lead cap and stem. Something sloshes heavily inside, like mercury. The cap does not open.

A pitted fist of ore, quite heavy, that contains strange fossils. Neither the bony, many-legged fossils nor the metal within the ore are readily identifiable as any known to alchemical sciences or arcane arts.

A dollhouse in which the beautiful family rooms conceal secret rooms tunnels and cellars. Each hidden room contains a scene of torture or murder.

A single earring of an ugly style. A thick, short hoop of reddish, soft metal. It smells faintly of wet iron or raw offal when touched and seems to make the fingers sticky. It attracts insects, large ones, that sit within the loop, when worn, and worry and wash their hairy legs, buzzing lowly in the wearer's ear.

A skeleton doll, articulated. It's blackened ivory bones, rather detailed, are joined by small iron rings. One arm is missing, and one eye socket is filled with a small garnet. If carefully inspected, it becomes evident there are two more rows of teeth than normal in the jaw.

A small show globe, akin to the large sort hung in an alchemists' shops, capped and banded with blackened silver. The screw cap is stuck on but might yield with some twisting. Contains bright blue powder, so fine that a single breath might send it all blowing away.

A small silver spoon. Long, with two slots in its bowl. Any food it contacts develops an acidic flavor; savory, but not pleasant to a modern palette. Any water does so, too, and turns a greasy grey.

A steel-bristle brush, round and palm-sized. The ferule and handle are rusted iron, but the bristles maintain a stainless shine. If the rust is scraped away, the mark of an obscure, two-crested helmet may be seen stamped atop the grip.

A hastella, six inches tall, made of fragile wood. Defaced with profane graffiti deeply scored with a pointed knife. The rude letters belong to a language now forgotten. They have since been filled with some silvery metal, and their edges now rise higher than the worn-down wood.

Half of a broken mask of brittle iron. An impassive, large-eyed face shows on the front, genderless. Within, the mask is not smooth, but convoluted by the canals, chambers, and processes of the facial skeleton, as if this shattered mask once composed the front portion of a living skull.

A set of cloth pennants on a tall staff. When the wind blows them, the long flags of dark blues and blacks speckled with silver spots, resemble nothing more than a banner of the night sky.

A bronze and beech incense burner set with several cinnabars.

A copper mask, with the image of a skeleton and set with a moonstone. It is of marvelous workmanship.

A workaday leather tunic that draws closed at the neck with antler toggles. The long tunic is slit at the sides to mid-thigh for free movement.

A pair of leather shoulder pads adorned with the horns of a fallen minotaur.

A surrealistic painting of an irresponsible sage with the head of a manta ray, dismembering an owl with whiskers like a cat in a dense jungle.

A pecan wand with a floating bauble made of peridot at the tip

A forked darkwood wand with a tip of beech, ending in an image of a woman's face, with real alchemically preserved, shrunken eyes.

A small wooden box containing a coarse parchment scroll. It is wound around two thick dowels, and bears densely packed writing, smeared ink, and smells strongly of cedar.

A mask resembling a giant locust head, recreated in remarkable detail. A close look reveals that it was created using the exoskeletons and body parts of millions of other bugs. When worn, insects, bugs, spiders, roaches, and any other creepy crawlies emerge seem to ignore the bearer and do not bite or bother him unless deliberately provoked.

A merchant’s black silk brocade jerkin, cut in the elven fashion, clinging closely to the figure with skirts draping almost to the knee. The jerkin is embroidered all over with tiny, precise, golden sunbursts.

A bundle of unmarred seal pelts tied together with sinew and wrapped in a protective oilskin case.

A thick iron ring with eight chains attached. Each quarter-meter chain, composed of nine links, has a short spine protruding on either side of each link. Investigation shows that the large, central ring, which has a spike on one end, has a broken nub opposite it, where the whole affair might have been attached to a haft.

A small, Randomly Coloured lizard with brightly scintillating scales that's been perfectly preserved and entombed in a rectangular block of clear glass.

A tiny bronze kettle, or perhaps a retort, dark with tarnish. It has a curling chimney, rather than a spout. When liquid is heated inside, it immediately evaporates.

A large tin canister whose lid is stamped with the image of a bountiful orchard whose trees are overflowing with fruit, the ripest of which has fallen and filled a cornucopia. The container is brimming with dozens of well preserved, dried cranberries.

A mountain dulcimer made of black locust wood. The sound-holes are intricately carved in the shape of stars. It re-tunes itself on clear nights.

A crude map of the local area inscribed on a tattered canvas scroll, that bears an “X” marking an area near where the map was found. There is a list of instructions in the bottom corner of the map: Find the canyon with natural stairs leading down, then go south-west for 3-4 miles until you find the old king's forest. From there, go east for 2-3 miles, until you find the elder tree, then go south-east for 1-2 miles and find the largest crypt in the cemetery and you'll find the reliquary protected by a necromantic curse. ---Note: It is up to the DM whether or not if the instructions can be followed (The “landmarks” might be a code, riddle or simply not exist for example) and if there is anything at the end. The map could easily be a prank, trap, confidence scheme, ambush or the area could already have been stripped of any value by other adventurers.

A steel measuring chain. Identifiable as a measuring instrument, as each two-centimeter link is labeled with a careful line and a unit in its end. The units appear to be standard numbers, but with some odd, serif-like additions to each. 110 links, in total.

A worn letter closed with blood red wax wax and sealed with an stress inducing symbol in the shape of a down turned crescent marked with a few inward-facing spikes. Breaking the seal and reading the contents reveals a letter from an unknown author to their unnamed relative begging for their aid during a time of dire need. The pleading note reads as follows: “Ruin has come to our family. You remember our venerable house, opulent and imperial, gazing proudly from its stoic perch above the moor. I lived all my years in that ancient rumor shadowed manor, fattened by decadence and luxury, and yet I began to tire of... conventional extravagance. Singular unsettling tales suggested the mansion itself was a gateway to some fabulous and unnameable power. With relic and ritual, I bent every effort towards the excavation and recovery of those long buried secrets, exhausting what remained of our family fortune on... swarthy workmen and... sturdy shovels. At last, in the salt soaked crags beneath the lowest foundations, we unearthed that damnable portal of antediluvian evil. Our every step unsettled the ancient earth, but we were in a realm of death and madness. In the end, I alone fled, laughing and wailing through those blackened arcades of antiquity. Until consciousness failed me. You remember our venerable house, opulent and imperial. It is a festering abomination! I beg you, return home, claim your birthright and deliver our family from the ravenous clutching shadows of the Darkest Dungeon.”

133 notes · View notes

thelastloop · 4 years

Text

Chapter 7: Nice Hat

Read from the beginning or Read on AO3

The gang meets up with an old friend.

While Henry was glad not to have Sammy’s outright disdain, the silence he found far more unnerving. Everywhere they went, every tape they played, was followed by an almost deadly quiet. The prophet had no words to give. Something in him hated to know he was unhappy, and in particular that he caused it.

Even with that weight on his mind, it took all of Henry’s effort not to curse at the sight of the pipe with no valve. “How about that, another puzzle,” he muttered through grit teeth. “Where ever could that have gone to?”

His body already knew the answer, heading for the stairwell as he spoke. |The sewers.| The ink demon had to stoop to fit through the stairwell, but seemed determined to use conventional means of getting down the stairs this time.

“...We’re going to see Jack?”

Sammy’s soft question brought him to a screeching halt. For whatever reason, the idea that the names they had in life were used at all startled the animator. His next words tumbled from his mouth before his brain could catch up, “You know him?” He grimaced, “No, of course you know him. You remember him? You remember his name?”

“You’re not the only one who can listen to those tapes. I know his name. I know he has no allegiance, and I consider him my friend. That is enough.”

The prophet did not stop. He slipped past both Henry and his lord, stepping into the river of ink. Suddenly, the oppressive sound of nothingness took over the studio floor, and the animator had to grip the wall to keep his focus. No more whispers. No more dripping. For just this moment, the studio was truly silent. And just as quickly, it was back again, and the prophet turned his head back toward them again. “He is here, and he does have the valve.”

Henry stared. “Did you… do that?”

As with all his questions so far, Sammy ignored it. “Shall we proceed?” The animator sighed, but nodded, taking up the rear now as they continued their pursuit. Another fetch quest. Another chance to just… let go, and get it over with. The faster they could make some real progress, the better.

----

“Okay, you need to be on your best behavior, or Joey’s gonna give me an earful,” Henry teased lightly, patting the squirming little bundle in his arms. “I know you’re excited, but you have to keep in mind that no one else is quite like Joey. They may not be as… open, to all of this. Remember my reaction?”

Finally they settled, and the young man smiled, hugging the bundle gently before knocking on the door to the recording room. The soft noises of piano and violin that had drifted through the wood stopped.

“Come in!”

Henry’s smile widened hearing Jack’s voice, “Well, how about that? Two for one! It’s showtime.”

He pushed the door open, gesturing for his taller companion to wait as he slipped inside, covering the bundle in his arms a little more carefully with the blanket. Sammy sat at the piano, fingers still poised expectantly over the keys. Jack had pulled up a chair nearby, leaning down now to carefully set his violin back in its case.

The composer glanced up from his sheet music only briefly, flashing a wry smile at Henry. “This better be important, Stein, if you’re interrupting us when the recording light is on.” His tone indicated he was only /mostly/ serious about his warning.

Jack, however, was more focused on the blankets in his arms, looking both curious and excited as he asked, “Is that…? Oh Henry, I thought Linda wasn’t that far along yet!”

Henry flushed pink, watching Sammy fully look up now, equally confused. “Oh! NO, no, she’s still pregnant! I would have told you if I was leaving for that!”

“Then what are you carrying?”

...Moment of truth. Henry took a bracing breath, glancing down at his arms. “So, you know how Joey has his little… quirks?” Almost instantly, a frown took over Sammy’s face. He swallowed hard and continued, “Well… he’s at it again, and this time… he actually got some results. Sammy? Jack? Meet Bendy.”

As he shifted the blanket, he watched their eyes widen in shock. Bendy gladly wriggled free of the cloth, flashing that on-model, signature smile first at Henry, then at the new people before him.

“Can I come down now, Henry, pleaaase? I won’t run this time!”

But Henry still held tightly to him for now, silently begging the pair not to freak out with his best rendition of ‘puppy dog eyes’. Tense silence reigned. Sammy bit his lip hard, focusing for the moment on closing the cover on the piano, trying to keep in what Henry knew were likely some choice words about Joey ‘playing god’. The lyricist, meanwhile, fiddled with his fingers, taking some bracing breaths to calm himself. Bendy’s enthusiasm dwindled at the sight. At least it wasn’t yelling this time, but still… the only person who’d been excited to meet them so far was Joey himself.

Jack broke first. “Bendy… is alive?” While Henry could tell it took all of his effort to keep his voice level, he appreciated the attempt, slowly nodding as he set the little devil down. Then he gestured to the door. Boris nervously came in to join him.

“Bendy… and Boris. Seems he got a handle on that magic of his… I know this is a lot to take in, but they’re safe. I can say that much. They’re just children, even if they’re not /human/ children.”

After some consideration, Jack sighed softly, gesturing for the toons to come forward. Where Boris took one step closer, Bendy ran over at a full sprint before Henry could stop him, hugging the lyricist tight. Jack jumped, startled. However, when it became clear no harm was intended, he couldn’t help but chuckle and return the embrace. “Well, they’re sweet little guys, I’ll give you that. Or…” He stifled another laugh, “Maybe not so little. Boris /is/ taller than you.”

Henry simply rolled his eyes, turning his attention now to the one whose opinion was a lot more up in the air.

“...Thoughts, Sammy?”

The composer, who’d kept his gaze squarely on the floor, immediately looked up at Henry’s question. The hopeful look on the animator’s face brought a pale red coloring to his cheeks, and he quickly glanced away again.

“You don’t want my thoughts.”

Henry chuckled softly, understanding but happy he’d at least kept it down, “Well, can we live with this at least? They’re already here. Not like they’re going anywhere.”

Sammy nodded, though reluctantly, “Guess I have to. Boris! How do you like music?” The immediate perking of ears told him everything he needed to know, and he gestured for the wolf to follow him, “Just like your character, I should have guessed. Well then, let me show you around. This is where the /real/ magic happens…”

----

As they came upon Jack, Sammy could feel his mood lighten. One of the rare points of happiness in this hellscape was the former lyricist’s jolly nature. In the sewers, other searchers rarely traveled. It was a ‘safe’ area, and Jack rarely sunk back into the well of voices for any extended period of time. He was more present than most as a result. It was… refreshing, getting to see him, like visiting a friend. And this time, the visit had more of a purpose, which he hoped would improve his standing with the ink demon once more. But as he started to stop, trying to consider his approach, Henry kept moving.

At first, the prophet merely watched him walk forward, staying close by the ink demon. It seemed like he had a plan in mind, and he didn’t dare try to correct him. Yet, how he approached Jack confused him. Every time Henry grew close, the swollen searcher vanished into the ink, valve in hand, and reappeared elsewhere in the room. Henry seemed undeterred, silently following after him, driving Jack in a new direction every time. Sammy cocked his head, trying to make sense of it. What was the point of this game of keep away?

And then.

And then he appeared under the hanging boxes.

“He’s going to crush him,” he whispered, horror in his voice. A quick glance at the ink demon showed he was undeterred. Sammy hesitated more, anxiety growing with every step towards the levers Henry made, “He’ll go back to the puddles. He’ll become like every other searcher or lost one here.”

Did that only matter to him? With one more hesitant glance, he chanced calling out, “Henry, wait! We can talk!”

But Henry didn’t seem to hear, blankly continuing forward. Now a low whine shuddered out from Bendy, and he lurched forward just as his hand touched the down lever. Henry still didn’t react. Sammy hurried over to join, grabbing him by the shoulder to pull him back despite his resistance.

Like a switch flipping, the second he was separated from his objective, the animator’s struggles suddenly stopped. The light came back to his eyes, along with a look of confusion, first at Bendy, then at Sammy. “...Why am I being strong-armed right now?”

“What do you mean, why? You were completely unresponsive!” The prophet shrank back from his own tone, quickly correcting himself, “Are you sure you’re… sound?”

Henry raised a brow. “...Yes?” |Of course he was. If anything, he was the only one who was.| “If you don’t like my plan, then what is your suggestion?”

Sammy nodded to him, then hesitantly stepped away. “Jack.”

The searcher paused. That was enough permission for the prophet, stepping closer. “We need that.”

What sounded like incomprehensible gurgles to Henry was a heated negotiation for Sammy. The animator noticed a faint gold glow, visible to the naked eye, emanating from behind the mask. Eventually though, the swollen searcher passed over the valve, playfully tipping his hat before disappearing into the ink once more. Sammy shook it briefly in celebration, like one would a tamborine.

“I know where to go next.”

#The last loop #bendy and the ink machine #BATIM #long time no post

13 notes · View notes

darthkvznblogs · 4 years

Text

“Now we can die together!”

Pictured: four (almost five) teenagers reacting to what passes for an entrance exam at Beacon Academy.

Hello again! Welcome back to Darth’s Book Club, the show where I more or less gush about the media I love for the duration of an entire Tumblr post (books and/or clubs optional)

RWBY Volume 1, Episode 8: “Players and Pieces”

This is the episode in which RWBY finally comes together.

I’m not talking about the team now known as RWBY, though that does indeed happen at the end. No, I’m referring to the show as a whole; despite what my positive reviews (always, in this show, I don’t deal in negativity if I can help it) for RWBY’s first seven episodes might make you think, I’m fully aware of this show’s myriad problems. Some of them are technical, a product of its time and scope; some of them are narrative, from relatively untested writers (not that I’m anyone to judge) that give these first steps a somewhat wobbly, disjointed feel; and some of them are simply inherent to its nature as a web show, like its irregular episode lengths and rather conspicuous references that non-Rooster Teeth fans will scratch their heads at.

RWBY is janky to start with, is what I’m saying. Even more so, nowadays.

This episode is far from exempt from those early jitters, of course, but it’s in the way that every element is combined that “Players and Pieces” goes above and beyond its limitations to match what I’ve come to expect from the media I consume today. The pieces were always there, but this episode finally puts the puzzle together.

I can’t help but imagine RWBY’s creators pitching the show with this exact episode in mind - I’m sure they’ve talked about it in some podcast or interview I probably even listened to years ago, but indulge my imagination for a bit:

“We open to the ruins of some long-forgotten civilization, overgrown with moss amidst a massive emerald forest. A small group of colorful teenagers has made their way there, after traversing the perilous woods - they’re there to retrieve a relic of some kind in an effort to prove their prowess in combat. One by one, they arrive, in increasingly concerning ways - riding a monstrous, dying bear, tossed into scene by some unseen creature, falling from the sky.

And then the giant scorpion busts in.”

Episode 8 really is a microcosm of everything that makes RWBY, well, RWBY; the beautiful locales, the outrageous weapons, the dizzyingly creative fight scenes, the horrific monsters - huge fan of the Deathstalker, by the way, excellent Legend of Zelda vibes - the irreverent humor, the earnest, heartfelt moments, and of course...the bitchin’ soundtrack. Even after so many years, Red Like Roses, part II is still one of my favorite tracks of all time, and certainly my favorite track in RWBY (pending all the music I’ve missed since I stopped watching circa Volume 4, of course).

There’s a lot of little details I could dive into, in this episode - and perhaps I’ll talk about them as they come into play in later on in the show. But, and I know this is different from what I’ve gotten you somewhat used to, I’m not going to, not this time. And it’s because I do genuinely think that this is an episode that must be watched to be truly appreciated - and one I couldn’t do justice in a single Tumblr post, premise of Darth’s Book Club and all. I imagine that most of the people who read these posts have already watched RWBY, but if by chance you haven’t, follow this advice (courtesy of my friend @zr-stein, thanks to whom this show exists in the first place):

Watch the first eight episodes of RWBY. If it doesn’t grip you by the time the massive raven gets decapitated by a tiny slip of a fifteen year-old, scythe-rifle wielding girl to the tune of:

“Every nightmare just discloses It's your blood that's red like roses And no matter what I do Nothing ever takes the place of you.”

...it really never will.

That’s it from me! Thank you so much for joining me. If you enjoyed this installment of Darth’s Book Club, please consider checking out my works over on Fanfiction and AO3 - I write a bunch of crossovers, mainly involving superheroes, but there’s also some fun gaming, movie, and book fandoms in there. You can find me at:

https://www.fanfiction.net/u/5808614/

https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darthkvzn/

And if you like what I do and have a coffee’s worth of money to spare, please consider checking out my Ko-fi! I post every update to my works and now Darth’s Book Club there. You can find me at:

https://ko-fi.com/darthkvzn

If you have anything you’d like me to check out or talk about, please shoot me an ask or message! I’m just doing RWBY for the foreseeable future, but I’m always willing to give your suggestions a shot.

Until next time!

#Darth's Book Club #RWBY #rwby008 #players and pieces #ruby rose #yang xiao long #blake belladonna #weiss schnee #lie ren #nora valkyrie #pyrrha nikos #jaune arc #bumbleby #whiterose #arkos #stormflower #ko fi #ko fi link

2 notes · View notes

badnovels · 7 years

Text

shoot first

Retiring from a hard life as a gunfighter in the Wild West, Peeta Mellark finds one last wild thing he might never learn to tame.

Rated M.

A/N: I’m definitely not a historian, so please forgive any glaring accuracy errors. It’s all for the sake of fanfic entertainment!

—-

“Another. Over ice.”

You’d think a man with his reputation would warrant a few more cubes in his glass of whiskey, but the surly barmaid with eyes like daggers plopped two measly pieces into his drink before sliding it down the bar with an expert flick of her slim wrist, sending it sailing toward him along with a complimentary scowl.

Over ice? The Widowmaker squinted and held his whiskey up to the light. More like melting pebbles.

He swirled the amber liquid and took a swallow before letting the glass land on the scarred plank of wood serving as a bar—not that he hadn’t seen worse. He’d had drinks at establishments far less clean and tidy than this one, saloons with pox-ridden whores lining the staircase and flies swimming belly-up inside stinking steins of beer. They’d certainly not had an ice house at their disposal.

No, this place—Sae’s Place boasted the flashy, gilt-edged writing on the shingle hung outside of the saloon—was a damn pretty sight for sore eyes. And a sore leg.

He rubbed his thigh absently and not for the first time cursed the stray shot a couple months back that had all but ended his career as the fastest, most notorious gunslinger in all the Western territories. Oh, he could suffer through a few more jobs. Answer the distress call of another small town like this one and effortlessly clear out a handful of bandits menacing the population. Earn a wage, move on, rinse, and repeat.

But he was tired. It was time to face the facts: old gunslingers made dead gunslingers. And while at thirty-four he wasn’t exactly an old-timer, he wasn’t a spring chicken, either. His hand was as swift as ever, and he could ride, but mentally, he wasn’t in the game. The thrill had long since abandoned him, and whatever adrenaline rush and sense of accomplishment he’d once felt had disappeared with his foolish youth. What was left was a spotty conscience, a faulty leg, and a scarred, fearsome face that shook even the most professional of doxies.

And of course, there were the letters. He patted the pocket of his duster and grimaced, feeling the lump there.

The goddamn letters. He’d spent half of his life running from the responsibilities of home, but his past had come a-callin’ to hunt him down in the end—something no lawman, dueling desperado or bandito had ever accomplished. Guess that’d be what you call irony.

He drained his drink.

“One more,” he rumbled to the barmaid. “Now.”

The girl gave him a dirty look in return. An old saying crossed his mind, something about catching more flies with honey, but it’d been a long time since he had to use gentler means to bring a horse to water.

He watched her approach with the closest thing he’d felt to amusement in…Jesus, had it been years since he’d had a good laugh? He struggled to recall a blond, fresh-faced boy who’d always been good for a lark, and swiftly dismissed him to the furthest recesses of his mind, to where his past self had been banished.

But there was something about the way the barmaid sidled down the bar, reaching for his glass with slim fingers that somehow conveyed every bit of her aggravation with him. He was fascinated by the way they wiggled before wrapping around the handle of the cup. Enjoyed how she mulishly flipped that sleek, dark braid around. He liked how she sighed and her little pink tongue stuck out, as if pouring his drink was a hardship.

He especially liked to watch her walk away.

“This is your sixth drink. Don’t you think you’re milkin’ it a bit, Widowmaker?” She pulled down a bottle from the end of the bar and filled his glass again. Flick. The glass flew across the wooden plank and landed in his hand, but he almost missed the catch when he heard her speak.

“How so?”

“Even famous gunmen—” this she said with a roll of her silver-dollar eyes “—gotta get cut off eventually. This here is premium liquor. You done had more shots of it than the amount of men you ran outta town.”

It was official; he was in a bad way if his dick was made hard by the low, modulated voice of a surly lil’ barmaid from a know-nothing town like Twelve Rocks. But it’d been awhile since he’d been with a woman and his body was telling him he ought to pursue that interest, to soften her a bit, work her up to accepting one of the brothel tokens the grateful sheriff had stuffed into his pockets before shoving him toward Sae’s Place.

“You’ve got a real smart mouth,” he finally said. Well, no one had ever called him a charmer.

She scoffed. “You’re the first who’s told me so.”

“Really.”

She gave him another one of those scornful looks. The pressure at the seam of his trousers grew more intense.

“No,” she deadpanned, turning away from him to serve another customer.

He took the opportunity to look the girl up and down, taking in her low-cut dress. The garment was much like the ones worn by the saloon girls lounging on the laps of men they would eventually trickle upstairs with. It was a puzzle; the barmaid’s clothing proclaimed her to be available, but her demeanor did not.

His eyes drifted over to the wall beside the bar, where keys attached to tags hung from pegs on the wall. About half of the pegs were empty. But his eyesight was excellent, and from there he could read the minuscule writing etched onto the remaining copper tags: Lola, Rose, Belle…

“What’s your name?” he asked curtly, raising his voice to be heard over the din of the saloon.

She stiffened.

“What’s yours, Widowmaker?” the girl shot back, a note of suspicion in her voice warring with a hint of smugness, as if she had gotten one over on him. Well.

He took a sip from his glass. “Peeta.”

She blinked at him, and he felt real pleasure when her mouth dropped open in surprise.

“Yours?” he asked again, his stare deliberate. Peeta waited. When no name was forthcoming, he challenged her, “Believe that’s how name exchanges work.”

She gritted her teeth in response.

“Katniss!” hissed a dry, crackling voice. “What’re you doing, girl? Gettin’ on the last nerves of this fine fellow, I s’pose. Leave ‘em alone and let ‘em mix with some of the other ladies.”

The barmaid—Katniss— met his eyes, and they both turned to look at the wall of keys. His gaze drifted over tiny names, until he landed on one that made his heart pound and his pulse race like he was a green, wet-behind-the-ears virgin rather than a hardened gunman.

Katniss. Room 4. No guns allowed in room.

No guns? That’d be a problem. He paused. Looked at the lil’ barmaid with the smoky voice and breasts like two ripe plums and a smart mouth he had thoughts about.

Then the owner of the reedy voice joined Katniss behind the bar, jarring him from his daydreams about hard-to-get saloon girls with tempting lips and olive skin.

“Good sir,” crooned a crone with garish red cheeks and a purple dress. Her white, powdered face was lined with age and greed. “I’m Madam Sae, the proprietor of the place. Let me show you some of our finest girlies—the best you’ll find this side of the Mississippi.”

He calmly took his gun from its holster at his side and slid it across the bar along with a pocketful of brothel tokens, exchanging every one of them for a full night of favors with the surly girl with a smart mouth.

Katniss gaped at him in return.

“No need,” Peeta said. He stood and walked toward the wall and plucked a key from the wall. “Made my choice.” He glanced at Katniss out the side of his eyes as if she were a spooked mare. “If she’ll have me.”

Sae recovered quickly, a consummate professional. “Course she will,“ she said briskly, scooping up the tokens. She left the gun on the bar top. “Take your piece with you, Widowmaker. I make exceptions for heroes.”

“‘Preciate that.” He reholstered his gun. “Just wanted to be above-board.”

“Madam—” Katniss protested.

“Get up there now, girl.” The madam lowered her voice to a deadly warning, her hand raised as if to slap the barmaid. Peeta tensed, poised to interfere. “You’re ‘bout useless to me. Hadn’t had a man in an age. Do this or you’re out, y'hear me?”

“Yes,” Katniss replied, subdued. She turned away and busied herself with choosing a lemon from a bowl on the bar, which she then slipped into her pocket.

Odd, he thought.

“Go on, now. Get your room ready,” Sae commanded, and the girl walked toward the stairs and ascended them without looking back.

Peeta ambled over to his stool and finished his drink with one swill. He gave the madam an assessing look. “Doesn’t seem too willing.”

Sae waved her hand. The loose flesh of her upper arm moved with the motion. “Pah. She’s just a contrary one. Girl don’t know how to act when someone picks her up, happens so rarely. Don’t let ‘er fool you, though. Prolly relieved to be of some worth.”

“You’d kick her out?“

She shrugged and picked her stained teeth with one long, yellowed fingernail. “She’s good at the bar and with a broom. Depends if another girl needed the room. One that can bring in some decent scuds.”

“Hm.”

“Lemme know if she gives you a set-to. I’ll have words with her.”

He bounced in his palm the copper key that proclaimed he was the guest of Katniss, Room 4, No guns allowed in room. “Sure we’ll get along just fine.”

Sae nodded a bit doubtfully. “Even so.”

He retrieved his hat from where it sat on an empty stool and nodded at the madam. He wound his way through the crowded tables littering the saloon floor, and when one of the drunk, flailing men accidentally clocked his bad thigh, Peeta hissed out a stream of air.

“S-sorry,” the other man said, his glazed eyes widening in fear. He leaned back in his chair, and a bead of sweat glistened on his dusty cheek. Everyone in the room seemed to hold their collective breath.

“It’s fine,” Peeta ground out, clearing the tables and heading up the stairs.

It was ridiculous, how these grown suckers acted. As if he’d have a shoot out right there in the saloon over a stray elbow. He’d always appreciated, if not enjoyed, the wide berth his reputation afforded him in the past, but now that he was on his way out of the profession, he found it…exhausting. Tiresome.

He cleared the steps and entered the long hallway, almost running into a saloon girl and her john as they rounded a corner.

“Apologies, lover.” Her heavily made up eyes followed the line of his sturdy, finely made boots, the legs of his buckskin trousers, up his vest and then stopped like a wayward train off its track when she reached his face. He knew what she saw there—zippered scars bisecting his left cheek, a thick, puckered mark running from his right eyebrow down past his chin. A permanent, disdainful twist to his lips courtesy of a knife fight gone wrong. Nose thrice busted, set only once. A cold look in his eye that had come home to roost permanently after his dozenth or so kill.

“Oh,” she breathed, twirling a thick, blonde curl around her red-tipped nail. The fear in her eye gave way to a sick sort of excitement, the type of look he had come to recognize in a certain kind of woman. She stepped away from her john. “Fancy a roll with Glimmer? Best in the house, yes siree. All the fellas say so.”

“I’ll pass, thanks.”

Peeta moved to walk around the her, but she stopped him with a hand on his chest.

“Sae’ll tell you. You won’t find better.”

He stepped back deliberately, letting her hand fall away from his body. “I said no.” Then Peeta pushed past her, ignoring her insulted exclamation. He knocked on the door of room number four.

“Her?” Glimmer scoffed, stamping her barefoot on the floor with an affronted smack. Her john slinked down the stairs, reeking of sweat and cigar smoke. “But she’s—”

Out of patience, Peeta turned his head and fixed the woman with a look. She lost her color and fled down the steps after her john.

The door opened to room number four, revealing his small, frowning barmaid wrapped in a blue, silk robe. The tension in his body eased, to his consternation and befuddlement. Must be the scent of lavender wafting from inside the room.

“You need an engraved invitation to come in?“

He gave her the same look he’d just given the other saloon girl, and Katniss laughed.

“Oo-ee, gunslinger.” She walked backward, her hands held out in mock supplication. “That’s a scary face.”

His eyebrow twitched. “Thanks.”

“Shut the door, would you?”

He did as she asked, and there was a hushed moment as they both stood awkwardly in the middle of the room. The bed in the corner was all but taunting him. He hadn’t slept on a real mattress in well over a fortnight.

Katniss toed off her slippers, and her eyes landed on the holster on his hip. “If you wouldn’t mind taking that off and placing it over there.” She pointed toward a small table by the window. “I’d be much obliged.” She shrugged out of the robe, and his mouth went dry. All he could see was delicate lace, silk and soft olive skin.

“Scared of guns?” he finally asked. Only the moans and squeaking of bed springs in the nearby rooms intruded in the silence between them.

“Daddy was shot and killed.“ Her reply was curt while she hung her robe on a hook, presenting him with the scantily clad back of her. Peeta didn’t know whether to look or to listen. His brain and his dick had opposing thoughts on the matter. "Tend not to think much about guns when you see the holes they make in your loved ones.”

“That’s fair.”

She made a huffing sound out of her nose, not unlike a wild mustang he’d once broke way back when Peeta was just a small shaver on the family farm. Then there was just the tense quiet all around them as she regarded him in her underthings. It struck him then that she looked like a very brave girl. Just a girl.

But a pretty one, even with that scowling, stubborn face. Maybe because of it.

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want.” It took an act of God to get the words out from his raspy throat.

The look she gave him was pure skepticism. “You just wanna stay up here playin’ pattycake all night?’

"No.” An truthful answer. “But I’d…settle for holding you a little.”

“Which part of me?"

He sighed in response, and her faced softened a fraction.

"Don’t mean to be difficult,” she muttered, lighting the wick of a half-burned candle. “Just…what d’you want from me? Just tell me exactly how you want me—it’s easier that way. I feel like the other shoe is gonna drop with all this nicey-nice.”

“I’ve been on the road for weeks. I’m tired. And a bit lonesome,” he said, the words blunt. “Haven’t felt the kind touch of a woman in awhile.”

“Oh.” She looked at him as if he were a particularly difficult riddle.

“Been even longer since I’ve found anyone I spark with. And you’re…” He struggled for the word, his voice gruffer than he’d like. No helping that. “Clean. You have an honest face. Different. But I won’t force you.”

“Different.” She sounded out the word, as if tasting it and finding the flavor lacking. “Sounds about right.”

“Didn’t mean it as an insult.”

“No. I figured. Just heard it all my life. Happens when your daddy is half native,” she explained, matter-of-fact. She watched his face for some kind of cue. “Changed your mind yet?”

“Bout what?"

"Playin’ pattycake with me. Since I have Indian blood and all.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” he asked blandly.

“Turns some people off. Others, makes ‘em more interested. Gives ‘em a thrill to have something different from blonde little Sally at home.”

Both the former and the latter made him feel a flash of anger that he worked to keep out of his expression.

“Doesn’t bother me.” Peeta looked toward the bed again. “I’m a murderer and an outlaw, depending on who you ask. Bother you?”

Katniss laughed wryly. Funny how that sound made him want to smile. “Nah, gunslinger.” She nodded once, the movement as sharp as her blade-like nose. “Alright, then. Guess we can get down to business.”

It occurred to him that he could be a gentleman and protest. But the girl was half-naked, willing, and…well. He was no gentleman.

“Sit down,” she invited, taking his hand and leading him toward the bed.

His fingers gave a curious tingle when her long brown ones wrapped around his, and he imagined tiny sparks between them before cursing his flight of fancy. A handful of months without sinking into a warm body and he was seeing fairy tales. There was something wretched about that.

He sat down on the sagging mattress, and watched warily as she knelt down in front of him. Was she going to…? He’d only had a woman take him in the mouth a couple times in the past, and he’d had to pay extra for the service.

“Lift your foot,” she said instead, and Peeta’s disappointment was tempered by puzzlement. He did as she asked, and she worked off one boot, then the other. When she reached for his socks, he almost balked. He was more surprised by the intimacy of having a woman remove his footwear than having one lick his spout. He’d rarely if ever removed all of his clothes when lying with a woman.

He took the liberty of pulling off his shirt and vest while her nimble fingers worked at the button of his trousers, and he lifted his hips so the wool slacks pooled down around his bare, uncomfortably exposed feet.

She stared up at him for a moment, her eyes traveling over his body.

“It tickles me,” Katniss said, sitting back on her heels, “to see you in your union suit.”

He thought he liked hearing genuine delight in her voice, rather than that dry, jaded cynicism. If only it wasn’t aimed straight at his dignity.

“You thought I didn’t wear underclothes?”

She shrugged her smooth shoulders, and his eyes followed the rise and descent of them. “Dunno. Guess I thought the Widowmaker would’ve had on metal plates. Nothin’ as ordinary as those.” Her lips curved again.

“I’m a gunman, not a knight of the round table. Hate to disappoint, but we wear long johns.”

“Aw. Don’t get testy, pal. I was just funnin’ with you.” Katniss watched him as he started unbuttoning the union suit. She rose to her feet. “Need some help with that?”

“No.” He stood and stepped out of the underclothes, baring himself completely. “Better? Or am I still tickling you.”

She chewed her lip, all amusement fleeing from her grey eyes. “You’re…big.”

“Some have said.” Peeta reached out with a scarred hand and tilted her chin up.

Then he did something truly unusual. He kissed her.

He remembered every kiss he’d ever had. Lavinia Halleran at a barn raising when he was fourteen—she bit his tongue and made him bleed. Clove the whore when he was fifteen. Her lips tasted like cheap perfume, and her tongue was cold. And Mirabelle Madison, a married lady of distinction who wanted to ride the legendary Widowmaker. That was the best kiss of the three, but still unsatisfying and vaguely unpleasant. He begged off kissing after that, especially the whores. Kissing was unnecessary to the act of sexual relations, and he always discouraged the doxies from trying.

But he’d had a powerful hankering from the moment he laid eyes on his barmaid, borne from some bone deep desire to touch her. And fucking didn’t seem like enough.

He wanted to wrap that sleek braid around his hand, so he did. He wanted to pillage that smart mouth of hers, so he did. When she whimpered against his lips, he licked at hers in response. Frustration set in, because he wanted more, but wasn’t experienced enough in that particular art to follow through. For not the first time that day, he felt like a boy rather than a grown damn man.

“Wait,” the girl said, pulling away. Peeta tugged her back and pressed his lips to hers again, his hands skimming up her sides and snagging on the stiff material of the corset. He wanted the thing, off. “No, wait,” she said again, laughing against his mouth. He liked that. She looked up at him with a red, puffy mouth. “Like this.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” She kissed him again and worked his mouth open with her lips, and then slipped in her warm tongue and touched the tip of it with her own. His hands dug into her hips. The crisp smell of burning beeswax and cinnamon from the burning candle wafted into his nostrils as he inhaled deeply. He dimly registered the tune of a piano downstairs and the lusty sounds from the bedroom next door, but the slick music of Katniss’s tongue working against his was a louder melody.

He was the one who pulled away that time. He sat down on the bed behind them and cupped her hips, looking up at her with a face Peeta was certain looked even more hideous by the shadows of candlelight. Scars were made deeper, lips more twisted.

But if she was discouraged, her expression didn’t show it. In fact, he was downright mystified by the flushed, panting desire he saw. He’d only seen something even close to it on the girls who found pleasure in pain, and he hadn’t pegged Katniss for the type.

He tugged at the strings of her corset with one hand. “Can I take this off?” he asked, voice gruff. His cock was hard as a tack.

“Yes,” she said, her eyes conflicted, like she was trying to call back some composure. She watched his hands as they started to unlace the satin thing. One of his big, rough fingers brushed at the newly revealed skin, and she trembled. “I—yes. Whatever you want, gunslinger.”

“No. Tell me you want it.” With self-control he hadn’t known he possessed, Peeta let his hand fall away. He focused on the faded wallpaper behind her rather than her tempting, half-exposed chest, taunting him like a partially unwrapped birthday present. “You tell me, dammit, or I stop.”

She huffed. Lightly stomped her foot against the wooden slats of the floor. Glared down at him and looked away.

“I’m not supposed to want it,” she finally said, something like shame in her voice.

Ah.

“Yeah? Says who?” He slid his hand up her thigh, past her garters and stockings to the place that he hadn’t allowed himself to look at yet. He looked at her and pushed aside the thin material covering the shadowed triangle between her legs, and she nodded ever so slightly. Then he slipped a finger into soft folds. “You’re warm, and wet,” he said lowly. She met his eyes and stared, listening intently. “That tells me you want me, too. And that’s real good, because I need you slippery, because like you said. I’m real big, honey.”

“Yes,” she said, as if mesmerized.

“Can I take your hair down?”

She nodded, her expression dazed as he reached up and slowly unwound her thick, woven braid. His fingertips brushed against the silky ends, a warm feeling trickling through his gut and suspiciously north of his groin where the usual pit of desire was located. He met her eyes and an electric charge passed between them, and the unfamiliar tenderness creeping over him turned to something else as he wound her hair around his hand.

“Peeta,” she said, her lips barely moving.

Something about his name on her lips and the waterfall of inky black strands in his fist set a primal fire in him, and he lifted her up with one strong arm and down onto his lap as easily as if she were a doll.

He groaned when his cockhead brushed against her bare slickness, and he tilted her neck to the side and bit it, wanting, needing, to claim the girl.

“Wait,” Katniss gasped, scooting back on his thighs and away from his straining hardness. “Not like that.”

“Like what?” He was hanging on by a thread, gripping her hips with a pressure that he was afraid would leave bruises. He eased up, but she grabbed his hands as if to say it was okay.

“I need this,” she said, twisting toward the small table beside the bed. He watched in confusion when she picked up the lemon he had seen her take from downstairs. “You got a knife?” she asked with difficulty.

He was gratified to see she was as wound up as he was, her olive cheeks burning and her nipples hard little points he wanted to bite.

“A knife?” Peeta asked, distracted by the red tips. He took one into his mouth and she sighed. Not a mewling whimper or theatrical scream from Katniss like the last woman he’d fucked—a widow some nine months past—but a breathy, shivery little gust of air, like she was falling apart.

“I need it to…to cut up this…this…” She dropped her head back and ground down onto thigh, so wet that he could feel the moisture on his skin. “The lemon.” The fruit in question fell from her hand and rolled across the wooden floor when he nuzzled and sucked at her breast.

“Darlin, I’m not followin’ you,” he gritted out, releasing her nipple with a pop. “What in hell’s name are you talkin’ about? I don’t even like lemons. Or lemonade.” He scooted her closer to him, his cock searching out her folds again. “I hate em’ even more now.”

Katniss put both hands on his chest. “I can’t have a baby.”

He stared at her, his face blank. “That’s good. Real good.”

“No. The lemon, we slice a piece. Then…I stick it up…you know.” She looked flustered and beautiful, and if he wasn’t so disturbed by the sudden realization of what the lemon was for, he would have kissed her pretty, flushed cheek. “I just need some help because I’m not too sure how to go about it by myself. But I can’t have a little one—”

“I’ll pull out,” he said, covering her mouth with a big hand. “I’m not puttin’ a lemon inside you.”

She looked at him doubtfully. “I don’t know.”

“Haven’t been with a woman in ages. No diseases.” His jaw twitched. “Normally have a rubber on me, but even still. There’s been no trail of bastards behind me. Don’t reckon I can have them. Childhood illness,” he explained shortly.

Katniss chewed her lip, already made red by his clumsy mouth. “I ‘spose that’s okay,” she said. “Just this time.”

Peeta tweaked her nipple. “Yeah?” he asked lowly. “You sure?”

She nodded and then gasped when he wasted no time, lifting her up and then down onto his hardness.

“Damn,” he swore, his hands tight around her hips. “I didn’t…you feel so…” He bucked upward and she went along for the ride, a passive, gasping participant as he worked her over his cock as if she weighted nothing more than a sack of flour. Long minutes passed in a series of grunts and prayers and exhalations.

“Wait.” Her eyes were screwed tightly shut and her hands scrabbled at his shoulders. “Wait, something—something is happening.”

“Good,” he ground out. “Let it happen. Let go.”

“Peeta- oh…” Katniss stiffened and her body shook with tiny tremors, and the sharp clench of her fingernails into his skin sent him into a sudden release right along with her.

“Fuck,” he said, lifting her from his still-spurting cock. “Sorry.”

She climbed off him and padded over to a small table and brought back a cloth. She wordlessly cleaned him off while he stared at the crown of her dark hair.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. He hadn’t spilled like that since he was a boy with his first woman.

“It’s okay,” she said, standing straighter. “You were…that was real nice. You were nice. I’ll remember that.”

Peeta grabbed her wrist when she turned away. “Let me clean you up.”

“I’ll need to wash this off first,” Katniss said, gesturing toward the basin.

“No,” he said, drawing her down to the bed. “With my mouth.”

—–

The sunlight streaming through the smudged window of room number four sent Peeta’s eyes into slits as he woke up from one of the best night’s sleep he’d ever had. He lifted his head and looked hard at the face of the girl lying next to him.

Then he rolled off the bed, dressed, availed himself of her tooth powder, and walked downstairs to find the whoremonger Sae.

“Here,” Peeta said, turning a bag upside down onto the bar counter top. The old woman blinked down at the pile of coins.

“That good?” she said, a greedy gleam in her eye that he didn’t much care for. It said she was thinking about squeezing the goose until it laid more golden eggs.

“This is enough to buy a year of her time.” His voice was cold and absolute. He put as much murder into it as possible. “No other men. I’ll be back around to check on her. And if there’s even a hint of her bein’ mistreated, I’m gonna know. And I ain’t gonna be happy. Understand?”

“Yes,” she whispered, shrinking backward even as her shaking hand reached out for the gold coins.

“Treat her nice. Treat her like a daughter,” he suggested.

She nodded so hard her jowls quivered. “I will.”

—-

Seven Months Later

Peeta meant to come back long before this. He’d thought about the girl at the saloon far more often than he cared to admit, but being back at the family homestead had taken up the bulk of his time.

The letters from his father had spoken of dire things— his own failing health, a dead brother, and a desperate need for his youngest son to come home and take care of matters.

Peeta thought it would take a month, maybe two at the most, to settle things at Mellark Ranch, but two months had quickly turned into double that, and before he knew it, he was a rancher instead of a hired killer. Foals needed to be born, and stallions needed to be broken, and crops didn’t just tend to themselves.

But then he finally had a moment to breathe, and with that came an aching inside of him that he could only chalk up to being hard-pressed for a warm body to slip into. And since the body of his choice was only a day’s ride away, well, why not?

Now he was walking into the batwing doors of Sae’s Place, his hair freshly combed hair and a pep in his step that was unbecoming for the scarred-up bastard who was once the Widowmaker. He was practically whistling, for fuck’s sake.

Peeta pushed his way through the crowd and headed toward the familiar countertop at the front of the room.

“Lookin’ for a girl,” he told a barkeep pouring beer into a glass.

“Ah, yes. We got a lot of those,” the man replied with a knowing smirk. He nodded at the wall of keys, where Peeta had once found one labeled Katniss. “Nice ones.”

“Don’t want a nice one. Lookin’ for Katniss.”

The barkeep’s face went blank. “Oh- that one…she’s not for sale.”

“Glad to hear it.” Peeta gestured for the beer that had just been freshly poured. The bartender took a quick look at the man who’d originally asked for it, who in turn sized up Peeta before shaking his head and walking away. The barkeep wisely pushed it toward him. “She belongs to me.”

“That so?” came a voice behind him.

Peeta took a long pull from beer and turned away from the other man’s surprised face. He felt a thump of excitement thrum through him as he faced the familiar voice. He’d been looking forward to this moment for—

He opened his mouth and closed it.

She was beautiful. Just as he remembered. Except one detail.

She was heavily pregnant.

“That go for both of us?” Katniss said, putting her hand on her stomach.

Well, damn.

—-

“Your family ain’t gonna like this.” Katniss took his hand and climbed into the wagon he’d haggled from a local seller. She was clumsy with child -his child- and his big hands hovered even as she settled into the worn seat. He placed her pitifully small bag into the back of the wagon before jumping next to her and taking the horse’s reins.

“I’m a grown man. No one has to like it but me.”

She was quiet as they drove away from the dusty little town she’d called home.

“Do you?”

He looked at her.

“D’you like it?” she repeated. Then Katniss looked away. “Never mind.” Her voice was a low mutter. “Was a stupid question. I know you don’t like it. No man would. I’m just…I shouldn’t have left with you. If I’d had the luxury of pride, I’d have said no!” She looked at him with defensive grey eyes. “You-”

“Katniss.”

She stopped talking.

He kept his eyes straight on the path ahead as he spoke. “Didn’t think I could have kids. Never thought about it, ‘specially with the life I lived. But now I’m just a rancher. But it’s a good living. Got a lot of space for a kid to run around. Yeah. Never thought about it before, but…now I’m thinkin’ about it. And I’m thinkin’ I like it.”

Her small hands crept to her stomach. Peeta smiled and flicked the reins.

They moved forward and onward, together.

—

Thank you for reading Shoot First; also known as The One Where He Can Handle a Gun But Doesn’t Know When to Blow His Load. :)

#im not an old west expert obviously but i tried #for gunslinger peeta reasons #everlark #fanfiction #hunger games #ficlet #happy Labor Day

574 notes · View notes

yourcoffeeguru · 10 months

Text

3D Wooden Puzzle Beer Mug Stein Boxed with Instructions || SWtradepost

#wooden puzzle #wood puzzle #beer mug puzzle #beer stein puzzle #vidori games

4 notes · View notes

brookeap3 · 7 years

Text

Endless Chances

Fate is a funny thing, particularly where soulmates are concerned. When Robin's soul is obliterated by the Olympian Crystal he doesn't find himself dead, but back in the Enchanted Forest, in the past, at the exact moment Regina runs from him in the tavern.

A/N: Day 1 of @oqfixitweek! Robin never died.

{ ffn } { ao3 }

. . .

The din of a crowded tavern pulses around him. Sounds of people merrily laughing, glasses clinking together, the clattering of utensils on stonewear as patrons drink and eat to their heart’s content. It’s jarring and disorienting as Robin grips the tankard in his hand tightly, knuckles turning white as he struggles against the nausea welling up within his gut.

What is going on? Where is he?

The last thing he recalls is being in Regina’s office, rescuing his daughter and then Hades and his damn crystal. Without thinking, Robin had stepped in front of his love, the instinct to protect her stronger than anything else. There’d been a blinding flash of white and Regina’s tear streaked face before he’d dissolved into nothingness.

Only it hadn’t felt that way, more like a weird floating sensation, molecules erupting and bouncing around. His mind hovering on the edge of consciousness until he’d come back together again.

Now he’s here. Though where here is exactly, Robin’s not sure. As his vision begins to clear, tiny spots of white no longer marring his gaze, he looks around at his surroundings. It takes another moment of puzzled observation before realization dawns on him. He’s in the Enchanted Forest. In the tavern that he and his merry band of men had frequented in their youth to be exact. Well before he’d been known as the infamous thief, Robin Hood, or he’d met Marian. When he’d been nothing more than an exiled nobleman disgruntled with his life.

But… how? Robin’s confusion only grows as he discovers where he’s landed. It must be some spell, an after effect of the Olympian Crystal that no one had been aware of. Hadn’t Hades said something about his soul being obliterated as a consequence of the weapon? Clearly that was a lie because Robin’s most certainly here. Soul intact. Magic gone astray is the only answer that makes a lick of sense. What other explanation can there be?

More importantly, how is he going to get back?

A thousand questions, endless unknowns, flicker through his mind, Robin’s head aching as he tries to process this turn of events. He needs to find his way back to Storybrooke. To Regina. To Roland. To his daughter. To all of the people who matter to him, who need him just as Robin needs them. Pushing the stein of beer away from him, Robin moves to stand from the table, turning toward the door of the tavern just as it is closing.

It’s brief. Barely even a glimpse, but he spies a hint of raven colored hair, dark eyes, and cream colored fabric that he recognizes as something he’s only seen in the storybook. On that fateful page. Number twenty-three.

Robin’s breath catches. It can’t be. Surely, it’s impossible. He can’t have been transported not only to a different realm but to the past as well. There’s a throbbing in his head as he struggles to follow the odd detour his life has taken. Obviously, he is out of his depth here, and he aches for Regina. For her guidance and support. She’d know what’s happening. And even if she didn’t, they would figure it out together. Because that’s what they do. They support one another. Through good and bad they stand beside one another.

The harsh slam of wood against the jam, echoing through the tavern even above the racket of the patrons, startles Robin into action. Suddenly, he’s dashing across the room, weaving around a barmaid and past a pair of drunks engaging in a pissing contest over their ale, in a race to catch up with her.

As the chill evening air reaches him once outside the door, goosebumps rise over his skin as Robin glances around frantically. Out of the corner of his eye he spots the hem of her dress turning around the corner and then he’s sprinting in that direction. By the time he reaches her, Robin’s lungs are burning a tad, and he struggles to draw oxygen into his body as he reaches for her elbow. “Milady!”

Regina squeaks, turns around to face him and her eyes immediately go wide, darting down to the arm cupping her elbow. His right. The one with the lion tattoo bared for all the world to see. She jerks her arm from his grasp and takes an immediate step away from him. “What— what are you doing?”

Robin’s hand drops back to his side and lets out a weary sigh. He’s in a delicate situation, one he should proceed with caution in lest he screw up anything in their timelines. But he couldn’t just let her flee from him. Not when he knows the anguish that had followed that decision.

“Don’t run from me, please, milady.” There’s fear in the dark depths of her eyes, and it kills him. They’ve talked about this moment. Why she ran, what kept her from taking that leap and walking into the bar behind them to give the two of them a chance. Robin has always stood by the belief that things work out when they are supposed to, he’d believed they were meant to come together and love each other later in life. However, their destinies are intertwined with each other and it appears that fact only holds stronger even under these odd circumstances.

Because they are soulmates and the young queen that stands before him like a doe ready to bolt at the first sign of danger tugs at his heartstrings. For all he can see is the woman that he loves, the part of her that had drawn him to her from their very first meeting, in fact, her vulnerability one of her most stunning features.

Taking a gamble, Robin takes a step toward her, cautiously reaching out a hand and gripping her palm in his own. When she doesn’t protest or immediately withdraw, Robin’s other hand lifts to stroke down her bicep in what he hopes is a comforting gesture. “I wish you no harm.”

It’s amazing, really, watching the play of emotions flicker over her expression. He can read her easily, has come to know what every subtle inflection of her features means, has no trouble imagining the turmoil that must be going through her at the moment. Fear, trepidation, curiosity, yearning.

She takes a breath, visibly steeling herself as a bit of the fiery woman he admires comes out in her tone. “Why? What do you want?” It’s defensive, her tone, the running, both a way to protect herself from what she’s scared of most, letting herself be happy, he knows. Still, she hasn’t bolted from him, hasn’t taken her hand from his, and that is promising.

Robin’s tone is soft as he assures her, “I don’t want anything from you. I saw you run from the tavern and…” his voice trails off, suddenly at a loss for what to say. He’d had no plan when he’d come after her, only the desire to speak with her and comfort her in some way.

His gaze darts down to his forearm again and Robin sighs imperceptibly. Does he tell her? Let on that he knows they are soulmates? Should he tell her the truth, that Tinkerbell had been right and they do belong together, that she can love again? She’s not ready for them yet. While Robin knows that, he’s trapped in this former version of himself, with all the memories of how wonderful loving this woman feels and he can’t quite let her walk away without even trying. No matter that he’s not where he belongs, that he will have to find a way back to her future counterpart.

Though he hasn’t a bloody clue how to do that. Will probably need to involve the imp in some way, unfortunately.

For tonight, though, just this one evening, perhaps he can convince her to take a leap. Maybe this is how it starts, their story. She’s married, is the queen of the realm, and there are a hundred obstacles in their way, but who knows if a bit of kindness shown to her by the person she’s supposed to be able to count on will lead her down a path that’s not littered with quite as much darkness.

It’s worth a shot.

“Would you have a drink with me?” Robin asks suddenly.

A look of hesitancy crosses her face, and he can see that she’s about to decline, biting her bottom lip and dropping her gaze from his. But then the air around them shimmers, just a tad, a hint of green and sparkles before it fades away, and Regina gasps as her chocolate brown eyes meet his bright blue again instantly.

Hope.

That’s what Robin recognizes in her gaze, the same disbelieving expression she’d held as she’d talked of owing quarters in a near silent library late one evening. And she looks just as unimaginably beautiful now as she had then. His heart soars as her murmured reply comes.

“Alright.”

#brookeap3 writing #outlaw queen #oq ff #OQ Fix It Week #oq fan fiction #oq fan fics #Regina Mills #robin hood #regina and robin #regina and robin hood #robin and regina

19 notes · View notes

thecoroutfitters · 6 years

Link

Written by Guest Contributor on The Prepper Journal.

Editor’s Note: Tis’ the Season after all. This is a Guest contribution from Red J in the true Christmas spirit.

Gifts aplenty for the everyone!

For the Non-Preppers:

A small portable water filter is a dual-purpose item that could be used by hikers or campers, as well as the obvious use for survivalists. Water purification tablets are an alternative.

A multitool is something that many people would find handy.

If the person loves to read, a prepping novel may be a good introduction to the prepping world without being pushy. This could also lead to a discussion of why prepping may be wise when the person reads it. The novel, One Second After, by William R. Forstchen, has opened the eyes of several people I know.

A book on securing one’s home is an option. How to Defend Your Family and Home: Outsmart an Invader, Secure Your Home, Prevent a Burglary and Protect Your Loved Ones from Any Threat Paperback, by Dave Young, an ex-Marine and law enforcement officer, is an affordable book that’s very highly rated on Amazon.

Practical gifts include a fire extinguisher or flashlight and extra batteries. A headlamp is an alternative to a flashlight.

A 5-gallon bucket with some of your favorite survival foods that will last long term, would be a good gift for someone open to prepping, but who has not taken this step yet.

A first-aid kit – believe it or not, some homes do not have a first-aid kit. Those not interested in prepping would see this as a practical gift that could save a trip to the store when a simple medical emergency arrives. You could give a first aid book instead.

If you know someone who commutes to work, consider putting together a small kit for their vehicle trunk, with items like a small flashlight, two 12 ounce water bottles (perhaps with a few drops of bleach, if you explain that it helps keeps the water safe for a while), a few trail mix bars or protein bars, a cap and gloves (especially for those in colder climates), a lighter and/or matches, a candle or two, a jackknife, and perhaps a pepper spray (“Just in case you need to defend yourself.”) When I got engaged to my wife, my future mother-in-law gave me a similar kit which I saw as very thoughtful and practical.

Essential oils have become popular in recent years. If you know someone who has a specific medical issue, you may be able to find and give essential oils for that specific health condition.

For Preppers:

This seems tougher to choose an appropriate gift because there is such as wide spectrum of preppers in various stages and prepared for different kinds of emergencies. A gift card to a farm-home store or garden supply center in your area would be appreciated. If you’re truly stumped for ideas that would be appropriate for the prepper on your list, a gift card to Walmart or Amazon could be useful for anyone.

An appropriate book is an option. Not long ago, I gave a copy of How to Survive the End of the World as We Know It, by James Wesley Rawles, to an experienced prepper who appreciated the wide variety of possible scenarios described in that book. If you can spend more on a book, When Technology Fails: A Manual for Self-Reliance, Sustainability, and Surviving the Long Emergency, by Matthew Stein is a treasure trove still available on Amazon.

Another idea is to get a county road map, drive around the area of the one whom you plan to give it to, and add creeks, ponds, railroad tracks, and other landmarks in their area. If your recipient lives near a county line, get a map for the neighboring county too. You can find county maps at your Chamber of Commerce, online, your US State Department of Transportation, or a retail store. Matching sweaters, not so much.

Of course The Prepper Journal already has some ideas for the prepper who has all the necessities. Think non-electronic entertainment options such as puzzles, board games, or books (the paper kind, not eBooks). When our daughter came home from college, she introduced us to the board game Settlers of Catan which our family has enjoyed.

When You Don’t Have Much Money for a Gift:

If you don’t have much money for a gift, you could teach them a skill. Look at your skills. If you have skills in sewing, carpentry, woodworking, plumbing, public speaking, teaching, writing, first aid, or other skills, be assured that some need these skills around their home or small business. You could offer to use your skill(s) to help them, or teach them how to do it, for a few hours, and your offer would be appreciated.

For example, you could offer to help them start a small garden, perhaps in a few containers if they live in an apartment. This would be especially appreciated by those who like fresh, healthy food.

If you can teach, you can offer to tutor someone’s child or grandchild.

If you’re gifted in shooting, give a beginning shooter a homemade coupon for a personal lesson at the range.

Do you have a prepping-related book that you do not use anymore? If so, it may be something that another prepper could find helpful.

If you know a prepper who needs another source of water, could you offer to help them set up a rainwater collection system? Or repair their existing system if it’s aging and in need of some tender loving care?

Another idea is to print an article from ThePrepperJournal.com to give, along with your offer to help them make progress on it. For example, a family with young children could use help developing an emergency fire plan with home fire safety. If your friend depends on wood to heat their home in the winter, maybe something in this article, Safely Chopping Firewood could help them cut wood more efficiently, or you could offer to cut some wood for them.

Making a gift for someone is an old tradition that has become occasional but can be very personal. One time, a friend wrote a poem for me about the situation that I was facing at that time, and it was one of the most personal gifts I have ever received.

I believe that the giving and receiving of gifts adds joy to our lives and enriches our relationships in the holiday season. The Good Book says that God loves a cheerful giver. May your giving reflect the joy and peace of this festive season. Finally, remember that your relationships with people are more important than things.

Editors Note: Andrew McGuigan sent us a set of the cards and we found it a good teaching tools for preteens. Here is their statement:

BUG OUT BAG is a card game created by Andrew McGuigan, under the name ‘BAZCARDS.’

Now available to buy at https://www.thegamecrafter.com/games/bug-out-bag

BAZCARDZ games are for players of all ages and aim to be both fun and tactical, with elements of information and learning. BUG OUT BAG focuses on one area of disaster prepping, which is often a necessity in parts of the world with extreme weather and natural hazards. We hope that this game can be a fun introduction to further survival education.

The post Prepper Gifts for the Holidays appeared first on The Prepper Journal.

from The Prepper Journal Don't forget to visit the store and pick up some gear at The COR Outfitters. How prepared are you for emergencies? #SurvivalFirestarter #SurvivalBugOutBackpack #PrepperSurvivalPack #SHTFGear #SHTFBag

#SHTF #TEOTWAWKI #MARTIALLAW #BUGOUT #PREPPERBAG #USAF #USSOCOM #ARMY #NAVY #SurvivalFirestarter #Sur

1 note · View note

summurous · 7 years

Text

Steal My Heart ch. 1

Apologies for the bad title, but I couldn’t think of anything clever...

Since I loooove Midnight Cinderella, I wrote a fanfic!

Centered around Byron and an OC, hope you enjoy!

Horse hooves pounded against the Earth, the sound beating against my own heart. I chanced a look behind me just to see my pursuers, their dark outlines against the sun making them ominous-looking, with the distance between us shrinking with every passing minute. I turned back around just as the terrain turned rocky, slightly hindering my horse's advances. I didn't do it. I know I didn't do it. But no one, and I mean no one, would believe me if I just stopped to explain myself. Wysteria wasn't a bad place to live, unless you were a street urchin like myself. People in that country tended to look down their noses on the ones without the necessities: a stable job, a roof over their head, food and clean water. It was all pointless to claim my innocence. But I couldn't help but curse my own existence for being in that manor on that particular night. It was the wrong place and certainly the wrong time to be there, yet there I was, trying to land a score on some pricey knick-knacks when the guards caught me. Sneaking out of jail was all too easy, actually. So was stealing a horse to get out of town. My luck only ran out when some patrolling knights started chasing me, damn them. Okay, so I did try to steal some stuff from a noble. But the rumors I heard while in jail made me panic. I would have been released anyway had they thought I was just some petty thief, but the things they accused me of doing...it made me think that I was going to lose a lot more than my freedom. So I ran. And here I am, still running. It had been several years since I last rode a horse, yet my instincts kicked in as soon as I mounted the bay. The poor girl had been running nonstop for twenty minutes now, and I was beginning to think I was exhausting her. But we were making good distance now that we were in the mountains, a place where it's all too easy to get lost. Bittersweet if you ask me. We were running between the trees and I couldn't hear the shouts of the knights anymore. So I slowed the horse down to a trot while we meandered through the thick forest. I kept my ears open for any kind of noise above the horse's hoof beats, but I heard nothing, not even the chirping of birds. It was kind of unnerving. Then I heard the crashing of water, and my stomach dropped. Ten minutes later, I can see it through the trees: a river. I stopped the horse at the water's edge, dismounting to examine my surroundings. Below the darkening sky was a swiftly moving river, too wide and too swift for me to chance crossing with a horse. With a resigned sigh, I patted the horse's neck. "Looks like we part here, old girl," I said out loud to no one in particular. So I nearly jumped out of my skin when I heard a response. "You're just going to leave a horse in the middle of nowhere? What kind of person are you?" a voice behind me accused. I whipped around to see a red-haired knight, a captain judging from his uniform, standing a few meters behind me. We stared at each other, neither of us making a move for a few full seconds before I bolted. I knew he would only catch me if I tried to swim away; that or I would get swept up by the current. So in a split second decision, I turned and sprinted alongside the river, running south. "Stop!" the knight called after me, but I didn't need to turn around to know that he was chasing me. I knew I could outrun him; I was faster than most and he was wearing bulky armor. Should've been easy. But I was at a disadvantage trying to navigate the terrain. It was rocky and uneven, and I had to slosh around in the water occasionally to avoid a rock or a tree in my path. And it wasn't long before I reached a dead end. I skidded to a halt when the ground suddenly dropped off to a cliff, the river pouring down it as a waterfall. I glanced over the edge, but could barely see the ground below due to the mist of the waterfall. I gulped nervously and turned to face my pursuer. The captain wasn't far behind me, only stopping when I turned around. He saw the drop off ahead and furrowed his brow at me. "Don't do anything stupid," he warned, holding out a hand. "Just come quietly with me." I glanced at his outstretched hand, shaking my head. "So I can go back to jail? Or lose my head?" my gaze flicking up to meet his eyes. He didn't answer at first, his eyes narrowing further. "You don't have a choice," he said. "I DO have a choice," I countered. "And if I'm going to die, it'll be on my terms." And with that, I threw caution to the wind and dove off the cliff.

The weather was pleasant that evening as King Byron and Nico rode on horseback near Stein's border. Horseback riding was one of the few ways the king could truly relax after working for days on end. Nico was only there because Albert insisted on an escort, though Nico wasn't on the top of the advisor's list of potential bodyguards. But Byron trusted Nico, and he was hoping that spending time with the wayward knight would help Nico open up as to why he ran off to Wysteria. But the king had no such luck, their ride through the thick forest had been quiet except for the sounds of nature. Not that Byron had initiated any conversation whatsoever. They were far from the castle, and would have to spend the night in the woods. They were well equipped and were just about to find a spot to set up camp when something near the waterfall ahead of them caught Byron's attention. He stopped his horse short for a moment, before urging it into a gallop, heading toward the river. "King Byron?" Nico called out after His Highness, following immediately behind the king. He was puzzled by the king's sudden change in direction until he saw what had caught Byron's attention.

I clung to the thick grass near the riverbank, holding on for dear life as the rapids threatened to sweep me away. I'd managed to survive the jump by diving into the water below; thankfully, the ground below the cliff wasn't as far as I first estimated to be. But the water was shallower than expected, and I had hurt my leg when I jumped feet first into the lake. So I couldn't swim to safety, I could only let the water carry me whichever way it went. But I had to get out of the water, fast. Yet my attempts to lift myself out of the water were proving fruitless. There was nothing to grab onto besides grass, and all I managed to do was pull it up out of the ground. The current was so fast it was keeping me from getting my uninjured leg up out of the water. I tried to clamber up the bank one last time, feeling my strength draining fast from my arms. And just when I began to feel my grasp slip, a gloved hand caught hold of my wrist. I don't know if I was more surprised or relieved when I looked up at my savior, a dark-haired man with an eyepatch over his right eye. He easily lifted me out of the water, like I weighed nothing at all, before setting me down on the bank, a foot from the river. I was panting from exhaustion and the adrenaline rush of nearly dying. The man let go of me, just to place his hands on my shoulders. "Are you alright?" his deep voice asked me. I looked up at him, a little startled by how blue his eye was before nodding earnestly. "Yeah. Yes, thank you so much," I thanked him immediately, savoring the feeling of the ground beneath me. I leaned forward, trying to control my breathing once more. I must have looked like a wreck, soaked to the bone and bedraggled like I was, but I didn't care. Okay, maybe I cared a little... I involuntarily shivered, the cool evening air biting into my skin. The man's hands left my shoulders and something warm was wrapped around my shoulders. I looked down at myself to see a dark oversized jacket on me. I glanced back up at the man. A part of me wanted to refuse the jacket, but another part of me knew I would probably get sick if I didn't get warm soon. And the look on the man's face told me there wasn't really any room to argue with him. "Thank you," I said, looking down, feeling a blush creep up. "Nico," the man's strong voice called out. I looked back up to see the man with the eyepatch had turned away from me and was speaking to someone else. I finally noticed the other man, one with lighter-colored hair and a good deal younger than the first, standing on the river bank with us. "Get a fire started. We'll camp here for the night," the dark-haired man's voice was authoritative, but not stern in any way. "Yes, milord," the light-haired man smiled kindly at me before walking away, presumably to find firewood in the forest surrounding us. I glanced up at the waterfall ahead of us. I knew that the knights would be here soon, probably to look for me or my body. I had to keep moving. I started to get up. "Well, thank you again, but I--ah!" I gasped as I collapsed onto the ground again, shocking rivets of pain shooting up and down my leg. I had forgotten about my injury. I glanced back up at the man to see him frowning at me before he turned his gaze towards my legs. "You're injured," he said matter-of-factly. I let out a deep breath, trying not to cry from the amount of pain I was feeling. "May I?" he gestured toward my injured ankle. I wasn't sure at first what he meant, but I nodded when I understood. He gingerly picked up my useless limb, lightly pressing his fingers around my ankle and foot. I winced and was dismayed to feel a kind of clicking in the area around my ankle. "I'm afraid it's broken," he told me, looking up from where he kneeled next to me and setting my foot down. I nodded, feeling utterly helpless. I couldn't travel far with a broken ankle, so it would just be a matter of time before the knights caught me... An arm hooked under my knees while another was wrapped around my shoulders. Then I felt weightless. I was startled to see that the dark-haired man had picked me up and I was now nestled in his arms. "W-what are you--" I stammered, gently pushing on the man's chest, trying to get away from him. "Be still for a moment," he said gently as he moved me away from the river. I could feel my blush reaching my ears by the time he set me down in the middle of a small clearing, where the man named Nico was building a fire pit. I swallowed the lump in my throat and looked away from the dark-haired man, refusing to meet his eyes. I couldn't help but feel embarrassed and a little bit shy. "I'll get the horses, then we'll see if we can do something about your ankle," the dark-haired man suddenly said, turning and walking away. I watched him go, but turned away with a start when Nico started talking to me. "Are you feeling alright?" Nico turned away from the fire he was building to look at me with a genuine look of concern on his face. "Yes, I'm fine now," I nodded at him. He didn't seem convinced at first so I gave him a hesitant smile. He smiled back at me before turning back to the fire pit to light a match. "So, what happened to you? Did you fall in the river?" he asked while he placed the lit match under the dry firewood. "Uh," I wondered just how much I should tell them. I didn't want to lie, but considering the situation I thought I might have to. The man with the dark hair came back, leading two horses by their reins. "Sort of," I answered tentatively, looking down at my feet. "'Sort of?' How do you 'sort of' fall in a river?" I looked up to see a teasing glint in Nico's eye, and was about to answer him when the dark-haired man returned to my side with what looked like a first-aid kit and a straight stick. "That's enough, Nico," the dark-haired man said for me, "She doesn't have to answer if she doesn't want to," he went on to say. I was surprised by the man's kindness, and to be honest, lack of curiosity. But I was grateful that I didn't have to tell my life story right away. The dark-haired man helped me take off my boot while Nico made a make-shift splint and attached it to my leg. My ankle was so swollen I was worried my shoe wouldn't come off, but we managed. "What's your name by the way?" Nico suddenly asked when he was done with performing first aid on me. I looked up in surprise and was about to answer when the dark-haired man spoke. "Nico," he said in an admonishing tone. But I waved my hand in dissent. "No, no, it's okay," I quickly said to the man. I turned to Nico and answered his question, "My name is Ella." Nico smiled appreciatively, "That's pretty," I smiled at the compliment. "Well, I'm Nico, and this is Ki--" "Byron," the dark-haired man cut Nico off suddenly. It turned to him, confused and wondering what Nico had been about to say. "You can call me Byron," he said, smiling gently at me. My heart skipped a beat for some reason, and I couldn't help but smile in return.

chapter 2 coming soon!

#Midnight Cinderella #Cybird #King Byron #Byron #Byron Wagner #midnight Cinderella fanfic #Steal My Heart

2 notes · View notes

nercomancyandbooks · 6 years

Text

Porcelain features altered, displaying an exasperated look, upon perceiving the veracity behind his unforeseen visit. Droplets of rain descended from the gloomy sky stretched overhead, bathing the environment surrounding them. In return, it was also scouring the crime scene of any shred of evidence it once contained. "Alright, I don't want any more FED's out here, this is ( my ) case." A possessive and ornery response flooded colorless lips. Greed often accompanied the life of a detective. The glory, the incogitable pleasure of making an arrest, pulling a perpetrator from the streets, and providing a grieving family with ( some ) sense of peace. It was exhilarating and unlike anything, he's ever experienced. The blonde placated her initial anger, replacing it with... was that jealousy he was detecting? Annoyance? Irascibility that he harbored more experience on this particular case than she did? A body severed in two perfectly clean halves. Should he really feel ( honored ) to be the insightful creep on detached corpses scattered around Beacon Hills? Suddenly, he felt queasy. Stiles elevated his hands in surrender. "Look, I'm not trying to step on any toes, okay? I came alone. Not that I would actually extend an invitation of ( any ) kind to the morons I'm forced to work with, anyway.." The detective vocalized aimlessly, just as he typically had. The necromancer conveyed evident distress in their current setting. Stiles allowed caramel optics to shift toward the decrepit Hale residence, severely damaged from blazing embers and abandoned. "You? Scared? The girl who makes a livelihood out of mingling with ghosts?" Brows furrowed, gaze shifting back toward cerulean irises. The dainty female ambled down the slippery grass and toward the outskirts of the forest, Stiles following suit behind her. "Yeah, because the morgue is a far more convivial ambiance," his sardonic tongue presented itself as he chuckled. "Back to carting your pedestrian ass around in my jeep. Yup, sure is good to be home." * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Linoleum flooring, outdated wallpaper, and archaic artistry littered the corridor walls. Stiles shoved his hands into the deep pockets of his ebony jacket as the duo approached the entryway of the morgue. Before entering, the blonde concluded their silence, her vocals halting him abruptly, her azure optics meeting his bronze ones. "John doesn't know what I am. He hired me because of you. Not because I'm a good detective or a necromancer. He hired me because of you." Brows furrowed, lips pursing as he scrutinized her features. "This may come as a tremendous shock to you, but I don't exactly have much pull when it comes to my dad. He recognizes greatness when he sees it, Aaron." Before either of them could utter another word, the examiner elevated his gaze toward the two occupying the threshold. Aaron entered the moderately sized room first, Stiles in tow. The two engaged in minor conversation, entering the room further. Half of the deceased corpse sprawled across the examination table where the male, he now knew as David, had previously been scrutinizing it. Elevating his gaze, he caught the thick rims of the glasses situated upon the examiner's nose. The middle-aged male had been glowing and gleeful. It was rather morbid considering the setting and circumstances. "It's little Stiles!" The balding man exclaimed blithely, "I've heard so much about you; son." Before Stiles had a chance to vocalize a word, David was already reaching for his hand. A repugnant liquid attached to his calloused digits, bronze optics observing the vile fluid with a grimace. "Sorry about the corpse juice..." Lips parted, hand elevated as if it were diseased. "You just said━" Stiles moistened his bottom tier, rolling his shoulders back. "It's fine, it's always been a dream of mine to take back a grotesque souvenir from the morgue," he muttered sarcastically, snagging a towel from the surface of the counter to sterilize his hand. Aaron engrossed in conversation with her longtime pal whilst Stiles inspected the body visually. The incision was far from clean, it was rigid and rushed. This was the handiwork of an amateur which typically meant the suspect was a half-wit hiding in plain sight. "Wood Tavern," Stiles blurted out, meddling into their conversation regarding the finest cuisine, particularly steak, in Beacon Hills. "Yeah, I know that place. Can't tell you how many times Scott and I edged our way in with poorly constructed fake I.D's." "I don't think I'm going to be able to do much with just one half," Aaron explained after David excused himself from the room. "Especially the bottom half. Kind of like, y'know, impersonal, right?" Stiles admitted with a shrug, examining the body further. "And she was more than likely trekking through the woods considering the lacerations on her feet, probably caught a few rocks, splinters.." "Are you hungry? We can discuss over a bite." Stiles elevated his gaze, caramel optics observing her, "definitely, all this time spent observing a decaying body was bound to work up an appetite, right?" * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Defeating melodies and boisterous party-goers occupied the tavern. A pool table inhabited the back corner of the expanse, a slew of rowdy male's undoubtedly playing for money as multiple women gawked. A couple of older gentlemen were situated on the bar stools, knocking back their fifth stein of beer with unbalanced limbs. "Safe to say that we picked the ( worst ) possible day to turn this into a potential crime scene," Stiles spoke loudly into the ear of his petite guest. "I'm starting to feel out of place being the only sober one present tonight." "Not the only one! I'm just buzzed," the bartender behind the counter eavesdropped, turning to reveal his face. Jet black hair, deep cerulean eyes, and a pale complexion. Stiles recognized the male immediately. "Greenberg? Still in Beacon Hills? Thought Coach would have driven you out directly after graduation.." Stiles admitted as he rested lithe digits over the sleek surface of the counter. "Actually, Coach drove me right into bartending school." "Coach... drove you to this conclusive career opportunity?" Stiles inquired, puzzled. "I've had a lot more experience with alcoholics than you think. Coach was just one of many and I've had the utmost privilege of tossing him out of the bar more than once." Greenberg chuckled fondly at the memory. "Well that's, uh, very.."the detective ran calloused digits along his stubbled chin before tossing his hand out to the side to emphasize his thought, "revenge of the nerds of you.." Stiles cleared his throat, making eye contact with Aaron before changing the subject. "Look, man, truth be told we were kind of hoping to review some of the security camera footage from Wednesday night." He slipped his hand into his pocket to retrieve his badge, flashing it to his previous classmate turned bartender. "Oh. Well.." He trailed off, eyes shifting to Aaron before agreeing, "yeah, sure.." Greenberg analyzed the badge, nodding his head toward the backroom in which he led them. The noise diminished once they exited the party, door closing behind them. A moderately sized room with a few televisions sectioned into squares revealed various areas of the bar occupied a desk filled with numerous trinkets. Greenberg tapped a few buttons on the security system before time-stamped footage of Wednesday night popped up. "You can start it whenever you're ready," he smiled almost flirtatiously at Aaron, "can I get you anything?" He more so questioned the blonde. "Yes! Order of curly fries. I haven't eaten a freakin' thing since the plane ride." Stiles admitted, slipping into the uncomfortable chair in front of the monitor. "Well, I mean, unless you count a poorly constructed free meal consisting of dry chicken and overly salted vegetables.." "I was actually talking to Aaron," Greenberg interrupted, optics shifting back toward the necromancer. Once his answer was received, he exited, leaving the pair of detectives alone. "I'd say Greenberg still has a bit of a crush. I could practically see the sparks between the two of you. I can definitely see a potential date in the near future," Stiles teased, hovering his finger over the play button on the remote. "I'm ready to hunt down our Jane Doe when you are," he finished, waiting for her to agree to the kickoff of the video.

#the zeppo fbi 2

0 notes

adambstingus · 6 years

Text

The International Competition Where Master Lock-Pickers Do Battle

This story first appeared in WIRED 13.02 published in February, 2005.

For a lock picker, the world is a different place. Take, for example, a typical suburban house, with a bicycle in the front yard and a five-pin Weiser bolting the front door—a basic pin-and-tumbler lock, employed by millions of home owners.

When most people see that lock, they see security. But a lock picker sees a game. And maybe 15 seconds with a rake pick and a tension wrench. As for the bike Kryptonited to the railing out front? Please. Ten seconds, tops, with a Bic Round Stic ballpoint.

Or take a jewelry store on Main Street. The world sees the shatterproof Lexan windows and stone walls. Sure, you could melt the Lexan with a lighter or turn that wall into lava with a few strokes of a battery-powered thermal lance, but that’s not fair, that’s forced entry. Besides, why bother when you can go through the door? The dimpled 437-rated high-security lock, the one Underwriters Laboratories considers a 20-minute pick job? A 12-year-old with a bump key could hack it in 20 seconds.

To understand how, drive two hours north of Amsterdam, to a small brick building in the Dutch village of Sneek. The Sneek Wigledam Youth Hostel appears to be nothing special, just bunk beds and a bar-and-breakfast space of unpainted wood and colorful furniture—something like an Ikea Gulag. But to a lock sports aficionado, this is Wimbledon.

Arthurmeister, the Master of the Universe

It’s 20 hours before the third annual Dutch Open lock-picking competition will begin, but the room is already packed with 50 or so men and women wielding burglar tools and representing the international steel bolt-hacker diaspora. By the kitchen you’ll find Jean-Marie, a debonair French military “surreptitious entry” instructor in a black commando sweater, chatting with a lock enthusiast about his collection of Abloy disc tumblers. At the door is Barry Wels, the event’s host and a coinventor of the CryptoPhone. He’s hacking an expensive, high-security, dimpled Mul-T-Lock using only a filed key and a steak knife handle. Behind the bar, a pair of locksmiths are speculating about which of the newbies is really an undercover cop. By the pool table, a gaggle of Dutch programmers probes the latches of a combination padlock with a broken tape measure, while behind them a German cyberpunk sells a hand-milled Kryptonite skeleton key to an American satellite engineer: 100 euros – cheap.

Arthur Bhl, the Dutch Open lock-picking champion. Charles Graeber

Standing above them all, with a beer stein in one hand and a cigarette in the other, is Arthur Bhl, a private dick from Hamburg and one of the most successful lock pickers of all time. Even in this crowded, smoky room, you can’t miss him—he’s the one standing 6’5″ in snakeskin boots, with a kidney-length mullet cascading over the broad shoulders of his double-breasted zoot suit. Bhl’s Fabio-the-Barbarian look stands out. So does his record. Although he’s never won a Dutch Open, he’s won most everywhere else, earning him Germany’s ultimate lock-picking accolade: Master of the Universe.

“Arthurmeister!” booms Arthurmeister. Across the room, beer mugs chink at the cry of his name. The Master of the Universe ranking reflects his cumulative lock-picking score—it’s a title that the lock sport commissioners bestow on the world points leader. IfBhl wants to keep it, he has to keep winning. Tomorrow, his sights will be set on toppling the current Dutch Open champion—a slight, mustachioed man in a T-shirt and acid-washed jeans named Julian Hardt. Back in Germany, Hardt works as a rainmaker, piloting his twin-prop to seed thunderheads with silver iodide.

“For me, a lock is an intellectual puzzle, like chess!” Julian the Champ yells in Bavarian-accented English. He yells because two men behind him have started pithing a steel safe with a cobalt-tipped drill. “But when you break a lock, when you crack that first puzzle, when you feel pins click and the cylinder go – it’s like a drug,” he continues. “So then you want to try a harder one!”

Arthurmeister throws an arm around Julian the Champ and laughs as only a Master of the Universe should. “Ja, life is good,” he declares. “But tomorrow, you are mine.”

Hardt smiles in concession. His eyes level at Arthurmeister’s chest hair. “Arthur, tomorrow is tomorrow.” Hardt says. “Why not have another beer today?”

‘Death is a fantastic motivator.’

Marc Weber Tobias is the author of Locks, Safes, and Security: An International Police Reference, a two-volume, 1,400-page compendium referred to here as De Bijbel. Last summer, Tobias’ report on how to use a ballpoint pen to hack tubular locks—locks with circular key interfaces, like those made by Kryptonite—made headlines coast to coast. Much to the company’s horror, Tobias publicly ridiculed their bike lock as an overpriced horseshoe. “Those people are unbelievably arrogant,” he says with a smirk. “I can’t wait to break their next design and destroy that company.”

Tobias shrugs off the notion that by publicizing the vulnerability, he’s creating a crime wave. “People are just mad because they wasted 50 bucks,” he says. “People trust their lives and safety to these locks. But most locks are garbage. Look around, they’re easy to open. Not knowing that doesn’t make you safer.” Tobias rolls his eyes and waggles his head incredulously. “I mean, what do people want—security through ignorance? Wake up.”

This rumpled 59-year-old ur-nerd isn’t in Sneek to compete. He’s staying in this “godawful miniature prison” to give a PowerPoint presentation (“Vulnerabilities of Master Key Systems”) and to videotape the newest attacks against the latest locks. So he’s perfectly happy to offer a few friendly tips to a fellow American who’s new to the sport and struggling to learn the ropes.

“You’re retarded,” Tobias says, watching the neophyte wrestle with the pins. Tobias takes the lock and looks inside to make sure it isn’t broken. It’s fine. “I’ll tell you how they teach it in covert-entry camp,” he says, laying a hand on the poor picker’s shoulder. “First, I stick you in a cage. Then I lock the door.” Tobias straightens and smiles. “End of story. Trust me, it works,” he says. “Death is a fantastic motivator.”

The Master of the Universe Is Ready to Rock

Diamond picks, snakes, rakes, combs, shallow picks, and handmade tension wrenches of black spring steel—the tools are readied for battle. It’s 10 o’clock the next morning in the tournament hall. The competitors sit before their instruments.

The rules are old-school, head-to-head. Each person gets a different lock. Eight minutes to open your lock, then switch locks across the table and begin again for another eight. That’s a round. At the end of each round, whoever has a shorter combined time is the winner. The rounds continue until it’s only two, then one.

It’s locksmith against space engineer, programmer against undercover cop, French commando against American college student. Julian the Champ, who grips the lock in one hand as he picks it with the other, dries his fingers on his pant leg and tries to remain calm. Arthurmeister prepares his vise. Amazingly, although last seen at 4 am manning the keg and shouting his own name, Arthurmeister is downstairs looking fresh in a double-breasted suit and vest, a key insignia on his red silk tie. His meaty hands are shaking and his eyes are bloodshot, but the Master of the Universe is ready to rock.

“Three, two, one, go!” The pickers grab their tools and begin. Most combine the tension wrench with a rake—a tool with multiple heads that can be dragged quickly over all the pins at once. As they work, they stare down at the table or into space. They’re visualizing, using the pick like a catfish uses its whiskers, mapping the dark recesses by feel. It’s a cold hard world inside the keyway. There are special pins, mushrooms, telescopes, wedges. Pins designed to foil people, pins that don’t cooperate. And always, there’s the pressure of the clock.

“This isn’t pressure,” Tobias says. “Try real-world covert entry. Either you pick the lock fast or you get shot or arrested. End of story.”

“Open!” says Julian the Champ.

“Open!” yells Arthurmeister.

It’s Like Chess, But Without a Chessboard

Round after round, the competitors fall away, until finally, inevitably, only these two remain. They sit down across from each other at a table. The spectators and fallen competitors gather around.

A lock is placed in front of the Champ. He scoops it up and squints into its mysterious darkness. It’s a Lips 8042C, a five-pin cylinder with a straight keyway. It’s tough, but fair.

Arthurmeister receives its sister lock, the Lips 8362C. It’s a six-pin high-security model. Several of the pins are mushroom-shaped. Working them with a pick is difficult, made all the more so by the keyhole. It’s paracentric, shaped something like a thalidomide lightning bolt, and expressly designed to hinder the motion of a picker’s tools. In technical terms, the 8362C is a bitch.

Arthurmeister stubs out his cigarette and tightens the demon lock in his vise. Then he rubs his hands and leans over his challenge like a hungry giant. Go! The opponents wedge in their tension wrenches and begin.

Not much is happening at the tables. It’s like watching a chess match, only without the chessboard. But to a knowledgeable lock picker, this is an epic showdown. “Intense!” whispers Tobias.

Hardt works his picks in his cupped hand as if he’s applying lipstick to a hand puppet. Arthurmeister scrapes away at the monster in his vise like a dentist on Benzedrine. The tools of the trade look like toothpicks in his oversize mitts.

“Open!” cries Arthurmeister. He smooths his plumage back and sits upright in his throne, triumphant.

The other lock pickers gasp. Someone claps. Arthurmeister has picked the 8362C in only 20 seconds. It was a rake pick on a supertough lock, an opening that uses luck almost as much as skill.

Meanwhile, Julian the Champ can’t pick his lock at all. The clock runs out at eight minutes.

Julian looks up through his tangled eyebrows. “Oh, Arthur,” he sighs. He sucks his teeth and grimaces like a beaver. They switch locks. The Champ has to beat Arthurmeister’s time or he loses. It’s almost impossible. Julian works at the 8362C intensely, but 20 seconds is not time enough. It’s over. He stands, defeated. His opponent inhales him in a bear hug.

The crowd claps and hoots. “Arthurmeister!” they yell.

“Beer!” Arthurmeister booms back. The Master of the Universe lopes to the bar to celebrate, more, again. And a new Dutch Open champion is born.

from All Of Beer http://allofbeer.com/the-international-competition-where-master-lock-pickers-do-battle/ from All of Beer https://allofbeercom.tumblr.com/post/172952927012

0 notes