#it has such a neat texture with the thin thread

[ragingtwilight]

Flowers: Planted

Bracelet: Making

Day: Good

#👍 #we got one extra planter in the pack eyyyy #i spent an hour or so separating each tiny little seed #and i didnt even need to bc i just ended up putting them in at random anyway gshdkf #o well it was fun #as for the bracelet its coming along!! #i chose rose gold regular gold and grey for the first #still testing out the thread and seeing how many pieces and how many loops i should choose #rn ive been using 6 pieces of each colour and doing 6 loops #6 pieces is a bit much but its not bad for just a 3 colour bracelet #and 6 loops is pretty perfect #it has such a neat texture with the thin thread #ill show when im done prolly #also picked up some white at walmart 😎 #trans bracelet real #grrr

[thetalesofno-one]

Curse of Strahd, Act I: Pt. 1, Ch. III -43 Tallies-

D&D Campaign Retelling Part 1/? Chapter 3/5 ~5.3k words Content Warnings: Curse of Strahd typical content, Read at own risk

Summary Forced together by the mists and lost in a strange new land, our four strangers run into a grim omen along their path and a fork in their road. The Ghost, the Rebel, the Charmer, and the Holy Man finally reveal their names where the deadmen carve their messages on the bones of trees. Read Previous Chapters also available on AO3

Time seems timeless in this place. 

No light wanders behind shaded skies, no sun, no stars. All the heavens diffused entirely behind grey skies hung so low the tops of the barren trees stretch their fingers to touch the clouds. A heavy shroud without breath, suffocating the land. Grasses greyed and withered, thin as straw, dry as hay. Their stalks rustle lightly in the rain with an endless shifting that carries the mind to places beyond. Luring thoughts away from the land like a dream.

Left in the rustling silence, Emet’s mind wanders.

The dim dissonance with the world bringing back memories of a darkened shop thick with the scent of paper and leather. Of a worktable scattered with various tools and thread, half sewn signatures left in a neat stack beside a half drunk and forgotten glass of wine as he remeasures a board and pares the edges of supple smooth leather, the scrapings curling across his fingers. Of candlelight flickering long through the sunken day, windows ever cast in the shadows of spires. Of night slipping over the city like a thief, light fingers pocketing the sun in velvet black without so much as a blink of notice from the little shop. The candles burning ever bright, the day’s end only realized when the flame flickers thin and the darkness steals the workman’s light.

Fingers pricked with needle thin scars and paper thin cuts lighting another candle. Hair loosely tied back, a few strands always slipping free as he smooths the marked tape along a new edge and carefully notes the measurements with a tailor’s precision. Of a guillotine blade sliding through a stack of vellum and trimming its edges to a fine point, a perfect block to be folded. Of the smooth texture of bone between his fingers, the gentle scrape as he runs the folder across the edge of a bent sheet, turning a bowed page into a sharp crease. Glue sticks to his wrist from a missed spot on the wooden table, the book shaping in his mind before its pieces are folded and glued and sewn together. 

And all the while, the quiet loneliness whispering at his back with a phantom silence. Not of presence, but absence. Empty. The weight of a space where someone should be, infinitely loud in its stillness. Its siren voice chased away by the endless work. Its words unheard and yet unignored. Every movement his, every breath slipped through his teeth with no other lips to catch it. Scarred hands reaching for tools no other fingers brush across. And all the while knowing when he finally stops, the kitchen will be empty, the home devoid of spiced currents in the air, the bed cold. The bitterness left in tasting the flavors of an old life when you know now the sweetness of another.

“There is a scent of death.”

Emet’s attention snaps from lullaby memories. The holy man stopped along the muddy road, bent nose turned up and sniffing the air.

“Maybe undeath.”

The blades are in Emet’s hands before the old human even finishes his sentence. The broken glaive hanging dangerously from his hand, vicious tip polished to perfection and flashing brilliantly in the dim light. A stark contrast against the dark bloodstained cloth wrapped around its shattered haft. 

The charmer knocks an arrow into his charred longbow with the fluidity of someone who has fired it under dire circumstances. A faint scent of smoke whispers past as his fingers tug the string lightly, ready for trouble. 

“I don’t like this,” the rebel whispers, slipping her arm through a shield—a small round thing of black and gold painted metal. A coil of whip hangs from her belt but she reaches for metal instead. The short blade slips free of its sheath with a faint hushed breath.

The all too familiar stench of death doesn’t yet reach Emet’s nose, but he has no reason to doubt the holy man in this. Eyes flickering through the mist, resentment wraps itself around Emet’s chest and burns through his scars. But there is no place for spitting out what has been earned because of the hand that offers it. Not when it comes to undeath. Emet calls on his forsaken power. Soul reaching out beyond himself with clawed grasping hands ready to take what might be denied, he stretches out his inner self toward a god he isn’t sure will answer. Toward a god who heard his screams and turned away.

Power floods through Emet’s irises in a dim display. Pale grey light ignites his faded eyes in a hollow glow burning with ghost fire, and though they do not shine with the brilliant white of beacons as they once did, the divine sense is not gone entirely. Not yet.

The rebel glances up at him with an unreadable expression, but he ignores her and scans the mists around them. If anything undead or fiendish in nature lurks nearby, the divine power flowing through him will draw his attentions like someone taking his chin and gently pointing him toward unseen dangers. But no phantom fingers grace his scarred jaw or pull at his divinely heightened senses. Whatever smells of death here must then truly be dead.

Giving a nod to continue on, the holy man presses forward with the slow and quiet feet of a hunter stalking its prey. The faded light falls from Emet’s eyes after a moment and he feels the divine slip away from him with a cold chill. The rebel still stares at him with narrowed eyes and uplifted brow, but her lips remain sealed. Whatever question lurks in her mind, he suspects she no longer needs to ask it. A curiosity that seems less about the ability and more about the person wielding it. 

Though he no longer wears his holy symbol or any sign of faith emblazoned on his person, no trace of a past better left buried, it is not uncommon knowledge to those of faith that only paladins—knights of gods—are blessed with such an ability. And Emet realizes he’s let something of himself slip in front of knowing eyes.

The rebel’s lips part—

The scent finally reaches them.

Sickly sweet and turning the stomach with a heavy wave of bile. Both enticing and revolting in that way only death can be. Corpse rot. There’s no doubt. Not but fifteen feet down the road, a human body decomposes half off the path with arms outreached toward the road as though it breathed its last in a desperate crawl. A young man once, clothes torn by brambles and thorns with flesh pockmarked by the beaks of birds feasting on an easy meal. A tarnished copper compass spills out from that outstretched hand, its red needle trembling and twisting uncertainly as though unable to find North.

The holy man kneels beside the body and looks it over without touching the overly soft and rain sodden flesh. The boy’s skin shifts across his bones with gelatinous ripples as the old man accidentally shifts the mud in taking a knee. A slimy sheen has already settled over the pale flesh like melted fat. Long strips and sharp pecks break through the wet surface to expose the black and purple insides, dark as a bruise, the blood long clotted and rotting. White bone peaks out from cheeks a fingertips, the nose half consumed. The birds have eaten well.

The holy man narrates his findings softly. Scratches from branches and brush, gaunt flesh, sunken eyes—what remains of them, at least—but no visible mortal wounds. The young man died from exhaustion of all things. The holy man’s eyes take on a dark and certain stain when he says the word. 

Exhaustion.

How the holy man knows, Emet isn’t sure. But he never was the best at healing during training. Healing required not just blind faith like those outside of holy orders assume when they beg healers to fix their every ailing, but also knowledge of medicine. A bone cannot be knit together without knowing how its structure is woven together. A crushed hand cannot be reconstructed if one does not understand the pattern of nerves and vessels, tendon and ligament. Or rather, it will heal with faith alone, but it will never be the same again without knowledge behind it.

Emet has always been better at the unmaking…perhaps that’s why they were put together during training. 

Him and Azemir. 

Wrapped eternally like wax around the cold stillness of Emet’s heart, his name brings warmth to the hollows of Emet’s soul where nothing grows. Ever a flame without shadow, a sun without night. Healing and warmth have always been more of Azem’s specialty and Emet wonders how long it will be before he can touch those healing hands and feel their warmth. How far he must go to set things right again. When they will talk without so much distance between them. Or if whatever has happened in these mists will delay his journey. He will walk a hundred lifetimes seeking a way back if that’s what it takes. He will carry the weight of that name forever.

Sickening chills drift and trail cold fingers across Emet’s body snuffing out the thin flame of Azem’s name within his soul—always touching, always grasping. He shudders and crawls within his own skin wanting to shrink away, wanting to claw them off. They touch and grasp and choke and scream—

The calming coolness of one washes away all the others for but a moment. And Emet can breathe. Just one breath. Before they drift back like the sea and cling to him as algae on an anchor. But it’s enough. Why they grow restless, he doesn’t always know. Perhaps a reminder of the promise he made them so it doesn’t settle unfulfilled.

Emet’s eyes follow the old man’s ministrations with that name balanced delicately on the tip of his tongue. The way the old man’s rough and calloused hands move light as feathers over the boy’s corpse as though the kid can feel anything anymore. Pain is beyond him now, but still the old man moves gently. Emet isn’t sure what he is searching for. Perhaps some other answer than the one he already knows and something in the holy man’s expression settles like wet sand over a stone when he finds no other. The warm candle flame in his eyes dimming beneath a cold and familiar wind.

The old man rests a hand over the boy’s rotting one in a strange gesture of comfort. Bowing his smooth shaved head, he whispers blessings beneath his breath. Emet isn’t sure why the old man bothers. There’s nothing left to save.

Nudging the broken compass after his prayers and looking to where the boy’s hand falls, the holy man quirks his mouth sadly. Perhaps seeing another blessing where there is none.

“The boy was going this way,” he points to the opposite side of the wagon trail toward a tree bearing faint tally marks—43 of them. An arrow carved into its bark points away from the muddy road toward a thin path cutting deeper into the woods. A jagged knife cut through the trees, all but unnoticed if it weren’t for the arrow to point the way.

“You want to follow the dead’s path,” Emet asks incredulously.

“Why not?” The charmer steps over the rotting corpse’s outstretched arm to get a better look at the path behind the body rather than ahead, “He’s probably a criminal trying to leave, so I’d say follow where he came from and we’ll find civilization.”

“Why would you say he’s a criminal?”

“Why else would he be out here?”

“Why are we out here,” the rebel counters.

The holy man looks up from body, “And we are not criminals.”

The rebel gives the holy man a nod, “What the old man said.”

“I am not that old.”

Emet looks over the kneeling holy man. Crows feet spiderweb out from his eyes into well worn paths, tracing old channels. Deep lines folding into the leather of his human face, ripples and cracks where great emotion has marked it forever in memory. The echos of pain and joy held forever in weathered lines. Calloused rough hands scarred with the burden of much hardship dust off his knees as the holy man stands from the corpse. But no light cracks and pops fill the air as his bones settle. And he springs back from his crouch with ease, not even bothering to lean on his shepherd’s staff. The skin past his toughened hands bears much scarring and yet a youthful smoothness. 

If he is not old, then he lived a life full of immeasurable hardship.

The holy man quirks his head to the side and returns Emet’s stare, “Why are you looking at me like you are reading stones in the sand?”

“Human ages are a bit difficult for elves to determine,” Emet admits.

“I am thirty-two.”

The charmer and rebel both snort.

“Nah, mate,” the rebel crosses her arms and grins, “You’re at least sixty.”

“I am not lying.”

She smiles, “Whatever, old man.”

The holy man scrubs his scrawled salt and pepper beard, gesturing off to Emet, “I am not old, he is old. Elves are always old.”

Emet concedes that with a shrug. He’s already lived more years than most of those with him could hope to ever reach and lifetimes before that.

“Yet he looks closer to thirty-two than you, old man,” the rebel continues, picking her nails with a sly grin.

“That is because he is an elf.”

“And I’m not?”

The holy man sighs.

“Ah, I’m just fucking with you, grandpa” she chuckles, “I know I’m half human.”

“You are half—what are you doing?”

The charmer barely pauses his light-fingered search of the dead boy’s pockets, finding more interest in stealing from the dead than their idle chatter. The holy man is about to admonish him further when the tiefling carelessly flips the body onto its stomach and continues his search through pockets.

The holy hand throws up a hand, all conversation on age and good looks forgotten.

“Eh! Eh! Devil boy! Respect the dead! I already took his compass if that is what you are looking for.”

The charmer ignores him, his hands continuing to wander across the ragged clothes and slipping into the pockets and folds as though it is a dance they have performed many times before. His fingers wander with a speed born of practice, seeking whatever the dead may hide. But his search is fruitless, the tiefling finding little more than a small pocket knife like used to carve the tree with its 43 tallies. He turns the small blade this way and that in his red hands, dark nails tracing the edge before pricking his thumb atop the tip. No blood flows along the blunted edge.

With one quick toss, the useless blade flies over his shoulder, “I’m a bit too far gone for respecting the dead at this point.”

The holy man frowns deeply, those ancient lines creasing in old paths. He turns away from the grim display and takes out his feather once more. Whispering more quiet words meant only for the far reaching ears of gods, the old man holds the brilliant feather out before him like a candle in the dark. After a breath, he releases the stem and watches it flutter listlessly to the wet ground. The stem settles first in the mud, its tip angling lightly toward the deadman’s path.

“I think we should go this way.”

Emet’s lips curl into a faint snarl, “How much faith do you have in that feather?”

“A lot of faith.”

“Do you honestly trust that more than the actual, factual compass you have in your other hand?” The rebel asks with no small amount of skepticism, the moment of warmth shared between them only a moment ago blowing away with the breeze.

“It has never lead me wrong, nor has my god. Besides,” the holy man tosses the tarnished bronze compass to the rebel, “this does nothing. It is broken.”

“I can’t fucking map-read,” she growls as she snatches it from the air with a loud clang as the compass hits the edge of her shield. The rebel palms the bronze and glass bauble in her hands, watching it a moment and expecting the needle to settle. But the sharp red spine continues to wobble and spin as though unsure.

Her eyes narrow, “I don’t think it’s meant to do that.”

“I have never had a compass,” the holy man shrugs, “but I did not think so.”

“Hey, poncy bloke,” the rebel looks up at Emet, “You look like you know how to use this kind of shit.”

Emet arcs a sharp brow at the nickname. In the absence of anyone having offered up their names, it was inevitable they’d all call each other something. But poncy bloke? Not exactly his first guess. Most people went with ‘giant’ or ‘tower’. He’s even heard ‘statue’. 

The rebel’s arm swings out with the compass and all the world slows. Emet’s breath catches and his eyes lock on that approaching hand like a blade plummeting toward his gut. For a moment he can’t see, his vision crystalizing on that hand and blurring all the world around it as he instinctively steps away before he’s even realized what he’s done. His body moving without thought, shifting back as though about to be skewered in a fight before the moment ends and only an open palm offering a compass hangs before him. 

A strange look crosses the half-elf’s face. 

Emet thought he was starting to get better about this. Hand-shakes, fingers brushing when taking a drink from a server’s hands, shoulders getting bumped in a crowded tavern. All of these things he could handle with a steadying breath. But all of those things are expected touches. Expected moments that he can predict and prepare for, ready his nerves to stand firm. But the more unexpected the approach, the more he steps back into the shelter of himself like a fox cornered between stones with nowhere to run from the wolf’s shadow. And his body reacts with all it knows in that moment. Fear.

Emet shifts his blade arm deeper beneath the dark cloak draped over his shoulder, drawing attention away from the hand wrapped tightly around the glaive’s broken haft with a light cough as he forces his clenched fingers to release. He breathes, thankful he did not draw steel this time. 

Acting as though nothing happened, Emet stiffly leans over when the rebel gives the compass a little shake, beckoning him to take a look. Her face immediately screws up, recoiling as though he’s some shit-faced drunk at the bar thick with the scent of whiskey and lust and offering her the best lay of her life. Emet doesn’t understand the shift in her expression a moment before he realizes he’s a very large man looming over this young woman despite the distance his previous reaction put between them. The half-elf’s discomfort is readily apparent and Emet quickly puts some space between them after a brief glance down at the compass.

“No, it’s not supposed to do that,” he says gently.

The compass disappears in one of the rebel’s belt pouches as she shuffles away from him, risking a look over to the holy man as though asking him to interpret what the hell just happened. The old man only shrugs lightly.

Everything is going wrong, that’s what happened.

He almost apologizes, but the words catch in his throat. What if doing so makes them ask why he practically jumped away from her. Those aren’t questions he’s ready to answer, so better to not give an opportunity for them to be asked.

“So we have a feather, a broken compass, and I’m hoping you’re a tracker,” Emet says to the charmer, trying to plough through and trample into dust whatever walls this disaster of a conversation brought up before anyone thinks too hard on it.

The tiefling regards him a moment before flicking away a piece of dried grass twirling between his long fingers, “I rely on instinct and I’m with the old man on this one. His dumb feather pointed to where I wanted to go anyways.”

“Thank you, young boy,” the holy man nods.

“Watch it.”

“You keep calling me ‘old man’, why can’t I call you ‘young boy’. It is better than ‘devil boy’, no?”

“You’re fair game,” the tiefling bites back, “I’m not.”

Emet pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing, “Would it not be better to call each other by our actual names instead of these substitutes.” He cuts a glance at the rebel to his side, “Creative as they are.”

The charmer scoffs, “Let’s not get sentimental.”

“First names, then.”

The holy man’s eyes widen incredulously, face scrunching as though Emet just suggested the moon is an illusion, “I only have one name. Are you supposed to have more?”

“Typically…Your name and a family name.”

The rebel murmurs something under her breath about having too many.

“That is a…weird revelation, but okay.” The holy man lifts his hand in greeting, “My name is Roshan, but you can call me ‘old man’ if you like.”

“Emet. We’ll leave it at that for now.”

Both the charmer and rebel suddenly find great interest in some moss on a tree and a particularly long strand of dried grass as Emet and Roshan’s attentions fall on them in expectant silence. 

“I can just call you ‘devil boy’ and ‘lovely elf lady’ if you want,” Roshan offers.

The charmer rolls his eyes and flicks away the chunk of moss, “Evrrot. You can call me Evrrot.”

Kicking a loose stone on the ground, the rebel keeps her voice low. Perhaps hoping no one will actually hear her, “Most people call me Evie.”

Roshan nods after each one, fingers twirling in his beard as though he can tie each name to his memory, “Emet, Evrrot, Evie. Everyone is an ‘E’. That is strange, but okay.”

“So we’re done here?” Evrrot asks, “Everyone all happy with their little names?”

He walks off down the deadman’s path without waiting for an answer, abruptly ending the conversation that was more akin to pulling teeth than basic introductions. Roshan quickly follows with a grin, resuming his practice of trying to walk ahead of Evrrot, further irritating the charmer tiefling into a faster pace.

Emet and Evie watch them hastily disappear between the trees, left behind again. Realization slowly dawns on them as they share another look that this will likely be their shared fate quite often in the days ahead.

“You know,” Evie says, “I get the feeling that wherever we go, we’re gonna end up in the same place anyways.”

“As do I,” Emet sighs. 

“We could just keep following this muddy slop road and they’d probably end up right behind us.” She shrugs, “We could just go.”

“Tempting, though I get the feeling we shouldn’t be separating in a place like this.” He glances around the dark and silent forest pointedly, the mists shifting into strange shapes and shadows in the distance.

“Mmm, probably right,” she groans. “Come on then.”

Evie ushers Emet ahead of her and they follow the already fading silhouettes of Evrrot and Roshan. Both still vie for who gets to lead without there ever being a winner. Though from the near permanent curl to the old human’s lips, Emet suspects Roshan takes the game itself as a win.

The arrow carved into the tree above forty-three sharp tallies—every slash bearing down harder than the last, the groupings becoming more sporadic and wild, telling a tale of madness and desperation—points them down a narrow footpath. The trail is thin, quickly forcing them into a line as the trees and brush crowd in eagerly to either side. Branches reaching out to snag on their clothes and boots sinking in the thick slosh of earth. Roshan and Evrrot are forced to relinquish their game of footsie. ‘Devil boy’ comes out on top as he slips ahead of the holy man through a rather narrow bend where two barren trees crowd as desperately close as lovers in a storm. Despite the loss, Roshan casts a secret little amused grin toward him and Evie. A promise their game is far from over.

Though the scent of decay and rot gradually gave way to bitterly sharp winter air as they walked beyond the corpse along the road, it returns again, thick as ever in their lungs and threatening to make them choke. Ahead, an eerily similar tree with another forty-three tallies looms near the path with a bowed back, its branches nearly sweeping the dried grasses. Another arrow continues to point further down the path. But it’s the second body that makes this repetition unsettling, a shiver passing through their bones as though someone walked over their graves. 

A bulking husk, ribs splayed open in grim offering to the meal of its soft blackened innards spills out across the path. Bloated gases wafting from the entrails with fresh release as though only recently released from the prison of bone. A half eaten yawning skull grins up at them through the sinew of the face it once wore, hooves splayed out in deep grooves as though the beast tried to keep running until the very moment of death. The rotting horse rests on its side, never to rise again.

Evrrot studies the body from a good distance where the smell is not quite so overwhelming. Emet notes he doesn’t pinch his nose from the stench as though it is one he well accustomed to. In fact, none of them do. An odd revelation, but one Emet isn’t yet sure of what it means. His own line of work often sent him delving into crypts and left him covered in the rot of decay for hours before he could finally scrub it off. But the average person does not easily handle such a scent without practice. The newest recruits to the order often went on several missions before they could stand it without bile filling their throats. His own first experience left him nauseated for days and unable to keep anything more than light broth down.

Evrrot steps over the splayed hooves, “Alright, so that dead guy was on this horse obviously. Probably riding away from whatever settlement is down the path. His horse dies, he goes on foot, and then he dies.”

“Or the other way around,” Evie counters, “Horse could’ve thrown him, then the horse went and died.”

Roshan hops lightly over the body, kneeling by the tree with a dagger of his own and carving a new tally to the set, “Maybe he was carrying the horse,” the old man offers sagely, “He was very tired.”

All eyes turn on him and Roshan simply grins.

With the tally carved, Evrrot quickly jumps ahead of the holy man and presses the group further down the pointed path. Emet steps carefully over the corpse, glancing back at Evie to see if she desires a hand. But the half elf stares off behind them, unawares. The path they’ve walked is already half swallowed by mist, the large wagon trail long gone from view. She twists back with a sigh, face quickly shifting as she gives him a glare to move. They continue on.

Eerie becomes troubling when the path leads to a third tree with the same forty-three tallies and another arrow. The lack of a corpse this time does little to alleviate the hook twisting in Emet’s stomach. It lifts and snarls his insides, not in pain, but in anticipation. Anticipation of the moment it will all go wrong. 

This is what it felt like that day. The day he should’ve listened to his instincts.

The arrow points to a swallowed path. All sign of trail and trees vanish behind a solid wall of fog so thick Emet cannot see even a glimpse of what lies beyond. It bisect everything perfectly, trees ending abruptly as though severed by blade. As though a curtain were drawn across the land on a giant stage. The line the mist cuts across the path is unnaturally defined, too sharp and perfect and to be natural, yet permeable as proven by the grasses swaying in and out, vanishing instantly on the other side, yet returning again.

The foreboding hook twists deeper with the echo of Emet’s past. Of dark crypts and silent darkness, a day that started in laughter and ended in screams. Blood spilled beneath the sickening brightness of beautiful sunny day, the color forever tainted in red. They should’ve stayed on the well-worn wagon path. They never should have cut through these godforsaken woods. His instincts tell him to turn back now, but going back on his own still seems a far more foolish idea in these unknown lands. 

Emet steels himself. A chilled touch settles over his shoulder. If the self-chosen leaders get him killed—if they ruin what he’s given everything for—Emet will never allow them a moment’s peace. Not in this life or the next. He already knows Kelemvor will never collect his twice damned soul. Not after what he did. So he’ll have all the time in eternity’s glass to make good on his vow. Maybe this one he’ll keep.

“This repetition is how the kid died.” He glares at the severed path, “We’re going in circles.”

“This isn’t the same as the last tree,” Evie says, “The old guy put an extra mark in that one. Plus, no dead things.”

“Not yet.”

But Emet suspects they will pass that tree again and the horse one beyond. And if his instinct proves right, they will do so again and again until they too die of exhaustion, carving tallies into trees until they can carve no more. There’s madness here and he’ll be damned if it catches him off guard. But the dead kid probably thought the same thing. Now he rots with a skeletal finger ever reaching for the path that killed him. A warning they did not heed.

The wall looms before them, vast and endless until it vanishes into the grey of the skies. Tendrils of thick mist swirl and twist like eels against the edges, unseen bodies pressing against the glass but never breaking through. The snaking, winding movement is almost hypnotic in the terrible silence.

Evie’s eyes narrow, “Anyone else think this fog is fucky?”

“Yes,” Emet and Roshan answer in unison.

The holy man taps his staff, warm dawns light spreading across the wood like honey. Though it glows in the deep reds and oranges of the morning sun, the light does little to chase away the sickly grey of this place. 

He nods satisfied, “But this is the path, so let’s go.”

Emet blanches as Roshan lifts his shepherd’s crook and presses toward the wall of fog without another thought. He vanishes instantly. Whatever god this holy man follows, Emet hopes they have as much faith in their followers as Roshan does in them because this is about as foolish as sticking your hand in a nesting viper’s den and trusting it will not bite.

Evrrot—never more than a half step behind the holy man—strolls past the moon elf as casually and carelessly as choosing a garden path to stroll, vanishing almost instantly behind the old human. Not even a shadow is left to hint at their passing.

Emet stands speechless, too shocked to believe what he’s just seen.

The words finally come to him, “Well, fuck.”

#curse of strahd #dnd fic #strahd von zarovich #barovia #dark fantasy #gothic fantasy #gothic fiction #adventure fiction #fantasy fiction #fiction #fiction writing #my fiction #my writing #creative writing #writeblr #writers on tumblr #Tales of No One

[flock-talk]

hi! i'm wondering if you have any recommendations for a disabled bird. my budgie has osteoarthritis and has lost a lot of her mobility recently, so i'm in the process of making her cage more soft, padded, and generally comfortable for her. it's tough to walk the line between making it safe but not wanting to encourage nesting behavior. if you know of any products or have any advice, i'd be very grateful! thanks so much, and i hope you and your family are having a good day 💙

Definitely a fine line to walk!

Depending on severity I would include ladders at gentle angles to allow independent mobility or rope perches that can be sloped so they can walk higher if they need to with less stress on the joints. You may find some small animal cage parts helpful for this as they often have plastic ramps which could be textured with vet wrap so they don’t have to perfectly place a foot on a rung to move up, they can just shuffle instead.

Depending on the treatment plan there are heated perches, heat panels and I think platforms that may be helpful to reduce stiffness and pain. I’m uncertain if they help arthritis specifically though I would ask the vet first.

Keep an eye on perch width and texture, they will often start to show a preference on which width is easiest for them to perch on- Mia would find thin branches easier some days and thick branches easier on others. Again depending on severity platforms may be the best/only option.

Braided rope is excellent for easy grippability, whether you use it as a perch on its own or line a platform or wrap a perch it can help make perching easier, more comfortable, and require less foot tension.

Wrapping existing perches in rope or vet wrap adds cushion and texture, you can wrap it excessively to increase perch width if needed as well.

Beds and mats on platforms, platform perches in general give great resting spots. I would just ensure you inspect any fabrics for threads regularly so they don’t get caught in anything. If nesting is a big problem you could change their placement perhaps so they’re not near the very bottom or top of the cage so it’s less cave-y, or try some different fabrics to see if the response changes. Sometimes the shape can influence nesting as well so I would fiddle with making sure there’s no raised sides that could be neat-shaped. Some birds will just be that way though so you may have to settle for the lesser of two evils, providing comfort from pain over being a little moody.

Anyone else got more tips?

#disability #mobility

[reasoningdaily]

Women have worn braids for thousands of years all over the world. The style is one of the most versatile, running from incredibly intricate patterns to simple plaits. Braids are also perfect for almost every occasion. Whether you’re in the office, at school, in the gym, or even at a wedding, a braided hairstyle is ideal for you. Even better, depending on your hair type, braids can protect your strands from damage and help you grow your mane longer. Keep scrolling to discover all the different braided hairstyles for women.

1. Box Braids

Classic box braids are one of the most iconic styles for Afro-textured hair. All your hair will be sectioned into squares and worked into individual plaits to get this look. You can use your hair or have extensions braided in, giving you head-turning long, full locks. They are considered a protective style and can be any length or thickness; however, if you have naturally thin or fine hair, opt for smaller box braids so your scalp has less tension. While box braids take a long time to put in, once finished, they last for weeks and are very low-maintenance.

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2. French Braid

A timeless and feminine style, the French braid is a classic for a reason. You can wear this versatile braid for a casual brunch, the gym, or the office. Keep it smooth for a professional look, or pull a few face-framing pieces out for a soft and romantic vibe. You can also team it with a fishtail braid or half up half down hairstyle, and French braids are also a popular hairstyle for wedding guests. Whatever the occasion, a French braid is a perfect choice.

3. Braided Ponytail

If you’re looking for a new way to style your braids, the simplest option is a high ponytail. The style is popular because it draws the eye up, making your face seem longer. It’s also versatile, working equally well for the office, school, gym, or date night. To make your braided ponytail look perfectly polished, secure it with a clear, snag-free elastic and wrap some of your braids around to cover it. Finally, add hair accessories for some extra personality.

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4. Dutch Braid

Dutch braids are an underhand braided hairstyle, meaning your hair will stand out from your head rather than lying flat. It’s a classic three-strand technique, which means if you’re familiar with creating a standard plait, the Dutch braid follows the same pattern. Because both plaits require you to add sections of hair gradually, the Dutch braid is sometimes called the ‘reverse French braid.’ It’s a great way to take a standard plait hairstyle to the next level or create double braids and crown braids for a formal occasion.

5. Crochet Braids

The crochet technique is one of the simplest and easiest ways to get extra-long braids. Like a weave, crochet involves first braiding your hair into loose cornrows. This cornrow pattern forms the foundation for your crochet braids. Next, hair extensions are threaded through and secured using a crochet hook before being plaited into your braid style of choice. You can also have ready-made braids secured, such as box braids which dramatically cut the time it takes to put in your braids. That makes it a convenient option if you don’t have an extra day to spend in the stylist’s chair.

6. Lemonade Braids

Lemonade braids were made famous by Beyoncé, who wore them on the cover of her smash hit album Lemonade. The style involves creating neat, even, and close cornrows that go from left to right rather than straight back. Lemonade braids are a versatile look as they can be any size or thickness, and you can also combine them with other cornrow styles like zig-zag or add accessories like rings and beads.

7. Fishtail Braid

A festival classic, the fishtail braid brings a touch of boho to any look. It’s one of the simplest braids to create because it doesn’t involve a complicated pattern. However, you must separate your hair into small sections – about half an inch – and keep the tension throughout the braid to avoid it falling apart. You can begin the fishtail at any point on your head, using a French or Dutch braiding technique, which means it will work on short hair as well as long. A double fishtail is also a great way to wear this look.

8. Feed-in Braids

Also known as ‘knotless’ braids, feed-in braids are even better for protecting your hair than most other styles. To create super long box braids or cornrows, the stylist will usually secure extensions to your natural hair with a knot. With this technique, the stylist will gradually ‘feed’ the extensions in – plaiting them together with your real locks for a seamless blend. The result? Braids that have less bulk and put less tension on your scalp. They will also flow like real hair, giving you all the extra length you want with a natural finish.  

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#60 Braided Hairstyles for Women: Different Types of Braids #BRAIDS #braided hair #braided hairstyles

[rimurutempest]

Rating the ikea pride loveseat monstrosities for sport:

Two-Spirit: i don't HATE the concept, would be cool as like, an art instillation doubling as a bench if made with the right materials, but as a loveseat, it looks miserable & if i had to touch it i would need to take a scalding hot shower asap. 1/10 because i really fucking mean it, the black fabric is the worst texture for me & the colourful bit is ALSO terrible. also it doesn't resemble any two-spirit flag i've ever seen.

Asexual: plain grey loveseat with a blanket(???) thrown on it. i'll be rating the elements separately, then together. the couch looks uncomfortable & stiff. i feel like this says a lot about the designer's bias. 4/10 because it's functional I GUESS but the back is painfully low so 3/10 actually. now, why is the throw like. made of cheap, child's tutu costume material? is it 4 separate loops of material, or are they actually joined together somehow? HOW? hot glue?? 2/10 because im generous. at least it clearly resembles the flag. the disparate clash of elements loses it the 2 points it earned for the throw, so it's just a 3/10.

edit: someone pointed out the tuile throw makes it look like a geode & i haven't been able to unsee it since, so 4/10, but it's still on thin ice for no back support & low effort design.

Transgender 1: it's fine, but imo sticks to a pretty singular idea of transfem presentation, or on up-and-coming drag queens, or both. not UGLY but definitely tacky to look at. looks a bit like an old lady i knew as a kid's porcelain collection from a distance. 6/10 because it would suit some bougie middle-aged aesthetics.*

*edited to amend a misunderstanding. the designer was a trans woman & this reflects her experience. it still reminds me of tacky old lady porcelain.

Pansexual: what the fuck is with the colour saturation & what the FUCK is with the stitching choices? they could have achieved a neat lava lamp/melted ice cream look if they'd intentionally leaned into it, but instead they made this shit that looks like an art school student's worst pair of washed out jeans they couldn't get the paint stains out of. alternatively a designated hair dyeing shirt. or both. except they've torn them both apart & sewn them together with uhhhh? thread made of plastic bags? very bad to look at, 4/10 for the potential they swerved away from at 80mph on the freeway, again because im too generous a person.

was so distracted by everything else, i didn't realize this one also has little to no back support. 3/10

Bisexual: tim burton designed this last pride, at the peak of quarantine, specifically for queer emergency room nurses with the "super hero" spin the media was pulling, except he made it like a secret double life. (i don't think tim burton designed this, but if i found out he did, none of this would surprise me) honestly i kind of fucking love looking at this, im sorry to any bisexuals traumatized by it. 100% do not want to sit on this latex nightmare though. actually looks like these are cloth gloves, but they sort of seem like the stiff fabric of gardening or cheap costume gloves... either way, unlike the two-spirit one's black, velvety material i COULD be paid to sit on this & wouldn't necessarily die though. 6/10.

Transgender 2: my husband likes this one. i think it's like. cute? looks like it would suit a kid's bedroom or an animal crossing furniture set. doesn't look like nightmare material, but doesn't look COMFORTABLE. meant for display, not function. the back is also uncomfortably short. 6/10 for similar reasons to the first trans design but like, for bougie kids whose parents won't let them play in their bedrooms & have designated play rooms. small children don't need back support, pshh.

Lesbian: someone spilled lipstick on this valentino white bag. 3/10

those kraft cheesasaurus rex commercials. the leaky pipes commercials about frequent urination. yeah, this is those.

Nonbinary: nightmare material(evil velvet) AND WHY DOES IT HAVE O-RINGS. this isn't a nbi loveseat, this is a nbi kinkster themed fuckseat. 3/10 because despite the material of the seat itself, im FASCINATED.

Inclusive Pride Flag: very PRETTY but very stupid & honestly if this was for a Pass-Fail art course, it would Fail miserably. a lot of wasted money on fake flowers & hot glue. ruined a probably functional white loveseat. did NOT stick to the prompt. 1/10

Genderfluid: you know the weird liquid they use to show how absorbent pads are in commercials? that but on a material that indicates the pH of ppl's sweat when they sit on it. a few holes leading to the abyss of some cave system in the middle of death valley or something. fabric seems like a touchable texture, but this loveseat is a narc & works for the feds. 2/10. idk why this pic is so blurry.

actually it looks COMFY compared to the other ones, despite being a narc... 2.5/10

#ikea pride #pride 2021 #pride flags #pride flag #lgbtq+ #queer #i liked what my son said about the lesbian one #'unclear pattern symbolism (lesbianism is when wires and tubes?)' #lmao #ask to tag please #long post #please note these are me being a picky & catty bitch about design & if you LIKE any of these that's awesome #i just dont love them myself ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ #throwback: #Yikea™ #covid 19 jokes

[valdomarx]

Geralt would never admit it in a thousand years, but he loves Jaskier’s clothes.

He loves how the opulent colours glint and change in the sunlight, the bright jeweled blues and the deep hearty greens and the rich, rich reds deepening and brightening as they shift with each move Jaskier makes. More than that, he admires how boldly Jaskier wields his palette, how he is unafraid to shine, to be noticed, to take up space.

He likes the fabrics of Jaskier’s garments too, from the smoothest silks which are like dipping his hand in running water when he touches them to the elaborate brocades with their endlessly repeating patterns which feel like a secret language running beneath his fingers. Jaskier’s winter cloak is a heavy, thick velvet with a pile that shifts and resists when he passes his hands over it, pushing against the pile to make it stand up, smoothing it down again in long, sweeping strokes.

He finds excuses to play with the textures, to investigate the tiny rows of neat buttons with his fingertips or to run over the carefully folded seams with his fingernails, each angle a new sensation, soothing and intriguing at once.

He especially enjoy ties and ribbons, the delicate cords which lace up trousers and hold shut shirts, the way he can wind the thin strips of fabric around his finger and pull, the wispy feeling of silk cord sliding around each digit.

“This needs laundered,” he’ll say, gruffly, waving a bar of soap at an item and not looking Jaskier in the eye. “Give it here and I’ll wash it.” And Jaskier will hand it over with a smile. Sometimes that smile looks a little too knowing, like he thinks the item isn’t that badly in need of a wash, but he hands it over anyway.

When they’re staying at an inn and Jaskier is going downstairs to perform, he’ll casually inform Geralt that he's leaving his doublet here on this chair, could Geralt put it away for him? There’s no reason he should do that, but he’ll leave a different item each time, each one a new set of textures and sensations for Geralt to experience as he carefully lifts it, smooths it out, and folds it into a neat square left on Jaskier’s bed.

He wouldn’t admit it even on pain of death, but his very favourite item is the old, baggy shirt that Jaskier sleeps in. When he dares to invite Jaskier close on cold nights and puts an arm around him, he finds the fabric is worn smooth with age, the cotton cool and supple, so thin it drapes in soft lines over his hands. The hem at the bottom is fraying, but that’s just another interesting texture to enjoy, carefully running his fingers over the loose threads.

Parting for winter this year had been particularly vexing, the months of cold and grey stretching ahead of him seeming lonelier than ever. But when he arrives Kaer Morhen and unloads his packs, he has to roll his eyes. How many times has he told Jaskier to keep his things in his own bags?

There, at the top of his pack, is Jaskier’s sleeping shirt, worn so many times that Jaskier’s scent of cardamom and musk and lavender seems woven into the fabric itself. He runs his hands over the shirt and can't help but smile: The sensation beneath his fingers feels almost like home.

#me; a texture fiend: geralt loves touching clothes ok #i am projecting this onto him and you can't stop me #geraskier #the witcher #my writing

[cozycryptidcorner]

The Mad Prince, Chapter Eight

“There will be some changes to your schedule. And you will be assigned a food taster, in case of poison. A full security detail will have to accompany you should you need to visit a public level, for whatever reason.”

You feel like barfing again as Elias recites a rather long, very detailed list about how your seriously your safety is going to be taken. Still, though, you sit on the provided chair, arms on the prince’s desk, as the assistant continues. Everything seems... too dark, suddenly, a dull, throbbing pain beginning to pinch on the inside of your skull. You know that breathing a word of complaint might put you on that psychopath’s medical table again, so you bear it, silently, looking over the provided datapad with feigned interest.

“Is this to your satisfaction, your highness?”

You realize that Elias is speaking to you, not the prince, so you swallow and offer up a nod. “Yeah, it looks good to me.”

He then turns to the prince, offering the same treatment. “Does this satisfy you, your grace?”

“I will look over it in more detail later,” the prince says calmly, “and you will reevaluate some of the steps.”

“Of course, sire.” Elias, at least, looks mildly relieved that he’s not about to end up on the platter in the dining area, “I will inform the head of security.”

“You are dismissed.” The prince looks back at you as his assistant leaves, arms crossed.

You don’t really know where to go from there, so you decide to take it a couple of steps at a time. All your things are being scanned for any remedial poisons and toxins, so the guns you brought are about to be found. Fun stuff. Oh, and some other… more scandalous things, you know, the stuff that you’ve been using in the absence of a partner. That’s going to be super fun to explain. You’re not quite sure which one is going to be more embarrassing to deal with, the laser technology or the vibrators. It’s a close call. And this is a new sensation, too, because you’ve never been super shy about either of those. In the very small amount of instances where either someone went through your stuff, or you had to send your bag through a security scan, you shrugged off the phallic shapes and dared someone to say something about it.

“Cool,” you say, mostly to yourself, “cool, cool, cool, cool.”

“I understand that this isn’t ideal,” the prince says, “and for that, I apologize.”

“Not your fault,” you say, trying to be understanding but allowing the full implications of this situation set in, “but thanks.”

“Is there anything I can have fetched for you?” The prince squeezes his hands together, his knuckles going a shade paler from his grip. “Books? Projects?”

“I want to take a nap.” The headache is spreading now, and all you would like to do is lay down and forget about existing for a little while.

“Of course, is there anything you’d like to sleep in, or are you fine now?”

“Blankets would be nice,” You say, already partly onto the bed. There aren’t any for you to wrap yourself up in, and you’d like to make yourself into a burrito to sleep.

True to his word, the prince orders some blankets up, and you have your pick of all the different materials the royal laundry has to offer. Large, thin, thick, fluffy, light, heavy. You grab the one that will provide the most comfort and roll yourself up, laying your head down on a pillow and closing your eyes. The sleep, at least, is like a sweet relief against the day’s worries, like a blissful blackout. When you wake, everything pitch dark, you have to blink to realize your eyes aren’t still closed. You also don’t sense an enormous, foreboding weight on the other side of the mattress, either, so you’re alone.

Hesitantly, you step out of the bed, feeling the ground for obstacles, and try to find your way out. Unfortunately, your shin crashes into something rather hard, so a string of curse words are out of your mouth before you can even stop the urge. When you take a second to breathe, you hear the skittering of pointed legs against the stone floor, and the lights turn on to a dim setting, the prince peeking his head through the door.

“You’re up,” he notices.

“What time is it? Already night?” You’re nowhere near the door and had been aiming for it in a slightly adjacent trajectory. Even if you hadn’t run into some sort of decorative statue, you would have then planted face-first into the wall only a moment later.

“It’s morning,” the prince says, “you slept through the rest of the day and through the night.”

“Incredible.” You say, somehow feeling thoroughly exhausted.

“I could turn the lights back off and let you go back to sleep? Oh, and there’s a lantern sensor on the table on your side of the bed, just touch the pad if you need to see.”

“I’m good, I probably need to face the day anyway.” You yawn, scratching your arm.

“Well,” his expression turns a tad hesitant, “your things are here, fully inspected by my security staff.”

That wakes you up as efficiently as getting a bucket of ice water dumped over your head. “Cool, that’s great. I’ll put on some clothes that actually fit me, then.”

“There’s also the matter of…” his voice trails off before he tries starting the sentence again. “Some of your things are considered contraband here.”

“I know.” Emit an aura of confidence. “But you know how I like having my safety in my own hands, so the guns stay.”

“That is acceptable, though you are aware that the outer shell of a drider is tough enough to take two or even three shots from your strongest rifle and still be able to fight?”

“Yeah?” You aren’t stupid. “The guns were there before you offered to teach me the fancy knife work.”

“I see.” He hesitates again, and you can see precisely what he wants to ask, but you let him flounder around because you hope that he will just choose not to bring it up. Oh, but no such luck, because he cocks his head and adds, “there is also something else found that I am, well, curious about.”

“Hm?” You ask, arching your eyebrows, hands on your hips.

“Several intriguingly shaped objects that seem to serve no function but to… well…”

A part of you enjoys watching him squirm, despite your own embarrassment. “Oh, did you not get the memo that humans tend to be creatures of sexual nature?”

“I…” he suddenly looks like he regrets bringing the subject up, “-did, but I suppose that I hadn’t realized that it was so... ferocious.”

“Well,” you stand on the tips of your toes to pat him on the shoulder, “I’ll spare you the more lewd details, doesn’t look like you can stomach it at the moment. Where did you say my stuff was?”

“Set against the front door.”

“Neat, thanks.”

It’s clear as day when you open your bags that they’ve been rifled through with great liberty. Still, after going through everything twice, you’re satisfied that all your stuff is still there, so you spin around and let out a muted sigh. “Any place I can put these?”

“My closet would be acceptable,” the prince says, working on something at his desk. His face seems… darker? More saturated? You wonder… could he be flushed? Is this what a flustered drider looks like?

You try not to laugh too loudly as you go to put your things away, organizing what you have among the prince’s clothes and accessories. Now that you have a moment, you figure you can go through his clothing just as a sort of preliminary investigation of what the prince (or the person who dresses him, at least) thinks is fashionable. Lots and lots of fluttery, light fabrics, robes, and tunics made to be seen by the careful eyes of a predator. You run your fingers over silky and scratchy threads, marveling at the textures, pulling some of the drapery out, so see how it falls back in place.

There aren’t really any sort of shoes, but there are a vast amount of accessories. Jewelry, for one, though you’ve never seen the prince wear anything more than rings and claws, but there are nose rings, earrings, necklaces, crowns, you name it, he has it, in black, silver, and even white. Now there’s a color you didn’t think you would see since you left the Starward Matchmaker™ ship. An older instinct inside of you wants to reach out and snatch at the metal and gemstones, and it’s something you have to actively fight against because you’re fingers always want to grab first, ask questions later.

Calmly, you turn around to gather up clothes to get into. By the time you’re changed, there’s already food sitting on the table for you to eat, so you hop right onto the human-sized chair across from the prince, who is already settled in his place. Oh, the spread is downright beautiful, a collection of foods both familiar and not, you’re so stupidly hungry that you go through a whole helping before you even taste anything. No one tells you that on top of being tired all the time from the extra gravity, you also end up being fucking famished because you’re exerting yourself more than usual. Your poor body’s burning calories up the wazoo as it struggles to adjust.

“About the doctor’s appointments,” the prince says, poking at his own food, “there aren’t many doctors with as much intimate knowledge on human anatomy as Doctor Nisesh.”

You look at him, but don’t say anything back.

“There is, however, a drow medical professional willing to become your doctor, if that suits you?”

You offer a nod.

He lets out a breath, as though he was expecting more of an argument, for whatever reason. “Well, I will send word. I’d like for you to have a preliminary exam as soon as possible, today, even, unless you have other plans?”

“Oh, hold on, let me look at my schedule.” You pull out your datapad’s calendar, which is decidedly empty. “Nope, looks like I can squeeze it in.”

“Excellent.” He seems pleased, at least, and you aren’t sure if its because you aren’t putting up a fight or he found your joke amusing. “I hope you will forgive me, but I will be in meetings for most of the day, there are some things I have been putting aside in lieu of, well, your arrival. Elias and another guard will escort you to and from my family’s private clinic.”

“Ooo, a whole clinic just for you and your family? I’m always so used to having to share those medical offices with everyone else in the area who needed them! I feel so darn special already.” Internally, you berate yourself for being just a wee bit too sarcastic, but he doesn’t seem at all bothered by your classy snark. Still, you try to dial it back significantly, even though you feel ridiculously cranky.

True to the prince’s word, Elias shows up a little bit later, his black uniform crisp and sharp in the dim light, shadowed by some kind of similarly uniformed drow, gun strapped to their hip. You’re already dressed, so you shove your datapad in your back pocket, say goodbye to the prince, and follow the assistant out into the halls. This floor’s decorations are significantly more rustic than the one above, like the prince’s room itself, with objects and statues you are sure probably date back a couple hundred or so generations. You’re very careful to keep your hands at your sides, afraid that you might accidentally move too weird and knock a millennia-old artifact onto the floor.

There are keys to the elevators, or, at least, for this level, which you suppose makes sense. It’s the same with stations and the like, the restricted areas kept under a keycode, but surely there has to be some sort of stairwell or tunnel that these people can use in the case of emergency. You would think, anyway. Lolth wasn’t always so technologically advanced, so they must like a tunnel system, maybe even air vents that go straight up to the surface dug when the atmosphere on this hellish planet was still breathable.

“Pardon me for asking, your grace, but your maid reported that you request that you speak to her in a plainer tone.” Elias breaks the ice, surprisingly. You thought that you might have to suffer the ride in stifling propriety.

“You can say ‘my bodyguard,’ it’s ok,” you say, unable to reel the retort in before it left your mouth. “And yes, I did. The constant respect got on my nerves, so I asked to be demoted to just ‘ma’am,’ if the titles are all that necessary.”

“I see,” Elias nods like he understands, “would you appreciate it if I did the same?”

It’s like a breath of fresh air, being spoken to like you’re on the same level, but you approach the offer with great trepidation. After all, this is the prince’spersonal assistant, the two of them might be colluding over the little bet you made. “I would, actually, if you don’t mind my, um, lack of formality. I know it bothers some of the staff.”

“My purpose here is to make you feel welcome, so if I must hold back a margin of bureaucratic language, then that is a sacrifice I’m sure the keias will understand.”

“Well, then, that sounds good to me, so long as you don’t get in trouble for it.”

An uncomfortable silence threatens to befall the elevator pod, but you’re saved by the doors opening. Elias exits first, and you get a decent view of the intricate, smooth braids his white hair is done up in. The twists are stiff, the kind that comes with an inordinate amount of product clinging to the strands, though the rest of his hair spill out like a frothing waterfall. The intricate hairstyles, especially from the staff, are just one of the ways everything is different from what you’re used to. With shorter hair comes efficiency, or, at least, the appearance of it, so most people you know have, at the very most, have shoulder-length cuts.

The guard stays behind you, as though watching for any attacks that might dare aim for your back. You aren’t one hundred percent positive, what with the assassination attempt and all, but you don’t really peg the driders as a people who would pull such a disgraceful maneuver, drows, though? You’re not so sure about them. Humanity is known for discriminating against their own on the basis of faked biology, so you aren’t exactly blown away and scandalized by the fact some other species does it as well, it’s just… well, eerie it to actually see it in action. Human slaves rebelled. You would think that the drow are doing the same, only everything nasty about the world is probably carefully shifted away from your view.

You’re on the same floor as the garden, so this must be where all the extra stuff besides living and eating quarters must be, a sort of recreational deck, you guess. Kind of like the space cruiser. The station is close by, and the ride to the clinic was rather peaceful. While you try asking Elias questions about himself, his life, the prince, and the prince’s family, he reacts… very dodgy, and the longest answers he gives are oh so very clearly scripted. You’re not stupid.

“You can just say that you’re not at liberty to talk about those things, it will be less obvious.”

Elias looks over at you again, his face tight with carefully restrained emotion. “I apologize. There are things that I would think would be better coming from the keias directly, rather than from me.”

“Alright.” You hold your hands up in mock surrender. “I’m sorry for poking at you.”

The rest of the ride continues in silence. You’re almost relieved that you can stand and walk out of the station, a small one, much like the one from the palace, with no other people present. It must be some kind of private platform, which honestly makes sense. The clinic looks familiar, but given the fact you spent the last time you were here in a drugged up like a sick dog, you can’t really say that you’d be able to find your way around. Before you can even look over to Elias for a pointer on which sliding door to enter through, someone wearing a lab coat steps out.

“Ah! My human patient,” an elderly drow female, her hair silver, “welcome, welcome. I am Doctor Eidel, I was told I would be expecting you today.”

With all the cold, distant reactions from everyone else you’ve met, having such a legitimately warm greeting puts you at ease, despite the very real possibility of a fucking war criminal lurking in around in the brightly decorated halls. “Thank you, hi.”

“Well, I’ve got the file the Starward Matchmakers sent out, so why don’t we step aside in one of the rooms and begin? Would you be comfortable with your party remaining present or waiting just out in the hall?”

The fact you even get a choice fills you with more relief than you can possibly describe. Turning to Elias and the guard, you say, “sorry, I know we’ve been bonding, but I don’t think we’re on the level of you seeing me naked quite yet. Not even-” the prince has that privilege, yet, you don’t say, because that might be going just a tad bit far. “I mean, I’d just appreciate the privacy.”

Absolutely no fight from either of them, probably just as equally opposed to the idea, so you follow the doctor into a room. She hands you a loose hospital gown for you to change into, and leaves you alone. All very basic doctor stuff, with no threats of experimentation and disembowelment. Boy howdy are you glad to have changed medical professionals, huh. The checkup is just like any other you’ve undergone, the doctor quick to look over just the basic health things, then goes over anything else you might be ‘concerned’ with.

“Alright, we’ve got some basic painkillers for your headaches, though it’s not going to be a permanent solution.” Doctor Eidel writes something on her datapad with a white electric pen.

“Are there any... ‘permanent solutions’ in the making?” You can’t imagine having to deal with this forever… though the idea of even being on one planet for the rest of your life gives you a heavy bout of vertigo.

“I’m afraid it’s just a simple matter of biology.” She sets aside the clipboard. “If you were born here, perhaps, it wouldn’t be such a large issue. But since you grew up in a place with smaller gravity- a mining station, correct?”

“Yes,” you say, your voice slightly smaller.

“My suggestion would be that you are going to have to take breaks from the gravity as to not strain your body. Every couple of cycles, you will need to spend, at the very least, equal time back in an area with the same force of gravity as what you are used to. The keias has been trying to find some other fix that would keep you here, on this planet, but I’m afraid that the simplest solution is often the best.”

Again, that feeling of entrapment creeping into your bones. “I- I see, thank you so much for your honesty.”

Again, she picks up her datapad and electric pen, scribbling something else done. “Well, following on the note of honesty, the queen wants a genetic compatibility and fertility test done on you.”

“But- um, I thought the Starward Matchmakers™ do some sort of similar test?” A bolt of panic runs through your spine.

“They do a basic overview, which is as good as a guessing game. However, given the sudden paleness of your skin, I will just pretend that I haven’t seen the message until after you leave.”

Relief numbs your panic, and you let out a breath. “Thank you, yes, I don’t really want you digging around up there right now.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” she takes her gloves off, “there’s only a certain amount of things you can avoid before she gets demanding. I’d suggest you talk to the keias so you can hide behind him.”

Well, given the earlier conversation involving dildos and the way he behaved, you aren’t sure he would be a whole lot of help in that regard, but you suppose you might have to give it a try. “Alright.”

“Well then, I’ll leave you to get dressed and order that medication. Don’t bother waiting, I’m sure there are a thousand security measures to get through before you so much as see a pill, so they’ll just be sent up to where you’re staying.” She taps her forehead with the back of her pen. “I’ll also give the prince a very mild suggestion that you get a couple of trips up into a neighboring moon resort in the near future, so your bones to catch a break.”

“Got it, thank you so much.” You mean it, too, this was probably the most candid conversation you’ve had since you got here. Once your clothes are back on, you leave as the doctor instructed, finding Elias and the security guard waiting out in the hall for you to emerge. You give neither of them any updates on your health, it’s not like it’s any of their business, anyway, so you’re rather silent as you get back in the car of the train and try to chill.

As you arrive back in the palace, stepping out of the car and into the courtyard area. Calmly, you look over at Elias as two other figures approach, large and terrifyingly quick, because you are still new to the whole drider royalty thing, and you aren’t sure how you’re supposed to handle this. Politely? Snarkily? Honestly, you’re in the mood for the latter, so you cross your arms in preparation for dealing with some ridiculous bullshit. You recognize one of them, the vice-marshal, he’s the one who gave you that shakedown when you first arrived. Little does he know that without the Starward Matchmaker™ representative to witness your transgressions, you suddenly feel an absolute lack of fear towards him.

“Well, well, well,” he drawls, looking you over, “you seem to be taking the gravity well.”

“Yeah!” You change your voice to the perkiest, sweetest customer service tone you can muster. “Doc says I’m doing pretty well, how super is that?”

“Super,” he echoes, clearly disgusted by the word in itself. “Now, don’t take this the wrong way, little lady, but my wife and I were rather worried when we heard about the security upgrades. A kidnapping attempt, perhaps? Or even worse, an assassination?”

Elias decides to step in, “a thousand apologies, vice-marshal,” damn, you’re getting some deja vu, you wonder how many times he has to say that every day, “but I’m afraid I must escort our lady back to the keias.”

” Of course,” the vice-marshal waves his hand in Elias’ general direction, “wouldn’t want Aksanoskeias getting all worried, now. He might wonder if his new fiance is dead, like the other one.”

#drider/reader #exophilia #monster boyfriend #monster/reader

[cre8iveskills]

Embroidery Digitization of Marrying Fabrics For Designs

Customized apparel with computerized embroidery adds a personal touch to the apparel and is widely used in brand promotions. But have you ever wondered why some embroideries look appealing while some are clear rejects? Well, there is a lot that has to be understood and mastered before considering computerized embroidery projects.

Back then, when embroidery was a manual task, it gained immense popularity due to the magical thread-work and elegant appearance. Hand embroidery required skilled manpower and a lot of time to accomplish projects. Computerized embroidery is the evolution of hand embroidery that led to a drastic transformation in the way embroidery is done. Although the basics are the same, simple hand-held tools have been replaced by technologically advanced machines and therefore more details have to be observed in order to create embroidery designs that look clean and attractive.

Custom embroidery digitization has made embroidering on apparel really quick and easy. But not all that looks excellent on computers and papers will look elegant on fabric. In order to design an appealing, neat, and unique embroidery on apparel, one needs to bring the right materials together. The fabric, needle, thread, design, machine software, and the design file format – all must be in a compatible form to bring out a masterpiece.

How does the choice of fabric impact your embroidery design?

The choice of fabrics greatly affects the embroidery designs and their entire appearance. Fabrics like cotton and performance fabrics are incapable of holding embroidery stitches well whereas those like types of denim, Polos, and most knits deliver great results. The reason is that lighter fabrics develop wrinkles after a single wash and thick fabrics strongly adhere to the embroidery stitches and let the design remain neatly in place even after frequent washes.

Important tips for embroidering on different fabrics

CANVAS – When you have to embroider on caps, t-shirts, bags and other apparel, the canvas is a great fabric option. Experts suggest shrinking the canvas before embroidering to ensure the design remains the same even after multiple washes.

FLEECE – Fleece is the best choice for embroidering on jackets, vests, and pullovers. It is important to select high-quality fleece as low-quality fleece tends to stretch or move during the process and may ruin your design. Use a medium-weight cutaway stabilizer and spray adhesive on it to create a stable support for embroidering as the polyester component in fleece makes it slippery and stretchy.

JERSEY – This is an all-time favorite of embroiders as it produces elegant, high-quality embroidery pieces that look beautiful and incorporate nature into the apparel. Jersey knits are stretchy and thin which requires the use of cutaway stabilizers in order to ensure firm support during the process. Using a stabilizer also makes sure that your embroidery remains intact in its original shape and color after several washes and uses. It is advisable to use a no-show mesh stabilizer as jersey knits are sheer in nature. Also, to avoid wrinkling of the material it is important to spray an adhesive on the stabilizer that strengthens the bond. You can also use fusible or adhesive-backed cutaway instead of the spray.

MICROFIBERS – When embroidering on microfibers, make sure to wash and dry it before use. It is a synthetic material and is finer than human hair. Therefore, it is often blended with nylon/polyester that results in the stretchy nature of Microfiber. Experts recommend using a medium weight cutaway stabilizer to offer a strong, stable base for embroidery stitching.

MICRO PIQUE – Mostly used for athletic wear, Micro pique fabric is a great choice for embroidery designs on polo shirts. To ensure a neatly embroidered design that sustains several washes, it is important to use a soft cutaway stabilizer along with an air erasable fabric pen for designing.

Like all successful marriages, there needs to be a strong sense of compatibility between the chosen fabric and the allocated design. Each has characteristics an intended purpose and specific details that need to be considered. Therefore, before implementing, one should ask (or us) the following questions to ensure the best results and optimum satisfaction with the results:

Will the design’s stitch density change the hand of the fabric? If so, does this pose a challenge or obstacle?

How will the fabric’s color, weight, and texture influence the design?

By using backing or topping, could you achieve a better result?

Can this fabric be used in digitized embroidery and is it sustainable?

Does the fabric gather or could the drape be affected by the embroidery?

Is there an alternate fabric that can be used that would provide better results?

Would you recommend using a different embroidery technique?

Fabric is the base of your embroidery and other equipment perform on the base. So, it is important to select the right embroidery equipment and most importantly the fabric while creating embroidery designs. Customized embroidery designing is a platform that gives creative embroiders an opportunity to experiment and create amazing embroidery pieces. We, at Cre8iveSkill, empower such digital embroidery and with highly advanced machinery we undertake embroidery projects and have set a record of delivering projects within a turnaround time of 12 hours. For further inquiries, contact us on [phone].

Source: https://www.cre8iveskill.com/blog/computerised-embroidery-marrying-fabric-with-designs

#computerized embroidery #customized embroidery designing #embroidery designs #fabric with embroidery designs #Computerized embroidery service #embroidery digitizing #embroidery design #machine embroidery #digital embroidery #digital embroidery design #digitized embroidery #digitized embroidery design #digitized embroidery service #embroidery design online #embroidery design online service

[fistsoflightning]

9: confidence boost

prompt: lush || masterpost || other fills || ao3 mirror

word count: 2256

It’s all fun and games until they all get invited to an Ishgardian ball. (Or; Lumelle has never liked anything to do with the high society of her hometown. A’dewah tries to help his friend out.)

Contains canon-divergence bits and bobs, notably pertaining to the Vault, because why not?

“Mel,” Auphine calls from the doorway, fiddling with her boots, maybe—A’dewah can’t quite see her fully from where he stands in front of Lumelle’s (extremely dusty, clearly unused) vanity, more focused on clearing up the mirror than anything. “What are you going to do about your face?”

“Do not repeat this back to Mama, but I,” Lumelle huffs, and if she weren’t standing incredibly still so that Valdis and Lunya can finish taking adjustment measurements for her dress A’dewah thinks her arms would be crossed firmly across her chest. “have no swiving clue what you mean by ‘what am I going to do about my face’, Auphie.”

Duscha raises an amused eyebrow over the brim of his book while Elwin giggles into his palm. No one really expected her to know—at least, among that of the Scions and her usual friends—but Auphine makes an exaggerated sighing motion with her shoulders as she stands straight.

“You know Mama’s going to want you ‘dolled up’, or what have you,” she explains. “And the other nobles—”

“If they give a damn, they can talk to the business end of Fragarach,” Lumelle grumbles as Valdis softly pushes her arms back down. Auphine sighs louder, and A’dewah didn’t think the little conjurer had that large of lungs on her; clearly he’s mistaken, by how her exhale carries.

“Do not tell me I did not warn you!” Auphine waves to Elwin as she leaves the room, the heels of her boots clicking against the wooden floor of the manor. Lumelle groans loud enough to wake Tehra’ir up from his slump against Zaya’s shoulder momentarily, eventually resting his forehead carefully back onto their shoulder, making sure not to press his eyes into the white of their dress shirt.

For his own merit, he does his best to ignore it while he carefully swipes the tube of lipstick across his lips, pausing when Syhrwyda leans over to pick up her hairpin from the vanity. She catches his gloss, too, when it falls on its side and starts to roll away; he could probably hug her for that. Damned glass vials and all.

“Mel,” Elwin says, his swinging feet tapping against the settee. “I think Auphie might be right.”

“...I know, but I—it’s not like I know how to use any of—of that stuff Mama dumped onto me when I came back. Most of it’s probably dried up, by now.”

A’dewah, for the curious bit of him that is right next to all the old cosmetics, opens up a pot of what likely used to be a scented lotion that smelled strongly of sandalwood.

What he finds is nearly rock hard. Well then.

“Dress’s done,” Valdis says quietly, Lunya snipping the last bit of thread hanging from Lumelle’s sleeve. The high house dress… looks incredibly uncomfortable for her, he thinks, compared to the normal surcoats and cuirasses she’d normally prefer.

“You all should get going,” Lumelle says, looking up at the chronometer. Nearly the seventh bell. “I… guess I’ll be here for a while yet.” 

“Here,” he says, scooting over on the bench to leave enough space for Lumelle to sit. He waves the closed tube of lipstick in the air when Zaya tilts their head in confusion. “I can stay behind and help her.”

Lumelle, for her merit, gives him a wary glance that might as well be screeching this better not end with me in a face of powders, but she trudges her way over anyhow as everybody else leaves Lumelle’s room. Zaya gives him a small wink before they turn the corner, pointing to the two corsages sitting at the end of Lumelle’s old bed.

“Why do you know so much about cosmetics, anyhow?” She sits with all the grace of a lion stumbling through a minefield, really, shaking the bench as she falls back onto it.

“I have three sisters,” he murmurs as he fumbles with the containers and pots he’s laid out before him, opening to check the colors and closing when he looks back over to Lumelle’s skin. He should have asked someone else—surely Lumelle’s mother, but Lumelle herself would not appreciate her mother fussing about. Perhaps someone from House Fortemps would have known of some cosmetics common to Ishgard, and a merchant. Aymeric, maybe; he looks like he would know his way around a few brushes. If he’d the willpower, Hanami would have worked, too, having lived in Ishgard long enough to count as one of them... even if he’d probably get his head taken off in the process. “My youngest brother likes to, er, contour, too. Hard to avoid cosmetic talks when most of your siblings, who’ve been very much restrained in their pastimes since forever, enjoy it? And…”

He taps the top of his cosmetics box; small enough to fit into the bottom of his satchel, beneath all the books and draughts he lugs around when he’s traveling by foot, all the pots and brushes neatly tucked away. He’d needed to buy newer paints and cremes when he’d gotten back from the First—a pain, seeing as he’d been without for long enough, but if the urge struck and he didn’t have his box refilled he’d probably see his anxiety spike—but none of them would match Lumelle’s darker skin either way.

“I, uhm, might have a bit of fun with this, from time to time?” The urge to wring his hands together is incredibly strong, but he fiddles with the latch on his cosmetics box. He hadn’t even really shown Haruki, now that he thinks about it—more a private pleasure than anything, now out to his friends. 

Character development, he thinks wryly. You will be fine.

Maybe he should have waited to put on the lip paint, he thinks as he helps wrangle the rest of Lumelle’s hair into a nice crown braid. All straightened out, strange compared to the very wavy-haired Lumelle he’d passed by not a few mornings ago, and the coarse texture of her hair rubs oddly against the pads of his fingers.

Now…

“Could you turn to face me?” He carefully opens his cosmetics box to pull out a few small brushes—making sure to set them apart from the brush he’d already used, a new pot of cool red paint, and a small jar of dark powder. “Promise I won’t, er, go overboard.”

“I trust you,” she says, even though it doesn’t look like she believes it, and she closes her eyes.

The quiet click and clatter of closing and opening containers fills the comfortable quiet as A’dewah brushes powders and paints onto Lumelle’s face. He has to remind her with a quiet tap on her knuckles not to scrunch her face, sometimes, but he can’t quite blame her when he’s trying not to sneeze the whole time from the dust that flutters about in motes, the sunset fading through the window making them gleam.

“You’ll keep these after I’m done,” he says while he finishes up the edges of Lumelle’s lip paint, the bright red perhaps a tad too bright for how much he’s put on; maybe he can wipe a bit of it off? “Sanitary things, is all. I—I don’t expect you to keep using them!”

Lumelle doesn’t say anything, not even a quiet protest, instead turning her head to look at herself in the mirror.

“This is weird,” she finally decides, after a few moments of staring intensely at the mirror. “Not used to my lips being… red.”

“Is it bad?”

He pulls out another tube of gloss—thank the Matron he’d decided to get a spare tube from that merchant in Ul’dah—and Lumelle sighs. “Not as bad as I thought it might, no. It’s just…”

Her brow furrows again.

“Here,” he mumbles, a bit awkwardly. “Put that on, and I’ll grab your earring.”

It takes a bit of fishing around in the drawers, unorganized as they are; he sneezes, once, when he opens it too fast and the dust goes flying into the air, but eventually he finds the slightly tarnished House Fortemps earring among the wreck that is Lumelle’s vanity. It gleams, still, in the fading sunlight, the red unicorn standing out among the dark grey metal around it.

“Done,” Lumelle says. He turns, and it’s… not as neat as he’d hoped, but it’s miles better than anything Vahno could have done, at any rate, so he presses the earring into her upturned palm among the light scars and smiles.

“There we go,” he murmurs, gently swiping his thumb to clean off some of the out-of-place gloss. “Grab the corsages for me, and I think we’re done.”

Lumelle nearly tumbles off the seat when she leans back to grab the two corsages, barely catching herself as A’dewah cleans up what he can—part of him nearly sets to cleaning the rest of Lumelle’s vanity, messy as it is, but he manages to hold back. For now.

He pins the (rather extravagant) brightlily corsage into his own hair, the light blue kind of blending into his hair, and hands Lumelle the white one to place in her own. Once she’s got it all pinned down—well, he has to brush a few leaves away from her face; Valdis must have taken the other smaller one he’d made—he stands, and waits for Lumelle to follow suit before he carefully grabs her wrist, ignoring the chill of the thin rose gold bracelets Auphine had shoved onto her sister’s wrist.

“Now,” he says, lightly pulling Lumelle closer to the mirror and stepping next to her. “Try striking a pose, or—or, uh, doing something that feels just a tad exaggerated.” He nearly leaves off there, looking a bit at himself and the light smudge in his lipstick before realizing what might happen. “WITHOUT getting your sword or shield. Please.”

“Killjoy,” Lumelle grumbles, but she takes one look at the two of them in the mirror, and her brow furrows deep enough that A’dewah feels a slight panic rising that the creme and powder on her forehead might crack. “Why with the poses, though. What’s the point?”

He has to think about, well, why he does the silly poses in the mirror before he can answer. “C-confidence? I—mm, actually,” he mumbles, spinning in a small circle and watching the skirt of his dress shimmer, fabric glimmering. Maybe he was right to let Zaya help Lunya design… this. “It’s… nice?”

“Nice?”

“Yes,” he says, a bit braver now. “Something that has nothing to do with being ‘heroic’ or ‘strong’, maybe. Just… plain and silly. Normal-ish.”

Lumelle hums just before she moves quick, pumping her fist into the air with her stance widened enough that A’dewah can see she’s still wearing her normal boots just beneath the hem of her skirt. She’s plastered a goofy sort of grin onto her face, brightened by the bright red lip paint and the light bouncing off the mirror onto her.

“There you go!” He sways about again, planting one hand on his hip and swinging his other arm out with the swish of his dress, nervously grinning as Lumelle’s eyebrows raise under her bangs. There’s a few moments of quiet, almost like time is frozen while they stand in their silly poses; a bit awkwardly, seeing how his tail has swung out from behind him and Lumelle had managed to throw her braid over her shoulder. 

It hardly takes a moment for them to both be laughing, A’dewah nearly doubled over because oh gods did he just do that and Lumelle’s hyena-like laughter isn’t helping, either. Something so preciously silly about that exact moment sticks in the aether, singing of first snows and brilliant sunlight as A’dewah tries his best not to wipe at his eyes. He lets his hands adjust the hems of his sleeves instead while Lumelle falls back into her blustery nervousness, cautiously wiping tears from her eyes before it grows quiet again.

“I am… not sure I feel any better about this.” Lumelle’s hands bunch in her skirt, eyes looking downward. “Part of the reason I left, instead of taking another trial by combat, I suppose. Never liked it all.”

That’s… about what he suspected. 

“That’s alright,” he soothes, smoothing out his own dress. He’s likely going to regret the heels in a few bells, but oh well. At least he won’t have to crane his head as much if someone does decide to talk to him. “Everyone will probably be, uh, a bit tipsy anyhow. They won’t notice you too much, either.” He looks to Lumelle through the mirror, watching as she tilts her head back up, the corners of his mouth tugging at a nervous smile. He’s… not sure if he’s assuring her more than himself, really. “If you get nervous, you can come find me, probably hiding behind a—a planter, or something. The lilies the Ishgardians like to use are, uh, big enough to hide the two of us. Failing that—”

“We find Haurchefant and let his enthusiasm distract everyone so we can escape. Got it,” Lumelle says assuredly, nodding to herself in the mirror and finally standing straight.

A’dewah bites the inside of his lip to keep from bursting into laughter. “Right.”

With one last little motion—one he’s seen her do to pump herself up before a mission—-Lumelle strides out to the doorway with a certain bounce in her step that she didn’t have earlier, stomping as she did to Lunya and Valdis’ measuring tapes, the corset on her dress keeping her from moving around as she wished. A’dewah smiles. 

They would be alright.

#ffxiv #my writing #tales from the blue #ffxivwrite #ffxivwrite2020 #elie's ffxivwrite2020 #a'dewah tia #duscha vesnasch #elwin de lipine #lumelle de lipine #tehra'ir naphto #syhrwyda maetityrbwyn #valdis otoel #zaya qestir #auphine de lipine #fun times! #considering i know absolutely Nothing about makeup or beauty i sure went bonkers #im just jammin in my corner thinking about lush baff boms.....

[skelffricat]

I felt depressed today, so decided to make a list.

“We’re fated to pretend.”

WHAT IS THE POINT IN ANYTHING?

“Love must be forgotten. Life can always start off anew.”

WHAT IS THE POINT IN ANYTHING???

Must… practise… gratitude…

Why bother? AAARGH!!!

Think of Things You Love…

I love my children, I love my mother, I love my brothers.

I love my bicycle. I love to decorate it. I love feeling smug, cycling off, when everyone is waiting for a taxi.

I love sharpening pencils with a knife; I love the colourful detritus it creates. I love to colour in.

I love tulips, plants, trees, bees.

I love bright colours, fluffy socks, long baths.

I love words; I love new languages; I love comparing how they work against mine. I love to learn how to turn a sound into a word picture in Cantonese. I love reading novels- children's are usually the best, though I'm currently obsessed with Kate Atkinson.

I love the way flowers open and close; how their heads follow the sun, attentively.

I love niche cutlery. I love owning something I only need, maybe, once a year. Less than that. A melon baller. A pizza slicer. A citrus zester. A weird flat spoon with a picture of an eye on it to burn Absinth through. (Is that even LEGAL?) I love to bury them in the drawer, in a confusing, entangled, dangerous, jumble.

I love a bone-handled butter knife (if it's fake bone, I don't mind), and my Eden mug, as the china is thin and pleasing.

I love David Attenborough, Cerys Matthews, Mark Radcliffe, Kate Stables, Simon Mayo.

I love looking at people’s bare feet (that’s mildly controversial).

I love making people laugh, I love to sing, I love to swing, I love to be upside-down.

I love wearing red. I love wearing clashing colours. I don’t realise they’re clashing. Cacophonous colours.

I love my wooden watch, and I love its imperfection in that it has had to be sewn back together- the thread all greasy now, from frequent applications, to the skin beneath it, of coconut oil.

I love coconut oil. On me and in me. I love to cook. I love vegetables. I love a meal with every colour. I love to feed people. I love it when they want more.

I love maps, but I don’t know where anything is- all my maps are out of date.

I love my car. I love to listen to music really loudly in it, and to sing even louder. I love to decorate it, too, inside and out. With drawings, and- some mildly offensive (to the ignorant)- stickers.

I love 6Music, Radio 2, 4 Extra, Radio Ulster- SOMETIMES.

I love my spare bicycle. I love how different each is to ride, but how, because of the panniers, people know they’re both mine. I love my panniers. I’ve fixed them so many times. Stitches of love.

I love the theatre. I love the front row. I love to see their spit. I love musicals. I love a clever, beautiful set. I love it when they break the fourth wall. I love circus, even more. I love street theatre. I love it when they break the rules, reinvent, make me laugh and cry.

I love a heady mix of irreverence versus respect.

I love new buds. Furry ones, sticky ones, big ones, hidden ones.

I love the days getting longer; I love the clocks going forward.

I love Mark Thomas.

I love it when people care enough to make a difference. I love it even more when they do it with humour, passion, and style.

I love an Oxford comma. I love it when people can spell and punctuate, yet I also love to read dyslexic writing- the differing logic of it intrigues me.

I love my ears, they’re neat and round.

I love Hollie McNish. I love Adam Buxton.

I love The Beatles. I love their films, and quoting them relentlessly as I watch, in a terrible Scouse accent.

I love traditional music sessions. I love The Sunflower on a Sunday. I love cider. I love the bar staff knowing that I love cider. I love the monthly Observer food-porn magazine, and failing to do the crossword.

I love the River Lagan. I love living near it, knowing I can follow it into town, or into the fields or the forest, the other way.

I love the sky, even when it’s grey.

I love picking scabs and squeezing spots and plucking hairs (anyone’s will do). I love having my hair stroked.

I love the way the bricks of my house radiate warmth on a sunny summer evening, as the sun sets onto it. I love to sit out the front catching the end of it. I love to see the children playing outside, and I love to chat to the neighbours.

I love festivals- the music; the art; the wandering; the chaos; the camaraderie; the apocalyptic feel at the end when you've stayed too long, and anything you find on the ground can belong to you.

I love it when an accidental doodle turns into something wonderful.

I love people-watching.

I love looking at art, even if it's shit.

I love the Ulster Museum. I love the smell and texture of the floors. I loved to let my children crawl on them, when crawling was all they could do (although, should they wish to continue crawling on them now, I'm not going to stop them). I love Takabuti, and the Glowing Stones, and the Willow Dragons, up high.

I love yellow raincoats.

I love to hear birdsong (and I do, from my house).

I love symmetrical pebbles. I love to lick them, taste the salt, see what colour they turn.

I love the sea.

I love Rathlin Island. I love the 40 miles of sky, the sound of the wind and the water, and seeing the weather before it happens. I love the brilliant humans, and the crazy cars, and the best pub. I love a NEW island- I just went to Eigg. Isle of Eigg, I love Eigg.

I loved Granny’s house in Ballygally, and how she took me out to paint- the boats in the harbour at Carnlough; the Old Man’s Window; The Black Arch... I love Antrim. I love how she served me slices of melon, with ginger and sugar. I love the out-of-date maps I inherited from her (my uncle nearly threw them out!) I loved my granny.

What is the point in anything?

The point is love. The point is love. The point is love.

(Thanks to MGMT)

22nd March 2018

#love #stay strong #river lagan #ballygally #i love eigg #rathlin #adam buxton #hollie mcnish #cerys matthews #david attenborough #mark radcliffe #mark thomas #kate atkinson #kate stables #simon mayo

[tianyangsteeltube]

What issues should be paid attention to when choosing seamless steel tubes?

At present, there are many brands of seamless steel tube on the market. Seamless steel tube is widely used in construction, mechanical parts and other fields because of its light weight and the same bending and torsional strength. Seamless steel tube can be applied in many areas. The following seamless steel tube manufacturers will tell you what to pay attention to when purchasing seamless steel tube?

1. The transverse rib of the fake seamless steel tube is thin and low, and it is often not full. The reason is that the manufacturer exceeds the large negative dimensional tolerance. The plate wells are not full.

2. The section of the fake and inferior seamless steel tube is oval, the reason is that the manufacturer saves the raw material, the reduction amount of the first two passes of the finished product roll is slightly larger, the compressive strength of this kind of threaded steel is greatly reduced, and it does not match Specification for rebar dimensions.

3. The composition of high-quality seamless steel tube is well-proportioned, the tonnage of the cold shearing machine is high, and the inner hole of the cutting head is smooth and neat, while the inner hole of the cutting head often has the condition of falling meat due to poor material, that is, unevenness, And no metal texture. And because the counterfeit and inferior materials manufacturers have less cut ends, there will be big ears at the beginning and the end.

4. The fake and inferior seamless steel tube material contains a lot of residue, the density of the steel is small, and the specification deviation is relatively serious, so it can be checked for weighing without a micrometer. For example, for rebar 20, the national industry standard requires a larger negative dimensional tolerance of 5%. When the fixed length is 9M, its single weight is 120KG, and its minimum net weight should be: 120X (1-5%) = 114KG, If the specific net weight of a single piece weighed is smaller than 114KG, it is a fake and inferior seamless steel tube, because its negative dimensional tolerance exceeds 5%. Generally speaking, the actual effect of the whole equivalent amount will be stronger, and the key is to fully consider the problem of accumulation deviation and the theory of high rate.

5. The nominal diameter of the fake seamless steel tube fluctuates greatly, the reasons are: the steel temperature is not stable and there are positive and negative sides; the steel composition is not symmetrical; because of the simple equipment, the compressive strength of the roadbed is low, and the extruder jumps greatly. It will appear that the nominal diameter changes greatly in the same week, and the uneven support of such building steel bars is easy to cause cracks.

6. The trademark logo and hot stamping of high-quality materials are relatively standard.

7. The longitudinal bars of the fake seamless steel tube are often wavy.

Try to go to the dealers or dealerships of large and medium-sized seamless steel tube manufacturing enterprises to buy seamless steel tubes. The seamless steel tubes of such market sales units are directly supplied by the manufacturing enterprises, and the quality of seamless steel tubes is more guaranteed; Check the product quality certificate and the certificate number of the production license management method presented by the seamless steel tube manufacturing enterprise; you need to see the technical performance and labeling of the construction steel bar. The steel bar for construction should be rolled with the model mark, company name (or trademark logo) and diameter on its surface; pay attention to observation, the surface layer of seamless steel tube is not allowed to have defects such as cracks, scabs and expansion. There are difficulties mentioned, please pay attention.

#seamless steel tube #seamless steel tube purchase precautions #seamless steel tube manufacturers

[hollybrookesbcu]

Bonding Plastics

I decided to experiment with bonding plastics together that I can later pleat or create pin tucks into. I used recycled plastics because not only is it sustainable, the shine and creases on the plastic, mimics the textures of water.

For this sample, I placed pieces of thin, blue plastic bag on a thin, clear plastic bag. In stripes, to show the organized, yet not-neat placement of ripples and waves in water. Once I put this under the heat press, the plastic didn’t bond, they just fell apart. This made this sample ineffective because the plastic not bonding didn't allow me to work further into the sample, adding more texture, however, I learned that I should next time sandwich the blue in between two pieces of the clear plastic, in order to make the plastic stay in place. 

For this sample, I bonded together two pieces of thin, clear plastic, sandwiched with cut-up strips of a blue Ikea bag. I did this because I felt that these stripes mimicked ripples on water, and the placement of the ripples. I decided to sandwich the strips between two pieces of the same plastic, because this would ensure that the stripes remain in place. I felt that this was quite successful, because the plastic went from being quite weak to more rigid and strong, which would make it easier to work into should I choose to. This sample taught me that the plastics become firmer when heated, which I could use in my later work.

For this sample, I used a thicker plastic, to create a very rigid sample. I placed strips of a dark blue plastic bag in between the layers of clear plastic, to mimic the stripes and ripples on water. I felt that it was very successful because the two layers of clear plastic bonded together, keeping the blur plastic in place. The messy, cut stripes show the unpredictability of water, which makes this sample effective because I wanted to convey the juxtaposition between still, calm water and aggressive, rough water. I think that I will work back into this sample, for example, by putting pleats in it.

For this sample, I decided to scrunch up some plastics and bond them together, to see what effect this would give. I used a rigid, thick plastic, and layered a scrunched up clear, thin plastic bag, and some blue, thin plastic bag. I did this because the combination of blue and layered clear, looks similar to blue water and the white foam on waves. I think that this sample was quite successful because the scrunched effect gave the bag lots of small creases and folds, which mimicked the way water folds on itself when a wave is formed, and the ripples and textures in the water. However, I feel as though the sample is very uninteresting to look at because there is a lack of texture as they are all the same material, and I am unsure of how it could be improved, because I think that working back into it would distract away from the creases, which is the more successful part of the sample.

For this sample, I layered the same clear, thick plastic on top of itself multiple times, to see what might happen. I felt that this sample was quite ineffective because it just made a very strong clear plastic, that didn’t correlate or visually communicate my narrative. I could potentially work back into it by adding more heat or sewing into it.

For this sample, I used a piece of thin blue plastic, layered a ripped clear plastic bag (because the rip mimicked the style of a wave once it has crashed, and looked similar to the bubbles and foam that are formed when this happens.). I then layered a strip of a dark blue plastic bag over this, to represent the darker blue in the water. I felt that this sample was quite ineffective. The layers didn’t bond together very well, and the foamy effect that the ripped plastic created, flattened when heated. I also think that this sample is very basic and uninteresting, and it could be made more interesting if I worked back into it, with pleating or embroidery, for example.

This sample was created by layering a blue, thin plastic over a clear, thin fabric. When I applied heat, the plastics stuck together, which is effective because this didn’t happen for some of the plastics, and the samples just fell apart. I felt that this sample would be effective for working back into, with techniques such as pleating or pin tucks; to make it more interesting and to allow it to relate to my narrative more closely.

I created this sample by placing pieces of blue thread on a piece of bubble wrap and using free-machine embroidery. I used bubble wrap, to mimic the bubbles in the ocean. I arranged the blue threads so that they are waved, to show water movement. When I sewed the threads on, I created thicker patches of white, to show the bubbles on the waves in the water. I allowed the loose threads to hang, to make the sample more interesting and visually exciting. I felt that this sample was quite boring, so I decided to put it in the heat press, in order to experiment with what would happen. The sample remained very similar to how it looked before I had put it in the heat press, apart from the bubbles had popped. I think that this sample successfully shows my narrative because the different textures, colours and shapes are similar to that of water, however, there is something missing from it. I will use what I learned in this sample, to ensure that future samples have more depth.

For this sample, I sliced some pieces of blue plastic, that is quite thick, between two pieces of thick clear plastic. When I was arranging the blue plastic, it started top curl, so I decided to let it curl and put it in the heat press, to see what might happen. I felt that the curls looked similar to curls that are formed when a wave gets quite high. Some of the blue plastic flattened, and one piece shrunk/ curled up more. I felt that this sample was quite boring, I will probably work back into it with another technique; for example, aquafilm.

For this sample, I used a thick clear plastic and I firstly added two large pieces of blue, thin plastic, and then added a white plastic, that was black on the back, that was cut into wavy, thin stripes, to mimic the foam on a wave. I also added a shiny rose-gold plastic bag, to add a contrasting colour, and to represent the shine on water. I then sealed this with another layer of the thick clear plastic. This sample is quite effective because it translates my narrative, however, I would like to work more into it because it is quite simple, and lacks texture.