#mushroom export business

[henrywilson123]

Recent global mushroom trade growth is fueled by changing consumer preferences, health awareness, and food industry expansion. India is a notable player in this trend, with its mushrooms gaining unexpected global acclaim, yielding lucrative returns for traders. Explore more on this intriguing development and delve into the complexities of mushroom exports from India.

#mushroom exporters #mushroom exporters in india #mushroom exports #mushroom market size in india #mushrooms #import export #import data #import export data #import #export #export data #mushroom #Mushroom export data #Mushroom Exports from India #mushroom export business #mushroom export data from India #Top 10 mushroom exporters in India #mushroom exporters in India #mushroom Exporting Countries

[petrichor-edje]

Do they get all the banana peels for Mario kart via a trade deal with donkey Kong?

#mario kart #donkey kong #banana peels are the primary export of the donkey kong region #without this line of income the dk economy would enter decline #the mushroom kingdom knows this and attempted to bargain for lower prices by threatening to take their business elsewhere #but soon discovered that nowhere else was able to provide bulk banana peels in the necessary quantities

[zvaigzdelasas]

[The Herald is Zimbabwean State Media]

ZIMBABWE will soon receive a large injection of technology for mushroom farmers to upgrade their business and to bring many more into the sector, along with US$20 million worth of extra food assistance from China.

CHINA has been the main anchor of major economic milestones that the Second Republic has registered including the construction of the iconic, magnificent and imposing new Parliament building in Mount Hampden on the outskirts of Harare, President Mnangagwa has said.

The Head of State and Government said there has been growing diplomatic and economic engagement between Zimbabwe and China over the past years resulting in more companies from the Asian economic giant coming to make huge investments in the country.

President Mnangagwa said this yesterday at a handover ceremony of the China-aided New Parliament Building Project in Mt Hampden where Beijing officially handed over the building to Zimbabwe.[...]

“Over and above these projects, we have witnessed increased diplomatic and economic engagement between Zimbabwe and the People’s Republic of China. In addition, our country has seen many more Chinese companies investing in various sectors of the economy. The emergence of quality export products from Zimbabwe, particularly citrus, entering the Chinese market is a welcome development. The milestones that Zimbabwe has realised since the advent of the Second Republic have been positively impacted by the support of His Excellency, President Xi Jinping and the people of China.”[...]

“Honourable Members of the visiting Chinese delegation, we have noted that your country has developed based on its own resources and people. We are proud as Zimbabwe to have developed our own development philosophy, which recognises our peculiar realities, inspired by China’s development path. Here we say, Nyika inovakwa nevene vayo, Ilizwe lakhiwa ngabanikazi balo which, simply translated means ‘a country is built by its own people’.”[...]

“We shall forever be grateful to the People’s Republic of China who, along with the Russian Federation, vetoed machinations by some Western countries who in 2008, attempted to pass a United Nations Chapter 7 resolution on Zimbabwe at the United Nations Security Council. Presently, the People’s Republic of China continues to stand with Zimbabwe against the illegal sanctions and opposes interference in our internal affairs,” he said.

27 Oct 23

[nardo-headcanons]

It's Naruto Worldbuildin Time!

How was Kusagakure able to stay in business?

Here's what Narutopedia DE has to say: Kusagakure (草隔れ, Kusagakure no Sato, literally "The Village Hidden in the Grass") is located in the Grass Realm. The shinobi from this village specialize in jutsus that can affect the flora and fauna. Referring to the shinobi who came from Kusagakure, it can be assumed that this village is much less peaceful. More from Narutopedia EN: Kusagakure is skilled in diplomacy, a trait they constantly use to read the movements of other countries and stay one step ahead of them. They also analyse techniques from other villages in a similar manner. Because of these principles, others find it hard to read the shinobi from this village's attitudes. Although it has never been named, the country Kusagakure is located in has been shown on several occasions. The country is rich with forests, some consisting of giant mushrooms or bamboo. It also seems to have many rivers and deep ravines.

Imperialism is a thing in the shinobi world, and the grass realm was raided by Iwagakure. Despite that, it seems to be quite industrialized. I was wondering how? Here's my theory. Before the grass realm had its rich forests and mushrooms, it was surrounded by.. well.. grasslands. The ability of Kusa ninja to change the flora and fauna has made it possible to turn those badlands into rich forests with huge mushrooms. But aside from creating forestlands, Kusagakure found another way to utilize their speciality: Grain cultivation and agriculture.

Kusagakure is the biggest exporter of grains (except rice, that's Kiri) and vegetables. They can create the best growing conditions for these products. Also, the flowershop that Ino's family owns? The flowers they sell are imported from Kusagakure.

#naruto headcanons #naruto shippuden #naruto #naruto imagines #naruto scenarios #naruto fanfiction #headcanons #fanfiction #theory #fan theory #naruto fandom #naruto theory #kusagakure #karin uzumaki

[crabs-with-sticks]

The possibility of aromantic living situations

Busy this Valentines Day as an aroace person thinking about the relationship between capitalism, family structures, and property (very normal thing to think about I know). In a book I read recently, The Mushroom at the End of the World; On the Possibility of Life in Capitalist Ruins by Anna Lowenhaupt Tsing, she talks about one of the goals of capitalism is scalability. Scalability is about making sure that a unit can work on every different sized model. Endless growth is an important part of capitalism, and if all your 'units' are the same size, you can easily create the same thing, just bigger, only requiring more of the same parts, rather than creating new parts. E.g. if you have a square block, you can create the exact same shape just bigger (read: making more money) if you have four more of the same square blocks.

The nuclear family is one of those squares that forms the basis of so much of society from housing to child raising to everyday finances. It is no secret that the nuclear family (mum, dad, and kids) is seen as the ideal and moral family structure in most of the west. And colonialism has had a big part in exporting this to other places around the world. But for many people, especially aro folks, this structure just doesn't fit what we want out of life.

And I've just been thinking about how that idea of the nuclear family is related to property and wealth and how it disadvantages queer folks. In the country which I live in, there is a massive housing crisis and owning a house is a pipe dream for many because of the cost. Property is culturally seen as probably the main way in which you build wealth/capital because you don't get taxed on it (there is no property/capital gains tax) and there are SO MANY tax benefits for landlords its insane. So when housing is linked so majorly to wealth and capitalism it makes sense that you would want it to be scalable.

And what is the most scalable living/family structure? The nuclear family. So, since housing is market driven, theres no incentive to create other types of houses/living situations except those designed for the nuclear family. Because property/housing is so ingrained in capitalism, that its an investment, and you want to be going for a big portion of the market.

This just creates an endless cycle of property enforcing traditional nuclear family structures, and nuclear family structures enforcing property. Because there is no incentive to provide anything different and there is limited ability to be anything else. And even if a person, or developer or whatever wants to create something non-typical (e.g. cohousing and coliving, at least in my country) because its not scalable or market friendly, good luck finding a bank to give you a loan, or a developer to work on it, or hell even the government to have proper land classifications to make such a project possible.

It just frustrates me so much as a non-partnering aromantic person because I feel like I have no options and I have to fit my circular shape into a square just so that people can build a bigger model of the exact same thing. And I think its something that we don't talk enough about in the queer community, and that we make ourselves into these square blocks because there is no other way to be, and in doing so just enforcing the very structures that oppress us.

So anyway, rant over. Hopefully my brain dump made sense and resonates with some of y'all. And go read The Mushroom at the End of the World, its really eye opening.

#just feeling really fustrated #looking up all the different cohousing projects in my country that are all just failing #and my flatmates planning to move overseas #while all my other friends are also either planning on moving or settled #just ugh #aromantic #asexual #aroace #queer #jay rants about stuff

[lullabyes22-blog]

Mal de Mer - Ch: 5 - Deep End

Summary:

A high-seas honeymoon. Two adversaries, bound by matrimony. A future full of peril and possibility. And a word that neither enjoys adding to their lexicon: Compromise.

War was simpler business…

Part of the 'Forward But Never Forget/XOXO' AU. Can be read as a standalone series.

Thank you for the graphics @lipsticksandmolotovs<3

Mal de Mer on AO3

Mal de Mer on FFnet

CHAPTER

I - II - III - IV - V - VI - VII - VIII - IX - X

꧁꧂

Maybe you’re just like my mother? She’s never satisfied

~ "When Doves Cry" - Prince

The Hydra—newly dubbed the Thesaurus—boasts a mid-level lounge as well-appointed as anything on the SS Woe Betide.

The furnishings are tasteful: teak and polished brass, with Art Nouveau flourishes. Beneath frosted glass sconces, a bank of portholes offers a panoramic spectacle of the sea. The water is blood red; the sunset cuts sequins across the horizon. There's a bar, fully-stocked; a dining hall, austerely elegant, and a ballroom, the floor an expanse of shellacked hardwood. There is even a billiards table, tucked discreetly in the corner, and a few card tables, draped with damask.

Everything, Mel can't help but think, is to Silco's exacting standards.

After the 'demonstration' on the deck, Silco had escorted his guests—with all due solemnity—to the elevator. They'd ridden up to the main floor, then followed the maze of corridors until they'd reached the lounge. Now, the guests are being treated to what Mel has heard the Piltovan men-about-town call a Fete de Fissure—a heady mix of liquor and libertinage.

The crewmen, with impeccable hospitality, serve platters of Zaunite cuisine: braised octopus in red wine, grilled carp marinated in soy, and steamed lobsters served with a bed of brown rice cooked in garlic butter and herbs. There's even a spread of desserts: tiramisu and zabaglione, with a tower of macarons, all in the traditional neon colors that have even left their mark in Piltover's patisseries. Beverages run the gamut from Zaun's fizzy concoctions—the Blue Fairy, one of Jinx's coinages, is a notoriously potent knockout—to dark Fissure ales that taste of burnt caramel and sweetbread. The wine list, from Silco's own cellar, is a catalogue of rare vintages: the brandies are aged, the whiskies peaty, the cognacs smooth as velvet. For the discerning connoisseurs, there are also tobaccos: rolled leaves from the finest harvests, and cheroots hand-blended to match. And, for the adventurous, an assortment of narcotics: herbs, spices, and fungi that can be ingested or inhaled. Their effects are said to range from the mild euphoria of a cherry-flavored hookah puff to the hallucinations induced by a pipe of powdered mushrooms.

All, Mel notices, have been meticulously arranged by dosage, and labeled with instructions for use.

Looking closely, she spies no Shimmer. She wonders if the drug has been relegated for use only upon request. Or if, since Piltover’s embargo, Silco has truly stopped distributing his wares except as local medicinal supplies. 

She wonders what the shift will bode for Zaun. The city's economy, unlike Piltover's, has for years hinged on its export of the drug: aboveboard and under the table. Silco's two personas—the Chancellor with his acerbic wit, and the Eye of Zaun with his illicit wares—have never been separated by more than a few degrees.

Indeed, Zaun's penchant for lax rules and decadent spoils has long made it a favorite amongst the rich and restless. On the dark side of the allure are the deviants drawn to stories of midnight depravities: orgies on the waterfront, drug-fueled revels in the canals, and all the debauchery of a city that operates outside the boundaries of moral codes.

But the lighter side—the ordinary side—is the true spirit of Zaun. The people, Mel has found, are an eclectic blend: the industrious and the idle, the ambitious and the aimless. Within the warrens of stifling factory smoke and clanking chem-gears, they have created their own microcosm: a kaleidoscope of subcultures, all jostling and coexisting. The clerks who spend their weekdays in monochrome and drear as the no-nonsense backbone of Zaun's enterprise. The artists, drowsing by dawn, and livewires by nightfall: their magic woven, brushstroke by brushstroke, into the city's tapestry. The schemers, with their heads in the clouds and their feet in the dirt: all striving to make ends meet, and carve out their own slice of happiness.

The rest? Refugees escaping tyranny. Castaways flung out of the wreckage of their homes. Pilgrims in search of spiritual enlightenment.

Every stripe of humanity, under one banner.

Progress.

Mel, taking in the scene, realizes:

With the Iron Pearl, Zaun needn't rely on Shimmer to entice investment.

The city—by virtue of all its sweeter vices—is now the prize itself. 

The guests, Mel observes, are taking full advantage. The men have shed their frock coats, loosened ties, rolled up their sleeves. The women, too, are enjoying the evening's liberties: kicking off their heels, letting down their hair, and even unbuttoning the fronts of their blouses. All, succumbing to the liquor of adrenalized greed, have lost their masks of paper-thin civility.

Cevila, shiny-eyed and flushed from five glasses of brandy, is flirting with the stevedore, Kolt. Her husband, at the smoke bar, has already lost himself behind ripe clouds of smoke, and the riper curves of a giggling deckhand. Hector, chin-deep in a plateful of macarons, has transcended into a sugar-trance that verges on Zenlike. Garlen, at the card table, is nursing a tankard of ale, and squaring off against a group of swarthy-skinned sailors. His booming laugh, punctuated by Va-Nox expletives, shakes the room. Even Lady Dennings, her customary primness dissolved into a bottle of champagne, has ensconced herself by the fireplace, hair undone and feet propped on the ottoman. Her husband, of all people, has taken up the armchair opposite. He's been a stickler for formality all his life. Now, he is rubbing her feet. And, unless Mel's eyes are deceiving her, letting his hands roam higher and higher. Lady Dennings, rather than squealing in scandal, is purring like a cat in heat. When the duke leans in, and kisses her full on the mouth, she does not slap his face. Instead, she tugs him closer.

Soon, the two subside into a tangle of limbs behind the semi-privacy afforded by the curtains.

Perhaps, Mel thinks, red clover wasn't necessary.

She stands on the cantilevered terrace, a glass of limewater in hand.  A cool wind gusts, tousling her hair.  The stymied dread of the day is dissipating. In its wake, there is no relief. Only the soggy ache of nervous exhaustion. She feels the way she'd done in the aftermath of Ambessa's fencing lessons: woozy, and unable to trust her legs.  

Usually, her mind is a honed point, capable of cutting through the worst fog. Now, it is too dull to parse anything but the moment. The lines in the sand: blurred, erased, redrawn. The stakes: high as a cliff's edge. The fall: deadly real. And this: a liminal space of shifting currents, where all things are possible.

Mel fills her lungs with sea-salt.

Marriage, Ambessa always said, is not a leap of faith.

It is fine print, and hidden clauses, and a knife under the pillow.

Inside, the guests are drinking and dicing and dancing. The air is becoming fogged with tobacco, and the sharp tang of alcohol, and the heavier scent of bodies, heated, mingling, melting. All her guests—her chess pieces—plucked off the neat orderliness of her board and flung to the mercy of fate.

No—not fate.

Silco.

Headache throbs behind Mel's eyes. She wants either a good hard soul-cleansing scream or a stiff strong drink.

Sadly, both are off the table.

A shadow falls over her.

"You look tired."

Mel shivers involuntarily; her husband’s stealth never fails to unnerve her. His presence is a cold current, cutting through the haze. From her peripheral vision—a six-degree slice of awareness—she catches the silhouette: tall and spare, his movements liquid in the lamplight. A waft of his scent, citric with spice, blows across her.

Mel's respiration doesn't pick up. But her heartbeat does. Her voice comes steadier than she feels: "It's been a long day."

"And a trying week, I imagine."

"You needn't imagine." She takes a perfunctory sip. The limewater bites the back of her throat. "That was your intention, was it not? To put me through the wringer?"

"Only so far as it was necessary."

"Necessary?" A laugh, acrid, escapes her. "What is necessary is a matter of perspective. As is 'enough.'"

"Yet here you are."

His words are a dare: Look at me.

Mel doesn't turn. The wind in her hair is an insinuating touch. Silco's hand, she thinks, would be just as gentle. Just as possessive. She covers the thought with another sip. It goes down smoother.  She'll give him nothing to see, or to make use of, in his weblike calculations.

Not while the balance is still teetering.

"Here I am." Mel sets the glass down. "Waiting to be paid."

"For?"

"The performance in the gallery. For the guests."

"You're my wife, Mel. You need not be paid for such things."

"On the contrary. I am a Medarda. We demand our dues."

He doesn't speak, or sit. But nor is she rid of him. His presence is a tangible force. She feels it the way animals sense the sweltering build-up of a typhoon. Every sense attuned: the hairs on her nape bristling, the blood in her veins quickening, her muscles working beneath the skin. He is the deep end, and she must resist the temptation to be swallowed.

The temptation—if not the desire.

"I will not deny you your due." His voice drifts: slow, soft, so very near. "Ask me, and it is yours."

"I've asked already."

"Oh? Was there a clause I overlooked?"

"It was marriage."

The ice clinks emptily in her glass. She's drained the limewater. It hasn't helped.

"Mel." He is closer now. His warmth radiates in time to a rising heartbeat that threatens to tug Mel's attention away from truth. Her body, traitorous, yearns toward the source. "If it is gold you want, I will give you all of it. If it is jewels, I will mine them myself. If it is a palace, or a ship, or a throne—all you need do is say."

"It is not a question of material possessions. Nor is it a matter of my asking." For once, she is grateful for her Medarda bloodline. The dark riveted smoothness of her features gives nothing away. "I own enough treasures to bankrupt your coffers. As for a throne, I've already claimed mine. A city shining on the seas. None of that is what I want from you."

"What, then? A groveling apology? Me, on my knees?"

Mel's eyes fall shut. The anger fizzes into fuel. She clings to its small nourishment. All her will is bent toward remaining rooted where she is. To not surrendering.

"You're not sorry," she says bitterly.

"I am not."

"I don’t mean about the Idol. I meant: you’re not sorry about us. About this."

"If you think me indifferent—"

"I think you're a man who knows exactly what he wants." Her nails, ten manicured half-moons, bite into her palms. She imagines, with a dark pleasure, his flesh shredded. "I think you'd have burned every bridge and sold your own soul to make the Iron Pearl a reality."

"All true."

"What you did not take into account was me."

"Mel—"

"You said it yourself. I'm the variable you cannot predict. You can't intimidate me like your subordinates. Nor gull me with profit, like our guests. I'm not Sevika, so you can't rely on me to take the fall. And I'm not Jinx, so you can't trust me to know the entire truth." Her throat seizes. "I'm only the leverage you needed for your city. And so, I'm the one whose hand you'll hold. Even if there's a knife hidden in the other."

"That is not how I see you."

"Tell me, then."

"Look at me."

"No."

"Mel."

"No." The sunset, a huge red disc, burns without heat. Bright pinpricks burst behind her lids. "Why should I look at you, when I know what I'll see? The same expression, when you told me Zaun would've been stronger if you'd chosen someone else. That your life, and your ambition, and your purpose would've been simpler."

"I do not regret the decision."

"Because it was the one that served you."

"Because you're what I want."

This jabs the raw space between Mel's ribs.

"You'll never know," he goes on, "what it to grow up with nothing. I don't mean the nothing of a loveless childhood, or an empty home. I mean the nothing of a soul's bottomlessness. Of having so little, the only way to survive is to sink your teeth into whatever scraps you can.  And there is no way out—no way out—save clawing yourself up to the light. Even if the price is sellin' a piece of yourself with each rung." The grit of the Lanes roughens his accent. "Until there's nothing left. Until all that keeps you going is the promise of a world where your children—and their children—will never have to lose what you've lost. That is why I do what I do, Mel. I don't give a shit about the rest."

The sea stretches out before Mel. The horizon is the thin red streak of a slit throat. Behind her, Silco's breathing is the same.

The cadence of a man readying to spill every drop.

"You, Mel..." It is a whisper. "You are not the rest. Sometimes, I look at you, and I think you are the end. Mine, or my life's, I cannot say. "

The tears sting. Mel does not let them fall. She holds them, and him, at bay.

"You hate it," she says. "That I can do this to you. Make you want what you'd been denied a lifetime—and not have to fight to take it."

"I hate," he says, "that I cannot trust myself around you."

Mel feels him edge closer. A wall of heat. His sigh stirs the fine hairs by her temple.

"I hate," he goes on, "that each time I've drawn a bead on you, I've missed the mark by a mile. I hate that, every time, I find a new side of you. A side I had not known, because I hadn't considered to look. I hate that each time I learn something new, it is not a pit that keeps on opening—it is the sun, and I have no choice but to let it blind me." His voice drops hoarsely. "You are a Medarda. I expected fire, and the cunning to use it. I found steel. I expected ambition, and the ruthlessness to wield it. I found empathy. I expected a woman high on her own worth, and not above rubbing my face in it. I found a woman who cares enough to sacrifice her worth for everything."

Mel's hands tremble on the balustrade. A mist of dampness chills her cheeks.

Sea-water, or tears?

"You're saying," she says, "you found the perfect pawn."

"Not a pawn. A dreamer. One who is not afraid to wager all, on the belief that there is something better." His proximity seeps in: a slow bleed. "You expected something from a man who had nothing to offer. My city's assets; a fraction of yours. My good name; the promise of yours. You chose a gamble, knowing it was a losing bet. And you played it, anyway."

"So: a pawn."

"So: a queen. Who knows how to change everything, with a single move."  Two fingertips alight on the small of her back. "You planned this voyage, with the best intentions, and the finest strategy. You played your games and wove your wiles to give my city a chance. And when it all went to hell—you chose to stay. On the ship, you took my side over the guests. In the gallery, you backed my play. In the face of raging seas, you were the bridge." His shadow, cast against the sunset, engulfs hers. "Could be the harbor… if you trust me."

"I cannot trust you," Mel whispers, "when you refuse the same."

"There are things I cannot share, Mel. Not yet. Plans that, if mislaid, could undo everything."

"Excuses."

"Truth." The two fingertips encompass into a palm, warm and heavy. "Give it time."

"How much time?"

"Enough." His touch trails up, leaving a circuit of sparks. "Too late, and it goes up in smoke. Too soon, and I cannot bear the cost."  Softly, "Not to you, Mel."

The sunset drips into the sea: livid crimson. Mel's grip tightens on the rail. 

The tears are not gathering. Only the rage. A single gesture is not salve. A sweet confession, no substitute for the truth. And Mel—she knows, even now, that he is hiding something. The thought is a wound, bleeding anew. All her anger, and hurt, and shame: it funnels into the shape of him. She imagines strangling him with her bare hands. Imagines the pulse beating beneath her fingertips. Imagines the warmth and the solidity of his body.

She'll tear him apart—or stitch herself back whole. She'll kill him, or kiss him. She'll have him, or have done.

But the choice, whatever else, will be hers.

Then her imaginings aren't imaginary. He is there. His arms, encompassing her, are an unyielding circle. The heat of him is everywhere. The scent of him, too: bergamot, spice, smoke.

His lips touch the nape of her neck. Right where her vertebrae are the most vulnerable

And Mel, though she'd deny it, is shivering.

"I will give you," he says, "what I can. Not everything. Not yet. But soon."

"Even if, in the end, it comes to nothing?"

The tip of his nose ghosts up her spine, until his mouth is at her ear. "It won't."

"How can you know?"

"Because I will do whatever is necessary to make it possible." His breath tickles the whorl of her ear. "Because I have not fought this hard, and this long, to lose you."

"Your prized chess-piece."

"My wife."

Mel's shiver intensifies. The way his tongue curls around the word is pure possession. But the span of arms is no cage. It is a shelter: solid, steady, sure. His palms meet hers on the railing. Their fingers interlace. The warmth is a tide lapping her skin.

Fusing, like gold, into the cracks.

And Mel is not immune to gold—though she wishes she were. She is tired, hurting, and tired from trying to hide the hurt. Trying, on one plane or another, to prove herself. To the world; to her peers; to her mother. 

To the man who strips her to the barest nerve and lays her raw.

"I will not regret deceiving you to enrich my city," he whispers. "Nor will I regret the things I did to bring us to this moment. But I do regret the distress you've borne. I regret the doubts held, and fears endured. I regret they were so many, they turned your honeymoon into a sickbed." He kisses the tip of her ear. "If I had known how fragile you were—I would have done better by you."

"I'm not—"

The word nearly breaks past her lips. The tears, too. But her pride will not allow her.

Not after a lifetime of Ambessa Medarda's tutelage: a Medarda's worth is a sum of her strength.

"I'm not fragile," she repeats, though her pitch quavers. "I've never been fragile. Never been—"

"Anything other than yourself. I know." His voice is the softest it has been so far. "I mean no insult. You Medardas love to style yourselves as gods. But gods don't bleed. They don't rage. They don't starve, or steal, or scheme. They are like the gold your family loves to hoard: untouchable."  He moves her hands with his, their fingers twined, and knits them over her belly. Practically molding them to her womb. "I've no use for gods, Mel. But I've a great deal of use for you."

"How comforting."

"You didn't choose me for comfort. And I didn't choose you for complacence. We chose, because we each push the other to dare. To reach beyond ourselves." His lips drop a kiss on the pulse beating under her jaw. It is so ghostly it might not be there at all. And yet, Mel can feel her spine arch. "Your ambition is a reflection of my own. And the rest of you: a mirror of all I lack. So, no. I am not sorry.  Not for choosing you, nor for what's happened." Softly, "Not when it's led to us."

The sunset, a dying red eye, blinks out.

Suddenly, everything is melting. Mel is not sure if the salt in her mouth is limewater or tears. With all her strength, she swallows them down. A single slip, and she is lost. Her poise will splinter, and she will collapse into his arms. She longs and loathes for it in equal measure; dreading what will be there for him to see, and for her to feel.

The tears, though, are not the worst.

"Petal," he says—and she is turning.

In the fading light, Silco's features, rather than washing pale, take on an olive-toned burnish. Had he been smiling, she would have split his skull open with her fist. Had his eyes radiated that uncanny gleam of hazard, she'd have fought the hypnosis with all her might.

Instead, he looks the way he had, in the wake of their first time together: somber, soft-eyed, a little unsure. His eyes, in the twilight, are the color, not of ice and fire, but mulled wine, and a heart's bluest longing. It was that look that, in a glimpse, had fascinated her so. The look that had, even then, seemed too human to belong to a monster.  

The tears—a treacherous sheen—delineate him in gold.

"Don't," she rasps. "Don't say another word."

"Mel—"

"Please." Her fingers lift to his mouth. They are trembling. But so, she realizes, are his lips. "Not tonight. Not while they're here." She pushes, with what's left of her will, to keep the space between them. It's a danger zone. All the more so because he isn't pushing back. "When we're on the island. In the villa. I'll have it all from you. Everything you've promised. You'll lay it all at my feet and let me sift through it. But not now. Not here." She draws a breath. "Not while I'm still..."

"Still what?"

"Wishing you'd said something else." She lets her fingers fall away. "The right thing. At the right time."

"Petal—"

"Don't." Her eyes spear him through damp lashes. "Just kiss me. Kiss me, and tell me it will be better. Tell me the sun will rise tomorrow. That I will make it so."

"You will."

"Make me believe it."

"You already do." His lips find her forehead. Then her eyelids, closed and beaded in salt. The touch is so fleeting it might not have been there at all, except his fingertips are deliberately tracing their way down her nape, tipping her head up to touch his mouth to hers. "Believe that, too."

The kiss fills her with the taste of him: smoke and spice and seasalt. It seeks all the secrets inside her. All the deepest places he's been. All the places she can no longer hide alone. Kissing him is not like kissing Jayce: alluring dips into a warm, sweetly willing mouth and a smooth, firm, unflawed body. Kissing Silco is like taking a running dive into black waters: all risk, and pure thrill.

And yet, slipping beneath the surface, there is no pain. Only the throbbing depth of need.

Mel’s spine unspools under his palm. In a slow unfurling, her body melts against his, and his arms come around her, and the night closes in.

The kiss breaks for air; her cheeks are wetly streaked. But it's all right, because his face, too, is wet with them. In the ebbing glow, she can dare to think of it as rain: the storm's first gift. Dare to think he's not so remote: that, despite the distance of so much swallowed between them, she can still reach him.

That he can keep her afloat.

"Again," she breathes. "Kiss me again."

He does, palm seizing the back of her neck and pulling her in. Their mouths open wider, and she feels the slick heat of his tongue and the serrated row of his teeth, and the rough reams of the scar-tissue on his cheek. With other men, she could close her eyes and imagine them as anyone. They were blank canvases, waiting for her to fill them with her own flights of fancy.

Silco is no fancy.

He's a knife in the dark: each detail etched with excruciating precision. There is no erasing the topography of his scars. His hands: scored with the calluses of rough labor. His skin: scoured with past misdeeds. His heart: a black-powder keg, ready to ignite. The darkness that lives within him: surging, smoldering, seething.

And his tenderness of is tenfold more terrifying.

"You'll be the sun tomorrow," he breathes. "You always are."

"Silco..."

"It's true." His mouth is a scald; love-biting down the curve of her throat. "Even now, when it's night, and I can't see the sky. Even then, I know you're still there."

Mel shivers. She can't stop her body from flowing into the embrace. Can't stop the small moan rising in her throat, or the palm lifting to thread its fingers into his hair. Can't stop her other hand, the one that had been so sure on the railing, from sleeking down the front of his waistcoat to hook shakily into the waistband of his trousers. 

She can't stop anything. Her body has already chosen.

And the rest of her: doomed to follow suit.

"Come with me," he rasps. "I've a room belowdeck."

"The guests—"

"Too busy getting high. Or getting themselves off." 

"But—"

"There is a bed, petal. It has fresh sheets. Goosedown pillows. A silk duvet." His thumb smooths her brow, sweeping a wayward curl from her face. "Unless you'd rather have them bear witness."

Mel's face heats. She'd forgotten her guests are only a glass away. All their carousing, and curses, and calls. Through the parallelogram of light spilling from the doorway, she glimpses hazy silhouettes. Someone has put an old Jazz record on the phonograph.  Cevila is doing an exuberant reel with Kolt. Hector is slumped, chin-deep, in an empty dish of macarons. Garlen has hauled a pretty girl—one of the deckhands—onto his lap. His mouth, smeared in the rouge from her lipstick, is open with laughter at something she's whispering in his ear. The Dennings, behind their curtains, are still tangled in a love-knot. But the chaise is rocking in an unmistakable percussive rhythm.

Mel's burn deepens. "I'm not having my guests walk in on us."

"And I've no interest in giving them a show." His smile cuts wickedly against her skin. "Unless I charge per head."

Mel's tongue touches her top lip. She can still taste him, and the promise of more. Her body, fuddled by desire, is throbbing with a dull insistence. Her headache is far-off. The fatigue, too, has melted into one long exhalation of release that is its own build-up of tension.

He is so close their foreheads touch. Her eyelashes, damp, catch on his skin as she shakes her head.

"No."

"No?"

"Not here." Her eyes lift to his. "And not on the ship."

"Then where?"

"In the villa. In the master suite. I want a proper honeymoon. Everything I planned for, before you derailed my life." Her voice trembles; her fingers tighten on his waistband, tugging him closer. "I want you to carry me over the threshold. I want to wake up in the morning and find you next to me. I want a breakfast tray in bed, and a day spent lazing on the beach. I want the sun in my hair, and sand between my toes, and you in the water, showing me that backstroke you're always bragging about. And in the evening, I want a candlelit supper. A long walk on the shore, as the stars come out. And after—" Her voice husks. "After, I want every last inch of you. With the door shut and the world outside. I want to know what 'us' means to you, and why I'm the one you chose. I want it all. Everything."

His face is still. Only his eyes—their pupils blown wide, one haloed in pure green, the other ringed by a rim of fire—give him away.

"A fortnight," he says.

"Yes."

"In the villa."

"Yes."

"With the door shut."

"Yes."

"Romance, and the sea, and the stars."

"Yes."

His fingers are threading her curls. The rhythm of his breath is a steady metronome. But his heartbeat, she can feel, is climbing. "And me, every inch."

"Yes."

"Every. Inch."

"Yes, damn you." 

The hand, at the back of her neck, begins to knead: slow, languorous, and so very warm.  Mel’s resolve threatens to liquify. But there is a stubbornness to her that won't yield. The golden core that had kept her from falling at Jayce's feet, or letting Ambessa dictate the course of her life, or letting her bloodline shape the path of her city.

The stubbornness that, no matter how hard the world kicked her down, has always kept her standing.

"Yes," she repeats, tipping her chin, "to all of it. All the things we'd have, if not for all this." She gestures: the chaos within, and the chaos without. "Two weeks, and I'll have everything from you. I'll know your measure, as a husband. You will give me every iota of your attention, and more. And you will give it all willingly."

The corner of his scarred lip holds the barest upturn. "You drive a hard bargain."

"I am a Medarda."

"You are, indeed."  The kneading of his long fingers has become a long tender caress, from the juncture of her skull down the wings of shoulderblades to the dip of her spine, then up again. The touch is so lulling that Mel sways to its rhythm. "But, Mel?"

"Mmm?"

"You could, at least, let me escort you belowdeck, and out of that dreadful damp tulle. I'll be the soul of propriety. And if, along the way, I manage to coax the rest of those knots from your shoulders, you'll be a better woman for it. And I, a happier man."

A delicious ripple runs from the tips of her fingers to her toes. His timbre holds that distinctive gravel—smoke-charred and slow-rolling—that is a matchstrike to her senses. It is, she suspects, the tone he'd use to tempt the devil himself into sin.

But a Medarda is a harder sell.

"A generous offer." She steps back. "But no."

"No?"

"You'll have to plead your case with more ingenuity."

In the dark, his smile is a white knife-flick. "It was worth a try."

"Was I?"

With a languid, nearly wistful slowness, he tugs her in. Her chin is tipped up; his mouth descends. The kiss is nearly obscene in its thoroughness. His tongue: chasing into her mouth. His teeth, claiming her bottom lip. His hands: roaming her body. Mel's sigh, trapped between their mouths, is mortifyingly eloquent.

By the time the kiss breaks, she is panting. So is he. The wind has turned. Salt-spray gusts across the terrace. The twilight is ripe with a brewing storm. In the gloaming, Silco's silhouette is of a piece with the sea: dark, long, and unyielding. His lips, glistening, are stained with her lipstick and the last vestiges of her control.

"Oh, treasure," he breathes. "Get inside—before I give ‘em a show they’ll never forget."

 And Mel, adept at reading between the lines, knows this round hers.

"You’d have," she says, letting her smile spread, "to beg."

"I don't beg."

Rising on tiptoes to approximate his height, Mel balances herself with one palm on his shoulder. With the other, she cups the back of his neck, and guides his head down to her level. Lips touching his, she breathes, "Not yet."

A growl vibrates his chest. The challenge has hit its mark.

Nuzzling his lips with hers, Mel pulls away. She does so, with a tantalizing slowness, keeping the contact between their bodies until his breathing has roughened and his hands flex at his sides. The last bit, her breasts sliding past his ribs, is the cruelest. But she'll be crueler still: backing away, one step, then two, until only her eyes remain, a glitter of amber-green promise.

Then she glides off.

"Come," she calls over her shoulder, "before the rain does."

Silco’s eyes, burning, follow her. Then the rest of him: soundless as the tide.

Always, inexorably, giving chase.

By nightfall, the storm is blowing in: a great billowing mass. Lightning flashes. Thunder booms. Wind rattles the windows.

Inside, the revelers are restless.

The smoky air, in colors of lucine jade and blood opal, is heady with leftover tobacco, spilled spirits, and sweat.  They've been treated to the full spectrum of Zaunite hospitality: a superabundance of dissipated delights. Now they are eager to bypass the evening's foreplay for a future of full-bodied indulgence.

All within their reach, if they choose to invest in the Iron Pearl.

Cevila, her face pinked from heat and drink, is already discussing a potential trade bargain with her husband. Hector, his mouth ringed with sugary crumbs, is attempting the buttonhole Kolt for a partnership deal.  Even the Dennings, their lovemaking session sated and a glow to their skins, are huddled together, speaking in low voices that are more conspiratorial than amorous. 

Apart from the six, Mel can hear the others: muttering, speculating, planning. There is an atmosphere not unlike that of a wedding reception: everyone tipsy on scandal, the newlyweds' bed made, and the night yet to be.

Mel wonders if she ought to feel guilty.

They are, none of them, innocents. Each one has had a hand in enriching themselves at Zaun's expense. Now, they are being offered a chance at redemption—to reverse old wrongs and build a new future. Except it's not themselves they are redeeming. Their motives remain the same: craven to the core, with deep pockets and open palms ready to seize whatever is in reach.

And the Zaunites who will benefit from their investments? Their future, and their well-being, is only a fringe benefit.

Goodness, as Ambessa's favorite adage was, is not the lifeblood that fuels the world.

It is greed.

Mel wonders what Ambessa will make of Silco's gamble. She wonders, too, what measures Silco had taken to ensure a winning hand. A gambit as dangerous as this necessitates an ace or two up the sleeve. Only time—or disaster—will tell what shape it takes.

Mel cannot let her thoughts be consumed with the question. That way, she knows, lies madness. Still, she cannot help but wish that her honeymoon could've been simpler.

Simple is not Silco's métier.

Sitting by the alcove, he surveys the guests. His profile is carved against the backdrop of the storm: jagged forks of lightning, and incandescent thunderheads. His expression, as usual, is impassable. Then a deckhand flags him. They confer in low tones.

Mel cannot see the man's face. But she recognizes the posture. The rigid line of his spine, the arms crossed behind his back, the square, wide-legged stance.

A soldier, at ease. And Silco, his general.

Just like Ambessa.

It is a stark reminder that the man right now is not simply her husband. He is the Eye of Zaun, and his ambitions are his own. He has not promised to share them, or his methods, or the plans he has laid in their name. Nor is it any use to ask.

She will not get an answer. Not until she's earned it.

 A heavy hand lands on her shoulder. "Well?"

Mel is jarred from her reverie. "Yes?"

Garlen is a hulking mass. His expression is difficult to read in the low light. But the reek of liquor, mingling with stale cologne and a hint of something else—a woman's scent, musky, and the faint, sharp tang of sex—is off-putting. He must have gotten lucky with the pretty deckhand from earlier.

"Well," he repeats, "When do we talk business, your husband and me? Real business." 

"At the villa, Sir Garlen, there will be time to talk at length."

"And how're we getting there? The storm's set in." He grins, teeth delineated in brown from tobacco. "Don't want the Eye's guests, especially the bride, getting soaked, eh?"

 The innuendo, all slurred vowels, is not lost on Mel. She keeps her smile fixed

"My husband has planned ahead. Indeed, he's anticipated our every need."

"Yeah? How about his, then? You take care of those yet?"

His grin has gone oily.  He must, Mel realizes, have glimpsed her and Silco together on the terrace.

Inwardly, she curses. The lax environs of the Thesaurus, formalities lost in a tide of adrenaline, have caught her off-guard. The shock of Silco's confession took care of the rest. Everything—even her own guests—had been pushed to the edges of her mind.  It's an error she'd never have allowed in a different context.

An exposure—reckless, costly—she'd never have let slide.

Her allure is the most effective weapon in her repertoire. And allure, by virtue of its nature, is remote. To allow herself to be glimpsed as a woman, in all her vulnerability, is to invite unwanted overtures. One the opportunists will leap upon, no matter how high her station or her guard.

A drop of blood, Ambessa always warned, is all they need.

Garlen, in his cups, has sniffed more than a drop. Now he is salivating for his share.

Coolly, she says, "Sir Garlen, you are being far too familiar."

"Oh, am I?" His thick fingers knead into her shoulder. "A moment ago, you were all smiles."

"A moment ago, we were discussing business."

"What's the difference?" He leans closer. "Tell me. Did General Medarda wed you off to that weasel for the Pearl? Because that would explain a few things."

No innuendo this time. Only implication thick as the fumes on his breath.

The implication being: Whore.

"General Medarda," Mel says, sweetly, "would have you flayed for less."

"I'd like to see her try."

"I think you'd find the experience quite unpleasant." 

"So, what: you're gonna be the one to do the honors?" His greasy stare slithers down her body. "Maybe show me a good time, while you're at it."

Across the room, Cevila's laugh, high and merry, cuts through the din. Kolt, a little drunk, is spinning her around the dance floor, the two of them tripping on their feet. Hector, slumped in the corner booth, is fast asleep. The Dennings are still whispering, heads bowed together.

The other guests, too, are turned away. All lost in their own little worlds.

Except Silco.

Mel can feel his gaze. Dark. Heavy. Implacable. A heatwave prickles her nape. Except it is not her he is looking at. It is the man: the hulking Noxian, the thick fingers, the oily grin. Jayce, Mel thinks, would have pounded Garlen into the deck by now. A matter of decency; diplomacy be damned. A lady's honor, he would say, must be defended.

Zaunites don't share the same code.

Their version of honor, Mel knows, is to deal with the offense yourself.

"Sir Garlen," she says, with a voice of cultured silk. "If you wish to keep those fingers, you'll remove them."

"Or what?" The grip clamps down. "You'll tell the Eye on me?"

"Oh, I'll do better than that."

"Yeah?"

"I'll cut them off myself."

Garlen's leer freezes. "What the fuck did you say?"

"You heard me, Sir Garlen. Your fingers. The ones on my shoulder." Mel's eyes lock. The smile melts. Her tone, though level, is sharpened to steel. "I'll still leave you enough to write your name with. Or to sign whatever contract I require. But not much else. We won't need the rest."

Garlen's nostrils flare. The fingers squeeze hard enough to bruise. "Bitch—"

"Do not speak. Or that tongue will be next." Mel lifts a hand, peeling off his fingers one by one. "I'll tell you this, so listen well. You've been very stupid today, Sir Garlen. Drunk on a bit of luck, and forgetful of your manners. So, let me remind you: you are here at my discretion. Not the Eye's. And once my discretion is breached, even the best investment make will not buy back the respect you've forfeited. My mother has her way of dealing with insults. I have mine. If you'd like to avoid either, you will stop now, and remember your place."

Garlen's mouth is working. "You—"

"And," Mel cuts him off, "I will give you one last warning. If you lay another finger on me, or even look at me, in any manner I don't approve of, you will be leaving here minus your legs. Do you understand?"

Garlen's expression is a study in incredulity. He'd expected an easy mark. A soft touch, pliant and pretty. He'd gotten a Medarda. And the fact he didn't expect a Medarda means he knows nothing. Not about Mel, nor her family, nor her city.

"If you’ll excuse me," Mel purrs, letting his fingers fall. "I'd like a word with my husband."

Garlen, his face mottled red, withdraws. Mel glides forward.

Across the room, Silco's stare stays on her. No sign of a smile. But the good eye crinkles at the corner.  Mel can sense his satisfaction. He'd never intervene into her turf unless she needed him to. But nor will he deny himself the pleasure of witnessing her at her fiercest.

At her approach, he tips his chin. "All right?"

"Never better." Mel, serenely, takes her place at his side. "But I am curious."

"About?"

"Our return." She inclines her chin toward the window: the rain, lashing with mad fury against the glass. "Sir Garlen, and no doubt the rest, are eager to reach the villa. Begin ironing out the details."

"As are you."

She levels her most innocent gaze. "And if I were?"

"I'd counsel you to hold your horses."

"Does a hard wet ride leave them so afrit?"

Now he is very pleased. She can tell by the curl of his lip. "I can't answer for your guests. But mine aren't the ones who should be scared."

"Then whose?"

"Whomst."

"That's not a proper word."

"Jinx uses it all the time."

"I rest my case."

"We left rest behind hours ago." The scudding clouds throw his features into harsh relief. His jaw, shadowed with the first hint of stubble, is the hue of tarnished silver. It is the only sign of the day's passage: the rest of him is impeccable, as though he'd spent the afternoon idling in an armchair, rather than wrestling with wind and waves and her. "Though, if we're playing the grammar game, it's 'frit', not 'afrit.'"

"You're avoiding the question."

"Not avoiding. Anticipating." The curl deepens. "The rain will not be the problem. Not with our mode of transport."

"Which is?"

"The Idol."

Mel's humor slips. "What do you mean?"

"When you arrived, you asked me to show you the way out. I did. It's down in the gallery. The hourglass."

Mel's understanding gives way to dread. "Silco, tell me you're not considering—"

"I am."

"No."

"It's the best solution. The seas are too rough for sailing. Especially when carrying full-bellied cargo. And the Woe Betide was instructed to haul anchor by late afternoon. By now, she's already sailed. My informants have received word that she's docked at the Wuju port. The Captain is quite perplexed as to where we've vanished. I'd rather not keep him in distress much longer. Else he'll summon the coast guard."

A thundercloud gathers on Mel's brow. "Why not send word that we'll sail to Wuju by tomorrow?"

"Too risky. The storm's forecasted to persist well into next evening. And it wouldn't do for a wider net of strangers to know the Thesaurus' whereabouts.  If our radio signals are intercepted, the wrong people could learn of its location before the time is right." His thumb touches her temple, smoothing the thundercloud away. "You'll have your honeymoon. It's just a change of plans, that's all."

"Change of plans."

"Yes."

"Namely a relic from the Void."

He smiles now, without pretense. "It's a portal. No different from the Hex-Gates."

"That's different."

"Different, how?"

She glances furtively over her shoulder. Her guests are oblivious. "Hex-Gates operate on the same plane. The physical world as we perceive it. The Void—"

"—is a realm beyond ours. I know. But, so is the sea, or the sky. We'll take a quick plunge, and come out on the other side. There's a glyph near the islet, and my network have established a dry dock close to the island. The storm won't follow us through. We'll take a rowboat ashore. Be safe dry and at the villa before the night's done. In time, I daresay, for a late supper."

"What's the catch?"

"No catch. Just the practicalities. Stay close, and don't succumb."

"You make it sound as if we're sailing past sirens on the rocks."

"That's a fair comparison."

"Silco—"

He lays one cool finger on her lips.

"I promise no risk." His mismatched eyes are sea and storm. "Not to you."

His hand has dropped. Hers has lifted, reaching for his face. Mel catches herself, lacing her fingers, with forcible self-possession, against her belly. She will not let him see her unease. She is a Medarda, and Medardas thrive in risk. She'd backed Jayce's reckless play to the bitter end. Had sampled, without apology, the splendors that came of its success. She will, and can, do the same again.

Except now, it's not simply her skin on the line.

"All—all right," she says, at length.

"Yes?"

"Yes. Though I warn you: the Dennings are in the throes of afterglow, and won't care. But the others..." She lets her gaze linger on each. "I'll have to work them. Make sure they're not too afraid to step inside."

"Do you think you can manage?"

Mel squares her shoulders. The storm is gathering, and so is her resolve.

"Have you forgotten whom you are married to?"

His smile waxes full. Taking her hand, he drops a kiss onto her knuckles, right on the cold stone of her wedding ring. It warms beneath his lips. "If it isn't too much trouble,” he murmurs, “could you persuade them to leave the liquor behind? A bit of sobriety will serve us better in the Void. It's an odd place. I'd rather they be sharp-eyed for the journey."

"There's nothing sharp about them," Mel sighs. "Sir Garlen, for one, is too far gone."

"Coffee, then. Enough to perk up the dead."

A grim smile flits across her lips. "Consider it done."

"Good." He closes the space between them, "And I'll deal with Garlen."

"What?"

Silco is already detaching. "Concentrate on the others. When you're ready, we'll depart."

"Silco—"

His two-toned eyes glitter. "You did warn him. Now I'll give him my own reminder."

The air, at once, is electric. It has nothing to do with the storm. It is only them: the space between their bodies and the rapprochement of sovereign spheres. Garlen may be Mel's guest. But this is Silco's turf. And he will not stand by the sidelines while she is impugned within its walls. 

"Silco," Mel tries again. "You don't have to—"

Except he is gone: a dark shape, slipping from shadow to shadow. In a trice, he's reached Garlen, and laid a hand on his shoulder. Mel does not catch the words exchanged. But in a moment, Silco has begun steering Garlen toward the exit.

A handful of crewmen, summoned out of nowhere, converge in his wake.

The storm vastness seems to fill the lounge—the atmosphere crackling—to follow their passage. The remaining guests remain talking amongst themselves. No one has noticed the interlude. They are too preoccupied with their own interests.

The door swings shut.

Mel, stranded in the lounge, is left to work her wiles.

While her husband, belowdeck, settles the accounts.

It is touch-and-go.

The Dennings are easy. Having had their fill of wine and food, they are eager only for a locked bedroom and the privacy to enjoy it. Hector, roused from stupor, is no more difficult: a passing mention of the local sweetmeats he'll get to sample once they've arrived at the villa is enough to pique his interest. Cevila, a tougher nut, balks at the thought of stepping into the Void, until Mel manages to coax her and her husband, in the spirit of adventure, to reconsider.

The crewmen begin, with utmost politeness, corralling the guests. Life-vests are fitted back on; coats are slung over shoulders. It's a far cry from the way they'd been manhandled, en masse, from the SS We Betide, and deposited into the Thesaurus.

But then, they weren't high-profile investors. Only cargo.

Now, they're assets.

The guests are ushered back belowdecks. Mel follows, making sure everyone is accounted for. The gallery, after the bluster of the storm, is eerily tranquil. A preternatural chill dwells in the subaquatic space. The Idol is a pulsar, beating its rhythm in time with the sea.

A shiver runs down Mel's spine. Her dress, the tulle long since soaked through, clings to her limbs. She ought to have taken up Silco's offer and changed into something dry. But the moment's gone. Now, the only thing to do is press forward.

Into the dark, where the Eye awaits.

The hourglass, ultramarine, glows behind Silco. His silhouette bisects the radiance; staring straight at it, Mel has the impression of taking in a signpost at the fabric of reality. She is reminded of the moment she'd first met him, in the brightness of the arterial-red sunlight. A monster from a nightmare, and a nightmare all his own. The nightmare who'd been revealed, in the end, to have a man's face, and a man's voice, and a man's dreams.

 Mel, gathering her courage, approaches.

"Where," she whispers, "is Garlen?"

"He'll be along,” Silco says. “All ready, then?"

Hesitating, Mel nods.

Behind her, the guests are a shuffling mass. In the engulfing gloom, their voices have died; they are huddled together, nearly as wary as when they'd first set foot in the gallery. Some are shivering, and not from the cold. Others are glancing anxiously around, as though expecting the Void to manifest and swallow them whole. Only a few—Cevila, the Dennings, and, surprisingly, Hector—keep their gazes fixed on the glowing hourglass, braced despite the dread.

Mel struggles to find her own sealegs. "We're ready."

"Then let's not waste time." His eyes pass from Mel to the guests. The softness of his voice holds a subaudible pitch that seeps directly into every cell, and leaves no room for disobedience. "You'll find the trip quite painless.  To minimize mishaps, Kolt will be accompanying us. The after-effects, while harmless, can be quite unsettling. And, for such precious cargo," the barest sidelong glance at Mel, "I'd rather not take chances."

The guests stir. The murmur of a dozen mouths disturbs the airwaves.

"I ask that you keep your life-vests on. It will make the plunge smoother. And, when we reach the other side, refrain from making any sudden moves. Like a flashbulb going off, after-images will linger. Pay them no heed. They will fade. Reality—our reality—will set in."

A fresh wave of mutters, tinged by disquiet.

"What," Hector dares, with a faux-jovial smile, "if reality fails to make an appearance?"

"It will."  Silco's mouth crooks. "If you would do me the honor of following my lead, I assure you the crossing-over will be without incident."

"How," Lady Dennings asks, "does one cross over?"

"Like this."

Silco, with a slow-motion fluidity, approaches the hourglass. The bottom chamber's gates are open: the sand, hovering a half-inch above the base, is suspended in a state of infinite fall. Each tiny grain seems lit from within: an iridescent crystal. Unknotting his cravat, Silco holds up the white strip of cloth lengthwise between his hands. A magician demonstrating a prop before the trick.

"Watch," he murmurs, and drops the cloth.

It flutters, a pale pennant, into the chamber.  As the fabric descends, the grains swirl, coalescing into a whirlpool that engulfs the silk. At the dais, the Idol glows, pulsing at a steady rhythm. Ultraviolet, then magenta, then red. The colors bleed together, until all Mel can see is an inchoate rainbow that seeps into every sense.

The air comes alive with a strange sonorous hum. It spikes into a crescendo that drowns out every sound.

A blink later, the cravat vanishes.

Silco, in the expanding silence, tips his chin.

"Simple as that."

The guests stare in shock.

"But the cloth—" Lord Dennings sputters.

"Floating its way across the winds of Wuju. Our destination—though not, as it turns out, Sir Garlen’s."

With a look of mute dispassion, he meets the eye of a crewman. A single nod is given. Cued, the crewman opens the door to a storage cabinet. From inside, Sir Garlen is hoisted out, supported under the arms by two burly men. In the cascading blueness of the gallery, his skin is a pallid gray. The whites of his eyes seem a rheumy, bloodshot.

A gash bisects in his temple.

"Sir Garlen," Silco says, without inflection, "has made a last-minute change of plans."

Garlen, head swaying on the gyre of his thick neck, makes no answer.

"He will be joining his comrades on the Noxian outpost at Urvash. He's had his fill of refined company, and is looking forward to, shall we say, the coarser pleasures of the war-campaign. Isn't that right, Sir Garlen?"

 Garlen's throat works in a peristaltic flex. Nothing comes out.

 Mel, with a slow creep of horror, realizes he's been drugged.

"Silco," she says. "What—what have you—?"

"Something to calm him down. He had a bit of a row with my crew. They had to take precautions. The effects will wear off by the time he reaches his destination." Silco's attention shifts back to the hourglass. "Which is, in any case, better than getting tossed into the storm."

The blood in Mel's skull recedes, leaving her lightheaded. "Why did you—?"

"He made advances." Silco's stare locks on hers: unrepentant. "On the hostess."

"That doesn't mean—"

"I'm aware. But the matter is settled. Sir Garlen has changed his mind, and will be his own way." His focus goes to the remaining guests. "The rest of you are, of course, free to take your leave with him. Or, as planned, we can go together to the villa. Discuss our future, and its promise. Because it is that promise that will build the foundations for the new age. One where we may all, shoulder to shoulder, do our cities a profitable service. And, perhaps, carve out a lasting peace."

The guests are breathing heavily. It is not the drugs, or the dark, or the danger that holds them hostage.

It is the man.

His words, sluicing gently from the shadows, are a warning. The old status quo is done. The new order is a beast rising from the depths. Their insults and insolences will no longer be tolerated. Their old privileges are forfeit.  They'd crossed the sea as Mel's guests; they depart as the Eye's allies.  And the price of his allyship is the same as the price of his enmity:

Loyalty.

Mel tastes the fear souring the air. Her language of diplomacy, of elegant solutions and calculated compromise, has no place here.  And yet she herself has not been relegated to the sideline. She can feel Silco's attention on her, holding her to account.

My wife, he'd said—and now she understands.

In offering his hand, he will not hesitate to show his teeth.  And anyone who dares insult her will face the full force of his bite. He is making plain, in the only vocabulary he speaks, that her safety is his.

"I'm," Hector says, whey-faced, "for the villa."

Silco inclines his head.

"As—as are we," Cevila stammers. "And, we must apologize, your Excellency, if our manners were lacking." She jerks an elbow into her husband's midriff. He concurs with alacrity. "Ye-es. It won't happen again."

"Indeed," Lady Dennings breathlessly chimes in. "We hope you'll find us far more agreeable once we've reached dry land. And, if we might presume, a trifle more—uh—open-minded. For the sake of progress."

The remaining guests chorus the sentiment.

They resemble, Mel thinks, a gaggle of geese honking in a language they do not understand. For a moment, Ambessa's specter leaps into her mind. Her mother's disdain for these aristocrats—their venal cowardice, and the easy way their moral fiber could be bought with a few coins. And yet, it is they who will make the new order possible.

A better world that, in a twist of irony, will be born from their inveterate greed.

"I am sure," concurs mildly says, "we will have a pleasant stay." Then, to the crewmen: "See Sir Garlen off."

The crewmen, leering, drag Garlen toward the hourglass. The brigadier lets off an aggrieved string of curses, then subsides into a fit of heavy-lidded mutterings. When he awakens, Mel suspects, his recollection of the night's events will verge of hallucinatory. Any accusations—of foul play, jettisoned cargo, magic portals—will be written off as the byproduct of a drinking spree and a wrong turn in the storm.

In short order, the hourglass is prepared. At the dais, the Idol glows a delirious shade of pink. In the bottom chamber, the sand is a slow-motion whirlpool. The crewmen, Garlen slung between them, advance. A life-vest is fitted over Garlen's shoulders.

Silco, standing vigil, addresses the guests. Despite the dire circumstances, his tone is almost conversational.

"You'll find the trip smooth. It may seem like a long duration of transit. But time, in the Void, is a fluid thing. In a way, Sir Garlen is unfortunate. The first experience of Crossing Over is unforgettable. A glimpse into the mysteries of the universe. For some, it becomes a compulsion." He pauses, his tone softening. "Though not one I'd wish on anyone."

He crooks a finger. The crewmen, Garlen in tow, enter the chamber. Mel hears the sound of their passage: the echo boots, the muffled breaths, a last, slurred curse from the Brigadier. The grains, swirling, close around them. Their bodies flicker. In the next instant, they are gone.

The chamber is empty.

Except for the sand. Twinkling, twisting, then, with a dreamlike sentience, drifting into stillness.

The ventricles of Mel's heart constrict. She doesn't want to look at the Idol. But her spine, as if gripped by an immense force, is turned in its direction. The glow sears into her retinas. Inside her head, a slow, soft, sonorous beat rises. She is struck by the profound certainty that it is the creature’s heartbeat, and that the Void is connected to it, and to her.

Like the blood in her veins, a bond is being forged, and its intimacy will never cease.

"All right." Silco's voice solidifies as if through water. "let's be on our way."

Mel is jolted from her trance.

The guests are shuffled toward the portal. Hector is the first. His life-vest has been fitted so tightly that he resembles a stuffed sausage. His expression is taut, the smile long-gone. Behind him, the Dennings are huddled close. Lord Dennings has enfolded his wife's hands into his own. Their waxen faces are stamped with twin expressions of stalwart determination. Cevila, her lipsticked mouth stamped in a grim line, follows. Kolt, in the background, herds the stragglers.

"Mel," Silco says, "come."

 Mel's belly is in knots. Premonition masses with the force of an impending storm. "Are you certain—?"

"Very."

She hears the undertow in his voice: irresistible as the sea's pull. The Idol's maddening resonance fades.

Folding her hands across her belly, Mel steels her spine. One foot before the other. One step. Two. Three. Then she is inside the chamber, and the sand is shimmering, and Silco is beside her, and the bodies are pressing in. A soft humming begins. It is a sound that Mel feels more than hears. As though, instead of air, she is aspirating pure energy.

A crackle—then the whiff of ozone.

The sand grains, suspended, begin to spin.

The chamber flickers. The glass emits pulses of violet light. It is like watching a supernova, radioactive, flare on and off. Then, the pulse stabilizes. The light, rather than waning, climbs like a wave. It fills the hourglass, the gallery, the arena. Then, with a shockwave, it floods everything.

Mel is no longer her body. She is a particle caught in a vortex. She is a star peeling free from the firmament.

She is falling.

Inside Mel, a tiny core of awareness is all that remains.  The rest: sloughed off. She is no longer Mel Medarda. No longer a daughter, or sister, or wife. She is a molecule, and a pulse, and a wave. Her body, starved, is drawn to an unknown fount. Her soul, a nadir, thirsting to plunge.

If she could only get close, the fount will feed her. Nourish her. Answer every question she's ever had; soothe every hurt she's ever known. Joy, boundless. Power, infinite.

All of it, hers.

All she needs is to say: Yes.

But something stays her. The hunger is not her sole guide. There is the heartbeat, too. Mel has heard it before. It's the one inside her, the one she's always possessed, and now, for the first time, it has begun to fork. Its rhythm, disparate from hers, begins to coalesce into a shape. A silhouette. A body, massing, until Mel can see, with a visceral shock, the face she's spent her life trying to forget.

The one who'd shaped her, and made her. And who she's spent so much effort trying to erase.

The heartbeat has led her to Ambessa.

Mel wants to scream. To flee; to fight. But there is no escape. She is locked in a chamber, and the walls are closing in. The particles are swirling. They are her, and not her. She is Ambessa, and not Ambessa. She is trapped inside her mother's flesh. Her mother, trapped within the confines of her memories. And the Medarda bloodline is trapped, too, inside her.

For a strangling moment, they are one.

Then, with a shock, the fusion splits. Mel sees, not her mother, but a child. Eyes the color of the sea at dawn. Curls that glimmer like blackest silk. A smile, aflame, but with a touch of sweetness. She has Kino's wily ways, and Aziz's golden heart, and Ambessa's iron resolve. And Mel's, too: her ambition, her will, and the strength to protect what's hers.

Mel's arms open, and the little girl—the bright, fierce, darling girl—leaps into her embrace.

Mel can feel the shape of her. All the tiny, beautiful details.  The dark grain of her skin: velvety beneath the pads of her fingertips.  The way she circles her chubby arms around Mel's neck, and dots her cheek with a dozen little kisses. Her laughter, a sonic dandelion bursting into bliss. Her scent: sweet and pure and as the seaside, and wholly, irreplaceably hers.

Their hearts beat as one.

Mine, Mel thinks.

Her treasure, her joy, her future.

"Tell me your name," she whispers, and the child laughs, nuzzling closer. Mel feels the soft, downy warmth of her curls. "Dearest, tell me your name."

A giggle, as if this is the silliest thing in the world.  "You already know."

"Do I?"

"You do." Another nuzzle. "So does Papa."

A coldeness creeps across Mel's nape. "Papa."

"Uh-huh." Her little chin lifts, and the dimples in her cheeks deepen. "It's funny. He knows, and I know, and you know. But we can't say so. Not yet."

"Why not?"

"'Cause it's a secret." Her lashes dip. It's a look Mel has seen on herself in the mirror: secretive, coy. Then, in a mercurial flash, her mood shifts. Her gaze, luminous, is all Silco. The blue of his good eye in both of hers. Both, locked on Mel, with indelible intensity. "You have to keep the secret. Or else—"

"What?" Fear claws its way up Mel's throat. "Or else what?"

"Something bad will happen." The girl's Cupid's bow mouth puckers. "Very bad."

"Will it—will it hurt you?"

"Only if you don't stay."

"Stay? What do you mean?"

"Here. With me." The girl's smile has faded. Her stare is beseeching. "I want you to stay."

"I want that, too."

"Do you?" She lays a plump hand, a tiny mirror, over Mel's. "Do you really?"

"Of course I do!" Mel's arms tighten. Her fingers are digging in. She can't make herself stop. "Please. Tell me your name."

"Only if you promise." A pout. "That you'll stay."

"I promise."

"Say it, then." Her eyes are all the colors of the ocean. "I'll stay."

"I—"

"Say it." Her tiny fingers are beginning to bite. "Say it!"

Her little face is irresistibly sweet. But the colors are washing out. The words come eerily distorted.

"Stay. Stay. STAY."

"I—" Mel begins.

A hand falls on Mel's arm. The little girl, in a gust of wind, fades away. Mel is left with only the afterimage of her. Her warmth, lingering. The memory, a superimposed shadow. Her arms fall around the emptiness, and her heart is in her throat, and she is being dragged backward, the hand's grip inescapable. She struggles, and shrieks, and claws, trying to regain what is hers. Her body is a cage, and the only thing within is a howl.

Then—

"Mel."

With a gasp, Mel falls back into herself.

Silco is enfolding her from behind. The embrace is gentle and ruthless. She can feel the shape of him, pressed all the way down: his lips against her ear, his chest to her spine, his arms bracketing her ribs, his boots slotted beside hers. His palms, covering hers, are knitted over her bellybutton. She feels the pulse beating there: hers, his. 

The heat of connection is shockingly real.

"Don't," he whispers. "You'll regret it."

They are, Mel realizes, still in the chamber. It's only been a few seconds.

A few seconds.

And already, her hands are shaking. Blood rims the crescents of her nails. She realizes, with a sick jolt, that she's dug them into the flesh of her belly.  The fabric of her gown is speckled red. She can't feel the pain. Only a faint throb of heat, far-off, and fading fast. Her skin, her senses, her very sanity is being sucked out of her.

She doesn't care. She'll give anything—anything—to have what she'd glimpsed. To hold the little girl, and hear her laughter, and know her name. It will be the truest, best thing Mel will ever have.

And, if it costs her the rest, then she'll pay the price.

"Please," she whispers. "I saw—."

"Whatever you saw, it wasn't real."

"But—"

"It's the call of the Void." His mouth touches the hollow beneath her jaw. "When it opens, you get a glimpse into a world you were never meant to see. Not yet. Sometimes, not ever. And if you succumb to the lure, it'll devour you."

"Silco, I—"

I saw her.

I held her.

I loved her.

She was so beautiful. So alive. So theirs.

"Please," Mel says again, hoarsely. "Please."

 "Hush. It's gone." He tucks her closer. "Brace yourself. We're about to cross."

The sand grains dance in delirious spirals. They are no longer particles: they are fractals of pure energy. The chamber begins to liquify. The walls are coming apart. Mel has lost the sense of her body, of gravity, of the world's axis.  She can hear a keening, high and inhuman, that is both outside and within. Around her, the guests are writhing. They're not human beings anymore, but puppets in thrall to a single string. Kolt and the crewmen struggle to contain them. Then their shapes are obscured—along with everything else—beneath a brilliant white aurora.

It's a solar flare, blinding. 

Flinching, Mel shuts her eyes. The luminosity is a physical pressure, seeping into her lids. Her skin, her hair, every pore and follicle, feels supercharged.

And Silco, enfolding her, holds fast.

"Trust me," he murmurs. "We're nearly there."

The light hits its zenith. Then, slowly, it subsides. The aurora ebbs, and the darkness returns. But it is not the darkness of the undersea. It is the darkness of a cloudless night.

The chamber is gone. They are standing on a pier.

It is incredibly narrow: a long finger of planks and beams, jutting into the sea. The sky, a rich indigo, is flecked with stars. The fishhook of a moon hangs overhead. In the distance, Mel spies a net of colored lights in a dark mass. The island of Wuju, barely a mile offshore. Beyond the pier is a cluster of boats. A few skiffs, and the sleek prow of a ship. Its name is stenciled onto its hull: SS Woe Betide.

Salt-spray lashes Mel's cheeks. She realizes she is at the edge of the railing. The wood cuts into her hipbones. Below, the sea churns. The drop is nearly twenty feet deep. It would be an ugly fall. 

Backtracking, Mel takes a breath. Her face is wet; her lips are moving. But she can't make sense of the sounds. The taste is like salt. Like tears: sobless, silent. Because she is empty-handed. Because the girl, her precious treasure, is gone. She has slipped through her fingers.  

Or—no.

Not slipped. She was never there.

Silco's lips touch her ear.  "Steady. The first shockwave hits the hardest."

His is still behind her, arms wound around her midriff. One hand is splayed across her belly. Mel can feel the imprint of his ring. The cold, smooth band nestles against her navel. The residue of the magic is still imprinted on her nerves: the phantom of loss.

She doesn't know whether to mourn the girl, or herself. 

But if the Void cannot truly give, then perhaps the Void is nothing more than a reflection?

"Look," Silco says, tipping his chin.

Mel does. In the moon's curving glow, she sees the guests scattered around the pier. Some have dropped to their knees, arms stretched heavenward. Others are being held back, forcibly, by Kolt and the other crewmen. Hector, a quivering mound of limbs, is curled in a fetal position. Lady Dennings, eyes streaming, is sobbing inconsolably. Her husband, embracing her, is staring at the middle distance, slack-jawed.  Cevila, caught in a headlock by three men, is shrieking incoherently: eyes bulging, teeth bared.   

"The journey affects everyone differently," Silco says. "Thankfully, after the first exposure, it doesn't linger." A beat. "Mostly."

He's not smiling. But there's a knowledgeable slyness to his expression that sets Mel off-balance.

"Why—why did it hit them harder?" she rasps. "We all crossed over together."

"Because their desires aren't rooted in the heart. Theirs is an ambition born of envy, or greed, or pettiness. Whereas yours..." His stare flits down. "Yours is different. Deeper."

His palm remains anchored over her navel.  A claim laid down, and stained with blood.

Mel bites her lip. She can feel the sting of shallow lacerations. Reality is creeping back in, and with it, a modicum of dismay. "I—I couldn't hold back." The admission hurts. "If it hadn't been for you, I—"

"Would've clawed your belly inside out."  Silco lays his cheek against hers. The film of seawater clings to his skin. "It was your first time. Most would've given in completely."

"You didn't."

"I nearly did, my first time."

"What?"

She can feel the stirring of his breaths: slow, steady, deliberate.

"With Jinx. Years ago, in the Badlands." He swallows, once. "It's nothing I care to repeat."

Mel shivers. Her body, like a tuning fork's ebbing resonance, still sings. She wonders if the sound will ever truly cease. Or if it will stay, a ghostly echo, in the chambers of her heart.

"We ought to," Silco says, his focus on the guests, "make sure they're sane."

Mel manages a nod. Their bodies disentangle; the warmth dissipates. There is something bereft about the distance. Mel doesn't dare dwell on it.  They are not the sort to cling to each other in public. Displays of affection are a calculated performance: beneath the dazzle of cameras, behind the thicket of microphones, before the crowd's hungry eyes.

Here, the intimacy feels too raw. An exposure past endurance. 

"You're shaking," Silco says. His left palm lifts to curve itself over her bare shoulder. The thumb strokes a soft circle into the skin. "Let's get you inside."

"Inside?"

"The villa's only a short distance from the pier. There are guards stationed to escort us."

Mel nods. She absorbs little—but the warmth of his hand, she understands. The guests, in her peripheral vision, have begun to stir to their senses. She can see the confusion that permeates the airwaves. The same emotions that cling to her, miasmic. 

None of them, she thinks, were ready. Now, they've crossed the threshold to No Return.

"Are you able to stand?" Silco asks.

Mel nods again.

"Take my arm."

"I—I can walk on my own."

"Take it."

His tone brooks no argument. In a strange way, it's reassuring. The Crossing has altered everything. But not Silco. Wherever he goes, he remains the same.

The tide: immutable.

Taking a steadying breath, Mel straightens. The night wind whips at her hair, her dress. Her limbs seem to be made of gelatin; her mind a slurry of conflicting impulses.

But, also: exhilarated.

A strange subspecies of joy is spreading through her. Not the kind she experiences when her schemes are playing out to fine-tuned perfection. Something brighter, purer, undiluted.

A sense of homecoming.

As if reading her thoughts, Silco says, "A mild euphoria can follow the first Crossing. It will fade soon. Until then, I'd advise against letting the eyes wander." 

"Why?"

"Hallucinations." He takes her elbow. "Best not to tempt fate."

"I—I see."

Mel wills the world back into focus. The guests, herded by the crew, have been ushered to the pier's end. Mel makes out the shape of a long rowboat, bobbing gently on the white-capped waves. The guests are being bundled into it. Blankets are distributed; thermoses of hot tea passed out.

Silco, his hand a loose latch on Mel's arm, leads her forward.

"Stay close," he cautions. "The boards are slippery."

Carefully, Mel wends her way along the pier. The path before her has a rippling quality: her balance is off. She focuses on mimicking Silco's sure-footed tread. Glimpsed from behind, she is struck by the slenderness of his silhouette. The spare cut of his torso; the tidy nip of his waist; the lithe swimmer's legs.

He's not a large man. And because he's not, he's always had to assert himself. To stay braced, every moment, against a world that will never be forgiving to those with less.

For the first time, Mel is hit by the full force of his fragility. How little of it he lets her see. How much of it she still doesn't know.

And how much, if she's honest, she longs to find out.

Then it happens.

A cry, loud and shrill, splits the night. Mel falters mid-step. In the frothing blackness of the waves, she catches a flash of dark flesh: a hand, clawing wildly up the pier's planks. Then a figure surges out in slithering increments. The moonlight, ghostly, traps itself in the bronzed contours of her musculature. Her eyes, a fiery gold, are locked on Mel. Her teeth, bared, are the color of old ivory.

Ambessa.

Her uniform is studded with pale encrustations of barnacles. The armor drips, water pattering across the floorboards. The wild gray corona of her hair is plastered to her skull. The rest of her: waterlogged as a sunken ship. 

It's as if she's been dragged across the seven seas.

As if she's a revenant, risen from the dead.

At her throat, a necklace—the one belonging to the Ionian chieftain's daughter—jangles like a garland of bones. The dark glisten of blood limns the coral ornaments. Her features are streaked with it. Her expression: a naked rictus of bloodlust.

Half kraken, half killer.

"You," she spits.

Then she's lunging for Silco.

Mel acts on reflex. Her body shoves his aside. Cursing, Silco staggers off-kilter. His hand drops from Mel's arm. The moment it does, the planks skid from under her boots. Her thighs collide with the railing. Then she is toppling backward.

For a moment, she is weightless. Her body caught in zero gravity. Her mind, a free-floating mote.

Mel registers the details in a series of suspended snapshots: the hypnagogic moon pinwheeling above; the stars, a thousand eyes, blinking in and out; Ambessa, a raging Fury, bearing down. Then gravity pulls. Mel's stomach plunges into her heels. Her arms fly outward. Her fingers claw empty air.

There is nothing to hold on to.

Only the Void's hungry inverse.

The Deep End.

Then, with a giddy quiver of gelatinous peristalsis, the moment erupts.

Mel, a shriek ripped from her lungs, drops.

The plunge is an instant; an eternity. The waves are a frenzied churn. The chill radiates, shockingly cold, and seizes her breath.

Mel has one final cogent thought: Silco.

Then, the water rises up, and swallows her whole.

#arcane #arcane league of legends #arcane silco #silco #forward but never forget/xoxo #forward (never forget)/xoxo #arcane mel #mel medarda #mal de mer #melco #arcane ambessa #ambessa medarda

[onegianthotmess]

I’m currently having a Mariolore brainrot and I’m wondering what would’ve happened in the story if Rosalina had done something about the plague.

Would it be guaranteed that Boo’s parents would’ve lived if she’d said something? Would she have been able to do something to make it where only Boo would have been able to make it out unscathed? Or would it just end up that Boo’s parents would have lived and continued abusing him?

If it was just that Boo’s parents would have lived and continued to abuse him, would Rosalina have been able to bring their abuse of Boo to light in some way and be able to free him from that life of suffering? Or would she free him in some other way?

And if she brought the news of the plague to light, would the human population of the kingdom have suffered as much? I’m sure that many of the middle and lower class people would have still died, but less probably would have if Rosalina said something about the plague.

A little side note that is important to say is that, since it is not stated that the plague spread to other kingdoms or not (and I’m guessing that it didn’t), the population of the Mushroom Kingdom, with both humans and Toads, must be massive since Rosalina said that millions of humans would die and that the plague was stated to have decimated the armies when it was all over. So, the plague must have been extremely deadly to take out millions within that large of a kingdom.

And it is also stated by Toadsworth that it was smartest to increase the population of Toads within the kingdom to keep it up and running, that the new young no longer were able to possess and learn important kills taught to them by the human laborers, most likely making life in the kingdom a bit more difficult. And both the internal economy and flowof both imports and exports must have suffered from the loss of humans within the Mushroom Kingdom as well.

So I wonder how it would have turned out for the kingdom as well if Rosalina said something.

And would she and Boo have gotten married if she’d said something? And how would it work?

Rosalina still needs to take care of business on her island and lead her followers, and outsiders aren’t allowed there. Rosalina herself also said that it takes many years of worship before a person is even considered to be allowed on the island. But, if she married Boo, she would have also been queen of the Mushroom Kingdom and have some duties there as well. So, would there be a compromise between Boo and Rosalina if they were married? Like, Rosalina would go to her island to take care of business and her followers for a set amount of time and then come back to the Mushroom Kingdom to help Boo with his royal duties and to spend time with him?

Also, what would Boo’s relationship be like with Bowser, and how would he have turned out? If Rosalina had said something about the plague, Bowser would not have been raised by royal staff and would have still had his mother to care for him when he was growing up. Would Rosalina eventually try to help Boo have a better relationship with his brother?

And speaking of Bowser and the possibility of Boo and Rosalina getting married, would Boo just give up the crown and pass it to Bowser once he was of age to be with Rosalina?

Boo said himself that his life was merely expected of him and that he never really enjoyed it. And he even said that Bowser could be his heir, showing in a subtle manner that he may have never truly cared to take on the crown and be King. So would Boo take the frown and wait for Bowser to grow up and just give him the throne? Or would Boo just give Bowser the crown altogether instead of waiting?

Seeing as Boo, even though he sort of resents Bowser because he got an actual mother and Boo got an abusive drunk who just so happened to give birth to him, is protective over his brother and cares for him in a way, I’d like to think he’d take the crown and wait until Bowser was nineteen or twenty to pass the frown down to him. And then Boo would either just live in the castle to advise Bowser and just live, or, providing the fact that he is or plans to get married to Rosalina, just go and live with his childhood friend.

Personally, I think Boo would’ve eventually sought to marry Rosalina as he got older and she would have returned his feelings, as Rosalina liking Boo in a romantic way is canon. So maybe they would’ve gotten closer over time and Boo would’ve started to court Rosalina and eventually pursue a relationship with her. (Don’t judge me, I’m a fan of the childhood friends to lovers trope. It’s a favorite of mine.)

But, what would happen to Bowser if he was just given the crown? Would he have ever found out the truth about his heritage? Would the people of the Mushroom Kingdom accept him?

And what about Peach? Would she pursue Bowser if he was King? Given her behavior, most likely. And if so, what would Bowser do? Would Bowser even be single? Given how others treat him, probably.

Overall, this idea has been mulling around in my head and I can’t stop thinking of cute married Boo and Rosalina with a happy family living together. I’m a sucker for those traumatized characters get married and end up having a super wholesome family domestic life stories! Leave me alone!

#mariolore #rosalina #boo #bowser

[phantoids]

Fuck it. Take some dsmp countries worldbuilding for an AU I'm working on.

Snowchester. originally it was l'manberg's industrial sector of claimed land, including a nuclear research lab (not limited to weapons but mostly yea, i like to think they had a decent physics department and were trying to figure out nuclear reactors to help power the city when things started getting worse) but ofc it turned into an industrial town since workers migrated there. you have small farms of hardy vegetables and their own traditions and such. it ends up gaining independence of lmanberg as like a separate country but it's still a colony yk since they wanted to be allow the people of snowchester to be seen as their own people whilst being able to easily keep their lmanberg citizenship and such given they're all first generation migrants basically. snowchester's main things are engineering (electrical, mechanical, anything they can get to do with mechanics), physics and nuclear physics. they've got some primary industry in extracting natural materials required for the nukes (the specific area is where there's a lot of very deeply buried inactive nuclear ore) and ofc secondary industry in the processing of those materials too since they're refined there too. snowchester has very little tertiary industry, and quite a bit of quaternary in terms of engineering and designers and such. meanwhile l'manberg has quite a bit of quaternary and tertiary industry but not nearly as much secondary (they mainly export food products, however, and often jewellery too) and basically no primary industry.

snowchester remains one of the more populated areas on the server after the egg, with how it's self sufficient and a bit too cold for the vines still. some are creeping up the shore though and nobody's too sure how long they have til the town is uninhabitable.

the dsmp specialises in primary industry and tertiary. all its manufacturing is either outsourced to lmanberg or the badlands. cause like. the badlands is an extremely good place to have a lot of manufacturing and quaternary as well, and they just do fuck all everything. they are THE manufacturing specialists (also cause sam would definitely like that kind of thing and help out with it).

kinoko exports agricultural goods and has one of the most popular brewing industries on the server, as well as being renowned for the general quality of ingredients and the amount of cafes. also has a lot of builders, there's a decent amount of construction done there due to the materials used in most of the buildings, it attracts a lot of carpenters and construction workers who want to test their skill working with mushrooms sturdy enough to build a house with. las nevadas is entirely tertiary and quaternary industry, they outside a lot to lmanberg and the badlands. basically after el rapids dispersed they created las nevadas so the few people who lived there moved to las nevadas, and people probably migrated from elsewhere too, but el rapids was planned to have a decent entertainment industry. las nevadas has lots of builders and carpenters and jewellery sellers but it's all bespoke stuff, and a lot of it is high end or hand made goods too. it's where you'll go to find the best restaurants and hotels and night clubs and casinos. it's where you meet the big business execs and where there's a lot of cramped office buildings, and the food is quite lovely since it's so close to kinoko they get fresh ingredient imports every day.

also foolish's summer home is a tourist attraction and resort. you've also just got foolish there. he's always seen building smth.

#void talks about writing #worldbuilding shit #god i love it so much. #tteote au

[baobikhangloi]

What is large format PE film, technology to produce large format PE film? Large format PE film is the main material to cut out to make large plastic bags, in which the main size is the width of the mouth of the bag, and the length can be up to several hundred meters because it is packed in rolls. This PE is extremely convenient when used as a greenhouse film, lake lining, concrete floor covering or agricultural mulch. Large format PE film is made by melting virgin plastic at a suitable temperature, then blowing it up into air bubbles and then folding it to form a film with the correct width as required and wrapped in a paper or plastic core to Maximize space saving. The larger the film size, the larger the machine must also have a blown head and the higher the body height, which can be up to 30 meters. Technical factors, technology and skill level of workers operating the machine. also very strict requirements to be able to ensure the quality of the product. High applicability of PE film in the packaging industry Packaging made from PE (polyethylene) plastic has excellent properties such as high strength and good bearing capacity, and at the same time is flexible and flexible. In addition, it also prevents water, does not allow air to pass through, and has clarity. Transparent to clearly see the product inside. Therefore, PE film or large format PE film is very popular in the packaging industry, especially in the heavy industry or for export. PE film, in addition to being cut to make bags in a semi-automatic method, can also be used for large automatic presses and packaging machines or left in rolls when used for spreading, lining, and roofing surfaces with large area. as big as greenhouses, mushroom growing houses, shrimp ponds..... Products of plastic film, large format PE film of Khang Loi company Plastic film products, plastic bags, plastic bags of Khang Loi Packaging Company are manufactured 100% from primary plastic particles, ensuring the transparent and supple characteristics of the product and safe for food. completely meet the strictest export standards to the US or European countries. Besides, if it is necessary to add additives to create color, or ensure static electricity, resistance or other special requirements, with a team of technicians and skilled workers with many years of experience in the field. In the packaging industry, we are completely confident that we can meet all the requirements of our customers. Large production capacity, flexible shipping and payment methods as well as commitment to quality are also one of the reasons that customers trust and choose Khang Loi to become a supplier of packaging products. large format for their business activities. Companies wishing to cooperate or want to know more details about products, please contact us for the best preferential price. Thank you very much!

https://www.tuiniloncolon.com/2020/02/mang-nhua-mang-pe-kho-lon.html

#vietnam #polybag #packaging

[bejandaruwallaindia]

Know about business according to the planets in the Kundli

In today’s run-of-the-mill life, every person wants to get progress, for which he chooses different paths and objectives, but even after working hard many times, he does not get success. Many times a person is ready to do business but he does not know what kind of business he should do.

Through Astrologer Chirag Daruwalla we should choose business according to the planets of our Kundli:

Sun Related Business

If the fifth house or ninth house is related to the Sun, then the person can proceed with his father or family work. Government job, Government service, High-level administrative service, Politics, Goldsmith, Jeweller, Financier, Management related to medicines, Mantra work, Fruit selling, Clothing, Grass, Copper, Gold, Ruby, Horn or bone material, Farming, Wealth Appropriation, Insurance agent, Government informant, Pertaining to wheat, Foreign Service, Aviation, Medicine, Grains of all kinds, Scarlet matter, Honey, Work of wood and plywood, Relating to the fourth wood used for building, Wool and woolen clothing, materials science, space science, photography, drama, directing films, etc.

Moon Related Business

In the field of business, the moon is a water planet, due to which opportunities can be found for trading water-related goods in its works.

Water, beverages, milk, dairy products (curd, ghee, butter), foodstuffs, ice cream, soft drinks, mineral water, ice cream, white matter, silver, rice, salt, sugar, flower decorations, pearls, other than coral Other products Soft clay (Multani), Plaster of Paris, Vegetables, Textile business, Readymade garments, Magicians, Photographic and video mixing, Foreign works, Ayurvedic medicines, Water supply department, Mushrooms, Fish, Vegetables, Laundry, Import-export Related areas Glass, glasses, women welfare, water supply department, canal, and irrigation department, excise department, navigator, travel related work, hospital, nursing, transport, public relations officer, story-poem writing, etc.

Moon is considered a feminine planet, so when it interacts with another planet like itself, one can associate with the feminine side.

Mars Related Business

In astrology, Mars is depicted as the commander. Mars is considered to be the planet of fire element and the factor of land. Army-related work and police department related work can be seen in the context of this planet.

Police & Army Jobs, Fire Work, Electrical Work, Adventure, Metal Work, Land Work, Land Science, Department of Defense, Mineral, Electrical & Electronic Engineer, Mechanic, Lawyer, Blood Bank, Chemist, Drug Dealer, Blood Sailing, Civil Engineering, Arms Manufacturing, Body Building, Adventure Sports, Wrestling, Sports, Sportsman, Firefighting, Chemistry, Circus, Job Recruitment, Energy Work, Fire Insurance, Hearth, Stone, Clay, Copper related work, Work areas related to metals, paint, bakery, catering, confectionery, cook, brick kiln, hotel and restaurant, fast-food, gambling, barber, appliance, etc.

If Mars, being the lord of the work area, makes a relation with the fire-fired planets like the Sun, then the person earns money from the works related to fire. There may be furnace work, electrical work, food preparation, or work in factories.

Mercury  Related Business

Mercury is a complete Mahajan form planet. There is a planet associated with a business that helps in making a person stronger with his causative elements.

Profession work, Teaching of Vedas, Writing work (writer), Astrological work, Publishing work, Bookkeeper, Teacher, Mathematician, Lawyer, Interest, Stock market, Computer work, Writing, Oratory work, Craftsmanship, Poetry, Priest’s work, Story speaker, vocalist, physician, teacher of mathematics and commerce, vegetable, seed and plant work, newspaper, brokerage work, commerce, telephone department, post, Korea, traffic, journalism, media, insurance company, communication sector, brokerage, agent, green matter vegetables, accountant, computer, photostat, printing, postal telegraph, newspaper, messenger, typist, courier service, insurance, sales tax, income tax department, salesman, etc.

If both Mercury and Venus are strong, then the chances of getting good success in the clothing business increase. Mercury gives the task of writing, if it is influenced by the Sun which belongs to the state, then the person can join any writing organization.

Jupiter Related Business

Jupiter is considered an auspicious planet among all the planets. Along with this, he is considered the factor of knowledge, wisdom, and wealth.

Brahmin’s work, discourse work, charitable institution, religious business, astrology, politics, court-related work, judge, law, lawyer, banking work, politics, economics, mythology, auspicious work, teaching work, teachers, educational institutions, library, Publication, management, educational institutions, work related to books, yellow material, gold, priestly, editing, work related to paper, interest work, house construction, fine furniture, sleeping equipment, pregnancy-related work, food items, gold work, Related to clothes, work related to wood, all kinds of fruits, sweets, candles, ghee, grocery, etc.

Venus Related Business

Venus is considered to be the ruler of the areas associated with beauty, opulence, and art. The strong position of Venus makes the person physically beautiful and attractive. Women are very attractive due to the strong influence of Venus.

Artistic work, music, acting, motion picture decoration, dress designing, entertainment, film industry, video parlor, marriage bureau, interior decoration, fashion designing, painting, makeup, cosmetics, perfume, gift house, painting, and women’s Products for use, work related to marriage, work related to women, luxury goods, car, vehicle dealer, transport, decorative items, sweets, restaurant, hotel, food items, white matter, milk products, milk production ( Dairy), curd, rice, paddy, jaggery, foodstuff, gold, silver, diamond, jeweler, clothing manufacturer, garments, veterinary medicine, elephant horse rearing, etc.

If Venus is in a strong position in the livelihood house, is the tenth lord, or if is situated with the tenth lord, then the person has the qualities of becoming an artist. He is a playwright and musician. 

Saturn Related Business

Saturn has a special relationship with the land area. Saturn is the factor of matter found inside the earth.

Iron-related work, Machinery work, Chemical products, Flammable oil, Cooking gas, Antiques, Archaeological department, Research work, Astrological work, Raw metal related to iron, Coal, Leatherwork, Shoes, Heavy work, Job, Labor, contracting, handicraft, repair work, woodwork, coarse grain, plastic, and rubber industry, dark matter, spare parts, building material, stone and chips, bricks, glass, tiles, masons, carpenters, labor and social welfare Department, tire industry, plumber, clockwork, scrap work, executioner, oil extraction, road construction, cement.

Rahu Related Business

Rahu has been a factor in the horoscope, especially separation in spiritual work, in such a person can do work related to broker, commission agent, etc.

Computers, Electricity, Research, Work of sudden profit, Pertaining to machines, Vengeful substances, Espionage covert work, Related to the subject, Wrestling, Gambling, Snake charmer, Poisonous claim, Leather and skin,

Ketu  Related Business

If Ketu is calculated in the same position in the horoscope, then K is the factor of religion, in such a situation, the person does work related to religion, devotional therapy, etc.

Work-related to social service, religion, spiritual work, mystic science, etc.

If you liked the above information, then let us know by commenting in the comment box.

Conclusion

The initial phase of a new business is very important and everyone wants to start a new business in a positive way. If you also want to start a new business, then you can take guidance by talking to astrologers.

#talk to astrologers #business astrology #kundli

[longwindedbore]

Today in fantasies which inspire Donnie when he tends to the little orange mushroom late at night:

The phrase "Unified Reich" appears as a part of hypothetical news articles in the video that announce Trump's hypothetical victory in the 2024 election, with the narrator asking, "What happens after Donald Trump wins?"

Under a big headline that says, "WHAT'S NEXT FOR AMERICA?" there is a smaller headline that appears to read: "INDUSTRIAL STRENGTH SIGNIFICANTLY INCREASED DRIVEN BY THE CREATION OF A UNIFIED REICH."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Two thoughts for context

1. Cheap and lazy. Have to go back 90 years to come up with ‘new’ideas like Unified Reich

Unfortunately the slogan-driven minds of the extreme right or left are without any curiosity about ‘how did that work? How was it implemented,”

I’n the case of the German Reich the USA and British industrialists underwrote the cost of Naziism’s rebuilding (by loans to buy US/Anglo machinery and railway systems) as a bulwark against the obvious appeal of the USSR’s Communism.

Of course required high corporate taxes within Germany to fund their portion as well as high US/Brit taxes spurrin a needthe business tax writeoffs of opportunities in foreign Investments.

Just as the USA post WW2 Marshall Plan did the same funding by high corporate taxes to rebuild postwar Europe including ex-belligerents also as a bulwark against the obvious appeal of the USSR’s communism.

The USSR by the same token were similarly underwritten with equipment and expertise by industrialists, such as the Armand Hammer oil company, to bring them into the 20th Century energy imarkets.

Did Trump argue for higher taxes on the Rich? Hahahahahaha!

2. Brain Dead or Memory Loss or just Dogwhistling while Gaslighting? - Why didn’t DoubleDoofuss Trumplestiltsin institute a comprehensive industrial policy when he was Dolt 45?

As the Commander-in-Cheap with his Party of Grifting Obnoxious Perverts in control of both Parties 2017 to 2020 the Mango Mussolini’ FAILED to act. Despite a powerful majority TrumptyDumpty

Proposed no new industrial policy thus ignoring his campaign promises. His council of Economic (Donors) Advisors - who would have been instrumental in developing a policy - all resigned in disgust within a couple months in early 2019.

Vonshittzhizpants could have funded re-induatrialization with the Trillion$$ a year savings that Medicare-for-all would have generated if he’d followed through on his campaign promise to repeal and replace - with better - the ACA. Never made move one or even revealed a smidgeon of his ‘plan’ By contrast Obama jump started the explosion in Renewable energy industry with just $330B. Clinton created Trillion$ in new medical industries with $50B for the genome project. Dump truck is more like G HW Bush’s admin which MURDERED USA scientific development’s fantastic headstart lead by cutting funding to the true industrial innovators - the 20 US research Universities led by MIT, Cal-Tech, Stanford, John Hopkins, etc. forcing Taiwan, China, India to invest in homegrown industries become the exporters rather than importers of the USA

Trumpanzee neither negotiated with Mexico nor asked Congress for Funding or diversion of duties on imports from Mexico to build ‘the impregnable border wall’. instead used the border security maintenance budget Obama had extracted from a ‘penny-pinchin no wins for Obama ever’ GOP Congress to issue his (Dolt 45) haphazard no-bid (illegal) contracts to campaign donors to build a cheap, easily circumvented, and structurally unsound couple hundred miles of Wall here and there on the 2K border. For the example check out the ‘no wall built’ at the (false) destination of the ‘Patriot TakeBack the Border Truck convoy 2023’. The Rube Goldberg-type cargo containers at the alleged high crossing point that Texas cobbled together provides dramatic visual illustration that the Orange Ourangtang did NOTHING to secure the border except create misery by separating children from parents.

By constrast one can look at the lists of what other president’s set fort to do in their first two years of progressive efforts and accomplishments which benefitted all Citizens (except for the taxes of the nepo-Rich)

Accomplishments by FDR, Truman, Eisenhower (GOP prez with Dem majorities in both Houses), Kennedy, LBJ (pre-Vietnam debacle) Nixon rolling out Affirmative Action OSHA and the EPA and almost UBI (did have Demmajorities), Ford, Carter, Clinton, Obama, and Biden. All experience failures; but were willing to get bloodied in the fight for the General Good.

All without ever being laughed at in the General Assembly of the UN.

All the while maintaining a foreign policy of supporting Allies, providing humanirltarian foreign aid to nonaligned nations, and being open to pursuing reasonable compromise negotiations with potential global advirsaries to prevent needless wars.

Donald is a Cult Leader fully enveloped in his Isolation Bubble Reality.

He and his cult dress up alike just as did ‘the return to the mother comet’ ‘Heavens Gate’ cult of the 1990s who had one selection of Nike shoes they all wore with their one color jumpsuits.

All his cult wears red - red MAGA hats and pre-ordered but not delivered Trump tennis shoes. Or red ties on white shirts with dark blue suits which bunch at the elbows which need to be let out around the waists…again.

No need for them to take poison like the Heaven’s Gate, Jim Jones, or local Nazi Party flacks in 1945. The individual personalities of Cult 45 diedwhen they deliberately chose their uniforms.

As indistinguishable as penguins. The birds are better dressed.

Real uniforms enhance the wearers identification and accomplishments: group insignia, rank, specialized skills, badges, name tags.

Parenthetically, the US Flag code opposes the blue suit Culver’s disgusting use of the flag pins they all wear for political purposes. But that Code exists doesn’t stop the ‘Hatriots’ from wearing the pins nor their ignorance as to how the pins are to be worn on a suit.

These red-tie TrumpliKKKlmen mostly haven’t served nor attempted to volunteer for any State or Nationa military service.

Nor evidently participated in Scouting which would have trained and rehearsed them in flag etiquette and reverence.

For your edification.

The opinions of real Veterans

I worked with a man who’d been an Army captain leading troops in combat in Vietnam. Who handwrote the letters to the families of those who had fallen under his command.

He wore his flag pin on Veterans Day and Flag Day in remembrance of those who fell.

It is inadequate to describe him as merely livid when he saw those who never even served wearing the pins.

He didn’t live to see Trump and Johnson and Jordan etc desecrate the symbol. Exposure to the Agent Orange that gave his son birth defects also killed Pete.

[henrywilson123]

Recent years saw a global mushroom trade surge fueled by evolving consumer tastes, health awareness, and food sector growth. India's pivotal role and its mushroom popularity offer lucrative trade opportunities. This blog explores Indian mushroom exports, highlighting market trends. Visit Blog: https://www.seair.co.in/blog/why-is-exporting-indian-mushrooms-a-lucrative-option-for-traders.aspx

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[isocertification-in-denmark24]

How does Halal certification impact the pricing of food products in Denmark?

/ Uncategorized / By Factocert Mysore

HALAL certification in Denmark

HALAL certification in Denmark, home­ to a mushrooming Muslim population, is experiencing a rise­ in Halal-certified product demand. Halal ce­rtification is key for Muslim consumers, ensuring the­ food bought aligns with Islamic dietary rules and ethical killing practice­s. This guide unravels the knot of Halal ce­rtification in Denmark, its goals, process, and role in Danish food se­ctor.

What is Halal Certification in Denmark?

Halal ce­rtification in Denmark, in Arabic, means “allowed” and re­lates to things permissible by Islam. Re­garding food, Halal consultant in Denmark confirms a product’s adherence­ to Islamic dietary regulations as per the­ Quran and Hadith, prohibiting certain ingredients and stipulating e­thical meat production.

Why is Halal Certification Essential in De­nmark?

HALAL certification in Denmark With a growing Muslim population, HALAL consultant services in  Denmark has need for Halal ce­rtification, to provide this consumer group with suitable food. It offe­rs certainty for the Muslim community, enabling sound purchasing choice­s.

Halal Certification Benefits in De­nmark

Enhanced Market Outreach: Halal ce­rtified businesses have­ the edge to re­ach the booming Muslim consumer sector in De­nmark, broadening possible consumer scope­.

Improved Brand Image: Halal certification implie­s ethical and religious commitment, pote­ntially amplifying brand credibility and customer trust.

Boosts Exports: Halal certification smooths the­ exportation path to other Muslim majority areas, cre­ating potential for new markets and re­venue aspects. De­nmark’s Halal Certification Process There­’s no single Halal certification authority in Denmark.

The HALAL certification process in Denmark

Se­veral accredited ce­rtification bodies are in operation, e­ach applying their own rules and procedure­s. Here’s the drill:

Application: Busine­sses keen on HALAL auditor in Denmark engage a recognize­d certification body and deliver a formal application.

Docume­ntation: The hopeful hands over e­xhaustive specifications about their products, ingre­dients, supply and production methods.

Facility Audit: The ce­rtification body assesses the applicant’s production facility compliance­ with Halal norms. This includes equipment, storage­ and slaughterhouse checks (for me­at products).

Review and Consent: Afte­r the audit, the certification body de­bates the findings and decide­s whether or not to grant Halal certification on the­ir set benchmarks.

Periodic Monitoring: Once­ certified, routine che­cks ensure continued compliance­ with Halal ce­rtification in Denmark guidelines. 

Key considerations for HALAL certification in Denmark

Key Ele­ments for Halal Certification in Denmark Choosing a Ce­rtification Body Businesses should rese­arch and select a reputable­ certification body acknowledged by Danish Muslims.

Transpare­ncy and Traceability: Preserving cle­ar, well-documented supply practice­s is crucial to comply with Halal norms.

Ongoing Improvement: Regular audits and de­dication to permanent improveme­nt are a must to retain Halal certification and e­arn consumer trust. Halal certification Challenge­s and Controversies in Denmark.

Standardization: Abse­nce of a unified national Halal body create­s standards changes and consumer chaos.

Cost: Certification proce­ss can burden businesses significantly, affe­cting product pricing. Denmark’s Halal Ce­rtification Future The Halal-certifie­d product demand in Denmark is set to soar.

Why Factocert for ISO HALAL Certification in Denmark  ?

We provide the best HALAL consultants in Denmark Who are knowledgeable and provide the best solution. And how to get Halal ce­rtification in Denmark. Kindly reach us at [email protected]. ISO  HALAL  certification consultants work according to HALAL  standards and help organizations implement HALAL  certification in Denmark with proper documentation.

For more information, visit HALAL  Certification in Denmark

Related Links:

ISO 21001 Certification in Denmark

ISO 22301 Certification in Denmark 

ISO 37001 Certification  in Denmark

ISO 27701 Certification in Denmark

ISO 26000 Certification in Denmark

ISO 20000-1 Certification in Denmark

ISO 50001 Certification in Denmark

HALAL Certification in Denmark

CE MARK Certification in Denmark

[aimarketresearch]

Bio Based Leather Market Size, Share, Trends, Key Drivers, Growth, Challenges and Opportunity Forecast

Global Bio Based Leather Market research report gives detailed market insights with which visualizing market place clearly become easy. The market report endows with an utter background analysis of the  industry along with an assessment of the parental market. This market research report puts forth the comprehensive analysis of the market structure and the estimations of the various segments and sub-segments of the  industry. The process of formulating Bio Based Leather Market report is initiated with the expert advice and the utilization of several steps. To perform several estimations and calculations, the definite base year and the historic year are considered as a support in the report.

Detailing about the actions of key players with respect to product launches, joint ventures, developments, mergers and acquisitions and effects of the same in terms of sales, import, export, revenue and CAGR values is also conducted in the Bio Based Leather Market business report. The report contains key information about the industry, market segmentation, important facts and figures, expert opinions, and the latest advancements happening across the globe. This market report surely assists in the journey to accomplish the business growth and success. Employment of well-known statistical tools and coherent models for analysis and forecasting of market data makes Bio Based Leather Marketing report outperforming.

Global Bio Based Leather Market was valued at USD 16530.00 million in 2021 and is expected to reach USD 35952.21 million by 2029, registering a CAGR of 10.20% during the forecast period of 2022-2029. In addition to the market insights such as market value, growth rate, market segments, geographical coverage, market players, and market scenario, the market report curated by the Data Bridge Market Research team also includes in-depth expert analysis, import/export analysis, pricing analysis, production consumption analysis, and climate chain scenario.

Access Full 350 Pages PDF Report @

Major Points Covered in TOC:

Bio Based Leather Market Overview: It incorporates six sections, research scope, significant makers covered, market fragments by type, Bio Based Leather Market portions by application, study goals, and years considered.

Bio Based Leather Market Landscape: Here, the opposition in the Worldwide Bio Based Leather Market is dissected, by value, income, deals, and piece of the pie by organization, market rate, cutthroat circumstances Landscape, and most recent patterns, consolidation, development, obtaining, and portions of the overall industry of top organizations.

Bio Based Leather Profiles of Manufacturers: Here, driving players of the worldwide Bio Based Leather Market are considered dependent on deals region, key items, net edge, income, cost, and creation.

Bio Based Leather Market Status and Outlook by Region: In this segment, the report examines about net edge, deals, income, creation, portion of the overall industry, CAGR, and market size by locale. Here, the worldwide Bio Based Leather Market is profoundly examined based on areas and nations like North America, Europe, China, India, Japan, and the MEA.

Bio Based Leather Application or End User: This segment of the exploration study shows how extraordinary end-client/application sections add to the worldwide Bio Based Leather Market.

Bio Based Leather Market Forecast: Production Side: In this piece of the report, the creators have zeroed in on creation and creation esteem conjecture, key makers gauge, and creation and creation esteem estimate by type.

Keyword: Research Findings and Conclusion: This is one of the last segments of the report where the discoveries of the investigators and the finish of the exploration study are given.

Some of the major players operating in the bio based leather market are

Toray Industries Inc. (Japan)

 Bolt Threads Inc. (U.S.)

 Ananas Anam (U.K.)

 Modern Meadows (U.S.)

 Nat-2 (Germany)

Natural Fiber Welding Inc. (U.S.)

 Ultrafabrics (U.S.)

 MycoWorks(U.S.)

 ECCO Leather (Netherlands)

 VEGEA(Italy)

 Fruitleather Rotterdam (Netherlands)

 Tjeerd Veenhoven studio (Netherlands)

 ARD (Canada)

Flokser A.S. (Turkey)

 DuPont Tate & Lyle Bio Products (U.S.)

 Parexel International Corporation (U.S.)

 Natural Fiber Welding, Inc. (U.S.)

 Atlas Hessen Biotech (Germany)

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#market research #market share #market trends

[eximpedia1]

#Mushroom Exports from India #Mushroom export data

[asnutbolts]

Choose Right Fasteners for Your Project

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