#cairn like substances
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grace or wok skills
i entered my attic bedroom and a large shaven headed man was there sitting on the edge of the bed. it used to be his room and his family still lived in the house below. gone for many years and seldom mentioned, i had assumed he was dead
the skin on his face was interrupted by a pattern, a harlequin of broken glass, with large shards painted to look like skin but not. i couldn't tell what was concealed under the paint
he asked me if they would be able to tell and i had to tell him yes and he wept
#grabbing onto the weeds to keep from falling off the edge of the world#old bookshelves full of old books#polaroid cameras#wand kings#trinitite#boba#mumblelard#cairns#cairn like substances#grace#dreams#dramamine#rambles#rumbles#glimmers#todays#second blue moon epoch#first spring
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Day 1 - Japan Blog - 7 February 2024
Day One:
Adelaide to Tokyo
Virgin Airlines via Melbourne and Cairns
Let's begin our departure to Japan. My sixth time visiting Nippon, and this time I hope to see and experience new things I havent been able to before.
My previous trips have been more to the cities to shop and to Disneyland but as I become more infatuated with this country, I am drawn to more meaningful experiences. It used to be about the video games, the collectables, the cute accessories and conveniences I couldnt get at home -- but now I am intrigued with the history, culture and nature of Japan. Hopefully I can manage to do everything I want to do and all the things, I wasnt expecting. (Because, theyre always the best!)
Leaving our house at 4am this morning was always a challenge; especially when I finished packing at 2am. So, we jumped in the uber which was driven by a super eccentric female driver who made me want to drop everying and start uber driving -- how is this even a thing I would want to do? She was so funny and chirpy and smart. It made the ride memorable and we made it to the airport with the rest of our holiday to look forward to.
Second up, checking in at Virgin Airlines in Adelaide Airport was also a huge highlight. The person helped us with our check in -- not that we needed it, but she upgraded our domestic flights to extra legroom which made my travel partner very happy.
I'm travelling with my partner of 4 years; Ben. He is 6"3 and loves an extra legroom seat! You'll probably learn a lot about him through my posts. He likes good food and music!
Well, after discovering that our VA fare is NOT a full service fare (I am NOT happy about this, shook, stricken, SLANDER!) as I would NEVER... but apparently; flying trans-tasman with VA doesn't mean you get a meal or a blanket or a pillow or a nice piece of metal. We are on a Boeing 737-800 Max for 9 hours with NO SNACKS. I think, because I booked this hastily, on their website (opposed to through a GDS with the option to see ancillaries) without the complete details -- I assumed it was a short haul international flight, and compared it with Qantas' service. I was wrong. The inflight entertainment is BYO device (which I didnt...) and the 737800 isnt fitted with Wifi onboard so I couldnt even download anything to watch. Their WiFi was working, so you could use their Free Entertainment, however I found it lagged and I couldn't even watch it through the buffering. So I just stuck to my knitting -- without music though because my Spotify decided I didnt need my downloaded music either.
It was a very long and semi-uncomfortable flight.
After the gruelling hours of trying to sleep, trying to finish my knitting and also doing some work... we landed in Haneda! HOORAY! Now time to do customs, and head to our hotel. Almost there.
For those playing at home; here is a quick breakdown of how to enter Japan.
-Grab an entry card and declaration card from your air host/ess. They will provide the physical card for you to fill in to give when you go through customs.
or
-Alternatively; visit Japanweb.gov.jp (I dont have a photo of it, because you cant use cameras in customs, and I used the physical card option -- I love filling out these things!!) and you can do it all online and scan your QR at the gate.
The entry card tells the Japanese Government what your intentions on visiting Japan. IE: Tourism, visiting a relative, Business, etc -- and how long you intend to stay, where you're going to be staying -- all that jazz.
The declarations card is about what you are BRINGING in to JAPAN. So please dont bring things like fruit, meat, dangerous goods, illegal substances (this can be some medications like Codeine and Pseudoephedrine so please check with your doctor -- and get a note if you take medication regularly that might not be "legal" in Japan). If you dont bring any of this with you; you dont need to declare anything and you can walk straight through once you've shown your passport.
-Line up and have your passport at the ready. Keep your entry cards with your passport.
-They will scan your finger prints and take your photo first. (We had to do this twice...)
-Line up again to go through the gates.
-This is where they will stamp your passport and grant your access.
Once youve gone through this part; you're almost there!!
-Pick up your bags.
-Find the carosel with the flight you just arrived on. (IE: VA77 is on carosel 6) Your bags will come out here.
-Collect your bags and take them to the gates on the other side.
-Show your passport and declaration card and you *should* be good to enter.
Here we go! We are in JAPAN -- the first port of call is to get our mascot for the trip. This is something Ive done since my 2018 trip and it's fun and cute and it makes me happy to share my experience through a silly icon's eyes. Walk towards the "Keihan" Train Line which will get you to Tokyo. This is a trainline that goes direct from Haneda airport to Tokyo and connects to any of the main train networks in Tokyo. It really doesn't matter what neighbourhood you are staying in; 90% of the time this will be the train you need to get you to where you want to go. On the LEFT there is a 7/11 (get money from the ATM in the left corner, and then grab some snacks and a drink so you've got some coins..) because on the RIGHT there are a bunch of Gacha Machines where I like to find my mascot.
This time; NOTHING. No lil dudes. So, we will keep looking.
Take the Escalators down to the train platform and board the train to TOKYO/SHINAGAWA and you're on your way.
Back to my blog; Ben and I had our heart set on this ramen place we found by accident last time we were in Akihabara. We call it "Midnight Ramen" because he wanted ramen at midnight and it came through with the GOODS... alas. We dropped our bags at our hotel in Shinagawa and did a quick change into something warm. (It was 36degrees when we left Adelaide and now we are facing 2degrees and SNOW!) Slammed on a beanie and caught the Yamanote to Akiba; to find that our ramen place was closed for renovations. The SADDEST TIME! Akiba isn't known for its ramen so we had to find something else... how devastating.
We found a Hakata style ramen place. It was a 6/10. It got a point for being open. Also, it was okay. The Nori (seaweed) had cute printed sayings on it which I thought was cute (gross, but cute). Then I found out that another branch of the other ramen place was open in Shinagawa, only a 6 minute walk from our hotel. Let's pretend like that didnt happen.
After we ate, we became acquainted with our new local Kombini (7/11, convenience store) attached to our hotel, and purchased some necessities.
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Who was the first woman to climb Kilimanjaro? Have you heard of her? Well, her name was Sheila Macdonald and I’d never heard of her either, until a few months ago. My then colleague, Stu Kenny, did an interview with Paula Williams, the curator of the Petticoats and Pinnacles exhibition at the National Library of Scotland. This led him to write an excellent piece about a Scottish mountaineer who didn’t quite make it into the exhibition: Sheila Macdonald.
When I proofread the article, I found Sheila fascinating. She was born in Australia in 1901 and was the daughter of Claude Macdonald, vice-president of the Alpine Club. She climbed in Scotland and the Alps; had summitted Mount Etna; and climbed Stromboli - an active volcano - rowing an open boat across a stormy sea to get away. She never set out to climb Kilimanjaro: she was meant to be visiting her cousin in Kenya. But she met a gentleman in an Alpine Club tie, Mr West, on the ship to Africa and joined his expedition instead.
Stu had found it challenging to uncover good and accurate information about the expedition, with a fair bit of misreporting in newspapers. But I wished that I could read a book about this awesome lady. So I started my own investigation, out of pure curiosity. On the way, I thought, “What about the Alpine Journals?” If her father was vice-president of the Alpine Club then surely someone would have mentioned her climbing Kilimanjaro. Even if women weren’t allowed to be members at the time.
A bit of a rummage and I found it: an expedition report written by Sheila Macdonald herself. The following extract is reproduced by the kind permission of the Alpine Club from their Alpine Journal archives.
KILIMANJARO IN 1927. By Miss SHEILA MACDONALD.
[The substance of this account is contained in a letter to Mr. Claude and Mrs. Macdonald, to whom we offer our best thanks.- Editor ‘A.J.’]
MOSHI, TANGANYIKA TERRITORY, August 2, 1927.
Mr W. C. West of the Alpine Club and I have climbed to the top of Kilimanjaro, and no woman has ever succeeded in getting there before. Kilimanjaro consists of two mountains - Kibo (19,710 ft) and Mawenzi (17,300 ft), separated by a 6-mile plateau. Mr. West and I and Major O. Lennox-Browne climbed Mawonzi first, choosing our route as we went, at least Mr. West did, and got to the highest point which had been reached by two German parties, both in 1912. We found their names and records in an old tin built into the cairn and added our names on the same piece of paper.
Our camp was at the foot of Mawenzi, but we could not stand the height for two nights running, and had to descend to 12,700 ft again before attacking Kibo. Mr. West and I were the only two to reach the top of Kibo, as Major Lennox-Browne, who suffered from the altitude, could go no further than three quarters of the way up. I never knew that mountain sickness and lack of oxygen could be so awful. And now I had better start from the beginning, as otherwise half the account will be left out.
The three of us joined together at Mombasa and came straight on here, branching off the main line at Voi. At Voi we got a ‘water train’ to Moshi, the only conveyance for nearly a week. It stopped every four miles to distribute water at wayside halts, and we travelled all day on the footboards - eight hours, and arrived at Moshi looking like Red Indians from the red dust. Here we stopped the night and just long enough next day to collect provisions, a cook and a personal boy. Then we travelled for two and a half hours on a Ford lorry with our camp equipment all about us, through scrub and up and down gullies-a most amazing road. I sat next to the native driver, and he was the best thing in chauffeurs I have ever seen-nothing abashed him, we took logs and ravines in our stride.
We got to Marangu in the evening and interviewed Mlanga, the Chief of the Wachagga, who was to provide us with fourteen porters to take our stuff to the highest hut on the mountain. He gave us eggs, milk and a leggy fowl, and I gave him a postcard of Kilimanjaro. He let us camp in front of his Council House. All our porters were rounded up by him, he sent out his ‘Royal Crier’, a picturesque gentleman in a blanket, who called the tribe together by making strange noises on a koodoo horn.
From Marangu we climbed up to Bismarck Hut through dense forests very much like those Knysna forests in South Africa, but more tropical - amazing creepers and lots of signs of elephant. Bismarck Hut suffered a lot during the fighting with Smuts, etc, but still offered the shelter of thick walls and a tin roof. It is high up on the mountain with a wide view of the plain, copper-coloured in the sun, while we were in shadow and mist in the middle of the cloud-belt which always encircles Kilimanjaro. This is one of the things that make the mountain so wonderful. It rises straight from the plain in one sheer mass, but the base of it is always separated from the top by this circle of mist and fleecy cloud, so that the great dome of smooth snow looks completely detached from the earth like a great moon hanging in heaven, especially at night when it looks too beautiful for description.
We left Bismarck Hut on July 27, and got above the cloud-belt into the sun again through a district of sweet-smelling shrubs, protea, giant heather and gladioli to Pieters Hut, where we turned in on very comfortable grass bunks. We saw plenty of elands standing as high as cattle. Major Lennox-Browne and I crawled towards a herd on our tummies with great success, while Mr. West (otherwise the ‘Skipper’) diverted their attention with his white helmet. We got near enough to take a photo when one of the porters dropped his load; it crashed down into the undergrowth and frightened the creatures away. We all sat outside the hut trying to spot animals with field-glasses. I found a big shaggy brown thing like a grizzly bear and distinctly saw it wag its tail, but in the morning it turned out to be an ant-hill.
The way from Pieters Hut to the foot of Mawenzi leads over rough country and crosses a corner of the plateau. We put up our tents near the foot of our proposed climb and spent a very cold night in them. In the morning, tea, ink and the Skipper's mixture of whisky and lime juice were all frozen ice. I was feeling giddy and headachey, Mr. West was violently sick and could not eat. The difficulty about Mawenzi is that there is such a mass of pinnacles and jagged ridges that the highest point is impossible to distinguish except from high up on Kibo. Several people have been up and thought themselves on the summit, discovering later that they had been on a minor peak.
It is the most lovely mountain for climbing; the difficult part was the first half before we got into the couloir that leads to the top. We used the rope for a few difficult steps leading up into the NW gully. This gully reaches almost to the top, broken by one sheer wall, where we had to climb out on to the righthand side of it again. There were excellent hand and footholds, mostly alternating with exhausting slopes of scree and loose rocks. At the top of the gully were three pinnacles, which seemed to us of equal height.
We found the cairn and records of the two German ascents on the most southerly and insignificant looking of the three pinnacles. This is Hans Meyer Spitze (17,300 ft). We rested here a few minutes and shuddered at the tremendous drops on the E side of the mountain. The summit is split into jagged pinnacles of every size, some of them only a few feet thick and piled to heights of 40 and 50 ft. From them precipices drop to sheer depths of thousands of feet.
We had meant to go straight from Mawenzi to Kibo, but decided that it was worth going down to Pieters Hut to have a good rest in between, especially as Mr. West was really suffering from the height, so we had a cup of Bovril each when we came down from Hans Meyer Spitze at 5 pm, and started back for Pieters Hut, getting there at 8 pm. Major Lennox-Browne was rather seedy, and suggested a day's rest, which we had and enjoyed, though I rather wanted to have a ‘go’ at Kibo while keyed up to the struggle.
So Friday was a slack day, and on Saturday, July 30, we climbed up to the plateau again and made for the foot of Kibo, where there is a cave (Hans Meyer's Höhle), where we meant to spend part of the night. The plateau was a horrid grind, slightly uphill all the way, drifting sand and the wind in our faces. When we got to the other side we discovered that the four porters we had chosen for the last lap to the cave did not know where it was, so we hunted about the rocks until I found a beauty, well sheltered, with a sandy ground- ‘The Sheila Cave’ this is to be called. We turned in while the boys built a large fire in the entrance.
Mr. West 's idea was to start the climb at midnight, so as to get to the top at sunrise, before the heat of the sun made the ascent too difficult in soft snow. However, we only had a lantern, which was quite inadequate; it went out five times before we decided to wait till daybreak and risk the soft snow at the top. We settled down in the scanty shelter of a rock and waited 3 hrs for light to come; then started the most awful climb for hours upon loose rocks, stones and sand; everything you put your foot on slipped back with you, and after 3 hrs’ hard climb we looked up and seemed to have made no progress.
At first we rested every hour, but at about 18,000 ft we dragged ourselves for about 20 ft at a time with stops between each bit to get our breath in working order. However much one gasped and panted, nothing seemed to get into one's lungs. I was rather ahead of the others, because I had found some firmer rock at about 800 ft from the crater's rim. When I found that the others were not following I cooeed several times, and finally Mr. West came round a mass of rocks - by himself! Major Lennox-Browne was completely finished, and could not go a step farther. I can't understand how Mr. West could keep going, when he had been sick and dizzy with nausea. I think he was feeling rather weak just here, though he didn't give in.
Well, up to this point I had been wondering several times how long I could stick it out, but I braced myself up and was comforted by feeling that I was not the weak one of the party. Mr. West and I had a good dose of whisky and lime juice out of our drinking bottle, pulled ourselves together, and went on. We reached the crater's edge at Johannes Notch, and bore round to the left, past Stella Point (reached by the Kingsley-Lathams last year) and on round the crater to Kaiser Wilhelm Spitze, the highest point, reached once before by Mr. West, in 1914, when he was the first Englishman to make the ascent.
We crawled to the summit foot by foot. I am not being dramatic, it really was like that. It was just in front of us, and I thought we should never get there. You can't imagine the relief of leaning up against the cairn and realizing that we were there. We inscribed our names in the pocket-book that is hidden in the cairn, and split a bottle of champagne carried all the way from Moshi for the occasion. We had poor Major Lennox-Browne's share as well, but unfortunately had to drink out of the bottle and got very little but fizziness - better than nothing, though.
Several women have reached the crater's rim, but very few people have been beyond - no women. The inside of the crater is amazing. Imagine a huge bowl of ice with hanging glaciers all round its inside walls and two great lakes of greeny-blue ice at the bottom of it, huge crevasses and seracs around its rim. I have never seen anything like it. The cold made it impossible to stay up there for long, so we took one or two photos and followed our tracks back to the crater's rim.
The way down was ridiculously easy; we just ‘glissaded’ down steep slopes of lava-dust and small stones, and it took us less than 2 hrs, though we took a wrong turning near the bottom and found ourselves in a narrow gully with a sheer cliff at our feet, dropping a good 80 ft to the plateau. So we retraced our steps again (more upward scrambling!), reached our cave just in time for a 20 minutes' rest and a cup of tea before starting on the 4 hrs' tramp to Pieters Hut again - anything for comfortable grass bunks and a good night's rest.
Darkness overcame us on the way, and we got lost and had to squat down where we were, with a huge fire lit as a signal to the boys at the hut. They found us at about 10 pm and led us to Pieters Hut with great torches of sweet-smelling shrub. There was much waving of branches to make the sparks fly. What a day! and the next morning we had to walk 25 miles to Marangu; dropping 8000 ft in 7 hrs.
So now it is done, and I would not have missed it for the world, though I cannot say I ever want to do Kibo again. Mawenzi I should like to do dozens of times. We have a lorry to take us and our luggage to Nairobi to-morrow, about 250 miles, as the train does not go until Saturday. You cannot imagine how splendid Mr. West has been on this expedition, always cheerful and most optimistic. The boys loved him, and he always managed to get things done, though none of them spoke a word of English, and all we could say in Swahili was ‘tea’, ‘coffee’, ‘water’ and ‘prepare food’.
__
The report is then followed by a commentary from Mr West, refuting claims that other women had summitted first. It seems there was quite some controversy at the time. It also contains a few black and white pictures of what Kilimanjaro used to look like. You can view it on the Alpine Journal Archive 1928 Vol 40.
#kilimanjaro#climbing history#climbing#women in history#women climbers#women in sport#female athletes#Sheila Macdonald#alpine club
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Wondrous Tails of FFXIV
Meeting the family
They spent a few days within the Shrouds, in that isolated cabin that was Bocquet's house - Seda's guardian. Thankfully, the tension of the first day had dissipated - unbeknown to them the result of the hard work of a certain rat - and thus the remainder of their visit proved to be far more enjoyable. Much to Fakhri's surprise, Bocquet demonstrated more acceptance than he anticipated. And that was in the broadest way possible.
Fakhri's work, for starters, had been a source of worry for the man. Something he wasn't sure the Elezen would approve of. He had tried to keep it vague, to some extent, but Bocquet was anything but stupid. They most likely had an inkling as to the kind of "work" Fakhri and Seda did to be able to provide succor to people; money doesn’t grow on trees after all. It came as further surprise when the Wailer stated interest in visiting the couple in Thavnair. There were a few questions regarding Fakhri's boss, what sort of man he was. Maybe the viera could arrange a meeting? Would the Sahib make time for which was purely a matter of personal life? Nothing much to lose by asking…
Then came Fakhri's second worry, and frankly the most important - himself. In the moment he met with Seda's guardian, the viera became acutely aware of his own problems - addiction to many substances and alcoholism, his hyper-empathy syndrome, and the burden of a seer - which placed a great deal of doubts on his mind where acceptance was concerned. And, as expected, Bocquet had shown no small amount of reserve to Seda's choice of partner. That is, until they came back from their "moment of solitude" in the forest. Seda mentioned that Bocquet had erected a symbolic cairn for her mother, as her ashes had been scattered to the winds, and that they would spend time there when they had to think, as if asking the dead for their wisdom. Visibility her mother' spirit had imparted something to them, for Bocquet came back with an open mind; a very drastic change from their previous demeanor towards the couple. Not to mention a sudden affection towards Arak which made the viera ponder what had truly happened in the forest. A thought pushed aside for the time being.
The remaining few days thus passed peacefully. Fakhri had a chance to show off his remarkable skills as a hunter, even if Bocquet's reserved demeanor was sometimes hard to read. He could still feel a warmth from them, some kind of affection that wasn't unlike a member of one's family. And Seda "felt" more at peace, happiness bubbling from her and filling the viera's heart with the selfsame feeling. Here in the forest, his senses not overloaded with the ambient buzzing that inevitably came with city life, he could rest a bit and savor those feelings that were only his, and hers. By the time they left the Shrouds to return to Thavnair, their bond had grown even more. Fakhri was well-aware of it but, was she? Theirs was something more than two people liking each other… so much more. He just couldn't say /what/ it was just yet. Where the emotional cacophony of the many residents of the city would muffle her emotions from him, now he could feel a thread between them. Was this good, or bad… He cherished that connection but such bonds usually went both ways; there would be very little secrets between the two of them as the union of their two hearts - maybe even their souls - gained in strength. What did Eorzeans say? “We’ll cross that bridge when we get there”?
“Ya, and we’ll cross it together, girl.”
#wondroustailsofffixv#WondroustailsofffxivWriting#ffxiv#fakhri man'tik#seda ballard#Bocquet#Arak#meeting the family#a week long Discord rp but it was worth it!#I really enjoy Bocquet as a character#and funny enough Arak got some character development xD#made me and Fakhri quite happy to be considered family now
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Riverwood, Kynesgrove, and Blackreach!!
Skyrim Sthursday ask meme here!
Riverwood - Hadvar or Ralof? Why?
Ralof. Tbh. He just seems more...interesting? I do not fuck with the Stormcloaks in fact I really hate them, but he seems alright. I feel like Hadvar had less ..idk, substance? He just seems a bit more bland.
Kynesgrove - What's your favorite non-major city/town/settlement?
Rorikstead, probably! :3 but if the Falmer towns n hives in the Forgotten Vale count then All Of Them :3
Blackreach - What's your favorite enemy in the game? What's your least favorite? Why?
Hrrmmmm. I think Miraak would be my favorite enemy because he has a very interesting backstory and reason for fighting the player character. Plus it's a genuinely challenging fight (at least, for someone who sucks at gaming like meeeeee💖)! I also quite liked Halldir; his fight is a fun challenge and that dungeon is one of the few in the game that actually really freaked me out. I know there's a lot of "skeletons dead in a cave with a journal saying 'I hope I don't die in this cave'," but I don't know. Smthn abt walking into a random area, the glowing cairn, reading the bandits diary and realizing what the Fuck is Up. Idk man, it just creeped me out.
Least favorite !!!! Hmm. Truly I'm not sure. I'm not a fan of any enemy that disarms me or freezes me and makes me move slower, but honestly I don't have a specific one that really comes to mind. I'm sure there Is one--probably someone that's just an abhorrent piece of shit--I guess depending on if I do the Civil War questline Ulfric would be the answer but. I don't like the Civil War questline :3
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Keeping Cool on the Road: The Importance of Auto Air Conditioning Service
As the sun beats down on a scorching summer day, there's nothing quite like the relief of stepping into your car and feeling the cool rush of air conditioning. Auto air conditioning has become an indispensable feature in our vehicles, providing comfort and safety during hot weather. However, like any other mechanical system, your car's air conditioning requires regular maintenance to function optimally. In this article, we'll delve into the importance of auto air conditioning service and why it's crucial for your vehicle's performance and your overall driving experience.
Maintaining Comfort
When you think of auto air conditioning, the first thing that comes to mind is likely the comfort it provides. Whether you're commuting to work, embarking on a road trip, or simply running errands around town, a properly functioning AC system ensures that you and your passengers stay cool and comfortable. In scorching summer heat or sticky humidity, the AC becomes more than just a luxury; it becomes a necessity.
Preserving Air Quality
Auto air conditioning systems also play a vital role in maintaining air quality within your vehicle. They help filter out dust, pollen, and other contaminants from the outside air, ensuring that you breathe clean, fresh air while driving. Routine maintenance, such as changing the cabin air filter, is essential to preserve this benefit and prevent allergens and pollutants from entering your car.
Preventing Refrigerant Leaks
One of the most common issues with automotive AC systems is refrigerant leaks. Refrigerant is the substance responsible for cooling the air that circulates through your car's cabin. Over time, leaks can develop in the system, leading to a decrease in cooling efficiency. Regular auto air conditioning service can identify and address these leaks early, preventing more significant problems down the road.
Enhancing Fuel Efficiency
An often overlooked aspect of auto air conditioning is its impact on fuel efficiency. When your AC system is overworked or not functioning correctly, it places an additional load on your engine, leading to increased fuel consumption. Regular service, including cleaning and maintenance of AC components, can help ensure that your car runs efficiently and saves you money at the pump.
Extending the System's Lifespan
Like any other part of your vehicle, your AC system has a finite lifespan. However, with proper care and maintenance, you can extend its longevity. Routine inspections and service appointments can identify and address issues early, preventing more costly and extensive repairs. Ultimately, this can save you money by delaying the need for a complete AC system replacement.
Avoiding Costly Repairs
Neglecting auto air conditioning service can lead to costly repairs in the future. AC systems are complex, with various components that can wear out or malfunction over time. Regular maintenance can catch these issues early and prevent them from escalating into expensive repairs or replacements.
Ensuring Safety
Comfort isn't the only reason to keep your auto AC system in good working order; safety is another crucial factor. In extreme heat, an overheated cabin can lead to driver fatigue and decreased alertness, increasing the risk of accidents. Keeping your car's interior cool and comfortable is vital for your safety and that of your passengers.
auto air conditioning service is not just a matter of comfort; it's essential for preserving air quality, preventing costly repairs, and ensuring safety on the road. Regular maintenance of your AC system can extend its lifespan, enhance fuel efficiency, and keep you and your passengers comfortable during those scorching summer days.
For More Info:-
Auto Air Conditioning
Auto Air Conditioning Services in Cairns
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Orb weaver spiders are known for their big, beautiful webs. Now, researchers suggest that these webs do more than just glue a spider’s meal in place — they may also swiftly paralyze their catch.
Biochemical ecologist Mario Palma has long suspected that the webs of orb weavers — common garden spiders that build wheel-shaped webs — contain neurotoxins. “My colleagues told me, ‘You are nuts,’” says Palma, of São Paulo State University’s Institute of Biosciences in Rio Claro, Brazil. No one had found such toxins, and webs’ stickiness seemed more than sufficient for the purpose of ensnaring prey.
The idea first came to him about 25 years ago, when Palma lived near a rice plantation where orb weavers were common. He says he often saw fresh prey, like bees or flies, in the spiders’ webs, and over time, noticed the hapless animals weren’t just glued — they convulsed and stuck out their tongues, as if they’d been poisoned. If he pulled the insects free, they struggled to walk or hold up their bodies, even if the web’s owner hadn’t injected venom.
Palma had worked with neurotoxins for many years, and these odd behaviors immediately struck him as the effects of such toxins.
Now, thanks in large part to the work of his Ph.D. student Franciele Esteves, Palma thinks he has found those prey-paralyzing toxins. The pair and their colleagues analyzed the active genes and proteins in the silk glands of banana spiders (Trichonephila clavipes) — a kind of orb weaver — and found proteins resembling known neurotoxins. The neurotoxins may make the webs paralytic traps, the team reports online June 15 in the Journal of Proteome Research. The prey-catching webs of other species probably have similar neurotoxins, Palma says.
These neurotoxin proteins also showed up on the silk of webs collected in Rio Claro, packed into fatty bubbles in microscopic droplets on the strands. And when the researchers rinsed substances from webs and injected them into bees, the animals became paralyzed in less than a minute.
The researchers also confirmed, as Palma’s lab had reported in 2006, that fatty acids are present in the droplets. These acids, Palma thinks, are the toxins’ way into prey. The molecules may dissolve the insect’s waxy outer cuticle, the chief barrier to topical toxins.
“Toxic webs would certainly make sense,” says David Wilson, a venom researcher at James Cook University in Cairns, Australia, but he’d like to see evidence that the web toxins work quickly on contact. Alternatively, they might act as antimicrobials (SN: 10/30/19) or help deter ants and other animals that steal from webs or eat the spiders.
Jolanta Beinaroviča, a synthetic spider silk designer at the University of Nottingham in England, says, “This paper was like a breath of fresh air.” She thinks many researchers have long oversimplified spider web silks, though she, too, would like to see further demonstration of the toxins’ topical action.
Paralytic toxins may be just part of the underappreciated complexity of web design. Palma plans to have his students dive deeper into smaller, as of yet unidentified proteins his team found. He thinks they may help keep the prey alive until the spider’s ready for a fresh meal.
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THE CLONES OF ENKI (excerpt)- By J.R. Jochman from "Forgotten Ages"1979
THE LULU CLONES OF SUMER
Perhaps the most startling revelations of the advanced nature of ancient research into the manipulation of the building blocks of life come to us from Sumerian inscriptions, dated between 4,000 and 5,000 years old. Several legends speak of a time when "god-men" ruled the world of prehistory; and in order to work the mines of the land of Apsu -- identified with southern Africa -- the Sumerian deities decided to create a Lulu, or primitive worker, who would do the actual digging and other hard labor. The god Enki was placed in charge of the task to "bring about the work of great wisdom", and he, with the Mother Goddess, Ninhursag, began to fashion the Lulu. The place where the creation took place was called the Bit Shimti -- the "house where the breath of life is breathed in".
Upon entering the house", Ninhursag first "washed her hands" as any lab worker would, and called to her lab assistants to prepare the first ingredient: "Mix the core of clay, from the depths of the Earth in Apsu -- and shape it into the form of a core; I have knowledgeable young gods, who will bring the clay to the right condition."
The Akkadian term for clay is Tit (molding clay); but in its earliest spelling, ti-it, it also meant "that which has life". In the Hebrew, Tit means "mud", with its synonym "bos" related to "bisa" (marsh) and "besa" (egg). These connotations, clay-marsh-egg, hint at stages of development in the creation of the cell. First, the substance began as a clay. In 1974, Dr. Graham Cairn-Smith of the University of Glasgow's Department of Chemistry, announced a new theory on the origins of life. Dr. Cairn-Smith was not satisfied that the first threads of nucleic organic material floating in the primaeval sea could have come together by chance, but must have needed a structural catalyst within which the threads formed into the first complex DNA patterns. Clay, he believes, was the ideal catalyst.
Clay has a crystalline structure that has the ability to retain and "print" a pattern upon new material. As Dr. Cairn-Smith noted: "Clay consists of stacks thin, interlocking plates containing aluminum and silicon atoms that can be arranged in random patterns. These patterns can undergo changes as new [5]clays 'print' near old layers. This is a system capable of development by natural selection, by trial and error -- the first stages necessary to produce molecules and arrangements of molecules that would eventually form the more complex systems of early life forms."
THE BLUEPRINT OF MAN
More recently, in 1977, Dr. James Lawless of NASA's Ames Research Center, together with Dr. Edward Edelson and Lewis Manning, of the American Chemical Society, succeeded in demonstrating that clay containing nickel will attract amino acids; and the concentrated amino acids will then link up to form chains similar to protein. Dr. Cairn-Smith stated, "In simple terms, clay therefore could have been the basis of life: the Blueprint of Man." (Which reminds us of Elihu to Job, 33:6, "I also am formed out of the clay." RHC)
The next stage of the "clay" development, according to the Hebrew-Akkadian word connotations, was that it became like a "marsh" -- that is, the clay material was mixed with simple organic material, as one find in marshland ooze. In the Sumerian texts, this is seen in the Mother Goddess Ninhursag's command that chemicals called "bitumens of Apsu" be used to "purify" or "impregnate" the clay. Bitumen is a petroleum substance made up of very complex hydrocarbon chains -- the basis of organic chemistry. What is described, in essence, is that organic chains were mixed in the clay, and the clay patterns began to "print" the chains into more complex structures, such as DNA.
That this shaping process was directed can be seen in the "young gods" or lab assistants shaping the clay into a specific mold, bringing it into the "right condition". Enki, the text states, further ordered the assistants to "bind upon the mixture the mold of the gods" -- or, carefully design the organic material into the genetic codes of a human-like creature. The result, in the last stage, was the formation of an egg or cell.
THE BREATH OF LIFE
The next major step, once a cell was produced, was to give the cell an "essence" or code of life. This was done by adding blood. The text reads: "I will prepare a solution. Let one god be bled… his blood. Let Ninhursag mix with the clay-egg."
(One would think, on reading Jochman's article on Sumerian Clones that the secret of making them had been blocked in Cuneiform script for 5,000 years, but Polish Rabbis of the 16th Century were adept at making servant Golem. Read this revealing quote from Gershom Scholem's "On the Kabbalah and Its Symbolism":
"After saying certain prayers and holding certain fast days, they make the figure of a man from clay, and when they have said [6]the Shem Hamephorash over it (that is, breathed the breath of life into it, by ritual chanting) the image comes to life. And although the image itself cannot speak, it understands what is said to it and commanded; among the Polish Jews it does all kinds of housework, but is not allowed to leave the house. On the forehead of the image they write Emeth, that is, truth. But an image of this kind grows each day; though very small at first, it ends by becoming larger than all those in the house. In order to take away his strength, which ultimately becomes a threat to all those in the house, they quickly erase the first letter, Aleph, from the word Emeth on his forehead, so that there remains only the word Meth, that is, dead. When this is done the Golem collapses and dissolves back into the clay or mud that he was . . .They say that a Baal Shem in Poland, by the name of Rabbi Elias, made a golem who became so large that the rabbi could no longer reach his forehead to erase the letter E. He thought up a trick, namely that the Golem, being his servant, should remove his boots, supposing that when the Golem bent over, he would erase the letters. And so it happened, but when the Golem became mud again, his whole weight fell on the rabbi, who was sitting on the bench, and crushed him."
(This delightful tale illustrates the dangers of using creative thought for selfish purposes. It was a warning to Cabalists of that day in Europe. It is a warning of this day to students of mind control and mind dynamics courses; and we use it in our latest talk on Psychic Self-Defense, Part III, "The Dweller on the Threshold", BSRF No. 24-M. Scholem does not include the secret of bringing such a man-made creation to life, charging the clay figure with freshly shed blood or sperm. The technique is described in detail by Franz Bardon in his book, "Initiation Into Hermetics". But Jochman tells us that the Sumerian adepts had their own variation on the technique and carried it several steps further.)
THE ESSENCE OF THE CLONE
The Akkadian texts make it clear that what was being sought in the blood was Napishtu, or an "essence" related to Shi-im-ti, the "breath-wind-life". The key is in the name of the god from whom the blood was finally taken -- Te-e-ma. According to translators W.G. Lambert and A. R. Millard of Oxford University, the name means "personality", with the further connotation "that contained within which binds the memory". This is nothing less than a description of the gene, the element which gives the cell life, and directs the cell to begin the process of reproduction.
The inscriptions tell of the delicate operation by which the god Ea "purified the Napishtu" and offered the solution to Ninhursag, who carefully held the clay-egg-cell. But it was Enki who performed the crucial injection: He blows in" the "breath-wind' into the cell, and gave it life. The injection was successful for the cell began to multiply.
IMPREGNATION OF THE BIRTH-GODDESS
The next and final step involved artificial impregnation. Ninhursag "cut off 14 pieces of the clay-egg-cell" -- she selected 14 cells out of the newly-dividing creation. There then follows a description of the coming of 14 Birth-Goddesses to the operating table: Everything is detailed, from the shaving of the pubic hair, the preparing of the scalpels and surgical instruments, and finally the operations themselves. Within each, one of the 14 selected cells was placed in the womb, and the cells began to grow into living beings.
At the beginning of the tenth month after the first operation, Ninhursag directed surgery to remove the mature creatures. The texts tell what follows: " . . .she opened the womb, Her face brightened with joy. Her face covered with a mask, she removes. That which was in the womb came forth. She cries, I have created! By my hands I have made it!" One cuneiform picture has Ninhursag showing one of the new humanoid babies to the god Ea. On the left side is a minor "god" surrounded by laboratory flasks, bringing a carefully sealed container to a boil on top of a stool-like holder, showing where the child had come from.
Once the experiment proved successful, it appears the process of artificial impregnation was repeated again and again, the cells being used all from the original cell created by Enki, Ninhursag, and Ea. The result would have been the production of a multitude of Clones -- creatures that looked exactly alike. A scene depicted on a rock carving found,in the mountains of Elam near Sumer shows a seated god holding a flask from which liquid is pouring -- a familiar representation of Enki, A goddess is seated next to him -- Ninhursag -- and about the pair are lesser deities, very likely the birth-goddesses who partook in the great experiment of creation. Facing the birth-goddesses, Enki and Ninhursag are row upon row of dwarfish, long-haired man-like creatures who look like a multitude of identical twins -- as if they had been produced from the same mold.
Who were these dwarfish creatures? Perhaps the answer may be found in the reason for the creatures' creation: They were to become "primitive workers" in the mines of Apsu. It is not without significance that this area has turned up some of the oldest prehistoric mines in the world -- as well as forms of ape-men that have become a puzzle to anthropologists: Australopithecus robustus and agile, Zinjanthropus and Homo Habilis. These forms, instead of being so-called "ancestors" of man, are actually the result of genetic creation by unknown experimenters in the past. Perhaps someday we will find the secret when the Bit Shimti is unearthed -- the laboratory-house where enigmatic "gods" manipulated the "breath of life". . .
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C3: a wife to remember
god i love this fic so much. a03
A hag had many resources at her disposal, not at the least, her fellow sisters of feather, and Moira had a problem. She did not know the Dragonborn, and Moira did not much like not knowing things, especially when it pertained to the fruits of her bargains. The Dragonborn had not seemed adverse to Moira on the basis of being a hag alone, but accepting talons and feathers was quite different from permitting her to actively work her magics. There was too much that Moira did not know.
Moira planned to speak to someone who did.
Moira hauled her smoking cauldron into the garden patch, hissing at the weight and thinking longingly of the corded muscle that had braided the Dragonborn’s tanned brown arms, how easy it would be for them to move a cauldron almost as large as Moira was. She idly plucked a few of her own feathers and added them to the steaming brew until the liquid was thick and purple.
Her arms screamed when she took up the stirrer and laboriously fought it through the viscous liquid. Prickles of sweat broke out on her brow, and she leant her full bird-boned weight into the motion, adding an extra push with feather-fluttering hops. This cursed potion would save her days of pointless travel, but it exacted its price here, she thought irritably. Still, Moira had made it enough times before, if not for many years, that it did not take longer than a few hours before she was dipping salvaged bottles with peeling wine-labels into the mixture.
The bottles appeared largely spontaneously, washing up in the banks of the river not far from Moira’s house from Blood-Made-Pleasure’s daedric revels upstream, within the soft fold of Oblivion. Moira hunted along the banks come the morning for mortals, hollow-souled and blown from the Myriad Realms like scrunched daisies, and the trash from endless parties – human viscera, empty wine-bottles that stung the nose with haunting fragrant scents, fake cocks of shattered glass, snapped dremora horns. Sometimes, the blood-sports of the Prince of Plots bleeding over from the nexus of their shrine not far from the snow-city of Nord kings made their way to Moira’s stream, too. The river ran red for days to her mage-eye, and Moira would be weeding femurs and teeth out of her garden patch for even longer. But since Moira’s pact with Sanguine, his realm was closer, and Moira had more empty bottles than she could ever use.
Greatest power wrapped around your finger, for a single night of revelry.
She uncorked one such with her teeth and swigged from the potion as she labelled the others in spidery daedric letters that would make little sense to one foreign to haglore. When her gums began to prickle with chill, Moira kicked over her cauldron and let the dregs of the potion water her deathbell flowers. She left it there, staring hollowly out at the damp trees, and went to her roost. The potion took hold of the daedra inside her heart and dragged, and Moira’s spirit pierced the skin of Oblivion and rose on flapping raven-wings.
Witchmist Grove shimmered with ghostlike mists when she flew above it, the magic of Oblivion searing the trees tall and gloomy with the prescient tendrils of Moira’s magic soaked into the ground. The roost of a hag, visible as a thorny spot nestled like a canker around the soil. The dragon-cairn over the ridge glowed dully with trapped soul energy.
Not for the first time, Moira overflew her home and cawed at her cleverness. The necromantic energy of the dragon’s old servants and its own aedric glow nearly eclipsed Witchmist Grove, and the lines of power that hazed the ground was broken into the rippling hot pools, confusing the scrying-eye. Her own wards against magical predation still held strong, but she had been wise enough to choose a good spot to make it harder. The Grove would shelter its witch well while her mind attended to her business.
It was the work of a moment to envisage the heart of the plainsland, and a second later Moira was soaring through the cloudless blue skies of Whiterun – crisscrossed though they were by the fading trail of a dragon. Still, that was not too unusual in this season of change, and Moira made for the human city where the answers to her questions resided. It pulsed whitely in her mage-eye, the vast wings of the Skyforge spread over the city like a gargoyle. The eagle shrieked as Moira swept lower, and for a moment, its beady eye fixed on her. Her wings faltered in surprise. After a second that felt like an eternity, the eagle tucked its head back against its chest, satisfied, it seemed, that she posed little threat.
Moira’s talons clenched uneasily. The Skyforge was impersonal as the wind. Last time she had come here in this way, its wings had barely twitched when she’d landed on its head. That it was so riled up did not bode well.
Her disquiet mounted as she flew lower to the city – or what was left of it. Radiating outwards from the pulverised remains of the gates was a blast radius of crumbled stone that had reduced the surrounding timber houses to splinters. A wooden palisade had been erected, manned by guards whose spirits flickered dimly with fear to Moira’s mage-sight. Grief hung over Whiterun like a pall, and, pressing against the wall that separated Oblivion from the living, ghosts wandered dully through the streets, torn too abruptly from their living bodies to look for the way to Aetherius just yet. The living tree within the heart of the city was bowed double under the strength of their sorrow, its roots choked by a strange power crawling down from the heart of the prison of dragons. Familiar, daedric darkness, soft as poetry and suggestive as a whisper. The Webspinner, moving openly to claim the city, and, from the look of it, mostly unopposed. Even Hircine’s Underforge was muted. Well, good for the Webspinner. Moira had never liked Whiterun much.
Still, Moira noticed with some relief the burning-bright soul of the one Whiterun resident that she had come to see. Olava the Feeble was waiting for her, playing cards with a small child that shivered at Moira’s approach.
“Go along now,” Olava told the child, who wriggled in her chair. She had untidy brown hair and looked thin, but there were fresh crumbs on her ragged dress, and smears of jam on an empty plate on Olava’s table.
“But we weren’t done playing,” said the girl, and Olava smiled mysteriously.
“Yes, we were,” she said, and tapped the table between them. Moira saw the magic inside Olava flare, and the child gaped down at the cards in her hands. There was dirt caked under her nails.
“How did you do that?” she gasped. Moira sensed a curious flicker in the girl’s own fledgling spirit, as if she was trying to see as a witch did.
Food for a starving waif, and a light-show of no substance? A more obvious hook had never been planted. Moira cared not for Olava’s interest in a ragged child, but surely it would be easier to simply tell the girl whatever it was Olava wanted from her, and claim she was mad or dispose of her if she broke Olava’s cover?
“Charlatanry,” Moira commented dryly, amused at Olava’s transparent recruitment effort, “You didn’t need to touch the table at all for such a simple trick.”
“An old woman never shares all her secrets,” Olava said to them both, and then shooed the girl off. Once she had gone, perhaps a little faster than she would have if it had not been for the invisible presence of a hagraven glaring at the back of her neck, Moira fluttered down to perch on the back of the chair she had vacated. Her talons gripped the wood, but left no mark on it. She was not, after all, truly there.
“Sister,” said Olava plainly, “What can an old woman do for you?”
“Do you not need to maintain your quaint cover?” Moira asked, electing to preen herself. She tugged an errant feather back into alignment while Olava chuckled.
“Not at all.” Olava’s eyes were crinkled up at the edges and her smile was kindly, as if she really were simply nothing more than an old grandmother. Convincing, were it not for the aura of twisted power that radiated her from her like a dark sun and the way that her eyes were holes to the Void in her skull. “My neighbours think nothing of an old woman talking to herself.”
“As you wish.” Moira spread her wings and eyed them critically, as if it were more important than the task that had brought her here. “I propose a bargain of knowledge. I need to learn hand language.”
What better way to learn the ways of her new … spouse… than to prise them from the Dragonborn herself?
Olava hummed, pleased. “You have come to the right place, then. Which sign language is it you need to know?”
Moira ruffled her feathers. “How should I know?”
“Ai,” sighed Olava, “There is more than one. It would help if I knew who you need it to speak with.”
Flaring her wings, Moira shrieked her harsh raven’s cry. It echoed jealously, ear-splittingly loud. Under the eclipsing shadow of her wings, her true shape flickered and burned like coals. She would not share this knowledge. The Dragonborn was vulnerable, for now, ripe for the uncovering, and Moira would permit no other witch’s claws to steal in on her prize. Bad enough that she shared with Sanguine’s hook, that her own hold was as tenuous as the Dragonborn’s word.
Olava leant back in her seat to watch and rose a thin white eyebrow. Her face, for all it was wrought and wrecked by the passage of time, hid a mind no less canny.
“I can get you the knowledge of all major forms of hand-sign from here to Black Marsh, but it’ll cost you,” Olava relented. “I’ll have to call in a few favours.”
Moira accepted this irritably, and Olava eyed her, as if curious to see how far she would take this whim.
“I want you to … deliver something, for me.”
“Knowledge for knowledge is traditional,” Moira cawed, “I’m not your errand girl.”
“No,” said Olava, calmly, but Moira could see the tension wound in the leylines of her magic, her future-seeing eyes that glowed with the deepness of the Void, “But good luck finding another sister to help you. Did you say it was urgent?”
She hadn’t, but Moira was not patient, and Olava knew it. Besides, Olava’s demeanour was – reluctantly – intriguing. A witch’s errand was no small thing, particularly if she wanted a hag’s help to achieve it.
“Not that urgent,” Moira snapped regardless, because she did not want Olava to think that she did not see what she was doing by pricking Moira’s curiosity. “Out with it, then.”
“I need you to take an item to a particular person,” Olava said, “and ensure that it does not… leave her possession.”
Moira cawed a laugh. “A curse object, sister? Why, I’d almost do it for free. But why not see to it yourself?”
Olava’s hands smoothed deliberately over the table. She began to gather the cards and answered Moira’s question to their dog-eared and scribbled faces. “It cannot be me directly. The target knows me too well, and the spell must work.”
Moira paused. Olava’s carefully level voice roused her suspicion, and as she watched Olava stack the cards and slide them precisely into a bag woven of river-reeds, she grasped that Olava was not dissembling. She was worried. Moira did not lack confidence in her magical strength, but nor was she a fool. She had no desire to get mixed up in something that was going to require too much of her time.
“You have seen something that you hope to avoid,” Moira prompted.
“Yes,” Olava admitted, freely. “Nothing that concerns you, sister. A few fraying strings will soon be cut, and I have a … vested interest.”
Moira stared hard at Olava, who returned her gaze steadily. She was being sincere, Moira could tell that immediately from the glow and pulse of her magicka, and even more, Olava was letting her see without a single attempt to hide herself from Moira’s mage-sight. Whatever it was, it was important to her, perhaps important enough to ask a hag to do a courier’s job, if only to be sure it was done.
“Where is this target?”
“Falkreath,” said Olava and Moira squawked indignantly.
“It is far from my roost,” she complained, but Olava only shrugged.
“You’re the one who asked for something,” she said, and Moira conceded with a whistling hiss through her beak.
“Fine,” she said. “I’ll see your token delivered.”
“Thank you,” said Olava. She smiled, a genuine one, smaller and slyer than her elderly façade. “I will send you a … friend, on the night of the new moon. He will have what you need.”
Three days. Moira shifted her claws on the chair, then took off without ceremony. She beat her wings quickly to rise over Whiterun, and took the precaution to soar some ways away from the wandering eyes of the powers that wrestled beneath the city. It was only once Moira wheeled freely over the stripped bones of a dead dragon, soul-claimed, that she tucked her wings and followed the thread tethering her to her body, and home.
---
Of course, it was not three days. It was two, and Olava’s friend came yowling with his ear in the firm grip of the Dragonborn.
“You’re early,” Moira said sourly, and the Dragonborn’s mouth tensed.
They wore no helmet today, and their greying brown hair had been roughly knotted at the nape of their neck. It was greasy, already damp from the moist air of the Grove. The rude knot exposed the gruesome fullness of their facial scarring, which twisted as they scowled at the terrified Khajiit whose tunic they held. Still broad, still strong, but there was a bandage wrapped around their bicep, several days old if Moira was any judge, and somewhat dirty and stained. The Khajiit in their grasp was a young ginger tom, his yellow eyes slitted with fear.
“Let him go,” Moira chided the Dragonborn, “Have you no manners?”
Moira did not recognise the boy, but she guessed that he had been sent when he offered her with trembling paws a bag marked with the crest of the Nords of Whiterun, a curling ram’s head.
“For you,” the Khajiit whispered. The Dragonborn’s lips thinned unsubtly, and they stalked off to lean against a tree, their back to the Khajiit but their head cocked, as if they were listening.
The boy’s tail lashed. “This one was not trying to sneak, he swears! He was told to bring a message, to the old woman in the grove by the dragon burial, that is all!”
“I am old, and within the grove,” Moira said, flatly, annoyed that she had not seen him coming, and had time to muster her illusions of being a harmless – if unnerving – old woman who lived alone. She had not sensed the Khajiit at all around the brilliance of the Dragonborn’s signature when they entered Witchmist Grove. “Give it to me.”
The Khajiit hesitated, but when Moira flashed her claws he tripped over himself in his rush to thrust the sack at her. It fell at her feet with a muted rattle. The Khajiit withered under Moira’s poisonous glare.
“Well?” she demanded, and the poor boy’s ears twitched. He bolted, and Moira rolled her eyes. “Let him go,” she told the Dragonborn, whose hunter’s eyes had tracked his flight, “and come in.”
But Moira did not move from her position on the top step as the Dragonborn pushed off the tree and approached her with slow, steady steps, their armour – wrapped for silence, again, in the shredded remains of what appeared to be Nordic burial shrouds – reflecting back the whiteness of the magelight Moira had tethered in the mouths of her staked goat heads. They removed their gauntlet carefully, and, without breaking eye contact, they stooped to pick up the sack and hand it to her.
Feeling as if she were moving thrice as slowly as normal, Moira took it, and her feathers fluttered involuntarily when their fingertips – rough and callused, but hot as fire – brushed her skin. Before the Dragonborn could pull away Moira tightened her grip until the tips of her sharp claws pressed into the back of the Dragonborn’s hand. Scarred, even here, with the nicks and cuts of a lifelong soldier.
The Dragonborn watched her. Those dark dragon eyes were steady as granite, and when Moira stared into them she had the odd sense of falling inwards. It was as if she peered into the implacable gaze of a creature so impossibly huge and dense that it warped the world towards it, as inexorable as a bird struck from the sky must meet the stony ground. She wondered how the Dragonborn would look beneath her potion-enhanced mage sight. She wondered how the Dragonborn saw her.
Moira had the height advantage on them from the top step, but the weight of their gaze was so immense that she felt small, like a darting bird before the maw of a dragon. She remembered challenging the Dragonborn to consummate their engagement the second time they had come to Witchmist Grove. Almost involuntarily, she pictured being pinned beneath that suffocating presence, those dark eyes, that searing heat – the enormity of them like a serpent big enough to touch nose to tail around the entirety of Tamriel coiling itself into one short human body that had to tilt their head up to look Moira in the eyes.
Moira was a hagraven, no fragile thing, her body knitted with ancient magics and raven-feathers, and she had birthed horrors on her altar for little reason other than curiosity. But she was also a bird-hearted once-woman, and the strange, arrhythmic pounding in her chest that could not decide what it felt at the warmth of the Dragonborn’s skin on hers disconcerted her.
With an impatient snort, Moira released the Dragonborn, but not before one last, pointed flex of her claws. The Dragonborn did not flinch at the tiny teardrops of blood that welled up from the scratches, just as they had not reacted to the poison tea, and when Moira turned and stormed into her house, she felt the shaking of the steps as the Dragonborn followed her.
As before, Moira filled the kettle and set it to boil, after checking the sack and tucking it away for later in a cabinet. She was curious to see if the Dragonborn would make the same mistake twice. They did not choose to sit down this time, but leant uncertainly against the wall, arms folded uncomfortably across their chest. Moira was expecting the airlessness of the shack this time and took a moment over the smoke of the fire to soothe herself.
A clinking distracted her, and she whipped her head around in time to catch the Dragonborn leaning back like a child caught going for the cookie jar, hand froze in the act of placing something shiny on the table.
“What’s that?” Moira demanded, and the Dragonborn’s grim mouth moved oddly, as if they were trying to smile.
They gestured sweepingly at Moira, and Moira eyed them suspiciously as she seized this latest offering. It was a bottle, a large one, filled to the brim with glittering dust that shifted and shimmered when she tipped it to and fro, like it was trying to escape the directness of her gaze. The aura that seeped off it reeked of death even with the cap sealed with what looked like leather and home-made twine.
“Blood-drinker dust,” Moira identified. Useful in potions, very useful. Her claws clacked when she tapped the bottle, not wanting to admit that she had nearly run out of her own supply. And she had never had so much as this. It was a handsome gift, and practical, as well. A hag had little use for frippery, after all, even if the Dragonborn’s last gift was currently hidden safely under Moira’s bed and warded with her strongest spells. “You hunted all of these yourself?”
The Dragonborn’s scarred face split, and all of their teeth gleamed. They nodded.
“Is that how you hurt your arm?” Moira asked before she registered what she was going to say, and hissed at herself.
It did not help that the Dragonborn seemed equally surprised at her question, and by the way their eyes flickered to the wound on their arm and back, she imagined they were wondering why she was bothered – or perhaps, had forgotten the wound was there at all. After a brief hesitation, the Dragonborn shook their head.
Moira cursed herself to the Void and back. “How then?” she snapped, aware of the brittle anger in her voice. She wanted to know now. Her curiosity had been piqued, and more than that, there was a strange, restless annoyance Moira ascribed to a healer’s knowledge, impatient with the mysterious wound under its dirty bandage.
The Dragonborn’s shoulders rounded, and their movements as they fumbled for their journal seemed if anything oddly shy. They scribbled for a moment, and then avoided her eye when they presented the page.
“Wolf pack surprised me,” they had written.
“You slay dragons, and hunt vampires, but not wolves,” Moira said. “Did you at least clean it?”
The Dragonborn nodded, and then cleared their throat. They were still looking away, and after a moment, Moira recognised that the fire’s warmth on their cheek was not solely responsible for the redness that had bloomed there.
“Well,” Moira heard herself say irascibly, “Wash your bandages, then.”
Scrubbing the back of their neck with their hand, the Dragonborn nodded. The motion reminded her of their skin touching hers, and Moira busied herself with the kettle, indiscreetly bolstering the fire with magic. The heat enveloped the hut, steaming away the perpetual dampness, and Moira heard the Dragonborn sigh with pleasure behind her. It was nearly noiseless, but not quite, and Moira was hard-pressed to tell whether the shiver that went through her was from some miniature earthquake or the base of her spine, which had elected to, for some reason only daedra knew, play host to half a dozen guttering candles.
“So,” Moira said eventually, “What do they call you?”
Silence, not the scratch of charcoal, and Moira glanced over her shoulder to see the Dragonborn’s confused expression.
“Your name?”
With a metallic creak, the Dragonborn’s arms around their chest tightened, and a muscle in their cheek jumped. They shrugged flatly, and then with a weariness that Moira could almost sense bent their head to write.
“I don’t know the name I was born with,” they showed her, “The dragons call me – “
More of the claw-mark letters of the dragon language, and Moira pursed her lips.
“You know I can’t read this,” she said. The Dragonborn’s mouth crooked helplessly, but Moira’s eye was drawn to the smudges of charcoal on their fingers, exposed, because they hadn’t put their gauntlet back on.
“It comes from inside,” they scribbled, and then illustratively clasped their bare hand over their breastplate. A smear of charcoal darkened the fraying edge of one of the ripped up shrouds.
They shifted, and the shadow of their warhammer blotted the firelight over the page. Moira’s claws flexed, and she wondered, briefly, precisely when the fool bird in her brain had forgotten to watch the Dragonborn’s weapon hovering ominously over their shoulder.
“I could tell you my name, but you’ll have to come outside to hear it,” they wrote. Wariness in them then, and wasn’t that an interesting response to their own offer.
Moira weighed her options. Outside would give the Dragonborn more room to swing, but it also gave Moira better manoeuvrability to escape. It was a gamble, but Moira knew herself. She was a fast shifter, and a faster flier.
“Fine,” she said, and the Dragonborn jerked their chin and led the way outside.
They were not content with Moira’s garden, but crunched their way up the garden path and out the gate without a backwards glance. Their stride was aggressive and quick, a beat short of a march, and Moira got three steps after them on her talons and then gave up and took to her wings instead. The Dragonborn glanced up and with narrowed eyes searched among the flapping cloud of black-winged birds that rose like a fanfare at their intrusion into their domain. Moira circled above them, making no move to announce herself, and with an uneasy twitch the Dragonborn continued.
They had a hunter’s instinct, and as they walked a strange, circuitous route out of Witchmist Grove, Moira realised that they were following and walking on top of the Khajiit’s tracks. She wondered at it as she swept along overhead, doubling back every so often to flit down among the trees and feel the heavy leaves weep their burden of rain onto her glossy feathers.
Did the Dragonborn hope to find the boy, or simply to obliterate his tracks with their heavy boots? To stop Moira from following him, or to ensure he did manage to find his way out of the labyrinthine corridors of twining pine and hanging ivy, the nightshade groves and lurking brambles? The enchanted mist worked well to entrap and ensnare visitors, bringing them to the heart of the Grove into Moira’s clutches. Most had some trouble finding their way out without her blessing. Perhaps the Dragonborn had an abundance of caution, to walk only where it was demonstrably safe to step, in a hag’s home.
Moira appreciated it. Some of the moss she cultivated was rather difficult to grow, and she kept it away from the illusory paths for a reason.
The Dragonborn stopped only when they had reached the boundary of Witchmist Grove, where the copse of trees broke into the steaming hot-pools. The sandy-seared ground rose in jagged humps towards Bonestrewn Crest, where the sleeping dragonbones waited like a scar on the horizon. Squat rocks clumped around the meandering dirt path, and heat shimmered lazily, like Sanguine’s ruby red eye. Tensely, they waited for Moira.
Her damp feathers billowed steam in cross-currents and curls as she backwinged towards the ground, already changing. The Dragonborn did not look away, but Moira saw them blink rapidly as the illusions fell away and it seemed as if there had never been a bird there at all, only a hag, feathered and clawed, perched atop a rock that still, technically, was within the boundary of her grove.
The Dragonborn inclined their head, then purposefully, they planted their feet and turned their back on her. Facing out over the steamy barrenness of Eastmarch, their fist clenched nervously, as if they were second-guessing their decision.
Before Moira could demand an explanation, or taunt them to fulfilling their offer, the Dragonborn spoke.
At first, it was noise. Just noise, like the sound of lightning so deep it rumbled in the bones. A flash of awareness like seeing that stark-white fork in the black sky, and then understanding that what she was experiencing was noise, horribly loud noise, like every drum in the world beating at once, every rock falling, every heart stopping. And then it was power – power like every spell in the world backfiring at once immense and throbbing, power like Moira’s first flight, like the buffeting of the wind under her feathers.
In the ringing aftermath, Moira opened stinging eyes – when had she closed them? – and took in a world unutterably changed. She thought that the Grove had reacted to her presence by thickening the mist, and realised with a strange feeling like falling into the Dragonborn’s eyes that no, the grey smoke in the air was neither smoke nor mist, but dust. Dust, all that was left of all the rocks in the Dragonborn’s path, the furrowed brow of the hill that led up to Bonestrewn Crest. Instead, there was a perfectly carved bowl, wide and smooth as any stone-carved arena. It was perfectly done, steady as if the Dragonborn had simply scooped a section of the world away with a giant spoon. Except for the claw-like, shimmering markings that were chiselled in the wall, markings that matched the Dragonborn’s name in their journal.
It was only then that Moira’s ears made sense of the sounds, and the Dragonborn’s name clicked into her mind like a fact she had always known, but had not realised she had forgotten.
“Laataazin,” Moira gasped, and the Dragonborn – Laataazin – nodded slowly.
Greatest power wrapped around your finger. Oh. Oh. Oh. And to think – all this time, Moira had been angry for his trickery, when this was the prize!
Moira’s feathers quivered, then her shoulders, and then all at once she was laughing. It was a rusty, inelegant sound, more raven-shriek than human, and when the Dragonborn heard it they startled. After a moment, as Moira continued to laugh at the immensity of the gift that Sanguine had given her, slowly, tentatively, Laataazin started to smile back.
It was small, and sweet, and looked like they were unused to it as it was to their face. But it brightened their eyes and took years from their face, and Moira recognised for the first time the winsome, laughing-loud but shy creature that had come calling to her gate in a night of revelry, and offered a ring paid in blood for a hagraven’s hand in marriage.
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“To understand even a little about geology gives you special spectacles through which to see a landscape. They allow you to see back in time to worlds where rocks liquefy and seas petrify, where granite slops about like porridge, basalt bubbles like stew, and layers of limestone are folded as easily as blankets. Through the spectacles of geology, terra firma becomes terra mobilis, and we are forced to reconsider our beliefs of what is solid and what is not. Although we attribute to stone a great power to hold time back, to refuse its claims (cairns, stone tablets, monuments, statuary), this is true only in relation to our own mutability. Looked at in the context of the bigger geological picture, rock is as vulnerable to change as any other substance.
Above all, geology makes explicit challenges to our understanding of time. It giddies the sense of here-and-now. The imaginative experience of what the writer John McPhee memorably called ‘deep time’—the sense of time whose units are not days, hours, minutes or seconds but millions of years or tens of millions of years—crushes the human instant; flattens it to a wafer. Contemplating the immensities of deep time, you face, in a way that is both exquisite and horrifying, the total collapse of your present, compacted to nothingness by the pressures of pasts and futures too extensive to envisage. And it is a physical as well as cerebral horror, for to acknowledge that the hard rock of a mountain is vulnerable to the attrition of time is of necessity to reflect on the appalling transience of the human body.” --Robert Macfarlane, Mountains of the Mind
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Pleur recieves a box of 🍓🍓🍓🍓🍓. They can share them with friends if they want.
Ohh!! Thank you so much! Pleur's gunna go and share these with my other Commanders! :D
Ask game post is Here for those that would like it for themselves!
🍓 For Pleur's strawberry, I'll say that she's canonically a jeweler as a hobby. She doesn't often ever get the chance to actually practise, but she does really enjoy it and the time it takes. She may love the fight, but even she can appricate putting some time into a careful craft. Notable things she's made are a little dolyak clasp for Warmaster Forgal (which was returned to her from the clean-up of Claw Island), and personalised emblems for all members of Dragon's Watch, and another set for those in her personal guild, Reverie's Vengeance.
🍓 Vigandi's going take a strawberry, and for her I'll give the fun fact that she's a very talented Falconer! Vigandi was a hunter first and foremost before falling into all the Elder Dragon Stuff, and her falcon Ferrow was her hunting companion, but even before that she helped care take of the various hunting birds kept in an aviary in Cragstead. She adores birds, and was heart-broken to find the charred remains of Ferrow before being ambushed by Balthazar. After this, she tamed a vulture who is now her new constant companion, and a sight more terrifying to boot - but Cairn is a softie she swears.
🍓 Matthia Prismbellow will take another one, and for them I'll give you the fun fact that they have a really, really bad habit of just, constantly handing people potions they've made without and word. They hand them off and expect people to drink them immediately without question. And what's worse is that by this point, most people do. They all know they'll be stared down impassively until they do, and Matt's concotions are always a combination of powerful and very helpful. From the mundane 'the desert is too damn hot' to 'I have been poisoned in 8 different ways please help' Matt is useful but. Definitely tends to get miffed when people don't immediately neck the the strange glowing substances their handed without question.
🍓 Sorrix will have a strawberry too, and for the Dadmander himself I'll let you know he is Legally Speaking a literal Dad. After the event of Counciller Phlunt taking Taimi's work away under claim of her being a ward of her college, Sorrix approched Taimi with the idea of becoming her legal guardian, as then that thing would he under his responability, and he'd simply hand it right back to her. Taimi agreed - and after too many jokes about calling him dad it's stuck and oops. Sorrix is her dad now. They thought they were playing a joke on Phlunt, turns out the joke was on them.
🍓 Cryssi would take the last Strawberry, but given they can't actually eat food they'll pass it to the Demon instead! A very, very important thing to know about Archosias, lagrle yjust known as Demon, is that they barely speak. If they do, it's very short, very sweet, and borderline cryptic. They're not a talker. However, they do make plenty of noises, growls and low snarls. But they'd don't sound like a dog or a big cat oh no. Demon's various vocalisations sound a lot like the kind of thing you'd hear from a crocodile. Lots of hisses are a staple feature!
#gw2#ask game replies#Thank you again!! I cannot get the image of Pleur and the Commsquad all sharing strawberries now! <3#Pleur Otus#Havroun Vigandi#Matthia Prismbellow#Technician Sorrix#Archosias
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Clay Karens
(for context, I misheard “Clay Cairn” as “Clay Karen”. This is the result.)
Clay Karen
Medium Construct
Neutral Evil
Armor Class: 14 (Natural Armor)
Hit Points: 133 (14d10+56)
Speed: 20 ft
STR 20 (+5)
DEX 9 (-1)
CON 18 (+4)
INT 3 (-4)
WIS 8 (-1)
CHA 1 (-5)
Damage Immunities: Acid, Poison, Psychic; Bludgeoning, Piercing, and Slashing From Nonmagical Attacks That Aren't Adamantine
Condition Immunities: Charmed, Exhaustion, Frightened, Paralyzed, Petrified, Poisoned
Senses: Darkvision 60 Ft., passive Perception 9
Languages: Speaks the languages of her creator but can't understand them
Acid Absorption. Whenever the Karen is subjected to acid damage, she takes no damage and instead regains a number of hit points equal to the acid damage dealt. Her body has built up quite the tolerance for such substances.
Berserk. Whenever the Karen starts her turn with 60 hit points or fewer, roll a d6. On a 6, the Karen goes berserk. On each of her turns while berserk, the Karen attacks the nearest creature she can see, yelling about speaking to its manager. If no creature is near enough to move to and attack, the Karen attacks (and yells at) an object, with preference for an object smaller than herself. Once the Karen goes berserk, she continues to do so until she is destroyed or regains all her hit points.
Immutable Form. The Karen is immune to any spell or effect that would alter her form. She’s vain like that.
Magic Resistance. The Karen has advantage on saving throws against spells and other magical effects. She’s very stubborn.
Magic Weapons. The Karen’s weapon attacks are magical, thanks to infusions of essential oils.
Actions
Multiattack. The Karen makes two slam attacks.
Slam. Melee Weapon Attack: +8 to hit, reach 5 ft., one target. Hit: (2d10 + 5) bludgeoning damage. If the target is a creature, it must succeed on a DC 15 Constitution saving throw or have its hit point maximum reduced by an amount equal to the damage taken. The target dies if this attack reduces its hit point maximum to 0. The reduction lasts until removed by the greater restoration spell or other magic
Haste (Recharge 5-6). Until the end of its next turn, the Karen applies a large dose of essential oils, and magically gains a +2 bonus to its AC, has advantage on Dexterity saving throws, and can use her slam attack as a bonus action.
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The Snow Blight is a fungal disease affecting Inklings and Octolings, mainly occurring in the mountains north of Inkopolis. Due to infections being rare in modern times with only 4 confirmed cases in the past 50 years, the disease remains poorly understood by science.
In its beginning stages, infected individuals only exhibit symptoms similar to common colds - general lethargy and loss of appetite, excessive mucous production (which changes ink consistency), and coughing. This makes identifying this disease in its early, potentially treatable stages difficult, adding to its lethality. Once the disease has progressed to where its trademark white spots and rings become visible right underneath the skin, it is almost certainly fatal. Towards the end of the progression, victims report their skin beginning to itch; breaking the skin at this stage often spreads white spores into surroundings, although it is thought that it’s unlikely they travel very far in the air as it is usually mixed in with blood and other fluids (but people tend to underestimate Spore Abilities so...). Victims usually die within a week or two of developing the visible fungal spots. Mercifully, most records describe victims experiencing minimal pain, with the very last itching stage appearing to be the only interruption they experience to their otherwise relatively peaceful demise.
References to the disease by Octolings exist as far back as their very first written records in existence. The disease was known as a swift, silent killer that would claim its victims every time it appeared. Naturally, it soon came to be known by the name of the most deadly substance the early Octolings knew - Snow. The disease seemed to only strike in the warmer summer months away from the coast, but only in areas that experienced a freezing period every winter.
Although both Octolings and Inklings typically remove the beaks of the dead to preserve for use in additional funerary rites, bodies infected by the Blight were burned immediately with an emphasis on keeping absolutely minimal contact with the body. It became common for loved ones to create substitute beaks by other means; chipping stones into a roughly beak-like shape, painting or carving images of beaks on the surface of small stones, offering a pair of small knives as a stand-in, or creating wood carvings were just some of the things they came up with. During and after large Blight outbreaks, small shrines, cairns, and simple stone or wood markers specific to Blight victims were often quietly erected where loved ones left substitute beaks in piles.
For most of history, the disease, while not uncommon, rarely spread to more than a few people at a time, partly owing to Octolings preferring to live in small family groups rather than larger clusters of... more people. After Inklings moved into the region and dramatically increased the population density, instances of larger outbreaks increased. Particularly devastating outbreaks saw the disease spreading outside of its natural range as it hopped between inkfish hosts, reaching coastal populations and in one case spreading farther south than Inkopolis. Instability and blame-searching caused by the last major outbreak of the Snow Blight roughly 100 years ago is often credited as one of the major factors in kickstarting the Great Turf War (I know that canon attributes the conflict to rising sea levels causing a scarcity in territory, but in my Setup the Earth just doesn’t have enough water on it for that to be such a major concern. I don’t have much more ice to melt! Where am I gonna get more water, Jupiter’s fuckin moons???).
In the century after the Great Turf War, reported cases of the Snow Blight decreased to nearly 0. Researchers are still struggling to find out vital aspects of this once prolific disease. Exactly what conditions, other than “mountains with cold winters”, do the fungus causing the disease exist in? What causes the fungus to infect an inkfish host? Is there a way to treat it once it reaches its visible stage? What caused infection cases to plummet so dramatically? Perhaps, with any luck, we will never need to know.
Even then, those living in the Snow Blight’s traditional ranges are still extremely careful not to disturb the mountains more than necessary...
#Splatoon#Splatoon Disease#Conarts#ask to tag... idk how to tag fungus lady#Snow Blight fungal rings modeled by Storm... one of my First Contact era octolings. shes dead and this is why#ilu spring-storm rest in peace#Squid 2 the evolution of the squid#Splat Bio#Splat Bio: Medical#i would LOVE to create subdivisions in my tags for easy accsss to posts...
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Love After the Fact Chapter 66: On the Road Again
Lance makes a confession and tells Keith a story.
First Previous Next
Lance’s eyes scan the rocky foothills’ landscape. In the past few vargas, they’ve passed kilns, tanneries, quarries, gardens, orchards, and vineyards tumbling over the uneven terrain beneath the terraced mountain civilization. Now, he and Keith find themselves at the edge of the foothills, where the last of the mountainous landscape fades into rocky tundra. This is a more arid part of Daibazaal, though parts of it are temperate, or even tropical. And then there’s the vast grassy marsh at the equator, which filters all the water south until the continent slips into the sea.
Lance has since learned that the large body of water he’d seen from space is in fact salt water, and it’s so large that crossing it takes an entire quintant.
He won’t see the sea on this visit, but he’s already promised himself he’ll come back. The tundra, however, is spellbinding. On either side of the road are flowers in shades of yellow, pink, blue, orange, and white with thick, waxy, bluish-green leaves. Among the flowering hills with twisty-trunked trees, are small mounds, topped with little towers of stacked stones. Some have toppled over. Others have small nests in the gaps. Others are held in place with vines and foliage.
Cairns, marking ancient burials, Keith told him a ways back.
Ahead is a river, one so wide, so deep, and so fast that they need a bridge to cross it. Lance can already hear the water, and given how one of Keith’s ears is rotating in every direction, and the other is fixed on the rushing water, so can he. Every now and then, the ears switch duties, keeping an eye out for the many predators that call Daibazaal home.
It's the cutest thing Lance has ever seen.
Keith halts his bull elk by the river, leads him forward to drink. Lance follows his lead. Rubbing Bruna’s furry neck as she drinks at the river’s edge. They’ve been riding all morning, and it’s time for a rest, and some lunch.
Wrapped in leaves, Lance finds some bread, dried meat, and a soft, somewhat amorphous white substance. He sniffs the substance, finding it has a bit of a stink to it. It also smells… good? Somehow?
“Beloved?”
“Hm?”
“What the quiznak is this?”
“Oh. Cheese.”
“Cheese? What’s in it?”
“Milk. From the elk.” Keith pulls out his blade, slicing a bit off the lump, spreading it on the bread. “Try some. If your body produces lactase. Otherwise, do not.”
“I do. Some plants on Altea have lactose. Milk does, too?” At Keith’s nod, Lance shrugs, taking a bite of the offered food. It’s good. Salty, a bit gamey, a little nutty? No matter how Lance thinks to describe it, cheese sounds absolutely disgusting, but it’s delicious.
Keith hands him a wrinkled red fruit that looks past its prime. “Here, try this purp fruit. I know it looks gross, and I think they’re disgusting, but Lotor likes them a lot, so you probably will too.”
Lance takes a bite, humming as sweet, syrupy juices explode over his tongue. It’s delightful, probably the sweetest thing he’s tasted since arriving on Daibazaal. The taste sours almost instantly as Lance remembers something he’d said earlier. “Hey, Keith? There’s something I have to tell you.”
“Okay?”
“I may have made a deal with my father that we would return to Altea as mates.”
“You what?” Keith stares at his spouse, clearly displeased. His ear pin back against his head, tail twitching back and forth. “That wasn’t your place to say. At all.”
“I know. I thought it was fine, since it’s not like he’d actually do anything if we didn’t, but I also didn’t say anything, so… I got the feeling I was in the wrong.”
Keith stares at him, fur bristled, murmurs, “Did you mean it?”
“No! I-” The Altean’s shoulder sag. “I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so,” Keith echoes. “So you assumed that we would, and figured that meant it was fine for you to agree to those terms.”
“...I suppose,” Lance mumbles.
Keith shakes his head, disappointed in his spouse. Not that he’d say that. Nothing damages a person like hearing their loved one is disappointed in them. “Why, Lance? Why would you agree to that? You’ve kept me safe all this time. What changed?”
“He made it a stipulation of our trip to Daibazaal. I should have argued the point, but I just wanted to get you here as fast as possible. I wanted to make sure that happened, with as little trouble or wasted energy as possible, and as little stress to you. Still, I was careless, and thoughtless, and I am so. Sorry, Keith.”
The Galra sighs, staring at his mate. “Well, you told me, and I know you wouldn’t have forced yourself on me, so I’ll forgive you. This time. But even though I’m mated to you, you can still lose my respect, and my trust. Just like I can lose yours.”
“I know, I know.” Lance’s ears droop. “The idea that I could have damaged this…” He shakes his head.
“It’s nothing that can’t be fixed,” Keith murmurs, letting the hurt ease away as he gazes over the river, watching the wind move through the tundra flora. “You’re reasoning saved your ass though, just so you know.”
Lance chuckles, still subdued as he picks at the last of his food. “I really am sorry.”
“It’s okay. I’m upset, but we’re gonna be okay.” Keith takes Lance’s hand, squeezes it tight. “You haven’t ruined this. Your intentions were good, if a bit careless, and we’re going to be fine.”
“Okay…”
“You need to be careful, though. It’s not like you to make hasty promises like that. We can't rule like that, so it can't become a habit.”
“I know,” Lance groans, carding a hand through his white hair. “The Ancients are going to smite me if I can’t get my shit together!”
Keith licks his lips, anxious. He still trusts Lance, and his intentions, no matter how misguided in practice. And the man clearly recognizes that he’s been an idiot. Now, he just wants to move on. “Hey. Can I ask you something?”
“Anything.” The Altean rests his head against Keith’s shoulder. Keith wraps his tail around Lance’s waist.
“What happened to Romelle?”
“Ah. It’s kind of a long story...”
Alfor leaned against the control board of their small craft, shaking. On either side of him, Romelle and Honerva stood in awe as they gazed at the sight before them. A white hole, light pouring in seemingly endless arcs of light.
“I can’t believe it,” the blonde girl breathed. “We’re finally here.”
“Everything we’re searching for, everything we could ever want, is right here before us,” Alfor murmured. They stared a moment longer, then the king gave a cocky grin he’d later dread seeing on his son. “Let’s go get it!”
The women giggled, giddy on new discovery, as they hurried to their control panels, Alfor at the helm. They were here for everything they could possibly get, and the adventure, but also with a specific goal in mind.
Oriande, among other things, reportedly had its own unique flora and fauna, from which Altea’s organic life had evolved. It was possible, perhaps even probable, that they could find a cure for the thing that killed his wife.
“Wait. What exactly happened to your mother ?”
"A fungus. They found a capsule in her reading room. It... It grew up underneath her scales, and made them die and fall off."
"That's... horrific. I can't believe anyone would do that!"
“Mnh.” Lance sighs. “They cut me out of her as soon as they could so I wouldn’t die with her. They put me in a pod for phoebs, until I could breathe on my own and they were sure I didn’t have the same thing.”
“What an awful way to die,” Keith whispers, thinking about watching his power and lifeforce fall away from his body before his very eyes.
“Romelle’s brother died later from the same thing. We still don’t even know where it came from. We couldn’t figure out how to kill it. It kept spreading even when they were put in suspension.”
“Does Romelle know?”
“I’m not sure. We told her, but…”
“I don’t understand!” Romelle clinged to her research console, staring at the apparition formed from the light of the white hole. “Why won’t it let us pass?!”
Alfor glared at the ghostly obstacle, pale blue scales flaring in time with his frustration. “Try again. If it doesn’t let us pass, we’ll pull back and think of a new strategy.”
“Yes, your Majesty.” Honerva did as she was told, wheeling their craft back around, soaring through space, dodging the arcs of light curling from the white hole. The apparition struck again, sending them spiraling into another arc of light. The entire ship shuddered and creaked, threatening to come apart as it was assaulted by pure energy.
Alfor fell to the floor, wrapped his arms around the leg of the console. He heard a crash from behind him and assumed they’d taken some kind of damage. Once the ship settled, however, it became clear that wasn’t the case.
Romelle was on the floor, Honerva leaning over her, dark hair falling from it’s usual bun. “Alfor…”
The girl was bleeding profusely, gray matter visible from a gaping wound in her head.
“Ancients… Pick her up. We have to put her in a pod.”
“Alfor that could kill her!”
“What about her exposed brain? Couldn’t that kill her?”
Honerva grew pale beneath her orange, green-tinted scales. She nodded, scooping the girl into her arms as Alfor rushed to calibrate a pod to preserve her life.
As Honerva prepared to take them home, Alfor turned back to the formidable white hole. He’d been so close. He could practically smell that familiar, unfamiliar atmosphere just beyond these outer limits.
Were it not for the beast that guarded it...
“So what happened to Romelle?”
“My father spent decaphoebs rebuilding her brain. At first, everything seemed fine. That’s when she and Allura got close, and fell in love. But not long after that… She started talking about odd things. Guardians and descendants and glass that is water but also holding water and a blue ember growing cold. Weird stuff. Eventually, that took up more and more of her. I think that’s all that’s left now.
She doesn’t recognize Allura. I don’t think she even knows Allura’s pregnant. I’m not sure she even knows who she is, or that she’s a person. Alfor says that trying to fix her is just doing more damage and causing her pain. As much as I hate it, I think he’s right.”
“I wonder what she means,” he whispers. “I wonder what she’s trying to tell us.”
“I don’t know,” Lance murmurs. “But whatever it is, she’s too far gone to understand it herself, let alone tell us.”
“Right…” Keith frowns, unsure what to make of the story, but he lets it go for now. He’s heard Romelle speak plenty of times before he moved to Altea, Allura having gone out of her way to visit with him and try to ease his anxiety. It always sounded like nonsense.
All the same, he has a nauseous feeling that Romelle’s ramblings aren’t ramblings at all.
Keith stares at Lance’s scales, glittering up and down his arms, exposed by his rolled up sleeves. Blue, shining red in the light. Water and fire.
Suspend the ember in water. Stall its final breath.
The guardian waits for the descendant.
#LoveAftertheFact#LAtF#klance#galtean au#altean lance#galra keith#adashi#altean adam#galra shiro#voltron legendary defender#vld
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13 Keys to the White House: UPDATE
The original post can be read here, I wrote it a day before George Floyd was murdered, and the political landscape has shifted SO MUCH since then.
There are 13 questions that define which party will win the presidential election based on how well the incumbent and challenging parties have fared over the last four years. The incumbent party needs 8 out of 13 to be true to win, while the challengers need 6 or more to be false. As of May 25, it stood, in order of severity
FALSE
FALSE
FALSE
Almost certainly false
Probably false
Maybe false
Unclear
Maybe
Maybe true
True as of right now
TRUE
TRUE
TRUE
Biden and Trump both has 3 solid keys in their field, with three more teetering on either side, and one tossup in the middle. It was anybody’s game, though Biden had a slight edge because he only needs 6 to Trump’s 8.
Not everything has changed in the last week, but just enough to solidify some of the less certain keys
Party Mandate: After the midterm elections, the incumbent party holds more seats in the U.S. House of Representatives than after the previous midterm elections. FALSE (Democrats won more in 2018 than Republicans won in 2014)
Contest: There is no serious contest for the incumbent party nomination. TRUE (Donald Trump faces no real challengers)
Incumbency: The incumbent party candidate is the sitting president. TRUE (barring the coronavirus, or a heart attack brought on by all the fast food he eats, Donald Trump will be the nominee this November)
Third party: There is no significant third party or independent campaign. TRUE (Amash has dropped out, and the Libertarians have nominated a nobody who chose an even smaller nobody as her running mate. But then again, the election is 5 months away, which in 2020-months is approximately 9000 years away; a lot can change between now and then. I mean, just 5 months ago the coronavirus hadn’t spread outside of China yet. Maybe a conservative spoiler will gain traction. Maybe some disillusioned republicans will rally behind a write-in candidate. Maybe an asteroid hits and we all have to move underground and evolve into C.H.U.D.s to survive. Anything goes in 2020. Blow on them dice, LUCK BE A LADY)
Short-term economy: The economy is not in recession during the election campaign. FALSE (The Great Shutdown, the second once-in-a-lifetime economic collapse in less than 15 years. We’re only four months into it right now; things are going to get so much worse before they get better.)
Long-term economy: Real per capita economic growth during the term equals or exceeds mean growth during the previous two terms. Almost Certainly False (Unemployment continues to rise at record breaking levels. Civil unrest is widespread in all 50 states, several territories, and even international cities in solidarity with the cause. The pandemic is far from over, and we are on the verge of a second wave.. There’s no chance in hell the economy will grow this year. 2020 is the Spiders Georg of years; it is a statistical outlier, it’s so low it’ll bring down the rest of the whole term, wiping out all growth since 2017. I mean, Republicans wanted trump to run the country like one of his businesses, and he’s giving them exactly what they wanted. This is his MO; run it into the ground, declare bankruptcy, don’t pay anyone, move onto your next failed project. Same shit as always)
Policy change: The incumbent administration effects major changes in national policy.Unclear (He hasn’t kept many of his campaign promies, but he has enriched himself and his colleagues, abusing the power of the executive for personal gain, which is a pretty major change. This key will come down to the Supreme Court decisions on his tax returns; if they decide in favor of the president, they are saying that he doesn’t have to obey subpoenas anymore, expanding the powers of the president and getting rid of legislative oversight, checks and balances; this would be a HUGE policy change akin to declaring him a king, as it would mean he is no long capable of being held accountable for anything. If they decide against him though, a lot of skeletons will come bursting out of his closet, which may or may not damage him politically. Let’s be honest, they won’t. Nothing ever does. The tax returns could reveal that he has been paying a Russian company called “WE MEDDLE, YOU WIN, GUARANTEE” for thirty years, and he and his cronies will still spin it as a positive thing. Nothing ever hurts this guy, so I wonder why he even gives a shit about hiding his taxes anymore. All we know is that he has to be hiding something BIG if he’s going this far to try and cover it up, Could this take him down? Probably not, but fingers crossed.)
Social unrest: There is no sustained social unrest during the term. FALSE (I made this post before the George Floyd protests began, but there’s no ambiguity about it now. The cracks in the system have been expanding for years, and now the dam has finally burst. And rightfully so; riots are the language of the unheard. My only concerns are that if the protests continue into November, a bunch of republican lawmakers are gonna use it as an excuse to stop people from voting. ”Curfew begins at 8PM, anyone still in line at their polling places will be arrested and/or shot”)
Scandal: The incumbent administration is untainted by major scandal. FALSE (there’s only so much you an handle before you drop all pretenses and say “this is no longer subjective, this is objectively scandalous.” Everything they do is designed to get as big a reaction as possible, they pick the objectively worst people and take the objectively worst positions on everything because they’re trying to stoke controversy. Russia, Ukraine, carrots and potatoes. The real meat are all the domestic scandal. Turning off the White House lights and hunkering in a safe space underneath it like PUNK ASS BITCH? Mobilizing the National Guard around the country? Teargassing protestors so he can pose with a Bible he’s never read in front of a church he’s never attended, holding it up like it’s some annoying obligation of his, “see? See, I like the Bible. Look, I’m holding it up. Why would I be holding it up if I didn’t just LOOOOOVE it? Can everybody see? I’m holding it out at arms length and waving it back and forth just to make sure all the cameras know, I want then to get a good shot of it. I will shortly give it to an aide and be taken home in my limo, at which point I will forget the Bible exists because my brain is turning to jelly and I’ve lost the concept of object permanence.”)
Foreign/military failure: The incumbent administration suffers no major failure in foreign or military affairs. Maybe (on the one hand, Iran didn’t retaliate when we killed their general, but on the other hand we retreated out of Syria, let thousands of ISIS fighters go, and aided the Turks in a Kurdish genocide. The tit-for-tat sanctions against China threatened to crash the global economy, but then the coronavirus came in and did that all by itself, so it’s unclear whether we’ve “failed” or simply “not succeeded.”)
Foreign/military success: The incumbent administration achieves a major success in foreign or military affairs. Maybe false? (for the same reason as above, it is hard to judge what is or isn’t a success. USMCA is unpopular and small potatoes. The North Korean talks are all show with no substance; Kim will never get rid of his nukes. We’re still caught up in W’s endless wars, and I don’t see an end in sight, so I’d say this is definitely not a success. I have no doubt in my mind the October Surprise is gonna be another bombing in Iran to kill the ayatollah. The Iran War will start on November 3, same day as the election, there will be the first draft since Vietnam, a bunch of POCs will be forced into the military as cannon fodder; it’ll be a bloodbath for both sides)
Incumbent charisma: The incumbent party candidate is charismatic or a national hero. FALSE (Trump is revered as the Second Coming of Christ by his base, but they make up less than 40% of the total country; other Republicans tolerate him at best, and all Democrats hate him. He has never had majority approval, he will never go down with the likes of the universally beloved Washington, Lincoln, and the Roosevelts. The most surprising thing of the last six months has got to be the emergence of the Lincoln Project, a coalition of Republicans who have finally grown spines, guts, and balls to stand up against trump and actively campaign against him. He doesn’t have total party control anymore, the Republicans are eroding, though to be fair the Democrats eroded a long time ago; the Republicans are a crumbling cairn, longstanding but now weakened and in danger of falling over, while the Democrats are a nice gravel walkway that everyone steps on and complains about even though the walkway is a nice addition to the park; it really ties the negative space together, linking the tennis courts with the pull-up bars. I’ve lost the thread of this analogy)
Challenger charisma: The challenging party candidate is not charismatic or a national hero. TRUE (Joe Biden is the Walter Mondale of Al Gores. Republicans hate him, even though he’s a moderate an would almost certainly try to reach across the aisle to compromise with them. Which is exactly why about half of Democrats don’t really like him; he’s too moderate and would work with Republicans. He’s old and senile, he keeps making gaffe after gaffe after gaffe, and doesn’t seem to know how the game is played anymore. Someone needs to find Grampa a nice home so he can retire and talk to his nurse about how he used to get into fist fights with ne’er-do-wells, “buncha malarkey, I tell ya”)
This gives us, from best to worst:
FALSE
FALSE
FALSE
FALSE
FALSE
Almost Certainly False
Maybe false
unclear
Maybe
TRUE
TRUE
TRUE
TRUE
Incumbent Trumps needs 8 true to win. Challenger Biden needs 6 false to win.
Biden definitely has 5, he only needs 1 more to claim it, and there are two good keys that are leaning heavily in his favor; trump’s long-term economy is in the tank, and he hasn’t had any victories overseas. Biden has this one in the bag [don’t grow complacent, there’s still plenty of fuckery to be had from here to November]
Trumps would need to flip four keys to win, only one of which leans in his favor, one is unclear, and two are in Biden’s court. The economy is in ruins, he hasn’t set up any real domestic Trump Doctrine, and the military has neither succeeded nor failed in any meaningful way these last four years. He’s going into November with a major disadvantage, perhaps the only time in his life he has ever not had an advantage.
But then again, there’s always the possibility that it could be a 2000/2016 repeat, where Biden wins the popular vote but Trump ekes by with the electoral college victory yet again. This model doesn’t take that into account because the popular vote winner almost always wins the EC too.
Trump is not more popular today than he was 4 years ago. He’s never had majority approval. While his base loves him more now than ever, they represent a minority of voters, and pretty much everyone else hates him. Anyone who was on the fence in 2016 is definitively over the fence in 2020. If he “wins,” it’s not going to be a 1972/1984 blowout, that’s just not gonna happen, too many states hate him too much. It will be very close; I will not rule out the possibility of a 269-269 tie in the electoral college, triggering a contingent election where the House of Representatives has to pick the president. Democrats have a majority in the House right now, but in contingent elections they don’t vote as 435 individuals, they vote as 50 state blocs; even though there are more Democrats than Republicans, they’re packed together into as few states as possible, giving Republicans over 26 stateside majorities, enough to ensure they would pick Trump in a contingent election.
It’s a bullshit system, and I pray it doesn’t come to that.
#allan lichtman#13 keys to the white house#13 keys#white house#election#presidency#2020 election#joe biden#biden#donald trump#trump#biden 2020#predictions#political
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so, ive been thinking about love...
this page right here always sounded fishy to me. it’s like aechmea was trying to separate the gems from sensei for his own objectives and, after ch 80, i feel like there’s room enough for speculating about stinkymea’s alleged sincerity
so here’s a meta about sensei’s ability to love and aechmea’s to understand love
that page is from a point of the story, just before the night raid, when the only thing that kept the moon gems from trusting aechmea was the faith they had in sensei.
hell, phos’ love for sensei (and for their siblings) was what stopped them from going to the moon in the first place for a long time
here aechmea is saying ‘no, no, of course you love him but see, attacking him is not a bad thing cause he tricked you. it’s not love. it’s a chemical, human thingy. trust me. i know.’
this is the same man who experimented on admirabilis, held them captive, drove them out of their minds and kept them as pets. the same man who systematically exterminated the lustrous for thousands of years in hopes to ‘shake’ sensei and make him pray. the same man who has known, since thousands of years, that praying would mean the death of all gems.
he knew that when phos spoke about living all together in harmony, that meant death. that when cairn professed their love and tried to become a lunarian it would be useless, cause cairn was bound to die either way.
these are bold words from a man that’s using an innocent to break free from the cage he created with his own actions and sins.
how convenient that, when phos needed answers, he was there, ready to provide them. a complete stranger who attacked and killed gems for millennia, telling them that sensei, who has always been a loving mentor for the rocks, was actually harmful and his love was fake.
aechmea deceived, betrayed, withheld truths and manipulated everyone around him (lunarians included) to reach his goals. why would his words about sensei be true?
sensei has his faults. he is in a position of power and he withdrew information from the gems as well. his efforts to protect them from harm and love them turned against him. still, is his love a lie as well?
this story is a deconstruction of Buddhism, so i dont know how certain narratives are meant to be interpreted and i might be biased by my Christian bg, but what if the gems’ love for sensei it true?
sensei has been their father, leader and mentor all this time. isnt that how love comes to be? from trust, shared experienced, kindness, friendship? what if his love was genuine? wouldn’t it be even more ironic since sensei’s fault was that of loving the gems too much?
love is not a mechanical thing, its the result of years of caring and trust, it’s selfless. it’s what pushes the gems to fight a war they can’t win, just like when phos said that they “loved sensei and they wanted to help”
how convenient an explanation that the trust, love, respect and faith the gems have for kongo are all rooted in a lie.
still, what if aechmea is sincere? sincere in that mechanical love is the only explanation he can come up with, because he is cynical, sensei is a machine and the rocks are barely shiny children.
no matter what Aechmea tells cairn, he never shows any remorse for anything he has done to the gems. his attraction to cairn looks merely physical. what if aechmea came up with the theory that “sensei emanates a substance that makes humans favorable to him” because he genuinely cannot understand love?
a wretched man who doesnt understand what love is and a machine who loves selflessly, to the point it’s too much.
way to subvert the machine vs human trope. even if it’s not the point of hnk, i feel like it’s something ichikawa could think about
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