#“Chemical Dispersants” | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

parfaitblogs · 3 months ago

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making the bed ❀ s. reid x reader

in which your night crumbles around you, and spencer is happy to pick up the pieces.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: hurt/comfort tags: established relationship. (prior) alcohol consumption. reader is semi-drunk (but sobers up). post drinking depression. healthy alcohol information/discussion 🫡 word count: 2.1k a/n: do not read too much into this for you will begin to question why i still enjoy going clubbing. (joke...) 😄 plsss tell me if u liked this or even if u didnt thank u i love uuuuuu

Alcohol is a depressant.

You remembered the God awful lecture your boyfriend had given you when you woke up one Sunday morning with this feeling of existential dread, and nothing to pin it to. A ramble about how alcohol can temporarily increase the body's production of dopamine and serotonin when entering, causing a worse crash of both chemicals when it leaves. Leaving you, evidently, depressed and anxious after a big night.

You knew that.

You also knew how quick you were to seclude within your mind when you were with people. Too many drinks and not enough social interaction tended to lead to your own isolation, sitting on the outer edge of the booth, absentmindedly playing with the charm on the end of your phone.

The room no longer spun the way it had an hour ago. You missed when it spun. When it spun, you weren't thinking about how little you had to contribute to the conversations your friends were having. You weren't tallying up how many drinks you had already drank, then falling flat when you realised you couldn't remember, and that was a thought more horrifying than knowing it was over ten. You were fun, when the room was a carousel.

Now, it's simply overwhelming. Loud chattering from both your table, and the surrounding ones. Clinking of glasses at the bar. A sports game on the television across the room. Balls on a pool table being dispersed for the first time in a game. Dancing feet. Music. People. So many fucking people.

Your phone buzzes against the table, and you pick it up before any of your friends could turn their heads to see where the vibrations were coming from. You figured they were too drunk to conclude it was you, anyways. Or to care.

Spencer had texted you fifteen minutes ago to check in on you, and though it wasn't long ago, you not responding immediately in a flurry of half strung together sentences and emojis was worrying for him. That was probably why his name was now lighting up your screen, a funny photo of him mid-bite of an ice cream as his contact photo, enlarged.

You hadn't responded for no reason other than the fact that you had no will to. Which should've been a big enough red flag to yourself that you should text him, and you should ask if he can pick you up. Thankfully, he loved to prove how well he could read you, and he was calling you anyways.

"Hi," you mumble into the phone, angling your body away from your friends, hand held up to your other ear to block out some of the noise the best you could.

"Hi," he parrots back to you. "You okay?"

An automatic yes manifests on your tongue, but you're quick enough to keep it to yourself before you can lie to him. Instead, you let out a quiet, "No."

He seems to have expected that answer, for he leaves no silence in between your admission and his response. "What can I do to help?" He also seems to be expecting your hesitance at asking him for anything that would require him to move, because he adds, "I can pick you up. Do you want me to pick you up?"

"Yes. Please?"

"I'm already leaving," he tells you, and you can hear his shoes against the wooden floor of his apartment to confirm that. "Did something happen? Are you safe?"

"No, nothing happened. I'm safe," you reassure him. "I started feeling sick so I stopped drinking an hour ago. Now I'm just sad."

"You remember what I told you about it being a depressant?"

"Vividly," you mutter, and while it isn't meant to be funny, you hear him huff a short laugh anyways. It makes you feel a little better.

"It's important to know," he defends. "I'm sorry I shared important information with you."

"Mm."

Your lack of a verbal response was expected, but he still hated the sound of it regardless. You heard him sigh. "I have to hang up now. I'll be there in forty minutes. Will you be okay?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. I love you."

"Love you too."

No matter how much time had passed, your head lifted every time the door — that your group was so conveniently close to — opened, letting in a rush of cool air and sobering you up with every hit of it.

True to his word, Spencer was entering the bar after forty minutes, face scrunching up at the sudden onslaught of noises and visual stimuli. Same boat as you, only he had not a drop of alcohol in his body. At least you weren't crazy about it being overstimulating.

"This is why I don't go to bars," he says once he's approached your booth, and you had stood up next to you, his hand finding an automatic place on your waist.

"It's usually not this bad," you tell him, but he decides not to ask you anything else upon hearing just how exhausted your voice sounds. You're grateful for that.

The goodbye to your friends is quick, Spencer rattling off a lie about him needing you home for he had work early the next morning, and you only had one key to the apartment. Even the friends who knew that wasn't the case didn't comment on it, and you made a pointless mental note to thank them for it later. You knew you wouldn't.

The drive home was even faster. Silence, aside from the rush of the wind from your slightly cracked window as Spencer drove, that helped the sick feeling in your stomach from the alcohol you had consumed.

It didn't seem to help the hollowness of your chest, though.

You weren't sure if anything would, really. A chemical imbalance in your brain — even one as temporary as the deflation from being drunk — was hard to fix without medication. It would go away, yes. But then you would make the mistake of drinking once more, and you would find yourself back in this brain peeling predicament.

You showered alone. Despite Spencer's offer to join you, and your own personal desire for him to be there with you. It didn't help your fogged mind at all, and you were exiting the bathroom feeling like you had retreated further into your bones. Every movement felt clunky, your skin a heavy coat to your skeleton, restricting your movement down to short shuffles and barely lifted arm movements.

He was reading when you reentered your bedroom, and you've never seen him put a book and his glasses back on his bedside table faster. He looked visibly tired. Keeping himself awake a seemingly difficult struggle, that you could feel your body heading towards to as well.

"Hey," he says as you climb into the bed, and he's very patient as you figure out what position you want your bodies in. Head on his chest, but next to him, you had decided on, and his fingers entangled into your hair.

"Hi," you mumble, staring up at the ceiling, counting brush strokes of the paint, as if it were possible to.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

You huff at the phrase, tilting your head upwards so your eyes could land on him. "Do you have a penny?"

He pauses, then angles his head closer towards yours. "Okay, kiss for your thoughts?"

"That'll just distract me."

"Is that what you want?"

You should say no. Arguably the last thing you should be doing when you're sad is let intimacy with your boyfriend distract you. But then again, you're not the best advocate for healthy coping mechanisms anyways.

"Maybe."

"Maybe?" he muses, and his lips brush against yours. Your heart flutters.

"I don't really know what I want," you settle on telling him, honestly. "I want my brain to shut up."

His body deflates beneath you, and you feel guilt chip away up your spine at the killing of the less depressing atmosphere.

"Sorry," you mumble.

"No. It's good. Be honest with me," he reassures you, quietly. His fingers tap at your scalp, "What's going on up here?"

"I'll cry if I try to verbalise it."

"Crying's good for you, you know," he hums.

"I'm pretty sure I still have eyeliner in my waterline. I'll just stain your sheets," you retort.

"Yeah, probably. That's fine."

You're silent for a few moments, gathering your thoughts in your brain the best you could despite yourself, before you sit up, his hand dropping to the bed beside you.

"I just don't like being... here? Out? I don't know. I'm just really sick of being sad every time I drink. Is there something wrong with me? Did you get sad whenever you drank? Everyone else I know loves going out for drinks because they have fun and they're giggly drunks, or they're clingy drunks. And if I drink too much then I'm a fucking sad drunk, and I'm the only person I know that gets that way. I want to be normal."

He's silent your entire rant, and then some, waiting for your heaving chest to slow, having caught the few tears that slipped down your cheeks. You were grateful — you needed that time.

He reaches a hand out, and you let him tug you back down to the bed, slotting your body atop his own, just so he could see you properly.

"To answer your question, no, I didn't get sad when I drank," he says, brushing your hair out of your face, before his hands rest on either side of your face. "But I wasn't really happy, either. I just talked more."

"You already talk a lot."

His lips twitch. "I do. Double whatever you think my worst is, and that was me drunk. Focus on the part where I said I wasn't a happy drunk, please."

"But you weren't sad. So there is something wrong with me."

"No, there's not. Alcohol is a depressant," he punctuates his words with a kiss to your nose, which you gratefully accept despite your emotions. "Are you willing to give up alcohol as a whole?"

"My friends will think I'm boring, then."

He hesitates in his response, but ultimately settles on asking, "Do you think I'm boring because I don't drink?"

"No. Obviously not. And you have a real reason for not drinking, so—"

"—and being sad isn't a real reason to not drink?"

Taken aback by his sudden sternness, you go quiet, breath hitching within your throat. He was right, ultimately. No reason is reason enough. You knew that.

Sensing your discomfort at his tone, he expels a breath of air and lowers his hands down to your hips. His voice drops to something a little less harsh, as he murmurs, "You are allowed to not want to drink alcohol if you don't like the way it makes you feel. If your friends think you're boring for that, then they're not worth it."

You silently nod your head, beginning to curse your emotional regulators. For while you had kept your tears at bay for the vast majority of this conversation, it seemed all it took was the gentle rubbing of circles onto your hip bones, and a fact checked piece of life advice from your boyfriend to make you cry.

"Sorry," you sniffle, dropping your head to the crook of his neck to hide your newly tear stricken face.

"Crying's good for you," he repeats his earlier words, and feels you nod your head. "You don't have to decide tonight. I'd encourage you not to, actually. You're technically still intoxicated."

"I'm sober," you protest, weakly.

"Okay, honey." He's only agreeing with you to wane any further argument. "I don't think your friends will think you're boring, though, if that's any help."

"I don't think they will either."

He nods his head, and you're relaxing against him a little more.

"Are you just trying to not be the only loser who doesn't drink?" you mumble, voice muffled by his skin.

"You've caught me."

He relishes in the laugh that leaves your lips, and he places the gentlest of kisses on the side of your head, which prompts you to lift it to look at him again.

"You're not a loser for not drinking," you say, and his lips pull into a smile.

He leans his head up, brushing his lips against yours, despite the mix of mint toothpaste and alcohol on your tongue. "I know. You wouldn't be either."

"I know."

your reblogs and replies are always appreciated ♡

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delta-remediation · 2 years ago

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Oil Spill Cleanup Methods: How Experts Mitigate Environmental Disasters

Oil spills are a significant environmental concern that can cause severe harm to ecosystems and wildlife. These disasters can occur for a variety of reasons, including accidents during oil drilling, transportation, or storage, natural disasters such as hurricanes and earthquakes, or human error. Regardless of the cause, the effects of an oil spill can be long-lasting and devastating.

Fortunately, experts have developed a range of effective oil spill cleanup methods that can help mitigate the damage caused by these disasters. One of the most common methods is the use of containment booms. These booms are designed to surround the spill and prevent it from spreading further. They are typically made of materials that are absorbent to oil and can float on the surface of the water. The booms can be particularly effective in calm waters where the oil is less likely to break up into smaller particles.

Another method is the use of skimmers. Skimmers are boats equipped with specialized equipment that can remove oil from the surface of the water. These machines can be particularly effective in removing large quantities of oil quickly. However, they are less effective in choppy water or where there is a large amount of debris.

Bioremediation is another innovative oil spill cleanup method. This method involves the use of bacteria and other microorganisms to break down the oil into harmless substances. Bioremediation can be particularly effective in areas where the oil has penetrated into the soil or other porous materials. Although this method can take several months to complete, it is an effective long-term solution.

Chemical dispersants are another method used to clean up oil spills. These chemicals are designed to break up the oil into smaller droplets that can be more easily dispersed throughout the water. However, there is some controversy over the use of dispersants as they can also harm marine life and other organisms.

Finally, burning is another method that can be used to clean up oil spills. In this method, the oil is ignited, and the resulting fire burns off the oil. This method is particularly effective in areas where the oil is concentrated and can be quickly contained. However, burning can also produce harmful pollutants and is not always a viable option.

It is important to note that there is no one-size-fits-all solution to oil spill cleanup. Experts must evaluate the specific circumstances of each spill and choose the most appropriate method or combination of methods to effectively mitigate the damage. Additionally, prevention is key in avoiding oil spills altogether. Proper maintenance and safety protocols can help reduce the likelihood of accidents and minimize the impact of any potential spills.

In conclusion, oil spills can have devastating effects on the environment, but there are effective oil spill cleanup methods available. Experts use a range of methods, including containment booms, skimmers, bioremediation, chemical dispersants, and burning, depending on the specific circumstances of each spill. By employing these methods and prioritizing prevention, we can help mitigate the damage caused by these disasters and protect our environment for future generations.

#oil spill cleanup #environmental disasters #containment booms #skimmers #bioremediation #chemical dispersants #burning #oil spill prevention #wildlife conservation #environmental protection.

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sayruq · 9 months ago

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The Geneva-based Euro-Mediterranean Human Rights Monitor (Euro-Med) released a report on 30 April urging an investigation into Israel’s potential use of illegal thermal weapons. “An international committee of experts must be established to look into the weapons Israel has been using as part of its genocide in the Gaza Strip … including the potential use of bombs that produce such high heat that victims’ bodies evaporate,” the Euro-Med report said. The rights group cites testimonies received from Gaza which revealed a “horrific new level of killing in the Strip.” The bodies of Palestinian victims appear to have been vaporized by the weapons Israel used against residential buildings. “Thousands of victims remain missing, either because it was impossible to recover them from under the debris in light of insufficient equipment and technical know-how, or because their bodies were either hidden by the Israeli army or no longer exist,” the Euro-Med report reads. The report continues to say, “A number of the victims killed in these horrifying Israeli raids on residential buildings have vanished and may have turned to ashes, raising questions about the type of bombs used in the attacks.” Thermobaric weapons, also referred to as vacuum bombs, are two-stage munitions. The first charge disperses a fine aerosol cloud of materials ranging from carbon-based fuel to metal particles. The second charge ignites the materials used, creating a fireball, shock wave, and vacuum as it sucks up the surrounding oxygen. The blast from these weapons can last significantly longer than conventional explosives, enabling it to vaporize human bodies. Mass graves in Gaza hospitals previously raided by Israel show that civil defense staff found “bodies without skin,” according to Gaza’s Government Media Office. According to the Euro-Med report, “The Hague Conventions of 1899 and 1907, the Geneva Conventions of 1949, and international humanitarian law all forbid the use of thermal bombs against civilians in populated civilian areas. The Rome Statute of the International Criminal Court also classifies the use of thermal bombs as a war crime.” Israel has also illegally deployed white phosphorus weapons on civilians and civilian infrastructure in Gaza and Lebanon. According to a Washington Post analysis, the white phosphorus munitions used in Lebanon’s south were supplied to Israel by the US. Palestine’s Agricultural Work Committees Union said that Israel intentionally uses chemical weapons on farmlands in the Gaza Strip to contaminate its soil, posing an increased cancer risk to farmers.

#yemen #jerusalem #tel aviv #current events #palestine #free palestine #gaza #free gaza #news on gaza #palestine news #news update #war news #war on gaza #gaza genocide #genocide #war crimes

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reality-detective · 2 months ago

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US Government finally admitting our skies are being sprayed to manipulate the weather

Florida introduces Bill to “prohibit the injection, release, or dispersion of chemicals or any apparatus into the atmosphere ‘for the express purpose of affecting the temperature, weather, or intensity of sunlight.’”

This has also been confirmed by Karen Johnson “I served in the Arizona State Legislature for 12 years. I was in the House for eight of those years and in the Senate for 4 of those years”

She says “You better wake up and fight back now” because what they’re spraying in the skies is toxic

“The different weather modification programs, there's something like I think right around 32 in the continental U.S. alone going on — I think it's wise for us to stay focused on just the aerospraying and the toxic effect of these chemicals, the destruction of the planet and the damage to human health.” 🤔

#pay attention #educate yourselves #educate yourself #reeducate yourselves #knowledge is power #reeducate yourself #think about it #think for yourselves #think for yourself #do your homework #do your own research #do some research #do research #ask yourself questions #question everything #chemtrails #government corruption #evil lives here #news

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zackprincebooks · 15 days ago

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Hot Water

Lord Commander Guilliman has been expected to make a visit to your fortress-monastery, but his early arrival has sent everyone into a tizzy. At least you were able to clean the baths in time before he arrived. But the baths aren't the only mess you have to worry about, as you stumble across Roboute in the frigidarium and uncover the reason for his sudden detour... (Roboute Guilliman x Reader, explicit. 2nd person POV; reader is AFAB but not addressed with gendered pronouns.)

Want to read it on AO3? Click here!

Want to read my original fiction? Click here!

Inspired by @cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond's The Bellowing!

--------------------

The sight of the Primarch’s ship approaching the fortress-monastery sends all and sundry into a tizzy. Lord Guilliman wasn’t supposed to arrive for another three days, so they weren’t anywhere near prepared for him. Nothing is cleaned, food hasn’t been prepped, and the room reserved for him is unmade.

Along with your fellow serfs, you arm yourselves with mops, oils, and fresh towels and robes to attack the multiple levels of the baths: the caldarium, the frigidarium, and the tepidarium. They housed hot, cold, and warm water baths for the Lord Angels to bathe in, allowing them to relax their muscles after a long day. To prevent the growth of bacteria in the baths, they were cleaned regularly—but a “regular” cleaning would not be up to the exacting standards of a Lord Primarch.

The baths are drained, scrubbed, and refilled; normally you would have given them a few days to be treated with chemicals before refilling them, but Lord Guilliman will want a hot bath after he lands. It would be sacrilegious to force a Lord Primarch to wait days before he can take a bath!

Faucets and spigots are polished to a mirror shine, puddles are mopped, towels and robes are replaced, and bottles of oil and lotion are refilled. You have the honors of restarting the waterfall in the tepidarium and it cascades into the water with a satisfying splash. “We did that in record time,” the head bath mistress declares in satisfaction, wiping sweat from her brow. “I want someone on hand when the Lord Primarch is in the bath in case he has need of anything—food, drink, more towels; if he wants his paperwork, you will bring it to him.”

Everyone nods; their murmurs of agreement bouncing off the cavernous walls of the baths. You nod particularly vigorously. Lord Guilliman’s comfort is paramount. He is, unto you, a god among men that has blessed your fortress-monastery with his benevolent presence. You are not fit to serve him; not when you imagine his broad body sinking into the hot waters of the caldarium and his arm stretching out to you in offering…

The eyes of the head bath mistress land on your flaming face and the disapproval of her gaze eats a hole into your stomach. “Remember that the Lord Primarch is an esteemed guest of our monastery. He is to be treated with utmost respect and kindness. Am I understood?”

“Yes ma’am!” The chorus of your fellow serfs drowns out your muttered yes ma’am, and you disperse to your various tasks. You keep your head down as you pass her by, flinching as she squints at you.

The knot in your stomach lessens as you throw yourself into work, helping your friends ready the monastery for Lord Guilliman’s arrival. You dice garlic and onions in the kitchen, dress beds with clean sheets, and separate one of the tables in the mess hall for Lord Guilliman and his entourage to eat at.

You’re in the middle of sweeping when the docking of the ship is announced over a squealing intercom. Everything rumbles like the rousing of a sleeping giant from a long slumber as it docks, casting a long shadow over the fortress-monastery. Silence buries itself in everyone’s throats as the sound of marching Space Marines fills the air.

But there is no fanfare. No bombastic anthem. Everyone waits with bated breath to hear the long list of Primarch Guilliman’s titles, but nothing materializes. The excited silence gives way to concerned murmuring and some people leave the monastery to get a better look at the action—or lack thereof.

They’re immediately ushered back inside by a cadre of Space Marines, and the gossip ceases. Their broad shoulders block the doorway so no one can watch the proceedings beyond.

“The Lord Commander thanks you for your generous hospitality,” the centermost Space Marine intones, “but he requests privacy for the first three days while he settles in after such a long journey. We thank you for your understanding.”

Not giving anyone a chance to respond, the Space Marines march back out, leaving you and your fellow serfs in stunned silence, all sound sucked into the void left in the wake of the Space Marines.

What…just happened? ----------------------------------------------------------------

The rest of the day passes in strained whispers and surreptitious glances. Everyone is looking for hide or hair of the Lord Primarch around the fortress-monastery, but whenever they get close to his room on the pretense of bringing him food or documents, they’re immediately halted by the Custodes. The moment one of your fellows described how the Custodes’ very words pulled his heart out of his chest, you decided to give the Lord Primarch a wide berth, until he deigned to make his presence known. In fact, if not for the sheer number of Custodes and Ultramarines hanging around, you would never know that Lord Commander Guilliman had arrived.

At least your work does not go unappreciated by your guests, and you hear the chattering of Space Marines in the bath as you refill some of the towels. Their serfs have already aided them in undressing, so their personal effects are stored in the cubbies of the apodyterium, and there are robes waiting for them.

“We really hauled ass on the trip here; I’m glad that we made it in time.”

“Just barely. I was hanging on my seat for dear life. It’s damnably inconvenient!”

There’s the cracking sound of a damp towel whipped at Astartes speed and a high-pitched yelp. “Don’t you dare speak ill of our Lord Primarch!”

“I wasn’t! Merely expressing—”

“His Lordship’s medical condition is not a topic of gossip.” The ironclad voice of a Custodes rumbles through the bath, drowning out the rushing of the waterfall and making your stomach clench tightly. “It is fortuitous that we arrived in time that he may be treated properly.”

A murmur of agreement disperses throughout the Ultramarines as they continue their ablutions. There’s another towel crack and a yelp from the first Space Marine. “Hey!”

“Got you back!” A round of towel-snapping commences despite the protests of the Custodes, and you hightail out of the baths before they can find you. You’ll come back and clean the baths once they’re gone.

But their conversation makes you think: Lord Guilliman is ill? Or at the very least, suffering from some kind of medical condition. While that would explain the Ultramarines and Custodes being so cautious about serfs approaching his guest quarters, why wouldn’t they simply return to Macragge or Terra for treatment?

Your friends are clustered in a hallway up ahead and they wave you over. “Did you hear anything about the Primarch? They’re still not letting us near his room,” one of them sighs.

“No, I haven’t. They started a towel fight so I got out of there after I dropped off the towels,” you lie. A Primarch’s health is of utmost importance and secrecy, and no one else knows that you possess this knowledge. No one must know that you possess this knowledge; not even the Primarch himself.

Fortunately, no one questions you on your lie and they all nod sagely. You go to dinner with them and listen to their theories about why Primarch Guilliman would sequester himself on arrival.

It’s about an hour later, while you’re helping wash dishes in the kitchen, when you notice a group of Ultramarines and one ruffled Custodian coming down to dinner, their skin red and tender from the hot water—along with the towel whipping. It seems that the Custodes has rattled them back in line as she watches her sheepish comrades collect their dinner trays.

You finish with your rack of dishes and slip out of the kitchen. You pick up a bath bucket, mop, and some rags. Since the oils and lotions were refilled this morning, you decide to wait until you see how much has been used before you refill them.

Walking up to the bath, you feel…strange. There’s a ball of heat in your chest that suddenly drops into your stomach and hangs there heavily. Pausing to listen, you hear nothing. You take a risk to poke your head around the corner and you are greeted with the vision of twisted towels, wet robes, and large puddles—but no Ultramarines. No Custodes.

Grabbing your mop and bucket, you get to work, ignoring the feeling of a piercing gaze between your shoulderblades. ------------------------------------------------------

First, the apodyterium. While it’s mostly free of clutter, some towels didn’t make it into the hamper and there are puddles everywhere. You take out the laundry and replace the basket before mopping up the puddles until the blue and gray tiles shine. It’s clear that some of the Astartes played many eager games of rattail, as you fetch some particularly ragged and ratty towels from the laundry basket with a grimace.

You adored the Astartes, and the Ultramarines in particular. Even if their strength could be…inconvenient, sometimes.

But there was no structural damage to the bath, as could occasionally happen when the Astartes began rough-housing. They didn’t understand their own strength when it came to mosaic tiles and plaster, no matter how lovingly crafted.

You pause, admiring the mosaic on the floor. While most designs depict great battles, the bath is a paradise of marine wildlife that gradually gets deeper the further you enter. The apodyterium is a sandy beach with waves lapping at your toes, sea urchins hiding in tide pools, and crabs peeking out from tiled corners.

Dumping out the ratty towels into a trash receptacle, you move further into the baths.

Steam rises from the caldarium and you wave a towel to fan it away while you work. While the temperature of the caldarium can be adjusted, it appears the Ultramarines cranked it up for their bath. It’s so hot and humid in the caldarium that you use a towel to put your hair back and you shuck off your outer robe so you’re only wearing your undergarments.

It’s a daunting task to walk across the slippery caldarium to refill the soaps and lotions; one wrong step and you’ll either plunge into the boiling water or crack your skull on the tiles. You don’t relish the thought of Lord Guilliman finding your body when he goes to bathe.

The tiles in the caldarium are full of brilliant coral and bright fishes darting between anemones with sharks patrolling for prey. Once the soaps are refilled and the tiles mopped, you’re able to safely cross the caldarium and tick down the temperature. It continues putting out steam, but the water will cool down to a safe temperature.

“If the Ultramarines want it hotter, they’ll just have to deal with it,” you huff. Picking up your robes, you drape it loosely over your shoulders and approach the frigidarium—

And you stop.

The frigidarium is the coldest section of the baths; the Apothecary recommends dunking yourself in alternating baths of hot and cold, so the frigidarium and caldarium are connected together by a short hallway. You know that the frigidarium will be so cold that you’ll have to put your robe back on and you’ll likely need your sandals.

But there is steam coming from the frigidarium, at the same rate as the caldarium. And when you check the temperature of the bath, it’s at the coldest setting possible. The pipes for the different pools are all separate, so it’s not like one of the pools is pumping hot water into the frigidarium…

Taking your towel, you wave it in order to disperse the steam again. Once the steam is gone, you notice a uniform thrown haphazardly onto a wooden bench. You see the Ultramarines insignia, but when you lift the uniform jacket, it’s covered with medals and badges that you don’t recognize. A Custodes, perhaps? It would make sense. The uniform is much larger than what a Primaris would wear.

The steam has filled the room again, and it’s clearly rising from the bath. But surely, this uniform means someone is in the bath?

“Excuse me? Is anyone in here? I’m going to clean the baths!” You call out, but there’s no response. The steam has obscured your vision to the point where you need to wave your towel again. Though it dissipates, you can’t see anyone in the bath. The tiles surrounding the pool are of no help; it’s a dense kelp forest with sea turtles darting between the towering sea grass. You feel like one of those turtles as you clean, darting around and hoping no one sees you.

When you move to the front of the bath to refill the soaps and lotions, you hear a splash. “My Lord?” While your vision isn’t fully obscured by the steam, you can’t see the furthest end of the bath. “I’m almost done! I just need to mop!”

A bead of sweat trickles down the bridge of your nose as you wait for more noises, but you hear nothing. Refilling the soaps and lotions as quickly as possible, you speed-walk over to your mop.

There’s another splash, this time closer to you. The steam has fully obscured your vision, and you disperse it again.

A hand grips the edge of the bath and pulls, the tiles underneath cracking from the force. The surface of the water ripples as a second hand hits the tile and both pull, breaking the seal on the bath. You squeal meekly and back up against the wall as broad shoulders clear the water’s surface and Roboute Guilliman hauls himself out of the frigidarium in all of his wet, naked glory.

Though you quickly avert your eyes, you notice that Roboute is the source of the steam as it rolls off his body in waves. Is this what it means for a Primarch to be ill? “Lord, if you are sick, we have medicine—”

“No…need….” Roboute speaks slowly, as though every word is painful for him to say. “Just…hot…”

You fiddle with your broom. What do you say? What do you do in front of an angel, steam rolling off him as though he’s on fire? Especially when his heavy breathing sounds…erotic. “Did you need the frigidarium to cool down? I can bring you some cold water, or some ice…”

Roboute groans, and your thighs squeeze together. When he doesn’t say anything in response, you peek out at him in curiosity.

Oh, by the Throne of Terra…

He’s bigger than any Custodes, a powerful pillar of muscle and fat. His skin is bright red, especially around his shoulders, biceps, and pectorals. Despite the heat of the bath, his nipples are peaked and hard.

And his cock—

You try not to look at it. To do so feels obscene. But you can’t ignore the way it throbs and smears sticky precum against his chest, the sheath bunched up underneath his swollen knot. When he realizes you’re looking at it, his cock pulses even harder.

“My Lord,” you squeak, “are you, perhaps…in heat?”

The sound of Roboute’s guttural moan is enough of an answer. Suddenly, everything makes sense: the onset of Roboute’s heat would require him to stop immediately; going to Macragge or Terra for medical intervention would have only prolonged his suffering. He would need to ride it out until it faded naturally. The frigidarium was a futile attempt at easing his heat.

There was only one way that Roboute could ease his heat, and you were standing right in front of him with your robe open.

He moves towards you with frightening speed for his size. You try to dodge to the side, but you slip on a puddle and the only thing preventing you from eating tile is his hand wrapped around your waist. And he really wraps around your waist, from thumb to forefinger.

Roboute flips you over onto the tiles, looming over you. Your robe is peeled off with a wet slap and he pulls off your undergarments, leaving you exposed to him. The hunger of his gaze sparks both excitement and fear in your belly; something primal that you hadn’t felt before.

His cock slaps against your belly, the knot rubbing on your pussy. A low, growling noise fills the frigidarium from somewhere deep in Roboute’s chest, and when his knot rubs on you again, it comes away wet.

“Please,” you whimper, though you’re not sure what you’re asking for. Roboute seems to understand, however, and he moves off of you. For a moment, you believe that he’ll let you go, and you’re not sure why it fills you with disappointment.

But Roboute goes under you, throwing your legs over his broad shoulders and locking your thighs around his head. Your ankles can barely touch as they hang uselessly over his shoulders. “Lord--!” Your voice cracks as his fingers spread your pussy lips; though your thighs tremble on either side of his head, closing your legs is impossible. Roboute has you pinned against the hard tile of the frigidarium to do with as he wishes.

His tongue presses against your spread pussy, sending shockwaves up your spine. You moan, tangling your hands in his blond hair to keep him against your pussy. Not that you need to—Roboute devours your pussy like a man starved, nosing against your clit. Between the plinking water and your squealing sounds, you feel Roboute growl moreso than you hear it; the sound reverberates through your body from your pelvis to your toes.

Once he’s satisfied with how wet you are, Roboute moves to your clit and kisses it like the jewel of a ring. With both of your hands in his hair, you can’t muffle your squeal as Roboute laps the flat of his tongue against your clit. You only hope that no one else is in the baths, as the sound bounces around the tiled walls and echoes even as far as the apodyterium.

While you’re distracted by Roboute’s mouth on your clit, one of his fingers brushes the entrance of your pussy. His tongue circles your clit as his finger enters you, pumping slowly inside of you. Your thighs squeeze around his head and he grunts but does not let up on either of his ministrations. In fact, he doubles them. Roboute sucks down on your clit and adds a second finger to your pussy.

“My Lord!” You squeal aloud, pressing harder against his face. Pressure coils in your gut and you can barely breathe from all your moaning. “I can’t—”

You don’t finish your sentence, but Roboute doesn’t seem to need you to. He’d kept his eyes closed the entire time, as though he was savoring a delicious meal, but when he looks up at you, the intensity of his gaze pierces you.

It’s what you needed to careen over the edge, and you cry out as you gush against Roboute’s face. He groans, closing his eyes again as he fingers you through your orgasm until the overstimulation makes you whine and you push him off. He goes willingly, and the sight of your slick dappling his nose and chin is both arousing and embarrassing. You squirted on a Primarch.

“Oh, m-my Lord, I’m so sorry,” you hiccup, whimpering through the aftershocks. Roboute raises his eyebrows and wipes the juices from his face with one swipe of his arm. His other arm holds your legs over his shoulders and you realize—too late—that he’s folding them over your shoulders instead of his.

His knees bracket your body; each of his legs as long as you are tall. When his cock slaps against your belly again, it hasn’t reduced in size at all; if anything, the knot is thicker and his cock is redder and angrier than before. One of Roboute’s hands lines his cock up with your pussy while his other hand cradles your head to keep it from hitting the tiles. You can’t tell if your flushed face is from his burning skin, or your own arousal. His hand is big enough to crush your head with the twitch of his fingers.

The head of his cock breaches your pussy and your breath hitches. You could have done with another stretching and perhaps a second orgasm, but Roboute was patient enough to give you one. If his heat goes on for much longer, it could be dangerous for him—and for you.

Roboute huffs as he mounts you, sliding his cock deeper into your pussy. He takes it slowly, but the stretch is obscene. You wince with each inch that slides inside of you, closing your eyes so you don’t look at the way Roboute’s cock spreads you wide…and deep. Every time you think he’s done, Roboute fits another inch inside of you.

You open your eyes just in time to watch Roboute bottom out inside of you, his knot resting comfortably on your swollen pussy lips. He growls in satisfaction, and the sound makes you clench around him.

For some reason, you have the brief sense that you’re in danger, right before Roboute pulls back and plows into you with what you can only describe as a howl. You swear on the Throne that you feel your belly distend with the thrusting of his cock, using you as a sleeve for his own pleasure. His knot wetly plaps against your pussy, adding to the overstimulation of your primal fucking.

White stars explode in your head, scrambling your thoughts. You can’t think of anything other than Roboute’s cock filling you, pounding you into the tile. Either your bones are creaking, or tiles are beginning to break underneath you from the sheer force.

A deep purr rumbles in Roboute’s chest and vibrates the whole of your body. His thumb strokes a glob of saliva away from your lips and caresses your cheek. When you turn your face to look at him, his brows are knitted together in exertion, but his lips are curled back in a facsimile of a smile, baring his teeth.

There’s a split second before Roboute drops himself onto you, and the force of his weight shoves his knot into you, spreading your pussy apart. You let out a garbled whine that results in another deep purr from Roboute, and his nose brushes almost tenderly against your cheek. The head of his cock is shoved against your womb and you feel it pulse with his oncoming climax. His hand tilts your head up to expose your neck to his hungry gaze and Roboute bites into your neck.

It’s only a few more thrusts before you feel his cock beginning to swell, and sticky cum is pumped inside you. It’s even hotter than his skin, and if not for Roboute’s knot, it would spill out of your womb. Though you can’t look down, you’re sure there’s a bulge from his cock and his cum.

Roboute pulls off your neck and nuzzles against the bite mark he’s no doubt left behind. He seems very proud of his work, purring and chuffing into your ear. “Lord,” you whisper, and he responds with another chuff.

But his cock hasn’t gone down, and you’re still stuck on his knot. Roboute stands and lifts you with ease until he’s standing and you’re pressed against his chest. He holds you with one hand while the other brushes something off your back and you hear the sound of ceramic clinking. He definitely broke some tiles under you.

Your hands struggle to link around his neck from where you’re pressed against his chest. There’s going to be a second ride and all you can do is hang on. Roboute’s knot is jammed inside of you and it won’t go down until he’s had his fill—and that might not be until the end of his heat.

The only thought you have before he starts thrusting is how long does a Primarch’s heat last?

Roboute bounces you on his knot, grinding more than thrusting. With this new position, your clit rubs on Roboute’s stomach, bringing even more stimulation to your aching pussy. Your fingers scrabble on his back as you crest your second orgasm and cry out, cumming against his torso.

When you come back to yourself, Roboute is holding you against his chest. His animalistic grunting and chuffing have turned into the deep moans of a man. They still vibrate your entire body, and his knot throbs. His heat is not over, but he’s at least conscious of more than his base urges.

His grinding resumes, his knot keeping you not only plugged, but spread open for the rest of his cock to fill you, to claim you and own you, wholly and fully.

Roboute’s second round does not last as long, though you are rewarded with a keening whine as he fires off more cum inside of your womb. His knot softens, not fully, but enough for him to pull out—and he does, letting his cum spill out of you.

He lifts you by your thighs so your sweaty cheek presses against his. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

And that’s the last thing you hear from Roboute before you pass out in his arms. -----------------------------------------------------

You drift in and out of consciousness over what seems like hours. At some point, you are aware of being cradled by two powerful arms and wrapped in soft fabric as a low voice buzzes in the broad chest you’re currently resting your head on.

“No, there is no cause for concern. I will take them to the Apothecary myself. Please consider them to be under my care. However, someone will need to clean and repair the frigidarium.”

There’s the sound of someone protesting, and a soft chuckle from the chest you’re resting on.

“No, I will not elaborate.”

The next time you wake up, you’re being laid into a soft bed. While the bed is unfamiliar, the sheets smell familiar. It’s vaguely herbal, with a hint of lemon…this is the same detergent you used to wash Lord Guilliman’s sheets this morning…

“Lord…?”

A soft pair of lips kiss your head, and you fall back into unconsciousness.

When you come back from your slumber, you’ve been tucked into Lord Guilliman’s guest bed. Instead of your regular robes, you are wrapped in a clean bathrobe that is slightly too large for you. The lights in the room have been turned off, but the door to the adjacent office has light spilling out from under it.

You try to sit up, but a powerful ache in your pelvis and shoulder force you back down into bed. “Oh, oh fuck, owww,” you whine, laying back down.

The door to the office suddenly opens up and the broad shoulders of Roboute Guilliman fill the doorway. He needs to stoop in order to enter the room, and he immediately kneels at your side, taking your hand. His hand absolutely dwarfs yours, and you’re reminded of how he cradled your head—

“Please, try to lay down. The Apothecary may have cleared you, but they also warned against strenuous physical activity for the next few days.” His eyebrows pinch together. “We are fortunate that I didn’t crack one of your ribs.”

He continues speaking, but his words fade in and out. The only thing you can focus on is a Primarch kneeling in front of you.

You feel like you’re going to pass out again. Roboute stops rambling somewhere between salt intake and calories when he notices the dazed look on your face. “Food is on its way if your blood sugar is running low. I have intervened on your behalf and acquired you the time to rest and recover, so there is no need for you to worry about returning your duties.”

“Th-thank you, my Lord.” You struggle to form sentences, and Roboute looking up at you with his pleading eyes is not helping. “Has your heat subsided?” Though not as noticeable as before, there is a pink tinge to his face.

Roboute goes silent, looking at your hand. “It has subsided, though it will return; likely in the next day or two. Please, do not worry yourself,” he rushes to add as you as you open your mouth, “I will be well. The onset was unexpected, but the first wave is always the strongest.”

He dips his head and his eyes lower. The hand holding yours slips. “I am…sorry that you had to encounter me in such a state. It must have been frightening to experience. I did not mean to hurt you, but I did.”

Your hands grab onto his and hold him tightly. “I was not afraid of you, my Lord. I knew you would never hurt me, even with your awesome strength, even in the middle of your heat’s first wave. You needed help, and I was happy to provide.”

Roboute thinks on this for a moment, though he still cannot bring himself to look at you. “You were happy? You enjoyed it?” His voice wavers, and your heart skips a beat.

“Very much so. You took good care of me.” Before you can stop yourself, you reach out to stroke Roboute’s cheek. Your train of thought to stop petting a Primarch doesn’t reach the station as Roboute leans into your hand.

“And you took care of me, as well. But I believe that your care could be…improved.” You hear the door open and the smell of food hits your nose. Your stomach grumbles; perhaps you should have listened to Roboute when he was talking about calories and salt intake. Taking care of a Primarch in heat was hungry work.

He kisses you softly. You hadn’t kissed when you were in the bath, so he seems to be making up for it with soft pecks on your lips and face. Roboute pulls back with one final kiss to your forehead.

“I will make no demands of you. But I would like it if you stayed with me for a while.” Though Roboute claims to make no demands, you catch the hopefulness in his voice.

“Of course.”

When he kisses you again, you feel him smile against your lips.

#gif #warhammer 40k #warhammer 40000 #wh40k #warhammer40k #roboute guilliman #guilliman x reader #primarch x reader #x reader #writeblr #writerblr #fanfiction #fanfiction writer #ao3 #ao3 writer #my writing #writer community #I thought we could all use some pwp on this day #take care of yourselves and each other

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reachartwork · 3 months ago

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HOW TO SMELL AN ENTIRE APPLE: A SHORT STORY

Inspired by this post by @thatnordicguy and @anphivenas

Step #0 - Input the molecular formula for apple scent into the chemosynthesizer. Check against standard atmospheric regulations.

Step #1 - Inhale from the olfactory vent.

Step #2 - Step away in dissatisfaction, shake your head, put your hands on your hips. Purse your lips a little bit. Document discrepancy against memory file.

Step #3 - Ask Arto why he thinks real apples smell different. Listen to him talk about dirt while he mops, even though hydroponics hasn't used soil in sixty years.

Step #4 - Adjust temperature to match hydroponic bay specifications. Modify humidity levels to Earth-standard apple growing conditions. Calculate optimal dispersal timing.

Step #5 - Spend three months adjusting the ratio of esters while the Father AI logs your overtime as "personal research."

Step #6 - Request access to historical apple cultivation records. Compare against current hydroponic yields that you keep insisting aren't quite right.

Step #7 - Accept illegal thermos coffee from Arto while explaining why you're trying to simulate apple stem rot. Ignore his comment about how your genetic mother used to sneak him fresh apples during maintenance shifts.

Step #8 - Visit the hydroponic bay during off-hours. Stare at perfectly engineered apple trees while holding your latest formula.

Step #9 - Get caught by Arto in the hydroponic bay. Pretend you're doing official atmospheric maintenance.

Step #10 - File your three thousandth chemical variation attempt while children from the education deck eat fresh apples during their biology lesson.

Step #11 - Listen to Arto's story about his great-grandmother's apple trees on Earth while pretending to calibrate environmental controls. Make detailed notes about soil composition that aren't relevant to hydroponics. Make a note to yourself to request synthetic dirt.

Step #12 - Run formula past the station's other atmospheric engineers. Ignore their suggestions that the hydroponic apples are chemically identical to your synthesis.

Step #13 - Request video logs from the hydroponics bay from 14 years ago. Watch your own face.

Step #14 - Realize you're no longer sure what real apples smell like. Spend a week comparing your formula against hydroponic samples (to get back to square one) while Arto watches silently.

Step #15 - Submit research proposal for expanded apple volatiles study. Receive approval with note: "Recreational research permitted within standard atmospheric duties."

Step #16 - Calculate that you've spent more time perfecting this formula than an Earth apple tree takes to mature. Continue adjustments.

Step #17 - Watch Arto retire from maintenance duties. Inherit his illegal thermos and refuse to acknowledge why you keep it.

Step #18 - Access archived footage of the education deck from your childhood. Focus on analyzing environmental conditions instead of your own face.

Step #19 - Visit Arto in the elder care deck. Bring him hydroponic apples that you both agree aren't quite right.

Step #20 - Find Arto's old maintenance logs with notes about the original hydroponic bay installation. Ignore the drawings in margins made by children who are now atmospheric engineers themselves.

Step #21 - Input your final formula into the chemosynthesizer. Tell yourself it's for the sake of documentation.

Step #22 - Inhale from the olfactory vent while holding a fresh apple from the hydroponic bay. Compare the two. Bite an apple. Chew. Swallow. Inhale.

Step #23 - Step away in satisfaction, shake your head, put your hands on your hips. Smile a little bit. File formula in public database under "standard atmospheric maintenance". Take a seat in your motorchair, satisfied. Rub your achey legs.

Step #24 - Watch new generation of children eat apples during their biology lesson.

Step #25 - Die.

#short story #creative writing #sci fi

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jctmachinery · 8 months ago

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JCT Machinery is professional in making high speed disperser, double planetary mixer and triple shaft mixer.

These three high speed dispersion machines can be used in different materials. If you are confused what equipment you need, feel free to contact us, we are pleased to give you advice.

#equipment #machine #industrial #mixer #machinery #chemical #high speed dispersing machine #high speed disperser #double shaft mixer #double planetary mixer #planetary mixer #triple shaft mixer #multifunctional dispersing power mixer #multi shaft mixer #twisted blade mixer

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serpentface · 3 months ago

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There are three hyaenids found within the Imperial Wardi region- the hisippate, the highland hyena (kyniche na chennandi), and the scrub hyena (kyniche). (None are actually related to the king hyena).

The hisippate (name is close in meaning to 'stinking one', sometimes instead called '(wild) ant-dog' ('kulichin-wannaukoma')) is very distantly related to the other two. They are small, mostly solitary animals that sleep in burrows during the day and emerge to hunt at night. They are almost exclusively insectivorous, and their diet consists primarily of termites and ants that are lapped up with a long, strong tongue. The hisippate has a wide range, with their populations being highest in grassland and savanna regions with a high density of termites.

They are named for their foul smelling anal gland secretions, which are used to mark their territory and can be sprayed short distances to repel predators. Their highly visible black and white coat (which is erected in threat display) indicates them as not worth the trouble of eating. This is partly an honest advertisement of its chemical defenses, but may function as mimicry of a substantially more threatening native badger that can spray with great accuracy at distances of up to 10 feet (while the spray of the hitsippate is untargeted and only potent within a meter of the body).

The highland and scrub hyenas are the most numerous and successful predators within the region, with their populations having exploded in the past several centuries with the decline of the Wardi lion. Both live in matriarchal clan structures with strict dominance hierarchies, maintained not by individual size and strength but by highly complex networks of coalitions. All members of a clan can reproduce, and young inherit rank positions just beneath that of their mothers. Most males eventually disperse, entering into new clans at the very bottom of their hierarchy. They exhibit no obvious sexual dimorphism, and females often can only be differentiated from males by the shape of their pseudopenis.

The scrub hyena is most widely distributed and can be found throughout most of the region in a variety of lowland habitats, faring best in savannah and open grassland with high populations of grazing ungulates. This species is distinguished by well-defined spots and stripes and a sparse mane, though their coloration varies by individual and population, ranging from reddish to pale white-brown. Their clans can number upwards of a hundred individuals in the most prey-dense territories, though most are smaller.

The highland hyena is unique to the northwest of the region. As the name suggests, they have specialized into surviving in higher altitude climes, but can also be found in the remaining pockets of surrounding forest (and once had a much larger range across the former northern forests). Their spotting is often less visible than their lowland relatives, though their base coloration is similarly variable. Their clan sizes are substantially smaller than the scrub hyena, as they inhabit regions with much lower prey densities.

Both are closely related (whether they are subspecies or separate species would be subject of debate by taxonomists) and can produce viable young. Heavily hybridized populations are common where their ranges overlap. Scrub hyenas appear to breed more readily with dispersing male highland hyenas than the reverse.

Hyenas occupy an overall minor space in most of the Wardi cultural sphere. They are noted negatively as man/corpse eaters, but are generally regarded as intelligent and powerful predators and avoid the stigma attached to man-eating scavengers. In most cases they are not ascribed much significance in comparison to the venerated lion or the massive and intimidating king-hyena, mostly being relegated to a threat to livestock and potential danger to lone travelers.

Many urban areas in the province of Godsmouth (including the outer unwalled portions of the eponymous city) have unique practices of not only tolerating but actively inviting scrub hyenas into urban spaces. These urban hyena populations have been genetically semi-isolated from their wilder counterparts for several centuries. Rather than hunting large prey, they fill similar roles to feral dogs in the urban landscape as cleaners of refuse and killers of pests, and benefit from their species being culturally regarded as powerful predators rather than lowly scavengers. They notably predate on the considerably more reviled feral dogs, and keep their populations much lower than other parts of the region. Their role is regarded as both a physically and spiritually cleansing force, with their presence neutralizing polluting elements (while not being sacred in of itself).

The Godsmouth hyenas show little fear of humans compared to their wild relatives, though their activity peaks at nighttime hours to avoid close contact. They are sometimes raised from cubs to be fully tamed (though are not truly domesticated) and used as guards or to assist in hunting (Godsmouth's designated dog hunters notably have traditions of keeping hyenas). This practice is essentially exclusive to the province of Godsmouth- hyenas rarely establish semi-urban populations in other parts of the region, and those who do have considerably greater fear of humans, usually sneaking in under the cover of night to feed on scraps and fleeing from encounters.

The status of hyenas varies in the other groups native to the region. For example:

Hyenas have a generally favorable status to the Cholemdinae, who have traditionally reckoned them as highest among predators, noting their stamina and intelligence. Body parts of hyenas are ascribed the ability to increase the wearer's stamina, and amulets carved from hyena bones are often worn while persistence hunting. Children born while hyenas are heard crying are considered to be strong and very likely to survive infancy (and will often be given names referencing the animals). The apparent androgyny of hyenas is allegorically attributed to the creation story- the first beings were dual-sexed, and split into male and female halves as part of their punishment for the theft of fire from the sun. The hyena escaped this punishment by digging into the underworld to hide and getting only its once long, luxurious tail chopped off (which was sticking out from the hole).

((TANGENT: The South Wardi have more recent common cultural ancestry to the Cholemdinae than to most of the other groups assimilated into the collective Wardi nationality. The notion of hyenas once having long, flowing tails that got chopped off in some mishap still appears in South Wardi animal folktales))

They have a largely disfavorable reputation to the Hill Tribes, and are generally regarded as gluttonous and brutish in nature. The Highlands have a naturally lower density of wild ungulates, made far lower by most grazing pasture being occupied by livestock. This causes hyenas (and other large predators) to more frequently predate on domestic animals, and thus places them directly in conflict with herders (and also makes them common rabies vectors). They are readily culled when found in proximity to villages. Hyena pelts are generally considered worthless, and culled hyenas will often be fed whole to livestock guardian dogs and their pups in hopes of teaching them to be fearless towards the predators. Were-hyenas appear in folklore- among the southwestern Hill Tribes they are most commonly the accursed spirits of cannibals, while in the northeast they are malicious witches who learned secret arts of transformation and take on these forms to wreak havoc upon their enemies.

#The scrub and highland hyenas are pretty much 1:1 with spotted hyenas in behavior. Same thing I just gave hyenas #a wider range and diversity in this setting (comparable to ancient hyena ranges that strecthed across eurasia) because I like them #Hisippate are very similar to aardwolves but smaller and more specialized into using their scent glands as a defense mechanism #creatures #imperial wardin #cholemdinae #hill tribes

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