#Agriculture Metal Buildings

[coastalsteelstructures]

Agriculture Metal Buildings | Steel Farm Buildings | Metal Ag Buildings - Coastal Steel Structures

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[arc-hus]

HUYS Centre, Eeklo, Belgium - ZOOM Architecten

[ahedderick]

Recycle

Not to go into too much background detail, quite a few of you already know it, but my family had been cleaning up the Situation at my late father's farm for years, even before he passed away. Our beloved [hmph] county has limited recycling options. In fact, for "chemical waste" there is only ONE DAY every TWO YEARS that you can drop off things you want to get rid of responsibly. Bearing in mind that, in a rural area, just taking a jug of ??whatever?? and dumping it somewhere is 1) wrong but 2) absolutely guaranteed to go unnoticed and unpunished.

We don't want to do that! We want it properly and safely recycled. But what we have, after investigating all eleven buildings on the farm where junk was stashed, is an enormous quantity of jugs, containers, buckets, and decomposing paper bags of. stuff. Old agricultural stuff, mainly, but also machinist/metal-working stuff. Most of it unlabeled, or with labels too old and worn to be read. The large glass jug of concentrated sulfuric acid was an anomaly in that it was clearly labeled in in a proper container (glass wine jug, but hey, glass is glass)

We had quite a lot of this already gathered up in October of 2019 (ha! The good old days! so quaint!). However, that October we were also planning and preparing to be a temporary wedding venue; my brother and SIL were getting married the next weekend and that had to be a priority over recycling.

October 2021 rolled around, but my husband and I were both a little distracted and, honestly, we just forgot about it. There's almost NO advertisement of this event, by the way. We were aggravated, but there was nothing to do but stockpile all that damned chemical waste for another two years.

Yesterday my husband very c-a-r-e-f-u-l-l-y loaded the bed of his pickup truck with all this . . . mess. Buckets, bottles, plastic, glass, cardboard, bags. It FILLED the 8-foot bed of the pickup. And this morning, early, he very c-a-r-e-f-u-l-l-y drove off to the county fairgrounds, to turn it all in. It will be quite a large relief to all of us to have this done with.

Damn, Dad. How DID you make SUCH a mess of this farm. How?!!!

[These are old pix from January 2021]

[vegetarianburrito]

Bedroom - Loft-Style Bedroom: large industrial loft-style bedroom idea with gray and concrete floors and white walls.

[polyamorouspunk]

“Why Don’t You Just Move?”

A look at rural queerness and the hardcore scene.

With the recent and still on-going tragedy left in the wake of Hurricane Helene, a lot of light is being shed on southern states that make up Appalachia.

There’s a lot of misconceptions about Appalachia and the southern United States as a whole. There are a lot of good users on this website that have put a lot of effort into combating these harmful stereotypes and clearing up misconceptions.

But there’s more than just Appalachia in the south. There’s a lot of middle ground. Places that aren’t as rural as Appalachia, but places that aren’t as populated as cities like Raleigh, Richmond, Memphis, etc.

Places where people gather surrounded by other agricultural hubs.

There are queer people everywhere. In every culture, every religion, every country, in all of history, we have existed. We cannot and we will not be erased.

A common narrative that’s floated around for many years is “if red states are passing laws that are constructive to the LGBT+ community, then why don’t those people just move?”

So why don’t we just move?

I’m sure you can find a lot of well-written posts on here explaining many reasons why queer people not just in the southern states, but all over the world don’t “just move”, and one reason I’ve seen echoed over and over again is that “we have thriving communities here too”. We exist too.

How does one “be punk��?

It’s a question my mutuals and I get a lot, and a lot of us are tired of hearing it.

What does it mean to be punk?

Is it about the music? The clothes? The politics? Can you be punk if? Is it punk if you? Who? What? Where? When?

One common beginner tip to “being punk” is to find and join the local scene. This can lead to a lot of other questions, though. What is a scene? Where does one find the scene? How does one participate in the scene? Is there a minimum requirement?

Rest assured, literally no one is asking this offline.

A hardcore scene is so much more than just hardcore. A scene is a group of people where music is a common thread that builds the basis of other connections. A hardcore scene isn’t necessarily even hardcore.

“You have to listen to punk music to be punk”. Sure. But here’s the thing. In your local hardcore scene you will find: metal musicians, rappers, and more. You will attend shows with blues music, orchestras, and more.

Sometimes it’s not even music at all! Sometimes there is drag! Sometimes there are movie nights! Sometimes there are group outings!

It’s almost like… it’s just a social construct.

What is the local scene? The local scene is loud music. It’s smoking and drinking. It’s stopping by the corner store and the smoke and vape. It’s carpooling. It’s movie nights. It’s text chains. It’s group chats. It’s he-said-she-said. It’s they said. It’s AMAB enbies. It’s people who don’t care about “passing”. It’s DIY HRT. It’s she was a lesbian until she met him. It’s situationships. It’s hooking up and coming down. It’s bouncing from place to place to meet up with each other. It’s showing up someplace and seeing who’s there and waiting around to see who’s coming. It’s late nights spent partying on the weekends and back to school and work come the weekdays. It’s knowing someone by looks or name even if you haven’t put the two together yet. It’s trading socials. It’s Instagram stories and comments. It’s “DM for Address”. It’s “are you going tonight?” It’s “do you need a ride?” It’s “who else is going?”. It’s going somewhere and asking who’s coming. It’s sitting around on broken chairs and lawn furniture passing around a blunt, sharing a 24 pack of beer that 4 of you ran out to get with money you all pooled together, it’s “should we order pizza?” It’s “I brought donuts”. It’s hanging out in each other’s houses and rooms. It’s respecting the businesses that offer to house you. It’s generational friendships. It’s listening to your friends as they joke about their heritage and talk about their cultures. It’s the dog you pet when you’re sitting on the curb in ripped fishnets taking drunk selfies with your friends. It’s the man playing you the harmonica as you sit outside the THC drink bar on a Saturday night. It’s sitting out in the yard listening to someone play an acoustic set where they talk about the war and poverty and politics while you slowly get high surrounded by your friends. It’s sitting on a dock in the middle of the night fishing listening to emo music huddled together with your friends. It’s autistic people showing each other the bugs they’ve found in the dirt. It’s talking about your disabilities together. It’s shoving your friends in the pit and then holding their hands. It’s seeing the cos guys in their 40s and 50s who tend the bar and work the register calling you by whatever name and pronouns you give them. It’s all of this and so much more, and it cannot be conceptualized by one single fashion style, one single music style, one single belief system. It’s not someone calling you out because you went to Chick-Fil-A and don’t you know that’s bad, it’s not someone telling you that you’re a poser because you like Chappell Roan too or your clothes were bought at Forever 21 not thrifted and DIYed.

Everyone likes to talk about folk punk and other genres that bands like Dayz and Daze have popularized- or according to some, commodified and commercialized- but if you’re going to talk about music like folk punk, you’re going to have to respect the areas that it originated in.

Everyone want’s to talk about “local punk bands” when half the bands you’re seeing don’t even fall under the genre of punk.

Your local scene isn’t always going to be skate parks and thrash music.

Sometimes it’s the mom cooking you and all your queer friends dinner on a Friday night in her kitchen with crosses and a picture frame of her family with the quote “live, laugh, love”.

Sometimes it’s sitting around and listening to men who are old enough to be your grandfather with Vietnam Veteran hats play the blues while a pig roasts in a backyard BBQ, even though you’re in your 20s and you have blue hair and pronouns.

It’s sitting around and listening to your elders talk about how the scene used to be “back in the day”. Talk about the shows they’ve been to, the bands they’ve seen in their prime.

It’s asking what you do for work, where do you live, what brought you down here, what’s your college major?

It’s people. It’s people connecting to people. Regardless of the color of their skin. Regardless of gender or sexuality. It’s people of all ages coming together to listen to music with the idea that what you all have in common is living here and now, hating politicians, and thinking that someone should do something about the shitty state the world is in. It’s not a conglomerate. It’s individuality, and there’s no real wrong way of doing it unless you’re a Trump Supporter or a Nazi, and even then, they still have their own factions of the punk scene that are going to overlap with yours on occasion. The best you can do then is stand up for what you believe in and stay safe.

There are scenes just like mine all over this country. In southern states, in rural areas, in places that other, mainly white queers have “written off”.

So why don’t we just move?

Because this is our scene, and it’s what we make it, and in the heart of the south in the Bible Belt, we’re making it a queer-inclusive space despite what’s happening around us.

[sayruq]

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.

[homeofhousechickens]

You may not want to hear this, but none of these cows in the above pictures are being neglected or abused. That last cropped picture is actually from a bigger farm as well during the storms happening during the Loon fallout event.

Mud is a completely normal part of raising livestock, especially in places where it gets wet and rainy during different parts of the year. Even the driest climates will experience a build-up of manure and mud around feeding and watering locations since livestock likes to hang out there for obvious reasons.

The idyllic pictures you see of cows in green pastures likely have a rotational grazing setup or large amounts of land, which isn't possible or feasible for most small farmers. Pastures in this state are a common side effect of having large livestock, but even chickens, goats, and dogs can turn a pasture into dirt if the pasture can't get rest. It doesn't mean the animals are getting neglected or abused, and anyone who says otherwise is likely coming from a place of privilege or ignorance.

The suicide rate for agricultural workers is five times higher than the general population. Farmers experience more debt, indignity, and isolation compared to the general population and what sucks is when I talk about this I get replies that are like "just choose a different profession" when these people are how your getting fed. Food does not magically manifest in the grocery store it comes from farmers, and farmer depression is a global crisis.

I'm sure there are some people who are uncomfortable with those photos but I want you to sit in that discomfort and realize that when you buy beef from the store it's not unlikely that that cow stood on a muddy floor and that cows have been standing in muddy pastures for thousands of years.

This isn't a post bashing rotational grazing and other forms of pasture management. I just think it's ignorant to assume these animals are being neglected because their pasture is muddy and that their owners arent always looking for ways to change that. This stuff does make it harder for people to share their troubles or profession. The cows above likely have less hoof issues then cows only on sand, metal grates, or concrete.

Memes like the above exist for a reason.

[ladamedusoif]

Tempered in the Fire - Part One

See the Series Masterlist for complete content warnings, historical event information, and series notes.

Cross-posted to AO3.

Pairing: Blacksmith!Din Djarin x F! Reader

Summary: Ireland, almost a decade after the rebellion of 1798. You are an unusual woman: married, but alone; a widow, with no certainty her husband is dead. When your local blacksmith is badly injured in an accident and unable to work, you have no choice but to travel to the next forge, run by a man of few words whose uncertain origins and dark complexion make him stand out among the locals. You are immediately intrigued by this mysterious, taciturn figure - and the striking little boy he’s taken as his apprentice.

Word Count: 3.3k

Rating: Mature (chapter); Explicit 18+ (series)

Content (chapter specific): Blacksmith!Din AU; historical setting; references to violence; references to spousal abandonment; strong language; almost certainly inaccurate depictions of blacksmithing; slightly wonky history; likely slightly wonky renderings of Irish language (technically my third language!).

A/N: Translations for any dialogue in Irish are provided at the end of the chapter. The Irish language was one of the casualties of the colonisation of the island, as it became associated with a lack of education (though the tide turned somewhat in the late nineteenth/early twentieth centuries) and has never recovered. (Go and listen to ‘Butchered Tongue’ on Hozier’s latest album for a musical reflection on this, it even includes references to 1798)

Tagging interested parties and my usual taglist people - sign up via my taglist if you want to be added (or let me know if you’d rather not be tagged!): @gracie7209, @yourcoolauntie, @tessa-quayle, @lunapascal, @julesonrecord, @trulybetty, @fuckyeahdindjarin, @katareyoudrilling, @perennialdoll247, @joeldjarin, @sunnywithachanceofjavi, @iamskyereads, @tieronecrush, @javierisms, @pedrostories, @readingiskeepingmegoing, @rhoorl, @red-red-rogue, @survivingandenduring, @khindahra, @love-the-abyss, @fictionismyreality, @imaswellkid

This is a quiet place, a landscape rendered in greens, greys, and whites, the simple rural dwellings peppering the good agricultural land that stretches across the county.

Appearances can be deceiving, though. What seems to the outsider as a long-established peace is the result of a more recent and more violent pacification. The fields where young men lost their lives in the pursuit of a dream of freedom give nothing away today, almost a decade after the rebellion was brutally crushed. They didn’t stand a chance against the arrayed ranks of muskets, being armed only with tall, sharp pikes, hammered for them on the anvils of sympathetic blacksmiths around the country.

The people who live and work here bear the scars - some literal, some psychological, but all livid, fresh, and painful.

In this idyll where trauma and anger simmers beneath the surface, his forge is a long, low, whitewashed stone building roofed in thatch. It’s a little outside the nearest village, sitting just off the main road on the way to the next big town. Like most of those who ply this trade, the blacksmith here lives alongside his place of work: one half of the building is the forge, the other is the neat, simple home he shares with the little boy he’s taken as his apprentice.

He’s an essential figure: he makes all manner of metal goods and repairs them, too, in a world where nothing is disposable. He shoes horses, too, and his gentle care for the elegant beasts is well-known around the county.

Still, he’s not the most obvious candidate for a ‘pillar of the community’. Unlike other smiths in the area he’s not known for holding court while he works, regaling his customers with yarns and stories. He keeps himself to himself, mostly, though he comes into the village with the boy to buy supplies, collect items for repair, and return what he’s mended to their owners.

He’s been at his anvil for twenty years, or thereabouts. As is the way of a small community, all manner of stories circulate about where he came from and why there was no obvious family of origin. Most assume he comes from travelling people, who are known for their skill with metalworking.

Such is his reputation for consistently good work, fairness, and decency, though, that no one would ever dream of pushing him to say more about himself. This man of few words, who wears his apron like his armour and sometimes wraps a band of grey cloth around his mouth and nose when he works, to protect his lungs from the soot and smoke, is both insider and outsider in a place where such binaries are normally strictly enforced.

“You’ll be living high on the hog soon enough, then, Din? What with all the work that’s coming your way now.”

He looks up from the horseshoe he’s hammering into shape, dark eyes staring at the silhouette of the local priest, framed by the light of the forge’s small front window. Father Carthy has come to have his horse shod - and, it seems, to discuss the blacksmith’s fortunes.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

The priest steps closer to the anvil, a look of surprise on his face when he realises the blacksmith hasn’t heard. “Bad accident over in the forge at Donapatrick. He’ll be alright, but their smith is out for the next few months, at least. He’s lucky to be alive.”

Din dips the shoe into a tub of cold water, sending a hiss and a plume of steam into the air.

“So they’re coming to me?”

“Most of them. Your reputation precedes you.”

He wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “Not sure I can take on all that extra work.”

Father Carthy scoffs. “Don’t turn it down, Din. Lean times are always waiting round the corner, just when you least expect them.” He peers around the stone forge at the centre of the room, trying to spot the little figure who’s been hiding in the shadows.

“Sure you have an apprentice to help you, don’t you?”

The little boy stares silently, intently with his huge, dark eyes at the man clad in clerical black.

“Well, he’s inherited your gift of the gab, Din, anyway. Look, you’ll be glad of the few extra shillings. I know it’s not always easy making ends meet, between looking after yourself and the lad.”

Din pulls himself up to his full height, cutting an imposing, broad figure in his soot-marked shirt, leather apron, simple brown woollen breeches, and boots.

“We manage. Gró?” The boy appears at the blacksmith’s side. “Tabhair dom na tairní, maith an bhuachaill.”

He swiftly locates a box of horseshoe nails, each made by hand at Din’s anvil. The priest raises an eyebrow.

“He’ll need English, Din, or he’ll get nowhere. I’d be glad to teach him if-“

Din cuts him off with a pointed sigh. “He understands every word. But this is how we talk to each other.”

Behind him, the sandy-haired boy narrows his eyes and scowls at Father Carthy.

You know it’s not usual for a woman of your age and station to ride alone, but then you’re not usual for a woman of your age and station. And your washtub is leaking, and your horse needs to be shod. Needs must.

You saddle up the horse, strapping the tub on one side, and wrap yourself up in your shawl, securing it at the waist with a well-worn leather belt. You mount the little brown horse and turn her in the direction of Donapatrick and the local forge.

“How did you not hear?” Seán, the blacksmith’s apprentice, stares up at you in astonishment. “Everyone heard!”

You feel like kicking him in the ribs for talking to you like that. He’s no more than thirteen, and yet here he is talking to a woman who could comfortably be his mother (and then some) like she came down in the last shower.

“I didn’t hear because I wasn’t told, and because I have better things to be doing than gossiping around the village.”

He rolls his eyes. “Well, regardless. You’ll have to go over to the other forge - the fella over the bridge, about twenty minutes away. You know it?”

You do know it, though you’ve never had reason to go inside. Why would you, when Peter’s forge is so much closer? You don’t even know the other blacksmith’s name, and in this part of the world that’s a strange situation indeed.

“Right, so.” You gently dig your heels into the horse’s sides, she starts to walk, and you make your way to the road that leads down to the river, the stone bridge, and, eventually, the whitewashed forge beyond.

Just as Father Carthy had predicted, Din was snowed under with extra work since Peter’s accident a week or so before. He is exceptionally well-organised by nature, managing his own accounts and records with great attention to detail, and he has extended the system to help him cope with the new demand. With Gró’s help, he organises the items for repair into separate sections, labelled according to whether they belong to existing or temporary customers. He sets up a new ledger to take account of custom orders from people who normally go to the other smith, and takes note of new faces who come to have their horse shod.

Din is cross-checking his records at the table in the main room of his home when he hears the sound of hooves approaching. He asks Gró to peek out, to see if it’s a familiar face or another new customer.

The boy climbs up on the deep windowsill to look out through one of the small cottage windows.

“Is bean ar chapall í - ’s stráinséir í.”

Din stands up and goes to the door, reaching for his apron as he does so.

He cuts an unusual figure, this blacksmith. There aren’t many people around here who look like him. You notice the penetrating dark eyes first, taking you in as you slow and pull up the horse. His dark hair is wavy, curling in places, and you are surprised to see that he’s bearded - if you can call the patchy scruff around his mouth and jaw a beard.

He’s younger than you’d expected, maybe forty, and well-built - broad shoulders, strong, muscular forearms marked with scars from his work, his shirt loose and open to expose a stretch of his tanned chest. He ties on a leather apron as you dismount, and walks out to greet you.

“Good day. I was hoping you could help with a repair? And my horse needs to be shod, too. I’m sorry, I usually go to Peter up in Donap -“

He cuts you off with a nod. “I know. Yes. That’s fine. The tub, is that the repair?”

You raise your eyebrows at how direct he is. Curt, almost. Rude, some would say.

“It is. It’s leaking at the side, here.” You undo the strap and he takes the washtub down. It looks strangely tiny against his substantial form.

He turns and gesticulates with his head in the direction of the open door. From the dark interior, a striking boy emerges, clutching a piece of paper, some string, and a stubby pencil.

The blacksmith gives him instructions and he diligently scrawls a number on the paper, before attaching it to the tub with the string and carrying it into the forge.

“Do you only speak in Irish to him?”

The smith has turned his attention to your horse, examining each of her hooves in turn. He looks at you quizzically.

“It’s what he prefers. What we prefer. He understands English perfectly.”

“Unusual that he’s fair and you’re dark. Is his mother fair? I suppose she must be.”

He sighs.

“I don’t know.”

You can’t stop yourself from letting out a little gasp. He looks up at you, dark eyes frustrated at your constant chatter. But he knows this needs explanation.

“He’s my apprentice. He’s a foundling. I’ve taken him as my own.”

You feel your face heat, embarrassed. “I’m sorry.”

He strokes the horse’s muzzle, not looking directly at you. “You didn’t know. I can shoe the horse now, though you’ll need to wait. The tub will take a day or two.”

You nod in agreement.

“What’s her name?”

His voice is softer. He’s still looking at your little horse, who’s loving the attention from this new person.

“Réaltín.” She has a perfect little splash of white between her eyes, in the shape of a little star. You couldn’t have named her anything else.

He repeats the animal’s name, and you see the tiniest hint of a smile cross his lips before his serious expression returns.

It turns cold, and you wait it out on a stool just inside the door of the forge, glad of the warmth.

You watch as the blacksmith heats up and works the metal shoes at his anvil, so they’ll fit Réaltín’s smaller hooves perfectly. The light from the fire illuminates his features as he works, highlighting the beads of sweat on his brow and picking out the various shades of brown in his eyes. He has pulled a band of grey cloth over his nose and mouth, which draws your attention all the more to his dark gaze.

The little boy stares at you while the man works, occasionally helping him by fetching an implement or helping work the bellows. You give him a little wave and a smile, hoping he’ll respond. He doesn’t come any closer, but you see him grin for a moment before he disappears behind the broad figure of his master - well, his adoptive father, if what the blacksmith said is correct.

Peter’s forge is always full of chat and song and gossip, a kind of social hub as much as a vital service. In contrast, the only music here is the singing of the anvil as the silent, stoic smith works, interspersed with the whoosh of the bellows and the hiss of the cooling tub. He doesn’t look at you, eyes always trained on the task at hand or at his little apprentice. He doesn’t speak, except to the little boy.

After a few exchanges, you realise something. “Is he called Gró?”

The smith keeps working. “That is what I call him, yes.”

“Funny to call a little thing like that after a poker.”

He turns his attention to the fire for a moment before he answers you. “He kept trying to stoke the fire on his own when I first took him in. I said the word so much it became his name. He likes it.”

Silence. Singing metal. Hissing steam.

He makes sure Gró watches him at every step as he removes the old horseshoes, cleans Réaltín’s hooves, files them carefully, and attaches the new shoes. Throughout, he quietly explains to the boy what he’s doing, and why.

Your stomach is rumbling, and you remember the supplies you brought with you (and had forgotten about).

When they’ve finished the last hoof, you speak up. “I - I brought a cake of fresh bread with me, in case it took longer. And I have butter, too, and a little crab apple jam. I’d be glad to share it with the little lad.”

Gró’s enormous eyes widen with excitement and he grins. (He really does understand English perfectly, you think.)

“We have enough food for ourselves, thank you.”

The boy’s face falls.

“I just meant as a little treat. A thank you, for taking the job when you’ve so much to be doing.”

He sighs, again. “Well… ach. Yes. Come in.”

Their home is neat and simply furnished, and he evidently knows how to look after a household as well as a business. You sit at the wooden table in the main room, which serves as kitchen, living area, and office for the blacksmith’s records. Out of the corner of your eye you spy a ladder going up to the attic, which you presume must be used as a sleeping space. A door leads off the main part of the house to what looks to be a smaller room.

Gró is already on his third piece of bread, butter, and apple jam, a shiny orange smear on the tip of his little nose.

“I hope this tastes okay. It’s always so hard to know when you churn butter, isn’t it?” You sip some of the cool water he’d poured into an earthenware mug for you.

“I don’t know. I’ve never churned butter.”

His reply is so deadpan that you wonder for a moment if he’s joking. You decide he isn’t.

“It’s not that hard,” you continue. “And I have the cow and the milk so why not?” You chew on a bit of bread, appraising your handiwork. “Actually, not bad at all, this time.”

He grunts in agreement. “You have a farm?”

“A very small smallholding. Tenant to the lord, like most of us.”

“Your husband works the land, then.”

You stare at the crust of bread in front of you, and clear your throat.

“He doesn’t. He’s…not here. He’s gone.”

The blacksmith’s eyes soften. “I’m very sorry for your troubles. Sickness, or was it in the fighting -”

You look at him directly. “That bastard wouldn’t fight for anything, not even his wife. He’s not dead. Or at least, I don’t think he’s dead. But I wish he was, because then I’d really be free.”

For a moment it looks like the stoic blacksmith is going to choke. He reaches for his own mug and drinks deeply.

“Well, now, I -“

“He upped and went. A few years back. God knows where he is now. He’s not around here, anyway. I’d say he’s skipped to Belfast or London.” You finish your bread. “Lucky the smallholding had come through my father, so I wasn’t out on the road.”

He’s flushed, and evidently a little uncomfortable. Well, he started it, you think.

“How do you survive - do you have children, too?”

You shake your head. “No, a blessing not to have them. And I do what I did before I married - I sew. Mostly alterations and refashioning and repairing, now, but at least I have a trade.”

The smith nods to himself. “A useful one.”

“Not as useful as yours.”

He gives you a tiny, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it smile.

You stand up and start to clear the dishes. “Keep the rest of the bread and the butter and jam. I’ll collect the jars when I come back for the tub.”

He starts as if to speak, standing up from his chair, and seems nervous.

“Could I - we - ask you to do something for us?”

“It depends, but…”

“Clothes. Gró’s clothes are in need of mending. Badly. Would you be able to help?”

You smile and nod. “I’d be delighted to. Lord, has the poor lad been going without mending for this long?”

The smith opens a wooden chest and takes out a small bundle of tiny items of clothing. “Not quite. Peigí normally does it, but she’s been so busy with the work in her yard lately that I didn’t want to ask.”

Peigí is something of a legend in the area, a fiery woman who stubbornly insisted on taking over her father’s trade in repairing carts and wagons - and succeeded. You smile wryly to yourself at the vision of her wielding a needle and thread.

He hands you the clothes, wrapped in a faded piece of red and white cloth. “Oh, hold on.” He reaches back into the chest and retrieves a dark grey knitted sweater that has seen better days. “I don’t know if you darn, too, but he’ll need this in the colder weather, and -“

You take the sweater, handling it with care, and clutch the little bundle to your chest. “It’s no bother at all.”

He smiles, genuinely smiles, at you for the first time. You marvel at how such a stern, hardy man can reveal himself to be quite so soft - eyes crinkling, expression warm and friendly, teeth white in that tanned face streaked with grime from the forge.

“Thank you…?” He pauses, waiting for you to introduce yourself. You tell him your name.

“And you’re…”

“Din.”

“Din. And Gró.” The little boy swivels in his seat at the sound of his name, and sends the sneaky spoonful of apple jam that he’s been enjoying flying to the flagstone floor.

Din accompanies you as you strap the bundle of clothes to the saddle, and mount Réaltín for the journey home.

“I’ll be back in two days for the tub. I’ll bring his things then.”

Din gives the horse an affectionate pat, and nods as you turn and head back up the narrow road.

Gró has come to the door of the house.

“’s bean deas í, a dhaid.”

Translations:

Tabhair dom na tairní, maith an bhuachaill.

Give me the nails, there’s a good boy.

Is bean ar chapall í - ’s stráinséir í

It’s a woman on a horse, she’s a stranger.

’s bean deas í, a dhaid

She’s a nice lady, daddy. (Can also mean ‘pretty lady’).

And yes, ‘gró’ in Irish can mean crow-bar - or, in older dialect, a poker.

[liliaceaae]

Rhea’s home island; Brinerift

+closeups

Located somewhere around original Marineford, Brinerift is home to backup Navy dispatch troops. The island is divided into an inland town, and a seaside town, which wraps all the way around the coast.

Brinerift used to be a unified Island, however, it was hit by a tsunami and it wiped out everything except the inland town. Brinerift’s surrounding waters are extremely toxic and volatile, making the island highly susceptible to tsunami occurrences. The government seized this opportunity to invade and occupy the shore to establish a Navy base under the declaration that they’d guard the citizens from any more natural disasters.

The sea in the area is toxic due to the extreme salt concentration. The salinity makes travel with a ship without motors or paddles, like Navy warships, incredibly difficult to navigate the waters around Brinerift. The sea will quickly eat away at the quality of wood and metal and makes it nearly impossible to sail out to the next nearest Island.

Seaside residents have access to outside trade, Navy lead education, and free access to inland travel.

In order to qualify as a seaside resident, at least one person in the family must be enrolled in the Navy. If that person dies in action, the rest of the family’s rights to settle at the shore are retracted. Dissented soldier’s rights are stripped, and only their offspring may regain their Navy status. Many of the Brinerift citizens have multiple children for this reason, to have multiple sources of “security.” The benefits of the seaside makes the inland life seem unworthy in comparison.

Inland residents are heavily restricted and must sustain themselves on local agriculture, with no access to foreign resources.

Only if granted limited-time clearance may inland citizens enter the Seaside town. Students from inland are allowed and encouraged to go to school in the seaside town; A subtle way to brainwash the children to convince them and their families to join the Navy and relocate. Many inland residents consist of elderly people who still care deeply and tend to their natural fauna. The island’s oldest belief is to cherish and respect their nature.

The Brinerift people regard the sea as a vengeful god; Believing that if you aren’t obedient, it will send tsunamis as punishment. Over time, the people came to regard their local ecosystem with intense respect and love.

Tension points

Where the rivers come too close to the ocean shore, the BR residents worry that one more tsunami encounter will eliminate their only source of fresh water

Where the marines settle at the edge of the North forest, they argue that they need more space to establish buildings in order to complete the breakwall on this side of the island

[coastalsteelstructures]

Filtering Non-serious Prospects: Addressing Quote Request Overload in Steel Construction

Businesses that manufacture or construct steel buildings daily are fielding inquiries about pricing, customization, and construction timeframes. Steel buildings have numerous uses, whether for an indoor horse riding arena or covered riding arena, an industrial manufacturing warehouse, farming, agricultural buildings, or even aircraft hangars.

Know More: https://coastalsteelstructures.com/filtering-non-serious-prospects-addressing-quote-request-overload-in-steel-construction/

[probablyasocialecologist]

The 2024 Global Resource Outlook, developed by the International Resource Panel with authors from around the globe and launched during the sixth session of the UN Environment Assembly, calls for sweeping policy changes to bring humanity to live within its means and reduce this projected growth in resource use by one third while growing the economy, improving well-being, and minimizing environmental impacts. The report finds that growth in resource use since 1970 from 30 to 106 billion tons—or from 23 to 39 kilograms of materials used on average per person per day—has dramatic environmental impacts. Overall, resource extraction and processing account for over 60% of planet-warming emissions and for 40% of health-related impacts of air pollution. The extraction and processing of biomass (e.g., agricultural crops and forestry) accounts for 90% of land-related biodiversity loss and water stress, as well as one-third of greenhouse gas emissions. Similarly, extraction and processing of fossil fuels, metals and non-metallic minerals (e.g., sand, gravel, clay) together account for 35% of global emissions.

[...]

At the heart of global resource use are fundamental inequalities: low-income countries consume six times less materials and generate 10 times less climate impacts than those living in high-income countries. Upper-middle-income countries have more than doubled resource use in the past 50 years due to their own growth in infrastructure and the relocation of resource-intensive processes from high-income countries. At the same time, per capita resource use and related environmental impacts in low-income countries has remained relatively low and almost unchanged since 1995.

[witchascending]

It was the same thing with Zagreus and Hades, but I like how in Hades II the designs of Melinoe and Chronos are so similar. The shape of their outfits (well, the bottom half - belt and skirt, cause Chronos is too old for a shirt) is more of less the same, they both have some sort of metal collar and armguards (and hey silver/gold dichtomy).

But the thing I've noticed first is that Chronos wields essentially an older version of Melinoe's cover weapon. While she has a dagger (not important at the moment) and a sickle, his weapon is a scythe, and they are both agricultural tools first. Compare to Zagreus, whose weapons were all, well, weapons.*

Real curious if Supergiant will go the way of building an actual relationship between Chronos and Melinoe, could see it as well you trapped my family but you can't be killed so might as well see what your deal is. (if the heat does not kill me, I might even write a fic out of it)

*there is something to be said that when the protagonist is a man, he wields actual weapons, but female protagonist gets magical staves, skulls (that one is cool), torches (???) and more "feminine" weapons (daggers). The only thing I will call a weapon is her axe. She is supposed to be a witch, I guess? But still, give her a sword, she was training to be a living weapon since infancy.

[thatskynews]

OK SO. Lore

Krills reside in Wasteland, the place currently experiencing constant cloud cover.

krill were not there before the cloud cover was there.

Krills also reside near the top of Eden Peak.

in-between wasteland and eden lies vault...

so why havent krills spread to vault?

In the crescent oasis, krills are seen in the final quest. when a storm is raging.

ok so. krill have bad eyesight. they kill creatures of light.

but when the krill try to attack something but realize it has the Krill Juice on it (krill repellent) they fly away. Crabs just so happen to produce Krill Juice. on their bodies.

perhaps crabs (their children) get mistaken for light creatures and get attacked, but the krill's antennae detect the pheromones (krill juice) and divert before any harm can be done.

Crabs have shells, their real bodies are exposed in the bottom thats why they pull their legs in when they get attacked but not flipped and also why they hate being flipped

krills have metal exoskeletons and their real bodies are inside and thats why krill are so clink clonk

So krill are adult crabs. but why dont krill exist in the kingdom before wasteland and eden were engulfed in storm?

ITS SIMPLE

crabs can only fully mature DURING A STORM OF THAT SIZE

THE STORM HAS DIED DOWN THATS WHY ALL THE CRABS IN WASTELAND ARENT KRILLS

crabs: forest, valley, wasteland, vault, eden

krill: wasteland, eden

the crabs are everywhere but the krill are only where there was once/ is a great storm

,... if i was a spirit in sky i would be the Crazy Krillologist

putting my answer under read more as it's long -ymir

Crabs are actually have signs of being native to the realms (see: the passive crabs from Sanctuary, that iirc don't shed darkness), and seem to actively be mostly corrupted by darkness (the crabs from the shard events having active darkness on them, leading them to become hyper aggressive and those passive crabs do not attack players).

Crabs are creatures of the dark, but it is likely from the fact they're suppose to show that darkness has always been in the realms and that before what wiped out the spirits it was very peaceful (mostly). Places like Hidden Forest were darkness mining sites, and it likely made many sickly and polluted the areas leading to the rain being worse. The bells used to call the rain away and to call for the rain likely was used to try and control the dangers of this build up, controlling when spirits would have to take cover most likely.

The description of Prairie's Elder pin also pushes at it being an agricultural center for the Realms, as hinted by its landscape as well. It is VERY likely the bells used also pushed away the pollutants from hitting Prairie as heavily (but it still hit the lower regions, seeing Sanctuary's large darkness plants and pollutants.)

Darkness affects Valley less due how high it is, but it still has gotten hit due to how close it is to the center of the factories. Golden Wastelands was where a good majority of the factories were (and mostly off to the side from the main path, but WERE linked and using pipes to move around darkness), and due to this, it had become highly polluted over time leading to the dangers and likely pushing for new solutions to lead away the creatures that were becoming a problem, as well as internal fights. Wastes HEAVILY hints to it being highly dangerous but made mostly to try and protect Vault from harm and protections against enemies (in some old concept art, there's some old details of other things that was planned originally to be some dangers, but most aren't much a concern to consider due to being scrapped). There's more things about vault that makes me curious, mostly the use of HOW the archival systems work likely using a mixture of darkness that reacts to light to produce energy (which we do see in places like the abyss areas iirc and no longer simply concept art). the use of darkness here likely also caused there to have some spills or leeching to allow darkness to affect any creatures inside as well. The Ghost light creatures inside are their own curiosity to me, but not of concern here too either.

but Eden? oh boy.

Eden obviously has architecture of a very important site to the culture of the spirits at least, and it's also very likely used to be a factory of it's own or at least some sort of possible experimental grounds. (there are hints of other things, but ya know, silly lil things :)!) Eventually the eye is shown to have occurred, and is possibly shown to have started to chip off as well.

why did I write down a good summary of the lore linking towards darkness in general?(skipping over some other seasonal stuff mostly) I think the krills can be from multiple things in origins in reality.

Krills are beings that hunt light, and can still be tricked from covering yourself in darkness. The potions of krill repellent likely use darkness to make it look like it would for their vision of crabs, darkness falling off of them. it's likely made to be far more safe for skykids though.

Krills- or dark dragons, could simply be mantas corrupted, whales as well, etc. They could easily be many species put into one. They're dark creatures caused by the pollution of darkness, typically pushed on by darkness taking over an entire area, suggesting that they're an entity of darkness as a whole. They react the same way dark crystals do as well, turning red and hurting light creatures. They're simply seemingly following the dark crystals and how they react. Blue dark crystals are ones that show that they are not longer active or have reached a neutral state (likely the state they were originally mined at and then refined away from), and the skykid statues you can not help on the path at the end of Eden before the Eye's storm have these blue crystals growing on them that no longer react to skykids and you can't revive these two skykids leading to the chance of them being from the mass explosion of energy of the Eye's start.

Storm clouds are a sign of darkness in Sky, its very likely rain from before was less dangerous. Crabs being thrown FROM the shards could be crabs grown from the darkness or originally in that sacred area that ate up the remaining light left over from light creatures going to be reborn, which could be a point of them simply originally being scavengers of sorts like some real crabs.

Krill horns likely do have their own use most likely than possibly being antennae, I believe personally them being mostly for the advantage of being able to still attack their prey: making it difficult for prey to escape from flying over the head due to the krill's head without the horns being in the way. Krills metallic sounds could also be possibly connected to the darkness within them since darkness is far more solid than fluid (darkness creatures typically having sharper edges or entirely like smoke, compared to light creatures having this fluidity to them even when complex like skykids.)

Dark dragons are a curiosity though, given how they're created either way.

-ymir

[celosiaceo]

Last-minute Arcane theory

Dropping my inactivity streak to write out my last-minute Viktor theory before act 3 drops 🎀

ARCANE SEASON 2 ACT 2 SPOILERS UNDER CUT

I found Viktor’s new commune cult and the iridescent transformations on the people he “healed” to be very interesting, as well as the way that the Hexcore changed to be something more organic rather than mechanical-automatic.

With that I kind of got invested in poking at what exactly the hexcore became and what it was actually doing to people. And I think that it’s all a mushroom!!!

A big part of that conclusion to me is a polymer in mushrooms called chitin — in fungi, some mollusks, sea organisms, and insects use chitin as a structural polymer to build cell walls (in fungi) and exoskelletons (in mollusks, shellfish and insects)

When it’s pure, chitin is pliable, tough, resilient and in thin layers is translucent like in insect wings. In thin layers it can organize itself in stacks of photonic crystals which create iridescent colors when light hits them, which reminds me of a thing or two

(for sidenotes, the shiny marks that the people get seem to have a metallic sorta glimmer to them, which I think references titanium prosthetic implants that are very common in today’s medicine!! the shiny medal combined with iridescent chitin could in theory make something that looks similar visually, not sure if chitin can actually be combined with metal or not tho, and would coincide with the marks being placed on the ailed parts of people like prosthetics)

As chitin isn’t a “native” molecule to mammals or plants, both have immune receptors that can recognize chitin and initiate an immune response to destroy it if it’s detected within the organism

mammals have those receptors mainly in their lungs or intestines, but they can also be on the skin

Plants too have receptors that can set off the defense response against chitin but! Commensal mushrooms (that leech off a host for nutrition without harming or benefitting the host) have a way to shut this defense (it’s not understood how as of now), and some pathogen fungi can release proteins that block those receptors and mask chitin so the immune response isn’t activated — which could be why the “healed” peoples’ bodies don’t reject the transmutation despite not being injected with shimmer like Viktor had been

Because it’s a natural compound, chitin can also be made really biocompatible (compatible with the organism, not rejected by the immune system), and for that it has many applications in real life medicine being tested in the current time! Those include tissue regeneration, wound dressings or cancer treatments (also sounds pretty familiar, as the "healing" cured tumours caused by shimmer and various mobility disabilities and injuries)!

Another thing that further got me convinced in the hex-shroom theory is the prosperity of the commune — when it started, it looked like a barren wasteland with some metal scraps scattered around, but just after 6-7 months (that’s how long I heard the timeskip between act 1 and act 2 was) there’s flower fields and fully grown fruit trees? A mutated ”mushroom on steroids” could in fact be behind that in theory

Fungi are aaancient organisms, and they can form soil from inorganic matter by breaking it down for nutrition, they also very much enrich existent soil, and many mushroom species form symbiotic relationships with plants. and back to chitin, it can be used in agriculture to improve plants’ pathogen resistants, growth and defence against pests! So if the whole place is infused with the hex-shroom, it’s very possible that it’s also behind the agricultural boom, or “healing the land”, in the commune too! This thought train got me really concerned about Vi actually, and made me wonder if her suddenly considering joining the commune after eating several of the local fruits wasn’t a coincidence…

So how do people iridescent markings turn into the things Jayce sees in his flashbacks? I suspect the hex-shroom an be behind that too!

I suspect that the hex-shroom consumes the host over time and replaces their human tissue with itself. People in the commune end up with increasingly more hex-mushroom in their body from the “healing” that slowly becomes harder and takes their bodies over while their natural defenses are silenced, and because everything they eat has grown from the soil that the mushroom formed and with the help of the mushroom as a fertilizer and growth agent

Chitin also explains the transition of the markings to the wood-like material itself. When combined with some additional molecules or stacked in thicker fibrils chitin becomes way harder and stiffer and loses its translucense, becoming more of a dull color as it gains density. In it can form incredibly strong microfibrils that are harder and stronger than bone or steel!! In hindsight this explains why Viktor only ended up with a hole in his chest and not reduced to atoms by Jayce’s shot while the whole roof behind him was obliterated

Since the people don’t have mouths or eyes and appear to be hollow (missing brains or other organs), they look like mushroom stalks a lot to me, since those are often hollow too. By then they’re probably sustained entirely by hex energy from the core in a kinda invisible hyphae network and their senses work off of it too by group communication through the network (through the glowing fingerprint marks) or something.

The way the healing entirely removes the people’s sense of self-preservation very quickly also reminds me a lot of the cordiceps mushroom, which overtakes the host’s body and makes it put itself in open spaces where it’d be easily eaten by predators

Ok but why would the hexcore (and the hex matrix too) turn into a mushroom specifically?

I thought about that too, then I remembered that the hexcore started mutating after absorbing Viktor’s blood, and the matrix probably started mutating after Viktor coughed down the tunnel leading down to it all the way back in s1e5 (thats the only reason that’d make sense to me, since arcane had done insane foreshadowing like that before)���

With that in mind, it’s very possible that Viktor’s affliction is some sort of chronic fungal infection of the lungs — he’d be at a high risk of any given chronic infection, due to growing up in the fissures with health compromised by the Grey.

And so the hexcore and the matrix absorbed his blood and the pathogen fungus within it and mutated, adapting to the fungus’s functions and patterns, even down to looking like mycelium/hyphae while healing Viktor.

If before it acted like nuclear energy, serving whatever purpose it was given without its own motivation, now it has a motivation; to propagate and spread and infect, corrupting the minds of its host to not let itself die out, the way it manipulates Viktor’s, the primary host’s mind to believe that “healing” others of both ailment and identity aligns with his altruistic motives of actually saving lives and the way it removes any self-preservation of its secondary hosts

Anyways I’m shaking and crying over the prospects of act 3 god save us all idk how I'm gonna fall asleep today... preparing my tear glads

[kalak]

No but Luke 100% went to a moisture farming school that taught like real world applicable skills like vaporator/droid fixing, calculating moisture levels, hydroponic gardening etc. Basically like those agriculture schools that directly lead into farming jobs yk? But luke didn't give a shit about agriculture and he doodled ship schematics in his holopad and tried to build his own ship during school break and had to be dragged off from his metal death trap ship by obiwan