#Altitude measurement

[ltwilliammowett]

Hardwood Backstaff, late 18th century

Backstaffs find altitude by measuring the angle between the horizon and the sun. Unlike previous instruments, however, navigators relied on the sun’s shadow rather than looking directly at it. Navigators could do this using the key parts of the instrument. The shadow vane on the small arc used to cast a shadow; the horizon vane on the larger arc was where you view the horizon; and the sighting vane was the slit the observer would look through. So how does it work?

To use the backstaff, the navigator with his back to the sun, holds the instrument in front of his and places it on his shoulder. To find the altitude, the navigator would move the vanes along the arcs, and view the horizon through a small slit. They would move the shadow vane on the smaller arc until the edge of the vane casts a shadow on the slit of the horizon vane. While doing this, the navigator would also look through a peephole in the vane on the larger arc and through a slit in the horizon vane to view the horizon. This allows the navigator to find the altitude of the sun by viewing the horizon and the sun’s shadow at the same time through the horizon vane.

[andyteacupcultist]

In reasonable people units, conversion done with calculators and not yet checked so godspeed:

227 g unsalted butter, softened

1 egg 200 g sugar 250 g flour 1 tsp vanilla ½ tsp salt Turbinado/ Raw Sugar for dusting

Preheat the oven to 200°C. Chill a 23x33 cm baking pan in the freezer. Do not grease the pan.

Using a mixer, blend the butter, egg, sugar, and salt together until it is creamy.  Add the flour and vanilla and mix using your hands until the mixture holds together in large clumps. If it seems overly soft, add a little extra flour.

Using your hands, press the dough out onto the chilled and ungreased baking sheet until it is even and a bit more than half a centimeter thick. Dust the top of the cookies evenly with raw sugar.

Bake at 200°C until the edges turn a golden brown, about 12-15 minutes. Remove from the oven. Let cool for about five minutes before cutting the cooked dough into squares. Remove the squares from the warm pan using a spatula.

[viraltrendsspot]

Peruvian Soccer (Football) Players Struck By Lightning In Chilca, Peru

A tragic incident occurred during a regional football match in Chilca, Peru, where 39-year-old defender Jose Hugo de la Cruz Meza passed away after being struck by lightning.

[adreamoverlife]

tell me why I was suggested to take an Astronomy course as a fun college class and I took it since I thought it would just be math and I love math but instead it's weekly essays about my "emotional reaction and opinion" on the fact the earth is tilted 23.5 degrees 😭😭😭

[blujayonthewing]

gnomes are so strongly and biologically attuned to the weave that they serve as an indicator species for the state of magic in their environment

[lekhakpravin]

What is Altitude Sickness? - 5 Best Ways to Stay Fit in Mountain

Mountains are a traveler’s paradise, but every beauty comes with a cost. Mountain Sickness or Altitude Sickness or Acute Mountain Sickness (AMS) are very common among the travelers who love to travel to higher altitudes, but are careless enough to neglect their health. In this blog we are going to talk about what is altitude sickness and how to avoid Mountain Sickness or AMS. We will also learn…

[technoregression]

Tech bros in 2030 are gonna be buying toilets with cameras in them to measure the dilation of their assholes

[match-your-steps]

just saying I don't think I should have to use the trigonometry I haven't used since. gosh it feels like since precalc. mainly at all but also specifically for my landscape design graphics class. I'm here to draw pretty trees I'm not here to find the hypoteneuse

[skipppppy]

I resent the idea that cooking is a relaxed art and baking is an exact science because anytime I’ve met someone skilled in either the opposite is true. Professional chefs will be like “and you have to make sure the sauce is exactly 107 degrees celcius before you add exactly one teaspoon of butter if you add too much it will get clumpy so keep stirring at the exact right pace and also this recipe can’t be done in altitudes over 1200ft when it’s humid” and then you’ll meet someone who makes the most baller ass cookies and they’ll be like “measurements? ress-sippy?? what the fuck are you talking about”

[anxiouslyeccentric]

You absolutlely should theyre wonderful. Wii fit you is such a fun game and i love the pedometer. I wear it with my Poke Walker everyday

I love how much you love the 3ds I love the 3ds and wii u both so much I've got one of each and they're each still trucking they're my kids <3

I should get myself a Wii u...

[prokopetz]

Things hit points are customarily thought of as measuring in tabletop roleplaying games:

Luck

Fatigue

Bodily integrity

An incomplete list of things hit points have actually been used to measure in tabletop roleplaying games:

Reputation

Musicality

Historical accuracy

Ambition

Ammunition

Mysteriousness

Dwarfiness

Altitude above sea level

Plausible deniability

How many of you there are

How on fire you are (more hit points means more on fire)

Emotional stability

Financial stability

Protagonism

Ability to lie to the cops

[gentrigger]

ARCHBIRD

May the sun break, may the land fall away, may the sky be all that’s left

An intimacy measured by altitude

[serpentface]

A kulustaig bull, the distinctive cattle landrace of the highlands.

Kulustaig have striking differences to other native cattle found across the Imperial Wardi claimed territory. Their aurochs ancestors were domesticated in a separate event from those found south of the Inner Seaways, and the broader cattle population kulustaig derived from may have trace bison genetics. The progenitors of this landrace were brought south across the Viper seaway by the ancestors of the contemporary Hill Tribes, and were gradually shaped into the kulustaig in adaption to the high altitudes, mild but dry summers, and cool/snowy wet seasons.

These cattle are mid-sized and stocky in build with large, broad faces, most distinguished by curly manes and 'beards' and thick, V-shaped horns. Genetically undiluted kulustaig are almost ubiquitously black, white, and/or gray, though breeding with other cattle has introduced a greater variety of coloration in contemporary stocks.

They are adapted to higher altitudes, having larger hearts and a bigger lung capacity than comparable lowland breeds, and grow thick, curly winter coats that allow for superior resistance to seasonally cooler temperatures. They can maintain condition on less food and lower-nutrition grasses than the average cattle, and are excellent instinctive foragers. This particular quality makes them attractive for crossbreeding efforts with cattle stock of the dry scrublands in the south of Imperial Wardin, though most of their other traits are highly unfavorable for hot, low altitude environments, and scrub-kulustaig hybrids with idealized traits are rare (and highly sought after as studs).

These are all-purpose cattle that can adequately fulfill roles as meat, draft, and dairy animals, though the latter role has the most importance in day to day life, and they show the most selection for milk production (though are not as high-yield as pure dairy breeds). Their meat is mostly lean and somewhat gamey, as they rely more on thick winter coats than fat stores to manage cold, and the vast majority subsist entirely on wild grasses and forage.

Most kulustaig have fairly calm, gentle temperaments, and accommodate well to human handling (it is not uncommon for cows and geldings to be passively ridden by herders otherwise traveling on foot). Their herds have strong, well defined, and stable dominance hierarchy structures, which reduces actual fighting and lends to them being more easily managed by their human herders. In most traditions, the dominant female in each herd is regarded as blessed by and belonging to the agricultural goddess Od, and will not be milked or slaughtered (this untouchable status is often maintained even if the cow's rank in the hierarchy is displaced, though traditions vary).

Bulls are almost ubiquitously given personal names by their owners (the honor often belonging to a family or clan's matriarch, who is generally considered the owner of the herd and other familial assets), while other traditions vary between just the bulls and dominant cows, personal favorites, or entire herds receiving names.

These cattle are of tremendous importance to the peoples of the highlands (particularly tribes and/or individual clans living above the river valleys, who fundamentally rely upon them for subsistence). They provide much of the meat and dairy that the core diet revolves around, and are the greatest measure of wealth within the highlands. Non-native cattle can be commonly found in parts of the highlands in the contemporary (and may be bred in to impart unique qualities to established stock, such as improved milk production or fattier meat), but kulustaig are typically prized above all the rest. These cattle are often a source of great pride for individual clans, and one of few agreed upon markers of shared identity and pride for all of the collective Hill Tribes.

Cattle raiding is a near-ubiquitous practice (both as a practical resource acquisition, and a less immediately lethal method of settling larger disputes than open warfare), and most cattle will be branded with a mark identifying their owning clan as a method of dissuading theft (often futile, particularly given cattle marked as belonging to certain wealthy clans may be especially prized). Nose rings are commonly used to assist in the handling of bulls, but have secondary protective functions that lend to their common use in even the most docile of cattle. Rings are usually blessed or have spells woven into their making as a supernatural barrier against theft, or against malicious (or at least devious) mountain spirits such as tiirgranul (who take pleasure in frightening cattle (and their herders) and are known to cause stampedes) or wildfolk (who are known to sometimes steal or curse cattle when offended, or just bored).

The word kulustaig derives from the common word 'taig'/'taigr', which refers to cattle in the contemporary languages of both the Hill Tribes and Finns, and the 'kul' root (heavily antiquated and not used in contemporary speech, most commonly recognizable in the name of the kulys plant), which has connotations of hardiness/robust qualities. The name would have derived from complimentary descriptions of the animals as 'the best and most robust of cattle'.

[roosterforme]

The Intern Part 3 | Rooster x Reader

Summary: Bradley had an easy way about him that you appreciated. Working for him all summer sounded promising, and you were determined to make it fun for both of you. But as you dipped your toes into getting to know one another on the flights from San Diego to Lisbon, you ended up closer to him than you ought to be, both conversationally and physically.

Warnings: Language, brief mention of drugs (eventually 18+)

Length: 4900 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader

The Intern masterlist. Check out my masterlist for more. Banner by @mak-32

"I still can't believe someone is paying me fifty thousand dollars to spend my summer on a yacht," you mused as the private Cessna jet gained altitude over the California desert landscape. 

Bradley turned and looked at you from his plush leather seat across the narrow aisle and smirked. "You needed the money that badly?"

"Don't play games," you told him, and he laughed. "My point is, I would have done this for free just to get Ted off my back."

His fingers tightened a bit on his armrest, knuckles growing white as he closed his eyes and said, "Now you tell me. My department budget could be looking a lot fatter right now if it wasn't for you."

You could feel the airplane leveling out as the flight attendant, a woman named Melissa, stood and made her way back toward the two of you. "Oh please," you groaned, earning one of those grins from him that made you feel light inside. "I know how much the shareholders make, Mr. Bradshaw. It's not like it's not listed on the Nasdaq Composite if you dig deep enough."

"Can I get anything for either of you?" Melissa asked. 

"I'll take an Old Fashioned, please. Hold the cherries," you replied while Bradley just shook his head in a jerky motion.

When Melissa disappeared behind the black curtain, you asked, "Why are you so tense? Have a drink and relax."

He huffed out a laugh. "It's eight in the morning. A drink is not going to help me."

You leaned a little closer, and his gaze definitely dipped down to your unzipped sweatshirt. "Don't tell me you're into something harder?" you asked, already thinking you'd be disappointed by his answer. You'd been there and done that. Hung out with and dated guys who were users, and it was not something you wanted to be around. Even out of your sorority sisters, there were only a handful who weren't high all week during grad school.

Bradley looked at you with alarm. "I'm absolutely not going to allow drugs on the yacht, Ivy League."

"Good," you replied right away, already feeling more at ease as Melissa dropped off your cocktail. "Thank you."

But she was looking at Bradley now as she said, "Please let me know if I can get you... anything."

He waved her off as you took a sip of your mediocre cocktail. Melissa had gone a little heavy handed with the bitters, probably because she was too focused on your hot boss to measure things correctly. "Take a sip," you told him, reaching across the aisle with your glass. "You look like you need it."

He grunted and accepted the drink, and a few seconds later, he had downed the whole thing. "Thanks," he whispered. "I hate this part of traveling to Europe for Avio. The flights are going to take forever."

You narrowed your eyes at him and took back your empty glass while he white knuckled the armrest again. "You were an aviator, Mr. Bradshaw."

When he looked at you again, his cheeks were a little flushed as he softly said, "You don't have to call me that. Bradley is fine." 

"Bradley," you said with a smile, and his face softened a little bit. "Why don't you like the Cessna? I mean, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't also hoping for something at least a little more luxurious from Avio, but it's not that bad."

He shook his head at you, something you were pretty sure you were just going to have to get used to for the summer. But his mustache twitched as he licked his lips and said, "Maybe chartered flights are normal for you, Ivy League, but I got used to being the pilot. Of something much less comfortable than a Cessna Hemisphere. So this just feels inherently wrong to me. I mean, I just drank a cocktail."

"Inhaled," you corrected. "And technically it was my cocktail," you said, waving to Melissa and holding up the glass and two fingers.

"Semantics," he grunted. "I miss my Super Hornet right now. Not only were there no drinks, there wasn't even a bathroom."

You watched Melissa duck behind the curtain again, probably to forget how to make a cocktail again. "Well, we'll be there soon," you told Bradley.

"I doubt these pilots can do Mach 2, so not fast enough for me."

You sighed, knowing this would probably be a lot easier for him if you could get him to drink a second Old Fashioned, but when Melissa dropped two more of them off, they were both garnished with a cherry. "I asked you to hold the cherries."

"Oh, yes. Sorry," Melissa muttered. "I can remove it for you."

"I'm allergic, so I'll actually need you to remake mine," you replied, and Bradley started to hand his back as well.

"Remake hers, and mine too," he grunted, suddenly looking far less nervous about the flight as he made to stand up. "Fresh glasses and everything. I don't want cherries anywhere near her." You looked up at him in surprise as he kind of rolled his eyes and followed Melissa. "I'll make sure she does it right," he whispered, and you watched him walk up to the curtain, as confident as he usually was.

"Thanks," you replied, even though nobody was there to hear you now. Well, he had promised he'd do everything he could to keep you safe and comfortable. You watched as he crossed his arms over his broad chest, and you pressed your lips together. That blue Oxford shirt was the exact best color he could possibly wear, and you wondered if he knew it or if it was an accident that he chose it.

When he met your eyes, you didn't look away. You didn't really care if he knew you were checking him out. Until you did. Because when he walked back with two new drinks, you realized how little you knew about him. "Here," he grunted, voice deep and raspy. Then he clinked his glass to yours before sinking back into the aisle seat opposite yours again and buckling his seatbelt once more. 

"Thanks for doing that."

He smiled at you. "Can't lose my intern on her first day. Especially since I've never had one before."

You perked up, loving that you'd cornered the market. "I'm your first intern?"

"Yeah." He was back to downing his drink and looking miserable now, practically throwing the empty glass aside in favor of gripping the armrest. Abandoning your drink after one sip, you stood and stepped over his outstretched legs, his eyes following your every move as you eased yourself down into the window seat next to him. "You okay?" he asked, looking a little amused now that you were just inches away from him.

"I am, but you're not," you told him with an air of authority. "Just relax," you added as you took his hand from the armrest and held it in both of yours. His brown eyes went a little wider, and his lips parted like he wanted to say something. Probably question what you were doing. But you said, "You'll feel better in a few minutes," as you worked your thumbs along the pressure points in his big, rough palm. And then he closed his eyes and without a word, he leaned back in his seat with his hand cradled in yours. Soon he was sound asleep.

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

Bradley woke up to an almost pleasant humming sound all around him. His hand was warm and wrapped up in something soft, and when he opened his eyes, your face was just a few inches from his as you slept. His body thrummed with something akin to desire as you pursed your haughty lips in your sleep, long lashes grazing your perfect cheeks. 

Shit. His hand was resting on your body, fingers tangled up with yours and wrapped in your designer hoodie. His knuckles were pressed to the soft skin which was exposed between your high waisted pants and your damn sports bra. And based on the way the plane was started to descend, he'd taken a five fucking hour nap all cuddled up with his intern. With Ted's goddamn daughter.

Hands off. He'd been telling himself to keep his hands off of you, and just a few hours in, he was literally doing the exact opposite. But you'd been sweet to him, carefully massaging the pressure points in his hand until he was able to fall asleep. You must have drifted off then, too. And now he was loath to remove his hand from your body or look away from you.

He needed another fucking drink. Or several. He leaned carefully over you, and sure enough, he could see the New York skyline coming into view through the small window. And he could smell your perfume. And that was when you opened your eyes, immediately sitting up a few inches and nearly bumping noses with him.

"Sorry," he grunted. "I was just trying to see where we were."

"Where are we?" you asked, your voice soft and a little rough from sleep. Jesus, he liked the way that sounded. 

"Almost to New York. Want me to ask the pilot to circle back to Philly so you can wave to your alma mater?"

You laughed and sat up a little more, arching your back, but you didn't immediately let go of him. "No, thank you. I've only been gone for a week, so I'm sure the City of Brotherly Love is enjoying this break."

Bradley found himself continually laughing at your words, but now you were looking at his hand all linked with yours, so he started to pull his free. You didn't stop him, and when you looked up at him, you even asked, "Did you sleep okay?"

He nodded his head once. "I did. Thank you. For making me feel better."

You sat up the rest of the way and stretched, and he had to look away as you said, "A good intern is good at everything."

Your words weren't dirty, so why the hell were his thoughts? He should be trying to find out more about your father, not imagining you wearing a fluffy white bathrobe while you drank an Old Fashioned sans cherry next to his bed. He was miles away in his mind when the plane touched down on the runway before taxiing to the refueling spot. His stomach was growling wildly now as Melissa walked back and offered them a very late lunch. 

"I didn't want to interrupt anything," she said, looking between you and Bradley like the two of you had been all over each other. When she turned away to get the salads and sandwiches ready, you climbed over him to use the bathroom, and Bradley watched you ignore a phone call as you went. He also realized that he'd have to tread very carefully around potential clients over the next few weeks. It was one thing for Melissa to make a comment like that, but it would be something entirely different if a line like that got back to Ted.

While the plane was refueled and the pilots switched places for the longer flight from New York to Portugal, you and he ate in companionable silence. You'd returned to your seat across the aisle, and you ignored another call before tucking your phone away in your bag. Bradley also used this time to drink a gin and tonic in the hopes he'd be able to sleep again, slightly afraid you wouldn't join him on his side of the aisle to make him feel cozy again. 

"We'll be taking off again in five minutes," Melissa informed him as she cleared away the meal and brought pillows and blankets. Your phone was out again now, and you ignored yet another call as Bradley shook his head.

"Are you going to keep me up at all hours of the night on the yacht yelling at your little boyfriend on the phone?"

You scoffed and looked right at him as you said, "I don't date little boys. Are you going to keep me up calling your wife and kids back in San Diego?"

He didn't want to laugh at the way you talked to him and kept him on his toes. He also registered that the way you'd let him hold your hand while he slept had only come from a platonic place if you were just now asking if he was married. "I don't have a wife or kids."

"Why not?" you asked, leaning on your armrest with your tits smashed together. "You could be married. If you wanted. You're tall and you have all your hair."

"Are those the only prerequisites?" he asked, trying not to look anywhere other than at your face. God, your little bikinis were going to be the absolute death of him if he didn't get fucking laid soon.

"No," you replied without missing a beat. "You're smart, too. Handsome. Tons of money. And you seem nice. Good manners. You make me laugh. Seems like someone would have snapped you up off the market by now."

His cheeks felt warm again as he tried to figure out how to answer. You'd just complimented him nine different ways, and he was reeling a bit. "Because I was in the Navy. Nobody in their right mind would trust a Navy guy with that level of commitment."

"Why not?"

"They lie and they cheat," he said, repeating the lines women had been telling him since he was twenty two. "Nobody you'd want to settle down with."

But you didn't look convinced as your smile tilted a little higher on one side. "Are you a cheater?"

He knew somehow he wouldn't get away with speaking anything but the plain truth to you from here on out. "No."

"I didn't think so." You looked satisfied as you settled back in your seat, about to snuggle under your blanket. The sky was a little darker now, and there was nothing below except for the Atlantic Ocean. 

He had a slight buzz from the gin, and he felt a lot better than he had earlier this morning. He reached for his bag and pulled out his laptop before crooking his finger and coaxing you back to the seat next to him. "We have a little work to do, Ivy League."

While he expected you to complain, you didn't. Rather you popped out of your seat with your pillow and blanket, climbed over him and settled in the window seat once more. "What is it?" you asked eagerly, and when he logged in to his email account, he saw something from Ted right away. Just a reminder to keep himself on track.

"I'm going to teach you a little bit about the Avio software we will be marketing, so by the time we land in Lisbon, you'll know as much as I do."

You curled up with your pillow and blanket and looked at him, your words doing more to him than you probably intended. "Don't test me, Sir, or I may end up knowing more than you."

"You're a brat."

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

This time when you woke up, it wasn't to Bradley's touch or his brown eyes. This time it was to Melissa's laughter and Bradley's soft voice. "When are you flying back to the states?" she asked him as you cracked your eyes open. 

"Not any time soon," he replied smoothly. "We have a lot of work to do."

"Well I hope I'm on your flight back," she said flirtatiously as you propped your head up. 

But Bradley wasn't paying attention to her now as he turned your way. "You're up," he mused, and you just nodded, wishing you'd had time to shower or check how you looked before he saw you. "We'll be landing soon. And then we'll get you and your designer luggage to the yacht."

You watched Melissa roll her eyes at you before she stood. "I'll be right back with coffee and some breakfast."

"Hold the cherries! Please!" you reminded her, just to be obnoxious. When she pretended she didn't hear you, Bradley chuckled. "You know, it's kind of refreshing being given an attitude. Is this how you feel when I give you one?"

His eyes went a little wider. "Don't make me call your father."

"I thought you valued your intern," you replied with a smirk. "So don't make me spread that nasty little rumor around Avio that you went to the University of Bumblefuck."

"Virginia," he snorted.

"Whatever."

Melissa dropped off mugs, a carafe of coffee, cream, sugar and pastries. "No cherry," she said blandly as you reached for a blueberry muffin. 

"Much appreciated," you replied as you peeled back the wrapper and took a nibble while Bradley ate an apple danish in two bites before he poured coffee into both mugs. Clearly the two of you were hungry. You also had no idea what time it was. You had to put your phone on silent since your dad wouldn't stop calling you, even though you told him you'd talk to him when you got on the yacht.

"How do you take your coffee?" Bradley asked as you silently chewed. You went to reach for the creamer, but he pulled it away and looked at you. 

You swallowed down your muffin and said, "Cream and sugar, but you don't have to do it. I should probably be doing it for both of us."

He shrugged and got your coffee fixed up exactly the way you would have made it yourself, as he said, "You and I will be working in close proximity, and I feel like this is the kind of detail I should know."

"Well how do you take your coffee?" you asked, but he set down the cream and sugar without adding anything to his. "Black, no sugar."

"Black, no sugar," he confirmed before taking a sip. You watched the alluring scars on his neck as he swallowed, once again surprised that he wasn't married. He didn't seem as helpless as your father, but he seemed like the kind of person who should have someone warm at home when he returned from work each night. Someone to look after him. 

You took a sip of your own coffee and smiled, because it really was perfect, especially for something that was made on an aircraft. "Thank you."

"Any time," he responded, and you eased back in your seat and looked out the window as the Portuguese coastline came into view. You drank your coffee and picked at the muffin, watching as the very early morning sun made the Atlantic Ocean glitter. There were marinas filled with yachts and sailboats, and you wondered if Avio's was amongst them. 

"Were you on the yacht with my dad last year?" you mused as the plane dipped lower in the sky.

Bradley set his mug down, and maybe it was just you, but his features suddenly seemed a little guarded. You'd always been good at reading people, which made it easy to get a favorable response when you needed one. But he'd never looked at you this way before. "For a few days. One of my buddies from the Navy was there too. Jake Seresin."

You blinked and his expression was neutral again. "The name sounds familiar."

Bradley laughed as the plane touched down. "The face will be familiar, too. Soon enough. He's champing at the bit to get onboard for a few days here and there this summer."

You set your mug down as well and said, "Don't worry, Sir. I'll dazzle him to bits during the dinner parties."

Bradley's nostrils flared, and his pupils grew wider. "I don't doubt that."

When you laughed, he smiled before looking down at his hands. "Well, Bradley, I don't know about you, but I can't wait to get on the yacht. I wonder what kind of caviar the chef will serve for lunch."

You unbuckled your seatbelt, prompting him to do the same. "There are different kinds of caviar?" he asked, one eyebrow raised as he picked up your tote and handed it to you. 

"Don't embarrass me, Bradley. The other interns will all laugh at me behind my back."

But he just shook his head as he moved to the side and said, "After you, Ivy League." So you led the way to the front of the aircraft, thanked both pilots and Melissa, even though she clearly didn't like you, and you climbed down the stairs onto the warm tarmac. 

You shouldn't and absolutely couldn't keep reacting to Bradley the way you were, but when he placed his hand on your lower back and said, "This way," you nearly moaned. You looked up at him as he tried to guide you toward the waiting limousine. "Go climb in. I'll grab the bags."

"I can get my own bags," you insisted.

"I know you can, but you have nine hundred of them, and I'm still hungry, and I can do it faster."

"Fine," you replied, and you could feel his gaze on your back as you walked toward the driver who was holding the back door open for you. "Thank you." As you slid across the leather seat, you watched Bradley effortlessly lift multiple pieces of your luggage at the same time while you bit your lip. What the hell was it about him? You couldn't quite put your finger on it, but he was enjoyable to watch. His voice made you feel a little fuzzy. He was raw and genuine like your favorite pair of well worn Levi's which were tucked away in your Dior suitcase he was carrying with one massive hand. 

You looked away. You counted to ten. You already knew this was going to be an issue, so you weren't sure why it was hitting you now. When you glanced his way again, he was bringing his own two, nondescript pieces of luggage to the limousine trunk, and then he was sliding across the seat next to you.

"Twenty minutes to the marina from here," he murmured, his hand coming to rest on the seat next to your thigh. "And then we can get to work."

You pursed your lips. "I was under the impression we would be playing, too."

He chuckled as you started to look through the compartments next to the seat. "We can play a little bit."

You opened what turned out to be an ice chest, and ran your fingers along a bottle of chilled Dom Perignon. "We can start with this," you said, pulling it free from the ice and holding it up.

He was looking at you, not the bottle, but that little twitch of his mustache was his tell. Even though his eyes seemed stern, he held out his hand, and asked, "Think we can finish it in twenty minutes?" 

You smiled brilliantly as you handed it to him. "Don't ever ask me that again."

"Sassy," he muttered, unwrapping the foil and slowly twisting the cage loose before wiggling the cork free with his big hands until it popped. "Here you go."

"No," you insisted as the driver pulled out onto the main road. "You first. Drink to a successful summer."

Bradley nodded once and took a sip before handing you the bottle. His eyes were on your lips as you pressed them to the bottle where his had just been. "To a successful summer," he echoed, his voice a deep rumble as the city went by in a blur. You couldn't stop smiling, and neither could he, and approximately eighteen minutes later, when he helped you out of the limousine, his cheeks were flushed pink.

"Is that it?" you asked, very slowly removing your hand from his as two men rushed your way in matching gray shorts and navy polos. There was a massive yacht with Down to Business lettered across the back and Avio Technologies along the side.  

"That's it," Bradley confirmed, slipping his black sunglasses on as he reached to shake hands with the two men who introduced themselves as Antonio and Nikolai. Bradley told them your name, and they both took your hand in turn. "She's my intern for the summer," he said smoothly, and then they started to unload your luggage. 

"Let's go," you said, glancing back at Bradley as you started down toward the marina gate, and then he was right next to you again with a few long strides. "I hope you can find your Armani swim shorts quickly, because that pool is calling my name." 

"I can, actually. One of the benefits to only bringing two suitcases." He helped you over the gap, and as soon as you were on the yacht, you felt at home. You knew this was going to be the summer you needed.

"Let's go meet the captain," he murmured, his hand finding your back again. 

"Do you think he has more champagne?"

"Ivy... it's nine in the morning."

"I'm still on San Diego time."

Bradley paused for a beat while he did the math. "It's one in the morning back home."

"Exactly," you told him with a little pout that you knew wouldn't actually faze him. He just smiled as he guided you past the pool you couldn't wait to jump into and an enormous jacuzzi. You walked through a dining room that could seat twelve people and past a fully stocked bar. It was like the best offerings from your sorority house and your dad's estate all rolled into one.

"Welcome aboard!" boomed a voice with a French accent. "We've been expecting you. I'm Captain Marcell." He was probably in his sixties with gray hair and a matching beard, and he reminded you a bit of your favorite professor at UPenn.

"Pleasure," you replied, shaking his hand after Bradley told him your name.

Next to him were lined up two friendly looking women, one with short brown hair and one with long brown hair. Beatriz and Lucia, the stewardesses, would be taking care of everything you needed. And next to them was an attractive man wearing a bit of a scowl. 

"I'm Rocco. The chef. I can make anything. I don't like changing the menu at the last minute."

Oh, you liked him already as you shook his hand. And then your heart fluttered as Bradley said, "I need to speak with you about removing any cherries from the yacht before we leave the marina." 

"Cherries?" Rocco asked, scowling deeper.

Bradley glanced at you as he removed his sunglasses, and his mustache twitched. "Yes. Can't have any onboard. That applies to the kitchen and the bars. My intern has an allergy."

"I'll take care of it," Rocco replied before turning away, and you'd never been more certain that someone would take care of something in your life. Then Captain Marcell handed Bradley a folder.

"Rough itinerary. Weather report for the week. List of phone numbers. Please let me know how long you'd like to spend in each port. I can of course adjust anything as needed. Now if you will select your cabins, Antonio and Nikolai will deliver your luggage."

"Thank you," Bradley replied, handing the folder to you. "You're in charge of this. Now why don't we head down so you can choose a room?" He nodded his head toward a wide set of stairs.

You walked down to the lower deck, and once you and he were alone again, he pointed to the left. "The sooner we get settled, the sooner the swim trunks come out?" you asked softly. 

"Something like that." His soft chuckle was right behind you as you stopped at a mint green door with gold trim.

"Is this my room?" you asked, placing your hand on the doorknob. There was a little keypad next to it. 

"If you want it to be," he replied. "Or, there are three others you can choose from."

"Which one are you taking?"

His eyes flitted from your face to a spot a little further down the hallway. "White door."

When you turned to investigate, you saw a pink door directly across from that one. "Wouldn't it be easier if my room was near yours?"

"Probably." His expression was neutral, but that damn mustache was giving him away. 

"I'll take the pink one."

"Very good. I'll get the room codes from Beatriz, and I'll tell them where to deliver the luggage."

"Great," you replied, still standing close to him, but he didn't move.

"Perfect," he said, brown eyes focused on yours. The hallway was narrow, and now he was placing his hands on his trim hips, taking up even more space. "Try not to get into too much trouble while you look around."

Finally he turned toward the stairs, but you called his name right away. "Bradley?" He glanced back over his shoulder with a questioning look. "Thanks for mentioning the cherries."

"Sure," he replied easily. "I got you, Ivy." Then he was walking back up the stairs and out of sight.

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

We are about to set sail. Let's get into a little trouble. Let's have a little fun. Already feeling a little tension between Bradley and Ivy League. Thanks to @mak-32 and @beyondthesefourwalls

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[comicaurora]

You've mentioned before about how Dainix growing up in a society of all magic-users was difficult for him, is there anything you think is interesting about him adapting to that surrounding? Like, does he carry around means of manually creating fire with him (like flint); and is creating fire via anything other than magic something most other ignans would even know? What kind of things can most of his peers do that he has to ask for help for or find other ways of making it work, aside from general fire-blasts?

(Also, as a disabled writer, I think fantasy/sci-fi disabilities are an underutilized goldmine of worldbuilding & characterizarion, and I really like the way you integrate it into Aurora.)

I asked myself that when I was choreographing the Zombie Dungeon Funtime Adventure! When they lost the light source I knew Dainix would need to replace it in order to navigate in the dark without Falst, but I concluded he actually wouldn't be carrying firestrikers. Even if he personally couldn't magically create fire, he'd always been part of a team of people who could. Instead, he had to strike sparks off the wall using his metal knife. Something he'll definitely prepare for in the future! (Falst always carries firestrikers, but Dainix doesn't know that and wasn't about to go digging in his pockets)

Fire magic the way most Ignans use it is fairly utilitarian, but some people specialize in useful ways - some Ignans can gain bursts of speed or altitude by kicking out fire jets from their feet, or manipulate fire's brightness and color in precise ways to create simple illusions. And even without the expectation of specialization, being unable to do even basic fire magic basically means Dainix always has one fewer weapon than his peers - no emergency last-ditch flashbang moves, no covering fire, no way to do field repairs on damaged metal or glass tools. It's part of why he's always so careful with his equipment, and why he's such a precise and observant fighter - he has no room for error and has to work harder to feel like he's measuring up.