#High-Quality Ammunition

[aegisprecisionkinetics]

When searching for bulk ammunition in Las Vegas, Nevada, it’s essential to know which calibers offer the best performance and value. Popular calibers such as .223 Remington, 9mm, and .45 ACP stand out for their versatility and widespread availability. Opting for bulk ammunition in these calibers allows shooters to enjoy more time on the range without breaking the bank. Plus, buying in bulk ensures you always have a reliable supply ready for practice or competition.

[goliathindustries]

The Legal Landscape: Concealed Carry Rights and Responsibilities

Explore a wide array of high-quality firearms and ammunition at Goliath Industries in Mohave County. Benefit from expert guidance and find everything you need.

[serpentface]

Retconned Wardi firearms- a basic handgun, a highly decorative ceremonial handgun (belonging to Faiza), and a lance-gun.

Gun tech has officially been nerfed down to hand cannons (press F) (this has been a long time coming but I'd been fallacy of sunk costs-ing myself out of retconning).

Handguns are held similarly to a shotgun, with the butt pressed into the user's shoulder, one hand gripping under the barrel, and the other free to ignite the gunpowder. These represent the most advanced firearms in contemporary usage, both in make and in their use of uniform iron projectiles built to match the gun's bore for greater range and efficiency. Lance-guns are the more basal form, usually larger and mounted with the pole held over the shoulder, and are most effectively used by two people (one to hold and aim, one to light the gunpowder).

The spread of firearms is currently mostly limited to the Eastern Inner Seaway peoples (with some additional distribution via overland trade), and actual manufacture of hand cannons and gunpowder at Significant scale is limited to the region's core powers.

The reason for this limited spread is partially due to specific elements of the technology's history. Gunpowder was first synthesized by Burri alchemists and considered to be the discovery of the legendary divine weapon + solar fire of the deity Inanariya, and its formula (along with techniques for ideally refining its components) remained a closely guarded state secret. It was used predominantly in priestly contexts to generate flame and explosive sounds (in conjunction with earlier practices of generating multicolored flames with use of other chemicals), then integrated into combustible weaponry in the forms of fire lances, which would eventually develop into early handcannons.

The treatment of gunpowder as a guarded sacred or semi-sacred substance continued with Wardi adoption, where knowledge of its making is considered a closed rite. It's name (inya tsatsul or just tsatsul, a derived adoption of the Burri iñazatsūya) still reflects a divine solar association (the Burri word means 'sun's thunder', the Wardi 'inya' invokes the sun, 'tsatsul' is an adapted loanword and has no meaning independent of the substance itself), though its priestly use is now predominantly associated with the firearm'ed Odonii (rather than priests of the solar Face Inyamache). The composition of gunpowder can no longer be regarded as a Secret by any means, though efforts to obscure the methods of its creation are still moderately successful and has kept knowledge of gunpowder manufacture more limited than the total sphere of firearm usage itself.

The actual strongest limiting factor of firearm usage is the rarity of natural saltpeter deposits necessary for making gunpowder. The practice of actively producing saltpeter via nitraries has not been developed anywhere in the setting, and all is instead obtained via natural sources. These sources are rare and limited within the current spread of firearm technology, and result in gunpowder being a limited and expensive substance to produce. The weapons themselves are also very expensive to manufacture (a good quality steel SWORD is far too material-cost prohibitive for most people to own), particularly high quality firearms designed for use with standardized ammunition.

These guns are also very basal, and logistical difficulties in their use (weight, very slow loading and firing speed, high visibility, Relatively low reach and accuracy) along with the restrictive cost of production has kept firearms far from rendering conventional weaponry, armor, and projectiles obsolete (even within the societies that have access to them). They are still, however, very devastating in use within their contemporary context, particularly in that high quality guns have a longer range than the best arrow-based projectiles, and utterly negate most contemporary forms of armor at close range.

[amy-coolshark]

Your mission is simple: provide fire support from a distance while your comrades engage the primary target. You've been specifically chosen for this job. You've always excelled in long-range engagements, and this is a perfect opportunity to stress test the prototype long-range cannon your sponsor has been developing. You don't know the name of it, you were just given the machine and told to make it work. A piece of cake for you, given your experience.

The cannon you were told to use is heavy. Heavier than anything your suit has ever carried before. There's a twinge of worry that the servos and joints might buckle under the weight, but you trust your machine to carry you and the payload to your destination. It always has.

You arrive at your sniper's nest and prepare the cannon for firing. This thing is massive. The barrel is long, and thick, made of high-quality alloys that even you can't quite recognise. The firing mechanism and bolt action nature of it is simple, yet powerful. Setting this up on the ground is like assembling a mortar. Multiple pieces, big and small, but all forming to make something so much bigger than the sum of it's parts.

You revel in the sounds and feel of the assembly - the clicking and snapping of smaller parts, the sound of friction when metal slides on metal, the delicate nature of it all. There's no way a pilot can do this on their own without their mech, the machinery is simply too large and complex. You work alongside your suit, controlling it as the optical scanner guides your vision and thought process. It is the mind, and you are the hands.

Within minutes, you are finished the assembly. Faster than anyone else could have ever hoped to do it. There's a while longer before the mission is set to start, so you take some time to appreciate this machine of war. Trace the fingers of your mech's hands along it, and feel the grooves and imperfections through the haptic feedback of your controls. Inspect the bolt, the cartridge that holds your ammunition, the scope, everything. Everything about this is perfect to you. It's like this was made specifically for you to use. It's beautiful. It's love, and it's hurt, and it's yours.

It's almost time.

You lay the cannon on the ground, with the tripod attacked to the barrel sticking into the dirt. You use the mech as an extension of yourself in order to position yourself comfortably. Your legs fall to each side of the cannon as you lay above it, almost as if you intend to mount it. Your feet dig into the ground, preparing yourself for the inevitable recoil that firing this artillery will bring. Your knees fall to the ground, for further stability, and your body is mere inches away from touching the hardened steel of this machine below you. Your dominant hand reaches for the trigger, and your free hand holds the top of the barrel down to prevent it from flying away when you fire. You position your head perfectly in line with the scope, and you can see your allies now engaging with the target. You are ready to fire.

Your breath is shaky, heavy and getting faster. This is... exciting. You can't wait to pull the trigger and see how much damage this cannon will do. You're already thinking of names to give it, of how to modify it to make it more reliable, of how to make it yours. All yours. Your eyes are trained on the target, and you're listening to the comms channel for your order to fire, though your focus only allows you to parse half of what is being said.

Finally, you hear the order. Through half-understood chatter, you hear a loud and stern "fire". You pull the trigger.

Time slows.

First, you feel the recoil of the firing mechanism pushing back against you.

Then, the deafening, piercing sound of the combustion that propels the bullet forwards towards your target.

The cannon pushes back against you and pushes you both back several feet, leaving a trail of dug-up dirt and sediment around where you and your weapon are planted. You feel the joints of your suit scream against the strain of the sheer force, and the haptic feedback from your controls is going haywire.

Everything hurts. This hurts to use.

But it's worth it. You feel amazing. You feel alive.

A sudden gasp leaves your mouth, and you start breathing heavily. The ringing in your ears, the tingling feeling in your hands, the pain you feel must be the same way your suit feels in this moment. You are as one. You are together.

But there's no time to revel in this feeling. You have a mission to complete. Another round needs to be prepared before your comrades are struck down. This is what you're ultimately here for.

You don't even have a chance to look at the damage this cannon dealt, you simply start reaching for the next cartridge to load.

You pull back the bolt on the cannon, feeling the friction of it sliding against the body of this gargantuan weapon.

The used cartridge falls to the ground, cracked from the force of this machine, with wisps of smoke trailing off of it.

You hastily slide the fresh cartridge in, holding it in place with one hand as you push the bolt forward to lock it in place.

The strained joints of your suit ache and tremble as you use all of your strength to push, and eventually you load the next shot.

The barrel is still red hot, and dangerous to the touch, but you have no choice but to stabilise it like you did before. There's no time to worry if the heat will melt you suit's hand onto this thing. A small part of you wouldn't even mind if it did.

You readjust your sights and focus on the target again, and finally, you can admire the damage that this cannon did. It's a miracle that your shot didn't finish the job, but that's okay. You have plenty more.

This next one should do it.

Once again, your focus is trained on the comms channel, waiting for the firing order.

Breath getting faster, heavier, warmer. Heart beating out of your chest. Feeling pistons, servos, joints, every mechanism of your suit as a part of you.

"Fire"

[osakanone]

"How realistic are mecha, really?": They aren't, but not for the reason you're thinking of or the one adjacent to it. Trust me.

Crossposted from reddit, since people seemed to like it. Like in the thread, I am very happy to answer questions about any esoteric weirdness.

Hold my beer. Again

They're not becoming a possibility. Yes. I know. This sucks. But stick around. Its not for the reasons you think. Well it is, but it also isn't. You'll see.

The robot needs the technology more than the technology needs a robot.

the technologies which the robot needs will improve and alter the doctrine of every other platform

This creates a doctrinal lock-in where the potential functional space for them to exist is unmet -- that they are so far ahead, that nothing new can emerge that isn't just other platforms becoming more generalized (eg, a post-stall recovery aircraft, or a helicopter with high impact landing-gear and a rigid rotor/jet engine design to act as a surface-fighter -- a tank which walks or manoeuvres like a robot is just flat out of the question: Tanks are made to be simple-as-fuck boxes which tank hits, and shoot and acquire asap and rumours of their deaths as a doctrinal weapon are exaggerated by recent events where obsolete weapons which aren't maintained properly who's crews aren't adequately trained were fighting very clever civilians with drones)

What you consider "realistic" (5th/6th) is just as if not more unrealistic than other gens purely because of their smaller size and very bizarre relationship with the environment -- they're just both too big, and too small to make sense, sitting in a size niche which is just very weird

If such a vehicle does exist, its going to be defined by its functions rather than a humanoid appearance

we know this because specialized platforms tend to beat specialized platforms historically until specialized platforms mature and become generalized

thus, the closest you're probably going to get is some weird variation of DARPA's Ground X Vehicle Project meeting with Gravity Industry' style mobility in limited cases, hybridized with smaller robots and wingsuits, which mix manoeuvring operation styles, with some rocker-boogie mechanism elements for terrain handling: It won't be humanoid, whatever it is.

This is assuming you can magically solve the square-cube law of volume-mass which is partially negatable with certain custom topologies exceeding graphene but actually manufacturing them would be miserable work probably not even be something you can make without microgravity

Energy flat out isn't solvable with what we know about right now. Nothing with that energy density can exist that isn't going to simultaneously make for an incredible fragile, dangerous and problematic source of power given the forces involved. Cooling is also a horrifyingly unsolvable problem on this scale, as is radiation management: You can't just dump molten tungsten in emergency cooling mode - you'll not only proceed to alert everybody who has even the vaguest IRST capacity to your position, but you'll also probably set fire to the environment and cook off your own ammunition. *

Motors aren't well suited to the tasks of such bodies (its like trying to make a slingshot out of dental floss), and we don't have an effective way to turn electricity into a form of motion which corresponds with the shock absorbing and motion control qualities which are actually desirable yet

Even if we did, the actual means of ensuring it doesn't fragment every time it moves don't exist. Every time an A10C fires its main gun, the fuel lines micro-fracture and have to be replaced after it lands. Metal, when you subject it to high physical forces ends up feeling and behaving closer to how you would think of glass. You'd need a material capable of repairing itself too, atop the quasicrystalline property which again, just isn't doable, let alone simultaneously.

So in terms of our mindset going into this?

Its... Probably not happening barring a very, VERY extreme change to how we understand physics to function, or some really kick ass (and actually entirely possible) changes in how engineering achieves outcomes (which could happen if the greatest threat to the mecha didn't exist)

Combat is moving towards information dominance. 

That's drone swarms, and role modularized long range travel, and the idea of fighter beyond-visual-range combat extending out to infared search and track systems which are networked to one another, which we're already seeing in singleton weapons and their mounting strategies even on the personal scale, which DARPA is currently investigating which everybody wants to mate with the gravity industries gear for boarding ops so the most likely avenue is to scale up from people, rather than scale down from vehicles as the development pathway -- but there's probably going to be multiple pathways with competing niches once the technology becomes cheap enough.

Costing

Ultimately its down to "how much money do I have to spend to defeat something more expensive than myself?" -- because our current structure of war is defined by cost, and by making the other guys surrender by using economic, and military violence (private, and publicly funded) instead of convincing them that we (NATO members, etc) have good opinions purely because of the natural benefits of "doing as we say" (which we see with basically any conflict in the last 70 years, which are usually feigned as ideological but pretty much always about disrupting market competition, dominating markets, or controlling a pressure position in another country to achieve those two things).

This isn't because they're particularly excellent weapons, but because they're cheap relative to the strength they offer, and how we define cheap is very different to how we defined cheap 100 years ago -- both in good, and terrible ways (such is the way of history).

Mecha are kinda the ultimate boondoggle. They are very very expensive, and just don't make sense.

They're cool as hell, yes.

But they don't make sense.

DISCLAIMER: If you're prone to depression, are dealing with a lot right now, or don't want your day ruining, you should stop reading NOW. What comes next is a psychosocial hazard and could be very bad for your mental health. LAST CHANCE . . .

The "real" reasons

If conflict some how became a meritocracy of leading by excellence rather than intimidation, and about human outcomes instead of cost outcomes, then things could change, but we don't live in that world.

Remember, violence exists to end human conflict (not to be confused with military conflict, which violence is the primary instrument of): Human conflict is when two parties oppose one another and communicate about what their goals and intentions are. Violence happens when communication stops. Communication stops, because parties cannot come to terms, or because nobody wants to be reasonable because the inherent request is unreasonable to the interests of the other party.

I'd love to say physics is the greatest threat, or maybe our concept of conflict but its not: * Its economics.

The concept of private-equity (not to be confused with venture-capital investment) is kiiiind of the dominant economic system on the face of the planet which dictates the interest of every nuclear power's actions against every non-nuclear power) is functionally dissolved, and investment models as we know them magically become better regulated OR a better economic system comes along which totally undermines private equity.

Its an economic finger-trap where most of the money that would be reinvested into people and technologies to push the world forward ends up getting swallowed up.

It also has private armies) and simulates the economy and political events in order to control them for maximum profitability. Yeah.)

We already live in Armored Core, folks.

And that economic system knows that if it gave free agents like ravens any kind of military power, it would functionally undermine itself, which is why it will never happen.

Private equity benefits from not having technology change, because its primary goal is wealth extraction. It leads to the collapse of every business you've ever seen go under, its why products undergo enshittification, which is coming for everything.

Its why the housing crisis happened, why the banking collapse happened, and its why there's an incentive to continue industrializing diseases like insulin instead of curing them.

tl;dr:

The one thing AC gets super wrong is you can either have the depressing relatable low-saturation late-stage hyper-capitalist dystopia where life is cheap on planet earth and everything terrible about South Korea times a thousand covers the whole world, and you need to have your own organs brought from you and leased back to you to lock you in to a lifetime of debt the same way everything else works...

OR

you can have the robot;

You can't have both.

e: I'd pick the robot any day

--

Apologies for any inaccuracies, I haven't edited this and I threw the original together in the space of around 40 minutes. Questions very welcome: I enjoy giving long detailed and substantiated answers.

If you enjoyed this, please consider reading my other work on the theoretical design factors of mecha, their control systems, and my fictional writing in mechposting.

[captain-price-unofficially]

Video published by Al-Qassam Brigades (Hamas) allegedly showing them tracking an officer in the elite Shaldag unit, Yitzhar Hoffman, before he was killed by a sniper. Hoffman is said to be responsible for the siege and storming of Al-Shifa Hospital in Gaza.

Translation:

A unit of the occupation forces is holed up in Gaza City. The images obtained exclusively by Al Jazeera allow the location of the concentration to be determined. The field command center was established in a sports club, about one kilometer away from Al-Shifa Hospital, and located within the Jawazat area, which witnessed fierce clashes between the Israeli army and the Resistance factions for weeks.

This is Yitzhar Hoffman, a platoon leader in the Shaldag Special Unit. He was responsible for drawing up a plan to besiege Al-Shifa Hospital and then storm it last November. According to photos obtained by Al Jazeera, which are being shown for the first time, the Al-Qassam Brigades monitored Hoffman's movements after storming the hospital. At the end of last January, the Al-Qassam Brigades waited for the Israeli army to announce the killing of Hoffman so that they publish pictures of the operation and identify the targeted person.

The Al-Aqsa flood was not the first confrontation in which the Qassam Brigades used sniper weapons. The developed Al-Ghoul rifle that mimics the specifications of the Austrian-made Steyr rifle, caliber 12.7 mm, has the capabilities and features of an assault rifle with an adjustable system, to transform from an assault rifle into a sniper rifle.

The Al-Qassam Brigades were able to manufacture it locally and it bore the name of one of the most prominent symbols of military manufacturing in Al-Qassam: the martyr Adnan Al-Ghoul. With the rifle, Al-Qassam produced the appropriate ammunition to enhance the rifle’s effectiveness and feasibility.

The ammunition was manufactured with three specifications:

1- Training that enable the preparation of fighters within the special units.

2-Ammunition designed to target flammable materials.

3-Used to deal with the armor and fortifications used by the Israeli army.

The impact of the locally manufactured weapons is show on battlefields, in a way that the bullet penetrates the helmet worn by the soldiers and explodes after penetration. The bullet can also penetrate the protective vest, which is supported by a metal plate that shatters when hit to cause damage to the upper area of the body. It can also penetrate and disrupt devices and systems used by the occupying army.

To put the weapon into use, the Al-Qassam Brigades trained special units of fighters within its combat formations, as the photos obtained by Al Jazeera show. Training takes place after selecting fighters who have qualities that enable them to withstand long periods of waiting to capture a potential target, the ability to work under extreme pressure in difficult field conditions, the flexibility of concealment, determining the importance of the target and making the decision of execution.

The Qassam had previously used sniper weapons in field combat in battles before 2007, when it seized medium-caliber rifles like the Russian Dragunov and Brezhnev models and the Belgian FN FAL rifle. But it suffered from limited availability, scarcity of ammunition and its high cost. Then, heavy snipers including the Austrian Steyr and the Chinese M99, were brought into the Gaza Strip through supply lines. And documented operations were carried out using them.

The Ghoul rifle is the latest weapon in the resistance’s arsenal, which according to Al Jazeera’s information, recorded a verified hitting distance of 1800 meters in Al-Aqsa Flood Operation.

[awesome-casuallyfamouscollector]

Five Russian special forces officers of the "Senezh" Special Forces Centre as part of a subversive group were killed in full squad in Chernihiv region. They had high-quality equipment. They were dressed in camouflage uniforms, each had rifles with optical sights and silencers, a large amount of ammunition, Ukraine, 2024.

In this series of pictures, there are several rather interesting pictures with the destroyed Russian spetsnaz personnel, but since there is ACTUALLY not that much freedom of the press in the Western media, I will not publish them. Otherwise, snowflakes who think that war looks like woke in Hollywood movies will be very upset. It is enough for you to know that Russian special task force soldiers are a publicity product created by Kremlin fraudsters. In real war they die just as well and en masse as all the other common Russian war criminals and their sympathizers….

[willsimpforanyone]

Hi i was wondering if you could do sone of hermes x annabeth chase (plantonic) and how they have been best friends since they were 7 and her always having to stop him form doing something stupid thanks

i can absolutely do that!

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

annabeth came to camp halfblood when she was 7

and you've been at camp for about a year because you were taken in early

being a son of hermes, i think you'd be quite the sociable little kid

and the pair of you were probably one of the few younger kids in camp

so when this somewhat shy blonde girl with piercing grey eyes and a fierce intelligence arrives at camp, you immediately gravitate towards her

it takes about a week for the two of you to become absolute best friends

i feel like annabeth shied away from anyone aside from luke for a long time

but you wormed your way into her good graces very quickly because you were so excited to have someone your age to play with

obviously because you are a boy and she is a girl, you get teased about whether or not you like each other

and both of you are like 'ew that is my brother/sister stfu'

when you get older and more functional, you begin to get more ideas that would definitely get you into trouble

it's your way of connecting with your dad, causing mischief in his name

annabeth has some Thoughts about this

some of your ideas get shot down immediately

anything that involves you jumping off high places or starting a fight with someone? automatic no

her favourite name for you is literally 'idiot'

she could yell 'idiot' across the camp and someone next to you would be like 'hey annabeth's calling for you'

it's a point of pride when you come up with an idea that she approves of

when you have a smart idea she throws herself into planning with you and it's quality bestie bonding time

when percy comes into the picture there's a bit where you feel a little threatened by this new kid who's super powerful and everyone is fascinated by and how annabeth seems to be talking to him a lot

but as soon as you realise her interest might be somewhat romantic, even if she doesn't realise it, you're chill

it just gives you permanent ammunition to use against her and she hits you every single time

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

i hope you enjoyed, thank you for requesting!

[underrrated1]

It was Fate

Van Augur x reader

I get brainrot about this guy at least once a month 😋

It was a solo mission, done right obviously. He wouldn't fail to take out a target, not dare to fail Blackbeard, nor would he ever miss a shot. It was a simple mission, take some random high rising pirate captain and watch as their crew broke down from a distance.

He took his sweet time, walking down the mountain and looking around the quaint village. His dear Senriku leaned against his shoulder to balance the weight of such a beauty.

Taking a small detour when he entered the village again, he pushed his way past the doors of a small pub and stood in the entrance for a moment, looking around. His gaze landed on a peculiar person. While everyone was looking at him and quieting down in fear of not only his stature but obviously knowing who he was, this person was leaning back in their chair, sleeping. A simple cowboy looking hat sat on top of their face as they rested, half drunken whisky glass next to their feet, along with something else.

A bullet stood properly next to the glass, but not any type of bullet his bullet. As in the bullet he had put into the recently deceased captain.

Slowly, he made his way over to the resting person, taking in their gentle and very relaxed posture. He just stood behind them for a second, mostly looking at the bullet, examining it. It was definitely his, shot from his Senriku at least an hour ago. Shrugging it off he turned around to go and order before someone spoke up.

"Do you want it back?"

"What?" Augur asked, turning around back to face the resting person.

"The bullet" they repeat, "do you want it back?"

Augur looked at the person, the hat on top their face moving slightly from their talking. He let out a slight hum, out of amusement or questioning, they couldn't tell.

"Because let's face it" they spoke up, taking their hat off their face while sitting up. "Whether you pay for these or not," their hats on their head properly and they're holding the bullet "these are just expensive and hard to find for such quality."

Augur looked at their hand, holding the bullet over their shoulder for him to take, back facing him as they reached for the whisky glass.

He thought about it. They were indeed right about the rarity of his ammunition.

"No, I don't need it" he turned back to the bar counter.

He simply decided to grab a bottle of wine, without paying, and left.

Fate had brought him a wonderful interaction, and he hoped fate would bring the two back together soon.

[chronicle-of-torment]

-This is a warehouse. This is where the weapons are kept and one more thing I want to show you. C5 means "warehouse number five".

Vajra nodded and stood near the door, waiting for Girm to pass first. Girm entered the warehouse. Walking among the Iron Demons and Firestorms, Girm continued to speak:

-This warehouse is one of many. Ammunition and gunpowder are stored separately so that everything does not explode at once.

Finally, they came to a small fenced-off section of the warehouse. Girm opened one of the drawers. Then he took out the contents. Girma found himself with a sickle in his hands. An ordinary, well-made sickle.

-So to speak, orders are on the side. Butcher knives, sickles, pitchforks. In a word, peacetime weapons. And also with the sign of the Forge.

Girm turned the sickle over, revealing the symbol on the back.

-Vajra, you’ve never been alive, have you?- Girm suddenly asked.- Based on your story, you were created. Are you... some kind of golem? Just very high quality. Over the years spent in the mines, I learned to distinguish between rocks.

Girm looked questioningly at Vajra, waiting for an answer.

[mariacallous]

In recent weeks, Ukraine has found a way to overcome a lack of aid and a dearth of ammunition, using long-range drones to strike oil industry assets deep inside Russia. The attacks on Russian oil refineries—which number at least a dozen so far, including some very long-range strikes—have damaged Russia’s ability to process and refine its huge output of crude oil, dealing a small but meaningful blow to a Russian energy sector that has so far weathered the war and Western sanctions in surprisingly good shape.

The campaign, which has been tacitly acknowledged by Ukrainian security services and officials, is meant to strike at both the economic and logistic sinews of Russia’s war effort, which is still grinding its way through the third year of its invasion of Ukraine. (Ukrainian drones have also targeted Russian defense production plants.) 

“These attacks are on a major source for the Russian budget, and that budget is being spent on military equipment,” said James Henderson, an expert on the Russian energy sector at the Oxford Institute for Energy Studies. 

Moscow gets about 40 percent of its federal budget from the export of crude oil and refined products (and that share is even bigger when converted into Russian rubles), making the sector a key part of the Kremlin’s ability to increase defense spending, rebuild its shattered armies, and purchase huge amounts of foreign-made weaponry to use against Ukraine. Russian refineries also churn out millions of barrels a day of products such as diesel and aviation fuel, which are needed for Russia’s perpetually logistics-constrained armed forces.

The Ukrainian strikes so far, which have damaged numerous refineries and started several fires, have knocked out anywhere between 400,000 and 900,000 barrels a day of refining capacity, according to estimates from energy experts and defense officials. Russia has an installed refining capacity—not all of which it uses—of about 6 million barrels a day, and refineries processing more than 2 million barrels a day have been targeted by Ukrainian strikes, some that did superficial damage and some that did more, in recent months.

While the impact of the Ukrainian attacks has varied from refinery to refinery, they present two big problems for Moscow. First, the continued attacks will further stretch Russia’s limited air defenses across even farther-flung bits of its sprawling territory. Second, due to years of Western sanctions, repairs to more advanced refinery components could be much trickier than in normal circumstances, which could affect Russia’s ability to churn out higher-value petroleum products, such as high-octane fuels.

“The higher-quality products are the ones that are going to be at higher risk,” Henderson said.

The Ukrainian onslaught has consequences that reach beyond the Kremlin. Moscow has retaliated with its own bombing campaign, a reprise of previous years’ efforts to destroy Ukraine’s energy infrastructure. Russian missiles struck power supply facilities all over Ukraine last week in what appeared to be the biggest attack yet on Ukraine’s ability to keep the lights on. That’s especially problematic since Ukraine is running low on air defense ammunition needed to protect large cities and power plants, and the big U.S. aid package remains captive in the Republican-controlled House of Representatives.

The strikes are also rippling into trading rooms in New York and London. Global oil prices have stayed above $80 a barrel over concerns of an escalation of Ukrainian attacks that could inflict further damage on one of the world’s biggest oil producers and exporters. That’s one reason why the Biden administration, facing a fall election, seems nervous about the Ukrainian drone campaign. 

U.S. officials reportedly asked Ukraine to limit strikes on Russian oil facilities that could lead to higher prices, though Kyiv has made clear that its campaign will continue. Unlike U.S.-delivered long-range weapons, the drones used for the oil industry assaults are Ukrainian and don’t carry Western restrictions. A White House spokesperson declined to comment directly on reports that it asked Ukraine to abstain from such attacks, but White House national security spokesperson John Kirby reiterated that “we do not encourage or enable the Ukrainian military to conduct strikes inside Russia.”

Since the start of the war, the Biden administration has been leery of squeezing Russia’s energy golden goose too hard, lest it spike global energy prices. The embargo on Russian oil exports was only gradually phased in, and a price cap on Russian crude meant to limit Moscow’s energy earnings has proved disappointing. 

What’s more, until recently, Russia was able to use a fleet of shadow oil tankers—vessels that circumvent normal shipping rules such as insurance and identification—to bypass Western restrictions on shipping its crude by sea. All of that has meant that the prewar level of Russian oil exports has been basically unaffected by sanctions and embargoes. But a growing crackdown on shadow tankers, coupled with further Ukrainian strikes, could make for a tighter oil market in months to come, said ClearView Energy Partners, an energy consultancy.

But that’s not Ukraine’s concern. Rather, Kyiv figures that if Russia has trouble processing its crude, it may be forced to pump less. Indeed, Russia this week announced that it will cut oil output to comply with informal production quotas agreed with OPEC+; some energy experts believe Moscow has little choice given the carnage in its downstream facilities.

But there’s another risk, Henderson warned. Just as the United States and other Western countries have gotten more rigorous at cracking down on Russia’s evasion of oil export bans, Moscow may have an incentive to just export more of its unrefined crude. If it does so, it will mean a return to steep discounts on Russian oil as compared with global benchmarks, which will give shippers and third countries reason to get creative yet again at sidestepping sanctions. 

[nerdpickle]

Mandalorian Culture Headcannons

The mandalorians created the amban phase pulse rifle to circumvent bans on disruptor weaponry, since amban could take multiple types of ammunition (slugthrower, blaster, explosive and disruptor), it technically wasn’t a disruptor and fell into a legal gray area

Sundari used to be called keldabe, the new mandalorians renamed it to distance themselves from the traditionalist ways

One reason why satine became unpopular during the clone wars was because mandalore used to have a thriving weapons industry, being renowned for producing high quality equipment, after satine took power she shut this down, and because of that when the clone wars erupted mandalore missed out on a huge amount of money, if they had taken advantage of the war, they probably wouldn’t have had a food shortage, this is yet another case of satines ideals overriding her practicality

Each clan has its own color scheme:

Clan Vizsla: white and red

Clan Ordo: brown and black

Clan Rook: purple and yellow

Clan Wren: yellow and silver

Clan Eldar: green and orange

Clan Kryze: blue and purple

Clan Awaud: red and orange

Clan fett: green and yellow

(Gray is a pretty common color)

[decaying-words]

Ambrosia

All chapters Edward Nigma x Reader • 18+ Explicit • 2.7k words TW & tags: Dubious consent, oral sex, broken mind AO3 • All my stories

"Muscles tense and roll under his fatigued and sun-deprived skin, his mouth contorting viciously resembling an enraged snake as he hurls abuse, his voice loud and penetrating, surgically detaching each and every single syllable he uses as if they were ammunition.

He won’t look at me."

Ambrosia

Muscles tense and roll under his fatigued and sun-deprived skin, his mouth contorting viciously resembling an enraged snake as he hurls abuse, his voice loud and penetrating, surgically detaching each and every single syllable he uses as if they were ammunition.

He won’t look at me.

Edward never looks at me when he’s furious with my work, its quality paling in comparison of his own; and he never misses an opportunity to remind me of my weaker position, towering over me with words I haven’t tamed, with expressions I haven’t grasped the meaning of, taking great pleasure, I am certain, in signaling his superiority.

Edward never looks at me and it’s  a shame, I say to myself, caressing the dream of his green eyes finally laying on me if only once, be it in a sneer and with disdain, as long as I can penetrate his gaze and contemplate all that he represents. His mercurial temper is nothing compared to my burning desire to be seen and acknowledged; if only he knew how much I need the pleasure I cannot give myself.

The heavy wrench crashes and ruins the egregious sight of what I’ve created in a final act of an humiliation that is threatening in nature. Perhaps should I feel frightened by the pure vigor and ease with which he manipulates and shatters what he desires, but all I can feel is sheer jealousy for the pile of debris laying inert on the ground, for it must have been considered and witnessed before ceasing to exist. 

Loose screws roll aimlessly on the patterned floor, wicked parts of the abomination I birthed; if he turned to me he would see my lips trembling in a sentiment he would believe is fear, and no doubt would he feel pleased and satisfied to hold such power over me. If only he knew that what I feel is not fear but sadness, for I also would flounder and writhe on the ground like a rusty screw if it meant he was the one tearing me apart. Would he look at me then, if I confessed my most intimate desire to become a domesticated object, malleable and disposable? Would he ruin me then, if it meant that my ephemeral existence served a purpose, as insignificant as it may be?

Warm and round tears roll down my cheeks when I mouth quasi aphonic apologies that he repeats in a mocking manner, voice falsely high pitched as a simulacra of my own, and my entire being shivers and trembles at the indignity I endure, knowing this will never be enough to fulfill my needs. Defeated and apoplectic, Edward throws his hands in the air, convinced that even primates at the zoo wouldn’t be such a disgrace, expressing his bitter regret about his precious time, wasted and vanished.

I once thought I was more evolved than a primate, worthy of praise and interest; that was before my ridiculous vanity led me to work for the Riddler, a man I once considered an equal. Was I wrong and delusional. 

The day we met was the only time he looked at me, with indifference and contempt; I struggled to hide my annoyance back then, certain that I would walk away the very same day. How foolish of me to think I deserved care and esteem when I was nothing but unqualified. A few weeks of heated arguments was all it took to work on my misplaced pride and the absurd desire to be respected, replaced by a voracious design to please and be noticed. 

It came to me that the greatest achievement I could reach was to be nothing short of remarkable; unfortunately for me, Edward Nigma held high expectations of his assistants, and none of them before me were ever worthy of his importance. Even then, I carried in my heart the curious hope to finally be the one to surprise and please him adequately, something I had yet to be successful in. The constant disappointment on his face made me question my own value, until a terrible and abhorrent realization came to me: the strong possibility that he might get tired of me, like he did with the others. I still remember the raw panic I felt the first time I imagined the inevitable, clutching my chest in horror, waking up from nightmares, out of breath and drenched in sweat.

It is the same panic I feel right now when Edward turns his back to me, walking to his desk and glancing at plans discarded there, abandoning me. I cannot afford to be abandoned, not when my sole purpose in life is to contribute to his design, when my entire being was made to serve him; what would happen to me then? I scream in terror and run after him, begging him to forgive me, to forgive my ignorance, promising that I would do better, that I would make him proud this time, just don’t leave me, please.

He pinches the bridge of his nose in annoyance, and the cruel realization of being a nuisance is unacceptable, intolerable to me. My heart aches and beats frantically in my chest, aquiver with extreme fright, as if spiraling in a second state, every fiber of my mind shrieking and breaking, longing for a word, a reaction, anything showing me that I am not completely forgotten. If only he would punish me, flog me until the flesh breaks and bleeds, asphyxiate me with his bare hands until my face turns blue, then I would know that he showed me mercy and not indifference. I cry harder when his fingers drum on the table, his stern voice ordering me to leave and come back once I’m in an adequate state. My heart, heavy and painful, drops and shatters somewhere in my psyche; he sees in me someone improper , unworthy of being in his presence.

There is nothing glorious or noble about me when I grab the hem of his shirt and force him to face me, his fury now renewed, glaring at my shaking hands and inquiring whether I have lost my mind. 

Perhaps I have.

No words could ever describe the respect, the admiration, the love I feel for him, but maybe actions can. I sob pathetically when I drop to my knees in front of him, eyes fixed on his disapproving face, begging for his forgiveness in a voice laced with hiccups and despair. I confess my feelings for him, tell him that I love him, that I would do anything for him, and his expression changes to one of horror and confusion. This is not good enough, I think to myself.

My hands grab the belt holding his pants, he freezes in shock for a few seconds before reaching for my wrists with his impossibly strong hands. The warmth radiates in my entire body; it is the first time he has touched me. My eyes go to his calloused hands, his scarred knuckles, and I cannot help but lay my cheek, wet and burning, against the back of his hand. He spits his incomprehension, questioning my motives, but all I can mutter in response is please, please, please…

His eyes are distorted with a feeling akin to fear, mouth agape, his hands still securely locked around my wrists. I shush him, promise that I will make everything better , and I see him swallow thickly, bottom lip trembling. I press my lips on his fingers like one would worship an idol, and hear him shudder. It is difficult to unbuckle his belt when he’s still holding tight, but the lack of true strength and the absence of protest gives ground for the belief that he does not want to interrupt me. His voice is low and weak, only whispering “This is wrong, this is so very wrong…” as I focus on undoing his pants enough to reveal his plain underwear.

My stomach knots instantly, barely realizing the unique and invaluable position I am in, face merely centimeters away from his crotch. Never have I allowed myself to dream of this moment, having always considered myself as an improper match for him, and yet. My heart is open, swollen with the thought of him, ready to explode, and the only way I can properly show him my devotion is to make him feel as good as he makes me feel for tolerating my presence, despite my flaws and inefficacy. Edward yelps, his hands tightly grasping the desk behind him, tense and nervous, when I bury my face in his crotch, inhaling his scent, strong from a miasma of filth and sweat accumulated over the day, or perhaps even days. I wish I could drink this essence, this odor that is so unequivocally his, I wish I could consume his flesh, his blood and feel him inside of me in a way that nobody else could.

I rub my face on the soft fabric, my face and nose drawing the outlines of his flaccid anatomy, while my eyes are searching for his; unfortunately, his face is turned away, cheekbones flushed and eyebrows knitted together, a fist pressed tightly against his lips. There is a cold look on his face when I breathe in the warm fabric and hum appreciatively, the tip of my nose caressing the still soft flesh of his sex. I wonder if any other of his assistants ever got down on their knees for him. I expect not. I expect to be the only one worthy of worshiping him. The thought pleases me.

My mouth presses chaste kisses over his clothed sex, my lips brushing and tasting his now throbbing flesh. Edward whines softly, akin to a terrorized animal, screwing his eyelids shut, as if ashamed of the fact that he’s getting harder. I feel his length swelling, filled with blood as my lips part around it, my jaw opening to better accommodate him. His smell gets stronger too, slightly saltier as well, and I recognize a wet spot near the tip of his cock that makes me salivate. My tongue drags over his still clothed length up to the constricted tip, tasting the pearl of precum imbibing the cotton of his underwear. Edward mutters a curse, but lets me continue. His turgescent organ reminds me of a heart, engorged with blood, almost beating; and I am the one it is beating for.

Trembling fingers hook around the elastic belt of his underwear, while I cover his bulge in featherlike kisses before I release his perfect sex, now hanging low in front of him. There is a slight protest that I accidentally interrupt with a gasp, completely absorbed and mesmerized by the heavenly sight of his shaft, generous in both width and length, the skin adorning a rosy tint and beautiful protruding veins. His reddening glans is only partially covered by his intact foreskin, looking like a tempting and delicious fruit. The smell is strong as expected, filling my nostrils and remaining safe in my stomach, guarding it preciously. If there is anything else more beautiful and perfect than his cock, I have yet to witness it.

Enough of that , he whispers in a voice that does not convince me. My bruised ego is disappointed that I cannot find neither curiosity nor lust in his voice, but I decide to beat myself up later for wanting him to want me , when all I want to do right now is to show him my unconditional and total devotion. 

He exhales loudly when I roll the tip of my tongue on one of his purple veins, looking up at him while his eyes are wandering on the ceiling, carefully avoiding my gaze. He tastes heavenly, as expected; it’s salty and musky, and my eyelashes flutter when I swallow a thin layer of sweat, feeling it slip down my throat and going to my stomach.  The way he grabs the metal desk turns his knuckles white, and I cannot help but wonder if it is due to restraint, shame or control. The flat of my tongue laps and cleans his length, tasting every bump and crevice. I am consuming him and making him mine, a prideful and undignified feeling that makes my stomach burn; I am worshiping him and tasting all of his glory, dripping in heavy pearls of milky white precum.

His voice contorts into broken moans when I take the sensitive tip inside of my warm cavity, my tongue pushing back his foreskin; I am the only one who can hear those noises, the only one who can see him coming undone this way, the only one who can give him such pleasure. His hand covers his eyes, occulting his gaze entirely as to hide and conceal his arousal; but his body is infinitely more honest, his hips rocking subtly in a pressing invitation to take him deeper. Of course, I do as he desires.

His length slips comfortably down my throat as I progressively take more of him, until I feel my mouth full of him, encouraged by his canorous voice singing unintelligible praises. All my senses are assaulted, basking in his scent, the taste of him invading me, yet this is not enough, this will never be enough for me. Working my jaw to swallow his cock as deeply as possible, fluids start pouring down my chin. My eyelids flutter, my head bobbing up and down his glory at the measure of his curses, a comfortable heat reddening my face. I love you , I think to myself, closing my eyes.

A gentle pressure on the back of my head, his hand finding its way in my long locks. He guides me clearly, giving me a rhythm that he punctuates with the movement of his hips, crashing his pubic bone against my face. Yelps and moans die in my throat when his pace gets too quick for my scalp, simultaneously tugging and pulling at my hair. I choke on his cock, spit and precum pooling on the ground before he grabs my face completely and forces me to stay still. I open my eyes and search for his own.

He looks at me.

There is a storm in his eyes, a look that is close to disgust and contempt, yet also laced with adoration; a look that brings tears of joy to my eyes. Edward starts rocking his hips while I remain still, accepting him in my mouth. It does not take him long before he vigorously fucks my throat, eyes glued on me, never breaking contact. His expression metamorphoses into something immensely more dangerous, feral and carnal. His shy moans turn into animalistic groans when his hand painfully grabs my hair and he ravages my hole. Look at me , he mouths; and how could I ever stop doing so?

His punitive rhythm is erratic and irregular, his grunts grow louder and shakier, and my heartbeat turns frantic in anticipation for what is about to happen. His pupils are dilated, dark orbs covering most of his green Eden, and I am sinking in them, grasping at this intimate contact. 

Finally, I feel him spurting long ropes of cum deeply inside my stomach in a loud groan, I feel his cock throb and spill its last drops of essence, coating the walls of my mouth with his strong taste. I moan in an unhidden pleasure, greedily swallowing everything he offers me, sucking his tender glans until there is nothing left to milk.

When he removes his sex and tucks it back in his pants, I am certain that my face is ruined. His eyes are still on me, now less wild and more relaxed, his hands laying back on the desk, looking for what to say next. His breath is labored and strained, mine is in a similar state.

Thank you , I whisper. Edward cocks a brow but doesn’t say anything, only nodding at me. He runs a hand in his disheveled hair, his chest lifting up and down, then clears his throat. “Go now. I’ll see you tomorrow” is all he responds, finally breaking eye contact and looking away. My heart aches for an unknown reason yet I feel strangely serene, like floating on a cloud.

Tonight, I will be dreaming of him. And in my dreams, he looks at me.

[land-of-the-unfree]

Made-in-DPRK: unreliable & ineffective

Some North Korean artillery appears to be unreliable and ineffective, though. As an example, many defense experts cite North Korea’s 2010 shelling of South Korea’s Yeonpyeong Island during a flareup in tensions.

According to South Korean military estimates, the North fired about 170 shells using a 122 mm multiple rocket launcher, or MRL. Fewer than half of them hit the island; of those, about 25% failed to detonate.

“This high failure rate suggests that some [North Korean]-manufactured artillery munitions – especially MRL rounds – suffer from either poor quality control during manufacturing or that storage conditions and standards are poor,” a report at the time by 38 North, a U.S.-based site that monitors North Korea, said.

Effects on Russia-Ukraine-War

Claims have emerged that Russia is facing difficulties due to low-quality artillery shells after receiving weapons from North Korea to replenish its ammunition depleted by the war in Ukraine.

According to Ukrainian military media outlets like Defense Express and others on the 12th (local time), recent images of disassembled North Korean-made NDT-3 152mm artillery shells being utilized by the Russian military were disclosed on a Telegram channel.

According to the analysis, all five randomly selected shells had different quantities and qualities of nitroglycerin (propellant) loaded, suggesting that the combustion intensity might not be consistent.

Furthermore, there were instances where the shells were not adequately sealed, which raised concerns about potential quality deterioration due to moisture exposure. It was also noted that numerous shells lacked the wire components required to extract the copper powder inside.

[lovepmd]

PSMD!Hero literally has to keep from falling asleep in the Serene Village school’s lessons. The reading level was nursery stories! They were in freaking middle-high school before coming here… I love there being a running theme where Hero doesn’t become friends with Partner because of the actual Pokémon running into them. Instead, they kinda cling to the Partner who’s one of the few actually interesting individuals in the school. Hero will literally help them prank anyone in the Village or burn the world if Partner asks them to.

And the Partner very quickly realizing the Hero as much starved for a friend, possibly even more than them. Hero who knows so much obscure knowledge about the Legendaries, egg moves, how to do high level math like Kecleon does, how to tell an interesting story—yet feels like everything and everyone in the village is too slow to understand how they work. Partner might be a enthusiast kid who gets in way over their head. But, even they can tell how terrifyingly brilliant the Hero is despite hardly saying anything.

Need a plan to take on a dungeon with Pokémon they are both weak too? The Hero prepares a bunch of ammunition to throw at enemy Pokémon. Partner gets frustrated over their Pops (Carracosta) scolding them for not getting along with Pancham? Hero will make up something about Partner and Pancham being rivals who just strike sparks with one another.

Partner needs someone to help pull them from a self-critical spiral where they wonder if their careless nature will prohibit them from actually being a decent explorer.

Hero’s one hundred percent right there explaining how their enthusiasm is a great quality since exploring is their passion and not just a job to them. For all that the Hero was a supposedly endless well of knowledge, they weren’t a know-it-all about it nor did they find it hard to admit when they were wrong.

(A PSMD!Hero who’s trying to keep it together in a completely new world, while also getting used to a new body and stuck in first grade.)

asdfghj yes absolutely

super!partner sees that hero is another "odd one out" in their own way and also desperate for a friend!!!! so they'll be supportive of hero and even look up to them and also hero will be supportive of them in return!!!!!!!

[menzoberranzans-historian]

Shops & Activities in Menzoberranzan's districts:

THE BRAERYN:

The Wan Hag

Information Broker

During the Time of Troubles era and the beginning of the War of the Spider Queen, an information broker named Smylla Nathos operated in the Braeryn. A human, she captured the attention of a drow slaver aid on the surface world and returned to Menzoberranzan as something more than a slave and less than an honored guest of House Faen Tlabbar. For a time, she used her skill as a sorcerer and diviner-as well as her drow like poise, charm, and ruthlessness to serve as an advisor to Matron Ghenni'tiroth. But when she fell ill, and healing magic failed to offer remedy, her sickness was viewed as a curse inflicted by Lolth.

Escaping assassination by her former benefactors, Smylla fled to the Braeryn to eke out a new life among the dregs of drow society. Although her illness left her withered and weak, the Wan Hag, as she came to be known, employed her eldritch talents to cobble together a formidable web of informants and spies. However, by the beginning of the War of the Spider Queen, her illness had robbed her even of her divination talents, and she was soon killed by Ryld Argith.

Quaggoth Drool

Tavern

The Stench streets is notorious for its déclassé “drinking pits" those crude establishments where drow of every station go to forget about caste and rank for a few hours, guzzle raw spirits, and watch lesser creatures slaughter one another in bloody contests. One such place is the Quaggoth Drool. As is common inn such pits, revelers must surrender all weapons when they enter the tavern. Then they can get as drunk as they want, shout, argue, talk, and have a good fight. Priestesses often use magic to eavesdrop in such ruinous places, listening for treachery, plans for attacks on houses, or other business being discussed. The entertainment focuses on the sunken arena at the center of the common room where patrons wager heavily on brutal and often lethal pit matches.

DUTHCLOIM:

The Cathlyre

Exotic Bird Aviary

Anchored to a sweeping battlement of stalactites along the Clawrift's easternmost perimeter is a spectacular latticework enclosure crafted of basalt support beams and a mesh of calcified webbing. Within the free flight structure, soar countless types of avians from the World Above, including many exotic species (among them the namesake peacock-like cathlyre). From the large shop, perched along the ledge of the Clawrift, the birds are sold as pets, live targets, or roasted alive before the customer's eyes-a hot meal seasoned and done to order.

Rhauvais' Arms

Munitions Supplier

Proprietor Rhauvais del'Ygana, a tall and strong female drow, specializes in discreet manufacture and sale of exotic, high-quality ranged weapons and ammunition for her noble clientele. Specialty armaments of her design include “the spinagon” (a repeating hand crossbow), "the kocrachon” (a hovering, envenomed, dart-like projectile that strikes upona triggered condition), and "the hamatula” (a basilisk-hide bandolier that magically recalls any dagger thrown from its pockets); all are named after devils of the Nine Hells.

The Bazaar

The ever-changing, never-sleeping Bazaar is the commercial heart of Menzoberranzan. This circle of bare bedrock about 750 feet in diameter is a crowded, untidy labyrinth of stalls and hagglers. The ongoing trade fair attracts merchants and goods from all over Faerûn, and the drow go there to buy and sell almost everything imaginable.

Warriors training at the Academy patrol the Bazaar heavily. The patrols are performed to keep a lid on the violence, but they do not interfere with haggling, arguments, or fraudulent dealing. The merchants suffer the patrols to keep the house nobles in line. The Ruling Council maintains the patrols to prevent giving the merchants a reason to hire large numbers of guards that could grow into private armies.

By decree of the Ruling Council, the Bazaar contains no permanent structures. No stall can remain in one spot longer than 66 days. The law is intended to keep the Bazaar from dwindling away aspermanent buildings replace the stalls. Also, the constant shuffling forces buyers to tour the Bazaar, searching for favored stalls or merchants.

Fights and covert sabotage are common since vendors jostle for more space for their booths or try to avoid being relegated to a bad location. While merchants are not allowed to openly sell their space at the Bazaar, wise merchants arrange to trade spots with other established vendors for favors.

Merchants of all races and lands are welcome in the Bazaar, and shoppers can get almost anything they desire in its curtained booths and stalls, given enough patience and money. The stalls carry goods and services that range from the mundane to the wondrous. Tailors, potters, and crafters of every stripe can be found in the twisting paths of the Bazaar. Surgeons, potions, and herbal medicines can also be found there by those who want to avoid seeking healing from the priestesses of Lolth. Some vendors even sell wines, cheeses, and other exotics from the surface lands, and one is able to send and receive messages to and from the world above.

Living commodities can also be purchased in the Bazaar, and many drow go there to hire mercenaries and outlander wizards. While slaves can be bought there, most purchasers looking for such goods go to the Braeryn to fill those needs.

Bhaelundryn's Bestiary

Underdark Hostler

Heavily guarded by a dozen drow guards and gnoll overseers, this stall provides pack lizards and riding-lizard mounts, including the harnesses, goads, leadlines, and carrying frames for the creatures. VhurnBhaelundryn, an old, fat, affable, and heavilyscarred drow warrior, always has one of each sort oflizard harnessed and ready, but the cost is astronomical The fee does include immediate help from the overseers, however, in delaying pursuit, patrols, and anything up to angry high priestesses. In addition tobeasts, Vhurn sells "underdark packs" for adventur-ing in the Underdark and is knowledgeable about places to buy other gear and weapons.

Dhode's Fine Piwafwis

Tailor and Clothier

Dhode Lu’orz is a tailor who sells all manner of clothing cut in drow fashions, but he specializes in making piwafwis. He staffs this stall with six apprentices who he treats as little more than slaves. Dhode has a number of contacts in Sorcere willing to add enchantments to a piwafwi if the price is right.

Quild's Mobile Parlor

Information Broker

This stall is little more than a bench and a cart full of cheap trinkets. Quild, a wiry, muscled male drow, moves his cart and bench regularly to follow shifts in traffic around the Bazaar. He engages non-drow and other males with nonstop chatter while he works but is quiet and submissive before female drow. Quild is an excellent source for rumors and gossip, and he can give direction to most locales in and around the city. Of course, generous tips greatly enhance the accuracy of the information.

Sense of Sensuous Scents

Perfumery

The mixture of scents wafting on the light breeze of Menzoberranzan ensures that shoppers smell this stall long before they see it. Rauva Zoldyth, a female drow, sells a wide variety of incense, from bricks that burn in braziers to sticks that smolder slowly. She also sells oils and candles, most of which are treated to burn with a low eldritch-colored flame that won't hurt sensitive drow eyes. Rauva notes which priestesses buy what incense and how much, and discreetly sells this information to those who might be interested in knowing what houses are preparing certain rituals.

Shimmerdark's Decanter

Vintner & Alchemist

Named for its handsome, charming (and smart-mouthed) young drow proprietor, this stall stocks rare and fine potables from all over the Realms. Daelein Shimmerdark carries a wide selection, from fortified wines of the Sword Coast to hard liquors made by the dwarves. Daelein offers love potions and sleep poison to rich and discreet shoppers. For a small fee,he will also provide directions on the best places to sell stolen goods.

Whispers in the Dark

Courier

A human wizard named Fethlorn Kelapanch set up shop in the Bazaar late in the Spellplague era,specializing in delivering messages around the city. Young drow commoners, especially orphans, camp outside his stall, waiting for a chance to run a message and make a few coins. Fethlorn also has connections with many caravan masters and can arrange for messages to be delivered to far-off locations in the Underdark or even to the surface. He can also arrange for messengers to run the missive directly, but this is ruinously expensive. A number of spells and rituals for magical communication are at his disposal, allowing him to contact virtually anyone in Faerûn, including in the World Above.

EASTMYR:

Battered Beholder

Arms and Hardware

The inside of this weapons shop is almost as battered as the beholder (said to be Many Eyes) on the sign at the store front. The inventory varies widely from day to day.and the shop fences goods with no questions asked. A male dwarf named Olask Dhauluin runs the Beholder. Olask came to Menzoberranzan shortly after the War of the Spider Queen and remains there throughout the Spellplague era, which is a good indicator of his caution and deviousness. Olask lives in the floors above the shop, using monsters to guard it during non-business hours, when they are allowed to roam freely.

Calask's Hands

Hairstylist

This hair salon is named for the male human who founded the business during the Sable Years, Myrlyth Calask. His shop survived him, passing to a male drow commoner named Filraen after the War of the Spider Queen. The clientele claims that Filraen's delicate drow fingers are much better than Calask's, but Filraen keeps the name because of its novelty, which attracts customers. Filraen is secretly a spy for Bregan D'aerthe. He relays messages to other agents and reports on what he overhears. He never takes any action that could expose his cover.

Darkled Depths

Tavern

Located across from the abandoned House Kenaf incompound is the Darkled Depths, one of the most popular taverns in the city. The depth is a higher-class establishment than the drinking pits, though it does admit non-drow. It is renowned for its glowing drinks made from phosphorescent lichen and a wide variety of stuffed mushrooms. The tavern fills four floors carved from the interior of a stalagmite. One wide winding stair connects the floors, but several open locations allow drow to levitate from one floor to another. In addition to music and singing, the depths' features shadow plays performed on an illuminated canvas. The owner is a commoner drow female named Kialara, who oversees an almostentirely male staff.

Dylchanta's Furfeathers

Massage House

The best massage house in Eastmyr, Dylchanta's Furfeathers regularly hosts massage parties for large groups. The parlor is run by Dylchanta, a female drow commoner, who is assisted by a staff of a dozen masseuses evenly split between genders. Dylchantahas no aspirations for nobility, only for the wealth as successful business can bring and the influence that wealth can buy. Some in Eastmyr whisper that she ensures that Furfeathers remains the only good massage house in Eastmyr through threats and violence, but nothing has ever been proven. Her principal clients are members of House Hunzrin, but on any given day, members of any of the lesser houses and common families can be found there.

Narbondel's Shadow

Rooming House

Narbondel's Shadow is one of the two surviving rooming houses that cater to non-drow visitors in the city. Narbondel's Shadow is very expensive, but the service is excellent. Rates include all meals, basic drink, stabling, and a private room with a magical light source. A human adventurer named Morl founded the rooming house shortly before the Time of Troubles. He left the place to his son, but in the late Spellplague era, it is run by a halfling named Dalfred Noakes.

Dalfred had a violent encounter with a young Hunzrin noble, which left him scarred and without his left ear. He has never forgotten or forgiven the noble. To this day, he makes full use the rooming house's prime location overlooking the Clawrift, and a connected small cave system that does not join up with Dark Dominion, to smuggle goods and hide people fleeing angry drow nobles. Dalfred also has contacts throughout Eastmyr and Braeryn for clients looking to discreetly hire or purchase needed magic, healing, weapons, and other gear. He plays a dangerous game that will likely get him killed in the near future.

NARBONDELLYN:

Red Tears

Cartel of Gem-Cutters & Moneylenders

Red Tears is a secretive consortium of lesser merchants that have banded together against the most conspicuous and haughty merchant houses of Menzoberranzan. This cartel of “dealers in the shadows”was formed in the Year of the Vitriolic Sage (1047DR) by a sardonic one-eyed drow known as Farseeing Phurn. Phurn is credited by those in the know for fomenting the bitter rivalry between prominent gem-cutting Houses Belek'tyr and Shadalun-a feud that has resulted in countless assassinations and significant loss of profits over the decades. Today, Red Tears is an expansive criminal organization with a coterie of smugglers, fences, racketeers, thugs, and cut throats operating throughout much of the city. Phurn governs his illicit empire from his compound in central Narbondellyn, carved from the ruins of House Tuin'Tarl. The organization takes its name from a rare teardrop-shaped gemstone of unusually-vivid, blood-crimson hue in Phurn's possession.

Brothers Jaszarr

Perfumers

Narbondellyn is home to the wealthiest (and most expensive) perfumers in the city. In the crowded,damp underground, perfuming is an art born of necessity. The best drow scents mingle with less desirable smells to mute everything into a pleasurable background. The brothers Dhellorn and Dirziir Jaszarr are together regarded as the finest purveyors of perfume in the city. Sold only to the finest drow of high society, their scents are woven with magical compulsions that make them more than simple cosmetics. In the right hands, such a perfume is the key to power and influence-two of every drow's favorite things. Unknown to all but a discreet clientele, the talents of the brothers Jaszarr extend to the crafting of toxic potions and ointments as well. For a hefty sum, these poisons-often seamlessly blended into their exotic perfumes-can cripple or slay a rival with little chance of detection.

Feathered Masqueax

Theater and Festhall

Unlike most playhouses in the city, which stage low-brow comedies, the Feathered Masqueax prides itself on hosting only innovative, well-acted dramas. Mostastonishing for revelers in attendance is the fact that many of the actors in the troupe are, in fact, undead; Their performances flawless and eerily lifelike. At show's end, privileged clientele are welcomed back-stage to enjoy food, libations, and the company of performers they fancy.

The owner and proprietor of the theatre company is an enigmatic male drow named Phaless. Nearly seven feet tall and always shrouded in a dark, blood-splattered robe resembling a funeral shroud, Phaless strikes an imposing figure. A tiny animated skeleton pendant pinned to his robe reveals to those in the know that the drow is a deathsinger, a rare bardic practitioner renowned for songs of dark glory and necromancy.

Black Sapphire Bath

Public Bathhouse

One of a dozen public baths scattered about the city,the Black Sapphire Bath is primarily a gathering place for males seeking to rid themselves of a day's sweat and grime, not to mention a place to socialize and relax in leisurely comfort away from the over-bearing presence of females. Patrons can be bathed by servants or left alone as they wish. Many fires keep the octagonal pools warm, its steaming mineral water scented with a choice of fragrances. Although not a festhall, there are no rules against guests enjoying more amorous activities with each other or with the bathing staff if additional coin is forthcoming.

WEST WALL:

Elstearn's Escorts

Hireling Agency

As one of the few businesses that has flourished in West Wall, Elstearn's Escorts provides carte-blanch services of intelligent, well-groomed, and attractive drow of either gender to its discerning clientele. Although some clients avail themselves of the agency for simple carnal pleasures, the escort service's pool of diverse hirelings has a wide variety of skillsets useful to Menzoberranyr social climbers. Many are hired as well-spoken and charismatic escorts for social functions; others as guides and interpreters of outlanders visiting the city. Some even seek out Elstearn's Escorts for well-trained bodyguards when business takes them to dangerous parts of the city or for quick excursions into the surrounding Underdark.

Xeva's Den

Gaming Pavilion & Tavern

The common room of this drinking establishment offers its discerning patrons a quiet place to enjoy a relaxing game of sava, table dice (backgammon), or oldmen's bones (pick-up sticks). Gamers looking to make wagers can do so in Xeva's private rooms. Elderboy Aumon Baenre is a frequent guest at Xeva's, sometimes gambling away hundreds of platinum in an evening.

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