#Light Image Resizer Crack

[gameshowtrainwreck]

A Lot of Words on a Brief Update

No, I still have not cracked shaders for Godot 4. But I have mastered the SubViewport, Camera, and Lighting nodes, so the trilons have been incorporated into the main scene.

This may be the acme of foolishness on my part, but I went about this slightly differently:

Made one to the proper proportions for an equilateral, 3-sided prism. (The plan will be to attach a shader that will read a particular trilon's parent node by the type of parent I have attached to it and apply the appropriate texture to the appropriate polygon of the mesh).

Dropped that into another scene to resize it to spec, as well as attach animations, lighting, and camera nodes as siblings. (I've done separate animations to stop every 120° but I've also done another one as going a full revolution as a loop for... I don't know, something to look at while the credits run, I guess.

Made separate Viewport controllers with sub viewport as children and placed each resized trilon as a single scene in the 2D main scene in their appropriate locations.

Part of me wants to set up the game logic, but I feel like I can't get that done until I got all the graphical elements down pat. But the placement of graphical elements hinges on the game logic.

Well, I'm gonna hit the documentation again; I think I got the idea of the UV for the mesh down, I just need to connect the coordinates of each polygon of the mesh to the parts of the atlas images I've made for them.

The X for the mesh will either be 0, ⅓, or ⅔; Y will be either 0 or ½. Which makes the three polygons of this located at (0, ⅓), (.5, 0), and (.5, ⅔). The majority of these will use two graphics of the atlas, the 'inactive' tile (a blue art card with a little stylized logo on the center, located @ (0,0)), and a 'content' tile (white graphic to put labels on, located @ (0,1)).

That third polygon of the prism (@(.5, ⅔)) depends on the game logic. On one type of trilon I have built for this, it'll either show a 'modifier' (an extra incentive if they complete a bid, the remaining images in the atlas) or another 'inactive.'

The other trilon will show a confirmation on the answer selected ('YES' / 'NO'), so that will depend on the controls I set up for this.

The third only uses two of the faces, one showing a cover denoting a 'cover' (the A-D tiles with 2,3, or 4 on them), the rest denoting the boxes' 'contents' (first row of that being for a bonus round if I ever get enough together to offer one. May just do it for shits and giggles the remaining rows of slot machine graphics and the stop sign are for the main play loop).

So this shader will need to know:

The content of my CSV files for the category name + the possible answers attached to it.

If a crit roll was successful, which particular modifier should be attached (each new category is a separate roll, but the plan is to have the chance of a modifier increasing with every new category until it resets when someone collects a trophy off the 'prize board')

The location of the atlas images.

The location and designation of each graphic within each atlas.

Which polygon of the mesh is currently facing the camera (and I need to figure out how to plot the UV coordinates of that from the viewport)

Which answer was selected by the player as well as whether it was correct or incorrect.

The result of the game logic' selection and shuffling of three distinct prize graphics (I've got five total so far, but the plan is to change sets after each trophy and just reshuffle the graphics from that set with every unsuccessful PB attempt) and the stop sign across all three rows of the PB (the idea is to reveal the same graphic on the top, middle, and bottom rows. three stop signs end your turn without giving you a trophy for it, but you keep any points you might have left).

It seems to me I can simplify that at a couple of points, and if something reveals itself as I'm learning about this, I'll keep y'uns posted.

[colorconsulting3]

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[fatefamilydental]

Smile Makeovers: A Comprehensive Guide to Veneers & Laminates

Introduction:

A captivating smile is often considered an essential component of personal confidence and aesthetics. Smile makeovers, facilitated by cosmetic dentistry, have become increasingly popular, with veneers and laminates emerging as transformative tools. This comprehensive guide explores the intricacies of veneers and laminates, shedding light on their applications, benefits, and the artistry involved in crafting radiant smiles.

Understanding Veneers & Laminates:

Definition and Composition:

veneers & laminates are thin, custom-made shells of dental material that are bonded to the front surface of teeth to enhance their appearance. Typically made from porcelain or composite resin, these restorations are designed to mimic the natural color, shape, and translucency of teeth, providing a seamless and attractive result.

Applications:

Veneers and laminates are versatile cosmetic dentistry options used to address a variety of dental imperfections, including:

a. Discoloration: Veneers can cover stains and discolorations that do not respond well to teeth whitening procedures. b. Chips or Cracks: Laminates are effective in concealing minor chips or cracks, restoring the integrity and appearance of damaged teeth. c. Irregular Shape or Size: Veneers can be used to reshape and resize teeth for a more harmonious and balanced smile. d. Gaps and Alignment Issues: Laminates can close gaps between teeth, and both veneers and laminates can address mild misalignments without the need for orthodontic treatment.

The Artistry of Smile Makeovers:

Customization:

The artistry of smile makeovers with veneers and laminates lies in the customization of each restoration. Skilled cosmetic dentists work closely with patients to understand their aesthetic goals and preferences. Factors such as tooth color, shape, size, and overall smile symmetry are meticulously considered to create veneers or laminates that blend seamlessly with the patient's natural dentition.

Smile Design:

Smile design is an integral aspect of the artistry involved in veneers and laminates. Cosmetic dentists utilize advanced digital imaging and mock-ups to visualize and plan the desired changes to a patient's smile. This collaborative process ensures that the final result not only meets the patient's expectations but also enhances their unique facial features and expressions.

The Veneer & Laminate Procedure:

Initial Consultation:

The smile makeover journey begins with an initial consultation. During this visit, the cosmetic dentist assesses the patient's oral health, discusses their cosmetic goals, and determines the suitability of veneers or laminates. X-rays and impressions may be taken to create a precise treatment plan.

Tooth Preparation:

To accommodate the thickness of the veneers or laminates, a minimal amount of enamel is usually removed from the front surface of the teeth. This step ensures a proper fit and helps prevent the restorations from feeling bulky. In some cases, minimal to no tooth reduction may be required, depending on the type of veneers or laminates chosen.

Impression and Temporary Restorations:

After tooth preparation, impressions are taken to create precise molds for the fabrication of the custom veneers or laminates. Temporary restorations may be placed on the prepared teeth to protect them and maintain aesthetics while the permanent restorations are being crafted in a dental laboratory.

Custom Fabrication:

The artistry of smile makeovers comes to life during the custom fabrication of veneers or laminates. Dental technicians use the impressions to craft restorations that match the color, shape, and size specifications determined during the smile design phase. High-quality materials, such as porcelain or composite resin, are chosen for their durability and lifelike appearance.

Bonding and Final Adjustment:

Once the custom restorations are ready, the patient returns for the bonding appointment. The cosmetic dentist carefully places the veneers or laminates on the teeth, ensuring an optimal fit and appearance. The restorations are securely bonded using dental cement and then meticulously adjusted for comfort, bite alignment, and overall aesthetics.

Benefits of Veneers & Laminates:

Aesthetic Enhancement:

The primary benefit of veneers and laminates lies in their ability to dramatically enhance the aesthetic appearance of a smile. Whether addressing discoloration, chips, gaps, or irregularities, these restorations create a uniform and radiant smile that boosts confidence and leaves a lasting impression.

Minimally Invasive:

Compared to some other cosmetic dental procedures, veneers and laminates are minimally invasive. The tooth preparation process involves removing only a small amount of enamel, preserving much of the natural tooth structure. This makes them a conservative yet effective option for smile makeovers.

Durability and Longevity:

Veneers and laminates are crafted from durable materials, ensuring their longevity. With proper care and regular dental check-ups, these restorations can last for many years, providing enduring benefits to patients seeking a lasting improvement in their smiles.

Conclusion:

Smile makeovers with veneers and laminates represent a harmonious blend of artistry and science in the field of cosmetic dentistry. From the meticulous customization and smile design to the minimally invasive procedures and long-lasting benefits, the journey to a radiant smile is a testament to the transformative power of veneers and laminates. By choosing these cosmetic enhancements, individuals can achieve not just a beautiful smile but also a profound boost in confidence and self-esteem.

[reesemadeboutique]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Friday Night Lights Plus Size Tee.

[weacrack]

Light Image Resizer 6.1.6 Crack + Serial Key Full Version

https://weacrack.com/?p=6309 Light Image Resizer 6.1.6 Crack + Serial Key Full Version - https://weacrack.com/?p=6309 -

[thornswoggled]

my secrets are so incredibly hyperspecific that 'get like me' is in retrospect more of a gloat than a suggestion. my secrets are that my workplace has a laser engraver and a uv printer, which are both necessary to make this stuff. you could also send a digital file off somewhere that makes custom keychains and the like... but doesnt that kind of defeat the point?

idk where youre from but im american, and these kinds of machinery are becoming more and more accessible to the public. investigate your local library system or nearby universities and see if they have something called a makerspace or a makerlab or anything of the sort. universities where youre not a student and of course private businesses will charge you, but libraries are more likely to only charge for any material you use, like ink or acrylic or wood. for me, personally, my projects cost $2.50 in ink because i already have the acrylic and the adhesive and the jump rings and the lobster claws and... well you get what i mean

as for actually getting your files ready? well that is. it. it really depends. it depends so much that i cant give instructions. ill tell you how i get mine ready. i choose my image from a site like this one that compiles official physical merch. i use clip studio paint to resize and clean stuff up (or remove the "SAMPLE" watermark, lol) then i use my pirated adobe illustrator to create whats called an "image trace," which turns into the outer edge that the laser will cut out. you could probably also use inkscape, which is free and works with vector paths as well, but idk how to use it. glowforge acrylic is the cheapest clear acrylic you can get. you could also get a sheet of craft wood if you want to make a wooden keychain or something. my files end up looking something like this:

so you can see i have a different layer for the red lines, which is where the laser cuts along. (not so fun story, i actually cut like four or five of those circles because the pieces wouldnt slot together. sometimes the laser melts the acrylic so much that it becomes a loose fit, and then you overcorrect and it ends up too tight, and i ended up cracking the base)

then i use a uv printer to print the ink on top, but ours doesnt offer white ink anymore, so i used a white acrylic marker between layers so it wouldnt be see-through. for keychains, i like to cut two copies, one that gets printed on and one that stays blank. then i clip them together and apply an acrylic cement along the edges to attach them, protecting the ink inside. if you have ever bought an acrylic keychain, you can look at the edge and see that there is a seam where two sides were sandwiched. its the same principle. the cement i use is super watery and impossible to remove if you get it anywhere but right on the edge

and then its a matter of putting the hardware on, which you can get at michaels or joanns or whatever. and you end up with something like this (my standee was sort of a crit failure in several aspects, but it does look pretty good in real life. in dim lighting. anyway.):

im painfully aware that you probably didnt want an essay as a response to your question, but here we are

i cant get enough of making my own bootleg tamb merch out of decade-old merch pics that now go for like, over forty bucks. it feels very "you wouldnt download a car." i wont do it for the newer merch because its accessible and feels more unethical but god help you otherwise. if i catch even a whiff of an appealing keychain or standee or whatever from fifteen volumes ago and its on ebay for fifty bucks. uh ohh whats that sound? its the sound of me opening adobe illustrator (which i also pirated)

[reesemadeboutique]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Friday Night Lights Tshirt.

[niki-kim]

Light Image Resizer Crack is a simple program that lets you create resizable photos and resize them all. it You can create PDF pages.

[boafb]

Tell me which of your OCs you would:

go on a date with

take with you during a zombie apocalypse

steal candy from

entrust all your money and belongings with

snitch on if they did something bad

go on a long journey with

Ah, thanks for asking! I try to make a readable answer post, still struggling with some Tumblr features. :')

go on a date with

This would depend on what kind of date I want to go, If I would want a quiet one, an party-like one, an adventurous one, etc.

But ultimately I would say Solodorensis.

It would definitely be a fun date, cracking a lot of jokes, especially puns (I love those!). He would definitely be happy to be on the date and be in a good mood the whole time. He would also be very friendly and respectful. And if it gets late and dark, he also provides a light source!

take with you during a zombie apocalypse

Amida

She would mow down those zombies en masse. And she probably wouldn’t have any problems to remove limbs to evade zombification, and would immediately continue to kill dozens of zombies. :')

steal candy from

I would never steal candy from anyone! D:

Half the people I would be sad making them sad, and the other half would beat me up badly…

If I really have to steal candy from anyone, I guess it would be Gerhard.

It would be good for him to reduce the amount of sweets he eats and I guess I would be able to outrun him.

(I know, this must seem so random, because I didn’t introduce him yet in any way…and that’s the only picture I have of him.)

entrust all your money and belongings with

Winfried

He is a very serious and trustworthy person, he wouldn’t lose the stuff by being careless or stupid and he wouldn’t have any desire to keep/use it for himself, since he is wealthy himself.

He would probably just be annoyed by me bothering him with this task.

snitch on if they did something bad

The same thought process as for the candy question. I have to choose someone who wouldn’t beat me up…

I think I say Colin

Although he would probably tell me that he will beat me up for this, he would never physically attack someone who is as weak as I am, haha.

He actually would be reasonable enough to accept having done something bad and knows he probably deserved being snitched on. Which doesn’t mean he wouldn’t be pissed about it anyway.

go on a long journey with

I guess here I would pick Friedrike

She would have the right balance between being interesting/knowing stuff and not being arrogant about it. She would be silent enough to not bother me the whole time, but talkative enough to not give me the cold shoulder (so, neither annoying nor boring to hang out with a longer time). And she is very resourceful if there would be a difficult situation.

------

How do I resize images? The "Image Options" in the right lower corner appears grey to me, so I can't click on it... D:

[nevertheless-moving]

Pop Star Wars AU: Waking

Drabble set in this au which I wrote way back a few weeks ago.

Back then, I had only recently decided to look up my tumblr password for a third attempt at being an appreciative fandom community member instead of just trying to think really hard at internet strangers, and maybe shout into the void a little. (But there’s like, several people here now??? How did you even find me on the internet? )

Anyway I have since learned how to spell Anakin’s name and insert links. Also that if you resize your window while typing directly into tumblr everything disappears.

Self Indulgent Crack Pop Star Wars Time Travel Fixit (star wars au no 3):

After several years of exile in the Jundland Wastes, Ben Kenobi had not quite finished mentally unpacking the decades of mistakes, grief, and failure that had led him to the desert. It was the work of a lifetime, and some days were harder than others. But after several forays in and out of alcoholism, spice addiction, and every other form of geographically-accessible self-destruction, he could at least say that some days were easier. 

The process was no doubt made more difficult by the abject solitude. Unlike the chaotic years that constituted the fall of the Republic, he had all too much time to think, and no one around to share his thoughts with. He closed his eyes in the dark of his hut, thoughts drifting between past and future. 

The past was as ugly and lovely as ever. The larger future didn’t look much better, but he could find some joy in the thought of tomorrow and fresh bantha milk when the herd roamed near. Owen was always much less begrudging of his presence when he came with an offering, and Beru would likely invite him to stay for noon meal where he would share in fresh cheese as Luke rambled about his plans to fix-up a junked speeder bike.

The thought of Luke’s happiness at the treat allowed him enough peace of mind to meditate more deeply.

He carefully broke off a piece of unfair-bitterness from his larger loving-grief. The bitterness he released into the force. The grief he turned over and soothed until its edges dissolved. He accepted it, now smoother if not smaller, laying it to rest alongside his hard-earned wisdom and unfinished poetry.

Tired, but fractionally lighter, Ben Kenobi drifted to sleep.

He opened his eyes to the first rays of daylight peeking in his temple chambers.

The room was intimately familiar. For a few years they were Ashoka’s, on the rare occasion she found herself temple-side and in want of privacy but not complete solitude. For a solid decade before her, the chambers were Anakin’s, though he was quick enough to accept the common room couch when Ashoka entered their life. And before that...they were his. That was his model rocket on the shelf, and his astronomical mobile hanging from the ceiling, and his robes scattered on the floor, though they hadn’t been arranged as such in this room since his apprenticeship with Qui-Gon. He sat up. 

Glad he had put energy into meditation last night, he used the lingering clarity of mind to try and work through possible explanations. 

Vivid Dream? No a quick pinch to his inner elbow debunked that, as well as the fact that the morning taste in his mouth was more the minty tang of denti-cleaner, rather than the saltiness of dried meat which he had grown accustomed to.

Hallucinogenic mushroom flashback? Possible, though it still wouldn’t explain the detail of physical sensations he felt, running his hand from the temple-spun linens on his bed to the warm-carved wood of his bedside table. He stood and did a perfect forward flip in place. Shockingly his knees didn’t ache at impact, but a drug induced hallucination of this intensity would have some sort of impact on his equilibrium, and he felt perfectly balanced, at least physically.

Force vision seemed most likely. Sinking into cross-legged meditation, he gradually lowered his mental shields. There was no whisper of Vader or Palpatine anywhere near Hutt space at this time, so the risk of reaching out was both manageable and necessary. Rather than the pure energy he personally associated with intense visions, he felt gradients of light, echoing ripples of emotions, and the unique solidity of force-imbued stone walls.

Heart beginning to race as reality set in, Ben concluded that he was, indeed, in the Jedi temple on Courascant. Even if he had suffered a complete psychotic break, his force sense couldn’t lie with such crystal clear detail. Confused unreality mixed with images of the past and future, sure. But this was the temple. It just was. 

He couldn’t make sense of it. Even if he had somehow been found, drugged, and transported to the heart of the empire, the rooms as he sensed them didn’t exist anymore. The contents were lost or burnt, the stone walls destroyed and rebuilt into a wing of the Imperial Palace.

Obi-Wan sank deeper into the force and reached out further, searching for he answers. In general, the force felt light, the shroud of the darkside was a hazy irritation in the distance, not a smothering blanket. The manifold wounds in the force formed by senseless war and destruction were absent. Also gone were the tang of grief and loss that he had begun to associate with the temple’s signature even before- even before the purge.

The temple was also full to the brim with tens of thousands of lights in the living force. He reached out to them incredulously, nudging many just to feel a living, sentient response. The last time he remembered feeling so many Jedi all in the temple at the same time was...well, when he still lived in this room. The nearest living force sensitive presence was achingly familiar, though notably and unquestioningly living. He could feel the presence moving nearer and retreated, pulling himself fully back into his body.

The only explanation that fit was that he had suddenly, miraculously, inexplicably traveled back in time. 

He half ran to his closet, opening the door with a yank to reveal a full length mirror. A once-familiar, 25-year old padawan stared back with visible shock. Of course his knees didn’t hurt, this body hadn’t yet been broken and abused by knighthood, war, and Tatooine. His hands examined the smooth chin, the unwrinkled forehead, and even the terrible, terrible haircut.

Obi-wan startled at a knock at his door, freezing in place. 

“Padawan?” Came Qui-Gon Jinn’s voice softly, “I don’t intend to pull you out of meditation prematurely, but is there a particular reason you were sprawling over the temple this morning? You startled me somewhat. To be perfectly honest, I think you might have alarmed a few people around the temple, I’ve already received messages from council telling me to reign in my padawan before he hurts himself.” 

Qui-Gon sounded more amused than reprimanding, and he paused, clearly waiting for an answer. 

Obi-Wan’s jaw locked up. What could he say? How could he even to begin to explain what had happened? He sank to floor, head pressed to the ground and tears silent streaming down his face. All he could do was offer to the force were words, the feelings could come later Thank you. Thank youThankyouthankyouTHANKYOU. 

For whatever reason, the force had granted him a second chance. Regardless if it was intended as punishment, gift, or inexplicable chance, he would build a better future than the one he left behind. 

“Padawan?” Qui-Gon knocked again, sounding concerned, “Are you alright? If you don’t answer I’m going to have to come in there.”

And all at once he had flipped back to not enough time to think and too many people needing his attention.

Obi-Wan managed to open his mouth to call out some meaningless assurance, intent on gaining more time to process the fantastical situation. Much to his surprise, what came out was a strangled, keening sob. Qui-Gon burst through the door. 

Obi-Wan realized, with a little embarrassment, that he was curled up practically into a ball on the floor, tears streaming in a shocking waste of water. It was probably not the most dignified, nor the most reassuring position for Qui-Gon to walk in on. 

Qui-Gon rushed to his side, pulling him up by the shoulders to frantically look him over. “What happened?” he demanded, “Are you hurt? Did something go wrong while you were meditating and you were trying to reach out for help?”

Obi-Wan smiled at the barrage of questions. He had almost forgotten that on the rare occasions when Qui-Gon’s perfect Jedi serenity broke, he became somewhat counterproductively intense. 

“I’m alright, Master,” he tried to say, but what came out was more of a croaking, “MNNrlerR.” 

This predictably, only increased Qui-Gon’s concern.

To Obi-Wan’s deep consternation, he was dragged by Qui-Gon to the healer’s wing. He remained quiet during the examination, not wanting to risk whatever was compromising his ability to speak. It could be readjusting to his younger body, or a manifestation of the admittedly great emotional shock he was still experiancing. Or simple lack of practice- it had been several weeks since he had last heard the sound of his own voice, from a certain point of view.

After finding no physical cause for concern, Master Vyr asked Qui-Gon to wait outside.

“Padawan Kenobi?” The Tortugan healer asked gently. “Your Master seems quite insistent that something is wrong. Would you like to discuss what the problem seems to be?”

Obi-Wan cleared his throat and was relieved when his voice came out smooth and under his control, “I’m alight, Master. I apologize for disruption. I experienced a... particularly strong vision when I woke up this morning, and temporarily lost control over myself. I’m already feeling more stable. I believe I simply need to meditate on what I’ve seen. My master unfortunately came in while I was dealing with some of the emotional aftermath.

“I see,” Vyr responded. “Did you experience this vision before or after your expansive foray into the force? I understand a surprising swath of the temple felt your presence press against them this morning.”

“I reached out after,” Obi-Wan admitted. “My vision was...particularly dark. I felt the need to ground myself with the presence of other Jedi. I’ll make certain to apologize to anyone I may have startled.”

Eventually he was cleared with the strict instruction to stick with shallow meditation for the next few days as well as a strong recommendation to seek out Master Yoda, Sifo-Dryfas, or one of the other Master known to experience visions. 

Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan walked back to their quarters together in a peaceful quiet. It wasn’t until the door clicked behind them that Qui-Gon rounded on his padawan.

“What vision could possibly have left you in such distress?”

Obi-Wan walked to the kitchenette to make tea, stalling before answering. “You have always told me to stay focused on the present, Master”

Qui-Gon frowned. “Yes, however this...vision seems to have altered you somehow. You are grieved by it.”

“Yes. But what I grieve may never come to pass.” 

It won’t come to pass. I might not know his every tool, but I do know Sideous’s biggest secret, and I WILL stop him.

“Will you not tell me what you saw?” Qui-Gon asked, sounding somewhat hurt.

Obi-Wan poured the hot water carefully, feeling torn. If he told Qui-Gon everything... would he believe him? Perhaps, eventually but...what would become of Anakin, still just a boy? And the moment he knew of Palpatine’s evil...he knew Qui-Gon. He would favor the direct approach, underestimating the sheer breadth of the trap the sith had laid (Obi-Wan himself lived through it and only began to understand long after it had closed).

“I saw...a great shadow fall over the republic.”

He sat at the table, relishing in the simple pleasure of pouring a cup for Qui-Gon and himself from a shared pot.

Qui-Gon cradled his mug in his hands. “I see. Nothing specific?”

“Your death. At the hands of a tool of darkness. You ran ahead...” Obi-Wan took a scorching sip to stop himself. “It was foolish. Unnecessary. And I was forced to fight alone without you.

Qui-Gon set the tea down to stroke his beard in thought. “Well. I have no great desire to die. While I make no promises, I will endeavor to avoid leaving you behind ‘unnecessarily.’”

“Thank you,” Obi-Wan replied, over sincere. 

They drank in peaceful silence. It was interrupted by a shrill noise from Qui-Gon’s comm.

“I’ve just received a personal request from the Chancellor to immediately assist in negotiations with a Trade Federation blockade around Naboo. Are you feeling up to it?”

“You know, I think I am”

[carters-coffee]

False Gift

Word Count: 1089

Warnings: minor/brief mention of blood and animal death

Subject Name: Alcina Dimitrescu

She was a beautiful creature of elegant stature. Born into nobility and wealth, she conducted herself with a grace that made her seem startlingly out of place in the small village tucked away in the mountains. A ray of light in the dusk, bright and charismatic, always sporting a smile that belied the turmoil within. The loneliness she had endured. 

She had been incredibly sheltered as a child. If her societal status wasn't enough to quash common play with other children, her condition certainly was. A curse of the blood, her father had called it. Others in the family had it. Cuts and scrapes didn't cease their flowing, bruises took far too long to heal. One accident would be all it took to drain her body dry. Of course little Alcina had to be protected. Locked away from danger. From the world.

Make no mistake, it was a rich and favorable life she lived. She had a good relationship with her parents and the maids. She was taught proper etiquette and how to conduct herself, as all ladies must learn. She read and wrote and painted and learned to play piano. Always enriched. Always cared for. She would grow into a fine woman.

Yet when she sat in her room on that lavish window seat, looking out to the beautiful spring day, she could feel a cold creeping in, wrapping its gnarled claws around her heart.

Cadou Affinity: Most favorable

Stoic. Prideful. These were the words that would come to mind when one watches the sophisticated woman perched on the cracked oak examination table, the epitome of poise as Mother Miranda approached her with that wicked needle. 

Alcina was by no means large in stature; in fact she was shorter than The Mother, but her straight shoulders and bright eyes boasted of great importance. One could not see her eyes only shone from the anxiety that twisted in her chest. Couldn't feel what she felt when she tried to swallow and found her throat was dry as cotton.

Brain Functions: Normal

She had seen the effect the Cadou had on Mother Miranda's… peons. The way they had lost themselves, their humanity. The ravenous beasts they had become. Mother Miranda promised she wouldn't share their fate. She was special.

She couldn't bring herself to watch the gleam of metal disappear beneath her skin, so she looked to Her Mother for reassurance. The cold still clutched at her heart, but this would make things better, right? This would fix everything. Mother's gift would free her of the blood curse. She would be important.

Regeneration rate is incredibly fast. The subject can heal any external wound within seconds, and grow her nails into claws in mere moments. Rapid regeneration also means an increased body size.

Pain ripped through her like hellfire as muscles grew and stretched far faster than humanly possible. The agony made her want to claw her way out of her own body, to scream or thrash or anything that would make it go away, but she didn't have the energy. All she could do was curl in her bed, seeking comfort in the fetal position as she rode out the storm that ravaged her insides. Cries of pain echoing through the halls subdued to exhausted whimpers as the hours ticked by.

Like all great storms, it eventually passed. Like all great storms, the damage lasted long after the wind and rain ceased. 

Flawless skin was now marred by stretch marks from the sudden growth- jagged streaks on arms and thighs and breasts.

The great castle Mother Miranda had bestowed upon her was suddenly far too small. She found she had to duck simply to pass through doorways, and she wasn't used to the cramped quarters, often painfully hitting the corners of desks, or filling the hall with the deafening sound of shattering glass as she knocked over a vase.

Her clothes, obviously, no longer fit her. Of course Mother Miranda had new dresses tailored right away, but even resized, they didn't fit the same. Where once supple curves were gently sculpted by fabric, now bulging muscles were strained by the seams.

Alcina thought of her Mother, her true Mother, and the lectures she had to sit through as a child on being a proper lady. A proper lady is delicate. A proper lady is feminine. A proper lady is soft. Ladies conduct themselves with grace and flow like a flower in the wind.

She didn't feel very lady-like when she gathered all her old clothes and threw them into the fire, the light of the flames reflected in her eyes. Flickers of gold within gold.

Note: Due to hereditary blood disease the subject must ingest human flesh and blood on a regular basis to maintain regeneration properties.

I suspect that if the subject's regeneration is not properly balanced then she may mutate uncontrollably.

She couldn't bring herself to do it. She had always been a gentle soul. One of her most vivid memories as a child was the meltdown she'd had when her father came back from a hunt with a magnificent red stag. Much to her father's frustration, she refused to eat any meal made with the beast's meat. Try as she might, she could not banish the image of its cold glazed eyes staring blankly ahead, the steady drip of dark blood from the wound in it's chest.

Now, the metallic aroma emanating from the gilded chalice made her gag. How could she possibly drink it, knowing it came from one of her own kind? Someone's life blood swirled in this chalice, someone who once had a love and family and interests and quirks. A real person. A person like her.

But her body did not accept her probity. The Cadou pulsing through her blood cared not for morals or guilt. It cared only for flesh.

So hellfire ripped through her body once again, worse than ever before. Muscles tore and bones rearranged and anguished cries fell from her lips while tears of crystal fell from her eyes.

Her body was not her own anymore. Or perhaps it was more her own than it had ever been. Was this what she was now? A monster? The cold no longer clawed at her heart… It had spread in tendrils beyond the confines of her ribs, like fungus.

Like mold.

Only Mother Miranda would see her in this form. The disappointment in her eyes was almost too much to bear.

An unfit vessel for Eva

My Ao3

[bibliocratic]

Been thinking about Martin being sad about/hating the way he looks bc he looks like his dad, and he tries to talk to Jon abt it, but he's Too Vague so Jon thinks he's worried that Jon doesn't like that he's fat and consequently comforts him about the wrong thing

This took so long, anon, sorry!

Because of the subject matter, there are content warnings in the tags

The first time Martin sees his own face, limp-eyed, flat and drained in the feeble straining light of the bathroom, he starts shaking. A stretching in his chest, like he's swallowed a swelling balloon that is pushing all the air out of him, bunging up his lungs and throat and mouth. That's how Jon finds him, tears sprung to his eyes as he sucks in scant and skittish breathes, his fingers clenching the lip of the sink and wondering why he can't be stronger than all this.  

After that, Martin takes to avoiding mirrors while he's in the safehouse.

It's not hard. He's had lots of practise recently. The Lonely had displayed many double-edged poisons in its folds disguised as furtive blessings. His reflection had been one of them. Martin had counted it as a grateful novelty, to walk past glass shop fronts and the over-stark bathroom mirrors in the staff toilets and see the refusal of light to grant his image returned to him. Even his exile to the seafront, the rock-pools vacant of crawling life or stubborn salt-encrusted fronds of lichen, had shown him only the eddy of tide, the ripples that his steps barely disturbed in the landscape.

It had been a kindness of sorts, to take his image from him. The mirror had never shown Martin anything but things he hadn't cared to see, his own neurosis writ large and backwards.

The morning is not unusual. The birds had woken him, piping shrill even through the double glazing, and Jon, still dozy and drooling his words into his pillow, had cursed and moaned indignant at the vocal wildlife. Martin had dropped back off for another twenty or so minutes, a smirk raising the sleep-dry corners of his lips, waking up when the bed creaked and Jon had stood and stretched and made all sorts of horrendous cracking noises like some sort of human castanet.

This morning though, Jon is in the bathroom, shaving, and making a worrying racket doing so, and Martin is still in that sort of headachy realm of not quite awake yet, where he still gathering the components than make him functional as he shuffles around in his boxers and waits for the shower to be free. Martin's not sure why today, but he finds himself opening the wardrobe. Inside, on the back of the left-hand side door, there's a full length mirror, pocked a little with age and smeared with dust.

Martin's not sure why he feels strong enough today to look.

The thing he expects to see first: his hair shorn down, just shy of a buzz cut. Martin's been doing it himself for years, every month or so hunching over the sink and bathroom mirror in his old flat in Stockwell and uniformly mowing his hair down to a prickly ginger fuzz.

His mum never liked his hair when he grew it out. Snapped and sniped about how long it was getting whenever it started to bend in a curl,  encroaching over his ears, and he'd not always had the money or time to go into town and go to the barber's. When he got his first job, scrimping aside the little he'd left over at the end of the month, he'd bought clippers from the nearest Boots, attached the first guard he'd picked up and ran it over his scalp until the up-scrub was spiky and even. The first time was a bit of a hack-job, lopsided and uneven, but he's improved his technique with time. The method and cut was cheap and basic and he wasn't fond of the way it made his ears look stuck out, but it was one less thing he had to worry about, one less thing his mum could disapprove of.

His hair now hangs, uninspired, slightly greasy and knotted over his ears. Shaggy-dog over his forehead until he swipes it back, a small curl down to the nape of his neck.

He looks like his dad. Sees the man he barely knew staring back, the image lost that Elias had so viciously returned. Studies his snubnose struck centre, a wide jaw that rounds out his face, ruddy cheeks with sparse and spotting freckles. Some of the hairs of his eyebrows are starting to grey. His eyes seem suspicious, washed out, unhappy. He wonders if this is what Jon sees, a man whose closed-off expression does not appear to trust the world nor its motives.

The sort of man who might just up and leave if the going gets tough.

Jon pads into the room, though Martin doesn't turn round.  He puts all his weight on the front of his feet, always has; even in the Archives, Martin could place Jon's footsteps next to Sasha's sturdier stride, Tim's faster tread.

Jon plants his face against Martin's back, grumbles through a good morning. He's smooth jawed again, his skin baking from the shower, his hair not quite towelled off properly, still dripping.

“Lookin' handsome,” Jon mumbles, throwing out a hand to gesture at the mirror, at the twin men standing awkward and self-conscious opposite each other.

Martin observes at his own hands cast back at him through the mirror. His thick arms, the round and pasty pale of them. He has big hands, he thinks to himself. Broad, weathered palms, the skin cracking dry, short and stubby fingers. Hair starts to grow sparse on the back of his hand close to his wrist and only gets thicker and denser up his arms. Jon slumped standing immediately behind him isn't visible in the reflection; Martin's body takes up too much room, wide and solid, even when he wants to secrete himself smaller. He's tall, like Dad was, he guesses, though he stoops and hunches in his shoulders to try and negate it. Martin thinks he looks like the sort of man that plays rugby and drinks too much. When he's walking home, trudging through the residential streets between the tube station and his flat, people passing him sometimes scrunch their body in away from him, and every time that hurts. In the dark, without his stumbling words and over-eager expression and his clumsiness, something about him looks like it could turn nasty, and Martin doesn't know how to take that.

He went drinking with Tim and Sasha once in Lambeth.  They'd had four or five and Sasha had bought them obnoxiously coloured and overpriced cocktails before dragging Tim over to the pool table, Martin sitting out to the side amiably, sipping his sugar-heavy drink and tapping his feet to the music someone put on the jukebox. Two men came over ten minutes later, drunker than them, arguing that they'd been there first, and Sasha had been fired up enough to snap back. It had looked like a scrap brewing, so Martin had put his drink down and stood up, anxiously ready and willing to urge Tim and Sasha away just to keep the peace. The two had looked at him, eyes roving up before they held up their hands, backing off, saying they'd come back when they'd finish.

“No bother, ey, big lad?” they'd slurred at Martin. “Didn't mean anything by it.”

Sasha had beamed as they left, and called Martin a lucky charm. He hadn't felt very lucky. He'd felt sick at the reminder.  

The problem as he sees it, is that everything about him is big.

Inside: too big heart and too raw-open soul. A great vast reservoir where he keeps every bubbling expression of fear and grief and rage that he's never expressed with his body.

Outside: big stocky arms, an over-hanging stomach matched with a tall spine and the sort of footsteps that announce his arrival well before he enters a room.

Martin's dad never hit his mum. He assumes that's something Elias would have glibly enjoyed sharing.  But sometimes he'd stood too close when they'd been fighting, looming, deliberately crowding in her space, and she'd noticed how much taller he was, how much stronger. She'd thought she saw something mean and nasty in his eyes, the way he clenched his fists that meant he wanted to.

She'd imagined she saw that look in her son sometimes too.

Martin worries about that. Worries what other poisoned legacies his dad left him with.

“Mart'n?” Jon says. He's encircled his arms as far as he can around him, though they don't link up, scratching his nails through the hair on his chest. His hands long-boned but smaller, slighter.

Jon is not a small man nor a tall one, average in appearance in most ways if not for the scars, if not for the way the composite of his image makes Martin's heart something stronger in his chest. But Martin is bigger than him when they lie together, Jon's side of the bed made less by default, shunting him further over to the corners. Martin is stronger than him, because Martin has lifted him bodily to hear Jon's laughing protestations as Martin manhandled him onto the sofa and kissed the veins down his throat, the blush risen in his cheeks.

And Martin's angrier than he used to be. Or angrier than he used to admit to being. His mood pinballing from flat to frustrated as everything the Lonely dulled ploughs back into him, all of Martin's mechanisms, the checks-and-balances he built within himself gone ruinous. Martin can be so angry these days, and he doesn't know how to deal with it.

Martin doesn't like the way that worry fizzes under his tongue.

“My dad had big hands,” he says out of nowhere. “He wore some rings, I think, and he had to get them resized to fit his fingers.”

“You making plans to get us rings already?”

Jon's joke is shy and nudging, but Martin doesn't feel like raising the corners of his mouth in a smile.

Martin moves a hand to squeeze the flesh that bunches around his upper arms, pats his stomach.

“I've definitely got his belly,” he says. “His arms. Prob'ly end up with his hair to boot, he was receding a bit.”

Jon's hands stroke palm down over what stomach he can reach.

“I like your stomach,” he says, and it's not that Martin doesn't believe him, because he's getting better at not doubting people, at allowing himself to trust they might like something about him. It's that that wasn't the point.

“Hmm,” Martin says noncommittally, and glances at his own hands again. Square chewed nails and the small bumps of veins.

“You don't look happy,” Jon says.

“What? No, I mean, it – it's fine, it's...”

“Do you... not like looking in the mirror?”

Martin sighs.

“Not particularly.”

“Because you have a problem with how you look?”

“You don't have to spell it out like that, Jon.”

“Like what?”

“Like you're a – my therapist or something. I don't want to – to be questioned o-or psychoanalysed about it. I just, no – I don't like looking at myself. That's all.”

Jon's arms don't unhook from around him. Martin exhales and feels the frustration like sediment build up.

“I look exactly like my dad,” Martin says finally, bitterly.

“You don't,” Jon replies quietly, into the meat of Martin's shoulder.

“You can't know that,” Martin says, although the words are empty of meaning and they both know it. Jon both can and does, whether he means to or not.

Feeling his Adam's apple bob, he continues: “Elias, he showed me. When I was – er, when we needed him distracted.”

Jon's arms clench around him.

“Elias showed you what he wanted you to see,” he says after a careful moment.

Martin shakes his head, because he saw what he'd known already, what his mum had seen, the trickle of memory gushing torrential. That he has his dad's big fingers, big hands and big anger, and he is frightened of what sort of a man that makes him.

“I could....” Jon's fingers flex and skate over the skin where Martin's stretch marks root down to his hips. “I could look? If you wanted? Tell you if Elias was... if what he showed you was true.”

Martin thinks about it, but Jon feels the silence of his refusal and presses his nose against the freckled handful of skin where Martin's shoulder blades are.

“I'll tell you what I see then?”

“See see, you mean?”

“No. Normal seeing. With my own two eyeballs.”

“I am being blessed with the originals today, what a gift.”

Jon headbutts him with his forehead, and the small laugh and a 'Jon!' is pushed out of him as a scarred palm is held up near his face, an eyelid opening in the skin to leer at Martin.

“Put your bloody Pan's Labyrinth eyeball away,” Martin grouches, and he can feel Jon grinning mischievous as the disconcerting eyeball winks before being sunk closed back into the skin.

“Better?”

“I am never going to get used to that.”

Jon makes a noise of agreement. He unplasters himself from Martin's back, and takes a tugging hold of his wrist.

“Look at me?”

Martin lets himself be turned round. Weak-willed, soft-spined to the last wherever Jon is concerned.

Jon looking up at him now, fringed with damp locks seaweeding down his face. Martin brushes them back out of the way, and Jon captures his hand, meshes their fingers together slowly and precisely.

“Tell me?” he asks quietly. “What you've been thinking about? And I'll tell you what I see.”

“My hands,” Martin says after a moment and Jon nods and hums and holds Martin's captured palm in front of him.

“Bigger than mine,” Jon says, demonstrating, holding the two of them as imperfect reflections of each other.  “You've got short nails because you bite them. The cold's making the skin dry, but they're soft, usually. Sturdy. Even when – even when we were leaving the Lonely, I knew once you took my hand we wouldn't get separated.”

“My – er, my arms,” Martin says after a while, prodding with his free hand at the loose flesh at the undersides of his arms. “Well, my bingo wings.”

Jon frowns, reaches up to encircle his grip around them.

“You've got muscle under there,” he says. “You can lift me, no trouble. The first time you did, I, um, couldn't help but hope you'd do it again.”

Martin finds it in himself to meet Jon's gaze.

“Yeah?” he says, pleased.

Jon is starting to blotch with blush, but he carries on, fingers stroking Martin's upper arms.

“Even if you weren't strong,” he says. “You've got – your, um. Freckles. There's no pattern to them, of course, but I like seeing if I can find one anyway.”

“You're a big softie,” Martin chides roughly, dry-mouthed and watery eyed.

Jon doesn't deny it.

“What else?” he asks delicately.

“I'm – I'm heavy,” Martin says, the words shrivelling quiet on his tongue. “I-I don't mind – I'm not ashamed of being, you know, not the smallest guy, I've never had a-a problem with it, not exactly, but I-I'm bigger than you. I'm stronger than you and I take up more room and, my dad, I look so much like him s-s-so what if – ”

He trails off. Swallowing. Unable to finish.

Jon's arms embrace him and he allows himself to be bent down, the angle uncomfortable and Jon on tip-toe, his face mushed into the side of Jon's throat.

Jon rubs at the broad expanse of his back.

“You'd never hurt me,” Jon says, fiercely. “Whether you look like your father or not. You're not him, Martin. I can't, I know I can't convince you, but it doesn't matter if you've got his arms or his eyes or his hair. He's never been where you've been, or done what you've managed. I bet he doesn't – doesn't write poetry, or whistle the Archer's theme tune, or I dunno, is completely useless at catching things.” Martin gives a wet attempt at a laugh. Jon's hands move comfortingly up and down.

“You're not your dad,” Jon continues after a moment. “You aren't responsible for the man he was, or the man your mother thought she saw in you. That's not – it's not your burden to carry. Fuck whatever shadows Elias showed you. You're not him. It's – I can't make you like what you see in the mirror, but when I look at you, I don't see any of the things you're scared of.”

“You can really just, know all that, huh,” Martin says after a minute, lifting up his head, rubbing his eyes with his hand.

“I don't need to,” Jon replies.

Martin's hugs are crushing and enveloping but Jon clings back as tightly.

Martin pulls back after a minute, wiping his eyes again though he knows they've gone red and puffy, already feeling the crimping heat of self-consciousness in his chest. Jon leans back in to kiss him, first his lips, and then his cheek, quick and affirming, as he trails his fingers through his hair.

“You'll be wanting this cut soon,” Jon says, although he seems disappointed at the thought, combing his fingers through the tangle self-indulgently.

“I might try growing it out.” Martin tests the water of the idea, and Jon looks approving at this, nods and hums and runs his fingers through again.

It's been a long time since his hair was longer. Martin thinks he might suit it.

“What would you say to a beard?” Martin follows up,  just to see Jon try to valiantly quash his dissatisfaction and keep a neutral expression. He almost succeeds.

“If you... If you think it best,” Jon manages stiffly. 

Martin's laugh is a free and booming thing in his chest.