#Wild Edge WoodCraft

[wildedgewoodcraft-nc]

Sycamore Kitchen Island Top

Explaining Various Types of Kitchen Countertops - Plastic Laminate, Solid Surfacing, Wood and Stainless Steel Countertops. Read more at:

[dailycharacteroption]

Pop Culture Builds 12: Wence the Wanderer (Magi-Nation Duel)

It’s these pop culture build specials that really make me realize how important data preservation really is. Sure, well-known characters will have oodles of resources for them both in the real space and digital spaces for ages to come. However, when it comes to obscure media, something that is someone’s favorite but didn’t get a lot of attention back in the day… How long will all-digtal resources for such things last without anyone to maintain them? Whether it be fan wikis or the increasingly rare fansites, such information can be exceedingly hard to find, and even then, those resources can be incomplete or leave out details that only fans would already know.

Which is why I’m so grateful that the original person who suggested this character reached out to me about them! Thank you again!

In any case, let’s get right down to it. Magi-Nation Duel was a short-lived CCG which centered around the denizens of the Moonlands and the Dream Creatures they summon to do battle. (It’s probably not lost on you how close “Magi-Nation” is to the word “imagination”)

In any case, today’s subject is Wence, a Naroomese Eliwan magus. The Eliwan are the descendants of the ancients who settled on the Moonlands after being driven from the surface of their homeworld by the “Invaders”. The Eliwans appear to be able to adapt heavily to the various environments they settle in, giving each regional subspecies drastically different appearances.

In any case, Wence lives apart from other Naroomese, and seems to be something of a wandering magus who travels about righting wrongs and even befriending eliwan of different regions, as noted by his friendship with the Underling Eliwan siblings Gruk and Ulk.

While Wence plays a relatively minor role in the Gameboy Color tie-in game, he does also exist in card form as well within the card game itself.

In any case, we’ll try our best to replicate his abilities here in Pathfinder!

 The first hurtle I had to overcome was what ancestry to translate the Eliwan into, but this actually proved very easy, all things considered. Both Elves and the Eliwan are noted for their ability to adapt heavily to whatever environment they are in while still being the same species, so I decided to use elf as the base for him. I would also recommend the Woodcraft alternate trait to give him an edge as a woodsman, however.

Class was a bit harder, given most fighting is done by summons in Magi-Nation. However, I settled on a cross-class build. The first being the Wild Caller archetype for summoner (the Heroes of the Wild version), granting him a plantlike eidolon which can shift in base form depending on the local terrain, and access to summon nature’s ally instead of summon monster, which better fits with the themes of a Naroom deck, especially with one of the feats we’ll talk about later.

Meanwhile, his eidolon should be based on either the Bungaloo (humanoid grass monster) or the Arboll (a spherical leafy plant monster with two gnarled wooden arms)

The other class, which I recommend at least four levels of, is the guide archetype for ranger, granting Wence some better woodcraft, the ability to aid others in traversing terrain, and even some minor nature-based spells.

As both a summoner and a ranger, feats that let you bolster your summons or eidolon are important, as well as those that buff your ranged and outdoorsy skills. A super important one to take, however, is Summon Plant Ally, which adds a large number of plant creatures to your summon nature’s ally list, ranging from mighty treants to leshies and carnivorous plants!

The Naroom deck style revolves around transferring energy between summons and their magus, and since this represents both buffing and healing, that informs some of the spells for this build, such as rejuvenate eidolon and instant restoration to keep both your eidolon and summons in the fight, as well as summon nature’s ally to be able to have both your eidolon and summons out at the same time. Other buffing spells are also a very good choice as well, bolstering their abilities. Naroom also has some plant-manipulation cards in the set, so I’d also recommend spells that can be reflavored as monstrous vines, such as black tentacles, as well as those that conjure plant matter wholesale, as well as entangle from your ranger levels.

The only bit of equipment I was able to confirm Wence having was a bow and arrow, but given the nature of Naroom relic cards, we can assume for this build that he would probably prefer items that boost vitality and allow one to travel stealthily.

If summoner/ranger doesn’t appeal to you, you could perhaps go for a plant master hunter to focus on the combination of being a far-ranging wanderer with a plant companion and access to summon nature’s ally. If you’re playing Pathfinder second edition you could just play a straight-up summoner with a plant eidolon, since you get access to the primal spell list with that anyway, possibly with the ranger multiclass archetype as well.

This was a fun and challenging build for me to come up with, but hardly limited to replicating wence, focusing on supporting your monsters both with spells as well as ranged attacks.

[ravenspeakrp]

Welcome to Raven’s Peak, Naomi, we’re excited to have you! Benji Amsel (Werewolf, Jensen Ackles) has been accepted. Please be sure to stop by the CHECKLIST for the follow list, tags to track, and other reminders.

NAME: Naomi PRONOUNS: SHe/her AGE: turning 29 next month TIMEZONE: GMT+1/2

IN CHARACTER 

FULL NAME: Benji Amsel SPECIES: Werewolf - Mistborn pack AGE: 42 DATE OF BIRTH: 22 september GENDER IDENTITY: cis male NEIGHBORHOOD: DEADMAN ACRES OCCUPATION: woodcrafter WORKPLACE: his own home POSITIVE TRAITS: brave, charming, artistic NEGATIVE TRAITS: antisocial, moody, grump LENGTH OF TIME IN RAVEN’S PEAK: 2 years FACE CLAIM: jensen ackles

BIOGRAPHY

TRIGGER WARNING:bite tw, attack tw Benjamin Amsel, or Benji as his friends called him, hadn't planned on becoming a werewolf. In fact, two years ago, he hadn’t planned on much of anything. Life had been quiet, simple, and predictable. He spent his days carving intricate figures and vases from wood, selling his creations at local markets in small towns far from any real trouble. That all changed one fateful night deep in the Blackwood Forest The attack came swiftly. One minute, Benji had been camping under the stars, enjoying the crackle of his fire, the smell of fresh pine, and the solitude of the woods. The next, he was on the ground, a blur of claws and fangs tearing into his flesh. He remembered screaming, then nothing. When he awoke the next morning, his body was different. His senses were sharper, his strength greater, and the hunger—an insatiable hunger for something primal—coursed through his veins. The moon had cursed him, marked him, and there was no going back. Benji had become a werewolf. At first, he was lost, drifting from town to town, struggling to control the beast within. The full moon brought out a side of him that he feared and hated, and more than once, he found himself waking up in unfamiliar places, clothes torn, hands covered in dirt and blood. It was during this time that he stumbled across the town of Ravenspeak, a shadowy place with its own dark secrets. Unlike other towns, Ravenspeak didn’t question those who arrived with mysteries of their own. It welcomed the strange, the cursed, and the lost—people like Benji. Now, two years later, Benji had carved out a new life in the town. He had honed his craft, using the heightened senses and strength of the wolf to create delicate, intricate woodcarvings that seemed almost otherworldly in their detail. His small statues of wolves, ravens, and forest spirits were sought after by collectors—though not in the usual way. Benji's creations never made it to the town's respectable markets. Instead, they found their way to the black market, where buyers with a taste for the occult and forbidden flocked. Benji carved by day, selling his work in the shadows by night, meeting with secretive clients who paid handsomely for his talent. He’d become something of an enigma in Ravenspeak—known, yet unknown. Few suspected his true nature, though some whispered about the wild eyes that flashed with a predatory glint during the full moon or the way he seemed to disappear into the woods for days at a time. Those who knew him well, though, simply called him Benji—a quiet woodcarver with a haunted past. He lived in a small cabin on the outskirts of town, nestled against the forest’s edge, where the trees stood tall and the air smelled of moss and earth. It was here that he found peace, away from the bustling streets and prying eyes. The forest had become both his sanctuary and his curse, a place where he could both lose and find himself. Despite his struggles, Benji had grown to accept the wolf within. He still feared the full moon, but he no longer ran from it. Instead, he embraced the wilderness, finding strength in his dual nature. The wolf was no longer his enemy—it was part of him. And in a town like Ravenspeak, where darkness was as familiar as daylight, Benji Amsel had found a place to call home.

[warrioreowynofrohan]

Aredhel, Reborn

This is a fragment that I started putting together a long time ago, and it stops in the middle, but my writing isn’t cooperating right now so I’m posting it as-is for @tolkiengenweek . It’s a sequel to my two previous Aredhel pieces (but not my Aredhel and Eöl one, which isn’t in continuity with it). Hopefully I’ll manage to follow up on it.

********************

Aredhel leaves the Halls, permitted to return to life for no reason that she can comprehend. She has not sought mercy for herself, though she has asked it a thousand times for her son and been met with a deafening silence. She chooses to return because Fingon is doing so, and he might not be able to bring himself to go if he left behind both of his siblings as well as his dearest friend. Turgon should have returned - would have been permitted to return, yeni ago, not tainted by kinslaying as his siblings are - but he is being stubborn, out of some mix of reluctance to face the survivors of Gondolin and reluctance to face the Lord of the Waters.

They reenter life to be almost immediately caught in their father’s embrace. Through all that follows - returning to Tirion, reunion with their mother and cousins, an apology to the Lady Eärwen that clearly terrifies Fingon more than any battle he’s ever fought in - the world seems faded and distant to Aredhel, as though some part of her fëa had never left the Halls. She cannot stay in Tirion, she cannot seem to hold the thread of a conversation with anyone, even her parents and brother. She knows, distantly, that she loves them, but it all seems so far away.

Her aimless feet take her to Valmar, and she find herself at the one place in the Blessed Realm that is shunned by Eldar and Ainur alike, climbing from the foot of Ezellohar to the two broken skeletons that were once the purest light in the universe, and as she collapses to the grass she feels, for the first time, a connection with the world. How did you do it? she whispers. How do you continue when what you hold dearest has been turned to darkness and ruin and ash? And something connects within her mind, something that never did through all the years in the Halls, never did during her return to Tirion, though all the reunions and necessary, distant apologies. Her feet carry her south and east, to the seashore and the white city, the city of pearls.

She does not go to the throne room of the king and queen, but to the docks, cloaked and hooded and unnoticed, seeking for faces she remembers. She finds one, working, holding a small curved knife in her hand that she uses to shell oysters.

Aredhel raises her hood, sees the Telerin woman start at the sight of her, and falls to her knees. The knife stops its work, poised in midair.

“What are you doing here?”

“I…I wished to apologize. To say that I was wrong.”

“So? What does that mean? What will that mend?” The woman lays down the shelling-knife, goes to a ship, and picks up another meant for carving wood. She lays the blade to a piece of wood lying nearby and the hands, their movements so smooth and deft when shelling oysters, begin to shake, leaving jagged, uneven cuts, leaving it useless. “I built the ships your people so wantonly destroyed, shaped them as you Noldor shape steel, and now I live again, but that which gave me life has left me. We did not hoard them and hide them in vaults, we sailed them and lived aboard them until they were more our home than the shore, and all you left to us were blood and ash and tainted memories.” The tremors through her body come in waves now, and her voice is choked. “My life was the least of what you stole from me. And now you seek what? Absolution? Resolution? This does not end for me. Why should it end for you?”

Aredhel hunches in on herself. “I surrender. What would you have of me?”

“Why come here, and not to the king?”

Olwë wouldn’t do anything to me - for Uncle Finarfin’s sake, if not for my own. He wasn’t who I attacked. He wasn’t who I killed.

“I thought you had more right. I…I know what it is to be betrayed by one whom you trusted. I know what it it is to see what you love dearest cast into ruin. And if I had - him - apologizing to me, truly and sincerely, as I am to you” - her voice breaks - “I would bury a knife in his guts.” She is shaking. “I came here because I didn’t know what else to do. Only that I needed to do something. I surrender. Say what you want from me, and you will have it.”

The Telerin woman just looks tired. “I don’t want your blood. What use would that be? I don’t want you locked up. What good would that do anyone? You cannot give back what you have taken. You cannot restore what is destroyed.

“Leave us in peace. Go.”

Aredhel goes.

....

She flees to the wild lands she once loved, which no longer feel so narrow as they did in the years of her youth, before Gondolin and Nan Elmoth and the Halls, before she knew that duty was a chain and love was a chain. Fear, too, is a chain, as she find when she wanders into the woods of Oromë where she once hunted with her cousins and stops, trembling, as the treetops cut off the sky, frozen, her thought a thousand miles away in drowned lands where the forest went from wonder to horror to prison. She works her way stumbling back to the light, her arms clutching at branches and tree-trunks to pull her onwards, until she emerges again into the free air.

She goes, instead, to the open plains, where she can run and ride and hunt, and take joy in feeling alive again, with a heart that beats and mouth that tastes and limbs that ache. In time she returns to the forest, first to edges and sun-dappled clearings, later to the denser woods in autumn when the leaves turn yellow and brown and fall to create openings where light and warmth enters, and nuts and fruits and berries surround her at every turn. Regaining the woods in summertime takes longer, where leaves create deep pools of shadow, and it is longer still before she wishes to be in the woods after nightfall, looking up at the stars.

(She no longer wears white. She dresses in greys and browns and tans, and in plain or woodland she might be mistaken for part of the landscape.)

She cannot say, for certain, how much of her escape is driven by avoiding walls, and how much by avoiding people, avoiding the need to hear or speak of (or hear people deliberately and delicately not speak of) a son she cannot defend and will not condemn. Did she shun the woods because they felt a cage, or because it felt that at any moment a pale-skinned, black-haired boy might step out of them with a present for his mother of hazlenuts or newly-caught game or skillfully-carved wood? A boy who is gone, who is become something she cannot and will not name.

Fingon finds her, from time to time, with uncanny ability, though he was never her equal as a woodsman. They share meals, wanderings, conversations light or serious. He does not tell her to return, though he speaks often of their parents and at times ventures to say how much they miss her. She does not know how to explain. Fingon can feel that their positions, failing and pardoned and returned and grieving for the lost, are the same, but it does not feel so to her. He fell in battle, and with a host of heroic deeds to his name. Her father fell in combat, the greatest one in the history of Arda. She died because she trusted the wrong person, loved the wrong person, ran off, was irresponsible and impetuous as always, led an enemy back to the one safe home she still had; her place in the First Age’s history is the dislodged rock or careless shout that starts an avalanche. Turgon has never blamed her for Gondolin’s fall, but that is because she never spoke to him while they were in the Halls, never knowing what to say. I am sorry that my son existed? She isn’t. She isn’t. She isn’t. She is only sorry that his father orphaned him, left him alone among strangers in a strange city with no parent to guide him.

One morning she awakes at her campsite to find her father there, tending the embers of her fire. She does not know how he has found her; he is gifted in scholarship, in diplomacy, in governance, in craftwork, in all the arts of war, but not in woodcraft or tracking or the arts of the wildnerness (save, by necessity, of keeping thousands of people alive in bone-chilling, soul-numbing temperatures).

They speak a little of other things, of her life in the woods and his in Tirion, but he cannot long restrain the question he has come to ask. “Aredhel, can you not come home?”

She offers the easier explanation first, the other being too painful to place in words. “I don’t want to go back to be pitied as a failure.”

“We all failed, dearest. Every one of us.”

“You did not. Not like me. You died fighting Morgoth and every Elda and I expect every Vala respects you for that. Fingon died fighting a balrog. My younger cousins died in battle. Even the philosopher did better than me! I was one of the most eager to go, I killed people in order to go, atta, and I have nothing to show for it, no achievements, nothing to boast of, and I will not go back to be petted and pitied and patronized, I won’t -” and she knows she still sounds like a spoiled child even now, when the others have grown wise and thoughtful and penitent.

Her father simply looks at her, long and quiet, as if trying to perceive all the words she has left unspoken, and they finally struggle to her lips.

“I don’t want to know what they all think of him. I do know what they think of him. I don’t want to be consoled for what my son did or became by people who didn’t know him and can’t understand him, and to know they are thinking of it every time they look at me, I’ll hate them for it and it will break out and I’ll cause trouble for everyone again - ” she’s stopped looking at her father, not wanting to see in his eyes his opinion of such a grandson, not wanting to feel the wrath against him that would come from it. “Why does everything I love fall to evil? My son, Tyelko, Curvo, my - ” she cannot bring herself to say husband, “- him? Do I have no judgement, no discernment? Am I being punished? I loved him when he killed me, I love my son and my cousins yet, and I don’t want to explain or to justify or to live among people that hate them -”

She is weeping now, and her father pulls her into an embrace. “You did not deserve this, Aredhel. Not what happened to you, or what happened to your son.”

“I don’t know.” Her voice is quiet now. “I think, sometimes, it is all of a piece. If you do evil to gain something, whether it be ill in itself or not, it will burn you when you find it. As with my cousins and the gemstones. I killed to gain freedom from limitations or constraint, and when I took it it burned me.”

[elisende]

Sharp Teeth

Characters: Halsin/OMC, Astarion Rating: E Words: 2500

Halsin joins Langoth's camp and Astarion isn't thrilled about it. But Halsin and the ranger's mutual fascination is unyielding and undeniable.

There was an energy in the air, the sort of charge that preceded a night of more than mere revelry.  It would be a night of abandon.  Halsin could sense it.  

The young elf, Langoth--he allowed himself the pleasure of saying the name aloud, under his breath, like a cantrip, or a prayer--had chosen a fair site for his camp by the water’s edge.  

The mere fact of it reminded him of the youth, his wounded eyes and battle-hardened hands.  He saw him in the neatly constructed fire at the heart of the camp, and in the fallen beech trunk by the water, where he knew Langoth must sit most nights, at the mercy of his grim thoughts, twisting the ring on his finger and staring sightlessly into the rushing stream.   In many ways, he was not so different from Ketheric, before he was lost to the darkness.

Halsin found a place for himself away from the gathering crowd of anarchic tieflings, who danced and frisked about the camp like so many red flames.

It was not long before the pale elf, Langoth’s vampiric companion, sauntered over.  He wore a slashed velvet doublet and a crooked smile.  Halsin had seen through his facade in the Shattered Sanctum quickly enough, and his hunch had been confirmed when the pale elf had dug his dripping fangs into an acolyte’s throat.  He wouldn’t soon forget that sight.

“Well met,” the vampire spawn said.  “Decided to join us, have you?  I imagine you’ll be quite a favorite in the adventuring party.  For a time, at least.”  

Halsin laughed a laugh which was not a laugh at all, but a species of growl.  “Oh, I’m merely here for advice.  Ketheric Thorm and I have a bit of unfinished business.”

“That is rather your thing, isn’t it?  ‘Unfinished business’?” said the pale elf.  So he knew, or had guessed, about Halsin’s connection with Langoth.  He couldn’t imagine that Langoth had told his companion about their night together, about the ritual, the wild game.  But he did seem the type to sniff these things out.

When he didn’t rise to his bait, the vampire spawn shifted tactics.  “We haven’t been properly introduced, have we?  Langoth is an eminently capable ranger, but somewhat lacking in social graces.  Raised by wolves, you know,” he said, showing his teeth.  “I am Astarion.”

“I have a higher opinion of wolves than of most civilized people,” Halsin said.  “At least they’re plain in their intentions.”

Astarion laughed, a silky, practiced sound.  “You’re going to be great fun, I can just tell.”

“‘Fun’ is not a word that’s usually ascribed to me.”  He folded his arms in front of his chest.  The vampire spawn attacked and dodged like a phase spider, impossible to pin down.

“Oh, I have a hard time believing that.  You must join me for a sip of wine this evening.  My ego will be terribly crushed if you decline,” Astarion said.  “Really, you mustn't make me beg.  It would be unseemly.”

“Actually, you seem the sort that might enjoy that,” Halsin said.  

“See, you are fun, even if you are old enough to be my grandsire,” Astarion smirked.  “Well, I’ll see you tonight, then.”  And he swept away on a waft of sweet violet perfume before Halsin could correct him.

Halsin heaved a weary sigh, glancing over as Langoth’s comrades gathered near the fire.  His heart seemed to treble in size as he expectantly looked around for Langoth, who was never far from his companions.  But he was not yet here.  Perhaps still palavering with Zevlor, then.  He tried to quash his disappointment and failed.  Now that he’d found Langoth--now that they had found each other--every moment spent apart felt somehow wasted.  He felt like a lovesick adolescent again, as ridiculous as that was--for as Astarion had so mordantly noted, he was old enough to be the elf’s grandfather.

Night fell and as the chaotic energy built up and the din of the crowd grew with the flames of the bonfire, Halsin’s gaze lifted to the waning moon that ascended over the horizon.  Despite all that had happened, and his many mistakes, he was not often prone to regrets, to dwelling on the past.  Perhaps this too came with his advancing age.  He had never felt so apart before, not just from the others laughing and dancing and drinking and singing by the fire.  Apart from himself.  If he could not end Ketheric’s curse, now and finally, what had his long life amounted to?  What was its purpose?

And then Langoth was beside him, as though summoned by magic.  Firelight danced in his eyes.  A smile on his lips.  Warmth that Halsin could lose himself in, forgetting all doubt and darkness.  This one, he could protect: and that would be enough.  He felt it in his marrow.

Langoth’s lips found his and there was a sudden rush of heat, like dry grass catching flame.  His mouth was sweet; Halsin lost himself in the kiss, running a hand through the younger elf’s chestnut hair, taking in his scent.  Then pulling his hips closer, dangerously close.

When they finally broke away, Langoth asked, “Why are you standing over here alone in the dark?”

He might have lied, to save his pride.  But they were past such things.  “I was waiting for you,” he said.  

The other elf paused, drew his breath.  “You should join the celebration, you know.  This is as much your victory as the tieflings’.  The Emerald Grove is safe now.”

“Nowhere is safe, while the shadow Ketheric unleashed still remains.”  He failed to keep the darkness from his voice.  He didn’t wish to think of Ketheric but felt bound to warn Langoth.  If their path led there--to Moonrise Towers--there was much that was needful to know.  

But not tonight.  “Come to me later,” he said, taking Langoth’s wrist and looking into his eyes.  They shone with starlight.  The young elf leaned closer, lips brushing Halsin’s ear, his warm breath sighing on Halsin’s neck, heating his blood anew.

“I don’t want to wait until later,” Langoth whispered.  The youth’s impatience, his hunger and urgency, reminded him of their stolen moments in the grove the day before.  How Langoth had bitten his arm to keep from crying out and giving them away, even drawing blood when Halsin had taken him with too much force.  The memory of it quickened his breath.

“Where?” Halsin asked, glancing toward the increasingly wild revels, the glowing heart of the camp aroar with gaiety.  Langoth took his hand and pulled him further into the darkness, under the hush of the pines.  His tread was soft; the elf knew his woodcraft.  

They stopped in a small clearing where a stone table stood under a gnarled oak.  A place of sacrifice which he recognized from many years ago.  

“This once was consecrated to Corellon, in the days when our ancestors ruled the Sword Coast,” he said, examining the runes on the table.  Magic had preserved them against the elements, but even the enchantments were now wearing away.  Only a slight tingle of it remained under his fingertips.

“Ancient history,” Langoth teased, leaping onto the table with ease.  Despite all, he was still, at least in part, a heedless youth given to demonstrations of skill.

“That’s blasphemy,” Halsin said with a wry smile.  

“You’ve not seen anything yet.”  And Langoth knelt on the table, dipping his head just slightly to give Halsin a long, sensuous kiss.  His lips trailed down Halsin’s throat, finding the gap at the top of his tunic, where he lapped the base of his neck with lingering, greedy strokes of his tongue.  Halsin groaned.

Frustrated by the druid’s tunic and straps, Langoth impatiently pulled at the buckles, swearing in filthy Baldurian street slang when they defied him.  “Here is a riddle,” Halsin said.  “How does a wood elf of noble bearing learn to curse like a Heapside cutpurse?”

Langoth’s mouth was otherwise occupied, however; he was now unbuckling Halsin’s baldric with his teeth.  He hissed when they caught his skin instead.  “Careful,” he murmured.  But the elf had succeeded and was pulling away his clothes, eager hands gliding over the bare skin beneath.  

Finally, Halsin stood bare-chested and Langoth paused to admire him, his fingers tracing the fading vine tattoos that extended from his face down the length of his torso, coiling just below the line of his breeches.  Halsin shivered under his touch, the rough callus of the elf’s bow finger chastising his flesh.

“So many scars,” Langoth said.  He touched a long-healed wound that ran horizontally across Halsin’s ribs, the slash of a wyvern’s claws.  Now he knelt to kiss along the scar even as his hand wandered down the front of Halsin’s breeches.  Halsin moaned as Langoth palmed his cock through the rough weave of the linen.  He was already so hard.  He reminded himself to take things slower, this time, even as every part of him wanted to pull Langoth from the stone slab and take him against the rough bark of the ancient oak tree.  

Reluctantly, he pulled back from the ranger’s touch and kissed him again on the mouth, slowly but forcefully, insisting.  Now his hands found the front of the youth’s jerkin and began to unlace it--it had to be said, with more deftness, if more slowly.  His skin beneath was hot--nearly feverish, even--and soft, unblemished save by the few silvery scars Halsin had noticed before on his back.  He wondered about those, as he wondered about the Baldurian slang, about the fear that lived in his gaze, and about the strange affliction that the elf and his companions were battling.  

“Most of your scars are invisible, aren’t they?” he whispered into Langoth’s ear.  The youth stilled like a stalked deer; even his breath seemed to stop.  He half-expected Langoth to pull away from him, to slip off into the darkness and leave Halsin for the party, or for another partner without uncomfortable questions about the past, or just for solitude with the ghosts of his past.

But instead, the ranger drew him into another kiss, this one desperate, rough, wild.  He slid forward on the table, hand finding Halsin’s cock again, this time underneath his breeches.  He gripped the base and achingly slowly stroked along his shaft to pause at the tip.  Halsin felt almost weak with desire, leaning forward against the table for support with a moan.

“You want me,” Langoth said.  It was not a question. 

“You know that I do,” Halsin gasped.  The youth was kneeling above him, skin aglow as marble in the moonlight.  He tugged down Langoth’s leather breeches, exposing the top of his pelvis, the angles of his hip bones.  He kissed there roughly, making him sigh.  His hands cupped the elf’s firm round ass and pulled him closer to the edge before unlacing the rest of the breeches to expose his manhood.

Remembering his own admonition to move slowly, Halsin bowed over the youth’s cock and ran his lips over the crown before beginning to tease it with his tongue.  Langoth was salty and tasted so slightly of the leather he wore.  Above him, the elf groaned, taking Halsin’s hair in his fists and pulling involuntarily as the druid took more of him into his mouth.  

Halsin’s self imposed restraint was more than matched by the youth’s eagerness as he arched his hips to force himself deeper and deeper into Halsin’s mouth.  When the youth moaned, a high and helpless sound, the druid knew he was close to coming, that Langoth was pushing himself to the edge and beyond it as hard and fast as he could.  

With a shudder in his lean hips, a sigh, Langoth’s climax overtook them, filling Halsin’s throat with salty nectar.  He coughed, but the youth was beyond noticing.  He’d fallen back from his knees to rest, gasping, on the stone slab, eyes fixed to the stars above.  A tear suspended from the corner of one eye, and while it could have simply been provoked by their exertions the druid knew better.  He wiped it away with his thumb and held the youth’s face in his hand for a time.

Finally, Langoth looked back to him, and his eyes were unreadable.  “Take me here,” he said.  “Don’t be gentle, this time.”  And he slipped off the ceremonial table to bend over it, resting his cheek against the hewn stone.  

His back was long and rippled with muscles and the faint tracery of the silver scars.  In defiance of the elf’s words, Halsin ran his fingers slowly down the length of it, pausing when he came to his buttocks where the creamy tops of his cheeks were barely exposed by his breeches.  He eased them down, hands shaking.  He’d never wanted him more than this moment and he wished to stretch it out as long as he could.  He pressed himself to the elf’s ass, relishing the answering cry, the way he rose to push against Halsin’s cock.  He parted his cheeks and slid his finger inside of him, two, thrusting faster, and when he began to use more force the elf gasped in pleasure.  This was what he wanted.

He could restrain himself no longer.  Langoth cried out as he entered him, even though the first dip of his hips was shallow.  The youth was so tight.  Halsin adjusted the angle of his hips, so as not to hurt him but Langoth leaned forward to take him deeper.  “Harder,” he demanded, his voice thick.  

Halsin gathered himself for a deeper thrust, moving forcefully but still slowly, mindful not to hurt the elf in spite of his demands.  Yet he was fighting his own impulses at the same time.  He wanted to take the youth with the same abandon as in the rite they had performed under the eyes of another, wilder god, those decades ago.  That night imposed itself on the present and his hips seemed to move of their own accord.  Langoth grunted as his tempo increased, as the druid rutted him, heedless as an animal.  

A moan escaped Halsin’s lips as he sank himself up to hilt into the youth writhing and groaning below him.  Distantly, he heard the youth call his name, begging him.  He grasped Langoth’s hips, taking him deeper than ever before even as his climax blindsided him, crashing over him like a wave.  He finished with a muffled cry as he came inside the youth, bowing his head over him and releasing a shuddering breath.

Below him, Langoth was still but for his breathing.  Halsin rested his head on the ranger’s back as he caught his own breath, only to see the power of their joining had activated some of the ancient magic on the stone table, making the runes glow.  This was the moment, he realized--under the stars’ vigil, under the eyes of the gods themselves, by dint of ancient rite--that their bond had been forever sealed.

[wildedgewoodcraft]

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Wild Edge Woodcraft is part of Serenity Meadows Farm LLC, a family-owned agriculture business run by my wife (Shannon) and me (Avery). Together, we raise 3 sons, lots of animals, sustainably manage 15 acres of old-growth hardwood forest, and provide a variety of wood products and services.

[odroslore-blog]

"Ever since the time of Caledor the First, the closest bodyguards of the Phoenix Kings have come from the forested wilds of Chrace. These are the bravest of the young Elves of Chrace, chosen for the honour of serving the Phoenix King by ancient rites. Not all are worthy to serve, and each must demonstrate his skill and bravery by tracking down one of the fierce white lions that roam the dark forests and barren mountains of that land. When they find one they must kill it in hand-to-hand combat and take its pelt. Those that have proved themselves wear the cloak of the white lion as a sign of their undoubted courage and may serve the Phoenix King as one of his bodyguard. " —Recounted by Unthwe Windrider, Herald of the Phoenix King ​The White Lions have served as the personal guard of the Phoenix King since the time of Caledor the First. Whilst hunting in Chrace, Caledor received news that he was to be next Phoenix King. He immediately took the road to the Shrine of Asuryan, but was intercepted by Dark Elf Assassins. He would surely have died, but for the intervention of a party of Chracian woodsmen who swept out of the forest to defend him. The Chracians slew the Dark Elves and, thereafter, saw Caledor safely to the Phoenix Shrine, employing every iota of their woodcraft to avoid further Dark Elf ambushes that lay in their path. Caledor's first act, once crowned as Phoenix King, was to form the Chracians into an official bodyguard based in Lothern. A warrior can only join the ranks of the White Lions after displaying considerable valor and skill upon the battlefield. He must then also complete the traditional rite of a Chracian warrior -- to hunt and kill a white lion. These great cats are amongst Chrace's fiercest creatures; they stand as tall at the shoulder as a horse, and a swipe of their claws is enough to shatter a spine. There are accounts of prides of white lions ravaging convoys, and even attacking isolated villages, should they become hungry enough. To slay such a beast is therefore an exceptionally difficult task but, if the warrior succeeds, he is entitled to wear the lion's pelt as a mark of courage. The thick pelt has another use too -- worn over armor, it offers excellent protection against arrows and shot. Although every Phoenix King since Caledor the Conqueror has offered his bodyguard their choice of replacement weaponry, the White Lions continue to proudly bear the traditional woodman's axe into battle. Many of the axes are ancient heirlooms, handed down from father to son across centuries untold, yet they never lose their keen edge, and can fell a tree or cleave a man in half with but a single blow. White Lion regiments are often dispatched to join the armies of Ulthuan during times of particular danger, tasked with protecting High Elf generals and mages, or bolstering the overall strength of the army. White Lions are renowned for their unflinching courage in the face of overwhelming odds and terrible horrors, protecting their charge whatever the foe and regardless of the danger to themselves.

[long-way-down-rp-archive]

Devana

True Name: No  Faceclaim: Eva Green  Nicknames and Aliases: Dziewanna, Dziewona, Debena, or Dilwica; Various names and titles throughout history.  Date of Birth: Unknown  Apparent Age: 36  Actual Age: Primordial  Gender: Female  Kind or Calling: Wild Spirit - Ancient One Occupation: Currently unemployed, but has worked a large variety of jobs in the past, in both rural and high populace areas.

Distinguishing Marks: Variety of smaller scars on her hands from knives and being overall very active outside especially. Calluses on her hands to reflect this as well, but her archery leaves its own calluses and wear as well. Scars from a branding iron across her ribs that she doesn’t really bother hiding - not these days, anyway. During the times of witch trials, she was extremely paranoid about ensuring there was no way they’d be seen. She also has had Veles' sigil tattooed over her heart.

Personality: Fiercely independent - Devana's iconography was specifically known for her hair being unbound even as a married woman, she cannot and blatantly refuses to ever be anything close to "tamed" and enjoys living her life as she wants to. Often a bit reckless, she likes to push her own limits and is competitive as part of that. She's often in love and enchanted with how quickly the world around her can change, but has grown towards more cynical tendencies with how the world is choosing to change - what mortals have done, how quickly they forget. In retaliation, she tends towards thinking that fear is the best method towards forcing mortals to remember her - she has, after all, been far better remembered as a dark sorceress than she ever has been as a huntress. There's also a level of practicality to her, to ensuring that she will survive no matter what anyone else throws at her - and that she'll take what measures are necessary to ensure that's the case. Despite this, she's still a goddess of spring, a goddess of the forests and creatures who need her help or are suffering are sure to get her mercy. The question is if that mercy is her tending to them or if it'll be a knife across their throat.

History: Mortals are overly fascinated with creation. With beginnings and ends, as though they were clearly cut, defined, and labeled - easily found and known, confined by their view of time as a linear force. Between the space of one breath and the next, as an arrow was released and before it struck home, as a plea, a mental cry that wasn't quite a prayer - before these, she did not exist. And then she did. Devana came into being no beginning, no birth. Only a need, only a hope, a tale told to family, a hope for guidance, a plea for food, for luck, for the arrow to strike - Devana was born of the belief, of the mortal need for something else to be there. And so magic responded, it created. It created a being that changed for each believer, who had memories for every story that the mortals told of her, and had none of them. She was shaped by belief, born from it, but as mutable as the mortals themselves for it. To her, all of the tales were true. And yet, none were - to her, she was born fully fledged and independent. And her own beliefs shaped her in turn, made her an individual. Made her real, because she believed she would be.

For Devana, nothing was simple. For a time, she wanted it to be - found joy in hunting, pride in it. Shared luck and tragedy, helped predator and prey, indulged worship and responded to it. Satisfaction in arrows that hit true, challenge in those that did not. Balance in her connections with nature, knowing the forests so well that her ankles would never turn on a root or rock, knowing every safe foothold and finding it without the slightest thought. Found balance and laughter, bright as the sun, with the push and pull of Veles - the connection to him that was as sure as the ground beneath her feet as the forest connected them both. Felt freedom in the thud of her mare's hooves against the ground, in her hair loose and free as few women's were - freedom that was challenged with something so simple as a contest, one that promised her hand to the victor.

Gods have little concept of time, little concept for linear timelines, but she remembered meeting him. She'd hunted him, only seeing the bear he wore, lumbering through the forest. Unnaturally large, marking it as all the more satisfying of prey for her. She tracked it, triumphant when she lined the shot and released the arrow - triumph that was quickly replaced with horror, as fur turned to skin, claws to fingers, bear to man. He smirked at her and something in her world shifted, changed to include him. Veles was a constant, a presence that had lurked at the edges of her and became real when she shook his hand for the first time and tried to ignore that he felt something like being complete. He was the other part of her as a forest god, his charm and flirtation annoying and strangely enthralling in one. He made her laugh, provided challenge, tricked and played and laughed in turn. In retrospect, Devana is fairly certain she had been falling in love with him since the start.

The contest was supposed to be something of a lark, one of archery. Devana felt no fear at the time - she was the goddess of hunting, of archery, after all. Who could possibly win against her? Many gods tried and failed all the same, hitting a wall against her own skill, much to her amusement. And then Perun stepped forward. He shot first, as challenger, and Devana stepped up next. Her arrow wobbled just enough, just a hair, and it wasn't until she saw Perun's triumphant smirk that she remembered -he was a god of weapons. Both their eyes went to Veles in the instant before Perun kissed her.

It should've been the end of it. Of the flirtation, the hunts together, the play between herself and Veles.

It wasn't.

For a time, it seemed like a trick. A challenge, another clever play by Veles - trying to needle his brother, no doubt, by flirting with his wife. For Devana, she enjoyed spending time enough with him not to object, instead challenging in return. Playing his game, enjoying that she could see that she was getting to him in return even as she knew she was falling. Devana had little loyalty to a husband of the skies, one who won her in name only. A good enough man, but not one she was in love with - perhaps it made sense, instead, to fall in love with the god whose forests she shared, whose beasts she hunted. But they were still constrained to secrecy. To shapechanging, to pretending to be mortals, to taking advantage of the night, of the moonlight that would hide what her mistress bade. Sneaking about in shadow, though, was never a meant to be a lasting arrangement. It robbed them of a real chance, robbed Perun of a wife who might love him. And Devana meant to end the secrecy, to end the empty marriage - to free herself and Perun of the hollowness binding. That much of the conversation was amiable enough. The mention of Veles, however, did not.

Presuming it was another of his brother's tricks, Perun went to confront Veles before Devana could find them and stop it from happening - and in their fight, the storm was born. Thunder and lightning and destruction the likes of which none of the gods had seen before. And Devana was far too late to stop the judgment  - to do anything but feel its consequences, as the constant presence of Veles was torn away. The emptiness burned in her chest, made her feel sick with the hollowness, the lack of him in their forests.

To her, it was no choice at all. To stay in the immortal plane, an eternal watcher, feeling only the hollow of where Veles should be while she watched him just beyond the mortal world, it all held no appeal. And she followed, made the choice that was no choice at all, and stepped into the mortal plane.

The pain of omnipotence being stripped away was almost more than she could bear. Things felt quiet, empty, in the forests. No connection to those walking through it, to the hunters surely stalking the wood, to predator or prey or roots or anything. It was only a murmur, drowned out by the sheer distance, the silence, that threatened to overwhelm. For a time, all Devana could do was curl into a ball and try not to scream just to hear something. Anything.

Eventually, a changeling intervened, introducing herself as Morgaine le Fey, and took Devana under her wing to relearn the world as a fallen goddess, learning in the court of King Arthur himself. Despite repeated brushes against a clergy that believed in a vicious, single god, Devana managed to keep surviving time and time again as the world marched on. She's been in and out of history for centuries now, tending towards associations with the gentry of multiple cultures now while trying to keep an eye and ear out for the gods she came to the mortal plane looking for.

Family: None.   Sexuality and Relationship Status: Attached, but polyamorous. She's not opposed to having other people along for a night or an hour or two, but Veles is her partner. And she will not allow something to come between that ever again. Other Ties: None yet. Wanted Connections: Perun, otherwise she's new to Nashville - though immortal  or long lived beings might find her awfully familiar. Can't have lived this long without being seen here and there, and Devana hasn't been too shy or prone to hiding. Likes: Human superstitions, urban legends, the internet, travelling, Netflix, hunting, advances in weaponry (modern compound bows, crossbows, and so on are endlessly fascinating and fun to her) Dislikes:  Poachers and poaching, careless hunting, fanaticism, dial-up internet Hobbies: Drawing, horseback riding, camping, travelling, magic Skills: Tracking, hunting, stealth, woodcraft, various survival skills and techniques Medical Conditions: None, perk of being a goddess. Current Financial Status: Well off, plenty of money from the various previous lives she's lived are accessible to her, if she wanted. Currently, she's between jobs and came to Nashville to look for a job, but can sustain herself through several lifetimes if she truly wished. To Devana, a job is mostly to ensure she's not bored. Places: None yet, beyond some ruins of her ancient shrines in Europe and Russia. Pets: None, but has a high affinity for horses especially

Known Magic: Elemental magic is her strongest, but Devana has dabbled here and there in magic. She's learned and forgotten more spells than most will ever know, but she's been around for long enough that her magic tends to be as wild as she is. Magical Items: She can summon her bow to her at any time, given a bit of time. Her bow is part of her powers and she will not run out of arrows so long as she needs them. If anyone were to take it from her or knock it from her hands, it would melt away into nothingness, as no other can use it.

Rumors: Most have forgotten her, as a goddess - published only in a book or two, widely disregarded and ignored. Choosing to leave the pantheon and being cast into time had its consequences, especially as she hadn’t done anything quite so memorable as create the storms themselves before leaving. 

Instead, she only comes up as a traveler. Traversing history and often coming up as a reoccurring face in several royal courts, salons, and so on. That or the rumors of a wild woman, a dark sorceress who lurks and exists in the forest as a fairy might - who had been granted the title of “le fey” and haunted history as only Morgaine might. Vengeful to those who wrong her or are careless with nature itself. Centuries have given Devana many difference faces and masks to wear, and she wears many of them well. 

Writing Sample:

It was easier, in dreams. A mix of memory and fantasy, hearing both of their laughter peeling out (that never happened, not so free - too easy to be heard, to be caught, even in their own elements) and running through the forests. Omnipotence meant that every sharp branch, every tree root, every rock was known and easily avoided. No shoes on her feet as they ran, faster here on human feet than her mare just as she could hear him giving chase on two legs instead of four. The chase was half the fun, but she wanted to be caught. To feel his arms around her, both of them tumbling to the ground and laughter turning breathless. Seeing his smile above her, touching and being touched (they had to be so careful, where was Perun, where was the fear? why wasn't she cautious, why wasn't there that tension?).

Devana slowed, waiting for the impact, the feel of him tackling her and the laughter. She couldn't hear him behind her anymore, couldn't tell where he had gone. The forest felt empty, his lack of presence just as striking, if not more so. It hurt, that ache deep in her chest, the fact she couldn't feel him. A missing piece in her mind and she stumbled, fell onto the forest floor. She'd lost it, the understanding of where she was - of what this world had become. Didn't recognize the rocks, the branches, the roots she'd fallen on. This was not her world - no longer her world, and it felt cold. Familiar and alien, as though the structure of her world had been knocked out from under her.

Lighting cracked across the sky, thunder giving chase and this time she had to interrupt, she had to stop them, stop this, this wasn't worth it she wasn't worth it she wasn't worth losing them both and being adrift in a sea of mortals and their Christian god - there was another crack, another crash of light and sound and Devana screamed at it in challenge, screamed at them.  

The scream was still raw and aching in her throat when she awoke, the storm starting to taper off into a lighter rain that pattered against the tent. She sighed, glad that she had decided to camp out instead of going to a hotel - it was always awkward to try and explain why she'd be screaming a 'mythological' god's name because of a dream.  

She saw him still, sometimes. In flashes, in glimpses. The familiar face in a crowd, the sound of his voice somewhere close by, a smile that is just enough like his that her memory fills in the gap. She missed him so much that it was an ache, constant and distracting. Something her mind tried to lessen by seeing bits of him everywhere. Which, of course, only made her miss him all the more when it turned out to not be him. Mortals were fragile, fleeting, a poor ghost of a substitute for someone like him.

His feast days had become far more quiet without his presence, his absence more heavy than the arrowhead she kept around her neck, that weighed on her. She held it absently as she tried to convince herself to wake up, to try getting up. Had to make an offering and a wish on his feast day, after all. Pay tribute. Devana smirked to herself, finally convincing herself to shuffle around the tent for clothes and boots to get up and out.

Sentimental, certainly, to be camped beneath a willow tree but every little bit counted if you asked her - perhaps, through all the tributes, he would somehow feel her too. She'd give anything to feel him, so why not put the effort in reverse? Maybe it could be a comfort.

[crowsurvivalcom]

ESEE 6P-B Plain Edge Review | Another Winner From ESEE

The ESEE 6P-B Plain edge knife is among the most popular knife models of the time and has been recognized one of the most efficient knives serving different purposes. It is equipped with various jaw-dropping features that will help you accomplish your tasks when you are in the outdoors.

Check Price & Customer Reviews on Amazon

ESEE 6P-B Plain Edge Review

It comes from a company that has a reputation in the field of cutlery and a rich heritage of manufacturing knives and has inspired people in jungle survival. It is probably their first big knife after the series of kitchen knives that they introduced. This does not mean that it cannot be used in your kitchen. amzn_assoc_tracking_id = "jholmes01-20"; amzn_assoc_ad_mode = "manual"; amzn_assoc_ad_type = "smart"; amzn_assoc_marketplace = "amazon"; amzn_assoc_region = "US"; amzn_assoc_design = "enhanced_links"; amzn_assoc_asins = "B004DTWMH8"; amzn_assoc_placement = "adunit"; amzn_assoc_linkid = "5900b06ed89567617152f88aecaeb5ce";

This one is a perfect buy for your outings. If you ever lose yourself in the jungle, you will able to manage things in case you are carrying this knife along with you.

The knife uses a Rowen manufacturing heat treat process thanks to which it is hardened to 57 Rc and maintains flexibility at the same time.

Tech Specs:

Length: 11.75 inches

Blade length: 6.5 inches

Material of the blade: 1095 steel

Material of the handle: Grey Micarta Scale

Material of the sheath: Black Molded Polymer

Length from cutting rim to the backbone: 1.56 inches

Knife Features

The Handle: The handle or scales are manufactured using linen Micarta that is a durable material and can last for years. Micarta is manufactured by soaking layers of linen within resin and subsequently compressing the layers under warmth and stress. It offers a better grip when it is wet or blood-drenched. A lanyard hole is present in the rounded pommel. You can wear it on your belt buckle thanks to the belt clip that is there. Alternatively, you can also use the cord that is there. But the belt clip offers the most convenient and dependable way of carrying it.

There are lashing and cord storage holes as well as drainage ports present at the end which helps in preventing water damage. The lashing holes are capable of storing 550 paracord, wrapping all around the sheath. You can thread it through the molded sheath in the form of a belt loop, to make a leg strap and can also use it as a pommel lanyard. The paracord, cord lock, and mountain hardware are all included in the package.

There are lashing and cord storage holes as well as drainage ports present at the end which help in preventing water damage.

The paracord, cord lock, and mountain hardware are all included in the package.

Full tang: it has a full tang so even if its blade breaks, you will be able to use it. It also has metal protruding at one of its ends. The knife features a full flat grind and a drop point.

The Look: The gray linen scales of Micarta along with the completed blade with a plain leading edge offer a decent look. It is relatively small in size. However, in terms of functionalities, it is no less than a bigger knife. It has been designed in such a way that it will be well-balanced in your hands.

The Blade: The knife blade is 1.56 inches in length starting from the cutting rim to the backbone. The leading edge is razor sharp and is capable of holding the edge really well. The knife can also be used with the optional MOLLE. The backer provides it some extra security. Thanks to it, if you are jumping from an aircraft or are under such a situation, rest assured that the knife will not fall off its sheath.

The blade is made up of 1095 high carbon steel and is both sharp and durable. The razor-sharp edge of the blade is sharp to about twenty levels and is capable of holding its edge pretty well.

The steel, though of a heavy duty professional variety, is prone to rust. So it is your responsibility to clean and lubricate the blade from time to time so that it does not get rusted or stained.

The textured coating on the blade offers resistance against corrosion, wear, and tear. It is much better than phosphate or oxide coatings since it does not feel rough on your hands and maintains a smooth feel.

ESEE-6 Plain

The Sheath: The sheath is made of a black molded polymer which is quite durable. It comes with a removable clip so that you can use it according to your own convenience. The sheath program is ambidextrous. This means that irrespective of whether you are a left-handed or right-handed person, the friction-resistant mechanism will prevent the knife from falling off its sheath. The sheath screws are made using stainless steel.

You can wear it on your belt buckle thanks to the clip that is there. Alternatively, you can also use the cord that is there.

Comfort Level: The micarta handle of the knife makes it easy to grip. It provides a lot of gripping power and does not become slippery during the rain.

Warranty: Another great feature to look for is the warranty that is provided by the manufacturers. The warranty is transferable which is rare for any product of its type. It means that no matter how many times it is sold or gifted, the warranty will remain valid. What’s more is- they will not ask you for any bill or receipt!

Just show them the product and explain the problem and they will fix it! The problem, though, is not very likely to occur given the quality of construction of the knife. It should be mentioned here that the warranty is not applicable to normal rusting or corrosion problems.

Such is the reputation of their service that they never face a dearth of customers and people with genuine problems get their knives fixed since it is covered under warranty.

Our Experience

After purchasing the knife, I used it for a hell lot of purposes. This is how I put it to various tests to discover its capabilities:

Survival: It acts great as a survival knife. You can use it to fight back the enemies or the beasts that attack you and can also use it for hunting to some extent. In short, you can use it for surviving in the wild where chances of living are really less.

Cutting meats: Cutting meats for dinner was an important activity in our camping trip and we performed it within a jiffy thanks to the sharpness of this knife. We had wished for enjoying the meat of freshly hunted beats for our dinner and with the ESEE 6P this became successful. The plain edge helped in optimal cutting of the toughest pieces of meat and it is much better at performing this task as compared to a knife with serrated edges.

Opening cans: How many times has it occurred to you that you planned to open some cans on an outdoor trip but faced a lot of difficulty in opening these cans in absence of the openers? Well, this is not going to happen with you anymore as you have the ESEE 6P with you that can serve this purpose well!

Cutting hard branches: Cutting the hard branches of a tree is not at all easy. But with ESEE 6P it is not the case anymore. You can cut wood at ease and the knife blade remains as sharp as it was and does not suffer any bent or scratches even after hours of cutting. We had used it to cut bamboo sticks which are difficult to cut and are also among the most important things that you will need for your outing. Though initially, it seemed that it will not be able to cut the sticks, it slowly managed to produce our desired output with a few easy strokes. The sticks that we obtained could easily be used for grilling meat as well as lighting a fire.

Building a Shelter: Shelter building forms an integral part of camping. And using this knife, you can do it quite easily. You can cut the ropes, and even the tent sheet, if required. When you are alone in the jungle and are looking for a shelter, you need something of this sort to protect you against all sorts of danger and have a peaceful night’s sleep.

General Woodcraft: The knife performed well at general woodcraft too. Its finesse helped it carve out nice structures on the wood. If you are into Bushcraft or wish to carve structures out of wood, this knife will come in handy for you.

Military: It has also been a favorite among the military personnel. The law enforcement and special operations community also uses it for their operations.

Making a Snare: A snare is a trap for animals and birds which you may require to build when in a jungle, trying to survive. ESEE 6P can offer help here too.

Fishing: It can also be used as a fishing knife and can prove to be helpful for you if you are into activities related to fishing.

Hiking, Trekking, and Backpacking: These activities also require you to use a knife and the ESEE 6P can help you here too.

Light Chopping: The knife can be used for light chopping too, such as chopping vegetables for dinner. When you are on a camping trip or are chopping vegetables for your meal at home, it can prove to be helpful for you.

Pros:

The knife blade is made of 1095 high carbon steel and is strong and durable.

The sheath is made of a tough yet flexible material and is ambidextrous i.e. suitable for both left-handers and right-handers.

It has a full tang with a full flat grind, drop point with metal protruding from one end.

The micarta handle is durable and likely to last for years.

It comes with a warranty which is transferable.

It is a versatile knife capable of performing various tasks such as fine chopping, cutting hard things, for survival, hunting, trapping, craft work and more.

It feels comfortable in your hand and you will not find any problem in gripping it while in use.

It has a full tang with metal protruding at one end.

Cons:

The sheath, though ambidextrous, is of a comparatively poor quality for a knife of its price.

Customer Reviews:

Customers from different parts of the world have been happy to use this knife and have appreciated it hugely. Its construction, design, and utility have been able to satisfy their needs and there has been hardly any negative review! It has won 4,7 stars among 5 in a popular review site. If you wish to be among the proud possessors of this item, waste no while and grab one!

Summary:

The ESEE 6P plain edge knife is a knife that combines a number of great features to give the ultimate experience to the outdoor enthusiast in you.

The high carbon steel blade it has makes it a great choice for its customers and people as it a feature that many of today’s knives lack. Also, the ambidextrous sheath it has is a favorite among customers since they get to use it according to their preferences. It has a full tang and a comfortable grip which add to its uniqueness. Another thing that catches the attention of the buyers is its versatility which allows it to be used in multiple occasions such as camping, trekking, chopping, slicing, fine cutting and more. So think of plain edge knives- think of ESEE!

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source https://crowsurvival.com/esee-6p-b-plain-edge-review-another-winner-from-esee/

[readbookywooks]

OLD NARNIA IN DANGER

THE place where they had met the Fauns was, of course, Dancing Lawn itself, and here Caspian and his friends remained till the night of the great Council. To sleep under the stars, to drink nothing but well water and to live chiefly on nuts and wild fruit, was a strange experience for Caspian after his bed with silken sheets in a tapestried chamber at the castle, with meals laid out on gold and silver dishes in the anteroom, and attendants ready at his call. But he had never enjoyed himself more. Never had sleep been more refreshing nor food tasted more savoury, and he began already to harden and his face wore a kinglier look. When the great night came, and his various strange subjects came stealing into the lawn by ones and twos and threes or by sixes and sevens - the moon then shining almost at her full - his heart swelled as he saw their numbers and heard their greetings. All whom he had met were there: Bulgy Bears and Red Dwarfs and Black Dwarfs, Moles and Badgers, Hares and Hedgehogs, and others whom he had not yet seen - five Satyrs as red as foxes, the whole contingent of Talking Mice, armed to the teeth and following a shrill trumpet, some Owls, the Old Raven of Ravenscaur. Last of all (and this took Caspian's breath away), with the Centaurs came a small but genuine Giant, Wimbleweather of Deadman's Hill, carrying on his back a basketful of rather sea-sick Dwarfs who had accepted his offer of a lift and were now wishing they had walked instead. The Bulgy Bears were very anxious to have the feast first and leave the council till afterwards: perhaps till tomorrow. Reepicheep and his Mice said that councils and feasts could both wait, and proposed storming Miraz in his own castle that very night. Pattertwig and the other Squirrels said they could talk and eat at the same time, so why not have the council and feast all at once? The Moles proposed throwing up entrenchments round the Lawn before they did anything else. The Fauns thought it would be better to begin with a solemn dance. The Old Raven, while agreeing with the Bears that it would take too long to have a full council before supper, begged to be allowed to give a brief address to the whole company. But Caspian and the Centaurs and the Dwarfs overruled all these suggestions and insisted on holding a real council of war at once. When all the other creatures had been persuaded to sit down quietly in a great circle, and when (with more difficulty) they had got Pattertwig to stop running to and fro and saying "Silence! Silence, everyone, for the King's speech", Caspian, feeling a little nervous, got up. "Narnians!" he began, but he never got any further, for at that very moment Camillo the Hare said, "Hush! There's a Man somewhere near." They were all creatures of the wild, accustomed to being hunted, and they all became still as statues. The beasts all turned their noses in the direction which Camillo had indicated. "Smells like Man and yet not quite like Man," whispered Trufflehunter. "It's getting steadily nearer," said Camillo. "Two badgers and you three Dwarfs, with your bows at the - ready, go softly off to meet it," said Caspian. "We'll settle 'un," said a Black Dwarf grimly, fitting a shaft to his bowstring. "Don't shoot if it is alone," said Caspian. "Catch it." "Why?" asked the Dwarf. "Do as you're told," said Glenstorm the Centaur. Everyone waited in silence while the three Dwarfs and two Badgers trotted stealthily across to the trees on the northwest side of the Lawn. Then came a sharp dwarfish cry, "Stop! Who goes there?" and a sudden spring. A moment later a voice, which Caspian knew well, could he heard saying, "All right, all right, I'm unarmed. Take my wrists if you like, worthy Badgers, but don't bite right through them. I want to speak to the King." "Doctor Cornelius!" cried Caspian with joy, and rushed forward to greet his old tutor. Everyone else crowded round. "Pah!" said Nikabrik. "A renegade Dwarf. A half-and-halfer! Shall I pass my sword through its throat?" "Be quiet, Nikabrik," said Trumpkin. "The creature can't help its ancestry." "This is my greatest friend and the saviour of my life," said Caspian. "And anyone who doesn't like his company may leave my army: at once. Dearest doctor, I am glad to see you again. How ever did you find us out?" "By a little use of simple magic, your Majesty," said the Doctor, who was still puffing and blowing from having walked so fast. "But there's no time to go into that now. We must all fly from this place at once. You are already betrayed and Miraz is on the move. Before midday tomorrow you will be surrounded." "Betrayed!" said Caspian. "And by whom?" "Another renegade Dwarf, no doubt," said Nikabrik. "By your horse Destrier," said Doctor Cornelius. "The poor brute knew no better. When you were knocked off, of course, he went dawdling back to his stable in the castle. Then the secret of your flight was known. I made myself scarce, having no wish to be questioned about it in Miraz's torture chamber. I had a pretty good guess from my crystal as to where I should find you. But all day - that was the day before yesterday - I saw Miraz's tracking parties out in the woods. Yesterday I learned that his army is out. I don't think some of your - um - pure-blooded Dwarfs have as much woodcraft as might be expected. You've left tracks all over the place. Great carelessness. At any rate something has warned Miraz that Old Narnia is not so dead as he had hoped, and he is on the move." "Hurrah!" said a very shrill and small voice from somewhere at the Doctor's feet. "Let them come! All I ask is that the King will put me and my people in the front." "What on earth?" said Doctor Cornelius. "Has your Majesty got grasshoppers - or mosquitoes - in your army?" Then after stooping down and peering carefully through his spectacles, he broke into a laugh. "By the Lion," he swore, "it's a mouse. Signior Mouse, I desire your better acquaintance. I am honoured by meeting so valiant a beast." "My friendship you shall have, learned Man," piped Reepicheep. "And any Dwarf - or Giant - in the army who does not give you good language shall have my sword to reckon with." "Is there time for this foolery?" asked Nikabrik. "What are our plans? Battle or flight?" "Battle if need be," said Trumpkin. "But we are hardly ready for it yet, and this is no very defensible place." "I don't like the idea of running away," said Caspian. "Hear him! Hear him!" said the Bulgy Bears. "Whatever we do, don't let's have any running. Especially not before supper; and not too soon after it neither." "Those who run first do not always run last," said the Centaur. "And why should we let the enemy choose our position instead of choosing it ourselves? Let us find a strong place." "That's wise, your Majesty, that's wise," said Trufflehunter. "But where are we to go?" asked several voices. "Your Majesty," said Doctor Cornelius, "and all you variety of creatures, I think we must fly east and down the river to the great woods. The Telmarines hate that region. They have always been afraid of the sea and of something that may come over the sea. That is why they have let the great woods grow up. If traditions speak true, the ancient Cair Paravel was at the river-mouth. All that part is friendly to us and hateful to our enemies. We must go to Aslan's How." "Aslan's How?" said several voices. "We do not know what it is." "It lies within the skirts of the Great Woods and it is a huge mound which Narnians raised in very ancient times over a very magical place, where there stood - and perhaps still stands - a very magical Stone. The Mound is all hollowed out within into galleries and caves, and the Stone is in the central cave of all. There is room in the mound for all our stores, and those of us who have most need of cover and are most accustomed to underground life can be lodged in the caves. The rest of us can lie in the wood. At a pinch all of us (except this worthy Giant) could retreat into the Mound itself, and there we should be beyond the reach of every danger except famine." "It is a good thing we have a learned man among us," said Trufflehunter; but Trumpkin muttered under his breath, "Soup and celery! I wish our leaders would think less about these old wives' tales and more about victuals and arms." But all approved of Cornelius's proposal and that very night, half an hour later, they were on the march. Before sunrise they arrived at Aslan's How. It was certainly an awesome place, a round green hill on top of another hill, long since grown over with trees, and one little, low doorway leading into it. The tunnels inside were a perfect maze till you got to know them, and they were lined and roofed with smooth stones, and on the stones, peering in the twilight, Caspian saw strange characters and snaky patterns, and pictures in which the form of a Lion was repeated again and again. It all seemed to belong to an even older Narnia than the Narnia of which his nurse had told him. It was after they had taken up their quarters in and around the How that fortune began to turn against them. King Miraz's scouts soon found their new lair, and he and his army arrived on the edge of the woods. And as so often happens, the enemy turned out stronger than they had reckoned. Caspian's heart sank as he saw company after company arriving. And though Miraz's men may have been afraid of going into the wood, they were even more afraid of Miraz, and with him in command they carried battle deeply into it and sometimes almost to the How itself. Caspian and other captains of course made many sorties into the open country. Thus there was fighting on most days and sometimes by night as well; but Caspian's party had on the whole the worst of it. At last there came a night when everything had gone as badly as possible, and the rain which had been falling heavily all day had ceased at nightfall only to give place to raw cold. That morning Caspian had arranged what was his biggest battle yet, and all had hung their hopes on it. He, with most of the Dwarfs, was to have fallen on the King's right wing at daybreak, and then, when they were heavily engaged, Giant Wimbleweather, with the Centaurs and some of the fiercest beasts, was to have broken out from another place and endeavoured to cut the King's right off from the rest of the army. But it had all failed. No one had warned Caspian (because no one in these later days of Narnia remembered) that Giants are not at all clever. Poor Wimbleweather, though as brave as a lion, was a true Giant in that respect. He had broken out at the wrong time and from the wrong place, and both his party and Caspian's had suffered badly and done the enemy little harm. The best of the Bears had been hurt, a Centaur terribly wounded, and there were few in Caspian's party who had not lost blood. It was a gloomy company that huddled under the dripping trees to eat their scanty supper. The gloomiest of all was Giant Wimbleweather. He knew it was all his fault. He sat in silence shedding big tears which collected on the end of his nose and then fell off with a huge splash on the whole bivouac of the Mice, who had just been beginning to get warm and drowsy. They all jumped up, shaking the water out of their ears and wringing their little blankets, and asked the Giant in shrill but forcible voices whether he thought they weren't wet enough without this sort of thing. And then other people woke up and told the Mice they had been enrolled as scouts and not as a concert party, and asked why they couldn't keep quiet. And Wimbleweather tiptoed away to find some place where he could be miserable in peace and stepped on somebody's tail and somebody (they said afterwards it was a fox) bit him. And so everyone was out of temper. But in the secret and magical chamber at the heart of the How, King Caspian, with Cornelius and the Badger and Nikabrik and Trumpkin, were at council. Thick pillars of ancient workmanship supported the roof. In the centre was the Stone itself - a stone table, split right down the centre, and covered with what had once been writing of some kind: but ages of wind and rain and snow had almost worn them away in old times when the Stone Table had stood on the hilltop, and the Mound had not yet been built above it. They were not using the Table nor sitting round it: it was too magic a thing for any common use. They sat on logs a little way from it, and between them was a rough wooden table, on which stood a rude clay lamp lighting up their pale faces and throwing big shadows on the walls. "If your Majesty is ever to use the Horn," said Trufflehunter, "I think the time has now come." Caspian had of course told them of his treasure several days ago. "We are certainly in great need," answered Caspian. "But it is hard to be sure we are at our greatest. Supposing there came an even worse need and we had already used it?" "By that argument," said Nikabrik, "your Majesty will never use it until it is too late." "I agree with that," said Doctor Cornelius. "And what do you think, Trumpkin?" asked Caspian. "Oh, as for me," said the Red Dwarf, who had been listening with complete indifference, "your Majesty knows I think the Horn - and that bit of broken stone over there and your great King Peter - and your Lion Aslan - are all eggs in moonshine. It's all one to me when your Majesty blows the Horn. All I insist on is that the army is told nothing about it. There's no good raising hopes of magical help which (as I think) are sure to be disappointed." "Then in the name of Aslan we will wind Queen Susan's Horn," said Caspian. "There is one thing, Sire," said Doctor Cornelius, "that should perhaps be done first. We do not know what form the help will take. It might call Aslan himself from oversea. But I think it is more likely to call Peter the High King and his mighty consorts down from the high past. But in either case, I do not think we can be sure that the help will come to this very spot - " "You never said a truer word," put in Trumpkin. "I think," went on the learned man, "that they - or he will come back to one or other of the Ancient Places of Narnia. This, where we now sit, is the most ancient and most deeply magical of all, and here, I think, the answer is likeliest to come. But there are two others. One Lantern Waste, up-river, west of Beaversdam, where the Royal Children first appeared in Narnia, as the records tell The other is down at the river-mouth, where their castle of Cair Paravel once stood. And if Aslan himself comes, that would be the best place for meeting him too, for every story says that he is the son of the great Emperor-over-the-Sea, and over the sea he will pass. I should like very much to send messengers to both places, to Lantern Waste and the river-mouth, to receive them - or him or it." "Just as I thought," muttered Trumpkin. "The first result of all this foolery is not to bring us help but to lose us two fighters." "Who would you think of sending, Doctor Cornelius?" asked Caspian. "Squirrels are best for getting through enemy country without being caught," said Trufflehunter. "All our squirrels (and we haven't many)," said Nikabrik, "are rather flighty. The only one I'd trust on a job like that would be Pattertwig." "Let it be Pattertwig, then," said King Caspian. "And who for our other messenger? I know you'd go, Trufflehunter, but you haven't the speed. Nor you, Doctor Cornelius." "I won't go," said Nikabrik. "With all these Humans and beasts about, there must be a Dwarf here to see that the Dwarfs are fairly treated." "Thimbles and thunderstorms!" cried Trumpkin in a rage. "Is that how you speak to the King? Send me, Sire, I'll go." "But I thought you didn't believe in the Horn, Trumpkin," said Caspian. "No more I do, your Majesty. But what's that got to do with it? I might as well die on a wild goose chase as die here. You are my King. I know the difference between giving advice and taking orders. You've had my advice, and now it's the time for orders." "I will never forget this, Trumpkin," said Caspian. "Send for Pattertwig, one of you. And when shall I blow the Horn?" "I would wait for sunrise, your Majesty," said Doctor Cornelius. "That sometimes has an effect in operations of White Magic." A few minutes later Pattertwig arrived and had his task explained to him. As he was, like many squirrels, full of courage and dash and energy and excitement and mischief (not to say conceit), he no sooner heard it than he was eager to be off. It was arranged that he should run for Lantern Waste while Trumpkin made the shorter journey to the river-mouth. After a hasty meal they both set off with the fervent thanks and good wishes of the King, the Badger, and Cornelius.

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