#You can copy a coin with charcoal :)

[lvpercalia]

Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa rebelle 7 pro is fantastic. That shit is expensive though' but that nano pixels thing is like it includes a microscope just in case you need to see the paper fibers. I wonder if it lets you make a drawing bigger indefinitely. THE METALLICS. OG FUCK . IT HAS RULERS

[luveline]

you know, I'm coming right back [Fred Weasley x Reader]

summary: you're a lonely artist and Fred is your adoring model

word count: 2.4k

tags: reader insert, lonely reader, artist reader, seventh year, kids in love, first kiss, getting together, pining, fluff, friends-to-lovers

It was easy for you, usually, to act fine. To feel fine. Any loneliness that clouded your life was pushed firmly into the depths of your thoughts. You tried to focus on the things that mattered, essays and charms and your art.

You loved to draw. You had sketchbooks filled to the brim with sketches, some half finished, others coloured and lined. You drew everything, though you struggled to bring anything from your memory. Everything you drew had to be done right there, right then, with unsuspecting models. You sketched students eating their dinner, scribbled side profiles when you managed a spare minute in class. But you're most impressive artwork was done in the library, where nothing moved. Everyone was silent. You had pages and pages of bored, tired looking students. When exams approached, you hurriedly copied down the expressions of people on the edge of depression and panic.

You had friends, ish. You knew people. You'd had intense friendships that somehow always ended in awkward drifting aparts. Well, you thought. There must be something wrong with me. They liked me before they didn't, so the fault must've been mine.

You huffed out a sigh, pressing your face deep into the textured page of your sketch book, breathing in the smell of charcoal. You were sketching the illusive Fred Weasley, who you'd never truly drawn before. Maybe you had scraps from your second or third year when you'd still attempted to draw moving objects before getting comfortable and accepting that still life was your forte.

He was maddeningly good lucking when his eyebrows puckered in concentration. He seemed to actually be studying for once, sat at a table with his brother, George, and housemates Angelina Johnson and Alicia Spinnet.

You were sat by yourself, and couldn't help listening to his lilting voice as he bantered with his friends. They were talking about Umbridge (the current victim of the Hogwarts' student body hate train), and quidditch, and their recent ban from quidditch. You'd never played.

"Watch out, dolly fell asleep," said one of the girls.

You bit your lip. You'd been nicknamed dolly by the girls in your dorm because of your porcelain doll you'd had since childhood. Even though this year was your last, you still hadn't felt the need to hide her away. She made you feel much less anxious and alone.

The whole school knew, naturally.

"Don't get any funny ideas," said Angelina,  to the twins.

"Come on Angie, you think so little of us?" said George.

"Yesterday I watched you trick a group of forth years into taking puking pastilles." Angelina said.

"It was hardly a trick. We told them they were multi-faceted," said George.

You could hear your heartbeat if you focused. It was in your ears. It bump, bump, bumped.

Bump bump. You flinched, a hand settled on your shoulder quickly moved.

"Wake up, dolly. Library's closing."

You squinted up into Fred's face, head halo'd by candlelight. Lifting your head from the wooden table, you stretched your neck to the left. It clicked.

"Uh..."

"Hmm?" You prompted him, smoothing your hair behind your ears.

"You have - dirt. On your face. Here-" He said, reaching forward. You closed your eyes as he gently wiped the skin above your eyebrow.

"It's charcoal."

"What?"

"It's not dirt," you said, peaking at him through your eyelashes. "It's charcoal."

He looked mildly surprised. You shifted, hoping to cover your sketch before he caught sight of it.

It didn't matter.

"It's me. My gorgeous dolly, you've created quite the masterpiece right there, haven't you? I look vexingly handsome, of course. Thought if that's a consequence of your skill or my handsomeness is anyones guess."

You were lost for words. "Uh, quite."

"Yes, yes, quite. Say, could I keep it?"

"... You want the drawing?"

"I'd love it, if that's okay."

"I," you quickly dug your thumbnail into the paper, tearing carefully at the centre. The paper came away a little ragged and smudged. "Of course. It's yours."

He handled it with care.

The librarian jingled her little bell again.

"Thank you. So, see you?"

"Yep," you agreed.

He nodded his head and bowed out with his friends. You tried not to feel paranoid at their laughter.

-

You were curled up in a hidden alcove, though it was hardly hidden. Most students knew where to seek privacy in the castle. You just so happened to get there first that evening.

You were trying to sketch Fred again. It felt weird to be missing a page from your book, and weirder still that you couldn't remember his face when he wasn't right in front of you. You tried, but it kept going wrong.

When you finally managed one you liked well enough, you had accidentally ruined it with a heavy hand and the wrong shade of brown.

He looked much too brunette.

You carefully rolled your coloured pencils back up, securing the leather ties tightly so as to keep every pencil confined.

Sighing morosely, you flipped to a new page. Things got so complicated sometimes, it made you agitated. You doodled a little sad face in the corner of your page. When the one thing that you enjoyed in life started to go wrong, it set off your whole mood.

Your birthday was coming up. It had been on your mind a lot lately. You'd spend it alone. That's what you figured. Nobody would know it was your birthday, or if they did, you weren't friends now, so...

You began with an arching circle, bisecting the lines appropriately. Feeling out the familiar lines of your own face came easy, the slight upper tilt of your brows, your hair and your pursed mouth. You always looked sad in the mirror, and it showed, dotted here and there when the only thing to draw was your own face.

The rudimentary outline of a birthday cake took form. The candles were unlit.

In a fit of unhappiness, you scratched out your mouth. It was never smiling.

"What did that piece of paper ever do to you?" said a voice.

You jumped. Fred was peering down at you curiously, wringing his hands. You put your pencil between the soft cover and smashed it flat, closed.

"Hi, dolly."

"Weasley."

"Oh, not even a first name?"

"You neglected mine first," you reasoned, rolling the words. He smiled at your joking tone.

"How rude of me. Hi, Y/N," he corrected himself.

"Hi, Weasley."

He smirked.

"Anymore of me in that blessed vessel?"

"Nah. You never stand still."

"If I pose for it?" He asked. You patted the ground in front of you.

He was a lovely model. He stayed infinitely still, more still than you imagined possible for him. He sat at a 3/4ths angle, chin up but not too far, mouth tilted and eyes open.

His eyes were the one thing he couldn't keep still. You tried not to flame in the cheeks everything you'd catch his gaze on you.

You sketched fast, choosing to hatch rather than render, big swooping lines to give the illusion of a depth that wasn't really there. You would've loved to do a full render, maybe even a colour portrait, but he was beginning to look a little antsy.

You set the book on the floor to face him and pushed it into his eyesight softlt. He turned. He looked nice like that, face bent, hair falling into his eyes.

After a moment, he began scrounging through his robe pockets. He set down a box, a lighter, a pair of gloves.

Finally, he set a galleon onto the floor close to your crossed legs.

"For you," he said, smiling at your inquisitive look. "For the drawing."

"Oh, I can't accept that. And I'd like to keep this one, if it's alright."

Fred thought for a moment. "Alright, you keep it. And the galleon, too, for the one you gave me the other day."

You bit back a smile. "I can't take your money, Fred."

"I can't keep having you draw me for free. It's as valuable a service as anything else. Plus, I'm not sure if you know, but I run a lucrative business these days."

You picked up the coin, rubbing your thumb against the engravings thoughtfully. "It's hardly a service."

"A talent, then. A skill. You're very good."

You're neck almost snapped as you looked into his face, wanting to assess his expression for genuineness. He looked earnest, and kind. You blinked away the gathering heat behind your eyes.

"Thank you."

He waved a hand at you. "Think nothing of it."

"Really-" you cleared your throat, "-you're doing me a favour. I'm not good at drawing things that move."

"I'm sure you're better than you think," he said.

You shook your head, smiling smiling smiling.

"What's in the box?"

"Oh, this old thing?" Fred weighed the box in his hands. It was soft at the corners, like a simple jewelry box that you had in your trunk. He offered it to you. You opened it carefully, the lid sliding free with a shhhhh sound. Inside was an evil looking fruit pastille, a match stick and a dried up flower petal.

It felt like a very private thing to see, suddenly. Such an eclectic collection of items couldn't be random.

"The first puking pastille George and I made. Or rather, the second - the first was forcibly fed to Lee Jordan in our third year. The match stick is from my Uncle's matchbox. I never met him. And the flower was from Ginny, when she was 9." He sounded nervous.

"It's a memory box."

"I- yes. It is. Things are sometimes so miserable now, with Umbridge and you-know-who. Scary, even. I look at them when I feel like it won't ever end."

You took them in for a little while longer and then placed the lid onto the box with nimble fingers. You scratched the lid with a fingernail.

"It's nice. You're right. Things are so awful right now, it's good to have reminders of why we keep going."

"Exaclty. Dolly, can I interest you in a fruit pastille?"

"Not on your life."

"They're perfectly edible!"

"Sure, Fred."

-

The honest conversation you'd shared with Fred was a catalyst between you. He often came to find you, each time whining and nagging you to just sit in the library like most people do.

"What, so your housemates can throw paper balls at me?"

"They thought you were sleeping!"

A likely story, you thought. He sometimes asked you to draw him, posing with the elegance of a natural born model. It was great for you personally, you felt that you were really getting a feel for his face. Eventually, you were able to draw his face from memory, the details of his nose coming to your fingers as easily as a first year spell.

It became about capturing emotion. You could capture his likeness now without a second thought, but his emotions were much more complicated. How would you show his veiled frustration the day Umbridge kicked him off the quidditch team? Through the clenching of his jaw? The shy veins in his forehead? How did you showcase the fear when he'd come back to Hogwarts after Christmas break, through his eyes, downturned and squinting just a little?

Today, it was poorly hidden elation. "How come you're so happy?" You asked, pencil between your teeth. He grinned. You measured his face with your thumb in the air, forming an L.

"Is it a prank?"

"You're thinking too small."

"A new product?"

"Still need to go bigger!"

"Hmmm," you hummed. Measure twice, cut once. Or in your case, sketch once.

"George and I, we're gonna open a shop."

"A section at Zonko's isn't enough for you?" You asked, casually, though you were very very happy for him.

"It's going to be amazing. We're going to run it, just the two of us, and you won't catch me in these scrappy long sleeves anymore. The next time you see me, I'll be in a full suit and tie."

"The next time? Is that not tomorrow?"

Fred closed his mouth, realising his mistake. He had revealed something he hadn't intended to. "We're leaving," he confessed. "We were going to wait for our NEWTs but... Well, we won't need them. This is going to work."

"So. You're leaving today?" You asked, crestfallen.

"Hey," Fred said, rubbing a placating hand over the curve of your shoulder. "Tomorrow. During the DADA OWL. We have a plan."

"This is goodbye?"

"No! No. Not if you don't want it to be. Actually, I've been meaning to ask you something, and maybe now isn't the best time, I had this whole letter planned and I didn't want to distract you from your exams and-"

"What do you want to ask me?"

Fred straightened. "I wanted to ask - will you go out with me? Not, you don't have to be my girlfriend if it's too soon, I'd love to take you for food someplace, I was going to ask you to Hogsmeade, but when the shop officially became ours, the plans changed so fast and I didn't know if you'd still want-" you cut off his rambling.

"I'll be your girlfriend," you said.

"You will?"

"Sure, if you'll be my boyfriend," you murmured.

Fred moved the arm that had been on your shoulder to the nape of your neck. "That's a dealbreaker," he said, leaning in.

He kissed you chastely on the lips first and then pulled back to look into your face. You chased him, a moment of bravery, and opened your mouth to taste him. He was sweet, like sugar. Your sketch pad crinkled beneath you both as he pressed forward. Your chests touched, heaving.

"You're not gonna be my boyfriend?" You asked against his mouth, breathing hard.

"I'm gonna be much more than that, dolly," he said heatedly.

Your mouth was tingling. "Kiss me again?"

You gasped at the force of him, laughing. He laughed too against your lips, and the sound tickled. He gave you a multitude of short and sweet kisses before pulling away again.

He wiped the wetness from your lip with his pinky finger. "Godric, you're cute. Look how flushed you are! You're insane."

Something churned in your stomach. The butterflies had acquired a trampoline. You felt happier than you had in a very long time. "You're not half-bad yourself, Weasley."

[doctorslippery]

Reason - PC is a Dragonborn with a family curse of unexpected breath weapon outcomes, nat 20 produces... !complete

Sand blast [OP]

Glass shards [OP]

Entangling vines [OP]

Coins [OP]

Molten metal [OP]

Wax [OP]

Blood [OP]

Vodka [u/Smiling_anon]

Fog [u/Bazim_Gorag]

Despair [u/qlawdat]

Sunlight [u/SpriteKnight42]

Darkness [u/clarence3370]

Bees [u/SpiffyMcAwesome]

Feathers [u/YaBoiJefe]

Molten cheese [u/ryncewynde88]

Bubbles [u/World_of_Ideas]

Ink [u/World_of_Ideas]

Oil Slick [u/World_of_Ideas]

Charcoal. Acts as a "Darkness spell" with a duration of 2 turns. Leaves everyone looking pitch black. [u/billFoldDog]

Pepper [u/archDeaconstructor]

Jet of water [u/DeepSeaDarkness]

Magnetic lines [u/masterwork_spoon]

d100 live mice [u/The_Void_Alchemist]

Snot [u/Quibblicous]

Swarm of locusts. [u/psykulor]

Marbles [u/Sobek6]

One large squid [u/t0tallyn0tab0tbr0]

Bells [u/Thraxster]

Playing cards [u/Cruye]

Wine [u/Cruye]

Rope [u/Dark-Pukicho]

Spiders [u/qlawdat]

Hairball [u/GFWoWPRDad]

A large amount of dirt [u/Bazim_Gorag]

Hail [u/Twilo101]

Needles [u/SpriteKnight42]

Flower Petals [u/Lucid_Ulfhedinn]

Wails of slain enemies [u/Lucid_Ulfhedinn]

A normal, fully-formed hedge that roots in a line as it comes out [u/ryncewynde88]

Webs [u/World_of_Ideas]

Fungal spores [u/World_of_Ideas]

Holy water [u/World_of_Ideas]

Brown noise [u/Sloadkroger]

Pollen [u/World_of_Ideas]

Porcupine quills [u/World_of_Ideas]

Foul stink [u/World_of_Ideas]

Leeches [u/World_of_Ideas]

Mucus [u/billFoldDog]

Gust of wind [u/raykendo]

Clothes [u/CrimsonKS]

Ash [u/raykendo]

Honey [u/WSHIII]

Caltrops [u/WSHIII]

Paper cut storm [u/muqi]

Trail rations [u/WSHIII]

A loud cough [u/Simply_Cosmic]

Glue [u/Coalesced]

A smaller version of the dragonborn in question, claiming that it is its inner voice and demands to be swallowed immediately [u/Twilo101]

Butterflies [u/Coalesced]

Slowed time [u/archDeaconstructor]

Ray that increases the targets movement speed by 1 for a day [u/The_Void_Alchemist]

Swarm of bats [u/FemaleAndComputer]

Breath of Force - Creatures adjacent to you are pushed back 15 ft [u/FemaleAndComputer]

3d4 fairies that are not sentient. They will flutter in place after being coughed out, their gazes blank and limbs not moving except for their wings [u/Mnemossin]

Antigravity- causes anything in it radius to begin to float [u/supersnes1]

Shrinking effect, next size down, medium to small, small to tiny [u/Drakeytown]

Tractor beam that pulls targets in [u/FirstChAoS]

Healing (minor) [u/Captnlunch]

1d4 magic missiles [u/Bazim_Gorag]

Misty Step [u/Accountforrsc]

Illusory breath: it looks like fire, but isn't [u/ryncewynde88]

An Ooze [u/ryncewynde89]

Gas cloud of etherealness [u/World_of_Ideas]

Ghost of last creature eaten [u/World_of_Ideas]

Ray of enfeeblement [u/World_of_Ideas]

Sad trombone noise. No verbal communication can be understood for 1D4 turns [u/Clovis69]

Laughing gas (Tasha's Hideous Laughter, but a CON save) [u/raykendo]

Bird breath - materializes into an ethereal bird that acts as a familiar for 1 minute. [u/FemaleAndComputer]

Illusion breath - exhale and create an illusion in a 5ft area adjacent to you. Mimics the spell minor illusion. [u/FemaleAndComputer]

Clone Ray - Exhale to create 1d4 illusory copies of yourself beside you. Mimics the spell mirror image. [u/FemaleAndComputer]

A cone of faerie fire [u/nuke034]

Rocket breath, gas and fire propel the breather 60 ft in a straight line from the point they were standing. If anything interrupts this flight the user and the object or creature in the way takes 1d6 bludgeoning per 10 ft traveled. [u/countfluffythetrout]

Prismatic spray [u/t0tallyn0tab0tbr0]

A tiny version of himself that will assist for his 1 week lifespan  [u/purehidro]

Teleport next to random nearby sentient [u/CrimsonKS]

Bigbys hand [u/Dallashh]

Wild magic surge (roll on the wild magic table) [u/ryncewynde88]

Spectral Image of yourself/ancestor, trailing with a ghostly tail back to your mouth. Provides advantage on attacks/Helpful advice [u/Lucid_Ulfhedinn]

Puke up 1d2 minions [u/SpiffyMcAwesome]

Yoshi tongue, 60 ft grapple and drag [u/SpiffyMcAwesome]

Concentrated hatred [u/PieLikeman]

1 level of exhaustion [u/archDeaconstructor]

Ray of sin [OP]

Weredragon. Target grows scales on the full moon. [OP]

Cone of dislocation, random body part pops out causing agony [OP]

I am your mother, illusion causes the target to think the breather is his mum [OP]

Headbutt, pull target up to 60ft away in for a glasgow kiss [OP]

Vampire, gain 2d6 of targets HP [OP]

Barman summoning. Barliman Tender, the barman of the Vile Inn, very confused, slightly angry [OP]

A single 20 sided dice, slowly spinning to a halt [OP]

[hurl-a-can]

30 Day OC Challenge: Day 6 – Pocketses, Precious

previous day: sexuality

What’s in your OC’s pockets/purse/backpack? What do they carry around day to day?

When he packs for the road (gonna copy a bit from @keeperscompanionsdai here):

Backpack:

some spare clothes, including something to account for a sudden change in weather

basic medical supplies (bandages, healing salve, some healing potions)

whetstone

a pot, a waterskin, a small plate, and a cup

fork and spoon

notebook & stylus (or pencil/charcoal/whatever Thedosians use for sketching)

bedroll & blanket

tent & furs

some linen cloth

comb

rope, hook, and a small spade

rations: a set of small tins with salt and spices for cooking, jerky, dried fruits and nuts (usually in form of bars), crackers, flatbread, a bit of honey and jam, bottle of rum, some coffee and tea...

emergency alchemy set

map

Pockets and pocket belt:

money purse

some healing potions + his Tempest elixirs

tinderbox

a few linen bags (for collecting herbs and ingredients)

lockpicks

hunting knife & whittling knife

fishing hooks

rolled up string

needles and thread

Weapons:

two long daggers (usually carried in a scabbard on his lower back)

How much and what exactly he packs entirely depends on the length and the destination of the journey and on his planned route. 

Will he be meeting people a lot? Will he have opportunities to trade? What animals live in the areas he's going to visit? Will he have time and opportunity to hunt or set traps? How familiar is he with the area(s) he is going to travel? He can carry a lot without losing much speed, but he's also quite impervious to the elements and doesn't mind discomfort.  When venturing into a less familiar territory, he tends to err on the side of precaution - but he very rarely brings ALL of the above-listed stuff. (Please, note: Das knows what to pack for a long hike. I don’t. If you've found an error, omission, or any other nonsense, the mistake is mine, not his. Please, do let me know if you spot any nonsense. ;-p)

Day to day:

He always has his lucky charms with him: prayer beads with a sword of mercy pendant (verse specific: in a Twinquisition AU, he gives it to Nico Lavellan for good luck), a lucky coin from Lennan Tabris (but he gives that one to Fennas when he's leaving for the Conclave). Verse specific: a small heart-in-a-vial pendant Faeron Lavellan made for him. (Nico and Faeron belong to @enchantment1385 .) Food. His pockets are always full of food. Cookies, dried fruits, apples and other fruits he picked off a tree, pieces of bread, nuts, and seeds... And he usually gives it all away. Sweets and dried fruits to the kids, seeds and bread to the birds, nuts and dried fruits to squirrels... (When he pockets it, it is almost always intended as a snack for later, but that rarely ends up being the case. He stops to greet someone and within three sentences into their small talk, he'll blurt out 'Oh, by the way, I've got an apple. Want an apple?' and then he'll proceed to hand over the apple whether the person wants it or not, partly because he's compulsively generous, partly because having full pockets--annoys him.)

A pocket belt that contains: a pocketknife, a dagger, a stylus or charcoal and a small notebook, emergency healing potion, a rolled up string.

Some coin (when he's not staying with the Dalish). Some fidget toy (worry beads, meditation balls or...something. If he forgets to bring one, he either improvises something or plays with his hair. Or...anything he can get his hands on, really.)

next day: fighting (methods & morality)

[lightholme]

I am stranger in a strange land. I have no skill in making anything useful--not with the tools of this age--and my body is ill-suited for hard labor. I decide to go from farm to farm until someone is willing to give me simple work that can be communicated without words. At least my regeneration will help me recover quickly.

I am kicked off a farm almost immediately. Within an hour or two it is obvious that I'm slower than a ten year old child of this time, and the farmer has no desire to share his hard-grown food with this oddly-garbed, weak-limbed creature. I have learned two words which I believe mean "barn" and "worthless piece of shit" (or something of that nature); I cannot pronounce either, but I repeat them as I walk.

I am near a city and the farms are blessedly close. Even so it takes close to a full day before I find another farm that allows me to do some work. My benefactor this time is grizzled and care-worn, yet I think he is touched by my helplessness. I work a few hours and eat for the first time, the flavors strange and bland to my palate. My vocabulary gains a few more words, but most of the communication is through hand gestures, though even that is surprisingly difficult. I sleep in the barn, rain dripping though the slats keeping me awake long into the night.

I had the good fortune to arrive during planting season. As I grow accustomed to the work, I feel I am less of a burden than I was at first. Perhaps I am even, barely, earning my keep. But, more to the point, my vocabulary is improving considerably and I am now speaking in short, simple sentences.

The summer is busy for me. I know I cannot stay here; after harvest I will need to find other accommodations. I know that learning to write is of the utmost importance, but there are no books to be found. Instead I slowly, painfully copy characters I see written wherever I find them, practicing them with the burnt ends of sticks on rock until I can form them quickly, even if I do not know their meaning.

My benefactor, who has the habit of occasionally looking on as I practice my "writing", surprises me one day we are in the city. He introduces me to a man whose function I do not really grasp, but who seems to be some sort of clerk. In any case, he is willing to write out some sentences and tell me what they mean. His accent is new to me, the vocabulary strange, and I drink it in. This man has some education. I use my charcoal collection to write the translations in English and he asks what language it is. I have no answer, so I tell him I made it up. He laughs. For many nights after, I copy these passages again and again.

I visit the clerk at every opportunity. The farmer is understanding. He is kind, and seems to care about me, but I also see relief in his eyes that I will not ask to stay the winter. The clerk has become a friend, and he willingly supplies me with new words and corrects my fledgling script. Luckily, the script is simple and rather flexible--much simpler than English--and my progress is rapid.

My writing has become quite serviceable, and well that it has, because the harvest is done and the preparations for winter have begun. I still work much of each day, but soon I will need to find new accommodations. The clerk, who it turns out takes dictations from the wealthy and illiterate, helps me find a job doing inventory and bookkeeping for a successful shop. It pays so little that I can scarcely afford to house, feed, and clothe myself, but I have ready access to quill pens and now my real work can begin.

On wood, stone, and any other surface I can find, I begin writing down everything I remember. About textiles, manufacturing, mathematics, psychology, history, and medicine. I write in English, and in great detail, developing a shorthand for my relative certainty about these facts.

Over the next several years, my education proves invaluable. The owner of the shop, at first scornful of my work, becomes, if not a friend, then at least an ally. I show him how to reduce inventory carrying costs using LEAN techniques and predictive forecasting of purchasing trends. I introduce a formal loyalty program, employ (relatively) sophisticated product pricing strategies, and he is generous in rewarding me as his wealth burgeons. The clerk is happy for my success at first, and I even try to help him, but the role reversal does not suit him well and we stop spending time together. When he dies a few years later, I don't even know. The farmer I visit occasionally. It is awkward, but I owe it to him. The shop purchases most of what he produces at a good price, and that is perhaps the only meaningful thing I give to him before he dies, quietly, eight years after I arrived.

It is during this time that I sow the seeds of wealth. I save every coin I can and found an informal bank. I am allowed to operate out of the shop owner's buildings in exchange for a 20% share of profits. He is skeptical at first, but it costs him nothing. By the time he dies, nearly 30 years later, it is more than half his annual earnings, according to the quasi-accounting team I now employ. I purchase the business from his widow for a sizable sum, sufficient to keep her in comfort for her few remaining years.

It takes time to find and train someone to handle the day-to-day management of the bank and the shop (still known as such, though it has expanded a dozen times and offers the finest and most varied wares in the city), but once accomplished, I turn my attention to my new project: a university. I pay to build it, but the ongoing costs are covered by the students, mostly the children of the obscenely wealthy. I need to be careful--some of my ideas could draw the wrong kind of attention--but I begin rigorously training them in the scientific method, drawing on every elementary school experiment I can remember. I find I enjoy this. Aside from some dalliances, I lead a fairly solitary existence. The children make me feel connected, meaningful.

It is time to deal with the issue of not aging. I establish a bank and university in two cities perhaps a month's journey away from each other and begin passing myself off as my own son or grandson. Every twenty years or so I rotate, managing the affairs of the other location by correspondence. Some of the students have grown up and become teachers. This is both heartwarming and inconvenient.

I have good paper now, just one of the many fruits of my universities. I publish a "book of prophecy", in which I attempt to capture all my recollections of science and phrase it as if they were clever guesses. This is perhaps all I can do to guide and hasten their progress. I continue to write down my memories, but I have not remembered anything new in a very long time.

I fall in love. She is young--everybody is young, when you have lived a century and a half--and she is bright, and she worships me, yet speaks to me candidly and without guile. Before I ask her to marry me, I tell her the truth about who I am, something I have never done before. I show her the vast piles of writings, copied and recopied in an ever greater expanse, organized and re-organized, indexed and cross-referenced a hundred ways. She does not believe me. She is not cruel, but she leaves the university soon after and I do not see her again for many years. For the first time, I contemplate death.

Impatient with the rate of progress, I use my wealth and prestige to forge a political career. I have no wish (or facility) to run a nation, but I advise, and my banks give my words weight. I do my best to resolve conflict and establish universities in every allied country. The thing I remember with the sweetest nostalgia, other than air conditioning and hot water, is TV shows. It is a bizarre, ridiculous thing to work toward, but I throw my wealth and centuries and harness the combined intellectual power of every major nation to make me some damned talkies

. It takes a long, long time.

It is 750 years before the world is "modern" in my eyes, though history has taken a vastly different shape. We had no dark ages, no long stretches of stagnation. For all the many gaps in my knowledge, there are always brilliant minds to discover--or even to leapfrog--the reality I recorded, which now seem another man's writing. I assume different identities now, controlling my enterprise through elaborate mechanisms of separation. My personas are primarily political as I continue to try to guide events. I succeed, though less with every passing century. I wonder, sometimes, if I should let loose the reigns, now that I have nothing to offer other than my accumulated wealth.

[tabletoptrinketsbyjj]

Trinkets, 5: Interesting baubles, semi magical objects and items touched by mystery.

A battle pennant of black cloth with a single golden eye in its center.

A battle pennant of grey cloth with a black short sword partially wrapped in a white death shroud in its center.

A black stone that beats like a heart and seeps red fluid when pricked.

A blank mask that allows the wearer to look exactly like himself when worn.

A bone insignia of military rank originating from the legendary Horde of the Endless Dead

A bone key of a design akin to the nomadic desert tribes

A brass bas-relief, depicting the finder’s father, mother, sibling, or childhood imaginary friend, in a gilded cage.  

A brass bicep bracer with an Efreet motif.

A brass nose flute.

A brass plated orc skull.

---Keep reading for 90 more trinkets.

---Note: The previous 10 items are repeated for easier rolling on a d100.

A battle pennant of black cloth with a single golden eye in its center.

A battle pennant of grey cloth with a black short sword partially wrapped in a white death shroud in its center.

A black stone that beats like a heart and seeps red fluid when pricked.

A blank mask that allows the wearer to look exactly like himself when worn.

A bone insignia of military rank originating from the legendary Horde of the Endless Dead

A bone key of a design akin to the nomadic desert tribes

A brass bas-relief, depicting the finder’s father, mother, sibling, or childhood imaginary friend, in a gilded cage.  

A brass bicep bracer with an Efreet motif.

A brass nose flute.

A brass plated orc skull.

A broken spear head made of bone. There is an unknown script engraved upon the surface.

A bronze plated half-elf skull.

A bronze tablet bound in human skin. The tablet is inscribed in an ancient tongue on both sides. If translated, a rambling account is revealed, seeming to expound the means of communicating with (or perhaps binding?) the demon Uln-Rgaoon, Child of Whispers.

A bundle of legal papers wrapped in colorful braided cord that entitle the bearer to a one-half share in Delecarte’s Cirque Des Wonderment.

A ceremonial stag headdress thought to bring fertility and health.

A charm made from animal bones and feathers believed to ward off the undead.

A child’s doll with hair made of rare moss.

A clay dove mounted inside a wooden cage.

A clay pot containing a mixture of rendered animal fat and herbs that is believed to ward off yeti.

A clean linen cloth wrapped around three ordinary looking acorns. Sewn into the corner of the cloth are the words “High Aldwin”.  

A coin made from a carved insect carapace

A cold iron cage lantern, with no oil reservoir or candle spike. The oversized handle ring has a broken chain link attached to it. The lantern is inscribed with runes of holy abjuration.  

A comb made of bone engraved with an ancient proverb about the dangers of vanity.

A completely sealed, six inch oak barrel with sloshing liquid inside.

A copper plated gnome skull.

A counterfeit coin of the local currency, weighted to favour one side (70% chance of coming up heads). The replica is a perfect copy, apart from the weight, which can be detected by knowledgeable PC’s who spend time handling the coin

A cracked, old map case, containing a nautical map with coordinates to a mysterious isle recorded as VarnKaragoss (Which translates to “Place of Ending”). The island is many leagues to the distant north, and is surely encased in snow and ice. The island does not appear on contemporary maps, but is referenced in some rare texts as a burial ground for ancient giant kin.

A crimson envelope bearing a white star sigil. Inside is a fine piece of folded parchment in a rare language. If translated it’s found to be a riddle: Alive as thee but absent breath/Cold in life as we art in death./Always a thirst we ever drink./Clad in mail but never clink (The answer is “Fish”)

A crude mortal and pestle made out of a pair of rough stones

A crystal ball. When looked at, it usually shows an unending battle between 2 trolls. Every once in a great while a place of great importance to the viewer.

A crystal ball. When you look at it, you are shown a battle between 2 trolls typically, yet every once in a great while a place of great importance to you.

A crystal bracelet fashioned in a fog motif, with three animal charms attached: a bird, a wolf and an octopus. There are links for two other charms, but they are missing.  

A decrepit and slightly malodorous preserved rabbit’s foot on a metal chain.

A disturbingly life-like, white, yeti mask.

A dog whistle fashioned of bone.

A drawstring pouch containing three sticks of green incense, stamped with a two headed monkey.

A dried scalp taken from a still living disobedient slave. Those who hold it feel the urge to rebel.

A false glass eye. Perceptive PC’s will notice that the iris snaps open to reveal a small secret compartment.  

A fashionable, domino mask.

A fine ring case festooned with silver filigree, but with no ring inside. A false bottom reveals a coin sized, obsidian disk, depicting a black raven with three eyes.  

A finely crafted beard snood.

A finger length shard of ice that never melts.

A fishing line that never tangles or snags.

A fist sized ball of an unknown material. When dropped, it doesn’t bounce.

A fist sized ball of copper wire.

A fist sized metallic pyramid, deeply etched in incomprehensible runes.

A fist-sized glass sphere filled with a black, gelatin like substance.

A flat stone with white chalk marks that change each time it is observed.

A folded parchment containing the notes to a whimsical tune.

A folded piece of parchment reveals a charcoal sketch of a stunning young woman. A wide lake and a large tree split by lightning are depicted behind her

A fossilized heart of an unknown creature. Those who hold it hear a slow but steady beat within their head.

A fragile black paper fan. When unfolded, the fan depicts two mesmerizing cat’s eyes.

A full deck of playing cards each of which has two backs and no faces.

A glass elf ear.

A glass jar containing a number of preserved tentacles of an unidentifiable creature. There are six, connected around what appears to be a mouth.

A glass jar filled with humanoid baby teeth, marked “For emergency use only!”.

A gold colored pill box depicting a single cat on the lid.

A hand mirror that reflects an unknown eye at all times.

A hand sized ball of parchment tied up with string. If the string is removed, and the many parchment layers unwrapped, at the center is a pinch of bright yellow sulfur.  

A hardened sand painting depicting a gladiator match

A heavy eight inch gate key, fashioned of cold iron, inscribed with hieroglyphs from an earlier age. If translated, the hieroglyphs translate to “Star Door”.

A holy symbol of an elemental priest of water

A horned and fanged skull that looks human.

A jawbone of a donkey. All its teeth are black and anyone holding the jawbone experiences the slight flavor of rotten meat in their mouth.

A jawbone of a predatory creature. All its teeth are serrated and anyone holding the jawbone feels as if they are starving.

A jeweler’s hammer with a head on both ends.

A knapped flint arrow head with unknown script upon it.

A knife with a handle made from the fossilized bone of an extinct predator.

A kraken like statuette, carved from blue and white coral.  

A lace garter in black and red.

A large amber stone, encasing a six inch dragonfly with elongated tentacles instead of mandibles.

A large eagle feather that smells of brimstone.

A lead plated goblin skull

A leather pouch full of rainbow colored sand.

A lightweight wooden case containing a luxurious feather quill. Two small bottles of ink are also set into the case. The first ink is a faint brownish yellow, and smells like bile. The second is congealed blood.  

A locket containing a picture of an ogre and a manticore.

A lovingly crafted bowl made of rosewood.

A magically preserved oak leaf on a cord that can be worn as an eye patch.

A miniature set of blacksmith’s bellows, small enough for a doll

A multi-colored gemstone of curious origin. No stone dealer alive is able to identify it.  

A mummified hand that twitches when the owner becomes aggravated or upset.

A mummified hand which knowledgeable PC’s will recognize as a mul, a cross species of human and dwarf.

A music box that appears to be in working order but makes no noise.

A old boot stuffed with straw. If the boot is emptied, a dark green, scaled egg is found. The egg is about the size of a child’s fist, and is warm to the touch.  

A one foot long, deep red and grey feather. If inspected closely, tiny black writing can see be seen along the vein. The writing is in a lost language. If translated, it reads “The Seeking of the Sky God is ended.”  

A one foot tall humanoid skeleton bound with copper wire

A painted toy boat, in excellent condition. A single child figurine steers the ship. There is space for a second figurine, but it appears to be missing.

A pair of severed hands formerly belonging to a witch. They have been dried out, preserved and bound together with twine.

A pair of steel spurs

A pair of tin coins from an unknown land.

A pair of tongs crafted from the jawbones of a long extinct animal.

A palm sized, dried mushroom that glows in the dark.

A parchment flip book showing a knight galloping on a horse.

A perfectly smooth stone which, when squeezed, turns blue for five minutes.

A petrified cockatrice egg

A piece of animal hide covered in strange white rune, when stored occasionally quiet laughter is heard from the hide.

A piece of cobblestone rumoured to have once made up the road that lead to a famed lost city from the dawn of civilization.

A piece of parchment covered with untranslatable demonic script.

A piece of supple leather with the image of a forest on it

A piece of white cloth. When it is laid over the face of a dead person it holds their likeness for twenty four hours before returning to its blank state.

[rjhamster]

The Story of the Praying Hands Painting

June 14

Back in the fifteenth century, in a tiny village near Nuremberg, lived a family with eighteen children. In order merely to keep food on the table for this mob, the father and head of the household, a goldsmith by profession, worked almost eighteen hours a day at his trade and any other paying chore he could find in the neighborhood. Despite their seemingly hopeless condition, two of the elder children, Albrecht and Albert, had a dream. They both wanted to pursue their talent for art, but they knew full well that their father would never be financially able to send either of them to Nuremberg to study at the Academy. After many long discussions at night in their crowded bed, the two boys finally worked out a pact. They would toss a coin. The loser would go down into the nearby mines and, with his earnings, support his brother while he attended the academy. Then, when that brother who won the toss completed his studies, in four years, he would support the other brother at the academy, either with sales of his artwork or, if necessary, also by laboring in the mines. They tossed a coin on a Sunday morning after church. Albrecht Durer won the toss and went off to Nuremberg. Albert went down into the dangerous mines and, for the next four years, financed his brother, whose work at the academy was almost an immediate sensation. Albrecht's etchings, his woodcuts, and his oils were far better than those of most of his professors, and by the time he graduated, he was beginning to earn considerable fees for his commissioned works. When the young artist returned to his village, the Durer family held a festive dinner on their lawn to celebrate Albrecht's triumphant homecoming. After a long and memorable meal, punctuated with music and laughter, Albrecht rose from his honored position at the head of the table to drink a toast to his beloved brother for the years of sacrifice that had enabled Albrecht to fulfill his ambition. His closing words were, "And now, Albert, blessed brother of mine, now it is your turn. Now you can go to Nuremberg to pursue your dream, and I will take care of you." All heads turned in eager expectation to the far end of the table where Albert sat, tears streaming down his pale face, shaking his lowered head from side to side while he sobbed and repeated, over and over, "No... no... no... no." Finally, Albert rose and wiped the tears from his cheeks. He glanced down the long table at the faces he loved, and then, holding his hands close to his right cheek, he said softly, "No, brother. I cannot go to Nuremberg. It is too late for me. Look... Look what four years in the mines have done to my hands! The bones in every finger have been smashed at least once, and lately I have been suffering from arthritis so badly in my right hand that I cannot even hold a glass to return your toast, much less make delicate lines on parchment or canvas with a pen or a brush. No, brother... for me it is too late." More than 450 years have passed. By now, Albrecht Durer's hundreds of masterful portraits, pen and silver-point sketches, water colors, charcoals, woodcuts, and copper engravings hang in every great museum in the world, but the odds are great that you, like most people, are familiar with only one of Albrecht Durer's works. More than merely being familiar with it, you very well may have a reproduction hanging in your home or office. One day, to pay homage to Albert for all that he had sacrificed, Albrecht Durer painstakingly drew his brother's abused hands with palms together and thin fingers stretched skyward. He called his powerful drawing simply "Hands," but the entire world almost immediately opened their hearts to his great masterpiece and renamed his tribute of love "The Praying Hands." The next time you see a copy of that touching creation, take a second look. Let it be your reminder, that no one - no one - ever makes it alone! Make a difference today, Love Clint

[shehnazf321-blog]

The Praying Hands

Back in the fifteenth century, in a tiny village near Nuremberg, lived a family with eighteen children. Eighteen! In order merely to keep food on the table for this mob, the father and head of the household, a goldsmith by profession, worked almost eighteen hours a day at his trade and any other paying chore he could find in the neighborhood. Despite their seemingly hopeless condition, two of Albrecht Durer the Elder�s children had a dream. They both wanted to pursue their talent for art, but they knew full well that their father would never be financially able to send either of them to Nuremberg to study at the Academy. After many long discussions at night in their crowded bed, the two boys finally worked out a pact. They would toss a coin. The loser would go down into the nearby mines and, with his earnings, support his brother while he attended the academy. Then, when that brother who won the toss completed his studies, in four years, he would support the other brother at the academy, either with sales of his artwork or, if necessary, also by laboring in the mines. They tossed a coin on a Sunday morning after church. Albrecht Durer won the toss and went off to Nuremberg. Albert went down into the dangerous mines and, for the next four years, financed his brother, whose work at the academy was almost an immediate sensation. Albrecht�s etchings, his woodcuts, and his oils were far better than those of most of his professors, and by the time he graduated, he was beginning to earn considerable fees for his commissioned works. When the young artist returned to his village, the Durer family held a festive dinner on their lawn to celebrate Albrecht�s triumphant homecoming. After a long and memorable meal, punctuated with music and laughter, Albrecht rose from his honored position at the head of the table to drink a toast to his beloved brother for the years of sacrifice that had enabled Albrecht to fulfill his ambition. His closing words were, �And now, Albert, blessed brother of mine, now it is your turn. Now you can go to Nuremberg to pursue your dream, and I will take care of you.� All heads turned in eager expectation to the far end of the table where Albert sat, tears streaming down his pale face, shaking his lowered head from side to side while he sobbed and repeated, over and over, �No �no �no �no.� Finally, Albert rose and wiped the tears from his cheeks. He glanced down the long table at the faces he loved, and then, holding his hands close to his right cheek, he said softly, �No, brother. I cannot go to Nuremberg. It is too late for me. Look � look what four years in the mines have done to my hands! The bones in every finger have been smashed at least once, and lately, I have been suffering from arthritis so badly in my right hand that I cannot even hold a glass to return your toast, much less make delicate lines on parchment or canvas with a pen or a brush. No, brother � for me, it is too late.� More than 450 years have passed. By now, Albrecht Durer�s hundreds of masterful portraits, pen and silver-point sketches, watercolors, charcoals, woodcuts, and copper engravings hang in every great museum in the world, but the odds are great that you, like most people, are familiar with only one of Albrecht Durer�s works. More than merely being familiar with it, you very well may have a reproduction hanging in your home or office. One day, to pay homage to Albert for all that he had sacrificed, Albrecht Durer painstakingly drew his brother�s abused hands with palms together and thin fingers stretched skyward. He called his powerful drawing simply �Hands,� but the entire world almost immediately opened their hearts to his great masterpiece and renamed his tribute of love �The Praying Hands.�� Moral: The next time you see a copy of that touching creation, take a second look. Let it be your reminder, if you still need one, that no one � no one � ever makes it alone! Read the full article

[themadlostgirl]

Not Dead Yet (Part 33)

*Hee hee hee*

Pairing: Reader x Peter Pan

Warnings: language

Before Peter and I left to grab more supplies I handed Candace off to Devin. She didn’t like that I was leaving her with some stranger but it was riskier taking her with me to another realm. We grabbed a handful of coins from the treasure chest before leaving.

I had to force Peter to go shopping before we went and started having fun. He complied but was groaning behind me the entire time as I picked out new blankets, tarps, cots, clothes, and canteens to replace all the ones we lost. In the end we had to steal a cart just to lug everything.

“I only came because you said we’d have some fun. It’s been three hours now and I’m still bored to death.” Peter grumbled as he pulled the cart alongside me.

“We’re almost done.” I assured him, “We just need candlesticks and matches. Where do you think those are?”

“How should I know?”

“I thought you said you’ve been to this market before.”

“I’ve been to the inn.”

“I’m not gonna say anything.” I rolled my eyes as we walked past a string of vendors. “I take that back, was the whore you shacked up with the last time you were here happen to be the candlemaker’s daughter because I cannot find the shop anywhere.”

I turned around but Peter was gone. “Peter? Peter?”

I spotted our cart near the corner and saw Peter browsing in a shop. There was a woman that looked to be in her late thirties showing him an array of pencil and charcoal sets. “Ahem,” I stepped up behind him, “I thought you were tired of shopping.”

“For dreadfully boring stuff.” He picked up a wooden case filled with pencils, quills, and an ink pot.

“You gonna get it?” I asked, “If you want it then get it. We have enough money.”

“No, just thought I’d look at it. We need more important things.” he set the case back down. “Do you know where the candle shop is?” He asked the lady.

“Down this lane, take a right, it’s next to the flower shop.” the woman explained.

“Thanks.” Peter walked out of the shop and headed in the direction of the candlemaker.

~~~

After Y/N was done buying the supplies Peter and her settled down at the local tavern for her promised drinks. Currently he was trying to show her how to down a shot to hilarious results.

“You are hopeless. You have to shoot it back not nurse it.”

“I tried the first time, it burned my throat.”

“Come on pet, stop being such a princess.” he poured her another shot. “Go.”

“You’re just trying to get me drunk and you should know that no amount of alcohol is going to get what you want from me.” she took the shot a bit easier this time but still coughed. “Can we stop with the shots? I’m just not getting it.”

“You are no fun.”

“I am tons of fun.”

“Prove it. You said we’d celebrate however I wanted and this is how I want to celebrate.”

“Not my words but I did say we celebrate.” she reached into her pocket and pulled out a little wooden box. It was the same one from the parchment shop Peter had looked at earlier. “Consider this a celebratory gift.”

“I told you I didn’t want it.”

“When do I ever listen to you? You treat yourself all the time, this time it’s my turn.” she pushed the case closer, “Take it. You’re gonna need it.”

“Why would I need it? I already copied down the Believer’s face.”

“Not for that. I know you like to draw. No one gets as good as you without practicing a lot. You just don’t because it’s not the kind of activity the others expect you to enjoy. Stop being the fearless Peter Pan and just be you once in awhile.” she handed him a ream of fresh parchment tied neatly together with string.

“I will take this if you chug a mug of mead right now.”

“How about this. You take it, I’ll chug the mead, but you also have to draw me a new picture since Candace burned my last one.”

“Deal. Two meads.” the bartender set two steins in front of them, “You go ahead and start and I’ll get started on this.”

“I am going to hate myself in the morning.”

“Should we get a room?” Peter asked as she started taking gulps of the frothing drink.

“You had better. I’m not going back to Neverland like this.” she grimaced in dismay at the half drunken glass, “Two rooms. I am not sharing a bed with you again.”

“One of these days you will.” Peter took a sip from his own drink.

“Yeah but we won’t be sleeping.” Y/N muttered and Peter choked. He caught the devious smirk on her face as she downed the rest of her mug. “There, now get drawing.”

“As the lady wishes,” He picked up one of the freshly sharpened pencils and set a piece of paper on the bar. What to draw? Last time he had just given her a portrait of herself but seeing as how she was leaning tipsy on the bar that didn’t seem the best muse.

Y/N is a strange one. Without any effort she can worm her way into his mind and make him do whatever she wants. Keep the phoenix that burnt down the camp? Of course you can. Come shopping for supplies for hours when he had more important matters to attend to? Sure. Get some drinks and stay the night but with little to no chance of finally having sex?  Why not!

He knew he had to respect her. Not doing so came with consequences. What he couldn’t stand was how she knew that she had a certain level of control over him. She knew and she stretched it. She crawled and fought her way into not only being his best friend but also his most trusted confidant and second in command finally knocking Felix from his long running position. She had her own little posse that were more her followers than Peter’s anymore. She was dangerous, strong, clever, sly, and confidant. He didn’t want to think what she could do if she knew magic. If he didn’t know any better he’d be scared she might try to overthrow him on the island. His vicious little Lost Girl.

There she sat giggling to herself and stealing sips from his drink. She had brought him out to celebrate and she was getting drunker than him very fast. “Slow down, pet.” he pulled the mead away from her, “You’re gonna make yourself sick.”

“I’m fine,” her words slurred slightly, “You really think I don’t know my limits?”

“The last time you drank this heavily was years ago. You don’t know the meaning of pacing yourself.” he took a long pull from the mug.

“Who’s the fuddy duddy now?” she leaned heavily on him, “I thought you was drawing me something. There’s nothing there.”

Peter stared back at the blank paper. “Just not inspired enough I suppose. Come on Y/N, I think you’ve had enough.”

“No.” she pushed off him and almost fell off the barstool, “I think I want to try another shot. Get me another shot.”

The bartender gave her an amused smile before setting a shot of whiskey in front of her. She picked it up and shot it back as if she was doing it for years. “See? I got this.”

“If you say so.” Peter packed the pencil set and parchment away, “You stay here, I’m gonna go get us a room. Okay?”

“Yes sir.” she gave a salute that threw herself into another round of drunken giggles. He was going to love lording this over her when she was sober again.

“Good girl. No more shots.”

“Fuddy duddy.” she stuck her tongue out at him before stealing his mug again.

Peter left to get the room. He knew better than to leave her alone and got a room with two beds for the night. He also paid off the tab for all the booze Y/N drank. The whole exchange plus a quick check to make sure their cart was still outside in the stables couldn’t have taken more than ten minutes. He grabbed the key to the room and went to collect Y/N.

When he got back to the bar though his Lost Girl wasn’t where he had left her but instead was hanging off some redheaded clotpole in a corner like some common floozy. Without a moment’s warning he tore the guy off her and pushed him away. “Whoa, what’s your problem?” the guy snarked.

“Back off before you do something you’ll regret.” Peter threatened through clenched teeth.

“Petey, what’s the big idea?” Y/N glared at him, “Why you gotta ruin my fun?”

“I am never taking you drinking again.” Peter muttered to himself and pulled her towards the stairs. “Let’s go.”

“No!” she ripped his arm from him and stumbled back into the redhead. “I was having fun with...this guy.”

“Sorry, looks like the lass has made up her mind, Petey.” the idiot mocked.

“Big mistake.” Peter used his magic and the guy’s neck snapped with a sharp crack. The inn fell into silence as they took a moment to process the dead body on the ground. “Upstairs, now!” he growled as he pulled a stunned Y/N up the steps and shoved her into the room. He doubted anyone would come to throw them out unless they wanted to run the risk of getting killed too.

“Way to go. I finally get some attention and you break his neck.” Y/N pouted as she collapsed back on the one bed. “You’re such a prat.”

“I’m the prat?” he snarled, “What the hell were you doing acting like a tramp for? I thought you were too good to let alcohol affect your judgement.”

She rolled her eyes and started to tug off her boots. “So what? You can go off slipping it to other girls but the second I lay eyes on some other boy and you get all jealous? Hypocrite.”

“I ain’t slipping it to other girls and you know that. There’s no reason for you to be looking at any other guys because if you want that kind of attention you just come to me. Got it?”

“Blah, blah, blah,” she chucked a boot at him, “You’re not so special y’know? Really looking what’s the difference between what he was doing and what you do?”

“Well how’s this for comparison?” he crossed the room and pushed her back on the bed. He pinned her arms up by her head before pressing a hungry angry kiss against her mouth. He was half expecting her to throw him off but given her drunken state she instead kissed him back.

Y/N broke her arms free and wrapped them around his neck to pull him closer. She was certainly stronger when she was drunk and a lot more clingy. All of which was fine with him.

She reached to tug off his shirt. “Not yet,” he pulled back away from her, “No need to rush things we have all night, pet.”

“I thought you liked me.” she mumbled.

“I do.” he pulled her up into his lap, “But you have to let me lead this time.”

“Okey dokey,” she ran her hands through his hair.

The heavy stench of alcohol on her breath hit him like a runaway carriage. She is really drunk isn’t she? Like, probably won’t remember most of what’s going on tomorrow level drunk. A part of him, a very loud part, told him to take advantage of this like he had been hoping to. Another very annoying voice told him that if he went through with this she would never forgive him.

“Son of a bitch…” he pushed her back. She gave him a confused look. “Sorry my dear, not tonight.”

“Huh?” she nestled closer into him batting her eyelashes, “Don’t you want me? Cause I want you. I really really want you.” she leaned in to kiss him again.

“I know you do.” he grabbed her wandering hands, “But you are very drunk and in the morning you won’t remember any of this. When we do get to it I want you to be able to remember every second of you giving into me and wanting me. Okay?”

“Boo!” she pushed off his lap and fell on the floor.

“Come here,” he helped her back up and set her on the bed, “Get some sleep.”

She rested back against the bed before the sound of her soft snores assured Peter she was fast asleep. He fell back against the other bed with a sigh. One day he’ll mute that stupid conscience of his for good. That didn’t mean that he couldn’t have a little fun. He looked back at Y/N as a devious thought drifted into his mind.

~~~

Oh sweet lord above. My head is killing me. I sat up slowly feeling like I was gonna be sick. I am never drinking ever again. This has to be a hundred times worse than the last time Peter and I went drinking. At least this time I didn’t do anything embarrassing. Or did I? I can’t remember much of anything.

I squinted against the harsh light streaming in through the window. Where was Peter? I could use a magical hangover cure. “Look who finally woke up.” Peter was sitting at the small desk near the door. “And it certainly is a good morning.” he eyed me hungrily.

“What are you--” I looked to where he was staring and yelped. I pulled the blanket up to cover my bare chest. Why the hell am I naked? “Peter? What happened last night?”

“You don’t know? I would have thought it was a night well worth remembering.” he smirked at me.

“Oh god,” I buried my aching head in my hands, “Did we…?”

“I’ll let you come to your own conclusions.” he reclined back in the chair. “After all last night you wanted me. Really, really, wanted me. Who am I to deny my Lost Girl what she wants?”

“I think I’m gonna be sick.” I rolled off the bed.

“Now that’s just harsh.”

“No, I mean I’m actually--” I clasped my hands over my mouth as a wave of nausea swept over me. I threw the window open and heaved over the side. Once the contents of my stomach were gone I sunk down to my knees and pressed my burning face against the cool wooden sill. “Kill me…”

“How about this instead?” he pressed his hands to either side of my head as my hangover started to abate.  “If this was gonna be your reaction I’m glad I didn’t actually go through with it.” Peter tsked.

“What?”

“Y/N, do you actually believe that you and I had sex last night? I know you were pretty far gone but seriously, does anything feel different?”

Now that he mentioned it I didn’t feel any different. At least not in the way losing my virginity should feel I suppose. “But if we didn’t have sex, then why am I naked?”

“Just a bit of fun. I wanted to see how you’d react if you thought we really did the deed.” he dangled my knickers off his finger, “I guess you’ll be wanting these back.”

“You ass!” I snatched them from him as I rushed to put my clothes back on, “You inconceivably obnoxious asshole! Don’t do that!” I proceeded to smack him over the head with my boot.

“Hey! Ouch! Hey--Ow--Quit it!” he grabbed the boot out of my hands. “It was just a joke.”

“Not to me! You don’t joke about that kind of stuff with me!” I shouted at him. “You are so lucky that you didn’t actually go through with it because if you did--”

“You’d chop me into tiny bits and feed me to the wolves?” he sat down on the edge of the bed. “Hate me forever? Never forgive me?”

“Well...yes,” I shrugged, “But most of all I would just be disappointed that you wouldn’t have respected me enough to wait for my sober consent for something like that. I know it’s just sex but I have some self respect. I don’t need your opinion of me lowered any more by giving you an excuse to think of me as nothing more than some drunk common tramp.”

“Y/N,” he sighed with a smile, “If I thought you were just some common tramp last night would have ended much differently. But you are not. You’re my Lost Girl and all that implies. Also I just got you to start talking to me again, why would I risk your wrath by doing something so dimwitted as belittling your value to me?”

“I guess I have trouble remembering that you don’t hate me.” I sat down on the other bed and drew my knees to my chest.

“You aggravate me for sure.” Peter laughed, “You’re annoying and stubborn and nosey and incredibly disrespectful--”

“Does this have an ending anytime soon?” I snapped.

“Almost. You’re also very hot-tempered, reckless, condescending, cocky, but also very kind, thoughtful, protective of your friends, loyal, and intelligent. Also if it wasn’t obvious you are an attractive minx.” I hid my pleased smile behind my knees. He noticed and reached to pull my face from its hiding place. “What I’m trying to say is that all those tiresome and endearing traits of yours are what make you my Lost Girl. You’re my friend, I can detest you but I could never hate you. Not anymore at least.”

I cast my gaze around the room so he couldn’t see how happy his words made me. “I don’t hate you either.” I mumbled under my breath, “I know I say I do but I really don’t. Not even close.”

“I know.” he held my face in his hands pressing my forehead to his, “If there is anything I can do to ease your worrisome little heart that you are not in fact just some floozy to me, name it and it will be done.”

“Anything?” I quirked an eyebrow up at the generous offer.

“Within reason.” he was quick to add.

I let out a small chuckle as I wrapped my arms around his neck. “Ironically, I can think of one thing.”

(First) (Previous) (Next)

[amylynnorg]

THE STORY BEHIND THE PICTURE OF THE PRAYING HANDS

THE STORY BEHIND THE PICTURE OF THE PRAYING HANDS Back in the fifteenth century, in a tiny village near Nuremberg, lived a family with eighteen children. Eighteen! In order merely to keep food on the table for this mob, the father and head of the household, a goldsmith by profession, worked almost eighteen hours a day at his trade and any other paying chore he could find in the neighborhood. Despite their seemingly hopeless condition, two of Albrecht Durer the Elder's children had a dream. They both wanted to pursue their talent for art, but they knew full well that their father would never be financially able to send either of them to Nuremberg to study at the Academy. After many long discussions at night in their crowded bed, the two boys finally worked out a pact. They would toss a coin. The loser would go down into the nearby mines and, with his earnings, support his brother while he attended the academy. Then, when that brother who won the toss completed his studies, in four years, he would support the other brother at the academy, either with sales of his artwork or, if necessary, also by laboring in the mines. They tossed a coin on a Sunday morning after church. Albrecht Durer won the toss and went off to Nuremberg. Albert went down into the dangerous mines and, for the next four years, financed his brother, whose work at the academy was almost an immediate sensation. Albrecht's etchings, his woodcuts, and his oils were far better than those of most of his professors, and by the time he graduated, he was beginning to earn considerable fees for his commissioned works. When the young artist returned to his village, the Durer family held a festive dinner on their lawn to celebrate Albrecht's triumphant homecoming. After a long and memorable meal, punctuated with music and laughter, Albrecht rose from his honored position at the head of the table to drink a toast to his beloved brother for the years of sacrifice that had enabled Albrecht to fulfill his ambition. His closing words were, "And now, Albert, blessed brother of mine, now it is your turn. Now you can go to Nuremberg to pursue your dream, and I will take care of you." All heads turned in eager expectation to the far end of the table where Albert sat, tears streaming down his pale face, shaking his lowered head from side to side while he sobbed and repeated, over and over, "No ...no ...no ...no." Finally, Albert rose and wiped the tears from his cheeks. He glanced down the long table at the faces he loved, and then, holding his hands close to his right cheek, he said softly, "No, brother. I cannot go to Nuremberg. It is too late for me. Look ... look what four years in the mines have done to my hands! The bones in every finger have been smashed at least once, and lately I have been suffering from arthritis so badly in my right hand that I cannot even hold a glass to return your toast, much less make delicate lines on parchment or canvas with a pen or a brush. No, brother ... for me it is too late." More than 450 years have passed. By now, Albrecht Durer's hundreds of masterful portraits, pen and silver-point sketches, watercolors, charcoals, woodcuts, and copper engravings hang in every great museum in the world, but the odds are great that you, like most people, are familiar with only one of Albrecht Durer's works. More than merely being familiar with it, you very well may have a reproduction hanging in your home or office. One day, to pay homage to Albert for all that he had sacrificed, Albrecht Durer painstakingly drew his brother's abused hands with palms together and thin fingers stretched skyward. He called his powerful drawing simply "Hands," but the entire world almost immediately opened their hearts to his great masterpiece and renamed his tribute of love "The Praying Hands." The next time you see a copy of that touching creation, take a second look. Let it be your reminder, if you still need one, that no one - no one - ever makes it alone! -- Author Unknown

[drewebowden66]

Detailed Guide & Inspiration For Designing A Mid-Century Modern Living Room

Design enthusiasts praise the mid-century modern style – but what is it, exactly? Coined by author Cara Greenberg in her 1984 collection, mid-century modern refers to pieces from the 40’s, 50’s and 60’s which pushed the limits of engineering. Desperate for creativity after World War II, famed designers took war materials and molded them into iconic chairs, tables, and lights – goods still sought after and replicated – furniture whose design was never bettered. Follow our detailed guide and links on how to incorporate mid-century modern pieces – and the style’s philosophy of good living – into your own inspired living room full of 50’s wonder.

Visualizer: Sam Habbaba   Make mid-century modern look effortless. Fit your lounge with the high, wooden windows typical of the style, using a tilter to afford fresh air. By using wooden-legged furniture, here a peach accent chair, nested coffee tables and long three-seater, your interior can offer difference without one piece dominating. Light a swing arm wall lamp like this, beside a Bell table lamp by Tom Dixon to pair matching metallics. Sprigs of poppies could add focus behind your couch, as ferns pop up in planters across your living room. By matching a leather floor pouf to your wooden joinery, you can provide a place to read books surrounding the TV.

Designer: Orlando Soria   Imagine mid-century modern away on holiday. Use shades of white, turquoise and gold beside an artificial Areca palm to create an everyday getaway. Stretch a Jute rug beneath your couches to add a dash more colour, and tie metallic end tables, each featuring three rounds of glass, into hues for leaf-patterned pillows. Prism coffee tables can further catch the eye with triangular legging, as a large arc floor lamp bends over the scene. Light up a wall of windows with the day’s incoming sun, finishing with turquoise tunes in a tufted floor pillow, couch cushions and table ornaments.

Visualizer: Studio Aiko   As day sets, settle for something warmer. Heat up a more masculine scene with a ceiling-held fireplace beside a white Wegner-style shell chair. Sit a wood and metal coffee table on a Jute rug to centre the space. Two Wegner Papa Bear-style chairs can cuddle up beside a monochrome ottoman, while a couch in the same hue can offer more snuggling. Polish off your interior with grass views through glass panes.

Visualizer: Aleksandr Kalinov   Grey and light wood are classic mid-century modern hues. Keep warmth in your living room with wooden walls on either side, while grey hues in your floor, seating and Jackson Pollock painting (here the number 14 in Gray) keep it spacious. Use the style’s ceiling-height windows to bring in light, and an Axis floor lamp to bring a focused glow to seating. With the Axis’ golden base harking to the seat and square coffee table’s legs, it’s easy to add glitz to this relaxed scene.

Designer: Jessica Helgerson   Think outside the square when designing inside. House trees in hand-blown glass, a table in spotted driftwood and a Jute rug in natural weave. Insert wooden-frame lounge chairs and floors to make it more modern, and two spiralling wall ornaments to match their tone. Ceramics in jade and lots of white – here shown in the lounges, walls and chaise longue – create breathing space for your outdoorsy interior.

Photographer: Federico Cedrone   Create the look with different materials and textures. To design an eclectic, yet not overpowering, living room, coat your seating brown in leather Barcelona-style chairs, mid-century modern classic chairs, and a blue metal accent chair in the Platner style. Join together a marble coffee table, metallic standing lamp and tulip-style end tables to create a lounge that looks ever so put-together.

Mid-century modern was originally created for smaller spaces. Use a brown leather sofa like the room above, but create your own vibe with a lightbulb pendant and dreamscape surfing photography. Let geometrics linger in a pentagon-legged coffee table and grey patterned rug. A range of potted plants, most notably here the Boston fern, can sit with your objects and photos to tie the look in.

Designer: AB Curated   Looking a little larger, this living room uses brown as an accent for notable pieces. To achieve this look, sit a demure mid-century sofa upon a varnished floor in the hue. Face two chairs in the style towards the couch for conversation, letting a sofa cushion, framed print and turntable box match them in colour. By using classic mid-century modern pieces, here a geometric-legged coffee table and standing swing lamp, you can add nature in potted ferns and an artificial ZZ plant. Lie a red Turkish rug upon your floor to suggest travel and avoiding jarring colours.

Designer: Desiron Lizon   The mid-century look can look super-modern – although its pieces have never changed. Make like this sloped-roof living room and use a couple of masterpieces, such as the Verner Panton S-style chair and cheeky Ray Eames elephant. Other interesting finds, like the tortoise with the elephant, or red shell couch to the back, can add character. Build ceiling-height windows and rows of long wooden bookshelving to cement your interior’s mid-century modern influence.

Source: Barker & Stonehouse   Metallics are not just for the 21st Century. Employ them as feature pieces, by hanging a convex wall round and sitting a large copper floor lamp on your floor. Add hints of blue in a Myers sofa and rug to match patterned wallpaper, lending the blue to more knitted poufs. Finish with a few florals in a vase full of snapdragons, printed cushion and leaning stamen painting.

Photographer: Wells Campbell   Create an entertaining area the 50’s greats would’ve been proud of. If decorating for a large, high-windowed space, scale up its walls with widely-spaced wooden panels, a series of white pendants and a large abstract artwork. Cover the floors and fireplace with red brick, keeping it warm with a large faux fur rug. Create a space for a chaise longue, Tom Dixon Wingback and school chairs, letting a rounded coffee table meet another in a triangle. Complete the look with a wistful baby grand and standing lamp for company.

Source: Wayfair   Don��t be scared to have colour at your centre. Draw in the eye with a psychedelic piece beside a relaxed leather sofa set and geometric marble coffee table. Use light wood to softly cover your chair legs, shelving and wood stack, a potted tree to add nature.

Visualizer: Bruno Helbling   Keep it classic in black, white and brown. Signal an eclectic style with dotted framed abstracts, abstracts like these or these. Employ a range of seating styles to populate your area, such as the Arne Jacobsen-style Egg chair, and a golden floor lamp to match your coffee table. Woollen textures can get cosy in fluffy ottomans, rugs, throws and cushions, whilst plants, such as the natural or artificial Fiddle Leaf Fig, can be presented for show.

Designer: Balodemas Architecture   Baby boomers will remember this decor of their parent’s style. Get nostalgic with a white and wooden frame, centred by a blue wall featuring a bookcase. Place two white sofas beside many smaller windows, and two tripod plant stands to bring the outside in. Draw in guests with a mid-century modern coffee table holding a Russel Wright pitcher full of roses, adding a geometric console in the 50’s style. A bookcase can stand as your final relic, full of vases and picture frames below a George Nelson-style ball clock spreading out its rays.

Designer: Deering Design Studio   Get cosy with 50’s-style colouring. Relax your orange and grey room in three types of seating amidst mid-century style table lamps, available here and here. Hang two rectangular framed prints mirroring the shape of the windows. Design your furniture in light wood to keep it cohesive.

Designer: Christian Dean   Grey and orange couldn’t look more different in this open plan rendition. Break colour dominance in your living room with two berry chairs and the Noguchi table by Herman Miller, now available as an original or replica. Match its shine with a Flos Arco-style lamp gleaming silver in the corner, adding a hint of life with wooden plant stands. We recommend a simple grey rug and shelved ornaments to finish.

Designer: Cynthia Prizant   Heavily influenced by 30’s painter Mondrian, this living room uses mostly geometric shapes, shapes that Mondrian believed were of a higher nature. Open your living room to a bold feature wall almost copied from his pieces, falling to a triangular-patterned rug and chairs in block colouring. Allow breathing space by decorating with simple windows, white walls and a wooden table, console and floor.

Source: Surefield   Lucky enough to be surrounded by windows? Clothe your interior in charcoal, like this unique space. Showcase a ceiling-high feature fireplace amongst wooden accent chairs, adding small pops of colour in couch cushions, magazines, and two pieces of abstract art.

Visualizer: Int2 Architecture   After more muted hues? Colour your furniture in teal and taupe, bordered by white walls and patterned floors. Matching wooden legs and a stone bookcase provide a good background for an Orient pendant looping over your wall.

Source: DWR   Make your living room warmer, with a floor and half-wall in the polished wood of the style. Wrap a stone-coloured L-sofa around your windows, complementing the look with a white lined rug. Play with iconic pieces such as a Platner-style coffee table, black Swan-style chair and Serge Mouille floor lamp peeping over your sofa. Offer a spot by the fire with an Eames-style walnut stool. Splash turquoise about in hued watercolours and cushions.

Designer: Risa Boyer   Keep it warm yet light with wood and orange tones. Carve a wooden roof with rafters over a stark white floor, diffusing your bright orange wall with a rug in brown checkers. Opt for an Eames lounge chair, available as an original or replica, to tie your TV and orange hues together. A suite in taupe could look out to a Noguchi table, whose Herman Miller original and now-available replica are iconic of this style. Complete the look with a fireplace, cushions and vases.

Photographer: Federico Cedrone   Make the most of a beautiful outdoor view, with a few mid-century modern pieces. Wind a cream L-sofa beside a unique end table, here the iconic Platner side table, whose oscillating bands reflect the midday sun. Adding a lower side table, ball lamp and classic fluffy rug can make this look last a lifetime.

Source: Solar Innovations   Decorate your living room a la Mad Men. Make the most of your high windows with a marble centre, brown leather seating and unique ceiling fans shown here. Pepper your lounge with standing lamps and an olive green armchair, for a perfect place to relax and watch the show.

Source: LA Times   Design like the Eames’ – using their own Pacific Palisades living room as inspiration. Take cues from their contemporary Mondrian, and build double-height windows and high wooden bookcases with his rectangular forms. Nest amidst a bevy of indoor plants, using the Eames’ chair designs and iconic bird, available as an Eames Bird replica. Fill vases with flowers, lean a ladder to the ceiling and add hanging paper lanterns to complete your homage.

Photographer: Ezra Stoller   Designed by architect Eero Saarinen for the industrialist J. Irwin Miller, this also-famous home was the beginning of a once-burgeoning trend – the conversation pit. Get inspired by Spanish and Middle Eastern influences, and construct a pink-couched depression in the middle of your floor, offering a space for focused chat. Scatter differently-coloured cushions to complement an iron table, figure and pot. A few roses in and out of the pit can also pretty up the scene.

Visualizer: Tero   Centre your mid-century modern living room around a rug. Take a bright-coloured Cubic rug and set it upon a wooden floor, inviting companionship with black chairs in the style. Accent the look with a marble standing fireplace and retro-style floor lamp.

Designer: Disc Interiors   White and wood mixes with grey and blue in this mid-century modern interior. Light its décor with a fireplace illuminating pockets of wood holding ornaments and frames. Starburst wall décor can act as your headline piece, while a shaggy rug, gold-rimmed table and geometric cushions create your home’s rested guests.

Visualizer: Valkyrie Studio   Looking for more modern adaptations of the mid-century modern style? These last three interiors should yield inspiration. This particular look, blessed with the décor’s high windows, can be achieved using more muted shades of wood to cover your floors and walls. Replace the style’s characteristic floor lamps with LEDs lighting each wall. Place a rug in the centre, and stand a plethora of chair styles in more recent materials. A low marble table can act as your room’s pivot point.

Visualizer: Hodidu   Use the classic mid-woods of the mid-century modern style, but throw distressed floorboards and charcoal into the mix. Go for the classic look with wooden window joinery, a Wegner-style Shell, mid-century style console and voluptuous bookshelf. Make it more modern with framed prints, not paintings; a rug that’s neat, not shaggy; and a central couch and ottoman that match a modern pendant.

Designer: YamaMar   Make mid-century modern work with a sunny veranda. Employ the starburst wall décor and laden bookshelves of old, adding a lime couch and black-painted floorboards. Add a central fireplace and rug to show evolution of the style. A Noguchi-style coffee table and faux sheepskin pillows can further twist the classics.

Recommended Reading: Ultimate Guide To Mid Century Modern Chairs

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[amylynnorg]

THE STORY BEHIND THE PICTURE OF THE PRAYING HANDS

THE STORY BEHIND THE PICTURE OF THE PRAYING HANDS Back in the fifteenth century, in a tiny village near Nuremberg, lived a family with eighteen children. Eighteen! In order merely to keep food on the table for this mob, the father and head of the household, a goldsmith by profession, worked almost eighteen hours a day at his trade and any other paying chore he could find in the neighborhood. Despite their seemingly hopeless condition, two of Albrecht Durer the Elder's children had a dream. They both wanted to pursue their talent for art, but they knew full well that their father would never be financially able to send either of them to Nuremberg to study at the Academy. After many long discussions at night in their crowded bed, the two boys finally worked out a pact. They would toss a coin. The loser would go down into the nearby mines and, with his earnings, support his brother while he attended the academy. Then, when that brother who won the toss completed his studies, in four years, he would support the other brother at the academy, either with sales of his artwork or, if necessary, also by laboring in the mines. They tossed a coin on a Sunday morning after church. Albrecht Durer won the toss and went off to Nuremberg. Albert went down into the dangerous mines and, for the next four years, financed his brother, whose work at the academy was almost an immediate sensation. Albrecht's etchings, his woodcuts, and his oils were far better than those of most of his professors, and by the time he graduated, he was beginning to earn considerable fees for his commissioned works. When the young artist returned to his village, the Durer family held a festive dinner on their lawn to celebrate Albrecht's triumphant homecoming. After a long and memorable meal, punctuated with music and laughter, Albrecht rose from his honored position at the head of the table to drink a toast to his beloved brother for the years of sacrifice that had enabled Albrecht to fulfill his ambition. His closing words were, "And now, Albert, blessed brother of mine, now it is your turn. Now you can go to Nuremberg to pursue your dream, and I will take care of you." All heads turned in eager expectation to the far end of the table where Albert sat, tears streaming down his pale face, shaking his lowered head from side to side while he sobbed and repeated, over and over, "No ...no ...no ...no." Finally, Albert rose and wiped the tears from his cheeks. He glanced down the long table at the faces he loved, and then, holding his hands close to his right cheek, he said softly, "No, brother. I cannot go to Nuremberg. It is too late for me. Look ... look what four years in the mines have done to my hands! The bones in every finger have been smashed at least once, and lately I have been suffering from arthritis so badly in my right hand that I cannot even hold a glass to return your toast, much less make delicate lines on parchment or canvas with a pen or a brush. No, brother ... for me it is too late." More than 450 years have passed. By now, Albrecht Durer's hundreds of masterful portraits, pen and silver-point sketches, watercolors, charcoals, woodcuts, and copper engravings hang in every great museum in the world, but the odds are great that you, like most people, are familiar with only one of Albrecht Durer's works. More than merely being familiar with it, you very well may have a reproduction hanging in your home or office. One day, to pay homage to Albert for all that he had sacrificed, Albrecht Durer painstakingly drew his brother's abused hands with palms together and thin fingers stretched skyward. He called his powerful drawing simply "Hands," but the entire world almost immediately opened their hearts to his great masterpiece and renamed his tribute of love "The Praying Hands." The next time you see a copy of that touching creation, take a second look. Let it be your reminder, if you still need one, that no one - no one - ever makes it alone! -- Author Unknown