#arpage

[drowsyreaper]

NaNoWriMo 11/24

“No bodies.” Came the voice of Sweeper Ko. “Muskrat must have disengaged.”

“They can only have gone for the vault.” Chimed in Sweeper Li. 

It was clear from the carnage that Squad Muskrat had put up a fight, and as Ko had pointed out, no Sweepers were among the molten Walkers. The vault would have been their only escape route, and they had not reestablished a guard outside, so the fight had not…

[mortyandcarlsbespokesalvage]

Day 2 Sequence 0

Oh you Nameless!

 You, children of the world outside of time. You, forgotten subjects of Kings long gone. 

Stay but a while, and be welcome. 

No mere beasts of land or sea or air are you. No mere sprites of elemental chaos! 

You are our brothers! 

You who toil here alongside us. You who sweat and burn under the same sun, the same sky! 

Are you not also children of the Great Storm? 

Stand with us! Let us make our stand upon this cast off, forgotten isle. 

Let us make a New World!

Attributed to Shakeer Matumla, at the ceremony of ground-breaking of the temple of the Four Kings.

Year 0, of the New Common Era.

****

To the reader,

It may be to your further benefit, to provide you with some grounding in the social fabric of the city beyond this archive. A vital point of clarification that may be helpful to you, is that in Artisan, humanity may not be as you know it. Phenotypes within the same human genus remain within a single classification. Ergo, the Oruk, Gobbish, Dwarphen, Elvan, Bestal, Iowan, and other peoples, are merely ethnic subgroups of humans that have mixed among one another for generations in the city.

****

The dawning sun rose into a clear sky, shining over city and glinting off the Barrier Wall like a blinding beacon across the far horizon. The Wall towered over the city, its bronzed, coppery surface rising a thousand feet towards the sky, and casting a long shadow over the inner ring. In the early morning mist, the curved, circling wall filled like a colander, vents slowly steaming as the fans pushed the cloudy air from the inner ring to the outer rim and the sky beyond. 

For three hundred years since its emergence, the wall has shielded the inner ring from the wind and waves of hurricanes and ruinstorms. Its emergence yet another of the city’s mysteries. Three centuries past, the founders of the city of Artisan prepared for the worst as a grand wave appeared from the south, poised to wipe the city clear of its people. As all gathered inland, scrambling and in panicked distress, a deafening klaxon sounded from the citadel, and the earth shook as the wall, once thought a highway around the city, pushed up through the piled jetsam and arose, roaring into the air. The wave broke hard against the wall, flowing swiftly around the shielded inner ring.

Generations hence, the Wall still shields the city proper. Piled against it are mountains of scrap, pushed from across the island into three massive Yards that encircle the inner ring. Only the Three Ports persist outside its protective embrace, gambling against the mercurial odds of another great wave.

Within the Wall itself are the domains of the protectors and stewards of Artisan. The precincts of the Artisan Sanitation Enforcement Corps (A.S.E.C) and the Artisan Mechanical Engineering Corps (A.M.E.C). Each corps with its own vital contribution to the maintaining of a city in constant need. Artisan is alive, in a thousand different ways; the vibrant colors of its people and their crafts, the lush gardens of its high towers, the surging life of its waterways. But the city is dangerous; the beasts of the lower Undercity, the behemoths of the Deep-Down, and the shifting lifelines of the city itself.

If the Department of Sanitation acts as a bulwark against the monstrous terrors below, then the Engineering Corps are the stewards of the precocious landscape above. Artisan has power, water, and natural gas for a thousand years and more, but none of it given freely. The city as it stands, its towers and streets, were grafted by the founders onto the Citadel and shifting plates of the floor of the inner ring. An entire grid of utilities, built atop, around, and spreading from a powerful beating heart of unknown providence. 

Perhaps then it is fitting that the price paid for this plentiful bounty, is that the lines of water and power and fuel, like wild vines, must be carefully pruned and realigned whenever they shift or grow outside their bounds.These departments of Sanitation and Engineering are the glue that holds Artisan together, the soul of the Barrier Wall.

****

The main street of Southport was broad. Wide enough for a pair of Heavy Sweepers to pass through with their attendant squads at full spread. It shot like a ray from the Barrier Wall, meeting the base at the massive South Gate, and continuing through Southport to the harbor. The morning mist was thick, cascading down the Wall, and billowing over and through the Port and the surrounding Yards. The gate had opened before dawn, time for fishmongers and merchants to pass through on their way to the markets of the Inner Ring. Squads of Trashmen and Engineers from the nearby precincts had passed through the gate and begun to assess damages in the dark hours, taking statements about both the storm, and the artillery damage. The streets were still marred by  craters from the previous day’s attack, and the Heavy Sweepers and repair teams of the Engineering Corps would not arrive until after the assessments were complete. 

Raven stood in the morning mist, the colossal South Gate towering before him. He could still smell the sea air and feel the winds of Southport at his back, he felt the rising sun burning away the lingering fog and heating up the day.

He was going home. It was a relief, but also strangely sad; like he’d come to the end of some adventure. Like nothing was going to be the same…. What was he getting so mushy about? It had only been a day! A long, busy day, sure, but a day nonetheless. He turned back to look down the road to the harbor, just a mile away. The sea was still there, blue green and vast beyond reckoning. Looking up from it he saw the open sky, uncluttered by the towering buildings of his home borough, or the long, deep shadow of the Barrier Wall. He felt the slightest of pulls, somewhere deep in his gut. Thinking of the people who had bought him drinks and cheered him, the people who had worked and fought so hard for their homes… he would have to come back. And it was not even that far? Now that he thought of it, he had never ventured beyond the Southwest Quarter where he and Abby had grown up. Never crossed the Southern Spoke. It had never occurred to him. And was it that unusual? There were plenty of people in the Old Quarter who never left it. But was that going to be him? 

“Kid. You awake there?” Carlos’ question stirred Raven back to the world like a prod in the ribs. That’s right. He had to get back to the Third Precinct and report on the old man and the Walkers. He had to see if Cortez was alright. His thoughts again veered to reflection as he stepped forward. Beyond the wall was so different. How had he never heard of the Griefers? And he still did not understand why Marie had talked about them the way that she had. He would ask the Chief about it once things were settled, he decided as he strode towards the massive gate.

Raven had been woken that morning by Carlos, who had shushed him as they had navigated through the unconscious patrons and towards the door. Some ways down the road they had been joined by Marie, who had appeared at their side on a motorcycle drawn rickshaw with “Fortuna’s” painted on the side. How had she managed to appear so abruptly riding something so loud? How half awake had he been to have missed that engine? 

She dismounted and began walking the bike alongside them. Raven moved to help but Marie grinned like his Captain again, like she was going to bite part of him off. “Gotta restock after a party like that!” She had said with a smile. And that was that.

The three of them approached the Gate. They passed several Trashmen as they entered the dark of the Barrier Wall. The Trashmen had been surprised to say the least to see Raven in his battered Sweeper Armor coming in from the Outer Rim. One had begun to open his mouth when Raven interrupted, frantically asking to use their radio. They obliged.

Raven was fit to burst with anxiety. With his heart in his throat, he called in. “Ahem, this is Sweeper Raven Daniels. Squad 13 Trash Panda. I,hm, I’ve been separated from my Squad. Has anyone from Trash Panda made it back to the Precinct?... Over?”

Static. And then…

“Daniels?” asked an incredulous voice. “You- you’re listed MIA, presumed deceased! Good to hear that isn’t the case! Over.”

“Yes, um, thank you? I washed up in the Outer Rim. I’m just now getting in through the South Gate and am enroute to Precinct 3 to report. Is Commander Hobbs going to be available at all, today?” Raven choked down his excitement; Carlos had at least taught him that it wouldn’t do to go off like he’d been drinking with the merpeople in the canals. A little restraint would be wise. A little less panic. Even if he was panicking. Just a little. “Some of my report, well, it’s better if he hears it sooner rather than later. Over.” 

“We’ll pass along the request asap, Sweeper Daniels. For now, just get back to your precinct. Over.”

“Thank you, … um,over.” Raven breathed. He’d just have to hope Hobbs would see him today. He didn’t know how much longer his news could wait. He thanked the Trashmen for their radio, then returned to Carlos and Marie. They’d stayed with him, standing a few feet away to give him privacy, but they were watching him and Raven could tell by their glower and smile respectively that they’d been talking about him.

“Got that squared away?” Carlos asked with a raised eyebrow.

“That was very nicely put. I’m sure if you keep your cool just like that, they will take you very seriously when you give your report.” Marie nodded with apparent satisfaction. Raven felt comforted… but also patronized? Like she was about to offer him a sticker for keeping his bunk tidy.

Nevertheless, he felt a measurable decrease in his tension. His message delivered, Raven resumed walking. The South Gate passed through the Barrier Wall, across the bridge that spanned the seemingly bottomless chasm below the wall. He spared a glance for the abyss. Only a day before, he had stood on a platform, being lowered into the Deep-Down. Even that deep, he still hadn’t seen the bottom. And then, with a few more steps, they were in the Inner Ring. 

All at once, Raven could smell the rich, sweet air of the Inner Ring. Its many blended scents of food and worship and industry came together to form a smoky, fragrant musk, that was altogether different from the salt air of Southport. He had never noticed before just how thick the air was in the city he had always called home. Raven had missed it. But, he realised with a twinge of regret, he’d miss the sea air as well. He would visit. He had to.

Carlos and Marie were being awfully quiet, he realized suddenly. He spun swiftly to look at them. Marie was smiling benignly at him. Carlos was very pointedly looking at the road. He noticed Raven’s narrowed gaze and acknowledged it with a mild eye roll. “You’re certainly set on chasing down this guy, aren’t you?”

“Of course!” Raven struggled to understand why this was even a question. “I know what I saw was unbelievable, but it’s true. It’s happening right now, and even if I don’t understand...most of it, I can recognize that this has the potential to put everyone in danger. I have a responsibility to, to at least tell people about that danger. Even if that lands up being all I can do.”

“And if they don’t believe you,” Carlos asked leadingly.

“I’ll make them,” Raven said.

“And when that fails,” Carlos said.

“Then I’ll go down there and stop him myself if I have to!” … Raven stopped, considering his own words. He caught himself looking away for just a moment, but quickly returned his gaze to Carlos, who seemed to be regarding him carefully.

Finally, Carlos said, “you’re going to get yourself killed.”

“This is my home. It’s in danger. I’m probably gonna die from it anyway and I’d rather do so on my feet, helping.”

Carlos considered him, then threw his head back and groaned. “Four Kings, Kid. You’re something else.” The older man seemed to shift through a series of emotions as he looked down, shaking his head, scowled at Raven, then looked away to hide a half smile. “You, Kid, had better hope you didn’t use up all your luck getting washed down the right storm drain.”

They had come to a stop in the middle of the road. Raven was vaguely aware of traffic moving around them, the influx of morning merchants and refugees making their way into the city, but he was waiting for the old man. Somehow, he knew, this was important. 

Carlos looked Raven squarely in the eye. “You’re set on this.” It was not a question. “May the Great, the Strong, the Wise, and the Just watch your back, Kid.”

Raven stood agape for a moment, then smiled toothily. “You take care of yourself too, .. Pops” 

“Pops?!” Who are you calling ‘Pops?’” Carlos snorted.

“Would you rather I called you ‘Old Man’?” Raven laughed.

“Hey, HEY! I’m 37, dammit,” Carlos snapped. Marie chortled behind him. “I’m not old,” he said in a smaller voice, scowling. Marie exploded in laughter.

“Thanks for everything, Miss Fortuna. Bye, Pops!” Raven smiled as he waved, then turned towards the municipal entrance to the engineer’s stair and began his ascent into the heights of the Barrier Wall.

“You okay with letting him go like this, Carl?” Marie said quietly as they watched Raven make his way up the stairway and out of their sight.

Carlos’ face was somber. Contemplative. “Kid has to do his own growing up.” He said flatly. “You alright with your inquiries today?”

“We shall see!” She grinned. Her smile faded. “If a Mercer Consortium foreman has been making new friends inside the ring, then they’ll be outside the normal movements. I just need to find out who’s been breaking routine, and we can go from there.” 

Carlos nodded. “Just you -”

“I’ll be discreet!” She smiled again. “Honestly, that boy has you worrying all over, hasn’t he?”

“I always worry.” Carlos growled. Then he looked back over his shoulder after Raven. The young sweeper had vanished into the heights. “Seems these days I just have more urgent things to worry about. I have a stop to make, then I have to go see Henrie. Meet you at the Tower when you’re done?”

Marie nodded. “You mentioned that last night. You said it could be related to Raven’s story about the man controlling walkers?” She looked worried. “Then you be careful too.”

Carlos nodded and started walking. He could hear Marie’s engine as it faded into the distance. She was right. He was worried. He had a lot to worry about right now. And it was already looking to be a long day ahead.

[coffeenuts]

Rose by arpagic

[cluboftigerghost]

19Jun17 :D

[pisicadefum]

Imi place numele Arpagic. Aveam o prietena, avea un pisic ii zicea Arpagic.

[rudyroth79]

„Prima mea excursie” de Lică Barbu

„Prima mea excursie” de Lică Barbu

Cât era Vacanţa Mare de mare, nouă, copiilor de pe strada mea, nu ne ajungea joaca. Cel puţin pentru mine nici atâta. Mă „înrolam” cu prietenii din cartier ca zilieri la munca din grădinile de zarzavat, la cules legume de sezon sau la Agrosem unde sortam arpagic. Acolo lucram în schimburi ca oamenii mari, căci era de muncă. Comuniştii nu ţineau cont că eram minori. Producţie să fie. Îmi plăcea să…

[gradinagabico]

📢 STOC LIMITAT și anume: - ARPAGIC ROȘU - ARPAGIC SONKAHAGYMA (CEAPĂ DE APĂ) - ARPAGIC STUTTGARTER AURIU 🛒 Web site 🛒 https://gabico.ro/product-category/seminte-si-legume/ (helyszín: Magazin Agricol Gabico - Grădina Gabico - www.gabico.ro) https://www.instagram.com/p/CcxocsBNQ-g/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[bucatarie360]

Brânza italiană de epocă de care aveți nevoie pentru Crăciun

Tipul bucătăriei:

Uncategorized

Brânza italiană de epocă de care aveți nevoie pentru Crăciun

30 minute

face 40

Uşor

Aranjați o cină italiană autentică în acest Crăciun cu ajutorul lui Grana Padano

Căutați o idee distractivă italiană brânză pentru sezonul festiv? Nici o sărbătoare de Crăciun nu este completă fără brânză – și una care merită un loc pe lista dvs. de cumpărături în acest an este Grana Padano. Cea mai vândută brânză DOP (Denumire de Origine Protejată) din lume, Grana Padano este fabricată folosind o tehnică dezvoltată cu secole în urmă, astfel încât să puteți avea încredere în calitatea, autenticitatea și trasabilitatea acesteia.

Grana Padano vine în trei recolte diferite. Unul are vârste cuprinse între nouă și 16 luni, altul mai mult de 16 luni, iar Grana Padano Riserva mai mult de 20 de luni. Acesta din urmă este supus unor teste suplimentare de calitate și este împodobit cu renumitul brand de foc „Riserva”.

Aceste diferite lungimi de maturare dau o varietate de note și arome, permițând acestei brânzeturi delicioase să completeze o mare varietate de rețete și vinuri. Mai tânără Grana Padano este blândă și cremoasă, dar cu cât brânza devine mai gustoasă, are un gust mai dezvoltat și mai bogat. Când serviți Grana Padano pe o placă de brânză, combinați-l cu mostarde (chutneys de fructe italiene), miere, struguri și nuci murate.

În mod surprinzător, procesele de producție și îmbătrânire ale Grana Padano îl fac fără lactoză și doar 30g de brânză oferă aceeași nutriție ca o halbă de lapte. În mod natural bogat în proteine, conține și fier, vitaminele A, B2 și B12 și minerale precum zincul și calciul (50g de Grana Padano conține 60% din calciu ADR pentru un adult).

Încercați-o pentru dvs. în acest Crăciun și impresionați-vă oaspeții cu rețeta bucătarului italian Francesco Mazzei de mai jos.

www.granapadano.it

Grana Padano ciabatta dumplings

Ingrediente

ALUAT

tot laptele 500 ml

ciabatta crustless 250g

arpagic 2 linguri, tocate grosier

mărar 2 linguri, tocate grosier

patrunjel cu frunze plate 2 linguri, tocate grosier

maghiran sau cimbru 2 linguri, tocate grosier

usturoi 1/2 cuișor, tocat

Grana Padano Riserva 150g, ras, plus 1 lingură de servit

ouă 3

pesmet uscat 60g

Tabasco după gust

ulei vegetal pentru prăjire adâncă

AVOCADO ȘI CHILLI DIP

avocado 3 mici, tocate în bucăți mici

Tabasco o stropire

mustar Dijon 1 linguriță

sos Worcestershire 1 linguriță

lămâie 1, suc și zest

ardei iute roșu 1/2 mic, însămânțat și tocat

ulei de masline a servi

Metodă

Pasul 1

Pentru a face aluatul, turnați laptele într-un castron și înmuiați pâinea timp de 10 minute. Strângeți pentru a elimina excesul de lapte și lăsați pâinea să se odihnească timp de 10 minute. Între timp, adăugați toate ingredientele rămase din aluat, cu excepția uleiului vegetal, la un robot de bucătărie. Adăugați pâinea înmuiată și pulsați până se amestecă împreună. Împărțiți aluatul și rotiți-l în 40 de bile mici. Încălziți uleiul nu mai mult de 1/3 plin într-o tigaie până ajunge la 180C pe termometru sau până când un cub de pâine se rumeneste în 30 de secunde. Adăugați cu grijă 10 bile de aluat în tigaie și prăjiți până devin aurii. Se scurge pe hârtie de bucătărie. Repetați în loturi de 10.

Pasul 2

Pentru a face baie, pune avocado într-un robot de bucătărie și amestecă cu Tabasco, muștar, sos Worcestershire, suc de lămâie, sare și piper până când ai un amestec cremos. Se transferă într-un castron și se acoperă cu ardeiul iute roșu și un strop de ulei de măsline.

Pasul 3

Serviți găluștele garnisite cu coaja de lămâie și Grana Padano Riserva, iar avocado și ardeiul iute se lasă pe lateral.

.

#Brânza #italiană #epocă #care #aveți #nevoie #pentru #Crăciun

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Gătit cu drag de Rodica Mădălina pe 2021-03-30 19:19:31

Evaluează această rețetă

Vizitați site-ul original > Această rețetă a fost postată anterior pe site-ul https://bucatarie360.ro/uncategorized/branza-italiana-de-epoca-de-care-aveti-nevoie-pentru-craciun/

[drowsyreaper]

NaNoWriMo 11/12

A smaller tunnel branched off the route they were taking. From inside, the vanguard could hear the sound of footsteps.

“A little light,” requested another Sweeper. The flood-light atop Rosie swivelled towards the smaller tunnel. A few feet in, Raven spotted a pair of humanoid figures. Their clothes were rumpled and their movements were jerky and uneven. Raven hefted his ax and made to rush…

[mortyandcarlsbespokesalvage]

Day 1 Sequence 0

So it is written,

It came to pass that the world wrought by men was ended. Planes of order and reason fell away to be formed anew, and those small in spirit were claimed by the Maelstrom.

Here is spoken the coming of the Arpage. Raw and primordial, its vastness eclipses mediocrity and neutrality. Only vibrancy and vitality endure within its swirling torrents.

The world was rent asunder. Like with like, polarities balanced. Dimensional lines blurred and physical law undone. Reality made fluid.

This Storm shapes our world.

Blessed are we who stand, here on the other side of time. 

Our world washed clean, free from the sins of our fathers.

We are alive, we who stand.

Children of the Storm, stand for tomorrow.

                  -Prelude to historical account of the founding of the city of Artisan.

To the reader,

By virtue of your presence in this archive, it may be assumed that you are mildly to moderately to severely displaced from the time and/or place to which you are accustomed. To contextualize, it will be to your benefit to know that the following account begins here in the island city of Artisan, located upon the Emerald Basin, in the year 324 of the New Common Era. As it happens, it begins on a Tuesday.

…

The storm that bore down on the city in the early morning hours was a grand one. Swirling from the south, a ruinstorm great enough to make even the proud denizens of Southport close their shutters.Strong enough that the wary watchers of the great barrier wall set to seal off the innermost city, that the winds and rains might not tear the pretty faces from her towering edifices. Midnight patrols of city Sweepers huddled against the winds and rains as they walked the empty streets, securing as much as could be tied down to keep from becoming destructive flack from the force of the gales. The Artisan Streets were as empty, and the city as quiet, as ever it could manage.

Artisan is never silent however, even on the precipice of a storm to end the world. For if everything stopped every time the world ended, how would anything get done? And so it is that our story takes us below the quieted streets above, under the murmuring, lamp-lit undercity markets, and below the darkened catacombs where the city’s ancient gears lie still. 

The city of Artisan was founded over three centuries ago, in the wake of the Great Cataclysm. The Founders were swept away from their old lives by the torrents of the great Maelstrom, and deposited on the shores of a vast junkyard island, with only an endless ocean horizon as far as their eyes could see. Artisan was discovered, not built. At least not by the Founders. Oh, of course it had been built by someone. But if anyone had some notion of who that someone was, then they had successfully held their tongue for a dozen odd generations hence. 

The name Artisan itself was uncovered and not coined. City blocks beneath the vast trash heaps, each with bronze plaques set into the cracked concrete, declaring them to be Artisan 109-a, 303-s, or any of thousands of combinations. Ancient labels declaring the island to be Artisan, in regular sections of concentric rings, radiating out from the great citadel at the center. The city of Artisan is built upon ten thousand-thousand mysteries, and it did not take long for the Founders to rightly conclude that someone needed to make it their business to set to work solving them. 

The Founders of Artisan inherited an uninhabited trash heap upon the waves. Then they recycled that heap into a metropolis. They pushed out the surface scrap to three huge Yards, and over the centuries continued to use their bounty of ancient refuse as a source of building materials and lost artifacts. Below the surface, each level less and less explored, wholly unknown save the fact that they were all filled with garbage and scrap from untold years of the place being used as a dumping ground by parties unknown. Over the centuries, different explorers and curious trashmen were commissioned by the municipal authority to work together to try to figure it all out. To map the vast underground space, and to uncover more and more of a seemingly inexhaustible supply of resources.These curious souls were formed together into the Non-integrated Offices of Interior Rediscovery (N.O.I.R.), an entity whose sole business is to sift through the refuse of untold ages, and try to make sense of … 

… well, for all intents and purposes everything, about the world’s last city.

…

Dr Archibald Morphesus (never Archie) is but one of the latest in a long history of esteemed archaeologists of N.O.I.R. Curious to a fault, focused to the point of obsession. Morphesus has been captivated by his city since he was a boy and first noticed the tendency of the utility lines in his family’s apartment to quietly rearrange themselves when nobody was looking. To him the city is a living organism. A friend he has sought to know for the better part of a lifetime. In his 30 year career, the doctor has mapped more of the undercity, led more expeditions, uncovered more vaults of artifacts than any other archaeologist of N.O.I.R. 

Dr Archibald Morphesus is respected by his students and colleagues, a quiet older man with a passion for his work, and a track record for being a determined explorer. Deep beneath the charted levels of the Undercity above, Morphesus stands before a massive vault door. The Vault, marked 213 in bold ancient script, is the latest in a lifetime of closed doors waiting to be opened. How many more doors remain, and how little time remains to open them? he wonders, always. There is so little time left, and there’s still so much to do.

“On my count: three, two, one and HEAVE.” 

The Sweepers, hulking figures in their heavy armor, pull at the vault door. The Engineers stand ready with braces to hold it open and floodlights to illuminate the platform. This is all routine, an endeavor that’s been undertaken dozens of times, each time a deep shaft is located, since long before he became an archaeologist. Still, he watches with rapt attention. 

Beyond the vault door will be a platform overlooking the shaft, a vast, bottomless canyon sprawling into the dark as far as can be seen. That is what’s been behind every door so far. But there will also be the rails. The beams above the platform, stretch out into the dark, over the abyss. Sturdy, solid ,evenly spaced, but for purposes unknown. 

Morphesus has spent years theorizing, and he knows what he hopes to find. The door opens with a clang and the screech and groan of steel on steel. The Sweepers at the door pull it open wider, while the engineers rush to prop it, and behind them another row of Sweepers stand ready with their great glaive axes, braced for whatever horrors might be waiting on the platform. It is empty. The lights shine through the breach, bathing the platform in incandescent orange and shining through the dust motes into the darkness. 

He sees it. 

After thirty years he sees it at the end of the platform, hanging from the rails as he always imagined it would. A bulky metal train car, suspended over the bottomless chasm. 

For Morphesus, the world fades away. His research team spills out onto the platform, setting up floodlights and tables, beginning the work of sifting through the refuse and searching for anything and everything that could tell them about what came before. All he sees is the tram. 

It’s something out of a dream. Something he’s looked for, theorized about, for years. And here it is before him. Proof of a rail system running through the space between the titanic Pylons that support the city above, and perhaps the first concrete clue in centuries to the mystery of the city’s unknown architects. The doors to the tram are forced open, an easier task by far than the vault. A thin layer of dust covers its interior. Motes drift across the lamplight.

“After you, professor.” Zel Pathos, his research assistant, aims the light into the open carriage and gestures him forward. Zel has been with the professor long enough to guess what this find means to him. Morphesus steps forward with his heart in his throat. 

And there, the first thing he sees is a map. There is a map on the wall of concentric circles woven together. There are numbers marked on it, spaced regularly along the circles. 208, 209, 210, 211, 212...

213.

There is so much. So much to look at, to examine, to find. He cannot move quickly enough. And yet. He takes a moment for himself. This is it. All his theories. His life’s work. The answers are here. Zel and the other researchers pour in gently, mindful of the professor. But they’re eager too. The sooner they get to work, the sooner they have answers. 

There is too much here. The tram alone would validate the professor’s theory about the nature of the rails. The MAP by itself would be historic. No map of the original city has ever been found in the centuries since the discovery of Artisan by the city founders. Morphesus’ heart pounds in his chest. He feels about to burst. History is about to be re-written here. 

Around him, the other researchers murmur to each other as they begin the excavation. A sudden rise in volume catches his attention. “There’s even a log book here! Hah! Listen to this: 

‘Entry 509

Junction 212 is cleared. Proceeding to 213. Personal aside, this thing is too damn big. If 213 checks out, the Artisan will be clear for testing. Not that it shouldn’t check out. It was fine two weeks ago. And two weeks before that. It was probably fine when the last guy was looking at it.  Are we ever going to test this thing? Are we going to get paid this month? Is anyone even reading these reports? What is the Gatekeeper even doing? And another thing-’ Professor? Oh gods, Professor!”

“Medic!” someone calls.

Dr. Morphesus is seizing on the floor, his limbs jerking and shaking like a child’s wind up toy knocked on its’ side. 

“Shit, get him off the train!” a Sweeper yells. 

“Somebody time it!”

There is panic amongst the researchers - Dr. Morphesus had always had a frail constitution, but he’d never been sick before. Any sense of routine or order is lost as the Sweepers rush to secure him and get him off the tram. There’s no room to work in there. 

“How long was that?”

“Is he breathing?”

“He’s struggling. It sounds like there’s something blocking his airways.” 

“Get the intubation ready.”

“His pulse is thready.”

“Ready the potions and paddles, we may have to shock him.”

The words rush over each other and all other work comes to a stop. The news of Morphesus’ collapse spreads like fire among the archaeologists and a grim silence falls on them as they wait to see what happens next. And then...

“Holy hells, he’s got Verdigris.”

The quiet announcement falls like a bomb. Shock waves ripple through the assemblage, followed by tight fisted panic. There’s a gap in the circle of Sweepers tending to Morphesus, enough for some to see his chest. His open shirt reveals a wide rash of metallic scales, an undeniable indicator of Verdigris Syndrome.

“Sweet Dale, it looks like his entire respiratory system has been compromised.”

“How long has this gone untreated?”

“Somebody contact the Spire, we need to know everyone he’s been in contact with and set up a quarantine immediately!”

Morphesus hears the clamor around him through a haze. But he understands. His life has ended. His illness discovered. There will be no more doors to open. The sickness started small with Morphesus. Just a tiny rash that scaled and grew over the years with his doubt about being able to prove his theories. His body became slower, heavier. His breathing harder by degrees. It was easy to hide. Nobody noticed because he had always been sickly and colleagues just assumed that he was getting old. He never went to the doctor anyway. He kept to himself. He never had much of any kind of social life outside of work. He always politely, nervously declined any invitation. He was respected, looked up to, possibly even beloved by his team of grads and undergrads. Just a quiet older man with a passion for his work, and a track record for being a determined explorer in spite of being a socially inept weakling.

But not now. His work cannot end now, not when proof of his theories is in sight. Not when he lies mere feet away from the greatest discovery in a century. He feels his despair turning to resentment. He has lived with his sickness for years, never losing himself, never succumbing. Who among his colleagues had ever been infected? Whose business was it how he chose to spend his last years? Who said that the sickness, already a death sentence, had to mean the death of his dreams as well? His anger rises now. Fire burns in his eyes as he struggles against the Sweepers holding him down. 

“Four Kings! How is he this strong?”

“It’s gotta be the sickness.”

“Yard 3 Precinct. Come in Yard 3, this is Squad 11, Muskrat. We are requesting immediate medivac and quarantine at Vault 213. I repeat this is Muskrat-”

“Hold him!”

Four Sweepers struggle to suppress the doctor’s frail frame.

Morphesus tries to speak, to tell them, to defend himself and his work. His students, they’ll understand. They must understand! But all that comes when he opens his mouth is the awful, distorted sound of screeching metal. All is lost. He screams. The sound is too big. It does not fit his body. It echoes endlessly into the dark.

And then the quiet. Stunned researchers and Sweepers stare without speaking. Morphesus lays on the platform, all the fight gone out of him. He just lays there and sobs.  No one has to hold him down anymore. 

They don’t notice it at first. Shock has numbed their senses, and the sound is still so faint. A distant clanking coming from the tunnel. Rhythmic, like footsteps shuffling. The Sweepers hear it first. They quickly move into position, ready with their axes and dragon fire. One of them breaks the silence, quietly repeating into the radio the need for a medical retrieval team. 

The clanking of metal footsteps multiplies. One set. Two. More. But how many more? The tunnels and shaft are cavernous spaces, and the ringing steps echo and grow in the dark. It’s impossible to guess their number. Rearguard sweepers redirect the floodlights into the tunnel. There, a dull reflection coming closer. Another. Another.

All they can do is ready themselves for the fight and hope reinforcements arrive in time.

Through it all, the professor weeps.

Next chapter>

[bellaveraitalia]

Combi Arpage unica variante www.bellaveraitalia.com #bellaveraitalia #bellezza #donna #modaitaliana #tendenza #shopping #modadonna #femminilità #estate #ragazza #trend #moda #italia #instafashion #instalike (presso Italy) https://www.instagram.com/p/CDdyjizALvU/?igshid=18nrofen993ab

[romios-gr]

Χάφταρ: “Αρπάγες και δολοφόνοι οι Τούρκοι, δεν θα δείξουμε έλεος…” Ο Χαλίφα Χαφταρ που ελέγχει την Ανατολική Λιβύη σε ομιλία που έκανε από ευκαιρία το Κουρμπάν μπαϊράμ απείλησε την Τουρκία. O Xαφτάρ δήλωσε πως “Δεν θα... Περισσότερα εδώ: https://www.elromio.gr/chaftar-arpages-dolofonoi-oi-toyrkoi/

[cluj-actual]

Cercetatorii americani spun ca ar trebui sa mancam mai multa ceapa

Cercetătorii de la Universitatea Cornell au comparat efectele șalotelor asupra creșterii celulare și a radicalilor liberi cu zece soiuri de ceapă. Studiul, care a fost realizat în 2004, a demonstrat, printre altele, că şalota (un tip de ceapă numită şi ceapă franţuzescă, eşalotă, ceapă mică sau haşma) are o activitate antioxidantă mai mare decât ceapa comună și că este foarte eficientă în combaterea celulelor canceroase din ficat.

Consumul de ceapă echilibrează flora intestinală şi promovează digestia prin stimularea bilei. Acidul folic sau vitamina B9 este o componentă esențială a funcției creierului și contribuie la sănătatea emoțională și mentală.

O porție de o jumătate de cană de ceapă verde conține 9% din aportul zilnic recomandat de acid folic. De asemenea, ceapa oferă o sursă bună de fibre. O ceapă de dimensiuni medii conţine 1,9 grame de fibre, în timp ce o porție de 100 de grame are 1,7 grame de fibre.

Pentru a beneficia de toate aceste avantaje, este necesar un consum mai mare din această legumă. Așadar, să adăugăm ceapă în toate felurile noastre de mâncare, fără a uita însă şi de ceilalţi membri ai acestei familii: ceapă verde, şalotă, praz sau arpagic.

[brunchycrunchy]

Planteaza Arpagic acasa sa ai Ceapa verde in fiecare zi Anul trecut le povesteam alor mei ca ce mult mi-ar placea sa am o curticica unde sa-mi plantez si alte verdeturi decat ce pot avea in ghiveci. Asa a venit vorba de Ceapa verde.

[rudyroth79]

Știri: Lansare de carte – ”Speranță sub un soare gri” de Ana Blandiana (6 și 8 iunie 2017, Tivon și Tel Aviv)

Știri: Lansare de carte – ”Speranță sub un soare gri” de Ana Blandiana (6 și 8 iunie 2017, Tivon și Tel Aviv)

Institutul Cultural Român de la Tel Aviv, în colaborare cu Editura Keshev LeShira și Uniunea Scriitorilor Israelieni, vă invită în zilele de 6 și 8 iunie 2017 la evenimentele dedicate lansării în Israel a volumului de poezie și studiu critic ”Speranță sub un soare gri” de Ana Blandiana, în traducerea prof. Moshe Itzhaki, publicat de Editura Keshev LeShira din Tel Aviv. Cu sprijinul ICR Tel Aviv,…