#black metal pottery

[voidforge-pottery]

Started a tumbler to share my pottery. Let's see how this goes

[dreveel]

Hot Metal Collection:

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[mushroomates]

gimli headcanons:

likes doing laundry. finds it soothing

history nerd!! loves reading old tombs/biographies of his ancestors

is incredibly intelligent. beats frodo in chess. would beat gandalf but gandalf cheats. has been in a stalemate with aragorn for two and a half years.

well mannered but chooses to forgo his politeness to make a point. especially around elves.

does NOT like horses. not just riding them, which is canon, but actually dislikes the animal itself. the reasons why include (but are not limited to) :

he does not like being not on ground. he does not have a fear of heights so much as a fear of… feet not on ground. as evidenced by refusal to jump, treehouses, and well, horses

he does not like their faces. they are long and have eyes on the side like prey. gimli thinks this is deceiving as horses are very large and can kick in someone’s skull. not his skull.

gimli believes that in a one on one match with a horse, he could easily win. he has thought of several, very specific, scenarios of this and has a detailed plan of attack should this situation occur.

they so easily turned against their home for an evil overlord (read: sauron stole all the black horses from rohan) and therefore cannot be trusted. as a rule, anything that willing you let you ride it cannot be trusted. they can’t be satisfied with this life. they are plotting something.

believes he would be great at drums. it’s just hitting things hard and he’s pretty strong.

ok, another thing about horses: they are fragile to a ridiculous extent. you breath wrong and it breaks. they have bad bones and bad blood flow in their legs, and their legs are all that they’re used for. he doesn’t understand why humans invested so much time into horses when they’re genetically bad at what they are meant to do. he’d feel bad for the horses if they weren’t so awful.

drinks coffee, not tea

takes great with the up keeping of his gear. he sharpens his axes, polishes his boots, shines his armor and waxes his mustache. that’s not gear, but he takes great pride in looking groomed and caring for his belongings.

has an axe for every occasion. battle axe? do you want throwing or slashing. a day on the town? have you seen this intricately carved masterpiece that also is a weapon? digging a hole? PICKAXE. cutting a cake? how about an axe???

hates the rain because it ruins his hair and beard. also loves the rain because it ruins legolas’s hair and clothes.

will eat anything. has a great tolerance for spice. contrary to popular belief, dwarves are not shy of seasoning but are very cautious around other races in fear of poisoning their friends

will also eat some rocks. salty is his favorite (halite, hanksite, glauberite) but also likes to add chunks of chalcanthite to his food for a slightly sweet yet metalic flavor. this is also slightly (SLIGHTLY) poisonous as evidenced by sharing his trail mix with boromir

also calls dirt the “local seasoning”

will taste dirt to try and get a feeling for the land. this tells him the acidity, weather, possible wildlife, and also pisses off legolas

actaully genuinely likes the taste of dirt. (note: if you desire to eat clay/dirt that is a symptom of iron deficiency. for gimli, he eats spoonfuls of the stuff like their supplements because as a kid it was fed to him like multivitamins)

OK SO HEAR ME OUT: lack of sunlight can cause really low hemoglobin and ferritin (a blood protein that contains iron) sooo being constantly in dark caves can cause some forms of iron deficiency. because dwarves are conscious of their young, dwarf children often grow up not often being in direct sunlight.

the solution? dirt. dirt contains iron and other tasty minerals that are good for the body. charcoal has natural antioxidants. so does clay. am i saying that momma gimli (unnamed) fed her son ash and clumps of dirt? yes. also bits of broken pottery. it’s good of the immune system.

fr tho clay/dirt/charcoal are the dwarven multivitamins. you have a tummy-ache? here, have a rock. i truly believe this was scientifically proven by dwarves and only FOR dwarves (plz do not eat dirt)

fuckin loves mushrooms. has a mushroom log at home. whenever dwarves find some fungai in a cave they go feral

likes dogs. thinks it’s great that they dig holes. thinks it’s fantastic that the bury things in holes. absolutes loves when they get muddy, and then shake off all water and dirt all over you.

when he came back home with the name lockbearer, a lot of the dwarves thought it was really cool and he has some sort of elven puzzle that requires a code to unlock something. imagine their surprise when he rocks up and is like: no, even better. HAIRS. three of them.

enjoys making mudpies- made them as a kid with his cousins, (mostly with rock slurry) and continues to, even even as an adult.

made them on the fellowship with the hobbits. taught them all about the best types of dirt and the water-to-soil- ratio needed.

while cutting up slices of his pie, he offered one to boromir, who in good nature, took it, clearly thinking it was just part of the bit.

poor boromir was locked in a stalemate after gimli cut his own slice, and began eating it.

to his credit, boromir did brave a few bites, but had to stop once he nearly had a mouthful of maggots

“protein”

gimli is like crazy good at hair. can braid quickly and efficiently in elaborate styles

picked up eleven hair style techniques in lorien (quicker than legolas) and was forced to relay them to the elf through twine as there is no way he’s letting grubby elf fingers to touch his glorious mane that’s been decades in the making

would ask for a drink “on the rocks” and get slightly upset if it did not come back with actual rocks

[viking-raider]

Sy's Therapy Barn

Summary: Austin Syverson is newly retired from the Army and struggling to cope with his PTSD. Until he decides to take a chance on a hobby, most wouldn't think could help, and the person there to help teach him how to do it.

Pairing: Syverson/Reader

Word Count: 5k

Rating: M - Quick-Burn, Language, Angst, Fluff, Mentions of PTSD, Combat Fatigue, Trauma, Wine drinking, Flirting, Support System, Movie Quotes, Leap of Faith, Mentions (but no depictions) of Mental Illness, Domestic Violence, Alcoholism, SMUT - Light, P in V

Inspiration: I saw this Instagram video of a handsome, buff gentleman that ran a pottery business and promoted it on the site.

Author’s Note: I hope you enjoyed it. I am so sorry to any Pottery people for butchering it.

Syverson wouldn't lie, even though he had thought the hobby was stupid, the first time he thought about it. But, upon seeing a poster at an outdoor market he had decided to attend one, warm Dallas weekend, to get out of the house. Something inside of Sy had urged him to save the number in his phone, before finding the ale stand.

It wasn't until almost a month later, after waking up in the dead of night. He laid curled up in a ball, hugging his knees and struggling to breath. With the blankets and pillows thrown off the king-sized bed, and the black fitted sheet beneath him drenched in his sweat. Aika pressed against his back and whimpering at her owner's distress. It was then that Sy knew he needed something more, other than just denial, the gun range and booze to deal with his PTSD and Combat Fatigue.

He wasn't about to go sit down on some squeaky metal, folding chair, in the basement of some random religious church, listening to other Vets talk about their combat experience. Everyone nodding their heads and offering sympathy and the Word of God. Sy had stopped believing in God over a decade ago. Because, how could some magical man in the sky, with some grand plan for you, before and after you died, allow such bullshit evil into the world.

He didn't want sympathy, far from it.

Austin Syverson, also didn't do sympathy.

So, he pulled up the number from the outdoor market and gave the business a call.

“Mini's Pottery Haven, how can I help you?” A cheery voice chimed on the other end.

Sy let out a hard breath. “Hi, I saw your poster at a market, a couple weeks ago, for a pottery class.” He said, rubbing a palm over his buzzed head, feeling stupid for calling a pottery business, thinking it would help him, in any way, with his trauma. “I was wondering, if you're still doing classes?”

“Yes, we are!” She confirmed, happily. “We have one tonight, with two spots left, if you'd like to join it.”

“Oh!” Sy started, surprised, not expecting one so soon, hoping for a day to work up the nerve to call her back and cancel. “How much is it?”

“Thirty dollars, for just one person, and sixty dollars for a couple.” She informed him, pressing her phone to her ear and bringing up the planner on her computer. “You can pay when you arrive at the class.” She added, distractedly.

Sy paced his kitchen for a moment, before pausing and straightening his back. “I'll take one of the spots and pay the thirty, when I arrive.”

“Excellent! Can I have your name, please?”

“Syverson.” He answered, out of pure habit.

“All right, we look forward to seeing you tonight, and what you create!” She told him, her voice upbeat and optimistic, like she expected Sy to be the next Michelangelo, before hanging up.

“The boys would lose their shit, if they ever find out I tried pottery.” Sy said, stuffing his phone into the front pocket of his jeans.

Later that night, Sy found himself standing out front of the humble, little pottery shop, the full window front was bright from the lights inside, which was flowing with people, all standing around chatting with each other and holding glasses of wine.

“At least, they have booze.” Sy commented to himself.

“First time?” A soft voice asked, from behind him.

“Huh?” He frowned, turning around to find a gorgeous woman standing behind him, a large bag slung over her shoulder, as she regarded him with a kind expression. “Oh, yeah. You?” He asked, trying to be polite.

“Naw, I've been getting my hands messy with clay for years.” You smiled at him, patting your bag. “I assume you're here for the class.” You asked, motioning towards the shop.

“I am.” Sy nodded, licking his lips. “Just working up the nerve to go inside.” He explained to you.

“Ah, yeah. We pottery nerds can be dangerous.” You teased, smirking up at him. “You make one reference to Ghost in there and they'll turn you into a clay mold. If not, pelt you out of the shop with lumps of it.” You giggled, moving by him to step up onto the curb and grab the door handle.

A laugh rumbled out of Sy's broad chest, a genuine smile spreading across his face. “I'll make sure to keep the Ghost quotes to myself then.” He said, turning his sparkling blue eyes towards you.

“Well, no time like the present.” You told him, pulling the door open and holding it for him.

“That's true.” He nodded, his smile softly fading as he joined you on the sidewalk, stopping beside you for a moment. “Thanks for the pep talk.” He said, giving you a gentle nod, before going inside.

The place was a buzz with voices as he paused by the counter, taking out his wallet to pay for his admission for the night's class. He glanced over his shoulder to see where you'd gone, but you had vanished somewhere into the crowd. Shrugging, figuring you'd paid in advance or had some sort of membership, he handed over his bank card to Mini, the owner of the business, who was a sweet looking, elderly woman, dressed in a loose and colorful, bohemian strap dress. Taking his card and the Hello, My Name Is: sticker she handed back with it, Sy turned away, spotting the small wine station, also surrounded by numerous black sharpies. He headed over, scribbling Sy, on his sticker and poured himself a glass of some kind of red wine, before finding somewhere quiet to stand, to wait for the class to start.

As he stood there, sipping his wine and looking at a wall of finished clay figurines, cups and other knick knacks, he felt a pair of eyes on him. Clearing his throat, he glanced sideways, figuring you were checking him out, which he was more than fine with. But he discovered it was another woman giving him eye-candy. She was tall, with bleach-blonde hair and in a hot-pink tracksuit, she felt out of place for a pottery shop. Though, Sy knew he shouldn't be one to speak, standing there in a Lynyrd Skynyrd t-shirt, that had been to war with him, tight blue jeans, a pair of cowboy boots, with a black stetson cowboy hat.

The way she lifted her wine glass, however, suggested she wanted to jump his bones.

Which only amused the retired Army Captain.

“All right, ladies and gentleman!” Mini called, clapping her hands together and coming around the counter to regard her customers. “If we can all head towards the other end of the shop, where all the potter's wheels and everything are. We can start the class.” She smiled, motioning everyone to the back.

Everyone moved to the back in a messy, single-file line, still sipping the rest of their wine and chatting with each other. The woman in the pink tracksuit lagging back to walk with Sy, fluttering her lashes at him.

“Ma'am.” He acknowledged her, touching the brim of his hat, but didn't give her much else.

“What's a man like you doing in a pottery class?” She asked, biting the corner of her lip.

Sy licked his lips. “I got nothing better to do.” He said, not willing to admit the real reason he was there to her.

“I'm sure a big, strong, handsome man like you could find something to do.” She insinuated, fluttering her lashes at him.

“Pottery is just fine, thanks.” Sy replied, offering her a weak smile.

“Everyone, please find a pottery wheel and it doesn't matter which one.” Mini said, motioning to the dozen or so pottery wheels in a circle, a round lump of clay already waiting on them to be shaped.

Sy waited until almost everyone was seated, not wanting to take the chance of getting stuck sitting next to the woman hitting on him, far from that mood tonight. So, taking up a pottery wheel and grabbing the provided apron, he took off his hat and set it on a shelf behind his wheel, and slipped on the apron. Sy chuckled, sitting down on the comically small stool before the wheel, as he balanced his large, muscular body on it, smirking up at the rest of the group; seeing some of them sit on the stool like they'd done it a million times and others wobble.

“The first thing we're going to do, before we start shaping our clay,” Mini began explaining, sitting at wheel herself, apron on and perched on her stool, like the forty-plus year pottery maker she was. “is to assign our first timers, helpers. I will be giving instructions and so forth, but your helper will be there for you, just in case you need a refresher or get frustrated.” She told the group, looking around at everyone. “But just remember, just like us, human beings, we are all unique and beautiful. It doesn't matter how many times your clay refuses to shape into what your mind's eye thinks it should, or tears apart, or even if it doesn't bake right in the kiln. It is still beautiful! You still brought it into this world with your own two hands, and you should be proud of that. Because it's something no one else in this room did.”

Sy blinked at her, slightly taken aback by her statement. So used to Army instructors drilling into him about, if it's not perfect, you're dead or your buddy next to you, is.

“So, helpers, I'll let you pick your person. You've all worked here before, so you know how to identify them.”

“And how do you do that?” Someone blurted out, making Mini and the helpers chuckle.

“Well, that's one way for us to find you.” One of the helpers quipped in an Australian accent, moving across the room to said person. “But, it's the name tags, mate, or Ryan, I should say.” He smirked, offering out his hand to the newcomer. “I'm Joel.”

“Those of us here that don't have a name tag, are old pros.” Mini smiled, resting her forearms on the edge of her potter's wheel, while the rest of the helpers spread out.

“Good to see you made it all the way into the building.”

Sy looked over his shoulder and grinned up at you. “Yeah, I had a little bit of help.” He replied, glad, and a bit surprised, to see you were one of the helpers.

“Well, you're about to get some more help.” You said, glancing at his name tag. “Sy.”

He felt a lump lodge in his throat as you said his name. “That's great.” He rasped back. “I'm going to need it. These hands have only known how to do one thing, for the last twenty years.” He told you, holding up his calloused mitts.

“Oh, you got good hands for clay shaping.” You said, taking one of them in both of yours. “I'm sure we can teach these pups a new trick or two.”

“Can you teach this ol' pup any?” Sy asked, smiling at you.

“I might.” You nodded, pulling a stool up beside him. “Let's listen to Mini first, then we can find out what you want to make that clay into.” You told him, giving him an encouraging smile, that cracked open the door to a place he had tried to keep shut.

“Everyone have their partner?” Mini asked, looking around, then nodded. “Good! Now, you're going to learn your proper posture for molding.” She began, leaning forward and started her instruction for the next several minutes.

“Christ, I don't know if I can remember all that.” Sy said, blowing out a breath and shaking his head at his mound of clay. “I'm just a simple country boy, fresh out of the Army.”

You giggled beside him, lightly patting him on the back. “That's why you got me.” You reminded him, sweetly. “Now, what do you want to make? And, I swear if you say a dildo, I will get up and leave.” You warned him, seriously.

“Have people actually asked you that?” He frowned, cocking his head at you.

“Yes, more often than you might think.” You huffed, shaking your head. “I'll make anything else though.”

“To be honest with you,” Sy started, frowning down at the clay and shaking his head. “I don't know what to make. I've never been the artistic type. I always failed art class back in school.”

“Well, that's the wonder of art, and clay for that matter, Sy.” You told him, softly. “You can make whatever you want. You don't need to be artsy for it. What's the first thing that comes to your mind? Anything at all.”

“My dog.” He blurted out, biting his lip, feeling silly for it.

“All right, what about a dog bowl?” You suggested, tossing out the first dog related thing that came to your mind.

“Could we make a bowl?” Sy asked, looking over at you.

“Absolutely!” You nodded, grinning. “If you wanna make a bowl for your doggo, then we'll make one. I'll use all ten years of my clay making experience to help.”

“All right, a bowl for Aika, it is.” Sy nodded back, inspired.

“That's a sweet name.” You commented, watching Sy position himself, much as Mini instructed, then drizzle a little bit of water onto the clay and cup it in his large hands, almost hiding it completely in his palms as he started to work the wheel with his foot. “Good, that's a great speed. Keep it up. Little less pressure though.” You reminded him, watching the clay start to pancake a bit.

“Sorry.” He apologized, letting off on it.

“You're all right.” You answered, shaking your head. “So, what made you try out pottery?” You asked, reaching out, instinctively, to add a little more water.

Sy was quiet for a long moment, playing with and shaping his clay, watching the thick residue from it cover his fingers and palms. While trying to find a way to answer. He could give you the same answer he'd given the pink tracksuit lady or he could be honest. Spying you from the corner of his eye, he noticed you weren't waiting for a reply, not being pushy or intrusive. You had simply asked him the question and given him the space to answer it, when and if he wanted to with no hard feelings.

It was a breath of fresh air to him, just like feeling the wet clay in his hands. Knowing he was creating something, not harming it.

“I was hoping it would help me,” He finally answered you, licking his lips, deciding to be honest. “With my combat PTSD.” He added softer, waiting for your reaction.

“It can be quite calming.” You admitted, no ill reaction on your face. “It can also be rather frustrating.” You chuckled, with a smirk. “I about tossed the piece I was working on this morning, when one of the sides collapsed on me. I'd only been working on it for six hours.”

“Six hours!” Sy exclaimed, sitting back to look at you more steadily.

“You suffer for the art sometimes.” You told him, with amusement at his expression. “But, it's well worth it in the end. Most of the time, at least.”

“Christ, I hope this doesn't take that long.” He said, looking down at the weirdly shaped, almost oblong bit of clay on his wheel.

You looked around the room, before leaning close to Sy. “I think you're wonderful, Oda Mae.” You whispered into his ear, so none of your friends could hear you, knowing the complaints they'd give you for the reference after the class.

A huge smile crossed Sy's face and he howled with laughter, catching everyone's attention.

“I crack a good joke, we all know it!” You told them, grinning with guilt.

“I like you.” Sy said, once everyone's attention went back to their own station. “You're the first person that's made me laugh, like that, since I came home on retirement from the Army. A year ago.”

“Oh yeah?” You grinned, feeling a hot rush through your body that wasn't the glass of wine you had earlier. “Well, if you think I can crack a good joke, you'll see how good of a pottery teacher I am.”

“You take any students?” Sy blurted out, before he knew what he was thinking.

You floundered, mouth hanging open. “Um, no.” You admitted, shocked he'd asked, then saw the light start to fade in his blue eyes. “But I could consider it.” You said, quickly. “Especially if it helps you cope with your PTSD.”

“I think it just might.” He proclaimed, finding himself smitten with both pottery and you.

You laughed, throwing up your arm as Sy flicked the wet clay on his fingers at you. “Austin!” You tried to duck the mucky droplets as they splattered all over your apron, the side of your arm, face and hair, still giggling.

“You were looking a bit dry over there!” He guffawed, grinning at you. “What the heck, are you shapin', anyhow?” He asked, balancing himself back on his stool and eyeing your kaolin clay, seeing the strange, cup-like shape you had going.

“I don't really know.” You sighed, shrugging your shoulders at the grayish-yellow clay before you. “I'm just trying to understand it, and make something. That will hopefully not crack in the kiln. If I ever get around to firing it.” You told him, leaning forward again, feeling the soreness in your lower spine and forearms from working in that position for so long. “What about you?” You asked, cocking a brow at Sy, without looking away from what you were starting to consider your Frankenstein.

“Another ceramic grenade cup.” You smirked, curving your thumb into the center of the clay. “Or, what was that tea pot you made?” You asked, giggling as you recalled pulling the craft out of the kiln.

“I don't want to talk about it.” Sy replied, sounding disgruntled.

You laughed, nodding your head. “That's right, it was supposed to be a turt—Austin!” You shrieked, as his big, wet clay covered mitt swiped across your face. “Oh my god!”

“It was nothing, woman.” He huffed at you, with mischievous eyes, as he sat back down. “But I do have a question for you, babe.”

“Oh?” You replied, standing up to wipe the streak off your face before it dried.

“I was thinking,” He paused for a moment, chewing on his bottom lip as he continued to work his clay. “I still have a large chunk of my retirement payment from the Army, just sitting in my bank account.” He said, scowling as one side of the clay started to collapse.

“All right.” You nodded, staring down at him, as you stood between your two pottery wheels in the garage of Sy's house, situated on the ten acres he owned.

“I've been considering,” He licked his lips and sat back, to look up at you, wanting to see your face when he said aloud what had been on his mind for the last year and a half. “I want to open up my own shop.”

You blinked at him a couple times, processing his words. “Your own pottery shop?” You asked for clarification.

“Yeah, I want to open a pottery barn, to help Vets, like myself. Hell, to help anyone with PTSD or trauma. It helped me through so many nights of episodes and flashbacks.” He explained to you, babbling out the idea that had been swirling around him, and looked back up. “You helped me.” He whispered quietly, before shaking his head and squeezing the clay on his wheel.

“It's a stupid idea.”

Watching him destroy the piece he'd just spent the last hour and a half working on, stung you, but it hurt you more to hear him say his idea was stupid. You thought it was incredible. That it was so thoughtful and sweet of him to want to share a hobby that had given him so much in the last two years.

You were flattered to be a part of that journey with him, as well.

Your big bear.

“I think it's a terribly-” You sat down in his lap, wrapping your arms around his neck. “good idea, Austin Syverson.” You declared, kissing him lovingly. “And if I hear anyone say otherwise, I'll pelt them with wet clay, until they think it is.”

A bright smile pulled across Sy's face as he rested his chin on your shoulder. “So, you'll come be my first employee?” He asked, nosing the side of your neck, smelling your perfume mixed with the earthy scents of pottery, tinged with a light sheen of sweat from how warm it was in the garage.

“Oh, I'm going to work for you, am I?” You cooed, amused. “What position, do I get?”

“Hmm.” He hummed, pressing his lips to your skin. “How about the head of pottery?”

“What's your job going to be?” You asked, eyes fluttering shut.

“I'm the boss.” He chuckled, tugging on your ear. “I'll have a bunch of jobs. But there's no one I trust more than you, with all your infinite wisdom of pottery, to run that area.” He told you, his hands pushing under your tank top. “I do only have two years of experience, compared to your thirteen.”

“Oh, laying it on thicker than a glaze, Captain.” You purred, feeling his fingers leave trails of drying clay on the skin of your back. “But I do like the sound of it. Do I get to boss you around during classes?” You asked, cupping the back of his head in your palm and rubbing the short hair there with your thumb, while your other hand dripped to the strings of his camouflage apron.

Sy smirked, giving your neck a sharp bite and making you gasp. “You boss me around already.”

“I do not!” You huffed, with an amused flash in your eyes, pushing his head back to look up at you.

“Whatever you say, my darling.” He replied, blue eyes sparkling.

“That's what I thought.” You smirked, kissing the bridge of his nose.

Pulling his hands from your tank top and gripping you by the hips, Sy pushed you up and pulled your legs across his lap, so you straddled him. You moaned at the straining bulge in his black sweatpants, pressing down against it through your short-shorts, sucking lightly on your bottom lip.

“What are we calling your little pottery business?” You hummed, reaching between your bodies to slip into the waistband of his sweats, finding his thick manhood and gliding your hand along it, drawing out a shivering sigh out from him.

“I don't know.” He rasped, clawing at your hips and the band of your shorts, leaving red marks in their wake. “Maybe, Sy's Therapy Barn or something.” He puffed, losing focus on the idea of running a business and growing more interested in tearing your shorts and underwear off.

“I like it.” You nodded, slipping off his lap, smiling at his hands grabbing to bring you back, but stood and took your shorts and panties off, before straddling his thick thighs again. “Rolls of the tongue and easy to remember.” You told him, taking his burning shaft in your hand, stroking him firmly as you guided him towards your glistening entrance.

“Mmhm.” Sy mumbled, his mouth latching onto your collarbone. “Whatever you say, babe.”

You chuckled, caressing your free hand over his head and gripped his shoulder, using it as leverage to sink down onto him, with a soft sigh and leaning forward to rest your forehead against his.

“I love you, Syverson.”

“Ditto.” He rumbled back, wrapping his arms around you and locking you against him.

“Welcome to Sy's Therapy Barn!” You grinned as a man came through the door, the bell above it chiming through the building, his ripped muscles making the fabric of his Under Armor shirt scream, his tattooed arms showing below the short sleeves. “Are you here for the classes or to look about?” You asked, motioning around the grand shop with beaming pride.

You and Sy had found a thousand square foot warehouse, filling it with all your pottery and therapy needs and dreams. Sy had even decided to go to school and become a licensed therapist, allowing him to help the people coming into the Therapy Barn better. While they got their hands cupped around the little mounds of clay, during your classes, so they could shape it into whatever their minds wanted or needed.

Part of the warehouse was set up with kilns of all sizes and kinds, tall and wide shelves to hold pour molds and drying creations. While another section was where you and Sy held the classes for the therapy groups, either for former or active Combat Service people or, those who Sy referred to as Regulars, members of the public who hadn't served. All of them there to try and remedy their PTSD, trauma, depression, loss, domestic violence or anything else along those lines.

People that didn't require therapy were also welcome, of course.

But the two of you catered to those in need specifically, and so far, business was booming. Sy had gone to the several local Veteran Centers in the Dallas area with fliers promoting the business's program, as well as the VFW Canteens and posting on the internet. Even calling some of his old comrades. Sy had been worried and a bit skeptical with your first pottery class, sure that no one was going to show up to it. However, when the time rolled around, the bell above the front door started dinging with customers, most of them were middle aged or elderly, but there were several your and Sy's age, looking apprehensive.

It made you smile to see that look on their face, it was the exact expression you'd seen on Sy's face, that night you met in the parking lot of Mini's Pottery Barn, before he discovered the magic of forming clay. You always looked forward to seeing it change into the wonder of how amazing it is, to see your brave Captain use his fresh Bachelor's Degree to help them work through the same struggles he had. The struggles you had woken up at one or two in the morning, to find Sy in the garage, in nothing, but the shorts he'd gone to bed in, hunched over his pottery wheel, his muscles tight and teeth gritted, but his hands cupped gently around the piece of clay he was working. Trying to chase away whatever he had been awoken by.

“I'm here for the class, with Dr. Syverson.” He replied, looking around uneasily, like he expected a bomb to go off in one of the teapots you'd crafted and had on sale in the front window of the shop.

“That's great!” You grinned at him, trying to be open and encouraging towards him. “The class will start in ten minutes. You can either take a seat or have a look around. There's coffee, tea and water on the table with some cupcakes and snicker-doodle cookies, so help yourself.”

“No booze.” He mumbled, eyeing the table.

“No,” You answered, giving him an emphatic look. “Some of our potter's are recovering and sober, so we don't offer it.” You explained to him, glancing over at one of your regulars with a nod. “To repress the urge to relapse.”

He looked at you for a moment. “That's—actually, very thoughtful of you.” He said, blinking as it came over him.

“We do our best.” Sy said, appearing from the back. “Pleasure to meet ya.” He offered his hand to the other man. “Captain Syverson, 1st battalion, 3rd SFG(a). Also Dr. Austin Syverson, the co-owner of this here Therapy Barn.” He introduced himself, always giving his classifications to the Vets, knowing how at ease it made them and started that thread of a bond with him.

“Pleasure to meet you, Captain.” He replied, shaking Sy's hand. “Lieutenant Daniel Burton, 3rd recon battalion, for the Marines.”

“Well, it's good to meet you, Lieutenant.” Sy nodded, then smiled over at you, his hand moving to rest on the small of your back. “I'm sure my fiancee has given you the introduction to our business.”

“That she has.” Daniel nodded, giving you a kind smile. “Though, I'll admit, I'm a little apprehensive as to how this is going to help me get straightened out. I watched some videos on pottery on Youtube and it just doesn't seem like much.”

You and Sy looked at each other, a smile and knowing look on each other's faces.

“It seems that way. I thought the same thing, myself, at first.” Sy confessed, a winking at you. “But, all you have to do is take all your emotions. All your pain, all your love, all your passion and all your rage and work it into that bit of clay we give you on that pottery wheel and the rest comes with it.”

You looked at Sy, it had become a thing between the two of you, and in doing so, that line had become his motto. It had become part of the business's motto, and few people actually caught the reference. But that was all right. The two of you still got through to people in the end. Saving them from their dark past through horrible movie quotes, a man that took a chance on a hobby and your skill with moving clay, sculpting a life and a business out of it.

[skellymom]

"Cup Of Caf"

The Bad Batch CROSSHAIR One Shot

Crosshair x NON GENDERED Reader (PLEASE put YOURSELF into this story! <3)

Background: Crosshair makes it to Pabu with all of his brothers and sister. Will he open himself up to another? What's his future there?

Word Count: 2.1K

Warning: Really none. This is sweetness, some angsty fluff, and character growth. Purposely wrote this piece for ANY reader! You can take this tale as friendship or the start of a blossoming love relationship. And, I purposely wrote NO GENDER/NO SPECIFIC SEXUALITY/POSSIBLY EVEN AGENDER into this story. It's about healing, sharing, growing, and decisions at one of many crossroads in life. Sometimes it's painful, but growth can be.

This One Shot is dedicated to Crosshair Fans, those of you struggling with hard decisions in life, loneliness, and to the amazing @lightspringrain whose art was one of my inspirations for this story.

(Her Etsy shop: https://www.etsy.com/shop/LightSpringRain Just placed my order for the holidays!

(Credit: Dividers by the talented @saradika)

The leaves of the Cascade Tree rippled lazily in the ocean breeze.  Its boughs lifted just enough to reveal a man with a scarred head sitting under its canopy at the picnic table. 

You were surprised to see someone sitting there at... “your” table.  Not really yours, but no one else ever came down this far from the cliffs to watch the surf foam and roil against the shores of Pabu.  Every morning walking down to enjoy your cup of caf before starting the day.  Today, you were testing out a new mug, fresh off the pottery wheel: Jet black clay with metallic silver phases of the moon depicted in striking detail across its surface.  Debated selling this piece, hardly ever keeping anything for yourself. 

The man’s back was facing you at quiet approach.  He side-eyed you suspiciously, scowling.  Immediately recognized him as the newcomer to the island that arrived with his brothers and one sister.  Phee Genoa gushed about the one named, “Tech”.  She called him “Brown Eyes”.  This was the “Grumpy Brother” and was already gaining a reputation as anti-social. 

“Uh...hi.” 

Silence and unchanging side-eye.  He didn’t move from the spot and clearly wanted to be left alone. 

“Ok, leaving.” 

No reply.  He turned back around to stare at the crashing surf. 

The next morning you arrived with your fully vetted new mug of caf to find...The Grumpy Man back in “your” spot. 

Kriff...what to do?  This was awkward.  While feeling rather put out and wanting to sit alone, you kind of felt for the guy.  The gossip around town was he had been through a lot before arriving in Pabu. 

Looking down at the untouched cup of caf:  How many people, yourself included, came to this planet looking for solace and safety?  How many of the residents of Pabu arrived with baggage before they healed and found community here?  How long did it take to be comfortable with others again? 

Your heart went out to the man all by himself sitting there.  It was an amazing view and perfect place to be alone. 

He turned, almost like he had heard your brain humming.  Again, scowling over his shoulder.  You stepped closer, but he didn’t budge and kept the suspicious side-eye.  You approached the table and set the steaming mug next to him. 

He seemed briefly surprised, with his features softening slightly. 

“Good morning, have a fresh cup on me.” 

You awkwardly walked away, leaving him alone with the caf.  Heart hammering in your chest.  

After closing the pottery studio, you decided to stop by “your” spot on the way home.  The Grumpy Man was gone, but the mug was in the same position you left it.  You assumed he thought it a weird gesture and refused to touch the mug.  But you realized the coffee was gone and there was something in the bottom of the mug.  Turning it upside down, a seashell fell out.  A very pretty one too. It brought a smile to your face. 

Next morning, you looked forward to engaging with Grumpy Man again.  The black and silver mug was washed and filled with hot caf for him.  Stopping at the local bakery you purchased a large cinnamon pastry on the way. 

Grumpy was there.  He didn’t turn when approached.  You set the mug with the pastry perched on top of it next to him. 

“Enjoy.” Walking away. 

“Did you like it?”  His voice was low, raspy, snakelike. 

“What?”  Stopping in your tracks and turning slightly to answer.  “Oh...yes.  Thank you.” 

“Hmmm...” 

That was all.  He said no more and kept his eyes on the crashing surf. 

You left and walked onward to the studio. 

After close, you walked back to retrieve the mug.  It was empty of coffee and now and contained freshly picked flowers. 

This carried on for several weeks.  Every morning you brought him fresh caf and something to eat.  After all, he was skin and bones.  Every day something different: a fat muffin, breakfast sandwich, fruit, grain-meal with honey, meats, cheeses, brunch cookies.  It was a culinary journey of Pabu, as you picked up things from local shops, or even threw together items from memory of family recipes.   

It was almost an obsession to keep this man guessing the food he would be eating.  Local shopkeepers noticed you out and about more, enquiring about your sudden social spree.  Tongues were starting to wag on the island.  You didn’t pay attention to gossip and could care less.   

Grumpy seemed to have a decent appetite.  You were quite sure he was indeed consuming the food. Of course, he could have thrown it down the ravine to the fish and sea birds, and you would be none the wiser.  It was obviously evident his man was thriving as he filled out, less bony, skin no longer a sickly pallor, and his hair was growing back.  Hair as silver as the moon. 

Every evening he would leave something in the mug as a gift.  An unspoken thanks for your kindness: 

The split egg of a sea bird, a marine fossil stone, polished sea glass, a cascade tree seed, feathers, bleached bones, a preserved Pabu Butterfly with striking iridescent wings.  He even left odd items that suggested a sense of humor.  The persnickety land crab attempting to fight you for the mug as its new home. The small octopus bobbing in the salt water filled cup...who inked you in the face. 

Every day was a welcome surprise.  

You sat the mug and Meiloorun next to Grumpy. There were two covered plates on the table. 

He turned around to look you square in the eye.  “Sit with me.”  It wasn’t a question, but not an order either.  “Please.” 

This was surprising and you settled in next to Grumpy on the bench. 

He slid over a plate and uncovered it: Two stacked grain cakes with a whipped dairy smile and two berry eyes.  They were doused in rainbow candy sprinkles, sitting in a huge amount of sugary syrup. 

“Wow...uh.  I didn’t take you for a happy face kinda guy.”  Suddenly regretting the remark and holding your breath. 

He rolled his eyes and exhaled. “My sister made them.  SOMEONE in town tipped her off that I’m not alone during my ‘Alone Time’.” 

You burst out laughing.  How could you not? 

“Gets better.”  He uncovered the second plate: Two cooked sea bird eggs sunny side up with strips of cooked meat centered below them.  The “food face” was doused in ketchup to resemble a bullet hole to the head hemorrhaging blood.  “I’m more on board with this design.” 

You howled with laughter.  Grumpy cracked a small smile. 

“YOUR sister did THIS???  THAT innocent child?” 

“Mhm...” He snickered.  “Never.  She breathes and farts rainbows.  This is my brother's masterpiece.” 

The rainbow remark had you roaring again.  Wiping away tears.  His delivery was so unexpected.   

He handed you a fork.  Now that ALL his face was visible, you noticed the tattoo. 

He produced his own fork.  “Let's stab out the eyes and feast upon their faces.” 

“Wait!”  You lifted the mug of caf.  “First, we must drink the blood of our enemies and share the names of the victors.”  You were feeling giddy now...never considered maybe taking this Imagined Breakfast Massacre too seriously. 

It didn’t seem to matter to Grumpy.  In fact, he was smiling.  

“Y/N” You took a healthy sip of the caf and passed the mug to him. 

“Crosshair” He gulped the caf, giving you a mischievous look. 

From that morning on you brought the cup of caf to share and HE brought the food.  His sister and brother would cook or bake for Crosshair and “his friend”.  According to him, they were overjoyed that he had not been spending his quiet days alone.  Then started incorporating his own ideas into the recipes.  Crosshair would regale you with “Tales of the Kitchen” interactions with him and his siblings as they cooked.  He shared secret ingredients, always asked your opinion on the recipes, and how they could be improved. 

However, after the food was eaten and the chatter died he would stare wistfully at the ocean.  Deep in thought, mulling over something.  You would ask and he would deflect with another topic.  Not wanting to push things, you let it go. 

This sharing of food and caf carried on for several months.  Sometimes you were able to get bits of information out of him:  He was a military man before coming to Pabu and was in a special highly trained squad.  You asked about his mother and father.  He shrugged and said his parentage didn’t matter and that only his sister and brothers were important.  You carefully asked about the scar on the right side of his head, now fully covered with thick, unruly silver hair.  He glossed over it as an injury and no big deal.  He deflected by asking you about yourself.  This man was perfectly happy to talk less and hear you speak more.  He listened intently and threw brief tidbits in and sometimes his signature “Mmhmm.” 

Still, he seemed haunted by something and absolutely refused to talk about it.  You sensed it never really left his mind and constantly grappled with something deep.  Something he regretted with all his being. 

You both sat at the table watching the surf, taking turns sipping from the mug of caf.  The breakfast platter was eaten and empty.  He was unusually quiet.   

Then he finally spoke. “I’m leaving Pabu.” 

“What?”  You, shocked. It seemed so sudden.  “Why???” 

“I...”  He sighed and looked down at the table.  “Need to make amends for certain...things.”  His expression was one of thinly veiled shame. 

“Don’t know what to say...” Struggling for words.  “How long will you be gone?” 

“I’m not coming back.”  His brows furrowed sadly.  There was a lot of emotion, and you could see the difficulty he had expressing it. 

Speechless, you stared ahead and watched the surf pull away from the shoreline.  There would be no more shared caf and breakfasts with this man.  The days of looking forward with anticipation to the mornings would end. 

You both sat for some time in silence, listening to the waves.  In...out...in...out...as if the island was breathing. 

Finally, you felt his gaze.  Turning to meet the saddest, deepest brown eyes.  Such a pitiful yet touching display that hit you even harder in the gut. 

“I’m...grateful to have shared the time we had together.  I don’t say that lightly.”  His hand slowly advanced palm up on the table begging to be joined with another. 

You slid your hand in his and squeezed.  “I’ll miss you.”  Tears forming in your eyes. 

He squeezed back, nodded, then let go.  Getting up from the table he whispered “Goodbye.”  

“Take this!  I made it for you...even if I hadn’t known it yet.”  You handed him the empty mug. 

He took it with a look of surprise.  Then he turned away before you could see the tears in his eyes. 

But you saw them.  You will never forget that.   

Then he was gone.   

You sat the rest of the day listening to the ocean breathe.  Watching the sun make its progression across the sky, finally dipping below the horizon.  You walked home under the stars of Pabu...one of them a low fast-moving light: A ship departing the planet. 

Sleep was fretful.  Finally frustrated with tossing and turning, you got up, dressed and walked to the studio.  Firing up the lights, set the holo on your favorite “create playlist”, and sitting down at the potter’s wheel.  Tonight, there would be a new design even if it meant staying up all night to mold, dry, glaze, and fire this creation.  You threw yourself into the task, singing, and occasionally wiping away a stray tear. 

The sun rose over Pabu.  You washed out the new creation: A mug of blazing crimson red, raised relief of the sun, with a magnificent metallic gold corona.  Fresh caf brewed in the studio.  You poured it steaming hot into the mug.  Then closed the studio for the day, leaving a message in the window when it would reopen, and proceeded down to “your” table. 

You expected to be alone once again...however...there was someone sitting under the Cascade Tree. 

She was blond, dark skinned and looked to be a young teenager.  You could tell she had been crying. 

“Hello?” 

“Sorry...Just wanted some privacy.  My brother would come here to sit and be alone.”  She moved to get up. 

“You don’t have to leave.  Please stay.” 

She spied the mug in your hand, and the pieces fell into place. 

“You’re Y/N!” Her eyes widened.  “He talked about you a LOT.  He’s never done that with anyone before.” 

Warm intense feelings welled up inside you.  They spilled out across your face in a smile. 

“What’s your name?” 

“Omega.” 

You set the mug of caf down in front of her. 

“Well Omega, looks like I made this for you...even though I hadn’t known it yet.” 

PLEASE like, comment, and/or REBLOG!

IF YOU WISH TO BE ADDED OR DROPPED FROM MY TAG LIST, PLEASE MESSAGE ME! Don't just comment as I might miss it. Thanks!!! <3

[namidew]

Here’s the next part of the design concepts for my story, this time featuring Athena, Ares, and Aphrodite !!

Normally in depictions of Ares and Athena, they would wear armor, but I drew them without it because I wanted to try to incorporate their other motifs !!

Details below for design ramblings !!

Athena - The design of her face and the shape of her hair combined is meant to have a faintly owlish resemblance, her expression stern to represent her domain of wisdom and connection war. For my story, she’d be a bit more steely and essentially logical, showing more of wisdom than knowledge by her actions being based on past experiences. Her peplos is in reference to greek pottery with its black and orange, and her epiblema is in reference to her birth from Zeus’s head (the version which I am going with for my story) with it weaved to resemble the brain from a side view on either side. Lastly, the shield on her back is the aegis (or aigis?), which in this version, is a shield. Her having a shield but no spear represents defense and more “distance” from battle (despite hoplite soldiers using both) to represent strategy, and Ares having a spear but no shield represents offense and closer proximity in fights, thus closer to see the uglier side of war: the bloodshed and death.

Ares - He and Athena have complimenting details in their spear and shield, and in their color palettes. Both of their weapons are bronze, but appear brown due to the shading. Both have very fiery colored clothing, showing their connection of war despite their differences. Said differences include Ares’s (at least, within my story) tendency for impulsiveness and better emotional intelligence. He has scars not because his injuries didn’t fully heal, but because he (within my story) thinks they’re cool. His near-black, dark red(ish) chiton and hair represent blood and death, both common on the battlefield. his himation is red for blood, with orangey details for the metal of weapons or metallic taste of blood, and in resemblance of vulture wings. He has a more boyish appearance in reference to the young age in which Ancient Greece (as well as many other civilizations and modern day countries) could draft men to war.

Aphrodite - Her hair is red due to its perceived beauty in Ancient Greece and its rarity within the global population. Several strands of her hair are shaped like hearts. Her face is meant to resemble a dove, with eyes blue like the sea. The pearlescent jewelry is in resemblance of the sea foam from which she was born (the version I’m using), her ionian chiton colored in resemblance of the sea behind the sea foam (and funnily enough, it is sea foam in color.) In addition, her necklaces resemble the pattern of feathers (dove) or scales (sea theme.) Her hair color is exactly the same reddish-orange shade as the details on Ares’s himation. If you look closely, there is a very faint heart shape within the shading of her forehead. A consistent element in my designs of the Olympians drawn so far is a metallic element, as seen in Apollo, Hermes, and Dionysus having matching gold jewelry, Artemis having silver hair bands, and Ares and Athena having bronze war gear. I’m not entirely sure what Aphrodite’s jewelry is made of, perhaps pearl, or perhaps white opal? Maybe the metallic design element will be a “children of Zeus” design choice.

Thank you if you’ve reading all this rambling, it’s much longer this time. All in all, I’m fairly happy with the designs of these three, but now I have to go back and add more details to the other designs to balance it out a bit. Anyway, if you have any ideas or suggestions for future designs, please do tell me !!

[stardewnice]

Hello PC stardew players ✨

Syanide23 on NexusMods has updated my old Pottery Kiln mod for 1.6

They've added some very cool new pots too !

Mod description & link below the cut 👇🏻

PFM Pottery Kiln for 1.6

Updates sylvarmyst's original pottery kiln mod for 1.6 with permission from sylvarmyst.

Creates unique ceramics by putting minerals and certain resources into the kiln. Original description from original mod:

"Adds a new functional machine to the game that can be used to produce 61 unique ceramic pots ! Each pot is made using clay and another material which will determine the glaze color of the pottery produced.

Materials that can be used as glaze for pottery kiln include:

• All metal ores

• All foraged minerals

• All gems

• All geode minerals

• Rainbow shells

• Solar essence

• Void essence

• Clay itself (makes a very simple pot)

The kiln is a recolor of the charcoal kiln and can be purchased from Clint for 5000 gold. The kiln uses 5 clay as a starter.

The time required to produce each pot is determined by its monetary value.

Cheaper pots will take one hour to produce. Mid-range pots will take two hours. The most valuable pots will take 5 hours, except for the Prismatic Pot, which takes 10 hours."

Also adds a few new pots:

• Uranium Vase, radioactive ore

• Black Ceramic Pot, coal

• Three Ceramic Pots, cinder shard

• Bone Pot, bone fragment

• Mossy Pot, moss

• Repaired Amphora, chipped amphora

• Nautilus Shell Pot, nautilus shell

• Clam Pot, clam shell

• Dwarven Pot, dwarvish helm

• Coral Pot, coral

• Mosaic Pot, glass shards

[wisteriamusic]

killer stages hobbies

So, I think while a lot of hobbies are shared throughout the stages some of them are exclusive or only one or two do so.

Stage 1: Most of his paintings are of friends and other people never of himself. He's taken a lot to writing which can range from children's books, horror stories, mysteries, crime, romance, almost every genre under the sun. He also does enjoy cosplay and crossdressing. He decided to pick up clay sculpting making nice pottery he doesn't trust himself with knives. He also does poetry along with him writing fictional stories.

Stage 2: Their biggest hobby is wood carving most often of animals like bunnies and cats. Painting is of course another hobby they mainly draw landscapes, flora, and fauna. They enjoy sketching new clothes to make and wear. They like to make their own clothes and do a lot of embroidery adding more detail. They also enjoy acting quite a bit. They decided to learn how to sculpt marble for a harder challenge and just to try something new and enhance their already good skills now on a larger scale. They still indulge in science of course even if its not the typical one of most Sanses. Probably also picked up wood burning to make their own wood carvings more detailed and to add a new skill. They are quite good at board games and other games and is actually a major hobby a safer way to discover new things with npcs that don't concern actual people. Along the way I think they learned metal working and black smithing its not an as often hobby its mainly for making knives and other bladed weapons to replace any it uses and for good quality ones that's actually hard to find in the multiverse. They definitely enjoy exploration both of just nature but, also of new aus and people. Him and Ink will sometimes go people watching and without looking at the code or script try to guess their life and personality. They also enjoy gardening they are quite connected to nature. They enjoy reading not as much as Dust but it's a way to gain new information and pass the time.

Stage 3: Its painting are of a lot of death and destruction a funnel for their more destructive and angry emotions rather then other people. They also decided to start playing music it was something sans did and it's something they wanted to reclaim of themself. It also enjoys puzzles and can get sucked into it for hours.

Stage 4: Color was the one who pushed stage 4 to get a hobby of some kind. Any hobby was find as long as it gone one. Color mainly asked him to pick a hobby and left the room he wasn't far but he didn't want his facial expressions or body language make stage 4 pick something based off of what he thinks is good. Painting was the first hobby it picked up its a common hobby that all of the stages enjoyed so it decided that was the safe choice. Later it would pick up dancing specifically, ballet while it does enjoy other styles of dancing it prefers ballet even if it wouldn't say so. Its more often to be pushed to indulge in a hobby rather then just do it itself whenever. It does have some soft rules that allow it to do actions without explict orders that allow it to make choices. Most of its paintings are of chara, the player, horror inside its mind real psychological horror one of the only way it can express its emotion.

[evilasiangenius]

Rumination was beginning to feel like damnation, and so Aziraphale made himself a makeshift broom from some straw from the fields and a stick, and began to sweep. He cleaned out the broken bed in the windowless servant’s room. Somehow it was nicer without a bed in it, the blankness of chipped plaster walls was comforting.

He cleaned out the kitchen which was surprisingly easy given that all the foodstuff had been taken a long time ago. He carefully picked up and discarded all the broken sherds and oyster shells. In the process he and even found a few plain pieces of utility ware that could be used: bowls, cups, and a few pots. Anything metal or genuinely nice had been taken a long time ago.

He left most of the cobwebs hiding in dark corners alone, letting the spiders do their quiet work, only brushing away old abandoned webs that were no longer occupied.

While cleaning the oven he found a soft nest of grasses that hid a snoozing dormouse. He held the chirp-snoring creature in the palm of his hand for a while, entranced by the loud whistling snores (so unlike Crowley who snored very politely if at all), before setting the creature and her nest in a warm corner, tucked beneath the rim of a cracked pot.

He swept the bit of upstairs hallway that still remained, revealing beautiful flooring made of expensive imported cedar, which in the past would have been swept and polished daily. He touched the wood, and wondered – if he were to press his nose near the wood, could he still smell that sweet scent? But instead, he went into the storeroom, after some hesitation.

It was daytime so he opened the shutters, and the light that came in through the high window was wan and weak, leaving a patch of grayish light over Crowley’s face.

There was not very much dust here and he wondered if it had to do with Crowley’s influence. The demon always seemed so orderly and neat. But then, the sharpest memory of Crowley came to mind; that black-winged demon upon the gates of Eden, the edge of his robes torn and tattered, the stardust-stained black fabric looked more like a silvery gray.

What changed, Aziraphale wondered? From that barefoot wanderer, to this sleeping figure in black patrician boots, draped impeccably in a serpent-pinned chiton and a lustrous black pallium that covered dark curling hair.

He tried to remember the other times he had seen Crowley before this time, and it felt as if his mind balked at the curiosity.

So Aziraphale looked away from the sleeping figure of the demon and went back to sweeping. He picked up some pieces of broken pottery and threw the sherds out the window. Soon enough, the room was clean.

x

[blueiscoool]

Ancient Etruscan Tomb Discovered in Vulci, Italy

An intact tomb from the 6th century B.C. has been discovered in the Etruscan necropolis of Casale dell’Osteria in Vulci in Lazio, central Italy. The 2,500-year-old tomb is richly furnished with pottery and contains an incredibly rare final meal on a brazier.

Archaeologists with the Vulci Foundation made the discovery earlier this month when the excavation revealed two tufa stone slabs two feet wide and weighing 40 kilos (88 lbs) in place in front of the entrance to the tomb. The team used a crane to carefully remove the slabs and uncover the entrance. Inside, they found a chamber tomb with a rock-cut platform and an array of about 30 vessels, mostly black bucchero pottery, cups, glass unguentaria and amphorae, all intact and in impeccable condition.

On the right side of the chamber towards the entrance is a bronze brazier still containing the coals and the skewers that held the meat cooked for the final repast. The cinerary remains of the tomb’s owner were placed inside an olla — a squat, rounded pot commonly used by the Etruscans as containers for the entombment of cremated remains — on top of the rock-cut platform.

It is believed to be the tomb of a woman, based on the lack of weapons and on the presence of a spindle whorl. She must have been someone of significant wealth to afford so richly furnished a tomb.

Vulci was a prosperous Etruscan city-state 50 miles northwest of Rome. It was the birthplace of the legendary sixth king of Rome, Servius Tullius (r. 578-535 B.C.) and an important center of ceramic arts, metal mining and metal crafts. It was also a center of trade, purveying expensive imports of Greek pottery, balms and unguents from the east.

It was defeated by Rome in 280 B.C.; Roman forces took its coastal territory, cutting off Vulci’s access to the sea and strangling the maritime trade that had been so integral to its success. The city declined and was ultimately abandoned. No new town was ever built over it.

Part of it survived underground, however, in Vulci’s necropoli. Tens of thousands of tombs containing priceless artifacts from every day use objects to entire chariots and silver hands. An unpopulated area far from the prying eyes of any authorities with tons of unknown and unrecorded portable archaeological wealth made a perfect target for looters and over the decades Vulci has been re-sacked on a vast scale. The discovery of an intact, unlooted tomb with its contents complete and undamaged is therefore incredibly rare.

[tumbler-polls]

Hi there! I hope I'm doing this right with the poll idea submission. Here is my idea: Of the following, which is a visual art form you currently most want to learn? -A type of PAINTING (Watercolor, acrylic, gouache, oil, etc) -A type of FIBER ARTS (Crochet, sewing, embroidery, basketry, felting, etc) -A type of PRINT MAKING (woodcut, intaglio, etching, linocut, etc) -A type of DRAWING (architectural, photorealism, illustration, anamorphic, Zentangle, etc) -A type of CERAMIC/pottery-making (wheel throwing, hand building, raku, soda firing, etc) -A type of PHOTOGRAPHY (black & white, astrophotography, landscape, portrait, macro, etc) -A type of DIGITAL ART (pixel, photobashing, fractal, animation, vector, etc) -Another type of CRAFT/ARTISTRY (glass making, metal working, paper making, tie-dye, jewelry making, leather working, origami, etc) -The art form I want to learn does not fall into these categories -I don't create visual art / Show results

[voidforge-pottery]

Another corpse paint mug

[art-that-fucks-you-up-tournament]

SET SIXTEEN - ROUND ONE - MATCH FOUR

"Dropping a Han Dynasty Urn" (1995 - Ai Weiwei (艾未未)) / "A Few Small Nips" (1935 - Frida Kahlo)

DROPPING A HAN DYNASTY URN: Some people get a strong feeling of indignation when they see this, because they think that the vase is important because it is old. And sometimes things are valuable because they are old, because they are one of a few surviving examples of the thing, but that isn't the case for Han dynasty pottery since that stuff was mass produced at an enormous scale. But for me the power of the work is in his expression and body language, and the way his hair sticks up, his unassuming clothing. It's like he's a regular person – just like back in Han dynasty times that was a regular, mass-produced urn. (@inariedwards)

A FEW SMALL NIPS: [no additional commentary] (@gaysheep)

("Dropping a Han Dynasty Urn" is a series of black and white photographs of a performance by Ai Weiwei. The photos are 148 by 121 cm and depict Ai breaking two urns worth a few thousand dollars and that are 2,000 years old.

"A Few Small Nips" is an oil on metal painting by Frida Kahlo. It measures 30 x 40 cm (11.8 x 15.7 in) and is located in the Dolores Olmedo Collection in Mexico City.) Some info about the painting can be found here.)

[yingren]

five fine things.

FILL IN THE CATEGORIES BELOW WITH 3-5 THINGS YOUR CHARACTER CAN BE DEFINED BY. REPOST. DO NOT REBLOG!

TAGGED BY: myself because i stole this from my old blog TAGGING: anyone else that is as bored as me and likes filling these things out ( it's a lot and u absolutely don't have to read this or do it yourself!! )

EMOTIONS / FEELINGS / TRAITS:

tired, stubborn, curious, grim, quiet.

MEETINGS:

— a collision of bodies in the dark, shoulder against shoulder, hushed apologies and curses — on a path somewhere, two mismatched walking paces forcing you closer and closer, a tired conversation to keep the awkward silence away — tending to bruised knuckles, wrapping bandages around bloody traces of a fight, somewhere outside at 4am

SCENTS:

blooming spider lilies, hint of leather & cold metal, the grounding scent of rain on pavement, plain black coffee.

CLOTHING:

apart from the outfit we see him wearing in canon: same pants with a simple button up, whatever suit kafka insists he wears, a hanfu. rarely wears shorts of any kind. sleeps in pants (pajama, sweatpants etc) but shirtless.

OBJECTS:

his sword. items crafted by hand such as ceramics, pottery, sculptures, jewelry etc. things stolen from others. his glasses that you will never see him wear. his favorite pen. a phone always silenced. his journal.

VICES / BAD HABITS:

disappearing, without trace and/or warning, a few days of silence as he is off to places unknown. thrill-seeking, whether it be risky activities or desperately seeking a reaction or feeling from a fight or self-inflicted injuries. avoidant, shutting down any and all attempts at confronting his past.

BODY LANGUAGE:

often appears relaxed, moves almost soundlessly and with ease compared to his sometimes loud and intense outbursts. uncomfortable in his own body, does not like what he has become. rarely showing physical affection, on occasions where it happens it is most likely a fleeting hug. sometimes it's a grip of their sleeve to keep them from bumping into something or someone, a nudge to their side to soften the blow of a joke or an arm around their shoulders when they're injured. good reflexes, effortless and quick, throw something at him and he will most likely catch it. private, has a big personal space bubble, if you come to close he will move away and if you continue moving closer after that he will get annoyed. attempts to be let into the bubble that is his comfort zone need to be initiated by him or any attempts at affection or closeness will be rebuffed. this goes for strangers mostly but also literally anyone that isn't in his closest circle.

AESTHETICS:

dried flowers, preserved and cared for even in their death. late nights but early enough mornings to catch the sunrise, daggers, knives and weaponry, tangible nightmares, blood-stained clothes, ink-stained hands, wading through knee-deep water, tasting iron, scabs and scars

HOME:

people as a home. books literally everywhere. it's easy to be confused for a mess even though it isn't dirty. old and new books, paperback or bound, open or not. some bookmarked with little post-it notes. ask him and he'll know exactly where a specific book is. untouched leftovers in the fridge, signs of caring and kind companions that looks out for him. half finished crossword puzzles on his bed, his dresser, his bedside table, in the inside pocket of his jacket.

SONGS:

cold shoulder by 8graves, feel nothing by the plot in you, broken by lund

[whovianofmidgard]

Day 7 – Nerdanel & Fëanor - Creation

For @feanorianweek You can also read on AO3

“Come, Fëanáro. You are a master of jewels and metals in your own right, now let me teach you in the art of stone,” Nerdanel said, and pulled the young prince of the Noldor into her studio.

For long days Fëanor sat in Nerdanel’s lap before a pottery wheel, hands on hands on clay, shifting and moving and tangling, and creating wonders together. He stood by slabs of stone and let his lady guide hammer and chisel in his grasp. Dust and debris fell around them and got caught in red and black hair like snow.

Fëanor learned much in that time; of Nerdanel and her passions, of the skill of his hands. Sculpting will never be one of his crafts, but now he knew how to do it and do it competently.

-

“Come, Nerdanel. You may be the mistress of freeing beauty trapped inside stone, now let me teach you the art of shining lamps,” Fëanor said, and lead the lady of his heart into his workshop.

For long days Nerdanel allowed Fëanor to lean close over her shoulder as he instructed her on glass blowing, quick touches brushed here and there as they spun melting glass in the kiln, heat against body heat, reflected firelight dancing in their eyes. She stood in a beam of Laurelin, feeling his chest warm against her back, as they held sparkling glass bubbles and domes in their intertwined hands. They sang together, reminding their lamps of inner fire and light, like elflings catching fireflies in a jar, ‘till a bright blue flame ignited within.

Nerdanel learned much in that time; of Fëanor and the fire in his eyes, of the song inside her soul. Lamp making may never be one of her passions, but she knew how it was made, and she could make them sufficiently.

-

Fëanor’s sons had barely seen their father ever since they moved to Formenos in exile. He had locked himself in his forge, only making an appearance outside perhaps twice a week.

He worked tirelessly on making swords and armour for himself and his sons. They needed all his skill and ingenuity in order to protect themselves and the Silmarils.

Lining one side of his worktable were seven busts sculpted from simple salt dough, each and every one an exact copy of his sons. They seemed young but grim to his eyes, those features lovingly formed by his firm hands, looking back at him with determination.

He had not thought he’d use his wife’s craft in such a way, or even at all. Yet he was grateful for the skill, and for the one who taught him.

Soon, one by one, plumed helms adorned those busts, seven soldiers lined up in his forge. It won’t be long before those helms would sit on the heads of his seven sons.

-

Nerdanel was left alone in the wake of Darkness, all his children, his husband were gone to wage their war.

Candles and torches were in short supply, and burning wood not for warmth but light would slowly prove to be unsustainable. Yavanna would not permit the felling of more trees in the throes of her grief in losing The Trees.

Nerdanel dried her own tears, though not shed for any tree, and lit one of her last candles. The little flame sparked one in her fëa, and a sudden burst of resolve washed over her as she entered her father’s workshop. There she grabbed blowpipe and sheers, then went to work.

She blew and formed perfect spheres to best reflect and catch light, she blew perhaps hundreds of them, both big and small. She stood in the halo of hearth fire, of flickering candles, of the distant pale gleam of the stars and she sang, just as she once sang with Fëanor long ago, yet lacking his harmony. Hundreds of tiny flames flickered to life one by one, just enough to light her way in the dark.

Nerdanel carefully bundled the lamps in a basket and began her long journey through Aulë’s lands. Eventually she will reach Tirion, then continue on to ransacked Alqualondë, and Nerdanel, daughter of Mahtan, estranged wife of Fëanor, will offer her lamps to neighbours, kin, and any elf who will accept.

[kassandras-one-braincell]

ugh when is it my turn to have an irl kassandra i would do anything for her .

anyways what kinds of clothing styles, jobs, or just general day-to-day life (like their houses) do you think modern!kassie/eivor/soma would have?

Pssh, it's not like I've given this any extensive thought in the past or anything... That would be weird... Who would do that haha

I would let's go

Kassandra dresses like a dad who lost his passport in Tenerife on holiday and has been stuck cycling between the same 4 hawaiian shirts since three Tuesdays ago, but owns a few casual suits for work.

She's a historian and museum curator. Specialises in the history of weaponry, occasionally giving guest lectures on ancient swords at universities. Mention any type of weapon and she will not be able to stop herself from rambling about its evolution over the centuries.

Has a pottery wheel. You know that scene from Ghost (1990)? Yeah. Very reliable with the ladies.

Ikaros is her pet eagle, do not ask her how she manages to get him pet insurance because she may have lied about his species.

She has a vegetable garden (her pride and joy, this might as well be her child with how well she takes care of it) and a briki to make coffee with. Kassie always starts her day off with freshly brewed coffee the traditional Greek way, some bread and some fruit, which she always plates too much of because Ikaros likes to steal it.

She's a great cook.

Dozens of books on old weapons are dotted about her home and some (so many. so fucking many holy shit) model replicas because she's a fucking nerd.

You cannot turn a corner inside her home without seeing at least three family photos. Family includes Myrrine, Alexios, Barnabas, Herodotos, Markos, Alkibiades and Phoibe. Nikolaos is in prison for trying to yeet his stepchildren off a cliff.

Phoibe is her goddaughter who calls her "auntie" and Auntie Kass absolutely gives her the world.

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Eivor serves lumberjack realness. Flannels, cargo pants, work jeans, yes she has a tool belt, yes she looks a damn treat in it. All she's missing is the hard hat and the protective visor. The axe is in her workshop.

She wears glasses. This isn't up for debate.

Tattoo artist by trade and has a degree in literature. Her love for poetry knows no bounds. She specialises in black and grey realism and her pieces are breathtaking.

Speaking of poetry, her colleagues bully her mercilessly for being a "big old sap". She has fancy paper to write her poems up on, and a wax sealing kit for handwritten letters. She's old fashioned like that.

Technology is a demon she would rather not trifle with. 100% complains about the need for there to be an app for everything, but she does appreciate video calls so she can see her people.

As a hobby, she pursues woodworking and blacksmithing, sometimes selling her creations. She'd make the engagement ring she proposes to you with herself

Dwolfg (or Chewy, or Mouse) Nali and Dandelion Puff are all beloved members of her household. The neighbours' kids named them all; sometimes she babysits Knud and Sylvi, and of course Eira has to tag along.

Her fridge is full of boring meal prep (you better wife her up and cook for her) but her pantry? Brimming with baking supplies. Ma'am loves to bake. Sure, she eats a lot of grrr protein big strong macro gym buzzword meals, but she loves bread and cake. Big muscles but she likes to eat, so she isn't lean, I'm gonna stop before this gets unreasonably gay

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Soma, look, this is gonna be specific, but there's foundations for this in game (her metric fuck ton of rugs in the longhouse). She evidently likes fancy things. Her modern!AU occupation: owner and ceo of a sustainable luxury jewellery brand. Recycled metals, gemstones that are sourced/synthesised sustainably, everything is ethically manufactured and her employees are paid well.

She's from humble beginnings, so she does loads for charity and really enjoys quiet domesticated tasks.

Waistcoats and tie when she's attending businessy things, simple t-shirt or jumper and joggers when working from home. Outside, she wears a few rings that she designed.

Not a particularly great cook, but she's a mean pastry chef. She has a massive sweet tooth. Loves to start her mornings with a homemade croissant and a cappuccino.

There is a post-it note above her desk to reminder her to straighten her posture because she tends to sit like a fucking goblin.

Her home is pretty eclectic, which takes people by surprise given her organised manner. Lots of blankets strewn over the couch, lots of knickknacks she collected over the years, some sentimental ones from Lif and some ruder ones from Birna. A few sketchbooks are scattered about with designs for work.

She has a record player and an ungodly collection of country vinyls. It's okay. Nobody's perfect. It's what makes her human.

Also needs to wear glasses, but wears contacts usually because she insists the specs make her look "old", oblivious to the distant sounds of feral lesbian screaming whenever she puts them on.