#blow molder

[steplead]

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[cntic]

2-channel conveying | Sistema de transporte de 2 canales| نظام نقل ثنائ...

[evilminji]

You know how... world leaders can't just? SAY stuff? Because when they DO it's the Offical Stance(tm) of their Country?

That makes their Fuck Ups(tm) all the more serious. It's WHY they have press teams.

But!!!

WHAT IF?

They said something, PUBLICLY, on LIVE TELEVISION, that? Can not be taken back? Full on "masks off, behold the horrors you have payed for" moment?

Sure, they could SAY "that wasn't me" and "I was brainwashed" etc etc. But? If it's BIG enough? UGLY enough? TRUE??? People WILL find it. Dig and dig and dig like termites in the walls. Hunt like bloodhounds.

Riot in the streets.

Because? All it would TAKE? Is ONE half ghost, a few too many long nights trying to balance college classes and his internship, a bigotry filled call from back home, and staring down that empty fridge with just one box of moldering take out, because he's been too busy and stressed to remember to get GROCERIES AND-

Ah.

So this is what "so stressed you feel calm, I have run out of Fucks too give" feels like. Neat. *picks up phone* Hey, Sam? You still at that protest? Outside the presidential speech? Neat. Don't move.

One Phone Line Express later. SAM is telling him to breathe. Maybe... maybe calm down. Think about this. Others around her can see the same "spark of madness" glint in his almost zen like smile.

It Fiiiiine, Sam.

He's just here to Talk.

He disappears. Sam's freaking out. President stumbles but catches himself on the way to the mike. Up in the watch tower, various Magic users choke on their lunches, because a ghost just possessed the United States President.

ON LIVE TELEVISION.

He taps the Mike, smile, leans in real close like he's gonna Tell You Folks A Secret.... Aaaaand~

"The second you Die, you no longer have human rights. Doesn't matter how brief. Heart stops? You're sub-human scum! Non-sentient by American law. We here in the United Stares PROUDLY desecrate the bodies and graves of the dead. Tear apart the immortal souls of the innocent. And condemn you to oblivion crying, begging, and screaming for mercy! Why, obviously, is an act. Because souls don't have the RIGHT to feel fear or pain!

And YES. We do mean EVERYONE'S. Atlantian, Kryptonian, Martian. Canadian, Mexican, Russian, AND Chinese! I could keep going! Once you die? You belong to the United States to experiment on as we see fit! You're PROPERT now! So turn your nonrights having, nonsentient self in to the nearest GIW! For the good of AMERICA. Ectoplasmic Scum!"

*drops mic*

Jaws are on the floor. This was VETERANS DAY. Dead military Heros and smile for the cameras. A cake walk. Do a patriotism, rah rah. There.... there are DIPLOMATS in the crowd. Sure as SHIT, were more then a few foreign nationals WATCHING. Religious leaders looking on in fury, grief, and horror.

Reporters. Oh sweet Jesus the reporters.

The press secretary faints.

PANDEMONIUM. The president, still dazed and confused from being possessed, gets PUNCHED on live television be his VP, a deeply religious if moderately shady man. Take bribes? VP is cool with that. Bootstraps, peasants, and all that. But how DARE you fuck with the Souls of the dead. How DARE you!

Phones are blowing up, questions are being shouted, the JLA Dark FEEL like they should tell somebody about the ghost kid... but also this feels VERY "Call for help-y" so they might throw their weight around instead and pretend they know nothing. World leader are meaningfully staring at their Dear Beloved Dead Grandmother's photos as they send LIVID assistants to hound the American into answering the DAMN PHONE-!

And Danny?

Danny feels calmer now. He has stolen like....700 bucks from secret security's various wallets. He's going to buy himself BOUGIE groceries. Some...some NICE take out. Maybe a little cake. Yeah~ Cake for Danny~

If anyone needs him? No you don't. He needs to go do some shopping, eat, lie on the floor of his shower and just... vibe for a bit under the spray. In the dark maybe. Sleep for a week. Have his food. Yummy little treats.

Or he's gonna fuckin LOSE IT, man.

(Tucker is actively hacking his college schedule as they speak. He KNEW it. Called it! Too many classes! But does Mr "I can handle it" listen? Noooooooo! Now look what happened! Holy SHIT, Danny!)

@hypewinter @hdgnj @ailithnight @nerdpoe @the-witchhunter

[rust-bearer]

Another zombie au writing exercise, feat: a bookstore

First Aid imagined, before, that places after the end of the world would be much more… dilapidated. Weed-filled and destroyed by both weather and time. But, surprisingly, these places were often just… fine. Speaking from that perspective, at least. The area wasn’t prone to flooding, so there was no water damage, barring extreme circumstances. There were no tornadoes, no hurricanes. There were some earthquakes, occasionally, but nothing major. So maybe some downed power lines, maybe some toppled trees. Old car crashes, some that had crashed into storefronts, some into each other. Destroyed windows… and maybe, rarely, a few adventurous plants trying to creep inside.

But mostly? They were all fine. When he entered the bookstore, the only ravages of time that he beheld were dried blood, slumped corpses melting into the floors, and layers of dust over the store that no one had any reason to scavenge. Some of the bookshelves were toppled over; many of the books were on the floors. Expensive things, like television shows and electronic reading devices- they were mostly smashed up and stolen, by those early days of chaos and looting. Maybe, if First Aid had been trying to scavenge from the old coffee shop in the corner, he would have had more trouble- but he wasn’t here to try and take moldering bags of coffee.

Instead, he was here to take their board games.

There was a lot of board games left, actually. A lot of card games undamaged, tossed onto the floor- old style games, simplistic ones, mixed in with the kinds based off of television shows and movies. First Aid fingered the plastic covering on a board game version of Halloween, checking out the price tag on some idle instinct- 60$, it said, and he smiled sadly at the knee-jerk reaction to put it back because of the price. He set it down anyway, not really interested in it. Instead, he picked up some variant on monopoly, stuffing it into his bag. The store had fidget toys that the kids would enjoy, and he grabbed a few of those too, letting them mix with the classic card game packs he’d picked up off the floor. He was pleased to find a normal version of Uno, too.

How do you pass the time without normal activities? It was like this. First Aid imagined he wasn’t the only one thinking of scavenging these games, because many were missing from the shelves- but he knew that, most of those missing were before ‘now’. When people thought this would blow over soon, and they jumped to take things they’d wanted, things they suddenly craved to have. Still, after a beat, First Aid grabbed one of those television board games and put it into the bag. This one was… based on the Thing, yeah. He’d actually wanted to play it before all of this. Maybe it be good?…

As First Aid got up to leave, he cast a wistful, wary glance to the darker sections of the store, the parts where the sunlit, shattered windows didn’t reach; textbooks, informational guides. Not this time, no.

But he did, on his way out, manage to stuff a few stray candy bars into his bag. He hoped they wouldn’t melt like the last time.

@mr-miss-anonymous for youuu

[jigoro81500061]

"In this solitude, having just listened to so strange a story, connected, as it was, with the great and titled dead, whose monuments were moldering among the dust and ivy round us, and every incident of which bore so awfully upon my own mysterious case—in this haunted spot, darkened by the towering foliage that rose on every side, dense and high above its noiseless walls—a horror began to steal over me, and my heart sank as I thought that my friends were, after all, not about to enter and disturb this triste and ominous scene.

The old General’s eyes were fixed on the ground, as he leaned with his hand upon the basement of a shattered monument.

Under a narrow, arched doorway, surmounted by one of those demoniacal grotesques in which the cynical and ghastly fancy of old Gothic carving delights, I saw very gladly the beautiful face and figure of Carmilla enter the shadowy chapel.

I was just about to rise and speak, and nodded smiling, in answer to her peculiarly engaging smile; when with a cry, the old man by my side caught up the woodman’s hatchet, and started forward. On seeing him a brutalized change came over her features. It was an instantaneous and horrible transformation, as she made a crouching step backwards. Before I could utter a scream, he struck at her with all his force, but she dived under his blow, and unscathed, caught him in her tiny grasp by the wrist. He struggled for a moment to release his arm, but his hand opened, the axe fell to the ground, and the girl was gone."

- Carmilla - Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu

[sataidelenn]

I have some thoughts about the Blacksmith, and bear with me because I’m just throwing spaghetti at the wall with this somewhat disjointed analysis.

So in the story of Peer Gynt, the titular wastrel is nearing the end of his life and is approached my a mysterious man at a crossroads. The man introduces himself as the Button-Molder, and claims that he is here for Peer, as he has not accurately displayed the design with which he was originally printed (lost his purpose, in other words) and must be melted down and made new. The conversation calls back to an earlier part of the story, in which Peer is asked by the troll-king what the difference between humans and trolls is. The answer is that while humans say, “Be thyself”, the trolls’ maxim is “Be to thyself enough”. In living for himself, Peer has acted more like a troll than a human, and only narrowly escapes being reforged by learning how to truly be himself, which he finds through the love that his wife Solveig has for him.

Ruby, of course, is about the furthest thing from selfish you could be, but she’s still trying to be enough in herself, trying to mold herself into being something other than what she was meant to be because she feels that is what others need or expect. And just like Peer, the only way she’ll escape being melted down and turned into something else is by recognizing the love that her friends and teammates have for her. And I think that Jaune will be instrumental in that.

Jaune started his arc (Heyo!) trying to be to himself enough. He didn’t go to Beacon because he wanted to help people as a Huntsman, he just wanted to be a hero. It was all about his own image, about being the knight in shining armor, not the damsel stuck in a tree. After Pyrrha died, he swung to the opposite extreme and didn’t care about himself at all, to the point where he sounded borderline suicidal when taking to Cinder.

To me, Jaune’s moniker of the Rusted Knight calls to mind a character from George MacDonald’s Phantastes, whose armor became rusted after he disgraced himself, and had to fight until the repeated sword-blows scraped the rust from his armor and made it shine again. Shedding innocent blood is one of the worst betrayals of chivalry, and so it makes sense that Jaune’s armor would be stained red the same as his sword was last volume, and that he wants to atone for his failures, but there is another possibility for where the show might be going with him.

In contrast to what most of us thought, Jaune seems to still have his identity and memories intact; however, his previous focus on his image is gone. His name was not recorded in the story, his helmet obscures his face, which isn’t even the face any of his companions knew before, and the crest on his shield is almost completely obscured. Neither his own image or the family name he struggled to live up to are important to him anymore. However, he is also not succumbing to self-loathing like he did after Pyrrha’s death, which can be just as self-centered as his earlier obsession with his image. No longer either the hero or the martyr, he’s simply protecting whoever needs it in whatever way he can. I don’t know whether the Herbalist or the Blacksmith had anything to do with this, but I think he’s figured out how to be truly himself.

Ruby, meanwhile, is still firmly in the martyr mindset. She is disgusted with herself for never being enough, to the point where she is considering becoming someone else who could be enough to herself. And I think that Jaune could be in a position to flip the script on the pep talk about leadership that she gave him back at Beacon, and let her know that she doesn’t have to worry about being enough because it was never about her, and her failures, but about the people that she can help. Once she understands that, I think she’ll finally know how to be herself rather than what she expects herself to be; as Little put it, how to Ruby Rose.

[whispersafterdusk]

Ensuring the Future - ch 1

**WARNING: if you have not finished all of Sandrock's and Miguel's stories this will be spoilers from start to finish**

It was Thursday which meant an early morning walk from the temple to City Hall to file the weekly water usage reports (and on the first Thursday of every month Miguel would file the import reports as well). As he'd slotted the file into the correct cabinet Matilda had greeted him so excitedly - almost falling over herself to tell him the good news: a second builder had finally accepted the remaining open contract.

When Mason had announced his impending retirement it had taken six months before Mi-an accepted the first one. While awaiting her arrival Matilda had had the idea of adding a small stipend to the contract, to try and quickly attract applicants (and of course it was added to Mi-an's as well, to be fair) for that last contract, which Miguel had considered a needless gamble with their limited resources (among...other problems) but it seemed it had paid off and the builder would be here within 3 days. ((Continued below cut - and, again, SPOILER WARNING))

He'd been all smiles and hopefulness for Matilda but once she'd gone to inform Yan and ask Mi-an to meet their new builder at the train station he felt his good mood sour a bit. Another variable to figure out... Not the end of the world but not ideal; there were appearances to keep if things were to proceed without bloodshed - a careful balance to maintain. Mi-an had proven to be naive and easily cowed but Miguel doubted this second builder would be as simple to manage... Well, he supposed he would find out soon. In fact, it would probably be a good idea to introduce himself as soon as possible, to assess this newcomer and determine how much trouble they would be.

-------------------------------

Though he'd wanted to greet their new builder on the day of their arrival his duties had kept him busy until the evening, and while he considered still making the trip out to introduce himself it didn't feel exactly proper to intrude on their night; no doubt they were in that moldering workshop settling in after an exhausting day of touring the town and being bombarded by new faces. Miguel was familiar with such - he'd felt overwhelmed and more than a little out of place when he'd first arrived in Sandrock and there were still days where he keenly felt like an outsider still...perhaps along with assessing the builder he could offer some guidance on that front as well.

The saloon was buzzing with chatter when he'd dropped in to order something to take back to his room to continue working until it was time for bed (sermons did not write themselves, after all) and here and there he'd catch snippets about the builder - "nice" and "polite" and "so proper!" and so on. It seemed they'd at least gotten someone with manners...that alone would be a breath of fresh air compared to the usual rabble in town.

Something caused him to pause at the door however -- the barest hint of a name amongst the conversations: Olivia. It was gone in an instant, lost in the multitude of voices, but the sudden and familiar gut punch of regret lingered on afterward; sucking in a breath Miguel shoved through the doors and out into the much quieter dark, exhaling slowly. Olivia... Was that the new builder's name? Surely not... Though he could hardly hold the girl responsible for what her parents had named her if that was indeed her name then having her around was going to be a constant exercise in composure, never mind all the other issues he'd been imagining off and on all day whenever he'd had a moment to breathe between his tasks.

"What an unfortunate coincidence," he sighed, tipping his head back briefly. "How many lanterns have I sent to the heavens with that name on it?" At least 30, not counting the years he'd released more than one.

...the sky was especially clear tonight and felt downright pleasant with the scant breeze blowing lazily over the town. He would bring his work and his dinner outside and enjoy the weather while he could, and attempt to steel himself for speaking to the builder tomorrow.

Her name is not her fault, he repeated in his mind as he walked back up to the dormitory.

----------------------------------------

The old bed was creaky, smelled musty, and just barely serviceable; as Olivia begrudgingly opened her eyes to a knock at the door she vowed the first thing she would do today (after a pot of coffee) was head back to that little general store and purchase a new mattress -- the frame itself just needed a few nails to vanquish the squeaks and pillows were will within her ability to make immediately but she had neither the patience or a young enough back to last long enough to make the mattress herself.

Another knock on the door drew out a quiet groan as she leveraged herself up on an elbow; she'd agreed to meet with Mi-an again this morning to discuss divvying up the shameful backlog of commissions (what HAD the previous builder been doing all this time?) but she probably should have specified an actual time rather than "at the crack of dawn."

Grunting she swung her legs out of the bed and gingerly stood up, testing her weight on her right leg; the train ride had aggravated the limb even with her preemptively wearing the brace for the trip and while there was a dull ache from hip to calf it held firm and there were no debilitating sharp, shooting pains -- she could make do with the cane for the day, most likely. She picked up and plopped the brace into a drawer in the nightstand (THAT needed some nails too - wobbly) then grabbed her cane and hobbled slowly over to the door while using her free hand to attempt to comb her long, currently unruly hair into some semblance of order.

"Yes, yes, I'm coming," she grumbled as the knocking came again.

As expected a bright-eyed and cheerful Mi-an was on the other side, and she was pleased to see at least a little bit of sheepishness once the younger woman had taken in her appearance.

"O-oh, I'm sorry, I just thought..."

Olivia waved a hand and moved from the door, leaving it open for her to decide whether to enter or not. "It's fine. I have never been a morning person - I will only wake with the sun because I am expected to, not because I like it. Coffee?"

"Yes, please." Mi-an came in and closed the door behind her. "Wow... Mason must have lived very um...sparsely."

"Or else he sold everything he could get away with," Olivia retorted, and it came out sharper than she'd intended. "I suppose a table, a chair, a bed, and a nightstand count as 'fully furnished.' At least the stove and toilet were left behind as well, and I had the foresight to already own cookware and flatware." No fridge though...yet another thing she needed to take care of quickly.

"I can bring you some stools, if you like? Maybe Matilda didn't realize it was so empty in here..."

Olivia set a pot of water on the stove to boil. "Stools would be welcome for outside work. Given time I'll whip this place into shape -- your general store DOES sell mattresses, yes?"

"I could make you one?" Mi-an offered.

She turned and could see the girl hovering awkwardly near the lone chair at the single table. "I could make one myself, I just require one immediately."

"Oh. In that case, Arvio can order them in but he does sell really nice mattress toppers in the meantime? I have one on my bed and mine is..." she trailed off, looking at the old bed in the corner. "Newer, and... Mine doesn't even need one but it's still nice to have."

"Mmm. It will have to do." She moved to the cabinet to retrieve the canister of grounds and from the corner of her eye could see Mi-an trying - and failing - to not steal glances at the cane; when she'd arrived yesterday she'd been wearing a long skirt over the brace, with the cane packed away in her traveling trunk. "-go on, ask away."

"Ask? Ask what?" Mi-an repeated quietly, smiling awkwardly.

Olivia came over to sit in the chair. "It's an old injury. Most of the time I wear a brace to support everything - had it on yesterday when I arrived. It isn't hurting too badly today so I can manage with the cane, and on those days where it hardly hurts at all I can do without both."

"Gotcha. It's a pretty cane!"

As her back was to Mi-an Olivia allowed herself a tired smile - it WAS a pretty cane. Enameled metal in a bright red and orange swirling pattern with a plain silver handle that looked like a sword's rounded pommel - a very purposeful design. "Thank you. It is my own creation and serves me well." She could hear the water boiling now and went to measure out the appropriate amount of grounds and clip a tiny sieve onto the side of the pot (another little invention of hers, built to fit this specific pot - though, usually she only used it when camping rough. An actual coffee pot would be acquired in the near future but for now this would suffice). Once it had boiled long enough she poured the coffee from the pot through the sieve into a pair of mugs. "I'm afraid all I have is sugar at the moment."

"Yeah...I guess Mason didn't leave you any way to keep things cold," Mi-an said, wrinkling her nose as she looked around again. "...I actually don't even see where a fridge might have sat. But there's no way he lived here all this time without a way to keep food fresh, right?"

"At this point I wouldn't dare speculate 'lest I fall further into unfairly judging a man I've said six words to," Olivia sighed. She returned the coffee canister to the cabinet and tucked the little tin of sugar into her elbow, then moved it and one of the full mugs to the table. "Spoons are over in that little wooden box atop the trunk, if you please."

"Sure," Mi-an replied, hurrying over to grab the aforementioned box. There was a metallic rattle as the contents inside shifted; she sat it on the table between them and opened it to reveal the silverware within it -- 4 each of forks, large spoons, smaller spoons, and table and steak knives, all in silver with black wooden handles.

Olivia grabbed one of the spoons and dipped three spoonfuls of sugar into her coffee and stirred, then carried it with her as she headed toward the tiny bathroom. "Go ahead and have a seat - I am going to attempt to make myself presentable."

A splash of water, a brush dragged through her hair and then the majority of it pulled up and secured with her favorite hair clip - a little curved shield with a hairpin shaped like a sword to hold the hair within the clip...a gift from her old master. One of the few sentimental items that had both survived the years and was something she was willing to let other people see.

A clean shirt finished off morning preparations (or at least as much as she was willing to do for current company); it wasn't as refreshing as a morning shower but she would get used to that...probably. At the very least she looked more human as she slowly headed back out to Mi-an, finding that the girl had put a notebook in the middle of the table and was standing there waiting for her return.

"I hope you don't mind but I actually got up earlier than this and was at the commerce guild as soon as President Yan-"

Olivia snorted loudly at "president" Yan (and noted the mention of time - it wasn't as early as she was thinking, apparently).

"-uh, as, as soon as the door was unlocked," Mi-an went on after a moment. "And, I wrote down all of the remaining commissions on the board, grouped them by material and ordered them from oldest to newest."

"Efficient," Olivia said approvingly.

Mi-an smiled brightly and gestured at the notebook. "Thanks! I figured we could split them more or less evenly and knock them out over a matter of days. Most of them are just small things like screws, boards, and bricks."

Olivia settled into the chair and rested the cane against her thigh, grabbing the notebook with her freed hand and skimming the list. "-separate it out as you see fit and I'll complete what's assigned to me."

"What? You're...are you sure? You get a choice in this too you know."

"You know what you are set up and able to already make, and I will adjust as needed to do the rest."

"All right. If you're sure."

"Mmhmm," Olivia hummed into a gulp of coffee but pausing before getting to swallow as another knock came at the door. "--oh come now... I am not awake enough for company yet."

Mi-an moved out of her way as she stood again and moved to answer the door, coffee still in hand. At the door she leaned the cane against the wall and tugged the door open.

-------------------------------

Though it was early it didn't seem TOO early - the commerce guild did open promptly at 7am and it was half passed nine now. Assuming the builder was home it should be a quick trip to introduce himself and invite her to the sunday sermons; he could stand to do at least that much for this first interaction.

It appeared there had been some effort in tidying up the yard so there was less junk to pick a path through as Miguel entered the gate and approached the door.

At the door, hand raised to knock, he took a last deep breath. It was just a name.

It was just a name.

He knocked and waited, hands clasped behind his back.

There were footsteps beyond the door with a regular thump along with them and the door opened to reveal--

Dark, long, and wavy hair - graying at the temples but still worn in the same way as she had in her youth. Hazel eyes with deep laugh lines at the corners. A subtly hooked nose, full lips, narrow face and-

No. No... How...

At the same time Miguel felt he couldn't get enough air into his lungs and also that there was too much air there as he watched the woman's eyes flick up and down his figure before there was the sudden recognition and her jaw dropped (as did the mug of coffee in her hand - he was faintly aware of the liquid splattering across his shoes and pantslegs as the cup shattered at their feet).

"Olivia..." he whispered.

It wasn't a name. It wasn't just a name. She was here...here!

Alive!

[kharrneth]

The Realm of Chaos, Land of the Plaguelords

Amid the roiling Realms, the filth-green expanse of the Plaguelands were perhaps the most peaceful. Not eternally shifting like the Crystal Lands of Tzeentch, not ever-vibrating with war like the Ragelands, or even milling endlessly with busy pleasure Daemons like the Ringlands. It was strangely idyllic, a paradise even, if one ignored the odd flesh-eating plant here or there. It was serene, calming.

It was utterly awful. At least, that had been Khorne’s opinion.

Quickly, he had grown antsy in the Plaguefather’s company. Restless and aggressive, hating how slow-paced everything was here. Everyone, from the daemons to the Great Green God himself seemed to shamble and crawl along. No training, no legions testing themselves against one another. Every so often the Blood God would see two Great Unclean Ones come to blows, but just as often it wouldn’t even end in a rightful, fraternal murder as it should have. More than any of the gods, Kharneth relished bloody contests of strength between siblings and he was denied even that.

He moved through the garden, leaving fire and death in his wake as he did, but as he turned to look over his shoulder he could see the destruction knitting itself back together. The daemons would be back... the lesser ones anyway. Nurgle had bade him to wander and have a look about the massive tangle of plants and fauna-flora and the Blood God had leapt at the chance to be free of his brother’s presence. Otherwise, he would’ve carved himself free and this they both knew. Kharneth had needs, needs which he slaked on the Wastelands of Nurgle’s Gardens where massive floral-beasts roamed. Heedless of his position as a Ruinous Power, they had attacked the Red God and he had welcomed it, welcomed violence and bloodshed, openly. They were like the Bloodworms back in his kingdom, a stubborn “gift” of Nurgle from a war long past, only much larger, having grown fat on the decay of realm.

But although he gloried in battle, he did not forget his circumstances. Certaintly, his injuries were not keen to be forgotten, burning beneath his skin as he tested himself against the fury of the beast. Even injured, he was no less the Blood God, no less the Master of Martial Skill, and with enough slashes of his talons, heads would grace the wastelands. It was a shame they didn’t have skulls. His absence from the Fortress-Manse would be opportunity for Nurgle, for as loathsome company as he could be, it was better to keep one eye on the enemy. But again...Khorne had needs.

It was a moldering, green chaos fury that found him before he could continue his aimless peruse, searching for foes among this stagnant land.

“ Venerable Blood God, Master of all Battles,” The Furies began in a voice laced and heavy with phlegm and mucus, “ Nurgle requests your presence.”

---

“ 𝗧𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗵𝗲 𝗶𝘀! 𝗜 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝗯𝗲𝗴𝗶𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗼 𝘄𝗼𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿 𝗶𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗵𝗮𝗱𝗻’𝘁 𝗴𝗼𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 𝗹𝗼𝘀𝘁, 𝗱𝗲𝗮𝗿 𝗞𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗲𝘁𝗵. 𝗜 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝗮𝗯𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝘀𝗲𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗥𝗼𝘁 𝗙𝗹𝗶𝗲𝘀 𝘁𝗼 𝗹𝗼𝗰𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂.” Nurgle cheered as he spotted Khorne, the Blood God ambling through the thresh hold of the massive manse. Ever since the Brasslord had found the will to walk about, a pronounced limp had plagued his step. It wasn’t so prominent now, but it was still there. So was the long gash goes across his chest, sealed but still very much there. Nurgle didn’t think Kharneth much minded it, however, with how littered his brother was with claw marks, fang marks, even old injuries from where a beak had found purchase.

“ 𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭, 𝐍𝐮𝐫𝐠𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐡?” Came the Blood God’s growl. By way of answer, the Plaguelord ambled over to his great, rot-iron cauldron and stirred it a few times. Before his warlike brother’s annoyance could peak into rage, Nurgle deep his arm into the peculiar sludge, grabbing for something. When he seized it, his grin grew and at last he withdrew his hand. There, in the middle of the Green god’s leprous palm were countless Greater Daemons, some new and some reformed. Even on Khorne’s ruined face, the surprise was hard to miss.

“𝗜 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗱𝘂𝗰𝗲𝗱 𝗮 𝗰𝘂𝗿𝗲 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗮𝗶𝗹𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁!” Nurgle declared proudly, holding the ladle across his hole-ridden chest. Kharneth only offered a single nod of acknowledgement, once his surprise had worn off, but that quickly turned into suspicion.

“𝐎𝐮𝐫?”

“𝗜𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗲𝗱, 𝗼𝘂𝗿. 𝗜 𝗮𝗺 𝗻𝗼 𝗳𝗼𝗼𝗹, 𝗞𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗲𝘁𝗵, 𝗜 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄 𝘄𝗲 𝗰𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝘄𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝘄𝗮𝗿 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗚𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗲𝘀𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗖𝗵𝗶𝗹𝗱𝗿𝗲𝗻.” Nurgle began, reasonably, then frowning, “ 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗩𝗲𝗿𝗺𝗶𝗻 𝗣𝗿𝗲𝘁𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗦𝗵𝗮𝗱𝗼𝘄 𝗕𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗮𝗻 𝗺𝗮𝗸𝗲 𝗮𝘀 𝗺𝗮𝗻𝘆 𝗮𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗽𝗹𝗲𝗮𝘀𝗲. 𝗧𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗰𝗮𝗻 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝗴𝗼 𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝘄𝗮𝘆. 𝗜𝘁 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝗴𝗼 𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝘄𝗮𝘆, 𝗴𝗶𝘃𝗲𝗻 𝗲𝗻𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵 𝘁𝗶𝗺𝗲.”

Khorne didn’t concede that point, but neither did he argue it. The Plaguelord again dipped in his ladle, beginning to stir it. “ 𝗛𝗼𝘄𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿, 𝗲𝗮𝗰𝗵 𝗼𝗳 𝘂𝘀 𝗶𝘀 𝗺𝗮𝗱𝗲 𝗱𝗶𝗳𝗳𝗲𝗿𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗹𝘆, 𝗯𝗿𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗼𝗳 𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗲. 𝗧𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗯𝗿𝗲𝘄 𝗶𝘀 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗺𝗲. 𝗜 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝘆𝗲𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝗺𝗮𝗸𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿𝘀, 𝗼𝗿 𝗦𝗹𝗮𝗮𝗻𝗲𝘁𝗵'𝘀.” Notably, he didn’t mention Tzeentch at all. Kharneth had no love for the Changer either, but of all of them, he got the feeling the Great Conspirator would best know how to deal with the Great Beast. It had been...conspicuously absent for most of this war, since the Rise of the New Powers.

“𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐫𝐞?” Kharneth finally spoke, seeing where this was going and having no patience for the game of it all. Nurgle chuckled.

“𝗢𝗮𝘁𝗵𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝗮𝗻 𝗮𝗹𝗹𝗶𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗹𝗮𝘀𝘁 𝘂𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗹 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘂𝗽𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗿𝘁𝘀 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗿𝗲𝗺𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗱 𝗳𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘁𝗮𝗯𝗹𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗴𝗮𝗺𝗲.”

“𝐕𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥.” Rumbled the Blood God, having predicted a term like that. However, Nurgle’s tone suggested there was more to he meant to say and indeed there was. “𝐀𝐧𝐝...?”

“𝗬𝗼𝘂. 𝗜 𝗻𝗲𝗲𝗱 𝗮 𝗽𝗶𝗲𝗰𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂, 𝗞𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗲𝘁𝗵, 𝗯𝗲 𝗶𝘁 𝗯𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗱, 𝗵𝗼𝗿𝗻, 𝗳𝗮𝗻𝗴. 𝗢𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝗰𝗼𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗯𝗲 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝘆.”

At this Kharneth bristled, but Nurgle did not rise nor react to his brother’s anger. Did not give any hint or whit that he was overreaching. This was simply how it was. A moment of pain and displeasure to fix a serious problem, one that might plague him the rest of his life if he did nothing about it. Kharneth had arrived here unconscious-- who’s to say Nurgleth hadn’t already robbed him of whatever organs, blood, or bone matter he had desired?

The Blood God growled, but ultimately acquiesced. If it become a problem, he would muscle through it like he ever did.

“𝐕𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥.” He said again, amid the growls, “ 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐛𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐩𝐚𝐲 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐢𝐭, 𝐍𝐮𝐫𝐠l𝐞𝐭𝐡.”

“ 𝗔𝘀 𝗶𝘀 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝗳𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴. 𝗕𝘂𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗳𝗶𝗻𝗱 𝗜 𝗮𝗺 𝗻𝗼 𝗯𝗲𝗮𝗸𝗲𝗱 𝗹𝗶𝗮𝗿, 𝗞𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗲𝘁𝗵. 𝗦𝗼 𝘄𝗵𝗶𝗰𝗵 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗶𝘁 𝗯𝗲? 𝗛𝗼𝗿𝗻, 𝗕𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗱, 𝗙𝗮𝗻𝗴?” Nurgleth sounded eager, watching giddily as the Blood God ripped one of his short, wide molars from the back of his maw. Nurgle was rather hoping for a canine, but he would not press the War God anymore than necessary.

“𝗢𝗵. 𝗜 𝗻𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗹𝘆 𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗴𝗼𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻. 𝗔 𝗯𝗹𝘂𝗲 𝗳𝘂𝗿𝘆 𝘃𝗶𝘀𝗶𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝘀𝗵𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗹𝘆 after 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘀𝗵𝘂𝗳𝗳𝗹𝗲𝗱 𝗼𝗳𝗳. 𝗧𝘇𝗲𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗰𝗵 𝗵𝗮𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝗾𝘂𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝗮 𝗖𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗻𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗮𝗹 𝗺𝗲𝗲𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴.” Said the Plaguegod as he flicked the offering into the soupy, green mixture. Quickly, it began to turn red. Almost like blood, though congealed and feotid. Adding a few more things and then mixing it further, Nurgle produced a ladle full of the stuff, eyeing and angling it this way and that. He looked at Khorne.

“𝗪𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗯𝗲 𝗮𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴?”

“ 𝐎𝐟 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞.” Kharneth responded, with a raise of his chin. Nurgle chuckled at his brother’s temerity.

“𝗚𝗼𝗼𝗱. 𝗪𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿𝘀 𝘀𝗲𝗲 𝗜 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗰𝘂𝗿𝗲𝗱 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝗺𝘆𝘀𝗲𝗹𝗳, 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂, 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗯𝗲 𝗺𝘂𝗰𝗵 𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗲 𝗮𝗺𝗲𝗻𝗮𝗯𝗹𝗲.” Nurgle smirked, thinking of Tzeentch, of the look on the Changer’s face when the Plaguelord would deny him the cure against the god-poison. But Kharneth didn’t share his excitement, for that victory would be brief.

Tzeentch, after all, always found a way...

[swampgallows]

,

they fucking killed dead my favorite yam guy and like i know i had my period of mourning about it and was very self-conscious for being in my thirties and that invested in a fictional character but the secondary blow of the lawsuit made things even more devastating and there really is just a giant crater of inspiration yawning in my soul now that is almost impossible to scab over. like they are literally never going to make content about him again. there will be crumbs in hearthstone if they dont soft-replace the warrior hero altogether with a more popular alt skin (rokara, varian [!!!], magni, etc.), and maybe in some far-flung return to yrel and the lightforged they might revisit “exarch hellscream”, but that wont be him. it’ll be his au half-brother at best. the character as i know him is dead, double dead, triple dead, permanently dead. defeated in siege, killed in wod, shattered into soul ash in sanctum. 

it would be easier if i had something to move on to, but like everything else in my life i have been fossilized in this same corroded rut for almost a fucking decade, spinning my bald wheels in nothing. in fact i thought i’d moved on from wow back in 2009 but went back to it in 2014 because i was backsliding even then, searching for something to lift me out of the rut. it feels like my entire life ive been a stalagmite in some forgotten fissure, a comedone marring the face of an earth, an aberration. a foreign body that should be removed. i am always between things, never enough or always too much. i was not supposed to make it this far. i am not supposed to be here. but i do not know where i am supposed to go, where i fit, where i’m free, where i belong. im a calcification of runoff, a byproduct, a thing of no inherent meaning beyond being a sedentary deposit from something that serves a purpose. not the moss on the stone but the brittle stone held in pieces by the moss, scaffolding for something more important. i am not even the kind of mineral that appreciates over time, no crusty exterior hiding a geode. even i am taken aback just now, about to describe myself as the buildup of filth at the edges of a tub; perhaps a bit too wallowing to outright say i am soap scum.

because of this, i am not sure how i am meant to move on aside from being wiped away when i am not even a thing that gathers dust but the gathered dust itself. as the years go on so does the layer of dead cells, hair, and bug droppings accumulate, crumpled flies in my eyes and cobwebs ropy with dust. “dust to dust”, but it is already here. it is already me.

i envy people who can hyperfixate on things, or even fall a little bit in love when they find something new. the anhedonia has overpowered me for much of my life. i used to interpret this as me having higher standards, which weaves directly into my stellar reputation for being “judgmental”, but i think said standards are so high because, like adhd, it has been a lifetime struggle to eke even the smallest enjoyment out of anything. so this one thing i had, i tore out the pages of his books and gnawed on the pulp, absorbed it into myself, gripped it with white knuckles and harpy talons and boa’s embrace to satiate me, wringing the tiniest drip of nourishment on my sandpaper tongue, only to now find ashes. a starving stupid husk moldering on a windowsill, baking in a shaft of sunlight in hopes of feeling warmth. burnt brittle dust in a haunted house, waiting to be swept away.

[thronelessking]

❝ i will teach them what it means to put a lion in a cage. ❞ - cornelius to mirabelle

What does one see kneeling at an altar of flesh. What does one see in the skin of victims unknown that stretches over moldering brick, the decay that leeches into it once the blood ceases to drip and pool, cooling into a grotesque mass of which prayer is written in, with the tips of pens, blades, and fingers. What does one see when they lay a new body over the old and offer screams and violence to He who revels in the act.

At the altar a priest kneels over the next body to be offered; masked in utmost secrecy there is a murmur, a litany of prayer to the idol of secrecy and violence, the shadow that stalks the halls of every home, of every church. With every word there is a unison of sound, the whetting of blades in reverence and acknowledgement of the foul tasks one must perform to earn favor; to earn the love of the Father of the many Children of the Mask, to be bestowed with love and favor and gifts from the greedy. The highest of all honors requires hefty sacrifice.

Coin and power do not fall into the laps of those He does not deem worthy, those who do not offer Him that which He desires.

The blade plunges into soft skin, sinks deep, leaves a wound that bleeds the sacrifice on the altar like swine. Their screams bounce off the stone once, reverberate with desperation and the shadows upon the wall quiver for a moment before slithering from the light that birthed them. Across an impossible distance they stretch from corner to corner before the torchlight extinguishes, drowning every parishioner and priest in the darkness that has long since been their cradle. The desperate cries of the one on the altar fall quiet, with little more than the gentle movement of air, a muted, dry, and yet mirthful laugh. Acknowledgement.

Sconces of torchlight flicker and dim, swallowed by something from the outer reaches. The fanged, ravenous maw of the hungry dark of Duskfathom snuffs out that which dares try to illuminate the worlds of secrets, replaces light with an unknowable gloom. For a moment, true faith breaches the veil, a sacrifice made in merciless vengeance is the pinnacle of all displays. It is a blessed sight, an image, a conjuration for the eyes of the priest at the altar and only for him. It is a sign of a much blessed love. Every drop of blood that Cornelius sheds is another step further into the darkest of depths, that promised afterlife.

Communion ends in silence and quiet steps of the faithful who exit without acknowledging the scene. As with all things, what happens in the dark of the night, in the blessed shadows, is not to be spoken about. No face remembered, no sound uttered, no remnants left behind but the priest and a body going supernaturally cold, the blood seeping into robes soon to be washed to pristine. From the soles of his shadows feet does the darkness lurch and writhe, giving way and shape to another as it climbs up his back and drapes over him with a towering height. The nondescript gains an appearance as shadows give way to long strands of pitch black hair, cascading over the priest like a curtain, and where was once nothing but shadow there is flesh; hands that grasp Cornelius' shoulders with a tense but loving grip.

Mirabelle leans down and blows a gentle cold stream of air past the mans ear as he settles his face against the others', cheek brushing cheek as the older of them slides a mask of flesh off the priest. "And so my caged lion breaks the lock of his own accord." He looks down only a fraction at the body, dislodges the pointed claws that threaten to pierce through Cornelius' shoulder and gestures. The corpse writhes and contorts as the shadow it casts is ripped free from its body and forms into an almost tangible thing. Something immediately pulled into the depths of Duskfathom with a gesture. "And to me, my lion delivers me his jailer. He will serve us both well in the far future."

The man makes sure to press close, enough for Cornelius to feel the rumble that works its way through him as he laughs; a delightful, joyous sound that belongs perfectly in this atrocious den. It tapers off with an echoing sigh as Mirabelle rests his chin upon the noble priests shoulder. "And yet only his jailer. Have you not yet found the rest of the beasts that would see you caged?" A tinge of almost disappointment colors the words; much the sort of reaching the highest of highs and yet have no follow through, only a steady descent. "Or do you plan to savor them all by yourself?"

[fferal-archive]

@fiddlingonthetympanic sent an ask (in September) (I am very grateful) (I wish I had the ingenuity and energy to match this):

Eventually, Krakoa spat out seasonally temperate zones; the island grew as the mainland shrank beneath the rising tide of seawater. 

They’re too tired to party all night–Krakoa’s seasonally temperate zones developing really sucks the energy out of everyone–no matter how wonderfully batshit the Thoroughfare of Masks was throughout the month, or how much of a distraction Bob-Cat needs with all his kids grubbing for candy with their other parents. The last straggling trick-or-treaters were skulking their way through the trees, many of them darting out to snatch bits of candy from colorful platters before older members of the Wild Hunt could leap out and catch them with a swipe of the claws. (That was all part of the game.) 

Woolf’s fending off Bob-Cat and Daken in the gnarled ‘doorway’ of the pod, but in that annoyed, half-hearted manner that really means ‘you’re both still getting laid.’ 

“Go–off, you two idiots!” She writhes between them, batting Bob’s clawed fingers away from the white fabric of her dress with a huff of exasperation and a gentle shove to Daken’s side. (The latter is sniffing at her. Right time of the month.) Another authoritative push sends Bob-Cat into the pod after him. “Start without me. Put the tape on or something.”

“Thanks for pulling me out of my dad-funk, you guys.” He pauses, reconsidering his  language before giving an apologetic grunt, slinging one hairy arm around Daken’s neck as the other gnaws at him like a chew toy. “‘You two’.” He gives a little sigh, a chuckle, and a laissez-faire shrug, allowing himself to be pulled deeper into the pod. “My bad. We’re never too old to check ourselves, are we?”

“Hey. Bob-cat. Blow me.” Daken’s voice faded into the background, as did the telltale swish of the Krakoan biomattress beneath their weight. 

Woolf lingers  in the doorway, breathing deep the crisp, sugary air and smoke. Ghoulish candlelight flickers from behind the carved faces of fruits, vegetables, and G-d knew what else. The laughter of children rises and falls within the shadow of the trees. ‘A good night,' she decides, reaching to brush her fingers over the warped turnip jack-o’-lanterns she’d hung outside earlier.

When she glances down, the child is there at her feet, smelling of overripe pumpkin and moldering leaves. Her eyes widen beneath the white, wide brim of her hat, a seasonally appropriate breeze rustles the hem of her dress.

Kid’s carrying a giant orange sucker, and it’ll be a miracle if they don’t choke on it before the night’s done.

Her brows draw together in an apologetic frown. “I don’t know if I have any candy left, honeybee.” 

Black button eyes gaze up at her from a burlap sack–face. They’re so–expectant that she tips back the brim of her hat and sighs. ‘How things are done,’ she realizes, then sighs. ‘Gifts for the children.’ 

“Let me get something from inside. D’you like spicy n–” A pumpkin sails past them, exploding against the trunk of a nearby tree with a wet, hollow thunk; Woolf makes a garbled sound of shock and frustration as one Raw Dog–newly reborn as a teenager, as all mutants are eventually-stops his shenanigans,  raising one hand in a not-so-apologetic wave.

“Sorry, ma’am!” A pause stretches between the three as Dog Howlett shifts. “You smell–uh– look nice tonight?”

Fire Knives raised him to be polite to women at least. She glowers at him, then darts back into the pod, briefly hissing at the men inside to ‘keep it down, there’s a kid!’ before returning with a little bag of spiced nuts from a leftover party bag, dropping it into Sack-Child’s treat basket. “Here,” she murmurs, reaching out as if to pat them on their burlap head before pulling her hand back. “Sorry. You caught me a bit late.” 

The child scurries away without a word, and she feels a weight leave her shoulders as she foils her arms over her chest and narrows her eyes at the teenager vandalizing his way past.“You should have some respect for tradition, Dog,” she calls disapprovingly “The roots of this sort of thing run deep!”

Then, she leaves him to mull the importance of the old ways in favor of watching an old mummy-themed porno while eating Hunt-jerky off of washboard abs. 

“When I told you to get started, you really ran with it…”her voice fades away, and “Raw Dog” Howlett and the strange, solemn trick-or-treater are left relatively alone, one with an oversized sucker and candy bucket, the other with his general douchebaggery and disrespect for the holiday season.

A bare foot punts a jack-o’-melon like a soccer ball.“Go to bed, yo,” is all Raw Dog–whose birth name is Wild Dog–tells him, sniffing loudly and rubbing a hand over his runny nose as the sad remains of fruit rind and candle wax drips down the side of a stone ledge.“The grown-ups have things to do.”

Black button eyes glint.

___

Woolf wakes up in a pile of man-flesh in the middle of the night, her nostrils flaring at the scent of drying blood. She grunts, spitting out a mouthful of Bob’s hair even as she runs a hand along a sleek, bare thigh. (Daken’s, judging by the thick pelt of manfur.)  Blood. Too close. 

Don’t like that.

“S’mone g’see what that is,” she mumbles, less concerned about the vaguely familiar smell than its proximity to her ‘autumn-summer home.’ “Bob. Up.” At his rrroooorrwl of protest, she nudges the thigh-haver. “You. Fang. Up. No kids vandalizing my porch tonight.” 

Daken eventually does drag himself outside, muttering and bitching about family. The blood smells of Raw Dogging, you see.

So does the severed head hanging strung alongside  the turnip jack-o’-lanterns, its eyes glassy and staring, lips split wide by the bright orange sucker jammed into its mouth.

“Tell your nephew to clean up his mess!”

[ultracraftmolders]

Blow Molded Furniture | Blow Molded Plastic Table

A blow-molded plastic table is made from a single piece of plastic created through the blow molding process, which involves inflating molten plastic into a mold to form the table's shape. Crafted with precision and durability in mind, Ucmpl’s blow-molded plastic tables—available in sleek rectangular and versatile round designs—are the perfect blend of strength, style, and convenience. Whether you're hosting an outdoor event or furnishing your workspace, these tables promise unwavering stability and effortless portability. Designed to withstand the elements and the demands of everyday use, they are the go-to choice for those who value quality without compromise. Choose Ultra Craft Molders Pvt Ltd’s stylish Blow Molded Plastic Table and experience a seamless combination of modern design and practical functionality.

[cntic]

We supply empty bottle bag packing machines:fully automatic and semi-automatic for your option.It is a good help to bottle producers and suppliers as they can use this machine to pack their bottles into plastic bags, easy for storage and delivery. It arranges and places empty plastic bottles into plastic bags and then seals the package.KPMLSA empty bottle bagging machine is a customized machine for our customers, equipped with an additional bottle divider and 2-channel conveyor belt, which double the packaging speed while maintaining the stable production performance of the machine. (plastic bags are put by hand but our special design makes the bag putting very simple and easy, operator friendly). 1.）With Bottle Protective Structure for easy-falling long or thin bottles and you will not worry whether the bottles will fall when being sorted and entering into bags. 2.）Suitable for bag-packing of empty plastic bottles of different shapes and sizes. 3.）PLC control, servo-motor drive, touch-screen man/machine interface 4.）Can be connected directly to bottle blow molders or leak-detecting machines or scraping machines, etc.5.) Additional bottle divider and 2-channel conveyor belt, which double the packaging speed while maintaining the stable production performance of the machine.Bottle packing machine, bottle bagging machineMáquina empacadora de botellas, máquina embolsadora de botellasMachine d'emballage de bouteilles, ensacheuse de bouteillesMáquina de embalagem de garrafas, máquina de ensacamento de garrafasเครื่องบรรจุขวด, เครื่องบรรจุขวดŞişe paketleme makinesi, şişe paketleme makinesiآلة تعبئة الزجاجات ، آلة تعبئة الزجاجات

[fishermcn]

❛ don't you know? you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. ❜

@vulpesse // leave what's sweet as honey to molder and rot; for bitterness will be what our words have wrought // accepting.

"Mhm, 's that right?" Somewhere deep in the heart of this strange forest, far too deep within the treeline to see any hint of something by human hands built and far too stalked by things such as his present company to attempt to blindly stumble through, Crow whittles away at yet another stub of what could one day be a crossbow's bolt. Flinty eyes too fixated on his task, sooty hands ever twitching and finicking over the knife in hand or the bolt-to-be, he seemingly pays little mind to the noises of her arrival; that of feet treading upon soft grass and earth, of the soft chiming of bells looped carefully 'round soft ears, of words too saccharine to be believed offered ever so demurely from something that isn't the maiden it pretends to be.

But there's a tightness to him that betrays the seemingly composed man's nerves. A sudden cut of his grey eyes to her person then back to the work of his hands. A twitch in his fingers for the saw-toothed knife at his hip tamped down only just. Shoulders suddenly locking as if in preparation for a blow that doesn't come. Crow seems worthy of his namesake in these little gestures swallowed down, prepared to fly at the hint of danger... or just as likely to claw back with a croak in his throat.

"Got nothin' left but grit'n vinegar." She's looming over him now, the picture of seeming innocence and modest. Knows better, he does. Saw it when the thing she is underneath it all discarded her mask of geniality and tore apart his pursuers, those Drowned Men that wore the faces of those he once knew. Nothing but a whirlwind of tiooth and claw and blood and seawater, until their rotted innards were splayed beneath the trees and their brine-bitten souls swallowed whole by the same maw that would try to tease him. "Better that way. I hate'm, they hate me. Don't pretend t'be somethin' I ain't."

And that's when Crow finally looks up at her, hands still restless in his lap where he lounges back against the tree. His stare is flat but not accusatory, because isn't it true? He seems to believe so, especially when those stony eyes don't drink in the shape of her so much as anticipate... something. Any sign that this little grace period of hers is at an end.

"That how it works? Bring'm in with those cat eyes, whisper to them sorry fools whatever they want t'hear before pullin' out their hearts?" His scoff dissolves into a coughing fit, the rasp of his breathing harsh as he smothers it into a ragged cloak's sleeve. "Ain't all of us gotta play pretend t'get what we want, fuchsgeist."

[dryiceecogreen]

How dry ice cleaning helps in the Automobile industry

The improved dry ice blasting technology has become quite popular in the Automobile Industry. It is one of the latest techniques that clean the equipment without leaving any waste and debris. The dry ice blasting specialists admit better performance of automobiles if the cleaning medium is dry ice.

Role of Dry Ice in the Automobile Industry

Mold Cleaning

Dry ice blasting machines enables the operators to clean molds when they are still hot. This technology enhances the performance of the molders and improves the efficiency of the manufacturing process by cleaning contaminants from cavities.

Another usage of improved dry ice technology is to clean the hard-to-reach places. The thorough cleaning improves performance as compared to the traditional methods.

The cold jet machines used for improved dry ice technology cater to various kinds of mould cleaning. These are-

Blow Molds

Tire Molds

Compression Molds

Plastic Injection Molds

Permanent Aluminium Molds

Tire Molds

Dry ice blasting helps in solving the major problem faced by the Tire manufacturers called mold fouling. The mold release causes sticking molds, blemishes, and unwanted flash on final parts, which hamper the machinery and cause the sudden shutdown of the equipment.

Cleaning equipment suppliers using dry ice blasting machines confirm that the improved technology helps in-

Clean Tire Molds in Place

Reduce Production Shutdown

Reduce Product Scrap

Clean Moulds without any Damage

Reduce cleaning time and Labor Costs

Weld Line Cleaning 

Weld Slags are tiny materials formed as a by-product of some welding processes, arc welding, especially the shielded metal arc welding, submerged arc welding, and flux-cored arc welding. The removal of weld cells is an essential component in cleaning the robotic weld cells. However, Cold Jet Machines provide an effective solution for removing the weld slag and other waste materials.

[music-despite-everything]

Happy birthday, Adrienne Rich!

Adrienne Cecile Rich, born May 16, 1929, in Baltimore, Maryland, and died March 27, 2012, in Santa Cruz, California, was an American poet, essayist, and feminist. She was called "one of the most widely read and influential poets of the second half of the 20th century", and was credited with bringing "the oppression of women and lesbians to the forefront of poetic discourse." Rich criticized rigid forms of feminist identities and valorized what she coined the "lesbian continuum," which is a female continuum of solidarity and creativity that impacts and fills women's lives.

Her first collection of poetry, A Change of World, was selected by renowned poet W. H. Auden for the Yale Series of Younger Poets Award. Auden went on to write the introduction to the published volume. She famously declined the National Medal of Arts, protesting the vote by House Speaker Newt Gingrich to end funding for the National Endowment for the Arts.

---

Snapshots of a Daughter-in-Law, 1963

1

You, once a belle in Shreveport, with henna-colored hair, skin like a peach bud, still have your dresses copied from that time, and play a Chopin prelude called by Cortot: "Delicious recollections float like perfume through the memory." Your mind now, moldering like wedding-cake, heavy with useless experience, rich with suspicion, rumor, fantasy, crumbling to pieces under the knife-edge of mere fact. In the prime of your life. Nervy, glowering, your daughter wipes the teaspoons, grows another way. 2 Banging the coffee-pot into the sink she hears the angels chiding, and looks out past the raked gardens to the sloppy sky. Only a week since They said: Have no patience. The next time it was: Be insatiable. Then: Save yourself; others you cannot save. Sometimes she's let the tap stream scald her arm, a match burn to her thumbnail, or held her hand above the kettle's snout right in the woolly steam. They are probably angels, since nothing hurts her anymore, except each morning's grit blowing into her eyes.

3 A thinking woman sleeps with monsters. The beak that grips her, she becomes. And Nature, that sprung-lidded, still commodious steamer-trunk of tempora and mores gets stuffed with it all: the mildewed orange-flowers, the female pills, the terrible breasts of Boadicea beneath flat foxes' heads and orchids. Two handsome women, gripped in argument, each proud, acute, subtle, I hear scream across the cut glass and majolica like Furies cornered from their prey: The argument ad feminam, all the old knives that have rusted in my back, I drive in yours, ma semblable, ma soeur! 4 Knowing themselves too well in one another: their gifts no pure fruition, but a thorn, the prick filed sharp against a hint of scorn... Reading while waiting for the iron to heat, writing, My Life had stood--a Loaded Gun-- in that Amherst pantry while the jellies boil and scum, or, more often, iron-eyed and beaked and purposed as a bird, dusting everything on the whatnot every day of life.

5 Dulce ridens, dulce loquens, she shaves her legs until they gleam like petrified mammoth-tusk. 6 When to her lute Corinna sings neither words nor music are her own; only the long hair dipping over her cheek, only the song of silk against her knees and these adjusted in reflections of an eye. Poised, trembling and unsatisfied, before an unlocked door, that cage of cages, tell us, you bird, you tragical machine-- is this fertillisante douleur? Pinned down by love, for you the only natural action, are you edged more keen to prise the secrets of the vault? has Nature shown her household books to you, daughter-in-law, that her sons never saw?

7 "To have in this uncertain world some stay which cannot be undermined, is of the utmost consequence." Thus wrote a woman, partly brave and partly good, who fought with what she partly understood. Few men about her would or could do more, hence she was labeled harpy, shrew and whore. 8 "You all die at fifteen," said Diderot, and turn part legend, part convention. Still, eyes inaccurately dream behind closed windows blankening with steam. Deliciously, all that we might have been, all that we were--fire, tears, wit, taste, martyred ambition-- stirs like the memory of refused adultery the drained and flagging bosom of our middle years. 9 Not that it is done well, but that it is done at all? Yes, think of the odds! or shrug them off forever. This luxury of the precocious child, Time's precious chronic invalid,-- would we, darlings, resign it if we could? Our blight has been our sinecure: mere talent was enough for us-- glitter in fragments and rough drafts. Sigh no more, ladies. Time is male and in his cups drinks to the fair. Bemused by gallantry, we hear our mediocrities over-praised, indolence read as abnegation, slattern thought styled intuition, every lapse forgiven, our crime only to cast too bold a shadow or smash the mold straight off. For that, solitary confinement, tear gas, attrition shelling. Few applicants for that honor. 10 Well, she's long about her coming, who must be more merciless to herself than history. Her mind full to the wind, I see her plunge breasted and glancing through the currents, taking the light upon her at least as beautiful as any boy or helicopter, poised, still coming, her fine blades making the air wince but her cargo no promise then: delivered palpable ours.