#decorative ironwork

[thecrankyprofessor]

shop door handle, Corning, NY.

[ironmengatesdoorsdesign]

What Materials Are Frequently Utilized In Iron Work Services, And Also Just How Do They Contribute To The Total Toughness?

In the wide realm of building and also construction, iron job solutions command a substantial location as a result of their necessity in developing resilient structures. The integral stamina, convenience, and also longevity of iron make it an optimal product for numerous applications varying from constructing frameworks to crafting complex decorative aspects.

However, the total long life as well as efficiency of iron-based frameworks are not exclusively contingent on the natural buildings of this metal; they are equally affected by the type of materials utilized combined with iron as well as the particular treatments applied during the construction procedure.

The extensive use alloys-- compounds made by incorporating two or even more metallic elements-- is a testimony to this reality. Alloys boost the physical buildings of pure metals, making them preferable for particular applications.

For instance, adding carbon to pure iron results in steel-- an alloy known for its increased strength and resistance versus wear and tear. Similarly, surface treatments like galvanizing can considerably improve corrosion resistance, consequently expanding the lifespan of iron frameworks.

This article aims to clarify these typically made use of materials in iron job services while elucidating exactly how they add towards boosting general sturdiness.

Checking out the Function of Alloys and Treatments in Enhancing Long Life of Structures

The unification of alloys and treatments in iron work services becomes a perfect symbol of strength as well as long life, dramatically boosting the sturdiness as well as life expectancy of frameworks.

Alloys are a fusion of 2 or more metallic elements, which when combined, existing superior homes contrasted to individual parts. Significantly, steel - an alloy predominantly made up of iron and also carbon - is renowned for its high tensile strength as well as malleability. It has become a staple in building due to these top qualities combined with its resistance to environmental results such as rusting. Other prominent selections consist of cast iron, identified by its terrific solidity as well as put on resistance, making it excellent for applications where toughness is paramount.

Moreover, various treatments have been created to additionally improve these intrinsic characteristics of alloys made use of in the field. Hot-dip galvanizing involves finish iron or steel with zinc, giving cathodic defense that prevents deterioration successfully. Similarly, powder layer uses added protection versus weathering whilst at the same time supplying a visually pleasing finish. The procedure entails using powdered paint electrostatically onto steel surface areas after that treated under warm to develop a difficult shell-like layer over the product's surface area.

These treatment approaches not only add in the direction of enhancing general architectural integrity but additionally supply considerable financial benefits by minimizing maintenance expenses and also expanding service life cycles.

[vintagehomecollection]

In the Not So Big House, even the space under the stairs can provide storage - in this instance, for shoes.

The Not So Big House - A Blueprint for the Way We Really Live, 1998

[labellenouvelle]

ART-NOUVEAU DRIVEWAY

Original 1930s French Art-Nouveau hand forged wrought iron driveway. Just take a close look , superb craftmanship and quality , attention to the small details. Great patina , can be used as a garden gate / driveway or decorative architectural addition to your design. No hinges or lock present , you'll need to have those installed to specifics of your project. You won't find another one like it , try. Item No. 1000-1 Dimensions: 11ft long ( 66.5" each side ) x 52.5" high . Will be closer to 12ft wide once installed if add side columns / hinges

List Price: $ 3500

504.581.3733 / t

info@labellenouvelle.com / e

[whichmoss-art]

Decorative ironwork fence/gate details 💚

[ornitha-rynque]

"The most noted feature of the church is its door, which is at least as old as the church, but generally thought to date from the 10th century, and have been moved to the church when it was built. Its ironwork includes the hinges, a cross, a ship, two figures, a tree, a horned figure, and a further figure on its own."

St Helen's Church, Stillingfleet, North Yorkshire, England

Wikipedia

[lessbienlesbian]

mizu x reader headcanons

ok this is gonna be a combination of a modern au and then also vaguely period accurate headcanons. i haven’t written in ages, so my apologies if this isn’t very good.

she requires very frequent reassurance because of how awful her past relationship was but is not great at asking for it

it takes her a long time to open up to people

if you are consistently kind and helpful to her she will accept the benefits of what you offer, but remain wary of your character/integrity/her ability to trust you for an extended period of time

basically what i’m saying is that my girl has some major trust issues

she’s at peace whenever she is in the water and is somehow very good at both sinking and floating

she enjoys teasing and banter, and takes pride in how easy it is for her to mess with you and make you flustered

she is very blunt and honest

she is surprisingly soft and gentle with you

she cannot cook to save her life, but she will gladly prep all of the ingredients for you and clean up after the meal

she has very quick instincts and struggles to let her guard down because of this

she’s super protective over her friends and you and would literally cut a bitch if they wronged you

she hypes you up and encourages you when you’re really angry and ranting about things

taking care of herself is definitely not her strongest suit, so you try to help her remember basic self care activities by giving her gentle reminders

her nose and cheeks get really pink and flushed in the cold or when she’s flustered or embarrassed

you offer to spar with her despite your complete lack of experience because you want to engage with the thing that she is most passionate about. she’s very hesitant at first because of the whole deal with mikio (i hate that motherfucker), but once you have reassured her that things won’t end the same way she relents and agrees to spar. for some reason, your first move is to go in with a headbutt and she can’t help but laugh at the grunt you let out when she easily stops you with a single palm to your forehead. as time passes she teaches you some actual techniques, but you never get anywhere close to her skill level. (not that you’re complaining though, being pinned beneath mizu while she gazes upon you with a look of pure glee is certainly not the worst position to be in).

she is very confident in her skills and abilities, but lacks confidence in her appearance and other areas so you make a point to compliment her frequently

you both take care of each other as best as you can

in the present day she would be really into video games, decorative ironworking, basketball, iado (or another sword based form of martial arts), and going to the gym

ok this might be strangely specific, but i think she would have a similar relationship with cats as she has with horses. she’s very catlike in her demeanor and general nature and i think she would find it rewarding to earn the trust of a similarly skittish and “wild” animal

okayyy that’s all i hope y’all enjoyed these. i left out the horny stuff but if y’all wanna see that then uhh like this post and i’ll write some nsfw headcanons.

[sergeantelvis]

"I'm Sorry"

SUMMARY: After following Elvis throughout his career and being there for him, he seems to forget what's most important... you.

warning: ANGST, hurt to comfort?, shouting, miscommunication, insecurity.

A/N: This is my first ever post on Tumblr I've been on here a while so I thought why not give a shot at writing, please keep in mind English isn't my first language :)

Pairing: Elvis x reader (can also be Austin elvis!)

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As the sun set over Memphis, the vibrant city whispered tales of heartache and passion. Among the countless souls navigating the streets, a young woman could be found strolling the dimly lit pathways with what seemed to be a small frown perched upon her face.

That woman also happened to be one of the worlds most talked about people in this current moment, yet she felt like she was the only one talking and no one was listening. That woman was who teenage girls could only dream to be, yet she didn't want to be herself in the very moment. Why would she?

Today was supposed to be different she told herself, he would actually remember, she really tried to believe her own husband would be there to support her during one of the biggest achievements of her life, just like she had done for him the last seventeen years. You see she had been there for him through all walks of life, since he was a tiny little blonde haired ray-of-sunshine and when he dyed his hair black and decided to switch up his style, she was there. And he couldn't even show up for one stupid court-case?

God she felt pathetic, she knew he wouldn't come, so why did she think this time it would be any different. But what could she do? She was Mrs Presley, and thats all people would see her as. As she walked along she moonlit streets she became more wary that she had been pushed aside by her husband, she had made a fool of herself letting him walk around with his wedding band off and acting like a single man with women surrounding him. People warned her about marrying Elvis but she would never listen to them because he was her Elvis and no one knew him like she did, and for a while that was true... until it wasn't.

Her beautiful Navy suit had been especially picked out for this trail, hoping that people would see her, hoping that He would see her. Thoughts swirled in her mind as she tried to process why she had let herself go so far as to have to beg for his attention, she was not some groupie he had picked up from his concerts or some teenaged fan that adored his music, she was his wife.

And she had enough.

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The night air clung to her like a heavy shroud as she approached the hallowed gates of Graceland. The moon hung low in the sky, casting a pale glow over the sprawling estate that had once been her sanctuary. But tonight, it felt more like a prison.

The grand entrance of Graceland loomed ahead of her, its ornate ironwork giving way to a long, winding driveway. As she ventured further in her green Beatle, the faint sound of music reached her ears, weaving its way through the evening breeze. Laughter, muffled and distant, hinted at a revelry she was not a part of.

Stepping across the threshold she had first hesitated towards, she entered the foyer. Dimly lit chandeliers bathed the room in a warm, golden glow, casting intricate patterns onto the polished marble floor. The air was thick with the mingling scents of expensive perfume and the anticipation of a vibrant gathering, yet it only deepened her pit of despair that was building inside of her.

Through the open doorways, she glimpsed the living room, ablaze with colour and movement. Lavish gold accented decorations adorned the walls, reflecting the vibrancy of the party within. The room seemed pulse with energy, the laughter and voices of the guests hanging in the air like an invisible veil.

In the midst of the festivities, Elvis stood at the centre, a star among the crowd. His charismatic smile drew people to him, their adoration evident in their eyes, but as her own guys met his, he remained transfixed by the merriment, not even batting an eyelid in her direction.

Her heart sank the steps, becoming slow and weighted with the sorrow she could no longer bear. She carved attention, his understanding of this passing sea of celebration. She appeared to be nothing more than a ghost existing in the peripheral of his attentions.

There, at the centre of the circle of vibrant guested, Elvis, his charm radiating like an Ethereal light. He was locked in at dance of words with a fan Her face flashed with the light basked on his attention. She observed the ease with which he engaged in stranger, his smile more genuine than she had seen in months.

The woman's voice, light and melodious, carrying hints of infatuation as she flirted shamelessly with Elvis. Hello, after accompanied by the soft music in the background seem to melt with the rhythm of his wife's own shattered heart. She could hardly fathom have someone. He didn't even know how to more sway over him, and she is devoted wife.

As she watched her husband, his eyes, twinkling with amusement, she felt an indescribable pain gnaw at her chest. She had dedicated her life to him, bent over backwards to keep their love and life. I need to find herself reduced to an inconsequential presences.

As she leaned against the wall, her tears subsiding, but her pain still palpable. Elvis's eyes flicker towards her. His eyes lingered for a moment before realisation, dawned on him, and with Swift footsteps, he crossed the room to reach her side.

"Hey, baby," He drawled, attempting to dismiss the intensity of the scene, she had just witnessed. His voice infused, with a southern twang still sent shivers down the spine, had once been the balm to her weary soul, but now it only served as a reminder of the golf at grown between.

Her eyes, once filled with love and admiration, now held a mix of sadness and anger. She took a deep breath, collecting the fragments of her resolve, before confront the man she had given her heart to all those years ago.

"You've missed my court case, my own battles and achievements, all while you were caught up in this whirlwind of adoration from strangers," She finally blurted out.

Elvis blinked, his azure eyes mirroring the confusion in his voice. "Satnin? Why didn't you say anything?" He cooed, attempting to soothe her. "You know I've got a lot on my plate."

The word "Satnin" would have once brought a smile to her face, an endearment she cherished, due to Elvis's late mother Gladys who was her second mother growing up in the small area of Tupelo. She shook her head, causing her locks to cascade around her like a waterfall of frustration.

"How can you think we are okay?" She exclaimed, her voice quivering. "

"Elvis, I can't help but feel pushed aside. It's not just about this one encounter; it's about so much more. You've missed my court case, countless family dinners, and it feels like our connection has dwindled to empty conversations. I've been left here, alone, while you bask in the adoration of fans."

Elvis's brow furrowed in confusion as he attempted to grasp the gravity of her words. He had been so immersed in his own world that he failed to recognize the depth of her emotional turmoil. "Satnin, I didn't realize you were feeling this way. I've just been caught up in the whirlwind of fame. Ya know it's not personal, right?"

y/n's frustration simmered beneath her surface, threatening to erupt like a dormant volcano. "How can it not feel personal, Elvis? We used to be each other's entire world. Now, I'm just an accessory on the fringes of your life while you play the role of the adored superstar."

Elvis's eyes widened, a mixture of surprise and offense clouding his features. He tried to interject, but her pent-up emotions poured out like a torrential rainstorm, unable to be contained any longer.

"You think this is all about my support? It's not about that, Elvis! It's about feeling invisible, unappreciated, and alone. I've offered my unwavering support, but what have I received in return? Empty promises and missed moments. Is this how our love is supposed to be?"

A flicker of realization darted across Elvis's face, but his natural stubbornness lingered. "Satnin, I've been trying my best, but I can't be in two places at once. This music, these fans, they're a part of me. You knew that when we got married."

Her voice reached a crescendo, her frayed patience snapping under the weight of Elvis's dismissive attitude. "I didn't expect you to choose, Elvis. But I did anticipate that you would make an effort to make me feel like a priority in your life. Instead, I feel like I'm a distant second to the screaming crowds that cheer you on night after night."

Elvis, his patience waning, raised his voice in frustration. "Listen, baby, I have responsibilities, commitments. This is the life I've chosen. Can't you understand that?"

She gritted her teeth, her frustration boiling over. "Understand? I understand that you're using your fame as an excuse to neglect your responsibilities as a husband. You blame me for not understanding, but what about the countless nights I've spent alone, waiting for you? What about the promises you've made and broken?"

Elvis's expression turned defensive, his charm morphing into frustration. "You're being unreasonable, Y/N. I can't be at your beck and call all the time; I have a career to manage."

Y/N's voice trembled with anger. "Unreasonable? You have the audacity to call me unreasonable? All I wanted was a partner, someone who would be there for the important moments, to listen and support me. But you're too wrapped up in your own fame to even notice."

Elvis's obstinacy overshadowed any semblance of understanding. His tone hardened as he lashed out, trying to deflect his own guilt. "Maybe it wouldn't feel so empty if you were more supportive, if you understood the sacrifices I have to make!"

Her patience snapped, her voice resonating with a mix of fury and hurt. "Sacrifices? Where do my sacrifices fit into this equation? I've sacrificed my dreams, my desires, to support you, to be the wife you needed. And all I ask for in return is a fraction of your attention, your time."

Elvis and Y/N stood face to face in their lavish Memphis mansion. The room crackled with tension as their argument escalated, both parties unwilling to back down. Her eyes were brimming with tears, reflecting her hurt and frustration, while Elvis stubbornly refused to see his faults.

"You just don't understand, Y/N! I give you everything, I give you this beautiful home, luxurious cars, and all the fame you could ever want. Why are you so miserable?" Elvis exclaimed, his voice filled with disbelief.

Y/n took a deep breath, trembling with the weight of her emotions. She knew this was her moment to speak her truth and reveal the depth of her pain. "Elvis, material possessions and fame aren't enough for me. I want emotional connection, intimacy, and a partner who truly understands me. But lately, it feels like I'm living in your shadow. You're so consumed with yourself that you've forgotten about our marriage."

Elvis's eyes widened, struck by her heartfelt words. For the first time, he began to truly comprehend the gravity of his actions. "But Baby, I don't mean to neglect you. I love you more than anything. How can I make it right?" His voice wavered, a mix of desperation and regret seeping through his words.

Her gaze softened, her love for Elvis still evident despite the pain she felt. "It's not just about apologies, Elvis. It's about changing your behavior, showing me every day that I matter to you. I can't keep living like this, always feeling secondary to your career."

A mixture of guilt and sadness washed over Elvis as he realized the damage he had caused in their marriage. He reached out, gently cupping Y/Ns face in his hands. "Baby, I never intended to hurt you. I know my words haven't always been kind, but you're the center of my world. I'm sorry, sweetheart. I'm truly sorry."

The air hung heavy with silence as she contemplated his words. She searched his eyes, seeking a sign of sincerity. Slowly, she nodded, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Elvis, I want to believe that you mean it, but forgiveness doesn't come easy. We need time to heal, to rebuild the trust that has been shattered."

Elvis nodded, his heart sinking as he realized the consequences of his actions. They moved towards the hallway, away from prying eyes, their voices lowering to whispers. "Mama, please don't leave me. I can't imagine my life without you. I'll do whatever it takes to make things right."

She looked into his eyes, her pain alongside her love for him evident. "Elvis, the road to forgiveness will be long and arduous. I need you to understand that. It will take more than just words to mend what's been broken. We both have work to do."

Elvis took a trembling breath, feeling the weight of his past mistakes. He gently squeezed her hand, a solemn vow crossing his lips. "I promise you, Satnin, I'll do whatever it takes. I'll be a better husband, a better man. Just please, don't give up on us."

As they stood there, enveloped in the intimacy of their private moment, Elvis and Y/N knew that the journey ahead would not be easy. But their love, their shared history, and the desire to rebuild what was lost provided a glimmer of hope. Their path to healing had just begun, one step at a time.

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A/N: I got a bit carried away! But I'm also looking to make more friends in the Tumblr/Elvis community and would love to follow people or have proofreaders :) thank you <33

[mothmiso]

Ruins of the past (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) by _Tursiops

Via Flickr:

(1) Remains of the old prison at Fort Santiago overshadowed by the city towers. Manila, Philippines. (2) Decorative ironwork atop an old doorway at Fort Santiago, Intramuros. (3) The old moat and adobe walls of Fort Santiago are overlooked by the encroaching city tower blocks.     

[wanderingnork]

Gith Deep Dive: Dark Sun Part 1 - Introducing the Gith of Athas

When you tell a githyanki they can't do something, they always turn around and prove you wrong. Tell Gith she can't be free of the mind flayers? She'll tear down their entire empire and found one of her own in its place. Tell Vlaakith she can't rule forever? Not only will she become a lich to extend her rule for thousands of years, but she'll figure out how to become a god, too. Tell a member of the Sha'sal Khou his work is doomed? He'll turn his entire creche into a spark of a revolution and invite the githzerai for dinner.

So when the githyanki were confronted with a law of the very universe that forbade them from reaching a world they wanted to conquer, they turned around and staged the greatest break-in the multiverse has ever seen.

Unfortunately, the world they broke into was the world of Dark Sun, unlike any other place the githyanki had seen before.

The Dark Sun campaign setting takes place on the grim planet of Athas. In a long-past age, the planet was green. It was prosperous, thriving, protected by nature-masters and widespread psionic power. But then a powerful psionicist discovered arcane magic. In order to power his spells, he drained the life from everything around him, defiling the land. His champions began a series of terrible "cleansing wars" to destroy as much life on Athas as they could--and they nearly succeeded.

The planet was left as a blasted desert under a dull orange sun. Temperatures rise to up to 55C/130F regularly, and even the most fertile regions rarely see more than a gentle mist instead of rain. The seas have been replaced with vast oceans of super-fine silt. Familiar animals and plants and fantasy creatures have been wiped out, leaving strange but hardy mundane beasts and horrific monstrosities behind. The wider multiverse was cut off by a planar dead zone called "the Gray," leaving Athas without gods or any kind of contact beyond its own plane. Travelers trying to get in via the Astral Plane get lost in the Gray and either turn around, or simply never leave. Even its crystal sphere (the mystical container of each material plane for various campaign settings) is completely sealed off, and beyond the reach of spelljammers.

It's a terribly lonely place.

Back when the world was a more hospitable place and still open to the multiverse, the githyanki were present. Open your Black Spine: Adventure Book Two to page 4 if you want to read along. They had residences on the surface of Athas, but their primary city was Yathazor, in a cavern deep beneath what would someday be called the Black Spine Mountains. This was millennia ago: the Green Age, when Athas was hospitable and psionic powers were first widespread, began 14,000 years before the present day and ended about 8,000 years ago.

Yathazor was a strange and stunning city, filled with plants and gardens, githyanki living in vertically-stacked homes and palaces. Status and rank determined how high up a person's house could be, with the highest-ranking githyanki occupying levels of the city where they traveled along walkways between buildings. Such githyanki may have never touched the ground. An artificial yellow sun circled the ceiling of the cavern to give life to the plants. Decorative stonework, carvings, and plentiful ironwork enhanced the city's beauty. To defend it from enemies, especially githzerai, it was locked behind a planar shield that prevented any plane-shifting.

But the githzerai weren't so easily stopped. At some point, they launched attacks on every githyanki settlement on Athas, using bombs called "psionic devastators." These sent out powerful psi-waves that blasted every githyanki in the vicinity. Some githzerai managed to get hold of keys that let them through the planar shield into Yathazor, and a bomb was detonated there.

The carnage was terrible. Every githyanki on Athas was killed or had their minds destroyed by the psionic devastators, and many more were killed in ensuing attacks by the githzerai. In the ruins of Yathazor, adventurers can encounter a group of sword spirits. They're the remains of githyanki who were trapped in a locked guardroom when the psionic devastator went off, and died screaming in fear of starvation. Their souls attached to their silver swords, leaving them as perpetual guards of the dead city. By the end, no githyanki beyond Athas remembered Yathazor or how to find it. None of them ever returned to the planet, at least none whose visits were recorded, and when Athas was cut off from the rest of the multiverse it was almost completely forgotten.

(The cover of the Black Flames adventure, by Brom.)

The githyanki who remained on Athas were unrecognizable compared to their Astral kin. Not only were they physically changed, their minds were also terribly altered. Afraid, enraged, their violent impulses and survival instinct overrode everything else. Settlements destroyed, they scattered and vanished from Athasian history. From eerie, orderly, urbane Astral warriors, the gith became terrifying, disorganized, feral monsters underground. The impact of the psionic devastators was such that the effects remained for thousands of years afterwards. Any hope the gith might have had of recovering from the calamity was shattered when defiling magic tore Athas to shreds, leaving them with a burned, bleak future.

Continues below cut.

In the modern world, the gith are of relatively little consequence to wider world affairs. Sorcerer-kings, city-states, and political movements mean little in the depths of a blazing desert. In all Dark Sun materials, from 2nd through 5th Editions, the gith appear frequently on random encounter tables or are mentioned as hazards of desert travel. They're organized into tribes and clans, and don't have walled cities or access to defiling magic. (According to the 2E Monstrous Manual, that last may not be true. See p.151.) They mostly live underground to escape the blazing sun, hunting at night and attacking any travelers who dare to brave the desert.

They haven't forgotten everything about their past. In the Black Spine adventure, the gith have maintained connections to Yathazor, treating it with immense respect as a sacred site. If they fight inside the city they leave no bodies behind and require that anyone visiting wear shoes as a gesture of respect. In the 4th Edition Dark Sun Creature Catalog, some gith are mentioned to be seeking fragments of the ancient ship that carried the first githyanki to Athas ages ago.

While just about every available source discusses the gith as "barbaric" and "savage"...I would argue that they're not so different from most other peoples of Athas. The halflings of the mountains are cannibals, just like the gith. The gith use obsidian weapons, illustrated as a beautifully-knapped spearhead in one illustration in the Dark Sun Creature Catalog (p.55), which is absolutely an art form. In Dungeon magazine #110, they even carry bronze weapons--almost impossible on Athas, where metal is so scarce as to be nonexistent. They raise children, who are listed in the Black Flames adventure explicitly as noncombatants. Females lay eggs and, per the 2nd Edition Monstrous Manual, rumor has it that they may operate shared hatcheries containing hundreds of eggs (p.151). Their alignment in the original AD&D Dark Sun campaign setting is listed simply as "chaotic." (Chapter 5, p.93) At least in this edition, they're not evil, simply predatory like everything else in the wastelands.

Society is structured along similar lines to many other Athasian socities: the toughest person is in charge. Here, the leaders of each tribe are those with the greatest psionic power (original Dark Sun setting, Monstrous Manual, Dungeon Magazine #110). Any other positions of authority are distributed at the leader's pleasure. As usual, 4th Edition gives us a different spin: some gith hatched with extraordinary psionic ability are trained not as leaders, but as "drones" with the ability to scald the minds of opponents (Creature Catalog, p55). In addition, elemental shamans and priests hold positions of some power in gith society (Earth, Air, Fire, and Water p.31, Monstrous Manual, Merchant House of Amketch Part 3). A festival, the Ghost Moon feast, is even named and described in Merchant House of Amketch along with a pair of sacred sites.

As often as the gith war with each other, they do get along sometimes. Just like everyone else in Athas, they LOVE gladiatorial games. In the Dragon's Crown adventure, players can even be cordially invited to watch a gladiatorial competition held in a ruined city. Four tribes of gith (over four hundred attendees in all) have come together to settle some issues between the tribes by gladiatorial warfare. Rather than an all-out war, they've found it pragmatic (and more fun) to capture a powerful monster or warrior as a champion for their tribe to fight in the arena. The players can peacefully attend the games, seated near the leaders. One of the party members will even be chosen as a champion for the Skull Smashers tribe. If the player wins, they become an honorary member of the tribe and receive a reward of treasure. If they lose...well, the party is going to have a very bad time.

This isn't the only time the gith get along. In "The Ivory Triangle" sourcebook for 2nd Edition Dark Sun, in the section on the Blackspine Mountains, it's revealed that a leader has begun to unite the gith of the mountains. Formerly simply a horde of disconnected tribes, over five thousand gith in all, the mysterious Blackspear has begun taking control of the tribes. At the present time, he's ruling over about half of the gith in the mountains. Unified gith forces regularly attack merchant caravans and even forts in the mountains, showing remarkable power and cohesion. The future of that area of Athas appears to be at great risk.

And, as I hinted at the beginning of this post, there's other trouble brewing deep beneath the mountains. The githyanki of the Astral Sea have finally found their way to Athas.

Next time, in Part 2, we'll cover a short story in The Ivory Triangle that gives us real insight into gith culture, and wrap up with the Black Spine adventure.

-

Footnote: The exact date of the githzerai attack is unknown. However, apparently some Athasian scholars who know this secret history wonder if the explosive psi-waves might have affected other creatures of the planet, humanoid and otherwise. (Black Spine, Adventure Book Two, p.4) The attack might have rendered them more open to the development of psionics. It might have wiped out psionic parasites and allowed widespread development of power. Since the Green Age is stated in The Wanderer's Chronicle, the major 2nd Edition source on the history of the setting, to be the period where psionics truly became widespread on Athas, it's the one I think likeliest to have been when the attack took place.

Footnote Part Two: The dates of the Green Age (14,000-8,000 years before the present) are taken from the 2nd Edition The Wanderer's Chronicle. Placing this against the larger timeline of gith history, all of this took place before the reign of Vlaakith CLVII (157), the current queen who's been on the throne for approximately a thousand years. However, within the Black Spine adventure, the players can encounter a statue of the mysterious, ancient lich-queen. The specific details of Vlaakith's reign didn't get nailed down until 3rd Edition, though, and 5th Edition has altered the details yet again (she's now the only Vlaakith who ever reigned). Due to the sheer volume of sources that reference Vlaakith as being 157th of her name (including Baldur's Gate 3), I choose to lean on that instead of the 5E shift. Exactly how all the dates shake out, though, is really up to you.

Footnote Part Three: 4th Edition's Dark Sun Creature Catalog changes the history of the gith a little. Here, the githyanki never colonized Athas as they did in 2nd Edition, but rather arrived aboard an Astral ship and got trapped behind the Gray. Defiling arcane magic then warped them as it warped the landscape. Due to the paucity of 4th Edition Dark Sun sources, I've chosen to adhere to the 2nd Edition story in this post. Since the history of Athas is so shrouded in mystery, though, this tale might also be true.

[lullablyth]

decorative wrought ironwork is my weakness…

[visit-new-york]

Bow Bridge - Central Park

Bow Bridge remains an enduring symbol of Central Park's beauty and tranquility. Its combination of architectural elegance, natural surroundings, and cultural significance make it a beloved destination within this iconic urban park, offering a peaceful retreat and a romantic atmosphere in the heart of Manhattan.

Weddings and Proposals: Bow Bridge is a popular spot for weddings and marriage proposals. Many couples choose this picturesque location to exchange vows or ask for their partner's hand in marriage due to its romantic ambiance and stunning views. It's not uncommon to witness a wedding ceremony or proposal while visiting the bridge.

Historical Significance: Bow Bridge, like many features in Central Park, has historical significance. It is part of the original design of Central Park by Frederick Law Olmsted and Calvert Vaux, two influential landscape architects. Their vision for the park was to create a place of respite and natural beauty within the bustling city, and Bow Bridge exemplifies this vision.

Artistic Inspiration: Artists and painters have long been drawn to Bow Bridge as a subject for their work. The bridge's intricate ironwork and its reflection in the tranquil waters of The Lake provide ample artistic inspiration.

Boating on The Lake: The Lake beneath Bow Bridge is a popular spot for rowboating during the spring and summer months. Visitors can rent rowboats and enjoy a relaxing ride on the calm waters, taking in the views of the bridge and surrounding greenery.

Autumn Foliage: During the fall, Bow Bridge is surrounded by a brilliant display of autumn foliage. The vibrant colors of the changing leaves make it a must-visit spot for leaf peepers, photographers, and anyone who appreciates the beauty of the season.

Accessibility: Bow Bridge is wheelchair accessible, making it a welcoming destination for visitors of all abilities. The park's pathways and nearby amenities are designed to accommodate a wide range of visitors.

Restoration Efforts: Over the years, Bow Bridge has undergone restoration and maintenance to ensure its structural integrity and preserve its historical charm. The efforts of the Central Park Conservancy have played a crucial role in this ongoing preservation work.

Music and Performances: The area around Bow Bridge occasionally hosts outdoor music performances and cultural events, providing a delightful backdrop for live entertainment in a natural setting.

Filming Location: Bow Bridge has been featured in numerous films and television shows. Its romantic and picturesque setting has made it a popular choice for filmmakers seeking an idyllic backdrop for their scenes. You might recognize it from movies like "Manhattan," "Keeping the Faith," and "Enchanted."

Wildlife Viewing: The area around Bow Bridge is a great spot for birdwatching and wildlife observation. Central Park is home to a variety of bird species, including waterfowl that can often be seen on The Lake.

Spring Cherry Blossoms: In the spring, the cherry trees near Bow Bridge burst into bloom, creating a stunning display of pink and white blossoms. This seasonal spectacle is a draw for visitors who come to admire the beauty of the cherry blossoms.

Architectural Details: While at Bow Bridge, take a closer look at its intricate ironwork and decorative elements. The bridge's design includes ornate railings, lampposts, and Gothic-style arches, adding to its architectural charm.

Central Park Sightseeing: Bow Bridge is often included as a point of interest on guided tours of Central Park. These tours provide visitors with insights into the park's history, design, and the significance of its various landmarks, including the bridge.

Romantic Atmosphere: Bow Bridge's romantic ambiance is particularly pronounced during early mornings and at sunset. The soft, warm light at these times adds to the bridge's allure, making it a popular spot for couples and photographers.

Adjacent Attractions: Nearby, you'll find other attractions like the Central Park Boathouse, which offers dining with a view of The Lake, and the Central Park Conservatory Garden, a beautifully landscaped formal garden that's perfect for a leisurely stroll.

Accessibility: Central Park has made efforts to ensure that its pathways and bridges, including Bow Bridge, are accessible to people with disabilities. This commitment to accessibility allows a wide range of visitors to enjoy the park's beauty.

In conclusion, Bow Bridge in Central Park continues to be a cherished and timeless destination, known for its architectural beauty, scenic surroundings, and romantic allure. Whether you're seeking a tranquil escape, a place for photography, or a romantic setting, Bow Bridge offers a captivating experience in the heart of Manhattan's urban landscape.

[luluwquidprocrow]

like a row of captured ghosts

kit snicket

teen

2,568 words

Kit Snicket visits a house in the city.

for @asouefanworkevent's woevember day 2, the baudelaire mansion! featuring my enduring headcanon that the baudelaire mansion was previously the snicket mansion, and b+b get it when they marry lemony. i am 100% willing to admit it is Unlikely, however let us not forget kit saying “our families have always been close”, so, yknow

title from welcome home by radical face

Kit could get in if she wanted. She’d been given lockpicks expressly for the purpose, because the locks on the house were special, but she didn’t need them. She knew the statue in the back of the garden had a hairline crack in one of the hands – she didn’t remember which one, but it wasn’t as if there were many options – that, when pressure was applied, opened a brick in the patio. Under the brick was a lever. If one were to pull the lever, the little window in the hidden attic opened, roof shingles shifting out of the way, and one could wiggle themselves in, with enough effort. Her grandfather had put a number of clever little secrets in the house, and Kit had gone looking for them when she was very, very young, so she knew a decent amount of them. Few others did. 

(The lockpicks confirmed that. If they thought that was the only way someone could get into the house, Kit was not going to correct them. And there were worse things, weren’t there, than simple theft, things for which no real defense existed.) 

Night air bit at her ankles, her fingers, her neck. She wasn’t dressed nearly warm enough for November, having grabbed her blue spring jacket in her hurry, but the cold was of little concern to her. The mansion stood across the street, set back from the road, with that winding brick path up to the front doors, the maple trees scattering their leaves around the yard. It was in the heart of the city but in a place one would never know unless explicitly looked for – a turn off an erroneously marked dead end, then another, to an old avenue along a river with more trees than houses. Her grandparents had picked it on purpose. Presumably safe, but close enough. 

They had added to the windows. Neat, decorative ironwork, curled into hearts and vines. 

Kit put her hands in her pockets and crossed the street, her footsteps the only noise. 

The fence out front had been replaced as well. Kit’s grandmother had done most of the architecture, and Bernadette Snicket had favored a simplistic, practical style in her work, but the new fence matched the intricacy of the window grates. That just-too-big space in the bars a person could slide themselves through if they desired, that Kit had, years ago, when she’d – that was gone. Kit walked the length of the fence twice, considering. She couldn’t linger long. There was a light on in a downstairs window, glowing soft behind the drawn curtains. Kit could not put it past them to eventually see her. She walked down the sidewalk one more time, picking up her pace. There was no way around the fence. Climbing over it didn’t seem like an option. The points at the top of each iron bar looked sharp, glinting in a stray hit of light from the streetlamp over near Kit’s car. 

(Kit wondered how much was a choice – how much was a needed decision – how much was meant to erase. She couldn’t judge Beatrice and Bertrand for that. Not without damning herself, which Kit was not, overall, in the habit of doing.) 

Of course there was a sewer grate nearby, and of course Kit pushed it up soundlessly and slipped down inside. 

Her grandfather had three boxes – one Kit had already taken some years ago and given to Bertrand, for reasons better left unsaid. One had been given to Lemony. The third was still in the house and held a very specific map of the city. Headquarters wanted it, among other things. And if Kit came across one of those other things, she was at her liberty to take them. 

(She and Beatrice had argued, Kit remembered. The sewer was dark and icy, and Kit shivered hard, grinding her teeth together. They’d argued about those other things, and Kit had not been able to give Beatrice, or herself, a satisfactory answer. It was one of the last conversations they had, if not the last. Most likely the last, if Kit was honest. Beatrice had made it clear where she and Bertrand stood, and where Kit stood, and that it was no longer in the same place. And it never would be. 

Kit told herself over and over that she would never do it. There would always be another option, as long as Beatrice and Bertrand were alive to emphatically refuse. Right now, there was this option – Kit was going into the house. She was taking the box back. Nothing else. And the box wasn’t even going to headquarters. There were other plans for that box.) 

The box would be in the downstairs office, under a floorboard. Probably Bertrand’s office. The windows were one of the ones her grandmother had put the stained glass in, and shards of blue fell over the green floor when the sun sat just right in the sky. It was a good room for thinking, and Bertrand likely did a great deal of it there. Kit swallowed and hurried further through the sewers, past the names that didn’t matter, and started scanning the curved ceiling. If one knew where to look, there was a sloped hatch up there that led up into the passage between the house and 667 Dark Avenue. Kit would open the hatch, get inside, go into the house, and then leave the same way. And there it was. Tucked in a shadow, just waiting for her. Kit reached up for the wheel, ready to heave the door open. It was going to stick with so little use. 

The wheel turned easy under her hands. 

Kit jerked back, her whole body seizing up. Someone had been here. Someone who was not her. Someone who wasn’t just checking. Kit spun the wheel frantically and the hatch fell open. 

(She’d brought Olaf here. Her grandparents hadn’t cared who knew the location of their house, but their generation had been different, and Kit’s parents had stressed, when they could, the importance of keeping this secret. Her associates thought it was a safehouse, one they could never quite find the location of, and wrote off as another ruse. She’d driven Olaf, pointing out landmarks the whole way, because she’d thought – 

Kit was not foolish enough to think she’d get married. But Olaf was important to her, and she was foolish enough to think he’d stay important, and that when Lemony inevitably married Beatrice and they took the house, Olaf would be there too.

They crept in through the fence. Olaf chased her around the maple trees. Kit took him into the house through the font doors and showed him what her grandparents built. And he understood what the Snicket mansion meant, in the way he had to understand what the Count’s mansion meant. Some time later, Kit realized he had not. 

Olaf’s memory was shit, except where it mattered. Except in the things she wanted him to forget. He’d remember where this house was and it was only a matter of time before he – before anyone – got their hands on the Baudelaires.)

Kit hoisted herself up into the passageway. She tugged the hatch closed behind her, then felt around in the black for the dip in the center. Her fingers kept slipping, shaking, pushing into metal that wasn’t right, nicking her nails, her heart thudding faster and faster in her chest and rising to a crash in her ears – where was it? There. She found the button and jammed her thumb into it. The metal hissed as it sealed from the inside. It wasn’t enough, Kit knew. Nothing would ever be enough now. But it would have to do. 

She ran along the passageway, keeping one hand on the wall. It came to an abrupt end, and Kit had her hand ready to pull open the trap door into the office when her mouth went dry. She swallowed, and then did it again. Once more. She let the trap door fall open and climbed into the Baudelaire mansion. 

The office was dark, as expected. Bertrand kept his desk by the windows, because of course he would. Not because Kit’s grandfather had, but because Bertrand would obviously like the view. The bookcases still lined the walls, but the books must surely be different. Kit wondered what he kept there, but there was no time to get into it. She could see the strip of light hovering under the door. It was poetry, probably. He probably kept poetry. Fairy tales he read to his children. The chair at his desk was different than the one her grandfather had there, perfect for sitting in and telling stories. She turned and faced the wall.

The floorboard was in the far left corner, at the front of the room. Kit moved slowly, quietly, barely breathing. Bertrand had covered the whole floor with a thick, heavy carpet, so at least that was in her favor. She bent down, tugging the corner of the carpet up, and lifted the single loose floorboard. 

(She always wound up doing this, she thought, in a voice that sounded stunningly like Lemony’s, wry as he ever was. Sneaking into someplace to steal something important. At least now she had experience.) 

There it was. Just as it had always been, another secret waiting for its time. The small, jeweled box with the complicated lock with the code her grandfather had taught all three of them. Kit tucked it inside her jacket and replaced the floorboard. 

It hit her like a shot, her breath catching in her throat. The sewer hatch locked only from the inside. She couldn’t go back that way. She whirled around, clutching the lump in her jacket to her chest. The best way to leave – the closest way out – that was through the library, two rooms down, through the passageway in the wall and up to the hidden attic. But that meant leaving the room. Standing in the hallway. Walking to the library, unseen. 

(She did not have experience. That voice sounded like Jacques, if Jacques had ever been so straightforward in his disappointment. She had to get out of this house before she kept thinking.)

Kit waited. Listened. She couldn’t hear anything from here in the office. She went through the map of the ground floor in her head, the foyer at the front, into the parlor, the living room to the left, the kitchen to the back, the dining room to the right – the hallway behind the kitchen, with the office, the billiard room, the library. The left wall in the library, where the hidden door was. Conceivably, it was easy. Wasn’t it? 

She turned the door handle and left the office. 

The hallway was half-lit from the living room at the end of the hall. Now she could hear the phonograph, playing a jazz record she didn’t recognize. Beatrice and Bertrand had to be in there, and it was right across from the library. Unless they were in the library. Unless they were – Kit gave herself a shake. She wouldn’t know anything until she moved. She just had to move. She just had to move. Kit just had to move. 

She couldn’t see the green floors. Beatrice and Bertrand had rugs everywhere, in elegant red and ivory. Kit tiptoed over it, hesitating. Paintings hung in groups down the hallway, flowers and little portraits and framed children’s drawings, scribbles of the garden hung with the same care as the art. They must be Violet’s. The jazz record kept going. Kit’s grandmother had liked oil paintings of flowers. She’d had a few in the hallway herself in her time. 

(Katherine, Bernadette Snicket had said. 

No, Kit insisted. How old was she then? Four? Just Kit. And her grandmother had looked pleased, like Kit had passed a test. Everything was a test and always had been, tests she’d completed perfectly, and why did it hurt? How far had Kit gone down the hall? The box sat against her ribs like another heart, heavy. Everything ached, especially her jaw, clenched shut like her life depended on it. And it did. This life around her she wasn’t a part of anymore, this family, this safety, Kit’s life existing outside of this place, everything depended on Kit, on her walking out of here alone, back to her apartment. The whole series of events spooled out in front of her as a nightmare unraveling. Was she crying? Why was she crying?)

Kit took another step, then another. The library was one foot away on the right, a mile away, mere inches, an eternity. The passthrough to the living room on her left gaped open.

Bertrand hummed a bar of the jazz record. And then – 

“What’ve you got there?”

Kit froze.

“I knew I left it somewhere in here – ha! That book I was looking for, for Violet and Klaus.”

“You really want to do the cob, don’t you?” The smile was clear in his voice, and Kit pictured Bertrand leaning forward in his chair, his hand on his chin, gazing at Beatrice and bursting with delight. 

“I absolutely do! I get to do a fake death scene and everything. How many kids books are going to give me that kind of opportunity, Bertrand?” 

They were alone. Their voices were far enough into the room that they shouldn’t see her at the doorway. They joked like she remembered, exactly like she remembered. Did they joke like that with their children? Would they have joked like that with Lemony, here, like they used to? With her? Would Olaf have – would her grandparents – wasn’t Kit supposed to be here too, not because it was hers, that wasn’t what mattered, what mattered was – 

Kit held her breath and didn’t let it out until she’d slipped into the library, until she’d rushed to the wall, until she’d nearly slammed her hand into the door hidden in the dark wallpaper, until she was safe in the narrow passageway. She wanted to run, to keep running. But they’d hear her in the wall. She took it step by step with her chest burning, traveling up two floors to the hidden attic. There was the little window in the roof, waiting for Kit to wiggle her way out. She did. The climb over the roof and down the trellis was harder, with her whole body trembling, but she made it. 

She stumbled through the garden, racing over the brick path back to the road, to the fence – she shoved her heels into the ironwork, scrambling over it, the tip of a bar slicing into her calf and her palms. She slipped on the way down the other side and her hip met the sidewalk, pain skittering through her leg and up her side. Get up. Get up, Kit. And Kit did, back to her car across the street, into the driver’s side. 

Kit took long and deep breaths. In and out, until her head was back on straight, with the plan set right in her thoughts, as it was supposed to be. Everything was as it should be. She set the box down gently on the passenger seat. She did not look at the Baudelaire mansion. She would patch herself up later, when she had time. She took another breath and put the key in the ignition. 

She had to go back home.

[hislittleraincloud]

She'll Be Alright (Rated T, Cairo Sweet/Jonathan Miller (Jairo), angst, fluff, for hurricane relief efforts in the South, 1300 word drabble)

Cergy, France 

The weather was as muggy as it had ever been, on and off, during their stay, but Jon surmised that the faint frown on her face that had weighted her bowed lips down during the times it was too hot to write wasn't there for the lack of inspiration or motivation.

“What're you doin’?” 

Jon tried to quickly slide the glass door shut, but the faint smoke smell followed him in. Cairo was curled into herself on the small couch, scrolling through her apps.

“Cairo,” he leaned against the wall, staring at her ponytailed profile. “I thought we agreed —”

“That contract is void, Jon,” she snapped, more out of despair than irritance. “I can't —”  she made a half-hearted effort to look up, but her neck was hurting from being held hostage by her compulsion towards worry. She sighed. 

It wasn't him, but he wasn't helping. 

She sighed again, the frustration having collapsed into defeat as her hand fell into her lap. “I just can't.”

Their little one bedroom apartment in Cergy-Pontoise was tiny, but she was tiny, “So it works out,” she had cooed upon her booking with her cheeky, dimpled grin. At the time, it was her romantic heart that just wanted to get away from all of the heartache that home had left them to suffer, Paris being the first stop on their year-long tour of living — and loving — in Europe.

The apartment was perfect for that, offering a cozy — perhaps slightly cramped — living space for them to begin their journey together, writing whenever and wherever they felt like it, whether it be on the queen bed or lounging in the small garden patio that reminded them of home. It was the color scheme of the listing that had drawn Cairo in, but once they arrived, it thrilled her even more; the blacks, greys, celadon and verdant greens of the paint and decor matched everything at Sweetland Manor, greatly lessening her anxiety and keeping her homesickness at bay in the slightly paler and more modern trade-up. The garden even had an ironwork table, albeit a small, round, white one whose surface was not equipped in either size or stability for the kinds of activity that the one back in Benson had seen. The only thing they hadn't quite counted on was the size of the (mini)fridge and the lack of a full stove, for as cute it was that the aesthetic fit Cairo's petite stature, it didn't cooperate well with either Cairo or Jon’s ravenous appetites for something other than sex and cigarettes. Still, it had become their home away from home, their writing and lovemaking something out of a quaint and boringly repetitive erotic novel that brought them the pleasure and bonding that she had only dreamt about when she planned her gap year around the man she was smitten with, and who was smitten with her. It had been a dream, these past two months ‘under the roofs of Paris’, until the nightmare back home invaded their tranquility.

He sat down, nudging his way against her side, his left arm coaxing her shoulders into an easy slump against his chest.

“I know, alright. You...aren't the only one scared to death about all this shit.”

She shifted, her knuckles idly sliding against his tee. “You worried about Bea?”

He blinked, his brow twitching before correcting itself. There wasn't a hint of venom in her voice at the mention of his soon-to-be ex-wife.

“She ain't even in the pathway. Neither is Benson, you know —”

“It's close enough! Knoxville —”

“Is two counties over! And even if the floods are bad, it's solid. It'll be fine —”

“How do you even know that —”

“It's Lovell Hill.  Hill. You ever get floodin’ there?”

“It don't matter if I never got floodin' this bad before, Jon! People on top of fuckin’ mountains are gettin’ affected. There's dead bodies in the trees, kids, babies floatin’ down the floodwaters. A thousand year flood done washed Asheville away,” her voice cracked. “I hate it here.”

“You don't hate it here —”

“Yes I do!  Right now I do! I can't do nuthin’ about anything!”

“And what exactly do you think you could be doin’ back home besides bein’ trapped in the house with nowhere to go except the second floor?”

“...But Miss Kitty —”

“She'd find her way to that second floor,” he spoke softly but assertively, a hand patting the air as if to quickly stamp out a flame. He accidentally let a small tick of impatience slip through his throat, but immediately recovered, reaching for her hand. “Or the attic. She'll be okay —”

“There's no one to feed her! Boris n’ Black evacuated! Did they take the cat?  No, they didn't!”

Jon recalled the text. It had been a flash flood warning, and they all needed to evacuate immediately. There was no time for anyone to drive all the way over to the Hill to get the cat.

“I'm sorry —”

“I'm just — I'm just — ” her hand bounced against his stomach as a video on her phone held a silent loop of the rushing, ochre-colored waters of the floods onscreen. “The Rainbow Bridge up in Lake Lure washed away. Peoples’ live pets are bein’ washed away. There was one lady who lost ten cats — ten of ‘em, and I can't — hey!”

Jon had snatched the phone out of her hand and kept an iron grip on her waist as he held her phone at his long arm’s length.

“Watchin’ those TikTok videos ain't helpin’, baby girl.” 

He started to chuckle as she struggled but wasn’t truly putting any effort into getting it back. She only mildly hated it when he was like this, smacking at his arms until she hugged them to her chest in a caress, too drained from all of the blunt, realtime depictions of life and death at the hands of a very angry Earth. When she relaxed, he tossed her phone two feet away onto the bed and lay with her comfortably cradled in his arm. 

“I know it's hard. It's hard feelin’ so — helpless. But there ain't nuthin’ either of us can do right now except live our lives.” He cupped her rounded jaw with his fingers, stroking his thumb against her pouty lip. “At least try to.”

She kissed the pad of his thumb, but then shook away from it. “I’m tryin’.”

“I know you are.” They lay in silence for a minute, listening to each other's heavy breaths in the damp evening air. “We can't go home now.”

“I — I know.”

“Hey,” he whispered.

“What.”

“You know I love ya?”

“...I love you more,” she pouted.

“You just love more. Explains your pain over all of that —”, his hand squeezed her shoulder, “ — stuff back home.”

“And you ain't pained? You ain't bothered at all? You…heartless old codger.”

He laughed. “That what you really think of me?”

“No. But I hate that you're so calm n’ collected. It just makes me look crazier.”

“You're allowed to be crazier.”

“...Sexist.”

“Ain't nuthin’ to do with that and you know it.”

“I hate it here.”

“That's fine, I've only been packin’ for London for the past three days —”

“And I hate you.”

“Funny, I thought I just heard a little crazy, farty little forest fairy tellin’ me that she loved me more than I love her.”

“I do,” she pressed her palms into his stomach as she lifted up, eliciting a sharp wince in his disbelieving, open-mouthed grin. She flashed a smug grin of her own and gave him a quick peck on the lips before pushing up and off, bouncing to the bed for her phone. “Imma call Daddy. I bet he can get someone out there to help.”

“...You do whatever you need to do, sweet pea.”

The region in which the Under Virgin Circumstances universe is set has seen unprecedented devastation to all life with Hurricane Helene and hurricane season is far from over. Here are a few links where you can help contribute funds to the rescue and relief efforts:

The International Fund for Animal Welfare donation pages for Helene and for Milton Efforts

The Humane Society of the United States Hurricane Rescue & Relief Efforts

Charity Navigator: Hurricane Helene & Milton Relief Efforts (includes links for pets and their humans)

[labellenouvelle]

ORNAMENTAL WROUGHT IRON

A set of 4 Architectural wrought Iron decorative, scrolled ornamental paneling . Great for room dividers / head boards / doors, gates and more. Use them as pictures or horizontally. Salvaged form a New Orleans home , they were part of the porch ironwork, circa 1950s. Item No. E5767 Dimensions. Each section measures 90" tall x 2ft wide . List Price. $ 1200

504.581.3733 / t

info@labellenovelle.com / e

[nyandreasphotography]

Autumn Allure - Chelsea, New York City by Andreas Komodromos®

Chelsea charm meets autumn allure with a side of sassy signage! 🍂🌆

A quintessential townhouse in Chelsea, Manhattan, exuding old-world charm with its red-brick facade and white-framed windows embellished with decorative ironwork.

The entrance showcases brownstone steps leading to an elegant door, enhanced by surrounding fall decorations. Vibrant autumnal arrangements, featuring leaves, pumpkins, and gourds, adorn the entrance, complementing the brick tones. Bright yellow mums and a planter bursting with seasonal blooms add lively color at the staircase's base.

A distinct feature is the black wrought-iron fence, each rod ending in a petal-like design. However, the standout element is a red sign warning against trespassing, adding, "WE'RE TIRED OF HIDING THE BODIES." The sign injects contemporary (dark) humor into the classic setting, reflecting the vibrant personality of New York City's residents.