#desert skiff

[tcards]

Star Wars - Return of the Jedi: The 40th Anniversary Covers by Chris Sprouse

[pedroam-bang]

Star Wars Galaxy Of Adventures (2019)

[swtechspecs]

Ubrikkian Industries Bantha-II Repulsorlift Cargo Skiff ("Desert Skiff")

Source: The Essential Guide to Vehicles and Vessels (Del Rey, 1996)

[the-giik]

Sterilis's most common region, the Expanse

The majority of Sterilis is a large desert simply named the Expanse. Sand, dust, and the sun are your only friends here. Be well prepared for venturing out here, and don't get lost.

Pictured: A typical view in The Expanse. Large mesas and canyons suggest geologically ancient hydrological activity. Rarely you'll be able to find trails of scorched sand from a Skiff's stunt. Instead of a moon, Sterilis's rings are visible in the sky from nearly anywhere. The rings are good markers for latitude; passing the equator means the rings turn into a single stripe, which is reportedly awe-inspiring.

Pictured: The beginnings of a small settlement found in The Expanse. A colony of Parasol Mushrooms provide a good landmark, shade and a natural perimeter fence. Common fashion out in the expanse is comprised of loose robes and very wide-brimmed hats, both for heat regulation.

[foxbirdy]

I did a group q&a for my crew yesterday while we had an Americorps rep doing a field visit for us, & truly 90% of the career advice I can give to anyone trying to work in natural resources is to do cowboy shit. Be a linecook at the Grand Canyon, because that will let you take that job running snowcat runs in Yellowstone for the winter. Then you can find a raft company that will train you to guide for free. Then throw your name in to be an aurora borealis tour guide in the Arctic Circle. Work as a gardener in a national forest nursery. Be a deckhand on a charter sailboat. Be a backpacking trip leader. Get on a trail crew. Be that guy that gets paid to look for woodpecker nests in forest disturbed by a hurricane. Be a ski lift operator. Be that guy who drives a Carolina skiff down the Everglades to find baby alligators. Cut down invasive trees with a machete in the jungle. Be that guy who drives up and down 101, hiking into the old growth to plant microphones that listen for spotted owl calls. Be a backcountry ranger. Live in a tent on a desert island looking for invasive crazy ants. Most of these jobs allow you to "live for free," gaining experience and a modest paycheck while having housing provided for you. It compiles and compiles and compiles until you know how to do a little bit of everything, and know where you want to take that. And you get to do cowboy shit!

[1980sactionfigures]

Desert Sail Skiff - Star Wars (Kenner)

[drabblesandimagines]

Breathless

Clive Rosfield x female reader Angsty, one swear word, description of panic attack, minor game spoilers?

Inspired by this request.

It has been a trying, upsetting week. Not once, but twice had your unit of Cursebreakers arrived too late in order to free some overworked Bearers. Masters have been working them harder since the crystal magicks have started to falter, depending on their source. You knew you were spread too thin – it was always going to be by a couerl’s whisker if you made it there in time. It still hurts, though, to find the petrified bodies, gathering up their remains to perform another solemn casting in the hope that at last they will have found peace.

You’re exhausted, overworked – by your own hand, you know – and to come back without anything to show for it is so discouraging.

You know you should think of all the successful missions, the ones where the boat had come back filled with Bearers who would be safe for the first time in their lives at the Hideaway, but the failure weighs heavily on your mind. Reporting back to Dorys that, no, you weren’t fast enough, you weren’t good enough…

You shake your head, as if you could physically shake the negative thoughts from your mind. You need a hot meal and a decent sleep – one that wasn’t a short nap on the ground, never allowing yourself to sleep too deeply as you needed to be ready to move at a moment – and to be embraced in a certain Fire Dominant’s arms.

As the Cid of the new Hideaway, Clive is a very busy man. He’s often being pulled in multiple directions with various requests. You both had your own missions too and rarely did the two coincide in nature, but that’s the way your relationship had always been. There’s always been something between the two of you, the spark kindled into a steady flame throughout the past few years, culminating in a passionate liaison under a moonlit sky. The time apart always made the moments you had together all the more special, like no time had passed at all as he held you tight in his arms in his bed at night, when you kissed him as if you needed him to breathe, nipping your teeth lightly on his neck to coax a moan from Lord Rosfield’s lips.

Or other nights when you’d sobbed in his arms – for those you’d lost, the injustices you’d witnessed and he’d whisper soft reassurances in your ear, promising the dawn would come.

The world is wearing you down and he is like a tincture for your soul.

Dorys must’ve been keeping an eye out for the skiff because she is waiting for you as the lift opens up on the boarding deck. She casts a questioning eye over the group who stands behind you, obviously looking for Bearers.

You shake your head, sadly, before she can question aloud.

“You did your best, all of you. Any injuries?” A couple in the group nod and are promptly sent off to the infirmary. Dorys gives you a hard stare as you stay put.

“I’m fine, honestly. Nothing to trouble Tarja with.”

“Then get some food and sleep – we’ll debrief in the morning.”

“Thanks, Dorys.” You cast a glance up at the balcony outside Clive’s chambers but your captain easily catches it.

“You’ll be pleased to know he’s home, I’m sure,” Dorys teases.

--

The ale hall is deserted due to the late hour but as you climb the stairs up to Clive’s chambers, there are noises from within. A light feminine laugh, accompanied by Clive’s deep chuckle and it makes you stop right outside the door. It seems impossible for anything to be funny at the moment, but another intrusive thought comes to mind - when was the last time you’d even heard Clive laugh in your presence?

There’s a bit of warped wood that needs tending to, but no-where near on the list of priorities. If you angle yourself just so, you can see through the crack. Jill and Clive are sat on the bench he keeps in his chambers, wine goblets in front of them, candles flickering throughout the room. It looks romantic. He has his body turned to the door, but you can see Jill is leaning towards him, her hand on his thigh.

You can’t hear what they’re saying – their voices too low for that – but Jill leans forward then and you step back, not wanting to see what happens next. Your heart pounds – you’re tired, you know you’re so tired and upset and a failure and your mind spirals.

Clive is a lord and Jill is a lady – a proper lady – raised in the courts and beautiful and charming and sweet. You don’t dress as fine as she, your hair never sits as pretty, you’re incapable of holding yourself with the same grace she does. You’re coarse, you only learned your letters in the last few years of Hideaway living, struggling somewhat as you don’t practice as much as you should. There had been a handful of nights where Clive would lie besides you patiently as you tried to read aloud a couples of passages from a children’s storybook, for Founder’s sake. Jill could write and read fluently, a dab hand at needlework too…

Of course they belong with each other. They will always have a connection that you won’t, of a shared childhood. They’re Dominants and they spend so much time together, they’re a perfect couple and you’ve been deluding yourself that you could’ve ever had kept hold of his heart in the way you did.

Your chest feels tight. You need to get out of here.

There’s movement from behind the door then and you hurry down the stairs, pressing yourself into the corner, being obscured by the shadows. The door to the chambers open and Jill departs.

“Thank you, Jill, for everything.”

She presses a kiss to his cheek and bids him goodnight, walking down the stairs and heading out via the boarding deck to head down to her room. The door to the chambers closes and you sink down against the wall, cuddling your knees.

Why does your chest hurt so?

You don’t know how long you sit there, eventually clambering back up to your own feet, leaning heavily on the wall, and taking the long way back to your bunk through the forge and up via the atrium and across the bridge, thankfully not meeting anyone on your journey as you crawl into bed.

--

You don’t sleep well, if at all. Your mind whirling with thoughts of Clive and Jill – what had he meant when he had thanked her? Clive is the sweetest man. He’d never want to hurt you, even at the cost of his own heart, but loving someone is letting them go, isn’t it?

You give up on sleep just before dawn, heading up to the mess where you find Dorys, mulling over reports at one of the tables. She smiles, sadly, at the sorry sight of you.

“I did not mean for you to be up with the sun to hand in your report.”

“I just want it over with. There’s not much to report. We failed, we were hours too late to both groups of Bearers. I need,” you swallow, before correcting yourself, “We need to get back out there today to try and get a head start on the next. I’m sure there’s a pattern, or we can stage something or-”

“Absolutely not.”

“Dorys.”

“No. You look awful. Did you even sleep?”

“I’m fine.” You reply, tersely.

“I disagree. I’m not letting you take out a group like this, let alone go out yourself. You will report to the infirmary and you will rest.”

“Really?” You can’t mask the incredulous tone of your voice.

“I’m surprised Clive didn’t say this to you already.”

Your heart skips at the sound of his name, but then Dorys frowns in realization.

“Wait, you came down from the bunks. Did you not see him last night?”

“It doesn’t matter where I slept!” You hiss, remembering to watch your volume at this early hour.

She gives you a hard stare. “If you won’t listen to me, I know you will listen to him. Go and see Clive before I drag you to him.”

You clench your fists in frustration, trying to steady your breath.

“Yes, Captain. I apologise. It was late, I did not wish to disturb him. I will go and report in now.” You spin on your heel and jog down the stairs to the boarding deck and towards the ale hall. The problem is, your frustration drives you until you reach the top of the stairs once more, the handle in your grip but then all you can remember is the scene of last night – how perfect the two had looked together…

It suddenly feels hard to breathe, a tightness constricting your chest, as if you can’t get your lungs to expand fully enough.

You need to get out of here, back into the fresh air.

You turn and stumble on the stairs, catching yourself on the banister.

“Hey, you all right there?” Gav’s concerned voice comes from below – he’d emerged through Blackthorne’s forge. He must be setting out on a scouting mission to be awake this early.

You look at him, trying to get a hold of yourself, force a smile and a word of reassurance, but you can’t.

Your legs give out under you and you sit down heavily on the stairs, still clutching on the banister. Your grip is weakening, the edges of your vision tinged with black. Why can’t you breathe? Are you so useless now you can’t even do that?

“Shit.” Gav races up the stairs, crouching down in front of you, eyes scanning to see where the injury is, because there must be one for you to be in such a state. “Clive.” He bellows in the direction of the chambers. “Clive!”

Heavy footsteps come from the chambers behind and you hear the door open behind you, that familiar gravelly, albeit sleep-tinged voice calling your name out with affection at first, but then again with alarm when he sees Gav’s face.

Gav stands up and back to allow Clive to take his place, before darting down the stairs, yelling something about how he’ll go fetch Tarja.

Clive cradles your face, asking you what’s wrong. He looks frightened, but that can’t be right. Why can’t you breathe?

He says something again to you, but the words don’t go in. All you can hear is how shallow your breathing has become. Tears line those stormy blue eyes you adore so much, the ones you could’ve spent staring into for hours. His mouth continues to move but it’s almost as if you were underwater, a ringing sound in your head, the black continuing to creep over your vision until the world disappears entirely.

--

The next conscious thought is that someone is holding your hand, rubbing their thumb back and forth over your knuckles in a comforting rhythm. Your chest still feels tight, but not as much as it did. You open your eyes and blink at the somewhat familiar ceiling of the infirmary.

“Thank the Founder you’re awake.” Clive says quietly, squeezing your hand.

You try to bolt up at his voice, but he places his hands on your shoulders and keeps you still.

“Easy, darling. You need to rest - please.” You’ve always found it hard to refuse him.

You nod and he smiles, letting go of your shoulders and readjusting the pillows to allow you to rest against a little more upright. “Here, drink.” He passes you a goblet of water from the bedside.  “I will fetch Tarja.”

You nod, taking it in trembling hands and sip the lukewarm water as he gets to his feet and heads around the curtain, soon returning with the red-headed physicker as you place the goblet back down.

“Good afternoon. You gave everyone quite a fright this morning.”

“I’m sorry.”

Tarja gives you a kind smile and takes a seat on the vacant bed. “Can you tell me what happened? Gav, Clive and Dorys have given me their side of the story.”

“I don’t know what it was. I just… I suddenly couldn’t breathe. It was like something was constricting my chest and I couldn’t get the air in.”

Tarja nods. “How had you been feeling before this occurred?”

“Fine.”

Clive and Tarja give you a disparaging look.

“A little tired, then.”

“Dorys told us you’ve been working exceptionally hard, and it has been a trying week.”

“Please, can we not speak of my failures?” Your breath hitches in your throat, your heart begins to pound again. “I’ll do better, I will…”

“Easy.” Tarja chides, leaning forward. “Take a deep breath, hold it, then release. Copy me.”

You do so for a couple of moments, feeling silly, but your chest loosens, your heart settling into a more comfortable rhythm.

“Better?”

“Mm. What’s the matter with me?”

“You’re exhausted, for one. You need to rest and properly look after yourself. You’re taking too much on your shoulders and this is your body’s way of repaying you. Your mind is overwhelmed." She paused for a moment, and nods to herself. "You’re relieved from the Cursebreakers.”

“But-"

“Listen to Tarja.” Clive pleads. “They will cope without you and when you are better, I promise you can resume your duties.”

You know you can’t get out of this, not with Tarja, Clive and Dorys all laying down the law.

You nod.

“Good.” Tarja smiles. “I’m going to brew you some tea and get you a hot meal. I will discharge you later on, all being well.”

“Thank you, Tarja.” Clive nods as the physicker gets to her feet.

“Thank you.” You repeat, softly.

Tarja retreats back around the other side of the screen and Clive takes hold of your hand once more, his brow still furrowed in concern.

“Dorys said you returned last night. Why didn’t you come to my chambers? I’ve missed you so.”

You look down at your lap. It would better to get this nightmare over with.

“I heard you and Jill.”

“Heard what?” He sounds truly puzzled.

“I came up to the chambers and the two of you were laughing. You sounded happy. And all I could think was when was the last time I’d heard you laugh like that? We hardly see each other. I’m always out with the Cursebreakers, and you’re always away with Jill.” He starts to protest, but you hold up your hand. “Please, Clive, it’s okay. I understand. Don’t… Don’t let me stand in the way anymore.”

“Stand in the way - what do you mean?”

“You and Jill are perfect for one another. I understand that you want to end whatever we’ve been calling this…“ You continue talking into your lap, afraid that if you look up you'll see relief in his eyes.

“Now, I admit I’ve been somewhat neglectful of you-”

“No, that’s not what-“

“Please, allow me to finish. I have, and that’s not fair. I desire nothing more than to spend the rest of my days with you, but I have allowed myself to be consumed with the Mothercrystals and the nature of that does mean that Jill has been in my company as late. I can’t take you into an aetherflood, I won’t risk it.”

“Destroying the Mothercrystals is important.”

“It is, and though we are fighting so Bearers and Dominants and everyone can live on their own terms, we still must remember to live in the moments we have.” Clive presses his hand to the side of your face, placing his thumb under your chin and tilts your gaze gently towards him.

“I love you.”

“Clive…” Your eyes burn with unshed tears.

“You, and only you, are the flame that burns within my heart. Earlier, when you spoke of your failures – what failures? You strive to be the best you can every day, darling. I see it, Dorys sees it, Jill, Gav, Otto, Charon – the whole Hideaway. You are passionate, hardworking, kind, considerate… You will have to forgive me as I am no scribe, but I could continue to wax on somewhat lyrically of everything I adore about you.” His face flushes red as he continues to hold your gaze.

“I love you – I do not tell you enough, I know I don’t – and I vow, from this moment onwards, I will make sure you know this every day.”

Your breath catches again, but not in the same way it had previously. You lean forward, allowing yourself to be fully enveloped in his arms and you sob into his neck – releasing the tension that has been building up within you for days.

He holds you close, rubbing his large palm on your back in comforting circles, allowing your anxieties to retreat under the surface. You know they will re-emerge at some point – it would be foolish to think they would not – but for now they settle.

“I love you too,” you mumble, gaining some composure after a period and pull back, wiping the tears from your face before kissing him, delicately. It is a gentle, reassuring kiss – perfect for the moment. Soft pecks against each other’s lips, before you nip his with your teeth ever so slightly.

He pulls back, pressing his forehead against yours. “Careful, my love, or you’ll make me lose my breath.”

--

Masterlist . Requests welcome . Ko-fi

[stromuprisahat]

Siege and Storm- Chapter 10

Sure you did...

This sounds a lot like:

I didn't realize working will require actual work!

She really has no idea what's going on, right?

Or more precisely, Alina's still refusing to accept her circumstances...

Just who she means now?!

Because she sort of talked only with Ivan...

Be brutal. Be cruel. That's not exactly the point he was trying to make, but nvm. It's misinterpretation at best. I'm gonna give Alina "antis treatment": Please provide direct quote.

Touché!

If only Alina behaved like a poor person as well as speaking as such.

Alina "Let's just collectively ignore previous events!" Starkov

Just picture Malyen arriving to the remains of his unit like:

"Hey guys! Remember how I forgot to return from a watch? Well, I was on a super important mission not even our officers knew about! Deserter?! That's slander, spread by the Darkling, who wanted my gf for himself!"

Wait, no. Thinking about it, that might really work. Grisha are the cause of every misfortune in Ravka, so blaming Darkles would be like saying "Devil made me do it." in a world, where Satan is real.

Alina, back at her shit again...

Her crippling self-blame's tiring.

Because Alina refused to kill the Stag, the Darkling could use her to destroy Novokribirsk. Okay, why not?!

Alina likes to feel responsible for things she didn't have power to change, but the Grisha and soldiers [she]’d abandoned on the Darkling’s skiff? That's unrelated. She let them to die/killed them to save Malyen, she had her powers back, her in/action back up north has nothing to do with it.

Her twisted logic is connecting dots that aren't even on the same sheet of paper.

Passive bystander gets to keep their hands clean!

[raisindave]

[Chapter 72] Seeing the World Through Ballistic-Tinted Glasses

Ghost

Simon’s perspective; mirrors the previous chapter.

No setting is unequipped so long as you know where to look. Whether you’re finding yourself in a desert or tundra or dropped in the middle of a frigid ocean. Most bathrooms in these dodgy motels don't bother carting around cleaning supplies; it's easier to clean at the staff's wavering discretion. As luck would have it, the cabinet with ramshackle hinges houses a small patch of rusty steel wool. This will do. Luck also favoured the battery being in the alarm altogether. Using a lens as a firestarter would take far too long. She'd pack up and leave by the time you can fulfill your plot. Lua sat patiently enough, physically, that is, but she's never been good at concealing her true feelings behind those expressive eyes. 

"You remember our word, right?" you ask loud enough that she has no choice but to answer, carefully clearing rust from the steely pad. 

Her humming vocalization grants you the go-ahead to resume. You should command her to use her words and that hums aren't appropriate confirmations. She doesn't look like she's in a state to receive more corrective reprimands. The extent of whatever's got her so upset is beyond you, and there's no Italian bloke you can wring the truth from. Gaz and Price are so far oblivious to your tussles with Lua. That much you can say with certainty. Johnny, on the other hand, you're not too sure. He's always had a way of reading you; it's annoying. She's not exactly subtle, though, gawking at you slackjawed for days after you fuck her brains out. You'd think someone with that level of intelligence would have the mental wherewithal to recognize her lack of discretion. 

When connected with the live end of a battery, steel wool completes the circuit through conductive metal; the fragility of the wiry fibres makes them spark into an ember, an easy chemical fire. 9-volt batteries, easily sourced in most smoke detectors and stove lights, having a two-terminal array on one side is necessary or the wool won't spark. The fire is weak but fast-moving, leaving you precious seconds to transfer the infant flame to the wick. It crackles to life with a pause, and the embering metal is easily smothered with your thumb. Raised eyebrows say she's amazed, but her eyes are still haunted. 

"Where'd you learn to do that?" Her voice cracked when she spoke. 

"SAS Handbook," you grumble, setting the candle aside to focus on more pressing matters. 

Soy wax has a lower melting point, it won't leave any lingering pain beyond what's required. She's lucky Laswell didn't gift her paraffin wax, as that would've changed things. You'd never have expected that you'd use your quick-deploy paracord rope like this, but it'd been sitting idle on your keychain for years. With only seven feet of chord, you'd have to calculate the necessary rope to fasten her, a skill you'd been taught when tying skiffs and lean-to's in your training. It's a shame to unravel the paracord, it'll take hours to re-bind it. But now it's time to reposition your tango. Her ankle flinches when you grip it, but you still yank her into the center of the boxspring canvas. 

Her eyes lit up when you climbed over her, planting your knees beside her hips to better control your work, it almost made you laugh. Not yet, little Cricket. So eager. Right now, you'll need to create a stem that will connect the loop on her lower chest to the pairing one across her collarbone. Performing a figure eight knot backwards and blind is not something you'd done in this specific setting before, but it'll make a good anchor along her shoulder blades. It's hard to focus when you can feel her eyes lusting at the base of your mask. 

A half hitch on the stem and another half hitch bring the ropes back through the loop. This will make the hardpoint to fasten her wrists to. Now again, to the front, crossing a V through the two loops makes an anchor in the middle pull her breasts together just right; it's a true test of your self-control not to tear off your mask and hear what sounds she'll make when you bite those eager nipples. The effort is rewarded when you pull the figure-eight weave taut, and the soft, plump skin is utterly addictive. 

"This isn't revenge for that lil ol' thing in the bunker, right?" she squeaked, poorly shielding her apprehension.

"What thing is that?" you turn the question back to her, a scare tactic you'd used on countless warmongers. 

A taut-line hitch around her wrists will keel those grabbing hands out of reach, one of the first knots Lofty teaches. The knot is reliable and allows for flexible lengths, and it is easily tightened if a certain sergeant continues writhing. She's grinding that pretty pussy against your groin as if you won't notice. She's a fly in your web now. It's starting to make more sense in your mind why so many people enjoy this kind of thing so much, colleagues bantering about getting kinky with their wives in the workroom when they assume you aren't in earshot. She's entirely surrendered herself to your whims, and this power is fantastic, you can't help but feel pretty chuffed. 

"That time I had you on your back, lieutenant, begging for me to touch you," her words snapped you from your trance like a splash of cold water. "Don't you remember that time you were a snivelling, grovelling mess, apologizing so I might let you come?"

"Don't give me any new ideas," you smirk, sucking your teeth in thought. 

"It's not a new idea if you're stealing it outright." 

"You want a gag?" you hiss, considering the image of your fingers silencing her words. 

"But how will you hear me apologize then, lieutenant?"

She doesn't know that the way she says your rank always makes you harder than ever before, even when she thinks it's a jab. It seems she's not entirely surrendered like you'd expected. It doesn't matter. She can think she's won this petty squabble, but the truth is you let her win. You'll permit her this victory only because you've already choreographed the brutal punishments you want to inflict on her. The idea that it could mean not being able to hear her safe word was also a sobering thought. That, and that the songs she sings are just too sweet. All enough to strip the sentiment from your mind entirely.  

"You seem like you've done this stuff before," she said, stealing your attention from your work again. 

That didn't require an answer. Letting her simmer with the possibilities she's proposed is more fun. The root of your scare tactics revolves around the target creating their imaginary mythos about how horrifying you must be when you wear this executioner's hood. It's worked exceptionally well. But you weren't always violent during sex, if anything you were the opposite. You don't really do play fighting. You do scrimmage or actual combat—little else. Learning to be gentle and playful in a combat situation feels like using your left hand; familiar movements but not the same certainty. Lua seems to have pinned you as some sort of expert rigger, and maybe she'll believe your masque of certainty. The knots are known, and her breath quickens when you touch her soft skin to draw them tight. 

"Take off your clothes," she commanded, it made you grin. 

"You should've thought about trying to give me orders before you got tied up like a smoked ham."

"You weren't fucking the smoked hams when you were a butcher, were you?" she mused sweetly. 

Funny. There she is again, catching you by surprise with serrated banter. A sharp tongue that challenges your own where few people have matched this level of raillery. Johnny comes close, but he's not bitter like she is. It takes a high level of intelligence to be that witty, a trait more attractive than squealing giggles or batting eyelashes. That won't earn her the upper hand, and pinching one of those eager nipples between your fingers makes her writhe in the way you were hoping she would. 

"You're deflecting," she tried to look like she wasn't enjoying your manipulation. "What's the matter? Bashful?" 

"No." 

She's grossly mischaracterized you if she thinks you're some precious meek thing, that you'll cry and shudder if she saw your body under your equipment. Your shirt lifted over your back easily, cool air breathing across your bare shoulders. While wearing heavy clothing can offer protection in more ways than one, you'd never been described as shy by anyone who knew you. The thought of security gave you pause. You'd bet your life she didn't lock the door. If she'd locked the door as you requested, you'd go easier on her, but reignited agitation at her lack of vigilance permitted you to give her your worst. You made sure she'd hear the click of the deadbolt, she always folds when you glare at her. Hopefully, she'll commit this act to memory. The way she's panting like a dog says that she's mentally preoccupied, it's hard not to let it stoke your ego. 

Lua couldn't take her eyes off your chest for the longest time, but she managed to pry them away when she heard the clasp of your belt. That sound is evolving into a Pavlovian response to her. It could be fun to tease her or blindfold her here and now and deprive her of the pleasure. But it feels cruel to turn to punishment this early on. Leaning down wouldn't be good husbandry for a fresh injury, you'd have to lean rather than bend. That's a lesson you'd learned the hard way before. You folded your jeans, it'd be a shame to get them dirty on this dubiously stained carpet and set them aside in the chair's safety. Grinning under your mask, she followed your thumbs as they dragged your briefs below your thighs with unblinking eyes. 

By now, every other woman you've brought to bed would've asked about your scars. 'What's this one? ' 'What's that one? ' the questions become an expected tax on your psyche as soon as you undress, a predictable conversation that takes away from time you'd soon spend alone. It's a consequence of your long-lived lifestyle. Lua doesn't ask about them, though her eyes still hungrily explore your body nonetheless, but that's typical. A quick shag for convenience is great for morale, but this is more time than you've ever spent with a single person. Sometimes when you're off tour you'd find someone at a bar, but those encounters have become more and more rare through the years. At the thought of it, the last time you remembered bedding another woman was half a decade ago. Partners aren't conducive to a lifestyle where you're on the road for months at a time, not to mention the looming threat of death.

"What a good little soldier," her voice stings your heart. 

"You sound nervous," you challenge her knowingly. 

She sings so sweetly when you enter her, it inspires an unsettling instinct of aggression within you. At how vulnerable she's made herself. Like when you see a duckling or baby; something makes you want to crush her under your weight. Instead, you pull the ropes tighter, creating a deep strain that presses the swell of her breasts higher above her heaving chest. You couldn't help your wandering hands that slither over her skin, searching for what they've already found. Her lips hang open, glistening with saliva as she gasps when you thrust into her. The thought of smothering her craning mouth with yours makes sweat gather along your spine, you're already pushing your boundaries enough as is. Self-control, Simon. It would be inappropriate. What's the point? It's already inappropriate. You can't. You'd have to blindfold her if you did. But you can't, it's prohibited. You'd already intimidated her into obeying the established rules just moments ago. 

Removing your mask entirely flickered in your psyche as a possibility. Lua's position being outside of 141 makes it a complication, though. Her affiliation with the task force isn't like Las Almas, where showing your face was a necessary show of trust during a particularly dubious operation. Not only is she an impermanent foreign IA unit, but she's also alarmingly oblivious to the dangers around her. Lua’s genius in her craft comes at with the consequence of not seeing threats that are otherwise obvious to honed eyes. If she got captured, which is more likely than she realizes, having seen your face could make it possible to describe it if she's under enough manufactured stress. Farah was right to warn you; she'll never be aware of the danger she's exposed to until it's too late. She'd stop to fawn over a yellow scorpion, delighted by its lovely tail, heedless to its heart-stopping venom. You owe it to Farah to steer her from harm she'd be blind to, even if that harm is herself lately. You've taken on that responsibility because that's what you've always learned to do. Take on every burden, regardless of the cost. It’s a worthy trade for someone who takes you so well, groaning so sweetly when you punish her with your cock.

In the haze of lust, those thoughts return. Times like this make you vulnerable to slithering fantasies you'd learned to bury. Thoughts of a swollen belly, of fatherhood, of a family and domestic bliss. It's all so possible, a pipe dream that need not be. It's a terrible idea on all fronts, yet the deeply rooted cravings pry at your wit. Her eyes staring at yours whisper that she wants it, she wants to bear that burden. You try to swallow, but your throat is dry, and a twang of panic snakes through your sinews. You creep. These thoughts can't continue. Full stop. Composure. Your hand found the candle as you found yourself quickly approaching your orgasm sooner than anticipated. Finally, enough heat had created a pool under the wick. Dribbling candle wax spatters on her chest and the way her mouth warps as she cries out makes you crazy. More, more. Enough to wrench those thoughts from your mind with brute force, melting away your sin. Please do it again.  

"F-fuck you," she stammered when you were particularly cruel. 

Moments like this make you wonder if she's connecting with the irony of the situation right now. At least you're not prying an apology from her for things she scarcely even remembers, emasculating her with her own equipment. Though it's not strictly true to say there's no ulterior motive. You just have to keep drowning these creeping fantasies at all costs. Daydreams that keep you awake through restless nights. There's just something so darling to your conscience that it's been your beacon in the darkest times, imaging a hand-whittled wooden spoons degraded to an angle over years of labouring over homemade meals. A tool that's been there for ages, stable. Reliable and worn. Honed and loved. An odd mental image that keeps a spark in your cold chest that keeps a fire in your will to live. Another drop of hot wax along her belly makes you shudder, how pathetic. 

"You've always been an asshole, y'know that?" Another attempt to chastise you as if you're not immune to cheap beratement. 

That can't go unanswered. You leaned in closer, lowering to hover over her. The act tightened your abdomen, reminding you of fresh stitches, but the feeling of her clenching around you made it worth it. Pushing her to her limits came with the consequence of testing your control over her own body. Harsh staccato movements of your thumb across her clitoris seemed to bring forward the most intense reaction, only for you to withdraw it without warning. 

"Unoriginal son of a bitch," Lua made her opinion known. 

She can talk all she wants. She feels so fucking good. You have to get a hold of yourself. Her breast feels so warm and soft in your palm that you had to drown creeping excitement with bitter memories to stop yourself from succumbing. However, she can't keep up with your pace, and you now have the power to decide her fate. She gets this look on her face when she's close, unbeknownst to her, signalling you to relax your pace. The sheen of sweat over her wrought body made pinched skin shimmer, glowing in the light of the candle. 

"That's no way to talk about my mother," you whisper against her neck. She smells so good. 

"Fuck you," her voice was sharp but still smooth like silk. 

"I should make you apologize for that." 

Insolent, but a captivating challenge. During your time as a sergeant, you'd also held a certain skepticism toward your insipid commanders. It must be so freeing to be able to tell your superior to go fuck themselves, even if in private. She brings a certain unity to this team, you'd fiercely challenge any administrator or senior officer who considered changing her position. Especially if it comes to the bonus of keeping her in a position like this. Every time you're around her, you say more in ten minutes than you have in over twenty years. It's becoming harder and harder to admit that-... she recoils, gathering her lips to spit at your face above hers. Warm saliva spattering across your eyes, your mind works fast to find a process of reciprocation. Conflicting emotions and pouring outrage propose a dozen disciplinary actions to take. One in particular clicks into place in your mind. She has no idea what she's just done.

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Master List

[disco-elysium-via-polls]

🎵 None

Leaving the deserter behind, we begin to head back,

through the fort...

🎵 La Revacholiere

ENCYCLOPEDIA - ICM? This feels familiar somehow...

"Kim, what is the *ICM*?"

"RCM… It sounds like RCM -- Revachol Citizens Militia."

"A white star." (Point to the star on the label.)

"Are those specks stars too?"

"Looks old. What's it still doing here?"

[Finish thought.]

KIM KITSURAGI - "Insulindian Citizens Militia. It's the official name of the communards' army. The Black and White Army of the Revolution."

ENCYCLOPEDIA - Sounds an awful lot like...

2. "RCM... It sounds like RCM -- Revachol Citizens Militia."

KIM KITSURAGI - "It does."

"Why?"

KIM KITSURAGI - "The RCM *may* descend from the ICM."

"*May*?"

KIM KITSURAGI - "It's impossible to say." He looks toward the darkened doorway. "It was chaos after the war. The name was good for getting people to join us -- Revachol West was mostly workers and criminals..."

+5 XP

RHETORIC [Medium: Success] - ...nice *political* thoughts rush through your neocortex.

ENDURANCE [Medium: Success] - A mediocre athlete would pant from dragging around his body on a busted crutch -- but not you, you're thinking about *politics* with blood dripping down your thigh...

"What I'm hearing is -- we descend from the glorious revolutionary army."

"It's a little embarrassing in '51, no? Maybe we need a re-brand?"

Just catch your breath.

+1 Communism

KIM KITSURAGI - "There were all sorts of groups and *groupuscules* back then. It doesn't really matter..." He bows to inspect the barrel.

3. "A white star." (Point to the star on the label.)

KIM KITSURAGI - "No." He looks at it. "An *upside down* star."

ENCYCLOPEDIA - With its horns in the sky -- the symbol of the Commune.

4. "Are those specks stars too?"

KIM KITSURAGI - "No. That's the *uninhabited archipelago*."

ENCYCLOPEDIA - A Dolorian-era symbol of Insulinde. Known as The Face In The Sea.

5. "Looks old. What's it still doing here?"

KIM KITSURAGI - "After..." He thinks. "Forty four years? That's not nearly enough time to hide what happened here, lieutenant-yefreitor."

"One of these barrels was still leaking fuel, as you saw. The city is full of things like this. Old bullets, guns, fuel..."

6. [Finish thought.]

Be careful not to fall... the cliff face looks steep.

ROO A72 MOTOR SKIFF - The skiff is swaying on the waves by the dock.

"Let's return to the mainland."

[Leave.]

KIM KITSURAGI - "Let's. We're done here," he says, adjusting his glasses as he looks out over the water.

ROO A72 MOTOR SKIFF - The skiff rocks gently under your weight as you get in. The ride back is uneventful and quiet.

PERCEPTION (HEARING) [Easy: Success] - But for the sound of conversation on the water. There is someone inland, waiting for you.

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Easy: Success] - Two men and a woman stand on the concrete square of a nameless village, looking at a small yellow boat as it draws closer. The sea is calm.

ROO A72 MOTOR SKIFF - You reach the jetty and climb out of the skiff.

🎵 Precinct 41 Major Crimes Unit

JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Look what the tide brought in," says the man without sunglasses. Suddenly, his expression changes and he tilts his head...

"Harry... you're bleeding all over the place. You're half dead."

RHETORIC [Medium: Success] - Whatever this is, it is completely unimportant compared to what you've just *seen*.

VISUAL CALCULUS [Medium: Success] - This is the Man with Sunglasses from the Whirling-in-Rags! But where are his sunglasses?

"Wait... you're the Man with Sunglasses."

"Forget about all this, there's a giant..."

"No one else seems bothered by the bleeding."

"Who are you people?"

JEAN VICQUEMARE - "That's right -- and you're bleeding."

2. "Forget about all this, there's a giant…"

JEAN VICQUEMARE - "We're not forgetting about anything -- look at you!" He points at you with both hands.

3. "No one else seems bothered by the bleeding."

JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Bothered by it?! Harry, you look like you need a fucking organ transplant!"

He takes a deep breath. "Fuck it, let's not get into that."

4. "Who are you people?"

TRANT HEIDELSTAM - "Hello, I'm Trant Heidelstam. I believe we've met on several occasions."

JEAN VICQUEMARE - "I'm your goddamn *partner* Jean Vicquemare, and this is *your* special task force," he says, gesturing toward his companions. "Or what's left of it."

"Special Consultant Trant Heidelstam, Patrol Officer Judit Minot."

JUDIT MINOT - "Hi."

JEAN VICQUEMARE - "We've come to scrape what's left of you off the pavement."

KIM KITSURAGI - "Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi, Precinct 57. We've just come from the island..." He points to the seafort. "Where our investigation led us."

RHETORIC [Medium: Success] - The scene is making even him feel as though he has to justify your actions.

KIM KITSURAGI - "We might need your help with something later," he adds, suddenly regaining his confidence.

AUTHORITY [Trivial: Success] - As if he recalled that he's, in fact, a decorated police lieutenant, and not a naughty boy.

KIM KITSURAGI - "But this is clearly a *departmental matter*, so I'm going to leave you to discuss it among yourselves."

"Thank you, lieutenant."

"Way to feed me to the wolves…"

"No, Kim, you've gotta have my back. Let's destroy them."

JUDIT MINOT - "It's good to meet you, Lieutenant Kitsuragi," she says warmly, flashing the lieutenant the tiniest of smiles.

COMPOSURE [Medium: Success] - Letting the lieutenant know *he* shouldn't feel embarrassed over the shitstorm that's about to befall you.

5. "What is this about?" (Move on.)

JUDIT MINOT - "Harry, we want to help you. Trant, I believe this is where you come in?"

SUGGESTION [Medium: Success] - This is the Horse-Faced Woman. I don't know *why* you named her that, but it was beyond idiotic. You should *never* address her using those words again.

TRANT HEIDELSTAM - "Uhm..." He takes a step back. "I don't *quite* know what I'm doing here. I was asked to participate as an expert -- I think I need to manage your expectations a little. I'm at best an enthusiast in cognitive science."

"My background is in something else entirely. I engage in *neurology*…" -- he makes air quotes -- "… on a merely theoretical level. In fact, I should probably get going…"

JEAN VICQUEMARE - "No... Trant, it's too late. You're part of this shit now!" He turns to you. "What have you got to say for yourself, shitkid?"

AUTHORITY [Easy: Success] - What does *he* have to say for *himself*? He left you to catch the bullets!

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Medium: Success] - Shitkid. What an interesting moniker.

"What's a shitkid?"

"How did you know I was here?"

"You aren't the Man with Sunglasses at all... you're not even blond!"

"You." (Nod to the female officer.) "I'm sorry I didn't recognize you before."

"So *Trant Heidelstam* turns out to be… *Special Consultant Trant Heidelstam*…"

"Duped again! No one's who they say they are!"

"You mentioned a 'task force'?"

"Where have you been all this time -- there was a mercenary tribunal."

JEAN VICQUEMARE - "You. *Shitkid* -- that's you."

RHETORIC [Formidable: Failure] - Maybe you've *deserved* it?

2. "How did you know I was here?"

JEAN VICQUEMARE - "The cafeteria manager you fucked over told us where you went."

"After all that Sylvie stuff, he betrays me…"

"I saved his establishment and still he betrays me?!"

(Turn to face the general direction of the Whirling and yell.) "Damn you, cafeteria manager! You've betrayed me for the last time!"

"I understand. Okay. Garte told you."

JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Shitkid," he says, shaking his index finger, "he didn't *betray* you. He just told us the direction you went in. Who's Sylvie?"

"Sylvie's a whore. She rides the cock carousel... and foreigners."

"Sylvie's a girl I hooked Garte up with. I did that *and* saved his establishment!"

"No one. It's not important."

JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Strange. He didn't mention that. In fact, the establishment didn't look saved at all -- there was a giant *aero-graffito* in front of the building. It was on fire."

"It was this one junior delinquent."

"Yeah, I lit it on fire. It was a poetic gesture."

JEAN VICQUEMARE - "I knew it. Didn't I tell you, Trant? I told you it was our shitkid."

TRANT HEIDELSTAM - "The line is from Lu Jiatun's 'Mirova 82', isn't it? About Girl Child Communism -- the titular *returning* character. The ghostly apparition of..." He looks around and, noticing the impatience of his companions, stops himself. "Good choice, Harry."

ENCYCLOPEDIA [Medium: Success] - He is correct. It was the Seraise poet Lu Jiatun who in the Fifties of the last century composed a...

JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Don't encourage him, Trant."

TRANT HEIDELSTAM - "Okay."

3. "You aren't the Man with Sunglasses at all… you're not even blond!"

JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Guilty as charged." He exchanges a look with the special consultant. "I heard you'd lost your mind *and* your memory. I wanted to see if it was true."

"And it was. Good work, Harry. You're insane now. There's one less person for me -- and everyone else -- to rely on."

RHETORIC [Medium: Success] - He was too sarcastic for you to realize who he was.

"Actually, I suspected something was off."

"Maybe if you hadn't been so *sarcastic*, I would have realized I knew you."

"I don't like being lied to!"

"Okay. I had that coming."

JEAN VICQUEMARE - "I'm clinically depressed, Harry. Sorry if I wasn't in the mood to butter you up after you told us to fuck off."

"Actually, I suspected something was off."

JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Did you?" He adjusts his tie. "Or did you literally not recognize my face? We've been partners for how long, Harry? Don't answer that -- you don't *remember*."

ENCYCLOPEDIA [Challenging: Success] - Absolutely no idea. A hundred years?

EMPATHY [Medium: Success] - Judging by the familiarity you feel toward him -- two years minimum? Or maybe a short, but close stint on the task force...

SUGGESTION [Medium: Success] - He's right. Don't start guessing. Now's not a good time.

4. "You." (Nod to the female officer.) "I'm sorry I didn't recognize you before."

JUDIT MINOT - "It's okay," she sighs. "I didn't come here to gloat, or to fool you. Neither did he, actually." She gestures toward Vicquemare. "We're just worried."

JEAN VICQUEMARE - "That's right -- 'worried'. I'm always worried about you. Every time you don't show up to work, or when you do -- but *stink*."

"You're a *worry-fest*. She's worried about you. I'm worried about you. Even Special Consultant Backpedal is worried about you. Everyone worries -- instead of *working*."

5. "So *Trant Heidelstam* turns out to be... *Special Consultant Trant Heidelstam*..."

TRANT HEIDELSTAM - "Yes, I'm Trant Heidelstam. I never said I wasn't Trant Heidelstam."

"Wait, what was up with the kid then?"

"So what are you *special consulting* here?"

"Okay, you're Trant Heidelstam. Special Consultant. I get it."

TRANT HEIDELSTAM - "Mikael? Mikael's my son."

"Oh yeah?! What was up with all the *interesting history*? Spying on me?"

"Oh… okay. Sorry."

TRANT HEIDELSTAM - "No. I was just interested in the Feld building and the Martinaise Beachhead. And Mikael wanted to see Martinaise. It was a coincidence."

EMPATHY [Medium: Success] - Him being there with his son -- it was not a coincidence. It's difficult to see, but he was worried about you. And *also* interested in the Feld building.

"So what are you *special consulting* here?"

TRANT HEIDELSTAM - "What indeed?" He looks at the dilapidated shacks, then you. "I was asked to share my take on some of the more *obscure* theories developed in Königstein in the Thirties. Like -- partial psychotraumatic amnesia, group personality theory..."

JEAN VICQUEMARE - "He's here to see if you're insane. He's smart. Let's move on."

6. "Duped again! No one's who they say they are!"

JEAN VICQUEMARE - "*Duped*? Hey, here's a brilliant idea -- don't be a morbid drunk and you won't be duped so easily."

"Gardener, scab leader, *this*..." (Turn to the lieutenant.) "Tell me at least *you* are who you said you were!"

"Okay. That… does have something to do with it, yes."

KIM KITSURAGI - "Yes. I'm still Kim Kitsuragi -- still a lieutenant from Precinct 57."

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Easy: Success] - Still caught up in this crossfire, too...

7. "You mentioned a 'task force'?"

JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Yeah -- Major Crimes Unit, under Lieutenants Du Bois and Vicquemare -- ring any bells?"

"Refresh my memory -- who *else* is in this?"

"Yeah. Totally. I get it. Major Crimes Unit."

JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Refresh your memory? It's a god damn Major Crimes Unit. There's you, me, Jude, Trant fucking Heidelstam, and Guillaume Bevy..." He stares at you.

TRANT HEIDELSTAM - "I'm technically just a civilian advisor."

JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Fuck you, you're part of this shit-show."

"Yeah, um -- first, who's Guillaume Bevy?"

"Okay. So what does the unit *do*?"

JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Oh, that's an interesting story, actually!" He's not smiling. "Guillaume Bevy is a police reporter who joined our team. He was really good. Then he left, because he lost faith in your ability to lead the unit."

"Other people have left too. Good, smart people. People we won't get back. Only me and this *really patient* patrol officer are still here. And Trant -- because I'm *forcing* him to stay."

LOGIC [Challenging: Success] - Is this Guillaume Bevy blond and partial to sunglasses?

"Is this Guillaume Bevy blond, with sunglasses? Like you were…"

JEAN VICQUEMARE - "See -- there!" He wags his finger at you. "He's getting it! I was *impersonating* him. Look at me, I'm G-Bevy. It was going to be funny. But then you really did have brain damage -- so not so much anymore."

+5 XP

EMPATHY [Easy: Success] - He sincerely thought it was going to be amusing. For both of you.

"Okay. So what does the unit *do*?"

JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Do? It's a Major Crimes Unit! We clear the desk of cases so Precinct 41 doesn't look like the worst station in town. We're *shit tier* now, Harry. Because of you."

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Medium: Success] - They're your posse. Or what remains of it. Hand-picked. Hand-lost.

KIM KITSURAGI - "The 41st isn't..." He trails off, not wishing to finish the sentence.

8. "Where have you been all this time -- there was a mercenary tribunal."

JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Goddamnit, Harry..." He shifts his weight, crosses his arms, and looks you in the eye.

"You told us to fuck off. You said we're *cramping your style*. You're *Detective God*. Fuck everything. All will burn. Detect or die!"

"Wait, so you let me face a squad of trained killers alone just to teach me a lesson?"

"All *will* burn, Satellite-Officer Vicquemare. Make no mistake about it."

"Why didn't you detect or die then?"

"Why would you leave a literal *Police God*?"

"I said all those things? I'm not like that anymore."

JUDIT MINOT - "It wasn't like that..."

JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Fuck you, Harry -- we didn't *know* there was gonna be a tribunal, did we?"

[sleepless-crows]

do you know why this looks familiar?

this looks incredibly like the place the darkling first created the fold.

(slight spoilers now for king of scars)

and if you've read king of scars, you would know that after the fold was destroyed, the whole land where the fold was, turned into this barren desert. people of the starless saint cult thing ventured there and prayed to the darkling. people rode skiffs across it still. and i don't know how this makes sense into the timeline but that's what it looks like to me

[brokehorrorfan]

Night of the Demons will be released on 4K Ultra HD + Blu-ray and Night of the Demons 2 and Night of the Demons 3 will be released on Blu-ray on October 3 via Scream Factory.

Shout Factory is offering an exclusive set with all three films with exclusive slipcovers by Joel Robinson, six posters, a prism sticker, a set of five enamel pins by Matthew Skiff (limited to 600), and a set of five lobby cards by Beyond Horror Design (limited to 500). Pictured below, it costs $199.99.

1988's Night of the Demons is directed by Kevin S. Tenney (Witchboard) and written by Joe Augustyn. Cathy Podewell, Amelia Kinkade, Linnea Quigley, Hal Havins, William Gallo, and Alvin Alexis star.

1994's Night of the Demons 2 is directed by Brian Trenchard-Smith (Leprechaun 3, Leprechaun 4: In Space) and written by Joe Augustyn. Amelia Kinkade, Merle Kennedy, Cristi Harris, Rick Peters, Jennifer Rhodes, and Christine Taylor star.

1997's Night of the Demons 3 is directed by Jim Kaufman and written by Kevin Tenney. Amelia Kinkade, Larry Day, Kristen Holden-Ried, Tara Slone, Gregory Calpakis, Patricia Rodriguez, and Stephanie Bauder star.

Night of the Demons has been newly restored from an earlier 4K scan of the unrated camera negative, presented with Dolby Vision HDR. Night of the Demons 2 has been newly transferred from the interpositive.

Workprints/alternate cuts of all three films are included. Special features are detailed below.

Night of the Demons 4K UHD special features:

Audio commentary by director Kevin S. Tenney, executive producer Walter Josten, and producer Jeff Geoffray

Audio commentary with director Kevin S. Tenney, actors Cathy Podewell, Billy Gallo, and Hal Havins, and special makeup effects creator Steve Johnson

Audio Commentary with director Kevin Tenney, actors Linnea Quigley and Phillip Tanzini and casting director Tedra Gabriel

Interview with writer/producer Joe Augustyn (new)

Interview with actress Jill Terashita (new)

Interview with special effects artist Nick Benson (new)

International cut (standard definition)

Night of the Demons Blu-ray special features:

Audio commentary by director Kevin S. Tenney, executive producer Walter Josten, and producer Jeff Geoffray

Audio commentary with director Kevin S. Tenney, actors Cathy Podewell, Billy Gallo, and Hal Havins, and special makeup effects creator Steve Johnson

Audio Commentary with director Kevin Tenney, actors Linnea Quigley and Phillip Tanzini and casting director Tedra Gabriel

Night of the Demons workprint (under the title The Halloween Party)

The Halloween Party alternate title card

You’re Invited: The Making of Night of the Demons - 2014 documentary with cast and crew

Interview with actress Amelia Kinkade

Interview with actress Allison Barron

Interview with actress Linnea Quigley

Alternate R-rated scenes

A Short Night of the Demons - 6-minute version of the film shown to potential distributors

Theatrical trailer

Video trailer

TV spots

Still galleries

Promo reel

Still galleries - Behind-the-scenes, special effects and makeup, stills, posters and storyboards

It’s Halloween night and Angela is throwing a party… but this is no ordinary Halloween party. Everybody’s headed to Hull House, a deserted funeral home, formerly the home of a mass murderer. But when the partygoers decide to have a séance, they awaken something evil - and these party crashers have a thirst for blood. Now it’s a battle to survive the night in Hull House.

Pre-order Night of the Demons.

Night of the Demons 2 special features:

Audio commentary by actors Cristi Harris, Jennifer Rose, Darin Heames, and Johnny Moran (new)

Audio commentary by director Brian Trenchard-Smith and director of photography David Lewis

Interview with directors Kevin S. Tenney and Brian Trenchard-Smith (new)

Interview with actor Amelia Kinkade (new)

Interview with actress Cristi Harris (new)

Interview with special effects artist Steve Johnson (new)

Interview with producer Jeff Geoffray (new)

Night of the Demons 2 workprint 

Dailies

Trailer

Behind-the-scenes gallery

It’s Halloween and the teenagers from St. Rita’s High School want to party at the neighborhood’s haunted house. For years, the Hull House has sat in eerie silence – tales of its haunted past have turned into gory jokes and no one really believes anything ever happened there. However, Angela (Amelia Kinkade), the hostess from hell, is summoning her army of teen demons to the blood-curdling contest between the school’s priests and herself, the princess of darkness.

Pre-order Night of the Demons 2.

Night of the Demons 3 special features:

Audio commentary by director Jimmy Kaufman

Audio commentary by writer Kevin S. Tenney and special effects artist Roy Knyrim (new)

Interview with director Jimmy Kaufman (new)

Interview with writer Kevin S. Tenney (new)

Interview with actress Amelia Kinkade (new)

Interview with producer Jeff Geoffray (new)

Night Of The Demons 3 director’s cut (workprint)

Night Of The Demons 3 TV cut

Behind-the-scenes footage

Alternate title sequence 

Dailies 

Trailers 

It’s Halloween! The gates of Hull House have creaked open once again and Angela (Amelia Kinkade) is waiting for her treats. When a group of rambunctious teens take refuge in the foreboding funeral home to escape the law, they soon realize their grave error.

Pre-order Night of the Demons 3.

[livseses]

Us: Watches Redline

[Lewd] Faye: Omg yeah, I wanna include an anime racing arc in our Cellaphage game now. Too bad it doesn't fit.

Nyroka: ... You do know of the races in the desert of green glass right?

[Lewd]: You're fucking joking right?

Nyroka: Not at all. The clockwork wizards guild makes highly impractical carriages and sand skiffs and races them through the Plane of Fire and into the desert. Surely this is no surprise.

[Lewd]: Wtf?? Yeah it's a surprise! Why didn't you ever mention it? Why is this the first time I'm hearing about it??

Nyroka: Cellaphage is an exceddingly large and old place. It just never came up.

Aros: Well it's not quite the first time. The "mad max shit" as you put it, paved the roads for those flights of fancy they perform today. Literally.

[Lewd]: Omg we gotta do an anime racing arc!

[Analytic] Faye: Why do you think I've been working on getting vehicle combat rules set up?

[lorduller]

headcannons for house uller and hellholt

Ullers Headcannons:

Lethal Inheritances:

The tradition of ruling through inheritance has traditionally been the accepted way of ruling within all of Westeros. But the Uller’s have had a more deady tradition than others. Traditionally the next ruiling lord could take over at any time if they manage to kill the previous ruiling lord. Sometimes it lead to deadly encounters within the family, or sometimes it involved children killing a sick or elerdy parent with their permission to help solidify their new spot as ruiling lord/lady. This tradition has seemed to have died down recently with the long rule of Lord Doran Uller. However he is aware that this tradition could come back at any moment.

Blood Oaths and Loyalty:

Swearing blood oaths to the Uller family is a common practice among the Hellholt inhabitants. Breaking such oaths is considered an unforgivable offense, punishable by death.

The Trial of the Scorching Sun:

As a rite of passage for young Uller family members who wish to rule one day. They must undergo the "Trial of the Scorching Sun." They are left alone in the desert for several days, armed only with a scimitar and a limited supply of water. The ones who return are considered worthy of carrying the family's legacy forward. Even those within Hellholt themselves practice this rite of passage to prove their prowess as a warrior.

Maester of Venom:

In the family's service is a reclusive maester known as the "Maester of Venom." His expertise lies in the study of poisons and their antidotes, which makes him very valued. However the most recent Maester of Venom has died and yet to be replaced.

The Veiled Dancers:

Among the Uller family's elite guard are the "Veiled Dancers," a group of highly skilled female warriors. They wear flowing veils that obscure their identities and strike fear into the hearts of their enemies. They are not only fierce combatants but also protectors of the Uller women.

Hellholt Headcannons:

The Festival of Fire:

Within the city of Hellholt, a unique festival called the "Festival of Fire" is held annually. During this event, the citizens showcase their combat skills, and the best fighters are invited to join the elite ranks of the some of the best soldiers within Hellholt. From there many of them grow to become personal guards of the Uller family.

The Brutal Military Training:

The soldiers recruited from Hellholt are subjected to grueling training in the harsh desert environment. They learn to use the natural elements to their advantage and are known for their ferocity in battle, earning them the nickname "Scorchblade Legion."

The Whispering Dunes:

There is a mystical location deep in the desert known as the "Whispering Dunes." It is said that those who venture there can hear haunting whispers in the wind, guiding them towards hidden truths or secrets, often leading to unexpected discoveries or dangers.

Sand Silk Trade:

Hellholt is renowned for producing a rare and exquisite fabric known as "Sand Silk." This fabric is woven from a special kind of desert plant that only grows in the harshest conditions. Sand Silk is not only beautiful but also highly durable, making it a sought-after commodity traded throughout the kingdom.

The Desert Guides:

Because Hellholt is located in the middle of the Dornish desert, the people that reside in the Uller’s regions have learned how to navigate the harsh desert. The Desert Guides have trained most of their lives to learn how to safely travel across the changing deserts. These people are highly sought after in Dorne for their skills in navigation. The highest trained Guide has mastered the practice of a unique form of travel known as "desert sailing." They employ specially crafted sand-skiffs that glide over the dunes, allowing them to traverse great distances quickly and efficiently.

[the-giik]

Skiffs!

Skiffs are an open species that I made! They're custom-made robots on a far-off ringed desert planet named Sterilis.

They have a variety of roles, from deliveries to racing. Depends on what they're built with! Most are scrapped together from old parts.

They have a lot of personalities but they're usually similar to skater punks and adrenaline junkies. They love going fast and doing sick stunts.

Also, they can canonically micspam. They can and will play any sound file they find, at each other, at anyone, at themselves

There's a bunch of other little lore tidbits but that's the gist of it. If you ever wanted a robot that's really robot-y, I encourage ya to make one of these little goobers for yourself!

[walkawaytall]

🎃 Trick or Treat! 👻

(this was the original beginning of A Tolerable Sort of Hell and then it got completely changed)

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_

They were obsessed with his memory. Was he aware the whole time? Did he know how long the whole time was? Did he remember the moments before, the moments after, the moments during? Overwhelmed by the onslaught of sensory input, confused about the changes that had apparently taken place in Lando and the kid, Han remained where Leia parked him on the skiff — pressed between her body and Chewie’s — and only answered questions she asked him directly.

He wasn’t trying to ignore the kid, but he was reeling from every piece of information he had been fed over the past day — Chewie’s explanations had been frantic, confusing, and punctuated by frequent emotional interjections that he was glad Han was alive — and couldn’t seem to fully pay attention to Luke’s comments and questions. He was only sort of trying to ignore Lando. He wasn’t sure what all had gone on, but the last he knew, his former friend had sold him and the beings he loved most out to the Empire. He was, he felt, justifiably suspicious.

Queasy, confused, and more-than-half-blind, Han clung to what he knew as they moved away from Jabba’s: Leia was safe, Leia could read him, Leia’s was the voice he could mostly easily pick out in a crowd or over the sound of wind whipping past his ears as they sped through the desert.

Leia was the last person he’d seen before.

Leia’s was the voice he’d held on to every moment he had spent frozen.

Trick or treat!