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[insulatingmats]

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[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Before the Dawn Has Come, I'd Block the Sun

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as blood and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You discover more than you could have ever expected when researching your thesis.

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: This is my fave so far.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me❤️

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The dry heat sops the moisture from your body, drawing it to the surface as sweat beads and shines on your skin. It’s so hot, the air ripples visibly, the old stone streets appearing more crooked than their ancient foundations. Your sandals hit the ground in a ragged rhythm as your bag weighs you down, your thumb leaving a smear across the screen of your phone. 

You slow as you read the hanging wooden sign and compare to the text on your phone. This is the one. If you weren’t looking for it, you might miss the marquee; hand-painted by your judgment. 

You black your phone and slide it into the loose pocket of your linen pants. Shorts might have been a better choice but you are on an academic mission, not vacation. You uncap your insulated bottle but in the heat of Grecian sun, it does little to keep the water cold. You don’t mind the lukewarm gulp as you tip it into your mouth. 

You slip the bottle into the side pocket of your knapsack and approach the tapered door. It looks as if it might have been placed in the medieval years. The white paint is split by the splintering wood and a curious red outline is streaked around the door frame. That might be something to look into; perhaps another superstition. 

You knock and wait. You wipe another sheen of sweat from your brow and fan yourself with your fingers. You stare at the door anxiously. You check your smart watch. You’re not late. 

Below the time, your heart beat pulses. Even at an easy pace, the heat has you in excess. You blow out a breath and look at the door once more. 

You raise your hand but before you can knock again, you hear a creak from above. You back up as the doors of the second-storey window push outward and hit the siding. The opening is shadowed by a wooden canopy built into the frame and a head of silver head peers out. 

“You may let yourself in. I will be down in a moment.” 

You’re surprised that the man speaks English. Most of the locals don’t know a word of it and your Duolingo crash course has carried you this far, though not without some miscommunication. You set your head straight and reach for the old hoop handle of the door. You push inward, cautiously, letting yourself in with a sense of reverence. 

Within, the entryway is narrow and a set of stairs winds down into it. There’s a mat beneath your soles, woven of wicker, and table to your write. A set of Grecian urns stand on it, symbols painted around their bellies and necks, some polished, others chipped; all in varying states of decay and resplendence. 

You stay by the door and fold your hand, your eyes exploring where your feet won’t. The stairs groan beneath a weight as you peer into the next room, shelves of spines looking back at you. You snap back as a large body descends to the bottom step before you. 

You’re surprised to find a face that does not match the head of silver hair. The man is not young but he isn’t old either. His square jaw is chiseled like one of the country’s famous statues and his form is even more verile and burly than any god of Olympus. But his eyes, they are a shade of amber so pale they almost look golden.  

You’re stunned by his appearance. You shake of that coy thought in your mind. Surely, you’re too deep in your research. After all, what you read about isn’t real, they are wives’ tales. 

“Geralt?” You greet as you extend a hand. 

“You are correct,” he shakes your hand firmly. 

It is just as warm in the house as without. The air curls around you with heat and weaves into your hair, speckling on your scalp. Despite this, he appears unhampered. He wears a linen shirt with an undone collar, exposing the top of his hairy chest, and the short sleeves show his rounded biceps. It is untucked from his grey pants that despite their wide cut, fail to billow around his tree trunk legs. 

“Thank you very much for having me,” you say as he lets you go. “Sorry, did you like English or Greek? I know around here...” 

“English is fine,” he assures. His accent would suggest it’s his first language but you’ve learned from the locals to be mindful. “As it were, I’ve set aside some translations for you.” 

“Oh, thank you,” you look down at your sandals. 

“Leave them on,” he affirms and waves you towards the door you’d only just been peeking through. “No time to waste.” 

“No, not at all,” you agree. “I was hoping to take a few pictures to bring back as well. For reference. I have a translation app that I use--” 

“Mm, none of my records are digitized, for authenticity.” 

“I wouldn’t share them,” you assure. He grumbles. You sense reticence. “Of course, I can just take notes.” 

“We shall see,” he utters as he takes you through to the next room. 

The walls are lined in crowded shelves. Books fill every inch, with some stacked along the edges of the long desk cleared at the centre. You can tell he’s made a recent effort of making room. For you, likely. A strike of guilt flickers. 

“You may work here,” he goes to the desk. “Here is what I’ve put aside,” he taps a thick folder with two fingers, “and these books will do fine for your inquiry. If you have questions or require more of my collections, you might let me know. No pictures.” 

“Um, sure, thank you,” you approach the desk and slip free from your knapsack. 

You glance over at him as he looms, watching you with his eerie yellowish eyes. His pupils pinpoint as his gaze flicks down to your neck as you wipe away the trickle of sweat that tickles you. He quickly reverts his attention to the books. 

“Interesting subject,” he intones. “You mentioned you’ve come from Romania?” 

“I’ve made a trek, for sure,” you open your bag and pull out your laptop and notebook. 

“Mm, I hope your battery is charged. I haven’t any outlets.” 

You look around and only then realise that the sconces on the walls are lit with real flame and that oil lamps illuminate the rest of the space. Hm. It seems a hazard with all this paper, then again, even the hotel you’re staying at is more a rented room in an outdated house. The curly-haired keeper and his wife told you not to plug in more than one thing at time. 

“Oh, right,” you leave it shut and open your notebook instead. 

“Well, I suppose you don’t need me lurking. If you require assistance, call for me. I won’t be far,” he says. 

In his accent, he sounds as if he’s reciting some Victorian script, and his cadence is like the strum of a cello. It sends a chill through despite the stolid air seeping in from beneath the drawn curtains. You nod and step in front of the chair, bracing the armrests but not sitting. 

“Thank you,” you say. 

He stares a moment longer then turns away. His movement is both smooth and stiff. It’s as if you can see a smear of colour with each motion. You shrug it off as another effect of the Grecian heat. 

He goes and you lower yourself onto the seat. The thin embroidered cushion stretched over wood offers little support. You’ve sat on worse in your pursuit of your thesis. You ward off the unease and focus on the wall before you to scale; the books arranged like a fortress to conquer. This will surely take more than a day to get through. 

📜

A day, turns into a week, turns into two.

Despite his standoffish demeanour, Geralt allows you to return to the slanted building on the corner. Each day you pass through the red door frame and sit at the desk. And just as often he adds more to the pile as if you keep you chained there. Yet, you can only blame yourself. You built this prison of academia. 

He doesn’t say much more than that first day. He doesn’t ask questions. He lets you through the door and you part ways. You only see him when he comes to tell you the time. He sends you off before the sun sets on the long Grecian days. You suppose for your own good. It isn’t any good to be walking alone in the dark. 

That day is different. As the moon cycle from a sliver to nothing at all, the night casts upon the Greek roof like ebony silk and the candlelight seems dimmer as you work in its haze. Diligent and distracted from the sifting of seconds through the sieve. Your eyes bore into the parchment as your fingers hover at the corners. 

Vrykolakas devour the flesh, with a taste for liver, though blood does nourish their unearthly being. With fangs like wolves and hunger to match, they are born of sacrilege. They are excommunicated of heaven and hells and all the wiles of humanity. They sleep in unconsecrated earth and feast on sheep when they cannot feast upon that of what they once were. 

In solace, the Vrykolakas find strength. As their hunger deepens, their power heightens, and with the fading of the moon, they float as wraiths upon their hunt to sup upon the flesh of the innocent. 

A shadow, darker than dusk, darker than ink, passes over you. You lift your head, groggy with the stain of scrawled writing in your eyes. You raise your head and blink at the pale figure that emerges into the flickering light. 

“It is after dark,” Geralt declares evenly. 

You flinch and sit up. You glance at the curtains. They look heavier before the deep silt of night. You turn back to him and give a sheepish expression. 

“Sorry, I must’ve lost track of the time.” You go to mark the page with the ribbon and he crosses his arms. 

“Much too late to be venturing out alone.” He girds. 

You pause, your hand in the crease of the pages. “My hotel isn’t very far.” 

“It would be... irresponsible to let you go. A village as small as this would suffer greatly if its only tourist were to perish,” he drones. 

You watch him, put off by his flat tone. His yellow eyes are red around the edges, as if he has not slept. You worry that it might be of your own accord. 

“I have a light,” you assure him. 

“You should stay,” he insists. “You haven’t eaten.” 

You hesitate. You often eat your packed lunch outside between hunching over the desk. He does not permit food around the books. No good archivist would. 

As generous as your other Greek hosts have been, he’s never offered you a meal. You didn’t expect it. After all, you’re there to look at old books. It isn’t a restaurant. 

“I’m fine,” you stand. “Really, I hate to impose any longer.” 

“It isn’t... an imposition,” his voice almost crackles. “I’ve made dinner.” 

“Dinner?” You echo. “Oh, well, if you’ve gone to the trouble.” 

“No trouble,” he assures.  

His teeth glint between his lips, shining and long. You only get a glimpes before he hides them again. You’ve been reading this lore for far too long. 

“Please, finish your reading and I will let you know when it is served,” he drawls. 

“Oh, uh, right,” you sit again. “Thanks. That's... kind.” 

He hums and says nothing else. He retreats just as he appeared, receding like a shadow into the hallway. You peer into the dark block of the doorway for a moment before you put your attention back to the ink. 

…derived of the ‘dlaka’, meaning strand of the wolf’s hair, the Vykolakas were once many. As the mortals upon which they feast, the crowned kings to lead them into their battle of malicion. One such, proclaimed the White Wolf, or White One, in whispered tongues as The Butcher, was the corrupt lord of Haute-Bellegarde. 

 The white liege met defeat by the hordes of the villagers in grief of their slain children, consumed by those which he claimed as his own offspring, better deemed heathens slathering at his cloak tails. In the sunlight he melted into the earth and upon his grave boils a pit of rotted soil. Though it is claimed by some that the Wolf remains, lurking and sniffing for blood, there is little evidence to feed such suspicion. 

“Dinner...” Geralt’s voice pierces like iron.  

Dizziness sweeps your vision as you draw back. That was quick. You think. Again, it seems in this dimly lit room that time is still yet never ending. 

“Come, I’ve set the table,” he slithers. 

You rise as if summoned by his invitation rather than your own will. You swallow dryly and cross the room. He waits and beckons down the hall with his arm. You notice his attire. A black silk jerkin without sleeves, trimmed with silver twine and buttons. His trousers are just as dark and his boots meet his knees. He is odd and out-of-time. 

You pass him and it’s like walking through a cloud of fog, dampy and chilly. You continue as he directs you with a point of his thick finger and a low tone, “to the left.” 

You follow another pulsing light. You’ve never been further than the reading room. Behind the spiraled stairs is nestled a dining room with a square table. The dark wood is framed with slender curlicues of red paint and at the center, the illustration of human heart beneath the foot of a candelabra set with nine long tapers. 

The flames only light the breadth of the table, leaving the walls to hang like ebon curtains. You hug yourself as the air kisses goosebumps to your skin. He escorts you to the table and pulls out the tall-backed chair. Your scalp tingles as the roots of your hair prickle. 

The urge to flee thumps in your chest and yet, you cannot make your feet turn back. You sit as if weighed down by invisible chains. Your heart races with inexplicable panic. The compulsion within overrides any thread of dread or doubt. 

You look down at the plate before you. He rounds the table and takes the seat across from yours. You look up as he rests his large hand around the base of a bronze goblet, the cup cradled by metal in the shape of talons. How strange. This room does not belong in the coastal Greek abode. 

“Please, eat.” 

There is no plate before him. Only the cup. The dish before you is neatly filled with rice pilaf and a strip of indeterminate meat glistening in sauce. It isn’t very appetizing, the smell both repulses and satisfies. 

“What about you?” You ask as you peer between the arms of the candelabra. 

“My hunger has not stirred as yet,” he says. “Please. It is only hospitable.” 

His words are unnatural, strung together with a purpose you can’t unravel. You pick up the fork and knife. You taste the rice first. It’s bland. You take a few more bites and he clears his throat. You know better than to insult him by leaving your plate full. 

You put the blade to the slab of meat. It sinks in easily, so easily it sickens you. As you slice into it, it seems to bleed as more sauce drips from within. It is dense but not tough. You pick up a morsel with the tines of the fork. 

You stare down the meat and push it through your lips as your stomach churns and your mouth fills with saliva. You taste it, the oily sauce coating your tongue as you nearly gag. What is it? 

You pull the fork free and it shines with your spit in the candelight. Your look at Geralt. His pupils are so large that his whole eyes seem to gleam black. You chew but can’t swallow. You reach to the goblet closest to you, that one plain and carved of what could be ivory. 

You drink but not deeply as the iron-laced contents add to your nausea. You wretch and choke on your mouthful. The meat seems to wiggle in your mouth and slides down your throat. Your body constricts as you force it to accept what’s been offered. 

“Is it tasty?” He asks. 

You can’t answer him. Your stomach is agonizingly full. Your heart is hammering against your ribs, and your hands are shaking. You squint at him as your head thrums. You can hear the air around you, as still as it is. You can hear it hissing around the lit tapers, you can hear the slivers of wood pressed together in the table, and you can hear that there is no breath coming from him. 

His chest does not rise or fall. He is perfectly still. Rapt by the maelstrom you find yourself sinking into. 

You look down as your smart watch flashes. The small heart flashes as it turns from orange to red. The number rises higher and higher. You whimper. 

Your breath sears down your throat and into your nostrils. He is calm as he witnesses your deconstruction. You are terrified.  

“Sheep’s liver,” he says. 

You contort in the chair, gripping the armrests as tendrils of pain weave through your muscles and coil around your heart. It’s throbbing inside of you. You look down and swear you can see it through your chest. Swelling bigger and bigger. 

Your eyes flick up at the recollection of the passage. 

‘...so the beast is borne of a man who eats the decrepit morsel of the sheep; that who dines upon the flesh corrupted by the teeth of the wolf...’ 

“No...” you waft, your voice like smoke, acrid and hot. 

He smiles, baring teeth like fangs, long and pointed like a wolf’s. Your neck bends to the side until you think it might snap and your legs twist out inhumanly. You twist and tie yourself, trying to fight the beast that consumes you from within. 

“It won’t hurt much longer and soon enough, nothing will hurt, precious,” he snarls as he sips from his goblet, pulling it back to reveal a trickle of crimson down his chin. 

“Wh-why...” you whine as you stare down at your forearms, tense as you cling to the chair. You can see your veins bulging through your skin. 

“You did not read that one. I did not translate it,” he says. “’With his curse, a prophecy, that his fate should be unleashed upon the day when he should mate. When the Butcher of Haute-Bellegade claims his bride, so shall he claim the day, and put upon the world and endless night. Dusk will consume as he does, and at his side, she will devour in turn.’” 

You moan and gurgle, your head hangs as you bawl and gag on your own tongue. Your bones grind together and your heart begins to miss its tempo. 

“’Upon a moonless night, their vow will be sealed, and all the fates of the world too.’” He recites it as if it is poetry. 

Your ears ring like a siren and your eyes blot with dark stains. Your blood boils over and your muscles knot and tangle. You fold in half and heave and expel a great deluge of guts into your lap. You turn inside out as the world mirrors your transformation. A flash of white then a bottomless black. 

All is still and silent. All is gone and born again. From nothing, there is a sliver. Red, dripping, leaking, pouring gushing. All is red. All is drenched and sodden. All is flooded in the taste of iron. 

A flicker between slitted eyelids. The scent of smoke yet you cannot inhale. You are weak but strong. Broken but unbreakable. 

Your lashes snap wide and you stare up at the peaked ceiling. It is dark yet you can see through it. The smoke wafts to you but does not creep into your nostrils. You turn your head and he is there. Waiting, watching. 

You lay upon the wooden table, naked to him and the night.  You look down your arm to the only vestige of your former self. The watch on your wrist. You tilt your hand so it lights up and the little heart is grey, next to it a dash. There is no heartbeat. You are dead. Undead. Reborn into death. 

“’And in consummation, they will birth the doom,’” he declares as he comes closer. 

He is naked too. Strong and resilient as his pale hair and eyes shine in the darkness. He climbs over you, holding himself above you as you remain unmoving. He lowers himself slowly until his nose touches yours. 

“’And upon their first kiss, the world wept,’” he grits out, lips brushing yours then all at once, covering them. He kisses you hungrily, desperately, eternally.  

As his mission is done, so is yours. You’ve uncovered the secrets of the undead. You know for sure that it is more than folklore; t he is more than just a myth. And you will have all the time in the world to regret that you ever dare to ask if he was real. 

The White Wolf. Gwynbleidd. White One. Butcher of Blaviken. Ravix of Fourhorn. The cursed Duke du Haute-Bellegarde. The bringer of the end.  

[akanemnon]

Mosses are small, non-vascular flowerless plantsin the taxonomic division Bryophyta(/braɪˈɒfətə/,[3] /ˌbraɪ.əˈfaɪtə/) sensu stricto. Bryophyta (sensu lato, Schimp. 1879[4]) may also refer to the parent group bryophytes, which comprise liverworts, mosses, and hornworts.[5]Mosses typically form dense green clumps or mats, often in damp or shady locations. The individual plants are usually composed of simple leaves that are generally only one cell thick, attached to a stem that may be branched or unbranched and has only a limited role in conducting water and nutrients. Although some species have conducting tissues, these are generally poorly developed and structurally different from similar tissue found in vascular plants.[6] Mosses do not have seeds and after fertilisation develop sporophytes with unbranched stalks topped with single capsules containing spores. They are typically 0.2–10 cm (0.1–3.9 in) tall, though some species are much larger. Dawsonia, the tallest moss in the world, can grow to 50 cm (20 in) in height. There are approximately 12,000 species.[2]Moss

Temporal range: Carboniferous[1]–present  

PreꞒ

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O

S

D

C

P

T

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NClumps of moss on the ground and base of trees in the Allegheny National Forest, Pennsylvania, United StatesScientific classificationKingdom:PlantaeClade:EmbryophytesClade:SetaphytaDivision:Bryophyta Schimp. sensu strictoClasses[2]

Takakiopsida

Sphagnopsida

Andreaeopsida

Andreaeobryopsida

Oedipodiopsida

Polytrichopsida

Tetraphidopsida

Bryopsida

Synonyms

Musci L.

Muscineae Bisch.

Mosses are commonly confused with liverworts, hornworts and lichens.[7] Although often described as non-vascular plants, many mosses have advanced vascular systems.[8][9] Like liverworts and hornworts, the haploidgametophyte generation of mosses is the dominant phase of the life cycle. This contrasts with the pattern in all vascular plants (seed plantsand pteridophytes), where the diploid sporophyte generation is dominant. Lichens may superficially resemble mosses, and sometimes have common names that include the word "moss" (e.g., "reindeer moss" or "Iceland moss"), but they are fungal symbioses and not related to mosses.[7]: 3 

The main commercial significance of mosses is as the main constituent of peat (mostly the genus Sphagnum), although they are also used for decorative purposes, such as in gardens and in the florist trade. Traditional uses of mosses included as insulation and for the ability to absorb liquids up to 20 times their weight.

GUYS I FOUND BERDLY

[bikepack]

#24

I find sleeping in the tent warmer than in toilets/under shelters, which makes sense because it traps some body heat. I also wondered if I didn’t wear any clothes in my sleeping bag maybe it would be warmer. It wasn’t the case, I needed all the clothes I had. To be exact every night I wear 2 pairs of thick socks, leggings and pants, 7 top layers, a balaclava, beanie, scarf, 2 hoods up and two pairs of gloves yet it’s still not enough. Mobility is limited with the amount of layers I have and yet I can still feel the ground zap the warmth out of me! But it’s my fault and I’m not complaining, I’m merely just too stubborn to buy new gear appropriate for the environment. For example my sleeping bag isn’t exactly a winter one with a comfort rating of 2 degrees, and the temperature has been dropping below. And my sleeping mat is more three seasons too, rated 3.8/5 for warmth insulation so not the best either.

Anyway, rant over, I’m still getting a full nights rest. The frost was harsh this morning though, my bike looked like a ghost!

I left the tent pitched so it could thaw out and headed into town to get a coffee and cook my breakfast. Midday came around and I packed up and headed out of town.

The ride took me through rolling hills covered by archways of bush, with the roadside ditches steaming as the suns rays hit the frost, even til mid afternoon.

Not a big day, only 40km til I made it to the town of Zeehan. Not much going on here so I grabbed some more supplies I’d need for the next 3 days out in the whops, then carried on out of town. About 10 minutes down the road I pulled off down a side road because some ruins caught my eye. It was an abandoned mine, I had a look around, walked up a hill behind it and set up an early camp.

It was so quiet out there in the hills as I watched the sunset. I could hear small streams trickling a hundred meters away and the rustling of gum leaves in the slight breeze.

Definitely my favourite camp spot thus far, first campfire for the trip too which was nice to warm up with.

[draw-you-coward]

ao3

The knock comes in the middle of the night, amidst the dark and the cold. The sound is muffled, insulated by the layers of freshly fallen snow that hold the cabin in a snug embrace. Roza only hears it because he is near the entranceway, fetching more logs to feed into the fireplace. He pauses, waiting for the noise to come again. It does so feebly, much more so than Eirwen making biscuits on the roof—a thok thuk thum.

The heavy door does not have a peephole. Roza drops the logs and pulls back the deadbolt, ready to react if the midnight trespasser means them ill. When he opens the door, however, it is a friend and not a foe that awaits him.

“Laranthir?” His hand creases with his surprise. “What are you doing here at this hour?”

Laranthir peers at him pitifully. His strong shoulders are hunched, his head bowed. “C’n I come in?”

“Of course—do not stand in the cold.” Roza ushers him in and deadlocks the door once more. He retreats from the wet thump of boots in the doorway to move to the sitting room, where his house slippers and his house husband are. The latter looks up when he enters, solicitousness deepening his gaze.

“Are your feet cold?” he asks, soft as a feather. “You can have your socks back if you need them. I can finish another time.”

Roza’s feet are cold, because he had planned to spend the evening with them shoved into a blanket while Trahearne duplicated their coverings, but now he slides into his slippers without comment, waving off the offer.

“Keep them. Laranthir just showed up at our doorstep.”

Trahearne straightens at that, putting his work aside. “What?”

“He is somewhat inebriated, I believe. He’s at the door.”

Trahearne gets up and slides past him, squeezing his shoulder. Roza wiggles his toes before following.

Laranthir is on the doormat still, looking discombobulated as he holds his boots with one hand. His mouth tugs downwards when he sees them, and he says, “I’m sorry… I dunno where to put these.”

“On the mat is fine, Laranthir. Just—there we go.” Trahearne helps him, checking his state with a touch, a sharp eye—and confirming with a single glance back at Roza. He does not need to; the Dream is sad and a little confused, and there is not another sylvari soul around for miles.

“Come. Would you like something to drink?”

Laranthir laughs, and there is something sharper, like a knife’s blade pointing inwards. “I think I’ve had enough of that for one night.”

“Just water, hot cocoa, or tea.” Trahearne guides him to the sofa. “Roza can put something on for you.”

The sadness blooms as Laranthir sits, turning to dismay. “Roza? Can’t he stay here?”

Another glance is exchanged, as quick as one flap of a moth’s wings. “Of course,” Trahearne acquiesces, retreating, and Roza slips into his place.

“What happened?” he asks as he kneels on the ground.

Laranthir considers him through a lidded gaze. “You’re such a sweetheart,” he murmurs, reaching out. “Really, such a sweetheart.”

Roza doesn’t know how to answer that, so he doesn’t, and instead deposits a few strands of hair into his searching hand. Drunk people are much like small children, Canach had told him once. Babies love pulling at your hair until you go bald, Kasmeer had told him another time. The combined knowledge brings itself to a natural conclusion.

The hand does start stroking in wonder, which means he must have hit a target. Laranthir stares at the leaves in his hand with eyes that are a million miles away and mumbles, “’e stood me up.”

“Ah,” says Trahearne. He leaves for the kitchen, mission selected: chocolate, hot or not. They have biscuits as well, from the ladies’ housewarming gift. Roza stays, gazing into the face close to his.

“What an idiot,” he denounces.

Laranthir wheezes out a laugh. “Yeah,” he replies. His shoulders droop. “Yeah,” he repeats thickly.

Roza rises and sits next to him. “Do not shed tears for someone who could not see how precious you are,” he says. “You are worth so much more than a passing whim.”

Strong arms squeeze him as if he is made of plush rather than bark. “This is why I came to you,” Laranthir mumbles into his side.

“Hm?” A little too strong, but Roza tries not to strain. “I cannot provide you such company, dear brother.”

“Doesn’ matter,” Laranthir slurs. “I don’t even look anymore, ‘cause of you. Don’t know what I want.”

“Ah.” Roza pauses. “I… you can still look, you know. You should not mind me—It is none of my business whom you associate with.”

Laranthir looks at him blankly, and he looks back. “What?”

“What?” Roza echoes, confused.

Laranthir hums, petting at his hair—he’s a handsy bastard when drunk, huh—and after a solid twelve seconds declares, “Not what I meant.”

Trahearne returns with Roza’s mug and one of their extras, as well as some biscuits. He sets everything down on their coffee table instead of handing it to them, because Laranthir is currently avidly twirling a long leaf of hair around his finger, and Roza does not trust his grip strength to loosen (and would like to remain as not bald as possible for the time being). Laranthir points at Trahearne with his free hand and says, “Him too.”

Trahearne puts on an inquiring face. “Pardon?”

Roza thinks he understands. “Trahearne is not overprotective at all,” he says anyways, which is patently untrue. “He’s only put me on a leash a handful of times.”

Trahearne scrunches his face into his you’re being a disgusting freak in public expression. Laranthir, however, thinks that is the funniest joke in the world, and laughs long and loud. Roza discreetly unwinds his hair.

“Doesn’t matter,” Laranthir muses at last. “’m happier here. Love you both.”

Roza grabs his drink in his hideous handmade mug (which his beloved detests not because of its hideousness, but because he bought it, which makes it someone else’s handmade mug and therefore “pointless”) and lets its heat distract from his warm cheeks. “Be a good man and say it back, Trahearne,” he murmurs after taking a sip.

Trahearne quirks a flippant eyebrow at him. “I’m happier here too,” he says.

Pissant. Roza would flip him off, but Laranthir is looking at him with puppy eyes, and he does not wish to ruin the moment. Fine. Fine. “Love you too,” he mumbles as unintelligibly as he possibly can, blowing bubbles in his drink.

Trahearne cups his hand around his ear—he can wear the leash next time, how about—but Laranthir smiles at him, so beautiful and full. And perhaps he is right, and very little matters besides that.

~*~

[telleroftime]

Teardrop ||| Moondrop + Reader

You were certain you were prepared for everything before entering the play structure, ready to do your job and fix whatever was broken. What you were not ready for, against your better judgement, was the very repetitive occurrence of your life: fainting.

———————————————

Request - Anonymous : Could I request a hurt/comfort fic with Moondrop? (Could be platonic or romantic). I keep having this idea about a staff reader going into one of the play structures to check on a broken cable or whatever but they end up fainting while still inside (I was thinking due to P.O.T.S. Syndrome). Moon would find them after hours and basically have to calm them down once they wake up and help them out.

Pairing: Moondrop & Gender Neutral ! Reader

Relationship: Platonic

Tone: Hurt/Comfort

Word Count: 2.9k

Warnings: Fainting, Vague implication of claustrophobia, Description of a panic attack.

Oneshot Masterlist

A/N: I tried doing as much research into P.O.T.S. as I could before starting because everyone deserves to be represented. Please correct me if I got anything wrong so that I know for the future.

Writing this made me realise I know nothing about how electricians work. Fake it till you make it, I'm so sorry if all of this is wrong.

———————————————

The Daycare's night theme was well in the middle of playing when you finally finished distributing the warning signs and glow in the dark tape. To your dismay, it took you longer than you anticipated.

Your wheelchair kept getting stuck on the soft carpets and padded mats, proving to be an inconvenience. The weight of it kept sinking deep into the foam surfaces which meant you had to strain yourself to push forward; to unlodge it from the divots it formed. Additionally, the roll of tape had fallen from your grasp more than once, and there were times when the thin plastic film didn't want to remain tied around the poles no matter how hard you pulled.

However, in the end, you managed to tie off each entrance to the smaller play area. At two levels nonetheless, ensuring that the children got the hint and didn't crawl through. You also managed to disable the power to the maze-like structure, meaning that you were practically ready to enter through the only remaining exit.

Placing the final plastic sign on the ground, slightly askew to let you get closer, you put your wheelchair’s brakes on and sighed, adjusting the strap around your chest.

You were certain you had everything, even though you shuffled to double check. Your over-the-shoulder black bag held your duct tape and insulation tape, safe in the back corner and held in place by a stiff separator. Between them and the clear box of screws and bolts was an array of differently sized screwdrivers and cutters. Each one had a different coloured rubber end. Red and blue and green. The few smaller ones that came from a monotoned set were colour coordinated using coloured tape.

It was all a system you took care to keep clean and memorised. It was something that let you be as efficient as possible whenever you manoeuvred around the Pizzaplex.

Nevertheless, you knew that if you were missing something, the daycare specific tool kit would hold the rest. Your bits and bobs of collected accessories and screws and nails that jangled within the smaller pockets of the bag would have to be enough - and have been enough for you to ease past the worry that maybe you forgot something. It was never the case.

Slowly, you pulled yourself up to your feet, mindful of the speed you did so and let your body reestablish its equilibrium. When it did and you felt comfortable to move, you were about to bend over to grab hold of the handle of the aforementioned tool kit, Freddy’s face like a brand on the hard plastic lid. That's when you heard the characteristic jingle of the Daycare Attendant's bells paired with soft footfalls.

You turned around to face him, mindful of how quickly you did so, the body of Moon standing about a metre away from the wheelchair. He seemed nonchalant as he walked closer to you, hunched with a tired sort of swagger, mechanically moving to be right behind the wheelchair.

The red LEDs of his eyes looked directly at you as the silicon tips of his hands travelled the round metal edge of the wheelchair with a little resistance from the forced friction. All the while the small golden bells at his wrists chimed quietly: a little dingle-dangle with each movement.

You moved to speak, but Moon beat you to it.

His head twitched slightly and caused the bell at the tip of his hat to jiggle in a sort of static motion, “there’s one more cycle left before the daycare closes,” he explained, his head never angling from where you stood, “I warned Sunny to keep the children away from the play structure~”

Moon's tone was as coarse as always yet he made sure that the voicebox was quiet, creating a sort of hushed whisper. Well, as loud of a whisper as he could without accidentally waking one of the children that were currently napping in a distant corner of the Daycare.

Nodding at his words, you finally leaned down and picked up the tool kit, taking steps towards the narrow entrance of the play structure. “Thank you Moon,” you said with a soft smile, muscles tense with the weight of the hard box. Smiling up at the animatronic, your head bobbed towards where you knew the children were sleeping, “though you should worry about yourself for now. If a kid wakes up they’ll worry if you’re not there.”

It was his turn to nod, bobbing his head in a sharp motion. There wasn't much more to the conversation as both of you had a job to perform, however seeing his long fingers wiggle absentmindedly made a calm sensation bloom in your chest.

With that and a feeling of contentness, you watched him do a cheesy bow - his head spinning on its axis - before you grinned and turned to finally enter the confines of the play structure.

———

To say that the problem was daft would be an understatement. A child had apparently snagged the buckle of their clothes on a particular, protruding part of the foam that covered the metal bars of the structure's supports. It was almost as if it poked right into the material, became logged, and proceeded to be pulled down as the child hopped the small distance into the shallow ball pit below.

That in itself wouldn’t be a problem if the actual bar didn’t have hidden wires running along its length that were tugged out by the force - ones that were powering the sheltered lights and tiny cameras hidden within the play structure itself. Sure, the placement of them could be dangerous. If parents found out about them there would be quite a few angry mothers, distressed fathers, and appalled guardians. But as always, the corporation wasn't that bothered, and minimal effort in terms of things like this was their go to.

So the wires were going to remain ever that much closer to the curious hands of children.

Thankfully, however, most of the time the thickly insulated wires would be held in place by dozens of black zip ties. It was the case here too, although the job done was way too sloppy. The zip ties weren't nearly as tight as they should have been, allowing the pieces of wire to wobble within their bindings. There also weren’t that many to begin with, at least not in the part visible to you.

That alone was probably why the cables themselves hung limply downwards, two pulled out of their place by the metal pole.

Hands reaching up, you tested the give on the wires, pleased to see that there wasn’t much. Instead, there was something blocking further movement from either direction. Locked in place by zip ties and sharp turns, falls and rises, of the structure. Simply shortening the wire would do the trick here, although it wasn't the best of options.

On a professional standpoint, removing the layers of protective foam from around the structure and repositioning the cables and wires would be the correct thing to do. But, once again, the Pizzaplex adored its 'Minimal Effort' policy with its minal staff pay. So, minimal it would be.

As the music of the Nighttime Lullaby ended, and the Daycare quickly filled with the echoes of laughing and giddy children, you quickly got to work. It would be an easy fix afterall.

Pulling off the remaining foam, you bent down and grabbed the pair of wire cutters that neatly lay within the tool kit, standing back up slowly to come face to face with the wires. You grabbed hold of their length with your insulator gloves now on, and proceeded to cut the two hanging wires down the middle. From there, it didn't take you long to remove the outer plastic from each length.

One practised cut and snip after the next, you were quick to reconnect the ends of each, ensuring that the strands of metal within the insulated casings held firmly by themselves  before you dug in you over the shoulder bag. Without looking, your fingers thumbled for the insulator tape, wrapped it around each of the adjusted wires tightly, and dropped it back into its slot in the bag.

When you were done, finishing it off with way too many zip ties that would no doubt inconvenience the next person that had to fix things here, you tested how snug the wire was against the support. Perfect.

There was barely any give, and after deciding everything was as good as it was going to get, you checked the time. The last thing left to do was to place new foam to hide the circuit.

But that stopped being your priority when you felt yourself blink slowly, a sudden wave of dizziness hitting you.

You knew what was coming, and without thinking, like a second instinct engraved into your soul, you lowered yourself to the padded ground. To your right was the tiny ball pit, your hand briefly thumbling within it before you pulled yourself to the opposite side.

With how it was going, you had enough time to slip the black bag from your shoulder and lay down with an uneasy breath before you felt your consciousness unwillingly slip from you.

———

When your eyes opened again, you were slow to come to your senses.

Everything felt foggy and the lights of the room had been switched off; casting you in darkness. Other than the faint static buzzing in the background and the uncomfortable ringing in your ears, there was no noise nor any sounds of people to break you out of your disorientation. No nothing other than the deafening silence.

Your hands patted the surroundings, noting that the space was a lot smaller than you thought or remembered, and that you couldn't feel anything. No, you had gloves on. Hot on your skin and blocking out one of the only senses that you wanted to feel. Frantically, you clawed to take them off, and the heavy gloves fell to the ground with a frightened thud. The moment that they did, your clammy hands aimed for the floor.

The ground was cold to your touch as you pulled yourself to sit in the darkness, padded with a rustling material. You felt for your bag, and as your hands grew more frantic in their search for answers, something to diminish the fog clouding your mind, you hit your hand on the hard lid of a box that let out a loud jingling sound at the impact.

If the sudden sound didn't startle you then the pain most definitely did, and your hands recoiled back to your chest. This wasn't good, not in the slightest.

What were you doing beforehand? Where were you? What was going on? How long has it been? 

You weren’t thinking straight when your breathing started picking up, sharp and painful against your lungs as you scrambled about in the small space with terror lacing your actions. Water pooled in your eyes, making the faint light from past the surrounding nets - in the far distance of your vision - completely disappear. It was dark, too dark.

You couldn’t see and that scared you.

Panic was heavy in your veins, blood rushing painfully to your head as your body slouched under you. You really wanted to focus, but you couldn’t. A million 'what if's' flooded your thoughts as your hands gripped at the thin fabric of your shirt. You wanted to leave. You wanted to be home.

The distraction of your panic was enough for you to miss the chime of bells as they neared quickly. One after the other with continued steps. All you could hear was the loud and painful beating of your heart that caused your throat to tighten with sobs. You also missed the nearing of the bright red glow of a certain animatronic's eyes. Your eyes shut tightly to the point it hurt. You needed to breathe, you knew you did.

It was only when he was right next to you that you noticed him. 

Moon crouched in front of you, legs spread apart awkwardly with one hand between them to balance himself on the floor like a house cat would. If he was talking, you couldn’t hear him.

Opening your mouth to speak, you noticed you couldn’t. As you looked up at him, not a single, tangible sound escaped you which only fueled your crying that much more. One choked sob after the other. You wanted to shout for help, ask him for support - for anything other than how you were feeling right now.

Thankfully, you didn't have to explain yourself as Moondrop adjusted himself on the ground, long metal limbs folding into a cross legged position. Slowly and wordlessly, he moved his hands from up by the neck of his body, down to where the stomach would be. Up and down in an almost physical simulation of a breath.

With a hiccup from you and a tilt of his head to prompt you, you took the hint and breathlessly followed his actions. A long, though shallow, breathe in and an exhale out. One after the other as your eyes burned holes into his own.

After a while, only one of his hands moved, forcing you to continue breathing in such a way. It helped you a lot, though your chest still burned with a strong, searing pain and the terror kept leaving you in shaky sounds of fear: sobs and whimpers alike.

But your breathing did start to steady, and when Moon noticed your constant rhythm, his other hand moved to gently - almost wearily - rest on your shoulder. "Can you hear me now, Starlight?" He asked, head once again tilting to the side with a jingle of the hat's bell.

At the sight of you nodding your head, he visibly relaxed.

"That's good Starlight. You are safe now~ Just keep breathing, just keep breathing. You're going to be alrighty-right..."

You sat there with him for a little while longer until the sound of your wheezing breath was replaced with simple, tired hiccups. The fog in your mind was gone, lost somewhere at the back of your thoughts with that temporary wave of dizziness. For now you did not need to worry, all you needed to do is be calm. And you were, for the most.

"Come on, Starlight, let's get you out of here," Moondrop said with a grizzly static in his voice and stood up, body bent to fit his height in the child-sized structure. His hands carefully guided you to your feet, keeping you stable.

"How about something to drink?"

———

You were certain that at least one hour had passed since Moon left you sitting on one of those plastic kiddie chairs by a matching table. The rush of fear-driven adrenaline was gone, and you were now letting yourself daze off. You'd long since finished the water Moon had brought you, fingers running against the crayola marks and paint stains on the rough surface of the plastic.

You were thankful for Moondrop. He had brought your wheelchair towards where you sat, black bag sitting in the otherwise empty seat. Everything was in tact, placed back into it's allocated compartments as you were so quick to check. He even kindly brought you some salty snacks, ones with names you recognised and trusted.

This time, even with your dazed state, you didn't miss the soft footfalls that made his golden bells ring and turned to look at him.

“Are you feeling better?” Moon croaked out, crouching down on the opposite side of the table to the wheelchair.

With the angle he was at you doubted it would be comfortable for anyone, even the other animatronics at the Pizzaplex. Still, you had to admit that it looked more comfortable than the way you were sitting, your legs high to your chest with the low placement of the kiddie seat.

“Better than before, thank you,” you answered with a tired smile.

"That's a goodie~"

A beat of silence passed by as his head tilted with observation, the intensity of his LEDs flickering as he did so.

"I told security what happened. You can stay here for the night. They put you down as off work tomorrow too.”

You sighed, exhaustion gripping your eyes and causing the already dull ache from the previous tears to worsen into a persistent throb. You reached for the child-sized cup Moon brought for you, looking into its empty contents.

"You didn’t have to do that for me," You said, chin leaning against the palm of your hand.

"Of course I did Starlight! You're a friend of mine, and Sunny, and the Daycare. I wasn't going to just leave you."

You snorted a chuckle, "either way, thank you."

Standing to his full height, Moon offered to take you somewhere more comfortable. When you agreed with a simple nod, he picked you up with ease. Post-adrenaline exhaustion was slowly but surely washing over you, and you could barely keep your eyes open as Moon cradled your body to his, and carried you into one of the backrooms. The pillows he set you on were as soft as a cloud.

"If you need anything, just call for me," he said with an unintentional grumble of his voicebox.

He didn't explain much more than that, but he didn't have to. With the support of whatever bedding he placed you on, and the dim glow of a star-themed night light, you only managed to mumble a quiet and incoherent, "bedtime," before you were officially pulled into the waves of sleep.

Moondrop refused to move from your side for the hours of still night silence to come.

———————————————

Oneshot Masterlist

[theesirenteller]

𝐁𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞 ☽ 𝘉𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘡𝘢𝘣𝘪𝘯𝘪

Master List. Chapter One; The Summoning.

Solara moved silently through the dense foliage of the Forbidden Forest, her senses fully attuned to the rhythm of the world around her. The deep greens and earthy browns of the trees blurred together as she sped along the forest floor, her feline eyes glowing faintly in the dim twilight. For years, the Ferai people had thrived in this isolated paradise, far away from the prying eyes of wizards and their artificial magic. Their powers were natural, raw, a force as old as the earth itself.

The Forbidden Forest where Solara and Helena live is a world unto itself, a sprawling expanse of ancient trees and untamed nature. Dense, towering oaks and twisted yews form a near-impenetrable canopy, their branches interlocking high above to block out most sunlight, casting the forest floor into a perpetual twilight. The air is thick with the scent of damp earth, wildflowers, and moss, mingling with the sharp tang of pine and the occasional hint of magic that lingers like static on the breeze.

The deeper one ventures into the forest, the more vibrant and strange the flora and fauna become. Vines with leaves the size of shields crawl up the trunks of the ancient trees, some of which glow faintly with bioluminescence after dark, casting an eerie, soft light that turns the mist rising from the ground into a shimmering veil. The roots of these massive trees weave together, forming natural pathways that twist and turn like veins through the forest. Here, the sounds of life are constant but muted—distant bird calls, the rustle of unseen creatures, and the quiet hum of the forest’s magic, a force as old as time itself.

At the heart of this forbidden wilderness lies the hidden village of the Ferai, Solara and Helena’s people. Unlike the rigid structures found in the human world, the village is in perfect harmony with the forest around it. The homes of the Ferai are carved from living trees, their walls formed by hollowed-out trunks that continue to grow and thrive. Vines and moss cover the outer walls, acting as natural insulation and camouflage, while inside, the homes are warm and filled with the soft glow of enchanted crystals, which provide light without disturbing the natural rhythms of the forest.

The village itself is arranged in a spiral pattern, with the largest and oldest tree, the "Elder Oak," standing at its center. This tree is the heart of the Ferai people, its branches spreading out like protective arms over the entire village. Its roots, thick and gnarled, form natural bridges and walkways that connect the various homes. This is where the elders gather, their council chamber located within the base of the Elder Oak, a space filled with ancient carvings and symbols of the Ferai’s deep connection to the earth and the stars.

The forest around the village is alive with magic, more so than in other parts of the Forbidden Forest. The trees seem to whisper to each other in the wind, and animals, some of them never seen by human eyes, roam freely. Stags with silver antlers, luminous foxes, and massive, ancient wolves, their fur matted with leaves and moss, are a common sight here. The Ferai live in harmony with these creatures, sharing the land and its resources with them rather than dominating it. The village is constantly moving and shifting as the forest grows and changes, with new homes sprouting from saplings or old ones being reclaimed by the earth when no longer in use.

The village’s proximity to the ancient river that cuts through the forest provides fresh water, and its banks are lined with herbs and plants that Helena, a healer, often gathers. The river is wide and deep, its surface like glass, reflecting the towering trees that line its edges. In the deepest parts of the night, when the moon is full, the water takes on an ethereal glow, and strange, long-forgotten creatures can sometimes be seen swimming beneath the surface.

Solara and Helena's homes are nestled near the river, their proximity to the water a sign of their elevated status within the village. Solara’s home is built into the side of an ancient willow tree, the roots forming natural alcoves where she stores her belongings—daggers made of bone, finely carved bows, and charms gifted to her by the elders for protection. Her walls are draped with pelts of animals she has hunted, each one a testament to her skills as a protector of her people. A small window, framed by hanging vines, allows her to see the moon at night, which she often watches in silence, feeling the pull of its magic in her veins.

Helena's home, a short walk from Solara’s, is less structured but equally beautiful. Her dwelling is a sprawling treehouse suspended high above the ground in a massive oak. Vines serve as natural ladders, winding up the trunk to her door. Inside, the space is filled with drying herbs, jars of potions, and ancient texts written on leaves and bark. Helena’s bed is woven from soft moss and feathers, and the scent of lavender and sage fills the air, making her home feel like a sanctuary. Windows are carved into the bark, allowing sunlight to filter in during the day and the moon’s glow to flood the space at night.

The area surrounding Solara and Helena’s homes is alive with vibrant energy, a place where the boundary between the material world and the magical one feels particularly thin. Here, the trees seem to watch over the village, their leaves rustling in an almost conversational manner. The soil is rich and dark, the air thick with magic that swirls around the Ferai like a living thing. Paths are marked by stones, but they shift and change, never the same from one day to the next, as if the forest itself is alive and guiding the Ferai in its own mysterious way.

This sacred corner of the Forbidden Forest is a place of balance, where nature and magic coexist in perfect harmony. Yet, despite its beauty, it is also a place of great mystery and power, filled with ancient forces that the Ferai have learned to respect and revere over centuries.

At the heart of the forest lay the Ferai village, a collection of modest but beautiful dwellings made of wood and stone, camouflaged by the living trees around them. Solara’s home stood near the center, draped in vines and moss, a reflection of her deep connection with the forest. As she approached, her mind churned over the events of the day—a letter had arrived. Not just any letter, but one marked with the seal of Hogwarts.

The elders had gathered to discuss it, their faces grave. Solara, the youngest of the council's guardians, had listened intently as they debated. The magic contained in the letter was undeniable, and its intent was clear—Solara was being summoned to the school of wizards. The elders were cautious, warning her of the corruption and danger that lingered in the wizarding world, but they could not deny the urgency of the message. Dark forces were stirring, forces that threatened not only the wizards but also the hidden Ferai.

“You must not go,” Elder Verran had said, his eyes, sharp and amber like those of a hawk, flashing with concern. “We do not trust them.”

“But what choice do we have?” Solara had countered. “The letter’s magic is strong. If I do not go, who will stop the coming storm?”

“We will find another way,” Verran insisted. “We always have.”

However, one voice had risen in her defense. Helena, one of Solara’s closest friends and a gifted healer, stood beside her. Helena was a striking figure, with sharp cheekbones and skin the color of burnished copper. Her dark, spiraling curls cascaded down her back like a waterfall of midnight, and her eyes, a piercing jade green, reflected both wisdom and wildness. She was the embodiment of Ferai strength, her every movement graceful and deliberate.

“Solara must go,” Helena said softly but firmly. “We can feel it—this is bigger than just the Ferai or the wizards. If we do nothing, both worlds will fall. And Solara is the only one who can bridge them.”

Helena’s words resonated with the council, but even more so with Solara. She had never wanted to leave her home, to venture into the world of wizards, but deep inside, she knew that this was her path. As the council deliberated, she felt the pull of destiny growing stronger.

After hours of debate, the elders finally agreed, though reluctantly. Solara would go to Hogwarts. Her journey would begin at dawn.

That night, Solara sat outside her home with Helena by her side. The moon was high, casting silver beams through the thick canopy. Solara traced the contours of the letter, its parchment cool under her fingers.

“I never thought I’d be leaving,” Solara whispered, her voice barely audible over the sounds of the forest. “I don’t even know if I’ll fit into their world.”

Helena placed a hand on her shoulder. “You’re stronger than you think. They’ll see that. But don’t lose yourself, Solara. Remember who you are. You are Ferai.”

Solara nodded, her gaze distant. She couldn’t shake the feeling that everything was about to change.

As the dawn broke over the Forbidden Forest, Solara stood before the Elder Oak, a swirl of emotions dancing in her feline green eyes. The elders gathered around her, their hands deftly weaving the magic of the forest into a garment fit for her journey to Hogwarts. They worked with silken threads spun from the shimmering cocoons of the moonlight moths that flitted through the trees at night, their wings glistening like stars. With each stitch, the elders infused the fabric with protective enchantments, ensuring that Solara would be shielded from the corrupting influences of the wizarding world.

The final garment was a flowing gown, an ethereal blend of deep emerald and soft gold that mirrored the hues of the forest. The fabric shimmered in the soft light, almost alive, as if it were woven from the very essence of the trees and the earth itself. The bodice was fitted and adorned with intricate embroidery depicting twisting vines and blooming wildflowers, symbols of the Ferai’s deep connection to nature. Delicate bell sleeves cascaded down her arms, fluttering like the leaves in a gentle breeze, while a hood framed her face, offering a touch of mystery.

At her waist, a slender belt crafted from braided leather and adorned with small charms—tiny feathers, polished stones, and enchanted acorns—cinched the gown, accentuating her lithe figure. The elders gifted her with a pair of boots made from supple deer hide, soft yet sturdy, allowing her to move silently through both the forest and the halls of Hogwarts. As Solara admired her reflection in the silver-surfaced water of the nearby stream, she felt the magic of her people woven into every thread, a protective embrace that would carry her through the unknown. This gown was not merely an outfit; it was a testament to her heritage, a bridge between the wild beauty of the Forbidden Forest and the new adventures awaiting her in the world beyond.

Once she was properly dressed and ready, Solara stood at the edge of the village, a simple pack slung over her shoulder. She wore her traditional Ferai garb—a dark green cloak that blended seamlessly with the forest, her feline eyes sharp and alert. Helena stood beside her, as did Stagg, the village’s most formidable warrior. Stegg, the half-fawn, half-man, has a mesmerizing and ethereal appearance. His auburn hair flows in soft, tousled waves around his angular face, its vibrant color blending seamlessly into the hues of autumn. His ears are pointed and fur-tipped, mirroring the texture and coloring of a young fawn's coat. Perched atop his head are delicate yet strong antlers, curved gracefully like slender branches that extend his otherworldly aura.

His eyes are sharp and almond-shaped, a glowing, piercing orange with slits for pupils that hint at his mystical connection to the forest. Black eyeliner emphasizes their striking shape, while the lids are dusted with a warm, sunset hue. His nose is softly rounded but darkened to mimic a deer’s, giving him a striking animalistic quality.

Dappled white spots decorate his skin, running down his neck, shoulders, and across his chest—patterns reminiscent of the gentle markings of a young deer. His skin itself has an earthy tone, with a gradient of reddish-brown blending into his upper body, emphasizing his hybrid nature. His lips are slightly parted, with a soft, natural hue that matches the gentle, almost serene expression he carries.

Stegg’s body exudes grace and quiet strength, his form lithe and agile. His connection to nature is evident in the seamless merging of human and fawn characteristics, making him an enigmatic and captivating figure who appears to dwell in the misty boundaries between the mortal and enchanted worlds.

“You’ll need to be careful,” Stagg said, his voice low and commanding. “The wizards… they’ll try to control you, to shape you into something you’re not. Don’t let them.”

“I won’t,” Solara replied, meeting his gaze. Stagg had been like a brother to her, training her in the ways of the Ferai, teaching her how to control her powers.

Helena handed Solara a small vial of elixir, one of her many concoctions. “This will help you heal faster, in case you need it,” she said, her voice filled with both warmth and concern.

“Thank you,” Solara said, taking the vial and tucking it into her pack.

With a final glance at the village she called home, Solara turned and began her journey toward Hogwarts. She could feel the weight of her people's hopes and fears on her shoulders, but she walked forward with determination. The path was long and winding, and as she traveled, she thought of what awaited her. Hogwarts was a mystery, a place spoken of only in whispers among her people. The magic there was different, more structured, more controlled.

By nightfall, Solara reached the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Beyond it lay the wizarding world—a world of stone castles, bustling cities, and people who wielded magic with wands instead of their spirits. She took a deep breath and stepped out of the forest’s shadow.

Hogwarts loomed in the distance, its towers silhouetted against the starry sky. The castle seemed alive, its windows glowing faintly like the eyes of a sleeping giant. Solara had heard stories of this place, of its grandeur and its dangers. But none of those stories had prepared her for the sight of it in person.

As she approached the castle gates, she felt the familiar thrum of magic in the air. But this magic was different—it was cold, calculated, unlike the wild, untamed force she had known all her life. It unnerved her, but she pressed on, determined to uncover the secrets that awaited her inside.

The doors to Hogwarts creaked open, and Solara stepped into a vast entrance hall filled with students, some chatting, others rushing to classes. She felt their eyes on her, curious and suspicious, as they took in her Ferai appearance. Her feline eyes, sharp features, and the fluid grace with which she moved set her apart from the crowd.

“Welcome to Hogwarts, Miss Solara,” a voice said from behind her.

She turned to see a tall, imposing figure in dark robes. His eyes gleamed with curiosity and a hint of amusement.

“I am Professor Malachai,” he introduced himself with a slight bow. “We’ve been expecting you.”

Solara straightened, meeting his gaze without fear. “I hope your school can teach me what I need to stop what’s coming,” she said, her voice firm.

Professor Malachai smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Oh, I’m sure it will. But be warned, not everything at Hogwarts is as it seems.”

Solara’s eyes narrowed slightly, sensing the layers of mystery behind his words.

His words lingered in her mind as Solara stepped into the Slytherin common room, the ambient light from the enchanted windows flickered across her face, revealing faint traces of her more-than-human nature. Her skin shimmered subtly, catching the reflection of the dim firelight, and her emerald eyes glowed with an ancient, wild intensity. She moved with a grace that was both fluid and feline, a product of her deep connection to the forest and the ancient tribes she hailed from. The air seemed to shift around her as though the very essence of the woods followed her wherever she went.

Before she could even fully take in her new surroundings, a familiar figure emerged from the shadows—Professor Horace Slughorn, his round figure illuminated by the flames. His ever-watchful eyes twinkled with curiosity as they rested on Solara. There was something different about this one, something primal.

“Well, well,” he said, his voice smooth, laced with intrigue. “What do we have here? A newcomer with quite the... captivating presence.” He stepped closer, his gaze never leaving hers. “Tell me, child, what is your name?”

Solara, standing tall yet rooted in the energy of her heritage, met his gaze without wavering. “Solara Feraí,” she replied, her voice low and steady, the soft cadence carrying with it the echoes of ancient forests and forgotten rites.

“Feraí,” Slughorn repeated, the name rolling off his tongue as he considered it. “Now that is a name full of history. An old name, if I’m not mistaken—connected to the wilds, yes? Very interesting indeed.” His eyes gleamed with a keen interest as he observed her more closely, noting the subtle feline-like texture of her skin, the intensity of her gaze, and the quiet power that seemed to hum beneath the surface.

“You are not like most,” he remarked, his voice lowering as though they were already sharing a secret. “Here in Slytherin, we pride ourselves on ambition and resourcefulness, and I dare say you’ll bring something unique to the table.”

Solara tilted her head slightly, her eyes narrowing, observing him as much as he observed her. She was accustomed to scrutiny, to the unease that her presence often evoked in others. “I belong to the forest,” she said simply, as if that alone was enough explanation for the mystery she embodied. “I am more at home with the ancient forces than with people.”

Slughorn smiled, not at all deterred by her response. “Well, you’ll find that Hogwarts—and Slytherin—has room for all sorts, my dear. Power takes many forms. Yours... may just be one of the more extraordinary.”

His words hung in the air, like a lure, as he took a step back. “Potions, I imagine, might call to someone with such deep roots in nature,” he mused. “Perhaps you will discover something truly rare here. I look forward to seeing what you can offer. Perhaps, one day, we’ll discuss matters of importance over a more private meeting... but for now, welcome, Miss Feraí. Welcome to Slytherin.”

Solara said nothing more, merely nodding in acknowledgment as Slughorn strode away. She knew well that the world she had stepped into was far removed from the wilds of her past, but within these walls, she would find her way. There was always something to learn from those who craved power, and she had no doubt that Slytherin, with all its secrets and ambition, would offer plenty of opportunity for her to grow.

The forest still lingered in her heart, but now, its wild spirit would grow roots in this new, unpredictable world.

[hoursofreading]

Mosses are the simplest of all plants. They are small because they don’t have any support system to hold them up; a moss more than a few centimeters tall would fall over. Large mosses occur only in lakes and streams, where the water can hold up their weight. The climate right next to the ground is different from the climate six feet above. You can see this yourself by lying down on a windy day: you’ll see that the air is more still and warmer. Obstacles create friction, which makes the air move more slowly. At the “boundary layer”, right next to the ground, the air is nearly motionless. The motionless air insulates the boundary layer, so it’s warm. The boundary layer traps water vapor and carbon dioxide. In fact, because decomposers like fungi and bacteria generally emit their carbon dioxide into the boundary layer, the boundary layer has up to ten times as much carbon dioxide as the general atmosphere. Wet, warm, rich in carbon dioxide: the boundary layer is the ideal environment for photosynthesis. But the boundary later is also small—perhaps a millimeter high on a cliff face, maybe ten centimeters high in a moist forest. Mosses, which can’t grow large anyway, have specialized in taking advantage of it. Although small, mosses have their own ecosystems. One gram of moss contains about 150,000 protozoa, 132,000 tardigrades, 3,000 springtails, 800 rotifers, 500 nematodes, 400 mites, and 200 fly larvae. The moss ecosystem has its own epiphytes (plants which live on other plants) and predators. Early insect evolution occurred in moss mats, which provided a safe intermediate space between the water and the land.

[cosmicpsychosis]

WINTER WEATHER PRO TIP

My credentials: I am from Pennsylvania.

Home prep:

🌨️Cover your windows with blankets to keep room more insulated

🌨️Windows can crack from cold weather and things on window sills can freeze

🌨️Diy heaters like two clay pots and a candle, its like a mini masonry heater!

🌨️Have everything charged and easy prep meals or small snack in case the power goes out

🌨️It is more slippery than it looks, if the ground looks wet that could be ice!!

🌨️You can use table salt, small amounts work well, don’t just throw a lot on the ground you’ll run out!

🌨️If you have to drive let your vehicle run for 5-10 minutes before driving, dethaw the windshield!

🌨️If you don’t have a snow shovel a broom is fine!

Driving!:

🌬️Be mindful of how close you are to other vehicles, wind and ice dramatically reduce vehicle control

🌬️Do not try to make your own trail through the snow, you will have 0% traction

🌬️Stay in the driving space that other people have already made, if they made it you’ll make it too!

🌬️if you are worried about getting stuck keep blankets, water and some snacks in your vehicle. Like 2 thick blankets, you don’t know how long you’ll be stuck

🌬️Cat litter can help you get traction under your tires, get the chunky stuff if you can.

🌬️The rugs/mats in your vehicle can also be used (if you have them)

🌬️Do not worry about being the fastest one to get home, slow and safe is the way to go in storms and blizzards

🌬️Your hazard lights are your friends and it also lets other vehicles know that their is a rough patch ahead or that you need space

🌬️Add time to your travel, plan for time and a half for your usual trip

🌬️If you feel you need to tell someone where you are going or how long it should take you do that, its smart planning

[breesays]

You guys, I did JUMPING JACKS in my apartment today. JUMPING JACKS.

This new place makes the old place seem like a bad starter boyfriend. Everything was mini - the stove, the dishwasher. Creaks and leaks. Bigger than our Los Feliz place but not better. The garage always smelled like pee because there were puppy breeders on the other side of the patio. We put a basketball hoop out there for Des but couldn't handle the stink, so we never spent time there. I know that was not necessarily in the management's control, but it speaks to the neighborhood. Also some of our friendliest neighbors moved out suddenly because management wouldn't address a mold problem. I don't know, maybe MANAGEMENT doesn't even know there are better buildings, better ways?

I did enjoy the direct view of Wisdom Tree, and our excellent cat-sitting neighbors.

The other day Des got the urge to dance to "Skip to My Lou" and he raced around the living room and I was filled with that remnant anxiety - but as I watched him dance so hard he was sweating and no one banged on the ceiling at us and the world kept on spinning, it dissipated. It was so great to see him just DO what his body told him to do and not have to reign it in.

In the old place we hung a tapestry with leaves on it - in this place we keep our blinds open to the trees all the time, and I meditated in the afternoon surrounded by sun dappled light.

I feel insulated here, safe. Desmond has pointed out that there are multiple sprinklers in the ceiling space. This building was well thought out.

I don't know how much bigger it actually is, square footage-wise, but it's at least 9 Manduka yoga mats bigger. That's an acceptable form of measurement, right?

And to think I thought we HAD to move to a ground floor unit. I looked at so many with low light and felt so depressed. The one I wanted second-most, for its space, had a fake-grass yard. They wanted to charge $70 a month for pet rent, on top of a $500 pet deposit. And we would've had to share 8 washers and driers with 100 units.

I know a house is like, the ultimate freedom. But this is a good landing place for now. I just wish we would've picked this place in 2021 instead of the Cahuenga one. But, struggle making a skilled sailor and all that.

There's so much closet space (two, one on each side of the room) that the IKEA wardrobe I've brought with me is filled entirely with workout and hiking gear. Pinterested me FLIPS OUT over that.

I have a show tomorrow, one I didn't think would ever happen again, so I better get to my beauty sleep.

If you want to come over and dance-slide in your socks let me know, there's space.

[insulatingmats]

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[spacefatty]

This morning I performed a sacred rite. One that has possible existed for as long as civilization and been traced back 78 to 100 thousand years. It was a burial. I buried a local neighborhood stray that apparently chose to take its last breaths in my backyard. There’s something quieting about digging a hole in the early sun beneath a maple tree and placing a limp body in the earth. His paws were cold and the fur on them was wet. Was he running in the dewy grass? He didn’t smell yet. His fur was soft, nose cold and damp, ears ghostly pale, and eyes wide. They were still slightly damp, but they did not close when I gently touched them. 

I am not sure how far he was gone; his body was soft and flexible, but his anus seemed to be hosting some new visitors. According to google, maggots take up residence as early as 24 hours after death, which is also the time rigor mortis can end. When I lifted him, I was confused, the side he was laying on felt warm, or at least warmer than the rest of him. I think this was just an illusion put on by the insulating effect of a furry body half-shielded from the 48-degree morning.

The soil was brown and damp. New and rich in places, thick and grainy after the tree roots. I got perhaps a foot or more down, all the while questioning how deep a grave even needs to be. I carried him in my bare hands over to the hole, kneeled and gently set him in. It almost seemed a shame for his lovely gray and brown stripes to be covered with mud and earth. But I remember soil is sacred and life giving. He lived and loved this land -yes even my land- so to it he should return. 

There are a lot of strays, and neighborhood cats where I live. It’s largely a community of retirees and low-income housing. Many of the elderly here (as anywhere) take the time to offer food and water to the roaming kitties. I don’t blame them, though it can get old seeing so many roving critters. There’s a soft spot in my heart for my 99-year-old neighbor directly across from me who cares for about 3 or 4 including two Garfield look-alikes. Since buying this land and moving here it’s almost felt as if I am only borrowing the land from the cats. The elderly woman who lived -and likely died- in this house wasn’t terribly active outside and so her largely undisturbed grass and trees provided new horizons for them. Once I moved in, I found eyes regularly peaking down from the branches above. Last summer I let the backyard grow wild for many months and apparently this provided prime habitat for fieldmice, and so prime playground for neighborhood cats.

I had often seen this tabby cat sneaking buy, and I shooed him and his mini-me away. Now I felt a little guilt for not allowing some love, even though his kind wreak havoc on the local mice and native birds. I suppose at least he can find his peace here now. I scooped the soft dirt up in my hands and arms and swept it over onto him. Softly, soundlessly he was covered over by living earth. Layer after layer until I returned the roughhewn square of Dicanthelium root mat I cut with my spade. It should rain soon; that will help the dirt settle and the plants recover. Perhaps he will become the ground and feed dandelions.

[krabmeat]

oh my gosh finally finished this short story

STARTS HERE vvvvvvv

You did it.

Decades upon decades of strife, you watch the ashes swirl and settle around you, dancing in honor of your glory. You look out to the crowd, their screams, three cheers for you filling your senses senselessly. The obstacles are knocked over, shattered to hollow, porcelain pieces in your path as you trailblazed a new one. You helped so many people.

The crowd spans across the thousands, screaming and crying praises in your favor. You stand on a platform of glory that feels like the highest horse in the stable, knees locked into place to show faux stability in your figure as you look upon the masses that only know you on a first-name basis and the context of the future you planted.

It takes a while to uproot a field of weeds. Weeds aren't stagnant, as much as their stalky and stubborn stems might suggest- no, they spread. Each tug of one shakes twenty seeds back into the soil to restart the cycle again, hopeless if you want to plant a new flower. Poppies, irises, forget-me-nots, cornflowers, pleas, cries for help, faithfulness, impossible to grow in such an overrun plot of soil. Detoxing the dirt is the only way to grow these flowers, but if that isn’t a motherfucker to do.

Your superiors look down on you. They crouch down at you at eye level and hold your hands. Your hands are so, so cold as they rest in theirs. Their eyes carry the promise that this mind-numbing cycle will end, and they’ll end it for you with their own hands. The hands holding onto your cold ones so, so tightly. They promise you won’t have to feel so frigid and stiff, but your numb hands can't find warm solace in theirs. Puffs of their condensation tickle your face as they slur endless promises. You hear their teeth clatter, shoulders shivering as well. You two aren’t the same kind of cold, though. You wear a thin top and pants in the frigid weather, the chill is familiar. They wear a puffy winter coat, shivering with you in front of their insulated home. You're not the same.

They haven’t invited you inside yet. Looking at the snake-like scales on their face, you don’t think they ever will.

Infinite amounts of snow and ice have started piling around you. You’ve been waiting so long in front of their house. How long have you been waiting for them to save you? You are not saving yourself, not in this position. Ice and frost hang from your delicate eyelashes. What were you waiting for again? It had been so long, it’s hard to remember until they come out of their house. That’s when you remember- that’s when you feel your heart jump into your throat.

You were waiting for them to save you as they promised you however long ago.

And they hand you a blanket.

The thinnest one they could find, they fail to wait for your quivering hands to reach out and take it, dropping it in front of you like a dog as they walk back into the comfort of their home. The tauntingly warm air brushing past your body feels like a vex, but you don’t have the energy to speak as they wipe their boots off on their welcome mat. Your eyes gaze down at the thin, green blanket left in front of you with dull eyes. Warm light emitting from inside the house disappears when the door shuts. Consciousness goes along with it. With that feeling of falling backward, you feel your back hit the hard ground. You’re so tired.

Tired of waiting for them to keep their promise.

Tired of the uncomfortable shivering from the below-zero temperatures you’ve grown accustomed to.

Tired of people not like you telling you what you need.

Tired of waiting for someone else to save you, when you know they never will.

And with your conscious enlightened, so does the green blanket. Just a candle left ablaze on your former savior's porch sets fire to the blanket they tossed to you, which sets fire to their home. Words of warning never reach them when they’re never spoken. The only mercy you give them is the crackle of the flames, the same way they left you to die. But you two aren’t the same.

They made a promise.

And with that broken promise comes a broken, burned-down home. The ice and snow melt away as the fire jumps from the ruined house to the field of weeds and woods. The feeling is foreign to you at this point, but...

You’re warm.

You’re warm as the fire melts away the cold, as you till the field caked in ashes to plant your poppies.

The surrounding area burns away, it never donned on you that you had been on a hill before; all the blizzards tended to obscure 90% of your world, but as the snow melts, you see people.

Not people that were like the one who lived in the house, no, these people were like you. Donning clothes unfit for the eternal winter they had been caught in before you set it all ablaze, you see fires in the distance, a trail of embers going everywhere, sourced from the one you started. You never realized how many insulated homes there were, nor the number of people like you who longed to reside in one.

The masses look at you, the slowly burning blanket in your hand feels like it weighs a million pounds, but they cheer. They cheer, whistle, laugh, and cry. White snow is replaced with black as it swirls everywhere, not losing its rhythm anytime soon with all the clapping and screaming pushing the ash about in the air.

Suddenly, that blanket isn't so heavy anymore. These people were just like you, at that moment, you knew you wanted to help them.

Images of you in the crowd reflect on you like a thousand mirrors. In an act of passion, you raise that blanket as it burns in your hand, and the crowd erupts in cheers knowing things won't be the same anymore, because they had someone like you. Someone that they knew would be the voice and mind that gave them what they needed, and you knew this, too. As that blanket turns into nothing but ashes in the crowd, you know who you’re to be now.

You’re to be their new superior. Like the last one, but better. You won’t be the one hiding in homes of luxury while people wail and cry on your doorstep, begging you to keep the promise you’ll never go through with. You’ll make sure of that, too. You'll be everything you needed.

But as you slowly get off of that high, the ashes don't blur your vision as much anymore, and those thousands of mirrors across the masses seem clear.

Soot smudges over the glass, but you can tell that those mirrors aren't as similar to you as you thought.

They haven't changed, though. You have.

Because, like the difference between you and your former superior, there is a difference between you and the crowd- sure, you may come from the same origins. Yes, the things you fought for were for you as much as it was for them, but now look at you.

Look at yourself in the thousands of mirrors, then look at your hands. At your reflection in the puddles from the ice and snow, look, and you will see a giver that longed to be a receiver.

There's a dull ache in your chest. The people around you, your past. The charred body of your former superior? Your future. In this role, as much as you may use your power to change it like clay, there will always be a disconnect between you and the people you're helping, no matter how similar you are. No matter how much you do for the people because you know that's what you needed when you were like them, you'll never get what you needed.

You gave yourself what you needed in a tangible sense, but of course, with that comes a fatal loss.

A broken promise is still a broken promise- you were let down. Promises that you would be saved, and rising from the ashes, the circumstances told you that you have to save yourself.

And that's the problem with being the thing you needed most. It'll never change the fact that nobody came for you.

Maybe you shouldn't have saved yourself after all.

————

got the inspo from the tags on this post !!

[wildsymposiums]

With that last note about sleeping bags, I'm gonna add a tip I've learned from camping through sub-0 nights. (Admittedly, not snow, but it would drop a few degrees below zero)

Sleeping bags, especially freezing weather and hiking rated ones, are designed to fluff up in order to insulate better. Squishing them down, say, under further layers of blankets, renders that insulation much less effective. Your best bet is fully unzip the bag and use it as your outer layer, letting it stay fully fluffed to better keep you warm. Just make sure you're plenty insulated from below as well - not a problem if you're in your own bed, but sleeping on a camping mat on the ground without an insulation layer or two will leech all the warmth you've covered yourself with real fast.

COLD WEATHER TIPS FROM SOMEONE WHO LIVES WHERE IT’S COLD:

I always see posts about layering clothing, but there are so many more creative ways to help keep you warm if you don’t have a lot of warm clothes. But first, a note on layering clothing:

-Your underlayer is your WICKING layer. That means it is a layer specifically to absorb the moisture your body produces. DO NOT USE COTTON AS A BOTTOM LAYER. Use merino wool if possible, but other good substitutions are nylon, polyester and rayon. 

-Your middle layer is for insulation. You want AIR POCKETS in there, NOT tight fitting clothes. This is where you want to put your fluffy sweaters, your fleece, down, fur, flannel, or vests. If you do not have these, you can substitute with multiple layers of long sleeve shirts.

-Your outer layer is for keeping the cold away from your body. If you do not have a jacket, you can put on your thickest piece of clothing and then a raincoat over it. Windbreaker if you have one. 

ALSO

-Jeans are the absolute worst at holding heat. Use only as a last resort. 

-You can’t really ever have too many layers on your feet. Alternate tucking your layers of pants into your layers of socks to keep your ankles warm!

-Wear a hat OVER a hood if it will fit! This will keep your ears warmest.

TAKE OFF/OUT ANY AND ALL JEWELERY/PIERCINGS

-If you have a medical bracelet, DO NOT REMOVE IT. If you can, tuck a layer of clothes between it and your skin.

NON-CLOTHING TIPS:

-Raid your recycling. Gather all cardboard boxes and break them down so that they are flat. Put them on the floor to add more layers between you and the cooling house. Newspaper will also serve the same purpose.

-In an emergency, you can also layer newspaper between clothing layers. Don’t worry about looking stupid if you’re staying warm.

-If you have a tent, set that sucker up in whatever room you have decided to stay in. Stay in it and keep it zipped shut as much as you can, but do NOT cover the vent at the top. You can put the rain fly up, but make sure there is circulating air for you to breathe.

-You are probably not going to feel very hungry at times. DO NOT STOP EATING OR DRINKING. Digestion produces a lot of body heat and the food will give your body energy to keep itself going.

-The best foods are heavy and full of carbs and proteins. Eat nuts, eggs, pasta, meats, and beans. If you are on a diet, now you’re not. If you’re vegetarian… bulk up on those pastas and nuts.

-Try not to sweat. If you are finding yourself getting damp, take off the outer layer just until you start to cool slightly. Then redress! Your bottom layer should dry quickly, and being wet is dangerous.

-On that note, STAY ACTIVE. You are probably going to want to hunker down and snuggle up, but that will make your muscles cramp. Every 15-20 minutes do something that gets you up and about. Walk circles in the room, do a couple jumping jacks, stretch, whatever. Just enough to move some blood around your body. Don’t get sweaty or out of breath, it’s just a little movement.

-CHAPSTICK. ON YOUR LIPS. ON YOUR NOSE. ON YOUR EARS. ON YOUR KNUCKLES. Don’t let your extremities get dry or cracked.

SIGNS OF HYPOTHERMIA:

-Uncontrollable shivering -Slurred speech -Confusion or memory loss -Dizziness or lack of coordination -Inability to be woken from sleep

CHILDREN AND INFANTS!!!! I CANNOT STRESS THIS ENOUGH.

-Children WILL get colder before you. Make sure they are properly bundled up.

-If you need to breastfeed, put a blanket over the both of you and wait a few minutes for the air to warm before removing or shifting your clothing.

-DO NOT COVER AN INFANTS FACE. ESPECIALLY WHEN SLEEPING. Keep them tucked inside your own clothes when possible. As close to your heart and stomach as possible. 

-Put chapstick on children’s cheeks and clean their face often if they are crying or wiping at their nose. This will prevent cracked skin and irritation.

-Make sure your children are staying as hydrated as you! They are going to fuss and not want to drink cold things, but they NEED liquids.

SIGNS OF HYPOTHERMIA IN INFANTS AND TODDLERS ARE DIFFERENT:

-Shortness of breath  -Cold, red skin -Lethargy or listlessness

Finally:

CHECK ON YOUR NEIGHBORS. CHECK ON CHILDREN. CHECK ON THE ELDERLY. STAY SNUGGLED. STAY SAFE.

[growlzthehypocrite]

Homeless

All I really want to do with the rest of my life is focus on cherishing faith, music and perhaps literature.

It’s with love and humility that I write about being homeless and what I will do the next time I’m homeless. I know some people won’t understand, and others will understand all too well.

Many programs are scams and all they do is refer someone looking for help to other programs until they drop from the exhaustion of being trafficked back and forth between navigation centers; these are fronts for funding without actually helping anyone. It’s outrageous. I know what a real shelter is supposed to be like and they are few and far between. Show up clean and sober and they’re supposed to give you a spot as long as they have the space.

There’s really only two ways to handle being homeless; try to get help or sit tight on the camp and wait for help to come to you. it’s the latter that works better. I think it’s simply too dangerous to be out on the streets at night, I’m not worried about most people, I’m worried about the cops because they roll up on sleepers all the time. it’s dangerous and especially frustrating, you don’t know which ones are looking out for you and which are looking to bust you. I’m not worried about homeless people or someone getting high. I’m worried that authority thinks it’s helping.

When the summer is gone, you can’t sleep exposed. You need a tent, two tarps over it, and here’s the key, a few layers of cardboard on the floor to insulate from the ground and soak up any moisture inside; you can push a tent for a few seasons that way. Ask a grocery store or shop if you can take some of the card board they’re gonna throw out. You should be able to ask a local charity for a mat, pillow and sleeping bag, for comfort. Duck tape is handy for patching up holes in the tents and tarps.

I’d check into a decent shelter at night, they give you a wake up call early in the morning. Morning is for good for errands, get your food and shower, get some hot water, if you really want drugs get them early in the day but I’m going to stay away from the stuff, for me the trippin’ is over: I was attacked by witches. Never again. After some modest errands I’d pitch a tent somewhere off the beaten path and do my own thing until it’s time to check into the shelter. Personally, I would get off the streets before the sunset. There is another way to play it, some people set up their camps after dark, but the better spots are taken and trying to set up a tent in the dark? No. Let me get off the street. I guess you’d get to sleep in most mornings that way, but the only time to get help or anything done really is first thing in the morning.

I write music and literature, I enjoy reading & writing essays and short fictions, I’ve been playing guitar for a lifetime and my draft sings, but homeless isn’t the time to practice the arts. The books get ruined, the guitars get stolen. (I’ve even had glasses pinched from my nose, from right off my face. Why? So someone can get a five sack.) That’s why I am more likely to get into drugs homeless, when the point is to smoke the thing you’re not going to worry about it getting ruined. Guitars and books belong in houses, well so do musicians and writers. Electronics stop making sense for similar reasons. There are library computers, but then that’s the whole day, inside at the computer until it’s time to check into a shelter program where pretty much the only thing you can do is lay down on your mat. Smaller programs are usually more friendly, but when they’re trying to help as many as they can (the right thing to do) your part as a homeless is to mind your own business; don’t get into it with the others at the shelter.

Damn, remembering it makes me realize why I get into drugs. The things a homeless person has to do to stay out of trouble are so much work and they end up having downtime where they ‘re laying down in a tent or a shelter for hours at a time without books, music, or electronics; without contact with their loved ones. Many of these poor folks have already been trafficked their whole lives, they don’t know where their people are. All they can do is pray.

I admit, being homeless I’m more likely to score drugs and make a new friend. But that can end as tragically as getting back to the camp and your friend is gone because she got arrested. Her hateful ex has tracked her down, and while he’s got nothing against you, he is burning the spot with a phone call to the police; good thing you walked up after the fact because you found a barbecue pit and were dragging it back to the camp when you saw police. Miss you C. Thanks for helping me.

[nirwanastays]

Choosing the Best Double Camp Bed for Comfort and Convenience

Camping is a wonderful way to disconnect from the everyday routine, but it doesn’t have to mean sacrificing comfort. A quality double camp bed can transform your camping experience, providing a comfortable night’s sleep that helps you recharge for days of outdoor fun. Whether you’re planning a weekend getaway at a scenic spot like nirwana stays or heading out into the wild, finding the best double camp bed is key to making the most of your time outdoors.

Benefits of a Double Camp Bed

A double camp bed offers ample sleeping space for two people, making it perfect for couples or friends sharing a tent. Unlike single sleeping pads or bags, a double bed allows you to sleep side-by-side, which can make camping cozier and more comfortable. Double beds are also practical for staying warm on chilly nights, as sharing a sleeping surface helps retain body heat.

Types of Double Camp Beds

Choosing the right type of double camp bed depends on factors like comfort, portability, and ease of setup. Here’s a look at the main types available:

Air Mattresses: Air mattresses are one of the most popular options for car camping. They offer a cushioned surface and are easy to set up with a pump, often included. Some air mattresses have built-in electric or battery-operated pumps, which make inflation quick and convenient. However, they do require careful handling to avoid punctures and may need a power source for inflation.

Camping Cots: Camping cots are elevated beds with strong frames that keep you off the ground. This is ideal for camping in damp conditions or on uneven surfaces, as it improves airflow and keeps you dry. Double camping cots are typically sturdy, made with durable materials like steel or aluminum, though they can be bulky and best suited for car camping.

Self-Inflating Mats: Self-inflating mats are lightweight and offer a balance of comfort and portability. These mats are designed with foam that expands when the valve is opened, making setup easy. They pack down small and are an excellent option for campers focused on lightweight gear. While they may not offer as much cushioning as an air mattress, they’re reliable and easy to carry.

Key Considerations for Choosing a Double Camp Bed

To ensure you choose the best double camp bed, consider the following factors:

Comfort and Support: A well-cushioned bed can make a big difference in the quality of your sleep. Look for features like flocked tops or extra padding for added comfort.

Durability: Outdoor gear needs to be durable to withstand various conditions. For air mattresses, puncture-resistant materials are a plus. For cots, look for strong frames that provide stability.

Portability: Depending on your type of camping, portability may be crucial. If you’re car camping, weight may not be an issue. However, for backpacking, opt for lighter, compact options like self-inflating mats.

Ease of Setup: After a day of exploring, you’ll want a bed that’s easy to set up. Models with built-in pumps or frames that unfold quickly are ideal for hassle-free assembly.

Top Picks for Double Camp Beds

SoundAsleep Camping Series Air Mattress: A reliable air mattress with a battery-operated pump, designed for outdoor use with puncture-resistant material.

Teton Sports Outfitter XXL Cot: A durable cot with a strong frame and large sleeping area, perfect for campers who want stability and elevation.

Exped MegaMat Duo: This self-inflating mat is comfortable and compact, offering excellent insulation and cushioning for a good night’s sleep.

Conclusion

Finding the best double camp bed can make all the difference in your camping experience, helping you wake up refreshed and ready for adventure. By considering your needs for comfort, portability, and setup ease, you’ll be well-prepared to enjoy a restful camping experience at beautiful locations like nirwana stays. With the right bed, you’ll enjoy the great outdoors without compromising on comfort.

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