#jaunting cart

[billdenbrough]

SO EASY TO WANT

aftg · kevaaron · 3.2k, t the son of exy is just a boy in the end, wanting things he’s not sure he can have. art by @naturecalls111

“What’s it?” Aaron asks, voice rough, eyes guarded. He’s so untrusting, even right now, even right here, but maybe that’s the only way you make it to twenty-two when you’re Aaron Minyard. Always waiting for the other shoe to drop. Part of Kevin doesn’t want to say. He’s settled for being second-best a lot of his life, but he’s never really not been wanted. There’s a chance now that, if he says it, he’ll have to find out what that’s like. But more of Kevin is thinking about Aaron that day in the supermarket carpark. They’d taken Kevin’s Jeep, the one he finally bought when it became clear Andrew and Neil’s little road trip jaunts weren’t stopping any time soon and Allison threw a hairbrush at his head when he tried to permanently borrow Abby’s. Aaron had asked Kevin if he’d ever done it—no, obviously—and then hopped into the shopping cart, saying, All right, now you push. Kevin had looked at him incredulously, so Aaron had rolled his eyes, saying, God, don’t be such a priss. Push. Push! So Kevin had, and Aaron had whooped, clutching the edges of the cart as they picked up speed. Even when it had ended predictably—cart knocked over, Aaron sprawled across the ground, sporting a couple of scrapes from the grubby tarmac—Aaron had looked so – so young. Free and amused and like any twenty-something. Like he was just a boy, and maybe Kevin was too.

read on ao3

[inevitably-johnlocked]

Five Fics Friday: February 7/25

Happy Friday everyone! Hope y'all are ready to start off the weekend with a great selection of fics added to my MFL list this week! Enjoy!

SIGNAL BOOSTING

So Much More than Murder by whipsoutkeyboard (M, 5,762+ w., 7/? Ch. || WiP || Post-TEH, Aftermath of Torture, Graphic Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Heavy Angst, Case Fic, Paternal Greg, Propaganda, Foreign Relations, Suicidal Ideation, Self-Esteem Issues) – The infamous Dyatlov Pass incident has come to repeat itself, impossibly similar to the original in 1959. Sherlock and John, and eventually, Mycroft, take it upon themselves to unravel the case, delving deeper - higher - than they ever could’ve expected to. John is emotionally raw off of what he thought was his best friend’s suicide, and Sherlock is physically raw from what went on in Serbia.

RECENT MFLs

Love, In Five Acts by unicornpoe (T, 4,443 w. 1 Ch. || Teenlock AU || Valentine's Day, Ballet, Romance, Pining, Wooing, Gifts) – Somebody is wooing Sherlock Holmes—only he doesn't think it's the person he wants it to be.

Battersea Confessionals by queerholmcs (T, 7,066 w., 2 Ch. || ASIB Divergence, Love Confessions, Mild Whump) – What if John was right, and it was Mycroft Holmes who had him carted off to Battersea for a chat at New Year's?

January Jaunts by PatPrecieux (T, 28,189 w., 31 Ch. || Mystrade & Johnlock || Established Relationships, Fluff, Humour, Light Angst) – Navigating the month of January with BBC Sherlock

MYSTRADE FIC REC

M I N E by Mottlemoth (M, 1,765 w., 1 Ch. || Mystrade, POV Mycroft, First Kiss, Top Greg, Greg is a Beast, Romance) – It was all a game until this moment.

[kaiasky]

alright so we're tasting the corn starch, as folks are wont to do. and its yuckynasty, and we really wish we had some water, right.

oh no problem, i say, it looks like theres a corner store right over there! ill go grab a bottle or two. and before anyone can protest, off i go! store time! store time!

but dear listener. this was no ordinary store. for u see, the inoffensively-named "dashmart" may have conjured images of a grab-and-go convenience store, when i arrived it quickly became clear what this was. which was that this was a ghost-kitchen-style pickup location for doordash delivery service grocery shopping. it is immediately clear this is a disaster because the delivery drivers are having to present their phone for pickup, get handed some bags, step aside and fiddle with their phones, then present them again, get a new bag, over and over.

i awkwardly sidle up to the window, point at the water bottles that i can see in the shelves behind the man at the pickup counter. "I know this is like, an app thing, but is there any chance I can just give you a $5 and buy a couple water bottles?" i know even before I ask the question that the answer will be no. of course not. i am at the inconvenience store.

fucking FINE, i will download your stupid fucking app. and make an account, and forgot-my-password, and paste the code into the code paster thing. hey wait why

the spinner boxes on the code inputs block the boxes. on the phone it is impossible to enter the code. you cant even see half of the number that you input.

fucking FINE. maybe the app is out of date. i promised it would be a quick jaunt and ive been gone 10 minutes by now. do i text these new friends "hello. this store is evil. i have not forgotten about you. i will return as soon as i can"? or is that weird. updating app. oh hey it works now, it's letting me input the new code. WRONG. "ERROR DETECTED: <some hex string>".

fucking god dammit. i can see the water bottle. i am holding a crisp fiver. which can be, exchanged, for goods. and services. fuck this shit. fuck everything that tech has ever touched. there is a water bottle 10 ft from where I stand and a man who would like to give it to me and neither of us can do this because some chucklefucks in silicon valley couldn't do javascript good.

i bottle up this annoyance. i rap on the window, hi hello i cannot seem to get the app or website to work. i know this is silly but. if i give you $5, can you order me two water bottles on the app,?

uhhh, the man says. there's a service fee, and also I'm not sure, I might get in trouble for accepting cash, just check your email and see if you got a code, or...

FUCK this shit, i realize. there is a Real Ass Gronchry Store naught but 4 blocks away. that will have real things like "shopping carts" and "checkout lines, or perhaps self checkout". if i had not bothered with your fucking APP i would be back at the park by now. ridiculous.

[chartmyfixations]

cris watches dr. who: s01e08 - "Father's Day"

"I did it again. I picked another stupid ape."

Doctor, letting your companion visit the moment her dad died in a tragic accident is asking for trouble, you have got to realize that, rigth? You know how emotions work, if sometimes only laterally

Okay that filter hurts my eyes

The way that hit and run is shot is straight out of a trashy daytime opera. I can forgive the zeroes CGI, but this is just... bad

"Can we try again?" NOOO! Doctor, why would you agree to this. She might be a stupid ape but you're an equally stupid ape for not seeing this coming

Bad Wolf on the Atomic Energy poster! Drink!

Rose's dad is giving me Hey, It's That Guy-vibes, but I keep being wrong. He is not Arthur Weasley, nor is he John Dee (from The Sandman)

"For once you're not the most important man in my life!" That's the kind of angry thing you shout at a husband of ten years, not your tenuous non!boyfriend of a few time adventurous jaunts, Rose

Rose's smile when the Doctor returns after saying he'll leave her - that girl has it baaad

Is there a direct correlation between how messy Rose's hair is and how much of a mess she makes in the episode?

Look, the creatures look a little like The Mist (the bargain bin edition), but they're too badly rendered to be scary. The lost shoes and overturned carts are a lot more haunting - like when Cell attacks that city and leaves only clothes in his wake

The logic in this episode is a little shaky: why does this cause a Time Wound but not, say, Rose's romp with Charles Dickens? Is it because there's two Roses at the same time? But isn't the grandfather clause always in full effect? I know I shouldn't look too hard at the logic of time travel in this show, but this very episode specifically makes a point of it

When Rose tells her dad about what a great dad he is, she knows he's slated to die anyway, doesn't she?

Rose's mom is a menace, but her hair is absolutely fabulous

3 out of 8 Tardes. This episode is the first misstep: it doesn't quite click and either I don't get it, or the time travelling here doesn't quite follow the internal logic of the show

[moonlitdesertdreams]

Judgement Call (Part VI: The Egg)

⭒Din Djarin x Original Female Character⭒

GIF credit to @perotovar from this set

Previous | Next

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Summary: For future reference, striking a deal with Jawas is never preferred.

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Author's Note If you prefer Ao3, it's here. Thanks for coming along!

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Word Count: 3.7k+

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PART VI: THE EGG

Dark, swirling clouds pelt them with rain most of the journey, and Zakia is grateful for Din’s water repellent cloak. His own clothing is water resistant but the same can’t be said for hers. Thankfully, the planet doesn’t have much moisture to circulate. By dawn, the precipitation subsides into mere humidity. A refreshed sun climbs the morning sky, drying Zakia’s damp hair and clothing. Her braids frizz anyway, and she pulls them out to pile her hair into a bun at her crown.

The child rests in his closed bassinet towards the rear of their convoy. Zakia and Din perch side by side on the wagon hitched behind Kuiil’s Blurrg. The Mandalorian’s disruptor rifle is at the ready, laying across his knees.Tension leeches from him into Zakia, though it’s directed at the tiny scavengers rather than her. 

Not to mention the lack of sleep between a jerky wagon and non-stop rain.

Fretful chattering reverberates from the Jawas encampment as Kuiil guides them closer. They aim strange, wide-barrel blasters in their direction, prompting Kuiil to turn to his guests. 

“They really don’t like you for some reason.”

Zakia snorts, nudging Mando with her leg. “That may be because he disintegrated some of them.”

Every step the Blurrg takes is echoed by increasingly distraught chattering.

“You need to drop your rifle.” Kuiil commands. 

“I’m a Mandalorian. Weapons are a part of my religion.” Din returns, fingers tightening around the chamber. Zakia squints to take stock of the furious creatures rallying at the mouth of the Sandcrawler.

“I don’t think they’re going to do anything if you keep it.” She decides. 

Din just continues watching the Jawa object as Kuiil attempts to greet them. 

“Zakia is correct.” The Ugnaught concurs. “You will not get your parts back.” 

After a pregnant pause, Din puts the rifle aside. “Fine.”

Zakia jumps from the small wagon, stretching her shoulders and stiff back. The child’s pram whooshes open, and he blinks away sleep . He pulls himself out of the bassinet and perches near the edge of the cart, the lip standing high to prevent him from moving any further. Zakia makes sure he stays put while she awaits Din’s departure from the wagon.

As soon as his boots make contact with the mud though, the Jawas protest again, pointing their weapons in Din’s direction and chattering angrily at the Ugnaught. Their guide faces the Mandalorian. 

“And the blaster.” Kuiil gestures to Din’s leg where the aforementioned weapon hangs. 

The Mandalorian glares for a moment before looking at Zakia and pointing- rather childishly- at her dual blasters. 

“What about hers?”

Kuiil translates his question to the creatures, who simply shrug and squeak a few words in return. Kuiil chuckles, a sound that captures the Mandalorian’s attention immediately.

“The lady didn’t try to shoot them. She may keep her weapons as long as they remain in the holsters.” The Ugnaught tosses a rather amused look in Din’s direction. There’s no elaborating, just a quick one-eighty and jaunt over to the camp.

A smile splits Zakia’s face, mischief swirling through her veins. She rounds the Mandalorian to stand directly in front of him and drag a hand down his thigh. Her fingers wrap around the grip of his blaster and pull. 

“Don’t worry, Mando.” She dislodges the blaster, looks at it coyly and tosses a wink towards his visor. “I’ll keep it safe.”

Din grumbles under his breath as she shoves the blaster into the waistband of her pants, covering it with the bottom of her tunic. Annoyance flares towards the Jawas, dampened by flourishing affection for his partner. 

He doesn’t have time to debate feeling any further now as Kuiil waves them forward, the Jawa having deemed him safe to approach. Din follows Zakia, allowing her to have the seat beside Kuiil. He sits cross-legged to her left and crams his long limbs into submission beneath him. Zakia shoves stubborn curls out of her face when they fall out of her bun and smiles at the Jawas. 

Kuiil cuts to the chase, pointing at Din’s helmet. “They will trade all the parts for the Beskar.”

Zakia rolls her eyes. Leans her weight back onto her hands, ready for an argument. 

“Here we go.”

“I’m not gonna trade anything. These are my parts.” Din growls. “They stole them from me.”

One Jawa, a bit taller and stockier, prattles at the trio, and Mando stutters out something in Jawaese that even Zakia can tell isn’t right. In lieu of getting involved she pulls her hair tie out to refasten her bun, only to be bombarded by tiny hands. She laughs aloud and rescues her silver curls away from their assailants. 

Mando swivels in their direction and hisses in broken Jawa again. Zakia lays a hand on his leg and shakes her head. “It’s fine.”

The Mandalorian relaxes fractionally and focuses back on the leader, who is giggling maniacally at his plight. It points at the warrior and more laughs erupt as it speaks. Zakia understands nothing but ‘Wookiee’, though she can tell it’s not nice. 

“You understand this?” Mando thrusts his arm forward and flames shoot forth from his gauntlet.  Zakia ducks for cover, a panicked noise akin to the Jawas’ passing between her clenched teeth.. 

“Woah! Easy, easy.” Kuiil grasps his arm, and Zakia springs up.

Their hooded friends all pop up slowly. Beady red eyes dart back and forth to check for a second assault. 

“Mando!”  Zakia scolds him while withholding a laugh at the childish action. “Do you want your parts back or not?”

He’s clearly exhausted, and it’s beginning to show. She keeps her hand resting firmly on Mando’s vambrace to prevent him from lifting it again. They wait, more patiently this time, as Kuiil jabbers back and forth with the scavengers. Their conversation pauses as the leader points behind them at the child, where two Jawas were poking at it. 

“Get away from it!” Mando snarls. The two offenders screech and take off, tripping over one another to get away. 

Kuiil ignores the ruckus to keep up the conversation, obviously trying to drive a fair bargain for them. 

“Mon Sue-kah!” They begin chanting. The phrase is repetitive, broken up by only a few other words. Kuiil facepalms comically, and Zakia leaned into Mando’s side. A Beskar helmet angles towards her.

“Mon Sue-kah, what’s that?” Her utterance sends them into a frenzy and her eyes widen at their crazed state. 

“The egg.” Din murmurs. He looks at Kuiil. “Egg? What egg?”

They only continue chanting. “Sue-kah! Sue-kah! Sue-kah!” 

Sans an explanation, they’re ushered into the Sandcrawler and up to the control room. Kuiil remains in the back talking shop with one of the crew members. Zakia and Din are directed to a spot near the windscreen with a front row seat as the massive ship traverses uneven terrain. The child floats on the far side of Din. He burbles happily in its bassinet whenever the Jawas poke at him curiously. Zakia, on her bottom with her legs criss-crossed, has some leeway between her head and the ceiling. The Mandalorian isn’t so lucky, crouched over and helmet taking a constant beating from the metal ceiling. Each time the metallic ‘BANG’ echoes through the cabin, he finds a new swear word to teach the Jawas.

“It could be worse.” Zakia offers. 

She doesn’t really know how, but she’s sure she could think of something. 

When her good eyes sticks to the Jawas gathering around the child, they take note. Another round of chanting starts.

“Sue-kah!” 

“The egg! Yes, I’ve heard.” Zakia dumps every ounce of enthusiasm she can muster into the words, provoking their excitement. The hooded thieves don’t understand a word, but her energy has them laughing and cheering.

A sudden bump sends Din’s head careening into the ceiling a little bit harder than usual. The entire room fills with high-pitched laughter. 

Zakia scratches a non-existent itch on her cheek and pats Din’s shoulder. 

“This is going to be a long day.”

Almost an hour later, the Sandcrawler draws to a halt. The two humans and their charge are herded down to the hatch where Din descends to the muddy ground below. The whole basin is sloppy from the rain, and Zakia wrinkles her nose at the smell of wet animal mixed in. 

Whatever creature’s egg the Jawas want, it stinks. 

“Great.” She dips a toe into the mud, but Din holds one hand in front of her.

“You’re not coming with me.”

Zakia is ninety-four and a half percent certain her head is going to shoot off her body. 

“Excuse me?” Even with her feet on the ramp and Din on the ground, she has to look up at him. “After everything we-”

“I’m not trying to-” Din waves off her argument, biting back a sigh. “-Listen, take my rifle up there and watch my back. Please.”

Zakia follows the slant of his visor, expert eye tracing raised ground outside the muddy crater. She chews on the inside of her cheek, trying not to be embarrassed about overreacting. 

“Hand it over.”

He does just that, pulling his bandolier off and hanging it around Zakia’s shoulders. The slugs settle comfortably on her shoulders, even when he yanks the strap tighter. One glove squeezes her shoulder.

“Be careful?” She says it under her breath while he’s slinging his Amban around her. 

Din only nods. Spins on his heel, off to face the nameless enemy. Zakia heads to the cliffside where they agreed upon. She scales it with relative ease and only slips a couple times. Fall risk diminished, she continues along the edge to scope out a good viewpoint.

“Alright, Din.” She says to no one in particular, “Let’s get in and out of here.”

Zakia pulls gravity stabilizers off the Mandalorian’s bandolier, setting two on the ground and two on the bottom of the rifle so it hovers above the ground and self-balances for the best shot. She adjusts the stock uncomfortably against her left shoulder and curses the custom weapon. Built to fit Din’s body and pauldrons, it makes her aim clunky and slow.

A few moments are spent fiddling with the optics and clarity- on her non-dominant side- before Zakia can locate Din in the scope. Already halfway across the circular clearing, the child’s bassinet lingers a few yards behind him. It remains across the muddy circle as Din proceeds to the den where the beast dwells. Zakia sweeps the scope from her armor-clad partner to the giant hole in the ground. Her heart thuds at the sight, and her fingers tighten around the trigger guard. This thing has to be massive to make a burrow of that magnitude. 

Once the Mandalorian disappears inside, Zakia holds her breath. There’s no noise, no roar.  She lifts her head to watch outside the scope. The child sits in the cradle, staring on just as intently. 

Then the firing starts. 

“Kriff.” 

Red flashes light up the shaded cave entrance. Zakia hunkers down as something launches out of the den and recognizes the shape to be Din after he hits the ground. He tumbles through the mud, layers of brown slop coating his armor and gear. Through the scope she sees his chestplate barely hanging on. Sparks fly from the severed connections underneath. 

“Get up, Din.” Zakia moves her crosshairs onto the cave entrance. 

The beast emerges slowly- starting with a large, ivory horn as long as Zakia is tall. Long, shaggy hair sprouts from a ridiculously muscular body that more than likely outweighs everyone on the planet combined. 

“A mudhorn? Seriously?” Zakia holds the rifle ready, using the sights to watch Din fumble with his blaster. He taps at the weapon, which she assumes is jammed by the mud he was volleyed into. 

The beast wastes no time charging again. It tosses Din across the clearing like a ragdoll. Zakia flinches and aims at the mudhorn, pulling the trigger on its leg. She frowns when it roars in pain, but doesn't disintegrate as she hoped. Zakia looks at the rifle, then to the bandolier around her. 

“Fuck. Really?” The slots for disruptor cartridges are empty, and only regular slugs remain. 

Which will barely penetrate the mudhorn’s skin from this distance. 

Zakia growls and reloads. Looks down on the battle beneath her. The baby has been thrust across the clearing, and the mudhorn is pulling itself out of a heap near a muddy slope. Whirling back to Din’s direction, it stomps its foot in the soupy ground as a warming. Zakia is aiming at the beast’s neck this time, pulling the trigger and watching the animal recoil sharply. 

Unfortunately, her attempt to slow it down only serves to piss it off. It charges Din, dipping its head down and using it to flatten the Mandalorian into the mud. Zakia bites her lip to keep from crying out, thankful to see the flamethrower spit out from Din’s gauntlet. The fire deters the mudhorn for a few seconds, but ends up for naught as the fuel sputters out. 

Zakia has a strong urge to abandon her post and join her partner, but she knows it won’t do them any good while Din’s still getting beaten to a pulp by the beast. She considers it only a millisecond longer, until a grappling hook shoots from the Mandalorian’s vambrace to loop around the mudhorn’s head. Furious, the mudhorn flings him around the clearing. Zakia can see Din’s futile attempts to gain footing until the cable snaps and he goes airborne from the sudden release of tension.

“Dammit!” Zakia slams her fist to the ground in frustration.

She squints through the sights with her left eye, firing off two shots as the beast paces. Din lays unmoving near the mouth of the cave, the only sign of life his heat signature in the rifle scope.

At the very least, her shooting seems to rouse him. Din staggers to his feet, his armor hanging useless from its fasteners. He reaches for the only remaining weapon, which happens to be a vibroknife, and holds it before him. Zakia goes still while looking over the scope. 

There’s no chance.

“Mando, get out!” She calls, waving her arm in the direction they’d come.

His helmet inclines slightly at her command, but he doesn’t budge. The beast charges, coming at Mando full speed once again. Zakia scrambles to her knees and grabs the rifle and stabilizers. Her boots are sliding down the cliff when a roar reaches her ears. Zakia whips back towards the fight, knees scraping against the rocks. 

“What the fuck?” 

Zakia’s seen a lot in her time traveling the galaxy, but this tops it all. 

In fact, she’s so stunned that she double checks what she’s seeing through the gun scope. 

Hovering a body’s width above the ground and legs moving as if it was still obeying the laws of gravity, the mudhorn floats. 

Zakia has to remind herself to breathe, and she rushes back to her position to get a bead on the creature. Din’s standing now and his head rotates to the bassinet. Zakia follows his eyeline with the scope, heart skipping as she sees the child. She dials in the zoom until it takes away the blue. The child teeters precariously near the edge of the cradle, one arm outstretched in the direction of the mudhorn. Zakia swings the sights back and forth between the mudhorn and the child. 

He’s protecting Din?

The animal flails about in the air for several more moments before crashing down at the same time the child drops back into its bassinet. Disoriented and unable to stand, the mudhorn stumbles around. Zakia takes its stillness to her advantage and switches to a closer magnification. The crosshairs slow to a halt on the mudhorn’s eye, and she exhales as she pulls the trigger.

Her shot destroys the quiet that had settled after the child’s actions. Din deflates when the mudhorn goes limp, and throws a thankful hand in Zakia’s direction. Just for good measure, he thrusts the vibroknife into its neck and twists. 

It’s probably unnecessary.

But not unwarranted.

 Zakia clambers to her knees. She tosses the Amban over her shoulder, picks up her gear and smiles before sliding down the muddy embankment. Din is slouched over when she makes it to him, worrying Zakia that he’s going to keel over in the mud 

“Mando!” Zakia ignores the mud. She shoves her body beneath his shoulder, and his weight instantly falls into her. 

“T-The kid…” He manages, pointing towards the bassinet. His gauntlets are also broken, she notices. Between the Blurrg’s teeth and his smackdown with the mudhorn, Zakia is pretty certain he’s on track for a whole new set of armor.

She ignores the damage for now. “I saw what he did.” 

Despite its recent tribulations, the child sleeps fitfully in the cradle, and remains that way even after the duo fetches the disgusting, hair-covered egg for the Jawas. Din leans heavily on Zakia as they trudge through the deep mud but does better supporting himself once they make it back onto solid ground. He takes a moment to crush his chestplate back into a manageable position and taps at his battered vambraces. The tethered cradle floats behind them eerily, and the strange aura surrounding the group remands them all to silence.

“What is that thing?” Zakia finally inquires for Din’s opinion.  

He’s about to explain to her what a mudhorn is when she instead nods to the cradle.

“I don’t know. But it’s powerful.” 

His voice is strained. Zakia makes the executive decision that when they return their parts to the skeleton of the Razor Crest, the Mandalorian is required to take a long nap before any repairs start.

Hoping to get him there faster, Zakia urges them on. They top the hill where the Sandcrawler was parked just as the back hatch is lifting. Kuiil remains outside, yelling excitedly to the Jawas that had been preparing to leave. 

“Mando! Zakia!”

Mando, egg under one arm and Zakia supporting the other, heaves a breath. 

“I have it. I’ve got the egg.” 

The Jawas ran down the hatch, swarming around them to grasp at the egg. Some prod at Zakia again, searching for her blonde curls which fascinated them earlier. She chuckles as Mando relinquishes the egg and rounds on them.

“Watch it.” The Mandalorian half-heartedly barks, arm sliding from Zakia’s shoulder to her waist to save her from tiny grabbing hands.  He tugs her close despite the ache creeping into his bones.

This time, the Jawas don’t react to his hostility, too busy fussing over the egg as their leader lifted it above his head. 

“Sue-kah!” 

They all rally around the egg, and Zakia hums. “You think they’ll raise it? It’d make a hell of a guard animal.”

The Mandalorian is impatient to get his parts back, but not so much so that he doesn’t allow them their prize. “I guess we’re going to find out.”

The Jawa calling the shots hands the egg off, and withdraws a small machete. It swings sharply, slicing the top from the egg. 

“Oh.” Zakia wrinkles her nose as the same Jawa dips a hand in and tastes the yellow yolk. “Gross.”

All the Jawas participated, pushing and shoving for a taste. Din pulls himself and Zakia to safety, shaking his head. Zakia gags. A hip bumps into hers.

“I don’t think they’re raising it.”

Zakia is still swallowing the taste of bile. 

“You don’t say.”

Until they are out of earshot from any wandering Jawas, their journey back to Kuiil’s is quiet. A tower of parts are stacked on the wagon, plus Din and Zakia. The child sleeps on, the bassinet floating along beside them. 

Din explains to Kuiil what happened during the battle with the mudhorn, and the Ugnaught seems strangely interested in the occurrence. They all are, but Kuiil especially. 

“Is it still sleeping?”

“Yes.” Zakia calls back, sparing Din the effort. 

She’s perched on a crate while Din uses it as a backrest. His helmet tips forward, and a gloved hand grips the edge of the cradle to give it a soft shake.

The Ugnaught pushes on with his questions. “Was it injured?”

The Mandalorian shifts so one knee is bent and he rests his elbow upon it. “I don’t think so. Not physically.”

Kuiil steals a glance back at his guests. 

“Tell me what happened again. I still don’t understand.” 

“Neither do I.”

Zakia looks down at her partner, whose head bobs about on his shoulders. It comes to a rest against her calf, air hissing out from under his helmet. She switches from him to the Ugnaught, trying to find the words to describe what happened so Din can sleep.

-

In spite of a testy disagreement about how long it would take to fix the damage done to the Razor Crest, Kuiil and Din work tirelessly to repair it. Between Din’s knowledge of his own ship and Kuiil’s mechanical skills, it progresses quickly. 

Zakia takes the available time to observe their bounty since she’s next to useless when it comes to anything mechanical. The child sleeps on, eyes remaining shut throughout the pounding and welding from the ship. She wrings her fingers as she stands over the cradle, blue eye scanning over the baby. It’s adorable, there was no denying that. Its big eyes give it an outstanding childish appearance, even in sleep. The ears multiply its cute factor, accenting just how small he actually is. 

Two fingers reach out and brush down an ear. Zakia bites her lip, trying to resist the urge to pull back like she was burned. But what could she hold against this thing, other than the price on its head?

It had levitated the mudhorn. 

And, by doing so, gave her the opportunity to lay down a fatal shot on it.

Furthermore, self-preservation played no factor in his actions- the child did it to protect Din. Zakia chews on her lip, ignoring the already torn apart flesh that stings as she continues her habit. She can’t hate something that saved the Mandalorian. It doesn’t seem to be evil, but it is a target. A bounty. 

As if sensing her discomfort, the baby’s face scrunches together. It whines in its sleep and Zakia sucks in a deep breath. On her own accord this time, she extends a hand to hold over its abdomen and soothe the dreams away.

“Sh, sh. It’s alright, no one’s gonna hurt you.”

Zakia continues to coax the child away from its nightmares, hoping whatever is waiting for it on Nevarro isn’t much worse.

-

Thank you for reading, much love ❤️ Masterlist

[theirishaesthete]

A Momentary Lull

Particularly at this time of year, it is hard to catch a picture of Ross Castle, County Kerry without the inclusion of milling crowds since every car, coach and jaunting cart in the area visits the place. Located on the shore of Lough Leane, the castle is a 15th century tower house and keep originally constructed for the the O’Donoghues Mór. It passed to the McCarthys in the 1580s and thence to…

[thommi-tomate]

Ralf Fährmann on the incident with Manu on the golf course:

Manuel Neuer and I once borrowed a golf cart without asking, we drove around the hotel grounds a bit but hit a pillar

We wanted to simply return the golf cart after our jaunt, but noticed on the way to the hotel that it was driving strangely

That's when we realized that the axle was broken - and that there was a rubber track from the pillar across the site because the axle was standing crosswise.

I was the younger one, Manu took it all on himself. I was lucky

[monstersandmaw]

Hi, I hope your trip is going well! I wanted to ask, what kind of body does Pumpkin have? Is he as tall and buff or burly as some of his riding mates, or more lean? Regardless, he seems like he'd give the best, most energetic hugs.

Yeah, my little jaunt up to London for the evening on Thursday was fun, but we got caught in a torrential thunderstorm and I spent the whole evening with soggy clothes 🤣.

Pumpkin is lean, and shorter than the others (except Pickle, who is under 5ft) but he’s not skinny. He’s kind of wiry I guess. He’s very energetic, always moving, tapping, dancing, goofing around, is very quick to give hugs or touch to convey comfort or camaraderie. He’s big on touch, but understands that not everyone enjoys it. (Pixie, for example, isn’t great with people touching her, even her friends except Coco who basically has carte blanche to do as she pleases with Pixie).

Thanks for asking!! I’m currently completely obsessed with this lot, and Tepes’ story is nearly 5k words long now. A good chunk of it features the squad and their antics and interactions too, so they’re all on my mind!! 🏍️.

[sonnypower1]

Find the 72V Golf Cart Batteries

Ascend to the zenith of golfing grandeur as your trusty golf cart undergoes a metaphysical metamorphosis, replete with 72V Golf Cart Batteries of sheer unadulterated power. Behold our high-capacity lithium-ion batteries, the Olympian elixir of extended jaunts and boundless merriment across the sprawling tapestry of the golfing cosmos. Bid a fond farewell to the vexations of perpetual recharges, and in salutation to an enlightened golfing odyssey, proffer a resounding welcome.

[bonfire-at-the-crossroads]

“Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re gonna get.” - Forrest Gump summed up everything pretty nicely.

Auction at Lisnaskea tonight.

I was leaning up against the Jaunting Cart, to take a picture of …

Three (count ‘em) 3 plastic sumo-wrestler fat suits.

Next to a pair of forged iron carriage wheels.

Just imagining the possibilities and combinations makes me giddy.

[athenahines1]

When The Going Gets Tough, IDGuru Gets Scanning: Thriving in High-Volume Hotel Havens

Imagine standing in the bustling lobby of a grand hotel, teeming with guests, luggage carts zipping by, and front desk personnel trying to juggle myriad tasks. Amid this hubbub, one piece of tech stands resilient, poised, and ready for action: the id scanner. But not just any scanner - the trusty IDGuru's hardware. Let's embark on a jaunt through the realm of this robust contraption, engineered for high-demand, high-volume hotel environments.

Unyielding to the Unyielding Flow Hotels, especially those nestled in prime tourist spots or business hubs, rarely have a "slow day." There's always a rush, and systems are expected to operate flawlessly, akin to a well-choreographed dance. Here, IDGuru’s hardware doesn't just participate; it leads. Its scanner, sturdy and steadfast, is built like a tank yet moves with the elegance of a ballet dancer.

Software That Sings Along Paired with its Herculean hardware is IDGuru's software, the unsung hero. Adaptable and agile, the software is like that brainy kid in class who always has an answer. Peak check-in times? An influx of conference attendees? The software navigates through these waves effortlessly, ensuring smooth sailing.

Hearty Hardware Heartbeats Ever wondered about the essence of IDGuru's scanner durability? It's the meticulous design and premium materials. Each scanner undergoes rigorous testing, almost like a gladiator thrown into an arena, emerging victorious every time. Rain, dust, or the occasional coffee spill - nothing fazes this modern-day tech warrior.

Scalability in Sync with Seasons High-volume doesn’t always mean consistently high. Hotel traffic ebbs and flows with seasons and events. IDGuru is astutely aware, designed to scale up or down based on demand. It’s like having a gear-shift mechanism, transitioning smoothly between different speeds.

Future-Forward Foundations Being reliable isn’t solely about withstanding today’s challenges; it’s also about being ready for tomorrow’s innovations. The hardware-software synergy in IDGuru is so beautifully synchronized that updates, upgrades, and new feature rollouts integrate seamlessly.

Data Dexterity: No Compromises on Speed In a bustling setting, data processing speed is the holy grail. And boy, does IDGuru deliver! Thanks to its state-of-the-art algorithms, guest data is extracted, processed, and stored in a jiffy. It’s akin to the speedster of the tech world, leaving others in its digital dust.

To wrap up this whirlwind tour, let’s just say that in the throbbing heart of hotel landscapes, amidst the cacophony of guests, luggage, and life, IDGuru’s scanner stands tall and unwavering. It’s a testament to design brilliance and technological prowess. So, the next time you’re at a busy hotel and notice that tiny id scanner doing its thing, know that there’s an entire universe of innovation behind it, working tirelessly to ensure that the show goes on.

[thecaitychronicles]

Pizza Night

It’s a casual Friday afternoon and I’m driving over to my boyfriends house for make-your-own-pizza night. I’ve requested a cauliflower crust and a wide assortment of topping options. My excitement turns to frustration quickly as I find myself backed up in traffic along Sunset in Ocean Beach. As the Cheeches and Chongs in front of me inch forward little by little, I see a doggo crossing the street. 

No leash. No collar. No human. 

Thankfully traffic was going too slow to do the K9 any harm. Nevertheless, I immediately skrt-skrted to the side and ran after the unaccompanied pooch. He remained calm and eager for attention, but too stubborn to follow without incentive. I directed him by his hips toward my car, where he jumped in from the passenger’s side straight to the driver’s seat. No, no silly pup, you can’t drive, for you are not a golden retriever and this is not a Subaru. He contently drools all over the seat as he stares out the window in wonderment. I send a text message to the boyfriend asking for him to meet me outside. We rendezvous outside the complex where I find myself trapped in conversation with an OB native sitting in a lawn chair on his car. Casual. Sir Doggo and I jaunt toward to the door to get him some water and perhaps a treat for being so trusting despite the “stranger-danger” rule. 

His boopable snout is posted on the local lost pup page in efforts to track down the owner. And now we wait. But my affectionate pets cannot be addressed to a nameless floof. He must have a name. Dijourno! It is pizza night after all, and his dispersed spots are reminiscent of the toppings of my pizza. His wags may be from my correct guess of his title, or perhaps from the puppy voice it is spoken in. Regardless, I’m attached. 

*Ding* Notification from lost pup page. 

“Oh hey that’s my neighbor’s dog, Tucker. They don’t have Facebook.”

First of all, his name is Dijourno. Secondly, can you perhaps facilitate a meet up? 

About 15 minutes later, we meet up with a golf cart outside with the license plate reading “Tucker.” Convenient that the cart has a tag, but Dijourno does not. Pupperino is returned safe and sound, but he and I will never forget his true identity: Dijourno.  Edit: le boifren is no more, but my yearning to be reunited with Dijourno Pupperino will never die.

[magnumversumplus]

Manananggal Ko

Episode 6: Tunay Na Kabaliwan (True Craziness)

Written By Joseph M.

Manong Crisanto Dalisay ran through the airport, neon signs glaring in his face, the checkout lines, small shops overflowing into the halls, airplanes taking off into the distance. He was in the Jakarta International Airport, running away from the fight in Bali, inspired with a cowardice never before seen. He shoved through a pilot escorted by flight attendants, pushed away a couple and their several kids, and raced through a gate filled with rows of drowsy passengers and food spilled onto the ground.

Crisanto was on a sloppy dash through the airport, crashing into displays and knocking over aisles in convenience stores to get to his destination: the airport’s only help desk. He slammed into a man from the Indonesian military, a decorated and embattled soldier wearing a thick camo jacket and an assortment of badges. The trooper stepped aside, and Crisanto just kept on running.

Crisanto had to run away from Imeldnananggal. He had to make things right and see Lagg N. Anananam again. He had to make things right with the only manananggal he ever actually cared about, the only one that mattered. He wished he could deal with what was happening in Bali, but his love needed him.

The way Crisanto saw it, love was like a pebble and selfless service was like a stone. Sa ating Lupa (in our Earth) from the highest points of Chocolate Hill to the lowest points of the West Philippines Sea, the stone always had more effect than the pebble. But in the expansive realms of the stars, asteroids and planets above the terra, loving one person was better than selflessly serving many; a pebble and a meteor both floated through the stars.

This was his flawed vision of the way one should love another, ang paraan na dapat mahalin ng isa ang iba. Perhaps, Crisanto, to justify his selfishness, created this fallacious view of the way mahal (love) works to exculpate himself and feel less guilty. Crisanto, falling down a set of moving stairs–the buzzing of the escalator resonating in his ear as his head slammed against every step–pondered on if running to the one he loved the most was more important than saving people he didn’t know.

Crisanto got to his feet, only to crash into a newspaper stand, Time magazines flying everywhere, faces of celebrities with chiseled chins and long, flowing hair flying in his face. He picked up one of the magazines as it fell and turned to a random page, skimmed through the words, flipped through the rest and crashed into a vending cart, the man running it falling out of his sandals.

“Apa yang dia pikir dia lakukan?” cried the man, as Crisanto got back up and tipped him several bills of different denominations.

Crisanto tripped on a banana peel. It was green like calamansi, rotting, and now it smelled like dog poop. His arms flailed miserably before he belly-flopped. He got back to his feet and bellowed that he could understand the man’s Indonesian: “Saya mengerti bahasa Indonesia juga, teman!”

Crisanto rushed through crowds of people jaunting through the airport, leisurely shuffling to their gates, not troubled by a plundering terrorist farmer and not scrambling to reunite with an ex-lover. Crisanto’s methods of getting to where he needed to be were flippant, berserk and frenzied. Adrenaline pumped through his blood like gasoline through the veins and bones of a traysikel, spiking as he kicked, pushed, pulled, punched and screamed his way through the airport and finally reached the airport help station.

The person manning the desk, a man named Emilio Dela Cruz, looked at him with a helpful and tender smile, speaking to him and gesturing with a friendly demeanor and explaining things with courtesy and politeness. “Hello, sir. What may I help you with?”

“Penerbangan ke Filipina!” Crisanto slammed his passport onto the desk and pulled Emilio towards him, demanding a flight to the Philippines amongst other things in incomplete phrases. all of a sudden, Crisanto Dalisay forgot all of the Indonesian he learned as a kid. “I need a flight to the Philippines ASAP!”

Emilio sighed and asked him for his credit card, saying, “Hindi mo alam? Marunong ako mag Tagalog at Ingles din!” He also knew how to speak Tagalog, and now Crisanto was in an awkward position.

“Forgive me, please,” Crisanto begged him urgently. “I need a flight to the Philippines, now!”

Emilio scanned over the passport, the driver’s license and the other IDs Crisanto laid out before him, the photos of a rugged man with bags under his eyes and an uncomfortable smile staring back at him. This was not too dissimilar to the hillbilly that stood in front of him, a man hurrying to get somewhere without any immediately apparent reason.

There was tension, escalating as a printer began vomiting out a boarding pass. The ink slowly filled out the sheet with Crisanto’s name, date of birth, and official-sounding jargon. Emilio held the boarding pass in his hand, wondering whether he should allow Crisanto Dalisay a ticket home.

What did Crisanto want? What if he had negative intentions? What was he running from? These were all questions that ran through Emilio Dela Cruz’ head as he ruminated on the possibility of malice.

[acrossthearctic]

Day on Dingle Peninsula

Although early morning the day appeared as if it was going to be another gloomy day, it turned out to be a very sunny day and the temperature even got above 20 degrees.

Our first aim of the day was to visit the village of Ballymalis ( home of Maunsell ancestors) in search of Ballymalis Castle. The village was there but no castle!

Our next visit was to the Gap of Dunloe, a narrow moutain pass created in the ice age. Specacular scenery but hairraising driving. It is about 18Km long and is almost a single lane road with a few turnouts which are needed when there is an oncoming car or the jaunting cart carrying tourists.

After a fortfying coffee we continued on through Milltown and Castlemaine with its bronze statue of The Wild Colonial Boy to drive around to Dingle .

One stop was Inch Strand where e the tidal range is so low that there is a warning for people to move the cars from the beach car park by a certain time so that they will not be caught in the water. we were there just after low tide and so it was a long walk to the water. Amusingly therewas lifeguard situated a long way from the water and he certainly was not observing the "swimmers".

We continued on on the Slea Head Drive to Dingle,which was +++ full of tourists so we decided to drive on in search of lunch.

We came to a small town of Ventry and had lunch in a quaint pub ,the Paidi O Se .This quaint pub is situated in the heart of one of Ireland’s only Gaelic (Irish) speaking areas . Paidi was a famous Galeic Football player and the pub not only has a statue of him but is FULL of photos / football boots and other memorabilia.

We continued on visiting prehistoric fairy forts and beehive huts and spectacular scenery.

On our return journey home we found the Ballymalis Castle ( on opposite side of the "highway" to the village. It is currently under restoration so we were ony able to se the front from a distance but got quite close to the scaffolded rear of the castle.

Again the town was quite busy but we found a very nice restaurant for dinner and after dinner we visited The Laurels Pub. This pub has been owned by the same family for > 100 years and I last visited it in 2000 with my mother. We had a great time then as the daughter of the owner had worked with me @ Prince Henry Hospital and happened to be "home" from her job in Dublin, so we were special patrons. The pub is still busy and particularly so because as well the usual tourists it is Killarney Race Week and there is an influx of people attending this event.

[as-i-mean-to-go-on]

The Pilgrimage

In times gone by the Pilgrimage was a trek through field and country. The first pilgrim would have trudged from hamlet to hamlet along whatever simple dirt track they could find, all the long way from the coast to the inner mountains. Yet as the Order grew the route became more standard and more popular. As with most things generally the straightest path was chosen, and trade routes sprang up. Soon the Pilgrims of the Order had firm footing and eventually even a paved stone road to walk. The stops along the way grew in tandem and became villages and then towns, favoured not only for their local exports and attractions but for their presence along what became the Great Road.

Yet as times change so too do the ways of people. The road was paved with room for carts and wagons of course but with the invention of the steam engine a railway was conceived. The first of its kind and a potential model for progress to come. A great consternation sprung up among the Order; while it made economic sense enough for the towns along the Road to be inevitable, a train along their sacred Pilgrimage was troubling.

Some believed that the whole point of the journey was to struggle, to place one foot in front of the other and move by your own power to prove your dedication to the Order and the Way. Some believed that the journeys difficulty weeded out those who did not truly understand the Way, and that Pilgrims must struggle like the first to gain true understanding. Yet it was pointed out that as the route became set, and the Road became paved, the Order had never concerned itself with the lessening difficulty of journey, and those who complained now had never offered to forge their own path, as the first did.

And so it was that the Pilgrimage along the Great Road became a simple jaunt from stop to stop along a railway. Every stop must still be met, each town visited and paid homage, the lessons must still be learned and the trials must still be passed, but the pilgrims of the new century looked a sight less troubled by the journey itself.

[bodhrancomedy]

There was a humanoid woman waiting at the door, clad in light chainmail and the fluffiest white fur cloak Hyrrokkin had ever seen. When they rounded the corner, she turned and flashed them a dazzling smile as white as the cloak. “Hello,” she said, “May I presume you are the guide Candlemire?”

Hyrrokkin was immediately impressed. Usually, people just came straight out with their travel request.

“I am,” Aeolus said. His voice was a little short, causing Hyrrokkin to glance at him in surprise. “And you?”

“Yvonne de Liemyst. I’m hoping I can hire one of you to take my companions and I –“ she gestured behind her to a one-horse cart currently occupied by a trio of figures – “across the Líkdyrr Pass before the next moon?”

Aeolus tilted his head slightly as Hyrrokkin’s heart leapt. As routes went, the Líkdryrr Pass wasn’t a simple jaunt, but neither was it one of those even her teacher avoided. It was a shorter path which wound near to the ice cliffs and gryphon hunting grounds, but the beginning of the trail went near enough her home village.

Níunóttheim. A twinge of something close to longing flashed through her stomach at the mere thought. Hyrrokkin shut her eyes against it, trying not to see the house and the waterfall and the crystal flowers which could not melt under the breath of anyone she had known then. If she let herself concentrate, then she could almost taste her mother’s baking and hear the tuneless beginnings of a well-remembered song…

Hyrrokkin shook herself, coming back into herself feeling like someone had slingshotted her soul back into her body. She took a low shuddering breath and cast a look at Aeolus.