#led filament

[interiorsbysutton]

LED Filament Bulbs At Interiors By Sutton: The Best Way to Light Your Home

Shop a wide selection of LED filament bulbs at Interiors By Sutton. Our bulbs use less energy than traditional incandescent bulbs and last longer, so you can save money and the planet. We also offer a variety of styles and finishes to choose from, so you can find the perfect bulbs for your home.

[the-starlight-papers]

God the Bambu labs 3D printers are so cool. I want a bed leveling printer with a heated enclosure and a whole bunch of filament stations that can switch between filaments automatically. It looks so awesome but I will probably never be able to afford that.

[sirfrogsworth]

This is one of those things where the discourse is just completely broken. Both of these takes are shit and no one is concerned about the actual problem.

Republicans want to bring back incandescents because they just want to trigger the libs and have decided light bulbs are woke.

And the "LEDs are fine" crowd are throwing people with flicker sensitivities under the bus. And, no, you don't have to be "pretty far on the spectrum" to notice a difference. And even if you did... why in the world is this person so dismissive of the millions of autistic folks?

LEDs, for the most part, are superior to incandescent bulbs. Collectively they save people billions of dollars in energy costs and greatly reduce fossil fuel use. You have more options for color and brightness. You can control them with your phone. LEDs are fantastic.

Unfortunately there is a design flaw that makes LEDs hard to use for certain people. Due to AC power, most LEDs have a 60hz refresh rate. Meaning they turn off and on 60 times per second. With incandescents this didn't matter because the filament didn't have time to lose its glow between cycles.

Most people cannot see this flicker in LEDs. But there are millions of people who are sensitive to it and it can cause migraines and discomfort.

The solution is definitely not to go back to incandescents. There are flicker free LEDs and I think with some regulation we could make sure all LEDs are flicker free or at least make sure flicker free bulbs are easy to find and not priced at a premium.

Thankfully there is a group testing bulbs to find the ones that will most likely cause no discomfort. They call themselves the Flicker Alliance and their website has a pretty decent selection of tested and approved bulbs.

So if you feel like your LED bulbs might be causing you distress, that is a good resource to try. I think there is also something you can do to make sure the LED drivers are using DC power, but I haven't really looked into that.

[tricktster]

When I was in 8th (or possibly 9th?) grade physical sciences class we had a movie day where we watched videos about the elements.

Except that one of my classmates (who I will refer to here as Mike M) decided to write “SHCOOL GO BOOM” (sic) in a library book the day prior…

And, you know, the scarred-by-the-very-recent-9/11 administration decided late in the day that it constituted a bomb threat so credible that we all had to evacuate to the gym, so as a result we only got through a video about exactly one element:

74

W

(That’s Tungsten for you lame-os who don’t know the most likely periodic table symbols to come up during pub trivia.)

Also, it was one of my first bomb threats and clearly mildly traumatic given that I cannot remember a single other thing about that class, including the name of the teacher, but boy oh boy do I remember that we only made it through Tungsten.

Anyway, this video was specifically about how we are running out of Tungsten, which will cause absolute bedlam because Tungsten is essential for the filament used in incandescent light bulbs. I believe it posited that if we kept consuming Tungsten at our current rate, by 2060 we wouldn’t be able to light our homes.

At the time, this was not particularly concerning for me, a child who did not purchase lightbulbs.

Anyway, what’s up, it’s 2025, I now use like 100% LED RGBICWW smart bulbs that I have set up in a variety of elaborate routines to confound and annoy my loved ones, but I gotta hand it to you Mike M…

This may have not been the desired effect you were going for when you wrote SHCOOL GO BOOM in that library book circa roughly 2002, but now whenever something goes remotely wrong with my dumb dumb smart lights, even though I intellectually know there is no filament involved, my first thought is always

OH FUCK NOW I GOTTA DEPLETE OUR LIMITED TUNGSTEN RESERVE YET AGAIN AND AT THIS RATE WHEN I’M SEVENTY I’LL HAVE TO USE A FUCKING CANDLE

[spacetimewithstuartgary]

Dark energy 'doesn’t exist' so can't be pushing 'lumpy' Universe apart – study

One of the biggest mysteries in science – dark energy – doesn't actually exist, according to researchers looking to solve the riddle of how the Universe is expanding.

For the past 100 years, physicists have generally assumed that the cosmos is growing equally in all directions. They employed the concept of dark energy as a placeholder to explain unknown physics they couldn't understand, but the contentious theory has always had its problems.

Now a team of physicists and astronomers at the University of Canterbury in Christchurch, New Zealand are challenging the status quo, using improved analysis of supernovae light curves to show that the Universe is expanding in a more varied, "lumpier" way.

The new evidence supports the "timescape" model of cosmic expansion, which doesn't have a need for dark energy because the differences in stretching light aren't the result of an accelerating Universe but instead a consequence of how we calibrate time and distance.

It takes into account that gravity slows time, so an ideal clock in empty space ticks faster than inside a galaxy.

The model suggests that a clock in the Milky Way would be about 35 per cent slower than the same one at an average position in large cosmic voids, meaning billions more years would have passed in voids. This would in turn allow more expansion of space, making it seem like the expansion is getting faster when such vast empty voids grow to dominate the Universe.

Professor David Wiltshire, who led the study, said: "Our findings show that we do not need dark energy to explain why the Universe appears to expand at an accelerating rate.

"Dark energy is a misidentification of variations in the kinetic energy of expansion, which is not uniform in a Universe as lumpy as the one we actually live in."

He added: "The research provides compelling evidence that may resolve some of the key questions around the quirks of our expanding cosmos.

"With new data, the Universe's biggest mystery could be settled by the end of the decade."

The new analysis has been published in the journal Monthly Notices of the Royal Astronomical Society Letters.

Dark energy is commonly thought to be a weak anti-gravity force which acts independently of matter and makes up around two thirds of the mass-energy density of the Universe.

The standard Lambda Cold Dark Matter (ΛCDM) model of the Universe requires dark energy to explain the observed acceleration in the rate at which the cosmos is expanding.

Scientists base this conclusion on measurements of the distances to supernova explosions in distant galaxies, which appear to be farther away than they should be if the Universe's expansion were not accelerating.

However, the present expansion rate of the Universe is increasingly being challenged by new observations.

Firstly, evidence from the afterglow of the Big Bang – known as the Cosmic Microwave Background (CMB) – shows the expansion of the early Universe is at odds with current expansion, an anomaly known as the "Hubble tension".

In addition, recent analysis of new high precision data by the Dark Energy Spectroscopic Instrument (DESI) has found that the ΛCDM model does not fit as well as models in which dark energy is "evolving" over time, rather than remaining constant.

Both the Hubble tension and the surprises revealed by DESI are difficult to resolve in models which use a simplified 100-year-old cosmic expansion law – Friedmann's equation.

This assumes that, on average, the Universe expands uniformly – as if all cosmic structures could be put through a blender to make a featureless soup, with no complicating structure. However, the present Universe actually contains a complex cosmic web of galaxy clusters in sheets and filaments that surround and thread vast empty voids.

Professor Wiltshire added: "We now have so much data that in the 21st century we can finally answer the question – how and why does a simple average expansion law emerge from complexity?

"A simple expansion law consistent with Einstein's general relativity does not have to obey Friedmann's equation."

The researchers say that the European Space Agency's Euclid satellite, which was launched in July 2023, has the power to test and distinguish the Friedmann equation from the timescape alternative. However, this will require at least 1,000 independent high quality supernovae observations.

When the proposed timescape model was last tested in 2017 the analysis suggested it was only a slightly better fit than the ΛCDM as an explanation for cosmic expansion, so the Christchurch team worked closely with the Pantheon+ collaboration team who had painstakingly produced a catalogue of 1,535 distinct supernovae.

They say the new data now provides "very strong evidence" for timescape. It may also point to a compelling resolution of the Hubble tension and other anomalies related to the expansion of the Universe.

Further observations from Euclid and the Nancy Grace Roman Space Telescope are needed to bolster support for the timescape model, the researchers say, with the race now on to use this wealth of new data to reveal the true nature of cosmic expansion and dark energy.

TOP IMAGE: This graphic offers a glimpse of the history of the Universe, as we currently understand it. The cosmos began expanding with the Big Bang but then around 10 billion years later it strangely began to accelerate thanks to a theoretical phenomenon termed dark energy. Credit: NASA

LOWER IMAGE: This graphic shows the emergence of a cosmic web in a cosmological simulation using general relativity. From left, 300,000 years after the Big Bang to right, a Universe similar to ours today. The dark regions are void of matter, where an ideal clock would run faster and allow more time for the expansion of space. The lighter purple regions are denser so clocks would run slower, meaning under the "timescape" model of cosmology that acceleration of the Universe's expansion is not uniform. Credit: Hayley Macpherson, Daniel Price, Paul Lasky / Physical Review D 99 (2019) 063522

[murciafire]

Lady Lazarus

Jason Todd Angst

Summary: “You don’t get to die and be reborn the same. You come back, but you come back wrong. This is the price you pay for resurrection” – Nathaniel Orion

Warnings: angst, the poem is about Plath's attempts but nothing explicit

Words: >1000

Notes: The thought of Jason dying and then being resurrected often led me to think of “Lady Lazarus” by Sylvia Plath. I find that it’s even more appropriate considering that Jason’s died twice now (1988, 2024 – please let me know if I have it wrong). Since we all know that Jason reads classics, I felt that his thoughts might as well be as dramatic and poetic as seen in classic lit.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

I have done it again.

There was a chipped tile in the corner of the wall where it met the smooth surface of the bathtub. My eyes would always catch it on the days I found myself lying in the bathtub, but it was so indiscernible that I didn’t think anyone else would remark it. (Not that I would care if anyone did, nor did anyone visit me, nor did I want anyone to). It was like a scar hidden under a chin that wouldn’t be evident until you tilted your face to where God should be (but perhaps in His absence, you could stare at the sun and the rays would make the sliver of cut skin silver, brilliant and hideous).

But such a break, where it was so insignificant, would bother no one unless you knew where to look for such fractures. And I, being that I am, often find myself wandering in an agonizing game of self-loathing where I’m drawn to discovering broken things like me. Which is why I think—and when I do think these thoughts, they’re often coupled with a heaving dry chuckle—I must cover the bathroom mirror. This game, or perhaps self-torment, is one that I often lose even when I win.

I put out my cigarette on the side of the tub—I had forgotten I had lit it. My nerves were so frayed that I didn’t think nicotine could absolve me any more than drowning myself in this bathtub hoping that a self-made baptism could bring me any closer to my father. I sighed, closing my eyes while dropping the crumpled cigarette on the floor beside me. My heart beat steadily in my chest, but I was already limp like I had given up. I felt a smile curl my lips into something cruel because here I was, in rose water which I wasn’t holy enough for, but damned enough that I was swimming in my own blood.

The bathroom, I thought, was a state of purgatory where all my thoughts merged into a state of expiatory purification.  Because I was alive and somehow—“One year in every ten I manage it—”

I groaned as my bones creaked and my muscles strained as I leaned over to pull the stopper. My eyes fixated on the swirling water, taking my blood with it. I blinked a few times, looking at my hands, no longer stained but very still. As if silence was a word to describe a motion—I wasn’t sure I was breathing. But I was.

And again I find myself moving, peeling myself off the floor of the tub, stepping over the edge. A sort of walking miracle, my skin bright as a Nazi lampshade, my right foot a paperweight.

I stood in front of the mirror and in my hesitancy, I found some courage, or as if reality took form and guided my hand to rip off the towel I hung over it, so I had to face what I saw in that tile: something broken. My face a featureless, fine Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin, O my enemy. Do I terrify?—

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth? The sour breath will vanish in a day. Soon, soon the flesh the grave cave ate will be at home on me.

I smiled, my laugh hollow as I wiped my face, continuing to recite Plath. “And I a smiling woman. I am only thirty and like the cat, I have nine times to die.”

I tossed the towel onto a hook on the wall before gripping the sink to stare at myself. “This is Number Three. What a trash to annihilate each decade. What a million filaments. The peanut-crunching crowd shoves in to see them unwrap me hand and foot—the big strip tease. Gentlemen, ladies—” I pushed off the sink, throwing my hands over my face. “These are my hands. My knees. I may be skin and bone, nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.”

I slid down to my knees, my chest heaving. “The first time it happened I was ten. It was an accident. The second time I meant to last it out and not come back at all. I rocked shut as a seashell. They had to call and call and pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.”

I shut my eyes, feeling my body crumple to the floor and curl into itself. Silence, I decided, was a word to describe action. Because here I was, living silently.

“Dying,” I whispered, “is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say I’ve a call.”

 

I rubbed my arm with my hand, my fingers brushing over scars—new and old. My body was littered with wounds, but no one could ever see the scar under my chin. Or perhaps, the one I wanted most to notice was the crack in my heart that shattered my soul.

“It’s easy enough to do it in a cell,” I muttered. “It’s easy enough to do it and stay put. It’s the theatrical. Comeback in broad day to the same place, the same face, the same brute amused shout: ‘A miracle!’”

I laughed or cried; I wasn’t sure. But air came out of my lungs and clawed at my throat to make some sort of sound so I knew I was still here, lying on the bathroom floor very much still alive. But it’s a miracle that I am, isn’t it?  That knocks me out.

There is charge. For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge. For the hearing of my heart—

It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge for a word or a touch or a bit of blood or a piece of my hair or my clothes.   So, so, Herr Doktor. So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus, I am your valuable, the pure gold baby that melts to a shriek. I turn and burn. Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash—

You poke and stir. Flesh, bone, there is nothing there—

A cake of soap, a wedding ring, a gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer  

Beware

Beware.

Out of the ash I rise with my red hair and I eat men like air.

[adafruit]

The Raspberry Pi 500 Desktop and Monitor debut, alongside a 512GB Raspberry Pi NVMe SSD for ample storage. A snap-on enclosure for the USB/DC/Solar Lithium Charger, LED filaments in fun shapes, and the A4988 Stepper Motor Driver for motor control https://adafruit.com/new

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - 87

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 87: The Sworn Shield or The Boy

AO3 - Masterlist

That morning, Mertha had taken it upon herself to attend to Daenera, much to her displeasure. Daenera found herself dressed in a deep emerald green dress, its fabric thick and enveloping her heavily in the style favored by the Queen Mother–a long dress that fell modestly around her, its sleeves split and sweeping the floor, with a light underdress that added to the volume, it’s sleeves ending around her wrists. Daenera never disliked green; she appreciated all its shades, from the soft hues of meadow greens to the rich depths of forest greens, and she had always found gems like emeralds and jade particularly appealing. Green had once seemed flattering to her, but now, it constricted her chest with apprehension. The color now represented yet another tether, another filament in the web  the Hightowers were weaving around her, another bare in the cage that confined her. 

Nevertheless, she donned the dress, suppressing her growing disdain for it as Mertha arranged the thick fabric around her. She had other battles to fight than that of the color of her dress. 

Daenera’s mind had been set on the task at hand, fully prepared to make the sacrifices that were needed for it. As Mertha had attended to her, she had worn a deep scowl, her lips moving slightly as she muttered prayers below her breath until Daenera was fully dressed and ready for the day. 

“We should visit the sept today,” Mertha had suggested then, her hands carefully picking up her weathered book of prayers. The leather was worn, its pages yellowed and frayed from frequent use, and the golden seven-pointed star embossed on its surface had nearly faded away–a testament to its constant handling. 

And Daenera had agreed with a measured, “Very well,” betraying none of her inner turmoil. 

The Royal Sept nestled within the towering walls of the Red Keep was smaller that the Great Sept but no less splendid. Yet, Daenera’s attention was not on the sept as she walked away from Maegor’s Holdfast. With Mertha and Ser Oliver Norrey close behind, she turned towards the Red Keep, ascending the steps with a determined stride that led her not to the sept but towards the Council Chambers. 

Mertha, taken aback by the sudden change in direction, tried to grasp Daenera’s arm without drawing attention. Her efforts were in vain as Daenera deftly avoided her touch. Her steps quickened, her focus fixed on the door of the Council Chambers. 

“Princess,” Ser Arryk Cargyll called out in greeting, stepping firmly in front of her and effectively blocking the entrance to the Council Chambers. His brow was lightly furrowed in unease, though his eyes remained sharp and serious–the difference that told her which twin he was.  

Daenera lifted her gaze to meet his, looking past the gleaming white armor of the Kingsguard. “Ser Arryk, has the Council gathered?”

“They have, Princess,” Ser Arryk replied, his tone careful, a query beneath his words.

“Good,” Daenera responded, her posture resolute, her head held high. At that moment, Mertha’s hand clamped down on the soft flesh just above Daenera’s elbow. Her thin fingers pressed into Daenera’s skin with a bruising force as she tugged slightly on her arm, whispering with a venomous undertone, “And what do you think you’re doing?”

With a rough pull, Daenera extricated her arm from Mertha’s grip, meeting her gaze with a cool, unflinching expression before redirecting her attention back to the Kingsgaurd. “Inform the Hand that I wish to speak with him and the Council.”

“The Council has more pressing matters to attend to than the complaints of a princess,” Mertha interjected tersely. Her remark, however, was blatantly ignored by Daenera, whose eyes remained locked on Ser Arryk, waiting for his response. 

“Forgive me, Princess,” Ser Arryk replied with a respectful tone, “The Council in session is to remain undisturbed.”

“Then I shall wait until they’ve concluded.”

“You will not,” Mertha retorted sharply, her scowl deepening the wrinkles on her face and aging her beyond her years. Had it not been for her persistent scorn, she might have aged with some semblance of grace. But the venom seemed to flow freely through her veins. She would have made a proficient Septa.  

“I will,” Daenera countered firmly, her tone resolute. “Unless you wish to create another spectacle here, in front of the court,” she added, her words underscored by the bustling noise of the court, “and add to the spectacle I made yesterday…”

Mertha clenched her teeth. “I could have you dragged from here–”

“You could,” Daenera interrupted sharply, leaning slightly into Mertha’s space, her voice cutting. “But it wouldn’t serve the Hightowers.”

It was a challenge–a dare for Mertha to command Ser Oliver to seize her and drag her through the Red Keep, kicking and screaming, turning the scene into a true spectacle that would be whispered about within and beyond the walls. Such an act would unequivocally confirm her status as a hostage, one treated with marked harshness. It would lend credence to the true reason she had appeared at the feast the previous evening, clad in her mother’s color of red, a bold stand of defiance. 

“You insolent, cursed child,” Mertha seethed, clutching her book of prayers so tightly that it seemed on the verge of tearing. 

Daenera shifted her focus back to Ser Arryk, who stood resolutely before her, guarding the entrance to the Council Chambers like a steadfast sentinel. His hand rested casually on the pommel of his sword, his posture embodying the calm readiness of the Kingsguard. Consciously dismissing Mertha’s exasperated huff, Daenera maintained her stance before the doors of the Council Chambers, her gaze fixed on the knight in front of her. 

After a prolonged moment of stillness, Daenera broke the silence with a question, “Where is your prettier half?”

Her gaze briefly flicked towards Ser Ricard Thorne, who stood stoically beside the doors, his stern expression unwavering as he observed the interaction. Typically the twins were stationed together outside the Council Chambers, each flanking a side of the entrance, their presence almost symmetrical, reflecting one another. But today, the usual balance was disrupted, emphasizing Ser Ricard’s distinct features–dark eyes and hair, a thick, neatly trimmed beard, and brows bushy and furrowed together in seriousness. 

Something flickered across Ser Arryk’s face, a slight hardening of his blue eyes betraying a change in his demeanor. After a brief pause, his voice emerged cold and terse, “Gone, Princess.” 

Daenera’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Gone?”

Her gaze dropped momentarily to where Ser Arryk’s hand clutched the pommel of his sword, his grip so tight that the skin over his knuckles was stretched taut and pale. Raising her eyes to meet his again, she observed him closely, noting the rigid set of his features and the tense muscles of his face. The muscle in his jaw twitched visibly as he gritted his teeth in anger. It took her a moment to understand the shift, then realized that it was betrayal that flickered in his eyes.

Ser Erryk Cargyll, it seemed, had parted ways with his brother and, by extension, his duties in the Kingsguard. The tightness of Ser Arryk’s expression and the betrayal in his gaze led her to surmise that Erryk had not just left his post but had chosen to align himself with her mother–declaring Rhaenyra Targaryen as his rightful queen. At least one of the twins had kept his honor intact. 

“Ah,” Daenera remarked, a faint, knowing smile playing at her lips, “the prettier and better half, it would seem. Your brother seems to be the only one whose honor remains. You should have gone with him.”

Ser Arryk’s gaze fixed on her, cold and unforgiving. “I swore an oath to protect and defend the royal family. I have worn this cloak since I was eight and ten, Princess, and have served the King since that day. I will continue to serve the King now…” A brief flicker of agony crossed his features, deeping the furrows in his brow as he continued in a muted tone, “My brother has lost his way… And we both suffer for it.”

The pain was evident in his expression revealed the conflict within him–a man torn between his duty to the crown and the love he held for his brother. His commitment to his oath remained unwavering, that was why he stood here after all, yet the personal cost of such fidelity was clearly etched across his face.

There was a time when Daenera might have felt sympathy for Ser Arryk, but those reserves of compassion had long since been depleted. Now, all that remained was a familiar kindling of anger–a seed of cruelty that had taken root within her, growing stronger as she endured and endured. 

“Hmm… It seems your brother has his honor, and you have yours,” Daenera mused softly, her voice laced with irony. “A shame yours makes you a traitor.”

“My brother is the one who abandoned his honor with his vows, not I,” Ser Arryk retorted, his voice as firm as the stone floors underfoot. His armor whispered with the soft sound of moment as he took a deliberate step back, distancing himself. “You may wait here a while, the Council is not soon to conclude.”

Resuming his original stance, Ser Arryk became once again the sentinel outside the Council doors–an imperfect mirror in the absence of his twin, his face no longer reflected at the other side of the doors. 

With a quiet sigh, Daenera resigned herself to waiting outside the Council doors. She stood there, her gaze fixed intently on the wooden barrier that separated her from the chambers she sought to enter. Around her, the castle life murmured on; the air was filled with the low buzz of conversations as nobles chatted along the path of the Grand Stairwell behind her, and the soft scurrying sounds of the servants bustling about their duties echoed subtly in the background.

As the first hour passed, Daenera had become intimately familiar with every curve and groove of the Council Chamber doors. She noted each detail: the deep grooves of the elaborate carvings, where dark wood swirled into lighter shades, etched by gilded edges that caught the light from the windows and the nearby torches. How many secrets had those doors held from the realm? How many dirty deeds did they protect now? And how long was she going to stand there, willing them open?

As another half hour slowly dragged by, discomfort began to grow at the base of her spine. Her lower back ached, muscles stiffening due to the prolonged standing. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other in an attempt to ease the discomfort in her weary muscles. As she moved, she felt her hips creak, protesting the movement. And as time wore on, this discomfort spread to her knees and feet. Each throb seemed to anchor her more firmly to the spot. The heavy sensation in her stomach grew into a tangible knot of tension as she stared at the doors. 

The restlessness that began as a mere prickle in her fingertips grew into a tingling urge to move, to pace, to do anything but standidly. Boredom, too, crept into her consciousness, an unwelcome yet persistent guest that muddled her thoughts as she began to ponder how she could get into the Council Chambers. She contemplated a sudden outburst, a loud demand to open the doors and allow her entry. However, she quickly dismissed the idea, knowing it would likely prompt Ser Oliver–who was casually leaning against the wall, idly picking at the calluses on his palm–to intervene. Similarly, any attempt to force her way through would be thwarted by Ser Arryk Cargyll, and not his twin, Ser Ricard Thorne, who would surely step in before she could even reach the door, resulting in her being forcibly removed and locked away somewhere.

Her thoughts then ventured towards a more theatrical solution: scaling the exterior walls to access the chamber through the balcony. Yet, the risk of plummeting to her death loomed far too great for it to be an option. The desperation of it was almost laughable. Perhaps it wasn’t necessary to scale the walls if she managed to find a long, sturdy plank of wood. She could then make a bridge from one balcony to another. This too, while less perilous than scaling the walls, presented it’s own challenges. Where would she even find such a plank? How would she transport it unnoticed? And even if she could manage these feats, the ever-watchful eyes of Mertha followed her closely, making such a plan practically impossible. 

Each plan Daenera considered quickly unraveled under scrutiny, revealing its inherent flaws. Thus, she found herself resigned to standing and waiting, outwardly exuding an air of patience while a current of impatience prickled beneath her skin. 

After what seemed like ages, the doors to the Council Chambers finally swung open, releasing the members of the Council one by one. Ser Tyland Lannister, Master of Ships, emerged first, his gaze briefly meeting Daenera’s. His eyes, weary yet acknowledging, offered her a respectful nod as he passed. Following him was Lord Jasper Wylde, the Master of Laws, who seemed to dismiss her presence entirely with a curt shake of his head, as if she were merely an inconvenient part of the scenery. 

Grand Maester Orwyle came next, the distinctive clinking of his maester’s chains announcing his approach before he even appeared. As he walked past Daenera, his eyes gave her a quick once-over–a fleeting glance that carried a hint of curiosity before he too moved on, absorbed in his own thoughts

Daenera stepped forward, ignoring the displeasured sputter of Mertha who reached out for her in a futile attempt to restrain her. Now that the doors were open, Daenera refused to be held back. Standing poised at the threshold, her eyes immediately found Otto Hightower, whose gaze was as cold and discernible as ever. “I wish to speak with the Council.”

“This council meeting has adjourned,” Otto declared with a sense of finality, closing the leather-bound book with a definitive snap. He straightened to his full height, the sigil of The Hand of the King pinned prominently to his chest, marking his authority in the King’s absence. Notably, the King’s chair remained empty–Aegon was absent from this meeting. The absence of even a goblet of wine on the table hinted that he had never attended at all. 

“I wish to discuss my betrothal,” Daenera asserted, her voice steady as she stood her ground. She could feel his gaze on her–chilling like a cold draft along her spine, a sensation that brushed against her skin almost like a caress, one she adamantly refused to acknowledge further. He moved through the shadows, his attention sharp and invasive–pressed against her like a blade at her neck. Yet, Daenera refused to meet his one-eyed gaze, focusing her attention on the Lord Hand. 

Otto regarded her with a weary scrutiny. “What is there to discuss? Your betrothal has been decided. The wedding is set.”

“Perhaps, but my compliance is not,” Daenera retorted, her resolve steely as she crossed the threshold and ascended the steps leading to the Council Chambers. With measured strides, she climbed to the level where the chamber’s table stood, positioning herself to confront those who remained. There was a challenge in her words, pointed and jeering–a promise. 

The Queen Mother, who had been standing by the balcony, turned to face Daenera, her expression marked by a deep frown. One hand absentmindedly traced her lips, betraying her concern. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, the round shudders creating circular patches of light onto the floor, where dust motes danced in the gentle breeze wafting through the open windows and balcony doors. Despite the abundance of light, the peripheries of the room remained dim, shadows lingering among the columns, adding a somber tone to the setting. “You’re in no position to negotiate.”

The long table dominated the center of the room, bathed in light that framed the King’s chair, which itself was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, ornately carved and edged with silver and gold. Above the door to the balcony, a seven-pointed star was prominently mounted–a symbol courtesy of the Hightowers, no doubt intended as a reminder for the Council and the King of the higher power that would judge them upon their deaths. Yet, the presence of this symbol did little to deter the actions that had let to usurpation and kinslaying. 

Daenera deliberately ignored Aemond as he emerged from the shadows. Though she avoided looking directly at him, she acutely felt his presence, much like one senses a looming shadow. Her chest tightened.

“You said it yourself, Lord Hand–the entirety of Maegor’s Holdfast, the realm, knows of my grief,” Daenera asserted, fixing her gaze on Otto Hightower, whose cold eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of annoyance passing through them. “Your standing with the realm is already precarious–the act of kinslaying is unlikely to endear the lords of the realm, or inspire them to rally to your cause. After all, there are none so accursed as the kinslayer.” 

She sensed the shift in the air, as tangible as the scent of rain carried on the breeze just before a storm–it was thick and heavy and solemn, and it made the hairs on the back of her neck prickle as she felt his gaze intensify. Calmly, she folded her hand in front of her, her thumb absently brushing over the bandaged wounds on her palm, a subtle gesture that belied the tension she felt under his scrutiny. “Moreover, the realm would find the celebration of a kinslayer in poor taste–grossly so. Worse yet, to have the grieving sister of the boy that was murdered attend such a celebration, to have her sit beside her brother’s murderer and endure the king’s taunts…”

Daenera’s head tilted slightly as she pondered aloud, “The realm will think you cruel.”

Alicent’s voice snapped through the air, tinged with a harsh edge as she addressed Daenera. “You are fortunate we did not imprison you alongside your men for the spectacle you made yesterday.”

“You cannot,” Daenera stated, her voice carrying a simple, unwavering challenge, undisturbed by the threat. “It wouldn’t suit the narrative you’re attempting to weave.”

The lines of Otto Hightower’s forehead deepened as the usual stern expression carved itself more firmly into his features. With a begrudging silence, the Lord Hand sank into his chair at the right-hand side of where the King’s empty seat loomed. “What is it you want?”

“You cannot seriously be considering this,” Alicent interjected sharply, her voice laden with exasperation. She strode away from the balcony, her green skirts whispering across the stone floor with a soft rustle. Approaching the King’s chair, she clutched the top of it, as though to steady herself as her gaze settled more firmly on her father. 

“I wish for the remainder of my men to be released from the dungeons and seen safely out of the city,” Daenera stated firmly, her request clear and unwavering.

Alicent huffed in disbelief–the sound bordering on a scoff–as her head shook. “Releasing your men would only embolden you to defy us further. The very reason we hold them is to ensure your compliance.”

“If you do not release my men and continue to threaten their lives, I might as well consider them dead already,” Daenera countered sharply, her voice tinged with cold resolve. The weight of her words settled heavily in her stomach. The images of her fallen men–Joyce, Sithric, Kevan, Darvin, and Edam–hung limply in her memory, their lifeless bodies haunting the presence in the inner courtyard of Maegor’s Holdfast. Now, only Fenrick, Eddin, and Patrick remained. 

If the threats to their lives persisted as a means to control her actions, she would have to resign herself to the likelihood of their deaths. And if they were to die anyway, she might as well consider them as such. 

“If you desire for me to agree to this mockery of a wedding, then you will release my men,” Daenera asserted, her tone resolute. She sensed his movement–like the ripples made when moving through water–felt the shift of his presence as he stepped into the light. From the periphery of her vision, she saw him take the position to the left of his mother, opposite the Lord Hand, his hand resting atop the back of a chair, clenched tightly. His stare sharpened, felt like a blade’s caress–threatening yet intimate in a way that made her skin tingle and her heart twist. She despised the sensation–wished that his presence didn’t have an effect on her. “Should you decide not to release my men, then I swear to you, I will show you a true spectacle–one that will not be forgotten. Force me to the altar and know that I will resist every step, every inch; you will have to drag me, kicking and screaming. And I will ensure that every lord, lady, and commoner in the realm knows that this marriage is without my consent.”

Her heart pounded, the thick silence engulfing the room feeling nearly suffocating as she faced them. The Lord Hand appeared visibly annoyed, his brows knitted together in contemplation, his eyes sharp with cold calculation. Beside him, the Queen Mother’s expression was one of exasperated disbelief, her fingers twitching nervously. Though Daenera avoided looking directly at Aemond, his presence was palpable, pressing against her senses.

The threat seemed to thrive in the silence only to be cut short by Aemond’s low, gentle murmur. “Ñuha ābrazȳrys iksā.”

You are my wife.

Their eyes locked, and in his gaze, she saw the same gentleness and terrible sharpness of the dragonglass that had once cut into her palm–a distant, now painful memory. Her look was steely, her heart bludgeoning itself against the composed, icy facade he presented–was it even a facade? She could no longer be sure. The sting of betrayal was acute, and she felt the prickle of tears burn behind her eyes. 

“I’ve had your consent.” The sharp etch of his lips remained curved, but there was cruel gentleness to it, his voice low and soft. “You’ve already given your consent when we wed in the tradition of our house.”

Daenera’s heart constricted painfully, as if a dagger twisted between her ribs, accompanied by the haunting sensation of his lips betraying her once more–she could almost feel his breath ghost against the exposed flesh of her neck, even at this distance. 

“You are my wife,” Aemond stated, his focus solely on her. 

“It is your word against mine, Kinslayer,” Daemera retorted sharply, her voice laced with venom. She pressed her thumb against the stitched wound on her hand, the familiar pain anchoring her–a preferable agony to the chaotic beating of her heart. She pressed harder into the wound, the one that had traced the damned scar halfway through, each wound a vow. The memory of that night haunted her; two fools, mistaken in their love, unwilling to admit that that was what it was, sealing their fate with vows neither of them understood, oblivious to the consequences they wrought and the doom for which they were heading. If they had known the destruction their love would bring, would they have ever uttered those vows? Would they still find themselves standing amid the ruins of what they had once cherished?

The boy she had once loved seemed to have vanished into the sea along with her brother, only his body had returned, cold and cruel–a specter in the form of a living man. How strange it was to be haunted by someone who still drew breath, and stranger still, to be tormented by the fragments of a shattered heart–there should be nothing remaining, just emptiness, but there wasn’t. It would have been simpler to feel nothing at all. Yet, since indifference was an impossibility, she grasped at the hatred she knew intimately, the only sentiment that felt unequivocally real. 

With her gaze locked on his, Daenera’s voice was icy, her words slicing through the air as she suppressed the quiver threatening to betray her emotions, “There was no Maester or priest to bless the ceremony, no witnesses to attest to its validity. In the eyes of the Faith and the court, the union lacks recognition.”

The edges of his mouth tightened, as she noted the flash of anger in his eyes, the muscle in his jaw ticking as he clenched his teeth. With her chin lifted, Daenera delivered her words like a dagger, aimed straight for his core, twisting with a calculated cruelty. “It is as though it never really happened.”

Aemond moved towards her, his movements predatory. With lithe fingers, he seized her wrist with his fingers, raising her hand between them for emphasis. His grasp was firm, his hold assertive, but not bruising–the touch startled her, her heart shuddering in her chest. He hissed, inches from her face, his anger palpable. “Do we not bear the same scars, ābrazȳrys?” 

As Daenera fought to steady her heartbeat, he pressed on, his voice a menacing murmur, so awfully soft, “Do we not bear the evidence upon our palms?” He paused, his breath mingling with hers, his demand for acknowledgement sharp and clear, “Did we not seal our vows in blood?”

Daenera wrenched her wrist from his grip, shooting him a scathing look. Her skin still burned where his fingers had clutched her. “What is one scar from another? That is no evidence.”

His fury enveloped him like flames, the unmistakable scent of dragon–smoke and fire–clinging to him. She sensed his desperate need to possess her, to mark her as his own with ferocious intensity, regardless of her own desires. But she knew too well that her resistance gnawed at him, burrowing deep into his vulnerabilities. Holding his fierce gaze a moment longer, she steeled herself against the tide of his rage before finally turning her attention to the Hand of the King and the Queen Mother, steadfast in her defiance. 

Daenera watched as Alicent gripped the back of the king’s chair tightly, eyes wide with fury and fear, voice filled with shocked reproach, “Aemond…”

From the periphery, Daenera observed Aemond grit his teeth, his features tightening in visible frustration. For a fleeting moment, he averted his gaze, his expression wounded–the mask then settled upon his features, smoothing out the vulnerability into something more steely. He took a deliberate step back, his eye settling upon Daenera with a cold, detached intensity, the space between them expanding yet she felt his presence lingering like a ghost in the shattered hallways of her heart. 

“Tell me it isn’t true,” Alicent pressed, her voice climbing as she rounded the table, her skirts whispering urgently across the stone floor. She reached Aemond and grasped his arms, seeking the truth in a plea that vibrated with desperation. “Tell me it isn’t true. Tell me you aren’t this–this foolish!”

Aemond remained silent, the truth suspended between them like the dust motes caught in the beams of light. 

Alicent’s voice pitched higher, almost shrill with despair, “Tell me it isn’t true! Tell me you didn’t marry that cursed girl!”

“Alicent,” Otto chided with a restrained firmness, though his admonishment seemed to evaporate in the heated air, unnoticed as Alicent clasped Aemond’s arms, her grip seeming to tighten with a mother’s urgency. Her voice rose, edged with a trembling fierceness, “Do you grasp the gravity of your actions–whom you’ve bound yourself to? She will see you cursed–she will see you suffer for what you did to her brother! She will doom us all–”

“Mother, enough!” Aemond’s voice broke through, commanding and sharp as he pulled away from her grasp, the sound of her nails dragging against his doublet audible in the tense silence. He fixed a stern gaze upon her, his annoyance palpable. “It is done–”

“It is not,” Alicent interjected insistently, her voice laced with desperation. “There’s still a chance to undo this. As she herself declared, it’s merely your word against hers. No witnesses, no priest, nothing to consecrate the vows. The gods do not recognize it.”

“Compose yourself, daughter,” Otto commanded with unwavering firmness, his presence imposing even as he remained seated. His fingers tapped rhythmically on the aged leather of his ledger, which was stuffed with haphazardly arranged parchments. A weary resignation permeated his voice as he continued, “What’s done is done. It is of no consequence now.”

“‘Of no consequence?’” Alicent’s voice echoed sharply, eyes aflame with a mother’s fierce protectiveness and brimming with disbelief. She turned towards her father, her head shaking as if to dispel his words. 

Otto’s voice was steady and dismissive of his daughter’s distress, “The legitimacy of their union matters little at this juncture. Our priority is the forthcoming wedding–” his eyes settled reproachfully on Aemond, “one that aligns with our faith and is witnessed by the eyes of the court.”

“You’re condemning him with this marriage,” Alicent charged, her voice thick with emotion as she advanced towards the table, pressing a hand against her abdomen as if to quell her inner turmoil. She met her father’s gaze with a blend of disbelief and quiet desperation, silently imploring him to reconsider his decision, but Otto Hightower was not moved by his daughter's plea. 

“The wedding is set.”

Alicent shook her head in dismay, turning her gaze out the windows as she stepped away from the table, wrapping her arms around herself. Otto then fixed his eyes on Aemond, “How long have you kept this from us?”

Daenera’s gaze met Aemond’s, her heart pounding furiously, eyes burning with angry tears. A silent plea passed between them–a desperate urge for him to keep their secret, to preserve the last shred of sanctity their vows once held. He had shared their vows, exposing them to the harsh light of day. What they shared should have stayed veiled by the night, cherished in the quiet spaces of their hearts, untouched and pure–a fond memory eroding by the touch of cruelty. How strange it was, to have kept it in the shadows of night, where it flourished in the quiet solitude they had once shared, untainted by the daylight–it had been wondrous, almost sacred. Now exposed, it seemed grotesque, marred by layers of betrayal so deep, that bitterness seemed its only essence. What was one more scar upon their already tainted bond?

As Aemond averted his eyes, Daenera knew he would concede to the truth. She had denied him the acknowledgement he desired–had denied their vows–and so, perhaps to punish her, he answered with the truth. With a soft yet resonant voice, he betrayed her again, “Four months.”

Daenera’s gaze drifted to the ornamental marble spheres arrayed at the center of the table, nestled within their holder like delicate eggs. A fleeting impulse prickled at her fingertips, an urge to seize those marble balls and fling them at Aemond in a fit of rage. Yet, the logistics of moving past the expansive table and push between the chairs deterred her–she would need to lean over its broad expanse, exposing herself further, and Aemond would likely stop her before she could even graze the balls. She briefly considered removing her shoes and flinging them at him, though they seemed too insubstantial to inflict the impact she desired. Her eyes then settled on the hefty, hardwood chair before her, lamenting the lack of strength required to wield it as a weapon against the betrayal she felt. 

With no means to inflict the damage she desired, she remained still.

“Four months?” Alicent repeated, spinning back to face them, her arms wrapped tightly around her torso, her hand brushing at her lips as though attempting to soothe herself. Her brows knitted together in a mixture of surprise and displeasure. “Since her husband’s death?”

“We married soon after,” Aemond answered, giving Daenera the grace of not telling the full truth–that they had married the night her husband had died, that they had both had a hand in it. 

Otto reclined in his chair, his gaze shifting between Aemond and Daenera, weighting the gravity of the situation in a prolonged, silent assessment. Daenera felt the tightening of invisible threads around her, woven by Otto’s scheming mind. These threads seemed to bind her wrists and ankles, constricting around her neck, making her into nothing more than a mere puppet. After a long pause, Otto finally broke the silence again. “This may be to our advantage.”

“How can this possibly serve our interests?!” Alicent countered, her voice rising with incredulity. “Lord Borros Baratheon will surely sever ties with us once he discovers his brother’s widow has remarried so swiftly after his death. He will suspect Aemond of having a hand in his brother’s demise and he will demand justice.”

“Lord Borros is a prideful man and has already pledged his loyalty to us. It would tarnish his honor to withdraw now,” Otto answered, his expression stern as he regarded his daughter. “He wants for a royal alliance and the power of a dragon at his command. He won’t risk losing that.” His gaze then shifted to Aemond and Daenera, voice lowering slightly, “However, we must censure that the nature of Boris Baratheons accident remains beyond reproach…”

Daenera gritted her teeth, her thumb pressing into the wound on her–the one that had traced the bottom of the scar once left by the dragonglass. She contemplated exposing Aemond’s involvement in the death of her husband, even if it meant revealing her own. It was mutually assured destruction, as she had always intended–and as she had always hoped wouldn’t be necessary. Yet, here she was, considering it. But if she truly desired his death above all else, she would have driven the blade into his neck when she had the chance. 

“We announce that their union was sealed a few weeks ago, perhaps a month, in a small ceremony, meant to keep her mother’s wrath at bay,” Otto continued, weaving his web of schemes. “We’ll weave the narrative of forbidden love, and the coming nuptials will be a formal ceremony that aligns with both the Faith and tradition, presenting the union to the court.”

“That is if I comply…” Daenera stood her ground, her voice strong. “I have an inherent obstinance, Your Grace…” Her eyes flicked towards Alicent, watching the scowl grow, then settled her gaze back on Otto. “You may weave your narrative, Lord Hand, but if I resist, your schemes will unravel. You have shown your cruelty by having me attend the celebration of my brother’s death–how will your plans fare when I am to be dragged down the aisle, tears running down my face, resisting every step?” 

Daenera’s gaze flickered to Aemond for a brief moment before returning to Otto, continuing, “How do you think the realm will respond to you forcing me to marry my brother’s murderer? How do you think my mother would react? And Daemon?”

Aemond scoffed, his eye flashing with intensity as he retorted, his tone sharp and biting, “And how will she respond when she learns you married me willingly? Daemon had his suspicions of our relationship–how do you think he would react? Would he see it as a betrayal?”

“Do you think they’ll believe the tale that we married weeks ago, when I am dragged, crying, to the altar?” Daenera snapped back, eyes narrowing. 

Aemond regarded her with a measure of coldness, his voice lowering, “Do you think they won’t?” 

Daenera’s heart pounded in her chest, a flush of heat creeping up her neck and into her cheeks as she fixed him with a glare. Each word he spoke seemed to bear down upon her, her resolve bending under the weight of it–like a branch bending under pressure, threatening to snap. It would have been kinder, she thought, if he had plunged the knife at his hip between her ribs rather than seek to unravel her certainties. She clung to the belief that her mother and Daemon would understand her intentions, but deep down, she knew such assurance was a fragile, fallible thing–and he knew it too. 

Aemond possessed a disturbing ability for finding which thread of her’s to tug on. He pulled at these threads relentlessly, unraveling her, exposing her vulnerabilities and uncertainties without any regard for her desires. It seemed he derived a twisted form of pleasure from dissecting her composure, piece by piece, revealing her innermost fears to the world–fears he would exploit. Once the act of unraveling her had welcome, once she thought she could unravel him too. What a lie that was, and yet there was a strange intimacy in the way he sought to strike at her vulnerabilities–how he knew exactly how to unsettle her.  

Daemon had been incensed when he had learned about their relationship–had warned her against it. He had known, had sensed her feelings even before she recognized or deigned to acknowledge them herself. He had feared she’d fallen in love with him–feared that she’d betray them for this newfound affection. 

Her heart had betrayed them as much as it had her, and she despised herself for it. 

The thought of her mother perceiving her actions as a betrayal twisted her stomach into knots. Her blood ran cold with dread at the idea that Daemon might see her as a traitor.

Daenera steeled herself against the gnawing doubt that threatened to overwhelm her–threatened to unravel her ploy. The doubt seemed to crawl down her spine like chill, burrowing beneath her skin and turning her bones to ice. Her heart thudded heavily, uneasily within her chest as she swallowed her fears, masking them beneath a veneer of confidence. She clung to the hope that they would see the truth–that she was merely a pawn in the Hightower’s game, that the marriage was nothing more than a farce, even as she smiled and played her part. They had to understand, she reassured herself, they would come to see it clearly. 

With a deliberate effort, she tore her gaze away from Aemond’s.

Otto  fixed her with a look that mingled appreciation with annoyance. After a moment, he declared firmly, “If we release your men, you will consent to the marriage.”

It was not a question but a statement. Daenera responded nevertheless, “Yes.”

Daenera was acutely aware of the implications. Her acquiescence to the wedding would only strengthen Otto’s narrative surrounding her presence at the celebration of her brother’s death. She knew well that word of it would soon be reaching Dragonstone, if it hadn’t already. And once they heard of her compliance in the wedding, they’d begin to doubt her loyalty. Yet, this was the sole leverage she possessed, her only means to secure the release of her men from the dark confines of the dungeons, away from the perpetual threat hanging over them like an executioner’s blade. Daenera clung to the hope that her mother and Daemon would recognize her actions for the desperate charade they were. And with her men freed, she trusted they would convey the truth. 

However much this ploy may wound her–however much it may cost her, it was a sacrifice she was willing to make, and in truth, it was the only thing she could do. 

The Lord Hand’s gaze hardened. “From this day forward, you will embody the perfect bride–beautiful, radiant–and subsequently, the role of a devoted and loving wife.”

Alicent interjected with a voice tight with scorn, “You surely cannot be considering her terms?”

Otto Hightower looked at his daughter, his expression unyielding as he dismissed her with a small, dismissive gesture. Turning his attention back to Daenera, he spoke, “We cannot release both of your men. You must choose between the Sworn Shield and the boy. Once you fulfill your part of the arrangement, we will release the one you have chosen.”

Daenera did not need time for consideration or give the situation undue thoughts–even though one of her men was ominously unmentioned. She stepped forward decisively, gripping the back of a chair, nails tracing over the grooves carved into the wood, declaring, “The Sworn Shield. Fenrick.”

Alicent’s eyebrows lifted in reproachful surprised before her expression hardened into something scornful. “You choose not to save the boy? How heartless of you to leave him languishing in captivity.”

The rest of the accusation hung quietly in the air–and under threat no less. A boy of three and ten now, with a noose tied around his neck, just waiting for you to misstep and have the stool kicked out from beneath him. The decision was out of pragmatism, not cruelty. She knew too well that Patrick’s chances of making it outside the city walls were bleak; he was more likely to be murdered and left in the gutter. Fenrick, on the other hand, had a chance of reaching Dragonstone, of escaping the city walls, despite the likelihood that the Hightowers would send men after him to ensure that he’d never leave the city gates. 

“Release Fenrick.”

Responding with a slow nod, Otto straightened in his chair, “Upon your marriage to Aemond, your man will be released. The boy, however, will stay with us as insurance.”

Daenera’s voice was steady, masking the urgency she felt. “When is the wedding to be held?”

Her gaze fleetingly met Aemond’s; he lingered in the shadows of a column, his expression stoic as if hewn from the stone itself–sulking. The brief contact was enough to reignite the familiar heaviness in her chest, and she forced herself to avert her gaze. 

“Seven days from now,” Otto declared, standing to signify the end of their discussion.

So, I am back! And I'm working really hard to get things down on paper. I haven't gotten as much done as I wanted because I always underestimate just how long things takes to write lol. That being said, this chapter may be shorter than expected, but I have updated chapter 84 with 6k words for a scene of Aemond with the council. Next chapter will come at the heels of this one: Alicent takes Daenera to the Sept for a 'chat' and let's just say that we get some reminiscing, some cruelty, some threats...

[chaotictempleknight]

Greetings and salutations, my fellow homo sapiens using devices made out of metals, plastics, and various minerals that connects to an arrangement of intersecting horizontal and vertical lines that relays lines of binary characters into something that biological hominid constructs can perceive as arrangements of color and text as the result of subatomic particles known as photons bouncing off of the light receptors of the ocular organs of said individuals. I have the pleasure of presenting to you a file consisting of binary characters that depict a crude artistic representation of a character from the hit 8-bit interdependently developed form of play, played according to rules and decided by skill, strength, or luck, played by electronically manipulating images produced by a computer program on a television screen or other display screen, Undertale. This undead construct would like to inquire if you request a series of rather unfortunate events that will lead to a less than desired experience for committing an act in which constitutes an offense that may be prosecuted by the state and is punishable by law which led to the deliberate killing of a large number of people from a particular nation or ethnic group with the aim of destroying that nation or group, resulting in a decrease of an eclectic collection of entities known as monsters being shortened in number. Furthermore, the undead construct who shall hence forth be known as "Soons" has an incredibly high metric of what one would define as power, being capable of defeating other persons or things holding a position or performing a function that corresponds to that of another person or thing in another place of himself from different cosmic filaments. Soons' male familial member born in the same generation as him, the considerably above normal Papyrus, a member of the military force dedicated to keeping the denizens of the underground kingdom of Ebott safe, has confirmed as a result of one's own experience that that thing is true or accurately so described that Soons' ability to do something or act in a particular way, especially as a faculty or quality, is, to a great degree, greater than normal, in quantity, size, or intensity.

(This is something I drew back in 2017 with a PS4 controller in DA Muro as a cheap attempt to cash in on the trend of making overly simple and crude drawings to make fun of something... I looked it up today and it got a laugh out of me, so I'm posting it here because we totally don't have enough Sans on the internet.)

[iantimony]

hoo baby! hello first Tuesday of 2025!

listening: Usseewa (Ado) Aishite Aishite Aishite (Ado) bangers. girl can SING. and of course the anonymity is very sexy.

Middle Eastern Grooves (Selected by DJ Kobayashi): was tempted by the cool cover art, stayed for the funky jams. this led me to:

Kokoro (Sababa 5 & Yurika): vibey. citypop if it was in MENA.

reading: so I am in the middle of a two week visit home in which I am staying in my childhood bedroom. and I went. man. there sure is a lot of stuff in here that I simply have not thought about or missed since moving out. so I reread Marie Kondo's "Tidying Up" book and went to town. it's been really nice to do! found a few things that I forgot I had and actually am excited to keep and use! mostly got rid of things! her goofy little "thank inanimate objects" thing is unfortunately the exact flavor of personification of objects that my sentimental ass needs, so. yippee. her book has some . interesting. comments on people's weight and etc things which is very weird but also probably of its time and her specific cultural background baggage. I did some poking about her and found this article ("Marie Kondo’s life is messier now — and she’s fine with it" by Jura Koncius, web archive version linked to bypass paywall) which definitely tracks. I can't imagine having kids and following her [gestures] Whole Thing to a tee.

I also rented and started reading "The Sentimental Person's Guide to Decluttering", which opens with a bible quote so I am already a little wary. anyways.

I haven't followed the prescribed konmari order exactly - I left books til towards the end because they are already pretty contained, for example - so I have a few loose ends to finish up with that but we're basically there. sorry Stephen King but I really don't care to hang on to your work Just Because, except for maybe "on writing" because I could see myself rereading that. I have a shitload of old scifi paperbacks that likely do Not spark joy necessarily so if anyone wants a random paperback mailed to them just let me know :b

related to that: I'm reading "Earthlight" by Arthur C. Clark. it's good! slim volume so I'm hoping to finish it before next Tuesdaypost/when I leave town. the setup feels very common - Earth people vs federation of solar system settlers politicking - but there's some fun tidbits that have made me go HUH??? like the moon having an atmosphere (technically true, I guess, but definitely not in the way it's described here), for some reason the sun sets in the east on the moon (???), and MOON PLANTS???? cool moon cacti that are specially adapted to absorb as many gas/water molecules as possible? they have a little window in them??? and at first I was like damn is this meant to be an alternate universe? when I realized that this was written in 1955. so. maybe he did sincerely think there could be moon cacti. some really delicious descriptions in here that I'm enjoying:

"They were moving along a ridge that the sun had already left, but the track of the monorail, scarcely a meter above it, still caught the last rays. It seemed as if they were rushing along an unsupported ribbon of light, a filament of flame built by sorcery rather than human engineering."

caught up on Witch Hat Atelier! it's good! I'm very excited for the next volume to come out next week!

watching: a handful of Leah's Fieldnotes videos as background while I did some cleaning, re-stuffing a pillow, etc. we're the same age which is interesting to me. I have thoughts on her style of content and general vibes that are still cooking in my brain so maybe next time I will elaborate. more Caroline Winkler. some Sorry Girls (there is a theme here clearly). some Kurtis Connor/Danny Gonzalez/Drew Gooden-verse. nothing super notable. oh LegalEagle suing honey! that whips ass definitely. I'm going to avoid linking specific videos each week unless I have Something to say about them.

playing: mostly fallow BUT I am leaving this section in this year out of optimism! my boyfriend commented, and I agreed, that I am definitely missing out on some rich Media Experiences by neglecting the Gamez. this year I really want to play Nier: Automata (which he got me as a gift a while ago), Disco Elysium, and Hades 2. I own the first two already so that's def where I'll start. I'd also like to read umineko but that can go 50/50 as to playing or reading lol

however I DID look at Do you PASS MUSTER?, a solo rpg by @spikekat! it's a vibe!

making: finished One of my mom's fingerless gloves! onto the second! I'm trying to decide if I want to block it or not…probably, just because I did the cabling with a needle half a size too small by accident so there are a few gaps, although maybe using a smaller needle minimized gaps? who knows.

eating: some good New York staples while I'm home but I haven't done much cooking.

moving: new section!! it is mostly empty this week beyond walking the dogs with my mom every day. I am hoping to populate this section with general notes on what worked/didn't work for me each week in the gym, outdoors activities, and so on.

misc: decluttering feels good but I also feel the albatross of the Dead Dad Bins in the basement looming over me. I'm thinking that's a summer activity where I can take breaks to be outside, lol. the goal is basically to have everything such that when I move after my PhD to wherever I'm going next, I can take what's left in my childhood room (books, some of the quality furniture that we scavenged from my dad's apartment, etc) without it being a big deal or strain. I'm definitely approaching that point with my own belongings! I have a few things that should be sold rather than donated but overall I've really pared it down pretty well so I'm pretty pleased about that. I'll probably do a pass over my apartment when I get back too - definitely some clothes come to mind that can be let go without any regret, and I definitely want to pare down some of my craft supplies that are getting a little out of hand. yayyy fresh start to a new year :)

[interiorsbysutton]

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[andymake3d]

One of the projects I've been most proud of lately are my light up Framed lithophanes!

They use varying thicknesses of PLA filament and embedded colors to create a 3D picture. When illuminated from behind, the color shines through revealing the photo within. I designed the frames to be lined with LED light strips attached to a dimmer switch so you can adjust them.

They're over on my Etsy shop now, at AndyMake3D.com or the link in my bio!

[ludinusdaleth]

im looking forward to c3's aeor arc for pretty much uncountable reasons but id be lying if i said a big one wasnt the sheer impact that will come from orym, who has admitted (validly, & tragically) he cant see past his own traumatized view of the war, when he learns of aeor.

because what happens when objectivity of how bad a situation is can't be ignored over personal grief? what happens when the objective event also created people traumatized like orym to add to that injury? what happens when you're reminded on the largest scale of history possible how small you & your sufferig are? what happens when they meet devexian and learn everyone in his city was slaughtered by the entire pantheon? what happens when the m9, who i think orym has come to value, back up devexian's historical reason for his own stilted grief that has, despite being objectively more massive in scale, led him to change the world more than orym has, through fixing the broken? what happens if we learn that ludinus is aeorian, and orym is faced with the fact that his worst enemy has an objectively more traumatized past than his own in scale and has a reason for doing what he did too even if it's unexcuseable, that they're both part of a cycle of war far older than them? obviously ludinus has caused, objectively, unspeakable & unforgiveable damage, an entire eon of terror. but he didn't begin it. how do you go about fixing a universe fundamentally traumatized without confronting that trauma is central to it? who puts down the blade first? because you begin to wonder if a blade can finish it.

every discussion & discourse about orym and c3 at large fundamentally comes down to what actions due to trauma are validated and the ever-constant pull of historical objectivity vs personal subjectivity. the thing about every aspect & filament of aeor, is: you cannot, in any way shape or form, escape that conjecture, that question of perspective. orym managed to look away from hearthdell; he quite literally cannot look away on eiselcross. it is going to shatter so much of how the bells & the fandom process these philosophical debates and ive been awaiting it for years.

[bronsinseele]

elyedenponia.

LIGHT

Eden: Still a sea of darkness… Eden: Then… let me light things up…

— eden entering the Deep End to visit aponia in chapter 29

Elysia: Although the Deep End no longer exists, I know it’s somewhere deep inside you. Elysia: The threads of fate can’t constrain you anymore. You should come out of that cage once in a while! Aponia: For me, the Deep End is the outside, but that doesn’t matter now… Aponia: I’ve long since stepped into the sun. Aponia: Because… you’re here.

— chapter 31, aponia and elysia

Eden: I’ll find Griseo and Su before the Herrscher, gather up all the crystal flowers, and… get them to bloom as they should… Aponia: Good. Eden… go now. Aponia: Let the secret of that night… see the light of day.

— chapter 31, aponia and eden

ok this comes before the previous quote actually but i needed to see those first two together sorry it makes me sick.

GRIEF/HOPE

Eden: We are both witnesses of that banquet. We both lost a friend that night. Aponia: Or perhaps, we witnessed a new beginning. Eden: That’s why you kept that place in the Realm and hid it in this abysmal place? Aponia: Eden… we both have too many emotions that we are unable to leave behind, too many memories we wish to relive. Aponia: Just like how you’re infatuated with yesterday’s music, I also need a place to… settle down this long and thorny journey.

— chapter 29

COME ONNNNNN APONIA AND EDENS MUTUAL GRIEF FOR ELYSIA WHAT THE FUCK!!!! AND THE FACT THEY BOTH DIED IN THE PREVIOUS ERA IN PART BECAUSE OF THEIR GRIEF..

ok these next few also applies to memory ok:

Aponia: “The path that she walks is not the path that people see.” Aponia: Eden… the secret that we’ve been protecting up till now will be exposed soon. It will surface before everyone. Eden: Is this a new prophecy, Aponia? Aponia: No, this is… my wish. ... Aponia: When all the keys are collected, when the crystal flower blooms again… Eden, will you sing that song again? Eden: Yes, that’s also my wish. When that time comes, tell everybody to come and listen. Eden: She likes… that song the most.

— chapter 29, aponia and eden

Aponia: Of course. This is also the last thing… we can do for “her”. Eden instinctively realised that there was something strange about Aponia’s words. “Last”… She had heard this word far too many times today. As if it had become a cursed lyric in a play. Eden: Aponia, you… Aponia: As expected, our past sins will eventually precede us. Aponia: I will not hide or run. I will embrace it. Aponia: It’s just a pity that I cannot fulfill that promise to sing a song for everyone…

— chapter 30, aponia and eden

But at the same time, she mostly felt… comfort in her heart. Even though she didn’t know what future awaited her, she still felt that doing this was meaningful. Aponia: Elysia… is this also what you wished for?

— chapter 31, aponia to herself

FUCKKKKKK!!!!!!!!! THEIR WISHES. :(

FATE/DESTINY

Elysia: Aponia had been practicing her good, but no matter what she did, it always accidentally led to evil. Elysia: I’d call it a cruel joke of fate.

— chapter 29

Elysia: She said “I detest fate for taking you away, yet I thank fate for bringing me to you”. Elysia: Typical Aponia, right?

— chapter 31, elysia and aponia

WHAT THE FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!11

"Elysia..." Aponia walked out of the lobby and looked up at the sky. There used to be countless glowing filaments. It was the strings of fate that only she could see. And now, those strings were disappearing into nothingness, little by little. It was as though a pair of hands were lining up the star, erasing the originally delineated future, one by one.

— pristine memory, prophecy

"I still have no idea how Elysia did this, but somehow she managed." "... Oh, that's not important. Overall, it's for the best, right?" "But Vill-V, is it Elysia denied destiny, or that I've been blinded... nobody seems to know." "I... don't want to lie to myself. That's why I've come here." "Here? I'm afraid you've got the wrong person. Aponia... this isn't where the future is predicted, but where it's created."

— ascetic's memory, kaiju

"Aponia, this is suicide." "I must have an answer, compared to this... life is trivial. Since the world can't give me what I need, then I can only..." "Become a world unto myself."

— ascetics memory, kaiju

"Doctor, do you know what Elysia told me? She told me that the people of this era grew up listening to my songs. Doctor, my singing belongs to this era. I belong to this era. This is by no means foolish vanity or cowardly surrender. This is... a kind of faith. The next generation should script their own fate and sing their own songs. New stars will certainly rise. The songs of this era... will thrive and perish with this era."

— singer's memory, the final scene

MEMORY

Strange Girl: It tells me that tragedy isn’t the end. It’s the beginning of hope. Strange Girl: Our footprints will someday guide someone else forward. Eden: “Tragedy isn’t the end. It’s the beginning of hope.” The words lingered in her mind. Eden: That’s pretty optimistic. But… I guess you’re right. It is romantic. Eden: Only humanity could think like that. And only humanity could try to realise such a conviction. Eden: Whether the journey is good or bad, whether the ending is happy or sad, this beauty exists solely because of people.

— chapter 31 eden and elysia's first meeting

When the bard who tells the story of her time becomes part of the story, how does she lead it to its conclusion? For no apparent reason, those words floated up into her mind again. Eden: … Eden: Tragedy isn’t the end… It’s the beginning of hope.

— chapter 31

Aponia: But… that’s definitely not the future that Elysia wants. Aponia: I… can’t stop here. Aponia: … Aponia: …Huh?

— chapter 31

Eden: Since she’s a puppet Ellie made after herself, she can be likened to Ellie’s avatar with the same feelings. Eden: I’m Ellie’s friend who’s kept her company for the longest time. The time we spent together and the precious memories we share… will all become your path forward. Mei: Completing memories… Mei: But you’re a sim, if you use your memory to complete Elysia, you’ll… Eden: I will forever be part of her. Eden: Isn’t that… the most romantic thing?

— chapter 31, eden and elf ely completing elysia

Eden: We’d never forget that day, hence we preserved the memory of that day and split the key that could release it into four. Eden: The reunion of the four crystal flowers indicates that the secret’s keepers have acknowledged your will. Eden: Now, the time to reveal the truth has come. Eden: Miss Raiden, I’m counting on you… Eden held her hand. The crystal flowers shone in harmony as they wove the most precious memories belonging to the singer of an era’s end. Eden: Please bring Ellie… bring our hope back to this world.

— chapter 31, eden's wish to mei

Aponia: For that reason, I wouldn’t want your story to be sealed in the past either. Aponia: I will write down your everything into the Realm, then peruse it through the ages as I await the visitor who shares your will. Aponia: And… look forward to the day when future generations turn to this page.

— chapter 31, aponia to elysia during the banquet

FAITH/PROTECTION

Elysia: This area does feel like her. Bright, holy, and emanating a healing light… Elysia: The last Flame-Chaser you met is also the most special of us all. It was Aponia, who foresaw fate and was imprisoned by fate. ... Mei: Committing evil acts with good intentions - this is the most accurate annotation for Aponia. Mei: But I can feel her yearning, piety… and unwavering faith.

— chapter 29

Eden: Did you know? People often say that I am the Giver and you are the Bearer. Aponia: Bearer… I could not even bear her departure… How can I live up to this reputation? Eden: Although this is not what I wanted to say… Indeed, in truth, it seems to be the other way round. Eden: Perhaps I am the one who receives favor, the one who has to bear with fate’s mischief. And you, Aponia… Eden: You are the true Giver. You bestow discipline upon the masses, giving them hope and a path forward.

— chapter 29, aponia and eden about elysia and discipline

Aponia: Until I leave from his “mind”, I’ll be completely defenseless. Until then, Eden… Aponia: “Please”… Aponia: … Aponia: Protect me…

...

Aponia: “Please” do not interact with the other person in any way. This Discipline is the last gift I can give to you.

— chapter 30, aponia & eden with disciplines of protection

Eden: Aponia, this is goodbye. Eden: Thank you for this last Discipline. Please protect me… until this is over.

— chapter 31, eden's goodbyes to aponia

Aponia: Miss Elysia… Elysia: Don’t be so cold, call me Ellie! Aponia: You… are not afraid of me? Elysia: Afraid? Elysia: Did you think that I would distance myself from you because I was worried that your beauty would steal the limelight? Elysia: Not at all, I love pretty girls!

— chapter 31, aponia and elysia's first meeting

Eden: This is the cross Ellie’s carried all her life, and… the destination she reached after exceeding fate.

— chapter 31

note the two earlier quotes from this section......

Elysia: Eden, I’m sorry… Eden: It’s okay, Ellie. Eden: I know how much you love this world, how much you love the people in your heart. Eden: Because of that, I also understand that this was a difficult choice for you to make. Eden: That this was the last resort you took when you were at a complete loss over what to do. Eden: So, I’ll walk to the end with you. ... Eden: No matter what you may be hiding, I always believe… that you’re my beloved friend, Elysia. One who treasures and protects the beauty of this world.

— chapter 31, eden and elysia's conversation

[dnickels]

For something you may assume is universal and constant, light turns out to be a culturally mediated and often paradoxical phenomenon. Our ideas about it start 93 million miles away — eight minutes and 20 seconds as the photon flies — with our friend the sun. The sun is close to what physicists call an ideal Planckian blackbody radiator, delivering a smooth and broad electromagnetic spectrum from radio waves up through infrared, visible light, ultraviolet, and X-rays. A hot tungsten wire does the same, only with a much narrower range of output tilted toward the red and infrared. But here, unfortunately for the layperson, the terminology reaches a point that is profoundly counterintuitive. In physical light-emission terms, blue is a hotter temperature than red. The sun looks yellow up in the sky, but with a surface temperature of 5,772 degrees Kelvin, or about 10,000-degrees Fahrenheit, it has much more blue in it than an incandescent filament at 2,700 degrees Kelvin does. (A red-hot steel bar, in turn, would be somewhere down around 1,000 degrees Kelvin.) The higher the color temperature, the colder, in everyday speech, we say the light looks. “Warm” colors are the colors of the things humans experience as being warm. Obviously enough, through millennia of human existence, the point of reference for artificial illumination was firelight or lamplight. But they don’t burn at the same temperature as a star. If you bring a light source that is actually the color of the sun indoors, it stops looking golden and appears strikingly, severely blue. What to do about this fact is a debate that’s been unresolved for well over a century: Should the ideal artificial light approximate the sun, or should it approximate a flame?