#new woodworking tools

[quantastictech]

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[geocyclist]

Made a new table saw insert this week to avoid dealing with my alignment issues.

First step was making a blank the right thickness, then tracing the original insert. Cut out on the band saw, then chase the outline on the bench sander. The set screw locations were prepped with 10-24 threads to use longer hardware while getting ready to cut the hole for the blade.

Ignore the fact that I had the blade on backwards, but here it is cutting through the insert while it is leveled and clamped to the table.

Finished, compared to the stock aluminum insert, set screw holes widened and cut for 1/4”-28 threads to reuse the existing set screws.

[bittershins]

Things my dad has done for me in the last week that have made me want to cry:

1) gave me a bag of quarters that he's collected from the change he saves, for my coin laundry machines

2) noticed my bass guitar case was starting to fall apart and took photos of the measurements of the guitar for me as reference. And also pointed out what's gonna give me trouble in finding a case (slightly weird shape as a semi-acoustic)

3) i mentioned by frustrations with my weak pinkies when it comes to fretting, and he turns up with some old racket balls he's had kicking around fifteen minutes later

4) every single time the neighbors cat was on the porch, he bugged me and my sister about it to go visit him (he does not want a pet cat whatsoever. However he will sing out of tune at it)

5) bought me LED plant lights for Christmas, because he knows i hate online shopping too my absolute core, and remembered me mentioning them

6) he always checks my car's oil before i leave, since i have a bit of a drive ahead

7) whenever someone is sitting with the dog on the couch, he tucks him in with a blanket. Without fail

[lexirosewrites]

happy slick sunday! one idea two ways:

Version 1: Alpha carpenter Eddie, who learned wood working from Wayne as something to keep his hands busy, makes nesting platforms and courtship gifts per request. Custom work isn't cheap, but it turns out rich familes, rich alphas, or newly mated pairs don't care about the price tag.

Omega Steve, tired of the dating slog, has decided to give IVF and single parenting a go. He's always known he's wanted pups, and while he'd like an alpha by his side, he has a lovely pack supporting his decision.

After his 12 week scan he calls Eddie and request a custom nest platform. He wants it large enough multiple members of his nest can snuggle with him and with lots of storage to be practical.

6 months later, after many visits to see Eddie's work, choose wood stains, pick bedding, and many late night cravings, Steve gives birth to a beautiful pup with his Pack and new alpha eddie by his side.

-

Version 2: Omega Steve finds woodworking relaxing and rewarding in a way school work never did. He especially loves cabinetry and wood tooling that lets him make a house a home.

Alpha Eddie moves back in with his Uncle Wayne after his brush with LA and fame don't bring him the joy he thought it would. He works the counter at Wayne's hardware store and is utterly struck stupid over the handsome omega who comes in.

Three years later, Eddie's found a new group to jam with (Gareth, Jeff, and Les are great), Wayne takes a couple days off a week, and Eddie gets to sleep next to Steve every night.

these are both so cute🥺😭😭😭💕

[schoenpepper]

Rook Vs. Ramshackle

Intro: Ramshackle's in tatters and Crowley's a bitch. Luckily, your boyfriend is here to make things better! or worse idk

Warnings: bad writing, awful grammar, not proofread i got lazy with the format, Rook is a warning in his own right, a sprinkling of suggestiveness at the end

A/N: This is also a request so @voidlesslove I hope you like it. Kinda short, I don't think I had all too much inspiration with this one, kids.

Masterlist

Your dorm is never in good condition, constantly falling apart at the seams (literally). Crowley's stinginess with your allowance definitely doesn't help with all the repairs you need just to make the place livable.

You've had just about enough when your door cracks off its hinges and almost turns Grim into a tuna-filled cat pancake.

Enter your boyfriend: Rook!

He's always watching (affectionately), so the hunter comes to the rescue of his cutie in distress and pops up from a bush on your way from classes.

"Bonjour, mon amour! I have heard of your plight and have come to your aide."

"Hi Rook, there's a leaf on your hat."

Being the caring lover he is, he's more than happy to spend his own money to buy materials. (You turn him down when he offers to hire a renovation company)

The most important thing is that he will be paying for a majority of the items, can't have you floundering about due to a lack of cash, no no.

Surprisingly (unsurprisingly?) good with woodwork! He makes you a whole new door because the one to your bedroom doesn't lock + has holes that he could peep through.

He doesn't peep through your door though, he promises he looks through your window it has a better view.

Fixes up the floors with you and teaches you how to use the tools if you didn't know before.

Probably makes interconnecting rooms in some of the walls for future use (???)

It's okay, you'll never find out.

Treats you to roasted meat while you're both filthy af so you can take a nice little break before going back to repairing the holes in your roof.

What's this? Rats? Cockroaches? Any sort of living organism unwanted by his amour? Non, not anymore 🥰

Tell him you like Grim before the kitty cat gets purged.

The next day when Ramshackle is fully livable again (he had to actually call in professionals for plumbing and gas he cannot DIY that even if he tried), he gives you a bouquet of your favorite flowers as a housewarming gift!

Don't be too surprised when his hands start wandering during the hug though.

You've both been busy for a good few weeks and he thinks it's only right his hard work is repaid, no?~

[thebeast-dennis-etcetera]

Girls Night

“You owe me 200!”

“Fine! Just take all my money!”

You laughed, throwing the paper money at her and taking a sip of your wine. It was safe to say that you sucked at playing Monopoly. Ellie had ownership of all the railroads and utilities, Abby had at least 2 hotels on each of her properties, and Alex spent most of her time in jail.

It still wasn’t a match for you, who had 25 dollars to your name, 2 properties that only generated around 30.00 total in rent, and would miss the free parking space every chance you got. When your time came and you rolled the cursed dice, the Monopoly Gods decided to end your pathetic gaming reign by putting you in jail.

“Alright, well I’m out,” you stated defeatedly, taking a long sip of wine as your confirmation.

“Aw, it’s alright Y/N. Maybe you’ll do better the next game!” Abby tried but you shook your head with a quickness.

“Absolutely not. Not only is this game rigged to make me realize how terrible of a homeowner I am, but it lasts forever! Alex knows, she’s been in jail for the last three turns.”

“Hey, I don’t mind it. I just collect all my rent money while I’m in here,” Alex retorted.

You laughed as you heard the front door open and saw Jethro walk in with a grocery bag and a bottle of whiskey. You got up from your spot immediately, happy to see him home finally and walked over as he set the stuff down on the kitchen counter. He had let the team go home earlier in the night but told you he needed to stay behind to do some paperwork on their latest case. Abby was the first one to suggest the girls game night and it didn’t take much convincing of Ellie or Alex when the promise of wine, snacks, and a warm fire were included.

“Hey hun. You just missed my embarrassing defeat in Monopoly. Remind me to never play this game with your team again, they’re entirely too good. And I think Abby’s been hiding all the good chance cards up her sleeve.”

He chuckled as you gave him a welcome home kiss and started noisily poking around in the goods he had brought home.

“Ooh. Chips, dip and whiskey? You trying to butter me up sir?”

He smiled and pried the bottle from your hands. “Whiskeys mine. And it sounds to me like you’re already buttered up,” he teased softly, not wanting his special agents to hear your two’s playful PDA. With another small kiss, he walked out to the group of girls and surveyed the real estate war.

“Doing well Abbs. Bishop, I like your strategy. And Quinn, stop hiding in jail.”

“I’m not hiding! I’m just taking my time,” she defended as everyone laughed.

“I’ll be downstairs if you girls need me. Good night.”

They called out their farewells as he made his way into his little woodworking dungeon and you took your spot back, bringing the new snacks with you.

“Alright Banker Abby. I need a loan,” you pleaded.

————

The clock read 11 pm once the girls left and you cleaned up your game space. In the end, it was Ellie who won, most likely due to her incredible NSA analysis skills and you had ended up with at least more than the small loan Banker Abby gave you. Once you put all the furniture back and glassware in the dishwasher, you made your way downstairs to see Jethro.

There was light country music and a muted tv playing as you watched him slowly move the sandpaper over his newest project. He had finished the boat a while back and offered to build you some beautiful planter boxes for the garden you wanted to start once spring came around.

It was always a treat for you when you watched him work. His movements were smooth and calculated, knowing just how much pressure to apply or what angle to use and seeing him wearing his tool belt and covered in sawdust just did it for you.

“You gonna stand there all night?” he called out with a smirk.

Walking over, you hopped up on one of the counters and took a small sip of his mason jar whiskey, slightly cringing at the taste.

“You know who would be really great for Ellie? Nick. I think their different personalities would really even each other out.”

“Rule number 12, sweetheart.”

You rolled your eyes at his comment. Since when do any of his subordinates follow it, including himself. You knew all about his past with the director and Sloan, he wasn’t fooling anyone.

“Rule number 83. Don’t be a hypocrite,” you quipped, making up your own rule.

He gave you the look that you see from him to his team all the time but it didn’t work on you so you just smiled cheekily back at him. He stopped sanding and came over, taking the glass from your hands and finishing the awful brown liquor, your arms snaking around his neck. He smelt like a lumbermill mixed with a distillery and you loved it. You loved it even more when you pulled him in for a kiss and tasted the leftover vapors of his whiskey on his tongue. The effect of drinking your 3 glasses of wine had you feeling warm and fuzzy and made Jethro’s touch electric.

When you two pulled away, he tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear before speaking. “Let’s go to bed.”

Not needing any convincing, you nodded and he helped you down, taking off his toolbelt and carelessly dropping it on one of the tables before following you back upstairs.

[amputeewomen]

Hooked

Hi, I made a new Instagram post:

https://www.instagram.com/p/C3uEd_DIaI7/ Would be great if you could like this post and the one on Instagram. Thanks so much Here is a story for the pic:

Isabel was always the kind of person who found a silver lining in the darkest of clouds. So, when an unfortunate accident at the local wood mill resulted in the loss of both her hands, Isabel didn't let despair take hold. Instead, she embraced her new reality with a spirit that was as unbreakable as the polished, shiny hooks that now replaced her hands.

At 22, Isabel was the epitome of resilience wrapped in a rather pretty package. Her coworkers at the mill, initially unsure how to react to her return, were soon won over by her unwavering positivity and, frankly, her uncanny ability to grab things with her prosthetic hooks. Isabel quickly became not just proficient but impressively dexterous with her new appendages, turning tasks that seemed daunting into feats of skill that left onlookers in awe—and often in stitches.

Isabel's adaptation to her hooks became the stuff of legend around the wood mill. She was known for her "hook hacks," innovative ways to manipulate her prosthetics to perform tasks ranging from the precise (sketching designs for the mill's custom woodwork orders) to the mundane (winning the annual chili cook-off).

Her fame as the mill's most adaptable employee was only surpassed by her sense of humor about her situation. Isabel often joked that she was now the most "metal" worker at the mill, both literally and figuratively. She'd make grand entrances into the workspace, proclaiming, "Make way for the Iron Lady!" Her colleagues couldn't help but laugh, their initial discomfort replaced by admiration and affection for Isabel's indomitable spirit.

The mill became known in the local community not just for its quality wood products but for Isabel's inspiring story. She became a bit of a local celebrity, with people from neighboring towns visiting just to see the "girl with the hooks" in action. Isabel welcomed them all with open arms—or hooks, rather—always ready with a quick joke or a demonstration of her latest hook-enabled skill.

Despite the accident, Isabel's love for the wood mill never waned. She saw her work there not just as a job but as a part of her identity. Her hooks, polished and shiny, were not symbols of loss but of adaptation and resilience. Isabel's story wasn't just about overcoming adversity; it was a testament to living life on one's own terms, finding humor in the face of hardship, and inspiring others to see the beauty in what makes us different.

In the end, Isabel's legacy at the wood mill was not defined by the work she did with wood but by the impact she had on the people around her. She showed them that life, much like wood, could be shaped into something beautiful, no matter what tools you have to work with. And that, perhaps, was the funniest twist of all: the girl who lost her hands but found a way to hold the hearts of everyone she touched.

[juniper-simblr]

New Bleakfort Public School

In response to the growing community of Bleakfort, a new public elementary school has been built, providing a welcoming and dynamic environment for the town's youngest students. The school stands as a beacon of learning and creativity, designed to nurture curiosity and foster a love of education.

Upon entering, students and visitors are greeted by a cheerful lobby decorated with student artwork and community projects. From this lobby, the children can access all classrooms and the cafeteria.

Classroom A: A spacious, well-equipped room where core subjects are taught. The classroom features everything needed and even has a reading corner stocked with books suitable for all reading levels. Next to the teacher's desk, the classroom womrat Beatle lives.

Science room: This room is designed to ignite curiosity and foster a love for science. It includes lab tables, microscopes, and a variety of scientific equipment for hands-on experiments and activities. Displays of student projects and educational posters line the walls, creating an inspiring learning environment.

Art room: A vibrant space filled with art supplies and creative materials. Easels, drawing tables, and a variety of crafting tools are available for students to explore their artistic talents. The walls are to be adorned with rotating displays of student artwork, celebrating their creativity.

Workshop: A workshop where students can engage in mechanical, building, and woodworking projects. The room is equipped with tools and safety gear, workbenches, and materials for various projects. This hands-on space encourages problem-solving skills and practical learning.

[kayr0ss]

Rosewood

[Dungeon Meshi / Delicious in Dungeon, Farcille, Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Proposal Fic, Woodworking / Furniture Making, Fluff and Humor, Touden Siblingisms] AO3 Link

Summary: Falin gets into woodworking, is kind of a (loveable) idiot, and Marcille loves every second of it

I.

“I believe us tall-men call it a quarter-life crisis.”

“How is it a crisis?” Marcille glared at Kabru. “Now that the kingdom’s relatively stable, she’s probably just looking for something new to do with her free time.”

Marcille ran into him at the tradesman’s courtyard—a rectangular wing of the castle with an open garden in the center. This wing housed wide rooms with high ceilings and windows facing the garden to flood them with natural light. Some were used for textiles and tailoring, others for working metal. Another section—Marcille’s intended destination—was for putting together and repairing furniture. She had stopped herself at the room’s threshold at the sight of ash-blonde hair, leaning against the doorway to allow herself a minute to just… look.

And that’s when Kabru found her—such terrible timing. She was trying to enjoy herself!

“That’s what a quarter-life crisis is,” he insisted.

Marcille scoffed. “Why can’t we just call it a hobby?”

“I mean we can.” Kabru hummed thoughtfully. “Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”

Falin’s interest in woodworking hadn’t come up out of the blue. Marcille remembers her having a small collection of books on it—as early as their school days. She’d read about Izgandan tools and scribble notes on the margins of her book on Eastern joinery. Marcille fondly remembers how she’d complain about neck pains—too much reading did her no favors—how she’d sigh to Falin about wanting a bookstand.

Oh, Falin had said back then. I’ll just make you one.

And she did—even if it took her a few years to get around to it.

It sat at the center of Marcille’s desk—Falin’s first ever project, imperfect and a little funny-looking but Marcille would never have it any other way. In a few short months, Falin had graduated from making cutting boards to specialized barstools for Chilchuck. Her most recent completion was a knife block for Senshi.

Today, she was starting on something new.

The most beautiful slab of rosewood was laid out on Falin’s work bench, and it seemed like she was working on flattening it. Falin worked with a large hand-planer, running it across the wood at an angle from its grain. Back and forth she went, spilling sawdust and shavings across the floor. Marcille couldn’t help but watch—she watched the way Falin’s arms moved with each pass, her brows knit together in a look of concentration. She watched the way Falin paused to fold up the sleeves of her loose, cotton shirt—further up to her elbows until Marcille could see tufts of soft, beautiful feathers. Marcille kept watching. Even as Falin wiped the sweat off her brow, running a towel across the side of her neck while she steadied her breathing. Still, Marcille kept watching—until finally, Falin gripped the handles of the planer again—her hands strong and steady, placing the tool back into position on the rosewood—

Kabru cleared his throat and Marcille quickly wondered if she could get away with murder.

“Wha—!” Marcille felt her blood pressure pitch into the high heavens. She burned, red, sputtering. “What are you even still doing here! I thought you were working?!”

“I am. It’s my job to remind the Royal Court Mage,” Kabru smiled diplomatically. “To stop ogling Lady Falin so openly in public.”

Kabru ducked—expertly dodging Ambrosia’s arc towards the back of his head.

--

II.

“What kind of wood is it?”

Marcille ran her hand along the scabbard Falin had crafted for Laios. She didn’t cover it with leather or paint, instead opting to stain it with a mild oil. Marcille had never seen wood with such odd grain patterns and color before. They curved almost anatomically, swirling into knots and unraveling like blood vessels.

“Uhm—It’s—” Falin looked to the corner of the room, nervously scratching at her check.

Marcille raised an eyebrow—then Laios excitedly barreled into the room.

“Falin!” He ran towards them, towering over his sister’s back and ruffling her hair.

“Get off!” Falin pouted, swatting him away. “Don’t ruffle my hair!”

“Did you finish it?” Laios blinked. Then he gasped, grabbing the scabbard excitedly from Marcille’s hands. “You did! My barometz scabbard!”

Marcille shrieked. “Barometz?!”

“Look, Marcille!” Laios held the scabbard right at her face—Marcille recoiled, pressing backwards against Falin who held wrapped her arms around her waist. “Do you see how the pattern branches out? It looks like wood grain but it’s actually a network of capillaries designed to provide nourishment to the creatures a baromtez grows—”

“Like a placenta!” Falin added softly.

“Exactly!” Laios laughed. “I have a sheath made out of—"

Marcille, exasperated, shoved her hands onto the two siblings’ faces to push them apart. “Barometz!?”

Falin flashed her sheepish grin.

“I just—you two!”

--

III.

Marcille was surprised to find Falin at Laios’ office—she had made a mess of the guest table at the center of the room, littering it with ribbons and decorative parchment. There were leathers laid out by the couch nearby, and Falin scrambled about, inspecting each one before coming back to a small box placed at the center of the table.

It was a beautiful jewelry box—another one of Falin’s projects. It had a body made from walnut and a checkered line that ran along its lid, made of cherry and pine. The colors reminded Marcille of the trees around her home. The lock was capped with a crest—one that surprised Marcille. Falin never cared for the posturing and ceremony that she and her brother now had to suffer, so why was her royal crest set in gold on this box?

“Oh—hi, Marcille.”

“Hey,” Marcille smiled, tugging on the front of Falin’s shirt to pull her closer. She got up on her tip toes, wrapping her arms around Falin’s shoulders to steal a small kiss.

“You found me,” Falin mumbled into their kiss, holding her by the waist.

“Mhm,” Marcille finally pulled back. “What are you doing here?”

“Sending a package. It’s going all the way up North so I needed good wrapping.”

“Is it this a jewelry box you made?”

“Mhmm.”

“It looks beautiful,” Marcille walked towards the table to inspect it. “Though I’m surprised that you used such an official symbol. That’s unlike you.”

“W—Well I heard jewelry boxes were a good gift for mothers.” Falin scratched at the back of her head. “And I wanted this one to be kinda… official looking?”

“Oh!” Marcille blinked. “Well, I’m sure your mother would love it!”

“Ah, no.” Falin’s natural flush deepened. “Not for my mom—”

“Hm?”

“It’s… for yours.”

Oh.

Marcille—stunned at first—smiled. Then she laughed, pulling Falin into a hug—her wonderful, loving, thoughtful Falin.

--

IV.

“Don’t you want to go tell her yourself?” Laios asked over dinner.

“I can’t.” Falin squirmed. “I’m too nervous.”

“She can’t be that strict!”

“Do you remember how Marcille was when we first met her in the tavern?”

Laios paled. “Yes. Is she even stricter?”

“I think so, yeah.”

“Understandable.

--

V.

“It’s so pretty!” Marcille swooned, hands clasped as she admired Falin’s hard work.

The rosewood desk that Falin had been working on was finally finished after weeks of work. It was polished impeccably, sealed with the finest wax to finish. It had all the drawers Marcille needed – shallow ones for her inks and pens, deeper ones for parchment and scrolls, and even a little platform towards the back where she could set her feet—Falin knew that sometimes the chair was too high for Marcille to be able to reach the ground.

“Oh, it’s perfect!” Marcille hugged Falin, who looked delightfully smug.

“No fair!” Laios pointed at his sister. “Falin—I want one too!”

“I already gave you a scabbard,” she shook her head.

“My desk is so big and boring though,” he slumped.

“It’s also a thousand-year hold antique,” Kabru supplied dryly. “It would do well for appearances to keep it.”

The new desk was heavy. Really, really heavy. It had taken nearly all of them to carry it up to Marcille’s office with how heavy and set it was. This was apparently by design, according to Falin, who can be so much like her brother and not know when to not say things, because—

“I made sure to use joinery instead of nails and angle irons,” Falin gave herself a self-satisfied nod. “I know that it bothers you how it creaks when w—”

Marcille turned so red they thought she might faint, hooking Ambrosia around Falin’s head and yanking her backwards hard enough to knock the air out of her lungs.

--

VI.

By the time winter started that year, all the furniture in Marcille’s room and office had been replaced by Falin’s handiwork: new shelves for her books and trinkets, an extension for her windowsill where she could keep plants and little felt toys.

Today, Marcille came into her office to a brand-new chair. It perfectly matched her desk, coming up a little higher than her old one to make writing and reading more comfortable.

“I asked the tailors for help with the upholstery,” Falin said, still in her apron and smelling of sawdust. “I’ve never been very good with sewing and leatherwork.”

“It’s amazing,” Marcille whispered as she traced along Falin’s simple engravings—she had started experimenting more artistically with her work. Beautiful, Marcille thought to herself. How wonderful it was to see Falin’s efforts engraved into something tangible—something permanent. “Thank you.”

Falin simply smiled back.

“You’ve gotten so good at this!”

“You think?”

“Yeah!” Marcille stood up to clasp their hands. “The gift you sent mom left such an impression on her that she’s planning to visit.”

Falin gasped. And then grinned, “I’m so glad!”

“Me too,” Marcille leaned forward, smiling against Falin’s shoulder and the feathers of her neck. “I’m happy you found a hobby you like so much. Between dungeons and politics, it seems like such a good break for you.”

“Mm, yeah.” Falin gently ran her fingers along Marcille’s hair. “I’ve always wanted to be able to build furniture for my wife one day.”

Marcille froze.

What?

She pushed herself backwards, looking up in surprise at Falin while still staying in their embrace. “Wife—? Wh—”

Falin was blinking, almost in a panic. Then she grew redder, and redder, and redder—like a kettle about to whistle. “I, uh—!” She stammered. She had that look on her face, the adorable expression of confusion as if she had just forgotten something very important. It reminded Marcille of their younger days. “You see—”

Marcille’s thoughts were running a hundred paces at a time—her mother visiting? Falin—wife?

“Marcille,” Falin looked at her resolutely. Lovingly. “Will you marry me?”

--

VII.

“You forgot to propose?” Chilchuck had his face in his hands.

“Well, technically I was still able to…” Falin said meekly.

“After all the time I put into helping you plan it!”

--

VIII.

By the next summer, Marcille found herself at the tradesman’s courtyard again. She had a tray of refreshments in her hands—one for herself and another for Falin. The condensation on the glass formed droplets of dew that ran along its side, mirroring the droplets on Falin’s brow. Her hair was tied up in a ponytail—messy with stray locks escaping this way and that. Her shirt was loose and bunched around her forearms and she was wearing a brand-new work apron that Senshi had made for her—with hooks and pockets and all.

Marcille, like so many times before, leaned against the woodshop’s doorframe to watch and wonder.

“Marcille,” Kabru cleared his throat, standing next to her with an arm full of scrolls.

“Kabru.”  

He nudged her shoulder. “May I remind the Royal Court Mage—”

“I can ogle my wife whenever I want!”

“I don’t wanna hear it!” Marcille scoffed, petulant yet still smiling.

She watched as Falin gripped the handles of her planer, firm and strong, her left hand glittering with new jewelry.

-

fin

-

A/N:

extremely self indulgent thanks i love these two, this was not beta read so sorry *throws it to AO3 and posts it* hope that you enjoyed!

[diana-thyme]

Greek Gods 101: Hephaestus

Hephaestus is a god of fire, smiths, craftsmen, metalworking, stonemasonry, and sculpture. Excluding the universal offerings, some common offerings include:

Strong Alcohol

Mobility Aids (if you have any)

Metal

Wood

Tools

Red Meat

Crafts

Dollhouse (small) Anvils or Hammers

A Toolbox

Yard Tools (Rakes, Small Shovels, Etc.)

Stones

For devotional acts, some activities that can be done for him include:

Building IKEA Furniture

Metalworking

Woodworking

Forging

Lighting a Bonfire

Cooking Red Meat

Crafting Things

Working With Your Hands

Doing Yard Work

Learning a New Skill

He is celebrated in 1 Athenian holidays:

Khalkeia

[geocyclist]

One day I’ll get around to making something fancy, but right now organization and storage are the priority. Bulk shelving for extra tools built around a weird ledge in the basement wall. All materials were scrap or leftovers from previous projects.

[whorety-k]

Ebony Coasts [Part 1]

Happy Mermay everybody!! I'm deciding to come out of the woodworks and actually write something because of the brain worms all of my favorite writers are giving me. I decided on some Corvus Corax love today because I feel like he's often part of the forgotten Primarchs in fanfiction (and I'm also a Raven Guard girlie <3).

Pairing: Merfolk!Corvus Corax x fem!Reader (second person POV)

Song recommendation: The Night Does Not Belong To God - Sleep Token

"And you remember everything / Only till the sun recedes once again / And the night comes down like heaven."

Warnings: Ocean mentions / potential thalassophobia

Word Count: 2.2k

[Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] [Part 5] [Part 6] [Part 7 (NSFW)]

The full moon above hung in the sky like a beacon, illuminating the ebb and flow of the tides. Stars were all but drowned out by its glow, glimmers of the crashing waves reflecting what little light they put out. As it so often did this time of night, the chill settled deep into your bones. Still you were at ease.

You were never quite sure what called you out to the ocean so late in the night, and for whatever reason 'The waves are calming,' wasn't enough for your friends and coworkers to get off of your back. It had become a habit to gaze at the stars as a stress-reliever after your recent move closer to the coast. The two-hour work commute had taken its toll on your psyche, and you have not regretted your choice to find an apartment closer to your workplace.

What you now lacked in commute stress, you more than made up for stressing over your newest case. Coastline conservation was your forte; you were the one often called in to solve complex cases, and yet this one seemed to leave you puzzled each time. From kids tearing up the natural flora or an illegal succulent harvesting operation, you had been able to solve every situation that had been thrown your way before, but this situation didn't match any of the patterns you had trained yourself to look for.

It stumped you.

Caves were dug practically overnight into the cliffside, then left completely uninhabited by the time you found them. No one man could have accomplished such a feat without at least a noise complaint from the houses on the cliff above.

Random caches of sea glass, precious stones, jewelry, and other shiny objects were tucked away within pits in the caverns as if hidden for later. Interestingly enough, these caches seemed to grow in size if they were left untouched. The last hoard you had taken as evidence resulted in that particular cave being completely abandoned overnight, often filled in.

And most puzzling: there were no other actual signs of anyone ever having tread there. No tools, no trash, no foot prints. Nothing but the little stores of trinkets. It was infuriating. Whatever punks had been tearing up the coastline were masters at their craft.

Tonight, you were determined to catch the bastards that had been giving you stress once and for all. You even had the local authorities on speed dial (despite your distrust in them properly handling the situation) in case anyone decided to get violent.

A gust of frigid wind draws you from your thoughts. The night isn't getting any younger, and you need to get down to the cave. You hug your windbreaker jacket closer to your body as you wander back down the metal dock, boots clunking loudly across the water. The crackle of gravelly sand crunching replaces the heavy thumps as you descend onto the illuminated beachfront.

You almost lose track of time as you travel along the high tides. You've walked this particular beach head a hundred times at nearly all times of day, and by now it's all beginning to blur together. You force yourself to focus on the present this time, fiddling with the moonstone pendant around your neck. You had taken it from the last cave for study, but when it solved absolutely nothing, you decided to keep it as a token to remember what you were working towards. ‘A stone of new beginnings’, they say. Maybe it'll be the beginning of actually solving this damned case.

A cavity in the cliff face finally comes into view. From this distance, the high tide creates a shallow cove that appears to fill part of the cavern. There aren't any tracks other than your own as you approach. Whoever created the small structure must not have returned to it just yet.

A flicker of white catches your eye.

You come to a dead stop.

It barely registers that you're just at the maw of the cavern when you remember how to breathe. You quietly chastise yourself with an annoyed huff. Doing this job for as long as you have, you really should be more used to the way the reflections on the water’s surface play tricks on you, especially when at nightfall. With a shake of your head, you take a step into the thin layer of salty water covering the floor of the cavern. You silently thank the waders you wear for keeping your feet dry.

The moonlight doesn't reach farther than a few meters in the darkness of the space, you note as you tread deeper into its embrace. Without the wind chill, it is far warmer than the marine layer settling just outside. Your hand fishes into an inner jacket pocket to retrieve your flashlight–

Splash!

…Of course you'd drop it. Right now, of all times. Professional.

You kneel down into the sparkling abyss and feel around for the waterproof torch, letting out a sigh of relief when its plastic casing finds your fingers. You grasp the pesky light and stand back up to onyx orbs peering directly into yours.

You blink. It blinks.

A flurry of movement torrents the cave as rapid splashing fills the air. In your panic, you slip on the wet stones and fall back into the water as the jet-and-alabaster creature looms before you, eyes boring into your very core. This thing is huge. Its skin gleams unnaturally white, rippling with lithe muscles as it leans down over you, trapping you between its muscular arms. You desperately look up into its (his?) stony face as you try to sprawl backwards, searching for any purchase in the puddle currently soaking your backside. It stops you with a large clawed hand on your chest, pinning you down firmly to the flooded floor. The creature (man?) is delicate enough not to slice you open.

“Stop.”

You freeze. He stills. Did he just speak–?

“Your efforts are fruitless. Cease this before you harm yourself.” The deep voice that comes from the man is rough, as if it is not often used. “Please,” it adds, quieter.

You stare up at the man like cornered prey, but you heed his words and stop your fight. The hand on your chest briefly trails to your neck, claw catching on something before shifting to cradle your back. He lifts your upper half until you are sitting upright once again, assuring you'll hold the position before he retrieves his hand.

The moon and proximity allow you to finally get a semi-decent look at the man before you. He must be at least three meters tall, even leaning over slightly. Long black hair frames a strong, admittedly handsome face. His blunt, wispy bangs just barely hide black eyebrows knit with concern and amusement. Webbed ear-fins hide amongst his ebony hair in the dark, a gradient of charcoal grey at their edges. Your eyes respectfully shy away from his athletic chest to the gills tucked along his ribcage. When he finally moves back enough for you to fully sit upright, you notice the dorsal fin that trails down his entire back, leading into a tail that looks as if its melting into the water below. His fins drape over him like the softest silks, sharing that charcoal gradient from what you can see in the dark.

Your eyes widen at the sight, and the giant seems to catch on.

“Why do you continue to return here, little human?” he inquires.

You look back up at his face to once again see that perfectly neutral expression. It frightens you to know that he knows you've been here before, when you had no idea he even existed until just now. Finding your voice takes an embarrassingly long time. “...I…”, you start, voice laced with thinly veiled awe, “...work in coastal habitat conservation. I've been trying to figure out who was vandalizing protected areas on this beach head.”

The man’s head cocks to the side curiously, the only indication that he had heard you. It's his turn to observe you now– at least, you think that's what he's doing from the subtle shifts of the muscles surrounding his eyes. The fully black scleras do not make his gaze clear in the low light, but you swear you can see how his expression seems to fall.

“I am no vandal. I am merely an inhabitant, and I do not appreciate such accusations,” he growls.

Your words get lost in your throat as you straighten up and move to apologize, instinct kicking into to reassure the creature you've just met that you didn't mean to imply that he was a vandal. If anything, in hindsight, you're the asshole raiding his home.

You're cut off when he raises a hand to silence you, softly shaking his head. He seems disappointed, but the wave passes him by. Firmly, he presses, “I intend to stay here, and I would hope that you will be of no trouble for me to do just that.” You don't miss how he clasps his clawed hands together before him.

You quickly nod your head, shifting to stand back up. The chill of the sea water soaking through your clothes down into your waders is starting to become too much. Your body begins to tremble. With an unsteady voice, you croak out, “Nope! No problem here! Technically, it's my job to protect your habitat, so…” You voice drifts off as you realize you're either going to have to:

A. Convince the world that mermaids exist, or,

B. Lie on your report.

…And telling the world about merfolk sounds like a lot more paperwork than you're willing to do in this lifetime. You can't imagine what horrors bureaucracy and media would do to this (so far) gentle giant. If he exists, there's certainly more of his kind and you are not about to accidentally start an illegal merfolk poaching trade.

A quiet huff leaves the pale merman, and you focus back up on him. It takes a moment for you to realize he's laughing at your crisis. You fold your arms, body still shuddering from the chill. “Your secret is safe with me,” you declare, confidently standing up straight.

The merfolk nods in response, clearly amused by the whole situation despite the grim countenance that colors him. A silent staring contest commences between the two of you, gentle sounds of crashing waves filling the air from outside of the cavern. The scattered moonlight causes his scales to glitter like obsidian. You get the feeling that you're going to be watched from the shadows to assure you keep your promise, and you're not sure how to feel about it.

His soft voice breaks the silence, notably warmer. “You will be returning here again regardless.”

It's not a question; it's a statement, and you reckon it's not an incorrect one. You defend yourself, “It's not every day that I discover something out of my childhood fantasies is real and causing me hassles with my job.”

Your comment earns you another soft huff of a laugh. It's the best you'll get out of him, you assume. “It is not every day that a human raids my den and steals my belongings,” he chides.

Sputtering at his accusation, you avert your gaze and draw your lips into a tight line. The heat in your cheeks could burn a hole through steel. “I didn't know! I... can't exactly get those back for you until they're cleared out of evidence, but I will try.”

The answer seems to charm and please him. “That would be pleasant.”

Another bout of silence fills the cavern as you feel yourself being studied. Awkwardly, you tell the merfolk your name, extending an arm out for a handshake.

The man stares at it blankly, blinking once before he places his hand on top of yours. It's not correct, but at least he has the spirit. Now that you're not in a panic, you notice just how cold his hand is on yours. “You may call me Corvus Corax,” he says, withdrawing, “Is it normal for your kind to shake as you do?”

You cross your arms over your chest, rubbing your hands over the wet jacket covering your upper arms. “Not particularly. I'm wet and it's freezing,” you jest, giving Corvus a smile.

The words have little weight on Corvus Corax. Cold and wet are his normal. If hypothermia doesn't take you, embarrassment and culture shock certainly will. You look down at your clammy hands.

“I should get home before I freeze to death,” you state bluntly, wincing as a breeze from the mouth of the cave causes the wet windbreaker to stick to your back.

Corvus nods, simply staring. You aren't sure what you're expecting when you give him a wave, but the sheer amount of nothing he seems to give only serves to intrigue you further. You can feel his eyes on you as you turn to exit the cave, mentally preparing yourself to falsify a report about a group of ne’er-do-wells digging into the cliff face for an unknown reason and how they narrowly evaded identification… however unbelievable it is. You step out of the cave in a distracted daze, still convincing yourself of everything as your boots crack on the gravel once more.

You know you'll be returning. Corvus knows you'll be returning. Gingerly, with trembling hands, you reach up to fiddle with your pendant once more to ground yourself when you have a jarring realization.

That bastard took your necklace.

-------------------------------------------

[Part 2]

[bomberqueen17]

deep in the obsession

ok so IDK how much I've talked about my Special Interest in the Bronze Age on here. At one point (like nanowrimo of 2003 or so) I was trying to write a novel set in the British Isles Bronze Age and I researched as much as I could and there just wasn't much information and I wrote some stuff anyway but it petered out. And ever since then I've kept checking back on various avenues of research and every time there's a new find I'd read as much as I could find about it. And then they discovered the remains of a pile-dwelling settlement in the Fens in England and they've finally just now published the results of that? Well of course I've been obsessively reading about it. (I had actually emailed the Cambridge Archaeology Unit a couple of months ago to ask where I could find the publications, so the timing was good.)

I mean the long and short of it is, they've got a site exposed by modern quarrying activity, which consists of five remaining buildings, which burned down and collapsed into the river channel with all their contents in the 9th century BC; the inhabitants escaped with very few of their possessions, and the rest of the assembly of the items they used in their daily lives are largely present, very well-preserved; whole sets of pots and woodworking tools, as well as textiles and textile-processing materials, foodstuffs, wooden tools, and enough building materials to almost entirely reconstruct their dwellings; a enormous wealth of information about their diets, their ways of living, even some feel for their aesthetic sensibilities. The circumstances of the buildings' collapse even means we know how they laid out their living spaces.

So I am going to infodump about what I've pulled out of these rather dense and dry reports (I have zero complaints, they're perfectly appropriately-written), so buckle up.

Firstly, if you want to read these yourself, the publications are open access PDFs hosted on the Cambridge Archaeology Unit's website here.

There are also a fantastic series of blog posts both from during the excavation and from during the initial analytical "post-ex" phase on the site's website, which I devoured while waiting for the final reports.

I admit I was first drawn to the whole thing, when I first saw stories about it, because of the mystery. It seems to have been a whole settlement, a village maybe, and it all burned down at once, and no humans seem to have died in it, but everyone left everything behind, even leaving a dog in one of the buildings, and some penned little lambs in a couple of them-- what caused this? Were they attacked? Were they forced out of it? It had a palisade around it as if for defense, did they build it because they were afraid, and rightfully so?? Why did they not come back to try to salvage anything? The water would have been shallow, surely they could at least get their axe-heads and things back.

But the thing that has sustained my interest now is that it appears to have been an unexceptional village after all. There's no evidence that these were elite people living here. There weren't any unambiguous weapons found-- part of a broken sword, in what was obviously a recycle bin (a wooden bucket), waiting along with some broken chisels and a bent axe and part of a broken bronze bucket for a trip back to the nearest metalworker. Some spears, but likely used for hunting, stored outside the houses all together leaned up against the palisade under an overhanging roof eave. Axes, but the sheer quantity of woodworking in the site means they were very obviously woodworking tools, and weapons only by technicality.

Other contemporaneous sites are preserved so incompletely that there are always "was this a place people dwelled or was it a ceremonial gathering place" kinds of questions. Artifacts are found either discarded in middens, broken, or deposited in hoards, "ceremonially?". But all this stuff is in-context, in the house, which burned down and collapsed straight down. This was the kitchen area, obviously; all the houses had most of their pots in the same approximate spot, caches of grain in the same area. This corner is where we find stuff they were working on-- one house has probably a loom, and tons of textile-related stuff scattered around it. (There's only evidence for a loom in one or maybe two of the buildings, but there are spindle whorls and bobbins of thread in three; several spinners providing one weaver, as is common throughout history.)

Some of the pots had been broken before the fire, and some of them had been partially discarded and partially kept, like for example a well-shaped broken bit of rim was being used as a scoop or something, while the little unusable shards had gotten chucked into the river where they threw their trash; the archaeologists could reunite fragments to prove this, and could derive the information that these shards would all be associated with the same house; they weren't shared, they were using the broken pot in the same house where they'd used it before it was broken; they seem to have cooked their meals separately, and kept separate inventory of basic household necessities. But the extra stuff seems to have been stored in the communal storage shed, so they could all get to it.

There's a large but incomplete sheet of bark that in places has a second sheet adhered to it with moss in between, which was likely bedding.

There are textiles, not just woven ones but also weft-twined ones made from lime bast cord-- mats, or hats, or capes. There's a knotted fishing net that was rolled up and in a pile with other things in an area that seems to have been a storage shed of sorts. (Near the "recycle bin" full of broken metal.) There's a collection of prepared fiber, ready to be made into cordage or spun into thread, and it's all prepared the same way in standard-sized bundles-- tantalizingly, regular enough as if for trade, stored in that storage shed next to a nested set of new pots-- like somebody had bought or made them and they weren't put to use yet, OR someone had made extra they intended to trade offsite for stuff they couldn't make themselves.

The whole sets of pots are broadly the same among households-- similar numbers of large vs. small, coarse vs. fine. They all resemble one another, though some are better-made than others-- as if several people made them, but under the guidance of one experienced worker.

Several pots and wooden containers have food residues. Hauntingly, there's a ceramic pot that was still half-full of porridge, with a wooden spatula/spoon still stuck in it. The porridge was made of ground wheat cooked in a liquid containing animal fats from a ruminant-- either sheep/goat or red deer-- possibly an early example of frumenty.

Enough of the structural timbers remain from the buildings, many with markings on them from where other structural elements were touching them and alternately exposed/protected them from fire so it is possible to reconstruct shapes and connections in more detail than if they were unburnt ruins, that the buildings can be nearly completely reconstructed, which is novel because most buildings of this era are known only from footprints/post holes. Almost no material survived from the walls, but because of these ghost "protection marks" it's possible to know that the walls existed, how wide they were, that they were attached in a particular spot, that they were made of a series of small uprights-- and to then surmise that some of the fragments of "wattle", woven panels, must have come from the walls in some cases. And it's possible to reconstruct the innovative, never-elsewhere-seen sprung floor system of bowed joists that kept the floors securely above the water below.

Anyway, I've devoured Vol I and am most of the way through scouring Vol II for interesting tidbits.

Yes of course I want to write a novel with this as the setting but I also am just completely fascinated.

[haee-elia]

spence-tober: day 21 - woodworker

pairing: woodworker!spencer reid x fem!pregnant!reader

summary: in which your husband has worked on your nursery tirelessly, so you give him a surprise of your own

word count: 1736

warnings: lots of mentions of pregnancy, the body detailing pregnancy, lots and lots of descriptors.

spence-tober masterlist

You had wanted to host a small get together with your friends and work together on decorating and putting some finishing touches on the nursery, but that hadn’t exactly gone to plan.

When you first announced that you and Spencer were pregnant, people offered their congratulations and a few even warned you of a few things you should be prepared for as your trimesters went on. One of those things was nesting, or getting your home ready in preparation for the new baby.

No one, however, warned you that your husband would be the one that was nesting. As soon as your belly ballooned and the nursery plans started, Spencer insisted on doing almost everything for you.

Mug on a top shelf? Spencer would grab it for you.

Cooked pasta needs draining? Spencer would do it for you.

You left your computer charger in the other room? Spencer would get it for you.

At first, it was endearing. You thought it was his way of caring for you since you were carrying the baby for nine months. Then, it started getting slightly annoying. You started pointing it out every now and then, but Spencer’s mother-hen mode wouldn’t turn off and you gave up on it.

Having a woodworking husband with a baby on the way is a nice thought. During your first trimester, you always found your husband hand-carving some wooden toy for your unborn child. 

Then, when the nursery plans were underway, Spencer started designing furniture and figuring out what he could contribute with his skills. 

Shelves, crib, table, dresser, chairs, nightstands, changing table, you name it. Spencer was working on it in his garage workshop.

That is why, while Emily, JJ, and Penelope are sitting awkwardly with nothing to do, you don’t blink an eye at Spencer darting around the nursery with his tool kit. He’s currently working on hanging up his handbuilt wooden shelves that you had planned to do with your friends today. 

JJ was sitting on the couch with Penelope, awkwardly watching Spencer with nothing left to do. She looks to you, unfazed in the handbuilt rocking chair Spencer had also made, “Can I get you some more tea?” She asks you, seeing as your mug is empty and abandoned on the small wooden table (also made by your husband).

Spencer whips his head towards your direction. his eyes locking onto your empty mug, “I got it!” He claims, stepping down from the small stepstool and putting down the hammer.

“Okay…” JJ says as she sits back down on the couch. Funnily enough, the couch was one of the few things not made by Spencer in the nursery. Even the sage green panel wall details were all Spencer.

You fear Spencer would have attempted the couch if you hadn’t caught him looking up springs on the Home Depot website.

Emily leapt up from her place on the floor, going over the instructions for the temporary pack and travel crib you had bought for the baby, much to Spencer’s chagrin.

“I can finish up the shelf.” She offers, already heading over to the array of tools Spencer has laid out on the floor.

Spencer hesitates for a moment, caught between a shelf and a tea mug. You see him pause, his brain strained to make a decision on what to do. 

“I can go get some more tea, don’t worry.” You say to him. You could get yourself more tea, but Spencer hated when seeing you struggle or take a while to do something he could do himself much quicker. He simply didn’t understand why he would sit back and watch you strain or tire yourself when he could just help you. You were carrying his child, afterall. 

“No,” Spencer shakes his head, already taking the mug from the table next to you, “I’ve got it. Don’t worry, I’ll be right back.” He says, quickly leaving the room. Not before pressing a kiss on the top of your head and a caress of your baby bump, that is.

As he leaves the room, Penelope sighs adoringly, “He’s so sweet!”

Emily scoffs but has a smile on his face, “Sweet? If he did that to me, I’d go crazy.”

JJ nods her head, “He is being more attentive than usual.” She comments, “How do you deal with all the attention? Aren’t you going stir crazy?”

“Of course I am. I’m eight months pregnant and can’t see my feet to put on shoes anymore.” You answer honestly, “But it makes Spence feel better about the pregnancy and the baby coming. I think he’s nesting.” You muse outloud.

You brace yourself and rock forward in the chair to get yourself back up on your feet. Penelope and JJ watch to make sure you make it while Emily is working on getting the shelf to be level and straight against the wall before nailing it.

“Alright, let’s get the paint out!” You cheer as you waddle over to the wooden cabinet that Spencer also built for the nursery. 

After Spencer had built it and attached it to the wall, there was no reason for him to open it again until you actually had something to put in there. You told him you wanted to leave it empty for storage, but you actually had taken a trip to Lowes to grab some fun wall paint colors for a small mural. 

You did this while Spencer was at his workshop helping a few of his clients load some furniture away. Ever since you had hit your second trimester, Spencer had been taking more and more time away from actively going to work so this was really the only time you could sneak away to buy paint for this planned surprise. Lowes was your pick because the Home Depot employees knew your husband very very well.

Penelope leapt up to help you, “Yes! I am so excited! I want to paint the stars!”

You had gotten some paint for a small cartoony mural of a cresent moon and stars. 

“Pen, you can’t just call dibs on all the stars.” JJ objects while still on the couch, nursing a glass of white wine. 

“Watch me.” She retorts. You all laugh. Penelope hoists the paint cans on top of the tarp you unrolled to lay on the floor. JJ soon joins the two of you to open cans and brushes.

“Why moon and stars?” Emily asks as she grabs a hammer and nails, preparing to attach the shelf finally.

You smile at the memory of why you chose it, “Spencer mentioned to me when we first found out that we were pregnant that Diana had painted a cresent moon and stars on his wall when he was a baby.” You inform the girls, “I wanted to do the same for our baby. I just thought it would be a nice surprise, especially after he’s done so much for me. I wanna do something special for him too.”

Someone sniffles and you look up from swirling a stirrer in the small colorful paint samples.

“Penelope, are you crying?” You ask with a chuckle.

She sniffs again, “It’s just so romantic and sweet!” She fans her hand at her eyes to wave off tears, “You two are going to be the greatest parents in the world!” 

“Stop, you’re gonna make me cry.” You tell her. It isn’t a lie either, this final trimester has made you super in tune to all emotions. 

JJ gets the paint ready in small cups with brushes, “And we can’t make the pregnant lady cry. Now, let’s start painting before Spence comes back.” She says.

You all do as she says and choose the wall opposite from the window so the natural light can come and illuminate the mural after its been painted. Emily finishes up hanging up the shelf and you don’t tell her that as soon as all the girls leave, Spencer would double check her work. It was inevitable.

Penelope is already finished with three stars and JJ is nearly done with the outline of the crescent moon when Spencer joins you four once again, now with a steaming cup of tea in his hand.

His eyes are trained on the cup in his hand and with his free hand, he’s waving the steam away to cool down the hot liquid tea. “Okay, it’s really hot so you might wanna let it cool off for a bit.”

When he gets no response, his eyes flicker up to the four of you working on a pretty night sky on the wall. 

There’s no reaction at first and you get a little worried, so you waddle over to Spencer who’s still hovering at the door. “Spence?” You ask your husband, waiting on any kind of response.

It’s only when you go to take the mug out of his hand that he reacts. 

“Be careful.” He instinctively says, slowly moving the mug away from your hands and carefully putting it down on a coaster on the small table next to the rocking chair.

When he turns back to you, his eyes still stare at the half painted wall mural. Penelope is still working on stars, JJ has moved onto coloring in the moon, and Emily finishes up a cartoony cloud you were working on.

“Y-you did this for me? The moon and the stars?” Spencer asks you softly, adoration twinkling in his eye just like the stars being painted on the wall.

You nod and can’t help as the tears well up in your eyes at his reaction. “I wanted it to be a surprise.” You say.

Spencer comes up behind you with an embrace and rests his hands on your stomach, something he’s gotten into a habit of doing since you started showing.

“Are you surprised?” You ask him. When you turn your head to look up to your husband, his eyes still are on the wall. 

He nods and presses a gentle and sweet kiss to the top of your head. “I am.” He answers, “I could cry.”

You smile up at him and when you hear a sniffle, you half expect it to be your husband with tears coming down his cheekbones. But when he meets you with the same confused expression, searching your own face and coming up with an absence of tears, you know who it belongs to.

“Penelope, are you crying again?”

a/n: i enjoyed writing this one and i see you all are enjoying pregnancy and dad blurbs so i decided to give you all a few more! honestly though, i had no idea how to end this.

[cantsayidont]

ABSTRACT Wood artefacts rarely survive from the Early Stone Age since they require exceptional conditions for preservation; consequently, we have limited information about when and how hominins used this basic raw material1. We report here on the earliest evidence for structural use of wood in the archaeological record. Waterlogged deposits at the archaeological site of Kalambo Falls, Zambia, dated by luminescence to at least 476 ± 23 kyr ago (ka), preserved two interlocking logs joined transversely by an intentionally cut notch. This construction has no known parallels in the African or Eurasian Palaeolithic. The earliest known wood artefact is a fragment of polished plank from the Acheulean site of Gesher Benot Ya’aqov, Israel, more than 780 ka (refs. 2,3). Wooden tools for foraging and hunting appear 400 ka in Europe4,5,6,7,8, China9 and possibly Africa10. At Kalambo we also recovered four wood tools from 390 ka to 324 ka, including a wedge, digging stick, cut log and notched branch. The finds show an unexpected early diversity of forms and the capacity to shape tree trunks into large combined structures. These new data not only extend the age range of woodworking in Africa but expand our understanding of the technical cognition of early hominins11, forcing re-examination of the use of trees in the history of technology12,13.

Holy shit. If it's 476,000 years old, it was not made by humans, but by some of our pre-human hominid ancestors.

Citation:

Barham, L., Duller, G.A.T., Candy, I. et al. Evidence for the earliest structural use of wood at least 476,000 years ago. Nature 622, 107–111 (2023). doi:10.1038/s41586-023-06557-9

[moeitsu]

The Tie Which Linked My Soul To Thee

Hi everyone! I have a new Arthur x female!OC fic I've been working on that's posted up on Ao3, so I figured I would share it here as well. Please let me know what you think! This story is currently still on-going :)

Ao3  Wattpad Masterlist - All Chapters Ch.2 Ch.3 Ch.4 Ch.5 Ch.6 Ch.7 Ch.8 Ch.9 Ch.10

Summary: Kate McCanon, a young widow from the north, meets outlaw Arthur Morgan. When the two cross paths she discovers a complex man wrestling with his own sense of right and wrong. As their unlikely bond deepens, Kate becomes determined to guide Arthur towards a brighter path, even as tensions rise within his gang led by the enigmatic Dutch van der Linde. With danger lurking at every turn, Kate must navigate treacherous territory to protect those she holds dear, all while finding love in the most unexpected of places. Tags: Arthur Morgan/Original Female Character, Widowed, Original Character, Mutual Pining, Slow Build, Eventual Smut, Eventual Romance, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Friends to Lovers, Child Loss, Trauma, Canon-Typical Violence, Arthur Morgan Does Not Have Tuberculosis, Arthur Morgan Deserves Happiness, Chubby Arthur Morgan, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence

Chapter 1 - The Frost Gleams Where The Flowers Have Been

1890

Kate had never fancied herself a skilled woodworker. While she had lent a hand to her husband in constructing a barn, her role mostly entailed passing him tools and bringing him his lunch. But as she stood amidst the sawdust, tears streaking down her cheeks, she grappled with the daunting task ahead. She lacked both the sufficient wood and the patience to craft two coffins. Thus, the inevitable decision emerged: they would be laid to rest together.

The Reverend's suggestion to cremate the bodies, emphasizing the need to eradicate the disease completely, fell upon deaf ears. The mere thought of reducing her beloved husband and precious baby girl to ashes felt abhorrent to Kate. Instead, she harbored a tender hope that one day, perhaps, they would blossom into a magnificent Willow tree.

Amidst the melancholy chore, the vibrant symphony of birdsong provided a bittersweet backdrop, reminiscent of the lullabies she once crooned to her infant daughter. With a sorrowful melody humming in her heart, Kate toiled diligently, her hands blackened with grime, each wipe across her tear-stained cheeks a testament to her grief. As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting their modest farm in a golden hue, Kate's work pressed on.

Night descended swiftly, cloaking the world in shadows that seemed to stretch for an eternity. Kate, perched upon her porch swing, found no solace in slumber. Her vigil was solemn, her gaze never wavering from the rough-hewn coffins that cradled her entire world within their confines.

With the break of dawn, the Reverend returned, his disapproval evident, yet tempered by resignation. Together, in a somber silence, they labored to fashion a final resting place. By mid-afternoon, the grave stood ready, a solemn abyss awaiting its occupants. With the Reverend's assistance, Kate tenderly lowered her cherished husband and daughter into the earth's cold embrace.

As dusk settled, the Reverend offered prayers and parting words before taking his leave. Left alone in her sorrow, Kate felt the weight of despair bearing down upon her. In a world forged by men and seemingly devoid of solace for a solitary widow, she found herself with no recourse but to depart.

Beneath the twilight sky, the epitaph etched upon their shared gravestone bore silent witness to her profound loss:

Here Lies My Beloved Noah, And Our Beautiful Daughter, Lorena.

May God Keep Their Souls.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

1899 

As the sun rose over the horizon, casting its golden rays across the sprawling expanse of Emerald Ranch, Kate found herself amidst the ebb and flow of another day's labor. Nine years had slipped by since the tragic loss of her husband and daughter, a span of time marked by wandering footsteps and the pursuit of odd jobs on her journey westward. 

She had once heard her father say they had family in California, he had many sisters but only kept in touch with one. Kate wrote to her after the death of her husband, seeking asylum with a relative with nowhere else to go. Her Aunt wrote her back and gave her condolences, she said Kate would be welcome with open arms. 

However, the last she heard of her Aunt was 7 years ago. But still, she continued west. She had come too far and been through too much to stop now. What she hoped to find in the valleys of California, she did not know anymore. Over the years she became more cowboy and less of a woman, her once soft hands now calloused by years of labor. The untamed plains and cold hard ground had become both her refuge and her bed. 

She came to Emerald Ranch only a week ago, her boss; Seamus, was reluctant to hire a stranger, let alone a woman, to help on the ranch. Kate assured him she was cheap labor and was only looking for shelter and a place to rest until she was on the move again. Kate was no stranger to odd jobs, she took any work she could get and saved as much as she could. But she was no criminal. 

She heard Seamus talking to two men as she filled the troughs with clean water. The gentlemen said they were new in town and looking for a partnership, one in which they could both make money. 

“Look I ain't no idiot, and I don't trust folks outta the blue. If you want to work together then you're gonna have to prove to me you’re worth my time.” Her boss's voice raised above the usual noise of the barn animals. 

“Of course! We’re only interested in a partnership, just looking to make a little extra money.” Carried the voice of an older gentleman. 

“No doubt. I do interesting very well. It's trusting that I don't do so well.” her boss answered, still not convinced by the two strangers.

“Look at us, we’re honest as the day is long,” said the other man with cheer. 

“You really want us to prove ourselves to this clown Hosea?” said the other voice, sounding much younger than his partner. 

Seamus scoffed, “good day to you, Hosea.” 

“N-now wait a minute Seamus. Arthur can be rough, and quick with his tongue, but I swear you can trust him, you can trust me.” Hosea pleaded, following Seamus to the side of the barn. Kate now had a clear view of the new “business partners”. 

Kate didn't know Seamus very well, but she could tell he was an honest enough man. Wise for his years, and liked to keep his nose out of trouble. “I’m an old man Hosea,” he began, “and you know why I ain’t dead yet?” 

“Because you don't trust idiots,” Hosea finished.

“Exactly.”

“We’re not idiots, Seamus. Let us prove it to you.” Hosea had an air of confidence, he wasn't some runaway bum looking to make a quick buck. He was serious about a partnership. Although Kate wouldn't say the same for his partner, who loomed behind them like a panther ready to pounce. 

“Okay…I’ll tell you what, old Bob Crawford and his boys just bought a beautiful stolen stagecoach from up north. It’s in their barn. Now you go get that,” he looked around for anyone who might be listening to his scheming, “then we can work together.” He said quietly, placing a hand on Hosea’s shoulder. 

“Who’s Old Bob Crawford?” inquired Hosea.

“An acquaintance of mine…well, not just an acquaintance. He’s my cousin, by marriage.” Seamus explained. 

“Oh so now we’re meddlin’ in your family business?” Arthur boasted with skepticism. 

Hosea waved him off and continued speaking, “Where is he located?”

“Now hang on a moment, you boys could very easily take this coach and sell it yourselves for a pretty penny,” Seamus began. 

“So you comin’ with us? I thought you didn't want to be involved in shady business?” Arthur spoke up again. 

“Heavens no, if my cousin saw me it would be my death. I'm sending someone with you, as collateral.” Seamus turned around and saw Kate already watching them, he waved her over. 

Arthur shook his head disapprovingly, “nah, I don't do babysitters Seamus.” 

Kate was just as skeptical about her part in this, she told Seamus she was looking for honest work, and robbing his cousin certainly falls out of that line. 

“She’s not babysitting . She’ll take you to my cousin's farm and let you do the robbing. Kate has been working for me for a few days now and she’s tougher than she looks.” Seamus said turning to Kate, “I want you to make sure that stage coach gets back to me. You don't need to take part in the robbery.” 

“You’re fine with them robbing your cousin?” She spoke in a hushed tone so only Seamus could hear.

“By marriage,” he added, “and yes, I would love it. The man’s been a thorn in my ass for years.” He said amused.

She nodded in acknowledgement and turned to get a good look at the two strangers. One was indeed much older than the other, with cropped white hair peeking out from under his hat. The other gentleman was tall and burly, and he hid his eyes under the brim of his hat. He seemed wary of strangers and kept both hands resting on his gun belt. 

“Let me get my horse saddled and I’ll meet you boys at the intersection leading out of town.” She spoke, Hosea nodded and was already making his way to his horse. Arthur stood for a moment eyeing the woman, no doubt playing the intimidation tactic. But Kate had seen far scarier men than him in her days. “Y'know the quicker we get this done the quicker you fellas get paid.” She noted.

Arthur scoffed and finally followed Hosea to his horse, “don't need no damn babysitter,” he grumbled kicking dust.

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Kate made quick work of saddling her black Hungarian roan, she calls Lorena. After her infant daughter. In a moments pass she was on the dirt road leading out of Emerald Ranch and toward Carmody Dell. She waved for the two men to follow her, they stayed behind her a short distance and made no effort for small conversation.

However, she overheard snippets of their own conversation as they went, “I thought you wanted me to be the strong arm? That's usually how it goes,” Arthur spoke.

“Yes but..” Hosea hesitated, lowering his tone a little, “you know how this works.”

“Cmon Hosea that fellers a joke, he don't even trust us enough to handle it ourselves. Now we got a chaperone.” Arthur complained loudly, at least he’s not calling me a babysitter , Kate thought. 

“All the better, he won't cause us any problems. And I cant blame the guy for sending the girl. Two strangers looking for quick money? Hell, I’d want assurance too.” Hosea answered, “besides, if he’s sending protection that means there’s big money to be made. Seamus wants his cut.” 

Kate came to the same conclusion, up until now Seamus had given her the usual ranch-hand tasks. Feeding and cleaning mostly. This was very different, there must be good money for this stage coach. 

“I guess you’re right,” Arthur muttered.

Hosea mumbled something back to Arthur about “hanging up their hats” if they couldn't finish a job as easy as this. They laughed and began chatting about their travels in Emerald ranch, Kate tuned them out and began humming a song to her horse. 

Her singing always pleased her horse and calmed the girl’s nerves. She was a strong and fierce steed, but jumpy and needy like a baby sometimes. Kate thought naming her horse after her daughter would bring her closure, instead, she was almost convinced that her daughter's spirit lived on in Lorena somehow. In all ways except biological, her horse was her baby.

Carmody Dell was a short distance north past the train tracks and Fort Wallace, Kate had passed it once before. They rode at a steady pace, the men behind her never coming too close. She wondered for a moment what their story was, and why they needed money so bad. Perhaps they were travelers like her, maybe they even had a caravan. She entertained the thought of traveling with a group again, but shuddered at the memories. Her previous caravan adventures had not ended well. 

Once the ranch was in view she slowed and allowed the boys to catch up on either side of her. She led them to a grassy clearing off the road. 

“You should continue on foot from here, I’ll stay behind with your horses.” She said dismounting. The two of them nodded and dismounted their horses, Kate was almost surprised to hear no objections from Arthur. 

“C'mon son, let's see what we’re dealing with here.” Hosea commented walking towards a large rock in front of the house. 

“Son”, so they are family . She mentally noted. Arthur gave his horse a pat, “be a good girl for the lady” he said, tipping his hat towards Kate. She was slightly taken aback by the sudden politeness.

She busied herself with the horses for a bit while the men laid out their plan, she gave Hosea and Arthurs horse a treat and was about to start brushing his horse when he approached her again. Startled, she backed away from his mare, she didn't want him to think she was snooping in his saddle bags. 

“You can keep brushin’ her, she loves attention,” he half smiled reaching up and petting her snout. “I just came to tell ya’ we’re gonna wait till it gets dark. Less chance of getting caught that way.” 

“Smart,” she replied, for whatever reason she suddenly felt very shy in his presence. 

He stood a few feet away from her and she could see more of his features. He was around her age. He had short dirty blond hair under his leather hat, and bright blue/green eyes. Her eyes lingered over his body. He was big too, more than a foot taller than her and well fed and muscular. His bicep had to be the size of her head alone, and she could tell by the fabric of his button down he had a bit of a belly hidden behind his gun belt. 

“What’s her name?” His voice broke through her awkward silence. 

“Who?” She asked and looked back at him. 

He chortled, “the black beauty you got over there,” he nodded to her horse. 

Oh, duh! “Her name is Lorena, she also loves attention but she’s nervous around new people.” Kate answered, still a bit lost in her thoughts. 

Arthur made a clicking sound with his tongue, reaching out a hand and slowly walking toward her horse. “It’s alright girl,” he cooed while she sniffed his palm. He pulled out a peppermint and gave it to her, which Lorena happily accepted. 

Kate smiled at the interaction, “you introduce yourself to my horse before me?” she teased. 

“My apologies ma’am,” he turned to face her, “names Arthur Morgan.”

“Nice to meet you Mr. Morgan, I’m Kate McCanon.” She reached out her hand and he shook it. His grip was firm but polite. 

“Likewise, Miss.McCanon. That’s Belle your brushin’, and that’s Silver Dollar.” He pointed at Hosea’s horse. “I saw this beauty when we first rode into Emerald ranch, had no idea she was yours tho.” He was talking about her horse again, “told myself I’d inquire about buying her if she was available.” 

Kate smiled at the affection he was showing for her horse, she knew Lorena was a beautiful mare. She often received compliments on the road, and many have offered to pay for her purebred. 

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but she’s not for sale.” 

“Well I can certainly see that,” he laughed, “she seems happy though. You must take real good care of her.” He said, his attention still on her mare as he scratched under her chin. 

“You some kind of horse breeder Mr. Morgan?” Kate asked. 

Arthur laughed, “no no. Nothing like that, though sometimes I wish I was.” He smiled as he said it but Kate noticed there was a sadness in his tone. “I just think they’re neat is all.” 

They had only just met, and while Arthur was not initially the most pleasant, she found it incredibly cute how enraptured he was by her horse. 

“I should probably also apologize for my rudeness earlier, it’s been a rough couple weeks for us and we uh- don’t always take too kindly to strangers.” Arthur took off his hat as he spoke and held it to his chest, a sincere gesture. 

Kate was shocked, the man she met at Emerald ranch not even an hour ago seemed like a completely different person than the man before her. His cold demeanor was gone, or at least reined in at the moment. 

“No apology needed Mr. Morgan. I understand,” She answered. “Although I wouldn’t call it rude, you were just skeptical. Rightfully so, can I ask what brings you to Emerald Ranch?” 

Arthur looked away from her as he spoke, choosing to focus on her horse. “We’re just stayin’ in the area for a few weeks. Passin’ through and tryna make money.” 

“By robbing stagecoaches?” Kate said in an amused tone, “you a bunch of outlaws or something?” She continued, half-joking. 

Arthur looked at her with surprise, “What? No, we uh- got laid off from the railway. Up-north. Just looking for money so we can find a place to settle down again. That’s all.” He looked away again, avoiding her gaze. 

“I’ll say it again, by robbing stagecoaches?” She kept her tone playful, but wasn’t entirely convinced by his story. But it felt good to be the intimidator.

“Wasn’t our idea, Seamus asked us to rob his cousin!” His voice rose slightly with anger. 

“By marriage,” Kate retorted. 

Arthur was about to speak again but only stared at her. 

“I’m just pulling your leg Mr. Morgan.” Kate laughed. “It’s no business of mine. I’m only passing through here, same as you. What you do here and how you earn your money is your business. As is mine.” 

Arthur scoffed, suddenly amused, did this woman just tease me?

He went to speak again before another voice interrupted them, “Arthur! Get over here!” Called Hosea. He pointed a finger at Kate as to say this isn’t over and walked away. 

Amused with herself, Kate grabbed an apple and sat down against a tree. Watching the sun set as she waited for the cover of night so the two men could pull off their heist. 

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Kate woke suddenly to the sound of horses moving. She quickly got up and looked in the direction of the ranch. Sure enough the stage coach was steadily moving down the path away from its place in the barn. She quickly mounted her horse and trotted over to them. 

“Nice work! Follow me back to Emerald Ranch and try to keep it in one piece.” She called up to Hosea who was driving the coach. With that she clicked her tongue and took off ahead of the coach at a steady but quick pace. Not wanting to get themselves caught. 

Before Hosea could crack the reins he looked to Arthur as he was about to get in the coach, “you ride ahead with her. I got this.” 

Arthur looked confused, “why wouldn’t I ride with you? The horses will follow.” 

Now Hosea was giving him an amused look, “I heard you with her earlier.” 

“And?” The cowboy replied slightly annoyed. 

“You’ve never fumbled our cover story so bad!” He quipped, “it was like listening to a child tell it!” 

Arthur shook his head, “now you’re playin’ match maker old man?” He teased, trying to hide his smile.   

“I’m just saying it wouldn’t kill you to go talk to her son."

Without another word Arthur nodded and dismounted the coach, getting into the saddle and riding off to catch up to Kate.