#or a white dotted outline and two yellow arrows pointing at it | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hellolittleogre · 5 years ago

Text

Dusting off the archives

Since I like a lot of other fanfic writers are spending this time aggressively staring at different WIPs and NOT WRITING I thought I would dust off various WIPs which have stalled through the years. These are to a large extent morgue files, they will probably never be finished fic. I thought I’d share what I have written, plus synopsis or outline if I have it. I feel like they are like rings in the core of a glacier and different trends and tropes can be read in them. Some of them are also incredibly embarrassing.

Under the Cut: Avengers kid fic

Fandom: The Avengers

Paring: Clint Barton/ Phil Coulson

Working Title: Uhhhhh.....Superspy Daddies (not brilliant I admit)

Year written: 2012 (god help us all)

Synopsis: Clint meets Tasha when she ‘s a wee spy child and decides to adopt her. After a few years on the run they are caught up by SHIELD and recruited. There is something mysterious going on and they are assigned an alias as a family, with two dads and Natasha. Enter spy shenanigans and fake marriage and falling in love. Yay! Everything is safe and nothing hurts.

Natasha was seven when she met Clint. She can still remember the impact when she hit him, how she had launched herself into his body and sent them both tumbling. They had ended up on the floor. Natasha with her knife to his throat and Clint with an arrow in his hand the point just pressing against her ribs.

It should have been easy, a clean-cut job of getting into the house, making the target and getting out again but something had been wrong, men positioned in places they shouldn’t and suddenly hostiles everywhere and a blond man with a bow taking out people with unerring accuracy.

She remembers the surprise in his face, how open it was.

“But you are just a child,” he had said in astonished and slightly accented Russian. It made her want to smile because she hadn’t been a child for a long time now.

“I am Black Widow,” she said simply, when she had planned to say nothing at all. The man stared at her.

“Ok, so, I’m going to lower my hand now, nice and easy, like this yeah?” The arrow was slowly removed from her ribs. “We have about ten minutes before my backup gets here so listen. You can kill me and go on doing what you are doing or I can get you out of here, somewhere safe and you can either come with me or go your way, but you don’t have to do this anymore.”

He is, possibly, the first person she can remember who has offered her something without asking anything of her. The idea intrigued her, that somebody could do something for you without wanting anything in return, that there could be actions without purpose or gain.

“You are not a pervert, are you?” She knows about those, they are easy, all soft words and soft hands right up to the point where they are not but then usually it is already too late. He actually laughed at that, a soft huff of air as if she had said something honestly funny.

“No, no perverts here m’am. Nobody but us chickens.” She does not understand that, it had been nobody but them and maybe a handful of dead men, no chickens at all. She frowns at him.

He sighed. “I’m Clint.”

She thought about it, the sharp edge of her knife resting against his throat, but. He has offered to do something for her without asking anything in return. He could have killed her but he didn’t. And he doesn’t want her to kill anyone, he doesn’t seem to want her to do anything. Maybe she can trust him.

“I’m Black Widow,” she says again. She doesn’t have to trust him much, or for long.

In the end they had gotten out through the air ducts. Crawled out a couple of yards behind the perimeter and Clint had then calmly walked her through the tail end of the increasingly panicked ranks of the mission, even snagging his own jacket and bow case from the back of a van. He had draped the jacked around her shoulders and pushed her lightly in the back. “Just keep your head down and walk, nice and easy.”

Natasha had to admire the audacity of it, she is not sure anymore but she believes at one point he even nodded to somebody he knew before getting her into the night. Quietly slipping away.

They go through Europe first, down through Ukraine and Romania to Serbia, Croatia and finally Italy. Clint makes Natasha cut her hair in the bathroom of a gas station. Says that maybe a man and a young boy might draw less attention. Hands her the scissors with an: I ain’t going to touch you, kiddo and closes the door. Her hair is now short and jagged and fiery red and she likes it. It takes her three months before she finally tells Clint her name is actually Natalia Romanova and he grins at her, delighted. “I’m Hawkeye,” he says.

Slowly as Natalia learns to trust him she tells Clint about the Red Room. She has a hard time remembering anything before that but she remembers training, learning and the experiments.

They had been together for nearly a month when Clint accidentally cuts himself. Its straight across his palm and deep and painful as fuck. Clint tries to stem the blood flow with a shirt and cursing under his breath. Natasha is strangely unperturbed, as if she can’t understand why he is making a fuss.

“Its not so bad, you just put band aid on it and it’s gone in the morning,” she says, shrugging her shoulders. Clint takes it that she meant, it will be gone in a sort of, it will still be there but at least it wont bother you fashion. As it turns out she means it quite literally.

The next night as they make camp she gives his bandage a suspicious look but says nothing. Clint is cleaning the wound with some water heated on the fire, it stings like a bitch but looks like it will heal nicely, looking up he sees Natasha across the fire, her face is white and her eyes are like saucers. Then she is by his side, prodding and poking at his hand with ungentle fingers.

“You are still hurt, why are you still hurt, why hasn’t it healed? Are you ill, what is wrong with you?” She is as animated as he has ever seen her, shaken up and honestly confused and terrified. It takes a while to calm her down to explain that when ordinary people get hurt it takes weeks and weeks for them to heal, and this is normal and it doesn’t mean that Clint is sick or dying. It is perhaps the first time Natasha lets on that she really cares. It is also the point when Clint realises how truly different she is, and the extent of those experiments. She takes out his knife and makes a shallow cut across the back of her hand and lets him watch as it fades into pink nothingness in a couple of hours.

In Croatia, Dubrovnik, Clint takes her to the beach, all blue water and fishing boats bobbing on the waves. It's the first time she has seen the sea. The water is so clear you can make out all the little fishes darting after each other along the shallows. After only half a day in the sun her skin was so burnt her back broke out in blisters and the heatstroke made her throw up on the bus back to the room they’re renting. Clint pets her hair and nods to the large woman across the aisle, who has been making sympathetic noises and has given them a plastic bag.

“Red hair, can’t stand the sun, any of them. Her mother was just the same, God rest her soul, always so sensitive.” The woman clucks in distress and finds a cough sweet in the horrifying depths of her handbag. Natalia swears she can still feel the taste of it in her nose even after she has thrown up twice.

All she could do was lie on her stomach in their tiny room with an ice clamp wrapped in a wet towel on her back. She doesn’t cry in pain but she considers it, the possibility. There would be nobody here to punish her for it now. Cling gave her purple and yellow ice lollies, the first she’s ever had, until her mouth was skinned and raw from them. She peels afterwards and sits in the bathroom and gets Clint to peel strips of skin off her back showing her the longest ones.

“This is so gross,” he tells her after he’s managed to peel a strip of skin all the way from her shoulder down to the small of her back. The new skin underneath the flaking was pink and tender and dotted with tiny freckles. It’s the closest to fun she has had in years.

Clint has never taken care of anyone in his life, not himself and much less anyone else. Things such as regular meals, bedtimes and food which is not pizza is pretty much new and foreign country to him. It took him about a year to figure out that Natalia needed to go to school, because he could teach her English just fine (except maybe not words like corium and discombobulate) and some maths, as long as it had to do with geometry and seriously, he has been briefed on so many cities that they are probably good for geography for a while, but the rest of it? He has no idea.

They stayed in Naples for six months, long enough for Clint to work out a way to get into the US and for Natalia to lose her accented English and learn a quite impressive smattering of Italian. Then, they are found. The same car stands parked on their street three days in a row, inconspicuously nestled under a great chestnut tree and Clint calmly tells Natasha to grab the overnight bag in the hall and they walk past is slowly and calmly, looking straight ahead like they were just heading for the park to enjoy the afternoon sunshine. The agents are Russian and in the end it turns ugly, they barely get away and leave corpses on their trail. They get on a plane to America a month ahead of schedule and it is a far too narrow escape. It’s only after this, after their narrow escape to relative safety that Natalia begins to have nightmares.

“Clint?”

“Yeah”

“Can you tell me a story?”

This is the third time the same night Natasha has woken from nightmares and Clint has resigned to sleeping on the floor by her bed instead of going back to his own. He has a lumpy pillow wedged under his head (in fact, he suspects it to be Natasha’s stuffed bear, Phillipov).

“A story, what about?”

There is a silence; it is long enough that he would have suspected that she had dropped off but for her calculated breathing. She is thinking about something, not sure how to phrase it.

“Angela has stories,” she says at last. Angela is Tasha’s friend from school, one of the few she has made. “I mean, her mom tells her stories about her, when she was little, what she said, when she was bad, you know. Could you, could you tell a story about me? When I was little?”

And Clint opens his mouth to say he can’t do that, he never knew her when she was little and lived in a facility where they trained her and filled her blood with god only knows what and then realises that’s not the point. Natasha knows this, but she wants a story. Not a lie, a story, about herself, when she was little, what she might have done. Clint exhales deeply and tries to think.

“Do you remember when we lived in Italy, in Naples? In that tiny apartment and your roll out bed? Well, a couple of years before that we lived for a while in Rome, but you were so little, only four, you can’t possibly remember. We lived, you and me then, in this small apartment outside of Rome. The kitchen was tiny, but it had this huge fridge-freezer unit, this monster from the fifties in avocado green with a door thick like the safe to a bank vault and the freezer on top of it. It was like a fridge for a large Italian family with a grandma and a fat uncle with a moustache and not just for the two of us. Now it was summer and that apartment was always hot and you wanted gelato but I wouldn’t give you any because it was just before dinner and you couldn’t reach the freezer by yourself. So you had this trick of wedging a kitchen chair against the fridge, on its back legs and then climb up onto the back of the chair so you could open the freezer.”

Clint could actually see it before him, this small, determined version of Natasha, dragging the chair across the room and her bare feet soft against the linoleum floor.

“It used to make me so mad, y’know. You could fall down and split your skull, knock your teeth out, anything. And I caught you this one time, balanced on the chair with your head in the freezer and I got so mad and I yelled at you, and I said: You are driving me nuts, you’ve got to stop doing this. Do you want me to go crazy?”

And you said, without even looking away from the ice cream box: I don’t want you to go crazy. I want ice cream.”

There is silence and then Natasha laughs, it’s just a puff of amusement, there and gone again but its genuine. After a while he reaches up a hand and feels Nat stick her little paw in his. It is soft and slightly sticky, squeezing around his for a moment before she settles down.

“That’s a good story,” she says sleepily and after a while she falls asleep. Clint is not so lucky but at least there are no more nightmares for tonight. After this she wants a lot of them, Clint tells her about fishing trips, about that time in the Natural History Museum when she thought she was lost in the room with all the gorillas, when Clint was standing right next to her all the time.

Clint sweats the whole ten hour flight to America. Tasha curls up in her seat and pretends to sleep the whole way, the air hostess giving her a colouring book and nearly subconsciously petting her hair. There is just something about the short curls that people seem helpless to resist.

In the end it is only bad luck that Shield found them. A lot of bad luck at the same time but only chance in the end. Anyway that’s what Clint claims, Agent Coulson maintains that luck had nothing to do with it and it was the result of several years of hard work on his part and if anything it was lucky that Shield found them first and not the Russians.

They have been living in the US for years now, slowly drifting across the north and the mid west, Clint picking up work where he can find it. They always have emergency bags packed but it was a while since they’ve had to use them.

It was nearly five years since Clint found Natasha, or she found him, four years of Clint jumping from job to job and Nat from school to school but lately the time between moves become longer and longer. Clint had a job he actually likes, working as a bit of everything in a school for deaf kids. Natasha has friends to sit with her at the lunch table, has started playing soccer, and it turns out she is menace on the grass. They feel safe, five years have gone by and nothing has been seen or heard and maybe it has made them complacent. Maybe its just nice to belong somewhere. Tasha has friends on her soccer team and comes home grass stained and happy. She’s hit a growth spurt and reminds Clint of a foal with long gangly limbs.

It starts with a parent teacher visit, just a stupid mistake. It's Tasha’s homeroom teacher who gives Clint a considering look and remarks that he looks a bit young to have a daughter her age. And that’s all it takes to get the ball rolling, somebody looking just a little extra at the adoption papers and suddenly there is a social worker outside the door. Clint and Tasha are professional liars and it comes to nothing in the end but the notice is already logged into the system, leaving a minute paper trail for people who know where to look. And then Clint had gotten ill with the flu, enough to just not pay attention the nondescript car parked on their street for two days in a row. They are unprepared for it when Clint, kept awake by coughing, spots the stealthy movement on the street and there is no time, no time for anything other than getting out. The rain is pouring down and Tasha is still in her pyjamas, shoes held in one hand. As it turns out the location of their backup storage is compromised and Clint barely makes it out with one bag, containing a change for Natasha and barely enough cash to make it out of town. They don’t try to go to the second one, where Clint’s bow and arrows are stored. It hurts, that bow is as much a part of Clint as his arm, but if it is undetected they can come back for it and if it has been found it is not worth trying to get it back. They make their way north on foot and hitchhike, avoiding gas stations and bus stops, suddenly nothing feels safe anymore, everywhere is strange and threatening. Clint’s flu had gotten worse and developed into a deep rattling cough that won’t let go and claws at his chest with dull teeth. There was no time to rest and the constant chill of their travel had made it into pneumonia.

They end up in a motel, where everything within the range of the little electric heater is stuffy and fever-hot and everything outside of it cold and damp. Clint lies propped up on the two slim pillows, Natasha is sitting at the foot of the bed, cleaning out her gear, her face cool and efficient. They both know Clint can’t go much further without rest and proper care, they both know they can't turn to a hospital and there is not enough money for any under the table dealings, even if they had the contacts in this part of the country.

It's only logical that she should go on alone, she has a much better chance to get away. How she is going to make it in the long run neither of them mentions.

“You have a quarter?” she asks “I just wanted something from the vending machine.”

Clint nods towards his bags and when she comes back she packs everything in her bag neatly, all her gear cleaned, three knives on her, one in her sleeve, one in her shoe and one at the small of her back. She puts the blankets over Clint. Go to sleep, she tells him. When he wakes up Tasha is curled up next to him and Shield breaks down the door.

They are being debriefed by Hill and Coulson, and a team of junior agents, even Fury is there, scowling behind the eye patch. Howard and Tony Stark is their target, it is just a scouting mission, there has been some untoward suspected HYDRA activity in Stark Industries.

The pale manila folder lands with a dull sound in front of Clint. It contains, in addition to information on the targets, the cover stories for the job. Natasha squints down at the pages.

“I will be Clint’s adopted daughter and we are living with his brother, my uncle Phil?” Coulson, first name Agent, inclines his head slightly.

“We felt it was best your handler was with you on site,” he says mildly.

Natasha gives him a slanted eyebrow of disbelief and snorts into her folder “yah, because a grown single man living with his brother and a young girl is not weird, at all,” she says in Russian and rolls her eyes at Clint. He tries not to laugh and hopes not too many at the table can understand. Judging by the twitch in Fury’s eye, he should be so lucky.

Just before the elevator closes Hill shows up and smacks a new folder into his chest.

“Your updated covers,” she explains, “ as I understood there were complaints about the last ones.” She gives Nat a nasty look. Clint opens the folder and starts scanning the content. There are papers, degrees even, official adoption papers and also…

“Hang on, we are married now? How is that better??”

They arrived back at the house at five in the morning, Clint practically carrying a half asleep Natasha and Phil felt so tired as if he was moving through molasses. He managed to change his clothes and brush his teeth before sitting down on the sofa and completely running out of energy. Mechanically turning on the tv and finding antiques roadshow on and just sitting there with the flickering light over him.

After a while Barton came down and slumped beside him, head leaning back and his eyes closed.

“She’s brushed her teeth and she’s in bed now, I think actually asleep. I hope to hell there will be no nightmares because I don’t know if I have the energy to even get out of this couch.”

“I’ll get it,”Phil says even though he feels like his spine has been boiled to the consistency of a wet noodle and all he wants to do is sleep for a week. Clint makes an exhausted noise beside him and slumps back against the couch, after a little while his head tips over onto Phil’s shoulder. He can feel the soft hair against his jaw and neck. Clint’s breath skates moist and warm over his neck and collarbone. It’s the best thing he has felt in ages and parts of him wishes he really could lean over and cover Clint’s mouth with his own and pull him close. Instead he leans back, promising himself it will only be for a second and then he promptly falls asleep.

Clint wakes up with the most awful crick in the neck. He is still on the sofa, squashed onto his side and his face plastered to Phil’s shoulder. He might even have drooled a bit on his t-shirt. At some point during the night they had managed to wedge themselves into the sofa, Phil mostly on his back and Clint, well, mostly on top of him. He tries to move his legs and find them stuck under something. Something turns out to be Nattie, curled up like a ball at the end of the sofa and her head pillowed on what might be Phil’s hip. Everything hurts like a motherfucker. Its not the discomfort that’s woken him though, it was the soft sound of the front door. Peeling his face slowly from Phil’s shoulder he raises his head to find Steve, Tony and Pepper awkwardly standing in the doorway staring at their slightly inappropriate family re-enactment of the Gordian Knot.

“Sorry Mr C,” Pepper says “the door was open.”

He really, really hopes he had the sense to take off the leather suit before he fell asleep last night.

#writing #morgue files #lets celebrate all the dead ends #the avengers #black widow #clint Barton/ Phil coulson #the dialogue is not good you guys #first installment #cleaning up my google docs

1 note · View note

royal-writer · 6 years ago

Text

Memories 6

Nnnnn my brain is drumming some dubstep pain over here but I forced myself to finish this terribly.

One day I hope to say in the campaign “My grandpa was a badass bird” becuz of this. A grumpy old fart.

The climb up the rolling hilltops was dreadful. With no direction; no map, no compass, Essätha couldn’t determine the nearest road anymore. When woods turned to valleys, valleys to hills, hills to adjacent, low level mountains that plateaued and rose in increments she could no longer gauge a marker. No way of finding the next town. No way of finding her way out of the wilds that were both a comfort and a wall-less prison.

Only climbing and descending these hills existed. Hoping to see something. The steep incline and decline one after another proved hard on her calf muscles, her thighs, her… everything.

She stopped to rest as she met the ridge of the latest hill. Palms to her knees, sweat on her aching back as she leaned over. Breathing deeply; slowly. She loved the heat, but the sun was close and it was hot with no shade or protection at all. It was becoming overbearing on her dampened mocha skintone now with undertones of sunburned redness.

A loud snapping sound caught her attention.

With a glimpse around the hilltop, she spotted what appeared to be massively feathered wings. They were pulled close against the back of fuzzy tufted creature looming many yards away. Whatever it was, she couldn’t determine. The winged beast was aimed in the opposite direction of her. Swiftly tearing into the remains of a hooved animal hungrily; the creature torn to pieces and long since past expiration.

Another crack. Bones snapping.

Gods it was huge! The feathered beast had to be at least six and a half feet tall. She’d never seen a bird that large. Crouched down, wearing some strange, dark navy wrap around its neck and something covering its torso. Which made no sense to her; who would put that around a bird-

It turned it’s head towards her sharply.

Essätha let out a surprised cry, watching bone fragments and blood drip from it’s face.

The creature screeched in retaliation to her own.

Pivoting in the tall grass seemed a bad idea as soon as she took the act. Essätha suddenly slipped and fell, sprawled out in the stalks of yellow and green.

She pushed herself up nearly as quickly with her palms to look over the grass. Gasping for breath; her still dull, aching body throbbing from the heat and hard hard walk was screaming for her to lay back down. That it was too hot; that she had to be hallucinating.

Nothing. Only the decayed- deer? Goat? Whatever it was-

An ear-splitting squawk echoed from above. The beat of heavy wings against a current-less sky fanning from above. Flapping, flapping, coming faster and faster-

Essätha rolled out of the way as something struck the ground inches from where she’d just been lying.

With aged feathers molting, the bearded vulture rose up from it’s bipedal talons. A daunting height; all of that six-foot prediction and maybe more. Startling bright golden eyes so small for the shape of its head moving over her and cocking in her direction. Colors of white, tan, dark maroon, black and brown; all covering over features and tufts laying out around an enormous curved beak that came to a sharp point.

The humanoid-shaped bird wore a bulky scarf. Large enough that it could be easily be swooped over to drape over the creature’s face for concealment but still leave plenty around the neck that would fall down the back. Only the chest of the feathered bird was covered with clothing; nothing around the legs. It wore a mixture of fashioned animal pelts for warmth as well as sections of armor plating and leather that looked like the fashioning of a half-plate cover.

The bird snapped it’s winged plumage open with a screech. The gesture revealed sections of dappled black and brown underside with white dots just visible along the edge of the wings.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t just some mere bird.

Shouting loudly so her voice cracked, Essie scrambled back from the creature. Her hands digging into the dirt, diving for cover, searching for a stone to throw, something, anything in a whim of shock-

Her digits landed on a quiver.

Tearing her eyes around, she spotted the outline of a bow nearby. It sat neatly on a boulder just a few inches out of reach.

Launching herself out from the tall meadow, Essätha took hold of both. Fingers fumbling for an arrow, trying to hook it on the thread as she stood and turned-

The vulture was no longer there.

The arrow; improperly set against the bow and the line, tilted to the side.

“What do you think you doing?!”

Another yelp, and Essie released the string.

The arrow fell on the ground directly in front of her.

She turned, awe and fear written on her features to stare up at the vulture as it landed with ease on the rocky surface behind her. Massive wings snapped open and closed as it balanced before finally settling in place. Arms crossed; a look of disapproval set in judgmental golden eyes as wings neatly folded against the beast’s backside.

“Ignorant child,” the bird screeched; it’s pitch high with anger but tone suggesting masculinity. “That’s not proper arrow nock!”

Her mouth dropped open, not with humiliation, but with dumbfounded shock.

The bird-man reached across the space between them to grab hold of the wrapped riser area of the bow. It took him no effort to yank it out of Essie’s numb, loose fingers.

“Y-You’re making fun of how I notch an arrow, and not the fact I was going to shoot you with it?” she gasped, pressing a hand to her chest with alarm.

She was talking to a bird. A large, scavenging bird. An intelligent, mocking bird who spoke the common tongue. A bird who was correcting her stance in holding a weapon.

That made a lot of sense.

The vulture opened his mouth as he exhaled sharply. It was the closest thing to a snort Essie could imagine. It caught off guard by by the foul stench from it’s mouth and her gag reflex activated at the smell of death wafting from the creature’s maw.

“You would missed,” the vulture informed her smugly. “If you not nock arrow, you miss.”

“Wait wait wait,” she wheezed, taking a step back to keep from breathing in the reek of rot and avoid any blood from splattering on her. “You can talk? You understand what I’m saying? You know about how to fire a bow?”

Insulted, the bird furled out his wings once more, giving a screech directly into her face as she cringed away from him. The stench of decomposition had her learning backwards, swallowing back the urge to hurl.

“I certainly do, child!” he snapped angrily. “And what of you, nosy terror? You have scales, but you no dragon. I’ve seen them. You do not carry blood of ancestors from mine home.”

“That’s none of your business!”

“Then why is my ability to speak and understand concern of yours?”

Essätha recoiled from the furious glare of the bird-man. Though his face lacked the muscles and facial cues to really look any other way then intimidating.

Satisfied with her silence, the vulture ruffled his feathers so they lay flat once more. Wings neatly tucked, his three digits; one opposable thumb to three fingers really, reaching out to her. They curled, an indication to give the quiver that hung from her arm by the sling.

With her mouth gaping, then closing, she finally connected two and two together. The sling released, and offered out to the bird-man in front of her.

He took it with an irked noise, slinging it over his shoulder.

Tilting her head towards the carcass, Essie spoke quietly: “Is that… your kill?”

“No,” the bird clicked. “A free meal in passing. A missed opportunity not to take it.”

Oh, that made her stomach even queasier.

Cocking his head in curious gestures in return, the bearded scavenger regarded her. His expression showed fascination; a far cry from her anxiety and uncertainty in this strange interaction.

“What is child doing out in the Emercour wilds?”

“I’m no child,” she defended with annoyance.

“You are no Aarakocra, but I am no stupid. Human age are very reliable placed on face,” the bird stated, gesturing to her features. “Your face says youth. A child.”

“Well in my species, I am an adult, and I demand you treat me as such.”

The look the vulture gave her said he seriously doubted she was an adult. Nevertheless, he gave a crowing sound of exasperation and nothing more.

It vexed her, but she really had no room to argue. At a mere twenty-one, she was only just barely cusping adulthood. Not many people looked at her with full respect. Even without bringing up age, just existing as she was made her distrustful to those who knew. And to those that didn’t, well, it all depended on the lie and the willingness of a person to believe said lie.

She picked up on the one interesting word though that the feathered folk stated: “Aarakocra?”

The beady eyes blinked rapidly.

“Yes?” he responded quizzically. “It is mine species. I have traveled here from ways. Some dragons roam free in the mountains and crevices. Rough terrain. People- humans find unfitting. It is where earth meets sky, in the Seaside Mesacliffs. Your speech, not mine. We call it else-names among Aarakocra.”

How intriguing. How confusing. Essätha found his speech pattern easy enough to follow, but they clearly showed some strain. However this bird-man learned common; he was well aware of himself, but didn’t always flow his sentences in the way most natural forms. Stiff and rigid words, blunt and to the point responses.

Seaside Mesacliffs? The name meant nothing to her. She wondered if it was even on the content they resided on, or if it was some other, smaller island.

“What is human doing with not-dragon scales?” the vulture inquired, waving a hand at her.

“That’s none of your business.”

“Fair question. I answered your one. You try also to fire at me.”

“You said yourself, I couldn’t have possibly hit you! I wasn’t holding the bow properly!”

The Aarakocra shrugged. “Fine then. I take it back. Pleasant meetings, girl.”

“I have a name,” she growled angrily, stomping a foot down.

“Girl has a name,” the bird mused, already turning away as his wings snapped out. “So does I. But girl did not ask.”

“Well, what is your name then?”

Was it satisfaction glinting from his eyes? The pull of his beak a bit sharper, like he was trying to smile.

“You call me ‘Kraw’. It is fine”

Essätha shook her head with disbelief. That sounded like the sound birds made. That was no name!

“You just made that up!”

“No!” Kraw insisted angrily. “Made up some time ago! Easier for humans tongue than-”

He let out a screech so terrifying and loud that Essie was forced to slap her hands over her ears to stop the penetrating, ringing cry from busting her eardrums.

“Your real name is lovely,” she rasped, looking up through squinted eyes of pain.

Kraw didn’t seem to acknowledge the sarcasm in her tone. He nodded vigorously. An honorable stance; his head held high and arms pinned to his sides like a solider.

“A girls name?” the bird pressed, intrigued.

Looking to the side and back again, she let out a single, quiet sigh.

“Essätha.”

“A fine name too.”

They stood there. A tense silence, with Essätha reaching up to wipe sweat from her brow.

“Essa’ is hot?” he questioned curiously. “Does not dirt bath?”

“No, I prefer water baths,” she stated with a slight smile. A nice, cool bath would be lovely about now...

Giving a sage nod, the bird-man gave a flick of his digits to her.

“Follow,” Kraw stated gruffly. “I will show you shelter. Mine shelter. Take time out of the heat.”

The Aarakocra took flight. A few flap of his wings, and he was steadily airborne. Flying higher and higher, until he could catch a faint breeze to help him glide as he circled around like, well, like a vulture.

He was clearly waiting for her.

Seeing no better or worse option at the moment, Essätha decided to go with him. Trailing sluggishly on the ground, her steps dragging, as the bearded bird-man lead her down the hill.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It turned out Kraw had created a tipi all by himself on a flat terrain in a valley bridged between grasslands and rockier mountains. There were trees nearby to cast shade for at least half of the day from the position he took root. He claimed there was a small lake nearby, but the route they’d taken had lead anywhere near such a location.

No high winds would likely tunnel and blow down the wood and tarp created structure. It looked stable, and going inside proved cool with the cone funneling out heat.

She learned Kraw was a scholar. He spoke high of his flock; of their schools and principals. They were civilized, culture beings. It marveled her into fascination to listen to his stories. Flying high in the clouds, soaring above the world. Learning how to hunt, to trap, to kill. Teaching the stories of their ancestors; about religion, about the dragons and what they knew of the world outside of the clouds and sun and the land that was their sanctuary.

“But I never settle,” he’d said a bit sadly. “Never. Learned much. Grew old, but never bothered to nest. Only wanted to see the world. So one day left; found myself flying far from home.”

From there, he acknowledged how he’d entered into a prestigious institute. The master’s were so amazed by his eagerness to learn and commitment, even with his knowledge only so-so and with a language barrier, they accepted him. Teaching him the common tongue a challenge. Learning of him as he did them. How there were humans and elves there; some dwarves and dragonborn.

“Even met lizardfolk once,” Kraw stated with awe. “Very pleasant.”

“What kind of things did you learn there?” she asked; more out of politeness than intrigue.

The sun dropped lower and lower into the sky the more he spoke. Explaining his deep interest in history; telling her tales that didn’t always cling to her mind but she nodded nevertheless. He was boisterous and appeared quite happy to share what he knew of the world and people. Things she never would have imagined or placed a bet on. Individuals long since gone from races and places she never dreamed or heard of.

She discovered Kraw was old. Quite old, really.

“I’m pretty sure no vulture lives more than twenty, thirty years maybe,” she remarked with skeptisim.

“Aarakocra are not just bird,” he stated pointedly. “We birdfolk. Birdmen. Our lives meet most humans. Ending in eighties, sometimes later.”

A sixty-eight year old, weathered bird-man, still on a journey of discovery. She was amazed, and a bit envious. He had goals. Priorities. So much to say and mule over as he followed dreams and curiosities to the end of the world and back.

As the cool air of night began to drift in, she nodded tiredly to his stories. Her thoughts drifting; finding it harder and harder to stay awake. She needed… she needed to get moving, yes-

“You is tired,” Kraw stated with alarm, standing suddenly.

Her voice slurred as she responded, “Only a little. S’been an exhausting day walking…”

She came to, her eyes opening and closing only to close again as a blanket was dropped over her shoulders.

“Take rest,” advised the old bird, placing laying layers of furs down beside her. “Tomorrow will be better.”

The phrase struck Essätha as ominous. She shivered, leaning down into the makeshift earthen bed with her hand reaching out. Groping, trying to find her bag. She couldn’t just lay there undefended, what if something happened?

Her eyes slipped closed, a drowsy sigh as she fell asleep.

Shaking his head, Kraw clicked his tongue down to the outstretched girl taking up half of his tipi.

“Just a child,” he grumbled to himself.

A helpless, thin, lost little child.

He could do something about that.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Why did I ever agree to this stupid task!”

“Because a girl needs it. Essa’ knows this.”

Her hand trembled. Trying to hold the arrow steady. Pulling it to the anchor point on her chin. Exhaling deeply as the string was pulled tighter and tighter; drawing it further back. Her arm aching to hold it there, her other fingers curled to white knuckles against the rest.

She released.

The arrow only limply dropped a few feet away.

“This is impossible!” she cried, frustrated tears in her eyes.

The bow was yanked from her arm. She only had a moment to gasp, before the wooden edge was thunked upside her head, making her tears fall as she wailed with pain.

“Impatient!” Kraw sneered. “Try again.”

“I don’t want to!” she hiccuped, mouth trembling.

He raised the weapon in the air once more.

“Ssstrike me again, and I’ll end you!” she threatened, iridescent lines etching against her face. “I’ll leave!”

They remained there. Posed in equally threatening stances; a fist in the air to a bow.

“You need this,” he pointed out roughly, this time holding out the bow. “Magic not solve all problems. Death will not always save you.”

His words sent chills down her spine.

She didn’t dare ask if he meant dark magic, or something… more sinister.

With tears still trailing down her cheeks, she reached out to accept the bow once more.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Kraw, are you drinking again?”

“Ayyyee no! No stop that! Ye’in can’t take mine! Mine bottle! Foolish girl! This only good thing humans’s make!”

She sighed, raising her hands in the air with submission as the bearded vulture held a dagger threateningly in her direction.

“You shouldn’t drink so much,” she countered sadly. “It’s not good for your health; especially someone your age.”

“M’drinkin is fine!”

“Do you drink because you’re lonely?” she asked, a whisper while staring up to the sky with understanding to her own words. “Do you drink because it hurts?”

No answer.

After a moment, eerily somber, the ranger bird-man pushed himself to his feet. His talons scrapping against the dirt mound free of grass around their fire as he shuffled away, into the late twilight darkness.

Her worried, light brown eyes looked from him back to the stars.

She never would get a real answer to that question.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“I don’t want to do this-”

“Quick! Longer struggle, the more pain.”

She plunged the dagger into the juggler of the rabbit, watching it twitch once more before falling dead with the thread still knotted around it’s leg where it had been captured by the trap Kraw forced her to set up earlier.

Essätha dropped the blade, and placed her bloody hands over her face as she wept.

“I hate you!” she sobbed. “I told you I didn’t want to do this-”

A hand gripped her shoulder. Pulling her, until she rested against Kraw’s side. Her fist coming up, weakly striking his armor plating as she cried. Ugly, blubbering tears falling down her face, snot running down her face.

“A girl learns well,” he soothed, ignoring her attempts to physically harm him to stroke her shoulder. “Essa’ grows stronger. You hurt, but now have substance.”

“I could have done it another way!”

“Sometimes, better to see eyes. Payment. A life ends, a life continues. Not everyone lives, Essätha-child. You can not make all live. You must survive.”

“Why do I have magic if I can’t use it! Why can’t I-”

The arm around her shoulder slipped to her back. Pulling her closer, hugging her with one arm against the thick armor and fuzz of soft but dirty feathers to her face.

“Trust. You will need this some day.”

Everything he said was always so cryptic and threatening. It didn’t help her feel better; it didn’t stop her from sobbing against his chest like a pathetic, weak child as he called her. As she was. Spineless and afraid.

She hated that he made her skin that poor thing.

She hated that he forced her to eat it.

She hated him.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

A shriek awoke her from her sunbathing nap. Uncoiling from the folds of her serpentine frame, Essätha let out a hiss as talons came down upon her.

Nails hooked painfully into her side, drawing blood.

“Kraw!” she screamed, agonizing pain rippling through her as she reached out to grab his leg.

The vulture didn’t seem to hear her. Squawking, he tried to lift her from the ground.

Hissing, her hood folding open fully, she struck out at his leg.

He cried out, releasing her and amazingly, dropping her to the ground a good two feet.

The old man tried to flap his wings to go higher, but fell in a crumpled heap on the ground instead.

Wincing, Essätha placed a hand to her bloody side as she slithered over, tongue darting in and out sadly.

“You’re drunk again, aren’t you?”

A crooked beaked smile; or attempt to one, was offered up at her.

“Large snake! Sounds just like Essätha.”

“You know it’sss me, Essätha, Kraw. We’ve been over this. You sssaid how it makes us closer being more animal like, but alssso mortal enemies becaussse of our species.”

Lolling his head from side to side, Kraw sighed. His eyes closing, a tired groan escaping him.

She waited for a response, but all she got was snoring.

Relenting a sigh, Essie reached down to half pick up half drag the old fellow back to the tipi. He needed rest and water to recover from the hangover he was sure to have.

Oh, and food. This wasn’t the first time he mistook her for a snack in his drunken stupor. Better make sure he was fed so it wouldn’t happen again. Hopefully.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The arrow shot true, taking the deer down in a single, well placed hit.

Essätha smiled to herself. A bit of her fangs peering out as she turned her head, looking up to the sky as the beating of heavy wings caught up to her.

Kraw lowered himself down beside her. The impression of a grin on his face, his clawed fingers resting against her shoulder.

His eyes glimmered. A deep well of pride and satisfaction. Giving her a nod of approval, and a gesturing tilt of her head for her to go collect her trophy.

She bounded along the small treeline, still grinning to herself.

She no longer hated archery.

She no longer despised Kraw.

Patience. All she needed was a little patience, time, and the willingness to learn.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“How does one keep fire during rain?”

“Avoid digging a pit for your fire so rainwater doesn’t collect and put it out; keep your wood dry and peel off damp bark before use. Pine and needles are better for kindling and to keep a flame as the sap is highly flammable. Keep your fire tight; the looser your build, the more susceptible to it burning out.”

“How best find water?”

“Listen for water. Search for plants known to live close to water. Keep an eye out for bees and birds; especially finches, as they crowd water sources. Listen for frogs, as they live and breed near water sources.”

“Good examples,” Kraw praised, reaching out to pat her head.

Essätha beamed from ear to ear.

“Always remember Essa’; knowledge is power. We learn, we store information. Keep safe in your head. Learn every day. Grow.”

She nodded her head slowly in response, drinking in the older gentlebird’s words. There was no guarantee she’d be the wisest, or the most intelligent, or even spend time to search out the answer to all the history and questions in the world. She wasn’t like Kraw. Those things didn’t appeal to her.

But she understood that the comprehension of the world and all that dwelled in it to some degree was a power all it’s own. And like any fine-tuned weapon she owned or trained, that too would be something she would need to feed.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

She was no match for him.

His fist knocked the wind out of her. She moved to counter-strike, but he was already pivoting away from her to avoid the blow.

Another jab. Not quite as forceful this time. He was regretting hurting her by mistake now and was just pitying her with these weak blows.

Essätha snapped her leg up and missed entirely as Kraw took to flight.

“That’s no fair!” she panted, wavering on her feet.

“I know!” he cawed with laughter. “Not all enemies fight fair!”

Her eyes narrowed into slits. Reaching down to her belt, she brandished a dagger as Kraw landed. That big, feathery asshole looking proud of himself. Adjusting his armor, fixing the posture of his wings so they laid perfectly to his back-

She flung her knife.

Kraw’s shoulders jerked up. His head turning, looking slowly to the blade wobbling in the trunk of the tree beside his head.

“You was aiming for tree, right?!” he screeched, rounding on her with wide eyes. “Yes?!”

A devious smirk played out against her face.

“Let’s just say, if I had wanted that blade in your head, it would have landed.”

The look of horror on his face turned to delight and pride.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

She gave a whistle, waving her arm out in the air as the rider circled her. Their steed giving unpleasant snorts as they approached, almost as though it sensed something inside of her. A danger; a coiled snake ready to spring.

Fixing the sling of her bag, Essätha offered a polite smile to the young man traveling the road. His eyes curious, boring into her.

“Hello~” she sang, offering a gentle smile. “You wouldn’t mind helping a lady out with a ride, would ya?”

He looked her up and down, swallowing. A distinct look of wanting in his gaze.

“A’ight.”

It took the horse more convincing than the man to give her a ride, but he managed to put her things in one of the large saddle bags. Her hands around his waist mischievously, hearing him breathing almost as loud as the racehorse as hooves ate up the distance quickly down the flattened earthen road. The wind blowing in her hair, the freedom, her eyes wild and grin crazy. Filled with adrenaline; fueled with excitement.

She turned her head back once. A bit unsure, a bit apologetic. Looking off in the faded hills that jutted out behind her and faded more and more behind trees and distance.

He would be okay. She had everything she needed with her right now, and a whole new range of talents to put to use out there.

After all, she was Essätha. Never one to settle.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

His territory was empty. Looking high nor low proved any visuals of his Essätha-child.

In his sorrows, Kraw drank alone that night. Angry, hurt, vexed.

He had not been done teaching her.

What would the world do to that poor, broken, fragile child?

With a shudder, he continued on drinking until he passed out by the faded embers of his fire.

#eci artz #Essie rw

3 notes · View notes

francetaste · 6 years ago

Text

It’s entirely possible to vacation in France without a car. High-speed trains connect the big cities as fast as planes, and even the slower trains are faster than going by car. And inside any big city, a car is more of a hassle than anything—parking is nigh impossible.

A car is useful only if you want to get out into the countryside, for example, to go from village to village, or to get out into the garrigue. Even if you plan to bike, it’s important to know the rules of the road, which aren’t at all like in the U.S.

Priority to the car on the right. Be careful!

Possibly the most important, or the thing the least like the U.S. is priorité à droite. When in doubt, priority is to the car on the right. There are no four-way stops. A triangular sign (point up), bordered in red, with a black X means at the next intersection, you have to stop for any cars coming from the right. Look out; sometimes the next intersection is with an alley you barely see, and the locals will plow right into you because they know they have the right of way. In case of an accident, fault is easy to determine—the car dented on its right side is wrong.

This intersection has both a stop line and a stop sign…rare.

The French hate stop signs. Instead, they paint a heavy white line at intersections where you are supposed to stop. So you have to watch the pavement as well as the signs.

A dashed line across the road means yield. (Actually, they often interpret it as ‘I see a car coming, so I’m gunning it to cut in front.’ So you’ll probably have to slam on the brakes a lot.) It can be a dashed line instead of a solid stop line like above, which basically means you can do a rolling stop. Or it can be where you merge into traffic.

Arrows mean the passing lane is near the end.

As in the U.S., a dashed center line means you can pass and a solid line means no passing. Sometimes, they have a solid line where there is a long sight line, just because the road curves a bit. And sometimes, they have a dashed line where you can’t see oncoming cars. Lesson: just because it’s a dashed line, it doesn’t mean it’s a good idea to pass. And beware of passing stuff like tractors and bikes where there’s a solid line because you can get a ticket if a cop sees you. Also: they put curved arrows when the dotted lines are about to end, meaning it’s too late to start to pass.

Speaking of cops, they rarely pull you over. Instead, they sit in their cars or hide in the bushes with radars that take a picture of you speeding by. The picture is mailed to you (or to the car rental place, which will then just bill your credit card). No sweet-talking your way out of it. With special binoculars, they can get you from over a kilometer away. They do have traffic stops, where they check every car or every fourth car or whatever, to check for drunk drivers. They are strict: the limit is 0.5, which is about one glass of wine. When you go to wine country, you’re going to need a designated driver (called le capitain). The French are very sharp at spying cops in hiding and will flash their headlights when there’s a speed trap or traffic stop ahead (or for other reasons, like an accident, or a mess on the road—whatever the reason, it’s best to slow down).

There are radar signs on the highways, which indicate a fixed radar lurks ahead. They, too, take pictures of speeders.

Speed limits, unless indicated otherwise are (in kilometers per hour):

50 in towns of any size—as soon as you get to the sign that marks the town limit, you have to slow down to 50. Watch out, because there could be signs limiting the speed further, like to 30.

Leaving the city limit (it’s not a “no Carassonne” sign)

80 out of town on any road (tiny track between vineyards, county road, national highway). Sometimes the speed will be limited to 70, but that will be indicated with a sign. Beware: the speed limit changed July 1 to 80 kph from 90.

110 where indicated on national highways that have two lanes in each direction, divided by a median (just because you have two lanes doesn’t automatically mean you can go faster).

130 on autoroutes, except when it’s raining and then it’s 110 (and yes, they do check).

A triangular road sign with a heavy black arrow, intersected by a thinner line means a crossroads is ahead.

A diamond-shaped yellow sign bordered in white means you have priority. Same sign with a black line through it means you no longer have priority (so look out for the black X or the arrow with a line through it, which warns you of intersections where you don’t have priority…but they don’t always mark these intersections).

A circular sign bordered in red with a white center means cars aren’t allowed. Not the same as a do not enter sign, where you would simply be going the wrong way on a one-way street.

A triangular sign with three curving arrows making a circle means slow down for a roundabout ahead.

Céder le passage = yield. Usually with a triangular sign, white bordered in red, with the point down.

A sign with a red circle and a red car on the left and a black car on the right means no passing.

A blue sign with arrows pointing up and down, with one in black (or white) and the other in white (or red) means the road is narrow and the car in the direction of the bigger arrow has right of way.

A round sign with a blue center and a red border with a red line through it means no parking. The sign on the right, above, means you need one of those little hour-cards that you can buy at a bureau de tabac. You set the time you arrived. Same sign with an X means no stopping.

A round sign with a black line through means end of something. A sign like that with the number 70, for example, means end of the 70 kph speed zone, i.e., 80 kph.

A square blue sign with a P means parking. If it has a little meter in the corner, it means you have to find the meter (someplace on the street, it might be two blocks away) and pay and put the ticket on your dashboard so the meter readers can see it.

A square blue sign with a kind of a T, where the T is in red, means dead end.

Signs for highways with the city names on green backgrounds mean they are free highways.

The same kinds of signs with blue backgrounds mean tollroads.

The same town signs on white background mean departmental roads.

Roads are numbered like this:

D123 (I’m making up numbers here) with yellow background means a departmental road. Like a county road. Small, lots of stops. Usually, the bigger the number the smaller the road.

N123 with a red background is a national highway. Can be 1, 2 or 3 digits.

A12 with a red background is an autoroute, usually toll, but some stretches may be free. (1 or 2 digits)

E3 with a red background is a European highway. This just means you can follow the same road across borders and perhaps not get lost because the national numbering systems aren’t the same. (1 or 2 digits)

Sortie means exit. The exit signs are an oval with the autoroute sign (two parallel lines converging in perspective) and a little arrow coming out of the right line, along with the number of the exit.

A kind of double white X on a blue background, with the points of the X connected to each other by curved lines, means a junction of two autoroutes.

At the tollbooths, do not go in the ones marked with a T (usually an orange T). Those are for people who have the RFID tags, like EZ Pass. A blue or white sign that says CB means credit cards (Cartes Bancaires). A green sign, usually with a kind of outline of a person in profile leaning out a window, or with a bunch of circles (for coins), means you can pay in cash, to an attendant.

A curved arrow painted on the ground means merge in the direction of the arrow. So if you’re getting onto the highway, it’ll point to the left, meaning the entry ramp is ending and you need to move over. Or if three lanes turn into two, it’ll point to the right, meaning the left lane is about to disappear. Sometimes these turn up where there’s road construction.

Aire = rest stop. Watch out: some have gas/food and some are just with toilets and picnic tables. They are marked.

I love those exclamation points.

Péage = toll.

Rocade = peripherique = ring road that goes around the town.

Sortie de camions = truck exit/entrance (caution for slow trucks)

Piétons = pedestrians

Attention! Nids de poules en formation = beware! Hens’ nests (potholes) forming. This is on the road to Carcassonne and I giggle every time I see it. The road has been repaved and now is as smooth as a baby’s bottom, but the sign remains.

My favorite, though, is the top sign, which reminds me of “PeeWee’s Big Adventure,” where PeeWee is in the truck with Large Marge.

I just don’t have time today to write. This is a repost of one of my earliest entries, updated with the new speed limit. I hope it’s useful.

I am up to my ears in baking. We are having a gigantic party this weekend. I’ll give the rundown next week. This is not the moment to bake–it’s the canicule–heat wave, and yes, related to canine, but it’s because of a constellation, Big Dog, whose brightest star, Sirius, rises and sets with the sun during the hottest part of the year). We have mostly been spared–highs around 34 Celsius, or 93 Fahrenheit, but that’s hot enough when you don’t have air conditioning.

Any driving tips to add? Questions? How are you dealing with the heat? Bon weekend!

Driving in France It’s entirely possible to vacation in France without a car. High-speed trains connect the big cities as fast as planes, and even the slower trains are faster than going by car.

#Driving in France #France #road trip #South of France #travel #travel advice

0 notes

peachteahoneybee · 7 years ago

Text

Apparel Logos We Love and Why They Work So Well

With so many clothing brands saturating the apparel market, having a well-designed logo is more important than ever. In addition to helping your brand stand out, a logo tells your brand story and creates a memorable, emotional connection with current and future customers.

To learn what makes a logo effective, read the stories these clothing and apparel logos have to tell.

Haspel

Originally known for its lightweight, seersucker suits, Haspel makes menswear inspired by class and tradition. The brand has been making a mark in the world of men’s suits since 1909, and continues to grow. Haspel’s logo pays homage to its tradition with an art-deco font, much like the text that graced theaters and speakeasy menus in early 20th century America. In cerulean blue, the logo also represents the blue skies and waters of New Orleans, where it was founded.

Shift to Nature

Shift to Nature is an Australian company that sources organic, non-toxic materials for its apparel and home goods offerings. Bamboo, hemp and recycled materials take center stage in Shift to Nature’s clothing, proving the feasibility of eco-friendly slow fashion. This brand’s cross hatch logo represents the interwoven elements of people, nature and the clothes we wear and discard. The multiple shades of purple used in the logo design represent calm, luxury and safety all at once.

Fresh Brewed Tees

This Cleveland-themed apparel company is an Ohio resident’s go-to spot for clothing that boasts hometown pride. The Fresh Brewed Tees italic logo is straightforward, memorable and reminiscent of a local baseball rec league. While it seems basic at first, the no-fuss black and white text logo actually has a deeper strategy: it can be easily transferred to different colors.

This allows Fresh Brewed Tees to switch up its logo’s color scheme in light of certain sporting events or other local occasions. This customization helps cater to its customers and is especially effective for social media.

YSTR

YSTR is an up and coming fashion brand that’s fighting fast fashion through ethically-made subscription clothing delivery. Customers can sign up for one of three tiers and have a box of eco-friendly, fashionable clothes sent to their house each month. The YSTR logo features bold, capitalized text that stands out and is easy to remember. The large lettering also reinforces the fact that the company has an unapologetic mission: zero waste fashion.

Hawaiian Island Creations

Hawaiian Island Creations (HIC) began as a neighborhood Oahu surf shop in 1971. Since then, the retail company has expanded to fourteen stores across three islands. The success of HIC can be attributed to the company’s high quality gear and customer service, with a dose of aloha spirit.

This attitude is reflected in the company’s colorful logo, which depicts the ocean waves, the island and the sunshine in an ombre red circle. The transitioning red color suggests the heat of the sun and the island while symbolizing the strength, courage and passion that often go hand in hand with surfing.

Vissla

Embodying the creative, forward-thinking generation, Vissla creates swim and surf wear for the modern millennial. The artistic V of the Vissla logo symbolizes this mindset with an arrow-like shape that represents growth and innovation. Both sides of the V are joined at the point with a dot that looks like two boards nailed together. This supports the brand’s ideals of craftsmanship, quality and originality.

A-Line

A-Line is a handcrafted leather jacket company that features custom patchwork. The creator of A-Line jackets wants to redefine who wears leather jackets by swapping out classic black leather for bright colors and embroidery.

The logo represents this idea in a few ways. First, it has an extended A that suggests movement and draws the eye sideways. This is a nod to the motorcycle groups who first popularized leather jackets on the road. Second, the A is far enough from the word “Line” that it implies the idea of a departure or reinvention.

Alltimers

Alltimers is an offbeat skatewear brand that doesn’t hold back from creating bold, outlandish designs. Alltimers draws inspiration from 90’s pop culture, making it a millennial skateboarder’s best friend. The logo is a simple martini glass outline with a single olive and italic script sketched across. This combination feels much like an old bowling league or neighborhood dive bar — a reliable establishment you can trust.

Vitamin A Swim

Vitamin A Swim creates flattering women’s swimwear inspired by travel, modern art and the laid back California style. Vitamin A uses digital manufacturing techniques that conserve electricity and water, and the brand has begun creating products from recycled materials. In alignment with its sustainable values, Vitamin A’s logo shows a sideways A that doubles as an arrow in a mirror-like design. With two arrows pointing inward, Vitamin A’s logo represents reuse and continuity.

Grown & Sewn

Grown & Sewn is a USA-made brand rooted in American workmanship, heritage and culture. The Grown and Sewn logo embraces the transparency and authenticity of American-made goods, with a classic font that’s equal parts familiar, sophisticated and approachable. The dark maroon ampersand emphasizes the values of the company and contrasts against the lower case letters of grown and sewn. Finally, the asymmetrical stitch line design anchors the text and balances out the traditional serif with a homemade feel.

Horses Cut Shop

Horses Cut Shop crafts vintage-inspired T-shirts emblazoned with the logos of America’s small businesses. A portion of the proceeds from each product goes to support the business that the merchandise represents, bridging fashion with local economies.

Horses Cut Shop’s logo symbolizes its mission through vintage script and a crimson plaque, evoking the aura of old-school jean and T-shirt shops. With a simple logo design that can be printed on a shirt with ease, the logo embodies the authentic spirit of the businesses it represents.

Seea

Founded by a woman surfer, Seea is a swimwear brand specifically designed to help women surfers feel stylish, feminine and comfortable in and out of the water. The name Seea represents the musicality, beauty and enjoyment of surfing the ocean waves.

Likewise, the Seea logo assumes a dramatic curved S that embraces feminine, organic forms in a fun and approachable way. The Seea brand strikes a balance between form and function, and its scripted logo text assumes the same laid back feeling.

Hackwith Design House

Hackwith Design House strives to make each of its clothing pieces unique. Seamstresses at the Minnesota-based studio make most apparel after its been ordered, relying on a simple, clean aesthetic and quality fabrics to create items that last. Hackwith’s playful logo shows the brand’s commitment to creativity and one of kind clothing. From the off-kilter K, to the missing bar in the A, Hackwith’s logo is just the right amount of quirky without losing its sophistication.

Fair Trade Winds

Fair Trade Winds supports small scale artisans across the globe by selling their merchandise through an online platform. Fair Trade Winds prides itself on selling products crafted with traditional techniques that evoke culture and history.

The Fair Trade Winds logo features four feather-like shapes reaching out in all directions to create a compass. The four colors of the logo, yellow, red, green and blue, represent nature and diversity — things that the company’s sustainable business model protects.

NUX Active

NUX Active makes seamless activewear that’s fashionable and comfortable while providing freedom to move. NUX is rooted in the idea of mindful activewear, and their brand story promotes a lifestyle of peace, compassion and humility. The NUX logo looks similar to a moving body, with four limb-like lines reaching outward within a diamond. The effect continues even as it’s rotated, creating a 360-degree effect.

Mini Mioche

This eco-friendly, organic clothing company creates kids apparel and accessories. The Canadian company specializes in making soft basics for kids aged newborn to six years old, with each piece made from start to finish in Canada.

The Mini Mioche logo is slightly scripted yet not italicized, echoing friendliness and transparency. Mini Mioche plays off the term mini me, reinforcing the fact that it’s clothing for kids. When the logo is shortened to two Ms, the arm that joins the letters is reminiscent of two people holding hands.

Wallis Evera

Wallis Evera takes sustainable fashion to new heights by creating all-natural clothing made from hemp. The company’s goal is to spark inspiration about using hemp to reduce the fashion industry’s footprint. Wallis Evera’s logo is bright, clean and aptly shaped. The logo suggests the shape of a hemp plant while boasting clean, minimalist lines that leave room for interpretation.

The Good Company

The Good Company is a NYC-based streetwear brand that sells classic, colorful apparel. From hats and tees to long sleeve shirts and jackets, most of The Good Company’s clothing features a company logo, slogan or signature image. Its logo draws from scripts of the 70’s and 80’s, giving a classic and authentic feel. It’s also asymmetrical and mimics a hand-painted sign, solidifying the essence of community.

Images by: tookapic, Anna_Bella, Hans Braxmeier

The post Apparel Logos We Love and Why They Work So Well appeared first on CBF Labels Inc.

From the Blogger http://nasapblow.blogspot.com/2017/07/apparel-logos-we-love-and-why-they-work.html via Living Fashion

1 note · View note

cbflabelinc · 7 years ago

Text

Apparel Logos We Love and Why They Work So Well

To learn what makes a logo effective, read the stories these clothing and apparel logos have to tell.

Haspel

Shift to Nature

Fresh Brewed Tees

YSTR

Hawaiian Island Creations

Vissla

A-Line

Alltimers

Vitamin A Swim

Grown & Sewn

Horses Cut Shop

Seea

Hackwith Design House

Fair Trade Winds

NUX Active

Mini Mioche

Wallis Evera

The Good Company

Images by: tookapic, Anna_Bella, Hans Braxmeier

The post Apparel Logos We Love and Why They Work So Well appeared first on CBF Labels Inc.

from CBF Labels Inc https://www.cbflabel.com/apparel-logos/

#IFTTT #CBF Labels Inc

0 notes

jamikaheffner · 7 years ago

Text

Apparel Logos We Love and Why They Work So Well

To learn what makes a logo effective, read the stories these clothing and apparel logos have to tell.

Haspel

Shift to Nature

Fresh Brewed Tees

YSTR

Hawaiian Island Creations

Vissla

A-Line

Alltimers

Vitamin A Swim

Grown & Sewn

Horses Cut Shop

Seea

Hackwith Design House

Fair Trade Winds

NUX Active

Mini Mioche

Wallis Evera

The Good Company

Images by: tookapic, Anna_Bella, Hans Braxmeier

The post Apparel Logos We Love and Why They Work So Well appeared first on CBF Labels Inc.

from John Harison's wayhttps://geometricallyspocking.tumblr.com/post/163407604090

0 notes

geometricallyspocking · 7 years ago

Text

Apparel Logos We Love and Why They Work So Well

To learn what makes a logo effective, read the stories these clothing and apparel logos have to tell.

Haspel

Shift to Nature

Fresh Brewed Tees

YSTR

Hawaiian Island Creations

Vissla

A-Line

Alltimers

Vitamin A Swim

Grown & Sewn

Horses Cut Shop

Seea

Hackwith Design House

Fair Trade Winds

NUX Active

Mini Mioche

Wallis Evera

The Good Company

Images by: tookapic, Anna_Bella, Hans Braxmeier

The post Apparel Logos We Love and Why They Work So Well appeared first on CBF Labels Inc.

#CBF Labels

0 notes

customcbflabels · 7 years ago

Text

Apparel Logos We Love and Why They Work So Well

To learn what makes a logo effective, read the stories these clothing and apparel logos have to tell.

Haspel

Shift to Nature

Fresh Brewed Tees

YSTR

Hawaiian Island Creations

Vissla

A-Line

Alltimers

Vitamin A Swim

Grown & Sewn

Horses Cut Shop

Seea

Hackwith Design House

Fair Trade Winds

NUX Active

Mini Mioche

Wallis Evera

The Good Company

Images by: tookapic, Anna_Bella, Hans Braxmeier

The post Apparel Logos We Love and Why They Work So Well appeared first on CBF Labels Inc.

0 notes