#pylon with decorations

[rabbitcruiser]

Vancouver Seawall (No. 2)

The Burrard Street Bridge (sometimes referred to as the Burrard Bridge) is a four-lane, Art Deco style, steel truss bridge constructed in 1930–1932 in Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada. The high, five part bridge on four piers spans False Creek, connecting downtown Vancouver with Kitsilano via connections to Burrard Street (formerly Cedar Street south of False Creek) on both ends. It is one of three bridges crossing False Creek. The other two bridges are the Granville Bridge, three blocks or 0.5 km (0.31 mi) to the southeast, and the Cambie Street Bridge, about 11 blocks or 2 km (1.2 mi) to the east. In addition to the vehicle deck, the Burrard Bridge has 2.6 m (8 ft 6 in) wide sidewalks and a dedicated cycling lanes on both sides.

The architect of the Burrard Street Bridge was George Lister Thornton Sharp, the engineer John R. Grant. The bridge's two close approach spans are Warren trusses placed below deck level, while its central span is a Pratt truss placed above deck level to allow greater clearance height for ships passing underneath. The central truss is hidden when crossing the bridge in either direction by vertical extensions of the bridge's masonry piers into imposing concrete towers, connected by overhead galleries, which are embellished with architectural and sculptural details that create a torch-like entrance of pylons. Busts of Captain George Vancouver and Sir Harry Burrard-Neale in ship prows��jut from the bridge's superstructure (a V under Vancouver's bust, a B under Burrard's).

Unifying the long approaches and the distinctive central span are heavy concrete railings, originally topped with decorative street lamps. These pierced handrails were designed as a kind of visual shutter (stroboscopic effect), so that at a speed of 50 km/h motorists would see through them with an uninterrupted view of the harbour. The effect works at speeds from about 40 to 64 km/h.

Source: Wikipedia

[wifihunters]

There's something to be said for the strangeness of therapy and understanding not only why you do things, but why certain things make you feel like Death for no reason and sometimes why other people do things as well.

And its all well and good except its... tiring.

You go, you pay, you scoop out the seeds and flesh with a blunt spoon until you hit the rind, and then you sit there across from a sad, kind professional while the two of you try to sort out how to put it back together.

And no one thanks you for it outright. Your mom calls and you actually pick up for the first time in a month and she says you sound clearer. Your brother has nothing to say about the amphetamines in your bag because he knows something changed enough that he says an "I love you" at the end of a visit and gets one back. Your wife pulls you back to reality and you find affection and touch tolerable enough to do the same for her the week after without your skin crawling.

But then you start to feel muscles pull and things strain. Anger comes (real anger, not snapped frustration, not survival fighting, but deep, indignant flares) and it fires like an engine left to coagulate for years. It feels like an unwieldy hammer too large to control and too easy to swing all at once. You're afraid to pick it up. You're more afraid to have it taken away again.

So you start to demolish your own foundation. You find the rotten pylons holding up your childhood and leave them in the mud. You cannot move them now, only balance new beams better than your parents did.

Then the hardest room is next. The cozy sitting room with the day bed you kept open all hours and days for anyone to rest on, it goes down with the rotten floor. You never knew the mold had reached out here--you thought that was hidden behind the other doors, under your own bed, not in this space. Not here in the warm light of pride, of being kind and useful, where you curled up in too small of a chair and basked, knowing you had earned love with your tired limbs and heavy eyes. You drag the day bed to the curb and apologize to everyone who knocks. The new floor is bare and cold, the silence echoes in the empty room, but you start to ponder what color paint you might like to decorate yourself in. The roller is lighter than you expected. Maybe the bedroom deserves a coat.

And you brace for some pushback. Not everyone likes the color. Someone else compliments the new couch (only a couch now, an overnight bed for the cats and no one else) and someone else asks why you took the old one to the dump without telling them first. Some of them leave. Some of them put a crack in your newly painted drywall as they do. Others stay, asking if movie night is still on. You wipe your eyes and sweep the dust and ask if they'd like a drink before starting. The foundation shivers, but the walls remain.

Its mundane and earth-shattering and boring and the most terrifying all at once. No one will stop you from quitting. Healing is voluntary and the easiest responsibility on a long list to drop, and yet now that the mold is gone you understand, maybe, what it might be like to even want a home in your own mind and skin. Not a hotel, carefully crafted with beige walls and fluffed pillows, but a home.

[telleroftime]

Bloom ||| Bowser x Reader

You're on a walk with Bowser in the woods of the Mushroom Kingdom when you end up falling down into a bunch of flowers.

———————————————

Pairing: Bowser x Gender Neutral ! Reader

Relationship: Romantic

Tone: Fluff

Word Count: 1.5k

Bowser Masterlist

A/N: Someone complimented my writing and that inflated my ego so it's time for more Bowser fics.

———————————————

You didn’t know how you managed to convince Bowser to allow you to tag along on one of his expeditions into what was pretty much enemy territory, nor how you managed to convince the mighty King of the Koopas to go on a walk with you through the forests south of the camp, but you wore a bright and proud smile as you wandered down the worn, muddy path.

You've been to the Mushroom Kingdom before in passing, representing the koopas in any political squabble the royals decided to partake in, but you never took the time to actually see or experience it. You heard plenty of gossip from the castle staff. They always described the beautiful nature of the land. The flora that grew thick in the forests. The streams of water that rushed faster than lava could ever hope to achieve. Not only that, but you managed to eavesdrop on some scouts' talk, whispering about an opening somewhere within the woods. It was a clearing you wanted to see with your own eyes.

And now, as you walked ahead of your lover, the landscape was greener and more lush than you were used to.

Vivid grass sprouted from every corner, peaking between berry-clad bushes and tall, brown trees, fighting over the crust of the earth. Dots of red and blue and green mushrooms were scattered across the distance of the forest. Some formed tiny visible circles, no doubt highlighting the spread of mycelium below. In some places the mushrooms grew larger, competing with the size of the trees. Those reminded you of the decorated plazas of Toad Town, where the citizens of the Mushroom Kingdom showed off the largest growths like trophies.

You also wanted to argue that it was warmer than in the area surrounding the Dark Lands. Sunlight was bright on your skin as it filtered through the leafy canopy, heat seeping through the fabric of your royal clothes like the warmth of hot sand. It was smooth and felt like nothing less of a loving hug. It was a pleasant change to the lava's heat of the molten land you were used to, and it was different to the flicker of firelight that lit the pylons leading up to Bowser's Castle. The wind was fresh, not humid at all, and the air was breathable and ash-free.

You'd say that the moment rivalled the safety of the gold-lined walls of his kingdom.

Humming to yourself, your attention turned back to Bowser when you heard him release a low grunt. You had to cover your face to hold back your chuckle.

He was swatting his large paws at two bright blue butterflies. They dodged him with ease, though each swipe of his claws caused them to be pushed into disarray. They tumbled in the air, flapping their tiny wings wildly, before they returned to their assault. When one butterfly was pushed away, the other took its place in the fight. Whenever that one was hit, the previous came back, all the while Bowser grunted and growled in annoyance. It was almost like they were teasing the large koopa who was struggling against them and, against your better judgement, you let out a snort.

Unfortunately, you didn’t get to bask in the moment for too long as the ground below your feet turned into a pillow of soft mush, causing your leg to roll and shoot a sharp pain through you and causing you to lose your balance.

In the moment that followed, you saw Bowser’s boiled gaze soften as it turned to you then widen with horror. His body bounded towards you, a sudden disregard to the butterflies, however his paws didn't quite reach you.

You tumbled down the mossy growth, rolling and falling and bouncing off the soft hill. Your eyes were tightly closed shut, your hands around your head until you let out a final oof. Your body's motion came to a stop right in the middle of rustling blooms.

You were dizzy as you unravelled yourself, a dull ache all around your body. You could taste grass on your tongue. You could feel the dirt and moss push against the palm of your hand. You could smell a variety of scents, but for a moment the most prominent one was mud.

Breathing in and slowly breathing out, shaking yourself out of your spinning head, you opened your eyes and looked around. A smile grew on your face.

You were surrounded by flowers. Hundreds of them at least.

It was the clearing.

They were growing in the pocket of light that you were lying in, white and yellow petals with golden centres staring you down as if they themselves came alive in the moment. They swayed gently in the warm breeze, performing their little enticing dance that called forth multiple insects. Bees were humming their sweet melodies and promises of honey, orange and pink butterflies were hovering like colourful fairies. None dared to entertain you.

Sitting there, your clothes spoiled with patches of green pigments, you were surprised that you didn’t sneeze. Your body wasn't used to the flora after living so long in the Dark Lands, and yet you felt not even a smidge of irritation. You didn’t want to sneeze. You didn't want to cough. Maybe it was a coincidence, or maybe it was the truth the rays of light revealed as they filtered through the large gaps in the canopy. There was little to no pollen in the air. There was no dust and no seeds. The air was completely clear.

Knocked out of your thoughts, you felt the ground shake beneath you and heard Bowser roar your name. He thudded next to you, crunching the flowers under his body, large hands cupping your significantly smaller head with such delicate tenderness that even you thought you'd break at his touch.

"Are ya hurt?" He said, a growl masked through his concern, "tell me where it hurts."

You let him squish your face for a little while, nodding in his hands every time he growled and huffed in worry. His red eyes never left your body as he scanned over you. From your face to your arms to your chest to your legs. He checked you at least three times, and after he was done, he sat back with a loud thump, his hands dropping to the sides, grumbling under his breath.

A grumbling that stopped when you blindly picked a flower, leaned up as best as you could and put it between his horn and his flame-like hair.

"White suits you," you complimented, toying with a stray strand of red that fell from the rest of the heap.

You looked into his eyes only for him to huff in return, moving his head to look away.

Your smile widened.

There was a moment of comfortable silence that passed between the two of you as you sat amongst the blooms, your hand caressing the side of his snout. You heard the buzz of pollinators, seeing a few fly close with curiosity from the corner of your eye. You could hear the birds squawk melodiously in the trees above you. A tweet here and a tweet there in tune with the rustling leaves.

Most importantly, you could hear Bowser breathing.

In and out.

In and out.

Only to pause when you leaned into his chest, your hand dropping to your lap. Now you could also hear his heart hammer in his chest. You could feel it strum and you could feel him swallow as he wrapped his large arms around you, mindful of the rough scales and the metal bracelets around his wrists. You sat like that for a moment longer.

"I'll be honest," you started, looking up at him from the safety he provided, cupping his snout in your hands again as your back rested against his chest, "I rolled my ankle when I fell. You'll have to carry me back."

You smiled, your brows furrowing before relaxing when you heard him muster a laugh. It was like a roar, though you felt the strain behind it. He didn’t want to be too loud with how close you were to him.

"How 'bout we continue with our walk?"

You felt his snout morph with his grin, Bowser being as emotived as ever. His arms moved, twitching with light anticipation, and you leaned to the side to place a soft kiss on his bicep. "Only if it's no trouble."

"If it's my consort then it's ne'er any trouble."

His arms moved then, effortlessly lifting you from the ground as he stood up. Patting himself off the flowers that stuck to his scales, he adjusted you in his grip. Carefully, he made sure you were comfortable and secure in the crook of his large arm, nuzzling into you before he trooped forward with a wide grin.

The butterflies from before had returned, fluttering around the two of you.

———————————————

Bowser Masterlist

[badbugbotblood]

Last post on this for a bit I swear, I just got these pictures of it that I think are so so beautiful

Good morning my love 🖤

[tavvles-blackundesimblr]

Prosty update instead of writing the next chapter like I should be

Added blade foot, blade mesh by a3ano_013. Unfortunately, because the mesh is set to follow sim anatomy, it deflects mediolaterally which is... not right...

Changed shoes to sensible shoes with healthy pitch.

Tweaked pylon angle so foot isn't so dorsiflexed.

Things still need doing:

Liner texture (tho not really necessary)

Decorate socket (harder than it needs to be cuz I suck at blender)

Consider changing blade from J blade to C blade so it no longer visibly distorts the space-time continuum

[brooklynmuseum]

We began work on January 28, but the highlight of this week was the January 31 visit to the site by Anne Pasternak, the Brooklyn Museum Director, and members of the Museum’s Board of Governors. We were thrilled to be able to show them the site where Brooklyn has worked for the past 40+ years. We hope they enjoyed their visit.

As promised last week, here are the members of our team. Our foreman again this year is Abdel Aziz Farouk Sharid (left). He and our inspector, Haitham Mohamed Sa’ad el-Din are discussing the season’s work. The Supreme Council of Antiquities (SCA) assigns an inspector to every expedition to act as liaison with the SCA and help facilitate the work. We are happy to have Haitham with us this season.

Besides Abdel Aziz, the Qufti who working with us this year are Abdel Aziz’s brother Ayman Farouk Sharid (center), the foreman for the Johns Hopkins University expedition who works with us when Hopkins isn’t in the field; and Mamdouh Kamil, who has worked with us for many seasons. All are from the village of Quft (ancient Coptos), which has a long tradition of archaeology going back to the late 19th century. Ayman and Abdel Aziz are the sons of one of the great Egyptian archaeologists, the late Farouk Sharid Mohamed, who was a beloved friend and treasured colleague. His sons are worthy successors to him.

You are looking northwest at the first court of Temple A, which stands northeast of the Mut Temple. We are working in two areas of the court this year. In 2019 we were able to confirm that that the row of limestone features on the court’s south side were sphinx bases. This season we want to see if there are remains of corresponding bases on the north side (right). We are also clearing the corridor between the south colonnade and the south wall of the court (left).

By the end of the week (February 2) the results in the north square were equivocal. Looking north, you can see an area of decayed limestone on the right side of the square that might be the remains of a sphinx base. On February 1, Mamdouh uncovered the round, dark feature to the left of the “sphinx base” that might be a tree hole. Sphinx avenues often had trees planted between the sculptures.

The work on the corridor was more productive. By the middle of the week Ayman had cleared a mass of broken stone and revealed the lowest course of the court’s south wall (left) and the footing of the temple’s 2nd Pylon. Both sit on a sand foundation that you can see below the blocks of stone. It was common to use sand in the foundations to level out uneven ground.

On February 1 our Dutch colleague, Jacobus (Jaap) van Dijk joined us for another season. First thing on the morning of February 2, Ayman called us over to show us an interesting find: a large relief-decorated block. Jaap immediately got down to have a look.

The block has a beautifully carved relief of Amun that clearly is Thutmoside in style, that is, from the reign of Hatshepsut and/or Thutmosis III, of the mid-15th century BC. What makes it particularly interesting is the small, shallowly carved graffito of a God’s Wife of Amun facing the Amun and dating stylistically to Dynasty 25 or 26, about 700 years after the god’s face was carved. God’s Wives of Amun were priestesses, usually the sisters or daughters of kings, who wielded great political power in the Third Intermediate Period and later.

Just west of the Amun block was smaller cube of stone with a sunk relief depiction of a man’s foot on base lines with the top of a cartouche and the “son of Re” title below. The style of the foot (very long) and the vertical element of the cartouche date it to the reign of Akhenaten. It probably came originally from his temple in East Karnak, built before the king moved the capital to Amarna. The artist paid attention to detail when painting the relief, painting the head of the goose (“son”) blue but its beak and eye red. The Brooklyn Museum has an interesting group of Amarna Period reliefs showing a pastoral scene.

By the end of the week Ayman and his crew had cleared the bases of the first 3 columns of the colonnade, working from west to east. The blocks of the bases are large: 70 cm by 125 cm and almost 100 cm thick.

We are also planning on restoring 2 fallen columns in the colonnaded porches in front of the Mut Temple. The one in the East Porch is shown here as it was found in 1979. Work hasn’t started on these yet; there will be more about the restoration next week.

One of our favorite birds is the tiny, bright bee eater, so called because it catches insects in mid-air. This is the first we’ve seen this season.

An unusual cloud formation seen at sunset one night. Angels? Extraterrestrials?

Posted by Richard Fazzini and Mary McKercher

[marcusmettalus]

(Continuation from This Post of Necron Brain-Rot)

The Khaptehm Dynasty, Faithful To The Silent King Above All

Part Two

Lord Szarekh had been married, only for a few short years together, but they were cherished years. Her name was Ma'at, and hailed from [Dynasty Name Here].

Lady Ma'at may not have held the lime light like her husband, but she helped temper his frustrations while he attempted time and time again to unify their people across the ages.

Their union did bring forth fruit, a brilliant woman in the form of Auset-Yah, which translates to "She Who Wears The Crescent Moons". Being the firstborn child of the Triarch Dynasty, Auset got all manner of education and training under the tutelage from elite scholars, Crypteks, Wardens and even directly from Her Father.

Sadly, Lady Ma'at would succumb to an unknown malady

Szarekh and Rha agreed to formally bond their Dynasties following the end of the second Secessionist Wars though it was some years before the Bio-Transference.

-

¦Esteemed Phaeron Rha of The Khaptehm Dynasty, He Who Conquered The Sun God, He Who Summons The Golden Star, My Friend. May I present to You, My Heir-Apparent and Daughter, She Who Wears The Crescent Moons, Auset-Yah.¦

\Your Majesty, an Honor to meet You and Your Dynasty.\

{Salutations/Greetings/Welcome To My Domain/World/Home Lady Auset-Yah. Your Vision/Soul/Beauty Is Without Flaw/Height/Compare. Aiat Aiat.}

\Your words are too kind, Great Phaeron Rha, but I accept them none the less. And You must be,,\

/Heir-Apparent to the Khaptehm Dynasty Throne, He To Bear The Sun Crown, Ahmun-Rha. I offer My Greetings and Soul to You Lady Auset-Yah./

\Hahahaha, please call me Auset, after all we are to be Betrothed with Dawn's First Light, no need to be so formal till then.\

-

Auset and Ahmun, Princess and Prince, Moon and Sun. Poetic is it not? The Sun brought warmth and cast aside shadows. The Moon brought tranquility and called forth secrets.

Two separate Souls, both weighted down by the mantles of leadership. One by the vastness and immeasurable warmth of a Sun, the other by the very presence of their Father's Words and the deepest of secrets.

For Heavy Is The Head That Wears The Crown.

The new Royal couple would spend most of their time together, both for their own development but also to show to the other Dynasties, that their people were stronger if properly united.

Even when The Bio-Transference was to be done, when the Great Slumber was to be started,, Ahmun-Rha and Auset-Yah went together. Even if Auset-Yah had some hesitations.

-

\,,, Ahmun?\

/Yes My Love?/

\Will it,,, \

/Will what?/

\Will it hurt? When we transfer Our Souls? Into the new bodies, that Vault thing your Father made,, any of it?\

/,,,, I do not know. All I know is that the pain of living another microsecond without you by My side will be torture, compared to spending the rest of My existance within an ageless form and with You at My Side./

-

The Vault of Eternity. A vast complex spanning for kilometers upon kilometers beneath the surface of the Crown World. Generators, Aether-Pylons, Barracks, Assembly-Plants, everything that a Phaeron would ever need to rule his Dynasty come the Awakening. Swarms of Scarabs and Automata to clean, maintain and repair the vast underground realm while the entirety of the Dynasty slept.

And while it was made to primarily house the consciousness of the Khaptehm Dynasty, it was still built to be a Palace for the living, decorated and clad in polished Blackstone and gilded contures. And as a final gift to His Son and Daughter-in-law,,

A vast array of mirrors and receptors,, so that every time the sun and moon both were at their apex, they would be projected onto the two sarcophagi which contained the sleeping couple.

What greater gift is there in the cosmos, that defies the very titans of time and causality, then Life and Love?

[ylkcheeeks]

I wonder if part of the reason that Zakuro is how she is (Doylist, not Watsonian) is on account of pomegranate > Grenada > the Catholic Monarchs

Because like, Grenada isn’t just a city that happens to be Pomegranatopolis, it’s decorated with pomegranates in all the municipal structures like pylons and whatever. And it was also where Ysabella and Ferdinand had one of their favorite palaces. And that might also lead to her being the mysterious, cultured one who speaks several languages.

[galar-ranger-magnus]

Just a little designing for some ranger base layout ideas

It’s encouraged by the base leader to decorate the doors to give the boring white halls a bit more life (that and to make them easily distinguishable in the dark)

Magnus

Yes he turned his whole ass bed around to have the headboard face his desk

My idea for the bed is that the headboard is a bit more thicker to place things on it so that’s the best I could get too while keeping the bedding simple

Anything strange can always be explained with “Miss Opal”

A little corner bed for Sterling his Sylveon including a night light

A Star plaque to commentate his ranking

Clair

She swears that she’s a law abiding Pokemon Ranger that most definitely DID NOT STEAL a pylon and road block

Her rooms a mess and contains a ton of baby items due to her Ditto (Ditzy)

The sims got rid of Clair’s bi flag when imported to a different location. Sims 4 is biphobic

[rabbitcruiser]

Vancouver Seawall (No. 3)

The Burrard Street Bridge, opened July 1, 1932, was built to provide a high-level crossing from Vancouver to the southwestern neighbourhoods in Kitsilano, by connecting Burrard Street to Cedar Street. After completion, Burrard was extended through to the base of downtown and Cedar Street disappeared.

A snip of a pair of golden scissors in the hands of Mayor Louis D. Taylor, and Vancouver's $3 million Burrard Street Bridge was opened to the public Friday afternoon, July 1 ... Hardly was the ribbon cut in front of the devouring eyes of movie cameras, then thousands of pedestrians and hundreds of cars surged across the magnificent white structure in a procession of triumph, celebrating another step in Vancouver's progress

At the opening ceremony, entertainment was provided by two bands, the Kitsilano Boy's Band and the Fireman's Band. An RCAF seaplane flew under the bridge and later a sugar replica of the bridge was unveiled at the civic reception in the Hotel Vancouver.

G.L. Thornton Sharp, of Sharp and Thompson, was the architect responsible for the distinctive towers on the bridge and its middle galleries. "Both central piers," Sharp told a reporter, "were designed and connected with an overhead gallery across the road. This helped to mask the network of steel in the truss from the two approaches, and has been treated as an entrance gateway to the city." Along their other axis, the full height of the piers above the water also serve to frame a sea entrance gateway, notably for pleasure craft: "by sea and land we prosper". The piers have provision for a rapid transit vertical lift span beneath the highway deck, never installed.

Source: Wikipedia

[ponderosus]

who: @kaede-yamada where: the reef

a bit of time has past since their conversation at the bash, and layla had focused her attention on working diligently, and generally staying out of kaede's way. conversations were minimal, surface level, not like what they used to be. standing on the second highest run of the ladder, layla reaches up in attempt to hang the faux spider web off the pylon connecting to the roof. below her was a small box of halloween decorations. "nearly done, just a few more decorations to go." layla calls out once seeing her boss come into the room.

@kaede-yamada

[etymologyofmind]

A Cultural Display

The former Cardassian space station of Terok Nor was a true marvel of engineering, though by the standards of many Federation species, its subtle and nuanced virtues might be challenging to work out. During its peaks of operations, the broad, open spaces, lacking any semblance of cover or decoration, and its narrow, terraced catwalks, would have been gated off and segmented by security checkpoints, with floor panels lit up with any number of deterrents, from gravity plating tuned too high to cross to electrified panels, either one of which could be triggered remotely by a taskmaster at the touch of a button. Where now the upper catwalk viewports showed every manner of trading ship, merchant vessel, and battle-hardened veteran cruiser on its way to refit or stopping to refuel, once they would have been angled to face the unbroken void of the upper firmament, away from the starfield of the milky way, or simply covered by blast shields. The entire station had been built with singular enterprise in mind, and every deck, from the docking pylons to the central Operations Center, had been refined and optimized to tend to the industry of indentured labor and ore processing.

Under the focused guidance of the former Cardassian military regime, it had been an emblem of power and a symbol of dominance: Orbiting a suitable world, the station could produce enough raw materials to outfit a fleet of ships, supply building materials to all corners of an empire, and fuel trade on any number of militaristic fronts. Orbiting an unsuitable world, such as Bajor, it had stood as a symbol of oppression and a reminder to the occupied people of their capital world that their occupiers would always look down on them from on high, switch in hand, as they toiled towards their own demise.

Under Federation guidance, it orbited neither, and served no such purpose, but inarguably held a yet more powerful role at the doorstep of the Temple of the Prophets, a grotesque gargoyle which defended both the gateway to the unknown and the hearth of the Alpha Quadrant, its clawed arms spread wide in welcome like a bear trap. Its new curators, the liberated people of Bajor, stood distinct from the Federation who had overseen their transition to freedom and held it as an open, independent port, enriching and being enriched by all. Gone were the traps (mostly) and unmade were the checkpoints (largely), and all signs of indenture were shrouded in gaudy uniforms and behind sample trays and drink carts, glittering with gold pressed latinum. True that it was now gilded, but for many, it remained a cage, and one sanctioned by the ancient Gods of commerce to which all bloodlines swore fealty at one time or another.

It was, by far, the best place beyond the borders of the Klingon empire to get a Raktajino. The beans were shipped to the station in secret, received through back channels, and processed locally by Kaga, one of the twelve master brewers who had been entrusted the secret of House Luwak to be carried offworld. Since it was all legal, with no actual exchange of contraband, the local authority enabled the theater of Kaga’s import process due to their affinity for his culinary mastery, and by proxy missed out on a number of small variances to the above-board manifests which were inevitable in doing business. To Kaga’s credit, these were most commonly in the form of contraband ingredients or luxury alcohols, but from time to time, something small, seemingly innocuous, and special made it through hidden in the dirt of a pallet of Gagh.

In the midst of the free flowing turmoil of what amounted to a space-bound port city merged with a holy mecca, Durok sat on one of the uncomfortable durasteel commissary chairs that littered the untenured cafeterias which were strewn haphazardly around the promenade, free for the use by any who found themselves willing to unburden onto someone else’s scarcely finished crumbs. Against all reason, he looked relatively at ease, his long boots kicked up on to a table, one arm draped over the back of the unpadded seat for balance. His free hand held a padd, casually tapping now and then to skim or scroll through contents as he whiled away some time. Every now and then, he’d balance the screen on one of his knees, take a drink of the Raktajino nearby, before returning to his apparent leisure. Despite the busy flow of people on the lower concourse, no one drifted too near him, and more than once, he deigned to ignore pointed fingers and careless whispers.

The crowd reaction was unsurprising. Durok was not a subtle presence on the frontier station, where Klingons routinely did business and spent time on leave. He knew that to anyone who had even a passing rapport with his more conventional brethren would find his appearance to be, at best, disconcerting. At worst, it would be instigatory in a way which did not bode well for him. It probably did not help that, in addition to the open-breasted Starfleet issue command jacket which slouched lazily over his shoulders, in the traditional unsleeved way he preferred to wear it, he wore a shiny silver coloured surcoat underneath made of the durable yet light weight interlocking metal tiles of Klingon light plate. And, while the non-standard epaulets of his jacket bore the Star Fleet delta insignia, a glossy black badge of the Klingon Empire glistened like a beetle across the braided sash he wore, buckling the uncommon cord-woven device together across his heart. Around it, a number of other insignia which told a story few outside the Klingon empire would understand spoke of his achievements and honours bestowed as might medals pinned to a Human uniform. The only thing more at-odds with his outfit was how well he wore it.

As Durok idled through his reading, ignoring things around him, small clusters of people began to gather, watching, waiting for the inevitable. In groups of two or three, shift workers, traders, off-duty Starfleet crew and Bajoran workers started to huddle up, occasionally visited by one of the three Ferengi who flitted about between them, taking notes on little coffin-shaped digital tools. Fitting. An alarm, pre-set on his padd, chirped at Durok as he turned a page, and he showed a sly Klingon grin beneath his smooth near-human brow, dull-coloured teeth jutting in menacing points behind handsome lips. Feigning a stretch, he glanced about at the disorganized clots forming in the traffic of people to take them in, and noted the distinct absence of two factions he did not, at this time, expect to see: Klingons, and security.

Perfect.

Idly, he returned his attention to the book on his padd, reading through an excerpt:

‘And this is my own opinion; for, where he could and should give freedom to his pen in praise of so worthy a knight, he seems to me deliberately to pass it over in silence; which is ill done and worse contrived, for it is the business and duty of historians to be exact, truthful, and wholly free from passion, and neither interest nor fear, hatred nor love, should make them swerve from the path of truth, whose mother is history, rival of time, storehouse of deeds, witness for the past, example and counsel for the present, and warning for the future. In this I know will be found all that can be desired in the pleasantest, and if it be wanting in any good quality, I maintain it is the fault of its hound of an author and not the fault of the subject’

Durok had read this passage, and this book, in a number of languages; as Human works went, it was an interesting satire, though its telling was archaic and riddles with its own biases, it told fascinating tales of romance, and fools, and of bold men charging at giants who did little more than push the wind, simply for a taste of adventure. While he was ruminating on the passage, a shadow fell across his padd, causing it to automatically adjust its backlighting to maintain a comfortable readable warmth. Yet, long before they’d blocked the light, the sound of heavy boots and sneering jackal growls had heralded the scent of blood and sour sweat couched in the questionable hygiene of armour kept clean only on the outside. It was a scene so familiar to him that it may as well have been scripted.

Tipping brown eyes up to take in the hulking form looming over him, he let the pad tip down against his belly, its screen dimming out automatically. He did not move in any other way, casually maintaining his repose as he took in the craggy-faced young Klingon who had stepped ahead of his two kinsmen to interrupt Durok’s reading. Though the newcomer would tower over him were they standing on even footing, his face was green with inexperienced, almost avaricious hunger for the conflict coming to pass, and the two who flanked him stamped and sneered at his sides. At least their leader could maintain his still stance. Durok shook his head, tipping the padd back up with a bored expression, and said:

“I did not realize that they made bulkheads so restless on this station, but truly nothing else could be so thick as to block my light.”

For a long beat, the crowd around them stilled, and the three Klingons gaped at the words he’d slung at them, such a casual, careless dismissal of their hostility. Many unfamiliar with Klingon ways, unknowing of the rites and rules of engagement which extended even, and perhaps most, to bullying, might have expected the boisterous youths to immediately stomp Durok to death for such an insult, but he had grown up among them, long enough ago to learn from the past and plan for the future, and knew that they’d glean no honour from such a move. Predictably enough, his hand shot out just in time to capture his Raktajino from the tabletop before the leader of the pack howled in outrage, stooped low enough to capture the metal frame by its edge, and heave it half way across the clearing that had formed around them. Since the table had been magnetically locked to the deck plate, the act caused a small fountain of sparks as a small power conduit in the base overloaded and shorted out, and several of the crowd in its trajectory skirted aside from where it came skidding to a halt against a bulkhead. Waiting a long moment to make his point, Durok kept his legs balanced precisely as they had been a moment before, as if the table were still holding them up, before languidly unfolding them to come up to his feet.

“I don’t pretend to understand what issue you take with my drink, Bekk,” he began, taking a deliberate gulp of the cooling coffee, “but I assure you, it is of as fine a Klingon pedigree as one will find in this sector or any other. Can you say the same?”

Gasps rose among not only the crowd, but from the two other Bekk, Klingon crewmen, at their leader’s back. Without directly coming out and saying it, Durok had simultaneously called his challenger’s courage and lineage into question in a way that, according to forms, demanded that the boy declare himself, his allegiance, and the formality by which he sought satisfaction for the insult before the conflict could move forward. If the boy attacked him now, he’d be seen as having been baited by mere words into attacking a smaller, unarmed target, who had not been subdued by more than brazen, bullheaded force. He would look the fool and dishonour his family in the same act. Furthermore, for someone so obviously not-Klingon to make such a demand from the boy was an audacity which could not, rightly, go unanswered without shame equal or worse. He would be forced to acknowledge Durok as a superior in order to press the challenge, and premise the aggression as a bid to capture the smaller man’s authority. The boy absolutely bristled with rage at the indignity of the offense.

Through grit teeth, and from a face blackened with outrage as dark as Durok’s Raktajino, the boy began to declare himself. “I,” he spat, literally, causing the smaller man to wipe flecks from his face in an exaggerated gesture, “am Kronn, son of Morogh, of house Konjah. I will not stand for some eel-faced pretender slurring insults at my honour with borrowed courage and a slanderous tongue. Take those stolen glories from your breast and fall to your knees, and perhaps I will spare you a look at your own ass when I twist your head from your neck.”

The boy reached out to paw at the field of markers on Durok’s breastplate, causing Durok to snap his hand out, viper quick, and catch the boy’s arm at the wrist. His grip was like steel, and his thumb with its pointed, tapered, fully Klingon talon of a nail, dug painfully into a cluster of nerves bundled between the cords of tendons which controlled his grip. The boy’s hand spasmed and went limp, causing him to cry out in shock, but he could not pull his arm back from the smaller man’s grasp on the first tug. The effort dug the biting nail in deeper, and wisely, the boy stopped struggling lest he seem desperate. While painful and potentially crippling, the gesture wasn’t yet an attack which could justify Kronn’s escalation of the conflict, so when one of his two fellows lurched forward to intervene, the pained youth put up an arm to push him back in line. Durok flashed a crooked smile, and spoke.

“If you are challenging me, Kronn, son of Morogh, then I should find it in my rights to assign you a more worthy adversary than myself. An un-blooded Bekk does not simply challenge a Captain and receive recognition for their foolishness, after all.” On finishing his statement, Durok released the boy’s wrist, which he took care not to cling to as he carefully lowered the throbbing arm to his side, clenching his fist for relief rather than in outrage, which he had in abundance. The other of the boy’s companions saw his opportunity to lurch forward, past Kronn’s injured arm, and throw his face directly into Durok’s unflinching gaze.

“We do not recognize your ‘rank’, Human filth. This cowardly Starfleet ploy does not entitle you to Klingon respect!” He grinned, lustily, filled with contemptuous disregard for the Game of Stags in the face of his decision that Durok was not qualified, as an apparent outsider, to play. “Perhaps I should carve ridges into your face so that you can also have a pretender’s scars?” he declared, reaching for the knife at his belt. Kronn reached out simultaneously to stop him, but it seemed neither needed have had moved, because Durok held the boy’s D'k tahg poised in such a way that it pressed against a seam in his assailant’s armour on the lower belly, but was hidden by their bodies from the accumulated crowd. None had noticed him take the weapon, and Durok’s face showed a lazy, impatient disdain as he stared the second youth down, slipping the dagger pointedly, but carefully, into the boy’s belt before he stepped back.

Kronn’s outrage had begun to falter into uncertain wariness as Durok failed to cow to their abuse. He was not yet ready to give up the antagonism, but caution was taking root amidst the bluster. “Who are you, then,” he began, “to lay claim to my heritage, and the noble ways of my people?” he demanded, taking an opportunity to wring some feeling back into his wrist.

Durok smiled, uncertain as to whether his announcement would mean anything to the boys: it was not impossible, as Durok’s legacy was not without honour or glory, but he did not make a point of advertising it as much as many others in the Klingon culture may. His ideals, interests, and plans did not require that he be recognized by all for his work, only that he be recognized by those for whom it was meaningful. He had served during the recently ended Dominion war, though, and other conflicts beside, so it was possible they would know him by his name. “I am Durok, son of Romgar, of house Maleth.” He said simply. “I invoke my right to choose a more appropriate challenger for someone of your rank. Do you deny me this right?”

Kronn, initially, glowered at this, but a moment later his face cracked into a broad, victorious grin. None of the three gave any sign of recognizing his name, but among the crowd, a stir of conversations fluttered to life, and the Ferengi began scurrying about again, frantically taking new bets. Kronn finally replied “I acknowledge this right, son of Romgar. You may choose an adversary for me… from your crew, of those assembled here. If you can find one of your own willing to stand in your stead and bear the beat down of your shame, I will gladly carve my way through them to you.” Kronn turned from Durok then, throwing his arms out wide, looking into, pandering to, the crowd. “WHAT OF IT THEN? Are any of you this imposter’s Beq? Who would you call on, son of Romgar, to spill their blood for your cowardice?”

None of the crowd stepped forward, and Durok was not surprised. Further, he was delighted, because he knew something none gathered did: his own crew did not yet know who he was, as the maiden voyage of the Vellouwyn had yet to take place. Those assigned to her would be among the Starfleet voyeurs assembled, waiting for the call to stations which would introduce them to their new commanding officer.

But Durok had other plans. Without bothering to look around, he said in a voice which casually projected to the heights of the vaulted bulkheads above and to everyone watching: “Crewman Yao Si Gur, step forward, if you please.” There was a stir at one end of the clearing, and a group of about seven off-duty Starfleet crew began babbling amongst themselves. Everyone turned to look at them, and it was not long before one of the group stepped forward: a small Human woman with sleek black hair which exploded into a fray of almost Klingon kinks and waves behind the band at the base of her neck. Her features were a melodious mingling of Asian and African traits, speaking to a shared ancestry in both roots. She held a severe, neutral look somewhere between a poker and a resting bitch face, and seemed both confused and concerned at having been called out. Her uniform was the light green of the science division, and her lapel bore the single-slashed rank of a simple crewman. She paused about ten paces into the clearing, standing not quite at attention, and responded: “Sir?” hesitantly, not sure herself whether Durok was actually of the captain’s rank he appeared to be.

Kronn looked at the woman and bristled in undisguised, outraged disgust. Behind him, one of his cronies, unable to help himself, fell into a fit of uncontrolled, boisterous laughter, while the other, the one who Durok had disarmed, looked warily between the other two Klingons. Durok sneered at the disrespect of the display, and beckoned Yao Si Gur to step forward, which she did not immediately do. Good, he thought, she has wits enough not to over-commit.

“Crewman Yao Si Gur, you are recently posted to the Vellouwyn, is it so?” Durok did not take his eyes from Kronn as he spoke, although the other could not keep his gaze on the captain’s, too busily distracted by the comparably diminutive Human who had been called forward.

To the question, the young crewman fell more easily into a stance at ease, her hands comfortably falling to the small of her back as she set her feet shoulder-width apart: she had not been called to attention. “Sir.” She replied, more firmly. She began to take in the Klingon speculatively, though her considerations were her own.

“You come from the Rutger, your first assignment. It was a diplomatic ship, no? Carrying envoys into various Cardassian summits and meetings with the Breen, and such, since the end of hostilities?” he implored further, collecting affirmative Yes Sir responses to his questions. “Your previous crew had a compliment of seventeen, and attended five conferences in the past two years. You served as a cultural attaché to a Vulcan diplomat—Mis Suvar, no?” more and more as he went on, it became apparent to the young crewman that Durok knew her folio well, and that such information, while available to anyone who might deign to do research, would probably present little value to anyone she might encounter at this far-flung outpost at a brewing fight on the promenade. Each satisfied that they’d established her credential, her company behind her had fallen into a mixed set of worried stances, many of the Starfleet crew gathered around them falling readily into a similar At Ease as Yao Si Gur, a habit from cadet training. Others were less formal, many looking worried about what was forming. Overhead, the rails of the catwalks overlooking the floor were filled with gawking spectators.

Finally, Durok nodded. “Thank you, crewman. I understand if you feel that this challenge may be beneath your notice, but you are a familiar face to me, and I felt confident I could at least ask if you would stand for your captain in this challenge. Though the more I consider your ability, the less I feel it would be fair to the son of Morogh to subject him to the humiliation of the difference in your skills. You may step back.”

All at once the gathered crowd erupted into raucous cacophony. The three Klingons grouped up together, closing ranks as outrage saw them surge at Durok like a pack of jackals facing down a lion, ravenous but wary of a dangerous foe. Howling curses spewed in solid Klingon, epithets most courtesy filters on the universal translators rendered in their raw, untranslated forms filled the void between the noise. Among the assembled, only Durok and Yao Si Gur stood unmoving, the first in his same casual disdain for the Klingon youths, and the second not breaking her posture when she was released to step back. Finally, Kronn gathered himself enough to speak.

“YOU DARE! You insult the house of Konjah with each breath! You demean the honour of combat by submitting this pitiable specimen for me to consider as a worthy opponent? Have you such need to die by a Klingon blade that you would make enemy of entire houses of the Empire for your sad little game? Run away little girl, this false man will get you killed for his vanity.” Kronn’s hands clenched and unclenched, reaching, yet falling short, of his sheathed dagger. He knew that despite the insults, the Game of Stags had not yet reached the point where he could brandish his weapon and yet save face. As infuriating, as impossible as it seemed, as unlikely as it was amongst the players on the field, Durok had them cornered without having lifted a finger.

The captain tilted his head in disappointment. “I have no quarrel with house Konjah, young Bekk. Many and spirited are its warriors, and noble is its blood. Even yet I have no quarrel with you, regardless of how you may have disrespected my Raktajino. But you are a young, inexperienced, and, again I say, unblooded warrior, who has come before me with the audacity to claim challenge. I have sought out among the least storied of my crew for one who might be fit enough for your call, and found that I cannot think of even one who would not be demeaned by such an unfair fight.” Again, the crowd surged at the insults, couched as they were in soft, but earnest words. “Still,” he went on, before Kronn could interject, “I have invited my patient crewman to indulge me in this sordid affair, and so, I will not decline your challenge on her behalf. If she should see fit to honour you with a lesson, I will not stand in her way.”

Kronn turned from Durok, puffing his chest. He seemed to grow in height and stature, booted feet falling in a heavy tread as he tried to step through the deck plating with each stomp. His features fell into shadow as the overhead ambiance backlit his features, lighting the fringe of his hair in an auburn halo, like smouldering flame. The human crewman did not flinch, nor relax out of her posture, simply tilted her head defiantly, meeting the Klingon’s gaze. “So, little Human: what will it be? Is today a good day to die?”

There was a long pause, as everything seemed to hang on the shoulders of crewman Yao Si Gur’s implacable calm. She said nothing for a long time, simply staring Kronn in the face, scrutinizing him in silence. Eventually, the Klingon gave up on the game, and threw up his hands, turning around to face Durok again. “You see? She cowers like a fawn. Your champions are as feeble as you are, Starfleet pretender. You have no honor between you.” He laughed, spitting a sticky gob at Durok’s booted feet for emphasis.

Durok, for his part, grinned fiendishly, laughing for the first time since the encounter began. “Foolish p’takh! You forget yourself. She does not answer to the likes of you.” Durok turned in a circle with his arms in the air, the captain’s jacket hanging from some device across his shoulders. “Oooh little Human! Is today a good day to die?” he scoffed in sheer mockery of Kronn’s theatrics, pacing around to play to the crowd. Jeers and laughter came from all quarters, and finally, he came to a stop in front of the crewman, who stood where she’d stopped when she first stepped forward, waiting patiently.

Facing the Human woman, he changed his entire posture, bringing his feet and knees together firmly, arms to his sides, hands on his thighs. Looking her earnestly in the face, the captain gave his young crewman a respectful bow, through which he did not break eye contact. “What say you, crewman Yao Si Gur of Turkana IV? Will you humour your captain’s foolish request to discipline an upstart whelp from her sister-ship, the honourable IKS Maraag?”

Behind him, Kronn snarled viciously, and the quieter of his two sword-brothers, who had long since begun questioning the theatrics of their ‘unplanned’ encounter widened his eyes, stepping forward to grab the leader by a leather-clad shoulder, only to be shrugged off. “Kronn, wait! Something—” he started, but was drowned out when Yao Si Gur looked past Durok’s formal bow to lock eyes with Kronn, and nodded acceptance.

Suddenly it seemed as if the entire promenade was gathered into a wall of packed space, where nothing bigger than a hand scanner might fit through the cracks. Still notoriously absent were the station’s security, although some among the crowd seemed curiously reserved and attentive for un-uniformed men. Studded among their ranks were now a noteworthy number of Klingons as well, although none of them crossed the invisible line which had, by seeming consensus, formed a picket around the demonstration on the floor. It took several minutes for the uproar to die down enough for anyone in its midst to speak, and Durok spent no small amount of that time beckoning to the crowd for celebration of the act to come.

When it finally quieted, he turned to look at the four mismatched youths squaring off in the impromptu ring. Yao Si Gur still stood at ease, and the three Klingons looked anything but, one suspicious, one apprehensive, and one, Kronn, seemed different now that the challenge was accepted: less boisterous, and more serious: his instincts told him something was off. Durok smiled his respect at this, and immediately set to undercut it once more, in the sake of fairness.

“Good then, it is settled. However, my champion is unarmed, and while I would not want for you to become seriously injured, it is only fair that she have some tool to defend herself. With our challenger’s permission, I would bestow a favour to even out the odds?”

Kronn looked suspicious, but he could hardly argue: the Klingon had, mentally, prepared himself to discard his own weapon before engaging the Starfleet child, but something about her ease and unflappable calm had made him reconsider. He nodded, subtly, uncertain what that concession might mean. Bowing to Kronn with somewhat more casual, but equal respect as he had to his champion, Durok stepped up to Yao Si Gur, reaching out to smooth the unwrinkled and crisp cut of her uniform’s shoulders in a display of platonic affection.

“Thank you, crewman. You honour me, and so I shall honour you. Please accept this token of my esteem.” Reaching to his hip, Durok pulled up not a blade, or a baton, but the clasp of the cloth sash that hung across his chest. Holding it up for her to see, he unclasped it, reclasped it, then unclasped it again, and then quickly disentangled himself from the device. Holding it out to the young woman before him, his lip curled in a cunning, knowing sneer, and while Yao Si Gur seemed initially surprised at what he offered, her calm face broke from its unreadable calm for the first time, and she grinned back as she returned his respectful bow.

As she collected the sash and Durok stepped away, returning to his coffee cup where he’d left it on one of the metal seats nearby, he sat down and feigned kicking his feet up for a moment before gesturing theatrically at the still-sparking table against the wall. Again, people in the crowd laughed, though Kronn ignored them simply to jeer at Yao Si Gur as she ran her hands over the bundled scarf. “What trick is this, pretender? You mean for your foolish Bekk to fight me with garments? Fine, then let what comes be on your head.”

The human, however, was ignoring all of them. She had accepted the challenge, and accepted her captain’s favour. The sash in her hands had been tied in a way which bundled its bulk into a relatively weighty bulk, stiff but pliant, and able to be unwound if she moved her hands cleverly around some of the knots and weave. She felt its weight in her hands, and wrapped it around her wrists, tugging to get a sense of its play and pull. Kronn’s disdain moved through stages of confusion, disbelief, and concern as Yao Si Gur began twirling the sash around in her hands, whirling it around her body with steady hands and controlled maneuvers which quickened in pace and grew more impressive in complexity as she got accustomed to the weapon in her hands. Many watching had not expected her display, as she’d given no indication of ceremony, nor did she give off a sense of bravado in the demonstration, she had simply slipped into what were clearly familiar forms as she got to know the tool she now held.

As she continued through her routine, Durok stood and sauntered over to Kronn’s elbow, drinking his Raktajino with a loud slurp, and leaning up to speak conspiratorially: “I hope you are paying attention, young warrior. There is honour to be had here, if you are courageous enough to claim it. No lessons are learned without pain.”

Kronn glowered down at him, but gone was the attitude, replaced with a tactical appraisal of a suddenly unsatisfying situation. “You planned this, together. You seek to make a fool of us. This game is lowly and treacherous. I will find no honour in crushing a pair of charlatans.” The words were bold, as they need must be, but his passion for them were gone. He watched Yao Si Gur carefully as she moved through her forms, and as her routine escalated from simply moving the sash, to letting it move with her, and then letting it move her, it seemed, as she became more athletic in the display. “I have never seen anyone move like her, but this is all just dance and performance, surely.”

Durok shook his head and clapped the young man on the shoulder consolingly. “Planned this, young warrior? You challenged me. Surely no one led you to me, but you and your brothers sought me out at rest and insisted on what is to come. Remember that next time you spoil for a fight. I assure you, my champion has never met me before the day, but I would be a poor captain not to know the crew I’d hand picked for the challenges that lay ahead of each of us. If you and your kin are to survive beyond the maw of stars,” he said, causing Kronn to jerk his gaze away from his opponent in surprise, reappraising this ‘pretender’, “then you will need to know when to hold em, and know when to fold em, as they say.”

He grinned wildly again, pushing himself away from the trio of Klingon youths with a deep, retreating bow. “As for me,” he said, a little louder, “one can hardly say I misled you about who I am. After all,” his hand brushed across the studded array of commendations—for valor, for cunning, for bravery and tactics in service to the empire— “I wear my heart on the outside for all to see this day.”

His cup was empty, but his heart was full. All around them the crowds clamored for the thrill of combat, bloodlust at an all time high, and latinum flowing in rivulets between bettors and their collectors as they howled for action. Durok raised his arm high, and cried out loud enough to be heard over the uproar: “FOR HONOUR! BEGIN!” And, casting his arm down, the loud metallic clang as his cup crashed against the deck plating hard enough to half-crush it, and put a small dent in the durasteel before sending it rocketing up over the catwalk on one side of the crowd, ringing the bell for combat to be joined.

Immediately, Yao Si Gur dropped into a low stance, presenting Kronn with a profile like the blade if a knife. She was small, agile, and graceful, and the sash granted by her captain ran across her shoulders from arm to arm, held taut between her wrists. The Klingon advanced with a charge, rushing at her like a ram, head lowered, nostrils flared: he reached for her as a giant trying to scoop up an easy meal, but the quick Human hopped easily out of his path, rolling past his feet and into his flank. As his heavy booted foot came sailing in past her head, lashing out as he tracked her movement but could not correct his own momentum, she caught it in a loop of the sash and planted her body with as much power as she could get on the deck plating. Kronn’s strength was such that she was quickly pulled along with his stride, unable to get the purchase to stop his initiative, but the trick had its effect and the large Klingon missed his next step, stumbling to a knee as she rolled quickly out of reach and took to circling in a low, creep that seemed to defy the comfort of upright anatomy.

The crowd cheered as battle was joined, many leaning over the railings to shout for one champion or the other. Kronn’s two sword-brothers, denied the ability to either participate or retreat, lingered awkwardly at one side of the arena with Durok, watching events unfold. They had tied their honour to their leader’s by supporting him in his challenge, and though they should, by all rights, have had full confidence in their casual brigandry when it had been a clear target like Durok, things had not played out at all as they had expected, and suddenly they were tangled up in a web of liability: Durok had played their own cultural rules in a master hand, dealing out, card by card, inarguable manipulations that put them now at a very public disadvantage.

Kronn came to his feet with a growl. His face had fallen into a stone mask of outrage, realizing that there would be no easy win in this challenge. Perhaps if he’d gotten his hands on the pretender, things would have been different, but something nagged at his confidence in that, too. He turned to track Yao Si Gur as she circled him, feeling the heat of further outrage rise as he realized that to others, he looked like cornered prey. Resolving to change that, he stalked out along the edge of the clearing, forcing the Human to back away from him along a wall. Each time he sped up to try and catch her, she’d backpedal more quickly, staying out of range. At length he stopped, throwing up his arms dismissively. “Is this all you know to do, little Human? Retreat, retreat, retreat? Is this how your kind accept a challenge, by presenting a bold face and then running away?”

The audience roused to Kronn’s bait, jeering and booing at Yao Si Gur’s change in performance. Slowly, she straightened her back, dragging her forward foot across the deck until it perched against her knee, balancing on one foot. With a twist of her wrist, she unbound the end of the sash and pulled it through her fingers to let it unravel. “As you wish, honoured opponent. I had simply thought to see if you were bullish enough to charge head first into a wall.” She began to twirl the scarf around her in light, airy circles, reminiscent of the dabo dancers who performed around the Promenade, with the ease and grace of an Orion sovereign. Kronn sneered his disdain, pulling himself up to his full height and crossing his arms over his chest in clear disappointment of her display, but a moment later as she began to advance on him in long strides, deft flicks of her wrist caused the length of the cloth to ripple in fast, tightening waves, each ending in a sharp snap as it reached the end of the tether.

When she came in range, Kronn did not budge, nor did he assume any sort of defensive stance. The cloth did not intimidate him, nor did it distract him, and he kept his eyes on his opponent, convinced of the ruse. A moment later, he found himself unable to track her movements: with two sharp cracks of the cloth whip in her hands, now twisted round itself into a tight bundle that lent weight and body as she whirled it around. The tips flicked out across his eyes sharply enough to draw blood and cleave fur from the brush of his eyebrows, suddenly changing the stakes of the encounter as red flowed freely down his cheeks and into his vision. Gasps and cries of shock rose up around them as dark Klingon essence spattered from the end of her weapon onto the deck, and Durok, from the sidelines, called out helpfully: “FIRST BLOOD TO YAO SI GUR!”

Kronn was caught entirely off guard by the assault, and clasped his hand over his eyes as the blood suddenly washed through them. He stumbled, careening into the arms of the crowd behind him, who pushed him back into the ring as was tradition. Yao Si Gur did not move to push the advantage as he reeled, standing with the same poise and patience she had shown since being called forward, though she took the opportunity to rebind her sash and drape it across her shoulders as she watched him. Behind her, out of sight, one of Kronn’s sword-brothers growled, pulled his D'k tahg and started forward with a purposeful, yet stealthy stride.

Seeing this, Durok darted forward, hooking his boot into the brace at the base of one of the steel chairs. He moved preternaturally fast, dragging the heavy chair along with him as he closed the distance between himself and the sword-brother. Before the man could take three steps into the ring, Durok swing his leg in a stunning overhead arc which dragged the chair along with its momentum. For a moment, the man had both feet in the air overhead, one hand barely touching the deckplates, and in the next he pulled his feet downward in a vicious kick. The edge of the chair came down sharply on the top of the man’s crest, cracking viciously behind one of his pronounced Klingon ridges which, for all their duability, were meant to be struck straight on, not from above.

The Klingon’s head bobbed on his neck as he stopped in his tracks, shoulders shrugging up reflexively as the boy dropped his blade to the deck. Landing flat on his feet, hands clasped behind his back in a perfectly straight posture, Durok kicked the chair which still sat hooked to his boot, and skidded it between the sword-brother’s legs. Bringing one arm forward, he braced it under the young Klingon’s chin, and leaned in to say: “There was a reason our ignoble ancestors sought to steal power from human secrets, my boy: the creatures whose strength we sought to consume were called Augments, and they were deceptively ferocious.” With a gentle shove, he pushed the stunned boy to sit back on the bloodied seat, and cast a stern look over his head at the other, bidding him silently to care for his bond-mate. The wiser, wide-eyed youth nodded curtly and laid a hand on the other’s shoulder possessively.

Back in the action, Kronn had gathered his wits, raking his fingers through his eyes to clear them, thick Klingon blood clotting quickly. When she knew he could see her again, Yao Si Gur smoothed herself back down into her blade-edge stance. Recognizing the need to change his approach, Kronn knew he’d need to get a hold of his opponent to achieve any traction in this battle. Better footwork, more attention to his opponent, less bold confidence in his own superiority. He began to use more complex maneuvers, feinting, lunging, treating her for the first time as if she were armed with a dangerous weapon. Despite this, he could not bring himself to draw his own blade against a scarf.

The first time he nearly caught her, he found his forearm wrapped in her sash, pulling him off balance and spinning him around. Thinking he recognized the tactic, he caught hold of the garment the next time she pulled the trick, and she used it to gain her own leverage, sweeping under his arm to pull his elbow around the wrong way. Each time he caught her, she caught him instead, and put him off balance; each time she pushed him a little further, hurt him a little more. He had the simultaneous sense that she was toying with him, but that she was doing so out of necessity, as she had no real idea of his limits, or what it would take to stop him without being caught and broken apart herself.

At first what he had taken to be taunting, a premise set by Durok’s jibes and common to the Game of Stags, he was coming to realize was a necessity imposed on her by the self same man when he pitted such an unbalanced opponent against a brazen Klingon warrior. Though It was frustrating to him to be unable to catch her, even meaningfully lay a hand on her, he was beginning to learn that her approach to fighting was both bold and cautious, proud and honourable, with neither mockery nor indignity in her tactics.

The longer they fought, the more interested he became, and the more he found he enjoyed this opponent: soon he was laughing with each exchange, learning to lean in to her attacks and counter-attacks, pulling where he may have pushed, twisting away from a feint he may have followed through. Once, he misjudged a grab, and she slid between his legs with his arm bound in her sash, pulling him head over heels to crash against the deck with a thunder of metal and laughter. Once, she misjudged him and he spun her around, throwing her across the arena to land un a rough tumble which saw her come to her feet with a gash under her eye and a grin on her face. Twice more she switched tactics with the sash, going between clinches and throws to the lashing gale of stinging whips depending on her need to close or retreat to regain her advantage.

The end of battle came both inevitably, and all at once. While the crowd was not subdued by the long play of action between them, some of them were calling for blood or satisfaction while the pair on the floor were lost in learning each other’s ways. Then, during one exchange, Yao Si Gur decided to gamble, and Kronn decided to surprise her with a defense: the two tactics collided in a curious tangle where the Klingon was bound around the throat with the knot of her sash against his windpipe, but he finally caught grip of one of her wrists, and his hand clasped in a vice grip, holding her still against him. She, however, had set him off balance, driving him back and to a knee so that he leaned precariously and could not gain his footing. She had one leg braced on his chest and the other on top of his planted leg to help push him backward, and by the wild look in her eye he knew that she knew the only way she’d get out of this clinch would be if she could keep the pressure on and keep him from rallying before her knot achieved its purpose.

The crowd stilled, and even the two sword-brothers had come to their feet, being recovered enough to know that this would be the deciding clinch. Durok stood with his arms crossed, one hand over his mouth, disguising his mood with a pensive look. Blood thrummed through Kronn’s head, rumbling in his ears as the air thinned in his lungs. His eyes swam until they found hers, his lips parted into a delighted smile, and he guffawed a precious bubble of air past her clinch, and with pointed purpose he let go of her wrist and brought a shaking hand up to palm over her face in a sign of Klingon respect. She met his gaze through his splayed hand, and with a blink, let go of her clinch. Leaning backward, she pulled him forward as he sucked in a titanic gasp of air, but he did not pause to labor over his breath. In the same move that released him, he pulled his leg up from under him, capturing the Human woman in a clinch of his own. Shock claimed her face for a moment, but rather than attack, Kronn pulled her bodily up on to his shoulder like a trophy, ensuring she was seated and balanced, but gripping her legs so she could not flee.

On all sides, spectators erupted at the upset. The noise was deafening, and it would be impossible to imagine that the cacophony was not being heard at every level of the station. Durok glanced about, his face unreadable, waiting to see what would come, and noted the number of holo-cams picking up, and likely broadcasting, the fight. This moment would be telling, and it would be seen by many, many people across any number of quadrants. He watched the Klingon and his captive with bated breath.

Kronn let the crowd surge for a long moment, staring around the massed and teeming mob. Yao Si Gur’s sash, which had thusfar served her to great effect, was tucked under his free arm and bound around her wrists, leaving her unable to retaliate against his greater strength. Her face had resumed its impassive neutrality as she too surveyed the crowd, though her eyes gleamed with uninterpretable emotion. Kronn could see it when he next looked up at her, and saw fear there, but also, moreso, curiosity and exhilaration: here was a true warrior, who had shown him a true account, and mercy at the last to savour his dignity. Kronn threw up his free arm, releasing her weapon to flutter free, and she made no bid to resume their battle. As he held his hand high, he waited for the crowd to die down and answer his clear appeal for silence before gathering his breath and shouting: “HONOUR AND GLORY! To Yao Si Gur of Turkana IV! Victory is hers this day!” Atop his shoulders, Yao Si Gur threw her arms overhead in victory, celebrating the acknowledgement she had been given as her due. Taking the opportunity, she unwrapped the sash from one wrist, and as the crowd cheered, she snapped the bound fabric in a set of dextrous displays which, with each twist, unfurled more of the cloth. Unseen to Kronn, but clear to all of his spectators, the bloodied flag unfurled for all to see: across a field of star-specked black, the icons of both the Federation and the Klingon Empire had been emblazoned on the sash, standing equal yet apart, but connected by a black and gold band that linked the two.

Durok smiled warmly, and touched his hand to his brow, saluting his crewman and her new ally. He better than most knew of the bonds forged in respect for another’s skills, and in learning humility for one’s own without being humiliated to teach it. To Kronn he offered a Klingon salute, tapping his fist to his chest and receiving acknowledgement in kind. Then, as though on schedule, he turned and faced the crowd at his back, which parted to admit a team of Bajoran security officers, some with riot gear, which set about getting the promenade to disperse. Several of them broke off from the rest and began to escort him away from the scene toward the central turbolift which would take him to the stations operations center. Captain Durok of the Vellouwyn had an appointment to keep, and he expected there would be much to discuss.

==============

“The part that galls me,” stated Colonel Kira Nerys as she stood looking out the viewport from the administrator’s office she now held as a command post, “is that you actually bought a permit for this escapade.”

Nerys was a bold figure, renown since the liberation of Bajor. Her face was plastered across holo programs and news trids, and had been for years, as news from the front reached the furthest corners of the affected Alpha and Beta quadrants. While Durok had not had the pleasure, yet, of meeting her, he had learned much about her exploits and personal demeanor before coming to Deep Space Nine. Nonetheless, it was hard to make out from her face what it was she actually felt about the situation: as with many Bajorans, sardonicism merged seamlessly with both delight and wrath with equal ease in the Bajoran heart. Their spirits, their Pah, were varied in his experience, but whether as warriors or priests or farmers eking out a living on contested land, he had yet to meet a Bajoran who did not have a resilient and fierce inner fire.

The way she was grinning at him made him wonder if she wanted to praise him or murder him, or both, and he delighted in being the subject of her ire in either regard. He knew his stunt had been an unexpected surprise to station management, but he had undertaken to couch the delivery before indulging himself in a number of surreptitious and bureaucratic ways. “When this came across my desk a week ago,” she went on, “it was listed as a ‘cultural display’, and the special security accommodations for un-uniformed security was proposed as being necessary to respect immersion.” She tossed a padd across the desk, where it skidded to a stop on the smooth glass next to a baseball on a small dais. “You even requested extra for ‘the safety of uninitiated pilgrims.’ The audacity!”

Durok grinned, but did not answer with more than a supplicating gesture of simple prayer, for which she rolled her eyes. She turned the chair next to her enough to sidle into it, still simply staring into his soul with those dark, glittering eyes. “And the gambling permits, that was a nice touch. I didn’t even think they were for the same thing. A sporting event: I admit that my security team thought for sure you’d be doing something on the holosuites, but no. And if that were not enough, there’s this—” she tapped another padd, sliding it into the middle of the table between them where it went ignored. “—special requisition for communications array bandwidth lease for a theatrical performance. You literally did everything you could have possibly done to arrange a pit fight on my station without crossing any legal traps. I am going to have to have my policy analysts torquing our permitting system like O’Brien digging through the EPS relays for months just because you decided to stop by on your way through.”

She leaned forward on her elbows, propping her chin up on her palms, and grinned open-mouthed at him, as if simply taking him in for a minute. Behind him, the two security escorts which had shown him to this meeting stood at attention, perfectly professionally silent, and as uncertain as he was about what she would do or say next. For someone like Durok, the colonel was a treasure of uncertainty, authority, and primal menace which made his pulse race; he could not help but smile right back. “What I want to know,” she finally said, “was how you knew they’d both be there. You couldn’t have faked that setup, Durok. That fight was a match made in hell, and you couldn’t have picked better fighters for it. But they weren’t invited, weren’t coerced, and unless you count yourself, weren’t baited to be where you wanted them to be. How the hell did you manage to pull that off?”

Durok laughed as her smile cracked into genuine warmth. No one had been seriously injured in his ‘cultural display’, and for a station which thrived on commerce and entertainment, he’d driven significant business in a spike which he’d managed to curb at its peak. He was, all told, more pleased with the results than he had expected to be, because the gamble of playing the two young crewman from either faction against one another had not been guaranteed in either respect. Nerys was right: the sword-brothers may not have decided to goad him, though it was a calculated risk. The crewman and her company may not have stopped to watch, but he knew where they were headed, given their rental of a holosuite for a Parrises squares match, one he’d have to refund for them. She may not have taken the challenge, and he may not have taken the bait: on the whole, the possibility that their unpredictability could have overturned all his carefully laid plans stacked up far higher than he’d deserved to succeed through, but his chosen champions had played their parts admirably, if unwittingly.

“That part was easy,” he said, setting one booted foot over his knee in the signature posture he’d come to adopt over the years. “I happened to know their captains.”

[ap-art-history]

Temple of Amun-Re and Hypostyle Hall

Karnak, Egypt

New Kingdom Egypt (Ancient Near East)

1550 BCE (temple) 1250 BCE (hall)

Cut sandstone and mud brick

Form: Combining the land from all components of this site, it spans more than 200 acres. The sacred area enclosed to honor Amun is 61 acres all by itself, and the hypostyle hall is 54,000 square feet (making it the largest singular room of any religious building in the world to this day) and is filled with 134 columns. The inside of the temple was originally brightly painted

Content: Inside of the temple, the main path through the center slowly raises the deeper inside the building it gets. The columns inside the hall have shallow reliefs carved into them and depict creation stories, as well as symbols of paradise (lotus, palm plants, papyrus). The roof/ceiling would have been decorated with images of stars, the sky, and birds.

Context: In ancient Egypt, it was believed that at the end of agricultural season, the gods and earth were left exhausted. Because of this, it was necessary to help replenish their energy by participating in the Opet festival. The Opet festival lasted for 27 days, starting at the Temple of Amun-Re and the Hypostyle Hall, and ending 1 and a half miles south. This celebration also strengthened the link between a pharaoh and Amun. Accessibility to the deeper parts of the temple became more and more restrictive with each pylon (see image 2), as a means to show the higher social class was closer to god. However, the deepest part of the temple was restricted to priests and the pharaoh exclusively. The temple and hall were a pilgrimage site for over 2,000 years.

Function: While the religious ritual practices at this site serve as its main function, the temples also represented the creation of the world as the Egyptians believed it. It was believed that the world was originally only water, and that the first solid land to emerge from the water was a pyramid-like mound, also known as a benben. The structure of the temples were shaped in this way as well, so when the Nile flooded, it would seem even more like the original mound of creation.

sources:

khan academy

[el-smacko]

I remember walking out in the desert and finding a whole fucking bathroom. Someone renovated and dumped the old decor and fixtures in the middle of nowhere, unincorporated “county land.” My grandpa had entire barrels of old motor oil in his yard illegally. When he died they were the hardest thing to get rid of. We lived by train tracks and those Eiffel Tower pylons like they used to electrocute Godzilla. I remember picking up an armful of rail spikes and a thick steel bolt. I always had to watch out for rattlesnakes and one time I threw a rock at what turned out to be a harmless snake. I watched it squirm to death. More garbage in the desert. I keep that horror close.

[signsandengraving]

Stand Out with Custom Branding from Signs and Engraving Centre Inc.

In Toronto’s busy business landscape, standing out is essential to success. At Signs and Engraving Centre Inc., we offer a full range of custom signage, engraving, and printing services designed to help your business get noticed. From eye-catching outdoor signs to personalized engraving, our solutions are crafted to elevate your brand and make a lasting impression. Here’s how our services can help you connect with more customers.

Outdoor Signs: Draw Attention with Professional Signage

Outdoor signs are one of the most effective ways to ensure your business gets noticed. We create high-quality, weather-resistant signs tailored to your business’s unique style. Whether it’s a storefront sign, a billboard, or large signage for commercial properties, our custom outdoor signs help attract more foot traffic and make a strong first impression.

A-Frame Signs & Sandwich Boards: Engage with Passersby

A-frame signs, also known as sandwich boards, are ideal for attracting people walking by your business. These portable signs are perfect for promoting sales, events, or daily specials right outside your shop. Our custom A-frames are durable and visually appealing, helping to turn passersby into customers.

Pylon Signs: Reach Your Audience from Afar

Pylon signs are tall, freestanding signs designed to make your business visible from a distance. Ideal for businesses in high-traffic areas or plazas, our custom pylon signs help customers find you easily. With bold colors and clear text, these signs increase your visibility and set your business apart.

3D Letters: Add Dimension to Your Branding

Custom 3D letters bring depth to your signage, making your business name or logo pop. Crafted from materials like foam, metal, or wood, our 3D letters provide a bold, professional look that grabs attention and reinforces your brand’s image. Perfect for storefronts or interior branding, 3D letters add sophistication to your space.

Wall & Window Decals: Personalize Your Space

Wall and window decals offer a simple yet effective way to bring your brand’s personality to life within your business space. Whether you want to display your logo on a window, showcase seasonal promotions, or add decor to your walls, our high-quality vinyl decals are easy to apply and remove. Decals make it easy to transform any surface into a branding tool.

Pull-Up Banners: Portable Promotions for Any Event

Pull-up banners are versatile and portable, making them ideal for trade shows, events, or in-store promotions. These easy-to-set-up banners feature vibrant graphics that capture attention wherever you go. With custom designs, our pull-up banners are a convenient way to showcase your brand in a professional setting.

Awnings: Stylish Shade for Your Storefront

Awnings provide shade and protection while enhancing your storefront’s appeal. Available in a variety of colors and styles, our custom awnings complement your branding and create a welcoming entrance for customers. Whether fixed or retractable, awnings add both style and functionality to your business.

Labels & Business Cards: Essentials for Professional Branding

Labels and business cards are key tools for building a professional image. We offer custom printing services that create high-quality labels and business cards tailored to your brand’s look and feel. Whether you’re networking or packaging products, these details make a lasting impact on customers.

Vehicle Wraps: Take Your Brand on the Road

Transform your vehicles into mobile advertisements with our custom vehicle wraps. Made from durable vinyl, our wraps allow you to promote your brand on the go, reaching a broader audience with every drive. This mobile advertising solution is an excellent way to increase brand awareness and attract new customers throughout Toronto.

Custom Stamps: Convenient and Quick Branding

Custom stamps make it easy to add your business’s logo or information to documents, invoices, and packaging. Our personalized stamps are convenient and professional, providing a quick way to brand your paperwork with minimal effort.

Engraving Services: Create Unique, Personalized Gifts and Awards

Our engraving services allow you to add a personal touch to awards, plaques, gifts, and more. Perfect for employee recognition, client appreciation, or special events, our engravings are crafted to make each piece feel unique and meaningful.

Awards & Trophies: Recognize Excellence with Custom Designs

Celebrating achievements is essential for motivating and retaining great talent. Our custom awards and trophies are made from high-quality materials and designed to honor excellence. Whether for employees, clients, or business milestones, our personalized awards help build a culture of appreciation within your organization.

At Signs and Engraving Centre Inc., we’re committed to helping businesses in Toronto and the GTA succeed. Contact us today at 416.855.9070 or 647.718.1001, or email us at mail@signsengraving.com to learn more about how our custom signage and branding solutions can help your business stand out. Visit signsengraving.com for more information.

[thesigncoindia]

The Importance of Exterior Signs: Enhancing Visibility and Brand Identity

In today’s fast-paced world, where competition is fierce and first impressions are paramount, exterior signs play a crucial role in defining a business's identity and attracting customers. These visual elements not only inform but also communicate the essence of a brand, enhancing visibility and accessibility. This article explores the different types of exterior signs, their benefits, design considerations, and how they contribute to a business's success.

Understanding Exterior Signs

Exterior signs refer to any signage placed outside a building or property that communicates information about the business or organization. They can take various forms, including storefront signs, banners, directional signs, vehicle wraps, and pylon signs. Regardless of their type, these signs serve as the initial point of contact between a business and its potential customers, making them vital for effective marketing strategy.

Types of Exterior Signs

1. Storefront Signs: Often the most recognizable form of exterior signage, storefront signs often display the business name and logo prominently. These signs can be made from various materials, such as wood, metal, acrylic, or vinyl, and can be illuminated for enhanced visibility at night.

2. Banners: Banners offer flexibility and can be used for promotions, events, or temporary advertising. They are typically made of durable materials like vinyl, making them suitable for outdoor use.

3. Directional Signs: These signs help guide customers to important locations, such as entrances, exits, and parking areas. They're essential for larger businesses or facilities, ensuring visitors can navigate easily.

4. Pylon Signs: Tall freestanding signs that are often used along roadways, pylon signs can promote multiple businesses or services at once. They are especially useful for shopping centers and commercial complexes, capturing the attention of drivers and pedestrians alike.

5. A-Frame Signs: Also known as sandwich boards, A-frame signs are portable and can be placed in various locations outside the business. They are ideal for restaurants and retail stores promoting daily specials or events.

6. Window Graphics: Utilizing window space creatively not only provides visibility into the business but also serves as advertising. Window graphics can include logos, promotional offers, or decorative designs that reflect the brand's identity.

Benefits of Exterior Signs

1. Increased Visibility

The primary purpose of exterior signs is to improve visibility. A well-placed sign can capture the attention of passersby, directing them into the business. Studies show that approximately 76% of consumers have entered a store they had never visited before based solely on its signage. Bold colors, clear typography, and strategic placement can significantly enhance visibility and foot traffic.

2. Brand Awareness and Recognition

Consistent branding through exterior signs helps establish a business's identity and build recognition within the community. Over time, consumers begin to associate specific visual elements—like colors, fonts, and logos—with the brand. Effective signage promotes brand loyalty by reinforcing the brand image each time a customer sees it, whether they are walking, driving, or passing by.

3. Informational Value

Exterior signs provide essential information to prospective customers. They can convey operating hours, contact information, services offered, and current promotions. This transparency not only aids in customer decision-making but also enhances overall satisfaction by providing clarity.

4. Cost-Effective Marketing

Compared to other forms of advertising, exterior signs offer an excellent return on investment. Once installed, they can continue to promote the business 24/7 with minimal maintenance costs. Unlike digital ads or print media, which require ongoing expenses and updates, a well-designed exterior sign can attract customers for years without any additional cost.

For more details, visit us:

Small Format Signage

Signage Company in India

Creative Digital Display Design