#replica blank firing gun

[ivan-fyodorovich-k]

Like if you wanted a STEN or a Thompson or a machine gun of some kind but will never go through the bother of paperwork or the astronomical expense

[div1nity]

@freeddead 𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑡   :   ❝ what does cora's bedroom typically look like. ❞    ——— （   RANDOM HEADCANONS  ‣‣  ALWAYS ACCEPTING ）

CANON 01 :

a mattress on the floor ( twin, 39x75 ) the covers are typically dark - black on black - a duvet is folded at the bottom of the bed for her to reach over and pull it over, but mostly she uses her chequered blanket, thin and super light.

walls are painted dark grey, carpet is a light. though there is a positive in all this, leaned against the walls and the extra space, there's canvases, blank, half painted and fully completed works. there's her own drawings hung up on the walls in a clustered pile, these papers will soon become the ground works for her future graphic novel series - blueprints. there's a white desk in the far corner, the surface stained with multi colours of paints, sketches scratched into the wood with a knife ( rough, but she really loves those ) - it looks more like an art room than an actual bedroom.

she has two piles that move around a lot ; a comic book, book and a record pile, they're a little frayed in places, but she loves them. they're one of the few ways where she spends her money on items deemed luxury ( including art supplies in this.) her comics are mostly filled with horror concepts, though does have subjects in fantasy - as for regular books - while there is fiction, it's mostly non fiction : history based around greece, egypt, china - all that good fun, its a growing pile depending on what she feels like learning about. there is a possibility where if you walk in there, you're going to kick a book across the room.

there's a blue case under her desk that she sometimes uses it to up her feet up, inside is records ; not a lot, just focusing on her most favourite artists ; NWA, D12, fugees, 2pac, biggie, cypress hill, guns and roses are the ones that i feel like she really focuses on. where's her record player ? how about you mind your own business ( she doesn't own one:( )

at this point, she's still getting over the trauma of living on the streets - her apartment really represents that. she finds her place really overwhelming and even subconsciously is waiting for the whole place to get ripped from her, getting comfortable isn't something she's good at - but she really, really tries because she wants to have somewhat of a normal life moving forward, which is why she makes it safe in the way she knows best ; littering the space with art.

CANON 3 :

finally my rich girl has realized her worth and realized she doesn't need to live in a hobble… she has treated herself to an alaskan king bed, cushioned white frame, even has those curtains that hang at the top with a rich royal blue - has a mix of colours available for them - bed is covered in decorative pillows, vintage looking ones to modern ones that are different shades of blue, grey and purples - her duvet covers can be very traditional at times, sheets that are very reminisce of a rich girl in the 18/1900s - she really leaned into her vintage heart when it comes to her bed, it's very comfortable, fluffy, jump on it and its like falling on a cloud; don't lay in her bed you wont ever want to leave.

dark wooden flooring with a fluffy white rug that spans across the floor, a gas fire on the right side of the room, the room is large, open, and very bright - its a clear representation of her headspace and how much she's grown.

she has some white shelves, filled with photos of vacations, new friends made, as well as awards that she's gained during this time - antiques, too ; authentic greek and egyptian pottery that she bought, sculptures from her favourite artists through the years, gifts gained from work partners - look on the bottom and you see some out of place cthulhu statue with some horror stuff from in the middle of this, truly living her best life.

coraline also absolutely has replicas of greek paintings, and while she can't hang them all up in her bedroom ; she has one wall where she puts a new painting up every month ( or week, depending on her mood ) - you could walk in and see the painting the fall of phaeton, the next time you do you'll see the lament for icarus - it really is a lucky dip.

[cowboyera]

I was going to leave this in the notes but then I was like. No there's too much. So here is a list of different circumstances that I have encountered guns as an American living in the relatively rural/suburban West

As a child, we went to my dad's hometown for their founders day festival which had a large "mock battle" (terrible on multiple levels, I can elaborate) that involved regular citizens, just volunteers, firing their own home guns a lot, with blanks. I assume there was some safety measures but. Lots of guns being fired lots of smoke lots of cool horses. Lots of drunk people.

As a teen, I handed guns with the BSA and also with my family, nothing too big though, mostly pistols, just in a shooting range environment

For work I have: -- handled, but not shot, functioning historical arms and replicas, including carbines and muskets -- operated and fired a replica cannon with 1/2 pound of black powder (no projectile) (technically maybe a 'piece' or howitzer, not a gun but everyone called it a gun) -- watched others demonstrate with historical arms and replicas, all fired with blanks

In 2022, I was in a crowd shooting in Las Vegas. Not anything that made big news but two people were injured and I think I have PTSD or something from the experience

In general, I've seen them on cops more times than I can count, although I've never seen them drawn or used. I've also seen regular old dudes walking around with them tucked into some not very concealed spot. My dad frequently brought his gun anytime we travelled anywhere, I think most adult people in my family own a gun or have owned a gun.

purpose of this poll: basically im wondering if my gran having a pistol was a typical american experience

[ask-the-attorneys]

*meanwhile, coda and Elizabeth were investigating the scene of the crime and obtained some evidence along with it.*

Evidence obtained:

Corpse - Blaise's dead body. She was killed with a single bullet through the chest. Forensics confirmed she was shot from a distance of 1 - 3m away.

Bloodstain - A grim mix of Blaise's real blood and stage blood. The bright red is the fake blood, while the real blood has now darkened.

Bloody Note - A typed slip of paper that reads, 'You'll pay for betraying me.' It's not a prop from the show, and has a hole in it where the bullet went through.

Stage Position B - A mark indicating Strapping's place on stage for the scene in which he shoots Blaise.

Stage Position C - A mark indicating Knox's place on stage for the scene in which Strapping shoots Blaise.

Stage Position A - A mark indicating Blaise's place on stage for the scene which she gets shot.

Bullet Hole - Having passed through Blaise's chest, the bullet that killed her pierced a hanging picture to finally lodge itself in the set wall.

Oil Stains - A large patch along the back of the set covered in lubricating oil. It looks to have been made by a hand rubbing along the wall, but no fingerprints are present.

Gun - An old revolver that has been identified as the weapon that killed Blaise. Five unused bullets were found in the cylinder.

Replica Gun - A model of a gun that was used in the show. Its construction is such that it can only fire blanks. It's swimming in the oil used to lubricate the mechanism.

Remote Switch - A switch to detonate the squib of fake blood that was concealed in Blaise's outfit. She was supposed to operate it at the appropriate time, but it was found in the bin.

[Coda]

(This doesn't seem like a prop... And she was shot from a pretty close distance... Maybe Roscoe did shoot her?)

[internationalrealestatenews]

[ad_1] Police pressured Patrick Carroll to bear a psychological well being analysis and quit his firearms, every week after reviews of gunshots fired close to or on the multifamily Mogul's Miami Seashore dwelling. “Relating to Mr. Carroll, I can affirm that he was transported to an area well being care facility for a psychological well being analysis,” Miami Seashore Police Division spokesperson Christopher Bess advised The Actual Deal through electronic mail on Thursday. “And a danger safety order was served. “This investigation continues.” Final Thursday, cops responded to Carroll's waterfront dwelling at 810 Lakeview Drive after neighbors referred to as 911 about him firing a gun in his yard. Earlier than police arrived, Carroll posted after which deleted a video on his Instagram account that reveals him on his boat docked behind his property. TRD obtained a replica of the deleted publish. Sporting a purple “Make America Nice Once more” hat and a white towel draped over his shoulders, Carroll is seen clutching a shotgun. He fires the shotgun thrice. An unknown man filming Carroll tells him, “Cautious, Pat.” “Shut up,” Carroll responds. The caption of the deleted Instagram publish says, “These are the one blanks I shoot…” In a textual content message on Friday, Carroll advised TRD that he did not shoot any stay rounds. “I spoke to the cops, and so they have been laughing about it,” Carroll mentioned on the time. “I used to be doing it for an [Instagram] video." Florida handed its Crimson Flag legislation in 2018, within the wake of the mass taking pictures that killed 17 individuals and injured 17 extra at Broward County's Marjorie Stoneman Douglas Senior Excessive. The measure permits legislation enforcement businesses to hunt courtroom orders that briefly prohibit harmful people from possessing or buying a firearm. Carroll ��� who final yr offered his agency, Atlanta-based Carroll Group, for $80 million, however maintains different investments — he has to give up all his weapons inside 72 hours. He didn't instantly reply to a request for remark. Since cops got here to his home final week, Carroll You will have posted movies on his Instagram account that present him participating in risky, erratic habits. As an example, Carroll filmed himself berating the supervisor of a Miami Rolls-Royce dealership, and arguing with staff of an Apple retailer. In a number of posts on his Instagram over the weekend, Carroll lashed out at nightclub and restaurant impressario David GrutmanAfter Carroll claimed he was advised by staff of LIV nightclub in Miami Seashore to not movie contained in the venue. Grutman and his companion, Aventura-based developer Jeffrey Sofferpersonal LIV, which is inside Soffer's Fontainebleau Miami Seashore resort. “F*ck you, fats boy,” Carroll wrote in a single publish. “I will put you out of enterprise. Steal your spouse if I need and lots of different issues. You confused my kindness for weak point.” Carroll additionally posted a screenshot of an Instagram direct message he obtained from Grutman, who advised Carroll, “I hope you get assist.” “I've by no means been something however good to you,” Grutman added. “I hope you get the eye you are looking for and sadly, I believe you'll find yourself useless…Everyone seems to be [tuned] into your self-destruction and I do know you might be higher than this.” Grutman declined to remark. Carroll has been banned from different high-quality eating institutions in Miami, together with Hiyakawa Miami in Wynwood, Cote Miami within the Miami Design District and Carbone in Miami Seashore for allegedly being disrespectful to service staff. A Hiyakawa supervisor who visits Carroll spit in his face final April can be suing Carroll for defamation. [ad_2] Supply hyperlink

[candy-floss-crazy]

Wild West Photo Booth Hire

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[antonio-velardo]

Antonio Velardo shares: ‘Rust’ Killing Forces Hollywood to Make Choices on Guns by Julia Jacobs

By Julia Jacobs Real guns or replicas? Blank fire or special effects? The killing of a cinematographer on a film set has some in the industry rethinking their approach to firearms. Published: November 25, 2023 at 05:00AM from NYT Arts https://ift.tt/BaSe5TH via IFTTT

[ashly-29]

Part of a Blank Gun Explained

A blank gun is a type of replica firearm that creates the appearance and smoke of live ammunition, but in reality, it contains no bullets or shots. The use of such guns to simulate nonexistent weaponry in movies, television and theater productions, video games, and reenactments has been common since the late 19th century. Whether their function is decorative or theatrical, these firearms are typically intended for use only as props. 

To some degree, however, all firearms are replicas at some level because they either lack firing mechanisms (antique firearms) or contain inert cartridges (replicas or blanks). These guns are also popular among collectors who pursue items that were produced early on when their mechanical features were less reliable than those manufactured today. 

Relatively inexpensive, these guns were also a favorite of early movie makers seeking to convince the public that their films were of a higher quality than they actually were. In addition, the use of "canned" or pre-recorded soundtracks had not yet become commonplace in feature films. This meant that firearms whose fire could be synchronized with on-screen visuals required blank ammunition.

Basic Types of a Blank Gun

These guns are generally classified into two basic types: gas and spring-loaded. The main difference between these different types of guns is how the blanks are loaded onto the moving parts of the gun. 

The blank guns use a built-in cartridge to fire blanks through a semi-automatic process using compressed air as an oxygen source. Spring-loaded blanks use compressed air to push blank projectiles out of the end of the loading port. The most popular of these types of blanks is the "Brake" type. 

Brake blanks are constructed with a spring system that uses the rear mounting surface of the gun, which is usually an area that other parts cannot be attached to, as a source that pushes the blank out of the barrel. Many military-style weapons use this type for its portability and ease of use.

These guns are also available in imitation firearm-inspired finishes such as wood, plastic, and metal when considering their aesthetic value. These guns can also be customized with weapon accessories or models from popular television and film franchises like Star Wars or James Bond.

[ask-l1nk]

I learned this…..

-L1nk spins the gun on their finger and then fires a blank at about the height where the human heart is located-

I also made a slight modification to the replica.

-L1nk holds the gun over what looks like a small mark on their arm that says “Deus Ex Macnina” and the gun reloads-

Neat right?

Hi Happy! Thank you so much for the replica. I’ve been practicing some moves with it!

Knew you'd get attached to that thing.

At least something new to hear of in this place.

Haven't pushed forth a moment more thrilling than this, but life isn't really a medium where you can just cut to the next exciting scene, gotta wait once again.

What even did you learn to do exactly? I know you told Theo about it and you were elusive without flaw afterwards.

[tcnvault]

EKOL SAVA Magnum 9mm Semi Automatic Front Firing Blank Gun in Black With Gold Fittings

EKOL SAVA Magnum 9mm Semi Automatic Front Firing Blank Gun in Black With Gold Fittings

EKOL Sava Magnum is a modern looking front firing blank gun. This blank firing prop features realistic look and feel to a real gun and fires 9mm PAK blank rounds to simulate sound and visual effects of a real firearm. With flame vented through the front of the barrel this model will surely stand out in your performances.

Other actions include a recoiling slide during firing, the slide locks in rear position when the last cartridge is fired, magazine holds 9mm PAK blank rounds which are load through the pistol grip and safety.

This is an ideal blank firing pistol for film or theatrical productions as well as for military and law enforcement training. The model can be fully disassembled for cleaning purposes or as a stage prop.

Features:

Black Finish

Gold Fittings

Slide Stop

Realistic action

Semi-Auto Mode

Blank Ammunition Caliber: 9 mm PAK

Overall Length: 6.75 inches

Height: 5.25 inches

Weight: 1.8 lbs

[paknives01]

what exactly is a blank gun? It looks exactly like an authentic firearm, with some essential functions changed.

[iceeckos12]

time travel snippet

little time travel au oneshot. season 5 jon travels back in time to season 1. from the perspectives of tim, martin, and sasha. 3.5k.

i dont think i need to tag anything, but please let me know otherwise.

Tim wakes up that morning, and it’s just like any other day.

Well—no, okay, that’s a bit misleading. Today is his first day working as an archival assistant, so he’s one part nervous, one part that breathless, exhilarated feeling you only get when you’re about to do something unfamiliar that may or may not redefine your life for the foreseeable future. When he says “it’s just like any other day”, he means that he wakes up, and he’s a normal person doing normal people things like eating a healthy breakfast and going to work.

(So, no. In short, he doesn’t realize that today is the day when It happens, that big, life-changing event that you think will Never Happen To You.)

He gets out of bed, stumbles into the bathroom. Washes his face of whatever residue that’d built up during the night, tries to scrape away the evidence of his nightmares, smiles big and bright at the mirror to see how successful his efforts were. He’s betrayed by the traitorous bags beneath his eyes, but that’s okay. Sasha taught him how to wield concealer as a shield whenever his past wore down his armor.

He shoots twin finger guns into his reflection, making soft pew, pew! noises that are almost too-loud in the hush of the bathroom. Then he turns on his heel and walks away, sauntering and humming along with the chorus of Dolly Parton’s 9 to 5.

He gets to the Institute twenty minutes before he’s supposed to—not because he’s trying to impress his boss or whatever (he and Jon have known each other long enough that there’s no point). It’s just, Jon will probably want to make some sort of game-plan before the actual workday starts. 

The poor man had been relieved to an almost comical degree when Tim had said yes, I’ll come with you to the Archives. It’s painfully obvious how out-of-his-depth Jon is with the whole “Head Archivist” thing. Tim’s honestly baffled as to why Elias had singled him out for the position in the first place, considering his lack of qualifications.

But, whatever. It’s fine! Tim and Sasha will be there to help him—although the third assistant is a bit of a problem, considering that they know absolutely nothing about him. There’s no guarantee that this Martin Blackwood won’t report inadequacies or mistakes back to Elias. If that’s the case, Tim and Sasha will have to be Jon’s safety net, which is partially why Tim is hoping to talk to Jon before anyone else gets there.

He also wants to talk to Jon because he just knows the man is probably working himself up over all of this. Maybe reassurances won’t do away with the source of anxiety entirely, but at least it’ll remind Jon that he’s not alone, and that he can count on Tim and Sasha.

As expected, when Tim gets there he can see a sliver of light pouring out from the cracked door of the Head Archivist’s office. He selects a desk and sets his bag on top of it, noting a set of strange gouges in the fake wood with a raised eyebrow, and then an internal shrug. The Institute issued laptop is near the far edge of his desk, and his collection of pictures are strategically placed so that he can see them all clearly.

His eyes linger over the image of him, his mother, and his brother. Their smiles are almost perfect replicas of each other, like someone took a mold of one of their faces and recreated it twice over.

Briefly, he closes his eyes. Then he shakes himself, releases a slow, steadying breath, and goes to check on Jon.

Tim’s not sure what he’s expecting to see when he goes into Jon’s office.

(That’s misleading too, though. He’s not sure if Jon will be visibly calm or upset, if he’ll be on his laptop, if he’ll be picking at the skin around his fingernails, as he so often does when he’s stressed. He is expecting Jon as he is and always has been—a twenty-some year old going on sixty, who wraps his gruff, grumpy demeanor about himself to protect the soft, vulnerable core he likes to pretend doesn’t exist.)

He comes up to the door, and the soft rectangle of light that emanates from beneath the door paints the tips of his shoes gold. “Jon?” he calls softly, rapping his knuckles against the frame. There’s a soft rustling noise—papers maybe? but no audible response, so he shrugs and pushes the door open. “I’m coming in.”

Tim steps inside, a quip instinctively readying itself on his tongue—but then his gaze lands on Jon, and he freezes dead in his tracks.

Even years later, he still vividly, viscerally remembers the moment he saw Danny standing on the stage underneath the Royal Opera House, the way he’d looked...not quite right. The wrongness had been subtle, so much so that it had been unnoticeable upon first glance, upon second glance. The longer Tim had looked though, the more obvious it had become, exposing all the little faults in that almost-perfect recreation of his brother.

Looking at Jon now, it’s the first and only thing he can think of. Because—yes, there’s the long, silver-streaked black hair, there’s the rich brown eyes, there’s the pair of spectacles that make him look far older than he actually is. But that’s where the similarities between the Jon he knows and this Jon end.

Jon’s always been a small man, but his feigned haughtiness makes him seem much bigger than he actually is. Except—except this Jon looks smaller somehow, his shoulders curved protectively inward, like he’s trying to present less of a target. And there’s something about his face, too—his expression is too sharp, too much—

But the worst of it is his eyes. There’s something very wrong with his eyes.

Who the fuck are you, and what have you done with Jon? He doesn’t say it out loud though, just keeps staring at Jon, a heady mix of terror and horror making any sort of reaction impossible.

After a moment Jon’s lips thin, contorted by some distant cousin of displeasure, and he rises to his feet. Tim stumbles instinctively backward, his breath escaping him in a sharp gasp that’s immediately swallowed up by the apathetic stacks of books and papers surrounding them. He’s struck by the fact that if he dies here, it’s unlikely anyone will notice; he’ll become just another set of marks gouged into the desk, willed away with an uneasy shrug.

Jon freezes, lips parting subtly, as though he were about to speak. Tim feels his breath catch in his chest, unable to shake himself out of the clouded stupor his mind has fallen into.

In the end, Jon says nothing. Just releases a long, slow breath of air and sits back down, pushing his chair close to his desk. The motion looks heavy, tired, as though it takes far more energy than it should.

“You—you should go,” Jon rasps, and there’s something off about his voice too, though Tim can’t put his finger on why. He can’t cobble together enough of a train of thought to make sense of any of this, all he can think of is that clown ripping Danny apart—

He stumbles out of Jon’s office, sits down at his desk. Stares down at the cheap, fake wood, at the gouges that have marred the otherwise pristine surface. Puts his head in his hands, and tries to will his heart to stop pounding in his chest.

-0-

Martin’s heard things about Jonathan Sims.

He’s not usually the type to pay attention or encourage gossip, as the vivid memories of his classmates tittering cruelly whenever he walked by still leaves a sour taste in his mouth.The problem with the Institute is that the employees get bored pretty easily. Though most would consider academic research into the esoteric and the paranormal to be fairly interesting, it’s still academic research. And the subject content can get to be a bit...repetitive. There’s only so many gruesome statements you can read without thinking, oh great, more meat.

So the employees gossip a lot, and while Martin usually tries to keep his head down and avoid it, it’s difficult not to overhear some things. And from what little he’s heard, he’s...a bit concerned. Rude and unsociable has frequently been mentioned, as have arrogant and unnecessarily finicky, and worst of all, a bit of a stuck-up know-it-all.

Normally he tries not to put too much stock in office gossip—he’s well aware that the grapevine tends to exaggerate one’s most undesirable traits—but if any of it is true, then he might just be in trouble. It was hard enough being a library employee when his boss wasn’t even paying attention most of the time. If Jon is as exacting as they say, it might be enough to expose the fact that Martin has no idea what the fuck he’s doing. And if that happens, then he might get fired, and he can’t get fired, he needs this job, he can barely keep up with his mum’s medical bills as it is—

Calm down, Martin tells himself firmly, pressing his hand against his sternum, as though that will be enough to quell the rising panic. It’s only your first day. Maybe he’s nice, and we’ll actually be good friends.

(With his luck? Yeah, right.)

The Institute looms in the distance, growing closer with every terrified, grudging footstep. A shiver runs up his spine at the sight of its imposing presence, a dark, ugly blot of a building against the backdrop of the iron grey clouds.

If there’s one thing he’s good at though, it’s keeping his head down and muddling through until he’s able to figure out what is actually expected of him. He can twist and fold himself into whatever role they need him to fill, as he has done so many times in the past. Not easily perhaps, but he has always managed. The alternative is untenable, after all.

So he takes a deep breath, and shoves his panic down as deep as possible. Lifts his head and forces a smile onto his face, like a good attitude will be enough to protect him from his boss’s wrath.

He could really do with a cup of tea.

Martin trudges down the stairs, giving the blank walls, the old-fashioned carpet, a dubious look as he does. The Archives themselves are as he remembers it—he’s been down here a couple of times when Gertrude made a request for something specific, but—

He pauses when he notices a man sitting at one of the desks, his face buried in his hands. His shoulders aren’t shaking and his breathing is even, so Martin doesn’t think that he’s crying? He’s just….sitting there, his stillness so perfect it’s almost inhuman.

“Hello?” Martin calls softly, cautiously, shifting his weight to the balls of his feet.

The man looks up, revealing a very handsome face and brown eyes so dark they may as well be black. His cheeks are dry but his eyes are bright and a little wild, and his mouth is pressed into a small, tight line. He doesn’t speak, just keeps watching, blinking dazedly in Martin’s direction. Martin gets the feeling that this person isn’t entirely there at the moment, like a house in which every room is lit, but there are no people inside.

He swallows and shifts nervously back and forth, trying to decide whether or not to call for some backup. Eventually he sets his bag on the floor and shuffles a bit closer. “Um—are you—is everything okay?”

The man blinks rapidly, some semblance of awareness creeping back into his gaze. He shakes his head slowly, pushes his short, gelled hair back from his head. His hands are trembling. “I’m...yeah, I’m fine. It’s—everything’s, it’s…”

But then his gaze lands on something over Martin’s shoulder, and all the color drains out of his face, his mouth shutting with a painful sounding click. Martin quickly spins around, searching for whatever could’ve scared him so much—

There’s someone standing in the doorway of Gertrude’s office.

There are so many things that one normally takes in upon first meeting another person: their hair, their skin color, all the little wrinkles and marks that give you the briefest insight into their life. Martin looks at posture first, tends to check if a person is intentionally looming, or if they’re making themself smaller.

But all Martin can see are the eyes.

There’s—two of them he thinks, but two is such an arbitrary number when the thing you’re applying it to doesn’t ascribe to human values (he’s not sure how he knows that—how does he know that—?). That horrible, terrible gaze is an unerring arrow, all-encompassing, all-consuming, piercing the deepest corners of his mind. It hurts in some distant, nebulous way he’s not even sure he comprehends—

Then he blinks, and the sheer terror, that feeling of the horrible, violating exposure of everything that he is, abruptly snuffs out. What’s left is just a person, wispy and small, his slight frame fairly drowning in a chunky, cable-knit jumper. He’s leaning against his doorframe, his eyes—two big brown ones, rich and unfathomably sad and more than that, human—drinking Martin in, his lips parted in a soundless gasp.

“Um—” Martin glances over his shoulder, and almost leaps out of his skin when a land falls heavily on his shoulder. The man who’d been sitting in the chair is standing just behind him, a strained but polite smile on his face.

“Hi Jon,” the man says, an undercurrent of a warning in his voice.

Martin glances between the two, his confusion growing with every passing moment. This is not what he was expecting when he first came into work today, and the uncertainty makes him feel strange and off-kilter.

The person in the door swallows once, twice, then straightens, one hand still gripping the doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. When he speaks, his voice is soft, tentative, a little ragged around the edges. “Tim. It’s, um...it’s good to see you.”

“Martin Blackwood, was it?” Tim continues, injecting a bit of cheer into his voice. It takes Martin a moment to realize that he’s being addressed, and he shoots Jon—this is Jonathan Sims?—an uncertain look before nodding slowly. “We’re happy to have you on the team.”

“O-Oh?” Martin squeaks, then grits his teeth and bodily forces his voice back into its normal range. “I’m—um, I’m happy to be here?”

“Good,” Tim says through a grin that looks more like a grimace, giving Martin’s shoulder a friendly pat. The look he shoots Jon is a dark, mistrustful thing. The look Jon gives him back is fragile, vulnerable, that winds the tension in Tim’s shoulders so tight it has to be painful.

Jon’s gaze flickers to Martin, just for a second—and then he disappears into his office, leaving the door cracked behind him.

Tim and Martin stand there for a second, staring at the door. Tim’s still tense as a bowstring, and his grip on Martin’s shoulder is almost uncomfortable. The air in the Archives feels stuffy and too warm, and there’s a strange prickling sensation on the back of Martin’s neck, like he’s being subjected to close scrutiny.

Then Tim sighs and lets go of Martin’s shoulder, a little of the tension bleeding out of him, and without it he looks small, deflated. He goes back to his desk and sits down, booting up his laptop without a word of explanation to Martin.

Martin stares at the back of Tim’s head for a moment, a number of questions clamoring around in his brain—what the fuck was that? What’s wrong with Jon? Why are you so obviously suspicious of him?—but the words won’t come. Breaking the silence feels...sacrilegious, somehow. Every breath of air sticks against the back of his throat.

In the end, he doesn’t say anything either, just sits at his desk and takes out his Institute-issued laptop. Stares blankly at the screen as the machine slowly, laboriously, comes to life.

-0-

Sasha’s not entirely sure how to interpret the tense atmosphere that has descended over the Archives.

The first day she’d arrived a couple of minutes before she was supposed to, prepared to follow Jon’s direction and help him adjust as best she could. (Her feelings about Jon’s promotion...didn’t matter. She didn’t like it, but it wasn’t his fault that Elias was an old-fashioned misogynist.)

But when she’d come down the stairs, Tim and the assistant she didn’t know, Martin, had been seated quietly at their desks. They’d both had the same distant, shell-shocked look on their faces, like they’d received some shattering, horrible news. Sasha had sent Tim a confused look, but he either hadn’t noticed it, or hadn’t wanted to explain.

She hadn’t even seen Jon that first day, just received a polite email asking her to start organizing the statements according to the system which he’d devised.

It’s been almost three days, and nothing has changed. Oh sure, they’ve all started organizing the statements as directed. Tim cracks jokes, Martin tiptoes around them and makes copious amounts of tea. That strange tension that makes the hair on the back of her neck stand up, like the world is holding its breath in anticipation, hasn’t faded though. And while she doesn’t know Martin all that well, she knows that something’s still up with Tim. He seems more subdued than usual, keeps sending uncomfortable looks in the direction of Jon’s office—

—which hasn’t been open since that first day. She hasn’t seen Jon at all either, no matter how early she arrives or how late she stays. The only proof she has that he’s still alive is the polite email she periodically receives, detailing some specific task that he wants for them to do.

Even then, his emails are...odd. She’s not sure how she can tell, but they feel...awkward? Stilted? Like he’s only half-aware of what he’s typing, or like he’s only asking them to do things because he feels like he should, not because he has any actual goal in mind.

Normally she’d be frustrated by this, would complain bitterly to Tim about Elias passing over her for someone who obviously doesn’t properly appreciate the position they’ve been given—except that she knows Jon. He’d made a point to explain the situation to her himself, an apologetic twist tucked into the corner of his mouth. More than that, he’d asked her to follow him to the archives, saying that he wanted the two people he trusted most, her and Tim, to come with him.

He respects her too much not to take this job seriously.

The strangeness of the archives is only emphasized by Jon’s complete and utter lack of presence within it, but she doesn’t—she doesn’t buy that. She doesn’t believe that he’d just suddenly decide not to do the job he’d been so anxious to excel at. 

More damning than anything is Tim’s complete, utter silence regarding Jon’s strange behavior, but whatever he knows about it, he isn’t saying anything. Martin is willing to talk, but he seems to be as lost as she is.

“I—that first day, Jon…” Martin shrugs, shooting a nervous glance toward the door leading to the archives. He’s been spending a lot of time hovering in the break room making tea, not that she can blame him. “He—I mean obviously I don’t know him very well, but he seemed...upset?”

“Upset,” Sasha repeats dubiously.

Martin lets out an exhausted sigh and turns away, waving a dismissive hand. “Look, I’m not entirely sure how to explain it. He just—okay, so, bear with me for a second, but he reminded me of this guy who used to live in my neighborhood.”

Sasha backs off, folding her arms and leaning against the counter. “Okay?”

“There was this little old couple that used to live in my neighborhood. They were—they were really sweet! The husband used to give candy to us younger kids. But um—sometimes you’d see him sitting in the rocking chair on his porch, and it was like...he wasn’t entirely there? Like, he’d just sit there for hours, rocking and staring at nothing. That’s—that’s what Jon’s expression reminded me of.”

Martin gets more animated the more he talks, Sasha notes; his hands move in broad, sweeping gestures, his expression twisting into an expression of extreme concentration. The moment he finishes he deflates again, tucking his hands into his armpits self-consciously, a hedgehog curling protectively in on itself.

“So, yeah,” he finishes eloquently.

“Huh,” Sasha says thoughtfully.

She gets back to her desk. Looks over at Tim, who’s studiously working through a box of statements, his mouth set in a neutral, concentrated frown. Takes a deep breath, letting the taste of dust and old papers sit heavy on her tongue.

Then she opens her laptop and starts looking through the catalog of cursed items that are currently being held in Artifact Storage.

(She doesn’t think that she’ll find anything, but—but just in case.)

-0-

They all get the call the next Monday morning: Elias Bouchard was found dead in his office.

[reddragdiva]

philosophically, there may be at least one rationalist who isn’t a fucking idiot

apparently scott alexander, speaking as scott siskind, saying straight up “gosh i sure do love HBD and the wisdom of the following list of ardent scientific racists and gosh the reactionaries are insightful" somehow does not in any way make scott a scientific racist into reactionaries and promoting the reactionary line, precisely as he appeared to be for the past several years

the strategy seems to be blank denial that scott declaring himself to be firing the smoking gun constitutes a gun with smoke coming out, it's probably just a cardboard replica shooting confetti or something. throwing up chaff

rationalists argue like republicans or bitcoiners, all claims are tentative and instantly changeable if they sound like they might not constitute good news for bitcoin today

and this is even before we get to eliezer yudkowsky declaring all his and scott’s detractors to be suppressive persons:

[goliath-de-senfina-sango]

Teller of Tales

The trio head through the portal to explore Danny's brand spanking new Sanctuary and are a little awed by all that he managed to make.  They meet a facinating new ghost, who has a deal for them.

ao3

When Danny took Sam and Tucker through the portal and into his Sanctuary, he was glad to see that he wasn’t the only one floored by how much of it there was, or how complex it had turned out. “I don’t think I’ve ever even made a drawing this complicated and detailed before,” he said as they reached the roof of the main portal building and house. It was at the heart of what looked to be a town or maybe even a city, which was surrounded by a dense forest, with a mountain to one side, a massive body of water that Danny would call a lake but that looked so vast an ocean felt more appropriate on the other, and even misty clouds of every kind of color he could see passing by a point of brilliant light. “I’m glad it’s been keeping Walker out as much as it has, and every other ghost too. That means we can explore it!”

“Danny, this place is magnificent!” Tucker wrapped him up in a tight hug and squeezed nearly hard enough to crack his back. “Dude, you made a whole ass town that’s almost as big as Amity Park! I wonder how stocked up this place is. You’ve got copies of our hoverboards here too, so what are we waiting for?”

“I say we take a look at that forest, it’s practically screaming ‘enchanted and full of mystery’, and maybe we can even figure out what all goes on in that head of yours.” Sam poked Danny’s head with a laugh and called up her own backup hoverboard, hopping over the ledge and onto it before Tucker could catch up. Tucker, of course, swerved off to see if he could find anything substantial in the town, which meant splitting up, which had Danny reaching out to grab them both.

“Guys hold up! Are we really gonna go into a freshly made place that I made mostly subconsciously while in ghost form and do it while splitting up? Are we the Scooby gang?”

“Take full offense from this but you’re baby,” Tucker said with a snort. “Your subconscious mind didn’t come up with anything that might hurt us.”

“Maybe not on purpose, but I might’ve made some parts of this place uninhabitable to regular humans, but perfectly safe for a ghost to be floating around in.” After all, a ghostly mind set deeply into a Passion could easily forget things like safety regulations for squishy humans. Young Blood wasn’t even malicious or Obsessive and look at how he’d turned out.

Sam rolled her eyes but circled back around to the boys. “Fine, we can stick together and tour your McMansion together, you lil show off, but if so then how about we take a look at the edges to see what we can learn about how well defended this place is? It’s meant to be your Sanctuary, so you’ve gotta have some way of keeping ghosts out without just shotting at them.”

“We can work our way through the town and out into the forest, guys, you know that right? We’re literally starting from the middle.” Danny sighed, shaking his head. “The defenses are clearly working because nothing’s actually done anything to us yet, they can wait.”

It took a bit of back and forth but eventually, they all decided on a direction to go and headed for the lake instead of the mountain. After all, if the water was safe for humans, they could all go for a swim. The trio set off and found what looked to be empty homes, some buildings that could be shops, a few restaurants that just needed stocking up and customers, and other places that looked all but ready to be populated by people stuck on the ground and people who could fly. There was a warehouse full of Focuses, cameras, and replicas of every robot or project that Danny and Tucker had ever put together before, along with a few that stored Fentonworks non-violent products too. “This place looks like someone’s fantasy dream town where you can sit, relax, chat up a ghost, and then head off into the unknown in your very own - oh wow, Danny is that the Specter Speeder?”

“Well, I may have gone over Mom and Dad’s blueprints a while back for it, but only because I wanted to see if I could develop ya know, a space ship from it.” Danny felt his cheeks burning and gave Tucker’s shoulder a light punch to try and wipe the grin off his face. “Shut up.”

“Actually, the closer we get to the forest, the more ‘port town’ vibes I’m getting,” Sam mused. “Danny, didn’t you say you wanted to be a pirate once when you were a kid?”

“Shut uuup, noo.” Danny pulled his hood over his face, even as he turned invisible. Ok, so maybe it did look like the perfect place for a pirate who hit land on an undiscovered island to have set up their own little town. That proved nothing.

Just as Sam opened her mouth to keep teasing him, Danny popped into visibility and transformed entirely, shooting into the air with plasma gathered in his hands. It felt like the pull of some massive celestial object focused on him and his sanctuary alone, getting closer and closer, and Danny was all but certain he couldn’t do much on his own against it. He reached into his Sanctuary, felt it reach back, and begged it to hide . The partly cloudy sky went dark, the clouds now stretching over the whole expanse of the island, and in the mountain, Danny could feel the hum of railguns warming up and ready to fire like Danny couldn’t on his own.

The clouds were parted by something vast and incomprehensible that sung every song never known by mortal ears, and looking at it was looking upon all that had ever happened throughout the whole of humanity, listening to every story ever told to another person, and Danny nearly unraveled before he could look away. Something like a bell tolled and that massive shape resolved itself into something steadily smaller and simpler, while a voice called out to them - when had Tucker and Sam joined in him in the air? - with a deep baritone voice. “ A̸̢̦̮̥͚h̴͉̟̳͙͈͎̩͡, my sincerest apologies! I hadn’t expecte d any mortals or bridge spirits to be here and so came to investigate this lovely new place in an old er form. Perhaps this is easier on your minds and senses?”

The being settled into the shape of a male presenting person with grey skin, a white shirt, black pants, and a purple trench coat. They were also wearing glasses over eyes that were green at a glance but any lingering eye contact showed every shade of green and violet that could be thought of, and Danny struggled to keep his gaze on the center of the being’s forehead. They smiled with shark-like teeth and held out a hand. Danny, after likely too long, regained enough sense to shake their hand and cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah, this is uh, this is a lot easier. Hi. I’m Danny.”

“Hello Danny, I’m recently going by Ghostwriter! And who might you all be?”

“I’m …. Tucker Foley. Tech master extraordinaire.” Tucker shook off his awe quickly enough and gave the Ghostwriter some finger guns and a grin, shaky as it may have been.

Tucker’s joke seemed to snap Sam out of her own stupor and she shook the ghost’s hand warily. “Sam Manson, curious to meet you.”

“It’s always good to be curious! I came here sensing both a new place to learn about, the gateway to this lovely little planar system, and also I sensed a curious mind like my own seeking new fascinating secrets to uncover. Considering only one of you is capable of creating a Sanctuary, I imagine it’s you, Danny?”

Danny nodded and scratched the back of his neck. “Uh, about you coming here, can I ask uh, what was up with that mind-melting form you were just in?”

“I’ve never properly understood Lovecraftian Horror’s until now,” Sam muttered with a shiver. Tucker elbowed her in the side.

Ghostwriter tapped their chin with a hum and looked around at Danny’s spooktacular bachelor pad and clapped his hands with a grin. “I propose a trade! If I tell you about myself, as the answer to your question is best answered with story, then you all tell me about your selves. Deal?”

The trio looked between each other and nodded, Danny holding out his hand to shake. “Deal. Can we take this to the cafe down there though?” Danny pointed exactly to one of the cafes in his Sanctuary and slowly relaxed his panicked grip on the place. If Ghostwriter wanted trouble he clearly didn’t want any with Danny.

They sat down, Danny found some tea, coffee and all the things required to make hot chocolate inside, and offered everyone. Tucker accepted some iced tea, while Sam and Ghostwriter got coffee, and soon Danny sat down with his own hot chocolate and everyone else’s drinks. They appreciated the drinks and took big sips before the Ghostwriter began to speak.

“Oh, but where to start, where to start? If you have time, I can start even at the very beginning of it all?” The trio looked between each other and shrugged; it was the weekend, they had plenty of time. Ghostwriter seemed delighted by that. “The very beginning it is!” Music began to play, soft and mysterious in their minds.

“Before all that you see around you, before the swirling mists and oceans of darkness, before the very concept of Being, nothing was all that was. No past, present or future, no light or darkness, simply a blank nothingness.” On the table, a portion of the air became… empty, in a way that Danny felt in his soul, and he ached to fill the void. “Now, no one, not even myself or my siblings, knows why what happened happened, but for whatever reason or unreason, something began to Exist. Now, the very first something is what some call ectoplasm, others magic, and countless other names, but my siblings and I simply refer to it as the Realms themself being born.” Green light shone in the center of the void and quickly expanded to fill it up, accompanied by glorious and triumphant music.

“Now, while the Realms were the Something to all the Nothing at its edges, it still had just about nothing in it. So, it got to making things within itself from itself, and after a bit of experimenting with half-formed ideas like any creative soul, the very first Realm - the first universe was created. Inside of this universe, there was a great deal and the forces that be happened to be rather proud of themself but had no one to share their creation with. So, they created a soul, and a vessel to house that soul in so that someone could experience what they had made. There was, however, the issue of longevity, which was solved somewhat easily enough, by moving the soul into yet another vessel.”

The shape of a person appeared, surrounded by others, and a light slid out of one as they fell, before being nudged into the next, back and forth. “Now, what with the flexibility of how the Realms interact with time, the soul of their creation was able to hop from mortal vessel to mortal vessel, back and forth across history. Each time the soul left a body it simply went to the edges of the universe before being guided to its next life. And so it went until all the mortals were gone, but the soul was now so complex from experiencing life as every mortal that it could fit in larger vessels from which to appreciate the world. So, they became each planet in turn, and then each star, and each galaxy and cluster, and black hole, until that universe finally went dark, and the being had been everyone and everything in it across its lifespan.”

The light grew brighter and brighter with each leap it took until it burrowed down deep enough to contain that light, and the images Ghostwriter showed them zoomed out to show a solar system. And from there, the light flowed all around it, even jumping to other systems, until the light was too bright to contain in those planets and so it became all the light there was. Abruptly there wasn’t any light at all. An emptiness that the soul grew and grew to fill.

“And so in the cold, dark, quiet of the seemingly dead universe, the being that experienced Existing in a way the Realms could not did what it hadn’t the chance to between all its various lives with their fresh starts and clean slated beginnings: remembered. They experienced all that they had gone through, the scope of their life unfolding to be felt in its entirety in a way that could only be done when unbound by flesh and stone and plasma confines.”

The darkness shrunk as the grey light grew, and then the darkness was a ball within a green expanse. “And then they Were, and the universe ended with a bang, as they who I call mother and you can refer to as Queen Death, was born into the Realms properly.” The ball cracked and trembled before exploding in all directions, the bits of the cosmic eggshell being tossed to the edges of what they could see on the table. A being outlined in grey that held every color there was within, spun around in excitement, and reached out, taking one of the fractured shells of her egg and molding it like clay into another ball, then doing the same with another.

For a long moment, the trio stared at the little queen Death making universes all around her, Tucker sipping his tea as he did so. While Danny was still processing and Sam struggled to find her words, Tucker set his cup down and cleared his throat. “So, there’s a lot to unpack there, and I presume that you’re one of those souls that finished maturing inside of their universe - what are your pronouns by the way?”

“Ah yes, those, I go by he and him for now.”

Tucker nodded and hummed. “So there’s a Queen of the afterlife then? Queen Death?” Ghostwriter’s face fell from that of an eager storyteller to something sour, bitter, and full of grief.

“Not anymore, sadly. Once Mother had adjusted to Being, she realized that she too could create in this wonderful place from which she came. She crafted for herself a lovely palace made half from concepts rather than stone or metal or wood, though it was made from all that and more too.” Death was shown molding the very mist around her into an intricate and beautiful landscape and building, before stopping and sitting cross-legged in her throne, tapping her chin. “But Death knew something was missing from her experience, something she’d had once before: companionship.”

Death was shown leaving her castle to go and gather the broken bits of her eggshell, and took them into her palace, before splitting one shell chunk in two and twisting the two into eggs. Green light gathered in each of her palms and flowed into the shells. “Mother made my eldest siblings, who would go on to name themselves Entropy and Peace. Unlike with her own experience with being guided into each new life, mother decided her first children would have a less lonely experience.” Blue light flowed from one egg and golden to the other and back, with the guiding hand of Death.

“Peace and Entropy would know each other in a way few still living gods do, for they were each other at times. And when they emerged, they gazed upon Death’s palace and kingdom with wonder, and they were a happy family.” Blue and Gold silhouettes hatched from their eggs, both donning violet. The three laughed and hugged and danced, crafting and playing. “And Death, and the Realms, decided to create again, and this time they would act together. And this time,” Ghostwriter said with a chill in his voice and his drink boiling, “the Realms would act on their fascination with balance.”

A violet light appeared as Death molded an egg all her own, and it pulsed and dripped with what felt to be oddly malicious. Entropy and Peace went about exploring their mother’s world while this happened and even took a few discarded shells to craft a universe of their own. Death and her children soon went about covering the table in art and Realms, along with Realms simply spawning from nowhere. The dark purple egg hatched, and the other universes shook.

“What if I told you that the force that brought Existence into Being made mistakes? What if I told you that gods can die?” Ghostwriter gestured to seven eggs orbiting each other, bands of light flitting between them all. “The third child of Death called himself War, and he was the first to disrupt things and give Peace a job to do.” War walked over and flicked the bands of light between two of the eggs, forcing the soul out into the Infinite Realms early, and it grew into a small green being. Peace flew over, and gently nudged the being back toward its egg, but not before drawing from within a blade and cutting through the tiny being. It returned to a ball shape and flowed back in.

“Ghosts of the dead, as you might call them, are souls set adrift from the path between lives, and Peace made it his job to take them back where they go. Sometimes War did this many times at once, and I, curious, asked Peace to allow a few to stay. After all, they were going to end up here again anyway, weren’t they? And so, we tried that, and due to the boundlessness and chaotic nature of the Realms these ghosts found themselves evolving and mutating over time, some of them fulfilling a passion from their previous life and finding their way back home into the next life, while others stayed here and grew and grew and even figured out a way to reproduce - sexually and not. Those ghosts born in the Realms from the dead we call Deathless because they never died.”

“So you’re the reason we have ghosts and stuff?” Sam frowned at the Ghostwriter and the story unfolding before their eyes froze. “Because you wanted to see what’d happen?”

“The name I first took was Curiosity, my dear, and actually I was the first ghost, made rather curious for a reason. It was something new. If I may?”

“Sorry.” The writer waved it off and the story continued.

“Peace forged a sword within himself that he used to set free souls that had gone too long outside of their shells, their minds dissolving under the pressure of an eternity they weren’t mature enough for yet. Many of the elder Deathless he granted such Peace granting tools, and so when a ghost went mad with age they were cut down and their soul returned to their egg. But if that were the last of War’s troublesome and destructive actions, this tale would have a happier ending.”

The violet War wrapped himself in black and red and forged within himself a ring and from that ring beat drums and played bagpipes and ripped chords that called out to something burning hot inside of Danny that had his chocolate evaporating out of his cup. “A god or a ghost can craft from themselves an artifact of power that embodies their very self, their greatest passion. Peace acted as a knight to Queen Death, while Entropy became the watcher over things, and War… War crafted his own place, a fortress beyond our immediate sight, and started taking ghosts there.”

War took the tiny green ghosts far from the others and brandished his ring at them, and from it a sickly purple light seeped out and infected the ghosts, turning them a toxic looking blend of green and purple. Danny shivered, and Sam set down her coffee, looking pale and furious. “Before we knew what he was doing, we thought of War simply as seeking conflict, as his name implied. But war, oh war is not just violence, it is imperialism, it is slaughter, it is conquest it is a͜ h҉un̵g̸er̶ ̸th҉at ca̴nnot be sat̶ed ųnt͜i̷l ͜all͢ i͏s͝ c̸o̡ns͢umęd ̕an͏d̴ ̕li̷k͝e͞l̢y̕ ev͜en͢ ͟not t҉he̛n.” The sickly purple and red light spread further and further, seeping into the ground and choking the air.

“When the dead forge artifacts that outlast them, they make them from the ectoplasm of the Realms and have them resonate with that ghost’s soul, thus allowing any Dead, Deathless, or even a living mortal with the same soul or at least born of the same soul as the ghost who made it to use it. When one of us does it though, well, we’ve got a universe worth of energy to work with, replenished by the Realms, so we reach inside and forge our relic from our own soul, and a bit of ectoplasm. Queen Death made her crown of Fire as a light to keep back the darkness, and to assist her in managing the ebb and flow of souls across the cosmos.”

The palace courtroom came into view and violet War marched forth toward his mother, his purple and red, and black ring pulsing with the beat of wrath. “As her Majesty Queen Death put to work her latest project of making systems out of Realms that would regulate themselves, her third eldest child marched into her throne room with a ring made from the collective heat and metals of stars within him, his malice, his corruptive hunger that would take and steal and conquer, and he stole from her what was her own, the Crown of Fire that lit the darkness of the Infinite Realms, and with a sword stolen from a Peacemaker he earned his most hatefully spat title, the Filthy Mother Killer.“ The kaleidoscopic crown atop Death’s head turned sickly and purple-green. A sword the color of bone pierced Death’s center and the whole Sanctuary shook with a screech.

“Peace ran to mother's palace to ask what had happened, for all the Realms felt it when Death died, and oh, how realization crashed down upon that which could call itself the Realms themself, and oh how it wept and oh how it raged, as the sword that would cut free the souls lost and tangled in obsession too deeply to pass onto their next lives alone and gave the infant Realms peaceful deaths was used to reach into Peace itself and oh how the Realms wailed with fury as the Fright Knight was forced into being under the service of the Usurper, and struck even his sibling Entropy, now Clockwork, giving them their famed scar.” Gold was encased in bone white armor and it’s violet cloak ignited. They struck blue Entropy and soon the gods all over clashed, and the tabletop was swallowed by a rainbow of violence and dripped with emerald blood.

“And so, the Corrupter of Worlds threw the Realms into the most horrific war, beyond mortal comprehension, as the gods grieved and raged and fought with all they had, but could barely scratch their elder brothers. Until finally, finally, Clockwork sealed Fright Knight away in the nightmares his sword now caused. And finally, Entropy itself rallied their brothers and sisters and we sealed away the vile Mother Killer in the Sarcophagus of Forever Sleep.” Ghostwriter banished the images, his eyes burning amethyst and crimson and he took deep breaths, while the teens leaned back, wary and filled with their own impotent rage.

When finally he seemed to calm, the Sanctuary not writhing and rumbling with the force of his rage, he did a little gesture and the mist coalesced once more into a little stage. A foundation of stone formed and over it lay an ocean and from within it grew a tree of bark and steel, surrounded by breezes likely large enough to dwarf Jupiter’s red spot, mold growing at the bottom of the tree while a star roared to life above it. “Though War was locked away, the Realms did not know rest. So they set to work putting together their daughter's last project: a planar system. And ages beyond time passed, until one day, every god and spirit woke to the sound of a scream. And that, my dear Bridge Spirit, is where I believe your story begins.”

Danny sat there, turning over the story that he’d just been told in his head, and tried his best to process it. He wasn’t sure how to do that, though, with the enormity of it all. So, Tucker cut in for him, like always, but with a rap. “Yo, Danny Fenton, he was just 14-“

“Ai dios- stop!” Danny snorted a laugh and shoved Tucker’s face, and the trio descended into a fit of giggles. “Alright, my story isn’t as much as yours is, but, well.” And so, taking turns picking up where the others didn’t know, they told their story to the Ghostwriter. They could process the meaning of life later.

[candy-floss-crazy]

Wild West Photo Booth Hire

Hire Wild West Photo Booth, The Duke   Never approach a bull from the front, a horse from the rear, or a fool from any direction Hallelujah, your salvation is at hand. This will surely save yer from them there dull booths. The rootin, tootin unique Wells Fargo stagecoach photo booth system, the only one of its kind in the U.K. Complete with cowboy and Indian booth butlers, themed props, even cowboy music playing. Throw in a couple of cactus, a totem pole, even some tumble weed and you have a stunning centrepiece for your event, the envy of Jesse James. This booth is unbeatable for wild west themed events. We also offer a range of wild west themed games to accompany it. You can have your own little wild west town to entertain your guests.Our fantastic stagecoach comes with; •Booth Butlers Dressed As Cowboys. •Wild West Music Playing. •Cowboy & Indian Sound Effects. •Wild West Themed Props Box. •Wild West Accessories. •A Totally Unique Themed Booth. This isn't just a booth, it is a centrepiece for any wild west themed event, with cactus plants, a whiskey barrel an Indian totem pole and more for decoration at no extra charge. Our booth butlers wear real cowboy dress and even carry blank firing cowboy guns. Altogether a total league above any other booth on the market for an event like this. "The Duke" is a booth even John Wayne would have been proud of. Wild West Town To complement our wild west photo booth, we also offer a range of themed games. A Deadwood Saloon shooting gallery (using replica Winchester guns), cactus hoopla and Boot Hill graveyard horseshoe toss. We can supply a whisky wagon, or a chuck wagon with hot dogs. Taken all together we can provide you with a little replica town to entertain your guests. Our Stagecoach photo booth uses only the best equipment; •Professional Dye Sub Print Systems. •Canon DSLR Cameras. •Integrated Touch Screen Control System. •Cowboy Sound Effects. •Cowboy Music System. Every Booth Hire Is Provided With; •Guest Book. •Additional Set Of Prints. •Custom Themed Prints. SOCIAL MEDIA SHARING Our Stagecoach booth can be supplied with a range of social media tablets. Wirelessly connected to the booth they allow the guests to upload and share their images via Facebook, Twitter , Pinterest and via email. Spread your brands social media juice. Perfect for corporate parties, sales promotions and exhibitions. PERSONALISATION Any of our booths can be custom themed to suit your event. Whether its an appearance at an exhibition, or a sales promotion. We can add custom branding, personalised flags, themed prints, even cowboys dressed to match your colour scheme. YEEHAA It was a tough race of men and woman that won the West. The stories from yesteryear left us with many classic icons Winchester rifles, the Colt Peacemaker gun. Apache, Sioux and Comanche Indians, and the Wells and Fargo stagecoach. 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The stage ours is based on would have had bench seating for 9 passengers inside, and could carry another 6 passengers on the roof.WHERE CAN I HIRE A WILD WEST PHOTO BOOTH NEAR ME; We cover the full U.K. with all of our services. CAN THIS BE USED INDOORS; It has been many times, but note that it is a full sized stagecoach so needs large industrial sized doors to get in. HOW MANY PEOPLE DOES IT HOLD; You can comfortably get 6 inside. DOES IT COME WITH HORSES; Sadly not! Wild West Photo Booths Hire, Our photo System Is Available For Hire. In Scotland, London, The Midlands, The North East, Lancashire, Yorkshire And The Rest Of The U.K. And Europe 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 Read the full article