#she isn’t from the small area of berm

[seaglassdinosaur]

I know we collectively agree that Hiccup isn’t romantically inclined, and his getting married and having kids didn’t make sense in the epilogue, but consider: Hiccup getting married for political reasons.

It’s a marriage of alliance, which is recognized both by him and his partner, and they enter it without expectations of romantic involvement. Since they’re now married, they live in the same castle, spend time together, and Hiccup finds he really likes his spouse. They’re funny, get along with his friends, and has the same interests and values. They both probably speak multiple languages. She understands why Hiccup is so dedicated to making the Wilderwest better, and holds similar views. She’s a good politician (her job after all, was to be an ambassador). Hiccup likes spending time with them, and the feeling is mutual. They’re not in love, they have their own lives, but they’re dedicated to each other and eventually decide to raise children. They teach their kids how to train hawks and hunt with dragons, riding, history, the Languages, and all the necessary skills of their world. They’re not in love and they’re happy together.

[padyakerongkaibigan]

A Mountain Biker’s Glossary Of Terms

CTTO 

https://twowheeledwanderer.com/posts/mountain-bike-terminology

If you’re just starting out (or even if you’ve been mountain biking for awhile), the terms and slang thrown around by mountain bikers on and off that trail can be confusing. What the heck does sandbagging mean and why are people saying send it!?

So to help you demystify what your trail buddies are saying, below is a complete glossary for mountain bike terms and slang.

Here are the most popular mountain bike terms and slang used on and off the trail.

#

1X

Pronounced “one by”, this refers to having only one chain ring at the front of the drivetrain as opposed to two or three. Most new mountain bikes (although not all) will come as a 1X since it makes shifting smoother and easier.

27.5”

Refers to a bike with 27.5-inch wheels.

29ER

Refers to a bike with 29-inch wheels.

A

ARMOR

1. Protective gear worn by mountain bikers such as neck braces, torso armor, knee and elbow guards, or spine protectors.

2. A section of trail, particularly the banks of washes or areas prone to erosion, that are covered by a layer of rocks. These sections are commonly referred to as ‘armored’.

ATTACK POSITION

This refers to the body position of a rider as they are going down a steep or technical trail. Attack position usually involves being up and out of the seat, dropper post all the way down, chest lowered to the handlebars, elbows out wide, and eyes looking ahead.

B

BABY HEADS

Round rocks in the middle of a trail that look like, well… the size of baby heads…

BAIL

When a mountain biker ditches their bike to avoid a more serious crash.

“He bailed when he saw that it was a gap jump and not a drop.”

BERM

A banked corner formed out of dirt and/or rocks. Bermed turns can be ridden much faster and smoother than a flat corner because there’s less concern of washing out. Most flow trails are constructed of linked bermed turns.

BOARDWALK

A boardwalk is a manmade (usually wooden) bridge that spans a depression in the ground or elevates the trail over marshy areas. Boardwalks can be wide or they can be narrow. See also skinny.

BOMB

To go as fast as you can down a trail.

“You bombed down that! I bet you got a PR.”

BONK

To run out of energy on the trail.

“I bonked massively today. I couldn’t even pedal up the last small climb.”

BOOTER

A small little jump either in the middle of the trail or off to the side. Booters tend to form from natural objects that are already on the trail like roots, tree stumps, and rocks. See also kicker.

BREAKAWAY

A style of helmet that has a removable chin guard. They can be used as a typical ‘half lid’ helmet or as a ‘full-face’ DH helmet depending on the terrain. Simply snap on or remove the chin guard based on what you plan to ride. See also lid, half-lid, and full-face.

BROWN POW

Also known as ‘hero dirt’, brown pow refers to optimal riding conditions like grippy loam and slightly damp soil. See also hero dirt.

BUNNY HOP

A mountain bike skill that involves first lifting the front wheel off the ground and then the back wheel while the front wheel is still in the air. It’s used to hop over trail features and it definitely makes you look cool.

C

CASE

When a rider doesn’t clear a jump completely and their back tire clips the top of the landing. This can be no-big-deal or it can pitch the rider over the handlebars.

“He just totally cased that jump. Glad he was able to ride it out!”

CHAIN SLAP

The noise and feel of the bike chain hitting the chainstay.

CHAIN SUCK

When the chain either falls off the big ring into the spokes or falls off the small ring between the frame and crank.

CHATTER

Used to describe rocky, loose trail conditions. Often refers to the sound the bike makes going down rough sections of trail. See also chunder.

“That section of trail was loose and chattery.”

CHUNDER

A term used to describe rocky and loose trail conditions, typically at a higher level than chatter. If a trail is chundery, it has a lot of rocks and loose debris.

CLEAN

To ride through a tough section of trail without crashing, stopping, or taking the feet off the pedals.

“She just cleaned the hardest part of this trail!”

D

DAB

When you put a foot down, but don’t actually stop the bike when you’re either riding up or down a technical section. It usually happens when you lose balance, but not so much so that it halts your effort.

DH

Short for downhill. DH trails tend to be highly technical and require advanced skills. This style of riding is the most extreme and high stakes.

DIALED

Dialed is similar to using the word ‘impressive’ in a mountain bikers vocabulary. A ‘dialed bike’ could have custom components and an awesome paint job. A ‘dialed jump’ could be built so well that it’s easy and effortless. A ‘dialed rider’ could be someone who nails every turn and corner without making one mistake.

DOUBLETRACK

Refers to a wide trail that may have once been an old road (or still is). Typically they’re used to connect other mountain bike trails. See also singletrack.

DOWNSLOPE

The landing surface of a jump, tabletop, or drop. This is usually slanted downwards to prevent the rider from landing on flat ground (which does not feel good).

DROP

A trail feature that has a flat entrance that then drops away abruptly. Drops can be several inches or several feet and they can be manmade (ex wooden ramps) or they can be natural (ex a rock drop). See also feature.

E

ENDO

When a mountain biker crashes and goes over the bars. See also OTB.

ENDURO

A style of riding that includes a mix of both cross-country trails and DH (downhill) descents. Enduro racing involves multi-stage - and sometimes multi-day - segments with untimed climbs and timed descents.

F

FEATURE

A notable obstacle on the trail such as a jump, drop, rock roll, tabletop, rock garden, etc… Features vary widely in technicality from easy rock rollers to steep rock faces.

FLATTED

When a tire loses air due to a puncture.

“I flatted… thankfully I have a spare tube!”

FLOW

When corners and other downhill features fit together so well that there is little need to pedal or work to keep momentum going. It often feels like both rider and bike are floating down the trail. New-school style of trail are often called flow trails. See also new-school.

FULL FACE

A style of mountain bike helmet that has a chin guard for full-face protection. These are typically worn at lift-served bike parks and on rowdy DH trails. See also lid, half-lid, and breakaway

FULL-SQUISH

Refers to a full-suspension mountain bike that has both a front fork and a rear shock. See also fully rigid and hardtail.

FULLY RIGID

A fully rigid bike has no suspension at all. Some people think this is fun. See also full-squish and hardtail.

G

GAP/GAP JUMP

A type of jump that has no central surface. There is a lip to take off from and a downslope to land on, but in the middle there is a gap. As opposed to a tabletop, which has a flat central surface between the take off and landing. See also lip, downslope, and tabletop.

GROM

A young mountain biker who is gung-ho about ripping down trails.

H

HALF LID

A bike helmet that isn’t a full-face. In other words, a ‘typical’ bike helmet. See also lid, full-face, and breakaway

HARDTAIL

A bike that only has front fork suspension. Hardtails do not have a rear shock, making them harsher, but faster, to ride.

HERO DIRT

Another term for brown pow. Hero dirt refers to optimal riding conditions where the soil or loam is grippy and fast. Hero dirt often comes a day or two after a rain. See also brown pow.

HIP JUMP

A form of jump that requires the rider to change direction or orientation of the bike in mid-air.

HUCK

When a rider propels themselves off a jump or drop. It usually refers to something big and consequential.

“I can’t believe he just hucked himself off of that drop and landed it!”

I

ITALIAN PIT STOP

When the fastest members on a group ride take a break on the trail and then immediately leave when the slowest rider rolls ups.

K

KICKER

A small or large jump with a steep take-off. Kickers usually involve hang-time in the air. See also booter.

KIT

More widely used in the road bike community, kits are the outfits that bikers wear. Racers usually have custom-made kits that announce their sponsors and last name.

KLUNKER

An old and out-dated mountain bike.

KOM

Stands for “King of the Mountain”. This is a Strava term for the fastest male rider on a specific Strava segment. See also QOM.

L

LADDER BRIDGE

A manmade trail feature like a bridge or boardwalk that gains or loses elevation. See also boardwalk.

“That ladder bridge up onto that rock is so sketchy.”

LID

Slang for a helmet. See also half-lid, full-face, and breakaway.

LIFT-SERVED

Trails at a bike park that are accessed via a gondola or chairlift.

LINE

The path a rider takes through a technical section of trail. Sometimes lines are obvious and other times there are several different lines through an obstacle. For larger features and obstacles, there’s usually an “A line” that goes through or over the feature and a “B line” that goes around.

LIP

The edge of a jump’s takeoff or landing.

LOAM

A form of grippy dirt that is often found in forested areas like the Pacific Northwest and parts of the UK. Unlike brown pow or hero dirt, which appear after rain, loam is the normal riding condition.

M

MACHINE-BUILT

Trails that were built with a machine. These tend to be smooth, flowy, and fast and might include bermed turns, rollers, and small kickers. See also new-school.

MANUAL

A riding skill similar to a wheelie, but instead of pedaling the bike forward, the rider maintains balance on the back wheel while riding downhill. Skilled riders can also manual or over trail features like roots and dirt rollers, which helps maintain speed and also looks super cool.  

MECHANICAL

A ‘breakdown’ on the trail which usually refers to a flat tire, but could also include a broken chain, twisted bars, or a dropped chain. Usually a mechanical can be fixed trailside.

MULLET

A bike that runs a 29-inch wheel in the front and a 27.5-inch wheel in the rear.

N

NEW-SCHOOL

A style of trail building and riding that usually includes machine-built tracks and bike park-style features like wall rides, dirt jumps, boardwalks and berms.

O

OFF-CAMBER

Refers to the slant of a trail or feature. Many slickrock trails have off-camber sections that drop away to one side.  

OLD-SCHOOL

A style of trail and riding that encompasses more raw and rough terrain. Features tend to be natural like rock drops and rock rolls. As opposed to new-school riding which tends to include machine-built flow trails and bike park features. See also new-school.

OVER-COOK

To overshoot a jump so much so that you miss the downslope on the landing

OTB

Stands for ‘Over The Bars". When a mountain biker crashes and goes over the handlebars. See also endo.

P

PEDAL STRIKE

When a pedal hits the ground or a rock/obstacle while riding. This could be no-big-deal or it could cause you to go flying 10 feet into the bushes.

PINCH FLAT

A flat that occurs when a bike’s tire gets so compressed that the inner tube gets ‘pinched’ between the wheel rim and the tire and the tube is punctured. It’s also sometimes called a snakebite because the puncture is actually two small holes that look like a snakebite. You can’t get a pinch flat with tubeless tires because there are no inner tubes.

PINNED

Typically refers to a group of riders that are moving at speed along (usually down) a trail and keeping a tight formation.

“We were pinned coming down that! If any one of us had crashed it would have been bad news.”

POACH

When a mountain biker illegally rides a trail that is either closed for maintenance or not open to bikers at all (ie a hiking trail). It can also refer to riding a private network without paying the entrance fee.

PR

Short for Personal Record. This is a Strava term for your fastest time on a specific Strava segment.

Q

QOM

Stands for “Queen of the Mountain”. This is a Strava term for the fastest female rider on a specific Strava segment. See also KOM.

R

RAIL

To ride into a berm with such force and speed that you actually gain speed coming out of it. Almost like the rider is on rails.

RATCHET

A riding skill where you use half-strokes on the pedal to maneuver your way through an obstacle. This is often used when full pedal strokes aren’t possible due to risk of pedal strikes.

ROCK GARDEN

A trail feature that includes lots of embedded rocks.

ROCK ROLL

A rock that you can roll on top of and then off of.

ROOST

To kick up dirt and sand from the back tire after whipping around a loose turn. The term ‘roost’ is derived from rooster tail.

ROWDY

A term to describe rough and technical riding.

“That trail was rowdy! I almost endo-ed on the last rock roll”

S

SAG

The amount of dip a front fork and rear shock depress when a rider is sitting casually on a bike.

SANDBAGGING

1. Saying something is easier than it actually is.

2. Racing in a category below your level so that you have a better chance of winning.

SCRUB

When a rider purposefully stays low over a jump. Typically racers scrub jumps to save time. Scrub can also refer to slowing down before turns to make them smoother and faster.

SEND IT!

When a mountain biker aggressively rides a trail feature such as a jump or drop.

“She sent that drop like it was no big deal!”

SESSION

To stop and work on riding through a section of trail or intimidating feature.

“We got back late because we sessioned a few of the harder features.”

SHRED

The acceptable term for riding mountain bike singletrack. It usually refers to fast descents.

SHUTTLEABLE

Trails that can be accessed via vehicle.

“Can we shuttle to the top today? I’m feeling tired.”

SIDEHILL

A section of trail that is cut into the side of a hill. One side of the trail is typically a steep drop off while the other side typically is a steep mountainside or hillside.

SINGLETRACK

What most mountain bike trails are: narrow and require riders to ride in single file.

SINGLE-SPEED

A bike that only has one speed. Some people think it’s fun.

SKETCHY

A trail feature or section of trail that makes you think twice.

“That line is so sketchy! I don’t know how you managed to ride it without going over the bars.”

SKINNY

A skinny piece of wood or log along the trail that you can ride on.

SLICKROCK

A style of trail that is found mostly in the western United States like Moab or Sedona. Riding on slickrock basically means riding on large swaths of uninterrupted rock.

STEEZY

When a rider makes a feature look stylish and easy. Steeezy.

STEP-DOWN

A trail feature where a rider jumps down to a lower section of trail from a higher elevation. Kind of like a drop…

STEP-UP

A trail feature where a rider jumps up to a higher section of trail from a lower elevation. This could also include jumping up from a dirt jump to a wooden feature, which is common at bike parks.

STOKED

The feeling you get when bombing down an awesome trail!

STRAVA

A phone app that records ride data such as mileage, GPS, elevation gain/loss, speed compared to other riders, and more.  

STRAVASSHOLE

Someone who rides with only one thing in mind: getting a Strava PR. This usually involves asshole-type behavior on the trail.

SWITCHBACK

A hairpin turn on a trail that makes climbing and descending more moderate. Switchbacks zig-zag riders up and down steep sections of trail.

T

TABLETOP

A jump with a take-off and a downslope landing with a flat surface in the middle. There’s much less risk on a tabletop than a gap jump because if you land short you’ll still land on solid ground.  See also gap jump.

TACO

When the wheel folds in on itself to form a taco shape. This usually happens after casing a jump or hitting an obstacle straight on.

TEETER-TOTTER

A manmade feature that looks and performs like the teeter-totter’s of your youth. After reaching the apex, the weight of you and your bike will cause the teeter-totter to fall back down to the ground.

TRACKSTAND

A bike skill that involves standing still on your bike without pedaling. It’s a great skill to learn for tackling slow-speed tech.

TRAVEL

The amount of change the front fork and rear shock experience after riding a trail or feature. A lot of travel means you used most of the suspension on your shocks while less travel means you didn’t go through much travel. Travel also refers to how much suspension a bike fork or shock has (ex 150mm in the fork and 140mm in the rear).

TUBELESS

A tire set-up that doesn’t involve inner tubes. Instead, sealant is injected into the tires. When a tire is punctured, the sealant ‘seals up’ the hole and congeals to form a plug.

W

WALL RIDE

A manmade, slanted wooden ramp feature with one side close to or touching the ground and the other side elevated in the air. Wall rides ride like giant berms.

WASH OUT

When the bike tires wash out from under you due to wet or slippery conditions. This usually occurs around a corner or when landing a jump.

WHEELIE

When a rider picks up his front tire and pedals the bike while balancing on the rear wheel. See also manual.

WHIP

A mountain bike skill where riders ‘whip’ their back tire to the side when in the air over a jump.

WONKY

Mountain bike slang for when something doesn’t feel or work right on your bike.

“Something’s wonky with my shifting. I can’t get it to go into the lowest gear.”

X

XC

Short for cross-country. This style of riding involves a variety of terrain including big climbs and minimally technical descents. It is the least extreme form of mountain biking and also the most popular.

Y

YARD SALE

When a rider completely wipes out on the trails and all his or her belongings like water bottles and sunglasses go flying.

[griimreaping]

@liftedrelics​  ━━━━━  plotted starter

Milky   sunlight   does   little   to   dissipate   the   thick   fog   which   swirls   between   trunks   of   stood   birch   and   fir.   A   wet   earth   stench   hangs   in   the   air   and   fills   up   Jean’s   lungs   with   air   that   feels   far   too   heavy.   Green   eyes   sweep   over   this   full   grey   landscape   with   diligence,   even   if   there   isn’t   much   to   look   at.   Her   boots   sound   strangely   muffled   in   this   miasma,   which   is   sluggishly   claiming   its   fourth   straight   day.      She   misses   the   sun.   Warmth   that   teasers   just   beyond   the   grasp   of   this   clammy   mist,   which   doesn’t   seem   to   have   the   courage   to   become   rain.   Remembering   the   tear   in   her   poncho,   Jean   is   ruefully   thankful   that   it   hasn’t   started   to   rain,   even   if   the   weirdly   shifting   gloom   plucks   at   her   nerves   like   an   excited   harp   soloist.   

Adjusting   the   strap   across   her   chest   that   keeps   a   well   used   M14   carbine   close,   Jean   bites   the   inside   of   her   cheek   when   the   weapon   jabs   none   too   gently   into   a   still   healing   bruised   rib.   Breathing   shallowly   while   she   grapples   with   the   sudden   radiation   pain,   the   woman   pauses   on   the   shoulder   of   the   abandoned   two-lane   road.   Boots   sinking   into   the   loamy   soil   Jean   very   gingerly   adjusts   the   weapon   again,   easing   a   gloved   hand   against   her   injury.   Murky   snapshots   of   a   crazed   near-feral   face   blur   in   her   mind’s   eye,   the   shark   crack   of   their   pipe   wrench   catching   her   shoulder   first,   then   cracking   into   the   ribs.   Her   side   throbs   in   response   to   the   thought.   The   woman   hadn’t   stopped   walking   since   then.

Finally   ebbing   to   something   manageable,   Jean   lets   out   a   long   breath   that   only   serves   to   make   the   wound   flare   hotly   once   more.   Glancing   through   the   perpetual   twilight   of   the   fog,   she   blinks,   lingering   images   of   a   face   flecked   in   gore   after   being   bashed   in   with   a   wrench   out   of   her   memories.   One   more   to   add   to   a   growing   list   of   waking   nightmares   who   fall   somewhere   in   the   realm   of   self-defense   but   don’t   fall   far   enough   so   she   can   outrun   them.   Made   glaringly   evident   by   the   fact   that   she’s   currently   standing   in   a   soft   berm,   praying   those   ribs   aren’t   broken.   

Something   shifts   in   the   brush   to   Jean’s   right.   A   slow,   ponderous   movement   of   a   heavy   body   moving   over   molding   leaves   and   wet   earth,   made   all   the   more   apparent   by   the   sudden   lack   of   every   other   sound.   Birds,   wind,   even   the   whisper   of   the   mist   seems   to   hold   it’s   breath.   Jean   reaches   for   her   hatchet   first   by   taking   a   step   back   from   the   dead   shrubs   and   creeping   ivy   of   the   forest   edge.   This   pregnant   silence   too   much   to   be   shattered   by   a   gunshot.   From   experience,   that   kind   of   noise   only   brings   on   unwanted   attention.   Smooth   wooden   handle   wrapped   now   in   several   layers   of   peeling   hockey   tape   for   grip,   the   weight   of   the   tool   soothes   only   a   fraction   of   the   unease   which   sits   high   in   the   woman’s   chest.   Seconds   drag—anticipation   mounting   over   its   self   doubling   tripling   before   collapsing   and   building   anew.   

Then   nothing   happens.   No   rotting   corpse   shuffles   free   from   the   tree   line,   teeth   gnashing   eagerly   in   the   expectation   of   its   next   meal.   Silence   from   all   around   sighs   out   in   a   palpable   relief,   sound   bleeding   back   into   the   world   around   her.   Slotting   her   hatchet   back   into   its   leather   loop   affixed   to   the   woman’s   him,   Jean   gives   on   last   precursory   sweep   of   the   unchanged   gray   soup   of   landscape   around   her.   Whatever   shuffled   past   in   the   brush   must   have   thought   better   or   simply   seemed   this   moment   incorrect.   Not   daring   to   give   too   much   thought   in   line   with   the   walkers   now   having   the   where   with   all   to   hunt   their   prey   intelligently,   Jean   shivers   before   moving   on.   

Pulling   with   perturbed   anxiousness   at   the   open   folds   of   her   worn   brown   construction   jacket   Jean   coaxes   a   nearly   broken   zipper   closed   against   the   fog’s   damp   cold.   Progressing   further   up   this   pothole   marred   country   highway,   a   turn   off   meanders   away   from   the   main   road.   Leaning   lamely   to   one   side,   a   dented   and   rust   eaten   mailbox   hands   with   a   broken   jaw.   Its   little   red   flag   is   missing.   What   patchy   glimpses   she   can   see   through   the   shifting   mist   show   Jean   a   winding   driveway   littered   with   every   manner   of   natural   debris.   

And   a   corpse.

Even   from   where   she   stands,   Jean   can   see   jagged   ribs   protruding   from   the   prone   figure,   who   looks   more   like   a   discarded   doll.   Mouth   pressing   into   a   thin   line,   she   proceeds   forward   up   the   driveway.   Hatches   once   again   warming   the   woman’s   grip   just   in   case.   

A   halo   of   long   dried   blood   stains   the   asphalt   black   around   the   badly   broken   body.   Thankfully   mild   autumn   temperatures   have   made   decay   slow,   keeping   what   would   be   a   debilitating   stench   down   to   something   more   like   a   butcher’s   freezer.   This   kill   is   old   regardless.   Buzzards   and   walkers   alike   picking   their   fill   and   leaving   a   gummy   skin   shell   barely   clinking   to   shattered   bones.   Jean   frowns,   setting   what   looks   to   be   the   tattered   remains   of   a   heavily   stained   dress   in   pieces   around   the   body.   

Directing   attention   from   the   body   up   the   drive,   the   blonde’s   frown   deepens   as   that   ever   waning   spark   of   optimism   wriggles   to   the   forefront   of   her   mind.   A   house.   Its   long   L-shaped   wrap   around   porch   peeking   through   the   teeth   of   trees.   Peeling   dove   grey   paint   covers   most   of   the   siding   still,   and   the   roof   looks   intact   from   what   Jean   can   see.   All   of   the   windows   are   unboarded   and   unbroken   but   hold   that   dull   dead-eyed   stare   of   dusty   abandonment.   Jean   spots   a   singular   windchime   swaying   in   the   breeze,   not   strong   enough   to   elicit   a   sound.   Stepping   respectfully   around   the   corpse,   she   continues   toward   the   house   and   into   an   expansive   front   yard.   

A   suitcase   is   discarded   in   a   ditch   beside   the   main   drive   that   opens   up   to   form   a   small   gravel   parking   area.   Dirty   clothing   is   scattered   around   the   open   suitcase   like   entrails.   Children’s   toys   lay   cast   aside   around   the   wide   yard,   their   dirty   disrepair   making   something   within   Jean’s   chest   tighten.   You   don’t’   see   too   many   children   around   anymore.

Approaching   a   set   of   sagging   steps   up   to   the   screen   storm   door,   she   spots   the   first   signs   of   wrongness.   Smeared   across   the   porch   like   a   welcome   mat   is   the   thick,   gummy   remains   of   spilled   blood.   A   lot   of   blood.   Turning   slowly   to   follow   the   meandering   drag   marks,   Jean   notices   it   disappear   around   the   corner   to   the   side   of   the   house.   Hatchet   still   in   hand,   she   follows,   bracing   for   the   worse.   What   the   woman   finds   is   a   pair   of   legs   clad   in   heavily   discolored   denim   and   wearing   one   hiking   boot   propped   up   against   the   side   of   the   house   as   if   it’s   merely   waiting   for   its   torso   to   return   any   moment.   Around   it   is   a   spectacular   splash   of   aged,   dried   gore,   along   with   another   dragging   trail   that   leads   off   into   the   backyard.   Mentally   noting   that   there   is   probably   half   of   a   zombie   crawling   around   the   backyard,   Jean   returns   to   the   front   door.   Determined   to   get   out   of   the   damp   cold   and   rapidly   approaching   night,   the   woman   holsters   the   hatchet.   Pulling   the   storm   door   open   and   wincing   at   screaming   rusted   hinges,   she   throws   a   quick   prayer   out   before   trying   the   handle.

Unlocked.

Swinging   inward   much   quieter   than   the   first   door,   Jean   is   left   squinting   into   a   dark,   gloomy   front   hall.   Dust   dulls   its   wooden   floors   and   numerous   picture   frames   that   line   the   wallpapered   walls.   Shoes   still   sit   near   the   door   waiting   for   long-dead   owners,   and   a   winter   coat   is   thrown   at   the   bottom   of   the   stairs.   There   doesn’t   seem   to   be   any   blood   or   chaos   in   the   front   hall,   which   stretches   to   the   kitchen   and   subsequent   back   door.   One   more   scan   of   the   murky,   quickly   darkening   fog   hemming   in   an   overgrown   forest   and   lawn,   Jean   steps   inside   the   house   and   lets   the   doors   close   behind   her.

[nika-the-hunter]

The House of Mist [Ch.6]

Abandoned Industrial Sector, Pacific Northwest

+24 Days

Unfortunately, Nicole’s hunt for viable building materials and decor had turned up nothing that she could actually use. They had found more than one warehouse full of old building materials, however the issue changed into how they were going to transport the resources they found. The Ghost mentioned that if she located some sort of Jump Ship, he would be able to store items there, but she had no idea where to find something like that. Her Ghost however, had some ideas.

Nicole hoisted a plate of sheet metal and tied it to her back with a pair of salvaged straps. There were a lot of those around the area. If she was only going to be able to take one piece, it would have been the one made of the lightest material.

“Alright, which way now?” She glanced down to her helmet's internal clock. They probably had five or six hours of sunlight left.

“If my memory serves, I once saw a ship that had collided with a building across those tracks just south of us,” her Ghost chimed.

Nicole turned and started off in that direction. She could see the berm that the railroad tracks rested on top of in the distance less than a kilometer away; however she did not see any sign of a ship. “What makes you think that it still works?”

The Ghost chirped in her ear. “Well... we Ghosts are actually very good at bringing the dead back to life.”

“I would think that a ship is much more complicated than a person”

“Not entirely, in the past I’ve peeked into the inner workings of that crashed ship, and it looked far simpler than you were.”  

“If you say so, Ghost.” Nicole rolled her eyes. She crossed the tracks and saw the tail of the craft sitting in the wall of a nearby building. Old, torn tarps fluttered in the wind and were secured to the fuselage as some sort of makeshift camp; the former residents were long gone, judging by how ruined the camp was. Walking closer, her Ghost emerged from her back and flew towards the old aircraft. She stepped around a pile of bones that were buried in the dirt. The Ghost stopped momentarily near another pile of bones. “So why didn't you bring any of these back, not that I’m not grateful for the second chance.”

“Well, they didn’t have the spark that you had,” he replied. “Some were close, but I was confident that I would find the right one.”

“Hmm...” Nicole carefully stepped over a single rib cage. It was grim, but they had been dead for a very long time. “Any idea who they use to be?”

“They were soldiers, that’s all I was able to figure out; but let’s let the dead rest, and see about getting this ship running.”

One of the ship’s wings had broken off at one point, and come to rest against a toppled train car. Nicole pointed over to it. “Well isn’t that something we’re going to need? I don’t think that you can fix that.”

“Oh nonsense,” The Ghost flew into the craft’s troop bay and vanished from sight. His voice now came from her helmet again. “With all that glimmer we found, I could just make a new wing.”

Nicole shook her head, and took a cautious step back as a shimmer of light pulsed across the hull of the spacecraft. The vessel began to shake and the engine whined to some stage of life. Bits and pieces of building crumbled and bounced across the hull. “Okay, I'm really impressed.” She said

An engine activated and the vessel lifted, leveling out in the ruins. “It’s working!” The Ghost shouted. Despite the lack of a wing on the right side, the ship appeared to be functioning just fine. At Least that was what Nicole thought.

“Wait... what are those... oh... OH... oh no.” The engine burped and the entire thing shook. Her Ghost appeared out of the bay and rocketed passed her shoulder, appearing just as a blur to Nicole.

“What’s wro-” The ship dropped, falling nearly a meter back into the crash site. She did not get a chance to see it actually land before there was just a white light and a sudden bone shattering pain that engulfed her entire body. It was over in an instant.

The flames burned for hours.

Once the fires had died down enough to traverse the crater, the small Ghost ventured forth. There were bits of... well everything scattered everywhere. Hopefully he would find a large enough piece to restore his Guardian from. If not, he would just use his internal reserves, though that was supposed to be more time consuming. The craft had been fully armed when it had been shot down during the Collapse; the rigging that held the munitions to the craft had degraded over the centuries and his attempts to restore the craft only furthered the failure.

The Ghost’s eye found what it was looking for; her upper torso had been shielded by the piece of metal she had been carrying around. The light swirled forth from the machine, restoring the Guardian’s body from nothing.

Nicole took a sharp breath and looked around at the burning world around her. It had been mere seconds as far as she could tell, but everything had changed. The sun was gone, long passed beyond the curve of the Earth, and everything was ablaze. Her Ghost looked down at her, shining into her eyes with his light. She looked up at him, and blocked the light with her hand. “What the hell happened?”

He twitched slightly and turned off his light. “Well... I sort of blew you up.”

She pulled herself up off the ground and found her assault rifle still attached to her back. “What do you mean, you blew me up?”

“There were bombs... and they were volatile... and they exploded.” He chirped in an uneasy tone, “I would have warned you, but you need me to rez you.”

Nicole stuck her head and shook her helmet enough to scratch an itch on her head. “At least you can do that right...”

“Oh what-ever, you’re alive Guardian.” The Ghost swooped in and bonked her on the helmet.

Nicole laughed a bit. He was right there, she was alive and the ship was not. She climbed out of the crater and back to street level. The building and tracks she had been near were now completely gone; bits of metal rail were sticking out of a building face like arrows not too far behind her. It had been one hell of an explosion. “Well my metal plate is gone now, what do we do, just head back home empty handed?”

“Sorry, looks like we will,” he replied.

“Damn...” Nicole stretched and pushed at her chest armor which seemed to be back to its original tightness. “This stuff sucks.”  She sighed and started back towards the highway. “It seems really weak too.”

“Well it was made out of the barebones materials I had on me.” He replied.

“Any of that metal that we found good for armor?” Nicole asked.

“It did not seem like it, that was all light decorative metal. It doesn't have the strength for armor.” He orbited her head like he usually does when trying to work out a solution. “I also do not have the necessary engrams, or blueprints, for a better armor set.... though I might be able to restore and edit some of that old armor by the...ship... never mind.”

Nicole glanced back at the crater. “Yeeeaaahhh... no... Nothing survived that.”

Something dropped down from a roof not too far ahead of her and skittered across the street. Nicole caught a glimpse of what looked like a Fallen running on all six appendages, or at least four. The figure stopped in an alley shrouded in darkness. Four glowing blue eyes blinked at her.

Nicole raised her left hand, and gave a little wave at the eyes, while her right moved to the grip of her sidearm. She was a bit unsure whether or not they were friendly. “Hello?” She called out in Fallen. It was one of the first words Rykis had made sure she got right.

The Fallen emerged from the shadows, and Nicole actually recognized them. Well, recognized the armor, she hardly ever saw any without their masks. It was Jasix, the other Fallen that met with Rykis regularly. She could speak english well as far as Nicole could tell. “Guardian, Guardian, Guardian, what kind of mess have you created here?” Jasix looked towards the burning buildings behind Nicole.

Nicole coughed and pointed over at her Ghost, floating just beside her. “He did it.”

“I was just trying to restore an old ship for my Guardian here.” the Ghost said, blinking at her.

Jasix shook her head and rubbed her forehead with one of her hands. “Why, we have a very.... skilled...” She seemed to work through her words slowly, making sure she was using the right ones correctly. With what little Fallen Nicole knew, she did the same. “Skilled mechanic here at Mist. Should have gone there. She could help with your armor issue too!”

“How long have you been listening in?” Nicole was curious.

“Turned up after the explosion, Rykis was wondering where you went.” Jasix replied. “There should be transport passing soon if you want to go to Tansis tonight?”

“Transport... Tansis?” the word sounded familiar, but Nicole was just not sure.

Jasix nodded and waved for Nicole to follow. “There is a... train, I think, passing here. And Tansis is Mechanic and armorer.”

“Ah...” Nicole went to follow the Vandal, as she led her towards another set of tracks she had passed earlier in the day. “Sure, take me there.”  

“Yes, yes, this way.” Jasix found a spot nearby the tracks and pulled something off her back. It was a small tripod with a flashing light. She placed it down and aimed the light up north. She then climbed up the side of a building and perched on the roof with her rifle out.

Stepping back, Nicole was not expecting Jasix’s sudden movement. “Uh, is everything okay?” She called.

Jasix scanned the area around them. “Yes, yes, though others may have been alerted by the boom.”

“Do we really need to worry about the Devils this far west?” Nicole asked.

“Likely, no. But never know; they came all the way from the other landmass to bother us, it seems like a very small jump to come a bit farther west,” Jasix replied.

“True, I hope they’re not going to respond though, I don’t have anything to really help against that.” Nicole glanced down at the rifle in her hands. It had served her well in her first and only real engagement, but it seemed to lack power.

Jasix looked down as well. “Maybe we’ll get you something better there too.”

Nicole nodded and smiled under her helmet. That would make her feel better about being out in the middle of nowhere; maybe she could go out even further on her own in the future. Over the sound of the raging fires, she could hear a deep rumbling sound coming from the metal tracks near the platform.

She glanced down the rail and into the darkness. Other than the occasional streetlight or other intact lighting system, there was nothing she could see approaching their position.

Nicole glanced up at Jasix and the Fallen held up a set of binoculars to her four glowing eyes. “Here they come.” She looked down at Nicole with a nod.

“I don't see anything though.”

But that was when she spotted a dull red cluster of lights, further down the track. The rumble grew louder and louder; sounding deeper, but very similar to the tank from weeks ago. It was still barely discernible from the darkness when the sound suddenly changed in tone, winding down rapidly. The machine slowly glided across the rails into view.

She had seen plenty of rusted out trains while walking outside the ruins of Bellevue, but this one was not a normal train. The base of it had been one at some point in time, but the Fallen had attached the front end of one of their Spider tanks over the original engine compartment. Armored plates covered the train's cab, and a multitude of sensors had been affixed to the rooftop. It was pulling flatbed cars, too many for her to count in the dark. There was one box car directly behind the engine.

The train came to a stop just passed the light Jasix had placed, the door to the boxcar slid open and a group of Vandals spilled out in a loose formation. They swept the area, making sure it was a safe place to stop. Jasix jumped down from her rooftop and approached one of the Vandals; they spoke quickly and quietly, Jasix gestured to Nicole and the Vandal nodded.

“Come aboard, human.” The Vandal said, waving to Nicole. “We must be on our way.”

It surprised Nicole that the Vandal spoke better english that Jasix, but she hopped aboard anyway. The boxcar had seats attached all around the walls, but only a few of them were occupied. Nicole took an open seat next to Jasix as the train lurched back into motion. It rapidly began to pick up speed and head further south.

Nicole’s Ghost appeared at her side and blinked at the surroundings. “I have to say, these Fallen have done wonders getting old human technology working again.”

“Right? I think this will save me a lot of time getting around the area in the future.”

“You should ask about how far it goes,” he said.

Jasix leaned over and poked the Ghost, turning him towards her with a single finger. “I can answer that, Little Machine. Rail runs all through Mist land, we have some that is starting to head further south, but it still being restored.”

“Hmm, interesting... Can you answer a few more questions?” He asked, sort of hovering towards Jasix. “How did you combine the spider walker and the engine?”

Nicole watched her Ghost and Jasix float away towards the forward door and out of the car, leaving her with seven other Fallen sitting on the wall. On one hand, Nicole was glad her Ghost was talking to the Fallen on his own, but on the other, he just floated away without saying anything. She frowned but remained seated.

The train rumbled south for nearly half an hour. They did not make any more stops after she had come aboard. Jasix and her Ghost had been gone the entire time; Nicole was starting to think that maybe they had left her on the train; in a joking manner of course.

Nicole suddenly felt the tug of deceleration as Jasix and her Ghost returned from the engine and she took her seat. “Enjoy your time alone?” She asked the little machine as it came to her side.

“Only now that I have you to come back to, Guardian, yes.” He replied. That made her smile a bit, and she opened her palm for her Ghost to land. He settled down and vanished into a flash of particles, going somewhere in her armor. “Looks like we are arriving, let’s see what Tansis has to offer.” As the train came to a stop, one of the Vandals opened the sliding door and Nicole hopped out of the train car. Jasix lead the way off the platform and towards a group of buildings that were outlined by a cluster of flickering lights. A Fallen Captain stepped out from a doorway, ducking on their way out. He walked over to Nicole and Jasix, greeting them in the Fallen language. Nicole’s rough understanding of the language let her pick up some of the conversation. “What can we help you with, Vandal Jasix?” the Captain asked. Jasix bowed her head, “We are here to see Baroness Tansis to provide armor for the Guardian.” “Hmm, that would be a problem right now. Tansis is asleep, she and her crew have been hard at work bringing our reserve vehicles online,” the Captain motioned for them to follow him. “I will let her know you visited in the morning. We can provide accommodations, follow.”

Nicole glanced across the runway; the formerly uninterrupted concrete apron was broken up by centuries of cracks and plant growth. Large clumps of grass dotted the area, only dimly illuminated by the flickering light poles that dotted the area. She could see the outlines of aircraft resting at odd angles; surely they were long gone in terms of operational status.

The Fallen lead her into a short structure with small windows. The old lettering over the doorway denoted the building as one of the bases barracks buildings. There were the spotted tarps that the Fallen liked to use scattered all over the building, covering holes and broken windows. This seemed to be one of the only non-hangar buildings in the area that was still relatively intact.

She walked in and could hear the chattering of unseen Fallen elsewhere in the building. There were strange rounded chairs around the first room with similarly styled platforms that she interpreted as beds nearby.

Their escort spoke and Jasix translated for Nicole. “There is an open room for you just down this hall. He says that you can pick any bed, the room is not in use right now.”

“Oh, thank you,” Nicole replied, using her limited understanding of their language.

“You speak Eliksni?” He asked, cocking his head to the side.

“Just a little,” she shook her head and returned to English for Jasix to translate. “Not enough to hold a good conversation yet.”

“Ah, I understand,” he replied and said something else that she did not know the words for.

“He says that the kitchen has a working... war... um... Ah, water pump and food in the store room. It’s upstairs.” Jasix nodded in an affirming motion.

The Vandal gave a small sudden nod and left the two of them in the hallway.

“I will be going as well, Guardian. The day is just beginning for me.” Jasix adjusted the strap of her rifle and drew a hood over the top of her head. “Tansis knows your language better than I; just let her know what you need.”

“How will I tell who she is?”

“She stands out from others here. Just ask for her. Have a good rest, and may the Great Machine bless you.” And she just jumped out of an open window, disappearing into the night.

“Well that was an interesting exit,” her Ghost piped up from her helmet speakers.

“There was a door, just down the hall.”

“Fallen, what can you do, huh?”

Nicole walked to the end of the hall and into the open room and glanced around. There were plenty of the Fallen styled beds with folded fabric sitting on them. She removed her helmet and took in the air, and found it surprising that the smell of mildew that she had become accustomed to in her tower was absent. Picking a blanket off a bed, she brought it to her face and smelled it. It was fresh, clean; there was some sweet scent there that Nicole could not place.

Her Ghost appeared in the air around her and took a look around the room. He flew through a door in the back, and she could see the light of his eye flashing about in there. “It looks like their shower room should work. You should take one while you’re here.”

Nicole nodded; she had never taken a shower or heard the word used before, yet she understood what it was. It had been a few weeks since she had been brought back, so it was probably a good idea.

She unclasped her thin armored chest plate and stripped down out of the padded bodysuit. There was not a smell, which was something she was surprised by. Though it made sense, her Ghost had rezzed her less than twelve hours ago. That probably refreshed her. Nicole would still take the shower; this was probably her only chance with working water.

The floor was cold, but clean; it looked like it had been cleaned recently. She turned a pair of knobs and there was a groaning sound from the walls. After a few moments, water sputtered from an overhead nozzle. Nicole stepped beneath the flow and let the hot water rain down upon her. It was really a great feeling, like sitting on the tank in the snow. She was calm and relaxed again.

Her Ghost flew into the shower room. “Don’t forget to use soap.”

“What soap?”

“I think that might be some.” The Ghost flew towards a canister on a shelf.

Nicole grabbed the canister and twisted the lid off, and then took a scoop of the paste. It was gritty and slick, almost like it had tiny bits of stone. It was all she had, so she used the soap. Once she was finished, she turned off the water and glanced around the room.  “So... what do I use to dry off?”

“Oh... I don’t know.”  Her Ghost scanned the space. “That appears to be an issue.”

It seemed that there were no towels in the shower room or in her view back out in the bunk room. She resorted to just shaking the water off of her skin and stealing a blanket from one of the empty beds. The blanket was rough, but acted well enough as a substitute towel. “Next time, we make sure I have one before.” “Sure thing, I’ll mark that down for later.” the Ghost blinked. Nicole rolled her eyes and sat down into her chosen bed; it was much more comfortable than her old flat mattress in her tower, perhaps she could get one in the future. That was something to talk to Rykis about when she got back.

It felt weird to be out of her armor, nothing except for the blanket to protect her. She felt vulnerable, and of course, naked. She had slept in that armored bodysuit for the last three weeks, it was all she knew. But the comfort she felt and the warmth of an actual blanket; that far outweighed any concern she had.

Nicole slept so well, she did not hear the rustling in the room that morning.

[roswellroamer]

Keetmanshoop to Gobobas, Namibia. 4/22/19.

Today was a big day so we met for breakfast/brekky at 6:30. Made to order back in the thatch hut and gassing up to leave around 7:30. The Eland had some interaction with me through the fenced enclosure at the Maritz Lodge and he posed for a pic. After a brief pass by town we were in the bush. Within 50k of the 650k we did today we appreciated the desert cool morning. I was one of the few not wearing a warmth layer between your "kit" (SA and Aussie for riding suit) and your shirt. We found a couple out of the way fuel stops today due to the lengthy mileage. Soon, we turned on a road just north of town and passed by the Giants Playground. Namibia's equivalent to Joshua Tree NP. But Quivertrees are the attraction as well as square and rectangular blocks that appear to have been stacked by giants. Very cool. I missed it but there were a couple cheetahs along the road in a game enclosure just pacing there for all to see. Jim and Andy spotted and got some pics with a large tortoise that was crossing the road. A buck (small antelope) ran alongside a couple guys out front for more tha 5Km until he collapsed today. Hopefully he will be OK. We then got into the Kalahari desert. You see it because the sand is a robust red/orange. As red as GA clay! We started a series of hills and dips for maybe 10 miles. Most of the group are paired I to twos and riding side by side. One rides in one of the left lane's tire tracks while the other rides in one of the right (incoming traffic) tire tracks. You can see a car coming for a mile + provided your vision isn't obscured by the cloud of dirt kicked up the the next pair ahead of you. Without cruise control on the bike it is necessary to stop to take a picture. I was riding with Rod. I stopped at the top of a hill, affording my a view of a number of distant hills and valleys. After snapping a few shots, I figured I needed to catch up to Rod as nobody else had yet come along. We had been averaging about 150km/hr so I had to crank it up a bit in my effort to rejoin our duo. Then everything could've changed dramatically for the worse... Rod was worried I might've fallen off in the gravel/dirt so after waiting a bit at the top of a hill and not seeing me he decided to go down the hill and turn around. As I crested the hill doing 160k/hr + in the right (wrong) lane, I see Rod some few hundred yards ahead of me turning around right into the lane of travel I was using. At first I thought surely he will see me and stop the slow turn into my oncoming path. However he did not. With 100' to go he turned right across/perpendicular to my bike. Braking wouldn't have avoided a T-bone collision. My other three options were stay straight, right into him and his bike at speed. Second option was to try and go behind him. The third option was to go right if him. I opted for the last option. I wasn't sure that Rod wouldn't have seen me and stopped or not. I thought my best bet to avoid a major crash was to angle ahead oh him. That meant going off the elevated roadway into the Kalahari scrub grass. I thought I would lose it in the sand. Rod had told me the first day that if you got off the road you wouldn't be able to ride. This and many other things flash before me. But all's we'll that ends well. I had a bit of a trial by fire in the Kalahari. Swerving I to the brush off the road. Slowly slowing down and gently nudging my bike back towards the road while keeping in the throttle. I did not lay it die in the sand...! At least not yet. I rode over about a dozen scrubby bushes and then thanked my lucky stars that I didn't lose it in the Kalahari. My heart was pounding for the better part of a half hour. Hopefully we learned from that so as to avoid it in the future! We had a refreshment break and Gavin got sone drone footage of us in the desert which hopefully we'll see after the trip.

Soon after that harrowing experience..., we continued down our first "D" road. C roads are better maintained. D roads can have washouts, sand and may prove more difficult for bikes. I kept my momentum and still found the whole bike lurching left or right when hitting the increasingly deep sand on the "road". In fact there were raised berms on either side and no vegetation on the road but often looks more like a sandy trail than a road. We stopped for a break under a tree. I was moving slow now so took off next to last after our rest. I made it about 50 yards. First swerved left while starting out. Saved it then all the way to the right with the bike's body way out from under me. Wasn't able to save the last move to the right and laid it down on the sand perpendicular to the road. Oh well. Picked up the bike without assistance but needed support truck help to reposition the bike pointing in the direction of the road. Finally remounted and have it some gas. This time I made it about 300 yards with plenty of weaving and serious movement. Finally lost it with some serious swearing and wrenching of the front wheel in the deep sand. Ugh. This time I waited for the support truck. The temperature was hot (~32°C) and the altitude (over 4200') and Inwas breathing hard and sweating. Sean and John in the truck helped me get righted. I realized the problem the second time, Inhad neglected to disengage traction control. Africa Twin is a great bike but doesn't allow you to have traction control off unless you switch it off each time you start the bike. I also learned that the bike automatically shuts down when it senses it has gone horizontal, and that you must turn off the key to restart the engine. Figured this out after Inwasnt able to start my reliable steed four times. Without TC, and with heavy throttle I finally powered through that stretch now in the sweep position with the truck in my rear view. There were a couple very hairy turns (as expressed by the real off roaders in our group of 7) and one left hand turn saw motorcycle tracks up the embankment as I focused on trying to keep the bike under me as she violently wrenched from side to side. I made it through there and relied perhaps too much on momentum and throttle to carry me through the remaining deep sand sections. The desert was just taking over sections of the road.

I am writing this end to 4/22 in my notes since I wasn't able to finish before this morning's departure and because there is no Wi-Fi in the bush, as it says behind the counter here at the lodge in Tsumkwe. We rode through the mostly sandy roads and came to a construction zone. The zone itself was fine but just after, the sand became very deep and rutted due to the large gravel trucks that had been making their way to the area. I rode with as I have been advised too much speed. I followed an experienced rider who I watched getting bounced like a bull rider on a Saturday night at the rodeo. But I figured if he made it through I would or at least could. I got thrown side to side between a couple of the ruts then hit a hole or a rock that was so violent it nearly threw me off my pegs as I was standing through this and most difficult sections. Somewhat incredulous that I hadn't eaten sand, I soldiered on and after 5:30 we pulled in to the Gina lodge. Downtown Gobobas was as my daughter would say "sketch". Lots of groups of guys hanging around with seemingly nothing to do. Our bikes garnered a lot of attention while we parked to the side at the main intersection in "downtown" Gobobas. The lodge was a km or so away from town and looked like a reserve. Even had fake elephants in some grassland area for our enjoyment riding in. After checking in I found the pool and since the truck (with my clothes) wasn't there, I quickly jettisoned all my clothes save the underwear and enjoyed the very cool pool. 🏊‍♂️. We had some Zamulik and sat down to a prepared table by the pool. I had an excellent Oryx steak with a chocolate and berry sauce and a salad. The Oryx was delicious! We told some stories and then it was time to write. 💤

[glopratchet]

battle-words

You're going to pay for this! I don't care if you get eaten by a giant cannibal iguana or something worse, but the day is coming when we are going to have to deal with your kind We will be able to do it though and that day has come So prepare yourselves! Prepare yourselves for the annihilation of all that is not pure! Konchu collector Bloodbath Operation: catch a gator You take the gun from your nearest follower and spring your trap You hear the warrior grunt as he flies back into the wall You jump over the counter before it could retreat to grab what was rightfully yours The prey gets away though, landing on its feet from several feet away --ending: IT NEVER GAVE UP-- "Well what do you know, seems like a sport did survive! Bite your toungues With your prey caught and killed you interrogate the one you captured about all the rules of this 'training area' and whatever place you were in Not that it really mattered to you, but knowledge is power and you have lots of that right now after killing this chatty captive You allowed your followers to feast on the meat of your catch and munch on chewy bits of your victim yourself It wouldn't do if your underlings got stronger than you! Bite! Primal ponds They tell you that this is primals You find your way to a tiny island with bleachers What strange place is this 'gym'? You leap from the shore onto one of the many rocks making up this 'island' and find yourself squinting at the glaring arena A hippopotas sits in the water, blinking at you Gator run You aim yourself at the nearest section of the river and gauge any predators lurking They tell you the much about crocs but is that a huge shape? You see several different animals in the murky depths but as your head rests on the cool mud bank your vision starts to blur and burn A hot breath blasts out of the watery grave as your lungs scream for air In a moment everything fades Hunters heaven Staring at it through a look of worry you are surprised at the mans sudden smile You give him a huge grin and wave Why is he smiling? Surely he knows hes going to die soon? Oh right, this is primals That would be your little inside joke Just before the horn sounds you remember: in primal, you can talk to the animals Posionous pair Beautiful colours you have never seen before, you and Gwen stand in front of a small pond She giggles, they sound like little silver bells ANYA----CHECKERS-- Bite or kiss? You snap up in bed and flick on the lamp You follow her gaze to a tiny Rex It isn't larger than a cat but if this island has what you think it has, then it's a very dangerous cat indeed Cold blooded combo Your ears prick up as you listen There is someone crying and sobbing on the other side of the classroom wall This is enough to distract even the most studious of students Who are you? A nobody, or a nice gal trying to do the right thing? Nice gal Grab your stuff and put a foot out of bed and-- profanities in Swahili fill your head as you realize you're not wearing shoes Just socks Newlywed game hunter Two, almost Identical bikini clad women carrying webbed seat cushions on their heads hop down from the dugout canoe and bundle across the sand toward you One walks behind you and suddenly a thong slips onto your head An older woman in a cross-over dress covers her eyes Dragon's tail The tiny, purple-striped tiger hatchling sprouts a foot long tail and gulps down its first lizard Babytown Three months later you find yourself as in charge instructor for a class of twenty new hatchlings Only a year since your own candling and already you are an instructor takes a bit of getting used to New 'keepers are delivered to the class every two weeks Or d'oeurve Dip the end of a crispy shrimp into the pungent sauce and shovel it in A tall man pours more of the sauce into your wooden bowl as you it up without looking up from the wok Strangely delicious Smokes billows from cracks in the golden bowl that used to house the Lords and Ladies Dance with dragons You sit on the edge of a cement stadium block, head in hands, sobbing The deep pit in the center has been blocked off indefinitely The dragons know when something is unsafe One by one, keepers walk out of the hospital together Each has lost a friend or colleague; Some have lost parents or children too Glicaial grinder The little burrowing snake has a hard, scaly body and supple cheeks What a charmer After a special meal of juicy rats, you hold him tight while the saddle-maker fits a harness that attaches to his edges and thighs The trainer gives him a jaw-breaking treat for sucking up during this process A dragonette lives about eighty years so he will put up with this little indignity for quite some time yet All you can eat gator Insects hatch on your tongue as you try the thin, bitter brew A copper pan floats beside you heating more of the batter as you swallow a gulp of swamp water Daintily you lift the muddy flapjacks to your lips, studding them here and there with blackened banana slices and wobbly orange eggs Never push a girl too far Next time She spotted your torchlight as you fumbled beside the wardrobe for your jumping cables Somehow, she'd squeezed between the gates before they closed You caught a glimpse of her copper and chocolate colored scales bouncing down the street into darkness beyond the reach of your light How could a little thing like that fill a stadium? Nipping from the bottle when the trucks start to roll, you keep to the wall and timing the lights Claw clash Talking about favorite flavors with one of the waiter-dragons you dust crumbs from your uniform The marinade they have been soaking in is remarkable; it will really make that the flavors of the meat sing out Time for a stone to meet a hard place as you let the tortoise-mounted keepers choose which beasts they wish to face first A dragon killer is just that: someone who kills dragons Tiger-sharq broils closer everyday, she is a pterosaur-headed beast that spews toxic mold from her month The Lords and Ladies will dance in gleaming chrome and yolk-yellow scales You hold her back, wishing for the impossible until it arrives When the city tour begins you take your place just inside a busy gateway arch; the rings have been doubled up here in case of accidents Reaching through the temporary bars you tickle a viper Rival clash Sweet as cherry pie with lashings of mace A little chip in his armor means an open goal and now that he isn't in your face you finally make a fresh assault on his expertise in medieval European history, which he claims was learned from a demonic suit of armor that sat on his bed and gave him nightmares throughout childhood And so it begins Dime a dozen? ten times as rare at least Booming shockpods erupt either side of you like hot sandbags, washing you both in flame Kicking the filly into a sprint, you duck under a hexing bolt that sparks across your bow as you pass under the firing trajectory Brute force and ignorance is on display here Scales glitter as the beast launches itself from a tall dune and soars towards you like some splayed winged lizard, jaws agape on an intercept course Long zigzagging strides take you up a steep bank as you bounce through cover; the girl weightless behind you needing all your strength to pull her up the far side of the berm Break head break neck, break back, break skull or heart or gut there are so many ways to kill a thing like this Sadly, you haven't had the time to really learn the craft and all you've gleaned from Owyn's books doesn't seem to be of any great use at the moment Break back Neck You slice the bronze collar ring that joins the chain onto her wrist You hold your focus on her glossy pointed ears until she's meandering back onto the path in a wide circle around where you hope to find Owyn still battling the monster in the sand Shiny tail bar far behind now why is the long hair before your eyes swaying side to side? Because our girl here has jumped off course to chase something Capture beasts, train beasts, ride beasts Beast folk do all these things Dragging them around on a travois cart mixes freedom with control The glide lizard has not got that long to live Before they mate, it would seem That filthy thought makes you look away in her direction Shielding your eyes you see a pair of armored riders a few hundred dragonback lengths away reaching the peak of a dune and parting company as they speed away on parallel tracks Tail carve They underestimate you vastly, approaching your target from two directions with the glide lizard acting as a trap for you Peering around a rock no wider then your shoulders you watch the darting pink sphere and plot your course just by focusing on where it is heading Its tail flicks around to swat something and its wedge-shaped plating clasps shut for a moment before opening again to allow the long ribbon of a tongue to flicker out Break horns and disable beast! You stand with your back to and partly draped over the dune as you chop down with a sideways slice that shears through the point where its neck meets the top horn It's lost most of its face already and a macabre grin cuts across the hulk as it staggers from side to side until it crashes through a boulder and explodes out the other side leaving a trail of gore in the sand Break chest By the goddess, how do you stop this thing? It turns in clumsy thematic charge! Ducking under one blow that takes the top off an entire dune you duck under the next and for the next while avoiding a blur of lashing barbs and late returning claws before it slows and blunders past you to crash into another boulder You panting nearly handsfree run up behind and vault onto its back Mouth carve Throat carve! Vitals carve! While the armored plates on its back might as well be stone for the time it would take to hammer through them Instead you settle for drawing a deep breath and driving your blade into a softer spot just below where the shell merges with the muscle and about a handspan behind the creatures whipping neck Top body carve You carve into the connective tissue and blood starts jetting out like a slow motion fountain painting lines on the top of a gently swelling dune The glide lizard screams horribly and collapses sideways Just keeping your balance you turn the blade sideways and let the bottom half slide down the inside of its back leg while the front half rips up into vital organs inside its chest all the way up to its chin Lower body carve Break bones! Disembowel! After a brief struggle its twitching and bleeding out like a huge sundered Ribeye The longer you stay on its back the more blood pours over the short steep dunes before them Surely the two idiots on dragons must have seen that much by now? What were their thoughts watching this beast bleed out? Had to happen soon enough but just how much time did they waste playing follow the leader with the swords? Locked horns with the enemy twenty paces apart and coming at you on equal playing fields Not a bad day thought you as you wipe your blade clean with a rags hide and stow it away in its oilcloth home at your belt Grim quartet (A gladiator rest Fur fixation Furbowls, Furball and Furlong introduced themselves as on entering the hidden gladiator quarters You had been guided through twisting tunnels to a large walled area open to the sky but surrounded by buildings on the downside of a hill It was huge far bigger than the barracks above ground yet still divided North and South this time into four smaller sections each with rows of wooden doors leading off Lab parnters "We'll come back to those" You remember Aetnasaid as she led you up wooden steps onto a platform where two juncto stood like guards, another gladiator also dressed in blue was standing chatting with them A slip of paper changing hands and they moved to let you pass into the barracks proper Which one to choose? Most were ignoring you and those that weren't were either in trainer uniforms or downright hostile Beyond brawn Nipping quickly through the doorway you found yourself in a large common room with small sand pits and weapons racks to each side and a small room beyond which you could see beds and weapon racks inside Liar liar broom pants on fire Not knowing what to expect you wandered over to the far doorway acting as if you belonged there and glanced through into the sleeping area Drops in! Focus m9take! At first glance it looked empty enough until you noticed a sleeping figure partially obscured by a wooden column They were curled up wearing only fur pants with an oddly cradled broom leaning against the column Three rows L1? Ka-cha-swoosh! Sorry about that No time to think as the little red dot makes its way from the far left target to middle right then "Bum! Dead Centre Broom twirl! Broom twirl like a fairy princess! An old badly spined broom leans against the column just within reach of one of the curled up figures relaxed hands Remembering why you were here in the first place you glance back at the guards to make sure they're still distracted then back to 0805? Time to go You pull your eyes away and carry on down the steps looking only at the floor in front of you counting steps At around forty scrolls you hear the guards stop talking as you reach the bottom and sneak a peek They're still pointing it at the log room but their backs are now turned so you keep walking steadily toward the arch you can see in the distance Going to have to try and make it past them somehow Annexing alliums Looking around quickly you see that one of the juncto painted on the walls near you bears a strong resemblance to gladiator Furlong and is wielding a bow so you buy a closer look by approaching the painting Still no closer you are again reminded of the need for haste by the ever urgent tap Opening bash! Took it too far with that artists not versed in his anatomy is he? Noticing that one of the guards is slightly further forward than the other and that their backs are still turned you grab a handful of chalk and storm onward Surprise! success! You leap forward and stab your hand into the furrier of the two in a lightning fast stab-stab-pull maneuver Snatching his knife and attempting to turn you slip and fall backwards taking a heavy blow to the head for your troubles leaving the knife firmly in his midriff 1045 you've stayed too long, You need to act now! Luckilly he's not the only one bleeding out front The guards choice of crossbow wasn't the best for close up fighting plus he didn't get that second star on his own merit anyway so you only need to avoid the other and rush him before he can reload again Even as the thought crosses your mind his body begins to prickle with pain and you can sense his will fading You're sore and tired but you drag yourself into a run as you turn the corridor leading to your target, it should be empty but you can't be too careful Stepping lightly but quickly along the long blue passage way with its beautiful paintings and statues you look down at the ornate golden key in the palm of your hand which you found on the guard you killed That means this is definitely the right direction The door is just ahead you can sense her in there Unlocked It swings open at the lightest touch and there you see her looking even more beautiful then in the pictures lying on the king size bed in a silken green night gown, her raven black hair cascading over the pillow and her fair skinned knees curled towards her chest fragile and vulnerable she looks That feeling of power welling up inside you intensifies tenfold and your fingers begin to tingle as you grip the handle This time you wont fail "Hello my love You say taking a step into the room and gently swinging the door closed behind you Her eyes flicker open and zero in on you instantly Her jaw drops and her pupils contracts, its a look you've come to identify as one of surprise or shock, but her face quickly settles back into the emotionless mask it usually maintains Never in all your visits has she looked at you with fear or worry And while you still feel the desire to rush forward and injure her physically you now feel something more, a fulfilling closure to this long tormenting courtship Like a loving cupid you've planted a seed which has bloomed into darkness and grief But that's where the simalarity to love ends Truly you have grown to despise this woman, not even for the unfaithfulness she's been subjected too but for the person she has made you A killer The realization that it could've been easy all along and you had crumbled at the last step fills you with disgust A bright new world of opportunities lay where the shadows fall and you have gained so much power it's almost difficult to contain it all, yet you still have more to gain and instantly know how A heat fills your pelvis and your skin prickles as your senses begin stretching outwards

[wendyimmiller]

Hire Help or Lose My Sanity. Confessions of a Garden Writer Who Doesn’t Medicate. Yet.

Guest rant by Marianne Willburn 

The office is lightly scented with pencil shavings and old coffee mugs this morning. Not an unpleasant smell, but an unfamiliar one. I have ignored this room for two weeks over the Christmas holiday, and come back to it apologetically now – watering the parched papyrus tub and mindlessly straightening piles of to-do on three separate desks.  They threaten to overwhelm me if I let my eyes linger, so I tidy instead and finally move to my writing desk where a screensaver has danced for days.

Outside we are being treated to unseasonably warm weather, which brings out the deep tawny reds and browns of still standing grasses, and contrasts them against turf grasses and weeds responding to warmth in shades of bright green. It is the only time I feel any fondness for Japanese stilt grass (Microstegium vimineum) whose dead, russet foliage sharply marks the lines between cultivated and wild; and – perversely perhaps – gives shape to the landscape.

From the window it is oddly beautiful. In the summer, the same weed will take on height and vigor, and leave me as a gardening Sisyphus – beating back multiple germinations, ever mindful that there may be no end to it.

 Microstegium in July – besieging a too-old bed filled with rhododendron and forsythia.

January’s garden beckons after a month of rest and I am excited over projects on the docket: a cleared woodland garden, an expanded mini-meadow, an ornamental grass-filled berm to direct storm water. For that matter – another year of growth on juvenile trees, and the knitting together of established beds.

It has been six years since we moved to this lovely property, and it is glorious. But for all my excitement, there is a creeping feeling that it may be time to hire a few hours of help with rough work going forward.

It may actually be time to make a tough resolution – and keep it. For there are new projects in that quiet office just as pressing as those outside the window and only so much time.  My sanity is on the line.

Decision Time

“You are at a point,” a garden designer friend said last winter, “that what you want to achieve in the garden is impossible without extra help. You can stay where you are, or move forward. You must make a choice.”

Weeding, pruning, mulching…these jobs never end on a large property.

There was no value judgement either way, just a choice – the same choice I outline for groups when speaking on matters of garden maintenance: Constantly assess your resources and do not work beyond them.

And “resources” can mean everything from back muscles to bank accounts.

My friend and I were only discussing a few hours of help a week. So why did this feel like such a massive conversation to have? Why am I sharing it here?

Because gardeners rarely have it. And I think we should.

Indeed, this particular conversation only came about when, faced with the incredibly busy life of my friend, her upcoming manuscript delivery, and the fact that she had her own garden on top of everything else, I finally broke down and asked her that which is never asked:

“Do you have help?”

She was very quick to answer – in fact, I think her exact words were “Are you kidding? Of course I do.” But up until that point, I thought she did it all.

All Is Not Always As It Appears

Many of us make similar assumptions when visiting gardens, and garden writers may be culpable of setting that tone. Private gardens are often written about in terms of what the owners did, and, unless a designer is involved, not who they hired to do it.

Perhaps that is as it should be – the details could get unnecessarily complicated – but when gardeners and owners speak of “I did” and “I planted” and “I dug” and use terms that intimate full communion with the process, and then one finds over direct questioning and the soup course, that the ‘I’ is really ‘we’ twice a week and on Sundays, and isn’t it a shame there is only that? ….well, one feels misled. There are few direct references to help unless the garden is public.

As if it is a dirty secret.

Ironically, non-gardeners do not play these games.  If you don’t like yard work, and you live in the twenty-first century, it is obvious you hire it out along with the grocery shopping and dog walking. You may even brag about it to friends (as a friend did to me recently over 2000 bucks worth of grounds crew and a tidy front yard). It is only the gardeners that keep such details under wraps.

I will never forget reading a June [personal] calendar of daily tasks in a magazine that-will-not-be-named, that scheduled a plowing of the back fields on Thursday and a garden party for forty on Friday, along with some miscellaneous flower arranging and incidental television appearances on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday.

Not: “Have the back fields plowed.”

but,

“Plow the back fields.”

Not: “Have Wolfgang prepare the menu for forty. Have Sasha design and build tablescape. NB get a Xanax refill”

but,

“Prepare menu for forty and set table.”

It is subtle and it is clever and it can have the effect of making mere mortals feel a bit inadequate.

It is also an extreme of course. But conscious or not, there is a reticence to discuss the help one has in the garden, or indeed in the home.

In wealthier circles I appreciate that the issue of “staff” is understood. One has land: ergo, one has staff. But in middle class squares, where I solidly reside, it feels as if you’re cheating.

It is an expense. If you’ve DIYed all your life and never seen a problem you felt you couldn’t solve at some level, it can feel as if you’ve given up.

When Garden Help Makes Sense

Over the years I’ve found that those of my acquaintance in retail horticulture who have their own private gardens (and display gardens) share an unspoken understanding that help is required. Period.

Staff hours may be used in personal gardens when business is slow, both to keep them employed and to take advantage of employees already sourced and hired. It is not so easy to find good labor, and if you are lucky enough to have found good people, it is wise to keep them employed.

Furthermore, if you are a garden designer or landscape architect, your garden is your calling card and there is no sense in mulching beds for eight hours when you should be sketching plans.

Since that eye-opening conversation last winter, I have made a point of asking gardeners when I tour gardens two important (if impertinent) questions. First, how many hours do they spend in the garden each week, and second, do they employ help – from basic ground crews to fine gardening. If it is a public garden, I ask about current staff, both permanent and temporary.

Those questions are in no way asked judgmentally, but instead, serve as reference to help me understand what is possible and what may be impossible with current resources – and indeed what I can in good conscience, recommend to others.

And there have of course been gardens and gardeners where I felt it was best to let sleeping dogs lie.

Lycoris squamigera in July at Oldmeadow — making all that microstegium elsewhere on the property disappear from my brain for just a moment of gardening bliss. But what if someone else was making it disappear for real?

So, today, a few short days into the new year, this gardener/writer is faced with a decision. I can either resolve to stop creating new areas and maintain what is – perhaps even letting some beds or areas drift back to a natural state (which is a perfectly reasonable thing to do); or,

I can get over my hang-ups and control issues and hire out the mulching.

I’d add weeding, edging, mowing, watering and clearing to that short list, but there’s no sense in completely losing my head. One must have aspirations.

After a lifetime of DIY and making do, and faced with ten acres of rampant Virginia stream valley and a whole lot of dreams, it might just be time.

Marianne Willburn is a garden columnist and author of the book Big Dreams, Small Garden. Read more at Small Town Gardener.

Hire Help or Lose My Sanity. Confessions of a Garden Writer Who Doesn’t Medicate. Yet. originally appeared on GardenRant on January 10, 2020.

from Gardening https://www.gardenrant.com/2020/01/hire-help-or-lose-my-sanity-confessions-of-a-garden-writer-who-doesnt-medicate-yet.html via http://www.rssmix.com/

[turfandlawncare]

Hire Help or Lose My Sanity. Confessions of a Garden Writer Who Doesn’t Medicate. Yet.

Guest rant by Marianne Willburn 

The office is lightly scented with pencil shavings and old coffee mugs this morning. Not an unpleasant smell, but an unfamiliar one. I have ignored this room for two weeks over the Christmas holiday, and come back to it apologetically now – watering the parched papyrus tub and mindlessly straightening piles of to-do on three separate desks.  They threaten to overwhelm me if I let my eyes linger, so I tidy instead and finally move to my writing desk where a screensaver has danced for days.

Outside we are being treated to unseasonably warm weather, which brings out the deep tawny reds and browns of still standing grasses, and contrasts them against turf grasses and weeds responding to warmth in shades of bright green. It is the only time I feel any fondness for Japanese stilt grass (Microstegium vimineum) whose dead, russet foliage sharply marks the lines between cultivated and wild; and – perversely perhaps – gives shape to the landscape.

From the window it is oddly beautiful. In the summer, the same weed will take on height and vigor, and leave me as a gardening Sisyphus – beating back multiple germinations, ever mindful that there may be no end to it.

 Microstegium in July – besieging a too-old bed filled with rhododendron and forsythia.

January’s garden beckons after a month of rest and I am excited over projects on the docket: a cleared woodland garden, an expanded mini-meadow, an ornamental grass-filled berm to direct storm water. For that matter – another year of growth on juvenile trees, and the knitting together of established beds.

It has been six years since we moved to this lovely property, and it is glorious. But for all my excitement, there is a creeping feeling that it may be time to hire a few hours of help with rough work going forward.

It may actually be time to make a tough resolution – and keep it. For there are new projects in that quiet office just as pressing as those outside the window and only so much time.  My sanity is on the line.

Decision Time

“You are at a point,” a garden designer friend said last winter, “that what you want to achieve in the garden is impossible without extra help. You can stay where you are, or move forward. You must make a choice.”

Weeding, pruning, mulching…these jobs never end on a large property.

There was no value judgement either way, just a choice – the same choice I outline for groups when speaking on matters of garden maintenance: Constantly assess your resources and do not work beyond them.

And “resources” can mean everything from back muscles to bank accounts.

My friend and I were only discussing a few hours of help a week. So why did this feel like such a massive conversation to have? Why am I sharing it here?

Because gardeners rarely have it. And I think we should.

Indeed, this particular conversation only came about when, faced with the incredibly busy life of my friend, her upcoming manuscript delivery, and the fact that she had her own garden on top of everything else, I finally broke down and asked her that which is never asked:

“Do you have help?”

She was very quick to answer – in fact, I think her exact words were “Are you kidding? Of course I do.” But up until that point, I thought she did it all.

All Is Not Always As It Appears

Many of us make similar assumptions when visiting gardens, and garden writers may be culpable of setting that tone. Private gardens are often written about in terms of what the owners did, and, unless a designer is involved, not who they hired to do it.

Perhaps that is as it should be – the details could get unnecessarily complicated – but when gardeners and owners speak of “I did” and “I planted” and “I dug” and use terms that intimate full communion with the process, and then one finds over direct questioning and the soup course, that the ‘I’ is really ‘we’ twice a week and on Sundays, and isn’t it a shame there is only that? ….well, one feels misled. There are few direct references to help unless the garden is public.

As if it is a dirty secret.

Ironically, non-gardeners do not play these games.  If you don’t like yard work, and you live in the twenty-first century, it is obvious you hire it out along with the grocery shopping and dog walking. You may even brag about it to friends (as a friend did to me recently over 2000 bucks worth of grounds crew and a tidy front yard). It is only the gardeners that keep such details under wraps.

I will never forget reading a June [personal] calendar of daily tasks in a magazine that-will-not-be-named, that scheduled a plowing of the back fields on Thursday and a garden party for forty on Friday, along with some miscellaneous flower arranging and incidental television appearances on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday.

Not: “Have the back fields plowed.”

but,

“Plow the back fields.”

Not: “Have Wolfgang prepare the menu for forty. Have Sasha design and build tablescape. NB get a Xanax refill”

but,

“Prepare menu for forty and set table.”

It is subtle and it is clever and it can have the effect of making mere mortals feel a bit inadequate.

It is also an extreme of course. But conscious or not, there is a reticence to discuss the help one has in the garden, or indeed in the home.

In wealthier circles I appreciate that the issue of “staff” is understood. One has land: ergo, one has staff. But in middle class squares, where I solidly reside, it feels as if you’re cheating.

It is an expense. If you’ve DIYed all your life and never seen a problem you felt you couldn’t solve at some level, it can feel as if you’ve given up.

When Garden Help Makes Sense

Over the years I’ve found that those of my acquaintance in retail horticulture who have their own private gardens (and display gardens) share an unspoken understanding that help is required. Period.

Staff hours may be used in personal gardens when business is slow, both to keep them employed and to take advantage of employees already sourced and hired. It is not so easy to find good labor, and if you are lucky enough to have found good people, it is wise to keep them employed.

Furthermore, if you are a garden designer or landscape architect, your garden is your calling card and there is no sense in mulching beds for eight hours when you should be sketching plans.

Since that eye-opening conversation last winter, I have made a point of asking gardeners when I tour gardens two important (if impertinent) questions. First, how many hours do they spend in the garden each week, and second, do they employ help – from basic ground crews to fine gardening. If it is a public garden, I ask about current staff, both permanent and temporary.

Those questions are in no way asked judgmentally, but instead, serve as reference to help me understand what is possible and what may be impossible with current resources – and indeed what I can in good conscience, recommend to others.

And there have of course been gardens and gardeners where I felt it was best to let sleeping dogs lie.

Lycoris squamigera in July at Oldmeadow — making all that microstegium elsewhere on the property disappear from my brain for just a moment of gardening bliss. But what if someone else was making it disappear for real?

So, today, a few short days into the new year, this gardener/writer is faced with a decision. I can either resolve to stop creating new areas and maintain what is – perhaps even letting some beds or areas drift back to a natural state (which is a perfectly reasonable thing to do); or,

I can get over my hang-ups and control issues and hire out the mulching.

I’d add weeding, edging, mowing, watering and clearing to that short list, but there’s no sense in completely losing my head. One must have aspirations.

After a lifetime of DIY and making do, and faced with ten acres of rampant Virginia stream valley and a whole lot of dreams, it might just be time.

Marianne Willburn is a garden columnist and author of the book Big Dreams, Small Garden. Read more at Small Town Gardener.

Hire Help or Lose My Sanity. Confessions of a Garden Writer Who Doesn’t Medicate. Yet. originally appeared on GardenRant on January 10, 2020.

from GardenRant https://ift.tt/2NdKosm

[anhttydbookfan]

#pushing the aromantic hiccup agenda and also the queerplatonic agenda#as much as the idea of hiccup getting married was always a little off to me it was more the romantic angle#which I why I like the idea of a marriage of alliance and a partner who understands that#and then of course the montage of them being a good team and getting along#and going ‘yeah I like this person. I think this is the person I want to spend my life with.’#also a) a lot of arranged political marriages did have the foreign spouse function as an ambassador#b) polyglot hiccup is canon and I think it would be neat if his spouse was as well. it is a marriage alliance after all.#she isn’t from the small area of berm#(actually give all the Vikings regional accents. I think it’s neat)#c) she/they because I didn’t feel firmly about the partner’s gender and the nords were pretty gender diverse#anyway I think the partner would probably be fond of the library and admire hiccup got it open way back when#get along with Fishlegs and camicazi well enough#and enjoy dramatic stories of their adventures. maybe have some of her own#also: normalize people having their own lives outside their partners. hiccup and they are happy together but also have their own friends#oh and you know hiccup would be a great dad. he loves Stoick but he would so much be the dad he wished he had growing up#are the kids bio related? are they adopted (cast off and No Names)? who knows!#I could build in my head what hiccup’s spouse is like but I’ll leave it here#they exist as we construct them#httyd#httyd books#my post#book!hiccup#hiccup the third#hiccup horrendous haddock iii#book hiccup

I know we collectively agree that Hiccup isn’t romantically inclined, and his getting married and having kids didn’t make sense in the epilogue, but consider: Hiccup getting married for political reasons.

It’s a marriage of alliance, which is recognized both by him and his partner, and they enter it without expectations of romantic involvement. Since they’re now married, they live in the same castle, spend time together, and Hiccup finds he really likes his spouse. They’re funny, get along with his friends, and has the same interests and values. They both probably speak multiple languages. She understands why Hiccup is so dedicated to making the Wilderwest better, and holds similar views. She’s a good politician (her job after all, was to be an ambassador). Hiccup likes spending time with them, and the feeling is mutual. They’re not in love, they have their own lives, but they’re dedicated to each other and eventually decide to raise children. They teach their kids how to train hawks and hunt with dragons, riding, history, the Languages, and all the necessary skills of their world. They’re not in love and they’re happy together.

[anhttydbookfan]

#pushing the aromantic hiccup agenda and also the queerplatonic agenda#as much as the idea of hiccup getting married was always a little off to me it was more the romantic angle#which I why I like the idea of a marriage of alliance and a partner who understands that#and then of course the montage of them being a good team and getting along#and going ‘yeah I like this person. I think this is the person I want to spend my life with.’#also a) a lot of arranged political marriages did have the foreign spouse function as an ambassador#b) polyglot hiccup is canon and I think it would be neat if his spouse was as well. it is a marriage alliance after all.#she isn’t from the small area of berm#(actually give all the Vikings regional accents. I think it’s neat)#c) she/they because I didn’t feel firmly about the partner’s gender and the nords were pretty gender diverse#anyway I think the partner would probably be fond of the library and admire hiccup got it open way back when#get along with Fishlegs and camicazi well enough#and enjoy dramatic stories of their adventures. maybe have some of her own#also: normalize people having their own lives outside their partners. hiccup and they are happy together but also have their own friends#oh and you know hiccup would be a great dad. he loves Stoick but he would so much be the dad he wished he had growing up#are the kids bio related? are they adopted (cast off and No Names)? who knows!#I could build in my head what hiccup’s spouse is like but I’ll leave it here#they exist as we construct them#httyd#httyd books#my post#book!hiccup#hiccup the third#hiccup horrendous haddock iii

I know we collectively agree that Hiccup isn’t romantically inclined, and his getting married and having kids didn’t make sense in the epilogue, but consider: Hiccup getting married for political reasons.

It’s a marriage of alliance, which is recognized both by him and his partner, and they enter it without expectations of romantic involvement. Since they’re now married, they live in the same castle, spend time together, and Hiccup finds he really likes his spouse. They’re funny, get along with his friends, and has the same interests and values. They both probably speak multiple languages. She understands why Hiccup is so dedicated to making the Wilderwest better, and holds similar views. She’s a good politician (her job after all, was to be an ambassador). Hiccup likes spending time with them, and the feeling is mutual. They’re not in love, they have their own lives, but they’re dedicated to each other and eventually decide to raise children. They teach their kids how to train hawks and hunt with dragons, riding, history, the Languages, and all the necessary skills of their world. They’re not in love and they’re happy together.