#silk city yarn

[silkcityfibers]

Slinky Rayon Cone Yarn

Shiny and smooth, this viscose yarn easily lends to knitting or crochet of high fashion tops, accessories, accents and trims to appliques and tassels in home furnishings. For a lighter weight version try our popular Sleek yarn.

Yarn Weight: 2 - Fine / Sport Content: 100% Viscose Yardage: 1,600 ypp Put-Up: Cone Approx. Weight: 1.10 lbs Care: Dry Cleaning

Read More - https://www.silkcityfibers.com/products/slinky-rayon-cone-yarn

[dreamsinombre]

So, a while back, I started designing a shawl inspired by the City of Tears in the game Hollow Knight. I originally used a colorway I got from @exlibrisfibers on IG that was discontinued on a base that was discontinued (the smaller, lighter version in the last four photos), and while I absolutely loved the perfectly moody color scheme… not enough yarn. So I reached back out to Rita to see if I could get the colorway special in a similar base, and boy did she deliver.

The final, absolutely massive version is on her Anaïs merino/silk base and the drape is absolutely divine. It feels like spider silk, which is so perfect for a shawl inspired by a game plumbing the depths of an ancient bug kingdom. It's moody and melancholic, like the rain-filled cavern of the dead City of Tears, with its leanly arched windows, ornately spiked elevators, and elegant, sleek-pillared corridors with sentry husks still patrolling with empty carapaces—all elements that are represented in motif panels in the shawl.

It calls for somewhere in the neighborhood of 1000-1100 yards of fingering weight single ply, and should result in a wingspan of about 58"-60"/147cm-152cm.

Biggest thanks to Rita of Ex Libris Fibres, for feeding both my addiction to amazingly soft yarns with brilliant colorways and my love of good books (and book recommendations), and to Team Cherry (@TeamCherryGames on twitter) for creating and sharing with the world a game that has become one of my absolute favorites that contains not just stunningly gorgeous art and delightful-feeling movements and mechanics, but also a layered and complex story and world that is one I love to revisit over and over again.

This is a pattern I'd love to eventually translate into something others can follow, among a small handful of others, especially if there's interest. I'll be sure to share it here if I ever get around to doing so.

[rivetingrosie4]

Duet

(Part 1/2)

RDR2 | Arthur Morgan x Female Reader | Rating: Explicit | Part 2 | tumblr masterlist | Ao3

Summary: Arthur takes you out for a much-needed fancy date. Though you both thoroughly enjoy the whole evening, you’re both eager to get home and make love. When you finally arrive home, Arthur invites you to take a steamy shower with him.

Tags: modern au, post gang, romantic angst, romantic smut, loving marriage, hot date, parenthood, eventual shower sex

Chapter word count: 6,097

𑁦𐂂𑁦

This work is partially inspired by the following song lyrics. It’s been my sincere goal to capture both the spirit of the lyrics and the feel of the song's music in this work. Please consider giving this beautiful song a listen at the link below.

- Penny and Sparrow, “Duet”

It’s a starless night in the city. Arthur pulls the steering wheel to the right, and the city’s bright lights, stark in their atmospheric places, reflect in a swirling mirage off the black hood of his pickup.

There you are beside him, your still form a steady breath of soundness amidst the rushing streams of blurred people along each side of the vehicle.

He sits back in his seat and breathes it in deeply—your presence. He’s always hated coming to the city. Where the buildings grow taller and tighter together. Where the voice of the stars is hushed to muted, then silenced by the blaring insistence of humanity’s crush. Where strangers are forced into each other’s spaces. But with you, he feels none of it. Feels only that breath of soundness that floods and fills the inside of the truck cabin, here and now. That follows the two of you wherever you go.

So, what was once a loathsome chore to be avoided is a pleasure, with you. And he’d been eager to carry it out.

It had been long past due anyway. He can hardly remember the last time the two of you had gone out for a date. Which is a sin in itself. It must’ve been before the baby. Had to have been after the private little wedding. Too long ago, either way. He’s always wanted to keep the feelings of excitement and specialness alive anyway, to repel any atrophy that could creep into your relationship over time if either of you failed to notice. To make you know that he hasn’t tired of you. Never could. And enough has happened since then. So he’d made a point to finally take you out, and to make it a thing both easy and sure. Not to let it slip from the calendar. To assure you the baby would be taken care of, that everything would be.

He’d even enjoyed the easy familiarity of getting ready in the same rooms. The sounds and smells of your preparation. Your heady, sensuous perfume that so easily undid him like the tail of an old, ragged 3-ply strand of yarn. The sight of you leaning toward the mirror to clasp the sparkling black pearl and diamond cluster earrings that he’d gifted to you moons ago to your lobes before turning to him.

God, had you shown out. A tiny slip of a number. Black silk that drapes along your form like shimmering river water, its bias cut showing your every bodily curve and setting his nerves aflame. The straps that display your dogwood petal-soft skin and highlight the elegant outlines of your shoulders, straps that are sure to be slid away when he gets you home and secreted away, alone in the quiet. He’s only too eager help them off and to see the gown fall in one moment to the floor around your feet, transformed to nothing more than a heap of rippling satin without you to fill it.

It was something—not a wonder to him, but something—that you could still so easily make him so crazy. Inside, like a wild dog with his tongue hanging from his head. How you knew just what to do, to make him so. And did it with quiet simplicity.

Because the reality is he knows you. He knows more about you than he knows about anyone, things he couldn’t put into words if he tried, maybe even knows you better than yourself. And one thing he knows is how deeply, how painfully difficult it’s always been for you to let anyone see your skin and body. Knows the reasons, what you’ve lived through, both in yourself and from others. Knows the pressure put on you by the world and by yourself to be some form of perfection. Knows how you like to cover up with covert layers, with sleeves and baggy, flowing frills.

But without asking if he’d like it, without even a single word, you’d done it. Worn a dress this evening that makes his own knees and body turn to mountain lake melt. Shown off your scars and stretch marks and rolls. Put your deep trust in him and unyielding love for him on bright neon display, in a way only he could know.

Christ alive, the mere thought of your trust swells his heart full of love and sends him wild with pulsating desire and need. And there won’t be anything to keep him from you tonight.

Silent in your seat beside him, you watch the show of neon lights on the hood of the pickup as it rolls down the city streets.

It had gladdened you heartily when Arthur had invited you out on a date of his own volition, unprompted. You’d gotten to a place where such things weren’t remotely on your radar anymore. And the invitation alone had quickened things inside you, like the sparked flicker of an incipient flame. You’d smiled and agreed, and he’d smiled, and the moment had been like widened lungs amidst the ruddy, laborious muss of daily life.

And you’d so wanted to be good for him. In your own mind, had wanted to be something less messily human and more put together. To be something with its unsightly bits tucked away, something easily and naturally suave and gracefully sexy. Wanted to remind him that you still cherish him so deeply and still so dearly long to be and feel cherished by him, though behind your fears, you always already know you are.

But you’d seen a black silken slip dress in the back of your closet with the tag still on it. And you didn’t have any other reason to wear such a garment than for an imaginary sexy date, by which time you would have magically become a different person—one without gnarled scars on the backs of your shoulders left by body acne in years passed, or flab hanging from under your arms, or silvery stretch marks from gaining weight and losing it and gaining it and losing it again, or rolls of fat above your pubic bone.

You’d pulled it from the rack and run the pads of your fingers over its shine, knowing it would never see the light of day—or dark of night—if not now. Hoping that Arthur could still feel something physical for you in it. Finding in yourself ample trust in him, that even if he didn’t, he’d never, ever hurt you, and would only behave in a way to make you feel special.

So you’d tried it on and decided to leap.

And from the master bathroom, you’d stolen peeks to watch Arthur dress in the connected master bedroom. With his hair already pomaded and already dressed in his black slacks and white ribbed undershirt, he’d slid his arm into the sleeve of his crisp white button down, then the other arm, then had stood before the full-length cheval mirror and had tugged and straightened the collar before looking down and slipping each button into its hole, working upwards. Then he’d tucked his shirt neatly into his slacks and had snaked his black leather belt through the loops, finally buckling it closed with a faint jingle. Each movement, each sound, had unraveled you from warp and weft to mere fibers.

You’d told yourself you needed all this intel. Because you’d also seen when he’d turned away and flipped his wrist to unbutton each cuff, rolled his sleeves to the elbows, and checked his antique 1899 pocket watch before slipping it into his pocket. And then you’d heard the low, deep clacks of his brightly shining black dress shoes against the hardwood floor, and you’d seen the faintly pronounced ripple of a few muscles in his back through the white fabric and the way it was stretched by his broad shoulders, hard arms, and tapered waist when he moved. And you’d known you would be the one to undo each button and remove each article when you both returned home tonight.

Though after years, you know well the order of all the garments and undergarments he wears, as he knows yours.

And when you’d turned towards each other, him entering the bathroom to dab on cologne, you entering the bedroom to slip on your shoes, the expression on his face had been a memory you will cling to and wear like a jewel until the reaper calls to fetch you. It had turned your spine and knees to oil and had heated your chest and face as if with steam.

He wanted you. Good God, did he want you. One fractioned moment of a glimpse had been all it’d taken. And it had silently stolen your breath. He’d said something like how stunningly beautiful you are, though you can’t recall the exact words. Because his eyes and face had said much more, and you hadn’t wanted to miss it. Nor had you missed when he’d fought to softly smile and not appear so ready to have you.

How deeply and fully you’d wanted him too, just the same. Like a guttural pull to his physical form in your belly, in your throat. Its inexorable urgency would only prove to continue to snowball steadily throughout the night.

Then you’d toed past each other, and he’d donned the bay rum cologne that always makes you weak and wet and delivers you into his arms, until you’re finally arching your back.

Sometimes, in your life now, a few moments catch you. Snare you. And you think. Of all the things you’ve been over the course of your life thus far, at turns. Young and stupid; an awkward whelp; a reckless thief; then a sly con; and, briefly, a friend among friends. A wife, and now a mother as well. But alone was the thing you had been for most of your life. Much more alone than the average person, for longer, and alone in every way that mattered.

Then Arthur had come and made you a woman that a man wants. A woman who knows a man’s body. A woman who has carried a part of him inside you. Things that had been so other—so distantly removed from what you were and had always, always been—that you’d never been able to conceive of such an existence or its experience. To be one—to actually be one. Now you are one. A woman that a man wants. A woman who knows a man’s body.

Then Arthur had come and taught you things about life and love you couldn’t possibly have ever known on your own. Things no one could have ever told you. That love could have such a brutally frightening quality and texture to it—what if the one you loved came to harm? That to be united with someone meant risking yourself—that if he or she died, part of you would decay with them. That love isn’t always something one must do, as is often with blood. That love could be just as strong a tie or stronger when one chooses to love. That the absence of shared blood dulls and fades nothing. That two may share one heart, and therein is the strongest of bloods. That the decision of love itself is not merely a flippant fancy, but a fixed rock of reality. Then Arthur had come and given it all to you.

Who would have ever thought? Who could have? Certainly not you.

The drive into the city and to the restaurant had been punctuated with quiet coos to each other for directions through the tight streets. He’d opened every door for you, from the car to the inside of the restaurant. Had rested his large, calloused outlaw-turned-rancher hand very gently on the bared, dimpled skin of your lower back, to show you through each of the doors.

Holy God, did it switch every nerve inside you to electric, flipped the fluttery animals inside your chest into a swarming frenzy. The considerate gestures had put you into the pocket of his palm like warmed, dripping honey. But just as moving for you, it also plainly told the whole wide world: you were his.

Once inside the ritzy restaurant he’d chosen, he’d even pulled your chair out for you. Your shared supper had featured smiles and genuine, familiar laughter over the white linen tablecloth. And even that had been his gift to you, that you’d felt in your body. Laughter’s soothing, comforting effects flooding and lulling you as the tightness of stress left you. And the thought had occurred to you—how grateful you are for a spouse who can make you laugh, who wants to, and whose ability to do so has never faded with time. He’s never even seemed to shy away from sharing in moments of laughter, not when it comes to you.

It was his marked attention that—for reasons you couldn’t quite explain—had brought you close to tears behind your blithe smile. He’d hardly ever taken his eyes off of you. It was truly like you were the only woman in the room. And rather than it being a possessiveness that had made that so special for you, it had been the fact that he didn’t need to see any other woman. That you were the only one who did anything for him. That he was spoken for. Then there was the fact that if anyone had gawked and ogled him or flirted with him, you could glory in the simple truth that a man with his heart and his body would be going home with you tonight. No one else.

But more than any of that, his generously given attention had filled and satiated your soul. Things you never—or hardly ever—received from any other human: sincerely absorbed and thoughtful conversation, the clearly apparent desires to hear your inner life and thoughts and to smile and laugh with you. The fulfilled longing to just be with you. It welled inside you, because it was everything you craved from him and everything you wanted to give him as well.

You’d been completely relaxed and at ease all through your date. Every time you’d released a rested breath, you’d noticed some lovely new thing about your surroundings. Dimly glowing light from the scrolling sconces and the faint clinks of several types of silver cutlery on fine china. Classical piano, violin, and bass played live in the corner and the brush of luscious velvet on your skin from the seat back. A divine yet light meal of delicately crafted scallops and the finest fresh oysters. You’d reveled in the briefest sensation of the oyster filling your throat and slipping down, each time you’d swallowed one.

For dessert, chocolate ganache and a mound of macerated strawberries, blackberries, and blueberries, tossed with mint and Grand Marnier, topped with scratch-made whipped cream, and dusted with fine honeycomb sugar. Sparse sips of bourbon barrel-aged Cabernet for him, and for you, a glass each of Chardonnay and later ruby port, from stemmed glasses. Undivided attention and meeting each other’s eyes with a wellspring of affection.

It had been just what your soul had needed, and he’d known it.

Arthur slows to a stop at a red light, inwardly groaning at the obstacle drawing out your journey home. He quietly sighs through his nostrils and taps his thumb against the wheel. He glances to you at his right side, and you exchange sincere smiles.

Facing forward again, he glances down at his left ring finger. A simple ring—a rounded silver band inset by a much narrower black one—rests upon it.

In a blink, he’s taken back to those early days, before the whelming thrum of daily life, before the visceral clutch of those terrifying days in the hospital, before Grace, before you’d even become pregnant.

How he’d loved you, in a raring, aflutter, dithery way; in a way that engulfed himself sweepingly, wolfishly; in the natural way, it often seems, of new love. Though he’d kept himself tempered and even, until he’d known with surety you’d felt the same.

Then had come the quiet little ceremony, and you’d spent over a year in honeymoon bliss. Trying all the while to become pregnant, knowing you only had so much time. Then you had. And effervescent couldn’t begin to describe the two of you. Your very body, your miraculous and wondrous body, had caressed and carried all those other dreams Arthur hadn’t been fully aware that he’d still had.

Then Grace had come. A month and a half early, and earthshakingly beautiful. But her lungs had wanted to fail her, when she’d only just had a chance to greet and grace the world with herself. And in one swoop, that same beautiful new world had threatened to shatter and crumble in on itself. The blistering maelstrom of vicissitudes had nearly spun his head off his shoulders. At the time, he could only imagine all that you were going through.

Together you’d watched her every ragged breath, every labored rise of her tiny, ruddy chest, from morning until night, in days that blended and stretched to insanity. Had been forced to remain on the other side of a glass cocoon that smacked too familiarly of a coffin to him. A tiny coffin.

It had nearly killed him, your loving protector, to have to watch you go through such intense heartache and not be able to do a single thing to inoculate you against it. To watch his new infant daughter struggle to hold onto life, when he could do nothing. It had been a sort of pain concocted especially for him.

Still, the two of you had clung to each other for strength.

But hadn’t you been the bearer of all the strength? Because when turmoil and uncertainty had crushed and clamped in on him, the very worst of his hideous fears had come pouring out of him. Instead of stalwartness and fortitude, he’d proven a source of splitting chaos and weakness. After a life with some seasons of swindling and criminality, spans of cool violence and masked cavalierness towards tenderness and endearment, it had been a tiny, helpless babe that had shredded him and turned him inside out. Coming apart at the seams; bloodying his knuckles with the trunk of an oak outside the hospital; in the culmination of his inner storm, whispering insidious, nonsensical fears through the pale, eerie, hospital-room gloam that the recompense for his life was to blame and that you’d be better off without him.

With seeming great effort and a quietly tremulous voice, you’d told him, without turning, that he was the only thing keeping either of the two of you alive. That such thinking was preposterous. And that you both loved and needed him now. And forever.

Of course, his special brand of fear and self-loathing had turned out to be the very last goddamn thing you’d needed to hear, and once he’d remembered your own anxieties and insecurities, he’d been flooded with remorse.

When he’d been coming apart, you’d been holding together. When he’d left his family to beat against the tree, you’d been the one to remain at Grace’s side. And when he’d whispered the lies his mind had convinced him of, you’d quietly, though quaveringly, spoken the truth aloud to right him.

It was you who was the strong one. You who had borne the immense weight of his fears. You.

And you’d continued to prove it when the two of you had finally been able to take Grace home. She’d been so frail. So helpless. But together—just as you had been to see her struggle—the two of you had been witness to the unfathomable mystery of the simultaneous fragility and resiliency of…life. Because she’d strengthened and flourished and breathed.

He recalls somewhere in the days afterward, when you’d sought to bathe her in the tub on your own, without the aid of a plastic doodad. You’d hastily offered promises he hadn’t asked for: that you’d be sure to keep alert and wouldn’t let her drift below the water’s surface.

It had been then that he’d noticed the faint, receding shadows beneath your eyes. He’d had to ask himself if he could remember whether they’d previously been darker than they were in that moment, and whether they were beginning to brighten. Either way, he’d realized the toll the ordeal had taken on you, that you’d never voluntarily alluded to—the fullness of which he’d somehow missed, having been caught in what he deems his own silly, self-focused storm.

In memory, he can still see you from his secreted place behind the threshold, seated nude in the tub with the naked babe on your arm, skin to skin. Can still make out the tinkle of the water droplets falling from your fingertips onto her tender crown and the soft babbling of Grace’s healthy coos. Can still hear your quiet, broken plea—

“Wouldn’t you like to stay with Mama, baby? Won’t you stay? Stay with me? Please-” you’d whispered, and had sniffled when you’d wept, “Stay.”

It had put his heart and soul through a sieve. Thoroughly riven, he’d silently leaned his crumpled face into the wall, resting his forehead and eye socket against the doorjamb. He had reached up and felt wetness upon his cheek.

It had been you who had been the strong one.

He remembered being forced to ponder: how close had he come? Had he been a cobweb’s thread away from losing Grace? From losing you? He’d never know. Didn’t want to. And in those moments, shadowed in the bedroom, he’d been thrust into the experience of how it could’ve been: what would he do? How when, in search of an answer, his head had poked through a firmamental membrane to find the black mist of—nothingness.

Willing himself back to the present moment just in time, he swallows thickly, and gives attention again to the onyx light of evening.

Such shoulders, he thinks, envisioning that elegant outline of your neck exposed by your black silken gown without needing to turn and look at you. They’ve surely borne more than just those thin straps.

You watch placidly as Arthur takes the truck to the left, and the traffic ebbs and flows as you roll through the night.

Somehow, it’s enjoyable to simply sit here with him. His passenger seat princess, sharing in the sweet, silent glances and smiles. Needing no words to know that he’s on pins and needles to get home and make love to you. And ruminating in the knowledge that you feel exactly the same way.

It had taken no convincing for you to agree when he’d invited you out, though he’d been ready anyway with explanations of the provisions he’d planned, having foreseen your thought for Grace. He’d spoken them before you’d even fully opened your mouth to form the question. And you’d had to smile, because Arthur didn’t normally tip his hand to show—well, much of anything; but of all things, certainly not eagerness.

Your current train of thought flits to Grace, and though you know you should try to remain in the present with him, you can’t help but wonder if she’s cooing and smiling, enjoying time on her belly or struggling with it, or maybe drifting off to well-fed sleep.

Four months ago, you’d been so caged with guttural worry, you hadn’t been in a position to imagine time away from her for a romantic evening. Four months ago, when you’d pushed her from your body too early, and her little lungs betrayed her.

An unmooring. That was what it had felt like. Snagged and suspended in a strange, amorphous abysm with no corners, no boundaries. Hovering somewhere in life that looked on fate.

You’d tried to be steady for her. Remained there, in her room, beside her glass case. With your body still wracked by the huge task of childbirth, you’d clawed to hang on by a wisped fiber. You’d held yourself and slightly swayed by the waist at times, to cope. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You weren’t ready for her to become nothing more than a lifeless shell. Weren’t ready to see these newly sprung fears become reality. Weren’t ready.

Arthur had held you up. He’d been the only witness to the crystalline dew of your tears in the early hours as they teetered and finally rolled down your skin. Had been there every moment of every morning, every afternoon, evening, and early dawn. Right at both your sides.

When your weak, poisonous mind had told you all the worst—that you were to blame, that your despicable body had failed her when she’d needed you most—he’d held you and poured into your ears the antidote: that all of it was beyond your control, that your amazing body had been a loving home to her, and that both he and Grace loved you.

And when you’d finally required sleep, he’d forced himself to keep awake. And you’d discovered him in the same place when you’d blinked awake. But that was when you’d noticed the stark rim of red all the way around his eyes, from more than just fatigue. And he’d quietly told you he needed to step outside.

When he’d returned, he’d looked worse than when he’d left. As you’d been watching Grace sleep, he’d walked up, arms hanging haggardly at his sides, and uttered the poison in his own mind with a sheer, ragged breath.

Hearing it had split a rift in your heart, and you’d fought not to let it feed the fear wanting to grow inside you. For so long you’d fought your own anxieties that you weren’t enough to keep Arthur from leaving you. He couldn’t have known that during those days and nights of worrying for Grace, this fear of yours had been exacerbated and magnified by thoughts you couldn’t seem to keep at bay: what you’d heard once somewhere, that even the most loving, devoted couples often part after the death of a beloved child. Surely, for him to leave you after such a loss would be too selfish, too cruel. But he had been cruel. Hadn’t he? He had, to others. Why not you? It would only be a different incarnation of cruelty, for him to leave you. Was it enough that he’d changed, that you’d seen it in him, that he loved you?

Roiling and scattered and warring against fears that seemed to leap to others like lily pads, you’d tried to work it all out inside, without a word across your tongue. You’d even inwardly berated yourself for such thoughts over your relationship with Arthur, while Grace was right there, fighting for life. But you couldn’t help it. You loved them both. So it was that the fear had grown to monstrous inside you. And to hear him speak nourishment to that beast… But he couldn’t have known. And in that moment, you’d had to consciously choose to use all your might to force yourself to believe it was only his extreme fatigue and worry talking.

But after you’d gently spoken the fruits of that internal fight aloud to him, you’d known he would be reminded of the history of your personal anxieties, like a clap of thunder to the back of his head.

You’d caught sight of his weary back hunching as he succumbed to all of it—the truth, the memories, the remorse, the renewed constancy, the overwhelming drain.

As he’d resumed his place at your side, you’d quickly fallen to sleep again, without having realized it. And when you’d awoke that time, you’d found his body had given out. Slumped back in his padded chair, head hanging to the side and mouth open, the fabric of his shirt rumpled to a wad. The journal left open and hanging haphazardly on his lap, his pencil limp in the pocket of his curled hand upon the armrest.

It was only then that you’d noticed the bloody damage to his knuckles, what looked like tiny fragments of tree bark left in his wounds. He hadn’t merely pounded a tree; he had hit it and dragged his fist through the jagged, toothy bark.

You’d called a nurse into the room and asked her to fetch you a first aid kit, planning to tend to him yourself. While she was gone, your eyes returned to the journal.

Since you’d been together, he’d voluntarily made it your shared journal, a place only the two of you could go. A haven. Nevertheless, since it’d been his custom for so many years beforehand, he always seemed to use it a little more than you did. There he was again, retreating to that sacred, secret, communal place.

You took the journal from its sliding perch on his thigh and saw the messy sketches of Grace in her cocoon, of you in your sleep. And you read in his beautifully old-fashioned hand, though it now bore a touch of needling worry to its scrawl, .

Grace Ada Morgan~

For a moment, I forgot. It was this insanity gettin’ into my head. I’m so exhausted, sweet babygirl. I forgot that leavin’ doesn’t ever fix anything. Please forgive me. I promise I didn’t forget that your mother and you are everything to me. Just forgot the right way to show it. Forgot that you both need me too. But I’m not goin’ anywhere. I swear it. I ain’t ever leavin’ you. Either of you. So please, don’t ask me to go into the ground. .

It had broken loose something inside you, and you had wept until, when you’d started cleaning his wounds with soapy water, he’d begun to wake. You’d quickly brushed your tears away, tried to smile, and kissed him, though you’d known he couldn’t miss the puffy redness of your eyes and nose.

Jointly, the two of you had renewed your commitment to never let Grace go without the knowledge of your love. You’d both affirmed the reality that you already had been loving her and would continue to love her through every moment of her life, short or long, including the moments of pain or difficulty.

Arthur had been your strength, even when he hadn’t realized it. He’d unwittingly been the catalyst to processing things you’d needed to, and had spoken aloud things you’d desperately required to hear. And before then, his broad back had carried the cumulative load of the fraught situation, his own fears, and your anxieties. He’d been much stronger than he’d known.

Having left city borders several minutes ago, the black truck’s headlights slice through the indigo night as Arthur begins the pickup’s slow ascent to your mountain home. He’s given the familiar sights of stately pines and dancing moths and a craggy dirt path. Ensigns of the home he’s made with you.

He can’t keep his mind from ambling again to all the times he’s been alone in these woods with you. Night fishing, skinny dipping. How often, even in the midst of such pleasures, his doubts and fears would surface. He would warn you of them, that to be with him would only bring you some sort of pain or cause you irreparable harm.

You’d always reply something to the contrary; different variations, but always the same meaning. That he couldn’t know that. That you loved him. And that to be without him would do you a deep pain you were certain of.

He pulls onto the winding road hidden by thick foliage that begins your shared property and leads to the homestead. Further down, he stops at the metal gate, hops out to open it, drives the truck through, exits again to close it behind you, and continues up the road.

Once he’s parked at the house, you’re happy to let Arthur hurry around to your truck door and open it for you one last time.

Out of habit, you try to hide the roll of your belly with your forearm as he leads you from your seat. You’ve never felt the urge to do so more strongly than you feel it now, after carrying your baby and acquiring even more flab and stretch marks than you’d had before. But it occurs to you that he’s told you numerous times there isn’t any need for such things. That he loves you and craves your body, just exactly the way you are.

Internally, your mind has always warred to believe that it isn’t too good to be true, that such spoken words are not only pitying sentiments and niceties. You’ve told him multiple times, even early on, that he deserved better, could easily get better, and that you harbored fears he would realize it all too soon for your heart. Fears that he would leave you all together, throwing you away like you just might deserve.

But he’s sworn himself to you, in heart and in body, over and over again. It’s as if you are shattered potsherds, scattered upon the floor, unable. Presumed by yourself to be worthless. He gathers you—every discarded splinter—dressing and filling the cracks of you with his own love, not hiding your history but honoring it. And binding you, until you’re stronger than before.

And in this way, he joins himself to you.

Have you done enough of the same for him? You think on it all through entering the empty house, hardly noticing the moon’s glimmering cast that strikes his wedding band as he unlocks the door before you, hardly hearing him toss his keys on the counter. You think on it as you both slip from your shoes and quietly pad into the bedroom, and you’re finally cognizant of your surroundings. You think on it as you turn and watch him walk into the room.

What his love and loving him felt like, at the beginning.

Like the sharp tip of a jagged pane of glass thrust up into your belly, channeling through your ribcage, pausing when it reaches your heart, and slicing slowly with a surgeon’s motion into the organ. Never had anyone but you seen the inside. Fear wouldn’t have captured what you’d felt. Because there would be no earth that could withstand the force of your knees when they hit, if when he saw the inside he tossed it aside, and turned away to depart.

But when he had seen, the moment of his seeing had imprinted you with the inside of his own splayed heart—a thing more primal than a name—on the inner walls of the atriums and ventricles, on the abdominal aorta, on the pulmonary valve. On dredged parts of you that you’d never thought another human would glimpse.

And now, you think on what that same love feels like, after all these years.

Seeing him, all of him, as he is. Being known so thoroughly by him. Splayed heart meeting splayed heart, clotted that way, the bloody cells fusing and knitting themselves anew. Grown over and healed to a scar. But healed. Forever one flesh and one blood. The mess of a deepening, steadfast, stronger love.

A love that stays. That chooses to. There was never anything more romantic to you.

Arthur flips on the bedroom light and gazes at you where you stand removing your earrings and setting them aside, waiting for him. All he can think as he ventures towards you is loving you, and feeling your love. The full scope of it, in its history, and in this moment. How it had started, so heady and engulfing, it had swallowed him whole; though it had hardly been ready for life’s travails. How it’s still those things, but much more. How he knows you. Better than he’s known anyone. How he’s seen you in your every form, in every turn of life’s capricious road, and loves you the more for it. How your heart understands his.

This love has long drawn a rich burgundy, like the Cabernet he’d sipped tonight. This love that has long taken anchored grasp, its taproot reaching down into the core of him. It has flowered and fruited several times over. And like any goodly, fragrant fruit, it refreshes and sustains him. Gives him life.

He takes his time gazing over the exposed skin of your shoulders, doing what he can to ready himself to show it to you. This shared love that has matured and sweetened and ripened to something devastatingly deep and forever lasting.

a/n: Part 2 will pick up with the very next moment in the story. Comments always welcome! Reblogs always greatly appreciated! Thank you so much for your gracious support.

tag list: @shootybangbang @photo1030 @appalachiancowboy99 @cookiesandcreaminthetardis @clevergirl74 @subpopizzy @cassietrn

[talonabraxas]

Celestial Dragon (Tianlong)

Legends of the Dragon

The myriad legends of the Chinese Dragon permeate ancient Chinese civilization and shaped their culture even today. Its benevolence signifies greatness, goodness and blessings. Instead of being feared and hated the Chinese dragons are highly respected creatures of good fortune that bring ultimate abundance, prosperity and good fortune. Chinese mythology says dragons control the rain, rivers, lakes, and seas. Many Chinese cities have pagodas where people used to burn incense to ask the dragons to favor their crops or change the weather. Dragons are referred to as the divine mythical creature.

As an animal possessed of magical abilities the Chinese dragon is able to shrink to the size of a silk worm; and then swell up to fill the entire space between heaven and earth. It can make itself visible or invisible, as it so chooses. It can take on human form or that of another animal to carry out some secret mission.

Everything connected with Eastern Dragons is blessed. The Year of the Dragon that takes place ever twelve years is lucky. Present-day Oriental astrologers claim that children born during Dragon Years enjoy health, wealth, and long life. (1964 and 1976 were Dragon Years.

Dragons are so wise that they have been royal advisors. A thirteenth-century Cambodian king spent his nights in a golden tower, where he consulted with the real ruler of the land a nine-headed dragon. Eastern Dragons are vain, even though they are wise. They are insulted when a ruler doesn’t follow their advice, or when people don’t honor their importance. Then, by thrashing about, dragons either stop making rain and cause water shortages, or they breathe black clouds that bring storms and floods.

Types of Dragons

There is more than one type of dragon depicted in Chinese art. In early times there were four main kinds of dragon with many other sub-divisions:

The heavenly or celestial dragon (tian-long) was the celestial guardian who protected the heavens, supporting the mansions of the gods and shielded them from decay. The Tian-long could fly and are depicted with or without wings they are always drawn with five toes while all other dragons are shown with four or three toes.

Spiritual Dragon

The spiritual dragons (shen-long) were the weather makers. These giants floated across the sky and due to their blue color that changed constantly were difficult to see clearly. Shen-long governed the wind, clouds and rain on which all agrarian life depended. Chinese people took great care to avoid offending them for if they grew angry or felt neglected, the result was bad weather, drought of flood.

Earth Dragon

Dragons that ruled the rivers, springs and lakes were called Earth dragons (di-long). They hide in the depths of deep watercourses in grand palaces. Many Chinese fairy tales spin yarns of men and women taken into these submarine castles to be granted special favors or gifts. Some of the di-long even mated with women to produce half-human dragon children.

Treasure Dragon

Believed to live in caves deep in the earth the (fu-can-long) or treasure dragon had charge of all the precious jewels and metals buried in the earth. Each of these dragons had a magical pearl that was reputed to multiply if it was touched. This pearl was as symbol of the most valuable treasure, wisdom.

Over the ages many other forms and hybrid animals related to the Chinese dragon have emerged as part of dragon lore. There are said to be nine distinct offshoots of the dragon that are carved as mystical symbols on doors, gates, swords, and other implements as means of protection and as harbingers of good fortune.

The Dragon Pearl

The luminous ball or pearl often depicted under the dragon’s chin or seen to be spinning in the air, pursued by one or two dragons is thought to be a symbolic representation of the ‘sacred pearl’ of wisdom or yang energy. Pearl symbolism, like lunar symbolism arises from Daoist roots and the connections, are extremely The dragon's pearlcomplex. This pearl can be said to stand most often for ‘truth’ and ‘life’ – perhaps even everlasting life which is made available to those who perceive the truth and attain enlightenment.

The dragon’s pearl can also be thought of as a symbol for universal Qi the progenitor of all energy and creation. The dragons seem to be depicted in attitudes of pursuit. He is seen to be reaching out eagerly to clutch at the elusive object, mouth open in anticipation and eyes bulging with anticipation of achieving the prize afforded by clutching the pearl.

In connection with the dragon the pearl has been called the image of thunder, of the moon, of the sun, of the egg emblem of the dual influences of nature, and the ‘pearl of potentiality’. The pearl is most often depicted as a spiral or a globe. In some paintings it is sometimes red, dragons eggsometimes gold, sometimes the bluish white of a true pearl. The pearl is often accompanied by little jagged flashes that seem to spark out from it, like flames; and it almost always has an appendage in the form of a small undulating sprout, not unlike the first young shoot from a bean.

In Daoist concepts the moon, pearls, dragons and serpents are inextricably linked. Like the snake that is reborn when it sheds its skin, the moon is reborn each month, and both are symbols of immortality. Like the dragon, the moon is always associated with water; its undeniable power over the tides is believed to extend to all liquids on earth. The dragons that lived in the sea were said to be inordinately fond of pearls and collected them and watched over them in great submarine palaces. -The Dragons of China

[the1920sinpictures]

1925 c. Liberty of London design evening/dinner dress, sold by B. Altman, New York City. It is of silk, metallic yarn and glass beads. From Fashion of Bygone Days, FB.

[gabessquishytum]

A very self-indulgent ask here. Hob, having needed to start a new life, decides to take it easy from the fast pace of the city and buys a section of land to start a little farm! Most things come back easy to him - so many years living off the land, one way or another, doesn't go away quickly.

He's patching up the old farmhouse, painting board, hammering nails, breaking a sweat through it all. He starts tilling soil and planting seeds in the smaller back garden - mostly herbs to start with. He plans to ask one of the neighbors for help with the old farm equipment that was left over by the old owner. Even in here, things have changed so much! There's so many new machines and tools! Hob honestly thought it would feel like sliding into an old well worn pair of boots (and in many ways, it still is) but it's still new and fantastical.

He gets some chickens, which makes him realize how much he missed having chickens (and fresh eggs!). He enjoys the toil, the strain of muscle that a life like this provides. He enjoys the sweat on his brow and the easy rest his finds after a long day.

Then Dream comes to him, freshly retired and still wobbly on his newly human legs. So Hob coaxes him inside his home and gives him the care he needs. And slowly, Dream takes to this new human life of his.

So Hob teaches him how life used to be (and how it still is for many). Dream finds he especially likes feeding the chickens and watching them run around, pecking away. His eyes go wide the first time he sees a week old chick moving around. He names her Jessamy. She's his favorite.

Hob tells Dream to "go wild" in the house, and Hob enjoys watching how the fantastical mural progresses on the kitchen walls. Swirling colors and scenes only possible in dreams are revealed on the old walls. Hob smiles as he hands Dream a glass of freshly made lemonade and can't help but think how perfect he looks here in the light of the setting sun with stripes of blue and purple on his cheek.

Hob figures out how the old tractor works and how to attach the tiller and the direct drill with the help of their neighbors (a friendly group - the couple down the road brought them fresh milk). They get the first field tilled and sewn with winter wheat just in time for the cold. Hob takes a picture of Dream up in the tractor, looking wildly out of place in black skinny jeans and his silk top. Dream flips him off and Hob just laughs. Dream finds he quite enjoys that sound.

Winter comes and the daily chores slow (not stop, but slow) and Dream finds himself indulging in arts even more. Hob picks up some soft yarn and hooks when they're in town and the pair of them work on learning to crochet. Dream hates his first piece - a classic granny square - but by the time the holidays approach, he's made both him and Hob well-made scarves. Hob wears his every time he goes outside. It makes Dream smile.

Spring comes and with it, so does a bustling time of planting and planning. They work in tandem, prepping fields, buying seeds and fertilizer, caring for the chickens. They start renovating the old barn for either cows or sheep - they haven't decided yet.

Dream finds he quite enjoys the look of Hob in the midst of work. The sweat on his brow, the arch of his back and the tensing of muscles under his sweat soaked shirt all make for a very appealing image. If he takes out his sketchbook and works on capturing the moment, Hob doesn't comment on the sudden loss of extra helping hands.

It comes to a head on a perfectly average Tuesday when Hob's in the kitchen, kneading dough for bread for the week. It's early still. The sun has just started to peak over the horizon, their roosters just starting to crow - Jessamy from the sounds of it (and yes, so much for thinking she was a hen). Hob hears the padding of footsteps on the cool hardwood floors when a head rests against his back. He chuckles, telling Dream good morning and says he's up early.

Dream just grumbles in reply, a pair of hands rest hesitantly on Hob's sides. Hob continues, letting Dream soak up his natural warmth as he slowly wakes. The loafs will need to be formed still once the first proof is done, so for now, he places a towel over the top of the large bowl and pushes it up to the wall.

Hob turns in Dream's gentle hold and lets his body rest against the edge of the counter. Dream huddles closer, sighing as Hob wraps his arm around him. Dream looks up, this close, their noses are just hairs away from touching. Neither say anything, but both just know as they close the distance, it was how it was supposed to be. Here, in this house they each rebuilt with their own hands, on the land they tended to and cared for, they find love within each other.

This is sooooo lovely. I am very very into the idea of Hob going back to the land and starting a little farm. And how good it would be for Dream to create a whole new realm in the waking world. A sanctuary where he can live in harmony with all the living things around him. The food is home grown and home cooked, the bed is a little lumpy but perfect after a day of hard graft. Life revolves around the act of tending and of creating. It's not too far away from what Dream is used to, but it's all so totally different as well. It's new, but it feels safe.

Hob didn't realise it, but he also really needed this. The modern world is loud and bright, and if he's honest he's been craving the quiet and the stars and the solitude for a while. Solitude with Dream is even better. Sitting on the front step cuddling their chickens, talking about how the crops used to be in the old days before the fields were enclosed. Dream draws patterns in the dust with his finger. Life is quiet. Life is good. When the stars start to come out, they'll put the chickens to bed and then clatter up to their own room, to cuddle up under the patchwork quilt that Dream worked tirelessly to make as a gift for Hob. Tomorrow is a new day to shape together. The fact that Dream is looking forward to it? That means more than he can ever say in words.

[just-a-new-gi-writer]

"Creator Reforged" is (chef's kiss) concise and yet Exactly What It Says On The Tin lmao, big brain! Poor Sucrose in Ch7 tho: she must be traumatised too, for lack of better description.

Oh oh! May I send an ask for the Follower Special? How would the acolytes react to a creator who crochets/knits/sews them various clothes and accessories? I feel like Childe would appreciate (and definitely smugly show off) any scarves or coats you make him lmao??? Liyue has nobles and society stuff, so maybe when Ningguang or the other Qixing wear trinkets/shawls that the Creator made, there'd be similar clothes in fashion? Inazuma and Sumeru seem pretty big on textiles (Silk, Cotton, maybe Wool/Fur?) so would they be smug at their textiles being featured in some of the creator's works??

Also, just a last thing: your writing style ABSOLUTELY gives off shounen light novel vibes. It's honestly perfect for Genshin, imo.

Yeah, no one in that situation is really in their best mind at that point. Albedo, Sucrose, and the reader are all likely not thinking straight. (Hopefully going to get back to work on it soon...)

And thank you for the compliment! I'm honestly not all that familiar with shounen light novels, but I hope that the eldritch/weird moments that undergird party of my writing don't distract too hard.

A/N: Getting back on the wagon. ...And I let myself stray to an adjacent yet (in my opinion) equally interesting version of the Creator. Hope you all enjoy!

Word Count: 2.7k

CW: None?

Masterpost

taglist @iyohme

The night in Liyue was young. Though the furthest edge of the sky still wore the faintest remnant of the day’s glory, the rest of the sky glammered with pearlescent stars, crowned with a nearly full moon, and bounded in the north where an azure comet tugged at the sky as it fell.

Far below these celestial sights, the opulent city of Liyue slumbered, nestled between its towering mountains and perched beside the tranquil sea. Uncountable lanterns burned quiet and low, illuminating the streets just enough so the guards could patrol yet low enough to allow the citizens to rest.

Though the thousand hands of the industrious city lay low, not all of the city was asleep. In the city’s main hall, where the highest matters of state and commerce were conducted by words and contracts, through coins and goods, by bribes and threats, different kinds of activity were taking place. Heads of states, merchants, nobles, and the like from nearby Sumeru, Inazuma, Fontaine, and a few from even further afield, met and socialized with each other. They forged and renewed acquaintanceships, sought new avenues of commerce and trade, discussed and reviewed new discoveries and theories.

The event there was in full swing. Chandeliers with ornate carvings in Cor Lapis diffused amber light across the whole room. People clustered around the room, conversations flowing as freely as the drinks. The front of the hall was dominated by a stained glass relief of the Creator, The Forge of Days. Though no light filtered in through the myriad colors, the veiled image of Her figure seemed to glow with its own glorious light.

Gathered at the front of the room were piles of gifts and offerings. In years past, they would have been iron and copper, silver and gold, crystals with shimmering hues and gems with an unfathomably deep color.

But recently, their Creator had undergone a change of hobbies. The hands of The Forge rarely sat idle, but the items She created would change with her interests. For months, Her hammer and tongs sat idle, Her billows quiet, and Her fires cold. She’d found a new craft to occupy Her hands for a while, and the people followed Her whims.

A different bounty had been gathered tonight at her feet: bolts of cloth in all kinds of dyes and textures, spools of thread in every color imaginable, skeins of yarn that seemed to glimmer with gold spun into their material. These, the people hoped, would gather Her attention and affection enough to be worthy of receiving a gift from Her in turn. Though She chafed at formalities and ceremonies, these She would bear to see Her creations given.

Tonight, there was no shortage of people gathered to show off the artifacts that She had personally forged, crafted, or spun and then given so generously. It was hard to miss the heads of state and important nobles- Ningguang was garbed with plenty of jewelry of gold and amber and topaz. Keqing kept at her side, displayed prominently, a sword forged of impossibly sharp steel and inlaid with awe-inspiring arrangements of Inazuman amethyst.

Few were arrayed so brilliantly as them, but one person stood taller and prouder than both. In the middle of a group of weary and exasperated onlookers, a peculiar Snezhnyy man bragged about and paraded off his new gift. Tartaglia was not much loved by the people of Liyue- connections to the Fatui tended to do that- but showing off the new turquoise scarf generously pooled around his shoulders, studded with constellations of pearl stars, strained the patience of most.

“Oh, what’s the matter, Afong?” Tartaglia chided a merchant who finally had enough of him and tried to leave, “Can’t stand the sight of someone who has one of Her new styles? What do you have, just a tarnished, old bracelet? I think She’d be embarrassed to see that old thing in public! It’s probably for the best that She tosses that dull thing back into the furnace and starts over from scratch.”

A small, timid voice came up behind him, “Tartaglia, isn’t that enough?” He spun on his heel to see who spoke up, the half-adeptus Ganyu. She was carrying a tray of food in her arms which clearly had a wide selection. “You’re going too far with what you’re saying.”

“Listen, Цилинь,” Childe plucked one of the morsels from her tray, something skewered on a wooden pick, “talk to me when Her Grace decides to visit you with something noteworthy. I can tell,” he gestured down to the arm he could see, “that She gave you some pity. I remember hearing about that meager ring She made, Her last product before turning her sights to Her new craft.” He eyed the ring set with an aquamarine gem, then slid his gaze to what sat on her wrist. “But I didn’t hear about that.”

A dainty, delicate work of lace lay barely hidden under her sleeve, like a fine layer of ice had been worked around her wrist. While many would merely overlook it, it contained many curious details the likes of which would only be seen with Her handiwork- notably, the centerpiece of it was a recreation of Ganyu’s vision- frame, cryo symbol, even the subtle cracks and chips were represented through Her handiwork.

“The Forge of Days generously gifted it to me.”

“An early work of hers, probably. Most likely, she made it to familiarize herself with the craft, getting the early failures out of her system.”

“Did Her Diligence make a single weapon for you?”

There was a momentary flash of anger on his face- the first anyone had seen that night. It was quickly gone, but Ganyu had turned and left before she could notice. She heard another conversation haltingly spin up as she walked away, before fading into the noises of the party.

Ganyu left the party, following a familiar path of hallways as the sounds behind her began to become muddled and indistinct under the weight of their echoes. She turned a few corners, passing various shrines placed to honor and venerate the Adepti, mostly, but also the other benevolent beings who shared the region with the city and who helped guide its people in the past. Designed to impress and show off Liyue’s splendor like the main hall, there was little expense spared for these collections as well.

She slowed, then came to a stop. She was nearly on the other side of the building from the main hall, and her surroundings looked like it. This space was dominated by a large door formed of wood and metal, something that looked more at home in the industrial sections of the city, not here among the shrines. The walls and floor here were dirty- darkened soot seemed to almost grow on any available surface and the air was thick with the smell of earth and fire.

To a place built to celebrate the divine and the supernatural beasts that crowned this corner of the earth, this seemed wildly out of place. But Ganyu, among other important people in Liyue’s governing bodies, knew the truth of this location.

Ganyu balanced her tray on one hand and reached out to one of the enormous door handles. It took a bit of force, but the doors began gliding open, ethereally and unearthly quiet. She passed through the doors and began descending the stairs below, each one decorated with a different pattern of golden crystals that glowed in a circle around anyone walking down them. To Ganyu, it looked like the steps were being cast from the darkness just steps ahead of her as she descended. As she reached the bottom of the staircase, she heard the doors behind her gently close by themselves, a soft but unmistakable noise through the space she just entered.

And what a space it was.

Lit by larger clusters embedded in the walls, not too dissimilar to those on the stairs, the room was a crafter’s dream. Uncountable machines of industry filled the space, of every type and make, most repaired by hand after their user damaged them from overuse or overapplication of force. They were distributed about the room by trade- over there sat the forge, its bellows quiet and the stockpiles of coal, iron, silver, gold, and countless other metals full and ready; there rested every tool one needed to hew art and purpose from any stock of lumber one chose; there rested 

And through the middle of it all, and under the low dais in the center, ran a stream, to quench and cool the products of the forge, to supply the (currently disengaged) mechanisms with power.

And sitting there on that dais, bathed in light from a ring of crystals suspended over Her head, surrounded by an impressive array of tools and stock of materials all at Her fingertips, the Creator moved with impressive speed. Her hands flew from one movement to the next, a blindingly fast dance between Her fingers, the tools, and the dress that She was weaving on the mannequin in front of Her.

Ganyu set the tray down on a nearby table that wasn’t totally overrun with supplies and materials, pushing a few bolts of cloth out of the way. She carefully stepped through a field of bobbins, careful not to upset or step on any. As she approached the Creator, she wondered if She had actually noticed her. “Pardon?” She tried to get Her attention, stretching a hand out to Her shoulder. “Burning Forge–?”

The Forge of Days suddenly snapped out of the way, Her head whirling around to glare at Ganyu, Her eyes burning a brilliant yellow-white from the focus on Her activity. Her glare was uncomforting on the best of days, but when She wielded it like this, Ganyu could almost feel the heat of the forge pouring on, through, and around her. She could feel some of her hair begin to singe.

Ganyu took a step back, covering her face. “M-My apologies! Ningguang only wanted me to check on You!” The heat began to bleed away from her, quickly dropping to a simmering heat. When Ganyu risked a glance, she found Her back at Her craft, continuing to weave like She hadn’t been interrupted. “I wanted to check in on you as well. I know it’s quiet down here, and I know you don’t like crowds–”

Her Industriousness made a noise of frustration as she pulled the last of the yarn taut. She spun in place, planting the hook in the dress, then grabbed a plain knife and walking (at a speed that should have been called running) over to a spinning wheel. She began gathering up Her hair in large handfuls, then cutting them off with quick, clean cuts of the knife.

As quickly as She had turned away from Ganyu, the heat had faded away; only the memory of the warmth remained. Ganyu winced to see Her shear so much of Her hair off so carelessly, but she knew there was a method behind Her actions. As She stopped in front of the spinning wheel, She set the knife aside and began turning the spinning wheel, arcs of magical light started being cast from it as it spun faster and faster. When the arcs began to connect into circles, She fed Her hairs into it one at a time, and began winding the resulting golden thread around an empty bobbin.

Ganyu took the moment to look the dress over now that the Weaver of Fates was away from it. The beautiful garment looked like it was painstakingly constructed- the various materials made it look like it was spun from the condensed light that shimmered over Liyue harbor every morning, the angles and sections of construction chosen to mesh with each other so seamlessly. With how She had woven it all together, it felt like the dress was creating itself, like it was destined to simply be.

Thinking back to the excruciating minutiae of measurements that She had made of her body (after she found the demand from her Creator carved on a slab of iron which was unceremoniously deposited on her working desk…), part of her hoped that it would turn out this beautiful.

As she looked back at the spinning wheel, she caught The Forge feeding the last of her liberated hairs into the wheel and loading the last of the thread onto an overloaded bobbin. She snapped it up in one hand and turned back to the mannequin to continue her work.

It was now or never. Her Industriousness hated being interrupted.

“Your Grace?” Ganyu started speaking before She could set down the bobbin. “I was just thinking about you. I know you don’t like social events, and they’d prepared so much for the party- I thought you’d appreciate me bringing you a sample of what they had.” Ganyu began talking faster as she started threading the needle. “I-I made sure to grab some of your favorites as well, and I wanted to…”

She eventually stopped herself. If Her Unending Warmth wasn’t interested in something, it was basically guaranteed to be a futile struggle to get Her to cooperate. None in all Teyvat could match Her strength and endurance, let alone Her abject stubbornness.

Ganyu turned to leave. “I… I should go. I should see if they need me upstairs again. I’ll–” She barely took a few steps before suddenly being stopped. Turning around, she saw that the Creator had lunged towards her to grab on to her, Her incredibly strong and calloused grip, able to crush stone and deform iron, gently but firmly wrapped around her arm.

She looked up and saw The Forge’s face, one that was so used to its grim and steadfast glare that its current one, creased with worry, almost looked unfamiliar. The light in Her eyes was still bright, but had cooled to an orange glow.

“…Stay.”

The single word croaked from Her throat, gravely and unclear from disuse. It was incredibly rare for Her to speak- it was said that lifetimes could come and go without her making so much as a single utterance.

“–! …Alright, I’ll stay here with you.”

Her Grace let go of her breath and the room seemed to warm. She released Her grip on Ganyu, who slipped off to find two chairs that could easily be decluttered and dragged over to the table.

“…For all the work Your Industriousness does, I’m surprised You don’t do more to keep things tidy down here.” She moved an armful of cloth up onto a table, where it likely would be a hazard later on. “But I’m sure no one complains because they just like it when You make things on time.” She struggled to maneuver herself and the chairs around all the other clutter, but Her Grace managed to move through it with surprising, well, grace.

“There.” Ganyu set the two chairs down and it wasn’t long after She sat that She popped the lid off the tray and grabbed two different treats, offering the smaller one to her. She gave Her a light punch on the shoulder (that likely only hurt herself) then accepted it. After She started biting into the delicacy, Ganyu saw the light in Her eyes had dimmed further into a reddish glow, the natural steel gray beginning to show through near Her pupils.

The Forge labored many long hours to hone Her craft and produce all kinds of goods. Ganyu figured it was best to let Her rest for a while.

[longveil]

Passing Through the Weft

[ Photo by Nicolas Picard on Unsplash ]

hed·dle (/ˈhedl/) one of a set of looped wires or cords in a loom, with an eye in the center through which a warp yarn is passed before going through the reed to control its movement and divide the threads.

– – –

[ An unknown period of time after The Fall ]

The path to consciousness was dim and unmarked, chokingly narrow and strung with thick webs to block her path, chittering sounds echoing in the distance. Seraanna, though, was no stranger to twisted paths of the mind. She pressed through the fog of fading venom and slowly, hesitantly, stumbled into awareness.

Thick webbing still bound her in darkness; that much was unchanged. And, muffled through her enveloping cocoon, there was the sound of chittering voices bickering and arguing.

“We were told to stand guard here!”

“But these orders come direct from Anub’azal!

“Nej’karr ordered us to stand guard, and she’s a lieutenant of Zev’kall!”

“But she’s not Zev’kall. Do you want to disobey a direct order from Anub’azal himself? I, for one, like keeping all my limbs intact.”

“You – might have a point there.”

Distraction. Opportunity. Seraanna carefully tested the strands of her bonds, weakly attempting to draw upon Shadow. If she could break free, take her captives unawares…

“waitwaitwait. shhh. not yet. quiiiieeeet.”

The voice was thin, reedy, and close enough to be in her ear. She felt something small skittering on the other side of the silks that bound her.

“be still. soonsoon.”

Seraanna stopped testing her bonds and went still, allowing the vestiges of Shadow to fade. It seemed to be enough, enough to escape notice. The bickering continued a few moments longer before the voices agreed that heeding the orders of Anub’azal, whoever he might be, was most likely way to retain all their limbs. Soon after, Seraanna heard the muffled clicking of many legs moving away.

“safenow. patience. heddle helps.”

She felt the skittering presence move away, shortly followed by the clink of glass and the sound of burbling liquid. It dribbled onto the surface of her cocoon, and she felt the silken strands loosen and give way. Seraanna twisted and pressed, freeing one arm and then the other, managing to tear away the rest of the cocoon away as it slowly disintegrated under the solvent her benefactor had applied.

“ready? go now. quickquick, Weaver is waiting.”

And there – it stood. A spider, no, a Nerubian. Small, not much larger than a dinner plate, looking up at Seraanna with half a dozen eyes and a cheeky fanged grin. It waved with a forelimb and turned towards the doorway.

“come. little time. patrol soon!”

Seraanna brushed the last strands of webbing from her face, her eyes following the spiderling’s gesture. The view beyond the doorway was a vast, skyless city, towering spires anchored with cables of silken webbing, multi-legged shapes moving in the cavernous distance.

A Nerubian city, deep underground. More than any person, alone, could hope to escape.

“come!”

Drawing close what little Shadow she was able to call, Seraanna followed.

[mybeingthere]

The Warp Zone is Amanda Speer and Dain Daller. "We are artists and weavers living in Northern New Mexico. We weave in our mostly finished Earthship home that we have built from the ground up with only our four hands. We started building our house in 2010. Our home houses our four looms, our fig and pomegranate trees, an overwhelming collection of records and books, and far too much yarn. We weave under solar power and live completely away from any city or grid. We wash our hand woven, hand dyed goods (and our dishes and ourselves!) with rainwater that we collect off our roof and store in a 2500 gallon cistern.

We strive to constantly come up with new techniques and combinations to differentiate ourselves from others. We take formless raw materials such as silk, cotton, linen, wool, rayon, and transform them into beautiful weavings."

[thaylepo]

Stick weaving part 2, electric boogaloo

Continuing the stickwraving shenanigans! This time with different, heavier yarn than the fingering weight yarn I was using before. The red is less vibrant than the Jamieson shetland I was using before, but it's a sturdy mule-spun yarn with a lovely velvety feel, from a mill near me that uses locally produced wool. It's also more affordable, and I can order it easily from the source instead of relying on the number of dwindling yarn shops in this city.

The medium weight makes this go a lot faster and the sticks catch less, but it's harder to pull the yarn through itself against the sticks when patterning, resulting in more loose ends to tuck in later (you don't want to accidentally sew an end into the warp string while you still need to pull it thru

The yellow I got from them was less of a pleasing contrast with the rust-red (the phone camera makes it look much brighter than it does in person). It's a wheat-yellow with some dusty brown fibre mixed it and it's very pretty, especially with a silvery green I also have, but with the red it's kinda.... muddy.

So I switched to a silk-merino shiny gold yarn, doubled up to match the thickness, just to experiment. I may redo that connected diamond pattern later, since it just kinda turned into a blob off the sticks, but we'll see.

Here's the first one finished and off the sticks (not washed or hung or anything), where you can see the difference in the two reds-- again, phone camera auto-adjusting the colours is washing it out a bit. You can see the test bit with the new yarn up top is stiffer and less pliable than the part woven with the fingering weight yarn, but it's sturdier and holds more tightly to itself.

It's also almost exactly 5" wide across when relaxed off the sticks, which makes my plan for a sleeveless rectangular vest-robe a really clean 4 panels each front and back to get 20" wide. That's comfortably off the shoulder on me, and I'm measuring the warp for 36" of length (about knee length, measured on a coat I have).

This one panel may be the odd one out as I adjust the patterns, depending on how nightmarish they are lol. I'm currently finishing the last few inches with the small repeating wave pattern, which is utter hell to do with the thicker yarn (and the silk bland, it's so slippery) but it looks so good I want it up on the top of the coat where it's visible. I'm not worried about perfection on this garment, it's going to be a hot mess of exprimentation and just making shit up as I go, but it's gonna be so fun and I'll be so proud of whatever abomination it turns into by the end lol

[silkcityfibers]

Blue Moon Placemat Weaving Kit

Easy one shuttle weave with luxurious cotton bamboo yarn makes this project go quickly. The pattern looks complex but is simple enough for a beginning weaver.

Blue Moon Placemat Kit includes: Color Option 1:Cotton Bambu Yarn: Blue SteelCotton Bambu Yarn: SilverDownloadable pattern Color Option 2:Cotton Bambu Yarn: OrangeadeCotton Bambu Yarn: NaturalDownloadable pattern

To Buy Visit- https://www.silkcityfibers.com/products/blue-moon-placemat-kit

[msbarrows]

July 31 - tackled sorting though the big pile of stuff that had accumulated on the spare bed in the room where my computer is: got through about half of the rough sorting. Silk/linen yarn arrived so wound it into a cake. Left Anno 1800 to run so my character accumulated money while I was doing all that; did take occasional breaks in sorting to work on my initial New World city, and start shipping stuff I'll need later back to the Old World.

Hot day so I decided on a big salad for supper - romaine, tomatoes, sweet pepper, cucumber, green onions, bacon, toasted walnuts, croutons, and diced chicken fingers.

[snowberry-crostata]

Clothing of Skyrim, Part VII: Regional Styles Continued

Earlier today I attended a webinar for work which left me both intrigued and concerned. As a palate cleanser, I decided to continue working on my Clothing of Skyrim series and flesh out styles in the four holds I hadn't gotten to yet (the first five holds can be found here). This time we visit The Rift, Hjaalmarch, Eastmarch, and Winterhold!

The Rift

Riften is second only to Solitude in the volume of foreign trade that flows through the city. Its proximity to the borders of Morrowind and Cyrodiil influences styles in the region and helps support a flourishing cultural exchange. Large enclaves of Dunmer and Argonians live in the city, bringing with them their cultural and stylistic traditions. The temperate climate of The Rift allows for the wearing of clothing and textiles that would be impractical in other parts of Skyrim. Silks imported from (or, more frequently, smuggled out of) the Summerset Isles are a high-value commodity among Riften’s wealthy elite. Lining the interior of otherwise subtle garments with richly-dyed silk or satin is a favorite status symbol of bourgeois merchants living in the city. Block-printed Dunmeri designs remain popular as well. Foreign influences wane outside of Riften, where the clothing of farmers, trappers, and woodsmen more strongly resembles styles found in neighboring Falkreath and Eastmarch.

Hjaalmarch

Cold and damp are the defining characteristics of Hjaalmarch, and its inhabitants’ clothes reflect the need to survive in this harsh environment. Fulled or felted wool is worn for its warmth and water-resistant properties, and outerwear made from waxed or oiled cotton and flax is occasionally seen (though the materials are more often used as ships’ sails rather than in clothing). Since antiquity, the inhabitants of the sparsely-populated Karth River delta have passed down the skill of weaving grasses into textiles. Ornamentation on garments in this region tends to be less ornate than what is seen in neighboring Haafingar or Whiterun due to both a lack of wealth and the difficulty of trade in this inhospitable region. However, locals are known to add tassels made of yarn, string, or even grass as decoration, and decorative knotwork – a skill that originated in the fishing trade – livens the otherwise dour appearance of those living in and around the Drajkmyr Marsh.

Eastmarch

Fur and wool dominate the clothing produced in Skyrim's easternmost hold. Bear pelts are particularly prized and are often left partially intact to be worn as helms or cloaks, echoing the hold's heraldry. The Nordic preference for long hair, seen on both men and women, is particularly strong here. Elaborate braids and other designs are a common sight, with six and eight-stranded plaits being particularly popular. As a result, Windhelm is home to one of the highest concentrations of professional hairdressers in the empire. In the south of Eastmarch, those living in small villages around the region’s hot springs have recently established a lucrative dyeing industry. The springs’ abundant sulfur, when mixed with caustic soda and other compounds, produces colorfast black, gray, and rich brown cotton dyes that are difficult or nigh-impossible to replicate via other processes. The burgeoning trade in textiles has been an economic boon for these parts of the hold.

Winterhold

Hsaarik’s Head has the distinction of being the landing point for the Atmoran migration to Skyrim, and Winterhold has held to Atmoran traditions and ways of dress more than any other hold in the kingdom. Embroidery on leather is a defining feature of the style, and fur trim and linings are a near-necessity for surviving the long, cold winters. Owl and hawk designs, again drawing on Atmoran tradition, are a recurring motif. In the College of Winterhold, elaborately quilted robes help insulate the faculty and apprentices from the chill that seeps through the college’s walls. Novice’s robes are gray. After choosing an area of specialization in their third year, students begin wearing colorful robes which identify their chosen discipline. The faculty’s robes are distinct from the students’, with wider sleeves, liripipe hoods, and velvet trim.

[pandaimitator]

if you want: list 5 things that make you happy, then put this in the askbox for the last 10 people who reblogged something from you! 🌻

I'll play!

1: Knitting: I love busying my hands with something productive, which in the end produces something useful into which I have poured my heart. My productivity goes up and down with the knitting, but when the knitting bug bites, I can produce several sweaters in the course of a few months. I'm also somewhat of a textile nerd so choosing the best wool/cashmere/silk/yak/ whatever yarn is a pleasure in itself.

A big ol' pile of stuff I've knit in the last five years or so. For a closer look, visit my Ravelry.

2: Gardening: when the enthusiasm for knitting dwindles the enthusiasm for gardening usually kicks in. I'm not one for flowers generally, but I love growing vegetables. The pride of stumbling out barefoot into your garden in the morning's sunlight, and grabbing a cucumber for breakfast, or plucking your own aubergines or pumpkins for dinner, is without comparison: like I grew this!

3: My village: 8 years ago I left the city and moved out to a tiny industrial age village. Situated between two lakes, many of the houses here are over a 100 years old, with a 150 years old well preserved brickwall textile factory at the heart of the village. It's like living in a gorgeous museum, and every time I take the exit on the motorway and roll into my village, my heart alights. The icing of the cake is all the gorgeous people I have made friends with here. And my local work-out group, who meet every Tuesday to work out, and in the summer, take a postworkout sunset dip in the lake.

Favorite corner of my village

Post workout dip in the lake

4 Dancing: Every 6 months or so, I organize sober discos in the local school gymnastics hall together with 2 friend. It's two hours of ugly-ass moving your body to the beat and letting go of all anxiety, in a group of like minded judgement-free people. The endorphines go wild and leave you in a state of bliss.

We're not many, but we're having fun!

5 Community: my native language doesn't have a word that encompasses all the meaning of the word community. But the sense of belonging, of meaningful exchange, of getting to know people and taking part of their story, of supporting and helping each other out, of selfless acts of generosity, of having fun together, raising kids together: I genuinely think the ideal of the nuclear family is damaging to us as beings, we need so much more community; it takes a village! People are amazing. I'm new to tumblr and new to AO3, and last, but certainly not least, new to the Mummy community, and you guys are making me happy 💕

[charlottee5]

10 Stars Who Flew The Flag For Sustainable Fashion In 2021

2021 has seen the fashion industry ramping up its efforts to reduce its impact on the planet. But it’s not just brands that are taking action, with a number of celebrities, too, flying the flag for sustainable fashion this year. Whether by wearing vintage or opting for an eco-minded designer, A-listers have a powerful role to play in influencing our shopping habits, and making conscious fashion the norm.

Bella Hadid

Bella Hadid is well-known for her love of vintage, with her penchant for archival Jean Paul Gaultier, Comme des Garçons and Stella McCartney-era Chloé only continuing to grow this year. She’s also added some more unexpected brands into the mix, including a micro skirt from Noughties favourite Abercrombie & Fitch. 

Kendall Jenner

Another JPG obsessive, Kendall Jenner has given us some of our favourite vintage looks of the year, including this printed sheer number by the French brand. The model is also a fan of eco-conscious brand Havre Studio, which restores and refits vintage men’s suits found at flea markets in Mexico City.

Rihanna

From Chanel to Dior by John Galliano, Rihanna’s shown off a series of envy-inducing vintage pieces in 2021. She’s also continued to champion New York-born and London-based designer Conner Ives, who repurposes vintage jerseys and silk scarves as part of his approach.

Angelina Jolie

Angelina Jolie is known for her environmental work, so it’s no surprise that the actor and activist has taken a conscious approach to her wardrobe this year. For a trip to Paris in July, she opted for looks from both Gabriela Hearst and Chloé, the latter of which gained B-Corp status this year. Later on, her children appeared on the red carpet wearing past looks from her wardrobe, including her 2014 Oscars gown.

Emma Watson

Another star known for her environmental activism, Emma Watson has also championed a number of eco-minded brands this year. The actor wore an upcycled Harris Reed dress to the Earthshot Prize ceremony, while opting for an Emilia Wickstead look made using recycled yarn to meet Al Gore. Watson also later chose a full-look by Scandi upcycling brand Rave Review during Cop26, the United Nations climate conference, in November.

Zendaya

Zendaya has delivered some of her best looks to date in 2021, including a series of vintage pieces – ranging from ’90s Versace to Noughties Roberto Cavalli. With the British Vogue October issue cover star revealing she’s creating an archive with stylist Law Roach, it just goes to show how a slice of fashion history can make a real statement on the red carpet.

Timothée ChalametIt’s no secret that Timothée Chalamet sets the internet alight with every look he steps out in – which is why it’s great news that he’s been championing sustainably-focused brands. They include Stella McCartney, a favourite of his, as well as pieces from Prada’s Re-Nylon range – made from discarded fishing nets and other plastic waste.

Lorde

Lorde showed her commitment to sustainable fashion by wearing not one but two eco-minded looks on the night of the Met Gala. First came the embellished separates by Emily Bode, which celebrated craft and featured charms, beads and pennies dating back to the 1890s. Then, there was the after-party dress by Collina Strada (a brand that she also chose for her “Solar Power” video).

Jaime XieBling Empire star Jaime Xie made a point of wearing vintage during fashion month, including an instantly-recognisable sculpted dress from Balenciaga spring/summer 2008, a printed dress from ​​Versace’s menswear spring/summer 2005 collection, and a Dior spring/summer 2004 silk dress, from when the house was under the helm of John Galliano.

The Duchess Of Cambridge

Arguably the most famous repeat-wearer out there, the Duchess of Cambridge chose to rewear two Jenny Packham gowns (including one that was a decade old) for her appearances at the Earthshot Award ceremony and Royal Variety Show this year. Away from the red carpet, Kate also championed sustainability, opting for a recycled vest from Ganni during Cop26, and a top-handle bag from British brand Tusting earlier on in the year.

[warpweighted]

[ID: # is there a better textile to use? # trying to be more sustainable with my knitting]

@kind-words-like-honey hi! hope you dont mind the long reply ^_^

so like ultimately the amount the individual consumer can do is negligible etc etc grain of salt better is relative no perfect options several complicated and specific factors etc

HOWEVER theres three basic paths to take: Dupes, Secondhand, and Sustainably Made

Dupes: if you're just looking for bamboo without the carbon disulfide, tencel/lyocell is the viscose for you, and it's actually sold commercially! Lion Brand has some and so does Valley Yarns. Viscose is just pure cellulose so once it's been produced itll biodegrade just fine

Secondhand: Colourmart colourmart colourmart! they sell yarn mill ends that would otherwise be disposed of. tbh it's a lot of lace weight but u can get really nice yarn for a fair bit cheaper. also Swansons Fabrics, Paper City Fabrics, & Lucky Deluxe Fabrics! also anyone in your community (sca chapter, quilting guild, knitting group etc) looking to destash

Sustainably Made: really depends on what you're going for cuz like, cotton is theoretically more sustainable to produce but oh my GOD the water use and pesticides and worker exploitation. I dont know if I can make that calculation and give a definite answer. I havent really looked into the specifics of other natural fibers modern day production but I fully expect there to be Issues in all of them even if not quite to cotton's scale. Getting sustainably & ethically produced firsthand textile anything is time consuming and probably expensive, but your best bet is probably craft fair wool handspun, and similar small local endeavors. for a natural fiber rayon dupe, to me it feels kinda like cotton and drapes kinda like silk so maybe a blend?

tbh this is the path I'm shakiest on, but like... in terms of natural fibers cotton is Known to be uniquely water-heavy and it also uses a Lot of pesticides and theres a Lot of labor exploitation. The other main ones (wool, silk, linen) are smaller-scale industries that dont necessarily have as much impact as cotton. or maybe the environmental impacts havent been as thoroughly researched I'm not sure.

the most minimal-impact commonly available commercial production is, according to my brief look into things, probably linen. It's sensitive to herbicides and fertilizers so they tend not to be used as much* (no word on pesticides so idk there), and theres not the two-step plant->animal production process that comes with animal fibers** so it is, probably, on balance, with caveats, more sustainable than most other fibers

*according to the FCOC growers guide

**this input model presumes that the animals are fed on monoculture commercial feed or similar and that the feed itself is not sustainably grown, and also that the animals in question were not already being raised for meat or milk or as pets. this is of course not necessarily the case for all animal fibers! its complicated its nuanced

what grinds my gears like nothing else is textiles manufacturers greenwashing bamboo/rayon yarn or fabric as though the fact that it's derived from plant material erases the enormously toxic manufacturing process. like the first thing you think of when you think of bamboo yarn/fabric is 'oh it must be made like any other plant fiber' but no!!! that's a semisynthetic fiber that's usually made with carbon disulfide which is extremely toxic to workers and environment both!

and there ARE less destructive bamboo processing techniques you CAN make bamboo fiber the same way you do any other bast fiber theres EVEN a less common chemical process that doesnt do the same harm that viscose rayon does but NO instead we get ~natural fiber~ greenwashing that hides behind the extremely reasonable assumptions people make about plant fibers

I will never ever in my life begrudge people who buy bamboo yarn or for that matter acrylic because (a) goddamn its fucking rough out here (b) I'd be a massive hypocrite (c) the problem is the manufacturers not the individual and (d) sometimes it IS the yarn for the job but I will never stop beating my drum about this bc we! deserve! to know!