#sylvan ply

[sylvanply1234]

Which Brand Of Plywood Is Best?

Plywood is a versatile material, widely used in construction and furniture making. Its strength, durability, and affordability make it a popular choice among homeowners and professionals alike. But with so many brands of plywood on the market, how do you determine which is the best? What factors should you consider when choosing a plywood brand for your project? In this article, we will delve into the world of plywood. We'll explore what makes a brand of plywood superior, from the quality of the wood to the certifications it holds. Get in touch with us for more information.

[sylvanply123]

Which brand of plywood is best?

Plywood is a versatile material, widely used in construction and furniture making. Its strength, durability, and affordability make it a popular choice among homeowners and professionals alike.

But with so many brands on the market, how do you determine which is the best? What factors should you consider when choosing a plywood brand for your project?

In this article, we will delve into the world of plywood. We'll explore what makes a plywood brand superior, from the quality of the wood to the certifications it holds.

We'll take a closer look at some of the top brands in the market, such as Sylvan Ply. We'll also discuss the importance of BWR(Boiling Water Resistant) and BWP (Boiling Water Proof) plywood in certain applications.

We'll touch on the growing demand for sustainable plywood options. And we'll guide you through the different types of plywood available, helping you understand which is best suited for your needs.

Whether you're a DIY enthusiast, a professional contractor, or simply a homeowner planning a renovation, this guide is for you. Let's embark on this journey to find the best plywood brand for your project.

[scotianostra]

On May 17th 1810 Robert Tannahill took his own life.

Tannahill was an accomplished songwriter and poet who penned some of our best-known songs, I posted a  longer piece about The Weaver Poet on the anniversary of his death a fortnight ago.

Robert Tannahills’ most famous compositions include the Braes o Balquhidder (later remade by the McPeakes of Belfast into the song Wild Mountain Thyme, or Will You Go Lassie, Go?), O Are Ye Sleeping Maggie?, Gloomy Winter’s Noo Awa and Jessie, the Flow'r o Dunblane.

Professor Fred Freeman of Royal Conservatoire of Scotland  and producer of the complete songs of Robert Tannahill, wrote:

“Tannahill, like Burns, was obsessed with rhythm in Scottish traditional music…strathspeys and reels; jigs, slip jigs, hornpipes…Burns…was a fiddler, and Tannahill, a flautist. Both…employed rhythmical methods of composition…Tannahill, the weaver, plying the shuttle and formulating his words with the beat of the Scottish dances deeply etched in his mind.”

Robert Tannahill’s life was to end in tragic circumstances in 1810. Aggrieved at the rejection of his latest work by publishers and fearful of his health, the poet drowned himself in a culverted stream under Paisley Canal.

Gloomy Winter’s Noo Awa.

Gloomy winter’s noo awa’, saft the westlin’ breezes blaw

Amang the birks o’ Stanley Shaw, the mavis sings fu’ cheery o

Sweet the crawflower’s early bell, decks Glennifer’s dewy dell

Bloomin’ like your bonnie sel’, my ain my darlin’ dearie o

Come my lassie let us stray o'er Glennifer’s sunny brae

And blythely spend the gowden day ‘midst joys that never weary o

Towerin’ o'er the Newton woods, lavrocks fan the snaw white clouds

And siller saughs wi’ downy buds, adorn the banks sae briery o

Round the sylvan fairy nooks, feathery brackens fringe the rocks

And 'neath the brae the burnie jouks, and ilka thing is cheery o

O trees my bud and birds may sing, flowers may bloom and verdure spring

But joy tae me they cannae bring, unless wi’ you my dearie o

[sylvanply]

Which brand of plywood is best?

Plywood is a versatile material, widely used in construction and furniture making. Its strength, durability, and affordability make it a popular choice among homeowners and professionals alike.But with so many brands on the market, how do you determine which is the best? What factors should you consider when choosing a plywood brand for your project? Sylvan Ply is a brand that has made a name for itself in the plywood industry. Known for its high-quality products, Sylvan Ply offers a wide range of plywood types to cater to various needs.

[sylvanply2024de]

Which ply is best for home?

Your home is a haven, a reflection of your taste and a space built to last. When it comes to building or revamping your living area, choosing the best plywood in 2024 is crucial. At Sylvan Ply, we understand that navigating the diverse options can be overwhelming. But worry not, for we're here to guide you through the perfect ply for each area of your home!.

[digital12marketing]

Best Plywood & Blockboard Company in India

Sylvan Ply is synonymous with trust and reliability, offering the best plywood and blockboard in India. With a legacy of over 70 years, we take pride in delivering high-performance commercial plywood to our valued customers.

[sylvanplywoods]

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[mothmanismyuncle]

Vampire Jaskier 👀👀 or just non-human Jaskier if vampires aren't your think. Geraskier? Idk have fun fam, I trust your writing ✌✌

vampires AND non-human jask are totally my thing hueh hueh hueh

thank u love u jamie damned-delion at your service

“the bard, dandelion, at your service!” the man said with a deep bow and a flourish.

geralt had to admit, it was a good set.

“ah. i’ve never met an iteration of dandelion before,”

“our loss,” dandelion purred, eyeing geralt up and down.

“how many dandelions have there been? six? seven?”

“only about four hundred years worth,” the bard chuckled. “give or take.”

geralt, having little reference for how many years an unadulterated human had, merely sipped at his ale and nodded before sliding the stein back to the barkeep and making his way back upstairs.

“see you ‘round, master witcher,” dandelion called, despite geralt’s abrupt exit.

right. sure he would.

***

“master witcher!”

geralt knew that voice.

“dandelion,” he said, irritation lacing his speech. “you’re not subtle.”

“i beg your pardon?”

you better beg, geralt thought.

“the white wolf? seriously?” geralt held a hand to his furrowed brow. “not subtle.”

“i’m glad the song’s caught your ear,” dandelion replied, a mischievous sparkle in his eyes. “i make the entire continent know your name, and you’re cross with me?”

“thats not my name,”

“well, if you would have been so kind as to introduce yourself,”

“geralt.” he turned back to roach, ready to mount right back up, stopping at an inn for the night be damned.

“oh? where are you headed so soon?”

“away.”

“oh, splended! i was also headed that in that direction. perhaps i’ll accompany you in your travels!”

“it’s well past midnight, dandelion. you look like you were beginning to ply your trade.”

“you know, past midnight, by all means, should be the time to travel. no one deigns to take to the road at night because evergbody knows the bandits and ne’er-do-wells all attack at night. who are they robbing, it makes one wonder.”

“it doesnt,”

“they should be pouncing by day! why, if i were a bandit, which i’m not! in case you were worried,”

“i wasnt,”

“if i were, i’d attack by the noonday sun. more traffic, more chances of finding a suitable target, i genuinely don’t see a downside,”

geralt considered urging roach into a gallop, but she’d been ridden all day. she’d tire out before the next resting place for sure if he pushed his luck.

that’s what he told himself, anyway.

***

“a demon, you say?”

“a demon, they say.”

“well, what do you say?”

“i say demons don’t exist.”

“if they don’t exist, i’d very much like to see one,”

“if they don’t exist, i’m not going to get paid,”

“more’s the pity,” dandelion sighed. “you know, the whole thing is quite romantic. doomed from the start makes for a lovely song,”

“no,” geralt declared, forcibly putting space between himself and the bard. “no songs.”

“barring me from a song is like barring a hen from laying an egg!” dandelion crowed.

“then cross your legs?” geralt replied. dandelion’s turns of phrase were still a mystery. dandelion burst into uproarious laughter at his suggestion, however, so maybe he had said something right after all.

***

“if you’re going to kill me, get on with it. but the sylvan’s right. don’t call me human.”

“me neither, actually, so i just feel like we have a simple case of mistaken identity, hm?” dandelion broke in.

geralt blinked, screwed up his face, and tried to turn and look at the man tied to his back.

“what?” he asked, intelligently.

“dont worry, darling, virtually nobody gets it right the first time,”

“if youre not a human, then what—“

“maybe this isnt the time, love,”

the elves shifted uncomfortably, looking from torque to geralt to dandelion, back to torque.

with the wave of a hand, filavandrel had them untied, but geralt couldnt find it in him to be any more surprised than he already had been.

***

“there’s a song here,” dandelion quipped, tuning his gifted lute.

“no,” geralt grunted, rolling his eyes. “what are you?”

“a bard,” dandelion said simply, before wincing and looking back to geralt. “an anomaly, that’s for certain. i… do you remember when you when you asked me how many dandelions there had been?”

geralt hummed, motioning for dandelion to continue.

“it’s always just been me.”

in geralt’s head, the possibilities of what dandelion could be shifted ever so slightly to the left.

“and i swear to you, geralt, i’m not…” dandelion squared his shoulders. “if you must do your job after what i tell you, i— i understand. i do. but will you at least give me one last night before the end of all things?”

geralt nodded, slowly. its not as though a trail of dead bodies followed dandelion wherever he went, or ghastly things seemed to happen around the bard. he assumed the bard was an elf—

“i got caught here, after the conjunction of the spheres. i’m a vampire.”

“a—?!” geralt felt himself get a mite dizzy. “there’s— you!”

“oh my,” dandelion tried to steer him to a nearby log but geralt didnt budge. “i’m sorry for keeping this from you,”

“you said you were caught here after the conjunction?” asked geralt. dandelion looked mildly fraught for a moment before he nodded, taking a step back from the witcher. “so that means,”

“i suppose you’d call me a higher vampire,” he said with a sigh. “definitely less brutish than my local cousins,”

geralt couldnt help the snort that escaped at that.

“much, much less. in comparison, foppish,” he said, wondering if he was having some sort of medical emergency. latent concussion? perhaps a broken blood vessel in the brain?

dandelion was quieter than he had ever been in geralt’s presence.

“and humans?”

“only the consenting ones,” dandelion was quick to assure.

geralt hummed.

“well. i don’t know of anyone with enough money to force me to do my job at you,” he said honestly. “even a bard of your kind would cause me too much trouble to consider.”

dandelion let out a sigh and wavered on his feet, enough that geralt reached out to catch him.

“i don’t know if i’m at ease or not, but at least this won’t be our last night,” he looked up to geralt with worried eyes. “right? you’re not going to chase me away?”

“i’ve already tried everything i know,” geralt said flatly, sending a chuckle through dandelion. “and yet.”

“yet,” agreed dandelion. “i’ve got a while, yet.”

“so have i,” agreed geralt. “unless,”

“unless.” agreed dandelion with a smile. “well. that’s settled.”

they set up camp, falling into familiar rhythms and motion, before dandelion paused.

“does this mean i can get closer while you work?” he asked.

“not unless you want to take the contract,” geralt grunted from where he lit the fire. “maybe work a day in your life,”

this argument was familiar and full of dandelion’s melodrama and geralt’s dry teasing. everything fit so easily into place with the bard that even the thought of forcing him away made a pang run through his chest.

that, and he hadn’t been joking about the money. even dandelion, someone who once unleashed a squeal at a slug so dire that geralt had run half-dressed to save him, as a higher vampire… geralt likely wouldn’t win that fight.

“hang on,” geralt said, abruptly stopping what he was doing, fooling with the fire. “you didnt need me to carry you down that mountain.”

“i— well, not physically,” jaskier babbled, holding his hands out with a placating smile. “but i was emotionally wounded.”

“you played dead after those drowners got around me last summer,” geralt accused.

“you didn’t know i wasn’t human then!” dandelion shrieked, “what quicker way to show you!”

geralt let his shoulders slump, mentally cataloguing every time dandelion had needed carried, coddled, and otherwise fretted over in their acquaintanceship.

“maybe i just like being carried,” dandelion sniffed.

“you’re heavy,” geralt groaned. without warning, dandelion’s full weight bore down upon him, nearly taking out the struggling fire in the process.

“am i?” dandelion asked playfully, resting his head on the back of geralt’s. geralt shifted, forcing dandelion to ooze to the ground with much complaint.

geralt hadnt heard him coming at all, which shook him to his core. it also bode ill for mischief, but geralt was glad to know at least that of dandelion’s true nature.

“you can ask.” dandelion said quietly, still slumped to one side of geralt, head resting on geralt’s thigh.

“i trust you.” geralt replied, shocking the hell out of both of them.

dandelion didnt seem to have an answer to that, and instead, was content tuning his lute with his head on geralt’s lap.

geralt was content to let him.

[saladbarselectionmenu]

Day 3: Free Time

Amadaria spends her free time cooking and caring for her mounts. She likes to cook for just about anyone but she has a special fondness for going back to the grove and cooking for the lavender harvesters in the Caledon as she spent most of her youth bouncing between them and the sylvan hound kennels. She tends to drop in among her friends and ply them with food to ensure they’re all eating properly - especially Caithe, who she insists on having at least four meals a week with so her sister will never feel so isolated and alone again.

Caring for and racing her mounts and pets also gives her a large measure of peace, over time her section of the kennels has evolved from a space just for fern hounds into a menagerie of weird - she has a tendency for catch and release rehabilitation programmes for wild animals and eventually this expands to the point she ends up moving out of the kennels into her own garden where she keeps the array of her mounts and pets.

When Aurene comes along she ends up moving it all to Tarir. Later it’s where she sets up her skyscale ranch just outside the city, spending much of her time recording and observing the effects of different kinds of magic on the new species.

She spends her alone time gliding and exploring the world, everywhere from Tarir itself to retreading the Caledon. Filling and managing old boltholes she compulsively keeps in case of disasters - a habit she picked up from Caithe.

[ladywritesthings]

Welcome to Burlesque, ch4

AO3

---

Caleb got about five steps down the hallway before his legs gave out and he fell heavily against the nearest wall, hands on his trembling knees, gripping them like anchors as he breathed deeply in shuddering bursts.

What the fuck had gotten into him?

He hadn’t expected to see her at all today — had stayed away a full week because of the possibility he might; came during the day, long before the club opened, specifically to lower his chances of doing so — but she lived here? He was going to kill Mollymauk.

It was he who’d suggested going back, after all. Who’d slyly insinuated it was fine, really, Jester might have handed the thing off to Nott, or the bouncer at the door, or literally anyone else — not that she’d personally hang on to it. In her bedroom. He hadn’t fucking mentioned she had one of those here.

And she’d been excited to see him — genuinely excited; like she wanted him to come back, like she wanted to see him.

And he’d been thrown, of course — by her bubbly personality, by her bare feet and loose top tucked into shorts too short, by her dimples and freckles and that plump little mouth going a mile a minute as she chattered all the way to her apartment… By her vibrant, chaotic bedroom, with its scattered clutter and that wide, soft bed, where she’d slunk forward with hooded eyes and hinted at things that could have been.

But none of that gave him the right to play along the way he did. Encourage her.

Win.

Not that it had been a contest, of course. But somewhere along the way he’d picked up that she was testing him in some way, baiting him, and something in him wouldn’t allow him to ignore the challenge. Because it was a challenge — one slight blush at some frilly lingerie had somehow spiraled into a lazy finger trailing up his chest and murmured insinuations about her naked body.

He ran a shaking hand through his hair. Scheisse.

It had been a long time since he’d flirted with anyone like that. At all. And there was no use denying that was what he’d been doing, what they’d been doing, regardless of the intent behind it on either side — might as well call a spade a spade. It had been a while since he’d wanted to. And now he couldn’t help himself. A combined total of less than a day of knowing her, if he was being generous, and already he was thinking with the wrong head.

If it had been a test, or a competition of some sort, the way her breath had stuttered and lips had parted as he left her speechless by her bed seemed to indicate he’d done rather well.

He wondered, not for the first time, what would have happened if he’d been strong — or weak — enough to turn back that night. If he’d stayed. If she’d been telling the truth.

He wondered what could have happened if he’d stayed now…

He shook himself roughly and began his long trek downstairs, every step putting more and more distance between him and the closed door at the end of the hall. No, he couldn’t think about such things. She did this sort of thing for a living — not a judgment, merely statement of fact; making men like him weak in the knees was her business, after all, and he had to be realistic. He couldn’t allow himself the delusion that anything that had happened between them was anything more than what it was: an artist plying her trade. A very skilled artist, plying a very specific trade.

So why did the thought fill his gut with a cold ache he couldn’t quite place?

A tiny voice piped up, sly and winking in the back of his mind: ‘Why do you want it to be real?’

He didn’t. Of course he didn’t. She was beautiful, yes, and surprisingly sweet-natured, and excitable and bouncy and somehow genuinely pleased to see him — but he didn’t. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t let himself think about the way her lips curled when she said his name, of the cool touch of her finger through the cotton of his shirt, thin and simultaneously, agonizingly too thick just then; of the way she tugged on his sleeve and the way a part of him almost wished she’d grabbed his hand instead so he could feel the touch of her skin on his.

She had magic. Divine magic, to be sure, but she’d recognized the sigils in his wallet, even if she didn’t know what they meant. And she’d seemed interested in them. In him. In his magic, in his cat, in his life.

She’d asked for his number and he’d just… given it to her. He still didn’t quite know how he’d managed it as smoothly as he did, when the mere fact of it afterwards left him trembling. At some point soon she would text him, or — gods forbid — call him. His phone would ring, and her voice would be there, pressed against his cheek, murmuring in his ear… His face burned as he stumbled down another flight of stairs. He’d offered to help her mother with their books. Her mother. With their books. And she’d taken him up on it, or said she would.

If he’d been trying to extricate her from his life, get her out of his head, he was doing a piss-poor job of it.

But he was weak, and selfish, and she presented herself so tantalizingly, so willingly, and he was so, so selfish. He wanted to see her again. Of course he did. He shouldn’t, but he did.

She seemed to want to, too.

No. Realistic, he had to be realistic. They barely knew each other, anyway. He’d offered her something she needed, and she’d accepted. That she had his number, that he’d be coming back, probably more than once, was incidental. And when it was all done, it wasn’t like he’d have any reason to return after that.

He tried to ignore that icy disappointment slithering up his spine.

Nott eyed him as he finally reached the bottom floor. “Are you sure you don’t want that drink?” she said. “You look a little—”

“Nein, danke,” he muttered, waving a vague hand in her direction. “I should get going.”

“Well, alright,” she said. Her eyebrows were raised, like she was appraising him, but let him leave without further comment. The large woman at the door with the heterochromatic eyes gave him a tentative nod as he stumbled through the door, out into the sun and breeze and blessed, blessed fresh air. He filled his lungs in long, steady gulps, and his coat felt too hot now.

He left it on, sweating, as he made his way home.

In his dingy studio apartment, he collapsed on the couch, draping an arm over his face to block out the light and drifted. He shouldn’t encourage this, shouldn’t let himself, but when his treacherous mind began replaying her performance in excruciating detail for the millionth time, he simply let it. Let her imaginary fingers trace dripping honey in delicate patterns over her shimmering chest, let her hot breath caress his skin as she later moved agonizingly between his legs.

‘I was wearing that bra the other night. When you left.’

He could almost feel her again, finger pausing at his collar just before she touched skin.

‘Maybe you would have found out if you’d stayed.’

Scheisse.

At some point Frumpkin had jumped up to curl on his chest, and when Caleb shifted his arm enough to glance down, Frumpkin was looking at him reproachfully. “I know,” he told the cat miserably in Sylvan. “Believe me, I know.”

Frumpkin didn’t seem convinced.

The day passed in a haze, as did the next one, but by the third he’d finally almost managed to put her out of his mind, at least enough to concentrate on other things. Important things, like transcribing the old arcane manuscript he’d been tasked with for the library’s digital archive. He very nearly didn’t hear the phone when it rang, fifteen pages deep in the text as he was. He sandwiched it between an ear and a shoulder, only half paying attention as he did. These old wizards were fascinating.

“Ja?” he said absently.

“Caleb?”

The phone slipped from his shoulder, and he had to juggle it ridiculously to save it from the floor. It was — she’d—

“Jester?” He swallowed hard, suddenly very hot and very cold at the same time. It was her. That was her voice.

“Oh, good, it is you. Hi!”

Her voice was bubbly and warm. He subconsciously pressed the phone a little closer to his ear. “Ah, hello.”

“I hope you don’t mind that I decided to call — I know some people don’t like to talk on the phone anymore. I thought about texting, but then I thought, you know, ‘Well, he doesn’t actually have my number, so what if he doesn’t know it’s really me,’ because, like, anyone could say ‘Hey, it’s Jester,’ in a text, but you wouldn’t really know.”

She spoke in a rush, and sounded like a summer breeze, light and airy and full of life. His chest tightened. “No, it’s fine, I don’t mind.” He swallowed. “I’m actually glad you called,” slipped out before he could stop it.

“Really?” She sounded delighted. “Good, because I talked to my mom, and this is much faster than texting.”

“Ja?” He leaned back in his chair. “What did she say?”

“She was a little nervous at first, but I’m really good at convincing people and she said she has some time for you to stop by. Do you have time tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?” So soon? His palms were sweating.

“Or today, I mean, it’s still pretty early. Unless you’re busy, of course,” she added hurriedly. “I’m not bothering you at work, am I? I’m sorry, I should have—”

“Jester, I — it’s fine, you’re not bothering me at all.” He was lying, of course, always lying — her very essence bothered him, in the most delicious of ways — but she didn’t need to know that. “I’m working from home.”

“From home?” She sounded confused. “I thought you were a librarian.”

He chuckled a little in spite of himself. “I told you I worked in a library,” he corrected. “I never claimed to be a librarian.”

“Huh.” She paused a moment, then continued brightly, “I guess you can tell me all about it when you get here.”

She was making it so hard for him to resist her, and he didn’t even think she was trying this time. He pressed the heel of his palm to his eyes, pressing down hard. Damn this woman. “Ja, I can come today,” he heard himself saying. “I can be there within the hour.”

“Perfect!” she squealed, and it went right through the phone and down his spine. “I’ll see you soon!”

“Goodbye, Jester.”

He held the phone to his ear long after the dead air cut out. What had he done?

He was going to see her again. Today. Soon. He tried to suppress the twisting sensation in his chest as he closed his laptop. Frumpkin was staring at him.

“Oh, shut up,” he muttered.

It was cooler today, even though the sun still shone brightly, and he shoved his hands in the pockets of his coat as he took his time on the walk to the Lavish Chateau. It was still early — too early, maybe, he’d be there in less than half the time he’d told her, even at this rate — but once he’d finally put the phone down, staying in the apartment had seemed impossible. Concentrating on the manuscript was a fool’s errand, at least, and it wasn’t like he had anything better to do. He felt jittery, restless, and his mind was a blur.

He was going to see her.

The woman with the strange eyes opened the door when he knocked. “Hello,” he said, rather lamely.

She stood aside to let him in. “Jester’s just in there,” she said, gesturing down the hall to the arch leading through to the bar. “Your name is… Caleb, yes?”

“Yes.”

Her hand hovered a moment, like she was unsure of whether to extend it to shake his or not, and settled for rubbing the back of her neck awkwardly instead. “I’m Yasha,” she said. “I’m the bouncer. One of them.”

“I… gathered as much,” he said, then, “It’s nice to meet you, officially, I suppose.”

“It’s nice to meet you too.” There was a pause, in which neither of them seemed to know what to do. Yasha finally looked away, gesturing again in the direction of the bar. “She’s expecting you,” she said stiffly.

He made it about three steps into the main hall before he heard a squeal. “Caleb!” Jester was bounding towards him, an enormous smile dimpling her cheeks, and the petticoats beneath her vibrant yellow sundress swished and bounced around her knees. She was barefoot again. His chest ached.

“Sorry, I’m a little early,” he said apologetically.

“No, no, this is perfect!” She’d latched herself onto his arm and was pulling him towards the bar, which was empty. “Mama should be down any second, you’re right on time.”

He could feel her grip on his bicep, gentle yet surprisingly strong through his coat, and she still hadn’t let go. “Where is Nott?” he asked. Out of genuine curiosity, of course. Not because her other arm had looped around his elbow and was making it very hard to think right now.

Jester pursed her lips and shrugged. “Upstairs, maybe?” She glanced at him and squeezed his arm a little. “You don’t have to keep your coat on, you know,” she said, eyes glittering. “It’s not cold in here.”

He could feel his ears heat up slightly under her gaze. “Oh, I don’t—”

“I can take it, if you want. Mama keeps her office pretty hot so, you know, you’ll thank me later.”

Try as he might, he couldn’t come up with a plausible reason to refute this perfectly sound bit of logic, not while she looked at him so expectantly with those fingers trailing down his arm. “I — ja, okay, I guess.” He sighed as he slowly shrugged the thing off, focusing on folding it neatly. He could feel her eyes on him.

“Caleb, you—”

“Is this him, Jester?”

The soft voice from the base of the stairs made him turn and — oh.

Oh, gods.

Everyone knew who the Ruby of the Sea was, if only by reputation alone. A renowned singer in her own right, now the owner of one of the most widely acclaimed clubs and brothels in all of Wildemount — a courtesan of kings, even in this modern age. He’d never seen her, of course; she was notoriously reclusive, and few could afford her rumored exorbitant prices.

He saw now, of course, these were entirely justified.

Her scarlet skin seemed to glow with an internal light, her dark red hair falling in elegant, effortless curls down her back. Her makeup, though understated, framed the striking white-gold of her eyes and the gentle curve of her full lips. A white silk blouse, two buttons tastefully undone; pencil skirt of a modest length, but tight. Everything about Jester’s looks that made the masses swoon was perfected in her mother, somehow — the hourglass shape, the high cheekbones and the heart-shaped face… Where Jester was small and youthful and wild, Madam Lavorre was statuesque. Refined. Regal. Even from across the room, he could tell how she would tower over him, even disregarding her stiletto heels and the long curl of her horns. Her very presence filled the empty room full to bursting.

He couldn’t even register any form of attraction at the moment. He was too in awe.

“Y-yes, Mama, this is Caleb.” Jester’s voice broke him out of his reverie, and out of the corner of his eye he could see the hint of a flush fading from her cheeks. How odd. Did her mother make her nervous too? This didn’t bode well at all.

He cleared his throat hastily as the Ruby came towards them, a curious tilt to her head. “Ah, Madam Lavorre—”

“Marion. Please.” She extended a delicate hand and Caleb had the odd urge to kiss it. It seemed like the sort of thing one should do to someone like her, as a show of respect. He shook it lightly instead.

“Caleb Widogast,” he said. “I hope I am not imposing—”

“Don’t be silly, Caleb,” said Jester. “I invited you, remember?”

A small smile graced Marion’s lips. “Quite,” she murmured, and gestured back towards the stairs. “Shall we continue this in my office…?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll take your coat,” said Jester, and her cool fingers brushed his hand as she took it from him. It looked much too large, bundled up in her arms. He hoped, embarrassedly, it didn’t dirty her dress. He really should get the wretched thing cleaned.

Caleb followed Marion up the stairs to the second floor, past all the raunchily-named VIP rooms to a grand oak door near the stairway up to the third floor. The spidery script on the plaque simply read “Manager.” She held it open for him and gestured him inside. “Please,” she said. “Sit.”

Jester was right; the room was a good ten degrees warmer than the hallway, at least. It was just as elegantly decorated as the club downstairs, but in a more antique sense — all wood panels and deep red wallpaper. An ornately carved desk dominated the room, plush leather chair behind it. Caleb hesitated only momentarily before seating himself in one of the smaller chairs in front of it. He felt ridiculously out of place.

Marion closed the door behind him and once behind her desk, gazed at him deeply over steepled fingers. “So,” she said finally. “Jester tells me you are… an accountant, yes?”

He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Not precisely,” he admitted. “I told her I was good with numbers, but I am not… officially trained as such, no.”

“I see.”

“She mentioned you had been having trouble with your former employee.”

She sighed. “A bit,” she said. “He was… not who he claimed to be.”

“I only offered to take a look,” he said. “I thought I could be of some assistance….”

She lowered her hands, tilting her head, those white-golden eyes boring into him. “Why?”

Her voice was gentle, curious, but with her eyes on him and that commanding presence he couldn’t help but feel like he was being interrogated. He resisted the urge to shift uncomfortably in his seat. “Your daughter is… very charming,” he began haltingly. “She mentioned that you were having trouble balancing the books after your… problem, and I thought I could offer my services as I have some… experience with such things, although not in an… official capacity, exactly.”

Those slender fingers pressed together again over pursed lips. “If I may ask,” she said, “what is it you do for a living, Caleb? May I call you Caleb?”

He nodded mutely. “I work in the archives of the Cobalt Reserve here on the Menagerie Coast,” he said. “I mainly transcribe and translate ancient texts.”

A perfectly penciled eyebrow arched at that. “You are a monk?” she said, surprise evident in her voice.

He felt his ears heat up and felt suddenly glad his hair was long enough to cover them. “Ah, no,” he said. “I have a friend who belongs to the Order, but my studies are more… arcane in nature.”

“A wizard, then?” She leaned back in her chair slightly. “How fascinating. I haven’t encountered a proper wizard in many years.”

“We are a dying breed, I am afraid.”

“Not much call for offensive magicks in these times of peace, to be sure.” She looked thoughtful for a moment, crossed her legs under the desk. “Forgive me, Jester told me you were smart, but she did not mention your, ah…” She tilted her head again. “You say you are good with numbers as well?”

“I — ja, I would say so.”

“Indulge me, if you would.” She reached down into a drawer, pulling out a large, leather-bound book, and pushed it gently across the desk towards him.

He opened the book to a random page, seeing the rows and rows of numbers carefully penned in a smooth hand. “You do not keep digital records?” he asked.

The corners of Marion’s mouth twitched upwards. “We keep both,” she said, gesturing at the book. “This one… it is old. You will forgive me for not simply handing you the keys to our current financial records just like that.”

“Of course,” he murmured, but he was only half-listening. The numbers swam before him, the sums adding up automatically in his head as he flicked through a few pages. After a moment he tore his eyes away, remembering where he was. “This book…” he said, “it is from when your previous employee worked here, yes?”

“Why do you ask?”

He spun the book around and pointed. “There,” he said. “That one should be a two. And there—” He pointed again, “—this should be a four. And here…”

Her eyes widened as she followed his fingers, smile slipping as he pointed out mistake after mistake. “You did this all in your head?” she said. “And so quickly.”

He retracted his hand, feeling his face redden slightly. “Ja,” he said, a little embarrassedly. “Ja, I did.”

She studied him for a moment, then pulled out her phone, a small, slim thing, from some unseen source. She tapped a few keys before glancing at him again. “What is fifty-seven plus eighty-nine?” she said.

“One hundred and forty-six,” he said, furrowing his brow in confusion.

A few more taps. “Six hundred and ninety-four multiplied by three hundred and eighty.”

She was testing him. “Two hundred and sixty-three thousand, seven hundred and twenty.”

A last round of taps, a curious expression on her face as she glanced back at him. “Eighteen thousand and thirty-two,” she said, “divided by twelve.”

“One thousand, five hundred and two, point six. And some.”

She leaned back in her chair again, eyebrows raised. “I must confess,” she admitted slowly, “when Jester came to me about you, I was… skeptical.”

He closed the book carefully. “That is understandable,” he said delicately, “considering the circumstances.”

“I mean no offense, of course.”

“Of course.”

“You have impressed me, Caleb,” she said, leaning over to search through another drawer. The open collar of her blouse shifted as she did, revealing a soft expanse of scarlet skin. He looked away quickly.

“I only wished to help,” he said to the ceiling.

The gentle rustle of paper brought his attention back to the desk, at her long, manicured fingers pushing a sheaf of stapled pages towards him. He took them with raised eyebrows.

“This is a… contract,” he said lamely.

“The job is yours,” she said. “You are by far the most qualified person I have met so far.”

“I did not…” He paused as he skimmed the fine print, flipping through the pages.

She cocked an eyebrow. “This is a job interview, yes? That is why you offered your services to my daughter? Or have I misunderstood…?”

“That’s not—” He broke off suddenly, staring at the figures before him. “You’re paying — how much?” he choked out.

Marion steepled her fingers again as she leaned forward. “I understand it might be a bit lower than other, similar positions, but if you’ll look a little further down, you’ll see the lease to the apartment is included in the agreement…”

He was still reeling from the proposed salary, which he still didn’t entirely believe was real. “Low? I — My apologies, did you say ‘apartment’?”

She rose, pulling out a key ring from the same void from which she’d retrieved her phone. “Follow me.”

Still clutching the contract with its absolutely ridiculous numbers, he followed her in somewhat of a daze as she led him up the sweeping stairs to the third floor and down the wide hall to a door near the end. ‘Nearly directly beneath Jester’s room,’ his mind supplied deviously.

The lock clicked quietly as Marion opened the door and waved him in. “It is one of the smaller apartments,” she said apologetically. “But all the utilities are included, of course — power, water, internet…”

Caleb stared at the apartment — at the high ceilings, at the clean walls and pristine appliances in the kitchen alcove; at the wide open archway leading up the half-step to the bedroom. He wandered through the living room area, across the seemingly endless hardwood floor, past doors leading to… where? He didn’t feel like he could open them to look. Not that Marion would have stopped him, he thought, but he was too overwhelmed to even try.

“This… is part of the payment?” he said faintly.

Marion nodded. “If it is unsatisfactory,” she said, “we could possibly renegotiate your salary to compensate, of course—”

“Nein, ah, no, this is…” He inhaled slowly, looking around him. The living room area alone was almost larger than his entire studio apartment. And he could live here. For free.

“I realize you say you have another job,” said Marion. “But I hope that won’t affect your decision…”

“I work from home, mostly,” he murmured absently.

Marion smiled. “Excellent.”

A thought occurred to him suddenly, an ugly smudge of dark on this shining opportunity. “I have a cat,” he said, almost reluctantly. “Would that be a problem?”

“A… cat?” A cloud seemed to pass over Marion’s exquisite features and his heart sank momentarily, but then she shook her head. “Your familiar. Of course. No, that… that won’t be a problem. It is… quiet, I presume? My apologies, I am… unfamiliar with pets. I have never had one myself.”

“He is a good cat,” said Caleb, a little lamely.

“Of course.” Marion nodded. “It will be no problem, then.” She tilted her head again, and he was sure he didn’t imagine the faintly hopeful look in her eye as she did. “So… have you reached a decision? You will sign?”

Caleb smiled weakly. “Do you have a pen?”

As he made his way back downstairs a few minutes later, a little dazedly, he saw Jester still at the bar, still clutching his worn leather coat, chatting animatedly with Yasha. His heart twisted slightly in his chest as he watched her, as she flipped her hair over a bare shoulder and laughed, and a cold, slimy feeling slithered through his gut. What was he doing? He was trying to get out of her life, not insert himself more firmly into it.

She glanced up as he paused there on the stairs, somehow brightening even more when she saw him. “Caleb!” she called, waving him over. “How did it go? Did it go okay? What happened? Tell me everything!”

“Ah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. What had happened, exactly? He was still not entirely convinced he was awake. “I — I suppose… I live here now?”

Jester’s hands clapped to her mouth, eyes widening. “You took the job?” she said.

“I — ja, I did.” Why, and how, were still unclear to him at the moment, but suddenly it didn’t matter anymore because she’d flung her arms around him, and something in his brain short-circuited.

“Oh my gosh, that’s so great!” she squealed, and the gentle squeeze of her cool arms through the long sleeves of his shirt was rapidly turning his insides to jelly. “We’re going to be neighbors! Isn’t that cool?”

“Ja,” he managed awkwardly. He was hyper-aware of every inch of her body pressed against him — he was sure his face was a mortifying shade of red right now, and Yasha’s mildly interested gaze and raised eyebrows were definitely not helping — and tried in vain to clear his head. “Very cool,” he mumbled.

She released him just enough to look up at him. “You’re bringing your cat, right?” she said seriously. “It’s very important that you bring your cat.”

He blinked at her. “Of course I’m bringing my cat,” he said.

Her face split again into that sweet smile, cheeks dimpling. “Good,” she said. “We’ve never had a pet around here before, I can’t wait to meet him! I-if that’s okay with you?” she added, almost shyly.

He couldn’t help it — a corner of his mouth quirked up at that. “Of course,” he said. “We’re going to be neighbors, you should meet my cat.”

For all their similarities, her eyes were so strangely unlike her mother’s, so big, long-lashed; crystalline violet irises instead of the alien expanse of color typical of Infernal ancestry. He could nearly count the freckles dusting her nose at this close distance, count those long, dark lashes; they weren’t entirely purple, he realized, because there was gold in her eyes — just a little, just there, a small ring of amber around her wide pupils…

“I like cats,” said Yasha thoughtfully.

Caleb coughed as Jester released him with a small jerk of her head, the faintest hint of lavender-pink coloring her cheeks. “Well,” she said.

“I should go,” he said simultaneously.

She grinned at him, and extended his coat towards him. “Here,” she said, unnecessarily.

“Thank you,” he mumbled. And then, pausing to put it on, he glanced at her. “Thank you, Jester,” he said sincerely. “For speaking to your mother. This was… an unexpected outcome.”

Her cheeks dimpled again. “Of course, Caleb,” she said. “It was your idea, though.”

“Ja, well…” He shoved his hands in his pockets and nodded politely at Yasha. “It was nice to meet you,” he said.

Yasha inclined her head in response.

“Come back soon, okay?” Jester called after him as he made his way to the exit. He glanced over his shoulder and she grinned widely. “You have to, now,” she said.

He was still smiling as he stepped out into the cool Nicodranas air.

The smile died slightly on his trek back to his apartment, however — his soon-to-be-ex-apartment, actually. How had he let this happen? He wasn’t a religious man, and yet a week ago, he would have blessed the gods at such an incredible opportunity. That apartment? The money? He’d never even conceived of earning that much money in his whole life, much less as a yearly salary. And being close to Jester, to be able to see her every day —

No, no, that was a problem, wasn’t it? He didn’t — shouldn’t — want to be close to her. He’d told himself not to lose himself in thoughts of her, hadn’t he? He barely knew the woman, after all. She wasn’t interested in him, not really, and he was in no position to pursue her, even if he wanted to.

‘I do want to, though,’ he thought, and immediately suppressed it.

No, he didn’t. It was lust, pure and simple — it had been so long since he’d come across anyone who’d made him feel like this, that was all. It would pass, as all things eventually did. And then she’d just be another person again; his neighbor, his… friend? Possibly, but probably not. She’d lose interest after the novelty had worn off, and that would be alright. Wouldn’t it?

‘But until then,’ a part of him reasoned slyly, ‘why not enjoy it while it lasts?’

He sighed as he let himself into his apartment, as Frumpkin fixed him with a look. “Don’t,” he said wearily. “You don’t have to say it, I already know.”

Frumpkin hopped off the couch and padded over to the bed, wiggling under it in the very deliberate manner he did when he was sulking. Caleb ignored him and shrugged off his coat. Frumpkin would get over it. Eventually. He’d enjoy the new surroundings, at least. Meeting new people, possibly. Meeting Jester…

Oh gods, it was really happening. He’d be moving, packing up his meager belongings and moving… He’d have to get boxes, of course, and furniture — more than his sagging couch and ancient mattress and flimsy second-hand desk, to fill that enormous, blank space of potential, the mirror image of Jester’s apartment upstairs —

Her flirtatious smirk flitted across his thoughts, her eyelids fluttering as she handed him her phone for his number, those soft, strangely cool fingers brushing his and setting his nerves alight. ‘You know,’ she’d murmured. ‘For later.’

Her excited squeal as she wrapped her arms around him, pressing herself against him. ‘That’s so great!’ she’d said, and when she looked up at him with those amethyst eyes he’d lost the ability to speak.

‘Come back soon, okay?’ she’d said, the grin audible in her voice as though this had been a private joke between them. ‘You have to, now.’

Mollymauk was going to be insufferable when he found out.

[issuewire]

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[scotianostra]

On 3rd June, 1774, Paisley poet, Robert Tannahill, was born.

Tannahill was an accomplished songwriter and poet who penned some of our best-known songs, I posted a  longer piece about The Weaver Poet on the anniversary of his death a fortnight ago.

Robert Tannahills' most famous compositions include the Braes o Balquhidder (later remade by the McPeakes of Belfast into the song Wild Mountain Thyme, or Will You Go Lassie, Go?), O Are Ye Sleeping Maggie?, Gloomy Winter's Noo Awa and Jessie, the Flow'r o Dunblane.

Professor Fred Freeman of Royal Conservatoire of Scotland  and producer of the complete songs of Robert Tannahill, wrote:

"Tannahill, like Burns, was obsessed with rhythm in Scottish traditional music...strathspeys and reels; jigs, slip jigs, hornpipes...Burns...was a fiddler, and Tannahill, a flautist. Both...employed rhythmical methods of composition...Tannahill, the weaver, plying the shuttle and formulating his words with the beat of the Scottish dances deeply etched in his mind."

This song of Tannahills is one you can hear the influence of the flute at times in this version by Dougie MacLean, it's a braw song......................

Gloomy Winter's Noo Awa.

Gloomy winter's noo awa', saft the westlin' breezes blaw

Amang the birks o' Stanley Shaw, the mavis sings fu' cheery o

Sweet the crawflower's early bell, decks Glennifer's dewy dell

Bloomin' like your bonnie sel', my ain my darlin' dearie o

Come my lassie let us stray o'er Glennifer's sunny brae

And blythely spend the gowden day 'midst joys that never weary o

Towerin' o'er the Newton woods, lavrocks fan the snaw white clouds

And siller saughs wi' downy buds, adorn the banks sae briery o

Round the sylvan fairy nooks, feathery brackens fringe the rocks

And 'neath the brae the burnie jouks, and ilka thing is cheery o

O trees my bud and birds may sing, flowers may bloom and verdure spring

But joy tae me they cannae bring, unless wi' you my dearie o

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