#the sixteenth

[cdroloisms]

Sixteenth Day Event Prompt:

Dream steals Sam's sword from him in prison

thought i'd make a little thing for this one too :)

---

INCIDENT REPORT: 

Report Number: 34

Date of Report: Tuesday, February 2nd, 2021

Time of Report: 19:32:18

PERSONS INVOLVED

IGN(s): awesamdude, Dream

Comm codes: 2833-58, 5930-64

Identification available: [X] Yes [ ] No

INCIDENT

Date of Incident: Tuesday, February 2nd, 2021

Time of Incident: 14:43

Location: Pandora’s Vault Main Cell

Incident Description: 

Warden awesamdude entered cell 14:30 to supply prisoner Dream with ration of five potatoes. Prisoner asked for a new clock (destroyed, see Incident Report 33) and was refused. Prisoner displayed belligerent, uncooperative attitude. Warden conducted customary search and inspection of cell. Prisoner became increasingly irritable and refused to move from lid of chest during the inspection. Prisoner had to be physically relocated to search chest contents. Chest contains one new written book. Book appears to be written to visitor Badboyhalo during previous visit (see Visit report for Badboyhalo, January 30th, 2021).  Prisoner unresponsive to questions about book contents. Prisoner expresses sudden antagonism upon being presented with rations. Prisoner acts aggressively about supplied rations and throws them at Warden. Rations subsequently confiscated. Continued aggression required use of force from Warden. Prisoner refused to comply with verbal commands and continued to resist attempts at restraining the prisoner and ending aggressive behavior. Prisoner attempted attack on Warden and seized [Warden’s Will] (see WARDEN’S INVENTORY | Tools and Weapons) in ensuing altercation. [Warden’s Willbreaker] utilized to reobtain stolen weapon. 

INJURIES

Was anyone injured?: [X] Yes [ ] No

If yes, describe injuries: 

No injuries sustained by Warden awesamdude. Prisoner Dream sustained broken right wrist, broken ribs (left: 3, 4 | right: 5, 6), contusions around throat, left eye, broken nose, sprained left ankle. One potion (potion of healing I) applied. 

WITNESSES

Were witnesses present?: [ ] Yes [X] No

If yes, IGN(s) and identification information of witnesses: 

FOLLOW UP ACTION

Prisoner will be instructed to go to back of cell before exiting cell in all cases. Automatic food dispenser will be implemented at soonest possible opportunity. Rations will not be delivered for the next three days. Visitation will also not be permitted. 

REPORTER INFORMATION

NAME: awesamdude

SIGNATURE: awesamdude

DATE: 2/2/2021

[389]

The Sixteenth Of September, 1956 René Magritte

[adobe-outdesign]

If you haven't read the "Bunsen and Beaker's relationship" article on the Muppet Wiki you're missing out on a great summary of how the two have canonically gone from "could be read as gay but probably not intentionally" to "we're not even pretending these two are straight" over the years. these aren't even half of the entries btw

[lotus-pear]

lore accurate chuuya canonically drives a 2006 sparkly barbie motorcycle

[piniatafullofblood]

I’m really hoping that whenever we get a red haired doctor they won’t say anything explicitly about it and instead it’ll be like. they grab their hair to look at it and it’s red and they just break out into the widest smile

[wafflesrisa]

Earlier in the year, Alex Albon mentioned that salaries for drivers were wildly different, case in point being that one of the drivers (then unnamed) was telling Alex that he needed to buy a smaller everyday yacht because his megayacht was going to be too big

Some thought it was Max. Some thought it was Fernando. Some thought it was Lando

We now know it was Charles with his new 16 million dollar yacht

[ipleadbritney]

magic, crushes, and time warps

osctober day 25: magic

landoscar, magical realism, time travel, rough sequel to three-sixteenths

"Where's Oscinha?”

“Haven't heard that one in a while,” Oscar says, not looking up from his phone.

Lando plasters himself all over Oscar's back. “Where'd you hide the kid?”

Oscar finally gives Lando his full attention, doesn't fight Lando nuzzling into his neck. “First, he's not a kid. Second, why would I even hide him? Third, where would I even hide him?”

“You tell me,” Lando mumbles. “I had a short meeting and then he wasn't in the clinic. Nurses said McLaren staff fetched him.”

“Kim and Mark's probably talking to him. Calming him down.”

“He seemed pretty calm when I saw him. He's you, Osc. Of course he's calm.”

“You saw him from a distance, and he's 17. Nobody was calm when they were 17.”

“I thought you were,” Lando says. He slides into the space in front of Oscar. Their driver rooms weren't meant for this sort of acrobatics, but they make it work. Lando's also grown used to Oscar's magic in close quarters. No suppressor can fully erase magic that sharp.

Lando knows Oscar, knows his magic, and also knows when he's hiding something from him.

Lando pinches Oscar's cheeks and stares into his eyes. Almost gets lost in them, but. “You know where Oscinha is. Why won't you tell me?”

Oscar has the decency to look sheepish. “It was no use, huh?”

“No use at all.”

“Well,” Oscar clears his throat, “he is with Kim and Mark. They're in Andrea's office. He's overwhelmed, and his magic is a bit all over the place. I didn't have good control back then.”

Lando can't imagine a time when Oscar wasn't a textbook example of a responsible magic user. He's loyal to his suppressor, and apart from a few instances, he hasn't seen Oscar's magic get out of hand. “You didn't wear suppressors back then?”

“Whatever got him thrown into the future also messed up his suppressors. He's wearing one of my back-ups, but it isn't calibrated, and there's the whole not-supposed-to-be-here part that's difficult to deal with.”

Lando hums. “Makes sense."

Oscar rubs their hands together, one of his nervous tics. “The team said he's fine, and they also said it'd be best if we're kept apart. Too much tampering.”

Lando understands, as much as he can when he's never remotely experienced anything like this. It's not exactly common for the world to spit out a younger version of yourself right after FP2.

“I can talk to him, if you'd like,” Lando offers, softly. “I can see him, right? I'll check up on him and report back to you.”

Oscar's eyes widen. “You don't have to do that, Lan. I'm sure he's safe, and they'd tell me if anything— if I have to be there.”

“But you're worried. I can feel it.” Lando holds up their joined hands. “See?”

Oscar's worry is clearly etched on his face, and so is his hesitance.

“It's just me, Osc. I won't make fun of him.”

“I know you won't.”

“But?” Lando cares for Oscar. He cares for every version of him, past or present or future.

Oscar tips his head forward, curling into Lando. His voice is small when he says, “He has a crush on you.”

“What?”

“I told them to hide him from you, because he has a crush on you.”

If Lando's maths is right, and his tutors always said he fared better with numbers than with words, then. That would mean. Whoah. “You had a crush on me at 17?”

Did they even know each other that far back? Max had mentioned Oscar in passing, and several journalists asked Lando questions about this young gun in F3, F2, in Alpine reserves, but until Zak plopped him in front of Lando in 2022, he had no clue.

What did Lando look like at 19? Surely not hot enough.

“You had a crush on me at 19?” Lando repeats, unable to fight his giggles. “Osc, that's adorable.”

“It's really not. It was debilitating.”

Translation: Oscar was down bad.

“You told me you wouldn't make fun of him,” Oscar points out, mouth ticking downwards.

“I'm not! I'm honored.”

“You shouldn't be.”

The conversation goes back-and-forth until Jon comes knocking on Oscar's door, looking for them both. “Debrief's in five, and we're checking you both for any side effects caused by the time warp.”

When they step into the hallway, Lando reassures Oscar that everything will be fine. They’re no strangers to weird, powerful magic.

Lando lifts Oscar’s arm and puts it across his own shoulders, velcroing himself to Oscar’s side. Maybe his words won’t do much against Oscar’s spiraling thoughts, but he hopes Oscar feels warm and loved. Because Oscar is— loved. And Lando runs warmer than most people, so that’s a free heater already.

Whatever Lando was about to say next— another proclamation of love or a jab at Oscar’s teenage dreams —dries at his throat. There’s a prickle at the back of his head. Raw magic, leaking out.

He turns around, looking for the source. Just in time to see young Oscar ducking his head, caught. That familiar flush on his face.

[demigods-posts]

i just thinks it's neat that luke's whole shtick is targeting demigods whose faith in the gods and their environment are weakening. and one of the last people he visits before he turns is annabeth.

[olderwest]

loose canon

[vincentbriggs]

It would be nice of me to translate all the measurements in this shirt tutorial to imperial, considering how much of my audience is american, but I'm a big time hater of tiny fractions of inches at the best of times, and this...

no. You shall simply have to embrace millimetres.

[cdroloisms]

Sixteenth Day Event Prompt:

Anticipation & Survival

woo :D was able to participate this time with a little fic, hopefully this means i'll have the time to try and write more consistently again :') hope you guys enjoy 2.8k words of c!Dream being Normal and Fine and c!Sam being absolutely miserable.

---

The prison is working out well. 

Dream spins the clock. The background is mostly a sunny blue sky, with the slightest creep of dark blue rotating in along the right. The sun is a bright dandelion yellow. It’s afternoon. Maybe two, three o’clock. He’s been tracking the days by sunset, when the clock is split in equal halves of blue and navy. Ranboo visits too, to corroborate the time, but it’s a good habit to keep track while he can. It’s been seven days. A whole week. 

Besides Ranboo, there’s been one visit. Tommy. He’s seen three people, since being put in here. Tommy, Ranboo, and Sam. He’s eaten twenty potatoes. Counting is mundane, but so is everything now. There isn’t much to do in prison. Just sweat, and stare at lava, and stare at obsidian when that makes his eyes hurt, and wait for Sam to come in and check that he’s not been doing anything stupid, and wait for visitors, and eat and drink and sleep. It’s not a big room. He wouldn’t say it’s a particularly small one, either. The ceiling’s a little low, and there’s not anywhere to run, of course, but there’s plenty of room to pace and sit and lie down straight and he can sit down on the chest fine without hitting his head on stone. It’s not like he’ll need much space to carry out any plans in the foreseeable future. The cell is absent of certain comforts—a cot, for one, for obvious reasons—but once you get used to that, and the food, and the heat, it’s really not that bad. It’s not like he’s any stranger to roughing it. 

From a certain point of view, it’s almost relaxing. Sam is predictable. Almost more of a clock than the clock he’s given him, which is half the reason Dream throws it in the lava at all; Sam is reliable. His reactions are reliable. He gets food delivered twice a day, once in the morning, once at night. The nightly visit is accompanied by questioning, and occasionally Sam comes into the cell around midday to interrogate him too. Dream cooperates. Why shouldn’t he? He’s already spilled his whole plan to everyone on the mountain, gloated to Tommy, who has surely run his mouth to everyone within earshot by now. There’s no point to him being cagey at this point; no, better to rave and rant about Tommy and exile and his plan in the mountain, better to let Sam get all the information he wants and watch his eyebrows knit in disgust. Sam raises his voice, Dream answers his questions, Sam storms off. He’s even started watching the clock, just out of curiosity, and Sam leaves his cell pretty much the same time every day. Clockwork. 

There was one day when Sam didn’t come at all and Dream had—a moment, admittedly, embarrassing enough, just a string of disconnected thoughts about what would happen if the Warden of the prison suddenly dropped dead and died—but Sam had been right there the next day, looking more miserable than Dream has ever seen him. He made a quip about skipping work that made Sam snap at him; Dream takes it as a good sign, that the man guarding him seems to be more pained about the fact that he left him alone for a day than Dream was bothered about the disappearance of the single person responsible for every aspect of his life for the foreseeable future. That’s Sam, though. Dependable. Dedicated. Never one to not take his job seriously. If Dream put Sapnap in charge of the prison, he’d probably starve to death before the first month was up, but Sam looks like he’d rather fall on his own sword than leave Dream alone for a full twenty-four hours again; Dream has it in him to feel bad that he’s putting the guy to work for the sake of his own vacation. Just, a little bit. 

Back to his point. The prison is relaxing. Really. It’s boring, sure, but obviously he expected that; he’s never had so little to do before. He wakes up at night (he’s been attempting to sleep at nighttime, just because the light apparently is supposed to mess with you, but his sleep schedule has been shot for months so it’s not like it really matters to him all that much) with his brain racing, grasping for a list of tasks to do, only to come up empty. It’s a bit of a marvel. He thinks it’s funny. Yeah, brain, he’s in his—vacation arc. They’re doing nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just like they planned. Nobody’s getting into this place to kill him, not without smacking face-first into, like, a billion security protocols, not without dealing with Sam’s workaholic Warden schtick on their ass. He’s even getting food hand-delivered to him. Full service! Or something. 

He spins the clock again. Tommy gave him books to write. Sam flipped through them, asked questions, Dream answered. He’s not writing answers for them. He might throw them in the lava, if Sam doesn’t just confiscate the damn things; Dream knows he wants Tommy nowhere near him. Fair enough. Maybe he can write some long-ass manifesto about how much he wanted Tommy’s discs for Sam to chew on, if he gets bored enough. He laughs a little at the thought as he thinks it—okay, yeah, nah. He’s not at that point yet. 

He lies down. Horizontal. The ground is hot, but everything’s hot, and he’s getting used to it at this point; better hot than cold, honestly. He’d rather sleep here than out in the snow. The ceiling is a plane of unbroken black stone. Dream raises his hand, splays out his fingers. His nails are starting to get long. Nothing to file them down with in here…teeth it is. Whatever. He lets his hand fall back to the ground, sighing. His eyes glance over at the clock. 

Barely any time has passed. Still hours before Sam comes back. Dream bites back a low groan. Fine, fine, the boredom is getting to him. A little bit. He’s not surprised—it’s not like he’s ever done well with sitting still—but it’s still, annoying. He waves his arms and legs like he’s making a snow angel in the obsidian. Or doing jumping jacks. He should do jumping jacks, maybe. He’s got a basic workout routine to do daily—or several times a day, when there’s nothing else to do (there’s always nothing else to do, but whatever), but he’s not in the mood for it right now. 

He clicks his tongue, just to hear himself. He talks to himself, sometimes, but he has to be careful what he says. Not that it’s not a good thing to keep up, though, for the madman routine. It’s much better to talk to himself when he knows he has an audience, muttering Tommy, Tommy, Tommy in those minutes before Sam enters his cell. Fun, even. Sometimes he writes out evil speeches to give in his notebooks, burning the pages in the lava before Sam arrives. He shouldn’t get reckless with it or anything, pushing the things too far past the point of absurdity, but at this point he could probably get away with saying—just about anything. He could blather on about how he wanted to keep Tommy in a cage and play his dumb little discs to him all day until he goes insane, and Sam would write all of that down in his—book with his face twisted up under his helm while Dream tries not to break down laughing and give away the whole ruse. Not that laughing doesn’t work out for him either, to be fair. He’s gotten pretty good at the villain laugh. 

Dream stands up. He looks at the clock mounted in the item frame; the sliver of night sky on the right side has grown just slightly wider, enough to expose the slightest edge of one white-dotted star. Still hours before sunset. He pulls it off the wall, watching the background tick ever slowly forward. The gold gleams, polished to a mirror finish. 

Sam’s craftsmanship is unmistakable, even with something as small as this. He almost feels bad for what he’s about to do. 

He holds the clock up to the lava, keeping it in his hand for as long as he can handle it before the heat against his palm makes him shove it entirely under the flow, watching it disappear through strings of smoke. The crackling noise fades back into the normal hisses and pops after a few seconds; the smoke will linger for longer. Dream stands there, the lava’s heat at his face. It hurts his eyes to look at.

…whatever. 

He backs away. Then claps, brushing his palms against each other. Clock’s been burned. Another item of his daily itinerary handled—not that he does this daily. Has to keep Sam on his toes, right? The crazy prisoner isn’t supposed to be the predictable one, not like the ever-punctual Warden. This is—important, he’s decided, for his image. Well, not important, maybe, but it’s calculated. Beneficial. Nobody sane takes the one thing they have in their cell and destroys it repeatedly for literally no reason. Sam’s prisoner, the crazy guy that was trying to take over the server, isn’t sane. No one questions why an insane guy tries to control everyone with a bunch of shit he doesn’t even have, why he thinks he can keep someone locked up in a two-by-one box with a couple of iron bars, why he listens to a guy threatening to kill himself when he can literally raise the dead. It’s all set dressing. Method acting. One or the other, or both; it’s not like he’s ever watched a real play in his life. All that matters is that everyone thinks he’s crazy because no one asks a crazy guy why he’s acting crazy, and crazy people do stuff like obsess over stupid pieces of vinyl and talk to themselves and destroy their own shit for no reason. 

(Which probably makes Tommyinnit a crazy person, ha.) 

Sam will come back. Soon. He will bring potatoes with him, and investigate the cell, and see the missing clock. He will complain. He will threaten Dream, rave about the destruction of prison property, telling him that he won’t replace it. He will question him about Tommy. And tomorrow morning, a new clock will be put in its place. Honestly, Sam would probably give himself an aneurysm if he had to look at the cell with one of its components missing. It seems like the kind of thing to bother him too much not to set straight. And tomorrow, maybe Dream will throw the clock into the lava again, and maybe he won’t. He’ll see. 

He’s the one that decides, in the end.

— 

Sam checks his comm again as he waits for the lava to fall, head already pounding. He’s had an on-and-off migraine ever since his night with the Egg, and the current wave shows no sign of abating any time soon. If he could have it his way, he’d be back in his bed, Fran curled up beside him, where it’s dark and quiet and comfortably cool instead of sweating half to death in a suffocating suit of full armor. Instead, he’s nursing a headache that only gets worse with every notification he reads off the log pulled up on his screen; he doesn’t even bother counting the string of [Dream tried to swm in lava] that appears under today’s date. The fact that it’s a seemingly longer list than the days previous does little to help his already bad mood. 

He still has no idea what Dream hopes to achieve by doing this, besides attention. Not that Sam has even been trying to give him that, these days; he visits twice a day, once at 9 the morning and once at 6 in the afternoon, and then leaves the prisoner to himself. Sam doesn’t answer to him. He’s not going to get the same reaction he got the first time he pulled this stunt, when Sam had rushed into the cell in the middle of the night, heart in his throat after running halfway across the server, only to find Dream waiting for him in the middle of his cell with his mask smiling back mockingly. If he’s hoping to stir Sam into a panic again, he’s sorely mistaken. But still Dream continues. He’s probably just doing it to get a reaction out of him. He probably thinks that’s funny. 

Dream is standing, waiting for him. Muttering to himself, he thinks he can hear. Sam pulls the lever for the bridge and steps on it, his sword in hand, wanting to get this visit over and done with as quickly as possible. He might sleep in the Warden’s quarters here, tonight, just to avoid the commute back to his base. Yeah, that sounds good. All he has to do is survive one conversation with Dream. 

The prisoner has stopped talking to himself by the time Sam steps into the cell, lifting his chin as he looks at him. 

“Hi, Sam.” 

Sam makes a vague noise of acknowledgement, not more than a low grunt. His eyes scan the room from left to right, stopped prematurely by the sight of the empty item frame mounted on the wall. His headache grows exponentially worse in an instant, a stabbing pain hammering itself into the back of his skull. He grits his teeth. 

He should’ve expected this. He knows he should’ve expected this. 

“Prisoner.” 

“Sam,” Dream replies, his smile audible in his voice. Sam closes his eyes, a prayer flitting across his overtaxed mind. God help him.

“Where’s your clock.” What’s the point of asking, even. Dream sways from foot to foot. 

“I burned it?”

“Why did you do it. Again.” Dream shrugs. Sam steps forward, shoves him back. “Don’t be so dumb, Dream.” 

The prisoner barely seems to react, his back hitting the wall. His voice is nearly sing-song. “Ohhh. I got you though.” 

Sam wishes, not for the first time, that he didn’t have the work ethic that keeps him from coming into the cell drunk. Surely the prisoner cannot be any more infuriating to handle with the help of some alcohol. He holds the prisoner by his jaw and knocks his head back against the wall, gauntlet digging into the pale skin under the bottom edge of his mask. 

“What is wrong with you!” Dream struggles, slightly. Sam kicks at his legs. “Don’t move. Answer my question.” 

“Let go.” 

“How many times have I told you not to burn the clock, Dream!” He knocks the back of his head against the wall, harder this time. The struggling stops. “Do you think it’s funny? I don’t have to replace your clock!” 

Dream sounds a little dazed when he replies, arms crossed at his chest. “I just wanted to burn it. So I did.” 

“That’s ridiculous. What is your problem.” He shakes his head by his jaw, once, then lets go, giving himself enough distance to swing a fist into Dream’s side, making him double over. He scoffs at the sight, anger white-hot. He knows he shouldn’t be letting the prisoner get to him. Knows that Dream is only doing this to mess with him, mess with him the same way he messes with everyone, trying to get into his head. His skull feels like it’s being split apart. 

Dream stands up straight again. All Sam can see is the flat, smooth plane of his mask, that smile, unchanged. His hands, knotted into tight fists at his sides, shake. The heat pulsing behind his eyes feels like rage, and also almost feels like he’s going to cry.

He can’t do this. The realization is abrupt, but sure. Not tonight, not with this headache, not with Dream. He can’t go through the same song and dance, can’t sit here and examine the cell and give the prisoner his potatoes and go through questioning for an hour, can’t spend the rest of his night going over his words with a fine-toothed comb looking for the nuggets of truth hidden in the midst of the prisoner’s crazed ramblings. Hasn’t he done enough? For the whole server, for everyone, day after day he stands and faces the monster before him and day after day he stands strong; retreating now feels like weakness, but he can’t. He honestly, truly, can’t. He ignores the weight of the potatoes in his inventory and turns. 

“Sam?” Dream speaks again when he’s reached the edge of the cell, sounding slightly winded. “What are you—?” 

Sam pearls across the gap, slamming the lever to lower the lava wall as soon as his vision clears. Tomorrow, he will be the Warden of Pandora’s Vault. Tomorrow, he will stand toe-to-toe against the one he has been entrusted to keep and stand firm. Tomorrow, he will do as he must, as the one responsible for the survival of everyone and everything he holds dear. 

Today, it’s just too much. He looks back to a wall of unbroken lava, only able to stare at it for a few seconds before turning away. 

[pintoras]

Sofonisba Anguissola (Italian, ca. 1532-1625): Portrait of a noblewoman, possibly Aloisia de Luna Moncada, bust-length, wearing a black embroidered dress (via Dorotheum)

[twisting-roads]

I FINISHED ALL THE REFS FOR LOTG!!! BRAND SPANKIN NEW STUFF HERE + TOYHOUSE PAGES :)

they'll be uploaded to the website soon w/ descs and more design notes about them ^^

TH links in readmore

OW TC SBC COM MLOC OOQT NPM HOS

[arty-e]

Pearl Joel having a wonderful time on Earth

Corruption on the fingers are based off his last life red skin where he had ‘blood magic’ fingers

Joel design and au by @chrisrin

Backgrounds from Steven universe

[discordiansamba]

the fire nation gets an unofficial prince.

how else are they supposed to regard the child that fire lord iroh decides to take in? he's clearly not a servant, despite his room being located in their quarters. fire lord iroh dotes on him as he would his own child- indeed, many servants who have been at the palace since lu ten was young confirm this.

fire lord iroh never makes a formal announcement of adoption. many assume this is simply because the boy is an earthbender, though those who have met him attest to him having the gold eyes of the fire nation. they look upon them and wonder, but the caldera's official answer remains a steadfast silence.

(no one ever calls him prince to his face, but historians will eventually add prince shun to the family tree of the fire nation's royal line.

much, much later, historians will begin to conflate prince shun and prince zuko until they become one and the same. history will remember prince zuko as fire lord ozai's bastard son, born an earthbender.)

for the first few years of his residency in the caldera, his presence is a source of hot debate. fire lord iroh has steadily purged those who would support his brother from the ranks of nobility, but a few still remain who are simply smart enough to hold their tongue. they view the young man with disdain- the very fact that iroh would adopt an earthbender viewed as a weakness. even worse, he's a peasant- a dusty sandbender from the si wong desert.

(when he is a little older, he involves himself in the brutish sport that is pro-bending. they point at this and say look. he is uncouth and ill-mannered. not suited for the palace.)

others are more generous. iroh has clearly taught him well. his manners are impeccable. he is of earth, but they can see the fire in him too. he rises with the sun, just as any firebender would, and ends up joining the fire lord in his daily meditations. he watches the palace guard's firebenders train, and when he is a little older, begins sparring with them.

when he is fifteen, he shocks everyone by returning to the palace with a juvenile dragon. he names it druk. the two become inseparable.

when he is fifteen, the avatar and the chief of the southern water tribe will accidentally cost him his first boyfriend with their overzealous meddling. a section of the caldera's terrain is reshaped in his angry pursuit of the avatar.

(when he is sixteen, all who knew prince zuko hold their breath and watch. history never records this.

when he is sixteen, princess azula returns to the caldera. history will record her defeat.)

[ytttrium]

happy November 16th everybody. and happy anniversary to the finale of the best story arc on the Dream SMP (in my totally biased opinion).