#warehouse partitions

[shubhamblog555]

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[sirpi-construction]

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[literaryvein-reblogs]

some words for worldbuilding (pt. 1)

Air

billow, breath, bubble, draft, effervescence, fumes, puff, vapor

Arena

aquarium, bazaar, coliseum, field, hall, mecca, stage

Building

abbey, architecture, armory, asylum, bakery, bar, booth, cathedral, club, construction, court, department store, dock, edifice, emergency room, factory, food court, fort/fortress, framework, garrison, greasy spoon, hacienda, hangout, headquarters, hotel, inn, institute/institution, jetty, laboratory, mansion, mental hospital, monastery, mosque, museum, nursing home, office, pavilion, penitentiary, plant, prison, rampart, repository, ruins, sanctuary, shrine, skyscraper, stockade, storeroom, structure, temple, theater/theatre, treasury, warehouse, wharf

City

capital, metropolis, town, village

Furniture

altar, banister, bench, booth, bunk, cabinet, chair, couch, crib, davenport, dresser, furnishings, futon, jetty, lectern, partition, perch, platform, pulpit, rail/railing, screen, secretary, stand, wardrobe

Geographic division

area, county, desert, dynasty, kingdom, outskirts, quarter, sector, suburb, territory, tract, zone

Habitat

abode, ecosystem, environmentalist, habitat/habitation, harbor, home, land, nest, paradise, premises, refuge, settlement, tent

Habitat, human: accommodations, apartment, barracks, cabin, castle, condominium, convent, domesticity, dungeon, element, encampment, estate, grange, hacienda, home, house, housing, hut, jail, lodging, madhouse, monastery, neighborhood, old country, palace, prison, reservation, resort, sanctuary, shanty, suite, vacancy, villa

Habitat, rural: barn, burrow, conservatory, desert, farm, forest, grange, jungle, sanctuary, wilderness/wilds, wood/woods

Land

abyss, avalanche, bank, bay, bed, bluff, campus, cape, cavern, cliff, compost, cove, crevice/crevasse, dirt, downgrade, dune, elevation, estuary, expanse, field, fossil, garden, glacier, gorge, green, ground, gulf, harbor, hillock, inlet, knoll, landscape, lawn, lot, marshy, menagerie, mine, moat, mound, mountainous, nature, outlook, park, patio, pit, plateau, plaza, porch, prairie, projection, property, quagmire, ravine, ridge, savanna, shelf, soil, stack, table, trench, tundra, valley, well, wood/woods, yard

Nation

country, home, land, nationality, soil, state

Personal item

adornment, amulet, beads, best-seller, briefcase, cache, cargo, charm, contraceptive, disguise, effects, equipment, favorite, gem, glasses, handbag, jewelry, knickknack, luggage, marionette, memorabilia, necklace, novelty, object d’art, odds-on-favorite, paraphernalia, pledge, possession, pride, puppet, purse, resources, ring, souvenir, stuff, supplies, sustenance, thing/things, trappings, trifle, valuable

Planet

cosmos, Earth, galaxy, moon, planet, sphere, world

Region

capital, commonwealth, quarter, region, settlement, suburb

Room

alcove, attic, bath, bedroom, boutique, cellar, den, enclosure, foyer, gin mill, hall, lavatory, loft, outhouse, parlor, restaurant, saloon, shop, stage, store, tenement, theater/theatre, vestibule

Shape

angular, beaten, billowy, checkered, concave, conical/conic, crescent, curly, deformed, elliptical, flat, gnarled, kinky, misshapen, obtuse, round, shapeless, spiral, straight

Vehicle

camper, conveyance, motorcade, transport

Vehicle, air: aircraft, armada, blimp, dirigible, helicopter, shuttle, UFO

Vehicle, land: ambulance, bicycle, car, cherry-picker, dolly, excavator, model, traffic, truck

Vehicle, water: armada, boat, craft, fleet, sailboat, yacht

Water

abyss, aqueduct, basin, beach, blackball, brook, cape, channel, condensation, creek, deep, estuary, fountain, gulf, heading, inlet, lake, oasis, pond, promontory, reservoir, sea, spray, strait, tide, wash, wave, whirlpool

NOTE

The above are concepts classified according to subject and usage. It not only helps writers and thinkers to organize their ideas but leads them from those very ideas to the words that can best express them.

It was, in part, created to turn an idea into a specific word. By linking together the main entries that share similar concepts, the index makes possible creative semantic connections between words in our language, stimulating thought and broadening vocabulary.

Source ⚜ Writing Basics & Refreshers ⚜ On Vocabulary

[veerbles]

Kaz's attic rooms in the Slat

(canon notes under the cut)

All canon descriptions of Kaz's attic rooms:

"The Slat wasn’t much [...] crowned with an attic and a gabled roof." -> most likely a room with slanted walls.

"The attic rooms had been converted into his office and bedroom." -> the attic is partitioned into two separate rooms.

"The [office] room was mostly taken up by a makeshift desk – an old warehouse door atop stacked fruit crates – piled high with papers." -> the office isn't large; considering the dimensions of a warehouse door, and that it takes up most of the space, the room is VERY ROUGHLY 4x3m (13x9 ft).

"...he walked through the door to his tiny bedroom. [Inej darted] a glance at him through the open doorway [as he] dipped a cloth in the wash basin." -> (1) the office and bedroom are separated by a wall and door. (2) the bedroom is even smaller than the office - around 4x2m maybe. (3) assuming Inej was standing in the middle of the office, she had a line of sight to the wash basin through the bedroom door.

"Whenever he sat down to try to get some work done, he’d find his eyes straying to the window ledge." -> the window has enough room to sit, and there is a direct line of sight from kaz's office chair to it.

the slat is pretty clearly modeled after amsterdam's canal ring houses. I based the room's overall set-up and position within the house on this incredible post by @arany-studio.

furniture designs and bedroom features are inspired by 17-19th century rooms. I didn't try to be very specific with the style because (a) Ketterdam is not really a direct adaption of the early 19th century, (b) Kaz is a barrel rat and his furniture just came from wherever he could get them, including the street, abandoned buildings and mansions he robbed.

there are probably more things in the room that aren't depicted. I didn't want to crowd the drawing.

[palms-upturned]

Al-Shifa Hospital building destroyed, people taken to unknown areas

Nov 16th, 06:32 GMT

From Al Jazeera’s Hani Mahmoud in Khan Younis, southern Gaza

An entire building at al-Shifa Hospital – the specialised surgeries building – has been completely damaged from the inside, in addition to Israeli forces blowing up a warehouse for medicine and medical equipment inside the hospital.

The Israeli military literally tore it apart – all the partitions, walls between the rooms, and all the medical equipment inside the building have been completely destroyed.

Meanwhile, there are reports of some 200 people being blindfolded and interrogated and taken to unknown areas; their fate is unknown. Witnesses inside the hospital who we spoke to said [Israeli troops] started with 30 people who were stripped of their clothes, and taken to the courtyard of the hospital. More people were taken after interrogation, blindfolded and put into groups.

Unfortunately, this failure in confirming [the Israeli allegations of Hamas’s presence in the hospital] just resulted in massive destruction in the hospital and renewed attacks on its building and redeploying troops at the gates of the hospital from all sides.

All of this is happening under the heavy cover of air strikes and tank shells around the al-Shifa Hospital.

[winterspiderpurrs]

" Get the car now!"

More gunshots rang out. Three men were running down an alley, the tall blonde pausing to snatch up and lift the older gentleman to carry him bridal style to protect him from the stray shots. The older man made a growling sound out of frustration.

" Fuck you Rogers! I don't need to be carried!"

A man behind the pair fires off another shot, the sound of glass breaking. The driver in the car slumped over, the car was turning and crashing into the wall once it spun out. The other men in the back of the car scrambled to get out.

Another car speeds up the alley facing the men running toward it and stops just long enough for the trio to get in. The blonde practically toss the older man in.

" Happy get us out of here!"

Tires screeching as the car goes into reverse and backs out onto the street.

" What happened? We need the doc?"

Tony is fuming. It's been a while since someone has tired to double cross Him. And in such a sloppy and public way.

" Friday, scan all signals, any video ctv radio transmission nionitnin the bud, file away for my eyes online so I can analyze late"

He throws his phone at the blonde " What is your problem? I had it handled! You know it will be seen as a weakness when word gets out. Fucking bridal style? I ain't a princess Steve."

Sighing the blonde picks up the phone and tosses it lightly on the empty seat next to Tony. " Boss. I know but you didn't see the blinking green light on your forehead from the sniper. This... was an unexpected move... thank God for Bucky"

Bucky snorts from his seat next to Steve as he types away on his phone. " Clint took out the sniper on the roof. Natasha is going to find out who set this up as we lay low. Best to hide away for a few since this was so public... only going to the Gala tomorrow night and back on lock down."

Happy makes several more turns. Driving away but to no certain destination. " Lake house?" He questions.

Adjusting the cuffs on his jacket, Tony looks out the window. " To far away.. I'm not hiding but we need to lay low.... take us to Warehouse B."

If you were paying attention you would have noticed Happy's eyes widen be he nods his head. He puts up the privacy partition. Steve stares at Tony for a moment, glances over at Bucky then back to Tony. " I trust Bucky... but are you sure.."

That causes Bucky to pause and look up and glance between the two before eyeing Tony. Tony was fidgeting with his watch and his wedding band before nodding. " It's fine. If it gets out we will know why. " Tony raises an eyebrow as he stares Bucky down.

Bucky was newer to the group. Only in the sense of actually all three of them working a deal. Bucky had a civilian life. He was the owner of half the gun ranges and pawn shops in the state. Sometimes, he lets Steve, and by extension, Tony's "group" borrows guns from the shop. He just happens to be with them this time when a meeting went wrong. They wanted Bucky's opinion on the guns that might have been purchased.

It wasn't log til they ended up at a huge warehouse. You can tell that the neighborhood has gone under a major renovation. Happy drops them off down a side alley. Tony stands at the door, pushing a bunch of buttons on the key pad before a door slides open.

Bucky was pleasantly surprised with the layout. The warehouse was converted into a loft. He was still taking everything in when he appeared. He stepped down from what it looked like a roof access point covered in plants, a look of worry on his face. Bucky feels like he has seen him somewhere before. But where?

"Tony? May's cooking still bad?"

" Yeah, kiddo. May's getting more flowers delivered, maybe 2 or 3 bouquets"

You could see the relief on the young man's face before he smiles over at them. It's obvious to Bucky those were code for everything being alright.

" I start dinner then.... How's. ..a.. Pepper and Morgan"

" Fine. Great. Morgan started Kindergarten."

The man nods, finally making his way down the steps to the living room area, turning to smile at Steve and opens his arm for a hug. " Steve! It's great to see you. It's been too long! You should visit more! " Steve laughs and walks over and gives the man a hug.

" I know. Missed you to Pete. I'll try you know Tony keeps me busy"

Bucky glances at Tony and can see his jaw click, a penvise expression on his face. Clearly irritated.

There is definitely a story to tell here.

The man let's Steve go from the hug before tilting his head at Bucky and offers him a smile. He holds his hand out to shake.

" It's nice to meet you. I'm Peter Parker and don't worry I'm not as half as much trouble as this pair" Bucky smirks a little shaking his hand. " Bucky... and don't worry I know this Punk takes all the stupid with him wherever he goes" Nodding his head towards Steve.

"Hey!"

Peter laughs.

Bucky squint for a moment " Hey.. aren't you that..."

Tony rolls his eyes and walks between them to separate them to head to the kitchen. " Yeah yeah he is that singer"

Bucky remembers seeing his photo online as the paparazzi stopped him while he was signing autographs.

"Wow..."

....

Tbc....

Maybe...

[she-posts-nerdy-stuff]

Somehow, Through the Storm

Summary:

Living in the slums of the Warehouse District, Kaz and Inej are struggling to cling on to life through a seemingly unending winter. Wrapped up in a stranger's overcomplicated marriage contract that he is convinced is key to solving the merciless weather, Kaz remains busy and distracted for days on end, putting everything else at risk. So when a storm ravages the city and sweeps Inej into danger, the offer of safety, food, and a place to stay is an overwhelming one - no matter the cost. Terrified of mounting threats, Inej signs a contract - not knowing she would land herself trapped at the Menagerie. Kaz signs a contract that states if he can walk all the way through the city and back to the Warehouse District with Inej behind him, never looking back at her, they will both go free. But this is the Barrel, the darkest part of the city where the rules of physics can change with the stroke of a pen; the journey back will not be the same as journey there…

This is a Hadestown-inspired reimagining of the tale of Orpheus and Eurydice, casting Kaz and Inej as our main characters and heavily featuring our beloved Crows, set in an alternate version of the Grishaverse with a different magic system based entirely on contracts.

Tags: @lunarthecorvus @marielaure @multi-fandom-bi @igotthisaccountunderduress @thelibraryofalexandriastillburns @devoted-people-hater @spraypaintstainonawhitewall

If anyone else would like to be added to the tag list let me know <3

Warnings for this chapter: implied past sa references, ptsd references, gambling addiction references, imprisonment references, implied slavery references (similar to Kerch indenture contracts)

AO3 link:

Chapter 8 - Kaz

“Now not everybody gets to be a god, and don’t forget that times are hard”

- Road to Hell, Hadestown

By the time Kaz returned to the Slat over an hour after dawn, his constant companion of exhaustion beginning to tug at the edges of his tapestry in a threat to pull him under, he was expecting Inej to be long gone. It hadn’t seemed, when they’d last spoken, that she’d be all too eager to stick around. Instead, he found her lying on her side in the attic, still deep beneath the surface of sleep. She was crowned by a wreath of braids, curled on her side with her knees pulled high and her hands tucked into her, as though she were tending to some precious, secret something held close against her chest. For a moment, and it was only brief, Kaz watched the rise and fall of her shoulders as she breathed. This was perhaps the only time he’d seen her without perfect posture, and her angular shoulders leaned into each other like they were trying to hide her collar bone, slightly visible where the fabric of her blouse had been tugged downwards in sleep, out of sight from the world. Her arm was looped around the strap of her bag, and from its proximity Kaz thought that she might have been holding the satchel next to her on the mattress, but that it had slipped away from her when she fell asleep. He paused. 

You can stay here tonight. 

Where… What about you? 

Inej’s hesitancy had been a quaver in her voice, her dark, endless eyes flitting from Kaz to the door behind him. Now she lay on top of the blanket, despite the chill in the air, with Kaz’s pillow pushed aside and what looked like it might have been a shirt folded up beneath her head. A set of brass knuckles, which hadn’t really been what Kaz meant when he’d said she needed a weapon but he supposed wasn’t a bad start, had slid down her fingers when her hand relaxed and now lay half against the mattress and half over her fingertips. There was something else metal glinting on the bed, just slightly; something lying motionless beneath the cuff of Inej’s sleeve, catching a weak sunbeam leaking through the window making a valiant attempt at glimmering. Kaz didn’t dare to step any closer to the partitioning wall across the room, but only to lean slightly until his eyeline had shifted enough that the reflection dimmer and he could make out the shape of a key discarded on the mattress. The key to his window. 

He left the room as quietly as he could manage, thinking to but paused at the top of the stairs. He definitely shouldn’t lock the door, he knew that. But what if Haskell came prying? It wasn’t unreasonable to expect it. Kaz doubted more than two days ever went by without the old man rummaging around, though what he was hoping to find he wasn’t actually sure. Probably just loose cash, or anything incriminating Kaz had left lying around that he might be able to extort him for. Kaz had never been concerned about this; he was too careful, nothing of his side business with the contracts ever reached the attic of the Slat, and anything that was worth keeping hidden was hidden well. Haskell was yet to try tearing up the floorboards, but Kaz had a backup plan lay in wait in case he ever decided to give it a go. 

But if Haskell walked up and found Inej, asleep on top of Kaz’s mattress? He couldn't imagine it would end well for anyone involved, but least of all Inej.

Kaz had spent the night working in the upper room at Lexi’s long after Nina had to return to the Barrel, and walked back through the Warehouse District under the golden bleach of dawn. Well, golden was perhaps to kind a word for what the last rays of the sunrise had been; the sun was a watered down beam of sickly yellow, pooling in the cracks beneath the cobblestones without any warmth of brightness to it, no real beauty to find in its pitiful reflections. The shadows were still long, as they would most likely remain until midday began to draw near, and the front of the Slat had been cast in ghostly grey as he approached. Not that sunshine falling on its crumbling facade had ever made the building feel much more inviting. 

The building had been sleepy enough when Kaz crossed the threshold, other than maybe the early afternoon these were the slowest hours for the house’s boarders to be out on the old man’s business, but it was never exactly quiet. Kaz lingered at the top of the stairs, listening through his door for any movement from Inej - though it was unlikely he’d be able to tell if she woke, wasn’t it? She would most likely leave in silence, leaving no-one any the wiser. He couldn’t trust the possibility of her absence though, nor the possibility that Haskell wasn’t home, or wouldn’t happen to wander his way upstairs before she left. Downstairs he could hear voices, creaking floorboards, what might have been a mug or plate falling and smashing on the boards. 

Kaz beckoned Jesper across the room as soon as he’d stepped foot back onto the ground floor of the Slat, where the front space opened into a vaguely larger area that was used as a communal space for - well, mostly for drinking as far as Kaz could tell. He didn’t enjoy the closeness of the space, nor the oppressive heat that seemed to come with it from so many bodies so tightly slotted together, and so spent very little of his time there, but always it seemed that people were drinking, and probably partaking in less legal pastimes as well. Jesper gandered across the room, slipping his way around crowds and mismatched tables that had been rather squashed into place, 

“I need you to keep an eye out for the old man,” Kaz told him, keeping his voice low and trusting that the sound of the crowds would do the rest for him, “Keep him out of my room,”

“Why-?” Jesper broke off as he caught Kaz’s gaze, “Yeah, alright, fine. Where are you going?”

Kaz wasn’t entirely confident in that. He probably shouldn’t go back to Lexi’s when he’d been there all night; it was good of her to give him the space, but she didn’t owe him anything and her patience was bound to wear thin at some point. Kaz happened to be an excellently sharp knife when it came to fraying people’s patience. 

“I shouldn’t be longer than a few hours,” was what he settled on saying, after a brief pause, “When are you leaving?”

“Why do you assume I’m leaving?”

It took nothing more than Kaz raising a single eyebrow for Jesper to relent. He spent the vast majority of his time in the gambling parlours on the edge of the Warehouse District, where the buildings began to give way into the pleasure district that was the Barrel; if he wasn’t on his way back from one, he was probably on his way to it. Most of the city’s gambling dens were deep in the Barrel, glittering things festooned in gaudy baubles and studding East Stave like ill-set, glass gems in an ugly piece of costume jewellery. Jesper had never been stupid enough to venture farther than the seedy dens on the south of the Warehouse District, but Kaz didn’t entirely trust that he never would. 

“I can wait a few hours,”

“Good. If you see Anika tell her to take her report to Lexi’s; I’ll pick it up from there,”

Jesper nodded, but if he was planning on saying anything in response then Kaz didn’t find out; he was already on his way out of the building. He flexed his fingers in his gloves, stretching them back and forth over the head of his cane. Pain was radiating from his bad leg, always worse in the cold as it was, and he knew that it would soon put up further protest at his refusing to rest for so long. But Kaz had already decided where he was going, and the walk would be worth it. 

On the border between the Barrel and the Warehouse District, farther North than the shanty towns and the border stone he usually met Nina at, the factories and storage facilities began to give way to sleazy bars, the gambling parlours that Jesper disappeared into so often, and even a few small brothels tucked into hidden spaces. It was the edge of both of them, towing the line between the pleasure district and the slums, doing its level best to cater to them both. And there, around two thirds down the road, an abandoned building with a black and crimson facade. 

It had been boarded up by the city, barricaded and blocked off with enough purple stadwatch signs and warnings to keep most squatters at bay, but nowhere in Ketterdam stayed empty for long. There wasn’t the space to waste. If no-one bought the lot then it would soon be torn down, something new and governmentally owned quickly erected to replace it. But not if Kaz had anything to do with it. He stood before the battered old door, staring up at the sign above it - a massive crow wrought in black metal, a watchful, oxidised silver eye gleaming as it peered out into the street below. How much more money did he need? How much longer could he keep the wrecking ball at bay?

This club would be his. He would make it so. His house, his business. He could separate from Haskell, probably even take half his boarders with him in the process, and start his own operation. He could get Jordie his revenge at last.

From the right angle, in the distance, Kaz could just about see the colourful outline of the Emerald Palace on the horizon, the canals and the Staves of the Barrel nothing but a blurry haze laid out at its feet. The Emerald Palace was the crown of Pekka Rollins’ kingdom. Some day Kaz would be its end, and this building could be the start of it. This building, and the intelligence Inej brought him, the jobs that only Jesper could pull off, everything Nina could do on the inside. And, he thought, slipping a hand into his pocket and finding the envelope tucked in quiet, cosy secrecy, the key to bringing a city to its knees might have very recently wandered straight into his path. 

“Kaz, I’m telling you,” Nina had emphasised last night, settling deeper into her chair, “You know everything that I know. You know I can’t stay; what else do you want from me?”

“I want you to give me something useful,” he’d insisted, “There has to be something we’re missing,”

Nina sighed. 

“Probably. Definitely. But we aren’t going to figure it out by saying the same thing back and forth to each other. We know Wylan is alive, we know his parents are still claiming that he’s dead, and we know that he’s left the Geldin District-”

“But why?”

Nina looked like she was about ten seconds away from banging her head repeatedly against the table, but Kaz was used to having that effect on people and he was all out of sympathy. 

“I. Don’t. Know,” she’d enunciated for the hundredth time, “For Saints’ sakes, Kaz, just go and ask him at this point. I’m tired, and I need to get back,”

Kaz had irritatedly let her go and continued working alone. He knew that she was right - not only that they were going round in circles but also that she couldn’t stay any longer; it was running a close enough risk for her to leave the Barrel in the first place. Nina spent as little time in the Barrel as she could reasonably get away with, but no matter how malleable her boundaries were they still had to have a breaking point; Kaz would not recommend trying to find it. 

He very much doubted that Nina had actually expected him to find the boy and do exactly as she had suggested. But the boarding house he was staying in was just a few streets from here, and Kaz did just so happen to have a letter addressed to Wylan Van Eck sitting in his pocket. 

The kid did not look thrilled to open the door and see Kaz on the other side of it, but that wasn’t particularly surprising. He frowned, already pushing the door shut again, as he said: 

“I gave you an answer. Leave me alone,”

Kaz’s foot found a comfortable spot between the door and its frame. 

“I’m not here to offer you a job,” he said, “Though it is still open if you change your mind,”

Wylan glared unhappily at Kaz’s shoe blocking the door and for a moment Kaz thought he would neglect to answer. His voice was impatient when he finally sighed: 

“What do you want, then?” 

Kaz flicked his wrist so the letter, Wylan’s real surname in black ink on creamy paper, a seemingly unbroken red wax seal embossed with a laurel holding it closed, appeared between his black gloved fingers. 

“I believe I have something of yours. And I believe we may have something to discuss, Van Eck,”

The colour had drained so thoroughly from Wylan’s cheeks that someone might have been physically wringing him dry. His jaw ticked, his eyes unmoving from the envelope in Kaz’s hand. 

“So you took it,”

Kaz shrugged.

“I was starting to hope I’d just imagined it,”

“Unfortunately not,” Kaz replied, “Hope never gets you far round here. But a name as good as – what? Thirty million kruge, maybe? That should get you pretty far,”

Wylan’s lips twisted, his gaze finally returning to Kaz’s - frightened eyes hiding behind a hard stare. 

“What do you want?”

“I told you,” Kaz smiled, slipping the letter back into his pocket and watching as Wylan’s eyes flicked to trace the movement, “I just want to talk,”

There was a brief pause; Wylan glanced furtively down the empty corridor, then over his own shoulder, and then furiously beckoned Kaz through the door. Kaz smiled again, straightening out his shirt cuffs and stepping over the threshold. 

“Much obliged,”

[os2warp]

found this lil guy at the dumpster last week. finally got around to turning it on. booted straight into windows 10. how boring.

couldn't guess the passwords so i plugged the hard drive into windows xp so i could have full unfettered access to everything and it was mostly blank. a couple of rdp files on the desktop. looks like it was being used as a remote terminal in a warehouse somewhere (the usernames were "[redacted] warehouse 1" or "sys admin")

used the onboard restore partition to reinstall windows 10 and now i have a fully functional windows 10 machine. whoop tee doo. maybe it's windows 11 compatible, that might be interesting for a few minutes, guess i need to get it online and do some updates (base 2019 system)

(interestingly if you install windows 10 without an internet connection it lets you create a local account without jumping through any hoops. gotta remember that trick)

maybe i'll finally build that linux machine ive been threatening. need a kvm switch if i do that tho.

[bedlamsbard]

560 words written today -- starting the contractually mandated Marvel hallway fight scene (may be substituted with another fight scene if it also involves constant motion from Point A to Point B, therefore the Lemurian Star sequence from CATWS counts, and may be substituted with a battle sequence under certain circumstances even though all of the MCU's battle sequences are. hmm. bad). (Look, back in the day, you just needed a hallway fight scene.) (I don't always put one in, but Morning and Horizon both have them; Yonder has a fuck-off big battle sequence.)

Snippet from Of Home Near chapter 11.

This floor of the warehouse had apparently been partitioned off for offices at some point, leaving a narrow hallway flanked by lines of doors.  A woman burst out of one, dark-haired and pale-skinned and carrying a rifle.  There was only an instant between her eyes going wide and Natasha’s right foot lashing out, knocking the gun up and out of the way so that Natasha could dart in below the reach of her suddenly outstretched arm.  She slammed the heel of her left hand up into the woman’s chin and her knee up into her belly, swinging her around to throw her into the man who had just emerged from another door.  He stumbled under the sudden impact of the unconscious woman, already moving to shove her aside, but in his moment of confusion Natasha was already there.  She dropped low and popped up like a jack-in-the-box inside his reach, grabbing his right arm and twisting it until bone snapped, not waiting to see the results before she slammed a punch into his kidneys and then a kick into his ribs in the same fluid motion.  She fell backwards into a momentary handstand as her right heel snapped off his jaw, coming up to her feet again in a roundhouse kick that knocked him out cold. It had been perhaps twenty seconds since the gunfire had started.

Peggy could still hear the shooting, clearer now that they were out of the stairwell.  Someone was shouting in Russian – a woman, she thought, though the distortion of the warehouse’s thick walls made her uncertain about that. “Oh,” Dugan said from just behind her, low-voiced. “So that’s why he married her.”

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Stonehearth, seat of House Shield and Medieval! Lord Tulkas

The fortress is built over a small rise and can only be accessed by two entryways. A massive curtain wall encircles the interior grounds and buildings, and has two imposing gatehouses and watch towers facing four directions. These towers can be accessed through the Northern or Southern gatehouses.

Thanks to gravity-fed pipes, the Keep is never short of water. However, three wells have also been constructed in case of an emergency.

1. The Lord's Manor: This building has three floors above ground, along with a basement and cellar.

The uppermost floor has spacious apartments that have been partitioned off. The largest set of rooms is for Tulkas's personal use, while the others are for his guests. The Lord's Hall is located on this floor, and is used by Tulkas whenever he wishes to entertain his attendants and hold intimate gatherings. The second floor has rooms for his attendants, along with a small library and hall for their use. The ground floor is for receiving guests and is complete with a great hall, the main library, the healers' hall, rooms for the servants, and the kitchens.

The Keep has an interior courtyard that is surrounded by an arcade.

2. Warehouse and stores.

3. The stadium: This has built-in seating and a large field in the center. Horse races, archery contests, jousting, melees, and other contact sports can be held here at any time of day or night. There is a large glass dome in the center of the roof to let in more light while shielding everyone from the elements.

4. Stadium kitchen: Underground tunnels allow servants to come and go between the buildings.

5. The baracks. Most of Tulkas's warriors live here. This is the only other location where one can access the watch towers.

6. Smithy.

7. Armory.

8. Barracks kitchens.

9. Stables.

10. Kennels.

House Shield coat of arms: A rampant brown bear on a field of gold and silver checks.

Tags: @asianbutnotjapanese @cilil @wandererindreams @edensrose

[ravenkinnie]

I'm on a minor brainrot but brain goes brr I love fear of abandonment and punk

ao3 link

The corner of the handheld mirror is shattered. It paints Gwen’s face into a body horror mosaic held together by the heavy black sculpted vines crawling over the handle, the frame. There's no dimension where this mirror belongs to Hobie, probably borrowed or just picked up from someone else living in the abandoned warehouse turned graffiti-painted squat he's staying in, one of the voices Gwen can always hear beyond the partitions Hobie set up to carve out his space.

She turns the mirror to peek at the shaved line of her hair; it looks odd and choppy, even though the line has never been even, Gwen’s own hand not particularly steady at lining the hair. It might be because Hobie cut it to the sharp dark contrasts of this dimension, his dimension, where everything looks heavy and choppy to Gwen. In her own, the hair on the shaved side falls soft and smooth, lines blending into each other perfectly.

She tips the mirror again, to look at Hobie’s head behind her shoulder, where he's bending over towards the floor.

"It's crooked," she says.

"It doesn't conform." Hobie gathers chopped strands of hair into his hands, throws them into the cardboard box on the floor working as a trashcan. Gwen is pretty sure the other week the box doubled as a hospital, when one of the cats always lounging around the squat gave birth inside it.

She turns the mirror, giving a theatrical pout as she pretends to examine Hobie’s work again. "Maybe a hairdresser would have been better."

"Don't buy into the industry, Gwendy." Hobie throws himself down onto the sagging couch with sides ripped apart by cat claws. He grabs a box from underneath the couch, lays the lid on his lap before smoothing a rolling paper on it, messily putting together a blunt. "Create an idea, make it a fake art, sell your own body back to you, all bullshit."

It diffuses like gentle oranges of a sunset above the Hudson, right behind Gwen’s ribs, the easiness in the pointless conversation. She hasn't felt this easy with someone since Miles, the only one since Peter.

She lowers the mirror, turning around on the uncomfortable barstool serving as a chair to face him. "You fixed those wicks yourself?"

"I paid in favours like we were meant to live." Hobie pauses for a moment, trying to roll the blunt tightly enough. "And Blue Ribbon."

He gets a chuckle out of her, in the same easy way Hobie always manages. Maybe being around him is so simple, so uncomplicated because he reminds her of Miles. They have the same air about them, the same genuine, straightforward way of being unquestionably good. No conversations or discussions around whether Hobie would give Gwen a place to stay when Jessica introduced them, no questions when he gave her the thick mattress to sleep on, taking the space on the floor himself.

Or when she freaked out at the Spider Society headquarters that first day, when the notification on her phone went off, a reminder of the oestrogen injection that has been a part of Gwen’s life for so long she didn't think about leaving her supply back home, about the consequences of cutting herself off everything back home, everything crashing down in the moment the stupid alert popped up on the screen. It felt stupid to worry about an injection too, with the magnitude of everything that has happened, that could happen as explained by Jessica and Miguel but the awareness of how silly it all seemed in the grand scheme of things only made the tears sting more. Hobie didn't have to ask, just took one glance at her phone and clucked his tongue. The next thing Gwen knew was the wordlessly offered paper bag with the vial and clean syringes, the same one that Hobie always leaves next to the mattress now.

Gwen squirms on the stool, itchy hair trapped underneath her shirt – Hobie’s shirt, small clusters of holes on sleeves, bigger ones with uneven cigarette burned edges by the hem as if Hobie stubbed them out on his own clothes. The logo for his band faded in the wash, bleeding some colour into material; it's an old logo too from three bassist and two drummers ago, before he threw the drumsticks to Gwen, told her to show what she got.

It's not like Gwen doesn’t have practise being taken in like this. After her mom died barely few days before Christmas that year, in the drained stark white and greyish blur of days, May and Ben became almost permanent fixtures at their already tiny apartment. Her dad was there but he might as well have been gone, his face just as drained and his eyes as empty as everything around. He scared Gwen somewhat, the utter stillness of him that felt in such contrast to everything reeling and storming inside her, all the facts and details of her reality yet to sink in.

There was no questions then too, about where they would spend that Christmas and every year after that, no hesitation when Peter and May took her hands in theirs, her dad on the other side, bowed their heads as Gwen muttered the gratitude prayers, her dad's lips barely twitching, barely moving to repeat the words. She hasn't really prayed by herself since, the thought of sitting at that dinner table thanking anything watching over the universe feeling wrong, tasteless.

She slips off the stool, tries to shake the hair out of her shirt. Her foot almost slips on the pile of pinkish slide on the floor; the life in the warehouse isn't just human and feline but the cats take care of the mice, the rats just fine. Gwen wishes they would do it cleaner too, the tiny macabre piles on the floor making her stomach churn every time.

Maybe that's what Hobie likes, the strays. The anomalies that find new ways to fit into their situations. He likes Miles, Gwen knows from how all the colours of him flicker when she talks about him, like Hobie can't help the fondness that bleeds from Gwen into him.

Her fingers brush the choppy shaved line. She lets the longer side grow out but every time her hair gets to her ears on the other one her mind keeps repeating the words she heard from her mom once, about how hair holds memories. Her mom's straw blond hair stayed the same shape that Gwen has seen in her parents’ wedding photos, wispy bangs and ends brushing shoulders. She's not sure whether it makes her feel closer to her or to Miles sometimes, but it doesn't matter anyway.

She catches Hobie’s eye, right before he lets his gaze fall to his lighter. A brief look, a little hesitant maybe like he's checking whether she likes it.

Gwen smiles at him. "It looks cool."

Hobie smiles back, softer than the sharp curl of his lip that shows his canines. Maybe Gwen is just drawn to kindness, the same way Hobie is to anomalies.

***

The day is saved.

The day is saved, Gwen repeats to herself, again and again but the words don't stay. The anomaly is contained, already sent off to the headquarters but the wreckage left behind, most of the sketch linework of the city crumpled and shattered under its heavy reptilian feet, looks gruesome. Squashed and ruined, impossible to imagine being put back together.

She's shaking a little, grasps onto her thighs through the thin layer of her suit to stop her muscles from twitching. Aftershocks from adrenaline, one thing Gwen still hasn't learned to cope with yet, hasn't figured out how to stop. Right at the top of the list and after that: the sour taste in her mouth seeing the destruction in so many universes, so many different ways to take a home and turn it into dust.

A hand grasps onto her arm. Gwen turns around quickly, keeps her feet firm on the ground to stop her body reacting instinctively against the intrusion as the frazzled linework on one of the civilians her web got out of the way of the beast registers. The thankful words, the gratitude in the way pencilled hands hold hers comes through her ears muffled, like the blood rushing through her systems turned everything inside into cotton, blocking all ways out, all ways in.

Still feels good, though. Still makes it feel worth it.

Her wristwatch pipes up the moment the person is out of sight. Jess' hologram shows up with barely a graze of Gwen’s fingers over the buttons.

"How’s it going?" Her voice is casual, light in a way that immediately rings an alarm bell in Gwen’s head.

"Good!" She coughs to cover up the edge in her voice, waves her hand as if to disperse dust from the wreckage around her. There is none but Jess won’t be able to see that. "All good, just cleaning up, you know how it is."

Her hand goes instinctively to the sting in her ribs, right underneath her breast, burrowing into her to make its way into her heart. Or maybe out of it, the embarrassing desire to hear Jess say Gwen did good, not just that she did fine. She tries to cover it up with quips and bits but around Jess it's much harder, harder to pretend Gwen doesn't want her to see something in her, to recognise some mystical magical spark that means she doesn't just get to stay, that she even belongs somewhere, by right and talent. She might hope it lessens the adrenaline shakes, the sour taste at the aftermaths, make Gwen’s words always steady and her actions always fruitful like Jessica's herself.

"Good, good." The nonchalance in Jess' voice as her hands move out of sight, probably adjusting computer screens, gets to turn Gwen’s stomach for a moment before she asks, "So I'm supposed to see a boat parked on a highway here?"

Gwen turns around. On the docks there is an unmistakable empty space that should be holding something. "I was just about to sort that out," she says, her chin raised to give her false confidence some basis.

"Proactive," Jess comments. She gives Gwen a sharp look. "Now be quick too. Before it catches on other monitors." She wouldn't tell Miguel, not before she gives Gwen a chance to fix her mistakes. It's not exactly kindness, Gwen guesses but it's the closest she's come to one with most people.

Dread pools in her stomach regardless, at the thought of Miguel finding out about another of Gwen’s mishaps, another issue caused by her. Peter says he's all bark, no bite and while Gwen has never felt those fangs sink into her, the bark itself made her trace the shells of her ears, checking if the eardrums burst leaking blood onto her white suit. Besides, he doesn't even need a bite, all he needs is to decide Gwen doesn't have what it takes, that she should go home. A possibility much worse than anything else Miguel might do to her, than any of the anomalies might.

She considers calling Hobie, but it makes her feel stupid, a child tugging on an adult’s sleeve begging for help. Even though Hobie is barely more of an adult than her but with everything he's done for Gwen so far, the scale doesn't balance. She's on her own just like him, she should figure it out on her own just like he does.

The anomaly is extremely easy to find, if only because a massive passenger yacht stuck in the middle of a traffic on a highway causes a bit of a scene. The other reason it's easy to find: the hastily drawn lines of the yacht make the cartoonish large eyes with perfect flicks of lashes it gained in this dimension look uncanny. She has to blink few times before she sees Peter Parkedcar in the mess of smog and beeping cars, engine revving in a way Gwen doesn't know how she recognises as sympathetic.

In the end, its better she didn't call Hobie, his whole shtick probably the worst thing she could subject an inanimate object that gained consciousness by fluke to.

"It's just a road." Gwen isn't sure what she would imagine a boat to sound like but the small rasp makes the wheels in her brain turn: is it the engines inside that produce the low tones? Has she ever spoken to Peter Parkedcar? How does a car get bitten by a spider, actually? Maybe she should have spoken to him before.

"All there is, a road, I can't... I can't go on like this, always going on." Gwen can sympathise - she thinks she would be equally freaked out if she suddenly happened to gain consciousness too. Or maybe she did, in a way, that’s why the crushing weight on her makes every new sensation so overwhelming.

She turns around for a moment, to assess the damage of the traffic and hide the giggle threatening to burst out but she barely makes it few steps away before the boat rasps, "Don't leave, please, don't leave me."

Well, that Gwen can relate to.

Back at the headquarters, Jess gives her a tiny nod. It's almost nothing, a blink and you miss it gesture, but in Jessica Drew's language it might as well be a full-bodied hug.

***

The washing machine sounds like a helicopter taking off. It waddles too, rattling from side to side like it's about to gain its own consciousness and walk out of the dingy apartment it lives in.

Gwen isn't sure how Hobie’s ex-girlfriend can sleep in the same room with the heavy ruckus, the pull-out couch only few steps from the kitchen corner. It might be why she only let them in before heading out herself. Gwen was too flustered to think about it then, with the quick look the girl gave her, with her snappy this your new lass, yeah?. Before Gwen even had time to process and protest, the girl tucked the long side of her hair behind Gwen's ear, smiled and with a quick sweet thrown Hobie’s way she was gone.

Gwen takes herself to the bathroom where Hobie is soaking his crust pants in the tub. The apartment is tiny, the distance from the washing machine too small to help with the noise but watching Hobie swirl his pants in the water with a broom stick like he's a wizard perfecting a potion is far more entertaining than the waddling washing machine.

"I went home the other day," Gwen says.

Hobie doesn't even look at her. "Liar."

He doesn’t say anything more; Gwen can't help a smile. He never asked for the full story, for the exact reason why she showed up at the headquarters shaking with her mask in her hands and Jessica's arm around her shoulders. He must assume there is one, the same way Gwen assumes there are many behind the squat, the ex-girlfriend who still lets him use her apartment to do laundry, the blue laces in his platform boots. It's a silent agreement to not push for these things but Gwen suspects if she did, Hobie would tell her. Hobie’s presence is comfort either because of or despite that, Gwen isn't sure. If Hobie pushed, she’s not sure she would tell him, but she is sure he won't push in the first place.

She scratches her eyebrow, the dry itchy skin around the irritated eyebrow piercing. He probably shouldn't have given it to her on the sagging couch with just a needle and a lighter, but the irritation is mostly Gwen’s fault. She can never learn to stop poking things.

Peter did a double take seeing the small titanium balls hugging her eyebrows. "That's... nice," he hesitated, Mayday wriggling in his arms. If she were Miles, he would probably make a quip, comment on the redness blooming around the piercing, maybe chastise him for the conditions he got it in because really, Miles? Do you want to actually lose your head?

But Gwen is not Miles, she's just another person with a shadow of Miles behind her, one that hangs heavy between her and Peter. He's another layer between her and Miguel, one much softer than Jess, a voice behind her back saying go easy on her. But outside those moments, he seems to avoid her like the heaviness of things they hide from that shadow between them is too much, fractures starting in the foundation they stand on.

There might be other things too. The way sometimes Gwen looks at him and it appears as soon as it passes, a brief flicker of thought that her Peter will never reach that age, that Gwen will but she will never see that age on him. And another, even quicker than the former, that there might be another face Peter sees when he looks at her, one he would never mention because she's just a kid but one that throws different shadows, obscures Gwen completely sometimes.

Gwen Stacy dies in every universe. Miguel didn't mince his words telling her, didn't cushion them with any soft places to land. Gwen twists and turns on the thick mattress some nights, the words replaying in her head, along every other Gwen falling through the sky, the brief moment where they are suspended like Gwen is but knowing there's nowhere to swing, there's only the ground to crash to. She knows the exact feeling, the lightness, the speed of falling through the sky, the absolute peace of being stuck, for just a brief moment, in the space of nothingness, no structures, no walls to hold her. But she knows the hand in hers too, that Gwen can always find her way up, that if she can't then Miles would. She only knows herself though, maybe all the other Gwens were sure of that too, that there was always a web to swing on, an arm to grasp theirs. Maybe they were sure one time too many, that one time being enough.

The question slips out before Gwen even realises she's about to ask it, "Do you think Gwen Stacy dies in this universe too?"

Hobie looks right at her, his usual air of distanced irony gone, everything serious and stable colours. He's never voiced it but it's not hard to guess the depth his doubts about Miguel's theories go or at least the distance he chooses to maintain from them.

Probably part of why he lets her crash in his dimension is that he doesn't believe an anomaly will cause anything. I don't believe in nomalies to believe in anomalies and Gwen wishes she could too but then she remembers the falls, no web to swing on. And she remembers the blue uniform splattered with blood, all the times she watched her watch light up in swirls of watercolours before switching it off. She can't risk it, she doesn't want to risk not believing.

Hobie might have seen her corner of the warehouse light up with pastels, might know what's hiding behind her words. It might be why he says, "She looks fine to me." He uses his hand to wring the water out of his pants; it comes out grey, much duller than anything in his dimension is. Gwen doesn’t stop herself from making a disgusted face. "I don’t believe in paradigms."

"You calculated the number of chords per each Ramones album."

"Patterns I believe in, yeah." He shakes out his pants, his eyes steady on Gwen. "You gotta look for the right ones."

There's a weight to his words, like he's weaving something between the letters for Gwen to find later.

The watch feels heavy on her hand. It leaves red marks on her skin when she shifts the wristband.

***

The parties at the squat are nothing like the shows Gwen has experienced before. Not that she's been to that many, sneaking off maybe twice while her dad was on night shifts, but the contrast is so sharp it makes her head spin.

It's so loud, the bass and reverb making the walls shake but it's barely music, a chaos of instruments that do not go together with a soundtrack from someone's boombox adding more layers of pure noise. It’s a large wave, current that takes everything inside her head and washes it out leaving only the riffs and the lyrics that don't match shouted from different corners of the warehouse.

She takes over the drums, beats to the rhythm then out of the rhythm then to another rhythm until it all converges, until her hands hurt and her breath catches. Then she turns in the crowd, stomps with Hobie’s chucks that couldn't hope to make the same thud and shake the ground the same as all the platforms around her. Someone grabs her hand, pulls her into a mosh pit and it’s all a mess, the outside matching the inside, all better than thinking about the quivering pathetic thing in her chest, at Miguel's anger and at Miguel's words and at her mistakes almost sending her back, almost causing the worst, triggering the canon that she has to escape, has to stomp and turn away from.

A girl with a mohawk of vibrant blues and greens taps her chin and Gwen has seen that gesture before, has felt the light tap on her chin. She always shook her head, but she can only blame the tremble in her chest and the reverb tingling in her fingers when she opens her mouth, sticks her tongue out, lets the girl put the little pill on it. She doesn't think before she swallows it.

At first, nothing happens. Gwen continues turning on the makeshift dance floor, her heartbeat beating to the rhythm of the drums, her head full of noise the same as before. Next moment she knows, she's talking to someone and everything shifts, her stomach drops and everything melts. All features blended perfectly into a mess of colours that radiates then softens, her heart almost melting with it because everything feels gentle and diluted and just like home. None of the lights and outlines and contrasts feel sharp, dark shadows with a luminous quality instead of black nothingness, a giggle bubbling in her chest, full of relief and hope.

She loses herself in pastels, finds herself again minutes or hours later with her back on the dirty floor, the lights on the ceiling blending together into tender kaleidoscopes. A hand comes into her line of sight; Gwen grabs, lets Hobie pull her to her feet.

He lays her down on the mattress, sitting next to her to keep watch. Gwen turns onto her stomach, cheek pressed against the pillow. It smells like his ex’s laundry detergent, soft from the fabric softener so much so that she grasps the sheets to make sure she doesn't sink through the mattress, through the floor, into the earth.

She watches Hobie, his legs stretched out, his guitar on his stomach, strumming the strings gently. He looks softer too, the harsh edges and shadows of him blended like candy colouring melting onto fingers, like all the kindness inside him could stain her if she managed to touch it, the tickle in her fingers she only gets around Miles. Suddenly, her chest gives a painful pang, an empty ache, all the watercolours draining into a greyish hue.

But Hobie stays painted into tender shades, emptiness inside spreading like it could swallow Gwen whole, a sudden need to take it in, to feel that softness for herself. She props herself up on her elbows, pushes herself up until she can press a small butterfly kiss to the corner of his mouth.

Hobie’s hand comes up to the back of her neck, stopping her before she can lean back in again. "Gwendy." He gives her a soothing squeeze, leans away slightly. "You don't want it."

Her eyes sting, his warm hues blend through the sudden blur of tears obscuring her vision. "Don't tell me what I want. I want-" The words slur in Gwen’s mouth into a bitter sludge, impossible to find the ending to the sentence in the mess. "I want to-"

Gwen doesn't see Hobie lay his guitar to the side, but he must have because he pulls her to his chest, tucks her under his chin. "Tell me when you stop trippin'," he says, his heartbeat strong in his chest.

Gwen breathes in and out with the thud of his heart, feels the rough worn-down material of his shirt under her cheek, the studs on his jacket digging into her arm. Her mind comes to a slower swirl, a barely there pace of thoughts escaping her as her eyelids grow heavier.

"Why Gwendy?" She manages to get out, the words blurred like his colours.

Hobie’s breath is warm on her scalp when he says, "'Cause you left Neverland."

Her mouth still tastes bitter when the light of the morning comes through the large windows, the shutters open. She opens her eyes, blinking rapidly against the unbearable brightness. Her mind feels even heavier than her tongue does in her mouth, all limbs turn to lead.

Next to the pillow, on the floor right by the mattress, stands a full water bottle and a Styrofoam box giving off the scent of fresh pastries. It's as comforting as a heartbeat in a chest against hers.

Gwen turns to her other side pulling the covers over her head as her foot hits something heavy. She groans in tune to the annoyed meow.

***

Her hand hesitates above the watch. This time, the screen doesn't bleed watercolours, it radiates the steady lines and rich colours of Earth-616, the skyline that feels familiar now.

Jess' words keep replaying in Gwen’s head. "I told Miguel you can handle it." The sharp look above her glasses, the warning in her gaze. "Don't prove me wrong."

Every time her hand grasped the watch before, every time she imagined this exact moment, it was different, though. It would be a reward, not a test, nothing but Gwen’s own want making her press the buttons. Nothing that Gwen would have keep from Miles, no words to swallow, everything spilling out about the stray cats leaving mice in her sneakers, the sharp contrasts of Hobie’s world, Hobie himself. Her dad.

She can't lie to Miles, she's not sure she ever could. But keeping things from him isn't the same, yet it feels like the difference is so minor it might as well not exist at all.

But then the ache in Gwen’s chest grows and grows just thinking about Miles’ easy eyes; she doesn't want to do the better thing. She doesn’t want to say she can't do it, to hand it off to someone else, doesn't want to see Jessica's disappointment. She wants to go, to see Miles, to prove she can.

Maybe it's why Gwen has always been drawn to kindness, because the right thing doesn’t come as easy to her, because she needs to be near it to feel its warmth, let it seep into her skin, stain her fingers. A pattern she can recognise, slurred sentence in her mouth she can at least finish.

The portal opens with a loud whirl of sounds. Gwen doesn't let herself think twice before stepping through it.

[sirpi-construction]

Sirpi Construction - Sriperumbudur - Contact: 97878 13193

Comprehensive Property Redevelopment Services: We provide thorough property redevelopment services at Sirpi Construction, transforming aging properties into contemporary and functional spaces. Our team begins the design process after consulting with clients to ensure a smooth and effective redevelopment journey

[greywoodrpg]

𝕛𝕒𝕤𝕡𝕖𝕣 𝕧𝕒𝕝𝕖𝕟𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕖

he was born twenty-six years ago, is a werewolf and lives in the outskirts as a scavenger, and is in no pack. he looks an awful lot like matthew lillard.

“There is no sun without shadow, and it is essential to know the night.”

tw: violence, injury, hospital, shooting

Jasper was born into an affluent family. He was the youngest of four and was raised primarily by a hired nanny. Time spent with his parents was minimal and what little he had was fought for off of his twin sister and two older brothers. Starved of attention and struggling to find his place, he began to act out, misbehaving in school and trying out any and all new and exciting social opportunities. This continued into college, even after all of his siblings had settled into their places within the family businesses.  During this time, Jasper found himself caught up in a party lifestyle, never really knowing anyone but always fishing for attention. It was during a party celebrating the full moon that Jasper’s life changed suddenly. Having mistakenly flirted with a taken woman, Jasper quickly found himself under attack by her partner and his friends. It grew into a skirmish with everybody fending for themselves. He never saw who or what had attacked him, but he remembers feeling the heat of his own blood, and then he lost consciousness.  He spent the next three weeks in hospital, missing the final exams of his college year. His eldest brother, Jack, took pity on him and offered him a work placement at one of the family businesses to ease him back onto his feet. It was a simple warehouse gig that Jasper managed to keep under control until he and his brother stayed late one night and with the full moon rising, Jasper experienced his first shift, his form now taking on that of a large, blondish wolf whose temperament was erratic, as quick to bite as he was to run. In fearful panic, Jack shot Jasper in the flank and locked him into a partition cage. The last thing Jasper remembers is his entire family looking at him and murmuring amongst themselves. Then when he awoke the next morning, cold, wet and completely alone in the middle of a forest. His first few weeks in solitude were excruciating. Having grown up with all his needs met, he struggled to learn to appreciate the basics of survival. However, despite his newfound lycanthropy being the root of his troubles, it also quickly grew to be his closest ally. He learnt how to shift on command and found his wolven self to be more than capable when it came to aiding his survival. He could hunt, dig and even fight if he needed to, his wolf’s volatile nature proving more useful when instinctive reaction could save his life. He started to spend so much time shifted that he began to forget just how lonely he truly was. He stopped trying to search out signs of humanity, and it was only once he did so that he happened to come across them. A hiking trail of curious scents that led him to Greywood. Although he is always grateful to avail of their services, he has never found himself able to settle. And so, to this day, he remains a lone wanderer of the Greywood Forest, having lost not only his way, but also his connection to humanity. 

“what power did he attain when settling in greywood?”

None.

penned by... magpie

[bitterarcs]

He didn't like it — the stench of pungent leaves and carcinogenic chemicals burning; it reminded him of home in the same way the smell of blood informed cattle of slaughter. It was preferable over the smell of body odour and that of garbage which littered the slums, more prominent with each year the citizens fell to poverty. Law enforcers only stuck their noses and batons in when urged by ShinRa or the benefit of their pocket outweighed the risk of their lives. It was a jungle of concrete and bodily secretions.

A kingdom fit for a cruel king, and while Reno always pictured himself ruling high, there were so many things he hated about the slums and the poor. Was it an inflated ego — believing himself better than the struggling bakers and fathers with gambling addicts? Cut from the safe cloth as everyone who survived and rotted he may have been, but he was starved for more, more than slitting throats and counting stained gil in the back of a warehouse; even sitting king held its displeasures in his mind.

People were just vile and annoying. Granted, he, too, was vile, wanting to get his dick wet and itching to cause pain. Reno was jaded and hurting people made him forget about it. What else could he do however? He sucked too much dick and stabbed too many saps to become some god damn saint, or worse, a farmer. Nose winkled with disgust just thinking about it, or was it the smoke around him, or the lewd noises being expelled from a woman being pounded into. What a way to spend the fucking evening.

To the right of him Todo, an even more loud mouth crew member, munched away on a semi-stale sandwich with eyes glued to the scene. In times like this, Reno pretended he disliked the scene because there was no point watching two people fuck if he wasn't involved directly. Reno had his other reasons. He used his cigarette was an excuse to drop his gaze, crushing the lit stick within itself and only burning himself slightly as the slapping of flesh ceased. His gaze only jerked upwards when their other crew member, Jamie, pushed away the dirty partition and zipped up his pants.

❛ Does she even know how old you are, man? ❜ That was Todo speaking after swallowing a mouthful.

❛ She's just happy that a young buck gave her a good pounding into. ❜ Jaime dissolved into a proud grin like fucking someone twice his age was a rare feat. Reno had rich shit heads old enough to be his grandfather try to shove gil in his pocket for a night with his mouth; the whole affair left a bitter taste in his mouth the cigarettes could not squash. Paper and ash fluttered down to the ground to join the rest of the muck as Reno drew himself to his feet. He wiped sweat laden palms on his coveralls before shoving fists into oversized pockets.

(  ❛  Riveting as this is, am gonna get action of my own. If I collect on the Yamazaki's, I get enough to buy that fur coat. ❜  )

As spry as he was and slightly underweight, Reno made his swift exit before his gang members could twist his arm into sharing the interest or more talks of sex. At the exit of the building that was mixed steel and plywood, gemstone eyes accidentally met the glassy ones of the woman Jamie had just fucked. She looked high but not regretful, even going as far as offering Reno an inviting smile. Old hag. Hair that could have used a good wash didn't feel the detriment of running dirty fingers through scarlet spikes.

A father and two children veered to the opposite end of the alleyway upon spotting the teen and recognizing sin on his features; Reno snickered. A ragged haired black cat face deep into a rodent spared him a glance and hissed; he flipped it the finger. His plans took him out the slums where he indulged in a food stand specializing in fried curry balls and light people watching. Where the air was slightly fresher, workers, families, and elderly couples loaded themselves into buses.

At another spot, a dull blue bus came to a stop and the typical faces crawled into the arteries of Midgar. Chumps and idiots. Old comers who found nothing but dirt beyond the city or fresh faced newcomers hoping to catch some big break. Donning his coveralls and not enough salacious or stained in blood, there was a decent chance he could run a scam on someone.

Warm ,fried deliciousness was stuffed greedily in his mouth when eyes jumped from a farmer wearing a too tight suit to a kid who looked like a baby chocobo @riotseas. Reno licked the spices off the front of his teeth and jumped into action. Innocent, as innocent as plausible, expression decorated his lips as he saddled up to the outsider. Teeth were bright despite excessive smoking but eyes were brighter.

(  ❛  Needing a map of the city? Only costs 10 gil, friend. ❜  )

[photo-snap-stories]

PL:

Zamek Ojców, wieża bramna

Ruiny zamku Ojców leżą na szczycie 36-metrowej skały, w środkowej części doliny Prądnika.

Zamek wzniesiony został przez Kazimierza Wielkiego, a podanie mówi, że nazwa castrum Oczec powstała na cześć jego ojca Władysława Łokietka, który w pobliżu Ojcowa znalazł niegdyś ukrycie przed wrogimi wojskami.

Pierwotnie zamek składał się z ośmiobocznej wieży ostatecznej obrony posadowionej na skałach górujących ponad pozostałą częścią wzgórza, obwodu murów obiegających nieregularnie wzgórze po jego krawędzi oraz z czworobocznej wieży bramnej dostawionej do skał u stóp donżonu. Dom mieszkalny wzniesiono wzdłuż wschodniego odcinka obwodowych murów. Cypel odcięto od reszty wzniesienia głębokim przekopem, nad którym przerzucono zwodzony most.

W 1400 roku zamek został zastawiony przez Władysława Jagiełłę. Kolejnymi starostami byli przedstawiciele wielu zamożnych rodów, między innymi Szafrańcowie, Bonerowie, Myszkowscy i Korycińscy.

Podczas potopu szwedzkiego najeźdźcy zajęli zamek prawdopodobnie bez walki i urządzili w nim magazyn broni i żywności.

Po rozbiorach Polski pod koniec XVIII wieku zamek zaczął być zaniedbywany i popadł w ruinę, ostatecznie mieszkańcy go opuścili w 1826 roku.

Obecnie zachowane tu są wieża bramna, wieża ośmioboczna, przyziemie murów budynku południowego oraz resztki murów obwodowych. Na dziedzińcu zachowała się także studnia.

EN:

The gate tower of the Ojców Castle, Poland

The ruins of Ojcow Castle lie on top of a 36-meter-high rock, in the middle of the Prądnik Valley.

The castle was erected by Casimir the Great, and a legend says that the name castrum Oczec was created in honor of his father Wladyslaw Lokietek, who once found a hiding place from enemy armies near Ojcow.

Originally, the castle consisted of an octagonal tower of ultimate defense perched on rocks towering above the rest of the hill, a perimeter of walls encircling the hill irregularly along its edge, and a quadrangular gate tower attached to the rocks at the foot of the donjon. A dwelling house was built along the eastern section of the perimeter walls. The promontory was cut off from the rest of the hill by a deep ditch, over which a drawbridge was thrown.

In 1400 the castle was pawned by Wladyslaw Jagiello. Subsequent starosts were representatives of many wealthy families, including the Szafraniec, Boner, Myszkowski and Korycin families.

During the Swedish Deluge, the invaders probably seized the castle without a fight and arranged it as a weapons and food warehouse.

After the partition of Poland at the end of the 18th century, the castle began to be neglected and fell into disrepair, eventually the inhabitants abandoned it in 1826.

At present, the gate tower, octagonal tower, the base of the walls of the southern building and remnants of the perimeter walls are preserved here. A well is also preserved in the courtyard.

[alanaisalive]

So I finished the full rewatch of Doctor Who (2005 onward, not classic).

Steven Moffat was definitely the worst. He is absolutely obsessed with making rude commentary about the physical appearance of everyone. He gave every character some nasty schoolyard bully nickname. And his plots were just self indulgent wank. His era started out okay, got super wanky for several seasons, then his last season was okay again. Basically, skip all the episodes with Clara. Not her fault at all, but that's the wankiest era of Moffat wank.

Chris Chibnall did a good job. Not perfect, and skipping the Christmas specials was a mistake, but I feel like he gets what it is supposed to be about 85%. Jodie Whittaker was great. It's absolutely worth watching. I loved how he tried to bring back the original brief of Doctor Who being a way to teach history.

The main criticism I've seen of Chibnall is that his Doctor lacks some of the rage towards injustice that RTD's Doctor had. I can't entirely disagree. There's the one episode in a future version of an Amazon warehouse where the employees are being abused and sometimes murdered, and in the end, the Doctor just accepts an apology and "we promise to stop killing" from the company without ever actually addressing the other abuses. RTD's Doctor would have burned the place to the ground.

I've also heard the same criticism about the episodes regarding Rosa Parks and the partition of India. I have to disagree on those a little. It's one thing to have the Doctor come in and save the day in an imaginary scenario, but it's quite another when we're talking about real events that still affect real people who are still alive today. You have to handle those topics carefully, and having the Doctor swoop in and solve racism and intolerance would have been tacky and offensive.

Anyway, it goes without saying that I'm looking forward to seeing what else Russell T. Davies plans to do.