#Rectangular Tin Boxes

[tinkingusa]

Why Tin Box Packaging Is a Must for Modern Brands

Looking for premium packaging that lasts? Read this blog to discover why tin box packaging is the go-to solution for food, cosmetics, and gift items. Dive into the benefits, from airtight freshness to elegant branding. Your next packaging upgrade starts here! Also, watch this infographic for more at: https://shorturl.at/BX2sm

[mollywog]

Laurel

Read chapters 1 & 2 on Ao3

The beginning of Chapter 3

They say no one really feels married in District 12 until after the toasting: They’re right.

~~~

She moves into Peeta’s house in Victor’s Village, bringing only a single bag of her scant possessions.

He gives a brief tour, before leading her to a bedroom prepared for her. It’s not what she’s expecting; clean and modestly decorated in District 12 fashion rather than the Capitol’s style. She’s thankful for that and pleasantly surprised.

“I know it’s a little plain,” Peeta says, misinterpreting her silence. “I don’t know what you like, but I can paint it… any color you want…”

She doesn’t miss his crestfallen look as she shakes her head effectively ending the conversation. She doesn’t need him doing more than he already has.

She hasn’t slept alone since she was five; before her sister was old enough to share the mattress in their room. It shouldn’t be this hard to rest in a bed this comfortable, but sleep plagues her. She’s no stranger to nightmares, ever since her father died a decade ago, but now the usual mine explosion is replaced with visions of Prim clutching a wailing child as life drains from her eyes. Katniss wakes frantically reaching across the empty bed for her sister before remembering where she is.

She doesn’t know what Peeta does at night, but she knows it’s not sleep. She can hear his heavy tread in the hallway and movement from the room next to hers.

They rarely see each other during the day. She leaves early to hunt, returning in the afternoon to bathe before leaving again to have dinner with her sister and mother after school, meandering back to arrive only after dusk.

After the first few days of this routine, she finds a basket on the counter on her way out the door. The note reads: ‘for your family’. She can’t resist the urge to peek inside, finding bread still warm from the oven, oranges, peppermints, a shiny tin of packets from the tea house, and cookies, beautifully iced with softly colored flowers. She scoffs at the offering; she can provide for her family just fine. Maybe there are no cookies or candies, but she manages the necessities. Shoving the basket across the counter, she grabs her hunting bag and stomps off, letting the screen door slam behind her.

But the next day another basket sits with all the same things, with the exception of a new loaf and perfectly rectangular shortbread. The note reads: ‘for your sister’. Her hands hover over the handle for a moment, before she retracts it, leaving it there once more.

The third day the note reads, ‘For the baby’, and she knows she’s been had. She scowls at the ceiling, before scooping up the basket with its heavenly smelling ginger snaps and fresh loaf.

Prim groans as she takes a bite. ‘The first thing she’s enjoyed eating in weeks,’ she claims and her sister's praise dulls the sting of Peeta’s victory.

After that she stops refusing his gifts, leaving behind a skinned rabbit or squirrel in his ice box as meager repayment.

~~~

Next

Big thank you to @rainymyx for the fic aesthetic!!

[aneurinallday]

The Elster Man

The antique shop on Allenbrought Street was, to me, the most magical place in the world. Even though it was the first paying job I’d managed to get after university, I was in no particular rush to move on - it was preferable to the waitressing job I’d had at school, and it appealed to my love of the vintage and forgotten. For as long as I could remember, I’d been fascinated by the concept of antiques, so this was the closest I thought I would ever come to a dream job.

I’d only been working there for about six months, but to me, the shop had become a safe haven - a secret hideaway, where I could curl up with a blanket and a cup of tea, and lose myself in a Georgian adventure or a Gothic romance, while the minimum wage trickled into my pocket. The ticking of the grandfather clock was like a lullaby to me, and sometimes I would doze off with the book in my hands, until being woken by the sound of the bell above the door, signalling a customer’s entrance.

My life changed on a Monday afternoon - always the quietest time for our shop, since people were too busy with work or school to come and gawk at antiques. The owner was sick, so it was just me: the only employee, diligently manning the till, sweeping the floor, and dusting the shelves. I’d only had two customers that day - an old man searching for photo albums or soldiers’ diaries from the Second World War, and an elderly woman looking for vintage ornaments - but I didn’t mind. I liked the peace and quiet.

As I pottered around the shop, I was struck, as I often was, by the cosy, cluttered charm of the place. The shelves were stacked high with a beautiful chaos of miscellany - ballerina music-boxes, candlesticks, lampshades, silverware, egg cups, biscuit tins - while the walls were hung with framed photographs and wooden cuckoo clocks.

Sitting on chairs were stuffed animals with button eyes and porcelain dolls with real human hair, and looming over everything was a large, ornately carved grandfather clock, whose pendulum swung to and fro almost hypnotically. Every object had been crafted by skilful hands, whose owners were long-dead; and I took my role seriously as the caretaker of their legacies.

I finished rearranging a teapot, teacups, and saucers on a tray, then looked around for something else to do. I took advantage of the down-time to start unpacking a delivery we’d received the previous Friday: several beat-up cardboard boxes of items from Elster House, an eighteenth century manor-house somewhere in the south.

In order to fund the upkeep of the twenty-bedroom, twelve-bathroom mansion, the aristocrat who lived there was in the process of converting it from a private residence into a public attraction. Tourists and history buffs would come flocking to admire the topiary and old paintings, and hopefully leave a few coins in the donation box. But first, the attics needed to be cleared out.

And so here I was, kneeling on the floor, elbow-deep in a cardboard box stuffed with old bits-and-bobs, sorting the tat from the treasures.

Porcelain figurines of blushing cherubs and graceful Regency ladies gazed down at me as I worked. With a keen eye, I inspected each piece closely, looking for any scratches, scuffs, or discolouration that might decrease their value. I set aside a gilded snuff-box, and my gaze fell upon a rectangular tin at the bottom of the pile.

It wasn’t an antique, but a fairly modern storage tin, maybe from the 1970s or 1980s, painted with a rather gaudy floral design. It looked out-of-place among its Victorian companions.

I picked it up, and turned it around several times to admire the pattern. Then I attempted to open it, struggling to dig my fingernails under the lid. Gritting my teeth, I exerted more pressure. The lid finally gave up with a wheeze of escaping air, and the contents were revealed: a mess of old photographs, grey or sepia-toned, unmistakeably and authentically Victorian.

I scrambled to my feet, wincing as my stiff knees protested. I hurried to fetch a pair of cotton gloves, specially bought for protecting old, fragile documents from skin oils. Hastening back to the box, I sat cross-legged, put on my gloves, and reached into the tin.

The first photo I picked up was an unremarkable portrait. A young man sitting in a chair, wearing full Victorian garb, staring off into the distance in an aloof, regal fashion. His expression was dignified and stoic, his pose statue-like. When Louis Daguerre had succeeded in reducing a camera’s exposure time from hours to minutes, the popularity of portraiture had exploded; but having one’s photograph taken had remained a serious event, and smiling hadn’t yet become acceptable.

I peered more closely at the faded image. The man was strikingly handsome, in an angular and somewhat haunted way, his dark hair slicked with pomade. His large, shadowy eyes seemed full of secrets and deep, unknowable thoughts. A Gothic beauty, complete with an aura of mystery. Judging by his fine clothes and aristocratic bearing, he was probably an ancestor of the current owner of Elster House. The plain background and lack of other objects ensured that my gaze focused on him.

I turned the picture over. Written on the back in elegant cursive were the words:

Richard Mariah Elster

His Lordship on a fine Friday

October 13th 1843

To my chagrin, many of the photographs were heavily damaged - covered in splotches and scratches, the corners faded and curling. It seemed as though they’d been tossed carelessly in the tin with no regard for proper storage, yet a loose chronology seemed to exist. As I flipped through, I realised that they were all of Lord Elster. It was a collection dedicated to one man - one beautiful young man (or young to my admiring eyes, at least).

In most of them, he was alone, sitting or standing in various attitudes; but in some of them, he had companions - an elderly couple that I assumed were his parents, a male contemporary who was probably a university friend, a young woman whom he may have been courting. All of them seemed to pale in comparison; my eye was always drawn to him.

Each picture was its own little enigma. Who was he, and what circumstances had brought him to be photographed that day? Was he marking a significant event in his life, or had he simply wanted to show off his new clothes? My gloved hands carefully turned them over, checking for writing, but most of what I found was illegible.

As I searched, my fingers found something that wasn’t paper - something soft and ticklish. I withdrew a lock of dark brown hair, long and curly, bound with a red ribbon tied in a bow. I handled it with the utmost care, afraid of damaging the centuries-old strands. Then, on an impulse, I sniffed it. It may have been my imagination, but I thought I could detect the lingering, sweet fragrance of perfume. I wondered if he’d requested it as a keepsake, or if his lover had offered it as a token of her affections.

Picking up another picture, I experienced a momentary shock to see Lord Elster’s dead body propped upright, bereft of its head; but I quickly identified it as a joke photograph. In the 1880s and 1890s, there had been a humorous fad for “headless portraits”, in which the subject posed for two photographs in succession, and both photo negatives were combined to create the illusion that they were holding their own severed head by the hair or cradling it on their lap. Sure enough, the lord’s “decapitated” head was sitting nearby while his hand pretended to stroke its hair. I snorted with laughter, and put the picture aside.

The one that followed wasn’t a single image, but a collection of eight, arranged in two rows of four. I recognised it as a “visiting card” from the 1860s or late 1850s. At the time, it had finally become possible to take quick, casual photographs and print them onto a single sheet of thin paper, usually showing a person in the same setting but in different poses and attitudes. The low cost and simple production of such photos had led to their boom in popularity, as they could be easily traded among friends and family - one of the earliest examples of social media.

In all images, he was standing with a top-hat and cane in his hands. Sometimes he was posed in a serious and stoic manner, but sometimes he appeared grinning and playful. The images were too small to make out details, but I was struck by his humour - a long-dead man captured forever in a moment of amusement. It was a jarring reminder that people had been just as silly seven generations ago as they were now. Looking at him, I realised I was smiling.

But when I put it aside and saw the next picture, my smile died and my heart dropped. The young lord was sitting in an armchair, his eyes closed, his face slack, his mouth a sliver of blackness as it hung ajar. He looked like he was fast asleep, but I knew that he was dead. The sight came as a gut-punch to me. I’d been piecing together the jigsaw of his life, and in a strange and maybe stupid way, I felt like I’d gotten to know him. Now he sat in front of me, dead, motionless, his existence reduced to a scrap of paper.

There was nothing written - no date, no tribute, no expression of grief. I wondered what had happened to him. Had he died peacefully or violently? In bed after a terrible illness, surrounded by the tender care of his loved ones? Or in the middle of the street after a sudden accident, surrounded by gawking strangers? Morbid curiosity compelled me to peer closer at the photograph, looking for any clue as to what may have killed him - but he was fully dressed and immaculately hairstyled, hiding any possible sign of injury.

He was undeniably dead, and in accordance with the customs of the time, his family had decided to take one last picture of him.

I hadn’t come to work that day expecting to get emotional. Perhaps it was just the dust, but my eyes had begun to sting. I moved on, eager to shake off the image of his lifeless face.

The following photograph was decidedly less formal - probably a private memento. He was standing up, one foot crossed in front of the other, leaning his arm on the back of a chair in a casual manner. His hair had grown longer, and hung in easy-going curls to his neck - quite unusual for the time period, when most men had worn their hair short, slick, and sensible.

He appeared to be in an exquisite garden lined with marble columns, with a fountain in the background, but I couldn’t tell if it was a real place or a studio backdrop. Maybe it was a corner of the Elster estate, or maybe it was just paint on a canvas.

I held the precious picture in both hands, glad to see him alive again, then gently put it aside.

What I saw next caused me to freeze for a moment, as if my heart had skipped a beat. The young man was sitting naked on the floor, and smiling at someone out of frame. His long, dark curls were gathered loosely back, exposing his pale shoulders, and his expression was one of eager delight. Compared to the formality and pomp of its companions, the image was shocking in how alive and intimate it was. The subject was aroused, happy, and in motion.

I turned the picture over. Scribbled on the back in messy cursive were the words:

My darling, delicious Rick. A souvenir. Nothing tastes sweeter.

Something about the penmanship made me think it was a man’s. I felt a sudden guilt. This photograph was never meant for my eyes - it was a secret message between two lovers, who in their time period would’ve lived in the shadows.

Moving on, I jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire - the next picture was even more scandalous. His unrestrained hair tumbled in disarray about his face, and he was wearing an embroidered dressing gown that hung open, revealing that he was nude underneath. He was draped over a chaise longue in a languid pose, one bare leg crossed lazily over the other. To my modern eyes, the pose was no more shocking than a Greek statue, but for the time, it must’ve been outrageous.

Staring at him, I abruptly realised that it was his hair I had sniffed. His perfume I had imagined a whiff of. For some reason, the fact was embarrassing.

On the back of the scandalous photograph, I discovered the words:

To my dearest Rick. I found this and had to share the memory.

Wednesday 6th June 1866

This time, the handwriting felt feminine to me - painstaking, graceful, the result of years of strict schooling. I wondered how many lovers he’d had in his life, and which one he’d married to continue the Elster line.

Wait…1866? I squinted at the number. No, I’d definitely read it correctly.

I returned to the first portrait, dated 1843, and examined his face with a more critical eye. If I was generous and assumed he was in his early twenties at the time, he still looked remarkably youthful two decades later. Perhaps the hand holding the pen had made an error, or perhaps Richard was simply blessed with good genetics. Oh well, this mystery was above my pay-grade - correctly identifying the pictures would be the museum’s job.

I was approaching the bottom of the tin, and already wondering which museum to call first. These photographs belonged in a safe place, not a dusty antique shop, and I felt curiously protective of them. This man had been happy, beautiful, and by the looks of it, exciting; and the thought of him being forgotten hurt.

Suddenly, my eye was caught by a pop of colour. Something blue amid the grey and sepia. I reached for it, drew it from the pile, and my blood ran cold.

It was a Polaroid, and the face smiling back at me was Lord Elster’s. From what I could see, he was wearing a blue denim jacket over an unbuttoned tie-dye shirt, and his hair was gathered back in a loose mess. Seeing him in colour came as a shock to the system. Even in the faded, washed-out Polaroid, his curls were a rich and lustrous brown, his eyes a deep green. Even his pale skin seemed to be a dozen hues of pink.

My hands had begun to shake. It was the same person. Unmistakeably so. Indistinguishable, down to the slight asymmetry of his eyes. Even an identical twin wouldn’t be such a perfect match.

I knew it was him, but I also knew the idea was impossible. Although colour photography had ceased to be experimental in the 1930s, it hadn’t become the norm until the 1960s, and the Polaroid Corporation hadn’t dominated the world of instant cameras until the 1970s. If the man in front of me was the same man who’d sat patiently for a portrait in 1843, he would be almost two centuries old.

The sound of the shopkeeper’s bell jolted me from my reverie, a resonant chime informing me that a customer had entered. Sure enough, I heard the door swing shut with a decisive thud, and a male voice calling cheerfully:

“Hello?”

“One moment, please,” I answered, quickly returning everything to the tin and putting the lid back on. I heard his bouncy, blithe footsteps striding across the floor towards me, and realised I was covered in dust. I brushed myself off and emerged from behind the shelves, the floral tin in my hands. “How can I help - ” I began, but then I saw his face and the words died in my throat.

“Ah. I was looking for that. Thank you.”

His voice was youthful and sweet. He plucked the tin from my unresisting hands, paused, and peered closely at it. I realised I’d failed to rotate the lid back into the same position I’d found it, resulting in the flowery pattern being disrupted. My mouth opened and closed, but all speech had deserted me.

“You’ve been nosy, I see,” he said, “No matter.”

He smiled brightly, and slapped a stack of bank-notes down on the counter without counting them.

“There. Whatever awkward questions you have, this should be all the answer you need. If you feel it’s insufficient, please feel free to swing by Elster House whenever you’re in the area. I’ll give you a guided tour without the entrance fee, and I promise you’ll leave happy.”

He turned, and with a flick of his dark curls, was gone.

For @rmelster

[hermaximalismhome]

HOME TYPE: Apartment

LOCATION: Bushwick, Brooklyn, New York

STYLE: Colorful, Industrial, Maximalist

BEDROOMS: 2

SQ FT: 747

PAINT & COLORS:

All Rooms — Benjamin Moore “Bancroft White (DC-01)”

ENTRYWAY

Coat Rack — ​UTIL

Flowerpot — &Tradition

Taiwanese Mailbox — Yun Hai Selection

Small Rectangular Mirror — HAY

Wall Ledge Shelves — Lichen NYC

Super Stripe Mini Rug — Verloop

Stripe Dog Bed — Dusen Dusen

KORSNING Rug — IKEA

LIVING ROOM

Sofa — Modern Hill

Shlf One Layer — KIOSK48TH

Shlf Three Layer — KIOSK48TH

The Blot Rug — Mush Studios

The Dandi Pillow — Mush Studios

Tubo Bookend — Bi-Rite Studios

Fenestra Bookends — MoMA Design Store

Sowden Tin — HAY

Sowden Water Bottle — HAY

Pillar Candle — HAY

PC Portable Lamp — HAY

Hemisphere Clock — Design Within Reach

Kirby Vase — Areaware

XL Globe Floor Lamp — Urban Outfitters

KITCHEN

Aluminum Float Shelf — Bestcase

Great Jones x Fellow Kettle — ​Great Jones

Great Jones x Zander Schlacter Dutch Baby — Great Jones

Bodum Programmable 12-Cup Coffee Maker — MoMA Design Store

Salt & Pepper Grinder — Mohd

Toaster — Mohd

Arcs Case — HAY

DINING ROOM

Memphis Dining Chairs — ​Betsu Studios

Daphne Concrete Dining Table — Urban Outfitters

Frame TV — Samsung

Frame TV Wall Mount — Samsung

BEDROOM

Bookcase Miniature — Memphis Milano

Shiva Vase — BD Barcelona

Super Lamp — Memphis Milano

The Dune Rug — Mush Studios

BLOQUE 7 in Sottsass Red — Bonne Choice

Aria Headboard — Urban Outfitters

Roma Wavy Wall Mirror — Urban Outfitters

Credenza — CB2

Bed Frame — Keetsa

Stripe Knit Throw — ​Verloop

Object Poster — Gustaf Westman

SOWDEN PL1 Portable Lamp — MoMA Design Store

Shaped Pillar Candle — H&M Home

A thing on a table in a house — Apartmento

Wallpaper* City Guide — Wallpaper

IDROTTSHALL Rug — IKEA

HOME OFFICE

Shogun Lamp — ​Artemide

Pier Shelving System — Design Within Reach

Uten Silo Large — Herman Miller

Perpetual Ring-A-Date Wall Calendar — Home Union NYC

Anya Sconce — Urban Outfitters

Striped Canisters — Dusen Dusen

Everybody Kitchen Timer — Dusen Dusen

Everybody Tissue Box — Areaware

Pesa Candle Holder — Hem

Molino Grinder — Hem

Handmade Storage Boxes — HKLiving

Eames Construction Toy — MoMA Design Store

Scape Trays — Areaware

Stacking Planter Chrome — Areaware

Strata Plant Vessel — Areaware

Recess by Mush rugs — Mush Studios X Urban Outfitters

[eyra]

apparently ao3 is down for a lot of people at the moment! you might have some luck if you keep refreshing and they’ve said they’re working on it, but in the meantime here’s a bit of chapter 7 to put you on 🎄🐕‍🦺

the oldest recipe for parsnip soup

The presents beneath the tree tumble in a great pile of reds and fir-greens and shiny, gold ribbons. Boxes and bottle-bags and something soft and crinkly that squeaks when Bunny fishes it out of the stack and squeezes it between his teeth. There's a joint present for Effie and Fleamont; something that James always sorts for both of them, from the two of them, and Sirius writes the card. It's a bulging hamper of tea and biscuits and sweets this year, chocolates from some fancy shop Effie likes and shortbread fingers in a long, tartan tin. There's a jar of fig chutney that Fleamont pores over with interest, and a box of crunchy peppermint thins, and then the customary bottle of gin for Effie with a note that reads: "Sorry I am the way that I am. - J xxx"

"That's for you, pal," James says as he sinks onto the sofa next to Sirius in front of the fire and hands him a soft, rectangular parcel. It's clumsily wrapped as ever, odd bits of sellotape hanging off the corners. "Don't say I never give you anything."

"Thank you," he says, sliding a finger carefully under the wrapping, and folding it open to hold up a plain, grey sweatshirt.

"Look on the front," James says giddily, and when Sirius flips the sweatshirt round it's to find a huge, shiny photograph of a dog's smiling face, printed onto the fabric: Bunny, mouth open and tongue lolling, a little red Santa hat balanced on top of his glossy black head.

Sirius grins.

"I like that."

"Knew you would," James says, and then: "Where's mine?"

Sirius hands him a small, silver-wrapped gift. It might be the right thing. He's not sure. He's never sure, really. Last year it was a book that he'd seen James eyeing up in the bookshop across from the student union in the autumn, and he'd seemed pleased with that. The year before it was whisky: something that Fleamont had sent him an email about towards the end of term, suggesting that James might quite like a bottle of it if Sirius hadn't found him anything yet. And James had seem pleased with that, too. But he's still never sure, really. Another puzzle.

He watches as James tears off the paper, stomach doing something mildly uncomfortable, and then James is huffing out a quick, surprised breath, and smiling, and saying:

"Oh, wow."

He looks at Sirius, and then back down at the photographs. It's a simple thing: a thin, brass frame with a hinge down the middle so that it opens like a book. A rectangular pane of glass on either side of the hinge, space for two prints that Sirius had sent away for online back in November.

"Jesus, we're young there," says James, pointing at the photograph on the left. It's a faded, speckled thing: the two of them, side-by-side in their first year at the old boarding school. Eleven years old in their ridiculous uniforms, grey shorts and little striped neckties. James grinning with his too-big glasses and a wild mop of jet-black hair, Sirius clinging loosely to the hem of James's knitted jumper with the fingers of his right hand, even though they'd only met a month or two prior. James points at the other photograph then, and says: "I don't even remember taking that!"

"It was this summer," Sirius says. "Just in the garden."

It had been a hot and hazy sort of day, he remembers, and James had just been to the Post Office to pick up a parcel which had turned out to be his new phone, and he'd spent the entire afternoon running around like a madman snapping pictures of everyone and everything. A harried Effie in the kitchen, a bemused Fleamont reading his paper in the living room, and Sirius, who he'd bounded over to and slung an easy arm around, holding the phone out in the other hand and grinning.

James is quiet for a moment. The funny, uncomfortable twist in Sirius's stomach wonders for a moment if he might've got it horribly, horribly wrong. But then James is sniffing, and looking back up at Sirius, and giving him a weak, watery smile.

"Thanks, mate."

And Sirius thinks, as James looks back down at the twin photographs, that maybe he got it right this time.

[girlwonderers]

For Cici: Are they an oldest, middle, youngest or only child? Describe the place where they sleep What objects do they always carry around with them?

OOOOHHHHHHH ty for letting me blab about my Gorl

as far as she knows, Cici is an only child. she was left inside the grand necropolis as a baby—which in my happy little sandbox isn't actually unheard of; i imagine the necropolis functions like a safe haven in the US, where parents can leave newborns anonymously, no questions asked, and they become wards of the state (since the necropolis is always open to the public and always staffed). the only thing she knows for sure is that her parents were elves. she was fostered by a clerk in the city's mason's guid, Marten Ingellvar, until she was nine, at which point her magic manifested and she returned to the necropolis for training.

(Marten also gave her both her middle and last names; Vorgoth gave Cici her first name, since they were the one to take her to the crypt guards after the skeletons found her. her full legal name is Taphodora Cecília Ingellvar. only Vorgoth uses her first name, and only when she's in trouble.)

as for sleeping arrangements, i'm borrowing @crowtoed's FABULOUS headcanon and saying that Cici grew up with a box bed. (although in true nevarran fashion she probably calls it a sleeping vault.) i imagine they're common both for apprentice watchers living in the dorms as well as working-class families, since they're space-saving, private, and warm. after she graduated she was given a permanent residence in the "Watcher's Barrow" (awful wordplay on borough, thank you i'm here all week) on the necropolis grounds (but, crucially, not in the structure itself, which limits people's houses randomly getting shuffled around) and i think she has a four-poster there since it's easier for her to get in and out of with her mobility issues. she was freaked out for a while on her roadtrip with Varric and Harding because she'd never slept in a bed that wasn't fully enclosed either by walls or curtains.

Cici always has her staff with her, which is actually her cane (she uses it both for stability and as a probing cane, because this is fantasy and materials engineering is silly when you have magic and it can telescope out because i said so). sometimes she'll keep a bag with her, like on her roadtrip when she had to carry basically everything she owned, but most days Cici is wearing a split skirt in the style of victorian england.

the victorians did not fuck around with pockets. a non-exhaustive list of Things Cici Has Pulled Out of Her Pockets That Made Bellara Question Her Understanding of Physics:

her magnifier. her old model was just a big rectangular magnifying glass about the size of a box of pocky; Bellara eventually makes her a refreshable night script (fantasy braille) reader that's slightly bigger but still fits in her pocket.

a pair of dragonskin gloves, which can be sterilized by torching them. good for field medicine or Touching Weird Things that Look Sticky.

at least one notepad, a plethora of pens and pencils.

a bar of carbolic soap.

an athame—she doesn't like it for combat magic, but it comes in handy for some rituals.

her waterskin.

a little bag of various herbal chews and powders to prevent migraines.

snacks (varied).

a full set of carpals, metacarpals, and phalanges, for assembling into a Helping Hand (Lucanis threatens to kill her every time she calls it that). the bones were a gift from her fourth-year anatomy professor after he had to have his arm amputated.

a suture kit (for people) and a sewing kit (for clothing), safely contained in little tin boxes.

notably, not much jewelry. Cici left her only grave gold (a necklace from her foster father, which originally belonged to his late wife) in the necropolis when she left.

[tabletoptrinketsbyjj]

Trinkets, Worthless, 11: These trinket are garbage plain and simple. They would be termed vendor trash or junk loot in video games. They aren’t touched by stray magic or mystery as with regular trinkets, aren’t made from valuable materials and aren’t particularly useful even if they aren’t damaged.

A cookie tin. Upon opening it, you discover that it’s full of sewing supplies.

A mildew ridden purse containing 15 copper pieces that have been battered, bent, chewed or otherwise mutilated.

A single, partially soiled piece of parchment with indiscreet scrawlings upon it.

A scrap of leather on which was penned a sonnet composed by a lacklustre poet.

A single note that says “I.O.U.” The handwriting is very sloppy.

A small wooden box that when first opened, is surprisingly full of spiders.

A wiry and crusty collection of what appears to be dried plant matter braided into many strands to simulate hair. It is perhaps the worst wig you’ve ever seen.

A tin ear with a hole through the middle. The back has three serrated pins, slightly wobbly, presumably meant to have connected it to a host's skull.

A perfectly rectangular orange.

A shortbow that was meant to ignite the arrows it fires. Unfortunately, the enchantment is so strong that it instantly disintegrates any arrow that is knocked and is completely unusable as a weapon.

—Click Here to be directed to the Hotlinks To All Tables post, which provides (As you might have guessed) convenient links to all of the loot and resource tables this blog has.

—Note: The previous 10 items are repeated for easier rolling on a d100.

A cookie tin. Upon opening it, you discover that it’s full of sewing supplies.

A mildew ridden purse containing 15 copper pieces that have been battered, bent, chewed or otherwise mutilated.

A single, partially soiled piece of parchment with indiscreet scrawlings upon it.

A scrap of leather on which was penned a sonnet composed by a lacklustre poet.

A single note that says “I.O.U.” The handwriting is very sloppy.

A small wooden box that when first opened, is surprisingly full of spiders.

A wiry and crusty collection of what appears to be dried plant matter braided into many strands to simulate hair. It is perhaps the worst wig you’ve ever seen.

A tin ear with a hole through the middle. The back has three serrated pins, slightly wobbly, presumably meant to have connected it to a host's skull.

A perfectly rectangular orange.

A shortbow that was meant to ignite the arrows it fires. Unfortunately, the enchantment is so strong that it instantly disintegrates any arrow that is knocked and is completely unusable as a weapon.

A standard hinge and spring mousetrap with a desiccated mouse still caught inside.

A copper piece that has been bitten in half.

A fist size clump of hairy scalp wrapped in barbed wire dangling on a length of scarlet linen.

A waterskin half-filled with stale, brackish water.

A large side of spoiled meat wrapped in torn animal hide.

An opened stone bottle of strong, harsh alcohol.

A crudely fashioned hunting trap. It is made of gnarled wood and jagged iron hooks. It is too damaged to function properly but could be repaired and used to trap beasts, such as boar or deer.

A broken hazel wood staff scorched by flame.

A tiny boat crafted from a mouse's skull.

An aged cloth map detailed in a long dead language.

A cracked square mirror that reflects everything under a strange fuzzy layer. Creatures shown in the mirror seem to twitch or gain unnatural aspects.

A deer hide half way through the process of being tanned.

A set of damaged leather armor halfway through being mended.

A blanket made out of rat skins sewn together.

A wooden contraption that has drying plants pressed between two planks.

A half-eaten rat wrapped in a scrap of dirty, gore stained cloth.

A tightly strung lyre with residue on the strings that makes it look as if it has been used to cut cheese. The instrument is wildly out of tune. Along with the instrument the PC finds a brick of strong smelling cheese and a half eaten jar of olives.

A sprung mousetrap with no cheese and no mouse.

A bag of hard butterscotch candies, melted together by humidity and time.

A crusty used handkerchief. No monogram.

A few scraps of fine fabric, too small to make anything with.

A pair of eyeglasses, badly scratched.

A ticket stub to a play that was popular years and years ago but fell quickly out of fashion after the playwright was accused of plagiarism.

A ball of several feet of bundled up yarn, so badly knotted it might take hours to untangle the mess.

An earthenware jar containing a few common seashells.

A rock with eyes and a mouth painted on with the unskilled hand of a small child.

A small wooden box of stale tobacco leaf.

A rusty steel and smoked glass syringe.

A portrait of a plain, unremarkable woman. It looks old enough that the lady is likely long dead.

A small container labelled ‘Dr. Brown’s World Renown Elbow Grease’. It is nearly empty and smells foul.

A to-do list written in Infernal.

A dull letter opener, the handle has a griffon at the end with an illegible inscription, worn smooth with time.

A tankard with the handle broken off; the bottom also looks to be dented, as if dashed against something heavy.

A specimen jar of hardened gelatinous cube gel, so dry that it’s become powdery and useless.

A ratty leather wallet containing a thick wad of paper currency belonging to a now defunct nation, rendering them worthless.

A broken and rusted dagger with a brass hilt in the shape of an octopus.

A defaced stone bust of a fallen ruler.

A rude cartoon of the adventuring party, all of them mercilessly caricatured.

A small, crude, clay pot that looks like it was made by an apprentice potter on their very first day.

An old pair of wool socks that have multiple patches sewn into their frayed and fragile hems.

A common copper piece, both sides depicting a fat-jowled merchant. One face smiles cajolingly and the other sneers scornfully.

A heavy, black leather sack with a brown leather thong threaded through a series of small slits near its opening to serve as a drawstring. It contains a carefully wound ball of waxed twine, a three‐barb steel fishing hook with its points embedded in tiny cylinders of cork, and the remains of a broken lantern.

A matched pair of eyeball sized, square‐cut, dark green stones with bright red flecks. They appear opaque at first, but admit a faint glow through the edges when held to the light. Knowledgeable PC’s can identify the minerals as bloodstone.

A worn, weathered woollen belt pouch, originally dyed grey‐blue, holds bent copper coins in its roomy main compartment and a soiled handkerchief in each of two small exterior pockets. A belt, torn raggedly with the buckle‐end missing, is still threaded through the pouch's loops.

A clay jar filled with “Stinking Orc’s Foot” cheese.

An old and rusty axe head.

A child-sized short bow with a broken string.

The broken tip off a dwarf-crafted spear.

A terribly preserved sheep’s bladder which can be used as a container in an emergency.

A battered leather case containing a well-worn deck of cards, most of which are stained with wine.

A petrified cocoon of an unknown insect.

A single, partially soiled piece of parchment with indiscrete scrawlings upon it.

A glass jar large enough to hold a live chicken that instead contains only a greenish pickling solution and two dozen hard boiled eggs of indeterminate species.

A collection of leather scraps fashioned together into a vaguely humanoid doll.

A cloudy, dirty mirror that one can barely see their own reflection in it

A crudely stitched scarf made from ferret pelts.

A half-finished spell scroll stained with long-dried blood.

A mummified toad which, when squeezed, emits a large puff of foul-smelling black smoke from its mouth.

A cracked glass eye with some questionable stains on it.

A scrap of paper or parchment with an unintelligible note scribbled on it.

A dog sized carcass of an unknown beast that has been recently mutilated by something.

A roughly sewn doll of a cat with button eyes.

A fragment of slate with a fossilized fern.

A crude arrowhead fashioned from quartzite.

A set of colorful ceramic beads on a length of twine.

A petrified corpse of a minnow, hooked on a length of wire.

A small box, encrusted with dead barnacles and severely water damaged.

The scorched remains of a once-beautiful bouquet of flowers.

An old shortsword, long since dulled. A chalky black substance coats it, in place of rust.

A rusty cutlass with half the blade snapped off.

A piece of wood that sinks like a stone.

A twisted handle from a broken dagger. It has black stains.

A stringless lute with puncture marks.

A jar of mismatched cooking utensils. One has bloodstains.

A rusted iron torch bracelet.

A piece of sun-bleached driftwood.

An old and rusty axe head.

A small pouch full of burnt up expended spell components.

A set of four bone dice, so worn that one can barely make out the symbols.

A desiccated squirrel

A small cart of humble design, composed of old wood and rusted nails that struggle to hold the vessel together. The two wheels in the back are misshapen, and the mounting bars at the front are scuffed and worn from repeated use. A second look reveals numerous patches and fixes implemented by an experienced workman in the past.

An old half eaten book with a title on the spine that read “Biology of the common book worm and its dietar...” (The rest is missing).

A large mason jar of pickled monstrosity viscera.

A rusted pot filled with mummified deer hooves and pieces of antler.

A flour-sack dolly with yellow yarn hair. It’s missing one of its button eyes.

A thin wooden case, containing several broken pieces of charcoal, chalk, and a ruler.

A stained piece of parchment with a handwritten recipe for macarons.

A wide-toothed comb made of carved bone. One of the teeth is chipped.

A handmade plush elephant, made of mismatched scraps of blue fabrics. Its eyes are two black buttons, with stitched-on eyebrows set in a perpetually sad expression.

An old leather bridle harness and reins, cracked and worn but for the mirror-polished brass hardware, which always feels sun-hot to touch. The reins are creased and dyed brown with old blood in places, stained green with grass in others.

[cruesuffix]

Since we've established that alien Mick can eat metal, glass, plastic, etc. What would he do if he saw a phone for the first time? Like could he eat a phone? I gotta know man.

he definitely could eat a phone (he can eat most if not all inedible things), but I think if it turned on, or started ringing before he could bite it, it would scare him and turn him off of eating it. like if he had seen…let’s say tommys phone, just lying on the couch he’d be curious and like hold it and fiddle around with it. then, when he’s about to take a bite it starts ringing and he damn near throws it at a wall. after that he’d be very weary about the “little metal rectangular boxes that make loud noises.” in his words.

(so…in short terms, i think he’d be too scared to eat one. he’ll just stick to the tin cans, he’s sure they’d taste the same either way.)

[the-haunted-office]

Two small parcels have been dropped off in the office. They've been placed just outside the door that Eisuke and his fellow yakuza friends would often use to come visit their lovely haunted office friends. One of the presents is firm, rectangular shape. It is addressed to Thursday. The other present, is a slightly larger box that is addressed to Thisday.

There is also a note that is addressed to both of them. The writing look as though it were done in a rush.

Hello my dear friends!!!

It's been hell here in Kamurocho. I'm really sorry I haven't stopped by at all recently. I hope you enjoy these gifts I've got you!

I'm missing you both so dearly and hope to catch up with both of you soon!! <3

Lots of love, Eisuke <3 <3

Thursday's gift is a ocean coloured ceramic coffee/tea cup. It doesn't have a handle, but it's thick enough that the hot liquid held by the cup wouldn't burn the user. There are two small tins in the box, one is for matcha powder, the other is for chai tea. Finally, there are a few Japanese sweets for her including dorayaki, alfort biscuits and a small variety of manju.

Thisday's gift is a soft plush toy of a Don Quijote penguin. It's super squishy and incredibly cuddly. There's also a ton of Japanese sweets in the box, including a few packets of pocky, numerous different kit-kat flavours and konpeito.

[ Eisuke / @reubyocs ]

The arrival of parcels outside the door through which some of their favorite people normally visit of course issues quite a stir throughout the Office! But none more in Thursday and Thisday, who come bustling along as soon as they hear the news of the arrival of those packages. Even Doomsday tags along - much to anyone's surprise - and together, the three of them handle these two packages in the most peculiar of ways.

Thursday opens her box, carefully removes the gifts that are inside of it, sets them aside, and then promptly sticks her head inside of the box - as much as will fit.

Thisday opens his box, carefully removes the gifts that are inside of it, sides them aside, and then promptly sticks his head inside of the box - as much as will fit.

For a moment they both look rather silly, sitting there in the hallway, surrounded by gifts, and with two different sized boxes on their respective heads while Doomsday observes them with a rather hopeful expression on her face.

And then, in a strangely coordinated motion, Thursday and Thisday both remove the boxes from their heads, set them aside, and promptly burst into tears, because what they were hoping to find in those boxes most of all was not in them.

Their friend Eisuke.

Doomsday doesn't cry, though. She picks through their gifts and inspects them, demanding they look at them while patting them both on the head with the Don Quijote penguin plushie. It does eventually get them both to calm down and Thursday brews some of the chai tea for the three of them to enjoy, while together the three of the tear into all the treats that were given to them and reminisce about their friend and wonder what all he is up to now.

They are thankful for the gifts and miss Eisuke terribly so.

And so they decide to send a gift back to him.

Thursday dresses up Mae, who is a little over a year old now, and gets a picture taken with Mae, herself, and September, the three of them, all standing in the Office flower garden that Timmy has worked hard on growing. Then she picks some of those flowers and has Mae help her (sort of) press them into a journal that Thursday has kept about all the weird shit that has happened at the Office over the last year. She thinks Eisuke will like this very much.

Thisday likes the picture idea, and so he decides to get dressed up too, and puts on whatever of his suits or outfits that Eisuke has liked the most, and gets a photograph taken of him in that. He gets it put into a nice frame and spends a lot of time decorating it himself with little glue-on jewels and everything. It's a piece of bling to be reckoned with by the time he's done with it. But wait! There's more! Because there's always more when a Day's involved. He also gets Doom's help into procuring some really nice To'Ak Chocolate and caviar and Dubai's truffles and something called "swallow's nest" that Thisday honestly doesn't even know what it is but apparently is some super expensive delicacy and so it's going into the gift box. He really just thought it would be amusing to get some of the most high end things out there and see what Eisuke thought of them, because Eisuke is the most valuable person to him.

And now Doomsday... well, of course she and Eisuke have never really gotten along. Eisuke probably isn't even aware yet that she's been revived through a series of fortunate or unfortunate events, depending on how you want to look at it. Point is, there's a lot about her he doesn't know, and that's very much her fault for antagonizing him when they first met. Part of her regrets that. Most of her doesn't. But the part of her that does can't help but wish to make amends, as that part of her wishes to grow, pushing up through the decaying soil of the rest of her, like a little shoot of growth reaching for the sun. That little part of her dumps a bunch of different colored shiny glass rocks she found at the glass rock beach into a box, without any sort of organization or packaging, along with a note that just says Let's hope none of these are cursed, hehehehe - Doomsday, before sealing it up. All of them are, in fact, cursed... with good luck. Doom tested each of them herself.

With that done, it's time to write their collective note, which they each write in turn.

Eisuke,

We miss you terribly! Come back to us immediately! Or, you know, as soon as you can. There's no rush. OR MAYBE THERE IS. We're kidding. The only rush is that we miss you, but that's a given. We understand that you have lots to do and that's okay! We hope it's going well for you despite the fact that you said it's been hell. We hope that was a joke or an exaggeration, and if it wasn't, well, shit, man, it better get better or else we're gonna have to charge in there and start fucking up some shit! (squinty eyes)

Thursday - Seriously though, Eisuke, I hope you're doing well! I miss your face! I just can't play Tetris without you here - it's not right, man. You know what I mean? I mean, I can, but it's weird. You know I met someone from another planet who had never heard of Tetris, and they don't allow computers and computer tech on their world, so I had to like, draw him a picture and explain it by hand? It was wild! Try playing Tetris without an actual console to play it on. It's just not the same. But anyway, it's all in that journal I gave you, so you'll see what I mean. I hope you get a kick out of some of the things in there. The multiverse is something else, isn't it? Love you!

Thisday - What can I say other than I miss you, Eisuke? Well. I love you, I guess? Is it too soon for that? Wait, no it's not, Thursday said it! So I can say it too. I mean, I know she said it in a different way than how I mean, but I can still say it too. I hope it's okay for me to. It's how I feel, at any rate. But yeah. The gifts! I hope you like them. I thought you might get a kick out of it, hehe. Some of it might look and smell really weird but I swear to you none of it is rotten! It's just weird rich people shit! If it tastes awful you should blame them for having weird taste! When we get together we'll go get some actual food, haha. Anyway, love you, Eisuke. Take care.

Doomsday - THAT NOTE INSIDE THE BOX WAS A JOKE, THE ROCKS ARE NOT ACTUALLY CURSED. I MEAN, THEY ARE, BUT THEY'RE CURSED WITH GOOD LUCK, YOU'RE WELCOME.

When everything is all packaged up and ready to go, the three Days stand together in front of the door that takes them to Kamurocho. They put those boxes into the doorway, and give them a good push, and then close the door.

And then it's time to get back to work.

Which isn't really work. It's just goofing off. But it'll do until it's time to see their friend again.

[cyberr-v0id]

Im so tired, I genuinely can’t be dealing with this hell again.

So I wrote another poem to deal with my feelings! That’s a lie, I spontaneously decided to write one whilst making this post. Deal with it, I’m a literature nerd you freaks.

Another day I am forced to wake

To rip myself from the land of dreams

And walk this one of torment

To sweeten my day

I turn to my phone, the rectangular box

Of hells and horrors

And I send you a message

‘You’ could be anyone

Anyone to me

But against my better judgment

I have allowed you to become a ‘someone’

I greet you in my usual gruff manner

‘Morning’

And I hope that you understand that I am not mad at you

But I am mad at this cruel existence

Full of vile people and iron pain

I dont know why I worry.

I say this every morning

And it is yet to scare you off

It is far more frightening

And to myself too

When I start the day

With a cheery tone and sickening smile

A choking honey message

Of ‘good morning :)’

Or ‘GOOD MORNING’

Nay- the most cheer you will get from me

Is a brash and bawdy

´MORNIN FREAKS AND AINT IT A TRULY WONDERFUL DAY’

Lathered in sarcasm

But anyways

I message you

In my usual manner

I do not deviate

And I wait for your reply

It never comes.

Not before I have to march

Into the enclosed tin hall

But no matter

You don’t need to be in today

And are likely still sleeping

In that sweet land of dreams

I am early to rise these days

It is not unusual to wait hours

Before hearing from you

While I am trapped in that tin can

I fantasise of you

Before I blink

And am brought heavily back

To where I really am.

I open my phone to our messages

As soon as I am let out

My heart

DROPS.

You have seen it

And you have not replied.

I leave it be

And wait till I am home

Before I ask, at almost lunch

How your day is going?

I foolishly dare to be hopeful

A bit later

An hour or two

You reply

You do not ask me

How my day is going

What I am doing

Or how the exam

Which you know I was dreading

For I do not have a way with numbers

(Though you always attempt to convince me that I do and I am not bad and that ‘no one is bad at maths there’s just bad teachers. Now I say it here, you have no tact, too caught up in your own greatness and teeny tiny failures to even imagine that someone might be bad. But that is cruel and I know it’s not true. You’re good. You’re better than the others. That’s why I chose to trust you. Remember? Remember, o heart?)

Time skip to this evening

Just after tea

And we have spared almost no words

Though I have replied to all of yours in my usual manner

(Still you do not ask about me.)

And I crack

And I spill genuine words

Not about you

And the hurt that you cause

But about a situation that we both can see

Just expressing my frustration

Left.

On.

Read.

Until later I feel the need to clarify something

You’ll never guess

On read again!

Till hours later

You reply

A corporate email sounding response

I almost say that too you

But then you’ll just apologise

And then I’ll feel guilty

For your faults

Suddenly, you appear

The tiny words

´Online’

Atop our messages

Just below your name

I stare at you

You stare at me

Through the screen

Three seconds

Then you leave

I laugh, quietly and dryly to myself

So predictable

This time, I leave you on read

It’s the first time I’ve ever done it deliberately

Yet we both know

That I will not leave it as long as you

And I will be back

To bark my goodbyes of the night

A loyal hound

Despite the beatings

Of the hand that feeds

- Left On Read // Hound that feeds

Another poem by me

[utsuboarchive]

@chiheru asked:

catch one little seabunny rapidly running into each of the tweel’s rooms! 

❛  happy birthday, jade-nii! ❜ for jade, she’ll hand him a small, pink box. inside it would be a silver tin can with a couple of tea bags. it wasn’t the most exquisite tea, but it was the fanciest she could find and afford with her allowance.  

❛ happy birthday, floyd-nii! ❜ then, upon bursting into floyd’s room, catch chihiro handing him a small rectangular box. in it would be a portable cassette player with one cassette that only had 3 songs on it  — floyd’s favorite songs, recorded and personally sang by his little sister. / HAPPIEST OF BIRTHDAYS TO THE TWEELS !!

jade's just slipped his custom made jacket on, when chihiro bursts into his room. this would make her the second person to wish him a happy birthday. and with the energy to match someone so young too. he considers suggesting she knock before coming into someone's room-- but it's really quite harmless. and he's endeared by her very obvious excitement. pushing a little pink box in his hands, the wrapping already coming apart at the seams...

" such a thoughtful gift chihiro- " annnd she's gone. scampering off to floyd's room no doubt. the other package in her hands wrapped just as exquisitely as his own.

the moment chi goes to run into the other room, she's met with a wall. well, a person, bumping right into floyd. who wastes absolutely no time, scooping her up. keeping her tucked against his side. " thanks a bunch, sea bunny. did ya get me anything for it? " to which she eagerly supplies his gift.

a player, and a pair of headphones. chi slips them on for him, so he can listen as he eases the door to his room shut. and almost immediately he recognizes the first song on the list-- and her voice. aw that's just silly. floyd laughs, horrible and loud and grating- but she's never seemed to mind it really.

" what a cool gift hahaha! " adjusting her so he can give her a big hug. just as jade leaves his room too. both the twins dressed up in their personalized birthday outfits for the party. " yes, thank you, and thank you for the birthday wishes. " a wonderful start to an already good day.

birthday asks

[twolegsnowings]

Apocalypse Letters

Image description (also in the Alt text)

A portrait ink drawing depicting a girl sitting on a suitcase atop a cliff overlooking a vast urban landscape. The sky behind is full of small galaxies, planets, and suns. Lens flares on the image give these slight purple, yellow, and red hues. The city is derelict; with cracks in buildings, weeds hanging from bricks and rubbish left on floors. There is a multi-storey car park, a raised bridge with spiral stairs leading up, a power plant with two chimneys and several houses and flats. To the left of the image is a tiled church tower with gargoyles and a spire ending in a metal cross. The girl wears a thick coat, skirt, tights, and walking boots with thick socks. She is writing a letter, her hair in a loose bun. Beside her is a bike, a hiking rucksack with a sleeping mat and multitool, and various belongings in a shopping trolley. These include bottles, scrolls, letters, tins, boxes, batteries, and miscellaneous tools. There is also a large rectangular radio.

[colorcanmetalpackaging]

Embossing Logo Rectangular Storage Metal Basket With Handles Tin Graden Boxes-Color Can This metal basket with two handles can be used to pack many kinds of products, such as accessories. And if you want to grow flowers, this container would be good. Its size is 105x71x55mm. The logo on the tin box is embossed, you could custom the logo and printing. #tinbox #metalpackaging #gardentools #custombox If you want to know more details about this product, you could explore our website: https://www.jhtin.com/ or you could contact us at Email: noreen@jhtin.com Whatsapp: +86 18029106790

[mars-ns]

Research: Plushie packaging design

Minini

Minini is a series of small plushes based on mobile messaging app LINE's characters, LINE FRIENDS. A series called Minini Factory put the characters in small brown boxes that looked like delivery packages and came with a blanket for the plush to sleep in, being able to reuse the box as a bed. These also came with identification cards.

Yummy World

Yummy World are a series of plushes based on food by KidRobot. While some are just standalone food plushes, the more well known Yummy World products are the ones that have a plush as the packaging for smaller plush foods. Plushception if you will.

Do the Dot

Do the Dot are small plush fashion dolls made by Japanese artist Aketsun, who also makes custom retro clothes for Blythe dolls. The plushes themselves are art pieces, and the box that contains them look akin to actual retro fashion doll packaging with the pink rectangular box, extra dress and brush, decor and of course background.

Matchbox Mice

Matchbox Mice are plushes made by Bluebell's Borrow whose main appeal comes from the plush mice coming with their own matchbox that act as beds, like something out of a fairytale. The boxes are imprinted with their own old school inspired designs.

The mice, who are all referred to as Maileg, are small scale and well made, and you can buy more of them if you want considering that they also sell them in threes, or you can buy one in a tin packaging that looks like a suitcase.

[ramimaki]

A Symphony of Simplicity and Elegance

These packaging designs are a testament to the beauty of minimalism, incorporating delicate botanical illustrations with a refined color palette of white and muted blue tones. The simplicity of the artwork is complemented by the subtle use of negative space, creating a sense of calm and sophistication.

The structural variety—ranging from cylindrical tins to rectangular boxes—suggests that this collection is versatile, suitable for products such as teas, skincare items, or wellness products. Each package maintains a cohesive theme, emphasizing nature-inspired patterns that reflect purity and organic elements. The soft, hand-drawn plant motifs provide a gentle and natural aesthetic, which resonates with modern consumers seeking sustainability and elegance.

The typography is understated, reinforcing the minimalist approach without distracting from the overall design. The combination of cylindrical and rectangular forms further enhances the visual appeal, providing both functional and decorative value.

This packaging design aligns with current trends where simplicity meets sophistication, appealing to eco-conscious consumers. With its seamless blend of form and function, it not only protects the product but also offers a serene visual experience, making it a perfect fit for premium lifestyle brands.

[painting-portrait]

Talk about how there are several types of color palettes

A palette is a flat surface used to blend and hold fresh paint. Wood, glass, plastic, cardboard, marble SLATE, white tile can be used as a palette, which is completely according to the artist's personal preferences and specific time selection. It is difficult to determine when the color palette was produced, but as an essential tool in oil painting, it can represent the personality and work spirit of the painter. Some painters use color palettes to make color drafts before coloring, explore the structural relationship of large colors, and then adjust enough to put these colors on the picture.

Custom oil portrait, Original Personalized portrait painting, History portrait, Hand Painted Oil Painting portrait From Photos

There are many kinds of color palettes, common rectangular and oval two kinds, and the color palettes sold now are mostly rectangular, probably because the rectangular color palettes are easy to make and this shape is suitable for putting into the oil painting box. The palette is mostly wood, made of plywood or thin wood, about 40 cm long and 10 cm wide, with an oval hole at the side for the thumb to protrude, and the edge curved inward to fit the hand. There is a wooden pad at the thumb hole, which is light and comfortable to hold. The wood palette is similar to the color of the linen, and the resulting colors are used on the canvas for tone conversion. The more exquisite color palette is made of pear wood, apple wood or walnut wood, which is not easy to deform and the surface is smooth and easy to clean.

(1) Oval color palette. This is a more formal and convenient hand-held color palette, produced in the century.

(2) Large oval color palette, with Arabic romantic curve modeling. You can hold it with your forearms.

(3) Rectangular color palette. A style commonly used by modern painters. To accommodate small oil painting cases, folding palettes are available on the market.

(4) Book type tear page palette. Bound by many layers of paint-proof paper or impervious white parchment, it can be torn off page by page to avoid the trouble of cleaning. It is not currently available in the domestic market.

(5) The color palette used by British painter Joshua Reynolds (-92). Strange shape, with a handle.

(6) The color palette used by the contemporary French painter Claude Eville. The grip is thicker, and the color is thinner. The larger palettes have metal inserts in the grip to balance the weight of the board.

Painters don't all use color palettes. The pointillist Seurat used tin LIDS instead of palettes; Picasso mixed colors in the newspaper. In addition, the use of glass as a palette has two major points: first, in order to prevent the unused pigment from drying and crusting, the glass plate can be submerged in water after use. The second is to replace the foil under the glass plate (white paper, gray paper or linen, etc.) according to the background color of the picture. However, the glass plate must be placed on a flat and stable support.

Custom oil portrait, Original Personalized portrait painting, History portrait, Hand Painted Oil Painting portrait From Photos

https://www.oilpaintingproducer.com