#foundry group

[nettra]

Successful innovators don’t ask customers and clients to do something different; they ask them to become someone different.  Facebook asked its users to become more open and sharing with their personal information, even if they might be less extroverted in real life. - Brad Feld, Foundry Group

[newvegascowboy]

Our campaign theme song is definitely the guitar solo from free bird

[talefoundryshow]

Here is your post for this week's Writing Group Prompt…

BE MY SWORD

--Antihero/Kaylie

[semimediapress]

Mainland China set to lead global wafer foundry capacity by 2030, says Yole

July 1, 2025 /SemiMedia/ — Mainland China is projected to surpass Taiwan region as the world’s largest semiconductor foundry hub by 2030, according to a recent report by Yole Group. The country is expected to hold 30% of global installed wafer capacity by the end of the decade, up from 21% in 2024. Yole’s data shows Taiwan region remains the top contributor in 2024 with 23% of global foundry…

[colection-of-chaos]

@thepromptfoundry

TW: mentioning of death, implied gore

Genreuary 2025 Day 2 Slasher Horror

Killing Book

Rron's breath felt too loud, never had en thought that that would be the thing en would notice after running. Burning lungs, the rush of happiness en felt every time when en had completed the route they had wanted to, yes, but never the volume of ens breath. The loud rhythm of breathing out though ens mouth while pressed to a wall praying to a being en didn't even believe in, that in this room nearly devoid of light en wouldn't be noticed.

This whole situation was ludicrous, just hours before Rron would have sworn up and down that en would never be the kind of dumb horror movie character that would try to hide this idiotically. Now they did exactly that, trying to ignore the onrush of images of the bloody murder of ens friends just minutes before.

En hadn't liked Donna's boyfriend for a while, even before the both of them had started dating. He was a pretentious kind of guy, one of the kind of jokes that thought that their ability in sports granted then some superiority over everyone else. Rron had share a hand off team Bus travels too much to not have a solid reason to dislike him. That Rron took sports less seriously than him and enjoyed reading, and intensely tended to ignore the excitement of every one else on these trips had, in his eyes, given him the right to look down upon en.

That they had a smaller frame than him hadn't helped either.

So Rron had had a great amount of reason to dislike him, but he had made ens friend happy, so en didn't tell her any of them. Had just set by looking at them. Had said nothing when she had insisted on taking him with them on their trip with some other friends, mostly to talk about books go on hikes and play TTRPGs.

That her boyfriend wouldn't really fit in had been a concern voiced by one of their other friends, but she had insisted that he really wanted to come with them.

Now he was after them with a knife. Ok that left out the weird book that he had brought with him insisting it was a good 'game', that someone had recommended it when he had asked for a good one of 'the Games with Papers where people act like their are less nerds than they are' in a Shop. A book containing a variety of weird Symbols that had piled the interest of some of ens friends.

Rron could really not explain how that had let to their current situation, mostly because they were fueled by nothing but adrenalin, which kept them going but didn't help with remembering complex connections.

What en was sure of though, was that en has to step over two bodies on ens way to the wall they were now pressed against, bodies drenched in some kind of fluide that they feared was blood. Bodies, en wasn't really sure if they were still alive or not.

But did that really matter if they were so close to be stabbed enself?

Why had everything had to go down the drain like this? Why had it had to be them?

Why couldn't this just be a getaway with ens friends and the annoying boyfriend of one of them?

[uwmspeccoll]

Typography Tuesday

This week we focus on the cursive flourishes from Flowers & Flourishes by the noted British book designer John Ryder (1917-2001), published in London by The Bodley Head for Mackays of Chatham and printed at Mackays in 1976. The book displays all the decorative flowers, ornaments, rules, and typefaces held at the printing house of Mackays, prepared to mark the centenary of their foundation in 1875. Since 1999, Mackays has been part of the CPI Group of printers.

The ornaments shown here were designed for production at several American and European type foundries, including American Type Founders (ATF), Bauer Type Foundry, and Amsterdam Type Foundry.

The type display pages were designed by the eminent wood engraver and illustrator Yvonne Skargon (1931-2010).

View more ornamental types form Flowers & Flourishes.

View some wood engravings by Yvonne Skargon.

View other type specimen books.

View more Typography Tuesday posts.

[meanbossart]

How did Du Drow’s personality and behavior change after turning away from Bhaal and losing his urges?

Very minimally, really. His personality changes most dramatically throughout the course of the campaign, but it's gradual enough a process that it shouldn't feel that way, at least.

Barring the standoffish-ness that he starts with (which I think is an understandable reaction to losing all of your memories and suddenly being in a life-or-death situation with a bunch of strangers) DU drow starts off as a person who isn't interested in anyone's well-being but his own, nor is he invested in anybody's story or their outcome. Everything he does is in the interest of his own survival or personal, subjective ethics (saving Arabella because she's an individual child in distress- not saving the tieflings in act 2 because they've served their purpose and he doesn't care for them as a group). He's charming, and even polite, but he makes it very transparent that he doesn't care for the happiness or comfort of others.

By act 2, he finds himself with people to care about and whose goals he's invested in - he kills Yurgir so Astarion can get his answer from Raphael even though he thinks it's an objectively dumb idea. He helps Shadowheart fullfil Shar's trials despite the fact that her religion seems like absolute nonsense to him - he wants to make these people happy when there is nothing in it for him., and that's absolutely novel. He's also a slightly warmer person by then who is friendly to, like, half of the party.

By act 3, he's been inspired by Shadowheart's rebellion and is kind of mirroring that in his own way. He enjoys occasionally helping refugees in the outskirts of the city if for no other reason than to go against the grain - he develops a bit of a "fuck the rich" and a Stick It To The Man attitude that I think is inherit to the man that he is, and harkens back to his forgotten days of living-rough as a youth; when he would only enter cities to thieve or collect supplies and looked at the more privilege sects of society as weak and pompous. He lets Yenna into camp after she shows up because dude just loves an urchin, he tries to free the prisoners from the Iron throne and then help out the slaves at the Steel Watch Foundry, he gets Minsc back to afford Jaheira some peace of mind and doesn't hesitate to refuse his father's gift.

Besides Shadowheart's and Astarion's stories, I think learning that the bloodlust he thrived in was imposed upon him rather than organically acquired was what most sent DU drow into an identity crisis. The idea of doing things against his will unbeknownst to himself, or of being a pawn in an authority figure's game, is something that brought him equal amounts of shame and anger. It also triggers him to want to get in touch with the less violent side of himself - since, supposedly, that was actually all him - and leads him to want to do the best by all of his party members (to mixed results, considering Karlach's and Gale's fates) and establish the depth of his existing relationships.

...Ironically, I think being killed by Bhaal and then resurrected by Withers led him to slightly stray off that path of improvement. I mean, the TRUE evil's been banished! Now he can stop feeling guilt and shame and worry and just live his life COMPLETELY free from critical thought! Literally the first thing that he does upon waking up is declare that he's cured, and then announce that he's a blank slate - he isn't, and we all know that.

DU drow then proceeds to be confused as to why he still enjoys murder and mayhem for like 2 months, until Shadowheart and Astarion gently knock some sense into him (not by dissuading him from enjoying murder and mayhem - but recognizing that that's a part of him that wouldn't go away at the simple snap of a bony finger, and an urge that he has full control over.) Naturally, what Wither's did also did his invincibility complex no favors.

So... He really is kind of the same. He is slightly more in-touch with his own empathy and open to the pleasures of life, but his base personality has remained pretty intact - I would say he turns out to be what that young, lanky forest cryptid would have been all along, had Bhaal never entered the mix.

[gloomwitchwrites]

Second Act // Chapter Three

Metal Band Task Force 141 x Backup Singer Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (MDNI): swearing, alcohol, brief blood, tending to a wound, flirting, bratty behavior, flashback scene with Ghost x Reader

Word Count: 4k

Years ago, you venture into London while traveling across Europe. At a punk show, you cross paths with a balaclava-wearing stranger named Ghost.

Chapter Two // Chapter Four

ao3 // main masterlist // second act masterlist

THEN

Condensation from the plastic cup you hold drips onto the back of your hand. Bringing it to your mouth, you lick the water up, questioning why it vaguely tastes of juniper. It might be the gin in your cup, or the lack of integrity to the plastic.

The gin and tonic you purchased from the bar for a single pound note is likely all water anyway. Or the liquor is bottom-shelf shit with a resale value of mere pennies. The later is more likely. You’ve consumed three, and you’re downing your fourth. And why not? It’s not like you have anywhere to be, or that you have anyone waiting for you.

Those hostel girls were not your fucking friends.

Clearly. Fucking clearly.

Where are they? Not here. They left you to drown in the mud.

Bringing the straw to your lips, you lightly bite down on it, sucking down more of the cheap beverage. Before you is a crowd and a stage. Punk music blares from old speakers that are barely holding together. You are on the fringes, watching from a distance, steering clear of the pit. Bodies thrash about, and those that do emerge are bruised and bloodied.

You were brought here by the three young women you met at the hostel you’re staying at.

The Foundry.

And fucking surprise, the place used to be exactly that. According to one of your wayward companions, this place use to be the epicenter of British firepower during the World Wars. Now, like the bullets it used to manufacture, the place is a gutted shell. There are no more massive smelters or superheated molten metal—just empty infrastructure used as a music venue.

Another sip, and the buzzing beneath your skin intensifies. There’s that hum you’ve been chasing. Why feel anything right now except the music and your alcohol-fueled boldness? It’s all you have left other than the cash in your purse.

This European trip was fun while it fucking lasted. Blowing the rest of your cash and sanity in this deadened metal factory is the reality check you need. Just jump on a plane tomorrow and be done with it.

Sucking down the rest of your drink, you dump it in the nearest bin, finding the bar and ordering another like you’re not starting to feel the effects of the alcohol. You keep to the outskirts of the crowd where groups of people and couples gather. There are a few individuals standing by themselves enjoying the music and not paying anyone else any attention. Your gaze sweeps over each person, and then freezes on a familiar face.

Two nights ago, you were in this exact venue watching a metal show unfold. Different vibes and different energy, but just as enjoyable. Five bands came on stage for forty-five minute sets each. Of them all, Spawn caught your attention. Every member of the band covered their faces with either a mask or a painted balaclava. None of them spoke, simply moving from song to song during the entirety of their performance.

After they finished, Spawn up and disappeared. Poof. Fucking vanished.

But one of them is here. Gin-addled brain aside, you have zero doubt.

It’s the drummer. Though you only saw him on stage in brief glimpses, you got a good look at him when the set was over and he exited the stage. It’s the height and broad shoulders that give him away. All four members of Spawn were tall and built, but there is a thickness to him that’s more than simple exercise at the gym. His day job might be construction, or something requiring hard labor.

He’s off by himself, surrounded by a flock of five women. Their mouths move but his gaze goes right over their heads. The man is focused on the stage, clearly uninterested in what they have to say.

Why not add one more to the mix? Stir the pot. Fuck shit up and piss someone off.

With a fifth gin and tonic fueling your steps, you shift direction, gunning for the drummer of Spawn as if he’s expecting you. The gaggle of women keep chattering on, and as you near, a few turn in your direction, clear annoyance forming on their faces as they realize you’re heading for him and not passing by.

Good. Fuck them. Their makeup is so overly done you’d mistake them for Republican women if they were State-side.

As you draw closer, the women quiet, shoulders straightening as they form a wall. You push right through, popping a hip and staring up at the drummer of Spawn like you’re ready to go toe-to-toe with him.

Slowly—so achingly slowly—does his gaze move from the band on stage to you. Behind the balaclava, he cocks a singular eyebrow. Could mean anything. But to you, it’s a goddamn dare.

“Saw you perform the other night,” you say loudly.

“Excuse me. But we were having a conversation,” interrupts one of the women.

You blatantly ignore her.

“Lots of people did,” he replies.

“Yeah, well, it sucked,” you retort.

One raised eyebrow becomes two. His head tilts slightly to the side.

Before he has a chance to reply, you bring the straw to your lips, sucking on it until all the liquid is gone, and still continuing to do so long after. The moment you stop, his head tilts toward you, as does his upper body. But there is nothing intimidating or repulsive in the move. There’s too much gentleness to the way he shifts, like he’s suddenly interested.

“You—” he begins, but you immediately start sucking on your straw again, filling the air with the bubbled gurgling of an empty glass.

You give it a few good seconds before stopping.

“You fucking done, dove?”

No. He’s not mad. Not in the slightest. Here you are, a complete stranger, telling him his band sucked, and he finds it amusing.

“Did you get better at the drums?”

“No.”

“Pity.”

He chuckles, a short, clipped sound like he’s astounded at your audacity.

The woman behind you scoffs. “Bitch,” she mutters.

His gaze quickly darts over your shoulder to glance at the woman standing behind you. The middle of his brow pinches, but when he returns his attention to you, the crease softens.

“Didn’t catch your name.”

You shrug. “Didn’t give it.”

There’s a smile. It’s hidden behind the balaclava but you know it’s there. It’s in the way the skin around his eyes crinkle.

With a shift of his shoulders, he leans in like he’s telling you a secret. “Ghost.”

“Boo?” you shrug.

He chuckles the same way he did seconds before. “That’s my name.”

You nod. Keep nodding. “Cute.”

“Thank you,” whispers Ghost, ending it with a wink.

Jesus Christ.

Goddamn.

“Where’s the rest of your band?” you ask. “Are they here?”

“Looking to tell them how rubbish they are?”

“Absolutely,” you reply with a smile. “Point them out to me.”

This time, Ghost’s chuckle isn’t clipped. It’s deep. Amused. And the quality of it is like amber whiskey. “You’re cheeky. Soap will love that. Enjoys a good banter.”

Taking a cautious step, you move to the left and forward, saddling up beside him. Ghost hasn’t looked anywhere else this entire conversation. All his focus—all of his regard—is for you.

It’s a hand on your shoulder that shatters the peace. “It’s rude to chip in.”

You turn slowly, staring daggers into the women grasping your shoulder. “What conversation?” you retort. “The one where you all were jabbering on and he blatantly ignored you.”

You watch as their faces go red.

With a huff, she releases your shoulder. “Come on girls,” she mutters, walking off.

Ghost waits until they’re gone before speaking up. “She’s right.”

You roll your eyes. “Yes. But were you really having a conversation with them?”

“No.”

You lightly punch his shoulder with the empty cup. “Exactly my point.”

Those dark eyes of his are assessing. Though they are focused on you, they scan your face and body constantly, lingering only when you’re speaking.

“Is Ghost really your name?”

“No,” he replies bluntly, and you laugh out loud. “But it’s the one you’re getting.”

“Fair,” you giggle, bringing your drink to lips and then groaning when you remember that it’s fucking empty. “Damnit.”

Ghost plucks the empty plastic cup right out of your hands and tosses it into a nearby bin. “Still haven’t told me your name.”

“It’s because I’m making one up in my head,” you mutter.

He shakes his head. “No, love. Out with it.”

“You gave me a false one.”

“Not false,” he corrects. “Just not my real name.”

“Think I’d be worried for your mother’s sanity if she named you Ghost.”

“My mum’s dead,” he deadpans.

“Fucking Christ,” you gasp, almost choking on a bit of air. He chuckles again, and you smack his chest. “That’s foul.”

“She is dead.”

“Why are you Brits so grim?”

“Between the constant rain and Thatcher’s—”

“Forget I asked,” you say quickly, holding up your hand.

But the two of you are laughing. Not robust or loud but familiar, like two friends reuniting after a long absence. The realization boils up quickly, slamming around in your skull, melting away all the alcohol-fueled boldness.

You don’t know Ghost. He doesn’t know you. What are you doing?

It hurts, but you step away. Ghost clocks the movement immediately, some of that lightheartedness slipping away.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” he asks, clearly confused about why you’re apologizing.

“I pushed in where I wasn’t invited.”

Ghost considers you for a moment, his reply coming after a few moments of silence. “Glad you did.”

You take another step away from him. Then another. “I should go.”

Ghost matches the steps. “Should you?”

Now you’re the one who’s flustered. Heat flares up along your spine and seizes your neck. A wanton coil curls in the pit of your stomach—low in your belly and scarily close to your pussy.

“Yes,” you breathe, backing away.

As you turn to go, his hand shoots out, encircling your wrist. With a quick jerk, you’re pressed up against him, balaclava-covered face close, the coarse fabric scratching against your skin.

“What are you really like? Without the alcohol to amp those nerves?” His voice is a murmur, and there is a primal quality to it that cuts you open, threatening to expose old wounds.

The little bit of tenacity still within you wiggles up from the depths, giving teeth to your words. “You’d love me if I opened for you.”

Ghost sighs, and it almost sounds like a groan. The muscles in his shoulders relax, and that release of tension gives just enough room for you to snatch your wrist free of his grip.

You don’t even say goodbye. Not verbally.

It’s all in your gaze. In the way you hover, walking backwards for a few seconds before giving him your shoulder—only to allow the man one final glance.

Then it’s a burst of sound of noise of thunderous banging. Every voice in the room, every sound that bounces off of The Foundry’s walls, every music note, and every staticky screech from the speakers comes roaring forward like a charging animal. It smashes against you until your head throbs, and the room spins slightly.

“Fuck,” you mutter, heading to the bar for water. “Didn’t need that last drink.”

As you head in that direction, the crowd only thickens. Did more people arrive? You didn’t notice. Then again, you were to be busy flirting with Ghost. Well, flirt is a strong word. More like harass.

You turn sideways, wiggling between two people, only to be spit out directly into a packed crowd. The more you try to navigate, the thicker the bodies become. It doesn’t make any sense. Did you get turned around on your way to the bar? It seems impossible, especially since you’ve visited it five times now for a beverage.

You’re heading in the right direction. You are.

“Excuse me,” you yell over the music, attempting to pass in front of someone.

They take a step back, but the person in front of them also moves, knocking right into you. You’re pushed forward and into a body.

“Sorry,” you gasp, catching yourself and straightening.

But no one responds. More people have pushed in—shoving forward as the guitar shreds to an impossibly loud crescendo. You try to twist—to try and find a way out—but you’re kept immobile, shepherded toward the unknown.

Your heartrate quickens, the thumping in your chest radiating all the way to your ears until it pounds in your head. You cannot get enough air, enough space, enough—

The crowd roars, and then you’re vaulted forward into flailing bodies. Arms and hands lash out. Legs kicks. Fists thrown.

A young man in front of you swings outward, his hand connecting with a face. You hear the crack of his palm over the music. See a few bright droplets of blood shoot upward.

You purposefully avoided the pit for this very reason.

Even as you scramble backward, the wave crashes, barring your escape. Frenzied, the crowd screams and roils, and you have nowhere to run to.

Hands are on you. Shoving. Shoving.

You topple forward. A body barrels into you, knocking the wind from your lungs. Thrust to the left, you crash into more people, only to be pushed off—away.

Another shove. Hands. Pulling. A jab to the stomach.

The music is distant. Suddenly muted.

As if moving through muck, you turn your head as if you have a collar around your neck, and the person with the lead has given it a tug. You see it then, a fist. Silver rings on the fingers. It’ll hurt when it strikes your face. You know it.

But there’s a catch.

A body blocks your path. All you see at first is the leather jacket and the incoming fist disappearing.

There’s a— “fucking wanker”—followed by a crunch. Followed by a yelp of pain.

Your savior turns, and you come face-to-face with a familiar balaclava-wearing drummer.

“Ghost?” you breathe.

He doesn’t reply, only moves in, creating a protective barrier. Taking the brunt of the blows, Ghost manages to push the two of you through the crowd and out into open air. Your lungs rejoice, sucking down air like they’ve been starved.

“Are you all right?” asks Ghost, voice full of concern.

He checks you over, gaze darting over your face before moving lower. His hands caress your cheeks, tilt your head one way and then the other.

“I’m fine.” Then, “I’m fine,” you repeat louder, reaching for him.

You heard that crunch and that yelp of pain. But he doesn’t appear to be injured. Even as he grasps your upper arms, keeping you upright, you place both hands against his covered cheeks. Under your right hand, you feel wetness.

Drawing back, you find red.

“Ghost. You’re bleeding.”

You show him your palm, and he shrugs. “Should see the other bloke.”

“What happened to the other guy?” you ask, voice wavering slightly in panic.

“I’m aces, love.” His hand is still on your cheek, thumb resting just shy of your mouth. “A bit of blood won’t hurt none.”

“No. You’re hurt. Should have it looked at,” you insist. Ghost sniffs and then winces, the sound of it congested. “Did they hit your nose?”

“Maybe,” he coughs, trying to brush it aside like it doesn’t matter.

“Ghost,” you chide, returning your hand to his cheek.

This time, you lightly press against the balaclava, searching for where the injury might be. It’s not like you can fucking see it, and trying to convince him to remove the balaclava here may only result in resistance on his end.

He sighs, the sound warm and with a hint of growl. “Like how you say it.”

“Not the time to be flirting,” you mutter.

“I’ve just rescued you. Think it’s the perfect time,” he counters.

You drop your hand from his face and scowl. “You really need your face looked at.”

Ghost’s hand against your cheek slides down to rest at the base of your throat. “No hospital. But you can take a look.”

“Fine,” you concede.

“Fine.”

The two of you stand there, simply staring at each other. There is a softness in his stare, one that sends a little happy tingle through your limbs. You feel…seen, and it’s entirely debilitating.

“I’m staying at a hostel. Not sure that’s the best place.”

“We can go to my flat.”

You laugh. “It’s a ruse, isn’t it? To get me to come home with you.”

Ghost inclines his head. “Is it working?”

“Yes,” you begrudgingly admit. “Lead the way.”

Ghost’s hand at your throat shifts, sliding to the back of your neck and then over your shoulder. He drapes his arm over them, keeping you close against him as the two of you exit The Foundry and head out into the night.

There’s a short walk, and then a ride on the Underground. Few people glance your way, but it’s late in London, and anyone out this late is either heading home or looking for trouble. You and Ghost chat about nothing and everything, the conversation slipping between topics fluidly.

And he never stops touching you. Out on the street, it’s an arm draped over your shoulders. On the Underground, it’s a hand on your upper thigh, resting there like a sign of ownership, as if you belong to him.

It’s the walk up to Ghost’s building that’s silent. The street is empty. The building a little rundown and derelict. There are a few bins of trash that are overflowing, and a dog barks somewhere in the distance.

Ghost remains glued to your side, his head on a swivel all the way up to and upon entering the building. Once inside, he seems to relax, his mood improving as the two of you ascend.

“Bit messy in the flat,” he mutters, digging around in his pockets for his keys.

“How many people live with you?” you ask.

“Including me. Four.”

“All bachelors?”

“Yes,” he laughs.

“Would explain the mess,” you muse as Ghost inserts the key and opens the door.

He steps aside, allowing you to enter first. Shutting the door behind him, Ghost removes his jacket and offers to take yours.

“Thank you,” you whisper, giving it to him along with your purse.

He hangs up both.

The flat itself is fairly sparse and the only mess you notice is what you’d expect from four single men. The coffee table in the living room has a few empty bowls and cups, but that’s it. The sofa appears clean if fairly worn, and the television is large. Nothing about it stands out to you.

“Want something to drink?” he asks, heading into the kitchen.

“Water. Please.”

He returns with water for you and a whiskey for him.

Taking a sip, you place it down on the table. “Should really look at the injury.”

Ghost inclines his head and then drops onto the sofa. “This good?”

“Great,” you reply, glancing around. “Have a first aid kit anywhere.”

“Cabinet in the washroom.” Ghost indicates the door with a nod of his head. “Just there.”

Entering, you dig around, finding sterilizing alcohol, clean washcloths, and bandages. Instead of selecting a few things, you grab the entire storage basket, heading back out into the living room.

“I’ll need—”

You stop dead in your tracks.

Ghost leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. In one hand he holds the whiskey glass while a lit cigarette dangles from between his lips. The balaclava is gone. It’s on the table. Discarded. Ghost turns his head in your direction. There’s blood all under his nose, over his mouth, and smeared across his chin.

While the gore surprises you, it’s that the balaclava is gone. You’re seeing him.

“What?” he prompts. “Like what you see?”

Yes.

“Just—” You wave your hand in front of your face. “The blood.”

Ghost snorts, and takes a long drag on his cigarette. “That bad?”

“You’re covered,” you affirm, approaching him slowly.

He exhales the smoke. It curls around him, hovering—then melting away. He ashes the cigarette and returns it to his mouth.

Sinking down onto the sofa next to him, you lay out the supplies. Grabbing your water glass, you dip part of the washcloth into the water.

“Look at me,” you command, but there’s no authority in it.

Ghost turns his head, and you bring the wet washcloth to his face. With gentle dabs and light passes, you remove more and more of the blood. The washcloth turns pink but you pretend not to notice.

Once his chin is clean you move to his lips. Ghost removes the cigarette and places it in the ashtray. You keep dabbing away, clearing blood. And the whole time, his gaze lingers on you. You pointedly keep your gaze averted from his, but it’s difficult. His stare drills into you, and with every passing second, the urge to make that connection grows.

Lips clean, you start in to wipe away the blood underneath and around his nose.

The washcloth makes contact with his skin, and Ghost winces.

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

Folding the washcloth in half, you place it over your knee, and then reach for a clean absorbent pad.

“Just want to check something. Stay still.” Ghost does and you press around his nose. “How does that feel?”

He shrugs. “Uncomfortable. Tender.”

You test the area, but he doesn’t flinch again. “Don’t see any swelling. Doesn’t feel swollen either. Might have some bruising though.”

“I’ve looked worse.”

“Somehow, I believe that.” You set the absorbent pad down and then run your finger lightly over the bridge of his nose. “I don’t think it’s broken.”

“I didn’t think so,” replies Ghost.

You drop your hand. “You know what a broken nose feels like?”

He smirks, and brings the whiskey glass to his lips. “It’s bloody worse than the pain I feel now.”

“Suppose that’s a good thing,” you reply, digging through the basket of supplies.

You’re not looking at him. When Ghost curls a finger under your chin and turns your head toward him, you’re momentarily stunned. At his touch, you surrender, sitting up straight and giving him your full attention.

Ghost’s gaze lingers before dropping to your mouth. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip. There’s an appreciate look there.

“You’re sweet,” he whispers.

“Surprised?” you counter, and Ghost smiles.

With one more pass over your bottom lip, Ghost drops his hand. He sets the whiskey glass aside, and then gently takes the washcloth off your knee. It folds it four times, creating a square, and then he places it on the table.

“Simon.”

“What?”

“My real name,” he says. “It’s Simon.”

“Oh. Well.” You swallow. “Hello, Simon.”

“Hello,” he croons.

The two of you stare into each other eyes. He’s searching for something, and whatever it is, you long to give it. Shifting closer, he cups your cheek just like he did at The Foundry. Simon leans in, and there is an ask in that movement.

Say yes, it says.

His eyelids grow heavy, those pale eyelashes reflecting the light from the tableside lamp like tiny halos. You lean in, and then you’re kissing him, accepting the silent question.

One becomes two becomes three becomes infinite.

They are small and innocent at first, developing into deeper strokes. Wanton. Honey-laced. The hand on your cheek shifts to the back of your neck, and that one touch changes everything. His fingers drag against your skin, and you gasp against his mouth.

But it is Simon who draws back, who creates the faintest hint of distance. His lips tease another kiss and then he’s reclining, legs spreading wide as he drapes an arm over the back of the sofa. Simon grabs his thigh, squeezing, then patting the spot in invitation.

Your core clenches. A new desire crawls forward, nails digging in, dragging you toward a singular mindset. He is offering, providing an opening. And why not take it? Why not find out what it would feel like to have him deep inside, stretching you deliciously.

Simon must know your inner turmoil because he smirks as if knowing what you’re about to say.

“Come here,” he purrs.

[vintagerpg]

OK, so Into the Cess & Citadel (2022) isn’t exactly what most folks think of as a monster book. But it is. Sorta. Bear with me.

So, this is the companion to Into the Wyrd & Wild, which shares a similar format, organization and purpose. That earlier book was meant to make forests into something more dungeon-like, and provided a whole new weird ecosystem to support that, including a ton of monsters. Similar thing with C&C, a book that looks to present a city in more dungeon-like terms. (Why would you do this? Because unlike forests and cities, dungeons are constrained spaces; no matter how big they are, you only ever have a couple immediate choices, and this makes them easier to plan, run and play.)

The book has a bunch of rules for generating cities and material to support them in place (like a table of 100 interesting locations). Then there are five more firmly sketched city districts — the undercity, the spires and the foundry, cultivist and archivist districts, all of which have their own unique character, perils and monsters. Many of these place-specific monsters verge on NPCs, or, at least, give the sense that they in some ways belong to the ecosystem of urban civilization. A group of general monsters that can be found anywhere in the city is also provided. They are very cityish — garbage monsters, living cobblestones — creatures extremely adapted to their environment. The city is a dangerous place.

Which is why I decided to include this book in a week of monsters books. In the introduction, the book says to never forget that “the city eats people.” It’s true! And I think that provides some necessary context. All the creatures and maladies and traps and NPCs and items and architectural features presented by C&C make up one, gigantic, unbeatable, ever-hungry monster. Take that, Tarrasque.

[andtheliver]

Anywhere

Minthara x Nebulae (Tav)

18+

Men and minors dni

(This is my first time writing ~spicy~ content and my first fanfic on Tumblr so pls be kind)

The group ran as the Steel Watch Foundry went up in flames behind them, Flaming Fists already on their tail.

"Split up!" Nebulae yelled to her companions behind her. She saw Minthara and Jaheira split off in her peripheral. She wasn't sure where Halsin went but she was sure he could handle himself as she bolted through the crowd.

"Stop! Thief! Murderer! Jaywalker!" She heard voices yelling behind her. She briefly wondered what they meant by that last accusation and if she hadn't been running for her life, she may have actually laughed. She saw more Flaming Fists running at her from different directions so she took a sharp turn around a booth but as she passed a dark alleyway she felt a firm grip on her arm that dragged her into the shadows.

She nearly started swinging before she heard a familiar voice. "It's me, my friend," she heard Halsins soothing voice and felt him wrap his arms around her, pulling her into an embrace and turning to hide her against the wall. She tucked her face into his chest, panting from exertion as she heard several Fists run past. By some miracle no one seemed to see her disappear around the corner and silence fell around them.

After a moment she peeked around Halsins shoulder to check if the coast was clear. She sighed in relief as she parted from her friend, still grasping his arms in comfort.

"Thank you," she gasped with a small laugh.

"No need to thank me, my friend. I should be th-" he was cut off my a sharp voice.

"There you are," Minthara said as she stormed toward the pair, Jaheira beside her.

"Thank goodness you're safe," Nebulae sighed as she parted from Halsin to take her partners hand. Before she could, Minthara grasped her jaw and pulled her into a searing kiss.

She only had a second to register what was happening and another to feel embarrassed at the aggressive form of affection before she melted into the kiss.

After what felt like a wonderful eternity Minthara finally pulled away. Her sharp eyes lingered on her for a moment before her gaze hardened and she glances at Halsin.

"What was going on here?" She demanded.

"I assure you, I only intended to protect, nothing more," Halsin replied calmly.

Minthara gave him a look of suspicion before Nebulae took her hand to offer reassurance.

"He saved me, Minthara. Fists were closing in on me and he pulled me to safety. If it weren't for him I'd be in a jail cell or worse by now." Minthara's eyes finally left Halsin and her eyes softened as she gazed at her partner.

"I am glad you're safe, my little druid," she rasped in her alluring voice, gently stroking the purple skin of Nebulae's jaw before tucking a stray lock of wild, platinum blonde hair behind her ear.

Nebulae smiled, ducking her head in slight embarrassment.

"If this is all settled, I suggest we leave the area before any Fists circle back," Jaheira said from behind Minthara. Nebulae glanced up to see the Harper leaning against a wall in mock boredom.

Nebulae cleared her throat as she parted from the drows grasp but continued to hold onto her hand.

"Quite right. Back to The Elf Song, then?"

"What is a jaywalker anyway?" Nebulae asked as she leaned against Minthara's body, who was sitting against a pile of pillows in a sort of "nest" on Nebulae's bed. She had initially teased the young druid for her peculiar ways, but now she appreciated the surrounding softness.

The rest of the group had gone downstairs for a hard earned meal and drinks but Minthara had insisted the two of them stay and use the dumbwaiter.

Minthara chuckled at her ignorance, remembering her younger lovers upbringing away from modern society.

"It matters little, my sweet," she wrapped her arms around Nebulae's waist, pulling her closer to her chest.

Nebulae smiled in contentment, leaning her head back against Minthara's shoulder, careful not to let her horns scrape her lovers face.

"I guess you're right, it's not like we're planning on being here long anyway, right?"

Minthara didn't respond right away, letting herself feel her lovers warmth.

After a few moments of silence, Minthara spoke.

"After this is all over..." She hesitated, the unfamiliar feeling of uncertainty creeping through her.

Nebulae felt Minthara's shoulders tense behind her, so rubbed Minthara's arm with her thumb reassuringly, glancing up at her.

"Yes?" She encouraged her to continue.

"Where do you see yourself. Where do you see...us?"

Nebulae smiled, feeling her chest flutter.

"Hopefully in a very similar position we're in right now," she responded, patting the pillows beside them. "Minus the murderous cult and threats of impending doom, of course."

Minthara felt a small smile cross her face. "Of course," she kissed Nebulae's neck. "But where, specifically?"

Nebulae squeezed her arm.

"Minthara," she scooted forward, turning to reposition herself so she straddled the drows lap, placing her hands her shoulders. "I would follow you anywhere. Whether you wanted to stay here, travel the world or the depths of the Underdark. I'd follow you to the hells and back. I'll be by your side no matter what."

She nuzzled against Minthara's neck before kissing her jaw and down to her collarbone. Before she could go any further Minthara took a fistful of her hair, pulling her into a fierce and possessive kiss.

"Lie down for me," she whispered.

Nebulae didn't argue and swapped places with Minthara lying against the pillows. Minthara gave her another kiss as she used one hand to untie hers and then Nebulae's pant laces. Nebulae didn't have time to think about the nimbleness of her partners fingers before her pants were being pulled down in desperation.

She felt a cool hand come in contact with her mound as she struggled to kick her pants off her feet.

She gasped, a thought of how fast this was going crossing her mind as the hand found her clitoris, circling it gently. She moaned against her lovers lips, her hands floundering to find something to grasp, to ground herself. They finally found purchase on Minthara's hip, and she was quick to pull down the woman's leather pants. Her lips wandered from Minthara's lips down to her throat, but her head was soon thrown back in shock as she felt two cool fingers push through her folds. She cried out, her hands again struggling to find something to hold onto for dear life.

"Hahhhh gods, Minthara," she whined, very relieved no one else was currently in the room.

Minthara curled and thrust her fingers into the woman below her, watching her throw her head back in pleasure. Pleasure she was providing, and the thought made her quicken her pace, adding another finger.

Nebulae's hips bucked against the new intrusion, as she choked back a cry she worried would be too loud.

Minthara however was having none of this and pulled back her assault, sitting up and reaching under the bed.

Nebulae watched in confusion and slight distress, worried she'd done something wrong. Minthara was only away from her for an excruciating moment, but when she came back, she now sported something strapped around her waist. Nebulae could just make out an extra appendage before Minthara was back between her legs, and Nebulae didn't hesitate to pull her into another desperate kiss. She just registered a bulge against her belly before Minthara slowly slid it into her, and when she was met with a slight resistance, she pulled the infernal woman down so only her head remained on the pillows.

She continued her pursuit, but stopped when she heard a small whimper.

"I didn't take you for a virgin, my dear," she teased.

"I'm not," Nebulae responded a bit defensively. "It's just," she let out a calming exhale, "it's just been a while," she continued, letting herself adjust to the unexpected bur familiar feeling.

Her mind flashed back to months prior, to her little romp with Astarion. She didn't dare mention that night, or the slight difference in...girth. Not that their little escapade was bad, she just remembered him being restraind, controlled...distant. Her mind continued to wander until she felt a small tug on the base of her ear.

"Distracted, are we?" The woman above teased in her maddening, raspy voice. Nebulae was brought back to the present with a slight blush. "Sorry," she mumbled.

Minthara ran her finger down her ear, then down her side, along her infernal ridges, feeling her shudder.

"There's no need to apologize. After tonight you'll find it difficult to think of anything else." She punctuated her point by thrusting into her the rest of the way.

Nebulae responded with a shocked mmph before her head dropped further into the pillows with a sharp breath.

"There we are," Minthara whispered lovingly possessively, running feather light touches down the younger woman's neck, over her collarbone before grabbing her hips and pulling back to thrust back in with fervor.

"God's, f-" was all Nebulae could manage to gasp before letting out a long moan as Minthara cupped her sex, starting to massage her clit. Her jaw hung open as she gasped, Minthara's face mirroring hers as she basked in her lovers pleasure.

Nebulaes hand, which had been gripping the sheets below her, came up to grip Minthara's shoulder blade, while the other grasped the hair the Drow still had in a messy bun. She heard her lover let out what sounded like a chuckle before she felt her legs being lifted from around Minthara's waist to her sides. She watched as Minthara shifted position so her face was directly above hers. She saw the wicked grin on her face before she felt Minthara thrusting back in, reaching further than she had before.

Nebulae let out a sound somewhere between a cry and a moan and she tucked her face into the older woman's shoulder, just aware enough to not strike her with her horns.

"Fuck, Minthara," she whimpered, feeling something akin to pain but had her writhing in euphoria. She could only cling to her, positive she was going to lose her mind if she continued but couldn't bring herself to tell her to stop. Her legs shook as she felt the continued assault on her insides -gods was she in her stomach?- and the stretch at the base of Minthara's strap. If she had half her mind left after this, she would have to ask her where she found such a thing. She wondered why she didn't ask her to begin with, but the thought was gone as soon as it appeared as she felt a hand grasp her throat.

"Am I losing you again?" Minthara near growled in her ear.

Nebulae tried to shake her head but wasn't sure if she'd succeeded as Minthara pinched her clit and picked up the pace.

Nebulae cried out and pulled on Minthara's hair as she the strap hit something deep inside of her.

"P-please," she stammered, unsure what it was she was asking for but nevertheless Minthara responded by releasing her neck and ran her hand down her chest until she reached her breast. She ran her thumb over the infernals nipple, before she gave Nebulae a shockingly soft kiss.

"Lose yourself for me," Minthara begged (although she would never call it that) as her pace slowed down but she continued to hit that spot inside of her that had them both trembling.

Nebulae cried out again as Minthara's other hand continued it's work on her clit.

"God's no, Minthara," Nebulae somehow managed to gasp. "You'll never lose me."

Minthara let out a shuddering growl as her pace increased in desperation.

She kissed her neck, whispering "Never let me be alone again."

Nebulae could only respond with a strained cry as her orgasm hit her. She trembled in her lovers arms, writhing against the turbulent onslaught of pleasure and, dare she say, affection.

I love you she repeated to herself in her mind, unaware that Minthara could hear her through the tadpoles connection. In this moment, those wretched things didn't exist. Nothing outside of this moment mattered.

She panted as she came down in waves, feeling her head hit the pillow as her eyes closed.

She felt a hand run through her long, wild hair as Minthara gave her a lingering kiss. She heard Minthara whisper words such as alurlssrin and belbol between kisses, and she felt her stomach flutter, not knowing what was being said but understanding the meaning she whispered words back in her own language.

"Safdpizy," she whispered, cupping the face above hers. "Bydajyv." She kissed her, a long, gentle, meanigful kiss that would linger for a long time to come.

Shout out to @moonselune for being one of the ones to inspire me to write and actually share something! I hope you like it, Mooney 🫶

Thank you for reading! I apologize if it felt a bit rushed. Did you notice how I only referred to Nebulae as infernal and not just tiefling? There's a reason for that, and if you want to know why, please comment/reblog! I would love to share her backstory

Also posted on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/66110710

[gippity]

Trump and Palantir Forge a Pan-Government Surveillance State, Empowering Tech Oligarchs and Silencing Critics

Source article for analysis: https://newrepublic.com/post/195904/trump-palantir-data-americans

1. Narrative Framing

Simplicity & “Common-Sense” Appeal The administration casts cross‐agency data‐sharing as an efficiency and “government modernization” measure, flattening complex privacy and constitutional concerns into a feel-good story about bureaucratic streamlining. This preloads the conclusion that any objection is mere technophobia or red tape, rather than a debate over surveillance power.

Binary Framing (“Security vs. Chaos”) By emphasizing “national security” and “public safety,” critics are implicitly positioned as indifferent to immigrant crime or terrorism, pressuring dissenters to choose between safety and liberty—an either-or that forecloses nuanced policy discussion.

2. Emotional Engineering

Fear & Resentment References to “enforcing the March executive order,” “punish his critics,” and fears of immigrant targeting stoke anxiety about arbitrary state power. This fear is then channeled into loyalty among “true patriots” who trust the administration to wield that power wisely.

Pride & Tribal Bonding Invoking a “war on inefficiency” and naming a “far-right billionaire” ally provides a rallying narrative for supporters who see themselves as part of an inner circle, engendering pride in being on the “winning team.”

3. Pipeline On-Ramps & Ecosystem Mapping

Soft Entry via “Modernization” Pitches around “data modernization” and “innovation” serve as gateway content—memes and soundbites in tech-oriented outlets gradually introduce audiences to more radical surveillance proposals.

Content Funnel

Friendly tech press (“efficiency gains”)

Conservative opinion pieces (“keep America safe”)

Policy white papers and FOIA-leaked memos (“full database blueprints”)

Private sector deep dives (Palantir user groups, DOD contractor briefings)

4. Dog Whistles & Euphemisms

“National Security” Sanitized language for mass surveillance and immigrant tracking.

“Data-Driven Governance” A euphemism that hides the indiscriminate collection of personal information under the veneer of neutral analytics.

“Government Efficiency” Code for centralizing power and reducing agency-specific safeguards that currently protect civil liberties.

5. Archetypes & Mythos

Tech-Militarist Savior Casting Peter Thiel and Alex Karp as modern “warrior-lords” of data who will “defend” America—evoking the warrior archetype that simplifies identity into a battle of “us vs. them.”

Fallen Homeland Narrative Suggests America’s institutions are backward and corrupt, needing a techno-strongman to resurrect core values—mirroring the “rise-from-ruin” mythos common in alt-right rhetoric.

6. Strategic Impact Assessment

Real-World Mobilization This intel could be used to silence dissidents (through audits, visa denials, or targeted prosecutions), chill protest activity, and surveil immigrant communities disproportionately.

Beneficiaries & Victims Tech oligarchs (Thiel, Musk) and the Trump political machine gain concentrated power; critics, immigrants, student activists, and labor organizers become object lessons.

7. Vibe Warfare & Identity Signals

Stoic Realist Aesthetic Dark, angular visuals of data centers and code screens reinforce a mood of uncompromising techno-authority.

“Based” Tech Patriotism Pittings of “innovation bros” vs. “liberal elites,” using jargon (“Foundry,” “Grok”) as in-group markers to foster parasocial loyalty among tech-savvy conservatives.

8. Epistemic Booby Traps & Self-Sealing Logic

“If you have nothing to hide…” Pre-emptively discredits objections by labeling them paranoia or disloyalty, barring dissenting evidence from being taken seriously.

Data as Truth Presents analytics as inherently objective, making any critique of methodology or oversight seem “anti-science.”

9. Irony Shielding & Tone Drift

Tech-Bro Irony Occasional self-deprecating jokes about “big brother” memes allow participants plausible deniability (“We’re just goofing, who doesn’t love tech?”), while the surveillance machinery locks in.

Memetic Alchemy Use of playful GIFs or “dank” one-liners about “tracking your ex’s Starbucks habit” masks the seriousness of mass data collection.

[thydungeongal]

I’m going to start running an old school dungeon you linked to a few days back (the Tomb of the Serpent Kings, it looked so neat and well-designed I immediately started preparing to run it) with an online group in OSE.

You have smart and good thoughts on how to do ttrpgs good, and I have been mulling this question for a few days: should I use Foundry and set up the map of the dungeon such that the players can move their tokens around to explore the space, or should I not set up the map and have the players use my descriptions to create their own as we play?

On the one hand, it feels more true to the old-school style of play to not give them the “Solution” to how the dungeon is laid out and gives them the chance of fucking up in interesting ways. On the other hand, I might be using foundry anyway so that their character sheets are all stored in a nice and easily accessible place for me, and we can roll in a way that everyone can see, meaning that not setting up the map in an explorable form might just be arbitrarily denying them access to knowledge it makes sense they’d have. Also I’m worried that random internet or attention issues might lead to people missing important information about the layout of rooms that won’t be as lost if they have an “objective” map to look at.

I’m planning on bringing this up with my players as well before we begin, I just thought you’d have some good insights into what makes a good experience when playing old school online.

Love your posts.

I think there absolutely are benefits to both approaches! Having the players draw their own map absolutely is more true to "the old ways," but I think it's actually arguable whether that was simply due to it being the easiest way to handle the sharing of the map without saddling the GM with further work and that in the current day, with our ability to transfer maps directly from one computer to another, it might not be worth the hassle. And because verbal communication is bound to be flawed and ambiguous between people there is always room for human error there.

Now, having said that, there absolutely is a draw to having the players draw their own maps, which is that it acts as a tiny bit of challenge on top of all the rest of the gameplay. As long as you the DM make sure that your players aren't fucking up too much when drawing the map (I think Foundry allows for players drawing on the map? So that way you could observe the map-drawing process and immediately correct any mistakes that are definitely due to miscommunication) there absolutely is a charm to having players draw their own map. Plus, I think OSE has the rule that mapping is not allowed during pursuit, which I think does also reinforce the idea that mapping is supposed to be a TOOL that players use to keep themselves oriented, and it's a tool whose use can be limited as befits the circumstance.

I don't have a set approach to this myself: I have, in the past, run old-school games while sharing a map, and that isn't without its issues but can make for a smoother, frictionless experience. @vixensdungeon is of the opinion that adventurers getting lost because they fucked up their map is a part of the charm, so in my current OSE campaign I have made it so that players handle most of the mapping (and I only intervene when verbal descriptions fail me). One thing you absolutely do need to address if running with a map that you reveal: you need to remove all secret doors from the map, because if you reveal an entire room to the players but leave one wall conspicuously unrevealed your players are going to be spoiled the surprise of the secret door by the medium itself.

Anyway, I don't think there is a one true way here, but I would encourage you to try having the players handle the mapping! It's a good thing that you'll be discussing this with players beforehand though, and it'll be a good way to set expectations for them. :)

Also, another person drawn in by the promise of cool dungeon-crawling by my blog? Can I get a huzzah?

[talefoundryshow]

Here is your post for next week's Writing Group Prompt…

THE MONSTER OF YOUR STORIES

--Antihero

(P.S. In case it's confusing, since we've had multiple weeks off, the stream scheduled for the 26th is the Can't Rain All the Time stream. Then, if all goes according to plan, the September 2nd stream will be The Monster Of Your Stories!)

[toa-null]

- Razor the Hated -

This marks a first for this blog, a villain! As you can likely tell, this did originate as a moc-version of Antroz, as I got my hands on the mask but not the rest of him (though I think I also got the claws and torso in that bulk? It was quite some time ago).

From that humble origin though, he really became his own character. I'll write a small blurb of backstory under the tab if anyone is interested!

The custom head came out pretty well as well in my opinion. The swiveling eyestalk was very important to me to add and I also wanted to be have the other eye be illuminated when light was somewhat behind it.

One unfortunate thing about this MOC (or fortunate?) is that it is *very* solid. Normally I like to show photos with armor off so you (yes you! 🫵) can see the inner workings, but that simply isn't feasble with this one. So enjoy some mecharm and custom head close ups instead!

I'm keen to hear thoughts and comments!

‐-----------------------------------------------------------------‐---------------

"Razor never truly fit in with the Order of Makuta. Headstrong and fiercely opposed to leadership, his ego was surpassed only by the likes of Icarax. Though he technically owed the Makuta his life, with all he'd already done for them, he felt it was paid in full and then some.

So Razor left. Abruptly and silently flying off into the night to meet with a different group looking to poach the talent: the Dark Hunters. Razor knew little beyond the basics about the Dark Hunters, theres some big boss and a bunch of contractors or something.

His very short-lived tenure with the hunters was filled with conflict, in-fighting, and hatred. The more he learned about them, the more he thought they were simply structured slightly differently to the Brotherhood. Pathetic. Weak. Intolerable.

Similarly, he left again. Shirked his duties, his obligations, and promises.

This, of course, simply kicked another hornets nest after he had already took a swing at another.

The Brotherhood had been waiting. Tracking him, but not making a move that would disrupt the very tentative peace between the two factions. The very day he left, they descended like vultures.

Razor was strong and powerfully in tune with his mask. However, very little can stop ten blades from striking. Ripped apart and left to die, he, with his one arm, clawed his way home.

During his brief time with the Dark Hunters, he had taken a liking to fashioning cruel machines and creations. And he was a fortuitously fast learner.

Over the next month, Razor took scraps he had and gave himself a leg to stand on, literally. With this foothold, he began to attack nearby matoran settlements and strip them of anything he saw as useful.

Another month passes, he had constructed an arm and made his leg more functional. Wings were proving difficult to maintain, but a well tuned and upgraded jetpack from an av-matoran might just suffice.

Word reaches the Dark Hunters that he still lives and a bounty is immediately put on his head.

Forced to flee his home, he began to travel the land above and below, trying to find some place to belong. But none ever welcomed him. Hated by the forces of light for being a Makuta, and hated by the forces of dark for betraying the two largest organizations.

Razor takes whatever he can and kills any that try to stop him. Recently, he has found an experimental protodermis weapon foundry that would make a fantastic boon for his own restoration and facilitate his desire to kill those who made it necessary.

However, the sole toa guarding it has proved to be more than a nuissance, to say the least. And Razor has suspicions that there is even more to this protodermis project than meets the eye..."

---------------------------------------------------------

[sweet7simple]

Breastfeeding, but make it Cybertronian

I saw a post about how there are strip clubs on Cybertron because the Beast Wars TV show said so. The link to that post is below:

What had my attention was that one of the mechs says that they walk around without their chest plates, "if you know what I mean," which implies that walking around without chest plates might make you half-nude/indecent.

So I thought, is the spark chamber for Cybertronians (the thing protected by chest plates) like breasts for humans? You can let them out in certain cultures, but that's public indecency in a lot of places?

Then I thought about a carrier/foundry trying to breastfeed in a public park, their chest plates split open and a protoform pressed against their spark chamber. But they don't have breasts and protoforms don't need milk, so what's going on?

Then I thought about the incredible source of energy a spark is and how much energy a protoform needs to accomplish their final form.

So I am thinking that protoforms spark-feed by having their whole birth metal pressed against their creator's spark chamber, slurping up that good energy the same way we charge some of our devices: Induction charging. Just by pressing our device against some sort of charging surface.

(image credit: https://www.infineon.com/cms/en/discoveries/wireless-inductive-charging/)

The idea of full-grown Cybertronians spark-feeding their egg-shaped protoforms hit me so hard in my depraved brain that I sat down and made this post at work.

(Panel from Transformers: The Holiday Special)

Specifically, this egg-shaped protoform (yes, I know it's a group of scraplets pretending to be a protoform, but it fooled Swerve, so it has to be an accurate representation - let me have this).

[moonpile]

ESO Update 47 PTS: Furnishings

I always find lists with static images and searchable text helpful, so I made one! Early PTS; some info here may be incorrect or incomplete. If you know of a correction please comment. Apologies for any weird groupings; Tumblr only allows 30 images per post.

Sources in patch notes.

For video, Futerko is on it of course! –

Achievement Furnishings:

Sources, via patch notes & confirmed in game:

2 new achievement furnishings that can be purchased from the Undaunted Quartermasters, after completing the “Black Gem Foundry Vanquisher” and “Naj-Caldeesh Vanquisher” achievements. (Coldharbour Archway, Grand + Naj-Caldeesh Drawbridge, Stone)

2 achievement furnishings that can be purchased from Sabione Adrard in Sunport. (Stirk Fellowship Command Tent & Worm Cult Crystal Pylon)

Craftable from writ vendor:

7 new Master Writ furnishings, which can be purchased from Rolis Hlaalu. (2 of these images are to show the Stone-Nest Fountain, Triple Spout (video) front and back.)

Item names:

"Tide-Born Hut, Elevated" "Vossa-Satl, Display" "Meridian Bell, Temple" "Fruit Arrangement, Tide-Born"

More below...

Home Goods:

5 new home goods furnishings can be purchased from “Mahei-Jekka” in Skingrad’s “Stalwart Hearthgoods” shop.

1 new home goods furnishing can be purchased from “Masela” in Western Skyrim’s “Dragon’s Hearth” shop.

Item names:

"Tree, Hooked Dawnwood" "Tree, Braided Dawnwood" "Colovian Well, Overgrown Dawnwood" "Colovian Well, Destroyed Dawnwood" "Tree, Giant Dawnwood Canopy" "Solitude Fence, Stick Curved"

Here are the West Weald ones with prices:

Craftable Tide-Born:

Most likely source, via patch notes:

26 new structural furnishing plans, which can be acquired via the Solstice Reward Coffer, obtainable by completing the Solstice World Boss, or Delve Daily Quests.

Item names:

"Tide-Born Platform, Square" "Tide-Born Platform, Corner" "Tide-Born Support, Walkway" "Tide-Born Archway, Tall" "Tide-Born Walkway, Curved" "Tide-Born Walkway, Long" "Tide-Born Walkway, Short" "Tide-Born Railing, Short" "Tide-Born Railing, Long" "Tide-Born Post, Wooden" "Tide-Born Gate, Boma" "Tide-Born Wall, Curved Boma" "Tide-Born Wall, Boma" "Tide-Born Gateway, Boma" "Tide-Born Wall, Lattice" "Tide-Born Wall, Lattice Segment" "Tide-Born Porch, Overhang" "Tide-Born Wall, Woven"

Craftable Sunport:

Most likely source, via patch notes:

26 new structural furnishing plans, which can be acquired via the Solstice Reward Coffer, obtainable by completing the Solstice World Boss, or Delve Daily Quests.

Item names:

"Sunport Wall, Interior" "Sunport Doorway, Interior" "Sunport Column, Interior" "Sunport Window, Dual-Arched" "Sunport Door, Wooden" "Sunport Trapdoor, Wooden" "Sunport Floor, Dual-Sided"

Worm Cult:

Most likely source, via patch notes:

11 can be earned from reward coffers during the Battle for the Writhing Wall event.

6 new furnishings are being dropped during the Battle for the Writhing Wall and in a future update recipes will be made available to craft duplicates.

Craftable Meridian Lenses:

Most likely source, via patch notes:

11 can be earned from reward coffers during the Battle for the Writhing Wall event.

Item names:

Meridian Lens Meridian Lens Apparatus

Stirk Fellowship / Soldier:

Most likely sources, via patch notes:

11 can be earned from reward coffers during the Battle for the Writhing Wall event.

6 new furnishings are being dropped during the Battle for the Writhing Wall and in a future update recipes will be made available to craft duplicates.

Art supplies, bird houses, tools:

Most likely sources, via patch notes:

8 new art and bird themed recipes can be obtained from monsters, containers, and more across Tamriel.

(Unsure of the sources of the Breton Spyglass & Puddle, Wax)

Item names:

Paint palette, wooden Paintbrush, Angled Paintbrush, Detail Paintbrush, Wide "Birdhouse, Cylindrical Mounted" "Birdhouse, Hanging" "Birdhouse, Post" "Bird Feeder, Post"