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thebadchoicemachine · 4 years ago

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For the writing prompt, what about ghost!Robin and Catboy!Corpse seeing present day Cornelius/Dream? Like Dream being confused and happy about his Partner and Son’s Ghosts being there and everyone else being v confused about the two random people calling him Cornelius and knowing him from a hundred years ago.

anon im so sorry. This has been sitting in my inbox for months now but I just cannot finish this story. it a really cool idea though. Here’s my incomplete first draft. I just copy and paste it from my wip to here so this is it, notes and cuts and typos and all.

The idea is Karl shows up when they’re in the prison and they see the false timeline where Cornelius was a killer and are forced to accept he sucks

_________________

- The execution cell was supposed to be merciful, a more civilized solution than being beat to death, but everything about it made Robin gag. He hoped he would never ever end up in it.

tw: implied indirect suicide, major death but they’re ghosts(?)

--•-•-*-•-•--

Colors and colors and colors wouldn’t stop melting and mixing and swirling. They surrounded him. They were in him. They were him. He breathed them in without breathing, he bled them without blood, he was falling and flying and stood completely still.

And then it was dark. No, then it was light. White and clean like the marble of a palace Robin knew he would never get to see.

Where... where was he? He’d won hadn’t he? They’d... killed... him. They’d killed everyone.

He wanted to die. He had to. There was boiling in his blood he couldn’t ease, he had to die, he needed them to hate him. To end him. The Jester’s Curse. Cursed to be wronged, to be hurt, to be freed.

He’d always had it, as far as he was concerned. He didn’t know why he resisted for so long. Perhaps, despite everything, he’d enjoyed living at one point. Despite what he was, despite his curse, despite bring a jester, he wanted to live! At some point he couldn’t care less about tricking others into condemning him to the grave.

After Cornelius, after Cat, he didn’t even fight it nor could he fight for it. He didn’t even care. Even as the ground swallowed him up in flames of the execution he held no harmony. No peace. There was no joy in his victory, there was no meaning to his death. Even in fulfilling it, he’d denied his curse.

That’s why he was still here, wasn’t it? Jesters want to die, they want to transform, to be released into vengeful spirits of lies and trickery. He was... dead. He was also... still here... why? He knew why. He didn’t think he liked the answer.

Robin couldn’t stand it. He couldn’t stand to bother mourning anymore. Not himself, not his long-dead family, not his new fath- he choked. He didn’t know know on what, he had no air, no lungs. He just couldn’t finish the thought.

“We never did make it official, did we?” A solemn, comforting, voice rang out.

Robin spun around. No. What? No, it’s not. It is. He is. Right there. Standing- no, not standing. Neither of them can stand. Not floating either just… there… was Cat.

Robin felt his eyes fill up with tears, he didn’t know how, he didn’t care. He flew into his friend’s arms.

“Woah! Ah, be careful, child.”

“H-how,” Robin sobbed into his chest. “How are you…”

“You’re here, aren’t you?”

“I th-thought that was because of my c-curse.”

Cat sighed, gently ruffling the child’s hair.

“No,” he spoke, finally. “I don’t think that’s why any of us are here.”

“Then-”

“No, I don’t think it’s what happens to everyone either. I’ve been alone as far as I can tell. I haven’t found anyone else. Not even…” he sighed again.

Robin understood. Cornelius was gone.

“I’m so sorry, Robin.” Cat tightened his grip. “I’m so sorry for what we put you through. We promised we would give you a better life, a safer one, but we left you in the worst way possible. You were executed because... because of me.”

“Oh,” Robin stared down at his feet. “You... were there for that?”

“No. I wasn’t- I can’t- I don’t know how to explain it, I only know what happened. Exactly what happened. It was like living a story being told to you, as though a nar- narrating...

Narration. Something clicked in both of their minds. Wasn’t there some strange… the spirals… the colors… he didn’t have a name, not one he ever told them. He had simply showed up one day, right before it all began. He wasn’t there, not properly anyway,. but he was there. He was there in the backs of everyone’s minds. He was there as he explained away every awful thing like it was a footnote in a novel. He was there as he made and told truth. He was the Narrator.

He had such an air of control, such an air of change.

Thoughts (memories?) of a past that never happened flashed through Robin’s mind. Cat was out investigating, Robin was carefully looking over his medical supplies. He couldn’t risk- NO. No. He swept the distraction from his mind. He wouldn’t get carried away, not this time.

The narrator. The Narrator. He had a book. A swirling and swishing mash of colors cover on his book he scribed all their horrors into. That’s where they were.

“Cat, we need to go. He made a mistake. This… was his first time. We are not supposed to be here. We were never meant to leave. We should try to get out.”

Cat only nodded. Robin didn’t know why he understood or how deeply, but he did. This was a mistake.

The two began wandering the halls. It was strange, being able to think and move again as though his body was still his. To have his mind and thoughts working in a stream of consciousness instead of a thick muddy bog of echos. If he didn’t know any better he’d describe it as feeling more… alive.

He even reached out to guide Cat out of habit. How amazing was it that he had habits again? Cat allowed him to because he knew the comfort it gave him to have something so familiar. Although, of course, not really needing him to. They were both still dead, spirits, memories. Living- not living like this, detached, was like existing with a million tiny radars reaching out all around you. It wasn’t a matter of seeing or feeling, simply knowing. When you were so disconnected from life and itself you were able to get a much clearer and instant idea of the world, he supposed.

They walked and wandered in silence for a while. At least, a while from their perspective. Even with no real idea what or where they were Robin could tell time was… off… here.

Eventually, they found their way out. There was no exit or pathway they walked through nor was it a sudden jump. They had just… made it out. They were standing beneath the shelter of some trees. It was raining. They were surrounded by unfamiliar structures and landscapes. Of course they were, but this wasn’t just some distant biome or kingdom it was…

“Robin? Are you alright?”

“I- yes. I’m fine, Cat. This is- I mean, that place is just… wow.”

“It’s... different, yes. This rain is- hmm, it’s weird. I can’t feel it but I know it’s there. It’s making everything fuzzy.”

Robin stuck his hand out. The raindrops sizzled against his skin. He was so focused on the odd sensation he jumped when Cat yanked his arm back.

“What was that? Are you alright?”

“The rain, it stings.”

“Badly? Are you hurt?”

“Not really. It feels like I’m a bar of soap being whittled down by the drops but I’m fine. It only feels strange.”

“Oh, good,” Cat breathed a sigh of relief. “In that case, let’s keep moving.”

Robin agreed. They didn’t have anywhere to go but neither felt like standing under the tree for all eternity. Besides, they were in a whole new world, maybe even a whole new dimension, and Robin was really curious to see what was with those strange building

It all seemed impossible.

His breath was taken away at every turn as they walked. Structures like nothing he’d ever seen before. There were so many colors, so many shapes, so many mechanics, so many things, and all so high and huge. It was amazing.

“Slow down a little, this rain is really disorienting.”

“Sorry! Sorry, this place is just… wow.”

“So you’ve said,” Cat laughed. “What exactly is so amazing about it? Describe it to me.”

“Well, there’s so much of it. It’s like a town but nothing like a town at all. More like a whole kingdom. A very strange kingdom. There’s no uniform to it, every build is unique. There was a castle we passed, it was huge and had so many colors! There were just rainbows and rainbows pouring out of every-”

“Mmm, interesting.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“This castle though, it felt like regret, didn’t it?”

“Y-yeah? Kinda,” Robbin had been trying to avoid thinking about that, how he could feel every building. “Uh, over to your side there is a pit, a giant crater bigger than our entire town! It’s tragic. It’s refreshing a little. It’s kind of…”

“Familiar. I- I don’t want to be near that, Robin. Let’s keep moving.”

Robin didn’t agree. He wanted to get closer, to feel what was so sad, so new, so ended, what about whatever tragedy there was familiar. He wanted to understand what he knew would hurt him, and why.

*****

“No! He would never!” Cat’s voice was rising. It was honestly scary, Robin had never seen him so wrathful. “He is the kindest person you will ever know! He is a protector! He’s- he is-”

“Do you really believe that?” The Narrator asked, calm and unfazed, sorrow creeping into his question. Robin couldn’t shake it from his mind. His thoughts were ruffles like pages flipping backward in a book. Like a pencil rubbing revealing words erased and undone but that had still been written. He was sent back to his flashing memories, his lies, unable to stop them.

Cat was out investigating, Robin was carefully looking over his medical supplies. He couldn’t risk choosing wrong tonight. He’d been right to focus on himself. No, he’d been lucky. He’d panicked. Cat was out to the town now. Robin was out now. The killers knew they could stop them, they would be targets. The killers…

Part of him wanted to ignore it, to go back to thinking it couldn’t be one of them. That no one would do something like that, that is must be some outside force but Jimmy… they’d gotten him right. Robin winced at the memory of Helga, at how it had almost been him, but they’d gotten Jimmy right. He knew they had, the Narrator said so.

The next morning, no one had died. Robin hadn’t needed to heal anyone. Cat reported Jack hadn’t left his home. It seemed like, well, it must be Jack. It just had to be, didn’t it? Robin frowned. He liked Jack enough, he didn’t want to kill anyone. He didn’t want to be wrong again but what choice did he have?

Jack was fighting. He was shouting, angry, scared. He was in the exact same place Robin had been a few nights ago. The familiarity burned inside his chest. He couldn’t stand any more of this, it needed to end tonight.

“IT’S CORNELIUS! IT’S HIM! IT HAS TO BE! Look at me. Look at me! You know me, I’m simple, I farm potatoes. If Helga was still here she’d remind yall I ain’t good for much else. You really think I could do this?”

Robin couldn’t comprehend what he was hearing. He wanted to believe it. He wanted to spare everyone he could but… Cornelius? Could he really condemn him any more than he could Jack? Could he any less?

“What makes you think it’s me and not one of them? I know you’re a killer, Jack. You guessed Cat would be on your trail tonight and didn’t kill. Why else wouldn’t someone be dead today?” Cornelius’s voice was as calm and upbeat as ever, if not a bit exasperated.

“He’s smart! He’s too smart. Look at his freaky, calculatin’ eyes, if you can ever see them. Look at him! Hiding behind that mask, wearing that ridiculous green hood, what’s that smile for, huh? None of us should have trusted him the day he set foot in this town, make up for it now. C’mon! Cat, I know you’re better than murderin’ folks for mayhem. Bob, you’re as simple as me! Robin,” Robin froze up as he was addressed directly “You’re a child, a sweet one. I’m sorry you have to live through this. I’m sorry you’ve been where I am now but I only hope that gives you the empathy you need to make the right choice. It’s him. I swear it’s not me!”

Everything felt stifled. He muffled the distraught protests of Cat in favor of listening to his own. No. No, it couldn’t be. Everyone in town used to be friendly but Cornelius was a friend. He and Cat had been there for Robin. They’d taken him in, cared for him, treated him as their own son. Well, Cat had.

Robin slowly blinked. What had Cornelius done for him? Thinking this way made him sick but he needed to be rational here. Did he really believe Cornelius was innocent, truly? He trusted Cat. Cat had proof he was safe, even if he wasn’t an investigator he had years and years of kindness to back him up. What did Cornelius have, really? He was kind, decent enough, but so was Jack. So were Jimmy and Helga. That wasn’t something he could base his vote on.

So what did make him so sure it wasn’t Cornelius? The only… he realized the only thing holding him up was Cat. Cat loved him. Robin wanted that to be enough. He wanted desperately to go back home, to lay in Cat’s lap while Cornelius told them stories. He wanted to retreat into his memories but when he tried they felt corrupted, tainted, hollow.

Every time he tried to imagine the kind way Cornelius had ruffled his hair, how he’d giggle and blush after a kiss from Cat, how he’d take off his mask at home and join Robin sitting on the porch, every time he tried to lose himself in the memory of that soft, humored, smile he was frozen inside by the eyes. Even when they were sad or kind his eyes were always vibrant, sharp… calculating.

Robin took a shaky breath. He didn’t like this, he didn’t want to do this, any of it. He was filled with a numb resolve as he cast his vote. He had no proof either was innocent but he had no reason to believe Jack was capable of this… he knew Cornelius was.

“The voting has finished,” The Narrator began. “Jack... Jack is the most suspected but this means nothing. Cornelius, by 3/5ths of the vote you have been found guilty. Please, step into the chamber.”

“NO!” A scream cut through the faux memory, just barely. Just enough for Robin to hear it. Who had yelled? Cat? Cor- Dream? Himself? He didn’t know, he was still lost.

Lost… Robin was so lost. 3/5ths. Cornelius obviously voted for Jack and vice versa, Bob was on Jack’s side, Cat must have voted for Jack even if only to save his love. Robin had been the deciding vote. What had he done? Was he right? Cornelius gave him no answer as he calmly stepped into the cell. The Narrator blabbed on, explaining the votes and who and what but for the first time since the colorful stranger arrived Robin couldn't listen to a word he said, instead focusing on Cat.

Cat had run to the jail, his hands reaching desperately through the bars. “I didn’t want this. I didn’t want this,” he kept repeating. His voice was calm and low but Robin could tell that was desperate. He was putting on an act, trying to reassure Cornelius as though it would all solve itself if he just kept together. Cornelius still didn’t speak. He took Cat’s hand and rested it on his face, under his mask.

Then the grate snaped close and Cat was forced to pull his hand back. He barely moved though, pressing his hands against the wire through the bars. Cornelius pressed his hand up from the other side. Maybe Cat could feel it, maybe he couldn’t, Robin didn’t know which he preferred.

Part of Robin wanted to put him to back away, to warn him the bars and fence was there for a reason, but the rest of him knew he couldn’t. The least- the only thing he could do was allow Cat this brief moment of closure, if you could even call it that.

Cornelius still kept silent, for just the briefest of moments Robin hated him. How dare he? How dare he sit there, keeping Cat suffering in silence? How dare he keep Robin in this horrid suspense? How dare he not admit his crimes or keep pleading his innocence? How dare he… how dare… then Robin heard Cat whimper and the anger was gone.

“We’re gonna get you out of here, okay? We-”

“Well, that’s not gonna happen,” The Narrator laughed, almost callously. If he wasn’t so detached from the world, so different from them he felt innocent even in cruelty, Robin might’ve felt like spitting on him. He couldn’t though, he was different. He was detached. He was like a child who didn’t know any better than to hurt others’ feelings. Like a child except instead of not knowing any better he knew too much.

Maybe that’s why Robin didn’t lash out or protest as the narrator pulled the lever. Maybe that’s why he didn’t scream as the pistons shifted. Maybe that’s why he only closed his eyes and ignored the shouts of triumph. He couldn’t even find it in himself to be angry at Jack and Bob for celebrating, at the moment he was only glad their cries drowned out the sizzle.

#tftsmp #tales from the smp #the village that went mad #tftsmp 1 #tales from the smp 1 #writing doodles #tftsmp fic

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whatdoesshedotothem · 4 years ago

Text

Monday 16 September 1839 Travel Journal

11 35/..

fine morn[in]g and F[ahrenheit] 56° at 5 a.m. off at 6 –

at Lillpero at 7 38/.. – off at 7 58/..

just out of Wiborg [Vyborg] bouldery com[mo]n

i.e. aft[e]r pass[in]g thro’ the suburb w[i]th the

good ch[ur]ch – then fr[om] there for so[me] dist[an]ce

thinned young Scotch fir forest and

a few lit[tle] corn fields and aft[er]w[ar]ds young rocky bouldery young Scotch

fir forest and coarse sandy r[oa]d as yest[erday] – ver[y] few cot[tage]s

b[u]t I slept gr[ea]t p[ar]t of the way look[in]g out ev[er]y now and then –

Lillpero well en[ou]gh lit[tle] lone h[ou]se – Russ[ia]n – we ha[ve]

met sev[era]l lit[tle] waggons load[e]d w[i]th so[me]th[in]g cov[ere]d gen[erall]y

w[i]th matt[in]g – no [servant] ab[ou]t at Wiborg [Vyborg] so ga[ve]

noth[in]g – fr[om] Lillpero to the frontier 86 [w] at 12 k[opek]

=26/64 I shall ha[ve] en[ou]gh Finnish mon[ey] left -

Lillpero in the forest and forest forw[ar]ds b[u]t yest[erday]

gen[erall]y and today so far the forest less swampy than

Wiborg [Vyborg] 18 2/3

Hotoka [Kotka] 17

St. P- [Petersburg] 83 2/3

Heslingfors [Helsinki] 300.

Sept[embe]r Mon[day] 16

common – r[oa]d good – sandy soil as yest[erday]

b[u]t r[oa]d hard and good – the police declin[e]d search[in]g

carr[ia]ge at W- [Wiborg] [Vyborg] s[ai]d they c[oul]d n[o]t do it – now (9 10/60) 1st

view of sea or lake or wat[e]r s[in]ce leav[in]g Wiborg [Vyborg] – and now nice

woody open count[r]y and farms and cot[tage]s a lit[tle] [?] – pass[e]d a

farm or 2 ab[ov]e 1/2 h[ou]r ago in a break of the forest –

fields – no corn out – good flock of

sheep recently shorn in 1/2 h[ou]r ago saw a pl[an]t of cranberry in

flow[e]r – at the beyond stat[io]n at 9 13/.. h[a]d to turn b[a]ck - alight at our stat[io]n

at Hotoka [Kotka] comf[orta]ble rooms

at 9 1/4 br[eak]f[a]st – beaut[iful]

view fr[om] our br[eak]f[a]st r[oo]m wind[ow]

of the fine wood[e]d fjord – Russ[ia]n – our beard[e]d landlord

ver[y] civ[i]l and good look[in]g – the men m[u]ch bet[ter] look[in]g than the

wom[e]n – br[eak]f[a]st boil[e]d milk and 4 boil[e]d eggs and br[ea]d and butt[e]r

they br[ou]ght us butt[e]r b[u]t we h[a]d our own and br[ea]d spar[e]d of

yest[erday]s’ din[ner] – br[eak]f[a]st at 9 38/.. to 10 5/.. – sev[era]l nice

outbuild[in]gs – off at 10 19/..

thin bouldery young forest and sea

(right) coup[le] of hund[re]d y[ar]ds off

ver[y] beaut[iful] – and at 10 27/.. peep

of the sea n[o]t far off (left) – at 10 33/..

(in 14 min[ute]s) ha[ve] lost sight of sea exc[ept]

our lit[tle] glimpse or 2 soon aft[er]w[ar]ds – and a beaut[iful] peep ag[ai]n of sea (left) –

10 40/.. unpainted hamlet 1 st[ree]t of gable-ends to the r[oa]d perh[aps] 200 y[ar]ds

long – the 1st vil[lage] there ans[werin]g Handb[oo]ks’ descript[io]n p[age] 142 it is in [?]

break of the forest, w[i]th nice clean even lit[tle] corn fields

asleep – till at 11 1/2 ver[y] pict[uresque] vil[lage] irregul[a]r vil[lage] of

Kyröla [Kyrölä] and our good stat[io]n – large good one story wood h[ou]se

Stolpebod – stolpe, stoop

Baaum (beam) tree

Hotacka [Kotka]

Lillpero 17 v[ersts]

Kyröla [Kyrölä] 14 v[ersts]

St. P- [Petersburg] 100 2/3 v[ersts]

Viborg [Vyborg] 35 2/3

SH:7/ML/TR/14/0009

Sept[embe]r Mon[day] 16

yellow (b[u]t old paint[e]d) w[i]th whi[te] wind[ow] frames –

ver[y] nice lit[tle] neat new-look[in]g fresh paint[e]d (yellow w[i]th pea green roof)

ch[ur]ch – and 2 or 3

good h[ou]ses w[i]th red roofs

oldish yel[low] paint

I th[in]k – the rest of the vil[lage] hamlet-like

and unpaint[e]d – by irreg[ula]r I mean that

the mid[dle] of the vil[lage] street swell[e]d out into

a sort of large square cont[ainin]g the ch[ur]ch and good h[ou]ses

ver[y] pret[ty] ab[ou]t here – fine br[oa]d expanse of wood[e]d

islandy wat[e]d left – and extens[ive] view of open

wood[e]d count[r]y – woody birchy and firs along our r[oa]d

capit[a]l r[oa]d – and n[o]t hilly today – this last vil[lage] of

Kyröla [Kyrölä] or Krasnoje Selo [Krasnoe Selo] the prett[ies]t we ha[ve] seen

ver[y] nice drive this stage – open birchy Scotch fir forest –

freq[uen]t peeps of the wat[e]r left – nice dry upland forest –

sandy b[u]t r[oa]d good – and mo[re] hilly than bef[ore] – the wat[e]r

left m[u]st be part of the series of lakes fr[om] Viborg [Vyborg]

that join the Ladoga? – plenty of cranberries

al[on]g b[u]t the pret[ty] red birnes n[o]t larg[e]r than our bilberry –

at 1 3/4 at [Pampala] good sm[all] unpaint[e]d lone h[ou]se

in nice dry airy break in the forest

snow plough – a calèche drove up –

just aft[e]r us – off at 1 12/.. – at 1 22/..

(in 10 min[ute]s) nice peep ov[e]r the forest

up fine wood[e]d extens[ive] count[r]y all ar[ou]nd us [crossed word] –

sev[era]l lit[tle] s[u]ch peeps last stage fr[om] the tops of lit[tle] hills –

sandy b[u]t r[oa]d good – at 2 10/.. (right – near) large pict[uresque]

ch[ur]ch on hill – yel[low] w[i]th dark col[oure]d roof exc[ept] East

end cupola roof red – and unpaint[e]d hamlet at its f[ee]t

Krasnoje Selo [Krasnoe Selo] Hotacka [Kotka] 14

St. P- [Petersburg] 87 Pampala 15 1/2

V- [Vyborg] 49 2/3

Helsingfors [Helsinki] 326 2/3

Kyröla [Kyrölä] 15 2/3

Kivinebb 13

St. P- [Petersburg] 71

Sept[embe]r Mon[day] 16

and our stat[io]n (good unpaint[e]d h[ou]se at 2 12/.. might ha[ve] slept

here appar[entl]y ver[y] well) – 2 snow ploughs –

nice hilly wood[e]d op[e]n airy count[r]y all

r[ou]nd ab[ou]t – the vil[lage] nicely plac[e]d on highgr[ou]nd –

off ag[ai]n at 2 1/2 – on ris[in]g the hill, the

count[r]y ver[y] pret[ty] here – fine extens[ive]

view – hamlets and farms scatt[ere]d up and d[o]wn – yel[low] stub[ble] f[iel]ds and green

young rye and good green pasturage – the unpaint[e]d (drab) hamlets and dark pine

wood[e]d hills finely contrast[e]d – b[u]t the hills n[o]t high – mere

rising gr[ou]nds all ar[ou]nd us – all right and left a wide woody plain

pret[ty] well peopl[e]d – no over-flow[in]g populat[io]n anywhere –

in this cold nord – gr[ea]t deal of birch all today –

now at 2 50/.. the wide plain right seems one sheet

of dark pine forest we pass thro’ a lit[tle] unpaint[e]d

scatt[ere]d hamlet or 3 or 4 or a series of scatt[ere]d farms and the villages

num[erou]s hamlet-like appurt[enan]ces – here and ev[er]y where

the wood fences as in S. and N- [South and North] at 3 5/.. cross good

riv[e]r and wood br[idge] and 14 men w[i]th as many one horse

ploughs plough[in]g in one stubble f[iel]d – cattle –

3 lit[tle] corn stacks in a f[iel]d – nice farm[in]g here –

7 nar[row] lines (bet[ween] Stakes or rails or [how] of

so[me]th[in]g like peasholm – plenty of geese here –

abund[an]ce of them at Viborg [Vyborg] in the Baltic near the

2 steams, and on the ramparts and in the st[ree]ts and

ev[er]ywhere – one stage hill this ti[me] and r[oa]d sandy b[u]t good

at 3 23/.. unpaint[e]d scattered hamlet and pret[ty] lit[tle] lake near right

and a bit of sm[all] bould[e]r stone cobble wall fence

the 1st I ha[ve] seen in the north – S.N. [South and North] or here)

Kiviniebb

Pampala 13 v[ersts]

Raiaioki 12 1/2 v[ersts]

St. P- [Petersburg] 58 v[ersts]

Geese

1st cobble st[one]

wall.

SH:7/ML/TR/14/0010

Sept[embe]r Mon[day] 16

at the stat[io]n at 3 33/.. – on highgr[ou]nd – lone

h[ou]se unpaint[e]d body – red roof

good en[ou]gh look[in]g h[ou]se – m[i]ght sleep

appar[entl]y as well as at many of the

oth[e]r stat[io]ns – the hamlet scatt[ere]d ab[ou]t

at a lit[tle] dist[an]ce – the appurt[enan]ces of the

stat[io]n num[erou]s as us[ua]l and hamlet-like

wide wood[e]d plain right and left and surely it the sea we

just see in the extreme dist[an]ce before us (right) –

off at 3 47/.. ver[y] pret[ty] at 3 52/.. lit[tle] steep desc[en]t on to

wood[e]n br[idge] ov[e]r lit[tle] stream that is perh[aps] the boundary?

steep boulder stones pav[e]d asc[en]t – en[ou]gh for our horses to do to get

us up – and good largeish houses – good all the way fr[om]

Viborg [Vyborg] – pret[ty] and hilly and m[u]ch birch – thin

forest, and pasture and cows – yes! (now 4 3/4) it

is the sea, a long sweep, in the dist[an]ce (right) –

the pavé roughish beg[a]n on this side the bridge at 3 52/..

b[u]t we go on the sides (sandy b[u]t ver[y] fine) now and then

ver[y] m[u]ch – and aft[e]r all the pavé is n[o]t so bad

so far – I w[oul]d rath[e]r risk our carr[ia]ge here than

fr[om] Hamburg to Lubeck, or even in the st[ree]ts of

Stockholm where if the pavé is so[me]th[in]g between the

deep chan[nel]s are terrib[le] – now at 4 5/.. the aft[ernoo]n

is dullish – shall we ha[ve] r[ai]n? now at 4 1/4 fine

wood[e]d count[r]y – range of wood[e]d hill left,

closes in (at perh[aps] 7 or 8 inches Eng[lish]) our plain

at the left - low birch wood bushes and young Scotch

firs scatt[ere]d here and to the right (in the dist[an]ce)

Raiaioki

Kivinebb 12 1/2 v[ersts]

Walkiasari 12 1/2 v[ersts]

St. P- [Petersburg] 45 4/6 v[ersts]

Sept[embe]r Mon[day] 16

and to the right in the dist[an]ce the fine sweep of

sea w[i]th a dark line at the b[a]ck of it form[in]g the horizon

lookd[o]wn in front in the dist[an]ce up[on] dark plan

ris[in]g to the horizon – and now 4 25/.. a scatt[ere]d hamlet

unpaint[e]d as us[ua]l – the sea now sweeps 1/2 r[ou]nd us

in the dist[an]ce fr[om] right to en face – we look up[on]

one sheet of forest belt[e]d right and in front by sea –

now towns or vil[lage]s distinguishable – the r[oa]d now

sandy (at 4 1/2) and goodish – the pavé nowhere

prev[ente]d my writ[in]g – at 4 1/2 lose my pen – in tak[in]g

off bon[ne]t m[u]st ha[ve] kick[e]d it out – now at 4 1/2 ver[y]

sandy and heavy –

the birch gen[erall]y green shew[in]g merely a tinge of autumn

here and there – hilly stage – now at 4 55/.. a lit[tle]

town or vil[lage] in sight bef[ore] us (right) w[i]th handso[me]

white, blue-cupolaed, ch[ur]ch – now at 5 first

buckwheat that I ha[ve] obs[erve]d part stand[in]g ripe,

and part cut, ti[e]d up in lit[tle] sheaves, and in stock – and

our road now and for a lit[tle] whi[le] b[a]ck as broad as

3 r[oo]ds (perh[aps] 60 y[ar]ds wide) and we go on the grass or

as well as we can thro’ the sand – and now (5 5/..) a few scatt[ere]d

farmsteads – our r[oa]d this stage the worse we ha[ve] h[a]d in

Denm[ar]k Swed[e]n or Norway, b[u]t still the r[oa]d to Hazelunen

m[u]ch worse in point of sand, and the r[oa]d fr[om] Hamburg to

Lubeck m[u]ch worse in 1833 in point of pavé –

the pavé beg[i]ns ag[ai]n now at 5 10/.. (we h[a]d it fr[om] 3 52/.. to 4 1/2)

b[u]t we keep on the side – on the sand – sev[era]l lit[tle] long nar[row]

stacks w[i]th spruce fir branches laid on the thatch (as obs[erve]d

once before) steep pitch d[o]wn to wood br[idge] x [cross] stream – then ascend to the

town, and at the Station at 5 1/4 at Walkiasari

SH:7/ML/TR/14/0011

Sept[embe]r Mon[day] 16

John stopt at the stat[io]n h[ou]se and we h[a]d s[e]nt Gross to

the douane, and g[o]t the bask[e]ts and cloaks out bef[ore] they ca[me] to say the

carr[ia]ge and all m[u]st go to the place – there at 5 25/.. and A- [Ann] and I there 3/4 h[ou]r –

then ca[me] b[a]ck sided our r[oo]m and A- [Ann] made tea – sat ov[e]r it till 8 10/..

then prepared our bed – on[l]y one in the h[ou]se – h[a]d Grotza at

8 3/4, when we h[a]d g[o]t all ready – and then till now (10 p.m.)

ink[e]d ov[e]r the latt[e]r 2/3 of the last p[age] and so far of this –

Jean w[a]s in desp[ai]r at the th[ou]ght of our stay[in]g all night –

s[ai]d if we d[i]d we must sleep up[on] hay for there were

no beds – and in ca[me] a large bundle of nice soft

hay w[hi]ch now lies in the corn[e]r of our r[oo]m – we ha[ve]

spr[ea]d out the one scant[l]y fill[e]d bed (w[i]th flocks I suppo[se])

on sofa and chairs so as to be wide en[ou]gh for us both –

of the 2 pieces of linen each n[o]t qui[te] clean ab[ou]t 1 1/2 y[ar]d sq[uare] we ha[ve] made

[crossed word] an und[e]r sheet, and shall put our cloaks ov[e]r

us – we ha[ve] the luxury of 4 pillows, and shall do ver[y]

well – we ha[ve] our own br[ea]d and butt[e]r and tea and sug[a]r b[u]t they

br[ou]ght ver[y] fair br[ea]d (wheat) and good butt[e]r, and 4 boil[e]d

eggs and a lit[tle] bowl of milk w[i]th the cream on it for our tea –

the cream made our tea excell[en]t and we sat ov[e]r and enjoy[e]d

it, declar[in]g how well off we were – we h[a]d g[o]t well

thro’ the ordeal of the douane, and congrat[ulate]d ours[elves] on being

in Russia – our b[oo]ks I bel[ieve] were all tak[e]n out of the carr[ia]ge

and look[e]d at; b[u]t, as desir[e]d, I cop[ie]d the list I ha[ve] and the Stockholm [crossed word] date

dat[e]d it Stockholm as really dat[e]d there, and sign[e]d it

= A. [Anne] Lister [sign] and then enclos[e]d it an envelope,

‘de Shibden hall’ and as desir[e]d seal[e]d it w[i]th my own seal

my arms, wr[ote] on the back ‘List of the books belonging to Mrs. Lister’

Sept[embe]r Mon[day] 16

and s[e]nt this by Gross to the Douane to be forward[e]d

to St. Petersburg, I engaging to go w[i]thin six weeks to the

committee of censorship to claim the list – s[ai]d I sh[oul]d

go to Mrs. Wilsons’ – we are thus allow[e]d to ta[ke] all our

b[oo]ks and th[in]gs and go in comf[or]t – How m[u]ch bet[ter] than to the poth[e]r

we sh[oul]d ha[ve] h[a]d if we h[a]d arriv[e]d at St. P- [Petersburg] by the steamer! –

our journ[e]y thro’ Finland h[a]s really been a ver[y]

agreeab[le] and a ver[y] economic[a]l one; and we ha[ve] seen

the count[r]y and the peop[le] – the latt[e]r alw[a]ys civ[i]l and ready to do

their utm[o]st to please, and the form[e]r well-farm[e]d (made

the m[o]st of) and interest[in]g – the r[oa]ds ev[er]ywhere good till

this last stage – and the sand of this noth[in]g to that of Hazelunen

and the for post aft[ernoo]n post pavés of the s[ou]th of Fr[an]ce often qui[te] m[u]ch or more as jolt[in]g and try[in]g to

the springs of a carr[ia]ge then the 43 min[ute]s out 88 min[ute]s

(fr[om] 3 47/.. to 5 1/4) here – this is the 1st ti[me] we ha[ve] fail[e]d

to find good clean beds and sheets at the Stat[io]n houses

and on[l]y once or twice we ha[ve] the peop[le] been w[i]thout

whi[te] (wheat) bread – the lit[tle] steep pitches are too short

to be dang[erou]s – the horses rarely stumble; and a man m[u]st be

a ver[y] bad driv[e]r and totally unaccust[ome]d to this sort of r[oa]ds if

he can[no]t get on comf[ortabl]y ev[e]n w[i]th a heavy Eng[lish] carr[ia]ge like ours ab[ou]t

8 versts an h[ou]r – I nev[e]r obs[erve]d the man or boy (Holcar)

ask for anyth[in]g mo[re] than wh[a]t w[a]s due for the horses

6 kopeks each fr[om] country stat[io]ns and doub[le] that fr[om] towns –

Åbo is a good town – Heslingfors [Helsinki] ver[y] beaut[iful]

cheerful and comf[orta]ble (the Societys’ h[ou]se good hot[e]l) and one

might ha[ve] advantages fr[om] the univers[it]y prof[essor]s (all the

students away – vacance for a fortnight longer) –

Viborg [Vyborg] dull as all fortresses of such sort m[u]st be? b[u]t a good

town and its fjord and situat[io]n beaut[iful] – the cold

SH:7/ML/TR/14/0012

September Monday 16the cold weather is coming – I have had a little chilblain in my right little finger these 2 days or more and Jean has got a little lumbago since Saturday – fine day (tho’ dullish coldish in the morning and dampish in the afternoon) – F56 ¼° now at 10 ¾ pm our 2 rooms have been warmed by a stove; for they were quite comfortably warm on our arrival no pot ath [at] breakfast and we have a tureen for one tonight Raining now at 10 ¾ pm

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emperornune · 4 years ago

Text

The powers of the creator god.....

a) makes you do sloppy actions.

b) make you use curse words.

c) keep you from talking.

d) make you horney.

e) waste your time with nothing.

f) cast ilusions.

g) change sounds.

h) lies easily.

i) back-stabbs evil.

God,

can make you feel anxious

put you in a hurry

give you amnesia

organize chanse meetings

folows you everywhere

keeps track of you

remembers everything quietly

watches everything you do

has power you can never have.

Elohim uses Powers,

loud good music

loud creepy music

strange perverted music

alows funky wrong demon music

has a bad sense of humor;

goofy, ethnic, & dry dark lhp music

The Creator has used Powers,

loss of concentration

awareness blocks to perception

spelling errors

typoe's

wrong use of a cofee machine

sexual interjection during sex

brainwashing use of language

murder stories

child rape stories

electrocution voices

brain slowing

bad jokes.

Deity Powers,

amnesia

selective amnesia 5+ basic + varieties

speech streaming

word poping

idea realignments

focus grabing

forgetfulness

panic all kinds of short long panic

ilusions

matter popping

minor teleportation

temporal distortions

memory blocks

fear pills

social engineering

GOD,

a) can make you do sloppy actions.

b) make you use curse words.

c) keep you from talking.

d) make you horney.

e) waste your time with nothing.

f) cast ilusions.

g) change sounds.

h) lies easily.

i) back-stabbs evil.

Yahweh has used Powers,

slopy nervous system

typoe's, mispeled words

butchered English gramar

mistaken behaviors stubed toes

interupted plans

disapointing mechanical operations

mesed up clothes

ensuring poor improper planing

thought stoping

thought rearanging

bad ideas. @USCCB

God can cause,

erectile dysfunction

altered vision

panic hurried anxiety

hot flashes

itchy skin

mimic radio transistor signals

strange noises

The Deity has used Powers,

stomach buterflies

nervous panic feelings

lme naratives

visual obfuscations & ilusions

bad food choices

interupted chanse encounters.

Alowed human person's to try and become a deity with futile uninteligent side-show tricks, embarasing themselves.

Work with me now.

The God is a Liar.

We can save the Earth from all human & Deity related problems.

We can begin a life awakening for humankind on our planet.

It is the sciense known as the Hundredth Monkey bio-convergense.

Reject the Dirty God.

CREATOR :

a. controls people.

b. speech streaming overides.

c. slightly evil & interfering.

d. causes stubbed toes.

e. makes acidents hapen.

How to Win :

1. drink cold Aquafina.

2. Be self aware of everything you say.

3. Write down good notes.

The God Deity :

A. meses with humans daily.

B. is making your life very hard.

C. can make you pee or vomit.

D. causes selective amnesia.

E. typoes - mispeaking.

F. reduces your perfection with manual overides.

#lgbtq🌈#tbcperris #children #health #biblestudy #purpose #truthful #buddhism #school #medialiars #All Lives Matter #adolescents #teenagers #adults all ages #mothers #fathers #relatives

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captcarolmarvl · 6 years ago

Photo

original characters [2/?] | star wars universe | attributes chart | aria lenahki

alignment: light side | nuetral | dark side

#ocappreciation #oc: aria lenahki #star wars original character #star wars oc #starwarsoc #original character #original character edit #original character graphic #myedit #mygraphic #mine #yeah i have another oc but different fandom #what are you gonna do?

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greencrusader13 · 7 years ago

Text

All Were Innocent Once: Chapter 1 - Cirak Kiht

The first chapter in a Star Wars: The Old Republic fic I’m working on, set several years before the Galactic Cold War and based on my various characters. Hope you enjoy.

With each passing second Cirak Kiht grew more frustrated. Just outside the window their high-rise apartment the traffic of the Smuggler's Moon hummed through the skylanes, but that was not the reason he lay awake. It wasn't the ominous red lettering of the eviction warning on the holopad lying on an end table a few meters away. Even the loud arguing of other neighbors didn't bother the cathar teen. They'd get by; Kihts always get by, he'd been told once years ago.

No, it was the final few seconds until a broken promise. Cirak, lying on his back, held the chronometer in front of his face, close enough that his rapidly waning vision wouldn't misconstrue the letters. The flickering blue light strained his eyes, and the remaining time forced him to remain awake.

5…4…3…

He didn't know what he expected. That the man would barge through the front door, his pockets lined with credits? That somehow, despite all odds, he'd have pulled off one more daring stunt, one that would effortlessly earn Cirak's forgiveness for leaving them with nothing more than food money and a hold-out blaster?

2…1…

Cirak lifted his gaze from the chronometer with one final fleeting glance. The metal door leading inside would just need to roll open. Everything would be okay.

The chronometer buzzed in his hands, but Cirak could only hear his father's final words before boarding his ship: "If I'm not back in a month, I'm not coming back." It hadn't been the first time he'd heard those words, but every other time he'd been back in a week or two. Now…

Cirak tossed the chronometer to the floor where it continued vibrating until he seized it up once more. His younger brother Tyar – still just a little kid – slept a room over. Cirak knew the damage was done, though: somehow Tyar always knew when something happened, even when Cirak moved quieter than the wind. He'd know that Cirak was still awake, that he'd spiked the chronometer, and, most of all, that their father hadn't returned.

Kihts always get by. It was just another deception. Their father wasn't ever coming home again. The last job for a while ended up being the last job period. Cirak shut his eyes, inhaling as he clenched his fists. Perhaps, in some ways, this was more of a mercy than when Mom died, the illness that took her being long and drawn out while she grew continually weaker. Tyar was so young back then. He had no memories from time before she'd gotten sick, let alone the visits to her wretched hospital room or Dad agonizing over the seemingly unpayable bills. How would he react knowing that their father wasn't coming home?

Cirak leaned his head back over the edge of the couch and refocused on the traffic. He'd been promised a speeder, as had Tyar for when he grew older. Both of them would be green to stand out against the crimson light of the streets below. Not the dull green-brown color of filth either, but real viridian that gleamed. Now it was just another thing that would never happen.

It was the twi'lek's fault – Nuromo Bek, or something. They'd spoken while on his father's ship, their voices low while Tyar played with the astromech droid in the background. "It'll pay well," he'd heard Nuromo say, "You won't have to do any more for some time with this kind of cash. Maybe even an apartment on Coruscant where your boys'll be safer. The Republic-"

He hadn't caught the rest of Nuromo's pitch, as it was then that Tyar had thrown his model of a VX-5 Ricker at the back of Cirak's neck, the sound of which abruptly ended their conversation.

Sitting up, Cirak swung his legs out over the couch and picked up his pack from off the ground. Five blaster packs for the hold-out pistol and a credit chit that would get them by for another week lay inside. Anyone with a blaster could make some kind of living if they had to on Nar Shaddaa, even if they were only a teen.

He aimed the blaster at the wall ahead of him, and then jerked it up in imitation of the recoil while mouthing the sounds it made. His father usually took him to the landfill for practice on vermin, his hands on Cirak's shoulders while coaching him on proper technique. They'd find scrapped electronics down there as well, and Cirak would practice anything from reassembling broken appliances to hotwiring speeders; anything to survive. Soon, he figured, he'd have to do the same for his little brother. Tyar was barely old enough to be able to hold a blaster, but it would be better to learn early than die young.

"Cee?"

Cirak turned his head towards the small voice in the darkness. Though Tyar's black fur concealed him in the shadows, he could vaguely make out his younger brother's silhouette against the open doorframe of their bedroom. He clutched one of his model starfighters close to his chest, the last one their father had brought home from one of his jobs. The lights of a passing taxi illuminated a line across his brother's face, revealing his narrowed red eyes.

He sat up, looking over his little brother. "Hey kid. Did I wake you?"

Tyar shook his head. "Nuh-uh."

Pursing his lips, Cirak let his head fall back against the back cushion. "Go back to sleep then," he said, closing his eyes. He knew that he'd have to have this conversation eventually, but not in the middle of the night. Not before he'd had the chance to process it himself.

Footsteps pattered against the ground, and Cirak felt the couch shift as Tyar added new pressure to it. His head slumped against Cirak's shoulder. "I can't sleep," Tyar said, "Something doesn't feel right, like something's wrong."

That's because something is wrong, Cirak thought, opening his eyes. "Tyar, I said go back to bed."

Despite the harshness in Cirak's voice, Tyar held his ground, shaking his head in mute defiance. For an instant Cirak thought of smashing Tyar's toy, anything to get him away right now, but he knew he'd never forgive him for it, not after learning the reason for his anger in the first place.

"Cee, do you feel it too?"

"Sure kid."

"Like, it feels really really scary."

Never had he nor their father understood Tyar's…feelings. They weren't premonitions, not exactly, but almost like he could feel the ripples across a pond before anyone else had seen the water disturbed. Tyar couldn't tell the winning lotto numbers for a given night, though admittedly their father had tried numerous times in partial jest, but always in smaller, stranger ways. He could tell when there'd been a speeder crash some several blocks down well before seeing the wreckage, and somehow he could always sense what they were feeling even if neither he nor their father had said a single word.

Probably like he can now. Cirak bit down on his lower lip as he focused on the words that needed saying, hoping he'd find some way of making them come easier. He waited, but even after a prolonged silence he could only taste blood in his mouth, a stream of which so small that it barely even registered.

"Tyar," he started, "Come on-"

Yelling penetrated the metal walls of their apartment, silencing him as the sudden cacophony of voices overwhelmed the previously-still night. It couldn't be any Imps, as stories said they operated with silent precision, and the voices sounded far too violent for the normally diplomatic Republic soldiers. It had to be one of the swoop gangs, some members of which Cirak knew lived in the building. Perhaps they'd angered another group, or maybe infighting dogged them now. Cirak gripped the blaster again and braced his arm over Tyar.

Flashes of red light followed soon after as the two rival gangs unloaded on one another. Sounds of blaster-fire screamed down the hall. Cirak had expected only a few shots, like usual, but they continued far longer. Every now and then he'd hear an anguished cry and the thud from a collapsing body. Tyar shrunk closer to him, his hands gripping at Cirak's shirt.

The entire apartment suddenly rattled as an explosion rang out from upstairs. More screaming followed. This wasn't some hit. It was gang warfare.

Cirak pointed the blaster at the main apartment door, readying himself for anything. Anyone coming in would get shot: gang member, old lady, or even a Hutt himself. All he had to do was pull the trigger. His breath shook, and he fought the shaking in his hand that would inadvertently worsen his aim. Rapid heartbeats joined the din in his ears, and it took all his concentration to not turn and run into the other room with Tyar in tow.

The door clanged as a small object hit it, the sound only barely audible above the chaos. A shout followed, muffled, but he could still vaguely make out the words: "Det bomb!"

He dove, pressing Tyar close to his chest as they hit the ground. A bright flash and intense heat filled the apartment in an instant. Their door flew inwards, toppling their couch backwards and sending it crashing out through the window. Both vanished into the black of Nar Shaddaa's depths. The madness outside seemed even louder now, and more visceral.

Ringing drowned out his thoughts. Wind buffeted the back of his head, and he only then realized that his feet had swung out over the edge. Any further and he would've been launched out as well. His throat burned, and as sound returned to his ears he realized what he was calling. "Tyar!" Cirak squeezed. The body against his own shook, but he could hardly tell if it was his own shaking or not.

Cirak inched forward, wincing in pain as he scraped his knees over broken glass and set his brother in front of him. The boy managed to keep his balance, but only barely. In Tyar's arms lay the hold-out blaster. How did we not lose that?

But there wasn't any time for senseless pondering. The violence continued further ahead down the hall, but far lessened compared to moments ago, the fire rate coming slower than before. Cirak glanced at the hole in their apartment. They were vulnerable without the security of their home. At best the gangs would kill them on their way out after searching their home for goods, looting the place in the process. More likely, though, they wouldn't; the slave trade provided far better credits than loot.

"We need to go." Cirak pulled on Tyar's shoulders, leading him into a nearby corner. "It's not safe here like this."

Tyar shook his head and balled up his fists, looking even more childish despite his attempts otherwise. "No! What about Dad? What if he comes back?"

"Tyar-"

"We can't leave-"

"Tyar!" Cirak snapped, wrenching the blaster from his hands. Tyar's eyes went large as his protests faded. A puzzling calm settled in the space between them, paradoxical to the chaos outside, and in that final isolation Cirak knew Tyar understood.

"Grab onto my shoulders and don't let go no matter what, you hear? No matter what." Cirak bent down and hoisted his little brother onto his back. Mercifully Tyar complied without further objection, and he fell totally silent all save for his muffled sobs.

Cirak glanced down at the hold-out blaster again and raised it at the wall. It was real this time, not just target practice. He began his approach slowly, creeping up to the right side of the door. The blasts were falling quieter. Time slipped away faster with each waiting breath. Cirak felt his heart pounding in his throat as though it were trying to rip itself out. Heat and tears blurred his vision. Terror constricted his every muscle and screamed at him to not run, that leaving the apartment would get them killed in the crossfire.

Yet there were no other options. Kihts always get by. He took one final deep breath…

Cirak wheeled around the corner, tearing down the hallway as fast as his legs would carry him. It was a straight shot to the exit, the door being at the end only a few dozen meters away. Tyar weighed him down, slowed him. It didn't matter. He still ran.

Someone was already in the hall. Cirak scanned him over quickly. A rodian wearing a dirty green jacket leaned against the wall, blaster at his side, likely a lookout. His fingers flicked impatiently over his holster, and he looked down the length of the hall expectantly. The rodian noticed Cirak just as he'd finished looking over the gangster. "Chuba!" he yelled in Huttese, reaching for his weapon.

But Cirak aimed his sooner, discharging a shot before the gangster could even raise it from his holster. The bolt struck him in the stomach, and he doubled over with a grunt. His body hadn't even fallen over entirely before Cirak shoved his way past him and through the exit door. Over his shoulder Cirak heard yelling, both in surprise and anger, but he couldn't make out the words. It didn't matter what they said anyways.

The roars of speeder motors greeted him as he stepped out into the open night air into the familiar chaos that was Nar Shaddaa. In their eagerness the gangsters had left their airspeeders running, either thinking that they'd be out quickly enough that they need not bother shutting down the engines, or that no one would be stupid enough to try and steal them.

Spotting a violet two-seated convertible parked towards the edge of the terrace, Cirak ran to its passenger side and lifted Tyar into the seat before sliding over the hood back to his own. "Strap in," he added, though Tyar had already done so. He ran his hands over the control wheel, letting himself steal a moment of enjoyment over his first solo ride, even if it was poisoned by circumstance, then flicked the repulsor to life. With a violent jolt the machine rose off the ground.

The airspeeder's hood suddenly sparked as a projectile glanced off the metal. Behind them more of the gang emerged from the apartment complex, blasters in hand and firing liberally.

"Tyar get down!" Cirak barked. His little brother ducked, shielding the back of his head with his hands. Cirak turned around in his seat and began firing wildly. Crimson bolts shot out in every direction, but none found their mark. Then, to his horror, their father's blaster gave a defeated click.

"You remember how to reload right?" Cirak said, tossing it into Tyar's lap. "I need you to do that while I drive."

But Tyar wasn't listening. He'd pulled his legs up against his chest, huddling himself close to them while muttering quietly, his words drowned out in the discord around them. His eyes met Cirak's for a brief moment, and he could see the whirlwind of emotions spinning within their red. Terror, confusion, pain…

Rage.

Tyar suddenly stood up in his seat. Cirak fumbled at his brother's sleeve, trying to pull him back down where he'd be safe, but the child seemed suddenly filled with an indomitable strength, and he shrugged off Cirak's grasp with ease.

"LEAVE US ALONE!"

Energy boomed from Tyar's hands, a force so powerful that Cirak was thrown back in his seat. The repulsor suddenly shut off, and they slammed back into the ground. They skidded back, spinning madly while metal screeched as the speeder lurched towards the terrace's edge where it came to a stop. Their vehicle teetered precariously, their backs to the traffic roaring above and below them in Nar Shaddaa's endless dark. Ahead the gangsters seemed to have stumbled as though shoved by an invisible figure, some even having been knocked prone. The shooting had all but ceased.

Cirak stared down at his brother, barely aware that his mouth was hanging agape. "Tyar? What did-"

Sudden pain flared along the left side of his ribcage, and Cirak cried out. The smell of charred flesh filled his nose as he heard the sizzling from where the bolt had struck him. His arm went numb, replaced instead by the searing pain. One of the gang members had risen again – or maybe he had just avoided falling in the first place – and resumed his attack. More bolts glanced off the metal, while others seemed to just barely miss them altogether.

Lightheaded and feeling his vision going, Cirak fumbled with the repulsor switch again, flicking it from off to on again. The machine failed to rise, grounded, dead. "Come on," Cirak groaned, trying the switch repeatedly. "Come on, come on…" He bared his fangs and slammed his fist down. "Blast it come on!"

The repulsor sparked to life with a hum, and the speeder lurched up from off the ground. Cirak wheeled them back around, now facing towards the traffic lanes, and then accelerated them into the open air. A few more shots of blaster fire followed them, but then it ceased. The chaos was now behind them, replaced by the ambience of their speeder's rumbling motor distant in the back of his mind.

Cirak's hands shook as he tried to balance the control wheel, the pain in his side now unbearable. His eyes drooped. The calm blue and red lights on the speeder's dash blurred together, none of its text discernable anymore. Cirak inhaled, acutely aware of how shallow his breathing felt. Stay awake, he told himself, Just 'til we land somewhere safe. Stay awake…stay…

He slumped forward into the control wheel, pitching the speeder downwards with a sudden kick. Tyar screamed beside him as the force pushed him back against his seat. The last thing Cirak felt was the rush of wind as their speeder careened downwards into the abyss. Then all went dark.

#swtor fanfiction #fanfic #swtor oc #cirak

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tuann-nguyen · 3 years ago

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Week 7: Face Filters - “beauty enhancement” and racism.

Instagram face filters and augmented reality.

We all use Instagram filters on a regular basis, but have you ever wondered how they work or what the amazing science behind them is? The Instagram filter's operation is based on a facial identification technology that distinguishes bright and dark pixel patterns as distinct areas of the face. The picture within the camera's frame is mapped out using a series of coordinates that indicate regions such as eyes, mouth, and other facial characteristics. The filters are then aligned with these coordinates to guarantee that virtual items stay in place even when the user is moving about and not standing in one spot (but they have to make sure that nothing covers their face). That is why everyone in Covid 19 wears masks, making it harder for the technique to recognize their faces. In seconds, a user may try on many designs before picking one, capturing a selfie in photo or video format, and forwarding it to a friend. Some filters just give virtual cosmetics, allowing users to try out various cosmetic styles. Others utilize unusual embellishments such as flower crowns, dog snouts, and fluttering butterflies, as well as modifying the face below. According to Word Stream, the Instagram network has seen over 40 billion photographs and videos uploaded since its inception, and 500 million users utilize the "stories" function on a daily basis. Dressing up like a smartphone's doppelganger is no longer just for fun; it's become a worldwide fad. To explain those huge numbers, users may quickly achieve their contemporary beauty ideal – which was previously considered to be unachievable – is now instantly reachable for the majority with the easy flick of a touchscreen.

The question is why did Instagram create this new feature for all of their users?

To begin with, whether you're a regular user or a KOL, you may flaunt your brand's individuality. Custom AR filters mirror the tone of your brand, whether it's lighthearted, bright, or strange and ominous. They also frequently represent the distinctive aspects of your company, allowing you to stand out from the crowd. I recall seeing numerous Vietnamese local firms utilizing this functionality on their Instagram stories last year. They construct it first, then re-up all of the other user's articles that employ their filter. With businesses including Warby Parker, MAC Cosmetics, Ray-Ban, and NARS Cosmetics, Instagram has launched an AR shopping function. It allows customers to try on brand products like as eyeglasses and shoes to check if they fit and are fashionable without having to go to the store. In reality, while this is still not as complete as trying on real-life garments, it is a significant step forward in the filter business. Second, incorporating your brand's logo or symbol into an AR filter can help to raise brand awareness significantly. Nowadays, you don't have to worry about your design vanishing because your IG account has a special section called Effect Gallery where everyone can see it. Furthermore, when individuals think about that filter and decide to use it in their story, your business will be exposed to all of their followers. There's a "try it" option on the bottom left-hand side of the screen while seeing an AR filter for Instagram Stories. There are no restrictions on employing filters, so your business may be promoted for an extended period of time without incurring any costs.

References:

Olafson, K 2020, “How to Make Your Own Instagram AR Filters: A Step-by-Step Guide,” Hootsuite Social Media Management, viewed <https://blog.hootsuite.com/instagram-ar-filters/>.

Ibáñez‐Sánchez, S, Orús, C & Flavián, C 2022, “Augmented reality filters on social media. Analyzing the drivers of playability based on uses and gratifications theory,” Psychology & Marketing, pp. 559–561.

#mda20009

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hxrling · 6 years ago

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ARE WE EVER GETTING ANY KIND OF CONFIRMATION????

SHOULD WE JUST ASSUME THEY'RE DATING??? IS THIS A HUGE JOKE AND HE'S JUST TUGGING OUR STRINGS?

I NEED ANSWERS

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hanhphan1011 · 3 years ago

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Week 7: Instagram face filters

Instagram face filters and augmented reality

Using Insta filters daily but have you guys ever wondered how it works and what is the magical technology behind it? The functionality of the Instagram filter is based on a facial detection technique that recognizes patterns of bright and dark pixels as separate sections of the face. The image within the frame of the camera is mapped out with a sequence of coordinates that identify these locations as eyes, lips, and other features. The filters are then aligned with these coordinates to ensure that virtual elements remain in position even when the user is not standing in one certain place and moving around (but they have to make sure that nothing covers their face). That is the reason why in Covid 19, everyone wears masks so which makes it difficult for the technique to identify their face. A user can try on numerous designs in seconds before selecting one, snapping a selfie in a photo or video format, and emailing it to a friend. Some filters just provide virtual cosmetics, allowing users to experiment with different cosmetic looks. Others use quirky decorations – flower crowns, dog snouts, flying butterflies – while also changing the visage underneath. According to Word Stream, Over 40 billion photos and videos have been shared on the Instagram platform since its conception and 500 million users use the “stories” feature daily. With this kind of scale and usage, dressing up in the mirror image of a smartphone is no longer just for fun; it has become a worldwide phenomenon. In order to give an explanation about those massive numbers, user can easily reach their fashionable beauty ideal – which was previously thought to be impossible – becomes instantaneously attainable for the masses with the simple swipe of a touchscreen

In May 2019, Instagram announced that anyone can build custom AR filters using its Spark AR Studio platform. Currently, it is available for Mac and Windows. It’s also easy for other Instagram users and followers to find these filters to apply. Anyone visiting your brand’s Instagram profile can click the new face icon.

The question is why did Instagram create this new feature for all of their users?

Firstly, whether you are a normal user or KOL, you can show off your brand’s personality. Custom AR filters reflect your brand’s tone, especially if that tone is fun, colorful or weird and gloomy. They also often reflect the unique parts of your brand, helping you stand out from your competitors. I remember that last year, I saw many Vietnamese local brands use this feature on their IG story. They first create that and re-up all other user's stories who use their filter. Instagram has started an AR shopping feature with brands such as Warby Parker, MAC Cosmetics, Ray-Ban, and NARS Cosmetics. It allows users to try on brand items from eyeglasses to shoes to see if they fit or are trendy or not without going to the store to try them on. In fact, this is still not 100% complete like trying on real-life clothes, but it is also considered a new step in the filter industry. Secondly, when Incorporating your brand’s logo or symbol into an AR filter, it is helpful a lot in increasing the brand’s awareness. Nowadays, you don't have to worry about your design disappearing because there is one separate part called Effect Gallery displayed in your IG account where everyone can find out. In addition, when people consider that filter and decided to apply your filter in their story, all of their followers will be exposed to your brand. Viewing an AR filter for Instagram Stories, there’s a “try it” button on the bottom left-hand side of the screen. There is no limitation for using filters so your brand can be spread plenty of time without any paying fee.

References:

Olafson, K 2020, “How to Make Your Own Instagram AR Filters: A Step-by-Step Guide,” Hootsuite Social Media Management, viewed <https://blog.hootsuite.com/instagram-ar-filters/>.

#mda20009 #week 7

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preservationandruin · 8 years ago

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Oathbringer Liveblog, Part Three: Chapters 83-87

Onward! I woke up this morning very sick, so who knows how coherent this will be, but I’m well-stocked with a canister of cough drops so at least there’s that.

The attack begins, and then shit just keeps happening and does not stop happening until the end of the part, holy shit.

The epigraphs note that the Elsecallers were appointed guardians of “the ruby nicknamed Honor’s Drop” so there’s that.

Adolin POV! Apparently he spent most of the night awake worrying about Shallan. He’s deeply unsettled at the thought of storming the Palace--which was his home--and he feels like something is Wrong. Given that this is Adolin Kholin, whose intuition is scarily accurate, I’m going with Something Is Definitely Wrong.

He realizes what it is and summons his Shardblade--because what was wrong was that he hadn’t talked to it yet.

“I don’t have my mother’s necklace,” he said, “or any of the other traditions I used to follow. I never really needed those. I’ve only ever needed you.” He took a deep breath. “I guess...I guess you used to be alive. The others say they can hear your screaming if they touch you. That you’re dead, yet somehow still in pain. I’m sorry. I can’t do anything about that, but...thank you. Thank you for assisting me all these years. And if it helps, I’m going to use you to do something good today. I’ll try to always use you that way.”

Anyway, we get a small reminder that yes, he did stab Sadeas through the eye with his belt knife, and then he changes into his Kholin uniform and heads downstairs. Elhokar’s talking to Azure, deciding that he can’t really hang her as an usurper because she did a good job, and she’s not sure how to take that. Welcome to dealing with Elhokar, Azure!

Also, Shallan’s outfit has made Adolin realize he has a thing for women in trousers and a coat, which is great. And relateable. Like? A lady in a well-tailored long coat? Yes.

Anyway--they’re ready to go. Shallan will try to deal with the Heart of the Revel. Kaladin’s entrusted with getting Aesudan and Gavinor to safety. Adolin notes that the highlords they’ve recruited are taking this in stride, because their reaction is basically this:

City taken over by evil spren, voidbringers, the everstorm--okay, the king is back with knights radiant and the Highmarshal is a lady. Sure. Why not.

And then, of course, the Voidbringers attack. They’ve got to get to the palace now--they can’t hold the walls against a full army attack, they need the help of the Kholin army in Urithiru. This is gonna be one hell of a day for everyone involved.

Adolin also hears some of the guardsmen talking about how Kaladin saved them. And then, uh....what the shit:

A strange thumping sounded, and Adolin took it as another set of drums--until a head crested the top of the wall nearest them. Storms! It had an enormous stone wedge of a face that reminded him of that of some greatshell beast, though its eyes were just red spots glowing from deep within. The monster pulled itself up by one arm. it didn’t seem quite as tall as the city walls, but it was still enormous. Fused buzzed about it as it swatted along the wall--spraying defenders like cremlings--then smashed a guard tower.

WONDERFUL. WE’RE UNDER ATTACK BY KAIJU AND THIS IS NOW PACIFIC RIM.

Anyway, Kaladin just. Deflects a boulder. He says that they’ll distract the Fused, and seize the Sunwalk--the best way to the Oathgate platform--if they can. The group of normal-er soldiers charge upward, led by Elhokar, Adolin, and Azure. Adolin is fretting over Elhokar.

We note that Azure’s blade doesn’t burn out eyes, but it does make people go ashen-grey. She figured out how to make another sword like Nightblood, although I hope to high heaven she found a better command than “destroy evil.” Honestly.

Adolin notes, again, that Azure has taken off her cloak and wrapped it around her left arm halfway. I bet she’s doing something with BioChroma, even if it’s just protect me.

“That’s going to be crimson to break,” Azure said. “We’ll fight for every inch.”

I! LOVE! NALTHISMS OFF OF NALTHIS!

Unfortunately, the Voidbringers have breached the gate. That’s bad.

They found a room full of guards who turned traitor to Aesudan and were captured! Not all of the guards turned evil--and they want to help, although Adolin points out that they’ve been locked in a room for weeks. They are confused--they say it’s only been a few days.

Oh, that’s interesting. It’s definitely been weeks. Something’s up with time in that room. Either there was a worldhopper with the ability to do slow-bubbles like Marasi in there and a lot of metal, or there are other time-control powers in the cosmere.

Adolin had the distinct sense that he could hear something. Over the din of the fighting, the shouts of men echoing against the walls. A quiet voice that somehow cut to his soul. Passion. Sweet passion.

This is bad enough without Odium or one of the Unmade getting off on it

The wood, however, started shaking before they could strike. Adolin backed up, presenting his Blade in Windstance by habit, ready to strike at what came through. The door opened, revealing a glowing figure. “Stormfather...” Adolin whispered. Kaladin shone with a powerful brilliance, his eyes beacons of blue, streaming with stormlight. He gripped a glowing metallic spear that was easily twelve feet long.

Kal!

They were smart--Shallan created illusions that Kal and the other bridgemen had fallen in combat, and the Fused left, thinking the threat was over. Elhokar says he’ll head for the royal quarters, going to find out what happened to Aesudan and this whole city. Kal says he’ll go with Elhokar, telling Adolin to take Skar and Drehy and push through so Shallan can deal with the Unmade.

Adolin gives Kaladin the Bridge Four salute. That’s...that’s so good. Shallan is worried about the Unmade, how they got into her head--Adolin says they’ll face it together, just like last time.

Kholinar is falling. Adolin is desperately clinging to the hope that they can save the city, if they only get the Kholin troops in in time.

Also, Adolin and Skar and Drehy have a running line going of how many times Adolin “owes” them for saving him; Skar says he isn’t keeping count anymore.

An Epigraph:

The enemy makes another push toward Feverstone Keep. I wish we knew what it was that had them so interested in that area. Could they be intent on capturing Rall Elorim?

This finally--finally--gives us a hint of where Feverstone Keep is. Rall Elorim is in Iri, near both the Reshi Isles and the outlying Aimian islands.

Over to Kaladin. They’re heading up; Elhokar seems rather desperate, and Kal is getting Syl to scout. Also, Kal’s platoon from the wall just....followed him here. Kal just collects people.

Beard is actually wearing a glyphward, despite being an atheist. The guards are about to fire on them, but Elhokar yells at them, and they react to “a distant voice” and move.

I’m really, really worried about what is happening with Aesudan. Not so much for her--I suspect that she’s too caught in this to really be extracted--but for little Gavinor. There are statues of the heralds, with one missing--Ash has been here, too.

Aesudan is singing. There’s something familiar about the song, even to Kaladin. She’s in a room without guards. I really don’t like this. Kaladin and Elhokar enter the room.

Cut over to Shallan. She knows that the “heart” isn’t actually in the shape of a human heart. She presses her hand into the heart, trying to connect to it like she did with the Mother.

We cut back to Kaladin and yall know my opinion on quick perspective cuts like this.

Aesudan is acting like nothing is wrong, which is almost more terrifying than anything else. Elhokar asks where Gav is; she says he’s “playing with friends.” There are lavish meals only partially eaten throughout the room; there’s decayspren on it, but the food isn’t rotting. There’s a pile of musical instruments in a heap; what the fuck is going on.

Syl is helping direct Kaladin.

Here a child--two or three years old--huddled and trembled, clutching a stuffed soldier. Several spren with soft red glows were picking at him like cremlings at a corpse. The boy tried to turn his head, and the spren pulled on the back of his hair until he looked up, while others hovered in front of his face and took horrific shapes, like horses with melting faces.

Kaladin reacted with swift, immediate rage.

a) of course the Alethi have stuffed soldiers instead of stuffed animals b) those spren are doing WHAT to a CHILD i will KILL THEM ALL c) That sounds...like Shallan’s drawings from back when the Mother was in Urithiru

Of course Kaladin, the Ultimate Mom Friend, will not stand for this. Kal stabs the spren--Syl is deeply shaken by that--and Gavinor is sniffling. He’s wearing a little uniform someone please protect this baby child forever.

“I continued your father’s work! I found the secret, Elhokar. Spren, ancient spren. You can bond with them!”

SHE DID WHAT.

It... this was on purpose. She fucking bonded one of them on purpose. Fucking hell. That’s...that’s so stupid.

In the dim light of the royal chambers, Aesudan’s eyes glittered. Then started to glow a deep red. “Storms!” Elhokar said, stepping back. Time to go.

Well, shit is cascading from bad to worse at the speed of light here. Gavinor is so terrified that he scoots away from both Kaladin and his father;

Elhokar whispered something to his son. Kaladin couldn’t hear the words, but the child stopped weeping. He looked up, blinked away tears, and finally let his father pick him up. Elhokar cradled the child, who in turn clutched his stuffed soldier. It wore blue armor. “Out,” Kaladin said. “But...” The king looked toward his wife. “Elhokar,” Kaladin said, gripping the king’s shoulder. “Be a hero to the one you can save.”

Okay Gavinor has a TINY STUFFED KHOLIN SOLDIER THAT HE CLINGS TO, PROBABLY TO MAKE HIM FEEL SAFE, THAT’S SO CUTE.

She’s talking about “Yelig-nar” now, the power she’s harnessed. She’s also starting to summon black smoke, and so Kaladin starts noping the fuck out of there even faster.

Kaladin has taken a look at the situation, a look at the pay grade he’s at, and decided that he is not paid enough to deal with a demon warlock queen. I fully believe he would pick up Elhokar and Gavinor and just sprint out of there if that was an option.

Back to Shallan, getting almost drowned in the Heart of the Revel’s sheer expanse of power. It’s the shit that’s been messing with her the whole time--being ruled by emotion, turning into another person with each moment.

She regains control of herself, and the heart melts away--but I don’t think it’s dealt with yet. That was too easy. Shallan also seems stunned. She walks in, looks in a mirror--

Someone else stood in the mirror. A woman with black hair that fell to her waist. She wore archaic clothing, a sleeveless, flowing gown that was more of a tunic, with a simple belted waist. Shallan touched her face. Why had she put this illusion on? The reflection didn’t mimic her motions, but pressed forward, raising hands against the glass. The reflected room faded and the figure distorted, and became a jet-black shadow with white holes for eyes. Radiant, the thing said, mouthing the words. My name is Sja-anat. And I am not your enemy.

Back to Kaladin and company noping out of there as fast as humanly possible.

He manages to push back the queen’s guard--but then hears the Voidbringers, lower down on the stairwell. Fuck.

He’s about to start fighting them---about to do what he has to--and then he sees that the person he’s fighting--would be Sah. His friend.

Oh shit that means Moash is probably here too, and Elhokar’s here, fuck.

Over to Shallan!

“What are you?” They call me the Taker of Secrets, the figure said. Or they once did. “One of the Unmade. Our enemies.” We were made, then unmade, she agreed. But no, not an enemy! The figure turned humanlike again, though the eyes remained glowing white. It pressed its hands against the glass. Ask my son. Please. “You’re of him. Odium.” The figure glanced to the sides, as if frightened. No. I am of me. Now, only of me. Shallan considered, then looked at the keyhole. .By using Pattern in that, she could initiate the Oathgate. Don’t do it, Sja-anat pleaded. Listen, Radiant. Listen to my plea. Ashertmarn fled on purpose. It is a trap. I was compelled to touch the spren of this device, so it will not function as you wish.

Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit, that’s bad. That Oathgate is their way out. And I don’t think Sja-anat is lying. Also--what’s the son she mentions? That’s interesting.

Kaladin sees the fighting--the queen’s guard, convinced that they are following orders, the parshmen, fighting for their freedom, the wall guard terrified for their city, the freed guards fighting for their king.

And he freezes up. There is no right side and no wrong side. None of these people deserve death. None of them.

Sah kills Beard. Noro kills Jali, another Parshman Kaladin knew. Elhokar is stabbed and drops his Shardblade instead of dropping his son. Kaladin is screaming, begging them to stop. Sah dies to Noro. Noro dies to Khen.

Elhokar had fallen to his knees. In one arm he held his terrified son, in the other hand he held...a sheet of paper? A sketch? Kaladin could almost hear Elhokar stuttering the words. Life...life before death. The hair on Kaladin’s neck rose. Elhokar began to glow softly. Strength...before...weakness.... “Do it, Elhokar,” Kaladin whispered. Journey. Journey before... A figure emerged from the battle. A tall, lean man--so, so familiar. Gloom seemed to cling to Moash, who wore a brown uniform like the parshmen. For a heartbeat the battle pivoted on him. Wall Guard behind him, broken Palace Guard before. “Moash, no...” Kaladin whispered. He couldn’t move. Stormlight bled from him, leaving him empty, exhausted. Lowering his spear, Moash ran Elhokar through the chest.

MOTHERFUCKER

TWO AND A HALF BOOKS. I RELATE TO ELHOKAR. I SEE HIS JOURNEY AND HIS STRUGGLE AND I GO THAT, THAT IS SOMEONE LIKE ME, THAT IS ALSO SOMEONE WHO COULD BE A RADIANT. HE’S SO BAD AT HIS JOB BUT GOD, HE KNOWS, HE KNOWS.

KALADIN COMES AND THE SHADOWS GO AWAY. HE COMES INTO HIS OWN, HE STEPS DOWN. HE WANTS HIS CITY SAFE. HE WANTS HIS WIFE AND SON SAFE. AT THE END OF THE LINE HE DROPS HIS SWORD RATHER THAN DROPPING HIS SON AND HE STARTS. HE STARTS SAYING THE WORDS. FINALLY, FINALLY.

AND THEN ALL OF THAT DEVELOPMENT, ALL OF THAT INVESTMENT AND EMOTION AND HUMANITY IN ITS BROKEN, MESSY, FLAWED STATE IS RIPPED AWAY, TORN OUT LIKE A HEART GETTING PULLED FROM A CHEST.

MOASH FUCKING KICKS A THREE-YEAR-OLD AWAY SO HE CAN KEEP KILLING HIS FATHER. FUCK THIS.

And then he turns to Kaladin and fucking gives the Bridge Four salute, spear dripping with Elhokar’s blood.

Aesudan descends, eyes red, crystal piercing her skin like carapace, her chest glowing with a gemstone instead of a heart. One of her guard picks up Gavinor. And then Drehy and Skar and Adolin show up, driving them back.

Okay but does someone get Gavinor he’s been tormented for weeks and his father was just killed in front of him please, someone, get that child.

Adolin shoves away the emotion of seeing his dead cousin. Grieve later, grieve later. They need to survive.

And then Shallan reveals that the Oathgate is trapped. Adolin says to try the Oathgate anyway. They have no other choice. Civilians are swarming the Oathgate, asking for passage. They’re dying.

Trust is not mine, the figure in the mirror said. You will not give my children a home. Not yet. Shallan pushed the blade into the lock. It melded to match Pattern’s shape. I will show you, Sja-anat said. I will try. My promise is not strong, for I cannot know. But I will try. “Try what?” Shallan asked. Try not to kill you.

Shallan engages the Oathgate.

Epigraph from a windrunner:

My spren claims that recording this will be good for me, so here I go. Everyone says I will swear the Fourt Ideal soon, and in so doing, earn my armor. I simply don’t think that I can. Am I not supposed to want to help people?

This sounds like someone dealing with the problem Kaladin just faced--what do you do when you want to help everyone? I wonder--you get your sword when you realize why you want to fight, who you want to protect. Do you get your armor when you learn how to protect yourself, how to do what you need to do despite the pain?

I kind of hope so. For Kaladin’s sake.

We’re over at Dalinar. The people still think he’s sick--that he’s had heart troubles, or fatigue. He’s worried that the moment he slips, the moment he loses control, he’ll be crushed by what he did at the Rift. Navani is fretting about him, obviously.

Apparently, due to Dalinar’s condition, Taravangian got to make first obvious contact with the Azish. That’s not good--it’ll help his plan to supplant Dalinar. Fuck.

And they get a message from the spanreed: Kholinar fell. The Wall Guard is imprisoned. No word about the king, Adolin, or the Radiants, and the message cuts off.

Oh, fuck. Sja-anat was telling the truth.

Over to Adolin, apparently. He, and Shallan, and I assume everyone there, isn’t where they wanted to be--and Adolin falls into something that feels like water, but is beads.

Oh, fuck, they’re in Shadesmar.

Azure pulls Adolin back onto the platform.

Hovering in the air were two enormous spren--they looked like stretched-out versions of people, and stood some thirty feet tall, like sentinels. One was pitch-black in coloring, the other red. He thought them statues at first, but their clothing rippled in the air, and they shifted, one turning eyes down to look at him. “Oh, this is bad,” someone said nearby. “So very, very bad.” Adolin looked and found the speaker to be a creature in a stiff black costume, with a robe that seemed--somehow--to be made of stone. In place of its head was a shifting, changing ball of lines, angles, and impossible dimensions.

Adolin, meet Pattern. Uh, again. He freaks out, backs up, and nearly runs into Syl.

Another spren stood beside her, with ashen brown features thatseemed to be made of tight cords, the thickness of hair. She wore ragged clothing, and her eyes had been scratched out, like a canvas that someone had taken a knife to.

That’s...not a spren I know. And I don’t think it’s Azure’s. Is it...

I have an idea for who it is, but it’s a bit far-fetched.

Anyway, it’s just Kaladin, Adolin, Shallan, Azure, and the three spren on the Oathgate platform.

Azure looked up at the sky. “Damnation,” she said softly. “I hate this place.”

And part three ends with a resounding WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT ENTIRE SEQUENCE, WHAT THE HELL

#oathbringer spoilers #stormlight archive liveblog #to be unmade you have to be made #adolin kholin is a ray of light #radiant elhokar or bust #i am in love with highmarshal azure

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cathrynstreich · 5 years ago

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Commercial Real Estate: Industry Practitioners Forecast a Strong Recovery

The COVID-19 crisis has had a significant impact on industries and markets across the globe, and that includes commercial real estate (CRE) in the U.S. From industrial to multifamily to retail to office space, all segments felt the shockwave on some level, with some areas influenced more than others.

According to a survey from the Counselors of Real Estate, a commercial trade group for CRE designees and an affiliate of the National Association of REALTORS®, COVID-19 stands to be the leading concern in commercial real estate for the foreseeable future.

The survey found that several areas would be impacted:

Leisure and hospitality, retail, air travel and construction will experience a slow and partial rebound into 2022.

Reduced migration will hurt demand for residential, hospitality and retail real estate.

Many classic retail formats and retailers will not recover, requiring redevelopment.

Forced adoption of technology will lead to the construction of smarter buildings.

NAR has shared a few resources for industry practitioners in the commercial space to help them navigate the changing landscape.

Here’s what the industry has to say:

“The most dramatic impact is in the hospitalities—they’ve been crushed, and people are questioning if they’re going to have discretionary income,” says Kevin Taub, vice president of the Property Owners Association of New Jersey (POANJ) and a sales associate at Marcus & Millichap. “Average daily occupancies have been dropping dramatically.”

While major companies—for example, Disney, Taub remarks—may be able to take a hit, with the precautionary measures that are currently required to slow the spread of COVID, others may not fare as well.

“They have to do incredible social distancing and take massive efforts to make sure that everything is clean—that cost is going to be prohibitive,” Taub says.

Cleanliness is a significant factor when it comes to coronavirus impact in the CRE space. According to Thomas Bisacquino, president and CEO of the Commercial Real Estate Development Association (NAIOP), personal safety became a priority overnight at the start of the outbreak, shifting the landscape for all building owners “in the blink of an eye.”

“People are now saying, ‘I need to social distance and I want to know how well the building is sanitized,” says Bisacquino. But for building owners whose tenants are lagging behind on rents, meeting those cleanliness standards becomes a massive financial roadblock.

Delays in Rent Payments

“We are seeing a seismic shift,” says Bisacquino. “Many tenants had their revenue stream curtailed rather quickly and severely, so their ability to pay rent has become an issue.”

How have tenants navigated the new financial strain imposed by coronavirus-related shutdowns? Several practitioners report challenges with tenants being able to pay their rents, but also flexibility among landlords and various programs in place to help alleviate the burden.

“Building owners and landlords are offering financial incentives to tenants, along with payment plans, to work with them during the crisis,” says Sharif Hatab, a licensed residential and commercial real estate associate in New Jersey and Pennsylvania for Berkshire Hathaway HomeServices Fox & Roach.

Bisacquino reports that landlords and property owners are doing everything they can to preserve their relationships with existing tenants, and for many that means offering rent deferrals, but not abatements.

“Whether it’s for 30 or 60 or 90 days, that’s up to the individual tenant and landlord,” says Bisacquino, adding that he’s now seeing a drop off in deferrals as the economy slowly improves, as does cash flow.

To preserve existing long-term landlord and tenant relationships, says Chris Dendtler, partner at TRC Capital Partners and landlord at 1001 McKinney in Houston, the defer-and-extend strategy creates “a real win-win.”

“Landlords care about term, and where tenants are willing to extend their leases now for three to five years, landlords are likely to agree to free rent or deferred rent immediately as a concession,” says Dendtler. ” Flexibility in lease terms is also attractive to tenants who don’t know what their business will look like 12 months from now. That means lots of one-year extensions and even new tenants looking for one-year terms with minimal tenant improvements.”

A Change in Office Trends

When it comes to office buildings, an entirely new challenge has emerged—work from home became the norm with stay-at-home orders, but the trend could linger even post-COVID.

“The widely reported expectation is that office tenants will allow greater numbers of their employees to work from home for the foreseeable future,” says Dendtler.

However, some industry practitioners are not so sure the remote work trend will flip the office space industry on its head. Instead, what may change is the office footprint and layout, with businesses continuing to offer brick-and-mortar locations.

“It remains to be seen whether tenants will, in turn, seek more office-intensive, rather than open, floorplans—a trend which could more than offset lost demand from the increased adoption of remote work,” says Dendtler.

Bisacquino agrees, stating that while some individuals enjoy teleworking, many also prefer the social interaction that comes with offices, and with social distancing measures in place, that might mean tenants are looking to increase their space, not get rid of it.

“It’s going to change how offices will be configured, but it’s not going to diminish demand,” says Bisacquino.

An Industry-Wide Impact

As the commercial segment trickles into nearly every aspect of everyday life, it becomes almost impossible to determine how the coronavirus has impacted and will continue to influence individuals from owner down to tenant and then down to consumer.

Retail was hit hard, says Taub—especially mom-and-pop shops.

“Everyone who had some kind of liquidity stockpiled had to burn through it to preserve the business,” says Taub, who is leaning on his eight-year tenure as an agent, as well as his banking background, to leverage his expertise in all asset classes so he can navigate these new waters.

It’s not all negative news, however. In the industrial segment, says Taub, “the need for industrial space has been exploding because of huge online purchasing happening.”

A survey from the Real Estate Economic Forecast, published by the Urban Land Institute (ULI), states that the industrial sector will lead all property types in rent growth from 2020 through 2022, averaging 2.2 percent per year.

Overall, ULI predicts that hotels will be hardest hit, with the average occupancy rate dropping 40.1 percent in 2020, while retail closures will lead to an availability increase of 300 basis points to 11.6 percent in 2020, continuing to rise in 2021 before plateauing in 2022.

Taub says while the multifamily sector was hit, it was not as dramatic as people expected, depending on asset class.

“As you go down the socio-economic scale, the impact was greater,” says Taub. “Asset Class A was minimally impacted on valuations, and on B it was about a 5 percent drop on valuations—C was slightly higher than that.”

Recovery and Long-Term Outlook

While it’s difficult to predict what’s to come as multiple states are currently seeing a spike in coronavirus cases in their advanced reopening phases, the industry remains hopeful.

According to ULI, commercial real estate prices are projected to fall by 7 percent in 2020, which is relatively low compared to the 13.6 percent and 20.8 percent price decreases during 2008 and 2009, respectively.

Additionally, according to a report from CommercialCafe, a commercial real estate blog, online traffic for commercial real estate search keywords has increased since March. Since the first week in May, there have been six consecutive weeks of near-continuous growth, with an 11 percent increase between May 31 and June 6.

“The commercial space was strong prior to COVID and I see it recovering quickly after,” says Hatab. “The economy seems to be leveling off closer to pre-COVID numbers, and the commercial space normally follows the economic trend.”

Bisacquino reminds the industry that the U.S. is currently dealing with a health crisis and not a financial crisis.

“It really is a very different kind of scenario from the 2008-2009 downturn, and that’s why a lot of folks are relatively bullish with their outlook and remain optimistic.”

Taub agrees, stating that the commercial segment is ahead of the curve in technology, which is helping to weather the storm. However, he says recovery will largely be dependent on regional factors.

“It’s going to be a regional kind of situation as states work through their second waves,” says Taub. “Unlike the last economic downturn, this was not caused by a lack of liquidity or inability of banks to output funds; this was caused by a stimulus outside the economic world so there are pent-up funds for acquisitions and plenty of opportunistic funds.”

Liz Dominguez is RISMedia’s senior online editor. Email her your real estate news ideas to [email protected].

The post Commercial Real Estate: Industry Practitioners Forecast a Strong Recovery appeared first on RISMedia.

Commercial Real Estate: Industry Practitioners Forecast a Strong Recovery published first on https://thegardenresidences.tumblr.com/

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villainship · 7 years ago

Text

[On the theme of “Home”]

A cross-post from the Pillowfort.io SWTOR community ~ I filled out a Q&A for 2 of my characters:

> Tarskal > Kirryl

[Full Text]

Tarskal

> Where was your character born?

A pretty well-developed, urban planet within the Empire; it wasn't THE political hub that Dromund Kaas or Korriban would be, but commerce was good and it wasn't decimated by the war the way Balmorra is.

> Where did your character consider home while growing up?

Well he had a "good home" with two parents of middle/upper-middle class means and "dignified" employment. He didn't particularly care about it.

> Where does your character consider home now? / Where would your character like to call home?

Not a one-answer kind of person, but he spent a long time on Korriban and appreciated it when he was young. When he came into money (from looting many bodies & doing dirty work on his way to Lordship, of course) he bought a gaudy house on Nar Shaddaa for hosting trashy parties.

When Cianna asked him if he would want to consider her secret hideout-home on Manaan to be /their/ home together, he accepted.

Eventually they also shared a home on Voss to raise their kid(s).

> How did your character feel about leaving home the first time they did it?

uuuuuuh he was pretty keen. 8); Wasn't sorry his parents were dead -- but he gets bored in one spot and was ready to go meet some fellow Sith.

> Does your character get homesick?

It takes him a very long time to get to that point. Eventually: yes, sort of. (I think when he’s an old man, he starts to understand.)

> What was your character’s very favorite place they’ve lived?

Nice cottage-home on Voss; private & cozy with a big yard, places for the Large family pets to roam, 2 kids and a wife, the wife's garden, and lots of big game to go out and hunt on a whim, PLUS a bunch of fun-colored weirdos (who like to get high and experiment with the Force) for neighbors.

> What makes a house feel like a home for your character?

A giant statue of something ridiculous.

> Has your character ever had their home destroyed?

(I'm not actually far enough in the game to have seen this part of the story, but my g/f Dani knows)

> They say you can’t go home again. Has your character ever tried to return to a place that used to feel like home after leaving it behind?

He sure did go back to Korriban. No doubt it felt very different.

> Some people say home isn’t a place so much as a person. Who feels like home to your character?

That's definitely C i a n n a <3 :') !

... He doesn't have a comfortable relationship with the concept of "love", or with using the word, but he wouldn't hesitate to admit that she's a life-constant who he always feels good returning to. It is really a better/more accurate conceptualization of their relationship than just saying that they are "in love". MAYBE THEY ARE...-! But still.

> How does your character like to decorate their home?

Here's an example of the vibe when he's collaborating with Cianna, which greatly increases the amount of taste+class in their shared homes.

... On his own: tacky animal products/weird taxidermy, gilded nudes, and glaring neon holo-images as far as the eye can see. A shitpost of a living space.

> Does your character prefer living alone or with other people?

He's very social. This doesn't have to translate to round-the-clock sharing his space, but usually it does (when there's someone willing to put up with him). If he lived alone, he'd have a stream of guests during the times he wasn't out & about.

> Does your character prefer urban living or rural life or something else?

Some of everything. He can be flexible, and mostly just values variety. A spaceship was a decent option (being able to move his house around to different environments).

Kirryl

> Where was your character born? / Where did your character consider home while growing up?

I HONESTLY DON'T KNO. 8) She could be a native of Mirial. . Although I've thought it might be interesting if she were born on Corellia or Coruscant.

In any case, she doesn't think back much about it.

> Where does your character consider home now?

. . No-. . where. . . ? It sounds depressing to think of it like that, but I'm pretty sure she feels that it's a good sign to have reached a zen-like detachment about such a thing.

In a practical sense, she lives out of a ship and appreciates the refuge of her bedroom.

> Where would your character like to call home?

Also nowhere, really. She's a big fan of Tython, but not the local or general jedi politics. Alderaan is pretty but even MORE overly political. Most of all I think she fell in love with Yavin IV -- it just isn't a very 'home-y' place to stay.

> How did your character feel about leaving home the first time they did it?

Tiny child Kirryl was very young and (secretly) very scared to go with the Jedi. She didn't enjoy it. On the other hand, she knew a bit about what to expect and understood it to be a great honor according to her family, so she wasn't even a little bit resistant.

> Does your character get homesick?

In the past I am absolutely sure she did. It seems like another thing she would shrug and say that she's "gotten over". Of course that's a lot easier when you don't connect closely to any particular place anymore.

> What was your character’s very favorite place they’ve lived?

Haha. Makeb? (Temporarily.) It was an exciting place and an exciting time.

> What makes a house feel like a home for your character?

IF she were to try to put together a home (such as the apartment she shares on Coruscant for conducting business there), she'd always feel better with a meditative object in the space. Something that makes her feel connected to the Force and/or to the Jedi legacy. Also: a comfortable purple bed.

> Has your character ever had their home destroyed?

It's possible. If she really DID live on Corellia as a child, then. . . . yes.

> They say you can’t go home again. Has your character ever tried to return to a place that used to feel like home after leaving it behind?

It's against her instincts to dwell on personal past situations. She prefers to move always forward.

> Some people say home isn’t a place so much as a person. Who feels like home to your character?

WELL she does have to admit that T7 and C2-N2 are a big comfort. Possibly her biggest soft spot is for these loyal droids.

Also, generally, the Jedi Order is her 'home' more than anything else is.

> How does your character like to decorate their home?

Serene, a bit minimalist, but vibrant with the hints of color she includes. A single work of art on a wall, a planter of flowers here and there (placed sparingly to highlight the elegance of the plant life). . A featured holocron or carving or glowing crystal in a place of prominence. Her opinion is that the pursuit of "focus" doesn't mean things need to be cold or lifeless. In fact that seems counterproductive to her.

> Does your character prefer living alone or with other people?

Just her and the droids, honestly. That'd be her first choice. Roommates aren't a huge challenge for her; Elenir and Arameis are respectful and responsible on Coruscant. . . But being alone is just so relaxing.

> Does your character prefer urban living or rural life or something else?

A semi-urban situation with plenty of nature integrated & around it.

#Tarskal #*Kirryl #raikari post

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