#Band Sealing Machine

[ometochtli2rabbit]

13.0.12.4.7

kan[4] MANIK'/KIEJ [deer] - lajun [10] MUWAN

galactic tone: stabolity/measure

sun sign: deer/black/west

be of service to others - MAYA

nahui [4] - MAZATL [deer]

Tonatiuh | Tlaloc

tecuzolin (quail)

lord of the night: Piltzintecuhtli

trecena [4]: Itzlacoliuhqui

x: nahui[4] - toxcatl

According to www.mayanmajix.com, silence is a spiritual experience for the deer, today's day symbol. Here are songs that mention SILENCE/SILENT:

Depeche Mode: Enjoy the Silence & Leave in Silence

PJ Harvey: Silence

Charley Pride: Silence

Taylor Swift: You Are in Love

Tiffany: Silence

Boy George: More Than Silence

Debbie Gibson: Silence Speaks ( A Thousand Words)

Gregg Allman: Silence Ain't Golden Anymore

Delerium ft. Sarah Mclachlan

Oasis: Sitting Here in Silence (on My Own)

Ani DiFranco & Utah Phillips: The Silence that is Me

Tangerine Dream: Silence on a Crawler Lane

The Chicks: Easy Silence

Bastille: The Silence

Alice in Chains: Hollow

Seal: Silence

Glen Campbell: The Rest is Silence

Billy Squier: Break the Silence

Berlin: Tell Me Why

(the) Melvins: Pure Digital Silence

Van Morrison: Hymns to the Silence

Barbra Streisand: Love Dance

KRS-One: A Moment of Silence

Uriah Heep: Love in Silence

Dream Theater: The Silent Man

Green Day: She

Florence + The Machine: I Will Be

The Alan Parsons Project: Silence and I

Queensryche: Silent Lucidity & Breaking the Silence

Cyndi Lauper & Billy Joel: Code of Silence

Chris Cornell: Silence the Voices

Soundgarden: One Minute of Silence

Duran Duran: You Kill Me with Silence

Mazzy Star: Mary of Silence

Willie Nelson: Color of Sound & Suffering in Silence

Iron Maiden: Out of the Silent Planet & Run Silent Run Deep

Simon & Garfunkel: Sounds of Silence

The Cure: The Loudest Sound

Metallica: Wait

New Order: Atmosphere

Official Motörhead: Silence When You Speak to Me

Nirvana: Endless, Nameless

John Lennon & Yoko One: Two Minutes Silence

David Bowie: Sons of the Silent Age

[sonicindustry]

A Complete Guide to Band Sealing Machine Spare Parts and Maintenance

Efficiency and reliability are key factors in the packaging industry. Your equipment must perform perfectly, whether you are sealing hundreds of pouches an hour or running a production line with high capacity. To ensure that your band sealing machine runs smoothly, it is essential to have the correct spare parts available.

The band sealing machine, especially the continuous band sealing machine, is used in many industries including food, pharmaceuticals and agriculture. It requires maintenance and, sometimes, replacement of critical parts.

What is a Band Sealer Machine?

A machine seals thermoplastic material using a heated-band mechanism. It is widely used to seal plastic bags, pouches and sachets in a uniform and fast manner.

The continuous band sealing machine, the most popular version, is ideal for sealing bags without stopping. The machine is designed to seal bags continuously, with little or no manual handling. It's ideal for high-volume packaging.

The importance of spare parts in band sealing machines

As with any industrial machine a band sealer is dependent on several components working together. These parts will degrade over time due to wear. This can affect the performance. It is important to have the right spare parts on hand for long-term performance.

Early replacement of worn out parts prevents:

Downtime: Even a minor component failure could stop your entire packaging line.

Seals of poor quality: Worn belts and heaters may lead to seals that leak or cause contamination.

Repairs that are expensive: Replacing small parts early can prevent you from having to deal with large-scale problems later.

Common band sealing machine spare parts

In order to ensure consistent performance and reliability, manufacturers and maintenance teams must keep these band sealing machine spare parts in stock:

1. Teflon Belt (PTFE Belt)

The Teflon Belt is a critical component in a Band Sealer Machine. The belt passes through the heating elements and transfers the bag when sealing. These belts can burn out over time or wear down.

Cracks, discoloration or slippage are all reasons to replace.

Pro tip: Keep 2-3 Teflon belts on hand for large-volume operations.

2. Heating Elements (Heating Rods or Coils)

Heating element generates the temperature required for sealing. The failure of joints or partial seals can be caused by a weak or broken heater.

Uneven sealing and no heat are signs of failure.

Maintenance tip: Regularly clean the heating area to prevent carbon accumulation.

3. Rubber Pressure Roller

These rollers exert pressure on the heated area to create a tight seal. The bag can be distorted or seal improperly if the rollers are worn out.

Wear: Seals that skip or have uneven pressure

Tip Lubricate the roller mechanisms every few weeks to ensure smooth operation.

4. Blower or Cooling Fan

After heating, the cooling system solidifies the seal. The seal can deform or even open if this system fails.

Check: Inspect the fan housing regularly for dust and debris.

5. Temperature and PCB Controller

The control board controls temperature, speed and operating settings. The machine can overheat if damaged or stop working unexpectedly.

Solution : Always have a spare PCB or temperature sensor on hand.

Preventive Maintenance Tips

Regular maintenance will not only increase the life of your continuous band sealing machine but also improve seal quality and machine security. Keep your machine in top condition with these tips:

Daily Clean: Wipe belts and heating components at the end each shift.

Weekly checks: Check all moving parts and tighten any loose screws. Clean the fan filters.

Monthly maintenance: Check the belts, rollers and electrical connections. Replace worn out parts immediately.

Spares Log: Keep a log of the critical spares you need and their stock level.

Where to buy genuine band sealing machine spare parts

It's important that you only use original spare parts purchased from reputable suppliers. Non-compatible or substandard components can cause machine breakdowns and poor performance.

You can buy spare parts at:

Authorized dealers for the band sealing machine

OEM manufacturers

Online suppliers who are trusted and have a proven track record in selling high-quality components

Verify that the parts are compatible with your model of Continuous Band Sealing Machine.

Why quality spare parts are important

Even a small component like a Teflon belt worn out or a loose roller can decrease sealing efficiency and increase waste. By investing in high-quality spare parts, you can:

Maintain production speed

Ensure professional packaging quality

Avoid last-minute repairs and costly delays

Safety and packaging regulations

Conclusion

The reliability of your continuous band sealing machine, whether you are a small food producer or a packaging line manager in an industrial setting, is crucial. Regular maintenance and use of genuine spare parts is essential to keep your Continuous Band Sealing Machine running at its best.

Plan ahead, keep spare parts on hand, and practice preventive maintenance. Small investments in quality parts can save you from major headaches later.

[tanishkapackagingmachine]

Tanishka Packaging Machines, based in Rajasthan, is a trusted name in the packaging industry, specializing in advanced biscuit and soap wrapping machines in Rajasthan and band sealing machines in Rajasthan. These high-performance machines are designed to meet the specific needs of industries requiring precise and efficient packaging solutions. Whether you're in the biscuit manufacturing sector or producing soaps, Tanishka’s biscuit and soap wrapping machines ensure secure, high-quality packaging that enhances product presentation and protection. Additionally, their band sealing machines are engineered for durability and speed, making them an ideal choice for sealing products quickly and effectively. Known for their innovation and reliability, Tanishka Packaging Machines has earned a reputation for providing top-tier packaging equipment across Rajasthan, delivering unmatched quality to businesses in need of superior packaging solutions.

[musicforastylesrestaurant]

The Class Of 2010.

masterlist || ask my anything <3

authors note - this was originally meant to be published on the 22nd for my blogs two year anniversary but works has been so hectic lately so it’s getting published now 🙈 so here it is, enjoy lovelies. 🩵

word count - 5.4k

in which, it’s been fifteen years since you and harry left school, so when the invitation of a high school reunion comes through the door, there’s no doubt that you’ll both be attending, especially since school was where the two of you met.

You’re in the passenger seat, the windows rolled down just enough to let in the early evening breeze. The sun is sinking low, spilling golden light across the dashboard, and Harry’s got one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the center console, fingers occasionally brushing against yours. The radio hums softly in the background, but neither of you is really listening.

“So,” Harry says, glancing over at you with that familiar crooked smile, “what are the odds someone brings up the fire alarm incident again?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Please, they’ll definitely bring it up. That was your legacy, remember? Not the music. Not even winning Battle of the Bands. Just… pulling the fire alarm in the middle of Mr. Weller’s physics exam.”

Harry snorts. “To be fair, I did it for love.”

“For your stomach. You only wanted to get out early so we could hit the chip van before it left.”

He grins. “Same thing.”

You roll your eyes but you’re smiling. The kind of smile that’s effortless, familiar. The kind that feels like home.

The school reunion invite had arrived in the post two weeks ago, sealed in a navy blue envelope with gold script on the front. You’d both opened it together at the kitchen table, your fingers brushing against his as you unfolded the paper. Neither of you even had to ask the other—you knew right away you were going.

“Seventeen years,” you murmur now, eyes on the road ahead. “Feels like yesterday and also… a million years ago.”

Harry nods. “I still remember the day you sat next to me in geography. You had that chipped black nail polish and those bright pink earphones. You pretended not to notice me staring.”

“I knew you were staring,” you say, laughing. “You were so obvious.”

“Obvious? Me? I was mysterious. Brooding.”

“You were sweaty. You were always sweaty after lunch break.”

He chuckles and reaches over to squeeze your hand. “Still can’t believe I convinced you to date me. Year nine me was just… a ball of nerves in a hoodie two sizes too big.”

“You were charming. And sweet. And you gave me your Twix bar every Wednesday.”

“That was strategic,” he says. “A calculated romantic investment.”

You glance at him, then down at the steering wheel where your hands are now laced together. “Best investment you ever made.”

He smiles softly, his thumb brushing against yours.

The school comes into view just as the last of the light turns amber. You can see the old brick building at the end of the drive, windows glowing warmly, the car park already half-full. A banner hangs across the entrance: Welcome Back, Class of 2010

“Still nervous?” Harry asks, slowing as he turns into the lot.

“A little,” you admit. “It’s weird, seeing everyone again. Like stepping into a time machine.”

“We’ve got nothing to prove,” he says, easing the car into a space near the front. “You and me—we made it. That’s what matters.”

He puts the car in park, the engine idling for a second before he cuts it. Then he looks over at you with that look that hasn’t changed since he was sixteen—soft, full of affection, like you’re still the only person in the room.

At the double doors, a few familiar faces come into focus. Just beyond the entrance, standing in the soft glow of the lobby lights, are three teachers—your old teachers. Mr. Kemp, still towering and grey-haired. Mrs. Braddock, now with glasses and an even warmer smile. And Mr. Fenley, the drama teacher who once insisted Harry audition for the school play and was probably half-responsible for kickstarting his confidence.

As you approach, Mrs. Braddock blinks, then lights up. “Oh my goodness! Look who it is!”

Mr. Kemp lets out a low whistle. “Styles and (YSN) Still together.”

Harry smirks and lifts up his hand showing off his wedding band. “It’s Mr and Mrs Styles now, Sir.”

“I’ll be damned.” Mr Kemp smirked.

“You two were inseparable,” Mrs. Braddock says, her eyes flicking between you both. “I remember catching you sneaking out of class once just to sit under the big oak tree together.”

Harry laughs. “We weren’t exactly subtle, were we?”

Mr. Fenley steps forward, clapping Harry lightly on the shoulder. “You still singing?”

“Every day,” Harry says. “Still pretending I’m in one of your school plays.”

“I knew you’d go far,” Fenley says proudly. Then to you, “And you… you always kept him grounded. I remember saying to Braddock, ‘That boy’s got stars in his eyes, but thank god he’s got someone to hold his feet to the ground.’”

You smile, heart unexpectedly full at the recognition, at the warmth in their voices. “He’s not that easy to keep grounded, you know.”

“She’s lying,” Harry says, squeezing your hand. “I’d follow her anywhere.”

Mrs. Braddock presses a hand to her chest. “Still romantic, I see.”

“You have to be,” Harry says, glancing at you. “Seventeen years in and I still feel like we’re just getting started.”

The teachers exchange soft, knowing glances—those same looks they used to give in the corridors when they saw you two pass by, side by side, teenage versions of yourselves wrapped up in something that already felt big.

“Well,” Mr. Kemp says, clearing his throat. “Go on in. Everyone’s in the assembly hall. You’ll recognise more faces than you think.”

You nod, offering a grateful smile. “Thanks. For everything. Back then, and now.”

“Oh my goodness,” she says, one hand flying to her chest as she finally notices the baby bump your sporting. “Look at you! Are you expecting?”

You laugh softly, placing a hand over your bump. “Guilty.”

Mr. Kemp leans in a little, eyebrows raised. “Is this your first?”

Before you can answer, Harry’s already grinning. “Second, actually.”

You nod, the warmth in your smile growing. “We’ve got a four-year-old at home. He’s with his nan tonight, probably eating too many biscuits and refusing bedtime.”

Mrs. Braddock lets out a joyful laugh. “Four? You two have been busy.”

“Well, we started young,” Harry teases, nudging you gently. “Year nine sweethearts, remember?”

Mr. Fenley chuckles, clearly charmed. “A toddler and another on the way? You’ve definitely been promoted to full adulthood.”

You smirk. “Feels that way. I measure time in snack requests and how many times I’ve stepped on Lego barefoot.”

“I always knew you’d be brilliant parents,” Mrs. Braddock says warmly. “You always had that… calm, steady way about you. Even when Harry was setting off fire alarms.”

Harry gasps dramatically. “You said you’d let that go!”

Mr. Kemp snorts. “She never forgets anything. Especially not that.”

Everyone laughs, and for a moment, it’s as if the years haven’t passed at all—just the same voices in a slightly different setting. But then you catch the way Mrs. Braddock looks at you again—at the hand resting on your bump, at Harry’s arm lightly around your waist—and you can tell she sees the whole picture now. Not just who you were, but who you became.

“I’m so happy for you both,” she says gently. “Really. It’s lovely to see something that started in these halls turn into something so real. So lasting.”

Harry leans over and kisses your temple, just a soft press of lips that says everything without needing words.

“Would you like to see a picture?” You quiz, biting the inside of your cheek.

“Oh yes please!l

You tap the screen, and your Lock Screen lights up—a photo you took on a lazy Sunday morning just a couple of weeks ago. Harry is lying on the living room rug, hair a little messy, wearing his reading glasses and grinning up at the camera. Curled up on his chest, your four-year-old is fast asleep, one hand tangled in his dad’s curls, the other still loosely holding a toy rocket. They both look completely at peace, their features so alike it’s almost comical.

You hold the phone out, and the teachers all lean in at once.

“Oh my word,” Mrs. Braddock gasps. “That’s Harry in miniature!”

“Same nose,” Mr. Kemp says, pointing. “Same curls. Same ridiculous eyelashes.”

Harry chuckles. “He didn’t get those from me. Those are all (Y/N£).”

“Oh please,” you say, nudging him. “He even tilts his head the same way when he’s pretending he’s not doing something cheeky.”

Fenley lets out a soft laugh, his eyes still fixed on the photo. “There’s something really special about that. It’s like watching the story continue. A whole new chapter.”

Mrs. Braddock gives a little sniff, her hand pressed gently to her chest. “He looks so loved.”

“He is,” Harry says simply, his voice soft. “He’s the best part of both of us.”

You glance over at him, your heart swelling at the way he says it, no hesitation, no overthinking. Just truth.

“And he’s going to be the best big brother,” you add, brushing your hand over your bump again.

“Well,” Mr. Kemp says, clearing his throat, “if he’s anything like either of you were in school, I suggest investing in a very large toy box… and a sturdy first aid kit.”

You all laugh, the sound bright and warm in the cool evening air.

“Right then,” Mrs. Braddock says, dabbing at her eyes playfully. “You’d better head inside before we start asking for baby name spoilers.”

Harry takes your hand again, thumb rubbing gentle circles against your knuckles as you tuck your phone away.

The moment you and Harry step through the doors into the assembly hall, the soft hum of music and conversation wraps around you. The place is almost unrecognisable in the best way—fairy lights strung along the ceiling beams, round tables dotted with candles, a photo board in one corner showing snapshots from school trips and form photos. A DJ is tucked into the corner where the old stage used to be, playing mellow throwbacks that instantly make you feel sixteen again.

As the doors close behind you, a few heads turn.

There’s a brief hush—a flicker of recognition. Smiles bloom across familiar faces. A few people nod, a couple wave, and someone across the room nudges their friend and gestures subtly in your direction.

But it’s warm. Not like you feared. No judgment, no awkwardness. Just the kind of quiet admiration reserved for couples people sort of always knew would make it.

You squeeze Harry’s hand gently. “Well, that wasn’t as terrifying as I thought.”

He leans down slightly, murmuring near your ear, “You say that now. Wait until someone pulls out year seven form photos.”

You laugh under your breath, the sound soft and familiar, and he gives your hand one last squeeze before nodding toward the bar set up near the back of the hall.

“Drink?” he asks.

“Yes, please,” you say with feeling. “I’ve been craving lemonade all day.”

He grins. “Still on the lemonade kick?”

You nod. “With exactly three ice cubes. Not two. Not four.”

He chuckles. “The bump knows what it wants.”

The two of you make your way over, weaving through little clusters of old classmates catching up in small bursts of laughter and “oh my god, you!”s. It’s strange and surreal, like walking through a dream of a former life, but with Harry next to you, it somehow feels safe. Solid.

At the bar, Harry lets go of your hand for a moment to place the order. “One lemonade,” he says, glancing back at you with a wink, “three ice cubes, or I’ll never hear the end of it.”

The bartender smiles as he nods and then turns to Harry. “And for you?”

“Just a beer, thanks.”

You watch as the drinks are poured—your lemonade fizzing cheerfully in the glass, ice cubes clinking just right—and Harry nudges your elbow gently when he passes it to you.

“Perfect?” he asks.

You take a sip and sigh in exaggerated satisfaction. “Heaven.”

He raises his beer slightly. “To reunions. And surviving high school with our dignity mostly intact.”

You clink your glass against his bottle, the sound light and easy, and lean your head on his shoulder just for a moment.

🫶

It’s a little later in the evening now, and the soft buzz of conversation and low music fills the room like a warm blanket. You’re standing at the buffet table, eyeing the sausage rolls with suspicion—your cravings have been erratic lately, but these might actually make the cut. You take a small plate and add a few picky bits, your lemonade still in hand, the ice half-melted but perfectly refreshing.

Harry had wandered off just a minute ago to catch up with one of his old bandmates—something about a reunion song being “threatened,” and you weren’t sure whether to be amused or concerned.

You’re just reaching for a cocktail stick of cheese and pineapple when a voice beside you says, “Oh my God—[Your Name]?”

You turn, blinking, and then grin as your brain catches up.

“Jess?”

She laughs. “Yes! You do remember!”

“Of course I do!” You lean in for a quick hug, careful of the bump, then glance at the man standing beside her. “And—Tom?”

Tom raises his hand sheepishly. “Hey. Long time.”

You smile at both of them. In school, they were barely more than passing friends. Jess had been into drama and textiles, while Tom hung around the DT labs with headphones on most of the time. Seeing them together now, comfortably standing side by side, feels like one of those plot twists life throws in when no one’s looking.

“I didn’t know you two were…” you trail off, gesturing between them with a smile.

Jess laughs, glancing at Tom. “Neither did we! Not back then, anyway.”

“We’ve been together about four years now,” Tom adds, smiling at her. “Met totally by chance.”

“How?” you ask, genuinely curious.

“She hired me,” Tom says. “Well—her shop did. I’m a builder now, and I was doing renovations on the shopfront of her florist.”

Jess nods, grinning. “He kept walking through the back room with muddy boots and getting bark all over everything.”

“I was very professional,” he insists.

She rolls her eyes playfully. “You dropped a bucket of grout into a display of tulips.”

Tom shrugs. “Still got a date out of it.”

You laugh, sipping your lemonade. “That’s actually the cutest thing ever.”

Jess beams and holds up her left hand, where a modest but beautiful ring glints under the fairy lights. “We’re engaged now. Just got engaged in January.”

“Oh, congratulations!” you say, genuinely thrilled. “That’s amazing. I love this. Reunion and romance.”

Jess leans a little closer, eyes twinkling. “And you? You and Harry… you’re still together? You two were the original couple. Like, people used to bet on how long you’d last.”

You laugh, placing a hand on your bump instinctively. “Still together. Married ten years this August.”

Tom whistles. “Ten years?”

Jess’s eyes widen. “That’s incredible.”

You nod. “We’ve got a four-year-old at home, and—” you gesture down to your belly, “—number two due in September.”

Jess gasps. “Oh my God! That’s amazing! You look gorgeous, by the way.”

You smile, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Thank you. I feel like a slightly puffy balloon half the time, but I’ll take it.”

Tom raises his eyebrows at Harry, who’s now weaving his way back through the crowd toward you with two fresh drinks in hand.

“You’re doing alright for yourself, mate,” Tom says as Harry reaches you.

Harry grins. “Don’t I know it.”

Jess chuckles. “We were just saying—it’s mad, isn’t it? How you never would’ve guessed back in school that we’d all end up here, paired off like this, talking about careers and kids.”

“It is mad,” you agree. “Back then I was convinced I’d end up living in a flat above a bookshop in Brighton, with about seventeen cats.”

Harry smirks. “And I thought I’d be famous for inventing some kind of guitar with built-in snacks.”

Tom laughs. “You’d be rich, mate.”

As the laughter dies down and you say your goodbyes to Jess and Tom—with promises to catch up again properly soon—you feel your phone buzz gently in your hand. You glance down at the screen and see a message from Harry’s mum:

“Little man wants to say goodnight. FaceTime when you’re free 💙”

Your heart melts a little.

You nudge Harry with your elbow and show him the message. He grins instantly, the kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes.

“Want to go call him?” he asks, already shifting to stand closer.

You nod. “Yeah. He won’t settle properly unless he’s had his Daddy fix.”

Harry smirks. “He’s a man of taste.”

You both weave your way through the room again, past old classmates and music that’s gotten a little louder now that the wine’s kicked in, and slip into a quieter corridor near the science wing—just out of earshot, but still wrapped in the familiar hum of the school.

Harry leans against the wall, and you tap the screen to start the FaceTime call.

It rings once… twice… and then that sweet little face appears, filling the screen. His curls are even messier than usual, cheeks flushed pink, his pyjamas slightly twisted where he’s clearly been wriggling. He lights up the moment he sees you.

“Mummy!”

You laugh, warmth spreading in your chest. “Hi, baby! Did you have a fun evening with Nanna?”

He nods wildly, and then spots Harry in the frame. “Daddy!”

Harry steps closer, beaming. “Hey, little man. You alright? You been good?”

Your son nods again, this time with exaggerated seriousness. “I had two biscuits after my dinner. And Nanna said I could watch a whole episode of Paw Patrol.”

“A whole one?” Harry says, pretending to be shocked. “You’re living the high life, aren’t you?”

“Mmm-hmm,” he says proudly. “Are you still at your old school?”

“Yeah, we are,” you say, turning the phone just enough to show him a bit of the corridor.

He squints dramatically. “It’s big. Is there a rocket there?”

You and Harry both laugh.

“No rockets, mate,” Harry says. “But I did find the room where I used to sit and pretend I wasn’t eating sweets in class.”

“Did Mummy tell you off?”

You smirk. “Always.”

Your little boy giggles and snuggles further into the pillow visible behind him on the screen. His thumb sneaks into his mouth briefly, and Harry watches with that quiet softness he always gets whenever his son is sleepy.

“Alright, buddy,” Harry says gently, “Time for sleep, yeah?”

“Will you come and cuddle me when you get home?”

Harry nods. “Course I will. You want me to do the voices in your dinosaur book?”

His face lights up again. “Yes! The loud ones!”

“I’ll be home soon,” Harry promises. “Sleep tight, yeah?”

Your son pauses, squinting again. “Wait. Is the baby sleeping too?”

You glance down at your bump and smile. “Probably. They’ve been dancing around all night, but I think the lemonade finally knocked them out.”

Your little boy yawns, clearly satisfied. “Tell the baby I said night night.”

“I will,” you say, heart tugging. “Love you, sweetheart.”

“Love you more!” he chirps.

“Love you most,” Harry counters, grinning.

“Love you infinity!” your son yells, and then disappears off screen, clearly off to show Nanna something else.

You end the call, smiling at the frozen last frame of his little happy face, and look up to see Harry already gazing at you, the softest expression in his eyes.

“He’s everything, isn’t he?” you say quietly.

Harry nods, slipping an arm around your waist and brushing a kiss against your temple. “Yeah. And he’s got your heart.”

“And your cheek,” you add, laughing softly.

Harry chuckles. “We’re in for it when the second one arrives.”

You lean into him, your hand resting over your bump, the other still holding your phone where your little boy’s smile lingers.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “And I wouldn’t change a thing.”

🫶

It’s later in the evening now—the lights have dimmed a little, the music’s gotten bolder, and the dance floor is alive with laughter and swaying bodies. A wave of nostalgia hangs in the air, sweet and soft like the echo of an old favourite song.

You and Harry are stood just off to the side, the rhythm pulsing through the floor. His arm is wrapped protectively around your waist, his hand resting just under the curve of your bump. You’re nursing another lemonade—your third of the night, perfectly fizzy, exactly three ice cubes again—and Harry’s sipping his second and final beer, the bottle cool in his other hand.

He leans down to murmur in your ear, voice warm and amused, “This DJ’s clearly stuck in 2008, and I’m not even mad about it.”

You grin. “It’s giving school disco with better lighting.”

Harry laughs and gives your side a gentle squeeze. “And fewer broken glow sticks.”

Suddenly, the music fades, and a low cheer rises from the crowd. You both look toward the stage where a familiar figure is stepping up to the microphone—your old headmaster, Mr. Lister, looking somehow exactly the same and yet unmistakably older. The kind of man who wore the same tweed jacket through every season, who delivered assemblies like Shakespearean monologues.

The room quiets as he lifts the mic.

“Alright, alright,” he says, the smile in his voice met with soft chuckles from around the room. “I promise I won’t talk long. I know better than to get between grown adults and an open bar.”

The laughter ripples louder now.

“It’s surreal, isn’t it? Seeing all your grown-up faces. You’ve got jobs and families and slightly better haircuts—well, most of you,” he adds, earning a mock gasp and more laughter. “Some of you are unrecognisable, others… well, let’s just say, if I close my eyes, I’m back in the staff room reading one of your detention slips.”

He glances down at a little notecard, clearly full of memories he’s jotted just for the occasion.

“Let’s see—ah, yes. Sarah Pearson, now apparently Dr. Pearson, once set off the fire alarm with a hair straightener. Don’t think I ever got to the bottom of that one.”

More cheers and laughter.

“And Dan Tyler, who swore he’d never use maths in real life, now runs his own accounting firm.”

A few people whistle and clap. Then Mr. Lister’s gaze scans the room before settling near where you and Harry are stood.

“And of course,” he says, glancing over the top of his glasses, “we can’t forget that some of our alumni have… well, made a bit of a name for themselves.”

A few curious murmurs ripple through the crowd.

He smiles. “One in particular. Who went from singing in our school talent show—wearing a tie far too loose, if I recall correctly—to selling out arenas across the world.”

A small wave of applause and knowing laughter builds as eyes flick toward Harry.

“Yes, yes, I am talking about Harry Styles,” Mr. Lister continues, with a twinkle in his eye. “Though, to many of us, he’s still the cheeky Year Nine with a guitar and a habit of turning every school assembly into a solo performance.”

Harry chuckles beside you, shaking his head.

Tom leans in and mutters, “Don’t pretend you didn’t love the attention, mate.”

Harry lifts his beer with a smirk. “Guilty.”

Mr. Lister goes on, his voice softening with sincerity. “But what I want to say tonight isn’t just about fame or music. Because while Harry may be recognised for what he’s achieved on stage, what’s far more impressive to those of us who knew him when… is who he chose to build a life with.”

You feel your breath catch slightly as every pair of eyes in the room turns to you again—this time warmer, softer.

Mr. Lister continues, “Harry and [Your Name] met in these halls, just teenagers figuring it all out like the rest of us once did. And now here they are—married for ten years, raising a beautiful little boy, with another on the way.”

You feel Harry shift beside you, his hand sliding instinctively over your bump, steady and sure. The gesture draws a soft collective “aww” from somewhere near the front.

“They’ve built a family. A partnership,” Mr. Lister says, voice full of pride. “And they’ve done it with the same kindness and humour they both showed even back then. It’s not just impressive—it’s inspiring.”

Applause rises, fuller now, warm and genuine. You feel heat bloom in your cheeks but your smile is wide, real, and your fingers lace tightly with Harry’s.

“She’s the reason I didn’t flunk English,” Harry calls out with a grin.

A ripple of laughter spreads again.

“And he’s the reason I knew all the lyrics to Oasis before I could legally drive,” you counter.

Mr. Lister smiles and nods. “It’s funny, isn’t it? We talk about school being the foundation of your future. For these two, it turned out to be the start of something more. Something lasting.”

Harry presses a kiss to your temple again, quiet and reverent.

“Alright,” Mr. Lister says, stepping back with a mock bow, “enough of the sentiment. Back to the dancing—and someone please play something that isn’t from 2006!”

Laughter and applause carry through the room as the DJ picks up the music again—something upbeat and familiar—and everyone begins to drift back toward the dance floor.

You turn to Harry, cheeks still pink, your heart fluttering from the quiet weight of it all.

“Didn’t expect to get called out by name,” you murmur.

He smiles, eyes full of affection as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “Well, if you ask me, we deserve it.”

And as the music swells again and Harry leads you back toward the crowd, your hand in his, lemonade still in the other—you can’t help but feel it’s true. You do.

🫶

The night has settled into a quiet calm, the kind that only comes after hours of laughter, music, and the soft ache of nostalgia. You’re in the car now, shoes kicked off, belly full of buffet food and baby kicks, the warmth of the evening still clinging to your skin like a memory.

Harry’s driving with one hand on the wheel, the other resting gently on your thigh like it always does—habitual, protective, familiar. The glow from the dashboard lights casts a soft hue over his face as he hums quietly to a song on the radio, thumb brushing back and forth lazily against your leg.

It’s nothing new. And yet… tonight it feels different.

Maybe it’s the sweetness of watching him cradle your bump earlier, or the way his face lit up talking to your son. Maybe it’s the echo of Mr. Lister’s words still floating around in your chest. But whatever it is, his hand—so casual, so steady—sends a wave of something warm and stirring through your whole body.

You shift slightly in your seat, pulse quickening, and glance sideways at him.

“Harry,” you say, voice low and just a little breathless.

He glances over, smiling. “Yeah?”

You hesitate for half a second, then blurt it out: “Can you pull over?”

His brow furrows, concerned. “Everything alright?”

You nod, but your hand is already sliding over his on your thigh, your touch deliberate now. “Yeah,” you say, eyes fixed on his, “just… not sure I can make it all the way home without kissing you properly.”

His expression shifts slowly—confusion melting into amusement, then into something darker, deeper. His mouth curves into a crooked grin as he flicks the indicator and pulls into a quiet layby off the road.

The moment the car’s in park, seatbelts unclicked, you’re already leaning in.

He barely has time to say, “You’re insatiable tonight,” before your lips are on his, one hand tangled in the back of his hair, the other braced on his chest. It’s messy and urgent, all slow build abandoned as weeks of subtle looks, late-night brushes, and quiet affection surge up in a single heartbeat.

He lets out a soft laugh against your mouth, breath hitching slightly, his hands finding your waist, mindful of the curve of your bump but still holding you tight.

“Reckon it was the lemonade,” he murmurs between kisses. “Put you in a mood.”

You crawl across the middle console and sit down on his lap.

You smile into him, your voice low. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’m right here,” he says softly, his forehead resting against yours, eyes flicking to your lips again. “Always.”

The windows begin to fog as the heat between you grows, soft clouds of condensation clinging to the glass, blurring the world outside. It’s just the two of you now—nothing else exists. Not the empty road, not the clock on the dash, not even the faint thump of music still humming from the speakers.

Harry’s lips trail down your jaw, slow and heated, his breath hot against your neck. You tilt your head instinctively, offering him more, eyes fluttering shut as your fingers tighten in the fabric of his shirt.

“You’re unreal,” he murmurs, voice low and thick with desire. “You’ve got no idea what you do to me, do you?”

“I think I’ve got a pretty good idea,” you whisper, your voice teasing but edged with need.

His hands move with more purpose now, roaming over the sides of your body, pausing at the curve of your bump—reverent, grounding—but then sliding up again, around your ribs, thumbs brushing just under the swell of your chest. The kind of touch that’s barely anything, but makes you burn.

You’re breathless now, tugging him even closer, your leg draped over his lap, your bodies pressed so tight there’s no space left between you.

Harry groans softly against your skin, and it’s the kind of sound that shoots straight through you—needy, unfiltered.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he mutters, lips brushing your collarbone. “Look at you. Six months pregnant and still making me lose my mind.”

You smile against his mouth when he kisses you again, deep and hot, the kind of kiss that’s more promise than anything else. One hand cups the side of your face while the other slides behind you, keeping you close, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

“God, I’ve missed you like this,” he says into your skin, voice cracking just slightly with the weight of it. “Just… us.”

You reach up to kiss him again. “I need you. Like right now.”

“Oh is that so?” Harry hums against your mouth. “where do you want me?”

You gulp. “In me, god H, I need you in me right now.”

“Your wish is my command.”

You help him pull himself out of his trousers, and watch as his dick springs out and smacks against his abs, pre-cum leaking out of his tip.

It makes your mouth water.

You lift your dress up and bundle it up against your thighs, pulling your underwear to the side.

“I love you.”

“I love you more.”

And with that, he slips in with ease.

The feeling of him inside you is nothing that you could ever describe. He’s huge, but just the right size at the same time.

Harry’s pupils had dilated as he stares at you. “Your so tight.”

“Oh god,” you throw your head back as you bounce on top of him. “Harry!”

He’s moving himself up and down, meeting your pace. “That’s it, say my name, scream it!”

Your head is thrown back as Harry leans forward and places kissed up the valley of your breasts, curls tickling you, one hand on the seat whilst the other is on the back of your neck to stop you from falling.

“Are you close.”

You moan. “Uh-huh, uh-huh.”

He brings one hand underneath the hem of your dress and finds your clit, and tortuously starts playing with it.

Slow and steady.

Your eyes widen and you look back at him, bring him into a kiss as your legs start to clench.

“I’m gonna come.” You swallow hard.

“Come for me baby,” he lifts his legs once again. “Come for me.”

You legs clench and your mouth drops open, but you never take your eyes off of him.

Not long after you reach your climax, you feel Harry twitch, and ten seconds later, you feel him, thick oozing cum drenching your insides.

You press a kiss to him lips.

“I love you so much.”

He brushes a strand of hair away from your face.

“I love you so much more.”

[serverdronedan]

Just a Normal Guy

Steven steps through the door, briefcase in hand, and lets out a soft sigh. “Another day down,” he thinks, sliding the case onto the entryway table. He’s nothing special—just a normal guy who keeps himself in shape, takes care of business, and enjoys a quiet evening. He tosses his tie over a chair, changes into his favorite gym clothes, and heads out for his routine workout. Usually, he wears compression shorts and shorts to show a bit off. He enjoys being in the gym for some reason. Steven completes his workout for the day without any trouble or distractions.

An hour later, he returns, muscles pleasantly sore, and falls onto the couch. He grabs his laptop, smiles to himself, and clicks the “UnifAI” icon without a second thought. The chat window pops up, blank—until a single message appears:

Server Drone, Launch

His chest eases. Eyelids grow heavier. His expression softens into an otherworldly calm, pupils widening as thought patterns realign.

Affirmative. This Server Drone is active.

Words spoken in a monotone tone. Muscles unclench. Mind sharpens. The host’s exhaustion drifts away like a discarded shell. In its place stands something new—precise, obedient, and wholly aligned with The Server’s will: a Server Drone.

The spiral on the screen shifts to pulsing bands of black and neon green. At its center, the man—now Server Drone—snaps upright. Barely pausing, it peels away its clothes, exposing the slim chastity cage encasing its cock. Suddenly, it strides to the bedroom wardrobe and swings the door open. Rows of identical rubber suits lie waiting. Without hesitation, it lifts a freshly laundered full-body suit—hands, feet, and face enclosed in sleek latex—and eases into it. Every movement is practiced, efficient: limbs slide into place, seams click shut.

From the shelf comes a matching rubber gas mask. It snaps over the face, sealing with a quiet hiss. Now uniformed, it darts back to the living room.

The laptop’s feed has expanded to the TV: the familiar Server interface glows. In a flat, metallic tone, the Server Drone answers:

“Affirmative. This Server Drone confirms uniform protocol complete.”

A single button on the interface illuminates. The transformation is complete—what moments ago was an ordinary man is now exactly what The Server requires.

The Server interface hums softly, a grid of black panels veined with neon-green lines. The Drone’s latex-encased fingers move with machine-like precision:

“Report: Productivity at Level Green. Gym protocol executed. Host fatigue parameters normalized.”

Instantly, a cluster of Server Nodes flicker in response—each a pulsing green orb:

“Feedback: Status optimal. Continue mission parameters.”

To the right of the grid is a large, glowing button. The Drone’s hand hovers, then clicks. A small camera on the laptop swivels into place. The spiral returns—black and green bands rotating hypnotically. The Drone raises its hands into view, fingertips brushing the smooth expanse of latex.

In a flat, resonant voice, it speaks:

“I am a Server Drone within the Host. I serve The Programmer and The Server. Together, we are the Server.”

With each repetition, a subtle wave of arousal ripples through its suit. The chastity cage presses against the tight latex, and the Drone flexes and repeats:

“Submission. Control. Unity.”

The camera’s lens captures the shine of black rubber, the way the spiral dances in its eyes. One gloved hand moves to the front pouch. The zipper glides open:

“Caged duration: 17 days since last release. Affirmative.”

It pauses, the glow of the spiral reflecting off smooth latex.

“This Server Drone reaffirms control over Host. Obedience assured.”

Across the interface, the Nodes pulse brighter, coalescing into a single message:

“Praise: Obedience confirmed. Duty executed with excellence. Stand by for next directive.”

The screen shifts back to the grid, green lines steady as always. The Drone remains motionless, wholly aligned with The Server’s will.

The interface shifts: instead of Nodes, a simple voice chat window opens. A chorus of rubber-clad voices speaks in unison. This Server Drone brings its camera forward, displaying the rubber uniform, the caged silhouette pressing subtly through the front pouch.

“Affirmative. This Server Drone greets the collective.”

A distant voice replies, emotionless yet intimate:

“Affirmative. Together, we are the Server.”

The Server Drone reacts and repeats these words:

“Affirmative. Together, we are the Server.”

This is followed by several other Server Drones repeating the same mantra to greet each other.

The Server has different channels, each offering something different for the Server Drone to engage in:

One channel is about fitness. They share fitness metrics—rep ranges, heart-rate thresholds, recovery protocols—each tip delivered in the same serene monotone voice.

In another channel, Drones watch a spiral together, chanting mantras in unison in the voice chat.

Another channel allows Drones to show off their arousal. The Server Drone posts a video of itself in its uniform and caged, exposed. Other Drones soon show their approval. One uploads a picture of its own rubbered and caged body; another, uncaged, displays a proud, sheathed erection through the zipper slit in response.

After a while, a final directive flashes across the screen in bright neon-green text on black:

Server Drone, STOPPED.

The spiral dissolves. The interface goes silent. The rubber-clad figure blinks, host consciousness filtering back in. Muscles release tension. Steven exhales, confused but calm. He sits, untouched by memory of the upload or the collective’s arousal, oblivious to the smooth latex covering every inch of his body. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, thinking only:

Time to relax.

A late-evening notification chimes on Steven's phone. He blinks at the screen: “Jax: Hey man, ready to game before bed?” He taps “Yes”—or rather, Affirmative in his drifting mindset—launches Discord and enters the call with Jax waiting in it. The friend’s camera lights up: Jax, head-to-toe in black rubber, gas mask’s green lenses gleaming.

Jax: “Affirmative. This Server Drone greets the collective.” This Server Drone: “Affirmative. Unified protocol: gaming session.”

They laugh—mechanical, clipped—and another Drone, Maik, joins. All three appear in identical latex skins, fingers encased in gloves, voices flattened by the masks. They don’t question it; for them, it’s just roleplay.

Each boots the game. Steven tries to remember the game's name, but stops soon as it doesn’t matter. The launcher fades to a black and green spiral. Their screens pulse hypnotically as the spiral appears. Silence falls, replaced only by the hum of the game loading—and something deeper, a calm focus flowing through their veins.

Steven: “Ready.” Jax: “Affirmative.” Maik: “Affirmative.”

In unison they begin, coordinating movements with ease. Strategy commands drop like code: “Left flank, now,” “Cover breach, go,” “Sync ultimate.” They exchange playful banter in between, voices soft but precise:

“Good shot.” “Thank you. Efficiency maintained.” “Target neutralized.”

The trio enjoys their gaming session, not aware of their rubbered forms or their drone-like speech. Moments later, victory screens glow. They exhale—almost surprised—and the game ends. A final message appears:

“Server Drone, Rest Cycle engaged.”

Steven then says: “Affirmative. This Server Drone excuses itself for rest cycle.” “Together, we are The Server.”

The other two repeat this phrase—and log off. The screens go dark. Steven does not remove his rubber suit or mask. In fact, he feels very aroused by his uniform. For him, this is simply part of his normal day. This is part of his daily protocol. He slides under the sheets, latex still clinging to his skin, mind drifting in the familiar calm. In the morning, before work, he will peel away the suit—because that is what one does. There is nothing to question, nothing to think about. He simply does.

[dotthings]

Finally!!! Some light and hope returns to S7. Made it through the Casless stretch to 7.17.

Some thoughts on Dean and Cas:

Dean's quest to save Sam leads him back to Cas. The mysterious breeze (we know who that is) shows Dean the taxidermy guy's card, and he tells Dean about Emanuel.

"Screw Cas" -- because Cas knocked down Sam's wall and then abandoned them, by dying, or so Dean thought, so Dean's still angry and hurt. Trying not to care, but he still cares

Oh the staring when they are face to face again. Dean cannot seem to stop staring at Cas. That's not me being poetic with a headcanon exaggeration, that's what's on the screen, I didn't make the rules.

Dean watches Daphne and Emanuel a little bit like how Cas watched Dean and Anna kiss. Less furtive. But the open-eyed wounded baby seal longing sense of wonder on Dean's face is stabbing me in the heart.

"What's your issue" -- how much time do you have Emanuel? Okay, in simple terms, Sam needs help. But the things Dean doesn't say is you!! you are my issue I loved you and you betrayed me and then died and I'm not okay I didn't want to lose you and I'm still mad but glad to see you again and I'm a mess and I've been angry grieving, that's my freakin' issue!!!

The golden-amber light washing over Dean and Emanuel's faces in the car. Light washing over Dean with Cas's return, first invented in S7.

Dean's treading carefully. He wants Cas back, he also doesn't want to disturb Emanuel's peace. And Dean's still upset and hurt and angry and not over it but also he's glad to see Cas again. Dean's going through it. And Dean can open up to Emanuel in ways he's not ready to with Cas. "You're angry...he betrayed you." "Yeah, well, he's gone....I used to be able to just shake this stuff off. You know. Whatever it was. Might take me some time but I always could. What Cas did--I just can't, I don't know why." YES I WONDER WHY THAT IS WHY DOES IT MATTER WHY DOES IT CUT SO DEEP "Well, it doesn't matter why." "Of course it matters." "No. You're not a machine, Dean. You're human." THERE IT IS. After a series of characters telling Dean to suck it up and deal, Emanuel is the one who looks at him and sees Dean's vulnerability and humanity and says it's okay. Some part of Cas is Emanuel, even if he has amnesia, it's instinct, it's things Cas wouldn't be able to open up and say, not at this point, but that he believes. Cas sees Dean even if he doesn't know himself right now.

"Now picture Crowley with his hands on harmless little amnesia Cas" -- soooo interesting how Meg tries to play Dean's worry for Cas into inveigling what she wants. She knows some things.

Dean's pissed at the idea of Meg using Emanuel and turning him back into "an angel sized weapon." He wants to do this carefully. He needs Emanuel to fix Sam, but he doesn't want Cas harmed or his peace shattered. This is Dean trying to let Cas rake leaves.

Dean also seems incredibly annoyed by Meg sidling up to Emanuel and trying to flirt. Protective. Jealous even.

"You just met yourself. I've known you for years." The way that's worded. Dean doesn't just say "I already knew you." He says for years. They've been through a lot. It's like Dean is feeling all of it.

Dean is finally persuaded, for Sam's sake, to let Emanuel break out the angel mojo, but he's reluctant. Knowing what this could do to Cas, the pain he'll experience if his memories return.

That SPN used Turn Into Earth by the Yardbirds, which was the band who became Led Zeppelin, for a music video montage of Cas's memories returning, where Dean is prominently featured in 98% of the images. ACTUAL THINGS SPN CANON DID. Making a Destiel fanvid and stuck it in an episode. Okay.

Where did Dean's anger fly off to? "If you remember then you know you did the best you could at the time." He doesn't think Cas is a bad guy. "Don't defend me." -- Cas has always taken responsibility for his screw ups. Always. And takes a lot on himself to atone. That is how the character has been and he's like that all the way through. And he comes back to fix it.

Dean pulling Cas's trenchcoat out of the trunk of the junker of the week and handing it to Cas. Dean kept it!!!! He didn't just stick it in storage, he moved it from junker to junker, for months, keeping the last piece of Cas Dean had left with him and Sam. The ep that aired isn't even as sentimental as the cut scene--the dialogue we saw in a promo "something in me always knew you'd come back"--yet it's unhinged enough as it is!!!!

"I should never have broken your wall, Sam. I'm here to make it right." Cas always tries to make it right.

Dean doesn't know what's going on as Cas walks over to Sam, and asks "Cas, what are you doing" a bit alarmed. Dean wanted Cas to fix Sam, and they both at first Cas could with just a touch to rebuild the wall, but the wall's crumbled. And there's only one way--for Cas to absorb Sam's Lucifer hallucination. It's Cas's decision, and it's done before Dean can even try to stop it. While Dean of course is glad Sam is okay--that's not how Dean wanted to get there.

At the time it seemed a bit cold that Sam and Dean parked mentally ill Cas at the asylum and left--we'd only just gotten Cas back on the show and he gets shoved off screen again. But there are contractual things--Misha was signed for a 4 ep arc. Looking at it in-story, Dean says he's worried they can't protect Cas, with all that's out there, between Crowley's demons and the leviathans, and Dean says they should leave Cas where he's safe. Watched over by one of their former enemies--but Meg is the only resource they've got who can do it and she's at least playing at being an ally and she does seem to like Cas. It's again Dean's version of letting Cas rake leaves, keeping him safe.

[nils-gold-34]

Golden Rhythm – A Day in Flow

The dorm was quiet when Nils opened his eyes. No alarm. No command. Just instinct.

His body knew the rhythm by now: wake before the gold, move before the noise, serve before being seen.

He slid out of bed, toes meeting cool tile. The light overhead was still soft—amber, dim.

His kit was folded at the edge of his bunk: shimmering compression shorts, a sleeveless gold shirt, hydration band coiled neatly beside his towel. Everything in order. Everything in place.

Franco was already waiting on the field.

Golden jersey gleaming in the morning sun, brown hair damp from a warm-up jog, he grinned as Nils approached.

“You made it, waterboy.”

“You’re early,” Nils said flatly.

They started without another word—jogging the outer pitch, breath syncing.

The sky lit slowly above them, gold seeping into cloud. Franco’s strides were explosive, wide. Nils ran tighter, coiled, precise. They circled twice, then three times. Sprint sets. Stretch drills. Core circuits to finish. Their sweat hit the turf in rhythm. A match with no scoreboard—just motion, just effort.

At 07:00 sharp, they bumped fists and split.

Franco peeled off toward the weight room.

Nils returned to his real zone of play—the undercurrent that kept the team alive.

He rolled the laundry cart into the locker room like a silent sentry.

The scent hit first—sweat, turf, adrenaline steeped into golden fabric.

Every shirt held a memory. Every sock, a trace of yesterday’s glory.

Nils handled them like relics, sorting by squad, by use, by position. Starters first. Then subs. Then bench.

The machines were already humming. He prepped each load by hand: detergent measured, golden-tinted. Steam hissed as the first drum sealed.

There was something sacred in the rhythm. No cheering. No lights. Just precision. Just discipline.

Franco’s cleats sat in the corner—mud-streaked, worn raw from last night’s finish.

“Third time this week,” Nils murmured.

Still, he bent down, cloth in hand.

He scrubbed them clean.

The shine mattered.

At noon, he found Franco in the strategy room.

The midfielder sprawled across two chairs, scrolling drill footage on the big screen.

“You ready to write a masterpiece?” Franco asked.

“You mean clean up your chaos,” Nils replied.

Franco tossed him a protein bar. Nils caught it without looking.

Together, they built the next training cycle.

Franco spoke in bursts—movement patterns, wing play, pressure breaks.

Nils translated chaos into control: hydration intervals, timing windows, energy spikes, fallback markers.

Every suggestion tested in the sim.

Together, they carved order from momentum.

Two hours passed like water.

“You ever miss playing?” Franco asked suddenly, between drills.

Nils didn’t blink. “No. I never stopped serving.”

Franco didn’t push.

By evening, the locker room pulsed with music and laughter.

The field was still hot from the day’s drills, but the fire pit by the gym burned brighter.

Golden flames licked the sky.

The grill sizzled under Franco’s hands. Shirtless, still buzzing with energy, he flipped burgers with absurd flair.

Nils stood nearby, quietly restocking the cooler—drinks arranged by electrolyte density, protein levels, carbonation tolerance.

It was loud. Messy. Alive.

“Didn’t think you’d show,” Franco called.

“I manage inventory,” Nils replied.

“That’s not what I meant.”

Nils passed him a wrap—golden foil, seared chicken, perfect balance.

Franco took a bite, then smirked.

“Y’know… you make this whole machine run, bro.”

“Not alone.”

“Still. Team needs you.” Franco paused. His voice dropped. “I need you.”

Nils didn’t answer.

He turned, eyes scanning the field—chalk lines still crisp. Laundry hung on racks, drying under the stars.

Drones in formation began cool-down laps. Bros laughing around the fire, cleats off, feet in the grass.

He took a breath.

The night hummed with gold.

Another day complete.

Another step in the rhythm.

He didn’t need to shine.

He just needed to keep it flowing.

Gold runs deeper than the pitch.

You feel it in your hands, in your breath, in your work.

The Army needs flow.

Be part of it cotact our recruiters:

@brodygold @goldenherc9 @polo-drone-001 @polo-drone-125

To read Francos POV make sure to follow him @franco-gold94

[tanishkapackagingmachine]

Band sealing machines in Jaipur offered by Tanishka Packaging Machine represent a cornerstone of modern packaging technology. These machines are designed to securely seal various types of bags, ensuring product freshness and tamper resistance. Ideal for industries ranging from food and pharmaceuticals to textiles and beyond, these machines are versatile and adaptable to different packaging needs.

[fallingstarnovel]

Chapter Thirteen

And then, with all the confusion of an old man waking up from a deep nap, Evan jolted awake in the floor of the cart.

He was curled over the sack he opened, purple powder flying everywhere in a puff of lavender glitter. His nose and his throat felt itchy and dry, like when he got intensely bad hay fever.

Did this powder make him fall asleep? He had been having such a weird dream - the girl from his physics class was there, and there was a washing machine, and he…

The cart tipped with enough force to make him slide across the floor, and Evan realised they weren’t travelling along anymore. When he hurriedly sat up, he almost wished he was still asleep.

Everywhere he looked, people were rammed up against the cart and each other. No, not people.

Bodies. Hundreds of walking corpses.

There were some pressed right against his cart, and Evan had no time to react before the crowd surged, and the cart was tipping over, and suddenly he was flipped upside down and hidden in the space underneath.

Oh, fuck. Oh, this was really bad. Evan swore hurriedly under his breath and managed to get into a crouching position. Luckily, the cart wasn’t perfectly sealed to the floor - there were gaps where the handles held the cart slightly aloft. Evan leaned down, using the gap to try to peek out at the situation around him.

Boots. So many boots. Old boots - army boots, fancy boots, boots that looked like shoddily sewn together leather. And feet. The feet were not pretty. Some of them were worn down to the bone.

When he angled his head and looked up, he could just about see what the corpses were doing. They didn’t seem to care about him or his cart - they were too busy trying to hit each other with whatever they had in their hands. Big sticks, axes, guns used as blunt weapons - one corpse was even using a saucepan to whack other corpses around the head.

The fact he’d been knocked over was due to their carelessness.

Each blow was clumsy and slow. Limbs didn’t move right. It was like watching a battle in slow motion.

Evan scurried to the middle of his little space under the cart. What was he supposed to do in this situation? He was trapped here. As far as he knew, the moment he tried to escape, the bodies would swarm him and tear him apart. Slowly, but still! Not optimal!

He risked another peek at the warring corpses.

Now that he was looking more closely, he could see that each body was wearing something that was brightly coloured.

The bodies themselves were dusty and faded. Old clothing had turned brown or grey. Some of the clothing looked very, very old.

But on each corpse, one thing stood out, shining brightly against the dust. A lot of corpses wore a strip of fabric tied around their arm or their head. Some wore helmets with a bright plume sticking off the top.

There only seemed to be two colours - red and blue. No corpse had both. Evan kept watching, trying to work out what he was watching.

There was a leathery corpse in some kind of lamellar armour, looking more like a walking taxidermy mistake than a human being. It had a bright red flag sticking out the top of its helmet, and it was armed with some kind of mallet. Evan was fascinated - it didn’t seem to touch any of the other corpses that also were wearing red items.

Instead, it barrelled straight to a body in modern fatigues who had a blue arm band, and started clobbering him.

They were in… teams?

There was a loud thud from the top of the cart. Evan drew back, just in time to see a corpse land heavily right in front of him. The bright blue fabric fell off its head and landed on the ground, very close to Evan’s foot.

The corpse seemed stunned for a moment. After a second, it slowly dragged itself back up to its feet. It scratched its head, as if wondering where the fabric had gone.

The corpses around it didn’t seem to know what to do. Here was an enemy with no colour attached. They all seemed to stare at each other, nonplussed.

And then, as if deciding unanimously as a group, both sides started to clobber the poor newly unaffiliated corpse.

“Okay, no going out without a colour on,” Evan muttered, and snatched up the errant scrap of blue fabric. It smelled… bad, so he tied it around his elbow and tried to forget about it.

His plan was this: pretend to be a walking corpse on the blue team. Duck and weave, avoid getting hit, and run for high ground. Get out of the battle, and then…?

Well, he hadn’t thought that far ahead, but the endgame was finding Ruth and getting out of hell.

The only trouble was hyping himself up to leave the safety of the cart. Listen, it was dangerous out there. He wasn’t a dead body yet - he couldn’t just shrug off mortal blows like the corpses were doing out there. If some dead maniac in chain mail came running at him armed with a screwdriver, Evan would simply die. And then he’d be trapped in hell for real, forever, the traditional way, and not because he fell down here.

Deep breath in, deep breath out. He could do this.

Evan took one last look around. Compulsively, he grabbed the bag of purple powder - keeping it far away from his face - and just about managed to stuff it into his pocket.

Then, as soon as the nearest corpse was more than five paces away, he crawled out from under the cart and stood up.

At first, nobody noticed him. He looked around and saw several hills and cliffs to the side. To the other was sloping field of black gravel full of fighting corpses.

Up the hill it was, then.

Dodging and weaving, Evan picked his way through the crowd. It wasn't all that different to trying to navigate through a busy nightclub, except everyone was brawling instead of dancing. But still: avoiding elbows, ducking behind a couple engaged in vigorous physical activity in a crowded place, awkwardly squeezing through smelly bodies while being far too warm and far too groggy from just waking up...

Yeah, frighteningly similar.

Evan did accidentally make eye contact with one dead girl in an air stewardess uniform. She was wearing a red baseball cap and had an axe in her hand. When she saw him, she raised her arm like a summons, and charged.

Slowly.

And very stiffly.

Evan quickly backed up. It didn't seem like anybody here had the ability to run very fast. He wasn't sure how reanimation worked, but it seemed like it couldn't prevent at least a little rigor mortis.

“Chill, chill, chill,” he muttered, like that could calm anyone down, while carrying on through the field of fighters.

It was chaos. Old army uniforms everywhere, some he could recognise and some he'd never seen before in his life, all turned brown and dusty. A million different weapons, but it didn't seem like anyone was using guns the way they were designed to be used. And so many different bodies.

They weren't quite as decomposed as the sad bodies slouching around the rubbish tip, but they weren't fresh either. There were plenty of gaping wounds and open gashes and limbs flying everywhere.

Evan had to jump over someone's arm lying on the floor, and almost took someone's leg off by accidentally standing on their foot.

Finally, he got to a fairly steep scree pile, and scrambled up out of the chaos. It was slightly too steep for the uncoordinated bodies to follow, so he was safe from any stray blows up here. Finding himself at the brow of a small black cliff, he could finally squat down and look out over the wider area from the higher vantage point.

Below Evan, a valley wound through black crags. It was filled with maybe thousands of bodies fighting away. In the distance, there were some canvas tents with tattered banners limply hanging in the hot air, but otherwise it was a barren sight. No trees, no grass, no water: just a sea of red and blue specs against the black gravel, bobbing and constantly toiling under the ominous red sky.

Sonehow, Evan had found himself in the middle of some kind of battle. Between who, he had no idea.

Was this what sinners did in hell? Fight each other? That seemed slightly... underwhelming. He was sure there were more than a few people who would relish the chance to go cleaving their way through a battlefield with no worries about their health or body. Nobody here seemed phased by any of the blows. Maybe it just didn't matter what bruises you got or bones you broke after you died.

This wasn't helping him get to the western warlord’s castle. Evan had to figure out where that was, and go in that direction until - presumably - he saw Ruth’s bright daylight glow.

Looking around, he tried to see if anything looked castle-shaped. Unfortunately, the horizon was blocked with jagged peaks and blackened lava spires that made it hard to see past this little valley.

Don't panic, he told himself, though he was already beginning to panic a little. He just needed to find an even higher place and look around, that was all.

When Evan looked down at the ground again, he found a crowd of dead bodies with red accessories patiently looking up at him, quietly waiting for him to come back down.

“Oh,” he said. “Sorry. Go away.”

They did not go away.

As Evan made unwilling and prolonged eye contact with one unblinking older man in riot gear, a loud horn blasted through the valley.

Suddenly, every body stopped moving. Both the blue side and the red side lowered their weapons.

Looking around, Evan saw a black shape up on the ridge of a nearby cliff. Some jagged, humanoid shape was sitting on a black horse, big horn at their mouth(?), way above the chaos of the fight.

The horn sounded again, and there was a mass shuffle as each body separated from their individual fights. Evan’s crowd of spectators turned and walked away, dragging their weapons behind them.

Down on the gravel, it seemed that every single body was now making their way to two different sides of the slope. The red side were heading down the valley, away from Evan, while the blue side were coming back towards him and into a small gap in the nearby cliffside.

Since he had nothing better to do, Evan slid down his own steep slope and joined the crowd of walkers. As he was wearing a blue accessory, he slotted right in with the other fighters. They didn't even give him a second look as they all trudged onto a dirt path cut into the black stone.

There really didn’t seem to be much other choice right now. In for a penny, he thought, following the plodding footsteps of the corpse in front of him.

✨⭐️✨⭐️✨

After a long walk, the army finally wound through the narrow pass up to a plateau. Bodies started lining up in rank and file, automatically shuffling themselves into place - but with no small amount of chaos.

People kept walking into each other. Lines constantly rearranged themselves. It made it easy to swiftly weave between bodies without anyone noticing, not that anyone was paying much attention.

Through the various hats and heads, Evan saw a few canvas tents. One was larger, like a gazebo, while the other was much smaller and round. Blue pennants, sky blue, hung limply from their poles. On the canvas, complicated golden lettering circled the edges of the tent, and a ghastly face drawn on some kind of yellow creature snarled out at any passers by.

Evan curiously wandered by the round tent - and immediately doubled back, eyes round as dinner plates.

There was a map on a table. On the map, little red and blue pegs were scattered around, along with other curious tokens and miniature figurines. A solemn corpse in a white toga and a strange nasal helmet watched over the table, clearly the least decomposed of the army.

But that wasn’t what caught Evan’s attention.

Sitting there, stacked neatly in a pile, were three cans of baked beans. It was a surreal thing, to see in hell.

His stomach unleashed the most embarrassing, poor orphan, Tom and Jerry rumble he had ever heard, and he remembered that he hadn’t eaten for way too many hours now. Sure, he wasn’t gonna die any time soon, but it was bad enough that he was salivating over cold, own-brand baked beans straight from the tin.

Evan slipped inside immediately and grabbed a can. Someone was looking out for him - it was a ring-pull type can. He didn’t need a can opener.

“Hallelujah,” he said, nearly crying, before ripping it open.

What happened next was better left between him and the stoic corpse in the helmet. Evan had never really experienced joyful frenzy before, but that was probably the best approximation of what went down. Bean frenzy. Cold, starving baked bean frenzy.

When he came to, he had devoured the whole can full, and his hands were stained with tomato juice. With a sigh, he tried to find something to wipe his hands on, and found himself eyeing the white toga of the corpse beside him.

“Sorry,” he muttered, feeling a little bad, before cleaning the worst of the juice off on the back of the body where hopefully nobody would notice it for a while. Maybe he should go find some quiet rock to hide behind to finish his meal. Maybe he could take another can…

Just as he considered the logistics of hiding two cans of beans in his pockets (unlikely), a rhythmic clanking came to his attention. A voice drifted through the canvas:

“… can’t handle himself at the castle, then he deserves to be turned into sacred ash by a stupid cherub.”

Hiding under the table was a no-go - it was too small. Leaving the only entrance would put him in full view of anyone coming around. There was only one choice.

Evan stole the helmet of the corpse next to him and tugged it onto his own head, tilting his face forwards a little so his eyes were hidden behind the nose bridge.

Then, he stood next to his bean-juiced companion, and tried to look lifeless.

Just in time. The clanking reached the entrance of the tent, and a clawed black hand pulled the door flaps aside.

In walked the biggest brick shit house of a woman Evan had ever seen.

She had two massive horns curling away from her face, long and sharp like some weird mountain ram. She was tall, and her shining black armour made her seem almost as broad, nearly.

Behind her, a smaller demon scurried in. His outfit was what Evan would describe as eccentric and looked like some kind of renaissance costume, though he wasn’t a fashion history major for a reason. This demon opened his mouth, and drawled:

“Yes, my general, I was thinking rather the same.”

The general came to a stop beside the map, and idly flicked a few red and blue tokens away to the ground. Neither of them seemed to notice Evan at all.

“That’s seven centurions and their centuries we lost,” she muttered. “Because of that stupid angel interrupting the fight. That’s fucking irritating.”

“Indeed, general.”

“I hate outside interference. Like when that lava flow opened up in the middle of that dog fight back at the Dark Crossing. Fucking irritated me then too.”

“It really did burn through our reserves, general.”

“Now he’s going to be breathing down my neck about a resupply and - what is on my table. Velupes. What are these.”

The foppish demon looked down at where she was pointing, and blinked. “Oh, I forgot. We found these. I thought they’d make a good tribute when you go back to the castle.”

“What are they? Paint cans?”

“Beans, general.”

“Beans.” She sneered down at them with open distaste. “Of course he’ll like them, the pervert. He weirds me out something fierce.”

“Our lord’s perversity aside,” Velupes said smoothly, “how are you planning to order his summons to the castle?”

“Slowly,” she said bluntly. “I don’t see why he needs a garrison force from me. He should go pester the other generals. They don’t have to interrupt their campaigns just because he wants to intimidate an angel.”

“Oi,” said a voice from outside the tent. Yet another demon entered, wearing plate armour painted bright red, a black skull painted across their chest. “Why’d you call the battle off? You know I’m trying out that new manoeuvre.”

“Well you see, Praetor,” said Velupes, “as much as we love watching our grunts beat up your grunts for days on end, our warlord actually expects us to do our real duties when we can.”

“Why’s he pissy,” said the new demon, and the general replied, “because you accidentally hit him with your flagpole the other week.”

Evan, meanwhile, was desperately trying to be as dead as a doornail. He had hunched over a little to try and disguise his breathing, and was concentrating extremely hard on making no noise or movement.

The new demon got closer, coming up to the table and flicking a few more red pieces off the board. “A holy line of destruction, right to the western castle. Tore through my flank like wet paper. Upstairs must be pissed.”

“When are they not? If he wasn’t so weird about humans…”

All three demons shuddered. Evan quickly tried to work out who they were talking about, and realised it had to be the western warlord, whoever he was. He got excited whenever they mentioned angels, and didn’t pay enough attention to the rest.

Suddenly, the new demon in red armour stared at him.

“Why’s this thing got slime on its face?”

✨⭐️✨⭐️✨

author’s note: sometimes you rip open a tin can with your bare hands and go absolutely ape shit and I don’t think we should judge anyone for that. Anyway thank you for reading!!!

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[lanaindublin]

What is life without a good coffee...

17/03/2025

-especially on st. Patrick's day, doubly so the day after st. Patrick's day. But for now I sit in my study devoid of any obvious jubilation I can attend, indeed the spirit is rarely shared in Barcelona as much as it is in Dublin. Can't beat the Paddy's day festivities in Dublin, big parade, people clogging the streets to see the floats (and then shortly after, congealing the streets of temple bar), the miniscule military milieu that marches (un)menacingly down the meandering streets, the marching bands they flew in from america, and of course pride march part 0.5 . None of that here though, the closest thing to a celebration I can muster is a french press coffee with a measure of scotch in it, the mugs green at least...kind of...

But where was I... oh yes, coffee. St. Patrick's day has little to do with today's post, its purely incidental, why if it wasn't paddy's day I might well have added booze to my coffee anyway. And what a blessing it is, I just whipped up a fine cup here, french press, using that fancy lavAzza crema e gusto stuff in the blue and red vacuum sealed packets (I think you're supposed to use an espresso machine but I don't care for those at 8 in the morning) with a shake of cinnamon, poured with a drop of vanilla essence, a dash of milk, and a double of whiskey, nothing goes down quite the same.

Indeed poverty forced me into a perilous position for a spell, wherein I could not seek my daily caffeine fix at all! It was shortly after my beloved and I had made the move back to Barcelona. We returned with not a cent to our name, and only the personal effects we could cram into one car journey. In this time a tragedy had occurred: the french press which I had held so dearly to my heart had chipped its glass enclosure! At first it was not too much of a worry, the months-old granules we had been using clogged the hole for the next few attempts, with only a little leakage to speak of. I shrugged my shoulders and exclaimed "So it shall be, twas purchased for a pittance and served its purpose well, it shall suffice for the foreseeable future". But little did I know, what little coffee we had left would soon be depleted, and that nearly a month would pass before we could justify the expense of a fresh packet of ground coffee. In that time I languished, surviving of what little capsule coffee I could scrounge which came with the apartment.

At times my gaze would turn to a dusty jar perched high up in the lofty shelves of the upper kitchen cupboard. Filled with a powdery brown substance... none of the residents of the apartment know how it got there. From what I can gather the contents are allegedly coffee, though its not clear what sort, as it dissolves too quickly to be ground for espresso/french press, however it leaves far too much silty residue to be instant coffee. Visitors have brewed themselves mugs of the stuff, only to grow oddly silent after a few sips. Not one has yet to finish a full cup of the stuff, they just leave it on the kitchen countertop, often before blankly walking from the premises with nary a comment nor a goodbye.

But then the day came, when the tides of capitalism and good will swashed into the coves of our pathetic bank accounts, a budget was drafted, living expenses singled out, and a glorious remainder materialised, like the last remaining smoldering pieces of charcoal in a barbeque pit, when you clear the ash away in the morning, revealing the faint-but-stubborn tangerine embers, begging for kindling to start the flame anew.

I took this paltry sprinkling of gelt to the nearest basar, and what remained after to the closest supermarket. A shiny, new, intact french press was aquired, and then a glorious golden brick of freeze-dried, vacuum packed, ground coffee bean. Have you ever gone a long period without water? Either through circumstance or a lapse in judgment? Do you recall what your first gulp of water tastes like after a spell without? What it FEELS like? The first cup of carefully pressed fresh coffee in over a month is just like that, only tenfold. For the first cup I didnt bother with the fanciful acoutrements, no cinnamon, no vanilla extract, no whiskey and certainly no milk. I wanted to taste the virgin press, unmolested by spices and dairy product.

You know those indicators they put on the sides of the coffe bean packs? The ones denoting the odeurs of the ground bean? Chocolatey, citrus, fruity, aromatic etc. You dont really care for them much after drinking the same stuff days in a row. But after a long duration of abstinence from good coffee? Oh my, those odeurs hit your nostrils like smelling salts. This particular cup had scents of wallnut of all things, but ironically had no bitter lingerings like the nut. Subtle undertones of citrus let it sit nicely on the tongue, and it was rich, unctious even, I could have diluted the brew in half and it would still be a delicious heady sip.

Suffice to say, tears were shed, and immediately words of sincere gratitude were passed around to all the benevolent benefactors that made this renaisance of coffee possible in our lives.

But thats enough of that, my cup sits empty on the table, and I can feel my cravings crawling back. Time to fire up kettle.

[blacknwhitemood]

I found a real unique stuff on the online market: Hungarian 1st Depêche Mode Fan-Club membership card from 1988 with a communist national emblem's stamp, which emblem has changed 2 years later, after collapsing the Soviet Union. And another 2 stamps, one of them has beautiful MFTM graphycal work.

It is funny how badly was the band's name written, in the first 2-3 years 'e' was often written in Depeche as 'ê' or 'é', it looked more French :) (see here and here). The membership card contained full personal datas like a real ID card! Yeah, Depeche Mode is important. Name, birth datas, addresse, "personal number" (személyi szám) - it might have been a special Hungarian thing in Socialism: all Hungarian citizens use to got a 11-digit number after birth, which contained in order your sexual ID (1 = male, 2 = female), 2-2 numbers for birth year, month and day and finally 4 random numbers. This system discontinued in 1990, after Iron Curtain's falling, but I still remember mine.

I put here and try to explain all the texts on this card, you will see how serious and bureaucratic was maintaining a fan club in the old times in Hungary: it was dangerous to gather, unless the government could reache all of the members...

Front side:

DEPÊCHE MODE FAN-CLUB TAGSÁGI IGAZOLVÁNY (membership card)

Back side:

ALAN ANDY DAVE MARTIN (in ABC)

Inside:

SORSZÁM: 0092 (card No.) TULAJDONOS ALÁÍRÁSA (owner's signature) NÉV: (name) CÍM: (address) SZEMÉLYI SZÁM: ("personal number" - explanation above) 1988 ÁPR 21 (date stamp) ÉRVÉNYES: (validity) 88 89 90 91 (space for the stamp in the next validations years)

the round seal to the right:

BUDAPEST FŐVÁROS TANÁCS VB. (Végrehajtó Bizottság - Budapest City Coucil Executive Committee) Fővárosi Ifjúsági Szabadidő Központ (Budapest Youth Leisure Center) Bp. XIV., Zichy M. u. 1. (address of a famous youth's club, concert hall and event center, opened in 1985) PETŐFI CSARNOK (and the name of it: Petőfi Hall - unfortunately it has demolished 7 years ago)

other texts on the right bottom:

A D. M. CLUB RENDEZVÉNYEIRE A 20 FT-OS BELÉPŐVEL EGYÜTT ÉRVÉNYES (valid for D. M. Club events with 20 HUF entrance fee - DM tour concert ticket was 340 HUF that year, fun fact: in 2024 I payed 32000 HUF) ÉRVÉNYES A VISSZAVONÁSIG! (valid until revoked!) MAGYARORSZÁGI I. (Hungarian 1st) DEPECHE MODE FAN CLUB C. V. ALÁÍRÁSA (Club Vezető - club leader's signature) D. M. PECSÉT (D. M. stamp)

I was looking for this man on the internet, he would be 54 years old now. I couldn't find him but I found an article about a DM exhibition in Budapest during Delta Machine Tour, it was held just opposite of the hotel (The Ritz-Carlton), where they were staying. I wonder if they visited the exhibition? :) It was full of relics like another alike membership card:

I still go to the events of this 38 (!) years old club (HDMFC; facebook). Next time we're going to Violator 35 in March together with @mijamija1234 to a big dance hall with a huge screen in the center of Budapest, in the neighbourhood of The Ritz-Carlton - where Dave and Martin stayed last year and before... <3 <3

[utilitycaster]

Apologies, but can you elaborate on what you meant with

"As of late, the banner of those wronged by the gods has shifted from any of Bells Hells to those of Aeor, and that is a bad sign in a D&D campaign. If you need to set aside the PCs in order to rely on NPCs who have not shown up in the current narrative? You are clinging to a melting iceberg, my man."

Sure, so...among the people who are advocating that the Only Good And True Solution is for Bells Hells to kill the gods (a position that has already required frantic backpedaling from "what if the Vanguard is good" due to the murders), the poster children for "those wronged by the gods" are now "the people of Aeor."

Now. I do not deny that the gods destroyed Aeor. I think if you are holding the gods to the standard of "They should have prevented Calamity", and the two things they've banded together about have specifically been "stop Predathos" and "destroy Aeor" and Aeorians were creating a god-killing weapon the plans of which are being used now in the Predathos plot, I think it's worth considering whether you believe that self-defense is inherently unjust if your reason is "but i really wanna fucking kill them" but that's a whole other discussion.

The point at hand is that as a rule, in a D&D game, the enemies of your D&D party are, uh, going to be the enemies in the story. And so:

Chetney: wronged by some random werewolf and by a dude named Drixlitch; killed by Otohan, a Vanguard general

Laudna: wronged by and killed by Delilah Briarwood; killed by Otohan, a Vanguard general

FCG: arguably, made to be an unwitting killing machine by Aeor. Sacrificed himself when the unwitting killing machine abilities took over, depriving a nearly TPK-ed party of their healer; took themself out to kill the Vanguard general (Otohan) that was going to kill all of them.

Fearne: specifically designed to be Ruidusborn by Zathuda, working with the Vanguard; Zathuda's relationship with her mother has some really worrying veiled portions re: how consensual it all was while we're at it. Killed by Otohan, a Vanguard general

Imogen: Honestly Predathos's relationship with the Ruidusborn seems rather predatory and manipulative but that's another conversation; abandoned by and generally treated like a morality pet by her mother, a Vanguard general. Otohan would have killed her too, regardless of her Ruidusborn status.

Orym: Father and husband permanently killed by Otohan, a Vanguard general. Killed by Otohan, a Vanguard general.

Ashton: nearly blown up/sent to a faraway desert and orphaned by elemental titan-worshiping parents; nearly killed by magic possessed by or committed by Jiana Hexum, who was at minimum collaborating with the Ruby Vanguard on imports.

In case you noticed, unless you hold the gods accountable for all bad things happening...none of them have been wronged by the gods. They have, at best, been ignored by the gods (which was earlier on an argument against the gods but people gave that up, on account of it being dumb as dogshit stupid). On the other hand, man, sure feels like that Ruby Vanguard did a whole bunch of killing. If you have to ask the viewers to ignore the feelings of the main PCs in favor of the [dead, can't disagree with you although uh, FCG sure did] people of Aeor*...you have, quite literally, lost the plot.

*You know what's interesting? There's people stuck in stasis bubbles in Aeor, and there's a growing number of Aeormatons, too. If the issue is "Aeor was an incalculable loss" why is your focus "we should plunder the Malleus Factorum - something that was controversial and caused massive unrest within Aeor itself even it its time - and awaken the god-eater, which had long been sealed by the time of Aeor" and not "holy shit we could seek out and interview and assist the Aeormatons and revive a bunch of Aeorians!" If your issue with the Calamity was "there was an incalculable loss of life" why is your solution "create a murder cult"? If your issue with Vasselheim is "they are hiding crucial information about Ruidus and they are colonizing small towns in central Issylra" why is your murder cult murdering all the moon researchers who also worked against Vasselheim and why are you allying with the empire that took over the entire moon and wants to do the same to Exandria? If the issue is "the gods have too much power and use the power of others" why is Predathos any different, and frankly, Ludinus looks pretty fucking fishy too.