#gearmaking

[tigerkrushes]

average backyardigans interaction in my mind

[juni-valentine]

The gearbaker

[deep-space-atomic-clock]

re: do it for he

i also don't go here but it was love at first sight with him

yeahh you get it! shoutout to petum. hes so good

[thebrightestlodge]

Tiny doodles of my Gearmaker Goof Troop redesigns. Asuka is the hardest because of the version I'm going off and trying to make em match his sneakers. Dude's walking around in such crisp sneakers, gotta call him Frito-Lay. Will do the big designs soon ...

This is just for the original three, Jack-O is fine as always, but I love these designs

[starocide]

woah it's Mr Gearmaker himself

[gear-project]

Do you know anything about Paracelsus granting A.B.A enhanced abilities while in moroha mode in lore?

The fandom wiki says "In his awakened form, he becomes quite easy to carry and run with, likely due to infusing his wielder with strength." but is unsourced and I don't know if the wiki is just making this up based off of how she works in gameplay or if something like this has been stated officially before. If there's nothing in lore about this then what do you think about it?

If there's any canonical info on Flament Nagel (that's his real name by the way, Paracelsus is just the nickname A.B.A. gave him, named after her creator), most of that information is very scarce.

What we know for certain is that Flament Nagel can "possess" a vessel's body and bring out their physical capabilities to their very limits.

Originally he had a rather brutal body when he first fought Slayer, though the exact circumstances behind how he "got" that body are not fully known. It could have been a Gear that he possessed, or it could have been some beast or mutation of some kind.

Slayer, of course, defeated him with a single Pile Bunker... so it would be obvious to state that Slayer was much stronger than him at that time (during the Crusades).

Still, he was strong enough to earn the Historical Nickname "Sanguine Gale" (Budoshu no Tachikaze a.k.a. Blood-wine Cutting Wind). He considers himself a proud warrior despite the fact he is technically an immobile blood axe.

Because he lost his original vessel, he developed a complex over his own bloody reputation, which is why he was reluctant to meet with Slayer after so many years had passed (whom he considers a rival).

It was A.B.A. herself who challenged Slayer for Flament's Honor, despite lacking in physical strength of her own.

Rather than being "strong" in a physical sense, A.B.A. has an absurd amount of physical endurance.

She can "withstand" the deadly force that Flament Nagel can possess her body with in synchronization.

Normally wielding a weapon with such berserker force would probably tear a person's muscles to shreds. If it weren't for the fact A.B.A.'s an Homunculus, her arms would be battered and completely unusable.

Accent Core refers to the state as "Sacrifice Mode", but the Japanese term is "Goku Moroha" or "Double-Edged Hell" state.

It's "Double Edged" because just as Flament Nagel can give A.B.A. the power to produce extremely deadly attacks... those attacks can potentially do just as much damage to A.B.A.

Like a true Berserker, wielding a weapon heedless of one's limits, or simply ignoring your physical limitations in exchange for power is what makes these two a deadly combination.

Normally you would have to wonder if A.B.A. can continue to wield such a dangerous weapon, or even if doing so would end up destroying her own body.

But, it seems that to some degree, Blood Packs and some unknown facets of A.B.A's body can help her regenerate from the damage she takes. Similar to GEARS perhaps, but not quite.

That, and A.B.A. herself is a conduit for Alchemy, a little-known lost art. Her blood is made from a reactive substance known as Quicksilver (also known as Mercury).

It's still quite the mystery what Paracelsus was thinking when he created A.B.A... but it was enough to impress the likes of the Gearmaker (Asuka R. Kreutz) in the long term.

As for Flament Nagel... how he came to be and the powers he unleashes on those who wield him: it is said that he is a Magical Foci... a Magic Focus, or object that became sentient.

Perhaps Flament was a tool in bloody magic rituals in the past, or was used to kill in various ways, but eventually grew a will of his own... similar to Izuna and his Tsukumogami past.

Still, the key shape appears to be connected with a Forbidden Gate of Knowledge... so Flament Nagel might have a past connection with that which piqued Paracelsus' interest.

That connection with Alchemy that Flament and A.B.A. share is just as mysterious as they both are, but until their story continues, it's hard to say if the truth will ever come to light.

Even so, it appears to be A.B.A.'s quest to "create" a new body for Flament Nagel (despite the fact he considers himself a weapon and isn't interested in getting a new body).

With the world becoming more peaceful it might be difficult for Flament Nagel to fight in battles like he craves, but even so, he has yet to encounter the likes of the Valentines, or even Asuka!

So, we shall see!

[isthemedia]

Listen listen listen-while yes I’m hyped as fuck to see Bedman back in any sort of compacity…

A-are we getting Asuka in May? ARE WE FINALLY GOING TO BE ABLE TO PLAY THAT MAN? The Catboy? The Gearmaker???

[veil-of-exordia]

Autobio post>>>

Hey. I go by Xor/Exordium/Veil, or any recognisable conjugation of one of these.

My pronouns are he/they. Regular alternation between the two sets is optional. pronouns.page (also in Chinese here)

I’m Canadian Chinese, aroace (queerplatonic-partnering), and a minor. I’m affected by dysgraphia, GAD, MDD, and possibly other neurodivergences.

I'm off to college! My desired future career is an ecologist.

Although I don’t really discuss this much, I’m a Roman polytheist. My main deities are Saturn and Mars. Please do not use ‘pagan’ or its variations to indicate me or my faith, as it has been a slur and I do not feel comfortable reclaiming it. 'Mythology', though, is fine.

Right, contents of this blog! I post:

-Reblogs of anything I find useful or entertaining. These are non-fandom specific.

-Analysis and headcanons of Hamlet.

-General Ace Attorney.

-Original writing, both prose and poetry.

-Time aesthetic.

I also run a roleplay blog for Polonius @polonius-counsels.

Some other pieces of media I like, listed with my favs:

-The Iliad (Sarpedon)

-The Memory Police (the unnamed narrator)

-Undertale (Asgore Dreemurr)

-Riordanverse (Grover Underwood)

-BEASTARS (Juno)

-Wikidot!Backrooms (The Gearmaker)

-Umineko (Nanjo)

That is all. Best of luck your way!

[cassi-and-ghani-go-fishing]

1. Please Allow Passengers to Exit Before Boarding the Train

Cassi always makes a point of sitting at the front of the car, against the wall, feet up on the seats, facing the doors. Today, she has a book in her lap, fingers pressed down on the outer edge of the pages, ensuring her place isn’t lost as the train rumbles over the Low Market far below.

The Thistlebrock line winds precariously between the high rises of the central city before jutting out over the lower rooftops of Key Town, the halfling ghetto, a clearing of stout brick and woodwork among the towering districts encircling it. There, an explosion of canvas awnings stretch between the tenements, dyed in brilliant colors now faded from decades of sunlight and acid rain. In their lee, sheltered from sky, a pockmarked woman hawks tepache at disinterested human passersby nearly twice her height; a street away, a pair of grim-faced dwarven ax sisters accompany a silk merchant from far Belamma and her retinue. An urchin crowd surrounds them, greedy hands reaching for a touch of the bolts of silk piled in her cart, but the displeased cluck of her draft-pheasant mount keeps them from coming too close.

They pass into oblivion as the Thistlebrock thunders onward, back into the thicket of skyscrapers, here packed so close together that they blur into an undifferentiated mass of stained glass and brass and brick and corrugated iron; above and below, at odd and precipitous angles, bridge and catwalk and skyway connect the buildings into a harrowing network of passage and message. Pneumatic tubes run sending stones and parcels between the offices of a hundred nameless concerns and their partners or their rivals, while pipes slung precariously beneath their network carry illegal gaslines to the squat neighborhoods propped up between the buildings, clinging desperately to the promise of fresh air above the smogline, cobbled together structures more like enormous birdsnests than humanoid habitation.

A woman and child clutch trembling hands as they teeter across a makeshift bridge of planks that cut from one such squat to the roof of a skyway some 20 meters away, where a maintenance hatch has been permanently jammed open to allow the squatters access to the city below. The train speeds on, the rush of its passing bouncing their bridge as it goes, nearly tossing them into the open sky and then the murk below.

Ahead, Barrowside Station looms, the last station stop before the rails careen into the Eastern reach of the Jhilandi Ring Wall, a bright streak of scientific marvel piercing the ancient battlements–outdated now in the age of airship warfare, a fact constantly evidenced by the colossal ironclad warships drifting sentinel in the clouds above–as it makes its way to the Ditch Ports below the Elfgate, a kilometer outside of Jhilandi proper.

The arching entrance of the station consumes the Thistlebrock with the ceaseless hunger of an abyssal maw, the track its leering tongue, forever extended in mockery or malice as each successive wave of passengers is devoured or vomited up, empty and exhausted. This is the economy of Jhilandi: meals of flesh delivered with ruthless efficiency to the perpetual hunger of industry, raised cheap in tight-packed houses in the low city and churned into a constant circuit of production and distribution and consumption, then spit back out like empty husks when their shifts end. The Passage System, famed across the worlds as a monument to the modernity and civility of an empire equipped with science, committed to progress.

When the Gearmakers Guild and the bankers and half of the empires’ industrial concerns finally forced the abolition of the old Jhilish aristocracy, that was history being made: they promised the vote in exchange for the mountain of low city corpses piled up in the Harlot’s Chase riots, and now we have “democracy.” Musical chairs for corpo hacks in parliament, a tea party in the Butterfly Palace while the machines of the imperial bureaucracy churn ever onwards, and we the little cogs go to work or the pub or die in a ditch. At least the drugs are better now, at least the Isaacites are in power while I waste away toiling for a few drakes, same as I did when it was the Guildbreaker Party in the big chair or the Unity League before them. It’s not history when the mountain of low city corpses pile up today, choked on smog or plague or just broken by years on the line.

The trip into Barrowside Station always reminds Cassi of this, not least because of the name, a reference to the nagaji barrows that were discovered in the hills around Jhilandi by the first Jhilish settlers to arrive on this wretched, rainy little plane, desirable only for being the crossroads of a handful of Teargates. The city itself is a barrow; the graveyard of hours of dead labor, of workers, the strength of their arms exhausted to build ever upwards, like a great statue garden to honor the accumulation of cold hard cash for some lucky fuck born into more than enough to die on. Of course, she’d never toiled a day in her life, but that didn’t make her wrong anyhow. And writing poetry was work, from a certain point of view. Cat burglary less so, but nobody’s asking, and can’t a thief have politics, too?

She sits up as the train pulls in, covers her ears as the station klaxons sound the arrival. A conductor bellows the station stop–incomprehensible over the broken intercom, a static jumble of gibberish in Jhilish and halfling pidgin and then “Doors on the left. Watch your step when exiting the train.” Around her, the red brick arch of the station conquers the cityscape, then passes into a few breaths of darkness as the train passes from the weak sunlight outside to the flickering gaslights of the platform.

The doors hiss open onto the platform with a gout of steam as the condensation on their windows and collected pools of rainwater spill down onto the superheated tracks below. Her trip has taken her opposite the typical Thistlebrock traffic , so only a handful of passengers shared the car with her until this point: two Jhilish bank clerks, elf-ears protruding through slicked back hair falling on matching, stylish suits, a human family whose travel bags suggested they were heading towards Elfgate, a priestess to some snake cult or another, and an off-duty beat cop from the Hand, black padded coat bundled on his lap, flintlock menacingly resting among the folds. He’d tried making eye contact with her as they left the Passage Spire, lecherous little pig-faced Jhil scanning her up and down like market meat, but she’d assertively ignored him and sat down with her book. Barrowspire was clearly his stop–he’d gotten up to disembark a few minutes before they hit the station, donning his coat with the idiot flair of someone who’d seen too many penny-shows in Low Market theatres–and he calls out to her as he makes his way to the door:

“Hey genie-bitch: wanna come rub my la-”

The catcall is cut-off as he stumbles face-first into a chitin breastplate. He starts to shout a challenge as his eyes travel upwards from the breastplate, intricately carved with whorling organic patterns so complex that Cassi cannot tell if they were the natural result of whatever alien insect was harvested for the chitin or the work of a master artisan in some distant workshop, but stops short when he realizes he’ll need to crane his neck to even meet the eyes of the towering oread woman before him, when he sees a falchion wider than his torso strapped to her back.

“I–I’m…I’m sorry, m…miss? I’ll be–”

His voice catches and he runs off.

The oread, so tall as to be nearly crouching just to enter the traincar, turns and looks at him quizzically as he goes. Her skin–brown like Cassi’s, but more alike to the color of soil than her suli-jann olive-tones–is crossed with scars that mottle her…impressive muscles. White shoulder-length hair is partially tied back, cascading down around a messy ponytail and revealing a spiral of emeralds embedded on her back, swirling outwards to end at her exposed shoulderblade.

She shouts after him in accented Jhilish–“Fuckin’ rude, then?”–but her words are caught in the closing doors, the effect lost. A few meters away, a human and a flathead goblin have also boarded through the car’s other set of doors, and they call out to her: “Oi, Ghati - y’want us to jump out ‘n toss ‘im then?” “Too late, boys. Places t’go, people t’see, and we’ve got n’time for that scrapbook of a man. Anyhow, he’s job, so it’s not worth the trouble. Hand cunts’d be buzzing like so many bees before you could say what’s for, eh?”

The man, pale and bald and glum, flicks a look around the train car, gives a polite nod to the human family and a scowl to the bankers, before reaching up to scratch the top of his head, ringed with concentric circles of blue-black tattooed script. His other hand rests on the stock of a brass-plated blunderbus slung on a strap over his shoulder, thumb caressing the embossments. Two handaxes hang at his belt, and clatter against a metal handpole in the center of the car as he goes to sit. His name is Muln and his tattoos mark him as a gun-priest of the Aether Mysteries, a lower city cult precious about their secret gods, but rather prodigious at killing, which is why Cassi’s employer shelled out the cash to bring him along. She’d worked with him before, which was an added bonus for all.

The flathead, Skitter, totters forwards past Muln, looks disappointedly through the window as the train lurches back into motion, and then loses his balance and stumbles over to Ghatiyara’s knee, which his head only barely reaches. His motley robes mark readily him as a street arcanist, as does his stoat familiar, who peaks out of his sleeve and blinks at Cassias Skitter hops up on bench across from her. The stoat, Maurice, spills out and curls into a ball on the rotting seat-cushion at his side.

“Ey, Cass. Ready t’go make some money?”

[tigerkrushes]

old man yaoi

[juni-valentine]

It’s Hat man!!!! Not to be confused with the sleep paralysis dude

Man is so fucking dripped out, he already got a monocle so the top hat vibing frfr

(Song is golden mouth of ruin -Archspire 😎)

[mariautistic]

Going up to the fucking gearmaker and going Hey Handsome. What an icon

[deep-space-atomic-clock]

oh by the way. i put the cat ears back on the gearmaker

[designergearchick]

So blessed and grateful Wardlow trusted me to be apart of his special moment. This gear is particularly special and if you know you know😘😘😘!!!

[coloradobushcraft]

We have another grab bag that will go live today at 11:00 AM MST. The link below works but there will not be an inventory item to purchase until 11. There is only one. https://bit.ly/3imqN67 This one has some great leather pouches, an edc pouch with molle, some various ditty bags, a desk caddy, haversack, and more. There is even a sharp pointy object. Remember these are not production items. Most are one-off prototypes or have slight gaffs which do not effect performance. . Made in the USA 🇺🇸 ⁣ .⁣ #gear #travel #coloradobushcraft #naturelovers #outdoorlife #wildernessculture #bushcraft #camping #hiking #vintagestyle #camping-gear #nature #cabinlife #madeintheusa #gearmaker #camplife #waxedcanvas #woodlore #wildcamp #NaturePhotography #BackWoodsman #GoldenColorado #Colorado #outdoorlife #wildernessculture #bushcrafter #bushcrafting https://www.instagram.com/p/CLe3xbfhQWp/?igshid=1af3wjycwp39v

[skills2survive]

Malcolm has added padded shoulder straps to the Day Ruck.. 👍👍😁. #Repost @thehiddenwoodsmen (@get_repost) ・・・ TheHiddenWoodsmen.com DayRuck Scout in Ranger Green. Made a small batch Packs 🌲🌲🌲 #Bushcraft #Camping #Hiking #Vintagestyle #CampingGear #TheHiddenWoodsmen #Camplife #MadeintheUSA 🇺🇸 #GearMaker #Haversack #Backpack #RuckSack #firekit #CabinLife #Rucking #Backpacking #Travel #theoriginalhiddenwoodsmen #SurvivalKit  #Survival #BugoutBag #Nature #Woodlore #NotAllWhoWanderAreLost #TheMountiansAreCalling #Whatsinyourpossiblespouch #wildernessculture https://www.instagram.com/p/BpkqY77BMrq/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=p0cznzwrzi3h