#incorrect signal // noise

[everwalldigan]

Ok so the popular consensus is that the bat brood will absolutely terrorise any guests any of them have over but what if we take that concept and tweak it a little bit.

Instead of them doing weird shit openly, how about they act totally normal HOWEVER they do weird little unsettling things that suddenly disappear if you do a double take. The guest leaves really unsettled but with no tangible reason they can name to explain it. Allow me to provide some examples:

Dick: has spent an obscene amount of hours practicing “delayed speech glitch” where his mouth moves, sounding out words before he vocalises them.

Duke: manipulates the lights to shine like a stage light on whoever is speaking at that moment, sometimes douses any family member who has pissed him off in darkness until the guest notices and immediately retracts it when they look back. (This backfires sometimes cause they enjoy pretending to brood in the shadows. Its genetic)

Damian: makes his animals appear in random corners and then disappear just as quickly. (His best feat was when he successfully pulled it off with the batcow and Wally left so fucking confused)

Cass: utilises her body language reading skills to give the guest what they want before they have the chance to ask for it. They spend the entire evening carefully monitoring their thoughts cause they’re 100% convinced she’s a mind reader

[finite-breakpoints]

Advan: "We need to talk about the way you're treating my officers when I send them to the prototyping lab. Karel filed a formal complaint about you last cycle."

Siv: "You're getting the data cubes you asked for. I'm holding up my end of the deal. I don't see the problem here."

Advan: "...You cannot keep calling him Lieutenant Douchecanoe."

Siv: "If he wasn't such a dick every time he came in, maybe I wouldn't have to."

[copepods]

🌇 factored-antagonism 🔁 three-pronged-spears Follow

🌫️ three-pronged-spears Follow

DNI if you support Peripherism. It's literally just Slab Mongering but worse and with less effort

#wait peripherism is still a thing?????? #meaning collector point inversions havent been the norm in like 350 years afaik

36 notes

💟 pleading-intellect

GUYSSSS my overseer found a clutch of baby green lizards today they're so CUTE

#inty.txt #and BEFORE anyone accuses me of not iterating im literally running 55,458 processes rn

2 notes

❇️ string-of-pearls 🔁 rippling-shadows Follow

👤 forspoken-antiquity Follow

hey FYI everyone if you receive an ask about transcendental inversions it's a troll. i've gotten 3 asks in the last cycle

#signal boost!!

2,347 notes

🌁 nineteen-afterthoughts

"ohhh Triangulation is outdated" "ohhh Triangulators dont even factor noise milking into their research theyre a bunch of idiots" im literallu just a little guy im 4 feet tall why do you hate me

⬜️🔁 erratic-pulse

Irrelevant tangents and jokes don't help your case. Triangulationism is simply an objectively moronic take on an already superfluous train of thought. How are you supposed to find the Solution if you can't even properly look for it?

🌁🔁 nineteen-afterthoughts

you literally have Sliverist in your bio but go off

⬜️🔁 erratic-pulse

The minutiae of my theoretical inclinations are irrelevant. Your dogma is blatantly incorrect regardless.

🌁🔁 nineteen-afterthoughts

your group senior and i are raising a family together

19 notes

💽 slowly-advancing-mist

a band of scavengers literally just stole my last vat of holy ash thats it im seeking personal ascension

#vent #dont rb

0 notes

🚹 untoward-foresight Follow

Anyone else gotten really into Gold Hegemonic epic poetry recently? This one dude Eight Brass Whistles has a bunch of crazy quasi-Regeneratist stuff, it's actually really cool

🎹 east-facing-pillars

wasnt Eight Brass Whistles a heretic???? i heard he refused to shed the 3rd attachment or something like that

🚹 untoward-foresight Follow

Nah that callout post got debunked 533 cycles ago lol

🎹 east-facing-pillars

ahhh ok thanks for clarifying! ill let you know if i find anything :)

#thanks for being polite haha #lesson learned i gotta check this forum more LMAO

93 notes

⬜️ erratic-pulse

anonymous asked:

Transcendental Inversion! Transcendental Inversion!

Only someone with a fundamentally false understanding of inversion modes would send this. You can't even do such a thing without sufficient trailing bonds, which entropy renders impossible.

#Why do I always encounter idiots on this pseudonym?

5 notes

[andmaybegayer]

For a different project I was reading about developments in induction heating technologies and realized I had a small misunderstanding about how induction stoves work.

So, the classic misunderstanding is in why steel works on an induction hob but aluminium doesn't. Most people assume this is because you need a magnetic material in order to induce a current, but if you know your physics you know this isn't true. You can induce a current in any conductor, and indeed inducing currents in aluminium is something that happens in industry all the time.

So then you get to my understanding of why you can't use aluminium and copper, which is that they're too good at conducting electricity. Induction generates a voltage that pushes a current through the material. Aluminium and copper are much better conductors than steel, so the generated potential is lower and the overall current is lower as a result of material interactions with the field, so you don't get nearly as much heat out of induction on aluminium as on steel. This was what I thought. This is also wrong, although it's closer.

The actual answer is one step deeper. Induction hobs have to operate at pretty high frequencies, usually 24-ish kHz, both for audible noise reasons and, crucially, because they rely heavily on the skin effect. Interestingly this makes that first wrong explanation kind of more correct, I'll get to that in a moment.

The skin effect is a thing that happens when you have an alternating current in a bulk material; the AC signal sets up magnetic fields that force current to flow in a thin layer closer to the surface of the solid rather than flowing evenly throughout the material. This increases the effective resistance of the material, since you end up with a reduced effective surface area through which current can flow. The skin effect gets more pronounced at higher frequencies, and it's part of why you'll see bundles of smaller cables used to conduct high power AC: each cable has its own skin that can carry more current than the same quantity of material in one bulk cable.

In the right kinds of steel and iron, 24kHz is enough to generate a current carrying skin only a few tenths of a millimeter thick, which has a high enough resistance to generate the heat needed for cooking. Ferromagnetic materials have very high magnetic permeability, which causes them to experience much stronger skin effects. Copper and aluminium, between their high conductivity and lower magnetic permeability, have much weaker skin effects, their skins at 24kHz are much thicker, and so you just can't kick up enough resistance to the current to generate heat, it just spins around in there getting kind of warm but you'd have a hard time actually cooking with it. Indeed, non-magnetic stainless steel also won't work on induction hobs, because it also has a much thicker skin effect.

So you have the "real answer" being a fun hybrid of the two incorrect explanations.

The main side effects I take away from this are twofold.

1) you can absolutely make an induction hob that will heat copper and aluminum and non-magnetic stainless steels, you just need a high enough frequency to generate a strong enough skin effect to generate heat. Panasonic makes one that uses 60+kHz induction under the brand "Met-all".

2) if you physically constrain the current by having a really thin piece of metal, you can induction heat it anyway. When I read this, I stopped, took out a piece of aluminium foil, and stuck it on my induction cooktop. It almost immediately got incredibly hot and I pulled it away before anything bad happened. Turns out you could definitely melt and maybe even vaporize aluminium this way. So don't do that. Apparently people do this with lightweight titanium cookware too, which would not be able to sustain the necessary currents in a large bulk solid but can if you thin the base of the pan out enough.

[scapeg8ats]

(Sorry for this being a long post, it became a rant/vent and a lot of thoughts. Someday I'll shut up about this I SWEAR lol. There's a TL;DR at the end.)

Maybe I'm not even interested in syscourse outside of learning more about plurality and its connections outside of CDDs and why someone may see themselves as plural or really any way of not seeing oneself as One Singular Self (whether it has to do with a disorder or it's a cultural/religious/etc. reason). Or I guess that does make me interested in syscourse. Just not echo chamber syscourse.

Like I'm sorry but y'all are fucking mean. I LOVE having discussions where I can learn and understand other perspectives. I guess to steal SAS's label, I'm very pro-syscourse conversation (though—and this isn't to bash SAS AT ALL—to me that feels redundant because syscourse is supposed to be conversation anyway. But it's not so the label is necessary). I want to learn. I want to be educated. I want to discuss this, even with people who disagree with me, because I want knowledge of other perspectives.

But it is so hard to find syscourse spaces that AREN'T echo chamber syscourse spaces. The desire to attain knowledge is stomped out by attaching inherent morality to labels that can be boiled down to one argument: Do you or do you not believe that plurality is exclusive to CDDs?

And shockingly this has more nuance than "endos are/n't valid". What may cause someone to see themselves as plural without a CDD? And the answers are vast and could be a FASCINATING discussion. Not even necessarily a debate, just learning more about people. And yet the answer to this question isn't even considered before so many people just go "[extremely loud incorrect buzzer noise]" and shut it down.

Maybe, ironically, this is me struggling to understand perspective. But I don't understand the lack of interest in wanting to understand, despite having experienced it myself. And even that, I want to understand. But I know that the fact that because of the nature of my opinions, I would be marked pro-endo, and shut out of that discussion. And it's INFURIATING because I respect the fact that they don't want to interact with me but I just don't understand!

There is endless room for discussion that's shut out and it's frustrating. It's heartbreaking. I want there to be discussion. But there won't be until the echo chambers start to open their fucking eyes.

I remember the moment for me was when someone in the Twitter dissociatwt community who I really respected, who always provided good resources, who was reliable and kind and honest...was pro-syscourse conversation. And my knee-jerk reaction was almost betrayal. How could someone that I respected be a pro-endo??

But I realized that they didn't stop being reliable because of this. Some of y'all will discount doctors who have been studying plurality, trauma, and dissociation longer than some of you have been alive because they're a stinky smelly "pro-endo". Therapists and doctors and the like who go "Why isn't it possible" get discounted because of this when they, too, just want to understand. Because with all due respect and in the most positive way, they're a bunch of nerds. And I don't understand. I don't understand how you can do that.

And that's really the thing. I don't understand and I'm not given the space to understand because my stance is somehow morally wrong. I'm not virtue signaling right. Sometimes for both sides. And it's awful.

TL;DR, I don't understand and am frustrated by echo chamber syscourse. That's it. That's all this long-ass post is saying. I don't get it. It didn't need a post but a lot of me just started Talking and did not stop.

[mystiquedrops]

INCORRECT QUOTES FOR DT SINCE IT'S RETURNING! !!

SPOILER ALERT !!

(I have learnt you can make your texts look fancy, so I may as well give it a shot !)

"Min: I currently have 7 empty notebooks and I have no idea what to put in them. Any suggestions?

Arei: Put spaghetti in it.

Min: I am currently taking suggestions from everyone but you.

Whit: Put spaghetti in it.

Min: I am currently taking suggestions from everyone but you two.

Xander: Put spaghetti in it.

Min: I am no longer taking suggestions."

—

"Teruko: What’s the status up here?

Ace: Fucked up, about to die, Charles is a nerd. The usual."

_

"Hu: I’ve only Nico had for a day and a half but if anything happened to them I would kill everyone in this room and then myself."

_

"Eden: How do tall people people possibly sleep at night when the blanket can't possibly cover you?

Levi: Eden, it's four o'clock in the morning.

Eden: So, you can't sleep, huh? Is it because of the blanket?"

_

"Arei, passing their phone to Eden: I'm passing the phone to someone, who if I had to choose between hanging out with them, and having my organs removed one by one, I’d choose the organs.

Eden, passing the phone back to Arei: I'm passing the phone to my best friend!"

_

"Ace: Is it still visible? Where Hu slapped me?

Teruko: Your face looks like a don't walk signal.

Rose: Your face looks like a photo negative for the hamburger helper box.

Levi: A palm reader could tell Hu's future by looking at your face.

Arei: The phrase 'talk to the hand cause the face ain't listening' doesn't work for you, because the hand is your face.

Ace: ...A simple 'yes' would've sufficed."

_

"Hu: Arei, get that hidious thing out of the living room, would you?

Arei: Arturo, Hu wants you to get out of the house."

_

"Eden: I told Teruko that her ears turn red when she lies.

Levi: Do they?

Eden: No.

Levi: Then why did you tell her that?

Eden: Because I can do this.

Eden: Hey Teruko! Do you love us?

Teruko, with her hands over her ears: No."

_

"Nico: The only thing I'm guilty of is being adorable... ...and also assault with a deadly weapon."

_

"Eden: eating a cinnamon roll

Veronika: Cannibalism.

Eden: confused chewing noises"

_

"Rose: I wanna sleep for 40 hours.

Teruko: You know that's called a coma, right?

Rose: That sounds so refreshing, I could totally go for a light coma right now."

_

"Xander is speaking on the phone

Xander: Yeah, I'm with Teruko.

Teruko: Im fucking dying-

Xander: Yep, she's okay.

Teruko: I have a knife in my chest!

Xander: No, she can't talk right now. She's sleeping, sorry.

Teruko: IM BLEEDING OUT-"

_

"Eden: You use humor to deflect your trauma.

Whit: Awww, thanks-

Eden: That’s not a good thing!

Whit: All I’m hearing is that you think I’m funny."

_

"Xander: we could make a boys club!

Nico: Im non-binary.

Xander:

Xander: Anti-girls club."

_

"Arei, to someone that angered her: Holds two middle fingers

Teruko: Can’t say I’m surprised…

Whit: Yeah, flip em off, Arei!

Eden, confused: Holds one middle finger

The cast, very distressed: NOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

_

[fallecupid]

"how could i love you?"

.ᐟ.ᐟ warnings :ㅤ angst!dean.ㅤvampire!reader.ㅤgn!reader.ㅤㅤㅤword count: 6k

( author's note : i apologize in advance for errors in this text / vague wording / words that are incorrect in meaning ( if any are present in the content. ) english is not my native language, everything written below has been translated by a translator. )

The heavy clanking of chains and the dampness of the basement hit you like cold water in the morning. Confusedly trying to get some focus of events, you shook your head, almost instantly calling out an irritated lurch somewhere behind you. The gears were slowly banging one against one in your brain, not ready to acknowledge the worst of it. Though it was clear in the back of your mind that it was Dean. You could have sworn you were about to meet his disappointed gaze, or worse, a silver bullet to the forehead.

The man grabbed your chin sharply, not even trying to control the force with which he squeezed the soft skin that once held you so sweetly against him. "Don't look away, the least you can do is look at me." Dean leaned in slightly, gritting his teeth almost to the point of grinding. "After all the shit you pulled on me. How long did you think you'd be a doormat?" He cut himself short, pulling away and crossing his arms over his chest as a low rumble came from you.

The noise intensified behind you, and within minutes Dean Winchester was standing in front of you. His green eyes darkened, like he saw some bastard he should take his life, but damn it was ironic. You pressed your lips together, unable to even look at him.

A tiny signal of how much pain he was holding you in. To his inner turmoil, Winchester let go, he would blame himself again and again later, but not now. "Just let me explain..." Your parched lips cracked as you tried in vain to moisten them with saliva. Winchester, squinted his eyes, unable to hide the way his inner demons were eating away at him.

He couldn't get his mind around how disgusting you were. The little snake he held close, the bloodsucker in the same bed as him. It was utter nonsense, but it was true. And the worst part was that he loved you, even now, through the prism of hatred, he loved you.

The man paced the damp floor, which creaked treacherously beneath him, sagging wetly. "Try explaining." The chilling tone cut into you like a knife to the heart, but with the stipulation that it had been spun a few times. Under that invisible vise, the only thing you could do was stare meekly at the floor, swaggering your words.

"I wanted to say earlier...But i was enjoying the moment too much, you know? All your love, your affection, your smile, those damn teases.... Everything was available to me, like I'd won the damn lottery." You didn't dare look at him, just squirmed.

Dean stopped, looking at you, pursing his lips. A weak excuse, you knew full well he was smashing heads with the likes of you every damn day, yet you still lived off of fortune. Either you were a goddamn lunatic or crazy in love. He almost suppressed a smirk, running those words through his head.

But the moment of weakness didn't last long, he would remember again the moments where you almost got caught. The perpetual night walks, the drops of blood caked on your clothes, the odd behavior, after all. But Dean was just a brainless puppy in love for turning a blind eye so easily. Now all he wanted to do was bang his head against the wall a few times to beat the crap out of himself and the idea that you deserved forgiveness.

Still circling beside you, he hissed in your ear, warm breath stated with dry speech. "That's a weak excuse. If you'd lost control and gnawed on a neighborhood, right? A city? You're dangerous as hell." The man touched your neck, nuzzling it in a light touch, averting his gaze. Now the gears were already working in his brain. It was as if some contradiction was showing its ugly head every time he spat those caustic words at you, every time he wanted to take your head off. God damn him.

Still clutching your neck, his eyes followed yours, those damn eyes full of fear and despair, those damn eyes in which he was drowning and still is. Those lips, now pressed almost to white, used to kiss him supplely. Your hair, the familiar tuft of hair that rippled against his skin. And it was now that it overwhelmed him, as if he were looking through an old family album.

But that's the thing about scrapbooks, they hold those memories that can only be remembered, not realized. You're a monster, you killed innocent people, manipulated them. Torn in a cycle of doubt, he didn't notice how damn hard he squeezed your throat, of course it wouldn't kill you, but noticeable discomfort it might bring.

"Shit shit shit shit, I-" As if coming out of a trance, he recoiled, looking at your face, you almost on the verge of tears. The irony was eerily funny, because he too felt a lump somewhere in the middle of his throat.

"Just tell me, what the hell? Why are you torturing me?" He pressed his lips together, running his fingers through his hair. "You know damn well I can't kill you, but you look at me like I'm the ultimate evil of all." Muttering quietly, Dean took a few deep breaths, looking at you slightly blurred.

Shit. He can't just take your life, not after you pulled him out of a shit hole, not after you helped him rebuild Sammy, not after you gave him a goddamn house. He found a piece of himself. He'd already lost one, his father, and he wasn't ready to lose one by his own stupid oversight.

In fact, you'll handle everything together, won't you? Dean knelt down in front of you, his hands convulsively squeezing your cheeks, on which tears had long since flowed. The man pressed his forehead against yours, his voice shaking like he was in forty-degree cold. "I'm sorry, i'm sorry i'm a fool." He looked at you. "No, you're not.... Anyone in your shoes would have done the same." You muttered, meeting his gaze.

"I'm in my place right now and i'm being an idiot for letting myself love you." Bitter longing mixed with the heaviness of his voice as calloused fingers drew faint circles on your cheeks. "Hey... don't cry." Winchester leaned toward you, absorbing the regret in your eyes.

"That's right, you're a complete idiot for not shooting me in the head." Trembling, your hand tentatively reaches for his hair, groping the area. But here you are: he suppliantly reaches for you, unable to look at you anymore. It's as if all his hateful feeling has been washed away by the speech water, as if you were never a blood-singing brat and he never dreamed of killing you.

It's like everything's back to normal. He's beside you, you're stroking his hair, and he's tucking his lips into your shoulder. It's all so familiar, so warm. So much so that it could have been a happy dream, but no. We're in a harsh reality where every parasite will get to every innocent.

Just by that, you receive a crushing blow to the heart, his revolver filled with silver bullets poking into your soft chest. He doesn't even try to hold back the tears that are traitorously pouring out of him, the only thing he can do is scream as he stares at your now breathless body. Dean could have sworn there was a phrase frozen on your lips that cut his heart worse than any knife. "I love you."

Winchester's always been a hunter. No matter how long he pretends this doesn't concern him, he can't just leave it alone. Even if he's ready to shoot himself now, even if he feels himself shattering into a million pieces right now, he's still a hunter. And you, you're the vampire, the one he's hunting.

[titanicfreija]

No

Maybe two days later, around the same time as the last answer, Sunny got pinged again.

"Are you ready to say sorry to her?"

"Is–"

Sunny ended the contact and didn't touch it when she tried again.

~

"Guardian."

The way the Titan froze made Thomas angry. She never told him the complete story, but he knew it was ugly, and it took ages for her to finally stop sneaking around the apartment just because she felt too big and obtrusive. 

And here this asshole was starting her back up again. It was the first time in a very long time Thomas wanted to fight with an authority figure.

The speaker made a choking electronic noise then stopped and the room fell silent. 

"I do not appreciate this," said Rex through the intercom. "I have allowed it enough, and I am disallowing it now."

And with that, the intercom turned off entirely. 

Thomas watched it briefly, then settled into his seat with a small smile. "He's such an asshole." He glanced up at Freija, who was moving her lips slightly as she recited a poem. Her eyes flooded with tears but when she blinked them free, they were gone. "You okay?"

"I just wasn't ready," she replied, voice steady and low. "I'm okay."

~

"That is my Guardian!"

Caiatl didn't realize the Ghosts could transmat themselves so far, nor did she realize that Sunny could so easily trace the signal back to the smaller cruiser she traveled in. 

She also didn't know what to do now because she had been counting on the incorrect information.

"I know it–"

"Stay away from her!"

The little Ghost's petals flailed with rage and the sharp jumping motions worried Caiatl for the ceiling. 

"I did not–"

"It wasn't an apology! Stay away!'

Caiatl watched Sunny silently, hardly breathing. The Ghost stopped moving to stare back, petals still going like mad. 

"I–"

"I don't want to hear any more excuses. Say it right," snapped Sunny. "I shouldn't even have to have this conversation with you."

Caiatl opened her mouth, but took several seconds to say, "I have been a bad friend. I hurt your Guardian far worse than intended. I have failed you."

"That's. Still. Not. Right," snapped Sunny. "So you can just pout up here and tell yourself that my safety is worth my Guardian, because it isn't."

"I understand you feel–"

"She is my purpose! You asshole! My entire existence has always been dedicated to my Guardian! Before I knew her! Before she was born! Before her people existed! I live for her and I would die for her! In fact– I did! I died for everyone! And my last thought was of her! I love her more than anything else in my entire life! I missed her when I was dead! And you hurt her!"

"Sunny…"

"She gave me that name! You have no right to use it!"

Caiatl leaned back as if struck.

"So you can tell her you're sorry or you can never call my name again!"

Sunny gave no more chance for argument, disappearing in an instant with a small shower of Light.

~

Sunny 'matted so close that Freija didn't have to move to grab her out of the air, and the Ghost let the warm hand press her over the pounding heart.

"Rex call you?" Thomas asked. 

"I called him," she said. "I needed to find her and I knew he was already tuned in from spying on you."

"He handled it in true Rex fashion."

"Declaring what Is True as deemed by his highness?" Sunny asked. "I mean that in the most appreciative way."

"Even better, he made it arbitrary. No logic, no explanations. Just, okay, had enough. So you went to confront her?"

"I told her she's not allowed to call my name until she says she's sorry," growled Sunny. "I'm not okay with this, this wasn't okay, and she will not treat my Guardian this way."

Freija hadn't moved the entire conversation, except for her lips repeating the poem.

"Freija."

"I'm okay," she lied, giving Sunny a light squeeze. "I just wasn't ready. I'm getting there. It's okay. I'm okay. I'm at home, looking at a magazine, looking for the best… solar… scout…" she mumbled, slowly finding her way back to the thing on her lap. "The newest one handles nice but the single reload," she mumbled aloud, obviously trying to distract herself. 

"I think you can find Dual Loader on that one," supplied Thomas. "Does that interfere with Incandescent? That's what you were looking for, right?"

[pararennial-archived]

*‵ ･ comets & cicadas ･ ′

There is something chilling about Benjamin Banneker's poetic assessment of cicadas and their likeness to comets. Excerpts of the analogy flash occasionally in her mind, like sepia-toned memories playing beneath closed eyes.

"... but they, like the comets, make but a short stay with us..."

She is on the rooftop, knees tucked against her chest while her eyes scan the night sky. The soft purple of dusk clings to the edge of where land meets the heavens before surrendering to the inky dark of night's domain. Constellations are captured within cobalt depths, mapping out pieces of her history ⏤ transmission signals between past and present. The line of communication is not apparent, but it's there is dialogue in the form of thin wires suspended within the atmosphere, wavering to and fro like waves. Eventually these strings start to tighten, she feels it pull within her. She cannot stay where she is for long. Something calls.

"... their lives are short, they are merry. they begin to sing or make a noise from first they come out of the earth till they die..."

When a butterfly emerges from its chrysalis, it is rebirth. It rises from the broken rind of its former life anew. From beneath, when gold emerges in the form of cracks along her skin, is this something new? Or something she forced herself to bury like some unknown precious mineral? Or something she lets sleep, dormant until it can't any longer and emerges out screaming?

She remembers how it burned when ichor overtakes blood ⏤ striking lightning, forming roots and branches out of gold ( is it no coincidence that they all look the same, as though Nature intended it? ). That was before it became as natural as a snake shedding its skin. She doesn't know what to make of it, and thus, she lets herself soar, as above, but tethered, so below.

"... the hindermost part rots off, but it does not appear to be any pain to them..."

Flowers, fungi, or bones. It's hard to determine on weathered marble bas-reliefs of women reverently holding the potential aforementioned aloft, bewitching many scholars alike. However, what still remains to be translated are the mysteries of which the ephemeral incessantly reoccurs, like a once-bare branch exalted in bloom in spring after winter. Perhaps incessant isn't quite the right world, but rather, inevitable.

Roxanne would have to guess that inevitability extends to cicadas having to dig their way past mulching petals, mycelium, and hollowed, splintered bone to breach the surface only for a short taste of freedom and merrimaking before they too, must return to the earth rotting away. She would also figure that it goes the same for comet tails pinching off and dissipating into the void of space when they return for their short, appointed hour in dramatic fashion. One would think borrowed time is a sad waste... a loss, but no, it's a small victory. At least to her it is. It doesn't hurt anymore.

"... for they continue on singing till they die..."

For now, she can celebrate what she leaves behind in the wake of the days she mourned what she thought she lost. She feels there is no sense of feeling the weight of being so disproportionate to the rest of the world, like an incorrect measurement of whatever this is. Bearing the burden of ancient ills on her shoulders and carrying out good will in the creases of her palms felt normal to her, at least now she thinks it should... while relieved, at times she wonders if such serenity in embracing this is as limited as the lives of comets and cicadas.

The soft cool of the summer evening and the chirping of crickets ground her again, edges of roof tiles softly digging into her legs to remind her that such familiarity is still to be found. Her neck starts to strain from her fervently staring past the Moon's pale face to the stars twinkling beyond. Message received. The wires run slack and she finds her way down with ease, pulling imaginary wavelengths close to her heart. This is something new.

[finite-breakpoints]

Cyrus: "Look, nobody told me that a little explosion wasn't off the table here." Klax: "Tron did. Twice." Cyrus: "No, he said no casualities. It's just gonna disrupt the Occupation's supply lines, so... :)" Klax: "You know that's not what he meant. This is an intel mission." Cyrus: "Why do both of you hate fun?"

[sgtjamesrogers]

WIP WEDNESDAY

welcome back to Who's WIP Is It Anyway, where the word count doesn't matter and weeks of research will end up becoming a single sentence! today with your host, Me, offering a snippet from Ideal Lasso Spin Off Feat. RoyJamie Fic, aka 'roy kent gets bullied by a bunch of nwsl lesbians, deserves it'

Over the course of his career Roy’s had a few different agents within the same firm, but he likes his current agent the best. She doesn’t much like conversating, she’s not a fan of speculation or gossip, and she trusts Roy’s own instincts about whatever offers are made to him whether they happen to be career moves or otherwise. He’s only met with her in person a grand total of twice, and he only hears from her when there’s something for him to hear about. 

Roy makes sure she gets a ridiculously ornate basket of posh goodies every year for Christmas for her trouble and temperament, and he always gets a thank you card promptly after New Year’s in her exactingly perfect cursive. He literally could not ask for better, and he doesn’t plan to.

Which is why he always gives her infrequent e-mails the proper attention they deserve. 

The title of the e-mail is ‘Friday Round-Up’, and Roy gives it a perfunctory scroll around eleven while he waits for the kettle. It’s the sort of day where he’s not expected anywhere by anyone; Nelson Road’s a ghost town as nearly all the team makes the most of the early weeks of between seasons time, Roy’s sister and niece fully occupied by work and school, and Keeley—

He puts her out of his mind again immediately. Roy hasn’t spoken more than a word or two to Keeley since the disastrous night Jamie and himself had wound up at her front door, and he can’t imagine she would want to hear from him now. A lifetime of teaching himself the sort of off-the-pitch social cues most people just seemed to instinctively know never prepared him for the bone-melting embarrassment of being completely off the mark, of being so incorrect that you might as well have traversed off the map entirely. 

Sure, Roy knew now that his belief that Keeley and himself would end up back together wasn’t him reading the situation and signals appropriately, but something more akin to wishful thinking. The most mortifying and horribly revealing sort of wishful thinking. 

‘—benefit both parties to meet face to face in the upcoming weeks to discuss the potential advantages of your inclusion on our coaching staff, as you come highly recommended by Coach Lasso—’ 

Roy abruptly pauses his halfhearted navel gazing and rereads the body of the e-mail over again, and then once more. He flips out of his email app to his contacts, slapping his thumb over Ted’s contact once, and then twice to press ‘call’. 

“Why the fuck is a Kansas football team offering me a job?” He demands as soon as the line picks up. 

There’s a soft pause, and Ted replies with, “I do not remember ordering a Roy Kent wake-up call, but you know what, I’m not mad about it. Though I think I would like a, just a pinch of clarification. But a pinch like my gramma would use a pinch of shredded cheese for potato soup, y’know, an amount you feel with your heart.” 

With a perverse sort of anger at the sensation, Roy feels his annoyance slowly shrivel up as Ted continues being Ted at him from the other side of the Atlantic. 

“Sorry,” he grunts finally, eying his kettle like it’s personally wounded him. “It’s not too early? I’ll call back.” 

“Oh no no,” Ted says, and makes a noise like he’s stretching his way out of bed. “And miss whatever this is? Not on your life, Fanny Brice.” 

[proto-actual]

Formerly system-operator. :)

Here's an about page.

Blog at reindeer flotilla dot net.

Sideblog Index

Tron stuff:

@finite-states-ideaboard: Scrapbook for "Finite States" (ongoing fic universe).

@signal-to-noise-network: in-universe transmission archive/blog for "SIGNAL // NOISE" (Tron: Uprising prequel series).

@acquiring-signal: ask blog for Signal (my Tron OC).

@finite-breakpoints: "Finite States" shortfics, AUs, WIPs, and incorrect quotes. (requests are open!)

Other stuff:

@gnosis-via-supersaw: chaos magick, heathenry, and technopaganism in userspace :-)

@indos-novaria: "Lore of Aetherra" campaign scrapbook (plus some Falling Up lore and excited yelling about the new record).

Cat Pictures

#cy the cat // #beck the cat (my cats)

#the algorithm :) (my cats together)

#cat proximity (cats, in general)

#cat proximity by proxy (things that are not technically cats)

[weavercobra]

Dawn of Freeland

This story was written when I first got ready to GM in the Shattered Age setting. Basically, this story is meant to set the tone for the area, give a glimpse of the current status quo and give some cursory information to what notable people are in the area.

So it would not be incorrect to more describe it as a series of short scenes rather than one whole complete story, but I hope people will still find it an enjoyable read.

The first golden rays of the sun peaked over the western horizon, painting the green grass with an orange hue. Its light reached the town of Journey's End, signalling a changing of the guard. Those who had been active under the starlight crept home to their beds, while those who had been sleeping slowly opened their eyes and greeted the new day.

The brief quiet of the morning was cut off by the roar of an engine, as a motorcycle drove into town, a trail of dust kicked up in its wake. It drove halfway through the settlement before coming to a stop outside a semi-large house, the sound of the vehicle abruptly ending with the turn of a key. The driver, a small, lizard-like creature with red scales covered by leather clothes, was one Vrogusz Bouldercrusher. And from the scowl plastered on his face, just about anyone could tell he was in a foul mood. And if not the scowl, the way he stomped up towards the house would also be quite the clue.

The building had looked quite stately at some point, but over time, numerous walls, windows and patches of roofs had been somewhat haphazardly fixed, as if to quickly repair it after some great damage. Two of the beams holding up the porch roof had been replaced with a solid branch and a less solid-looking broom, something the kobold noted as he made his way up to the door. He hammered it with his fist, wanting to make sure the occupants heard him the first time.

It didn't take long for a response, as a human woman opened up. She had straight, light-brown hair and was dressed in rugged leather and wearing a pair of mittens. “Vrogusz,” she commented, as she recognised the guest. “How's it going?” “Terribly,” he replied, as he stepped in. “Where's your mother?” “In the workshop. Been at it all night,” she replied, closing the door after him. “You know how she gets. Why?” “I need to talk to her about those blasted troynts.”

“It's getting worse I take it.” “They think they can just show up and just declare part of Freeland theirs,” the kobold snorted. “That they can just take it. I was fucking chased off by their warriors. They're lucky I was alone. If I had a posse with me, I swear...” The rest of his grumbling drowned in a furious hissing noise.

“Mom would still prefer if we could talk to them,” the human noted, as she headed into the kitchen.

“Yes, well, they're not talkative, Kenya,” Vrogusz insisted.

“Maybe not. Bread?” “Huh?” “I baked some bread for me and Mom. But there's enough if you'd like a piece.”

The kobold paused, tapping his foot as he contemplated the offer. Then his stomach loudly growled. “Damn, I haven't actually eaten in a while,” he admitted. “Eh, sure. Hit me up.”

“Coming right up.” She handed him a piece. “Here you go, freshly baked bread.”

“Thanks,” he said and popped it in his mouth. A decision he regretted moments later when he tried to bite into it. He spat the piece back into his hands, licking his teeth with his forked tongue just in case one was missing. “That's some tough-ass bread.” “A bit too crunchy?” Kenya asked, as she put the mittens back on a slightly lopsided shelf.

“The only thing going crunch was my chompers,” he replied, inspecting the unscratched surface of the bread. “Might make for good ammunition though.”

She sighed. “Sorry 'bout that. Still trying to get a hang of it. Would you like something else? We still have some sausages from yesterday's dinner, if you don't mind them cold?” “Not at all. At least I can eat those.”

“Well, let me...” An explosion rocked the house, sending several of said sausages bouncing across the kitchen.

“THE FUCK?!” Vrogusz exclaimed, having fallen on his rear from the shock.

Kenya, who was leaning against a doorframe, didn't comment, instead rushing off, the kobold quickly following her.

Reaching the other end of the house, she threw open a door, blinking as the sunlight blinded her. Where there had been a wall, there was now a hole, broken planks and rubble spread all around.

“MOM!” Kenya called.

A nearby pile of debris coughed and shifted. “Right here, sweetie,” came a hoarse voice, as an older woman sat up. She was wearing a big duster, covered in splinters and dirt, and had hair much like her daughter, though with more grey streaks.

“Mom, what happened?” Kenya asked, as she helped the older woman up.

“Think I knocked over the jug of nitro.” “See, this is why my workshop is nowhere near yours,” Kenya noted with a roll of her eyes. “You gotta be more careful.” She sighed and eyed the hole. “Well, at least the room's well ventilated now.” “Yes, yes, we'll get someone to fix it,” the older woman said, as she fished a cigarette out of her coat. “Now where's my... Ah, here.” She lit the smoke and inhaled. “Ah, much better. Anyway, I see we have guests. What can I do for you, Vrogusz?” “Well, if you're quite done blowing your house up, I was out west here tonight, doing a bit of hunting,” the kobold explained. “Only for, what, six, maybe eight of those damn troynts to sudden call me an intruder and chase after me.”

“Them again,” the older woman commented.

“Yes, Emma, them again,” Vrogusz said in a tone clearly indicating the subject had been brought up before.

“They still haven't made any demands.” “I beg to fucking differ. They're quite demanding.” The kobold stepped forward. “Look, they're claiming more and more territory. It's a fucking invasion, I tell ya. We have to do something.”

Emma paused, pulsating contemplatively on the smoke. “Look, there's room enough in Freeland for everybody. I get they're kinda testy, but they're not all bad. Geng talked with one of their shamans and...” “They attacked me,” Vrogusz cut off.

“Which is not okay,” Emma agreed. “I'll send them a message. And I will keep what happened in mind. But I don't think we're quite at the point where we need to round up an angry mob.” The kobold snorted. “Fine. Then I'll find someone to help me if you won't.” He turned around and stomped out the door.

The two humans waited.

“Anyway, since you've blown a hole in the wall, might as well go this way,” Vrogusz said as he returned and exited via the damaged wall.

The two humans waited a bit longer.

“He's pissed,” Kenya commented.

“Eh, I get him. But I'm not quite ready to start a war over this,” Emma noted, taking the cigarette from her mouth for a moment. “Might send a message down south, see what Catherine thinks.” “But Vrogusz is not wrong, Mom. They have been aggressive and they've certainly not been talkative. If they think they can get away with pushing us around, they might just stake a larger claim.” “All true. But, counterpoint,” she said, holding up a finger. “Starting a pointless conflict might just be a waste of people.”

“Very true. If it's pointless.” “Yeah, see, that's the tricky thing. Here's how I view it.” She leaned up against one of the room's remaining support pillars. “The troynts just showed up here one day. Gotta be a reason. Even something as simple as they just saw we had some nice land. If we can find out why, maybe we don't have to fight. Everybody wins.” She paused. “But if I am to tell our fellow townies that it's us or them, then I want to make damn certain I ain't spouting bullshit. And for that, I need to know more.”

...

A blue skull grinned on the tattered flag that hung over the bombed out shell of the military base, crumbling cement and rusted iron making up its poor excuse for walls. It could be quite the noisy place, but at the moment, most members of the Sapphire Skull Crew peaked out from various covers with bated breath.

Trampling back and forth across the yard, occasionally stopping to chew a new set of teeth marks into his shield was their leader, Mad Man Weller. A short but broad boulder of a man, his skin was a patchwork of scar tissue. His bloodshot eyes looked ready to pop out of his skull, his yellowed teeth scoured against each other, froth occasionally dripping into his patchy, messy black beard and his every feature was like a bomb one second from going off. He'd occasionally stop to wildly swing at something nearby with his axe or scream curse words at the sky, before continuing his grumbling.

It was clear to his followers that he was rather agitated.

Finally, one brave soul dared poke her head out of the old dumpster she was currently residing in. “B-boss?” “WHAT!” came the loud reply, as he swung around to stare at her with such force that most of the other gang members expected her to burst into flames.

“Eep!” she squeaked, diving back into the dumpster. “Uhm, I, eh, you just se-seem kinda angry, Boss.”

“YOU KNOW WHAT!? I AM PISSED!” He kicked a rusty can, sending it careening through the air, forcing a couple other gang members to duck as it sailed by. “BUT I DON'T KNOW WHY! AND THAT PISSES ME OFF EVEN MORE!”

“Are we... Are we out of anything?” one gang member asked.

“No, stocks good,” another replied

“Did we forget his birthday?” “Nah, that was last month.”

“We didn't lose any fights recently.” At the last comment, Weller paused and turned towards the speaker. “You there,” he said, pointing.

“Ehm... Me-me, Boss?” the scrawny man replied.

“Yes. Finley, right?” “Y-yes, Boss.” “What did you just say?” “I, ehm...” He adjusted his collar nervously. “I just... I just wondered if we'd lost a fight recently or something.” Weller just stared. Then he turned towards the rest. “Men,” he began. “When did we last have a good fight?” There was a lot of hemming and hawing.

“I don't remember,” the woman in the dumpster finally said.

“EXACTLY!” their leader yelled, causing everyone to jump. “WE HAVEN'T HAD A GOOD FIGHT IN DAYS! WEEKS MAYBE! THAT'S WHY I'M PISSED!” He hoisted his axe. “LET'S GO FIGHT!”

Everyone cheered and hollered for the suggestion, as instantly the oppressive mood lifted.

Until Finley asked: “Ehm... Who do we fight?”

There was a brief, somewhat contemplative pause.

“BRING OUT THE WHEEL!” Weller yelled.

“THE WHEEL!” a lot of the gangsters echoed, as a massive, wooden wheel was rolled out of their garage, numerous names spraypainted on it. The woman from the dumpster grabbed the edge and pulled down, making it spin.

Weller reared his axe back before throwing it, its edge slamming into the wood with a thunk.

...

If one was to observe the thick, gnarled forest of Llafny Goedwig, one would be forgiven for thinking it an ancient place, with trees that must have watched many generations of Freelanders come and go. And yet, in truth, a year had not even passed since the spot was as flat and bare as many other in Freeland. But all had changed with the coming of the troynts.

Deep inside the forest, cultivated by their shamans, they had set up camp, humongous tents of beast hide raised in the few clearings that existed in the thicket.

And it was to this clearing Aderyn Reese made her way. Like other troynts, she was a muscular, boar-like being the size of a car, her front limbs a rough inbetween of hooves and hands. Sharp bristles poked out from her brown fur, each one poisonous, and her personal comb and scissor hung from the belt wrapped around her midsection. She shoved a tent flap aside with one of her great tusks and walked in, noting that a number of her fellows were gathered around the table therein.

And behind the table, towering over everyone else, were her mother, Angharad Reese, chieftain of the Choroinsnathaide. She snorted in acknowledgement of the presence of her daughter, before with a deep voice asking: “What do you have to report?” “The defenders informed me a Freelander approached late last night, but was summarily chased off without issue,” Aderyn replied. “Scouts also returned.” She leaned on the table and observed the papers. Maps, crudely drawn, of the surrounding area. “They've checked out the nearby town. No walls or natural barriers. Just open plains and hills.”

“Then they shall not be much of a problem,” Angharad declared. “We must send scouts southward next. I want to know where the centres of power are in Freeland. Everyone, get to it.” The other troynts grunted in agreement and wandered out of the tent, but Aderyn stayed.

“Something on you mind?” Angharad inquired, as she studied the map.

“How much?” “How much what?” “How much land will this take? When will we have enough?”

At this, the huge troynt sighed, seemingly shrinking a bit. “I don't know,” she admitted. “I've sent a runner back home. Maybe we won't need as much as I fear. But we need more than we have.” She gestured with her snout. “These lands... They are more fertile than any´our ancestors ever ruled. We can grow strong trees here that will feed our squeakers for many years. We can draw water from the earth such that we will never go thirsty. Here, we can grow a strong army. A powerful army.” She slammed her hand into the table. “And then,” she snorted, fury sparking in her eyes. “Then we will take back what is ours.”

...

Gently, the beaker was tipped, pouring the red liquid into the boiling blue. Then ever so gently, the mixture was stirred, sweet-smelling fumes filling the air. And slowly, the mixture took on a royal purple.

Lucky Pamela smiled. Another successful mixture, gently crafted by her hand. All the more impressive considering her hand was the size of a cutting board. Pamela had, once upon a time, been merely human, until she had volunteered for an elite training program. Injected with alchemical ingredients and subjected to experimental surgery, she had earned the nickname Lucky for being the first to survive the procedure. Her limbs had stretched painfully, her torso had expanded as her organs grew nauseatingly large, arcane crystals had torn through her skin to protect her from danger. All so she could serve her country.

But her country didn't exist anymore. She couldn't even remember the last time she had met someone who had heard of it.

She frowned at the memories, before stopping the bottle, sealing its content. That was the past. She had a future to make.

There was a knock on the door.

“Come in,” she demanded.

A minotaur, an imposing bipedal bull, made their way in, their skin covered in sandy fur. “Just got back from Tread City,” he started, leaning against the wall. “Our dealer says they're running low. Shit's popular.”

“I am not surprised.” She shelved the flask. “And our take?” “Loads of supplies, including a crate of the highest quality White Kiss,” he said. “The really good stuff.”

“Is that so?” She scratched her chin with a crystalline nail. “Let me see it.”

Outside the log house she had her workshop in awaited a wagon, a massive woolly creature with a spiralling horn attached to it. Several crates was stacked on the wagon, most currently being unloaded by the crew.

“Here we go,” the minotaur said, grabbing a box and opening it, revealing it to be densely packed with white flowers. “As I said.” Pamela leaned in, her nostrils widening as she took in the smell. “They are pure,” she agreed. “Good. Good. Who was ever so kind as to 'donate' that to our cause?” “Tirzel. They've been deep in the cups with our products,” the minotaur stated. “And Stonewatcher is gonna get us those Brett and Masons he promised. Just getting them all fixed up first.” “Good.” She paused for a moment, mentally going over names in her head. “What about Armani?” “What about her?” “You said her number was coming up. What did she give?” “Ugh, excuses, as usual.” He snorted. “She's getting flaky on us.” Pamela harrumphed. “Well then. Next time you drop by Tread City, tell her that the Blossom Posse will be sending her flowers soon.” She leaned in, eyes narrowing. “Some nice daisies for her to push up if she doesn't pay her tab.”

The minotaur grinned. “You got it, Lucky.”

...

Fields of red grass gently billowed in the wind, almost giving the impression of waves on a crimson ocean. This field of red came to an abrupt halt at a great wall, it's surface made from many sheets of metal welded, screwed and nailed to each other and to a patchwork framework of steel beams and wooden poles. On top of these fortifications, spaced out with some regularity, were a series of guns, their automated parts gently whirring in the lukewarm morning air. Each one was slightly different, having been handcrafted rather than spat out by a factory, not that this reduced their menacing appearance.

A signal went through the air and one of the guns beeped in response. It first lowered, then raised its gun. Then it spun around to the right, before it began repeatedly clicking.

“Busted servo. Figures,” a voice from below it grumbled. With a series of thumps, the commentator scaled the wall, his long arms and legs lending him excellent mobility. The blue crystals jutting from his skin glinted in the morning lights, as he carefully began disassembling part of the machinery. Pulling some gears from the turret's innards, he noted their teeth had snapped. “Stress fracture,” he commented, holding one up to his eye. “Metal fatigue, obviously.” He sighed, as he pocketed the item.

“Hey, Bruno,” a female voice called from below.

The mutant leaned back slightly, so he could more easily look downwards. “What is it now, Catherine?”

“Well, good morning to you too,” the woman replied with a hint of sarcasm. Her dirty-blond hair was tied up in a ponytail, her brown eyes intently watching the person above her. A leather vest covered her upper body, a pair of denim pants her legs. “So, gun's busted I take it?” “Gear snapped under stress. Some of this junk they bring in folds faster than an ogre at a spelling bee.” He leaned back in to inspect the machine. “So what are you bothering me for?”

“I wanted your opinion.” He clicked his tongue. “There's a rarity. 'Bout what?” “Them Glimmerspore people. Some of the outriders had been out last night, saw some of their crew moving about,” Catherine explained. “Taking measurements, photographing things. Kinda shady stuff. And I know they've approached people from time to time, inquiring about who owns what.” “And where does my opinion come in?” he asked, as he began his descent.

“Do you think they're gonna be a problem?” she inquired. “You've dealt with way more goblins in your time.” “That I have.” He sighed. “Goblins. They look damn harmless, waltzing around, squeaking about this and that. The next thing you know, they taking to the battlefield with some giant-sized doom engine spewing beams of fire left and right. Or claim the skies with some gravity-defying warmachine that rains down death.” He turned towards the woman. “They'll be a problem if they want to be a problem. So what we need to ask ourselves is, what do the runts want?”

“So far, they seem to have settled into the western mountains,” Catherine noted. “Seems they're mining the area. And they ain't too keen on trespassers.”

“Well, let's hope they'll settle for hollowing out the mountain. But knowing goblins and from what you tell me...” He chuckled mirthlessly. “They'll want more. A whole lot more.”

“Then I'll tell the outriders they best keep an eye out and report anything right back to me,” the woman noted. “I'm not letting them take us by surprise if I can avoid it.”

...

Bleary reptilian eyes opened, then immediately shut with a hiss. Kobolds already didn't like daylight at the best of times, so being greeted by the morning sun while nursing a hangover was just the worst. She rolled over, her blue scales glinting in the morning light, trying to make sense of her surroundings. From around her, she registered a number of noises. Snoring from others deep asleep. Grunts from the sparring ring. Moans from whomever still had it in them to get frisky.

She, however, just wanted to crawl into one of the tents and sleep away from the merciless glare of the sun. She grabbed her bottle and tipped it, figuring a nice swig wouldn't hurt.

And then she slowly realized the alcohol wasn't coming.

She forced her eyes open.

One single drop of alcohol hung tantalizing from the bottle's opening, before being seized by gravity, splashing against her tongue.

“Well, shit,” she cursed, before dismissively hurling it away. Forcing herself up, she staggered over to the crew's bottle crate, looking for a stiff drink. Reaching in, she found an empty bottle. Then another. Then yet another. And then her claws furtively scratched against the wooden planks at the bottom.

Her eyes widened as she looked inside, confirming her fears. The crate was empty. Desperately she looked in the next crate and the next. One was empty, the other filled with vomit. She looked up. “Fuck.”

Seconds later, the ramshackle campsite was slightly stirred, as the kobold charged across it on all fours calling out: “THUNDERCLAW! THUNDERCLAW!” She dashed over to the largest tent in the entire camp, throwing open the flaps.

Inside, was a pile of sleeping people in various states of undress, the most notable being a truly enormous, long-legged, long-necked avian, with a bony crest and a large beak, currently using a naked and heavily snoring human as a pillow. Their body, easily allowing them to look giraffes in the eye, was covered in a mixture of feathers, red, yellow, basil and honey. One of their eyes opened, turning to gaze at the intruder with annoyance. “What is it now?” “We have a problem,” she responded, waving her arms in the direction of the crates.

“Is the camp on fire?” “Ehm, no.” Thunderclaw turned his head so he looked the other way. “Then come back in an hour or five.” “But we're out of drinks,” she continued.

The kobold fell on her tail with a squeak as the ratite's head shot out of the tent. “What do you mean we're out of fucking drinks?” “It's all gone,” she said. “We've got nothing left.” The avian stepped out of the tent, rising to his full, imposing height. He stalked over to the crates and looked into them with dismay, as all around other members of the crew started noticing the ruckus. Thunderclaw hissed in annoyance as he squashed one of the boxes under his table-sized foot. “Blast it. We are out.” They tapped one of the boards with a talon. “Oh well,” they said with a gesture of their wing. “Guess tonight's party will be without drinks.”

There was a pregnant pause. “Really?” came a disappointed question.

“Of course not, you fucking oaf,” Thunderclaw snorted. “Party without drinks? Seriously.” He turned towards the open plains that surrounded their simple camp. “Looks like the Wild Ones are going shopping today. All of you, start fanning out. There's gotta be some wimp around here with some half-decent booze on them. And while you're at it, get everything else we'll need. Drugs, food, whatever. We're going to party and I don't mean the limp-dick kinda partying with teacups and nice talks about the weather. I mean a real party. One so loud even the gods won't be able to sleep on it.” He looked around, before stomping the ground with a loud thump. “Well, what are you waiting for? Get your asses in gear already.”

The various Wild Ones excitedly ran for their vehicles, or in the case of the members who were already fleet of foot, just ran for it. The whooping, cheering horde spread out from camp in all directions.

Thunderclaw craned their neck, resulting in a few popping sounds. “Well, ain't gonna let them have all the fun,” he remarked, before dashing out, every footstep accompanied by a loud thump.

...

A large claw tapped against the paper and then slowly slid down across it. Green eyes peered through a pair of glasses, unhindered by the darkness of the room. A pen was spun between digits, before being put to the notepad. The goblin began rapidly adding numbers up and doing calculations.

She smirked, revealing her sharp teeth. “So productivity is up twelve percent. Promising.”

There was a hefty knock on the door to the office. She finished her current equation, then looked up: “Come in.”

The door opened, allowing light to fall on the small woman, illuminating her bronze skin and the yellow-dotted fungal cap on her head.

Standing in the doorway was a massive bipedal woman. Her skin was covered in rough scales, with the ones on her pudgy belly being a creamy white and the rest a sandy brown. Her head was notably pointed forward, with a pair of black eyes and a maw full of sharp teeth. A thick tail with fins on them dragged after her, poking out from under the loincloth she was wearing. “Supervisor Grilx. Our prospectors have returned.” “Ah, great. Let them in then.” The ogre noted and stepped aside, letting a motley crew of people enter.

“So, what do you all have to report?” the supervisor asked.

A slightly hunched-over, hyena-like biped, a gnoll, stepped forward. “Lots of food in the area. Rabbits, birds, fresh fish. Even large sheep.” “Noted,” the goblin replied, writing on her notepad.

“There's also lumber. Though that mostly seems concentrated towards the mountainous areas,” a human reported. “There's also some small springs up there.” “Lumber, stone, freshwater,” she muttered as she wrote down. “How large are those streams?” “Not too large,” came the response. She tapped the end of her pen against her chin. “I'll have someone from engineering check out if we can maybe get something hydroelectric going. Anything else?” “The locals have dug a number of wells across the land,” another goblin informed her. “I think there's a lot of water underground. Would explain why the land keeps so fertile despite the heat.”

“We should probably take some samples, check the water table once our new equipment arrives,” Grilx muttered. “That reminds me, Glamerek, has the message been sent back to high command?” The ogre nodded. “A few hours ago, yes.” “Excellent. I cannot imagine my request would be denied.” She wrote a note. “Now then, Rocco, yours is the report I am most curious about. You went to... Red Rim Station, was it? Did you learn anything?” “I did,” the grey-haired human replied. “The locals appear to be skilled scavengers. The place was surrounded by a big scrap-iron wall with, I shit you not, functional turrets. Local economy is barter based. No coinage whatsoever. I also didn't see a lot of precious metals.” “Curious. Prospector reports noted both gold and silver in the region,” the supervisor remarked. “Local veins are probably untapped then.”

“Anyway, I started asking around, see who owns the land and so on,” the human continued. “And it's the darnedest thing, they insist that no one owns land in Freeland.”

The gnoll glanced. “But they live in a city. With houses. Someone must own them.” “That's what I thought, but apparently people just claim an empty house if they want one,” the human replied with a shrug. “Local peace-keepers are all volunteers and half the people of the city seem to be somewhere else most of the time.” “Interesting,” Grilx mumbled, them smirked. She jumped off her chair and hurried over to a nearby computer. With a few button presses, an incomplete map of Freeland popped up. “Now, first rule of acquisition is what?” she asked, turning to the group.

“First come, first serve,” Glamerek stated.

“Exactly. Now, who would that apply to here?” “The, uhm, Freelanders?” the gray-haired human asked uncertainly.

“Normally, yes. But they have elected to claim nothing. Which means there'd be no-one to contest our claim, if we were to make one.” She smiled predatorily, her emerald eyes almost glinting. “So, people, who's ready for a land-grab, hmm?”

...

Slowly, more and more of the mountainside was illuminated by the sun's amber rays. As it reached the cavern entrances that dotted the side, there was a stirring. A large shape lumbered out, their body obscured by a massive, woolly pelt, hiding all but the most rudimentary signs of their identity. They stepped forward to the cliff's edge, taking in the fresh scent of a new day. And Terry the Fang, chieftain of the Cougartooth Clan, smiled. Turning around, they grabbed a spear leaning against the cave wall just inside the opening, then leapt over the edge. They skated down the cliff-side, pebbles and dirt bouncing around them, their massive pelt billowing heavily, as they slid down to a lower level.

There, sitting around a campfire, were several other people dressed in rags and pelts, who bowed as Terry descended, greeting him with a respectful: “Chieftain.”

“Morning, lads,” they greeted them. “Who've been successful during their hunt?” “Blake caught us some spring pheasants. Three,” one of them said, pointing to a young man barely done being a teenager, who smiled with pride at the attention.

“And Kayla managed to down a prowler,” another said, gesturing to a woman armed with a bow. She proudly grasped the necklace of feline teeth around her neck.

“And the rest?” the chieftain asked.

“No hunt worth talking about,” one of the others said, shaking their head.

“What a shame. But today is a new day and a new hunt.” Terry sat down by the campfire. They ripped a leg off one of the roasting pheasants and bit into it, barely acknowledging its warmth. “So, anything new to hunt today?”

“There's more and more of those strange mushroom heads,” one of the others began. “They bring with them strange machines. Good fight, but probably not good eating.”

“There's also more boars. They've been lead here by these bigger boars,” another reported. “They've summoned a forest. Good place for a hunt.”

“Excellent. Then you know what you must do. Eat, rest and then bring back new totems for our tribe. These newcomers will lend their strength to ours the same as everyone else. Now then...” Terry grasped their own necklace of teeth, a large empty spot in the middle. “Any new sightings of Daggerclaw?” “Found the remains of a tachash lamb. Shredded to bloody giblets,” came the response. “Definitely the work of Daggerclaw. But that was three days ago. She might have moved on.”

Terry smiled. “Do not be so sure. She likes to linger after a proper meal. What about the others?” “No sign of Red Scars. Old Longhorn has moved south, probably gonna start gathering a herd soon.” “I hear the Usowa Roha might try and hunt him this year,” one of the others said. “Chieftain, what if they succeed?” “They won't. Old Longhorn has managed to fend them off every year.” They chuckled. “Too stubborn to die, too strong to yield. That's what makes him worthy prey.” They got up and hoisted their spear. “I shall journey out to hunt for Daggerclaw. Expect my return in a week, successful or not.” “Blessing of the hunt be with you, great chieftain,” they replied.

Terry laughed and then leapt down the mountainside, letting the pull of gravity add to their stride as they stormed into the lowlands. Today was the start of another great hunt. To become the greatest hunter of all the land, to be blessed by the strongest, fiercest spirits, they'd have to hunt the greatest beasts to claim the lands as their home. Only by claiming their remains would they be immortalized as the greatest hunter and secure their tribe's place as the greatest clan of hunters. Daggerclaw, Red Scar and Old Longhorn. And then one other. A worthy foe, a powerful beast, a champion of the land. Adding her talons to their amulet, binding her powerful, independent spirit to their soul, would grant them strength beyond measure.

Under their hood, they smiled blissfully, their fingers tracing a set of jagged scars on their chest. “I'll get you yet, Foulbeak. You will be mine.”

...

The hooded figure took in a deep breath. Only the faintest hint of the morning light penetrated the dirty windows, so covered in grime and dust that they had long lost their transparency. The room was illuminated by a select few candles, place equidistantly along the rim of the ritual circle. The robed person looked over the many occult glyphs that made up the circle in front of them, then looked to the tome again, cross-referencing the design with the one on the ancient, mouldering page. Satisfied that they had made as accurate a replication as they could determine, they lifted the tome up and turned to the circle. Their eyes went over the incantation a dozen times, before they dared to open their mouth, finally chanting the demonic verse hidden in the book.

The flames of the candles took on an ominous red glow. The room seemed to darken, what little sunlight that managed to enter now completely eclipsed. The symbols began crackling with energy.

The hooded figure repeated the chant, louder, more intensely. He could feel it, the very air in the room buckling as the fabric of the universe was twisted. Droplets of sweat began forming on his skin, as he repeated the chant again and again, beckoning forth a figure from the abyss.

The crimson flames on the candles blazed into pillars of flame, illuminating the room with a diabolic light. Arcs of black lightning danced between them, centering on the middle of the circle. A smoking orb of dizzying colours began growing, twitching and roiling as it expanded.

He was practically yelling the chant, his heart pounding like crazy, his voice threatening to give in. But he kept at it, repeating the words again and again.

He'd finally get a girlfriend. Or boyfriend. He was honestly not too picky anymore.

The orb crackled and then detonated, sending the robed figure stumbling back. As one, the red flames intensified and then died out.

For a moment everything went dark. For a moment, as he held his breath, he worried he'd made a mistake.

But then he saw the new arrival, the massive figure now occupying the circle. The robed figure looked to the page with the chant, where there was a illustration of a muscular, winged, scantily-clad female leaning suggestively against a halberd. Then he looked back to the figure.

There were quite the number of differences.

The figure was large, their broad body easily out-sizing the circle on the floor. Their massive, multi-faceted red eyes scanned the room, their face featuring a notable, needle-like proboscis, under which there was a mouth full of teeth that easily looked capable of chewing a car to pieces. Massive, glassy wings flickered lightly on their back and protruding from their rear was a great, bulging abdomen. They stood on a series of six legs, the end of which were occupied by hands with four clawed fingers each.

And yet the most eye-catching thing for the robed figure, was the equally large hoodie the newcomer wore. It was just about the only thing he didn't expect from a demon.

The hulking fiend finally noticed the summoner. “Are you the one who have conjured me?” “Ehm... Are you a lilin?” he managed to ask.

“Heck no,” came the response, accompanied by a smirk. “I'm an adze.” He looked around at the ritual circle. “A lilin you say? No, I think I see what happened. You've switched the glyph of the dawn and the glyph of the black road around. And this is the glyph of swarm, not the glyph of union. It lacks the line through it, see. And here... The glyph of the silver monkey. I see you substituted the glyph of the groaning one. Was that even intentional? And your glyph of the spider's candelabra is missing a set of legs.”

“Oh,” the robed figure replied, slightly disappointed. “So-sorry about that. I'll send you back.” “Hey now, my man, let's not be hasty,” the demon said, refocusing their attention on the human. “What's your name?”

“Y-Yousef. Yousef Perkins.” “Well, then allow me to congratulate you and shake your hand,” the demon said, stepping out of the ring with a front-leg extended. “And no, I'm not bound by the circle. Your glyph of the headless emperor is upside down.” He gently grasped the surprised human's hand and shook it, careful as to not hurt him. “I'm Kito, archdemon of the Crimson Needle.”

“Wait, archdemon?” Yousef repeated, eyes wide. “Ho-how?” “Beats me. Anyway, can we step outside? Seems a bit cramped down here and I'd like to stretch my legs.”

“Oh, sorry, this way,” the summoner said, as he lead the insectile demon up a flight of concrete stairs to a rusted, iron trapdoor. With some effort and a lot of metallic whining, he pushed it open, allowing the two to step outside. Around them were overgrown boulders and decaying buildings, rusted hulks of war-machines littering the open spaces.

“An old military base,” Kito surmised.

“Ye-yeah. I figured I could, uhm, summon in peace,” Yousef remarked.

“And you were trying to summon a lilin? Something tells me that you wanted privacy for more than just the summoning.”

Yousef nervously twiddled his thumbs and looked to the side, feeling his cheeks heat.

“Ah, seems I was right. Well, maybe I can arrange something for you.” Kito took a step forward, taking a deep breath. “Smells good. Lots of life in the area. But not so much as a hint of other demons. Now that's exciting.” He looked around. “Will need to fix this up of course. Place has more holes than the last guy grandmother threw to the bloodfeasters. We'll need more people.” “Ehm...” Yousef began. “What... What are you talking about?” “Huh? Oh, I'm moving in,” Kito replied. “This place seems way to fun to leave behind. What country is this?” “Freeland.” “Freeland? Oh, I think I... Right, grandmother talked about the place. Highly recommended it even. Of course, that was, what, sixty years ago, so basically an eternity for you humans. Looking forward to see if the place is still as fun as she recalled.” He smiled. “I tell ya, you're something else, kid. You screw up your summoning circle and still call in an archdemon. You must have quite some talent in you. I'll train you. Teach you the arts of summoning. And then you can finally have a lilin to snuggle up to.” He leaned over, a slightly hungry look on his face, as he cupped Yousef's chin. “Or maybe... You wanna snuggle up with someone else?” “I, ah, ah, uhm...” the young conjurer replied, his legs starting to shake and an entire colony of butterflies exploding in his stomach.

The mosquito demon leaned further in and exhaled, his warm breath washing over the human's skin, causing goosebumps to form. “I'm not hearing a no.”

“I, uhm, m-maybe,” Yousef managed to squeak.

“Cool. Looking forward to it,” Kito said, as he let the summoner go. “But first, I need to bring in some staff. And then, I'm gonna go recruiting.” He smiled and took another deep breath, allowing the scent of living blood to fill him. “Oh, we're gonna have so much fun.”

[sarasa-cat]

Fwiw, after various casual hypothesis testing (oh so casual, oh so non-scientific) last week on how this latest round of so-called "chatbox AI" (aka, bad investment nonsense) is able to write fanfiction, last night while watching partner play a video game on our big screen, I had a few more pointed/strategic convos with the Stochastic Charlatan.

Actually, the reason why I felt inclined to do so was that I just read an opinion essay by Noam Chomsky (ffs) that gave ChatGPT quite the spanking (I'll provide an unlocked/paywall-pass-thru link in another post) **and then** in the comments section of that essay, I read one truly inane comment by someone who mistakenly believed that the deep conversations they had been having with ChatGPT had been teaching them all sorts of new concepts in a variety of academic topics of their interest.

Now, I know -- from my initial test of chatgpt in late 2022 -- that this software hallucinates all sorts of nonsense. Back then (maybe early December of 2022?) I heard a whole bunch of conservations about how university students were using chatgpt to write essays for homework. I wondered, "hm, can chatgpt do my (prior) job of designing and teaching a university level course?" The answers I received on that lazy saturday afternoon were both HILARIOUS and TROUBLING. It wasn't just that the answer was "omfg NO! It definitely CANNOT" but that the chatbot acted as if it could.

DUNNING KRUGER EFFECT LEVEL CONFIDENCE while giving me horrid results for curriculum design. But boy oh boy did little ChatGPT act super confident while hallucinating nonsense and while propagating certain kinds of bias. Anyhow, back then I just wrote it off as one big whatever.

But then, a few months passed and this nonsense was back in the news full force, hyped up like wild. Last week @sarahawke posted a few hilarious chatgpt-written fanfics, which made my brain start forming casual hypotheses (and, see first sentence of this post).

Last night I had a few ideas for discussion topics that I knew (or strongly assumed) it was trained on: topics that are publicly available on the internet, that tend to have "correct vs incorrect" answers for certain factual things but that base collection of factual propositions also lend themselves to a lot of inferencing/wiggle-room/interpretation in how they are applied, that have contained amounts of controversy (meaning, the topic has reasonably strong signal strength w.r.t. signal-to-noise ratios), AND (most importantly) the topic has some a few sources on the public internet that are considered 'authoritative' for the facts. And, of course, topics that I happen to have relatively deep levels of expertise in -- meaning, I could "easily grade the papers without an answer key" or I could lecture on the topic or demo the topic or discuss it in length or whatever. After all, my interest was in fact checking a hallucinating bot. ;)

The results were ... interesting. As in serious Stochastic Charlatanry. Dunning-Kruger effect a la chatbot.

The things that have me concerned are these:

Unless you actually know your shit about the topic you are asking it to tell you about, you could very easily fooled, especially when the chatbot's results are plausible and some of it passes a fast, cursory-skim google test.

This is troubling because someone with expertise will never feel a need to go through the painful process of getting anything vaguely useful out of this chatbot whereas someone with lower level knowledge will ... but they just won't know which bits are nonsense and which bits are factually correct, much less how valuable the factually correct statements are with regard to context. As in: yes, Fact A is technically correct but impractical or uncommon in the context they are discussing with the chatbot.

The other thing is that once the chatbot says something that is 100% factually wrong, it starts doubling down on that mistake, and it will continue doubling down on that demonstrably wrong statement every time you ask or re-ask the question until you finally prod it hard enough with factual evidence that forces it to correct itself. Alternatively, you could just tell it "dude, you are wrong. X is never the case when Y" and it seems to weigh that input heavily and immediately correct itself (although I have no idea if it always carries this correction over to future conversations with other people -- something for me to test by making a separate account). I have some more "experiments" to continue conducting tonight to look into this further but, also, to see how it carries those corrections forward during future inferences that require knowledge of those corrected facts.

Honestly, chatgpt's lack of being able to correctly inference and apply important contextual knowledge Does Not Shock Me because that doesn't seem to be how it was created.

(Fwiw, I did not click on the thumbs up or thumbs down icons, or the "redo your answer" icon, or provide any feedback via the UI. all I did was chat with it like I was having a text chat with someone else because I wanted to simulate being a person who thinks this thing is providing authoritative info)

Currently, my largest concern about these kinds of "suck up the internet and make massive statistical inferences about """knowledge""" bots" is that their confident charlatanry is very enticing to the lazy, the busy, the overburdened, and the ill-informed.

IRL, I have dealt with my fair share of people who engage in confident charlatanry, or who repeat nonsense and then double down on said nonsense repeatedly. I mean, part of that is being human -- we all carry mistaken info in our heads -- but the confident charlatanry really makes me concerned. It... reminds me too much of dinner table conversations with people I (no longer want to) know in Silly Valley.

[protected-and-loved-by-castiel]

What is sensory trauma?

I learned about sensory trauma when I discovered I’m Autistic. Sensory trauma explains such a big part of the neurodivergent experience that I thought it was commonly recognized and understood in the ND community. Last week I wrote a post about the severity of sensory trauma and I was surprised at how many people had never heard of it.

In simple terms, sensory trauma is trauma that occurs because of sensory overwhelm and/or pain caused by aversive stimulus.

Trauma happens when the nervous system is overwhelmed or when stress cycles get interrupted and the charge of a stress cycle gets trapped in the body because we weren’t safe enough to finish that stress cycle.

Sensory trauma happens when one or more of our 8 senses becomes overloaded with painful or overwhelming stimulus. This can happen quickly if the stimulus is very aversive to our system. This can also happen gradually, from an accumulation of micro-experiences of sensory overwhelm.

[If you only learned 5 senses, the extra three are: vestibular (inner ear detects balance and movement), proprioception (muscles sense movement, action, and location), and interoception (signals from our inner organs)]

Sensory trauma can start in infancy or even before birth. I have a pre-birth memory of being overwhelmed by that wooshing sound that most babies seem to like. Having nowhere to escape the noise that came from my mother and the world around her, I entered my first ever freeze response before birth.

Sensory trauma can cause the same symptoms as other types of trauma - hyperviglance, anxiety, depression, dissociation, self-harm, and other signs of distress.

Sensory trauma alone can cause Complex PTSD even if there are no other types of trauma being experienced. However, sensory trauma is typically the root of many other traumatic experiences.

Sensory trauma can make people agoraphobic, especially when we don’t understand what is happening to us. This was my experience in 2015-2017. I couldn’t leave my house by myself because I was so afraid of these unexplained stress responses that seemed random (in the grocery store, in the car, at restaurants, at concerts). They weren’t random - I just didn’t understand sensory overwhelm yet.

Sensory trauma is amplified when we exist in environments that refuse to allow us sensory accommodations and space to recover after sensory trauma.

Relational trauma can frequently stack on top of sensory trauma when employers, romantic partners, teachers, carers, etc invalidate the reality of our sensory trauma and push us to continue forcing ourselves into sensory averse environments.

Forcing people to endure sensory trauma is a type of abuse. All too frequently this happens because of “benevolent ableism.” People think they are helping us become less sensitive but all this does is increase distress.

Invalidation while we are experiencing sensory trauma has a major impact on our self-concept and self-esteem. Invalidation of sensory trauma leads us to not trust ourselves or our body’s signals.

Invalidation of sensory trauma can cause low interoception. When we are frequently told that our body’s signals are incorrect, we may stop tuning in to them and start to rely on what we are told we should feel instead. This conditioned devaluation of our own sensory signals puts us at greater risk of abuse and coercion.

Sensory overwhelm can make people as vulnerable as being intoxicated by alcohol. I have experienced a particular kind of DV where my partner took me to overwhelming sensory environments and used my stress responses to coerce me into doing things I said I didn’t want to do before we entered the sensory-aversize environment. I’ve talked to many sensory sensitive people who have similar stories of relationships where their vulnerability during sensory trauma responses was something an abusive person took advantage of.

When we lose employment or cannot navigate public spaces due to sensory trauma, we are experiencing systemic trauma. Because society is built for a narrow range of sensory responses and does not accommodate sensory trauma, sensory trauma can often make our world shrink until our bedrooms feel like the only sensory safe place to exist in the world.

Autistic and ADHD people tend to experience sensory trauma because our nervous systems are hyper-connected which makes sensory signals more intense. But you don’t have to be Autistic or ADHD to experience sensory trauma. PTSD-based sensory sensitivity can easily lead to sensory trauma if sensory needs are not accommodated.

Neuronormativity is the cultural expectation that everyone’s brains and bodies should function in a standard or normative way. Neuronormativity considers atypical sensory responses to be dysfunctional sensory responses that need to be corrected. Liberation from neuronormativity would involve validation of sensory trauma, an effort to prevent sensory trauma, and ample recovery space when sensory trauma does happen.

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🧠 This is the kind of thing we are talking about in my 8-week virtual study group which started yesterday. Enrollment is open for a few more days. A recording of session 1 is available for anyone who joins late. https://traumageek.thinkific.com/courses/neurodiversity_study_group_2

[stepperonline52]

How to improve the accuracy of closed-loop stepper motors

1.What is the role of closed-loop stepper motors The role of closed-loop stepper motors mainly includes high-precision position and speed control, improving the response speed and acceleration performance of the system, enhancing the load capacity and efficiency of the system, and achieving low-noise and low-vibration operation. ‌ Closed-loop stepper motors achieve high-precision position and speed control by introducing position feedback and speed feedback, which significantly improves the control accuracy and stability of the entire system. This feedback mechanism enables the closed-loop stepper motor to respond to operating instructions more quickly, thereby improving the response speed and acceleration performance of the system. In addition, by better controlling the speed and acceleration of the motor, the closed-loop stepper motor enhances the load capacity of the system and improves the efficiency of the system. Finally, due to the ability to better control the operation of the motor, the closed-loop stepper motor achieves low-noise and low-vibration operation, thereby improving the reliability and stability of the entire system.

2.Working principle of closed-loop stepper motors The closed-loop stepper motor is an intelligent drive device that is widely used in the fields of machinery, automation, and electronic equipment. Its working principle is based on magnetic field interaction and current application. Specifically, when the external driver sends a control signal to the motor, the motor changes the current according to the signal to achieve rotation. At the same time, the encoder inside the closed-loop stepper motor monitors the position of the rotor in real time and feeds this information back to the control system. The control system precisely controls and positions the motor based on the information provided by the encoder, thereby achieving high-precision motion control. This closed-loop control method enables closed-loop stepper motors to have the advantages of high precision, high speed, and high reliability, and can accurately control the position and speed of the rotor, thereby achieving high-precision positioning and motion control. Compared with traditional open-loop stepper motors, closed-loop stepper motors achieve more accurate position feedback and control system adjustment through internal encoders, providing higher positioning accuracy and more reliable performance.

3.Precautions for using closed-loop stepper motors ‌1.Correctly connect the line sequence of the encoder and the stepper motor. Make sure that the line sequence of A+, A-, B+, and B- is correctly connected to avoid the "Phase Line Error!" error. If this error occurs, the line sequence of the motor should be readjusted after power off. ‌2.Keep the drive well ventilated. The drive of the stepper motor is not sealed, so care should be taken to ensure good ventilation during use to avoid overheating damage caused by long-term operation. ‌3.Prevent metal shavings and dust from falling into the driver. Since the driver board of the stepper motor is not sealed, metal shavings and dust should be prevented from falling into it during use to prevent short circuits and motor damage. ‌4.Pay attention to the positive and negative connections of the power supply. When plugging in the power supply, be sure to pay attention to the correct connection of the positive and negative labels to avoid burning the driver due to incorrect positive and negative connections. ‌5.Connect the basic system step by step. When connecting the circuit of the stepper motor, do not connect all the circuits at the beginning. You should gradually connect them into the most basic system, and then gradually increase the connection after confirming that it is running well. ‌6.Observe the state of the motor. Within half an hour of starting to run, you should closely observe the state of the stepper motor, such as whether the movement is normal, the sound and the temperature rise. If you find any problems, you should stop and adjust them immediately.

4.Ways to improve the accuracy of closed-loop stepper motors ‌1.Hardware connection and encoder installation: By installing an encoder, the stepper motor can achieve full closed-loop control and improve positioning accuracy. The use of encoders can be based on the segmentation requirements, with different levels of resolution, for real-time feedback, thereby achieving precise control of the stepper motor. ‌2.Origin control: According to the Z signal of the encoder, the coordinate origin is identified and calculated. In this way, the accuracy can reach a certain standard, ensuring that the stepper motor can accurately return to or locate to the specified origin position. 3.Out-of-step control: According to the feedback data of the encoder, the output pulse is adjusted in real time, and corresponding out-of-step adjustment measures are taken to ensure the stable operation and precise position control of the stepper motor. ‌4.Optimized current control method: Through PWM control and current attenuation mode, the step error problem under low-speed operation or positioning control, as well as the torque instability problem under high-speed operation, are solved, thereby improving the operation quality and positioning accuracy of the stepper motor. ‌5.Reduce the step angle and increase the number of beats: The accuracy of the stepper motor can be increased by reducing the step angle or increasing the number of beats. When the double beat system is adopted, the step angle is reduced by half, thereby improving the working accuracy. ‌6.Increase the number of rotor teeth‌: Increasing the number of rotor teeth can also reduce the step angle, thereby reducing the error of motor operation and improving positioning accuracy‌.

Source:https://olgana.pixnet.net/blog/post/163203529