#plywood strength

[plywood-strength]

Plywood strength:

Do laminates enhance the appealing feel of plywood?

Combining laminates with plywood is crucial in furniture manufacturing, where the trend leans towards textured surfaces, thanks to digital printing technology. These laminates, including those with acoustic properties, add both visual appeal and sound management to interiors. These qualities correlated with characteristics such as moisture resistance and thickness.

Plywood finds applications for various purposes such as

Roofing and flooring of houses and commercial work

Construction material

Space shipping and aviation For more info: https://chopra-group.com/ct-trading-co/plywoods.php

[dinasobuildingsupply]

Plywood Sheets in Construction: A Budget-Friendly Solution for Stunning Interior Design.

When it comes to interior design, plywood sheets are widely used for construction for both residential and commercial areas. For years wood has been fulfilling internal design requirements. Now when people need design solutions that match their needs and are also budget-friendly, they shift their attention towards more durable engineered wood products with the same useful properties as wood.

[woodindustries]

IBAIS MEDIA - WOODEN

[bethanythebogwitch]

It's big, it's strong, its scaly, it's this week's Wet Beast Wednesday topic! An arapaima, also known as a pirarucu or paiche, is any of four species of fish in the genus Arapaima in the order of bony-tongued fish. There is som ongoing debate about the classification of the species, so to keep thing simple, I'm going to use the most common species names of Arapaima gigas (the type species and most well known, and the one with the most confusion about its classification), Arapaima agassizii, Arapaima leptosoma, and Arapaima mapae. Because A. gigas is the most well-studied of the species, unless I say otherwise you can assume everything I say in this post applies to it.

(image: an arapaima)

Arapaimas are bony fish that retain several primitive traits, causing them to sometimes be identified as "living fossils". They are most notable for their size, with A. gigas being a contender for the largest freshwater fish in the world. The maximum recorded size for one was 3.7 meters (10 ft) and 200 kg (400 lbs), but most get to around 2 meters (6.6 ft) long and 200 kg (440 lbs). That average length is decreasing as overfishing of the largest individuals is resulting in a selective pressure for smaller sizes. In addition to their size, they are extremely strong and can move fast if needed. Arapaima are fully capable of leaping out of the water if disturbed or they feel their current pond in unsuitable. Because of their strength, specimens in captivity must be handled with care as they can easy break bones if they slap someone. They live in rivers and lakes in South America, where they are often the top predators.

(image: several anglers with an arapaima)

Arapaimas are obligate air-breathers and will drown if they can't get to the surface to breathe. This is accomplished with a specialized swim bladder. The swim bladder is filled with highly vascularized tissue, letting it act like a lung. This pseudo-lung opens into the mouth using a modified gill arch known as the labyrinth organ. Arapaima gills are too small to sustain them, but they can supplement their oxygen intake with the gills. Juveniles are born exclusively using their gills and transition into air-breathers shortly after hatching. Arapaimas can survive up to a full day out of the water. They typically surface to gulp in air every 15-20 minutes. Breathing makes a loud gulping sound that anglers use to target them.

(image: an arapaima at the surface)

Because of their ability to breathe air, arapaimas are top predators in low-oxygen environments. Non-air breathing fish are forced to slow down in water with low levels of dissolved oxygen as they can't get enough oxygen through their gills. Since Arapaimas breathe air, they can easily chase down lethargic smaller fish. They are especially potent predators during the low season, when water levels lower. A combination of rotting vegetation reducing oxygen levels and ponds getting cut off from rivers and losing a supply of oxygen lets the arapaima reign supreme. Arapaimas are primarily predators that feed on smaller fish, though they will hunt other types of animals and eat fruits and seeds. Even land animals aren't safe as arapaimas have been known to launch themselves out of the water to catch animals near the shore. A combination of sharp teeth and their bony tongues are used to debilitate prey.

(image: an arapaima with its mouth open)

Not content with powerleveling their attack stat, arapaimas also have excellent defense. Their scales have been compared to bullet proof vests. Each has a hard, mineralized outer layer over multiple layers of collagen fibers. These layers are all oriented at an angle to each other to provide extra strength. This orientation of layers is called a Bouligand-type arrangement and is similar to how plywood is assembled. The harder outer layers and flexible inner layers work together to allow for both strength and flexibility. These scales help provide protection form large predators such as caiman and small threats like biting piranha. They also like provide protection from other arapaima, as the fish are aggressive and will fight each other.

(image: a diagram showing the composition of arapaima scales. source)

You probably wouldn't expect a swimming tank of an animal to be a good parent, but you'd be wrong. Arapaimas work together in mated pairs to build nests for their eggs, then cooperate to guard the nest. Once the eggs hatch, the male will practice mouth brooding, keeping his young safe in his mouth. The female will also help by patrolling the area around the male to ward off predators. They secrete pheromones from their heads to ensure the young don't swim too far away. Eggs are laid either in in the low season or as water levels are starting to rise, ensuring that the young become independent during the high season.

(Image: baby arapaimas)

Arapaima are classified as "data deficient" by the IUCN. This means there isn't enough data to properly assess their conservation needs. They are known to be threatened by overfishing. Arapaima make up a large part of the diet of many South American populations. Habitat loss and pollution are also believed to threaten them. They have been introduced to many areas out of their native range and are an invasive species in placed like Florida, Malaysia, and India.

Does anyone else remember these cards? (image: the arapaima card from Weird n' Wild Creatures)

[jksslutprincess]

The Enigma [II]

Synopsis: You are his everything. He breathes for you, lives for you, kills for you. Genre: strangers to lovers au, smut Characters: foreigner readerx native jk

You

The bustling hall symphonized sight and sound, the cacophony of it was a sensory overload. Students hurried past obligating to their job. Warm white lightings illuminate the surroundings, the glossy mahogany plywood reflecting the rays in all directions.

Professors and in-charges barked commands, motioning the poor juniors in various directions. Chairs and tables were arranged on the stage , bouquets of flowers placed on them beside each placard.

Small plastic bottles laid on tables near the walls, the cool condensing on their surface, leaving droplets of water behind.

Picking one from the table, I unscrewed the cap, the seal yielding to the gentle pressure of my fingers left a satisfying a pop. Bringing the bottle's opening to my lips, I chug the water down, the icy liquid numbing my insides.

Detaching the bottle away, I inhale a long mouthy breathe, relieving my teeth. Leaning my rear side on table edge, folding my right arm on my front, placing my left elbow on it, I sipped the water leisurely.

Glancing around the hall, I peer at each moving thing, taking in the atmosphere.

Medallions and title badges were meticulously being placed in trays. Carrying out the task with a smile across her lips, the young girl, possibly a freshie, really seemed overjoyed.

Her cautious actions, seemingly calm, having a frantic manner of their own, perhaps overwhelmed with the responsibility of such prestige.

The feeling of revulsion churns within my stomach, like a dark cloud it persists over me, raining down judgmental thoughts even though I fight to maintain a neutral perspective.

Taking pride in holding other's achievement?

Averting my gaze, I try not to entertain the thought again, but my conscience as always crawls back to the negativity.

"오, 진짜? 몰랐어. 그럼 많이 놓치겠네."

A deep voice echoes near me, drifting in my direction pulling me out of my trance, the face of the voice pretty known to me.

Dressed in a crisp white shirt and black trousers, he holds a hard disk under his black coat with one hand and a cellphone to his ear with the other.

Sending me a cute smile, he waves his hand in the air, the device greeting me before his hand could, his trailing voice a familiar chime in among all.

Unfolding my arms, I place the used bottle back on the table, mentally noting to throw it right away after this.

Sliding his phone into his pockets, shifting his complete attention on me, the guy extends his palm out infront, gesturing for a handshake.

Clasping his palm in mine, I once again get reminded about his size. His fingers engulf my small(er) palm while I barely manage to get a hold of his.

"Was definitely not expecting you." remarking in a smug tone, he lets go of my palm, my fingers involuntarily clenching into a fist.

"Yeah I am sure you did not." I respond in a sarcastic tone, "But you know, I like disappointing people."

He reciprocates my shrug with a cheeky nod, chuckling at the act.

His voice trails in my ears as he continues the conversation while I try to savor the visual infront of me with the utmost subtlety.

His hair, slicked back with gel, gleamed under the soft light. A silver chain, its links glinting, adorned his wrist. The first two buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing a hint of his toned chest. He was a vision of masculine perfection, a masterpiece crafted by the gods themselves.

I snap out of my frenzy of thoughts, a sudden pitched voice calling out a name brings our conversation to a halt.

"Namjoon!!"

A girl his age appears out of the blue, her shriek voice paining my eardrums as she continues to interact with him, her actions best categorized as annoying atleast by me.

Jungkook

Aiming the ball at the rack of balls in the storage area, focusing my vision, overlooking the huge distance I purposely widened, I threw the ball with all my last strength and bingo!

Seeing the basketball coach approaching me, his hands busy clapping as words of appreciation left his mouth, praising my shot, I walked upto him closing half of the distance in between to not bother him taking more steps.

"Great shot Jeon!!", he praised, hands coming up to pat me on the back making me retreat, not wanting him to have touch my all sweaty back.

"It's fine my boy, I have been a sports person too. There's no problem in appreciating my captain's great game." his palm came in contact with my left bicep nonetheless, patting the skin with pride and praise.

His rough voice and appreciative tone continued as he reminded about the upcoming national university basketball match, the qualified teams, and how it was necessary for us to win.

"The upcoming match is a big deal for us, we are the only ones worthy for the win. We have to bring the trophy home Jeon. We can not miss this." he amplified, hands offering me my handtowel, holding onto the water bottle with other.

"I know sir, I promise to not let you down. I will bring the trophy home.", I affirmed, conforming to his command as I wiped the sweat off of my face, taking the head band off.

Nodding at my response with a confident smile on his face, he strolled around, his walk having the hint of a limp as he approached other team mates.

"Let's freshen up! We have to attend the seminar as well. Only an hour is left before our phones start ringing to no shit.", Taehyung peeked, seating down on the bench nearby, drying the sweat off of his hair.

"Yeah I thought so too, let's go your place. I don't want to shower in the locker rooms today. They must be reeking by now.", rolling my eyes back as I spoke, my voice gagging, disgust evident on my face.

Nodding in agreement to my suggestion, "Yeah. Let's just change into tracks and get the hell out of here. I can't bear the sweat any longer. Gosh I can wait to jump in the shower holy mother," standing up from his seat, he tossed the towel back in his bag before pulling out the tracks.

The cold water drips down from the showerhead, washing away all the sweat and dirt, the low temperature of water creating a dense mist that obliterates the view of the tiles and glass.

The sound of the water falling is soothing as I comb my hair back with my fingers and rub my face. The earlier shivering now fades away, my body accustoming to the cold water.

Cleansing myself for the last time, I step out of the shower, grabbing the towel nearby before wrapping it around my waist.

Peering at my reflection in the mirror, flexing my muscles a couple of times, I check myself out.

Lathering a generous amount of moisturizer on my skin, my skin absorbing the foam, I sprayed the sweet dark musk perfume on my neck, the fragrance leaving a heavy and sensual atmosphere around.

The scent birthing a thought about a certain wooden rose fragrance as I looked down, the shining colored glass only fueling the sensuality in the air.

The evocation of the thought moved my head upwards, my eyes scanning over my own features in the mirror with an unsettling gaze.

Shaking my head side to side, physically dismissing the thought, I untangled the clothe around my waist to dress up, not wanting to waste any time.

Chugging the cold juice down my throat, I pushed another glass infront offering the guy as he stepped out of his own room, hands occupied with his own hair.

Taehyung picked the glass up from the table before muttering a thank you, walking past me to open the fridge to take the strawberries out.

Strawberries.

"Ahg... have some, these ones are really good, Minnie bought these..", Minnie, his girlfriend, had a real sweet tooth.

Picking one out of the basket, bringing my hands near my mouth, I bite onto the red gem, the sweetness melting like ice into my mouth, my eyes closing on their own.

"These are really good, where did she get these from?," I inquired as I took another bite of the berry, my tongue not wanting the taste to fade away.

"I don't know, but I'll let you know" he answered as he placed the basket down, going back to the fridge.

Placing two cold water bottles on the counter in front, he reminded " Let's hurry up before they get started with their shit, I don't want them to even ring my phone" stating in a flat tone, he expressed his displease for the poor council students who were simply obligated to do so.

"Yeah, let's go."

Stepping inside the lobby, we were engulfed in the buzz of activity. Constant moving of students here and there, some carrying huge boxes, others just walking by, some volunteering, some enjoying their drinks in hand, some leaving their classrooms, some just causing chaos.

We walked towards the elevator, eliminating the option for stairs, to not bother our already spent legs.

Pressing the ground floor button, patiently waiting, I looked around just to have a tea and remembrance of the people passing by.

Pinging of the elevator indicated it's arrival, making me turn back straight as we boarded inside.

Another ping sounds in the machine after a few seconds, the elevator doors open revealing the second floor. The particular space out of the whole campus was the most crowded, reason: A Honoring Ceremony For The Achievers Of The University.

Disregarding the piling soreness inside me, I careened in the forward direction, mindful not to collide with someone in the way.

A sudden wave of vibration erupts through my pockets, making me pull my phone out of the space.

"Dong-jae"

Sliding the toggle towards right, I placed the phone next to ear, my head turning sides to look around.

"Turn right, then look straight", the guy on the phone speaks as I followed his directions.

Waving his phone in the air, gesturing me to reach upto him, there stood Dong-Jae in his usual, black fit, his face mirroring my disinterest.

Brushing past a few people on the way, I adjust my position, shifting my weight back and forth to avoid any mishaps.

Suddenly, my steps halt in their trance, my body going all stiff. Waves of shock and surprise come crashing down on me as I try to process the past few seconds.

An unexpected physical interaction, a mere nudge of shoulders, sent chills running down my spine, the electric touch spreading through my chest.

A hypnotizing aroma of deep wooden rose scent lingering in the air slides into my olfactory senses, my eyes going saucer wide recalling the face that wore the scent.

Her.

Jerking my head around, my body moving as if a reflex, my face in the direction a certain someone might have gone.

Engaged in a conversation with the student council president, hands holding onto the hard disk, my front facing her side. The familiar aroma of wooden rose, carried by the cool air around, confirmed my suspicions.

It was her.

"Jeon!!", a sudden forceful shove, aimed at my back, jolted me forward, "You deaf or what?", the two guys flanking around me, one clearly more pissed than other, spoke in unison.

"Huh?", snapping out of frenzy, my voice tumbling as I spoke, my confused reaction doing little to no help improving the expressions on either of their faces.

Letting out a pair of indignant huffs , Dong-Jae shook his head at me, grabbing me by elbows to drag me inside, beside me walked Taehyung, seeming unfazed by the play.

Looking straight ahead, I spot the young woman entering the hall, stopping for a moment near the barricaded ribbons to get her ID checked.

Her raven hair, seeming shoulder length from my spot, moved in a soft motion from side to side, her hands coming up to her face to rake the strands aside.

The knot in my stomach grows again as I blink my eyes without a halt, moving eyeballs to sides to clear my vision. A flurry of thoughts emerge in my head, the core of all: Why is she here?

'She is a student here as well', the thought disrupts the growing tension in my head, my hearts races as I eye her hands on the table, the blue strap of the ID card wrapped around on her wrist affirming to my conclusion.

[nuitnotions]

{ simon riley x gn reader ; no gendered terms ; 18 + MINORS + AGELESS ACCOUNTS DNI ; smut ; penetrative sex ; public sex }

Simon “Ghost” Riley isn’t usually so impulsive.

For certain, he has his moments. Moments he usually reflects much too deeply on in the silence of another dark, sleepless night, body pressed to a mattress with a stillness that aches away at his joints. It’s the repercussions, whether immediate or unforeseeable, they hound at him and eat at wisps of him he barely has left to offer as it is.

So, for this very reason, he remains level headed and puts a great deal of thought into his actions. Hyper conscious to a fault, but it is what get his heavy bones through the day and allows him to close his eyes without the whirring of why the fuck did you do that?

But he is only just a man. And he is so well acquainted to the weaknesses of a man.

You are one such weakness to him in particular, but don’t be mistaken, the rounded corners and pillowy softness of you between his ribs is not a fault of yours. Fuck, it’s not a fault of his either. You’re only just teaching this man a new definition of weakness.

This definition includes footnotes of having you ride his cock ragged in the locked stall of a public bathroom across the library you frequent. There are detonations of him staring you down as you peruse the shelves for a particular title to contribute to your research moments before. Parenthesised notes on how the narrowing of your eyes and scrunch of your eyebrows tightened his abs painfully and ran his breath heavy. Phonetic spelling having rounded out his lips when you rose onto the balls of your feet, reaching and returning volumes to their rightful positions, drawing a groan out of him when you glared at him when Simon dared to offer assistance.

He fully blames the lack of attention you've given him for the past two and a half hours. It's the neglect, he reasons with himself as he moans low into the crook of your clammy neck, hands biting into the flesh of your hips that help you to grind your warmth down onto his starving cock. Had you just spared him a look at those pretty eyes, or the brush of your soft skin, he would not have resorted to dragging you into this suboptimal stall. He's so sorry too, he breathes apologies onto the shell of your ear when his hips buck up into you, thighs working hard to get him as deep inside of you as possible to quell the attachment issues that fray away his mind.

"Forgive me, love" rumbles against your back when you have no choice but to spread out your arms straight to flatten your palms against pressed wooden walls for balance, whining around the throbbing girth of him, embarrassment as hot in your face as in your walls milking him.

He's a brute, so incredibly mean and inconsiderate for doing this to you, is what you cry out between in the saliva pooling in your cheeks. Simon agrees with eyes rolled back, nodding his head as he lifts the both of you off of the closed toilet seat to press you flat against a door that will not withstand his force.

A bastard he is, for mashing the side of your face against the lacquered plywood, has you sobbing between clenched teeth when he lifts you off of the ground, a strong forearm pressing into your middle and the other sliding between your legs to play with the mess the two of you have collaborated on.

He's a fucking animal for you, he tells you when four heimlich strength thrusts has his cum breaking the seal of his cock in you, plopping audibly to the dirty floor.

And then your fucking animal of a lover is kissing every expanse of skin his neck can crane to reach, dropping words of reverence bracketing his apologies as large hands smooth at your hair, brush at your pulse points and dress you gingerly. Simon is on his knees now, looking up at you with pleading eyes as he fixes the elastic band of your underwear before tugging your pants back into place. Deft, meaty fingers pull up the zipper as he lays his cheek against your chest with a heavy loaded sigh.

He checks the state of your clothes, hot palms trying their best to smooth out wrinkles, fingers tugging at seams and then brushing all over you with a final apology.

"Took my pain away so good, you lovely thing. Have mercy on a man, will you?"

[harrisonarchive]

Forest Hills Tennis Stadium, NYC, August 28, 1964: fan Mary Smith vs. the police. (Both?) photos by Dan Godfrey/NY Daily News Archive via Getty Images.

“During the Beatles’ performance, screaming, crying girls and boys tried to storm through the policemen and the barricades set up on the plywood floor that covered the tennis courts. Others closer to the front tested the wits and strength of some one hundred and fifty policemen and one hundred security guards who spread around the stage. About fifty youngsters burst through but were carried away, screaming. […] One girl made it up to the stage, ran to George and grabbed him in a hug, hanging onto his neck, as he struggled to keep up with the song. He hit the wrong note. She fainted and was carried off.” - Beatles ’64: A Hard Day’s Night in America (1989) “The one last night got George, and he had, I could hear all wrong notes coming out, he was trying to carry on playing, y’know. With a girl hanging ‘round his neck—it was funny.” - John Lennon, interview with Larry Kane, 1964 “She emerged from the rear, took the stage with bare feet, and she hugged George. The Beatles stopped playing and stared in wonderment until police intervened, leaving their positions unguarded. She said, ‘I had to see George. It’s very complicated but I had to talk to him about something, and I wanted to make sure to see him.’” - foresthillsstadium.com “Once we arrived, the whole scene obliterated any other thought other than... Oh My God, THE BEATLES! I’d never been to any event remotely as large or as charged with electric anticipation. […] Maybe the most amazing thing about the screaming: except for just a few moments, when either Paul or John was introducing the next song, the screaming simply never ever abated or even ebbed and flowed. It was a constant roar. In fact, after a while, you could almost ignore it. I know that my acclimated ears heard more of the last three songs than the first three, for sure. Maybe even some of George’s lead guitar.” - Binky Philips (fan), Huffington Post, August 24, 2010

[angelpuns]

Something really neat about living on a farm with like 3-4 generations of a family is that you get hand me down bed frames. And they're uncomfortable and you always need a box spring, but they're SOLID WOOD. They're durable asf.

Anyway I've been suffering general body aches for the last two years cause of the condition of my bed/mattress among other things ( both hand me downs, durable but the MF box spring HURTS) and I also more recently had a footboard, which meant I couldn't have my fan at the end of the bed which means I'm fucking hot all the time. I eventually see a daybed at a local antique store. Immediately want. Its perfect, fits the vibe of my room, immaculate. FAN ACCESSIBLE WHICH IS SO IMPORTANT. Turns out my grandma has one that isn't 'probably haunted' and costs 0 dollars and maybe a couple of hours of labor. So 2-3 hours of taking beds apart, transporting, putting em back together, I have a daybed. Yay. Dream come true. And this shit is so comfortable. Its amazing. no box spring needed I sleep like a baby, for the most part. Mental issues aside.

Anyway TODAY IT FUCKING BROKE. BECAUSE ITS NOT WELL MADE AND I AM A FAT DUDE OK. Whatever no big deal put it back together and plan to get some plywood as some extra strength but ITS no big deal

Well it is now 4 am and considering I work the longest shifts this week I have worked in a while, the wood has become number one priority CAUSE THAT SHIT BROKE AGAIN WHEN I WAS LAYING ON IT. RAGHH.

Morale of the story and the tldr is this particular bed is shit and I should have bought the almost definitely haunted antique daybed :)

[callsignfate]

Personal Exile Pt. 2

(Thank you, everyone, for asking for part two! Here it is. I had planned to post it earlier, but I hated a little bit of it and rewrote like half of it. No use of Y/N or R/N. Tw: mention of death, war, talk of death. You are ex-military. No major character death.)

Part One/ Part Two/ Part Three/ Part Four/

♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤

You quickly realized that saving the little girl had placed a target on your back. Men shadowed your every move, following you silently everywhere you went for days. You pretended to be oblivious to their presence, going about your daily routines in Las Almas as if they weren't there, biding your time.

The woman's voice, the one you had encountered during the rescue, still echoed in your mind. "You will pay your debts to El Sin Nombre." She had to be high up in the cartel, if not El Sin Nombre herself. Her confident, domineering demeanor had left an impression on you.

As you continued to ignore the relentless surveillance, one day, strong arms suddenly wrapped around you, pulling you into a narrow alleyway. You reacted swiftly, using whatever cheap tactics were necessary to break free. The man who had grabbed you groaned in pain as you bent his arm behind his back and pressed your gun to his spine. Three other men watched cautiously as you held the man as a human shield, your pistol concealed in your other hand.

"Are you the supposed debt collectors?" You muttered out with an amused cocky tone. A front you'd put up for now.

Your defiant words hung in the air, unanswered. The Silence persisted, and it seemed these men didn't speak English or chose not to respond. You eventually released the man, shoving him toward the group, and turned to leave. You had bluffed with an empty gun; the last two bullets had been spent on their comrades days earlier. You couldn't afford to reveal your weapon was empty.

However, as you reached the end of the alleyway, you found yourself confronted by another group of men who blocked your escape. They approached you with their arms outstretched, surrounding you. It appeared they wanted to play it this way. You were outnumbered and overpowered, your defiance seemingly futile.

"Well, might as well go out fighting, right?" You announced defiantly, charging at the men blocking your path. They grabbed hold of you, attempting to restrain your flailing. Your punches grew wild and unaimed as you fought fiercely to break free.

Your fist struck one man's nose, causing him to stagger backward. Your feet kicked hard in every direction, struggling against their attempts to hold you. You nearly broke free before they began working together to subdue you. Your punches landed heavily, and you fought relentlessly, but your strength waned as they lifted you off the ground in a coordinated effort. Moments later, they threw you into a van and slammed the sliding door shut.

Inside the van, you found a cold, steel interior, with bars and plywood covering the walls. The ride was rough and bumpy, making you feel every jolt and bump. Bloodstains, stubborn and dried, marked the metal and wood surfaces. After what felt like an eternity, the van came to a sudden stop, causing you to nearly lose your balance.

The van's door slid open abruptly, and two men stood outside, guns aimed directly at you. You knew your defiance had to be kept to a minimum now. "Get out, slowly," they ordered with gruff voices, and you complied, raising your hands.

"El Sin Nombre wants to speak to you," one of the men stated, more like an order than an offer.

"I bet he does," you muttered with an air of cockiness and defiance. "I'd love to tell him his men aren't great at kidnapping or defending themselves." You followed the man walking ahead of you while the other stayed behind, prodding you with the gun barrel.

They led you through a beautifully decorated house adorned with plants and pictures lining the walls. The elegant carpet guided you through seemingly endless halls. For a brief moment, you appreciated the beauty around you. However, you couldn't forget the grim circumstances you were in, being taken to meet El Sin Nombre, the leader of a dangerous cartel.

Finally, they opened a door and pushed you inside, their hands rough as they closed the door behind you. The woman with the green vest and the same cocky smirk from your previous encounter sat confidently at a desk. Her eyes scrutinized you as she looked you over, attempting to read your thoughts.

"You worsened your debts, breaking ribs and noses of my men," she said, assessing you.

"Ah, well, if they hadn't tried to kidnap me, I would have gone willingly," you responded, maintaining a defiant and cocky demeanor. "El Sin Nombre is a woman, I'm not surprised. Men couldn't have run it this dangerously well. Of course, El Sin Nombre would be a conniving woman." Your words seemed to amuse her as she pointed at you and smiled.

"I've seen plenty of men run their mouths to me and die, yet they had fear in their eyes. You don't. It makes sense since you're ex-military. They've long driven your fear of death away," she remarked.

"And here I stand in front of El Sin Nombre, apparently owing her a debt. The world is cruel, I'd say almost as much as you." You leaned against the wall, arms folded across your chest, and glanced around El Sin Nombre's office with an air of indifference. The room was filled with various decorations and photographs, a stark contrast to the dangerous world you had been thrust into. You couldn't help but feel a sense of detachment, as if you were about to be a pawn in a game far beyond your control.

The woman behind the desk maintained her confident and cocky demeanor, seemingly unfazed by your defiance. Her eyes remained fixed on you, as if she were trying to decipher your thoughts.

"Well, the world will smother you out like a small flame if you don't grow. You grow or you die." Her words echoed in the room, a stark reminder of the harsh reality you had come to understand through your experiences. You had indeed seen the world for what it was, a place where power, money, and violence often dictated the course of events. Working for a government with the highest military spending exposed you to the brutal underbelly of geopolitics.

"Yea well, I already know how the world works," you replied, bored and uninterested in hearing about the harsh realities of life. You were well aware of how cruel the world could be. You couldn't help but acknowledge the truth in her statement. Survival in this world often requires adaptation, even if it means making uneasy alliances or compromises. It was a world where one had to choose between growth or annihilation, and you had no intention of letting yourself be snuffed out like a small flame.

"Maybe you need to be told how I work. You killed two of my men and injured four. I'll make you a deal. I'll treat you better than the military, and you do what they were supposed to," she offered, her tone still confident and arrogant. She leaned back in her chair, folding her hands together.

"That's not much of a deal," you countered with a shrug, aware that your options were limited.

"It is because it's that or you die. It's a threat, not an order, and it still stands. I'll pay you for it, don't worry," she responded with an empty laugh, throwing your words back at you.

"Fine," you agreed, acknowledging that you had little choice in the matter. You knew that crossing El Sin Nombre could be a death sentence, and your chances of escaping Las Almas alive were dwindling.

♤~♤~♤~��~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤

[ralfmaximus]

You realize it’s been over a year since your last eye exam so you take advantage of a coupon for $50 exams at this new place that just opened.

You call the number on the coupon and a rough, heavily Russian voice answers.

“Eye Exam.”

“Yes, I’d like to make an appointment to get my eyes checked?”

Moments pass. You hear typing on a keyboard, a pause while the typist takes a long deep drag from a cigarette. More typing. Just as you are about to ask if everything is okay the Russian returns.

“Appointment is made.”

Click. The phone goes dead. Frantic redials to the same number are met with constant ringing – no answer -- thereafter. You give up after a few minutes.

You feel unsettled, worried. Vaguely threatened. You wonder if you should call the police. But… what would you tell them?

Days pass without incident. Soon you forget about the strange call. You make an appointment with LensCrafters for next Thursday at 6pm, after work.

It is 2:10 am that very night the Russians come for you.

You are woken from a deep sleep by a rough hand covering your mouth, muffling any screams. His other hand surrounding your wrist. You jolt awake, heart pounding, legs thrashing but they are prepared for that – another man leans in on the bed and presses his weight onto you, grasping the other wrist with unyielding strength. Defeated, you sag.

The first man leans in close, eyes searching yours. He nods. It is understood you will not scream if released.

“Time for eye appointment, da?”

You nod slowly. Both men let go. You sit up, but before you can get a really good look at them the second Russian produces a black sack and cinches it over your head. It smells faintly of onions.

You are lifted from your bed effortlessly and marched, blind, still in your night clothes, out of your bedroom. There is a brief pause in your living room during which one of your captors makes a phone call. But it is only twenty seconds of rapid-fire Russian and you are led out of your apartment and downstairs into a waiting van. The floor is cold metal and you feel flecks of rust under your bare feet as you are forced down into a sitting position in one corner.

The van drives for 45 minutes.

When the doors open again, you smell salt water and rust. You are lifted and dragged. Your legs are an explosion of crawling pins-and-needles, useless for the time being, scraping across the metal floor and then cold concrete outside the van. You scream but are shaken to silence.

The first Russian leans in close and says, through the hood, “Shut up. Do not speak. You will see many things, but do not speak.”

Your legs slowly come alive and soon you are able to stand as the men lead you forward over concrete and then a wooden ramp, leading up to what feels like tile under your bare feet. The place reeks of diesel oil, fried fish, salt water, and gym socks. Eventually you are led into a place of carpeting and air conditioning and the smells diminish a bit – or perhaps you are becoming used to them.

You are forced into a chair as the hood is whipped off.

Before you, on a table made from a plywood sheet and two saw-horses, is a spanking new Charops CRK-1P autorefractor machine, all smooth curves and sleek plastic. Behind it, on the floor you can see the carton it was unpacked from: plastic sheets, white foam inserts, and pink packing peanuts piled into the empty box. A single pink packing peanut clings to the machine via static electricity.

A hand shoves you from behind.

“Look in machine,” you are told.

You lean forward and press your head against the black forehead bar, triggering the machine. It shows you letters, numbers, images of balloons floating in 3D. You respond to grunted questions about what you see and the clarity of images.

Click! The session ends, the viewer goes dark. A hand yanks your shoulder back and the hood goes on again. Onions and darkness. You are dragged to your feet and led to another room, another makeshift table, another machine.

This happens twice more.

By the third reapplication of the hood (onions, darkness, and now, sweat) you have become numb to the routine. You have always been on a Russian cargo ship, you have always been taking tests, you have always been yanked around by monosyllabic Russians.

Therefore it is a surprise when you are dragged into the same van as before and shoved back into your familiar corner. The van door slides shut again, and the engine revs.

45 minutes later you are back home, standing in your apartment.

The hood comes off for a final time, revealing your original Russian abductor. He holds out his hand: “$100 dollars please.”

You stand there, blinking. Unbelievable.

“What? $100 for what?”

He scowls at you. “Eye exam. $100 for eye exam. Pay now.” He glances meaningfully at his waiting palm.

“I don’t think—“

He rolls this eyes at this, pushes you aside and grabs your wallet off the coffee table behind you.

“Hey! That’s—“

Your wallet is tiny in his huge hands, but with surprising delicacy he extracts two twenties and a ten -- all the cash you have -- holds them up to you accusingly. He does not look amused.

“I, uh… have a coupon.”

He frowns, tasting the word. “Coupon? Coupon. Coupon…”

Further digging in your wallet and he produces the EYE EXAM $50 coupon that started this whole mess. He sighs in defeat, pockets the cash and throws the coupon & wallet back onto the table. Turns to go.

“Wait!”

The Russian stops, turns. Glares at you. This better be important.

“My prescription?”

For the first time, he smiles. A goofy, eye-rolling, head-smacking D’oh! of a smile. Reaches with massive, filthy fingers into a front pants pocket and produces a crumpled sheet of folded copier paper. Throws it at your feet.

“Eye exam,” he nods before leaving your life forever.

[dinasobuildingsupply]

We are the largest distributor of top-of-the-line high-strength engineered lumber products with prompt delivery options. Our experienced team at Dinaso Building Supply helps you to customize the products depending on your specific construction requirements to ensure 100% customer satisfaction.

[sad-outsider]

I just want to share my opinion expressed in response to a review of my work:

Commentator: In my opinion, the book!Mal never accepted Alina entirely; he always preferred her to the girl from his childhood, an ordinary person. And he either rejected or denied the hypostasis of the Sun Summoner, at the subconscious level as well. In the end, if there is a happy ending, it’s only for Mal))

Me: Oh God, yes, yes and yes again! When I read the books, I couldn’t help but think that the main character was not Alina, but Mal, and not in a good way. He got away with everything and even his “great sacrifice” ended up only benefiting him. Essentially, he only lost his extraordinary abilities, but he could still learn to track like an ordinary person, unlike poor Alina, who literally lost an integral part of herself! Alina, dear, you deserved better than a guy who couldn’t accept all of you!

Commentator: The serial Mal seems to be better (to please the writers), but the problems are still the same, only in a softened format

Me: Better, but and show!Aleksander is cute compared to the book! Aleksander, and Mal is a piece of plywood in the show…

Commentator: The Darkling skillfully retained both General and Aleksander within himself for 600 years, even if he carefully hid the second from others. He could teach Alina the path of psychological balance, for example, through such a beautiful scene Such “lessons” were necessary for Alina - after all, she did not have 6 hundred years of life experience behind her, and she found herself deprived of “her Baghra” at the beginning of her journey. She never received them. As a result, Alina did not fully accept herself, and the loss of strength and setback is a very convenient ending)

Me: I love when Darkles mentors Alina - she learns to be a Sun Summoner, and he, on the contrary, remembers what it means to be Aleksander, that’s the kind of dynamic they should have! "You can make me a better man," "And you can make me a monster" That's the point, Alina. You must COMPLETE each other! What's the end result? Disappointment… By God, it would be better if Mal remained dead and Alina married Nikolai!

Commentator: Your work, in turn, gives hints at another ending, where Aleksander will become a support for Alina, and the Darkling - for the Sun Summoner, but that’s a completely different story… 😄

Me: Yes, in my version of the story this couple has a different ending, and the ending of book 3 does not exist😑

[burningknucklecraftworks]

Griffin and Sword Targe for Fergus O'Dae

This is a build log for a late period Scottish targe for Fergus O'Dae, a border reaver and rising star of the Northshield Army. The Griffin and Sword is our Award of Arms-level award for excellency in armored combat.

Before starting the design, I layed out my idea using Heraldicon, a free website built to be even more powerful than Drawshield for assembling coats of arms. I thought it would be very fetching to have the Northshield populace badge outlined in the brass studs characteristic to targes, with the griffin and sword represented with different colored metals.

Laying out the carving and the tacks. A missed step in this album is cutting the wooden core. I actually already had a 20" round of plywood lying around. It wasn't actually a shield blank; it was the center cutout of a wooden ring I made to hold the 3.5' long bolts on our giant electrical wire spool in a specific pattern so I could reassemble the whole thing.

The griffin layout. Many thanks go to Heraldic Traceable Art and Heraldicon as well as the /r/heraldry community for maintaining so many Creative Commons vector assets. I've used this griffin asset by Gunnvôr (Viking Answer Lady) so many times.

With the leather dried it's much easier to see the layout lines. Here's a spot I can make some big improvements on next time: I attached the leather before trimming it to a proper round, and then I didn't fully tack down the back before beginning the layout process. The wood I used was pretty trashy plywood so my drawing and carving surface is also extremely bumpy underneath the leather.

At this stage I began to carve the central award badge with my swivel knife. I need to see if there's swivel knives for children with arthritis because my bog standard Tandy knife gives me hella hand cramps and extreme inflammation on my thumb-palm muscles.

Your eyes do not deceive you: I did in fact have a crisis of attention span and pivoted from carving the badge to outlining the compass rose in brass tacks. The majority of the tacks used for this project are 7/16" low dome brass tacks from Crazy Crow Trading Post down in Texas. I also used 1/2" high dome and 1/4" dome tacks from the same shop.

Lining up the 1/4" tacks. I actually hadn't planned to do these lines initially, but I had to emergency order more tacks and tossed these in for greater variety. I love the end result of this decision. If you tuckered out your arm hammering in 2/3 of the outline tacks with a ball peen, a drill press can take over in a pinch. I really need to get a stool for the drill press.

Tacks complete! We can carve again now.

Added some obligatory trinity knots. It's not Scottish if it doesn't have a triskelion or a trinity knot, dontcha know?

(Sarcasm aside, check out the targe used by Donald Cameron of Lochiel, the Cameron Clan Chief who was a prominent Jacobite commander throughout the 1745 campaign. Post period for the SCA but who's counting? Photo from Paul Macdonald of Macdonald Armories in Scotland.)

All trinity knots cut, one carved, and I began to add a braid motif too.

...Aaaaand here's improvement opportunity number 2. I was low on time and hand strength so I decided to dye the leather before I carved the braids, but after I cut them. I also picked Fibbings Medium Brown for my dye without doing test patches, and used the standard daubers to apply it. That is three Big Mistakes in a row, and only one is actually justifiable in any way. The result is an extremely uneven dye job that completely washes out the uncarved braids. If I'd given myself one more week to do this scroll, I would've had more rest time for my hands and I think I wouldn't have made these mistakes, but in a way I'm grateful I did because now I know to schedule more time for working on scrolls for the next assignment. Plus, I try to remember what Samii of SunCat Designs says about art: "the mistakes are what make it human".

Because this is an SCA award, I chose to swap the traditional deerhide backing for glued muslin and paint. I then taped off my handle locations and handed it off to my spouse @dustycymbre for the award scroll text. They used their default uncial hand, which is my favorite of their script hands.

Traditional targes have a small brass center boss. When I originally conceived of this award, I had imagined the griffin in brass with a tinned sword, but I haven't actually tried chase and repousse yet and struck upon a different method of making the center griffin allude visually to the center bosses: carve it directly into the leather and then gild it. This particular stage is sealing the carving with Ecoflow Cova Color leather paint, to provide a smooth surface for the glue (also know as gild size).

Cova Color white shouldn't be directly applied to damp dyed leather like this because it soaks up the brown like a sponge. My brightest white application is my H-shield, which dried for about a week before I painted it.

Another ADHD swing of focus: needed to have a long phone conversation with my spouse and bro in law and stitching is a far less active hand activity for me than The Thing I've Never Done Before, so I stitched up the strap and handle. Here the handle is inside out in a jar of water to get nice and soft for turning. 

I stitched a rabbit hide into the interior of the arm strap. It's soft and a little padded, and I think it looks quite fetching. To figure out the right strap length for the recipient's ridiculously beefy arm that helped him earn this award, I asked my former football player bro in law for his arm circumference and then rooted around the house for a pickel jar of the same diameter. Stitch width awls are your friend. One of the top ten tools I own for sure. 

Turning out the handle. This took a lot of hand strength and chopstick finagling. I'm genuinely looking forward to making Kat the Herald's purple shoes because they'll be easier to turn than this fucker. 

Fit check. Look at that beautiful wet shaping on the handle! At this point I felt a level of actual mastery of my craft. I think I can really call myself a leatherworker now. I still have so much to learn and improve, but I feel comfortable. It feels good. 

With the handles done, it's back to gilding. According to the Pinterest mommy blogs, you can skip the professional artist size and use watered down mod podge for the gilding process. I gambled on them being right, whipped out my pack of silver, copper and gold foils, and got down to business. I used a tiny but cheap paint brush to apply the thinned glue to the sword, let it dry a little, and then applied the silver foil. I tapped at it with a napkin through a flour sack towel, let it dry a little and brushed off the excess with a second and much fluffier brush. 

The Pinterest pinnsters aren't entirely wrong about mod podge, but they aren't entirely right either. I had to add more glue and gilding foil like eight times. This is after one of the last additions, but before I brushed away the excess. Mod podge doesn't want to work on the irregular curves of carved leather. The dry time to tackiness was also imprecise and very very short, which made applying the delicate foil correctly very difficult. 

I finally had to give up. There were just too many spots that would not take foil at all. I grabbed my Stewart Semple Heavy Metals box set, pulled out the Goldest Gold, and painted over the bare spots. At this angle, the difference in reflection angles and quality is obvious. The paint is so much more yellow. But deadlines are deadlines, and imperfections make it human. 

This angle is much more favorable. I find myself in love with the effect of the gilding over the carving on the feathers. I need to get good at gilding. 

And here she is signed by Their Majesties Northshield, in the warm lights of the Sioux Falls Coliseum stage. Fergus loves it and it got a lot of ooos and ahs from the populace. I had a lot of fun in spite of some of the frustrations of this build, and I'm excited to try another targe with even more accuracy at some point.

[infobuildmyplace]

Park Avenue White Cabinet

The Park Avenue White Cabinets showcase a commitment to quality craftsmanship and intelligent design. Crafted from 3/4 inch thick, 1-1/2 inch wide, kiln-dried solid hardwood, the frame and sides employ an interlocking system for both easy assembly and robust strength. The back panel, constructed from a full 1/2 inch plywood, features a secure interlock system and is impeccably finished on the exterior. The end panel, with 1/2 inch plywood sides, combines a finished exterior with a natural wood-finish veneer interior.

[cassieuncaged]

Grave Bound Redux: Book 1 - Chapter 3

Chapter 2

Elias Grodin x Maggie Wilson (my OC)

Summary: A young, pacifist man chooses to serve in the Vietnam war instead of going to prison on drug charges.

TW: slight medical gore, mentions of death, injuries, use of tobacco, language, etc

WC: 1.8K

Tag List: Taglist: @roofgeese, @chadillacboseman, @theelderhazelnut, @quantum-lover, @elderglocks, @galaxycunt, @voidika, @spacestephh, @emotionalcadaver

March 1966

At least there’s air conditioning.

It was a small amenity among the constant rot and bloodshed. Maggie remembered her mission, the same statement that was printed outside and at the front of the building.

CONSERVE THE FIGHTING STRENGTH.

She wasn’t completely sure what that meant for her, attempting to use her nursing degree to guide her like a beacon through the storm.

Except there was none.

All the first lieutenant nurses like herself were scampering around the makeshift infirmary until their feet were bloody and raw, meeting the choppers and jeepsters at the door and hauling new patients in. Some were lucky to have only been sprayed with a bit of shrapnel or nurse a minor concussion while others lost limbs or succumb to infections.

It seemed rather gauche, the posters she’d seen back in the states, promoting women to volunteer as nurses in the hopes of coming back happily engaged while the reality was far more grim. The young nurse had seen more gore and viscera than she’d ever expected, holding the hands of the injured and dying while they wailed for their wives and mothers. She lived for the quieter days, when the men were in good spirits and particularly healthy.

“Caldy’s got it out for me,” Rachel, another first lieutenant complained as they dressed a bed with the cleanest linens available. She was small, typically pretty with chestnut hair, big brown eyes, and an interesting gap between her front teeth. Unfortunately, God had seemed to bless her with a mouth that never seemed to close. While all the men adored her, their major didn’t.

“Oh?” Maggie offered flatly, wholly disinterested in the new drama. She was more invested in the news about another airstrike over Hanoi, wondering if the NVA was planning on retaliating. That was likely.

“I swear that old bat has it out for me.” A scowl stretched across Mariano’s impish features as they both continued to fuss over the sheets. Blue eyes drifted back up to white plywood on which their mission statement was printed in bold, totalitarian lettering.

SUPPORT THE US FORCES

“She’s doing her job,” Lt. Wilson echoed back without much thought, knowing better than to gossip under Major Caldwell’s sharp nose. “We all are.”

“Always such a goodie goodie,” Rachel scoffed, surveying the wrinkled bed clothes as she adjusted her ponytail. “No one out here cares whether we live or die, Mags. We’re just some glorified Donut Dollies who fix boo boos and pretend to be surrogate girlfriends.”

“Don’t be so callous,” she finally snapped, growing tired of her partner’s grousing. “These men have no one out here except themselves because of a broken system. The least we can do is try to help.”

Her eyes flitted across the rows of beds as a few of their healthier patrons were led through the front doors and back into the heat. No one paid them much mind as the other nurses rushed by in their army greens. Rachel’s shoulders slumped slightly, uncharacteristically self aware at the nurse’s words. This was the best most of the men got out here: air conditioning and a kind smile.

“I hate when you’re right,” she mumbled, heading to the next bed as Major Caldwell broke Maggie from a self satisfied stupor.

“Wilson!” Her voice was flinty yet commanding. “Stop dawdling and help the sergeant here!”

“Yes, ma’am!” the red head saluted, calming frizzy ginger locks as her boots thudded against wooden planks. Others filed in around her, filling empty beds as she shuffled to the side of the next patient. 

He was older than most of the intakes, probably pushing thirty with mousy blonde hair that sprouted from a sweat stained headband like a mushroom. Wide lips spread into an easy smile when she approached, wrapped around a cigarette. The man was in better shape than most, sporting a bloody leg. No apparent compound fracture. That was a good sign.

“Must’ve died and gone up to the pearly gates to meet an angel like you.” he cooed in a gravelly timbre, crystalline eyes captivated for a moment, clear like a freshwater river. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“1st Lieutenant Wilson,” she offered briskly, picking up his papers from a rickety bedside table. “And you’re Sergeant Grodin.”

“Aww, c’mon,” he whined playfully, “We don’t need titles around here. They don’t mean a whole lot anyways. Name’s Elias.”

There was something disarming about him that flattened her hackles, a ghost of a smile playing at her lips. Most of the soldiers inane flirting made her uncomfortable with creeps gawking at the outline of her bra or calling her ‘toots’ and ‘babe’. But this one was amicable, kind even as he thrust his hand forward.

Chivalry wasn’t dead, it seemed.

“Maggie,” she offered meekly, allowing a large tan hand to devour her own. Despite the callouses and scars, he gently held her hand as though she were an injured bird.

“Maggie,” he repeated; she liked how it sounded rolling off his tongue. He spoke with a drawl. “Pretty name for a pretty face.”

“Thanks,” a blush bloomed upon full cheeks, painting the woman tomato red as she attempted to control the situation. She pulled cheap latex gloves upon small fingers before turning to face the sergeant once more. “Shrapnel embedded in the shin?”

“Yeah,” he hissed as she gently prodded at the bloody wound, pulling a putty knife from her boot to cut the leg of his fatigues. “That standard issue?”

“Is around here,” she winked, finding herself becoming more relaxed in his presence. Rolling the mangled canvas up a sinewy leg revealed round bloody pits that had burrowed their way into the bone. Too deep for her to dig out alone. “Nothing compounded, thank the lord. But those pellets are right against the bone. Doctors will have to dig em out to avoid any gangrene or jungle rot. In the meantime, I’ll get you on a morphine drip.”

“Looking forward to it,” he grinned dopily, taking a drag on his smoke, watching diligently as she sashayed away.

……

Three days in the 95th whizzed by, leaving Maggie’s heart aching as it grew closer to Elias’ impending discharge. His leg was healing up nicely, stitched with no sign of a gangrenous infection. A few boys from the 101st were bound to pick him up in the morning and get him back out in the bush.

It had been a long time since she'd made a real human connection in a war torn land. She’d been stationed in Da Nang since early January though it felt more like years. Rachel had been a confidant since training before the holidays, a jovial light in the proverbial dark. But any befriended patients were tragically ripped by her side, one way or another.

After doing menial chores and tasks for Major Caldwell, Maggie scurried over to Elias’ bedside. Her ginger curls were extra springy, pinned back to reveal the smattering of freckles across rosy cheeks. A dab of Chantilly perfume was even pressed to the inside of each wrist. A husband wasn’t expected though she wanted to be a pleasant memory for the man. Like a picture of Betty Grable tucked into a soldier’s pack during the second world war.

Tired blue eyes widened excitedly when Sergeant Grodin realized he had company. A open lipped smile revealed adorably gapped teeth, not unlike Rachel, while the morning sun brought out the little freckles dotting his nose and cheeks.

“I must still be dreaming,” he chuckled, pushing himself up onto muscular arms. He wore a mossy t-shirt though his headband was gone, hair wildly askew. Maggie tried not to stare, tried not to imagine him clean and coiffed, proffering a bouquet of tulips. That could never happen. Maybe if she met him at the St. Mary’s in Buffalo, doing rounds. Maybe in another life, but not here.

So she smiled weakly, reaching outwards to bring the back of her palm to his brow. Elias allowed his eyes to flutter close, humming at such a tender form of intimacy. The boys often kept themselves busy during leave but doubtfully found much affection. It was a simple luxury.

“A little clammy, but that’s normal.” she noted, not noticing that a long finger wrapped itself in the chain of her dog tags. He examined the little piece of tin carefully.

“Margaret P Wilson.” he read outloud. “What’s the ‘P’ for?”

“Patricia.” She thought of the name on all of his documents, “What’s the ‘K’ stand for?”

“Kenneth.” He let go of her tag, grinning as she straightened herself; thankfully, the day was early and slow. The other nurses could handle their patients and Major Caldwell wasn’t squawking yet.

“I like it,” she declared quietly, “It’s delicate.”

“I get that more with ‘Elias’.” he groused as she took his vitals, passing over a waxy cup filled with some low dose painkillers. “Nothing like hearing you’ve got a 'queer' name.”

“It’s unusual,” Maggie added, “I like unusual.”

“Me too.” His hand devoured her own for the first time since they met. It felt like the world had melted away around them before the moment was torn away.

“Wilson!” Caldwell screeched, “Get Sergeant Grodin on his feet and out the door. Boys are here to get him and we’ve got more beds to fill!”

“Guess that’s my cue.” he announced waving a tall man, his dark skin glistening with sweat. The other man was shorter, a jagged scar splitting a serious face. “Boys from my division. Ready to pick me up."

He wobbled up to his feet, peeling off his shirt as dog tags jangled against a sun kissed and freckled chest. Maggie attempted not to stare, averting her eyes as she turned pink yet again. Elias grinned slyly, pulling his uniform back over his head, matching baggy cargo pants.

Their gaze met for a moment, blue on blue, a pull as strong as a magnet to steel. He thought she was pretty, too sweet to be out here trying to heal and comfort the dying that continued to pile up. Elias reached forward, grabbing a slender wrist in a massive hand.

“Cheer up buttercup,” he squeezed gently, earning a little grin. Maggie didn’t want him to go, enjoying their silent moment together. “I won’t give up that easy.”

“Be as safe as you can.” The young nurse offered, different from the maternal instinct in which she treated the other patients with.

“Elias!” The short, gruff man called impatiently as the other soldier flirted with another nurse trying to focus on her duties. “Haul your ass over! Time to go!”

“Aw shucks, Bob! Cool your heels!” he waved a hand dismissively, grabbing a few articles of clothing before looking at the woman one last time. “Until later.”

Maggie said nothing, watching the man sashay with the slightest hint of a limp, silently wishing him good luck.

He was going to need it. They all did.

[iwannakissasopwithcamel]

König-Werke S4 - "The Rotes Schwein's Widowmaker"

Role: Seaplane Scout Served With: Fokker Kingdoms First Flight: 1597 Strengths: High Speed, Tough Weaknesses: Underarmed Inspiration: Macchi M.33 (1925) Backer: KUMO

Description:

Though frequently sidelined, fischervolk pilots began to have undeniable impact on the Fokker Empire’s war effort, especially once fighting in Macchi reached the Caproni islands. The S4 was finally approved to equip these units, and by the end of the war frontline fischer units and a handful of other seaplane squadrons were using it.

The S4 was in every way an improvement over previous models. The Fokker Empire’s mastery of the cantilever spar was put to good use, allowing the plane to use a single long, aerodynamic wing for maximum lift. It was given a powerful V8 engine, twin guns, and all-plywood skin.

However, all was not well with the aircraft. It was heavier than originally advertised, so after Fokker’s best seaplane ace removed one of his machine guns from the nose of his bright red plane, most new pilots followed suit, and soon they were produced that way in factories.

Of small note is the aircraft’s weapons are located in an open space that modern Circuses often use as cargo space or even a passenger spot.