#scaffolding to buy

[anthropwashere]

Jesus jimminy tap dancing christmas christ on a CRUTCH this is so much house for one busted ass person to take care of

[mtandtgroup-blog]

[iriequipment]

Suspended Rope Platforms and Traditional Scaffolding are evaluated to ascertain which offers greater advantages.

The debate between rope suspension platforms and traditional platforms in construction and maintenance has been going on for years. Both methods serve the purpose of safely moving workers to heights, but differ greatly in design, operation and suitability for different projects This blog post will explore the characteristics of rope suspended platforms and traditional scaffolding internally to identify different methods -may be better suited to different situations .

Custom scaffolding: a proven solution

One of the main advantages of traditional scaffolding is its stability and load-bearing capacity. It can support heavy loads, making it ideal for jobs that require a wide range of materials and equipment. Additionally, the scaffolding system is versatile and can be installed to different heights, allowing workers to safely access even tall buildings.

However, traditional scaffolding also has limitations. Scaffold installation and disassembly can be time-consuming, requiring skilled labor and specialized equipment. Additionally, structural buildings can obstruct pedestrian and vehicular traffic around the facility, causing infrastructure challenges, especially in urban areas

Rope suspension platforms: an easy option

Unlike traditional scaffolding, rope suspension platforms provide a flexible and flexible solution

Source- https://iriequipment.com/2024/03/21/suspended-rope-platforms-vs-traditional-scaffolding-which-is-better/

[utilitycaster]

I've been a pretty harsh critic of Dr. Friedman and Polygon's general Critical Role coverage in the past, and while I think her latest article for them critiquing Campaign 3 is a fairly good one, it does in many ways cast an even harsher light on her kid-gloves handling of D20 and WBN. However, I want to talk about these two excerpts, because I think she hits on something I've increasingly noticed in Actual Play:

"This is where Critical Role’s strength — that Exandria often feels like a real, complex world — collided with the needs of a D&D campaign (a clear adversary, clear plans of action, forward momentum)."

and

"But the confused way D&D handles religion and divinity — polytheism as imagined by midwestern American Protestants — turned the question of how to handle this particular cosmic horror into a glue trap, paralyzing the players for dozens of hours of circular existential debates. Gods once mechanized (or digestible) become just another power bloc, and for players used to a system where in the end you are “basically gods,” the line gets blurrier still. And as D&D’s messy cosmology added friction to much of the campaign, D&D’s mechanics also don’t have the necessary friction for the interpersonal beats that make Critical Role compelling."

I agree with both these statements, as someone who, to be clear, enjoys D&D 5e. D&D supports a range of narratives, but all are ultimately a story of gaining power and fighting off or through a series of adversaries; if your characters are not doing that, it raises the question of why you picked a system that gives you few other options. (This is also, I should note, an increasingly loud question when it comes to Worlds Beyond Number; I fell behind for personal reasons after the Coven arc, but Brennan's initial statements about D&D as scaffolding were perhaps too true; almost every interesting mechanic, in a game with minimal combat that has thus far felt primarily focused on how the three protagonists have fundamentally different adversaries, has been homebrewed, to the point where the cosmology and baggage of D&D has felt like a liability rather than an asset).

D&D also has, in part due to such programs as D20, developed a reputation for being world-agnostic, and that ultimately isn't true. D&D does struggle to make the lines between "real divinity", an archfey or similarly powerful entity, and a L20 character feel sharply defined on a mechanical level; once you give a god a stat block, it can be killed (and on a metanarrative level, revealing the gods' statblocks in Downfall serves to make them both immense, yet also more fragile. The hit points are many, but still finite.) There are a number of questions most D&D worlds simply fail to address - and to be clear, this is not a flaw provided you have buy in. A level 2 warlock in D&D is, in most societies, an one-person lethal force unless the entire town swarms them at once, knowing that many of them will lose their lives in the effort; a level 2 warlock PC, however, is almost never, in-world, treated this way, and indeed is framed as an underdog in a harsh world despite usually having the ability to destroy the entire tavern.

D&D has also developed a (not undeserved) reputation as being The Dominant TTRPG put out by a massive corporation, and has developed a (not deserved) reputation as being itself uniquely problematic as a power fantasy, particularly by people who conveniently forget where Pathfinder came from. I've previously covered that, for all people demand non-D&D actual play, the viewership drops precipitously whenever a big AP show that made its name with D&D dares to branch out, and, related to that, I've seen an uptick in people who are excited for D&D to subvert itself. They wanted Campaign 3 to subvert these norms of divinity and heroic fantasy, cheered for it...and ultimately it was unable to do so. I don't think it's accurate to say that D&D's lack of interpersonal mechanics was the problem here, given that Campaigns 1 and 2 (and again, D20) have no such issue; but rather that since D&D's lack of interpersonal/RP mechanics require more effort from the players to initiate, the debates on the nature of divinity in a world and system that could not sustain them sapped any energy for the late-night watch conversations D&D can support when you're not fighting against it.

I think one of the many lessons we can learn from Critical Role Campaign 3 is that if you go up against D&D with an attempt to destroy it from within, your story will instead find itself conforming to the shape of its container, often to its detriment.

[gayspacepiratesss]

Hiiii friends I made a thing!!! 💕 An illustrated mini-fic, to be precise.

The art part isn't quite finished but I think the last three illustrations might take me longer and I wanted to share what I have so far. There are six color plates now and eventually I hope I'll have nine. I'll do a separate art post when they're all finished for folks who aren't as interested in the story!

I wrote this because I was thinking about trauma, and Neve's love for Docktown, and how two people who take too much responsibility for things might try and fail to help each other. About how breaking out of regret prisons isn't something most of us get to do just once, but over and over again: new chapters in the same old story. Plot twists that get a little better each time, if we're lucky.

I think Neve and Rook are lucky, but you be the judge of that. 💕

***

Red-eye

In which Neve gives new meaning to the phrase "Cry it out" and Rook fights gravity with exactly the amount of success you might expect.

Content note: Some mild hurt/comfort, references to blood, angst, and many feelingsy illustrations.

-~-

The veins are starting to fade, but her eyes are still red. Staring herself down in the mirror, Neve Gallus can't honestly tell if it's the Blight or sheer exhaustion that makes it impossible to recognize her own face.

The days since Elgar'nan's fall have been hard for a happy ending: the work of digging friends from the rubble, patching injuries and broken bridges, burying or burning the dead.

Neve's gaze flickers past her reflection towards the slight, sleeping figure on the sofa behind her.

Rook has been there for all of it. Minrathous, Treviso, Arlathan. First to volunteer, last to leave at night. She's never been afraid of heavy lifting.

You showed up. You always do.

...but where am I?

In Dock Town, the ocean always made her feel like she could breathe. Here, the blue light of the aquarium is drowning her again. Cold shadows run restless across her face, almost dancing with the black traces etched into her skin.

She slips out the door alone. Again.

-~-

"Again?"

Rook sags against the wooden railing opposite Hal's fish stall, her shoulders tight even as her face falls.

The older man squints sympathetically. His hands scale the day's catch with expert automatic movements, but his eyes stay with her. "Earlier this morning," he confirms. "Same time, same story."

Every day for the past month. Early, late, in between. As soon as there was a moment they might talk, Neve disappeared. If Eann "Rook" Aldwir had ever been the praying kind, now—not the fall of Minrathous or the rise of the Evanuris—would have been the moment she was on her knees.

I would burn worlds for you, but I couldn't pull you back when it mattered.

What have I saved if I didn't save Neve Gallus?

She runs a hand through her hair, putting on a rosy face to match, and forces a grin she doesn't quite feel. "Ah, well. It's been hard for everyone, but..."

"... mmhm." Hal nods. "Time is what the city needs, maybe. Time, and they'll remember..." his voice fades. Suddenly he is very busy with the mackerel.

... that she loves them. That she always loved them. That she never—she didn't—

"It was Elgar'nan and Ghilan'ain—" Rook can't quite hide her frustration.

"I know." Hal chops a fishhead slightly too aggressively. "They'll know."

But does she know?

From the street, a shout as ropes go up to raise new scaffolding—there's work to do on some of the dockside apartments, newly in danger of tumbling into the sea.

Eann buys a fresh skewer and sinks her teeth in. "If oo fee er--" she ventures, mouth full, eyes already on the next task.

"I'll send her your way," Hal finishes.

But he won't. They both know.

-~-

They both know. Everyone knows. Neve Gallus, protector of Docktown—until she destroyed it.

She takes a long drag from her pipe, staring across the city from her perch above the Lamplighter—one of the only buildings to go unscathed by the massive tentacles of Blight that she, personally, had directed. The elegant cruelty of Elgar'nan's choice wasn't lost on her—if anybody knew how to target Minrathous' weak points. If anybody knew the city's secrets. Set her against the place she loved best and watch it fall.

In the moment, it had been a pleasure.

How do you come back from that?

When Treviso had been ravaged by the Blight, her heart broke for Lucanis—but her relief for her own people had blunted the pain. She remembers the moment Rook showed up on the field, one step behind Neve and Tarquin, one step ahead of the dragon. She remembers her own disbelief: "You came."

Eann had never looked smaller than she did against that burning-black sky, her skin—so pale it was almost blue in a certain light—flushed and uneven, jaw set against her fear. And Neve had never loved her more—a thought she had shoved down immediately, fiercely, completely, as she skewered a nearby Venatori with ice.

They won that day. Parts of it, anyway.

And when Minrathous did fall, it was Neve's fault. Not Rook's.

-~-

"Not Rook's!" Elek Tavor has brought his Threads. He shoos Eann away from the complex dance of ladders and platforms they're erecting to shore up the dockfront. "That's your job, nughead! I need her here!"

Gang members and locals set shoulders together against the weight of newly-cut stone and crumbling Blight, clearing the one from the ruined apartments and storefronts to make room for the other. They look like a training montage or an inspirational poster—if training smelled like clotted blood, and inspiration felt like vertigo.

He winks at her from over a pulley, tossing her a safety harness and a length of rope. "You're too good for us gutter rats."

She straps in, eyeing the higher floors. The corruption still needs clearing before they can fully assess the damage. It's not especially stable, but she'd rather risk her skin than someone else's. "Better a rat with wings, huh?"

"Better you than me."

She doesn't argue. Instead, she climbs -- reaching hand over hand for a better view. The city shrinks and shifts as she pulls herself above it. The Cobbled Swan blends into the paper seller stalls and merchant alleys, already in business again with whatever scraps they each could scavenge. The sea's slate mood gives way to a smudge of sky and stone, reflecting up the cliffs across the channel.

I know you're there.

Tucked somewhere among those caves and crawlspaces is a detective with a shattered heart, blowing smoke rings and tearing herself to shreds. Rook has watched her disappear, slowly but surely, with every day of "recovery." To rebuild something is to see what was broken, to go over the damage in fine detail. To catalogue every blow. But for Neve, it is cataloging her own sins, her own failures, in a neat series of boxes to be checked and confirmed with evidence. For Rook, it has been watching that soft face flinch and flatten with each victory, each moment of hope, as though it were a nail in her heart's coffin.

But Neve still comes to the city for solace. She can't help herself. And so Eann haunts Minrathous, signing up for tasks that don't really need her, checking in on the people she knows Neve loves. Looking for answers in The Case of the Blighted Dream. The Broken Detective. Docktown's Ghost.

She has tried to be patient. So. Patient. But sometimes the most ungenerous part of her thinks, I broke out of my prison. To find you. To have this.

Now I'm losing you to yours.

Distracted by the weight of her thoughts, Rook barely notices when the stone she reaches for crumbles in her hand—until it pulls the harness anchor with it, the whole wall of the second story giving way. There is a sharp jerk, and she is falling—

Falling?

Falling.

But even as her heart freezes in her throat, it is still pulling her across the water. Even as she braces for the impact, her eyes are still half-scanning the cliffside for a tell-tale flash of teal, a smudge of smoke.

-~-

Smoke.

Neve squints suddenly, her pipe drooping between slack fingers. Smoke? By the docks?

No. Dust.

Something is falling.

But the channel is not wide, and she realizes with growing horror that she can hear the sound not just of stone, blight, beams crumbling, but also voices. Shrieking, wavering. "Look out!" "Back up!" "Clear it OUT—"

And then: "Rook!"

Someone is falling.

Rook.

A blinding, burning fear bites into her chest. The pipe clatters to the ground. If she was drowning before, she is choking now, clawing her way to the surface of a dream she has been walking in for weeks. Trading pains of the past for a present that sears her lungs and surges down her spine.

Mages cannot fly, but all that is left of Neve in that alcove as she bolts through passageways and across rooftops is a pipe's worth of tobacco and the shadow of a thought, echoing like a stone dropped in a dry well.

Wait for me. Wait.

-~-

“Wait.” Eann coughs wetly, throat clogging with dust and something unpleasantly, unexpectedly—oh. Blood. Well. She drags herself up on one elbow, waving Elek and the others back slightly, hissing as the movement sends a shock of pain through her body. “Wait, dammit! I’m not—”

“You’re not what?”

Time turns to sludge as familiar brown eyes meet hers, topped by brows knitted together in fury and fear. “Not hurt? Not climbing walls alone?”

Neve kneels beside the shaking elf, hands already moving, telling Eann’s blood to stay inside her body, her bones to know themselves under the weight of stone for seconds rather than minutes. It’s no small feat, and she is immediately sweating. They both are. “Not the Maker's own damned idiot?”

In spite of herself, Rook laughs. Weakly, painfully. “No,” she wheezes. “I am that.”

Neve’s eyes flash and then flood, tears of rage meeting her perspiration as she gingerly eases one hand under Eann’s head, using the other to clear what stone she can. “What were you thinking?”

It hurts to think. It hurts to breathe. But to Rook’s surprise, it hurts more to look up into eyes that are actually seeing her for the first time since the fight for Minrathous. A face that is furious but not masked. She coughs again, her own eyes burning, unsure if her chest is seizing from the weight of stone or just the love of Neve Gallus. “I—”

You look for lost things. Well, I look for you.

“They need you,” she finds herself choking furiously. “I was thinking they need you, and you’re not here, and I—am—so until you come back from your fucking pity party—ow—”

Neve is already on her knees. She can’t fall further. But the red spilling across the stones is more than time can stop, and she knows she needs to do something—quickly.

Eyes on me, Rook. Stay with me.

“Me?” Her rage is half for show, until it isn’t. And her heart is beating half a step too fast, and half too slow. “You think they need me? Look at me! Look at this.”

If it wasn’t for Neve, the stone would be as sturdy as it ever was in Minrathous. Hal’s fish would come out of the water in nets, not dredged from the surface with glassy eyes. She ripped through the Cobbled Swan, she crushed the lean-tos and shacks of the alleyways to little more than crumbs. She is the reason her tiny, tidy apartment stands in ruins and the cats go hungry. Docktown would be better off if it had never known Neve Gallus to begin with.

Rook screams. It is partly words. “I need you!”

And Neve is ripping her best coat into ribbons because she can’t slow time and send people for bandages, for medics—and there is.

No.

Time.

But she feels her face go numb, and her hands are shaking, and her burning red eyes fly up to meet that fierce, clear gaze. She wants to answer, but she has no answer.

Stay with me.

“What was the point—of all that—if—” Rook’s face is flushed, but Neve thinks flushed is better than pale, better than empty, better than gone. She uses the tiniest push of frost magic to calm the angry red of bones and flesh forced out of place. To stop the swelling before it starts. Almost mechanically, she wraps strips of her dragon coat around Rook’s arm and chest, shattering rocks with one hand as her other shields that stupidly precious rose-crowned skull from further damage.

“—if it didn't bring you back?” Eann rasps.

Neve is shaking so hard now that she can’t bind the fabric properly. She’s not sure it matters. “Bring me back for what?! So that I could—I would—” What can she do, anyway? She’s no healer. If Emmrich were here—or Harding—but they aren’t. And I am going to lose you, and I am going to deserve it. “So I could watch you die?”

Sharp, ragged sobs. “So you could be here—with us—” It’s not easy to cry and suffocate all at once, but Eann is making it work. “Not alone—with everything—”

The black traces of Blight on Neve’s skin mingle with sweat and stone, forming a filigree mask across her face. She feels her grip on the air, on the time around her start to slide.

Not yet. “Rook—”

Eann reaches up with her one free hand. Presses Neve’s forehead to her own, Blight and all. Her body is looser now, heavier—she, too, is struggling to keep control. Sound leaks through the barrier around them. Is someone… shouting?

Her eyes are closed. Her energy directed only towards the point where her skin touches Neve’s.

And Neve Gallus, despite her best efforts, is out of time. She winds her fingers through that rosy hair, and lets a deep, heavy sound tear through her throat. Not knowing, not caring what it is.

“Stay. With me,” she whispers. Please.

I’m here.

Around them, into sound and color and light, the city explodes.

-~-

The city explodes. Scraps of sound and light fracture through Rook’s mind, almost artful—a pastiche of pain and motion with occasional splatters of blessed black unconsciousness. Emmrich is there, then Maevaris. The Lighthouse might feature at some point. Definitely there is blood. So much blood. Then black again. And then—

Ow.

Teal-tipped fingers are laced around her hand. The bedspread beneath them is clean. The hands are not.

“There you are.” Neve has not slept in a long time. Her voice catches. “Oh. I—”

I almost missed you. Missed this.

Where was I?

Rook reaches to cup her fingers around the detective’s cheek. Instinctively, Neve presses closer, lifting her shoulder to cradle the gesture.

“You showed up.” Eann finds that smiling hurts more than she expected. She doesn’t care. “You always do.”

Neve lets out a half-laugh, half-sob. “I could have made better time.”

The light plays across her face, still silt-stained and shadowed. Eann rubs some of the dirt away with her thumb, wincing at the not-yet-mended motion of various body parts, ignoring them in favor of something far more pressing. Then she stops. “Your eyes. Neve…”

A flash of something like fear. “Oh, they must be awful—”

“No.” Eann pulls the detective closer. She kisses the eyelids, the cheekbones, the saltworn freckles. The dusted brows. Beneath the dirt, there is only the warm brown of these features she knows so well. Beneath the exhaustion, there are only shades of caramel and acorn and leather in those bright, faltering eyes.

Holding the other woman's rueful, aching, anxious face between her palms, she inspects it with great seriousness. Her own blue gaze holds steady beneath a vaguely crinkled brow.

“Neve, the Blight—it’s… gone.”

And this time Neve doesn’t need a mirror to look for her own face. To recognize herself. Something more like a laugh than like a sob curls through her throat and hangs in the air between them, weightless. “Is that so? Maybe you knocked it out of me.”

“Knocked it out of you!” Rook’s wheeze is its own commentary. “Remind me not to pick a fight with a pile of rocks anytime soon.”

“Maybe just pick fights with me, for a while.”

“Mm.” Rook still hasn’t let Neve go. Their noses bump together. “I don’t only want to fight with you…”

“Later.” Neve pushes back, smirking gently. A promise, not a refusal. “You did very nearly lose that last one. But I’ll be here.”

“What happened—” Eann is serious now, her hair falling earnestly into her eyes. “Neve. It happened to everyone. And I know—it was awful. But we can’t—I can’t—”

Not without you.

Neve pushes the hair out of Rook’s face. “I’ll be here.”

This time, when she shuts the door, it isn’t on her way out.

[thoughtsafterdark]

Hospitals and Airports are the closest modernity can come to reaching the Divine

Have you noticed how some places seem immune to time and social conventions. Like airports, those monoliths of now. Harsh lights burning and souls criss-crossing, tongues melting together into a writhing throng of humanity, a steaming cesspit of consciousness. Steeped in camaraderie yet drenched in isolation. The electric blue arrivals sign glares with neon brightness at 3am, a beacon that signals the end of the road.

Here comes a family of 4 on their way home, crossing through automatic doors into the balmy drizzle of a British night, carrying their loot of straw hats and cheap pendants, tan lines and peeling red lobster skin. A girl no older than 5 limps after her parents and older brother. She lugs her bright pink unicorn behind her and hugs the hood of lilac pyjamas close, rubs the sleep out of her eyes whilst her mother shouts at her to hurry. Soon she’ll tuck herself into bed, in the attic of their ordinary red brick London row house, and she’ll watch the sun peak over the trees in the back garden for the first time in her life. It will become a core memory she will think fondly back on for years to come.

By the first class lounge they hurried past, a man in an impeccable suit (Sheep’s wool, the finest money can buy. The grey colour of the Thames on an early morning) paces back and forth restlessly, briefcase in hand, phone in another. Gold amber eyes like a hawk, close cropped black hair and neatly trimmed beard, square pocket matching the deep tan of his shoes (authentic leather). He is barking orders to someone in Arabic, closing deals, building empires. A bloodied napkin he used to stop a nosebleed earlier falls out of his pocket and winks up at the scaffolding exposed ceiling, high and arching like the dome of a cathedral. He’ll make the sale, then visit the airport bathroom again before hailing a cab to the closest 5 star. In the morning, the maid who took the job to send money to her ailing mother in the Philippines will find his cold stiff body and scream. She’ll call the police and be taken in for questioning. She never signed up for this.

At the hospital coffee shop – two streets and half a lifetime away - a 4th year med students sips on a cortado like her life depends on it. Caffeine surges through her veins, bracing her for the day ahead. Unbelievable how exhausting trying to take up as little space as possible can be. She hates the spiel, it���s the same every time. A new dawn, a new face, a new team. The introductions, the smiling, the grovelling, the headache. She’s 5ft flat with bright orange hair, aspirations for Neurosurgery and a bright pink notebook, so why would they take her seriously.

It’s 8:30, and she’s scheduled for 9am clinic, so she has time for a hurried breakfast today. (Eating any earlier makes her gag). Small mercies. The off-red stained scrubs she nicked from the theatre changing rooms cling to her like a second skin preparing to moult. She squirms in them, the comfort undeniable. They make her feel like she belongs. They make her feel like an imposter.

Her table – she comes here so often; she thinks of it as hers - sits right by large windows overlooking the main entrance and staircase. She sees it all from here, her quiet unassuming throne. The doctors and nurses, physios and pharmacists. Rushing rushing, running, stressing. Wishing, hoping, waiting, waiting, waiting. For the shift to end, for the time for bed. For this rotation to change, for the exam to pass. We’ll go on that holiday next month, next year. When money isn’t tight, when things are more settled.  Before they know it they’ve wished their lives away.

Their patients understand, all too well and all too late. The same father with the IV drip and the metal stand comes down here every morning to see his daughters. They run up to him, he holds them close and beams. But his grip is getting weaker, smile is getting thinner. He doesn’t answer when they ask when he’s coming home. It’s funny what we can’t hear when we’re too busy wearing stethoscopes. Next month she (I) will be stationed on the Psych ward. We’ll have to do it all again, but maybe they’ll hear me this time. Maybe it’ll get easier.

Between them all and among them, if you squint and unfocus your eyes during one of those ungodly hours at the Starbacks across from Boots and WHSmith, leaning against a grey white pillar you might see him.

He is the spectre that haunts airport lounges and waiting rooms alike, the handsome stranger with the black snapback and the beats headphones and the khaki shorts. The one who lives out of a rucksack and wears a travel pillow like a crown. With the kind eyes and crows feet, and honey chestnut curls. He is that boy from your high school everyone liked, with a kind word for everyone; the one with a charmers smile and the charisma to bullshit his way through anything. The one who – when pressed for future plans, would laugh and shake his head, looking down bashfully. “I just want to travel for now, see where it takes me. I want to see the world”, he’d say, eyes twinkling with the possibilities. On someone else, the words would likely merit a telling off, they’d be seen as the paper thin excuse to fuck around and get high. But he seemed so genuine, and his teeth were such a dazzling shade of brilliant white when he smiled, even the strictest careers advisers couldn’t resist.

He lives in those moments, the liminal fabric between worlds that’s so hard to put your finger on. Blink and you’ll miss him in the old alleys of Rome, the spark of his cigarette lighter blending amongst the city lights.

You’ll find him among the most remote hiking trails of the Peloponnese, laughing with local shepherds and German tourists alike, sitting on jutting rocky cliffs and admiring the blue Mediterranean below. If you really pay attention, you’ll see his staff isn’t like the others. Something suspiciously like a pair of snake slithers up and down. You could swear you heard them whispering just now, but when you look again it’s just a wooden stick.

He is the patron of us wanderers and travellers, those of us with movement in our blood and restlessness in our hearts. The ones who beget the will of changing winds and shifting tides. The ones who can’t allow themselves to sit still, lest the dust settle and the coffee get cold. The mortifying ordeal of being seen and known. Or the ones that carry a hearth with them, in the bottom of a suitcase, in the heart of a trailer. The ones who move and weave through the Earth not because they are running but because they are coming home. He dances and jokes with the kids amongst campfires, always welcome, always a pleasure. And if he helps them pick the odd lock, swearing solemnly to secrecy, who are we to judge.

His bronze skin smells of cinnamon and nutmeg, vanilla and cedar and a thousand other spices. He reeks of incense and market stalls, moles and freckles tell the story of trading routes and old silk roads, of cotton shawls from Alexandria and silk from Pekking. His fingers and eyes twinkle with the good-natured mischief of petty thieves and sleight-of-hand magicians, tricksters and circus performers. He picks apples from behind ears, presents jewel necklaces to his lovers.

She sees him now, amongst the patients. He helps an old lady up the steps, pulls a balloon out of his back pocket to the delight of a sick child. She locks eyes with him and they nod at one another She has been seen now, and known. Perhaps she’ll find him again one day, if either stop running.

[blueberry-bubbles130]

I know Bully doesn’t have the most accurate adherence to reality. But I just know that the school’s budget was fucked at the end of the game.

I was watching a video of Miss Danvers’s pa announcements, so I can write her character better. She says the school doesn’t have the budget to treat all the students who have pneumonia. So the budget is already shit. I can just imagine Crabblesnitch and the faculty having a meeting discussing the budget and what needs to be done for the new school year.

I think the list would like a little like this:

Hire a new gym teacher who isn’t a pedophile

Hire a new maths teacher who isn’t a dick and doesn’t take bribes

Try and appease the prep’s parents if they have any issues

Probably hire an additional cook (also just clean up the kitchens in general)

Fix up the gym and buy new gym equipment

Fix the girls dorms

Fix the library and buy new books

Just buy new chairs and tables all together

Check what the fuck is going on with Dr Slawter

Check whatever the hell was going on the at the observatory and if the nerds truly did build a spud canon

Stop the nerds from building weaponry

Then maybe fix up the observatory

Fix the bell tower

Get new scaffolding for the bell tower

Make sure students cannot climb the scaffolding and get onto the roof (also make sure students cannot fall from said scaffolding)

Fix the skylight in Dr Crabblesnitch’s study

Check if the hobo is still on school grounds

Also with how big the riot was and involved a bunch of rich students, whose parents were making contributions to the school, like Derby’s father. Imagine a superintendent showing up being like: “What do you mean the students built a flow blown spud canon?” “What is wrong with the school secretary?” “How on Earth did a student take over the school, lock the gates and orchestrate a riot, including tying up and holding the principal hostage?!” “Why were two students fighting on the roof?!”

[decaying-enigma]

[Space Core AU]

Danny could see it all.

Where the darkness meets the dance of light, a swirling canvas of stardust and celestial wonders—a symphony of colors, shapes, and energies unfurling across the infinite reaches of space.

Their radiant glow casting an aura that just beckoned him to join.

Cosmic tendrils weaved a labyrinth of star clusters, and stellar nurseries gave birth to new stars.

Nebulae shimmered with ethereal beauty, their wispy tendrils reaching out across the void like ghostly fingers.

Supernovae unleashed titanic explosions, scattering the remnants of dying stars across the cosmos in a dazzling fireworks display of light and energy.

Danny could almost feel it wash over his skin.

Black holes lurked in the depths of space, their gravitational pull so intense that not even light could escape their grasp.

Dark matter, the invisible scaffolding of the universe, weaves its enigmatic web throughout the galaxy.

He could hear the countless echoes, all worming their way into his being and, for a moment, pulling him closer and closer to...

""Danny!""

He fell back into his seat instantly, two arms holding him down, as Earth's gravity once again took hold of him.

Blinking rapidly, Danny shook his head, visions of stars and nebulae sliding away.

Yet not completely leaving his mind.

It took him a moment to remember where he was as he turned to Tucker and Sam.

They sat on either side of him, both having a firm grip on him with deeply concerned expressions on their faces.

They were all outside, at a table nestled in the corner of the (thankfully empty) park, and had been in the middle of eating lunch from a new cafe that Sam had wanted to try.

Or, at least, that had been the plan before he decided that gravity was just a suggestion.

"You okay, dude?" Tucker asked, a hand still holding onto him.

"I'm fine," Danny replied immediately.

But judging by the identical unimpressed looks on Sam and Tucker's faces, neither believe him in the slightest.

And rightfully so.

Though they did let go of him, trusting he wasn't about to start floating away again, they were ready to react if it happened again.

Danny sighed.

"I just got distracted for a second."

"You were floating away." Sam pointed it out, making little wiggly movements with her fingers. "Plus, your eyes were doing that weird galaxy thing again.

"That was just some dust," he lied half-halfheartedly.

She raised an unimpressed eyebrow, not buying that for a moment. "Yeah right. If we hadn't pulled you back down, you would probably already be out of the atmosphere by now."

"I would've noticed," Danny murmured, his eyes shifting to the side. "...eventually."

Sam huffed in frustration. "So not the point I was trying to make."

"They are super weird, though," Tucker agreed, then took a bite of his giant BLT sandwich. "But still cool, in the way they turn into terrifying black-holes that they look like the endless and cruel vacuum of space."

Danny stared at Tucker flatly.

"That makes me feel so much better."

"No problem!"

There was a brief silence, only for Tucker to put his sandwich back down, showing just how serious he was, and ask.

"But seriously, dude, are you alright?"

Danny looked down at the table, wanting to ignore his friends admittedly reasonable concerns, and absently twirled the straw of his ice tea.

But, eventually, he gave in.

"I already stopped by the Far Frozen to talk with Frostbite," he finally admitted. "Even ran into Clockwork, who was feeling strangely non-cryptic, and asked him about what was going on."

"So, what'd you find out?" Sam questioned, leaning forward, eager to hear what he had to say.

Danny snorted, an impish grin growing on his face. "Apparently, I don't actually have an ice core."

They both blinked in surprise.

The fact that Danny's core, practically the ghostly equivalent of a soul and a fundamental part of their being, wasn't ice this whole time and was actually something different was... a pretty big deal.

Sam asked, both curious and concerned, "So, what core do you have?"

"Frostbite called it a space core, or, as Clockwork referred to it, a piece of the Void." Danny rolled his eyes. "I'm like, 70% sure, he only called it that to be extra dramatic."

"So the ice powers were just...what? The first side effect before the weird eyes and the 'spacing' out?" Tucker joked with a grin.

Danny chuckled at the pun, while Sam groaned.

"Basically."

"Do you know what powers you are supposed to expect?" Sam asked, hoping they would catch a break this time.

"Not a clue," Danny said, shooting that hope down immediately.

Tucker raised an eyebrow. "Isn't there someone in the Ghost Zone you could ask?"

"It's, like, super rare; I mean, the only other ghost I know with the same core is Nocturn," he explained with an annoyed huff.

They both winced.

Despite not currently being antagonistic with the Ghost of Dreams, Danny and Nocturn's relationship wasn't anywhere close to friendly, even by ghostly standards.

And considering most ghosts could beat each other up, possibly even dismember one another, and still be willing to hang out later, that's saying something.

Danny sighed. "Yeah, I basically had the same reaction."

"Are you sure there's no one else?" Sam pushed, looking for a solution.

"Ghost Zone's a big place and leads to a lot of others, so probably." He shrugged. "But, even if Nocturn or someone else was willing to give me advice, it wouldn't help very much."

Seeing the confusion on their faces, he continued to explain.

"Frostbite gave me a whole lecture about it, but it basically boils down to the fact that, unlike most core elements, space cores express themselves so differently that there's no real set of powers that they share."

Sam slowly nodded, understanding showing on her face.

"So, while one ghost with a space core might be able to make black-holes, another might control gravity or even create stars," she continued, a hint of wonder in her voice.

Danny nodded his head in agreement.

"Hey, for all we know, you might get the power to twinkle really, really brightly instead." Tucker snickered loudly, with Sam quickly following.

Danny dropped his head onto the table, not sharing his friend's amusement in the slightest.

The snickers soon died off, as Danny continued to mope.

"It's probably not that bad." Tucker pointed this out. "You already learned to control the ice part of your powers; you'll figure this part out eventually."

"And we'll be right there when you do," Sam added, fully believing they would find the answer eventually.

"Hopefully not too close. Frostbite mentioned a few...unexpected stabbings the first time around," Tucker muttered under his breath, wincing as Sam punched him in the shoulder.

Danny rolled his eyes.

He wished that he shared his friends confidence in his abilities, but he was nevertheless grateful for the support his two best friends were giving him.

Thankfully, the conversation soon changed subjects from his potential new powers, moving on to talk about a homework assignment for school as they finished their lunch.

Danny made sure to pay attention this time, staying focused on the here and now.

Yet, even as he grinned from the sarcastic joke Sam had made, he could still feel the pull in the background.

He could hear the symphony of celestial bodies, the stars, the nebulae, and the infinite reaches of space in the back of his mind, all calling out to him.

Just waiting for the day that he would give in to the urge, and in the moment of weakness, join them forever and always until the end of time.

[fashionbooksmilano]

Nomata Minoru / Continuum

Joseph Constable, Nomura Shino

Cooperation White Cube

limArt Co Ltd, Tokyo 2023, 182 pages, 22,5x28,5cm, ISBN 978-4-991313806

euro 52,00

email if you want to buy booksinprogressmilano@yahoo.it

Over the past four decades, Minoru Nomata has developed a lexicon of imaginary architectonic and topographical forms to create paintings that transcend specifics of time and place. This book presents a grand overview of his visionary works, which combine the familiar with the mysterious and the heroic with the haunting. It is especially the forms of construction – structural beams, frameworks, tarpaulins, and netting – that are the hallmarks of these fantastical architectures. Notions of the picturesque and sublime combine in Nomata’s later paintings, where the structures seem increasingly fragile, with reduced material volume, greater height, or wrapped in tendril-like scaffolding.

20/02/24

[everwhovian]

AU where In ho finds out his wife joined the games and neither of them realized the other joined until they woke up in the bunks

Aahhhhh! This is breaking me! I also jumped on the opportunity to have Yuna meet Young-il!!!

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ○△□ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

The last thing he remembered was the car.

The heavy scent of cheap leather filling his lungs as he slid into the back seat, the smooth black interior absorbing the dim streetlight outside, and the door closing behind him with a kind of finality that should have warned him more than it did.

There had been a faint sting in his nose – something chemical, something wrong – and a man’s voice beside him, smooth and practiced, offering him comfort or instruction or reassurance, though the words slipped past him like water.

He had been too tired, too desperate, and sleep had begun to pull at him before he even registered what was being said. He didn’t remember drifting off. He didn’t remember arriving.

Only the overwhelming need to try something, anything, that might buy them time.

And now –

Now he was waking up in a place that didn’t belong to the real world.

The light above him was white and loud, fluorescent and sterile in a way that reminded him of operating rooms and interrogation chambers, that too-clean buzz that stripped everything of warmth.

The floor beneath him – no, not floor, a bed – was hard, a thin mattress that offered close to no comfort and barely enough space for his legs.

His body protested as he shifted, as though he’d been lying there for hours or days, frozen in a position meant to render him docile. When he managed to sit up, the nausea was faint but immediate – the heaviness in his limbs, the fog in his brain, the unmistakable chemical thrum under his skin.

Sedation. Professionally administered.

Around him, the world came into focus in fragments: rows upon rows of identical beds stretching into the distance, stacked like scaffolding along the walls in crooked, uneven towers, some with figures still slumped on them, others already beginning to stir.

In-ho remained still. Watching.

Always watch first. Always find the exits.

But there were none.

He looked.

There were no windows. No vents. The ceiling was just as sealed and smooth as the walls. The only door – if it could even be called that – was a massive steel gate bolted shut at the far end of the room, and it looked like it hadn’t been opened in a long time. Or maybe it was built not to open at all.

The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed relentlessly. Cameras blinked quietly in each corner.

The walls were white. The floor was white. Everything felt scrubbed of personality, of warmth…

Everyone wore the same uniform: green tracksuits with white numbers printed neatly over the chest. No names. No individuality.

He looked down at his own.

132.

A number. Not a name. Not a man. Not a husband or a detective or a brother – just a number in a sea of them.

The sight of it sat wrong in his gut, not frightening exactly, but unsettling in a way he couldn’t yet name. Like this was a system, a machine, and he had willingly thrown himself into it without understanding what it would do to him.

He tried to remember how he’d justified this. What he told himself to make it sound reasonable. A game, they said – just a game. Children’s games, even. Silly, harmless things. And a cash prize. Enough to pay off the debts. Enough to buy time for treatment. Enough to buy hope.

Last night… was it only last night? He had sat beside Yuna in her hospital room and waited for her to fall asleep.

The machines had beeped quietly behind her. She was stable, for now. Still smiling. Still strong. Still trying to convince him not to do anything reckless.

Her fingers had curled gently in his, even as sleep claimed her, and when he was sure she wouldn’t wake, he had pressed a kiss to her forehead, stood carefully, and left a note on the nightstand.

He didn’t write much. Just: ‘Don’t worry. I love you.’

Afterward, he went home.

He hugged his stepmother in the kitchen without saying why. She didn’t ask. She never did, not when his silences came weighted like that. She only held him back, steady and quiet, the way she always had when words weren’t enough.

And then, he had walked down the hall and stepped into Jun-ho’s room one last time.

His brother was curled up on his side, deep asleep, one arm tucked beneath his pillow, the blankets half-kicked off in his usual restless way. He looked impossibly young like that. For a moment, In-ho had just stood there in the doorway, watching him breathe. Then he stepped forward, pulled the blanket gently up over his shoulders, and tucked him in one last time like he was still eight instead of twenty-three.

He hadn’t planned to leave forever. Just long enough to win. Just long enough to bring the money home. To buy them time. To fix what needed fixing.

And now –

Now he was here.

His mind was still trying to find logic, trying to sort the pieces into something that made sense, but none of it fit. There were too many people. Too much silence. Too much cold. And the players near him were whispering questions that only made things worse.

“Where are we?”

“Is this part of the game?”

“I don’t remember getting here…”

He should have stayed still. Should have watched longer. But old instincts were hard to fight, and his legs carried him slowly toward the crowd, toward whatever passed for answers. Blend in. Move quiet. Stay alert.

The crowd in the center of the room was thickening – people grouping together not out of strategy but out of fear. Like they knew something was coming. Like maybe it already had.

He took a step forward, hoping to hear something useful. Some clue. Something that would give him a reason not to feel the dread already gathering in the base of his spine.

It happened by accident, the way terrible things often did. A glance sideways. A shift in the crowd. The movement of a hand, a voice that sounded too familiar from too far away.

And then he saw her.

He almost told himself it was just someone else – someone who happened to carry herself the same way, with the same calm intensity, the same quiet certainty that steadied other people without even trying.

Just for a second – a familiar profile, dark hair pulled back, a line of her jaw he’d memorized long ago.

But he looked again.

And everything stopped.

Yuna.

Standing in the middle of the crowd, wearing the same green tracksuit. Her arms weren’t crossed, her shoulders weren’t hunched. She was speaking to someone – trying to soothe, maybe trying to organize – her voice too low for him to hear, but her presence as familiar to him as his own breath.

The number across her chest was 174.

For a moment, his body simply stopped.

His lungs didn’t draw air.

His legs rooted themselves where he stood.

His mind didn’t race – it collapsed into a quiet static that drowned out everything except the sight of her.

Yuna.

Not in the hospital bed he had just left her in. Not under the protection of doctors and nurses who knew what to do when her liver failed again.

She wasn’t supposed to be here.

The air felt thinner. The buzzing louder.

She shouldn’t be here.

There was no universe in which she was supposed to be here.

And yet here she was. Already in it. Already marked. Already counted.

In-ho swallowed, and it felt like gravel scraping down his throat.

He had come here because she was supposed to be safe. And now they were both inside something he didn’t understand, both trapped, both branded by a number.

And suddenly the promise of money, the idea of games, the sales pitch whispered into his ear by a man in a suit – all of it rang false, all of it burned away, leaving only the cold certainty that nothing about this was harmless.

He didn’t know what this place was.

But he knew now – the cost of being here wasn’t just his.

And whatever was coming, he’d let it swallow him whole before it touched her.

He just stood there, feet rooted to the floor like something in his body had forgotten how to function because she was here, and it didn’t just make sense.

She moved as she spoke, gentle gestures, the kind he knew so well – one hand resting lightly on the shoulder of a frightened boy beside her, the other tucked to her chest, her voice quiet but firm, soothing in its calm. She was trying to help. Of course she was. Even here.

And she hadn’t seen him.

For a moment, he just watched her – not because he wanted to, but because he didn’t know how to do anything else. Because walking toward her meant accepting what he was seeing.

It meant admitting that he had failed to protect her before this even began.

But then she shifted – stepped a little to the side – and the crowd behind her threatened to fold and close and swallow her up again. And the thought of losing sight of her, even for a second, made something snap loose inside him.

He moved.

Slow at first. Steady.

His legs felt stiff, like he was walking underwater, each step heavier than the last. But his focus was absolute – only her, only the space between them, only the unbearable need to reach her and confirm that she was real.

He approached her from behind, close now, close enough to feel the slight ripple in the air when she moved.

And when he was only an arm’s length away, he reached out – hesitant, trembling – and laid his hand gently on her arm.

She stiffened.

Then she turned.

And when her eyes found his, everything else fell away.

“In-ho?” she said, his name barely a whisper.

His throat clenched. His hand remained where it was, lightly gripping her sleeve like it was the only solid thing left in the world.

She blinked, and in that flicker of movement he saw it – the shock, the disbelief, the dawning realization of what this meant.

“What –” he started, but the words caught on something sharp. He swallowed, tried again. “What are you doing here?”

She stared at him like he was the one who shouldn’t be real. And maybe he wasn’t. Maybe this entire place wasn’t. But she didn’t pull away. Didn’t move. Only answered, quiet and low.

“I woke up and you were gone,” she said gently. “I saw your note.”

His breath stilled. He nodded once, guilt tightening in his chest.

“And then…” Her voice softened even more. “I found the card. It must’ve fallen out of your pocket. It was on the floor, next to the bed.”

“I found your note,” she went on, her voice careful now, threading between emotion and clarity. “And the card. You must’ve dropped it.”

His brows knit. “Card?”

“The one with the symbols,” she said. “No name, just a number…”

His heart lurched – a cold, sick weight pressing into his chest. He hadn’t even realized it was missing.

“I didn’t know what it was,” she said. “But I called it. I was worried. I thought… maybe I could help.”

He stared at her, heart beating slow and heavy, too much to process all at once. She hadn’t been recruited. She hadn’t been coerced. She’d followed a thread he hadn’t meant to leave behind – because she loved him. Because she worried. Because she couldn’t sit still, not when she thought he might be in danger.

“I’m sorry,” she added, quieter now. “I didn’t know it would lead here.”

“No,” he said quickly, shaking his head, voice thick. “Don’t be sorry.”

She looked at him again, and in that look was everything – fear, determination, sorrow, and something solid beneath it all.

The same strength that had gotten her through hospital rooms and test results and weeks of not knowing what tomorrow would look like.

His jaw tightened until it ached, every muscle pulled taut with the effort of holding himself together.

He didn’t know what part of this was worse – that she was here, that she had followed the trail he hadn’t meant to leave, or that no amount of logic or strength could undo it now.

His hands curled into fists at his sides before he forced them to release.

But Yuna noticed.

Of course she noticed.

She always did.

She studied him for half a second longer, her eyes narrowing just enough – not with judgment, but with that quiet, unwavering stubbornness he had fallen in love with before he ever knew what to call it.

That look she gave him when he thought he could carry the weight of everything alone and she refused to let him.

And then, wordlessly, she reached for him.

Her hand came up slowly, without hesitation. Fingers brushed along his cheek, the side of his jaw – a gesture so familiar, so simple, it made something inside him crack.

In-ho didn’t say anything, he just stepped forward.

He closed the space between them in one fluid motion and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close, and buried his face in her shoulder.

And Yuna folded into him like she’d been waiting.

She also didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to.

Her arms circled around his back, fingers twisting lightly in the fabric of his tracksuit, her body pressed fully to his, solid and warm, and here.

He let his eyes fall shut.

The noise of the room, the crowd, the sterile white light – all of it faded.

There was only this: her heartbeat against his chest. The way her hands stayed steady even now. The weight of her in his arms. Real. Alive.

He exhaled slowly, everything in him settling into one silent promise.

He couldn’t change how they got here.

But he would shape what came next.

And nothing – not the game, not the guards, not the numbered uniforms or the rules – would ever touch her without going through him first.

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ○△□ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

Yuna made it across first.

Her feet struck the ground just past the red line, knees trembling, lungs aching from the effort of stopping mid-stride. She barely remembered the last few steps, only the thundering pulse in her ears and the unbearable stillness that followed.

She didn’t look back – not right away. She couldn’t. Not with the weight of silence pressing down like a held breath.

Red light.

The voice echoed overhead, cheery and inhuman.

Yuna forced herself to stand still, even though she was already safe.

Her chest rose and fell once. Twice. The eyes of the doll scanned the field behind her.

And then, slowly – hesitantly – she turned.

Her eyes scanned the field instinctively, already searching for one face – and when she saw In-ho, several meters back, she nearly cursed out loud.

He was still out there, too far back, his figure unmistakable even in a crowd of green uniforms. Her stomach twisted sharply. He was supposed to be right behind her – not stuck in the middle of the field with less than thirty seconds left on the damn clock.

He was standing still now, half-turned, gaze focused on something in front of him. And then she saw it.

A young man – maybe twenty, maybe younger – a step too far ahead, balance off, feet shifting just enough to betray the panic.

She watched it unfold like a slow nightmare: the boy’s foot slipping forward, the fabric of his sleeve catching light, the beginning of a stumble –

In-ho moved fast.

His hand shot out, caught the front of the kid’s jacket, yanked him back with practiced force. The boy fell into his chest, arms flailing for balance, and then froze, body stiff, breath hitched.

Neither of them moved.

Yuna’s breath caught painfully. Her nails dug into her palm.

Somehow, by some miracle of timing and muscle memory and luck, they didn’t move.

Neither of them were shot.

The shot went somewhere else.

Yuna squeezed her eyes shut for half a second.

Then the silence held.

The doll’s head rotated again, slowly, mechanically.

She couldn’t breathe until the next “green light” sounded.

She just watched as In-ho slowly, carefully pulled himself out of the boy’s grasp and started moving again – silent, deliberate steps toward the finish line, as though none of it had touched him at all.

In-ho made it across the lines with only seconds to spare.

And Yuna was already moving.

She stormed toward In-ho, her footsteps quick and furious, the breath still tight in her chest – not from the game anymore, but from him.

She reached him in seconds.

Her hand came down sharply against his arm. Not hard, but firm.

“What the hell were you thinking?” she snapped. “You scared me half to death.”

In-ho didn’t say anything. He barely even turned. His expression was blank, the kind of blank she recognized too well – the one he wore when everything inside him was rattling too loud to speak.

She opened her mouth to say something else, but stopped when she caught movement from the corner of her eye.

The boy – 062 – had dropped to the ground just a few feet away, his back flat against the floor, staring up at the ceiling like he couldn’t quite believe he was still alive.

Yuna turned toward him, and something inside her shifted.

The slope of his shoulders. The tremble in his hands. The way he seemed suspended between collapse and disbelief.

God, he’s the same age as Jun-ho.

She turned back to In-ho, glared at him one last time – sharp and narrow – then crouched beside the boy without another word.

“Hey,” she said softly, brushing his shoulder. “You with me?”

The kid was still staring at the ceiling, chest rising too quickly, hands fisted in the fabric of his tracksuit like he didn’t trust the ground beneath him.

Yuna stayed crouched beside him, hand resting gently on his shoulder, giving him the space to breathe but not the room to drift too far.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

And then, hoarse and soft, barely audible over the sound of shuffling feet and distant sobs, he whispered, “He saved me.”

Yuna blinked.

Then she let out a snort.

“Yeah,” she muttered, glancing back at In-ho where he stood with arms crossed, hovering nearby and doing an awful job of pretending he wasn’t. “He does that… without thinking about how much I’m going to strangle him for scaring the shit out of me.”

She didn’t raise her voice.

She didn’t need to.

Her glare found him perfectly.

In-ho didn’t react, but the tension in his jaw said plenty. Yuna rolled her eyes and turned back to the boy.

“Come on,” she said, patting his arm. “Up you go. We’re not lying on this floor forever.”

He blinked up at her, still stunned, but his limbs obeyed – slow, unsteady – until he was sitting upright, then gradually climbing to his feet.

She rose with him, steadying him with one hand as she brushed dust from his sleeve.

“I’m Yuna,” she said, simply. “And that idiot over there is In-ho.”

The kid looked between them, eyes still wide, but now more grounded. Real. His breathing steadied. His shoulders began to relax and he rubbed the back of his neck.

“Young-il,” he murmured. “I’m Young-il.”

Yuna gave a quiet nod of approval. “Nice to meet you, Young-il.”

He offered the barest hint of a smile – not quite there yet, but trying – then glanced over her shoulder at In-ho, still hovering a short distance away, stiff and silent, jaw set like he hadn’t relaxed a single muscle since the game began.

Yuna followed his gaze, then rolled her eyes with a sigh so practiced it might’ve been muscle memory.

In-ho stood a few steps away, arms crossed, shoulders squared, face carved from stone – the same way he always looked when the ground beneath him had shifted and he hadn’t found his balance yet.

Yuna exhaled, just loud enough for Young-il to hear.

“Don’t mind him,” she muttered. “He always looks a little grumpy at first.”

Young-il didn’t laugh. But something flickered – a twitch at the corner of his mouth, the briefest gleam in his eyes.

Yuna caught it instantly.

It reminded her of Jun-ho, again. That sharp little spark behind tired eyes – the kind of look he gave her when he was pretending not to be scared, pretending he had everything under control, even when he didn’t. When he was eleven, fifteen, twenty-three – it never really changed.

Young-ill had a tiny flicker of something underneath the shock. A glimmer of attitude buried beneath all the adrenaline. And in that moment, she knew.

They were going to get along just fine.

She nudged him lightly with her elbow, just enough to make him look at her again. “Come on” she said. “You’ll be trouble. I can tell already.”

Young-il looked at her sidelong, but then he gave her a little smirk. “Maybe.”

Yuna smiled to herself.

God. Jun-ho would’ve liked him.

And she was already starting to care, in the way that crept up behind you – not a decision, just a quiet inevitability. Just like it had been with Jun-ho. Just like it always was when she caught that flicker of something in someone too young and too brave for their own good.

She looked at In-ho again, still stoic, still watching.

Then she leaned a little closer to Young-il, her voice low but warm.

“Don’t let that stone face fool you,” she said. “He’s all soft underneath. Just does a terrible job hiding it.”

Young-il didn’t answer. But the corner of his mouth twitched – like he believed her.

And when she stepped forward, he didn’t hesitate to follow.

[melz-367]

Quotes from my friends as pjo characters bc y not

they gradually get better (kinda)

Connor: we successfully robbed a diamond.

Travis: im so impressed

Malcolm: I'm not bailing you out

Luke, sneaking through Olympus to steal the lightning bolt: YOU SEE NOTHING FATHER, YOU. SEE. NOTHINGGGGGAH.

Leo: i dont need help, i need support

Piper: and I've got the scaffolding!

Jason: NO

Michael: Will's back is the straightest thing about him

Lee: Michael, you can't criticise, you hypocrite

Michael: have you seen him do a bridge?

Drew, talking about Lou Ellen: sometimes at night I sit there and scroll through her reposts

Mitchell: I'm aware. I heard you cackling from next door

Percy, sticking a carbonara pot on his foot: I should wear that as a shoe...

Annabeth: YOU OWN SNEAKERS??

Katie, after eating pineapple: Well, that was dehumanising.

Castor: You look like an otter.

Pollux - attempts a hair flip: I know, it's my charm

Austin, holding a pair of pyjama shorts: I cannot wear this, because Kayla will pants me, because she is hungry with vengeance.

Will: Sorry, what- I changed my mind, I don't want to know.

Nyssa: tell him hes the raisin you're looking for to put in your potato salad

Jake: I asked for relationship advice, the fuck?

Chris: I was genuinely worried that he'd come over, hold us at gunpoint and tell us to empty our pockets and all we'd be able to give him is fucking jelly babies

Clarisse: I left you for two minutes.

Malcolm: go outside and get some air!

Annabeth, on a work spree: what air? We have air in here!

Hazel: you do realise you're hopeless, right?

Nico, in a pining mood: he even twerks casually.

Hazel: I'M SORRY-

Lacy: You can't buy stuff from a charity shop, it's only for the charitable.

Drew: I'm charitable! - walks in

Lacy, when she walks back out: your card got declined

Drew: fuck off

Castor: you have such a low sense of self esteem

Lee, frantically scribbling on an infirmary form: what's self esteem?

[mtandtgroup-blog]

Whether you opt for rental or buy, prioritizing quality and adherence to safety standards is paramount. By partnering with reputable manufacturers or rental companies, you can unlock the full potential of aluminium scaffolding for your projects.

[arcadecarpetgay]

hello malevolent enjoyers ive been writing more short fics for fun lately and @valorant-reverie and @styrofoamdoor both requested some dollins!! so take some post s4 noel h/c <33

warnings for smoking and vague depiction of ptsd/depression

A month, Noel has decided, is plenty of time to recover. It’s been a month since he returned to New York, exhausted and bleeding through the bandages layered thick around his neck. 

It felt like years he spent resting, eyes glazing over pages of books he’d already read half a dozen times, trying to think of anything more entertaining that wouldn’t put any wounds at risk of opening again. It’s returning from the Dreamlands all over again, his whole body made of lead and thoughts scrambled with interdimensional jetlag. The boredom is almost worse than the nightmares. 

So he’s back on the job as soon as he can, brushing off any offered help and avoiding any conversation that might veer too close to ‘what the fuck happened to you?’ He picks up the rhythm of his work again, letting the sterile walls of a surgical theater in Madrid dissolve from his memory like a brief, if vivid, dream. 

His days are once again rehearsed things, like a radio advertisement he’s heard two dozen times before.

He wakes, gets out of bed before the nightmares can calcify, and washes the remnants off beneath the spray of a cold shower. He makes himself coffee, writes– no. Makes himself coffee, changes his bandages, writes himself a schedule. Then it’s work again, and both his feet are firmly planted in reality once more. 

 He doesn’t answer questions pertaining to his absence, or the bullet nestled just above his collarbone, or how he’s flinching more again, or anything else he’s not even noticing, because there’s work to do. 

He follows his schedule. He meets with a few other officers, men whose eyes flick to the bandages beneath his collar. He visits the prison. 

It’s only as he’s leaving that the faint sound of whistling snags his attention, catching like fabric on a nail, and he stops dead in his tracks. Something in him protests at that, loathing the feeling of holding still– he thinks of clock oscillators, sharks that keep swimming to survive. 

It’s a new song, a slightly slower pace than the last, a little sweeter. Noel starts walking again, and it is pure muscle memory that brings him to the bars of Dennis Collins’ cell, a couple feet closer than he’d get to anyone else's. 

He looks… surprisingly well. A little rough, his beard grown out and the faint shadows of exhaustion under his eyes, but Noel’s not one to talk. Despite it, Collins still whistles brightly to himself, whittling away at something with a shiv that he’s definitely not supposed to have. Noel digs his hands into his pockets, exhales heavily, and listens.  

There’s monotony in that, too. The song’s verses all sound the same, though he’d trust the lyrics vary– or maybe they don’t. Sometimes there’s an extra note, or one fewer, a couple grace notes trailing after it. Collins’ hands move steadily, wide fingers careful and steady around whatever it is he’s holding. Noel can see the muscle moving in his thumb, the rise and fall of his knuckles like the hammers of a piano. 

It is profoundly comforting to watch. 

After a few minutes, Collins stops whistling. He doesn’t look up. 

“You don’t want to talk about it, do you, boy?”

Noel says nothing. 

“If you did, you’d be asking me the questions. S’your job, after all. You love your informal interrogations, don’t you?” A bit of wood flakes off, and Collins’ hand flicks out to drop on the floor by his feet. When he speaks again, it’s in a light imitation of Noel’s accent. “‘Mr. Collins, however did you end up back here.’ ‘Same way you did, Detective.’ And then we’d be talkin’ about it, wouldn’t we?”

Noel digs his cigarettes out of his coat pocket, flipping the top open and digging one out. There aren’t many left, so he mentally tacks buying more onto his schedule, that list that’s been scaffolding his life lately. 

“No, you don’t want that,” Collins says. He sets the knife and the bit of wood he’d been carving aside, grunting with exertion as he gets to his feet. “You’ve been working again, haven’t you?”

“Yep.” Noel digs out his lighter as well, one he’d bought the day he returned from Spain. The shape is strange and foreign in his hands. 

Collins walks closer, flashing him a far-too-friendly smile. The wheel of the lighter has worried a little divot down the center of Noel’s thumb, slotting into place again when he lifts it to his cigarette. Collins watches the motion like it’s anything interesting, then leans up against the bars of his cell. 

The metal rattles and Noel takes an instinctive step back, still holding the cigarette to his lips. 

Collin’s eyes flick to his feet, and he chuckles, unoffended. He slips his arms through the metal slot in the center, then tips his head to the side thoughtfully. The cigarette, at least, is a flimsy excuse to stay silent. 

“We both know, Detective, that some things are safer when you don’t understand them.” 

Noel stares at the floor and focuses on the smell of smoke. There’s another cigarette butt by his foot, and for the briefest moment he wonders if that was from him, the last time he visited Collins in prison. He remembers, a split-second later, how long ago that would have to have been, and nudges it away with his shoe. 

“I think you’re scared you’ll make sense of it.” A rattle as Collins shrugs. “Hell, you made sense of me. No small feat, if I say so myself. You’re a clever bastard, Detective, enough to know how dangerous it is to be one.”

Noel takes a long drag of his cigarette, then lifts his eyes from the concrete. Collins is staring at him like he’s admiring a painting. 

“Done?” Noel asks.

“If you’d like me to be, Detective.” 

“Much appreciated.”

Collins lazily extends his hand past the bars of the cage, still propping himself up on the slot. His palm is facing up.

And that too is familiar, taking the cigarette from his lips and handing it over, digging through his coat pockets to light another for himself. Collins takes it gratefully, making a show of glancing down at where Noel’s lips had touched it before taking a drag. His eyes sink closed with satisfaction, free hand still moving slightly as if in sync to some tune Noel cannot hear. It’s deadly quiet to him, but he can almost trick himself into hearing the faint echo of whistling. 

He glances down at his watch, more out of a desire to be looking at something other than Collins. When he does, though, he’s reminded of the schedule that morning, one that hadn’t accounted for being caught up here. He swears under his breath, but Collins waves his cigarette dismissively. 

“You’ll find a reason to be back tomorrow?”

“Depends. You expectin’ me to talk, then?”

A sharp, brief grin. “Maybe I am. You’ll be here anyway.”

He doesn’t answer, only slips the sleeve of his coat back over his watch. He leaves Collins with the cigarette and walks away, his footsteps echoing loud on the concrete. The whistling picks up again, cheerful and repetitive. Noel would love to think it’s a one-off, that distancing himself from all that happened includes Collins, too, but he struggles to fool himself these days. 

He knows he’ll make a habit of it. 

[gayguybln]

In this special prison facility with low security standards for inmates between 18 and 30 inmates are designated by the colour of their shorts. The minimum sentence of this special scheme is 2 months incarceration and 4 strokes of the cane. From 5 months of incarceration on the number of strokes of the cane is the same as the months of imprisonment. The maximum number is 18 months/strokes. Despite the corporal punishment this facility was branded as leisure prison by the media.

Jason is a 19 year old scaffolder. A week ago he wanted to buy some cocaine for a party weekend. Unfortunately the drug pusher was a cop in disguise. Jason was sentenced to a total of 2 months of incarceration and 4 strokes of the cane on his bare ass. The white colour indicates that he's one of the new inmates still waiting for their caning. The caning sessions are always streamed on a pay-per-view channel. The caning will be done within the first 10 days of the punishment. Good luck for your caning day, Jason!

Ron is wearing dark red shorts. This is the colour of the ones that got their strokes and are in healing phase. Ron is a 20 year old college student. He beat down another guy at a pub fight. He serves a 5 months sentence and got 5 strokes of the cane. Today he'll switch from the dark red shorts to orange shorts as the medics said that the healing is nearing its end.

23 year old Marlon got already his orange shorts. The result of his caning had healed totally. Unfortunately it left several scars as he got 12 strokes. He was sentenced for several cases of selling performance enhancing drugs. The drugs are prohibited and selling or using prohibited drugs to manipulate the outcome of sport events is punishable by law too. He was a great Basektball player at his university but is now banned from all competitive sports and from all universities in the country for 80 years. The state assigned him to a new professional career. He could choose between construction works, landscape gardening or parcel service. He chose construction works and is learning already skills while being incarcerated.

Inmates enjoy much free time and can play cards or watch tv in some leisure areas.

But in exchange they have to grow food in the prison garden to reduce the costs for society. Especially herbs and vegetables are home grown in the prison garden. The garden squad is wearing green shorts at work and gets green shoes.

Other inmates are working in the prison laundry.

Another group of inmates is responsible for the cleanliness of the yard and the interior of the prison. They're wearing khaki shorts when on duty.

An education program is preparing them for entering their new life in freedom.

[mysumeow]

Hi! I'm new to this but may I request (and this might be a bit specific) Lyney x male/gn reader(whichever you prefer) who has regenerative powers similarly to Ajin (in which they are basically immortal and fully regenerate once they die) and is pretty reckless because of it, I just imagine Lyney not being able to take their eyes of reader due to them getting into lethal trouble most of the time while adventuring. (Love your work :D, Feel free to ignore if not interested)

──Lyney with a reader who's reckless wherever they go and whatever they do.

WARNINGS ❪ Reader death mentioned, reader gets repeatedly injured (very mild descriptions of it). GN pronouns and body. SUMMARY ❪ Reader has the special ability to regenerate whenever they die. Reader has fun with this power, but it's not as fun for the magician they befriended. WORD COUNT ❪ 698 (bullet point list format) A/N ❪ HI ANON IM SORRY FOR TAKING TOO LONG FOR THIS AAAAAAAAA tbh, i dont know this character :c so i based this drabble (?) only on what you described. I hope the reader was reckless enough alhdsfsalkjfhjkldskjaf

BLANK BLOGS DNI

₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎ ♡ 🌷 . . MASTERLIST

⸝⸝⸝

The poor magician is constantly on edge because of your recklessness. And you nearly sent him into cardiac arrest the first time he found out about it.

You were Lyney's stagehand, in charge of rope work and inspecting that the props were firmly attached and in place.

Let’s just say you didn’t check that your safety equipment was correctly secured.

Given that your place of focus was up there, at least 20 meters (65.6 feet) away from the wooden floor, when you fell... It was a rather distressing sight.

Lyney felt beyond guilty about what happened, even if it wasn’t his fault. He was both relieved and bewildered when he found out you were fine?

A fall from that height would render anyone with broken bones beyond repair, and you left the hospital on your own? Without needing a wheelchair or anything?! You walked out of there as if nothing had happened.

“Ohhh, right. I forgot to mention that. For some reason, I can’t die.”

You were immortal, and you were confessing that ability like you were talking about the weather.

“But… But I saw you covered in blood and...” He couldn’t finish his sentence; the mere memory caused chilling goosebumps.

He always keeps an eye on you when you’re about to climb the scaffolding.

“You’re going to get yourself into a mess again,” He worried, rushing to your side once he noticed the hook that goes into your gear seemed flimsy. “This needs a replacement,”

“But your show is tomorrow,” You objected. “Besides, if something happens, I’ll regenerate. No biggie,”

“Your ability is unmatched, but it must still hurt a lot when you get into that trouble,” He insisted, removing the swivel snap hook from the gear before you could further object. “The forge sells these items. It won’t take more than a couple of minutes to buy one,”

Unfortunately for a troublemaker like you, sooner rather than later, the magician picked up on your habit of running into situations.

Once, you came back after lunch with concerning burns on your arms.

“Look, I picked up some bulle fruit. They’re fresh. Want some?”

“What happened? Dear archons, those look like second-degree burns?!”

“I ran into some trouble with some dumb gardemeks. I gave them a good beating,” You boasted. “They did sneak behind me and hurt me, but still,”

“If you want to go after them, go ahead with it,” Lynette said, noticing her brother’s anxious face.

You wielded both a vision and a weapon, so he knew you were more than capable of defending yourself, and yet he couldn’t stop going after you to make sure you were alright.

“Lyney!” You greeted him as you were about to go back to the theater. “What’re you doing here? Ah—don't tell me I took too long to return!”

“None of that. Geez, it’s a miracle I found you in one piece,” He sighed and rubbed his temple. “You’re a magnet for trouble wherever you go,”

“C’mon, I can’t be that bad.” You laughed.

He also remembered that time you were adventuring. You know, being cooped in the city could be boring sometimes.

The sibling’s schedules were free for that couple of days and thought it would be a fun experience.

The moment they finished setting up the tents, they noticed you had run off somewhere without them knowing.

“Do you guys think these berries are edible?”

Spoiler: they weren’t…

Often, it’s Lyney bandaging you up.

It was customary for Lyney and Lynette to carry bandages and band-aids with them when they rehearsed their show. It’s not uncommon for blisters to appear on any part of their body after an intense rehearsal or to sprain an ankle occasionally.

Now, having you around, there was even more reason to store them.

Before you could scurry away from him, Lyney called you with a stern voice.

The usual flirty and teasing side of the magician disappears when he catches you trying to hide a cut or a scrape.

“’Tis but a small cut,” You assured, laughing nervously. “O-Ow—!”

The disinfectant stung as he applied it to your jaw. “How did you even—forget it. Knowing you, you were probably careless,” He undid the band-aid's wrap and grabbed your face, preventing you from moving away.

“There you go,” He smiled, pleased with himself, the band-aid in place. “You can go back to work,”

[utilitycaster]

I just keep thinking that Matt ran a fairly similar “shadowy organization with many political ties seeks to assassinate world leaders and unleash previously unknown destructive forces on the world” plot in Ravening War, but it actually works, while C3 doesn’t.

We got so much more character depth and buy-in there because of Session 0 work. The players understood the assignment because they were actually given the assignment.

This is true. It really is like...the moon plot stuff needed to be clearly introduced in either episode 9, or episode 90, or this needed to be a much shorter and tighter campaign. I keep tracing back how Bells Hells even got involved, and it was basically a loose combination of family ties and an infodump from Planerider Ryn. The party asked "what if they're right? what if we're just standing in the way of change" back then and they somehow have failed to move from that - in any direction, in any capacity, and I think it's yeah, that clarity of purpose. It really does astound me that Critical Role doesn't do main campaign traditional session zeroes - I know they call the "screen test"/finding the characters mini-sessions a session zero but it really isn't, and you know it's not because we've seen very strong session zeroes for Candela and Daggerheart miniseries and one-shots. I think it makes absolute sense for Critical Role not to publicize some of the other aspects of session zero (I find the suggestion they talk in detail about their own safety tools to be deeply invasive, for example) and I even think choosing to make the main campaign session zero a private moment for themselves is valid! but man they should have had one.

Relatedly, much as I love longform campaigns and think they fill a niche that is really missing in just...a lot of modern fiction, generally, seeing both c3 and WBN struggle has me thinking about the kind of stories that work in longform, open-ended campaigns, especially in D&D. The thing is D&D is actually far harder to subvert from its "home" genre than you think. I must admit I was previously a big advocate for Brennan Lee Mulligan's "scaffolding" analogy and a bunch of lackluster D20 seasons and the pacing problems of these two campaigns despite stellar worldbuilding and strong casts have shown that maybe you can't stretch D&D into all fantasy works and subgenres. I actually, having thought about it, am not really opposed to an ending in which all of this milquetoast nothing goes very, very badly but regardless of what happens I really think it's time for CR to not do a long campaign for a bit and like. post-mortem what happened.