#tool restore

[joeflanagantrading]

[lucybellwood]

Found this beauty on the free rack of the thrift store next to my studio yesterday morning. After some snooping I learned that it’s a railway ticket dater and I’m now 1000% committed to restoring it

[thunderous-aesthetics]

An art restoration stimboard for @trupowieszcz .

Sources:

🖌️ 🖌️ 🖌️ / 🖌️ 🖌️ 🖌️ / 🖌️ 🖌️ 🖌️

[yloiseconeillants]

So though I'm not a great romancer I know that I'm bound to answer When you propose 'Anything goes!'

[shiftythrifting]

I think it was a shelf for card stock, the prettiest little cup, huge radial saw that had a brother an aisle over, old mixer, cat cups.

At the Restore in Red Deer

[deargravity]

one of the many things that bothers me about goku luck is the fact that they have kenta (a minor) in a penitentiary full of adult convicts. where was the juvenile welfare officer and why are they not doing their job. hope they’re fired

[everybodyknows-everybodydies]

The world is white.

The world is always some degree of white in Winterhold, some degree of pale monochrome, but this silence is… wrong. It takes Mirabelle a moment to realize the un-silence is the ringing in her ears muffling everything else.

An unfocused dark shadow interrupts the sea of white. Mirabelle blinks, once, twice; slowly, slowly, her vision clears a little; a hazy Faralda is leaning over her, wild curls haloed around her tight face. Saying something. Something important, surely; Faralda has never wasted a word.

“What? What is it?” Mirabelle tries to say, but can’t work her jaw, can’t hear either of them over the loud echo of nothing in her ears and some awful taste in her mouth and a heat—somehow both familiar and unfamiliar—that has caught her right hand. She tries to spit out whatever is in her mouth and is illogically self-conscious that she nearly chokes on it instead.

She can’t move. Why can’t she move? The warm tell-tale glow of restoration magic at her chest, where it feels like a mammoth has sat down. Ah—she recognizes, or remembers, or it only starts now that everything hurts. Pain clenches through every muscle. There, at least: sound beginning to seep faintly, barely, back in. “…going to need at least another three hours of this,” Colette is saying, her reedy voice on edge as ever, but with a sincere and tearful panic Mirabelle is unused to hearing from her. Take deep breaths, she wants to remind her, but her tongue is heavy in her mouth and tastes of metal. She can’t take a deep breath. “It’s too much. It’s too much. I haven’t got enough magicka to last that long.”

“Use mine. Take mine.” Faralda sounds utterly grim. That isn’t what she’s supposed to sound like, Mirabelle thinks vaguely as the world fades out again. Where has her eternal wry humor gone?

 ---

This is already much longer than she should have been able to go. The light keeps sputtering out in her hands, her magicka taut and ragged and wispy as a fraying thread on the verge of snapping. “I can’t,” Colette chokes. “I need both hands here. I can’t do it. I can’t do it.”

Poor Savos was already dead before any of them could reach him. It will be much worse, she imagines, a little distant from herself, to have Mirabelle die like this, under her own ineffective shivering fingertips.

There’s too much to knit together where she can’t see, too much displaced, misaligned; she’d straightened out the spine first to try to help get everything else closer to where it belongs, but Mirabelle had only opened her eyes to spit out a horribly solid chunk of something bloody with an awful gurgling sound and gasp, frighteningly shallow. Lungs. Ribs. The heart at least seems fine for now, and thank Mara for small miracles, but the abdominal cavity, which is disorganized on a good day—she thinks with a sudden fierce passion that she has always hated the abdominal cavity—

Faralda’s mouth is a grim line across from her. “You have to,” she says, never looking up. “You have to. This isn’t—it’s not—”

A shadow. A hand on her shoulder. She prepares to snap that she has told everyone to stay well away to let them make their futile attempt in isolation, terrified at the thought of the whole College audience to her impending certain failure, but it dies in her throat. Uncharacteristically pale and unsmiling, Kharish kneels beside her. “The thing in Labyrinthian,” she says, quieter than Colette has ever heard her, “knew how to siphon. I hadn’t…” She shifts her jaw. “I know what it feels like, now. I can try to—to replicate it, in reverse. To help. So you can cast uninterrupted.”

“You won’t last long enough either,” Faralda says, voice hard and glinting. She thrusts out a hand, palm upwards, long fingers rigidly straight. “I said use mine and I meant it. You can’t let her—” She snaps her teeth together suddenly and doesn’t finish the thought, as if biting off the word could prevent its happening, as if it isn’t already hanging in the air ready to outlast all their scrabbling efforts. “You will not,” she says at last, with a terrible finality, and says no more.

“I’m sorry I’m not very good,” Kharish admits, an embarrassed little tremor to her voice, “at dual casting.” She takes Faralda’s outstretched hand.

The rush of foreign magicka blazes so hot and so sudden that for half a second Colette is convinced there will be a print on her shoulder forever, and the end of a curl that has fallen into her eyes briefly catches fire—but it’s there.

Lungs first. She pulls the ribs straight, smooths out the tissue, moving with the airflow. Follow a breath in and out: less ragged, less wet. Good. Again. Again.

Again.

---

It is much later than she would have expected when it shifts and the wild heat burns out at last, replaced by something else, soft in the way of freshly-sanded wood. Faralda huffs out a breath, shivering—Colette has never seen Faralda shiver before—and says, hoarse, “I’ve got it. I can keep on.” She has not let go of Mirabelle’s hand. They will be here all night, and Faralda will not let go of her hand. The way her mouth is set, she looks as though she might never let go again.

“Take a moment to recover,” Colette says through gritted teeth, concentrating on the way the liver fits into place. “She and I can manage just fine until then.”

“How—how much longer do you think…” Kharish wets her lips. Her grip on Colette’s shoulder tightens for a moment.

She’s afraid to look, Colette thinks. “She’s breathing fine now,” she tells her, which does not really answer the question but is all she can do for now. And that is good. She sets after the tangle of the abdominal cavity, which she has decided lamentingly is her archnemesis. It does not seem nearly so insurmountable as it had when the sun was still up, though, and holding fast to the thought that whatever else she manages, Mirabelle has time now, she presses on.

Kharish’s magicka runs dry much sooner than Faralda’s had. Colette has barely begun knitting the intestines back into shape when the wood-soft feeling splinters away, leaving only her own, unaugmented. Immediately Faralda is there again, scorching. “Sorry,” Kharish croaks out, alarmed, “I didn’t ask if you were ready—”

“Yes. Yes.” Faralda shakes her head once, hard, as if waking up. “Please.”

After a moment spent studying her haggard face, Colette says, “You are both keeping a reserve so I don’t have two more people to worry after, aren’t you? Aren’t you?”

“Ye-es,” winces Kharish, which is so painfully and clearly a lie that Colette would laugh if she didn’t also have much more concerning things at hand.

“Don’t worry about me,” says Faralda; “I will be as irresponsible about it as I need to be.”

This is not reassuring in the slightest, but it does get them through the abdomen.

---

The sky has begun to grey into dawn when Colette shakes Kharish’s hand off her shoulder and says, “Give me her hand, that’s all now.”

Faralda’s expression contorts about thirteen different ways in the span of half a second before she lets go. “That’s all,” she says, almost disbelieving.

Kharish opens her eyes. “We did it?”

“Well—it will be a few weeks before we should expect to see her in the halls, certainly, but,” she swallows and sits back on her heels, rubbing her palms on her thighs where they’ve gone numb from the constant channeling, “yes.”

Faralda laughs, far higher than usual, and then says suddenly, “Oh. I’ve got to sit down.”

“You are sitting down,” Colette says, exasperated. “I told you to hold back a reserve—”

“I’m not sitting down. I’ll go to tell—to tell everyone.” A stupid giddy smile on her face, Kharish pauses halfway to her feet, swaying dangerously, like a drunkard. “Oh,” she says. “Hang on. I’ve got a really good one to celebrate. Do you know the difference between a joke and a rhetorical question?”

“This is not the time for your nonsense,” Colette begins to bark, and then with a whuff Kharish pitches backwards into the snow. Mouth agape, Colette stares for a moment, then whips her head around to Faralda, who has only prevented her own collapse by propping herself up against the stone wall of the bridge first. “Really!” She stands, knees wobbling most unfortunately, and sends up the flimsiest magelight that possibly ever was cast. It does the job, at least—a shout, and a handful of dark shapes come running from town. “I have to do everything myself!”

---

Mirabelle opens her eyes to the soft glow of candlelight. Colette freezes in the doorway. “Oh, your timing is awful.” She hurries to amend, “That is—I am very glad to see you awake. But I’ve just gotten her to leave—are you really awake this time? Say something, and I’ll tell her you said hello or—whatever it is you like!” And then she’s sniffling violently, which is alarming, and says with startling intensity, “None of you are ever scaring me like this again! Promise me, Mirabelle!”

Mirabelle, bewildered, tries to sit up and finds she has been buried under what appears to be every blanket in the building. She opens her mouth—there was a foul taste, or something, she recalls, but it isn’t there now. “I think,” she manages around the dryness of her tongue, “I need some water, and then you can explain what exactly… happened.” She licks at her lips, thoughtfully flexing the fingers of her right hand. Something warm there, too, she remembers, and something tingles at the back of her neck. “And if it’s alright,” she pushes at the mountain of blankets, “I think I would rather a fire.”

[dairyfreenugget]

(Going insane boinkinh one AU in my head)

Hey hey hey

May I interest you in

(Slowly slides my FaaF AU towards you but void just Disappears without a trace one day before the accolade)

Teehee

[darkartistyt]

i dont like isaac im gonna make him worse

[myothertardisisonthemun]

There's a big hole in our toilet room wall which Dad cut out after it got water damaged. (Shower leaking).

But can't have dust and muck leaking out, and a big ugly hole in the wall. We were having people over. So I covered it.

Sadly, you can't acually do the puzzles without puncturing the newspaper. But you could at least do it in your head

[mysunshine-youremoonlight]

do you have any suggestions on how to approach free time in p5r there's so much to do that it's overwhelming to choose for me

SORRY FOR TAKING SO LONG ON THIS I WAS DOING WORK !! aa

okay so !! free time. i recommend first working on Confidants (make sure you take a persona of the same arcana for bonus points!), however if there's no confidant for you to do, i recommend working on your social stats, as you will need those to progress in certain confidants. if you don't want to do that (or have them max'd) then go play darts/billiards, this lets you rank-up your baton pass and technical's strength.

if none of those appeal, then go do something fun! whether that be washing dirty clothes in the laundromat near leblanc, or making coffee/curry for mementos/palaces, or going fishing, or working a part-time job. decide what to do depending on what you need at the moment.

[ultra-phthalo]

This 1913 Antique

This is a creature

[geocyclist]

Surface rust removal on the new (to me) Delta table saw using a method I saw on Inheritance Machining. Cover the surface with shop paper towels, soak with evaporust, then cover with cling wrap and leave overnight. We’ll see how it does!

The saw is in surprisingly good shape for the amount of rust on top, the trunnions are smooth and the lift/tilt wheels and gears spin freely.

[unproduciblesmackdown]

thinking of how like reading albert cashier's (19th century trans man, fought in the union army) wikipedia article is devastating to me, in a good way, when like there's no The Diary Of, The Posthumously Discovered Letters Of Albert Cashier, it's all like fairly dry Facts about someone living a fairly ordinary life mostly Known by us all later via like, here's his stints at various jobs....and it's that like it's this life where several times due to injury / illness, his being trans was Known to any other people, and those people who, as is always the case in any matters of how we treat others, didn't Have to be respectful & simply mind their own business, but they did anyways, no known added factors, they Just Did. noting that despite hospitalization in the union army stint, he evaded detection(tm), but that it's then later on like this ordinary guy with an ordinary job, albert gets sick & a family he had meals with (a) takes care of him thus (b) becoming aware he's trans, and they: mind their own business about it. later, different job, totally different & even more removed party in the physician involved who realizes this person is trans, Also just minds their own business like aaugh!! the tragic downturn that when becoming "too" disabled for a Soldiers & Sailors Home (where friends & soldiers from his union army regiment visited, it says!! this with notes prior about like "other soldiers in the regiment noted he tended to keep to himself but he's not the only one in the world doing so huh" like waaah!!) being institutionalized & like of course in that environment that's where we get the violence of ppl learning someone's trans & this disabled person being forced into clothes they obviously even now would not choose for themself, or they'd already be wearing them!! but that then what Also happens is that even being this Extra vulnerable now and being trans being Known such that his military pension was investigated for fraud, Former Comrades vouched that this is the same person who fought with them, it was decided the pension payments should continue for life, they did, he was buried as albert cashier with full military honors i'm sooo ;;;m;;; like Cry Every Time (crying now. help) when it's just So like, people, as they do, don't Have to treat anyone decently, and obviously trans people are vulnerable & you're of course made to believe there weren't even 19th century trans people & everyone would Of Course summarily reject it if so b/c the internet wasn't around to mess things up, so that's an extra layer, but truly that timelessness anyways like. this person w/his identity so Lifelong that no "birth name" was known until someone handling his estate traced it back years later, this guy just out here, living his life, with nothing asserted to make him so "exceptional" as to "justify" Exceptions(tm) Made, with nothing about otherwise leveraged power or advantages or appeals....just various assorted people in his life all choosing to be respectful, even when they didn't Have to, just people coming through and Recognizing This Person. thus i sure do cry every time

[volfoss]

also really good doll update... the head arrived at the warehouse and is being packed rn + i found someone else who is doing the exact method of retrobrighting i want to do on the same doll type so. i know for sure its safe :) which is a big relief lmao

[lesbianaglaya]

dishonored and dishonored 2 love to tell me that corvo is an object. and then go noooooo we didn’t say that what are you talking about. and then they have him be a statue like a for real statue.