#ysc

[wooyoungisbaby]

some sansang gifs i made :) feel free to use them as like reaction images or whatever you want!

[capcavan]

Current hopes for TSC: seeing the meltdown Riko had after Kengo's death when he beat up Jean

[pestodaisy]

The hold this screencap has on me is... something else

(Running Man, episode #464)

[yscmusicrecords]

(YSC Music Records)

[materialsscienceandengineering]

New study finds 'sweet spot' for length of yarn-shaped supercapacitors

As interest in wearable technology has surged, research into creating energy-storage devices that can be woven into textiles has also increased. Researchers at North Carolina State University have now identified a "sweet spot" at which the length of a threadlike energy storage technology called a "yarn-shaped supercapacitor" (YSC) yields the highest and most efficient flow of energy per unit length. "When it comes to the length of the YSC, it's a tradeoff between power and energy," said Wei Gao, corresponding author of a paper on the work published in the Journal of Power Sources and an associate professor of textile engineering, chemistry and science at NC State. "It's not only about how much energy you can store, but also the internal resistance we care about." Specifically, the researchers found that YSCs in the 40–60 centimeter range provided the best overall energy output.

Read more.

[deadhumourist]

YSC: Euphoria

Pairing: Pero X GN! Reader. No pronouns used for reader, some physical description of reader that is non-indicative of race. Vague but you'll see what I mean with that. POC friendly.

Summary: Something is afoot in Pero's village, and he has no interest in it...but it starts taking an interest in him.

Warnings: Fantasy and science fiction themes, mentions of medical procedures, gambling, unfaithfulness and religion. Please DM me if you have any questions before reading.

Words: 2700ish

Rating: 18+

A/N: It's been an extended break, but I'm determined to make up the months I missed in @oonajaeadira and @writeforfandoms' fabulous Year Of Creation Challenge. So here we go - Year of Science Fiction! Special shout-out to @beskarberry whose fantastic sci-fi stories warped my brain in the best way possible and @just-here-for-the-moment for generally being an angel and putting up with me and my writing.

_______

PART 1 (Part 2 to follow)

_______

It started in the dead of night in a small village in Seville, Spain.

A woman came running out of her cottage, hysterically screaming that her marido was gone. In the cold moonlight, her anguished sobs echoed against the worn brick-and-stone houses, with the wind carrying it further down the cobbled streets to be swept away into the night.

Slowly, doors on the street creaked open, the neighbours’ curiosity too much to contain behind windows and curtains. One or two of her acquaintances helped her up from where the grit between the cobbles was digging into her knees, and took her back inside, shushing and talking softly to her in scant comfort. A few men resolved to find him, as he could not go far in the small village surrounded by fragrant orange orchards.

They pulled on their jackets and work trousers, setting off with firelight to bring the wayward man home.

When the first rays of daylight painted the sky in light blue and gold, the intrepid men had not found a single trace, not one tell-tale sign that the man might have made his way over the hills.

That week, the strange occurrence was spun through the town gossip like twine. The fact that it was inexplicable didn’t stop the villagers from making it decidedly human.

“He always did have an eye for beautiful women, it looks like he has run off with one of them. Poor Lucía.”

“Gambling debts will be your downfall. I heard that he had unlucky fingers if you know what I mean.”

The woman bore the heavy brunt of judgemental pity. She could feel eyes following her, conversations suddenly hushed when she came closer. The scandalised widow, or divorcee, depending on which branch of gossip you were following.

Until another disappeared.

One by one, villagers seemed to be snatched from where they slept.

Men and women of working age.

Never children.

Never elders.

For weeks, in the darkest hours of night, the people of Seville would disappear without a trace, never to be seen or heard from again.

The town got scared.

—---

Pero Tovar picks up a lemon from the crate of fresh produce in the market, holding it to his nose - the fresh, invigorating smell was something he would never tire of. After his ordeal in the East all he wanted was to settle down in a small village and lead a simple life. The bag of gold that he was sent back with had allowed him to make a home here as the resident cooper - his casks, barrels and vats were known to be of excellent quality.

If Pero was completely honest with himself about his chosen profession, he enjoyed the repetitive, rote nature of the task. Taking something forged in fire and forged from nature and making it one, over and over.

For the last two years, Pero had delighted in enjoying the simple pleasures that life as a mercenary did not allow. Sleeping in the same bed, a relatively soft one. Going to the market to buy food for the week. Seeing the same faces in the predictable rhythm of a small town.

A rickety wagon barrelling down the street interrupts his reverie, and he turns in his stead to watch it.

The greengrocer leans over conspiratorially, answering a question that Pero didn’t ask.

“He’s arrived. The town elders have sent for a priest from two villages over to bless this place. Dark spirits are behind this, you know.”

The grocer smirks by himself like he is sharing the most delicious gossip.

“It is a pile of shit.” Pero replies in his usual blunt manner. But his eyes track the cart until it disappears around the corner of the street on its way to the church.

Huffing, he tosses the lemon back into the pile and picks up his purchases to walk away. He takes little notice of the people milling around him as he stalks home. He is no stranger to the supernatural, but he refuses to believe that there is something as simple, as banal, as evil at work here.

At home, he starts a pot of stew for supper and sits down at his rough-hewn table to sharpen his knives. Chants from the church are carried on the wind late at night - a haunting imploration for the spirits that have brought misfortune on the village to cease their machinations.

The sound grates Pero’s nerves and he tries to refocus on cleaning his hunting knives, gritting his teeth as he finds a tiny scuffmark on one of the blades. His sword lays to the side on a soft leather cloth, already polished to a glimmer even though it has not seen a battle for many years.

The chants die down eventually and Pero methodically sheathes every blade, carefully wrapping them up in the cloth and putting them away. Only his dagger remains, which he keeps under his bed, because he is retired but not naive.

After having a solitary meal of bread and game stew, Pero gets into bed and expects to drift into the dreamless sleep of a man that does physical labour all day and is at peace with his life.

But tonight Pero dreams.

In his dream, he drifts, feeling cold air rush past his limbs and through his hair. The warm light around him feels thick, tangible, and he tries to curl his fingers around wisps of it that shimmer around him. He can’t see much but the sensation of falling forward into warmth is comforting, enjoyable even. A smile curls around his sleep plush lips as he feels his body become heavy again.

When the cold air rush stops, his eyes flicker open and for a moment Pero tries to focus. When he does, he scrambles out of bed like lightning.

This is not his cottage.

He crouches by the side of the cot, looking around wildly. Bright blue lights bleed through a thick white smoke that surrounds him. A soft whirring sound, with an occasional crackle and snap, which sounds strange to Pero’s ears, are the only sounds in the space. Until you cough.

“Be greeted.”

A long beat follows.

You tap the translator arc lodged in your ear, turning to your colleague.

“Is this thing set to the correct dialect? He looks confused.”

Friiptrin crosses his arms and sighs. “He looks confused because he just woke up from their daily dormancy. At least this one is not screaming.”

You are thankful for that too. The screaming always rattles you, no matter how many times you hear it.

The man in front of you hesitantly waves in front of him, seemingly trying to clear the air.

"What is this smoke? Where am I?" he roars.

You chew your lip, trying to think of a way to explain what he calls smoke.

"It's an incorporeal containment field. It's just to keep you in one spot until you adjust to the new environment. We previously had physical restraints but they hurt themselves and…well that's just no good. Injury releases prostaglandins which muddy the har…"

Friiptrin gestures for you to cut it off, scowling. Your voice dies away as you realise you're rambling about something he won't understand.

Another long beat passes and you attempt to answer his second question.

"And you're aboard the Atriscemy, mark four." You finish lamely, half-sure he won't know what that means either.

Pero is no wiser and the words you’re using go over his head.

"What do you want? Are you going to kill me?" He hastily crosses himself, an old habit and source of comfort that started with his abuela.

You sigh, feeling a twinge of pity.

"No, no we aren't. Look, I'll even come say hello. But please promise not to hurt me, I don't have weapons."

Your colleague's face says that this is at least the third bad idea you've had since the human dropped into your ship.

Stepping out from behind the console, you slowly approach the centre of the room, the octagonal floor tiles softly illuminating as you step forward.

"I'm coming towards you, and I'm going to clear the containment field so you can see, okay?"

Pero huddles in tighter, anxious of what will appear in front of him when the thick smoke clears.

When it starts moving and swirling away from him, his jaw drops.

A human but very much not human.

He looks you up and down like he had never seen anything like you. You're humanoid alright, but your eyes are a warm purple colour with an overly large pupil, edged by a half-moon silver arch that almost glitters when you turn. On the outer edge of your hands, light, feathering scales run up to the edge of the pinky on your six-fingered hand. The fine gradient that fades from dark purple to light teal shimmers as it catches the light in the teleport bay.

"Heh, no one's looked at me like that since I showed them my glorbs at the triangular solstice party" you attempt a joke, laughing feebly. If it is meant to break the tension, it does nothing and you can feel the air change around you. Time to change tack.

"Okay, I know you have questions, but I think we need to get you into the lab first. There we can look you over and make sure you're fed and watered and free of any ailments and diseases. Sometimes the displacement field disrupts their gastrointestinal tract and.."

Pero doesn't like the sound of any of those words except for fed, but as soon as he moves to stand up, his body bends in half of its own volition and he vomits on the floor.

“...they forcefully empty their food organ. Great.” You finish your sentence flatly.

Pero wipes the last traces from his mouth with his sleeve and looks at you accusingly.

"Send me home, what do you want with me anyway? I am a simple cooper."

You slowly sink down onto your haunches, taking a risk because the human still looks like he wants to throw something at you.

You hold out a hand to him. "Come on, let me show you. You have so many questions and I can't fully answer all of them yet."

You beckon to him.

"Well do you wanna know or not?" you huff impatiently.

Pero scuffles closer like a feral cat reluctantly coming closer to a bowl of food.

You look him over for any obvious injuries and spot one.

"Okay, you have a near-ocular bisection. Now we just need to…"

The moment you raise your hand to touch it, he flinches away, hands raised in defence.

"I'm just going to touch it, okay?" you lie.

He brings his hands down but watches you from under a furrowed brow.

The moment your finger smoothes over his brow, a sharp pain shoots through it and Pero feels like he's reliving the blade slicing through his skin again.

He growls at you, pulling away but you grip his bicep and keep him steady.

"Hold on, it's almost over."

When you remove your finger Pero reaches up to feel the scar and…there's nothing. Disbelievingly, he pats his eyebrow in different spots, trying to find the puckered scar that had been there for years.

"Neat, huh?"

"How did you do that, witchcraft?" He scowls.

"I don't know what that is, but this? Localised temporal absolution, something we learn from a young age. It's really simple, all you do…"

"Stop talking, por favor" He growls at you.

You straighten up again, his bluntness reminding you that there's protocol to follow. This human doesn't seem to have any items on him and healing his scar seemed to have mollified him enough to reduce him to a simmering grumpiness instead of fury and fear. You could work with that.

Holding out a hand to him, you deactivate the containment field completely and pull him upright. Pointing to a sloped corridor behind him, you jut your chin out. "Lab's that way. I'll be accompanying you to your quarters once they've looked you over."

Walking by his side, you pass several pods on the way to the lab. The man seems to be cocking his head every now and then like he is trying to hear something. Occasionally as you pass a pod you can hear a low moan, sometimes a released sigh of breath. Nothing you haven't heard before passing these pods.

He decides not to ask yet, and you're grateful.

Entering the lab, you motion for him to stand under a moulded rubber frame. He opens his mouth to ask something but never gets to because the next moment his clothes disintegrate from his body and a fine mist bursts out of sprayers overhead.

When the spray dies down, his mouth opens in big sucking gasps, filling his lungs and he glowers at you.

You hold up your hands. "Earth is dirty, don't look at me like that. We washed a seriously contagious strain off someone just last week. It made humans break out in small red dots and some even perished from a high internal temperature. We lost three pods just from that."

Pero's brow furrows.

You motion for him to stand under the second frame, and a warm current of air slips over his naked body, drying him completely in the space of a few minutes.

While he stands there you forget all professionalism and allow yourself to take in the details of the human's body. Broad shoulders taper into a narrow waist, the lean but strong cords of muscle moving in the bright lab lights as he lightly shakes his arms to remove some of the wet residue from the impromptu shower.

A tuft of dark hair dusts his chest and when your eyes drift further down, you see strong legs move impatiently as the dryer whirrs back down and eventually stops.

This human is clearly not uncomfortable being in its natural state, and you find no reason to apologise as he meets your eyes.

"Seen enough?" he grumps at you.

"Your biology is not compatible with mine, so this is quite literally, for science." You quip.

A physician bobs into the lab, two of the lab technicians on his heels. He seems in a great mood and smiles at you both. "Well, well, a new incumbent. A male this time, fantastic." He sits down on a flat-seated chair and motions for the man to move closer to him for inspection.

Pero reluctantly steps closer. The darker, green colouring of the doctor is slightly different from yours, and he marvels and the brilliant colouring. The last time he saw anything like it was when a Taotie was barrelling towards him.

Even though you are clearly not from earth, no one here seems dangerous. And there was a promise of food. Even though his starving mercenary days are behind him, he never can resist a meal.

After some prodding at Pero and tapping on a small screen in his hand a few times, the doctor smiles up at the man, then turns to you.

"Excellent specimen. Highest levels of testosterone I've seen in a while, actually. Ensure he is comfortable, and you'll likely have a record harvest. His endocrine system is healthy, as are his extremities."

You nod knowingly. "So his shlip is in good condition."

The doctor looks baffled.

"His what?"

"His schlip" you repeat, pointing at Pero’s lower half.

The doctor flatly responds "You mean his penis?"

"His what now?"

Pero, alarmed at the turn of the conversation, anxiously pipes up with "What about my penis?"

"Wait, that thing is called a penis?" You ask.

"Yes" the doctor looks at you flatly.

"So I've been calling it the wrong name this whole time?"

The doctor just stares at you.

One of the lab techs unsuccessfully suppresses a giggle and disappears around a corner.

Embarrassed, you bring your palm to your face and motion to Pero with your other hand.

"Just…let's get you to your quarters."

------

Comments and reblogs appreciated, thanks for reading!

[thecrazyneographist]

Tips for making an orthography?

I should probably make a PSA about asks of this sort, it's hard to answer and I'd rather not spend a whole post about it rather than say it in DMs or @ the person who asked at @conlangcrab, yet here I am talking to an anon without such possibility.

Depends on what you mean and what you need.

An orthography per definition is a set of conventions for spelling phonetic information via graphemes (the symbols of a given script). Some orthographies are phonetically consistent, others are not.

Here's an example for an English orthography I made just now:

Ysc-Orthosci /aɪ̯s ʊɹˈθʊsɪ/

An orthography depends on A) Phonetic inventory of the language and B) The script's limitations.

The Latin alphabet is only 26 letters, and boy there are more sounds than there are letters. There are three ways to solve this problem:

Positional phonetic alteration, when a letter is pronounced differently depending on its position in the word.

Diacritics, additional markings on the letter itself that alter the pronunciation, like carons, macrons, circumflexes, umlauts et cetera.

Digraphs/multigraphs, when several letters are seen as one phonetic unit. Think English "th" in "the"; There's one sound, but two letters to represent it.

The more letters there are, the easier is the spelling due to them covering more sounds - that allows for greater correspondence between what's written and its pronunciation. Some languages, like the Slavic family, written Hawaiian, Japanese/Korean, have high correspondence, others have not (English, and lord have mercy, French).

That is applicable, though, only if the script is representing phonetic values directly and isn't hieroglyphic. In Chinese, a single symbol can be read several different ways in one dialect, not talking about other dialects.

In conclusion: The more letters you have, the easier the spelling will be. But that will take away some of the spice of a language; I find French, German, and English spelling to be quite fabulous, and Gaelic? Just marvelous, with all the tricky rules of writ and pronunciation.

But please, if you are sending asks like that either ask them in DMs or without an anonymous option; I would prefer not to make a whole script just to answer an ask, since the amount of posts on this blog is equal to the amount of neographies I've created in my life.

[vukub-ilim]

  Kimsiniz ?

Takma adınızın arkasındaki hikaye nedir? Birçok isim ile hayat bulabiliyorsunuz. Lakin kulağınıza sizin isminiz okundu.  Onlar sende hayat buldular ve yenilendiler. Geçmiş ve Gelecekte şuan için neyi, niçin, nasıl ve hangi niyetle yaptığımızdır. BBC – “Birlik Beraberlik Cumhuriyeti” TBM – “Türkiye Birlik Cumhuriyet Meclisi” BSH –  YSCS- “Yurtta Sulh, Cihanda Sulh”

[sportofusalacrosse]

Top lacrosse video today: Iturbide & Bradley secured a spot in the Battle Court history books with a PERFECT doubles season!!

Top lacrosse news

„Registration open for Dynasty Elite 2024-25 tryouts in June, July at YSC Sports and West Chester University” – phillylacrosse

„Registration open for Philly Blast tryouts in July at Episcopal Academy” – phillylacrosse

„@BeYourBestLax Monday girls’ summaries” – phillylacrosse

„PA State High School Lacrosse Rankings for June 2” – phillylacrosse

„Registration open for Stone Harbor Girls Summer Lacrosse Camp by G2G Girls’ Lacrosse Academy on July 22-24” – phillylacrosse

Best tweets – 2024. 06. 04.

[wooyoungisbaby]

aight.

[yscpackagingmachine]

Food packaging on vertical form fill seal (VFFS) baggers

At Ysc Packaging Machine, our vertical form fill seal (VFFS) machine baggers offer efficient and reliable solutions for food packaging. These machines streamline the process by forming, filling, and sealing bags vertically, ensuring freshness and quality. Ideal for a variety of food products, our VFFS baggers enhance productivity and packaging integrity for your business.

[maximuswolf]

Peaceful Instrumental - Awakening in Provence [Instrumental] (2024)

Peaceful Instrumental - Awakening in Provence [Instrumental] (2024) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=crNB0O1-ySc Submitted May 21, 2024 at 02:31AM by peacefulinstrumental https://ift.tt/DoxO9sL via /r/Music

[deadhumourist]

YSC: A Game of Realities

It’s only fitting that the month of love is dedicated to the man who chooses love instead of choosing sides, right?  This is a dramedy to make up for the dark January fic. Thank you to @just-here-for-the-moment for encouraging my nonsense.

Summary: An unexpected turn in a battle with The Mountain has Prince Oberyn end up in a situation that he couldn't have imagined, and you have to help him through it. The ride is bumpy until you discover something that will change your perception of yourself, of Oberyn and of reality, forever. This is part 1, more to follow!

Part of the wonderful @yearofcreation2023 challenge!

Pairing: Oberyn Martell x F!Reader

Rating: Mature - language, later chapters will be explicit. 

WC: 1835

Warnings: Language, battle scenes, mention of death and burial, shaky boundary lines between sci-fi and fantasy, smells and Olympic-level sass because I'm three raccoons in a trenchcoat. Reader has no physical description, and uses she/her pronouns. Whole fic not beta’d.

Author Masterlist | Taglist in bio.

-----

Doran is seated in the centre of the plush sofa in his receiving room. The intricate patterns and warm, rich colours sit beautifully with the high-ceilinged space, giving it an air of grandeur, fitting for the royal family of Dorne. In the corner a lush palm sways in the light breeze, in stark contrast to the tense atmosphere between the dark-haired brothers. 

“I have been more than fair, Oberyn. You have visited the capital, said your piece - this unquenchable thirst for retribution will drag the people of Dorne into the fire if it does not end with you.” 

Oberyn scoffs at his older brother, bitterness simmering in his words. “Words alone will not bring Elia back.” 

“Neither will violence.” Doran snaps. 

He is tired. His younger brother has always been fiery, passionate to a fault. With vengeance blowing this kindling into an open flame, he has little hope of discouraging the man from his course of action. But he has to try. 

“Reconsider, Oberyn. It will not change what happened in the past, and you could lose your life in the process. Will you have me put both of my siblings into the ground?” he intones softer. 

His brother continues to pace the floor like a caged viper, seething with a rage so deep-seated that he himself doesn’t know where to go with it. His beloved sister had died at the hands of the Lannisters and it seemed like his brother was ready to break bread with them. 

“I am not retracting my challenge to the Mountain. I will spill his blood the way he did hers.” 

With one last look at Doran’s pained expression, he flings the door open and starts down the hall to his quarters. 

Concealed behind a corner close to Doran’s rooms, Ellaria stands stock still. She had stopped to listen in, having heard the loud exchange from the hallway. The Mountain’s reputation as a killer is known far and wide, and she is worried. She trusts Oberyn’s skill in a fight, but with the Lannisters you never know what surprises are hiding in the wings. 

“I won't allow you to leave me alone in this world, lover.” she whispers into the darkness before she turns on her heel and makes for the Maester’s chambers.

When she exits hours later, she is holding a black elixir which promises that Oberyn will come out of the fight unscathed. 

As she stalks to her private room, the glass vial burns in her hand - is new, otherworldly and unseen by anyone outside of the inner circle of Maesters. Oberyn will see it as a betrayal but she will keep him alive no matter the cost. 

The Maester had warned her several times during the consultation. 

“You are absolutely sure you want to play with dark magic, dear?” 

Ellaria nodded, watching him take down different bottles from his shelves. 

When he started pouring the contents of one into a mixing bowl, she gripped his arm hard. 

“A mere potion will not do, Maester, it needs to ensure that Oberyn stays alive.” 

He simply raised an eyebrow at her, continued and then swung round to heave a large grey grimoire off the same shelves. 

“And so it will.” 

Ellaria now clutches the vial closer to her as she increases her speed. She can’t help feeling unsettled about the liquid in her possession, even though she requested it. The Maester was insistent with his instructions. 

“Stand clear of the arena, and when the time is right, throw the vial onto the ground, so it breaks near the opponent. He will be transported by magic to a place where he can never harm anyone."

She regards him carefully, and he answers the question she doesn't ask. 

"It is dark magic, and the price will be exacted for such a request."

She knows he does not mean coin. 

Reaching her chambers, she closes the door behind her and places the vial among her jewels. 

As she hides the glass object, she hears the clanging of spears outside her window and a growling laugh from Oberyn, who seems to have bested his opponent, undoubtedly not for the first time. 

She closes her eyes and fervently hopes that this will work. 

—-

The Dornish procession proudly walks into the arena, parting like a golden, shimmering sea to allow their second-born prince to move to his place. Ellaria is already waiting for him there, where he fastens the last of his armour. He kisses her passionately before gripping his spear, and although there are tears in her eyes, she can’t bring herself to utter any words of warning or apology. 

He enters into the fight, spear twirling in the air, a fanciful prince intent on taking what was taken from him. Oberyn taunts the man, goading him into admitting to his crimes, while the clanging of metal echoes into the surrounding mountains. 

Ellaria knows Oberyn, she sees the minute gritting of his teeth while The Mountain fights the man she loves with sheer strength; he does not give an inch between them and does not give Oberyn the satisfaction of responding either.

She recognises her lover’s white-hot anger, unspooling like a tethered ball of thread dropped into an abyss, making him reckless.

The mountain’s spear catches the edge of Oberyn’s and with a sickening crackle of wood, the tip is snapped off. 

Ellaria gasps out loud, panic rising in her throat and stealing her breath before she can take it. 

She reaches into her thin mustard-coloured cloak, retrieves the vial and…throws. 

Her throw causes the vial to sail briefly on a gust of wind, and instead of hitting The Mountain, the vial crashes in front of Oberyn’s feet, creating a vortex of black smoke in front of him. It fizzes and crackles like sparklers set alight.

The vortex lurches sickeningly towards him and the next moment Oberyn is gone. 

As the black smoke dissipates rapidly the only sound heard is Ellaria’s anguished screams.

—-

With your chin resting on the heel of your hand, you marvel how it can feel like 19 hours have passed, when in reality you just cracked hour 5 of your shift. 

You are in a bad mood to boot. An earlier table had given you the run around and then didn't tip on a huge bill. Now you just want to get the hell out of the place, put on some pajamas and watch a series. 

You're about to get up when a loud clanging sound comes from outside the restaurant. The open area behind the restaurant is known to attract some troublemakers so this isn't exactly a surprise. 

Pete, the smarmy manager on duty stops in front of you."Go tell those kids to stop messing around here or we'll call the authorities."

Heaving a deep sigh, you get up and walk to the back of the restaurant, throwing the metal door open in front of you. 

You listlessly stomp to the dumpster, and stop, hands perched on your hips. 

"Okay dillholes, enough fun for today, get a move on."

You hear a plastic ruffling inside the dumpster.

Rolling your eyes, you check your watch. Good lord, the last 30 minutes of your shift is starting to feel like several lifetimes. 

When you look up, you see a leg swung over the side of the dumpster, followed by a brownish thing, which materializes into a human as it climbs out of the big metal container. 

The man shouts at you, looking around. He's clearly aggravated, his hair sticking up in all directions. 

"Where is The Mountain?"

You stare a long time before your brain manages to make your tongue move. 

"You're in the city buddy, there are no mountains here."

The man, seemingly satisfied that the geographical feature isn't close by, sniffs himself and pulls a face. 

"This place smells like week-old waste" he yells at you from where he stands, somehow managing to make the statement drip with distaste.  

The cheek of this guy is unbelievable and you feel your hackles rising at how rude he is. 

"Yeah? We'll that's rich coming from someone who looks like a fancy fuckin' armadillo!"

For a moment Oberyn is speechless. He's no shrinking violet but no one has ever dared speak to Dornish royalty like that. When he finds his tongue again, his hands automatically go to his hips and he cocks his chin out at you. 

“Come over here in your peasant clothes and say that to my face."

“I can see your damn face from here, and these are not..” 

You look down, taking in the uniform and apron with a few food splatters.

“...okay I’ll give you the clothes. What….were you dumpster diving then?” 

Finally taking a moment, he looks around, but everything seems wrong. Out of place. 

"This does not look like King's Landing, even if it smells the same” he says, now a little more subdued than when he first yelled at you. 

"Ummm…no. You're at the back of a restaurant and you were in the trash a minute ago. Listen, I don’t know what your deal is but you gotta go.”

Oberyn spins on his heel, looking around. "I would gladly, but it would appear I am not in any recognisable part of Westeros."

The name sounds like something you’ve heard before but you shake it off, trying to focus on the man in front of you instead.

“What’s your name?”

The man seems to be thinking about something for a while, then replies.

“Oberyn, Prince of Dorne.” 

“Okay, Oberyn, Prince of Dorne, as the song goes - you don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here. My shift is pretty much over, is there someone I can call to come get you?” 

He looks at you blankly. The man cuts a ridiculous sight standing next to the dumpster in his leather outfit, just staring at you like he’s trying to work out some impossible math problem.

You sigh, throwing your hands up. With this one it seems to have devolved into a process of elimination when it comes to getting any information, because he’s either coming off some insane drug-induced bender or he has memory loss. Either way he’ll need to be checked out, or at the very least take a goddamned shower. 

“Look, are you dangerous? Are you going to try to kill me if I take you somewhere in my car?” 

The man’s expression morphs from blank curiosity to disgusted.

“We do not hurt women and children in Dorne. You will be safe in my company, but where are we going?”

“Home, my home. You can’t stand around out here like you just came from Comic Con or a Leather Daddy convention, and you don’t seem to have a clue where you are so…unless you have a better idea…” you jerk a thumb over your shoulder and start turning around to clock out. 

As you walk back to the restaurant, you hear the crunch of his books on the gravel  behind you and idly wonder if this is how those true crime episodes start. Finding a mildly threatening guy and loading him into your car. 

This might be a huge mistake. 

[misful]

Exclusive Poem: Weaving Thread Seams

Strands of thread sway from the breeze

gently clashing with the other seams

Catch your attention as you freeze

Softly staring at you while you beam

Turning to south due to curiosity

between the ropes is ambiguity

The cold wind hugs our head

placing our thoughts back to bed

Approaching with an aura of eccentricity

quietly blowing words in broad daylight

resting easily under the moonlight

orbiting 2 hopefully with honesty.

February 19,2024

11:10 am

dedicated to: YSC

[postsofbabel]

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