Behr masonry stucco and brick paint
I Shall Return With the Tide - Barnam Pt. IV
2023.05.31 03:10 SilvoKanuni I Shall Return With the Tide - Barnam Pt. IV
A single, lone hill jutted from the ground, the only rise across the flat plains around the river Luzum. Was it a hill or a glorified mound? Either way, looking south it was the only place to get a view of the plains, of the river. Of the greater city on its banks. Ibandr.
On the hill sat a man on the bare back of a horse. A breeze from the south, coming a long way from the river at the edge of his vision, whipped his matting of hair in a gentle flicking. His beard, short but shaggy, stood firm on his face, smooth save for the occasional scar or burned mark. The man wore hemp coverings around his shoulders, his waist, down his legs, wrapped loosely with gaps where the wind billowed them to life. He frowned as the wind picked up, hair whipping in the breeze, and reached into a bundle across his shoulder. He pulled out a long cloth and wrapped his hair in a practiced fashion, wiping sweat from his brow once he was done.
“Barnam,” the man turned as another on horseback rode up to him, “we shall be ready soon.”
The man, Barnam, nodded. “At sunset, then.”
“At sunset,” and the other man turned his horse to trot back down the hill. By the hillside, around a hundred horses and men stood, wiping their horses, smoothing stone blades, copper scythes, or long wooden spears. They talked, some joking and laughing, others grave and serious, trading old stories of war or raiding or famine. Barnam looked at them, an absent smile on his face. His family.
“Your father is dead,” his mother had said. Her hand was on his shoulder, other hand on his cheek. He stood on bare, loose dirt, his toes wriggled in the crumbled land. Above him the sky had been cloudy but the sun, when it broke through, was strong and piercing, threatening to push any man or woman who stood against it back into the ground.
Barnam the boy had felt all these things. Yet his soul was in free fall. Down, down, down he fell, screaming a silent scream at the top of his lungs, the word echoing around him, his mother's voice, his father's voice, his voice clanging in a cacophony as he fell ever forward, ever down, into a great abyss of being. The one word over and over, louder and louder, until it was the only thing he could hear and could ever hear: dead.
Not ‘out along the river.’ Not ‘in the outer world.’ Not ‘passed to the ancestors.’ Dead. Your father is dead.
Barnam the man remembered how Barnam the boy felt that day, and he shuddered on his horse as if his soul was back in that free fall, weightless in terror and sorrow and grief. It had been shortly after they crossed the river Duf, into the lands and tribe of the Albayet, that they learned of his father’s death. Barnam remembered little but knew someone had come to them to tell them. One of Hadr’s friends who owed him some debt, chasing after the mother and son to bring them nothing but news of death. The Albayet welcomed them, his mother had always had a silver tongue. She told them of Ibandr, of their troubles with the Zivold, of Hadr and his insistence we come to them, to find Artanr, Harald, and Pulti, to find shelter. To find refuge. To find a home. Yes, the Albayet had welcomed them with open arms. Pulti, especially, had taken to Barnam as if he was his own son.
The horse bellow him snorted, shaking its head at a buzzing fly. Harald became Zivold of the Albayet, his wife Adari the Linezold. Barnam found it odd that both were venerated at an equal status. He barely even remembered who the Linezold of Ibandr was, the wife of the Zivold seldom making grand or luxurious appearances like he did. Once or twice he noticed her at one of Hadr’s festivals but never more. Barnam sighed. He traced his face with a free hand, the other holding onto his horse’s mane. One scar traced his cheek. The first time he had taken a life, the man who threatened him and his mother when he had just reached his thirteenth year. A burn on his cheekbone, one that never healed when they were set upon by another Anug tribe on horseback, wielding fire as well as blade. Many others, some healed, some not, from his years and years with the Albayet. Life was harder on the eastern end of his known world than it had ever been in Ibandr. They farmed as his father and mother had in the city, yes, but the harvests were never trustworthy, forcing him and the Albayet to rely on horsemeat and raiding other villages as much as they relied on the grains of the earth. No Sinnamit guided their festivals, their worship, their healing, their scholarship, only the Zivold and the Linezold, husband and wife of the peoples, were the way forward.
These easterners were much more at home on horseback the city residents. In Ibandr, men only ever rode when guiding their horse herds through the city or out to the river to graze. Here it was an every day occurrence. Hunting or traveling was done on horseback. Times of leisure or work were done on horseback. Even when farming, a horse was typically nearby, with some strange folk ever tying hoes to their horses and walking them along the field. Silliness of the east. The Albayet never were too far from their horses.
Twenty-four summers passed since he and his mother, fatigued and starved and parched, had wandered into the Albayet village and placed their lives into their hands. Here they were sheltered, his mother taken care of and remarried, Barnam raised and trained in the ways of the easterners. They spoke the same and yet different. Some words felt as though he stuffed cotton in his mouth, his tongue working this way or that, making sounds he’d never heard before and hearing the locals laughing at him. Other times he’d feel like he was stretching his jaw out, long and thin. Some j’s sounded like y’s, some words pressed together, some cut in half. But his mother insisted that, when alone, they only spoke as they did at their home. “Our grandmothers are all around us. They follow us on our journey through the darkness. If you forget to speak as they did, how will you speak to them? Only then will they truly go to the Outer World.” She always insisted to hold on to their language, but embrace the Albayet and become as their own.
Through the years Barnam had made some journeys back to his home city. “Your life was stolen from you,” Pulti had told him, long after he had married his mother, “your father’s life was stolen from you. Let me help you, my son, let me help you right your wrong. There is a blood debt here, the worst debt of a father's murder, that can only be paid in one way.” Pulti urged him to think about returning to Ibandr, not as a visitor but to reclaim what was owed to him. The life of Ibandr’s Zivold.” He thought about those words, that mentality, the feeling of a wrong needing to be righted, as he moved through the town posing as a traveler from afar. He’d shake his head when the citizens asked him questions. Where are you from? Who are you with? What are you doing here? He bartered for fish and stone in exchange for horse meat and milk, but all the while he watched and he listened. Three times he made the journey to Ibandr, and each time he learned more.
The Zivold had relegated the Sinnamit to the role of speaker. When the Zivold emerged from the great storehouse of Ibandr, Hadr was there, older than ever, announcing his presence and what would be done in the city that day. Hadr called him not just the Zivold, but the Lord guided by Kutenr, the Paroxl of good harvests and lifesaving flooding. He would here Hadr bellow, "And here is Attarnap, Zivold of Ibandr, Lord guided by Kutenr, Savior of the World, Chosen by Anakinr and blessed by Samvastatn. Life be given to Attarnap, who stands before you in front of the Temple of Kutenr. Life be given to Attarnap, bow to his presence." All around Barnam, the citizens of Ibandr lowered themselves on the ground, kneeling and touching their faces to the ground. He learned quickly to do the same, gritting his teeth to bowing to his father's murdered.
But he couldn't help but think how the Temple of Kutenr had come to be. If the storehouse had been great before, it was grand now. The circular building flanked by long stretches of rectangular rooms was gone. A long, rectangular building, big and empty for the storage of an unbelievable amounts of grain stood in the middle of the city. At the end of it sat a great mound of a building, what Barnam came to learn was the new temple. It was slowly being built with mud-bricks by a group of laborers, a great big pile with four sides pointing to the sky carved on one side with majestic images from Hortens lore and painted on another side with images of what Barnam came to understand as the Paroxl. Along the edge of the great storehouse were circular, two-story buildings with openings in the middle. Barnam made his way into one, empty at the time, and saw stairs leading up to a second floor and an open window to a small, central courtyard. A great amount of room inside and furnished so as to seem like it was the living quarters of the Sinnamit, the Zivold, or those he preferred most.
The buildings around the city center had transformed as well. Gone were the small clumps of buildings, one-storied in varying cascading heights. Now the houses had been replaced and were all similar in size and shape: two-storied, rectangular houses longer than they were wide, built at regular intervals with space in the middle. Some homes had shades built out of mud or wood - rare as it was - or simple hangings of hemp in between the houses, where the citizens sat and worked in the outdoors, speaking to one another or calling out to workers on the roofs. He had made his way back to his old home, finding it gone and replaced with these larger buildings, larger homes to fit the growing city. When Barnam had been a child, the channels they carved only extended as far as his home. But the last time Barnam visited Ibandr, maybe one summer before today, the channels went out twice as far, home going further and further than Barnam could have ever dreamed.
Even now, as Barnam stood on his hill, he saw what appeared to be a piece of the river sitting outside of the city. It shimmered in the sun, a large pool of water where only one summer ago there had been none. Had that been the Zivold’s doing as well? What wonders were being built by that murderer’s fist? What was the purpose of this reservoir of water? He shook his head. He would have to ask the Zivold when he met him, before he got what he was owed.
The sky rumbled in the far distance. The boy who became a man looked left to the east, seeing a darkness of clouds emerging where once there had been little. To the west the sun was low, grazing the far reaches of the river, going low to light the lands of the Outer World for the night. Barnam took his horse and turned it around, back down the hill to the others. It was time to set out.
Context: Don't mind me just doing some internal conflict. Barnam was raised by the Anug and grew to be one of them. But his mother and adoptive father urge him to take revenge on the Zivold and the city. Ibandr has grown in the mean time, swelling in size and population. The Zivold continues to maintain his hold on the city and has been able to organize the structure of the inner city, while the outer grows further and further beyond the river. A, large to them, pyramid-shaped mound has been erected and is called a temple, though it's solid through and more of a landmark than anything else.
submitted by SilvoKanuni to DawnPowers [link] [comments]
On the hill sat a man on the bare back of a horse. A breeze from the south, coming a long way from the river at the edge of his vision, whipped his matting of hair in a gentle flicking. His beard, short but shaggy, stood firm on his face, smooth save for the occasional scar or burned mark. The man wore hemp coverings around his shoulders, his waist, down his legs, wrapped loosely with gaps where the wind billowed them to life. He frowned as the wind picked up, hair whipping in the breeze, and reached into a bundle across his shoulder. He pulled out a long cloth and wrapped his hair in a practiced fashion, wiping sweat from his brow once he was done.
“Barnam,” the man turned as another on horseback rode up to him, “we shall be ready soon.”
The man, Barnam, nodded. “At sunset, then.”
“At sunset,” and the other man turned his horse to trot back down the hill. By the hillside, around a hundred horses and men stood, wiping their horses, smoothing stone blades, copper scythes, or long wooden spears. They talked, some joking and laughing, others grave and serious, trading old stories of war or raiding or famine. Barnam looked at them, an absent smile on his face. His family.
“Your father is dead,” his mother had said. Her hand was on his shoulder, other hand on his cheek. He stood on bare, loose dirt, his toes wriggled in the crumbled land. Above him the sky had been cloudy but the sun, when it broke through, was strong and piercing, threatening to push any man or woman who stood against it back into the ground.
Barnam the boy had felt all these things. Yet his soul was in free fall. Down, down, down he fell, screaming a silent scream at the top of his lungs, the word echoing around him, his mother's voice, his father's voice, his voice clanging in a cacophony as he fell ever forward, ever down, into a great abyss of being. The one word over and over, louder and louder, until it was the only thing he could hear and could ever hear: dead.
Not ‘out along the river.’ Not ‘in the outer world.’ Not ‘passed to the ancestors.’ Dead. Your father is dead.
Barnam the man remembered how Barnam the boy felt that day, and he shuddered on his horse as if his soul was back in that free fall, weightless in terror and sorrow and grief. It had been shortly after they crossed the river Duf, into the lands and tribe of the Albayet, that they learned of his father’s death. Barnam remembered little but knew someone had come to them to tell them. One of Hadr’s friends who owed him some debt, chasing after the mother and son to bring them nothing but news of death. The Albayet welcomed them, his mother had always had a silver tongue. She told them of Ibandr, of their troubles with the Zivold, of Hadr and his insistence we come to them, to find Artanr, Harald, and Pulti, to find shelter. To find refuge. To find a home. Yes, the Albayet had welcomed them with open arms. Pulti, especially, had taken to Barnam as if he was his own son.
The horse bellow him snorted, shaking its head at a buzzing fly. Harald became Zivold of the Albayet, his wife Adari the Linezold. Barnam found it odd that both were venerated at an equal status. He barely even remembered who the Linezold of Ibandr was, the wife of the Zivold seldom making grand or luxurious appearances like he did. Once or twice he noticed her at one of Hadr’s festivals but never more. Barnam sighed. He traced his face with a free hand, the other holding onto his horse’s mane. One scar traced his cheek. The first time he had taken a life, the man who threatened him and his mother when he had just reached his thirteenth year. A burn on his cheekbone, one that never healed when they were set upon by another Anug tribe on horseback, wielding fire as well as blade. Many others, some healed, some not, from his years and years with the Albayet. Life was harder on the eastern end of his known world than it had ever been in Ibandr. They farmed as his father and mother had in the city, yes, but the harvests were never trustworthy, forcing him and the Albayet to rely on horsemeat and raiding other villages as much as they relied on the grains of the earth. No Sinnamit guided their festivals, their worship, their healing, their scholarship, only the Zivold and the Linezold, husband and wife of the peoples, were the way forward.
These easterners were much more at home on horseback the city residents. In Ibandr, men only ever rode when guiding their horse herds through the city or out to the river to graze. Here it was an every day occurrence. Hunting or traveling was done on horseback. Times of leisure or work were done on horseback. Even when farming, a horse was typically nearby, with some strange folk ever tying hoes to their horses and walking them along the field. Silliness of the east. The Albayet never were too far from their horses.
Twenty-four summers passed since he and his mother, fatigued and starved and parched, had wandered into the Albayet village and placed their lives into their hands. Here they were sheltered, his mother taken care of and remarried, Barnam raised and trained in the ways of the easterners. They spoke the same and yet different. Some words felt as though he stuffed cotton in his mouth, his tongue working this way or that, making sounds he’d never heard before and hearing the locals laughing at him. Other times he’d feel like he was stretching his jaw out, long and thin. Some j’s sounded like y’s, some words pressed together, some cut in half. But his mother insisted that, when alone, they only spoke as they did at their home. “Our grandmothers are all around us. They follow us on our journey through the darkness. If you forget to speak as they did, how will you speak to them? Only then will they truly go to the Outer World.” She always insisted to hold on to their language, but embrace the Albayet and become as their own.
Through the years Barnam had made some journeys back to his home city. “Your life was stolen from you,” Pulti had told him, long after he had married his mother, “your father’s life was stolen from you. Let me help you, my son, let me help you right your wrong. There is a blood debt here, the worst debt of a father's murder, that can only be paid in one way.” Pulti urged him to think about returning to Ibandr, not as a visitor but to reclaim what was owed to him. The life of Ibandr’s Zivold.” He thought about those words, that mentality, the feeling of a wrong needing to be righted, as he moved through the town posing as a traveler from afar. He’d shake his head when the citizens asked him questions. Where are you from? Who are you with? What are you doing here? He bartered for fish and stone in exchange for horse meat and milk, but all the while he watched and he listened. Three times he made the journey to Ibandr, and each time he learned more.
The Zivold had relegated the Sinnamit to the role of speaker. When the Zivold emerged from the great storehouse of Ibandr, Hadr was there, older than ever, announcing his presence and what would be done in the city that day. Hadr called him not just the Zivold, but the Lord guided by Kutenr, the Paroxl of good harvests and lifesaving flooding. He would here Hadr bellow, "And here is Attarnap, Zivold of Ibandr, Lord guided by Kutenr, Savior of the World, Chosen by Anakinr and blessed by Samvastatn. Life be given to Attarnap, who stands before you in front of the Temple of Kutenr. Life be given to Attarnap, bow to his presence." All around Barnam, the citizens of Ibandr lowered themselves on the ground, kneeling and touching their faces to the ground. He learned quickly to do the same, gritting his teeth to bowing to his father's murdered.
But he couldn't help but think how the Temple of Kutenr had come to be. If the storehouse had been great before, it was grand now. The circular building flanked by long stretches of rectangular rooms was gone. A long, rectangular building, big and empty for the storage of an unbelievable amounts of grain stood in the middle of the city. At the end of it sat a great mound of a building, what Barnam came to learn was the new temple. It was slowly being built with mud-bricks by a group of laborers, a great big pile with four sides pointing to the sky carved on one side with majestic images from Hortens lore and painted on another side with images of what Barnam came to understand as the Paroxl. Along the edge of the great storehouse were circular, two-story buildings with openings in the middle. Barnam made his way into one, empty at the time, and saw stairs leading up to a second floor and an open window to a small, central courtyard. A great amount of room inside and furnished so as to seem like it was the living quarters of the Sinnamit, the Zivold, or those he preferred most.
The buildings around the city center had transformed as well. Gone were the small clumps of buildings, one-storied in varying cascading heights. Now the houses had been replaced and were all similar in size and shape: two-storied, rectangular houses longer than they were wide, built at regular intervals with space in the middle. Some homes had shades built out of mud or wood - rare as it was - or simple hangings of hemp in between the houses, where the citizens sat and worked in the outdoors, speaking to one another or calling out to workers on the roofs. He had made his way back to his old home, finding it gone and replaced with these larger buildings, larger homes to fit the growing city. When Barnam had been a child, the channels they carved only extended as far as his home. But the last time Barnam visited Ibandr, maybe one summer before today, the channels went out twice as far, home going further and further than Barnam could have ever dreamed.
Even now, as Barnam stood on his hill, he saw what appeared to be a piece of the river sitting outside of the city. It shimmered in the sun, a large pool of water where only one summer ago there had been none. Had that been the Zivold’s doing as well? What wonders were being built by that murderer’s fist? What was the purpose of this reservoir of water? He shook his head. He would have to ask the Zivold when he met him, before he got what he was owed.
The sky rumbled in the far distance. The boy who became a man looked left to the east, seeing a darkness of clouds emerging where once there had been little. To the west the sun was low, grazing the far reaches of the river, going low to light the lands of the Outer World for the night. Barnam took his horse and turned it around, back down the hill to the others. It was time to set out.
2023.05.31 02:50 m0mentai [USA-RI][H] Rhythm Heaven, Castlevania: Order of Ecclesia & Portrait of Ruin, Punch-Out, Pokemon Colosseum Bonus disc, LttP Games for: 3DS, DS, NES, GB, GBA, PS1, PS2, XBox360 Consoles & manuals [W] PayPal
The following items are all for sale. Prices are as indicated, but I am willing to negotiate. Shipping is not included unless otherwise agreed upon. All items come from a smoke-free home. Willing to bundle if the deal is right. All offers will be considered and I will try to respond to every one of them. Payment is expected via PayPal. I am happy to accept F&F if the buyer is comfortable, but I also accept G&S if you’d prefer. Images are provided below, but please let me know if you need any additional information/images or if you find the links to be broken.
NINTENDO 3DS take both for $29 shipped
Final Fantasy Theatrhythm: Curtain Call - $15
Brain Age: Concentration Training - $15
NINTENDO DS bundle all for $205 shipped
Snood 2: On Vacation - $2 (or free with any purchase)
Mystery Case Files: MIllionHeir - $2 (or free w/ any purchase)
Personal Trainer: Cooking - $2 (or free w/ any purchase)
Nintendo DS Browser - $12
Rhythm Heaven - $40
Big Brain Academy - $2 (or free w/ any purchase)
Brain Age - $5
Brain Age 2 - $5
Castlevania: Order of Ecclesia - $105
Castlevania: Portrait of Ruin - $50, water damage to cover art
PLAYSTATION
Brave Fencer Musashi - $80, no manual
PS2 bundle all for $215 shipped
Dynasty Warriors 4 GH - $10
Capcom Classics Collection Vol 1 - $10
Capcom Classics Collection Vol 2 - $10
Guitar Hero - $5 (or free w/ any purchase)
Guitar Hero 2 - $5 (or free w/ any purchase)
Ace Combat 4 GH - $5 (or free w/ any purchase)
Madden 2003, 2005 - $2 each or free with any purchase
Marvel vs Capcom 2 - $195
XBOX 360 bundle all for $11 shipped
The Walking Dead, GOTY - $5 (or free w/ any purchase)
Batman: Arkham Asylum GOTY - $5
Batman: Arkham City GOTY - $5 (top of case is damaged)
NINTENDO GAMECUBE
Pokemon Colosseum bonus disc - $175
NINTENDO GAMEBOY bundle all for $230 shipped
Kirby’s Pinball Land - $20
WWF Superstars - $10
Pac-Man - $10
Operation C - $35
Batman: Return of the Joker - $30
Metroid 2: Return of Samus - $40
Super Mario Land - $25
Tetris - $15
Baseball - $10
Ninja Gaiden Shadow - $50
NINTENDO GAMEBOY ADVANCE * bundle both for $25 shipped*
Mario Pinball Land - $15
Yu Gi Oh: Eternal Duelist Soul - $12
SNES bundle both for $32 shipped
Mario Paint - $5
Zelda LttP - $30
NES (all games come with an dust sleeve) bundle all for $175 shipped
Lee Trevino’s Fighting Golf - $5
WWF Wrestlemania Challenge - $5
Roger Clemens’ MVP Baseball - $5
Flight of the Intruder - $5
Track & Field 2 - $5
RC Pro Am - $8
Castlevania - $25
Mike Tyson’s Punch Out - $40, white bullets
Tetris - $15
Tetris 2 - $10
10 Yard Fight - $5
NES Play Action Football - $5
Bases Loaded 3 - $5
Championship Bowling - $5
Classic Concentration - $10
Duck Hunt - $10
Blades of Steel - $8
Golf - $5
NES Cleaning Kit - $10
CONSOLES
SNES - $75 (A/V cord, power brick, 1 controller, manual, poster (torn)).
Wii - $65 (stand, sensor bar, power brick, a/v cord, 2 wii-motes, 1 nunchuk, classic controller). SALE PENDING
XBox 360 Slim 4GB - $60 (power brick, a/v cord, 1 controller, 2 Nyko controller batteries and charger, Kinect)
MISC
NES Sleeves & Manuals
FFVII - $15
FFVIII - $15
FFIX - $10
FFX-2 - $12
Xenogears - $40
submitted by m0mentai to GameSale [link] [comments]
NINTENDO 3DS take both for $29 shipped
Final Fantasy Theatrhythm: Curtain Call - $15
Brain Age: Concentration Training - $15
NINTENDO DS bundle all for $205 shipped
Snood 2: On Vacation - $2 (or free with any purchase)
Mystery Case Files: MIllionHeir - $2 (or free w/ any purchase)
Personal Trainer: Cooking - $2 (or free w/ any purchase)
Nintendo DS Browser - $12
Rhythm Heaven - $40
Big Brain Academy - $2 (or free w/ any purchase)
Brain Age - $5
Brain Age 2 - $5
Castlevania: Order of Ecclesia - $105
Castlevania: Portrait of Ruin - $50, water damage to cover art
PLAYSTATION
Brave Fencer Musashi - $80, no manual
PS2 bundle all for $215 shipped
Dynasty Warriors 4 GH - $10
Capcom Classics Collection Vol 1 - $10
Capcom Classics Collection Vol 2 - $10
Guitar Hero - $5 (or free w/ any purchase)
Guitar Hero 2 - $5 (or free w/ any purchase)
Ace Combat 4 GH - $5 (or free w/ any purchase)
Madden 2003, 2005 - $2 each or free with any purchase
Marvel vs Capcom 2 - $195
NINTENDO GAMECUBE
Pokemon Colosseum bonus disc - $175
NINTENDO GAMEBOY bundle all for $230 shipped
Kirby’s Pinball Land - $20
WWF Superstars - $10
Pac-Man - $10
Operation C - $35
Batman: Return of the Joker - $30
Super Mario Land - $25
Tetris - $15
Baseball - $10
Ninja Gaiden Shadow - $50
NINTENDO GAMEBOY ADVANCE * bundle both for $25 shipped*
Mario Pinball Land - $15
Yu Gi Oh: Eternal Duelist Soul - $12
SNES bundle both for $32 shipped
Mario Paint - $5
Zelda LttP - $30
NES (all games come with an dust sleeve) bundle all for $175 shipped
Lee Trevino’s Fighting Golf - $5
WWF Wrestlemania Challenge - $5
Roger Clemens’ MVP Baseball - $5
Flight of the Intruder - $5
Track & Field 2 - $5
RC Pro Am - $8
Castlevania - $25
Mike Tyson’s Punch Out - $40, white bullets
Tetris - $15
Tetris 2 - $10
10 Yard Fight - $5
NES Play Action Football - $5
Bases Loaded 3 - $5
Championship Bowling - $5
Classic Concentration - $10
Duck Hunt - $10
Blades of Steel - $8
Golf - $5
NES Cleaning Kit - $10
CONSOLES
SNES - $75 (A/V cord, power brick, 1 controller, manual, poster (torn)).
Wii - $65 (stand, sensor bar, power brick, a/v cord, 2 wii-motes, 1 nunchuk, classic controller). SALE PENDING
MISC
NES Sleeves & Manuals
- (NES) Strider - $8
* (NES) Megaman 2 - $8 - (NES) Skate or Die - $5
- (GB) TMNT Fall of the Foot Clan - $3
* (GB) Kirby's Dream Land - $5 - NES Sleeves - $1 each
FFVIII - $15
FFX-2 - $12
Xenogears - $40
2023.05.31 02:47 SlamDunk1428 Do you think Jaylen should be trade? Yes, but not because of this series.
There is nothing about this upcoming off-season that hasn't already been said, so I'm just gonna input my opinion into this subreddit and y'all let me know what you think.
About two weeks ago I made a post saying something along the line of: " I feel like there is no leadership or defined role within the team even after that many experience". https://www.reddit.com/bostonceltics/comments/13ld29u/just_a_thought/
From the way I see it, this team supposed to have Two superstars. They have similar style and play similar role on the team. Both are historically inconsistent in the playoff. But that's why there are two of them, when one is off their game, the other one supposed to step up big, regardless of the final results. Two examples: 1. Last season final vs. Warriors, Tatum played bad but Jaylen stepped up, thus started the long season debate of who to keep as the leader of the Celtics in the Long run. 2. This season conf final vs. Heats, Jaylen played bad but Tatum stepped up from Game 4 -6 to keep their season alive.
People has been blaming Jaylen (rightfully so) for this loss. And wanting to trade him based on this experience. While I believe that he should leave/be trade, the reason is not because of this series. My opinion is purely financial. The Boston Celtics isn't the Warriors, they were willing to pay their players this season because they just came off a underdog championship run. The Celtics accomplished nothing.
Go back to my previous post about how there are no define role within the team, that's also another reason why they should trade Jaylen, because this team need more than just minor restructuring. Fans has been complained about needing a real PG, that's 1. As weird as Mazzulla is, I think he deserve another half season with a legit coaching staff, which he did not have this season due to () circumstances. Al Horford is visibly aging in term of performance in front of our eyes, that's 2.
Regarding the Bricks of 3s last game, it remind me of the 27 missed 3s from the Rockets a few season back. The difference is that Celtics' players and team have the ability to drive into the paint, or mid-range shots, But they don't. That's 3. This team need a definition, a new definition
For people keep saying to run it back, they actually may given Jaylen value dropped after this series and they need another superstar (Damian?) which won't be equal value. They may even made it to the final next season, but without major changes, I do not believe that this team can beat any team that come out of the West in a 7 game series (Nuggets, Warriors, healthy Grizzlies, all in Suns, a hungry Kings, or even a weird roster Lakers).
If the Celtics decided to "run it back" like they have been the last few seasons, how do you think off-season and next season will go?
submitted by SlamDunk1428 to bostonceltics [link] [comments]
About two weeks ago I made a post saying something along the line of: " I feel like there is no leadership or defined role within the team even after that many experience". https://www.reddit.com/bostonceltics/comments/13ld29u/just_a_thought/
From the way I see it, this team supposed to have Two superstars. They have similar style and play similar role on the team. Both are historically inconsistent in the playoff. But that's why there are two of them, when one is off their game, the other one supposed to step up big, regardless of the final results. Two examples: 1. Last season final vs. Warriors, Tatum played bad but Jaylen stepped up, thus started the long season debate of who to keep as the leader of the Celtics in the Long run. 2. This season conf final vs. Heats, Jaylen played bad but Tatum stepped up from Game 4 -6 to keep their season alive.
People has been blaming Jaylen (rightfully so) for this loss. And wanting to trade him based on this experience. While I believe that he should leave/be trade, the reason is not because of this series. My opinion is purely financial. The Boston Celtics isn't the Warriors, they were willing to pay their players this season because they just came off a underdog championship run. The Celtics accomplished nothing.
Go back to my previous post about how there are no define role within the team, that's also another reason why they should trade Jaylen, because this team need more than just minor restructuring. Fans has been complained about needing a real PG, that's 1. As weird as Mazzulla is, I think he deserve another half season with a legit coaching staff, which he did not have this season due to () circumstances. Al Horford is visibly aging in term of performance in front of our eyes, that's 2.
Regarding the Bricks of 3s last game, it remind me of the 27 missed 3s from the Rockets a few season back. The difference is that Celtics' players and team have the ability to drive into the paint, or mid-range shots, But they don't. That's 3. This team need a definition, a new definition
For people keep saying to run it back, they actually may given Jaylen value dropped after this series and they need another superstar (Damian?) which won't be equal value. They may even made it to the final next season, but without major changes, I do not believe that this team can beat any team that come out of the West in a 7 game series (Nuggets, Warriors, healthy Grizzlies, all in Suns, a hungry Kings, or even a weird roster Lakers).
If the Celtics decided to "run it back" like they have been the last few seasons, how do you think off-season and next season will go?
2023.05.30 23:00 _-NightShade-_ Help with Problems Painting Orange Peel Texture on Ceiling
Hey Reddit hope you can help me troubleshoot this. We have an orange peel textured ceiling that was painted white but had a couple of water stains so we wanted to paint over it.. got some Behr premium ceiling paint mixed and rolled it on the next day, but the result looks inconsistent and you can see the roll marks easily.. any idea what we could be doing wrong?
submitted by _-NightShade-_ to HomeImprovement [link] [comments]
2023.05.30 21:44 Kammy6707 What to do with this fireplace/brick wall?
 | I need some help with this wall in our family room - I keep going back and forth. It is all brick with the fireplace in the center and a paneled area above the fireplace (70s era house). submitted by Kammy6707 to HomeDecorating [link] [comments] We just moved in (so excuse the mess!)and I have been brainstorming ideas but the non-bricked area above the fireplace is throwing me off. I plan on replacing the red carpet with something more grey/tan and doing dark blue walls and I’m thinking a green couch. Also will update the fireplace screen and replace the drop ceiling. Do I whitewash all the brick and paint the paneled area dark blue to match walls? Do I paint the entire center a darker color and leave the brick walls on the side to help define the fireplace? Or whitewash the walls with the darker fireplace? |
2023.05.30 21:21 msfixits Did I miss the annual Behr paint rebate/sale on Memorial Day weekend this year?
I swear there is always a Behr paint rebate during Memorial Day weekend. I couldn't see anything both in-store and online.
submitted by msfixits to HomeDepot [link] [comments]
2023.05.30 20:42 Scouseleemini I did an arson
 | So I found this artist called steven spazuk so I decided to try his art style because I thought it looked cool, turns out he uses fire and soot to paint, absolutely insane and incredible pieces he has created and hugely inspired by it so here’s my attempts on using this technique and honestly it’s been fun to use (minus the one or two occasions I set my canvas on fire due to lack of awareness/attention span of a brick) but I thoroughly enjoyed this and recommend you all try at least once (kerosene or candles are a good source of high soot producing flames as well as really thick card, like really thick) submitted by Scouseleemini to drawing [link] [comments] |
2023.05.30 19:45 Necrolancer96 Summoning Kobolds At Midnight: A Tale of Suburbia & Sorcery. 83
Chapter LXXXIII
Somewhere, West Virginia, USA.
"PUT YOUR BACK INTO IT!!!" A harsh voice barked out.
The dragues grunted and whined as they continued to chop and hack at the thick trees that covered the south of the Duval Estate. It was slow going since they were using basic axes and handsaws. The dumb things couldn't be trusted with anything more advanced.
At least that was what Morty, and everyone else, thought. Morty placed a ice pack to his aching head as he nursed a stiff drink. He could only vaguely recall the Ball. He was excited, then annoyed, then angry. Oh yeah, the City Council and the Mayor stood him up.
Then he recalled something about swearing vengeance afterwards. He winced as a great tree fell to the ground with a groan, and a wet squelch as a drague failed to get away in time. Vengeance was for another day, he thought.
He wanted his industry up and running yesterday, and he was annoyed that it was such slow going to get the forest cleared. The workforge was being rebuilt as they worked. In the meantime, the logs were being trimmed and stored in a hastily built shed to shelter them from the weather.
He didn't need the whole forest cleared, just enough for a decent path/road to haul the stone, ore, and lead from the deposits back here for storage and processing.
But even that was taking too long for Morty. So today, instead of dealing with matters involving the town, he decided to oversee the lumber operation. The back brick wall has since been torn down and the brick repurposed for other things around the base camp.
What stood now was a wide open view of the various oaks, pines, maples, beech and cedars that covered the area. Now he just had to tear it up. At least he will when the dragues would stop dying from the falling lumber!
"TIMBER!!!" The harsh call of the Red Cap foreman came as a solid trunk of pine fell.
The various work crews of the dragues scattered this time save for a handful that were either squished under the pine or lost appendages to it. The ones still alive were dragged away to the drague housing quarters. Small shanty shacks that were barely held together.
Morty followed and glanced inside, curious as how the dragues were made compared to the rest. It was pretty similar to the rest of the goblins. Save for the fact the pool was a murky almost dirty dishwater color instead of the vibrant green of the other goblin pools. It also spawned 3-5 at a time instead of just a single goblin every few seconds.
Then again, given the rate they died it wasn't surprising to see them being pumped out faster and in a higher volume, especially if the near constant stream of dead dragues being thrown into the pools to "refresh" them was anything to go by.
Morty, curiosity satisfied, went back to observing the operation. He stood under a pavilion with one of the smarter goblins as they gibbered about plans for collecting the lumber more efficiently. While they did so the Red Caps and other goblin grunts were patrolling the area, keeping the dragues in line as well as keeping an eye out for anything that might wish them harm.
Which wasn't much at any rate. Other than a brief skirmish with a boar their presence scared away anything else. A bugbeabigfoot/whatever they called themselves came up and gave Morty a brief report.
All is well, the halflings were where they were every time they reported back. Though the scout did report that some of them, and a handful of humans, were doing some minor foresting on the west-side of the forest that Morty was clearing.
Nothing that was any issue, Morty thought. Though he would have to either send someone or go himself and make sure that the halflings knew what was and wasn't theirs.
But from the report it wasn't anything to worry about yet. Maybe he can keep a tree line that could separate the two, a natural boundary so to speak. He knew that when he started doing full scale agriculture that the walking spuds would be his natural, and only, competitors. But that was a future Morty problem, today Morty was dealing with just clearing more than a few feet of trees!
The only good thing about the dragues was the same advantage that the other greenskins had, numbers. That was about it, they were too dumb to do anything complex, and too weak to do much of anything else. As soon as 10 new ones joined the work crews, twice that were hauled away, dead from exhaustion or some random act of violence between them.
Goblins were naturally petty. But the dragues seemed even worse! They could barely work together, they required a Red Cap or someone else of higher rank to keep them in line just to prevent them from offing one another.
It seemed to Morty that a caste system had naturally formed. Him and the sisters at the top, the Red Caps and other house/smart goblins making the next step. Though he's started to notice a bit of a rivalry between the two groups. The Red Caps maintained that their military mentality and organization was better, and that they in turn were better than the house/smart goblins. The house/smart goblins in turn believed they were better as they were better educated and learned than the Red Caps.
Morty has had to intervene between fights in the manor already. He's limited the house staff to serving only himself and the sisters and relegated some dragues to serving the Red Caps. This has resulted in more incidents of violence against the dragues for spillage and other instances of "carelessness". But the serving staff were grateful to not be dealing with the "brutish" Red Caps.
After them it went the goblin grunts, and finally the dragues. Not like Morty cared though. As long as they did what they were told he could care less. He watched a log get dragged away on a hastily built sled as he sipped his drink.
Out the corner of his eye he could see some of the smart goblins continue to tinker with the remnants of the scrapped vehicles. He heard them talking about building a "hauling kart" to better haul the lumber and future deposits they were going to exploit.
From what he's seen of the plans so far he would be surprised if it ran at all if it didn't explode, again.
That wasn't the only thing being worked on either at the moment though. While his armee was being trained and drilled as it continued to grow, he was expanding the area around the manor.
A few guard posts were being built along the road to the manor, and he's already drew up plans to build some housing for the soldiery, either in town or here on the grounds. It'll keep them happy and content, and if he puts them in town then they can be quick and ready to deal with any... malcontents.
As soon as the workforge is up and running he also wants more artillery. Either cannons or mortars. If only there was sulfur and saltpeter nearby then his armee could be entirely independent!
But you can't have everything. Though he wasn't sure what would be cheaper, ordering a bulk order of gunpowder or the ingredients to make it himself. Another problem for future Morty.
The workforge would also need to be expanded or liquified into separate specialized factories for processing the lead and iron. As well as a masonry to work stone. He wanted his manor turned into a fort by Christmas! A big stone starfort surrounding the manor itself! Walls lined with cannons! Sure it wouldn't deal with Apaches and Tomahawk missiles. But it was better than nothing!
The thrown together lumbermill was first on the list though. The fact that it burned up with the rest of the workforge was an annoyance that he didn't want to deal with again. So while the workforge was being rebuilt the lumbermill was being built away from it. Once it was up and running he can resume his lumber processing.
-----
The Colonel had returned to the pawnshop. Though he was hesitant to enter. The same feelings from last night returned, worse than before. This time he was painfully aware of the new sensation in his breeches!
Once was a coincidence, twice was a pattern, was the human saying wasn't it, he thought as he shuffled. The fact that it's happened twice, and both times was in the presence, or even thought, of the pawnbroker, was enough to confirm his theory.
The other Red Caps were little better as the metamorphosis seemed to spring on them with little thought or feeling, he wasn't sure if it was sudden or if it had been happening for some time and they just didn't realize it.
Either way, it was something that the Red Caps now had to deal with. Sooner rather than later. Since yesterday the number of Red Cap recruits has fallen to pitiful levels. There would usually be potential in new spawns that would make it fairly obvious right from the get-go that they were worthy of donning the colors.
But that was rarer and rarer as time went by, and now he was sure that the days of drawing recruits from the spawning goblin pools was at an end.
He walked through the door as a little bell chimed above. Alerting Molly the pawnbroker of his presence. She actually smiled when she saw him. Which just made his nerves worse!
"Hello Colonel! How's the patrol goin'?"
He swallowed nervously.
"It's going as well as usual. Another nest is in the process of being put to the sword as we speak. Though there were also reports of a lone individual skulking about sometime last night."
She nodded with a smirk. It was actually kinda cute that the uniformed man was so nervous around her. A nice change from the hot and bothered country boys from one of the farms or ranches that would swagger in and try and pull their country boy charm on her.
"Heard about that this mornin'. Find out who it was?"
"We did not. I wanted to make sure that those under my- OUR protection weren't bothered by the incident!" He hastily corrected.
Yup, definitely cute, she thought as he continued to sweat and shuffle in her presence.
"Nope, as you can see everythin' is where its supposed to be."
He nodded his head at her words.
"Good! Good. Well, unless you would like to report anything than I will take my leave!"
He didn't wait for a reply before turning on his heel and making for the door. But then he stopped just as his hand reached for the door. He took a deep breath and turned around and looked at the still smirking pawnbroker.
"Though, if you are not doing anything tonight? Would you care to go for a nightly walk with me?"
"Why Colonel?! Are you asking me out once more?! And so soon?!" She asked with faux scandal in her voice.
"Y-y-your right, my apologies. It was improper as to inquire again so soon. I'll take my leave then." The Colonel said and turned to leave once more, a bit dejected that his offer was rebuked and ashamed that he couldn't wait a proper amount of time before asking her again!
"WAIT?!" Molly called.
He looked back at the pawnbroker.
"I was only teasin' a little! I would love to go for a walk with you tonight. If you still want?"
The Colonel smiled and nodded.
"Of course! I'll meet you after your work is finished?"
"That'd be fine!" She stated with a smile.
The Colonel left with a bit more pep in his step, though his nerves were shot from the situation. Another date, he thought excitedly! With his courtship of the pawnbroker going ahead now he just needed to get permission from the General to advance it when the time is appropriate.
The Colonel returned to the manor and searched for Morty, after asking around he found him in his study. As was the head butler, who looked to be speaking with Morty about something as well.
"-he staff are beginning to feel certain things that are not common among our kind Master. I have an idea what might be happening and I would like to inform you-"
"I desire to mate." The Colonel stated simply as he grew tired of the head butler's rambling.
Morty's only response was to spit and choke on his bourbon.
[First] [Prev] [Next]
submitted by Necrolancer96 to HFY [link] [comments]
Somewhere, West Virginia, USA.
"PUT YOUR BACK INTO IT!!!" A harsh voice barked out.
The dragues grunted and whined as they continued to chop and hack at the thick trees that covered the south of the Duval Estate. It was slow going since they were using basic axes and handsaws. The dumb things couldn't be trusted with anything more advanced.
At least that was what Morty, and everyone else, thought. Morty placed a ice pack to his aching head as he nursed a stiff drink. He could only vaguely recall the Ball. He was excited, then annoyed, then angry. Oh yeah, the City Council and the Mayor stood him up.
Then he recalled something about swearing vengeance afterwards. He winced as a great tree fell to the ground with a groan, and a wet squelch as a drague failed to get away in time. Vengeance was for another day, he thought.
He wanted his industry up and running yesterday, and he was annoyed that it was such slow going to get the forest cleared. The workforge was being rebuilt as they worked. In the meantime, the logs were being trimmed and stored in a hastily built shed to shelter them from the weather.
He didn't need the whole forest cleared, just enough for a decent path/road to haul the stone, ore, and lead from the deposits back here for storage and processing.
But even that was taking too long for Morty. So today, instead of dealing with matters involving the town, he decided to oversee the lumber operation. The back brick wall has since been torn down and the brick repurposed for other things around the base camp.
What stood now was a wide open view of the various oaks, pines, maples, beech and cedars that covered the area. Now he just had to tear it up. At least he will when the dragues would stop dying from the falling lumber!
"TIMBER!!!" The harsh call of the Red Cap foreman came as a solid trunk of pine fell.
The various work crews of the dragues scattered this time save for a handful that were either squished under the pine or lost appendages to it. The ones still alive were dragged away to the drague housing quarters. Small shanty shacks that were barely held together.
Morty followed and glanced inside, curious as how the dragues were made compared to the rest. It was pretty similar to the rest of the goblins. Save for the fact the pool was a murky almost dirty dishwater color instead of the vibrant green of the other goblin pools. It also spawned 3-5 at a time instead of just a single goblin every few seconds.
Then again, given the rate they died it wasn't surprising to see them being pumped out faster and in a higher volume, especially if the near constant stream of dead dragues being thrown into the pools to "refresh" them was anything to go by.
Morty, curiosity satisfied, went back to observing the operation. He stood under a pavilion with one of the smarter goblins as they gibbered about plans for collecting the lumber more efficiently. While they did so the Red Caps and other goblin grunts were patrolling the area, keeping the dragues in line as well as keeping an eye out for anything that might wish them harm.
Which wasn't much at any rate. Other than a brief skirmish with a boar their presence scared away anything else. A bugbeabigfoot/whatever they called themselves came up and gave Morty a brief report.
All is well, the halflings were where they were every time they reported back. Though the scout did report that some of them, and a handful of humans, were doing some minor foresting on the west-side of the forest that Morty was clearing.
Nothing that was any issue, Morty thought. Though he would have to either send someone or go himself and make sure that the halflings knew what was and wasn't theirs.
But from the report it wasn't anything to worry about yet. Maybe he can keep a tree line that could separate the two, a natural boundary so to speak. He knew that when he started doing full scale agriculture that the walking spuds would be his natural, and only, competitors. But that was a future Morty problem, today Morty was dealing with just clearing more than a few feet of trees!
The only good thing about the dragues was the same advantage that the other greenskins had, numbers. That was about it, they were too dumb to do anything complex, and too weak to do much of anything else. As soon as 10 new ones joined the work crews, twice that were hauled away, dead from exhaustion or some random act of violence between them.
Goblins were naturally petty. But the dragues seemed even worse! They could barely work together, they required a Red Cap or someone else of higher rank to keep them in line just to prevent them from offing one another.
It seemed to Morty that a caste system had naturally formed. Him and the sisters at the top, the Red Caps and other house/smart goblins making the next step. Though he's started to notice a bit of a rivalry between the two groups. The Red Caps maintained that their military mentality and organization was better, and that they in turn were better than the house/smart goblins. The house/smart goblins in turn believed they were better as they were better educated and learned than the Red Caps.
Morty has had to intervene between fights in the manor already. He's limited the house staff to serving only himself and the sisters and relegated some dragues to serving the Red Caps. This has resulted in more incidents of violence against the dragues for spillage and other instances of "carelessness". But the serving staff were grateful to not be dealing with the "brutish" Red Caps.
After them it went the goblin grunts, and finally the dragues. Not like Morty cared though. As long as they did what they were told he could care less. He watched a log get dragged away on a hastily built sled as he sipped his drink.
Out the corner of his eye he could see some of the smart goblins continue to tinker with the remnants of the scrapped vehicles. He heard them talking about building a "hauling kart" to better haul the lumber and future deposits they were going to exploit.
From what he's seen of the plans so far he would be surprised if it ran at all if it didn't explode, again.
That wasn't the only thing being worked on either at the moment though. While his armee was being trained and drilled as it continued to grow, he was expanding the area around the manor.
A few guard posts were being built along the road to the manor, and he's already drew up plans to build some housing for the soldiery, either in town or here on the grounds. It'll keep them happy and content, and if he puts them in town then they can be quick and ready to deal with any... malcontents.
As soon as the workforge is up and running he also wants more artillery. Either cannons or mortars. If only there was sulfur and saltpeter nearby then his armee could be entirely independent!
But you can't have everything. Though he wasn't sure what would be cheaper, ordering a bulk order of gunpowder or the ingredients to make it himself. Another problem for future Morty.
The workforge would also need to be expanded or liquified into separate specialized factories for processing the lead and iron. As well as a masonry to work stone. He wanted his manor turned into a fort by Christmas! A big stone starfort surrounding the manor itself! Walls lined with cannons! Sure it wouldn't deal with Apaches and Tomahawk missiles. But it was better than nothing!
The thrown together lumbermill was first on the list though. The fact that it burned up with the rest of the workforge was an annoyance that he didn't want to deal with again. So while the workforge was being rebuilt the lumbermill was being built away from it. Once it was up and running he can resume his lumber processing.
-----
The Colonel had returned to the pawnshop. Though he was hesitant to enter. The same feelings from last night returned, worse than before. This time he was painfully aware of the new sensation in his breeches!
Once was a coincidence, twice was a pattern, was the human saying wasn't it, he thought as he shuffled. The fact that it's happened twice, and both times was in the presence, or even thought, of the pawnbroker, was enough to confirm his theory.
The other Red Caps were little better as the metamorphosis seemed to spring on them with little thought or feeling, he wasn't sure if it was sudden or if it had been happening for some time and they just didn't realize it.
Either way, it was something that the Red Caps now had to deal with. Sooner rather than later. Since yesterday the number of Red Cap recruits has fallen to pitiful levels. There would usually be potential in new spawns that would make it fairly obvious right from the get-go that they were worthy of donning the colors.
But that was rarer and rarer as time went by, and now he was sure that the days of drawing recruits from the spawning goblin pools was at an end.
He walked through the door as a little bell chimed above. Alerting Molly the pawnbroker of his presence. She actually smiled when she saw him. Which just made his nerves worse!
"Hello Colonel! How's the patrol goin'?"
He swallowed nervously.
"It's going as well as usual. Another nest is in the process of being put to the sword as we speak. Though there were also reports of a lone individual skulking about sometime last night."
She nodded with a smirk. It was actually kinda cute that the uniformed man was so nervous around her. A nice change from the hot and bothered country boys from one of the farms or ranches that would swagger in and try and pull their country boy charm on her.
"Heard about that this mornin'. Find out who it was?"
"We did not. I wanted to make sure that those under my- OUR protection weren't bothered by the incident!" He hastily corrected.
Yup, definitely cute, she thought as he continued to sweat and shuffle in her presence.
"Nope, as you can see everythin' is where its supposed to be."
He nodded his head at her words.
"Good! Good. Well, unless you would like to report anything than I will take my leave!"
He didn't wait for a reply before turning on his heel and making for the door. But then he stopped just as his hand reached for the door. He took a deep breath and turned around and looked at the still smirking pawnbroker.
"Though, if you are not doing anything tonight? Would you care to go for a nightly walk with me?"
"Why Colonel?! Are you asking me out once more?! And so soon?!" She asked with faux scandal in her voice.
"Y-y-your right, my apologies. It was improper as to inquire again so soon. I'll take my leave then." The Colonel said and turned to leave once more, a bit dejected that his offer was rebuked and ashamed that he couldn't wait a proper amount of time before asking her again!
"WAIT?!" Molly called.
He looked back at the pawnbroker.
"I was only teasin' a little! I would love to go for a walk with you tonight. If you still want?"
The Colonel smiled and nodded.
"Of course! I'll meet you after your work is finished?"
"That'd be fine!" She stated with a smile.
The Colonel left with a bit more pep in his step, though his nerves were shot from the situation. Another date, he thought excitedly! With his courtship of the pawnbroker going ahead now he just needed to get permission from the General to advance it when the time is appropriate.
The Colonel returned to the manor and searched for Morty, after asking around he found him in his study. As was the head butler, who looked to be speaking with Morty about something as well.
"-he staff are beginning to feel certain things that are not common among our kind Master. I have an idea what might be happening and I would like to inform you-"
"I desire to mate." The Colonel stated simply as he grew tired of the head butler's rambling.
Morty's only response was to spit and choke on his bourbon.
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2023.05.30 18:35 FirelordDerpy A speech by Senator Amidala and Senator Faus on Naboo
 | A towering structure rises far above the landscape, two large durosteel barrels are pointed toward the stars, around it a series of elegant brick buildings hiding complex machinery and command and control devices. Parked outside, brand new and freshly painted yellow AAT tanks with the chrome accents of the Naboo Security Forces provided a guard for the facility. submitted by FirelordDerpy to model_holonet [link] [comments] https://preview.redd.it/3lvxgvnme13b1.png?width=773&format=png&auto=webp&s=29846a700889e3d2928c45dfa8b55669d6286841 Far away on an elevated balcony in the Theed Royal Place, a crowd stares out at the structure in the distance. https://preview.redd.it/s48yca7qe13b1.png?width=776&format=png&auto=webp&s=c5b4e53a3611e4c4ec3209b8a6b6e737990ce14d “Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present Her Royal Majesty Queen Jamilla!” “Thank you Captain Panaka. My friends, one and half years ago my family was thrown out of our homes and marched at gunpoint out of this very city, now thanks to skillful diplomacy it is that very invading force that has given us the tools to ensure nothing like that can ever happen again. And for that, I would like to thank our former Queen and my dear Friend, Senator Padme Amidala!” “Thank you your majesty, part of healing wounds is moving forward, we will bear the scars of the attack for years, but they will only be scars, and we will carry them with pride for having stood together, Naboo and Gungan, we won together. Our cities are rebuilding and we have a military strong enough to ensure that we cannot be threatened again! Thanks to the hard efforts of many in the Galactic Senate, including Senator Faus, we have affected meaningful changes to both better protect all the People of Naboo, and ensure that the Trade Federation will never again bring any world to that point again.” “I am Senator Faus of the Trade Federation, I would like to extend my sincere apologies to Naboo. Viceroy Nute Gunray’s actions were not what the Trade Federation was created to do. His abuse of power and overreach has invited corruption and authoritarianism to enter the Federation. I hope we can work together to get justice and closure for Naboo and rid the galaxy of those who wish to use violence and force as a way to push their political agenda. If there is anything more that I can do for Naboo please reach out to me.” “Would the press like to ask any questions?” “Theed Daily, Senator Amidala how do you feel about Senator Binks becoming Regional Senator?” “Senator Binks and I have had some disagreements, but I wish him well and I know he will do his best.” “Coruscant Times, Senator Faus, how does the Trade Federation intend to ensure that this will never happen again?” “We have purged a lot of the corruption and manipulation that allowed such terrible events to occur! We are striving to be better as what happened was a wake-up to how far we strayed!” “Ladies and Gentlemen, there will be time to ask more questions later, however, the weapon is ready. The Trade Federation has provided a derelict cargo ship, if you will all look at the sky to the left of the Moon.” “Captain Panaka, you may fire when ready.” “Begin countdown.” Across the city a low siren whines slowly and a voice calls out on the intercom. “Defense Cannon Test firing. This is a drill. Defense Cannon Test firing. This is a drill.” Any citizen not already watching rushes outside to watch as the countdown finishes and with two dull thuds the cannon fires, the shots arcing into the sky as a loud cheer erupts across the city. The two shots tear through the atmosphere before a tiny speck of an explosion lights up like a flash of an asteroid, a satellite feed shows both shots hit their mark and in a flash obliterate the outdated cargo vessel. https://preview.redd.it/o4d9q833f13b1.png?width=594&format=png&auto=webp&s=6db6c608a785b4e4ae5c70fc4728625b396e18a5 https://preview.redd.it/u2t4ik24f13b1.png?width=593&format=png&auto=webp&s=6f49a27347d5bfe45791439b236591fe17951781 “Weapon test complete, My Queen, I report that the weapon operated completely as intended. Target annihilated.” “Thank you Captain, my guests, let us adjourn to the dining hall.” (OOC Note: Naboo, and TF gave me Permission to post this on their behalf.) |
2023.05.30 18:18 cultkiller Time to replace siding on 3 sides of my house - conflicted on material to use
A combination of woodpeckers, lack of gutters, poor original installation, and other moisture issues have meant my ~30 year old, mystery particle board material siding needs so many repairs, it just needs to be replaced. I live in the Midwest so we have big weather extremes, rain snow, ice, the whole thing. I want something that will last and not require me to paint it so I’m looking at finished LP Smartside. I have Hardie that replaced old cedar on one side but LP seems more economical for the rest and would look better and hopefully last longer than vinyl. I’m getting multiple quotes but I’m getting all kinds of conflicting info from contractors. If I were to consolidate their advice and preferences into a single conclusion it would be to rebuild my house as a brick fortress if I don’t want to replace my siding every 10 years because all the products are crap apparently. That seems wrong. I’m leaning toward LP for value and durability in extreme heat and cold. Does anyone have any experience with one product lasting better than others? It’s a huge investment so the research has left me overwhelmed. Thank you.
submitted by cultkiller to HomeImprovement [link] [comments]
2023.05.30 17:32 CommitTacksEvasion Shopping list
I have an extensive list of stuff I need. I’ll remove what I’m given from the list, and I’ll pay any reasonable price for the items (I really can only offer bells)
1 artisinal bug cage 2 Beach Chairs 1 beach chair with parasol 5 beekeepers hives 4 birdbaths 1 birdcage 6 bird houses 2 brick ovens 1 brick well 1 bonfire 2 campfires 2 campfire cookware 12 camping cots 1 campsite sign 1 deer scare 2 destination signpost 1 fish drying rack 1 fishing rod stand 4 flower beds 2 flower stands 1 garden faucet 6 garden lights 2 hammocks 1 hose wheel 2 lawn chairs 1 lawnmower 1 lighthouse 1 outdoor bath 1 outdoor picnic set 1 pergola 2 sandcastles 3 scarecrows 1 silo 10 stands 1 simple diy workbench 1 street organ 4 water pumps 2 western style stones 16 wheat fields 1 windmill 1 wood burning stove 1 wooden storage shed 2 books 1 Chessboard 1 Coffee grinder 1 Coffee cup 1 of every variation of coffee bean bag 1 siphon 1 cookies 6 cucumber horses 1 cutting board 1 frying pan 2 glass jars 1 ironing set 1 kettle 1 metronome 1 moss ball 1 old fashioned alarm clock 1 phonograph 2 recycled paper bundles 1 rovers briefcase 1 shopping bag 2 stacks of books 2 table settings 1 pi pie 1 (real) Academic painting 1 of every museum day plaque 1 bathroom towel rack 1 of every of the HHAs awards 1 broom and dustpan 1 insect poster 1 fishing poster 1 formal paper 1 framed art poster 1 framed fossil poster 1 framed deep sea creature poster 1 moms art 2 variations of moms embroidery 1 pot rack 1 paw print doorplate 2 wall mounted candles 1 bird mobile 1 candle chandelier 1 round light fixture 1 stained glass light
Please bring the full amount listed. (Ex: bring all the wall mounted candles at once instead of just one) again, willing to pay any REASONABLE price
submitted by CommitTacksEvasion to AnimalCrossingNewHor [link] [comments]
1 artisinal bug cage 2 Beach Chairs 1 beach chair with parasol 5 beekeepers hives 4 birdbaths 1 birdcage 6 bird houses 2 brick ovens 1 brick well 1 bonfire 2 campfires 2 campfire cookware 12 camping cots 1 campsite sign 1 deer scare 2 destination signpost 1 fish drying rack 1 fishing rod stand 4 flower beds 2 flower stands 1 garden faucet 6 garden lights 2 hammocks 1 hose wheel 2 lawn chairs 1 lawnmower 1 lighthouse 1 outdoor bath 1 outdoor picnic set 1 pergola 2 sandcastles 3 scarecrows 1 silo 10 stands 1 simple diy workbench 1 street organ 4 water pumps 2 western style stones 16 wheat fields 1 windmill 1 wood burning stove 1 wooden storage shed 2 books 1 Chessboard 1 Coffee grinder 1 Coffee cup 1 of every variation of coffee bean bag 1 siphon 1 cookies 6 cucumber horses 1 cutting board 1 frying pan 2 glass jars 1 ironing set 1 kettle 1 metronome 1 moss ball 1 old fashioned alarm clock 1 phonograph 2 recycled paper bundles 1 rovers briefcase 1 shopping bag 2 stacks of books 2 table settings 1 pi pie 1 (real) Academic painting 1 of every museum day plaque 1 bathroom towel rack 1 of every of the HHAs awards 1 broom and dustpan 1 insect poster 1 fishing poster 1 formal paper 1 framed art poster 1 framed fossil poster 1 framed deep sea creature poster 1 moms art 2 variations of moms embroidery 1 pot rack 1 paw print doorplate 2 wall mounted candles 1 bird mobile 1 candle chandelier 1 round light fixture 1 stained glass light
Please bring the full amount listed. (Ex: bring all the wall mounted candles at once instead of just one) again, willing to pay any REASONABLE price
2023.05.30 16:46 Character_Noise5151 Keep uncovering asbestos in my old home, living nightmare…
Story starts out the same, I bought an old house that needed some work… I am a young(ish) and inexperienced homeowner. Now I’ve had more than a few exposures and I’m getting worried.
I shared in another post that I found out my basement is full of asbestos dust and I’ve been in and out of it for 3 years. It was tested positive and now I’m trying to get it removed (and the source of the dust) professionally.
Before that, I had another exposure with pipe insulation that a contractor removed haphazardly… he took it out but I cleaned it up with a mop. I don’t know what got in the air at that time. This one isn’t my biggest concern but…
Now I remembered something else. When I first moved in, I chiseled and sanded old paint off the brick area of my fireplace. There were MANY layers of paint because the house was built in the 1940s. Behind it was white plaster that looks like Artex, now that I know what it looks like. Judging by how much DIY asbestos shit the previous owners did in the basement I would not be surprised. This stuff was plastered over the bricks and then painted. I wasn’t wearing PPE and there was a lot of dust that I used a regular vacuum to clean and didn’t wet anything down. I even left the white lasted area exposed for months after because I didn’t think it was a hazard (I eventually did paint over it). I’m kicking myself now because I didn’t know asbestos was in all of this shit. I just feel completely blindsided and worried and contaminated.
submitted by Character_Noise5151 to asbestoshelp [link] [comments]
I shared in another post that I found out my basement is full of asbestos dust and I’ve been in and out of it for 3 years. It was tested positive and now I’m trying to get it removed (and the source of the dust) professionally.
Before that, I had another exposure with pipe insulation that a contractor removed haphazardly… he took it out but I cleaned it up with a mop. I don’t know what got in the air at that time. This one isn’t my biggest concern but…
Now I remembered something else. When I first moved in, I chiseled and sanded old paint off the brick area of my fireplace. There were MANY layers of paint because the house was built in the 1940s. Behind it was white plaster that looks like Artex, now that I know what it looks like. Judging by how much DIY asbestos shit the previous owners did in the basement I would not be surprised. This stuff was plastered over the bricks and then painted. I wasn’t wearing PPE and there was a lot of dust that I used a regular vacuum to clean and didn’t wet anything down. I even left the white lasted area exposed for months after because I didn’t think it was a hazard (I eventually did paint over it). I’m kicking myself now because I didn’t know asbestos was in all of this shit. I just feel completely blindsided and worried and contaminated.
2023.05.30 16:18 theducks How to attach trim out for a door opening on masonry?
I have a 2011 house with "modern" ensuite with no door. Plastered brick interior walls.
I want to put a barn door on a track in to close it off. There's already skirting on both sides of the opening - I'm thinking I'd cut it back with an osc multi tool and add the vertical risers of the trim up against it to make a face. Do the same on the inside, and then add "close out" piece between the two face pieces to make it look like a door frame and leave minimal gap between the sliding door and the wall/frame..
My question is, should I masonry screw these bits of trim into place and then fill and prime over the holes? or can I just use gobs of liquid nails to hold them to the wall (or open to suggestions of other options)
submitted by theducks to AusRenovation [link] [comments]
I want to put a barn door on a track in to close it off. There's already skirting on both sides of the opening - I'm thinking I'd cut it back with an osc multi tool and add the vertical risers of the trim up against it to make a face. Do the same on the inside, and then add "close out" piece between the two face pieces to make it look like a door frame and leave minimal gap between the sliding door and the wall/frame..
My question is, should I masonry screw these bits of trim into place and then fill and prime over the holes? or can I just use gobs of liquid nails to hold them to the wall (or open to suggestions of other options)
2023.05.30 16:13 fuzziekittens A set of poems that have helped with my grief.
Growing up so disconnected from my emotions, I frequently need pieces of media to help me through my grief. I love spoken word poetry and I wanted to share two poems by Andrea Gibson. While they are both called The Call, they are very different from each other and I have related to both in different stages of my healing. I hope they help you.
THE CALL, OPTION 1
I pay seventeen dollars online to track down the phone number
of the man who sexually assaulted me, and my friend asks, "What
do you plan to say?"
I'll tell him I know he lost
all his money gambling
and was forced
to sell the building
where he did what he did.
I'll tell him karma is a hell
of a feminist.
I'll tell him my silence
was his worst bet.
I'll tell him I'm watching
him through the bullet hole
he left in my childhood,
and if he comes within
two hundred miles
of a child's trust, my body
will start bleeding his name
all over Main Street in his middle-
of-somewhere town.
I'll tell him
he's the middle of nowhere:
a man with no stop
lights, the kind of place kids grow up
desperate to escape. I'll tell him
as soon as I got out,
I imagined him sanding off
his fingerprints, the guilt
filing him down to half his size.
When I met him,
he was the biggest man
in town, had set records
in the deadlift, was as old
as my father. I weighed
ninety-six pounds, was still
spending sleepovers practicing
how to kiss. I'll tell him how big
I am now. So big
I could make his address
the title of my next book,
and yes, I think he asked for it.
Asked me to play hangman
with his name on the local news,
asked me to spray paint ME TOO
across his pickup truck
and say, I dare you
to compare property damage
with someone you made property.
With someone whose puberty
you mutilated.
I'll say, Trauma
is a pretty word for how to die
every day of the year,
but my voice is alive
and right now it is the only justice
system I trust
to ensure men like you
understand the law
of gravity, understand
you will always be held down
by what you held down.
There is no such thing as rising
from someone else's ashes.
No man's spirit escapes the hell
he denies putting a child through,
which is to say, I am the only one
out of the two of us who survived
you, and I survived you
so beautifully. Even on my worst days,
my scars are the backroads
where kids sneak out their windows
and drive through the night
to hear poetry. I am so much
of who I dreamed I'd be
when I grew up, and what
does the boy you once were
think of the man you became?
A man running
from his own name.
A man who must wake
fifty times a night, terrified
the truth is somewhere breaking
from its chains and racing
for the world's ear.
When the truth gets there, will you try
to tell your friends I wanted it?
Will you try to tell your wife
how old of a soul I was?
At thirteen? At thirteen,
I had the youngest soul
in the universe.
I was so brand new
I thought reincarnation
was a flower I would wear
on my wrist
if someday someone asked me
to the ninth-grade dance.
I'd stand in my full-length mirror
and practice not blushing
when a slow song came on.
That's how old I was.
That's the kind of man you were.
The kind of man who makes children
grow up and search
for your phone number,
our bodies riddled with the wish
that all the records will say:
No one by that name exists.
THE CALL, OPTION 2
I pay seventeen dollars online to track down the phone number of the man who sexually
assaulted me, and my friend asks, "What do you plan to say?"
There is a world in which you did not touch me.
A world in which you thought about touching me
and were so nightmared by your own mind
you climbed inside your skull and bloodied your knees
crawling across the tundra of your history,
turning over every rock to chase out every worm
that might trick you into believing anything
could be cut in half and keep living.
There is a world in which you saw
how easily you could become an ax
splitting the personalities of children,
so swore your fingerprints
would be like the rings of trees, that your growth
could be counted on. In this world you have
groomed no one, and I am made of flyaways-
gleefully unclipped, wholly uncombed through,
braiding myself around a song, certain
I've invented dancing. Look at me
still calling you a hero. You built my trust
and never became the quake of earth
that shattered my foundation. Look at you
mothering your own nature, calling yourself home
at the first sign of dark. In this world you might
still be poor but not where it counts.
You might have still lost all your money,
but look at what you saved: Me
and Her and Her and Her and Her and Her
and the child you once were-how proud
he is to see who he's become. In this world
you still have secrets, but they are like my father's
secrets. The ones he doesn't know I know.
The ones my grandma told me: how he stayed
home nearly every weekend of high school
to keep my grandfather's drunken fist from the glass
of her jaw, how good my father was at pretending
he didn't love the movies, hadn't saved
all summer to buy a secondhand suit
for his first school dance. There is a world
in which you, too, only lie to save someone's life,
a world where you still live a stone's throw
from Canada but walk the river's shore never plotting
how you'd swim to freedom, never practicing
the backstroke of denial, never hoping I drowned
the letters you wrote me when I was graduating
eighth grade and you were forty and marrying
someone you said would never be your type.
The first time I called, your wife answered
the phone. I hung up, not strong enough
to be like you to throw a brick through
a woman's chest and have no doubts about it
being the right move, but there is a world
in which the truth is as soft as the pillow
that holds your wife's head when she dreams
about the day you met. In this world you wake up
before she does, make her coffee, read her horoscope
and forget to read your own. Where you stand behind her
when she looks in the mirror, tell her she's grown
more gorgeous every one of her sixty-seven years,
how you feel like the richest man in town
with your hands in the silver
of her hair. In this world I celebrate the news
of you having a daughter, a granddaughter, a niece.
In this world I don't panic when I see a pink tricycle
in your neighbor's driveway
as I'm driving to meet friends at the riverfront,
my hometown still a home you never haunted.
I roll the window down, holler your name
into the autumn air. You look up
from raking a pile of golden leaves, smile
and wave back to me. Can you see it?
I know you can. Everyone can
see who they were supposed to be.
It's the readiest grief in the world.
submitted by fuzziekittens to adultsurvivors [link] [comments]
THE CALL, OPTION 1
I pay seventeen dollars online to track down the phone number
of the man who sexually assaulted me, and my friend asks, "What
do you plan to say?"
I'll tell him I know he lost
all his money gambling
and was forced
to sell the building
where he did what he did.
I'll tell him karma is a hell
of a feminist.
I'll tell him my silence
was his worst bet.
I'll tell him I'm watching
him through the bullet hole
he left in my childhood,
and if he comes within
two hundred miles
of a child's trust, my body
will start bleeding his name
all over Main Street in his middle-
of-somewhere town.
I'll tell him
he's the middle of nowhere:
a man with no stop
lights, the kind of place kids grow up
desperate to escape. I'll tell him
as soon as I got out,
I imagined him sanding off
his fingerprints, the guilt
filing him down to half his size.
When I met him,
he was the biggest man
in town, had set records
in the deadlift, was as old
as my father. I weighed
ninety-six pounds, was still
spending sleepovers practicing
how to kiss. I'll tell him how big
I am now. So big
I could make his address
the title of my next book,
and yes, I think he asked for it.
Asked me to play hangman
with his name on the local news,
asked me to spray paint ME TOO
across his pickup truck
and say, I dare you
to compare property damage
with someone you made property.
With someone whose puberty
you mutilated.
I'll say, Trauma
is a pretty word for how to die
every day of the year,
but my voice is alive
and right now it is the only justice
system I trust
to ensure men like you
understand the law
of gravity, understand
you will always be held down
by what you held down.
There is no such thing as rising
from someone else's ashes.
No man's spirit escapes the hell
he denies putting a child through,
which is to say, I am the only one
out of the two of us who survived
you, and I survived you
so beautifully. Even on my worst days,
my scars are the backroads
where kids sneak out their windows
and drive through the night
to hear poetry. I am so much
of who I dreamed I'd be
when I grew up, and what
does the boy you once were
think of the man you became?
A man running
from his own name.
A man who must wake
fifty times a night, terrified
the truth is somewhere breaking
from its chains and racing
for the world's ear.
When the truth gets there, will you try
to tell your friends I wanted it?
Will you try to tell your wife
how old of a soul I was?
At thirteen? At thirteen,
I had the youngest soul
in the universe.
I was so brand new
I thought reincarnation
was a flower I would wear
on my wrist
if someday someone asked me
to the ninth-grade dance.
I'd stand in my full-length mirror
and practice not blushing
when a slow song came on.
That's how old I was.
That's the kind of man you were.
The kind of man who makes children
grow up and search
for your phone number,
our bodies riddled with the wish
that all the records will say:
No one by that name exists.
THE CALL, OPTION 2
I pay seventeen dollars online to track down the phone number of the man who sexually
assaulted me, and my friend asks, "What do you plan to say?"
There is a world in which you did not touch me.
A world in which you thought about touching me
and were so nightmared by your own mind
you climbed inside your skull and bloodied your knees
crawling across the tundra of your history,
turning over every rock to chase out every worm
that might trick you into believing anything
could be cut in half and keep living.
There is a world in which you saw
how easily you could become an ax
splitting the personalities of children,
so swore your fingerprints
would be like the rings of trees, that your growth
could be counted on. In this world you have
groomed no one, and I am made of flyaways-
gleefully unclipped, wholly uncombed through,
braiding myself around a song, certain
I've invented dancing. Look at me
still calling you a hero. You built my trust
and never became the quake of earth
that shattered my foundation. Look at you
mothering your own nature, calling yourself home
at the first sign of dark. In this world you might
still be poor but not where it counts.
You might have still lost all your money,
but look at what you saved: Me
and Her and Her and Her and Her and Her
and the child you once were-how proud
he is to see who he's become. In this world
you still have secrets, but they are like my father's
secrets. The ones he doesn't know I know.
The ones my grandma told me: how he stayed
home nearly every weekend of high school
to keep my grandfather's drunken fist from the glass
of her jaw, how good my father was at pretending
he didn't love the movies, hadn't saved
all summer to buy a secondhand suit
for his first school dance. There is a world
in which you, too, only lie to save someone's life,
a world where you still live a stone's throw
from Canada but walk the river's shore never plotting
how you'd swim to freedom, never practicing
the backstroke of denial, never hoping I drowned
the letters you wrote me when I was graduating
eighth grade and you were forty and marrying
someone you said would never be your type.
The first time I called, your wife answered
the phone. I hung up, not strong enough
to be like you to throw a brick through
a woman's chest and have no doubts about it
being the right move, but there is a world
in which the truth is as soft as the pillow
that holds your wife's head when she dreams
about the day you met. In this world you wake up
before she does, make her coffee, read her horoscope
and forget to read your own. Where you stand behind her
when she looks in the mirror, tell her she's grown
more gorgeous every one of her sixty-seven years,
how you feel like the richest man in town
with your hands in the silver
of her hair. In this world I celebrate the news
of you having a daughter, a granddaughter, a niece.
In this world I don't panic when I see a pink tricycle
in your neighbor's driveway
as I'm driving to meet friends at the riverfront,
my hometown still a home you never haunted.
I roll the window down, holler your name
into the autumn air. You look up
from raking a pile of golden leaves, smile
and wave back to me. Can you see it?
I know you can. Everyone can
see who they were supposed to be.
It's the readiest grief in the world.
2023.05.30 14:25 AlienNationSSB Alien-Nation Chapter 169: Jailbreak
All Chapters First Chapter of Alien-Nation Previous Chapter
Chapter summary: Vaughn liberates a bunch of people. Elias can't sleep and makes some decisions and receives a weird offer.
Chapter Art- Vaughn's Mask, a World War One Tanker Splatter Mask
A Leslie's Pool Supplies retail outlet made for a strange rally point for any group of people, even moreso now that the whole strip mall along what had been Concord Pike had long since closed. The stainless letters spelled the forgotten name of the shopping center, still proudly adorned the top of the diagram of blank signs ensured at least the brick obelisk was a conveniently obvious marker for the men to find and make preparations for assaulting the jail.
'Morningstar' squadron had swelled their cell's numbers to well over twenty by absorbing the miscellaneous fragments of other cells, whose skills were more generalized. The name carried over to the newly formed Strike Force by virtue of being both the largest and the lynchpin of the operation's success.
This was the largest force of the three organized groups they'd split into, each aiming to try and hit the larger jails along Route 202, the other two branches making a target list of their own. Vendetta had given them an extra half hour to at least get themselves close to in-position, but with only one shortwave had no way of knowing if they would coordinate their strike. He was a known element to everyone even if only by name. At least Elias's words stayed true; All seemed very familiar and well-practiced with their carried weaponry. More importantly, none contested his assigned leadership or questioned his orders.
Vaughn cradled the RPG he'd been given, eyeing the well-lit building just over the carefully landscaped hill. The last had been over a half hour ago. The box-mart across the old highway was the temporary headquarters of the repositioned Troop One, after the suburbs near Camp Death had been cleared, likely soon to be repositioned again. But the size of the old box-mart seemed to indicate several things, that it was largely indefensible, could contain a fair few prisoners, and by its proximity to Camp Death, could be useful to strike regardless.
The flow of traffic was unusually heavy for being well before the crack of dawn. Perhaps people were trying their luck getting up old 202 to try and reach the border that way, after having no luck along other closed border checkpoints. There was a feeling of self-consciousness in carrying heavy weapons out in the open along a suburban highway most had driven along during peacetime, the juxtaposition of old familiar environment and newly familiar activity showing just how much their lives had changed. Moreso as cars rolled along it like it was a Friday night of olde, the two lives- old and new, bumping shoulders for a moment.
"You ready?" He asked, snapping them back to the present.
Mutters of assent was good enough. Haltingly, everyone in the mishmashed strike team moved toward the precinct's bright lights, taking advantage of the long shadows and occasional noise of the passing cars.
It was an unassuming building, the repurposed garrison made out of some retail outlet built back in the turbulent seventies, all brick and little else but tiny glass doors, with not even windows for the occupants to know the impending violence had been approaching. What era will this be known as? Early Imperial? Resistance? Revolutionary? Wondered the teen, as he leveled it at the lobby. Good? Bad? Hell, I'm just the man with the gun.
Everyone levelled their weapons as once, and Vaughn held a hand high. "We're here to liberate the prison, not blow it sky high," he chuckled. It was hardly armored or reinforced- or at least, so it seemed to him. And if it was, then the Data Center had shown the virtue of striking the same spot with concentrated fire beat showering it with dispersed impacts.
At least the glass door looked normal enough. "Bump and grind, forward. Forward!" He hissed. "Aim at that- there- the front door." Easy enough for the homemade launcher to hit, and these were arguably of the lowest utility if things went sideways. Elias had taught him asset management well- it was a waste to throw your best equipment at a stationary target. While the design was tried-and-tested, Vaughn still took a few steps away.
The improvised launcher let out a metallic clunk, and with a surprisingly subdued noise and recoil the projectile was sent tumbling freely, end over end, the cap blown clean off the improvised launcher. A second later, the giant projectile more than made up for it as the round smashed through the glass door, taking the automatic door slightly off the rails and bowing slightly inward- before then blowing both them and a hail of glass fragments outward as the detonation went off inside the main lobby.
Someone in a security forces uniform staggered out.
"Infantrymen, Fire!" Vaughn roared to the infantrymen, most of Morningstar dutifully restraining themselves as a hail of bullets sprayed into the storefront and even stitched up the exterior brickwork. Clearly, some insurgents were better trained than others judging by the tracer rounds and slowly tapering off rounds.
"Advance and reload! Morningstar, spread out and cover!"
The smoke and dust was subdued, at least for now, and left them with a surprisingly clear view into the front entrance. Red streaks were painted up on the wall, black and grey of smoke-dusted debris mixed in like a spin-art collage.
The lobby's contents were an absolute shambles- everything set on a ledge had been knocked about, including the ledges and desks themselves. The security forces inside responded by charging out the main doors to follow just a second later.
A hail of gunfire met them, most of the armored troopers flinching reflexively, their armor plates overlapping and protecting their wearer. A few reflexively tried returning fire despite the harsh stings of rounds tugging on the mix of fabric, bulletproof weave, and shattering off the neosteel plate they wore. The gunfire never let up on those unfortunate few who had charged out from their cover, the complete lack of coordination, dissimilar reloading times from infantry with unequal amounts of time spent with their weapons. Effective equipment and enthusiasm was undercut by poor training, surprise, and total lack of a plan to counter being outnumbered. Morningstar, on the other hand, had the numbers, the angle, and the element of surprise.
One by one the Security Forces lay flat. Either they were dead, had the fight knocked out of them, or were trying to present as minimal target as they could while they lined up their own rifles to return fire. It was hard to say for certain what the intent was, but the outcome was little different. Round after round continued pouring into them from dozens of unevenly sized magazines, an RPG or two sending the bodies of any who tried opening fire tumbling, their limbs likely held on by the durable material underneath. When they landed, their bodies folded like misshapen laundry, pressed into unnatural shapes with the wearer still inside.
The whole front engagement was over in less than a minute. A pale, non-gauntleted hand waved frantically from behind a shattered brick front, red streaking down the fingers.
"Hold!" Vaughn shouted. "Identify!" The hand continued waving, and Vaughn shoved an unwitting volunteer forward to pull the man out from behind, to reveal a man in a stained tee shirt with a dazed expression and blood dripping from a series of scratches on his cheeks, cut in like a cat's claws had raked over them.
"Civilian!" Vaughn bellowed over his ringing ears. "Any others inside?"
The man shook his head and mouthed 'no,' his voice seemingly too hoarse- perhaps from having spent an untold amount of time screaming.
The man was wrong- there were, or at least 'had been' more security forces inside. A sudden blast and the tinkering of shrapnel caused Vaughn to duck, then charge forward, his improvised explosive launcher discarded, swinging his shotgun around from his back to rest in his hands. A Technical had tried to leave via a service bay exit, apparently not even managing to round the corner before an RPG wielded by a Morningstar veteran had upended the uparmored pickup as it pulled out.
A survivor crawled from the wreckage, and Vaughn sprinted forward, pressing the barrel against the shivering man's temple as he raised his empty hands. The wet splatter kicked high, and Vendetta checked for any other survivors, the smoking tip of his shotgun wafting grey in the fluorescent tubes of the old retail outlet.
The technicals were indeed tough, he noted, but the round seemed to have flown into a wheel well, bypassing the plating. No one else inside seemed to be moving- yet still, he made certain. There'd be no theatrics of announcing himself to an enemy who played dead by standing in the open and giving orders, letting them try and exact some measure of revenge, or gasping out some warning to the shil'vati. No, a strike was to be calculated, and that calculation was to be total.
Two minutes later and a clear picture of the aftermath had emerged. Over five hundred prisoners rescued from the cells, cramped together like sardines, hastily erected concrete laid in a grid backstopping a prefab prison. PVC pipes ran from room to room for toilets no less roughshod in their construction, set straight into the dirty linoleum. Quite a few of the prisoners were deafened somewhat. The skeleton crew of Security Forces personnel hadn't stood a chance- supposedly, most were out, working from some kind of list, or perhaps had finished their shift after a long day of throwing people into prison.
Vaughn gestured with the shotgun. "There's your exit, people. If you're still undecided about the Shil'vati, then this was your wake-up call. If you're still undecided about us, then I'm not sure what to tell you. We just risked our lives to save yours. You want to pay it back? You can either pay it forward by helping us with the next prison, or you can help the Emperor of Mankind. Blankets, food, water, soldiers, guns, ammo, whatever you've got that you think might help. He hasn't said it, but I reckon you all owe him, if you've got a decent bone in your body, you'll at least bring him something, offer to try and help. If you want, you can listen in on the radio for instructions, and if you haven't got a shortwave, I'll separate off a few from our strike squad who can fill you in and get you there, if you feel like chipping in on the war effort."
Vaughn lowered the shotgun, taking a shell off his bandoleer and loading it in to replace the one he'd fired.
"That went well," Parker remarked. "And not a bad speech. Short, to the point, and all that. Honestly, I wish I'd brought a whole crew. One for the close-up on that impact. But, uh, that execution..."
"Completely necessary," Vaughn snapped, irritatedly. "That guy was fatally wounded. Putting him out of his misery was an act of mercy. And you'll remember to narrate that, if you got that on film."
"Of course." Parker didn't deny where he'd been aiming the camera- saving Vaughn at least the headache of reviewing the footage, and then having to kill Parker, if it turned out he'd been lying.
"I'm starting to think of these jail cells as something more like a pinata full of prizes. Namely, insurgents and good PR," he muttered. Truth be told, he'd wanted more of a fight. Vaughn pulled the radio from his pocket, and sent out the broadcast. "Done here. 202 North has been cleared. About four fifty good to go in some sense of the word, though where's anyone's guess. Tried sending them your way, don't know if they'll take it. Another fifty will need medical treatment. No casualties on our end. Surprise was total. We've got pictures. No enemies taken prisoner."
Vendetta stared around the lobby, an idea slowly dawning on him.
"Hey! Hey hey hey! Snag armor off any of the ones that you can. Grab any goods that are stocked up, and arm up anyone who says they're headed to Camp Death with the weapons the guys had here. Come on, we can't stay too long here. You-" he pointed at a man who had held down the trigger on his rifle, spraying the building at full auto. "-You're fucking useless at fighting. Gather up the ones who are able and willing to fight, get them packed into a civilian-style police cruiser, and drive them on over to Camp Death. Everyone, help him load up. Get everything you can out of the Evidence lockers into the trunks- they can fit a lot, trust me, I'd know. Camp Death's going to need goodies. Come on, move, people, move!"
Morningstar Squadron had re-mustered on Vendetta.
"Alright, now what?" They almost seemed eager for more.
A smile crept across Vendetta's face, invisible to all as he pointed at the row of vehicle keys.
"I think it's time we hit 141 and a couple more," he muttered, pulling it off the hook. "Now...wheelman, shotgun, or turret?"
I couldn't sleep well on the cot that night. Though I noticed hours ticked by, every moment seemed to be spent tossing and turning. I even tried resting with the mask off, held in my hands, but the risk to my identity being discovered if anyone barged in caused me enough stress to worsen the situation. Eventually, I gave up, kicked the covers off and donned the mask again, making my rounds around the camp, trying to calm myself down by taking a midnight stroll. Instead, I felt eyes countless following me, and I had to force myself to stand tall for them. For the thousandth time, I thought of this as my Valley Forge.
As I patrolled, I could hear whispered prayers, muttered plans of action, and mercifully, snores. At least some were getting some sleep. I could see orange lights reflecting off the clouds from where I knew Wilmington lay. It seemed Vaughn was keeping busy, if indeed it was his handiwork.
A few shipment inspections and a routine update from a sentry later, and I felt caught up to speed. I noticed Radio from the corner of my eye, seemingly also unable to sleep.
I almost jumped a foot in the air when I felt the tap on my shoulder, only to find G-Man's mask staring into mine. How strange that such a haunting visage was a comfort to me.
"Hey. Can't sleep?" He sounded surprisingly serene. Or maybe it was just tired resignation. His hands seemed stuck in a familiar claw-like shape after holding the soldering iron for so long, and my fingers ached in sympathy. My mask's filters took much of the scent of smoke I could smell from the distant fires, but I was sure that if I wasn't wearing my mask that G-Man would smell faintly of molten silver solder. I'd wondered how we'd repaired and updated so many railguns so quickly. Now I knew what he'd put himself through.
"I can't," I confessed. "G-Man, I'm sorry what happened with your father. Hell of a birthday." I hadn't even had a chance to give him the present I'd bought him- a couple new filters, and vintage craftsman toolkit, 'from before they sold out,' as Verns had phrased it. The memory of his voice already felt distant, somehow.
"Wasn't your fault. Even if Town Hall wasn't your big idea to get them to retaliate, you know? Then they'd still have done something. But, uh, thanks for saying that. And thanks for trying to get dad out. I'll remember that." George said quietly, then the conversation ended when he turned away and went to the edge of the embankment. Just like that.
I could never quite get a read on him, but I wanted to respect his distance. Whatever he was feeling, he seemed to want to feel it alone, and to keep his own counsel on the matter.
I continued course toward Radio.
"Any word from Miskatonic?" I asked hopefully.
Radio offered a noncommittal shrug, then dropped it in a hurry, raising one hand to massage his chest. "They say 'this is your war,' but did ship us a small container."
"I saw."
I hadn't exactly expected them to line up alongside us in the trenches in their white coats, but I'd hoped they'd have had some kind of wonder drug or noxious gas we might deploy. Something toxic to the Shil'vati but not us. The best they'd given us so far were experimental bullets and toxic-tipped arrows and knives, the former of which supposedly could potentially the armor, if fired with enough force and impacted with a good angle. If true, then I supposed they might be moderately useful in an ambush, and they had helpfully included a pair of compound bows. I had conducted a pretty decent survey of the defense, but I hadn't thought to ask if any were experienced archers. I also couldn't imagine taking someone off a railgun, large caliber rifle, or even an old cannon to hand them a bow and arrow without feeling like I was somehow offering them an insult without equipping it myself, and there was better I could think to do with the remaining minutes before the Shil'vati would inevitably come looking than to practice.
They'd fallen out of favor for a reason, and it wasn't that the earliest guns outperformed bows.
They had also supplied a small cache of rifles that were more likely to pulverize than penetrate unless the armor had been compromised already. These were still appreciated, but hardly the game changer I wanted in return for all we'd sent them.
Then Radio leaned in, voice kept conspiratorially low. "They did, however, mention an exfiltration for you."
Sam had been right, I wouldn't get back anything close to the value of what I'd sent out. At least, not unless I was willing to abandon everything and everyone, to cut and run for my life. Such a decision would be the inglorious end of the revolution, spelling doom for everyone in it, and all of humanity's culture. I'd forever be remembered as a coward, if I was so lucky to be remembered at all.
"Well, I'm not going."
"Okay, but here's a real head-scratcher. Did you show them where Camp Death is? I've been careful not to broadcast our coordinates, and my little helpers haven't been talking with Miskatonic. And the person on the shortwave mentioned that the border would free up tomorrow morning, then mentioned the interstate right up against the back of our base as a meeting point. They said Last Exit Before Pennsylvania. That's right there." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "And I didn't mention broadcasting without a cat's paw or relay. I mean there's a chance they triangulated, but throwing together a plan that fast? Nah, man, they knew."
I searched my memory. "I'm certain that I didn't mention it to them...did Hex? She did that internship. No, wait, she got picked up and dropped off at Warehouse Base. Unless she mentioned something on the drive past? She said they were somewhere North." Now that Radio had mentioned it, I was left with a bit of a puzzle. How did they know? How much did they know about us?
"They had to have known somehow. And if they didn't know before and just figured our location out, then I bet you it's not long before the Shil'vati figure it out themselves and come sniffing," Radio resignedly threw a hand up. "Should we update the signal? Start directing people straight here?"
We had numbers, yes, but we could still do to take more in, especially if the fighting dragged on or casualties mounted higher than I projected. "How long until they're sure we're here?"
Radio yawned under his mask, the animated glass-plated mask he wore misinterpreting it with an ASCII shocked ":O" face. "We've been broadcasting all night, so, who knows?"
"Well, if it was just a signal they picked up on any random given day, how long would it typically take for the Shil'vati to muster a response?"
"Depends on the day." At my silent stare, he objected further. "They sometimes respond pretty fast to that sort of thing, but these aren't normal times, E. They used to come to check out wherever I broadcast from within an hour or two or two, but remember, they've kind of got their hands full right now thanks to Vendetta's jailbreaks. Plus, there's so many more signals." He checked the screen of his shortwave and chuckled, then lightly massaged his chest again. "I'm sure we've already gone way past."
"Alright. If we see anyone snooping around us, add our location to the broadcast. That way, anyone in the resistance or is sympathetic but isn't sure where Camp Death is can find their way here. In the meantime, though, I still think we're best not leaking it. At least with the sentries having set in the final claymores and outer defenses, we should be well-situated to ward off anything they throw at us."
"Maybe. Maybe not," George said from behind me, and I froze.
"Why not?"
He'd helped build this place. He'd know any weaknesses as well as his father.
"They might have cloaking tech, or some other means of infiltration," his voice was a dry rasp.
I shuddered thinking about it. "That's a good point," I muttered. "Assassination and recovery might be up their alley...except, I think they're terrified of what losing me might mean for their hostages."
"I'll be honest. I don't think she cares at this point," G-Man countered. I couldn't fault his gloomy disposition. I could just hope that he didn't want something bad to happen to us, to balance out that something bad had happened to him, from some weird sense of fairness.
"Yeah?"
"Think about it for a second. What happens if you die? Then what does that let her do if that happens?"
It was with a startle I realized he had a good point. Azraea had committed to a shocking all-in, something that would shake the political landscape and memories of countless denizens of the state. Months of carefully planned schemes involving carefully planned defensive patrols meant to reinforce one another, frustrate, and hinder our operations had culminated in us adapting, learning. We thought we had her beaten, especially when we destroyed her monitoring, data collection, and reporting asset in Something Else Square. Then she'd pulled something like this out of a hat, catching us totally flat-footed, rounding up who-knew how many of us before we could muster. What other assumptions had I made that were incorrect? Would she hold fire, if she knew where I was if it meant sparing the hostages? Or were they now just an 'acceptable, if regrettable' loss? When your opponent becomes unpredictable, issues arise, especially when you're counting on them to do certain things.
If it was, then I'd just done her work for her, and all of us would be dead the moment she figured out where we were, and at least the end would come faster than I knew it had arrived.
I realized I was staring up into the orange-lit cloudy night sky. I could voice none of this, not without undermining morale and potentially sparking a panic.
"If she was going to start bombarding the state, she'd have started already by now," I chuckled. "The borders are sealed, right? Why wait? Why bother trying to build some sense of dread? She's not a vampire who feeds on fear. I choose to not be afraid of what she may do. I instead intend to plan around it, to the extent that we can. Besides, if I die, what would the twins do to the hostages?"
George made a disappointed growl, his sore hands turning from awkward claws into shaking fists. "That may be the point. If the Twins do anything to the hostages in retaliation for your death, then maybe as long as she didn't pull the trigger, she thinks she'll be absolved of whatever damage their deaths mean to them."
I wasn't sure she thought that way. Heck, after months, the woman was still an absolute enigma to me. Governess Bal'shir, I understood- the flurry of speeches and photo-ops and handshakes at civic meetings with 'literally-who's-that' of 'what-community' had been carte blanche for us to grow. Ministriva was a lying snake, and once we pieced that together, I ripped her apart. But Azraea? What drove the Fleet Admiral to come down here? Duty. There wasn't any sort of hard policy she followed that I could tell, not that I knew Shil'vati military doctrine well, being an outsider such as I was. Perhaps it was the greater liberty afforded her of being both Governess and General that made it seem like her plans shifted and changed in ways that made it hard for me to keep up. Or maybe she was just at such a rank and in such a position of power to where she could make her judgment calls. If so, that begged the question: What was 'the line' for her? I had a feeling I'd somehow crossed it already. Probably Radio's tape of me fucking the Empress, if I was to be honest. Most unfair to be judged for something that hadn't been my decision, though I doubted an apology from either of us would amount to much.
I looked over to my Lieutenants. They'd helped carry me this far. I'd be foolish to ignore them now. What could I do to at least mitigate the risk that he was right, and there was someone looking to kill me, right here and now?
"Alright, fine, you've convinced me. Instruct the sentries to get the next dozen people who we intake to help patrol the inner perimeter, and to keep a watch for...well, I mean, a stealthy seven foot tall purple alien with giant tits?"
"Something invisible," George supplied.
"Alright, for anything shifting in the tall grasses that they can't immediately see- I can't really ask them to keep an eye out for something they can't see, can I?" I was suddenly too tired to think properly.
"I'll explain it," G-Man offered.
"And I'll get the sentries ready to take over the radio, explaining how it works, then I'll try heading to bed, too," Radio offered, and I realized that a yawn sounded very strange through a voice modulator- his ASCII helmet seemed to fritz out again for a second.
"I should change my sleeping quarters, too," I muttered. "They'll almost certainly check the command cabin for me, if they manage to enter. I'll pick a tunnel- uh...somewhere."
"Might be smart. Could be they'll try and take out the explosives shed, too. Make it look like an accident on our part, get rid of any hostages, and then get a free pass to exact vengeance on the state. Got anywhere in mind?"
I thought to myself. Where might be a good resting area? There were many tunnels that led to bunkers, firing outposts, and even to stowage areas. Any one of them might do in theory, but I knew of one that overlooked one of the two streams that ran along the side of Camp Death. I didn't want to situate myself either too low to where I was on the very front of the lines- why make an assassin's job even easier by putting myself on the perimeter, after all? But the creek should make a pleasant bit of white noise- and also get me away from the center shed. "Probably facing North, along Perkins run. G-Man, you look absolutely dead on your feet. Get some rest if you can, you've certainly done enough and gone through enough for today."
"There's...still things to do."
"There always will be. If the others are finished doing their repairs, lock the shed," I muttered. "I know the hostages are in there, so post a sentry or two there, too, to watch over the entrance. You're right that she may try some kind of underhanded tactic." It wouldn't do much if they decided to set charges against the side or something, and the subsequent explosion would be, in a word, 'cataclysmic'. "This was supposed to be a relaxing walk to help me rest..." I scratched at my chin under the mask, feeling the beginnings of the few scratchy hairs that had grown since I'd last shaved, and feeling the cool fresh air without the filter as the wind kicked up.
"Sorry," G-Man offered sheepishly. "I'll go tell 'em."
While he ambled off, I followed Radio back to his pile of equipment.
"Before we split then, one last thing."
"Yeah?" Radio asked.
"Have we recovered Verns?" I asked Radio. "Any word?"
"No, not that I've heard," Radio confessed. "Vendetta's been mostly quiet, I think to hide his heading from anyone who might be listening, but I know that he's struck at least three jails and counting. Some of the ones he's freed are trickling up to us here on foot, and it seems he and Morningstar are acting like a human wrecking ball. The troops are calling it Operation Smash-and-Grab."
"Smash-and-grab," I laughed, thinking of the pun. "I like it. Do we have a more recent headcount?"
"Sam said we've got enough to last about three days of continuous, round-the-clock fighting with the hundreds of people we have here. If we get a resupply run- well, I suppose it would depend upon how big a hole gets blasted in the encirclement. Or, well, something to that effect. Look, man, I'm 'Radio', not 'Telephone,' and I don't have the head for this logistics shit that you two do. You want to talk to Sam, you get the man on the radio yourself, or ask one of the Sentries I'm sticking here to manage the comms. Point being, you try and get hold of him. I'm done for the night."
I could have said something witty back, but it felt counterproductive, and would only delay the sleep I was now well overdue for.
"I've got an idea for an update. The ones Vendetta's letting loose? They can gather supplies and wait for the signal to reinforce, or to agitate, or can organize people into a more focused group, one that can punch through whatever blockade they try and form up. It'll also force the Shil'vati to not concentrate forces on our back door-" I pointed back at the interstate. "Even if they clear them out, the opportunity for us to encircle and destroy and then break out is too high for them to really try to do a mass deployment along our back." Sam was, I knew, something of a career criminal. Able to rub elbows with the worst elements of humanity. He was a facilitator, I knew, not really a leader. "Can you tell him-"
Radio was already fiddling with the dial. "Already on it," he muttered. "Lotta profit in looting, should be easy for him to steer people with that, or something. Get some sleep, E."
I went up to a sentry, requisitioned a sleeping bag someone had helpfully brought, went into a trench and told him where I'd be if I was needed. I waved to Radio, and crawled into the gunnery tunnel, almost stepping on another four people already laying in it. I loosened my laces, clutched my sheathed knife, and fell into a fitful sleep.
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Chapter summary: Vaughn liberates a bunch of people. Elias can't sleep and makes some decisions and receives a weird offer.
Chapter Art- Vaughn's Mask, a World War One Tanker Splatter Mask
Alien-Nation Chapter 169: Jailbreak
'Morningstar' squadron had swelled their cell's numbers to well over twenty by absorbing the miscellaneous fragments of other cells, whose skills were more generalized. The name carried over to the newly formed Strike Force by virtue of being both the largest and the lynchpin of the operation's success.
This was the largest force of the three organized groups they'd split into, each aiming to try and hit the larger jails along Route 202, the other two branches making a target list of their own. Vendetta had given them an extra half hour to at least get themselves close to in-position, but with only one shortwave had no way of knowing if they would coordinate their strike. He was a known element to everyone even if only by name. At least Elias's words stayed true; All seemed very familiar and well-practiced with their carried weaponry. More importantly, none contested his assigned leadership or questioned his orders.
Vaughn cradled the RPG he'd been given, eyeing the well-lit building just over the carefully landscaped hill. The last had been over a half hour ago. The box-mart across the old highway was the temporary headquarters of the repositioned Troop One, after the suburbs near Camp Death had been cleared, likely soon to be repositioned again. But the size of the old box-mart seemed to indicate several things, that it was largely indefensible, could contain a fair few prisoners, and by its proximity to Camp Death, could be useful to strike regardless.
The flow of traffic was unusually heavy for being well before the crack of dawn. Perhaps people were trying their luck getting up old 202 to try and reach the border that way, after having no luck along other closed border checkpoints. There was a feeling of self-consciousness in carrying heavy weapons out in the open along a suburban highway most had driven along during peacetime, the juxtaposition of old familiar environment and newly familiar activity showing just how much their lives had changed. Moreso as cars rolled along it like it was a Friday night of olde, the two lives- old and new, bumping shoulders for a moment.
"You ready?" He asked, snapping them back to the present.
Mutters of assent was good enough. Haltingly, everyone in the mishmashed strike team moved toward the precinct's bright lights, taking advantage of the long shadows and occasional noise of the passing cars.
It was an unassuming building, the repurposed garrison made out of some retail outlet built back in the turbulent seventies, all brick and little else but tiny glass doors, with not even windows for the occupants to know the impending violence had been approaching. What era will this be known as? Early Imperial? Resistance? Revolutionary? Wondered the teen, as he leveled it at the lobby. Good? Bad? Hell, I'm just the man with the gun.
Everyone levelled their weapons as once, and Vaughn held a hand high. "We're here to liberate the prison, not blow it sky high," he chuckled. It was hardly armored or reinforced- or at least, so it seemed to him. And if it was, then the Data Center had shown the virtue of striking the same spot with concentrated fire beat showering it with dispersed impacts.
At least the glass door looked normal enough. "Bump and grind, forward. Forward!" He hissed. "Aim at that- there- the front door." Easy enough for the homemade launcher to hit, and these were arguably of the lowest utility if things went sideways. Elias had taught him asset management well- it was a waste to throw your best equipment at a stationary target. While the design was tried-and-tested, Vaughn still took a few steps away.
The improvised launcher let out a metallic clunk, and with a surprisingly subdued noise and recoil the projectile was sent tumbling freely, end over end, the cap blown clean off the improvised launcher. A second later, the giant projectile more than made up for it as the round smashed through the glass door, taking the automatic door slightly off the rails and bowing slightly inward- before then blowing both them and a hail of glass fragments outward as the detonation went off inside the main lobby.
Someone in a security forces uniform staggered out.
"Infantrymen, Fire!" Vaughn roared to the infantrymen, most of Morningstar dutifully restraining themselves as a hail of bullets sprayed into the storefront and even stitched up the exterior brickwork. Clearly, some insurgents were better trained than others judging by the tracer rounds and slowly tapering off rounds.
"Advance and reload! Morningstar, spread out and cover!"
The smoke and dust was subdued, at least for now, and left them with a surprisingly clear view into the front entrance. Red streaks were painted up on the wall, black and grey of smoke-dusted debris mixed in like a spin-art collage.
The lobby's contents were an absolute shambles- everything set on a ledge had been knocked about, including the ledges and desks themselves. The security forces inside responded by charging out the main doors to follow just a second later.
A hail of gunfire met them, most of the armored troopers flinching reflexively, their armor plates overlapping and protecting their wearer. A few reflexively tried returning fire despite the harsh stings of rounds tugging on the mix of fabric, bulletproof weave, and shattering off the neosteel plate they wore. The gunfire never let up on those unfortunate few who had charged out from their cover, the complete lack of coordination, dissimilar reloading times from infantry with unequal amounts of time spent with their weapons. Effective equipment and enthusiasm was undercut by poor training, surprise, and total lack of a plan to counter being outnumbered. Morningstar, on the other hand, had the numbers, the angle, and the element of surprise.
One by one the Security Forces lay flat. Either they were dead, had the fight knocked out of them, or were trying to present as minimal target as they could while they lined up their own rifles to return fire. It was hard to say for certain what the intent was, but the outcome was little different. Round after round continued pouring into them from dozens of unevenly sized magazines, an RPG or two sending the bodies of any who tried opening fire tumbling, their limbs likely held on by the durable material underneath. When they landed, their bodies folded like misshapen laundry, pressed into unnatural shapes with the wearer still inside.
The whole front engagement was over in less than a minute. A pale, non-gauntleted hand waved frantically from behind a shattered brick front, red streaking down the fingers.
"Hold!" Vaughn shouted. "Identify!" The hand continued waving, and Vaughn shoved an unwitting volunteer forward to pull the man out from behind, to reveal a man in a stained tee shirt with a dazed expression and blood dripping from a series of scratches on his cheeks, cut in like a cat's claws had raked over them.
"Civilian!" Vaughn bellowed over his ringing ears. "Any others inside?"
The man shook his head and mouthed 'no,' his voice seemingly too hoarse- perhaps from having spent an untold amount of time screaming.
The man was wrong- there were, or at least 'had been' more security forces inside. A sudden blast and the tinkering of shrapnel caused Vaughn to duck, then charge forward, his improvised explosive launcher discarded, swinging his shotgun around from his back to rest in his hands. A Technical had tried to leave via a service bay exit, apparently not even managing to round the corner before an RPG wielded by a Morningstar veteran had upended the uparmored pickup as it pulled out.
A survivor crawled from the wreckage, and Vaughn sprinted forward, pressing the barrel against the shivering man's temple as he raised his empty hands. The wet splatter kicked high, and Vendetta checked for any other survivors, the smoking tip of his shotgun wafting grey in the fluorescent tubes of the old retail outlet.
The technicals were indeed tough, he noted, but the round seemed to have flown into a wheel well, bypassing the plating. No one else inside seemed to be moving- yet still, he made certain. There'd be no theatrics of announcing himself to an enemy who played dead by standing in the open and giving orders, letting them try and exact some measure of revenge, or gasping out some warning to the shil'vati. No, a strike was to be calculated, and that calculation was to be total.
Two minutes later and a clear picture of the aftermath had emerged. Over five hundred prisoners rescued from the cells, cramped together like sardines, hastily erected concrete laid in a grid backstopping a prefab prison. PVC pipes ran from room to room for toilets no less roughshod in their construction, set straight into the dirty linoleum. Quite a few of the prisoners were deafened somewhat. The skeleton crew of Security Forces personnel hadn't stood a chance- supposedly, most were out, working from some kind of list, or perhaps had finished their shift after a long day of throwing people into prison.
Vaughn gestured with the shotgun. "There's your exit, people. If you're still undecided about the Shil'vati, then this was your wake-up call. If you're still undecided about us, then I'm not sure what to tell you. We just risked our lives to save yours. You want to pay it back? You can either pay it forward by helping us with the next prison, or you can help the Emperor of Mankind. Blankets, food, water, soldiers, guns, ammo, whatever you've got that you think might help. He hasn't said it, but I reckon you all owe him, if you've got a decent bone in your body, you'll at least bring him something, offer to try and help. If you want, you can listen in on the radio for instructions, and if you haven't got a shortwave, I'll separate off a few from our strike squad who can fill you in and get you there, if you feel like chipping in on the war effort."
Vaughn lowered the shotgun, taking a shell off his bandoleer and loading it in to replace the one he'd fired.
"That went well," Parker remarked. "And not a bad speech. Short, to the point, and all that. Honestly, I wish I'd brought a whole crew. One for the close-up on that impact. But, uh, that execution..."
"Completely necessary," Vaughn snapped, irritatedly. "That guy was fatally wounded. Putting him out of his misery was an act of mercy. And you'll remember to narrate that, if you got that on film."
"Of course." Parker didn't deny where he'd been aiming the camera- saving Vaughn at least the headache of reviewing the footage, and then having to kill Parker, if it turned out he'd been lying.
"I'm starting to think of these jail cells as something more like a pinata full of prizes. Namely, insurgents and good PR," he muttered. Truth be told, he'd wanted more of a fight. Vaughn pulled the radio from his pocket, and sent out the broadcast. "Done here. 202 North has been cleared. About four fifty good to go in some sense of the word, though where's anyone's guess. Tried sending them your way, don't know if they'll take it. Another fifty will need medical treatment. No casualties on our end. Surprise was total. We've got pictures. No enemies taken prisoner."
Vendetta stared around the lobby, an idea slowly dawning on him.
"Hey! Hey hey hey! Snag armor off any of the ones that you can. Grab any goods that are stocked up, and arm up anyone who says they're headed to Camp Death with the weapons the guys had here. Come on, we can't stay too long here. You-" he pointed at a man who had held down the trigger on his rifle, spraying the building at full auto. "-You're fucking useless at fighting. Gather up the ones who are able and willing to fight, get them packed into a civilian-style police cruiser, and drive them on over to Camp Death. Everyone, help him load up. Get everything you can out of the Evidence lockers into the trunks- they can fit a lot, trust me, I'd know. Camp Death's going to need goodies. Come on, move, people, move!"
Morningstar Squadron had re-mustered on Vendetta.
"Alright, now what?" They almost seemed eager for more.
A smile crept across Vendetta's face, invisible to all as he pointed at the row of vehicle keys.
"I think it's time we hit 141 and a couple more," he muttered, pulling it off the hook. "Now...wheelman, shotgun, or turret?"
"Accidentally Cut Content"
[Author's Note: Hey Everyone. I made a really dumb mistake and included part of the next chapter in the previous one's end in my rush to get it out the door. So the first couple paragraphs will be a repeat, but this IS a new chapter. I even updated those first four or five paragraphs slightly.]I couldn't sleep well on the cot that night. Though I noticed hours ticked by, every moment seemed to be spent tossing and turning. I even tried resting with the mask off, held in my hands, but the risk to my identity being discovered if anyone barged in caused me enough stress to worsen the situation. Eventually, I gave up, kicked the covers off and donned the mask again, making my rounds around the camp, trying to calm myself down by taking a midnight stroll. Instead, I felt eyes countless following me, and I had to force myself to stand tall for them. For the thousandth time, I thought of this as my Valley Forge.
As I patrolled, I could hear whispered prayers, muttered plans of action, and mercifully, snores. At least some were getting some sleep. I could see orange lights reflecting off the clouds from where I knew Wilmington lay. It seemed Vaughn was keeping busy, if indeed it was his handiwork.
A few shipment inspections and a routine update from a sentry later, and I felt caught up to speed. I noticed Radio from the corner of my eye, seemingly also unable to sleep.
I almost jumped a foot in the air when I felt the tap on my shoulder, only to find G-Man's mask staring into mine. How strange that such a haunting visage was a comfort to me.
"Hey. Can't sleep?" He sounded surprisingly serene. Or maybe it was just tired resignation. His hands seemed stuck in a familiar claw-like shape after holding the soldering iron for so long, and my fingers ached in sympathy. My mask's filters took much of the scent of smoke I could smell from the distant fires, but I was sure that if I wasn't wearing my mask that G-Man would smell faintly of molten silver solder. I'd wondered how we'd repaired and updated so many railguns so quickly. Now I knew what he'd put himself through.
"I can't," I confessed. "G-Man, I'm sorry what happened with your father. Hell of a birthday." I hadn't even had a chance to give him the present I'd bought him- a couple new filters, and vintage craftsman toolkit, 'from before they sold out,' as Verns had phrased it. The memory of his voice already felt distant, somehow.
"Wasn't your fault. Even if Town Hall wasn't your big idea to get them to retaliate, you know? Then they'd still have done something. But, uh, thanks for saying that. And thanks for trying to get dad out. I'll remember that." George said quietly, then the conversation ended when he turned away and went to the edge of the embankment. Just like that.
I could never quite get a read on him, but I wanted to respect his distance. Whatever he was feeling, he seemed to want to feel it alone, and to keep his own counsel on the matter.
I continued course toward Radio.
"Any word from Miskatonic?" I asked hopefully.
Radio offered a noncommittal shrug, then dropped it in a hurry, raising one hand to massage his chest. "They say 'this is your war,' but did ship us a small container."
"I saw."
I hadn't exactly expected them to line up alongside us in the trenches in their white coats, but I'd hoped they'd have had some kind of wonder drug or noxious gas we might deploy. Something toxic to the Shil'vati but not us. The best they'd given us so far were experimental bullets and toxic-tipped arrows and knives, the former of which supposedly could potentially the armor, if fired with enough force and impacted with a good angle. If true, then I supposed they might be moderately useful in an ambush, and they had helpfully included a pair of compound bows. I had conducted a pretty decent survey of the defense, but I hadn't thought to ask if any were experienced archers. I also couldn't imagine taking someone off a railgun, large caliber rifle, or even an old cannon to hand them a bow and arrow without feeling like I was somehow offering them an insult without equipping it myself, and there was better I could think to do with the remaining minutes before the Shil'vati would inevitably come looking than to practice.
They'd fallen out of favor for a reason, and it wasn't that the earliest guns outperformed bows.
They had also supplied a small cache of rifles that were more likely to pulverize than penetrate unless the armor had been compromised already. These were still appreciated, but hardly the game changer I wanted in return for all we'd sent them.
Then Radio leaned in, voice kept conspiratorially low. "They did, however, mention an exfiltration for you."
Sam had been right, I wouldn't get back anything close to the value of what I'd sent out. At least, not unless I was willing to abandon everything and everyone, to cut and run for my life. Such a decision would be the inglorious end of the revolution, spelling doom for everyone in it, and all of humanity's culture. I'd forever be remembered as a coward, if I was so lucky to be remembered at all.
"Well, I'm not going."
"Okay, but here's a real head-scratcher. Did you show them where Camp Death is? I've been careful not to broadcast our coordinates, and my little helpers haven't been talking with Miskatonic. And the person on the shortwave mentioned that the border would free up tomorrow morning, then mentioned the interstate right up against the back of our base as a meeting point. They said Last Exit Before Pennsylvania. That's right there." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "And I didn't mention broadcasting without a cat's paw or relay. I mean there's a chance they triangulated, but throwing together a plan that fast? Nah, man, they knew."
I searched my memory. "I'm certain that I didn't mention it to them...did Hex? She did that internship. No, wait, she got picked up and dropped off at Warehouse Base. Unless she mentioned something on the drive past? She said they were somewhere North." Now that Radio had mentioned it, I was left with a bit of a puzzle. How did they know? How much did they know about us?
"They had to have known somehow. And if they didn't know before and just figured our location out, then I bet you it's not long before the Shil'vati figure it out themselves and come sniffing," Radio resignedly threw a hand up. "Should we update the signal? Start directing people straight here?"
We had numbers, yes, but we could still do to take more in, especially if the fighting dragged on or casualties mounted higher than I projected. "How long until they're sure we're here?"
Radio yawned under his mask, the animated glass-plated mask he wore misinterpreting it with an ASCII shocked ":O" face. "We've been broadcasting all night, so, who knows?"
"Well, if it was just a signal they picked up on any random given day, how long would it typically take for the Shil'vati to muster a response?"
"Depends on the day." At my silent stare, he objected further. "They sometimes respond pretty fast to that sort of thing, but these aren't normal times, E. They used to come to check out wherever I broadcast from within an hour or two or two, but remember, they've kind of got their hands full right now thanks to Vendetta's jailbreaks. Plus, there's so many more signals." He checked the screen of his shortwave and chuckled, then lightly massaged his chest again. "I'm sure we've already gone way past."
"Alright. If we see anyone snooping around us, add our location to the broadcast. That way, anyone in the resistance or is sympathetic but isn't sure where Camp Death is can find their way here. In the meantime, though, I still think we're best not leaking it. At least with the sentries having set in the final claymores and outer defenses, we should be well-situated to ward off anything they throw at us."
"Maybe. Maybe not," George said from behind me, and I froze.
"Why not?"
He'd helped build this place. He'd know any weaknesses as well as his father.
"They might have cloaking tech, or some other means of infiltration," his voice was a dry rasp.
I shuddered thinking about it. "That's a good point," I muttered. "Assassination and recovery might be up their alley...except, I think they're terrified of what losing me might mean for their hostages."
"I'll be honest. I don't think she cares at this point," G-Man countered. I couldn't fault his gloomy disposition. I could just hope that he didn't want something bad to happen to us, to balance out that something bad had happened to him, from some weird sense of fairness.
"Yeah?"
"Think about it for a second. What happens if you die? Then what does that let her do if that happens?"
It was with a startle I realized he had a good point. Azraea had committed to a shocking all-in, something that would shake the political landscape and memories of countless denizens of the state. Months of carefully planned schemes involving carefully planned defensive patrols meant to reinforce one another, frustrate, and hinder our operations had culminated in us adapting, learning. We thought we had her beaten, especially when we destroyed her monitoring, data collection, and reporting asset in Something Else Square. Then she'd pulled something like this out of a hat, catching us totally flat-footed, rounding up who-knew how many of us before we could muster. What other assumptions had I made that were incorrect? Would she hold fire, if she knew where I was if it meant sparing the hostages? Or were they now just an 'acceptable, if regrettable' loss? When your opponent becomes unpredictable, issues arise, especially when you're counting on them to do certain things.
If it was, then I'd just done her work for her, and all of us would be dead the moment she figured out where we were, and at least the end would come faster than I knew it had arrived.
I realized I was staring up into the orange-lit cloudy night sky. I could voice none of this, not without undermining morale and potentially sparking a panic.
"If she was going to start bombarding the state, she'd have started already by now," I chuckled. "The borders are sealed, right? Why wait? Why bother trying to build some sense of dread? She's not a vampire who feeds on fear. I choose to not be afraid of what she may do. I instead intend to plan around it, to the extent that we can. Besides, if I die, what would the twins do to the hostages?"
George made a disappointed growl, his sore hands turning from awkward claws into shaking fists. "That may be the point. If the Twins do anything to the hostages in retaliation for your death, then maybe as long as she didn't pull the trigger, she thinks she'll be absolved of whatever damage their deaths mean to them."
I wasn't sure she thought that way. Heck, after months, the woman was still an absolute enigma to me. Governess Bal'shir, I understood- the flurry of speeches and photo-ops and handshakes at civic meetings with 'literally-who's-that' of 'what-community' had been carte blanche for us to grow. Ministriva was a lying snake, and once we pieced that together, I ripped her apart. But Azraea? What drove the Fleet Admiral to come down here? Duty. There wasn't any sort of hard policy she followed that I could tell, not that I knew Shil'vati military doctrine well, being an outsider such as I was. Perhaps it was the greater liberty afforded her of being both Governess and General that made it seem like her plans shifted and changed in ways that made it hard for me to keep up. Or maybe she was just at such a rank and in such a position of power to where she could make her judgment calls. If so, that begged the question: What was 'the line' for her? I had a feeling I'd somehow crossed it already. Probably Radio's tape of me fucking the Empress, if I was to be honest. Most unfair to be judged for something that hadn't been my decision, though I doubted an apology from either of us would amount to much.
I looked over to my Lieutenants. They'd helped carry me this far. I'd be foolish to ignore them now. What could I do to at least mitigate the risk that he was right, and there was someone looking to kill me, right here and now?
"Alright, fine, you've convinced me. Instruct the sentries to get the next dozen people who we intake to help patrol the inner perimeter, and to keep a watch for...well, I mean, a stealthy seven foot tall purple alien with giant tits?"
"Something invisible," George supplied.
"Alright, for anything shifting in the tall grasses that they can't immediately see- I can't really ask them to keep an eye out for something they can't see, can I?" I was suddenly too tired to think properly.
"I'll explain it," G-Man offered.
"And I'll get the sentries ready to take over the radio, explaining how it works, then I'll try heading to bed, too," Radio offered, and I realized that a yawn sounded very strange through a voice modulator- his ASCII helmet seemed to fritz out again for a second.
"I should change my sleeping quarters, too," I muttered. "They'll almost certainly check the command cabin for me, if they manage to enter. I'll pick a tunnel- uh...somewhere."
"Might be smart. Could be they'll try and take out the explosives shed, too. Make it look like an accident on our part, get rid of any hostages, and then get a free pass to exact vengeance on the state. Got anywhere in mind?"
I thought to myself. Where might be a good resting area? There were many tunnels that led to bunkers, firing outposts, and even to stowage areas. Any one of them might do in theory, but I knew of one that overlooked one of the two streams that ran along the side of Camp Death. I didn't want to situate myself either too low to where I was on the very front of the lines- why make an assassin's job even easier by putting myself on the perimeter, after all? But the creek should make a pleasant bit of white noise- and also get me away from the center shed. "Probably facing North, along Perkins run. G-Man, you look absolutely dead on your feet. Get some rest if you can, you've certainly done enough and gone through enough for today."
"There's...still things to do."
"There always will be. If the others are finished doing their repairs, lock the shed," I muttered. "I know the hostages are in there, so post a sentry or two there, too, to watch over the entrance. You're right that she may try some kind of underhanded tactic." It wouldn't do much if they decided to set charges against the side or something, and the subsequent explosion would be, in a word, 'cataclysmic'. "This was supposed to be a relaxing walk to help me rest..." I scratched at my chin under the mask, feeling the beginnings of the few scratchy hairs that had grown since I'd last shaved, and feeling the cool fresh air without the filter as the wind kicked up.
"Sorry," G-Man offered sheepishly. "I'll go tell 'em."
While he ambled off, I followed Radio back to his pile of equipment.
"Before we split then, one last thing."
"Yeah?" Radio asked.
"Have we recovered Verns?" I asked Radio. "Any word?"
"No, not that I've heard," Radio confessed. "Vendetta's been mostly quiet, I think to hide his heading from anyone who might be listening, but I know that he's struck at least three jails and counting. Some of the ones he's freed are trickling up to us here on foot, and it seems he and Morningstar are acting like a human wrecking ball. The troops are calling it Operation Smash-and-Grab."
"Smash-and-grab," I laughed, thinking of the pun. "I like it. Do we have a more recent headcount?"
"Sam said we've got enough to last about three days of continuous, round-the-clock fighting with the hundreds of people we have here. If we get a resupply run- well, I suppose it would depend upon how big a hole gets blasted in the encirclement. Or, well, something to that effect. Look, man, I'm 'Radio', not 'Telephone,' and I don't have the head for this logistics shit that you two do. You want to talk to Sam, you get the man on the radio yourself, or ask one of the Sentries I'm sticking here to manage the comms. Point being, you try and get hold of him. I'm done for the night."
I could have said something witty back, but it felt counterproductive, and would only delay the sleep I was now well overdue for.
"I've got an idea for an update. The ones Vendetta's letting loose? They can gather supplies and wait for the signal to reinforce, or to agitate, or can organize people into a more focused group, one that can punch through whatever blockade they try and form up. It'll also force the Shil'vati to not concentrate forces on our back door-" I pointed back at the interstate. "Even if they clear them out, the opportunity for us to encircle and destroy and then break out is too high for them to really try to do a mass deployment along our back." Sam was, I knew, something of a career criminal. Able to rub elbows with the worst elements of humanity. He was a facilitator, I knew, not really a leader. "Can you tell him-"
Radio was already fiddling with the dial. "Already on it," he muttered. "Lotta profit in looting, should be easy for him to steer people with that, or something. Get some sleep, E."
I went up to a sentry, requisitioned a sleeping bag someone had helpfully brought, went into a trench and told him where I'd be if I was needed. I waved to Radio, and crawled into the gunnery tunnel, almost stepping on another four people already laying in it. I loosened my laces, clutched my sheathed knife, and fell into a fitful sleep.
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2023.05.30 08:41 united_masonry Common Chimney Problems in Medford and How to Fix Them
 | IntroductionWelcome to United Masonry and Construction's guide on common chimney problems in Medford and how to fix them. As experienced professionals in the field, we understand the importance of a well-maintained chimney for both the safety and functionality of your home.In this article, we will discuss the most common issues homeowners face with their chimneys and provide practical solutions to address these problems effectively. Whether you're dealing with a chimney leak, draft issues, or structural concerns, we've got you covered. Chimney Leaks: Identifying and Resolving the IssueOne of the most common problems homeowners face with their chimneys is leaks. Water infiltration can cause significant damage to both the interior and exterior of the chimney. To identify a chimney leak, look for signs such as water stains on the ceiling, peeling wallpaper, or a musty smell in the vicinity.To fix a chimney leak, start by inspecting the chimney cap, flashing, and masonry joints for any signs of damage or deterioration. Replace or repair damaged components and ensure a watertight seal. Applying a waterproofing sealant to the exterior of the chimney can also provide an additional layer of protection against moisture. Creosote Buildup: Preventing Fire HazardsCreosote buildup is a common issue in chimneys that use wood-burning appliances. This sticky, flammable substance accumulates on the chimney walls over time and poses a significant fire hazard. To prevent creosote buildup, it's crucial to have your chimney regularly cleaned and inspected by a professional chimney sweep.During a chimney cleaning, the sweep will remove the creosote deposits using specialized tools and brushes. They will also check for any obstructions or structural issues that may hinder proper ventilation. Regular maintenance and cleaning will ensure your chimney operates safely and efficiently. Draft Problems: Ensuring Optimal PerformanceDraft problems can cause smoke to back up into your home instead of exiting through the chimney. This can result in poor indoor air quality and an unpleasant living environment. Draft issues are often caused by chimney height, insufficient flue size, or obstructions in the flue.Chimney Repairs To address draft problems, consider installing a draft inducer or a chimney cap with a built-in draft-increasing mechanism. These devices help enhance airflow and improve draft efficiency. Additionally, make sure your chimney flue is properly sized to accommodate the appliances it serves. Masonry Damage: Repairing Cracked ChimneysOver time, masonry chimneys can develop cracks and other forms of damage due to exposure to weather elements. Cracked masonry not only compromises the structural integrity of the chimney but also allows water to penetrate, leading to further deterioration.To fix cracked chimneys, it's essential to enlist the services of a professional masonry contractor. They will assess the extent of the damage and employ suitable repair techniques, such as tuckpointing or chimney rebuilding. Repairing masonry damage promptly will help prevent more severe issues down the line. Chimney Cap Issues: Keeping Out Unwanted GuestsA chimney cap serves as a protective barrier against animals, debris, and water intrusion. However, chimney caps can become damaged or dislodged over time, allowing unwanted guests such as birds, squirrels, or raccoons to enter your chimney.Inspect your chimney cap regularly and ensure it is securely in place. If you notice any damage, replace the cap promptly to prevent animals from nesting or debris from obstructing the chimney. A well-functioning chimney cap will help maintain proper ventilation and prevent animal-related issues. Chimney Crown Problems: Protecting Your ChimneyThe chimney crown is the concrete or masonry top surface that covers the chimney. It plays a crucial role in protecting the chimney structure from water infiltration. However, chimney crowns can crack or deteriorate over time, allowing water to seep into the chimney and cause damage.To fix chimney crown problems, a professional chimney contractor can inspect the crown for any cracks or deterioration. They will apply a waterproof sealant or perform crown rebuilding if necessary. Maintaining a sound chimney crown is essential for preserving the longevity and integrity of your chimney. Flue Obstructions: Clearing the WayFlue obstructions, such as bird nests or debris, can hinder proper airflow and lead to inefficient chimney performance. Additionally, obstructions increase the risk of carbon monoxide entering your home.If you suspect a flue obstruction, it's crucial to address the issue promptly. Contact a professional chimney sweep to remove the obstruction safely. They will also inspect the flue liner for any damage and make the necessary repairs. Damper Dysfunction: Regulating AirflowThe damper is a device located above the firebox that controls the airflow in your chimney. Damper dysfunction can result in difficulty starting or extinguishing fires and poor draft performance.To fix damper issues, it's best to consult a professional chimney technician. They will assess the condition of the damper and recommend repair or replacement if needed. A properly functioning damper ensures efficient ventilation and enhances your overall fireplace experience. Smoky Fireplaces: Improving EfficiencyIf you're experiencing a smoky fireplace, it can be an indication of an underlying problem with your chimney. Factors such as a blocked chimney cap, an improperly sized flue, or excessive creosote buildup can contribute to smoky fires.Chimney Repair Services To improve the efficiency of your fireplace and reduce smoke issues, have your chimney inspected by a professional. They will identify the root cause of the problem and implement the necessary solutions, such as cleaning, repairs, or flue adjustments. Chimney Settling: Addressing Structural ConcernsChimney settling occurs when the chimney foundation sinks or shifts, potentially leading to structural instability. Signs of chimney settling include cracks in the chimney exterior or interior, leaning chimneys, or separated chimney from the house.If you notice any signs of chimney settling, it's crucial to consult a professional masonry contractor immediately. They will assess the extent of the settling and recommend appropriate repair methods, such as underpinning or foundation stabilization. Addressing chimney settling promptly is vital to avoid further structural damage. Chimney Waterproofing: Preventing Water DamageWater is one of the biggest culprits of chimney damage. Waterproofing your chimney is a proactive measure to protect it from water infiltration and subsequent deterioration.To waterproof your chimney, a professional chimney contractor will apply a specialized waterproofing sealant to the exterior masonry. This sealant creates a protective barrier against moisture while still allowing the chimney to breathe. Regularly maintaining the waterproofing sealant will ensure long-lasting protection for your chimney. Chimney Sweeping: Regular Maintenance for LongevityRegular chimney sweeping is essential for maintaining optimal performance and extending the lifespan of your chimney. Over time, soot, creosote, and debris accumulate in the flue, posing fire hazards and obstructing airflow.Hiring a professional chimney sweep to clean your chimney annually or as recommended by experts will remove dangerous deposits and ensure proper ventilation. Regular chimney maintenance significantly reduces the risk of chimney-related problems and enhances safety. Chimney Odor: Eliminating Unpleasant SmellsUnpleasant odors emanating from your chimney can make your home uncomfortable. These odors can be caused by creosote buildup, moisture issues, animal infestations, or other factors.To eliminate chimney odors, start by having your chimney professionally cleaned to remove any creosote or debris contributing to the smell. Additionally, address any moisture-related issues by inspecting the chimney for leaks and ensuring proper ventilation. If animal infestation is suspected, consult a professional to remove the animals and seal any entry points. Chimney Inspections: Professional AssessmentsRegular chimney inspections are crucial for identifying and addressing potential issues before they become major problems. A professional chimney inspection includes a thorough assessment of the chimney's interior and exterior, checking for any signs of damage, blockages, or safety concerns.By scheduling regular chimney inspections, you can stay proactive in maintaining your chimney's condition and address any emerging problems promptly. This preventive approach will save you time, money, and potential headaches in the long run. Chimney Restoration: Restoring Functionality and AestheticsIf your chimney has suffered extensive damage or is showing signs of aging, chimney restoration can breathe new life into it. Chimney restoration involves repairing, rebuilding, or enhancing various components of the chimney, ensuring both its functionality and aesthetics.Contact a professional chimney restoration company to assess the condition of your chimney and provide expert recommendations for restoration. Whether it's repointing the mortar joints, replacing damaged bricks, or installing a new chimney cap, restoration services will revitalize your chimney's appearance and performance. ConclusionUnited Masonry and Construction hopes that this comprehensive guide on common chimney problems in Medfordand their solutions has been informative and helpful. Regular maintenance, prompt repairs, and professional inspections are key to ensuring the longevity and safety of your chimney. Remember, it's always best to consult a qualified chimney professional for any chimney-related concerns to guarantee the best results.FAQs (Frequently Asked Questions)1: How often should I have my chimney inspected?We recommend having your chimney professionally inspected at least once a year. This will help identify any potential issues and address them before they worsen.2: Can I clean my chimney myself?While some chimney maintenance tasks can be performed by homeowners, such as removing debris from the chimney cap, it is best to leave chimney cleaning to the professionals. A certified chimney sweep has the expertise and specialized tools to clean your chimney thoroughly and safely.3: How long does chimney restoration take?The duration of chimney restoration varies depending on the extent of the damage and the scope of work required. It can range from a few days to several weeks. A professional chimney restoration company will provide you with a timeline based on your specific needs.4: Can I use my fireplace if there is a chimney leak?It is not recommended to use your fireplace if there is a chimney leak. The water can damage the interior components of your fireplace and pose safety risks. Address the leak promptly before using your fireplace again. Q5: What is the purpose of a chimney cap?A chimney cap serves multiple purposes, including keeping out animals, preventing debris from entering the chimney, and reducing water infiltration. It also helps improve draft efficiency by creating a barrier against downdrafts. |
2023.05.30 07:32 arizonamoonshine Anyone here with an attached ADU and had to deal with Systematic Code Enforcement Program (SCEP) inspections?
Built a fully permitted 1 bedroom ADU a year ago. As part of local zoning laws I was forced to attach it.
I was sent an informational mailer that stated adding the ADU changed the housing rules of my property and both dwellings are now under RSO (rent controlled) and require a SCEP inspection once every 2-4 years. Zimas.lacity.org still shows it as non-RSO.
Essentially by building and renting an ADU, or moving into the ADU and renting the house, you are on the hook to have an inspector check for code violations for both units, forever.
Anything they find they can flag. From lack of low flow fixtures, to paint, to that tile job you did with no permit, to that back patio you put in, to exterior stucco cracks, to structural modifications and defects. Any violations get cited and you have only 30 days to fix and one 30 day extension before you start incurring fines.
They will also tell tenants to remove or move furniture and window air conditioning units in some cases, if they violate code or egress rules
Has anyone dealt with this?
I’m mainly trying to get an idea of how soon after you built your ADU, that they came by?
Also trying to understand how my property still shows as non-RSO, when their information says otherwise.
submitted by arizonamoonshine to LosAngelesRealEstate [link] [comments]
I was sent an informational mailer that stated adding the ADU changed the housing rules of my property and both dwellings are now under RSO (rent controlled) and require a SCEP inspection once every 2-4 years. Zimas.lacity.org still shows it as non-RSO.
Essentially by building and renting an ADU, or moving into the ADU and renting the house, you are on the hook to have an inspector check for code violations for both units, forever.
Anything they find they can flag. From lack of low flow fixtures, to paint, to that tile job you did with no permit, to that back patio you put in, to exterior stucco cracks, to structural modifications and defects. Any violations get cited and you have only 30 days to fix and one 30 day extension before you start incurring fines.
They will also tell tenants to remove or move furniture and window air conditioning units in some cases, if they violate code or egress rules
Has anyone dealt with this?
I’m mainly trying to get an idea of how soon after you built your ADU, that they came by?
Also trying to understand how my property still shows as non-RSO, when their information says otherwise.
2023.05.30 07:13 BringOnYourStorm [EVENT] [RETRO] Tel Père, Tel Fils
Milan
Summer 1517
The war had reached its terminal stage as the fighting took place further and further to the east, with reports indicating the victory of French forces and an initial parlay between French and Austrian leadership. Perhaps, now, it was all at an end.
Philippe had spent much of 1516 between Pavia and France, and in 1517 had returned to Pavia before opting to venture to Milan, the capital of his Duchy, before returning home with his victorious armies.
He knew Milan from his father's councils, but knew it from his mother's books as well. Mediolanum, once a proud Roman city at the foot of the Alps and for nearly 200 years the capital of the Empire, had long since been trampled by Lombards and Goths. Upon arriving he made certain to visit the vestiges of the old Roman Empire, perhaps most visibly the Basilique Saint-Ambroise, where he paid his respects to the clergy and prayed under its ancient eaves. Here and there one could see the bits of Romanesque masonry still standing-- a column here, an archway there-- as one rode through the city. You simply had to know what you were looking for.
He paid a short visit to the Sforzesco Castle in central Milan, an imposing structure that his father had ordered turned into more of a military castle than a livable palace. Perhaps it was intended as an insult to Ludovico Sforza, he would likely never know his father's true intentions. He was impressed by the vast park surrounding the castle-- or what remained of it, open fields-- and intrigued by the notion that Gian Galeazzo Sforza, Ludovico's predecessor, had been an avid falconer who had stocked the sprawling park with all manner of game and hunted from the castle.
After sightseeing, he duly rode to the center of the city and the Palazzo Reale di Milano, the seat of government in Milan since the rule of his father. Indeed, it had been more than a decade since his father narrowly escaped the clutches of Ludovico Sforza and left Milan, returning only once with his mother in the aftermath of that war before retiring to France for the last years of his life. Even so, the Palazzo Reale was in impeccable order, maintained as if his father had only left the day before. The servants had performed their duties admirably and Philippe saw to it they were recognized-- he ordered a bonus be paid to them.
He explored its silent halls and found his father's solar, overlooking the open space where the partially-built Duomo di Milano stood. Philippe looked out the window thoughtfully, examining the gothic architecture of the building. He sought a servant who told him that the building had been little improved since the time of the Sforzas, left more or less neglected by the French King who was so much more focused on keeping Milan. To Philippe it seemed counterintuitive to struggle so hard to keep something but neglect it so.
So he let himself revel in Italian art and architecture somewhat, and summoned what architects and artists he could find to the Palazzo Reale to consult with them.
The young King was a perceptive, learned lad who may well have surprised some of the artists that visited him, many of whom had little experience with the ruling French family beyond perhaps seeing Louis XII or at least reading his declarations. Many did arrive, viewing the King of France holding court for artists in Milan somewhat of an irresistible curiosity. Here, too, Philippe’s deep interest in Roman history paid dividends-- many architects paid homage to Roman techniques, nowadays, inspired by the Roman architect Vitruvius. This interested Philippe greatly, and he had many discussions with Milanese artists stretching into the late afternoon. Many spoke with reverence the name Leonardo da Vinci, a Florentine architect who had had involvement with the Duomo before. Philippe resolved to find this man.
The following day he sent a messenger to da Vinci’s workshop in Milan, with a promise of a royal commission. By midday, da Vinci arrived at the Palazzo Reale and met with the young King of France, who offered to him whatever resources he needed to complete the Duomo, which would surely define the man’s legacy as it towered above Milan for the centuries.
Unfortunately, da Vinci seemed disinterested. The project had been wrestled from him by Bramante years ago, and the wound to his pride was deep enough he had little intention of returning to finish what Bramante had started before dying in 1498. The King had promised him a commission, however, and duly commissioned a portrait of himself and his peregrine falcon, Aeneas. It was the work of several weeks, but the King was greatly enthused by it and paid the aged artist handsomely for his service.
Eventually the King attracted the attention of another architect, Cristoforo Solari, who had resided in Milan and worked with Ludovico Sforza’s men on the Duomo and heard of the new King’s interest in completing the process. The hunch-backed architect was joined by another cohort who had worked on the Duomo fifteen years ago, Andrea Fusina. Together they roundly rejected further involvement of the former holder of the contract to complete the project, Giovanni Antonio Amadeo, who they said had implemented a flawed design of the base of the cupola that had been inherently unstable.
There were of course many notable architects crossing Italy hither and thither plying their trades. One name of great repute was the Papal architect, Raphael Sanzio da Urbino. He had worked under Donato Bramante on the Duomo di Milano more than a decade ago. Bramante was dead, though, and Raphael was now the maestro. Philippe swiftly composed a missive that went off to the Holy See, requesting the aid of Raphael in drawing up the plans to complete the Duomo. In his wisdom the Holy Father saw the importance of completing the Duomo di Milano and agreed to release Raphael from his current project-- a piece for Cardinal Giulio de’ Medici.
Some weeks later Raphael arrived in Milan and the King greeted him personally. Characteristic of his energetic approach to projects, the Papal architect set to work immediately. Philippe retained Fusina and Solari to assist, and rendered the royal coffers open for the project.
In days, the Piazza di Duomo was abuzz with activity. The architects worked on their plans, and teams of workmen assembled materials in the square once again. Pierre watched with contentment and wonder as, day by day, the men erected a crane. He became very well acquainted with Raphael’s chief pupil, Giulio Romano, who was only one year his senior but something of a savant. When his apprenticeship with Raphael was complete, Philippe extended to him an invitation to France-- one he seemed quite interested in.
Time soon arrived that Philippe had to return to France, and surprisingly enough he actually regretted it somewhat. He met one final time with Raphael Sanzio da Urbino and his team of architects, promising to support them from Blois however they needed.
Matters in Milan set to rights, and the war coming to a swift close, Philippe took horse for France. His baggage train contained many new acquisitions: his portrait by da Vinci, other examples of Italian art, and numerous books borrowed from Milanese libraries. He had been immensely impressed by the idealistic and talented Italians who had enthusiastically taken up the task of completing the Duomo di Milano, and thought more fondly of them for it. His father had grown to resent Italians and their treachery, but Philippe found them a motivated and insightful people.
His father had made great use of portraiture and pamphleteering, and his regents had done as much with the ordeal of the Archbishop-Elector of Mainz and his vile lies. Philippe considered the use of symbols and portraits. Perhaps that in the cart well behind him would be useful if replicated and spread amongst the nobility.
Philippe then joined the French armies returning to France.
[M: Price for retaining Raphael was discussed with Rumil and has been applied to the French sheet already. Price estimates for completing the Duomo? Not so much.]
submitted by BringOnYourStorm to empirepowers [link] [comments]
Summer 1517
Philippe had spent much of 1516 between Pavia and France, and in 1517 had returned to Pavia before opting to venture to Milan, the capital of his Duchy, before returning home with his victorious armies.
He knew Milan from his father's councils, but knew it from his mother's books as well. Mediolanum, once a proud Roman city at the foot of the Alps and for nearly 200 years the capital of the Empire, had long since been trampled by Lombards and Goths. Upon arriving he made certain to visit the vestiges of the old Roman Empire, perhaps most visibly the Basilique Saint-Ambroise, where he paid his respects to the clergy and prayed under its ancient eaves. Here and there one could see the bits of Romanesque masonry still standing-- a column here, an archway there-- as one rode through the city. You simply had to know what you were looking for.
He paid a short visit to the Sforzesco Castle in central Milan, an imposing structure that his father had ordered turned into more of a military castle than a livable palace. Perhaps it was intended as an insult to Ludovico Sforza, he would likely never know his father's true intentions. He was impressed by the vast park surrounding the castle-- or what remained of it, open fields-- and intrigued by the notion that Gian Galeazzo Sforza, Ludovico's predecessor, had been an avid falconer who had stocked the sprawling park with all manner of game and hunted from the castle.
After sightseeing, he duly rode to the center of the city and the Palazzo Reale di Milano, the seat of government in Milan since the rule of his father. Indeed, it had been more than a decade since his father narrowly escaped the clutches of Ludovico Sforza and left Milan, returning only once with his mother in the aftermath of that war before retiring to France for the last years of his life. Even so, the Palazzo Reale was in impeccable order, maintained as if his father had only left the day before. The servants had performed their duties admirably and Philippe saw to it they were recognized-- he ordered a bonus be paid to them.
He explored its silent halls and found his father's solar, overlooking the open space where the partially-built Duomo di Milano stood. Philippe looked out the window thoughtfully, examining the gothic architecture of the building. He sought a servant who told him that the building had been little improved since the time of the Sforzas, left more or less neglected by the French King who was so much more focused on keeping Milan. To Philippe it seemed counterintuitive to struggle so hard to keep something but neglect it so.
So he let himself revel in Italian art and architecture somewhat, and summoned what architects and artists he could find to the Palazzo Reale to consult with them.
The young King was a perceptive, learned lad who may well have surprised some of the artists that visited him, many of whom had little experience with the ruling French family beyond perhaps seeing Louis XII or at least reading his declarations. Many did arrive, viewing the King of France holding court for artists in Milan somewhat of an irresistible curiosity. Here, too, Philippe’s deep interest in Roman history paid dividends-- many architects paid homage to Roman techniques, nowadays, inspired by the Roman architect Vitruvius. This interested Philippe greatly, and he had many discussions with Milanese artists stretching into the late afternoon. Many spoke with reverence the name Leonardo da Vinci, a Florentine architect who had had involvement with the Duomo before. Philippe resolved to find this man.
The following day he sent a messenger to da Vinci’s workshop in Milan, with a promise of a royal commission. By midday, da Vinci arrived at the Palazzo Reale and met with the young King of France, who offered to him whatever resources he needed to complete the Duomo, which would surely define the man’s legacy as it towered above Milan for the centuries.
Unfortunately, da Vinci seemed disinterested. The project had been wrestled from him by Bramante years ago, and the wound to his pride was deep enough he had little intention of returning to finish what Bramante had started before dying in 1498. The King had promised him a commission, however, and duly commissioned a portrait of himself and his peregrine falcon, Aeneas. It was the work of several weeks, but the King was greatly enthused by it and paid the aged artist handsomely for his service.
Eventually the King attracted the attention of another architect, Cristoforo Solari, who had resided in Milan and worked with Ludovico Sforza’s men on the Duomo and heard of the new King’s interest in completing the process. The hunch-backed architect was joined by another cohort who had worked on the Duomo fifteen years ago, Andrea Fusina. Together they roundly rejected further involvement of the former holder of the contract to complete the project, Giovanni Antonio Amadeo, who they said had implemented a flawed design of the base of the cupola that had been inherently unstable.
There were of course many notable architects crossing Italy hither and thither plying their trades. One name of great repute was the Papal architect, Raphael Sanzio da Urbino. He had worked under Donato Bramante on the Duomo di Milano more than a decade ago. Bramante was dead, though, and Raphael was now the maestro. Philippe swiftly composed a missive that went off to the Holy See, requesting the aid of Raphael in drawing up the plans to complete the Duomo. In his wisdom the Holy Father saw the importance of completing the Duomo di Milano and agreed to release Raphael from his current project-- a piece for Cardinal Giulio de’ Medici.
Some weeks later Raphael arrived in Milan and the King greeted him personally. Characteristic of his energetic approach to projects, the Papal architect set to work immediately. Philippe retained Fusina and Solari to assist, and rendered the royal coffers open for the project.
In days, the Piazza di Duomo was abuzz with activity. The architects worked on their plans, and teams of workmen assembled materials in the square once again. Pierre watched with contentment and wonder as, day by day, the men erected a crane. He became very well acquainted with Raphael’s chief pupil, Giulio Romano, who was only one year his senior but something of a savant. When his apprenticeship with Raphael was complete, Philippe extended to him an invitation to France-- one he seemed quite interested in.
Time soon arrived that Philippe had to return to France, and surprisingly enough he actually regretted it somewhat. He met one final time with Raphael Sanzio da Urbino and his team of architects, promising to support them from Blois however they needed.
His father had made great use of portraiture and pamphleteering, and his regents had done as much with the ordeal of the Archbishop-Elector of Mainz and his vile lies. Philippe considered the use of symbols and portraits. Perhaps that in the cart well behind him would be useful if replicated and spread amongst the nobility.
Philippe then joined the French armies returning to France.
[M: Price for retaining Raphael was discussed with Rumil and has been applied to the French sheet already. Price estimates for completing the Duomo? Not so much.]
2023.05.30 06:59 Kenlass Exploring Different Masonry Jobs: From Bricklaying To Stonemasonry
Masonry jobs is the craft of creating structures out of discrete pieces, which are frequently built of concrete, brick, or stone blocks. This trade has been practiced for many years and is still in high demand today.
https://ptt.edu/blog/exploring-different-masonry-jobs-from-bricklaying-to-stonemasonry/
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masonry program in Spring garden ,
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submitted by Kenlass to u/Kenlass [link] [comments]
Masonry jobs is the craft of creating structures out of discrete pieces, which are frequently built of concrete, brick, or stone blocks. This trade has been practiced for many years and is still in high demand today.
https://ptt.edu/blog/exploring-different-masonry-jobs-from-bricklaying-to-stonemasonry/
construction training programs in philadelphia,
concrete technician course in haddington,
construction trade schools degree in philadelphia,
construction certification institute in philadelphia,
construction tech institute in philadelphia,
masonry program in Spring garden ,
concrete technician course in Wynnfield Heights,
construction trade school in Wynnfield Heights,
construction training in Wynnfield Heights,
2023.05.30 06:13 Jcoull How to remove old glue from brick
Cleaning up the original fireplace brick in order to paint it and install new log set. Looking for the best product/technique to remove the old glue that got slapped onto the bottom and some on the face of the brick.
I have currently been using a hair dryer to warm up the glue in between the pieces and using a scraper to pop it loose and then pull on it to come free. Quite taxing but about 50% of it is done. Just looking for the best way to clear what glue is left and how to prep it for brick paint.
submitted by Jcoull to HomeMaintenance [link] [comments]
I have currently been using a hair dryer to warm up the glue in between the pieces and using a scraper to pop it loose and then pull on it to come free. Quite taxing but about 50% of it is done. Just looking for the best way to clear what glue is left and how to prep it for brick paint.
2023.05.30 06:09 theOutside517 My new single, Mr. Most Wanted, drops June 9th on all platforms!
 | Visit http://theoutsidemusic.com to get a pre save link and check out my other releases! submitted by theOutside517 to u/theOutside517 [link] [comments] |
2023.05.30 04:29 am3491 Landlord acussing me of damaging the property
while already inspecting my room a week ago she said nothing but when she found out I know the law she stated in emails you don’t want to see my other side and then proceed with this email .“We want to inspect your room while you are there as you are damaging our property with what’s going on in there. What are you doing to cause the paint and air in the room? You should be onsite and be present for this visit” I’ve caused no damage to the property at all in my rental unit which is my room, the paint is fading from the grey colour to white as white was its previous colour. My room is very hot in the summer as the outside of the building is brick while inside of the wall is drywall and I believe there is no insulation in my room I have a fan in my room that’s it ,what is she trying to do make false accusation and dedicate her expectations? What should I do with this ?
submitted by am3491 to OntarioLandlord [link] [comments]