The sun began to set on the small Scottish island, casting a warm orange glow across the quaint village. As the residents finished their meals and the last few visitors trickled out of the local pub, a man named Ewan slipped into the shadows, waiting for the perfect moment to make his move. Ewan, a middle-aged man with a scruffy beard and unkempt hair, was an alcoholic. He was known by many on the island for his frequent drunken antics and had been kicked out of the pub more times than he could count. Despite several attempts to quit drinking, Ewan was powerless to resist the allure of alcohol. As the last of the pub's patrons made their way out the door and the owner began to close up, Ewan seized his opportunity. He snuck into the now-empty pub through a back door, hiding behind a large wooden barrel in a corner. He held his breath, praying he wouldn't be discovered as the owner locked up and left for the night. Once he was sure the coast was clear, Ewan emerged from his hiding spot and surveyed the room, his eyes gleaming with excitement. He licked his lips as he approached the rows of bottles behind the bar, the promise of a long night of uninterrupted drinking weighing heavily on his mind. However, as Ewan began to move across the pub, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was off about the pub. The warm, lively atmosphere he was accustomed to had been replaced Ewan looked around as he approached the bar and wondered to himself. Why do pubs always limit themselves to the same decor? The harsh shades of red. The black and white photos of people long dead and oil paintings which seem to have been painted to fade into the background. Ewan had both drank and been barred from every pub on the island now and has seen little to no variety in interiors. "I guess it is to make it feel homely and familiar. Our brains associate familiarity with safety and people who feel safe are likely to drink more." while still feeling unsettled moving across the bar. The feeling of unease wasn't going to stop him from drinking as much as he can physically take before sneaking out leaving the landlord none the wiser. Until a stock take shows some discrepancies that he will probably put down to spillages or his carelessness with bookkeeping. Then he thought "No I will drink as much as I want and top the bottles up with water" Ewan's eyes grazed over the selection of choices on the Optic. Grouse being his usual preferred choice when he wants to spoil himself on the rare occasions he has money to burn, Bells being his usual go-to poison as the price and alcohol content measure up quite nicely but tonight he was going to drink like a king. He grabbed the bottle of Redbreast and carefully unscrewed it from the optic and began to greedily chug straight from the bottle. He walked drunkenly from behind the bar to a stool he sat down and for no reason held the bottle to the sky and said "cheers" at that moment the jukebox began to blast out at an incredibly loud volume "You're mine" by Ritchie Valens. "FUCK!" Screamed Ewan as he put down his bottle and hurried over to the jukebox. The light emitted from which was now making the shadowy areas seem darker by contrast. He scrambled to the floor feeling for a plug socket behind it to unplug the thing. The sound up close was almost deafening. After feeling along the wall to no success he quickly pulled at it to come forward so he could get behind it to where the plug must be and sure enough it was there. He yanked it out of the wall with a hard jerk and the record began to slow "yourrr minee forrrr eternityyyyyy....." and then silence. Ewan let out a sigh of relief. "Thing must be connected to some sort of sensor" Ewan walked to the window, crouched down in case anyone was looking in to see what the noise was. He looked to see if anyone in the opposite building heard the commotion. He looked and the only building on the other side of the road facing the pub was a thatched-roof cottage. Dimly lit by street light, with a sign above the door that read "Alf's funeral home" "Well Alf. I'm sorry if I woke up any of your clients" slurred Ewan while chuckling to himself. He reached for the bottle on the bar while turning and no bottle. He retraced his steps from the bar to the jukebox to the window and back to the bar but the
bottle was nowhere to be seen. Then he looked up at the Optics. There he saw it. The fine redbreast whiskey. He staggered over to it. Holding the bar for balance. There it was and seemingly untouched. He must have drank near on a quarter of the bottle but there it is. Almost full and back where it was. "I must have tipped it up with water after drinking and put it back. This isn't the first time I've lost chunks of time from drinking and it won't be the last" mumbled Ewan allowed as an attempt to reassure himself. Putting his feeling of unease down to the nerves of being caught along with the dull twinge of guilt he feels for stealing Ewan decided to look for cheaper alternatives for his next binge. He finally settled on a bottle of Jack. Only total pussies who want to pretend they like whisky because they think it gives them an edge drink Jack Daniels. The faggots that drink it non ironically will never notice it is watered down. Ewan grabbed a glass this time deciding to drink measured amounts. Aware that loss of time while drinking is usually followed by passing out entirely. Ewan sat hunched over on a rickety wooden stool, the creaking of the floorboards beneath him barely audible over the deafening silence that enveloped the empty pub. The musty smell of stale beer and old wood filled his nostrils as he took another swig from the glass of his Jack Daniels, a bitter taste lingering on his tongue. “Piss water,” he thought to himself. The room was dark, though his eyes had now adjusted enough to fully take in his surroundings. The old faces in frames on the wall. A photo on the wall to his left was of a party being held in this very pub. Looking to be in the 1910s judging from the fashion. Amongst the 20 or so people in the image, one woman stood out in the dead center. Her long hair was down, a contrast from the other ladies in the photos sporting the traditional Pompadour style of the time. She was smiling while looking off to the side. Seemingly unaware that she was to be the star of the photograph. Above the photo on a shelf made from taxidermy antlers sat an antique hunting rifle. The light from the street lamp reflected off the mettle barrel casting eerie shadows across the rows of dusty liquor bottles. Ewan thought about how many parties would have taken place here over hundreds of years this pub had been open. The idea of drinking for any kind of pleasure had become such an alien concept to him now. Drinking for Ewan wasn't a way to unwind or relax or even in his mind feed an addiction. Not anymore anyway. Now he finds himself desperate for a drink to quell the demons that haunted his every waking moment. As the alcohol began to take hold of him again, the memory he had been trying so hard to suppress clawed its way back to the forefront of his mind. It was a memory that he could never escape, a weight that anchored him to the ocean floor of despair. It had been over six years since the accident. The night had started like any other: dinner with friends, laughter, and, of course, alcohol. It was supposed to be a celebration of Ewan and Isla, his wife's fifth wedding anniversary. But as the night wore on and the glasses piled up, so too did the tension between them. “We need to get a taxi.” Said Isla after excusing herself and Ewan “I am fine to drive! It is only a mile down the road” “You were supposed to stay sober tonight” “Yeah, and you were supposed to get your license 3 years ago.” “Do you really wanna do this now?” Ewan thought on this for a second before speaking “No. I am sorry I was only meant to have a couple but got a little carried away. I am sorry, but you know we will never get a taxi at this time of night. Come on I'll drive slow” Ewan cut this memory short. He wouldn't allow himself to think about this anymore. As tears began to fall from his face he necked the remainder of the contents of his glass. Before he had a chance to pour himself another drink the stall he was sitting on was jerked back with such force that Ewan landed on the ground with a thud. Smashing the glass that was tightly gripped in his hand in the process. Ewan let out a pained gargled yelp as he shook his now bleeding hand in pain. The blood splatters landed on the wall art and photos. He looked at his hand and saw that yes indeed a large chunk of glass was sticking out of his hand. He yanked it out. With that more blood trickled out rapidly. He turned to see what happened to his seat. And there almost 3 feet away from him sat his bar stool. “Fuck this!” said Ewan as he hurried to the back door. Locked. He tried the fired exit, the windows. All locked. At this point, he didn't care about being discovered. He turned all the lights on. And started bashing his fists against the windows. The glass wouldn't budge he grabbed a chair and began smacking the window over and over again until the chair had fallen to pieces. Suddenly the Jukebox started playing again. Some big band highland number that he did not recognize this time. “I know I unplugged that” as he looked at the jukebox he noticed that the hunting rifle that sat on the shelf to the right of that was gone he scanned the room and to his horror, he saw a lady standing in the corner of the room facing away from him. His vision was slightly wavy from the alcohol. “Hey I don't know if you work here and you are trying to mess with me for breaking in. You have successfully scared the shit out of me and I am happy to wait outside for the police to arrive or whatever. I am bleeding, let me leave?” The woman turned around. It was the lady from the photograph. Her face was covered in bruises. Her eyes were red and puffy. She put the hunting rifle that was in her hands up to her chin and pulled the trigger. The front of her face exploded revealing bits of teeth and a gaping hole where her mouth should be parts of her brain decorated the ceiling the remainder half that was still in her skull pulsated a little as blood tricked out. She fell to her knees and now with her few remaining teeth bare, she looked as though she was smiling. Though her eyes gave the impression of pure rage. As she fell head first on the floor the electricity died. Ewan scurried away while on the floor to the corner by the bar and then vomited. “not real, it's not real it's not real” he said while covering his eyes. Afraid to look. He sat like this for what felt like hours. In that time a puddle of urine collected around him. “Usually I don't piss myself until I've finished my second bottle” he darkly thought to himself. “I need to find a way out of here” Thought Ewan as he opened his eyes and saw that there was no trace of the lady from the photograph anymore. The ceiling was clean and the gun was back on its shelf. He stood shakily. As He stood he noticed that the building on the opposite end of the street now had a light on. He began banging on the window again “Hey! I am trapped in here! Send help!” He saw movement in the window as someone pulled back the curtain to look. It was a middle-aged gentleman with greying hair. He looked around confused to see where the noise was coming from “OVER HERE!” Shouted Ewan and he banged on the window until his other hand was just as bloody. The gentleman then turned in Ewans direction “YEAH OVER HERE I AM TRAPPED! PLEASE COME AND HELP ME!” The gentleman looked as though he was trying to hear while with his hand he reached for the lining of his shirt. With one motion he ripped his shirt open relieving a gash going all the way up his body stitched together with what appeared to be wire. His look of concern turned to amusement and he pulled the wire. Undoing the stitches to show where his vital organs that have now been donated used to be. He laughed like a madman as he pulled his skin back. His head now leaning against the glass and his laughter which sounded muffled due to the distance was still audible from the pub. Deep and raspy but that of a madman. Ewans attention was broken by the sound of a familiar clank of something metallic. It was a sound that was instantly recognizable to anyone. The sound of coins dropping to the floor. Ewan turned and looked and sure enough, there were two coins on the ground behind where he stood. He bent to pick them up. They were old. Very old. From what he could see in the dim light they looked to be that of the Victorian times. He heard the sound again. This time over by the jukebox. He walked over to pick them up and noticed something. The floor under the jukebox looks to be a cellar door. He dragged it out some more to reveal that yes indeed, it was some kinda entrance to a hatch of some kind. This time Ewan saw the coins drop to the floor. He looked up at the ceiling and saw dozens of corpses laying flat against the ceiling with coins covering their eyes dressed in their funeral clothes all shoulder to shoulder. The sight was horrifying. And as if waiting to be viewed, at that moment their flesh began to melt to just skeletal remains, and coins and blood showed Ewan as he frantically tried to get the hatch on the floor open. Digging his fingers into the gaps trying to grip it to lift it until he eventually found a bit to latch onto. With one firm pull the hatch came up. He dove into the cellar. Not caring what he will find at this point. Slamming it shut behind him. He searched his pocket to find his lighter. After a few attempts at getting it to light he managed. He saw it wasn't a cellar at all. Instead, it was a tunnel. He began to follow it along. After walking for about 30 minutes the tunnel got narrower and narrower until Ewan was crawling on his hands and knees. He noticed a light ahead and felt hopeful that this could be the end of his ordeal. He began to notice he was crawling on pavement and broken glass. He kept going until he could stand and he could see trees and a road he hurried out of the tunnel and saw to his confusion. He was still inside the cellar. The trees stopped sharply at the ceiling and the road stopped sharply at the four walls that surrounded him. He turned to go back through the tunnel, Back the way he came. this was not the way out. what he saw as he turned defied all logic. The small part of his brain that clung to rational explanation broke as he saw that the tunnel he had just crawled through had been replaced with a tipped-over car. He saw a younger version of himself slowly regain consciousness while suspended upside down. He froze unable to move or look away. “Oh god please don't make me relive this” “Isla? Oh my god, Isla” Ewan checked her pulse but couldn't find one. He could see emergency services lights coming towards them from a distance. He knew he would go to prison for manslaughter if caught causing death by dangerous driving “I am so sorry baby. I am so sorry” Ewan said through tears while unbuckling her seatbelt and moving her over to the drivers side and then crawling back out of the car to flag down the ambulances. "They'll be able to resuscitate her, She will be okay and I will take care of her". Ewan didn't notice that the car had begun to ignite until it was too late. The flames spread quickly. “Ewan..?” said a dull voice from the car. Ewan turns and hurried to the car but by that point, it was too late “Isla!” He cried as he watched the flame cover his wife. Isla screamed in pain until her face was completely burnt away and all she could make was gargles and all Ewan could do was watch in horror. Then the entire room went up in flames and became ash leaving Ewan completely in the dark. Sobbing. “I am sorry I didn't know. I didn't mean to. I.... I...!" Ewan composed himself. "I deserve to die but I am not dying in here" Ewan stood and pulled out his lighter again to light the room only to see it was now filled with hundreds of bodies all staring at him. the tips of their feet scraping across the floor as they floated closer. Ewan backed away until he felt something metallic. A ladder leading up to a manhole shaft. he quickly began to climb as the ghostly rotting corpses moved closer to him at a more rapid speed now. as he reached the top and forced the lid open he was greeted by sunlight. hands clutched at his ankles dragging him back but with determination to survive he pulled himself free and was finally outside in the open. He closed the cover shut. He could hear birds chirping, and sounds of people driving to work. The world had never seemed so beautiful. "Oh my god buddy are you okay?" said a young man who looked horrified at Ewan who was covered in dried blood, ash, and a collection of injuries. "I am going to call you an ambulance buddy hang tight" The young man pulled out his phone and began to dial. by this point, Ewan began to pass out. He slipped in and out of consciousness while getting carefully placed on the gurney. "What is your name?" "Have you taken anything?" "Who's blood is this" "My name is Ewan, I haven't taken anything. I guess I have had far too many spirits last night though" he laughed to himself as the doors to the ambulance closed. as the vehicle began to speed away music began to play on the radio. "I didn't think ambulances had radios" said Ewan as he began to recognize the music. "Your mine and we belong together. Yes, we belong together" He tried to stand but he had been strapped down to the gurney. The walls of the ambulance began to melt away. The paramedics all had coins covering their eyes and mouths stitched shut. Ewan let out a scream as fire began to cover his body he could see once the walls of the ambulance were fully gone he was still in the pub. it was still night and he was now very much on fire. He let out one final scream before his lips were completely gone. His chard body fell to the floor by the bar with a thud. An empty bottle of Jack tightly gripped in one hand and his lighter in the other. In his final state of living consciousness before his inevitable death, he saw the light emerge from the window. The sun was finally rising for real. He closed what remained of is eyelids and let out a pained sigh as he died. Ewans body was discovered later that day by a confused and horrified cleaner. Who immediately phoned the police. The investigating officers, who knew all about Ewans drunken antics on the island and had their suspensions regarding the circumstances involving his wifes death. Put Ewans demise down to an elaborate and painful suicide. That night as his body lay on the slab in Alfs funeral home. After the sun had set and everyone had left for the evening. But in the pub opposite the funeral home, Ewan emerged from his hiding spot behind the barrels and surveyed the room, his eyes gleaming with excitement. He licked his lips as he approached the rows of bottles behind the bar, He felt an unsettling feeling of deja vu but had managed to shake it off by the promise of a long night of uninterrupted drinking which weighed heavily on his mind.

First
Ferodias POV / Ten Years Earlier
His heart was pounding in his ears, the thrum of battle lingering for longer than it needed to as he pants hotly. He looked around the wooded area, between the trees, and around the trampled grass, and all he saw were the mangled corpses of monsters. He forced himself to focus, and before long, he could sense and hear his friends and allies; they all seemed to be okay, if not reasonably exhausted. "Sound off!" He called out, wiping the blood off the blade on his pant leg before sheathing it as his tail curled and lashed behind him.
"Here and a'okay!" A voice called out; it was from Brasyl, a young half-orc archer who wielded a bow that was impossibly hard for most people to draw and used unique, heavy arrows. The grey-skinned fellow stepped out of some brush and into view with a toothy grin, his face, chest, and right arm coated in blood that wasn't his own as he used a dirty rag to polish off his knife. "Those bastards sure got the drop on us, eh, Rodi?" He mused cheerfully enough.
Ferodias couldn't help but smirk a bit at the half-orc, it was a very close fight, but they did slaughter the infestation of branch bugs that had been terrorizing the local farming villages. At the very least, they culled the population, and they shouldn't be an issue until next spring. His ears twitched as he heard the squelching of bug flesh, turning to see Monty, a human teen warrior who planned to open his restaurant when he saved up enough coin to retire. He was currently grabbing tokens from each branch bug for proof of their total kill count. Upon seeing Ferodias spot him, Monty smiled while waving a branch bug head. "I'm good over here!" He chirped, stuffing the head away in a large sack before moving to the next one.
"I hate bugs." A voice said as they came up behind Ferodias, though he didn't need to turn to know who it was. Regan stepped up beside Ferodias, the half-elf wiping the blood off the end of his magic staff. "All those extra spindly limbs and that disturbing screeching, ugh." He complained as he shuddered before stamping the end of his staff into the dirt and leaning into it. "I would have rathered gone after those grappler bears that were seen near that mining town; at least they have the good decency not to swarm and get gooey blood all over the place."
Ferodias couldn't help but smirk with amusement at his best friend's expense; before he could respond, Regan was nearly knocked over by Danica, a young dwarven teen with an impressive goatee and an equally impressive hammer, as she smacked Regan's back a few times. "Ah, quit your bellyachin Spells; I kept them off ya well enough." She mused mischievously before going over to join Monty with the monster butchering.
Regan scowled with vague annoyance before sighing as he turned to face Ferodias. "Are you absolutely certain you want 'all' of these individuals as your guardians?" He asked, lowering his voice to a near whisper as they spoke privately. "At least reconsider, Danica, if only for my sanity." He mentioned, not sounding serious but making his point.
Ferodias' ears twitched as he flashed a small smile, speaking softly to keep this conversation between themselves. "Why not? They're all good people, strong for their age too; I'm sure they'll be up to snuff by the time the trials are called to a close." They've had this conversation a few times now, but it was only this time that Ferodias really felt genuinely confident of the people he gathered. The members of their party had shifted around a few times over the last couple of years, with Brasyl being the latest member and Danica being the longest-standing member so far. "Besides, you're just jealous she's paying more attention to Monty than you nowadays, aren't you?" He teased mischievously, speaking normally as he waggled his ears while looking over at the half-elf.
Regan flushed, though a frown was soon on his face. "As if, like I would want a woman in the shape of a barrel." He retorted as he looked away.
Danica called out from where she was, ripping off some bark bug limbs with Monty, no doubt planning on adding that to dinner tonight. "Don't worry, Spells; you're too much of a twig for me anyways." She called out playfully, taking it all in stride as she grinned while the other guys chuckled at the scene.
Ferodias couldn't help but laugh at his friend's expense before joining the others as they rounded up the bug heads, all in all, they managed to kill around thirty-seven bugs, and for three silver a head and the reward for the job itself, it was looking to be a good payday for their efforts; not to mention some extra protein for their next few meals. The day soon turned to evening, and their party had set up camp among the trees during their trek back to the nearest guildhall a few towns away. Monty had got a firepit going and set about making dinner, which was comprised of fire-grilled and salted bug legs, some hard bread, and dried fruits. Danica meticulously tended to everyone's weapons, ensuring they were polished and free of any bug guts or blood that were possibly missed earlier. Brasyl had procured a hard case with a latch, pulling out a lyre which he began playing, the delicate looking instrument producing a sweet little melody as the group waited for the food to be cooked.
They had been resting around the fire for some time, the bug meat ending up giving off a rather delicious smell, admittedly. Monty still tending to the fire while turning the legs over a portable wire grill. It was peaceful and quiet, save for Brasyl's music, that was until Regan started shifting around his tent, stepping into the open while clutching his staff. He only had his pants on, but he looked serious as his eyes stared into the darkness around them. Well, it was dark for most of them; with the aid of the flamelight, they could peer fairly far into the darkness; only Monty was relatively blind to anything beyond the reach of the flamelight. "What is it, Spells?" Danica spoke up, tossing Ferodias his sheathed blade and passing over Monty's spear. Brasyl set his lyre down and collected his bow as he notched an arrow.
Regan looked around, his eyes darting side to side. "Movement, we have trespassers who crossed the first threshold of the security perimeter I set..." He explained in a hushed voice.
"How many?" Ferodias asked as he drew his blade, retrieving his shield from beside his tent and standing at the ready, his tail curling close as his ears twitched and strained to catch any sounds beyond the crackle of the wood in the fireplace.
Regan pointed his staff in a direction as the group turned and readied themselves. "We got three, and they're closing in on us; they must have seen the fire." He reasoned as he twitched. "They're sixty feet away; they just crossed the second threshold." He reported, though his brow furrowed as he tilted his head. "Hold on, four more trespassers just crossed the first threshold in the same direction as the first group."
"What does that mean?" Brasyl asked as he drew his bow, the weighty limbs bending in response to the half-orc's strength as he aimed into the grey darkness. Regan didn't answer at first as Brasyl narrowed his eyes. "Spotted the first set... It looks like people in dresses!" He exclaimed, confusion apparent in his voice, though he didn't let his arms relax.
Regan had his eyes shut for a moment before opening them. "Adjust your aim a finger to the left and down, fire!" He ordered, Brasyl making the slight adjustments as the heavy arrow was loosed with a 'thwum,' an animalistic yelp sounding out a split-second later.
In mere moments, the three figures Brasyl had spotted were now in range of the flamelight; there were three women, two looking relatively untouched, save for some bruising and torn clothes. It was the third woman that caught Ferodias' eyes; she was pummeled brutally, her lip split, and one of her eyes had swollen shut, her dress had been ripped to shreds, and she was absolutely drenched in blood. He wanted to say something, speak to her, but he heard howls in the air and remembered at least three more things were chasing these women.
Regan stepped forward, raising his staff and firing off bolts of lightning, the energy arcing through the air and colliding into what appeared to be an enraged hound, frying the beast; there were two more left, having avoided being caught in the blast of electricity as both Monty and Ferodias stepped forward. The human brought his spear low before deftly thrusting into the open maw of one of the hounds, while Ferodias brought his shield up and bashed the remaining beast in the middle of its lunge, stunning it for a moment when he followed up with a downward slash and beheaded it.
The whole ordeal was over before it really began, Danica stepping forward and examining the beast corpses as Ferodias looked over to the women. "What's going on here?" He said, doing his best to present a gentle display despite the fresh blood coating his blade and arm.
The trio of ladies, upon closer inspection, were just girls barely older than Brasyl but younger than Ferodias. Two of them were clearly shaken but doing their absolute best to maintain their composure. The third and worse off seemed more hardened and collected, yet her gaze was distant and not focused. While she certainly looked like she was beaten to shit, because she was, Ferodias realized that most of the blood on her body wasn't hers as it coated her right arm and chest. If he had to guess, she managed to kill someone with that blood-drenched dagger she was clutching. It took a few moments, but a wolfkin girl with mostly human features spoke up. "I am Lady Nerva Foundeli, daughter of Viscount Foundeli." She said before gesturing to the younger of the trio, who was a half-elf that was shuddering almost uncontrollably despite trying her best to remain stoic. "She is Lady Roche Ferdina, daughter of Baron Ferdina." She then gestured to the battered teen human and spoke up, her own voice shaky and faltering from whatever experience they had gone through. "She is Lady Historietta Blackstone, daughter of Count Blackstone." She explained, taking a moment to clear her throat before looking among her rescuers. "We had been kidnapped three days ago, coming from a banquet in the capital... They were planning on holding us for ransom, but we overheard them talking of... of... Using us..." She said, choking on her own words, trying and failing to maintain her composure as Danica went about getting the ladies to sit by the fire, though Historietta remained standing where she was. "They planned on having their ways with us before throwing us away once they got their ransom... It was a day later that Historietta got the attention of one of those vagrants and began insulting him and his mother. She... She seemed to be somehow accurate as she managed to enrage him to the point where he entered the room we were locked in." She said, shivering as she recalled the event. "We begged her to stop, not to make things worse; however, it was too late, and he started to pummel her... We could do nothing since our arms were bound, but somehow she managed to free herself in the midst of the beating and got her hands on his knife." She then glanced over at Historietta, a mix of fear and awe in her voice. "She spilled his guts and freed us and managed to get the jump on one of the other bandits, killing him in his sleep. We managed to escape, but after some time, we heard those foul beasts hot on our heels. We saw your fire in the distance and ran towards you, hoping for the best." She said, gratefully taking a wooden cup with water as Monty passed them to the two ladies, Historietta still standing off to the side.
Brasyl spoke up, having returned to the camp with a bloodied arrow as he looked among the others. "Those hounds were domesticated; someone sent these things after these ladies." He said, not having been there for the story.
Danica nodded at his words. "Yeah, we have a kidnapping situation on our hands; these ladies just escaped." She explained, Brasyl's eyes going wide before bobbing his head as he cleaned off the arrow and tucked it away in his large quiver.
Ferodias approached Historietta, reaching out to touch her shoulder but then thinking better of it. "You alright, Lady Historietta? Can I get you something to eat or drink?" He asked softly, his tail curling tightly behind in distress at seeing a young woman in such a state.
It took a moment, but she seemed to come out of her fugue and looked directly at Ferodias; she averted her gaze, seemingly looking at something before croaking out some incomprehensible words and curtsying. It was almost regal as she grabbed what remained of her tattered dress to do so.
Lady Nerva spoke up while watching this take place. "I'm afraid Lady Historietta cannot speak right now; that vagrant she antagonized had grabbed her by her throat before she had been slammed around. Frankly, I'm surprised she can even breathe properly."
Ferodias looked and felt distressed, worry plain on his face, even as Historietta offered a small smile and wincing as she did so. Regan soon returned from the shadows as he spoke out. "I've reinforced my security wards with more lethal charms; we shouldn't have any more uninvited guests of the unsavory sort." He explained, offering a bit of a smile until he got a good look at Lady Historietta and winced at her condition. "Oh gods, give me a second." He said, heading over to his tent and grabbing his pack; he soon returned with a small vial of red liquid and uncorked it. "Here, a healing potion; I just bought it last week." He explained before going around behind her and placing a hand on her back. "Don't mind me; I'm just gonna use some life magic to amplify the potion's effects." He explained gently, a faint blue light radiating from his palm as Historietta slowly downed the potion, wincing with each swallow.
Monty offered a smile as he set out some bug legs and dried fruits on some wooden plates and passed them to the ladies. "Sorry about the cuts of meat, but you should eat up and gather your strength; we still have a bit of trek before we're back in a major city." He explained. The two ladies certainly looked skeptical at their plates, but they managed to give their thanks. Despite their reservations, they were soon digging in, breaking the fire-charred chitin to get to the soft meat on the inside.
As the minutes ticked by, Ferodias procured a water skin, a change of clothes, a towel, and a spare set of shoes and came over to Historietta and Regan. The duo was now sitting on the ground, with Regan on his knees behind her, Regan's magical light still glowing as Historietta's skin gradually stitched itself back to gather, the bruising and swelling receding as she seemed to even breathe more easily. "Here, once you're done, I've set up some tarps and a light nearby, so you take these and change out of those blood-soaked clothes and rinse off with this water skin." He explained before holding up the water skin in particular. "It's enchanted with water magic to refill every six hours, so don't worry about using it all." He mentioned.
Historietta took a slow breath before speaking up, her voice still scratchy but nowhere near as bad as it was earlier. "Thank you again; I'll be in your care." She said, bowing her head again.
After a few moments, Regan pulled away and stood as he looked down at the Lady, Ferodias being quick to offer his hand to help her to her feet. "Alright, that is as much as I can do for now without overly exhausting you. Get some rest, and we'll do this again in the morning." He explained, shooting Ferodias a curious glance while Historietta got to her feet. Lady Historietta once again bowed her head before walking away with the things Ferodias had brought; Ferodias couldn't help but watch as she left, though that's when Regan poked him in the ribs and quirked a brow at him. "What do you think you're doing? You're smitten with her, aren't you? Don't you remember that you can't tell anyone who you really are?" He chastised in a harsh whisper. "Don't do anything stupid."
Ferodias winced before chuckling sheepishly; he hadn't realized he was being that obvious; then again, Regan could read him like a book. "S-sorry... I... I just couldn't help but admire how composed and capable she is and how she's handling herself right now, even more so than the other ladies." He replied as his ears waggled while he scratched the back of his head.
Regan nodded, seemingly agreeing with that. "You're right... It's almost as if she's gone through this before." He mentioned worriedly. "Just watch yourself, don't go compromising your trials when you've come this far." He warned quietly as he pats Ferodias' shoulder before rejoining the group.
Ferodias nodded, though he looked over at the changing area he set up, catching a vague silhouette of the lady as he felt his cheeks heat up. "I'll try... But gods... What a woman."
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I used G27 for years. Eventually passed it on to my cousin. Realized I still wanna simrace, picked up a G29 because I trust the quality. (Even though a G300s mouse failed me before)
Turns out, they put a rubber at the end of the brake pedal, adjusted the firmware to exponentially increase the input towards the end of the pedal travel, and they are supposedly simulating a load cell with this contraption. But in fact messing up a completely fine low end pedal set just to do some load cell marketing. While I can see that the noise has improved a lot with G29 and there are a lot of extra buttons on the wheel, (Which there are none on the shifter anymore, which is sold seperately) after having both, I'd still prefer a G27.
If you don't have a real load cell, you adjust braking force by pedal travel. That's just how it is. When you arbitrarily and exponentially increase the brake force towards the end of the travel, it leads to extreme inaccuracy in braking since you can't do sensitive adjustments in braking.
Has Logitech even tested this with simracers to see if their laptimes improved? I am 100% sure their times dropped massively, even after getting used to this fake load cell.
Removing the rubber isn't a solution, because there's no linearity. At about 60% of pedal travel, it brakes 100%. Least you can do is release a firmware which makes brake pedal 100% linear, just like throttle and clutch. Just like the good old G27.

I currently own the polene numero Un nano in black leather with the suede flap, and I'm looking for something a tad smaller under $500 for those dressier occasions, like a fancy dinner, wedding, etc. Preferably in a cream, light nude shade, with an adjustable/removable (I'm 5'0" and usually wear my crossbodies right at or above above my hip) crossbody strap that i can remove as necessary to use as a clutch. Open to wallet styles on a chain, to help me minimize what I bring with me 🤪
I don't like big loud logos, but appreciate nice good hardware. I don't baby my bags, so preferably something that is a little tougher and sturdier so it wouldn't show scuffs or scratches.
These are the ones that have caught my eye. I like the structure of these bags, as well as their shapes. But they're still missing something. Strathberry Lana osette just about fits the bill, but still on the fence. Convince me otherwise if you own any one of these! Maybe these might help your mini bag quest as well!
Strathberry mini crescent $595 - https://us.strathberry.com/products/mini-crescent-sundress-yellow
Strathberry Lana osette $495 - https://us.strathberry.com/products/lana-osette-oat
Mansur gavriel mini mini bucket bag $495 - https://www.mansurgavriel.com/products/mini-mini-bucket-beige
Leo et violette Le mini violette $321 - https://www.leoetviolette.com/en-us/products/le-mini-violette-daim-cotele-noir
Cuyana sculpted handle bag $321 - https://www.cuyana.com/bags/sculpted-handle-bag/10010355.html
Fossil Harwell micro flap $150 - https://www.fossil.com/en-us/products/harwell-%E2%80%8Bmicro-flap-crossbody%E2%80%8B/ZB1849105.html?utm_source=google&utm_medium=cpc&utm_campaign=G_US_Fossil_PLA_Handbags&utm_content=Womens_Handbags&utm_term=PRODUCT_GROUP&gclid=CjwKCAjw-IWkBhBTEiwA2exyO_BgCBHmXOU7DinITHyrJdeADGlaJqBf3aBq3SIXafrm1Kuv9G3ScBoCRFYQAvD_BwE&gclsrc=aw.ds
Cambridge tiny $80 - https://us.cambridgesatchel.com/products/the-tiny-biscuit-matte-celtic-grain

Day 1 - unknown system- We're filled with high spirits bright As the crew conducts their flight For all to witness, day and night Exploring space, its limits in sight
Day 2 - unknown system- A leak in hydraulics, a minor plight Our engineers shine, repairs ignite. With skill and precision, we set it right, The ship's design restored, ready for the fight.
Day 3 - unknown system- The air pump is leaking, the climate control is rusted But we’ll get it quickly adjusted It may have been our fault, we left it busted But this ship is our lifeline, we all just trust it
Day 4 - unknown system- Oxygen is getting short, but we all can still breathe One of our crew is loosing some teeth We’re in no danger, that’s a mistaken belief! Let’s just focus on our mission brief
Day 5 - unknown system- The crew are dead. Their faces pale blue The only light from the console’s neon hue They all had wrong priorities, didn’t know what to do So I kept the air for myself - my mission will continue
Day 6 - unknown system- :no user found: :no entry:

I know what you're thinking: no way; there's no chance Tim Duncan is the GOAT. He's not even the best player of his generation you might say. You're thinking there's no way Tim Duncan belongs in the same category as MJ or LeBron. If you believe this, there are three things that you'll probably bring up as I make this argument.

1. The Second Act: If you're the kind of person who rates players through spreadsheets, his career in the 2010s is statistically underwhelming.
2. The Peak: You might say that Duncan never had a real peak where he was the most dominant player in the league on a daily basis, like Shaq.
3. Greg Popovich: Duncan has always had Pop, arguably the greatest coach of all time in his corner.

I hear you, and I will address these later on in this post. First, let me address Duncan's stats and accolades.
Duncan's notable accolades from his NBA career are as follows:

• 5 Championships
• 15 All-Defensive Teams (8x First Team, 7x Second Team)
• 15 All Star selections
• 2 Regular Season MVP's
• 3 Finals MVP's

Duncan's 5 championships are more than Larry Bird or Wilt Chamberlain, his 15 All-Defensive selections are the most of anybody ever, his 15 All Star appearances are tied for 3rd all time, he has as many regular season MVP's as Kobe and Shaq combined and only MJ has more Finals MVP's.
Don't forget about his college accomplishments though, because remember: Duncan came out of Wake Forest after four years despite people like Jerry West who said he could have been the number one overall pick had he left after his sophomore year.
Duncan's accolades form his collegiate years:

• 3x NABC Defensive Player of the Year
• 2x ACC Player of the Year
• 2x consensus All-American
• 1997 Naismith Player of the Year
• Most rebounds in NCAA history.

These NBA and collegiate snapshots of his basketball career, should be enough to have him at the table of the GOAT conversation. You're not convinced yet, let's dig into some more numbers.
Here's where Duncan ranks all-time on some of the major statistical categories across his NBA career:

• Points: 16th
• Rebounds: 6th
• Blocks: 5th
• Steals: 158th
• Assists: 100th

These career totals, admittedly, are substantially less impressive than other players at his position, like Kevin Garnett (19th in points, 9th in rebounds, 18th in blocks, 18th in steals, 55th in assists), Karl Malone (3rd in points, 7th in rebounds, 70th in blocks, 12th in steals, 61st in assists) or Dirk Nowitzki (6th in points, 26th in rebounds, 53rd in blocks, 94th in steals, 155th in assists). And that's because you can't judge Tim Duncan's numbers like you can with most players. Imagine in 15 years if somebody said to you that Russell Westbrook was better than Steph Curry, citing how many PTS, AST, and REB Westbrook had. You'd laugh right? Because you know that numbers do not always tell the full story. It is impossible and irresponsible to discuss a player's ranking without mentioning the stats that exists, but by measuring players purely by their basketball reference page, you're leaving out context and the story in which those numbers were achieved. That context is what makes those numbers meaningful.
Such is the case with Tim Duncan, whose success and greatness transcends a box score. You can't judge Tim Duncan with numbers alone. The fact of the matter is, that if you ran a team and if you could pick from any NBA player that ever played the game, and your goal is to win, you would pick Tim Duncan.
Offensively, Duncan was dominant for his first ten years in the NBA. From '98 to '08, he averaged 21.6/11.8/3.1 while playing on one of the slowest teams in the league. In that span, the Spurs never ranked in the top half of the league for PACE. Adjusting his stats for PACE and looking at his stats per 100 possessions (31.2/17.1/4.5 with 3.5 BLK at 50.8 FG%), you're looking at a big man who was every bit as productive as any other offensive player in the league at the time.
You already know about his skillset. He was, after all, The Big Fundamental. He could pass out of double teams, face up and break down the defense with surprising agility, consistently knock down shots from the elbows, and torch any big man in the league with his array of moves in the post and suddenly imposing physicality. He could masterfully run a PnR with any guard with working limbs. And, of course, he had his signature bank shot, one of the most consistent and reliable shots of all time along with Kareem's Sky Hook and Dirk's fadeaway. Those skills never deteriorated throughout his career, except perhaps his last year.
This is where I want to attack the 2nd idea that his second act was unexceptional. His scoring numbers dipped in last 8 years, where he never averaged over 20 PPG. But, as the Spurs offense became more collaborative and free-flowing, Tony Parker and Manu Ginobili shouldered more of that scoring burden as Duncan aged. Duncan's shot attempts fell, though he remained efficient. His skills hadn't waned; the Spurs just didn't need him to score 28 points every night. He retained his role as alpha dog during this stretch and contributed in other facets of the game. He could pick his spots, put his teammates in position to succeed, and save himself undue punishment and wear until is was needed. That's why in 2013, at the age of 36, he became the oldest player ever named to First Team All-NBA.
Duncan was never a prolific scorer, even in his prime. His game was never predicated on gawdy point totals like Malone or Dirk. With a different offense, he took fewer shots, and with fewer shots, he scored fewer points. In his last eight years, he remained a tremendous rebounder, was the go-to guy in crunch time, and the best defender, maybe ever. And this is what hurt his stats: the lack of flashy numbers for defense outside of blocks and steals. It's so hard to measure how much a drive was cut off because of his presence or a shot that was altered because of his contention. There are some metrics that attempt to measure this, like DRTG, Defensive Win Shares, and Defensive +/- , and while it is an inexact science, these measures do a fairly good job at assessing a player's impact on defense. Duncan's ranking in those metrics is unmatched:

• 95.6 DRT (3rd all time)
• 106.3 Defensive Win Shares (2nd all time)
• Defensive +/- (5th all time)
  These metrics along with his All-Defensive selections serve as a testament to how Duncan thrived when the opponent had the ball. Legendary basketball writer, Jack McCalllum wrote this for SI in 2016 after Duncan retired:
  

"Duncan guarded centers and power forwards (sometimes even small forwards) with equal success. And as the NBA became more and more of a high pick-and-roll game, Duncan accepted the extra responsibility of getting involved at the perimeter, while never abandoning basket responsibility. Nobody was better than Duncan at being both an advance guard and the final fortress."
FiveThirtyEight published this article in 2016, where analyst Neil Paine calculated career WAR values that took into consideration defense and offense, and Tim Duncan led the WAR rankings, by a mile:

1. Tim Duncan: 109.2
2. KG: 96.2
3. Karl Malone: 95.4
4. David Robinson: 89.3
5. Hakeem: 85.9
6. LeBron: 82.8
7. Kareem: 78
8. Larry Bird: 74.2
9. Shaq: 73
10. Pippen: 72.7

What does all of this mean? It means that Duncan was a tremendous offensive player, despite the lack of volume, and one of if not the greatest defenders of all time. In short, his value as a two-way player is virtually unmatched in the last 50 years of NBA basketball.
Enough with the numbers. I want to talk about Duncan when it mattered the most: the playoffs. You can look at any numbers, read any article, or talk to any fan who paid attention to the game at the time, and you'll come to the same conclusion: Tim Duncan was a killer in the playoffs. All of his most memorable performances came in the postseason, and more often than not, came in crucial games when his team needed him most. From his near quadruple double in 2003 to close out the Nets and earn his 2nd championship to his 25 point first half against the Heat in Game 6 of the 2013 Finals ten years later, there was never a moment too big for Duncan. Here are his playoff numbers, significantly higher in almost every category than he his in the regular season:

• Points: 6th
• Rebounds: 3rd
• Blocks: 1st
• Steals: 46th
• Assists: 33rd

His '99 championship run was phenomenal, where he tore through a young Kevin Garnett, the newly assembled Kobe-Shaq Lakers, Rasheed Wallace's Trailblazers, and the Patrick Ewing-less 8-seed Knicks on his way to being named the second youngest Finals MVP ever. His 2002 campaign was incredibly underrated, as he carried one of the worst teams of his career to 60 wins and outplayed Shaq before being beat by the two-time champs. His 2003 season was his best season, and we'll get to that in a second. Just know that his running mate, David Robinson, averaged 8.5 PTS and 8 REB in the regular season and that Duncan's 5.9 win shares in that playoff run remain the most of anybody in a single postseason.
In the mid-to-late 2000s, Duncan's Spurs remained a fixture in the playoffs against competition like Dirk's Mavs, Nash's Suns, and Kobe's Lakers. He repaid them with two more titles in '05 and '07. He also gave us one of the clutch shots of his career in Game 1 against the Suns in 2008 with this 3 point game-tying three pointer in OT.
Like I said earlier, in Game 6 of the 2013 Finals, at age 36, playing against Wade, Bosh, and apex LeBron on the road, Duncan put up 25 points in the first half. It would have gone down as an all-time series clinching performance had it not been for Ray Allen's iconic game-tying 3-pointer. Looking for revenge in the 2014 Finals, Duncan set the tone in Game 1 with the classic 21/10 game, while shooting 9/10 from the field. As his final playoff hurrah in 2015, trying to defend the title at the ripe age of 38 in Game 7 of a first round series against the Clippers, Duncan reached all the way back and put up 27/11, sinking crucial free throws to tie it, before Chris Paul hit a clutch, game-winning shot near the buzzer.
The same Tim Duncan giving the business to a 22-year-old Kevin Garnett, was the same Tim Duncan taking a 26-year-old DeAndre Jordan to school. Duncan was ready to win championships from the day he entered the league to the day he left. And I think that is why his peak is used against him as an argument for GOAT status. The fact that his championship window lasted his entire 19-year NBA career and that his teams were always somewhere between 50 and 60 wins meant that it's hard for any one of his seasons to stand out from the rest. And for some unfathomable reason, being consistently great is less of an accomplishment than being great for short stints.
Like I said, his 2003 season was his best, after leading his team to 60 wins and his 2nd consecutive MVP, Duncan eviscerated everything in his path as he tore through the playoffs. He upended the Suns, ended the Lakers 3-year reign as champions, and outdueled Dirk before absolutely torching the Nets in the finals. By the time he was holding the trophy, it was clear beyond a shadow of a doubt that Duncan was the league's best, most complete player.
Now, I'd be lying if I said that Duncan's peak was higher than Shaq's. But I also wouldn't feel comfortable saying that the difference between the two is great enough for me to lose sleep over. To me, the truth is that Shaq was so much more of a spectacle. To watch peak Shaq was an experience unlike anything else. To see someone of his size and stature move so powerfully and fluidly is still something of a miracle. To see Duncan at the peak of his powers was a lot like seeing him seven or eight years later. He was just a little faster, a bit stronger, and a touch quicker in his prime. But do aesthetics denote superiority? I'd say, no. And though Shaq in his prime was certainly a more dominant offensive player, there was never a time where he could match Duncan's abilities as a defender, leader, or teammate. The two are the antithesis of each other. Shaq loves fame; Duncan loathes it. Shaq would sometimes show up to training camp out of shape, often battle with his co-stars and finished his career having played for six different teams. Duncan took great care of his body, cemented himself as the cornerstone of his franchise, and is one of the most celebrated teammates in NBA history. Shaq left a little on the table. You can never say the same thing about Duncan. Shaq cared a little too much about what everyone thought of him, while Duncan couldn't have cared less.
Let's tackle the third criticism: that he always had Pop. To me, Pop is the greatest coach of all time, but he would be the first one to tell you that he wouldn't be here without Tim Duncan.
For one, Duncan can play any style of basketball, in any era. You want to go slow school, old-pace, dump it off to the big man down low, let him bang and be solid on defense? Titles. Remove the hand-checking and illegal defenses, increase scoring and start moving toward the perimeter? Titles. The league goes small ball, the pace explodes and shooting and ball movement is more important than anything? The largest margin of victory in NBA finals history.
Secondly, he can play with any team. Honestly, has any superstar done more with less? Jordan had Pippen his entire run and Rodman for the last half. Bird had McHale and Parish. Wilt had West and Hal Grier. Russell had Cousy, Jones, and Havlicek. Magic had Kareem and vice-versa. Kobe had Shaq and vice-versa. And LeBron has had Wade, Kyrie, and AD. Duncan's best teammates? Old David Robinson, Tony Parker, and Manu Ginobili, who combined for 5 Third Team All NBA appearances and 4 Second Team appearances during their time with Duncan. Parker and Ginobili are long shots for the HOF, and even though Robinson's in the HOF, he wasn't playing at a HOF level alongside Duncan.
Third, and most importantly, Duncan forged the culture of the Spurs. Pop was essential in acquiring players and reinforcing the culture that Tim wanted, but Duncan was truly the most vital component. The NBA is a star-driven league and finding a great player who hasn't gotten a coach fired is like finding a good Star Wars movie: they're few and far between. Not only did Duncan not get Pop fired, he let Pop coach him harder than any superstar ever. If Tim had ever thought to himself, "you know what I don't feel like getting my chops roasted in front of the whole team today because I didn't box out well in practice" he could have gone right to RC Buford, and Pop would have been gone - end of story. But Tim understood what Pop was about, and trusted him enough to be mentored in an unprecedented way. He set the example for his teammates, that no one is immune to criticism and that it's expected of everyone to leave their egos at the door.
In 2017, the Spurs SB Nation blog, Pounding the Rock, spoke to Sam Walker, author of "The Captain Class," a book which examines winning culture in team sports, from field hockey to rugby. In an exchange, Walker said this:
"[T]he book's main conclusion is that the only one factor that must be present in order to maintain greatness over a long period of time is the presence of a particular kind of selfless, relentless, independent-minded, publicity-averse, emotionally composed captain with strong communication skills. And that's Tim Duncan. Duncan was a pure example of the species."
I love Pop, but I have to believe that Duncan was the catalyst that powered Pop to be what he is now. This isn't Belichick-Brady where you wonder who made who. Pop is the greatest coach of all time, because of Tim Duncan. If you want to take credit away from Duncan by saying he played for the best teams, you might be right, but only because he made them the best team. He gave up touches, let other guys hold the torch, put everyone around him in the best position to succeed, and he enjoyed it when they did.
When I said earlier that the thing that hurt Duncan's stats more than anything was a lack of defensive numbers, I lied. The thing that hurt Duncan's stats more than anything was the fact that he never gave a shit about stats or awards. Ever. He wanted his teams to succeed and he wanted to win. That's it. Just read about how his teammates talk about him:
"The best PF ever! Thanks for the memories old man. A great player and teammate."
- Lamarcus Aldridge
"Sometimes all you NEED to say is THANK YOU....To the BEST EXAMPLE of a Leader, Brother, Friend."
- Bruce Brown
"Even tho I knew it was coming, I'm still moved by the news. What a HUGE honor to have played with [Duncan] for 14 seasons!
- Manu Ginobili
I don't think there is a more beloved teammate than Tim Duncan. In the words of NBA commissioner Adam Silver, "...his understated selflessness made him the ultimate teammate." Duncan was always the big brother. Correcting his teammates when they made mistakes and throwing his arms around their shoulders when things didn't go their way. He led in the most effective way possible, not with tweeting, bombastic words, or showy halftime speeches, but by example.
Of all the end-of-career farewell wishes, the one from his former teammate, Brent "Bones" Barry stuck out to me the most. He quoted Mark Twain, saying "'To be good is noble, but to show others how to be good is nobler and no trouble'; for your brilliance TD, I am grateful. For your skills as a player I am in awe. And for your friendship I am honored."
Milwaukee Bucks coach and former Spurs Assistant, Mike Budenholzer said to ESPN's Kevin Arnovitz in 2016: "The magnitude of that, the number of people in this league who have enjoyed opportunity or found fortunate spots in the league, you can trace it back to this one guy -- to the way Timmy played ball and the way he conducted himself. The 'culture' is Timmy."
The NBA is a league of superstars and dynasties - from Russell to Jordan, from Wilt to LeBron. We'll remember its history through its champions, and in the history of North American sports, no team has been as good for as long as the Spurs. San Antonio's success is completely unprecedented in the world of basketball. Aside from his lockout shortened sophomore season, Duncan won 50 or more games and qualified for the playoffs in every season of his NBA career. He finished his career with a win percentage of 71%, the highest of anyone, in any sport, ever. The Spurs run of success started in 1997, the year they drafted Duncan. Since then, he was the cornerstone, the engine of the franchise that has perpetually defined what winning culture looks like - in and outside of basketball.
And so I say again, if you could pick any NBA player from any era of basketball and your goal was to win, you would pick Tim Duncan. His abilities as a basketball player are what made him a superstar. But his consistency, willingness to be coached, love and support of his teammates, and humility are the things that make him transcendent.
I'll let Pop have the last word. This is what he said to the press after Duncan announced his retirement:
"Everybody always talks about who they'd like to eat dinner with, if you had one night and you could go to dinner or lunch with someone. Some people say Mother Teresa, Jesus, the Dalai Lama...I could honestly tell you, my dinner would be with Timmy. He is the most real, consistent, true person I've ever met in my life."

What's up Knifeswap Gang!
Got a price drop and a few other blades looking for new homes. Timestamp
Trade Interest: Spyderco Reinhold Rhino 🦏
Vintage Dalton Scale Release Auto CLONE
Brand new but no box, just fired a bunch. This is a clone of Dalton’s Scale Release Autos. The scales are aluminum and blade is 440. This thing fires extremely hard so make sure you’re holding on to it tightly before actuating. Over 20 years old. Would be a great figit, collector's piece, or user. SV - $35

Thanks for checking out my post everyone! Let me know if you have questions, offers, or trades.

(Below have SOLD)
Gerber Prybrid w/ Ti Deep Carry Clip SOLD
I’ve carried this once to test the pocket clip and haven’t carried it since. Basically brand new with the added Ti deep carry clip. I got the clip and hardware setup on Etsy. I'm also throwing in a couple spare razor blade forks! SV - $25
Toor Merchant 2.0 SOLD
Carried, used, sharpend, and no box. I’ve tuned the pivot so it has no blade play. This Merchant has no lock rock and no lock stick while maintaining excellent action on washers. I also sharpened it on the KME, only reprofiling 1 degree less than the factory bevel. There’s some wear on the scales and under the pocket clip. This beauty flips great. It is not drop shut, but it shakes shut pretty easily though. I’d say the action feels hydraulic when slow rolling. A phenomenal knife with my only gripe being it should’ve came stock with a milled Ti clip. If you want to get an idea of what a quality USA made Ti framelock feels like without blowing on a CRK, this is it. These retail for quite a bit, but I’m selling this one for only SV - $130
Rick Lala Custom Safadage Razor SOLD
New from the maker. Comes with a nylon velcro case. Features a stonewashed and chisel ground blade with a fuller. The handle has an outstanding orange peel finished titanium frame with matching backspacer and titanium tip up clip. This is an extremely unique razor, with IKBS bearings, a backspacer detent, and an extended tang featuring a bottle opener with a bulbed locking mechanism at the end. The mechanism interfaces with the back of the knife and is secure and satisfying to use. Due to those features, this knife is an absolute joy to open and close. Insanely smooth action, with a beautiful ting sound when opening. The edge is ground and finished well, so it’s extraordinarily sharp. Sharpness demonstration by Rick himself. These cost over $500 directly from Rick, take this one for only SV - $235
Spyderco - Military - S30V - Factory Second Frankenstein SOLD
Previous owner cobbled this from a factory second S30V blade and Blurple G10 scales. Not sure why the blade was marked a factory second. Some fine scratches on the blade, a roll on the edge, and wear on the G10 (check pics/video). Used by the previous owner. The rest of the edge is factory sharp. No box. The Military is the best linerlock I’ve handled. It has phenomenal lockup, no play, and a snappy detent. This beast is just a bit big for me. Spyderco's owner, Sal Glesser, designed the Military after someone asked him, "If your son were going into the military what folding knife would you send him with?". Lightweight for its size (4.3oz) with a capable 4” blade. Very balanced and nimble in hand. Would make for an extraordinary user or EDC. **SV - ~~$110 $99**~~
Three Coins Bundle -Brass Frank Herbert Coin & Two Copper Mutiny Metal Coins
These have been carried but are in great condition. SV - FREE w/ any purchase

FirstNext
Well, it only took Canada burning and the East Coast turning into smoky rendition of a Mexico filter for this chapter to finally reach completion. Regularly-scheduled programming should hopefully resume after July 4th. Until then, drink some water, don't do gender reveals in the forest, and hang in there, guys!
Pursuant to Imperial Decree 10928, and in recognition of the reservist nature of the unit, the 1st Rocket Artillery Regiment has been found to satisfy the standards outlined in the Decree. However, in light of the significant budget and nonmaterial resource allocations that were required to bring the aforementioned unit up to levels considered satisfactory by existing standards, additional considerations beyond readiness and training levels must be taken into account.
Throughout the appeals process, you have repeatedly indicated that you believe rocket artillery to still have a place on the modern battlefield, citing recent reports from the Terran Planetary District command of the Sol System sector, as well as early after-action reports from the Intervention on Raknos, which you claim to support your argument. However, further investigation into this claim by independent analysts on behalf of Armored Warfare Command has found it to hold no merit in light of the recent restructuring outlined in detail in prior communications. Simply put, neither the Empress, nor her advisors, believe that the maintenance and garrisoning of units intended strictly for low-intensity counter-insurgency operations remains doctrinally viable.
Additionally, the excessive monetary and nonmonetary resources you requested in preparation for the evaluation, in light of the on-par, verging on substandard performance of the 1st Rocket Artillery Regiment, even accounting for the large number of fresh troops that needed to be drawn down from other posts to fill out its ranks, is highly suggestive on the part of you, the honorable Ashira Rakishal. This discrepancy is of high importance, and you may rest assured that it has already been publicly filed by the time this letter appears in your inbox.
Such a discrepancy is indicative of either incompetence or corruption on your part. Commanding officers may face demotion or a possible dishonorable discharge for the former, or, for the latter, a fine totalling no more than one-and-a-half times the estimated sum of the damages assessed, guaranteed dishonorable discharge and a potential prison term of no more than four years. Due to there being no evidence to suggest the latter, the former approach has been suggested by the Armored Warfare Command. Effective fourteen (14) days after this order is signed, your rank will be reduced and you will be relieved of commanding the Regiment. You may be restationed at this time, and your government-issued devices may be deactivated to facilitate this restationing. The 1st Rocket Artillery Division, in accordance with Decree 10928, will be dissolved and its assets relocated to other units wherever possible. Any remaining property will be auctioned under section 12.57.3(g) of the Naval and Marine Surplus Handling Act of 651 at the Val’tira Central Forwarding Depot.
Ashira finished reading the letter, but the words meant nothing to her. She hadn't slept in half a week, if not longer, in anticipation of the results from her hearing. In fact, she'd hardly gotten up from her desk; the 1st RAR was on leave until the final verdict would be announced publicly, and it was all she could do but to refresh her inbox every few minutes and watch mindless clips in the background that she hardly heard and never managed to remember a word from.
She tried reading it again, but the letters seemed to float off the screen, each one wrapped in a halo of bluish white screen glow. Nothing made sense.
'We were found to be satisfactory, but then… why does it talk about my rank? Am I getting promoted? There was something about dishonorable discharges, too, so… are some of my girls getting let go? I guess I will have to break the news to them. And it said something about budget overruns… well, mom still owes me from when she forgot to get me anything for my eighteenth last month, so I guess she can pay them back for all the equipment and training I had to authorize…'
Her thoughts were already drifting off into a vague haze when her stomach made a low noise, reminding her of the fact that she hadn't eaten in hours, mostly because her supply of food had run dry. Almost in a trance, she rose from her desk and, almost on autopilot, set about getting ready to go out and do some shopping, as she always did. The floor of her living quarters was almost entirely hidden by weeks-old discarded packaging, mountains of dirty clothes, and bottles half-filled with liquid that was either expired juice or urine. Narrow paths snaked through the mess; one to the bathroom, one to her bed, and one more still to the door, which she now slowly shambled towards.
Ashira pulled a pair of battered combat boots over her bare feet - she'd run out of socks that didn't offend her senses some weeks prior - without bothering to lace them, shoved her wallet into the front pocket of the fireproof jumpsuit she wore with absolutely nothing underneath and hadn't changed out of all week, and shoved the door open to head out. Immediately, the smell - or, perhaps, a lack thereof - of the corridor hit her. All the sleeping quarters were locked. It was quiet. Though her boots were heavy, her footsteps barely made a noise as she plodded along the thick, purple and topaz-blue carpet that lined the floor.
The door to the lobby was propped open by a cleaner's cart, and a heavy perfume of chemical detergents wafted through the opening as she approached. In the lobby was a small, older Helkam male, with his long and, in places, graying hair tied back with a beige bandana that matched his civilian contractor's coveralls, just as his green noise-canceling headphones matched the company logo on his uniform. He was dutifully mopping the already nigh-spotless polished stone floor, and there was only a narrow dry strip connecting doorway to doorway.
“‘Scuse me,” she mumbled, tapping him on the shoulder to alert him to her presence. “Coming through.”
He flinched away from her touch, and she flinched away from him, as though his own shock was contagious. “The fuck, you touch me!?” He exclaimed, whipping around to face her, mop at the ready like a Turox-prod. His face burned a pale but furious violet, contorted with fear and a readiness to fight. But, just as suddenly as he’d come to face her, his expression became one of confusion. His mop dipped down, and they stood in silence for a split second that seemed to drag on for entire minutes. Then, he made an odd face, as if of disgust or contempt, and stepped aside, motioning for her to pass by him.
Ashira would have been puzzled by this, if only she were not so frazzled and caught up in her own thoughts. She stepped outside and was immediately hit by a cool breeze; it was night out, and the wind blew in just as it always did. Not that it bothered her much; over the previous months, she had found that it didn’t seem to affect her very much. The only reason she wasn’t feeling the full brunt of the evening gales was that the buildings around the officer’s quarters were mostly two- and three-story affairs, their height and old, weathered stone cladding the last specters of the prominence and prestige the base enjoyed in the long-before times. Before the Unification Wars were but a distant memory. Before the Periphery had become the final, unconquerable frontier. Before the Empress-damned mess that was Raknos. Before Rocket Artillery had become hopelessly obsolete.
The wind blew, relentless and steadfast, as she trudged towards the only place on-base that still had its lights on. The general store. She didn’t know what she wanted to buy there, nor if there would indeed be anything on the shelves that she’d want to buy, but she felt she had to try, anyway. The only rest she could get now was chemically-assisted, either through over-the-counter sleeping pills, or copious volumes of booze, or, when the going got particularly rough, a combination of both. She was vaguely aware of the damage she was probably inflicting upon her organs, but she figured that they were a worthy sacrifice. Still, some days she couldn't fall asleep, even boozed up and medicated as much as she would dare, so she would lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, hoping that the splitting headaches she would get from that chemical cocktail would make her ears ring loud enough to drown out her intrusive thoughts.
The store wasn't particularly warm when she entered, and it reeked of cigarette smoke and mildew as always. The nearest set of shelves to the door were stocked with bags of some sort of imported breaded meat snacks labeled Pufriyah - Ancestral Recipe, Modern Taste! across the top shelf and cases of Red Grains across the bottom, as if some long-forgotten planner had seen into the future and anticipated Ashira's shopping habits exactly. Without much thought, she pulled a case of the Reds off the bottom shelf, her back, which had been sore for months by then, crying out in pain that just barely cut through her apathy. She threw a few bags of the Pufriyah snacks on top of it, entirely indifferent to their name, slogan, and brown-furred chibi mascot that spoke to their Rakiri intended consumer base.
'It's all just carbs and protein at the end of the day,' she figured. It wasn't like she could taste much of them anyway, had she really cared to learn their flavor. It was close to a month prior that she'd caught a nasty cold, and her constant sleep deprivation and stress hadn't lent themselves to it clearing itself up on its own. Her senses of taste and smell were unnecessary to her whipping her unit into shape, she'd decided, once she learned that the antivirals she needed to take to make her symptoms clear up would need her to be on bed rest for three straight days. She could always take them later, anyway.
The bottles of Red Grain clanked against each other as Ashira heaved the case onto the checkout counter. The bags on top of it slid off, and she only just caught them in time. The noise awoke the lone cashier, another civilian contractor, from her nap atop her wobbly three-legged stool. She quite inelegantly hopped off of it and came to lean against the counter with one hand, the other lazily waving the scanner of a specialized Data-Slate over the merchandise.
"ID for the Reds," the cashier groggily slurred out, patting down her many pockets in search of a cigarette box. "Standard procedure, nothing personal against you."
Ashira stared at her, dumbfounded, for a few moments too many, before it hit her that she needed to pull up her Marine Profile on her Slate. Mumbling an apology mixed with an excuse, she reached into one of the few - albeit cavernously huge - pockets of her fireproof suit and produced the grimy government-issue device in question. The lock screen was set to her ID, just to make such common interactions go by quicker.
She pushed the Slate across the counter, expecting to get it slid back to her in a few moments, and maybe a manufactured smile and a nod if the cashier noticed the Rakishal House crest in the corner and realized she was of noble blood. But this time, none of that happened. The woman across from her frowned, squinting as she analyzed something about the ID, her face no more than perhaps a few centimeters from it. She looked up at Ashira, then back down at the ID, then back at her, and then all of a sudden her confusion melted into some odd mixture of shock and disgust. She wordlessly pushed the Slate back across the counter, scanned the case of Red Grain, and then motioned to a now very baffled and somewhat offended Ashira that she was free to leave.
In her sleep-deprived state, Ashira had barely the mental capacity to remember where the door was, much less to ponder the deeper meaning behind what had transpired. Vowing to come back the next day, after getting a good night's sleep, and get the insolent cashier fired, she trudged out of the shop, back to the officers' quarters, where the Helkam man was still toiling away in the lobby, now wiping down the Turox-leather seats, and into her own suite.
She brushed the most egregious of the trash from her bed, with the arm that wasn't clutching the spoils of her trek to her chest, and allowed gravity to gracelessly guide her into its soft, fitted-sheet embrace. With a sigh of barely-felt relief, she cracked the cap off her first bottle with her tusks and took a long, well-earned swig.
The next thing she knew, it was morning.
Everything hurt. Ashira's muscles all ached like she'd run every Deathshead Commando bootcamp course, back-to-back, without stopping. Her head felt like a bloated, rotten gourd, ready to burst at the slightest touch. Even though her eyes were closed, what little light made it through them felt as though it was piercing straight through her eyeballs and into her brain. However, through it all, she noted an odd, almost pleasant sensation that she hadn't felt in so long, she'd almost forgotten the word for it.
'Empress all-powerful, this must be the first time in almost a year that I've had a full night's sleep!'
Ashira would have kept laying there, exactly where she was. The room was quiet. No one needed her. Her unit was stood down for another few days. She could just stay in bed, in peace, and wait for the pain to subside. But the very second she considered that possibility, her bladder cried in agony, and she simultaneously came to the realizations that she would not be able to hold it in for even a minute longer, and that she was wearing her only set of relatively-clean clothes.
She pushed herself up and onto her feet, and that motion sent showers of sparks cascading through her vision, even as her eyes stayed firmly shut. Her ears rang from the pain as though she'd stuck her head between the prongs of a colossal tuning fork, her limbs felt numb as she stumbled through her room, and the only way she could tell up from down was from the direction gravity kept pulling her every time she lost her balance.
She hit the door frame to the bathroom by chance, only recognizing it as the right one by the light switch her elbow painfully caught. From there, she went entirely by feel. There was the sink, the towel rack, the soap dispenser, the shower door… and finally, having run out of wrong things to blindly grope around for, her hand bumped into the tank of the toilet. Even bending down made her head fill with the pounding beat of her heart, every pulse seeming to try and push her brain out of her skull through her eyes and ears. She nearly blacked out as she sat down.
The next thing Ashira knew, she was doubled over her sink, dry-heaving, her fireproof pants pulled back up around her waist but neither zipped shut nor clipped together at the front. She knew for certain that nothing had come up, because she was newly aware of the desiccated dryness in her mouth and throat, as if all her flesh had been replaced with fine-grit sandpaper. Still lacking the resolve to open her eyes, she blindly clawed at the knobs of the sink until water began to pour, and then began scooping handfuls of it into her mouth.
After a few gulps, she began to feel a bit better. Her mouth, though it still felt dry as ever, was at least now rid of the horrible, sour, metallic taste that she hadn't registered until it was gone, and the unintentional splashing of water onto her face did wonders in helping her start to truly wake up. The very next instant, though, a numbing pain spread across her hands and face, and down her throat. The water was freezing cold.
That didn't deter Ashira, though, and she kept drinking until she knew that she would not be able to swallow a drop more without throwing up. Her hands were numb from the frigid water, as was her face. Icy rivulets streamed down her chin and throat and under her unzipped collar, leaving cool, glistening trails across her breasts and stomach.
Somehow, this numbness that spread across her fingers and cheeks seemed to have carried over to her hangover, as well, though whether it was the rapid cooling, or the much-needed hydration, or both, she neither knew nor cared. Her head now hurt with the intensity of just any old headache, her skin did not feel two sizes too small for her organs, and her muscles and joints barely ached with any more intensity than they usually did.
She opened her eyes for the first time since she'd gotten out of bed, ready and eager to take full advantage of her hangover cure while its effects still lasted, and almost fell over as she stumbled away from the mirror in shock. The reflection in the mirror was decidedly not her.
Bloodshot eyes stared out at her from dark, sunken orbits; two craters on a puffy face rendered a waxy, pale bluish lilac by months of near-total involuntary isolation from the daylight. Raven hair framed that lifeless visage, once kept neat and short, now a wild, greasy, and, above all, long Seetcha's nest. It had once had lively sun-bleached streaks where her beret and headset did not fully cover it, from when she would ride head-out in her trusty command Ishtarti-603, but they were now mere faded tips spread unevenly through the carbon-black tangle.
The rest of her was not in much better shape. Her bust, though always on the fuller size, was nonetheless noticeably larger than it had been the last time Ashira had inspected her reflection, and doubtless was the cause of her incessant back pain. In the same moment, she became aware that her breasts rested not against the top of her six-pack - which, while rarely worked out and never particularly defined, had, in its mere presence, still been a point of quiet pride for her - but at the upper limits of a beer gut, whose faint outline was visible even under the baggy suit she was wearing for the umpteenth day in a row, and which stood as a testament to the inertia she had descended into while trying to force the RAR into motion.
'Fuck, there's the evidence of my battle. Mom was right, I do eat like a Turox before the slaughter. I have no self-control. Why do I even bother with this restructuring business if I can't even keep to my own damn fitness goals?' Her gloom, though deep and all-consuming while it weighed upon her soul, dissipated just as quickly as it set in. 'But I knew it would happen, so why does it surprise me? I knew going in that I was burning myself up in the present to keep future me warm. It's just a few kilos. A dozen at most. No big deal. Just need a bit more exercise for a month or two and I'll be right back in parade shape!'
It did, however, make her think to place an order with the on-base supply depot for some new clothes. With the Unification Day festivities looming, it would simply not do for this quite temporary distortion of her Noble figure to be so brazen, she firmly decided.
The order would have to wait, however. When Ashira brought out her government-issued Data-Slate from her front pocket in a familiar motion, already compiling a list of all the workout gear, field uniforms, and parade garb she would need in a size up, the device, in an apparent bout of unruliness, first resisted her efforts to turn it on, and when it was finally made to do so, simply boot-looped endlessly on the startup screen. For all intents and purposes, it was a Slate-shaped paperweight, and Ashira didn’t even have enough physical documents in her possession to make use of this one purpose it had left.
‘First my clothes, now the one Slate mom can’t track me on. What’s next, is my ID going to expire all of a sudden? Will my physical Chit card have a bad contact?’
There was only so much she could take at one time, so she decided to do the sensible thing and get something to eat before returning to dealing with her problems. She pulled out her Slate. It was almost noon.
'No one needs to see me like this. How can I command the regiment if they see me in such a state? I'll order breakfast - well, lunch now, but who's really counting? - and I can join everyone for dinner, once I get a chance to order in some new clothes, and shower, and maybe do something with my hair.'
With a practiced motion, so automatic it was almost a reflex, she swiped through the interface until she found what she was looking for. There, between Combatters forum sites, was a saved page for the Hungry Gal's order menu. Her chit was already saved in the system. All she needed was to tap on "Large Hot Meal #5 - Drink Combo" and…
CHIT DECLINED - PAYMENT BLOCKED
"That can't be right," Ashira muttered aloud as she tapped the button again, over and over, to the same effect. "It's a government card. Unless- ah, right, it must be the new policy they were talking about! Can't believe they made food expenses count as personal expenditure only, the nerve of these credit-pinching…"
She went into the payment details section of the page, switched the number to her personal one, and selected "Large Hot Meal #5 - Drink Combo" again. This time, a new message appeared.
INVALID ACCOUNT - DEACTIVATED
The gnawing hunger in her stomach disappeared in an instant, replaced by a solid iron bar of dread. Why was her account deactivated? Who could have done it? The only other person with access privileges was her own mother, and why would she…?
Ashira knew the answer. She didn't want to know it, to acknowledge that she knew it for fear of what it meant, but she did. With shaking hands, she opened the notification screen of her Slate, and saw she had unread messages from her family group chat. She tapped that notification, expecting a deluge of fury about her weight, her spending habits, her slovenly appearance in public, or any manner of other things, but there was but one message, sent earlier that morning. It was from her mother, indeed, but it was just four words long.
I got the letter.
She wanted to protest, to scream, "What letter could you possibly mean?," but she couldn't. A memory, hazy from the fog of insomnia that had dulled her thoughts at the time, played against her volition in her mind. The words hadn't made sense to her then, but they did now. Robotically, she closed the message from her mother and searched through her inbox for one marked with a government seal. She opened it, and read it in silence. The last few lines were the hardest to read, because by then the tears had begun to well up in her eyes.
It was over. Her career, her noble status, her finances, her life as she knew it… they were all gone, and it had taken just one letter to send it all crashing down.

Thank you very much for taking the time to look at my post.
 
>>> IMPORTANT <<<

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Timestamp
 
 
1. Gavko Nurse
 
Photos (Please click and expand each photo to see condition of knife.)
 
Circa 2021, fully custom Gavko Nurse in flawless, indistinguishable from new condition. Blade steel is unmarked, but made of AEB-L. In fact the entire knife is sterile except for the Gavko logo on pocket clip. Blade is perfectly centered. Zero blade play in any direction. No lock stick. No nicks, chips or rolls on perfect original edge. Bead blasted Ti scales are absolutely perfect. No imperfections at all. Speed holes on show scale to make knife just a little bit lighter. Milled pocket clip has very elegant shape that starts narrower at the screws and widens towards the end. It's also in perfect condition. Here's a detail that you will not typically find on production knives, every screw on the knife has the exact same blasted finish as the rest of the handles giving it a very monochromatic aesthetic. And while I'm pointing out hand made custom details, I want to also be sure to point out that the spine of the blade and the every edge of the frame has the Gavko signature "file work", not exactly sure what to call it. Action is nice and smooth as you would expect from a Gavko custom. Smooth to Spydie flick open or slow roll using the large elongated opening. Smooth to close as well. Not drop shut but not Chris Reeve hydraulic either. Somewhere in between. Comes with original Gavko "Otterbox" case. No COA as it did not come with one new. I don't believe Mike Gavko does COA's. DM for more pics.
 

• Overall Length: 6.75"
• Blade Length: 2.8"
• Weight: 3.7 oz

 
$650 (If price is not crossed out, it's available. No trades, sorry.)
  PROMPT PAYMENT please after claiming a knife/item, otherwise please do NOT claim.
 
 
2. Microtech Ultratech, 123-1 T
 
Photos (Please click and expand each photo to see condition of knife.)
 
Manufactured 9/2022. Microtech Ultratech Tactical Standard with black M390 tanto blade, blacked out hardware and blacked out "attitude adjuster" (aka glass breaker). Unlike just about every other MT, I actually found this exact configuration for sale at several authorized dealers for $325 + tax/shipping. Near mint overall condition. Blade is like new. No nicks, chips or rolls on on unsharpened original MT factory edge. Black aluminum handles are nearly indistinguishable from new. There are a couple snail trails on the white talon logo which is just about impossible to avoid. Pocket clip is missing one spot of black finish on the "lip". Again, just about unavoidable as it's a high point. The "wear" on this knife is consistent with carrying it a handful of times. All proprietary screws are like new, never touched by a tool after leaving MT. Great action. Blade fires out smooth, fast and HARD. Nice and easy to retract. Comes with original MT box, pamphlets and baggie. Save $80+ over buying a new knife. It's like a new car, let someone else take the hit on depreciation after taking it out for a week. ;) Please excuse some of the dust specks on a couple of the close up pics. It's next to impossible to avoid for black knives.
 

• Overall Length: 8.5"
• Blade Length: 3.4"
• Weight: 3.6 oz

 
$245 SOLD
 
 
3. Microtech SOCOM Elite Auto
 
Photos (Please click and expand each photo to see condition of knife.)
 
Always sold out and never in stock. Manufactured 9/2018. Has been used, carried and sharpened. Honest working knife that has never abused. Satin finish M390 tanto blade is perfectly dead centered. Extremely sharp. Sharper than original factory edge. No nicks, chips or rolls on edge. Blade has some scratches on either side. Nothing that significant and certainly nothing that affects functionality. Aluminum handles show some wear, the most most significant being being a couple of dings on the forward edge near the firing button. Other than that, everything else is very minor. Pocket clip has some scratches, again nothing major or "really ugly". SUPERIOR ACTION. Blade deploys smooth, hard and fast. Comes as knife only. No box/papers.
 

• Overall Length: 9"
• Blade Length: 4"
• Weight: 4.6 oz

 
$285 (If price is not crossed out, it's available. No trades, sorry.)
  PROMPT PAYMENT PLEASE after claiming a knife/item, otherwise please do NOT claim.

I have a 94 miata I bought last year that currently has about 99k miles on it. When I shift (through all gears) there's a bit of a clunk as it goes into gear. This only happens when I upshift though, never when I downshift. Just wanna see what you guys think before I go pulling the trans out and replacing clutch, etc.
What I have done to try and fix it:
-Brand new master and slave cylinder around 1k ago (helped a bit but not much, though they definitely needed to be replaced as they were on deaths door)
-Adjusted out the play in the clutch pedal, first couple inches aren't completely flaccid, but don't seem to do much in terms of disengaging the clutch
-Trans fluid was replaced by previous owner with either redline mt90 or mtl he said he doesn't remember which around 10k ago (I'm guessing he did this to try and solve the clunk too)
-double clutching does not help, very very slow deliberate shifts help a little bit it seems
Symptoms (on and off depending on the day):
-it's not a smooth linear motion into gear
-a slight "click" as it goes into gear, doesn't feel like a grind though. I had a 91 B2600i with bad synchros and it does not feel the same
-When at a slow roll going into first/second I can feel a slight buck in the car as it goes into gear
-this is probably just from being a thirty year old Japanese car, but when I step on the clutch while in first or second, there is a very noticeable clutch disengagement feeling as the cars bucks (more than I felt in the past on other older cars)
-requires a considerable amount of clutch slipping to get smooth start ups and shifts (again could be thirty year old car quirks)
What have identified as possible problems:
-shifter needs to be rebuilt, although the shifter feels pretty tight without much play, worried one of the bushing might be worn
-shift linkage needs to be adjusted
-clutch/pressure plate needs replacing, I don't know whether or not it's the original
-lastly, synchros need to be replaced, which I really really don't want to have to do/pay for
Anyways thanks for reading, just trying to figure out the plan on maintenance before I dive into a full transmission rebuild.

Anyone knows how to adjust the clutch lever on a zontes 350gk? It seems that no matter how I tighten the wheel on the lever it seems to be further away.

Bought a Marin Gestalt that has the Promax Render R Road Mechanical Disc brakes. Wow are they hot garbage. Bedded and adjusted multiple times. Not worth dealing with and am looking for an upgrade. I'm seeking suggestions on a decent set of cable actuated hydraulics. I'm currently looking at TRP HY/RD.
Yes, I should have bought the 2.5. It was over 2x the price but would have been worth it.

I got a Clutch Actuator issue when I was shifting my Smart too quickly. No problem. I cleared the codes. It still have 2 perm codes in it. I removed the battery for over an hour, reset the throttle body, hooked everything up and drove it for about 30 minutes so it would "relearn". Drove the car this morning and got the traction control light on the speedo after trying to turn on the cruise control. I am going to take it to my local Smart repair shop to get the Engine mounts replaced as they are little worn and have them adjust the Actuator. Other than the Smart Diag tool, does anyone have a favorite Bi directional Scan tool like like using? Something from Autel? Would like to find something with Lifetime updates as well, that might hold me over until I can get it into the shop.

Raven

(Spotlight guest-written by bluelookslikeblue)
Name: Rachel Roth
Created by: Marv Wolfman and George Perez
First Appearance: DC Comics Presents #26
Affiliation: Titans
Previous Affiliations: Teen Titans, Sentinels of Magic, Night Force, Team Wonder, Justice League Dark
Allies: Beast Boy, Nightwing, Donna Troy, Cyborg, Starfire, Arsenal, Tempest, both Wally Wests, Wonder Girl (Cassie Sandsmark), Superboy (Conner Kent), Robin (Tim Drake), Wonder Woman, Shazam, Booster Gold
Powers: Pretty much whatever combination of teleportation, empathic healing, soul-self projection, flight, telepathy, telekinesis, emotional manipulation, mind control, and vaguely defined magical energy the writer feels like that day.

Origins:

Raven’s story begins with her mother, Angela Roth. Angela made the unfortunate decision to join a satanic cult, leading to an even more unfortunate encounter with Trigon, a genocidal demon rapist. One failed abortion/suicide later, Angela and her daughter were taken in by the monks of Azarath, a pacifistic magical realm which accidentally created Trigon in the first place. Taking on Trigon’s daughter was a matter of controversy in Azarath and there was at least one assassination attempt on the infant half-demon. Angela took the name Arella and learned some of the Azarathian mystic arts. The child named Raven was taken to be raised by the Goddess Azar.
Azar determined that Raven could be possessed by Trigon and/or destroy the universe if she lost control of her emotions. Thus, Arella was told to surrender her child to Azar to train and raise. Azar raised Raven in isolation, training her to purge herself of emotion and rarely permitting contact with others including her own mother. The result was a child about as socially well-adjusted as you’d expect someone denied emotions, love, or any contact with kids her own age whatsoever. Upon Azar’s death, Raven’s training fell to Arella. Although mother and daughter eventually grew close, their relationship was somewhat hampered by Raven’s insularity and emotional stuntedness. On her thirteenth birthday, Trigon revealed himself as her father. He tortured her mother and demanded Raven take his place at his side. She refused and lashed out in hatred, her darker side manifesting as her soul-self for the first time. Satisfied that his daughter had inherited his power and rage, Trigon departed, warning that he would return once Raven became a woman.

New Teen Titans:

When Raven was eighteen, Trigon returned to destroy the Earth. Deeming this outcome unacceptable, she implored the priests of Azarath to intervene but they refused, believing it to be a violation of their pacifist beliefs. Moving on to Plan B, she fled to Earth and asked the Justice League for help but was declined as Zatanna sensed Trigon’s taint on her and told her teammates that Raven was probably evil. Refusing to give up, she went to Plan C and haunted the dreams of Dick Grayson - then still Robin - until he agreed to reform the Teen Titans with her chosen members. She was able to convince Donna Troy (then Wonder Girl), Beast Boy (then going by Changeling), and Cyborg to join but was turned down by Wally West (then Kid Flash). Unwilling to take no for an answer at this point, Raven secretly made Wally fall in love with her using her empathic magic, causing him to join. She then led them to the rescue of their final member, the alien warrior Starfire who was captured by Gordanian slavers.
Raven’s early days with the Titans did not go well. Her pacifism made her useless in fights and her refusal to give a straight answer to anything and tendency to disappear immediately upon getting what she needed made her teammates question her trustworthiness. Things were further complicated when the other Titans were killed and Raven had to go back in time with Booster Gold to covertly fix the timeline. Upon Zatanna’s revelation that Raven had turned Wally’s brains to scrambled eggs so he would do her bidding, her teammates decided they had enough and refused to put up with her anymore. To make matters worse, Trigon arrived to destroy the world and easily defeated her estranged teammates. Raven teleported them to Azarath before they could be killed and begged her mother and the priests of Azarath for help but was again declined. When Trigon appeared and once more defeated the Titans, Raven moved on to Plan D and agreed to go with him in exchange for the safety of the Earth and the lives of the Titans. Trigon accepted her offer and took Raven with him to his realm. He then promptly murdered a child and announced his intent to destroy the Earth anyway. Distraught by the loss of her daughter, Arella agreed to take the Titans to Trigon in order to rescue Raven but the teens were defeated again and imprisoned. However, Raven was able to free her teammates and together they were able to weaken Trigon with Arella sacrificing herself to imprison Trigon in another dimension.
Raven enrolled in college and continued to serve with the New Teen Titans despite an awkward and occasionally tense relationship with Wally West, forming an odd friendship with the extroverted and impulsive Starfire. While continuing to espouse pacifism and pursuing non-violence when possible, Raven came to the conclusion that knocking people out with her soul-self, controlling minds, and the occasional act of psychological torture was okay and robots and monsters shouldn’t count anyway and thus proved surprisingly useful in many fights. During this period, the Teen Titans would face off against many supervillains such as Deathstroke, the Brotherhood of Evil, and the Fearsome Five. However, none would prove as troublesome to the young heroes as Brother Blood, whose cunning, charisma, and arcane mastery would put the Titans on the off-foot time and time again. Although Raven would come to be a valued member of the team, Trigon’s corrosive influence led to her gradual physical and mental degradation which was exacerbated by her fear of reaching out to others for help. Eventually, Trigon escaped captivity and almost caused the apocalypse with a corrupted Raven as his minion. The Teen Titans ultimately thwarted Trigon with the help of Raven’s mother and Lilith Clay. Raven’s body was nowhere to be found.
The Titans thought this a bit weird but didn’t make finding her their number one priority. This proved to be a bit of a whoopsie-doodles as she was captured and brainwashed by Brother Blood first. Nightwing would eventually come looking for her but was himself captured. Blood would defeat the Titans and came to the cusp of taking over the world before Raven broke free of his control and stopped him. With Trigon seemingly dead, Brother Blood’s brainwashing purged, and her soul purified, Raven was free to be herself for the first time in her life. Rejoining the Titans, the now-white cloaked Raven was thrilled to finally be free of any malign influence and became the embodiment of sweetness and light. Unfortunately, this sunny outlook was not to last. Kid Flash’s replacement Jericho became evil and caused her to be corrupted by evil spirits. Once more falling to demonic possession, Raven proceeded to engage in various acts of villainy. However, the good part of Raven secretly planted herself in Starfire and helped her friends kill her body and defeat her evil self.

Time Dead:

Raven’s re-purified spirit spent most of this period hanging around as a golden ghost, occasionally assisting the Titans when necessary. For a while Detective Comics Comics forgot she was dead and she served on the Sentinels of Magic alongside various other mystical heroes such as Zatanna, Alan Scott, and Madame Xanadu. Then it remembered and unceremoniously threw her back in the grave without explanation.

A Second Chance at Life:

Raven would be resurrected in a younger body by the new Brother Blood, a sniveling teenage aspiring rapist who was the son of the previous Brother Blood. Brother Blood Junior wanted to force Raven to marry him as part of a plan to end the world. Raven was not fond of this development and tried to escape. Upon being caught and recaptured, her subconscious magically reached out to Beast Boy via a haunting and took control of him in order to lead the latest iteration of the Teen Titans to her location. With his help, she broke free of Brother Blood’s control. Once more plagued by her darker half as a result of Brother Blood’s rituals and believing herself to be a danger to her friends, Raven prepared to depart but was encouraged by Beast Boy to rejoin the Titans, now consisting of himself, fellow veterans Starfire and Cyborg, and new members Cassie Sandsmark, Conner Kent, and Tim Drake. Raven would renounce her pacifism and help her friends mentor the younger members of the team, helping Tim come to terms with the death of his father and encouraging Conner to believe that he was more than the worst parts of his heritage after the discovery that he was a partial clone of Lex Luthor. She would also begin a rocky on and off again romance with Beast Boy. While Raven was drawn to his kindness, her lack of openness and his immaturity would lead to many rough patches in their relationship. Raven attempted to establish a civilian secret identity as Rachel Roth but it is questionable how secret it really was after Beast Boy visited her in the belief nobody would recognize him if he showed up in disguise as a green bear.
When Trigon returned, Raven reunited with her old New Teen Titans teammates and defeated him but was once more nearly overtaken by her evil side. Although able to prevail over her inner darkness, Raven was badly shaken by the experience and became even more insular and withdrawn. Believing herself to be a danger to her friends, she broke up with Beast Boy and attempted to push him away through meanness for his own safety. However, events would see them once again working together mentoring younger heroes on the Teen Titans. The pair would eventually reconcile, with Beast Boy growing in maturity and Raven resolving to get in touch with her emotions and embrace the good in life as well as the bad. Reaffirming their love, the two shared a passionate kiss and were ready to move on, optimistic about their future together.

The New 52:

Because Barry Allen missed his mom, the entire timeline was rebooted and all of the previous history and character development was lost because Dan DiDio said so. In the new timeline, most of her early life was basically the same except this time Rachel was her birth name. However, this time she had to flee Azarath at age sixteen to escape Trigon. While hiding on Earth, Rachel would attempt to do good, using her empathic powers to secretly comfort suffering people but was betrayed by the Phantom Stranger and handed over to her father who renamed her Raven. Forced to become Trigon’s servant, Raven committed various atrocities before being planted on the Teen Titans as a mole. Beast Boy was red for a bit before turning green again for unexplained reasons. Bart was actually Bar-Torr, a war criminal from the future. Raven broke free of her father’s control due to time travel shenanigans. It was a weird time. Following a lot of bad comics, the team disbanded and Raven sought out her mother’s family and enrolled in high school, hoping to reconnect with her human side.

Rebirth:

Due to events featuring the older, white Wally West and a naked blue man, it turned out that five years were erased from the timeline and there was a previous Titans team led by Dick Grayson. As a result, there were now two Titans teams, the Titans led by Dick Grayson, and the Teen Titans, now led by Damian Wayne. Raven was shanghaied into the Teen Titans via kidnapping by Damian alongside her old teammate Beast Boy, the younger, African-American Wally West and Starfire. Raven did not do much of note during this period. She briefly made an ill-advised decision to throw in with an insane Tim Drake from the future alongside Beast Boy, as they determined that even a Tim Drake without all his marbles was preferable to Damian. She also did a few cool things during the Dark Nights: Metal Wild Hunt tie-in issue where she was decidedly unimpressed by the angsty darkness of evil Batmen. Monkeys were involved. DC tried putting Raven in a relationship with Wallace the Younger but changed its mind. As a result, they officially began dating in an issue of Teen Titans and were mentioned to have broken up off-panel in an issue of The Flash that came out the same day. She was then abducted by aliens and took part in the events of No Justice where she was part of a Wonder Woman-led team of mystics before having a few solo adventures stopping Trigon again and briefly leading a group of magically powered teens associated with the morally dubious Baron Winters. After this, she was ambiguously aged up alongside Beast Boy and placed on Dick Grayson’s adult Titans team where she was drawn as older and written as more mature and having a preexisting friendship as Nightwing but nothing was explicitly retconned. Raven lost her soul-self early in her tenure with this team along with most of her powers and ability to feel emotions due to trickery by an elf. She would eventually recover it and save the universe from the villainous Mother Blood alongside Beast Boy with the two friends saving each others’ lives during the final battle.

The Present:

Because in another universe Batman is a clown, Wonder Woman had a conversation with Perpetua after a bunch of nonsense that I am not going to waste time on what happened and continuity changed again. Raven is now in her mid to late twenties and has achieved greater mastery of her powers than ever before. Her background is currently hazy with something vaguely approximating the events of New Teen Titans having occurred several years in the past with some details changed. (eg: Cyborg was a member of the Justice League before joining the Teen Titans.) More information regarding Raven’s current origins and backstory will presumably be revealed in the upcoming Tales of the Titans miniseries.
Raven agreed to participate in her fellow former New Teen Titans’ disastrous attempt to run a school for super-teens. It exploded twice in a year before they gave up and called it quits. During this period, Raven mentored Billy Batson and his friend Dane (who was the antichrist), saving the two boys from the clutches of the fallen angel Neron after they made an unauthorized trip to Hell. She would also reignite her relationship with Beast Boy. After Teen Titans Academy blew up the second time during the events of Dark Crisis, Raven proved instrumental in saving the universe, locating Pariah’s magical macguffin as part of a Justice League Dark taskforce and defeating a corrupted Spectre with the assistance of Jim Corrigan. However, victory would not come without a cost, as Beast Boy would become horribly traumatized after an attack by Deathstroke which nearly killed him. Also, Lazarus Planet happened and Trigon came back but nobody cares about Lazarus Planet.
Following the events of Dark Crisis, Raven took her relationship with Beast Boy to the next level, sharing living arrangements with him, helping him cope with his PTSD, and even engaging in public displays of affection with her fuzzy green lover. Raven and Beast Boy agreed to once more serve on the Titans, now tasked with safeguarding the world following the disbanding of the Justice League. One of their first assignments was the safekeeping of Olivia Desmond, a young girl whose soul was claimed by Neron, who had since taken over hell. Raven saw echoes of her past in the young girl and took the matter very personally -much to the concern of her teammates who were disturbed by her willingness to entertain extreme measures to safeguard the child. Determining that the best way to learn how to help Olivia was to go directly to the source of the problem, Raven led the Titans through the depths of hell where Nightwing found the information needed to save Olivia’s soul. While there, she formed an uneasy working relationship with the demon Blaze, who was vying with Neron for control of hell.
Neron proved supremely incompetent and utterly failed at all of his attempts at villainy in an extraordinarily pathetic manner. Trigon showed up to call him a loser, a rare area of agreement between father and daughter. While Neron was easily poofed back to hell by Nightwing in a weakened state through the power of bad writing, Raven deemed this outcome unsatisfactory. Believing Olivia to be unsafe as long as Neron was still at large, Raven returned to hell by herself without consulting her teammates and proceeded to singlehandedly overthrow him through overwhelming violence. She then left a brutalized and comatose Neron to the mercies of Blaze, to whom she handed the leadership of hell. When asked what price she demanded for control of the underworld, Raven informed Blaze that she would call in a favor later but for now she just wanted the Titans left alone by any demonic forces. Blaze agreed to Raven’s terms, warning her that she sensed that Raven was not whole and something was missing…
Raven currently stands at an inflection point. In some ways, she has never had it better. She is more powerful than she has ever been and has reunited with her oldest friends, earned the respect of her peers, and found love. However, her decision to meddle in hell’s affairs may prove her downfall, earning her powerful enemies and encouraging dark impulses she has long tried to suppress. What happens next may determine whether she will finally rise above her tragic past or fall into damnation forever. Whatever the future may hold for the Daughter of Darkness, the return of her father and the rise of a new Brother Blood suggests that it is not going to be easy.

Recommended Readings:

Those interested in Raven’s classic adventures should check out New Teen Titans (1980) and Teen Titans (2003).
Those who want to see a crossover with Marvel written by Chris Claremont should read The Uncanny X-Men and The New Teen Titans if they can find a copy.
Those who think I am making the bit with Booster Gold up should read Booster Gold (2007), issues 23-24.
Her solo adventures during the New 52 and Rebirth eras can be found in Marv Wolfman’s Raven (2016) and Raven: Daughter of Darkness (2018).
To get caught up on where she is currently, read Nightwing (2016) 100-104, then Titans (2023) and her upcoming issue in Tales of the Titans.
She also stars in Kami Garcia’s popular YA novels Raven and Beast Boy Loves Raven, which are illustrated by fan favorite artist Gabriel Picolo.

I’m going to be attempting to replace my head and intake gaskets this weekend to hopefully fix a coolant burning issue. I would prefer to not have to adjust my rocker arms if I don’t have to. Mostly because I do not know if I have hydraulic or solid roller lifters and I’ve never adjusted them before

So I was in stop and go traffic pulling into a car show last week and when I went to push my clutch in to shift into 1st to start moving again the clutch went straight to the floor and lost all pressure. The pedal just kind of flops around. I had it towed back to my house and put it on my lift where I checked the z-bar and clutch adjustment rod and they all seemed tight and normal. This leads me to believe the issue is inside the bell housing. What could the damage be and how financially screwed am I lol It's a 4-speed top loader trans and an original 1969 351W engine.

A proportional valve is a device that controls the flow of an inlet, or supply, of fluid to a system. It is used in systems that are required to adjust their fluid delivery level based on the amount of fluid being delivered into the system.
The size of the opening is proportional to the amount of fluid flowing through it. The valve may be open or closed and will have a control mechanism that allows it to be opened or closed. This means that if you increase the flow, it will open wider and allow more fluid through; if you decrease the flow, it will close tighter and restrict more fluid.
In the simplest terms, this means that a proportional valve is able to regulate pressure in a system as well as volume. In other words, instead of just controlling how much water flows from one place to another, a proportional valve can also control how much pressure is being applied across an opening in order for water to flow through it.

How Does The Proportioning Valve Work?

The proportional directional control valve is a valve that has the ability to change its direction without changing its position. This type of valve uses two sets of ports and valves to open and close the flow, much like a ball valve. The difference with this type of valve, however, is that it is controlled by electrical current rather than mechanical movement.
In order to understand the working proportional valve, we need to first understand how a ball valve works. A ball valve has three ports: an inlet port for gas or liquid, an outlet port for gas or liquid, and a third port called the intermediate port. The intermediate port is where the ball valve sits and allows for movement between two of these ports.
The proportional directional control valve works in exactly the same way as a traditional ball valve but with one key difference: it does not use mechanical movement to open or close its ports or change its position. Instead, it relies on electricity from an electric motor that turns a shaft inside the device that controls where its two ports are located at any given time.

What are the two major types of Proportional Valves?

The Two Types of Proportional Valves are:

1. The Slide Valve: A slide valve is an adjustable ball valve with a cam surface on the adjuster wheel to adjust the ball’s position. The valve’s operation is controlled by a lever that is connected to the stem and operated by the operator.
2. The Float Valve: A float valve is a check valve that depends on the fluid weight in a chamber to regulate its flow through a passage or annulus between two surfaces.

Proportional Valve Application

The proportional valve is a device that allows for the selective opening and closing of ports to regulate flow rates. This type of valve can be used in a wide range of applications, such as water metres, fire suppression systems, air conditioning systems, and more.
The process of controlling flow rates through this type of valve is called proportional control. It involves changing the size of the opening that is being controlled by the amount of water being sent through it.
As long as there is enough water to meet the demand, then the flow rate will remain constant. However, if there isn’t enough water available to meet demand, then this mechanism doesn’t work well at all and will result in a flood or an underflow condition.
The main benefit of using a proportional valve is that it allows for precise control over a given amount of water flow. In addition, this type of valve can be used in conjunction with other components, such as gates and sprinklers in order to optimize their performance.
Shriank is one of the most known brands for valves in the market. Shriank’s proportional valve is a new technology that can be used to control the flow of water. It has an integrated controller which allows you to adjust the settings according to your needs.