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HereComesTheSnow Member
dehydration expert
STATUS: trying to find the "golden ratio" of weed and ozempic to cause my appetite to stack overflow and reactivate the long-dormant photosynthesis gene from that 50% of DNA we share with plants. will update 13 days ago
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13 days ago
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trying to find the "golden ratio" of weed and ozempic to cause my appetite to stack overflow and reactivate the long-dormant photosynthesis gene from that 50% of DNA we share with plants. will update
3
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1 mo ago
many people dont know this but a good cue for deadlifting is to bring your chest up and lock your lats for proper spinal stability. this also applies to interacting with gorillas i'm told. testing no—
2
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3 mos ago
yeah i work in area 51, it's pretty chill. usually you just get a tweaker roll by on a "spiritual journey" once a month. they tend to go away once you put a few AIM-9s downrange on their flying saucer
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4 mos ago
man is closest to god after an ice cold beer in the warm shower. his mind and body are freed. next closest is behind the wheel in a scool zone, also with an ice cold beer in hand. study this well.
3
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5 mos ago
yeah mom its me can you come pick me up me and the boys were wondering if pulling a potato peeler over tommy's behelit would wake up the little guy in there and it started screaming.. thanks love you
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I am of course here as well
Hope you regain your muse one day. Best of luck.
Starting to wonder if we should do a roll call of sorts at this point.
Starting to wonder if we should do a roll call of sorts at this point.
that’s my ninja way
That’s a shame. Have a good one, friend
@PaulHaynek missed this tag, need to stop posting when halfway comatose. been a long day, my b
@jdh97@VitaVitaAR
He took it in silently. The Knight-Captain, numb to the world for a moment, had not responded to anyone save Aria Larette's almost mercifully direct query regarding what was obviously dominating her mind. He looked downward to the bisected man, regarding him with a solemn neutrality.
Sir Rickart...
He hadn't known him well. Perhaps they had traded a few passing blows on the training grounds, or greeted eachother amiably when their paths through the many halls of the Iron Roses compound crossed, but for all of Gerard's contemplation, he could not truly speak of the man knowingly.
It was a shame. An uncomfortable inevitability in the theatre of war that each man who made it their trade was forced to accept, but all the while a shame. Men he would never know lost their lives on the same field as he. Men he would never get the chance to properly remember. It was the reality of being a mercenary, and it was a reality that he had known would extend to knighthood. Hardening one's heart to the guilt of not knowing was a skill he had to learn quickly. Without it, anyone would break.
His eyes flitted to the Captain for a moment, before settling back upon Rickart's body.
If I can spare a thought for hardened criminals, however, I can surely offer the same to a comrade, known or not.
May the Goddesses bring your soul a peaceful rest, Sir Rickart.
I'm sure you've earned it.
With orders to carry out and nothing left to merit his idling, he then pushed off the branch, and set himself to work.
The ride back was, all told, a slow and quiet one. Luckily enough, his earlier assessment had proven largely correct— no lives lost within the number of knights assigned to him, and comparatively few injuries atop that— the most major of which being Sir Jerel's shoulder. Beyond that, nothing of real note— everyone was able to fight, to say nothing of ride or march. Including, he noted with some amusement, the girl he'd found and armed. He owed the aforementioned older knight an apology for her nearly taking his head off, but was glad that he'd all the same ensured her safety as things drew to a close.
Finding Sir Jarde a horse had been mercifully easy once that was all said and done— a simple matter of convincing one of the bandits' to carry the young man. Thankfully the blonde didn't wear much in the way of armor, so his weight wouldn't prove too unfamiliar to this undoubtedly less trained animal. Once they were satisfied with how that had played out, Jarde more or less managing to strike up a kind of understanding between himself and his new horse, it was time to depart.
...He had been very fortunate indeed that it all went so smoothly, he realized in review as the first glimmers of dawn peeked above the horizon. Both in that none in his command had been grievously wounded in spite of his singular determination to fight, and that he himself had not suffered any harm in the face of that recklessness— even the bruise he'd suspected to be upon his shoulder had faded from his senses as the hours had passed. All that was left then were his thoughts. His singular understanding that he had much to learn from this mission.
He turned his eyes upwards towards alabaster towers as they passed through the mighty oak and steel gates of Aimlenn. The Capital city was still a somewhat awe-inspiring sight for him, a man hailing from much further north, close to the border with Velt. To think human hands could build structures so massively high, and yet at the same time so elegant... It boggled his bumpkin mind to this day. He knew of cities, of fortified, high walls of stone. He's seen plenty with his ragtag band of sellswords, and was no stranger to the concept itself— but nothing could match the capital's scale. Aimlenn absolutely dwarfed anything else he'd ever known.
Yet more proof that the world was still far bigger than him.
Not to mention, this Order as well. He thought, offering a wave to awestruck children that watched their passing. It's strange how being the one gawking at knights feels so simultaneously a short and long while ago.
That used to be me down there. I wonder if they would follow my path, should it mean a chance to ride with us?
He hoped not.
He wouldn't trade the opportunity nor the honor for the world, nor even the much larger weight of time that he had experienced in an unscrupulous trade to lead him to them, but he hoped not.
He hoped that any prospective Knights would be far better prepared than he for many facets of this. That they would be stronger in body and mind than he. That they wouldn't make so many mistakes, whether he had escaped consequences this time or no. He had much more work left to his name before he could truly become the knight he decided was his goal, seven years ago. Far from mastering himself to the degree it required, half the time he wondered if he had truly earned the right to step foot into that hallowed compound.
The Knights entered the Candaeln, their home base, and the tiny Captain stiffly ordered them to disperse towards either healing, or some rest. That they'd earned it.
That much was true. They, collectively, had earned more than their share of a good morning's sleep. A surgical night raid that had resulted in a dominating victory, vanquishing a scourge upon the land's people as well as a fairly powerful enemy fighter at its head. Good work by any metric, regardless of how disdainfully they had all entered the mission. She, as much as anyone, had done enough to merit such. Looked for all the world to be ready to follow her own advice.
But Gerard, inexorably, found himself drifting towards the Training Wing rather than his quarters.
His mind had not yet settled. He intended, in the simplest terms, to hone himself until fatigue would do it for him.
He took it in silently. The Knight-Captain, numb to the world for a moment, had not responded to anyone save Aria Larette's almost mercifully direct query regarding what was obviously dominating her mind. He looked downward to the bisected man, regarding him with a solemn neutrality.
Sir Rickart...
He hadn't known him well. Perhaps they had traded a few passing blows on the training grounds, or greeted eachother amiably when their paths through the many halls of the Iron Roses compound crossed, but for all of Gerard's contemplation, he could not truly speak of the man knowingly.
It was a shame. An uncomfortable inevitability in the theatre of war that each man who made it their trade was forced to accept, but all the while a shame. Men he would never know lost their lives on the same field as he. Men he would never get the chance to properly remember. It was the reality of being a mercenary, and it was a reality that he had known would extend to knighthood. Hardening one's heart to the guilt of not knowing was a skill he had to learn quickly. Without it, anyone would break.
His eyes flitted to the Captain for a moment, before settling back upon Rickart's body.
If I can spare a thought for hardened criminals, however, I can surely offer the same to a comrade, known or not.
May the Goddesses bring your soul a peaceful rest, Sir Rickart.
I'm sure you've earned it.
With orders to carry out and nothing left to merit his idling, he then pushed off the branch, and set himself to work.
The ride back was, all told, a slow and quiet one. Luckily enough, his earlier assessment had proven largely correct— no lives lost within the number of knights assigned to him, and comparatively few injuries atop that— the most major of which being Sir Jerel's shoulder. Beyond that, nothing of real note— everyone was able to fight, to say nothing of ride or march. Including, he noted with some amusement, the girl he'd found and armed. He owed the aforementioned older knight an apology for her nearly taking his head off, but was glad that he'd all the same ensured her safety as things drew to a close.
Finding Sir Jarde a horse had been mercifully easy once that was all said and done— a simple matter of convincing one of the bandits' to carry the young man. Thankfully the blonde didn't wear much in the way of armor, so his weight wouldn't prove too unfamiliar to this undoubtedly less trained animal. Once they were satisfied with how that had played out, Jarde more or less managing to strike up a kind of understanding between himself and his new horse, it was time to depart.
...He had been very fortunate indeed that it all went so smoothly, he realized in review as the first glimmers of dawn peeked above the horizon. Both in that none in his command had been grievously wounded in spite of his singular determination to fight, and that he himself had not suffered any harm in the face of that recklessness— even the bruise he'd suspected to be upon his shoulder had faded from his senses as the hours had passed. All that was left then were his thoughts. His singular understanding that he had much to learn from this mission.
He turned his eyes upwards towards alabaster towers as they passed through the mighty oak and steel gates of Aimlenn. The Capital city was still a somewhat awe-inspiring sight for him, a man hailing from much further north, close to the border with Velt. To think human hands could build structures so massively high, and yet at the same time so elegant... It boggled his bumpkin mind to this day. He knew of cities, of fortified, high walls of stone. He's seen plenty with his ragtag band of sellswords, and was no stranger to the concept itself— but nothing could match the capital's scale. Aimlenn absolutely dwarfed anything else he'd ever known.
Yet more proof that the world was still far bigger than him.
Not to mention, this Order as well. He thought, offering a wave to awestruck children that watched their passing. It's strange how being the one gawking at knights feels so simultaneously a short and long while ago.
That used to be me down there. I wonder if they would follow my path, should it mean a chance to ride with us?
He hoped not.
He wouldn't trade the opportunity nor the honor for the world, nor even the much larger weight of time that he had experienced in an unscrupulous trade to lead him to them, but he hoped not.
He hoped that any prospective Knights would be far better prepared than he for many facets of this. That they would be stronger in body and mind than he. That they wouldn't make so many mistakes, whether he had escaped consequences this time or no. He had much more work left to his name before he could truly become the knight he decided was his goal, seven years ago. Far from mastering himself to the degree it required, half the time he wondered if he had truly earned the right to step foot into that hallowed compound.
The Knights entered the Candaeln, their home base, and the tiny Captain stiffly ordered them to disperse towards either healing, or some rest. That they'd earned it.
That much was true. They, collectively, had earned more than their share of a good morning's sleep. A surgical night raid that had resulted in a dominating victory, vanquishing a scourge upon the land's people as well as a fairly powerful enemy fighter at its head. Good work by any metric, regardless of how disdainfully they had all entered the mission. She, as much as anyone, had done enough to merit such. Looked for all the world to be ready to follow her own advice.
But Gerard, inexorably, found himself drifting towards the Training Wing rather than his quarters.
His mind had not yet settled. He intended, in the simplest terms, to hone himself until fatigue would do it for him.
Jonas blinked, momentarily baffled by her words, before spotting the connecting thread.
A wry smile followed, heralding a shake of the head and a turn back to the kitchen, headed towards the fridge.
"If you want a second helping, I'll gladly make one." He began, welcoming the outward flow of cool air on his skin as he reached for the package of bacon, encased within a ziploc bag. Gotta keep that environment sealed to maximize fridge life— Unless it was gonna all get used up before the days was out. "But that's not what I meant."
He was far more satisfied with his handiwork than he was the meeting. He had believed that much to be obvious, but evidently he had shown a little too much humility about his own cooking. Either that, or Cross had made a rare misstep in reading his implication. Dana did mention she wasn't much of a morning person.
Maybe you really do need coffee?
He turned the knob of the burner beneath the pan, welcoming flame back into the kitchen without fanfare. Waving the back of his hand to get a read of the temperature, he promptly laid two more strips onto the still-reasonably warm metal. Hadn't been too long since he'd taken it off heat, all things considered.
While he watched them fry in their own fat, he spoke once again, now choosing his words a bit more carefully. None of them needed any more wrong ideas today, even minor and benign ones such as this. He doubted she'd been quite so earnest as she appeared in her deduction that he was in high spirits. Fine by him. It wasn't wrong of her to look a little closer.
"Do you know of any legends brought about by fleeing, Rebekah? I don't mean like Marathon— I mean like what they demanded of us back there."
He halfway expected an actual answer in return from the de facto leader of the unofficial Olympus Book Club, but she was doubtlessly sharp enough to get the point he was driving towards. His composure was long-practiced under emotional and situational duress, even without the backing of his inherent divine ability. Each word was delivered with a level frostiness that had no business matching the smirk they had just seen him turn away with, and if they paid attention to the subtle rise and fall of his shoulders they would note that even the breaths preceding them were decidedly measured.
He continued to neutrally regard his bacon as his hand slid over to ignite the burner beneath salted, vinegary water.
"In all of your years and all of your texts, who is a hero for running fearfully for the trees? I can recall none."
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