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michaeluis · 11 months

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Why Tungsten Polymer Has Become The Best Material For Frangible Ammunition

With evolving time, everything is changing including the bullets we use in our guns. You would be surprised to know that instead of bullets modern bullets use tungsten polymer.In recent years, tungsten polymer has emerged as the best material for manufacturing frangible ammunition. Here's why tungsten polymer has gained popularity and become the preferred choice for frangible ammunition.

• Density and hardness are comparable to lead

Renowned for its exceptional strength-to-weight ratio, tungsten polymer stands as a remarkably dense and tough substance. When used in frangible ammunition, it creates a composite material that is both lightweight and durable. This unique combination allows frangible bullets made from tungsten polymer to fragment upon impact with a target, while maintaining sufficient structural integrity for reliable penetration.

• Reduced ricochet and over-penetration make this type of bullet safe

The natural brittleness of tungsten polymer causes the bullet to disintegrate into smaller fragments upon hitting a hard surface, reducing the likelihood of ricochet. Additionally, the controlled fragmentation ensures that the bullet does not penetrate beyond the intended target, making it safer for use in close quarters and urban environments.

• Enhanced safety during indoor training exercises

Tungsten polymer frangible ammunition offers enhanced safety during training exercises, particularly in indoor shooting ranges. The lower probability of bullet ricochet and excessive penetration leads to a safer scenario where shooters and bystanders are at a reduced risk of injuries caused by stray bullets. This makes tungsten polymer frangible ammunition an ideal choice for military, law enforcement, and civilian training purposes.

• Environmental friendliness compared to traditional lead-based ammunition

Frangible ammunition made from tungsten polymer is considered more environmentally friendly compared to traditional lead-based ammunition. In terms of health and environmental concerns, tungsten polymer differs from lead as it is non-toxic and does not pose comparable hazards. By using tungsten polymer, shooters can reduce their exposure to lead and contribute to the preservation of the environment.

• Consistent performance in any type of weather condition

Tungsten polymer frangible bullets offer consistent performance, allowing shooters to maintain accuracy and reliability. The controlled fragmentation and reliable terminal ballistics ensure that the bullets perform predictably upon impact. This predictability is crucial for shooters who rely on consistent performance for self-defense or competitive shooting scenarios.

• Versatility for various calibers and configurations

With its diverse range of calibers and configurations, tungsten polymer frangible ammunition is adaptable and suitable for various firearms and applications. Whether for handguns, rifles, or shotguns, tungsten polymer frangible ammunition can be tailored to meet specific needs and performance requirements.

A modern material for modern ammunition

Tungsten polymer has become the material of choice for frangible ammunition due to its density, hardness, reduced ricochet and over-penetration, enhanced safety, environmental friendliness, consistent performance, and versatility.

The unique properties of tungsten polymer enable frangible bullets to disintegrate upon impact, making them safer and more effective for use in close-quarters situations. As the demand for safer ammunition options continues to grow, tungsten polymer frangible ammunition is increasingly recognized as the best choice for professionals and enthusiasts alike.

#tungsten polymer #frangible ammunition

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inflagrante-delicatessen · 1 year

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#pst #txt #im frangible

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joyoushyuck · 4 months

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06:23

Donghyuck is still sleeping when you wake up.

He looks peaceful, you think. Not a common sight, you'd even call his sleeping form the eighth wonder because a conscious Donghyuck is never calm. His cheeks are puffy, lips set in a cute pout, hair a royal mess. You thread your fingers through his unruly strands in an attempt to tame them.

Donghyuck's hand is loosely thrown around your waist but you know you couldn't wiggle out of it even if you tried. Not that you want to; it's cozier this way with his legs thrown over yours and body moulded perfectly to fit against your curves.

A few stray rays of light escape through your curtains, forming a magical halo around Donghyuck's face, giving it the softest of glows. Your finger traces his many moles. He looks ethereal like this. You feel an overwhelming amount of love for this man.

You want to protect him, even though the love bites painting his bare torso, the medusa tattoo just above his waist band and his toned biceps don't call for any protection. If anything, your frangible heart is the only thing that requires a lee from the whirlwind that is your boyfriend.

"You're staring babe," and you jump, heart thudding loud and so-not-proud against your chest. The room seems hotter than it was a moment ago, the peaceful ambience destroyed by his usual playfulness. He cracks an eye open and shoots a complacent smirk in your general direction.

"You don't have to scare me like that, you creep!" You huff, embarassed to face him. You try to get out of his hold; an impossible feat because he works out and you don't. So you take refuge among the fulffiness of the many pillows thrown over your bed.

"Says the one who was staring at me," is his smug reply, which earns a slap on his toned chest. Again, he's hardly affected by it. Atleast he has the decency to pretend it hurts.

Your breathing is still audibly heavy from the shock. He runs a placating hand on your back as a quiet apology. "Good morning," he mumbles, nuzzling his nose into your hair.

"Too late for that, don't you think," you spit in lieu of a reply, no real bite in your words. He chuckles, the sound arising from what you can only imagine to be the deepest parts of him, so low, so attractive, so domestic.

He kisses your hair with an obnoxiously loud smack and then giggles like a teenage girl because he's silly like that. Silly and annoying and so, so cute, his existence stimulates your most primal urges; you love him so much your chest hurts.

And you aren't scared to let him know what he does to you. "I love you." It's out of blue, and most definitely not a regular happening. You feel him stiffen, breath catching in his throat and heart beating infinitely faster. The playfulness drains out of him, leaving a sincere man who loves you with his entire being.

His hand on your waist pulls you closer. He kisses you properly this time, lips moving against yours slowly, like he wants to savour this moment as much as you do. When you break the kiss, he rests his forehead on yours, a hand holding your cheek carefully like you are delicate china. Precious. His.

"Me too," he says breathily. Donghyuck is looking at you - your eyes, nose, lips - searching your face. And when he finds what he's looking for, "I love you too, my pretty baby. So, so, so much."

Note

inspired by this post (@hugs2doie has some great works, make sure to check out the blog!)

My inbox is open. You can send in your thoughts/requests!

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bunnoia · 1 month

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⋆⭒˚.⋆𝜗𝜚 summary: you work as a flight attendant for a high class airline company, and can’t help but catch the attention of a certain someone

cw: sexual implications, gawking, mdni

The entire plane ride his eyes were on you. He couldn’t help it, the way you cheerfully greeted the passengers and danced down the aisle made him delirious. The outfit you wore only made it worse. The frangible lines of your tailored blouse and your impossibly tight pencil skirt hiked up a little too far. The soft silkiness of the bow fastened on your neck was the cherry on top. He imagined tying it around your wrists while he fucked you senseless. His eyes stared at your cheeky smile, the one you’d put on while speaking with passengers. He couldn’t help but feel his heart flip in his chest. He felt himself go hard in his jeans. The important papers on his lap rose ever so slightly. He continuously shifted in his seat to subdue the warmth he was feeling. And, as expected, the rest of the ride with you was complete hell.

diluc NANAMI, geto suguru, CHILDE, zhongli, dazai, ALHAITHAM, dottore, SATORU GOJO, scaramouche, wriothesley, TOJI

#jujutsu kaisen smut #genshin smut #genshin impact x reader #diluc x reader #nanami x reader #jjk x reader #gi x reader #gojo satoru #geto suguru #geto x reader #gojo x reader #nanami kento #wriothesely x reader #scaramouche #first post #drabble #oneshot

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angelsnkisses · 9 months

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nsfw headcanons - tyler <3

💟 nsfw - mdni 💟

A/N: i haven't actually finished the show, but it's good so far :). definitely a little.. questionable at times, but all good shows are, right? 😭 also idk why my replies are off but it's driving me insane

warnings: softdom!tyler, sub!fem!reader, breeding kink, dubcon, overstimulation, mentions of pregnancy

• no cause this show is WILD, but, disregarding that... can we talk about how tyler definitely has a huge breeding kink? there's no doubt about it.

• hear me out, he fucks you good, like gripping the sheets and seeing stars type of good. so good, in fact, that you're too dumbed out to use your critical thinking skills to make rational decisions in the moment. and as fucked as it is, he uses it to his advantage.

• he'll turn on that loving, gentle voice of his and start rubbing your clit to get your brain all foggy, hitting that divine spot inside you over and over again and turning your brain into susceptible mush.

"there you go, so good for me.. you gonna let me fill you up tonight?"

• he asks so casually, and smiles knowingly when you get all flustered and start shaking your head. he'll lean down and coo quiet pleads and praises at you, his silky voice working hard to convince you to do as he pleases.

"no? it'll feel so good, you wanna feel good?"

"come on, do it for me.. it would make me so happy."

• he knows it's wrong, but the satisfaction that washes over him when you finally whimper out a quiet 'yes' is unreal.

• aside from his tendency to manipulate your frangible little mind, he has other.. interests, if you will. one of those particular interests is overstimulating you until you can't even breathe properly.

• he'll pound you relentlessly, coaxing you through orgasm after orgasm until you're sobbing under him. best believe he has a touch of dacryphilia, because he fucks you even harder when he sees tears stream down your cheeks.

"shhh, just a few more for me. aw, don't cry, baby.. i know, it's okay."

"you don't wanna cum? you were begging for it just a little while ago.."

• after maybe 5 or 6 orgasms, he'll finally stop. not because he needs to, but because you do. he doesn't wanna completely destroy you (though part of him is intrigued to see just how much you can really take).

"you still in there? aw, you poor thing. fucked you dumb, didn't i?"

• he'll pull out slowly, taking his time to watch all his cum spill out of your spent, puffy cunt. you jerk and whine when he pushes it back in with his fingers, shushing you soothingly.

• he'll eventually leave your tortured sex alone, instead focusing on making you feel better. he'll clean you up, or have you lay on his chest so he can rub your back. he'll mumble an occasional praise, his mood elevated at the idea of you finally getting pregnant.

A/N: i don't think i've really posted anything like this, i'm nervous 😭. regardless, i hope you enjoyed! sorry it's short :3.

#rory culkin #rory culkin smut #culkin cult #tyler the expecting #the expecting #angelsnkisses #mdni

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anantaru · 9 months

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i think summer is the worst season for any sexy activity with thoma (also considering his pyro vision), yet slow lazy sex might be the solution? just laying on your sides, facing each other, his cock squeezed between your walls, as you share lazy kisses and slowly grind on each other till reaching the orgasm?

cw. sweaty s3x, wet n messy, fem! reader

everything around you feels distant, to a certain degree frangible, like you’re suddenly disconnected from gravity, but the dense, humid air was heavy at the same time.

you can barely breathe by this, the summer in inazuma was on its highest point by now and simply walking outside had been a quite difficult task to accomplish, considering the enormous heat wave which was making it tough for most people.

do consider this, but your boyfriend thoma wasn't a great fan of it either, keeping in mind that he was a wielder of the pyro element. yet he'd never pass up on an opportunity to be intimate with you, not even this bothersome weather would make him rethink his craving.

his cock was also trying to get your attention, and you slowly slither your hand down south to take it in your palm, it's achingly hard, almost sore, and wet with his pre cum. thoma helps you instantly, wrapping one hand around your leg so he could part them without trouble before lining you up with him.

you’re wetter than usual, your slick mixed with prospering sweat that made it all the more easier to have him slip inside of you, his warm, heavy erection sticking on your walls to a more intense degree, soaking in your liquids, sliding up so fucking strongly when he fucks into you right away— shallow, small thrusts penetrating your insides, his lower belly hitting your clit, his happy trail gathering your slick.

such a mess, but you like it, bite back a moan too when he smirks into your lips before suckling on your tongue.

both of you are shining, and suddenly the warm weather didn't appear as a meaningful problem anymore when he holds your legs apart while you smother your digits down, twisting your fingers over your tits, putting on a show for him, the crevice and outlines of your chest luminescent with your sweat. and thoma closes the distance of your frames, it’s not difficult when you soak into him, rubbing your clit and aching to cum already— you’re a lot more sensitive now and just know it’s because of the heat.

yet he’s so skilled at fucking your little pussy into his girth when he wrecks your cunt, out of breath, his heaves and small whines aflame, eyes aglow.

he’s into it now, wait— scrap that, he always was, your used hole, soaked in that particular way, it's so wet and messy, pheromones and sinful words of praises charging up the stifling bedroom, a swirl of sweltering air happening next.

maybe, only maybe, the weather in inazuma wasn’t as bad as some might believe.

#genshin smut #genshin impact smut #thoma x reader #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #thoma smut #genshin drabbles #genshin impact drabbles #genshin x you #genshin impact x you #genshin impact thoma #thoma x you #thoma drabbles #genshin impact fanfics #genshin impact fan fiction

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lalachat · 1 month

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"And there you were..."

Author's note: Hey girl hey... I'm back! Im sorry for the prolonged time between these late chapters:( Fixations are weird and frangible things. You have one for a month and then get tired of it, but come back to the same one every now and then. That's basically what writing is for me... I know it may not be fair to you readers but I am trying my best because i truly love you guys... This is not the best thing that I have written for this story, but we are finally at the end! It has been a rollercoaster for us all. Thank you for those who have stuck with me since day one and thank you for those who randomly stumble upon this shit show of a story and send me sweet messages<3 I hope this is good enough xoxo

Summary: Crossing over the rainbow bridge is not what you expected it to be, especially when you're told you cannot stay long, but everything was worth it in the end.

This is for all my Lucien girlies❤️

Warnings: profanity, potential grammatical errors, and a happily ever after!

Word Count: ≈ 2,237

Chapter 11: You're my mate

“Who are you and where am I?” you blinked rapidly at the blinding light invading your gaze.

“Welcome my child, you know where you are and you know who I am-” the voice sent a warmth through your body at the raw power it held, yet it was still tenderhearted.

You blinked a couple more times to readjust your sight at the most ethereal woman you have ever seen standing before you. This cannot be real…

“I’m dead, aren’t I?” you asked.

“Not quite, I fear I have taken you too soon,” she gave you a soft smile as the realization hit you. Only one person could take your life too soon.

“Oh my gods, you’re the mother!” You bowed to her immediately, unsure of what the proper greeting was for a celestial being. She giggled.

“No need for such formalities, stand up my child. I have something I wish to discuss.” She offered you her hand which you gladly accepted. You felt a zing rush through you at the touch. The power she held was beyond anything you felt from Rhysand and the other high lords.

“Of course,” you smiled, “What exactly would that be? Have I sinned too much to remain here?!”

She laughed yet again, “You are quite the humorous one, and no, I am not here to discuss your sins. I want to discuss the mistake I made with your mate.”

You stood there in pure shock, “Azriel?”

“Yes, I wholeheartedly apologize for fating you two together. That shadowsinger never got over his self-loathing I’m afraid.” You looked at her puzzled. “You see, when I fated the two of you, I had hoped his self-destructiveness would disappear once he met you,” she smiled at you again as you listened, “that was until Elain Acheron had stepped in and took that place before you ever could.”

“Believe me mother, I am well aware…” you sighed. “I tried so hard,” tears began to form in your eyes.

“Oh my love, I know you did, and this is all my fault. I am sorry for causing you so much suffering. It is clear to me now that I should have fated you to someone else,” she gave you her hand again, “Come walk with me.”

She led you hand in hand over to a cauldron. She waved her hand over it to reveal your friends still circled around your body, only this time a certain auburn-haired male began to awake.

“LUCIEN!” You wept at the sight of his chest rising and falling again, “He’s alive!”

The mother nodded, “I brought him here and sent him back, just like I am about to do with you.”

“I don't understand, why bring us both here in the first place if we are only going to be sent back?” You watched as your friends noticed Lucien’s movements as you still lay there cold.

“Because my child, I have been watching you for quite some time and realized that your love without a bond for another male grew stronger than any completed bond I have ever seen.”

“That’s not possible- nothing is stronger than a completed bond,” you looked at her and shook your head in disbelief.

“I never thought something like this would happen but you two have proven me wrong. You both have just done the impossible,” she smiled at you, and she took hold of both of your hands, “That male loves you more than anything.” Her thumbs caressed the small marking along your wrists, your eyes followed the movement as you chuckled.

“So, what’s going to happen to now?” you looked up at the creator of everything you knew.

“I am going to send you back,” she kissed the top of your forehead and you felt something inside you shift, “I am sorry for taking you both too soon, but it had to be done. I have now made things the way they should be,” she smiled as she gestured to the cauldron.

“What?” you looked at her in disbelief.

“Step into the cauldron, it will take you back to your loved ones.”

You looked in to see Lucien now trying to wake you as the others watched in awe of his liveliness, “Lucien did the same thing?”

“Yes,” she nodded as you began to slowly step your way into the cauldron. You were waist in before you stopped abruptly as anxiety ate at you to ask a certain question.

“I won’t have any special powers like Feyre, Nesta, and Elain right?”

“No, this is different than their rebirth. You will have no power; you will remain as you were before.”

“Good, that’s good. Powers would have been cool though,” you smiled as you submerged the rest of yourself into the sacred artifact. Just before your ears went under you could hear the mother say something to you before you left.

“Everything is alright now, I love you my child. You have made me proud.”

You smiled as the liquid surrounded you and sparkled against your skin. It almost looked like Starfall which made you smile reminding you of home. You were heading back home! You felt your body tense like it was being winnowed back to your reality. It was a weird sensation, but you could slowly feel the memory of the mother and everything she had done for you fade as you passed through a barrier.

“Y/n!” you could hear someone crying out your name. You were trying to regain your senses as firm hands caressed the hair out of your face. One of their tears fell onto your cheek. It almost felt hot. Your eyes squinted at the feeling.

“Lucien look!” Someone cried out, as Lucien’s eyes scanned over your face slightly scrunching up at the foreign feeling of a tear that was not your own on your face. He let out a small, relieved gasp.

“Y/n?” He wiped off his tear that had fallen as he saw your chest take a deep inhale, “Oh my gods!” He wept, “You’re alive… you’re alive!”

His hands caressed your own, trying to give your cold skin more warmth. Azriel letting some of his own tears fall at the sight of you breathing again, Elain was rubbing small circles on his back in comfort. Mor and Feyre’s hands covered their mouths in shock at the events unfolding before them as tears of joy left their eyes. Nesta had let out a much-needed breath she didn’t know she was holding as she smiled at the two of you breathing again. Cassian thanked the mother repeatedly as Rhysand grabbed Feyre’s hand with tear filled eyes.

You began to wiggle your toes and fingers, getting used to the feeling of yourself again as you opened your eyes to see Lucien with the biggest smile you have ever seen from him.

“Lucien?” you questioned. Your mind was foggy, unable to really remember anything except the fact the last time you saw him he was dead.

He pressed your hands to his lips, “I’m here…”

You began to cry, “You’re alive!”

He nodded his head as he pulled you into his chest, “And so are you!”

You wrapped your arms around him in an instant, “Don’t ever leave me like that again!”

“Like hell I would live in a world without you,” he smiled as he cupped your face and kissed you tenderly. It’s right then you felt something trying to ignite inside your chest, no restraints or walls were holding it back as it set your soul aflame. You pulled away from Lucien and looked at him in amazement as you sent that flame to where it was trying to pull itself to. Lucien’s eyes widened as he slowly felt his empty chest cavity burst into life filled with everything you were sending his way. Love. Passion. Trust. Protectiveness. He couldn’t but help but smile as he got to say these words again knowing he would be complete, “You’re my mate!”

You let out a laugh of relief at the words, “Mates,” as you kissed him so hard you both fell back into the earth beneath you.

“That’s impossible,” Azriel said in disbelief. Elain’s face was ghost white.

“Well brother, the mother can work in mysterious ways,” Rhysand smiled at you finally getting your happy ending.

Lucien pulled away from you breathless, “I love you.”

You gave him a toothy grin and kissed him once more, “I love you!”

The wind kissed your skin as you both got up off the ground hand in Lucien’s. The presence of the wind almost felt familiar to you. You looked up at your mate and saw he had the same expression. Both of you looked at each other before you both whispered a soft thank you into the wind to let it be carried away to wherever it was headed as your friends began to crowd you both. Feyre ran into Lucien’s outstretched arms as Mor crashed into yours.

“Oh gods I am so happy you’re alive!” Mor cried.

“I think that was enough bonding for a lifetime,” you laughed as you cried with your best friend.

“I am just glad you are okay!” she smiled as she let Feyre hug you next. She looked over to Lucien and gave you a warm smile, “I am so happy for you both, take good care of him.”

Rhysand and Cassian pulled you into a big group hug.

“What even happened? I saw you both die!” Cassian kissed your cheek fondly.

“I don't even know… I wish I could tell you both, but I'm just happy I get to keep my favorite bat boys around,” you laughed as Rhysand kissed your other cheek.

“Like I said to Az, the mother works in wonderous ways.” As they pulled you back into another huge hug.

“Stop you’re going to pop me!” you laughed as a pair of footsteps approached you. You looked up to see Azriel. He looked at you guiltily and you felt nothing towards the male. No hate, no resentment, no longing, no nothing. You took a deep breath as you said, “Bring it in Azriel, it’s alright…”

Azriel carefully joined the group hug, “I am so sorry…” you and the others just hugged each other tighter as a response. You heard a cough from outside the circle as Elain stood before you. Rhysand and Cassian gave you one last hug before they walked over to Lucien and the others. Leaving you with Azriel and Elain.

“Y/n if I had only known…” Elain’s voice trailed off. Their presence was a little much for you after knowing what they both caused, but without them you wouldn’t have your mate.

“Look, everything that happened between us is a lot to digest and it's overwhelming me right now, but I am willing to look forward and have a fresh start, just give me time.” You gave them both an awkward smile as you walked off to the others who were all showering Lucien in hugs like they had done with you earlier. The sight of it made you smile.

“Be careful with him! I just got him back,” you teased as everyone looked towards you.

“We just got you both back,” Feyre said with a soft smile, “Tonight we celebrate you both and your new bond!”

“Just don't feed him anything until we're gone,” Cassian quipped as he clapped Lucien on the shoulder. Lucien rolled his eyes at the comment as Mor whispered into your ear, “and when you do, you still owe us girls a story after all.” She winked as your face grew hot at the talk of the act of completing the bond together.

“Calm yourself darling, we have plenty of time for that later,” Lucien pulled you into his side, “Let’s celebrate with our friends yeah?”

“Fine, I guess we can let loose a little to celebrate beating death and finding our bond.” You smiled.

“Well, what are we waiting for?! Let’s go party! I’m ready to let loose after everything that just transpired,” Mor said as everyone left to go back inside. Lucien pulled you aside before you both walked in and pushed you against a wall as he kissed you with fiery passion.

“As soon as that little party is over, I am going to fuck you into the bed, wall, desk,” he began to kiss your neck as the fresh bond between you hummed in your chest, “Any surface that I can take you on till we’re both burning this court into ashes with our love.”

You moaned at his words, “You promise?”

“If that is what my mate wants,” as he stared into your eyes as you traced your fingers down his back.

“Only if mine is willing to live up to his words,” you smirked up at him.

“Oh y/n, you are going to regret doubting me,” he said before he gave you one last kiss on the lips before offering you his hand to lead you into the house where all your friends awaited to celebrate your miracle.

You giggled as you grabbed his hand and said, “I love you so much Lu.”

“I will never get sick of those words. I love you too,” he smiled down as your intertwined hands, “You really should get those tattooed.”

“Give me a few more like them and I will,” you teased pulling Lucien inside as he let out a small groan at the thought. Both of you eager to celebrate with your friends, and to finally be able to love each other fiercely for the rest of your lives.

If you’re interested in being on my taglist, please let me know!

Tags:

@thelov3lybookworm @justdreamstars @character---obsessed @stained-glass-eyes0708 @acourtofbooksandshadows @sourapplex @b0xerdancer-writes @fireworksacrosshorizons @esposadomd @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @mis-lil-red @cleverzonkwombatsludge @emme-looou @bubybubsters @impossibelle @holywolfsstuff @acourtofbatboydreams @bloodicka @byyalady @kennedy-brooke @sassyslytherinshai @minnieoo @sh4nn @high-lady-of-books @fides25 @thisblogisaboutabook @breella @mirandasidefics @hardcoremarvelfan @thesnugglingduck @annaaaaa88

#acotar #acotar x reader #lucien vanserra #lucien x reader #cassian #nesta archeron #elain archeron #azriel #feyre acotar #mor acotar #rhysand

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michaeluis · 11 months

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Why Achieving Sustainable Goals Is ASlow Process Not An Overnight Event?

Sustainability must not exist on the idea and perception levels only.It must find its true place on the execution level. All government plans, corporate promises, and agendas would be futile without pragmatic execution. That would mean companies and organizations should start to think more objectively to achieve the desired sustainability goals.

It is important to beat the challenges that come along when companies and organizations are introducing sustainable ideas and plans of action. Let’s take a quick look at the methods and ways to find the right approach toward the implementation of sustainability.

Achieving sustainability goals is a process, not an event:

One must be aware of the fact that everything substantial would take time, humans need to get out of event desired mindsets, it is a process. The process can be slow or fast depending upon how you execute, it is the fundamental concept of life and the world. Sustainability goals can be started by understanding the importance of it or by finding a good alternative such as high density plastics.

Knowing what can replace lethal materials is something that could open many new opportunities and sustainable options, heavy plastic in the context fits the bill perfectly. Everything in the universe is the manifestation of a process, it is important to know the fact that the world has been slowly subject to degradation and it would take time to undo everything that is not desired.

Where heavy plastic can be used?

Once one knows the features of heavy plastic, one would be excited to use it in many ways, the crux of the matter is that this substance can be used in a plethora of ways and in a range of applications. You can use these materials as Frangible bullets in law enforcement agencies, you can replace lead by using these materials in the automotive industry.

The application of heavy plastic can be dynamic and can be used in many different industries, one needs to know how to implement a sustainable strategy and what to do to get the maximum result out of the action plan.

How to implement the sustainable strategy?

It demands a clear-cut plan, without a good plan, you are likely to miss certain important aspects which can cost you later. You would need to know where you can start to use heavy plastic and how much you can use. A good sustainable plan for implementation would help get better results in the long run

You would need a good manufacturer for High density materials because that is something that can get you high-quality outputs, you would need to find out how smart the manufacturer is and what they can do for you. The better and smarter manufacturers can help you in planning, they can make bespoke components for your applications and more.

It is of utmost importance to think about sustainability and going for heavy plastic is a great idea provided you know how to execute it, all you have to do is to find the manufacturers and start the implementation.

#high density plastics #Frangible bullets

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ips-northstar-official · 3 months

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So, I'm the aptain of Mining Rig Aurora. We were having Pirate issues. (Or is it "Privateers?" Heard it should be.) And our ship is small, so we got the Caliban License since it was advertised for in-door combat. Everything is working great, I honestly love it, pirates are less of a problem. Except for one tiiiiny thing.

You see Pierre, our merc, went to practice re-loading the whole "Cannibal" thing, which... massive I must say. And the dud shells just... went. Now Pierre has lived, he likes heavy armour, the lucky guy, but he's got a bad concussion.

Is there a way to tune down the ejector perhaps? We don't want to accidentally decompress a ship because somebody reloads too close to a window.

Hello captain!

We're sorry to hear Pierre was injured by the Cannibal's shell ejection. This is an intentional feature to increase the damage potential of the shotgun even during what would normally be considered "downtime", so that no matter what you're doing, you can put the hurt on pirates while doing it.

Thankfully, you don't need to worry about the shells decompressing a cabin. The shells are designed to be frangible to impact so that, while they put plenty of hurt on soft targets and even some on mechs, it shouldn't destroy the walls of a ship that separate you from hard vacuum.

We wish you a speedy recovery! Be sure to refer to the included instruction manual for safe reloading practices.

#lancer rpg #lancerrpg #//[UNCLE]: GOD I HATE PIRATES #ALSO DOES PIERRE HAVE BOTH OF HIS EYES BECAUSE THE KIND OF GUY WHO LOOKS DOWN A BARREL LIKE THAT KINDA DESERVES IT LMAO

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tanadrin · 6 months

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Shoemaker on literacy, memory, oral tradition, and the Quran:

Studies of literacy in pre-Islamic Arabia have been severely overlooked in recent Quran scholarship; in fact, literacy in the 7th century Hijaz was "almost completely unknown" and "writing was hardly practiced at all in the time of Muhammad." "[T]here seems to be a widespread agreement among experts on the early history of the Arabic language 'that, before and immediately after the rise of Islam, Arab culture was in all important respects fundamentally oral.'" Ancient graffiti in the region seems to have been a bit like early runic writing in Scandinavia--not central to the culture, mostly decorative and incidental, and certainly not used for long, important texts. "There is, in effect, a lot of 'Kilroy was here' scattered across the Arabian desert." Indeed, most of these graffiti are personal names or private in nature--we're not talking monumental inscriptions here, we're talking bored herders scratching stuff onto rocks to pass the time.

Southern Arabia and the larger oases to the north had more in the way of literate elites (and thus things like monumental inscriptions), but these places were far from the central inland Hijaz. If someone in this region did want to become literate, they would probably have learned to read and write in Greek or Aramaic, which were useful and important linguae francae.

As in very early Christianity, writing occupied a controversial position vis a vis orality--oral tradition was primary for the production and transmission of culturally important things like religious texts, poetry, literary prose, genealogy, and history. The shift to a literate culture came only with the expansion of Muhammad's polity into a wealthy, multicultural empire rather than a tribal state. Indeed, much of the early Caliphate's administration used Greek and other languages--Arabic entered administration only slowly, since a lot of early bureaucrats were drawn from the Roman and Sasanian bureaucracy.

And like early Christianity, another reason not to feel any urgency to write down Muhammad's teachings was that early Muslims expected the end of the world to come very soon, maybe initially even before Muhammad's own death.

The dialect of the Quran is distinctive and unusual; it is very difficult to locate where this dialect might have originated. Ahmad Al-Jallad tentatively identifies an Old Hijazi dialect, but the evidence for this dialect (besides the Quran itself) is limited and mostly much more recent, and he assumes the Quran was produced in the Hijaz.

The Arabic of the Quran can probably be identified with the prestige dialect of Levantine Arabic in the Ummayad period, but the origin of that dialect, and what Arabic dialects were brought together there in that time, is hard to ascertain with certainty.

Shoemaker thinks the Quran started as short collections drawn from individual memories following the conquest and encounters with widespread literacy; these collections would have been considered open, and subject to influence from oral tradition. They were combined into increasingly larger collections, with additional traditions and revisions, emergin as something like divergent versions of the Quran (though still not fully static and closed). Finally, the traditions of these regional versions, with other written and oral traditions, were fashioned into their canonical form under Abd al-Malik, and this version was progressively enforced across the empire.

Shoemaker brings in memory science and the anthropology of oral cultures: memory is highly frangible and fallible. Even though it functions well for day to day tasks, it's important not to overlook how common misremembering and re-remembering alters information in both personal and collective memory when talking about a text that even Islamic tradition agrees was not written down within Muhammad's lifetime.

Most forgetting occurs shortly after an event in question; a small core of memories we develop about an event will persist for a significant time after. These findings have been corroborated both in the lab and in the circumstances of everyday life.

Memory is not primarily reproductive; literal recall is, in evolutionary terms, pretty unimportant, and brains omit needless detail. Remembering thus involves a lot of reconstruction more than it does reproduction; memories are storied piecewise in different parts of the brain, and are assembled on recall, with the gaps being filled in using similar memory fragments drawn from comparable experiences.

Note Bartlett's experiments using a short Native American folktale; when asked to recall this story, even after only fifteen minutes participants introduced major and minor changes. Subsequent recall didn't improve accuracy, though the basic structure of the memory developed pretty quickly in each individual. But this structure was not especially accurate, and significant details vanished or were replaced with new information. Most often this information was drawn from the subject's culture (in this case, Edwardian England), forming a memory that made more sense to them and had more relevance in their context. The overall style was quickly lost, and replaced by new formations, and there was a persistent tendency to abbreviate. After a few months, narrative recall consisted mostly of false memory reports, a finding verified by subsequent replications of his experiments.

Experiential and textual memory in particular degrades very rapidly; this degredation is much faster when information is transmitted from one person to another. Epithets change into their opposites, incidents and events are transposed, names and numbers rarely survive intact more than a few reproductions, opinions and conclusions are reversed, etc. Figures like Jesus or Muhammad will hardly be remembered accurately even by people who knew them.

The style of the Quran (e.g., prose, and often terse, elliptic, and occasionally downright nonsensical prose at that) does not lend itself to memorization; Shoemaker argues it is only possible for people to memorize the Quran now because it has become a written document they can consult in the process.

Eyewitness testimony is of course also notoriously unreliable, despite what apologists (in particular Christian apologists) have argued. Cf. Franz von Liszt's experiment in 1902, where a staged argument in a lecture escalates to one student pulling a gun on another--after revealing this event was scripted and staged, and asking different students to recall the details of the event at different intervals afterward, literally none of them got it right--the best reports, taken immediately, got things about one quarter correct. Even repeatedly imagining a scenario vividly enough can eventually lead to a false memory of it occurring (a phenomenon which may explain some alien abduction reports). People mistake post-even hearsay or visualization for firsthand knowledge, especially in the case of dramatic events.

What memory excels at is remembering broad strokes--we are adapted to retain the information which is most likely to be needed, i.e., the gist (or, more likely, the broad themes) of events and information, and not its exact form.

There's a long digression here about John Dean's testimony on the Watergate conspiracy--this may be the first book in early Islamic studies to have Richard Nixon in the index.

Even competitive memory champions train for short-term recall of large amounts of information; they, and other people with preternaturally good memories, are of course exceedingly rare. It's very unlikely that someone could remember, several decades after the fact, precisely (or even mostly) what was told to them by their friend whose brother's wife's cousin was really there. So even within the traditional account of the Quran's composition, it makes no sense to claim it is in fact the verbatim word of Muhammad.

As in the case of Solomon Shereshevski, when you do have preternaturally good recall even for (say) lists of nonsense syllables, the result is actually kind of debilitating--you have so many useless details to sort through, it makes it quite hard to function at an abstract level. And hyperthymesiacs, though they exhibit a high level of recall about their past, still often remember things incorrectly, at about the same rate as people with normal memories--they are no less susceptible to false or distorted memories.

Nevertheless most modern scholars treat the Quran as a verbatim transcript of Muhammad's words. This is exceedingly unlikely! Especially given that "group" or "collaborative" memory--memories as reconstructed by individuals working together--appears to be even less accurate than individual memory. You get better results having people try to recall events by themselves.

Since during the age of conquests the majority of converts were not closely preoccurpied with the interpretation of the Quran, it would have had to have been rediscovered and hermeneutically reinvented later; the memory of Muhammad's words were being shaped by the nature of the community he founded, as its members collective and individual needs continued to evolve along with the context of transmission.

Many people, both scholars and the general public, seem to believe that people in oral cultures have remarkable capacities for memory not possessed by those of written cultures. Study of oral cultures has shown this is demonstrably false; literacy in fact strengthens verbal and visual memory, while illiteracy impairs these abilities. People in literate cultures have better memories!

Oral transmission is not rote replication; it is a process of recomposition as the tradition is recreated very time it is transmitted. Oral cultures can effectively preserve the gist of events over time, but each time the details are reconstituted, and the tradition can radically diverge from its first repetition, with the stories of the past being reshaped to make them relevant to the present and present concerns.

The collective memory of Muhammad and the origins of Islam as preserved in the Sunni tradition would have forgotten many details as a matter of course, many others because they were no longer relevant to the later Sunni community, and they would have been reshaped in ways that made them particularly suited to the life and community of their contemporary circumstances, exemplifying and validating their religious beliefs--ones very different from those of Muhammad's earliest followers.

The early Muslim conquests put a comparatively small number of soldiers, scattered across a huge territory, in a wildly different cultural and social context, especially in close contact with different Christian and Jewish communities, esp. in the Levant, which rapidly became the cultural center of the new empire. Jews and Christians may have joined the new religious community in large numbers in this time also; their faith and identity would have continued to evolve in this period, as we would expect from comparative episodes in the history of other religions. By the time that Muhammad's teachings were formally inscribed, the memories of his few hundred initial companions would have been transmitted and dispersed to a large number of people in a totally different set of circumstances, with consequences for how those memories exactly were recalled.

Jack Goody, researcher on oral traditions: "It is rather in literate societies that verbatim memory flourishes. Partly because the existence of a fixed original makes it much easier; partly because of the elaboration of spatially oriented memory techniques; partly because of the school situation which has to encourage "decontextualized" memory tasks since it has removed learning from doing and has redefined the corpus of knowledge. Verbatim memorizing is the equivalent of exact copying, which is intrinsic to the transmission of scribal culture, indeed manuscript cultures generally."

Techniques like the ars memoriae belong to literate cultures and were invented by literate people; they are unknown in oral cultures. Oral and literate cultures in fact have a radically different idea of what it means for a text to be "the same"--in the former, word-for-word reproduction is not necessary. A poem can be "the same poem" even if every time it is performed it is largely unique.

Case of the Bagre, the sacred text of the LoDagaa people of Ghana, an extended religious poem used in a liturgical context. Variations in its recitation aren't just variations in wording; changes in recitation can be radical, and the last version is always the starting point. Nevertheless (as in other oral cultures) it is considered "the same," functionally identical with each recitation. These differences appeared even among different performances by the same reciter, or multiple times in the same ceremony. Even the most formulaic parts have great variability. Similar variability in oral texts in other oral cultures has been documented by other anthropologists, including for historical events.

Shoemaker notes that the tradition that the Vedas were transmitted without variation from the time of their composition remains an article of faith in some quarters of South Asian studies; this flies in the face of all available evidence. In fact we have no idea what the state of the Vedic texts was prior to the earliest manuscripts; they may have been written all along.

Collective memory is shaped by contemporary cultural imperatives--examples of Abe Lincoln, a white supremacist considered nothing special by his peers; Christopher Columbus, once revered; the last stand at Masada, considered a minor event of little importance to broader Jewish history until the founding of Israel.

There doesn't have to be any conspiracy or coordinated effort for false narratives about the past to take root.

The hard horizon of communicative memory is around eighty years; so historical consciousness basically only has two modes: the mythic past of collective memory, and the recent past less than eighty or so years ago.

Lack of a clear "generic" monotheism in the Hijaz around the time of Muhammad's birth means the expectations and memory of Muhammad would have been profoundly shaped by Christian and Jewish beliefs.

Early Islam, like early Christianity, wasn't old enough to have a clear distinction between historical/origins memory and recent/communicative memory.

"For most of the seventh century, then, Muhammad’s followers had a memory that was still immersed in the social and cultural milieux of the late ancient Near East, from which they had yet to clearly differentiate themselves. They eventually would do this in large part by developing a distinctive collective memory for their group, different from those inherited from Judaism and Christianity, a process that was no doubt delayed by their fervent belief that the world would soon come to an end, making such an endeavor rather pointless for a time. Only as the end continued to remain in abeyance, and the community’s living memory grew ever distant from the time of origins did they develop a collective memory of their own. Yet, as Islamic collective memory began to evolve, one imagines that it initially took different shapes within the various pockets of Believers that were scattered across their empire. The basic elements of this nascent collective memory were, as Halbwachs says of the early Christians, “still dispersed among a multitude of spatially separated small communities. These communities were neither astonished, anxious, nor scandalized that the beliefs of one community differed from those of another and that the community of today was not exactly the same as that of yesterday.” Thus, we should expect to find a significant degree of diversity in religious faith and memory among the different early communities of the Believers, scattered and outnumbered as they were among the Jews and Christians of their burgeoning empire. Only with ʿAbd al-Malik’s program of Arabization and Islamicization was a new, distinctively Islamic collective memory and identity concretized and established for this new religious community. It was a collective identity that was formed from the top down and imposed, at the expense of any other alternative collective memories, with the full power and backing of the imperial state."

The limits of oral tradition apply even more strongly to the hadith and biographies.

#stephen shoemaker #Creating the Quran #islamic studies

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kingofcaptura · 6 months

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Frangible Sapphires - Collab Ft. @lunarkavat

#gara #mirage #sapphire #brittle #glass #virtual photography #warframe captura #fashion #freddycaps #warframe #duviri paradox #blue #art #photomode #virtual photoshoot #art collab #digital art

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gottawritesomething · 4 months

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Ill met by moonlight

Chapter 2 of Pride cometh before the fall (Gale FIC) (2/?)

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 4.5, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11, Chapter 12

Isabel and Gale have a nice chat on a balcony

TW: Allusion to Mystra

"“AH, a sorcerer then; I was curious when you cast, but nary a verbal component was to be found.” He looked far away for a moment like he’d turned inward to search for all the information he knew about sorcerers. “I will admit I haven’t met many sorcerers personally. Of course, everyone knows the infamous ones, but I haven’t had the pleasure of making a personal acquaintance. Though I must confess, they’ve received quite a reputation at Blackstaff. If the squawking of bored wizards is to be believed, that is. Reportedly, the required repairs to the right wing of Blackstaff tower were from a particularly irate Wild Magic Mage over a grade dispute.” He chortled, shaking his head before returning his gaze to Isabel. "

________________________________________________________

The first thing he noted was how expressive her eyes were. Her mouth barely moved, but he watched a swirl of emotions pass through her eyes. They shifted too fast for him to parse them in time, but settled on a cautious, curious (and the slightest bit defiant) look like she was waiting for more information before she committed to anything.

Her companions, however, remained consistent in their response. The younger half-elf, whose name placard read - Jilnoa - had a shy, bashful smile as she looked at him. A similar smile she’d directed at Isabel for most of the night. The half-orc looked on in anticipation, glancing between Gale and Isabel like he expected one of them to take a swing.

Isabel cocked her head and asked with a smile. “I wasn't aware we had an additional participant in our conversation. May I inquire how long you've been abreast of our discussion?”

Gale realized he didn’t have a good answer prepared for that particular question. He did want to discuss her prejudice against wizards, but it had also occurred to him that perhaps it was disconcerting to admit he’d been eavesdropping. He suddenly became increasingly aware of Isabel’s eyes on him. While earlier, he’d hypothesized her rapt attention would feel like being cooked. Instead, he found himself feeling frangible and exposed like she was peering into him and taking notes.

“Long enough to gather that I am anticipated to either highlight my achievements or make jests at your expense and that I am required to dampen any potential mirth in the process.” Despite or perhaps because of his sudden nervousness, he sincerely hoped he’d come across in an affable manner. As Isabel opened her mouth to respond, Gale cut in once again, fueled by the lengthening silence. “Alas, the precepts of casual discussion mystify me. I beg your pardon for the intrusion.” He wondered if it was possible to make an expeditious exit without further uncomfortability. As he finished his hasty apology, Isabel pressed four fingers to her mouth in a poor attempt to cover a slight smile.

“If you’re amicable to amending your rules to allow for some merriment. I have no objections to hearing your input.” Isabel said, still covering her smile. Gale would have breathed an audible sigh of relief if the moment had allowed. She couldn’t be that off-put by his listening in if she was teasing.

“While I wouldn’t have used such severe language, I, too, had some unfortunate altercations with Professor Finasta. Nothing that came to blows, I hasten to point out. But certainly lengthy hostile correspondence.” Gale felt like he had launched from the starting gate.

“Why a Professor is permitted to teach from a book he wrote and is nearly two decades out of date is beyond me. His book on the Shadowdale suggests that Doust Sulwood still rules. Embarrassing.” Isabel clarified. That earned her a wry grin from Gale.

“You promised I wouldn’t have to listen to any wizard-talk, Isabel.” the half-orc (Who Gale now saw was named Asiruk) groused.

“Fine, then I am taking my break. It is slow enough you two can handle the stragglers.” Isabel tossed her hair and disappeared from behind the bar.

Gale hadn’t heard her cast; the space she’d occupied crackled with a strange energy. Asiruk yelled over Gale’s left shoulder. Gale swiveled on the spot, trying to relocate the woman.

“Oi, we don’t get breaks, get back here. Tyrig is going to be pissed.”

“Then remind him I am doing him a favor and I’m not his employee. He should have sent a scrying eye if he wanted to keep a better watch on me.” Isabel retorted; she had landed near the door to the terrace.

Gale now had a dozen more questions. He shook his head as he headed for the terrace.

Isabel was incredibly surprised he hadn’t formally introduced himself. Not to her specifically, but she’d heard how he could be with first impressions. She, of course, knew of Gale of Waterdeep. If you had any kind of magical ability and you stepped foot in Waterdeep, you knew of Gale, doubly so if you’d attended Blackstaff. Child prodigy, mastering high complexity spells by his mid-teens, making archmage by his late twenties, the title of Chosen of Mystra had soon followed. If rumors were to be believed, the title bestowment was merely a formality; whispers at the tower suggested that Mystra had claimed him far, far earlier than that. Isabel was perhaps fortunate enough to know fact from fiction. Elminster had mentioned Gale a few of the times she’d seen him, and while he was most often there to bail her out of trouble, Elminster would generously answer most questions she asked. She’d only asked about Gale once, years ago, but could see that Elmister had quite a soft spot for him. She’d also observed that the relationship between Gale and Mystra weighed heavily on him. The rest she’d pieced together herself. At the time, she’d considered asking Elminster to make an introduction, and as if he’d read her mind, he’d recommended against it.

“Young lady, may I remind you of your proclivity for instigation? Frequently at the most discommodious of times. Gale of Waterdeep is a sedulous wizard, and you are uniquely talented in the art of disruption and chaos. I’d fear for the realm and possibly the continent were you two ever to conspire.” He’d tutted at her. She’d felt a little insulted at the insinuation, but there were few individuals whose opinions Isabel outright respected. Elminster, unfortunately, was one of them. So she’d left it alone, which most who knew her would have considered a miracle. She had genuinely not expected Gale to attend tonight. Now, she was only slightly worried that Elminster would manifest out of thin air to scold her.

The cold air hit her bracingly as she stepped onto the balcony. The sea was always nearby in Waterdeep, so the air always smelled salty. Gale caught up to her in no time, his eyes sparkling with a million questions. She leaned on the railing, looking out to the city. She realized she was avoiding his eyes. Obviously, his looks had been mentioned in the rumblings and whispers. She’d heard first-years giggle about it; even some faculty looked bashful at its mention. Isabel considered herself something of a connoisseur of beauty, a fact she’d never admit openly. Namely, because she’d had a wide breadth to pick from for most of her life. She knew people considered her beautiful; she’d heard it frequently enough that the compliment felt hollow, no matter how sincerely intended.

He was pretty, she could admit, beautiful even. If she were more honest with herself, she’d have accepted that his eyes were her favorite part. They held a shocking depth and an unbelievable earnestness. She couldn’t remember if she’d ever met an earnest wizard. It made her uneasy in a way she didn’t wish to dissect.

He’d come to lean on the railing beside her, a respectful distance. After a moment, he pushed off the handrail and started murmuring. He ran his hands over the vines entangling the railing’s balusters. The leaves and stems began to shift and pull, twirling around each other. After a moment of leaves rustling, he stepped away to admire his creation. An incredibly detailed recreation of the building the event was in, entirely out of plants. The vines had braided themselves into the columns out front, and the leaves had flattened to create roofing. Isabel realized he was observing her as if measuring her reaction. She carefully kept her face neutral as she looked over the structure. It was blatantly impressive; she was confident that it would take her days if she sought to recreate it. She gently pressed her fingers to the building, curious if he’d used any illusionary magic to assist. The trail traced by her fingers began growing its own additions. She’d not meant to, but they both watched as a smattering of delicate buds appeared near where her fingers had met the vine. She wondered briefly if he thought she’d done it intentionally and if he knew she wasn’t certain what would burst from those buds. Mirroring her own apprehension, the buds remained stubbornly closed. Touching them again seemed an unnecessary risk, so Isabel just attempted to soothe herself. With her breath out, the edges of petals began to peek from the buds, slowly opening to reveal small pink flowers. In most circumstances, she would have been disappointed at the mundanity of the flowers, but for tonight, when she had been asked to behave, she was grateful.

“How long did you work at Blackstaff?” Isabel had forgotten she was supposed to be talking; she pulled her eyes away from the flowers, satisfied that they seemed to be of unexplosive variety. “I surmised it would have been around the closure for repairs. But I thought I was aware of most who graced its halls, though I did manage to overhear that you aren’t studied in magic. I wasn’t aware Blackstaff had expanded its’ hiring practices.”

Isabel raised an eyebrow but decided not to reply to that particular discourtesy.

“I was working under one of the professors as a teaching assistant and researcher as I finished some classes. I am not, in-fact, a wizard; I come by my magic more innately.”

“AH, a sorcerer then; I was curious when you cast, but nary a verbal component was to be found.” He looked far away for a moment like he’d turned inward to search for all the information he knew about sorcerers. “I will admit I haven’t met many sorcerers personally. Of course, everyone knows the infamous ones, but I haven’t had the pleasure of making a personal acquaintance. Though I must confess, they’ve received quite a reputation at Blackstaff. If the squawking of bored wizards is to be believed, that is. Reportedly, the required repairs to the right wing of Blackstaff tower were from a particularly irate Wild Magic Mage over a grade dispute.” He chortled, shaking his head before returning his gaze to Isabel. Where it was Isabel’s turn to look sheepish. Realization dawned across his face as all the pieces fell into place. “Surely not…?” he mumbled, lowering his voice.

“It wasn’t over a grade,” Isabel added helpfully. At this, Gale quickly turned away, covering his mouth. After a moment, Isabel realized he was stifling laughter. A battle he was rapidly losing. Isabel follows suit, turning away to give him time to recover or prevent her own bout of laughter she wasn’t sure.

“This I must hear.” Gale managed, the corners of his eyes still wrinkled.

“It is not inaccurate to say it was a matter of difference in opinion, just not on grading. Professor Lornsin had requested my help with a demonstration; she was teaching the class on casting recovery.”

“I know the one.”

“She was insistent that a spell cast after an augmented recovery period were noticeably weaker, so reliance on arcane recovery was ill-advised. Which, as I’m sure you are aware, has been disproven innumerous times; wizards cling to the notions they learned as youths regardless of accuracy. She was not receptive, so I decided a practical demonstration was needed…”

“- and installed a new window on the south wall?”

“Hey now, technically, no. The spell itself went fine, but I was still feeling frustrated, and an errant gesture to punctuate a point and -”

“- and then you blew apart the south wall.”

“And then I blew apart the south wall.”

They both laughed.

“You know, I read an excellent paper on that concept recently; maybe the scroll should find its way to Lornsin’s desk,” Gale said teasingly. “I actually might have it on me presently.” He began rummaging through the outer pockets of his robe as Isabel watched bemused. “Ah, found it! Here.” No sooner had he handed over the scroll Isabel began to laugh again.

“You’re…not..going to believe this…” She wheezed out. She unfurled the scroll and pointed. Three authors down was an ‘Isabel Thavira”. They both begin the cycle of laughing and stifling again.

The sound of multiple shattering glasses rings out across the balcony. Isabel looks over her shoulder worriedly.

“Hm, that sounds like I’m being summoned.” Isabel sighed. She glanced at Gale; he looked conflicted. As he noticed her eyes on him again, he straightened up.

“I must insist that you join me for tea at my tower. Please.” He added quickly. At that moment, he seemed to realize that he’d not introduced himself. “Please forgive my lapse in decorum.” He bowed deeply, one hand sweeping out in front of himself in a flourish. “I am Gale of Waterdeep, resident archmage of the City of Splendors. Chosen of Mystra, maestro of mystic arts and unparalleled sorcery. I stand ready to assist with the fulfillment of any petition or wish."

He raised himself from the bow, seeking Isabel’s eyes. She nodded slowly; this part of Gale she’d expected.

Gale could not ascertain why he was behaving this way. At the sound of shattering glassware, he could feel the interaction coming to a close. He hadn’t gotten his questions answered, he mused undoubtedly, that must be it. He hadn’t even gotten to ask about the mechanics of wild magic and its interactions compared to the serenity of the Weave. Worse still, he’d neglected to introduce himself properly; she must have thought some quotidian wizard had stolen her away. He was fortunate that he’d demonstrated his ability with the structure, but he had been frustrated when she’d been very tame in her response. Perhaps she wasn’t aware of the technical talent required to create it so flawlessly and efficiently. Regardless, she was leaving, and the night was ending. This had been the most enjoyable component of the night, and he wished it could continue, so in a panic he’d suggested a future meeting. It had been somewhat out of character for him to invite a stranger to his tower, let alone after one meeting. She smiled in a way Gale hoped very much was genuine but shook her head.

“I would… but I am not in the city for long, I’m afraid. I am leaving two days after tomorrow.”

“Two days from now would suit me fine if you’re amenable. Plenty of time to neaten up the tower.” Liar. The tower was in an absolute state. He kicked himself mentally.

Isabel tilted her head slightly, considering, her eyes again on him. Gale suddenly felt acutely aware of the cold, like he wasn’t dressed for the weather. She smiled and nodded. With her smile, he felt a warmth battling the cold back. He detailed how to find his tower, gave her a last gracious smile, and thanked her as she headed inside. He stood for a moment, gazing at the building he’d constructed. The flowers from where Isabel had touched the structure waved gently. As he moved closer, he realized that they, too, were buzzing with the strange static she’d left behind when she’d misty-stepped. Gently, he reached out a hand to touch one, only to get a face full of sparkles. The moment his finger had made contact, the flower had belched a small cloud of sparkling mist. Interesting, he prodded the other flowers much to the same effect. Once the mist had settled, the flowers began to shine. Each flower gave off a slight glow visible in the dark night. Likely, it would have been missed had the sun been shining. Carefully and gently, Gale pulled a flower free of the structure and let the rest of the building collapse into a mat of leaves and stems. He examined it closely; the small glow had remained. He smiled to himself and carefully placed the flower into the folds of his robes.

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, (Next Chapter)>Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 4.5, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11, Chapter 12

#gale x oc #gale x tav #gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #bg3 gale #baldurs gate gale #fanfic #baldur's gate fanfiction

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deathinfeathers · 4 months

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Collision

She still remembers how big his hand felt clutched about the back of her neck like a vice, dark fingers applying just enough pressure to her carotid arteries to make her head feel light and flimsy. But she was still alert and keenly aware of the mess she'd made. The trouble she was in. The looming threat of oblivion creeping in out of the corners of her vision, an abrubt and unceremonious end to a short and miserable story. Only appropriate, Eluthéria supposed—that she would find her end in the clutches of the man she was born to live and die for.

Commander Adam hoisted her Petite frame off of the shiftless cadaver upon which the dimunative soldier had perched like a peckish kerstrel. She heard him click his tongue through the thumping heartbeat in her ears, but she couldn't see him. He made sure to angle her head far away from his person, tapered talons digging deep trenches into the base of her skull. She struggled to find her footing. Skinny arms rose to cross themselves over her naked chest—the motion exacerbated the cat-o-nine-tail's latest object of vicious art stretching astride her pale back. A fresh, abstract portrait in the museum of suffering that is her frangible body.

"Drop it."

She'd only ever heard his voice booming from the Carmine pride skies on the eve of new years, the thunder which heralds the great annual slaughter of the wicked and damned. It didn't sound half as imposing inside this cramped stone chamber, but she would not make him tell her twice. Wouldn't dare—not inclined to make her suicide any more torturous than it needed to be. Spindly fingers uncurled from about the circumference of the spear-head she'd illicitly nabbed from the arms depot. Blessed. Deadly.

It clattered to the ground at her feet. The pool of ichor dampening the sound of metal meeting with stone but she flinched anyway. That made him laugh. It's was soft but pointedly derisive sound.

"Woof! Feisty little thing. A bit on the scrawny side. Are they skimping on your rations? For shame. C'mere. Let me look at you."

With that, his big hand slid Up along the meager curve of her neck, his fingers, thick and coarse, bunched her ratty bird's nest up into the hollow of his palm, which promptly balled into a tight fist, flush against her scalp. Adam turned her head on the axis of her spine so that she would face him, vis-á-vis, his gilded lightning against her ruby flames.

She remembers thinking that he had beautiful eyes. An odd thought to dedicate to somebody so vicious, maybe, but she always had a way with finding beauty in the macabre.

Those eyes roved her tremulous form, clad only in a threadbare pair of boxer type shorts.

She'd never felt so naked. Not because his gaze was overtly lascivious in nature but because it pierced and bored through her, like he was looking right into the core of her being. For a moment she wondered if he might be able to read her mind, but she banished the notion quickly. If he could see the playback of the events which had transpired inside this chamber, now tomb, he would not be so soft. This was his subordinate, after all, a trusted comerade in arms, and she had not been kind in her ministrations. She made him suffer, the same way he had made her suffer.

And she enjoyed every second of it.

If the commander had not barged in, she would've liked to spend more time with his body, looking at his insides, picking them apart, watching as every sign that this thing had ever been alive slowly evaporates, and chiseling it all into the deepest niches of her mind so that these precious moments might continue to bring her joy for the rest of her life—however short it might be.

But when does she ever get the things that she wants?

"You know, ordinarily, this type'a stunt might have left me a touch, hmmm, irked. But hell, i gotta tip my proverbial hat to you, pretty bird. Impressive work! Really! The cards weren't exactly stacked in your favor—I mean, obviously...look at you! Shrimpy little cherub looking ass! Hah! And yet here you are, alive and kicking. I dare say we might be looking at an act of divine intervention. What a world!Allelujah, amen and all that good shit!"

Swaying on her feet, Eluthéria looked up at this man, who was easily twice her size, with all the bewilderment of a toddler hearing a foreign language spoken at her for the first time in her life. She saw his lips move, heard the sounds but she couldn't by any means process what exactly he was trying to tell her. Adrenaline. Exhaustion. Fear. It all bore down on her like a big stack of cinderblocks, threatened to crush her frangible faculties under it's enormous heft.

Tears. First one. Then two. She blinked, and all at oncethe floodgates ruptured. This took him off guard.

"Oho, no, no! None of this sniffling nonsense! You don't perform a top grade kill like that and then cry about it! Come on, girl, suck it up."

Adam swiped a calloused hand somewhat brutishly across her porcelain countenance, whisking away the brunt of the tears and the blood and the sweat. She didn't object. she wanted to, make no mistake. The touch of his skin against hers felt like needles in her brain, an absolutely vile sensation, she wanted nothing more than to be rid of it, but she hadn't the verve to make a fuss.

He shrugged his intricately embroidery cloak off his shoulders and draped it around hers.

Warm.

"Alright, come on, let's see if you've got any more fancy tricks up your sleeve, eh?"

His grip on her stark white locks slackened, and he ushered her towards the steel doors.

She remembers thinking that this was the day she was going to die.

In many ways, she supposes that wasn't an entirely inaccurate assumption.

#;drabble

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