Nutone ventilation fan with light
Corning: Lights, glass, action!
2017.03.18 21:09 liftoffer Corning: Lights, glass, action!
Corning Inc. is a NY-based glass manufacturing company that has brought sand to the 21st century. Communications, life science, metrology, aerospace, and more. Spread the knowledge of science/tech progress, at the speed of light.
2012.07.15 02:34 Blizzxx The Sword Art Online Subreddit
The official subreddit to discuss the Sword Art Online series, as well as the other series (Accel World, The Isolator) written by Reki Kawahara.
2013.10.21 16:01 deepwaterculture A new grow using deep water culture hydroponics
2023.03.28 11:01 WeirdBryceGuy Friendship in Perpetuity
Like a sentient shadow, I followed the old man through the mist-laden cemetery. I knew his route, knew where he’d end up after checking the grave plots: the little shack in the center of the grounds, illumined by a single, sallow-tinted lamp. Sticking by the towering headstones, I watched as he meticulously checked each and every resting place; noting curiously how he’d utter certain unintelligible phrases for seemingly random occupants. He was old but spry, moving with a dexterous delicateness more befitting a dancer than a caretaker. I had no desire to be spotted by the enigmatic groundskeeper.
The night was relatively young, the moon having just come out; and yet a mortuary silence had already befallen the graveyard. There were no sounds of nocturnal life, no distant thrum of traffic. Only the forlorn sighing of the wind as it weakly raked through the bent trees and lichen monoliths. The air was potently earthy, the rain-sodden soil practically aromatic. It was pleasant, refreshing - helped to settle my nerves. Trespassing, Burglary. illegal disinterment. The potential charges against me were more than a little nerve-wracking
The old man inspected the final headstone and nodded, apparently satisfied with its condition. I ducked behind a short, cobweb-strewn headstone as he swept his lantern across the grounds one last time. Silently, he headed towards the shack, and I resumed my stealthy pursuit.
I let him enter and close the door, then made my way to the mausoleum in the rear of the grounds. My work would take quite some time, and I needed to be sure that I wouldn’t be disturbed by the prying old caretaker. I could’ve knocked him out, or sent him on some errand appropriate for his vocation; but he was just a man doing his job, and didn’t deserve any undue trouble. Also, I had a creeping suspicion that he’d be more than able to handle himself if things became physically confrontational.
Reaching the mausoleum, I retrieved my flashlight from my backpack and cast its beam onto the iron wrought gate. The foyer beyond was clean, having recently been swept. In the center of the room was the short staircase which led into the lower crypt – my destination.
A deeper silence seemed to fall over the night as I withdrew the bolt cutters from my bag. There was no thunder with which to time the sounds of my burglary; no squawking birds to mask the padlock’s destruction. I just had hope that the man’s ears were more in line with his age than his body was.
I caught the padlock before it could fall onto the marmoreal floor. I waited a few moments to see if the metallic crunch of its forced disrepair had been heard, and then proceeded. Ordinarily I would've been unnerved by the deathly stillness, by the omnipresence of the innominate dead; but I was on a mission of friendship and couldn’t afford to admit cowardice into my heart. No longer needing them, I returned the bolt cutters to my bag and pocketed the broken padlock. Ignoring the gold-emblazoned shelves, I headed down the stairs toward the lower crypts.
I found my friend’s resting place amid the vaults fairly quickly, given the myriad shelves and recesses. He’d shown me where he was to be buried, years ago – before his untimely death. He’d been put to rest near his other family members: aunts and uncles and grandparents of cycles past. The family owned the entirety of the mausoleum, having held an almost questionably rich lineage for centuries.
Carefully, reverently, I withdrew his casket from its cloth-draped alcove and set it on the floor. The wood had not yet lost its luster. I took a moment to steady my hands and settle my nerves, then undid the casket’s latch. It had not been bolted shut, and the lid came away freely with a soft sigh of escaping air. Inside lay my friend, who – like the casket – had not yet succumbed to any noticeable decay. His face bore the lacquer-like sheen of mortuary preparation but was otherwise unblemished.
Almost absentmindedly, I bent forward and brushed away some specks of dust from his jacket. I knew I couldn’t afford to waste time, but since descending the stairs I had begun to operate under the pseudo-automation of someone presented with a truly unthinkable occurrence. Sure, I’d attended the funeral and had helped lay him to rest; but seeing him there, so privately and intimately, among the bones of the long-dead – it was a whole other experience, and I entered something that resembled a somnambulistic state.
The sound of metal grating against metal shook me from my solemn stupor. I knew at once what the sound meant, but I wanted to believe otherwise. As carefully as I could manage whilst still hurrying, I set the lid back on the casket – as if there were tomb vermin waiting in the shadows to devour his corpse – and quietly tip-toed up the steps. Despite having literally stood among the dead, I felt my first pang of horror upon seeing the mausoleum’s gate shut – and affixed with a new padlock.
Calling out and announcing myself would’ve foiled my plans entirely; and I would’ve doubtlessly ended up in a different kind of cell that very night. So, I refrained from shouting out and altering the caretaker of my (illegal) presence. I also reasoned that given his failure to investigate the interior of the tomb, the caretaker had probably been aware of my trespassing for some time and was simply keeping me locked up for the authorities.
Without any other option than to proceed as planned, I returned to my friend’s body.
Setting the lid aside, I lifted his body from the casket and set it atop the lid. I involuntarily cringed, seeing nothing yet anticipating an outpour of rats, or a writhing mound of fat worms, bloated with carrion. The funeral sterility of the place had yet to cement itself in my mind. I still expected the earthy grimness of above to be reflected below.
I took off my pack and set it on the ground, just beside my friend’s head. I removed the only other object I’d brought: a large jar, its surface filmy with a greenish grey residue. In the light of my flashlight – which I’d placed atop the rim of the casket – the jar’s contents seemed to glow. I unscrewed the cap and turned away, knowing the malodorous stench would make me ill. Once the fumes had cleared, I used a finger to stir its contents. The consistency was like jelly, though the stuff was disconcertingly warm; had not dropped a single degree in temperature since its preparation hours earlier.
Once the substance was appropriately thin – now more akin to a semi-thick yogurt – I set the jar down and went to work on my friend. First, I removed my jacket and propped his head beneath it for a makeshift pillow. Then, with infinite gentleness I pried open his lips, thankful that his eyes were closed. To have to look into them while I manipulated his corpse – however reverently – would've been too much. Once the lips were sufficiently parted, I grabbed the jar and tilted its opening into the agape orifice. The liquid flowed easily enough, continuing down my friend’s throat unimpeded. Had he been alive, he would’ve become almost immediately sick and vomited everywhere. The stuff was utterly unpalatable by living men – I had tried it out of morbid curiosity before embarking on my sepulchral quest.
When it was empty, I put the jar back into my bag and laid my friend’s head back down on the lid. I didn’t want to watch what happened next, didn’t need to – having the utmost confidence in the efficacy of the elixir.
I tidied up the area as best as I could and climbed into the casket – facing up at the shadowy ceiling. I knew it would take a few minutes for the stuff to work, so I tried to listen for any strange or peculiar sounds in the gloom. The place was utterly quiet, my breathing so loud in the stillness that it softly echoed ceilingward. Motes of dust – born of what I hoped was time-crumbled stone, and not human remains – floated into the scope of my flashlight, reminding me of a campfire billowing with ashes. A camping trip with him, during which we’d discussed everything from girlfriends to mathematical ontology. Memories I’d soon forget – but, hopefully, only temporarily.
A soft sound. The twitch of a finger, the subsequent scratch of the nail moving across the wood of the coffin lid. I tried to force a blankness of mind –attempted to re-enter that state of mental nihility into which I’d slipped earlier. More sounds: rustling clothes, the release of long-trapped air from death-stiffened joints. Panic warred with a mounting calmness in my mind. My resolve was settled, but I was still human; fear was still a powerful motivator toward self-preservation.
But in the end, I managed to lapse back into that state of near thoughtlessness. As my friend’s pallid face suddenly summited the surface of the casket, entering my field of vision illumined by the flashlight, I settled into the comfortable abyss of vacuous acceptance. I felt neither the pressure nor the coldness of the still-rigid fingers as they gripped my neck; no pain accompanied the piercing of my neck by his dry teeth. I smelled the coppery aroma of my own blood as it burst from my neck, but the sensation was otherwise unremarkable.
I kept a smile on my face as my friend feasted on my body. Relief filtered through me even as my hot blood washed over me. The necromantic brew had worked! My friend had been reanimated and would use me to restore to himself a semblance of his humanity; at least enough to where he could consciously procure more subjects to further support himself.
I’d promised him in his final days of cancerous ruin that I wouldn’t let him simply die - wouldn’t let his wonderful spirit be lost to the nether-realm, or oblivion, or wherever souls end up following the body’s death. But I wasn’t ready to let myself succumb to such a fate, either. So, shortly after we’d buried him I sought out and employed a surprisingly local necromancer to concoct a potion that would allow my friend to be brought back to life; but would also anchor me to that same corporeal revenancy, using my very being as sustenance for his lichdom.
Now, my friend and I exist as one. Twin-bound souls in a single body. My flesh filled his belly, but my mind was transferred to his brain. I pilot the flesh, while the vestiges of his spirit await rebirth in the deeper recesses of our shared mind. Together, we’ll seek out others, and with their consent we’ll feast upon their flesh. Their minds won’t be preserved. We’ll use them as spiritual kindling, so to speak. To bolster our own psychic vitality. But we won’t seek out anyone who’d want to join this twofold collective.
There are plenty of people who desire death, and haven’t the slightest care how it’s achieved, so long as the hand that deals it is not their own. Some are simply too afraid, incapable of inflicting upon themselves an injury severe enough to be fatal. Others refuse to, no matter how strong a desire, due to the inability to ask for religious forgiveness following their demise. In that case, I’d imagine the intent would suffice as being sinful enough, regardless of whom dealt the harm. But I’m no theologian and wouldn’t argue with the logic of a consenting collaborator.
Oh, I suppose it’s worth mentioning that upon our exit from the tomb, we were greeted by none other than the caretaker, who’d taken up watch of the mausoleum from the shadows – not the hut. Apparently, he’d known of my mission; had been made aware of it by the very same necromancer whose services I had used. The furtive alchemist had forewarned him of my arrival, in fact. I wasn’t surprised. Their vocations, though seemingly at odds, do intersect in certain charnel ways. The caretaker locking me inside had been for our own protection – in the event that someone came along to pay their respects to my friend before we could.... regain our composure.
I later returned and paid the thoughtful watchman enough for two padlocks, since my friend and I had broken the second in our somewhat Frankensteinian exit of the crypt.
A body cohabitated by two spirits requires a great deal of rest, so I will end this tale here. I look forward to spending a shared life with my friend, once he awakens from his incorporeal chrysalis. I can feel him dreaming, though I can’t peer into the ether of his nascent mind.
Soon, though. We’ll peer into each other’s thoughts, and I’ll once again hold the memories I’ve yet to recover. I’d thought that digesting my own brain would provide me with the memories lost in the transference, but I guess necrophagic neurobiology isn’t an exact science....
submitted by WeirdBryceGuy to Wholesomenosleep [link] [comments]
The night was relatively young, the moon having just come out; and yet a mortuary silence had already befallen the graveyard. There were no sounds of nocturnal life, no distant thrum of traffic. Only the forlorn sighing of the wind as it weakly raked through the bent trees and lichen monoliths. The air was potently earthy, the rain-sodden soil practically aromatic. It was pleasant, refreshing - helped to settle my nerves. Trespassing, Burglary. illegal disinterment. The potential charges against me were more than a little nerve-wracking
The old man inspected the final headstone and nodded, apparently satisfied with its condition. I ducked behind a short, cobweb-strewn headstone as he swept his lantern across the grounds one last time. Silently, he headed towards the shack, and I resumed my stealthy pursuit.
I let him enter and close the door, then made my way to the mausoleum in the rear of the grounds. My work would take quite some time, and I needed to be sure that I wouldn’t be disturbed by the prying old caretaker. I could’ve knocked him out, or sent him on some errand appropriate for his vocation; but he was just a man doing his job, and didn’t deserve any undue trouble. Also, I had a creeping suspicion that he’d be more than able to handle himself if things became physically confrontational.
Reaching the mausoleum, I retrieved my flashlight from my backpack and cast its beam onto the iron wrought gate. The foyer beyond was clean, having recently been swept. In the center of the room was the short staircase which led into the lower crypt – my destination.
A deeper silence seemed to fall over the night as I withdrew the bolt cutters from my bag. There was no thunder with which to time the sounds of my burglary; no squawking birds to mask the padlock’s destruction. I just had hope that the man’s ears were more in line with his age than his body was.
I caught the padlock before it could fall onto the marmoreal floor. I waited a few moments to see if the metallic crunch of its forced disrepair had been heard, and then proceeded. Ordinarily I would've been unnerved by the deathly stillness, by the omnipresence of the innominate dead; but I was on a mission of friendship and couldn’t afford to admit cowardice into my heart. No longer needing them, I returned the bolt cutters to my bag and pocketed the broken padlock. Ignoring the gold-emblazoned shelves, I headed down the stairs toward the lower crypts.
I found my friend’s resting place amid the vaults fairly quickly, given the myriad shelves and recesses. He’d shown me where he was to be buried, years ago – before his untimely death. He’d been put to rest near his other family members: aunts and uncles and grandparents of cycles past. The family owned the entirety of the mausoleum, having held an almost questionably rich lineage for centuries.
Carefully, reverently, I withdrew his casket from its cloth-draped alcove and set it on the floor. The wood had not yet lost its luster. I took a moment to steady my hands and settle my nerves, then undid the casket’s latch. It had not been bolted shut, and the lid came away freely with a soft sigh of escaping air. Inside lay my friend, who – like the casket – had not yet succumbed to any noticeable decay. His face bore the lacquer-like sheen of mortuary preparation but was otherwise unblemished.
Almost absentmindedly, I bent forward and brushed away some specks of dust from his jacket. I knew I couldn’t afford to waste time, but since descending the stairs I had begun to operate under the pseudo-automation of someone presented with a truly unthinkable occurrence. Sure, I’d attended the funeral and had helped lay him to rest; but seeing him there, so privately and intimately, among the bones of the long-dead – it was a whole other experience, and I entered something that resembled a somnambulistic state.
The sound of metal grating against metal shook me from my solemn stupor. I knew at once what the sound meant, but I wanted to believe otherwise. As carefully as I could manage whilst still hurrying, I set the lid back on the casket – as if there were tomb vermin waiting in the shadows to devour his corpse – and quietly tip-toed up the steps. Despite having literally stood among the dead, I felt my first pang of horror upon seeing the mausoleum’s gate shut – and affixed with a new padlock.
Calling out and announcing myself would’ve foiled my plans entirely; and I would’ve doubtlessly ended up in a different kind of cell that very night. So, I refrained from shouting out and altering the caretaker of my (illegal) presence. I also reasoned that given his failure to investigate the interior of the tomb, the caretaker had probably been aware of my trespassing for some time and was simply keeping me locked up for the authorities.
Without any other option than to proceed as planned, I returned to my friend’s body.
Setting the lid aside, I lifted his body from the casket and set it atop the lid. I involuntarily cringed, seeing nothing yet anticipating an outpour of rats, or a writhing mound of fat worms, bloated with carrion. The funeral sterility of the place had yet to cement itself in my mind. I still expected the earthy grimness of above to be reflected below.
I took off my pack and set it on the ground, just beside my friend’s head. I removed the only other object I’d brought: a large jar, its surface filmy with a greenish grey residue. In the light of my flashlight – which I’d placed atop the rim of the casket – the jar’s contents seemed to glow. I unscrewed the cap and turned away, knowing the malodorous stench would make me ill. Once the fumes had cleared, I used a finger to stir its contents. The consistency was like jelly, though the stuff was disconcertingly warm; had not dropped a single degree in temperature since its preparation hours earlier.
Once the substance was appropriately thin – now more akin to a semi-thick yogurt – I set the jar down and went to work on my friend. First, I removed my jacket and propped his head beneath it for a makeshift pillow. Then, with infinite gentleness I pried open his lips, thankful that his eyes were closed. To have to look into them while I manipulated his corpse – however reverently – would've been too much. Once the lips were sufficiently parted, I grabbed the jar and tilted its opening into the agape orifice. The liquid flowed easily enough, continuing down my friend’s throat unimpeded. Had he been alive, he would’ve become almost immediately sick and vomited everywhere. The stuff was utterly unpalatable by living men – I had tried it out of morbid curiosity before embarking on my sepulchral quest.
When it was empty, I put the jar back into my bag and laid my friend’s head back down on the lid. I didn’t want to watch what happened next, didn’t need to – having the utmost confidence in the efficacy of the elixir.
I tidied up the area as best as I could and climbed into the casket – facing up at the shadowy ceiling. I knew it would take a few minutes for the stuff to work, so I tried to listen for any strange or peculiar sounds in the gloom. The place was utterly quiet, my breathing so loud in the stillness that it softly echoed ceilingward. Motes of dust – born of what I hoped was time-crumbled stone, and not human remains – floated into the scope of my flashlight, reminding me of a campfire billowing with ashes. A camping trip with him, during which we’d discussed everything from girlfriends to mathematical ontology. Memories I’d soon forget – but, hopefully, only temporarily.
A soft sound. The twitch of a finger, the subsequent scratch of the nail moving across the wood of the coffin lid. I tried to force a blankness of mind –attempted to re-enter that state of mental nihility into which I’d slipped earlier. More sounds: rustling clothes, the release of long-trapped air from death-stiffened joints. Panic warred with a mounting calmness in my mind. My resolve was settled, but I was still human; fear was still a powerful motivator toward self-preservation.
But in the end, I managed to lapse back into that state of near thoughtlessness. As my friend’s pallid face suddenly summited the surface of the casket, entering my field of vision illumined by the flashlight, I settled into the comfortable abyss of vacuous acceptance. I felt neither the pressure nor the coldness of the still-rigid fingers as they gripped my neck; no pain accompanied the piercing of my neck by his dry teeth. I smelled the coppery aroma of my own blood as it burst from my neck, but the sensation was otherwise unremarkable.
I kept a smile on my face as my friend feasted on my body. Relief filtered through me even as my hot blood washed over me. The necromantic brew had worked! My friend had been reanimated and would use me to restore to himself a semblance of his humanity; at least enough to where he could consciously procure more subjects to further support himself.
I’d promised him in his final days of cancerous ruin that I wouldn’t let him simply die - wouldn’t let his wonderful spirit be lost to the nether-realm, or oblivion, or wherever souls end up following the body’s death. But I wasn’t ready to let myself succumb to such a fate, either. So, shortly after we’d buried him I sought out and employed a surprisingly local necromancer to concoct a potion that would allow my friend to be brought back to life; but would also anchor me to that same corporeal revenancy, using my very being as sustenance for his lichdom.
Now, my friend and I exist as one. Twin-bound souls in a single body. My flesh filled his belly, but my mind was transferred to his brain. I pilot the flesh, while the vestiges of his spirit await rebirth in the deeper recesses of our shared mind. Together, we’ll seek out others, and with their consent we’ll feast upon their flesh. Their minds won’t be preserved. We’ll use them as spiritual kindling, so to speak. To bolster our own psychic vitality. But we won’t seek out anyone who’d want to join this twofold collective.
There are plenty of people who desire death, and haven’t the slightest care how it’s achieved, so long as the hand that deals it is not their own. Some are simply too afraid, incapable of inflicting upon themselves an injury severe enough to be fatal. Others refuse to, no matter how strong a desire, due to the inability to ask for religious forgiveness following their demise. In that case, I’d imagine the intent would suffice as being sinful enough, regardless of whom dealt the harm. But I’m no theologian and wouldn’t argue with the logic of a consenting collaborator.
Oh, I suppose it’s worth mentioning that upon our exit from the tomb, we were greeted by none other than the caretaker, who’d taken up watch of the mausoleum from the shadows – not the hut. Apparently, he’d known of my mission; had been made aware of it by the very same necromancer whose services I had used. The furtive alchemist had forewarned him of my arrival, in fact. I wasn’t surprised. Their vocations, though seemingly at odds, do intersect in certain charnel ways. The caretaker locking me inside had been for our own protection – in the event that someone came along to pay their respects to my friend before we could.... regain our composure.
I later returned and paid the thoughtful watchman enough for two padlocks, since my friend and I had broken the second in our somewhat Frankensteinian exit of the crypt.
A body cohabitated by two spirits requires a great deal of rest, so I will end this tale here. I look forward to spending a shared life with my friend, once he awakens from his incorporeal chrysalis. I can feel him dreaming, though I can’t peer into the ether of his nascent mind.
Soon, though. We’ll peer into each other’s thoughts, and I’ll once again hold the memories I’ve yet to recover. I’d thought that digesting my own brain would provide me with the memories lost in the transference, but I guess necrophagic neurobiology isn’t an exact science....
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submitted by australian_opal to u/australian_opal [link] [comments]
Shop Now:https://australianopaldirect.com/rings/
2023.03.28 11:01 AutoModerator [Get] Justin Welsh – The LinkedIn Playbook – From 0 to 80k+ Followers
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submitted by AutoModerator to Latest2023Courses [link] [comments]
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2023.03.28 11:01 nickda_ Can you use information from your coffee bag ( variety , roast , altitude etc ) to get close to the right grind first time?
Hi all
Apologies if the title doesn't make too much senser so i will try and explain further what i'm looking for. So i tend to buy different bags of coffee every time because well why not but with this what usually happens is that it will take me probably at least a couple of shots before i get the right ( or at least close ) grind setting and as you can imagine this is wasteful especially when you consider i buy 250g bags of coffee and my usual dose is around 18-20g.
Here is an example :
My coffee for the past few days has been a Mexican single origin medium-medium light roast ( dont have the packet in front of me so i dont have the varital information or altitude etc etc ) and with my Niche i have been griding on setting 16 , 20g and getting nice espresso .
Yesterday i bought a Brazilian single origin medium, medium light roast ( i think anyway and as above i dont have the extra details to hand ) , i purged the grinder and then ground on the same setting - 16 - 20g of coffee and the machine choked. Adjusted a couple of times the grind setting and in the end found the right setting which was 19 for this coffee .
This got me thinking if there are any kind of "rules of thumb"/guides that i could use to maybe limit the waste and get me closer first time round. Maybe something along the lines of higher grown coffess need coarsefiner grind than lower grown coffees , or certain varieties do X .
Hope my question makes sense.
submitted by nickda_ to JamesHoffmann [link] [comments]
Apologies if the title doesn't make too much senser so i will try and explain further what i'm looking for. So i tend to buy different bags of coffee every time because well why not but with this what usually happens is that it will take me probably at least a couple of shots before i get the right ( or at least close ) grind setting and as you can imagine this is wasteful especially when you consider i buy 250g bags of coffee and my usual dose is around 18-20g.
Here is an example :
My coffee for the past few days has been a Mexican single origin medium-medium light roast ( dont have the packet in front of me so i dont have the varital information or altitude etc etc ) and with my Niche i have been griding on setting 16 , 20g and getting nice espresso .
Yesterday i bought a Brazilian single origin medium, medium light roast ( i think anyway and as above i dont have the extra details to hand ) , i purged the grinder and then ground on the same setting - 16 - 20g of coffee and the machine choked. Adjusted a couple of times the grind setting and in the end found the right setting which was 19 for this coffee .
This got me thinking if there are any kind of "rules of thumb"/guides that i could use to maybe limit the waste and get me closer first time round. Maybe something along the lines of higher grown coffess need coarsefiner grind than lower grown coffees , or certain varieties do X .
Hope my question makes sense.
2023.03.28 11:01 AutoModerator Daily General Discussion and Advice Thread - March 28, 2023
Have a general question? Want to offer some commentary on markets? Maybe you would just like to throw out a neat fact that doesn't warrant a self post? Feel free to post here!
If your question is "I have $10,000, what do I do?" or other "advice for my personal situation" questions, you should include relevant information, such as the following:
If you are new to investing - please refer to Wiki - Getting Started
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Be aware that these answers are just opinions of Redditors and should be used as a starting point for your research. You should strongly consider seeing a registered investment adviser if you need professional support before making any financial decisions!
submitted by AutoModerator to investing [link] [comments]
If your question is "I have $10,000, what do I do?" or other "advice for my personal situation" questions, you should include relevant information, such as the following:
- How old are you? What country do you live in?
- Are you employed/making income? How much?
- What are your objectives with this money? (Buy a house? Retirement savings?)
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- And any other relevant financial information will be useful to give you a proper answer.
If you are new to investing - please refer to Wiki - Getting Started
The reading list in the wiki has a list of books ranging from light reading to advanced topics depending on your knowledge level. Link here - Reading List
Check the resources in the sidebar.
Be aware that these answers are just opinions of Redditors and should be used as a starting point for your research. You should strongly consider seeing a registered investment adviser if you need professional support before making any financial decisions!
2023.03.28 11:00 DueEntertainment6462 20,what song is 10/10 in your eyes🤔?
Hey what’s up,the names Jaye,how’s everyone doing?I love to talk about anything from serious topics to the most random ones we can think of,my main hobbies are thrifting and really just tryna learn new things,I’m a big fan of all music so if you’ve got any recommendations feel free to send them(:.I enjoy playing video games aswell,I play on Xbox but I am down to play multi player games aswell with all platforms,I’m a big animal lover and have 7 pets running around the place😅,so ye that’s basically it,feel free to send me a message or leave a comment on this,also been playing a lot of overwatch recently so if your down to play lmk
submitted by DueEntertainment6462 to MakeNewFriendsHere [link] [comments]
2023.03.28 11:00 AutoModerator Community Guide, with Helpful Links
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Here are some of the best fan tips and guides for the game:- Information about what is not obvious at first glance
- Useful work from the user u/Morgan_Leah1980: Tips & Strategies Guide. (Version 2.0), Glossary - Explanation of terms.
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Mark NSFW post if your post contains this content! You can use Post flair, for easy sorting of messages. If you have a question, you might find answers more quickly in our wiki. We do not approve of the use and discussion of cheat.Community Participation Info
Contact the community moderators directly.2023.03.28 10:59 Waternut13134 Export longer videos with Ring Dash Cam
So I got the Ring Dash cam the day it was released and overall pretty happy with it, Yesterday I witnessed an accident and the driver that caused the accident got out of the car and tried to get in a number of cars waiting at the light. When the police arrived they asked for the footage from the accident and the footage of him trying to get into the other cars, when exporting the video it was only giving me the option to download 15 seconds (it was either 15 or 30 seconds) of footage which made it somewhat of a pain to export the short clip and then go back to the timeline and find where the last export ended and then try to start the next export to try and complete a full timeline of the incident.
Is there any way to extend the video length of the exported video? I do have the Ring Protect Plus. Thanks for any help!
submitted by Waternut13134 to Ring [link] [comments]
Is there any way to extend the video length of the exported video? I do have the Ring Protect Plus. Thanks for any help!
2023.03.28 10:59 Opinion1sta Are there really girls that are fans of this series?
Now please, before you swarm me for sounding like a complete inc*l, just know I'm not trying anything here, it's a genuine question because I see girls hating on the series 24/7 (Which I understand), but I also come across some fans that say they're girls, and considering the reputation this series has I'm totally baffled by it.
I mean no harm with this, just a genuine question
submitted by Opinion1sta to mushokutensei [link] [comments]
I mean no harm with this, just a genuine question
2023.03.28 10:59 Nootherlike Is Aisha from the Amazon kingdom like tiona and tione? In the game their friend seldas looks kinda like her? But could just be a coincidence.
I really need to read the light novels and I have another question are the light novels just words with a few pages of manga or do they have like a strictly manga version of the light novels the only other light novels I’ve read is bleaches and they only had a few pages of artwork and the rest was like 200 pages like a normal book
submitted by Nootherlike to DanMachi [link] [comments]
2023.03.28 10:59 Just_Possible_1789 Cricket: A Sport That Unites Nations and Inspires Passionate Fandoms
Cricket is a sport that has captured the hearts of millions around the world. It is a game that unites nations, transcends cultures, and inspires passionate fandoms. From the dusty streets of Mumbai to the sprawling suburbs of Sydney, cricket is a game that is played and loved by people of all ages, races, and backgrounds.
One of the unique features of cricket is its ability to bring people together. It is a sport that is played in over 100 countries, and has a huge following in countries like India, Pakistan, Australia, England, and South Africa. The game is steeped in tradition, and has a rich history that has helped to shape its popularity and appeal.
At its core, cricket is a game that is built around team work and collaboration. It requires skill, strategy, and mental toughness to succeed, and these are qualities that are highly valued in many cultures. Whether it is a young boy playing in a dusty alleyway, or a professional athlete representing his country on the international stage, cricket is a sport that requires dedication, hard work, and a deep love of the game.
Perhaps one of the most endearing aspects of cricket is the passion that it inspires among fans. From the raucous crowds at the MCG to the frenzied fans at Eden Gardens, cricket fans are some of the most dedicated and vocal supporters in all of sports. They wear their team colors with pride, and will stop at nothing to support their team and their players.
Ultimately, cricket is a sport that brings people together. It is a game that is played and loved by millions around the world, and has a unique ability to unite nations and inspire passion and dedication among fans. Whether you are a seasoned cricket fan or a newcomer to the game, there is no denying the magic and excitement of this beloved sport. So next time you have the opportunity to watch a game, take a moment to appreciate the skill
submitted by Just_Possible_1789 to u/Just_Possible_1789 [link] [comments]
One of the unique features of cricket is its ability to bring people together. It is a sport that is played in over 100 countries, and has a huge following in countries like India, Pakistan, Australia, England, and South Africa. The game is steeped in tradition, and has a rich history that has helped to shape its popularity and appeal.
At its core, cricket is a game that is built around team work and collaboration. It requires skill, strategy, and mental toughness to succeed, and these are qualities that are highly valued in many cultures. Whether it is a young boy playing in a dusty alleyway, or a professional athlete representing his country on the international stage, cricket is a sport that requires dedication, hard work, and a deep love of the game.
Perhaps one of the most endearing aspects of cricket is the passion that it inspires among fans. From the raucous crowds at the MCG to the frenzied fans at Eden Gardens, cricket fans are some of the most dedicated and vocal supporters in all of sports. They wear their team colors with pride, and will stop at nothing to support their team and their players.
Ultimately, cricket is a sport that brings people together. It is a game that is played and loved by millions around the world, and has a unique ability to unite nations and inspire passion and dedication among fans. Whether you are a seasoned cricket fan or a newcomer to the game, there is no denying the magic and excitement of this beloved sport. So next time you have the opportunity to watch a game, take a moment to appreciate the skill
2023.03.28 10:58 WeirdBryceGuy Friendship in Perpetuity
Like a sentient shadow, I followed the old man through the mist-laden cemetery. I knew his route, knew where he’d end up after checking the grave plots: the little shack in the center of the grounds, illumined by a single, sallow-tinted lamp. Sticking by the towering headstones, I watched as he meticulously checked each and every resting place; noting curiously how he’d utter certain unintelligible phrases for seemingly random occupants. He was old but spry, moving with a dexterous delicateness more befitting a dancer than a caretaker. I had no desire to be spotted by the enigmatic groundskeeper.
The night was relatively young, the moon having just come out; and yet a mortuary silence had already befallen the graveyard. There were no sounds of nocturnal life, no distant thrum of traffic. Only the forlorn sighing of the wind as it weakly raked through the bent trees and lichen monoliths. The air was potently earthy, the rain-sodden soil practically aromatic. It was pleasant, refreshing - helped to settle my nerves. Trespassing, Burglary. illegal disinterment. The potential charges against me were more than a little nerve-wracking
The old man inspected the final headstone and nodded, apparently satisfied with its condition. I ducked behind a short, cobweb-strewn headstone as he swept his lantern across the grounds one last time. Silently, he headed towards the shack, and I resumed my stealthy pursuit.
I let him enter and close the door, then made my way to the mausoleum in the rear of the grounds. My work would take quite some time, and I needed to be sure that I wouldn’t be disturbed by the prying old caretaker. I could’ve knocked him out, or sent him on some errand appropriate for his vocation; but he was just a man doing his job, and didn’t deserve any undue trouble. Also, I had a creeping suspicion that he’d be more than able to handle himself if things became physically confrontational.
Reaching the mausoleum, I retrieved my flashlight from my backpack and cast its beam onto the iron wrought gate. The foyer beyond was clean, having recently been swept. In the center of the room was the short staircase which led into the lower crypt – my destination.
A deeper silence seemed to fall over the night as I withdrew the bolt cutters from my bag. There was no thunder with which to time the sounds of my burglary; no squawking birds to mask the padlock’s destruction. I just had hope that the man’s ears were more in line with his age than his body was.
I caught the padlock before it could fall onto the marmoreal floor. I waited a few moments to see if the metallic crunch of its forced disrepair had been heard, and then proceeded. Ordinarily I would've been unnerved by the deathly stillness, by the omnipresence of the innominate dead; but I was on a mission of friendship and couldn’t afford to admit cowardice into my heart. No longer needing them, I returned the bolt cutters to my bag and pocketed the broken padlock. Ignoring the gold-emblazoned shelves, I headed down the stairs toward the lower crypts.
I found my friend’s resting place amid the vaults fairly quickly, given the myriad shelves and recesses. He’d shown me where he was to be buried, years ago – before his untimely death. He’d been put to rest near his other family members: aunts and uncles and grandparents of cycles past. The family owned the entirety of the mausoleum, having held an almost questionably rich lineage for centuries.
Carefully, reverently, I withdrew his casket from its cloth-draped alcove and set it on the floor. The wood had not yet lost its luster. I took a moment to steady my hands and settle my nerves, then undid the casket’s latch. It had not been bolted shut, and the lid came away freely with a soft sigh of escaping air. Inside lay my friend, who – like the casket – had not yet succumbed to any noticeable decay. His face bore the lacquer-like sheen of mortuary preparation but was otherwise unblemished.
Almost absentmindedly, I bent forward and brushed away some specks of dust from his jacket. I knew I couldn’t afford to waste time, but since descending the stairs I had begun to operate under the pseudo-automation of someone presented with a truly unthinkable occurrence. Sure, I’d attended the funeral and had helped lay him to rest; but seeing him there, so privately and intimately, among the bones of the long-dead – it was a whole other experience, and I entered something that resembled a somnambulistic state.
The sound of metal grating against metal shook me from my solemn stupor. I knew at once what the sound meant, but I wanted to believe otherwise. As carefully as I could manage whilst still hurrying, I set the lid back on the casket – as if there were tomb vermin waiting in the shadows to devour his corpse – and quietly tip-toed up the steps. Despite having literally stood among the dead, I felt my first pang of horror upon seeing the mausoleum’s gate shut – and affixed with a new padlock.
Calling out and announcing myself would’ve foiled my plans entirely; and I would’ve doubtlessly ended up in a different kind of cell that very night. So, I refrained from shouting out and altering the caretaker of my (illegal) presence. I also reasoned that given his failure to investigate the interior of the tomb, the caretaker had probably been aware of my trespassing for some time and was simply keeping me locked up for the authorities.
Without any other option than to proceed as planned, I returned to my friend’s body.
Setting the lid aside, I lifted his body from the casket and set it atop the lid. I involuntarily cringed, seeing nothing yet anticipating an outpour of rats, or a writhing mound of fat worms, bloated with carrion. The funeral sterility of the place had yet to cement itself in my mind. I still expected the earthy grimness of above to be reflected below.
I took off my pack and set it on the ground, just beside my friend’s head. I removed the only other object I’d brought: a large jar, its surface filmy with a greenish grey residue. In the light of my flashlight – which I’d placed atop the rim of the casket – the jar’s contents seemed to glow. I unscrewed the cap and turned away, knowing the malodorous stench would make me ill. Once the fumes had cleared, I used a finger to stir its contents. The consistency was like jelly, though the stuff was disconcertingly warm; had not dropped a single degree in temperature since its preparation hours earlier.
Once the substance was appropriately thin – now more akin to a semi-thick yogurt – I set the jar down and went to work on my friend. First, I removed my jacket and propped his head beneath it for a makeshift pillow. Then, with infinite gentleness I pried open his lips, thankful that his eyes were closed. To have to look into them while I manipulated his corpse – however reverently – would've been too much. Once the lips were sufficiently parted, I grabbed the jar and tilted its opening into the agape orifice. The liquid flowed easily enough, continuing down my friend’s throat unimpeded. Had he been alive, he would’ve become almost immediately sick and vomited everywhere. The stuff was utterly unpalatable by living men – I had tried it out of morbid curiosity before embarking on my sepulchral quest.
When it was empty, I put the jar back into my bag and laid my friend’s head back down on the lid. I didn’t want to watch what happened next, didn’t need to – having the utmost confidence in the efficacy of the elixir.
I tidied up the area as best as I could and climbed into the casket – facing up at the shadowy ceiling. I knew it would take a few minutes for the stuff to work, so I tried to listen for any strange or peculiar sounds in the gloom. The place was utterly quiet, my breathing so loud in the stillness that it softly echoed ceilingward. Motes of dust – born of what I hoped was time-crumbled stone, and not human remains – floated into the scope of my flashlight, reminding me of a campfire billowing with ashes. A camping trip with him, during which we’d discussed everything from girlfriends to mathematical ontology. Memories I’d soon forget – but, hopefully, only temporarily.
A soft sound. The twitch of a finger, the subsequent scratch of the nail moving across the wood of the coffin lid. I tried to force a blankness of mind –attempted to re-enter that state of mental nihility into which I’d slipped earlier. More sounds: rustling clothes, the release of long-trapped air from death-stiffened joints. Panic warred with a mounting calmness in my mind. My resolve was settled, but I was still human; fear was still a powerful motivator toward self-preservation.
But in the end, I managed to lapse back into that state of near thoughtlessness. As my friend’s pallid face suddenly summited the surface of the casket, entering my field of vision illumined by the flashlight, I settled into the comfortable abyss of vacuous acceptance. I felt neither the pressure nor the coldness of the still-rigid fingers as they gripped my neck; no pain accompanied the piercing of my neck by his dry teeth. I smelled the coppery aroma of my own blood as it burst from my neck, but the sensation was otherwise unremarkable.
I kept a smile on my face as my friend feasted on my body. Relief filtered through me even as my hot blood washed over me. The necromantic brew had worked! My friend had been reanimated and would use me to restore to himself a semblance of his humanity; at least enough to where he could consciously procure more subjects to further support himself.
I’d promised him in his final days of cancerous ruin that I wouldn’t let him simply die - wouldn’t let his wonderful spirit be lost to the nether-realm, or oblivion, or wherever souls end up following the body’s death. But I wasn’t ready to let myself succumb to such a fate, either. So, shortly after we’d buried him I sought out and employed a surprisingly local necromancer to concoct a potion that would allow my friend to be brought back to life; but would also anchor me to that same corporeal revenancy, using my very being as sustenance for his lichdom.
Now, my friend and I exist as one. Twin-bound souls in a single body. My flesh filled his belly, but my mind was transferred to his brain. I pilot the flesh, while the vestiges of his spirit await rebirth in the deeper recesses of our shared mind. Together, we’ll seek out others, and with their consent we’ll feast upon their flesh. Their minds won’t be preserved. We’ll use them as spiritual kindling, so to speak. To bolster our own psychic vitality. But we won’t seek out anyone who’d want to join this twofold collective.
There are plenty of people who desire death, and haven’t the slightest care how it’s achieved, so long as the hand that deals it is not their own. Some are simply too afraid, incapable of inflicting upon themselves an injury severe enough to be fatal. Others refuse to, no matter how strong a desire, due to the inability to ask for religious forgiveness following their demise. In that case, I’d imagine the intent would suffice as being sinful enough, regardless of whom dealt the harm. But I’m no theologian and wouldn’t argue with the logic of a consenting collaborator.
Oh, I suppose it’s worth mentioning that upon our exit from the tomb, we were greeted by none other than the caretaker, who’d taken up watch of the mausoleum from the shadows – not the hut. Apparently, he’d known of my mission; had been made aware of it by the very same necromancer whose services I had used. The furtive alchemist had forewarned him of my arrival, in fact. I wasn’t surprised. Their vocations, though seemingly at odds, do intersect in certain charnel ways. The caretaker locking me inside had been for our own protection – in the event that someone came along to pay their respects to my friend before we could.... regain our composure.
I later returned and paid the thoughtful watchman enough for two padlocks, since my friend and I had broken the second in our somewhat Frankensteinian exit of the crypt.
A body cohabitated by two spirits requires a great deal of rest, so I will end this tale here. I look forward to spending a shared life with my friend, once he awakens from his incorporeal chrysalis. I can feel him dreaming, though I can’t peer into the ether of his nascent mind.
Soon, though. We’ll peer into each other’s thoughts, and I’ll once again hold the memories I’ve yet to recover. I’d thought that digesting my own brain would provide me with the memories lost in the transference, but I guess necrophagic neurobiology isn’t an exact science....
submitted by WeirdBryceGuy to HFY [link] [comments]
The night was relatively young, the moon having just come out; and yet a mortuary silence had already befallen the graveyard. There were no sounds of nocturnal life, no distant thrum of traffic. Only the forlorn sighing of the wind as it weakly raked through the bent trees and lichen monoliths. The air was potently earthy, the rain-sodden soil practically aromatic. It was pleasant, refreshing - helped to settle my nerves. Trespassing, Burglary. illegal disinterment. The potential charges against me were more than a little nerve-wracking
The old man inspected the final headstone and nodded, apparently satisfied with its condition. I ducked behind a short, cobweb-strewn headstone as he swept his lantern across the grounds one last time. Silently, he headed towards the shack, and I resumed my stealthy pursuit.
I let him enter and close the door, then made my way to the mausoleum in the rear of the grounds. My work would take quite some time, and I needed to be sure that I wouldn’t be disturbed by the prying old caretaker. I could’ve knocked him out, or sent him on some errand appropriate for his vocation; but he was just a man doing his job, and didn’t deserve any undue trouble. Also, I had a creeping suspicion that he’d be more than able to handle himself if things became physically confrontational.
Reaching the mausoleum, I retrieved my flashlight from my backpack and cast its beam onto the iron wrought gate. The foyer beyond was clean, having recently been swept. In the center of the room was the short staircase which led into the lower crypt – my destination.
A deeper silence seemed to fall over the night as I withdrew the bolt cutters from my bag. There was no thunder with which to time the sounds of my burglary; no squawking birds to mask the padlock’s destruction. I just had hope that the man’s ears were more in line with his age than his body was.
I caught the padlock before it could fall onto the marmoreal floor. I waited a few moments to see if the metallic crunch of its forced disrepair had been heard, and then proceeded. Ordinarily I would've been unnerved by the deathly stillness, by the omnipresence of the innominate dead; but I was on a mission of friendship and couldn’t afford to admit cowardice into my heart. No longer needing them, I returned the bolt cutters to my bag and pocketed the broken padlock. Ignoring the gold-emblazoned shelves, I headed down the stairs toward the lower crypts.
I found my friend’s resting place amid the vaults fairly quickly, given the myriad shelves and recesses. He’d shown me where he was to be buried, years ago – before his untimely death. He’d been put to rest near his other family members: aunts and uncles and grandparents of cycles past. The family owned the entirety of the mausoleum, having held an almost questionably rich lineage for centuries.
Carefully, reverently, I withdrew his casket from its cloth-draped alcove and set it on the floor. The wood had not yet lost its luster. I took a moment to steady my hands and settle my nerves, then undid the casket’s latch. It had not been bolted shut, and the lid came away freely with a soft sigh of escaping air. Inside lay my friend, who – like the casket – had not yet succumbed to any noticeable decay. His face bore the lacquer-like sheen of mortuary preparation but was otherwise unblemished.
Almost absentmindedly, I bent forward and brushed away some specks of dust from his jacket. I knew I couldn’t afford to waste time, but since descending the stairs I had begun to operate under the pseudo-automation of someone presented with a truly unthinkable occurrence. Sure, I’d attended the funeral and had helped lay him to rest; but seeing him there, so privately and intimately, among the bones of the long-dead – it was a whole other experience, and I entered something that resembled a somnambulistic state.
The sound of metal grating against metal shook me from my solemn stupor. I knew at once what the sound meant, but I wanted to believe otherwise. As carefully as I could manage whilst still hurrying, I set the lid back on the casket – as if there were tomb vermin waiting in the shadows to devour his corpse – and quietly tip-toed up the steps. Despite having literally stood among the dead, I felt my first pang of horror upon seeing the mausoleum’s gate shut – and affixed with a new padlock.
Calling out and announcing myself would’ve foiled my plans entirely; and I would’ve doubtlessly ended up in a different kind of cell that very night. So, I refrained from shouting out and altering the caretaker of my (illegal) presence. I also reasoned that given his failure to investigate the interior of the tomb, the caretaker had probably been aware of my trespassing for some time and was simply keeping me locked up for the authorities.
Without any other option than to proceed as planned, I returned to my friend’s body.
Setting the lid aside, I lifted his body from the casket and set it atop the lid. I involuntarily cringed, seeing nothing yet anticipating an outpour of rats, or a writhing mound of fat worms, bloated with carrion. The funeral sterility of the place had yet to cement itself in my mind. I still expected the earthy grimness of above to be reflected below.
I took off my pack and set it on the ground, just beside my friend’s head. I removed the only other object I’d brought: a large jar, its surface filmy with a greenish grey residue. In the light of my flashlight – which I’d placed atop the rim of the casket – the jar’s contents seemed to glow. I unscrewed the cap and turned away, knowing the malodorous stench would make me ill. Once the fumes had cleared, I used a finger to stir its contents. The consistency was like jelly, though the stuff was disconcertingly warm; had not dropped a single degree in temperature since its preparation hours earlier.
Once the substance was appropriately thin – now more akin to a semi-thick yogurt – I set the jar down and went to work on my friend. First, I removed my jacket and propped his head beneath it for a makeshift pillow. Then, with infinite gentleness I pried open his lips, thankful that his eyes were closed. To have to look into them while I manipulated his corpse – however reverently – would've been too much. Once the lips were sufficiently parted, I grabbed the jar and tilted its opening into the agape orifice. The liquid flowed easily enough, continuing down my friend’s throat unimpeded. Had he been alive, he would’ve become almost immediately sick and vomited everywhere. The stuff was utterly unpalatable by living men – I had tried it out of morbid curiosity before embarking on my sepulchral quest.
When it was empty, I put the jar back into my bag and laid my friend’s head back down on the lid. I didn’t want to watch what happened next, didn’t need to – having the utmost confidence in the efficacy of the elixir.
I tidied up the area as best as I could and climbed into the casket – facing up at the shadowy ceiling. I knew it would take a few minutes for the stuff to work, so I tried to listen for any strange or peculiar sounds in the gloom. The place was utterly quiet, my breathing so loud in the stillness that it softly echoed ceilingward. Motes of dust – born of what I hoped was time-crumbled stone, and not human remains – floated into the scope of my flashlight, reminding me of a campfire billowing with ashes. A camping trip with him, during which we’d discussed everything from girlfriends to mathematical ontology. Memories I’d soon forget – but, hopefully, only temporarily.
A soft sound. The twitch of a finger, the subsequent scratch of the nail moving across the wood of the coffin lid. I tried to force a blankness of mind –attempted to re-enter that state of mental nihility into which I’d slipped earlier. More sounds: rustling clothes, the release of long-trapped air from death-stiffened joints. Panic warred with a mounting calmness in my mind. My resolve was settled, but I was still human; fear was still a powerful motivator toward self-preservation.
But in the end, I managed to lapse back into that state of near thoughtlessness. As my friend’s pallid face suddenly summited the surface of the casket, entering my field of vision illumined by the flashlight, I settled into the comfortable abyss of vacuous acceptance. I felt neither the pressure nor the coldness of the still-rigid fingers as they gripped my neck; no pain accompanied the piercing of my neck by his dry teeth. I smelled the coppery aroma of my own blood as it burst from my neck, but the sensation was otherwise unremarkable.
I kept a smile on my face as my friend feasted on my body. Relief filtered through me even as my hot blood washed over me. The necromantic brew had worked! My friend had been reanimated and would use me to restore to himself a semblance of his humanity; at least enough to where he could consciously procure more subjects to further support himself.
I’d promised him in his final days of cancerous ruin that I wouldn’t let him simply die - wouldn’t let his wonderful spirit be lost to the nether-realm, or oblivion, or wherever souls end up following the body’s death. But I wasn’t ready to let myself succumb to such a fate, either. So, shortly after we’d buried him I sought out and employed a surprisingly local necromancer to concoct a potion that would allow my friend to be brought back to life; but would also anchor me to that same corporeal revenancy, using my very being as sustenance for his lichdom.
Now, my friend and I exist as one. Twin-bound souls in a single body. My flesh filled his belly, but my mind was transferred to his brain. I pilot the flesh, while the vestiges of his spirit await rebirth in the deeper recesses of our shared mind. Together, we’ll seek out others, and with their consent we’ll feast upon their flesh. Their minds won’t be preserved. We’ll use them as spiritual kindling, so to speak. To bolster our own psychic vitality. But we won’t seek out anyone who’d want to join this twofold collective.
There are plenty of people who desire death, and haven’t the slightest care how it’s achieved, so long as the hand that deals it is not their own. Some are simply too afraid, incapable of inflicting upon themselves an injury severe enough to be fatal. Others refuse to, no matter how strong a desire, due to the inability to ask for religious forgiveness following their demise. In that case, I’d imagine the intent would suffice as being sinful enough, regardless of whom dealt the harm. But I’m no theologian and wouldn’t argue with the logic of a consenting collaborator.
Oh, I suppose it’s worth mentioning that upon our exit from the tomb, we were greeted by none other than the caretaker, who’d taken up watch of the mausoleum from the shadows – not the hut. Apparently, he’d known of my mission; had been made aware of it by the very same necromancer whose services I had used. The furtive alchemist had forewarned him of my arrival, in fact. I wasn’t surprised. Their vocations, though seemingly at odds, do intersect in certain charnel ways. The caretaker locking me inside had been for our own protection – in the event that someone came along to pay their respects to my friend before we could.... regain our composure.
I later returned and paid the thoughtful watchman enough for two padlocks, since my friend and I had broken the second in our somewhat Frankensteinian exit of the crypt.
A body cohabitated by two spirits requires a great deal of rest, so I will end this tale here. I look forward to spending a shared life with my friend, once he awakens from his incorporeal chrysalis. I can feel him dreaming, though I can’t peer into the ether of his nascent mind.
Soon, though. We’ll peer into each other’s thoughts, and I’ll once again hold the memories I’ve yet to recover. I’d thought that digesting my own brain would provide me with the memories lost in the transference, but I guess necrophagic neurobiology isn’t an exact science....
2023.03.28 10:58 Admirable_Two1368 Aria XD7 Problem
Does anyone else have this problem with Aria that is suddenly stops tracking in middle of the game and the light goes off for second and then it works again for a day or two without problems? I heard the 2.4ghz dongle in these is very sensitive to any wifi signals or anything that works in the same frequency. I noticed that wen i charge the mouse to 100% there is less problems so is the battery level indicator showing false data and im just running out of battery 🤔
submitted by Admirable_Two1368 to MouseReview [link] [comments]
2023.03.28 10:57 Secret-Limit3138 Might be an unpopular opinion but this might be my favorite Wolves team since 2004.
And I LOVED last year's team. They were fun but they also had frustrating losses and would lose big leads/collapse even more than this team. It just felt fine and was still fun because there were little to no expectations.
But if you remove the expectations, not having a draft pick this year and general discourse of the trade, this team in a vacuum is pretty awesome. They are a likable group of personalities who are easy to root for in my opinion. Conley, Slomo, Naz, Luka Garza, Ant, Jaden, Minott, Prince, Knight etc. are pretty likable. Rudy is competitive, frank, kind and lowkey a goofball who I personally find endearing and like rooting for. He literally has an instagram for his cat lol. I've always appreciated KAT and admire his kindness, loyalty and resilience.
I just see more potential in this team. They're the first team since 2004 with a top 10 defense. This team beat the Warriors on their homecourt for the first time in 7 years and held them under 100 despite Ant, Jaden and KAT having rough nights. They're less volatile with Conley, Rudy, Slomo at the helm and I'm less worried if Ant or KAT have a bad night...I could never say that before this season.
I am a fan of this roster that Tim Connelly constructed and believe they can do damage.
submitted by Secret-Limit3138 to timberwolves [link] [comments]
But if you remove the expectations, not having a draft pick this year and general discourse of the trade, this team in a vacuum is pretty awesome. They are a likable group of personalities who are easy to root for in my opinion. Conley, Slomo, Naz, Luka Garza, Ant, Jaden, Minott, Prince, Knight etc. are pretty likable. Rudy is competitive, frank, kind and lowkey a goofball who I personally find endearing and like rooting for. He literally has an instagram for his cat lol. I've always appreciated KAT and admire his kindness, loyalty and resilience.
I just see more potential in this team. They're the first team since 2004 with a top 10 defense. This team beat the Warriors on their homecourt for the first time in 7 years and held them under 100 despite Ant, Jaden and KAT having rough nights. They're less volatile with Conley, Rudy, Slomo at the helm and I'm less worried if Ant or KAT have a bad night...I could never say that before this season.
I am a fan of this roster that Tim Connelly constructed and believe they can do damage.
2023.03.28 10:57 WeirdBryceGuy Friendship in Perpetuity
Like a sentient shadow, I followed the old man through the mist-laden cemetery. I knew his route, knew where he’d end up after checking the grave plots: the little shack in the center of the grounds, illumined by a single, sallow-tinted lamp. Sticking by the towering headstones, I watched as he meticulously checked each and every resting place; noting curiously how he’d utter certain unintelligible phrases for seemingly random occupants. He was old but spry, moving with a dexterous delicateness more befitting a dancer than a caretaker. I had no desire to be spotted by the enigmatic groundskeeper.
The night was relatively young, the moon having just come out; and yet a mortuary silence had already befallen the graveyard. There were no sounds of nocturnal life, no distant thrum of traffic. Only the forlorn sighing of the wind as it weakly raked through the bent trees and lichen monoliths. The air was potently earthy, the rain-sodden soil practically aromatic. It was pleasant, refreshing - helped to settle my nerves. Trespassing, Burglary. illegal disinterment. The potential charges against me were more than a little nerve-wracking
The old man inspected the final headstone and nodded, apparently satisfied with its condition. I ducked behind a short, cobweb-strewn headstone as he swept his lantern across the grounds one last time. Silently, he headed towards the shack, and I resumed my stealthy pursuit.
I let him enter and close the door, then made my way to the mausoleum in the rear of the grounds. My work would take quite some time, and I needed to be sure that I wouldn’t be disturbed by the prying old caretaker. I could’ve knocked him out, or sent him on some errand appropriate for his vocation; but he was just a man doing his job, and didn’t deserve any undue trouble. Also, I had a creeping suspicion that he’d be more than able to handle himself if things became physically confrontational.
Reaching the mausoleum, I retrieved my flashlight from my backpack and cast its beam onto the iron wrought gate. The foyer beyond was clean, having recently been swept. In the center of the room was the short staircase which led into the lower crypt – my destination.
A deeper silence seemed to fall over the night as I withdrew the bolt cutters from my bag. There was no thunder with which to time the sounds of my burglary; no squawking birds to mask the padlock’s destruction. I just had hope that the man’s ears were more in line with his age than his body was.
I caught the padlock before it could fall onto the marmoreal floor. I waited a few moments to see if the metallic crunch of its forced disrepair had been heard, and then proceeded. Ordinarily I would've been unnerved by the deathly stillness, by the omnipresence of the innominate dead; but I was on a mission of friendship and couldn’t afford to admit cowardice into my heart. No longer needing them, I returned the bolt cutters to my bag and pocketed the broken padlock. Ignoring the gold-emblazoned shelves, I headed down the stairs toward the lower crypts.
I found my friend’s resting place amid the vaults fairly quickly, given the myriad shelves and recesses. He’d shown me where he was to be buried, years ago – before his untimely death. He’d been put to rest near his other family members: aunts and uncles and grandparents of cycles past. The family owned the entirety of the mausoleum, having held an almost questionably rich lineage for centuries.
Carefully, reverently, I withdrew his casket from its cloth-draped alcove and set it on the floor. The wood had not yet lost its luster. I took a moment to steady my hands and settle my nerves, then undid the casket’s latch. It had not been bolted shut, and the lid came away freely with a soft sigh of escaping air. Inside lay my friend, who – like the casket – had not yet succumbed to any noticeable decay. His face bore the lacquer-like sheen of mortuary preparation but was otherwise unblemished.
Almost absentmindedly, I bent forward and brushed away some specks of dust from his jacket. I knew I couldn’t afford to waste time, but since descending the stairs I had begun to operate under the pseudo-automation of someone presented with a truly unthinkable occurrence. Sure, I’d attended the funeral and had helped lay him to rest; but seeing him there, so privately and intimately, among the bones of the long-dead – it was a whole other experience, and I entered something that resembled a somnambulistic state.
The sound of metal grating against metal shook me from my solemn stupor. I knew at once what the sound meant, but I wanted to believe otherwise. As carefully as I could manage whilst still hurrying, I set the lid back on the casket – as if there were tomb vermin waiting in the shadows to devour his corpse – and quietly tip-toed up the steps. Despite having literally stood among the dead, I felt my first pang of horror upon seeing the mausoleum’s gate shut – and affixed with a new padlock.
Calling out and announcing myself would’ve foiled my plans entirely; and I would’ve doubtlessly ended up in a different kind of cell that very night. So, I refrained from shouting out and altering the caretaker of my (illegal) presence. I also reasoned that given his failure to investigate the interior of the tomb, the caretaker had probably been aware of my trespassing for some time and was simply keeping me locked up for the authorities.
Without any other option than to proceed as planned, I returned to my friend’s body.
Setting the lid aside, I lifted his body from the casket and set it atop the lid. I involuntarily cringed, seeing nothing yet anticipating an outpour of rats, or a writhing mound of fat worms, bloated with carrion. The funeral sterility of the place had yet to cement itself in my mind. I still expected the earthy grimness of above to be reflected below.
I took off my pack and set it on the ground, just beside my friend’s head. I removed the only other object I’d brought: a large jar, its surface filmy with a greenish grey residue. In the light of my flashlight – which I’d placed atop the rim of the casket – the jar’s contents seemed to glow. I unscrewed the cap and turned away, knowing the malodorous stench would make me ill. Once the fumes had cleared, I used a finger to stir its contents. The consistency was like jelly, though the stuff was disconcertingly warm; had not dropped a single degree in temperature since its preparation hours earlier.
Once the substance was appropriately thin – now more akin to a semi-thick yogurt – I set the jar down and went to work on my friend. First, I removed my jacket and propped his head beneath it for a makeshift pillow. Then, with infinite gentleness I pried open his lips, thankful that his eyes were closed. To have to look into them while I manipulated his corpse – however reverently – would've been too much. Once the lips were sufficiently parted, I grabbed the jar and tilted its opening into the agape orifice. The liquid flowed easily enough, continuing down my friend’s throat unimpeded. Had he been alive, he would’ve become almost immediately sick and vomited everywhere. The stuff was utterly unpalatable by living men – I had tried it out of morbid curiosity before embarking on my sepulchral quest.
When it was empty, I put the jar back into my bag and laid my friend’s head back down on the lid. I didn’t want to watch what happened next, didn’t need to – having the utmost confidence in the efficacy of the elixir.
I tidied up the area as best as I could and climbed into the casket – facing up at the shadowy ceiling. I knew it would take a few minutes for the stuff to work, so I tried to listen for any strange or peculiar sounds in the gloom. The place was utterly quiet, my breathing so loud in the stillness that it softly echoed ceilingward. Motes of dust – born of what I hoped was time-crumbled stone, and not human remains – floated into the scope of my flashlight, reminding me of a campfire billowing with ashes. A camping trip with him, during which we’d discussed everything from girlfriends to mathematical ontology. Memories I’d soon forget – but, hopefully, only temporarily.
A soft sound. The twitch of a finger, the subsequent scratch of the nail moving across the wood of the coffin lid. I tried to force a blankness of mind –attempted to re-enter that state of mental nihility into which I’d slipped earlier. More sounds: rustling clothes, the release of long-trapped air from death-stiffened joints. Panic warred with a mounting calmness in my mind. My resolve was settled, but I was still human; fear was still a powerful motivator toward self-preservation.
But in the end, I managed to lapse back into that state of near thoughtlessness. As my friend’s pallid face suddenly summited the surface of the casket, entering my field of vision illumined by the flashlight, I settled into the comfortable abyss of vacuous acceptance. I felt neither the pressure nor the coldness of the still-rigid fingers as they gripped my neck; no pain accompanied the piercing of my neck by his dry teeth. I smelled the coppery aroma of my own blood as it burst from my neck, but the sensation was otherwise unremarkable.
I kept a smile on my face as my friend feasted on my body. Relief filtered through me even as my hot blood washed over me. The necromantic brew had worked! My friend had been reanimated and would use me to restore to himself a semblance of his humanity; at least enough to where he could consciously procure more subjects to further support himself.
I’d promised him in his final days of cancerous ruin that I wouldn’t let him simply die - wouldn’t let his wonderful spirit be lost to the nether-realm, or oblivion, or wherever souls end up following the body’s death. But I wasn’t ready to let myself succumb to such a fate, either. So, shortly after we’d buried him I sought out and employed a surprisingly local necromancer to concoct a potion that would allow my friend to be brought back to life; but would also anchor me to that same corporeal revenancy, using my very being as sustenance for his lichdom.
Now, my friend and I exist as one. Twin-bound souls in a single body. My flesh filled his belly, but my mind was transferred to his brain. I pilot the flesh, while the vestiges of his spirit await rebirth in the deeper recesses of our shared mind. Together, we’ll seek out others, and with their consent we’ll feast upon their flesh. Their minds won’t be preserved. We’ll use them as spiritual kindling, so to speak. To bolster our own psychic vitality. But we won’t seek out anyone who’d want to join this twofold collective.
There are plenty of people who desire death, and haven’t the slightest care how it’s achieved, so long as the hand that deals it is not their own. Some are simply too afraid, incapable of inflicting upon themselves an injury severe enough to be fatal. Others refuse to, no matter how strong a desire, due to the inability to ask for religious forgiveness following their demise. In that case, I’d imagine the intent would suffice as being sinful enough, regardless of whom dealt the harm. But I’m no theologian and wouldn’t argue with the logic of a consenting collaborator.
Oh, I suppose it’s worth mentioning that upon our exit from the tomb, we were greeted by none other than the caretaker, who’d taken up watch of the mausoleum from the shadows – not the hut. Apparently, he’d known of my mission; had been made aware of it by the very same necromancer whose services I had used. The furtive alchemist had forewarned him of my arrival, in fact. I wasn’t surprised. Their vocations, though seemingly at odds, do intersect in certain charnel ways. The caretaker locking me inside had been for our own protection – in the event that someone came along to pay their respects to my friend before we could.... regain our composure.
I later returned and paid the thoughtful watchman enough for two padlocks, since my friend and I had broken the second in our somewhat Frankensteinian exit of the crypt.
A body cohabitated by two spirits requires a great deal of rest, so I will end this tale here. I look forward to spending a shared life with my friend, once he awakens from his incorporeal chrysalis. I can feel him dreaming, though I can’t peer into the ether of his nascent mind.
Soon, though. We’ll peer into each other’s thoughts, and I’ll once again hold the memories I’ve yet to recover. I’d thought that digesting my own brain would provide me with the memories lost in the transference, but I guess necrophagic neurobiology isn’t an exact science....
submitted by WeirdBryceGuy to libraryofshadows [link] [comments]
The night was relatively young, the moon having just come out; and yet a mortuary silence had already befallen the graveyard. There were no sounds of nocturnal life, no distant thrum of traffic. Only the forlorn sighing of the wind as it weakly raked through the bent trees and lichen monoliths. The air was potently earthy, the rain-sodden soil practically aromatic. It was pleasant, refreshing - helped to settle my nerves. Trespassing, Burglary. illegal disinterment. The potential charges against me were more than a little nerve-wracking
The old man inspected the final headstone and nodded, apparently satisfied with its condition. I ducked behind a short, cobweb-strewn headstone as he swept his lantern across the grounds one last time. Silently, he headed towards the shack, and I resumed my stealthy pursuit.
I let him enter and close the door, then made my way to the mausoleum in the rear of the grounds. My work would take quite some time, and I needed to be sure that I wouldn’t be disturbed by the prying old caretaker. I could’ve knocked him out, or sent him on some errand appropriate for his vocation; but he was just a man doing his job, and didn’t deserve any undue trouble. Also, I had a creeping suspicion that he’d be more than able to handle himself if things became physically confrontational.
Reaching the mausoleum, I retrieved my flashlight from my backpack and cast its beam onto the iron wrought gate. The foyer beyond was clean, having recently been swept. In the center of the room was the short staircase which led into the lower crypt – my destination.
A deeper silence seemed to fall over the night as I withdrew the bolt cutters from my bag. There was no thunder with which to time the sounds of my burglary; no squawking birds to mask the padlock’s destruction. I just had hope that the man’s ears were more in line with his age than his body was.
I caught the padlock before it could fall onto the marmoreal floor. I waited a few moments to see if the metallic crunch of its forced disrepair had been heard, and then proceeded. Ordinarily I would've been unnerved by the deathly stillness, by the omnipresence of the innominate dead; but I was on a mission of friendship and couldn’t afford to admit cowardice into my heart. No longer needing them, I returned the bolt cutters to my bag and pocketed the broken padlock. Ignoring the gold-emblazoned shelves, I headed down the stairs toward the lower crypts.
I found my friend’s resting place amid the vaults fairly quickly, given the myriad shelves and recesses. He’d shown me where he was to be buried, years ago – before his untimely death. He’d been put to rest near his other family members: aunts and uncles and grandparents of cycles past. The family owned the entirety of the mausoleum, having held an almost questionably rich lineage for centuries.
Carefully, reverently, I withdrew his casket from its cloth-draped alcove and set it on the floor. The wood had not yet lost its luster. I took a moment to steady my hands and settle my nerves, then undid the casket’s latch. It had not been bolted shut, and the lid came away freely with a soft sigh of escaping air. Inside lay my friend, who – like the casket – had not yet succumbed to any noticeable decay. His face bore the lacquer-like sheen of mortuary preparation but was otherwise unblemished.
Almost absentmindedly, I bent forward and brushed away some specks of dust from his jacket. I knew I couldn’t afford to waste time, but since descending the stairs I had begun to operate under the pseudo-automation of someone presented with a truly unthinkable occurrence. Sure, I’d attended the funeral and had helped lay him to rest; but seeing him there, so privately and intimately, among the bones of the long-dead – it was a whole other experience, and I entered something that resembled a somnambulistic state.
The sound of metal grating against metal shook me from my solemn stupor. I knew at once what the sound meant, but I wanted to believe otherwise. As carefully as I could manage whilst still hurrying, I set the lid back on the casket – as if there were tomb vermin waiting in the shadows to devour his corpse – and quietly tip-toed up the steps. Despite having literally stood among the dead, I felt my first pang of horror upon seeing the mausoleum’s gate shut – and affixed with a new padlock.
Calling out and announcing myself would’ve foiled my plans entirely; and I would’ve doubtlessly ended up in a different kind of cell that very night. So, I refrained from shouting out and altering the caretaker of my (illegal) presence. I also reasoned that given his failure to investigate the interior of the tomb, the caretaker had probably been aware of my trespassing for some time and was simply keeping me locked up for the authorities.
Without any other option than to proceed as planned, I returned to my friend’s body.
Setting the lid aside, I lifted his body from the casket and set it atop the lid. I involuntarily cringed, seeing nothing yet anticipating an outpour of rats, or a writhing mound of fat worms, bloated with carrion. The funeral sterility of the place had yet to cement itself in my mind. I still expected the earthy grimness of above to be reflected below.
I took off my pack and set it on the ground, just beside my friend’s head. I removed the only other object I’d brought: a large jar, its surface filmy with a greenish grey residue. In the light of my flashlight – which I’d placed atop the rim of the casket – the jar’s contents seemed to glow. I unscrewed the cap and turned away, knowing the malodorous stench would make me ill. Once the fumes had cleared, I used a finger to stir its contents. The consistency was like jelly, though the stuff was disconcertingly warm; had not dropped a single degree in temperature since its preparation hours earlier.
Once the substance was appropriately thin – now more akin to a semi-thick yogurt – I set the jar down and went to work on my friend. First, I removed my jacket and propped his head beneath it for a makeshift pillow. Then, with infinite gentleness I pried open his lips, thankful that his eyes were closed. To have to look into them while I manipulated his corpse – however reverently – would've been too much. Once the lips were sufficiently parted, I grabbed the jar and tilted its opening into the agape orifice. The liquid flowed easily enough, continuing down my friend’s throat unimpeded. Had he been alive, he would’ve become almost immediately sick and vomited everywhere. The stuff was utterly unpalatable by living men – I had tried it out of morbid curiosity before embarking on my sepulchral quest.
When it was empty, I put the jar back into my bag and laid my friend’s head back down on the lid. I didn’t want to watch what happened next, didn’t need to – having the utmost confidence in the efficacy of the elixir.
I tidied up the area as best as I could and climbed into the casket – facing up at the shadowy ceiling. I knew it would take a few minutes for the stuff to work, so I tried to listen for any strange or peculiar sounds in the gloom. The place was utterly quiet, my breathing so loud in the stillness that it softly echoed ceilingward. Motes of dust – born of what I hoped was time-crumbled stone, and not human remains – floated into the scope of my flashlight, reminding me of a campfire billowing with ashes. A camping trip with him, during which we’d discussed everything from girlfriends to mathematical ontology. Memories I’d soon forget – but, hopefully, only temporarily.
A soft sound. The twitch of a finger, the subsequent scratch of the nail moving across the wood of the coffin lid. I tried to force a blankness of mind –attempted to re-enter that state of mental nihility into which I’d slipped earlier. More sounds: rustling clothes, the release of long-trapped air from death-stiffened joints. Panic warred with a mounting calmness in my mind. My resolve was settled, but I was still human; fear was still a powerful motivator toward self-preservation.
But in the end, I managed to lapse back into that state of near thoughtlessness. As my friend’s pallid face suddenly summited the surface of the casket, entering my field of vision illumined by the flashlight, I settled into the comfortable abyss of vacuous acceptance. I felt neither the pressure nor the coldness of the still-rigid fingers as they gripped my neck; no pain accompanied the piercing of my neck by his dry teeth. I smelled the coppery aroma of my own blood as it burst from my neck, but the sensation was otherwise unremarkable.
I kept a smile on my face as my friend feasted on my body. Relief filtered through me even as my hot blood washed over me. The necromantic brew had worked! My friend had been reanimated and would use me to restore to himself a semblance of his humanity; at least enough to where he could consciously procure more subjects to further support himself.
I’d promised him in his final days of cancerous ruin that I wouldn’t let him simply die - wouldn’t let his wonderful spirit be lost to the nether-realm, or oblivion, or wherever souls end up following the body’s death. But I wasn’t ready to let myself succumb to such a fate, either. So, shortly after we’d buried him I sought out and employed a surprisingly local necromancer to concoct a potion that would allow my friend to be brought back to life; but would also anchor me to that same corporeal revenancy, using my very being as sustenance for his lichdom.
Now, my friend and I exist as one. Twin-bound souls in a single body. My flesh filled his belly, but my mind was transferred to his brain. I pilot the flesh, while the vestiges of his spirit await rebirth in the deeper recesses of our shared mind. Together, we’ll seek out others, and with their consent we’ll feast upon their flesh. Their minds won’t be preserved. We’ll use them as spiritual kindling, so to speak. To bolster our own psychic vitality. But we won’t seek out anyone who’d want to join this twofold collective.
There are plenty of people who desire death, and haven’t the slightest care how it’s achieved, so long as the hand that deals it is not their own. Some are simply too afraid, incapable of inflicting upon themselves an injury severe enough to be fatal. Others refuse to, no matter how strong a desire, due to the inability to ask for religious forgiveness following their demise. In that case, I’d imagine the intent would suffice as being sinful enough, regardless of whom dealt the harm. But I’m no theologian and wouldn’t argue with the logic of a consenting collaborator.
Oh, I suppose it’s worth mentioning that upon our exit from the tomb, we were greeted by none other than the caretaker, who’d taken up watch of the mausoleum from the shadows – not the hut. Apparently, he’d known of my mission; had been made aware of it by the very same necromancer whose services I had used. The furtive alchemist had forewarned him of my arrival, in fact. I wasn’t surprised. Their vocations, though seemingly at odds, do intersect in certain charnel ways. The caretaker locking me inside had been for our own protection – in the event that someone came along to pay their respects to my friend before we could.... regain our composure.
I later returned and paid the thoughtful watchman enough for two padlocks, since my friend and I had broken the second in our somewhat Frankensteinian exit of the crypt.
A body cohabitated by two spirits requires a great deal of rest, so I will end this tale here. I look forward to spending a shared life with my friend, once he awakens from his incorporeal chrysalis. I can feel him dreaming, though I can’t peer into the ether of his nascent mind.
Soon, though. We’ll peer into each other’s thoughts, and I’ll once again hold the memories I’ve yet to recover. I’d thought that digesting my own brain would provide me with the memories lost in the transference, but I guess necrophagic neurobiology isn’t an exact science....
2023.03.28 10:57 Studioscentuary Percale at a reasonable price ?
I recently went to Palm Springs and while the mattress was terrible, the sheets were divine. I checked and they’re shockingly from brooklinen… the percale.
I was about to buy some at their current 20% promotion for sleep week, but I’m worried they’ll be thin or rip easily.
Any similar price alternatives? I really like that they are crisp, buttery, light, and slightly crunchy sounding but not sandpaper. I want a hotel bed every night.
Suggestions welcome, including a little thicker if that’d help with longevity.
submitted by Studioscentuary to Bedding [link] [comments]
I was about to buy some at their current 20% promotion for sleep week, but I’m worried they’ll be thin or rip easily.
Any similar price alternatives? I really like that they are crisp, buttery, light, and slightly crunchy sounding but not sandpaper. I want a hotel bed every night.
Suggestions welcome, including a little thicker if that’d help with longevity.
2023.03.28 10:56 knightmare003 New to the game
So on back March 8th, I was doing my routine check of the US P-Bandai. I’m an avid Gundam fan and collect a ton of the models, but they had opened up sales for Vital Bracelets and Dim cards. I saw the opportunity to have some fun while being active and impulsively bought the VITAL BRACELET Digital Monster ver. BLACK and THE Mad Black RoaTrue Shadow Howl DIM set. Once I got it, I quickly got Mad Black Roar uploaded and started working towards Black Wargreymon without any clue of what I was doing. I have since done a little research and learned that I seem to have bought an obsolete product. The closing of the old app and the release of the new one has rendered functions of my bracelet unusable. I’m a little frustrated to say the least. I was wondering, If I was to get one of the new BE bracelets, will the DIM card I have used on my current bracelet be usable? I seem to remember seeing something about once a DIM is used with a bracelet, it is locked to that bracelet and can’t be used with others. I don’t want to have to repurchase the DIM set just to get the Digimon I want. Thanks for any help, seems I jumped in at the wrong time.
submitted by knightmare003 to DigimonVitalBracelet [link] [comments]
2023.03.28 10:56 bioemiliano Questions, causes and stuff
Hey, a few months ago I came to know of visual snow because of trip reports on YouTube saying it's a symptom of heavy drug abuse, and when I looked into it I realised it was actually what I've been experimenting almost all if not all my life.
I am 19 and I remember being in PE looking at the hot cement and seeing waves of dots moving, many years ago (not sure if it's considered vss but seems related).
I also remember seeing like this effect to text, kinda like if the words were moving and leaving a visible trail but with other color, it made it kinda hard to read (which I am realising might be palinopsia).I also distinctively remember seeing like this outline of clearness around things, and after this outline of clear there's the static, I still see it.
The static or snow I remember always seeing it in the dark, until now I thought it was just how looking into the dark was like; and I remember seeing it in daytime sometimes, but I'm not sure If I was had it on the background and just didn't focus on it or if it actually wasn't there. Lately it has been really noticeable almost all the time, idk if it's stronger or it's because I am aware of it. The points also morph into stationary wavy lines sometimes. And I always see like this sphere in the middle of my vision.
There's also this distinct memory I have, I think it was around the time I pushed myself to lose the fear of the dark and be able to sleep with all lights off, I remember how when I looked into the dark I started to see this dark green blobs morph into different figures and then I thought about monters. Because of this memory I think I might actually been experiencing this all my life, and that this figures I saw and just thought were the normal result of looking into the dark, might be because palinopsia and vss, and pareidolia + kid imagination were scaring me like shit because of it.
Anyhow, is this stuff I'm talking all related to VSS? Or is some of it normal or another distinct thing maybe? Have you experienced it?
Also, what causes VSS? From what I've read it's not something in the eyes, it's the brain. Is it a simple genetic thing or is it a sign of neurodegeneration? Could it be caused by improper sleep and depression? Since I was born my sleep schedule has been all over the place, and for years I've been on 5hs of sleep, and it has been now like 12 years of depression; and I know these aren't very nice to the brain.
submitted by bioemiliano to visualsnow [link] [comments]
I am 19 and I remember being in PE looking at the hot cement and seeing waves of dots moving, many years ago (not sure if it's considered vss but seems related).
I also remember seeing like this effect to text, kinda like if the words were moving and leaving a visible trail but with other color, it made it kinda hard to read (which I am realising might be palinopsia).I also distinctively remember seeing like this outline of clearness around things, and after this outline of clear there's the static, I still see it.
The static or snow I remember always seeing it in the dark, until now I thought it was just how looking into the dark was like; and I remember seeing it in daytime sometimes, but I'm not sure If I was had it on the background and just didn't focus on it or if it actually wasn't there. Lately it has been really noticeable almost all the time, idk if it's stronger or it's because I am aware of it. The points also morph into stationary wavy lines sometimes. And I always see like this sphere in the middle of my vision.
There's also this distinct memory I have, I think it was around the time I pushed myself to lose the fear of the dark and be able to sleep with all lights off, I remember how when I looked into the dark I started to see this dark green blobs morph into different figures and then I thought about monters. Because of this memory I think I might actually been experiencing this all my life, and that this figures I saw and just thought were the normal result of looking into the dark, might be because palinopsia and vss, and pareidolia + kid imagination were scaring me like shit because of it.
Anyhow, is this stuff I'm talking all related to VSS? Or is some of it normal or another distinct thing maybe? Have you experienced it?
Also, what causes VSS? From what I've read it's not something in the eyes, it's the brain. Is it a simple genetic thing or is it a sign of neurodegeneration? Could it be caused by improper sleep and depression? Since I was born my sleep schedule has been all over the place, and for years I've been on 5hs of sleep, and it has been now like 12 years of depression; and I know these aren't very nice to the brain.
2023.03.28 10:56 WeakAdvantage1343 My problem with Shazam and why you should’ve listened to me
I think the main problem with Shazam was that it relied too much on the light and easygoing tone. It works in the short term, but not in the long term, especially if the narrative universe of which the film is part is in apocalyptic conditions. The reason why the MCU can afford bland movies and still be successful is because people go to see them to know how the bigger story in that universe goes on. But DC didn’t even know which version of Justice League was canonical.
Years ago, when DC announced its slate, at the time of the Snyderverse, even the logo was different. Less playful and more mystical. And I think they should have continued in that vein. Then everything we know of with the Whedon Cut happened and they totally threw themselves into the MCU style.
Obviously at the time I had foreseen everything. When BvS came out I already understood that in the future he would be re-evaluated as a cult and that initially it would not have been understood. I tried to warn of impending doom when I first saw Justice League. Did anyone listen to me? No. And then came the catastrophe that would almost permanently destroy and ruin DC.
But I'm not here to talk about that. What do you think the Snyderverse's Shazam would have looked like before WB's panic mode?
submitted by WeakAdvantage1343 to DC_Cinematic [link] [comments]
Years ago, when DC announced its slate, at the time of the Snyderverse, even the logo was different. Less playful and more mystical. And I think they should have continued in that vein. Then everything we know of with the Whedon Cut happened and they totally threw themselves into the MCU style.
Obviously at the time I had foreseen everything. When BvS came out I already understood that in the future he would be re-evaluated as a cult and that initially it would not have been understood. I tried to warn of impending doom when I first saw Justice League. Did anyone listen to me? No. And then came the catastrophe that would almost permanently destroy and ruin DC.
But I'm not here to talk about that. What do you think the Snyderverse's Shazam would have looked like before WB's panic mode?
2023.03.28 10:55 Zurock LF$2500~ - Gaming & Development PC
What will you be doing with this PC? Be as specific as possible, and include specific games or programs you will be using. -This PC game development, video recording/streaming and editing, and playing games like Diablo 4, WoW, Elden Ring, etc.
What is your maximum budget before rebates/shipping/taxes? -$2500
When do you plan on building/buying the PC? Note: beyond a week or two from today means any build you receive will be out of date when you want to buy. -Within the next 30 days
What, exactly, do you need included in the budget? (ToweOS/monitokeyboard/mouse/etc) - Tower, Monitors (prefer nothing larger than 27')
Which country (and state/province) will you be purchasing the parts in? If you're in US, do you have access to a Microcenter location? - Canada, New Brunswick*
If reusing any parts (including monitor(s)/keyboard/mouse/etc), what parts will you be reusing? Brands and models are appreciated. -I have an existing mouse and keyboard.*
Will you be overclocking? If yes, are you interested in overclocking right away, or down the line? CPU and/or GPU? -No, no need for overclocking.
Are there any specific features or items you want/need in the build? (ex: SSD, large amount of storage or a RAID setup, CUDA or OpenCL support, etc) *SSD, option for up to 3-4 monitors without sacrificing overall performance
What type of network connectivity do you need? (Wired and/or WiFi) If WiFi is needed and you would like to find the fastest match for your wireless router, please list any specifics. -Wired preferred
Do you have any specific case preferences (Size like ITX/microATX/mid-towefull-tower, styles, colors, window or not, LED lighting, etc), or a particular color theme preference for the components? -A smaller form factor tower is preferred but not a deal breaker
Do you need a copy of Windows included in the budget? If you do need one included, do you have a preference? -Not needed
2023.03.28 10:55 grannyonthebongs and then all the cars around me honked with the beat
 | submitted by grannyonthebongs to thatHappened [link] [comments] |
2023.03.28 10:54 Wretched_Brittunculi Difference between Average Pace and Average Moving Pace when there are ZERO stoppages and ZERO hills?
I just did some tempo intervals in the taper week for a race at the weekend. I was surprised at how sluggish I felt at the pace the watch recorded. This was an interval workout with active 1km segments. Afterwards I checked Garmin Connect (Forerunner 55) and found a huge margin between average pace and average moving pace (see table). This was a FLAT run with zero stoppages. The average moving pace feels more like the pace I was going, but I can't be sure of that. Why are these paces so different? As I understand, the average moving pace is intended to remove stoppages such as waiting at lights. But this was a free run along mostly cycle lanes. What accounts for this discrepancy? What pace was I actually running? Thanks a million!
submitted by Wretched_Brittunculi to Garmin [link] [comments]
| Average pace | Average moving pace |
|---|---|
| 4:10 | 3:58 |
| 4:01 | 3:55 |
| 4:01 | 3:53 |
| 3:56 | 3:49 |
| 3:54 | 3:50 |
| 3:50 | 3:45 |