2cv wagon kit

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Ceele strolled through the damp grass along the outskirts of the village, a spring in her step and the dwindling scent of dew following behind. It rained yesterday, which had prevented her from going out to gather supplies, but the mild morning air had been accommodating enough for her to get an early start and make the trip. She was glad she did.
One hand clutched her new prize to her chest, while the other held a fraying wicker basket filled with herbs and some edible roots she gathered by exploring the forbidden forest. Despite her reservations regarding where she chose to go, her excitement now lingered like a steady thrum of shifting stones, giving her energy that defied how long she had been walking. She all but pranced beneath the burgeoning night's sky, gleefully toeing the line between the dirt pathways of the settlement’s outskirts and the trees of unclaimed land. Normally, her path back home would never be so close to the village, but she was far too gleeful to mind. She had come back with a sense of fulfillment and a rare object—or if not rare, then hopefully of great value.
It was hard to point to any one specific reason that she came across the orb. There had always been a ‘draw’ during her travels, urging her that there was something missing in her life, yet it was no more than a mild whim to walk in a particular direction more often than not. Once she reached this part of the continent, she was compelled to wander, never quite able to explain why she obliged the sensation besides having nowhere in particular to be. Even when she finally settled somewhere, it stayed in the back of her mind, suggesting that she was close to whatever would make the pit of vacancy go away. She ignored it, purposefully distracting herself with her work and responsibilities, yet that could only last so long. When she awoke this morning with plans to resupply, and all of her newfound spots had been picked clean by wildlife, she turned to the depths of the forest where she was warned not to tread. It was all too easy to follow the subtle tug in her chest through the loose justification.
The urge to be somewhere grew unbearable with every step closer to the forbidden area. That sense of having a direction she needed to go became stronger and stronger, until she was well into land long since forgotten. She came across an overgrown depression in the hillside, and was entranced by the foreboding image. Something about the cave just…beckoned her. She was far too weak to resist.
Horrible tales echoed into her ears as whispers of fearful voices, warning and unending, yet but a dull drone compared to her hammering heart. She navigated the trees and brushed aside unkempt vines, stepping into the cavern with a mix of expectation and trepidation, then laid eyes on the small obsidian stone perched atop a crumbling pillar. The feeling of needing to travel somewhere…stopped.
The pull was absent, which was why she held the orb close instead of placing it into her basket. She wasn’t sure what it was exactly, but she recalled overheard tales of hidden gemstones, deep cavernous expanses, and the untold terrors that lay within. Comparing the scenes of those fables to the cave seemed foolish now; it wasn’t some torturous chamber, but a dusty depression in a small hillside. Besides, anything this pretty was sure to be worth a fair sum, and she needed the coin. Yet the thought of selling the precious-looking stone was a conflicting one. She shook off the thought for the time being, turning her attention back towards where she was going.
Shadows stretched and faded as the moon stole the last of the illumination afforded by the sun, replacing it with a calming glow that caressed the log frames and thatched roofs of various homes. A star-filled sky came into prominence as clouds lazily drifted away, revealing the promise of tomorrow’s fair-weathered arrival. It was too late for anyone to notice her treading on the edge of their town while lost in thought, but she was still careful not to get too close to the houses or livestock pens where people might be finishing the evening’s duties. It was best that they didn’t see her returning from a place she was told not to go. Still, her feet carried her near the dwellings as she took in the noises.
Ceele enjoyed the comforting chatter from a distance. Indistinct words floated freely. Meaningless gossip and warm goodbyes were exchanged between friends and family. Places of various occupations were dark and quiet, only the faint contented mewls and clucks of livestock coming from their pastures as they ate what was recently put out for them. No metal rang throughout the streets as it was struck inside a centralized smithy, no heated bartering came from an overactive trade house, and the crunch of dirt beneath transport or merchant wagons was absent, replaced by the rapid steps and yelps of children rushing to their homes before it got too dark out. It was all just gentle conversation and life drifting through the wind, taking the rustle of leaves along for the ride, just so she could hear it. Tranquil, in a word.
She wondered what it would sound like if she were yet one more voice within that crowd of kindness. Would it be loud like the larger cities? Would she struggle to maintain a thought with so many stray topics floating about? Would she once more yearn for the peace and quiet of solitude that she had grown used to, or would she immerse herself, free of judgment and laughing like the carefree young that scampered about? Did thinking about it even matter?
Her smile fell from its genuine intensity—still worn, but not as fully. She glanced downward as her stride lost its jubilant bounce, her tail losing its sway as her grey eyes examined the dry black scales that adorned her body against her wishes. It was the ugly hue of tarnished oil, unlike the skin of any other kobold she had met. Some had reds or greens, yellows or whites, while most were between a sandy tan or earthen brown. The rainbow of peculiarities was displayed by the lucky few, and she was one of them…
…Yet she was different in the worst of ways.
Even if she would rather any other colour, she supposed it was that way to make sure no one came near without accepting the unspoken risks. That was what her mother always said, anyway, though the woman hardly feared much of anything in her old age, and dedicated herself to giving her offspring all the love she had left to give—a perk of living a full life. She would always help her daughter bathe, complimenting the colour of what most were unnerved by. That was more than a decade ago now, however. Ceele’s parents had passed on while she was still young, and she took to travelling not long after, working at what she could to afford what little she needed. Never for long, though—just enough to get to the next town between where she was and where the urge to go lay. There were certainly moments she looked back on fondly, but the journey had taken its toll.
The crude material of her ‘dress’ was coarse, old, and heavy, but it helped ease the worst of spring's chill—even if it was more of a modified sack than proper attire. Still, it was all she had after the last of her clothing fell apart, and giving the repurposed material a name that reminded her of something else made it less uncomfortable to wear, somehow. It would have to do until she could afford a pitying seamstress or the like. Until then, she would pretend she didn’t look so desperate, even if it only highlighted her status and made finding work difficult.
But it did. The dishevelled garment was a far cry from the wonderful silks or breathtaking designs she had seen some women wear, harshly marking the distinction between herself and those of affluence. The clothing of commoners was also a leap in style and quality, so she couldn't say her attire was up to even modest standards. No matter how hard she squinted, and no matter how much she fantasized otherwise, she seemed every bit like the vagrant she was, down to the soil embedded in the curvature of her claws and the stains throughout her fabrics. She looked like a serf from the more oppressed lands, yet they too wore crude cottons, which said a lot about how she appeared to those who had never lived a life of servitude. It was obvious that she was an outsider. That she didn't belong amongst the rest. It made changing something as simple as her appearance all the more difficult; prospective employment always saw a young woman who seemed more likely to steal or swindle than make an honest day’s living.
There was one good twist of fate in recent memory, however, and she came upon the result of it after leaving the slowing bustle of the village behind. Her steps carried her through a small copse of trees on the outskirts of town, the small shaded path leading to the back of a large, carefully pruned clearing, a scattering of fruit-bearing trees providing even darker shadow than the already dim moonlight. She skirted along the aging fence on the border that kept predatory animals away, carefully hoisting herself over the barrier where a large vegetable garden she was responsible for tending resided. If one were to tell her she would be living in such an area several months ago, she would have smiled politely and walked away, yet here she was.
A modest, warmly lit home occupied the middle of the clearing, sitting front and centre when one approached from the village path. It looked quite cozy, surrounded by berry bushes that were just beginning to bloom as the last dregs of winter slipped away. A front patio displayed a nice table and well-loved chairs, the rustic appearance only adding to its charm as a place where friends and family spent the warm summer afternoons. A smithy to the left of the house functioned as an additional heated building during the colder months, but usually served as a storefront and to muffle the sounds of hammered iron, though that had become less common. An old stable was nearby, close enough to be accessible, but not so close as to disturb the once occupying animals with sounds of iron craft. It hadn't seen a horse in quite some time, apparently, so it was mostly a workshop for whatever tasks didn’t require fire or metal.
There was a long history attached to each little detail—from the scuffs along the wooden siding to the depressions in the ground where daily routine wore into the earth. Every fault suffered throughout the years was matched by a thousand quirks that made it feel welcoming, like the house itself was merely waiting for the next friendly face with one of its own. She knew that the inside of each building would look just as cared for.
Her concern lay outside, however. It was a comparatively miniscule space just barely visible through the sheltering trees, true, yet it was where her efforts turned into tangible results, and where a stranger’s trust was painstakingly repaid. Once overgrown grass had been laboriously trimmed, the weeds plucked and disposed of, and now nothing distracted from what she could claim she had done.
The small plots of rock-bordered soil had little buds of growing vegetables, a sense of pride never failing to bloom in her breast with the knowledge that it would be barren without her touch. When her troubles and concerns grew heavy, and fears of the future or spectres of the past loomed over her head, she could look at where she had brought life where it wouldn't otherwise be. Some days, that was enough. She smiled in appreciation at what was admittedly amateur work, the night’s sky helping to hide any inevitably made mistakes.
She enjoyed the sight for a moment longer, then turned to walk towards a neglected old tool shed that was well out of sight within the trees, far away from whatever warmth and comfort the larger house offered to everyone and anyone. She put a hand on the degrading wood of the entryway, giving one last sad smile at the garden as she dismissed selfish thoughts of taking the eventual harvest for herself. A breath cleared the uncertainty from her voice, and she pushed open the door.
“I'm home!”
= = = = =
It took a while for Altier to adjust to his situation, and even once he accepted that his mana wasn't being siphoned, he was still reeling from confusion. He had spent centuries with every year passing by without his notice, yet now he was painfully aware of each creeping second languidly dragging on with the expediency of growing grass. It was as disorienting as it was painfully nostalgic.
Time was something he was never good with, and it only got worse as a dungeon. He'd get lost in creating rooms, corridors, creatures, and whatever else needed doing, only pausing to watch or listen to the few adventurers he became interested in. There was a stint where he spent what felt like hours agonizing over new abilities or options while he let the system manage things in the background, though he supposed it might have been much longer. So many wasted days, yet he still hadn't managed to try everything he had gained access to. Some abilities were simply too niche, came with concerning titles, or held descriptions that made him wary. Anything with ‘Decay’ in the name was instantly ignored—he didn't need more reasons to fear his affinity, and from the few he took the effort to read through, they were always vile.
But his existence for the moment was no longer like those endless stretches spent pondering the minutiae of what would help his adventurers grow stronger. Now, he could follow the rhythmic sounds of footsteps and steady breathing that set a calming pace. They were someone else's, yes, but they contextualized how easy it was to slip away without the subtle noises of life that he had long since surrendered to help his family. Of course, there were more differences that he noticed since being removed from his crumbling cavern, and his sight was the newest change.
He never gave much thought to how far he could see before. Why would he? As a man, his world extended as far as he could fathom, yet was also confined to the room where he spent his days, and as a dungeon… Well, who was he to consider distance when an event happening miles away could be seen with a flicker of thought? Nothing was too far when it was within his creation. Or his ‘body,’ he supposed. Sadly, his entire perception currently consisted of the small sphere of his obsidian core, and maybe a finger's length beyond it—which is to say, not much. He could make out the fine details in the dirty burlap he was held against, and how pale moonlight slowly took over the blurred reds of sunset, but hardly anything more. It was all just frosted colours after a certain point, and he found it infinitely frustrating. He just wanted to peer beyond the haze and scaly hand holding him to confirm that the sky he remembered was still there. Alas, the sunlight faded at too quick a pace, yet one oh so agonizingly slow.
The ensuing darkness gave him nothing to do but think about where he was, not that he had any ideas. He was too curious about why he wasn't dead to bother much with his blurry surroundings after the soft-spoken kobold abducted him, thus why he only belatedly noticed how limited his worldview had become. There might have been a forest beyond his cave, but the greens and browns were gone, and the sounds of steps through brush was replaced by the distant din of a village. An idle curiosity pondered if he would recognize any descents of his ‘family tradition’ adventurers there, but he was being carried by what most considered a monster, so likely not.
That short musing was short-lived, however, and he brought his focus back to the matter at hand. He supposed he was being taken somewhere specific, but that was an obvious deduction, considering he was taken at all. The why of the matter was less so; for what purpose would someone want a Decay-aligned core? He hadn’t heard of them before…well, before he was made into one, but he couldn’t imagine many uses. Maybe he was being sold? His…kidnapper? His sudden companion seemed rather pleased by their discovery of him, so that might be the case, and it was morbidly amusing to think that a frail, sickly young man might one day become a coveted, highly valuable item. His abduction could also be a part of some cult’s nefarious activities, but he didn't want to think about that too hard. He experienced enough odd ceremonies from the adventurers who took the time to tell him their tales.
Either way, he wasn't in the dungeon anymore, and he couldn’t see where he was going. He tried to query his menu to glean an answer, but was met with a scrambled mess he suspected read ‘Synchronizing…’ and little else. It gave him a headache trying to make sense of it—which he didn't know was possible anymore—so he dismissed the text and distracted himself with blurs from whatever diluted senses he still had. There wasn’t much to observe other than the constant footfalls and the flicker of shadows on his companion’s burlap garment. They might have travelled through brush again, but it was too dark to really say for certain.
Eventually, there was something new. He heard an old latch rattle and rusted door hinges groan, then a shuddered clack that confirmed he was now in a building. His kobold acquaintance gently cooed at something before moving about the nearly pitch-black space, finally setting him down on a… He wasn’t sure what it was, besides old and wooden.
[D$#@m$n E@$*ded]
The headache from before became a blinding migraine that suffocated him under a flash-flood of suffering. Seconds passed in abject torture until it blissfully abated, the mental blinks clearing his mind enough to notice a change in his existence. Specifically, he could actually see something besides the rotting wood grain he was placed on top of.
And it wasn’t anything promising…
He was more or less in the centre of a room no bigger than twelve paces by maybe ten. Not a terrible size for a space, but it was clearly never meant to house someone. His resting place looked about as neglected as he surmised; it was an upturned feeding trough, he supposed, since calling it a table seemed too generous. The surface was rife with holes and degraded iron, so it was something that once saw regular use before being replaced and tossed into storage, never to see the light of day again.
Actually, most things in the room seemed to fit that description. The window shutters were installed with metal hinges that had since rusted them closed, the misalignment letting in a draft—and whatever weather was outside as well, most likely. A poorly carved bowl sat on the floor, the stain beneath it hinting that it collected any rainwater that slowly dripped from the leaky roof. The wooden floorboards looked old, splintered, and in need of maintenance or replacement, though an effort had been put into abrading it somewhat smooth lately.
A tiny and decrepit fireplace was to the left of the door upon entry, its brickwork slowly crumbling due to weathering and age. It was sized more for keeping the room warm during mild days than to keep away the frigid chill of night. Its base only held cold ashes, but there was a collection of deadwood and scraps nearby, so that would probably be rectified soon. A small wheel-less cart had been turned into storage against the opposite wall, some herbs and other foraged items stowed away in it for future use. Various things he remembered seeing his father and brothers use in the fields were scattered about, too. It was nostalgic to see, honestly, even if his recollections had blurred over time.
Bundles of tattered blankets formed a pair of nests in the far corner, the smaller of the two had a pile of rough plants nearby. That answered his silent pondering of the room's purpose somewhat, though he was pretty sure the bedding material was salvaged, and there didn’t seem to be any hay or padding underneath whoever was sleeping on it. He didn’t know what to think about the weeds; they were purposefully placed there, and whoever did so had taken the time to wash them, but it was still strange.
He couldn’t see a doorway besides the entrance, yet most of the hallmarks of residency were put where space could be afforded, however crude. All in all, he surmised that it was a gardening shed of sorts, and his new acquaintance apparently lived here. He wasn't sure what he was expecting when a creature he had only read about came into his dungeon, but it wasn't being brought to a rundown and decrepit shack for unknown purposes.
Even if he had been raised by parents who made a humble living at the best of times, and they had emptied their coffers for unsuccessful attempts to ease his ailments, his acquaintance's living space made him uncomfortable. His family's house was never anything fancy, true—it shared some of the worn qualities that inevitably gathered over the years—but it was never this bad. His home benefited from a father's touch keeping it robust and a mother’s love keeping it warm, whereas this place had seen neither in quite some time. Oh, there was evidence that such was once the case; a wall was adorned with carefully made and well-spaced hangers for the various gardening tools, though the implements themselves had become a victim of neglect. That being said, he could make out the fresh soil and recent scratches exposing furrows of silver, so they were seeing use again.
A scrape and clack of flint drew his attention to his kobold companion. They were kneeling in front of the fireplace, methodically sparking life back into a dead flame with twigs and dried leaves. A slow, steady breath into the reddened base illuminated its face with a dull orange glow, revealing its weary visage and the permanently etched smile that rested beneath its cold grey eyes. The black-scaled kobold looked tired, if he were to guess—much the same as Altier did when he spent countless days watching everyone living a life he could never have through the mossy window of his bedroom. He was probably humanizing it too much. Still, he was surprised by the muted pang of sympathy, and how he would feel much more than blithe curiosity after spending so much time alone in the crumbling crypt of his own making.
A mental breath cycled through him as he looked at the odds and ends yet to be observed. Hardly anything else was of note—everything else was degraded and neglected, too. He did notice a nest of blankets move though, which was as good a distraction as any. The answer to his previous ‘pile of weeds’ inquiry poked a tiny nose from a crease in the fabric, then rapidly pawed at the blankets to dig itself out. Altier stared at the creature in both recognition and confusion.
It was a rabbit…or at least it looked like one, assuming you were to also describe a porcupine and a sea urchin as well. He was pretty sure he didn’t remember any hare that had jagged metal-tipped fur, nor that had said fur arranged into a row of spiked horns that flowed down its spine, terminating at a large fluffy tail, which was equally bizarre to see. The whole of its coat could double as a weapon, with semi-sharp barbs sticking off seemingly at random, yet he remembered an adventurer saying most animals used that sort of thing defensively. He increased his focus as he tried to make sense of the odd creature. Surely he would have heard about—
[Hoppittttttt#%%÷ — Ferro-o-orabbit-it (Ma%$le)
Abil—]
[Null]
[Er0Rrrrrrrr—]
[Und#$f—]
He bit back the pain caused by the sudden intrusion of his menu, blanking out the text and mentally retreating to hide from the source. Did he just inspect something? How? Shouldn’t his entire…‘framework,’ was it…? Yes, that was it. Shouldn’t that have been corrupted? Why could he see the creature’s information when his entire framework was damaged? That was the first ability he lost, so why is it the first to be functional? How was it functional? Was it? It did just spit garbled text at him, but it was something, and that was more than he had gotten from it in a very long time. If it was somehow working—no matter how poorly—then that left the question of why he hadn't heard of anything called a ‘ferrorabbit’ before, assuming he read that correctly.
A soft thud vibrated the tro— table, startling him out of thought. He turned his attention to the button nose wiggling erratically at him, the short, stubby muzzle leading to surprisingly expressive and curious red eyes. Dull brown fur jutted off in random tufts and patches, changing to a darker tint on its paws and the upper half of its ears, while the tips of its spikes were a muted hue of iron. It still seemed just as soft as the less pointed variety he remembered, if a touch dirty. Upright ears twitched this way and that way as its head vigorously shook, eventually settling on pointing in his direction when it calmed down enough.
It was apparent that he had its undivided attention…for all of a few seconds. His scaly companion called something out in their foreign tongue, and whatever conclusion the pointy-furred animal came to, it seemed more interested in the kobold, parting from him after nudging his core with its nose.
[Cre-e-e—]
[Errrrrrr0r: Undefiiiiiiii—]
[Acceeeeep-t-t-t??]
[Yeeee— s s / Nnnnnnn—]
He winced at the intrusion, but the contents detracted from the pain. He couldn’t remember the system ever asking him a question without his explicit intent being involved. It wanted him to…accept something? Was it the system prompting him, or the animal? What was he to accept?
[Creatuuuuu—]
[Acce-e-e-%#@ed!]
…What?
= = = = =
“Hoppit, that's not food!” Ceele admonished half-heartedly, placing a larger branch on the burgeoning flame before she got to her feet. She wasn’t actually that worried; the stone was as big as his head, and she was pretty sure he couldn't bite into it. Hopefully. “Come here, momma has a treat for you!”
The ferrorabbit playfully bumped the gemstone and jumped off the low table, landing with a soft thud that belied how heavy he was for his tiny size. He wiggled in excitement, his ears flailing and releasing a slight clack whenever the two connected. It got even louder when she grabbed her basket and put away the useful herbs, taking out a specific item that she had gathered just for him. The little bun wasted no time in scurrying over and standing tall on his hind legs to judge if the offered plant was to his liking—and it was, based on how he dug in with enthusiasm. She stifled a laugh as she contentedly watched him nibble away on the treat, ignoring the guilt that came with knowing she couldn't afford proper vegetables for him. He had a hard life too, and it tore at her to have so little to give.
She came across Hoppit a year ago, during a storm that worsened while she was travelling between towns. The day had darkened to night in spite of it still being about noon, but the weather didn't care for how bright it was supposed to be. Wind and rain became a typhoon, forcing her to seek shelter in a thankfully abandoned den of what was probably a larger animal. She was fine with waiting out the squall, since the stone roof over her head was more than she usually had back then, but the sounds of dull bangs and thuds near her hideaway was followed by cries of animals yelping in pain. Curiosity won over reason, and she left the safety of her shelter to see what was causing the disturbance. Truthfully, she was hopeful that she'd come across scraps or the like, her hunger driving her forward, and she could always turn back if it seemed dangerous. Yet when she arrived at the source of the commotion, she found herself thinking of anything but food.
Two predators had fought over a small burrow, both trying to dig out a meal and taking offence to the other doing the same. What they didn’t know was that they were assaulting the home of ferrorabbits. Specifically, the home of an angry, protective, and well-fed mother that was keeping her newborns safe from the storm when predators decided to try their luck. From the scene Ceele came across, it was certainly obvious why most people dislike trying to hunt the creatures.
Sadly, the rabbit didn't survive an attack from two predators, but she did make their victory pyrrhic; neither could do much about their hunger with their bodies full of cuts and holes, and it was only a matter of time before they succumbed to blood loss or infection. The mother's sacrifice meant that the babies had avoided the imminent threat, but they were left unattended as a consequence, and it took an opportunistic bird swooping down to shake Ceele out of her shock. Despite her subsequent hurry, she only acted in time to save one of the orphaned young. The warren was new and barely dug out, which meant that it didn’t take much effort for the kits to be found—by both her and hungry maws. All she could do was scoop the ball of fluff into her arms and run back to the cave before anything else tried to eat it.
In retrospect, it was a stupid decision for a number of factors. She barely had the resources to supply herself, and an attempt to raise offspring of any type would only make the inevitable heartbreak worse. But when she saw how quiet and scared he was… How his tiny, shaking body calmed in her arms, those terrified red eyes seeking comfort… She should have just walked away when she knew there wasn’t going to be anything to fill her stomach. She should have put the baby animal down and let nature take its course…yet the preciously furry face stole her heart far too quickly for it to grow so cold. The next day was spent backtracking to the nearest town to get him something suitable to eat, which used most of her meagre savings. Still, it was worth every coin.
Hoppit had been accompanying her ever since. He grew quickly, transitioning from something she saved that stormy night into a presence she had grown to love like a child. The little lagomorph would bounce along beside her during her travels, then ride in her arms as he rested—though the latter happened with worrying frequency as of late. She hadn’t learned much about the springy herbivores, but she knew enough to say that he wasn't as big as he should be, nor was his fur as sharp. No matter how startled he was, his spiky coat never managed to do more than stiffen slightly, which was apparently a side effect of poor diet, according to snippets of conversation she had overheard on the topic. She wanted him to be healthy, but she didn't know what he needed. Not many farmers raised ferrorabbits, and those that did were far away, so she didn’t have anyone to ask what she should be doing. Her best course of action was to give him what little she had.
Ceele was well aware of how he would be better off on his own, but he followed her whenever she tried to set him free. Hoppit just kept launching into her arms and wiggling his ears, ecstatic that he was with her again, uncaring that food was scarce and that they spent most of their days travelling. No amount of cold nights spent bundling up under the tattered blankets she managed to find ever dampened his spirits, and he was content to eat the grass or flowers whenever he felt like it, oblivious to the fact that he wasn’t getting enough nutrition. He would dig and excitedly drag back oddities that he found, and the one time he found a plant that looked particularly good for him, he insisted that it be shared with her.
A black pit still lingered in her chest when she recalled how pleased he was while he munched on the rare vegetable he discovered, then how distressed he became when she wouldn’t have any as well. He bumped and nipped at her, all but begging her to eat. His ears pinned back against his head, his fur bristled in a way she hadn’t seen since. It was only when she took a small bite and let him inspect the new teeth marks that he seemed to calm down, but perhaps she had been looking too deep into the actions of her tiny friend. All she could say for certain was that he was scared she was going hungry.
A morbid thought wondered if his first mother had refused food shortly before being attacked, and he—as small and simple as he was—had connected the two events in his mind, making him absolutely terrified that something would happen if Ceele didn’t have something too. All of that fear, and desperation overwhelmed him, just because she was happier watching him eat. She was determined to erase that issue. She would find something that needed a worker and earn enough to feed them both. One day, she would be able to smile at how big and healthy her little fluffy boy had become, but until then, it was becoming increasingly difficult not to think about how she was spending so much time growing vegetables and fruit that he couldn’t have…
Every morning was an exercise in tending to the gardens while actively shoving down images of a pleased ferrorabbit happily eating the results. That never went well; no matter how determined she was to complete her duties without a single selfish thought, most tasks were done while picturing his full belly and delighted bounces. There were a few weeks until the fastest of the crops would be ready for harvest, and Ceele would have to collect them while fighting the urge to bring back just a few for him.
She couldn’t, because she knew exactly how quickly that could escalate. It would start small—A vegetable here, a fruit there—but seeing Hoppit happy was one of the precious few good things she had in her life. Crossing the line would only become easier each time. They couldn’t risk losing their new home over greed, and she was already betraying the trust given to her by housing a wild animal, especially one known to be a pest for crops. She didn't want to know how angry it would make her benefactors if she was caught taking their vegetables for one.
No matter how tame and precious Hoppit was, and no matter how well he listened, they would only see him as the same creature that ruined harvests in droves. Thus was why she had to tell him to stay cooped up by himself while she was working or scavenging. And to her surprise, he did.
Honestly, she had made the initial request with the expectation of needing to carry him back into their home until he understood that she wasn’t leaving him forever. There wasn’t much she could do to stop the ferrorabbit from digging through the old wooden building if he wanted to get out. He wouldn’t need to damage anything either—a rotting board on the door only needed a little push to nudge it out of the way, and his natural curiosity made sure he was aware of it. But no, Hoppit was well-behaved as always, keeping hidden until she walked through the door, where he would leap from the shadows to personally show her how good he was and how he stayed put like she asked him to. It never stopped amazing her that he had such a surprising level of understanding despite being an animal, and that was to say nothing of how young he was.
All that intelligence, joy, and companionship he offered her…and yet the best she could give back to him was the weeds from the garden and the odd plant she found while scavenging…
Soft clacks of flicking ears dragged her from her pondering, her mind returning to the present. Hoppit finished his treat of the small plant, then bounced in place and scurried over to his bowl of water, perfectly happy to have eaten only that. He was so joyful with how little she provided, approaching every day of scarcity with the same enthusiasm she could never muster, as if certain that everything would be alright.
“It’s bedtime, Hoppit,” Ceele announced through a soft sigh, stoking the fire with enough branches to hopefully last the night. The ferrorabbit perked an ear in her direction, then sat on his haunches to extend the rest of himself up, his two little forepaws adorably held to his chest as he inspected the room like he always did. She smiled and made sure everything was stored away, then laid down on her bundle of blankets, covering herself with the warmest one. Hoppit bolted over to snuggle once he decided everything in the shed was up to his standards, throwing himself to the floor in a dramatic flop of comfort. Her quiet laughter subsided as they both settled in for the night, her tail completing the rabbit’s encompassing cuddle, but her eyes fell towards the obsidian orb on the table, her thoughts following suit.
It sat there, just as she left it, as benign as anything else ever placed atop the improvised furnishing. Yet there was a sense of ease and purpose as well. The old wooden trough seemed…important with its adornment firmly laid upon its surface, and she couldn’t puzzle out why. She was starting to doubt her earlier excitement.
Should she sell it? Would anyone know where it came from? Would anyone know what it was, or if it was worth anything? If she could get even a modest sum for it, she would be able to buy clothing, food, and new bedding. It would be easier to convince someone to give her work if she was dressed better and wasn’t so thin, and then she would have the income to slowly improve both of their lives. She could pay for a wandering merchant to ask a ferrorabbit rancher about the animal, even if it would take time to get back to her, or maybe she could hire a local if they needed to go near one for some reason. The cost didn’t matter to her as long as it happened.
But there was something else bothering her about the idea of selling the stone. She had travelled so far with a tug in her chest, only for the feeling of wanderlust to dissipate as soon as she held it. Was that a sign? She was never one for things like ‘fate,’ but a niggling doubt in her mind discouraged the idea of making a profit off her discovery. Even if what she could gain was so very tempting, and even if Hoppit would be happier if she did…
She tore her dampened eyes away and closed them, ignoring the burning trails running across her face. It would be another early morning, and she needed to sleep so she could take care of the garden. Decisions like this could wait. Once she had nothing else distracting her, and she had time to properly think about it, she would see how she felt about the stone.
Eventually, she dozed off with Hoppit pressed against her chest, and a longing in her heart.
Next
—
A/N: Patreon and Ko-fi will be 1 chap ahead this time around, and I've set it so everything from the lowest tier up can read the newest trashfire! Anything above that is sheer show of love. Hope you enjoyed!

Michael crawled over the broken windshield glass and sandy dirt to his girlfriend, Sam. Every breath he took was labored as he inched over to her, he distantly felt the pain. He knew he had broken most of his ribs, his legs, and most of the bones in his left arm, but that was nothing compared to the injuries she had sustained being on the passenger side when it was struck.
Sweat mixed with the blood on his forehead, dripping into and making his eyes sting. Her breathing was becoming more and more shallow, as desperation welled in his mind. Their twisted wreck that was some distance away began to smoke, before flames began to lick from the inside of the hood.
“If any gods or demons can hear me, I beg of you, please. Please spare her life.” He hoarsely whispered. “I’ll give you anything, everything, just please. She has children who need her more than they need me.”
---OFFER ACCEPTED---
---YOU HAVE BEEN SELECTED FOR TRANSLOCATION---
The voice rolled through his mind like the deep and powerful rumblings of a storm.
Michael began to pass out, his vision slowly fading.
As the last rays of light hit his eyes, he saw her wounds closing to heal. His eyes rolled back.
________________________________________
---INITIATING GODSMARKED TRAINING---
He was standing somewhere. Somewhere? It was a void, neither light, nor dark, but –NULL–. He could still see himself, his hand in front of his face, wearing the same long black shirt and black cargo pants, despite the apparent lacking of light. He didn’t hurt anymore.
“Greeting [Godsmarked]. I am here to give you your training.”
Directly to his right, a few feet away from him, was a figure clad entirely in deep purple robes. Their hands were clothed in stunningly white gloves, while their hood obscured any attempts to discern the face inside.
“So, a god or multiple gods heard my offer, and took me up on it. I suppose I am here to render my payment,” Michael mused. “I’ll cry later for what I sacrificed on that altar. Who are you, and what do I need to train for?”
“I am Estoc, [Servant] of the Divines. You are being given training on how to utilize the most common magical elements of the plane you are being transported to, for the gods own amusement or some grander purpose. Who can say which one it is?” Estoc said as they shrugged, while their robe shifted shades of purple.
“Please be aware, this process may sting. The last [Godsmarked] complained quite loudly.” Estoc waved their hand, and Michael hissed with a sharp intake of air as if the crown of his skull were branded with an iron.
“The knowledge you have gained will give you the intrinsic ability to will a Status Window into being. This Status Window will display your classes, titles, certain physical attributes, injuries, magical power, and any skills gained from classes or titles. As you use this Status Window, you will grow in familiarity with its function, but all sapient beings of this realm are able to utilize this function from early childhood.
Classes represent pathways that grant access to active and passive skills over the course of a person’s development, representing their personal specialties and the applications of those specialties. Each adult has at least one class, and the limit is five, though as classes level up and synergies develop, classes may merge to become new classes opening up additional slots, as well as prompting the selection of a replacement class.
You are being transported to the realm of Tillania.
Good luck on your journey, Michael Judge.” Estoc tilted their head to the side as though listening to something, and in a lower register said, “Sam Iron will make a full recovery in the hospital.”
Michael dropped his chin to his chest, sniffed, and a tear rolled down his cheek. He sighed, and looked back up, only to see that Estoc was gone. He wiped his face, and steeled himself for the possibilities.
---GODSMARKED TRAINING COMPLETED---
---CALCULATING CLASS CHOICES---
The white words appeared on the white bordered black Status Window that appeared in front of him.
---CALCULATION COMPLETE. CLASS OPTIONS ARE AS FOLLOWS. SELECT TWO---
-[Magus (Fungus)]
-[Magus (Necromancy)]
-[Medic]
-[Soldier]
-[Priest]
-[Clerk]
-[Trader]
Michael stared at the screen and let his thoughts wander over why these were his choices. The fungus mage felt a little on the nose, he had been devoted to a decentralized religion that revered psilocybin as its sacrament, and experimented with his own. The Soldier was from his time in the Army. Trader from working a certain general store chain with the word “Dollar” in it when he was young and poor. Priest was from his time studying religion and coaching others. Medic from his time working in the hospital as a laboratory technician, and in the army with a medical brigade support battalion.
He didn’t want to be a priest, or a fungus mage, at least not at first. Soldier, while useful, didn’t lend itself to the role he wanted to see himself in. But necromancy? He thought it over some more as to why that was the case.
The modern concept of necromancy involved raising the dead, zombies, skeletons, ghouls, disturbing the dead. The classical concept, however, was involved with any magic associated with dead flesh, including magic meant to investigate health conditions or divine futures from stool, skin, muscle tissue, urine, or blood. He had been steeped in tabletop roleplaying games, as well as classical myths of the various kinds of undead, and the various kinds of necromancers. It would seem, then, that this world would occasionally have to deal with the existence of undead. If that were the case, he thought that he might have a better time being able to sell himself as an expert on preventing and exorcising them. He had always been in love with the idea of the undead, though he thought that it would probably be more socially acceptable if he didn’t create any.
As to the other class? He felt most at home being able to treat others.
---CLASS CHOICES ACCEPTED---
---GENERATING CLASS SKILLS---
[MAGUS (NECROMANCER)] Level 1
PASSIVES
[SANCTUARY] Non-sapient undead will not target you until you take a hostile action against them.
[LIFESIGHT] Entities that are either alive or undead have their profiles outlined. Dead organic material is also outlined. Can be willed on or off, or to adjust the color of the profile outlines.
ACTIVES
[BLACK BOLT] Safely hold or throw a black gathering of magical energy that greatly accelerates and feeds the metabolism of microbial entities on a targeted area. Range: ≤50m. Mana cost [Medium-Low]
[GRAVESPEAK] You may speak with dead entities or non-sapient undead entities. Mana Cost: [Low]
[MEDIC] Level 1
PASSIVES
[FIRST AID] Additional proficiency with Medical tools and techniques. Scales with level.
ACTIVES
[TRIAGE] Reveals certain status information from a target. Range ≤8m. Mana Cost: [Very Low]
[BASIC MENDING] Manipulate a living entity to alter an injury and/or repair damage. Limited to physical trauma. Range: ≤1m. Mana Cost: [Low]
[HEMATOLOGY] Reveals very specific status information based on the inquiry of the user. Material Component: Requires 25 µL of blood. Range ≤1m. Mana Cost: [Medium-High]
---CLASS SKILLS GENERATED. YOU HAVE BEEN GRANTED TWO BOONS AS COMPENSATION FOR BEING REMOVED FROM YOUR LOCAL REALM---
---BOON 1 DISPENSED---
Title: [Godsmarked] – Imparts several passives on the title holder.
Boon: [Reformation] – Physical ailments and deformities have been healed.
Michael blinked. His vision had improved, and he put away his glasses. For some reason, his thoughts came clearer to him as well.
Passive Skill: [Heaven’s Bounty] – You may receive additional objects from defeated foes.
Passive Skill: [Speak in Tongues] – Proficiency in vernacular languages of new realm provided.
Passive Skill: [Quest] – Patrons may provide you with tasks and rewards.
Passive Skill: [Titled] – You have a greater chance of receiving titles than normal.
Passive Skill: [Regenerative] – You heal more quickly than usual, to the point where, given enough time, you may even regrow a limb.
Active Skill: [Cargo Space] – Integrated inventory function in status window. Mana Cost: [None]
---BOON 2 DISPENSED. CHOOSE FROM PERSONALLY OWNED ITEMS IN FORMER REALM AS EQUIPMENT. MUST FIT IN INVENTORY OR OWN PERSON---
Michael thought about it. He would bring his laptop, cellphone, solar chargers and batteries. He knew it would be a long while before they could be repaired if they were ever damaged, but some utility was better than no utility, and out of curiosity he had previously downloaded a number of technical medical manuals from the time that he wanted to pursue a doctorate in pathology, as well as the children’s book “The way it works” which described the other areas of machines he wasn’t familiar with in an easily digestible format.
With any luck, and enough time, he might run into an engineer that might enjoy having access to that information. If there was other magic in this world he might be able to trade access to it for various repairs. Or, perhaps he would get around to finally tinkering himself, he wasn’t closing himself off to any options.
An SAS survival book with many different handy tips and tricks for wilderness survival. Various tools, a hammer, a machete, a first aid kit and a repurposed fishing box he filled with various medicines for most common ailments. A pocket survival kit including a ferrite rod and various other small tools. A flashlight that had a solar charger as well as a crank charger with charging ports.
He was surprised to see that it also included items that he was no longer certain as to where they were. He had owned a 50-pound draw weight compound bow some time ago that was left with a family member, as well as twenty barbed hunting arrows. It was given to him as a gift from his father and grandfather, though he never really was a fan of hunting. He stimmed, shaking his hand and striking his thumb against his middle and forefinger while he thought, before moving to the other hand stimulation exercises he did whenever he got excited or deep in thought.
Finally the water backpack, rucksack, treatment tabs, and a few old army uniforms that still fit would round out the space. Previously, he had been concerned that his job really didn’t assist him with maintaining a healthy weight, but if this was going where he anticipated it might, his extra bulk would serve him well until he could become better established.
Michael Judge ([Medic] Level 1; [Magus (Necromancy)] Level 1)
Health: 100% Mana: 100% Stamina: 100%
Conditional Status: [Well-Rested]; [Well-Fed]
Titles: [Godsmarked]
Boons: [Reformation]
Passive Skills: [Heaven’s Bounty]; [Speak in Tongues]; [Quest]; [Titled]; [Regenerative]; [Sanctuary]; [Lifesight]; [First Aid]
Active Skills: [Black Bolt] ; [Gravespeak] ; [Triage]; [Basic Mending]; [Hematology]
Inventory (Open? [Y/N])
Message Log (Open? [Y/N])
[CONFIRM]
He exhaled, his finger hovering over the [CONFIRM] button. “Only worry about the things in your control. I guess now is a good a time as any to have my agoge.”
________________________________________
He pressed the button. His vision was filled, piece by piece with his new location, though he didn’t feel himself moving. As the last piece fell into place, he could hear, and feel, the wind over the grass of the hilly plains. It was evening, and he measured the daylight remaining using his hand. He had a little over an hour and a half before sunset.
The whole area looked similar to the semi-arid environment of the hilly grasslands of western Kansas. If that was the case, he wondered to himself if this place was also a hellscape where the local flora and fauna rely on a steady stream of wildfires to maintain the ecosystem. The grass came up to his knees and his waste, which he didn’t particularly enjoy. The sturdy stems were always difficult to sleep on, from his experience with the army. Not to mention what could be hiding in the grass.
… Hiding in the grass? He willed his [Lifesight] to become active and his vision became frantically populated with green profiles. He shut his eyes, willing [Lifesight] to have a few parameters. He could see a status window behind his eyelids. It felt like mentally right-clicking a skill and opening the properties menu.
________________________________________
[Adjust] [Lifesight]
Toggle light green profile if living entity is ≥30 cm at ranges 1m-500m. Increase color saturation with higher vitality. If living entity is 1-30 cm, highlight profile at ≤1m.
Toggle light red profile if entity is undead. Increase color saturation with higher durability.
Toggle yellow profile for dead organic material belonging to the Animal Kingdom if material is ≥30 cm within a range of 1-500m. ________________________________________
He opened his eyes. This time he wasn’t as bombarded with information. He’d have to keep this on a toggle, or with only one eye. Now he didn’t have to worry about bugs filling his vision with a sea of green. He did however, notice a few red outlines hovering slowly over the ground spaced out here and there. He could also see yellow outlines buried in the ground here and there.
He toggled [Lifesight] off. It was useful to scan the area but he was still getting used to the information overload and he still had other more pressing issues to investigate.
Could he equip things directly from his status window? It took a few tries, but yes. He could will it, or he could open up an Equipment screen and mentally drag and drop an item where it should go. He equipped his uniform, boots, and his floppy red wide brimmed hat with a mushroom theme that came to a rearward facing conical tip. He also took out his sunscreen and drank a sip of water from his wearable water pouch.
What information is revealed by [Triage]? He tried it on himself while keeping his status sheet open. [Triage]: (Target: Michael Judge; Health: 100% ; Conditions: [None]; Injuries: None.) His Status Window still displayed the conditions of [Well-Fed] and [Well-Rested]. He took out a knife, rolled back his sleeve, and made a small cut on the top of his arm. A little blood flowed as he did. The [Triage] and Status Sheet both updated. [Triage]: (Target: Michael Judge; Health: 98% ; Conditions: [None]; Injuries: Cut {Posterior Arm, 5 cm.) He held his hand over his arm as a light sweat began to form on his forehead from the sun. An ocean blue glow spread from his palm, as he willed the wound to close up like a zipper. He felt a small drain on his magic, and confirmed that indeed, his magic had dropped by 5%. There was no indication that there had ever been a wound on his skin. He summoned a notepad and pen, noting the information, before willing it back into his inventory.
Next, he used [Hematology] on the blood for a Complete Blood Count. He felt a much stronger pull on his magic than with [Triage]. He confirmed that indeed, his magic had dipped to 50%. He made a note of it as well as what the CBC provided: WBC Count, RBC count, RBC morphology, WBC differential, platelet count and morphology.
He took out a small umbrella and started walking, occasionally flipping [Lifesight] on and off. He manifested [Black Bolt] as he walked, holding it in his right hand. His magic had dipped by 10%, but would recover the used 10% when he stopped manifesting it. Only by actually throwing it did the mana stay consumed. More and more interesting, He thought. After about 40 minutes of walking, he discovered a well-trodden path, with tell-tale wagon ruts and horse dung that was neither fresh nor completely dry. He couldn’t see any smoke on the horizon, so it was likely more than 20 miles to the next settlement. He picked a direction and started walking that way.
As the sun dipped below the horizon he was left with a question. Would he camp, or keep walking through the dark? It’s not like things could sneak up on him at night if they were coming from somewhere he could see.
He kept walking, following the road by twilight, and then moonlight. He paused, however, when he saw a moderately red outline hunched over on the road in front of him. It had to be just within 500m of him. Michael materialized his bow and an arrow, nocking it, and approaching quietly.
250 meters. 200. 150. Lips smacked, cartilage crunched, wet and sticky, as it murmured and growled with hunger. 125. 100. His boot clattered a rock.
The munching stopped. Glowing yellow eyes piercing the dark. It walked on all fours. All sixes? 75. 60. 50. It stood on its back legs, growing taller and taller as it stretched its back, sniffing the air. Rotting scales. Exposed bones. Viscera exposed with fresh meat oozing from its ruptured stomach. Elongated face like a monitor lizard. And as the breeze blew through the grass, Michael realized he had made a critical mistake.
He was upwind.
With a nasty series of clicks, it charged forward. 40. He was shaking, pulling back the bowstring. 15. He couldn’t get a clear shot, its gait was serpentine! 5!
[SANCTUARY ACTIVATED]

Afternoon, all! My storage is getting full again, so I've got several bits going free :)
Produce/Fruit

• Tomato (10) x4
• Wheat (10) x5
• Sugarcane (10) x3
• Potato (10) x3
• Carrot (10) x3
• Orange Pumpkin (10) x4
• Coconut (10) x2
• Orange (10)
• Pear (10)
• Cherry (10) x2

Housewares

• Diner chair
• Froggy chair
• Zen cushion
• Vintage TV tray
• Gas range
• Water cooler
• Square bathtub
• Bathroom sink
• Yucca
• Garbage pail
• Dress mannequin
• Merchandise table
• Cat tower
• Tower of Pisa
• Gold turtle figurine

Art

• Beautiful statue (genuine)
• Wistful painting (genuine)

DIY Recipes

• Basket pack
• Box-shaped seat
• Carp on a cutting board
• Coconut juice
• Floral swag
• Garden wagon
• Glowing-moss balloon
• Glowing-moss dress
• Glowing-moss-jar shelves
• Glowing-moss wreath
• Golden bathtub x2
• Infused-water dispenser
• Jungle wall x2
• Kettle bathtub
• Light bamboo bath mat
• Log bench
• Log garden lounge
• Pan flute x2
• Project table
• Ruined decorated pillar
• Tiny library
• Vine garland
• Vine ladder set-up kit x2
• Woven-vines hat

Cooking Recipes

• Baked Potatoes x3 x2
• Bread
• Cake sale
• Carpaccio di capesante
• Carrot juice x2
• Champinones al ajillo
• Cherry smoothie
• Coconut oil
• Fruit salad
• Mushroom curry
• Mushroom potage
• Orange pie x2
• Peach tart
• Pear jam
• Pumpkin scones x2
• Salad
• Salad-stuffed tomato
• Sugar crepe
• Tomato bagel sandwich
• Tomato juice
• Veggie cookies
• Veggie crepe
• Veggie cupcakes
• Veggie quiche

Just a couple of rules;

• Maximum 10 items per person, to give folks a fair chance to get something they want (one stack counts as a single item)
• Please comment with exactly what you'd like, as my DM notifications are unreliable. If you don't comment, I won't see your request!
• My internet can only handle hosting one person at a time, so I'll reserve items in the order they're requested and contact people individually to arrange collection
• If I don't hear back from you within 12 hours, the reserve will be lifted
• My time zone is BST, so bear that in mind if I'm taking a while to respond :)

I have recently inherited a large collection of Warhammer stuff and this has re-ignited my hobby bug. My stepbrother and I hadn’t played since 5ed but he started collecting again during COVID.
Amongst other things, I am now the owner of an unbuilt mechanized IG army but after looking into it I’m just not feeling the Guard….I have always been ork-curious though.
Back in the day, it was a free-for-all all with looted wagons, counts-as trukks, and anything else you could kit-bash together but I just don’t see a lot of that at the FLGS.
Is it worth it to convert the vehicles or should I just sell/trade them off for the genuine articles?
Thanks for the help!

I have bought a 3" strut top spacer kit to lift my 2007 Subaru Impreza 2.5i wagon. I have done extensive research but haven't found the answer to my question. I see everyone talking about needing trailing arm spacers as well. What I'm unsure of is how long of a trailing arm spacers I need when I lift it 3 inches. Any help is appreciated.

Like most people, I had a fucked up childhood. Who doesn't, right? My father took off before I was born and my mother was left to care for me on her own, a skill she was sorely lacking. My mother slipped right back into the drug-addled, party lifestyle she’d enjoyed before I was born and had soon turned our two-bedroom apartment into an opium den.
For the first five years of my life, I walked around in a confused, terrifying mist. The smoky air would flood down the hallway from our living room and slip under my bedroom door. It always seemed to linger for days.
I know now that my mother wasn't a bad person, just a victim of her addictions. When she did have spare money, she would put food in the house or buy me clothes from Goodwill. The only pieces of furniture I had in my bedroom was a mattress set and a little blue and white toy chest. Not that I had a lot of toys to put in it, of course, just the three I had gotten for birthdays: one was an art kit, one was a red wagon, and the last, my pride and joy, was a doll named Betsy.
Betsy was my best friend. We would have imaginary tea parties together, sleep together, and even take baths together. Sometimes, I even remember her voice.
When I thought back on my conversations with the doll in adulthood, I realized that I was likely suffering from delusions, thanks to the always present butts of smoke that laid claim to the dingy hallways and drafty bedrooms of our small apartment.
Still, I remember the sound of her voice: a pleasant, tingling lilt that was almost always coupled with a raucous giggle. I also remember the things that she said to me and the things she wanted me to do. She asked me to steal, usual food or pens and pencils. She wanted me to bring her forks and knives and hit the bad man who slept on our couch. It was always something and I would always get in trouble. But she wouldn’t. When I told my mother who had put me up to these games she would scoff and shake her head. She never believed me. Adults never do.
Around my 6th birthday I asked my mother for a birthday party. I wanted to invite the mean girls from school and serve them cake and ice cream to make them like me. I remember standing in the kitchen that day with such hopes, having just asked the most important question of my entire life. The glass bottle of coca-cola I held was shaking in my nervous hands. I waited with bated breath as my mother continued putting groceries away, almost as if she hadn’t heard me. But I knew she had. Finally, just as I had failed a second time to muster the courage to repeat my question, she turned around and gave me a flippant shake of her head.
"A birthday party? Laura, that's ridiculous, I can't afford to feed 15 children that aren't even mine. Hell, I can barely afford to feed you! You eat like an elephant, especially for a girl your size. Or, I’m sorry, Betsy does. There's barely anything left for me to eat around here, much less a classroom of other people’s brats."
My face fell as she shook her head, mumbled something else under her breath and stumbled off into the living room. I heard the music go up then as more people walked in the door. Some left, some stayed; I never knew them either way.
It simply wasn't fair, my mother threw parties all the time. What about me? I was a kid! All my friends had birthday parties and now the mean girls at school would know I was too poor to have one and they would tease me even more.
I felt tears start to well in the corners of my eyes and I choked back a sob while I ran to my room and slammed the door behind me. Betsy was lying on the bed and smiling. She was always smiling. Usually it made me feel better but today it just made me angry. She just kept staring at me, smiling. She was going to tell me to do something bad, again. This was why mother wouldn't throw me a birthday party. It was because of all the trouble I got into because of her. This was her fault! Betsy didn't have to go to school and Betsy never got in trouble like I did. And in my young mind, I truly believed it was the doll, not my mother, who was to blame for everything.
I snapped then. I screamed in indignant rage and I threw the bottle as hard as I could at the bed. It hit Betsy on her forehead and she fell on the floor. Good. I picked up the bottle and I hit her again and again. I thought I heard her laugh and I hit her harder. Then I laughed. When my rage was spent, I dragged Betsy to my toy chest and threw her in. I slammed it shut and kicked the chest against the wall; I never wanted to see Betsy again - ever.
I never owned another doll after Betsy. About a week later the police came and two nice ladies took me to live in a new home in a new state, with food and toys and no drugs. The trunk went into storage and the wagon disappeared. I never saw my mother again. As I got older, my foster parents admitted she was in jail, doing 25 years. That was fine with me; I felt nothing for her anyway. I still had nightmares because of my life with that woman. But then slowly, I began to heal. I focused on doing well in school and I ignored my mother’s letters from prison. She reached out to me several times in my 20’s, as well, but I always declined her calls.
That is, until this morning. I’m 30 now, with my own children and a loving, honest husband. I have a beautiful house, two dogs and a career as a social worker trying to make a difference for kids who had it bad like me. I’m happy, I’m steady, and I’m content. So when I got a voicemail from my mother informing me she had been paroled and that she wished to speak, decided to let her say her piece.
Since the kids were home from school I went out into our shed in the backyard to return my mother's call. The shed was the children's domain and they used it to play in the summer. I sat on my old toy chest which was currently being used as tea party table and dialed the number she had left me.
Three rings.
"Hello? Laura?"
"Hello, mother. How are you?"
"Oh Laura, thank you for speaking to me. I know you have your own life now and a family. I would love to meet them someday! I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am. For everything."
"Mother, you are not meeting my kids - ever. And since you called me, I am going to what I have needed to say for years. The opium, the heroin, they destroyed you. And the worst of it is that you almost took me down with you. I was five. That was no home for a child. Honestly, I’m surprised it took you so long to get caught."
“Laura, I know how it seems, but I honestly know nothing! Look, it hardly matters and I do understand why you would feel that way. Why you would hate me and not want me to meet your little ones. I learned a lot about forgiveness while I was away and just...oh Laura, I am so sorry about Betsy."
"Betsy?" I paused, confused. "Why would you care about her?"
“I know, Laura, believe me I do. It was all my fault, the drugs, the partying. And Betsy, oh God, if I had only paid attention, if I had only known. She's gone and it's because of me.”
As my mother began to cry, I tapped my fingers on the toy box, impatiently. The drugs had clearly fried her brain.
"Mother,” I sighed. “Why are you talking about Betsy? And why do you even care? I know where Betsy is." Right underneath me.
"What are you talking about, Laura? Oh God, where is she?!"
I shifted uncomfortably. "Well...Betsy's in the trunk, where she’s always been."
There was a beat of stunning silence.
"What do you mean your sister's in the trunk?"
"Sister? What the hell are you talking about? Back on drugs so soon? That’s a record, even for you. Betsy is a goddamn doll. I locked her in my toy box a few days before you got arrested for possession."
"Laura.. oh God, no...no... Laura, what have you done? I wasn't arrested because of the drugs, Laura, I was arrested because of Betsy's disappearance! You always called her your little doll, but we thought you knew! Oh God. We thought you knew. Laura, no, what have you done to my baby?!"
My mind had gone blank and with no emotion I set the phone down next to me and stood up. I could hear the muffled sound of my mother's anguished cries and feel the dark clutch of possibility in my own chest. Memories were stirring in the back of my mind, threatening to flood forward into my consciousness. They pushed against a door in my mind that had been locked so tightly for so long that I had forgotten it was even there.
Was it even possible? Could the trauma and the opium have really led me to believe that a small child was actually doll? Begging for food and utensils to eat with, asking me to protect her from the bad man?
No...
I slowly turned around and brought my eyes down the makeshift tea party table. Surely, it was too small; you couldn't fit a person in there. You couldn't. But then, what about a very small, starving, emaciated child? What about her, would she fit? Would an investigator even bother looking for a person in this chest? I knew I wouldn’t. It was just too small. And I was sure we had opened the toy box at some point over the years, hadn’t we? Or had something swimming in the dark recesses of my memories always stopped me? I couldn’t remember ever seeing it open. I knelt down to the ground and opened the clasps. It would be better to not look. After all that I had overcome, this new life that I had earned for myself. It could all be undone by opening this toy box. I shouldn't open it. I should throw it in a landfill and forget it ever existed. I should not look inside...
I opened the chest.
I never had a doll. My mother never could afford to buy me one. I never had a wagon either, for that matter. But I did have a toy box; a pretty, blue and white toy box. And when I was five, I beat my little sister to death and put her in it.

Hey all
Looking for some first hand experience recounts of people with their Corolla touring. Specifically the import version currently being sold in Japan new. Looking at a 2021/22 ish age range. Are there any years where they changed anything?
I’ll be looking g for a top spec with modellista body kit if one comes up at a reasonable price.
But I just wanna see how everyone’s liked it. I was originally going to go for a late teens crown but simplicity is key for a daily and these corollas are much more simple. I’m also planning on test driving a hatchback at a dealership here as well, as I figured it’ll be the same as the wagon in the front.
I have the purchasing/importing/compliance already locked down so just really looking for opinions on the actual vehicle.

Ilril - half-ogre female Rank/Profession: Journeyman Jeweler. Shopkeeper. Game mechanic: 1st level Expert Sidekick Working various markets since her apprenticeship, Ilril has been using her skills as a jeweler and glassblower for the past year and a half. She came up with the idea of signing on with a ship to both learn new skills and to view various other markets while working passage. She is currently working for the crew of the Red River in Lobor in the Archipeligo in a small shop that Red River managed to purchase. River's Edge. She is also using her contacts from the various flea markets and swap meets to get in further merchandise from those contacts to act as an agent for them, as the permanent location makes it a desirable source of revenue. Skills: Jeweler, Glassmaker. Some skills in minor metalwork, mainly soft metals. Personality: Pragmatic, Artistic Goals: Make money, hone skills, eventually find a way to normalize her appearance to some extent. Appearance: Ilril is a half-ogre, and while most half-breeds look like a mix of the parents blended together, her appearance is not so blended. Her left half looks mostly-human. Her right half looks mostly-ogre. The mismatch of sizes and features gives her myriad problems on a daily basis. 3gp/year, noncombatant.
Mournmyr Barrityl - black dragonborn female Rank/Profession: Gardener, Druidic Initiate Game mechanic: 1st level Magic Sidekick, crew of the Red River Has been working in Druidic groves and landscape maintenance in the Archipeligo for several years now. Skills: Proficiency in Wisdom, Druidic Initiate, proficient in Nature & Medicine Spells: Druidcraft, Guidance. Create or Destroy Water. Personality: Focus on plants and cultivation, not well suited to farm work. Slight ADHD. Slightly introverted around people she doesn't know, extroverted when with people she does know. Fascinated by the fae and the stories about them. Goals: Eventually wants to become a druid herself. Equipment: quarterstaff, gardener's clothing, knife Appearance: whip-thin almost skin-and-bones black dragonborn female with matte-black scales and a few scars from fights in her childhood. Wears practical clothing but accessorizes it to make it more feminine or pretty. 5gp/year
Ihzu Velda - hill dwarf female Rank/Profession: Journeyman Ship's Carpenter Game mechanic: Warrior sidekick, level 3 Ihzu is a hill dwarf from the isle of the Iron Reaches, she's spent most of her life either aboard ships or at docks. She has two Misadventures in her backstory that she almost never talks about, and turns red and embarassed just talking around the Crate Of Ill Omen or Gentleman Jack's Pleasure Excursion. Skills: Defender, Proficiency in Constitution, Athletics, and Nature (foraging), carpenter's tools Personality: stoic, hard-worker, results-oriented. Disdains artistic work unless it is functional. Goals: Become a full Master as a Ship's Carpenter. Currently working under Gadget. Equipment: chainmail, light crossbow, shield, warhammer, carpenter's tools Appearance: short, squat, dwarf female without a beard though she does have sideburns and particularly thick eyebrows, usually scowling. 3gp/year
Zylkoris - ratfolk male Rank/Profession: Unranked Chandler Game Mechanic: 1st level Expert Sidekick Zylkoris has spent most of his life wandering from place to place and never lingering for long, though he did spend a couple of years learning basic chemistry and helping out a chandler in Sokal. Skills: Dexterity-proficient. Proficient in History, Performance: Art (scent-based chemistry), Stealth, Arcana, Medicine. Expertise with Tinker's tools. Proficient with engraver's kid, alchemical supplies Personality: cautious, careful, precise. Quite familiar with chemistry involved in soap and candle making, and to some extent (spent a couple years in the field) selling and using ship's equipment. Goals: Eventually make enough or save enough he can settle down in his own place. Having fun with the journey until then. Equipment: alchemy (chemistry) kit, tinker's tools, commoner's clothing, work clothing with leather apron. Appearance: thin but wiry look, black fur, pink nose, right ear has a chunk missing from a bar fight (the other guy started it!), long thin tail. 5gp/year
Chalarra Mizerym - tiefling male Rank/Profession: mercenary soldier grunt Game Mechanic: warrior sidekick, level 3 Skills: Dexterity focus, Acrobatics and Survival. Attacker type (+2 to hit). Familiar with but not proficient in watercraft. Personality: direct, fancies himself a poet but self-aware enough to know he's not a good one, pragmatic, has sworn off alcohol after misadventure last time he went on a bender. Goals: None. He isn't completely content with living day-to-day but he's never been good with strategies. Equipment: shield, falchion, shortbow, 20 arrows, leather armor Appearance: No tail - it got cut in half and then infected by some magical curse. Still sore around where the amputation took place. Reddish skin, black hair, prominent horns, carefully trimmed moustache and goatee. Criminal record: Two cases of drunk and disorderly, two cases of inebriated in public, one case of improper wagon control when he was drunk and managed to land a wagon atop a streetlamp. Neither he nor anyone else involved know how he managed that and the charge was dismissed after that. 5gp/year
Eloise - yuan ti female Rank/Profession: prostitute, exotic dancer at the Scarlet Festhall in Lobor Game Mechanic: 9th level Rogue (Soulknife) Skills: Psionic powers as a Soulknife, Deception, Insight, Performance: dance. Feat: Grappler Personality: cold and calculating behind a friendly mask, she is completely comfortable with her current line of work as the hours and pay are both excellent. She's also discovered a certain satisfaction in being as good as she is in that line of work, and every so often she manages to get pleasure out of the whole thing instead of just feigning it for the client. Goals: continuing to work until she's managed a sufficient nest egg, eventually finding someone with both money and the ability to pleasure her and retiring at that point. That's years down the road though. Criminal record: None. Nobody is going to question her about Samnael's death as everyone who knew the man knew he deserved it a hundred times over. Equipment: In addition to her psi-knives, Eloise normally has four throwing knives nearby at all times plus a collapsible baton. She also has a collection of knives, swords, and exotic weapons she's been gifted by clients over the years. Appearance: Very similar in appearance to Victoria, though her hair is longer and more well-maintained. Background: Samnael is her grandfather and Victoria's grandfather. Samnael sired a number of children and then waited for them to have children before hunting them down and killing them before devouring them. Sometimes devouring them piece-by-piece before killing them. Eloise observed her parents being killed, and the man throwing her aside so that she could mature before he came to claim her. When the two did next meet, she carved him up and buried the pieces in seven locations to make sure he wouldn't be coming back.
Francois Delacroix, Captain of the Elsinore (Hammership) Halfling (Mouseling) m, LN, MV:25, AC:14, hp:39 Level 5 Ranger (Horizon Walker) Str:8, Dex:17, Con:12, Int:13, Wis:13, Cha:12 Skills: Athletics +2, Insight +4, Investigation +4, Perception +4, Survival +4, proficiency with airships, navigator's tools. Personality: Flamboyant (if it is worth doing, it is worth doing with style), Reliable & Fair (sticks to his word, treats all the crew fairly), Storyteller (if he gets going with one of his sailor stories, facts will be stretched to make it a better story) Special Equipment: The One Hat. Most mouselings wear elaborate clothing and will decorate all their treasured possessions. Captain Delacroix takes this seriously with his uniform, but it is nowhere more obvious than with The Hat. It is literally taller than he is and decorated with ribbons and embroidery and feathers (these accounting for most of the height) from exotic creatures and ports. He has spares but The One Hat is the formal one that gets worn while doing his captain duties. It is large, elaborate, and somewhat gaudy by most people's standards. Damage it or steal it at your peril, especially around his crew as seeing the Hat coming is a signal to look busy and they appreciate the warning. Also they've been known to chip in and buy an extra ribbon or flourish to add to it from time to time. Dagger of Warning, Shortbow, Rapier, leather armor (elaborate embossed scrollwork), boots, Ring of Feather Fall, 20 arrows Languages: Common, Narsian, French (badly - there was a woman involved), Sailor's Slang, Orcish (only a few cursewords and a few other phrases - there was another woman involved) Favored Enemy: Fliers Fighting Style: Archery Feat: Sharpshooter Spells: Absorb Elements, Beast Bond (parrot "Mister Percy"), Cure Wounds, Lesser Restoration Background: Captain Delacroix has worked his way up through the ranks, first serving aboard the Tantalus on a sea route. His first airship was as Navigator's Mate aboard the C57D Altair, a patrol ship for a prominent city/state, and he's primarily worked airships since then. The Elsinore is his first captaincy, though the ship itself is owned by the Hildebrand Tea Company. Description: Captain Delacroix is a mouseling of unremarkable appearance with sun-bleached fur and bright eyes and quivering whiskers. He has a single scar, taken in battle against pirates when aboard the Altair, just under his left ear but this is normally concealed by The Hat. Other than the hat he normally wears practical (though embroidered with a few flourishes) clothing under a thick Captain's coat that has a couple of patches from rough use.
David Hennings, beholder isekai Species: Beholder, Background: Isekai David is a seven year old child who died of bone cancer and was reincarnated as a beholder. He has learned to switch out his eyestalk abilities in part of his desire to become a powerful wizard. AL:LN, AC:18, MV:5, hp:180 Str:10, Dex:14(+2), Con:18(+4), Int:17(+3), Wis:15(+2), Cha:17(+3) Skills: Perception:+12, Darkvision 120ft, Passive Perception:22 Eyestalks: 1. Prestidigitation, 2. Paralyzation (DC 16 Con) 1min, 3. Mending, 4. Anti-Magic Ray, 5. Cure Wounds, 6. Telekinetic Ray (DC 16 Str to avoid being picked up, 400 pound limit), 7. Laser Eye (1d10+1 dmg, 800ft range), 8. Stun Beam (DC 16 Wis or unconscious), 9. Disintegration Beam (DC 16 Dex 45dmg), 10. Detect/Read Magic. Anti-magic Cone: David has learned to turn off the anti-magic field, otherwise it is a cone 150ft long that suppresses all magic within that field. David is studying magic because he wants to be able to do a lot of things he can't currently manage. He also wants to be an adventurer.
Topaz, drow female engineer of the Darkness Rising (Hammership) Species: dark elf, female, late adolescent development Game mechanic: 4th level artificer (armorer) AC:13, MV:30, AL:CG, hp:19 Str:11, Dex:13, Con:8, Int:16, Wis:11, Cha:14 Skills: Arcana +5, Athletics +2, Insight +2, Investigation +5, Nature +3, Perception (D) +2. Alchemist's Supplies, Carpenter's Tools, Flute, Navigator's Tools, Smith's Tools, Thieves' Tools, Tinker's Tools, Vehicles (Water), Woodcarver's Tools. Spells: Dancing Lights, Mending, Prestidigitation. Absorb Elements, Cure Wounds, Detect Magic, Disguise Self, Faerie Fire, Feather Fall, Magic Missile, Thunderwave Topaz is an engineer first and foremost, working on ships is her first passion. She's also very fond of the male gender and demonstrates a lack of species-ism. Appearance: a short (5'0") amber-eyed drow who looks (in human terms) to be about nineteen. Mid-back length white hair with highlights that are usually dyed a shade or two different from her eyes, usually in a ponytail. Lithe build. Equipment: light crossbow, 20 bolts, mechanic overalls, dagger, spear, studded leather armor DM Note: Topaz is based on the character Kaylee from Firefly.
Gadget, ship's carpenteengineer of the Red River (Flying Fish ship) Species: warforged female Game Mechanic: 4th level artificer (artillerist) AC:15, MV:30, AL:LN, hp:27 Str:10, Dex:14, Con:12, Int:15, Wis:14, Cha:11 Skills: Arcana +4, Athletics +2, Insight +4, Investigation +4, Perception +4. proficient with Carpenter's Tools, Jeweler's Tools, Navigator's Tools, Thieves' Tools, Tinker's Tools, Vehicles (Water), Woodcarver's Tools Feat: Gunner Spells: Mage Hand, Mending. Alarm, Cure Wounds, Feather Fall, Identify, Shield, Thunderwave. Gadget is a warforged who was a dwarven woman an era ago, she retains some of that identity despite several resets. Enough remains of the warrior who faced the Elven Empire that she privately relishes the chance to shoot up vessels of the Free States as apparently they're similar in outlook. Appearance: Gadget is a warforged with a vaguely feminine styling, with her face being much more articulated than is normal for a warforged. She has also placed a "skin" made of porcelain plating on both arms and hands. Equipment: studded leather armor, light crossbow, 20 bolts, handaxe

Roll…roll…roll…
KER-SMASH!
“Good one, Rock. One more and you’ve got yourself a turkey.” Parker Markle, owner of the bowling establishment, noted.
“Thanks, Parker”, I said, thankfully accepting another longneck, “You still going on with your renovations here?”
“Damn straight!”, he replied, “I’ve got me investors, I’ve got me plans, and I’ve even got me real building permits this time…”
Two weeks later, we’re standing out in front of Parker’s still smoldering bowling alley and Parker is on the verge of tears.
“God damn shame”, I said, trying to commiserate my friend.
“Fucking squatters. Can’t even start on the renovations without these bastards…We chuck’em out of your place and the fuckers burn the place down. Hear from the local constabulary yet?”
“Yeah”, he snuffs, “Fucker’s ain’t got a hard dollar among them; nor two cents in their heads. Sure, I can sue, but to what purpose? Look at the place. I had my investors…I had plans…I’m well and truly fucked, Rock.”
“How much you out? “I asked, “How much you need to rebuild and remodel?”
“Oh, fuck me”, Parker trembled, “At least $55-60 thou. Where the fuck am I supposed to come up with that sort of scratch?”
Ker-ching!
I chucked my empty into the bin.
SPANG!
Parker immediately, without asking, dips into the ever-present cooler and hands me an icy-cold one.
In return, I hand Parker my business Rhodium American Express card.
“What’s this?”, he asks.
“It’s my entry into the world of keggeling and conspicuous consumer consumption” I chuckled.
“What the fuck?”, Parker asked, brow furrowed like the early spring marijuana fields hereabouts.
“Use it to order your needful things”, I said, “I’ve got way more than 60 thou free on the card. I mean, let’s not go nuts…”
“You mean?” He asked, quizzically.
“Yep.”, I replied, “Your wishes have been answered…sort of.
Parker looks at me with wide, wondering eyes.
“I’m your god-damned partner.” I smiled as I lit a huge Oscuro cigar; channeling Marion Ravenwood.
“Oh, fuck”, Parker suddenly breaks into a mile-wide smile. “We’re going to be the first bowling alley to have a walk-in humidor, aren’t we?”
“Fuckin-A, Bubba.”, I chuckle, “Plus a Class-A liquor license. Enough of this Class-B slinging beer for bucks bullshit, we’re going to have us a real tavern here on the green…”
“Let me get my plans”, Parker laughs, “I never thought of going the Class-A direction.”
“We’re going to serve more than pre-nuked wings and slate-board pizza.” I said, “We’re going to have 75 lanes, a full-service tavern, walk-in humidor, 80s arcade, and real fucking food. I remember you going on and on about it before the fire. Well, I haven’t forgotten what you’re dreaming about, so fuck it, let’s just do it.”
“It might go a bit past 60 large”, Parker said, slightly uncertainly.
“Let’s just keep it under 100k and for the love of grog, don’t say anything to Esme…”, I pleaded with Parker.
“I’ll do my best”, Parker said, as a manly handshake ensued.
“This could be the start of a beautiful friendship” I nattered.
Between my American Express card and Parker’s insurance pay out, we’ve got more than enough to start selecting contractors and hire us a security team. We’ve had the plans drawn up, had all the blueprints drafted, reviewed and OK’ed by the various governmental departments.
We are ready to tear down what remains of the old place, groom the land, and begin our re-build.
But first, there’s this little problem neither of us had foreseen.
What the fuck are we going to do with over 1,500 scorched pins and 800 or so blistered bowling balls?
We’ve already ordered all new pinsetters, pins and balls; so, what to do with all the leftovers…?
What to do?
What to do?
Of course! We hold a pre-opening carnival and sell tickets to a bowling ball mortar game.
No shit! Carve out a big-ass target out in some field, and fire bowling ball mortars. The closest ticket to where the ball lands wins.
We can worry about the details later.
First, I need to gin-up a set of bowling ball mortars. We’re going to introduce the southwest to Bowling Ball Bingo!
Hell. We’ll make it a huge pre-opening event: bowling ball punt guns, food trucks, local music, games of skill, food trailers, local brewery participation, drinking and merry making.
Still going to need some bowling ball cannons.
But first, we’ll need a place to hold the festivities.
No worries.
Y’see. I know this guy…
Now, in town, there’s been a lot of building. In fact, it looks overly developed.
However, go outside of town a couple of miles, and it’s heavily rural, fallow, and all agrarian.
Then there happens to be an old Junior League baseball diamond that’s been closed for years and in an advanced stage of neglect and derelictitis. However, it’s right off the main exit highway and nestled up closely to the San Juan River. Loads and loads of area to expand and have a nice little festivity.
I know the owner, the venerable ol’ bean Gilberto Cabrera.
So, I load up with beer and cigars and drive over to see Gilberto.
He’s outside his one-up, two-down, three across shotgun shack, sipping warm Modeles and cursing every aspect of life he’s currently been assigned.
I roll up and Gilberto instinctively reaches for his trusty double-barreled Ruger, gauge of 12.
“Whoa!”, I shout. “Just me, Gil. Kindly ol’ Doctor Rock.”
“What the fuck do you want?”, he growls.
“Hey!”, I yell, “Use low tones, or you can’t have any of the goodies I brought back from Canada.”
He props the shotgun over in a corner and being the avaricious old bastard he normally is, he bids me over to the porch to have a rag-chew and he a rifle of my truck’s built-in humidor.
I wander up and present him some pure maple syrup, fresh from Walmart, a half dozen cigars and a cold 12 pack of straight from the land of sky-blue waters, Hamm’s (“The beer refreshing”).
We sit and catch up with each other. He’s an old widower and never had time for kids, so he’s grateful to have someone at least approximately his age to rabbit on with. He’s either 70 or 125, or somewhere in between.
It’s hard to tell with some of these old, wrinkly types.
Anyways, I broach the subject of ‘borrowing’ his land in and adjacent to the old ballpark.
“What fer?” He asks.
“Well,” I reply between sips of some recently obtained Kentucky Firewater, “Parker Markle and I are partners in a new rebuild of his bowling alley, which the squatters burned to a crisp once we got the local fuzz to chuck’em out.”
“Aye?”, he scowls, “Bastards. What does that have to do with me?”
“We decided to hold an impromptu festival, a couple of days, for grand re-opening, where we’d get some folk in to cater the event, with music, maybe some carnival-type rides, local food trucks and trailers, petting zoo for the kids, maybe a pick-up softball game or two and (saving the best for last) Bowling Ball Bingo.”
“What the hell’s that last one?” He wondered.
“Well, we’ve got nearly 1,000 old and slightly scorched bowling balls from the fire. Parker’s got new stock coming in with the insurance money. So, what better way to dispose of old bowling balls by building a couple of cannons, firing the balls skyward and have them fall on some prepared ground? The ground with have a checkerboard of letters and numbers, and instead of popping up little balls at the local Catholic Church, we use bowling ball cannons to choose?”
“Gil looks at me and scoffs, “Y’know, it’s not been really too quiet around here since you moved in. I know you’re a Master Blaster, but what do you really do?”
“Nothing too exciting,” I snicker, “I just snuff oil and gas well fires.”
“Hrumph”, he snorts, “No wonder it’s like the Fourth of July hereabouts every weekend.”
“A man’s gotta stay in practice”, I chuckle back.
We both have a snort and I produce new cigars. We spend the next few hours drafting up an agreement where we can use his land to hold the festival.
But the land and facilities are in a sad state of repair.
So, I promise to fix it up if he loans it to us for pre-opening weekend.
OK, but the facilities need paint, weed removal, blading for parking, Porta Johns, marking of parking areas, etc.
I tell Gil that’s fine. We’ll do all the work necessary to get his 40-acre donation ready for the big weekend. I also agreed to cede the finished area over to the Junior League baseball concern when we’re finished. As well as give the Jr. League 5% of the take, as the area is impoverished and any little help would be smiled upon greatly.
Gil also wants a nice, little honorarium to the tune of 5% of the gate.
“Sorry, Gil”, I replied, “But that’s a NCD (No Can Do). But I’ll let you sit in the security shack and keep an eye on the gate and warn about any potential trouble”.
He seemed less than amused.
“The gate will be right next to the beer garden and I could arrange it so that you could receive free beer in exchange for your time and sharp eye.” I noted.
The ink on the agreement wasn’t yet dry when Gil stated calling for his free beer.
“In a couple weeks, Gil”, I said, handing him a 12-pack of Blatz. “This’ll hold you until then.
He was deliriously happy. Free beer. Free cigars. A minuscule dose of power over his neighbors.
“Today is going to be a long day”, I noted to myself as I pulled out of Gil’s driveway.
First order of business was getting my old D-6 Caterpillar Dozer up and running. However, it needs some work.
I’ve got an idea, but the more it fleshed out, the more I felt like Hawkeye Pierce trying to get a new pair of boots from the Army.
I think I can nuke several birds with one stone: A trip to see Clay Smith about pipe for four bowling ball cannons.
I’ve known Clay for years and he’s one of the reasons we’ve settled in the area. He runs a fabricating/machine shop and that means I don’t need to buy an outbuilding to build my own metal shop.
After the obligatory handshakes, beers and cigars, we get down to brass tacks.
Well, CRA monel steel actually.
Found some 12.000" OD {A} x 8.600" ID {B} x 3.400" Wall {C} DOM Steel CRA casing, actually from the US Navy and once was part of a battleship’s complement; unknown which boat was the donor.
Perfect for 4 cannons.
CRA refers Corrosion Resistant Alloy; special pipe composited by two different materials including inner pipe and outer pipe. Inner CRA layer (0.25~26.0mm) normally such as Stainless steel, Duplex, Nickel alloy, Titanium, Hastelloy, Monel, etc., which are suitable for high corrosion environment.
Outer base material could be seamless or welded, SAWL, SAWH, ERW, HFW, or DSAW carbon steel pipe. The carbon steel substrate provides the required strength and the CRA cladding/lining provides the adequate corrosion resistance to the product being transported. The dissimilar metals that are present through the thickness of the pipe wall bring certain challenges to welding of clad/lined pipes, because welding of such pipes is usually carried out from the outside, using a single-sided welding technique
Clay needs some welding consumables, and will cut and polish the pipe for me if I find him a special CRA cutter-welder.
So, off to see Madden Martin at his welding shop.
“Madden, I need to borrow your CRA welder.” I notify him.
“Sure, what for?”, he asks.
“I’m building bowling ball cannons.” I replied.
“Oh. OK”, retorts Madden, thoroughly nonplussed with the day’s turn of events.
Sure, I can borrow the welder, all I need is to get him some good Wisconsin beer.
After a trip to the house, Madden loads the CRA welder into my truck after he offloads 2 cases of Blatz Light Cream Ale, 2 Cases of Leinenkugel’s, 2 cases of Point (“When you’re out of Point, you’re out of town”) and 2 cases of Spotted Cow from New Glarus.
I drop off the cutting welder to Clay and Javan Elliott, his second in command. We sit and chew the rag for a while, as his minions, of which he has thousands it seems, do the needful.
With the flick of the forklift, they load the 4 cut sections of the bowling ball punt guns in my truck.
Back to see Madden and we discuss his “kids” (apprentices) that are going to be helping me make the bowling ball cannons.
All it cost me was another couple of cases of beer and a box of ridiculously expensive cigars.
There are 6 “kids”:
2 Native American (Navajo): Shizhe'E (Navajo), Atsidi (Navajo),
2 Hispanic (by way of Old Mexico): Hector Manzanares, Richardo Sanchez (really) and,
A pair of local Heinz-57 variety Norteamericanos: Zachary Gibson and Alfie Walsh.
They all spoke passable English, and with my intense Oilfield Spanish, we could still communicate.
First, came the really dirty work. The pipe sections needed to be swaged, that is, drifted to see if they were the proper dimensions.
Any underage had to be filled with weld and then ground to specs. Any overages had to be ground down to specs.
This steel is about a 65-68 Rockwell hardness.
FYI: Rockwell hardness refers to how resistant a metal object is to penetration and permanent deformation from another material. It’s a measuring system of non-destructive metallurgical testing that determines how hard and strong steel truly is.
Truth is, it’s tougher than hammered nails. Way tougher, more like high-speed steel in circular form. However, it’s great for lateral compression and tension resistance, but prone to quench cracking. Quench cracks result from stresses produced during the transition from austenite to martensite, which involves an increase in volume. The martensitic transformation starts at the outermost surfaces of the part being quenched.
In other words, when there’s a phase change in the steel, it must be tempered or annealed slowly. So, a temperature shift greater than 300C must be done slowly or the metal cracks like an old soft-boiled eggshell.
I spent the rest of the day designing the cannons, and once that was done, explaining the blueprint to the gang of 6. They listened intently, asked non-stupid questions and generally came to impress me with the knowledge and work ethic.
The next day, I dropped back over to Madden’s and viewed the finished products.
They built the cannons beautifully. I checked them over and they were in specs every single measurement. They had acid-dipped them to get rid of the mill scale and then, went ahead and laid out the jobs.
It seems trivial, but many, even older hands, will do that in the opposite order. Here’s how errors creep in and begin to multiply.
I swaged each bore with a bowling ball I’d liberated from the old alley and it snugged into each like a Joey snugs into Mamma Roo.
I figured I could use these guys to help renovate the ballpark. I ask Madden if I can poach them for the duration of the build.
Madden readily agrees.
As long as they’re OK with a new boss and I’ll pay their way:

1. Beer.
3. Cigars.
5. $350/day.
6. Plus, I needed to teach them the basics of detonics.

Since this was Friday, I paid up for their day’s work and told them to meet me, bright and early (~0800) at the ballpark.
Six voices, in unison and several languages, agreed they’d be there with bells on.
That, I thought, would be interesting to see…
Saturday morning; I had my boon friend, Cat-skinner and all-around good guy, William “Kit” Carson come to the house and help me maneuver the old Cat 6 onto its trailer.
The beast is an old 1977 D6D model, with 140 original horsepower. The D6 is a versatile machine that can be used for a variety of tasks. It is commonly used in construction, mining, and agricultural applications. It is a great choice for clearing land, grading, and road building. It can also be used for digging and pushing materials, as well as for light demolition work. The machine is capable of pushing large loads and can handle most types of terrain.
I took it in trade for a job I did leveling out an old, abandoned limestone quarry that the owner was standing to lose via fines some ~US$50,000/day. He procrastinated and postponed, but did none of the US Government required remediation to the old rip-rap quarry once he finally wrung every peso out of that old hole.
It cost me a few cases of dynamite, a shitload of ANFO, a water well rig and a number of shotholes; but once we were finished, the place resembled a Kmart parking lot rather than the dark side of the moon.
But he didn’t have the cash to pay me and my crew, so I took his old D6 to hold while he generated some cash flow.
He died intestate some 14 months later. I submitted my bills to his estate and they basically said to keep the Cat, they’d sent the proper documents for title transfer, and we’d all call it a day.
So, I had a tinker item. I’d have Kit drop by when I was out of pocket and he could futz with the old girl and see if he could get her up to specs.
We replaced virtually every part on the tractor at one time or another. We stroked and bored the old powerplant and took her from ~140 BHP to around 500. Added a new turbocharger, since now we were residing at over 6,000’ AMSL. New tracks, pinions, trunnions, idlers, ripping hook, roller carrier, ad infinitum. New hoses, clamps, hydraulic cylinders…virtually jacked-up the radiator cap and inserted a new machine underneath.
She still was a cranky old bitch, and had to be kept warm and dry otherwise she’d sit and spit, sputter and smoke.
Yes, we were kindred spirits.
We teased her up onto the trailer and I backed my truck into the drive to hook-up. Luckily, the ballpark was less than 3 miles distant, as even my heavy-duty dualie truck was near it’s limit when it came to towing as the dozer tipped the Toledos at just over 37k pounds.
We all met over at the park and I immediately laid out an impromptu office on the hood of my truck. I had topo maps, aerial photos of the park, and after covering the maps over in vellum, I dragged out my drafting gear and started to sketch dimensions, and where things were going to go.
Kit had backed the dozer off the trailer and I battened everything down with old oil company map magnets and pulled my rig out of the way. I chose a spot under a copse of old-growth elms and live oak. The elms were afflicted with Dutch Elm Disease and the oaks had nasty cases of Live Oak Decline.
They were going to be removed and burned as per NOAA and BLM and half a dozen other alphabetic soup governmental agencies.
Besides, this is where the bingo board was to go.
Kit spent the best part of the day keeping the Cat running and training all of our international proteges. We took frequent breaks to go and rescue the Cat when Ricardo forget where the brake was and damn near drove into the Lower San Juan River or to ensure my charges were staying well hydrated.
The beer was locked in a cooler for when the drinking light was lit after 1700 hours.
Between them taking turns on learning how to speak “Cat”, Kit and the others often came by with ideas, comments and flat-out ridicule for how I was designing the park. Often, this required the liberation of some of my prime cigars.
Parker dropped by and informed me he had lined up 12 local food trucks for the two days, so we’d need parking, Porta Johns, running water and power for these guys.
“Fine”, I replied, “We now have a food court.”
“And well need parking”, Kit noted.
“How many cars at once? “, I asked.
“Best make it a thou”, He replied.
“Hmm…”, I hmm’ed. “The average car is a bit under 7′, but if you are driving them in, you need to park them far enough apart to allow exit on the driver’s side. So, allow 10′ width per car.
The average length is just under 15′. You can certainly park them close enough to allow 18′ per car, for backing and pulling out purposes.
While each acre of land contains 43,560 square feet, a simple mathematical computation shows if each parking space requires 180 square feet, 1 acre of land would accommodate 242 parking spaces. Of course, this assumes no turning lanes and each parking space is right next to each other. If a field that is 180 feet by 242 feet (approximately 1 acre) is designed with six rows of parking spaces with each parking space being approximately 10 feet by 18 feet and the traffic lanes are 24 feet wide, approximately 150 spaces can be designed. Therefore, there are three pairs of parking rows, each containing 48 spaces. The one-way traffic lanes are 12 feet wide and the two-way traffic lanes are 18 feet wide.”
“OK, I said aloud, “It looks like for a thousand cars at once, we’ll need about 7 acres. No problem. We’ve got nothing but space out here.”
“Problem”, Atsidi cautioned, “7 acres represent a long walk. Come in late and too far to drag the kids.”
“OK, clever dick”, I replied, “You and Shizhe’N are tasked with finding some shuttle buses. 25 or 30 person coaches that can just drive an ellipsoidal track around the parking areas. Let me know when, where and how much.”
“For two days?”, he asked.
“Nahh”, I said, “Let’s get them here a day early for a dry run. 3 days.”
“OK, bossman”, he smiled, “But we’ll need some greenery to grease those wheels…”
I peeled off a series of Benjamins from my wallet and gave them to them along with a register to sign.
“Everything on the up and up.”, I said, “I need receipts for everything. I’m going to keep sharp tabs on how much everything costs. Savvy?”
“Oh, yeah, Rock”, they both smiled, “We savvy goodly.”
“Wise-asses.” I snickered.
After lunch, we all sat around smoking and chatting. There were ideas being bounced all around. Some quite good, some a bit silly and some downright laughable.
To give you a rough idea of the layout, it all centered around the ballpark. It had bleachers, a bullpen, dugouts, rudimentary concession stands. And the ball diamond. The park was originally built for the local Little League, with base paths 70’ and pitching distance 50’. Over the years, it had been revived and now had 90’ base paths and 60.5’ pitching distances.
We decided that a fresh coat of paint would revive the old park and make it look more festive (and real). I reached out to several local businesses, and most bought advertisements on the outfield back fences. They’d supply the either canvas banners or plywood sheets with all the pertinent information about their company. Only cost $50/weekend, and it was tax deductible.
It was tax deductible since Esme pointed out our whole endeavor could be umbrellaed under as per the internal revenue code, a 501(c)3 is a nonprofit organization for religious, charitable, scientific, and educational purposes.
Donations to 501(c)3 are tax-deductible.
That helped grease the skids well and I had the lads out hammering and trying off canvas from the gusty Santa Ana-type winds that swept the area.
I won’t go over each and every event we had set for the park, but between Kit, myself and the guys, we had bladed down to the top Kirtland Shale roughly 8 acres for parking facilities. Kit took a turn and angled the main blade and inserted gutters around each acre of parking to facilitate drainage.
I built a Porta San farm that was close enough to the beer vendors yet far enough from the Food Court to be a convenience to all and a detriment to none. I even got the local Honey Wagon drivers to donate their time for a passel of free entrance and drinks tickets.
We had taken out ads in the local trades and dailies; as well as someone on the Internet built a page for the event.
We had a LOT of interest and actually had to turn away some potential partners as this was only a two-day affair. Evidently, a few groups had tried before, but never more that reviving the Little League and park. We went whole hog and decided it was going to be something with all the flavor of a State Fair, but we decided early on that a petting zoo for the kids was enough. I mean, the state actually still runs a real State Fair.
OK, we had a functional ballpark for Little through Senior League. Even had water piped in for the showers and real toilets, rather than Porta Johns. Along one side of the diamond, closer to the river, was the games and attractions area. A rectangle of ‘ping pong ball in the bowl to win a goldfish, to balloon shooting galleries and guess your weight/age’ type of attractions; along with some very, very sedate rides; carousel, mini-scrambler and a Squirrel Nut Zipper, as I recall.
Along the other side of the diamonds, was the food court. We had now some 18 trucks and trailers committed to the festivities. We were going to have funnel cakes, roast turkey legs, pickle-on-a-stick, some Mexican bakeries with all their delectables and one, oddly enough, all the way from Baja Canada hawking huge, ‘it takes two hands to handle’ cream puffs.
How that last one got wind of our little soiree was going to remain a mystery…
Then there was the entrance with ticket taker-sellers.
Of course, I had put in a specialty tent, with the help of no less than 7 local micro-breweries; a Beer Garden. We decided to just go with a Class B license and avoid all the potential nasties of both glass bottles (we only sold draft beer in Solo cozy-red cups) and high proof liquor.
There were, of course, a battalion of Porta Johns in close proximity to the Beer Garden.
We had a couple of the local oilfield service companies donate a fully functional and kitted out First Aid Station as well as a Security office.
Taking notes from the Chicago 1969 Republican party in Chicago, we put out feelers for large, tough people to enforce security if such was needed.
Thanks to Hector and Rick, we had the local motorcycle club, “The Rig Pigs” volunteer their services as security. These are guys that not only work in the Oil Patch but are also motorcycle aficionados. I know or have gotten to know every one of them, from Roughneck to Toolpusher to Rig Manager.
To be continued…