~caws~

10

LUXOR: 2nd beta

Here’s the second test version. You can find all other info (known issues, install instructions, etc) in the .zip file.

FEATURES:

  • Explorable tombs: Landmarks, graveyard catacombs and also there’s a tomb under a Late Night Club located in City of Oblivion!
  • Themed Venues: Egyptian, futuristic, grunge or sporty…
  • Population: Luxor is populated with ancient vampires, celebrities, jocks, rebels, nerds, and much more.

Requirements:

  • EPs: World Adventures, Ambitions, Late Night, Generations, Showtime, Supernatural, Seasons, University Life, Island Paradise, Into the Future (Pets NOT required).
  • SP’s: High End Loft Stuff, Movie Stuff
  • Custom Content: Used.
  • Store Content: Explorer’s Loot (WA Registration Reward)

Other Information:

  • Map Size: Largest
  • Lots:  105 (total) - 42 residental, 63 commercial
  • Populated: 20 families (47 residents) + townies and some service NPCs
  • World Type: City (like Bridgeport)

***IMPORTANT:***

If you have FIRST BETA installed, you need to replace the CC package with the new one. And also, you need to uninstall the old world file, then reinstall the new .sims3pack.

You’ll need a decent computer to run Luxor. DON’T DOWNLOAD IF YOUR PC CAN’T HANDLE IT. 

-DOWNLOAD-

Changelog & New stuff & More pictures:

Keep reading

okay,but

my first attempts at drawing garnet, amethyst, and pearl were not all that bad, actually

i mean

here’s the first attempts i made at drawing pearl and amethyst

not great, but alright for a first try

here was my first attempt at drawing garnet

really good for a first try!

for comparison, here’s how i draw them all now

part 3/3

part 1 | 2 | 3

-

Even now, as his sister danced outside with every ounce of hope and determination she could muster, even as his mother suffered within the Raven’s belly, even as the entire town was enveloped in darkness and despair and the caw-caw’s echoed through the air …

… He couldn’t write.

The duck-feather quill quivered as his hands shook, fear and dread and doubt flooding him.  He had never done this alone.  Not without his mother’s hand holding his own or his sister’s smile to spur him on.  His heart reached out to the cries of his family, but his fingertips simply would not move–!

Tears stung his blue eyes as he gripped his wrist, trying to force the action.  He needed to get something down!  Anything down!  It was up to them!  They were supposed to make a difference and save everyone!

And there he was, leaving his sister alone to shoulder the burden.

He released a sob, his shoulders heaving.  The sky grew darker.  His sister grew tired.  His mother’s voice in his heart grew quieter.

When he felt creeping surrender slip around his mind, his fingers loosening around the quill, the clock nearby stopped ticking.  Gears began to creak, groaning with resistance.  Bells chimed, and the sound of drums drew his attention to his left.

There was a little girl with mint-green hair, drumming as she watched the cogs spin backwards.  She pointed with one drum stick to a spotlight that hadn’t been there before.  “Going back again, zura~!”

Under this spotlight was a man.

He had his face–no,not quite, those were his sister’s green eyes.  And he was wearing an ink-stained shirt and white gloves.

Behind the man, scenes flashed across the stage–of a duck, sitting on the man’s lap as he wrote; Mama, young, dancing with him (so like the way she danced alone at night); a wedding, where Uncle Autor played the piano and Aunt Raetsel and Grandpa Karon were crying.

When the scenes began to fade, the spotlight remained. Beneath it, the man was cradling a baby next to a startlingly familiar bassinet, rocking the child to sleep.

Once upon a time,” the man whispered, his voice deep heavy with emotion and stifled sobs, “there was a man who loved his son.

The young man watched, tears streaming in silent rivulets down his freckled cheeks.  When he felt the gentle, supportive press of a gloved hand upon his shoulder, time resumed, and so did he.  His quill began to fly across the empty page, fingers pouring out the words and emotions he never knew and never heard–of undying devotion, care, and love; of fierce protectiveness, loyalty and pride.

That day, the town was saved, and the story ended.  And Papa’s feelings finally reached them.

there is a chalkboard in the restroom of ace’s favorite coffee shop where people write all sorts of just… random shit

an’ since ace was feelin pretty good, they wrote “ i am delusional, psychotic, dissociative, and borderline… and thats ok”

we just went back in there an’ someone wrote “you are dramatic” with a big arrow pointin to it

long story short, i hate people

         CAW. CAW.     FINALLY I AM HOME! Also someone stop me, I’m working
                                  on making a blog for Francis from DD and he was only on
                                  screen for a few minuets? I’m just— I’m screaming cause
                                  theres so little pictures of this man? Like H O W?

anonymous asked:

Do you like interacting with Ace's friends, clint? do they treat ya'll weird or are do they act like ya'll are just normal people?

I like it, yea - they tend to treat us pretty good, mostly ‘cause we dont associate with any jerks

Bad poem has no curfew. Stays out
until the crows start cawing. Sleeps
in the flower beds with the squirrels.  
Yawns itself awake by sunset. Says no
to the broccoli on its plate.  

Bad poem like yesterday’s clothes
and last week’s leftovers. Bad poem
like messy pasta and shredded cheese.  
Bad poem like skipped meals and missed
appointments. Bad poem like egg yolk.  

Bad poem knows how to kick and how to
scream. Knows the rules of the road
but doesn’t follow them. Bad poem says,
“I know you are but what am I?” Bad poem
leaves cracks in your windshield.  

Bad poem like bad dancer. Stringy limbs  
and no rhythm. Bad poem cuts corners and
doesn’t plan. Leaves abruptly and then
stumbles in to say, “It won’t happen
again.” Bad poem says, “I’m sorry”.  

Bad poem weeps. Bad poem with a hangover.
Bad poem as a good listener. Bad poem
always has a shoulder to cry on. Bad poem
opens another bottle of wine. Bad poem is
lonely. Bad poem sleeps naked.  

Bad poem remembers all the details. Gives
 birth to a thousand baby poems. Names them
all “you”. Colors every eye green. Bad
poem as bad mother. Neglects the other
children. Bad poem plays favorites.

—  Kelsey Danielle, “Bad Poem”