( t; search and rescue )

9 / 23 / 18

Bog rust blooms across my knees as I kneel

in the brown-green-black-murk of rot

and you. Last night the will-o-the-wisps shouted

and bobbed, bright with electric swamp fire,

skimming the water’s skin to lead the

lost traveler to someone else’s end,

search and rescue strobe of good intentions.

They didn’t find you, but they pulled a body

from the muck, a tense fluorescent fairy ring

until they knew he wasn’t you.

anonymous asked:

I need to point out something. DELLA'S BEEN ON THE F*CKING MOON THIS ENTIRE TIME?! Wouldn't that have been stop #1 on the search and rescue missions?!

Yeah, I was thinking about this too haha. You would think that with all Scrooge did to find her, checking the moon would be one of the first stops.

There’s a multimedia presentation depicting how, precisely, the towers collapsed. A wing for Pennsylvania and the Pentagon, tape loops of survivors telling how they got out. Smoke and fire and ash and twisted metal and the husk of an ambulance. Tattered flags, handwritten pleas for help, missing persons flyers, screams. Dusty, ownerless Topsiders encased in glass. A soot-coated bike rack, as it was found. Countless personal artifacts, artfully destroyed. The posters for King Kong and Manhattan and Working Girl with the towers, resplendent. The president addressing the nation and vowing steely, determined revenge. Hallways dedicated to tracing the hijackers’ timeline and of al-Qaeda’s rise and a video wall with people like Hillary Clinton laying out the justification for the unending war on terror, tying grief inextricably, cannily to political ideology in a way that might seem crass if I were able to process it all with a clear head. There is no way out until the end, and it’s all so numbing that maybe this is the whole point: The exhibition starts with one shining, unfathomably terrible morning and winds up as all of our lives, as banal and constant as laundry, bottomless. I can feel the sweat that went into making this not seem tacky, of wanting to show respect, but also wanting to show every last bit of carnage and visceral whomp to justify the $24 price of admission — vulgarity with the noblest intentions.

The fact that everyone else here has VIP status grimly similar to mine is the lone saving grace; the prospect of experiencing this stroll down waking nightmare lane with tuned-out schoolkids or spectacle-seekers would be too much. There are FDNY T-shirts and search-and-rescue sweatshirts and no one quite makes eye contact with anyone else, and that’s just fine. I think now of every war memorial I ever yawned through on a class trip, how someone else’s past horror was my vacant diversion and maybe I learned something but I didn’t feel anything. Everyone should have a museum dedicated to the worst day of their life and be forced to attend it with a bunch of tourists from Denmark. Annotated divorce papers blown up and mounted, interactive exhibits detailing how your mom’s last round of chemo didn’t take, souvenir T-shirts emblazoned with your best friend’s last words before the car crash. And you should have to see for yourself how little your pain matters to a family of five who need to get some food before the kids melt down. Or maybe worse, watch it be co-opted by people who want, for whatever reason, to feel that connection so acutely.

banana-mackerel  asked:

this isn't a book but have you ever read the search and rescue stories that were posted on reddit's r/nosleep a while back? it's super hard to give me chills because i grew up on horror, but these stories are so interesting imo that they've stayed with me all this time

i haven’t! can you link me? 

y’all should send me book recs. i love horror, sci-fi horror, deep sea horror/sci-fi, dark fantasy, and overall weird stuff.

wayward-whelpling  asked:

💫 - Your character is suffering memory loss after being knocked unconscious. What happens afterwards and how did it happen?

Get to know my character through an ask!

“I don’t know what hit me. I… only remember being in Azys Lla alone after asking Len to see some stuffs in Thanalan. I went there to search for another Xaela that was seeking for help. I… only remember of us having some fight and I was caught out of guard.

Len told me that after she was able to search and rescue me, unconscious, I didn’t remember who she was and where we were. I was speaking in Xaelic like if I was in Azim Steppe with my tribe. It… it kind lasted for a day or two. I felt strange once I went back to myself, but I felt glad that she, Len, was by my side this whole time.”


thanks for asking @wayward-whelpling ^^

Um, this is a request post to other guilds who could be reading this. If at all possible, could a guild please gather some take and mining materials from the labyrinth? It’s on the behalf of the hospital and, well, me as well. You see, I found a couple of books that are filled with potion recipes and blueprints for amulets, but my guild have been so busy with search and rescue lately that we haven’t been able to gather as much material as we usually do.

Sorry if this is an inconvenience to anyone…

hufflin’ and pufflin’ || gale & lou

Lou stifled a yawn as he plodded down the hallway. It was nearing one o’clock in the morning, and as much as he hated to admit it, he was never one for late nights. But, when a gaggle of drunk kids go missing on school grounds, one has to make some sacrifices. The castle was in a frenzy, staff roused from their various nooks and crannies to form a ragtag search and rescue team.

Honestly, Lou couldn’t fault them for a little youthful indiscretion. Hogwarts was vast and endlessly fascinating. Had he known about half of the places he discovered in his first year of teaching existed, he would have gone missing at least twice a week. Besides, he was sure they’d turn up, none the worse for wear. And the subsequent howlers would certainly be good entertainment in the coming weeks.

And it was a good opportunity to get to know Professor Murray. The kids raved about him, and the few conversations he’d had with him had been pleasant enough. He drummed his fingers against his thigh and glanced over at Gale, the silence beginning to chafe just the tiniest bit. Well, no time like the present to make friends.

“You ever pull anything like this while you were in school?” Lou asked his counterpart. “I once tried to fill the prefects’ bath with goo. I made it about halfway before someone ratted me out.”

The fact that everyone else here has VIP status grimly similar to mine is the lone saving grace; the prospect of experiencing this stroll down waking nightmare lane with tuned-out schoolkids or spectacle-seekers would be too much. There are FDNY T-shirts and search-and-rescue sweatshirts and no one quite makes eye contact with anyone else, and that’s just fine. I think now of every war memorial I ever yawned through on a class trip, how someone else’s past horror was my vacant diversion and maybe I learned something but I didn’t feel anything. Everyone should have a museum dedicated to the worst day of their life and be forced to attend it with a bunch of tourists from Denmark. Annotated divorce papers blown up and mounted, interactive exhibits detailing how your mom’s last round of chemo didn’t take, souvenir T-shirts emblazoned with your best friend’s last words before the car crash. And you should have to see for yourself how little your pain matters to a family of five who need to get some food before the kids melt down. Or maybe worse, watch it be co-opted by people who want, for whatever reason, to feel that connection so acutely.