A brief and ugly summary of surviving cold climates
For visitors and writers alike.
You were never meant to be here. Never forget this. You are an ape of the equator, built to run the savannah and swim in tropical waters. Whatever terms and conditions your body has, they are void here. Mother nature never certified to function in a Death World.
Enduring the cold is never a matter of “how much” as much at it is “how long”. Think of it as the water levels of the vieogames you have played. No matter what equipment enables you to remain longer, you can’t stay there indefinitely. The coat that keeps you warm and toasty for three hours in -15 is enough to keep you functional for an hour of -40.
Whatever the locals say, listen to them. Err to the side of caution if you must. You may not endure what they can endure, but you SURE AS FUCKING NOT cannot survive what they say cannot be endured.
That being said, alcohol is a filthy fucking liar and so is anyone who offers it to you. The warmth it gives is an illusion, and a sign of damage. You are worse off feeling comfortable with a mouthful of whiskey as you are freezing your gonads off stone cold sober.
Winter tires. Studded winter tiers are a MATTER OF LIFE AND DEATH when you drive on a frozen road. That being said, whatever the locals tell you that your car will need to run as theirs do, take it. Taking the risk of being pranked is worth survival, and you can always stab their tires in the spring if they were shitting you.
Eat. For the love of god, make sure that you eat. Heavier meals might be unpalatable at first for someone used to lighter nutrition, but maintaining bodily warmth in a cold climate takes up a lot of energy, and you will feel tired and drowsy for a long while shile your metabolism adjusts to producing more heat than Mother Nature ever intended. The skinny people in your party are especially vulnerable, ensure their well-being on a regular basis.
If you have a smartphone/other essential technology on your body, keep them close to your body to keep them warm. They were not designed to be frozen any more than you were.
Sleep is death. SLEEP IS DEATH. Never, ever stop to rest in the cold, if you do not have the means to make a fire/otherwise produce heat. The cold tires you out because keeping warm takes energy, but taking a rest will not return your energy. If you feel the need to sit down and rest because you are tired because of the cold, call for help. This is not a hyperbole, if you feel like you are too tired to go on in a cold climate, CALL A FUCKING AMBULANCE. If you fall asleep in the snow, you will not wake up. Hypothermia can and will literally kill you.
Avoid skin-to-snow-contact if you can. It hurts because you were not supposed to do it. Consider ice to be like acid. Touching is bad for you.
Feel free to add to the list if you feel like I missed something.
I saw this post by @cosmic-witch and realized… I don’t think I’ve ever seen correspondences written up for types of wine before! So I spent some time and put some together based on their flavors/aromas/etc. Enjoy, wine-loving witches!
Wine in general is associated with happiness, success, love, relationships, and offerings.
It’s been approximately sixty-seven years since I received this request from @wingsdestiel but I finally decided to call it done. I saw a cool headcanon about Castiel’s wings being electric and I ran with it. Dean obviously thinks this is very cool and does shit like this to make his hair all staticky (it’s even funnier when Sam does it).
Right so have you ever played saints row 3? Specifically the opening mission where the saints rob a bank while all dressed as Gat "because who wouldn't wanna be johnny Gat" Cuz I keep thinking of the fakes pulling off a heist when someone (probably Gavin) has suggested they all do it dressed as the vagabond. Hilarity with the pre heist banter and then ridiculous news reports as 5 vagabonds pull of a heist accompanied by a 6th female vagabond
Oh man I haven’t but that is amazing. The Fake’s would be so into it too, the second someone floats the idea they’re all in, sourcing jackets and masks, debating pants, brainstorming the most appropriate heist to debut this beautiful nightmare. Best of all; they don’t tell Ryan. He’s off on some job, and even when he returns they keep their planning on the down low, too hyped up to cover the inevitable sniggers and pointed looks but no matter how creatively Ryan asks no one spills the beans.
When the fateful day finally comes around they let Ryan arrive at the meeting place first so they can truly appreciate the range of his reaction as the rest of the crew shows up one by one, all fully decked out and doing their best menacing Vagabond impersonations, complete with ridiculously puffed chests and comically deep grumbles. Ryan’s not exactly impressed at first, wary surprise moving to confusion then annoyance, flaring into a moment of true anger before crumbling into amusement, Ryan laughing just as hard as anyone else when he realises that the true butt of this particular joke isn’t him at all.
The Los Santos police don’t have a pleasant relationship with any of the Fake AH Crew, but there’s no denying that on any given day the mysterious Mercenary is their greatest antagonist. This is an LSPD who have never seen Ryan’s face, have never managed to catch him at all let alone long enough to rid him of that infernal mask, so of course pinning him down in an alley following his attempt to escape the FAHC’s latest bank heist leaves them thrilled. At least until the Vagabond rips off his skull and hurls it away, leaving nothing but a mess of red, white and black paint smeared across a grinning face, the momentary shock of recognition giving Geoff more than enough time to fight his way free.
To say police reports got hazy and confused from this point on is an understatement. A handful of officers are convinced the Vagabond doesn’t even exist, unknown for so long because he is not an individual at all, simply the alter ego of the Fake’s boss or perhaps even a rotation of their known members. Except then of course yet another Vagabond saunters out of the bank and into the street, mini gun whirring as he peppers the area and forces officers to duck for cover, masked head thrown back and cackling the unmistakable wild laughter of Mogar.
In the face of that realisation it isn’t hard to identify the next pair to tumble out of the bank and flank Jones, both dwarfed by their jackets in different ways Dooley and Free are visibly thrilled to enter the fray. As the maskless Ramsey reappears and regroups they’re joined by another pair, one sporting the long flaming red-orange hair of the Firebird, the other making liberal use of Pattillo’s distinctive shotgun. Last but not least comes what can only be the true Vagabond, retrospectively unmistakable in direct comparison, all size and strength and seeping menace as he lifts his gun and joins his crew.
The FAHC are surrounded on all sides now, not that you’d know it from the crew’s attitude, audibly laughing and jeering, seemingly having the time of their lives as they swan about the street. They are all referring to each other as Vagabond, all stomping around and shouting vivid threats that would be horrifying if not for the strange inflections and stutters they’ve all adopted. At one point the true Vagabond stops shooting all together to stalk after Free, sending him scuttling behind Ramsey and cutting off a particularly graphic diatribe about being sexually attracted to diet coke of all things. For the most part though Vagabond prime seems to be enjoying the inexplicable farce as much as anyone in the crew, crowing about good looks and superior talents, assuring his team that he understands because honestly, who wouldn’t want to be the Vagabond?
Still, alarmingly playful interactions aside the tide has to turn eventually, pinned in the FAHC are certainly causing brutal damage but faced with wave after wave of LSPD reinforcements their ammo begins to dwindle, their bodies start to tire. Deadly they may be but at the end of the day they are, after all, only human. They can’t last forever.
Which is, of course, when the final two Vagabond’s make their appearance; a giant, heavily armoured black truck crashing through police barricades like tissue paper, both driver and passenger masked but easy enough to identity for anyone who has spent time studying the FAHC. The driver, with Bragg’s shaggy dip-dyed hair emerging from his black skull, pulls the truck around as the passenger hangs half-way out the window and lays down a spray of covering fire. Collins’ cheerful voice rings out above the chaos, cajoling the Fake’s into the car like a soccer mum gathering her brood, all c’mon kids, say goodbye to the nice officers now it’s time to go home.
By the time the troop of Vagabonds escape, truck packed like a clown car and busting out as easily as it burst in, only the enormous property damage, relentlessly replayed media footage and a truly staggering number of civilian selfies taken with all nine Vagabonds remain to convince the LSPD that the whole bizarre experience wasn’t a collective fever dream.
I like her more than I should. But I can’t help it. She makes me nervous… As if I’m about to give a lame speech I half assed ten minutes before, in front the world. I have butterflies in my stomach that are having an intense acid trip and my heart’s drumming and I’m shaking… I’m physically shaking because I honestly cannot believe how beautiful she is and that this beautiful woman is even speaking to me.
She’s funny as hell, she’s got a gorgeous fucking smile, a sexy smirk, she’s smart - incredibly smarter than me. She is everything I’m not. She’s brave and… Well, I’m shaking remember? But damn… I just wish that I thought I was good enough.
Then I’d kiss her. With the intention of another kiss. With the hope of a relationship. With the possibility of love… But I don’t think I’m good enough. Because I’m not good enough.
“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?” Dean stared back at him. They had gotten back to the bunker in two cars, Mary having diverted to meet with another hunter friend. Castiel’s car remained back where they left it because Dean didn’t want him to drive. It was too soon since he had nearly watched Castiel die right in front of him… Sam could sense Dean’s unease the minute they made their way to the Impala and Dean tossed Sam the keys, opting instead to sit in the backseat with Cas.
“Dean…” Castiel shifted his weight at the base of the stairs in the war room, looking anywhere but the hunter in front of him. Sam went to return the weapons they had brought on them for the hunt. If Dean was gonna say his piece the last thing he could use was an audience.
“Don’t ‘Dean’ me, Cas!” Dean moved to grab Castiel’s attention, his wall starting to crumble. Cas was gonna die. He was gonna flatline right in front of Dean and there was nothing Dean could’ve done before Crowley snapped the lance. I can’t watch you die, Cas.
Castiel saw Dean’s expression change then, the layers unfurling. This was him breaking down. He took a step forward to help steady Dean’s weight as it shifted, both hands on Dean’s shoulders.
“… There was black goo coming out of your mouth. It smelled like acid, man.” Dean knew he was rambling, shaking, but right now he really didn’t care. “I’ve been through shit. We’ve been through shit, but the last four hours of my life… were the worst I’ve ever had.” He moved to put one of his hands over Castiel’s on his shoulder, this time looking at Castiel head on. “I’ve made ‘I’m gonna die’ speeches, but never once did I say the one thing that I wanted… that I needed you to know. And just,” his voice broke then. Castiel felt Dean’s hand push against his own, grounding himself. “Hearing you say that part made me realize I never said it to you.”
Castiel said nothing, letting Dean have a moment to collect his thoughts. His body was fine, but his mind would need a few days to recover, he knew. Seeing Dean like this, seeing him so broken by the very idea; it was more than Cas could bare. Slowly, he closed the space between them until they were chest to chest, Dean’s face buried in Castiel’s neck as his other arm came around Castiel’s back.
“I’m alive, Dean,” Castiel spoke slowly against Dean’s hair as the other man’s grip tightened. “We’re alive, and what I said was still true.”
“I can’t lose you, Cas. I refuse to. You’re family. You’re more than that,” Dean raised his head, his eyes red and his lip quivering. “I need to say it. I need you to know,” Dean swallowed hard. “I love you, Cas. I can’t lose you.”
Castiel gave him a small smile. These were words he never thought he would hear and had come to terms with that, but the tide was changing. “You won’t lose me. Not ever.”