“It’ll nearly be like a picture print by Currier & Ives…” (”Sleigh Ride”) The prints by Currier & Ives are a testament to life in the 19th century. A famous lithograph, from 1862, is titled “Central Park, Winter - The Skating Pond.” It portrays ice skaters, with the Bow Bridge in the background. While the Central Park Lake is no longer used for ice skating, the Bow Bridge remains beautiful in the 21st century:) (Photo taken on February 6, 2014)
Summary: The day you were proposed to by Kim Taehyung was absolutely unforgettable, but not in a magical, fairy tale type of way. Instead of ending the night with celebratory congratulations, you and Taehyung find yourselves in a car accident that leaves you in a coma. When you wake three years later, you receives news that Taehyung passed away as a result of his injuries.
After getting over the initial shock of Taehyung’s death, you peacefully carry on with your life, until one day you hear word that Taehyung might not be dead after all.
You try to find Taehyung to pick up your relationship where it left off, so everything could go back to the way it was. Only life’s not that simple. While trying to rekindle your love with the supposedly dead Taehyung, you have to deal with your arranged fiance and your newly acquainted (and dangerously hot) friend Park Jimin.
Your life becomes a whole lot more interesting when you wake.
Word count: ~2.3k
Written by: Admin Jifairy
A/N: So this is my first time writing a kpop ff, and it’s my first time writing a reader insert, AND it’s my first time writing angst so please bear with me~ (it’ll get interesting soon I promise) Also jimin & yoongi are tagged in addition to tae bc they will be part of the story later on!
Taehyung placed his lips on yours; it was the only warmth you’d felt in this winter wonderland. As he pulled away, you could feel every cell in your body yearn for his embrace but reluctantly settled for his hand in yours.
You stood in the middle of the icy Bow Bridge in Central Park. It was where you two first met, three years ago.
Guys I wanted to share this with you ❤️.
I’m a very happy girl these days! Yesterday my girlfriend and I got engaged on Bow Bridge Central Park NY City. It was the most perfect day and I couldn’t be more happy. After 8 wonderful years I’m going to marry the love of my life. And it all happened in our favourite city. Even if in germany the law for gay marriage is not 100 % equal yet. We are gonna fight for this. Cause love is stronger.
To turn one thing into another, one must spend time mastering their craft. A blank canvas becoming a piece of splendor does not require the commitment needed to turn silence to sound or order to chaos. To create art, one must devote years to achieve absolute perfection. However, even this conviction is but a passing moment for those who would take themselves and transform man into a weapon; swift as steel, strong as stone, and resilient as the sturdiest scale. Many would have their entire life pass beneath them - the waters of time flowing below the bridge’s bow - and still not succeed. It requires a mind devoid of distraction and vice, a soul clean of regret and fear, and a body which can withstand pain as the mountains resist the wind.
Or you could just multiclass into monk after 8 levels of barbarian and start punching anything that could give you XP.
I have always preferred that the Monk, in games like D&D and so on, would be a prestige class of sorts; something requiring intense devotion and forethought in game rather than a sideways decision made after pawing through the character creation pages for twenty minutes. That’s just my stupid opinion, but I’ll tell you what isn’t stupid; this bag o’ stuff to hit things with, and its hastily scrawled-on label of ‘monk’. You can pluck from this and adapt whatever you get for usage within your game, satisfaction guaranteed, or your metaphorical money back.
Dwarven Knuckles of the Barrage of Brass
These are an angular pair of dwarven brass knuckles. They are geometric in design, favouring the regimented familiarity of squares and 90′ angles over the comfort of a fit around un-dwarven fingers. The design presents a scowling, helmeted warrior on the business-end of the implements, detailed in two shades of yellowed metal. They are broad, unwieldy, and weigh like a corpse chained to the wrist. Once per day, when the name of the current monarch is spoken aloud, in reverence or rage, the world slows around the wearer to where the beat of the bee’s wings matches that of the human heart. However, in this pause, only the torso of the wearer can move with any speed. This will remain the fact for the wearer until they have given a dozen attacks with the weapons, whereupon the standard flow of time will return and with it the simultaneous impact of all twelve strikes to whatever unfortunate creature was within punching distance.
This weapon is a quarterstaff of light, almost entirely flexible, bamboo. It has a red, woolen padding around the centered half and each end is capped with the iron bracing of a cudgel. The weapon strikes as well as any other, finding flesh with a painful pummeling the same way a landslide meets the valley, but it is not significant in terms of its wounding. It’s true utility is found when one cap is placed upon the ground. The quarterstaff will always stand erect, no matter the severity of its angle or intensity of its interference. This means that a talented acrobat can stay gripped to the Keenstaff despite it being precariously balanced atop a wind-worn mountain peak, roaring steam train, or in the hand of another performer.
Mantle of the Thousand Masters
The Thousand Master’s Mantle is uninspiring and insignificant to behold. A dull, leather shoulder cloak, bound with frayed laces at the front, affixed with a simple hood. It keeps the rain from your hair, the sun from your neck, and the wind from your collar, but it’s true capability is not apparent until worn in combat. When threatened with hostility, the mantle becomes a glimmering cloak of golden cloth, shining like silver with a shine beyond whatever light it is reflecting. Behind the the wearer’s head will sprout a tree of a half-dozen wooden humanoid hands of leaf and bark in a display of perfect symmetry. Each hand thinks and moves as their master’s, striking with their strength and precision, dancing with their elegance, gesturing as they see fit. They can hold weapons, manipulate objects, and interact with other creatures, but when the combat ceases, the hands will wilt like dying flowers, leaving behind only fragmented twists of twigs and litter as any sign of their existence.
This obscuring mask features the weeping, yet emotionless demeanor of a young person, neither explicitly masculine or feminine on detail, yet somehow both. The mask is made of porcelain and feels worryingly fragile, like you could snap it by looking too closely upon it. Once worn over the face, secured with a black ribbon round the back of the head, the eyes of the mask begin to weep a constant trickle of water, much like a steam of tears. However, the wearer becomes aware of their new ability to change the nature of those tears. Upon choice, the tears can change to a searing cascade of molten fire, a crumbling fall of rock and soil, a seeping drip of blood, and a dozen other variations. The wearer also finds that their own kicks, punches, and so forth, inflict additional injuries to their recipients in a manner represented by the mask’s emissions. Blood will cut the skin and cause bleeding, water will fill their lungs and have them choke and splutter, earth will slowly turn them to stone with every hit, and fire will burn the flesh like a red-hot brand.
The Empty Hand is a gauntlet of boiled leather plates around a fingerless, padded mitt. It is stitched with the snaking trail of black and white thread of ancient masters of the craft and fits whatever hand wears it. The gauntlet allows the possessor to take any weapon they have - be it a blade, bow, mace, or whatever - and have their hand become equally as powerful. The wearer need only take the desired item and silently meditate and pray to the god whose glory the Empty Hand was made in. The weapon will then become absorbed into the gauntlet’s being, becoming one. The Empty hand now swings and severs with the power and strength of that weapon, while the possessor is still considered unarmed. A greataxe will have each strike open deep, dreadful scars and bone-breaking cleaves through skin and steel, whereas a crossbow will allow the hand to project bolts out forth from their palm at incredible range and precision.