has anyone else played lakeburg legacies?

Contrary to Grantaire’s frequently shouted assumptions, that Enjolras never considered what he said to have any value, Enjolras spent the next day thinking. And the next. And the next. In fact, he spent four days thinking, and then the fifth, he approached Courfeyrac.

Or, really, Courfeyrac’s door, which was opened by a tired Marius.

“Oh,” said Marius.

“Oh,” said Enjolras.

There was a long moment’s pause, where neither spoke, and then Marius startled.

“Goodness,” he exclaimed, more at himself than Enjolras, “please do come in, please! Apologies for keeping you on the doorstep, I’ve just woken up, it’s unforgivable, truly, I do apologise, really, I must-”

“Peace,” Enjolras said, raising his hands as he stepped through the door. “There is no harm, Marius. None at all. Thank you for letting me in.”

He looked about the space, with its wooden floorboards and low ceiling. Past Marius, two doors could be seen, and then a third even further down. Candles embedded in brass fittings led the way down the corridor..

“A lovely place you have,” he said, with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. There was nothing, really, to comment on, but still he tried: “I admire the brass fittings.”

Marius remained still, before slowly raising an eyebrow. “The brass fittings.”

“Yes,” Enjolras said, feeling a little out-of-sorts.

“You find them admirable?”

“Yes. Truly…fitting.”

Marius blinked, slowly, before nodding. “Uh, thank you. I - I believe it was Courfeyrac’s mother who selected them.”

“Fine taste,” Enjolras said.

“Yes,” Marius replied. There was another lull and then. “Can I interest you in some tea?”

“Yes,” Enjolras said breathlessly, and Marius let out a relieved laugh.

“Fantastic! I will have the housekeeper bring it up, please get settled in the lounge. I’ll be a moment.”

It was the second door, the lounge, and as Enjolras settled down in a seat, he really thought he ought to visit his friends more. He saw them frequently enough, in the Corinthe and the Musain, at lectures and during speeches, but he rarely visited them at home. These accommodations of Courfeyrac’s - and Marius’, he supposed - were new to him, although he was sure Courfeyrac had been there for at least a few months.

That then settled him into thinking about friendship. Courfeyrac’s, whose friendship he had had for decades; Marius, whose friendship he had had for a few months (and how meaningful they were - after all, he was in the lounge, waiting to meet with Marius for tea!); and then, finally, Grantaire’s.

Grantaire’s, which was said with a tied tongue and slight stammer. Grantaire’s, which was - in the man’s own words - “structured around arguments.” Grantaire’s, which was something Enjolras hadn’t considered before.

Of course they were friends. They were Les Amis de l’ABC, and even if Grantaire wasn’t a student - which he wasn’t. Or was he? Bahorel had dropped out, but had Grantaire? He certainly drank like he had. Students all drank, though; just because Enjolras mostly avoided inebriation, his academic associates did not.

Well, if Grantaire was or wasn’t a student, it didn’t quite matter. He was a member of their group, their collective, their cohort-

Except, was he? There were certainly no membership fees but Grantaire had never actually agreed to participate in their endeavours, be they mundane educational support for the proletariat or their larger, more radical plans. He had simply appeared one day, drunk and loud and waxing on about Greek mythology in an effort to upset Enjolras.

Which he achieved. Routinely, from then, but certainly that first day, with his bright eyes and wild gestures that had Enjolras’ teeth gnashing. Combeferre had thrust several glasses of wine his way that evening, and the next, when he had taken Enjolras’ place as Grantaire’s philosophical foe. The fight seemed less bitter that day, less prosaic, but Enjolras had also been three sheets to the wind with a fourth incoming, all in an effort to dull Grantaire’s arguments in his ears, and so he wasn’t the best at -

“I’m sorry for the wait,” Marius said, entering the room. “She’ll be up with the tea shortly; I fear we’re both waking late today, goodness knows what this winter chill is doing-”

“Am I friends with Grantaire?” Enjolras asked, unthinkingly, and Marius froze, half-stood, half-sat.

He laughed, a little hesitantly. “If what Joly says is true, I believe half the people of Paris are friends of Grantaire.”

“Yes,” Enjolras said, dismissively waving his hand, “but I am not half the people in Paris. Am I friends with Grantaire?”

“A- Are you friends with Grantaire?”

“I’m asking you. I believe I am, but I am rapidly coming to the conclusion that I’m not.”

spin this wheel to see your pokemon type

spin this one to see how you'll look like

requested by: anon

btw it still exists ˆˆ

here's the written out link:

This tiny sock was discovered during excavations in the ancient city of Oxyrhynchus, in Egypt. It was likely created for a child during the late Roman period, c.250-350 CE.

Above: another view of the same sock

Similar-looking socks from late antiquity and the early Byzantine period have also been found at several other sites throughout Egypt; these socks often have colorful, striped patterns with divided toes, and they were crafted out of wool using a technique known as nålbinding.

Above: a similar child's sock from Antinoöpolis, in Egypt, c.250-350 CE

The sock depicted above was created during the same period, and it was found in a midden heap (an ancient rubbish pit) in the city of Antinoöpolis. A multispectral imaging analysis of this sock yielded some interesting results back in 2018, as this article explains:

... analysis revealed that the sock contained seven hues of wool yarn woven together in a meticulous, stripy pattern. Just three natural, plant-based dyes—madder roots for red, woad leaves for blue and weld flowers for yellow—were used to create the different color combinations featured on the sock, according to Joanne Dyer, lead author of the study.

In the paper, she and her co-authors explain that the imaging technique also revealed how the colors were mixed to create hues of green, purple and orange: In some cases, fibers of different colors were spun together; in others, individual yarns went through multiple dye baths.

Such intricacy is pretty impressive, considering that the ancient sock is both “tiny” and “fragile."

Given its size and orientation, the researchers believe it may have been worn on a child’s left foot.

Above: a child's sock from Al Fayyum, Egypt, c.300-500 CE

The same article also describes the techniques that were used to produce these socks:

The ancient Egyptians employed a single-needle looping technique, often referred to as nålbindning, to create their socks. Notably, the approach could be used to separate the big toe and four other toes in the sock—which just may have given life to the ever-controversial socks-and-sandals trend.

Sources & More Info:

Manchester Museum: Child's Sock from Oxyrhynchus

British Museum: Sock from Antinoupolis

Royal Ontario Museum: Sock from Al Fayyum

Smithsonian Magazine: 1,700-Year-Old Sock Spins Yarn About Ancient Egyptian Fashion

The Guardian: Imaging Tool Unravels Secrets of Child's Sock from Ancient Egypt

PLOS ONE Journal: A Multispectral Imaging Approach Integrated into the Study of Late Antique Textiles from Egypt

Seeing Bahorel enter the cafe, Courfeyrac scooped up his hat and attempted to go. But Bahorel was quicker, making his way to their table in what seemed to be the mere blink of an eye and clapping a friendly hand on Courfeyrac’s shoulder– a friendly hand that also happened to force him back down into his seat. 

“And where are you off to in such a rush?” he asked. 

“Oh, I, uh–” Courfeyrac looked frantically to Bossuet, who offered nothing but a shrug.

“I cannot possibly come up with a lie for you,” Bossuet said. “I don’t know the truth, and the odds are good that in lying, I would accidentally stumble upon it.” 

“Did we quarrel? I am engaged in a number of them at present, it is possible I have lost track.” 

“No… no.” Courfeyrac appeared to make a silent resolution, and straightened. “I cannot face you, Bahorel. I cannot disgrace you with my company.” 

Bossuet and Bahorel exchanged glances. 

“And why?” Bahorel asked. 

Courfeyrac’s courage seemed to fail him, and the words came out in an inaudible mumble. 

“Once more,” Bossuet prompted. “This time with vowels.” 

“I passed my exams.”

The words rang in the silence that followed. Bahorel took a step back, and Courfeyrac sprang to his feet, hands clasped in supplication.

“I didn’t intend to. The illustrious Monsieur de Courfeyrac began making rumblings about how if I was not intending to continue my studies, perhaps I had best return to Provence, and– well, I had to appease him somehow, but I never thought, never dreamed–”

“I cannot speak to you,” Bahorel said, continuing to back away. “I fear the contagion. I will speak to Joly about preventative measures, then perhaps, gradually, I can continue to share your company.”