It hit as a smell. Your nostrils quivered, and your head was filled with a strange petroleum odour, redolent of old machines; but there was a sweetish underlayer to it, like vomit. It assaulted you in the manner of a migraine headache. Then the punch—like the Saint of Joy to one’s kidneys—low in your stomach, racing up the central line of your body, seizing your heart in its teeth and shaking. Your palms ran wet. You made a gulping, golloping sound in the back of your throat—you tried to close your eyes as though that were some escape, but it was not—you tilted forward, gasping, your pulse bellowing, your ears deafened. You were suddenly convinced that there were little things crawling over your skin—you rubbed frantically at your forearms—you shivered convulsively, as though to fling them off; you touched obsessively at your ears; you cringed when a stray hair fell across your forehead.

But as you lurched—fretted—perceived—you fought. You made yourself one inhalation and exhalation—reduced yourself to one sensation, following it from down at the toes up all the lines of your body to the crown of your head. As the sensation rose, you filled with contempt for a stranger’s insanity. You had enough of your own to contend with. After a few minutes, you came to with nothing more than a sense of embarrassment, a desire to itch, and a mild heat rash.

Ianthe was screaming over the comm. Everyone waited politely for her to stop.

I spent a couple years in Homestuck and it was a very fun time -- it's great to be in a community watching something drop, it was wonderful to be on Tumblr, and I think that fandom produced an disproportionate amount of SFF genre pros. I don't think I took anything specific from it, though, except that Gideon Nav is absolutely wearing Dave Strider's sunglasses.

r/Fantasy Tamsyn Muir AMA

Harrow dared not poke her head around its bulk, and anyway she knew what she would see. Instead, she scattered a fistful of crushed ash in a wide half-circle around herself and Ortus and raised it into a jagged wall of calvarial bone, six feet high and an inch thick: the toughest and thickest posterior parietal she could manage in her pre-Lyctoral state.

Harrow the Ninth - Act Five, Chapter Forty-Nine

find /datastore/checkpoints -maxdepth 1 -type f -ls
find /datastore/checkpoints -maxdepth 1 -type f -ls

datawrangler@data-wrangler:/datastore$
datawrangler@data-wrangler:/datastore$ find /datastore/staging -maxdepth 1 -type f -ls

Camilla stepped forward more deliberately, keeping her eyes on the Prince’s eyes. Palamedes said, “For heaven’s sake, Nav, lay off the grandstanding,” but Camilla took the Prince’s wrist, positioned the needle, and pushed the syringe decisively home.
The needle snapped in half, like she’d jabbed it into the tiled floor. Camilla staggered back as if this had thrown her off-balance. Kiriona Gaia opened her hand—moved it to steady Camilla’s shoulder—then, like she was flinching, roughly shoved her away. Camilla fell back into Palamedes’s arms.
The Prince stared at them. Her eyes weren’t like Nona’s at all now: they were hard and dead and bright, like something that had been dug up.
“My father has made my body’s bones denser than titanium plex,” said the Crown Prince coldly. “My father has made my skin turn away bullets. I am the perfect sword hand and the final expression of the art of the Nine Houses. Don’t you get it? I am the Emperor’s construct.”

She said, “If the temperature drops further, I am in danger of becoming less useful. I have been experimenting with heating marrow to stop it from freezing, an art I have as far as I can tell only just invented, but it is fiendishly difficult. I do not admit this lightly.”

“Oh, damn!” the Fifth necromancer said softly. “Damn, damn! I hadn’t even thought of that. I mean—gosh, that’s fascinating, you ought to tell me the details at some point, but—damn!”

Harrow the Ninth - Act Four, Chapter Thirty-Five

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“Okay. What’s the trap?”
Pyrrha took up a piece of trash from a box that had half-tumbled over—a piece of broken pipe—and tossed it, underhand, toward the door.
It shivered into bits before Nona’s eyes, and a fine patter of dust came out the other end and dribbled on the corridor floor.
“It’s a shit version of Mercymorn’s old entropy trap,” said Pyrrha. “Not half as good. Done entirely through wards—brilliant—but entirely reliant on wards—f**king ridiculous. Good at keeping people out though … and almost impossible for anyone but another Lyctor to break. See what it’s made out of? That’s blood. Blood wards age, and they burn out if you make them work too hard … And I’m sorry, No-No, but that’s where you come in.”
Nona didn’t understand. “If you want us to stand here chucking stuff at it we’ll be here all day.”

“He gets her back, you don’t know what he’ll become! You have no idea, and you’ve deluded yourself into believing him, and he’s just tricking you! You know that, don’t you? Are you trying to kid yourself? Is this about Harry, after all?”
There was a deep indrawn breath; Ianthe laughed and said—
“You don’t have to breathe, you know.”
“You’re so goddamned boring when you talk about Harrowhark, so don’t,” said Kiriona.

By the time they had gotten to the beach Nona was depressed, but it only took her feet being in the salt water to make her happy again. Camilla never came in with her. This was because there were heaps and heaps of jellyfish in the harbour, with their beautiful bodies transparent at the crown and deep indigo at the very tips, and they weren’t at all afraid to come up near to you and brush you. On Nona, this made the place they touched tingle a little, but nothing else. That was why Nona had always swum at dusk, because Cam said the jellyfish sting killed most people within minutes. The water seethed with them because the harbour was closed, and nobody was fixing the barrier nets.

[...]

Nona swam to the nearest pillar, found her footing on a big metal screw, and waited, buffeted by the waves and the brushing lappets of three comfortably stinging jellyfish.