Why was there a huge drop off in demand for super restores around November last year? Is there Practically nobody buying since May, comparatively. Is this a bot-busting thing?
Full disclosure, I'm sitting on a huge stack for raids 4 profit.
Still a bit iffy on selling the sanfew, but I'm glad I bailed out of haemostatic when I did.
Put in about 12 mil on these guys. I think with the new blood moon boss it's likely bleed mechanics will occur. Backup plan is that since axe is being buffed hopefully more people do vard. Thoughts?
Diary entry (23/5/26):
"When you enter into a relationship with someone, you give them a piece of your soul." Words from a summer camp sermon, hazy with sweat and teenage temptations bubbled, unwelcome, to the surface of my mind. I know now that this phrase was just designed to scare us away from teenage flings, one-night stands and potential pregnancies, but I can't help but feel as if a part of my soul died with Charlie when I saw his lifeless body, slumped on his kitchen table. Even if the events surround his death turn out to be some crazy coincidence, I feel as if sharing these events will soothe that little piece of his soul that still carries on in me. That, and the fact that a contemporaneous record of events is invaluable in possible court proceedings.
I think the thing that will stick with me the longest were his eyes. They bulged at me from across the room, with the unblinking glassiness of a freshly gutted fish. Over the course of my 2 years at Saint Vincent's, I'd seen the human body ripped, twisted, skewered and burned in every way you could imagine but the scene in front of me made me thankful I'd skipped lunch. It was as if someone had inflated a balloon inside Charlie's head, forcing blood and cerebral fluid out of every orifice. His left cheek rested on the table in a coagulating, dark red pool. A thick trail of yellow liquid had been squeezed from his tear ducts and nostrils, running down his face and mixing with the blood into an unholy concoction.
It seemed like so little time ago that those same eyes had caught mine from across the floor of a grimy club. I was used to hostile stares from classmates, and even adults and had stiffened, preparing to run. The raw animal desire that filled Charlie's gaze that night, however, left me utterly flat-footed. As I stood, slack-jawed, he had sauntered across the room, never breaking eye contact, like a predator, closing in on its cortisol-stricken prey. After what felt like a eternity, he came to a stop in front of me. He had slowly reached out his hand, as if to a frightened dog, and gently taken my chin between his thumb and forefinger. He had lifted it, and made a show of inspecting my face, before dramatically shaking his head and tutting.
"I'm afraid the prognosis is dire, Dr Jacobs."
"bu-"
"Shhhhh... speaking will only make it worse." he had said, moving his finger to cover my lips. "No, I'm afraid the only cure for this terrible ailment is for me to buy you a drink."
A wave of cringe about how well that line had worked washed me back onto the bleak shores of the present, leaving behind only the greasy memory-residue of how well that line had worked. All that was left was the stark reality that I was staring at the corpse of my ex, alone, in his apartment. Panic and vomit rose in my throat and threatened to over to overwhelm me.
"The object in front of me weights around 65 kilograms. It once housed a miracle, but is now just a pile of atoms. By weight, 65% are oxygen, 18% carbon, 10% hydrogen and the rest is a constellation of trace elements. It cannot hurt me, and I cannot hurt it."
I repeated the mantra passed down generations of frightened first-year med students until my breathing had steadied, and summoned the courage to really look at the body. The only reasonable cause of death was a burst blood vessel in the Circle of Willis, a group of blood vessels at the base of the brain. They are under such high pressure, that one small rupture can cause blood to fill the cerebral cavity and crush the brain against the inside of the skull. This happens all the time with older folk and death comes as instantly as turning off a light switch, but I've never seen a case as violent, or as messy, as this.
What really took me aback, however, was Charlie's face. I'd seen expressions of surprise, some of pain and plenty relaxed into the serenity of deep sleep. The profound, all encompassing sadness and regret etched into Charlie's face was unlike anything I'd seen before. I instantly knew that I'd be seeing that face in my dreams for weeks. The rest of his body was no less alarming. The once muscular frame of Trinity's star running back had withered into an almost skeletal parody of its former self, and his hands were covered in a strange lattice of tiny scars, as if he'd been attacked by an angry sparrow.
In any case, I've called the police. I'm sure they'll figure it all out, but I don't relish he prospect of explaining how he's died, when I'm the only other person with a key to his apartment, and my DNA is probably all over the crime scene. I've got to reach out to Kenny at the coroner's office to keep a tab on this case.
Update:
OK now I'm really freaked out. I just got home and Charlie's old sketchbook was sitting on my kitchen counter. He was quite skilled and had done quite a few portraits of me, which I'd tolerated because they made me look a lot prettier than I actually am. He'd insisted on me keeping it after we broke up, claiming that even if we were no longer together, he wanted to know that I kept a little piece of him with me. It went straight in the closet and I've never touched it again.
The freakiest part, however, was the fact it was open on what appeared to be the last sketch he'd made. The sketch was even more lovingly rendered than the rest of his drawings and titled "Ganymede." It depicted a goblet shaped like a human skull filled to the brim with red liquid, entirely too opaque and bright to be wine. Some of it had overflowed and trickled down its left side, dripping and congealing on the table beneath. Beneath it was simply inscribed:
"Ps 23.5". As in today's date.
This can't be a coincidence, right? There's no way that he can have predicted his own death. Between the date, and the image itself, I just can shake this feeling of dread.
I've reviewed the door cam footage of the house. Nobody but me has appeared in the last 48 hours, and the alarm wasn't tripped, so I have zero idea how the book wound up here. Not sure if that makes me feel more or less disturbed though.
Maybe i'm just being paranoid, but I'm putting this out to the internet for a possible explanation for what's going on. I'm going to take a bit of time to collect my thoughts and I'll update you if anything else comes up.
We making it out of the notes app with this one boys
The current dip in price is almost perfectly aligned with Leagues, indicating a rebound as people get back to main game and crafting grind. I also think that there could be potential use since they're an ingredient as hemostatic bandages, with Vampyrium just around the corner. Thoughts?
