#𝐂𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐊. spilled wine.

[aurivore]

The White Gilgamesh separates men from mongrels.

[aurivore]

moonlightmagus​:

despairfiles​:

❝ … . ❞

❝ … .❞

The two Emiyas, that are usually at each other’s throats and barely can stay in the same room together are savoring the moment in silence. Wait. Did Saber just shared a cup of black tea with Archer? Yup, he sure did.

Oh she’s glad they’re bonding, BUT she randomly has a newfound appreciation. “Archer, didn’t you beat the crap out of Gilgamesh?”

     A gold-clad hand suddenly ruptures the fabric of the spacetime continuum, grabbing Yuuki by the neck as though she were a mere ragdoll. 

It would be nearly comical if he weren’t crushing her windpipe.

The rest of his armored body soon follows from the aperture as he lifts the magus high above the ground, her feeble legs dangling in the air. Such insolence would not go unpunished.

“— Care to repeat those words, mongrel?”

[aurivore]

gilbert.

That's Gilbert Gamesh to you, young man

[aurivore]

astra. astra would dare (until we get the boop counter, he gets a boop on the nose uvu)

Boops it back. Lovingly, might I add.

[aurivore]

Blasphemy.

[aurivore]

enkidu can and will chug this abomination of a "mixed drink" and they will do it right in front of him.

Now, now. However else will the little whelps get hair on their chests?

[aurivore]

"let me tell you a sad story....." clownkuno said, as she began to tell him a sad story. "A girl and a boy were driving a car. Suddenly the boy stopped the car and asked the girl to step out of the vehide, without any explanation. The girl got pissed, removed all her facebooks and ripped all the photos. The next day the girl heard that the boy had died, as he had driven into a wall The boy had noticed that there was a wall infront of them, had stopped the car, and saved the girls life, before he had driven into the wall."

"it is a sad story...." clownkuno cries a single tear of sadness from the sad story. it is only one (1) tear because clownkuno has cried over this story many times because (plot twist alert) she is actually the girl from the story...........

Let the court records show that the King is in great abdominal pain. 

     An-Kala, a scribe born and reared in the Godly Ages, might rightly consider himself inured to occurrences that possessed a greater magnitude of mysticism and its upheavals than his descendants further down the chronological chain might avow in any lustrum of their lives. If Cataclysm peddled wares, the man would hush it by glance and strike of his own inventory. Listen well, he might edify with the grain of a sophist, and had he fancied it capable of high ideas; The firmament could tear seven times and resunder eight, the Earth could roar with hankering ululations for want and slake of its abyssal imago, bovines could make stellar victualage of the horizon, and he would still ready his clay come morning and archive them come evening. And the same could be declared of the oarsman, the bricklayer, the potter, the bard. These were external phenomena which An-Kala held in conscious operation, paddocked in so stringent a mental capture and concord of understanding, and if by some measure there was no reconciliation between thought and what was observed in its discourse, then one would be found, whether by writer or he who reads, at the wedged end of his reed stylus, in the scribed face of his clay. What force, as though with the vengeance of the southern wind to shill our boats, could imperil the firm construct of understanding which had thus weathered the tempests of obstruction? 

Yet this, This eluded him. 

     This, which smacked An-Kala by the stem of his brain and beguiled him about the eyes, apprised him that his construct had instead the constitution of a house of thin reeds pirouetting on the scuds of a gorging marsh. He beholds it and knows it to be true, for he had always held certainty that he suffered no disease of perception nor any eccentricity of thought, and yet he could find himself amongst these orchards of intellect no reconciliation; had he been privy to the dense and fibrous neural dance of action potential and the membranes to which they were received, and of the synaptic trains that seemed in the crux of that moment to betray him, then he should liken this bloody communion between the reception of senses and the vagaries of reason to the legendary confusion of tongues between Enmerkar and Aratta’s Lord, with the amendment that their messenger had died with his body still dangling from the horse. 

     But there, there. An-Kala held not the pride of a metaphysician, but that of a scribe. His mind may bear its torment, but his hands shall suffer no loss. 

The mirth-bearing beast and its proboscis of carnelian continued to spit its ill-tidings, like unfurling bitter maledictions from its smarmy marsupial pocket of curses, a pungent zoonosis of nonsense which strove to raven An-Kala, the subsequent inheritor their scrying tongues. What bitter portent would the rainbowed creature spit next? The scribe's brow furrows; he is too cold to sweat. Would it claim that his instrument was not a stylus but a wooden caterpillar, his clay not made of earth but the pits of a rotting date? The human mind could handle much in its service, but fathom more; yet parse it less; and the adaptability of language can only be so moulded from the cast of necessity, or corralled by purpose on the counters of the tongues it graces. The language of the land was logographic, and, much like a crossbow being used to fell a cedar tree, or a spoon of felt being used to harvest fish, An-Kala was left to phonographs for concepts and terms for which he held no appropriate cognate or mere helm of understanding. But on his honor as a court scribe would he find some way to do it, even if it felt like he was playing a song composed for a trumpet on a lyre. 

‘Car’? ‘Vehide’?   Was a ‘face-book’ some sort of death mask? 

     Had An-Kala the audacity to lift his hand from his work he would scratch at his head, which was beginning to feel like its internal contrivances were melding into a veritable ooze of cuneiform cacography that the impish little harlequin would fashion into some linguistic apparatus for his king’s entertainment. 

     But it seems the beast would hardly need it.

     “Hohoh! What utter nonsense!” Gilgamesh held the jocular organism by firm grip, his thumb impressing upon the prismatic fibrous net about its motley cranium as if the act could rouse him further entertainment. The spill of its lachrymal glands gratify him. “Your inanity redeems you, mongrel. Let your soul gladden at the fact it has bestowed the King such laughter. You may continue until its novelty wears!”

Silently, yet with doubtless progression, did the growing pile of clay tablets approximate of his throne dais rise to commendable number. Since the chanticleer-cry of the dawn’s Imdugud had the King of Heroes and the privileged members of his court been the recipient of the harlequin’s damfool ballads, jejune sonnets, lurid poems, such trifling regales, and now, a fatuous tragedy redolent of folly and diaphanous woe. A graceful caryatid of resplendent verisimilitude amidst the short anthology of jests, however, raises a decorous voice amongst the palais. “Your Majesty, if I may.” Siduri, the paragon of forbearance, held her head in respectful inclination, yet her tone, as though forged by the edges of the years to adamantine quality, arose with even, dutiful cadence. “When I suggested a tribute to smooth over tensions, this is not exactly what I had in mind.” 

“And you shall spare it none. It would be a peerless honor even had I granted her a common stone.” The King declares, noble and peerless in his gesticulation even with a clown in his grip. “But they will receive no such privilege. The words of a fool are an offering to which they are equal.” He snaps his fingers. “Put it with the rest.” 

     The depredation of squalls alarmed in An-Kala’s consciousness would betray no expression to their vociferous churnings, for there was an indelible pride to the curvature of his spine, and a pleasure about his clay-kissed fingertips. His Majesty need not shout any words to the scribe; the King demanded perfection, and he would receive it. There is a pulchritude in An-Kala’s work above that he might discover as an oarsman, a bricklayer, a potter, a bard, in the fruits of his labor and the records that would outlast him. The King’s unimpeachable words, his thunderous elocutions, his imperial didactics, his every utterance, were all far heavier than any tablet or stone upon which they are carved. And An-Kala reveled, as might an oarsman in braving tumultuous tide, or a bard in brightening the people’s souls, with the honor of conveying His word.

And a court scribe does not question what he writes; he simply does. But when An-Kala looks down at his clay, it is almost as if he can parse his worn expression on its jester-cursed surface. 

             ⁠— An-Kala makes a mental note that he, himself, was suffering great cranial agony. 

     Amongst the throng thrashing about his mental chassis of prudence, the scribe could hear the efficient rustle of palace attendants as they knelt by his side to acquire another folly-laden tome, the soft placement of their tender blocks near the lick of fire to harden. “Of course, your Majesty,” Comes a servant's response. “Right away, your Majesty.” The jester’s mouth begins to open. Another folly will be borne. There will be no balm to An-Kala's disquiet.

       “I am certain Lady Ishtar and her temple will enjoy such an...abundant offering.”

[aurivore]

@flodeuyns​ replied pleaded:

PWEASE

MISTEW GIWGAMESH IM GOING TO WITHER WIKE AN AUTUMN WEAF

A CRUMB.. I BEG..

         LIGHTS A SPARK NEAR THE TRASH CAN.

                       Actions speak louder than words, Merlin. 

[aurivore]

     “You beg upright? How laughable. This is scarcely enough prostrating for a peasant making an entreaty toward the King. I’ve yet to see you crawling on your knees. ”

@aurivore​

“I beg of you.. please kill Yuuki and take her phone.”

[aurivore]

hey gil what's a " poggers " ?

P o g g e r s.

     An elusive word.

     Rummaging into a gap in space linked to the Gate of Babylon, the young King hones into the mental link which bonds him to his coffers. — Aha. In his hand flourishes a Pogs™ cardboard milk cap. On its surface is a picture of Enkidu happily consuming rocks en masse.

     “It seems you are!”

[aurivore]

i am NOT hanging these on my ceiling. i will do many things for you. not this.

     Oh? How amusing of the wizard to think himself in a position to make demands. There is no compromise between Kings and peasants. If a boon is to be granted, it is to be accepted without denial. 

     But today, Gilgameš finds himself in a merciful mood.

     Taking one of the heavy stone tablets engraved with the King’s dishabille form (conveyed with utmost artistic mastery) latched unto a chain of gold, Merlin becomes suddenly ensnared by both the links and the heavy work of art as if they were a new pair of limbs — the sheer force of the capture proceeds until it bolts him upwards to the ceiling, suspended in the air. 

In other words, it is an art exhibit; and Merlin himself is given the honor of being it’s frame. 

     What a beautiful, priceless load to hold in one’s arms. 

     “If you shan’t don them on your ceiling, than you shall do so upon your form. Be relieved that I have chosen to have you serve as a reminder and not a warning, cambion.”

[aurivore]

CHUGS THE HUMBABA WINE!!

There they go, committing another war crime. 

Sounds like an average weekday night.

[aurivore]

offers gil a nugget. surely that will resolve everything. :)

  Perhaps if you feed it to him, he’ll take it into consideration. 

           Don’t you know your presence alone is a balsam, Kuliashngu? But you should be more wise than to think victuals alone — even if fed from such resplendent hands — will be enough in itself to quell the particulars of my rage. 

[aurivore]

THIS ONE IS FOR THE BOYS WITH THE BOOMIN' SYSTEM TOP DOWN AC WITH THE COOLIN' SYSTEM WHEN HE COME UP IN THE CLUB HE BE BLAZIN' UP GOT STACKS ON DECK LIKE HE'S SAVIN' UP--

     He dignifies the world with his presence and all the pests suddenly rear their heads, like worms left stranded on the sidewalk after a rainstorm. How dull.

[aurivore]

nodding to himself, ❝ I cast potion of amplify thighs. ❞

     “Cast...a potion? Sir, I think you need to return to the fundamentals of magecraft in and of itself.”

[aurivore]

@moonlightmagus​

“I am ALMOST proud of you.”