#Blown Away: The Rolling Stones and the Death of the Sixties

[omg-hellgirl]

In the years to come, her sultry voice, her graceful mien, the fact that she came from a convent and was the daughter of a baroness, her translucent beauty, her hit records, her long affair with Mick Jagger, her addiction to drugs, all contrived to make her the personification of the sixties superstar.

A. E. Hotchner, Blown Away: The Rolling Stones and the Death of the Sixties.

[xerotiny]

Strangers // Ethel Cain #2

Strangers (Part One: Knuckle Velvet)

Pairing: Jeong Yunho x Reader

Warning: cannibalism, graphic depiction of cannibalism, violence and death, smut, and heavy on angst.

Note: sequel to knuckle velvet, adaptation of the song "stangers" by Ethel Cain.

Gist: having lost all hope for Yunho's return, you go on about your life to find him back at your doorstep in a couple of weeks; with much more menacing personality than before, he continues to play you along to his tunes. You don't realise how detrimental he was for you, not until you were counting last of your breaths.

Song Rec: Strangers by Ethel Cain

Word Count: 2,568

Reader's Perspective.

"Don't talk to strangers or you might fall in love."

          My mom would always tell me to stay away from strangers. I kept her words in my head until the day I met Yunho. The moment my sullen gaze was casted on him, everything in my head turned to mush; I saw him in the home supplies aisle of our local supermarket. He stood confused, contemplating what brand of bleach to buy. It seemed ridiculous, for a guy to ponder on the brand of bleach. I used to work at the supermarket, it was my humbling duty to help him out. And surprisingly, we hit it off quite quickly then.

For a mere minute, I believed he was genuinely interested in me, and maybe he was. Who could even resist his presence, or his tantalising words? He was irresistible in every sense, be it his personality or his appearance. I still remember the day we first went out. It was a drive-in theatre; they were showing the old classic, notebook. Though, there wasn't much watching involved when we were both busy sucking each other's faces off. Kind of vague and pathetic, I know. It's the reason why I knew we'd never work out.

My doubts were soon blown out to my reality. He was abusive, irresponsible, and arrogant. A complete three-sixty from the face he had. One might seemingly assume he's one of the angels, a dearie. He's not. He never was. I still carry the marks and bruises on my skin, he left them with much malign he shrouds in his heart. I'm a tattered piece of his rage, evermore stuck and hellbound to the torturous depths of his anger. Yet, I never learn. I never learn to rid myself of him; he isn't a part of me. He doesn't define me. Then why do I run back to him the moment he acts a little different?

After he left that day, I stayed close to the door, hoping for his return. He didn't come. He never did. He was never going to. Though, a couple of days ago, I saw him hanging out by the pier, rolling blunts and smoking them with his friends. It hurt me; I'll admit. But with the way things were left between us, I wasn't hopeful he'd come back to me.

And then the unthinkable happened.

He was standing on my front porch, heart in his hand, apologising. He made this face, almost like a despondent puppy, reeling me in with those tearful eyes. My heart lurched in a minute, believing his apologies, believing him.

"Come with me, sunshine," he said, "come with me, and we'll be forever together." He took a long pause then, "I've changed my ways, I've made myself better. I want to be better for you."

I believed him.

I stared at his hand, extended, outreaching mine.

I laced our hands together.

And together, we left my old house.

A house accommodating my schizophrenic mother and no one else.

He took me to a better place. His place. A house on the prairie. Secluded. It was our own paradise.

A paradise I would soon start to resent.

───────────────

          I heard your footsteps outside. Outside this basement door, in the mere darkness I was trapped in. Was the darkness just in my head? Because you said this place would be mine to live, mine to roam, mine to stay. Then what am I doing in your basement? Lying in cold, under the ambiguous ceiling of stone, I wonder what you're doing standing outside all alone.

I knew it then, when the door rattled open. I shouldn't be keeping hopes with you again. You're not here to make me feel better about this situation. You're here to do what you do best. Seeming to help me. It's funny how I never considered myself tough. I fell in love with you without weighing my thoughts. I gave myself to you so easily, never putting up a fight when you had your way with me, with your fists and teeth.

"Hey, sunshine," your soft voice calls out, "how are you feeling today?"

You're so handsome walking over to me. A piece of art, as I'd always considered you to be. Sculpted by the Gods, your face so comely and beautiful. It brings butterflies to my belly every time I see your face.

Lifeless, I've surrendered myself to your ways. If I could mumble out a string of words, they'd be all about how pretty you are. You know that, right? You know you're too pretty for me, right Yunho? It was my mistake to fall for a handsome face, rather than for a handsome heart. But you went on to make me believe you were virtuous. Who knew you'd be so sinister.

You crouch down next to me. And me, unfazed by your presence, keep staring at the ceiling. I don't know what I'm thinking about, though it's certain I'm thinking about you. Ruminating mindlessly about your face, and your warmth.

"Come on, won't you sit up for me? I'm here for you." your feigned affection is a deadly concoction of hate and love. Should I even be concerned? Should I believe you like I usually do?

"Be a good girl for me, sunshine," you prompt, cupping my face with your cold hands.

"I haven't been a good girl to you, so far?" I mumble, my eyes darting to your face; you had a frail smile on your lips, murmuring, "you have."

You pull me up, forcing me to sit straighter. "You've been such a good girl for me."

"Am I really no good for you, Yunho?"

You shake your head, as if to push my worries away. "Sunshine, you are. You have been good for me."

"I just want to be yours." I whisper my words, rambling, "can I be yours? I am yours, right?"

"Yes, you are," you state, stroking away the stray strands of my hair from my face. "You're mine. And I'm yours. Isn't that what you wanted?"

"Yeah." I bite my tongue, contemplating speaking.

You have this look in your eye, as if you're satisfied, yet tempted to devour me. You've been doing it for a while now. Devouring me raw.

"Just tell me if I'm turning in your stomach and making you feel sick."

"No, sunshine. You're not." You lean in to kiss me, capturing my lips in haze which burns in my head.

Our touches have always sparked my desire for intimacy, our bodies are so compatible with each other. Is that why you've been cutting off my flesh and eating it? Do I taste any better? Do I make you sick? I don't want to make you sick. I love you too much for that. Our kiss blazes, growing to an intimate extent; we were lost in the carnality, in the darkness of your basement. And then, we made love for the first time.

I vaguely remember what happened afterwards, but you, taking care of me was burnt in my soul. You didn't keep me confined in your basement since then; instead, you put me in a room. It was comfortable, decorative and warm. Just like you. Though, you were delicate with me, my thighs felt sore. Why was it? Was it because you had taken away the flesh from my thighs? I felt so light. Agony was slowly creeping up my stomach, making me sick. I don't want to complain about you cutting off my body, you can have as many pieces of me as you want.

One early morning, you took me to the local supermarket. We were buying some ingredients for the meal tonight. You said you'd cook me a meal, treat me with dinner and make me forget about the pain. I trusted you. I trusted you blindly, anticipating for the night planned out in front of me. You held my hand so tight in yours as we roamed aisle to aisle, picking out the different ingredients needed for the meal. I mellowed down when we came across the dairy aisle; my mom would come here every day, grab two cartons of milk and leave. If I meet her here, I'd run up to her and embrace her in one of the warmest hugs. But she wasn't there. My heart sunk to my gut; if she was there, she'd cry.

We came back home after a long tour of the supermarket. It was almost the time for dinner preparations. The sun was setting on the skyline, painting the horizon with hues of orange and red; somewhere in the purple sky, the moon started to peek out. A world hushed with our whispers, when you lead me up to the house's attic. You said you had a surprise for me. I was eager.

Coming to the attic, my senses were numb. You had decorated that small space with all my favourite things; a shahmina sitting in the centre, fairy lights on the ceiling hanging low in curves, and countless pillows littered the mattress under the shahmina. You led me further inside, by my hand. We drifted to the night breeze crawling in through the open window. And the cold made us find a way to warm ourselves.

You kiss me then, your lips tingling on mine as I straddle your lap; we're going at it, hands roaming each other's bodies, wanting to strip each other bare. I was tugging at your leather jacket, anticipating. In some carnal enthusiasm, I do rid you off your clothes, keeping you warm to me only in your briefs. You were eager too; I could feel it in the way your cock rubbed my belly. Sinking into your lap, you break the kiss to tear my clothes off.

I watch the pieces of my dress lying around me, torn by your brute strength; wearing nothing underneath made you drool, salivate at the way my body was still holding the bruises you left behind. Every scar on my skin is a reminder of your ways with me, when you'd abuse me to your heart's content, make me mewl and whimper your name.

You don't want that now, do you Yunho?

While we're in each other's arms, pushing all our limits to be one together, the moon outside is brightening up the sky. Your grasp on me is tight, your fingers digging into the remaining flesh on my thighs; you want me so badly and I did too. I was grinding myself in your lap, getting any friction I could get from you.

"You're too eager, sunshine." You mumble, kissing my cheek and then trailing your lips under my jaw. "We've got the whole night. I'm not going anywhere. So aren't you."

I should've known what you meant by it then. But I was too engrossed in the way your hands seared my skin, pulling at my chest and tugging at my prodding nipples. Your bare fingers dance along my skin, tracing lines to my belly and then further down to my cunt; when your fingers curl inside me, I feel so cold. It was the good kind of cold. Should even I be feeling good about it? I don't know.

We made love then too. All night. You, fucking my brains out, as if I was the last person on the planet with you. God, it was so euphoric in some strange delight. We stayed in each other's arms till sun broke out from the dense of the night, we were tangled in each other's bodies; tired from all that we had done, forgotten about the dinner completely.

You told me then, "you're happier here, sunshine. You should be."

I believed you.

I believed every single word you said to me.

I believed every lie you fed me.

I believed even when I didn't want to.

I believed even when I saw straight through your lies.

You sat my dying body in front of you, staring straight through my eyes as you put a raw piece of meat in your mouth. That was me, right? You were devouring me, as you would. You're so handsome when I'm all over your mouth. When my blood smears on your lips, it makes me feel we're connected to each other on a spiritual level; we should be right? Because we're lovers.

I tried to be so good for you. I let you have me. I let you have me as you pleased. You're really breathtaking when you have me all over your face, the littlest streaks of crimson, and the sweetest taste of my flesh on your tongue. I am a good girl for you; though, as far as I'm concerned, I don't know who I am or what I am anymore. I wonder if others are missing me, worried about me? Sad for them, the only memory they'd have of me is the polaroid in evidence.

"Am I yours?" I asked with my dying breath, and you nodded your head, "all mine."

"Do I make you sick?"

"You do not."

It was then I knew, I was no longer in the position to keep going. Am I making you feel sick? I don't want you to feel sick. Am I making you feel sick? I don't want to...

Please tell me if I'm making you feel sick. I don't want to make you feel sick, I don't want you to fall sick because of me. 

────────────

In the last moments of my life, I thought about my mother; how she must have been waiting for me, sitting by the window of our old house, patiently watching me come home. But I found her in my memories, only to tell her I've made it real far.

To tell her, I never blamed her for raising me the way she did, while she was torn apart. While she had her own woes to take care of. I don't blame her for my heart, or the way I turned out. I knew just how much she was going through to raise me right.

I'll wait for her here.

"Don't think about me too hard, I know you have trouble sleeping." She'd never sleep a wink again at night, knowing what had happened to me.

"Don't worry about seeking me or my eyes. I know you'd miss them."

"Mama, just know that I love you. I really do. And I'll see you when I get here."

[keirametzbrassknuckles]

A TRIFECTA FOR THE WHUMP ONE FOR YOU choose whichever one appeals to you most ;D - (1) “Is that fear I see?” with Vesemir/Rennes; (2) ‘Fine’? I heard you scream!” with Lambert/Coën (or Lambert/Coën/Aiden); (3) “Nobody’s coming to save you.” for Rorveth (I WILL SEE MYSELF OUT NOW I'M SORRY)

Happy murderfest to you as well my dear.

I chose to go with Vesemir/Rennes #1 "is that fear I see?" Because I love dying and being dead and I know you do too. And a lovely time was had by all (not really, I'm crying as we speak).

CW/TW for the sacking of Kaer Morhen, gore, injury, death of children, and major character death.

Vesemir comes to to the sound of screaming and a horrible weight on his chest. He can’t see for a moment, can’t get his eyes to focus, his lashes caked with blood that has run down into his eyes. He's stuck beneath a massive piece of masonry, pinned by his leg and entire left side as though he'd tried to throw a quen and the shield had shattered. He can't remember where he is or how he got there for a long moment; head feeling hollow with the lack of memory.

One of the walls came down, he remembers finally, blown apart by chaos. He'd been shielding a group of yearlings, his yearlings. A cohort of boys only Grassed three weeks ago blinking against the glare of the burning north tower, muscles shaking as they tried to hold up swords, bodies too week to fight. There were men and mages and orders to kill...

He remembers now.

Through the rubble surrounding him, he can barely make out the twisted mass of blackened bodies. An abyss of pulverized gore with white icebergs of bone visible in places, too obliterated to make out who they'd been. The boys, his boys, smashed to nothing.

Some cry of animal grief builds itself in the dust-choked cavern of his throat. He holds it there, chokes on it, doesn't let it pass his lips.

"Please" a voice says from far away, a boy's voice "please no"

Vesemir gathers all his strength and tries to lift himself, the primal instinct to protect overtaking him. He feels the thready rip of muscle tearing and falls back with a gasp, sparks swimming in front of his eyes. He can't feel it, not really which means his leg is breaking down, that the muscle is dying. He grits his teeth against the fear.

"Please"

He is powerless but to listen as the terrified plea of the boy, his boy, trails off into the bloody rasp of a cut throat. He feels it though, feels it like a knife to the heart.

The silence settles, horrible and reeking of spilled blood and smoke.

It's quiet for a moment, a long moment that seems to stretch into oblivion. He's going to die here he realizes, bleeding out against the stones of the courtyard of the place that has become as familiar and dear to him as the back of his own hands, the sight of his own face in the mirror. A place they were supposed to be safe.

There’s a poetic irony to it and he almost laughs, only to find his lungs too crushed to expand enough to produce the sound.

There’s a movement across the courtyard, barely visible through the smoke and debris. Vesemir, pinned as he is, unable to turn his head, is aware of movement but can’t see it for a long moment. He braces himself for pain, for a surprise attack but it doesn’t come.

A group of soldiers and mages strides into view, a prone and growling figure in a black fur cloak slung between them. They throw their captive to the ground. Vesemir hears the crack of kneecaps against the cobblestones. He’d know that shape anywhere; the haughty cut of those broad shoulders, those strong thighs, and his breath catches in his throat at the sight.

It’s Rennes, face mottled and swollen with bruises, bleeding from several stab wounds. The shaft of an arrow sticks out of his thigh, fletching stained with blood. Something in Vesemir breaks at the sight even as a deeper part of him wails in gratitude, in relief. Everything he’d lost come back to him.

When the alarm had been raised Rennes chose to meet the intruders alone. He had donned his black wolf-fur cloak and stepped out onto the trail - a Master to the very last. Vesemir had tried to go with him but had been ordered to stay, held back by Rennes’ hand. The first time the grandmaster had touched him in years.

“Stay” Rennes had ordered, hand heavy against his shoulder, calloused and scarred fingers curling against the side of his neck as though seeking to pull strength from his pulse. Vesemir hadn't let it break him.

But he had stayed, had done as he was told. A loyal dog to the last.

He had assumed Rennes had died there on the trail, hadn't seen him in the ensuing fray. Although he hadn't been in much of a place to look.

Now, watching them drag him, demiterium-cuffed and rope-bound he realizes Rennes's fate had been worse than death. He'd been made to watch.

He's still wearing his cloak, black fur blending with the silver-streaked thundercloud of his hair. Regality is written in every line of his posture even as one of the men hits him across the face with the hilt of his sword, even as he spits blood and fragments of teeth onto the cobblestones.

"So here he is, the last wolf," the one who hit him says, laughing "the alpha bitch. What did you think beastie? Did it turn you on when we killed them all?"

"They’re only children," Rennes says, quietly.

It's a spit-back of Vesemir’s own words and it chills him to the bone. How often had they had this argument? Are they children or witchers? Men or monsters? “Only the strong survive” Rennes would growl at him, slamming down his cup of whatever it was they’d been drinking hard enough to dent the table “That’s the way it has to be. Boys are like bones, break them and they’ll grow stronger. They'll grow stronger or die”

They’d spent lifetimes breaking children in the name of strength and for what? What good had that strength been in the end? What had it all been for?

“They’re only boys,” Rennes says again, coming to the realization too late for it to do anyone any good.

"Not anymore," the men say "no more monsters, no more monstrous children. No more witchers"

"The lone wolf dies," Rennes says, all glacial calm despite the blood bubbling up from between his lips "but the pack survives"

The men laugh, the leader taking Rennes' bruised chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing him to look around him; at the ruined Keep, at the bloody cobblestones, at the piles of bodies - child-small corpses - cut down where they'd stood hands shaking around swords too big for their frames

"Don't you see, beastie? Look around you. There's no pack left"

He knows that Rennes sees him from the way that the other man smiles, just a twitch of blood-burned lips, an old familiar gesture meaning what can you do? Meaning thank the gods you're here. Meaning I'm sorry.

"Is that fear I see?" The one with the sword says mockingly "did I finally make the soulless mutant feel something after all?"

“No,” Rennes says, eyes hard as chips of stone when he lifts them “not fear”

“Too bad,” the man says and lifts his sword.

There’s a horrible meaty crunch and Vesemir screams. Or maybe he just imagines he does, the shock too great for sound.

Rennes' headless torso falls to the ground with a resounding thud, blood pooling from the stump of neck, that strong regal neck. His head bounces once, rolls, comes to rest on one cheek facing Vesemir’s own.

His eyes are open, wide and bright, and full of defiance. Even facing down the executioner's blade his iron core of bravery hadn't failed him. Vesemir loves him, purely and completely for the first time in a generation even as the animal anguish of loss claws its way inside his chest.

He feels tears welling at the corners of his eyes - a feeling he hasn't felt in over sixty years, a feeling he didn't think he could feel anymore. They fall, lava hot against his freezing cheeks, mixing with the blood and ash to fall red against the stones beneath him. He gasps, sobs with it, his smashed ribcage protesting the expansion of the lungs beneath them.

Pinned as he is he can't turn his head, can't look away from the face of the man he’s spent his life loving, loathing; that strong nose, those snarl-bowed lips the curvature of which he knows better than the sound of his own heartbeat. He can't look away. He doesn't know that he would if he'd been able to.

How many nights has Vesemir spent in this same position; cheek on pillow gazing into those ice-chip eyes? They used to lie like this as trainees, whispering stories of heroism and chivalry to each other in the darkness of the shared dormitory. Later they lay like this as lovers, passing promises of forever back and forth like talismans between kiss-bitten lips. It's fitting that it would end like this, unable to do anything but gaze into Rennes' death pale face like a lover might - a position he hadn't held for decades but had longed for throughout it all, despite it all, despite loathing himself for the longing.

The sun sinks below the horizon, a bloody gash, choked with smoke. The darkness encroaches with the horrible silence of a mass grave, and Vesemir watches Rennes' amber eyes cloud over with death, milky as the moon.

He remembers when they were blue.

[musicreadinglists]

Manic Street Preachers reading list part 1: Richey’s Favourite Books

Tennessee Williams – Small Crypt Warnings

Tennessee Williams – Suddenly Last Summer

Tennessee Williams – Baby Doll

Anonymous (Beatrice Sparks) – Go Ask Alice

Sylvia Plath – The Bell Jar

Arthur Rimbaud – A Season in Hell

William Burroughs – Junky

Albert Camus – The Myth of Sisyphus

Albert Camus – The Outsider

Albert Camus – The Fall

Albert Camus – The Plague

Philip Larkin – poems

Primo Levi – Collected Poems

William Blake – poems

Siegfried Sassoon – The War Poems

Julie Burchill – The Boy Looked at Johnny: The Obituary of Rock and Roll

Greil Marcus – Mystery Train: Images of America in Rock ‘n’ Roll

Nik Cohn – Apobpopaloobop Alopbamboom: The Golden Age of Rock

Charles Shaar Murray – Crosstown Traffic: Jimi Hendrix and Post-War Pop

Albert Goldman – Elvis

Albert Goldman – Lives of John Lennon

George Orwell – 1984

Vladimir Nabokov – Lolita

James Baldwin – The Fire Next Time

Brendan Behan – Borstal Boy

Bret Easton Ellis – Less Than Zero

Bret Easton Ellis – American Psycho

William Golding – Lord of the Flies

William Golding – The Inheritors

John Lahr – Prick Up Your Ears: The Biography of Joe Orton

Ken Kesey – One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest

Aldous Huxley – Brave New World

Jack Kerouac – Desolation Angels

Luke Rhinehart – The Dice Man

Ralph Ellison – Invisible Man

J.D. Salinger – The Catcher in the Rye

William Wharton – Birdy

William Wharton – Pride

Osamu Dazai – No Longer Human

Franz Kafka – The Metamorphosis

Franz Kafka – The Trial

Dennis Cooper – Frisk

Fyodor Dostoyevsky – Notes from the Underground

F. Scott Fitzgerald – Bernice Bobs Her Hair

Masuji Ibase – Black Rain

Yukio Mishima – Thirst for Love

Oscar Wilde – The Picture of Dorian Gray

Jean Genet – Miracle of the Rose

J.G. Ballard – Crash

J.G. Ballard – The Atrocity Exhibition

A.E. Hotchner – Blown Away: The Rolling Stones and the Death of the Sixties

R.D. Laing – Knots

Malcolm Lowry – Under the Volcano

T.S. Eliot – The Waste Land

Octave Mirbeau – The Torture Garden

Harold Brodkey – The Runaway Soul

Junichiro Tanizaki – Naomi

[maaaddiexo]

The Within Series | Legolas Greenleaf

Book 1: The Devil Within - 1.6

Mainlist | Serieslist

Nyx of Tyndall does not know love or kindness. Cursed at a young age by a jealous witch, Nyx has lived a life of solitude and death.

Until Gandalf the Grey requests her presence and uncontrollable skill in assisting a young Hobbit across Middle-Earth with nine others to destroy a ring so powerful all fall victim to its evil.

Not only must Nyx face Orcs, demons, and creatures she’s never seen before, but also the devil inside. Controlling the devil is the key to finding freedom in a spell that can’t be broken. But it will not be so easy for Nyx when every obstacle she faces pushes her to an edge she cannot return from.

Chapter Six

Through the woods they ran. The sun had barely begun to rise when they heard the screeches of the Nazgûl once more.

“Hurry!” Strider shouted from the front of the line, Frodo thrown over his shoulder. His skin had paled and small groans came through his lips every time he was jostled around.

“We’re six days from Rivendell,” Sam replied. “He’ll never make it!”

“Have faith,” Nyx said, though she feared Sam was right. “If he can withstand the Ring he may be able to stay off the poison in his veins long enough.”

They moved as fast as they could until the next sunset, finding refuge in thick foliage, surrounded by three trolls that had once been turned to stone. Nyx touched one gently. “Bilbo turned these to stone sixty years ago. Gandalf told me about it when I was younger.”

“How did he turn them to stone?” Merry asked as he wrapped an unconscious Frodo in an extra blanket. The poor Hobbit had begun to shiver.

“Trolls cannot stand sunlight. They will turn to stone if any sunlight touches their skin. Bilbo saved the entire company from being eaten that night. It was the first time he proved himself helpful to Thorin Oakenshield.”

“He’s waking up!” Sam shouted. “Look, Frodo. It’s Mister Bilbo’s trolls!”

Frodo could only moan and groan, his eyes enlarged and his skin a pale blue. All of the veins in his chest were visible. Sam touched his cheek.

“Mister Frodo? He’s going cold!”

“Is he going to die?” Pippin asked worriedly.

Strider looked sadly at the Hobbits. “He is passing into the Shadow World. He’ll soon become a wraith like them.”

Frodo gasped painfully again, and the Ringwraiths screeched in response. The noise came from all around them.

“They’re close!” Merry gasped.

“Sam? Do you know the athelas plant?”

“Athelas?”

“Kingsfoil.”

“Kingsfoil? Ah, it’s a weed.”

“It may help to slow the poison,” Strider said. Sam nodded and moved to leave but Nyx stopped him.

“I will go. I know what the plant looks like and where to find it. Besides, I am still uneasy from last night. I believe some time away from people may help calm me down.”

Strider hesitated and then nodded. “Alright. Don’t stray too far. There is another plant, echinacea. I will search for that.”

Nyx nodded and the two left the Hobbits alone and moved into the woods, searching for their respected plants. Nyx had just found hers when she heard a new voice. Not a wraith, but a woman.

“What’s this? A Ranger caught off his guard?”

Nyx grabbed her scythe. “Drop your weapon.”

“It’s alright, Nyx,” Strider said. “She is an old friend. Only having fun.”

The woman stood up straight and sheathed her sword, revealing porcelain skin and pointed ears. An Elf. “My name is Arwen. I bring no harm, but it is my job to patrol the borders. When we heard of Ringwraiths, I was sent out further to investigate.”

“Our friend, Frodo, he was stabbed with a Morgul blade,” Nyx said. “Can you help him?”

“Not here.”

“He’s this way,” Strider said. They returned to camp, Arwen with her white horse. Frodo’s head rolled to the side when they approached, but Nyx was unsure if he was truly seeing them.

“Frodo,” Arwen whispered. Frodo’s lips moved but nothing came out. Arwen said something in Elvish Nyx could barely hear. I have come to help you. Hear my voice. Come back to the light.

The Hobbit’s eyes rolled to the back of his head as some colour returned to his face.

“Who is she?” Merry whispered as Arwen knelt beside him.

“She’s an elf,” Sam said in awe. He had never seen an Elf before.

“He is fading,” Arwen whispered.

Nyx knelt on the other side of Frodo, ripping up the plant she’d gone out to find. Arwen pulled back Frodo’s shirt to examine the wound, revealing purplish and black veins stemming from the wound. After chewing on the plant, Nyx placed the plant over the wound, cooing at Frodo as he gasped in pain.

“He is not going to last. We must get him to my father.”

The three stood up and Strider picked up Frodo, moving to place him on Arwen’s horse.

“There are five Wraiths behind you. Where the other four are, I do not know.”

“They’ll be back,” Nyx said. A sense of dread filled her heart.

“Let me take him,” Arwen said.

“Arwen,” Strider sighed. Something in his eyes told Nyx that Arwen was more than just a friend to him.

“I do not fear them.”

Strider conceded, moving to let her mount her horse. “You must ride hard. Don’t look back.”

“Wait!” Nyx moved past Strider, reaching into Frodo’s pocket for the Ring. It immediately felt heavy in her hand, calling out for the devil within.

“Nyx!” Strider said harshly. “What are you doing?”

Nyx ignored him, stringing it onto the plain chain hidden underneath her dress. “Giving them a better chance.” Nyx moved to Strider’s horse, mounting it with ease.

“But they saw his face at the watchtower!” Merry shouted.

“Exactly. If the Ring is separated from the one who once had it, it will buy Arwen some extra time.”

“Nyx,” Strider warned. She looked down at him.

“I was telling you the truth the other night. I don’t want the Ring. But Gandalf believed that Frodo is destined to carry the One Ring. And if he is, he needs to be alive to do it.”

“Does it not call to you?” Strider asked softly.

“It does,” Nyx admitted. Already she could feel her resolve weakening against the curse. “But the evil inside me wants the Ring for itself. It does not want to give it away.” She tightened her grip on the reins. “I will see you all in Rivendell. With the Ring.”

“We need to hurry,” Arwen said. Nyx nodded and the two took off together. They rode through the night just like Strider had said – hard and fast. They did not stop at daybreak and they did not stop for food. At one point, when they had to cross a river, they let the horses drink momentarily and eat some grass by the shore, but then they were off again.

“How is he doing?” Nyx yelled as they rode through a meadow.

“The athelas isn’t working anymore!” Arwen replied. They both spurred their horses to go faster. The meadow ended just as suddenly as the forest began and the Ring around Nyx’s neck felt heavy with evil. Something churned inside her.

“They’re here!” she shouted to Arwen before pulling her horse away from the Elf and Hobbit. The Ring burned under her dress, begging her to take control of it. Give it to the Nazgûl. And the evil inside of her begged her to put it on and use it for herself. Nyx screamed aloud, forcing herself to stay true to her journey and dodged the trees. Hooves sounded loudly behind her and Nyx knew the Nazgûl were upon her. Through the trees to her left, she saw Arwen with a Ringwraith on either side of her. Normally, Arwen would have been able to fight them off. But Frodo was fading and she had to hold onto him to keep him on the horse.

“I cannot outrun them!”

Nyx reached for the necklace, pulling it over her head and dangling it in front of her. She didn’t have to say a word before the two Ringwraiths turned to her and left Arwen alone. “Go, Arwen!”

Nyx weaved through the trees as Arwen galloped straight ahead. They were almost at the border of Rivendell; Nyx could feel the magic in the air. The trees thickened and the air became colder as Nyx neared the riverbank. She could barely hear the trinkling of water over her laboured breath and heavy heart. The trees broke on the edge of the riverbank, and across the way she could see Arwen. She joined her side and together they watched to see if the Nazgûl would cross.

They screeched at the touch of the water.

“Give it up,” one growled.

Nyx held up the necklace while Arwen unsheathed her sword. “If you want it. If you want him, come and claim him.”

The Ringwraiths waded into the water on their horses and Nyx moved back. Arwen looked around them, muttering elvish under her breath. Nyx chanced a glance at Frodo. He was wheezing now, and green liquid was dripping from his mouth.

Something rumbled in the distance and all parties looked upstream as a tsunami of water came rushing at them. Wordlessly, Nyx moved to the shore and watched as something reached out from the rushing water.

“Horses?” she wondered. They trampled the Ringwraiths without hesitation, washing them and their horses downstream. Nyx smiled in delight, turning back to Arwen and Frodo only to see the two of them on the riverbank.

“No, Frodo!” Arwen cried. “Don’t give in.”

Frodo wheezed softly and Nyx dropped to her knees, pushing his sweaty curls out of his face. “Frodo…”

Arwen pulled the Hobbit into her, tears falling freely as she cradled the boy. “What grace has given me – let it pass to him. Let him be spared. Save him.”

Frodo gasped for air, but his eyes were still enlarged and the whites of his tinted red. Nyx looked at Arwen. “What did you do?”

“I gave him a little more time. Come on.”

Nyx mounted Strider’s horse and they were off once more. From the dirt came a stone pathway and stone arches overhead. Elves in armour watched as they raced past them but did not try to stop them. An Elven horn was blown somewhere behind them.

Arwen stopped in a round stone courtyard, and they dropped to the ground as a man with Arwen’s hair and bright blue eyes approached them.

“Arwen.”

“He’s been struck with a morgul blade. He needs help,” Arwen said. The man nodded and touched her back. Arwen hurried down the corridor on the right. Nyx moved to follow her but an arm prevented her from doing so.

“It has been a long time, Nyx of Tyndall.”

Nyx dropped into a quick curtsey. “Lord Elrond.”

“You carry more evil with you during this visit. What has happened?”

Nyx touched her sternum where the Ring rested. “Not here. And tell your men to expect more company. A Man and three Hobbits.”

Elrond nodded and led Nyx to the Council Room. “Tell me everything that has happened.”

Nervously, Nyx pulled the chain over her head and placed the ring on the table. It felt too heavy in her hands for just a ring.

“That cannot be,” Elrond gasped. The two stared down at, dread in their stomachs. “The Ring of Power has been found.”

Part 1.7 ➺

[pagesandstages]

For those new to the blog, I’m a lifelong Rolling Stones fan. For the past month or so, I read these five books about the band.

Left to right, top to bottom:

Stanley Booth - Dance With The Devil: The Rolling Stones And Their Times

Note: Republished as The True Adventures Of The Rolling Stones in the 2000s. I’m not sure if Booth revised anything or not, but I grabbed the original edition because the cover photo came from the “Jumpin’ Jack Flash” single. Booth alternates between writing the band’s biography and writing of touring with them in 1969. (That is, one chapter goes like this, one chapter goes like that). He was there at Muscle Shoals for the recording of “Brown Sugar” and he was there at the infamous Altamont concert. Highly recommended.

Rich Cohen - The Sun & Moon & The Rolling Stones (2006)

Cohen writes about discovering the Stones’s music and what it means to him.

Bill Janovitz - Rocks Off: 50 Tracks That Tell The Story Of The Rolling Stones

Like seriously good, detailed liner notes to read while listening to the songs.

A.E. Hotchner - Blown Away: The Rolling Stones And The Death Of The Sixties

This book looks at the Stones in the context of 1960s Great Britain. Hotchner investigates guitarist Brian Jones’s death. He also interviewed many members of the Stones’ circle, including Marianne Faithfull.

Robert Greenfield - Ain't It Time We Said Goodbye: The Rolling Stones On The Road To Exile.

Greenfield joined the Stones on their short 1971 “farewell” tour of England and Scotland. He got an inside look at the band at a pivotal time for the band and for rock and roll, for this was the last time the band played 2000-seat halls in places like Newcastle and Coventry. Shortly after the tour the Stones decamped to France to record the seminal Exile on Main St. album.

Also, Greenfield describes two scenes that had I found hilarious: First, Keith Richards and the commotion he caused by bringing a dog on a chartered airplane. Monty Python couldn’t have done it better. Second, Richards picking up his son’s toys and, seeing a pill on the floor, picking it up, eating it, and continuing to pick up toys.

And, really, there’s plenty more to read about the Stones. I have yet to read Keith Richards’s autobiography, Life, and I want to read Greenfield’s two other books about the band, S.T.P.; and Exile on Main St.

[loquaciousquark]

Fenris and Palm?

faejilly said: palm, fenris/hawke

thisonelikesaliens said: I’m feeling aspen and palm

(still listening to this)

–

palm – bend without breaking

aspen – overcoming fears and doubts

–

Once, when she was a child, a storm rose over the hills over Lothering. She had stood in the doorway of the house her father died in, watching the sky go green and wild as the winds turned dark, as the trees whipped each other into a frenzy and her brother took Bethany and their mother to the storm cellar beneath the western wall. Lightning had leapt from the towering thunderheads like the Maker himself had marked their path; the sky had rolled like water towards her, billowing and beautiful.

She’d watched an old oak tree, sixty feet high at the corner of the south field, twist like a rope under the wind. It had bent, all its leaves buffeted sideways; then all at once the winds had caught it and uprooted it, a net of wood and root and earth torn loose and spattering dirt high into the sky. She’d watched the fence shatter under the weight of the bole, watched the storm surge into it and over it, the rain like sheets blown in the wrong direction until even under the porch roof her skin glittered with water.

She’d prayed, then, her eyes open, breath slow and measured as thunder. Maker, never let me be so brittle. If not the tree, make me–

make me the storm–

–

Isabela calls her a storm, once, laughing, unpredictable as a summer squall and just as likely to leave wreckage in her wake. It’s hardly a fair comparison in Hawke’s opinion; she’s always been quite clear on the brevity of her temper, and she honestly does her best to mitigate the damage she can’t stop leaving behind. Hardly her fault if the Arishok picks her, lone among a city, to defend a people who hate what she is; hardly her fault if she happens to keep killing–or nearly killing–everyone she loves.

Not that, as she confides to Sebastian one night, when she’s had a little too much to drink and he’s the only one who’s stayed after cards to help clean up her library, it wouldn’t be easier, sometimes, if she hadn’t been born.

He sucks in a breath, sharp enough it cuts through the drunk-sweet haze, and she impatiently explains: she doesn’t want to die, fool man–she’s too stubborn for that–but can’t he see how much better they all might be without her? Fewer forced excursions out to the Wounded Coast in winter, if nothing else. A net benefit for them all.

Don’t say such things, Hawke. The Maker hears all prayers, good and ill.

The Maker, she says, scoffing enough Sebastian shakes his head. The last time he listened to my prayers, Lothering burned to the ground. And Bethany–

Her name again, more gently, and a hand on her shoulder. Had you not been there, more might have died.

Had anyone else been there, she might have been saved.

Sebastian shakes his head again, and so does she, and she wakes the next morning with a headache like lightning behind her eyes.

–

It rains the day of her mother’s funeral. She’s glad, in a way; it’s bad enough to keep most of the insincere inside, especially with the chill, and the sharp no she gives when Sister Mayenna offers a postponement makes them both wince. Still–she has the rights of chief mourner (again, again, again), so the sister pulls on a lined shawl and Hawke ties her hair back, and they go out into the rain together.

As the moth sees light and goes toward flame,She should see fire and go towards Light.The Veil holds no uncertainty for her,And she will know no fear of death

Her heart is wild as thunder all through the now-familiar rites. Not rage, not quite–something colder, more dangerous, more feral. Varric had come to her and asked, delicately, what she wanted for the funeral, and she hadn’t understood, but–who knew, after all? Who knew where the rest of her mother’s body was? She had her head, and Alessa’s hands, and Ninette de Carrac’s body, and the feet of a stranger and so if Hawke liked, they could burn her in effigy instead, a straw figure draped in black silk, so that the poor creature her mother had become might be laid to rest somewhere safe and out of the way where she might never have to see it again and she can’t, she can’t–

A hand folds around her hand.

She blinks, startled, and looks down and then up again, and there is Fenris, somehow, dark hood drawn up over white hair still soaking in the rain, his eyes forward on her mother’s body–what remains of her mother’s body–his bare fingers tight enough on hers to bruise. Tight enough to root her in the moment and not the maelstrom of her mind, at least for now.

All right, she thinks. All right, all right, that’s enough.

She swallows, hard, and straightens as her mother burns. Later, when Fenris comes to her room and there is only the smell of ash, she’ll let herself bend under the weight of grief until she can’t breathe for it, but for now–for now, she grips his hand and lets him hold the storm away a little longer.

–

“The Maker spoke to me, once,” Hawke says, and her voice is echoing and strange in the high stone walls of the Gallows. “In Lothering, after my father died.”

“Those who oppose thee shall know the wrath of heaven,” Meredith snarls, the crimson light of the lyrium sword thrown in rippling fistfuls across the courtyard. “Field and forest shall burn, the seas shall rise and devour them–”

“Yes, yes, lightning shall rain down from the sky and all that,” Hawke says, lifting her staff above her head. “You had only to ask.”

make me–

make me the–

Only glimpses, then, as the lightning strikes again and again and again, dancing in great white sparks down the bodies of the metal slaves Meredith has raised for her fighting; reflected across the mirror-shine of Aveline’s shield, thrown up against a templar’s arrow; made dimmer, just for an instant, by the star-bright glare of Fenris’s lyrium lit all at once.

make me the storm–

–

There’d been a sapling in the shade of the great fallen oak. She’d found it the next day, inspecting the damage to the fence. Half its leaves had been missing, but the greenwood had borne the brunt of the winds and not been destroyed.

She’d heard her father’s voice, then, clear as if he’d stood beside her:

Weather the storm, daughter.

–

There’s fire at the heart of her, sky’s lightning in her veins. The metal giants fall, one by one, shattered to bronze stars; the templars yield, one by one, bending knee and head in the face of the onslaught. The storm has changed; the world can sense it.

So does Meredith, screaming, blinding scarlet. “She should see fire,” she shrieks, “and go–towards–”

Light, only, as the blade at the end of Hawke’s staff pierces her chest where she kneels, where crimson explodes, blood and lyrium and something deeper, cracking, corrupted all that is left of Meredith into the stillness that comes only after the passing of a storm.

“Sometimes a wood is better for the burning,” Hawke says into the silence, and pulls her staff free.

–

Never thought I’d take a whole city down with me, Hawke sighs, both elbows on the rail of Isabela’s ship, Kirkwall a spire of smoke heavenward on the horizon, the taste of ash lingering in the air. Sometimes I think it would have been better if…

A hand folds around her hand. She knows it so well by now, the calluses more familiar than her own, and she leans her head backwards onto Fenris’s shoulder until she can see nothing but grey sky. All right, all right, all right. Enough.

Don’t be silly, Isabela says staunchly, the feather on her hat blown almost sideways in the wind. Lightning never strikes the same place twice.

Don’t tempt me.

Fenris laughs, and so does she, and when they go to the fore of the ship she stays a little longer, breathing in, breathing out, testing how the world feels when the storm has come and gone in the heart of her and she has weathered the wildness of it.

A little wild herself, perhaps. Strong enough to bend. Strong enough to stand again, after.

That’s that, then, she says aloud, and goes forward with the others, the wind strong and steady at her back.

[avanneman]

Clint Eastwood’s “Mule”: Very Largely (Yet Not Entirely) Disappointing

When I saw the ads for Clint Eastwood’s possibly final film, The Mule, I was—rather shockingly, since I haven’t seen one of his films since In the Line of Fire (1993, and excellent)—intrigued. A gritty tale of shady, sleazy drug deals gone wrong, with the twist that the hapless protagonist caught in the middle is like 88! Sounds, you know, intriguing! So I went to see it, not even bothering to check out a review.

For the first twenty or thirty minutes, I more or less got the film I wanted to see. We begin with a flashback of Earl Stone (Clint, of course), who runs some sort of wholesale greenhouse operation, slipping out of his own daughter’s wedding to attend some sort of convention for his ilk—so much easier to engage in empty, genial, banal, hand-shaking, back-slapping social ritual, full of canned compliments—“I’m sorry, ladies, but you must be lost. The beauty pageant is on the third floor!”—than deal with, you know, emotion, much less, you know, wives! To cap off the perfect evening, Earl even gets an award, a little vase for being wholesale greenhouse operator of the year for Chickasaw County, or wherever the Hell we are.

Well, that’s what I saw. Clint more or less buries the backstory. The Mule is based on a real person, Leo Sharp, famous back in the day as a hybridizer of day lilies, registering some 175 hybrids (the American Hemerocallis Society lists over 75,000), before shifting to a life of crime, so, presumably, that’s what the award was for, but I didn’t catch it.

Later, we do see Earl in his element, fussing around the greenhouse in a shapeless hat and shapeless clothes, compulsively fiddling with this and that. “We’ll move these outside in a week. I need Freddie to get another bale of peat moss. I’ll just repot these right now. No, I’ll do it myself. No sense in waiting.”

Well, fast forward to the present, and the greenhouse is gone. It appears that the goldurned Internet has put ole Earl out of business, just as it did to ole Leo. Earl heads over to what is coincidentally his granddaughter’s wedding—or, well, something—these shindigs all look alike—thinking he just might take advantage of all the emotion sloshing around to move in temporarily with his ex-wife or (again) his ex-someone! But his ex-wife (I bet it’s her) puts the kibosh on that! “Get on out of here, old man! You didn’t have time for your family, and now your family doesn’t have time for you!” Earl, of course, tries to explain to his wife that it was his devotion to day lilies—“They’re so beautiful, and they only last one day”—and his devotion to his family—“I was on the road 60, 80 hours a week so I could support you!”—that always kept them apart and it only seemed like he never wanted to be around them, but no one’s buying his line.

So Earl stumbles on out to his sagging pick-up, the sum total of his worldly possessions, the fragments he’s shored up against his ruin, loaded in the back. Just as he’s fixing to leave, some Hispanic guy runs out of the party and comes up to him: “Hey, old man! You need to make some money? Maybe you should call my friend!”

So Earl, hunched and trembling, his face a mass of wrinkles that could out-mummy the mummy, pipestem arms protruding from his cheap, short-sleeved shirts, stumbles forward into the Breaking Bad world of Walter White, and 88-year-old Earl’s ten times the helpless lamb that 50-year-old Walt was. Walt at least had a skill. Earl has nothing. It’s remarkable that Eastwood, who throughout his career reveled in his manly fitness, now exploits himself as the living symbol of the utter helplessness of extreme old age—“shameful old age”, as Homer called it, living in an era when the wages of helplessness was often death. And, of course, things haven’t changed that much.

Former bossman Earl now finds himself ordered about by ruthless foreigners one third his age. Didn’t this used to be a white man’s country? Well, it isn’t now. Earl follows orders, and makes his run, but after he’s done, the movie starts to slide sideways. There’s just so much humiliation a star can stand! There comes a time when he just has to assert himself, and be a star!

For his second run, Earl shows up in a gleaming, jet-black Lincoln Mark LT pickup. The real Leo Sharp drove a Lincoln pickup, but I wonder if his was quite as customized and accessorized and gleaming as Earl’s, though maybe so. According to the New York Times article I linked to, mules were paid $1,000 a kilo, and Leo took up 100 kilos at a time, so he could afford it.1

But having the big truck isn’t enough for Clint. He’s got to make Earl a badass. We see Earl checking into a motel, and then entertaining, or being entertained by, two seriously high-end whores. Granted, Eastwood doesn’t quite have the nerve to pretend that Earl is up to the challenge. Instead, he makes some lazy, old-man jokes—“You ladies are going to give me a heart attack”—and then (presumably) falls asleep. But he does have the ladies!

It gets worse. Earl (like the real Leo) is the best mule ever! So good that el jefe wants to meet him! So Earl goes down to Mexico, and we visit one of those Cartel mansions so beloved of Hollywood, complete with more bare fannies than a Fast and Furious festival. It’s not clear if Clint’s workin’ the crowd—“I’ve been makin’ movies for sixty years! You want to put asses in the seats? Put asses on the screen!”—or workin’ his own pathetic geezer-man fantasies, but the result is pretty much the same.

In the meantime, of course, the feds are slowly closing in on the operation that employs Earl. What could have been a fun plot—young guns in both the Cartel and the DEA bucking for promotion lead to a squeeze that gives Earl the chance to make a huge score, along with the chance of getting his head blown off—is left to wither on the vine, because what Clint wants to do is to show old Earl have a change of heart. In a predictably contrived chance meeting, he and a young, unknowing DEA agent have an early morning breakfast together. There’s some sort of hook to get the conversational ball rolling—the DEA agent realizes he’s forgotten to call his wife on their anniversary, or something—which leads Earl to lament his wasted life: “I’ve been a terrible husband, and a terrible father.” And so we realize, if we haven’t started to figure it out already, that this film is Clint Eastwood’s confessional: He’s apologizing to all his wives, mistresses, kids, and grandkids, for never giving a damn about anything but his career. Ole Earl was on the road, 80 hours a week, not to support his family, but to get away from them, and Ole Clint was on the set the same way.

And so we don’t get the big shootout that I was expecting. Instead, we get Earl going back to be with his dying wife, and see her forgiving him, and telling him what a comfort it is having him at her side, telling him how glad she is he’s realizing that going off to those silly conferences where he and his buddies give each other prizes2 doesn’t mean a thing, that it’s being with family that counts. Seems like he’s a star on the set and at home! Almost like eating your cake and having it too!3

But Clint (fortunately) isn’t quite finished yet. Earl does get busted, though in a nonviolent manner, and has to stand trial. He might be able to plead a lot of extenuating circumstances, but refuses to do so. When a man does wrong, he takes responsibility. Well, that’s fine and all, though perhaps not quite as impressive as Clint would have us believe—some might find the whole bit just a tad histrionic—but it sets up a final scene that does have some power.

Clint is behind the razor wire, in prison orange, but outside in the prison garden, on his hands and knees, wearing the same shapeless hat as before. He’s a man so old he’s outlived life. Even the most basic human pleasures, eating and sleeping, are meaningless now. Food is tasteless, and it makes your jaws ache to chew a crust of bread. At night, you lie down aching and weary, and wake the same way. You mean nothing to anyone. But there is one thing you can do. You can still tend to your garden, and tend to your lilies, and make them bloom.

Leo could afford it, but could Earl? According to the Times, the Cartel paid $1,000 a kilo shipped to Detroit (changed in the film to Chicago). One hundred kilos fills five duffel bags. Clint, to save time, or whatever, shows Earl getting the big bucks for transporting a single bag. Sure, $20,000 is good money, but it doesn’t buy a tricked out Mark LT. (The whole thing gets a little complicated, because Ford stopped making the Mark LT for the U.S. market in 2008, but did make some “second generation” trucks for the Mexican (!) market from 2010 through 2014. So exactly where and how did Earl get his gleaming black beauty, which to my skeptical eyes looks like one of those one of a kind rich man’s toys cranked out for the high rollers of Beverly Hills at $200,000 a pop?) ↩︎

Like, you know, the Oscars! ↩︎

There is somewhat similar vibe in Woody Allen’s Manhattan, when Woody, when he isn’t screwing his exquisite high-school honey Mariel Hemingway, shows himself helpless and humiliated in the face of scornful analysis provided by former lover Meryl Streep (scornful and, implicitly, accurate) and then shows himself forgiven and more or less redeemed by the love of Mariel, who takes him back after he leaves her to chase after bad girl Diane Keaton (because anything easily possessed isn’t worth having). I remember when the film came out that a woman remarked to me that almost all the men in the film (except Michael Murphy as archetypal WASP “Yale”) were shorter than Woody. ↩︎

[shatteredlens-rvj-blog]

Hack Summoners War

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Opting for a thing that appears to be it fits you is likely the finest. It is depressing there is not lots more bedroom centered on the art, as it is fantastic and contains generated a large number of followers to develop their particular fan artwork. Perhaps it is under 20 minutes or larger sixty minutes roughly, even so the a person component that is still constant will be the concentration of the overcome. I like the wild instances which may evolve of your code - summoning alongside surfaces, close to death and killing my personal devices to purchase to return some magical earlier than releasing my personal resist-offensive. And for people with persistence, some having to pay hard cash, along with a heavy wish to keep up with the grind, you will recognize that this introduce could very well be value receiving. Monsters belong to assorted functions as well , for instance attackers, tankers, followers, and shield-founded animals. Summoner wars [] can be described as crossbreed ccg / small to medium sized road map approach code somewhat simillar to mojang's incredibly-predicted . |The iap is modeled with this of plaid hat's credit card code, with every last faction buying a "bottom" deck as well as an enlargement set, readily available for 99¢ each one. The game's deck-generating vehicle tech will work really well, with 3 champion and 18 widespread (no-exclusive model) slot machine games for every deck. That have an apple iphone or ipod gadget impression, the bank card words is small to medium sized even zoomed-in, when taking a look at your whole road map, the bank card artwork is hardly big enough to discern between charge cards. (2) a game title name this tricky specifications an excellent in-code instructions. (6) the application form is very unforgiving of mistaps. The actual chess time clock, in some instances called "fischer chess time clock" simply provides a period of time "bank," that just starts to matter minimal from a small amount of pre-figured out amount of time has history. Let us gain a person aspect totally obvious - summoner wars is just fabulous - fascinating, ideal, an abundance of factions, exceptional energies, major depth and array in a shorter code. In addition stat traffic monitoring stones !. |But unfortunately, as is still mentioned, playdek could and also Just a few factors regarding the assess - the ai may also use 4 factions, not merely tundra orcs - worldwide can be described as great aspect, not really a negative. Or no matter what sort of gathering he deems perfect for winning a credit card code. Accordingly, each one rounded you will need to determine whether them as part of your arms are necessary a good amount of to help keep, or maybe they'd very last more attractive as magical (you won't ever have them to return - you merely see the deck when). But that is certainly how we Reasonably, most code services seem to own vanished using this system because the expenditure and prospect of building a new branding, as a result i significantly favour this online marketing on the ccg unique prepare opening. So i'll select it. code, and i certainly be ready to participating in the sport a great deal a large number of noticing what choices are easily available along with all the various races, expansions, . . .. |There's a few a variety of expansions - mercenaries, reinforcements, and factions. xp bots like summoner wars give it time to be simple to comprehend why deck-generating xp bots do really well about this new medium sized, particularly because the expanding acceptance of asynchronous multiple-competitor code enjoy. The sprawling overcome grids believe in the home all over the apple ipad (the apple iphone version is pinched and hard to ascertain at circumstances) and moving while using the struggles is simple. What actually helps make summoner wars stand out when it comes to code enjoy is having the capability to guidance 6 assorted xp bots at the same time. During summoner wars in no way develops the endorphin hurry of opening a foil enhancer prepare to find a particularly unusual credit card looking forward to you, it will eventually be that condition credit card-founded approach xp bots is unquestionably doable on mobile units. Actually it is really not true that you may only wager complementary numbers as compared to the orcs free of cost. credit card/board-code professional on ios... |Thankfully, you don't have got to come up with my mistake… from the folks at plaid cap xp bots did an excellent project all over the field artwork to get that summoner wars professional set. And, for anybody who is happy to stack two decks together with each other, there is a large amount of room for those most recent summoner wars decks while in the field - irrespective of credit card sleeves! (could this assess be nowadays geekified? Field put in seriously like?!) also integrated are (not surprisingly) the specified dice And counter tops to experience the game… along with a superb two-chunk high-quality board.

[findingaliceinadarkplace]

Best Quotes From Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone.

“ ‘Sorry’, he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell. It was a few seconds before Mr. Dursley realized that the man was wearing a violet cloak. He didn’t seem at all upset at being almost knocked to the ground. On the contrary, his face split into a wide smile and he said in a squeaky voice that made passerby stare, ‘Don’t be sorry, my dear sir, for nothing could upset me today! Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has gone at last! Even muggles like yourself should be celebrating this happy, happy day!”. And the old man hugged Mr. Durlsley around the middle and walked off. Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot. He had been hugged by a complete stranger. He also thought he had been called a Muggle, whatever that was.” 

“Hoping he was imagining things which he had never hoped before, because he didn’t approve of imagination”. 

“’A lemon drop. They’re a kind of Muggle sweet I’m rather fond of’. ‘No, thank you’, said Professor McGonagall coldly, as though she didn’t think this was the moment for lemon drops.”

“’It’s lucky its dark. I haven’t blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs’”. 

“ there will be books written about Harry- every child in our world will know his name!’” 

“’Even if I could, I wouldn’t. Scars can come in handy. I have one myself above my left knee that is a perfect map of the London Underground.’” 

“While he drove, Uncle Vernon complained to Aunt Petunia. He liked to complain about things; people at work, Harry, the council, Harry, the bank and Harry were just a few of his favourite subjects.” 

“’ They stuff people’s heads down the toilet the first day at Stonewall’, he told Harry. ‘Want to come upstairs and practice?’ ‘No, thanks,’ said Harry. ‘The poor toilets never had anything as horrible as your head down it- it might be sick’”. 

“Harry didn’t trust himself to speak. He thought two of his ribs might already have cracked from  trying not to laugh.” 

“’ Oh, these people’s minds work in strange ways, Petunia, they’re not like you and me’, said Uncle Vernon, trying to knock in a nail with the piece of fruitcake Aunt Petunia had just brought him.”

“’ Do you mean ter tell me,’ he growled at the Dursleys, ‘that this boy- this boy! - knows nothin’ abou’ - about ANYTHING?’ Harry thought this was going a bit far. He had been to school after all, and his marks weren’t bad. ‘I know some things’, he said. ‘I can, you know, do math and stuff.’” 

“’Funny way to get to a wizard’s school, the train. Magic carpets all got punctures, have they?’”. 

“’ Oh, are you a prefect, Percy?’ said one of the twins, with an air of great surprise. ‘You should have said something, we had no idea.’ ‘Hang on, I think I remember him saying something about it’ said the other twin. ‘Once-’ ‘Or twice-’ ‘A minute-’ ‘All summer-’.” 

“ ‘Now, you two- this year, you behave yourselves. If I get one more owl telling me you’ve- you’ve blown up a toilet or-’ ‘Blown up a toilet? We’ve never blown up a toilet’ ‘Great idea though, thanks mum.’”

“So we’ve just got to try on the hat!” Ron whispered to Harry. “I’ll kill Fred, he was going on about wrestling a troll.”” 

“If only the hat had mentioned a house for people who felt a bit queasy, that would have been the one for him”. 

“When it finally shouted, GRYFFINDOR, Neville ran off still wearing it, and had to jog back amid gales of laughter to give it to MacDougal, Morag”. 

“Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!” 

“”Ah, music,” he said, wiping his eyes. “A magic beyond all we do here””. 

“Peeves the Poltergeist was worth two locked doors and a trick staircase if you met him when you were late for class. He would drop wastepaper baskets on your head, pull rugs from under your feet, pelt you with bits of chalk, or sneak up behind you, invisible, grab your nose, and screech, “GOT YOUR CONK!”” 

“The students all hated him, and it was the dearest ambition of many to give Mrs. Norris a good kick”. 

“Professor Binns had been very old indeed when he had fallen asleep in front of the staff room fire and got up next morning to teach, leaving his body behind him”. 

“At the start of their first class he took the roll call, and when he reached Harry’s name he gave an excited squeak and toppled out of sight”. 

“”Another Weasley, eh?” said Hagrid, glancing at Ron’s freckles. “I spent half me life chasin’ yer twin brothers away from the forest.”” 

“Excuse me, Professor Flitwick, could I borrow Wood for a moment?” Wood? thought Harry, bewildered: was Wood a cane she was going to use on him?” 

“I shall speak to Professor Dumbledore and see if we can’t bend the first year rule. Heaven knows, we need a better team than last year. Flattened in that last match by Slytherin, I couldn’t look Severus Snape in the face for weeks...”” 

“’And what if i have my wand and nothing happens?’ ‘Throw it away and punch him on the nose’, Ron suggested.” 

“ You don’t use your eyes, any of you, do you?’ she snapped. ‘Didn’t you see what it was standing on?’ ‘The floor?’ Harry suggested. ‘I wasn’t looking at its feet, I was too busy with its heads.’” 

“Now, the last member of the team is the seeker. That’s you. And you don’t have to worry about the Quaffle or the bludgers-’ ‘-unless they crack my head open.’ ‘Don’t worry, the Weasleys are more than a match for the Bludgers- I mean, they’re like a pair of human bludgers themselves.’” 

“From that moment on, Hermione Granger became their friend. There are some things you can’t share without ending up liking each other, and knocking out a twelve-foot mountain troll is one of them.” 

“’Wonder what’s wrong with this leg?’ ‘Dunno, but I hope it’s really hurting him.’ said Ron bitterly.”. 

“Lee Jordan was finding it difficult not to take sides. ‘So-after that obvious and disgusting bit of cheating-’ ‘Jordan!’ growled Professor McGonagall. ‘I mean, after that open and revolting foul...’ ‘Jordan, I’m warning you-’ ‘All right, all right. Flint nearly kills the Gryffindor Seeker, which could happen to anyone, I’m sure” 

“The lake was frozen solid and the Weasley twins were punished for bewitching several snowballs so that they followed Quirrell around, bouncing off the back of his turban”. 

“Harry played with chessmen Seamus Finnigan had lent him, and they didn’t trust him at all. He wasn’t a very good player yet, and they kept shouting different bits of advice at him, which was confusing. ‘Don’t send me there, can’t you see his knight? Send him, we can afford to lose him.’” 

“Fred and George were wearing blue sweaters, one with a large yellow F on it, the other a G. ‘Harry’s is better than ours, though,’ said Fred. ‘She obviously makes more of an effort if your not family.’”

“’You haven’t got a letter on yours’ George observed. ‘I suppose she thinks you don’t forget your name. But we’re not stupid- we know we’re called Gred and Forge.’” 

“Strange how nearsighted being invisible can make you”. 

“’Let me explain. The happiest man on earth would be able to use the Mirror of Erised like a normal mirror, that is, he would look into it and see himself exactly as he is’”. 

“’This mirror will give us neither knowledge or truth. Men have wasted away before it, entranced by what they have seen, or been driven mad, not knowing if what it shows is real or even possible’”. 

“’It does not to to dwell on dreams and forget to live’”. 

“’Don’t play,’ said Hermione at once. ‘Say you’re ill,’ said Ron. ‘Pretend to break your leg,’ Hermione suggested. ‘Really break your leg,’ said Ron.” 

“He’s used to walking all over people, but that’s no reason to lie down in front of him and make it easier.” 

“’no wonder we coulnd’t find Flamel in that Study of Recent Developments in Wizardry,’ said Ron. ‘He’s not exactly recent if he’s six hundred and sixty-five, is he?’” 

“’I’ll show them...itt’l really wipe the smiles of their faces if we win.’ ‘Just as long as we’re not wiping you off the filed,’ said Hermione.” 

“’So you mean the Stone’s only safe as long as Quirrill stands up to Snape?’ said Hermione in alarm. ‘Itt’l be gone by nect Tuesday’, said Ron.” 

“Harry suddenly turned to Ron. ‘Charlie.’ he said. ‘You’re losing it, too, ‘ said Ron. ‘I’m Ron, remember?’” 

“’ I tell you, that dragon’s the most horrible animal I’ve ever met, but the wa Hagrid goes on about it, you’d think it was a fluffy little bunny rabbit. When it bit me he told me off for frightening it. And when I left, he was singing it a lullaby.’” 

“’jus playin- he’s only a baby, after all.’ The baby banged its tal on the wall, making the windows rattle. “

“’The blood of a unicorn will keep you alive, even if you are an inch from death, but at a terrible price. You have slain something pure and defenceless to save yourself, and you will have but a half life, a cursed life, from the moment the blood touches your lips.’” 

“’so light a fire!’ Harry choked. ‘Yes- of course- but there’s no wood!’ Hermione cried, wringing her hands. ‘HAVE YOU GONE MAD?’ Ron bellowed. ‘ARE YOU A WITCH OR NOT? ‘”

“’What happened down in the dungeons between you and Professor Quirrell is a complete secret, so, naturally, the whole school knows. I believe your friends Misters Fred and George Weasley were responsible for trying to send you a toilet seat. No doubt they thought it would amuse you. Madam Pomfrey, however, felt it might not be very hygienic and confiscated it’”. 

“’To the well organised mind, death is but the next great adventure. You know, the Stone was really not such a wonderful thing. As much money and life as you could want! The two things most human beings would choose above all- the trouble is, human’s do have a knack of choosing precisely those things that are worst for them’”. 

“’Always use the proper name for things. Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself.” 

“The truth.’ Dumbledore sighed. ‘It is a beautiful and terrible thing, and should therefore be treated with great caution’.”

“’There are all kinds of courage,’ said Dumbledore, smiling. ‘It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to our enemies, but just as much to stand up to our friends.’” 

[omg-hellgirl]

Anita was certainly into black magic. And although I can't really say whether she was a witch or not, there's no denying the fact that Anita was sort of a black queen, a dark person, despite her blonde looks.

— Marianne Faithfull.

[omg-hellgirl]

[Brian] also felt guilty at having kept extra money for himself back when the Stones first started to get gigs. He felt that that was why Mick and Keith were getting back at him, why they hated him. He had a guilt about that.

— Anita Pallenberg.

[omg-hellgirl]

“Mick and I never hit it off,” Anita Pallenberg told me. “He’d always put me down, make snide remarks about me, criticize the way I dressed. You know why? Because it was plain to see that he was in love with Keith. In many ways Keith was the man Mick wanted to be. Free and easy in his own skin, not uptight like Mick.

Tough when he had to be, never backed down, had a good time, really enjoyed drinking, drugs and carousing, enjoyed sex —Mick wasn’t into any of those things and he envied Keith and was jealous of me.”

A. E. Hotchner, Blown Away: The Rolling Stones and the Death of the Sixties.

[omg-hellgirl]

The Stones were great favorites in Germany — Germans didn't respond to the Beatles, who were like goody-goodies, the way they reacted to the Stones. They were the naughty boys, long hair, scruffy, dressed in beat-up jeans, funny jackets and jump suits and not the pretty matching costumes of the Beatles.

— Anita Pallenberg.

[omg-hellgirl]

Brian complained a lot about Mick and Keith ganging up on him. Brian wrote a lot of music, always playing it on his guitar for us, but he was bitter that none of it was ever performed by the Stones. Mick seemed jealous of him. Mick used to come to our house, that's how we know about his jealousy.

— Alex and Violet Lawrence, Linda Lawrence's parents.

[omg-hellgirl]

[Brian] was short but very strong, and his assaults were terrible — for days afterwards, I’d have lumps and bruises all over me. In his tantrums he would throw things at me, whatever he could pick up — lamps, clocks, chairs, a plate of food — then when the storm inside him died down he’d feel guilty and beg me to forgive him.

— Anita Pallenberg.