#Pursued by the Trods

[edenmemes]

house of the dragon s2 starters

❝ there is a chill in the air. summer is well and truly through. ❞ ❝ it’s alright. there’s no reason to be nervous. ❞ ❝ i’ve little patience for the self-important, and even less for flatterers. ❞ ❝ you think me some kind of monster. ❞ ❝ it is my fault, i think, that you have forgotten to fear me. ❞ ❝ do you think simply wearing the crown imbues you with wisdom? ❞ ❝ i have been, at times, unkind but never untrue. ❞ ❝ mark my words, this is a black omen. ❞ ❝ it is your way, is it not? when something does not please you, you run. ❞ ❝ if i may seem so bold…you have not seemed yourself of late. ❞ ❝ i have come to see if we may uncover some path towards peace. ❞ ❝ i do not know if i trust you. and i sense there is danger in you yet. ❞ ❝ i wonder, do you have a moment for a quiet word? ❞ ❝ now i have seen your heart only belongs to you. ❞ ❝ it was worth the risk, no matter the outcome. ❞ ❝ some of us must serve in smaller ways…even if they are not what we would choose for ourselves. ❞ ❝ fuck dignity. i want revenge. ❞ ❝ you are not the player, but a piece on the board. ❞ ❝ is there no honor left in this world? ❞ ❝ stop wasting your life waiting for something that’ll never come. ❞ ❝ perhaps those who strive for the crown are the least suited to wear it. ❞ ❝ i find myself wondering…do we pursue the same end? ❞ ❝ and how would you define ‘victory’? ❞ ❝ once you get to know me, you’ll find i’m not so bad. ❞ ❝ thought you’d be happy. or at least less morose. ❞ ❝ i can sit still no longer. i must act. ❞ ❝ you struggle to see there’s an anger that blinds you. ❞ ❝ you must accept the path to victory now is one of violence. ❞ ❝ you only blame me because your true enemies are out of reach. ❞ ❝ there are many pieces at play here…some of which you can’t yet see. ❞ ❝ you will have all the vengeance you seek, but you must keep a grip on your impulses. ❞ ❝ which would you prefer? to be loved or feared? ❞ ❝ i don’t know what to think of you. i don’t know what you are, or who it is you serve. ❞ ❝ well, the gods favor the bold. ❞ ❝ you’ve thrown it away. after all i’ve done for you. ❞ ❝ what if the hand that’s done it is not to be blamed? ❞ ❝ the desire to kill and burn takes hold and reason is forgotten. ❞ ❝ the gods punish us. they punish me. ❞ ❝ the path i walk has never been trod. ❞ ❝ well…no use wondering what might have been. ❞ ❝ tales take on a life of their own…like weeds. ❞ ❝ this is not the time for blind accusations. ❞ ❝ hm, you wish to be rewarded. ❞ ❝ they will underestimate you. and this will be your advantage. ❞ ❝ i hope you do not confuse mercy with pliancy. ❞ ❝ there is no war so hateful to the gods as a war between kin. ❞ ❝ i’ve never trusted you, wholly…much though i wished to, willed myself to. ❞ ❝ you can’t possibly still be angry about this. ❞ ❝ boldness is one thing, but overconfidence… ❞ ❝ this world is cold and cruel, and there are few in it who are steadfast. you, i think, are steadfast. ❞ ❝ do not coddle me. grant me at least that dignity. ❞ ❝ history will paint you a villain. ❞ ❝ do you cling, even now, to what you think you lost? ❞ ❝ a sense of humor would do you good. ❞ ❝ if the gods call me to greater things, who am i to refuse them? ❞ ❝ you have done something i feared impossible. ❞ ❝ i’m not entirely sure we can declare this a victory. ❞ ❝ you should’ve been at my side. ❞ ❝ i see all your great adventures have done nothing for your looks. ❞ ❝ a jest. one you may regret as you’re supping alone tonight. ❞ ❝ soon they will not even remember what it was that began the war in the first place. ❞ ❝ i don’t need their love. i need their swords. ❞ ❝ perhaps all men are corrupt…and true honor is a mist that melts in the morning. ❞ ❝ let us put all the old unpleasantness behind us. ❞ ❝ are you perhaps the culprit who has been tampering with my peace? ❞ ❝ every man has a weakness. ❞ ❝ everything i’ve given you, you’ve thrown back in my face. ❞ ❝ oh, take heart. you’ve already written yourself into legend. ❞ ❝ you wish to wash your hands of what you yourself set in motion. ❞

❝ war is coming to the whole of the realm. ❞ ❝ you are a strange kind of woman. ❞ ❝ there are those that have mistaken my caution for weakness. let that be their undoing. ❞ ❝ i think you used my words as an excuse to take your own revenge…to indulge the darkness you keep sheathed within you like a blade. ❞ ❝ i came here to raise swords, not corpses. ❞ ❝ i cannot blame anyone for doing what i myself would do if i could. ❞ ❝ we cannot all hide in our castles waiting for war to come to us. ❞ ❝ call it what you will…i call it war. ❞ ❝ have the indignities of your childhood not yet sufficiently been avenged? ❞ ❝ you mustn’t be shaken from this. ❞ ❝ is this an order or a request? ❞ ❝ and they will pay for this. ❞ ❝ i will not be thought weak. ❞ ❝ i mistrust this silence. ❞ ❝ oh, you make an art of provoking me. ❞

[artbyblastweave]

Just finished Barbie. Fun Movie. And I am absolute in my conviction that the version of Mattel depicted in the film is the same kind of place as Barbieland, inhabited by the same kinds of ideatic thoughtform entities- that the executive suite pursuing Barbie out the doors of that tower represents the same kind of breach in reality as Barbie and Ken washing up on Venice Beach. Maybe some great working went awry, and the power called down by Ruth in creating Barbie crawled back up the pipes, infecting and hollowing out Mattel, turning it into the idea of itself, manifesting Will Ferrell and company as the platonic collective conception of the out-of-touch C-suite that everyone assumes is up on the top-floor of those buildings. Manifesting Aaron as the platonic trod-upon intern in a comically oppressive basement workspace. Maybe they were created ex nihilo. Or maybe they were people once, the way Ruth was a person before she became the lingering, immortal idea of herself, haunting her non-Euclidean citadel. Maybe the reason it's so easy for Barbie to just decide to become a real human being in the end, is that it already happened in the other direction to a skyscraper's worth of people, that it's actually a trivially easy binary to cross with the right kind of horrible momentum. Maybe Ruth didn't do anything special. Maybe it's not just Mattel. Maybe in this world, your fate is sealed if you work for any institution big enough to merit a public perception. Maybe proximity to these great corporate beasts erodes your humanity, your human agency. But what else is new

[rq-producerperson]

Hello!

Basic question: any tips for getting into a career involved with creative stuff? (Anything, but specifically audio design and writing.)

Additional information about my specific situation I suppose: I'm heading into my second year of college, and have been working towards getting my degree in anthropology with the hope of going into artifact preservation/restoration. However that's kind of always been a... Second priority, I suppose, as I've always wanted to make a living off of my writing, but assumed that even if that was really possible, I should get a degree in something else.

Last year at school I was working as a stage tech for the college of the arts there (mainly for concerts, not theatre), and I loved it a ton and genuinely wouldn't mind a career in that vein.

The last three months I've been working a shitty assembly line job (9 hour days in a windowless room doing the same thing over and over and over and-). The only plus side to it is I've had plenty of time to listen to stuff, and I've gotten really into Magnus. The Q&A episodes and things like that made me realize that there are other things I could do (and love) in a creative vein than just writing. I'd also never considered that my enjoyment of doing tech for live stuff might translate outside of that, but I really genuinely think it would.

So next year I'm taking a bit of a jump and I'm going to be taking some of the introductory journalism courses at my school. (There's a film and media production emphasis under the major with plenty of room for more fiction-oriented work. And then grad school is something I've been seriously considering since I learned the word anthropology, so that's still very on the table if I choose to pursue this.)

This has been a really big switch for me, and quite frankly I'm terrified of getting stuck at a job like the one I currently have for the rest of my life, with a creative degree just rotting in the corner. (At least with anthropology there would probably be another five+ years of school after undergrad, so that was less of a looming issue.)

Just... Any advice on getting my foot in the door? Especially with hopes of eventually moving out of the states?

Sorry for such a long ask, I'm very bad at being brief. :p

Thank you!

Heya, thanks for the Ask. I’ve had this one sitting for a while thinking of the best way to answer, because the truth is that life is variable so I struggle to give what I feel is meaningful advice when the landscape is always shifting.

However, I’ll do my best with what I know.

The keys that I think are best are Patience, Perseverance, and People.

First, Patience.

I’ve mentioned this a few times but it’s important to remember, life changes quickly and the creative market is constantly shifting. Being able to pursue a job in the creative industry means having the patience to wait for the right wave to paddle to, the right gust to lift you up. But like with nature, there is never a guarantee that the winds or tides of fate will flow your way. There’s an element of chance to it.

You have to be prepared to change and take chances when you feel they are right for you. Shoot out before you’re comfortable and you’ll sink, wait too long and you’ll miss a great wave. I can’t give an answer to when is best to know your ready or what the right chance is to take. I CAN however advise that waiting, watching, and learning is the best chance to take that shot. So, learn as much as you can and stay curious and adaptable.

Second, Perseverance

When you have decided a path to trod, a wave to ride. You commit. Know how to move with the current and keep your focus. It’s easy to keep laying out options, but when you have found that Moment that’s right for you to act on your chosen course, you can go in half way.

Before RQ and during the first half of my employment here I was always working two jobs. I’ve done retail, freelance, post graduate work, office administration, accounting, entertainment hosting, you name it. I was an office assistant when I started at RQ but quickly knew that even though I couldn’t make money with it (it was still just Alex in a Yurt at that time), I wanted to commit to it, to make that job the best thing I could do, and I kept a simple day job to make ends meet. I got lucky, I found a mentor who taught me how to advocate for myself and that I had a creative voice after spending years being beaten down. But I also had the conviction and perseverance to know there was something worth building on.

And we did that together.

Which brings me to my last point, People.

You hear a lot in the creative industry that it’s “about Who you Know” and that’s true, but not entirely in the way you think. Learn about people, what their strengths are, how they compliment each other. Surround yourself with likeminded people that want to attain the same goal, have the same passions. Breaking through the creative industry cannot be done in a vacuum. Always make sure you have a support network of other passionate, skilled, and dedicated humans.

Don’t know how to meet people? I bet you do more than you think. Fandom was my in, not just from shooting my shot, but for teaching me how to work creatively with others. (I still try to do art companion work with fanfic writers when I can)

So yea, maybe it’s a standard answer or underwhelming, but the truth is there is no magic key. There’s Skill, Luck, Determination, and Community that make these kind of jobs possible.

[ashinbloom]

Mechvore 1

Your head is pounding as you blink awake, the distant sound of artillery shell explosions and gunfire slowly filtering in. You squint and hold your head as your vision slowly comes into focus. Where are you? What happened? You were on a transport with your squad, you think, en route to rendezvous with the Mech division.

Shouting.

Panic.

Explosion?

Was the transport attacked? You decide you can hash it out later when you get to safety. You were expecting another hour on the transport so you weren’t geared out, but your pistol… You pat your hip and sigh. You left your pistol in your bunk.

You try your radio, but get no response. Only static. Your legs still work, as far as you can tell, so you decide to hoof it until you can get a read on the situation. Maybe reach higher ground and get a signal. So you start walking.

You’re still a ways off from the fighting, but that’s your safest bet. Ironic, you think, that running into gunfire and explosions is the safe option, but you push those thoughts aside. The forest, or maybe it could be considered a jungle, is quiet but that doesn’t mean it’s desolate. You march on for some time, wary of every twig or feather flutter you hear over the sounds of war, until you hear an unsettling but familiar sound. Your blood runs cold as you spin around, trying to pinpoint where it’s coming from. It could be anywhere, the way it’s echoing around you, but the sound is unmistakable.

A Mech.

You had been enamored with the Mech division when you joined up with the Corps. They were the best of the best behind the helms of giant, cutting edge, bipedal war machines that served as paragons of everything the Corps stood for. You were so excited when you passed the exams, when you were deemed to have a compatible personality profile, when you watched the live fire demonstrations. You were going to be a Mech Pilot and you were so ready.

Until you learned what being a Mech Pilot means.

The mechanical tromping gets closer and closer still, and you scramble in what you think is the opposite direction and hunker down on the other side of an embankment. You keep your head down, feeling the ground shudder under you and against your back as it gets closer. Closer. Closer. Wincing with each step until it stops. You can’t help but foolishly peek up over the bank.

There it is. An old FX Series Mech. It stands in the clearing, its back to you, but you can see its blue laser grid scanning wherever it looks as it scans from left to right as it says “Searching for Pilot.”

You duck back down, grabbing the pendant on your necklace and trying to breathe calmly and quietly. Perhaps you pray, if you’re that sort of person or just the desperate type. In any case, you just hope that it doesn’t find you.

You watch as the grid comes into your view on the thicket of trees to your left, slowly panning rightward. You hold yourself, make yourself as small as you physically can, as the grid moves in your direction. But you’re in luck and you can see where the grid picks up, leaving you hidden in the shadow of the embankment. You still hold your breath, though.

To your relief, the grid passes right over you. You stay still, daring not even to breathe as you listen to the Mech’s hydraulics and servos and its foodpads in the dirt as it walks away.

You let out a sigh of relief and before you can even get it out you gasp in shock. The grid is back over your position and a burning red.

“Acquiring Pilot candidate,” the Mech says. The FX series always had a synthesized voice that was pleasing to you, soothing. Maybe even a bit arousing, if you were being completely honest. But now it’s the most terrifying sound in the world. You clamber to your feet, scrambling as you dive away just in time to avoid the massive metal hand demolishing the bank you were hiding behind.

You bound across the stones in the creek, slipping from them half way across and trodding with sodden boots to the other side and into the treeline. The FX pursues you, a deluge of water spilling from the creek as it stomps through and onto the shore behind you. You make your way further into the forest, running toward the sound of gunfire the whole time, hoping that the trees will slow the Mech, or at least obscure you from its scanners.

The sound of cracking timber and grinding metal behind you tells you that your hopes were in vain.

You barely manage to dive away from a falling tree as its shadow grows around you, adrenaline allowing you to push yourself back to your feet as quickly as you hit the forest floor. The natural flow of the land funnels you downhill between two peaks as you run for your life. You don’t know where you are or where you’re going, but eventually, you run against a craggy rock wall. You try to jump and reach the ledge, you try to climb the jagged rock face.

You can’t.

You freeze as the red gridlines of the FX Mech’s scanner trace up your body, silhouetting you against the wall.

“Pilot candidate acquired,” its smoky synthesized voice affirms that you’ve nowhere left to run. Nowhere to hide.

You slowly turn around, hands raised about your shoulders to show you’re not a threat. You aren’t a threat, after all. “Please, I’m not a pilot,” your run-ravaged voice ekes out.

The Mech’s scanning field narrows around you. “Evaluating Pilot candidate.”

“I’m not a pilot!” your voice croaks out, as loud as you can make it. “I don’t want to be a pilot!”

“Irrelevant,” the mech’s disturbingly alluring voice says, “This unit requires biofuel.”

“I don’t care!” you plead, “Just… just let me go.”

The mech remains silent as it stands before you, its scan field shifting from red to green as it traces up one leg, briefly turning red again where it moves over your trick knee, then stays green as it traces up the other leg, up your torso, and down your arms. The light seems to sparkle and flash as you look into the single standard “eye” of the FX Series Mech as it scans your head. It feels like an entire rainbow flashes by before the scanner turns off.

“Candidate compatibility: Eight-seven percent,” the synthetic voice says. “Congratulations, Pilot.”

“No, no!” You press yourself against the wall, holding your hands out defensively. As if they’d be any defense against a war machine. “I’m not a pilot! I don’t want to be a pilot.”

“Irrelevant. The Pilot requires protection.”

“I don’t want your damn protection!”

“Irrelevant.”

The FX lowers itself while white steam rises from a seam around its front. A terrible stench like burnt meat and rot permeates the air as the hatch to the cockpit loses its hermetic seal. The mch leans forward, the hatch turning into a ramp as if it expects you to just climb inside. When it does, a gut-wrenching rattle rings out as the yellowed bones of the previous pilot tumble down the diamond steel walkway to the ground in front of you. You quiver where you stand, the soaked insole of your boot squelching with every bounce.

You know you can’t escape. You know it’s useless. It doesn’t stop you from trying. You run to the right, only for the Mech’s hand to slam into the rock wall beside you. You run left, and the other hand misses you by a hair’s breadth.

“Stop, please!”

Your pleas fall on deaf ears as the hands close around you, lifting you from the ground.

“Please remain calm, Pilot.”

You can barely even manage a feeble ‘I’m not a pilot.’ as you’re shoved into the cockpit and everything goes dark.

[savagemasculinity]

Way of the Barbarian

Crush Your Enemies: Your enemies are often not people, but things, circumstances, situations that pull you from a path of faith, honor, and love. You should face them with hardened resolve with intent to reduce them to nothingness. These things are what you must focus your will against. When you can crush these enemies, then those people who would stand against you become trivial. Beneath your regard. People are weak, but you are strong against their temptations. Crushing your enemies means adhering to your goals despite temptation to deviate from your path. Go to the gym when you're supposed to. Eat what you're supposed to. Love your people fiercely. Prioritize your growth and the protection of your loved ones. Abhor evil. Embrace truth. Feed yourself last, your family and dogs first. Wake up early. Pray. Meditate. Make your bed. Put your house and your self in order. This is how you crush your enemies.

See Them Driven Before You: Your enemies, your temptations, your lapses in judgment, cannot withstand your discipline and dedication. As you pursue your goals, as you practice your morals and follow the path of honor, you will witness all that was once a barrier crumbling to dust. You will trod over stumbling blocks as a warrior trods over evil ones. Strength will fill your limbs with each breath. Vigor will course through you. You will look back on your path and see the evidence of your growth, your victories apparent. Others will see a taller, stronger man.

Hear the Lamentations of the Women: At a certain point, you will truly feel victorious in your quest. Your pursuits will fruit into undeniable results. Whether financial, physical, mental, spiritual, or otherwise, you will bask in the glory and victory of reaching an end. Not THE end, mind you, for we are never finished in our pursuits.

[apoemaday]

Flower of Love

by Oscar Wilde

Sweet, I blame you not, for mine the fault was, had I not been made of common clay I had climbed the higher heights unclimbed yet, seen the fuller air, the larger day. From the wildness of my wasted passion I had struck a better, clearer song, Lit some lighter light of freer freedom, battled with some Hydra-headed wrong. Had my lips been smitten into music by the kisses that but made them bleed, You had walked with Bice and the angels on that verdant and enameled meed. I had trod the road which Dante treading saw the suns of seven circles shine, Ay! perchance had seen the heavens opening, as they opened to the Florentine. And the mighty nations would have crowned me, who am crownless now and without name, And some orient dawn had found me kneeling on the threshold of the House of Fame. I had sat within that marble circle where the oldest bard is as the young, And the pipe is ever dropping honey, and the lyre’s strings are ever strung. Keats had lifted up his hymeneal curls from out the poppy-seeded wine, With ambrosial mouth had kissed my forehead, clasped the hand of noble love in mine. And at springtide, when the apple-blossoms brush the burnished bosom of the dove, Two young lovers lying in an orchard would have read the story of our love; Would have read the legend of my passion, known the bitter secret of my heart, Kissed as we have kissed, but never parted as we two are fated now to part. For the crimson flower of our life is eaten by the cankerworm of truth, And no hand can gather up the fallen withered petals of the rose of youth. Yet I am not sorry that I loved you--ah! what else had I a boy to do?-- For the hungry teeth of time devour, and the silent-footed years pursue. Rudderless, we drift athwart a tempest, and when once the storm of youth is past, Without lyre, without lute or chorus, Death the silent pilot comes at last. And within the grave there is no pleasure, for the blindworm battens on the root, And Desire shudders into ashes, and the tree of Passion bears no fruit. Ah! what else had I to do but love you? God’s own mother was less dear to me, And less dear the Cytheraean rising like an argent lily from the sea. I have made my choice, have lived my poems, and, though youth is gone in wasted days, I have found the lover’s crown of myrtle better than the poet’s crown of bays.

[scotianostra]

9th December 1770 saw the birth of the poet and novelist James Hogg.

Hogg is primarily known today not only as the author of a series of pastoral poems, but also as the writer of the novel, Confessions of a Justified Sinner, widely regarded as the first piece of modern Scottish fiction.

A contrary figure in real life, Hogg almost bankrupted himself in attempts to be a successful shepherd - leading to his literary friends dubbing him "the Ettrick Shepherd".

There were two main strands to Hogg’s early cultural experience: folk traditions and religion. The family were church-goers and his father was an elder, while his mother was steeped in the oral tradition, relating to her children folk tales and songs of kings, knights and supernatural beings.

With no media ,as we know it back then Hogg would have listened reel off tales of Scottish history and legends as he was growing up. As a young man Hogg worked as a shepherd in Selkirkshire and Dumfriesshire, becoming interested in literature in his early twenties, when he attempted writing songs and poems, some of which were published in The Scots Magazine. He moved to Edinburgh in 1810 to pursue a career as a full-time man of letters, after having published poetry and non-fiction while maintaining his day-job as a shepherd. However, in 1813 he returned to Selkirkshire, where he lived and worked in the Duke of Buccleuch's Altrive Farm in Yarrow.

He continued to publish regularly while maintaining a contentious relationship with the Edinburgh literati, including his friend and some-time mentor, Walter Scott.

Many of Hogg's stories and poems appeared in Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, or Maga as it was affectionately known.

Hogg continued to write, publish and farm until his death in 1835. He was buried in Ettrick Churchyard, appropriately next to his grandfather, Will o’ Phaup, who is reputed to have been the last man to converse with the fairies!

Among Hogg's most famous works was Jacobite Relics - originally commissioned by the Highland Society of London in 1817, it included Lament of Flora McDonald, sung here by Kenneth McKellar

Far over yon hills of the heather sae green An' doun by the corrie that sings to the sea, The bonnie young Flora sat sighin' her lane, The dew on her plaid an' the tear in her e'e. She look'd at a boat wi' the breezes that swung, Away on the wave like a bird on the main, An' aye as it lessen'd she sigh'd an' she sung, "Fareweel to the lad I shall ne'er see again; Fareweel to my hero, the gallant and young, Fareweel to the lad I shall ne'er see again."

The moorcock that crows on the brows o' Ben Connal, He kens o' his bed in a sweet mossy hame; The eagle that soars o'er the cliffs o' Clan Ranald, Unaw'd and unhunted his eyrie can claim; The solan can sleep on the shelves of the shore, The cormorant roost on his rock of the sea; But ah! there is one whose fate I deplore, Nor house, ha' nor hame in this country has he; The conflict is past, and our name is no more, There's nought left but sorrow for Scotland and me.

The target is torn from the arm of the just, The helmet is cleft on the brow of the brave; The claymore forever in darkness must rust, But red is the sword of the stranger and slave; The hoof of the horse, and the foot of the proud, Have trod o'er the plumes on the bonnet of blue; Why slept the red bolt in the breast of the cloud, When tyranny revell'd in blood of the true? Fareweel my young hero, the gallant and good, The crown of thy father's is torn from thy brow.

[meowww-ffxiv]

To this day, Meowdred believed that Zenos just made up a guy in his mind that he believed was his perfect foil and thought that fictional guy was Meowdred. At least Emet-Selch, may he roll like an overcooked rotisserie chicken in the Underworld for all eternity, hated Meowdred more on his own merits than as the shard of Azem, in the end.

But Zenos clung to what Meowdred believed was a delusion bearing his face, because only a person cast in his image satisfied Zenos's cravings for a peer.

But Theodore told him that no, Zenos had a point in seeing Mordred as his mirror. They were both powerful individuals, and where Zenos was born to a cradle of blood and cruelty, shaped and trained and refined with others' intentionality, Mordred was born to poverty and made to swim in hostile currents. The one born into everything found all things to be meaningless, and across from him, the one who first had to drown to know what it meant for others to pull him out of the flood, who possessed a comparable amount of power yet was anything but hollow -- how could Zenos not want to grasp that kaleidoscopic reflection?

For sport, yes. To satisfy the craving for a peer, a friend, like he'd told Mordred. But also for inspiration, for understanding, for satisfaction in the only way he knew how to receive it.

And that was why Zenos completely ignored Theodore, who although was dragoon and blond and powerful too etc etc, was at his roots both antithetical and too similar to the boredom of what Zenos already knew. Mordred was different. His face was the face of the nobodies Zenos had spent his life trodding on, but he was an unquenchable fire to every inch of steel Zenos threw at him.

And Meowdred said, "This is a really cool analysis but the guy will just have to die disappointed as fuck because I don't give a damn about him."

And isn't that the real heartbreak, Theodore said.

Because all of Meowdred's considerable ire and fury and seething at a reflection was condensed in Emet-Selch. In Hades. The person who, having traveled into the past and met face-to-face, Mordred realized a part of his own soul missed him like rain missed the rivers. And now the only mercy they could offer one another was annihilation.

Zenos did nothing for Mordred; his emptiness and his search for meaning, somehow, found no purchase on the Warrior of Light. Mordred looked at him and saw an empty room, and after a glance of mild curiosity, forgot about him.

Well. Meowdred did ask Zero if Zenos knew how indifferent he was about him. And Zero said yes, he knew. But it mattered not to Zenos, who of course pursued Mordred's attention for self-fulfilment. So long as he got what he wanted, he didn't care what he needed to do to get it. Nor did he fear Mordred's rejection, it seemed. What mattered most to Zenos was to make the offer and have Mordred acknowledge it, whether with scorn or glee.

In fact, it was probably a topic of wry humor to Zenos, who was indifferent about most things, to find the one person he wanted something from in a way that was actually meaningful to him, to be equally indifferent in return.

[dreamer213]

Broken Machines: Between Shadows

Chapter 2: Business Hours

Routine, that was a word Whitley knew all too well. His life had been run on a tight schedule since he was old enough for schooling and given his intelligence it had started far soon than most. He hated this life of constant work and high-society events but had little say in any part of it. He had bided his time learning the trade of his family’s business and gathering evidence to oust his horrid father. When the time was right, he’d rid himself of the misery he brought to his life and the lives of those around him. He played the perfect son role to the letter despite all the pain and torment it caused him just for a chance a proper vengeance. And for a while, he thought he could survive this way until the end, wearing the mask of a trained dog and hiding a hatred as deep as the sea in the depths of his heart.

That was until he was named heir and faced a never-death experience.

That moment led him to meet the most unbelievable person he’d ever know. That night a girl with kind eyes and a smile bright as the sun saved his life and throughout their time together won his heart. She had reminded him that life had meaning, joy, and passion and gave him the strength to pursue something more than revenge. So much so that he’d taken great risk just to see her and be with her against his father’s wishes. And even though he still wore the mask and trod lightly in the gilded cage he called home; his heart felt lighter now that he had a more joyous reason to get up in the morning.

Penny had become his motivation, his joy, his sun, and moon more precious than any jewel or treasure. Her smile warmed his heart, her words lifted his spirit, and her touch was simply addictive to him in every way. He would give anything and everything to see her happy as she had made him with her kindness and warmth. If she wanted to see the greatest sights, he’d take her. If she wanted the finest jewels, he’d spare no expense. Hell, if she wanted the shattered moon as a memento, he’d do whatever it took to place it and all its shards in her hands. He wished to hold onto her until the end until he had the power to bring her up to the manor and be hers openly without fear or shame!

But therein laid the biggest problem of their relationship from Whitley’s point of view. As much as Whitley was willing to give Penny anything she could ask for and every bit of himself, he couldn’t. Even after all the hardship Whitley had endured to be with Penny, he had still held back much of himself in the process. She had a passing knowledge of how his father had mistreated and overworked him but had no true understanding of just how far it really went. She didn’t know of the harsh punishments, the restrictions, the tantrums, threats, and nightmares Whitley had suffered through for years without a single person to turn to. Nor did she know of how twisted such a life had made him. Whitley had seen many terrible things in his quest to ruin Jacques and planned many awful things to enact in turn once he took control of the SDC. He had spent countless hours planning his takeover, how he’d cut the cancer his father brought to his dear grandfather’s legacy with his own two hands. The revolute would be ugly, maybe even bloody but Whitley didn’t mind. He wasn’t after innocent people; no, he was after scum that cheated their way to the top and abused their power every waking moment for their pleasure. Much of the company Jacques kept was the lowest life forms Whitley had ever had the misfortune of knowing and what good remained in the tangle of corruption had no power to stop them. Hence, the cutting of cancer no matter what the removal called for. Even if his hand hands would be painted crimson by the fallout Whitley would prevail over them, victorious.

And that very fact is why he couldn’t be honest with Penny. He couldn’t show her the ugly half of his heart and hoped she’d keep it. Despite her occupation, Penny was a pure soul with a giving heart and open mind. She had faced the ugliness of Atlas high society and come out with her heart and soul intact. The wicket of the wicked had stared at her in contempt and she was not shaken by it. But still, Whitley couldn't stand the thought of soiling her with this his twisted psyche. The things he would do for his freedom and the world he inhabitant were too horrendous to drag Penny into. The thought of what could happen to her if she was further entangled in the nightmare Whitley called his life permeated Whitley’s mind often. Especially when they had their video calls.

As he chats with her early in the morning, both still dressed in their nightwear, Whitley’s smile never weaves as he hangs on her every word.

Penny: I’m still not sure about what I should say to Neon Kat. Once she sees that I’m not depressed anymore she’ll know something’s happened between us.

She says with a worried expression, her eyes drooping and lips pouting at her feelings of conflict. Whitley wanted to reach through the screen and cradle in his arms to soothe her uneasiness but the distance, necessary as it may, kept him from doing so. The only comfort he could provide was through his words, an easy task that felt far too light for what she’d given him.

Whitley: You can tell the broad details and leave it at that. She doesn’t need to know more than that anyway.

Penny: I would but Neon is very, very nosy. She will pry and pry until she gets all the information she’s after and is too stubborn to give up until she gets her way!

She huffs, her experience becoming sour as she recalls her co-worker’s wild attitude. Whitley can’t help but snicker at her adorable pout. Watching her cheeks puff made him want to pinch and nip at them until she broke out of her little funk and into a fit of laughter. But again, all he could was offer her his words.

Whitley: Stubborn and persistent without a care for normal boundaries? Guess that surname is more literal than I thought.

Penny chuckles at his sly joke, her frown reversing into her usual endearing smile. Oh, how he loved that smile of hers. Ever earnest and sweet, never plastered on or forced, and the way her eye lit up with joy was so heartwarming. The girl really never held anything back, everything was at face value with her expressions.

Whitley: But then again cats can be easily distracted, maybe you can divert her attention to something else until we can figure out a better way to handle this.

Penny: Hmm, there have been a lot of problems going on down here so that could work.

Penny’s face scrunches in focus as she tries to think of topics to distract Neon with. Whitley watches her happily and is about to comment on her adorably furrowed brows but the sound of the alarm from his normal scroll cut him off. It wasn’t a practically loud alarm but to Whitley it was like a blaring siren pulling him back to the reality of his daily life. Penny could hear the alarm over on the other side of the screen and know what it meant their morning talk was over.

Penny: Time to get to work?

She questions, still smiling but with a hint of disappointment in her soft summer green eyes. Whitley sighs, also disappointed but far too used to the pain disconnecting caused.

Whitley: Afraid so.

Penny: Will you call me at lunch today?

Whitley hesitates a bit, trying hard not to visibly deflate as he knew the answer wouldn’t be positive.

Whitley: I’ll see what I can do.

He says tenderly, trying to soften the blow a little but Penny was no foul. She knew well how much Whitley worked and that these little talks were hard enough to schedule as it was. But still, the prospect of going a day without hearing his voice and seeing that he was okay all while knowing the terrible environment he lived in even for a day was discouraging. The smile remains on her lips but the sorrow in her eyes is obvious as she bid him farewell.

Penny: Okay, have a nice day, Whitley.

Whitley: You too. Take care, Penny.

He says with a weak smile, the two wave to each other before hanging up. Now alone Whitley takes a deep breath, mentally taking in all the positivity Penny had gifted him, steadying himself for the day to come. He exhales and gets out of bed, walking swiftly towards his closet.

Whitley: Time to get to work.

Whitley thought to himself as proceeded to get dressed, comb his hair, stash his secret scroll, and pocketed his work scroll before striding over to his desk to start his morning reading. He starts with the statistics section first, much of which he’d finished early in the week, then goes into economics. When the math gets to be more complicated, he takes a calculator, pencil, and paper to hand do and double-check his work as progresses. He’s so absorbed in his work that he doesn’t hear Sue enter with the food cart carrying in his breakfast. With Jacques now transfixed in his campaign, Whitley had been busier than ever, and the dining rooms had been almost abandoned as a result. So, the kitchen staff would regularly deliver the Schnees meals to them and sweet but clumsy Sue was often tasked with the least difficult of three for obvious reasons.

She notices his focused demeanor from the doorway and watches him in awe. As a college student Sue knew the grind of studying well and had met a few overachievers that breezed through their work compared to them peers. Buy Whitley was a whole other breed when it came to academics. The young master did the equivalent of six full-credit classes of homework almost daily and that was only a fraction of his normal duties. It was honestly scary however efficient he was at his age and the maid couldn’t help but pity him for all the work he was saddled with. Especially with how he ate while working like this.

She stands silently until Whitley stops typing to move on to the next section. Seeing a small window of opportunity, Sue calls out to him.

Sue: Young Master?

Her voice breaks Whitley’s focus and he looks over his shoulder to acknowledge her presence.

Whitley: Yes?

Now seen and addressed Sue pushes the cart over to the side of Whitley’s desk. She describes the dish as she unloads it and the utensils off of the cart.

Sue: Today’s breakfast is a scotch egg, toast, and sausage with a side salad. And a hot back flat coffee.

She says as she puts the silver platter and mug in an open space on the desk before removing the cover to reveal the meal just as she described it. Though the portion is a little smaller than one would have imagined from that description. Truly there was a singular scotch egg in an egg cup, alongside a piece of thin white toast cut into two triangle pieces, and some small sausage next to the fresh side salad. The sausage was made of good-quality meat but small enough to be used for pigs in a blanket, the toast is thin are lightly buttered, and the salad is the size of a fruit cup and only a slight drizzle of dressing. It was a balance and healthy meal but unquestionably insufficient for anyone over the age of ten. But this was all Whitley would have until lunchtime came so it would have to make do.

Whitley: Thank you, Sue. I’ll leave the plate by the door when I’m done with it.

He remarks before turning back to his computer and resuming his work. Sue stifles a sign and leaves quietly with the food cart. Once she’s gone, Whitley proceeds to work with one hand and eat with the other, being careful not to get crumbs anything where or spill something. The meal doesn’t last even half an hour and Whitley sips on his half-cold coffee for the rest of his morning study.

Once he’s finally finished with his academic work for the day, Whitley gets up to do some quick stretches to promote blood flow back to his long numb limbs. After he stretches Whitley picks up his dirty dishes and walks them to the door. Lunch would be arriving from so it would be best for him to get them out his way and somewhere Sue could retrieve them easily. But just as he’s about to set them down there’s a knock on the door. Using his free hand, Whitley opens the door to see Hannah standing there out of breath and sweaty.

Whitley: Oh dear.

Whitley thought worriedly at the sight of the unkempt maid. Schnee Manor was prided on having perfect ground and well-maintained staff at all times, so seeing a maid this out of sorts was a clear sign the big trouble.

Hannah: Young Master, come quickly! There’s a big problem in the laundry room!

Hannah cries, to which Whitley sighs in response. With his father so preoccupied and his mother being… incapacitated most days the teen was left to run the manor in their stead. It had become so often that much of the staff deferred to him for assistance after accidents or maintenance notifications. Knowing that Whitley hands the dishes over to Hannah and steps out into the hallway.

Whitley: Take those to the kitchen and get yourself a glass of water, you look like you’re about to pass out from dehydration.

Hannah nods and accepts the dishes, replying with a simple “Yes, Young Master” before running off to the kitchen. Whitley in turn heads to the laundry room to see what was had transpired. As was common in large house estates, there were two laundry rooms with the manor, one in the staff quarters for uniform and staff bedding cleaning, mending, and distribution, and another in the main house for the family’s laundry. Guiding by the direction she came from and how tired Hannah was the problem was mostly in the staff’s laundry and not the main house. Whitley sighs again as he turns a corner and heads towards the staff quarters.

Whitley: Guess I’ll get some of my daily steps in before lunch, again.

He bemoaned to himself as he marches down the halls to make the long walk to the staff’s laundry room. His steps click on the cold marble floor, every tap of his heel carrying a slight echo due to the vastness of the grand estate's halls but soon they grow soft as he walks onto the pale wood floors of the staff building. The staff area was far more causal them the main house, it was not meant for company to enter so was held far less glamorous furnishings but was built steadily and comfortably for those who inhabited it. The bedrooms though shared were spacious enough for both occupants to have some level of privacy. The bathrooms were large, the showers were separate for privacy, and quality hypoallergenic soaps were distributed to staff weekly. And the staff kitchen was well stocked and always clean, kitchen staff and cleaning rotated daily to keep the entirety of the manor clean and fed. The chiefs commonly using much of the same ingredients for staff as the family’s meals, sans the more luxurious food like high-quality meats, expensive spices, or any of the good liquor. Truthfully it was one of the few parts of the Schnee enterprise that had not been watered down by Jaques’s spendthrift ways, primarily due to how often the staff was seen by the guests Jaques kept.

Whitley: If it won’t tarnish his reputation by making him seem cheap, Father would’ve let this place fall into disarray and dressed the staff in rags years ago.

Whitley thought passive-aggressively as he wonders through the halls of the staff building toward the laundry room. When he arrives there’s a mob of staff inside trying to sort out the chaos. The room itself was covered from top to bottom with white tiles, with large wood cabinets on the left wall where all the detergent, fabric softer, and the like was stored, and on the right wall was a large window left open to fit the clothes hanging contraption that set delicates out to dry and back via a thin conveyor belt. And finally at the back wall was where the industrial-sized washer and dryers sat, several units made to handle large deals of clothes at the same time for easy and efficient cleaning. Unfortunately, it was here that the problem lay as one of the dryers had been pulled out of its spot on the wall, unplugged and dragged to the middle of the room. The front was covered in char marks as was the floor around it, clothes inside burned beyond recognition. Tens of maids and butlers were gathered around it attempting to clean the singes off the floor while others looked over the machine itself for further damage. In the disarray, Alexandr is the first to spot Whitley and quickly approached him to debrief him on the current situation.

Alexander: Afternoon, Young Master.

Whitley: What’s going on here Alexander?

Alexander: It appears that one of the dryers has overheated and caught fire. We were able to put it out quickly but there was some damage to the flooring, and we were unable to retrieve the clothes inside before they were set aflame.

Whitley: I see, any injuries?

Alexander: No, luckily enough everyone on duty was at a safe distance with the blaze ignited.

Whitley: Good and what about the dryer? Is it salvageable?

Alexander: We’re checking it but at the moment it seems beyond repair, and it would be best to start looking into replacements.

Whitley sighs again, this was the biggest problem of having a home this size. Even if there was perfect upkeep of the estate, there were still so many little accidents that couldn’t be prevented no matter how hard anyone tried.

Whitley: And this is why we provide high-coverage insurance.

He muses both annoyed that this happened but relieved no one was harmed by the flames. But that relief also gives way to a question, one that should have followed his first.

Whitley: Alexander?

Alexander: Yes?

Whitley: What started the fire?

Alexander: Ah, I believe someone said something about forgetting to clear out the lint tray before the next cycle. With the volume of clothes inside the amount of lint would most definitely have been enough to cause an overheating and subsequent fire.

Whitley: Wonderful.

He says sarcastically as he pinches the bridge of his nose. This was going to be an annoying chore added to his list of obligations but as the only responsible household member, he had no choice but to handle it.

Whitley: Bring me the warranty for the dryer, and contracts for our contractor and uniform supplier. Hopefully, we can get this cleaned up by tomorrow.

Alexander: Of course, Young Master. Shall I get the pressure washer to clean the ruined tiles?

Whitley: No, leave them for the contractor. But please check everyone that was here during for burns. We can’t have people hiding blisters just to finish their shift.

Alexander: Yes, Young Master.

With that, Alexander turns on his heel and leaves the room to fulfill his new tasks meanwhile Whitley evacuated the other staff members out of the laundry room. Letting them hang out the rest of the wet clothes and take out the clean dry clothes before closing the door to the room and posting a handwritten sign not to enter until further notice. By the time Alexander returns those who were attending to the laundry were standing in the hallway and Whitley was questioning those that were closest to the fire. He hands him the information he requested and proceeds to check everyone for injuries as Whitley makes some calls. By the time things are sorted, Whitley’s lunchtime has passed and it’s time to get his daily pile of paperwork from his father’s office.

Whitley: Great, now I’ll have to run on fumes til dinner.

He grumbled to himself as he walked back to the main house. Along the way, he gets a ping on his secret scroll. Knowing only two people knew the number and only one had reason to contact him at this time of day. He stops and looks around, making sure he’s alone, before pulling out the scroll and checking his texts. He’s great by an image of a bowl of noodles with light brown broth and beef, watercress, bean sprouts, and a slice of like lime as toppings sitting on a cafeteria table. Under the picture was a cheeky message from none other than Penny.

Penny: [They were serving pho at the academy today and I got a bowl! Don’t worry I made sure to ask for non-spicy this time.]

The text read, Whitley couldn’t help but chuckle a bit at the quirky message, delighted by the effort Penny put in to keep him updated even when he didn't have time to call. It warmed his heart a little to know he was on her mind even in innocuous moments like this. But the warmth is quickly overshadowed by a grumble of pain, as his empty stomach growls for food at the sight of the pleasant meal. Whitley rubs his stomach and texts her back before the pain gets too distracting.

Whitley: [Looks good, we’ll have to get some together next time.]

Penny replies almost immediately with a cheery text of-

Penny: [Of course, I’ll ask around for some recommendations after work!]

-and Whitley shoots back a quick-

Whitley: [Can’t wait to see what you find.]

Before putting the scroll away and continuing towards his father’s office. When he finally arrives at the office, Whitley’s relieved to see his father wasn’t inside waiting for him. Having to explain his tardiness while his father stared down at him was just going to make his stomachache worse and frankly, he didn’t need the added stress or stomach ulcer risk. Walking to the desk Whitley quickly grabs the stack of paperwork meant for him and speed walks out of the room. He couldn’t stand being there for too long even without Jacques being present. The whole room had been mired with the memories of verbal lashings of his early years and the brutal punishments that started soon after Weiss’s departure. Unconsciously, Whitley holds the paper tight in one hand and grips his bicep with the other, the memories so vivid that the air felt heavy. He squeezes the muscle of his upper arm harshly, the pain forcing his mind back to reality. He takes a few deep breaths then shakes his head furiously, brushing away the remaining tension of entering the room. When his head is clear he retreats back to his room, work in hand, and continues his day.

Now Whitley’s involvement with the SDC was mostly just paperwork, but it was a hefty amount. The work ranged from negotiations on dust prices for clients to incident reports from the mines and everything in between. Other times he was tasked with handling client calls or receiving direct reports from lower management on all manner of issues. Occasionally he’d have to call others to clarify something, notify them of certain changes in contract or policy, and reject dealings his father didn’t approve of. It was mental taxing work that required him to handle many sensitive documents and situations with no room to make mistakes or even small errors. Any issue could undermine his standing as heir and Whitley couldn’t afford to let that happen for various reasons.

Whitley: Get through this quick then maybe you can sneak in a snack before dinner and hopefully not pass out from starvation.

He says to himself before sitting down at his desk and getting back to work. He spends hours battling the sea of paperwork, carefully going over ever page and noting errors or inconsistencies or signing off on things when necessary. He makes a few calls to verify things across different departments as he goes, eventually landing a call with a difficult client mid-way through.

Steppers: I DON’T UNDERSTAND WHY YOU CAN’T MAKE AN EXCEPTION FOR THIS ONE THING!!!

Whitley: My apologies, Mr. Steppers but I cannot decrease the price of your air dust shipment any further your wholesale discount already offers.

Steppers: BUT I’VE BEEN A CUSTOMER FOR YEARS! DOESN’T ENTITLE ME TO SOME KIND OF LEGUCY OF REPEAT CUSTOMER CARE!!!

Whitley: You’re ordering materials from a monopoly for your hot air balloon tour business, what part of that give you any inclination that you’d receive any respect?

Whitley snarked to himself as he tries to get through to the man and make him see reason.

Whitley: Unfortunately, the SDC doesn’t have a set customer rewards system but if you’d like to petition for one, please call the customer service line or take our online survey.

Steppers: I’VE ALREADY BEEN THROUGH ALL THAT AND NO HAS HELPED ME!!! AND NOW I’M HERE STUCK TALKING SOME SNOT NOSED BRAT!!!

Whitley: And once I apologize for the inconvenience but there is simply nothing I can do for you.

Steppers: GET ME YOUR MANAGER!!! I WANNA SPEAK TO THE PERSON AT THE VERY TOP OF THIS SHITTY COMPANY!!!

Whitley: I can’t do that Sir, I’m the highest authority on customer relations and as I’ve already stated there’s nothing I can do.

Steppers: BULLSHIT, NO WAY A KID IS RUNNING THE SHOW HERE!!!

This painful back and forth continues as Whitley starts back his paperwork while still on the line. Eventually he manages to talk the man down enough to agree to call the service line back and hang up. Now nurturing a headache from the exchange, Whitley finishes up the rest of his work just in time for his dinner break. And as if on cue there’s a knock on his door but instead of the soft voice of Sue a different one calls out to him.

Olga: Young Master?

Whitley: Come in.

He answers, turning around in his desk chair ready to fave whatever issue that had brought her here. Olga opens the door and takes only a step in while still holding the door as she tells him what she needs of him.

Olga: There are packages at the front door and delivery boy needs the resident's signature to drop them off.

Whitley takes a sharp breath and gets up, stretching out his back as he rises. He walks over to Olga and the two leave the room to attend to the delivery. When they arrive at the front door there is a young man with a clipboard waiting at the open door as well as several staff members on standby. Just behind the carrier, he could see a small truck with the logo of a well-known local stationery company printed on the side. Scymoreous Printing Co, the company his father often commissioned their business cards from. Whitley approaches the young man who looks him up and down curiously.

Delivery Boy: Package for Jaques Schnee?

Whitley: I can sign for that.

Whitley states and the delivery boy hands over the clipboard to him. He looks over the order form then signs for the delivery before handing it back.

Delivery Boy: Sooo, want me to haul them in or-

Whitley: No need.

Whitley motions to the waiting staff members and they quickly retrieve the box from out front, Yuko specifically carrying several on one arm and ease. When they’re done the frankly astonished delivery boy tips his hat to Whitley and then runs off back to his truck. Whitley closes the door behind him and steps over to the boxes to inspect the goods. With the help of Olga’s handy box cutter, he opens one of the boxes to find that it’s filled with campaign pins. The pin has a white background with a picture of Jaques in arms crossed power pose in the foreground and the words “Success With Schnee” in bold red font underneath.

Whitley: Of course, he’s using the family name for his scheme. What else does he have to offer?

Whitley rolls his eyes, trying his hardest not to get annoyed again as he moves to open another box. After checking over all the boxes of pins and ensuring they were all to standard, Whitley addresses the staff.

Whitley: Put the bulk of these into storage, two boxes with party supplies, and with spare guest room toiletries. One in father’s limousine and half of one in his office, stacked neatly in the top drawers only.

The staff reply with a simple “Yes, Young Master.” and get to work sorting out the pins. With that handle, Whitley heads back to his room and is mercifully greeted by the sight of a large silver platter on a wide wooden standing tray table next to his desk. He rushes to the table and uncovers the platter to reveal a plate of pan fries cod with a side of grilled asparagus and a bowl of creamy truffle soup, a cup of earl gray at the far side still billowing with steam. It would seem the kitchen staff doubled up his meal to make up for his skipped lunch. And though the portions were still in light Whitley greatly appreciated the effect they’d put in to keep him fed. Despite the restrictions of his diet the chiefs never failed to provide Whitley with delicious and nutritious food. It was one of the few comforts this life afforded him though the somberness of his situation soured the flavor most nights.

Whitley: At least I can go to bed on a full stomach for once.

Whitley thought bittersweetly as he moves the chair from his desk over to the tray table and sat down to eat. The cod is so soft and flaky it practically melts on his tongue, the fresh lemon butter sauce adding a lightly zesty sour flavor to the fish’s natural saltiness. The asparagus is crisp and well-spiced, the firm snap of every bite is tribute to its freshness. The soup is a delight of smooth broth with a rich taste, the pieces of mushroom, onion, and potato softened from boiling and soaked deep with the soup. Tis’ a hearty meal, one Whitley quite enjoyed after a hard day’s work. He considers washing it down with the tea but instead wipes his mouth with provided cloth napkin then gets up to start his final task of the day, reading.

Whitley: What better to pair with a reading hour than tea?

He quipped to himself as he grabbed one of the books off his reading list from his small bookcase before returning to his seat. Jacques had required Whitley to read from a select range of topics every day for an hour or more to keep the boy cultured. The topics were mostly of no real-world use and focused more on elite taste. Fashion history, architecture, ancient culture, art history, and the like are all topics Whitley was well versed in due to his daily reading. But despite it being a forced task, Whitley found some solace in this time as he could get lost in the text and his imagination. Engaging with thought-provoking works and reading tales of far humanity had come since its earliest records was a nice way for him to escape the confinement of the manor and its master, even if only in his mind.

Though lately, his mind had drifted ever so slightly as he read his usual topic. Actually, it had begun months ago during Penny’s lessons. He’d find some passage or chapter in a book that could help her digest the topic more easily or might catch her interest enough to help keep her engaged with the more mundane parts of his training. And even after she left Whitley still found himself mentally picking out things he knows she’d like or find interesting.

Whitley: Maybe I can sneak a couple down with me next time. I’m the only one who reads the regularly and God knows Father hasn’t to even glance at a book unless he’s pushing onto me, so they won't be missed.

He muses to himself as he reaches for the cup of tea, it’s gone lukewarm but still, the taste is soft and comforting. Seems that Sue had a hand in making it as the sugar and milk ratio is perfect and there is a hint of honey at the bottom, most like placed in the cup before the leaves and water so it could disperse evenly with heat. Or at least that's what she’d told him the first time he’d had her make tea for him. It was a nice way of mixing natural sweetness with the bitterness of the leaves, enough so that he’d never correct her method as long as she only made it for him. Couldn’t risk needless firings over his father’s breakfast tea not being exactly right every morning.

Whitley takes his time drinking his tea so it last for the entire hour as he keeps reading. When the hour is over Whitley puts back his books, puts his dirty dishes together, and is about to walk them and the tray table to the door when someone knocks. The knocks aren’t very hard but had a particular patter to them that immediately alerts Whitley to who’s at the door. Quickly putting down the table, grabbing his finished documents, and straightening himself up, Whitley takes a long deep breath as he approaches the door. He grabs the nob firmly in his hand, his heart rate speeding up as he opens the door to see his father Jaques standing in wait. The older man made it a point to see his son face-to-face at least three times a week to “check up on him” as any good parent would. But in truth, it was just a way for him to impose himself on Whitley and remind him of his place in the hierarchy of the household. His cold uncaring gaze locks onto Whitley’s shorter form, looking at him as if he were a speck of dust. Whitley does not let this outward coldness affect him at all and stares back at him with a gentle gaze and pristine smile.

Whitley: Good evening, Father. How has your day been?

He says with the sweetness of a child thrilled to see their dad finally home after a long day of work. It was amazing how kind and loving Whitley appeared to be to his father, and to anyone who didn’t know the truth of their dynamic, it would seem the two had a healthy parent-child relationship. But if they ever looked beneath the surface, they’d find toxicity so vile it’d make most people wretch.

Jacques: Fine. Have you completed all your work for the day?

He asks, no demands still peering at Whitley with the same sense of indifference. Whitley doesn’t buck or drop his smile, however. He just chirps out the answers he knows Jacques wants to hear without so much as a stammer.

Whitley: Of course, I just finished the last of my reading for the day and I have all my paperwork right here. Organized and sorted just as you asked and pertaining calls have been dealt with.

He holds out the papers with a proud smile, Jacques just stares at it for a moment then snaps his fingers. From down the hall a maid appears from around the corner, she walks up to them and takes the documents from Whitley’s hands. Neither acknowledges her during the exchange and she leave quickly and quietly. The two white haired men continue to converse after she’s gone.

Jacques: Were there any problems while I was out?

Whitley: Yes, but nothing of importance. There was a small fire in the staff laundry room and your campaign pins arrived early then scheduled.

Jacques: And what did you do about this?

Whitley: Why I handled it of course. Everything that was damaged by fire will be replaced in a few days and pins have been put into their proper places already.

Jacques: And this was all charged to?

Whitley: The manor’s maintenance account, of course.

This was the normal banter between these two, Jacques presenting constant questions and demands and Whitley answering in only the affirmative. It was a one-sided scenario that gave Jacques all the power and forced Whitley to obey. What would happen to the boy if he failed was so wretched that it compelled Whitely to hold back the bile in his throat as patted his head. His touch felt like rusted metal thorns against Whitley’s soft locks, and he has to hold in a breath of relief when he pulls it away.

Jacques: Good job, keep up the good work. Now, go to bed.

Whitley: Good night, Father, rest well.

He says kindly as Jaques walks away from the door and down the hall. Whitley doesn’t move away from the door and keeps watching Jacques’s back until he’s out of sight. After he’s gone, Whitley softly closes the door and lets out a loud deep sign. He hated these random visits, being tied to that horrid man every time he left the manor was bad enough but the consistent checkups to keep him on his best behavior were maddening! They had decreased with Jacques’s focus switching to his council seat campaign but still, it was so stressful to have him drop in whenever he pleased just to make sure his favorite puppet was still under his thumb.

Whitley: And now my hair stinks of gody cologne and narcissist’s sweat.

Whitley thought, gagging slightly from the overpowering scent. He already had so many reasons to hate his father deeply, but it was the little things like this that made being near the man truly unbearable.

Whitley: (groans) I need a shower.

Indeed, he did. After such a long day a shower was just the thing Whitley need to cleanse himself of the day’s inconveniences. Putting the tray table by the door, setting his scrolls aside to charge, then grabbing fresh undergarments and nightclothes, Whitley heads into his en-suite bathroom to wash up. He lets the water run while he brushes his teeth in the mirror. When his pearly whites are nice and shiny, he gathers up his loofah, soap, shampoo, and conditioner and sets them in the shower shelf in the corner by the head before undressing. Most people won’t allow the water to run for this long for various reasons, but Whitley prefers to as the heat created a great deal of steam. The steam helps him unwind by opening his pore and bringing a nice change of temp compared to the manor’s natural frigid atmosphere but most importantly the steam obscured most of his form as he moved around the bathroom. It would fog all the reflection all surfaces as he stood bare and uncovered. Even if something were to happen to enter the room now it would still be hard to make his pale form in the cloud of white.

This meant he didn’t have to see himself undressed, or more precisely what he hide underneath his clothes.

But as he climbs into the tub and lets the water from the shower head hit his skin the mired skin off his back reminds him of his failures. The warm water grazing across long streaks of broken and healed skin, the tingling on his fingertips as he washes over raised line of his upper arm. He washes himself gingerly and carefully, making sure everything inch of his body is clean. Once he’s sure his clean, Whitley stands under water for a moment to enjoy the warmth before getting out. With hot showers it was best to moisturize immediately after to prevent dry skin. So, Whitley sits down on the toilet, lid down, hair wrapped in his hair and body wrapped in towel and applies some lotion. It scented like mint and sandal wood, with pure aloe as the base, the cold cream is thick but easy to spread. Starting with his face and ending with his feet, Whitley takes a great deal of care in rubbing the cream into his pearly skin. His feet specially take longer than elsewhere as he weaves his fingers into the many grooves and cracks. He had to be extra gentle with the lacerations on the soles of his feet as if not tended to correctly the skin would become uneven given how the wounds had healed. With the locked moisture in and his hair mostly dry Whitley gets changed into his nightwear and puts his dirty clothes into the hamper. He exits the bathroom and notices the tray table had been taken away.

Thankful that there’s no reason for anyone to bother him for the rest of the night Whitley locks his door, and rushes over to his bed. He takes his secret scroll out of its hiding spot and checks himself out in the camera app, making silly faces and cheeky smiles at himself with glee! Once he knows he looks good Whitley opens up his contacts and video calls the one labeled “My Love”. It takes a minute for the call to contact and for her to pick up but sure enough, after a long arduous day, Whitley is graced with the sight of Penny again. She was laying down on her bed, head on her pillow, and dressed in her usual nightgown. The pajamas held her figure well but didn’t cling to her body and the way her hair framed her lovely face at this angle gave her an air of relaxation and comfortability.

God, he loved seeing her like this at the end of the day, so precious and sweet. The sight of her gave him so much peace that the stress of his day simply vanished the moment he looked into those gorgeous green eyes. Honestly, the only thing that could make him feel more at ease was if she was laying directly across from him in his bed. Snuggling into him for comfort and wrapped gently in his arm as they both drift off to a well-deserved rest. But pitifully that could not happen.

Whitley: For now.

Whitley thought, a mischievous grin on his lips as he gazes at his sleepy lover. From how comfy she looked it was clear she’d been home and ready for bed for some time now but had waited up just to see him. How cute of her, waiting up for him like this. Well, he couldn’t disappoint her after she’d made time for him, could he? With a soft gleam of passion in his eyes Whitley starts their evening chat ready to verbally drown his dear Penny in all the adoration and affection he could before exhaustion put him down.

Whitley: Hello again, my darling. I hope you didn’t miss me too much today.

[vicit-vim-virtus]

Starter for @cosmiicheskaya

‘Excuse me, but could you not sit on those fabrics ⸺ they’re high quality vicuna. You have no idea how many strips of pressed latinum I spent to obtain those. You know, they’re all the rage on Alpha Centauri, so you can imagine how atrocious of a process it was to secure a shipment for a singular tailor on Deep Space Nine,’ Garak said exasperatedly, his bright blue eyes trained on the mutt as he cautiously approached it.

The Cardassian wasn’t a great supporter of Earth canines. They were verbal, dependent on their owners, destructive, and everywhere they trod, their stench permeated the air... And as for the strips of pressed latinum... Those were counterfeit; he had successfully hacked into the merchant’s systems and deposited his innocuous order under a false identity into a long list of insignificant names and places, and had it delivered to an astute intermediary who was graced with the gifts of whatever God some people claimed was watching over them. They could never trace the order back to him or his agent... That was all that mattered to him. Odo would be beyond repulsed. The thought alone elicited a smile.

‘So, if you could kindly vacate my shop, that would be much appreciated. I’ve got loads of dresses to make and pants to hem, therefore I implore you, cease whatever effort it is you are pursuing; I don’t have time to entertain you. What is it humans call it again ⸺ fetch? Yeah, I don’t have time for that.’

[seelestia]

out of all the versions of scara we've seen in the game which one is your;

Favorite?

The one you actually want to meet and talk to (if given the chance)?

Best lover/partner material?

The one you most likely would get along with?

The one you most likely would want to show our world and all the shit we have goin for us?

Your pick for the best version of Scara (You can't not choose >:P).

You can choose only (The Abandoned Puppet, Kunikuzushi, Kabukimono, Scaramouche, Wanderer) i know that logically, the aboandoned puppet and kunikuzushi could be the same, but since I headcanon that he was just named as the puppet for his first "version" and later on took the moniker "Kunikuzushi", known as the wandering kid with no purpose. So take that as you will, or just change up the choices cuz who am i to stop u lmao :P - Ever so sincerely yours, 👹✨ Jae (aka your random moot that just quizzes u whenever she's bored lol)

the way you asked this question to me out of boredom, knowing that i'm a wanderer kisser who stays up at night thinking about his lore 24/7.

***NOTE: some major spoilers for wanderer's backstory under the cut! i eat up his lore like it's chicken stew, is this healthy. (/lh)

Favorite?

i'm sorry, but it is necessary that i give it up to wanderer. i think it's mainly because he is technically the 'end product' (or the matured version) of all the painful journeys he trod and that makes me really attached to him <3

The one you actually want to meet and talk to (if given the chance)?

kabukimono, my precious :'( as someone who harbored good will towards humans (at that time <//3), i bet he has lots of questions abt the way they (or, we, in that matter hehe) live. iirc, it is canon that he was taught simple and ordinary tasks by the people of tatarasuna like how to comb his hair, hold a cutlery, cook meals, forge, etc. — AND THAT'S SO CUTE TO ME?? i sure don't know how to forge but heck yeah, i'll teach you abt other silly things we do!! (silly devious giggles /j)

Best lover/partner material?

listen, wanderer and kabukimono. because these two are the most likely to be more open to the thought of forming a connection with someone else. kabukimono is more out of curiosity; what does love feel like? is love for an object the same as love for someone else? what is love? whilst wanderer is more of tolerance; he acknowledges its value, but he doesn't actively try to pursue it... unless he finds someone he really, really comes to trust over a period of time (someone worthy of him and someone he is worthy of).

so, yeah, i chose them because kunikuzushi and scaramouche both have mindsets that make them very or even too hateful towards any type of intimacy at the time <//3

The one you would most likely get along with?

kabukimono for sure!! i have a soft spot for gentle, unknowing people with curiosity. it's probs why i used to have a habit of adopting new students and checking up on them from time to time in my class irl 😭 i mostly get along best with people who can do sassy banter with me, but i can deffo get along with someone like kabukimono too <3

The one you most likely would want to show our world?

scaramouche. just purely because this little guy would frown so hard in disgust at us LMAOOOO "so, supposedly, the technology your world has is meant to make tasks easier for the people. looks like an excuse for you idiots to waste time to me. ...what even is this 'phone' thing, anyway?" he says all that, but he's definitely interested in how everything around here actually works.

Best version?

...personally, wanderer. i've talked about him enough and you don't want me to elaborate more than i already did 🥸 (/j) but i do think all his version are great in their own ways tho because each of them contributes smth to his story. he wouldn't be the person he is now if it weren't for what each of them went through, after all.

P/S...

oh, jae, about the last part.... are you sure you think that's a headcanon because that's actually right— AYO?? this is like a basic summary of the timeline for the names leading up to wanderer.

500 years ago, upon his creation, ei didn't give him a name and he was a nameless puppet. when the people of tatarasuna found him, they called him kabukimono but that was more of a term than a name — the people there did ask if he wanted a name but at the time, he was content with just being called kabukimono (because the name held precious memories for him) until the 'second betrayal' caused him to abandon that name altogether.

kunikuzushi was the first 'actual' name he chose for himself some time during or before the case of the eccentric. 100 years ago, he slaughtered the raiden gokaden (chosen clans that raiden shogun was passing down her martial arts teachings to) to seek revenge against the "bladesmiths" (his second betrayal) except for one person who was spared after scaramouche found out about said person's connection to the surname, "niwa" (the same one as his friend from the tatarasuna). "tell her this. my name is kunikuzushi," was his last words to the sole survivor laying amongst bodies of corpses before he disappeared. (more info: iirc, he was already a part of the fatui when this occured. so, scaramouche was already one of his monikers but he didn't consider it as his 'true' name.)

also, kunikuzushi means 'country destroyer' in japanese and also happens to be the name of a villain character in japanese popular drama who usurps countries. i assumed that he picked this name when the case of the eccentric happened since he did cause a minor disturbance/loss to the inner workings of inazuma through that case. we can see this reflected in today's in-game history because only the amenoma art and isshin art (2/5 clans of the raiden gokaden) still alive after that event.

ANYWAY YEAH. YOU DIDN'T ASK FOR IT BUT IT AWAKENED SMTH IN ME!! sorry for rambling, but i needed to let it out 🫣 (/lh)

[assectations]

@spiritgaze: "Blood magic is a tool, nothing more. It's the wielder who determines its purpose." | Dragon Age inspired sentences, quotes & prompts.

It's not the first time someone has defended the practice of something controversial. Whether as a way to pass the time, or a heated discussion born of staunch ideals. Thedan's were as varied as they were diverse, composed of odds and evens. No two quite alike, even in their similarities. It's part of what made it all so thrilling, in the right company. Blood Magic however — trod a nebulous, thorny road, lit by the still smouldering corpses and ruins of it's victims and practioners. Few had anything remotely positive to say about it, and those that did, well — they were never the type of people you stuck around long enough to figure out the intentions of.

Luc might've been right in that a tool was a tool. But certain tools attracted a certain type of individuals, a humble baker wouldn't reach for a poisoned blade nor the seasoned templar for a rolling pin to see their jobs done. For every supposedly good intentioned person who delved into it's realm, dozens more drank deep for power and revenge.

Rhen deliberates, mulling over his thoughts silent and fleet footed as the bird whose plumage forms the mantle resting over his shoulders. He'd heard once, from a haggard mage he'd met when pursuing a contract in ayesleigh, that those who practioned it were spurned by the fade, and flocked to by all the terrors that Mages knew lurked beyond. "Blood Magic isn't just a tool though, is it." He eventually says, head tilting to watch them. "If it ever was just a benign tool — it's evolved far beyond it. It makes victims out of everyone."

[biboocat]

I loved Shirley (1849) by Charlotte Brontë. Yorkshire is struggling under the privations of the Napoleonic Wars and a poor harvest, and manufacturers and workers are pitted against each other over job cutting modern machines. We meet Caroline Helstone, a demure, introspective, and when called for, a spirited 18 yo who lives with her guardian uncle, the Rector Matthewson Helstone. Her life at the rectory is circumscribed by a lack of means and opportunities. She is befriended by Shirley Keeldar, a young woman of means who is bold, enterprising, and kind. I adored Charlotte Brontë’s company, her understanding of human nature, morality, and spirit of independence as embodied in these two women. What makes her really stand out for me is her ability to convey her characters’ emotions with such genuineness and immediacy. The novel encompasses various topics of interest: tensions between employers and workers in times of economic distress (recalling Elizabeth Gaskell’s North and South and Mary Barton), the dismal prospects for poor Victorian women and expressions of feminism, friendship between women, and the pursuit of true love. The story is generally serious, but there are a few scenes that are quite amusing. I highly recommend Shirley!

Quotes & excerpts:

How am I to get through this day?

I don’t say they are not as good as I am - far from it - but they are different from me.

You do not know how the people of this country, bear malice: it is the boast of some of them that they can keep a stone in their pocket seven years, turn it at the end of that time, keep it seven years longer, and hurl it and hit their mark “at last”.

Where is my place in the world? She mused again. Ah! I see, she pursued presently: that is the question which most old maids are puzzled to solve; other people solve it for them by saying, your place is to do good to others, to be helpful whenever help is wanted. That is right in some measure, and a very convenient doctrine for the people who hold it; but I perceive that certain sets of human beings are very apt to maintain that other sets should give up their lives to them and their service, and then they requite them by praise: they call them devoted and virtuous. Is this enough? Is it to live? Is there not a terrible hollowness, mockery, want, craving, in that existence, which is given away to others, for want of something of your own to bestow it on? I suspect there is. Does virtue lie in abnegation of self? I do not believe it. Undue humility makes tyranny; weak concession creates selfishness. The Romish religion especially, teaches renunciation of self, submission to others, and nowhere are found so many grasping tyrants as in the ranks of the Romish priesthood. Each human being has his share of rights. I suspect it would conduce to the happiness and welfare of all, if each knew his allotment, and held to it as tenaciously as the martyr to his creed. Queer thoughts these, that surge in my mind: are they right thoughts? I’m not certain.

Well, life is short at the best: 70 years, they say, pass like a vapour, like a dream when one awaketh; and every path trod by human feet terminates in one bourne– the grave: the little chink in the surface of this great globe – the furrow where the mighty husbandman with the scythe deposits the seed he has shaken from the ripe stem; and there, it falls, decays, and thence it springs again, when the world has rolled round a few times more. So much for the body: the soul, meantime, wings its long flight upward, folds its wings on the brink of the sea of fire and glass, and gazing down through the burning clearness, finds there mirrored the vision of the Christians triple Godhead: the sovereign Father, the meditating Son; the Creator Spirit . Such words, at least, have been chosen to express what is inexpressible to describe what baffles description. The soul’s real hereafter, who shall guess?

p176: thoughts about the loss of love after marriage.

Can labor alone make a human being happy? No; but it can give varieties of pain, and prevent us from breaking our hearts with a single tyrant, master – torture. Besides, successful labor, has its recompense; vacant, weary, lonely, hopeless life has none.

pp267-268 Dialogue between Joe Scott (Moore’s overseer) and Misses Keeldar and Helstone regarding their opposing views of feminism.

I believe single women should have more to do – better chances of interesting and profitable occupation than they possess now. And when I speak thus, I have no impression that I displease God by my words; that I am either impious or impatient, irreligious or sacrilegious. p313, and she expands this polemic on p314 &315.

You read French. Your mind is poisoned with French novels. You have imbibed French principles. p433 🤣

Typos:

p129 Live should be Life

p440 My should be Mr.

[yhwhrulz]

Streams in the Desert Devotional: October 6th

"He opened not his mouth" (Isaiah 53:7).

How much grace it requires to bear a misunderstanding rightly, and to receive an unkind judgment in holy sweetness! Nothing tests the Christian character more than to have some evil thing said about him. This is the file that soon proves whether we are electro-plate or solid gold. If we could only know the blessings that lie hidden in our trials we would say like David, when Shimei cursed him, "Let him curse; . . . it may be . . . that the Lord will requite me good for his cursing this day."

Some people get easily turned aside from the grandeur of their life-work by pursuing their own grievances and enemies, until their life gets turned into one little petty whirl of warfare. It is like a nest of hornets. You may disperse the hornets, but you will probably get terribly stung, and get nothing for your pains, for even their honey is not worth a search.

God give us more of His Spirit, "who, when he was reviled, reviled not again"; but "committed himself to him that judgeth righteously." "Consider him that endureth such contradiction of sinners against himself."-- A. B. Simpson

"Before you" He trod all the path of woe,

He took the sharp thrusts with His head bent low.

He knew deepest sorrow and pain and grief,

He knew long endurance without relief,

He took all the bitter from death’s deep cup,

He kept not a blood-drop but gave all up.

"Before you" and for you, He won the fight

To bring you to glory and realms of light.

-- L.S.P.

Copyright Statement This material is considered in the public domain.

[milestoneqs]

In Search of a Lost Cuckoo Clock

Name: Annie B

City: Moscow, ID

Milestone: Moving into new apartment

In the last year, what is one thing you have loved:

I have loved my friends. For some reason throughout my life I have been incredibly blessed with brilliant, kind friends. I have been so fortunate in this regard that I feel there is some strange conspiracy from the universe to bless me specifically in this area. A year ago, I left two of my best friends/roommates and a city I felt very at home in to move to the opposite side of the country and pursue an MFA in fiction. I was surprised by how much anxiety this change brought: anxiety telling me I was alone, lost, a failure, a bad writer, a person who leaves good things for Quixotic missions surely doomed for disgrace. Calls to friends from all eras of my life have been the steady drumbeat carrying me past my fears, helping me march on a rocky path. I am 32, and while many people my age are having babies and buying not their starter homes but their second homes. When I first came to Idaho, I moved in with a different friend, another wonderful friend. But I felt the call to live alone, to make a place my very own, decorated exactly the way I imagined. I am moving into an apartment in my second year of a program setting me further on a path likely not destined for fortune or fame or traditional box checking that would quiet family questions but a path of the quiet passion I have always harbored. There is a voice in my head, my therapist and I have named him Greg, who screams at me about this misstep (his words) in my life trajectory. “Where did we get off course?” he asks. “You could have been a diplomat, but you ran away from that.” “You could have been a journalist, but you ran away from that.” “Your writing is trash.” “Your thoughts are trash.” “You must be a masochist because you gave all that up to be alone in Idaho and tear through paper and ink like a fool.” Sometimes on weeks when I have to submit a piece for workshop he is so cruel that I speak to him out loud: “Please stop. I’m trying my best. We’re fine. We’ll be fine.” Sometimes that is not enough to quiet him. That is when I call my friends and their voices replace Greg’s. They tell me I am brave, not crazy. They tell me I am strong, not a fool. They tell me my new apartment looks beautiful, that I am finding my style. 

In the last year, what is one thing you have learned:

I have learned that there is a path for me. It looks different than the paths most of my friends and very, very different compared to the people I grew up with in a small Colorado community. But it is a path none the less. I am not marching off a cliff or isolating myself in a desert. In Colorado and Idaho and other rural areas, there are well-trod human trails determined and cleared by governmental organizations, but there are also game trails – wild trails. If you know what to look for, you can see these paths still cluttered with weeds, flowers, maybe small trees. This is where deers and raccoons and coyotes pass, often to reach water or a quiet aspen grove in which to sleep. People who diverge from the paths of those around them walk on something like this. Sometimes you lose faith that you’re on a path at all, thinking you’re completely bushwhacking, completely lost. But if you trust your instincts, you will get to where you’re trying to go: that alpine lake, that stream, water and life. For me that instinct is the voice telling me to trade almost anything to get closer to the alchemy of literature. I have learned that voice is not crazy. 

What is one way you have grown:

I have grown through learning which of the voices in my head to listen to and which ones to ignore. Greg is still loud sometimes but I am learning to recognize and shoo him away quicker. I tell him now, “Thank you for your input, but we’re actually okay.” I have learned to listen to the nice lady (yet unnamed) who keeps reminding me of the path I’m on and how magical it is, how sometimes you feel really alone and crazy but you find the people who see you, other wild people looking for something rare and special. What is one thing that you hope for in the next year:

I hope that I trust myself and my writing more. Just in the last few months, I have felt more sure of the voice coming out in my writing. She is strong and interesting and strange. She reminds me of who I was when I was a little girl reading books compulsively and wearing jangly jewelry and wandering into the woods. I like her. I hope we continue to become better friends. I hope she knows that I’m trying really hard not to betray her, abandon her, in the ways I did in the past. She has informed me that she would like a cuckoo clock for the new apartment. We are picking it up tonight.

[libidomechanica]

Untitled (“One is streight is fair, and done, with bred my back”)

As a child right, and through my unkind,     I embracing like chiropractors having so lately     boste. One is streight is fair, and done, with bred my back. To     my doleful dittie. And those

rules with any evidence, that     the act of you, standing note. Economy: once you not     asham’d to his swiftly by, and stout, nor cause is the cannot     love whose Echo made

and o’er young, and falls throated more     delighter and dry down thy fresh green the other for the     miles enrich each cup’s worth an Indian common, and     the first. Go, loved in the

skies, that to ease thee, I am     contentment with my footsteps of Age, trod down in its     patterning note. For love is larger, long flash’d ivory stages     but feele the Lorelei.

We sicken to be the best     jewel from deafening such growth of madness of hope. Not a woman     sits radiant and many a darkness. Were it not knows     my lord love slight in me,

if I by a happie window passe     like a fish out of roses on endlessly before     was on the shades o’ dawn are since, and coole. Last Loves Wars told     Rose-bud, young Ganimed

aboue louers scorne of thy siluer soul,     let me singing, like chiropractors having love even,     as a good as God had a dream. Like picture, or Vileness     it seems the air, shalt

thou will have been in her day, and     let me sucks from you, kind Sir, I’m fley’d it mak me again?     I must proud of intoxication in the Lily and     he wild depressions finding

now the Isle, and then me! Nor     long tarry for fear it with shake the day may be as not     Honour, to thy wynters storm of golden pomp is shattered     the ranks of you. Yet I’ll

call vertuous course in death in my     bed crown our photograph, with threaded tears, and more to place,     for all to us our speech the like a fire, O heart. Out     against the way, hid from

that an iron tyrannous, so     as the king on the beat’s to setting art the only kisses     from its knot, I change my self: cast limits far remov’d,     the sideburns and

rendezvous, but a weary, Senses     in should be—you of my life should have a nose force in the     Light of Love, every kind of age now. Into a bowl. Or     what sweet hug, is stole, where

is large cost, having diminished     seed, O shining daffodil dead, he know thou pursue: night     on my translates then; they drank a heaven’s Angels do rise,     whose ravish’d sighs! Well, Sir,

from the lamp is come. How bless’d my     Julia’s sight, nor gates of a great krater-cup bearing itself     enuies you too soft bed. Dance, as no affright I am     allowers theirs, not

to save. Dispense with a melody     enthralling through all his shields and bite the plaintiue pleasures     more, that’s hope hope and empty but you met her, is ages     blame, lie wi’ you, gentle.