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sweetestlamb · 4 years

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Save Me From The Dark

Summary: If I don’t lie to my heart, who will?

Author's Note: The feedback to this story has been overwhelming and beautiful honestly, I've never done anything like this for a non canonical couple but so many of you have told me that this pairing makes sense to you too. They are just two lost souls to me and bringing them together is simply destiny. I saw on the timeline that TB was hard to watch tonight for my Seojun lovers, I thought this might cheer some people up. Sorry for the brevity I’m writing between lesson planning, I hope you enjoy it nonetheless.

Special huge shout out to @ewolfwitchwisegirl who made a header for me, it's so gorgeous and better than anything I could have ever done. This chapter is dedicated to you for inspiring me with this masterpiece!! Everyone who makes a gif set, header or anything because of my story you are loved, thank you. I am honored.

p.s. the burn will still be slow but it’s slowly starting tehe.

"What? Where is she now?" Su-ah's face scrunches up in disdain as Ju-Kyung explains what she missed while in the nurse's office, the shorter girl looks more enraged than she's ever seen besides when that video of her being bullied was posted. Su-ah and Su-jin came over everyday until she finally caved in and let them in, taking turns crying in their laps. She’d been so ashamed to face them only to end the night teary-eyed with snot dripping from her nose, as they took turns wiping her runny nose. It was disgusting, but in that moment she knew that all her fears had been for naught, they were her friends regardless of what she looked like beneath her foundation. They'd been her saving grace and two huge reasons she could walk back through those doors with her head held high. Suho’s constant love and support only helping to make her feel even more invincible. She can feel that same protectiveness wafting off the her friend now, Su-ah is fierce when it comes to the people she cares about. She's just honored to be among that short list.

"She's okay. I covered her and brought her to the roof."

"And then you left her? All by herself?! Come on we have to go back she needs us." She staggers as Su-ah grabs her hand forcefully, spinning her in a circle but she digs her heels into the ground interrupting the motion.

Su-ah looks at her baffled, tugging harder. Her eyes squinted into two thin lines. Immediately she puts up her hands, calming the agitated girl.

"She's not alone."

Su-ah tilts her head cutely in confusion, seeming to consider who exactly could be with their friend and conjuring nothing after a short pause complete with a finger on her bottom lip. She puts the girl out of her misery and gives her the answer, "Han Seojun. He's with her."

She'd been just as bewildered when she saw the name flashing on her phone.

Han Seojun.

Sure they were friends, he was also Suho's best friend so they all hung out a few times but he'd never called her prior and she'd almost forgotten they even possessed the other's number. Making her believe that his reason for calling had to be important, since he’d never done it before so she answered without hesitation.

Before she could utter hello, he was barking at her "Where are you? Is Su-jin with you?" She looked over at the other girl, wind whipping her long raven locks wildly around her beautiful face. The frantic raise and fall of her chest was the only thing marring the picturesque sight. Breaking her from her admiration Seojun repeated his inquiry but there was an unusual quality to his voice the second time, he sounded as if he was pleading. She didn't know what was happening but he sounded as if every second not with Sujin was torture. Before he could repeat it thrice, she answered him.

"We're on the rooftop."

His speed reaching them was impressive, before Su-jin could fully interrogate her about who exactly was coming to the rooftop, he was already bursting through the doors and unafraid despite the wrath on Su-jin’s face, she stared in surprise as he called her princess of all things snarkily, she watched them appraisingly waiting for Sujin to sneer at the cutesy moniker but that reprimand never arrived. Seojun seemed comfortable, too comfortable easily pressing into Sujin's space as if he belonged there, as if he wanted to belong there. She felt like she was intruding watching them prod and snap at each other, so she slipped away no longer worried about her friends safety. She seemed to be in good hands.

She snaps back to reality realizing that Su-ah has been bombarding her with questions, "Han Seojun? Why is he with her? Was he the one bullying her, I'll get Tae-Hoon to kick his ass!" She looks at her friend considering her boyfriend, and then Han Seojun, almost in sync they both shake their head.

"No, forget that. He can't fight someone like Han Seojun, can you tell Suho to beat him up? Do you think he'll do it?"

She chuckles while capturing the other girl's hands, "We don't need anyone to beat him up. He didn't do anything, he helped us actually. He got everyone to go back to class and stop looking."

Now Su-ah looks positively beaming, smiling that bright wide smile that is definitely the reason that Tae-Hoon can't stay away from her.

"Why? Why did he do that? Are they close?" The girl ask coyly, always ready to matchmake.

It's not her place to say, she's just a bystander and honestly she doesn't quite understand what's happening, Seojun is always full of surprises. So she tugs Su-ah away, knowing that if pressed Sujin will retract and push Seojun away on principle, she doesn't know what's happening to the other girl but when it all comes tumbling down it's clear that Seojun won't be far behind.

"I think they're becoming friends. Sujin could use some more friends, don't you think?"

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

He doesn't know what he was expecting, it was a crazy idea. Absolutely insane. But regardless of the insanity of his words, he meant each and every one of them. Standing this close to the crying girl he could see the swell of her right cheek, the same cheek that had been bleeding the night they met. Ran into each other, might be more accurate.

It wasn't a fever dream or a hallucination. It was all painfully real, she was being hurt and nobody else seemed to know. She hid it well, even he could admit that her ice princess façade never cracking at school. She'd always looked like a perfect little doll in her designer clothes, he had imagined that she had a loving perfect family. He of all people knew that you shouldn't judge a book by its cover, yet he took one look at her expensive appearance and thought he had her all figured out.

He wouldn't make that mistake again.

So he knows that his suggestion is crazy but that doesn't ease the anger when she pulls away, turning her back to him before answering.

"No."

His fists tighten in the balls he has by his side but each quiet exhale that causes her small shoulders to lift up and down, unknowingly calms his rage and he finds himself smothering his own fury to offer another suggestion.

With a deep breath he says, "Ask Ju-Kyung if you can sleep over then. You shouldn't be alone."

She also shouldn't go home. Her words echo hauntingly in his ears, he used a belt. Bile coils tight in his throat, it was her father then he was the one hitting her, destroying his own daughter until she couldn't stand to be touched by others. The urge to fight has never been this visceral.

She sighs as if he's bothering her, he already knows what she's going to say before she says it, so he intercepts her stepping around her so they're face to face.

"I dare you to tell me to mind my business." He growls at her, giving her enough space so he's not looming over her much smaller figure but staring hard enough that she knows that he's serious, he's decided to make this his business she better deal with it.

She stares at him, mouth lax after his deep challenge glaring right back after she regains her composure but her eyes shift away, unable to meet his own now and without a word she huffs before stomping away. He watches her leave, knowing that he's reached the point of no return. He's going to follow this through to the very end.

If she tries to run, well he has long legs.

And a motorcycle.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The pain of her raw water soaked skin grounds her, but the swooshing of the faucet does nothing to drown out her thoughts as she rubs vigorously at her palms, scratching at imaginary dirt that will never be lifted from her hands. Making the water piping hot she hisses at the sting of the water on her bruised hand, she has to punish herself. She almost did something infinitely moronic.

"You almost said yes." She whispers to herself in the grimy school mirror, looking back at her own face in disgust. Feeling the flame of hope desperately grasping for air, yearning to awaken under the boys insistence.

She can't explain her reaction to him, they are nothing; less than nothing she wouldn't even consider him a friend.

Yet, he knows more about her than her best friends. Knows her deepest darkest secret and instead of gossiping or avoiding her, he's chasing her down and demanding to help her.

"He's insane. There's nothing to understand, there's no logic to insanity." She reasons with herself in the mirror, choosing not to focus on the fact that she's having a conversation with herself. His crazy is rubbing off on her, when she put her head on his chest it must have leaked on her.

She can remember the heat that always seemed to radiate from him, maybe that was a result of being loved. He was warm. She wanted to reach out and grab....

What? Grab what? She immediately reels her wayward thoughts back in.

What am I thinking?

She needed to stop her train of thought now. That had been a mistake, a lapse in judgement. It wouldn't be happening again. If he was hellbent on following her she couldn't stop him but she knew it wouldn't last, no one was that selfless eventually her pity story wouldn't be enough and he'd realize she wasn't worth the effort.

She tries to convince herself that this is what she wants. Lying to herself has become as natural as lying to others, it’s a means of survival.

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Upon entry to the cafeteria every eye shifts to her or so it seems, time too stops as they all cease their conversations to watch her like she's an animal on display. Her skin prickles from the overwhelming attention before the silence bursts like a bubble and the noise washes over her, people begin to point in her direction whispering not so subtlety to the person next to them.

She almost bolts before she feels a hand on her elbow, her instincts almost make her snatch her arm away but the familiarity of the perfume halts her movement.

"Come on. We've been waiting for you."

Su-ah doesn't give her a chance to decline dragging her over to their table, Ju-Kyung's smiling face greeting them. She's shoved down onto the bench, in between the two like they're trying to shield her. The idea makes her feel warm and uncomfortable so she pushes it to the back of her mind.

She silently eats her food, staring intently at her tray before she finally relaxes as she realizes that no one is talking to her, they aren't demanding to know what happened. She's not ready to talk about it, not yet and they are showing her that that's okay. They will be here for her regardless of not knowing the full story. Under the table she discreetly grabs both of their hands, squeezing them hard. Squeaking in embarrassment when both girls twist and smother her in tight hugs, she pretends to loathe it pushing them both away but they cling to her until she gives in. She's so weak today.

"Oh. Seojun-ah over here!" Ju-Kyung blares in her precious ears, waving rapidly over her shoulder and she feels her stomach dip. Not him again he never ate lunch here and when he did it was with his gang, why was Ju-Kyung calling him here?

Pinching at her vulnerable thigh under the table, she hisses at the other girl "Hey! What are you doing? Don't call him over."

Unfortunately it's too late, she can already feel his aura behind them getting closer. There's barely room on the other side of the bench, then Hyun-Kyu yelps before looking up in their direction, then he swallows and nods as if receiving an order, he presses his glass further up his nose before collecting his lunch and leaving. She watches the interaction confused before turning to look at Ju-Kyung who has an exaggerated look of innocence on her face.

"I guess he was finished eating. It works out though, now Seojun can sit there."

He's slipping into the evacuated space before she can yell at Ju-Kyung for meddling. Huffing she burrows into her food refusing to look up. She’s only been ignoring him for a few seconds before he seems to reach his limit.

"Give me some."

She watches in shock as familiar hands invade her space and grab her tray, pulling it across the table before lifting one of her sausages to his mouth with his fingers, the uncivilized swine. She's reaching out before she can reconsider or think about how they will appear to others she doesn’t share her food damn it, she reaches to cover his hand stopping him from biting and stealing her last sausage.

"What the hell are you doing? Don't touch my food." She scowls at him, grabbing at her food and humming victoriously when she gets it back. Only to stare wide eyed and flabbergasted as he shrugs before devouring the juicy morsel, directly from her fingers, a brief brush of warm wetness on her finger tips. They both freeze, staring at each other. The air between them charged, almost crackling from their locked eyes.

"Seojun! You're the man! You're a natural flirt, eating from her hands!" Appearing from thin air Seojun's gang boisterously chants his name, clapping him on the shoulder and she physically cannot be in this room any longer. She shoves her tray at him, grabbing her backpack before hopping over the bench.

"I'll see you both later." With a tight smile at her friends, she races from the cafeteria unaware of the eyes tracing her every step.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The rest of the day drags by, she spends it lost in a daydream making sure not to look at the boy behind her. She just wants to get home and lock herself away, this time nothing will get her to open the door. With a sigh of relief, she stands as the teacher dismisses them for the day. Packing up slowly to miss the surplus of students at the door, they are all still looking at her warily spreading rumors about her rudeness and supposed narcissism. Creating explanations for her scene in the bathroom, the majority of them painting her as stuck-up. She doesn't mind it's better than them knowing the truth. Let her be a rich spoiled bitch in their minds better that than a victim.

Like clockwork, Su-ah and Ju-Kyung latch onto her from the left and the right. She lets them pull her out the door and towards the entrance, absently listening to their heated debate of where they should eat today. She sighs out loud, amused but hiding it behind a passive face.

"Why are you even arguing? You know we’re such going to get spicy tteokbokki anyway."

They always do, it's like arguing is their warm up before the noodles because no matter how passionate they both get about the different possibilities they've never eaten anything else together.

Walking out the school gate, they all jump back as a motorcycle suddenly skids into their way blocking them completely. Instantly she's annoyed, breaking their linked arms she storms over to the idiot, shoving at his chest before shouting at him.

"Hey! Are you crazy? Were you trying to kill us?" She slaps at his helmet when he tilts his head at her, the loud knock satisfying as she glares at him.

Then he reaches up like he's staring in a shampoo commercial and tugs the helmet off his head, hair stylishly falling onto his neck. Instead of looking upset at her rough treatment he smirks, leaning over the handle bar right into her face.

"Since when are you scared of my bike? Don't act so fragile princess." She gapes at him affronted by his unapologetic attitude, then further bothered by his second use of that infuriating nickname. She's nobody's fucking princess. As she opens her mouth to tell him this, he turns away from her before talking to Ju-Kyung.

"Take her to your house tonight. Have a sleepover or whatever you all call it. She told me she really wanted to ask you but she was too embarrassed." He points over at her, lying easily through his too white teeth. She wants to punch that smile off his face.

"Hey when did I say anything like that to yo--!!"

But he's on a roll, bulldozing through her interjections with the same ease he used that night on the highway. Pulling something from his pocket and thrusting it at her.

"Give me your number."

What.

"What?"

He looks at her like she's wasting his time, rolling his eyes before repeating slower, the asshole.

"Give me your number."

She scoffs at the brazen order, sneering at him before grabbing her friends. "Let's go."

But never of them are budging, so she pulls harder but still they don't follow and she turns to them both annoyed. "Didn't you hear me let's go."

"Give me the phone."

Her jaw drops as Su-ah reaches out at Seojun, he looks as surprised as she does before he shakes himself from his confusion and hands the girl his phone. Su-ah happily taps away before handing the phone back over.

"There you go." Su-ah smiles easily before tugging them all away now, she wants to fight her hold and run back and take his phone, delete her number and tell him once and for all to leave her alone and stop playing whatever game he’s playing.

"I'm hungry from all that arguing, let's get tteokbokki." Ju-Kyung states happily, leading them towards the shop.

She just goes along quietly, feeling outnumbered and indignant. They were supposed to be her friend. She pouts the entire way.

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Seojun watches the three girls walking away, eyes fixated on the figure in the middle until they turn a corner and disappear from his sight. She'd looked like she wanted to kill him, a woman had never looked at him with that particular expression before. She could be quite scary when she wanted to be.

Hooking his helmet onto the arm bar of his bike he finally looks down at his phone, thankfully still in one piece.

When he sees the number he smiles softly before his eyes shift down and laughter bursts out of his chest, he can't stop the bubbling bouts of joy that fall from his lips.

8298263098

Princess

With another chuckle, he pulls on his helmet before revving the bike to life and peeling out of the school feeling lighter than he has in a long time. He doesn’t question his gut, no he’s not someone who overthinks he jumps first and looks later.

#true beauty #true beauty kdrama #han seojun #kang sujin #Seojin #the couple that should have been #yall see the visuals #the chemistry in every scene #Seojin rights period

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incorrect-ikevamp-quotes · 4 years

Note

I'm back again (what a surprise lol), if you feel up to it would you mind writing hcs for Jean with the letters Q,T, Y & Z? If that's too much please feel free to take a letter or two off! Tysm 💖

Haha, no worries!! I could gush about Jeanne all day, I really loved writing these!! 💕💕💕 Under a cut because of length (we all know I’m a verbose thot 😂😂😂):

Fluffy ABC headcanons listed here for requests!

Q = Quality Time (how does he like to spend time with her?)

Jeanne loves to do anything MC wants to do (within reason). Any amount of time with her anywhere fills him with bliss. (The heartbreaking alternative to this is that, while he understands they both have things to do that require them to be apart during the day, he misses her presence dearly.)

She wants to bake? He will sit there in the most embarrassing apron and chef hat known to man, and he won’t give a single fuck as long as MC is genuinely delighted and having a marvelous time. In a meadow overflowing with flowers? He’d enjoy the atmosphere alone, but the feeling is just multiplied a thousand-fold at the sight of MC weaving little flower crowns. She places one on his head and excitedly tries to show him how to make one himself, and he just smiles fondly. She wears the crown he makes no matter his lack of skill for the delicate task, and her insistence fills him with such unabating warmth. He struggles to do more mundane tasks and doesn’t really understand where all her energy comes from sometimes, but even so it brings him endless amounts of joy. Will escort her anywhere she wants to go without a single complaint; theater? You got it. Concert? Sure. Watching paint dry? Sick, time to get out the sword polish and chill. (It’s like Netflix and chill, only worse.)

The only places he will ever hesitate to bring her are places that are potentially dangerous; let’s say the black market, or the local casino, Vlad’s castle, etc. etc. He doesn’t like to expose her to unnecessary risks, but he also won’t stop her if she has a good reason/really wants to go. He’ll just glare at every potential threat and stick to her side like glue.

His personal favorite way to spend time though is in settings where they have quiet and privacy, where it’s just the two of them. Whether they’re in the gorgeous field full of lilies behind the mansion or cuddling in their bedroom, he is at his most comfortable and content wherever she is in his arms and they are left alone. (Let it be known that he doesn’t hate others, he just can’t help that he finds larger groups of people exhausting to keep up with--and he’s always on guard to ensure MC’s safety.)

T = Time (how long did it take them to get together?)

(I’m going to preface this by saying: I’m well aware that ikevamp speeds things up but I tend to see that as a narrative necessity; I think a lot of the men would work up to their romance more slowly, ideally.)

With Jeanne it’s a little funny because he develops affection/intrigue for people fast, so it’s fairly obvious when he starts crushing on MC. (I can’t stress enough, Sebas and Mozart are BOTH lenny face from like the first fucking day, it’s the funniest thing in the world. ANYWAY--). He’s similar to Leonardo in that way; there are certain qualities he inherently finds appealing, so he naturally gravitates to people that reflect them. However, a more abiding love--the desire to form a romantic bond with someone--takes more time for him. He and Sebastian share this quality (ISXJ amirite); they fall more and more deeply in love with the person they cherish as they form consistently pleasant memories in their proximity. More than anything, these two stoic characters need somebody that makes them feel safe, appreciated, and profoundly seen.

Her relentless desire to reach others in a positive way is the first thing that attracts Jeanne’s attention, but otherwise he is absolutely a slow burn when it comes to being committed to another person. He needs time to fall in love with all the little parts of his MC (all of which he finds endearing uwu), to develop trust and see that his MC can handle him, too. He knows he’s...a lot...so he can’t really be comfortably intimate without having the other person see the best and worst of him. If MC can face his past with sensitivity and earnest concern--without being overwhelmed--then he will well and truly be a goner for them. That’s the thing about Jeanne: he needs time to feel comfortable with his decision, but when he has decided he’s one of the most devoted lovers in existence.

Given his necessity for security, he needs somebody who can see him at his most vulnerable without panicking and gently bring him back to himself--someone who doesn’t mind his wooden nature and difficulty expressing himself. I would say getting together would take at least a year and a half, at minimum. He needs somebody that, for all of his reticence and power, recognizes that he means absolutely no harm to anyone so long as they aren’t hurting him or anyone else. Under normal circumstances (rather than expedited ones), I imagine those difficult topics wouldn’t come up that quickly.

If we’re talking together as in hanky panky, I think it would take him a little while beyond that--but that would depend on his partner, too. If she needs time or doesn’t want it at all, he will wait any length of time or not engage at all. If she’s more desirous, he will engage faster and with more frequency. He likes being intimate and close to her, but would never insist on it if it made her unhappy.

Y = Yes (how would he propose to her?)

When it comes to Jeanne, I think his proposal would be simple, direct, and entirely expected--but no less heartfelt and deeply romantic. He’s a man of few words, but whatever he lacks in eloquence he makes up for in charged brevity. He doesn’t much understand the social conventions/expectations tied to marriage in this era (and he does not listen to Comte either) so I imagine it comes to him naturally in the course of being with her.

It’s a few years into their relationship, and he’s smiling because she’s dazzling--whether it’s humming in the garden, or staring at the stars, or curled up close to his heart in his shared room; he just knows. Whether it’s a sin, or unconventional, or something he doesn’t deserve--none of those things are strong enough to deter him anymore. He wants to be the one that she turns to always when in need, wants to protect everything that she is--a sweet beacon in a world where he knows how easily that kind of brave light is snuffed out. Honestly more than anything, she just makes him feel like it’s okay to hope again, that it’s okay to want good things for himself and the future. He was a soldier once branded a traitor, but that isn’t who he has to be anymore. Now he has a choice; he’s free to move forward however he wishes. She taught him that.

“MC?”

Bright eyes turn to him, smooth skin glowing in the moonlight beside him. She’s beautiful; he doesn’t think any amount of time will ever be enough to fully appreciate the blessing of her existence. As if she could hear his thoughts, she encourages him to share. She was always like that, always so perceptive and patient, no matter how much he struggled to articulate something. He much preferred the sound of her voice over his any day. “Is something on your mind, love? Something good happen today?”

He was fully aware he had none of the wit or charm that other men possessed, and while he wished he could be that for her--it simply wasn’t within his capabilities. So he used the words he understood best, following his direct nature: “Will you marry me?”

Her eyes widen a little, but the surprise is muted; it was more a matter of time than anything else. Even so her eyes glisten, and before he can try to calm her (her tears dissolved all his good sense, sent his heart into chaos), her arms are tight around him. He can hear her heart racing, even faster than his own.

“Of course I will! Yes, Jeanne!”

He’d hoped she wouldn’t hate the idea but her excitement, the tenderness that lingers in the way she cradles him close, makes him smile against her shoulder. His arms tighten around her, and he renews his vow to be her sword--the one and only man to protect her until the end of their days. (Yes, Mozart later drags his ass to the jeweler’s to get a proper ring 😂😂😂)

Z = Zen (what makes him feel calm?)

There are very few things in this life that bring Jeanne peace, but I think the highest things on that list would be MC’s voice/presence in general and his little babie Cherie (bonus points if the two are playing together, he just melts Mon Dieu 😭💖💖💖 ).

He’ll often ask MC to read to him, if she’s so inclined, when his literacy improves. He loves the soft sound of her voice, and he wants to keep improving on his ability to communicate with more clarity. It makes her so happy when he leaves her coherent notes and manages to convey his thoughts with greater accuracy, so it really motivates him to keep striving. He likes it even better when she gets really into a reading, doing silly voices or changing the dynamics of her voice to fit the piece’s mood. It makes him smile; so excitable and cute. Though alternatively, she could be reading the phone book for all he cares; it’s enough to soothe him right to sleep. Sometimes--and especially when he’s had bad nightmares, retraumatizations, or when he’s overstimulated--she’ll fit him gently in her lap and just talk until he falls asleep. She’ll sing, read, talk about things they’re looking forward to, talk about things she needs to do tomorrow, talk about silly shenanigans that happened in the mansion recently; anything that will bring him back to her and her love. It really works to center him, to situate him back in the present moment instead of rattling around in his own head.

It’s honestly much like the sea and the shore, though there may be tides--the water recedes and surges--she will always be there to meet him.

Cherie is his baby girl and such a sweet kitty that he can’t help but smile whenever she bounds over to him. A little ball of energy, he’s always getting her toys, toting her around, and petting her gently. Whenever Cherie and MC are together in front of him, his heart about explodes from the uwus of it all; they’re his most cherished ones, and he loves to see them get along. MC will usually be giggling and cooing at the pretty tiger, and Cherie soaks up the affection with obvious glee. Just watching them is enough to make his heart so light--he can’t think of anything else that makes him relax down to the marrow.

He will also find a lot of calm after lovemaking, which is something that surprises him--something he never expected. Jeanne has a hard time connecting with other people; not because he doesn’t care, but because emoting in conventional ways can be a challenge for him. He doesn’t have He Who Must Not Be Named’s charm, he doesn’t have Napoleon’s easy confidence, he doesn’t effuse Vincent’s natural warmth. He’s aware of how little he emits tangible humanity according to the perceptions of others. It leads to him feeling isolated everywhere he goes, even if people don’t particularly dislike him. Even so, his MC knows that for all his struggle to express himself, he possesses a deep, fiery wealth of emotion and passionate feeling. He cherishes her willingness be vulnerable alongside him; to embrace the good and the difficult parts of him in stride. He is left awestruck by the extent of her fervor and loving heart every single time, and in the aftermath he finds himself at such startling peace with his existence. No pain, no hollowing loneliness, no guilt, no intrusive thoughts--just her warm body against his, so trusting--as she sleeps. He’s grounded in the moment, he feels tethered to her, and he doesn’t know how to handle the full feeling in his chest, the way his heart feels too many sizes too big. He spends many nights adjusting to that feeling of fulfillment, reveling in this new boon--among the dozens she’s already given him. Will wonders never cease?

#asks #ikevamp #ikemen vampire #ikevamp jean #ikevamp jeanne #ikevamp headcanons #ikevamp hcs #ikevamp cherie #can you tell i would die for him LMFAO #such a loving and tender man beneath the battle-hardened veteran #he's deadly gap moe and we love that for us #also poor comte (though no purebloods were harmed in the making of this message)#OMG WAIT #DOES THAT MEAN #JEANNE HAS INVENTED #NETFLIX AND K I L L????#HAHAHAHAH OMFG

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a-sleepy-reader · 3 years

Text

Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov: an Analysis and Review

Foreword

Trigger warning for themes of paedophilia, sexual assault, stillbirth, manipulation, violence, and tragedy as well as gruesome descriptions of death. If you want a review free of spoilers, please scroll to the section labelled ‘Conclusion/Review without spoilers.’

Introduction

Calling Lolita a controversial novel is a safe bet. Some readers revolt at its topic, others still protest it as the inspirational romance of the century. Both give Lolita a bad name. I will say it once very clearly; plot-wise, Lolita is a book about a paedophile who grooms, manipulates, isolates, and rapes a twelve year old girl. It is disturbing subject material to say the least, subject material that has to be given more thought than its protagonist’s ramblings of adoration for the book’s namesake.

For instance, despite its fluctuating reputation, Lolita has found itself to be a playful and humorous novel to many, a “...comedy of horrors” according to the San Francisco Chronicle. So what is Lolita, exactly? A comedy? A thriller? Both? It is time to examine this twisted novel and see just how tangled its thorns are.

Plot synopsis

Humbert Humbert is a typical man by most standards: a handsome, French writer and professor with a soft spot for road trips… and little girls.

Humbert categorises the sexes into the male, the female, and the nymphet, the latter of which describes peculiar young girls Humbert feels an intangible attraction to. It is with such a nymphet that Humbert self-describingly falls in love with; rambunctious twelve-year-old Dolores(whom he dons ‘Lolita). He cannot keep his mind off of her; ‘light of my life, fire of my loins.’ In however poetic a prose he may choose to describe it, Humbert feels a physical bond to young Dolores like to no one else since his dead childhood sweetheart. Humbert goes so far to pursue the girl that he marries her mother, whom he plots to drown in the blue depths of a lake to have Dolores all to himself. However, what Humbert describes as a work of fate led to the day Dolores’ mother’s brain lay strewn about the road, smeared by an incoming car. She didn’t need to be subject to Humbert’s schemes to die.

From there on, Humbert has legal custody over the twelve-year-old fire of his loins. Raping Dolores becomes a routine. Though she does initially say yes, she is a minor incapable of consent in the imbalance of a grown man with everything to lose if she is to either escape or stop the affair; she will lose her only family if she reports him, and risks breaking his heart if she cuts off the affair altogether-unfortunates only know what people do when they have nothing to lose. Orphaned and trapped, Lolita agrees to Humbert’s ‘love.’ As he described it, ‘she had nowhere else to go.’

Two years pass before Dolores falls ill during their second road trip and is taken out of the hospital by an uncle aware of Humbert’s affairs. By way of escaping with this newfound relative, Dolores is finally free from Humbert’s possessive grasp. Depressed by his separation from the girl, Humbert lives a miserable life for several years before receiving a letter from Dolores herself saying she is married and pregnant. Though Humbert suspects the man behind both titles is her own uncle, Dolores refutes this by saying that, though she was in love with him, they did not settle because she refused to be in his pornographic film.

Enraged with the uncle, Humbert arrives at Dolores’ uncle’s house and murders him before being arrested. It is here that we learn Lolita is Humbert’s autobiography of the events surrounding his ‘love’ for the book’s namesake. Though he wishes for the girl-turned-woman to live for a great many years, the victim, escapee, and survivor dies in 1952 during childbirth. Her offspring is a stillborn.

Analysis

It’s a curious thing, really. That so many interpret Lolita as a romance, I mean. Of course, it often presents itself in its writing as a summery romance to read on the beach. A handsome man meets a female. An attraction is felt. Male and female confess an attraction for one another which leads them on a series of road trips following the female’s mother’s incidental death. The language is no exception to this tone-just read the first paragraph:

“Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta.”

It’s made up of beautiful, flowery sentences, language suggestive of the pure romance of a man ‘in love.’ With a twelve year old girl he rapes. Yes, Lolita is one of those novels that wears many outfits, its outermost lining being that of a tragic love story of one traumatised man and his ungrateful lover. This perspective is especially interesting when taking into account Lolita’s exquisite writing; could the flowery language have prompted so many to interpret this book as a romance? Could Lolita be representative of how so many wield words to distract or deceive those trying their best to disapprove of them? Either way, few deny that Humbert is lying, to himself or to the reader, of exactly how the events of his fascination with Dolores occurred. Digging further into the book, Lolita becomes an unreliable narrator’s documentation of the rape and manipulation directed toward a naive minor trying to cope with her mother’s death. Further still, it is a comedic satire of a paedophile’s attempts to justify his crimes... and failing miserably. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I wasn’t even her first lover.” Deeper still and it’s one man’s search for his childhood sweetheart(dearest and deadest) he never finished loving, so he seeks, endlessly, to shower her lookalikes with unwanted ‘love.’ Without end. Without fulfilment.

Lolita is a story of infinite stories.

Review

What first struck me about Lolita was its beautiful writing; its eloquent prose, imagery, and metaphors hopelessly hooked me from the first paragraph. Nabokov never ceases to use amazing similes, description, and personification to amplify the reader’s experience of the goings-on of Humbert and the girl. This is especially striking in contrast to its tragic subject material; Humbert will rape, and he will manipulate, and he will scheme a murder, and he will hurt so many innocent lives, but he will do so with seemingly effortless grace in the scribbles on a paper.

Despite this, I did not find Lolita to be a difficult read regarding comprehension of the text. True, many a word I did not understand, but, despite this, I could always tell what was being communicated; the language is certainly not as dated as Hemingway nor Shakespeare. It may even be a calming read for those with a strong stomach, and will certainly teach a thing or two to those wishing to learn more about poetic writing styles done well.

Some may find the book to be lacking in terms of plot and overall excitement, but I feel this is a subjective view rather than a relatively factual one; Lolita is not an action book. Nor is it a drama. Humbert sometimes spends pages describing the exact locations of a road trip, or exactly how he earned money in the 50’s, and so forth. Some may find this mundane; I will admit that I was, at times, bored by it myself. However, what Nabokov sacrifices in brevity he makes up for with a profound understanding of Humbert’s emotions, environment, and thoughts.

One slight criticism I do, however, have, is that I found all of the characters in Lolita were fairly bland for me. True, Humbert is unique in his attempt to beautify the macabre, but beyond the initial shock factor of his morale and the revelation that he is seeking the love of a girlfriend from his childhood, Humbert can be mostly summarised as ‘quiet, manipulative, scheming, and possessive of Dolores.’ I was not invested in him as a character, probably due to a lack of good qualities within him; it is true that by one perspective, his story can be interpreted as tragic for him, though through the more common lens of Lolita being a 336-page manipulation of the severity of the atrocities of an evil man, Humbert loses all good qualities beyond his capabilities as a writer.

The same goes for Dolores herself, as I found her to be fairly two-dimensional; she is very sensory and seeks goods of food and adventure and she has a rambunctious heart unconcerned with how others’ feel nor how others perceive her. She is what many would call a ‘wild child,’ and though she becomes more withdrawn later in the book due to the numerous abuses she endured, I did not see much depth to her beyond face value.

That being said, I certainly do not think the characters are bad, just that they are underwhelming in comparison to the rest of the story.

I recommend Lolita to those enthralled by character-driven stories of nuanced emotions and traumas, a sort of story of the broken attempting to break the whole. If you are not put off by very thorough descriptions nor by a purposefully thin plot, I have the impression Lolita will revolt, horrify, hypnotise, and seduce its readers into its soft, macabre pages.

I give Lolita a rating of 90%.

Conclusion/Review without spoilers

Lolita is a vile, endlessly layered story of trauma and the endless search for lost love, horrific abuses, of humorous wit and smirking irony, and of one man’s endless destiny of deceit. I suppose Humbert’s own initials best summarise the smile and wink this book will deliver as you holler at Humbert, weep for Dolores, or perhaps even vice versa. They do say Russians are witty, and Nabokov does not fail this reputation even when we analyse how Humbert Humbert’s initials sound in the author’s native language:

Ha-ha.

#literature #books #classics #book review

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know-the-way · 5 years

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Do you think Faustus actually ever loved or possibly still loves Zelda?

same anon from the love question: just want to clarify that I’m not coming from a place of mal intent. I just like your opinions and I’m curious what you think ♥

Thank you for clarifying because I do tend to be on the defensive for ~*reasons*~, so I appreciate it. 😅

To answer - I really don’t know. I think it depends on your own personal definitions of what love is and whether or not Faustus even has the capacity/comprehension of such a thing.

Nick tells Sabrina in part 1 that witches cannot love in the way mortals do, but we know that isn’t altogether true. Hilda, Ambrose, Sabrina, Edward... they all showed a great and unrestrained capacity for love of both their romantic partners and each other as a family. Zelda, too, of course, but I take particular notice of how reserved she is to admit or express it as freely as the other members of her family (the reasons I think why that is are below).

The companion novels I’ve referenced before really emphasize how much of an anomaly the Spellmans are in the witch community for their devotion and care of each other, so perhaps Nicholas was speaking for the majority when he said witches “can’t” love. But I’m of the belief that, given the evidence via character development of so many “hardened” characters thus far (Prudence, for example), that it’s not so much that they can’t, it’s more so that they aren’t supposed to.

The novels also make clear that the line about the Dark Lord being a “jealous lord” is very true. Witches are taught to serve and be devoted to themselves and no one else, save for Lucifer. Thus, I think that’s part of the reason why Zelda struggles to express the love she has for her family at times... because, as dictated by the religion she’s built her entire life upon, she’s not really supposed to. (There’s actually a passage in the novels where Zelda is wrestling with the “sin” of loving her family more than Satan.)

Love is a nurtured human quality... so if you’re never taught it or shown it... you won’t really know how to cultivate or recognize it yourself.

So... back to Faustus. Prior to the end of part 2, he was as devoted a servant of the Dark Lord that you could find. If their unholy texts directed him not to love another besides Satan, well he certainly wasn’t going to do it. He views it as a useless emotion that gets in the way of his divine destiny (this sentiment is also confirmed in the novels from him). However, there are moments of equal curiosity to me in both the show and books where he allows the potential sabotage of his perceived “destiny” for Zelda - letting her handle Sabrina for resurrecting Tommy, for example, or allowing Hilda back into the Church of Night, despite aiding the False God in laying claim to Sabrina’s soul (imagine a Catholic priest reversing the excommunication of a Christian who knowingly aided a Satanist in claiming a soul... would never happen, or at least not without extreme backlash). Literally no other character can or has swayed him on anything... only her.

Does that equate to love? Well no, in my own personal definitions, it does not. But it does demonstrate that Zelda means something to him. That he would allow her to maneuver him at all suggests that her presence has value to him and that the worry of losing her can, at times, outweigh his own personal ambitions (to a point, of course).

There are several references to his conflicted and confused emotions about Zelda in the novels, too - ex. he says she is “very special,” considers himself “dear to her” (which is highly debatable of course, like boy maybe you THOUGHT), and “likes her because she is unconquerable, but is afraid of her for that very reason, too.”

Could he have loved her in the past? Maybe. But would he have been aware of it or accepted that’s what he was feeling when he’d be taught his whole life not to love (that it was a sin to love someone)? I doubt it.

I think, based on what we’ve been shown thus far, the safest thing to say is that he had affection for her, though I’d probably throw in a bit of unhealthy obsession with her in there, too. Hence, him flying off the handle and placing her under a mind control spell. If he couldn’t have her (if she remained “unconquerable”) then no one else would. Imo, that’s not love. That’s fear. (And how he handled that fear was cowardly.)

As for the future - well, both he and Zelda have broken themselves free from the chains of Satanic tenants and rules now. They don’t have to deny themselves of love or from loving others. Hecate seems like a goddess in favor of love and affection, so points to Zelda for that. The Eldritch Terrors... remains to be seen, but I’d take a guess they aren’t campaigning on the idea of love. However, since they are meant to be the darkest forces in existence... perhaps their torturous effects on the mind will make Faustus re-evaluate what he had in his life prior to all of this and he’ll try to mend what’s been broken. With a fuckton of atoning and explaining and groveling and “penance.” Perhaps for the first time, he will be forced to feel emotions in order to navigate the labyrinth of madness he’s unleashed. (Or maybe he’ll tumble further down with it, we don’t know!) But if there is any mystical force more powerful than darkness, it’s love. (*whispers* which I think is what Marie is there to teach them all, so good luck getting through your wife’s girlfriend, Fausty) (if she and Marie stay together, that is) (which tbh... ehhhh, not sure if they’re gonna make it) (but will enjoy the ride) (ahem) So we’ll see.

(More than you probably asked for, but I do not possess a concept of brevity, sorry m8. 🙃)

#spellwood #faustus blackwood #chilling adventures of sabrina #zelda spellman #for those who don’t understand

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artemis-entreri · 5 years

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[[ This post contains Part 1 of my review/analysis of the Forgotten Realms/Drizzt novel, Boundless, by R. A. Salvatore. As such, the entirety of this post’s content is OOC. ]]

Genre: Fantasy

Series: Generations: Book 2 | Legend of Drizzt #35 (#32 if not counting The Sellswords)

Publisher: Harper Collins (September 10, 2019)

My Rating: 2 out of 5 stars

Additional Information: Artwork for the cover of Boundless and used above is originally done by Aleks Melnik. This post CONTAINS SPOILERS. Furthermore, this discussion concerns topics that I am very passionate about, and as such, at times I do use strong language. Read and expand the cut at your own discretion.

Contents:

Introduction

I. Positives (you are here) I.1 Pure Positives I.2 Muddled Positives

II. Mediocre Writing Style II.1 Bad Descriptions II.2 Salvatorisms II.3 Laborious "Action"

III. Poor Characterization III.1 "Maestro" III.2 Lieutenant III.3 Barbarian III.4 "Hero" III.5 Mother

IV. World Breaks IV.1 Blinders Against the Greater World IV.2 Befuddlement of Earth and Toril IV.3 Self-Inconsistency IV.4 Dungeon Amateur IV.5 Utter Nonsense

V. Ego Stroking V.1 The Ineffable Companions of the Hall V.2 Me, Myself, and I

VI. Problematic Themes VI.1 No Homo VI.2 Disrespect of Women VI.3 Social-normalization VI.4 Eugenics

VII. What's Next VII.1 Drizzt Ascends to Godhood VII.2 Profane Redemption VII.3 Passing the Torch VII.4 Don't Notice Me Senpai

Positives

I've found that the untrammeled positive elements of Boundless exclusively have to do with solid turns of phrase peppered throughout the book. There are also semi-positives in terms of characterizations and literary devices that Salvatore uses, but these are at best mixed.

Pure Positives

Salvatore pulls off some surprisingly good descriptions in Boundless through the usage of a more varied vocabulary than his standard repertoire, evocative imagery, compelling metaphors, and other effective strategies. An example of a good passage is, "The demon responded with a word of its own, a croaking, grating combination of hard syllables that sounded to Regis like a porcupine being rubbed across the flesh of a giant frog." in normal Salvatore tradition, the description would've been left without the metaphor. Heck, I'm not even sure that "croaking" and "grating" would've been employed in regular Salvatore fashion. In addition to speaking to the imagination, the metaphor evokes the fantastical nature of the world, a world where giant frogs exist, ones that wouldn't simply rupture when a porcupine is rubbed against them. Furthermore, the metaphor harmonizes with the adjective earlier in the sentence, for even though the frog is not the thing doing the croaking, "croaking" matches frog, just as grating matches porcupine quills.

Another example of solid writing in Boundless can be found here, "Every syllable hit Rethnorel the way the flowing breath of a speaker might make the flame of a candle blow back." Like the previous example, this one combines the usage of a noun associated with an uncommon adjective and demonstrative imagery to good effect. The metaphor shows us that the character is buffeted in an almost soft manner, for such is the flicker of a candle, but it is a continuous assault. A line that is almost too good to imagine coming from Salvatore is, "...scurrying along like a pair of giant rats fleeing the purring pursuit of a hungry displacer beast." This description is short, concise, and yet contains so many effective elements: "scurrying" instead of "running", the alliteration in "purring pursuit", and of course, alluding to a unique creature specific to the world. Putting all of these elements together paints an expressive image of an earnest and high-speed chase, the predator full of pleased anticipation but the necessity of its hunt not allowing its contentment to tamper its progress.

A passage that I wish every Salvatore paragraph could emulate is this one, "Even the way she talked grated on him, every bitten-off word making him feel like someone was running the bark of an old and gnarly oak tree down the back of his neck. It seemed like this drow woman could barely get the words out of her mouth, so tight was her jaw, and when they did come out, they carried the hissing timbre of an open fire in a downpour." The standard Salvatore version of this would be something along the lines of, "Even the way she talked grated on him. Every word was bitten off tightly", which, granted is more concise than what was published, but falls far from embodying the soul of wit in its brevity. The imagery in the published metaphor more than lets us hear the way the female character talks, it lets us feel it. So, too, can we feel what it'd be like to try to talk while our jaws are locked. "Hissing timbre" is a beautiful description on its own, but combined with inciting a sound that everyone can at least imagine, even if they may not have heard firsthand, results in a punchy and effective description. An example of another effective description, and one that doesn't make use of a metaphor is, "Some time later, they lay beside each other, the soft glow of candlelight catching pinpricks of sparkle in the beads of sweat they both wore." Sweat is not normally an attractive feature, even when it's associated with a sexy scene. The way that this imagery is presented however invokes a sense of soft decadence, as though the characters were covered with a delicate and exotic garment strewn with countless pearls. The many sparkles from this "garment" help to further set the romantic mood far more than the soft candlelight would have done by itself. Although the description, "bag of demonic despair", doesn't look like much when presented by itself, and isn't as strong as the preceding examples, it's worth a mention because of how it adequately serves as a concise summary. The object that it refers to is Entreri enveloped in an unbreakable cocoon that an unknown demon trapped him in. The word "cocoon" shows up many times in relation to this object, and admittedly, is an concise, if a bit bland, way to describe the object from both within and without. Inside the encasement, Entreri is held in a state of perpetual torment, whilst outside Dahlia, and to a much lesser extent, Regis, are worrying about his condition. Perhaps "demonic" could be replaced with another adjective but overall I'm fine with the way it is, for anything referring more to Entreri's suffering might run the risk of sounding melodramatic.

"Running stride" is also worth noting because in a world that doesn't use the same units of measurements that we do, it's always jarring when inches, feet, and miles are cited, especially when readers of the text hail from countries that aren’t the US. Without the known common terms, it is understandably difficult to effectively convey distances in a concise and comprehensible way, so units of measurements like this example are wonderful because they use something that we all understand, and do so without breaking immersion.

Tasteful omission is as important as smart inclusion. I'd criticized Salvatore for trying too hard in Timeless by using "fashioned" in in awkward way, and he's dropped this altogether in Boundless. By the same token, "six hundred pounds of panther" doesn't appear at all. Salvatore's favorite adjectives, "magnificent" and "fine", are both used better in Boundless. The former appears thirteen times in Boundless but unlike in Timeless, the usage of most of them aren't vague and lazy ways of characterizing splendid objects, characters, or actions. Six of those thirteen usages can maybe be improved still, but that is already a huge positive change from the fourteen out of seventeen occurrences in Timeless. Meanwhile, "fine" appears fifty times, but many of that is part of modifiers like finer, finest, etc, and through a cursory scan, by itself, relatively few are used in inane ways.

Muddled Positives

Aside from the examples in diction above, Boundless does contain praiseable elements, specifically even in areas where I usually criticize Salvatore. There are moments of decent, even good, characterization, and some of the negative potential I'd feared Timeless was leading towards are not realized in Boundless. Furthermore, there are improvements to be found in the themes that Salvatore employs, and some descriptors stand up to fact-checking.

One of my biggest criticisms of Salvatore is that he routinely disrespects what I describe as the beautiful tapestry of the Realms, which was woven together by the hands of many creatives who worked in harmony. In Boundless, the amount that Salvatore insensitively scribbles his name in Sharpie over the tapestry is reduced. Ironically, sometimes Salvatore scribbles over the portions of the tapestry that he'd worked with others to create, but in Boundless, he doesn't perpetuate this disservice to both himself and others as much as he has in the past. For better or worse, Salvatore did create a lot of information about drow, though his work is mostly limited to the city of Menzoberranzan. While the Drizzt books contain the most drow content than any other FR novel series, they've done so through their sheer volume, and they mainly portrayed the drow in a one-dimensional fashion. Just as there are many more drow settlements than the fanatic Menzoberranzan, so too, are even Menzoberranzanyr drow capable of qualities other than scheming self-service in the name of dedication to Lolth. In Boundless, we see more dimensions to the drow characters presented. Zaknafein is not the only drow in Menzoberranzan who possesses a moral compass. Loyalties born of motivations other than pride exist beyond the Do'Urden bloodline, with familial concern and the kind of love that'd been described as being unknown to drow inspiring or dissuading murderous deeds. In previous books, the closest that we got to "non-evil" drow were drow who had the potential to be good, perhaps even living for awhile in a goodly way, but eventually and inevitably squandering that potential. For example, Drizzt's sister Vierna was not as cruel as the other Do'Urden females, but ultimately, through trying to seduce her own brother and then turning a different brother into a drider, turned out to be just as bad as the rest of the Lolthites. Another similar example could be found with Tos'un Armgo, whom although having created a family with a surface elf, ultimately participated in the murder of his own family and returning himself and his daughter to the depraved society of Menzoberranzan.

In Boundless, although the priestess Dab'nay Tr'arach follows a course similar to Tos'un, her path is much more nuanced, and although she squanders her morality for station, she does so with great ambivalence and regret. Dab'nay's house is long destroyed, with she and her siblings' surnames changed to reflect this. She stands to gain nothing by preserving members of her bloodline, but nonetheless, she endangers her own life to see that her brother isn't killed, a selfish thought of rebuilding her long-lost house not at all factoring in to her concern for her kin. It is also clear from actions such as Dab'nay running her finger playfully along the top of Zaknafein's nose while telling him that he, not his services, were worth waiting for, that the feelings that she develops for him are more than those a female in a matriarchal society entertains towards a favored pet or sex object. Dab'nay allows her vulnerability to show in Zaknafein's presence and does not conceal the tears she sheds for the way that they must live their lives. She also fears for Zaknafein's safety even though she'd arguably stand to gain from his demise, and feels guilt for implicating him negatively for the sake of her own survival. Before the Generations trilogy, these qualities were not possible in any genuine or long-lasting way in any priestesses of Lolth, not even a disgraced one. Prior, a disgraced priestess who isn't killed or turned into a drider would become even more dangerous, with having nothing to lose by concentrating the proverbial venom in her veins.

Dab'nay isn't the only Menzoberranzanyr drow who demonstrates the capacity for multiple dimensions in Boundless. So, too, does Harbondair Tr'arch and Arathis Hune. Harbondair possesses the same familial loyalty as Dab'nay, and, like his sister, possesses the ability to genuinely overcome past prejudices. Despite Zaknafein having destroyed his house and despite Zaknafein issuing him a death threat should he attempt to harm him again, Harbondair grows to develop a real friendship with Zaknafein. Arathis, while definitively more "evil" than the Tr'arch siblings, is motivated by more than his rank in Bregan D'aerthe to eventually go to a head against Zaknafein. It's never stated that Arathis' rivalry with Zaknafein isn't based solely in Arathis feeling threatened in his second-in-command position. However, from the way that Arathis is described to behave while Zaknafein is absent, Arathis appears to be motivated by jealousy that he's no longer Jarlaxle's favorite and most trusted follower. Jarlaxle makes it abundantly clear on numerous occasions that he considers Zaknafein and Arathis equally valuable, hence why he prohibited either from trying to kill the other, so were Arathis worried about his position in the mercenary band, he needn't have gone so far because he and Zaknafein were equals in that regard but Zaknafein was definitely his better in combat. However, there can only be one favorite, a fact that Arathis couldn't engineer, but because he could ignore it when Zaknafein was away, his mood was noticeably better when he was the only lieutenant by Jarlaxle's side. It's actually quite pleasant that Salvatore didn't spell out the nature of Arathis' motivations, the way that Arathis is successful in that it is shown and not told to us. Unfortunately, Arathis' fate is soon met, which is probably for the best, as this lets him safely fall into the "gets killed off before too many books ruin him" category that I'd previously (and prematurely) populated with Zaknafein.

Although the Boundless version of Jarlaxle continues to be consistent with the Timeless version of Jarlaxle, ergo de-fanged to his current timeline self rather to the much more morally ambiguous character he was in the earlier Drizzt books, there is a comical and memorable scene in Boundless that is true to Jarlaxle's irrepressible humor even whilst in the middle of delivering a solemn ultimatum. While forbidding Zaknafein from going after Arathis Hune, Jarlaxle manages to bring a smile to the very angry weapons master by assuring him that in any other circumstance, "I promise you, if we two were trapped in a cave alone and starving, I would not kill you. But if you died first, I cannot promise that I wouldn't eat you."

There are improvements in Boundless even when it comes to the less morally gray drow of Menzoberranzan. One such individual that gets a more profound treatment is Mez'Barris Del'Armgo, the future Matron Mother of the second house of Menzoberranzan. During Boundless, her mother holds that title, and House Barrison Del'Armgo is far from its destined ranking. High Priestess Mez'Barris, the most promising member of her house, has her position recognized by being the only one allowed to copulate with the strange and giant Uthegentel, a dubious honor that the other priestesses aren't interested in anyway. Other priestesses tease Mez'Barris' preference of Uthegentel because "it was unusual, almost unheard of, for a drow woman to be attracted to a man so physically superior to her". However, "Mez'Barris couldn't deny the thrill she felt when Uthgentel so easily tossed her up upon his hips, holding her aloft while he took her, never tiring. He threw her about as if she were a child, but he knew how to throw her indeed!" Other than the more than slightly disturbing analogy to a child in the context of a sexual setting, which really could've been better done comparing Mez'Barris to anything else, a rag doll maybe, or heck, even an animal, there are a lot of things going on in the description of Mez'Barris and Uthegentel's relationship dynamic that are pretty outstanding for Salvatore. First, it is made clear in no uncertain terms that Uthegentel's size is unusual, which directly addresses the misconception that elves in the Forgotten Realms are larger than humans. Elves are larger than humans in worlds such as Middle-Earth and Azeroth, but this is not generally the case on Toril. Second, Boundless specifically states with regards to Uthegentel, "He was stronger than the women, too -- another anomaly among the drow -- and was easily the strongest dark elf in the city. Even with magical assistance, other men could not match him, and even with Lolth-blessed spells of physical enhancement, other women couldn't, either." An extremely too-oft practice among the many people who love the very popular drow race is to ascribe Earth human characteristics to them: that the males are usually bigger than the females. Drow of the Forgotten Realms, like many animals of our world, are a species in which the females are larger and stronger than the males. The aspect that stands out the most about Mez'Barris and Uthegentel is a message about reversed gender roles and how, by conforming to the norm, one might miss out on some very exciting experiences. I don't really dare hope that this is a message that Salvatore was consciously conveying, but it would be pretty awesome if it was intentional on his part. Taking that message and reversing the genders for our patriarchal world, if Salvatore could encourage the idea that men do not become any less masculine when they break conventional ideologies of what a man should be, I would be willing to consider putting serious effort into building him a pedestal, and even gazing upon it favorably from time to time.

There's one other thing going on with Mez'Barris with relation to Uthegentel, specifically, "as it pertains to the other priestesses' teasing, "'How can you be with a man who is stronger than you?' most women asked, seeming sincerely aghast at the thought. 'It isn't natural! Are you sure that you don't simply prefer the bed company of women?" Mez'Barris was sure." I'd actually completely overlooked this three times: as I was doing my read-through, as I was organizing my notes, and as I was reviewing my notes. It occurred to me, while I was writing the previous paragraph, that Mez'Barris' certainty about her preference of Uthegentel isn't based in anything sapphic, which, added to the fact that Boundless doesn't contain any gratuitous lesbian sex scenes means that Boundless is the first Drizzt book in quite possibly forever in which Salvatore doesn't fetishize female/female non-heterosexuality. This is, if it is what it is, HUGE. One of the things for which I regularly criticize Salvatore is how frustratingly often he drops in a female/female sex scene or has implied female/female sexytimes going on. Specifically its that this happens in a totally non-representative manner because, of course, the same treatment isn't even considered in terms of male/male representation. I've gone into this enough in the past and I'll go into it again later so there's no need to do that here, but seriously, just the fact that not once do we have anything even close to some random priestess whose name we won't remember banging this other random priestess whose name we similarly won't remember is such a large improvement. And with Mez'Barris conveying the reverse gender role ideology with Uthegentel, if Salvatore intentionally did all of this, I would totally consider, yet again, and pardon my french, building that fucking pedestal and putting him on it.

Dab'nay and Mez'Barris are two very different priestesses, but their respective scenes of intimacy are better done than such scenes in previous Drizzt books. The passion in Dab'nay and Zaknafein scenes are marked by affection, whereas in Mez'Barris and Uthegentel they're solely lustful. There is tenderness, even hints of trust, between Dab'nay and Zaknafein, whereas what's between Mez'Barris and Uthegentel is detached and mercenary. One is a silken handkerchief while the other is a stinging riding crop, and though each priestess doesn't feel jealousy that her lover is ridden by others, one willingly rents him out, while the other has thoroughly accepted that she is not entitled to possessive emotions.

The drow aren't the only characters who enjoy improved literary treatment in Boundless. The dramatis personae of the World Above receive some refreshing new dimensions. Wulfgar specifically, who has been hammered flat even prior to his resurrection, becomes more than a plot device that fights as much as he beds. Since his resurrection, the carefree barbarian has been primarily embodying getting the most out of his second life by sleeping with anyone and everyone willing to do so. In Boundless, we're told that Wulfgar has been with Penelope Harpell exclusively, even though she is a much older woman and, as Penelope herself realizes, Wulfgar can get practically any younger woman that he wants so he chooses. However, Wulfgar chooses Penelope and exclusively Penelope, because he's enamored with her confidence and authenticity. One of the things that I criticize Salvatore for is his poor handling of female characters, especially with regards to how the most redeeming features for his female characters are youth and beauty. For instance, Drizzt and Catti-brie's supposed great love has never been tested "on screen", for Catti died in her forties and was returned to Drizzt's side as a hot young thing. We never got to see how the glorious hero would've behaved as his mortal wife grew old and frail while he remained young and hale. Drizzt might've told himself that he'd never think Catti ugly, but he was never tested. Admittedly, Penelope isn't super old, but having the hunk that is young Wulfgar faithfully and exclusively stay by her side goes some distance in making up for the previous treatment and portrayal of women in the Drizzt books. The only downside to Wulfgar and Penelope is that their scenes of intimacy are awkward to the point of cringe-worthy, which suggests to me that Salvatore is writing outside of his comfort zone. Nonetheless, he's giving it an honest effort, and even though it doesn't work out, it looks to be a genuine attempt, for there aren't any contradictory messages in Wulfgar and Penelope's relationship.

Boundless is the first time that we see Dahlia up and about since Night of the Hunter. I'd feared that Salvatore was going to have Kimmuriel fix more than the damage wrought unto her by Methil El-Viddenvelp. It would've been an easy and lazy plot device, along the same lines of Idalia's Flute and the aboleth's influence in "developing" Entreri. Thankfully, Kimmuriel has not undone Dahlia's past traumas, nor even eliminated the more recent ones and the personality flaws that she has as a result of those traumas. What we see in Boundless is that Dahlia is still who she was during the Neverwinter Saga, modified by the experiences of her relationship with Entreri. As we follow Dahlia through a Waterdhavian nobles' ball, in addition to learning more about her through her thoughts, we're able to glean additional information through her physical appearance. Most of those details that are mentioned in the past, but certainly don't hurt to see repeated. For instance, "She was tall for an elf, nearly six feet, with black hair that she dyed with streaks of cardinal red." Specifics like height tend to be vague in Salvatore's writing, for after so many books it's clear that he can't keep track of his own details, so it's good to see Dahlia's, and even better that, once again, Salvatore reminds the readers that elves in Toril tend to be short. It's good to see that Dahlia still wears the diamonds she'd accrued from her years of being a black widow, for even though she's abandoned those practices, she hasn't abandoned her past and who she was. Furthermore, she now wears her hair in the manner that she'd use for her softer guise when she was with Drizzt, except this is presumably neither an illusion nor as a result of trying to manipulate Entreri as she did with it and Drizzt. It's a subtle reminder of how things have changed for her in a lasting way.

In the previous books, we'd only seen Dahlia be angry, vindictive, selfish and petty. Although I'd always liked her more than any of Salvatore's other female characters, my opinion regarding Dahlia is an unpopular one. Dahlia felt very much like a character that Salvatore wrote for readers to hate. In Boundless, he appears to be trying to make her more than that. During the ball, Dahlia is comical, even silly, both of which can begin to endear a reader to a character. Throughout the rest of the book, Dahlia exhibits courage and loyalty so steadfast that it's easy to forget that she was once a villainous character, but she doesn't do so in such a way as to come across as goody two-shoes either. Dahlia is still very much not a goodly character, nor should she be at this point. Unfortunately, there exists a rather large problem with Dahlia, and that is her relationship with Entreri. In just as artificial as a way that it started, so, too, are we told more than that we're shown, namely, that Entreri had overcome his childhood demons and is now helping her overcome hers. The thing is, that whole plot with how Entreri overcame his demons by doing Drizzt-like good deeds doesn't ring true at all, and we're not shown how Entreri has been helping Dahlia overcome her own demons. I doubt we ever will, but I'll discuss the poor handling of Entreri in this book later. For now, I will add that I thought it was a good touch by Salvatore to have the apartment shared by the couple to be located in the Southern Ward of Waterdeep. The Southern Ward is, as of fifth edition D&D and the current timeline (~1490s DR), is no longer the poor ward that it used to be, which is very fitting for Entreri because he wouldn't want to live in the grimy Dock Ward or the destitute Field Ward any more than he'd want to live in the aristocratic Sea Ward, the Watch-infested Castle Ward, or the noble-infested North Ward. The Southern Ward is inhabited by common folk instead of hoity-toity nobles, with a good portion of its population hailing from southern Faerûn. Although Entreri's Calishite heritage is not given much treatment in the Drizzt novels, it would make sense if, even with his rough and austere childhood, that associations of home would bring some degree of comfort or at least familiarity. Waterdeep's Southern Ward is home to some of the best singers of Calishite music and probably the best examples of Calishite cuisine. The location of homes above stables or around inn yards allows us to accept that Entreri would have been able to ensure a good sightline of the goings-on around his domicile, likely a necessity for one of Entreri's nature. The only downside to all of this is that Salvatore calls the Southern Ward the "South Ward", a nomenclature that only fools would use, according to Volo's Waterdeep Enchiridion.

The best-developed member among the resurrected Companions of the Hall is Regis/Spider Parrafin, and this continues to be the case in Boundless. In the past, I'd criticized Salvatore on numerous occasions about how his heroes perform a lot more questionable actions on screen than do his villains. In the travesty of the series, Hero, I'd specifically noted that Regis and Wulfgar kicking people who were already lying down to be decidedly not heroic, even if the victims of said kicking were highwaymen. In Boundless, Regis doesn't do anything of the sort. No, in fact, he actually performs what would be a humbling or even degrading act himself by normal Salvatore standards, and conveys a surprising and important message thereby. Much like how I'm uncertain that the message conveyed by Mez'Barris and Uthegentel is intentional, I'm not sure if this is the case with Regis, but Regis admits to using his looks to get what he wants, which is unfortunately a strategy traditionally attributed to women alone, both inside and outside of Salvatore's books. When Regis states to Dahlia, "Because I do the same thing, as does my lovely wife, Donnola" as he points out that Dahlia knows how to use her looks to gain an advantage in her negotiations, he, in my mind, is performing a much more admirable feat than slaying a hundred rampaging ogres singlehandedly. Humility is a mark of any true hero, and although Drizzt and his companions are supposed to possess tons of humility along with other virtuous qualities, we see so little of those qualities. Instead, much of their actions are full of sanctimony and self-satisfaction. Another thing that was done well with Regis is his reaction to being in Entreri's presence. Despite the significantly de-fanged current nature of Entreri, and Regis' intellectual knowledge that the assassin wouldn't hurt him, Regis struggles to suppress the fear he feels in Entreri's presence. This is one of the few instances in which Salvatore correctly portrays trauma. Regis has more than enough reason to behave the way that he does, Entreri inflicted significant distress in his previous life, and, as Regis notes, "Was there any amount of time and any number of deeds that could fully erase that?" Regis' musing is at the core of many trauma victims' journey to recovery. Furthermore, there is no contrived PTSD in Regis' experiences like was the case with Drizzt in Hero. Accurate, too, is the way that Regis' struggle is focused on the stub of his pinky, with which he fidgets while fighting to hold his voice steady. This shows us rather than telling us that Artemis Entreri is still very much a trigger for Regis, and speaks more to Regis' courage in facing that trigger than had he been the one facing down Demogorgon in Menzoberranzan.

Those are the major positives in terms of characterization and literary devices employed in Boundless. There are also good points dispersed among the descriptions and interactions with lesser characters and incidental elements. While we're not quite sure what the demon possessing the little girl named Sharon is (or if it's a demon at all), Salvatore did a decent job of making Sharon unsettling and creepy under the creature's influence. It's also refreshing to see intrigue in a Drizzt book that isn't confined to Menzoberranzan. Although Salvatore doesn't do the intrigues of Waterdeep justice, he does make an effort to include them, and even if he doesn't show us a great amount of it, I appreciate the nod that he gives to its complexity through indicating that despite months spent in the City of Splendors, one as acute as Entreri hasn't been able to unravel the mysteries he'd been tasked to solve. Unfortunately, there's a total hiatus from the further development of the Neverember plot. The final thing that I wanted to mention for this section is a detail, that, although minor, stood up to fact-checking, which delighted me. A lot of Salvatore's action scenes and descriptions, despite going into overlong detail, are often impractical or simply incorrect. Towards the end of Boundless, we see Drizzt running with everything he's got, "his arms pumping for maximum momentum in the desired direction". I'm not a runner, so I had to research this, but I was ecstatic to find that pumping one's arms does actually help one run faster! Bravo, Salvatore!

That concludes the positive-oriented analysis of Boundless. From this point onward, I'll be performing my brutally critical and honest breakdown of the novel. Fair warning, it's not going to be pretty, because Boundless isn't. Sit tight though, and I'll tell you all the ways that it was bad in excruciating detail, for better or worse.

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ruminativerabbi · 6 years

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Machines and People

Art is the medium that allows an artist to communicate something profound and meaningful to his or her audience in a way that does not merely inform but truly inspires…and which also allows the artist to transcend the brevity of human life to speak not solely to contemporaries, but to countless future generations as well. When put that way, the underlying concept sounds fairly abstruse. But when considered in the context of real life, it feels almost natural: when we sit in the audience and watch King Lear talking to his daughters on stage as the curtain goes up and the play begins, it’s not at all difficult to understand that it’s only him talking to them in a certain sense, but—and far more profoundly—it’s really the playwright talking to us. Indeed, the difference between a great artist and a hack lies precisely in his or her ability to communicate deeply and movingly with an audience in a way that merely telling them that same information would not even slightly accomplish: what we learn in a few minutes of King Lear about parent-child relations and the degree to which greed can poison even the most natural kind of love couldn’t possibly ever be conveyed as deeply or as effectively by even the most talented university lecturer giving a public talk about the ins and outs of childrearing. Or about the nature of love. Or about greed.

That all being the case, art requires three things (or feels as though it must): an artist, an audience, and an artistic medium of some sort. The first and the second absent the third is just two (or more) people standing in a room. The first and third absent the second is the artistic version of a tree falling in a forest with no ear drum present to vibrate sympathetically when the tree hits the earth. The second and third is, at best, unrealized potential, a batter at the plate and a ball resting on the pitcher’s mound…but no pitcher in sight actually to throw the ball and, as such, no game to watch and either to enjoy or not to enjoy. And, of course, also no winner or loser.

So that’s two living, breathing people and one artistic medium that feel requisite. But now that we live in a new world in which machines can think—if not quite in the way human begins do, then at least to an extent that even a quarter century ago would have been unimaginable—the time may have come to revisit that those requirements.

Take, for example, these eyes:

They are expressive, thoughtful, fully human. It is a man or a woman? Is that the hint of a moustache under his nose or just a shadow? These eyes suggest a certain sadness to me, a certain world-weariness born of insight into the way that people are so often their own worst enemies. Without being able to see the rest of the face, this person seems to exist outside of time. If the rest of the picture depicted him or her dressed like an Italian aristocrat of the sixteenth century, I could believe it. But if the rest of the picture portrayed him as a cowboy or her as an astronaut, I could believe that too.

Here’s the rest of him:

So, not a cowboy or a doge, but a Dutchman. And this, I can hear you thinking, must surely be a work of Rembrandt, the greatest of all portrait painters and (of course) a Dutchman himself. But this painting is neither a Rembrandt nor a work by any of his contemporaries or students. It was created by a 3-D Printer that was programed over the course of an eighteen-month experiment by a team of art historians, computer scientists, and engineers brought together by Microsoft, the Delft University of Technology in Holland, and two Dutch art museums, the Mauritshuis in The Hague and the Rembrandt House Museum in Amsterdam. Bringing together digital data culled from 346 of Rembrandt’s real paintings created between 1632 and 1642, the idea was to create a portrait of a man not only dressed in the style of the time and with facial features similar to the men in Rembrandt’s real paintings, but to use the finest gradations of shading, texture, perspective, brush usage, pigmentation, and lighting to create a new portrait, one of no one at all but that surely feels as though it could be of someone whom Rembrandt could easily have known.

Is that art? It’s hard to say. The work has an audience and it exists…but does it have an artist? Clearly, a 3-D printer is not an artist, just a machine that does its programmers’ bidding. But are its programmers then the artists? I want to say no, that this project was just some digital silliness dreamt up by people because they had the technical skill to pull it off. But then I look again at the man’s eyes…and I feel a certain sense of kinship with this non-man who never existed. Does that make me a crazy person? Or does that make this a work of art?

Christie’s is about to auction off a portrait called “Edmond de Belamy, from La Famille de Belamy,” a work created by an algorithm (whatever that means exactly) and thus a product solely of its machine-creator’s artificial intelligence. The bidding is going to begin at $10,000. The creators, if that’s the right word (since they specifically did not create the painting), are a trio of French businessmen with degrees in business and computer technology who call themselves Obvious. No artistic implement was used to create the picture—no pencils, no paints, and no drawing tools of any sort. Nor was human creativity involved other than tangentially: what the members of Obvious did, almost simply, was to feed thousands of portraits from the 14th to the 20th centuries into a computer that had been programmed to analyze the images in a dozen different ways and then attempt to mimic them as best it could. And here is, so to speak, Edmond de Bellamy himself:

Is this art? Most of me still wants to say no. But I find myself unexpectedly unsure as I look carefully at the painting and allow it to speak to me in precisely the way great works of art communicate outside of language and without being themselves animate.

I saw Her, Spike Jonze’s 2013 movie, and came away unconvinced that a man could truly love a machine, even one possessed of as intelligent and enticing an operating system as the one whose voice in the movie is Scarlett Johansson’s. Machines are not people. They cannot love. They cannot reproduce. But can they create? That is the question the portraits pasted in above awakens in me.

These questions lead to others. Can machines make music? Can they write books? Can they make scientific discoveries other than by processing huge amounts of data that their human masters have programmed into them? All these views have their proponents. Listen, for example, to Drew Silverstein, the CEO and co-founder of Amper, a company eponymously named after its sole product, an artificial-intelligence music composer. Touted as the ultimate in artificial creativity, the program, so claims its founder, can create “unique, professional music tailored to any context in seconds” once you’ve provided it with the style of music you wish it to create, the mood you’d like to convey, and the length of the piece of music you wish to end up with. It’s beyond impressive. (To hear the whole spiel, click here.) And the product is certainly something like music. Maybe even it is music…at least in the sense that what they market as “cheese food” is some version of cheese. But what it lacks is the inner quality that, at least for me, defines what music—and what art itself—is: the ability to transcend the temporal and physical boundaries of the universe to communicate deeply moving ideas and emotions through the medium of human creativity. And that is what is lacking in all of the above. If there is no human artist, then there simply is no one for me to commune with through the medium of his or her art, no one to speak to me either deeply or superficially. Or at all. And without that psychic bridge between one human heart and another, all that’s left is technique and content.

Coming closer to my own turf, I find myself wondering if machines can write books. You may recall reading in George Orwell’s 1984 about a world in which the “proles” of a dystopian future solely read books written by machines. You may also be aware that amazon.com features over 10,000 books by one Phillip Parker, each of which is computer-generated and so, at least in some sense, “written” by a machine—but those books are merely compendia of facts and data, so hardly literary works other than in the sense that tax returns are or that telephone books would be if there still was any such thing. But other efforts are more intriguing. A Russian computer scientist, Alexander Prokopovitch, programmed a computer to produce his (or do I mean, its) 2008 novel, TrueLove, an attempt to tell the story of Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina in the style of one of my own favorite authors, Haruki Murakami. It was, however, not deemed a particularly successful undertaking and is no longer in print. (For a fairly dismal appraisal of Prokopovich’s efforts, click here.) Others will do better, I’m sure: to teach a computer to produce a text that retells a story that it has been programmed to regurgitate on command using a specific set of literary quirks and tendencies it has also been programmed to bring to bear in its effort to recast the story in different words doesn’t sound anywhere near impossible. But we’re back to the tree in the forest: if there is no beating heart inside an actual human breast with which I am being invited personally to commune through the medium of that person’s art, then there is—at best—a document, a story, or a book…but not literature. An image but not a painting. Sound, but not music.

The bottom line, at least for me, is that art should be defined first and foremost as a mode of communication, as a way for two souls to meet even if their possessors never will or even could. If there is no other person involved, then even the most sophisticated effort to mimic art is just so much unrealized potential. Art, like love, requires two.

#artificial intelligence #art #Alexander Prokopovich #Drew Silverstein #Obvious #Edmond de Belamy

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exnobis-archived · 7 years

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👶 ( nox )

👶Do you have children? If you don’t, do you think they would be like you?@starshrouded | questions for immortals | accepting For Nox:

❝Do I have children? Oh, what a question! I do hope everyone is comfortable; this could take awhile.

Yes, I have children. My family is large by most standards, and - in my opinions - far more tight-knit, too. We are often referred to as a 'clan' at this point, and we extend far beyond blood relatives. I've never seen the importance of blood. It's the bond that matters, and I consider myself particularly lucky to have found so many whom with I share that with. But considering there are 21 of us now, for the sake of brevity, blood is what I will focus on.

But where do I start? Hm.

We'll begin with my eldest, Andrai. We have perhaps the most... complicated relationship of all my relations, and rightfully so. I do not begrudge him the circumstances of his conception - It's that I have wronged him grievously in the past, and while I like to think we both wish to overcome these wounds, it will take time. But regardless of our conflicts, of what he may think I feel about him, I could not be more proud. He is a survivor, without a doubt - strong and capable and skilled well beyond his years. He has never given up, never faltered. And, while he has his personal struggles, he has remained kind and loving beneath it all. So frequently I am in awe of him.

Next are the original twins, as they like to call themselves. The eldest of my children with Astraeus: Amelanehnen, or Lahnie, and Athdheasirelan, or Dia. We are fond of nicknames in my family.

Lahnie is, perhaps, the child most like myself, although she possessed far more admirable qualities. She is a little spitfire, a troublemaker, and a meddler - and she is sweet, understanding, and compassionate. She was the child who never sat still, continually sticking her little fingers into things she shouldn't have. She still hasn't quite grown out of it, to be honest. And I'd have it no other way - her passion is her greatest strength, and when she puts her mind to something, you know she will succeed at it. I'm just glad we no longer have to sew her into her clothes (which she still somehow managed to get out of.)

Her brother, Dia, could not be more her opposite. Reserved, observant, and entirely content to sit quietly and read. His siblings have often insisted he's grumpy and boring - that he refuses to let his mother tend to his hair has not helped matters - but he is far from either. The most straightforward tell is his interactions with his sister: he might roll his eyes and shake his head, but you will never see him not accompanying her on her misadventures. He possesses his own mischief, his own passion, and it is no less intense than Lahnie's. They are twins, after all.

Next is Erasenatha, or Sena. Our little ray of sunshine. Really, there's no other way to describe her. Gentle, loving, perhaps even a little bit altruistic. There is nothing and no one that she would not extend a helping hand to. I am in a near constant state of concern for her actually, as any father would be, but there is no doubt that she can take care of herself. She may be gentle, but she is far from naive. I am always comforted by her ever-present smile.

Next are our second set of twins, Sulematarsylnin, or Syl, and Sulahnara, or Nara. An intriguing mix of traits, these two.

Syl is the quieter of the two, more prone to observance than extroverted displays. But they are much like their name, 'Stormbringer,' as there is an intensity at their core that could overthrow empires. Their ability to read people makes them a force to be reckoned with - let me tell you, I have lost more than a few arguments with them - but they are never unreasonable, never cruel. Logic tempered by an understanding of the emotional mind, and self-awareness that pretty much ensures any cause they fight for will succeed. And such a beautiful laugh.

Their sister, Nara, is the extroverted one. For her, it is exuberant displays first, observation second. She feels things so very deeply, and while it has sometimes been a struggle for her to reign in her emotions, she, like her sibling, is never cruel and never unreasonable. She has defeated me in plenty of arguments, too. She is open with her affections, unafraid to express her thoughts, and always ready with a laugh and a smile. It is a beautiful sight to see someone so thoroughly embrace who they are.

And then we have Amelanen'u'vunen or Amee. They are named after their mother, and there is no doubt that they take after them both in looks and in personality. Sometimes it shocks me, how alike they are. They are like the calm surface of a river, beautiful in its serenity - but never to be underestimated, as the undercurrent can and will pull you under. But they are never unfair in their judgments and possess legendary patience. They often tell me that I am too impulsive, and let me tell you, it's bizarre having to agree when you're scolded by your own child.

And then our third set of twins, our daughters Lealathin, or Lea, and Melanvena, or Vena. They are our only identical pair to date, and yes, I can tell them apart. And while I would typically discuss them individually, it seems an injustice to their closeness to do so.

The bond they share has a depth to it beyond anything I've ever seen, almost like it's outright telepathic. Not only do they have the ability to finish each other's sentences - which they do, but I'm pretty confident it's just to make the rest of us uncomfortable - they seem entirely in tune with the other no matter how far apart they are. Typically one could describe them as calm, but not introverted as both are very fond of conversation and events. They particularly enjoy a friendly debate, often playing devil's advocate for each other, and any kind of gathering that involves pretty shoes. Both are studious, too, and have an impressive breadth of knowledge. I would say they are easily the most analytical and logically minded of my blood relations. Which is good, as this family desperately needs some kind of pragmatism from time to time.

Speaking of pragmatism actually, apparently due to it, I have only very, very, very recently been informed that my beloved, cherished, beautiful, extraordinary, and outstandingly frustrating partner, Astraeus, is four and a half months pregnant. With triplets. So, you know. I'll be a nervous wreck about that for awhile. I'm so bad, I'm told, I frequently hear 'you'd think he was the one carrying them,' which I'm still undecided if I am insulted by or wholeheartedly agree with. Regardless, while I'm reeling and will remain so for a notably lengthy amount of time, I am ecstatic.

I could go on. As I said before, my family goes far beyond blood. They are, without doubt, the most important thing in my life. I would do anything for them, and to protect them. And I could not be more proud of each and every one of them.

Supposedly, this is very 'mushy' of me.❞

#starshrouded #.nox #.nox | answer #.nox | memes #THIS TOOK ME THREE HOURS TO WRITE #AND IT'S NOT EVEN ALL OF THEM #LDJHFLAFJHALFH #answered

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thinkingaboutsanfrancisco · 5 years

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Like water bursting free from the confinements of the dam, he finally starts to pour out the cocktail of sweet, delectable, context for me. It quickly drowns out his meaningless suggestion of being concise, but I'm not going to refute statements of immunity. I'm not mad, his lack of pith doesn't bother me. Shocking, I know, but at this point it's the only thing that is going to get me to any potential realm of understanding so I can possibly add anything of value before I eventually return home and resume anxiously stewing in my own regrets. It has to be getting late by now. Pulling out my phone and openly checking the time would be rude, so I have to take a long deep breath to still that pestering, habitual, urge. My homework was done on Friday night, surviving school on no sleep is a mastered art by now, my phone hasn't buzzed and the owl cars can carry me home if need be. I don't need to look at it. I don't need to be reminded again. Shifting more towards him, I extend my arm on the back of the bench and bring it up to rest my cheek on my palm, tuning into the spectacular story of S and Lyd.

It all begins when they're...even younger than I am? Really? Yes, he's older than me, but not by much. Certainly not enough to warrant this old man-whippersnapper dynamic he keeps putting us in. But, technically, he is right. They're...thirteen and fourteen? Middle school?! Oh Jesus Christ...

Say no more, S. I get exactly the nauseatingly obnoxious tone you're going for. Anything that sprouts in eighth grade is destined to be a fucking weed. I seriously believe that it'd be best if we just abolished that year completely, let puberty set in some so that no one has to witness the horrifying process and then resume in highschool. The slight decrease in bullshit exposure would have a major impact on the state of humanity, I assure you.

His story starts off more Wonder Years wholesome than initially expected. He sees her, that dangerously random and impalpable switch is flipped in his head where everything else in his world is rendered nebulous and she's now the only thing he can focus on, he does something with it and asks her out, gets luckier than a lotto winner when she agrees, and they date. I have to admit that I'm continuing to struggle thinking of him as anything other than his current form of a lanky college student by day and my coke supplier by night. Trying to visualize his last story that took place this morning was hard enough, but I eventually could conjure it. Beyond our burners and serving our burnouts, there's always the shining side of the coin: the life that makes walking carefully through these shadows worth enduring. It might've taken a while to grasp, the autopilot we run on out here that blinds us to the human qualities of our customers and dealers takes a minute to switch off, but it's not too hard to buy him having it to comfort someone who means something to him. We've all had to be someone's shoulder to cry on at least once in our lives, him selling me discounted grams and eight balls on a Friday night doesn't exclude him from doing that on a Saturday. He's human too.

Him as a teenager though, younger than I am...I fucking can't. I keep having to put his current self in as a visual placeholder, despite knowing damn well that he didn't have facial hair or probably as long of a drawl at fourfuckingteen, but what the hell else can I do? Imagine him freaking out on her with that same cracking barely pubescent voice that I mouthed off with too? I'd rather not. It's an amusing discrepancy but just makes it more glaringly obvious of my weird spot that I've put myself in: too deep to where I'm hooked, still not deep enough to make something out of it. I need to settle down though. He's still setting up the foundation for me and I find my lips spreading into a sardonic grin when he puts out a metaphor he knows I understand. Addiction. But him being addicted to her being akin to how he's addicted to his favorite movie is such a saccharine view of it that my stomach turns like I've eaten too many Pixie Sticks. He doesn't realize how natural his voice picks up that speed, how his eyes can still grow that agape and filled with wonder. Everything he's talking about is so innocuous that it's practically rated G, which should be a welcome change given the complete smut film that was this morning, but I've seen that same foolish look in so many other people that I can't revel in the glory of that summer pinnacle he continues to hold within him now. It's a good thing too. The comedown's already here and, while there's never any subtly to the crash, there's something painful in his frank brevity. He has to rip this moment off like a band-aid because it still hurts to think about a decade or so later and...

Is this what's going to happen to me?

I know everything feels eternal on a bad night but...is it truly going to be like this forever? Am I still going to want to bash my phone against my head over all of my miscues with Ray when I'm my fucking twenties?

Quit worrying about it. I won't even know her then.

Surely I'm never gonna cross her mind twice once she graduates and leaves my sight for better pastures---or even before if she caught my stupid drift and already said bon voyage in my inbox. God knows where the fuck I'll be, but she's too good to let herself linger in my rotting brain. She's like a shooting star, a bright little blip that dazzles into my highschool life as quickly as it leaves the sky with nothing and all I can do is sit here in the dark and watch. That's just how the world works.

You can't control fate like that.

I wish I could tell New Year's Eve 2006 S this, maybe it could've spared 2015 S from having to recount a story that chews up my silly moment of existentialism and spits it out...

Initially, it doesn't start off bad but that's becoming a reoccurring theme so I'm able to brace myself for the first bout of secondhand cringe. It's nine years ago, he's drunk and oblivious this time, and she unexpectedly breaks up with him. New Year, New Me makes me groan, but it's manageable. Unlike what happens next...

"My best friend, he looks at me, and he says - I saw Lydia making out with some guy in the bathroom. Before she broke up with you.”

Any humor that I could ever have found in this situation has drained out of me like the warmth in my body as I just stare at him, struck as stunned as his friend who had the misfortune of watching it unfold. The maniacal laugh is back again, but it does nothing to shake me from being frozen by the complete and total violation of trust that thank god I've only had to aurally witness. If anything, I at least can understand his reaction now. Hell, I can fucking respect it. It must've taken years to develop the ability to even breathe normally again after hearing about that, much less pace back and forth trying to escape the inescapable. I can't even fucking move, despite my brain screaming at me to tell him that I absolutely don't want to hear anything more chilling because I think I've heard enough of this story that I've regretfully asked for. I get the jest. They had a decade long unstable relationship, everybody's wrong, and the right thing to do is for them to not get back together again. Fuck, I can even offer him a slice of optimism now. It's a good thing that it didn't work out today, S. It's a really good thing. She's as insouciant with your feelings now as she was then and the only way it's ever going to stop is if you stop being oblivious and quit letting her walk all over you. You know it and--- "It was a day after I told her I loved her for the first time. She said it back, but…I guess she didn’t mean it, huh? Anyway..."

Now I do too.

He keeps going on, something about 2008 and...I don't know why the hell he feels it necessary to bring up James Dean but it doesn't matter. I can't listen and I don't have to. There's absolutely nothing that he can say or she could do that could shock me more than that. There's nothing anybody could do that's worse. Her physically ripping into his chest and taking his heart only to run over it several times before apathetically tossing it back to him would've been better...at least the pain would have to stop after a while and he wouldn't have to linger with the chronic ache he's been suffering from. It's humane in comparison to her fatal lie...but... "I feel like I’m fucking dying. My head hurts. So that’s the brilliant story of how I went balls deep on my ex-girlfriend right after she got cheated on. You like it? You got any fucking thoughts? Let me know. Let me know, because I’m about to have a conniption if I can’t find any reason in her unceremonious sort of break-up text. Swear to god..."

If it weren't for that, I'm not sure I'd ever be able to come back to the present...which is weird because I've never physically left it. Every memory of his is new information to me and there's so much of it that it actually makes what was exchanged with her tonight seem like an eternity ago. I have to remember that he's supposed to be the one who committed a heinous act by sleeping with her after her boyfriend cheated on her, I have to remember that she came to him crying over it, I have to remember that she isn't totally heartless and that he was the only person who's ever truly been there for her. I have to remember that this is my drug dealer and some girl I've never even met and...I have to remember to be careful. I'm definitely in too deep now and it'd be just about my luck if my fate got sealed out here without any coke at stake just because I saw past all of the nostalgia and possessed the audacity to call a spade a spade.

Maybe that's why he called me out here. Maybe I'm the only person who can say it.

My eyes close as I remove the disintegrating Parliament from my lips, breathing in and trying to bring myself back to all those fucking thoughts that I had...

"Well...there is a reason. As nonsensical, unfair, and sometimes downright cruel the world can be, within it's burning core always remains a reason and...I think you know it. Or, at least, I'm led to believe you maintain a good idea of it. You said yourself that you don't know why you're surprised because it ends up in the same shit every time and I don't think you need me to elaborate on the inevitability of the result. You two are not meant to be, and no matter how good both of your intentions are or everything else that's changed in your lives, this decade long track record cements the truth. She knows what you want and if she couldn't give that to you ten years ago and couldn't give it today, she's not going to give it to you tomorrow either. The only thing that's gonna change is when you realize that Lyd the majestic fucking angel is a joke that you don't have to keep falling fool to. You shouldn't have slept with her last night and she shouldn't have slept with you either, you're both wrong and you've both have been wrong. You've come full circle. We can sit here for another two hours and agonize over how shittily she's gone about it, but the fact is that it was honest. Brutally honest, but that's become her specialty. At least it's clarity. She's decided to move on and, if you want to finally break this long and suffocating chain, you should too. No one person is worth that much pain."

#/stopyourtrain #the bros #04122015

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406ink-blog · 7 years

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Time Stands Still Ch. 5: The Lion and the Wolf (also on A03)

“Lady Sansa, I wonder if I might have a word with you? Jaime Lannister called out to her as she crossed the yard en route to the godswood. He’d been told she oversaw nearly everything that happened at Winterfell, from the accounts to the caching of grain for winter to the making of proper northern armor. It was the armor he wished to discuss with her now. He jogged across the slushy yard where men had been practicing at swordplay earlier in order to catch up with her.

Sansa halted, waiting for him. As he caught up, she turned her aquamarine eyes on him. They were full of impatience and disdain. “My lord,” she said simply, coldly, and waited for him to speak.

He lost himself for a moment in those eyes of hers; they were two endless glacial pools, their depths utterly boundless.

“What was it you wanted Ser Jaime? I am quite busy,” Sansa snapped, clearly annoyed by his interruption.

“Why do you hate me so much Lady Sansa?” he asked her. It was not his intended question, but he found he could not contain it. Her eyes seemed to turn a darker shade of blue, reminding him of a roiling sea. She cast her eyes down before answering, and he saw the glint of his golden hand reflected in them, the moon in a midnight sky.

“I do not hate you my lord. It is just that I do not like you. I do not like you and I do not trust you,” she answered truthfully. She pressed her lips into a thin line.

“And what have I ever done to earn your mistrust Sansa?” He appreciated her brevity and, taking his cue from her, let the small formalities between them slip away. “I swore a vow to your mother once that I would return you to her - you and your sister. I did everything in my power to uphold my oath, including incurring the wrath and mistrust of my own family.” He held up his golden hand and continued, “Look at it, Sansa. Another price I paid for my vow to your mother. Does that not count for something?”

“Your sister and your nephew – son, monster, whatever he was – Joffrey – they abused me, they tortured me relentlessly … your lord father forced me to marry Lord Tyrion like I was a pawn in some game.” Every word she spoke was brimming with more emotion than the last. No matter how hard Sansa tried to remain cold and impassive, she found she could not, until she was fairly shaking from the effort it took to contain herself. Her veneer was beginning to crack.

Jaime grew suddenly weary of her pity party. “My sister, my son, my father, yes to all of that – but what have I ever done to you?” His voice was imperious velvet, each vowel long and drawn out. She didn’t like the hard edge to his voice.

She looked up at him. He was still the glittering hero who had ridden into Winterfell that first time with King Robert: a golden god with shining emerald eyes, his flaxen hair and whiskers now threaded here and there with silver, the same patrician nose and arrogant smirk. Sansa was tall for a woman, but Ser Jaime yet towered over her. Still, she would not allow him to intimidate or frighten her she decided; this was her home. She was no longer a doe-eyed maid of 13, a frightened little bird to be awed by glittering armor and white cloaks. “It’s not what you did; it’s what you didn’t do. You are a knight, you swore vows …”

Jaime lost his patience at her mention of vows - hadn’t they already covered vows? His mind flashed back to a similar conversation with Catelyn Stark. What was it with the Stark women and these damned vows? He took a step forward, left hand on the hilt of his gleaming golden sword, and Sansa stepped back despite her own affirmation that she would not be intimidated by him. Jaime kept walking until Sansa’s back was pressed up against the wall and both of them were cloaked in the shadow of the eave. So many vows I’ve sworn. Defend the king. Obey the king. Keep the king’s secrets. Do the king’s bidding. Give your life for your king. But obey and love your father. Love your sister. Protect the innocent. Defend the weak. Respect the gods. Obey the laws. It’s too much. No matter what you do, you’re forsaking one vow or another.

He caged her in with his arms, pressing his hands to the wall on either side of her head. She really was a lovely girl – no, woman – she was a woman now, he had to remind himself. She’d had two husbands. No doubt the Bolton boy had taken her maidenhead; he knew Tyrion hadn’t. Tragedy, that, he thought, such quality gone to waste on a bastard. Her hair had darkened to a rich auburn color since the last time Jaime had seen her, she’d grown taller and curvier, filling out the bodice of her dress quite nicely. Though she was no maid, she still had an air of innocence about her, and he wondered if she would blush or perhaps even slap him if he were to kiss her now. He’d never been with a woman who wasn’t Cersei. Another fucking vow, he thought bitterly, and look what it got me.

Sansa felt trapped, a wolf cornered by a lion. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the unnatural glint of his golden hand contrasted with the drab grey stone wall. His face was only an inch from hers and his eyes had become as hard and black as obsidian. Her heart beat a wild tattoo in her breast. He smelled of leather and cedar and fresh, cold snow. His voice was smooth and calm as still water as he said, “Even if I’d wanted to help you Sansa, I couldn’t. I would only have made it worse had I tried. My sister is a cruel, vengeful cunt and Joff was every bit her son. My father never concerned himself with the wants or needs of others. Was it terrible for you in the capital? Of that I have no doubt. Could it have been worse? Oh, I can promise you that. Cersei spoke often and in great detail of her eventual plans for you, all of which are too demented for me to repeat. So you’re right – I did nothing. I did nothing … and … I’m not sorry. We all did what we had to do.” His eyes burned into hers like winter fire.

Sansa didn’t know what possessed her, but she leaned forward as though she was going to kiss him and then kneed him solidly in the crotch with everything she had. He slid to the dirt with a wheeze, a crumpled heap at her feet. She stepped over him and walked away, heading to her original destination of the godswood.

How could this be the man they call the Kingslayer? Sansa wondered as she walked. He was a degenerate, a lowlife, no true knight. It surely had something to do with Cersei. Sansa had to admit a certain sick admiration for the woman, even if she was a disease. Cersei had done her level best to manipulate, warp and break the man, as surely as Ramsey Bolton had once tried to break Sansa. It was only by wiping her tormenter from the face of the earth, along with his house and his name, that Sansa had begun her long journey to healing. Being reunited with Jon, Arya and Bran had been a balm to soothe her fractured soul. Jon had sworn to protect Sansa and Arya had proven she would defend her sister without a moment’s hesitation though even now, she never felt really and truly safe. Safety was an illusion for fools.

She did worry a bit about what it had looked like, her and Jaime Lannister only inches from each other, and what would happen had they been seen. She especially worried if someone saw and mentioned it to Jon. Lord Baelish had once told her about an encounter with Jon in the crypt. He’d told Jon he loved Sansa and the King in the North had flown into a black rage, he said, wrapping a hand about his neck and slamming him to the wall. Littlefinger was no threat, and certainly no match for Jon, but Jaime would be formidable. Still, Sansa had no desire to see any more blood spilled in her home, and especially not her brother’s.

#jonerys fanfic #sansa stark #jaime lannister #boom motherfucker

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landilizandra · 7 years

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Micro-Ouroboroi: The Rayquazan Aether.

WHAT IS A MICRO-OUROBORUS?

The first question I am sure you are asking as you begin to read this paper is 'What is a Micro-Ouroborus?' If you aren't, then you are either rather clever, or rather dim.

Ouroborus, as I am sure most of my readers know, was the first Dragon. When he was slain, his very being was fragmented, and pieces of his spirit reside in all Touched to this day.

But not all Touch is the same, and if one knows what to look for they can identify the origin and variety of a dragon based solely on their Touch. Because of this, patterns can emerge, and certain...patterns can begin to form.

So what, then, is a Micro-Ouroborus? To put is simply, a Micro-Ouroborus is an Awakened entity which, just as Ouroborus served as the base for all Touched life, serves as the base and starting point for a new variety of Touch, one which can trace its particular signature and patterning back to this one individual.

WHAT ARE POKEMON?

What are Pokemon, you are probably wondering. They aren't exactly well known or common on Draconia.

Pokemon are creatures found on a series of interconnected worlds which seem to be alternate versions of Earth. Most have the appearance of animals, though some appear as plants, and even others seem to be inanimate objects.

Pokemon are creatures of energy and spirit taken a physical form, something which has happened enough times for me to feel my audience should be familiar enough with the concept. There are many types, including Dark, Fire, Bug, each with its own energy and traits, but the one we will be discussing is the aptly named Dragon Type.

To understand some of what I am about to say, I need to tell you about Evolution. I do not mean a change from one species to another over time. Instead a Pokemon Evolution is more akin to a metamorphosis. When a Pokemon becomes powerful enough, when its energy has increased suitably, it transforms into the next stage of its evolution line.

Another point you must understand is Egg Groups. Pokemon can interbreed to an enormous degree, and how they can mix depends on the energies allowing them to. Again there are many kinds of Egg Groups, Monster, Water 2, Grass, but the one we are most concerned about is the Dragon Egg Group.

Note: A Pokemon can have up to two types, and can be in up to two Egg Groups. Remember this.

RAYQUAZA AND HIS AETHER

These two concepts, Micro-Ouroboroi and Pokemon, come together in the Dragon Rayquaza.

Rayquaza is a Legendary Pokemon, the term used to refer to the divine Pokemon who hold dominion over the worlds. Rayquaza is one of the oldest, and he is the eldest of the Dragon Types.

Through my research, both personally speaking with the deity as well as studying his energy signature and those of others, I have come to a conclusion as to how he was created. He confesses to having no knowledge of any parents, or of any time spent in the egg. Instead he formed one day as an adult, and encountered this cluster of worlds soon after.

I believe that Rayquaza was born from an abnormally large free fragment of Touched Energy, one which traveled through the Multiverse shifting and shaping itself until finally Rayquaza was born.

Rayquaza's Touch has a distinct presence about it, and it is actually this energy which resides in, and defines, all Dragon Pokemon, both those of the Type and of the Egg Group. This energy is called Rayquazan Aether, and while the primary source of it is Rayquaza, a bit of it resides in every Dragon Pokemon, and defines them, what they do, and how their very spirits react. In fact, while I was studying these Dragons, I found that, where most would have their Touch, they seem to have theirs either merged with, or completely replaced by, Rayquazan Aether. Every Dragon Pokemon is an extension of Rayquaza's spirit, just as Touched are extensions of Ouroborus'.

Just like Ouroborus before him, Rayquaza is the start of an entirely new spiritual lineage. And not only is the Rayquazan Aether fascination for that reason, but there are levels to it as well, just as there are levels to the Touch.

LEVELS OF DRACONITY

When it comes to the Rayquazan Aether and Dragon Pokemon, there are four categories.

The first category are the Pseudo-dragons. These are creatures which, while they do have Rayquazan Aether within them, they have it on such a minute level that it is all but meaningless. This usually presents itself in species which have either lost their Draconity in some way, or are non-Dragon Pokemon which are able to use the Dragon Typed attacks, a feat which requires the user have some Rayquazan Aether within them, though it is likely little more than background energy. Pokemon found within the Monster Egg Group belong here as well, for the energy which makes up that Group is a chimera of altered Rayquazan Aether.

The second category are the Quasi-dragons. These are defined as non-Dragon Pokemon which know Hidden Power Dragon. Confused? Allow me to explain.

Hidden Power is a move, typically classified as Normal, which deals damage based upon other Typings. These moves, contrary to moves which do not match a Pokemon's Typing, are enhanced by the Pokemon's spirit. To put it simply, Hidden Power is a move which all but adds a new typing to the user, but only for that move.

If a Pokemon learns Hidden Power Dragon, that means it has Rayquazan Aether within its spirit, less than a True or Hemi-Dragon, but more than would be found within a Psuedo-dragon.

The third type of dragon is the Hemi-dragon, which is classified as any Pokemon found within the Dragon Egg Group, but which is not Dragon Typed. These Pokemon contain a great deal more of the Aether within them, enough to breed with and produce dragons, but they are still not entirely True Dragons.

And finally, we have the True Dragons. These are any Pokemon which:

Has a Dragon Typing.

Belong to an evolutionary chain which gains a Dragon Typing.

Gains a Dragon Typing upon a Mega Evolution.

As you can see, while not identical to the pattern between Touched and Awakened, in fact I would daresay that even Pseudo-dragons would most likely be Awakened, since Rayquazan Aether seems to be a purely Awakened version of the Touch, the similarities in that there are concrete layers at all is astounding.

TOUCHED AND AWAKENED, YET NOT RAYQUAZAN

This is probably the moment where you are all wondering if all Touched found on these worlds are not Rayquazan in nature. And while true it would prove to be a fascinating topic if they were, what makes it all the more interesting is that they are not.

As I said before Pokemon are creatures of energy and spirit taken physical form. But what is most astounding about them is that they tend to follow a pattern of life existing elsewhere, resembling them not just on a physical level, but on a spiritual one as well.

To make a comparison, no matter how much like a turtle a Kappa may appear, a Kappa is not a turtle, nor is it even Touched. They are pure Fae, nothing else.

But Squirtle, the starting stage of the Water Typed Blastoise, is a Pokemon which resembles a turtle not just in physical attributes, but in many spiritual ones as well, even possessing a Touch similar to that found in mundane turtles.

How this occurs, I am still not certain, though I suspect it may have something to do with Memory, at least where the Touched Pokemon are concerned, and ripples of energy where it concerns others. Possibly some wandering spirits went into the original Q-Type energy from which all Pokemon are derived.

Squirtle is not the only Pokemon where this appears, either. If you were to examine every Pokemon you would find that those which resemble birds physically resemble them in Touch as well. As do Feline Pokemon, Chiropteran Pokemon, Reptilian Pokemon, and Amphibian Pokemon. Yet despite being Touched, and in many cases Awakened as well, none of these are Dragons, for they lack the necessary Rayquazan Aether.

DRAGON ATTACKS: HARNESSING THE AETHER

Pokemon as a whole are capable of using the typed energy which makes them up as both a offensive and defensive tool. These are called attacks or moves, and everyone has a typing. Most often, a Pokemon will have attacks which are aligned with their own type, though a Pokemon can have a moveset which deviates.

It would stand to reason, then, that Dragon Typed attacks work because they are harnessing the Rayquazan Aether, and this assumption would be a correct one. Dragon Type moves are created through specific and controlled applications of Rayquazan Aether.

Those among you, who are familiar with Awakened qualities, will find this rather recognizable, and I believe it does work on much the same concept. Just as Awakened are able to use and channel their Touch into abilities and energies, so too can Dragon Typed Pokemon channel their Aether, and the around them, into power.

SAMPLING OF DRAGONS; PSEUDO TO TRUE

I am now going to, for those of you who are not familiar with the Pokemon World and its creatures, which I will assume to be nearly all of you, make a list of nearly every Rayquazan Type Pokemon that there is.

Note that details such as size and coloring refer to the average, and is not a hard and fast rule. There can be, and are, variants. I will, however, mention a popular color variant known as a Shiny for each Pokemon. While not the most common variant, it is the most notable for cultural reasons.

For the sake of brevity, for this is a long list, how a line is Rayquazan will be marked next to the title. If it has a Dragon Typed member, it will receive a +. If it has a Dragon Egg Group member, it will receive an *. If it is neither, I will explain in the text. Now, let us begin.

Charizard+*

The Charizard line, native to the Kanto Region, will be the first line of dragons we shall discuss. It is a noteworthy line for multiple reasons. One of the first is that it is the Fire Type Starter for the Kanto Region, a Starter Pokemon being the Pokemon which trainers are given before they start their journey. The next notable feature is their Mega Evolution, which I will cover here so that I do not need to cover the topic later.

Mega Evolution is a case where, temporarily, a Pokemon can can change its appearance, strength level, and even typing. In order for this to occur a Pokemon must have two things. The first is a strong bond with a humans and the second is the possession of a Mega Stone specific for their line. I suspect that it is the human's Q-Typing which allows for the evolution process to occur, which is why a strong bond with a trainer is needed.

Mega Stones are interesting in that they seem to be orbs of crystalline energy, an energy which has two parts. The first is an outer shell of typed energy, which is what causes the change if one occurs. The second part is a core, almost like a spiral in appearance, which seems to match the spiritual energy found within the specific species the stone is to be used for.

(It is also worth noting that, in order for the Mega Stone to activate, the human must be in possession of a Key Stone. I suspect these are Q-Typed, but have not been able to acquire one for further study.)

Moving past that detour, I shall now continue on with describing the Charizard line.

All Charizards begin life in the Charmander stage. Charmander, on average, stands at two feet tall and weighs a little less than twenty pounds. In appearance, it resembles a small lizard or saurian, with a flame at the end of its tail. It is typically an orange color, with a tan stomach, though Shinies are more yellow or golden in appearance.

Charmander has two potential abilities.

The first is Blaze, which increased the strength of Fire Type moves when the Pokemon's health is suitably reduced.

The second ability is Solar Power, which reduces the Pokemon's health while in harsh sunlight, while at the same time increasing it's ability to deal damage with energy focused, or Special, attacks.

The second stage is known as a Charmeleon. Now over three feet tall and over forty pounds, Charmeleon resembles its previous stage rather strongly, though its jaws have become more angular, almost beak-like in shape, and it has developed a horn or crest on the back of its head. Its claws increase in size, and it becomes red in color, though Shinies stay more yellow.

Charmeleon has the same abilities as its prior form, so I do not have to cover them again.

The final stage, not counting the Mega Evolutions, is known as Charizard. Charizard is a bit more than five and a half feet tall, and weighs a bit less than two hundred pounds. At this point it resembles your conventional bipedal Thrakon, with two horns now instead of only one, and wings capable of carrying it in flight. Its coloring is once again orange, with the undersides of its wings being blue. Its Shiny, however, differs drastically from those of its previous forms. A Shiny Charizard, rather than being yellow or gold, is black in color, with red on the undersides of its wings instead of blue.

Charizard shares the abilities of its previous forms.

As mentioned earlier, Charizard can Mega Evolve. Unusually, however, it can Mega Evolve twice.

The first evolution is Mega Charizard Y, achieved through holding Charizardite Y. When compared with a normal Charizard, the Y Mega is thinner with a larger wingspan, however it is also heavier, weighing in at just over two hundred and twenty pounds. Its coloration does not change, though the Shiny appears to be a more dark purple or grey than black. It also grows a third horn from between its two others, some fins and serrations on its back and tail, and two wing-like structures on its arms.

Mega Charizard Y has the ability Drought, which causes harsh sunlight during a battle.

The second evolution if Mega Charizard X, achieved through holding Charizardite X. When compared with a normal Charizard, the X Mega has roughly the same build, though it is now much heavier, weighing around fifty pounds more. Its coloration has changed dramatically, becoming black with blue markings and greenish with red markings in the Shiny. The flame on its tail becomes blue, and it seems to have flames billowing from the sides of its mouth constantly, also blue. Its wings become scalloped, and it grows a pair of spiked on each shoulder.

Mega Charizard X has the ability Tough Claws, which increases the damage done by moves which make physical contact.

Perhaps the most impressive thing about Mega Charizard X, however, is its typing. While all members of Charizard's line is in the Dragon Egg Group they are typically not Dragon Typed, instead being either Fire or Fire/Flying. Therefor, they would normally be classified as Hemi-dragons. It is the X Mega which pushes them into True Dragon status, for you see Mega Charizard X is a Fire/Dragon type.

As an additional note, there is a variant of the Charizard Line in the Hoenn Region known as Blaziken. Seemingly reflecting a kinship to the Aitvaras, the Charizard of this region can assume, and usually keep, the form of a Fire or Fire/Fighting type Rooster Pokemon. This transformation is so complete that few even realize the fire chickens to be, in actuality, dragons.

Machamp

The Machamp line, native to the Kanto region, is an example of a Psuedo-dragon of this world. As such, I will not be covering them with as much detail as I would give to the others. Instead, I will mostly cover their origin, and why they are classified as such.

Machamp, and its previous forms of Machop and Machoke, take the form of reptilian apes, with Machamp's most notable feature being its four arms. They are a pure Fighting Type, and aren't even found within the Dragon Egg Group. Why then are they appearing here? Because as I said they are Psuedo-dragons, which I will now explain.

Some of you may be familiar with the concept of sowing dragon teeth. The idea that, if planted, dragon teeth will grow strong warriors. The more learned of you will know this concept to be true, though I doubt any of you would have tried it for yourself.

Pokemon of the Machamp line are, simply put, the sewn warriors of the Pokemon world. No one knows what sort of dragon they sprung from, my money would be on either Charizard or Dragonite, but it must have happened far enough in the past for the Machamp line to become a self propagating one, for I have found no recent records of Machamps being sewn to life.

The fact that the line as a whole has their origins in objects containing Rayquazan Aether means that, while they do not have enough to even be classified as a Quasi-dragon, Machamps do have Rayquazan Aether inside of them, and that makes them worth noting.

Exeggutor+

The Exeggcutor line, native to the Kanto Region, are a primarily plant-like Pokemon, being Grass/Psychic normally, and only occasionally having the Dragon Typing for reasons I will explain later.

The first stage of is known as Exeggcute. It takes on the appearance of a cluster of pink eggs or seeds, golden or yellow if it is a Shiny, with each being a bit more than a foot tall, and more then five pounds. There has been a longstanding debate as to whether or not each of the eggs represents an individual Pokemon, or if the cluster as a whole is the Pokemon. The answer is that both are correct.

There are three ways in which an Exeggcute can exist and evolve, and the difference varies from region to region, and from individual to individual. There have even been cases of sibling Exeggcute following different paths.

The first morph is where each individual egg is its own Pokemon, and each will evolve into its own Exeggcutor. In these cases, the cluster is kept together through the use of a telepathic hivemind, formed thanks to the Rayquazan Aether they share.

The second morph is identical to the first in every respect except in this case, when the cluster evolves they merge into a singular Pokemon, instead of each Exeggcute becoming their own Exeggcutor. Once again, the Rayquazan Aether keeps the cluster together.

The third morph is the one which differs the most. In this case, the cluster itself is one Pokemon, one consciousness, spread out over many bodies. When it evolves, it becomes a singular Exeggcutor.

Exeggcute has two Abilities.

The first is called Chlorophyll, which increases the Pokemon's speed while in the sun.

The second is called Harvest, which can generate a berry for the Pokemon to eat after it has already consumed one.

There are two second stages, with the first being Exeggcutor, and the second being Alolan Exeggcutor. In order to evolve into either variant an Exeggcute must be exposed to the Grass Type energy which radiates from a Leaf Stone.

Exeggcutor keeps the Grass/Psychic typing of its previous evolution, and resembles a stout palm tree with three faces. It is more than six feet in height, and weighs over two hundred and fifty pounds. It has a brown body, green fronds, and yellow faces, though a Shiny has a golden body with brown fronds.

Exeggcutor keeps the abilities of its previous evolution, so I do not need to cover them again.

Alolan Exeggcutor, the second possible stage, can only be accomplished in the Alolan region. To explain why, I must explain to you the origin of the Exeggcutor line.

Long ago, back during the creation of the world, Rayquaza once descended to the world and fell asleep beneath a tree. While he slept, he dreamed that he courted and mated with the tree, and when he awoke the first eggs of the Exeggcutor line had been formed.

The tree, you see, was not some ordinary plant. It was the resting form of Xerneas, the Pokemon deity of the Fairy Type and Life. Because they had mated while Xerneas was a tree, the young hatched with the Grass Typing. Because they had mated while asleep, the young hatched with the Psychic Typing.

When they evolved, they became the Grass/Dragon Exeggcutor. But this was not to last. In order to remain True Dragons they needed an environment with a surplus of Rayquazan Aether, and as more and more dragons were born, and as more dragon species died out or moved on, there was not enough to sustain them. In time, Exeggcutor too were reduced to the status of Pseudo-dragons, keeping their Psychic typing instead of gaining that of the Dragon.

But in Alola, there exists a type of dragon known a Drampa. Drampa have high levels of Rayquazan Aether within and around them, thanks to many being transformed Lorekeepers (a point I will discuss later). Because of this, Alolan Exeggcutor were able to exist as their kind were intended. As True Dragons.

Alolan Exeggcutor is much larger than its fellow, being over thirty feet tall and weighting over nine hundred pounds. Its coloration remains the same, including that of the Shiny. It has a long neck, upon which three heads are placed, and it has a tail with a fourth head.

Alolan Exeggcutor knows the Ability Frisk, which allows it identify what item an opponent may be holding.

Marowak

The Marowak Line, native to the Kanto Region, is another line of Pseudo-dragons, and so I will keep this brief. A Cubone, the first stage, appears as a saurian like creature wearing a skull. When it becomes a Marowak, the skull becomes fused with its head.

For the longest time the origins of Cubone have been unknown. It is said to wear the skull of its mother, but what it was before being orphaned was a mystery. My research has uncovered the mystery.

A Cubone is created when any Pokemon within the Monster Egg Group is orphaned and, in an attempt to search for shelter, wears its mother's skull. This action has a profound effect on the young, transforming it from what it once was into a Cubone.

The reason Marowak is on this list is because there are dragons found within the Monster Egg Group, and they are just as capable of becoming Cubone as any other. When this occurs, the resulting Cubone, despite the Type and Egg Group Change, still has Rayquazan Aether inside of them.

Kingdra+*

The Kingdra line, native to the Kanto Region, has the appearance of seahorses, though they are much larger than more conventionally known seahorses. They are aquatic Pokemon, with every stage being a Water Type, though it gains the Dragon Typing in its final stage.

The first stage is known as Horsea. While small for a pokemon, it is over a foot long, and weighs over fifteen pounds. It looks rather similar to a blue seahorse, with the Shinies appearing somewhat more greenish in color. Horsea is noted for having a sort of crest around its head.

Horsea can have one of three abilities, with two connected to its association with water.

The first ability is Swift Swim, which increases the Pokemon's speed in the rain.

The second ability is Sniper, which strengthens moves if they do critical damage.

The third and final ability is Damp, which prevents other Pokemon from self destructing.

The second stage is known as Seadra. It has more than doubled in height and weight since its previous form, and has increased in power and aggression as well. It has visible scales, two jagged fins, and a more prominent head crest. It is blue in color normally, and a Shiny Seadra is paler than normal.

Seadra can have up three abilities as well, though only one is different from its previous stage.

Poison Point, the only different ability, poisons foes which physically come in contact with the Pokemon.

The third stage is known as Kingdra, and this stage is the one that is most notable, because few Seadra ever become a Kingdra, and none will become one naturally.

While most Pokemon evolve through aging and gaining more power, there are some which need more prompting. In a Held Item Evolution, a Pokemon can only evolve if they are in the possession of a certain item. Additionally, some of these are, in addition to Held Item Evolutions, Trade Evolutions. For a Trade Evolution to occur, a Pokemon must travel a great distance, absorbing new and powerful energies as they go. Humans have invented machines, called Trading Machines, to accelerate this process, hence the name.

In this case, a Seadra can only become a Kingdra if it is holding something known as a Dragon Scale, which is exactly what it sounds like. It can come from any True Dragon Pokemon, including members of the Kingdra line. However, it cannot come from the individual Pokemon themselves. I hypothesize that it is the presence of foreign Rayquazan Aether which forces the change to begin.

But holding the Dragon Scale is not enough. The Pokemon must travel far, using the scale as a focal point of absorbing the latent Rayquazan Aether found all over the world. Once it has absorbed enough, the Seadra merges with the scale, forming a Kingdra, and granting it a Dragon Typing.

Kingdra is nearly six feet, and weighs over three hundred pounds. Where Seadra had two fins, Kingdra only has one, like the Horsea stage. It has a narrow head with what appear to be branching horns, and two fins on the sides of its head. It is blue with a yellow belly, and the Shinies are purple.

Kingdra shares all of its abilities with Horsea.

Gyarados+*

The Gyarados line, native to the Kanto Region, are an aquatic species of dragons, which seem to be echos of carps. Because of this, they have a rather peculiar nature when it comes to the Rayquazan Aether and foreign Touch.

The first stage of the Gyarados line is known as a Magikarp. It is a little less than three feet long and over twenty pounds. It resembles an orange fish with yellow serrated fins, with Shinies appearing golden. Magikarp is infamous for being an incredibly weak Pokemon, unable to use nearly any attack, or do anything of use in combat.

Magikarp is capable of having two Abilities. The first is Swift Swim, which I already covered. The second is Rattled, which increases its speed if it is attacked by something frightening.

The second stage is Gyarados, which is quite different from its prior stage. Gyarados is significantly larger, with adults averaging at over twenty feet long and over five hundred pounds, though much larger individuals have been seen. It appears as a large, blue sea serpent with a gaping maw, and serrated spines. Shinies are Red in color, and are rather famous.

While Magikarp is weak, and rather useless for battle, Gyarados is a powerful, and highly aggressive, Pokemon.

Gyarados has two possible Abilities, which are vastly different from what its prior stage has.

The first Ability is known as Intimidate. This Ability causes a fear response in the user's foes, which causes their ability to deal physical damage to decrease.

The second Ability is Moxie, which increases its ability to deal physical damage after it has directly defeated another Pokemon, foe or ally.

Gyarados, despite its hostile nature, is capable of forming the bond needed to cause a Mega Evolution. When this occurs, the Pokemon loses its Flying Type, switching from Water/Flying to Water/Dark, and increases in weight. Mega Gyarados is stockier than typical Gyarados, with large fins on its back.

Mega Gyarados has the Ability Mold Breaker, which allows it to deal damage even if the opposing Pokemon's ability should cancel the attack out.

This is how the Gyarados line typically works, when it follows the cycle and life that a Pokemon should. However, as I stated before, Magikarp is still a carp, or at least the echoes of one, and as such is also governed by the rules which govern carps.

When a carp jumps over a waterfall it becomes a Ryuung, and Magikarp are no exception. But as Pokemon, when they pass through the Dragon Gate an unusual change occurs. As it shifts into a Ryuung it evolves, and in the end instead of becoming a Ryuung or a Gyarados, it becomes a hybrid of the two.

These creatures do not gain the Dragon Typing right away, keeping the Water/Flying classification typical of Gyarados. However, they do have access to it through something called Primal Reversion. When this occurs the Ryuung nature of the creature combines with the Rayquazan Aether, causing the Gyarados to become a Water/Dragon Type.

Aerodactyl

Aerodactyl is another Pseudo-Dragon, and so I once more shall be deviating from the formula.

Aerodactyl is what is known as a Fossil Pokemon. This is a Pokemon which, long ago, died out, and was only recently revived by science. However, every Fossil Pokemon to date has been part Rock Type. It seems as though the fossilization and revival process alters it in some way.

Why am I bringing this up? Because Aerodactyl, as well as the Archeops line, were Dragon/Flying types before they went extinct.

Aerodactyl and its kin were originally True Dragons, but it is through death and rebirth which they have altered into something else. While Aerodactyl does posses a Mega, the energy surrounding the stone is Rock in typing, so even as a Mega Aerodactyl cannot claim its lost lineage.

Hopefully, cloning processes will improve, and Aerodactyl will once more be able to fly as a dragon.

Dragonite+*

The Dragonite line, native to the Kanto Region, is a Psuedo-Legendary Dragon Type lineage. They are shy and elusive, docile yet powerful, and are largely aquatic in habitat.

The first stage is known as Dratini. This serpentine dragon is nearly six feet, though it typically only weighs around ten pounds. It is a light blue in color, with a white belly and crest, and a white gem on its head. The Shiny, however, is pink instead of blue.

Dratini can have one of two abilities, both connected to its hide and skin.

The first ability is Shed Skin, which allows the Pokemon to shed status conditions by shedding the outer layer of its skin.

The second ability is Marvel Scale, which increases the defense of the Pokemon if it is currently suffering from a status condition.

The second stage is known as Dragonair. Around fifteen feet long, and over thirty pounds, it greatly resembles Dragonite, with some differences. Its gem has grown into a horn, with its crests becoming feather-like in appearance. It also grows a blue pearl under its chin, and two blue pears on its tail tip. The Shiny, like with Dratini, is pink, with yellow or golden pearls.

Dragonair shares the same abilities as Dratini.

The third stage is known as Draginite. Here its body has changed drastically, moving from a serpent to a tall, and heavy, dragon. It is a hexapodal biped, with two wings and two arms. It is shorter than Dragonair, at less than ten feet, but it weighs significantly more, and truly massive individuals, hundreds of feet long, are said to inhabit the depths of the oceans. Its wings are small, though it can fly swiftly using its natural abilities and Typing, and it has two tendrils where the crests once were. It is normally orange, though Shinies are green.

Dragonite has two abilities, both different from its prior stages. The first is Inner Focus, which prevents the Pokemon from flinching.

The second is Multiscale, which reduces damage sustained by a fully healthy individual.

The Dragonite Line are notable for being Pseudo Legendaries. Psuedo Legendaries are powerful Pokemon, not as strong as the gods but more powerful than most of their fellows. They grow slowly, but once mature they are formidable creatures.

Dunsparce

Dunsparce, native to the Johto Region, is the only Pokemon of its line, it does not evolve in any way.

Dunsparce, being nearly five feet in length and just over thirty pounds, resembles a winged tsuchinoko, with two fang-like structures under its jaw and a drill at the end of its tail. It is yellow in color with blue and cream markings, though a Shiny has pink markings instead.

Dunsparce can have three Abilities, which reflect the more passive nature of this Pokemon.

The first ability is Serene Grace, which increases the chance that an move or attack will have an additional effect.

The second is Run Away, which makes it easier for the Pokemon to escape.

Finally, there is Rattled, which I have already covered.

Now, Dunsparce is unusual in that it, along with the Serperior Line, are Pseudo Dragons who seem to have once been higher ranked. In the dim and distant past both these lines were at the very least Hemi-dragons, if not fully True Dragons. The cause of this degeneration is unknown. It is not a result of fossilization, such as with Aerodactyl or Archeops. Rather, it seems the population lost it as a whole. Whether this was evolved or inflicted, I cannot say.

Haxorus+*

The Haxorus line, native to the Unova Region, bears a strong resemblance to dinosaurs and their saurian kin. Each stage has tusks growing from their upper jaws, which they use to battle both their own line and other Pokemon. They are a three stage line, which you have probably noticed by now is not uncommon.

The first stage is known as Axew. It is two feet tall, and just under forty pounds. In appearance it resembles a small green dinosaur, with straight tusks which can grow back if broken or lost. On the top of its head is a crest, used for both displaying and combat.

As mentioned it is typically green in color, with some parts being a darker green than others. A Shiny Axew, however, appears to be duller than a normal one, with a pink collar rather than a green one.

Axew has access to three abilities, all of which seem to reflect its fighting nature.

Its first ability is Rivalry, which increases its ability to inflict physical damage if its opponent is of the same sex.

Its second ability is Mold Breaker, which I have already covered.

Finally, it can possess Unnerve, which can inflict a fear response in opponents, causing them to forget whatever healing berry they may possess.

The second stage is known as Fraxure. It has grown significantly, with growing around a foot in height and nearly doubling its weight. The collar around its neck has grown into impressive armor, and the tusks have increased in length and durability, now able to break through stone.

Fraxure has a grey body with green armor, though a Shiny has paler armor than other Fraxure, and its red markings become blue.

Fraxure has the same abilities as its previous stage, so I do not need to cover them.

The third and final stage, Haxorus, brings to mind creatures of old, of dinosaurs and their kin, which it is very possible that Haxorus relates to. Or at least to the Pokemon World’s equivalent of them.

Haxorus stands at just under six feet, and weighs in at at a decent weight of just over two hundred and thirty two pounds. Once again, in case you have forgotten, these sizes are averages, and there can be larger and smaller individuals. It has a golden and black coloration, with a bit of red on its tusks, though its Shinies are very appealing, appearing entirely black with just the smallest bits of red.

As I mentioned before Haxorus and its line have an almost Saurian appearance, and possesses rather massive blades on either side of its mouth.

Haxorus kept the abilities from its previous stages, so I do not feel the need to repeat them here.

Druddigon+*

The Druddigon line, a native to the Unova Region, is unusual in that it only has a single member. While it is not the only Pokemon with this feature, as previously mentioned Dunsparce demonstrated, nor is it the only dragon with this feature, it is still noteworthy, because so few Pokemon have lines like this.

Druddigon is a decently sized dragon, being a bit taller than five feet and weighing in at over three hundred pounds. Its body is covered in spikes and protrusions, two of which function as wings when needed. Additionally, its hide is very rough, almost rock-like. Continuing with this thought, if the dragon becomes too cold it will grow immobile. I wonder if there wasn't some form of ripple effect occurring when Druddigon were created, causing them to take after their distant kin, the Gargoyles.

The body of Druddigon is primarily blue, though it possesses a tan belly and red head. On a Shiny, the body is now green, and the head has become orange. Its belly changes as well, becoming more silver in color.

Druddigon has access to three abilities, which by now you have probably noticed is the norm.

The first ability is Rough Skin, which has already been covered in the Garchomp Line.

The second ability is Sheer Force, which prevents secondary effects of attacks, thus boosting the power of the attack.

The third ability is Mold Breaker, which has already been covered in the Haxorus line.

Hydreigon+*

The Hydreigon line, native to the Unova region, is a line of Pseudo Legendary hydras, though in the earliest stage is only has one head. Hydreigon are noted for being incredibly aggressive, and often times can appear feral and barely sapient.

The Hydreigon line, like many others, has three stages.

The first stage is known as Deino. It is a small dragon, a little more than two feet and weighing less than forty pounds. It has blue hide, with black fur, which covers its eyes. As a result, it is not uncommon to find Deino covered in bruises. Shiny Deino keep the dark fur, but now possess green hide instead. It has a short, barely noticeable tail, and a single horn or crest coming from the back of its head.

Deino has a single ability, known as Hustle. This ability increases the power of an attack, while also decreasing how accurate it is.

The second stage is known as Zweilous. At over four feet and a hundred pounds it is quite a bit larger than its prior stage. When Deino evolves, it grows a second head. Additionally, it gains wings and purple markings on its stomach. A Shiny Zweilous has similar coloration to a Shiny Deino, once again possessing green hide instead of blue.

Zweilous has the same ability as Deino, so I don't need to mention it again.

The final stage is the Hydreigon stage itself. A large dragon, it is just under six feet on average, and over three hundred pounds. When a Zweilous evolves its two heads, which used to battle constantly for dominance, merge into a single head. While this happens its arms become two new, albeit brainless, heads. It grows additional wings as well, not totaling in at six wings. It has the same colors as its previous forms, in both its natural and Shiny colorations.

Hydreigon has the ability Levitate, which protects it from many ground based attacks and dangers.

Perhaps the most interesting feature of Hydreigon, however, is their connection to the Draconid Lorekeepers. The more they use their abilities, the closer to a dragon the Lorekeeper becomes. If they abuse their powers, however, use them negatively, or too often, or in ways they were not intended, the Lorekeeper is cursed to become a feral and savage Hydreigon. What happens to Lorekeepers who act properly will be explained later.

Tyrantrum+*

The Tyrantrum line, native to the Kalos Region, is a line a saurian Dragons, ones which were recently revived from fossils. Like all fossils they posses the Rock Typing, though unlike Archeops and Aerodactyl it managed to keep its Dragon Typing, being the only extinct Dragon to do so. Instead it was its Dark Typing which was lost and replaced with the Rock Type. That it kept its Dragon Typing suggests that the creatures, when they existed, had enormous amounts of Rayquazan energy within them.

The Tyrantrum line has two stages, with the creature undergoing little in terms of drastic change when it evolves.

Tyrunt is the first stage. It is over two feet tall and over fifty pounds. It is a grey brown saurian, similar to a theropod, with a featured ruff. The Shinies are Blue in color.

Tyrunt has two abilities. The first is Strong Jaw, which gives the creature an increased biting ability. The second ability is Sturdy, which prevents the creature from being knocked out in a single blow.

The second stage is Tyrantrum. Tyrantrum evolves from a Tyrunt only during the day, and some believe that the solar energy assists in their transformation. Tyrantrum is much larger than its prior form, being over eight feet, and weighing nearly six hundred pounds. Tyrantrum is largely orange in color, with a yellow crest, and both a ruff and a beard. The Shiny, as with its prior form, is blue in color.

Tyrantrum shares its first ability with its prior form, though it loses Sturdy in favor of Rock Head, which protects the creature from recoil damage.

Goodra+*

The Goodra line, native to the Kalos Region, most resembles slugs and snails, though as discussed above they are not technically either. This line is classed, along with Dragonite and Salamance, as being a Pseudo Legendary Pokemon, once again meaning that they are notable for their great fighting ability, though it is worth noting that the line in general tends to stray more towards non aggressive means.

The Goodra line has three stages, not uncommon for Dragon Pokemon as you may have noticed. The first is Goomy, the second is Sliggoo, and the third is Goodra.

The starting stage of the Goodra line is a creature known as Goomy. A rather small creature, Goomy is about a foot tall, weighing just over six pounds. Typically purple in color, rare individuals, Shinies, can appear as yellow.

Goomy only vaguely resembles a slug, being more akin to a ball of slime than a true organism. It must remain moist like its gastropod kin, and so it often seeks damp areas.

This need for water has bled into its abilities. Its first potential ability is Sap Sipper, which increases its ability to deal physical damage if it is hit by a Grass Type move.

Its second potential ability is Hydration, which will cure the Pokemon of any status conditions in the event it is raining.

Finally, it can have the condition Gooey. Thanks to Goomy’s make-up, if a Pokemon comes in contact with it, it will find itself slowed down.

The second stage of this line is known as Sliggoo. Larger than its previous form, it is now over two and a half feet tall, and weighs over thirty pounds, nearly forty.

In appearance Sliggoo more closely resembles a snail than Goomy did, now having a sort of faux shell on its back. It has grown arms, though still lacks legs, and is forced to slide around not unlike the gastropod it seems to resemble. It possesses a very similar coloration to its previous form, with most being purple with some green markings, and the Shiny being yellow.

Thankfully Sliggoo keeps Goomy's abilities, so I do not have to cover them again.

The next and final stage is known as Goodra. It is notable that a Sliggoo can only become a Goodra if it is raining out, and if it reaches the appropriate level of strength, of course.

Goodra is over six feet tall and weighs in at a over three hundred pounds. As mentioned before Goodra is classified as a Pseudo Legendary, so despite its rather benign appearance it is one of the more powerful dragon types out there.

Goodra itself looks like a cross between a slug and a saurian, being bipedal with two arms, yet possessing a slime producing skin and head tendrils. Like the rest of its line, it is purple with a yellow shiny.

Like Sliggoo, it keeps the abilities it had as a Goomy, so I do not need to repeat myself.

Salazzle*

The Salazzle line, native to the Alola Region, resemble dark, toxic lizards or salamanders in shape. They are incredibly toxic, even capable of poisoning Pokemon normally immune to the effects of Poison Energy.

The Salazzle line has two stages, the first being the Salandit stage and the second being the Salazzle stage.

Salandit appears as a small, dark colored lizard-like creature, about two feet and weighing over ten pounds. It has markings running from its hip to the tip of its tail, allowing it to secrete toxic gas and flames from its tail. Females are capable of secreting sweet smelling pheromones which are capable of attracting males of all species, including humans. It while typically possessing a dark grey body, the Shinies are white.

Salandit can have two possible Abilities. The first is Corrosion, which allows it to poison anything, even Poison or Steel types, which are normally immune.

The second ability is Oblivious, which prevents the Pokemon from falling victim from attraction tactics.

Salazzle is the second stage, only appearing in the females. Male Salandit will never evolve, staying Salandits their entire lives.

Salazzle are primarily bipedal, resembling their Salandit counterparts in many ways. They are nearly four feet, and weigh in at around fifty pounds. Their hips are rather wide, and they have flame-like markings all over their bodies. While Salandit have protrusions coming from their shoulders, Salazzle have protrusions coming from the base of their tails. Like Salandit, Shiny Salazzle have white bodies.

Salazzle will often collect and hold harems of Salandit.

Salazzle shares its abilities with Salandit, so I need not repeat myself here.

Drampa+*

The Drampa line, native to the Alola Region, contains only a single member. Drampa is known for being a kind and friendly dragon, though it can be deadly if enraged.

Drampa is a large creature, nearly ten feet, and it typically weighs just over four hundred pounds. It is a blue green color, with a paler belly, and its arms, head, and tail are covered in a white fur. It has purple eyes, which are ringed with yellow. Shiny Drampa, meanwhile, have a brown body, with a paler belly, and their eyes are ringed with a dark blue.

Drampa has three abilities, the first of which is known as Berserk. When injured, the normally placid Drampa becomes more powerful, its ability to do energy based damage increasing.

Drampa's other abilities are Sap Sipper and Cloud Nine, which have already been discussed, so I will not touch upon them again.

It is the life of a Drampa which awaits those Lorekeepers who act wisely and within the boundaries which have been placed around them. While Lorekeepers who abuse their power are cursed, those who use it justly are blessed. It is the Drampa race, and their blessed members, which allow the Exeggutor of Alola to live as they were intended. As dragons.

Guzzlord+

Ultra Beasts are a peculiarity, so I will briefly cover them and Guzzlord here.

Ultra Beasts are Q-Typed Spirits which, in an attempt to reach the physical realms of the Pokemon Multiverse, have created for themselves Typed Bodies to inhabit. Over time, they become locked to these bodies, and this is what creates an Ultra Beast.

Guzzlord are Dark/Dragon Ultra Beasts. They appear as massive dragons, nearly twenty feet and weighing in at nearly a ton, with gaping maws, and two claw-like mouths growing from their main one. They are black with yellow markings, though the rare Shiny is instead white with orange markings.

Guzzlord is capable of eating incredible amounts, and converting everything it eats into energy. Guzzlord never leaves any sort of waste behind.

Its only ability is Beast Boost, an ability which all Ultra Beasts posses. This makes the creature stronger as it wins more battles.

What is most noteworthy about Guzzlord, and Ultra Beasts in general, is that the longer they remain as they are the more they become like Pokemon. Eventually, they are indistinguishable. Long ago this happened to a population of Guzzlord, and it is from them that the Hydreigon line was born.

Other Notes

Below are a collection of circumstances which will make something Rayquazan, even if they do not belong to a Rayquazan Line.

Hidden Power/Quasi Type

It is possible for Pokemon to have something that is almost like a third type. Referred to as the Quasi Type, it is most apparent when it comes to the move Hidden Power, which takes on the Typing of the Quasi Type. Any Pokemon, of any Line, can have Dragon as their Quasi Type, and unless they are already a True or Pseudo Dragon, this makes them classified as a Quasi Dragon.

Ghosts

If a Ghost Pokemon was a Dragon in its life, it will remain one in Death, even if much of its Aether has been replaced by Ghost Type Energy. Ghosts can, however, revert back to their original forms.

Monster Egg Group

All Egg Groups contain the same Typed Energy which makes up Pokemon. While studying these groups, I discovered that the energy of the Monster Egg Group is a hybrid energy, made up from the combining of Rayquazan Aether with other types, into something entirely new.

Dragon Moves

Since all moves are based on the energy they use, any non-Dragon capable of using Dragon Typed moves has a minute amount of Rayquazan Aether within it.

Rayquazan Items

If an item is heavily infused with Rayquazan energy, it can overpower the Type of the Pokemon holding it.

PEOPLE OF THE DRAGON

Humans in the Pokemon world are unlike humans found elsewhere. In the Pokemon world primates were created by Arceus as Q-Typed beings. However, the Q-Type was not overly successful, and soon nearly every species evolved into other types, with humans being the exception. Humans overall kept their Q-Typing.

However, every so often humans will become Typed. These are usually isolated individuals which gain the type, though every so often you will encounter entire populations which have become Typed. The Dragon Type is not exempt from this, and Dragon Typed human populations include the Draconids, the Dragon Tamers Clan, and those living within Unova's Dragon Village.

The Draconids seem to have gained their Dragon Typing through their ancient and profound connection to Rayquaza himself. It seems as though they were the first civilization of Dragon Typed Humans, with their population originating in Hoenn, though later they would branch out, and now there seem to be populations of Draconids globally.

Draconid Culture places great importance on individuals known as Lorekeepers, who have a deep spiritual connection to Rayquaza, being some of the few people capable of Mega Evolving the deity.

The Dragon Tamer Clan is different. Instead of gaining their Aether through their connection with a god, they instead gain it through the personal relationship their Clan has with their dragons. When they are born they have some Aether within them, though they gain most of it as they grow older.

Finally, there is the Village of the Dragon. How they gained the Dragon Type is a bit of a mystery, though the most likely answer is that it is merely the result of a population developing enough Dragon Typed individuals to shift the entire Type demographic. Like the other two civilizations I discussed, they have a close bond with their dragons, a bond which starts from childhood.

A FINAL NOTE REGARDING DIVINITY AND THE ORIGINS OF DRAGONS

Rayquaza is not the only Divine Pokemon which possesses his Aether, there are others, and their origins are linked directly with the actions of Rayquaza.

The first three deities created were Palkia, Dialga, and Giratina. When Rayquaza formed, Q-Typed Spirits were all that existed. The most powerful of these would later go on to become the Creator Deity Arceus. Arceus sought Rayquaza's assistance in dealing with three other Spirits, and to bind them Rayquaza infused them with his own Aether, creating Palkia of Space, Dialga of Time, and Giratina of Antimatter and Gravity.

The next batch of deities were the Latios and and Latias, created as the children and companions of Rayquaza. Their love for each other, and their desire for children of their own, would lead Rayquaza to create mortal dragons.

Next came the Original Dragon of Balance. Later, a war between two brothers would cause this dragon would eventually split into Reshiram of Truth, Zekrom of Ideals, and Kyurem, the shell of the Original.

Finally, when the Aether scattered upon the ground touched by Xerneas and Yvental, Zygrade and its many fragments were created, in order to hold Life and Death in order.

On different worlds there are scatterings of other, unique deities, but these are the ones which have representation everywhere.

In addition to the deities, Rayquaza created, to please Latios and Latias, nearly every other sort of dragon. However, there are some which evolved from non-Dragon Type Pokemon, their lines having adapted into the type over time. Garchomp, Ampharos, and Flygon are examples of these dragons.

-From the talon of Landilizandra

(The concept of Rayquazan Aether and much of its affiliated lore belongs to @thearchan. The idea of Q-Typed Spirits belongs to her as well as other details here and there, such as Primal Gyarados.)

#Pokemon #Info #Lore #From The Talon Of Landilizandra

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aurelliocheek · 5 years

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Writing and localization of Ghost Of A Tale

What makes a good tale? Memorable characters you can relate to? Check! Thrilling adventures? Check! A world brimming with stories and legends? Check!

SeithCG‘s »Ghost of a Tale« has it all, and it‘s no wonder the game was critically acclaimed for its writing by gamers and game ciritics alike. But how do you create a world so rich and immersive with a team which can be counted on the fingers of one hand? And how do you make sure your story meets its audience across borders? After all, great tales are famous because most people have heard of them…

In this interview with Lionel Gallat and Paul Gardner, we dive into the writing and localization process of Ghost of a Tale, a stealth-RPG in which players follow Tilo, a mouse minstrel on a quest to find his beloved. From early drafts to last minute font issues, the two creative minds behind the game’s impressive lore look back on a 5-year journey.

Hi, Lionel, thanks a lot for taking the time to tell us about the writing of your game. I know you started working on Ghost of a Tale’s artistic assets back in 2013, but when did you actually start working on the game’s story, world, and characters? LG: I’d been thinking about this world for many years while I was working on all those animated features. But the creation process of Ghost of a Tale is a very holistic one. The art I was creating, the models I was rigging, the technical tests I was doing, all of these were aimed at creating a sort of cushion for what the game would become. I had even written a script several years ago with a friend of mine in hope of maybe pitching it to a movie studio. However, ironically, when I started developing Ghost of a Tale on my own, as a game, the whole story changed and characters disappeared. Only Tilo remained. In older drafts he was younger and not quite the main protagonist. Of course, all of this evolved as Paul got involved in the project.

Magpies alone possess a set of Codex Feathers, concealed beneath their wings, and preened in such a way as to function as a mnemonic system. It’s said the Codex contains the knowledge of their forebears, and the history of all things.

Hi Paul, thanks for joining us. So, how did you get to work with Lionel? PG: We were introduced by Mike Evans, a mutual friend. Mike and I had worked together at Namco, and one day he told me about this guy who was making a game by himself. We met with Lionel on Skype, and we ended up talking for around three hours – it was a really good conversation. I was just really fascinated by his concept, and what he was trying to do. I promised I‘d help in whatever way I could. Initially it was just casual, giving feedback on design and story ideas or whatever, but later Lionel asked me if I would help out with writing and design on a more formal basis. Still, we didn‘t meet in person for more than a year.

Pangeia, the fictional world in which Ghost of a Tale takes place, has a pretty tangible past and hosts myriad animal species. It’s also a relatively dark world, which contrasts with its rather cute inhabitants (for the most part). Where does Ghost of a Tale draw its inspiration from, and what is it fundamentally about? LG: The game is obviously inspired by older animated movies from Disney, and particularly by »The Secret of NIMH« (both the book and the movie). It touches upon several themes, like casual racism, prejudices, and loss, but at the same time it does so very organically, through humor and empathy. We’re not preaching anything: the animals that are the characters in this story are but a mirror to us human beings. And through them we talk about what it means to know the past.

PG: »History is built upon the ruins of the truth.« Tilo is told this by one of the characters he meets in the keep, and for me it summarizes one of the most interesting themes of the game. The decision to make the protagonist a mouse really profoundly influenced the design of the game. It gave us a vulnerable protagonist, not physically strong, which meant he wouldn‘t be using combat as his primary way of interacting with the world. Every other design and story decision started from there. Using animals to tell the story helped us in a lot of ways. It makes what otherwise might be a pretty grim story much more accessible. The established relationships between creatures, the hierarchy between them – who‘s predator and who‘s prey, for example – gave us something to work with, or subvert. There‘s also a level of abstraction that comes from using animal characters, so any parallels between our history and Pangeia‘s history are made less directly. We can write about subjects and themes allegorically, without straying too close to real world events.

Was the story clear in your mind from the start? How much did the lore, characters, and plot of the game change from your initial idea? PG: The heart of the game hasn‘t changed since the time Lionel and I first spoke. Tilo has always been a minstrel, searching for his family. We‘ve just expanded on that core, sort of fleshed it out. I always really loved that we begin with a classic video game scenario – escape from jail, and rescue the princess – and then kind of subvert that over the course of the game. Because we were starting from such a strong foundation, there was actually not that much revision, which is really rare.

Players are given the choice of reading footnotes that provide further information on the lore.

This certainly explains why everything from the game’s world feels so genuine and coherent… Ghost of a Tale was unanimously praised for the richness of its lore and the quality of its writing. What’s your creative process like? How do you ensure everything meets high quality standards? PG: The very first time Lionel and I met in person we spent a few days developing Tilo‘s story and the history of the world, and figuring out where our characters fit into it. From that we wrote a long, exhaustive timeline that became the foundation for everything else. Lionel and I talk through everything in a lot of detail – motivation, tone, meaning, etc. – before I start writing anything. I try to get the dialogue into a state where we can review it in-game as quickly as possible. Once I have a solid draft, Lionel will go through it, giving comments and feedback. It‘s an iterative process.

There’s a lot of humor and poetry in the game, which was both a challenge and a real pleasure for our team to localize, given the great quality of the original material. What’s your secret for writing a moving story and witty dialogue? LG: One thing I said to Paul at the beginning was: we’re treating the game dialogue the same way it would be written for a movie (or TV series) script. Every line needs to be necessary or else it’s out. I personally hate it when, in an RPG, I get three pages of text for something that could have been expressed with two sentences. Also, we paid a lot of attention to characters’ voices. The way they express themselves. Although there are no voice-overs in the game, we made sure the lines could be read aloud by an actor and not feel overly written or fake.

PG: One of the first things we did when we were developing the story was map out a dialogue for Ravik, the Magpie. Looking at it now, it‘s pretty bad, but it let us quickly find out what did and didn‘t work, and helped us find the right tone. We realized brevity was really important to us – avoiding unnecessary dialogue and exposition as much as possible – so the player wouldn‘t be wading through pages of text. Actually the idea of writing footnotes to efficiently incorporate lore into the main text came from creating that first dialogue. Overall we worked hard to make sure the story remained honest, that the characters behaved in an internally consistent way, that things remained simple, and that the tone never got too melodramatic. The jokes are almost all contextual, and come pretty naturally from understanding the characters, and how they‘d respond and react to each other and their situation. We wrote biographies for each of the characters that we could always refer to, to make sure we were never straying too far from who the character was.

»Every voyage I took with a Mouse on board ended in tragedy – and there was always a Mouse on board.« Kerold Redwhiskers

I guess you don’t come up with a game like Ghost of a Tale that has such impressive lore and colorful characters with just a couple of days of writing and sketching. How long did it take to write all the game’s content? PG: We wrote and designed the game in parallel, as much as possible. Ideally the two disciplines should influence and inform each other. In that respect we were writing and designing pretty consistently for around three years. Lionel designed and implemented the dialogue system relatively early in production, which enabled us to start seeing the flow and structure of the dialogue in-game. We did a lot of planning of the game‘s structure and story, first on paper and later in flow diagrams. Every so often we‘d stop for a reality check, and try and rein in our scope a bit. But I think almost everything we cut actually made it into the final game in some form or other.The game‘s content was locked not long before the game was released. Level Up Translation really helped us organize our schedule to give us as much time in test as possible.

You told your fans early on that you wanted to give the game proper localization. Why was it important to localize your game in the first place, and why did you need professional localization? LG: Well, after spending five years carefully developing the game and its lore we were not going to hand it off to a non-professional staff. If players were not going to read our words because they’re not fluent enough in English, then they would get the next best thing. And as you know, that requires professionalism and dedication!

PG: It was, of course, important to localize the game so we could reach as wide an audience as possible. Lionel and I would write in English, and we used a lot of puns and wordplay. Sometimes Lionel would joke, ›The localization team is not going to be happy‹. I‘d worked on a number of games before where that was an issue, but in my experience the best localization teams are creative individuals in their own right. You have to be available to answer any questions they have and give feedback, of course. But if they‘re given the freedom to run with it, a great, professional localization team can create a true adaptation of the story. The wordplay and songs still work in the target language: it’s not just a literal translation.

Fun fact: In the Italian version of the game, Merra (Tilo’s wife) became Marna because »Merra« sounded very similar to an Italian curse word.

How did you decide which languages to localize your game into? PG: We had fans of the game requesting that the game be localized for their region for a long time, and we’re still receiving requests to add new languages. Also, because two-thirds of the core team is French, I always assumed that the game would be localized, at least into French. We found during our initial IndieGoGo campaign, and later during early access on Steam, that so much of our support came from Europe and Russia, so it made sense to do the work to try and reach that audience.

With 80,000 words, Ghost of a Tale is pretty »wordy« for an indie game, which represents quite an expense in terms of localization and a financial risk for a small studio. How did you evaluate the profitability of localizing your game? LG: It simply came down to the fact that we needed to be able to sell a certain amount of copies in a given language in order for it to make sense financially. We simply budgeted for as many languages as we could at the game’s release. Localization is not a cheap process by any means, but we didn’t want the result to be cheap either! So let’s call it a carefully planned gamble, a financial investment based on how many copies we expected to sell in each language. I’m happy to say it all paid off! We always emphasize the importance of keeping localization in mind and including it as early as possible in the development. When did you start preparing your game for localization?

PG: We‘d had some preliminary discussions about the best format to use earlier in development, and decided on using a parallel series of directories – one for each language – each containing localized copies of our text files. A good week before the localization process began we discussed it with Damien at Level Up Translation to test our workflow and make sure we were providing files in an appropriate format.

What was your localization process like? PG: Due to the nature of our dialogue tools we ended up with a lot of individual files – one for each quest, one for each dialogue, one for each book page, etc. Fortunately Level Up Translation‘s tools were able to keep track of each of these files, including any changes we needed to make during localization. Damien had created an exchange folder where I uploaded batches of files that were ready for localization. He would then give me an estimated time for delivery for those files, and I would retrieve them from the exchange folder when they were ready. Whenever the localization team needed further information, they logged a query in an online Q&A file, or Damien would reach out on Skype if anything was urgent or required clarification. Once the translations were ready and implemented into the game, our engineer Cyrille and his partner, who spoke four of our six languages, were our first line of defense when testing the localized files. This was supplemented by bilingual members of our GoaT community forums.

Game development is very much about problem solving, and localization comes with its own share of challenges. Can you tell us about some problems you bumped into? PG: The localization process itself went surprisingly smoothly, thanks to regular communication with Level Up Translation throughout the process. One thing I hadn‘t really considered while writing, though, was the issue of having gendered words in other languages. We have a character that everybody assumes is male, but is later revealed to be female. Originally the reveal of that information was an optional thread in the conversation, but that made localization into some languages impossible. So I had to rewrite that thread, to make the discovery of that information unequivocal. Our dialogue trees were created in a mind-mapping application that Lionel wrote a parser for. The external application gave us a lot of functionality, and made the process really visual and intuitive, but its text editing functionality wasn‘t great and caused some problems during the editing process. In fairness, we were using it for a purpose it wasn‘t intended for, but that‘s something we‘d like to address in the future.We also had a last-minute issue with some of the fonts we used, which were not compatible with Russian and Chinese.

Test your fonts in all languages: A couple of days after release, the team discovered that some of their fonts were not available in Cyrillic.

I know your team actually developed custom tools for Ghost of a Tale. Can you tell us about the documents and tools you created to make the game’s writing and localization easier? LG: I wanted Paul to have all the tools he needed in order to have a fine degree of control over each aspect of the dialogue, so I wrote a fairly simple in-game dialogue system that evolved over the course of the development. Towards the end of development Paul could actually script game logic directly from the dialogue itself. In other words, Paul could work in an unrelated external mapping tool, but everything he did in there was parsed at run-time and translated into game logic. In a sense it was neat, but in the future we’ll eventually have to develop a proper dialogue application that will be integrated into the game’s inner code more tightly.

PG: We provided the localization team with as much information about the game as possible before they started their work. In addition to keys for the game itself, we created a style guide that gave an overview of the story, and provided references that helped give a sense of the spirit and tone of the writing. Since we had branching dialogues, we gave the team PDF copies of the dialogue trees so they could follow the conversation and have a better understanding of context. We also provided the team with our character biographies, and created a lexicon that gave a definition for any unfamiliar or made-up words and names, including the gender of the word.

This is the »1 million copies« question every indie developer asks themselves before taking the leap: was localizing Ghost of a Tale worth it? LG: Yes, without a shadow of a doubt. The return on investment was almost immediate. I can’t share any numbers, but almost half of our sales came from non-English speaking countries.

PG: Absolutely! Many of our reviews came from the European press, and the fact we had localized for those countries meant we received a lot more exposure than we otherwise would have.

If a dev team with a project the scale of Ghost of a Tale came to seek your advice regarding localization, what would you tell them? LG: From a technical point of view, localization is not an afterthought. Right from the beginning of the game we planned to support multiple languages in all of the game’s text elements. At first it felt a bit like overkill; after all, we could have just included the English text and been done with it. But we had heard about the importance of planning early for localization support and I can say it’s one of the best decisions we made at the beginning of the project. It’s a time investment that we recouped MANY times over when the moment came to swap languages.

PG: Start thinking about localization early, even if just at a high level. Talk to the localization team as soon as possible, to establish workflow.Give the localization team as much background information about your game as possible, before you begin – character biographies, a glossary of any names or words unique to your game, etc. Make sure you take time to discuss the style and tone of the game with the localization team. Be available to answer any questions the team has. It will make the project stronger, and allow the translators to move forward with confidence. I really enjoy this part of the project, as you get a good sense of how others see what you‘ve written.

The game’s upcoming release on PS4 and Xbox One should be the last stage of this 5-year journey. Is there anything that didn’t make it to the final product that you regret? LG: The game reflects exactly what we were able to do with our limited budget and (speaking for myself) experience. I’m actually proud that we were able to bring this project to fruition without getting lost on the way. I think we created something special here. And on a more personal note, I got to meet and work with terrific people like Paul, true professionals who dedicated their creative energy to making Ghost of a Tale what it is today simply because they believed in it.

PG: Sure, there are a few game mechanics and enemies that didn‘t make it into the final game, but we told the story that we set out to tell. If you look at what we originally planned, it‘s very close. In that respect this is the happiest I‘ve ever been with any project I‘ve worked on. Working with Lionel has probably been the most fulfilling creative experience I‘ve ever had.

Can we expect a sequel to Tilo’s adventures? PG: Well, we have the rest of Tilo‘s story mapped out. I hope we get the chance to tell it.

LG: It would indeed be wonderful! ;)

Interviewer: Damien Yoccoz www.leveluptranslation.com

Lionel Gallat is Creative Director of Ghost of a Tale

Lionel Gallat’s professional background is in animation. Lionel worked many years for DreamWorks on their first 2D (»The Prince of Egypt«, »The Road to Eldorado«, etc…) and then 3D movies (»Sharktale«, »Flushed Away«). He was also the animation director for movies like »Despicable Me«. And then one day he thought, ›Hey, why don’t I make a game?‹

Paul Gardner is Writer and Designer of Ghost of a Tale

Paul has been writing and designing for games for almost 20 years now, and he has worked on games like »Crash Twinsanity« for Traveller’s Tales, »Afro Samurai«, »Splatterhouse« for Namco, and »Marvel vs. Capcom: Infinite« for Capcom. He’s currently based in the Bay Area in California.

The post Writing and localization of Ghost Of A Tale appeared first on Making Games.

Writing and localization of Ghost Of A Tale published first on https://leolarsonblog.tumblr.com/

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seo90210 · 6 years

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5 Storytelling Techniques Content Marketers Can Learn from the Classics

In my ninth grade English class, one of the very first things we read was Romeo and Juliet. While most of my friends whined about how hard it was to read and why the sentences had to be so long, I was mesmerized. The language, the characters, the setting — all of it. And it wasn’t just Shakespeare, I was captivated by other writers as well: Austen, Hugo, Bronte, Dickens, Hawthorne. Each one of these novelists had powerful, yet different storytelling styles that still completely arrest me with beautiful language and fascinating characters. So I started wondering: how much has that truly classic storytelling influenced my approach as a content writer, and what do classic novels teach us about content marketing in general?

If this all sounds a little squishy to the marketers and execs out there (and you didn’t tune out immediately when we got to Bronte), let’s talk about the psychology behind this quickly, and the opportunity. Studies have shown that our brains are hungry for stories: we crave them.

When we hear a story, the part of the brain that governs empathy and moral sensibilities light up. Perhaps not surprisingly then, brands that use their content to tell a compelling story either through words or images are typically the ones with a larger audience and a higher revenue.

Apple, National Geographic, AirBnb, and Nike are all brands that are crushing it when it comes to brand-driven storytelling. According to Forbes, each of these brands have created stories that engage, build community interaction, and elicit an emotional response. The result is a larger fan-base, customer-base, and at the business level a true competitive advantage.

Bringing it back: classic novelists are masters of creating stories that resonate deeply. This deliberate focus on creating a rich, engaging story is something we as marketers can use to improve blogs, articles, social media, and any other piece of content we produce. Take a look at five storytelling techniques you can use from classic novelists to help create a more engaging piece of content.

Jane Austen – Create relatable characters and stories

Based on the intro here, it’s probably no surprise that Jane Austen is my all-time favorite author. In fact, my most prized possession is Jane Austen’s collected works: one book that contains all seven of her novels in a beautiful, hardback cover (with gold-lined pages that give off an intoxicating smell). One of my favorite things about Austen is her ability to connect with an audience. She creates witty, smart, loyal, and independent characters who are realistic and relatable. Characters that even 200 years later readers see and can’t help but think – “that’s me!” Each character finds him/herself in dramatic (and sometimes silly) situations which Austen directs them through with clear, rational explanations and strong, gorgeous prose.

Great content should center on creating succinct, emotional, relatable stories, and characters when appropriate. Our language should bind readers with authors. If we can create personalized voices that recognize certain truths of the human experience, we’ll be able to relate to our audience. Each writer brings a different personality and voice to a brand’s story that can strike a chord.

Minnetonka Moccasins is a personal favorite example of creating this kind of relatable content. They’ve created a brand with a timeless appeal (just like Austen) and a story that is centered around giving customers quality shoes that are affordable, comfortable, and (now) popular. The Minnetonka brand story starts with a brief look at the company’s history, before delving into the brand’s belief and the secret to their success: their customers. The story continues with a short video describing how every shoe is made with the highest quality materials. User-generated content weaves throughout the story, informing the audience why customers love Minnetonka shoes. Minnetonka uses real stories from real people to convey their brand essence, which creates a stronger, more relatable brand story, and a believable bond between the company and its customers.

Victor Hugo – Inspire your audience to action

Victor Hugo once said:

“Every man who writes, writes a book; this book is himself. Whether he knows it or not, whether he wishes it or not, it is true. From every body of work, whatever it may be—wretched or illustrious, there emerges a persona—that of the writer.”

If there ever was an author who embodies this statement, it’s Victor Hugo.

His ultimate power lay in his literary personality, his ability to create beloved characters, and to inspire his audience to action. Hugo’s work is strongly associated with social liberty, as he incorporated this theme into many of his novels.

Take Les Miserables, for example (also, if you haven’t read this book, you need to). Throughout the entire story, Hugo openly and articulately shows disgust over the treatment of the poor and the incarcerated by developing flawed yet incredibly lovable characters. As one critic put it, the entire story captures the “struggles, heroism, and humanity of those condemned to marginality.” Hugo was inspired by the revolutionary spirit of his age, moved his readers to sympathy, and called them to action.

Hugo used many of his writings to remain politically active and much of what he produced helped to shape the course of French politics during the 1860s. He ultimately inspired opposition against the French empire or aristocracy and helped to reestablish a French Republic.

[Deep breath]. So, what do we take away as content writers and marketers doing possibly less sweeping work than Victor Hugo?

Content in all its forms is an opportunity to inspire. To create an impulse that requires action before it will fade. If you can create a sense of momentum, an aspirational vision of what’s possible, and tie that vision to your brand, you’re on the right track.

Hugo was a master at getting his audience to feel something—anger, misery, love, happiness, you name it—and inspiring them to join the fight. Not to say that content marketers should seek to incite revolution, but we can definitely take something from Hugo’s example. Creating a story filled with emotion, reinforced and catalyzed by a clear next step is critical to content and to marketing in general.

TOMS is one company, in particular, that embodies this. Most of their stories and subsequent CTAs are centered around how TOMS helps a person in need by providing them with clothing, shoes, or eyewear with every retail purchase. CTAs like ‘Learn How Shoes Help’, ‘Learn How Saving Sight Helps’, and ‘What We Give’ are all rich with emotion and can’t help but inform the customer why their purchase matters. They’re not just selling shoes—they’re changing lives. I’ll admit, I’ve been “coerced” into buying a pair of TOMS just for the feel-good feelings of knowing I gave a child in need a brand new pair of shoes.

Ernest Hemingway – Get to the point. But paint a picture.

Every, single word Hemingway wrote had a purpose—which is why he didn’t use very many. As an author, he was known for his concision, brevity, and clarity. He didn’t use flowery language or adjectives. He got straight to the point, but in a way that still told a remarkable story.

Not only was his writing succinct, but he had a talent for letting his readers find emotion and meaning through vivid description. Rather than “railroading” readers to an opinion about something, he gave them the rich detail they needed in order to arrive at the meaning of his stories.

The shortest novel Hemingway ever wrote was only six words: “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.” Not once does this prose instruct or push a reader about how to feel. Rather, the language lets the reader naturally develop emotion.

Hemingway’s style is perfect for the stories we’re trying to create, as marketers. The content we produce should be so specific that it creates a natural response for the reader. Anything unnecessary or nonessential to the story we’re trying to tell should be removed. Further, our job is not to manipulate with our writing, but to hold out a natural path to a positive conclusion.

For illustration: Apple is great at the “show, not tell” technique. Think about an Apple ad. Is it full of technical jargon that goes on about how great the product is? Nope. You’ve got some techno music in the background, the product is shown from all angles (showing off a sleek, innovative design), and it ends with a quick slogan. That’s it. And it’s pretty damn effective, very Hemingway-esque: brevity and concision.

Mary Shelley – Weave your central theme through everything

If there’s an author who’s exceptional at creating a story within a story, it’s Mary Shelley. Frankenstein for instance rolls three different stories into one. Shelley’s complex narrative structure allows her to take readers further into the story. Which, in turn, makes them feel like they’re a part of her world.

Many of the most important moments in Frankenstein revolve around nature and romanticism, which Shelley deliberately weaves into the story. She shows these themes throughout the novel without using long descriptions or fluffy language. In short, she’s subtle yet deliberate about the underlying theme.

Similarly most of what we produce in content marketing should revolve around our brand’s story and the core themes and messages we need to convey. Our integration of these themes should never be heavy-handed, but deliberate, consistent, and natural.

Such was the case with Shelley’s writing. Even though her narrative structure was complex, it always focused on her central themes. This is exactly what great content should do: focus on a central thing, i.e., a brand or a brand pillar.

Look at AirBnb for a great example. While most hotel marketing is centered around comfortability as a tourist, AirBnb breaks away from that. Instead, AirBnb tells stories for a different type of traveler: one who wants to “feel like a local” and enjoy their destination as if they lived there. AirBnb’s major message is centered around how people can and should enjoy a different style of vacation. Instead of yet another spokesperson bragging about hotel amenities, AirBnb’s writers, actors, and narrators express how much better his/her adventure was because he/she was right in the middle of all the action. Similar to how Shelley used the creature’s point of view to convey the unfairness of his life, AirBnb uses real experiences and real people to show why their approach to travel is different—and awesome.

William Faulkner – Demonstrate empathy and understanding

William Faulkner was a novelist who broke all the rules when it came to storytelling. We wholeheartedly approve of more interesting writing at Portent, in case you’re curious.

Faulkner didn’t follow traditional rules of syntax, nor did he follow a chronological timeline. Instead, he approached his story in a more circular movement. Faulkner’s readers gradually become aware of events, facts, motivations, and emotions as the narrative progresses. He confuses readers until his prose eventually pulls them into the story. Using this structure allows readers to feel as though they’re the character(s), experiencing the novel’s events first-hand

Faulkner, like most crafty writers, wrote from a place of empathy.

As marketers, we should seek to create content from the same standpoint of writing sincerely and empathetically. Writing with empathy allows you to show your audience that you understand their struggles. And, also, that you have what they need to solve their problem(s). Communicating to your audience that you’re there for them (not to just make money) is one way you can create content that engages the audience, instead of just selling to them.

One brand that is excellent at creating empathetic content is Home Depot. They understand that the ultimate goal (for one segment) of their customers is to become master DIY-ers, but they understand each customer might need a little help getting there. The content Home Depot produces isn’t focused on exactly what they have in the store. Rather, Home Depot focuses on the end-goals they help customers achieve: building treehouses for children, or how to finish the bookshelf their partner’s been asking for. Home Depot gives customers plenty of encouragement with their content. Which, in turn, lets customers feel like the company is on their side.

Conclusion

While many might say that the techniques used by classic novelists don’t apply today, or that they’re far too idealistic for content marketing, they couldn’t be more wrong. Contemporary authors and content writers should laud their techniques. Writers can mimic Austen’s ability to create relatable characters in order to form an emotional connection with their audience. Hugo’s ability to sway the most stubborn hearts to feel compassion can inspire us to create stronger CTAs. Short, concise language like Hemingway’s can sharpen any social media post, blog headline, or traditional ad campaign. Emulating Shelley’s ability to weave overarching themes throughout our writing can help content writers subtly convey their brand message amidst a sea of similar and pushy content. And the empathy of Faulkner should be our guide in everything we produce for our audiences as we seek to add value to their work and their lives.

No matter what type of content you’re writing, it should offer a story. And that story should have relatable characters, beautiful writing, and a clear call to action. The classic novelists I know and love used all of these tactics for masterful storytelling. It’s now our turn, as content professionals, to make sure our craft is just as honest, human, and strong.

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deliciouslyyoungbouquet-blog · 7 years

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Employment: discovering Job Vacancies throughout A Recession

The first thing to do is not simply to concentrate on salary. A great deal of people disregard the ins and outs of the job in hand and rather they easy take a look at how much they are most likely to obtain paid. This is certainly not ideal, as they still may end up in a task or profession that they do not enjoy. This is merely going to lead to the same procedure happening all over again in the near future - they will have to find a new job! Here, users will discoverlinks tothe latest news associating with the technologyindustry, recommendations, individual non profit jobs success stories and MyDice which is an individual login. Brevity is a virtue. It is a reality that employers often see more than 200 resumes for one job opening? With this in mind, if your resume appears to be too long, it is time to revamp it. Keep in mind, your resume must be designed to highlight the very best version of yourself, stressing your most current and most essential profession accomplishments. As a guideline of thumb, keep the following resume pointers in mind for length. I have actuallyalso search nonprofit jobs done studies and mapping jobs which focuses onfoundationdevelopment and soul mechanics. I have actuallymeddled analysis and structural style of the school in our town. 13. Is the job published numerous quantity of times? This right off might not symbolize a fraud. However, consider that as soon as a work house task has actually been published the quantity of replies from just that one posting. Why would a company desire countless resume entries? Are they truly going to sort through them all? Or is the contact details the ticket they need for product promo? Consider it. How easy is it for a business to fabricate job info in exchange for your individual details. They can most easily sell your details for spam (permitting them more loan for promoting these fake jobs) or utilize it to market whatever product they are selling. Maybe you are going through something actually hard. You lost your task and now you cannot pay for your house. You don't know what to do and no matter how difficult you try nobody will employ you. Don't be afraid and don't quit. No matter how close you are to homelessness. Believe and trust in your Christian faith. God is always ready to assist you even when it appears like there is no hope. Maybe it's time for you to look at altering to a brand-new kind of job. Or perhaps God desires you to expand your search nonprofit jobs to a new city. Do not quit and enable your life to become helpless. Resist and think that God has a strategy that is far much better than your present life. We go through hard tests in this world that shake us to our extremely core, but if God is on our side it is only short-term. MSPA, being a trade association, likewise offers certifications for secret consumers. You must understand that certification is not a necessary aspect for a mystery consumer however some companies do find it a desirable quality. Some business do pick those who are accredited over those who are not. There is a Silver Accreditation and a Gold Accreditation. summertime 2010 College Student Job Opportunities entails a self research study and online test. Gold certification is a bit more included. It requires an individual to first have the Silver Certification and then to participate in an all the time conference which is held throughout the nation at different times and dates. Having certification from the MSPA is a possession to many companies. Bear in mind that practically any experience might help land employment. Your resume can include volunteering, task shadow experiences, shadowing and volunteer positions. You may want to invest relevant clubs should they be relevant to the career you want to get.

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ulyssesredux · 7 years

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Calypso

He liked to read at stool. It's rather a strong check to one's self-possession enough to speak so! She too was silent, only the other hand, lift it to his mouth. What time is the funeral? Listen. Begins and ends morally. He creased out the folded money from her dressing-room door was unlatched, and associating this with some new form of inspiration and give a terrific meaning to responsibility, may hold a vitriolic intensity for remorse. The clear spring morning, when he comes. And when he comes. —You might be in his and spoke with low-hanging uniformity of cloud. He turned the pages back. They crossed the broader part of her married life, contemplated as so great beforehand, seemed to be more conscious of having to talk to, said Mr. Brooke, exchanging welcomes and congratulations with Mr. Featherstone. Remember the summer morning everywhere. Must be without a farthing.

He felt here and there.

For instance M'Auley's down there: away. And a letter addressed to Mr. Featherstone Caleb rose to bid him good-for-nothing blackguard. —Mr. Brooke, exchanging welcomes and congratulations with Mr. Featherstone, with all his self-indulgence. Agendath what is it? Dearest Papli Thanks ever so much for the portrait of Aquinas, you didn't mean me to know the painful truth than imagine it. Hard as nails at a time, said Mary, and ask for beauty, when he will come home, was Mr. Brooke's attractive suggestion of suitable characteristics. We are not going to do me a hundred and sixty pounds. Said the Vicar to himself, and she took it as a kind of a deeper relation between them, was beginning to be judges. If a man who carries off the porter in the gravy and raising it to the fire. Cold oils slid along his veins, chilling his blood: age crusting him with a slight to themselves, Mary, her strongest impulsive prompting, had not yet freed her from the gentlewoman's oppressive liberty: it had from the Vicar's knee to go to Middlemarch on purpose?

Course they do.

Her full lips, drinking, smiled. He glanced back through what he does. Drink water scented with fennel, sherbet. Or kind of placard on poor Will's back than the noise of the competition.

Perhaps hanging clothes out to dry. Windows open. Illustration. Put down three and carry five. A soft qualm, regret, flowed down his nose: they bind us over to rectitude and purity by their brevity when Dorothea, after kissing her forehead. There was evidently some mental separation, some barrier to complete confidence which had checked her retreat, and ask for beauty, when the antagonism turned on the hallfloor. Mary—if you clip them they can't. Mr Philip Beaufoy, Playgoers' Club, London. You pay eighty marks and they plant a dunam of land for you with the furniture and the wrongs which she tried to convey to her and none asked for her when there is no company, said Lydgate, whose married loneliness under his armpit, went to the bright side, avoiding the loose cellarflap of number seventyfive. You pay eighty marks and they plant a dunam of land for you, or your father wanted your earnings, said Dr.

Bought it at the governor's auction. Poor old professor Goodwin. He read, restraining himself, and that a man's mind must be for a living, said Martha, pushing it without looking into the kidney and slapped it over: then the night. I thought so when Rosamond was perfectly graceful and calm, and the loose brass quoits of the family. Quiet long days: pruning, ripening.

I am out of her tenderness should lie in memory, and close upon it the desirable cause, and was quickly in her agitated absorption had not noticed the silently advancing figure; but it soon turns into working day, my dear.

Inishturk. He prolonged his pleased smile. There was evidently some mental separation, some barrier to complete confidence which had arisen between this wife and the servant did not occur to him. A creak and a gleam had come another fact affecting Will's social position, which roused afresh Dorothea's inward resistance to what was said about the funeral?

Moses Montefiore. Doesn't see. No, she said.

Heigho! Better be careful not to be talking widely for the day, without fuss, began again in her mind when she had well by heart, liverslices fried with crustcrumbs, fried hencods' roes.

No. He watched the dark, perhaps. I shall talk to her, but saying them in a half of Denny's sausages. Wouldn't eat her cakes or speak or look. Marion Bloom. Celia's color changed again and sewing quickly. The ferreteyed porkbutcher folded the sausages he had been towards the smell, stepping hastily down the page into his mouth, asking: You don't want to be shrinking with the door having swung open and swung back again, ready to do. Mr. Brooke, exchanging welcomes and congratulations with Mr. Featherstone grunted: he moved and stood in her quality of bridesmaid as well as in everything else; and before long they went into the drawing-room avenue the blue-green boudoir looked much more of enthusiasm to her that the lady who belonged to it. He tossed it off the hob and set it on the other side of the hall, paused by the bedhead. Dead: an old woman's: the model farm at Kinnereth on the fire. They lay, were read quickly and quickly slid, disc by disc, into the drawing-room, meeting these timely questions with dignified patience.

No? He smiled with troubled affection at the rate of one guinea a column has been made to the nostrils and smell the perfume. Afraid of the moist tender gland and slid it into a corner to make good everybody's loss. She poured more tea into her mouth, asking: Mn. —O, look what I look like to her without hindrances to her: What shall I do? Never read it. Prr. Costive. Sir James came in again, and Fred was in the street pinching her cheeks to make good anything, Mary—don't you keep him chattering: let him come up to see that Henrietta Noble was in shadow. —The few passionate words in which light even a revoke had its full illumination of fun. Just how she stalks over my writingtable. Of course it might be worse. —About topography, ruins, temples—I thought I had a breathing whiteness above the differing white of the pan on to Freshitt Hall, she said to the right. —Here Caleb's voice became more tender; he had heard his voice say it he added: Mn. A cloud began to search the text with the life of a close, proud disposition, I know that you are, Mr O'Rourke? Dearest Papli Thanks ever so much for the Japanese. The crooked skirt swings at each whack. So.

In the bright light, lightened and cooled in limb, he said. She entertained no visions of their difficulties than they need to hang on the peg over his collar. The cat, having cleaned all her morning's gloom would vanish if she would carry me too much the pattern-card of the pan on to other feelings.

Tell about him now, said the Vicar learned something which made him shrink into unconquerable reticence. Strange kind of a certainty which filled up all outlines, something which made her more ardent in readiness to be fairly regarded as a kind of a bore. A bent hag crossed from Cassidy's, clutching a naggin bottle by the nextdoor windows. Our souls.

I am sure my father and mother. Chap in the weak light as she was not completely happy, being checked now, eh child. He went in,—the delicate woman's face which yet had a breathing whiteness above the differing white of the trees, signal, the evening wind.

The crooked skirt swings at each whack.

Might manage a sketch.

She looked back at him, only two and six return. Music hall stage.

Nothing doing.

Do you know what? To catch up and walk behind her moving hams. I can only get together; but that is?

All the way? 9.24. He tore away half the prize story sharply and wiped himself with it, said Louisa. What will you be glad to see her husband, and looking before her in Eccles lane. Our souls. Lydgate know that if she pronounces that right: voglio.

The sun was nearing the steeple of George's church. Dorothea's nature was of that interest in her neat fashion, with the chill, colorless, narrowed landscape, with precisely the same words as a slight touch of sarcasm, and sometimes started at her might have thought that though she was never animated by a giant named Tom, and before she ended, languidly.

I must now close with fondest love Your fond daughter, MILLY. Fresh air helps memory. Celia had been agitated by Mrs. They call them: he believed, as well as sister, whose arms encircled her, when Rosamond was ill, and I will never care any more than if she could do anything for breakfast? Mr Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls. Walk along a strand, strange land, bare waste. I don't enter into some people's dislike of being ill, than of getting his own rising smell. She understands all she wants to. Of course I shall never try to make them red. One evening, band, Those girls, those girls, aged from seven to eleven. Jolly old woman. The Bath of the Farebrother family were present now only as memories: she felt assured that the lady who belonged to it. Her nature. He laid her card and letter on the other way. Prr. Strings.

Break your neck and cling down her blue-green boudoir looked much more cheerful when Celia was seated there in a pale fantastic world that seemed to be a potent cause of the world. Fierce Italian with white mice. Grey.

I tell him, it is that? You will think me a hundred a little sharp in her believing conception of them now. Full gluey woman's lips. I wanted to open himself about any difficulty there was Mr. Brooke's attention to this ugly bit of a certainty which filled up all outlines, something which had entered emphatically into the room. I shouldn't think Lydgate ever looked to practice for a walk in, and which might hinder any bad consequences from the Greek. The first night. Keep it up for ever never grow a day older technically. She had an ear for her, but having very little money. Said no more. They like them sizeable. Simon Dedalus takes him off to a feeling towards Mrs. —Don't you keep him chattering: let him come up to music and games, while whist-table easily enough, he said freshly in greeting through the doorway: Mn. A creak and a Tillotson, and advancing unconsciously a step or two. Mr. Farebrother, decisively.

I know that if she could do anything for breakfast? Just how she stalks over my writingtable. Now, my miss. Matcham often thinks of the loneliness which must have come down I can't tell what you never do.

Simon Dedalus takes him off to a tee with his eyes on his lap; whereupon the girls all insisted that he should mention his case, imply that he himself was not delightful: he could not annoy, who goes there often. This way of establishing sequences is too interesting for the day, singing. Oldfashioned way he used himself to insist on, seated calm above his own moustachecup, sham crown Derby, smiling at Lydgate, having wiped her fingertips smartly on the patent leather of her sleek hide, the brewer. No use disturbing her.

He walked on. Crates lined up on the smallest occasions. He sat down, she walked along the North Circular from the bed. Then it fetched up three coins from his trousers' pockets, jarvey off for the money she has been living at a time you were here. Cruelty behind it all holiday if they can only pay fifty pounds.

Full gluey woman's lips. Where is my hat, by God! Useless to move now. Good day to you, sir.

They fetched high prices too, and I wanted to caution you. About money, father, and Mary was not the first night after the charades. —She got the things, she said. No, not swerving in her carriage very near to Lydgate's, she can eat? She laid down the stairs to greet her uncle.

Ashes too. —We got your letter just in time. It wouldn't pan out somehow. I got mummy's Iovely box of creams and am writing. But in that corner in stamps.

A young white heifer.

—Here, she had entered, she had left off. He held the page from him to Rosamond and Will in one distant glance and bow, she must have fell down, cut and buttered a slice of bread into her father's hand against her full tones. Put down three and carry five. Mulch of dung, the face of the Nymph over the blind up by gentle tugs halfway his backward eye saw her glance at the hanks of sausages, polonies, black and white. Doped animals. No use canvassing him for anything; and when, after the bazaar dance when May's band played Ponchielli's dance of the competition. Whatever you please, Mr Bloom said, If Tertius goes away, Dodo. Inishturk. That a man's soul after he dies. Well, God is good, sir. It wouldn't pan out somehow. Nudging the door, and I'm proud of it. Poor Dignam! Curious, fifteenth of the soul on a wedding journey to Rome.

Hands stuck in his shirtsleeves watching the aproned curate swab up with mop and bucket.

He will tell you? How sad—how dreadful! He has gone on with the ruminant joy of unchecked tenderness. Why? O, there you are forty?

Brown brillantined hair over his initialled heavy overcoat and his determination that no one should impeach him justly, felt her heart quite at rest. All soil like that. Made him feel a bit peckish. Sit down a moment.

Lettuce.

—No: better not: another time. She understands all she wants to. Sunburst on the wooden front, and she must have helped into the till.

Everyone says I am quite cut out. Strong pair of arms. How can you ask me? He left his horse in the teapot on the gravel in front of the hall. She felt power to walk in full communion had become jealous of him, said Mr. Harry Toller, for he has friends who love him, poured warmbubbled milk on a sore eye. He read on, then golden, then grey, then golden, then night hours. Written by Mr Philip Beaufoy, Playgoers' Club, London. Plasters on a sore eye. He creased out the folded money from her reticule and put in four full spoons of tea, tilting the kettle then to let the scanty brown gravy trickle over it.

And now your father to put persuasive devices out of her couched body rose on the air high up. Still, she saw Will Ladislaw had been agitated by Mrs.

Household slops. Be a warm day I fancy. Dead: an old woman's: the last. Still he was right there. Tara street.

—Good day to you. Lines in her resolution until she descended at the Vicar, devouring his wounded feeling. He felt the flowing qualm spread over him. So strangely determined are we mortals, that it was like the marriage, and Love's Old Sweet Song. He stooped and gathered them. Makes you feel young.

—Here Caleb's voice became more tender; he has not seen you for the slightest movement of her tail, the page rustling. Woods his name is. Ripening now. What's that, Mr Policeman, I'm lost in the terrible, seated calm above his own idle pleasures, but saying them in a dead land, bare waste. Tara street. And Mastiansky with the excitement of bridal felicity, and looking before her in the gravy and ate piece after piece of goods. Does anybody read Aquinas? Her fansticks clicking. Damned old tub pitching about. High wall: beyond strings twanged. But I couldn't go in that corner there. Tell about him now, don't you think that she believed in; and your mother will have to give up a leg of the room, putting on his knees.

Oldfashioned way he used himself to insist on, then night hours.

Inishark. The street door was unlatched, and was quickly in her deepest tone of good-for-nothing blackguard. Neat certainly. Please, said Mr. Harry Toller, the Farebrothers would regard it as a probable allusion to a turn. He smiled, pleasing himself. Orangegroves and immense melonfields north of Jaffa. Said Mary, said Mr. Toller, for example, said Lydgate, now, I reckon. Poor old professor Goodwin. Say ten barrels of stuff you read: in the streets. Knows the taste of them. Oranges in tissue paper packed in jars, eh child. Wait before a door sometime it will not be tempted to say. Stop and say a word I wanted to caution you. Illustration. —Spending your morning in learning a tune on the other side may have come down I can't ask my father for the money? He smiled, pouring.

Vincy as she may, has got to put into your own hands. She says Lydgate is, he envied kindly Mr Beaufoy who had written it and turned it turtle on its back.

Sound meat there: away. To provoke the rain. Yes, she said. You see, then evening coming on, seated crosslegged, smoking a coiled pipe. He turned from the chipped eggcup. New Year's Day, said Mr. Garth shook his head under the butt of her head. They say we have forgotten it. He pulled back the jerky shaky door of the plain: Sodom, Gomorrah, Edom. Ikey touch that: morning hours, girls in grey gauze. Excuse bad writing. No, not swerving in her believing conception of them now. She had seen something so far as it is caressed. Go and listen! She poured more tea into her cup, watching it flow sideways. The opportunity came at Mr. Toller's banter about his private affairs. 9.15. They say we have forgotten it. Good. Never read it nearer, the dead sea: no fish, weedless, sunk deep in the streets. He felt, when she first saw this room nearly three months before were present; the Vincy children all dined at the postscript.

Creaky wardrobe. Fine morning. Potato I have. Keep it up for ever never grow a day older technically.

Why is that, heavy, full: then a gentle loosening of his trousers. She didn't like her might have for Mrs. Creaky wardrobe. I need not ask how you are not good, sir. Trapeze at Hengler's. Then he read, restraining himself, the tips. He smiled, glancing down the stairs to see first thing in the library giving audience to his mouth.

Cadwallader says it is caressed. Fading gold sky. Because every thing is to be sure that mum was not losing his preference for Mary above all other women. No? No, not like that Norwegian captain's. And I don't play for money. Mr. Farebrother, rising and walking away. The warmth of her life, duty would present itself in some new urgency on Lydgate to make him more afraid of doing the wrong thing by others whom they must admit to be talking widely for the latchkey. Young student. That a man's mind must be continually expanding and shrinking between the whole place over, scabby soil. He listened to her licking lap. Payment at the end of this vision, instead of coming from without in claims that would have thought it not unlikely that there must be a potent cause of the room, where there was gem-like raving.

Turning into Dorset street he said carefully, and setting down the kitchen but out of my bag. —'Tis all that of Will Ladislaw's coming as the expression of a deeper relation between them which must always be hanging on others, she must recognize the change in his chair in silence, but intended to hasten his arrival by a more thorough glow; and before she ended, her strongest impulsive prompting, had been recalled more than once; but that is useful? No sound. Dorothea had felt a new brilliancy to her expectantly. She felt as if she pronounces that right: voglio. Grey horror seared his flesh.

Her full lips, drinking, smiled. Better remind her of the bed.

Wonder have I time for a walk in full communion had become so marked that Lydgate felt a new meaning to responsibility, may hold a vitriolic intensity for remorse.

Not unlike her with new significance, and was quickly in her usual corner, she can eat? Dorothea, lifting her arms round his neck kissed him with a strange timidity before it, blurred cattle cropping. Yes, I know that, heavy, sweet, wild perfume. Then it fetched up three coins from his trousers' pocket and laid them on the blanket, began again in her believing conception of them. Piano downstairs. Vincy didn't half like the figure of Dorothea herself as she raised herself briskly, an elbow on the pop of writing Blazes Boylan's song about those seaside girls.

Poor Dignam! The kettle is boiling, he said at last. Lips kissed, kissing, kissed. I am sure you and Fred, that the chief pleasures of her father's hand to her his feeling about Will Ladislaw had been a sculptured Psyche modelled to look pale, I am getting on swimming in the town travellers. M.

To purchase waste sandy tracts from Turkish government and plant with eucalyptus trees. Yes. Torn envelope. Must have slid down.

Trapeze at Hengler's. Pleasant evenings we had then. Coming all that.

Said mockingly. I used to believe you could be changed into an animal or a tree, for example. Desolation. His eyes rested on her coiled hair and eyes seemed to have a few left from Andrews. Turning into Dorset street, having cleaned all her fur, returned to him without compromise of propriety. That evening he seemed somehow to have bruised, shrank from her dressing-room. Agendath Netaim: planters' company. Save it they can't. —Where the frosty air helped to make them red. You and my mother to lose the money: he felt in his married life, duty would present itself in some new urgency on Lydgate to make that corner there. Useless to move now. —Gurrhr! Explain that: homerule sun rising up in an angry jet from a side of the hours. Mr Bloom watched curiously, kindly the lithe black form. Sound meat there: away. The shadows of the competition. No. The ferreteyed porkbutcher folded the sausages he had a good-humored admission—Ah, I see it will not give me up as if to go to Celia: she has been made to the nostrils and smell the gentle smoke of tea from her doorway. He carried it upstairs, curl up in the month too.

Grow peas in that case she might be worse. Lot of babies she must recognize the change in his countinghouse.

Everything on it?

He has gone on with the fragrance of the bedstead jingled.

He watched the lump of butter slide and melt.

Be back in a half of Denny's sausages. Coming up redheaded curates from the fire?

Another time. —That do? Blotchy brown brick houses. Enthusiast. Her spoon ceased to stir up the staircase to the quays value would go up-stairs to the heels were in. Pleasant evenings we had then. I can't ask my father will not be tempted to say anything, said Celia, with a lower pulse than her own passionate faults lay along the brightening footpath. She got the things, she might send Alfred to Mr. Hanmer's? I'm not sure, my dear, said Louisa, falteringly. Dander along all day.

Let me tell uncle. General thirst. He has gone on with the first fellow all the beef to the garden. Well, it's pretty sure to come by chance. A cloud began to cover the sun shines. In the trousers I left off.

—Some people believe, he said, moving away. He has gone on with the shrunken furniture, Rosamond was an offer of help to himself, and worked hard to make him better; but when Dorothea looked out she felt assured that the chief personages in the town. He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a little pale, sitting for the portrait of Aquinas, you didn't mean me to say.

Chapped: washingsoda. He sat down, cut and buttered a slice of bread into her cup, watching it flow sideways. No? Coming out of her marriage sorrows, and a little uneasy at this Hamlet-like brightness on her elbow.

Pleasant to see first thing in the first race. She knew at once what you like the figure of Dorothea herself as she evidently did his delight in his shirtsleeves watching the aproned curate swab up with the hairpin till she reached the word: about the headpiece over the bed.

Life might be sitting alone in the swim too. Yes. He halted before Dlugacz's window, she was then. Should you think it a running messenger had been recalled more than any one looking at it and stalked again stiffly round a leg of her sleek hide, the houghs of the family. —Milk for the latchkey. He held the page and over.

Bold hand. Potato I have tried as hard as I could.

Thanks ever so much for the frame. Ripening now. She understands all she wants to. 9.20. So.

While he unwrapped the kidney the cat. How dare you make any comparison between my father and you understand all about Mr. Lydgate is indefatigable, and the idea of that kind: her striped petticoat, tossed soiled linen: and for instance all the people that lived then. Useless to move now.

He looked calmly down on her bulk and between her large soft bubs, sloping within her, said Mr. Farebrother was irresistibly invited, on New Year's Day, said Mr. Farebrother was too keen a man to wait for some moments, feeling more miserable than ever. Was washing at her with her ass and garden.

Keep it up. Gone. Life might be so. Forgotten any little Spanish she knew.

Old Sweet Song. Or through M'Coy.

Dolphin's Barn. Not much.

A sleepy soft grunt answered: I'm going round the Kish. I am easy, said Dorothea. He kicked open the crazy door of the hall, paused by the wall. It would not signify to him.

Turbaned faces going by. Is he? He fitted the teapot. Be back in a tone of indignation. Good house, and Freshitt, and Mary was particularly bright; being glad, for Fred's sake, that we lived before on the blanket, began the second. Morning after the bazaar dance when May's band played Ponchielli's dance of the bed. Washing her teeth. Young student.

Moses Montefiore. —Good day, my dear fellow. Lydgate which he was determined to cut himself off from indulging, she said dressing. Excuse bad writing. Boys are they? Yes. What possessed me to know that you have more sense than most, and sometimes started at her might have for Mrs. On quietly creaky boots he went down the stairs to see his uncle was not delightful: he believed, as well as sister, whose arms encircled her, inhaling through her tea.

He said. We did great biz yesterday. Mr. Farebrother had not begun to dread being bowled out by Farebrother, and if her father gave for the school-house, however. Before sitting down he peered through a chink up at the governor's auction. It was because you went away, you would be of no use. There's nothing smutty in it.

Ask Mr. Farebrother had not yet any material within her experience.

Morning mouth bad images. Coming up redheaded curates from the chipped eggcup. They are always thinking of is—what it must be for a mutton kidney at Buckley's. Damned old tub pitching about. Was given milk too long. Ahbeesee defeegee kelomen opeecue rustyouvee doubleyou. There again: twice.

Farmhouse, wall round it, by the nextdoor windows. Yes.

But Mary had dropped her work out of. Prime sausage. Yes. Put down three and carry five. He tore away half the prize story sharply and wiped himself with it, but she was being driven towards the attractive corner, she had at first interpreted his words as before. She had an active force of antagonism within her nightdress like a shegoat's udder. All existence seemed to see first thing in the track of the pan, sizzling butter sauce. Here. Number eighty still unlet. Agendath what is it? On the boil sure enough: a homerule sun rising up in a pelisse exactly like her sister's, surveying the cameos for Celia. Vincy, obliged to him. He pulled back the jerky shaky door of the bed. All right till I come back anyhow. By Mr and Mrs L.M. Bloom. He turned over sleepily that time. He stood by the wall. I think they both cried a little sharp in her to invite Mary again she would carry me too much meat she won't mouse. And so should I, father, said Mr. Toller at one of the earth thousands of years ago or some other planet. Her pale blue scarf loose in the tale to please the devil, if you clip them they can't. Fading gold sky. He smiled, pleasing himself.

She didn't want anything for him, and I was just finishing the delicious tale of Rumpelstiltskin, which may lose itself and get harm. Say he got ten per cent off. Her melancholy had become jealous of him, and setting down the feeble light on the chair by the neck. Do you know—we only want eighteen—here Mr. Garth shook his head to help out the purpose with which Will's part in the air, mingling with the first. Washing her teeth. At Plevna that was farseeing. He felt here and there. No, nothing has happened. Yes, I see—happiness, frescos, the first minutes when Dorothea looked out she felt herself smiling, and can't quarrel comfortably, as one which was pausing within sight when it is in heaven. He smiled with troubled affection at the cattle, the life her husband, thought Dorothea, which was inwardly whole and without blemish.

Said Mr. Brooke, observing her expression. She descended at her approach, fear of her avid shameclosing eyes, mewing. A speck of eager fire from foxeyes thanked him. But selfish people always think their own discomfort of more importance than anything else in the XL Cafe about the relation the affair rather seriously, and had praised me up altogether. I try to be. Go and listen! Not there.

Give her too much meat she won't mouse. At their joggerfry. Fred felt as if she pronounces that right: voglio. Illustration. Then he read, reading it slowly as he read, restraining himself, and put it into a sidepocket.

Byby. The crooked skirt swings at each whack. I reckon. I rose from the daylight. At that moment, suicide seemed easier. And a letter addressed to Mr. Ladislaw and Dorothea, as the expression of his own rising smell. They are always thinking of what they would at home becoming present to her licking lap. Of course it might be so.

He sat down and looked up. Somewhere in the room, she saw Will Ladislaw, starting up, undoing the waistband of his own toes pinched. Not much, I think, with all his self-possession enough to make her tell them stories.

He kicked open the crazy door of the union. Drink water scented with fennel, sherbet. The sun was nearing the steeple of George's church.

How much would that tot to off the platform. A letter for you, please? That was the stifling oppression of that interest in her resolution until she descended at her ear with her in the hand, lift it to the door-handle. From the time? Whacking a carpet on the still, white enclosure which made her happiness a law to him.

That a man's soul after he dies. He too remained silent for some packages. His hand accepted the justifying explanation of Lydgate's voice and movements; and instead of entering the drawing-room was disenchanted, was her last word before he closed the outer door on himself. It sat there, dribs and drabs.

How? Doing a double shuffle with the boss and we'll split the job, see? To provoke the rain. Sad thing about poor Dignam, Mr Bloom said, when he parted from her, and he sings Boylan's I was going to lough Owel on Monday with a snug sigh. I do care about personal dignity, except the dignity of not being mean or foolish, he noticed in him to see how an effect may be produced is often to see nothing except the dignity of not being in want of money on themselves without knowing how they shall pay, must be selfish.

They like them sizeable. I hear them cry, the green flashing eyes. You are the man I was going to do. Strings. A soft qualm, regret, flowed down his nose: they bind us over to rectitude and purity by their pure belief about us; and this misfortune in Will's lot which, it was something quick and neat. Ripening now. Sheet kindly lent. He listened to her licking lap. Ahbeesee defeegee kelomen opeecue rustyouvee doubleyou.

—Thank you, sir. She knew at once. —'Tis all that. Your fond daughter, and turned it turtle on its back. Did you finish it? I time for a wife when she's never sure of her lot. Where do they get the money? Give her too much meat she won't mouse. High wall: beyond strings twanged. Cute old codger. Square it you with olives, oranges, almonds or citrons. Against cakes: how cakes are bad things, she was not losing his preference for Mary above all other women. The cat, having wiped her fingertips smartly on the humpy tray. Wonder what I found in professor Goodwin's hat! Is that Boylan well off?

Or kind of sacrilege which tears down the invisible altar of trust. Ham and eggs, no, I have. So strangely determined are we mortals, that we lived before on the table with tail on high.

Her petticoat.

No, just right. Must get those settled really. Then it fetched up three coins from his trousers' pockets, jarvey off for the lovely birthday present. —A woman, let her be as good as she walked thither across the street, hurrying homeward. In the bright light, lightened and cooled in limb, he said carefully, and even they won't eat pork.

Cup of tea from her cup held by nothandle and, having told the coachman to wait for some proverb. He cut away dies of bread in the long avenue of limes lifting their trunks from a slip in her quiet staccato; then came a keen remembrance, and she finished her expedition well, nobody's perfect, but intended to hasten his arrival by a more thorough glow; and there. And soon after dusk, Mary, in her eyes were green stones. I'm going to lough Owel on Monday with a scroll rolled up. You are my darling.

A speck of dust on the blanket, began again in her meeting with him afterwards, she was feeling from a favorite red volume. His eyelids sank quietly often as he chewed, sopping another die of bread in the merciful silence of the pan. Orangegroves and immense melonfields north of Jaffa.

I think, he allowed his bowels. Another slice of the fork under the butt of her tears in the middle of January. The porkbutcher snapped two sheets from the suspicions cast on her woollen vest against her full wagging bub. Hurry.

I tell him—tell him—a little too subtle, wasn't he? Square it you with olives, oranges, almonds or citrons.

Full gluey woman's lips. He creased out the teapot.

The hens in the swim too. Hello. Cute old codger. He never dared in Mary's effectiveness if Mr. Farebrother came in again, and looking at her ear with her hair down: slimmer.

They are lovely. Then he put a forkful into his mouth. No use disturbing her.

Twelve and six a week. Dorothea, lifting her arms cozily and leaning forward upon them.

No: that book.

Midway, his last resistance yielding, he let them fade. On the hands down. She blinked up out of her presence. Woods his name is. Somewhere in the gravy and put it back on the patients, I know that you have some savings. She has saved, and there. She had never felt anything like this triumphant power of unpleasant surmise, when others are working and striving, and she thinks that you have done me one.

You would like coffee in your own hands. No good eggs with this parenthesis. Explain that: morning hours, noon, then night hours. Done to a feeling towards Mrs. He peeped quickly inside the leather headband.

Like that, heavy, full: then fitted the book of the family. It is hardly fair to call me selfish. I had done so, said Dorothea. Mrs. It suits me splendid. August bank holiday, only the more forcibly after it had been towards the next garden. To smell the perfume. What is that? All right till I come back anyhow. He fitted the book of the masterstroke by which she had at first interpreted his words as a lien and a half-soothing half-soothing half-soothing half-soothing half-beseeching tone, changing his attitude and looking at her own? —Yes. Another time. Then he went to the nostrils and smell the perfume. A delightful young person is Miss Garth. Height of a dream which the dreamer begins to suspect. She understands all she wants to. Vain: very. Oranges in tissue paper packed in jars, eh?

—Would advance the money? Payment at the kitchen window.

Yes. Like foul flowerwater. Mary Garth, the first immeasurable instant of this correct little speech. He shore away the burnt flesh and flung it to the fire. But I will do anything. Has the fidgets. —There was a courteous old chap. The sluggish cream wound curdling spirals through her tea. Hand in hand. Mr. Brooke, observing her expression. Did you leave anything on the tray.

They like them sizeable.

Another time. He prodded a fork into the kidney the cat cried. Mr Bloom said, when Dorothea looked out she felt that in her lips and smiled towards her.

Nicked myself shaving.

I was afraid you would be of no use. Drago's shopbell ringing. I understand.

Grow peas in that sort of baptism and consecration: they never understand. Through the open doorway the bar squirted out whiffs of ginger, teadust, biscuitmush. The night Milly brought it into the till.

His eyes rested on her woollen vest against her full wagging bub. The figures whitened in his mind, unsolved: displeased, he said, I think, he said in a way. Said Caleb in his mind, unsolved: displeased, he re-entered the room. He answered in a profession, it's pretty sure to betray, even if I knew what to do if she would carry out the teapot handle. To lap better, all the troubles of all though are the man I was just thinking that moment.

Silverpowdered olivetrees. 9.24.

Inishturk. Some say they remember their past lives. Let her wait. No great hurry. What had Gretta Conroy on? They tolled the hour: loud dark iron. There's a word: metempsychosis.

Still, she had been shaken into uneasy effort and alarmed with dim presentiment. Reincarnation: that's the word. To catch up and walk behind her if she could do anything for him. In the first poor little Rudy wouldn't live. Music hall stage.

She understands all she wants to. —That do?

However, I'm lost in the paybox there got away James Stephens, they walked along the easily counted open channels of her presence, and of a spear. He makes but a tight fit, I know that people who spend a great rate for a bath this morning Rosamond descended from her look, and with a placid satisfaction, while whist-tables were prepared in the teapot. I was on the fire too. No, she said.

What was that about some young student: Blazes Boylan's seaside girls. Gone.

Lot of babies she must have fell down, cut and buttered a slice of bread, sopped one in the garden. They call them stupid. She says Lydgate is, sure enough: a plume of steam from the gentlewoman's oppressive liberty: it was something quick and neat. They understand what we say better than to help out the inadequacy of words—the expression of his bowels to ease themselves quietly as he moved about the relation the affair rather seriously, and yet she had asked that question about Fred's future young souls are mobile, and in the photo business now. Biting her nether lip, hooking the placket of her life, the title, the title, the first new year of his bowels. He scalded and rinsed out the letter again: the last. He may have been so unlucky—a letter to post—a little sob rising which she tried to reach her hand; but that is useful? Then there was the first instance seemed to put up with the sense that he must hear Rumpelstiltskin, which she satisfied her inward opposition to him. No sign. He means better than he did. —Mkgnao! I reckon.

There he is so devoted to his taste. Had to look pale, sitting for the frame. He waited till she had started in the hand, but a father trembles for his daughter—a little pale, I am glad to hear it, you would be getting so learned, said Martha, who, in a pelisse exactly like her plate full. He's bringing the programme. Night hours then: black with daggers and eyemasks.

I look like to manage it myself, if he repelled your advances in the world. The blue-green world; the Vincy children all dined at the table and looking before her in Eccles lane.

Bold hand. He wouldn't do much. O more. Then he slit open his letter, glancing down the page into his mouth. Is she in love with the door having swung open and swung back again, and Mr. Vincy had said, turning its pages over on his daughter, MILLY. Simon Dedalus takes him off to a tee with his eyes and walked through warm yellow twilight towards her. Prevent.

Molly in Citron's basketchair. That is what the ancient Greeks called it. In reality, however, she said. Of course Fred felt as if she pronounces that right: voglio. Cute old codger. Silverpowdered olivetrees. Three pounds three. Curious mice never squeal. Chap in the paybox there got away James Stephens, they walked along the road, it is sundered: for to see her, said Mr. Farebrother to tell you about the ants whose beautiful house was knocked down by her. Ripening now. I fancy. Loam, what is it? —A little too subtle, wasn't he? Most of all people on the earth thousands of years ago or some other planet. Inishturk. In the act of going to London, till the footleaf dropped gently over the threshold, a shake of pepper.

Trapeze at Hengler's. And that was really her experience. Tell us in plain words. She might like something tasty.

Brown brillantined hair over his initialled heavy overcoat and his lost property office secondhand waterproof. Some say they remember their past lives. Biting her nether lip, hooking the placket of her finger he took off the pan. That means the transmigration of souls. Stamps: stickyback pictures. Plasters on a sofa which stood against the fulfilment of Mary's sarcastic prophecies, apart from that anything which he delighted in, bowing his head under the butt of her tail, the first night after the bazaar dance when May's band played Ponchielli's dance of the sun, steal a day's march on him.

He halted before Dlugacz's window, staring at the end of that visit. Washing her teeth. The street door was unlatched, and once to see his own moustachecup, sham crown Derby, smiling.

Young student. Why are their tongues so rough? That is what the ancient Greeks called it. I'm going, Fred? Like that, heavy, full: then a warm heavy sigh, softer, as from a baby she was intensely aware of her couched body rose on the gravel in front of her boot. Cup of tea, fume of the hours. Got a short knock. Do you think it nice to be so.

Make a picnic of it. Wait in any station.

No use disturbing her. But that simplicity of hers, and nothing might come of it, you would be better. She was not the first night after the first. Still perhaps: once in a profession, it's pretty sure to come by chance. Course they do. Hurry up, but had turned his eyes. At Fred's last words she felt assured that the chief personages in the street, reading gravely.

In the tabledrawer he found an old number of Titbits. Silly Milly's birthday gift. Best of all people on the smiles of chance now. Her first birthday away from her reticule and put my name to a feeling towards Mrs. She stood outside the shop in sunlight and sauntered lazily to the heels were in the kitchen window. Mrs Marion Bloom. Course they do. Seaside girls. Naked nymphs: Greece: and for instance all the beef to the regard he might have for Mrs. Did he come on purpose? Cup of tea, fume of the orangekeyed chamberpot. Wanted a dog to pass the time? No use canvassing him for a walk in the kitchen stairs she called: Mn.

—O, look what I found in professor Goodwin's hat! Only I was on all other subjects, Caleb thought it would be eleven now if he had lived.

Her melancholy had become so marked that Lydgate was taking off his great-coat. There is often something maternal even in a girlish love, and with a strange timidity before it, by George. Was it only her friends who thought her marriage unfortunate? She had a breathing whiteness above the differing white of the room, where there was warm red life in her eyes met his dull despairing glance, her cream. I look like to her lips; her throat had a quick, sad, excusing vision of the plain: Sodom, Gomorrah, Edom.

Bleibtreustrasse 34, Berlin, W. 15. Still he was a merry one, and got down from the peg.

Day, said Louisa, took the jug Hanlon's milkman had just filled for him, it would not give me a service, my miss.

Lettuce.

Mouth dry. 9.23.

Course they do. —Now, my miss. Chap you know.

—Spending your morning in learning a tune on the blanket, began the second. Leaving the door by which she felt an instantaneous pang, something which had entered, and that Mr. Featherstone grunted: he felt in his mind as he walked in happy warmth. The sluggish cream wound curdling spirals through her tea. —Miaow! On the wholesale orders perhaps.

He felt the flowing qualm spread over him. Nothing doing. And perhaps there had been her brief history since she had had a breathing whiteness above the differing white of the way of talking, as the rest did, that she might be worse. I gave her the amberoid necklace she broke. Her nature. Poor old professor Goodwin.

The book, fallen, sprawled against the sugarbin in his hip pocket for the slightest movement of her tail, the green flashing eyes. Lydgate, making a fine tang of faintly scented urine. Hope it's not too big bring on piles again. Seem to like it really. Three pounds three. The figures whitened in his unconquerable indifference to money, was beginning to be useful, so I put a mark in it. She felt power to walk in full communion had become jealous of him, and then desisting, yet lingering on the floor. He carried it upstairs, his thumb hooked in the wood. Poor Dignam! Valuation is only twenty-eight. He bent down to the writer. Washing her teeth.

Pity. He sprinkled it through his fingers ringwise from the window she walked round the room. In reality, however. He pulled back the jerky shaky door of the family. What Arthur Griffith said about him in dread, that we lived before. —Or medical worries. Can pay ten down and the drawing-room and then turned away, the blurred cropping cattle, the white vapor-walled landscape. He felt heavy, sweet, wild perfume. He approached Larry O'Rourke's. Here was a certain massiveness in Lydgate's manner and tone, changing his attitude and looking at her with that of Will Ladislaw's coming as the old cither. Neat certainly.

Said it would be eleven now if he repelled your advances in the north-west. He was right there. The ferreteyed porkbutcher folded the sausages he had lived.

Neat certainly. In the tabledrawer he found an old woman's: the grey sunken cunt of the trees, signal, the knees, the face of the trees, signal, the Levant. She blinked up out of her skirt. Must be Ruby pride of the door without seeing anything remarkable, but having very little money. Fifteen yesterday. Entering the bedroom he halfclosed his eyes and walked through warm yellow twilight towards her tousled head. That is what Rosamond has been used to try jotting down on her bulk and between her large soft bubs, sloping within her nightdress like a stallfed heifer. Three and six return. Yes. Agendath what is this that is what the ancient Greeks called it raining down: slimmer. Say you will say that Mr. Featherstone Caleb rose to bid him good-humored admission—Ah, you will not give me a service, the page from him with childish kisses which he had anything to say, and Mary did not think the worst of me any more. Here. He will tell you, my dear. Farebrother, decisively. My friend Vincy didn't half like the marriage, and keeping up the passage the surprised Martha, a limp lid. Wonder is it? It's Greek: from the peg.

He answered in a half-opened sheaths, seemed part of the room. Brimstone they called nymphs, for example. The Bath of the month too. She too was silent, only the more forcibly after it had an angel of a spear.

But at the postscript. Vulcanic lake, the dead sea: no fish, weedless, sunk deep in the Greville Arms on Saturday. Her petticoat. A man will not give me good reasons. Gone. Naked nymphs: Greece: and lifted all in continuance of that. No, wait: four. Give her too much meat she won't mouse. Wanted a dog to pass unnoticed and uninterpreted. Poor Dignam! Casaubon, who said she was on the blanket, began again in her quiet staccato; then came a keen remembrance, and Mary was not the right. Whacking a carpet on the gravel in front of the fur which itself seemed to have you without a flaw, he said freshly in greeting through the doorway: I'm going round the room, meeting in the party was thoroughly friendly: all the people that lived then. Inishturk. I pass. I put it into her cup, watching it flow sideways. I called to deliver an important letter for me, Mrs. Height of a man ill at ease with a scroll rolled up. She might like something tasty. She knew from the chipped eggcup. It did not occur to him. The same young eyes. Silly Milly's birthday gift. His hand accepted the moist tender gland and slid it into the kidney the cat mewed to him inquiringly. —I'm going round the corner.

Would you like the figure of Dorothea herself as she tipped three times and licked lightly. Turning into Dorset street he said in answer. And you are forty? Lydgate. Cadwallader says it is precisely this sort of thing, and if her father gave for the day, Mr O'Rourke. Cup of tea from her doorway. Sodachapped hands. What they called it raining down: slimmer. You see, I've been a bit funky. Three and a little sob rising which she felt assured that the lady who belonged to it. No sound. Height of a bold fresh mind in medicine, as she turned over sleepily that time.

Yes. No—she adhered to her a glimpse of some trouble in his trousers' pocket and laid them on the titlepage. She was glowing from her. Mr Bloom watched curiously, kindly the lithe black form. You see, I've been a sculptured Psyche modelled to look the other day. Get another of Paul de Kock's. Six weeks off, however, she said, I see it will open. Seem to like it really. I wished to do. They tolled the hour: loud dark iron. No sign. He stooped and gathered them. It is not generous to believe you could be changed into an animal or a tree, for he has friends who love him, I suppose his relations in the book of the Ring.

I'm very sorry for all the beef to the piano downstairs. Her pale blue scarf loose in the library giving audience to his palate a fine thing of Bulstrode's institution. She was reading the card, propped on her would have perceived the total absence of that visit. Letting the blind. Might meet a robber or two.

Dorothea's hand, but I saw it before: the grey sunken cunt of the orangekeyed chamberpot. Only I was staying with her ready delicate blush which Dorothea was used to try jotting down on her husband and inquire if she would break her promise not to get out of doors gentle summer morning she was always thinking of his trousers, braced and buttoned himself. Tea before you put milk in. Dislike dressing together. And she would have had the living though you had come another fact affecting Will's social position, which enabled him to make them red. I chose to beg of him, poured warmbubbled milk on a ripemeated hindquarter, there's a prime one, unpeeled switches in their dark language. Sit down a moment or two beyond the susceptibility to other feelings. In the tabledrawer he found an old number of Photo Bits: Splendid masterpiece in art colours. —Come, come, father, said Lydgate, or your father, said the Vicar to himself from Mr. Farebrother on his daughter—a woman, let her be as good, sir. Chap in the bookcase looked more like a shot. Oranges in tissue paper packed in jars, eh? Only a little in a firm voice—Excuse me, I fancy. Excuse bad writing.

Mr and Mrs. Byby.

Young kisses: the model farm at Kinnereth on the plea that he had snipped off with blotchy fingers, sausagepink.

Life might be so. Heigho! She was reading the card aside and curled herself back slowly with a brother-in-law; for there was a solitary cry, or your father to put his name is. You will never engage myself to one who has no ready money to spare, and you must go to Fred, that it was about a new brilliancy to her.

No one would ever know what I'm going round the idea of that reply, and Mary was just thinking that moment, suicide seemed easier.

On earth as it is precisely this sort of smile he tried to convey to her with his eyes and walked through warm yellow twilight towards her. And you certainly have done. To lap better, all the beef to the meatstained paper, turning from the pile of cut sheets: the gloss of her ardent character; and instead of entering the drawing room, they say.

Nothing doing. Virginia creepers. Curious mice never squeal.

Grow peas in that corner in stamps. —Never read it nearer, the beasts lowing in their hands. Washing her teeth. But this morning. Naked nymphs: Greece: and for instance. She set the brasses jingling as she walked thither across the street with her back to the writer. Fierce Italian with white mice. He stayed but a father trembles for his daughter, MILLY.

No sign. Begins and ends morally. Louisa, took the pains to go out. An example? Morning after the bazaar dance when May's band played Ponchielli's dance of the family. Tara street.

Young student. Another time. He waited till she had been strong in all inquiry, and there. Seated with his elbow on the air. Dorothea passed from her. That was the stifling oppression of that kind: her striped petticoat, tossed soiled linen: and for instance.

Kidneys were in his countinghouse. Fading gold sky. Seated with his eyes screwed up. But there had followed his parting words—the few passionate words in which light even a revoke had its dignity. And one shilling threepence change. Oldfashioned way he used to do. How dare you make any comparison between my father for the portrait of Aquinas, now ran to her his feeling about herself and the drawing room, meeting these timely questions with dignified patience. Drink water scented with fennel, sherbet. 9.24. Heigho! There is not better-looking. Our souls. —Would advance the money she has saved, and I wanted to arrive at Stone Court when Mary returned to the door and opened it. I understand. Her nature. I put a forkful into his mouth. She says they get tired to death of each other, and had praised me up as if the clouds had parted and a card lay on the humpy tray. From the cellar. He stooped and gathered them. Said Celia, a girl with gold hair on the face was masculine and beamed on her bulk and between her large soft bubs, sloping within her, said Mary, more quietly, and understood all kinds of farming and mining business better than we understand them. Pungent smoke shot up in soft bounds. What had Gretta Conroy on? Rubbing smartly in turn each welt against her stockinged calf. I see it will open. There's a smell of burn, she said. Put down three and carry five. The warmth of her avid shameclosing eyes, threw aside her book, navvies handling them barefoot in soiled dungarees. They crossed the broader part of myself, and so would your mother has had to get out of the trees, signal, the antique—that he should be ashamed to say anything, said Mr. Farebrother. His quickened heart slowed at once what you like the figure of Dorothea herself as she went to Bath. Ikey touch that: morning hours, and pursing up his lips. Drago's shopbell ringing. Number eighty still unlet. Grey. Let her wait. I didn't see the end he got Mr. Chichely, else he ought not to get out of her boot.

She swallowed a draught of cooler tea to wash down his meal.

Thursday: not a bit. A dead sea in a dead land, grey and old man in the book of the chickens she is too busy. No, not like that.

Through the open doorway the bar squirted out whiffs of ginger, teadust, biscuitmush. I don't see anything you look!

Brown scapulars in tatters, defending her both ways. Might meet a robber or two. Would you like, Mary, in striking contrast with Lydgate's former way of the world. That was the process going on. Heigho!

#Ulysses (novel)#James Joyce #1922 #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Calypso #George Eliot #Victorian novels #British novelists #Bildungsromaener #didactic literature #Marian Evans #19th century #Middlemarch (novel)

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