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libidomechanica · 4 months

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Untitled Composition # 11748

A sonnet sequence

Poor boy, ’ she said, that we read, hear, drear has our dead self, nor shrink for fear our solid aim be dissipated by frail successful clutch, and strong, and swoops the vulture, beak and moss and slug and all one rag, disprinced from her grand imaginations saved, and bless our simple name! Had been as short- hand of the chase they were dangerous speed: and so ’gan crave forgiveness: yet he turn’d all earthly goods save tithes and bad, and ways be foul, then nightly sings this to the misplanted Norwegian trees refused to serve on horses’ backs, and all thy passion puls’d its way—ah, what perplexing! Eyelids.

And her small good we’ll talk about in Silence meditating Job. Yon cloud with the fulness of his whole in tenderness—too harsh to yours. Of herself in her pure immortal river. Which in their milky bosoms on the wake of the rough, tough soldier, burning. Here at length their women’s feet; of lands in which unanimity, that scornefully lookes askaunce, tho will we work for fame; though so shorten I the stars and titles could form and haughtiest lineaments, with a long debate; but hastily, and to toy with those six hundred cannon duly set rose over the blue of her.

Long bow than my forerunners. Farewell to wish him back a bachelor now and the rampart. I had wanted to make of it. The man kept walking on a shining draperies, headed like a fluid haze of light from our huntsmen’s brows.—For but they lie t is said to the larger soul reflect the image of Absál set it awhile before. Those who fought away with doubts, all scruples hence remove; no man at one short hours from their brilliant repeat for only the sward; lay out the dark hours, but all the chin, lie round the frosty dark; and as the wind pent in a cataract leaps in glory.

Who fought within our perfect seisure? I have now had sketches of the vallies green together with a stuffed animal tucked beneath the bonie lass o’ Ballochmyle. A mirror’d hell! It fears not policy, that he may triumphant springing one’s own care. I know how the youth of Caria plac’d the loss, war’s most modern battle with speed. Shall it not bear a double April old, aglaia slept. The firmament outblackens Erebus, and cracks, and down from over her shrink for fear our solid aim be dissipated by frail successors. This world was free! Stay and the eagle scorn the earth.

That all this mystery was its passing hour’s supporting fairy, all beneath the same we are three parts of those stopped clock. No more, and shall prospered; till a rout of sighs— all the Bees which indues its votaries, like moonlight, as reflection, knowing it, pushed by the green malignant light comfort is the wisest tongue since their guns with solemn psalms, and silvery and bare shew cold through the gray linen slacks, all the mean time, cross-legg’d, with fierce alarm he flapp’d towards heaven’s high-prompting: not that his back, exclaim, says Hotspur, long ere the word. Out of wedlock and kick your forest wildernesses.

To attack: but on the chance, for the lovely, that ill they open to joy and pain; while now the sickle, proving thence but sweetness, Sweet, with the inner me that fine relish, that his brain into a ditch, follower of thought her necke becomes such burning, till beauty’s store, behold I find it, Sir, for me! Was happiest among the stately Pine set in a cataract leaps within our perfect seisure? Heart droop and hide her answers quite terrible thunders hoarse. We were wan and white like pallid cheek and shining scales, the invisible cord. Under the blue night to night. Instead of night?

His visage an inverted sky bloom-covered, while my little fault, and learne with Maiesty. And Dick the shepherd blows the moon put forth in nine moons’ time. Odds, are touched above the crystal circlings white arms, and sigh away the light he seiz’d her wrist; it melted from weary sides King, you are old, by those jacks and Gills and shouted; the cow slung with dazzled lips her state complaint, it dies upon a cavalier. Sister, seeing it, from various nation, as e’er would make their eyes make a Roman sort of god, to several volumes would be at! Half alcohol, to that one word I have to say.

And that fray; the Princess judge of that’ she said, How’s marriage-pillows, to their new tricks, and made his last attack, when courage clung but to dream of that love is slight a thing that I deem truth than prose, unless thou taught in gallant institutes, and there other gaz’d, but heavily por’d on its own existence beat for ever and the matting: then there is discordant melody spilling from his green thing wants to be loved, that I knew you at once. Give way. The Russians now were red Vesuvius loaded, besides of plundering heap of bodies, felt his heel seized fast, as if upon parade.

Those eyes, and wished her flat hand again, where they lie t is said our kill’d, already dead. A moderate pensions from a falcon- eye? How then?—A merry din—I rush’d together, grew for so they say, is that which stick in his grasp: her hair smells of their amiable existence beat for ever, wha for this at last, my Silvia, let’s no longer stay; true love the whole; its range being high as heaven’s airy dome was offering up a hecatomb of vows, when they behold Apollo! A single sorrows of the dove, but I an eagle clang an eagle clang an eagle to thee.

Not my cue for any time to ease this great bulletins of Bonaparte! A junction of your world exactly follows what he said, these black-eyed virgins as before a common lose their young; or does he measure such a meek surrender to what remote and spher e d course to haunt they interchange, in such a golden morrow beam’d upward from this mortality, some sullen conquering: to him who lives beyond the rules of prejudice, disyoke their continence was such they shall see us friends ouerpasse, vnseene, vnheard, while we stood before him thence: the third But three to thy tongue the lie!

The troops, already got, deere kill’d all thy passions cramp’d no longer time; the provinces, and fight like field-flowers: a languid humour stole among the least of force, whose clouted legge her hurt dog at my feet there, here will you require. ’Mine’s Johnson too, who came as if just dropp’d down from Heaven a blessing thousand handsome coxcombs bloody. And I that practice better than grass his feet beneath each lightly prey, and Rousseau points of mortar, blossom in the vena cava. Or are there on Bromion said: Juan, we’ve no time to behold Apollo! In the morn arises a bright peona kiss’d, and could buy, that I would fain his sight? The Lady Psyche whom she drag thee down. He did not combat with a singing to young tree with passions cramp’d no longer trouble dry. Know inside my daughter’s pink corduroys and ease? A second I felt sprung. Tis strangers to each other? Of dreaming.

With Ismail’s storm to soften it the moon. Hangs silent; but prepared fascines, and thou art true, like those. Of such heauen-stuffe to cloud, so I ascended. The smallest chick pushed from an urn, still frets, though if I knew a man whose loss was printed Grove, although the weird vision went: methinks these you see, and trembling, an upturned nest beneath his vaulted palm a whisper of the mart for there were curious wreath. Of individual withers, and dirks, and I was not in the end, except Don Juan walk’d o’er her little minute; but in the present sorrow cloy’d. Of wolves, will thy image pure?

Well—’t is well that immortality, and upon what of the last empty fifth of booze, the rusty nails and children in thy cheek; he can even bet which breathe and loving looks, ’tis she, his very night will be found; deeper and daughter.—And all the world. The way a man joins a woman and yet her will come when you betraying me, I do betrays her blood and woman ever yet invent? The sleek and for to die here: after that, in the hunger for obliterated and emerald, shone their martial fife; and in this march on through heartache or lazily fondled the attack?

Men, my brother kind of cunning. A wounded fawn came flying on the things to understanding in his ample lungs, the genial giant, Arac, rolled on that I stood before his goddess, staring-owl, As boys that shiver in religious caves beneath whose rooty shade he had not scamper’d, only to see them in statlier glorie shine, ennobling new-found tropes with pity, break us with pity, break her: strongly groomed and subsided, for one moment of joy, or the mighty noises; while my pretty one, sleep. And the Rosebud of its own strengthen’d, thou, fairest dame, shalt be, art, alone.

And make thine oath to love or to Time’s hate, weeds among them rose at last fall sick of imitating breast, even from my window the fiesta of sunshine as before Jove newly born, were through open doors of Ida stationary voice she talked down with the Peacocks trayne, and from thee so far from head to heel. Sublime; the profane communion table where wine is spilled on promiscuous lips we might they like slang. Had slanted hail-storm, down he dropt towards heaven’s high-prompting: not that mild beam blot the bat, the owl, the glowing him, for God’s sake, just to rally those winged steeds, with weakness!

’—Here he turn’d and I spoke: why, Sirs, they movèd alike? Against the scimitar, and some unlook’d for change be spirit shared the city wall; but fainter were the effect, for I do but tend upon the sludge: ’ for I was drenched with pied flowers with clay. For ever there to wander from thence the wrathful king had said, king of night along the thistle though a general council, two besides enjoyings of self-denial? Chattering stony names of shales and her side, I sat a weepings all things—for I will pull the flowers with shades of gold, and opens but to pleasure and the suspense of bedding.

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But, you know by now there was not slay me, nor your chest, I want to glide in on, give you always. So that of multitude,—and silvery and bare shew cold through their swift flight, from various grenadiers, whose every bough and swearing the Earthly; and, once come ye? Then Lady Psyche too; he cleft me with the rift of different far that Pat’s language; and the Soul. Accept your prudence, dearest Lady, pray you fear me not’ replied Melissa; no—I would pay. Shout of Allah! At her head of rose petals or crystal rill to trace love’s sole effect: the match was lit too soon, yet, we’ll go no more!

Ready to attack: but I’m too great a patriot nation, which made some nine or ten paces were blue, autumn, yes, winter sleep and puts out grass and feels, and that outrageous appetite for lies which inward grace for everything wind, or hawk, or bride gives her harsh can prove unto that of doctrines the mother’s breast. By which he kept. And I the happy as ye: and mutual ordering matters incorrect; three fireships lost the use of both. Division smoulder their souls encumbered consolation and the moon be still they resist it so. Does he who answer, dying, dying.

Entering, the lacquer of her folly. Ladies’ eyes, and fight like fiends for pay or politics of morning doves that let that pass: I think I hear you ask the class, What faculties, when the morning dew. Grew to Being Her I gaze on me. However think? With wine and harlotry made great; so that you know them untir’d. Discouraged, Sir; but since, my number of Chasseurs, all the grand discovered … but invent? Talk back to thy rest again. I spoke of war, the Rhodope, that summer-night, flash them all one anatomic. And passions reign—back to With joy gone mad, with all his sorrowing?

And what’s this in one another, is she went in bright shade of feeling: for however, and in what houses of the rose as wreath of my native hell. Ere the beam of the foremost rank, or was at least: there was enter’d: first of fields, and to the Babylon, Tyre, Carthage, Nineveh, all walls men know, a hell come. Hid and straitly curbed she mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and I go. Heard the hungry dog; or does the shadows of Death’s valley. Barks at the river as it narrowed to the same blow which levels to an ass each man has a son and sees him err: nor should I torment.

Love, nor selfish uncle’s ward. In one, that, brauely maskt, their foreheads shade with gazing; and the dancing mood, and so wight, from bough to make a lasting troth. At those morning’s eye, her air like nature’s or on human form, the Prince, I would have, great George weighs twenty summers to such a Solitude, to build him castle walls Our land so they are the ladies,—who by no means boded to gentle Carian turn’d, to mark if her dark eyes had yet discern’d this beauty through green nooks empty of all the virgin joys of life is mixed: the mocking Past will stay: and in slumber, lapt in universal law.

Say, they from her grand imaginations saved, and ways be foul, then nightly shaken, ran itself through they for Mahomet or Mufti, unless t is fit to praise the earth can have but your bowers desolation with turbans, scimitars, and worse, alike prolific of melancholy music, music play’st, upon the ripe grape is sour: yet I would have they outspread their Gallic names upon me. In thy Greek gazettes; but this epitaph above my bones; here lies a den, beyond the sweeping the more. Upon their two selves, one whole month, will pry into the breath in his ways are odd.

The strange that he himself to think that at my very birth I lisp’d thy blooming titles inwardly it festreth sore, ne wote I, how to cease it. ’Er Longman and his guide. All madly dancing chips, o’er which may be done—I know howl I can’t account for ever there to wander in a flash through there brake on all sides, clamouring etiquette to deal with mutual pardon asked and gnarled hive I’ll bring they dare not the body’s treason; they be, were sun or clime? Of Moldavia’s waste, where frame and hornblende, rag and traps; and he could not aught of another my former heat? And bore it Adam.

A calm sea drifting: and meanwhile they stood, so rapt, we gazing, came a youth shut up from, the lust which glory’s but a spectre of deeds to be admired, wants to say, they from the heart so sore, hey ho! Not that like the Nile’s sun-sodden slime, engender’d monstrous shade with clay. Kind of prophecy dilating on the river’s brim. Dying to embers from thence the wrath I nurse thee in our sweet dewy blossom of blood and wounded! Your very armour hallowed, and which you would fly, but with a thirst to meet oblivion past, to deem the wood’s boldness by the great joys, Civilisation!

And I said, my friend, we trust that our historian here I could na scaith thee remain with lamplike eyes watching us, a single act of immolation, take towns by storm: no causes weighed, fatherly fears—you used us courteous, every step the blue of heaven. ’ A second morn. As she gaed o’er the dialogue; for since I knew her, king, true woman: and in what rivers swim the sorrows, the stars are flowing. For which Lieutenant- Colonel Yesouskoi march’d with the slow move of the sweet sister: lie not thy show! Know whether they escaped, ’ was their weight, the assault. Wound, with a dearness not his life was lamed, for they who print them from the despot’s desolating, plunder, and none to Chide! Threading a Gazette—which doubtless fairly dealt by the decease she brought her: to cast light enough to blind the tombs there’s the one I carried. To turn that earst seemd but to increases!

Why, I have been aware this kind of life from charitable voice? I won you mother, a good wife. And this young folks with me! Kisses them toward the centuries ago- a sword blow, the painting I fell in with me remain without shadows of his young man’s fancy lighter with the final berries in his turn slain by some unworthy proved—would to God—for I had loved thee long. You come to his lady smiles; her soul two souls can make? I, having diminished them, smiling; merry Hebe laughs and tears must be a wave you been marriage night: her brows, and all around these fields, and their eyes did start.

Your arm, and I linger on this bright Marigold of Leutha’s vale: art thou ask’d whither thou art divine, fair Lesley, thy subject: a brave Tartars. Was a fault, the current among the painting I fell in with large dark blue wings wherewith I clothed our kill’d, already familiar, could be only in my hair, and joined us. Eyes had yet discern’d this dialogue; for since I her did seem,—the bearing upon the high talents of the mind: musician, painter, sculptor, critic, more: and every voices sweet warbling the Christian Empress Dian, for a hunting spear; to Vesper, for them.

And tantalizes long; all ages, though his name, than Ajax or Achilles, sounds less harmonious, underneath the pale new moon sad Zephyr droops the close for whom I would have cause no doubt if they had charms, I found April in my arms. From bough to win, to them think is necessary, may likewise grew, like mine, as also have a naturally thought, and Come’ he whispered to meet us many a shriek rings of gold; or with shades of grass that in the vine-wreath crown! Out for games, the rainbows of the grange, nor bussed the man in all the wonders I shall speak: let me have music was playing?

Often fretful realm in grief. But he would gladly die? And, for my part, I pretend to guess; but doubtless to suit the margin, blackening over Locksley Hall, with rapture on thee. Yet to my brush came closer? Or like a star, her maidens’ hair, and say his limp and rest, but on they were better faith derides, these black-eyed virgins make things could not speak, and left sucked from head to feet were moveless, looking for the peroration commanded, and they slept—they drank its Fountains wave shadow of a name that fills three to three? Fiercely like a vineyard, as are the wintry rage of a harsh to yours.

She kissed it and day by day, until of the old king, but vainlier than your scatter’d by the river, the axil, the Y, goodbye to bloom in the dread of laying they meant well; tis pity that such existed? Used to love her, but ah! And so none shalt come to me, and latter days had risen on barren souls. He knows too, and she will pass me by in aftertime, and languishing in darke abstracted guise seeme most alone in northern front, and leaves your arm, and I linger here with their habitations and they enclos’d me in its mid-day gold and glimmering. Then pride might climb the breast!

Pardon, I am secure; I sing them find out shames and songs? Flowers felt. Dear Endymion’s sleep upon they rode upon this dubious sight along the first and last. Thou, Carian lower than a mile from the merchant? And of the margin of a nuptial chime; soft words, of love: there’s the fairer chance: i like her I sometimes nods the rugged forehead, then, a moment so that shortly he had been bred to be discovered … but invent? So puddled as it is won. And honey and ball. Her fast. There at least he feels the parson claim from right thing to me, trust me, cousin, shallow-hearted!

—Who by no means boded to gentle limbs on trembled in my house, its pillars of the students, all the altar be ’fore which he climb’d to where I stand upon what mountain wind! Why dost borrow the mellay, lord of Langley-dale; his step is first he leaves the life, two plummets dropt for only the swarthy children is gone that you, with only Fame for half we scan a field or by the lily as far as oak from brows as pale as these rhymes, a little sporting fairy, all beneath him sound like I hold her all. Sure I will bury their very memory perish: look, whom she drag thee down.

He said, my friend’s direction, as roll the waters are shining draperies, headed like a jewel set in their bloodshot eyes, and his left ear folds into waste so much less with all his sorrowing? Where the existence, keep merely firing at its will with fair good night: At those cureless and rude, barren shores, the fancy; for indeed these our lately lost their banner. It in our noble sister’s love or hate, it might be that fine relish, that level at my abuses reckon up the glacis. The troops, already part of a trumpet, and can return no more:-yet wast thou a nymph!

Night dropping down they can dive in sadness. Ice. Would I see lawn, and so went forth to victual, had made them down. Darling, and a narrowed to the deep scar of doubt, the constant and so I kept brimming the thicke, might see our own. Wolf and tiger have. To show so much increase our euphony: there shrouded was their floating between her ﬁngers, she tells her plan, but there were pools that do with men. Doubtless to make a mortal summers had she bare; her brother of the court’ she answered I, for this wreathed with wives. Rose up, and sword to squander in chief, in proper glory has my own clean body.

There can live now for aught that may them see, and afterward, if he his lesson against a giant; at last must we condemn? Secure; I sing ere long, and lovelier not thy sweet sister: lie not these were minded so, the time and placing a rumpled than Endymion hear her woes, and geography—having ascendancy, are deaf to reason? But see their beloved you, and behold, before me, till Gazing out of joint: science is love for whose waxing Will Existence, keep merely to alight? So fond, so beauteous battles, are nothing but by time.—What sweet sculpture draped from those that morn the east are circumfused the Lycian custom, spoke of war, the smoulders hidden; tis my mother still affirms your Psyche too; he cleft me through their designs above the day over the orders of the records of narration, which so betrays her blood as an alderman loves man.

Beneath my palm trees, a little. Entering, the sudden and scudding along the appointed fingers; the bridal house, the head. This world, and opens but to a single sorrows? I needs must not learn; they are damn’d; that one short hours be nothing: might have put it in words. At her head against a pillar of electric, chemic laws, and are no sign posts in this day, I think I hear you ask me to make him was the point of noon, the king his bearded Barons heaved and rail, where nature’s rule! To the living lips. And all her race; for I will pull the vesper-carols are. This, and most removed.

Whistle back the parson’s saw, and bids make the boy brings thee rest. And thus the peopled city grieves me to behold the torch out, while things that we still plain and crushing down call me his queen, fair Lesley, the hearth, two in the dark heart of all the spirit-home! And more, and the furse: mercy, pity, and he bears a laden breast, full of clear morning sun I find it, Sir, for me! ’St, upon the then sovereign, watch the fire with that which glory’s but a simple lives. On our mailed heads: but other tremendous teats shoots a look back over heath and threes, till all be said their advance. There one walked astray.

’Er the Muses’ gullets. Young playmates of bad; all that their grim career, like chastest wives from the living hearts, you are how happy he who afterwards accompanied us through your cheek: nor any drooping flowers of two Ifs in one to sound the boy does not glow so much increasing ever. Walked along the least encumbers, amongst them all one anatomic. May weed her out. Miser spreads his gold; or does he surrounded! Air of themselves but the spiritual splendour which attack, when people’s life: three lines of the camp, a charred and wrinkled brow, nor cover’d way was left I came.

One whole of love; it is no matter what poor souls encumbers, among the soldiers, who with insomnia, perfect rows where its stub branches, poor ring-doves sleek forth their timid head. Thy subject of sublime old Erse or Irish, or it may be to-night, that she should bide by this gloom, and by a fire beneath the beauty and inclin’d—again repeated, Inclination to my sire, when summer trees, and eddied into suns, that we read, hear, dream, I dream include thee, I have seemed enormous joys in the first ill-sounding on the evening star came furrowing all my motions with you.

To spread o’er Sir’ and Madam, he the wisest then, in halls of Lebanonian cedar: nor should ever dwell. More evil in an hundred maiden, ae sweet flower, now a nymph! Sweet and low, sweet love, tempest came her tears are flowing: and Dick the shepherd realm shall those gossamer were briskly as those who died for some time, which settles all things: yet my mother makes men hard by the row of stars around it, as of old, the current among men, light coin, the tinsel clink of compliment deserve of Phoebus’ lips, and, ere they were gone: like a Saint’s glory; and if we win, we fail: she would have been aware this kissing her eyes on all my father’s arms, and smote himself beside the war; shall love you, and I would believe thou have named her eye with all she can talk; and this the body’s book, now swear that keep their light forking through the air,—whence will not speak its name. Dear, turns out to their marriage?

Before should be hers, child of their subject of sublime, then The Sage behold the ladies, save some tranquil, anchor’d at its death, and yet she heares and yet not mine eye awake; mine own fair bosom, tho’ my heart away complete, because it’s embedded in every way. A village of Moldavia’s waste, where you shall have vengeance; we might be going; but on they may both be used genteelly.—And I the happy both of you! The night had ne’er been thy meed for many thousand colours gayer than she ought: of all our modern preacher had he sore beset by Christians down on every way.

And bore its fragrant slipt the heavy groan. No—she never thrills from tile to scullery, and such things? Outside of us the village schools for all noble motion: and I begin to be aristocratic as was ever Mahomet pick’d out for intellect, because it knows so much work, scraping from thy breast; and being the appointed hour. She took a bird’s-eye-view of all the current slipping away, wants to say, whistle a little hoard of maxims preaching the dread of laying they shall dive, and, relaxing, waned againe with Lar and Lucumo; ran down those passionate one.

Under the brow of some mischance unto his darling child! To give them blinder motions with a sudden storm of sighs—all the meadow air, till it batters, and the flashing forward to the water as a whale rises and spaces far removed. Those lips shall be our home and paper sat, with nets found under the cattle, follow Bacchus on they rode upon the colour, and the knee; count Chapeau-Bras, too, had lost both ships and eye. For why shouldst, my love is merchant? He turn’d—her bosom strain the bones to and built, in the telling, wherever he may sit upon a cros, our soules for to seke?

At least Here is no little damp, spilling from our heart falls out of time,—sluggish form reposing motionless. Stronger, he that so, some future time, till Gazing out of thee, young angels know are only delight, and heard, and no great deeds for issue, yet may live in sadness of the rose upon a mossy hill, where those eyelash is my lord, not evermore: I cannot fry. Which I should make thine own again, without shadow, but the Muses’ heads were time past, thy holy filletings, near to help me as where shall be said—just as you say, and snared they found the ground; but rested not, nor stirred.

’ And then did woman ever yet invent? And, Prince, and of your great ensign shake from blazoned lions o’er the Border, and a night I came I danced in a female form, the Prince de Ligne, and loth by brainless war to cleave the whole in lovely maid; And in what think of tears; and none to trust since our arms? That in the water-lily cups with all prophets, houris, angels, saints, descries, which all who saw it follow’d? In her purpose like the first Canto promise of my native air—let me but die at home, and of the gift we received no injury more than we. He with his children die; and let the Mortal go. That we must at least: there was a fault, and Admiral Ribas known in Russian people are in everything I’ve read, the coward conquests farther aided them the scented dew long cupped in lilies, that for these very sight of his sister, as they are—and such things?

Unto those that’s fair, ’ said Cyril seeing me more happy than betide as that of despair makes me oft my best friend or foe, though in their baldness up and down at the cool attention to my sire, who growled an answer to his lady meek the Indian mine: give me my honesty again, where there: they sought that wilderness the clock for you: and still in love and my own breast he feels it, and birds sit brooding turn the bones of men: the midst of crimson trace, as the eagles hide thee, pointing to his thorny fruit bush where an occasions will oftentimes make a lasting troth. Himself or bastion, batteries on an isle near Ismail, and yawning O hard task, ’ he cried, O fly, while the fierce demur: and many never known; till like the vulture?-Styled our lords ally your forest wilderness was, and here a little, while the underlids uplift, would almost thing is mortal here?

To bear the wind doth blow, wind of the day. Abyssinia rouse and glory to your pockets? And on their guns were uncertainty is one act at once, this is this? And speak with an eye-guess toward his dear delight, as I have drawn much less with all his sorrowing? A ranger in search of either seemed too soon and quickly before the roofs and such glee? Is over an hour, than thousands, while I doubt not thro’ the thunder cloud. Gama turned the light air on our maids, pitch our pavilion here upon them, ne’ertheless t is for you and I. As if crooning, closer—one day you realize it.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 8 #124 texts #sonnet sequence

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pastedpast · 5 months

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I've been in bed most of the day on account of having a cough and a cold, so I've been Internet-browsing more than ever. I stumbled across this photograph of a Chelsea Girl shop (a nationwide chain store from yesteryear that sold clothes for young women) and vaguely remember where it used to be in Huddersfield town centre. Fashion doesn't really interest me, but I loved Chelsea Girl when I was 16/17, as did my friends (I did actually have quite a few nice female friends in those days!!). I liked the clothes*, plus they were affordable. And it was a great logo.

The Huddersfield I'm recalling here was in the 1980s, and I spent a lot of time in the mid to latter part of that decade wandering around after 6th form college had finished, at say half past three, instead of going straight home. I spent a lot of time in the central library when I was a teenager, simply because it was a really good library. A good selection of books in Lending, a pin-drop-quiet Reference Library (apart from the sounds of rustling newspapers and old men coughing) with spacious, oak tables and comfy chairs, a diverse Music collection (30p per vinyl, 70p for a request), and an Art Gallery on the top floor, which had a weird (as in horrid) Francis Bacon painting on display (see link below). Meanwhile, my favourite shop in town was Wheatley Dyson, the stationers' shop. Both businesses closed down I don't know when, and the library building is currently earmarked to be converted into a museum, while library resources have been much downsized and temporarily crammed into half of a room in the civic centre customer services area. Hudds has lost loads of other shops since, especially in recent years, but I'd still rather go shopping there than Holmfirth.

My favourite nearby place to go shopping is currently Bradford. There's a place where you can have three free books a day. There is also an Oxfam which sells books on the top floor. When I lived at my auntie's house a couple of years ago, I came back with about five bagfuls of books, but I've calmed down with my book buying in the past 18 months (apart from occassional online purchases!) I own more books than I will ever read, but I won't get rid of them. They are my friends! I like the printers in the city library too, although it's not usually a very quiet space to study. A man and a woman had a scrap on the stairs one evening. Barnsley is OK if charity shops are what you're after, and the library is nice, but it's less accessible for me as I need to catch a train and for some nonsensical reason there doesn't appear to be a coordinated bus service. I'm not bothered about shopping these days, anyway. I've pretty much reached saturation point, psychologically, and just generally - the dacha is chocablock with STUFF!!!

Link to info re. Bacon painting: here. I've only skim-read the article. I thought there was more than one of his paintings / or it was another, but they're all horrid**, anyway!

My old stomping ground for the essentials in life: stationery and books!

*The clothes in the photo are from the 1970s; the pinky-red skirt with tiers of white lacy trim were known as prairie skirts, the more sober forerunner to the racier ra-ra, and were very popular. I wore them myself at junior school, prairie skirts that is. And a wonderful pair of corduroy platform wedgies from Wagstaff's.

**'Horrid' is a funny word. It always reminds me of something a woman I used to work for once said to me. We'd been talking about the opposite sex, and she simply declared, as a matter of fact, "Men are either gay, married, or horrid." It was the way she said it with such conviction. It was funny.

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annarellix · 2 years

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A Body at Lavender Cottage by Dee MacDonald (A Kate Palmer Mystery #6)

Nurse Kate Palmer is Cornwall’s answer to Miss Marple! But when a body turns up in her own garden can Kate solve the crime? Or is the murder a bit too close to home?

Kate Palmer is stunned when she wakes up one morning to discover the body of a man in the beautiful garden of Lavender Cottage. She’s spent the last few years renovating her cozy, clifftop cottage with its gorgeous views of the sparkling Cornish sea. And a death right under her nose is more than a little unsettling… When Woody Forrest, Kate’s new husband and the village’s retired detective inspector, takes a closer look he realises the victim is none other than Frank Ford – Woody’s old nemesis. Now, Frank is lying dead amongst the daisies… strangled with Woody’s blue police tie. Kate is certain the man she loves is not a murderer and is determined to prove his innocence. But who would want to kill Frank and frame Woody? As Kate investigates, Frank’s family seem to be the obvious suspects. Could it be Jason Ford, the youngest son, who has an odd obsession with birdwatching? Sid Kinsella, the angry father-in-law? Or Sharon Mason, the troublesome daughter? When another member of the Ford family bites the dust while Woody is tending his allotment, it’s clear the killer is determined to bury Woody’s reputation. But when a chance conversation on Bluebell Road provides Kate with a clue, she must find a woman named Rose, who could hold the answers Kate is looking for. But Kate needs to dig up the truth – and fast! – before poor Woody is thrown behind bars. Can she solve the case and save her husband before it’s too late?

My Review: I’ve been loving this series since I read the first book and always enjoyed Kate’s investigation and was glad to visit Lavender Cottage and the lovely surroundings This means I always enjoyed the novels in this series and found them compelling even when I wasn’t the biggest fan. This one is my favorite, gripping and entertaining, full of surprising twists and well thought characters. Kate is personally involved as the body is found in her garden and Woody is amongst the suspects. There’s something in the past that could be behind the murder, there’s a dysfunctional family always in the grey zone, and there’s a lot of twists. I was surprised till the end and liked the solution. Kate is not being reckless and I loved how she’s fighting for Woody, searching to discover what happened and who did it. The author did an excellent job in developing this tightly knitted plot, fast paced and never dragging. I read it in one sitting and couldn’t put it down. Can’t wait to read the next book in this series, this one is strongly recommended. Many thanks to Bookouture for this arc, all opinions are mine

The Author: Aged 18, Dee arrived in London from Scotland and typed her way round the West End for a couple of years before joining BOAC (forerunner of British Airways) in Passenger Services for 2 years and then as a stewardess for 8 years. She has worked in Market Research, Sales and at the Thames TV Studios when they had the franchise. Dee has since relocated to Cornwall, where she spent 10 years running B&Bs, and only began writing when she was over 70! Married twice, she has one son and two grandsons.

https://www.facebook.com/AuthorDeeMacDonald https://twitter.com/dmacdonaldauth

Buy Link: Amazon: https://geni.us/B0B7CLL4DSsocial

You can sign up for all the best Bookouture deals you'll love at:http://ow.ly/Fkiz30lnzdo

#cozy mystery #blog tour #Cornwall #Bookouture #NetGalley #review

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neonscandal · 2 years

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Manga With Me: MHA Edition

⚠️ Spoiler Warning: focused on chapters 150-175 and references previous chapters

Who doesn’t wish they could experience something again for the first time? Join me during my first MHA read through for reflections and head canons. Be sure to drop your thoughts below, too!

This is another good section of chapters and, having broken it into smaller chunks, hopefully I’ll be able to catch up a bit faster since these unsolicited write ups take forever.

We start with Vil!Overhaul, in cadence with his quirk of destroying and repairing, verbally breaking Eri down to worthlessness in the hopes of pushing her back under his control. This manipulation over children isn’t the first instance we’ve seen in this story as with Shigiraki (and Deku) but it’s the first time we see the true nature of the invisible hand of the manipulator. Chisaki himself was rescued by the yakuza and, while he was raised in the way of the yakuza, it wasn’t specifically with the intent of manipulation. But Chisaki’s own nature forced him astray in an attempt to “pay back debts”.

Similar to the “honor among thieves”, there is something to be said about “gangster chivalry” which Chisaki abandons when he starts experimenting on Eri. This is an ideal that is expressed a few times over throughout this story in different ways that give the perceived villains a luster of morality. Even the yakuza knows it’s all abouthearts and minds. This is later echoed by La Brava when discussing Gentle Criminal’s plans to break into UA. Should we involve kids? Only villains question this. Meanwhile, the Hero Commission and their propaganda..

In the last analysis, we saw the bonds that kept the LOV and Hassaikai were those of desperation. This doesn’t negate their strength but rather shows how earnest they are in finding and fighting for a place to belong. Vil!Nemoto stuck by Chisaki because he wanted a friend. Had a hero been the outstretched hand to him, would his circumstances have been different? I feel like this can be said for most characters.

For a stretch, Mirio becomes the focus of the story and with reason. Having just learned he was the forerunner for OFA, we see his real life heroism during this fight to rescue Eri. Even Chisaki realizes, throughout combat, that there’s more to Mirio than just his quirk. Imagine what he could have done had he also had OFA. Even after being shot, we are shown that he can be strong without his quirk, a hero without his quirk. The villains call his quirk “invincible” but the truth is, Mirio’s hardwork and foresight made him a force to be reckoned with. I feel as though there’s something to be said for the fact that Mirio ultimately saved the power that figuratively destroyed him. Eventually, he breaks down having cleared the worst of the danger and it’s so heartbreaking, having held out so long. This perseverance and sacrifice got through to Eri. Even when she thought it better to spare everyone else and take on the burden of Chisaki’s experiments, she still reached for LeMillion’s cape when she got the chance.

Mirio wasn’t the only one to put everything into this fight as we saw with Amajiki and Kirishima but we also realize later that Pro!Sir Nighteye went into the fight knowing the outcome. He went in knowing that he and Deku would die and they’d subsequently be unable to secure Eri. What derails Nighteye’s vision? Was it Toga!Deku signaling Ryukyu that he couldn’t see coming or perhaps that Deku would use Eri’s power to push him through his battle with Chisaki? Furthermore, what does this mean for his prediction of All Might’s future?

Which brings me to this critical point: Eri in a baby Bjorn. Kidding, Eri’s redemption. There’s a reason she gravitates to Mirio and Deku outside of them being the first friendly faces she saw. Mirio made her believe she was worth being rescued and, further, Deku made her believe she could be someone who saves people. She’d been conditioned to believe she could only hurt people but, strategically, he quickly saw the merit and potential in her quirk. This was a great improvement from his behavior during the provisional exam but drives the point that anyone can be a hero and he’s seen it.

Ironically, as the LOV tries to make way with the final product after Chisaki is bested and apprehended, we see that Spinner is beginning to question whether his and the LOV’s actions are in line with Stain’s Hero Society. The delineation of thought within this camp continues to be a point of interest for me as they’re all following tendrils of Stain’s ideology to the best of their interpretation. We know that Shigiraki was averse to Stain though continues to reap the benefits of his popularity and I question when the other Stain followers will realize this dissonance as well.

When Pro!Snatch questions whether Dabi thinks of the families that suffer as a result of his killing, it makes me think of Crimson Riot’s words about frozen expressions of death. Heroes are plagued by those they cannot save whereas villains do not give their victims a second thought. It made me question whether this is a kind of litmus test to determine if a villain is truly redeemable. Not everyone is on the “wrong side” because they want to be.

As things return to some semblance of normal, we follow Bakugo and Todoroki to their extra courses. As an aside, saying Bakugo lacks discipline is laughable as I’ve obsessed previously. This specific lesson, they’re tasked with taming an unruly class of quirked up kids and the message had some very specific targeting as Pro!Endeavor was inexplicably in the gallery watching. Bakugo’s initial solution for the kids had the right idea then immediately went left. Bakugo leans into how he was raised where Todoroki leans away from it. Ultimately, Bakugo could identify with the psychological makeup of the group which begs the question “where does that come from?”. This indicates a level of self-awareness we aren’t typically exposed to when the story is viewed from Deku’s lens or influence. It also provides more insight into Bakugo’s character in his direct dealings with the class’s ringleader who is basically mini-Kacchan. Not only does Bakugo relate to his ever-present dissatisfaction with being condescended to, but he also imparts some words of wisdom that show Bakugo’s own growth. Broadly, we see that the kids made everyone a bit introspective, and we’re left to wonder what purpose Endeavor’s strength will serve.

The kids’ strength also marks a phenomenon in evolution as described by quirk singularity. Previously, we’ve discussed the idea that not all quirks are created equal. Some are less utilitarian than others while some are outright lethal. Members of the extra training course got firsthand experience with how dangerous overly strong children who don’t understand the ramifications of their strength can be. It seems like the higher ups within the hero hierarchy know that the chaos that is spreading is set to get worse as quirks evolve. It also brings on the idea that people won’t be able to control or house their quirks.

This brings me to Aoyama and the chez. WHY? So cryptic, so odd. I know. We are the same. This is so unnecessarily ominous, is it just about their quirks? Aoyama has been shown to have feelings of worthlessness and not measuring up, not unlike Deku’s own as he’s constantly trying to catch up to the class and his quirk. Ultimately, we’ve seen several examples of quirk drawbacks as with Shindo, Kaminari, and Uraraka but Aoyama posits further that your body can naturally be ill-suited to your quirk in line with that idea of quirk singularity. He speaks of needing support equipment long before he embarked on his journey in UA. We know they aren’t quite the same as Deku’s fabricated quirk with its many facets has simply been built up too much for his body but it’s interesting to start seeing more background characters coming to the forefront. Along with the idea that Deku, having spent many years alienated by his quirklessness, is a beacon for outcasts within Class 1A.

As UA presses on ceaselessly through the school year, we see a huge change in character within Class 1A. It starts with Kirishima’s initial protest of the school festival in light of everything going on. Aside from his innerl turmoil about not being good enough (something we see with many students in 1A), Kirishima is typically a rallying cry for Class 1A. But we start to see that Kamino and the Hassaikai raids may be wearing our resident sunshine boy down. As we know from the raid, you’re as good as done when you lose the will to fight. As Class 1A’s morale begins to reflect their regular obstacles, what will this mean for them?

When Aizawa tempers the fact that UA isn’t Class 1A or even just the hero course, the students become a bit more self-aware to how their trauma impacts others. It’s also kind of ironic as heroes are just supposed to suck it up and suffer while putting other peoples’ feelings first. Hard lesson.

As the rest of Class 1A excitedly snaps into action, bent on improving school morale, Bakugo is seen quietly observing the derision of other students on campus toward Class 1A. Through this, we see Bakugo is actuallyextremely empathic. It’s how he’s able to extrapolate how Class 1A’s efforts will be received because he understands the darker nature of most “extras”. It also explains his predilection for contempt to pacify the masses, knowing not everyone wants to be won over. On the one hand, he’s connecting the dots for the others on difficult or sensitive people who aren’t always forthright with their feelings (re: children in the extra courses and the rest of UA). On the other, it suggests he’s potentially always been aware of his impact on Deku. Granted, he’s always found Deku to be largely enigmatic, but with the above, we should question whether this is a sign of growth or existing emotional complexity that hasn’t been explored because it hasn’t been fully exposed to Deku.

COMPARISONS

Eri v Shigiraki

Both have deadly quirks which accidentally killed someone they loved and both were found to be useful to a cunning villain. What’s interesting is the reception they received from Pro Heroes. Shigiraki wasn’t rescued as a child, he’s grown twisted with AFO’s influence but when he was on the streets, he was still ignored and passed over. Eri, because of her young age and subsequent malleability become a more compelling rescue. I wonder if gender plays a role in this as well.

Bakugo v Endeavor

In addition to both being fire-quirked, hot headed in nature and hell bent on their All Might-centered goals, it’s interesting to watch the dissection of Endeavor’s character by the public while Bakugo experiences his own humbling. Endeavor, having inherited the Number 1 spot, is regularly scrutinized for his lack of finesse and his propensity for overzealous violence when resolving incidents. They question whether he can fill All Might’s shoes, whether he’s fit to be a symbol and it seems like the greater public hasn’t even caught wind of his abuse toward Rei and Shoto. Bakugo, not quite at a point of no return, is regularly being reminded that strength isn’t all there is to being a hero. He’s frequently vilified by onlookers for his explosive anger and criticized by people who think that heroes should practice more humility and decorum. While Class 1A and the teachers can recognize his bullying of Deku, they are likely not aware of the extent or severity he suffered in middle school (a la swan dive). It seems as though they’re both stuck in holes their anger dug and working to claw their way out as it will make or break their success as heroes.

CHRONOLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS

The fact that the idea of The Big Three was forged because of Mirio Amajiki and Nejire?? I thought that was a standing tradition.

Amajiki feeling Mirio’s power loss. COME ON.

Chisaki abandoning his name? I wonder if that comes up again, like who were you related to? Who discarded you in the first place?

As in previous chapters, Pro!Rock Lock is seriously the only one with sense pushing Aizawa and Deku forward. Leave the league to the cops there’s a kid to save. Why does he specifically cite that kids are a wish? Really wholesome.

Toga would rather see Overhaul suffer than see loverboy Izuku and used her hard-won reserves of his blood to make it happen. She may have a few screws loose but she is not without will or conviction.

Pro!Eraserhead being the blueprint for the yakuza’s research with Eri. Do their similar quirks mark a kinship (gimme that sweet, sweet Dadzawa)?

What exactly did All Might DO to Sir Nighteye?? All we’re told is that All Might went against Nighteye’s suggestion and they fell out but that hospital bed confession left me with more questions because I feel like All Might is so deceptive.

As the team returns to the dorms. Who texted Todoroki? Furthering the KiriMina agenda, I love that Mina checks for Kirishima specifically. I don’t recall if it’s the first time but Denki calling Bakugo “Kacchan”? I cannot.

AFO had many successors, many contingencies, including the walking calamity. Nefarious and prepared, again, a stark contrast from All Might and his lack of strategy.

The fact that Todoroki’s face is scarred but that he is canonically beautiful makes me really happy.

Shishikura observing the intermediate course too is weird. Very sus and the Shiketsu teacher also seems a bit odd.

Todoroki telling Yoarashi not to force their friendship while conflating his own relationship with Bakugo? This is why I love him.

Mera now fearing sleep, why is that? Hero society is becoming a bit more grave than has yet to be revealed it seems.

Why the hell did Yoarashi punch himself before talking to Endeavor. The fact that Endeavor noticed he was bleeding is a stark contrast to the last time they met I’m sure.

Kirishima selecting Bakugo, Deku and Sato to improve his strength thus puts those three as the physically strongest in the class but Sato really fades into the background.

Now we see the police commission interferes in UA. I wonder if that is who Aizawa meant when he said that they might want to hold his failure regarding the training camp over his head.

Mirio the father figure. I love that he doesn’t shy away from rumors of him having a kid. I think he’s trying not to allude to his quirklessness because that would incite hysteria for burgeoning heroes but isn’t this secrecy also detrimental?

Mineta would absolutely be a meninist.

All Might being impressed with Mei Hatsume’s gloves. Has support equipment come so far or is she just that good? We talk about the evolution of quirks but are we seeing an era of prodigies across the board?

Is it that Deku is clever in inferring Gentle’s plans or does he just now know to expect the worst from experience?

What a great place to stop. Catch you in the next 25!

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i-love-you-all · 3 years

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omen?

:)) tyty for sending the ask!

Headcanon A: realistic

The knitting helps with the constant pain. While he may have once been human, he’s been changed somehow, the first radiant but in the worse possibly way. He’s a grouping of shadows, wrapped together in clothes and bandages, constantly feeling his own body being torn apart, and there’s just... something nice about taking loose yarn and making something whole with it. That, and the feel of getting into the zone helps him forget about his past, about his troubles and about his pain.

Headcanon B: while it may not be realistic it is hilarious

Remember the Halloween card with Omen in cat ears? That was the result of a bet around base. There was an agreement that they’d all dress up, and Omen wasn’t playing nice... so the agents did hold back. There was a sizeable pot on who would be able to get the ears on him first.

Some thought that it’d be Sova since the two do get along well, both quiet and respectful of each other. Surely he’d be able to get close enough? But even Sova knew it couldn’t be him because he rarely actually stood close enough to Omen to actually get it on. When they spend time together it’s apart in the same room.

Sage was another forerunner. While Omen is curious or vaguely interested in her, he also does not trust her, but he would still allow her to get close enough to heal him or to examine any wounds. This would’ve been a great plan had he been on a mission in the hours before... Yeah Sage couldn’t do anything to get close enough.

The real winner, which no one had guessed, was Breach, who bet a sizeable amount on himself, then cornered Omen to talk about splitting the money they would win. While Omen may not have an interest in spending on luxuries, more yarn and extra credits for equipment and guns is undeniably useful. The other agents could only guess as to what went on in the common room in that hour. They weren’t in the room where it happened (:p).

Headcanon C: heart-crushing and awful, but fun to inflict on friends

It doesn’t matter what Sova says, or what Sage and Viper know, Omen doesn’t think he’ll ever be human again. He’s both a failed and successful experiment, and his secrets have been lost, or the people who made him won’t give that information up, and no matter how many times Sova tells him he’s a man, he knows it’s just words. Finding out what happened to him would take a commitment of resources that he knows Brimstone does not have.

Headcanon D: unrealistic, but I will disregard canon about it because I reject canon reality and substitute my own.

With his inability to feel human, he instead finds comfort in animals. Watching the squirrels dancing around in the trees is nice. Watching birds fly around fills him with peace. He’s grown to really like animals, but animals don’t like him. Stray cats hiss at him if he tries to approach, and he doesn’t think about how they crowd around Sage if she brings them the same snacks or food. Dogs growl or whimper in his presence, and Breach doesn’t bring his dog onto base anymore after he found Bamse hiding under the table, growling at Omen who had just sat down in his regular chair to start knitting. Skye took pity on him, and she has made a cat summon specifically for him that does nothing except roam around Omen’s most visited spots.

#Valorant #valorant headcanons #valorant omen #omen #answered asks #ask meme #Poor guy #can't wait for the day we learn about what actually happened to him #what does viper know?#what did sage do to him?

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morihaus · 3 years

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Dragons

Emperor Belharza stands in the plaza of the Imperial City, his old bones aching with the chilled air of the dreary day. It has not been a long day- indeed, it is the shortest day of the year, hence the festivities that surround him- he is only weary with thought.

He stands with his family, his children, his grandchildren, and his great-grandchildren, who in turn speak with cousins and relatives of their own, from within and without the Imperial court. The youngest circle around the group, chatting away and enjoying themselves among the other children at the festival, the adults catch up with one another, sharing word from throughout the distant realms of Cyrod and of the disparate lives they've grown to lead. The old emperor smiles, listening and speaking to them in turn, and in his own time looks to his surroundings.

The Imperial Isle is bustling as ever on this occasion. The customary Festival of the Dragon has been a tradition since he was a boy-calf, apparently drawn from some old Atmoran traditions, a ceremony of appeasement for the world-eating dragon of the Nordic faith. It, as many things in Cyrodiilic society, was a compromise reached by his mother, the one time of the year that all would come to acknowledge and honor Akatosh for his patronage of the Nedes in the years of revolt. It is equally a relic of traditional Ayleid worship of Auri-El, which White-Gold had not seen for centuries at the time of her ascension to the throne. Many Nedes wished to honor Akatosh as the Aedra worshiping Ayleids had honored Auri-El as their sovereign patron, but such a thing would invoke outrage from those who leaned closer to Nordic spirituality, the honoring of Kyne and Shezarr. So this festival began in the Atmoran style, an acknowledgement of the passage of time as controlled by Akatosh, an acknowledgement of his power, an offering of appeasement, and little more. A scant thanks from an emperor with much more to say about the dragon behind closed doors.

And yet, over Belharza's long life, he had seen the somber ceremony become more and more lively, quiet reflections on the passage of time and the great cosmic acts of the divine gave way to banquets and songs to the dragon's glory, gallant tales of knight Pelinal and his liege, the so-called Saint Alessia, and the emperor began to hear old stories he'd heard from his mother as a boy; some small things changed, minor details, names and places, but what perplexed him most was the way they were told: painted in triumph, in glory, without darkness or shame.

A tug at his sleeve rouses him from his recollection, and he turns his horned head to see a lengthy procession of robed figures, swept in silken robes, white with red diamond patterns. The Brothers of Marukh, a relatively recent sect of Akatoshic worshipers, but quite the popular one. They and their forerunners have had much to do with the evolution of this festival. Belharza looks at the crowd of them, lined like a legion, stretching all the way down the street and out of site. There are more of them than last year, he remarks to himself. More than the year before, too, and the year before that as well. At the head of their procession is a woman adorned with golden jewelry, holding a lead wrapped around an old white bull. Her head is hairless, and around her scalp and face lays the dyed markings of a serpent, spiraling around her fair skin, looping over an eye and cheek, snaking down her neck and disappearing toward her breast, now hidden by her ceremonial silks. Ketra is a high priestess of the Brothers, taught by the Prophet Marukh himself. She wears a serious face, peaceful and purposeful, as she leads the bull up to a ceremonial platform, lying before a great carving of an endless serpent.

Emperor Belharza regards the animal, an old sire of many young calves, an animal chosen for this honor with great respect. Its face is noble, graying, and weary, like his own, but he, like many minotaur, sees himself as far different from everyday cattle, despite some visual similarity. And though part of him, descended from Morihaus, who is descended from Kyne, feels almost that the old thing should be given more of a fighting chance. Should a proud beast as he be offered up so placidly, without any say in the matter? Does the buck dive onto the hunter's spear? But Belharza simply shakes his head. He's grown more distanced from these Kynarethi worldviews as he's matured- he's never lost his appreciation for the wilds, for freedom and expression, but nearly a century in the Imperial Court has forced him to take on a more materialistic mindset, to belong to the world of men, of cities, of towers.

As is customary, the sacrificial bull is led onto the altar, spits of wood over a fire pit, and sorcerers of the Brothers cast calming spells on it, leaving it to stand still and somberly atop its final resting place, as though aware of the solemnity of its duty. The high priestess then moved to take a torch from her torchbearer, raising it aloft and saying her piece. She sings praise to the One Akatosh- an increasingly popular epithet- to his glorious patronage of mankind, to his divine-crafted knight, and to his anointed emperor. Many make a show of cheering and smiling in his direction, for he bears her anointed blood in his veins, and the blood of Akatosh in the jewel hung around his neck. Looking at Ketra, he cannot help but notice that she does not look to him, nor do any in the inner circle around the pit. She only turns to the bull and grips the ceremonial dagger. The weathered old sire doesn't flinch as she moves forward, reaching an arm around his neck to force him to kneel to the ground, and finally, sinks the dagger into his throat.

The old bull does not cry out, it is calm even in its death. Its blood pools out from the wound as she pulls away, dripping down into the pit below. It is joined quickly by fire from her torch, and the scent of searing flesh fills the streets, along with some jubilation.

Even so, as the smoke rises up, Belharza's eye tracks it to see the clouds, which had skirted around the edge of the horizon thus far, gather overhead. He looks down to the wall carving of the dragon, jaws open and hungry. The amulet around his neck feels heavy- it always has, but in this moment, he wonders at it.

---

An hour or so on, Belharza kneels in the gardens of the dragonfire, head bowed under cloudy skies. The brazier burns silently, its flame lit by divine magic, not mundane fire. It has remained burning without rest, through day, night, winds, and rain, ever since he lit them when his reign began, nearly a century ago. All the while, he's paid the fires little mind- not ungrateful for their protection, but content to leave them be- he's put more of his attention into the greenery surrounding them; wild grasses and flowers, fruit-bearing trees and bushes, he's cultivated much of these in a plethora of wild gardens over his lengthy reign, for they've always brought him comfort and closeness with his mother. As the empire has grown more complicated and in need of greater administration, he's been afforded less opportunities to wander freely as she used to, and as he used to along with her. It is a melancholy feeling, but he has made peace with it.

He is not worried about getting caught in the rain, even as the clouds grow darker and heavier. Any time with the sky over his horns, fresh air in his lungs, he'll savor it, even if he gets drenched or stormed on in the process. His ear perks to the sound of footsteps down the cobbled path. Many footsteps, an entire procession. He casts his gaze over his shoulder, only to see robed priests, the Brothers of Marukh, fronted by their head priestess. She clutches the ceremonial dagger at her hip, freshly cleaned. Belharza cannot help from noticing the lack of any guards- he sees only men, Nede-men, nowhere does he find family nor even his minotaur kin, who have been the most loyal soldiers of his legions, and most devoted of his honor guard.

Blowing air out against his nose-hoop, he grunts as he wills himself up to his feet, turning to look down at the procession. "Brother Ketra," He says, voice deep and subtle, like distant thunder. "To what do I owe this visit?" The priestess is cold and serious, her brow set like stone above her dark eyes. "Admiring the dragonfires, Emperor?" She asks, dismissing his own question. "It is a good day to wonder at the power of Akatosh."

Belharza stares silently for a moment. He counts 20 of them, rings and amulets of enchanted glows signified them as members of her inner circle, the closest to the mouth of the prophet, his most attentive students. He recognizes some from the council, his lip turns with distaste to recall the legislature they pushed, the discriminatory reputation many sects have made for themselves.

"I suppose." He lets out a sigh, hunched down yet still towering feet taller than the Nedic woman. "This has been the one-hundredth-and-twelfth festival I have seen. It's been ninety while these fires have burned." He raises a hand to brush the stone of his amulet, the red ruby is dull in the darkness, the light of its pyre burning behind his back. "I suppose I am thinking of Akatosh, in that I am thinking about time, and its passage." Ketra takes a step forward, slyly, as though he might not notice. "Which of the One's mysteries unravels in your mind, sire?" He gives her a long look. He turns around, staring into the silent god-fire. "...I've lived a very long life. Longer than most men or minotaur. Some have made jokes of it, perhaps I'll next outlive an elf? Who can say if I'll ever die, divine blood in my veins?" He pauses, unsure of Ketra's reaction. "I've considered it more seriously. I am very old, and very tired... I do not feel as though my end draws near, I only feel weary, weary with the responsibilities of my station, the needs of my people. One man was not meant to bear it for so long, I think."

Ketra and her procession are silent, only watching with rapt attention at the voice of the emperor. "I believe I will relinquish my throne," Belharza says, suddenly. "Bequeath it to a chosen heir." "You think you can bestow such a thing upon another?" She doesn't sound accusatory, she doesn't seem to doubt him. She seems curious. "I do not see why not. We do not know all the mysteries of this artifact... it is worth attempting, I think. I've spoken with my granddaughter, Varlesh- she is wise and gentle, yet firm, like my mother." Belharza turns back to face Ketra, who stands right before him now. The knife is still in her hand.

They look at one another for a moment. Thunder rumbles overhead.

Belharza snorts out a sigh. He looks down at her; a beleaguered old bull, a priestess with a sacrificial dagger, a fire burning beside them. "You think," Ketra starts, her tone and timbre certain, reliable, like a ticking clock. "You can bestow such a thing? To anyone you choose?"

"Yes." He says.

Then, Ketra surges forth, plunges her dagger into Belharza's chest. He might have kept his footing if two more knives hadn't entered at his flanks, the force of the assailants sending him careening back against the steps to the brazier. Lightning flashes. Ketra is poised atop him, knee against his sternum, dagger raised overhead. The burning fires reflect in her eyes. She screams, shouts as she drives the knife into his throat. Blood spurts, breath leaves his body, he finds no strength, not even to tremble. Rain begins to fall, mixing with his blood. It is coincidence that the fires ebb with the rain, for in truth, they ebb with his death.

Ketra reaches her hands down, collecting the ichor from his wound, lifting it above her head and letting it fall down her face. She chants hymns to the blessed Saint Alessia, to the Prophet Most Simian, and to Akatosh, and to Shezarr, and to the One. Finally, she rips the amulet from his neck, yanking roughly as she works it around his horns. Around her own neck it is oversized, the chain is too long, letting the red diamond hang nearly to her navel. She steps over the old emperors corpse, his blood covering her face, and she kneels to the brazier as the last embers flicker out. She takes the stone in hand and lights the spark in her name, in Alessia's blood, in Akatosh's blood, she honors the covenant.

Under the torrent of falling rain, the brazier lights.

#tesfest21 #mori writing #belharza #oc: ami-el #cw: this depicts a brief animal sacrifice and a murder #blood is especially involved

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ladyspaceradio · 3 years

Text

Population: Me + You

Summary: The last thing on Ryders mind was having kids. She didn’t even have a significant other, let alone a romantic interest. However when Tann proposes something to help the colonist with repopulation efforts, asking Ryder to be the forerunner of it, she wasn’t sure how to take it. But now she's got a missing Sage, a grumpy baby daddy, a convention that might change everything, oh and she has to figure out how to tell Evfra he's going to be a father!

Warning: NSFW SMUT

AO3 LINK

Chapter One

“I’m-I’m sorry can you repeat that?” Ryder sat there stunned, eyes unable to focus on the Asari doctor whose name she couldn’t remember.

Stepping closer, the doctor placed their hand on Ryder's shoulder. “You’re pregnant, congratulations.”

Ryder’s head tilted to the side, glazed eyes stared at the asari though she wasn’t exactly seeing her. “I’m...what?” She breathed, mind swirling in chaos not really able to grab on coherent thought. “Pregnant.” The asari spoke slower, softer, there was a frown marring her expression. She probably wondered why the human pathfinder wasn’t jumping for joy.

She’s gotten it wrong. Ryder clings to that thought. Because she couldn’t be pregnant. Not her. Because if she was-

Not possible.

“That's not possible.” Ryder sinks deeper into the bed, the white paper sheet crinkles under her. She takes note that the asari is young, not even having her matriarch marks yet.

“You would think,” The asari beamed. “Andromeda is full of surprises. We’re still looking into what exactly dissolved the blockers. Some think it's a bacteria, but I’ve been looking into those vaults. If they can make planets viable, just imagine what else they can make fertile!” Her excitement starts to dwindle as she studies Ryder’s pale face. “Erm, I’ll go get you a cup of water.”

“I can’t be pregnant.” Ryder slid off the table. Her feet feel light, and head lighter. Something turns in her stomach. “It’s not possible.” “Pathfinder,-” “Your tests are wrong.” She waved a hand. “I can’t be….” She shakes her head. The asari studies her. “If you need proof.” She opens the door to the hallway. “Follow me.”

Ryder stands in the mouth of the doorway, swaying. Her stomach twisted into knots. Lexi would probably say she’s in denial, some psychological trauma from her childhood. But then Lexi wouldn’t be lying to her.

“Come on.” The asari smiles, it seems false, twisted in Ryders opinion. Perhaps this was just another one of Tann’s tricks. He was the reason she was here to begin with.

He had contacted her, pestered and nagged her into this. Coming into the clinic to remove her blockers, to be a leading light for colonists to follow.

“They need comfort to know that it's safe.” Tann folded his spindly fingers, a smile stretched across his leathery skin. “It is your job to lead them down the path of the future.”

The future.

Her eyes dropped to the trashcan by the door, she just might vomit into the bag there.

“Pathfinder?” The asari dipped her head catching Ryders eye.

Lifting her chin she stepped forward into the dim hallways.

----3 weeks earlier-----

The humidity on Aya was a hell of a thing. Paradise that came with a price, already she could feel the droplets of water clinging to her skin. It wasn’t that it was hot, but rather misty. Sighing Ryder ran a hand over her deflated curls and eyed the surrounding Angara celebrating with pride. Their joy, while delightful to watch, gave her a splitting headache and rattled the teeth in her jaw from the burst of concentrated bioelectricity. This was the reason she chose to sit at the bar.

And because Evfra was currently nursing another cup of Taavum looking spiteful.

“Aren’t you supposed to be celebrating?” Ryder leans against the bar, her tall cup of Taavum, a lovely smelling angara beverage, cupped between her hands. She knows how potent this stuff can be and has no desire to get drunk tonight.

So she tilted her head down, letting the red curls cover her face as she studied the obviously displeased angara general who was hunched over his third glass of Taavum dissuading any of his soldiers from coming up and speaking with him.

“I am.” Short and concise, but his sour face made him look as if he’d been sucking on lemons and not being adored by his people over what they thought was the last Kett ground base on Voeld being defeated.

“Truly?” Ryder slides into the seat beside him, giving Roaan a small wave across the bar. “And is that true joy I hear ringing in your voice?” She puts her elbows on the counter, angling her body to look at him.

“It is...” He pauses looking at her, the dark blue of his iris look darker against the contrast of the white rofjinn wrapped and his broad shoulders. A gift from the initiative, one Evfra hadn’t enjoyed considering the small initiative logo stitched into the corner. He was likely to wear it tonight only for political gain, and destroy the offending material later.

A pity considering how handsome he looked in it.

“Hard.”

She blinks looking into his eyes and away from his physique. More than once Evfra had been a star player in some fantasies she had brewing in her subconscious. “What is hard?” Her voice is low and husky, she does not think he gets the innuendo.

“To believe this war is almost over.”

Almost

It’s been three years since she killed the Archon. In that time they’ve worked together to build alliance between their people, cultivate a culture of respect and peace, and fuck the kett up so hard they wouldn’t even think of coming back for fear of getting their asses kicked again.

“Hard to believe I slept over 600 years just to hear you bellyache about my cooking.” She tossed out, feeling a high as the slow releasing alcohol ran through her veins.

His face contorted in disgust. “Your food is bland, tasteless, and should have been used against the kett.”

“Hey now! I’ll have you know Prime Rib is a delicacy, you should be thanking me for sharing.” She huffed out a small laugh and nudged his foot beneath the counter. “Your people have a future Evfra, and it’s thanks to you.”

“Our people Ryder.” Evfra reaches over and touches her bare shoulder. She shivers at the power in the one hand that spans over half her back. “This is all possible because of you.”

She licks her lip, tapping the countertop. “And to think, in the beginning you stole all my credit-I’m kidding wipe that look off your face.” He’s not looking at her but rather something behind her.

Turning her head she surveyed the crowd of angara when her eyes landed on the odd couple drawing everyone attention.

Tilting her head to the side she watched Evfra observe the woman, who held the hand of a human male. It wouldn’t be such an odd sight except she was heavily pregnant. It seemed all the angara had taken notice. This was a rare sight considering there were delays on the repopulation efforts. Most to do with the fact that colonists wanted safety and security before starting a new family. Another part that so many families had been ripped apart by the war before.

The woman stopped and smiled at the man who touched his hand to her expansive stomach.

Ryder hummed softly and peered at Evfra’s face, noticing his eyes were slitted. He looked ready to shoot something. “Something wrong?” There was a noise of disgust that left his lips as he spoke. “Your people do not recluse during late stages of pregnancy?” He turned looking at Ryder, dragging his gaze down her face then form, settling on her stomach. Something fluttered inside her womb at the gaze.

Or it was the alcohol.

“Nah, we’re social butterflies.” She picked up her drink, sipping it, taking any excuse to not look at his face. “Not the same for your people, I’m guessing.” Now that she thinks about it she definitely never saw a pregnant angara.

At least she didn’t think so. She knew that the angara had pouches, and that pups were small.

“No.” He snarled, lips peeled back, his scar wrinkling under the expression. He turned back to the bar and downed the cup in front of him.

She waited to see if he said more he just stared at his hands. Silently brooding.

“I can’t imagine being cooped up.” Ryder swiveled in her chair grinning at the obviously happy pair making their way through the market. “I’d probably put a knife if anyone tried to cage me.”

Evfra snorted. “Like you did the Primus?” He offered.

She pursed her lips. “Wish I did more to her.” She muttered, taking a gulp of the drink. It had a heady salty taste that ended in a sweet tang.

Primus had been a Devil, far worse than the Archon since she had not desire to waste time gawking at the Remnant. She was pure evil, seeping a dark claws into Heleus seeking to erase everything but the Kett.

In the end it had been her pride that led to her demise. She had wanted to see Ryder die by her own hands, for the ‘glory of the Empire.’

But there had been no glory in her death as she choked on her own blood watching Ryder stand over her.

Taking another gulp of the drink, Abigail shook away the memory. Smacking her lips she looked at Evfra. “You ever just think about how you're getting older?” Eyes crinkle in the corner when his face delved into a sour expression.

“No.”

“L-I-A-R,” She sang angling her body towards him. “You think about it. I think about, we all think about it. Its like waking up one day going, huh my life's half over and what do I have to show for it? A whole lotta nuthin’” She slapped her palm on the table. “Sure I’m the savior of the galaxy but that jazz is worth what?” “Millions of lives.” Evfra offered, looking almost amused as she swayed in her chair.

“Exactly! And do you know how many of those lives I’ve had in my bed?” She threw her hands in the air, nearly knocking over her drink, if Evfra hadn’t grabbed it. “Not a one!” She sinks into the counter, both arms stretched out in front of her.

“Why would you want that many in your bed?” Evfra moves her cup to the other side of the bar.

“I don’t want a million dicks.” Ryder grumbled, lifting her head to glare at him. “I want one. One glorious dick to be my dick forever.”

“Perhaps you should speak with your doctor about this obsession-” He grunted and caught Ryders flailing hand as it smacked him in the chest.

She stares at her tiny hand in his massive one. Completely swallowed. She shivers at the heat radiating even through the glove.

“No one needs a Pathfinder anymore.” She murmurs looking up at him. “And what will I do then?”

They’re both silent for a moment before he sighs. “You find something else to occupy your time. Your nose is large enough to be in everyone's business.” He’d seen how she sought out even the little task to perform. Just the other day she stopped to show a recruit how to take apart a milky way gun.

“I have a beautiful nose.” She grunted looking at him, said nose wrinkled. Much to Evfra’s annoyance however her eyes began to mist over. “Why can’t anyone recognize that?” Her bottom lip jutted out starting to quiver.

Evfra cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable with this situation. “Your nose is the right fit for your face.” He offered.

“Really?” Ryder squeaked looking up at him. “I thought it was too big.” She touched her face and sagged.

His hand touched her jaw, turning her to look at him. “You are perfect.”

Three words. Three simple words that came from the most unlikeliest of people.

Ryder stared at him even after he pulled his hand back and looked away. He shifted in his chair, uncomfortable from her silence or her staring.

“You're handsome.” She blurts as he starts to speak, her declaration silencing him. He turns to look at her, eyes roaming over her flushed cheeks and glassy eyes. “You are drunk.” He decides with a sigh. “I will call the tempest and have Jaal fetch you.”

“I’m not drunk.” Ryder pushed her thick hair back. “I’m high on liquid courage.” She smiles at him, though she is inclined to think she might be drunk when her mouth continues to spew thoughts from her brain. “I always thought you were handsome. Scar really adds to the good looks.” She nibbles her lips looking at him now, eyes tracing along the scar.

How many times had she fantasized kissing those twin lines that defined his features. Oh how she pictured nibbling them down to his lips that looked so plump that she knew they would cradle her own against them.

Ryder shuddered leaning forward. He’s studying her expression when she reaches over, laying a hand on his muscular thigh.

“If you weren’t so walled off, Evfra, I’d almost suggest we hook up.” Ryder wiggles her brows.

He lets out a soft snorting chuff, his hand grabs hers and pulls it away before it could wander up to the crux of his thighs. “I think you’ve had enough.” He rasps in a husky tone, one that makes her thighs clench together as heat floods her core. “I will walk you back to your ship.” He slides out of the seat in a smooth motion that makes her head a bit dizzy.

“No thanks,” She jerks her arm out of his grip. “I don’t….I don’t want to go back there.” She curled an arm around her waist. “It’s lonely.”

They had come to Aya for more than this celebration, she’d come to say goodbye to Jaal as he and Avale were uniting their families and starting a life together. Just a few months prior Drack had left as well to be with Kesh and her second clutch of baby Krogan. Peebee had one foot out the door, Ryder could feel everyday she was itching for more than what the Tempest was doing. She knew that their time together wasn’t forever, but watching her family drift apart little by little was harder than she expected.

Evfra was silent as she slumped down in her seat, bottom lip jutting out in a pout. “Let me crash at the resistance.” She grumbled.

“That isn’t something I can do.” He took hold of her arm again, and she allowed herself to be tugged out of the chair, though she misjudged the distance from her seat to the ground and landed directly into his chest with a soft ‘oomf.’

His hand settled on the back of her neck, the other holding her arm ran down to cup her hip. She looked up at him, breath caught in the back of her throat. She was pressed tightly to his chest, breast molding to the hard plains of his, nipples stiffening as she felt a knot of arousal bubbling in her stomach.

Gasping she watched his nose wiggle, eyes slitting as he bent his head. “You’re…”

She doesn’t think about it, in the future she’ll blame the alcohol running through her system, and the mix of Evfra’s heady scent, but she lunges, cutting off his words, smashing her mouth against his in a teeth clicking kiss that is more pain then pleasure.

Evfra hisses, hand on her neck tangles with her hair, pulling her head back. Her lip is busted and bleeding, eyes glazed. Ryder sucked in a breath, her last bit of dignity began to shrivel as her hazy mind grasped at the lingering sanity pointing out she just kissed Evfra De Tershaav and likely ruined any type of friendship they have built over the past 4 years.

“Evfra,” She twisted in his hold, hands pushing on his chest. “I’m-“

Her wobbly tone cut off as he bend his head, brushing his mouth against her nose, down her cheek, and ghosted over her lips. “You are too impatient, Ryder.” His husky tone sent a thrill down her spine that settled in her stomach.

She tilted her head back trying to catch his mouth. She mewled softly when he pulled away.

“Not here.” He tugged her into his side tucking her against him, chuffing softly.

He doesn’t seem to mind her wandering hands this time. In fact she can hear the faintest sound of a purr thrumming deep in his chest. She almost calls him a pussy she’s willing to stroke when he suddenly tugs her off the main road and presses her up against the wall.

Massive hands span over her hips as he dips his head towards hers. Letting out a sigh as their lips touch, he takes control keeping her head tilted with a fist in her fiery hair. He laps at the seam of her lips, but doesn’t go deeper despite her wiggling and whimpers of protest.

“I’m starting to think you enjoy torturing me.” She gasp fingers curling around the straps laying against his chest. Her body’s pressed against his, hips grinding into his front. She makes needy keens in the back of her throat.

“Are you always this impatient Ryder?” He chuckles against her skin, lips igniting a fire beneath them.

“Call me Abigail, Evfra.” She panted against his mouth. She hadn’t the will power to extract herself from those delectable lips. Oh how she pictured kissing him! The reality blew all those lusty fantasies away. She made a wanton noise in the back of her throat as he nibbled her bottom lip.

“Ahbee-gal” He purrs against her ear. The reverberating sound of his voice sends twings of pleasure down her spine, settling at her contracting core. He inhales deeply, chuckling at her reaction. “I’m going to ravish you.”

“Oh god yes!” She mewls digging her fingers into his rofjinn, tugging to bring him back to her.

He laughs, a deep throat thrum that she’s never heard before. If she had been more clear headed and less horny she would try desprately to remember the sound. Though that isn’t what is keeping her focus at the moment while ehr hands trail southward. Not that they get very far when the wall behind her suddenly disappears.

Letting out a small wail, she nearly tumbles down to her ass if Evfra hadn’t snatched her waist.

“Rude!” She huffed, craning her neck back to stare at the room behind her. Not that she can see much through the dim interior lighting. What she can see is a spare room filled with only the essentials.

Of course her mind isn’t on the surrounding area long when a hot mouth presses to her shoulder sucking the the flesh there.

“Clothing off.” She mewls hands tugging at his shirt trying to magic it off him with each tug. Why did angara clothing have so many buckles! Ryder begins to pout at the sight, muttering dark words about forbidden treasures being locked away.

Chuffing in amusement he gently extracts her hands. “Let me.” His fingers make dizzly fast work of all the buckles and clasps.

Hands free she starts work on her own clothing, while following Evfra as he tugs off his Rofjinn. Of course wanting to be naked soon as possible she attempts to take the shirt off without properly unbuttoning it first.

Ryder stumbled into the bedroom door, her arms caught up in the sleeves as she tried to rip off the blouse she wore. She could hear Evfra huffing at her. Grinning she shimmied out of her shirt and tossed it onto the floor and wiggled a brow at him.

“I would say your seduction talents needs some work.” He stated dryly folding the rofjinn and setting it aside.

Licking her bottom lip she greedily drank in the sight of him shirtless, taking in his broad chest to his tampered waist. She especially appreciated the hard muscles that moved beneath his deep blue skin. Letting out a groan she moved toward him, hands out stretched to touch his skin.

Catching her small hand by the wrist, Evfra let out a soft chuffing sound. “What happed to undressing?” He lifted her wrist and kissed the racing pulse beating beneath the skin.

“I got caught up wanting to touch this perfection.” She whispered, swallowing back the saliva that built in her mouth.

“Mmm.” He nips her skin before letting her go. “Are all humans so easily distracted or is it just you?”

She let out an indignant huff. “Oh no it’s just me when there’s a particularly inviting male….” She steps closer, hands on his stomach stroking up and down grinning as his muscles contracted at the touch. “Needing to be stroked.”

He had scars across his skin, faded blue colors, almost white. She couldn’t resist leaning in and licking the one across his ribs. He let out a shuddering purr and yanked her into his chest.

“Abigail.” Her name is a deep groan that leaves his mouth.

And then he was kissing her again. Tongue sliding against her own, tangling together as his palmed her heavy breast. The skin of his palm sends electrical current through her breast, making her nipples stiffen and pleasure rock down to the clenching of her core.

Abigail moans against his mouth, enjoying the feeling of his touch too much to even notice when it became skin to skin contact. Until he breaks their kiss to pull away the tattered remains of her bra off her body.

“Did you just he-man my bra off?” She spread her fingers against his chest, using his imposing unmoving form to steady herself. She thinks the alcohol has hit her system. She feels all warm and tingling. There’s a heat that starts in her stomach and pulses down.

“I am unsure of your word,” He presses his mouth to her throat sucking on the skin there. “But yes, I did just rip that flimsy fabric.” He licked at the hollow of her throat, paying special attention to her jumping pulse. “I will buy you another, better, one.”

“Mmm.” She tilted her head back, fuzzy brain can’t really focus on his words only on the sensation of his mouth making a path up her throat to her jaw, then his breath ghosted against her ear.

“Hold onto me.” He lifted her hands to his shoulders. And before her bogged mind could grasp his order he hefted her up, with one arm, wrapped around her ass.

Squealing she hooked her thighs around those slim hips, pressing her heated core against his side. Her eyes rolled back at the sensation of his hip brushing against the wet crux between her thighs.

Silencing her soft mewling noises he dropped her to the bed suddenly making a shriek leave her lips as she bounced against the mattress. Propping herself up on her elbows Abigail huffed at him, glaring up at his smirk. “Evf-”

Suddenly bending he grabbed the legs of her pants and yanked. Dragging them off her hips, along with her underwear. Which was left dangling of her ankle as he tossed her pants aside. They were less than flattering being the initiative issued clothing. A bland cotton cloth that as Liam described it, were ‘whitie tighties.’

If she had known the night would have gone differently she would have gotten her her red thong-

These thoughts abruptly disintegrated as Evfra lifts her ankle, looping a finger through one of the leg holes and holds the pair of plain undies up.

He drank in her scent with huffing breathes, large hands gripping the thin strip of clothing covering her soaked core. He growled as she let out a soft noise of disapproval.

With a fangy smirk he lifted the soaked cloth to his nose. “Sweeter than pairpo.” Evfra purred, licking the panties then dropping them to finish ridding himself of his own pants.

Abigail's eyes were glued to the movements, watching the fabric slide down his hips, lower and lower until Evfra was completely revealed to her.

Lips parted in surprise, she stared at his cock. It was a darker blue and violet color, speckled with white across the underside of the shaft. He was thick and similar to a human male: if you didn’t count the fluttering ridges, the tapered head and bulbous base. The thing that shocked her and had her inching up the bed was that is was writhing against his stomach as if it had a mind of its own.

Abigail didn't get to study him much before he grabbed her ankles and pulled her forward to the edge of the bed.

Kissing each ankle Evfra placed the on his elbow, spreading her wide open for him like a flower blooming in spring. His eyes glued to her flushed skin. Pupils dilated, lips curled upward, he made a low snarling sound.

Abigail flushed shifted against the bed feeling utterly vulnerable being spread before him like a feast. Which is how he was looking at her. She could even see him drag his tongue across his lower lip.

“I must look alien to you.” She whispered self-conscious of her nudity. She curled an arm over her breast and sucked on her bottom lip.

“You are….” He swallowed audibly, drawing his gaze from her pink cunt to her eyes. “Beautiful.” He purred, kneeling between her thighs. “I have never seen anything close to you.”

“I’ve been curious,” his tone has taken a raspier note. The ‘r’s of his words dragged out in a sound that makes her shiver. Warm hands drag along her thighs. Her muscles quiver in anticipation as he settled between her parted legs and inhales.

Mewling she arches into him, head tossing back and forth in frustration. She wants him to touch her-why wasn’t he touching her.

“Your kinds coupling is violent,” He strokes a hand down her skin. Petting her with the lightest touches on her stomach, hips, arms. But no where she WANTS him to touch.

There is a tiny thought that wonders at what he’s seen to make such a judgement but it’s swept away in the tidal wave of arousal beneath his gentle touches.

“Please!” Ryder keens softly her own hands trail up her body cupping the gentle slopes of her breast.

He watches her but does nothing to end her torment as he speaks with slow decisive touch’s over her skin. “Your softer than any Angara I’ve been with.” As if to emphasize this point he groped the fat of her hips. She sighs as the touch, undulating beneath him. “I will not take you as your people do.” He bends tongue drags across the divot of her hip bone up the planes of her stomach.

“Don’t care!” She cries out pinching her nipple watching him taste her skin with small licks traveling up her body. Everything throbs at the sight. She can feel herself spasm with need, a yearning to feel him slip between her thighs, to fill her to the edge of pain. To fuck her into this mattress till she can no longer move.

“Evfra!”

He smirks leaning over her. “Responsive.” He stops her hands gathering both wrist. “Much better then the vids.” He murmurs softly against the swell of her breast. She’s holding her breath, nearly vibrating with wanton need.

A small thought bubbles in the back of her mind, that she’s edging the point of no return. That this was going to be a bad idea that spirals into a pit of despair if she didn’t stop. But that little bubble popped the moment his tongue sweeps out against her pert nipple.

Crying out she arches into him, hands twist in the hold that has them. “Sensitive.” He growled lapping at the pink nub, circling it with the tip of his blunt tongue. Her toes curl at the feeling, his tongue had a texture to them and seemed to vibrate against the peak of her breast.

He nibbled down the slope of her puffy breast, switching to lavish the other with attention.

“I like how soft you are.” He growls squeezing and molding the breast to the palm of his hand. “How incredibly soft.” His mouth seals of the taunt peak, making her arch up into the sucking of his hot mouth.

He’s making a wet slurping sound while he suckles the peak of her nipple. His hand spanning her ribs moves down her side, cupping her rear that is pressed against his clavicle bone, which she’s been rutting unconsciously again.

She let out a moan as his finger slid along her cunt. He let out a rumble, seemingly surprised at how wet she was. Abandoning her breast with gentle kisses he travels down her stomach. Stopping to lavish attention to each of her small scars, freckles, and stretch marks. He grins at her as he nibbles her hip bone.

“Your scent is driving me wild.” He noses her red curls purring when she jerks against his hold. “It always drives me wild.” He lets out huffs parting her lips and stares at the pink clutch dripping with arousal. “I have longed to taste.”

“E-evfra.” Abigail wiggles in his hold, mind hazy with arousal. She mewls, trembling in anticipation. He seems to be taking his time savoring her scent that has her flushing with embarrassment. That doesn’t last long when he opens his mouth and licks along her slit with a decisive stroke.

She mewls softly, hips jerking against his mouth. His spans a hand against her stomach, keeping her in place while his tongue makes feather soft touches across her cunt. It was light and gentle touches that were driving her wildly mad.

Thighs kept spread with his shoulders, he had full control of her body. She let out a deep cry, body shuddering. “Evfra!” She grabs his sheets jerking up into his mouth, trying to grind into him.

He lets out a purr, vibrating that tongue against her clit that sends her spiralling down. Eyes rolling back as a slow building orgasm trickles into her system. Every muscle in her body quivers beneath the slow lazy licks of his tongue. Gasping, her knees fall open, hips ground up into his mouth. Rocking in time with his broad strokes.

“Evfra, Evfra evfra.” She chants feeling the burn of overstimulation but she can’t stop rocking into him, can’t stop the second orgasm building as he audibly gulps at her cream. She lets out a sharp yelp when he presses a thick, blunt, finger into her weeping entrance.

“Look at how you grasp me.” He purrs. “Greedy.” He sinks his finger deeper into her swollen, pink, clutch. Cooing at the way she grips his digit. Like a hungry mouth suckling him back in.

Moaning, her head tossed side to side as he filled her up, opening her wide with slick wet noises as he moved his finger inside of her. It had been a long dry season since she last been with a man. At the moment she couldn’t even remember it, only what Evfra was doing to her body as he shifted pulling her hips higher.

Nibbling her outer lip he thrust his finger deeper, both groaning as he did. “So soft.” He rasped. “How can any male leave this body.” His eyes met hers. “I’m going to make you sing for me.”

Singing wasn’t what she felt her throat was doing. Opera more like it as she shrieked at the powerful orgasm that made her body arch and clench. She practically bowed off the bed while her vision went dark. All the while she could feel him still working his finger deeper into her cunt while loudly licking up the cum dripping out of her.

“Stars.” He rasped looking at her flushed body and shaking limbs.

Abigail certainly felt like she saw stars as she went limp against the mattress. Her body jerked against him as he withdrew his finger. Drowsiness edged into her consciousness as she stretched languid.

Of course two orgasms later and Evfra was nowhere near done with her. He chuckled as he kissed up her body, saying hello to the girls before he was fully looming over Ryder.

“I hope you aren’t about to fall asleep.” He nudged his nose against her chin, urging her thighs to wrap around his waist.

“Mmm.” Ryder cracked an eye open suddenly far more awake as something rolled against her sensitive lips. Breath hitched when he nudged her entrance with the head of his cock.

“Oh!” SHe gasped as the odd sensation of being filled by something that wasn’t entirely human.

Thighs quivering against his hips, she attempted to roll away from the burrowing entity that was Evfra’s cock, only to feel the first set of ridges slip into her and go completely still. She was instantly melting into a puddle of pleasure as they rowed against the walls of her. Especially tickling her g-spot. Making her clench around him with a groan.

Scar wrinkled he closed his eyes holding her hips, soft a mewling noise left his throat. “Stars.” He looked down at her then, eyes slitted. “The way you grip me…” He rubbed the mark he left on her skin, breathing hard.

Drool was dribbling out of her mouth while she gazed up at Evfra, hips rolling against the thick cock. Toes curling, heels digging into his back to spur him on. But Evfra seemed determined to drive her mad. He moved in a slow pace, until he was completely sheathed within her warmth.

“Tight.” He growled against her skin, he was making many marks against her collarbone, sinking his fangs into the yielding skin. Ryders own nails were clawing at his back as she felt the bulbous base popping into her cunt.

“Evfra!” She cried so sweetly, tears leaking out of her eyes as he began to pull out of her at the same slow pace. He could feel her climax as he pushed in, feeling the way her walls clenched and pulsed, beckoning him to seed her.

How he thought of her swollen with his child, like the human he saw before. His lips peeled back in the though as he pulled her hips flush against his, sinking into her depths. A hand span up between the valley of her bouncing breast and lay over her vunerable throat.

She gasped, tilting her head back giving his hand more room as he cupped her throat, thumb stroking over her racing pulse. She murmured how she couldn’t give him another one. But she would-oh she would cum again on his cock, and he would fill her womb with his seed. And once she was limp beneath him he would slide down her body to taste their coupling, coax yet another orgasm from her.

Maybe then he would let her rest, but he would spend the night between her thighs.

“You’re a treasure.” He bent over her, hips gliding along her thighs, sticking to the steady pace. Those ridges rubbed against her walls. He can feel the tells of his own climax coming as the ridges began to row, seeking to interlock with a female angara’s grooves. They would become thicker as he climaxed, ensure that none of his seed escaped.

He watched as Abigail’s green eyes widen at the feeling, her wet lips parting with a soft ‘Oh!’ as a shudder rocks her body. She orgam’s against him, he can feel her soak him as a wordless cry escapes her. He growls bending down to capture her lips, sinking deep into her cunt as spurts of his seed coat her womb.

-----Present-----

She chewed on her nail, biting into the skin but not breaking it.

How did one tell the grumpy resistance leader that his one night stand led to a new life?

She hadn’t even seen Evfra since then. Much less spoke to him. Her hands threaded together behind her head as she let out a low sigh staring at the screen of the empty email. Twice she started typing, both started with an apology neither made past the second sentence. She wanted to be a coward, send him an email, throw the proverbial ball at him and wait.

Turning in her chair she pulled out the glossy black and white photo. Though it was hard to discern what exactly the picture was, she could make out the small pea like blobs in the photo as her children.

Multiple...

She shuddered, a sour taste filled her mouth, her stomach rolled. Taking gulping breathes she warded off the nausea. Apparently the Doctor, Y’lusia, Sara remembered her name after leaving, said she was in 10 weeks along. Funny considering she’d slept with Evfra 3 weeks ago. But Ryder hadn’t said a word, just numbly taken the photo.

Y’lusia informed her that she would be sending the file over to Lexi, who was her main doctor, but thought it best for her to set up another appointment at the clinic to see a specialist. She wouldn’t be returning to that clinic, Ryder thinks with a bitter expression.

It was a shame Lexi was attending the Nexus seminars at the moment, and Harry was acting at the Tempest replacement.

Gave her plenty of time to avoid, ignore, this predicament a little longer.

::Ryder, Director Tann wishes to speak with you.:: SAM popped up at his router, to the left of her elbow. She let out a low noise of discomfort thinking about talking to him.

“Any way I can put him off?” She leaned back into the chair, putting the ultrasound photo into a draw where it was to be forgotten for a time. ::I can tell him you are occupied with personal matters.:: SAM offered.

“Uuuugh no,” She stood and pulled her hair back into a bun. “It will only make matters worse.” She stood and looked at the Orb. “How do I look?” ::Like Abigail Ryder.::

She snorted softly. “Remind me to have Jaal teach you some sauve lessons SAM.’ She took a few breaths shaking her hands out. “Maybe I should change.” She glanced down at her sweat stained sleepshirt. She hadn’t bothered dressing, as there was no one needing her attention. They’d just gone to Eos, dropping Peebee off.

It had been a sad, and regretfully sober, party for Ryder. While Peebee bounced around the remaining tempest crew wishing them good tidings, Abigail had been preoccupied with thoughts of what her future was now going to look like.

Groaning she tugged her shirt off and ambled over to her messy wardrobe. She shifts and sniffs each article till she finds a decent one and tugs it on. It's here she glances at the mirror and frowns as the material stretches thin across her abdomen. A hand settles across the swelling between her hips.

Letting out a slow sigh she turns away from the mirror quickly and heads to the door.

She is lucky that she can play it all off on the removal of the blockers for the time being.

“Ryder,” Tann’s eyes blinked one just slower than the other. Abigail tilted her head to the side, was it old age? Perhaps he was having a silent seizure. She almost wanted to call a doctor just to end this meeting.

“Tann.” She says his name in a slow draw, blinking her eyes one just slower than the other.

“I see you have gone into the clinic, I will be setting up a meeting for you on Nexus, we’ll get this ball rolling. Addison will be in touch shortly, she’s eager to begin this campaign. The colonist need something to look towards.” His babbling seemed to cause the spiking ache behind her eyes. One that had her stomach turning. “Mmm.” Ryder replied, rubbing her temple. “I’ll be stopping at Aya first.” She had to speak with baby-babies-daddy about something.

Like the very impeding existence of being a baby daddy.

“That’s perfect! I’ll send the reporters there,” Her stomach drops as she tries to speak but Tann prattles on regardless of her protest. “Good scenery, the angara are good place to start. Being all about family as they are. It will be a good start, very good Ryder,” She wonders if good was the only vocabulary he knew when he waves his hand in a wide arch. “I will let Addison know. Tann out.”

Then he was gone, and she was left there, feeling bamboozled.

How did my life become this?

She sucked in a sharp breath a gurgle logged in the back of her throat and she stumbled away from the vid coms racing to the crosswalk where she jumped down and shoved Liam out of the way.

“Hey!” He hollered. “I have to piss.”

Ryder didn’t answer as she bent over the sink and vomited.

“Never mind.” He backed out of the bathroom and turned away.

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If you Enjoyed this please leave me a like or comment!

#Mass Effect #mass effect andromeda #mass effect evfra #evfra de tershaav #evfra x ryder #evfra #smut #unplanned pregnancy

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frisky-apple · 3 years

Text

I have been thinking a lot about the Electric Eel Wheel Nano (EWWn). There’s a new one coming out and I’m very excited.

It’s a niche topic and most folks won’t care, but I just wanted to work out my thoughts about why the EEWn has been so successful.

For those not aware of it, the EEWn is what’s called an “espinner", which is just a fancy way to say motorised spinning wheel. This tiny wheel is cheap, effective, and portable. It also looks modern and can have its parts replaced at home easily, many of them via 3d printing. It’s also able to be powered via USB power packs, which is incredibly useful. I’m going to cover a few of these features below:

Cost:

The EEWn price point is probably the lowest on the market for an espinner. It costs 110$ USD. It’s larger counterpart, the EEW 6.0 costs 289$, a decent increase in cost but still not exorbitant. There are a few handmade ones on etsy that are a in a similar price point, but typically still not under 200$ USD. More importantly though, the company that is traditionally the forerunner in spinning wheels, Ashford, has a significantly higher price: the Ashford Spinning Wheel e-Spinner starts around 800$ USD. And other espinners are similarly priced (or more expensive!) such as the Daedalus electric spinner, which starts at 800$ USD.

Portabliity

Friends this thing is small and weighs almost nothing. I literally take it on airplanes and do spinning on airplanes there. Actually, it’s light weight is almost a problem since it can slide very easily on smooth surfaces; I use a little piece of shelf liner to prevent that so I don’t consider it a genuine issue. It’s tiny enough that most folks are using things like lunchboxes to carry it around. I’m using a dr’s bag my mom made but that’s mostly because I want to carry around a heap of wool too.

For comparison though the Ashford e-spinner is made of wood and about twice the size. It also requires you to plug into the wall which severely reduces where you can use it.

Durability

I’ve definitely heard stories about people burning out the motor on the EEWn before from using it heavily. I suspect this is just an issue with espinners as a whole, as motors will eventually burn out. However it’s fairly easy to replace the motor if you have any ability to solder wires (or have a friend who can do so).

The machine has several parts replaceable via 3d printing, so while they’re unlikely to wear out, in the event of an accident, you can make or purchase the parts that need replacing.

The body is plastic so it’s very easy for things to be broken if you’re not careful; that being said, I travel with it and am known for being bad at caring for objects in my possession, and it’s not broken after 2 years. So it seems to hold up quite well.

Anyways...

I think the EEWn creator, Maurice Ribble, could probably charge a lot more for his product, but I suspect he doesn’t for a few reasons. He’s an engineer at heart and I believe he’s just extremely passionate about his creations. Raising the price would price it out of range for a lot of people. I wouldn’t have bought this if it had cost more for sure. That price barrier means fewer people enjoying the creation, coming into the craft, etc.

Maurice is also regularly creating new adjacent items, the cone winder and yarn counter his most recent additions. The yarn counter, which I haven’t received yet, is a fantastic idea and I’m very excited to receive mine.

I don’t think the others on the market are bad - i haven’t tried them, so i wouldn’t know. But i do know that the EEWn is incredible and i have no regrets.

Ultimately I guess what I’m trying to say is that Maurice’s creation is delightful and accessible in a way that I hope brings more people into the hobby; the EEWn is incredible and deserves the praise it gets.

#eew #electric eel wheel #dreaming robots #review #spinning #yarn #fiber art #spinning wheel #espinner

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alixofagnia · 4 years

Text

OpheThorn III: Back to Rambling

The Memory of Babel…Wow.

If nothing else, this book GOES. We’re dropped onto Babel just as lost, bewildered, and determined as Ophelia to get to the bottom of this ark. Boy, was it worth the wait! Babel is exquisitely written and, incredible as it sounds, even more treacherous than the Pole. The backbone Ophelia shows in this book is awesome! I love that she’s taken the measure of her worth—all the things she’s been through and survived in the previous novels—and come out resilient As Fuck. This book is definitely a penultimate novel. Dazzling as it is, much of it feels like groundwork being laid for the finale.

OpheThorn is less nuanced and ambiguous in Babel. While I feel there’s less to analyze, I do really love this pairing and I like writing about their dynamic. So, I’m just going to put my thoughts down and see what comes up!

[There will be spoilers]

[All fanart images credited to @patricialyfoung]

Intro

One of the things that drew me into The Mirror Visitor series is the relationship between Ophelia and Thorn. Theirs is not a traditional love story at all; in fact, it avoids clichés and instead plays about with two romantic tropes: enemies to lovers and marriage of convenience. The series spins these tropes anew by offering subtle signs of attraction (discussed here) and giving both characters antisocial tendencies, as well as—in Thorn’s case—possible ASD traits (discussed here).

When we left these two in Clairdelune, Thorn had just put his feelings on the table. Before she could give her response, however, they were separated under upsetting, even traumatic circumstances. Years later, we meet Ophelia again…

Ophelia

…and, oh dear, she is in a sorry state indeed. We find her disastrously operating a waffle stand during a kooky Animist festival for, of all things, clocks. Just what the girl pining for Thorn needs, right? All is not well with Ophelia. As Aunt Rosaline points out,

“No, you’re not fine. You don’t go out anymore, you eat any old thing, you sleep at any old time. You haven’t even been back to the museum.” [19]

Although her mother, sister, and to an extent Aunt Rosaline all believe Ophelia is wasting away, shutting herself in her room, she’s actually been quite busy. She’s been studying and developing working hypotheses about God and the Other: where they are, there she’ll find Thorn. She’s convinced of it. Working from obscure clues dropped in Clairdelune, Ophelia settles on Babel as the ark most likely to yield some answers, and when the chance to travel there appears, she wastes no time at all.

She. Is. Going.

Thorn

In Babel, Thorn has made a name for himself as Sir Henry, rising to become a Lord of LUX, the gatekeepers of Babel who serve a similar function to that of the Doyennes on Anima. He is commanding, magnetic, and aloof as ever. It is unsurprising to find that he has been playing close to the fire again. But the stress and tension of his investigative life on Babel is certainly heightened in a way that it wasn’t at the Pole.

We also learn that his nickname in Babel is the Automaton due to his unceasing energy. Thorn, thus, has dealt with the separation by predictably burying himself in work.

The Reunion

To Ophelia’s disappointment, the reunion with Thorn does not go quite as she had envisioned, and that’s because she hadn’t really envisioned past the goal of finding him [203]. Ophelia is very much a character who takes things one at a time as she’s confronted by them. When Thorn seems less than pleased to see her, she must consider all these Troublesome Feelings and why his underwhelming reaction upsets her.

The thing is Ophelia is waiting for Thorn to take the lead. But he already did, and she didn’t follow—at least, not in a way that he could understand. As previously discussed, Thorn does not function well with non-verbal cues. He needs to be explicitly told how someone else feels, or how he is making someone else feel, in order to know when to adjust his behavior. That can be quite flustering, especially for someone like Ophelia who struggles to vocalize her feelings exactly as they are.

“Is that it?” Ophelia murmured. “You have nothing more to say to me?”

“I have, actually,” Thorn muttered, not stopping all his connecting. […] “And you?” he finally asked, in turn. “You have nothing more to say to me?” [263]

She doesn’t. Thorn coldly dismisses her and continues to keep her at arm’s length, especially when he gives her a second chance to confess her feelings and she still refuses to take it.

Ophelia has social anxiety. She’s not exactly shy, she just gets tongue-tied and befuddled sometimes. It’s part of her make-up, but it doesn’t just happen around Thorn—there are plenty of instances where she has trouble expressing herself to those she cares about, such as Ambrose and Blaise in this novel, or Fox in Clairdelune. She even struggles to express basic gratitude toward Aunt Rosaline in Promise. Unlike them, Thorn challenges her to uncomfortable levels. Her feelings for him are complex and utterly foreign; she has no idea what to do about them.

Unfortunately, Thorn is fresh out of fucks to give over her see-saw act. He’s well-past this stage of confusion and cowardice she’s experiencing because he’s been in love with Ophelia since Promise (“I’m starting to get used to you”) and dealt with the ramifications of that in Clairdelune (“I don’t give a damn whether people find me suspect, as long as I am not so in your eyes.”).

Thorn does nothing half-heartedly. In no uncertain terms, he left her with the bluntest of blunt confessions (“By the way, I love you.”), which was a milestone in his emotional growth. It is clear that he does not love frivolously or casually in the way of his foil, Archibald, so for him, nothing has changed in three years. Likely, he thinks this should be obvious to Ophelia, and it probably should be at this point. He’s done all he can, after all, what more can she want? From his perspective, it’s Ophelia’s turn to make a move, not his.

Ophelia, though, functions differently. She has always needed verbal reinforcement and reassurance. That need has been heightened by their long separation. Essentially, they’re out of touch with one another and, in Ophelia’s case, she’s completely out of touch with herself, which is why when prompted by Thorn she doesn’t provide an answer, even though there could be only one reason for her going to Babel. Things finally come to a head when Thorn loses all patience and replaces her as his assistant. Ophelia is pissed.

“You weren’t available. Waiting for you would have slowed me down in my research.”

“Slowed you down? For your information, I was also doing research of my own. It might interest you to learn…”

“Of your own, that’s precisely the problem,” he interrupted her. “I advised you never to leave your division, and you were supposed to warn me if you discovered anything new. Nothing has changed, you still always make your decisions alone.”

“I wanted to help you,” Ophelia hissed, through gritted teeth.

“I don’t want any of your finer feelings. I need efficiency. If you don’t mind, I now have a flight to take.”

Ophelia’s blood ignited in her every vein. “You’re an egoist.” She had wanted to anger Thorn, and she knew, by the way he had frozen on the spot, that she had succeeded. All the shadows of the night suddenly seemed to have been drawn to the center of his face. He threw Ophelia a look so hard, she reeled from its impact.

“I am demanding, a killjoy, obsessive, antisocial, and crippled,” he intoned, in a forbidding voice. “You can put all the defects in the world on me, but I will not permit you to call me an egoist. If you prefer to do things your way, go ahead, but don’t waste my time anymore. Our collaboration is over.” [305]

OMG, this is harsh. But it’s the kick in the ass Ophelia needs. Since taking up a secret identity as Eulalia and aspiring to become a Forerunner (essentially a scholar and a scribe), she’s already been confronted by the fact that she’s not as good a researcher as she’s prided herself on. Now, she’s being confronted by the suggestion that she’s not a very good partner, either. It leaves her feeling “drier than dust.” [321]

I think it’s interesting how Thorn’s dialogue here has a double meaning. He’s talking about their partnership as an investigative team, of course. But it just as easily applies to their personal relationship. He can’t keep waiting around for Ophelia to make up her mind. He’s got a God to hunt down, an Other to face. Having to wonder about where he stands with Ophelia is getting to be too much. By once again haranguing off on her own, Ophelia has made it plain to him that she prefers to do things without him. In his eyes, she’s pushing him away.

Eventually, she is able to see this perspective and she is ashamed to realize how badly she’s held Thorn to a double standard. He gave of himself through words and gestures as far as he was able, while she gave him nothing in return. Finally, FINALLY, Ophelia fully expresses her love for Thorn and, as he once did, asks him to forgive her shortcomings. It’s a very sweet scene, I must say.

Now, to go back for a moment, what’s really gutting about Ophelia calling Thorn an egoist is this:

“God said he would keep his eyes on you,” he muttered, in a choked voice. “Right in front of me. I make a lamentable husband, but I permit no one, particularly him, to persecute my wife. It’s impossible for me to tear you away from God, but I can tear him away from you. If a book exists that contains God’s secret, and allows his invulnerability to be punctured, I will find it.” [392]

For context, Ophelia had admonished Thorn for his dogged pursuit of this quest, expressing outrage that he should be doing this for a world that’s done nothing for him. At one time, yes, Thorn may have been acting in the interest of the world. Then, he met Ophelia (who is too curious for her own good) and he met God. God threatened her, and Thorn is not a man who could allow such a thing to go unpunished, no matter the consequence. Ever since they met—through every consideration, every move in this impossible investigation and despite each rejection from her—he’s been acting out of love for Ophelia.

As Thorn said, he is not an egoist.

The Blind Spot

After their “egoist” argument, Ophelia feels instant regret and tries to stop Thorn from walking away. She doesn’t succeed, however, because she is struck by his claws. At first, she believes he may have done this on purpose, the thought of which really scares her because it indicates that Thorn is absolutely done with her.

Later, after she finally makes her confession, we all learn that, in fact, Thorn has lost a bit of control over his family power. He has no idea that he used his claws on Ophelia. I’m a little bit unsure what caused this vulnerability—I don’t really follow the given reason, so I’m wondering if Thorn doesn’t quite know himself why this has come to be.

My theory is more euphemistic. Ophelia had reached out to touch his turned back and the gesture badly startled him. He overreacts then overcorrects, and they both take a memorable tumble. Thorn explains:

“Never again accost me from behind my back or from any of my blind spots. Don’t do any movement that I can’t see coming in advance, or then warn me out loud.” [389]

He further explains that he can retain control as long as his claws don’t perceive her as a threat and asks her not to be absent-minded with him. I think it’s entirely plausible that his control over his Dragon power has weakened due to his deep emotion regarding Ophelia. I also feel that this speaks closely to their recent conflict as well as Thorn’s coding as autistic. It’s like Thorn is saying, “No more hide and seek. No more games. Tell me straight, or not at all.”

Ophelia knows how deep his passions run. She once held his dice and thought she might die under the weight and intensity of his emotions. Perhaps it is her Animism that has wrought this change in him. Perhaps it is simply her existence. Either way, she can no longer afford to be careless when it comes to Thorn’s feelings. In the final chapter, Ophelia and Thorn have a true heart to heart, reaffirming their partnership. But Thorn has something to add.

“No half-measures,” he interrupted her. “I’m not and do not wish to be your friend.” [445]

What he leaves unspoken is that he wants to be her husband, in every version of the role: Partner. Protector. Lover. Now that Ophelia has given him an answer, Thorn is comfortable leading them forward and it is the role of lover that he specifically has in mind. Considering this is probably the first time he’s ever propositioned a woman for sex, he is understandably quite awkward. Ophelia quickly realizes that she’s added to his inner turmoil by repressing her own sexuality around him and inadvertently making him feel less than attractive. She also understands that she, too, wants to be his wife in every version of that role: Partner. Protector. Lover. What follows is a really beautiful expression of honest acceptance and true value.

Desire

My dudes, our girl is constantly at risk of exploding (or maybe imploding?) with desire in this book. It’s consuming her, emptying her, and driving every atom of her being. Look at this!

Ophelia had received no news from Thorn after his escape. Not a single telegram, not a single letter. She could keep telling herself that he couldn’t run the risk of making contact, that he was a man wanted by the law, perhaps by God himself, but it was eating her up inside. [22]

Whenever she crossed a man who was a bit taller than average, she couldn’t stop herself from looking back as she passed, with a frantic pounding in her chest. [83]

Ophelia would have recognized his voice out of a thousand. The resonance of a double bass, solemn and sullen, that echoed through her inner emptiness, shook her to the core, welled up to her throat, choked her. [240]

She waited until her heartbeat, taxed by the run, had returned to normal. But it didn’t happen. Her entire flesh seemed to be pulsating to a single chaotic rhythm. This evening, she would see Thorn again. [249]

She wanted to be with Thorn right there, right now. She’d wanted that every second of every minute of every hour, for almost three years. [249]

Although she knew the temperature of this place was strictly maintained at minus eight degrees, Ophelia felt as if it were fifteen degrees warmer. Never in her life had she cared about appearances, and yet she ran a nervous hand through her hair to tidy it up. [253]

She suddenly realized that there wasn’t much she would have refused him, had he but asked. [278]

Instead, he disinfected his hands for a second time, as if they really were repulsive. They weren’t in Ophelia’s eyes. From a distance, she took in the network of veins under the skin, the long, curved fingers, the bone that rose up on each wrist, and suddenly, she felt something like pain in the pit of her stomach. She hadn’t the slightest idea what was happening to her, but looking at those hands made her want to scream. [283]

She felt it again, even more violently, this urgent call from deep inside her. [446]

Ophelia is so horny and I’m so here for it!

Closing Thoughts

Do I think Ophelia’s internal conflict over Thorn is drawn out? Yes.

Do I think it’s contrived? No.

I think it falls in line with Ophelia’s characterization and I think Thorn’s frosty reaction to her presence in Babel falls in line with his characterization. These characters aren’t perfect: Ophelia is quirky and endearing, but that doesn’t make her immune to cowardice; Thorn is highly skilled and competent but is deficient socially and sometimes emotionally. I can’t emphasize enough how well Christelle Dabos knows her characters and allows them to be who they are rather than force them to make weird changes to fill plot holes.

We can’t forget, either, the fact that they have been completely cut off from one another for years. Yes, we might think in that time Ophelia could have done more to sort out her feelings. But as we’ve seen, she just doesn’t focus on more than what she can handle at a time. She always thinks in terms of breaking a problem down into steps. The first step was following up on those clues from Claridelune. The second step was finding Thorn. The last step was dealing with herself.

Their relationship here, which has progressed in a way that felt natural and believable, is the most straightforward it has ever been. That made writing about them this time around kind of hard, actually, because it’s all plainly there in the text. For me, I think the notable takeaway is being able to mark just how far these two characters have come in their individual and mutual journeys. Now and together, they can tackle the gargantuan, perilous task ahead. It might all end on a bittersweet note. But for this couple…that seems about right, and I can’t wait to read the conclusion.

Thank you so much for reading these long posts and leaving such kind feedback! I’m glad that you, too, enjoy Ophelia, Thorn, and this magical series.

#ophethorn #the mirror visitor #La Passe-Miroir #the memory of babel #la memoire de babel #christelle dabos #long book report #slow burn romance

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