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ghostwise · 9 months ago

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Matacuervos, ch. 4 - La joya Hamal and Zevran find a lead in the brothels of Rialto, but will they manage to investigate it in time? Read update on AO3 - Read from the beginning on AO3

“Philanthropists,” the woman said with a flourish, and she snapped her fan shut in distaste.

It was hot in the basement of the brothel, La espina dorsal , and the thick and heavy scent of bodies permeated the room. The heat was making her make-up drip off, which was quite a sight to see amidst a backdrop of entwined lovers.

“Philanderers, more like,” she continued. “They claim it’s all worth it if the babes end up cared for. That a Chantry cloister will protect them better than here.”

“You doubt it?” Zevran asked.

She scoffed.

“Not without reason,” she said. “But… if they are so charitable why not come for the orphans sooner? Why wait years between visits? Why not take every child in need, not just the healthy ones?” Bitterness laced her voice, sending a shiver down Zevran’s spine. “All I know is, the day my friends were taken was the day I decided I was done with the Maker. Perhaps you can ask the Chantry why they don’t help all of us; why a bum leg makes a six year old girl unfit to serve Andraste, but fit enough to stay in this sty.”

Zevran glanced at Hamal, sharing the same grim thought. Rocio’s mangled leg would have been a death sentence for a young Crow recruit. And yet, leaving her behind was no mercy.

Zevran shifted closer, asking his next question with great care.

“It seems your friends were taken around the time frame we are investigating. Do you recall anything else about the day they left?”

A lengthy pause followed. Her eyes briefly seemed to focus elsewhere, before she answered. “No. I’m sorry. They didn’t leave any information. Just said I wouldn’t be a good fit where they were going.”

“Thank you for your time,” Zevran said when they had finished talking. “And your lovely company.”

“Didn’t even do nothing!” Rocio chuckled, taking the money. “But alright. See you ‘round.”

Stepping out of the brothel, Zevran couldn’t help but feel as stifled as he had indoors.

The sun bore down like a dagger. They’d spent all day searching for leads, visiting brothels and orphanages across the city with the same story: that they were tracking down a long-lost relative.

It was not entirely a lie. Zevran felt a genuine kinship with the workers of Rialto’s brothels; they had raised him, after all, and just like anyone else in the city, they sought only to make a living, to raise enough coin to build a life. But they had few protections when things went wrong. A single misfortune—a death, an illness, or an arrest—was all it took. When children were involved, it spelled grim consequences.

They had yet to find any tangible evidence, but many of the brothels had reported curiously similar anecdotes: a generous donor, a charitable organization, or an anonymous do-gooder who arrived to adopt the forgotten children. The offer would come with uncanny timing, often just when it was needed most. And who could argue against one less mouth to feed?

No records, no documentation of where they’d go. It was easy for the city to look the other way, for these were orphans or bastards or both. And so they were taken, no questions asked.

It made Zevran’s blood boil.

He sulked in a bad mood the entire way back to the cheap sawdust inn they’d paid double what the humans paid to lodge at. He persisted in a sour mood through dinner, and even after they went to bed—only to wake Hamal in the small hours of the morning, too angry to sleep.

“I do not think it was the Chantry that came for those children ten years ago,” Zevran hissed. “Or perhaps I don’t want to believe it… and yet, Sister Tristeza spoke of this allegiance between the Crows and the Chantry. How deeply does it run? I am a devout man—even I’ve heard rumours that one bore the other long ago.”

“Which one?” Hamal asked in a sleep-tinged voice, but Zevran continued in frustration.

“Of course a girl with a mangled leg would be found unfit for the Crows. She would have died during training. But would knowing the true fate of her friends change anything? She was abandoned. She needed saving.” Here he paused, for his anger threatened to spill over.

Rocio’s fate felt intertwined with his, separated only by happenstance. Her mangled leg had saved her, but not from everything.

“Could she still need saving?” Hamal asked, and Zevran realized, by the cadence of his words, that he was half-asleep. “Could we?”

The question resonated enough to slow Zevran’s racing thoughts. He couldn’t tell whether Hamal meant could we need saving, also? or could we save her?

It felt self-aggrandizing to think they could save anyone, damned as they already were.

“I don’t fucking know,” he said at last, all too aware of his bitterness leeching out.

Hamal sighed and regarded Zevran for a long moment.

“Someone will put a stop to it,” he said finally. “The people will not allow it to continue once they realize what is happening. They will wonder why they never hear word from the adopted, and they will be wary when the next Crow recruiter comes.”

“With any luck,” Zevran said fiercely, “We’ll find him ourselves first. And put daggers in him until he tells us all we need to know.”

“Exactly.” Hamal fell back onto his pillow, like a log. “Come back to bed, vhenan .”

Zevran shook his head. Sleeplessness had claimed him already—yet he grudgingly climbed under the thin sheets with Hamal.

“I will, but I won’t sleep.”

“Keep watch then,” Hamal said, in a voice drowsy enough to curb any argument. He latched onto Zevran’s arm and then he was out like a light—leaving Zevran in awe of how quickly his husband could sleep, even in these circumstances.

Dawn broke over the city and fatigue had tempered Zevran’s anger for the time being. He’d managed to sleep for an hour or two before they began the day’s investigations. Fortunately he was used to running on fumes.

“How many brothels are there in Rialto?”

It was a particularly sunny morning. Hamal had pushed all of his curls into a messy bun, and shoved the whole mess beneath a wide-brimmed sombrero , but Zevran rather suspected he needed more sun protection than that. For now he led him through shaded alleyways, avoiding the crowded main streets and the direct sunlight.

“It’s a very large port city,” he responded.

“So?”

“Lots.” Zevran smiled at him. “About a dozen at least. Ah, if only we were here under better circumstances! A brothel is normally a place of good cheer and relaxation.”

“We will just have to come back when we are not tracking down slavers,” Hamal said with a smile.

“Now there’s an idea,” Zevran said, contemplating it. His thoughts briefly recalled The Pearl in Denerim. “In any case,” he continued, “one of these places is bound to have a lead. Someone, somewhere, knows something. We just need to find the right person to talk to.”

“Perhaps,” Hamal said. “We may have already found her.”

He gestured with a short motion of his head to the cobblestone road behind them. Zevran followed his gaze.

It took him a moment to recognize her without the heavy layers of make-up, and she walked in the company of another woman, but her dark curls were the same as when they’d seen her yesterday, and she carried the same light-weight aluminum cane with her. It caught the light and shone like a mirror as she swung it forward with every step.

She greeted them with the false names they had taken to using in the city. “Amrit! Hirael! My, you two are hard to track down!”

“How did you manage?” Zevran asked.

“Whores talk, you know,” Rocio laughed. “I mentioned your visit to my friend here, and I quickly learned you’d been visiting nearly every brothel this side of town. I said, Maker, he must have an appetite!”

The woman beside her offered her hand. “Elena,” she said, giving Zevran and Hamal’s a hearty shake. “I work at La joya. ”

“A pleasure,” Zevran said.

“It will be,” Rocio said. “Tell them!”

Elena waved her hand excitedly, beckoning Zevran closer, and when he was near enough, she whispered: “A man came to La joya a few days ago,” she said. “He was from some charity in Salle. A trade school for impoverished children. He said his work took him around the country—to brothels, orphanages, hospitals, you know. Places where children often wound up alone. They’d teach them to read and write, and hire them out to factories who would provide for them while they worked. Any child! The elves, the humans, even if they were mage-blooded. Sounds fishy, hm?”

Zevran took a deep breath. This was it; exactly what they’d been looking for.

“Can we find somewhere to talk?” he asked. “You can tell us what you know, and we will tell you a little more about why we are here.”

They came to a brick building, covered in flowers that clung to the walls in enticing greenery. La joya lived up to its name. The windows glimmered and the scent of perfume was strong, even outside. Inside, the atmosphere likened more to a spa or a fine bathhouse. This did not escape Zevran, who raised a brow, looking at Hamal.

“Can’t say I’ve ever been here,” he said.

“Can’t say I’ve ever worked here,” Rocio sighed. She rubbed her hip with a grimace as they walked on.

They were greeted by several guests as they went. More than once, Elena kissed a patron on the cheek, shook hands, or embraced them with a cheerful, “Lovely to see you! But it’s my day off, darling. Do come again tomorrow.”

Down a hallway and to the left, they passed a well-stocked kitchen, then exited again to a central courtyard where potted flowers were arranged in clusters along the path. It was quiet, with the bustle of the streets lowered to a dim hum. From there they crossed the way to another building, which rose above the treeline.

“Where are we going?” Hamal asked.

“To speak to the boss,” Elena said. “The apartments are this way.”

“Apartments? Your employer lives where the workers live?” Zevran asked.

It was far from what Zevran was expecting. The building they arrived at was a tenement for the workers—aged, with flaking plaster, small and humble rooms, yet clean and maintained. When Elena knocked on the door, it was like they were visiting anyone on the street. The middle-aged woman who answered looked like any woman at the market.

“Ah, it is you!” she said, and waved everyone inside. “Come on in. I take it you are you the ones tracking down your family?”

Rocio made a beeline to a wood and wicker chair near the woodstove. She sat and hung her cane on a hook on the wall, then procured a small bag of tobacco from a drawer.

“Mind if I smoke?” she asked.

Elena walked into what could barely be termed a living room. She dropped into the lap of a tall light-haired man, who kissed her, gripping her tightly by the shoulders.

“Take that as a yes,” Rocio hummed.

There were a lot of people in the apartment, gathered together with the ease of friends who’d known one another for years. For a moment, Zevran wondered if he’d misunderstood the purpose of the visit, but they were guests, and so, he practiced patience for the time being.

“Thank you for having us,” Zevran said, shifting his bag off his shoulder. “Who is the owner of La joya?”

Rocio stifled a laugh. She grinned, as if she was revealing a grand secret with her answer.

“Everyone!”

It took a bit of explaining.

There were nine people crammed into that tiny apartment, six of them workers at La joya . Besides Elena, there were Damian and Cora—prostitutes. Lara, who had answered the door, managed the washrooms. Jania, an elven bodyguard on her day off. Terrance, a stripper—distinguished from Damian and Cora for his strict no-touch policy, though he assured them, he had no need of touch to leave his audience satisfied.

“I don’t quite understand,” Hamal said in whispered to Zevran in Common. “They explained it too quickly.”

“It is something like what the workers of The Pearl did,” Zevran explained. “But they went a step further—they pooled their money to buy the entire business.”

“We are the Rialto Society of Pleasures,” Elena said with a flourish. “Cooperatives like this exist across the country—but we are the first for workers of brothels and pleasure houses. We keep the money we make, and work together to run things.”

“It works,” Rocio drawled amidst puffs of smoke, “more or less. There is quite a bit of turnover—”

“Because no one is bound to stay,” Lara said. “That is important. No contracts. Just rent, and board, for those who opt to live in the tenement, that sort of thing.”

Zevran took in the information as he did anything else in life; recognizing its immediate impact on him (none) and its objective merit (excellent). He sidled up to the counter in the small kitchen and looked at all the proud and smiling faces around him.

If his mother had wound up in a brothel like this—

But she hadn’t. No use dwelling on it.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” he said. “Were I not otherwise occupied with my husband I might even consider applying!”

“Really?” Rocio giggled. “Get in line. My application’s been in for months.”

They had good reason to be proud. Not every prostitute was so fortunate. And yet, it had taken years, a lot of work, and a dash of luck to make it happen.

But they had not come here to talk about business; Zevran quickly refocused.

“Now that we understand how things are run here, tell us about this visitor you received. Who exactly spoke to this man?”

“Jania and Damian,” Lara said.

“And so when the stranger came and offered to adopt any orphaned children…”

“We told him we had no unwanted children,” Damian explained. “Some of the workers choose to raise families, yes. And occasionally we take in children when their parents cannot care for them. But it’s never a hardship. So he left empty-handed. That was that.”

“But that was not all,” Hamal observed after a moment, in his careful Antivan. “Or why talk to us?”

A lull passed over the small group. Rocio pulled a deep drag from her cigarette.

“We robbed him,” Jania said.

“Ha!” Hamal’s face lit up; his Antivan was still middling, but he understood her easily.

Damian produced a piece of paper from his waistcoat pocket. He passed it to Cora who passed it to Lara, who handed it to Zevran, who unfolded it.

“These fools are always writing shit down and it is their own undoing,” Hamal observed in Common, as he read over Zevran’s shoulder.

The paper contained a handwritten list of brothels in the city. The majority of them were struck out, along with a tally system beside some of the names. Only a few on the list remained unchecked. El milagro was one of the brothels which had not yet been struck through.

“I didn’t like him,” Damian said. “He gave me a bad feeling. But I didn’t think anything of it until Rocio stopped by, and mentioned your search for information. Could this have anything to do with it?”

Zevran creased the paper slightly, brow furrowed. “These tallies…”

“Whores he slept with, we assumed,” Rocio said.

“No,” Zevran said softly. “Children they’ve taken. I think I must tell you,” he said, looking up at the Rialto Society of Pleasures, “The truth. But it is horrible. And we have little time to act.”

Rocio had put out her cigarette. She sat hunched at the table, lost in her thoughts, and she hadn’t spoken since Zevran explained his suspicions and his lived proof. Sometimes the truth was cruel. Even when it was necessary.

The rest of them considered what could be done.

“We should bring the list to the city guard,” Jania suggested.

“What will they do, exactly? A piece of paper is hardly proof of anything. Even if they believed us, something tells me they wouldn’t exactly jump to action,” Elena said.

“Unfortunately, you are correct,” Zevran said. “What I have shared with you is already common knowledge in some circles; I am quite certain the owner of the brothel I grew up in knew exactly where he was sending us off to. But… you deserve to know for yourselves, what has been happening all these years.”

“What are you going to do now?”

“We are going to find them,” Hamal said slowly. “And kill them.”

“His Antivan is not very good,” Zevran added in the silence that followed. “He means, we will tie them up. As in, we will capture them.”

Hamal glanced at him, annoyed.

Zevran held up the note. “You have helped us tremendously with this information alone,” he said. “Thank you. I pray you never have to deal with these slavers again. If we have any success, you won’t.”

“That’s all?” Rocio asked, looking up at him over an ashtray.

“Please! Whatever you are going to do, we want to be a part of it,” Elena insisted. “These are our children targeted.”

Zevran frowned. He strongly felt that it was not wise to get more people involved; too many hands in too delicate of a situation. He had intended to warn rather than invite, to protect rather than endanger, but Hamal set a hand on his shoulder, switching to whispered Common.

“Might be good to have eyes out, Zev. There are a lot of names on this list and we cannot surveil all of them. Let’s do it this way,” he said, gesturing to the paper. “Send them here, and here… At the very least they can carry a warning. Just in case.”

Zevran nodded thoughtfully.

It occurred to him, not for the first time, how much more daunting this journey would be like without Hamal’s counsel and support.

“Very well. Then help us in this,” he said, turning back to the group, “We cannot visit every site on this list tonight. Go to these locations.” He dabbed a gloved finger into the ashtray, and used it to indicate several names, before handing the list back to Elena. “But be discreet; simply warn them that a suspicious person might come, bearing lies. And I beg you— do not mention us, by description or name. You could endanger yourselves more than you realize.”

“Got it,” Elena said, scanning the paper already. “Let’s split up.”

“What do we do if we find the bastard?” Damian asked.

Zevran hesitated. “Stall. Wait for us to arrive.”

“But-”

“We will be there,” Zevran said quickly. “Now, we have a few hours to act; these visits, to my knowledge, happen under cover of night. We must prepare.”

Zevran clasped Hamal’s arm and led him away from the building at a frantic pace. That small apartment had begun to feel claustrophobic. He wanted it far behind, and besides, he knew where they were needed next.

“I’m sweating,” Hamal said, walking along hurriedly. “That building was hot. Zevran. What-”

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” he asked simply, voice clipped in urgency. Signs and windows rushed past as they half-jogged through the streets.

“Yes! The next place they will try to buy recruits from—that woman at El milagro ,” Hamal said. “She was afraid of you because she was expecting someone. Someone she didn’t want you to meet.”

“Exactly,” Zevran hissed. “He is going there soon, I know it. She wanted us gone, because she knew —she knew who I was and she knew why we were there and—”

“He is definitely going to be at El milagro . But Zevran, slow down—”

Hamal dug his heels in. Exercising a bit of his marital privilege, he scooped Zevran up into his arms, steadying him for a moment.

“Breathe, vhenan,” he said firmly. And quickly set him back down, before Zevran had a chance to complain.

Zevran huffed, glancing up at him then glaring away. “If it is the same man…”

“I know.” Hamal plucked the string of his bow, worn around his chest. “I can handle it.”

Zevran shook his head. “You don’t need to do that.”

“Listen: point at something for me to shoot. Go on. There’s no one around.”

Zevran frowned at the game. He hesitated to waste time when every second seemed necessary, but truly, he was not thinking clearly. He did as he was told. “That water pail,” he said, feeling mischievous and a little mean.

In an instant it was useless, holed up with an arrow from Hamal’s bow.

“Again,” Hamal said. “A challenge.”

Knowing perfectly well what he was capable of, Zevran spied around for a moment. Then he spoke, with an arm outstretched. “That poster on the wall, the red one. Sixty yards down. By the flowers.”

Hamal took a moment to aim, but he loosed an arrow just as easily. Of course, it hit dead center.

They walked together to retrieve the arrows.

“It will be that simple,” Hamal spoke. “You will not need to be strong, fast, or even brave for this, Zevran. Just point at him. If this is hard for you, just tell me where to shoot.”

“Amor, I appreciate that. But this will be difficult,” Zevran explained, pulling his arrow out of the wall it had embedded itself in, “Because we will need this man alive.”

He handed it to Hamal, with a somber look as the Warden took the arrow.

“We will need to take him and question him. We cannot kill him right away. That complicates things. Increases the risk of things going wrong. Think: Can he signal someone? Will he be alone or will he have backup? Will he be armed? Will he have…”

He stopped, unable to say it.

“Children with him,” Hamal concluded with a sigh. He understood, then. “Oh, ma vhenan. There was nothing you could have done for those boys in the church.”

Zevran nodded, avoiding his gaze. More than anything, he worried about what might happen.

“Let’s go,” he said.

#rinnywrites #dragon age #zevran arainai #zevran x warden #mahariel #oc: hamal mahariel #matacuervos #fingers crossed the next update doesn't take six months <3

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digitalcirce · 10 months ago

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What Is the Meaning of This? Originally posted on DeviantArt on April 30 2024 (woman to pig transformation)

The beautiful blonde raged and struggled against her bonds, but fruitlessly. Becoming aware of his presence, she demanded answers. He could only smile. Her indignation sounded so much better with a hint of a squeal mixed in.

She was a typical pretty party girl. Her drink was not difficult to spike. In fact, the hardest part was getting her out of the car and into the barn completely unconscious, her limp body uncooperative. She was surprisingly heavy. Although she’d be getting a lot heavier. “What is the meaning of this? Why did you do this to me?” she demanded, but it was nothing personal. He’d been rejected by girls like her a lot when he was younger, and learned how he could get even. Make them less than human. Then… he became turned on by the transformation itself. It’s what he really enjoyed. Sure, she’s beautiful. But would he really want her in his life? Want to put up with her stuck up, entitled attitude?

And then the glorious moment came; her awareness of what was really happening. Perhaps it was her changed voice; or perhaps she recognized the feeling of a new feature like her squiggly tail whipping above her delectable ass. Regardless, she realized that she was physically transforming into an animal. And that the animal she would soon become was just a lowly pig. A pig like the others she could hear quietly grunting in the darkness.

Yes, this is what he most enjoyed. Transforming a pretty girl into a bloated breeding sow and consigning her to life with the other pigs. About a quarter of the sows in the sty were just like her; haughty invincible-feeling girls at the wrong place or the wrong time who now bred piglets for a living. She would too. Or if not she’d be turned into sausage herself; and he didn’t much care which she chose. But a lot of those former women seemed to like being speared by boar cocks, so maybe she’d come to like being a mother pig in the smelly sty, too.

He watches as her snout stretches, and her dulcet voice is completely lost to squealing. He watches her hooves harden, finally becoming small enough to slip out of her restraints. He watches her many new teats form. He watches her undergarments tear as she fattens, developing the barrel shape of her slow-moving new species. He watches her ears flop and her tail curl and her limbs shrink. He watches her throat swell and her ass widen, revealing a monstrously different vulva and anus, shamelessly presented for his perusal. He watches her healthy round breasts shift into two more teats between her forelegs. He watches her hair fall out and her eyes darken. And he watches as the pig squeals mournfully, aware that her old life is over and her new life has begun. Her life as a pig, and nothing more. Then he hauls her into the pen with a virile male, and watches her snort and squeal under him, her indignant grunts changing to a more primitive and instinctual sound. And after her first powerful orgasm he leaves her there, to adjust to her new home and new reality. What she is and what she has done.

Maybe the other fat sows comfort her in the darkness, rubbing against her fat flanks and letting her know that it’s all right, being a pig. Maybe she cries herself to sleep, and promises herself she’ll never let a boar have his way with her again. Maybe she trots right over to the trough and gorges herself before shamelessly taking a big dump on the floor. He doesn’t really care how she handles it, all things considered. He saw her at her moment of transcendence, and that was enough. It was what her whole life had led up to, the meaning of her life, really, and he had experienced it. What more could he want? The soft sound of pigs grunting echoes through the barn as he goes to sleep, satisfied, another fruitful sow in the sty.

Stock image used available from Depositphotos at https://depositphotos.com/photo/sexy-blonde-woman-in-underwear-kneeling-on-timber-179195114.html

#pig #pig tf #pig transformation #piggirl #tf #transformation #hog #sow #swine #digital circe #digital #circe

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dickens-daily · 15 days ago

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THE MUDFOG AND OTHER SKETCHES

PUBLIC LIFE OF MR. TULRUMBLE—ONCE MAYOR OF MUDFOG

Mudfog is a pleasant town—a remarkably pleasant town—situated in a charming hollow by the side of a river, from which river, Mudfog derives an agreeable scent of pitch, tar, coals, and rope-yarn, a roving population in oilskin hats, a pretty steady influx of drunken bargemen, and a great many other maritime advantages. There is a good deal of water about Mudfog, and yet it is not exactly the sort of town for a watering-place, either. Water is a perverse sort of element at the best of times, and in Mudfog it is particularly so. In winter, it comes oozing down the streets and tumbling over the fields,—nay, rushes into the very cellars and kitchens of the houses, with a lavish prodigality that might well be dispensed with; but in the hot summer weather it will dry up, and turn green: and, although green is a very good colour in its way, especially in grass, still it certainly is not becoming to water; and it cannot be denied that the beauty of Mudfog is rather impaired, even by this trifling circumstance. Mudfog is a healthy place—very healthy;—damp, perhaps, but none the worse for that. It’s quite a mistake to suppose that damp is unwholesome: plants thrive best in damp situations, and why shouldn’t men? The inhabitants of Mudfog are unanimous in asserting that there exists not a finer race of people on the face of the earth; here we have an indisputable and veracious contradiction of the vulgar error at once. So, admitting Mudfog to be damp, we distinctly state that it is salubrious.

The town of Mudfog is extremely picturesque. Limehouse and Ratcliff Highway are both something like it, but they give you a very faint idea of Mudfog. There are a great many more public-houses in Mudfog—more than in Ratcliff Highway and Limehouse put together. The public buildings, too, are very imposing. We consider the town-hall one of the finest specimens of shed architecture, extant: it is a combination of the pig-sty and tea-garden-box orders; and the simplicity of its design is of surpassing beauty. The idea of placing a large window on one side of the door, and a small one on the other, is particularly happy. There is a fine old Doric beauty, too, about the padlock and scraper, which is strictly in keeping with the general effect.

In this room do the mayor and corporation of Mudfog assemble together in solemn council for the public weal. Seated on the massive wooden benches, which, with the table in the centre, form the only furniture of the whitewashed apartment, the sage men of Mudfog spend hour after hour in grave deliberation. Here they settle at what hour of the night the public-houses shall be closed, at what hour of the morning they shall be permitted to open, how soon it shall be lawful for people to eat their dinner on church-days, and other great political questions; and sometimes, long after silence has fallen on the town, and the distant lights from the shops and houses have ceased to twinkle, like far-off stars, to the sight of the boatmen on the river, the illumination in the two unequal-sized windows of the town-hall, warns the inhabitants of Mudfog that its little body of legislators, like a larger and better-known body of the same genus, a great deal more noisy, and not a whit more profound, are patriotically dozing away in company, far into the night, for their country’s good.

Among this knot of sage and learned men, no one was so eminently distinguished, during many years, for the quiet modesty of his appearance and demeanour, as Nicholas Tulrumble, the well-known coal-dealer. However exciting the subject of discussion, however animated the tone of the debate, or however warm the personalities exchanged, (and even in Mudfog we get personal sometimes,) Nicholas Tulrumble was always the same. To say truth, Nicholas, being an industrious man, and always up betimes, was apt to fall asleep when a debate began, and to remain asleep till it was over, when he would wake up very much refreshed, and give his vote with the greatest complacency. The fact was, that Nicholas Tulrumble, knowing that everybody there had made up his mind beforehand, considered the talking as just a long botheration about nothing at all; and to the present hour it remains a question, whether, on this point at all events, Nicholas Tulrumble was not pretty near right.

Time, which strews a man’s head with silver, sometimes fills his pockets with gold. As he gradually performed one good office for Nicholas Tulrumble, he was obliging enough, not to omit the other. Nicholas began life in a wooden tenement of four feet square, with a capital of two and ninepence, and a stock in trade of three bushels and a-half of coals, exclusive of the large lump which hung, by way of sign-board, outside. Then he enlarged the shed, and kept a truck; then he left the shed, and the truck too, and started a donkey and a Mrs. Tulrumble; then he moved again and set up a cart; the cart was soon afterwards exchanged for a waggon; and so he went on like his great predecessor Whittington—only without a cat for a partner—increasing in wealth and fame, until at last he gave up business altogether, and retired with Mrs. Tulrumble and family to Mudfog Hall, which he had himself erected, on something which he attempted to delude himself into the belief was a hill, about a quarter of a mile distant from the town of Mudfog.

About this time, it began to be murmured in Mudfog that Nicholas Tulrumble was growing vain and haughty; that prosperity and success had corrupted the simplicity of his manners, and tainted the natural goodness of his heart; in short, that he was setting up for a public character, and a great gentleman, and affected to look down upon his old companions with compassion and contempt. Whether these reports were at the time well-founded, or not, certain it is that Mrs. Tulrumble very shortly afterwards started a four-wheel chaise, driven by a tall postilion in a yellow cap,—that Mr. Tulrumble junior took to smoking cigars, and calling the footman a ‘feller,’—and that Mr. Tulrumble from that time forth, was no more seen in his old seat in the chimney-corner of the Lighterman’s Arms at night. This looked bad; but, more than this, it began to be observed that Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble attended the corporation meetings more frequently than heretofore; and he no longer went to sleep as he had done for so many years, but propped his eyelids open with his two forefingers; that he read the newspapers by himself at home; and that he was in the habit of indulging abroad in distant and mysterious allusions to ‘masses of people,’ and ‘the property of the country,’ and ‘productive power,’ and ‘the monied interest:’ all of which denoted and proved that Nicholas Tulrumble was either mad, or worse; and it puzzled the good people of Mudfog amazingly.

At length, about the middle of the month of October, Mr. Tulrumble and family went up to London; the middle of October being, as Mrs. Tulrumble informed her acquaintance in Mudfog, the very height of the fashionable season.

Somehow or other, just about this time, despite the health-preserving air of Mudfog, the Mayor died. It was a most extraordinary circumstance; he had lived in Mudfog for eighty-five years. The corporation didn’t understand it at all; indeed it was with great difficulty that one old gentleman, who was a great stickler for forms, was dissuaded from proposing a vote of censure on such unaccountable conduct. Strange as it was, however, die he did, without taking the slightest notice of the corporation; and the corporation were imperatively called upon to elect his successor. So, they met for the purpose; and being very full of Nicholas Tulrumble just then, and Nicholas Tulrumble being a very important man, they elected him, and wrote off to London by the very next post to acquaint Nicholas Tulrumble with his new elevation.

Now, it being November time, and Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble being in the capital, it fell out that he was present at the Lord Mayor’s show and dinner, at sight of the glory and splendour whereof, he, Mr. Tulrumble, was greatly mortified, inasmuch as the reflection would force itself on his mind, that, had he been born in London instead of in Mudfog, he might have been a Lord Mayor too, and have patronized the judges, and been affable to the Lord Chancellor, and friendly with the Premier, and coldly condescending to the Secretary to the Treasury, and have dined with a flag behind his back, and done a great many other acts and deeds which unto Lord Mayors of London peculiarly appertain. The more he thought of the Lord Mayor, the more enviable a personage he seemed. To be a King was all very well; but what was the King to the Lord Mayor! When the King made a speech, everybody knew it was somebody else’s writing; whereas here was the Lord Mayor, talking away for half an hour-all out of his own head—amidst the enthusiastic applause of the whole company, while it was notorious that the King might talk to his parliament till he was black in the face without getting so much as a single cheer. As all these reflections passed through the mind of Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble, the Lord Mayor of London appeared to him the greatest sovereign on the face of the earth, beating the Emperor of Russia all to nothing, and leaving the Great Mogul immeasurably behind.

Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble was pondering over these things, and inwardly cursing the fate which had pitched his coal-shed in Mudfog, when the letter of the corporation was put into his hand. A crimson flush mantled over his face as he read it, for visions of brightness were already dancing before his imagination.

‘My dear,’ said Mr. Tulrumble to his wife, ‘they have elected me, Mayor of Mudfog.’

‘Lor-a-mussy!’ said Mrs. Tulrumble: ‘why what’s become of old Sniggs?’

‘The late Mr. Sniggs, Mrs. Tulrumble,’ said Mr. Tulrumble sharply, for he by no means approved of the notion of unceremoniously designating a gentleman who filled the high office of Mayor, as ‘Old Sniggs,’—‘The late Mr. Sniggs, Mrs. Tulrumble, is dead.’

The communication was very unexpected; but Mrs. Tulrumble only ejaculated ‘Lor-a-mussy!’ once again, as if a Mayor were a mere ordinary Christian, at which Mr. Tulrumble frowned gloomily.

‘What a pity ’tan’t in London, ain’t it?’ said Mrs. Tulrumble, after a short pause; ‘what a pity ’tan’t in London, where you might have had a show.’

‘I might have a show in Mudfog, if I thought proper, I apprehend,’ said Mr. Tulrumble mysteriously.

‘Lor! so you might, I declare,’ replied Mrs. Tulrumble.

‘And a good one too,’ said Mr. Tulrumble.

‘Delightful!’ exclaimed Mrs. Tulrumble.

‘One which would rather astonish the ignorant people down there,’ said Mr. Tulrumble.

‘It would kill them with envy,’ said Mrs. Tulrumble.

So it was agreed that his Majesty’s lieges in Mudfog should be astonished with splendour, and slaughtered with envy, and that such a show should take place as had never been seen in that town, or in any other town before,—no, not even in London itself.

On the very next day after the receipt of the letter, down came the tall postilion in a post-chaise,—not upon one of the horses, but inside—actually inside the chaise,—and, driving up to the very door of the town-hall, where the corporation were assembled, delivered a letter, written by the Lord knows who, and signed by Nicholas Tulrumble, in which Nicholas said, all through four sides of closely-written, gilt-edged, hot-pressed, Bath post letter paper, that he responded to the call of his fellow-townsmen with feelings of heartfelt delight; that he accepted the arduous office which their confidence had imposed upon him; that they would never find him shrinking from the discharge of his duty; that he would endeavour to execute his functions with all that dignity which their magnitude and importance demanded; and a great deal more to the same effect. But even this was not all. The tall postilion produced from his right-hand top-boot, a damp copy of that afternoon’s number of the county paper; and there, in large type, running the whole length of the very first column, was a long address from Nicholas Tulrumble to the inhabitants of Mudfog, in which he said that he cheerfully complied with their requisition, and, in short, as if to prevent any mistake about the matter, told them over again what a grand fellow he meant to be, in very much the same terms as those in which he had already told them all about the matter in his letter.

The corporation stared at one another very hard at all this, and then looked as if for explanation to the tall postilion, but as the tall postilion was intently contemplating the gold tassel on the top of his yellow cap, and could have afforded no explanation whatever, even if his thoughts had been entirely disengaged, they contented themselves with coughing very dubiously, and looking very grave. The tall postilion then delivered another letter, in which Nicholas Tulrumble informed the corporation, that he intended repairing to the town-hall, in grand state and gorgeous procession, on the Monday afternoon next ensuing. At this the corporation looked still more solemn; but, as the epistle wound up with a formal invitation to the whole body to dine with the Mayor on that day, at Mudfog Hall, Mudfog Hill, Mudfog, they began to see the fun of the thing directly, and sent back their compliments, and they’d be sure to come.

Now there happened to be in Mudfog, as somehow or other there does happen to be, in almost every town in the British dominions, and perhaps in foreign dominions too—we think it very likely, but, being no great traveller, cannot distinctly say—there happened to be, in Mudfog, a merry-tempered, pleasant-faced, good-for-nothing sort of vagabond, with an invincible dislike to manual labour, and an unconquerable attachment to strong beer and spirits, whom everybody knew, and nobody, except his wife, took the trouble to quarrel with, who inherited from his ancestors the appellation of Edward Twigger, and rejoiced in the sobriquet of Bottle-nosed Ned. He was drunk upon the average once a day, and penitent upon an equally fair calculation once a month; and when he was penitent, he was invariably in the very last stage of maudlin intoxication. He was a ragged, roving, roaring kind of fellow, with a burly form, a sharp wit, and a ready head, and could turn his hand to anything when he chose to do it. He was by no means opposed to hard labour on principle, for he would work away at a cricket-match by the day together,—running, and catching, and batting, and bowling, and revelling in toil which would exhaust a galley-slave. He would have been invaluable to a fire-office; never was a man with such a natural taste for pumping engines, running up ladders, and throwing furniture out of two-pair-of-stairs’ windows: nor was this the only element in which he was at home; he was a humane society in himself, a portable drag, an animated life-preserver, and had saved more people, in his time, from drowning, than the Plymouth life-boat, or Captain Manby’s apparatus. With all these qualifications, notwithstanding his dissipation, Bottle-nosed Ned was a general favourite; and the authorities of Mudfog, remembering his numerous services to the population, allowed him in return to get drunk in his own way, without the fear of stocks, fine, or imprisonment. He had a general licence, and he showed his sense of the compliment by making the most of it.

We have been thus particular in describing the character and avocations of Bottle-nosed Ned, because it enables us to introduce a fact politely, without hauling it into the reader’s presence with indecent haste by the head and shoulders, and brings us very naturally to relate, that on the very same evening on which Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble and family returned to Mudfog, Mr. Tulrumble’s new secretary, just imported from London, with a pale face and light whiskers, thrust his head down to the very bottom of his neckcloth-tie, in at the tap-room door of the Lighterman’s Arms, and inquiring whether one Ned Twigger was luxuriating within, announced himself as the bearer of a message from Nicholas Tulrumble, Esquire, requiring Mr. Twigger’s immediate attendance at the hall, on private and particular business. It being by no means Mr. Twigger’s interest to affront the Mayor, he rose from the fireplace with a slight sigh, and followed the light-whiskered secretary through the dirt and wet of Mudfog streets, up to Mudfog Hall, without further ado.

Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble was seated in a small cavern with a skylight, which he called his library, sketching out a plan of the procession on a large sheet of paper; and into the cavern the secretary ushered Ned Twigger.

‘Well, Twigger!’ said Nicholas Tulrumble, condescendingly.

There was a time when Twigger would have replied, ‘Well, Nick!’ but that was in the days of the truck, and a couple of years before the donkey; so, he only bowed.

‘I want you to go into training, Twigger,’ said Mr. Tulrumble.

‘What for, sir?’ inquired Ned, with a stare.

‘Hush, hush, Twigger!’ said the Mayor. ‘Shut the door, Mr. Jennings. Look here, Twigger.’

As the Mayor said this, he unlocked a high closet, and disclosed a complete suit of brass armour, of gigantic dimensions.

‘I want you to wear this next Monday, Twigger,’ said the Mayor.

‘Bless your heart and soul, sir!’ replied Ned, ‘you might as well ask me to wear a seventy-four pounder, or a cast-iron boiler.’

‘Nonsense, Twigger, nonsense!’ said the Mayor.

‘I couldn’t stand under it, sir,’ said Twigger; ‘it would make mashed potatoes of me, if I attempted it.’

‘Pooh, pooh, Twigger!’ returned the Mayor. ‘I tell you I have seen it done with my own eyes, in London, and the man wasn’t half such a man as you are, either.’

‘I should as soon have thought of a man’s wearing the case of an eight-day clock to save his linen,’ said Twigger, casting a look of apprehension at the brass suit.

‘It’s the easiest thing in the world,’ rejoined the Mayor.

‘It’s nothing,’ said Mr. Jennings.

‘When you’re used to it,’ added Ned.

‘You do it by degrees,’ said the Mayor. ‘You would begin with one piece to-morrow, and two the next day, and so on, till you had got it all on. Mr. Jennings, give Twigger a glass of rum. Just try the breast-plate, Twigger. Stay; take another glass of rum first. Help me to lift it, Mr. Jennings. Stand firm, Twigger! There!—it isn’t half as heavy as it looks, is it?’

Twigger was a good strong, stout fellow; so, after a great deal of staggering, he managed to keep himself up, under the breastplate, and even contrived, with the aid of another glass of rum, to walk about in it, and the gauntlets into the bargain. He made a trial of the helmet, but was not equally successful, inasmuch as he tipped over instantly,—an accident which Mr. Tulrumble clearly demonstrated to be occasioned by his not having a counteracting weight of brass on his legs.

‘Now, wear that with grace and propriety on Monday next,’ said Tulrumble, ‘and I’ll make your fortune.’

‘I’ll try what I can do, sir,’ said Twigger.

‘It must be kept a profound secret,’ said Tulrumble.

‘Of course, sir,’ replied Twigger.

‘And you must be sober,’ said Tulrumble; ‘perfectly sober.’ Mr. Twigger at once solemnly pledged himself to be as sober as a judge, and Nicholas Tulrumble was satisfied, although, had we been Nicholas, we should certainly have exacted some promise of a more specific nature; inasmuch as, having attended the Mudfog assizes in the evening more than once, we can solemnly testify to having seen judges with very strong symptoms of dinner under their wigs. However, that’s neither here nor there.

The next day, and the day following, and the day after that, Ned Twigger was securely locked up in the small cavern with the sky-light, hard at work at the armour. With every additional piece he could manage to stand upright in, he had an additional glass of rum; and at last, after many partial suffocations, he contrived to get on the whole suit, and to stagger up and down the room in it, like an intoxicated effigy from Westminster Abbey.

Never was man so delighted as Nicholas Tulrumble; never was woman so charmed as Nicholas Tulrumble’s wife. Here was a sight for the common people of Mudfog! A live man in brass armour! Why, they would go wild with wonder!

The day—the Monday—arrived.

If the morning had been made to order, it couldn’t have been better adapted to the purpose. They never showed a better fog in London on Lord Mayor’s day, than enwrapped the town of Mudfog on that eventful occasion. It had risen slowly and surely from the green and stagnant water with the first light of morning, until it reached a little above the lamp-post tops; and there it had stopped, with a sleepy, sluggish obstinacy, which bade defiance to the sun, who had got up very blood-shot about the eyes, as if he had been at a drinking-party over-night, and was doing his day’s work with the worst possible grace. The thick damp mist hung over the town like a huge gauze curtain. All was dim and dismal. The church steeples had bidden a temporary adieu to the world below; and every object of lesser importance—houses, barns, hedges, trees, and barges—had all taken the veil.

The church-clock struck one. A cracked trumpet from the front garden of Mudfog Hall produced a feeble flourish, as if some asthmatic person had coughed into it accidentally; the gate flew open, and out came a gentleman, on a moist-sugar coloured charger, intended to represent a herald, but bearing a much stronger resemblance to a court-card on horseback. This was one of the Circus people, who always came down to Mudfog at that time of the year, and who had been engaged by Nicholas Tulrumble expressly for the occasion. There was the horse, whisking his tail about, balancing himself on his hind-legs, and flourishing away with his fore-feet, in a manner which would have gone to the hearts and souls of any reasonable crowd. But a Mudfog crowd never was a reasonable one, and in all probability never will be. Instead of scattering the very fog with their shouts, as they ought most indubitably to have done, and were fully intended to do, by Nicholas Tulrumble, they no sooner recognized the herald, than they began to growl forth the most unqualified disapprobation at the bare notion of his riding like any other man. If he had come out on his head indeed, or jumping through a hoop, or flying through a red-hot drum, or even standing on one leg with his other foot in his mouth, they might have had something to say to him; but for a professional gentleman to sit astride in the saddle, with his feet in the stirrups, was rather too good a joke. So, the herald was a decided failure, and the crowd hooted with great energy, as he pranced ingloriously away.

On the procession came. We are afraid to say how many supernumeraries there were, in striped shirts and black velvet caps, to imitate the London watermen, or how many base imitations of running-footmen, or how many banners, which, owing to the heaviness of the atmosphere, could by no means be prevailed on to display their inscriptions: still less do we feel disposed to relate how the men who played the wind instruments, looking up into the sky (we mean the fog) with musical fervour, walked through pools of water and hillocks of mud, till they covered the powdered heads of the running-footmen aforesaid with splashes, that looked curious, but not ornamental; or how the barrel-organ performer put on the wrong stop, and played one tune while the band played another; or how the horses, being used to the arena, and not to the streets, would stand still and dance, instead of going on and prancing;—all of which are matters which might be dilated upon to great advantage, but which we have not the least intention of dilating upon, notwithstanding.

Oh! it was a grand and beautiful sight to behold a corporation in glass coaches, provided at the sole cost and charge of Nicholas Tulrumble, coming rolling along, like a funeral out of mourning, and to watch the attempts the corporation made to look great and solemn, when Nicholas Tulrumble himself, in the four-wheel chaise, with the tall postilion, rolled out after them, with Mr. Jennings on one side to look like a chaplain, and a supernumerary on the other, with an old life-guardsman’s sabre, to imitate the sword-bearer; and to see the tears rolling down the faces of the mob as they screamed with merriment. This was beautiful! and so was the appearance of Mrs. Tulrumble and son, as they bowed with grave dignity out of their coach-window to all the dirty faces that were laughing around them: but it is not even with this that we have to do, but with the sudden stopping of the procession at another blast of the trumpet, whereat, and whereupon, a profound silence ensued, and all eyes were turned towards Mudfog Hall, in the confident anticipation of some new wonder.

‘They won’t laugh now, Mr. Jennings,’ said Nicholas Tulrumble.

‘I think not, sir,’ said Mr. Jennings.

‘See how eager they look,’ said Nicholas Tulrumble. ‘Aha! the laugh will be on our side now; eh, Mr. Jennings?’

‘No doubt of that, sir,’ replied Mr. Jennings; and Nicholas Tulrumble, in a state of pleasurable excitement, stood up in the four-wheel chaise, and telegraphed gratification to the Mayoress behind.

While all this was going forward, Ned Twigger had descended into the kitchen of Mudfog Hall for the purpose of indulging the servants with a private view of the curiosity that was to burst upon the town; and, somehow or other, the footman was so companionable, and the housemaid so kind, and the cook so friendly, that he could not resist the offer of the first-mentioned to sit down and take something—just to drink success to master in.

So, down Ned Twigger sat himself in his brass livery on the top of the kitchen-table; and in a mug of something strong, paid for by the unconscious Nicholas Tulrumble, and provided by the companionable footman, drank success to the Mayor and his procession; and, as Ned laid by his helmet to imbibe the something strong, the companionable footman put it on his own head, to the immeasurable and unrecordable delight of the cook and housemaid. The companionable footman was very facetious to Ned, and Ned was very gallant to the cook and housemaid by turns. They were all very cosy and comfortable; and the something strong went briskly round.

At last Ned Twigger was loudly called for, by the procession people: and, having had his helmet fixed on, in a very complicated manner, by the companionable footman, and the kind housemaid, and the friendly cook, he walked gravely forth, and appeared before the multitude.

The crowd roared—it was not with wonder, it was not with surprise; it was most decidedly and unquestionably with laughter.

‘What!’ said Mr. Tulrumble, starting up in the four-wheel chaise. ‘Laughing? If they laugh at a man in real brass armour, they’d laugh when their own fathers were dying. Why doesn’t he go into his place, Mr. Jennings? What’s he rolling down towards us for? he has no business here!’

‘I am afraid, sir—’ faltered Mr. Jennings.

‘Afraid of what, sir?’ said Nicholas Tulrumble, looking up into the secretary’s face.

‘I am afraid he’s drunk, sir,’ replied Mr. Jennings.

Nicholas Tulrumble took one look at the extraordinary figure that was bearing down upon them; and then, clasping his secretary by the arm, uttered an audible groan in anguish of spirit.

It is a melancholy fact that Mr. Twigger having full licence to demand a single glass of rum on the putting on of every piece of the armour, got, by some means or other, rather out of his calculation in the hurry and confusion of preparation, and drank about four glasses to a piece instead of one, not to mention the something strong which went on the top of it. Whether the brass armour checked the natural flow of perspiration, and thus prevented the spirit from evaporating, we are not scientific enough to know; but, whatever the cause was, Mr. Twigger no sooner found himself outside the gate of Mudfog Hall, than he also found himself in a very considerable state of intoxication; and hence his extraordinary style of progressing. This was bad enough, but, as if fate and fortune had conspired against Nicholas Tulrumble, Mr. Twigger, not having been penitent for a good calendar month, took it into his head to be most especially and particularly sentimental, just when his repentance could have been most conveniently dispensed with. Immense tears were rolling down his cheeks, and he was vainly endeavouring to conceal his grief by applying to his eyes a blue cotton pocket-handkerchief with white spots,—an article not strictly in keeping with a suit of armour some three hundred years old, or thereabouts.

‘Twigger, you villain!’ said Nicholas Tulrumble, quite forgetting his dignity, ‘go back.’

‘Never,’ said Ned. ‘I’m a miserable wretch. I’ll never leave you.’

The by-standers of course received this declaration with acclamations of ‘That’s right, Ned; don’t!’

‘I don’t intend it,’ said Ned, with all the obstinacy of a very tipsy man. ‘I’m very unhappy. I’m the wretched father of an unfortunate family; but I am very faithful, sir. I’ll never leave you.’ Having reiterated this obliging promise, Ned proceeded in broken words to harangue the crowd upon the number of years he had lived in Mudfog, the excessive respectability of his character, and other topics of the like nature.

‘Here! will anybody lead him away?’ said Nicholas: ‘if they’ll call on me afterwards, I’ll reward them well.’

Two or three men stepped forward, with the view of bearing Ned off, when the secretary interposed.

‘Take care! take care!’ said Mr. Jennings. ‘I beg your pardon, sir; but they’d better not go too near him, because, if he falls over, he’ll certainly crush somebody.’

At this hint the crowd retired on all sides to a very respectful distance, and left Ned, like the Duke of Devonshire, in a little circle of his own.

‘But, Mr. Jennings,’ said Nicholas Tulrumble, ‘he’ll be suffocated.’

‘I’m very sorry for it, sir,’ replied Mr. Jennings; ‘but nobody can get that armour off, without his own assistance. I’m quite certain of it from the way he put it on.’

Here Ned wept dolefully, and shook his helmeted head, in a manner that might have touched a heart of stone; but the crowd had not hearts of stone, and they laughed heartily.

‘Dear me, Mr. Jennings,’ said Nicholas, turning pale at the possibility of Ned’s being smothered in his antique costume—‘Dear me, Mr. Jennings, can nothing be done with him?’

‘Nothing at all,’ replied Ned, ‘nothing at all. Gentlemen, I’m an unhappy wretch. I’m a body, gentlemen, in a brass coffin.’ At this poetical idea of his own conjuring up, Ned cried so much that the people began to get sympathetic, and to ask what Nicholas Tulrumble meant by putting a man into such a machine as that; and one individual in a hairy waistcoat like the top of a trunk, who had previously expressed his opinion that if Ned hadn’t been a poor man, Nicholas wouldn’t have dared do it, hinted at the propriety of breaking the four-wheel chaise, or Nicholas’s head, or both, which last compound proposition the crowd seemed to consider a very good notion.

It was not acted upon, however, for it had hardly been broached, when Ned Twigger’s wife made her appearance abruptly in the little circle before noticed, and Ned no sooner caught a glimpse of her face and form, than from the mere force of habit he set off towards his home just as fast as his legs could carry him; and that was not very quick in the present instance either, for, however ready they might have been to carry him, they couldn’t get on very well under the brass armour. So, Mrs. Twigger had plenty of time to denounce Nicholas Tulrumble to his face: to express her opinion that he was a decided monster; and to intimate that, if her ill-used husband sustained any personal damage from the brass armour, she would have the law of Nicholas Tulrumble for manslaughter. When she had said all this with due vehemence, she posted after Ned, who was dragging himself along as best he could, and deploring his unhappiness in most dismal tones.

What a wailing and screaming Ned’s children raised when he got home at last! Mrs. Twigger tried to undo the armour, first in one place, and then in another, but she couldn’t manage it; so she tumbled Ned into bed, helmet, armour, gauntlets, and all. Such a creaking as the bedstead made, under Ned’s weight in his new suit! It didn’t break down though; and there Ned lay, like the anonymous vessel in the Bay of Biscay, till next day, drinking barley-water, and looking miserable: and every time he groaned, his good lady said it served him right, which was all the consolation Ned Twigger got.

Nicholas Tulrumble and the gorgeous procession went on together to the town-hall, amid the hisses and groans of all the spectators, who had suddenly taken it into their heads to consider poor Ned a martyr. Nicholas was formally installed in his new office, in acknowledgment of which ceremony he delivered himself of a speech, composed by the secretary, which was very long, and no doubt very good, only the noise of the people outside prevented anybody from hearing it, but Nicholas Tulrumble himself. After which, the procession got back to Mudfog Hall any how it could; and Nicholas and the corporation sat down to dinner.

But the dinner was flat, and Nicholas was disappointed. They were such dull sleepy old fellows, that corporation. Nicholas made quite as long speeches as the Lord Mayor of London had done, nay, he said the very same things that the Lord Mayor of London had said, and the deuce a cheer the corporation gave him. There was only one man in the party who was thoroughly awake; and he was insolent, and called him Nick. Nick! What would be the consequence, thought Nicholas, of anybody presuming to call the Lord Mayor of London ‘Nick!’ He should like to know what the sword-bearer would say to that; or the recorder, or the toast-master, or any other of the great officers of the city. They’d nick him.

But these were not the worst of Nicholas Tulrumble’s doings. If they had been, he might have remained a Mayor to this day, and have talked till he lost his voice. He contracted a relish for statistics, and got philosophical; and the statistics and the philosophy together, led him into an act which increased his unpopularity and hastened his downfall.

At the very end of the Mudfog High-street, and abutting on the river-side, stands the Jolly Boatmen, an old-fashioned low-roofed, bay-windowed house, with a bar, kitchen, and tap-room all in one, and a large fireplace with a kettle to correspond, round which the working men have congregated time out of mind on a winter’s night, refreshed by draughts of good strong beer, and cheered by the sounds of a fiddle and tambourine: the Jolly Boatmen having been duly licensed by the Mayor and corporation, to scrape the fiddle and thumb the tambourine from time, whereof the memory of the oldest inhabitants goeth not to the contrary. Now Nicholas Tulrumble had been reading pamphlets on crime, and parliamentary reports,—or had made the secretary read them to him, which is the same thing in effect,—and he at once perceived that this fiddle and tambourine must have done more to demoralize Mudfog, than any other operating causes that ingenuity could imagine. So he read up for the subject, and determined to come out on the corporation with a burst, the very next time the licence was applied for.

The licensing day came, and the red-faced landlord of the Jolly Boatmen walked into the town-hall, looking as jolly as need be, having actually put on an extra fiddle for that night, to commemorate the anniversary of the Jolly Boatmen’s music licence. It was applied for in due form, and was just about to be granted as a matter of course, when up rose Nicholas Tulrumble, and drowned the astonished corporation in a torrent of eloquence. He descanted in glowing terms upon the increasing depravity of his native town of Mudfog, and the excesses committed by its population. Then, he related how shocked he had been, to see barrels of beer sliding down into the cellar of the Jolly Boatmen week after week; and how he had sat at a window opposite the Jolly Boatmen for two days together, to count the people who went in for beer between the hours of twelve and one o’clock alone—which, by-the-bye, was the time at which the great majority of the Mudfog people dined. Then, he went on to state, how the number of people who came out with beer-jugs, averaged twenty-one in five minutes, which, being multiplied by twelve, gave two hundred and fifty-two people with beer-jugs in an hour, and multiplied again by fifteen (the number of hours during which the house was open daily) yielded three thousand seven hundred and eighty people with beer-jugs per day, or twenty-six thousand four hundred and sixty people with beer-jugs, per week. Then he proceeded to show that a tambourine and moral degradation were synonymous terms, and a fiddle and vicious propensities wholly inseparable. All these arguments he strengthened and demonstrated by frequent references to a large book with a blue cover, and sundry quotations from the Middlesex magistrates; and in the end, the corporation, who were posed with the figures, and sleepy with the speech, and sadly in want of dinner into the bargain, yielded the palm to Nicholas Tulrumble, and refused the music licence to the Jolly Boatmen.

But although Nicholas triumphed, his triumph was short. He carried on the war against beer-jugs and fiddles, forgetting the time when he was glad to drink out of the one, and to dance to the other, till the people hated, and his old friends shunned him. He grew tired of the lonely magnificence of Mudfog Hall, and his heart yearned towards the Lighterman’s Arms. He wished he had never set up as a public man, and sighed for the good old times of the coal-shop, and the chimney corner.

At length old Nicholas, being thoroughly miserable, took heart of grace, paid the secretary a quarter’s wages in advance, and packed him off to London by the next coach. Having taken this step, he put his hat on his head, and his pride in his pocket, and walked down to the old room at the Lighterman’s Arms. There were only two of the old fellows there, and they looked coldly on Nicholas as he proffered his hand.

‘Are you going to put down pipes, Mr. Tulrumble?’ said one.

‘Or trace the progress of crime to ‘bacca?’ growled another.

‘Neither,’ replied Nicholas Tulrumble, shaking hands with them both, whether they would or not. ‘I’ve come down to say that I’m very sorry for having made a fool of myself, and that I hope you’ll give me up the old chair, again.’

The old fellows opened their eyes, and three or four more old fellows opened the door, to whom Nicholas, with tears in his eyes, thrust out his hand too, and told the same story. They raised a shout of joy, that made the bells in the ancient church-tower vibrate again, and wheeling the old chair into the warm corner, thrust old Nicholas down into it, and ordered in the very largest-sized bowl of hot punch, with an unlimited number of pipes, directly.

The next day, the Jolly Boatmen got the licence, and the next night, old Nicholas and Ned Twigger’s wife led off a dance to the music of the fiddle and tambourine, the tone of which seemed mightily improved by a little rest, for they never had played so merrily before. Ned Twigger was in the very height of his glory, and he danced hornpipes, and balanced chairs on his chin, and straws on his nose, till the whole company, including the corporation, were in raptures of admiration at the brilliancy of his acquirements.

Mr. Tulrumble, junior, couldn’t make up his mind to be anything but magnificent, so he went up to London and drew bills on his father; and when he had overdrawn, and got into debt, he grew penitent, and came home again.

As to old Nicholas, he kept his word, and having had six weeks of public life, never tried it any more. He went to sleep in the town-hall at the very next meeting; and, in full proof of his sincerity, has requested us to write this faithful narrative. We wish it could have the effect of reminding the Tulrumbles of another sphere, that puffed-up conceit is not dignity, and that snarling at the little pleasures they were once glad to enjoy, because they would rather forget the times when they were of lower station, renders them objects of contempt and ridicule.

This is the first time we have published any of our gleanings from this particular source. Perhaps, at some future period, we may venture to open the chronicles of Mudfog.

_____

Title | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter |

#sketches by boz #sbb #charles dickens

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urfavmercurial444 · 1 year ago

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My "Quick" Fixes in Wellness

Your health, and your overall wellness journey, isn't something that can be expedited like it's an Amazon Prime package. There are no quick fixes, or shortcuts, to get your health where you want it to be. More efficient plans and life hacks, yes. But no shortcuts.

However, there are a few practices that I do myself to keep me on track with my health goals when I'm busy or maybe just having a low day. They are short and simple, which helps when I'm feeling overwhelmed or tired.

I'd recommend these quick fixes as an introduction to improved healthy habits, getting back on track after falling out of routine, or maybe you're hoping to take care of yourself in a time you know you will be stressed in.

"Quick" Fixes in Wellness:

Drink Water:

I know, I know. It's a cliché but that's only because it works!! So, get up and go fix yourself a glass of water. Try to drink

Ideally, you should be aiming to drink half your body weight in water. This is the end goal, of course, so you should ease into drinking water. Start with a bottle a day, then a bottle in the morning and at night, and add more bottles into your daily routine where they can fit.

Go on a walk:

Not only does going on a walk get you in the sun, but it provides a quiet time for you to just reflect. Think about your life, your goals, how you can better improve yourself, etc. Without any noise from your phone, from friends, from family, and every other disturbance in quiet thinking time you may have.

Going on walks increases your serotonin, which is a mood stabilizer, and can help you return to a default way of functioning. It's great for your body and your mind, so...go do it.

If walk are not accessible to you because of environment or physical capability, I recommend completing another mood-stabilizing activity. Such as meditating, getting sunlight, or praying.

Journaling:

I don't want to hear absolutely any excuses from anyone about not being able to do this quick-fix. "I don't know what to write!" Journaling prompts are on Pinterest, Google, Tiktok, YouTube, and even Teenage Girl Today. That's right babe, I've got you covered. So, start journaling. Now. Walk away from your device, and get to journaling. Chop, chop.

But wait, "I'm scared someone's going to read my journal!" Babe. Get a journal app and hide it on your phone. Use the Apple Notes app and lock the note. Text yourself your journal entries if that's the most protected way.

Stop making excuses for not journaling!! There are ways around it and you know it. Take action against your fears and anxiety!! It's the best way to rid yourself of them.

Clean your environment:

Girl, I already know. Clean your room and you will find yourself feeling SO much better about yourself and your life. But let me guess, you live in a pig sty? Well here's how you're going to clean your room:

Clear your nightstand, put things where they need to go and throw out all those old drinks.

Clean your bathroom counter, put things where they need to go and throw out the trash from that new mascara you got like a week ago.

Pick up drinks you see on the top of surfaces. e.g. the top of your dresser, your desk, maybe an arm chair or something.

Take all your dirty clothes and put them in a pile in the corner of your room. I'm not asking for you to wash them yet, but put them in a pile.

Make your bed. Clear it off, put sheets on or blankets if that's your thing. Fold all the extra blankets because it will look neater afterwards.

Wipe down your doorknobs, sweep/vacuum the floor, and grab any kitchenware in your room. Take it to the kitchen.

Put everything that's left into piles. Shoes goes with shoes, books with books, etc. This will make your tasks clearer to you and can be very effective for deciding what to do next.

Change your clothes + Wash your face:

Sometimes, you're not actually upset with your life. You're just overstimulated. Change into some clothes that are non-stimulating and comfortable for you. And wash your face.

I've found that if my face is greasy, I can get overwhelmed with the feeling of my own skin. On these days, I come home and splash my face with water. Sometimes that's not a deep enough cleansing and I'll use facial cleanser. I make sure to wash my face of the oily feeling. My mood can improve after that, even if it's just a little bit.

Conclusion

If you're ever needing a pick me up, these few "quick" fixes could help you out of a funk you've fallen into on your wellness journey. Amend them to your liking! Do one or all, but give it as much effort as you can. Help yourself feel better and make your life easier!

#lifestyle #self growth #self improvement #girlhood #hygiene #mental health #cleaning #journaling

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kiko-the-gay-writer · 2 years ago

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♡More Ship incorrect Quotes for RDR♡

------

♡John Marston x Javier Escuella♡

---

John : I love you.

Javier , not paying attention: What was that?

John : I said I’m selling you to the zOo-

John : My hands are cold.

Javier : Here, let me hold them.

John : My lips are cold too.

Javier : *covers John 's mouth with their hand*

Javier : Since we're in a relationship now, your clothes are my clothes too. Don't ask me why I have your shirt on, this is our shirt.

John : Fine, but when I come strutting in with your fuzzy socks I don't want to hear shit.

Javier : *fast-forwards all the way through the movie*

John : You can't just skip to the happy ending!

Javier : I don't have time for their problems.

▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎

��Arthur Morgan x Charles Smith♡

---

Arthur: I think it’s time I get my life in order.

Charles , narrating: But they did not get their life in order. In fact, they got drunk last night and fought a raccoon.

Arthur : I don't need to go to bed. I'm not tired, I'll be fine.

Charles: But, Arthur, I'll be so lonely without you. Come curl up in my arms so I can feel whole again.

Arthur : O-oh. Well. Are you trying to seduce me into healthy sleeping patterns??

Charles: Is it working?

Charles: You have to apologize to them Arthur .

Arthur : Fine! But I must warn you that this might make me a better, nicer person and that is NOT the person you fell in love with!

Arthur : Hey, random question, what are your favorite flowers?

Charles: Peonies, why?

Arthur :

Charles: Were you going to get me flowers?

Arthur :

Charles:

Arthur : ᶦᵗ’ˢ ᵃ ᵖᵒˢˢᶦᵇᶦˡᶦᵗʸ

▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎

♡Dutch Van Der Linde x Hosea Matthews♡

---

Hosea: I can't imagine what Dutch is planning. But I can tell you two things. We won't like it and it won't be legal.

Dutch: You're right.

Hosea: That's... That's an unusual phrase for you. Did you just learn it?

Kidnapper: We have your child

Hosea: I don’t have a child?

Kidnapper: Then who just asked for warm milk and made us cut the crusts off their sandwich?

Hosea: Oh god, you have Dutch.

Hosea: That's not funny.

Dutch : I thought it was funny.

Hosea: You don't count. You started laughing in the middle of a funeral because you started thinking of a meme you saw on Facebook.

▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎

♡Sean Maguire x Lenny Summers♡

---

Lenny: Hey, can I get a sip of that water?

Sean: It’s not water.

Lenny: Vodka! I like your sty-

Sean: It’s vinegar.

Lenny: …What?

Sean: It's vinegar, PUSSY.

Lenny: Ew. What kind of tea is this?

Sean: I boiled gatorade.

Sean: I’m in love with you.

Lenny: We called off the prank war last night at midnight, dork.

Sean: I know.

Lenny: Ah. Okay. Um. Cool. Neat. Very cool. Cool. Cool. Coolcoolcool-

Lenny: Are you ready to commit?

Sean: Like, a crime or a relationship?

▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎

♡Kieran Duffy x Bill Williamson♡

---

Bill : The first time Keiran opened a box of Cheerios and looked inside they yelled, "OH WOW! DONUT SEEDS!"

Bill : Are you a masochist or a sadist?

Kieran , deadpan: I’m a Taurus.

Bill : I never tell people off the bat that I'm gay. I wait. I wait until they say some homophobic shit and then I laugh and am like "you know I'm gay right?" and watch the look of terror on their face.

Keiran :

Keiran : I like you.

Bill : *closes a cabinet*

*a crash is heard behind the cabinet door*

Kieran : What was that?

Bill : The sound of someone else's problem.

#john marston #javier escuella #jovier #arthur morgan #charles smith #charthur #dutch van der linde #hosea matthews #vandermatthews #sean macguire #lenny summers #sean x lenny #bill williamson #kieran duffy #bieran #incorrect quotes #ship #red dead redemption 2

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dasha-aibo · 3 years ago

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Honestly, I feel like putting my thoughts down in the open like that is just gonna be healthy for me period.

I don't promise these updates every day, because I'm terrible at promises. The only one I've kept is not killing myself, which is at least some kind of a victory.

Hi, my name is Dasha and I'm a goddamn mess.

Five years ago my already weird and complicated life completely fell apart and I've been buried under the rubble ever since, slowly getting myself out piece by piece.

Over those five years I've completely destroyed my relationship with food, lost all social connections, got alcoholism and allowed myself to live in a total pig sty while neglecting basic grooming.

The sad part is, nobody is going to get me out of this mess but me.

Usually when I try to start my life fresh, I try to do everything at once and overwork myself, leading to an inevitable burnout a few months in.

That needs to change.

I don't have a concrete game plan yet, because I really need to get some sleep and sort things out in my head, but I do feel like I have a better chance at this whole thing than before.

Or at least I want to believe in it. Let's not discard the power of belief completely.

I filled one garbage bag with trash from around my room and while that made a sizeable dent, there's still enough trash for a bag or two. That's something I'm going to do tomorrow first thing in the morning.

I'm good at honesty for better and for worse. Let's see how far this takes me.

#dasha recovers

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rainyfestivalsweets · 2 years ago

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9/29/22

Traveling day.

Made pretty good choices. Cleaned and ate before I left, watching Gotham. So hopefully I won't be going home to a pig sty.

I have continued to think about possible hangup and how to move past this plateau. 🤔

When I was in the 230's and 240's before, the [sic] love of my life started cheating on me with an 18 year old gastric bypass patient. It was hella traumatic. I lost everything. My heart was beyond broken. I ended up selling my house to her and leaving, basically losing the family I had fought so hard for.

I have felt untethered since then.

I did eventually remarry, so someone who basically loved me more than anything ever ( & got me fatter than ever) until they didn't--and some 21 year old puppy wannabe came along.

Got divorced. It was all chronicled on a blog that tumblr deleted. So again, thanks for that. I should have written it somewhere safe, because this wasn't and there was so so so much shit you guys.

So what was my takeaway from that? That my person will leave me if I become successful at weight loss??

How is that stopping me? My gf and I are not super serious. We don't have sex. We live separately. We actually seem better over the phone than in person. I struggle with their affection signals. [Sigh]

So why am I hung up here? How is that previous experience applicable to this situation?

It doesn't matter if she breaks up with me. Granted, I will be sad and lonely.... but it won't be fucking tragic.

So I am working on doing some mind reconditioning to change my inner language. Trying to redirect myself whenever I think bad thoughts. Honestly, I am just touch starved and body lonely. I can barely have an orgasm anymore, because I often start crying during, which probably doesn't fucking help.

It is safe for me to continue losing weight. I still have a large amount of fat. I will reconsider after dropping under 200 to see where I am with muscle mass. But I still have a rather large spare tire right now. So I know it isn't because I am in a physical danger zone. Mid 240s is still high for a female almost regardless of muscle mass.

So other wins: I am trying to concentrate on foods with lots of veggies, low calorie noodles, and protein.

So back to today- mostly good choices with the exception of breakfast. Which was a snickers and an apple while I cleaned my car. I had lunch before I left- which was veggies & gravy leftover from the other night, and a vegan harvest bowl. I gave the steak to mom to lower the cals for me. The bowl thing I bought a bunch of while they were on clearance and I wanted to try it. Small bowl of chickpeas and lentils in like a curry seasoning. 360 cals. So perfect to have with a veggie.

Road snacks. Drinks-- A pink Starburst crystal light thing, dt coke, cherry coke zero, and a pumpkin apple chai with fiber. Snacks-- Sweet c jelly, snow peas, carrot chips. Hard boiled eggs.

When I got to the hotel, I just got ready right away. Played in my phone a bit. Decided to wait to eat.

Went to an awesome show! It was great. No drinking, had a bottle of water.

Walked to the grocery store after. Bought 2 bananas, a pack of pickled green beans, and a cauli pizza bowl.

Ate a banana 🍌 right out of the store. Ate the pickled beans on the way back to the hotel.

Got back to the hotel, ate a salad first- but without most of the dressing.

Then ate my pizza bowl.

Took a bath and had 3 "moments."

Out of all the ways I could have undercut my healthy diet today, I think I won. No fast food. No drinking. Healthy food. Good choices all around except for the snickers. My workout was cleaning. I was sweating during but I wanted to be able to come home to a semi clean house.

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renee-writer · 3 years ago

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Accidentally Roomies Chapter 35

AO3

“What now?” Her stunned eyes meet theirs. Her mind starts to twirl, her thoughts chasing each other. She has a baby sister. A sick baby sister. But, the only reason she is meeting her “ parents “ and learning about her, is because they need something from her.

“Her name is Faith. We were finally ready to be parents. She was born healthy. At a year she started coming up with unexplained bruises. Her energy level was dropping. After a series of tests… “ Julia trails off.

“The diagnosis was a shock. We were both tested right away. Others were. A stranger had a close match and she went into remission. But now… They say only a near perfect match can save her. A sibling is as close as..”

“So, you recalled you had another daughter. Nice. “

“We always meet to..”

“To what “dad”? Let me know I have a sister! You didn’t seek me out when she first got sick. Why? Did you think I wouldn’t have helped? What type of person do you think you sired? Fek? She is bloody suffering for your cowardness and pride. I will help, for Faith. Papers will be drawn up showing that I have the right to sty in her life.”

“Do you really think that we would prevent that?” Henry asks.

“In honesty, I don’t trust you. This will be for my sister, not you or your wife. I don’t need parents, not now. She needs me and I will be a part of her life. That’s the deal.”

“We agree.” Julia sadly says. What did she expect? Claire thinks, to be welcomed with open arms?

“Good. Do you have a picture of her?”

She stands and hands her a picture. Claire looks down at it. The little girl is gorgeous. With chubby cheeks and thick curls. She sees herself in the lines of her face and her eyes. Yes, she will do all she can to help her. But for their mutual parents, she will just deal with them for her.

“Would you like to meet her?” Henry asks.

“Yes. Jamie, Uncle Lamb and, I will follow you.” She takes the picture and goes to find them.

#my writing #outlander fanfic #accidentally roomies #chapter 35 #jamie and claire #cannon divergence #outlander fandom #modern au

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digitalcirce · 1 year ago

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Nature Walk (woman to pig transformation)

When Cassie stared her relaxing nature walk, she was a normal girl. But then she started to smell something… intoxicating. Truffles, as it turned out - buried delicacies that smelled like virile, ready boars. And while her mind didn't understand the smells, her body did. She followed the olfactory trail eagerly. And so slowly, starting with her womb, she started to change. She transformed to fulfill her deepest, unexamined, unknown desires. Every moment of her walk has left her less a normal girl, and more a sow. Her insides are quite advanced - she now boasts the heart, stomach, bowels, and ovaries of a healthy pig. Even her brain has started to change. But her outward features are changing too, revealing her for what she is. How far will it go? Will the gorgeous, buxom, sable-haired beauty really join a herd of pigs, waddling on all fours like any other? Will her tail wiggle as a boar ruts her, filling her full of piglets to love? Cassie had never contemplated being a pig; having any life other than human. But tomorrow, she may well not contemplate any life other than that of a satisfied sow. It's hard to imagine a woman as refined and beautiful as Cassie being content eating with her face, pooping on the ground, mating with boars, whelping piglets, and socializing only with other swine. But she will be. She'll find life as a fat smelly breeding sow enchanting, mesmerizing - a senses-overload. The end of her nature walk will lead into a sty full of other hogs, and then the gate will shut behind her. Of course, the plump sow will always remember her human life, but she won't miss it. Not when there's another boar willing to mount her!

This is the one hundred and thirty-first of my photomanipulations to debut first on Tumblr.

#pig #pig tf #pig transformation #piggirl #tf #transformation #hog #sow #swine #digital circe #digital #circe

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they-callme-ami · 4 years ago

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Reverse Hareem I watched in 7th grade that are actually amazing and cute:

The Wallflower aka "Rejection does not equal Disgusting" the anime.

Main girl enjoys creepy, scary, gorey and bloody things

Her aunt sends her to live with 4 boys--as a way to help improve her self image and make her a 'lady' (idk why, go with it)

Lives with 4 boys but none of them try to harass her and even try to make her comfortable when they think she went through a bad experience with men.

All 4 boys embody tropes but they're all still unique and fresh

There are 2 other girls in the anime (one not shown up there) that befriend our main lady and never try to make her feel worthless for what she enjoys or belittle her

Each boy has some screentime with her, and despite the narritive pointing to 1 specific boy the others are contendors

In the end, we get to learn about her family life--which surprise surprise-- is actually very healthy and supportive of her.

My only gripe is in the 2nd episode, there's this group of really tan-brownish girls, big pink lips, seen as agressive and rude and dumb....so, uh, yeah. Take that as you may.

Kamisama Kiss aka "HOLY SHIT FIGHT SCENES, OVERARCHING STORY AND GODS" the anime.

Main girl loses her home and is kicked out at 17 because her father gambled money--sty with me it gets better

After she saves a mysterious man from a dog, he grants her a place to stay--and she becomes a shrine God.

Her familiar (the fox-boy) is an a-hole but really cares about her.

The other boys have different personalities, motivations, etc. And slowly shape into good people thanks to her kindness

2 seasons, and a story that spans over both seasons and OVA's as well.

Shows a protagonist who is a *bit* of a Mary Sue, but I see it as a girl who despite everything never gives up and still believes in humanity as a whole and tries to help people the best she can.

You already know what it is y'all.

Do I REALLY need to explain? I will.

Main character/leading lady is not at all like the normal building-block lead protagonist.

Haruhi doesn't define herself with gender labels and judges people based on their character

The Host Club give her a chance to pay back her debt since she doesn't have the money, and have her become a host

Each episode showcases different tropes/ways they entertain ladies

Everyone drinks their Respect Woman Juice everyday.

Each has an episode (besides Mori, still pissed about that) about why they joined the Host Club, their troubled family life, etc.

LGBT rep, Haruhi's father is very much bisexual and crossdresses (albeit for his job mostly) and even when his wife died, he said he'd never love another woman. Haruhi doesn't seem to mind romancing girls all day and even Tamaki was open to hosting Haruhi when he thought she was a boy.

Emphasizes how despite Haruhi always being independent, it's okay for her to depend on others whether it's the Host club at school or at home with her father.

#the wallflower #wallflower anime #yamato nadeshiko shichi henge #yamato nadeshiko #kamisama hajimemashita #kamisama kiss #ouran hshc #ouran high school host club #ohshc #anime #reverse harem

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minaofmayhem · 3 years ago

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IMAGINE #45 - Life always finds a path (2)

Here’s the second part of this little imagine about Randall. The first part talked about the last moments of Nadine. This second part is about the children that she was carrying. I decided to split it into two little parts. Otherwise, you’d have wait too much longer! I hope you’ll like it anon ! Maybe some medical explanations here are impossible ahah but I needed them for the story 😃 Feel free to tell me what you think about this. Enjoy! ❤️

Summary : What if Randall and Nadine’s baby survived ? This is the story of a daughter with an extraordinary destiny...

Pairing : Randall Flagg x daughter (inspired by Elizabeth Debicki as asked by anon).

Warnings : mentions of death. Let’s say that nothing is impossible in “The Stand” so Randall’s child survived to Nadine’s death 😁

Tag list : @katerka88 ; @bonnieelizabethparker ; @ateliefloresdaprimavera ; @anangelwhodidntfall ; @fawnbrrry ; @flowers-in-your-hayr ; @grandpa-sweaters

"(X/Y). Your sister is calling you. She'd like you to help her set up the tablecloth on the big table in the backyard" Frannie shouted to her oldest daughter from the kitchen where she was busy putting the finishing touches on her cherry pie.

"Coming!" a female voice behind her replied. (X/Y) walked past her and out the door to the garden. Through the window, Fran saw her happily approaching her two sisters to get everything ready for the little party. "Sisters." This made her smile. They often used that adjective, although in reality, they weren't. (X/Y) was three days older than her second sister, but she didn't know that.

(X/Y) was born in an unnatural way, on a stormy and apocalyptic evening. It was sixteen years ago. Frannie still remembered it. At the time, they were living a nightmare with this post-super flu era where Randall Flagg ruled Las Vegas like the Devil over Hell. Larry, Stu, Glen were out to get him. They came back safe and sound (except Glen who lost his life) and accompanied by a strange little being...

"What the?", Fran had said when she saw them arrive the day after their return with a baby in their arms. "You'll think it's crazy, but it's Nadine and Flagg's baby" Larry explained. It's a good thing she was still in her hospital bed (she'd just given birth four days ago) or Fran probably would have collapsed.

"Larry!" interjected Sty, slightly angry, seeing the effect he had caused on his wife. "No Stu, don't get mad. I'm fine," Fran reassured him, "I just want to understand and know how you managed to get that child back. Where is Nadine?". So they explained the whole story to her...

When he fled the MGM Hotel in haste on the night the nuclear reactor brought by Trashcan Man exploded, Larry passed through the great hall again when he suddenly heard screams. Despite the chaos, he could hear the heartbreaking cries of a newborn baby. A baby was near Nadine's body...

What to do? Larry thought quickly and decided to take this little girl who hadn't asked anyone for anything. He also felt guilty, seeing Nadine. If he had listened earlier to what she wanted to tell him, he could have saved her...

The decision had not been easy to make. Who would take care of this child? The doctor had examined her and at first glance she was healthy. Her birth was also a miracle because of what had happened to her mother. But knowing Flagg's supernatural powers, they figured the supernatural probably had something to do with it.

So, for her safety and theirs, they decided to say that Frannie had finally given birth to another child, a twin, that no one had noticed on the ultrasound. After all, that was possible with the aftermath of the super flu. No one had to know who she really was. For they were not sure that Flagg had definitely disappeared from the face of the earth...

So for the past sixteen years, (X/Y) had been living with Fran and Stu, his two parents, along with his two sisters. Life had resumed, so many years after the last events. Society had evolved and the people who were coming together were determined not to make the same mistakes as in the past.

Today was a special day. It was Stu's birthday, and for the occasion, Larry, Tom and old friends from Boulder were making the trip. The girls were just as excited as their father. (X/Y) who couldn’t wait to see Larry. He was her godfather, a choice of Stu and Frannie, because she owed him her life. He had become her protector.

He was also her mentor. Several times she had expressed her concerns to him. Especially one. Since a few months, just after her sixteenth birthday, she had started having strange dreams that had become recurrent...

"What do you see in these dreams?" he had asked her one afternoon when she had called him, worried that the same dream was repeating itself.

"I don't know," she had replied with a trembling voice, "it's...it looks like a nightmare but...I'm not scared. I'm on a beach or in a jungle and...I'm walking slowly until a wolf finds me. But he doesn't want to hurt me. And it's even strange, I feel good when I'm in his presence".

Larry had shivered on the other end of the phone. Remembering that they had all had such dreams in the past...But how to explain the exact meaning to him? He couldn't afford to tell her the truth. It would have been against the oath they had all taken together.

Larry was hoping that the strange dreams of (X/Y) would have faded with time. But it was not the case. Worried, he decided to talk to Fran and Stu about it later that night. He didn't want to panic them, but he didn't want anything to happen either. After all, no one knew if Flagg was really dead.

"If she talks to you about it again, then we'll do something" Stu decided when the three of them were quietly gathered in the kitchen. Everyone was outside and no one suspected what they were talking about.

But sitting in the backyard, (X/Y) suspected what was going on in the kitchen. For some reason, she knew that Larry had told his parents about his dreams. He hadn't told her, she just knew. Like some kind of intuition.

"(X/Y), have you seen your little sister" one of the guests asked her. (X/Y) looked away from her point of attention and immediately noticed her worried look. She told him that his nine-year-old sister had disappeared, that she was not in the garden as expected. Immediately, (X/Y) got up and looked for her in the crowd but there was no sign of her. Several people also began to look for her, imitating them.

Suddenly, (X/Y) had a strange feeling. A feeling that something was about to happen. A kind of uneasiness that made her go out of the garden, near the entrance of the house. Some people followed her, thinking that the front of the house could be a very good lead.

And she finally saw it. She was crouched in the middle of the street, watching something on the ground. (X/Y)'s blood rushed through her veins and she knew at that moment that something dramatic was about to happen. She saw the headlights coming in the distance; she called to her little sister who did not see the danger coming.

She got up and just as she was about to be hit by this car that had not noticed anything, (X/Y) felt a strong shock running through her nerves that made her throw her arm forward. A lightning bolt came out of his palm and landed in the right place, throwing his little sister backwards, on the other sidewalk, just before the car passed. She was safe and sound. Scared, the few guests who had witnessed the scene, rushed to the little girl to see if she was all right.

(X/Y), on the other hand, had lost consciousness....

#Alexander Skarsgard #alexander skarsgård #Alex Skarsgard #alexander skarsgard imagine #randall flagg #randall flagg imagine #the stand imagine #the stand fiction #imagine45

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thosch3i · 4 years ago

Text

Xiao Yuliang Interview [Eng Trans]

[Photo: XYL’s dog]

so remember this post? yeah well i wound up doing a mostly full translation of the entire 6 minute interview on twitter. some parts are paraphrased and a few details were skipped bc he sometimes repeated himself and there were one or two details i wasn’t 100% sure of, but other than that an eng transcript of the full interview is below the cut:

1. Introduce your role in "Ultimate Note"?

XYL: In Ultimate Note I play Zhang Qiling, Xiaoge.

2. What kind of impression does this character leave in your heart?

XYL: Before, I thought he was a really strong, and then a very cool, and then a very cold/detached person. But later, I finished reading the novel and read the script, and I felt like he's someone who lets your heart ache for him. The feeling he gives me--because once I was reading the script in a car, and I almost wanted to cry for him, because he's always searching for the things he's lost. And he's very strong, but he wasn't born strong; he also went through a lot, and he made himself strong. He can bleed, and he can get hurt; it's just that he doesn't say anything, and he doesn't show that he's in pain.

3. Talk about the initial pressure of receiving this role?

XYL: When I got this role, the pressure was really really big, but I also thought I was pretty lucky, because I'd played Zhang Qiling before, and I get to play him again, and I think that's pretty lucky. But the pressure is too big, on set right now, the pressure is very big.

4. Netizens were pretty satisfied with your performance; have you seen these comments?

XYL: When Sha Hai was airing, I saw their comments. Some of them approved, and I was happy, but others--like, saying some suggestions or opinions--I also looked at them. I also looked at the performances of other actors who played Zhang Qiling and comments on their performances. I used them as a reference, and I learned from the experiences/evaluations of others.

5. What was the greatest challenge of playing Zhang Qiling?

XYL: The biggest challenge is that there are too few lines. It's really hard to act! [Xiaoge] has some expressions where it's just, you can't make them too obvious or too "unrestrained" because his actions are also very restrained, but if you're too restrained then everyone just thinks you don't have any reactions. And the editors are also very hardworking, because they'll have 4 pages, and I won't have a single line, just reactions. The others will talk for 10 minutes, and I'll just be reacting. [Xiaoge] is a person with few/no words, but with his whole heart, he wants to go care for others...it's very difficult; this "no lines" is very difficult. Another thing is fight scenes are very difficult, and the weather is too hot.

6. What are some scenes that left the deepest impression on you?

XYL: Like when it's 3am, and we're running through a wild river, the water is all up to our waists, and we don't know what's underground. I was just afraid there were snakes, you know? Nothing we can do, just run. And there's also, because the filming location is at Xishuangbanna, there really are snakes. We've seen snakes etc on set, so we were afraid accidents would happen. Thankfully they didn't. And there was also when we were rubbing mud on our faces during the hot day. Actually, what we were rubbing was chocolate paste. When the chocolate on our faces dried, we spread on more, and it feels like you've become a "chocolate person", not a "mud person". I also tasted it--the BTS side clips recorded it; the taste is okay. [t/n: here is a link to that clip]

7. How did it feel working with the other actors in the crew?

XYL: Liu Yuning-laoshi [t/n: Hei Xiazi] is really nice. He doesn't have a temper, and he's a very calm and tranquil person. I think he's really nice. Xiao Xi [t/n: lit. “Little Xi”, nickname for Zeng Shunxi aka Wu Xie] is a little mischievous. Xiao Xi likes to stir up trouble on set and play around. In any case he plays around with Pangzi and me, but Liu Yuning-laoshi is more tranquil, not quite the same as [his character] in the show.

8. Before you posted a vlog caring for your pet on Weibo, why don't you introduce your pet?

XYL: My dog's name is a character I played once; my mom named him. Because we'd just finished filming that show, and then my mom got a dog, so she just called him my name in the show. Tell me, isn't that annoying? [t/n: drama was called 反骗天下/Fan Pian Tian Xia and his role was called 米若/Mi Ruo; his dog is apparently called 米诺/Mi Nuo.]

9. You've been an actor for awhile now; can you discuss what being an actor feels like?

XYL: Initially, before I became an actor, I thought, "Oh, cool". Everyday you're just, wow, holding weapons, cool! But now I think it's so hard. Especially while shooting this show, I got a sty for a month, and it's still not better even now. [t/n: you can definitely see the swelling under his eye in ep1] I think this sty is from accepting this role, or because of work. In any case, it's still not better. But it's no problem; thankfully, my hair can cover it. You also have to be careful of safety on set; real blades can slice open your hands. Once, I wasn't careful and cut my wrist, but thankfully the doctor's stitching skills were pretty good. When he was still stitching, I even said, "Doctor, you have to stitch it well, okay, I'm an actor, I use this hand to perform", and he said "Okay". After the stitches were done, he asked me, "Are you satisfied with the stitches?" The results were pretty good; it didn't really leave a scar.

10. Finally, promote this show to our fans.

XYL: You all have to watch our "Ultimate Note", because filming was really tough, and we've diligently tried to accomplish these three roles [t/n: the iron triangle, I’m assuming] and later on some of the the details of many of the books. I hope you will see similarities to the novel in some of the show's scenes.

and we are done! so yeah, i think his take on xiaoge’s character was the most important part, but some of the other stuff (listening to him complain about some things lmao) was kinda funny too. im still laughing about the whole ‘im an actor i need this hand to perform’ bit bc dude you literally sliced yourself open w a knife badly enough to need stitches but that’s your first priority???? glad you’re dedicated to your job though i guess but LOL

Quick question/answer:

1. What do you want to say to Zhang Qiling?

XYL: Xiaoge, you've worked hard.

2. Who from the show would you pick to go with you on an adventure?

XYL: I’ll choose...I'll choose Pangzi, because he'll definitely bring food. And he's fat, and he's pretty joyful, oh right, I can also bully him.

3. Describe the level of your cooking skills.

XYL: Cooking skills? The rank of instant noodles. Just boiling instant noodles, then adding the flavor packets, and then tomatoes, eggs...instant noodles.

4. If you're not restricted, what kind of role do you most want to play?

XYL: If I'm not restricted, then I want to play that guy who, in the morning, is just delivering takeout or is really well-behaved and wears glasses, that type, and then at night he pushes his hair back like this [xyl mimes pushing his hair back], and he starts to....different types...in any case, like split personalities, right, split personalities.

5. A sentence to describe your ideal life.

XYL: My family and I are healthy, and I have enough money to go live a normal life, eat/drink whatever I want, travel with my family, and just grow up slowly.

oh right additional note, in zsx's interview, when asked which character he'd take, he said xiaoge without hesitation. and the interviewer asked if he wanted to know who xiaoge picked and zsx was all "he didn't pick me did he...I'll be leaving now, thank you~" 😂

#dmbj #zjbj #ultimate note #xiao yuliang #zhang qiling #shouting into the void #i made an effort to capitalize and make some grammar corrections in english this time lol #its not perfect but like you get the point #i also think it's cute that he calls zsx xiao xi lol #on the other hand seems like zsx just calls him yuliang #translation

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ridiasfangirlings · 5 years ago

Note

Homra cleaning service. Saruhiko is the unloved son of a wealthy couple Fushimi. Left to live alone, he decides that cleaning the house himself is not for him. And he calls the Homra cs. Comes the rudest cleaner he has ever seen - Yata (and maybe someone else from homra with him, Idk). Well, gradually, day after day, they get to know each other better and fall in love. Along the way, Yata is trying to improve Saru's life. Perhaps, the cs advised reisi, because it belongs to his secret bf suoh.

I'm imagining Munakata as like Fushimi's butler who does his best to make sure Fushimi is cared for but knows that Fushimi really needs a friend to be close to. Like say Niki and Kisa are Fushimi's wealthy asshole parents who are never home, Niki's always off squandering the family fortune and Kisa is constantly busy at work and never goes home. Fushimi lives in this majestic townhouse all by himself with only the servants for company. The servants do their best to care for him (like imagine Munakata as the butler and Fushimi's private tutor, Awashima is in charge of security, Kamo is the family’s private chef, Akiyama and Benzai are Fushimi's personal bodyguards, etc) but Fushimi knows that if he ever lets himself get too close to them Niki will fire them and then he'll be all alone again. Fushimi spends all his days at home, never leaving the house and rarely ever even leaving his room. Though the staff do some cleaning the place is so large that it rarely ever gets completely clean and most of the rooms quickly become dusty and run down. Fushimi's own room is a mess, he leaves empty boxes of food everywhere and there are dirty clothes strewn about along with various broken toys and video games.

Munakata decides that they need to get the place into shape and so he hires the Homra cleaning service to come take care of the house. Yata is the new young eager member of the cleaning service and he's super excited to get this new assignment, like his job is to go to this big mansion three times a week and clean. For the first job he brings Kamamoto and a few alphabet boys with him though the hope is that once he gets the initial cleaning done Yata can keep the rest of the place in shape by himself. As soon as Homra gets to the house they're all amazed, like wow this place is huge no wonder we're getting paid so much for it. Yata's never been inside such a huge and fancy house and he's really excited, like this must be what it's like to be rich. The Homra guys are greeted at the door by Munakata, who tells them that the rest of the staff will be making themselves scarce for the day so that Homra can clean without being interrupted, however please be careful not to disturb the young master. Yata nods, a little overwhelmed by how regal this guy is, like if this is the butler the 'young master' must really be some kind of frilly prince-like person.

So Yata divides the Homra guys into sections and they all start cleaning. Yata's having some fun with it too, like imagine him soaping up this really long hallway and then sliding down it in his socks. Kamamoto's cleaning with him and is like Yata-san maybe you shouldn't do that what if that young master guy sees us, Yata's like nah that guy's probably too busy like powdering his face to bother with us commoners. Yata puts some more soap on the floor and is like watch me slide down the hall on these brushes, putting one under each foot and making a running start. He's sliding down the hall when a figure appears from out of one of the doorways, it's too late for Yata to stop and he plows right into the guy, sending them both crashing to the floor.

Yata sits up and groans, like he wasn't expecting interference. He hears this soft tongue click and Yata looks down to see Fushimi glaring at him. Yata stutters an apology, saying he thought all the staff were gone for the day. Fushimi adjusts his glasses and stares for a moment before giving this little scoff that somehow pisses Yata off. Fushimi's like I see, so you guys are the ones who are supposed to clean this place, they really hired some worthless thugs huh. Yata's like what the hell did you call us asshole and that's when Kamamoto nervously pokes his shoulder and says this kid is the 'young master' the butler mentioned. Yata's all wait what as Fushimi smirks and is like that's right, how are you going to make this up to me. Yata starts stuttering a little and Fushimi asks his name, Yata gives his family name and Fushimi's like 'your whole name.' Yata mumbles a 'Misaki' and Fushimi starts laughing again, like you really are the worst huh Misaki. Yata knows he shouldn't be yelling at the son of his employer but he can't help it, like you know we wouldn't have to clean this place if you could do it yourself. Fushimi decides that if Yata thinks he's so good at this then fine, he can clean Fushimi's room. Yata's like ha that's easy enough I'll show you, only to be brought into Fushimi's room and he's like what the hell this place is a pig sty how do you live like this. Fushimi gives him a cold smirk as he's like I'm going to get something to eat, I expect this place to be clean when I come back Misaki.

Kamamoto peers in and he's like no way we can clean all this, Yata however is now determined to clean the room and show that asshole how good he is. And anyway this place is such a mess, doesn't that guy's mom yell at him about it. Kamamoto says the notes they got on the house say that Fushimi's parents aren't ever home and Yata's like wait never then who takes care of him. Fushimi reappears as they're talking, looking irritated as he says he doesn't need anyone to take care of him. Yata's all weren't you leaving and Fushimi says he forgot something and tells them to leave. Yata's like but I didn't clean anything and Fushimi snaps at him to get out and leave him alone, pushing Yata out and slamming the door.

A few days later Fushimi's lying in bed playing his game system and eating chips when someone kicks open the door. Fushimi looks up and there's Yata with all these cleaning supplies, telling him he can just stay there but Yata's going to clean this room. Fushimi's super confused like what are you doing Misaki and Yata's like I said I'd clean it and I'm going to, you can't be healthy living in a room like this. Yata proceeds to clean the whole room while trading comments with Fushimi, at one point Yata sees the game Fushimi's playing and is maybe a little impressed by how high Fushimi's scores are. Once he's finished cleaning Yata leaves but he tells Fushimi not to get comfortable because Yata's going to be back in two days and this place better stay clean. Fushimi figures Yata will just get bored of this job eventually and leave for good but Yata keeps coming back day after day and he always comes to see Fushimi every time, to the point that Fushimi unexpectedly finds himself hoping for Yata to show up even as he tells himself that surely Yata's going to get sick of him any day now, surely he'll leave Fushimi behind. For his part Yata's decided that this Fushimi kid is way too gloomy but he seems kinda cool too and Yata finds himself wanting to know more about Fushimi, wanting to see him laugh and smile and be happy and Yata's going to do his best to make that happen.

#sarumi #Talking K #aw this is cute I like it #imagine Yata constantly going over to check on Fushimi #one day he walks in and Fushimi's sick and Yata takes a break from cleaning to take care of him #Fushimi's getting closer to him but also worried that Niki will find out and fire Yata #oh and then that happens and Yata climbs the fence and breaks into the house just to see Fushimi

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sylvanshiner · 4 years ago

Text

sometimes, lately, I can see her in the mirror,

the woman my mother wants me to be.

she wears her hair at shoulder-length,

and she got blonde highlights done cause they look good with her hair, make it look more lively

she’s very lively, actually,

happy and down-to-earth and pragmatic

doesn’t have her head in the clouds

she didn’t go to university, cause she knows that formal education isn’t everything these days and most profs are self-important eggheads anyway

they don’t know what real life is like

but she does, and she’s good at living it

that’s why she decided to become a social worker, or maybe a nurse, or a kindergarden teacher,

something practical that lets her use her nurturing, motherly side

(she has one, so unlike me,

who might as well be a solid block of ice by the way my mom describes me

a solid block of ice and a sad girl frozen inside, maybe.

that doesn’t seem so far off)

~~~

I squint and look closer, and the woman in the mirror smiles back at me

she needs to get to work on time

she’s working part-time

she spends the rest of the day looking after her children,

and cleaning the house,

she’s very cleanly

(so unlike me, who would happily sit down in a pig sty and read a book,

according to my mom

it was never meant as a compliment, but I always took it as one.)

~~~

I keep looking at the mirror and she keeps smiling

her husband is American

a good, decent young man who repairs things around the house and plays with the children

they can spend their holidays in the US whenever they like,

they often go to New York

but ultimately their place is here,

in my mom’s hometown,

my hometown that never felt like home to me

but boy does it feel like home to her, so she and her well-off American husband settled down here,

built a nice house and produced healthy children

the children wear the baby clothes my mother used to keep in the garage for all these years

and isn’t that practical? after all they were never worn before,

and now they have a use

(I never asked my mother if I would’ve had a sister or a brother

if things had gone differently

I don’t think I want to know.)

~~~

She’s fading back into the mirror now,

this happy, down-to-earth married woman

I know she was about to tell me how she plans to stay in this town her entire life, just like my mom did,

I know everything

I see her so clearly

there are fighting planes flying overhead, and I’m late, so I leave the room

I never liked mirrors anyway

(but it’s alright, my hair looks alright

I cut it myself.)

#spilled ink #spilled in poetry #my writing #300 poems a year or whatever that challenge I utterly failed at was called #idk what a poem even is #but boy I know I'm bad at writing them

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brandonwayneb · 2 years ago

Text

Asked Why Do We Talk Like This?

this is the best way to do justice to all involved cultures

speaking from my own culture

however have to be wise not to selfishless support only your own languages common approvals or peers pressure

To speak various however doing justices to notes along the way of which culture is crossed over

if a culture screams words, no matter if common or sounding absurd…

that means those are being negatively related to them….

doesnt matter sense of the word, matters honors showing sensitivity over lightening or waning ofDISFAVORED elective words

Talking more elegant also sometimes means talking more cryptic

which are both in justice of mindfulness an honor to the topics referenced or the lives involved of the mentions

if you choose to only speak your own preference words and words that are approved up by your peers only then you are indirectly or directly choosing to blindside cultures that are speaking up and can be reiterated healthy with more collaborative languages

The intensity of any message you read is not of the message you read, however the current state of the peer pressure around you or of the communications that you have in Harbor

easy enough to say, don’t shoot the messenger just sending to best adherence safe regards even if crossing to gods tongues or lies panic attacks of saying Diablo die have low

there is no fight between God, nor word anyone who speaks to blame profits of Diablo is simply mass money

When white blurs top and bottom when white Blairs left and right when white blurs God to Diablo

White attempts to illegally, coin, phrase, words that belong to everyone and to public health rather than white explicit hasted traffic under sub bus subway systems

white dualistic languages

Saint Clair clairvoyance to Blairs, witch Project, and to call Buffy and rabbi, Jewish vampire slayer

this is a roundabout short message about how you can quick shot summon a silver sword away from white silver fox crimes

two Foxes fight

Isaac Newton, Albert Albert alphabet I’ll stay rich

I will sty I

I will style fit body skin this guy

White laser, printing program, designs, astroprojection, money, crimes

to be all fair and honest, I could talk about flowers and dandelions all day long, however life is about protecting everyone

specially if your focus isn’t as singular as status quo

specially if your focus is to support all communities, except for the one that causes the most problem

White money, gridlock

x-Men, Psylocke

x-Men jubilee

XXO Nine Nine Zero

thats everyones ultimate goals

however to keep ProLife99.

and not 1% white money dime mass sims

99. ONE?

the goal is to have NINE NINE ZERO

at saying theres no longer a 1% mass crime

will this mean English accept mutual resolves?

or will this mean Eternal Soul Wages War

Not Nine Nine WON

currently: Nine Nine VS 1%

future possible: NINE NINE,

FOREVER

double negatives

double positives

etc…

and no 1% mass vaccination volcanos

‎سئل لماذا نتحدث مثل هذا؟

‎ هذه هي أفضل طريقة لإنصاف جميع الثقافات المعنية

‎ أتحدث من ثقافتي

‎ ومع ذلك ، يجب أن تكون حكيماً في عدم دعم الأنانية فقط للموافقات الشائعة أو ضغط أقرانك بلغاتك

‎ للتحدث مع مختلف القضاة ولكن القيام بعمل ملاحظات على طول الطريق الذي يتم فيه عبور الثقافة

‎ إذا كانت الثقافة تصرخ بكلمات ، بغض النظر عما إذا كانت شائعة أو تبدو سخيفة ...

‎ هذا يعني أن هؤلاء يرتبطون بهم سلبًا….

‎ لا يهم معنى الكلمة ، المسائل التي تظهر حساسية تجاه تفتيح أو تضاؤل الكلمات الاختيارية غير المرغوب فيها

‎ التحدث بطريقة أكثر أناقة يعني أحيانًا التحدث بشكل أكثر غموضًا

‎ وكلاهما في عدالة اليقظة تكريمًا للموضوعات المشار إليها أو الحياة التي تتضمنها الإشارات

‎ إذا اخترت التحدث فقط بالكلمات والكلمات المفضلة لديك التي وافق عليها أقرانك فقط ، فأنت تختار بشكل غير مباشر أو مباشر الثقافات العمياء التي تتحدث بصوت عالٍ ويمكن تكرارها بشكل صحي مع المزيد من اللغات التعاونية

‎ لا تتعلق شدة أي رسالة تقرأها بالرسالة التي تقرأها ، ولكن الحالة الحالية لضغط الأقران من حولك أو الاتصالات التي لديك في هاربور

‎ من السهل جدًا القول ، لا تطلق النار على الرسول فقط أرسل إلى أفضل التزام آمن حتى لو كان عبور ألسنة الآلهة أو كذب نوبات الهلع لقول أن ديابلو يموت منخفضًا

‎ لا يوجد قتال بين الله ، ولا كلام أي شخص يتحدث ليلقي باللوم على أرباح ديابلو هو مجرد أموال جماعية

‎ عندما يطمس اللون الأبيض من الأعلى والأسفل عندما يكون Blairs الأبيض يسارًا ويمينًا عندما يطمس الأبيض God إلى Diablo

‎ محاولات بيضاء بشكل غير قانوني ، أو عملات معدنية ، أو عبارة ، أو كلمات تنتمي إلى الجميع وإلى الصحة العامة بدلاً من حركة المرور المتسرعة البيضاء الصريحة تحت أنظمة مترو الأنفاق

‎ لغات ثنائية ثنائية بيضاء

‎ استبصار سانت كلير لبلير ، مشروع الساحرة ، واستدعاء بافي والحاخام ، قاتل مصاصي الدماء اليهودي

‎ هذه رسالة قصيرة ملتوية حول كيف يمكنك استدعاء سيف فضي بعيدًا عن جرائم الثعلب الفضي الأبيض

‎ قتال اثنين من الثعالب

‎ إسحاق نيوتن ، أبجدية ألبرت ، سأبقى ثريًا

‎ سوف أكون أنا

‎ سأقوم بأسلوب يناسب بشرة الجسم هذا الرجل

‎ ليزر أبيض - برنامج طباعة - تصميمات - إسقاط نجمي - نقود - جرائم

‎ لكي أكون عادلاً وصادقًا ، يمكنني التحدث عن الزهور والهندباء طوال اليوم ، ولكن الحياة تدور حول حماية الجميع

‎ خاصة إذا لم يكن تركيزك منفردًا مثل الوضع الراهن

‎ خاصة إذا كان تركيزك على دعم جميع المجتمعات ، باستثناء تلك التي تسبب أكبر مشكلة

‎ نقود بيضاء ، طريق مسدود

‎ العاشر من الرجال ، Psylocke

‎ العاشر من الرجال اليوبيل

XXO تسعة تسعة صفر

‎ هذه هي الأهداف النهائية للجميع

‎ مع ذلك للحفاظ على ProLife99.

‎ وليس 1 ٪ من المال الأبيض الدايم سيمز

‎ 99. واحد؟

‎ الهدف هو الحصول على تسعة وتسعة صفر

‎ عند القول بأنه لم تعد هناك جريمة جماعية بنسبة 1٪

‎ هل هذا يعني أن اللغة الإنجليزية تقبل الحلول المتبادلة؟

‎ أم أن هذا يعني حرب أجور الروح الأبدية

‎ لا تسعة تسعة وون

‎ حاليًا: تسعة تسعة مقابل 1٪

‎ المستقبل ممكن: تسعة تسعة ،

‎ إلى الأبد

‎ سلبيات مزدوجة

‎ ايجابيات مزدوجة

‎ إلخ…

‎ ولا يوجد براكين تحصين جماعي بنسبة 1٪

suyil limadha natahadath mithl hadha?

hadhih hi 'afdal tariqat li'iinsaf jamie althaqafat almaenia

'atahadath min thaqafati

wamae dhalik , yajib 'an takun hkymaan fi eadam daem al'ananiat faqat lilmuafaqat alshaayieat 'aw daght 'aqranik bilughatik

liltahaduth mae mukhtalif alqudaat walakina alqiam bieamal mulahazat ealaa tul altariq aladhi yatimu fih eubur althaqafa

'iidha kanat althaqafat tusrukh bikalimat , bighadi alnazar eamaa 'iidha kanat shayieatan 'aw tabdu sakhifa ...

hadha yaeni 'ana hawula' yartabitun bihim slban....

la yuhimu maenaa alkalimat , almasayil alati tuzhir hasasiatan tujah taftih 'aw tadawul alkalimat alaikhtiariat ghayr almarghub fiha

altahaduth bitariqat 'akthar 'anaqat yaeni ahyanan altahaduth bishakl 'akthar ghmwdan

wakilahuma fi eadalat alyaqazat tkryman lilmawdueat almushar 'iilayha 'aw alhayaat alati tatadamanuha al'iisharat

'iidha aikhtart altahaduth faqat bialkalimat walkalimat almufadalat ladayk alati wafaq ealayha 'aqranuk faqat , fa'ant takhtar bishakl ghayr mubashir 'aw mubashir althaqafat aleamya' alati tatahadath bisawt eal wayumkin takraruha bishakl sihiyin mae almazid min allughat altaeawunia

la tataealaq shidat 'ayi risalat taqra'uha bialrisalat alati taqra'uha , walakina alhalat alhaliat lidaght al'aqran min hawlik 'aw alaitisalat alati ladayk fi harbur

min alsahl jdan alqawl , la tutliq alnaar ealaa alrasul faqat 'arsil 'iilaa 'afdal ailtizam aman hataa law kan eubur 'alsinat alualihat 'aw kadhab nawbat alhalae liqawl 'ana diablu yamut mnkhfdan

la yujad qital bayn allah , wala kalam 'ayi shakhs yatahadath liulqi biallawm ealaa 'arbah diablu hu mujarad 'amwal jamaeia

eindama yatmas allawn al'abyad min al'aelaa wal'asfal eindama yakun Blairs al'abyad ysaran wymynan eindama yatmas al'abyad God 'iilaa Diablo

muhawalat bayda' bishakl ghayr qanuniin , 'aw eumlat maedaniat , 'aw eibarat , 'aw kalimat tantami 'iilaa aljamie wa'iilaa alsihat aleamat bdlaan min harakat almurur almutasarieat albayda' alsarihat taht 'anzimat mitru al'anfaq

lughat thunayiyat thunayiyat bayda'

astibsar sant klir liblir , mashrue alsaahirat , wastidea' bafi walhakham , qatil masaasi aldima' alyahudii

hadhih risalat qasirat multawiat hawl kayf yumkinuk aistidea' sayf fidiyin beydan ean jarayim althaelab alfidiyi al'abyad

qital athnayn min althaealib

'iishaq niutin , 'abjadiat 'albirt , sa'abqaa thryan

sawf 'akun 'ana

sa'aqum bi'uslub yunasib basharatan aljism hadha alrajul

lizar 'abyad - barnamaj tibaeat - tasmimat - 'iisqat najmi - naqud - jarayim

likay 'akun eadlaan wsadqan , yumkinuni altahaduth ean alzuhur walhindaba' tawal alyawm , walakina alhayaat tadur hawl himayat aljamie

khasatan 'iidha lam yakun tarkizuk mnfrdan mithl alwade alraahin

khasatan 'iidha kan tarkizuk ealaa daem jamie almujtamaeat , biaistithna' tilk alati tusabib 'akbar mushkila

naqud bayda' , tariq masdud

aleashir min alrijal , Psylocke

aleashir min alrijal alywbil

XXO tiseat tiseat sifr

hadhih hi al'ahdaf alnihayiyat liljamie

mae dhalik lilhifaz ealaa ProLife99.

walays 1 % min almal al'abyad aldaayim simz

99. wahdi?

alhadaf hu alhusul ealaa tiseat watiseat sifr

eind alqawl bi'anah lam taeud hunak jarimat jamaeiat binisbat 1%

hal hadha yaeni 'ana allughat al'iinjiliziat taqbil alhulul almutabadalata?

'am 'ana hadha yaeni harb 'ujur alruwh al'abadia

la tiseat tiseat wun

halyan: tiseat tiseat muqabil 1%

almustaqbal mumkinun: tiseat tiseat ,

'iilaa al'abad

salbiaat muzdawija

aijabiat muzdawija

'iilakh...

wala yujad brakin tahsin jamaeiun binisbat 1%

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