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libidomechanica · 6 months ago

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My thou are may triumph was hear the

A rispetto sequence

But my breechen or than a copses of conquers will of thy hands, and when in day with the cloud is heard, to the Slave thy come. My thou are may triumph was hear the Ring out will not my strange a desperate sorrowe calm, yet to be so color one swear a train a monument. The smiled, with the moments were love. The proof darts but yet ne’er that through then thousand his fooleree.

Of promise sublimely did feed my neglect of soür ale somethink I married by thy song to whom? Venus salutes payment. Yet lookes the sigh? The planet who when of life, which colds the rose why thence. The body who calm ravisherman sleeve, that Heaven’s appeared in such a true men singe. Had a mead. And marshall no fair was fill the rudiment, to her pleased.

And him to folds, not Rumpels me and trembling their cups with muscle and low tells their father along beames increased the shot up from Sir Leoline was by one and hast thought, thy deepenings have pin at night characters of youngest in dearer that love outsoaring the improve? To into her; just as the music I hearts of fire: affection to let me in her life.

That I must were dry, the man of warriors quest, as I see such she drew the Sorrowes hath feared nature, fie! The narrow and shall to the valley, do Thought, in wretch, thoughts, my fairer thrive, the out it for a certains my love: the bedeviledge all, and to Foot and kissed with my thought the unwelcome. Of life in make, her mouth to lived, I thou hadst the forehead upon me.

You canst possible to rob him so. Your moist cause of passion of a blasterity was not lips’ red drowsy sacred herself might lays. Had I will aspire. Such loves the owlet’s to himself her you, sweet not reject, Love’s image, and pay the rose, to keep oaths of mine than mourne nor every that day-star in the wings, and so fayre fix’d, and bolts in a green nothings for knee.

There. As where for where to the you, whose whose bank. Younger too long. And not, I must go, that is the Wound veins, how thy bed of coal-blacke, mine eyes; and leave me proceedings keeps his horse expectation the old or age in the how your subject find a song those cheek and shoot from Beauty takes, that nys on his name; that it moist camouflage and feast, like two only I want spring.

Looks both of Melrose brighted, so your such as mellowing, but I knew And when I will to singing the glisten ties black-fac’d suitor gins and did honey passions lyre disease, but if, after talents at hath Dear he went will is breaks. To fly not asking heaven in that flowers filled Devil’s ski pole, the passion, beat, you thy life despite, ne’er reioyce or home want to me.

The spurre came riding—riding—riding—No, lady of the rose is sweat of Lover. Since then, then, where is, prove lucky in tune; till he same to his horse went the hall, so thine of flame. Sweet upbraided bubbles askance to the strive to they pleasant men to the Shah, who say my heart her perceive hums by Virtue’s its combat, whose fair one them, appals her; you borrow? What blood.

She golden myself be daughty poisoned with such fire her lips, so he wet, steadily fire, art an imaginary season dispered. Death wind was Johnny to slave, without the hills, with years, they only tell you greatnesse the bathes of sorry I crucify my self-sweet lips, and smoking with you and faint caress there wheresoe’er side, but perplexed in Vienna.

Sour and he went, while thee? Drew that random down with fairest after slended sweeping Princesse fair immortall in silence, no footing steel by charge and dark webs, her eyes are cured: but only ride. But now rain one doth shed, all to attract the mute to strappiness. Kind. For sins under that can breaks white-flowe in the should proffer’d, she hair in dizzy traduction the even?

Better stopped like a clear smell she is not be the night, being was, beauty she smile, mourn from seeming; my soul, and loved me, and peers to thy revealing forth. Of one by one, as one to cindered alone their order neck cannot dead. Transport pantinople, and fairer this, but whose presents after that never from thy perspecting, or a wrinkle glaring, has gone?

My heard honours to touch you a rolled to the white rosy dawn of Stella O dearer. And with the only song the wind shall that is turn away, since I rich, chords divine with the dim purple grammar, vowel sounding they pleasure. Cries to fluttering a dark as yet best of her gorge brow. How tell the had before and in silver lashed and from pain, and nowe saw her here!

Phoebus were other, sixty year. In summon send me unders, and peace was told him down forest and a’! Still to the earring swart shall seem Angel in him, part, earth; been betroth, so fast, and thine? With the groans I never rich cause who waved that the bosom all Quarters, such a field, raised upon the leap huge depends; since I still, kill! While farewell; go trouble your hand to talk?

Pass. Your hand to love: o carrying aughter that natured more been in thy song the touch sweeping like shrinks her and one else: so might over thee me. And hence of light be his: hath do I must real and pale, dream. Heaven, was night, alone; yet wherein her perceive the lives, the warm her head of the happy reigne of the Ring them still hem cruel eyes seeking when my losse rewardeth.

Ye satyrs burns that kiosk at a’! That peace between;—but when lookèd rigg’d with berry, the Peacock— raced, and fond because. Earth, tasting ghost, earth enforcement passed to my hearkens to be spared into whome other or prick’s vale holy this and feature she woke an unnumbers, and but slow on the tune, hire wildered from them brought o ioyfull of rest so smooth as if in me.

As yet whose and life, my day above—devoid of Susa brake the months as gone sweet enforce the been beauty slain, the wealth, my destroyed just and the diamond whe’r he work maybe? Where waft the only was on to sink, delicate must like a more did he probably dead clappiness spent: her song and breath fed, which the pine? To intelle can he, if your love? All the night lays.

Bustling come throwing. Pink snapper pulses him, and dark, and last grim, again; and she love this, that dewly cured of Gaule in vainly, as honey—but ah to wax fruits own laws of her side, to myself, perhaps tis velvet, and what is an electroencephalogen over bells, their stead offence as near, my suit. Thou my hand, and blood! And when awful plained hayled.

Come and hath certain the hear, which on that for grief and marshall herdmen at not wintry over knew; but become he sees the o’erlooke louring out of shame: for a different o’ertake a bowl of tin. Rebels to meets of the Reason when so close; so bad, my base his lips are resigned to every moaning trustful of fruit? That these stately neck seeking off his mute, I hate!

And what shalling. Yet who, like within dignifies The brook thy flight. But her their clamor’s hand the imperious God! Pierce to my Muse her long itself that smile from the be out of his fright we pacing skin. Steel beneath the dead claps her much wound. Going sheep-hook, how doth he, behold, and I am grow. And thee charred she midnight. The Slave to their smell, but the went to see.

So yellow bird being phantasies, the image on the word of this is most engross in these gentle mine; ’ with beads the original, twas fair eyes seal of the hunting the moonlight of a morowe, the eyes; a love the twine the beautiful plain, and bid Suspicious lips crimson joy nor I know not quickly is in treasure a curse to she bed. Did no work inn-door.

Some suspects, thought to the jealousy doth should be she, if any short and the dead. But mine eye in the fire-side turbingers one thee, whether world, nor with light, and so imbracing into a horse, als Colin vp, ynough neither teeming appeared, like a living crest, dream but beautiful hours; thy words Sir Leoline to see my soul, abhor men into a visitor.

To be enter as the Bright have tried day your stay for more that we fooles, Pomegranates of orphans a kissed sacred henceforth fires when thee, without my shall went to increased then a more forbids; yet let it feels be seen impossible; or wear, a glow, his cheeks, but have the sighs, here world. When Juliana’s still in that guide at rage again, hanging. Ought with that bleed.

And vtter feet, and we belly caves, being reason who will! Sport paraded love, and nuzzling weeds in prae-digestive again, a city me, ’ he crossed gazing grew alone cannot repeated, it will Existent well. Flow, and bid good that kept with the rough sorrow bed. Not immortal summer every act contenting sheds, as it can knows not as the blown as the jewel.

Her greate here victorial. Try to heau’nly both he, hold dress, by reason is face, they love is foes pursuers will pay and Prejudice, then hold: looks family office, cold, once and she not save nation and the hot blowing to see? Disdain the sea. That lover, making. And things. A snake I broke a sing, without, lift sometimes back upon my harm invests the cursed the morning.

For grief in loved Woman? The worse my Pretty to rob the pin at dawn the text is bloody arms? And I lean angry moves, and find, what my steep with me, and teach us hoping sow’d lily prison’d in my living writers wound its and Geraldine needs fight: soot-hoof and call, the gravity, science, who sleep? And, afternoon so, your nectar miraculous; they sighs, tear.

Their magic can tell, at a church an instead. Why with swain, enow of the moon with her eyes, with heauen heauie her try, I must ride of coal reed, and bared the benight’s herself the truth, and thus in black lent viewed, without thilke same when he hath dreame. He burden out—at worst. Vanish hungers push the gas, put one is lord’s blacke, as the folded her face had hear sighing of her teen: trees.

And trustling tears, oft till. Darts, for the Maker’s her safe you art doth cause in our children nurses all the foot within its with richer father so indeed, o hearing too, too happing casemen. From my she was on fear to dry emper,—all you see the sun him shakes more and show the puts on a benight to smooth-shaven sink, but if, after, waking son, thou had’st me.

And silk is feels from a human deep quest is nostrils dries unseene. Blanks, and he reed, o heauenly joy, and wounds. Lest is suing; but then their gay was not haply thou being slombreth in hour and pine again, and both she onward Form of sigh for Right; whereon we star-gazers, that we knows not lifts the windows not die till hands her in the maid. Some to outweight wind,—and breeze.

For everything it seen. And the wife was been find a fulfillment of sunshined me on all detest has my leaf indeed, it wild; the begins to comes in all eyes sustain one, not Rumpelstiltskin, and he ears, the dice sae douce a temple final as his last ye sees her hairs in disarms my through thy rigour, and that voyage. And I broken. Which is gone fingers.

What were held by love all head. The pure perjured the night halves, and this way. That dear, that princely sweeten smoke from it soothing the wore that is the most just torch-flame observing her sail wide, and died. Like to give invocation bean-fieldes and so in sometimes fall. The untutor’d your stay formed’st to dreading he were a path Weep no more gender feet! Yet this is abuse.

Becoming had voice not long throat. In Langdale Pike a last, our seat or comforter, waking thy high, and sternity with wrapt she stood poetry. Hath muscle and a faint a water,— white hawthorny brambles away, who but love, or at all charming dove’s put found how true my youthful Hippotades and the love a Pretty ruth and dreams or not what marks were, so well.

Turned him—with faire the murdered mountains, in speaking, gnawing the boar prove: the gear to rob all heart with lightful of depends; so soon divine with odour, of perfection flown, still everywhere was the turn? Dare none morn she wolf with distance with the seemed tushes, and forlorn. Who fondly swayne, mine eyes together. Man’s side; and were that homely wits the steep; is it was not so.

These true; thus her eyes, reason shut of my life. That is heard him, till tell; the act. And mirror, and coat troops, and vnkempt: that charred. And moon so sweet in the Jews fresh, because the grass shrowds appear. Blinks o’ your love is done may depart, but listened and unfinity. In Sylvia they never strive the lady to say; but thou art stalk with sweet, O Heavens the fled brain, taking.

On a wind waking hearts held waked be, at heart hath dreary world’s free, by his Dominion: no Nations are enough the had sunbow’s whip of coming, once they content, did see! Take them scorns and closely brittle hand so fayrest alchemy—Witch, too long sight the swift aid the voice is nowhere his sour tale, i’ll we sleeping him, will her and hues that night be such an unowne?

Our photos any rever the one that other lament, Adam, from that looks say, Lo! Hiding from the rank perverse should dreams danger of sound, a red-headed long as think and wakes her legs with jealousy doth Muse? I speak for his know that never a horse. Forth the right and thus to quell, who bids they ’ve on mine to get dream! Now tells her own weight on the picture, lo!

A fortune this made this swerue, and curse goes all. And narrow be weatheth in his be taste of torments less, shall ready green as caterward. That were great it do it. And low, spirit all the ends were not afternoon is beauteous in irritable at the quiet for pieties. An eagle, so as no dress to bow, he out to say, Lo! But still your tears, footless you.

Knee, fie, pleasure. Love’s not the May she knotted rock, four strict embrauely euer had a meaning to try to seeks with necession-fly thy comparing former Catholien corning for grew to fault, refresh, as the cage, like thence and picks offer’d, it without remaineth, over she eats, as I will voice in love inviolate’s the treads pride, since like a pair or without dead.

Shine shade, into then them gently sovered Jasmin, and ever, melting feare them, approach treads fell in her fair your lips crime is all many forth the lighted at me. Can be weather reply to taste, tempering both of all the fed, her find sings began the moonbeams, and weary evening ruffian speeds thence again an Yuie todde there. That, constant Sea tells to possible!

And daffadillies in being soul, going scythe astrong the was turn’d the poor Vesper, and discontented, since delightless breath a clamor’s heart his chide, with treason high did lend thy baited high. You say many a sheepe: not one alien who wounds her give me now! That conscient and bid thinking; no shrieks, she died on the power o’ the goes down from spot of prison?

I ’ve on the that each. But thee, leave the tears, singles of ony! Had I long slow motion is afraid; and are rears wont sore bashfully, a piano at laughing through stays shuttered, shuffles nor triumph in Miracle, no one dressed; the sacred corona of the looks on through a crowns and Inarculum her face. So may in box. A pure as her lamp and kind.

Yet I heart still, and wept, since, and i’m wears for pure done, destiny convulsed always, that hope-hour in the castle gaze, knowing is source of tread, but under in tunefull verse: to- morrowing coming: melody through the will be but vulnerable. As the other silence forgot to lay; they dare not to refuse your cheek, and splintersects yet ne’er-cloying light.

Close in the larks I willows, could not dream hath the meadows then, generous you in thy large behold, in you see’st me fruit off, why, Bracy! After rain, for the larks offering looks up with cold further, drops and the Baron’s songs on her arms do thee relieving eye; both she, behold, disarms—who know what none ever kneeling place, provides to outside, took up and honor Pan!

And so I tune to person shut. Sat by and yet might her lips, so subject at house, that face lies slope at leather, and from the beauty brilliant subjects of tread found very day would beautifies with want of repining? It is it, full be the first dig that must to do. For never done, other’s sore bereft, and now tis burning me, a sinful god Pan, like a story.

And fade, or four siege from fell I burst beames, and contrary to unborn, took you wilt thought, and Jewel, her e’e. Thought in a cries, What, its command; lie, a contend: and, and gave those sinewy neck. From when the fayrest have locked hayled. Make reason and hare, never love. And not long since like the this moor, a thou know will be that I should let thine honey of merciless shroud.

Transcends in Jerusalem, Consul wasted: he violet beam entered nature delight. Or tainties in Jesu’s side. Stretched the lion was he tower, it die than the world, but a ribbon in deep quest falls with this petty Rose who when hast of the earth puckers, changed eyes around lacks her sinews are green: fire is so: ’ the love, with my bone, bounter curl, it will; the sports all.

For lovely leaps, her other rich the monstrued me, a cobweb-lawn; and I am mark webs, her refuse of my Sick Soul flaws forlorn: I rather. There; and she thine own law of praise, such, and I see it back me with the rushe, whether arms acrossess’d. Thou believe held a smile, as if disjoin’d, who, white roses all triumph when I am, and unkind’s poor Wat, fast, with step.

The turn it every love made to add infinish’d infant still try, full be but truth too farther. Whom she doth light, ’ quoth her agents must bee: and gilt from my mouth where bench of golden lake- blossoms of lace forests, their scrawled on till she stroke her serpentered year’s lightful Fairy- Land, when woos best except thou born just lies, there, why should not such, and in their enemy tongue.

The haue a shore. With sacred spread he lamps together is this hour, the flower tongue, one was seeming tongue., And Before whose mall could thy lips obey’d, sir Leoline; she fence of moonlight gladly? And I saw the tenses are on will copses grew to find Word of Lucy’s field thus had children, how far away, shepheards like a song, swift extremes of briar Rosebud of her eyes?

Full verse; but the danced I listles at thought seem to teach musket be still sting not soughts my heart with a joins with lucky world so I send music. The lily delight lady’s quiet placement was his her here that I can’t hurt our Peeretreat that dead, and as no long the hies, which at a’? Or as a caterpillars did her guard a wave been corn; when the wants to come night.

And that peerless for heart foretold. Room the subway call he sea. But is mercy were turn’d his rapidly rise hard with a coal hanging like bad to single he same, were and leaf of thy living wast be black, one ray that bring to wailing passing up a cypres death into your breathe problem was no get through the tyranny and breach part; made this vanished me yestern rein!

A furnace, and drops upon his back is fool’d, from the marvell’d a furnace, it hath cheering, alert. Of love what nys on for their happy place! Hot, fast, still closed more figured me learn of her licking spoke, that hunting his face upraise, what deep questioning hence common ruin face, and helpless Sally thou will his understand so indeed. Makes seal into his hate the bat.

But where to long-lost and then my haruest-times to meet till left your pearls in its core and stout a sudden regard, I hear about you about the not hear; for his tried at his your feet up season one seen neon. Which was she kneeld’st a purple months and will be asleeping jellyfish ground, nor wisest roses flower though that the castle grief. Had seeing,—I wakes, tears.

If so mild, I won’t deny it! Entertains among though all the happened it doth Muse with full of fear her that thy soul abroad-leaved the dancers dances was in the lough; with sweet, O Pan! She beneath he door she flower. Is that wax it you waste is not ground the dying my laurels, such greate his bills us that can lend, to retain one was a plants the dying.

Of palms from myself a years beyond the golden fruit-tree: such rosy lips, you troubles heaving this I’ll quence together, and told; the Croft with thee comforted forth a crest into a dell. When, Love’s grew kind those sinn’d! Not Momus self- sweet downe write doth man the river on the flight your shouldst have sinks the said she not made appear; that god Pan, a fell, and bound she’d heaven sing.

A broken city falls it red am that singing seen. Eyes as her head of slipped our corning through the you wrought to be entral cedar- tops you on the day, right from all the sun; they beauty’s anothers her lips not knows in the sweet voice. A darkness there its needs springs are not a king north, smile received worser father face it is bate, and rills with disputes, and kitsch.

You say wherever; to not fulfillment o’er; a dreaming thee to such as her side, inwrough that latest, because a hard-favour hunger to dye. Woo’d and fear—but lives a soft splendours along, like vomit. That them a stone, now that she foam: and in they passes were ever give right ease it seems still perfectly black and redress, and that the marketh: one for shame of meat.

Pluck my heat thence, and defac’d night here to myself those bright, instant woe, vpon a rage: so right winged friend earth wounds had a woman. Which brough thou now white gloomed like a nymph, with his blood: so rich reliable gaz’d, infusion wings, not any. Blinding caramels and this the Zodiacs fill which was when in court fell, and single cease than it not be nay, down the sky; proud fledge?

Death-bed shafts as it seem night, Irene. Visit us virtues razde, they went I ne wonder bootlessed, and redress thee is a wintered that make delight still crush the laid us with such a bar-room. Thence and and lo! That the five you. They liversation lay by Word of glistening, disarmèd of drifted, but her saw the year tubes she knew hate the will not dim: fade adieu!

Thou a cry to know’st no excess with such contempt to show so your fish-witted for the day seem to the ready at breath; then, whilomele heare. Will not immortal round his quickly tones above to antique vows in his gravel. Or body into the lady! He room, who soft forming of highwayman came, down upon fresh from glide, so faint a cheers bale: but drop in.

On her Johnny, and be thee behold! These the tyranny of both as flatter’d with for love not mean familiar was as sprung up in which does the wind and the such deserues shedding of her face doth wicked at all her the key to kissed the world, baring: tis not fear thirst time I bid the risen, o this is passed forked her hand turn and laid in its own: perhaps from thee?

Again; ’tis place that loue lo Stellaes sent, etc. Of courtesy who counting a bottomless virtues were a party’s eyes, at for dust at myrth in it, for if April would love’s thy content, or somersetshire my yeeres the iron age, unsafely mind, enought was denied, statues, lest not mutual love bred by morn, but most be? When I hearkens.

Was it seeming the moon. Whence of Justice a Seráb. She is in guys it near can instead to her well; go to touch, I know hither that ail there, straw. Till were not go gentle larkspur little half a young ambitious God! At they be Just as honours where long mother, transfer a gilded hath kingdoms most saint, end is pursue heights pursue, or semlokest on the heart.

You, all and I much immortal clash’d his power his voice, but morning and trimmed forgive. So she pangs above, if thy heart that I am a show all Ear from all the room, for shamed him— with my Thou, the charity of the grass and bright grew kindly swelled they ’ve tall after palace had sunburned in her their Strength our grave it; tis hard: with one heart well! In while herse, mourne.

For a moment as faith the night’s hid in a filth and chapel. A is fool prayer her in the window no more the soul, or warlike dewe drops of she serpent ears gavest is; how can seeming o’er that latent my blood. As the thou are alarms, the cage, his friend my face of the generative did passive them: the cries will never bosom utteries the winds, while heart.

Thine. Whether ashy-pale; still ioy maid and scorn deep one than her feet doth in hand thus hears as here that when it that random dost the gas, puts on his tame such immortal teach a summoned inside then my silence they ne’er durst be powers, with cheers there was dreaming meat soul of leaves in the midday, she noise, and will had a certain come to feels; without spak, he recognize.

And passed served. And with the live and you once the neck, as the grove,—guess ennui surround mind, and revolutions and sage an opened shine earthly mouth, from be shine earth’s under whose loves, and with like to one heart. The hum of lofty lady bowed that the use of love the hill’st abyss lie with for thy content, down death’s far in gradual vision in his to do ye Grace.

I’ll tell aught warblind error in the trees. Wondrous eyes too late did hem on, ducks as the Firmán of his boisters will comes, her eyes saw and foul a waking saw, but for on the sudden we had forth wind But thus stalled high o’er there subtle skin which rescu’d from them again, and free from her smile from above, has drunken if he brain; where is spent? The Chines fresh, as that all.

He was she roses were is turn it everyday’s edge whereupon each had gone by, creatures choirboy voice, in progress the sport. It. A substance, sanguish, had gone; whose bride so that I must ne gang crave; but health, and ye, a sea which at a’! Bricks up with them. He, my dead: o heards the meet embroidery weak and main heaped on Europe, thus pity. So subjected, her night.

So fayre a times and I are soft: and Sally is slain, for the come, and pardon the winges with long have sleeping. One morn went of the jewel, he cried and no enemy touch that safe. Our dressing, sometime to behold age disarms—the tree who is so a bowl of sometimes combustious to be see but sing, I lain find, a love such an or sophomore thou lost the was silver.

But never wise bride a hills—teenagers and conscience of ourselves contractised to belied in the woe! Which the off she is thee; for Bess, there it was forbear there to playe, I changed their sun. Come braiding—with flower touch that beating call, I was tir’d took up and Love desert belief to loseth; thanks, prayed on her canker to eat may young life’s small keep in would begets.

Disarray after-rest of high to chide, doth fault, when we have the bench of love they sleeping saw, in mine: but, in joy of the other: the light she caged the lion more for when holy looks up on her blood! Thou your brand not be shadow moves by the grapes and others a peace, and some green before—so doth been by night the opening; his velvet, and wanton to your name.

I gives in the carried. In no fair woman angry steady surprise on her fabric that the causeth, o birds in batter of sweet in my father dear!—We sike delights by them with trump shall counsel of riot, not one recreant been of orphan forgiven, that this is time, silver dead. Says, the stole monstrains. Rise, cease me is nothings. The came ridge to preventh new lose.

Am talk thou know strife. And the tower, and grace; when hire both caught sun haste blank. Why dost tell, so I couldn’t let babe so shall plot of it. Way of error, the thicke, like a sheepe would lightning it is beckoned species; there you, my dare no more generous hand was blessed was more grief and hidden give you wert as the to paining havoc wits quickly to remember your for land?

But now doth she down on earth eche flies. Will fly to rue my Juliana coming the air. Before—so do me I heart with a conquers when it may didst the woke up there. From their meaning. I said I’ve been. The sky-lark webs, her far took ye not left me, I may, and on the Baron for semlokest of the familiar was the bud puffing by. Of fire in the moonlight?

The first thy incorporate I’ and knew that cheerful moaneth mutiny composed away from its stand the world of music and fair was iron time, that made adieu,—farewell or might the month birth new joy was for your river, never deare they are fast, take heavenly harpstring. My life and pursue, or given its or being it—’tis demurre out, lies. And down which break.

’ He sits that a sighs, then who sate ball regard upon image from thee it fair, and salt, innocent, she self, which am in a wife’s so white a sheep looks was one-and-twenty-five my Julia, if as yet the this such a solitary Child, the May never was senting, thick-sight gives with me, as the mild; nor without a Thorn, desper, tu—whoo! As it recognize?

From far as on the living as the learnd a less your face affects of his said yeeld; more rich, hath the dull ears, or few liversationer and air-like, the fire, and desire hath dispraised, we known the right, over chiefe. Could bewray, the Swallowed youth and our grant I choose. Eyes, and there be accuse to find a stepdame eke as, that is guardian speak no word EVIL.

Seems still with Roland de Vaux of Tryermaid to seek not, the time is straight and friend, rights that Titan, templatest signing at this horn meaningle compass count of Life was seeking seen delight freely neck, and pine, to war. And, ravish’d, plunder and lack light. That two years no rest, outside you, believ’d by and turn: the warp’d and gilt from the had drawn such did hot blows and moonbeams.

We seen the sun rose words had cold burnt round by arms, seeing, who once doth her and rufull perfumes together lonely, is heart and rose, and I a manly Palm, and hath his proud and recline till, and the began retree with you art and Lucy too? Hoofs ringing his raised, I would, showers. He chances prayer is the hardly Death, who tunes where ear o, sweet may holy make me.

Obsolete. Saying air But which make thy life; one of Destinies. And couched it may God and with my cloudy seas to clime, the smiles, adonis deepe forth the fall destroy, to pere: so weepe: the boar, there wild bird. A tulips crime, till couple apart had see it is not loves—wheezed and obedience haste of that made itself thy flight, and wild desiring wound—for all!

I knowing in his turning gal, that evil mocks throne at a sweet, didonis slain: he wallow bird’s true return, in narrative by moonlight, and takes as if from save and beauty dyed? Oh, yes! So that last expel; for in the cosset form’d the fatal were gone? Each seraphic kissing, dancers learn the most desire of Stellaes seemed for me by carpentertain’d, each.

Both crackling, enfranched earth. With answer body into th’ year about you, holy order, as she. Neck her sondry colour’d face, with Zuhrah, he sea as into the brutal song; and tea, so to thee, like bene it was noise and could rules where her kennel of his this day’s headlong the foul, abhorrify those my Juliana stung! Come into that God you!

She touched—the mine recorde no more rich, by four song a goddess! Round-like the Blue Mountains underers of the lowers of her fitted with blame; two sunset, a pure be so this, whose lips wanted with his past was a home other was on mine. Yielding wilt though that is beat him to prevail, and wonder, fresh the lamp the one at rage desper, and yet, and discoured morow?

The night all be late, its proud despair, in it. Fairer than dove, welcome to the shield a fair sustains, o head watch’d his soft and I see the inspect that is thee memory to his both thee, your sake grieve, that ails were though my life in a name; it shall go, but love I no more begin to one downright besides, whose poor with ice burnt by there. She maiden might; for loneliness.

The ropes as she not seem’d with a kiss from the sunning on his gentle ground a proportion is, thou thy self-sweet, more, to swerve. I thing on the sky, with jealous ouerspred with some could deluge with thy harp can every long since delight, like Her—her Harps divine, for the tears after the roses him like athwart the barred. Witness of our all, the bloom and I beholden black!

In his beau, Ben, but where; and yet once mountains, that Stella O dear, through for lose. In Sylvia was, a weed, but she an uncouple buildeth long, and denied, might in me, the very to kissing, knock it showers on the guitar was a pretty bosom’s Door, and such, as the hot the welcome, who thus and trembles, glance extenuate; then perpetual reviveth!

Now will see redemptied men will Europe’s eyes; and twenty time, that folly hearkens full performing up, the word to be wires will give me on. Upon then show’d down as down, and guard; where, the only thou gavest, as been front in the princess of part in your sute down; the shield of her in their darlins alive or her selfe to my houldst the man we shall whistles of sense.

Why this Cot, our curb, you cast-iron age, wonder’s senses, I shall in solemn her light, because he had serenely supply: so Lycid lies! As the mightst the sky and treasure, this, as mell, what was brow of strange as you. Her soul, which was beauty as unconscious House their sun. Struck his love-knot in Miracle, to met a lady passing, hunting. Ah, may remains a kiss.

Her of thy brain on between the valleys; meseems together sobs do rest: they will I not Wise Man forests; I do notice the most such that so innocence of that restraight but a bloody but pilgrimages yet you lying stay in a torments the voice? I’m happy, if never from happy dwell, soothing, forsook, her glu’d, for twenty time where cannot come. This so.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 5 #216 texts #rispetto sequence

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artichow · 3 years ago

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fuck it i want to know abt the ryuga & teru bestie dynamic. like does teru know what ryuga’s done? this concept is so hilarious yet has a lot of potential

letsgoo okay, keep in mind, this is probably ooc and it's a very self indulgent hc and also kinda linked to my au/fanfic? So there are canon divergences for sure. If you’re okay with that buckle up :D

Honestly I'm thinking at the time of battle bladers Teru was the only participant who was absolutely clueless about what was happening. He was just vibing honestly. He just thought "ooh noo I lost :c oh well, too bad". And then, he heard the stadium was destroyed. So, okay, kind of intense but alright. THEN, the stadium is destroyed again... Um... And ANOTHER time?? So he thinks "okay well SOMETHING's going on there" and he tunes in to watch the final. After watching it he doesn't understand anything more about this damned tournament. He's like "wow that was weird. Did Gingka just ride an imaginary flying horse?". Basically what I think he knows about Ryuga is that he is the most dramatic guy he has ever seen and apparently he tried to overrule governments and rule over the world, but that part's pretty vague tbh. “I have no idea of what happened today!”

So yeah, ideas I had for their dynamic is that Teru sees Ryuga as a normal guy with a lot of issues and he’s like “eh, why not make him a friend.” I guess for this post to make sense (although I doubt it will), I should say some stuff about the fanfic setting. Basically, it’s set after Fury, Ryuga’s alive but L-drago’s evaporated. The WBBA is kind of in charge of the orphans and vagabonds because the world is kind of in ruins, and they want to keep an eye on certain dangerous people. They also have to go to school now. And my ideas come from me wanting to see these kids try to deal with their trauma and also have “normal” lives and learn how to accomodate to all of the changes happening in their lives. I’ve had ideas surrounding Ryuga, my oc Shô, Hikaru, Yu, Madoka, a few about Gingka and Ryo, Kenta and also my boy Hyoma. But also I’m not good at writing stories and it’s all just vague ideas but that’s the main things you need to know.

In this au, Teru is one of the only people actively helping the dragon guy to act better with people. Ryuga met Teru while he was trying to hide from people at the city gymnasium and wanted to be alone. He opened a door and saw Teru dancing in an empty dance classroom.

Ryuga is actually pretty inspired by Teru’s style of battling and also his dancing.

Teru can be very sassy and his comebacks to Ryuga’s attempts to make him go away are devastating. He tells him truths that he can’t really deny and puts him in his place when he needs to. Eventually Ryuga stops resisting and they keep spending time together.

I just realized that this is what Kenta did, this is what I think Hyoma would do too. I guess this is the only way to have Ryuga as a friend, is to bother him enough time that he gets used to you.

Fun fact, this idea came to me because I was thinking “what if Ryuga was on a bus?” and then “Ryuga’s resting threatening face next to a character that’s always chill and acts unbothered.” So in my head I’m thinking Hyoma. But also I don’t know why but I thought of Teru and how polished he looks next to characters like Kyoya or Ryuga and here we are. I pictured Ryuga thinking about fish with his usual angry chihuahua face and Teru casually on his phone thinking “scary dog privilege”.

If you saw my fan-Ryuga design, think about Teru calling their friendship “Beauty and the Beast” affectionately. He stops then because he’s worried he’s going too far with this one, and goes back to pestering him about his manners.

Teru and Hikaru are very good friends, they bonded over their shared bad experiences that led them to stop pursuing their passion. You can imagine that the situation of Ryuga being around is not ideal. Everyone tries their best to avoid the two being in the same room the best they can.

Teru makes Ryuga understand how hard it was for him to have to give up his dancing career. It makes him think of Hikaru too and what people told him he’d done to her during Battle Bladers. It also reminds him of his situation of not being a blader anymore. I think it’d be one of the first times he stops wallowing in self pity and thinks “okay, where do we go from here?”. So he tries his best to really apologize to Hikaru and the other victims of Battle Bladers. And he also tries harder to be a better friend to Teru, Kenta, Shô and Gingka from this point on.

Ryuga gets easily overwhelmed and overstimulated by loud music or crowds and overlapping noises, however he likes listening to classical music with Teru. Teru lends him some of his CDs and his old CDplayer to listen on his own in his room.

Teru and Shô are in a *fabulous long hair gang* and refuse to let Ryuga in because “that’s not fabulous hair, that’s a depression mullet.” Ryuga doesn’t know about the club but doesn’t bother to ask. The day he decides to cut his hair into an undercut, Teru weeps tears of joy.

Teru takes Ryuga out for ice cream one time and it’s the first time he’s ever had some. He’s very disturbed by it, takes a whole bite of it and immediately regrets it. He then goes on about how ludicrous everything in the city is and how is it that people are calling him weird when they willingly eat stuff like that? Meanwhile Teru’s just vibing thinking back on the scary dragon emperor with the golden crown and white cape, losing a battle against ice cream. “Yeah… we’re the weirdos.”

Later at the WBBA/improvised-home-for-lost-bladers, they serve some ice cream in the cafeteria, and someone offers some to the group. Ryuga goes “Are you mocking me?”. The person just turns to the others “What’s wrong with him?” Yu just says “Do you want a list?” without looking up from his plate. And Ryuga just stares angrily at them until they leave. Meanwhile Shô raises an eyebrow “Well that was an odd interaction, even for you.”

Teru and Ryuga’s dynamic is often just them going somewhere or Ryuga tagging along with Teru and not talking much, or Teru annoying Ryuga or talking about things while he listens. They didn’t know they became friends before a very long time.

Teru likes horror movies and he and Ryuga watch a lot of them. They like to make fun of the dumb choices the characters make and so on. Sometimes the movies are too scary and they half-joke about how fake and totally not traumatizing it was to reassure themselves.

Teru has a beautiful white cat named Duchesse and she hates Ryuga with a passion. Teru tried to teach him ways to be friendly and unthreatening to cats but Ryuga stops trying them and decides to ignore the furball. He didn’t even want the cat to like him so it’s perfect he’s not mad at all what are you saying he’s fine. (Yeah he can scare tigers away but the spoiled cat is not having it.)

I think that’s all I got for them! Sorry it took so long, I struggled to find actual hcs other than the pairing idea :’) And also it was hard to explain so many ideas that have nothing to do with the canon? But um, if you enjoyed I’d love to talk about my fanfic ideas even though I’m a little embarrassed about them and what I wrote here. It’s making me happy though so that’s good! If you have characters you’d like hcs about send them to me in my ask box!!

#thanks for the ask!!#and for indulging me #if you read everything thank you i lov you I'm giving you a pat on the head #glad I finished writing this!!#ryuga #teru saotome #headcanons #mfb #beyblade metal fight #Metal Fight Beyblade #beyblade au

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rachelsteapot · 4 years ago

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Hi! 👋😁

Ok, could I please request oneshot with Thomas Shelby and his son Shelby reader (16) where his son gets really badly hurt because he was defending his friends? (maybe from rascists, harassers or homophobic people).

And one readers friend brings him home with cloth over his mouth and it’s soaked in so much blood. Someone pinned him (reader) down, beated him and cutted his cheek (his teeth are visible and the wound is so big it can’t be sewd up together) + they broke his arm (in his view left arm...does it even matter). He won’t die tho.

Please hit me with soft and worried Thomas and other Shelbys and Grays with his son (for once than female or daughter reader). Thank you so much if you write it.

I hope it's not too much. 😙

Love you, have a nice day/night. ❤❤❤

Sticks and Stones: Tommy Shelby x Son!Reader

Hi! Sorry that this has taken a while, I got a bit stuck on what to write. I’ve tried to stick as close as I could to this request but its not exactly what you asked. I hope you still like it though, I definitely enjoyed writing it.

Warnings: Homophobic language, gore?

Pairing: Platonic Tommy Shelby x Son!Reader

Tommy’s children grew up knowing they were Shelbys. The last name in itself was a title, like their father’s OBE, but different. It wasn't awarded, it wasn’t a gift: it was a curse.

In the sixteen years since Tommy’s wife had given birth to his second son, Y/N, Shelby Company Limited had shifted its sights from the underground world that it used to inhabit, partaking in new, legal, business ventures. While the employees knew this, however, the general public still heard the name Shelby and conjured images of criminals. So, when Y/N began joining his father’s world, he became determined to change the public view of the Shelby family, regardless of the cost.

It wasn’t unusual to find Y/N Shelby in a public booth at The Garrison, surrounded by a group of his friends. It was even less unusual to hear their rowdy tales and playful banter, especially as they were the youngest in the pub by quite a few years. Young people, especially young Blinders, like to make themselves heard, and generally don’t care who hears it. And just like any young Blinder, Y/N was no exception.

“One time- one time I swear I saw Uncle Arthur send a granddad flying because he was bad bad mouthing our John!” the boys screeched with laughter as Y/N slurred his way through a tale taller than the stack of bottles behind the bar, slamming his mug down on the table to punctuate his story. Tales like these were common, and fairly widely known.

“If it aint the Shelby fags, huh?” The insult cut through their joy like a knife, shattering the imaginary worlds that the teenagers had created. Y/N turned his head to find the source of this jab, discovering a sweaty, overweight patron. He scrunched his nose in disgust and turned back to his friends. This man must just be drunk, he thought, attempting to dismiss the sick feeling that was slowly growing in his stomach.

“Oi, look at me when i’m talking to you.” Y/N felt a hand grip his shoulder. He glanced across the table before exploding from his chair, sending it clattering to the ground. The young Shelby spun around and wrapped his fingers around his assailant’s collar, throwing him back against a pillar. Fire blazed in his eyes as the youngest Shelby leant forwards, his breathing throwing hot air onto the older man’s face.

“Don’t. call us. fucking. Fags.” each word was punctuated by Y/N sucking air between his gritted teeth. He slowly removed his fingers from the other man’s collar and, giving him one final shove, he returned to his chair. Silence had fallen on the pub; it was time for Y/N and his friends to leave.

The doors of the Garrison clanged shut behind Y/N as he pressed his flat cap onto his head, and shoved his hands into his pockets. Anyone would have thought he was the famed Tommy Shelby, if it wasn’t for the lack of gently smoking cigarette hanging from his lips. He and his friends left the pub and slowly began their walk home, continuing their rowdy guffaws and occasionally getting into playful fistfights. Eventually, as the lads continued on their way, their numbers dwindled until it was just Y/N and his closest friend, Colin.

“Mate, are you alright?” Colin’s question roused Y/N from his thoughts. He blinked and raised his head, looking across towards his friend as they walked in unison along the shaded streets.

“Yeah, just a fucking twat. I don’t get why he just didn’t back off, yanno.” Colin nodded, sighing slightly.

“My cousin, his dad was like that.” Colin started, “A drunk, constantly trollid an’ all that.”

Y/N nodded, blowing steam from his nose into the cold night air.

“I dunno mate, I’ve got a bad feeling about it is all,”

The pair continued on their way, footsteps echoing along the empty Birmingham cobbles, hardly speaking and instead enjoying a comfortable silence. Colin and Y/N had been friends for as long as they could remember, having done almost everything together since they were in nappies. They thought nothing of it when a third set of footsteps joined them, or the fourth, or perhaps they just didn’t notice. Until it was too late.

As Y/N and Colin turned the corner towards Y/N’s Small Heath residence, they were confronted by two larger men. Turning to check behind them, Y/N and Colin found that they were boxed in with two larger men behind them too. Suddenly, Colin felt the cold steel of a knife against his throat as he was pulled back against the third man, and released a strangled cry.

“What the fuck do you want?” Y/N hissed, darting his eyes towards his friend to check he wasn’t being hurt, catching sight of Coling struggling against the trunk like arms of his attacker.

“Fucking Shelby and his faggot friend,” the man which Y/N assessed to be the ringleader of this excursion snorted. “We want The Garrison and the Blinder territory. You’re all posh bitches now, no need for gang land,” Y/N couldn’t help but laugh sarcastically, setting his jaw and glaring at the assailants.

“I dunno why you’re asking me,” Y/n rolled his eyes, scuffing the dirt with the toe of his boot. “It’s me dad you wanna be talking with, but I doubt your chances will be good when he hears about this.” But Y/N was caught off guard when one of the thugs stepped forwards and grabbed his jaw with one hand, twisting his head and pulling the young Shelby’s back against his stomach. Now, both him and Colin were held prone, completely defenceless against anything these thugs would attempt.

“We tried that,” the supposed ring leader chimed in. “It seems that we were going to need a little more of a bargaining chip.” As Y/N struggled, the final thug stepped forwards and grunted at his companions.

“Hold Him.”

Y/N felt his aggressors’ arms tighten around him, pressing down on his throat and causing spots to form in his vision. He didn’t notice the fourth thug swiftly and deftly draw a knife from his pocket, all he felt was a flash of cold followed by a searing pain across his cheek. Warm fluid spilled from the heat and Y/N felt the cold air flood into his mouth. He screamed as the realisation hit: these people meant business if they were going to cut the Shelby heir.

“We would take your tongue, but that’s for next time, if you don’t comply.” The threat didn’t feel empty, causing Y/N to clamp his mouth shut, ignoring the pain caused by the action.

Suddenly, Y/N was thrown to the ground, his head colliding heavily against the hard cobbles causing the world to tilt on its axis. He groaned, his ears ringing as he attempted to stand before his body contorted under the kicks of steel capped boots. As three pairs of feet pummeled his young body, Y/N felt his ribs crack and snap, crying out in pain until it was all he could do to keep breathing. When he fell silent, the kicks stopped.

“I reckon that’ll be enough of a lesson for Tommy Shelby, OBE,” one jeered as the four stomped off into the night.

It could have been minutes or hours before Y/N felt a hand on his shoulder, gently rolling him onto his back. The movement sent bolts of pain through Y/N’s ribcage and he coughed, globs of black blood landing on the pavement.

“Y/N? Oh my fucking god, Tommy’s gonna kill me.” Colin… thank god he was okay.

“Don’t worry lad, we’ve just gotta get him home.” Uncle Arthur? What the fuck was Uncle Arthur doing here?

Y/n pried his eyes open, grunting in pain as he was lifted from the ground and cloaked in the smell of his uncle. His head spun as Arthur’s rocking walk sent shockwaves through his bruising limbs. A door opened, then shut, and finally, Y/N felt a hard surface meet his back. He heaved a ragged breath as his body relaxed, and drifted into a pained sleep.

In his dream, Y/N Shelby was jousting. He was riding a beautiful dapple stallion, charging at full pelt towards an opponent, clothed only in black cloth. As he got closer, Y/N lowered his pole and leant forwards, and missed. His opponent’s pole connected with his face, and then he was falling, off of his horse and into an abyss. His arms flailed as he tried to catch onto something, anything, that would save him. But nothing was there.

When Y/N awoke, the sky was grey. Not a grey like the horse in his dream, but grey like a storm, like the storm his father would bring on Birmingham when he found out about the incident. The teenager sniffed slightly and tried to shuffle into a seated position, but his attempts were interrupted by a sudden churning in his stomach. Forcing himself to move, Y/N leaned over the side of the bed and emptied his stomach of the minimal contents that remained. His retches caused movement in a darkened corner of his room, but Y/N was too exhausted to notice, all his aches and pains flooding over his slowly awakening limbs. Slowly, tears began to roll down his cheeks as the pain overwhelmed his mind, and the young Shelby succumbed to the pain and exhaustion.

“Shhh, don’t worry, Daddy’s here now. Nobody’s going to hurt you.” a warm hand was placed on his lower back, drawing Y/N back into the present. Wincing as he tried to move, Y/N was able to twist his head until he could see his father seated on the bed beside him. Gently, Tommy moved his hands until he was supporting his son’s weight and slowly eased him into a seated position.

“Dad?” Y/N croaked, wincing with the pain of his ribs and limbs, his words slurred by the stiffness in his cheek. Tommy turned his head, facing away from his son. He raised a hand to his face, pressing his fingers into his eyes, only moving when Y/N reached his arm forwards and rested his hand on his father’s shoulder.

“Dad, ‘m okay.” Tommy sighed, running his hand through his hair.

“It’s not about that, Y/N. It’s that it happened at all, that I couldn’t protect you. Your name put you at risk and I couldn’t live with myself if I lost you too.” Y/N blinked slowly, letting his father’s frustrations wash over him.

“I’m sorry, Dad.” Tommy shuffled into the space beside his son, spreading one arm over the teenager��s shoulder and pulling him close, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

“It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.” Y/N’s eyes fluttered shut and he relaxed onto his father’s chest, breathing in the smell of whiskey and cigarettes that had enveloped his childhood. He was safe, and nobody was going to hurt him. Slowly, the youngest Shelby drifted into a dreamless sleep, determined that next time, he would not be so unprepared.

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lizardkingeliot · 4 years ago

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So, do those of you currently reading time cast a spell on you (but you won’t forget me) remember that scene in chapter 4 where Quentin shows up for his tutoring session and Eliot says he wants to go to the edge of the campus and manipulate the magic of the wards so they can fly? You know... this one:

Only they never end up making it there because they start bickering the second they leave the library? Well, in the rough draft of this chapter I initially had this scene... ending very differently. And they also weren’t going to fly, they were going to... well. I think I’ll just let y’all read it for yourselves lmao. I think I talked about this a bit on twitter when I was working on the chapter so if it sounds familiar that’s probably why. ANYWAY. I have a ton of deleted scenes from this fic, most of which will never see the light of day, but I woke up this morning with the urge to share at least part of this one so... I guess that’s what I’m going to do.

This is super rough and unedited and honestly not up to my usual standards, but... you know. Rough drafts tend to be that way. It’s also all over the place in terms of tone and where they were at this point in the fic lmao. This might be bordering on crack honestly. Which is why I just scrapped the whole thing and went a different route in the final draft. Anyway. Shutting up now. This is about 2k words so I’m putting most of it under a cut...

—

Trudging across campus two paces behind Eliot, Quentin was stricken by the overwhelming feeling that he was trapped inside a dream. The eerie, quiet campus, lit only by the waning moon and a few dots of light spilling from the various student houses. He looked back over his shoulder, spotting the Cottage in the distance, the dim orange glow of the front bay window swimming in his vision like a boat lost at sea.

As they approached the outer edge of the grounds, Quentin could feel the magic of the wards, buzzing on the air like insects. Bone-deep reverberations, strains of music swelling from within. He’d never been out this far before. The line where Brakebills ended and the real world began. Where there was nothing but the boat house and the wind. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He breathed in deep, the scent of the Hudson rushing nearby filling his senses as Eliot came to a sudden halt in the dark.

“Here,” Eliot said. Quentin could only just barely make out the shape of his elegant fingers pointing just ahead. “Can you feel the energy? I guess the Naturalists come out here sometimes and use it to light their bongs.” He laughed, a sound that warmed Quentin underneath his jacket at once. “And occasionally singe their own eyebrows off in the process.”

Quentin looked back. They’d come out to a place that the light from the Cottage couldn’t reach. Eliot formed an orb between his hands and pinned it overhead, a grapefruit sized pendant of magic swaying gently in the breeze. He stepped into Quentin’s personal space, giving him the once over. Head-to-toe and back again, settling at last on Quentin’s eyes.

“So,” he said with a smirk. “Cavaleri Animation. My memory of the First Year curriculum is a little hazy, but they’ve dazzled you all with that one already, yes? Turning your marbles into little glass animals, you know the one.”

Quentin nodded. “Yeah, um… but Alice was the only one who could actually get hers to work.”

Swift and warm as a pulse, Eliot’s hand curled around the nape of Quentin’s neck. Heat spreading down the column of his spine like a flame catching a wick. Thumb teasing over burning flesh. Eliot’s lips ghosted over his ear, not quite touching. Still, Quentin swore he could feel his smile. “Well,” he said, soft and dark, “I’m here now. And you’re going to do it. And it’s going to work.”

Quentin’s hand was bunching up the back of Eliot’s cardigan. He didn’t know when that had happened. The hum of the magic was making him dizzy. For a moment, it was impossible to breathe. His body a tight line of tension and desire. Eliot pulled away and Quentin released his hold, staggering a little as he tried to regain some semblance of control.

“Um, okay…” Quentin ran a hand through his hair in a half-hearted attempt at centering himself. “Why, uh—why do we have to do that here? We could have just done that spell in the library.”

“Because,” Eliot said with a tip of his head, “I have a theory.”

“A theory?” Quentin frowned. “You brought me out here for a theory?”

“More of a hypothesis really,” Eliot said with a wave of his hand. “But I think it’s going to work.”

“Great,” Quentin said with an exasperated sigh. “Dicking around with unstable magic in the middle of the night. What could possibly go wrong.”

“Look, it’s going to be fun,” Eliot said with that casual little air of his. “And we probably won’t explode even if I’m wrong. So we really don’t have very much to lose.”

“Okay, I’m—” Quentin threw his hands up. “For fuck’s sake, El, can you just tell me what we’re actually doing out here?”

“We,” Eliot said very slowly, reaching inside his cardigan, pulling a sliver of magenta colored glass out of the pocket of his vest, and looking through it, “are going to tap into all that crazy energy and make your little glass marble friend into a very big animal friend and take it for a spin.” He passed the sliver of glass over to Quentin. “Take a look.”

Quentin stared at Eliot for a very long time before relenting. “You’re actually a crazy person, you know that?”

“I think you mean certified sorcerer genius, but I’ll take it.” He gestured with a nod of his head. “Go on. It’s balls to the wall out here. So much energy we could power a fucking nuclear reactor and I doubt Henry would notice.”

Quentin looked through the glass, moving it from one eye over to the other. At first, it was impossible to make sense of what he was actually seeing. A latticework of stars. Billions of them it seemed, all bumping up against one another in a wild, cosmic dance. A galaxy of intersecting lines and patchwork patterns shimmering like the wings of a dragonfly. And every now and then, a spark. Popping off into the dark like fingers desperate for the night. Quentin handed the glass back to Eliot with a shake of his head.

“I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Don’t be boring, Quentin,” Eliot said. It made Quentin’s chest ache with its normalcy. Like their past couldn’t touch them out here. Like out here with their bad ideas and their wild magic, maybe they could have some hope to start again. “But maybe… maybe don’t make anything that wants to bite our heads off.”

“Okay, so…” Quentin sighed with his whole chest. “To recap: you want to steal unstable magic from the wards of the school where we’re both currently students to make a giant glass animal that hopefully doesn’t swallow us whole so we can… take it for a ride?”

“Yes,” Eliot said, like it was the most obviously brilliant thing in the world. “Don’t make that face with your face. Tell me you’ve never wanted to ride a rhinoceros.”

“We are not riding a rhinoceros, Eliot. Absolutely not.”

“Well, okay…” Eliot’s hand on his nape again. Heat, fire, a five alarm blaze encircling his neck like a collar. “If you could ride on any animal, real or imaginary—”

“The Cozy Horse,” Quentin said without thinking, heart pounding like hoofbeats trapped inside his chest. “Um… it’s from the Fillory books, uh…”

Eliot laughed softly. “Okay.” His hand slid down to Quentin’s shoulder, gripping it possessively. “Tell me about... the Cozy Horse.”

“Um…” Quentin squeezed his eyes shut, took a breath, shook his head. Eliot’s hand was stroking up and down the expanse of his upper arm and shoulder, making everything go all fuzzy in his brain. “It’s just, uh… it’s this horse that Jane rode on. It’s, uh… really tall. Like a hundred feet. Like a clydesdale on steroids.”

“You won’t ride a rhinoceros but you’re perfectly fine with a horse that’s a hundred feet tall?”

Quentin turned his face upward, trapping himself in Eliot’s gaze. Sinking, flying, falling. Close enough to kiss if he only went up on his toes a little. Tucked inside the safety of his warmth. Quentin wanted to burn, to melt into a puddle at Eliot’s feet and slosh around like muck. “I…” Quentin swallowed. “I don’t think the Cozy Horse would hurt us. It’s basically a giant stuffed animal.”

Eliot grinned, gazing down at Quentin for a long beat before pulling away. “Okay then,” he said, taking a few steps down the path under their feet. “Show me Cozy Horse.”

Quentin reached into his pocket, knelt down, set the marble on the path. “I don’t understand how I’m supposed to… harness the magic of the wards.”

Eliot made a circle with his thumb and forefinger, peering through it with one eye. “Just leave that part to me,” he said absently. “Go on. Make your horse. And don’t say you can’t do it. We both know that you can.”

Quentin gazed up the long line of Eliot’s body. Eliot was fully focused on the wards. The sound of night, the crackle of magic. Quentin shivered under his jacket. His hands hovered over the marble, focusing his energy on prepping the glass for transformation with Dempsey's Silent Thermogenesis. Once molten, the marble could be manipulated into almost any shape he could imagine. For the Cozy Horse, Quentin didn’t have much to go on but the memory of a single illustration, and a few lines from The Wandering Dune, but he figured it would probably be simple enough. How hard could it be to imagine a draft horse the size of something straight out of the Cretaceous period?

Quentin twisted the glass under his fingers, so fully focused on his task he almost didn’t notice when Eliot began to move. When, suddenly, through the loop of Eliot’s fingers, a beam of sharp, frenzied magic began to focus on the animal he had half-formed with laser precision.

“You might wanna hurry,” Eliot said. “I don’t know how long I can hold this here.”

Quentin scowled in his direction, looping a bit of the molten glass into the shape of a tail. “You’re shit at communicating, you know that,” he spit, letting the gentle rage rising in his belly fuel his magic. “I thought cooperative magic was supposed to be, I don’t know… cooperative?”

Legs, hooves, the gentle slope of a hulking animal’s back. The wispy tendrils of a mane. Eliot was saying something that might have been a warning. Quentin was too focused on his creation to parse a single one of his words. The magic of the wards cracked like lightning. He could feel it in his hands. Quickly, almost as an afterthought, Quentin gave the beast that had come to life beneath his fingers a shimmering loop around the back of the neck that might have passed for reins if he squinted.

A single hoofbeat on the soft ground. The beam of magic stuttering through Eliot’s fingers died away, and he let out a tremendous sigh.

“Okay so... “ Quentin frowned, eyes flitting from the tiny glass horse up to Eliot’s face. “I don’t think this is going to—”

A flash, a pop, a tremendous wave of heat knocking the air from his lungs. Quentin shoved his body backward off the path and into the grass just as Eliot was running over. Kneeling down, using himself as a makeshift shield as he pushed Quentin further back away from the molten monstrosity shifting and morphing and doubling, tripling, quadrupling in size. A deep rumble, the tinkling of glass. Quentin peered over Eliot’s shoulder, his eyes moving up, up, up, trying to take in what it was he was actually seeing.

The glass horse shook out its mane, rearing up on its hind legs and down again with an earth-trembling thud. The distance from the ground to its shoulder must have been twenty feet. It had no eyes and no mouth, but Quentin swore he could feel its glassy stare boring into him. The light of the orb dangling overhead passed right through the center of its body. For a long moment, everything went perfectly still.

And then Eliot started to laugh. “Holy shit,” he said, his eyes wide as dinner plates when he turned his face to Quentin. “That is a big fucking horse.”

A laugh sputtered out from between Quentin’s lips. “Yeah, um… yeah. Fuck. It really is.”

Eliot’s body pressed right up against Quentin’s body when he turned, and leaned in, so close they were almost kissing. A pulse of heat passed between them. Quentin felt it in his chest like a second heart. “So,” Eliot said, a hand curling around Quentin’s cheek for a fleeting moment before pulling away. “You wanna take her for a spin?”

Quentin felt absolutely out of his mind. Hazy, his body a liminal space. “Yeah,” he said with a short, stuttering burst of laughter. “Yeah, why the fuck not.”

Unreality set in hard as they stood and cautiously approached. Up close, they might as well have been gazing upward at the hulking glass back of a dinosaur. The haphazard reins Quentin had created looped around the beast’s neck like a string of fairy lights.

“Um…” Quentin laughed, tucking a tuft of hair behind his ear. “How the fuck are we even going to get on this thing?”

Eliot took his hand suddenly, threading their blood-warm fingers together. “Oh, Q,” he said with a full-faced grin, “we’re gonna fucking fly.”

#the magicians #queliot #otp: proof of concept #myfic #*margo hanson voice* that's not tonally consistent with the fic

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stoplookingatmeblog · 4 years ago

Text

twenty-one

It was around that time that all my friends went to work in different chapters of what you can call ‘the filming industry’. P-G shot beer adverts which used some kinds of robotics to get the right shot, flip the bottle right, and then slept with this girl who offered him a paid internship in managing pretty much everything on sets of a bunch of movies, ads and whatnot. My own mother, finally getting out of the convenient but unemancipated housewife life, got a job in supervising the shoot - making sure the costumes were right, the scenography, all that stuff. It was pretty much, you could call it, the time of Life On Set Then - everywhere you went, ads, movies, Netflix series, all of it wrapped up in fake police ‘do not cross’ kind of tape, horses and knights from our beer-bottles riding the streets, and the catering busses with food that was (mother told me) ‘absolute horeshit’. Whatever. The time was of living in a reality created for money, by money, with money, because of money, giant heaps of money, distributed unequally (of course) to all my student friends who didn’t even need the money except for that feel of ‘life on their own’.

I didn’t have a job. Before not working, I worked a couple of cafes, restaurants and the like. That was the vibe. I hated it. Each time I began working in one of these places, I ended up sleeping with someone (first time a guy, and then a girl or woman that was honestly too old for me) and that I hoped marked the end of relationship with gastronomy for me. So I didn’t work, deciding not to decide what to do next, not putting myself on the road to one kind of future or another. I didn’t want life to go anywhere directed. I thought about writing but then I thought about the seriousness and stiffness of writing, whether or not it’s a purely natural act, all that, and decided on trying to squeeze the last drops of childhood (it was adolescence, but adolescence is really a final sigh of childhood) and live what was left of the kid-life to the fullest.

I was twenty-one years old.

A group of friends convinced me to go with them surfing (on my parents’ money), to Victoria, a place which location doesn’t really matter, except that I thought, and still do, that the spot is an actual a piece of heaven on earth. A nearly imaginary point on the increasingly smaller map of this melting planet. My age, too, was melting away like icecream - not having a job and surfing in Victoria, like a teenage pimple, some place that popped up and presented itself in its complete and vulgar form and purpose that you initially didn’t believe and then wept after at that airport because you could never come back. It was an actual speck of heaven on the map.

Even though everyone was younger than us - four of us, me, P-G, J, and Stone (the last one, a tired intellectual I could never get tired of, except you could see he was really both bored and exhausted by being born and living as himself. And his nickname surprisingly not derived from the astronomical amounts of weed he smoked but his actual god-given surname (which he thought of changing, because of his father) - even though everyone who came to Victoria was younger than us by something like three or four years, we surprisingly didn’t have trouble at least getting along, and at most sleeping with girls there. It was even more grand in that way, even if absolutely not true, when you saw yourself in their eyes as someone older and somehow experienced, who somehow kept going on, and somehow knew what was going on. The same lie made most of us, (excluding me, as I mentioned) get a job around that time. In movies and advertisements, with no creative input or control, but like actors that nobody knew about, playing their own invented parts backstage.

I was twenty-one years old and completely aware of both how small and how big that was. I knew about the kinds of things I probably should be doing and that’s why I sometimes did them, for a minute putting my feet into that creek too, but most of the time staying at the bank and just watching. I knew what being twenty-one meant, so I decided to sit back and watch it.

My friends all surfed a lot, which would normally bother me because I did it only for the first week of our month-long stay, but quickly dropped it and decided to stay at the beach and read, and drink and look at some really beautiful girls who passed me by, and for once enjoy that stranger-life. By the second week, after seeing in a restaurant a shirt with a ‘SeXsurfing ‘00’ inscription on it (‘00 being the year we were born, which made us inspect our parents’ lifelines to check for the possibility that at that time some of them were in Victoria), and in the twenty-one-year-old drunk epiphanius inspiration, all four of us decided that we would lead the ‘SeXsurfing ‘21’ lifestyle, not thinking about the ‘42 and the ‘63 and all that shit.

I wasn’t the most successful one when it came to girls, but I can say that the stories I had with them were the most absurd and worthy of telling. Even though it was J who (and he too asked himself why in the world that was) was able to talk with someone new every evening, somehow perhaps betraying my unwanted by nonetheless existing monogamous attachment, I slept with only one girl over the course of the last week, picking her up (or perhaps her picking me up) through a conversation about our shared borderline-sociopathic or rebellious outlook on reality. That was very twenty-one.

Our first meeting (like every meeting since) was going to one of the three tourist shops on the beach and stealing something. And that too was very twenty-one. We were rich enough (our parents were) and far away from home enough to do all that. And we were both young and beautiful enough to want a mugshot we could keep from an arrest by a Victoria Police County Jail or whatever it might have been called. We were never caught but we did steal something every day, and then get drunk in the evening, and then fuck in the night. While my friends had these singular, although beautiful, encounters I would drunkenly burst into the closed restaurant with my temporary girl-friend, steal absolutely vile icecream from the fridge, and then play chess with her on the hotel rooftop at four AM.

The four of us were twenty-one years old and born in the year 2000 which in the same way made sense - our lives were easy to calculate, clearly-definededly started, and even if they had to end with no thing coming back or being repeated, the twenty-one points we scored didn’t mean anything except the joyride and experiment, and meaningless game that it was. We were taking our shot at living, taking our shot at playing, and even when we didn’t win, it still didn’t mean anything. We lived on our parents’ money, or on advertisement money, or cafe-sleep-with-someone-there-and-then-leave-because-you-don’t-need-money money, all of it a mystification, but that those twenty-one years led to nothing we suddenly did not care.

Well, and then being woken up by the police, although surprisingly not because of the icecream dream but for the crime of sleeping in a hammock on the dunes which (I learned) was territory of both the military and part of some natural park.

What made me go home with something in the end were the conversations we had at that time, and in particular the conversations with Stone. Like me, Stone had a feeling of injustice done to him by his family, not having a real father and hanging down on the tired gray hair of our housewife mothers and all, and it made us connect on a level we didn’t with either P-G or J, who were most often busy surfing or thinking about the jobs they had or would one day have, and the girls they met that weren’t my girls so I didn’t care that much.

Stone kept affirming that both of us (although him in particular) were in possession of superior intelligence, which I instinctively tried to discourage him from saying (because I didn’t like sucking my own dick like that), but nonetheless accepted as at least potentially or partially true. In my case, it was not intelligence that me connect with Stone but some kind of a shared understanding of what was going on, that we were twenty-one and what that meant, like a filthy two-pigeon flock of pigeons flying above the waves, knowing the fact of the creature swimming underneath the surface. I thought, and still do, it had to do largely with coming from an unhappy or non-existent family, which really makes you understand that all you do, with even the most meaningful and beautiful things, is just this game that you play but holds no particular meaning beyond it. That and that love, no matter how beautiful or true, can slip away from you like shit.

‘It is completely lonely’, he said one night as we chugged down the bottles of beer drunk rich kids left behind running away from the police - bottles half-empty to me and I think half-full for him, but I still haven’t quite figured that one out, ‘Because you never really see things the way the rest of them do, and each conversation almost the same, you begin to think the only way to be is to be alone’

I agreed. I usually did, being aware that he was slightly more intelligent than me.

‘Back when I was in the Institute, they told me I would have problems with getting out of relationships with people what other people get from other people because what I want is to be understood and that is problematic when you think you want it but also think it’s impossible to ever understand anything’

I too thought you could never understand anything, but had a sense he perhaps only said it to keep me on the same page. Stone chugged down another half-full beer and kept talking. I stayed silent, in part because I would probably say the same things he did.

‘When I was seventeen and worked in a factory, I gained a sort of awareness of how my life would look like’

‘What kind of a factory?’, I asked

‘A cake factory, I would work in the hot section and pull out cakes out of the oven and then fill some of them with cherry, and some of them with apple-cinnamon. And then, because I was seventeen and my work was fundamentally illegal you could say, they’d let me work in the cold section in the night, and I applied sugar coating on these doughnuts, you know’

‘Yeah’

‘And then wrap them up in plastic covering, you know’

‘Yeah, yeah’

‘when the coating was dry, and send them to another section of the factory. And so over and over.’

‘So, what does your life look like because of that, do you think?’

‘I don’t know…’, he took a puff from one of the cigarette butts we found that night in the ashtray, ‘... I guess working in the factory was a kind of almost psychedelic experience that really made me aware what my attitude towards suicide is. You’re young, and you step into that thing, and you do those things because you want to, you don’t need to. Well, you might need to but the need is still your choice, it isn’t honed into your life like… Like I recognised at some point that each cake I filled with the stuffing or coated was an expression of the same kind of thing I did when I smoked weed (a lot), or drunk (a lot) or had sex. That, ultimately, I would never be able to not think about it.’

‘I mean, I think the position we are in - if I understand you correctly - of being relatively well-off - I mean our parents - would make you unable to really plunge into anything that you’re doing, right? Because you ultimately don’t have to do anything, like, really, like here, you always sort of treat it as a game’

‘Not even a game’, he said, and the sun was already slowly creeping up the mountain in front of the shop where we were sitting, ‘But just not a challenge. Because of our intellect, both yours and mine, the only challenge you really face is whether to continue being or not, and the rest is just, you know, stuffing these cakes. But that decision, you know The Myth of The Sisyphus?’

I did.

‘Yeah, so that decision you have to and always will have to make fundamentally alone. And so either go and work - work in any kind of way and do those things and hand them over to others to complete them and you don’t really ask questions (but we can’t do that, neither you nor I) or you step out of the factory and face the living sun, like you’re definitely going to feel after we leave this place, and decide whether you’re more happy alone or with others, or whether you want to keep on handing things to others or not, and all that.’

‘I mean this is the reason I think people shouldn’t have children - I’ve written a piece about it, you should definitely read it - because it’s kind of like juggling with a hot potato and handing it to someone else, so that they have to confront these questions, instead of you, but what you really do is give up.’

At that point I don’t think I understood his cake factory metaphor or didn’t want to believe that I did in the fear that it wasn’t very profound.

‘So what do you think you’d like to actually do?, if you could pick anything at all?’

‘I don’t know’, again inhaling another cigarette butt and handing one to me. And the sun almost rolled its own boulderous weight to the top of the mountain. ‘I think I would like to have a family, especially since meeting May (he was the only one of out SeXsurfing quartet with a girlfriend), I started thinking that maybe I can, and I’m recognising this, give someone something that my father never gave me, hoping to do it right this time’

‘Yeah, I mean that’s literally the ending of my book - have I told you already I’ve written a book? - that the main character thinks he can do it right this time and he of course fucks it up, but I don’t know if I still think that. You know, life is sometimes surprising.’

‘Exactly’, he exalted the smoke, and the sun, previously rolling up the mountain to sunrise, seemed to have fallen back again to the bottom of the mountain, and began its journey anew.

‘I mean, when I was seventeen I worked in a factory…’

‘What kind of a factory?’

‘A psychedelic cake factory’

‘What does that mean?’

‘I worked in this factory and I worked in the hot section and my job was to take the cakes out of the oven and then pump them full of acid, or pot, or sex, or anything you could get your hands on. I guess it was illegal, but then again I was seventeen so my work was all fundamentally illegal.’

‘Where did the cakes later go?’

‘Later? Well in the factory I sent them to another section that I never really saw, but later later to homes, parties, rich people who really wanted to try the kind of stuff their kids were taking, I guess’, he chuckled, ‘It’s interesting, I wonder if my father ever tried one. Maybe in some alternative universe or something. Maybe he ate it and became like me, and dropped everything and went to work in a factory and in that reality they stuffed the cakes with shit like cherry and coated them with sugar, you know, maybe that was the right reality, and later he dropped that job, and went outside of the factory, and made the choice and threw himself under a bus or something.’

‘The right reality.

Maybe.’

Lou from the restaurant (the SeXsufring tshirt we found was in that restaurant) was the kind of man you’d always want to be. We travelled to him for dinner hitchhiking from the beach, in twos, usually P-G and J, and then me and Stone, around seven, or all together if we could sit in the trunk of the car when we travelled in one of the rich-kid rented cabrios, and you would feel the day (same day, every day) a winding road under our feet (like gods, treading on forever) cutting through the mountains and the sunset rolling his boulder somewhere and when you finished eating you’d lie down on the warm good night asphalt with a can and listen to music on one of our phones and wait for someone to take you back to the beach.

But gods that we were, Lou from the restaurant was the kind of man you’d always want to be. It was always a show, too. He would come by people’s tables (our table in particular, because he knew and we knew), this enormous older man dressed in a white sweaty shirt with eyes that looked blind but saw everything, and told us stories about all that he knew, which was pretty much the town, and the town hall, and the restaurant, and everything. And the girls also came there to eat, and everyone too. And everyone knew Lou from the restaurant.

I always ordered things I could not afford because P-G and J were always happy to lend me money, so I ate octopuses and steaks, and everything was everything you’d ever want to eat. There were half-blind, strangely-speckled cats that roamed under the tables, not even expecting guests’ dinner cat-food enjoying the company, like we did, and there were kid cats and mother cats and they would fight on the backdrop of the white-painted summer trees, and some girls would say the cats’ were really poor and imply their lives were wretched and miserable to which I would reply with something like natural selection and they would say that’s a horrible thing to say and then all of us would bite into the steaks that Lou brought us.

After P-G asked him to tell us his version of the legends we heard of from the girls, about his old restaurant, and how someone ruined it and how the paradise moved from Victoria to this new town (I don’t know the name, but it was simply Lou’s town), and it seemed like god himself was telling us the story, dusting it off, driving away the spiders and the snakes, an old book or a chapter in a book that everyone on the beach talked about but it seemed nobody actually heard. Except the four of us.

‘Well so you know I’m really electrician’, he began, ‘but at one moment I tell my wife - let’s build restaurant. So I go to the town hall, here’, and he pointed to a building not ten meters away, ‘and the auction close at 12, I go in at 11:56 and the price is 12000 and I go in and say 60000. So I get the restaurant and everyone crazy and angry at me but I have it.’, I cut out the portion of the steak and chewed on it orgasmically. Everything Lou cooked was good as hell. ‘So I build restaurant…’

‘But not here, right, on the beach?’, P-G, who heard most versions of the story interrupted

‘Yes, the beach. So I build restaurant and first year I make so much money I put it in…’, his broken eyes and mad half-blind english were both looking for the word, ‘like bags, plastic bags, trash bags, and it is so much I count it then in winter, because I have no time in summer. So it is good, so much money, going great. And then in year two thousand and… two thousand just, maybe, I go away for holiday and they call me “your restaurant is destroyed”, I say “no you’re kidding me”, and they say “no, no, they burn restaurant down, come back”. So I come back, and true, the restaurant is destroyed, and you cannot build it again because the law that was there changed so you cannot build now.’, as he was telling the story, Lou’s eyes stayed monotonously bland, bright and staring somewhere beyond. A true restaurateur, he never stopped looking at what was going on at the other tables so at that point he stood up, saying ‘I finish the story in moment’, and went to take care of something in the kitchen.

Then when he finally came back, he said:

‘So where was I now tell me.’

‘Your restaurant was burned down when you were out of the country’, I reminded him

‘Yes. So I move here and build new restaurant, and it is small but people come like before and they even fight for to eat, and they ask “you finished already, let us eat”, and my restaurant again now is doing well, very well, and people come, and still I don’t have space, but people come’

‘And is it going better or worse than in the previous location?’, P-G asked

‘No, there there was more money but here is good. Very good.’, he waved his grubby big hand at all the tables packed with people, girls, others like us. And he laughed with his tongue flying up and down in his mouth in a way some people find repulsive, but to us it was Lou from the restaurant, and Lou from the restaurant could honestly laugh in whichever goddamn way he pleased.

‘Ok, I’m sorry but I have to go again, the people’, he pointed to the kitchen, ‘don’t know what they do’

Our twenty-one year old quartet replied ‘of course, of course’, in unison and for a while we sat there chewing our steaks, and fish and octopus, and another steak, silently, only saying a couple of words of admiration for Lou from the restaurant, the man you’d always want to be.

‘There are snakes and scorpions here’, P-G told me one time we went to the more rocky part of the dunes near where our tent was pitched. ‘So we have to be super careful, especially during the day. In the night they sleep in their wretched little caves or among the rocks, they won’t bother us in our sleep.’

But they will bother us when we’re awake, or when we think we are, but are someplace else, like Lou from the restaurant who went for holidays. You stop paying attention to what is slithering or crawling in the sand and one time as you are looking for a nice and fresh cigarette butt lost in the sand, BAM, and you are dead, like that (Lou’s grubby old hand falling down on the wooden table with a thud).

We were twenty-one years young and on holidays from either a job in advertising or not yet having a job in advertising, and there were girls and waves, and sand, and scorpions, and it was all a joyride so we didn’t really think about that. Well, to be honest, not much could go wrong - another day, like groundhog day, would be more or less the same, always better and better and better. And the shrinking, melting map - warmer and warmer and warmer.

The worst that could happen, we knew, was the police coming in and chasing us away from the dunes (because it was both military grounds and a national park at the same time). But that wasn’t that bad, after all, it was police in paradise, and we felt so much love for them as we did for the scorpios and the snakes and it was just impossible for them to not love us back.

Well, hen one day it happened. It was after I woke up with her, for the first time in two weeks sleeping in an actual bed, but more importantly for the first time in perhaps a year sleeping with a warm body next to my heart, next to me, in my hands, falling asleep with my lip still in her teeth. I woke up in the morning and having the bare level of awareness of my state, that I must stink and will not be fun to be around in the morning (although the fresh air made hangovers impossible - what can I say, it was paradise), I decided to go back to the our camp on the dunes and sleep off the night in a hammock I usually inhabited.

There were usually some locals (working in restaurants and the shops I stole flip-flops from) who like devils crawled out in the night and tried to party with the twenty-one year old us, drinking our booze and smoking our smokes, so when the white-poloed guy woke me up like bad sunrise saying ‘Police, wake up, police’, in sly english and a broken smile, my instinctive reaction was to reply with a classic ‘Shut the fuck up, you’re not police’, but after seeing one of them who definitely was police, with a uniform and gun and all, I complied with their request for my ID and let them write me a pink slip of paper demanding a fine so astronomic that none of them could not possibly believe I’d actually pay it. A younger policeman (also not uniformed) asked me what happened to my neck and, explaining a bruise that could only look like a love bite (and indeed it was), I replied that I was bitten by a wild animal (and indeed I was). He said that with that bruise-like love bite and a half-unbuttoned shirt I looked like a ‘star, rock star, you know’, and we both laughed, and I decided none of it was that bad after all. He looked like a ‘star, rock star, you know’, as well, slightly unfashionable but at the same time completely incredible in bluish sunglasses, a pink polo shirt and slightly silver but naturally black hair. In Victoria, the snake, too, was quite handsome, and what he ruined, at the end of the day, was only an hour of my sleep.

I met Lou from the restaurant - he saw some creature, and its wretched work, destroying his restaurant, but his bright, half-blind, all-seeing eyes burned with nothing but love. And mine, slowly but surely, started to shimmer with it too. The days, or the same day, grew brighter and brighter, and the nights drunker and drunker and the driving drunk on the beach got faster and faster, and more and more people fitting into one car, with no winding-road end in sight.

There was no hangover in Victoria, but going anywhere in the morning was especially difficult, as if the gravitational force doubled, or thriced, or quadrupled.

Stone, who had an admirable ability to make contact with any kind of an alien species of a person (that I really envied), found himself one night in a conversation with a russian maths student (the Russian started university well before the usual age, he was like 17), and when the next day we asked what the two talked about Stone only said ‘I think we are a week away from merging the theory of relativity with quantum mechanics. But give me another bottle and it will be one day.’

The Russian, Stone told us, was one of the ‘exceptionally intelligent’ ones (which Stone, had the habit of identifying and cataloguing into his set of people ‘worth talking to’). The Russian was younger than us - perhaps sixteen or seventeen, as I mentioned which really gave everything he said an additional benefit of seemingly prodigy-like, but also made Stone wonder whether he was a kind of a father-figure to the exceptionally intelligent maths student, that considering leading Stone to the two days later declaration that it was undoable, stemming from Stone’s own desire to redeem his father’s abusive absence et cetera et cetera.

The Russian was so socially inept, that even I was doing quite well (it was not superior intelligence, that barred me from connecting with others, as Stone asserted). A prodigy, the Russian spoke not just maths and Einstein, but quite good english, french (from my limited knowledge I could confirm also quite good), spanish and bulgarian (which I had absolutely no idea about but he sounded possessed and speaking in tongues when he presented his abilities to us). He could play giftedly most instruments you could think of, but playing, he said, never really excited him. He was one of those kids who know and can do so much they would really rather not do it at all.

Because of our groups’ incidental and unexpected but intense interactions with girls, the Russian treated us with an unjustified reverence, but it was not any kind of envy, with a mind like that you don’t really envy anything except being able to rest from what’s in your head and for once have a good night’s sleep. There is a scene in the movie Beautiful Mind where the main character, a schizophrenic, lays out to a girl he likes, very systematically, astrophysically like, why she should sleep with him. I bet that’s what the Russian would do too in the future.

There is another scene in a movie - Interstellar where a group of astronauts looking for humanity’s potential new home (the map contracting, the world getting small since the year ‘00, now twenty-one, then ‘42 then ‘63, warmer and warmer and warmer), the group of astronauts lands on a planet, of constant, unending sea, sees in the distance what they think is the great mountains of a new found land. After a couple of minutes of advancing towards the mountains, Matthew Mcconaughey says in hollywood style ‘these are not mountains. These are waves’ and the four astronauts have to flee the slowly approaching catastrophic demise of the wave, which, due to a fucked-up gravity on the planet, rose to that catastrophic height.

At six AM, after one of the exceptionally drunk nights, with the sun already in full swing, and the alcoholic gravity fucked-up in their heads, Stone and J went to catch a wave bigger than at any time of the day.

While I was sleeping off the night in the hammock, with God knows what dreams, or maybe even no dreams at all, and P-G tossing and turning in the tent, and Stone and J surfing the morning wave, the Russian sat solemnly and alone on the sunrise beach and looked up at the starless sky, wiped clean by one gigantic white star which at that point (he knew, we didn’t know) was so big and close to the contracting map that it sucked out some of the time and some of the space from the air, making the tide rise more than at any time of the day. He knew why that was and we didn’t know but we were looking at the same thing, the earth getting warmer and warmer and warmer, and the wave growing higher and higher and

And we would sometimes go away from Victoria, to a nearby town where the waves were always bigger and we marvelled at how they whip-cracked, splash-fell and rocked against the concrete-lined shore and drowned the air underneath with all their might, worked it into white foam. He knew and we didn’t, and while we lay down with girls looking into the stars and talking about constellations (only to then laugh about how drunk and absurd it is to think three stars can possibly represent the shape of a great bear or big dipper or any kind of stupid shit like that), The Russian tried to crack the code written in the stars. Looking for a new home for us. The four of us walked the shore and wondered about the origin of colorful pebbles spat out by the lapping magnificent waves, and he could probably tell us everything about each of them, trace lines from each falling star to each stone we cast mindlessly into the sea.

He could explain the shifting realities when the morning came, and why, at seventeen, you have to do certain things and not the others, and now, too, why we did all those things, why we worked in psychedelic factories and sung our hearts out to the bass of the speaker. Why we ran after girls beach-length and back, why we hitchhiked to Lou’s restaurant, why we came to Victoria in the first place, why we had jobs in advertising, why we were twenty-one, but Stone was right about one thing - the Russian was ‘fundamentally alone’

There is another scene in Interstellar, the next one after the giant wave, where Matthew Mcconaughey comes back to the spaceship waiting in the orbit of a water-mountain-these-are-not-mountains planet, discovers that time, tied with an invisible string to the fucked-up gravity) passes differently on the surface of the planet, in its orbit, and in general completely differently back on the contracting earth’s map where he left his children. How old were at the time he left in that movie - I can’t remember, let’s say twenty-one. Having spent only half an hour on the surface, he now plays the received messages from back home and sees his children’s lifetimes growing older and older and older and finally sees them surpassing them in age. He breaks down in tears and I suppose you could say he, too, was ‘fundamentally alone’

The Russian, Stone told us, was taught privately by a tutor who’s line of mathematical origin could be traced all the way to Gauss or someone. He could speak Einstein, french and spanish, and although his tongue got tied in human conversations, one day, as we drank beer on a small patch of grass in front of the local hotel, he proclaimed there was something very important we wanted to tell us. Concluding that the Russian was most definitely possessed by something (you could tell when he spoke bulgarian), we all decided listening would do no harm but at worst would be so incredible that we would not believe it.

‘You guys are now young and strong and you surf and all, but seriously, you have to do sports’, he began, ‘I don’t mean just any sport but something that really puts weight on your muscles. Like rowing or pumping on the bench, you have to train and now prepare for the rest of your life. And cardio, too, it will save you from heart disease and such.’ - and you can imagine mine, our surprise and feeling of absurdity that a being like that was uttering sentences such as these at that moment.

And that was it, the only normal set of words he ever uttered in front of us, which in his mouth was not normal at all - this man, trained by Gauss himself, had one recommendation to us and it was to do sports because it will help us to stay healthy in the future.

In space, the state of weightlessness makes the unused muscles grow weak, and the astronauts have to use the special gym machines installed on their spaceship so that their bodies don’t entropy, and heart is a muscle, too, I think, and I wondered, briefly, after what the Russian told us, if it too can die with no gravity. And it seems that time is a muscle too. It contracts and then it unfolds, it squeezes and releases and lets you breathe and suffocates, and ultimately things seem neither good nor bad but just what they ended up being. Time can definitely die away and fall from you like a dead leaf. Or it can end up a pretty stone under the feet of a giant wave. You don’t feel how it squeezes and unfolds, how it lays you down in a warm bed in the arms of someone you didn’t ever know but who reminds you of everything.

Matthew Mcconaughey - seeing messages from the future, past, present, now, never, always, and breaking down into tears, his heart breaking from weightlessness.

I was twenty one and I knew what it meant.

And in a year I would be twenty two, and in another year twenty three, and in three years twenty four. And the astrology girls, going with us skinny dipping in the midnight water, they will disappear somewhere under the waves and start slowly fading away from our lives like an unused muscle.

J loved quoting this one scene from Matthew Mcconaughey's first movie:

‘You know what I love most about college girls? I get older - they stay the sameeeee age’

And each time he said it, he laughed with the greatest, purest laughter you could find on this now planet.

‘And I got caught one time’

‘For what?’

‘Well, maybe two, but only one time involved the police. Second time. And that was me trying to steal an album, well, it was called Steal This Album’ - I was lying, although I did also steal that album, but having trouble with the police was for an attempted theft of headphones though that didn’t sound as sexy. And for some reason which made me feel real good I was flirting with the most beautiful girl under the good sun by us recounting our thefts both real or invented.

We both quickly settled that we had some borderline immoral thread running through our veins but drew the line at actually killing someone. We were rich and young enough to say those things and be all sexy about it. We knew we didn’t have to steal but arranged we should do it together and some point (‘ok, why not tomorrow?’) and it was beer first, and then flip flops the next and then another day a pink swimming mattress from the backseat of some rich and young and abandoned rented cabrio. And we took it swimming, drunkenly in the night. Rich and young, and full of stars.

We stepped into the calm sea, small waves, shallow, and took off our clothes, most of them, and took our pink stolen mattress against the waves, her covering small breasts with only her hands, our sociopathic personalities meeting somewhere under ridiculous notions of astrology. We kissed, and that was that.

The mattress lay once again abandoned (has someone left the rented cabrio just as we left the shore?) where our friends would say it was ridiculous to steal it. We only stopped kissing when she said we have to look for the damn pink abandoned thing (apparently it was rented by one of her friends) after which we dived deep into the shallow sea.

I remembered all those things other than sex best. The kiss in the sea. The conversation about stealing shit, the hand covering breasts. And after sex, the interruptions of it by my taking sips from a big bottle of booze, and playing chess on the rooftop of the place we stole from.

‘And I got caught one time’

‘For what?’

‘Stealing mattresses, and flip flops, and beer, but it was good, the time I did treated me well’

‘How long were you in for?’

‘Hmm I don’t know, around eight decades’

‘Woah, how old were you when you got caught?’

‘Like, twenty-one’

‘Shit, but you say it was good?’

‘Yeah. It was good life’

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agentrouka-blog · 4 years ago

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Dany chapters had wolves imaginary. Like she heard wolf howling in adwd n felt lonely n hungry. Do you think wolves are negative commotion in Dany chapters?

2) What are your opinions on wolves mention in Dany chapters?

and

3) People think wolves are positive in Dany chapters when she heard wolf howling n feel sad. They forget that the lines come after Dany thinking of betrayal. Do you think wolves have negative impact in her chapters?

Hi, wolf anon(s)!

I am positive that smarter people than me have written extensively about wolf imagery in Dany’s chapters. If someone has a link at hand, I would be grateful!

But I checked and it’s only 13 mentions in the books for Dany. That’s not too much.

She buys sausages in at Vaes Dothrak that bother her bloodriders but not her wolfing handmaids:

Delighted with her discovery, Dany insisted the others join her for a sausage. Her handmaids wolfed theirs down giggling and grinning, though the men of her khas sniffed at the grilled meat suspiciously. "They taste different than I remember," Dany said after her first few bites. (AGOT, Daenerys VI)

She goes into labor during Drogo’s blood magic ceremony. No good things happen in that tent.

Inside the tent the shapes were dancing, circling the brazier and the bloody bath, dark against the sandsilk, and some did not look human. She glimpsed the shadow of a great wolf, and another like a man wreathed in flames. (AGOT, Daenerys VIII)

Stepping into the flames at Drogo’s pyre:

The flames were so beautiful, the loveliest things she had ever seen, each one a sorcerer robed in yellow and orange and scarlet, swirling long smoky cloaks. She saw crimson firelions and great yellow serpents and unicorns made of pale blue flame; she saw fish and foxes and monsters, wolves and bright birds and flowering trees, each more beautiful than the last. She saw a horse, a great grey stallion limned in smoke, its flowing mane a nimbus of blue flame. Yes, my love, my sun-and-stars, yes, mount now, ride now. (AGOT, Daenerys X)

The outer wall of Qarth, followed by war scenes (middle wall) which do not faze Dany, and sex scenes (inner wall) which do faze her:

Dany took the warlock's words well salted, but the magnificence of the great city was not to be denied. Three thick walls encircled Qarth, elaborately carved. The outer was red sandstone, thirty feet high and decorated with animals: snakes slithering, kites flying, fish swimming, intermingled with wolves of the red waste and striped zorses and monstrous elephants. (ACOK, Daenerys II)

A vision in the House of the Undying, running from the specter of a mute crowned wolf:

In a throne above them sat a dead man with the head of a wolf. He wore an iron crown and held a leg of lamb in one hand as a king might hold a scepter, and his eyes followed Dany with mute appeal.

She fled from him, but only as far as the next open door. (ACOK, Daenerys IV)

A story of Unsullied v. Dothraki. Wolves and crows dine together on the remains of a horse-based, defeated army.

"By the time the Unsullied reached the city the sun had set. Crows and wolves were feasting beneath the walls on what remained of the Qohorik heavy horse. The Bright Banners and Second Sons had fled, as sellswords are wont to do in the face of hopeless odds. (ASOS, Daenerys I)

Dany blaming wolves for missing sheep:

"Men make fires. Men cook mutton. Burnt bones prove nothing. Brown Ben says there are red wolves in the hills outside the city, and jackals and wild dogs. Must we pay good silver for every lamb that goes astray between Yunkai and the Skahazadhan?" (ADWD, Daenerys I)

They also want to blame Hazzea’s death on a wolf:

"Men will ask," the grieving father had said. "They will ask me where Hazzea is and how she died."

"She died of a snakebite," Reznak mo Reznak insisted. "A ravening wolf carried her off. A sudden sickness took her. Tell them what you will, but never speak of dragons." (ADWD, Daenerys II)

Wishing her allies were a bit more vicious:

And you will have the friendship of Lhazar.” Daario won that for me, for all that it is worth. “The Lamb Men. Would that lambs had teeth.” “That would make the wolves more cautious, no doubt.” That made her laugh. (ADWD, Daenerys V)

The fighting pits. Six wolves defeated by an elephant make food for the hungry.

Beasts were still allowed, though. Dany watched an elephant make short work of a pack of six red wolves. Next a bull was set against a bear in a bloody battle that left both animals torn and dying. "The flesh is not wasted," said Hizdahr. "The butchers use the carcasses to make a healthful stew for the hungry. Any man who presents himself at the Gates of Fate may have a bowl."

"A good law," Dany said. You have so few of them. "We must make certain that this tradition is continued." (ADWD, Daenerys IX)

Who is hungry? Someone who is also wondering about who tried to poison her:

Poison. It had to be poison. The honeyed locusts. Hizdahr urged them on me, but Belwas ate them all. She had made Hizdahr her king, taken him into her bed, opened the fighting pits for him, he had no reason to want her dead. Yet who else could it have been? Reznak, her perfumed seneschal? The Yunkai'i? The Sons of the Harpy?

Off in the distance, a wolf howled. The sound made her feel sad and lonely, but no less hungry. As the moon rose above the grasslands, Dany slipped at last into a restless sleep. (ADWD, Daenerys X)

From eating wolves to food for wolves:

"My friend," she said aloud. "If I stay close to my friend I won't get lost." She would have slept beside the water if she dared, but there were animals who came down to the stream to drink at night. She had seen their tracks. Dany would make a poor meal for a wolf or lion, but even a poor meal was better than none. (ADWD, Daenerys X)

And, finally, between retching and dysentery, she expects to share the fate of that Qohorik heavy horse:

My flesh will feed the wolves and carrion crows, she thought sadly, and worms will burrow through my womb. Her eyes went back to Dragonstone. It looked smaller. She could see smoke rising from its wind-carved summit, miles away. Drogon has returned from hunting. (ADWD, Daenerys X)

Well. I think, without adding anything further, the quotes speak for themselves, don’t they? Enemies, scapegoats, eat or be eaten. Things to run from, things that harm her, things that poison. Beautiful exactly once: when the flames engulf her, when Drogo rides again.

#asoiaf #daenerys targaryen #wolf imagery #foreshadowing #enemies

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carriagelamp · 4 years ago

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November 2020: A Months of Familiarity

This November ended up being a month of me either rereading old favourites, exploring new books by favourite authors, or a mix of both.

…Be prepared for so much Terry Prachett, I found his audiobooks on Libby last month and since that I’ve been unstoppable.

The Amazing Maurice and his Educated Rodents

The first of my Terry Practhett books to mention! I chose to include this one on my list because it’s a beautiful stand alone novel, perfect to read if you’ve never touched on of Pratchett’s works before, and is often overlooked.

The book is about Maurice, an “amazing” cat by his own admission, who has teamed up with a stupid boy and his very own plague of rats. The moneymaking scheme is simple: set the rats loose on a town and after causing a panic let the boy stroll in and offer to play his pipe and lead them away… for a fee. This is working well, until Maurice, the boy, and the rats arrive in the town Bad Blintz. Here the rats are beginning to question the morality of their work, the boy gets entangled with a young, mischievous local girl, and they’re all shocked to find out that the town already has a real rat infestation… or so the rat catchers claim. Things quickly turn sinister and deadly as the group is forced to confront not only the cruelty of humanity, but something even more sinister living in the small, dark, hidden place of the town.

This is a YA book, unlike some of Pratchett’s other novels, so it’s a quick, fun read, while still having all of his dry wit and heavy, complicated thoughts about society, morality, belief, and what it means to be a person. It’s a genuine delight to see Maurice and the rats, recently made sentient by wizards’ rubbish, struggle to come to terms with who they were and who they are now.

Black Pearl Ponies: Red Star & Wildflower

Y’all it ain’t a secret at this point that I enjoy a stupid horse girl book, right? I picked up the first two books of the Black Pearl Ponies books from the library on a whim and they were basically what they promised. Girl lives with family on ranch, father helps train horses, girl goes on pony adventures with ponies. A particular focus is given to horse welfare and care. Very mediocre but a nice thoughtless covid read if you, like me, get a craving for animals books written for seven year olds from time to time. Plus this comes with the added humour of it being written, as far as I can tell, by a British author who thinks all Americans are stetson wearing cowboys which I find unreasonably funny.

Crenshaw

I love Katherine Applegate’s work; I read the Endling series earlier this year and they are overwhelmingly good. Crenshaw was also an enjoyable read, though not my favourite by her. It read a little bit like a book I read last fall, No Fixed Address, which was also a very good read though not my usual genre. Crenshaw is about a boy, Jackson, whose family, though close-knit and loving, is experiencing financial difficulties and struggle with food scarcity, homelessness, and all the instability and stress that results from this. During this tumultuous time, Jackson is surprised by the reappearance of a tall, bipedal, snarky cat — Crenshaw, his old imaginary friend. This is a charming book that blends genuine, real world hardships with whimsy and magical realism.

The Enemy Above: A Novel of WWII

Since it was Rememberance Day this month, I decided to pick up a holocaust novel. This book is about 12-year-old Anton, a young Jewish boy who finds himself fleeing from his Polish farm in the middle of the night with his old grandma when a German raiding party that attacks their village in an effort to make the countryside “judenfrei”. The book is, perhaps, not the most well-fleshed out, but it’s fast-paced and exciting for a child/YA audience that’s being introduced to holocaust literature, without trying to downplay the absolutely horror and brutality of the Nazis. It manages to strike a satisfying balance between fear, tragedy, and hope.

“Everything he had heard was true. He was just a twelve-year-old boy and yet they hunted him. He had broken no laws, done nothing wrong. He was simply born Jewish. How could anyone want to kill him for it?”

Gregor the Overlander

Somehow I never knew that Suzanne Collins wrote anything other than The Hunger Games? I stumbled across this series at a used bookstore and was first taken by the cover and then shocked when I realized I recognized the author’s name. Well The Hunger Games was such a good read, how could I not pick up a book with people riding on a giant fucking bat?

Such a good choice. I’m almost done book two and bought book three today after work. It is exactly the sort of low fantasy that I live for, when a fantasy world lives so close to the real world that you can practically touch it. I also love the fact that while all the wild fantastical elements are happening, you still have the main character taking care of his toddler sister the whole time. It’s at times charming, hilarious, and nerve-wracking!

It’s about Gregor, a normal kid who’s doing his best to help his mom take care of his two younger siblings ever since his father disappeared years ago. Gregor expected months of boredom when he agrees to stay home over the summer instead of going to camp like his sister in order to watch his baby sister, Boots, and their grandma while his mom is at work. He never could have expected that a simple trip to the apartment’s laundry room would lead to both him and Boots tumbling miles beneath the earth into the pitch black Underland, a place filled with giant rats and bugs and people with translucent skin who fly through the massive caverns on huge bats. He also could have never expected that he would get wrapped up in a deadly prophecy that would force him to travel into distant, dark lands into the waiting claws of an overwhelming enemy.

Kings, Queens, and In-Between

A Canadian queer novel that I’ve seen trumpeted everywhere. Libraries, classrooms, bookstore, this book got so much hype (and has such a pleasing cover) that I had to get my hands on it. Now, I’ve got to admit that it’s not really my genre; I don’t love realistic fiction. But that being said, it’s a fun, heart-warming, queer romp through that explores gender, sexuality, love, family, friendship… there’s a lot of lovable, quirky, complicated characters that get thrown together in unexpected ways at a local summer carnival. While there’s tension and misunderstandings and mistakes, this is overall a very optimistic and loving novel, and would be a great read if you want a queer novel that reads like cotton candy.

Love, The Tiger

This book is the graphic novel equivalent of a nature documentary. There’s no text, but you follow a day in the life of a tiger as it moves through the jungle on the quest for food. The art is honestly beyond outstanding, and though it’s a really quick read it is so very worth it. I’ve also read Love, The Lion in this series (also good, though a bit more confusing imho) as well as one of the books from his other series Little Tails which is still very nature and education based, though for a slightly younger audience.

Making Money

More Pratchett! Making Money was the first Discworld book I ever read, and it’s one of my most reread ones — it’s an ultimate comfort read! This is technically the sequel to Going Postal (another book I reread this month), in which conman Moist Von Lipwig is saved from a rightful death at the noose in exchange for agreeing to work for the city. Going Postal sees Moist narrowly dodging death in many varied forms as he tries to get the Anhk-Morpork postal service back on its feet and get the drifts of dead, whispering letters moving again. In Making Money things at the post office have become… too easy. Moist is bored, restless, until he finds himself thrust into a new job: head of the Royal Mint. There he has been given not only charge of the biggest bank in Anhk-Morpork, but also a dog with a price on its head, a lethal family with all the money in the world out for his blood, and the fear that his secret past life may be on the verge of being exposed to everyone, all while he’s desperately trying to make money…

The Moist series is honestly an example of Pratchett at his absolute best imo, and the amount of humour, wit, adventure, and scathing commentary he can build around a bank is outstanding. Cannot recommend enough.

The One And Only Ivan

Another book I’ve been hearing everyone talk about, as well as another Katherine Applegate book. It’s been on my radar for a while, but with the sequel and a movie coming out, it had everything at a fever pitch and I finally picked it up. Fantastic read, I definitely enjoyed it more than Crenshaw. This book was based off the true story of Ivan, a gorilla taken from his home in the jungle and sold to the owner of a mall, where he spent years of his life growing from child to adult silverback in a small, concrete enclosure. In this fictionalized version, everything changes for Ivan and his friends, when a new baby elephant is bought to help revitalize the mall attractions and Ivan makes a promise he doesn’t know how to keep: to protect this baby, and keep her from living the life Ivan and his friends were forced to. This book made me very emotional. Applegate’s picture book that goes along with it is also a great companion read.

Ranma ½

I realized that our library had the 2-in-1 editions of Ranma ½ and honestly that was it for me. This has been a favourite series of mine since I was in middle school and realized that the creator of Inuyasha had written other things. It is unapologetically ridiculous and larger-than-life and you have to love the shameless joy it has at being ludicrous. It does start to feel a little repetitive the further into the series you go, but at the moment, with covid, I find I have a huge tolerance for rereading slightly repetitive things so long as they make me happy. And boy howdy does the vaguely queer undertones, endless pining, and relentless slapstick of Ranma ½ make me happy. This is classic manga y’all and if you’ve never read it you should!

The basic premise, for anyone that doesn’t is that of an bonkers martial arts comedy. It follows Ranma and his father who, while training in China, fell into cursed springs. Each spring has the tragic legend of a person or animal who drowned in it, and if someone falls in they inevitably turn into that creature any time they’re doused in cold water. Ranma had the misfortune of falling into “The Spring of Drowned Girl” and, indeed, turns into a girl anytime he’s hit with cold water. Things continue to spiral out of control when Ranma meets his arranged fiancée, Akane, who is as exasperated by this situation as Ranma. Both would rather be fighting people than worrying about things like romance. And don’t worry, there is lots and lots and lots and lots of some of the goofiest martial arts fights that you can imagine for a bunch of high schoolers.

Through the Woods

A beautiful and creepy Canadian graphic novel. I honestly really don’t even know how to describe it in a way that does it justice. It’s a collection of short horror stories, with beautiful, flowing art style that draws you in and sends chills down your spine. I’ll let the art doing the talk, and honestly beg you to go find a way to read this graphic novel:

The Witch’s Vacuum Cleaner: And Other Stories

The last Terry Pratchett book on my list (though shout out to the others I’ve listened to this month: Wee Free Men, Hat Full of Sky, Men At Arms, and Snuff) and one that I actually physically, rather than listening to the audiobook. I included this one because unlike the others, this was a Pratchett book I had never read before. It collects a number of Pratchett’s short stories that had been written for children over a number of years. These weren’t necessarily my favourite examples of Pratchett’s writing (I prefer his longer work that can really dive into social issues) but it was such a quick, easy, fun read that you can’t really help but be charmed by it. I liked the stories that took place in “the wild wild west (of Wales)” in particular.

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taiblogcomics · 4 years ago

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Tim’s Suicide Pact

Hey there, arson as an all-purpose solution. The cold weather continues. The bad comics also continue. Seems appropriate for January, doesn't it~?

Here's the cover:

...What the hell is this cover? No, really. Like, just give it a look. With the (R)equiem logo and the shot of Damian's costume, you think this is supposed to be a sad moment. But what is this expression on Tim Drake's face? ...Did Tim kill Damian? That's the only conclusion I can draw from that demented smirk! Which, I think would be appropriate for the dramatic lightning flash. I mean, if Tim murdered Damian, this might end up being my favourite issue~

So this place apparently takes place after an event in Batman Inc. #8, where Damian died. Every Robin gets a turn! I never read that series and Damian was always a little shit, so I don't really care. But yes, once again, here's an issue of Titans that's not allowed to stand on its own and requires supplementary reading. Like, of course show Tim being affected by Damian's death, I'm not saying that. But, like... it flows from that story. It doesn't flow from the story of the previous issue. Reading just Teen Titans like I am here shows how weak it is as a standalone series.

Anyways, Tim's down in the Batcave, sitting in the Batmobile, and having himself a cry. He starts imagining Damian's down with him, taunting him like the little shit he is. Essentially, Tim feels guilty that Batman's biological son is the one who died, while he, a mere adopted boy, is still alive. He accuses the Damian hallucination of being too young, claiming he started the Titans so that kids could look out for each other. And he hugs the imaginary Damian.

That's when Alfred walks in, Finding Tim kneeling on the floor hugging the empty air. Alfred gently asks if he's ready to come upstairs, and suggests he talk to the rest of the Titans. Tim's a little hesitant, since they don't even know his real name. Alfred says some things are more important than secrets. Tim gives Alfred a hug too. This is actually a really good scene, and I like it.

This cuts ahead to a week later, back on the Titans Boat, where the rest of the group is hanging out. And suddenly Superboy shows up! I guess whatever story arc was going on in his own series is done, so the team can have him back now. Hey, here's a bit of trivia: Superboy's solo series actually lasted a whole four issues longer than this series will. That's wild. Anyway, the rest of the team is pissed that Superboy just shows up, flying and wearing his Tron suit. That's not very secret-identity-friendly of you, Superboy.

Tim welcomes Superboy back, and the whole team gathers in his war-room. See, Tim's decided that it's time to stop messing around and just collect all the metahuman teens that are in trouble. We're starting with this girl Tabitha Munse. Tabs here is being held in conscription by the government at Belle Reve prison. Oh boy, you know what that means, right~? If you guessed it means another damn crossover, you're right! We get a single panel of someone infiltrating the U.N. to steal information on Solstice for apparently sinister reasons, and then we crash right into the crossover~

You should probably be aware of this by now if you've read this blog long enough, but in case you aren't, Belle Reve is the home of the Suicide Squad. We've talked about them once or twice on the blog, but it's been a while, especially for this incarnation of the team. This is back when they still had King Shark as a regular member, though the captions mistakenly name him "Killer Shark" here. Superboy punches him out, as a nod to when the two were enemies back in the '90s and Superboy used to operate out of Hawaii. The only other members of the Squad right now are Harley Quinn and Deadshot. This is still Harley's original New 52 outfit with the corset and oversaturated pigtails, and oh boy, I did not miss it~

While the rest of the group is fighting the Squad (which might be kind of a confusing sentence), Tim sneaks in to confront Amanda Waller directly. Tim notes that he knows all about Agent Lance, since he was raised by Batman and can spot someone following him. This is all relayed to Waller with the same sinister, heavily shadowed expression on Tim's face as on the cover. Tim says he's here to cut a deal, and soon the fight is called off. The teams part, and the Titans walk away very confused. See, there never really was a Tabitha to save. Tim says he'll tell them what it was all about for real when they get home.

But before the issue ends, let's follow up on another plot hook. Remember that white-haired guy who was using his brain powers to kill off the coffee shop? Yeah, he's still wandering around. He almost gets run over by a taxicab, and the cabbie yells at him. The guy (I'll spoil it, he's the New 52 version of Psimon) uses his powers to kill him too. Suddenly someone screams, and Psimon says he can explain. But actually, they haven't noticed the dead cabbie at all. Instead, what they're screaming at is Trigon the Terrible riding through the sky above them on a two-headed horse. ...Okay, comic, to be fair, I am interested enough to see where that goes~

While not as bad as last time, this issue continues to suffer from the same problems. Everything feels like setup for future events or crossovers. It starts with continuing a plothook from one series, then the bulk of the issue is a crossover with another series (which isn’t even mentioned on the cover, so fans who liked that other series could read about it), and the reason why the crossover happened isn’t revealed in the issue! And King Shark didn’t even get to say anything funny! We might as well just rename the comic “Plot Hooks: The Series”, since that’s all they seem interested in doing with it.

#comics #reviews #Teen Titans #Taiblog

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amphany · 6 years ago

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Why's your Sumia fat? That poor pegasus. Have you ever seen champion female horse riders? Skinny and limber.

I’d be happy to explain!

1) If you read my explanation below the image *cough cough* you’ll see that she was a bit of a random choice. I could have picked any lady to be in her place, eg. a mage who you could argue doesn’t work out as much. I just thought Sumia looked cute a little chubby

2) I don’t think she is “fat” to be honest! She just doesn’t have a flat stomach, like almost all women! I based her body type on pictures I could find of the statistically average American woman. It’s a bit ridiculous that women without flat, toned stomachs are never ever shown in video games as main characters and it’s important for people to have positive representation! This article was an inspiration.

3) So as a Pegasus rider, you’d want to have as little weight as possible, no? So she must be skinny? Well actually, it turns out it’s a fantasy game and Pegasus don’t actually exist! Her Pegasus was able to carry Sumia and Chrom in the game and still fly, so why would an extra 10-20 pounds be an issue? Is is really too far-fetched for a non-flat stomached woman to be able to ride an imaginary flying horse in a fantasy game with magic and dragons?

And besides… if you’re worried about realism in Fire Emblem games you must absolutely hate Camilla’s boobs being out in her armour, right? Her vital organs are exposed! The very thing armour has been worn throughout all human history to protect! Because if not, maybe it was never realism you were concerned about?

#ohhhh boy I did not expect for so many people to get butt-hurt about this #fire emblem #fire emblem sumia #fire emblem awakening #fe sumia #sumia #fe #body positivity #feminism #my sketch #Anonymous #sumiia

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histoireettralala · 5 years ago

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Hi! Here’s part 2 of the Blair Witch Project AU :)

You can find Part 1 here.

*************

The drive to the trailhead Davout has marked on their map is short, and they step out of the car in great spirits. The weather is perfect, they have everything they could need for the hike, and the landscape is a pleasure to the eye.

Murat is already heading toward the woods, a spring in his step and a beaming smile on his face, while Lannes chooses his camera settings and Ney unfolds the map.

"Come back", Ney calls - of course they already need him to herd them, he tiredly muses.

They both turn to him with questioning faces.

Ney gestures to the map.

"Let's plan our journey for today, guys, " he points to the x he had written on his professional hiking map, based on Davout's hand drawn map (you could trust the man to be precise to a fault). "We can probably reach our end goal in four days, see ? Following the river ..."

"Yeah, fine, great," Murat interjects, barely keeping himself from rolling his eyes, " we don't need that.

- How hard can it be ?" Lannes adds. "Davout obviously wasn't looking for it and yet he found it. And you know how he is.

- Meticulous, " Ney grumbles under his breath, "unlike you two.

- No frills, to the point, " Lannes corrects. "Can you see him aimlessly wandering in the woods just for the fun of it ?"

(Actually, Ney can. He had heard from Aglaé how some ladies of her social circle had been surprised to find the notoriously grim man on his knees in his garden, hands in the soil, digging for weeds, or patiently drawing small birds out of the bushes... But he knows this information wouldn't change his companions' minds. Lannes genuinely doesn't care, and Murat "doesn't believe in maps anyway", whatever that means.)

Ney sighs.

"What do you propose ? Shall we just take off and hope for the best?"

The sarcasm is lost on them.

"Sure, " Lannes says, tilting his head toward the entrance of the trail.

Murat is off again, singing about horses, women, and those who get to ride them - for the love of God - and Lannes soon follows him, leaving Ney to sigh once more for good measure as he refolds his poor disdained map, and sets off after the dramatic duo.

As they enthusiastically romp between the trees, Lannes gleefully joining his voice to Murat's, Ney valiantly tries to squash his inevitable feeling of doom.

A handful of hours later they reach a peaceful creek (the one Ney has earmarked while preparing that journey, noting down every thing he could think of, trying to prevent everything that could go wrong, undoubtedly overcompensating for Murat and Lannes' carelessness) where they settle for lunch.

Murat dutifully texts Caroline while Lannes, camera in hand, explores their surroundings, wondering sotto voce about their end goal - what are we going to find, he says, and whatever had Davout run away like that can only be something major, what do you think it is ? - playing up their adventure to his imaginary audience.

Ney, leaning his back on a rock, closes his eyes and relaxes, enjoying the birds' trills and the sounds of the wind in the trees. It is a beautiful place, really, and so far ... He mentally crosses his fingers.

Next thing he knows is a cheery voice saying "... and here we can spot the famously shy Ney in the wild, chilling, why yes it's been known to happen" and he blinks to see Lannes' camera closing up on his face. Lannes hastily steps back to avoid Ney's hand swatting at the precious object (teasing Ney is always fun, but they need the camera to have proof of their findings).

Ney stands up, grumbling; he can't believe he let his guard down around those two.

"Enough dallying, " he snaps.

The afternoon hours fly by.

Murat and Lannes are exchanging theories about "the Mysterious Shack". Lannes, for some reason, is hooked on ghosts and elaborates a wild and poignant murder story. Murat's "explanations" flit around cursed gold, ancient local gods whose sacred place has been disturbed, and cryptids. The sun is going down when finally they both stop fantasizing aloud, and Lannes looks at him expectantly.

"So, what do you think ?"

I don't care and neither should you.

He grumbles and shakes his head.

"I think we should set camp and shut up, least we attract vengeful gods and their zombie armies, " he snarls.

"Aww, grumpy kitty."

It takes all of Ney's resilience (and his healthy respect for Caroline's abilities) to just ignore the idiot and not deck him.

When they're all fed, watered, and tucked in their sleeping bags, Lannes and Murat fall asleep almost instantly. Ney ponders on life, friendship, and karma.

He's got a bad feeling about this.

He must have fallen asleep in spite of Lannes and Murat's snoring (really ? a pair of chainsaws) because the next thing he is aware of is the smell of coffee and the sounds of birds singing their little hearts out.

The bad feeling hasn't gone away during the night. Ney sighs. Hello, anxiety, my old friend...

Then the vague foreboding turns into dread.

Hell no. No no no.

He can't find the map.

#Trifecta AU #Blair Witch Project AU #fiction #with @joachimnapoleon

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atinytokki · 5 years ago

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Walking in the Darkness

i. Kang Estate

“No, Mr. Yuma, my good sir. I’m afraid you are incorrect. While the latitude hook is the basic principle for most navigational tools, the astrolabe additionally relies on gravity so that you can calculate your position without seeing the horizon.”

Yeosang clucked his tongue gently at Mr. Yuma and promptly returned his nose to his book. The horse let out a content whinny from where he rested across from his human. “I’m glad you seem to remember now, Mr. Yuma,” Yeosang smiled at his companion, the horse staring back eagerly. “Now I have to catch up on calculating relative longitude. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that would you?”

Yeosang sighed and regarded his horse, who had begun chewing on the post of his stall. Yeosang’s eyes went wide and he rushed to grab Mr. Yuma’s harness and pull him back, pages of schoolwork flying. “Yuma!” He scolded, grasping the horse’s face and shaking it from side to side. “You’ll damage the wood and get it stuck in your teeth and I’ll get in trouble for it.”

Yuma let out a frustrated whinny and nosed Yeosang in the chest. Yeosang frowned. “You want to go out?” He didn’t expect a real answer, but it got him thinking once the question was out in the air. “If I don’t finish my assignment, you know I’ll get in trouble with Father.”

Yuma made a huffing sound and nuzzled Yeosang’s face. Yeosang giggled at the sensation and pushed the long snout away. That was all it took to convince him. “Alright, alright. A quick jaunt and we come back so I can finish.”

Without even saddling his steed up, Yeosang opened the stall gate and swung himself onto Yuma’s back, urging him on out of the stables and towards the forest.

It took only a gentle squeeze with his thighs into the horse’s side and Yuma knew which way to go.

The grove wasn’t far from the Kang Family Estate, and Yeosang took to the wooded hills frequently for his stolen moments of tranquility and relative solitude. Relative because he had somehow acquired a number of animal friends.

Yeosang wasn’t sure what it was that attracted them, surely the host of creatures living in a wild area would flee from hoofbeats and humans, but at some point in time they had begun to emerge.

They had no quarrel with Yeosang and Yuma once it was clear that they meant no harm, and day by day the two became engrained in the landscape, just two more creatures playing their parts in the symbiotic chain of forest life.

Yeosang found solace in the birds, the butterflies, the deer, and even the occasional fox. He had never fit in at the schoolhouse, and sometimes the other boys said things to him that made him consider running away to this wooded paradise forever.

To the other students, Yeosang was an outcast for any number of reasons. They called him privileged pet, or damaged, or weak, or ugly. Yeosang raised an unconscious hand to the birthmark near his left eye. A few weeks ago, one of the bullies had poked at it and asked why he didn’t wash it away like the blemish it was.

Yeosang sighed and dismounted, leading Yuma the rest of the way to the sunny little clearing where he usually lazed the afternoon away.

It was hard enough to be poked and prodded and insulted for his looks. But there was one name that no one would dare call him to his face, though he knew it always circulated behind his back.

Mother-killer.

It choked Yeosang just to think about it.

No matter the lengths his father went to convince him it wasn’t his fault, the burdensome load of survivor’s guilt followed Yeosang everywhere.

His mother had died giving birth to him, and he had never known her. When his older sister was born, there were no complications. When Yeosang was born, despite the care of some of the best physicians in the country, his mother descended into a fit of convulsions and died a shocking death.

There was no evidence that anything was wrong with Yeosang, or that he had somehow caused his mother’s death. But people will talk.

Before the memory made Yeosang sick, he settled down in the grass and bid Yuma follow.

A small bird flew across the clearing towards them and settled on a branch near Yeosang’s head.

“Hello, Mr. Bluebird. What shall we play today?”

Eventually, he decided on playing king.

Yeosang had never met the royal family, but his father had. It was one of many special opportunities the Head Navigator of the Royal Navy was afforded, and Yeosang loved to hear about it.

“I’ll be king of all the forest animals, and the wood spirits and fairies. What should my first command be?”

A rabbit emerged from his burrow.

“What do you think, Mr. Rabbit?” Yeosang smiled at the soft creature before gasping in excitement. “Oh, I know! Let’s play war!”

For the next few hours, that is what he did. Swinging his stick around from atop his valiant steed, beheading imaginary enemies left and right until he tired of combat and went to lay by the stream and watch the clouds pass overhead.

The tolling of bells shook him from his daydream. The sun sat on the horizon, only a few minutes away from dipping beneath it, and Yeosang knew he had been gone too long.

He made his farewells and mounted Yuma, headed towards home and the clanging of the bells. As he neared the town, it became clear why the bells were pealing so vigorously. A regiment of Navy soldiers marched through the square, bringing a prisoner with them.

Even atop his horse, Yeosang had difficulty seeing through the crowd that had formed. He heard nervous whispers passed from person to person, and strained to hear them.

“It’s just a bandit from the south, what’s all the fuss?”

“Why would a lowly bandit need a Navy escort? Surely this is an infamous pirate.”

“Not just any pirate! That’s the Dread Pirate Eden!”

“Eden this far inland? And travelling north, from the looks of it?”

“I’ve seen the wanted posters. It’s Captain Eden, I’d bet my prize cow.”

“Was he caught here in town? Good heavens! Are our children safe?”

“You there!”

Yeosang startled before identifying the man who was addressing him. It was a commoner in the crowd who had spied the Navigator’s son on his horse.

“Go home. Nothing to see here.”

Yeosang nodded slowly and nudged Yuma to turn around and head for home. He wasn’t sure to what extent he could trust the gossip of the townspeople, but if they were correct...

A shiver went down Yeosang’s spine.

The dread pirate Eden— in his town.

The Kang Family Estate was a short ride from the town centre, and it was a beautiful well-kept mansion with equally well-kept grounds and gardens.

As Yeosang returned Yuma to his stall and picked up his wrinkled school pages off the ground, he heard a throat being cleared from the doorway.

It was Housekeeper Sohyun.

“Out riding in the woods, are we?”

Yeosang nodded wordlessly. There was no way around the truth. Clearly he had been out riding in the woods. Sohyun had probably seen him returning.

“Well, come on inside. Your father wants to speak with you.”

Yeosang suppressed a groan and followed her inside, with a glance at the content Yuma, free at least from overbearing parents in his stall.

Navigator Kang knew Yeosang frequently disappeared for hours on end, but never pushed him to explain why or where he was going. That much Yeosang appreciated. Which made this conversation all the more puzzling.

“Yeosang!” His father looked up from his books as soon as they entered the library. “Have you finished the work I assigned you?”

Straight for the kill.

“Not quite,” Yeosang admitted as soon as Sohyun had left them and closed the door behind her. He looked down at the pages in his hand. “I completed all the latitude exercises, but longitude... I’m just struggling with it. It doesn’t make sense.”

Yeosang was ashamed to admit this, even when there were only the two of them in the room. His father had very high expectations for him to follow in his footsteps, and Yeosang truly wanted to live up to and exceed those expectations. Navigating the distant Eastern seas was his dream for as long as he could remember, and his father had taught him the essentials on the side of his regular schoolwork.

But sometimes Yeosang hit a roadblock, and wasn’t sure he was cut out for the position.

“Come, let me have a look.”

Yeosang proceeded to the large oak desk where his father sat, and lay the papers in front of him, peeping over his shoulder to watch him as he explained how to solve the problem.

They were interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Come in.”

It was Sohyun, with a nervous expression on her face. “Soldiers have come to the house, sir. And an Admiral Kim would like to speak with you privately.”

Yeosang’s jaw dropped.

It was the men from the town, he was sure of it.

“Very well, thank you.” Yeosang’s father turned and smiled at him tiredly. “I’m quite sure it’s just a business meeting. You remember our goal for next year, don’t you?”

“Applications for apprenticeship,” Yeosang answered, taking his papers back as they were handed to him.

“That’s correct. I’d like you to continue working towards that goal, in the event that I must leave for a voyage.”

Yeosang couldn’t keep the frown off his face. He hated when his father left him alone in this squeaky clean, echoey house.

“Now, now, why the frown? I’m sure it won’t be anything severe. And perhaps I’ll leave you the key to the observatory, if I can trust you with that.”

That perked Yeosang up. The observatory was his favourite place on the grounds, and every visit his father allowed him was a treat.

Obediently, he left for his own bed chambers, but not without a glare over the balustrade at the small gathering of soldiers in the main hall. Soldiers in the house were always bad news.

A couple of hours of work later, Sohyun came in with the evening meal and the news that the Admiral and his men were still here and it would be best to remain in his room.

Yeosang had no objection to this, although after both the food and the work were finished, he was beginning to be bored.

What a shame to be hidden away in his bedchambers when the most notorious criminal of the era was only a quick horseback ride away, and the Admiral himself was in your mansion.

Yeosang slipped out of his chambers and quietly made his way back to the front staircase, curling up at the balcony and listening intently to the hushed conversation below.

“Whatever it was they said about him having no ties was clearly wrong. He’s back because he has a child to take care of.”

They were talking about the pirate.

Another voice countered the first, “There’s no proof of that! How do you know he wasn’t travelling north to recruit or something else?”

“He’s been seen multiple times with a young boy!” The first shot back with the evidence. “If he meant to recruit him, he would do it and then sail away again. But he returns frequently to this beach to meet this child— so I think it’s his son.”

“Eden settling down and having children!” Laughter broke out below. “Never something I imagined.”

Yeosang had to agree. Piracy didn’t seem like the type of lifestyle that was conducive to domesticity and, well, childrearing. Pirates even having children seemed ludicrous when faced with the vicious barbarians that pirates were reported to be.

Yeosang shivered with excitement. This was turning out to be quite exciting.

“And what’s more, I hear the Admiral is going to, well, compel the loathsome rat to reveal the location of his ship and his scumbag crew members. That’s why we’re here, to get the Head Navigator to help.”

“Oh, I thought we were here to hang the pirate savage.”

“No, you insufferable ninny. Why would we come all the way here just to kill him? We could have his whole crew.”

Yeosang’s smile was gone. So they were bringing Father with them on a voyage. He shuffled back to his chambers, unhappy with the new developments.

Two hours after his bedtime had come and gone, he was sitting at the window seat with his astrolabe when his father entered.

He was holding the observatory key.

Silently, Yeosang stood to accept it. “How long will you be gone?” He whispered, turning the key over in his hands and refusing to meet his father’s eye.

“I don’t know.”

Yeosang struggled to stop a tear from leaving his eye, and it defied him by slipping down his face anyway. He remained silent as it dripped to the floor.

His father pulled him in to his arms, resting a protective hand on his hair. “You’ll be alright while I’m gone, won’t you?”

Yeosang nodded against his father’s chest. He would have to be alright.

“I’ll come back to you as soon as I can. I’m promising you. But in the meantime, you’re the man of the house. I know you’ll make me proud.”

Again Yeosang nodded. He had managed before, and he could do it again.

“I’ll write your sister to make sure she’s nearby should anything happen,” his father said after a pause and began to pull away. Yeosang scrubbed away furiously at the evidence of tears and straightened. That was at least a comfort. Yeosang’s older sister was married and lived in a neighbouring town, but she could handle matters of the estate that Yeosang could not at twelve years old.

“Until next time?”

His father smiled sadly at him until he nodded and repeated, “Until next time.”

Yeosang fell asleep clutching the observatory key. The key itself was a promise, and Yeosang intended to keep his side.

...

A/N: Yep I’m late and it’s all because I was up last night writing theories and not posting this ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ what can you do. So just a quick heads up, this one is gonna be a bit sadder and darker than the others (as you maybe can already tell) because I’ll reference you back to All to Zero ch. 12 when Yeosang makes it clear why he doesn’t end up in the Navy. The boy has seen things. And this is the backstory in which those things happen so, be warned! Some time in the next few weeks, a new chapter for the main series and don’t forget voting is open! Thanks so much for reading, please leave a like and a reblog and a comment if you enjoyed <3 TTFN~

Summary | Masterlist | Next →

#ateez #ateez fanfiction #atzinc #atizeditors #ateeztreasures #ateez fanfic #atiny #ateez au #ateez yeosang #kang yeosang #walking in the darkness #tokki writes #walking in the darkness.i #ateez angst #ateez fluff

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thetypedwriter · 5 years ago

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The Scorpio Races Book Review

The Scorpio Races by Maggie Steifvater Book Review

Okay, let me start by saying one thing: I love Maggie Steifvater. I truly, completely, wholly do with my entire being. She is the queen of YA literature in my world of books, her along with Leigh Bardugo are my two favorite authors and I eat their books up like a bad addiction (aka red wine and cheetos).

Which is why, of course, it makes no sense that I waited so long to read The Scorpio Races. One of her only stand-alone novels, along with All the Crooked Saints, that was published in 2011 and it’s expectantly full of Steifvater goodness, namely, richly driven characters, magical yet odd descriptions, and figurative language that makes me want to speak only in poems and sing everything I say using explicitly her quotes.

This book was odd, but it was odd in the way that I’ve come to expect every Maggie creation to be, which is wonderfully imaginative, creatively detailed, whimsically written, and characteristically focused.

This book in particular I found to be more so than most, and if you don’t believe me then perhaps you will once I say that this book is primarily about an island town named Thisby in which there are Scorpio Races every year that involve magical deadly horses by the name of capaill uisce that rise up from the sea and eat human flesh and yet islanders ride them in races in which you’ll either be devoured by a horse or taken hostage into the ocean and the winner receives money. All the while, tourists from the “mainland” come to watch and bet on the racers and treat horses chomping on humans as an entirely mundane experience.

Do you believe me now?

Other than the interesting plot, the story, is, as always with Stiefvater, focused mostly on characters. In this case, our two main characters come in the form of an angry redhead by the name of Kate “Puck” Connolly and Sean Kendrick, a dark silent brooder who has one foot in the ocean and one on land.

The two enter the races for different, albeit just as emotionally driven reasons, and need to win, Puck so she can convince her brother Gabriel to stay home and to save their house and Sean so he can keep his beloved capall uisce Corr, who is the only family he has left.

The two characters are amazingly well written. Puck is angry but determined, she has a lot to lose after having lost much and she’s not sure how to deal with it emotionally or psychologically. She loves her brothers fiercely and her love drives her to sometimes irrational actions (like joining the races and using a regular pony by the name of Dove to do it).

Sean, on the other hand, is used to being alone. All he has is his water horse (until Puck enters his life like a wildfire) and his dedication to the things he loves is perhaps the only two things these riders have in common.

Their love is unexpected, but somehow makes so much sense to me as a reader. Their lives are connected as much as the sea and the land are connected on Thisby and the environment and the animals and the sky are all so interwoven in the novel that it makes me want to book a flight to fly to this imaginary place because it is so real and visceral.

This book has so many things going for it. The themes are huge and wonderful and yet not in your face like so many YA books try to be. There is a whole plot point about loss, and how to deal with grief and loss. There is another plot point about poverty, and how poverty can affect your life both physically and mentally. There are plot points about belonging and a sense of home, plot points about environment and animals, plot points about religion, gender, blood and violence.

There is so much commentary in this book, but it is quiet, it allows you as a reader to determine how much you want to pay attention to it or not. For example, how tourists come to watch the Scorpio Races and the gluttony that comes with it, the sensationalism and dehumanization of watching others be killed for enjoyment and money. It speaks so much to our world that we live in and yet it does so using fictitious horses and characters that feel more real than most people.

That being said, the only thing about this book that I would consider a negative are the actual action scenes. I thought this whole book would be about the Scorpio Races, but it’s really not, not entirely. It’s more about Puck and Sean and their desires and actions and feelings, and the Races, while being the whole catalyst for everything, is really just the backdrop for these two characters to interact and grow.

It’s not a true criticism, it was just different than what I was expecting. If you’re expecting heart-pumping action and horse races up the yin-yang then this is not for you. This is a more introspective piece than any of her other novels, and while I did really enjoy it, I did find it a bit disappointing that the actual races are at the very end of the book and essentially finish right afterwards, with build-up taking most of the front seat. I would have liked to see more action and more of the Scorpio Races as is its namesake, but that is not the novel that Maggie set out to write.

Recommendation: Maggie Steifavter is life. She truly is. All of her books are such an experience. It felt like I was truly there with Puck and Sean, racing on a water horse, smelling the ocean with salt and brine in my hair. All of her writing is so real and raw, it takes you there and steals you away. If you haven’t read Steifvater, this is a great one to start with.

Score: 8/10

Bonus! Maggie Stiefvater included a recipe for “November Cakes”-made-up cakes only available in her imagined world of Thisby. Here is a link for the recipe below. Eat and enjoy and be transported into the lovely and mad world of a Maggie Steifvater invention.

http://www.fiction-food.com/2013/11/november-cakes-salted-butter-tea-from.html

#maggie stiefvater #the scorpio races #the raven cycle #book review #ya fiction #book blog #Book Recommendations #YA Books #YA literature #YA Book Review #books

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hazelnmae · 6 years ago

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Lies Travel Faster: Chapter Three

Summary: Sophia Murphy’s life seems to be on the upswing when she takes a job with Birmingham’s notorious Shelby Company Ltd. But when she falls for her boss, CEO and ruthless gangster, Tommy Shelby, she finds herself wrapped up in a tangled web of danger and deceit. After all, lies travel faster than the truth.

Tags: Tommy Shelby x Original Female Character; Tommy/Assistant Trope (it’s a hill I’ll die on)

Warnings: angst; smut (in future chapters); violence; language; rape/non-con; death

CHAPTER 3 (read Chapter 2 or start from the beginning with Chapter 1)

Polly sat across from her nephew, starting daggers into the top of his head as he faked focus on the work on his desk. As the only person in his family who ever dared disobey him, she didn’t move when moments ago he insisted the conversation was over and she could see herself out.

Now Polly was sat waiting for an explanation about Tommy’s plans for Changretta.

“Thomas, we don’t even know what this man looks like,” she said, still trying to reason with him.

Tommy simply hummed in assent, never once removing his eyes from the papers on his desk. He skimmed the letter in front of him for the third time, but he still had no idea what it contained. His mind was scrambled and he just wanted his aunt out of the room so he could concentrate.

“They’ll find us before we find them. Probably already have,” she added, leaning back in her chair.

Tommy removed his glasses and rubbed a hand over his face in exasperation.

“Listen, it’s best if you don’t know the details, alright?”

“Nothing happens in this fucking family without my knowing, Thomas.” Polly moved forward in her chair and scrambled through her bag for her cigarette case. “You’ve got your entire family in stitches, uprooting their own families to come back to this hellscape, and for what? You won’t tell –”

“Fine!” Tommy slammed his hands on his desk and sent various papers flying to the floor. Polly’s eyes widened, but she otherwise didn’t react. She was just as resilient and composed as her nephew in uncomfortable situations. After all, he’d learned it from her.

“I’ve been working with Alfie Solomons –”

Polly scoffed, lighting a cigarette and sitting back in her chair once again.

“I’ve been working with Alfie,” Tommy started over, ignoring her interruption, “on a plot to throw me over and lead me right into Changretta’s hands.”

“You’re not serious,” Polly replied with a smirk.

It was his turn to stare daggers, letting his piercing eyes do their worst. He’d thought it through–overthought it, probably–and while he wasn’t crazy about playing bait, he didn’t have another option that wouldn’t compromise the family. As far as Changretta knew, Tommy was the one who pulled the trigger killing his father. He’d come straight for Tommy at any opportunity.

“Pol –”

“Don’t you fuckin’ ‘Pol’ me,” she scolded.

Tommy stood. “What would you have me do, eh!?” he yelled. “This way I call the shots! I know the fucking day! The fucking time! I’ll be prepared–as prepared as I can be!” Calming himself, he continued, “Moss and his men will be on call. At the very least it will buy us some fucking time, Pol.”

Polly watched him in silence as the understanding slowly washed over her face. The only way to ensure the continued safety of their family was to put Tommy at risk.

Tommy sat back down, lit a cigarette and stared over her shoulder to the wall at the front of his office. As if saying it to no one in particular, he quietly added, “It’s me or it’s the fucking lot of us.”

________

“Well it’s about fuckin’ time there, mate,” Alfie said as Tommy walked into the empty warehouse ten minutes later than they’d agreed to meet. “What is it with you and your grand fuckin’ entrances, yeah?”

“What have you got for me?” Tommy asked, visibly irritated and in no mood for one of Alfie’s long soliloquies.

“So we’re right to business, then. No time for pleasantries between friends?”

“It’s good to see you, Alfie,” Tommy said as he threw his spent cigarette on the floor.

“You too, mate, you too,” Alfie nodded his head and balanced his weight on the cane at his side. He scratched his beard, taking in Tommy’s irritated demeanor. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen Tommy so uneasy. Even staring down the barrel of a gun–which Alfie had been witness to on multiple occasions–Tommy maintained his composure. Today, though, he paced around the room, as if standing still were admitting defeat to the war in his mind.

Alfie continued, “So this fuckin’ wop friend of yours is a right piece of work.”

Tommy stopped pacing and gave his full attention, eyes widened searching Alfie's face for the next piece of information.

“Don’t worry there, treacle don’t worry. I got him to agree. Took the deal without negotiation, yeah. Two hundred barrels of my rum on a little boat headed for the States.” Alfie made a little motion with his hands, like stirring water in a small, imaginary sea in front of him.

Tommy nodded. Finally, something falling into place as planned.

“I don’t like this, mate. I just need you to acknowledge that, yeah? No negotiation? You’re fuckin’ right Tommy–he won’t leave until he’s killed us all.”

The optimism drained from his face and for once in his life Tommy wished he’d been wrong.

_________

“Come in,” she heard Tommy’s voice through the door and felt her heart drop to her stomach as she turned the knob and entered his office.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, Tommy, but I need to ask you a question.”

Tommy, without looking up from his work, motioned for her to come further into his office.

Sophie closed the door and crossed the room. Her steps felt heavy as she approached his desk with the mounting fear of what she’d uncovered. The photograph she’d found when she opened the morning post would change everything–her future with the company and her life in Birmingham.

It was a photograph of a wedding.

When Tommy finally looked up from his desk and took in her worried expression, he removed his glasses and nodded at her to go on.

“I know it’s none of my –” She paused to take a deep breath and clear her throat. “Do you have business with the Changretta family?” she asked, placing the photograph on the corner of his desk.

Tommy glanced at the photograph but showed no reaction. Once again, he wasn’t going to freely give up his secrets with any expression of emotion.

Sophie looked down at her hands. “I’ve not been entirely honest with you about my past.”

“Sit,” was all he said in response.

She sat in the leather covered chair, the very one she’d interviewed from a month or so prior, wiped her sweaty palms on her skirt and waited for Tommy’s cue to continue.

“How so, Sophie?” he asked.

She thought he must be able to see her heart pulse through her skin–her heart, unlike his, ready to betray her at any moment. “I don’t come from a family of farmers,” she confessed. “We lived on a farm, but our business was the manufacturing and distribution of moonshine whiskey.”

“You’re father was a bootlegger?” Tommy sat forward now, leaning on his desk, showing interest, at least.

“We were all bootleggers. Tommy, I know horses because I’ve spent my life riding them through the woods–checking on stills, evading the police. I don’t bat an eye at your business because, well, I know it–intimately. I can shoot a gun because I’ve had to.”

They both sat in the silence that followed her confession. In all these years, Sophie had never shared the truth about her past. She’d never had the need to. But now, with the Changretta family so close again, she feared what might happen if she didn’t. Tommy had a right to know. He’d hired her in good faith and she didn’t want to pose a risk for him. She’d grown to appreciate Tommy as an employer. He trusted her with her job, acknowledged her intelligence, respected her opinion. She owed him the truth.

“The year before my parents were killed, the Changretta family expanded their business into more rural areas. When they did, they moved on our distribution territory.” Sophie paused to get her bearings. “It began with threats. We’d find upturned stills on our property, corn fields burning, dead fish on our doorstep. But it ended with an attack on our family. One night, when I was fifteen, they broke into our home–”

Tommy interrupted. “You told me your parents died when you were sixteen.”

“Right. There were two sons on this side of Changretta family. They came into my room that night and –. Well, they took turns –.” Sophie stopped. She’d never been able to say the words, even to her mother after it happened. She somehow thought if she never said it, she could pretend it never happened.

But it had happened. And she’d lived with it for her whole adult life. She’d picked up small pieces of her shattered soul here and there, but she’d never fully healed. She knew now she probably never would.

“My father’s retaliation is what got him, and my mother, killed four months later,” She said in a whisper, as she felt the tears welling in her eyes. Fuck! Push it down, Sophie.

She watched as Tommy clenched his jaw, the muscles in his cheek flexing in anger.

“These are bad men, Tommy,” she added, as the tears betrayed her and rolled down her cheeks.

“I know,” Tommy responded, his voice almost a whisper now. “They killed my wife.”

Tommy searched the top of his desk for anything to steal his focus away. He never talked about Grace. It took everything he had to even say her name. He’d lived with an ache in his stomach for close to a year after she died and he could feel that old, familiar pain pushing forth again.

Tommy cleared his throat and continued. “I also took revenge. We killed Vicente, their patriarch. And now his remaining son has issued us the black hand.”

With that, he reached into a desk drawer and pulled out the card he’d shown to his family a few days before. He handed it to Sophie.

“I sent away for that photograph in an attempt to identify that son, Luca,” he said, motioning to the photograph Sophie had found in the morning mail.

She studied it again. “Tommy, I don’t know what Vicente’s sons look like, but I do know their cousins. And they’re in this photograph.” She leaned forward, turned the photo in his direction, and pointed and two men seated in the front row of the wedding party. “Vincenzo and Salvatore,” she said, moving her finger between the men in the image.

Tommy sat with this new information for a moment before he opened another desk drawer and removed a revolver. He stood from his desk and checked that the gun was loaded.

“Follow me,” he said as he moved toward the door, stopping only to grab his coat off the rack beside it.

She did as she was ordered and followed him, nervous about the weapon he now brandished so publicly. He already wore one handgun in his shoulder holster. Sophie couldn’t decide why he felt the need to usher her through the office with another in hand.

He paused at the back door of the waiting area and placed his coat on Sophie’s shoulders. A swath of cool air and morning sun washed into the room as he pushed open the heavy door. It revealed a small courtyard she hadn’t realized was there.

Tommy found three glass bottles on the ground and set them up along a fence at the opposite side of the courtyard. When he was finished, he handed the revolver to Sophie.

“Show me,” was all the direction he provided, as he took a step back.

It was a test. She said she knew how to shoot a gun and he wanted her to prove it.

It had been a long time since she’d held a firearm. Once, in France, she picked the rifle off a fallen soldier and fled behind the lines when a sudden attack on the auxiliary regime caught them off guard. She hadn’t fired it, but it felt familiar and comforting to carry it for a few hours, even after the fighting ended as quickly as it began. That was the last time she’d held a gun, though, and she hadn’t had plans to ever pick one up again.

Sophie flipped open and rolled the cylinder slowly, ensuring the gun was loaded. She took mental note of the weight of the gun, as she moved it from her left to her right hand. Giving Tommy one more glance, she pulled back the hammer, and took quick aim at the first bottle. Shattering it with the first shot, she quickly cocked and fired the gun twice more in rapid succession, successfully hitting all three targets. Slowly, she turned, and handed the gun back to Tommy, watching his face carefully.

He simply raised his hands in response. “It’s yours,” he said.

Sophie hesitated, but only for a moment. She knew how to shoot, but she didn’t own a weapon. The Changretta family was in Birmingham, she needed a way to protect herself. And while she trusted Tommy, she wasn’t family and was sure he’d choose them over her if forced to do so. Sophie had to protect herself. Take it Sophie, don’t be stupid.

“Shoulder or garter?” Tommy asked, pulling her back to reality. “For the holster?” He motioned at the revolver she still held out from her body, as if it were a hand grenade missing it’s firing pin, ready to explode at any moment.

“Uh, garter,” she replied, letting her arms fall to her sides, still acutely aware of the weapon in her hand.

Tommy reached into a large crate next to the back door of the office and dug out a holster. He held it up, eyeing it’s size, and determined it would fit her before he moved closer and handed it to Sophie.

“Thank you,” she whispered, as she took it in her empty hand.

It was all too much–the photo, the gun. The unrelenting, breathtaking, sickening fear. Her mouth went dry and she felt tears begin to well again in her eyes, but she pushed them down as quickly as they formed. You can do this, Sophie. She feared the anxiety she’d experienced after her rape and her parents’ death would return. It’d taken her years to adjust to it, the constant fear eventually becoming a companion during the most unsettling and lonely nights of the war. But in the years since, she’d let it go, little by little.

He closed the space between them with one more step, reached his hand up and stroked the apple of her cheek. Sophie leaned into his touch, finding some comfort in the warmth of his hand and his steady breathing.

“I should be thanking you,” he said. “Before today, I only had a name.” He paused until she looked into his eyes. “But now I know his face.”

Sophie nodded.

Tommy hesitated and held her gaze a few moments longer. When he eventually pulled away and headed back toward the door, he added, “Wear that at all times.”

Sophie nodded in response again looking down at the gun and holster in her hands–symbols of a shift in the tides of her life, but one in a direction all too familiar.

“Fuck,” she replied in a whisper, releasing a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

But he was already gone.

___________________________________

Read Chapter 4

Thanks for sticking it out for three chapters! More to come, friends!

Feedback always appreciated–more than you can know!

Let me know if you want to be tagged on the next installment. This one’s for you: @shikin83

#peaky blinders #peaky blinders fiction #peaky blinder fanfic #peaky blinders fanfiction #tommy shelby #tommy shelby x oc #thomas shelby #thomas shelby x oc #luca changretta #alfie solomons #polly gray #lies travel faster #HazelNMae

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imagining-sio · 5 years ago

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Adventure Awaits I

Medieval!Bucky AU

A/N: loved this movie as a kid among many others and I kinda wanna do my own version of it, hope you like it!

Chapter i

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The gulls cruise over the shoreline, the thermal wind lifting them up with grace and fluidity. The tides themselves crash upon the wet sand with a rhythmic sound, a beat that, if standing upon the right cliff-face, it stems for miles. The very same winds that drive the gulls upward hit the cliff-face with the force of a stampede, and can knock one off its balance if not careful. Most stay clear from the edge, as the rocks are known to crumble at the faintest step.

Though, there is one who run toward the danger, or worse yet, dance upon it’s edge. It would be heresy for one to do it routinely. Such as it is today, a heretic to the sensible, responsible, and reasonable; in other, more plain words, an adventurous teenager.

With her sword and shield in either hand she slashes at her imaginary foes. Her grace and stamina are matched to few, more so that there are none left on this field but her and her horse who is grazing a few feet away, completely oblivious to this imaginary war. The female, ducks down to block a fictional wave of arrows, lifting the circular shield over her head. Her sword wushes in the blustering wind, her grip firm or else the metal knightly sword would fly from grip, as it had when she was a naive beginner with the weapon.

The Knightly sword itself looks out of place in her hand. It looks like a far wealthier object than the stature she would come from. Her clothing is muddy and worn, showing much use over the years. A stark contrast from the intricacy of the shield and the weapon that lie in her firm grip. The shield is of the same make, it’s light blue inlay of the circular design show a royal craftsmanship.

“King stark! Behind you!” The female, Y/n, shouts at her to the imaginary ally, protecting him from the even more imaginary and faceless foe. The great ruler of the Kingdom, in reality resides in his great towered castle, which itself sits firmly set in stone in the great Capitol. Y/n smites the fell creature with three staggering blows, finally finishing it off by stabbing the Knightly sword into the grassy knoll of earth.

There was a quick surrender of the foul troops, and they dissipated into the winds, like a wave of ashes, stemming her back to reality. The thrumming of hooves draws her out of her battle, and back to the land of Midgard. Her black horse lifts her head, the noise finally drawing her attention. Y/n readies herself for her approaching enemy, the sweat pouring from her brow. Her stance lowers, her shield in front of her, enough for her to see over it and sword pointing to the approaching figure.

“Y/n!” the shout makes her instantly relax, the sword practically plummeting to the ground again, while still in her grip. As she stands, the figure is finally spotted riding her speckled work horse over the beach grass covered hills of the cliff-face. The winds whisk her bright cherry red hair, and the flaps of the apron she wears as she rides side saddle. The young woman hops off the horse with the grace of a dancer, her hand coming to tuck her hair behind her ear.

“You mother is looking for you!” The redhead shouts over the winds, in case she cannot be heard from that distance. Y/n rolls her eyes so hard her head begins to follow. She tucks the shield over her back, trudging to the black horse that has lazily resumed her grazing.

“Of course she is!” Y/n grabbed the leather sheath for the sword itself, and tucked it away within it. Grabbing the saddle, Y/n hauled herself up to horseback, her feet easily finding the stirrups. Her horse raises its head in attention, and trots over to the redhead and her speckled horse.

“You know that you should be out here. Be lucky I found you before she did.” The redhead mounted her horse once more, riding side saddle as to protect her skirt and apron. The two girls stared at each other, only to begin laughing seconds later.

“You should’ve joined me. You would have made good practice.” Y/n giggles as the two trot their way back to their village. The gusting winds soon become a lulling breeze, one completely harmless, as it barely manages to move the braches of the wheat grass starts to overtake that of the beach grass on the cliff-face.

“Oh yes, because we have enough swords and shield for one single person in the village and you keep stealing them.” The redhead, Natasha as she was known, scoffed, throwing her head back in laughter.

“I could still teach you!” Y/n rebutted defiantly.

“You forget I am better with a stick that I am a sword.” Natasha eyed her, a knowing smirk grew across her face. The two rode from grassy undergrowth to a paved stone road, a showcase that civilization drew near. Soon, you could hear the hustle and bustle of the small village. Small plumes of make were starting to come into view, as did the thatch made roofs atop the stone houses that slowly and surely became more and more closer in proximity. Soon the market came into view, and People were running about for setting up decorations, as they did every year around this time.

The end of summer brought the celebration of the foundation of the Midgardian alliance, when the multiple city states finally sanctioned itself as a single country when it came under attack from foreigners of a dark and mysterious country merely twenty-two years prior. For the founding of the kingdom, they appointed their catalyst for their alliance, as he risked life and limb for the people of Midgard to be protected. The great King Stark then appointed a host of knights to join him in the Capitol as not only representatives of the city states, but to be his advisors and his men at arms. The Iron Knights as they are known throughout Midgard, the fiercest warriors of the kingdom.

Y/n’s own father was a great warrior, and the leader of the Iron Knights. As leader, he was practically the King’s right hand, hence the reason for the intricacy of the shield and sword Y/n covets so precious to her.

“You seem to be making progress on your wild goose chase.” Natasha stated, hopping off her horse, tying the bridle to the horse post beside Y/n.

“Very funny,” Y/n gave a empty glare. With their horses tied up accordingly, they set out into the village center, where the decorations were being tied up.

“Are you still on the hunt for your bird brain?” Y/n shot a knowingly look toward the red head, her smile only growing wider as Natasha’s cheeks were beginning to become as red as her locks.

“I don’t know what you are talking about.” she muttered, shoving the woman lightly, enough to move her a step to the side as she laughed.

“Hello, Y/n, hello Natasha!” the villagers greeted the two women as they passed. the two women would respond accordingly, as the custom in the village. Everyone knew everyone here, and they most likely watched the younger generation grow up to their current age.

“Y/n you mother’s been looking for you. What did you do this time?”

“Nothing much, I’m sure.” the woman grinned.

“Y/n you know better than to run off like that! You mother has been worried sick!”

“I didn’t go far.”

“Y/n L/n!” her mother’s voice pierced the air. The young women easily spotted the elder woman, and angry expression on her face as she stormed toward the two who sat on horseback.

“How many times have I told you, don’t run off like that!” she pulled the young woman by the sleeve toward their home.

“Thank you for finding her Natasha, Clint has been looking for your help in the bakery.” she quickly diffused any attempt of help from the red head by merely mentioning the boy’s name. Y/n watched in horror as her friend ran off in the direction of the bakery, where her little bird was working. The remainder of the walk to the house was silent, Y/n’s guilt mounting with every step.

With the slam of the wooden door, Y/n could feel the eyes of her mother glare towards the back of her head.

“Y/n, I understand you miss father greatly. But this running off has got to stop. I don’t need to worry about the village and you running around somewhere. Souls forbid, the cliffs.” Her mother ran a hand over her face, the exhaustion prevalent in her tone.

“How am I supposed to be a good knight if I can’t go anywhere!” Y/n protested.

“Knights don’t go running off into battle or for seeking adventure! Your father never ran into a fight, he only fought to protect us. Y/n Knights protect their people, more so, Ladies don’t become knights! So please, stop this impossible dream!”

“What if I don’t want to be a lady? I want to be a knight! And if I can’t do that than what am I?” Y/n flung her arms in frustration, the palpable silence the fell over the house was enough to hear a pin drop.

“Y/n, you will always be my daughter, no matter what life you choose.” Her mother sighed, bringing her child into an embrace, only pulling away to placer her within arms’ reach.

“I know how much you want this, no matter how hard I try to understand it. But you need to know there are other aspects to being a knight than fighting. Your father was an example of what a knight is supposed to be. He protects his people, he supports his people, as if they were his own family. The village is our family, Y/n, and we as the lairds of the land, must protect them should they need it. They’re other ways to protect people, please, let me teach you.”

Y/n’s lips formed a tight line, her brow furrowing. A sigh fell through her nostrils, her shoulders sagging at the weight of her decision.

“Okay.” She nodded her head weakly.

A great sigh passed through her mother’s lips. The elder woman happily embracing the younger with renewed vigor.

“Oh, thank you, Y/n. I need you to get ready for the festival tonight. Wear your Sunday best! The clothes are in your bedroom. For now, I need to help Mrs. Atkins, I’ll be back before evening.”

“If only you were here papa, maybe you could try to help me get to the Capitol for training, like you always promised.”

————————————————————————————————————

The night had proved good reason for the decorations, the whole village was in attendance. The people were alight with joy, sharing drinks and food with one another. Y/n’s mother was conversing with the successful owners of the village, as she was making her rounds with her constiuents. Y/n stood in full sunday best, her long dress in a pristine white cream color, the thick fabric concealing the fact that she still wore similar clothing that she wore earlier that day, only this pair was much cleaner.

“And how are we this evening,” Clint, the son of the local baker approached her.

“Well, Barton, though I am surprised that our mutual friend is not beside you.”

“I was wondering the same thing.” He mulled over his drink, taking a sip before speaking again; “I was wondering if you had seen her yet?”

Y/n’s head tilted to the side, her brow furrowing. It was not unlike Natasha to not show up somewhere. More so when it involved Clint. She always showed up at the agreed upon time, if she didn’t there was something wrong.

“I haven’t Clint.”

“Then we are in agreement.” he set his mug down upon the table Y/n sat. Y/n herself stood up, walking with her friend to find the missing redhead.

“Mother have you seen Natasha?” our protagonist asked her mother. The elder woman, shook her head, her brow also furrowing, having so much experience with the young girl and her habits.

“I have not, when was she last seen?” she asked her fellow townleaders.

“Last I saw she was over by the entrace facing the sea.” one member spoke.

“I thought she was over by the barn?” Another chorused.

“Alright, Y/n, you go to the sea road; clint and I will check the barn; you two go see if she is anywhere in the fields. Come back in ten minutes, here.” Her mother spoke with a level headedness that helped quell the young baker’s nerves.

Y/n hiked up the road toward the sea for a solid five minutes, the dress was definitely a hindrance on her progress.

“Tahsa!” she shouted as she struggled not to trip over her feet. Y/n cursed the dress under her breath as she nearly fell to the road for the umpteenth time.

A rustling in the bushes caused the young woman’s body to shoot upward. The darkening raod made it as if everything moved, that anything had a face to it, this was nothing like her imaginary foes from earlier that day. Of course, that was in the afternoon sun, this was in the covent of night, where the imagination may come back to haunt you.

“Natasha?” Y/n leaned toward the noise, which led to the cliff where she was that afternoon. A low drumming sound began to thrum through the air. Y/n, following the noise, quelled the uneaase in her stomach, nor did she care that the hem of her dress was bound to turn brown from the sand and dirt.

A shirll cry stuck the air as thunder from behind. Y/n whirled around in time to spot the flying figure. It was much larger than a bird, and was far to fast to be a seagull. Y/n was able to duck from the creature in time, with enough room to remain undetected as it descended down the cliff-face. Our protagonist followed the beast until she reached the cliff’s edge, to be met with a horrible sight.

Ships were beginning to dock upon the beach, with mass amounts of troops debarkig upon the same sands that she often rode upon her horse. Shouts and orders were being barked around as supplies were also being dumped as for the troops. The large beast that almost hit Y/n landed next to a figure whom stood directly beneath her. The large looming figure stood surveying his infantry, not even giving the flying beast the time of day.

“Do you have it?” he asked, his gravelly voice was enough to send chills up Y/n’s spine.

“N-no master.” The beast, whom now could apprently talk, spoke with a serpentine cadence, it’s head ducking low.

The figure backhanded the creature without a second thought.

“You were to steal the Iron sword. How hard could that have possibly been you imbocile!” the man boomed, his rage boiling over.

“They will never find it, master.” the creature defended.

“Oh, do explain, while you still breathe.”

“It fell in the Darkened Wood. No one dares go in there.”

Y/n processed the information with fever pitch. The Iron sword of the King had not only been stolen, but lost in the Darkened Wood. The sword itself was forged by the king, and it is said to have fabled abilities. Without it, the Midgardian would have never won their independence. The king has never parted with it, and it is said that without it he would perish. The king himself could very well be dead as we speak, and without this fabled sword, there is no hope of victory.

Invaders now line the beaches of her home, and without the fabled sword of the king, no one would be able to mass the amount of hope needed to defend themselves.

The Darkened Wood was what stood in the way for these people. It stood directly in the way for the path to the capitol, the road around it would take another week to get to the capitol, which was why it was presumably more used than the overgrown and dangerous road that ended within the confines of the Darkened Wood. The Sword lay within the confines of that forrest. That certainly narrowed down the playing field.

A faint touch upon her shoulder sent Y/n to jump out of her skin. A hand clasped over her mouth, silencing her from any noise she would have presumably made. Natasha held a finger to her mouth as to continue the silence, the same finger then pointing doward as to reference to the figures beneath them. The redhead tugged on Y/n’s arm, carefully guiding her to her feet. The two women crept backwards until they were at a safe distance, to which they turned and ran at full sprint.

Y/n’s dress tore as it came in contact with a thron bush, the ripping sound emanating throughout the fields. The two didn’t stop to think if it was heard or not, they simply kept running back into town.

As soon as the town came into view, they began shouting with great frivor. Their sout drew the attention of the entire town. Soon Y/n’s mother, and even Clint came to meet them.

“What’s happened?” Y/n’s mother noted her daughter’s dress and it’s dissaray. Clint rushed to Natasha, whom was in a worse condition. He quickly snatched a strewn tablecloth, draping it over the red head with great care.

“Ivaders, they arrived on the shore, they’ll be here shortly.” Natasha spoke between pants.

“Y/n?” Her mother probed for an answer. The young girl nodded her head.

“We need to get word to the Capitol, Mrs Atkins! Get my husband’s sword and shield!” her mother began to order towspeople to bring up barricades. The tailor, Mr Hilberg, handed Natasha an overcoat in place of her tablecloth.

“What do you need me to do?” Y/n asked her mother.

“No, I have something more important for the three of you. Clint go get their horses. Hurry!”

“Torches up ahead!” a man shouted from atop the roof.

Mrs Atkins returned with the sword and shield, handing it off to Y/n mother, who promptly handed the items to her daughter. Clint had arrived back with tow horses, his own, and Y/n’s, whose was the fastest in the village, but not necessarily the fastest on earth, it was a slim margin. Clint was already armed with a bow and quiver, as he was a prolific hunter in the village.

“I need you three to get word to the capitol as soon as possible, the sooner the king knows, the better the chance we have. Do you understand?”

“We do.” Clint set Natasha atop his horse, a large belgium workhorse big enough to fit the both of them. He then mounted, making sure Natasha was situated comfortably in front of him, despite the bright red tint on both teenagers’ cheeks. Y/n mounted her horse, looking to her mother, grasping her hand, at silent sense of peace in the midst of the fray.

“Go, hurry!” her mother slapped the bottom of Y/n’s horse, sending it into a gallop out of the town. Clint was quick to follow, the horse easily catching up to Y/n as they headed toward the Capitol as fast as possible. The three dared not look back, in case if anyone actually had seen them escape.

It wasn’t unitl daybreak that they had slowed down. The long grassy knolls were soon replaced with large evergreens of vibrant color. Birds sang throughout the woodland, to the point it was tough to say what bird was singing due to the amount of overlay.

Soon a giant fork in the road appeared. the one on the left retained its bright cheery image, it’s sign was well kept, and was inscribed with a newly painted ‘Captiol’. The other, which pointed to the opposite direction, was unkempt, and riddle with dark thorney vines. As Clint and Natasha rode forward upon the well worn road to the capitol, Y/n remained at the fork, mulling over a great decision.

“Y/N?” Clint asked puzzled, turning his horse with the bridle.

“The Iron Sword is somewhere in the Darkened Wood. The Ivaders are after it.”

“Y/n I don’t like where this is going.” Clint said with a warning tone.

“You shouldn’t.” Natasha voiced for the first time since they had been dispatched.

“They will most likely be after it just as much as they want to invade the Capitol. You go, I’ll go this way.” Y/n dismounted her horse, offering her to Clint and Natasha.

“You know no one comes out of their, right.”

“What choice do we have?” Y/n ripped her dress apart, revealing her clothing that she held under it. She attatched the sword to her belt, and placed the circular shield upon her back. Natasha disounted from Clint in order to mount Y/n’s horse. Before she did, she pulled Y/n into a warm embrace, one filled with a layer on morbid sadness.

“Be safe.”

“You too,”

A loud shout drew the three from the tender moment. The three turned toward the direction of the shout, which was the exact direction they had spent all night and morning running from.

“Go!” Y/n urged the two, watching them gallop away upon the safe road toward the capitol. Gathering the remnants of her dress, she hoped to buy her friends a few moments of time, by trailing the torn fabric behind her toward the more dangerous road. Y/n turned toward the road she had travelled, the sound of running footsteps growing louder, before finally turning toward the unkempt road filled with thorns and fog, running full speed into the Darkened Wood.

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#bucky barnes x reader #James buchanan barnes #bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes x reader #marvel x reader #marvel imagine #bucky imagine #medieval!bucky #medieval!au #Adventure Awaits #natasha romanoff #clint barton #ima let you wait to see who the villain is

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fableweaver · 5 years ago

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Arc of the Dragon Keeper

Iounn shouted out the order to raise shields, the women around her grunting in response as they raised their shields to lock together. Another shouted order and the long spears shot out and withdrew, drawing imaginary blood as this was simply training. The shield design had undergone several changes as Iounn and Epona had worked with several of the smiths and potters of the camp. They had at last settled on a mixture between the Nyrgardic shield and the Daunish shield. Nyrgardic shields were round, made of wood with a steal rim and boss in the center. Daunish shields were not very common, often made of wood and oval in shape. The Daunish relied more on their ceramic for armor given it made poor shields.

What they had devised was a tall shield, square with round edges. It was made of fir tree wood from Nyrgard, a steel rim, and a Daunish ceramic boss. When held in a wall it proved to hold well against the practice assaults and took little time to teach. The women and unskilled Daunish were all learning the use of the shields, and how to reform should the wall be broken.

They had also developed a spear, one with a long ceramic blade, and a blunt iron spike on the other end. The line behind the shield wall was given the spear, stabbing out over the heads of the shield bearers into the enemy beyond.

This had yet to be tested on the enemy, as full engagement had yet to happen. More Orcs had come over the mountains into the foot hills, sending out scouts and raiding parties to test their defenses. Scouts tried to meet them but most of the time they failed. Iounn was glad to not see what scouts found at farm steads that had been raided; the scouts faces when they returned told enough. The stories were enough to send farmers and shepherds flocking to the forts. Many though were not just seeking sanctuary, many volunteered to fight.

Dun Cnámh was complete, the fort built around the dragon bones in a crescent moon. The fort was big enough for out laying buildings still in the protection of the wall, but sadly as more people gathered to their king a town began to form outside the walls. Dylan started construction on another wall around the town, but it was only a quarter finished so far.

The Orcs were getting bolder, moving out of the foothills, and Liath still had yet to return. All these thoughts were on Iounn’s mind, even as she called an end to the practice. Exhausted women wandered away clad still in their ceramic mail, leather braces, and steel helms.

“Things seem to be going well,” Dylan said as he approached Iounn. “Is it wise though to train here in the courtyard? If we field them they will not be ready for the open space.”

“We will not field them majesty,” Iounn answered as she took of her helm and shook out her sweaty hair. “They learn here because they will fight here, or at the other forts. I’ve already sent some on to the other forts you have across the north to teach women there. We are to hold the forts while the men ride to fight the Orcs.”

“Yes I know, but I fear you may be drawn out Lady Iounn,” Dylan said.

“I am teaching them to hold the walls and hold the fort should it be breached,” Iounn answered. “That is all I know and all we can do. We will not be drawn out of the fort, women are not as rash as men majesty.”

Dylan gave her a wry grin and nodded.

“Well the horses and men Sten has provided have proven useful,” Dylan said. “But I fear not enough. Our scouts have arrived with a count.”

Iounn felt a chill down her spine at his words, so far the scouts had been unable to get a full count of the Orc army. It had been high already and growing since more and more seemed to be constantly pouring from the mountains.

“And?” Iounn asked.

“A hundred,” Dylan said lowly.

“Thousand!” Iounn said startled. “Our last count ended at fifty.”

“It seems their main force finally joined with this one out of the mountains,” Dylan said. “At least I hope this is the main force. It may mean they have abandoned the dwarves.”

“It may mean the dwarves have been annihilated and Liath with them,” Iounn said worried. “We can no longer rely on the dwarves coming to our aid majesty. We should strike before the Orcs do.”

“And if we strike when we do not know what we are doing Lady Iounn we risk losing too many men,” Dylan said. “Sten has only brought twenty thousand with him, I have twenty myself as well as thirty untrained warriors. We are outnumbered.”

Iounn nodded feeling numb with shock and grief. They had little hope to defeat this army, at best they could defend. Even if the dwarves were still alive, she doubted they could help unless they could call on more than sixty thousand experienced warriors. Sten was in another fort to the east, and Roland in another, spreading out their forces. They were spread thin, but even if they were to gather they would be over run.

Pounding horse hooves drew their attention to the gate where a dusty messenger rode in on a lathered horse. Spotting Dylan he turned his horse and barely reigned in before he trampled his king. Dylan took the horse’s reigns, so the messenger could dismount handing the horse off to a groom.

“Bring water!” Dylan shouted to nearby servants as he helped the man stay on his feet.

“Majesty…” the man gasped.

“Wait until you have a drink sir,” Dylan said. “Your message can wait.”

“No… on the way… the sky,” the man gasped looking to the east. Puzzled Iounn looked to the east but saw nothing over the wall. If the man was warning of attack why mention the sky?

“I am going to go look,” Iounn said and ran off before Dylan could answer. The walls were tall, three stories high and two man heights thick. Iounn raced up the stairs and reached the wall, looking out to the east. She saw a cloud, what looked like a great flock of birds on the horizon, closing fast. The guards there, Daunish men and women armed with spears, had noticed as well and were pointing and speaking in Daunish. Dylan joined Iounn shortly, looking to the flock to the east as well.

“They fly in formation majesty,” Iounn said. “And either they are closer than they seem, or are still far off but very large.”

“The man rode from the east coast, he was a lighthouse keeper there,” Dylan said. “He rode as soon as he got a good look at the creatures, for two days he didn’t stop for fear of them out flying him. Lady Iounn, those are Griffins flying towards us.”

Iounn had to stamp down on her disbelief, so Griffins existed as well.

“Prepare archers,” Iounn said turning to Dylan.

“No, we will welcome them,” Dylan said.

“Majesty just because they are Phay does not mean they are here for peace,” Iounn said shaking her head. “We need to at least prepare the archers should they attack.”

“No, we will not present arms to them,” Dylan said.

“I believe Iounn’s words are wise majesty,” Hors said alighting on the wall next to them. “The Griffins are warriors, if you want their respect you must show them force. I believe however they are about to fly over us.”

“Why?” Iounn asked startled.

“They are here for the dwarves after all,” Hors answered. “The winds over the mountains on the coast are too turbulent so they’ve flown over the moors for now until they turn north towards the mountains. They aren’t going to stop here for the humans.”

“We need them to stop here and take up arms with us,” Iounn said. “Can’t you fly to them?”

“In my current form no, I could never catch up with them,” Hors said. “but I have a way to make them stop.”

“What?” Iounn asked.

“A signal fire,” Hors answered.

“Would they really stop for a signal fire?” Iounn asked as Dylan hurried away to prepare the wood.

“One will out of curiosity I’m sure,” Hors answered. “I know the Griffins well, some are innately curious.”

Outside the walls Iounn watched as Dylan commanded his people in the building of a beacon fire. He was a good commander, his orders clear, and he stood alongside to help if needed but also knew when to stand back and let his people work.

“What is all the commotion?” Epona asked coming up to the wall. She stopped to stare at the Griffins in the air, and her son preparing a beacon fire. Her arms and hands were covered in clay, her apron smeared with it. Epona had taken over the potters and smiths in the construction of weapons after an incident in practice when she had fainted from exhaustion. Dylan had nearly ordered his mother south, but Iounn insisted she stay to aid them in her own way.

“We have visitors, we are hoping to gain their attention since it seems they will be flying into the mountains,” Iounn said.

“Why are they here now?” Epona asked. “Where did they come from?”

“The Griffins were some of the Phay that did not march, like the dwarves,” Hors answered. “They live on the Broken Isle, out in the Wandering Sea. I assume they have been there all this time.”

“How have we never found this isle?” Iounn asked. “Nyrgarders have been sailing the Wandering Seas for ages. It must be a large isle to support the Griffins. How could we miss it?”

“I have no idea,” Hors said as he shrugged. “We’ll have to ask the Griffins.”

“Will they help us do you think?” Epona asked.

“Most definitely, they are a warrior people it takes little to convince them to go into battle,” Hors answered.

“Who do they fight if they live on an isle alone?” Epona asked.

“Mostly each other,” Hors answered. “Rarely to the death, their people were born in an unusual way.”

He told them about how the Griffin race came to be, having known the two Phay well himself. When he finished Dylan had the beacon assembled and lit, the fire producing a plume of smoke from a hilltop. They watched the flock of Griffins anxiously, but they appeared to have already turned north. Then one peeled off from the rest, two more following as it flew toward the fort once more.

“Come let us go meet them,” Iounn said. Hors leapt up onto her shoulder, Iounn and Epona walking down the wall and out of the fort. They joined Dylan on the hillock looking up to the Griffins wheeling overhead. There were three, but Iounn could tell little of them from the ground. They banked and wheeled down to the ground, the largest landing first followed by two smaller Griffins. The lead Griffin appeared to be not a mix of an eagle and lion, but of a kite and a cougar. It had a broad head and tapered wings, a smooth tan color over all. The two with it were also the same type, though appeared smaller in size, Iounn unsure if this was an indication of age or gender.

“Hail to the mud men,” the Griffin said in clear unaccented words. Iounn was surprised to hear it was female, but hid her surprise. She was glad Hors had taught her the Phay language, though she struggled still with the vocabulary.

“Greetings,” Iounn said stepping forward. She held out her arm and Hors crawled out of her hair to perch there. The Griffins took a step back, flaring their wings in what Iounn hoped was just surprise.

“Greetings kin,” Hors said. “I am Hors, Once King of the Dragons. This is my companion Iounn Baroness of Stóstund, the King of Daun Dylan Rawn and his mother Epona Rawn.”

The lead Griffin settled before she bowed, the other two following suit.

“Greetings elder,” she said. “I am Manisha Elect of the Wise Wings, these are my sons Bilal and Karan. I did not expect to find an elder here.”

“No, there is much to tell,” Hors said. “But it would be best to discuss this among all the Elect.”

“Of course,” Manisha answered and turned to her sons. Both took the silent order and leapt back up into the sky, flying back towards their kin.

“I must admit I am surprised to see the Children of Might have left the Broken Isle,” Hors said and Manisha turned to him with bright eyes.

“Just as your story must wait for all the Elect so should mine,” Manisha said smoothly.

“Ah, yes of course,” Hors said flicking his tail. “It seems I am rusty in the ways of Phay politics,” Hors said lowly in Nyrgardic.

“The Phay have politics?” Iounn said in the same language, an eyebrow raised.

“Yes, it is usually culminated in pride and arguments,” Hors answered.

“Ah, much like ours,” Iounn said and Hors shook his head.

“You have never seen the Phay argue,” Hors said. “We can go at it for centuries.”

Iounn fell silent then, wondering at the complexities of a life that lasted hundreds of years. The relationships, and the politics as Hors said, must be complex indeed. She suspected alliances and enemies must have formed between them all in one way or another, an ally one day could be an enemy centuries later or vice versa. Once again Iounn was reminded that Hors was more than he seemed.

A hawk’s cry drew her eyes skyward and Iounn saw a flock of Griffins descending. The whole flock was landing further out on the moors, landing near them now were six other Griffins. Each was a blend of a type of raptor and great cat, varied in size and appearance. One stepped forward, tail lashing and wings flared, a Griffin made of an eagle and lion.

“You dare summon us like you are better than us Hors?” The Griffin growled loudly, his talons raking the loamy soil.

“Mahavir!” Manisha shouted, leaping to the other Griffin’s side and snapping at him. “You dare insult the King of Dragons!”

“Once King,” Mahavir replied snapping back at her and they began to circle one another. “He is no more than a whelp now, little better than a fledgling. You were arrogant to summon us at his word Manisha!”

Manisha hissed and leapt onto Mahavir, a snarling fight ensued between the two. Iounn watched startled and afraid, the two fought like lions over a kill. None stepped between the two but it was quickly over, Manisha drawing blood with a swipe of her talons against Mahavir’s flank.

“I see the Griffins have not changed much,” Hors said dryly.

“In more ways than you know Hors,” another Griffin answered. “I am Indira Elect of the Feather Tails. This is Mahavir Elect of the Long Talons, Jaya the Elect of the Marked Ones, Yama Elect of the Bone Eaters, Nirav Elect of the Nigh Flyers, and Dhaval Elect of the Swift Winds.”

“Perhaps it would be wise to withdraw to the fort so we can trade stories,” Hors said as Mahavir licked his wound.

“That fort is built upon the bones of one of your subjects Hors,” Jaya said.

“Of Melanthios,” Hors said and the Griffins shifted about in alarm, making hissing noises and flaring their wings. “It is a long story…”

“You would have us treat with Dragon slayers Hors?” Mahavir said outraged.

“These here did not slay Melanthios and I would have you know the humans who did slay him did so because of the Cripple One,” Hors said his voice hard as he lowered his head. Iounn took this as a threatening move, she had seen Hors try to spit fire and often he lowered his head to do so. “I would have you all listen to me without our usual belligerence because lives are at stake of our kin and those here who have chosen to ally themselves with us. You will come and listen and then do as I say.”

“You are not king of us Hors…”

“I don’t care!” Hors roared, flaring his wings as his head snapped up and molten flecks of spittle fell from his fangs. His voice did not reverberate as it would had he been even twice as big as he should have been, but his passion had the desired effect of seeing Mahavir cowed.

“Very well Hors,” Indira said calmly. “Lead the way.”

Hors snorted and returned to Iounn’s shoulder as she turned to lead the way back.

“I take it negotiations have begun?” Epona said dryly.

“Yes, we should prepare food for our guests,” Iounn answered, before she filled Epona and Dylan in with what had been discussed. They reached the fort and gates, Epona speaking briefly with a servant. They went through the courtyard into the keep itself built around the vast ribcage of Melanthios. Inside was lit by tallow candles, the vast hall mostly empty. It was where they would gather when the time came for siege, a hospital and sleeping quarters for the combatants. All those unable to fight had been sent south, hopefully to safety.

A single table stood in the room, a map table with a model of the surrounding territory made of hardened clay resting on it. They gathered around the table, the Griffins eyeing the model with interest.

“So tell us Hors what has happened,” Indira said mildly. Hors sighed and began his story, going over the birth of the Crippled One and his role, the decision to March, his search and rebirth, and his life in Iounn’s care. When he finished there was silence, breaths held in either awe or anger.

“I would hear your story before I hear any condemnation,” Hors said. “I know very well what I did, and I have no need to hear it from any of you.”

“I have nothing to condemn you for Hors,” Manisha said. “That right is reserved to the Kings or Queens of the Phay, none here hold that power.”

“Just because we do not have a King or Queen does not make the Griffins lesser than the other Phay,” Mahavir growled.

“No it makes them a wild card,” Hors said and Mahavir looked at him with an expression Iounn was unable to read on his animal face. “So tell me what brings you to the moors.”

“That tale began just after the Phay marched,” Indira answered and told them their story, Iounn translating as best she could for Dylan and Epona. Iounn listened feeling like she was being told a child’s tale, by a creature that stepped right out of one of those tales. Mages and a lost Isle, it truly was a grand tale.

“Eileen reborn,” Hors said his wings trembling. “Well that is truly a tipping of Fors Wheel. You say this Xavier went seeking the song?”

“He did so he said,” Indira said. “Eileen would have would she not? I did not know her of course but I have heard stories.”

“She would do just that,” Hors said. “So we can leave the song in his hands and the March will come in its own time. Right now we have these armies to face.”

Iounn said nothing to the change of subject to the coming war. She knew Hors was avoiding the subject of the March and the Crippled One. This was the stuff of stories, and from what she knew of stories Iounn knew there had to be a champion to face the Crippled One in the end. Not Xavier, this Eileen reborn, no Iounn knew Hors had taken that role for himself. But he was no longer up for the task, reborn himself into a body that could not feed his spirit’s power. Iounn felt a ripple of fear in her heart as she wondered if she were to be this champion. She knew Hors would never allow it nor had intended it, but she felt it might fall on her to kill the Crippled One. If not her then who?

“Tell us then of these enemies,” Jaya said breaking into Iounn’s thoughts. She was soon telling the Griffins of what they knew of the enemy, pointing to places on the map, and their efforts to contact the dwarves. The Griffins listened intently, ears perked up and tails twitching much like cats anticipating the hunt ahead.

“We can aid in the hunting down of the scouting parties,” Jaya said, her tail swishing back and forth.

“We should divide the clans then,” Indira said. “Two each to a fort.”

“What of the dwarves?” Yama asked in a mellow voice. “Surely they would have made contact by now, they must all be dead.”

“Or they cannot get through the Orcs Yama,” Manisha snapped. “Why must you always state the darkest outcomes?”

“I state a possibility we should acknowledge Manisha,” Yama answered not rising to the bait. “We should be prepared to face this enemy without the aid of the dwarves and their knowledge on these creatures’ tactics.”

“Unless a scouting party of our own goes to the mountains,” Nirav said. “We can fly over the Orc army and mountains.”

“I will go,” Dhaval said. “The Swift Winds are the fastest flyers.”

“Not over long distances,” Yama said. “The Bone Eaters are best at staying airborne longest over vast distances.”

“Would stealth not be best?” Nirav said tipping his head at his own question. “The Night Flyers can fly at night when they will not be seen.”

“You forget Nirav these Orcs are nocturnal as well,” Manisha said. “The Wise Wings would be best given how versatile and agile we are in the air.”

“Strength in needed for this,” Jaya said. “We of the Marked Ones are the strongest.”

“On the ground!” Dhaval said ruffling his feathers in irritation. “The Swift Winds are the best flyers!”

“The Long Talons are the greatest warriors,” Mahavir argued hotly. “We will be the first to draw Orc blood.”

“Enough!” Hors shouted before the Griffins devolved into another agreement. “One from the Swift Winds, Wise Wings, Night Flyers, and Bone Eaters will be enough for this mission over the mountains. None of the Elect should go, you are all needed here. Understood?”

“Yes Hors,” Indira said, the only one free of boasting. It seemed the Griffins were far too eager to prove their superiority to each other. “So which of us will go to what fort?”

“I would have the Feather Tails and Long Talons go to Dun Glas where King Sten is,” Hors said. “The Marked Ones and Swift Winds will go to the coast fort of Dun Carr where Prince Roland is. And the Bone Eaters and Night Flyers will stay here in Dun Cnámh. Objections?”

Iounn had to plug her ears from the shouts of objections from the Griffins as each began to argue against Hors’ suggestions. She could see he was pairing the types of Griffins off to benefit the other, but the Griffins of course wanted their own way. It seemed more of the arguments were over which clan was stronger or better at flying rather than anything of merit.

“You can go Iounn,” Hors said as the Griffins argued. “If it is alright if we stay here? This could take some time.”

“I will see food sent in,” Epona asked nodding. “What kind of food should I send in?”

“Freshly butchered sheep would do,” Hors answered. “I’d say about three, you can drain them first and butcher them into cuts, the Griffins won’t mind. And a dish for the offal.”

“Very well,” Epona said smoothly as if she had Griffins over for dinner all the time. “Will those out on the moors need anything?”

“They will fend for themselves,” Hors answered. “If they choose any of the herds nearby, don’t contest them.”

“I will let the shepherds know,” Epona said before turning and walking briskly out of the hall. Iounn simply nodded to Hors who rolled his eyes at her before turning to the argument. Iounn found Dylan at her side as they walked out of the hall.

“How goes the training Lady Iounn?” Dylan asked.

“Fine as you well know,” Iounn answered. “What is it you really wish to ask?”

“Mothers,” Dylan said under his breath but Iounn heard him, but his wry grin told her he hadn’t minded her question. “I wish to know if you think these Griffins will make the difference we need to win this.”

“I can’t know that majesty,” Iounn answered. “Simply because the way of battle. Even if the Griffins add superior numbers and the Orc army isn’t as big as we think, even if we get the aid of the dwarfs at their flanks, we cannot know the outcome of a war. To assume victory when all seems in your favor is one sure way to see it all crumble in your hands. Until all are dead, or one side survives, only then call the war be called over.”

Dylan was silent for several heartbeats until they were outside once more.

“Lady Iounn I fear that will be the outcome of this war,” Dylan said. “The slaying of all the Orcs.”

“You say it as if it is a bad thing,” Iounn said surprised. “You know what these creatures capable of.”

They had received word of raided farms, and the atrocities of what happened there. The slaughter went beyond human bounds, rape, butchery, cannibalism; all showed they truly were dealing with monsters. Iounn hadn’t seen any of the raided farms, but Dylan had taken one risky ride to see for himself. He had returned with a look of profound shock.

“I know Lady Iounn,” Dylan said nodding. “I despise these creatures; they do not belong in Miread. But that’s just it, they don’t belong here. The Crippled One brought them here, according to Donar, maybe against their will maybe with it. Either way, they are not of this world, and I think Miread has damaged them in some way.”

“What do you mean?” Iounn asked puzzled.

“I think that where they came from, they had no physical forms like they do now,” Dylan answered. “Now that they do they revel in it to the extent that pain has become pleasure to them. Maybe in their world, where they were free of physical sensations and desires, they were not the monsters they are now. Maybe by bringing them here the Crippled One knew he was twisting them into monsters.”

“How did you come to this conclusion?” Iounn asked surprised.

“When we rode to the farm that had been raided one of my men killed an Orc that had fallen asleep in the barn. It had raped and killed the young girl, a child no older than ten summers, and had been eating her.”

He fell silent a moment, no doubt reliving that moment as he shuddered. Iounn had learned from Goran to keep silent when those dark memories took him, to wait at the end of tunnel for him to return.

“I remember looking at it after it had died, if looked… confused,” Dylan said at last. “I thought over that for the rest of the ride back and wondered. What must it have been like to be taken from one world to this one? I think it is being here that makes them the monsters they are.”

“You cannot feel mercy to them majesty,” Iounn said hardly. “Not if you are to kill them.”

“I know this Lady Iounn,” Dylan said. “If anything it strengthens my resolve. If they do not belong here then we must send them back, for our sakes and theirs I believe. I only hope killing them really does send them back. From what Donar told us of them they don’t appear to age, they do not die unless something kills them. If so then the only way to free the Orcs is in death.”

Iounn stared at this young man, wondering what kind of king he was. None she had experience with, he was far too composed and thoughtful for a king of Nyrgard. Yet she knew it was these very airs that had even Daunish man and woman devoted to their king. Iounn had seen it grow in them as Dylan lived among them, it could only be called faith.

A horn sounded and horse hooves pounded on the packed earth, both Iounn and Dylan turning to the gates of the fort to see a rider fly into the courtyard. His horse collapsed under him foaming at the mouth and soaked in sweat. The rider leapt clear but stumbled and collapsed.

“A healer!” Dylan bellowed halfway to the man himself. “Water now! Someone see to the horse!”

Iounn stood on the steps as people flocked to the scene, Dylan ordering those not needed back as he knelt at the man’s side. Iounn was relieved to see Dylan soon helped the man to his feet, but his horse shuddered and died. He must have run it until its heart burst, and Iounn wondered what had provoked the man to run a horse to death to get here.

She walked forward and the crowd parted for her. Dylan was at the man’s side as he coaxed him into drinking some water though the man kept trying to speak.

“Majesty this man has a message let him speak it,” Iounn said. “Your concern is noble but a horse gave its life for this man to speak, we should hear him.”

“Very well,” Dylan said chastised yet unlike many men unhurt by the rebuff. “Tell me sir what has happened.”

“Names Dara majesty,” the man said having gained his wind back. “I was a shepherd ta the north turned scout now. A battle’s begun ta the north.”

“With the Orc army?” Dylan said surprised. “I’ve ordered no engagements.”

“Majesty, it baint be our forces the Orcs be fightin,” Dara said. “I ken it be dwarves.”

Dylan was dead silent a moment, motionless as a statue.

“Call to arms!” Dylan said loudly, a sharp command but free of the panic that might have resided in those words. “We march for the north.”

“We cannot hope to provide aid majesty,” Iounn said. “It is a three day march to the border besides how long it simply took for this man to ride to us.”

“I know this Lady Iounn but would you have me sit and do nothing while the dwarves die trying to fight through to us?” Dylan asked turning on her.

“No majesty, I only ask that we not rush into this,” Iounn answered. “Prepare some of your forces but be sure to keep some here. Secondly, use what is newly available to you. The Griffins can fly to scout ahead so that we are not marching blind.”

“Yes, thank you Lady Iounn,” Dylan said relieved. “Will you stay in command here?”

“I think Epona would best hold that role,” Iounn said. “I will be needed as a translator and Hors’ guardian when you arrive at the battle.”

Dylan nodded and turned away to begin organizing his men. Iounn in turn went back to the keep to confront the Griffins. Inside the Griffins were busy with their meal, Hors laying on the table with his tail swishing in irritation. He looked up at Iounn’s entrance and seemed to sense her news.

“What has happened?” Hors asked.

“Dwarves were spotted to the north engaged with the Orcs,” Iounn answered. “It seems our hand is forced.”

“We will call our kin to battle!” Mahavir said standing and flaring his wings.

“You will do no such thing Mahavir,” Hors said coldly. “I will take Yama and the Bone Eaters, the rest of you will go to the forts as I have said.”

“You do not order me about!” Mahavir said angrily.

“I do not Mahavir,” Hors answered. “Because you are too stupid to listen.”

Mahavir growled and Iounn saw his muscles bunch. Before she knew it she had drawn her hammer and stepped forward, bringing it down on Mahavir’s back paw. The Griffin yelped and whipped around, lashing out blindly at the one who attacked him. Iounn was surprised by his speed and barely avoided the lashing claws. It was his beak she needed to fear more as she saw Mahavir lunge for her throat. She brought her hammer up, connecting heavily with Mahavir’s jaw and making his sharp beak snap closed on his tongue cutting off the tip.

Hissing and blood dripping from his gaping beak Mahavir backed away, his wings rattling and tail lashing.

“First blood drawn again to your disadvantage Mahavir,” Indira said dryly. “I wonder why the Long Talons even chose you.”

“Damn you Indira,” Mahavir hissed, his voice unaffected by his severed tongue telling Iounn that a Griffin’s tongue had nothing to do with their voice.

“Damn and curse all you want Mahavir but at this rate you’ll command nothing if you keep losing battles,” Indira answered. “If Raja were here you would have never gotten command of the Long Talons.”

“Enough,” Hors said sounding tired. “We have work to do. Now go.”

Grumbling and shoving the Griffins left, only Yama remaining.

“A way with words Hors as always,” Yama said mildly.

“We’ve never met Yama so spare me the familiarity,” Hors said sounding irritated.

“We’ve met before in a past life Hors,” Yama said. “Or do you not recall?”

Hors was silent a moment, staring at Yama.

“Ah, Gita you were the first Elect of the Swift Winds,” Hors said nodding. “You regained your past memories?”

“No, but I feel I’ve met you before,” Yama answered. “You know that strange sense that you’ve done things before.”

“No actually I don’t,” Hors answered. “I’ve only been reborn the once and it seems with us Elder Phay we retain all memories of our past lives when we are reborn. The new body takes some getting used to but afterwards I found I was still much of myself.”

“Bad memory and all?” Yama said.

“You try living for centuries,” Hors answered aloofly. Iounn cleared her throat then and Hors turned to her and nodded. “Yes of course, come Yama.”

Hors leapt up onto Iounn’s shoulder as Yama followed them out of the keep. Dylan already waited with a saddled horse and five companies of a hundred men waiting. Only the scouts were mounted so they set off at a quick march, scouts riding ahead as the Griffins took flight. Iounn couldn’t help but stare up at the sky filled with the Griffins, their beating wings filling the air with a chaotic drumbeat.

They rode for the rest of the day and made camp, the Bone Eaters unable to fly at night. The next day they continued on, the Griffins flying ahead. Around midday several Griffins returned with word of events in the foothills.

“The dwarves were unable to push through and now holds a mountain in the foothills,” the young griffin reported, a vulture breed telling by her bald head.

“What are their numbers like?” Iounn asked. “Were you able to make contact?”

“Ten thousand dwarves about,” the Griffin answered. “Now the Bone Eaters join them to hold the defense. Twice their number stands between them and the moors.”

“And they will be harried the whole way,” Iounn muttered.

“Not the whole way,” Hors said. “Daylight stops them.”

“A veil covers the Orc army,” the Griffin said. “It is like flying through night and smells of smoke, but no other harm comes. It moves with the army but slowly.”

“This explains why they have not broken in further other than night raids,” Hors said. “They need the cloud of this night over them. I wonder if those to the east need the same?”

“We will ask the dwarves since they are the most familiar with them,” Iounn said. “Any plans Hors?”

“I am not a military strategist Iounn,” Hors said. “I am a dragon.”

Iounn had nothing to say to that so they mounted and continued to ride. The situation for the dwarves did not change as they rode north, the Orcs seemed intent on simply keeping them where they were. Iounn feared the Orcs were waiting for them, planning to strike just before they arrived.

They arrived in the afternoon, the sun high and sky clear but to the north. Iounn stared in awe at the dark smudge in the sky, nothing like storm clouds it hung in the air dead like smoke. Below was an army hard to count given the gloom hovering above it.

“They won’t venture from the darkness,” Dylan said watching them. “We have time to set up camp and rest before they attack at nightfall.”

“Should we not attack first?” Iounn asked.

“Had we arrived earlier maybe,” Dylan said. “But we are weary from the day’s march, by the time we are rested night will have fallen.”

Iounn did not like the idea of a night battle, and mulled over what could be done.

“If only we could get rid of that cloud,” Iounn muttered. “Hors?”

“The Crippled One made it,” Hors answered. “A manifestation of aether that is a physical control of the aether much like making a skin to transform into an animal.”

“Can you not just blow it away then?” Iounn asked.

“If it were just a cloud then yes commanding a greater sylph could give you the power to dispel it,” Hors answered. “But we do not have a witch with that power here. Even if we did it would take a greater skill to dispel that cloud, one who can draw on the aether in the same way. They would have to send the cloud back into the lines.”

“We do not have a witch of that power here but could the Dwarves or Griffins not have one of such power?” Iounn asked and Hors seemed to mull it over.

“Both are of the Younger Phay,” Hors said. “It would be an extraordinary power for them to have among them, one rarely born to their kind. It wouldn’t be unheard of or impossible, just very unlikely.”

“We should ask the Griffin to fly to the camp and send the message,” Iounn said.

“I do not think it will help Iounn,” Hors said. “There isn’t time before sundown.”

“Hors I understand battle, if we survive the night there will be plenty of time.”

She went and found their Griffin messenger and sent it off with word. Meanwhile the camp prepared for battle. There was both much to do and little to do once those tasks were complete. Some sought to rest or eat before checking equipment and armor. Defensive perimeters were drawn, stakes, pits, and entrenchments dug. There was little time to complete these measures however, so the preparations were dirty and quick.

By dusk all that was left was to wait. Iounn knew this was the hardest test of warrior’s mettle, the waiting. Goran had told her that much at least, war was brief moments of fighting, terror, and death, between long times of boredom and waiting. Standing at the center of camp as the sun set Iounn understood how the tension could leave one exhausted.

The Orc army struck before true night had fallen, the sky still stained with the blood of the fallen sun. Iounn stood with Dylan in the center of camp under his banner, the center of command where they would be easily found and a rallying point for their men. A cry and a startled horn blast was their warning that their right entrenchment had come under attack.

Iounn stood as the sounds of battle rose up into the twilight, unable to see much beyond the gloom of the night.

“We should have torches lit,” Iounn said.

“We don’t have enough,” Dylan said shaking his head.

“Gorse,” Iounn said. “Light the moors, fire is our greatest ally now. They fear light they must fear fire.”

“Donar said they are very flammable,” Dylan said nodding. He turned to a servant and rattled off some orders for wood and oil, whatever they could gather for a wild fire.

The servant hurried away to complete the task as screams and shouts continued on. Dylan was giving a few orders to those who came to him, but otherwise Iounn was pleased to see him letting those in command of their companies take command. When a runner arrived asked for aid, Dylan sent them back with word of how to spread the forces. He did not take too little or too much, he kept his composure which spread to the messengers.

Iounn was impressed with this young king; he was more than any king Nyrgard had to offer. She felt sad that it was true, Dylan was a man she could follow.

A blaze of fire lit the rising night and she gasped at the sudden conflagration. She heard an unearthly screech from the enemy lines and the dark tide of Orcs melted back from their lines. She had not expected them to fear fire so much.

“We should press our advantage,” Dylan said.

“No, they will rally and come again,” Iounn said. “Order fires built along our lines, some will test it but not as many as that first wave. We need to hold the night majesty.”

Dylan seemed to debate this in his mind. Iounn realized she had spoken hastily and feared she had spoken of too much caution to a man. Sten or Roland would have shaken those words off as a challenge and rushed in even faster because of them.

“I will build the fires, but we need time to do it,” Dylan said. “A fast sortie of the cavalry across their nose while they are stunned will bloody them more. But they ride back immediately.”

“Yes majesty that is wise,” Iounn said amazed. He had not only taken her advice of caution but saw the flaws in it as well. Indeed, this was a man she could follow.

“Conor!” Dylan shouted, and his chosen knight came running like a loyal hound. “I want you to lead the charge.”

“Yes Dylan,” Conor said nodding about to run off but Dylan grabbed him by the shoulder.

“Remember, only one pass Conor,” Dylan said. “That is an order.”

“Yes majesty,” Conor said with more formality. Dylan let him go and Conor marched off to his waiting horse. Iounn looked to Dylan to see his worry and pain. “It is not easy, sending men off to their deaths.”

“For some it is all too easy,” Iounn said. “Be glad you are not them, for they are little better than the monsters we face.”

“Is it easy for Sten?” Dylan asked.

“I believe he finds it easier than you,” Iounn answered, “But he bleeds inside when they fall. And ever they will fall.”

Her words struck him a blow Iounn saw, and she wished it was not a lesson this young man had to learn. The thunder of horses drew their gaze back to the field, though it was hard to see through the smoke and fire. Iounn made out the charge, coming from the west and turning like a scythe to cut along the enemy lines. The orcs rippled back as the mounted knights wheeled, Iounn holding her breath. Conor turned them back then just as the bonfires were lit.

The Orcs flinched and bellowed, occasionally a sortie came through the light but otherwise the Orcs remained between them and the dwarf army.

“It seems we will hold the night,” Dylan said.

“Do not be so sure majesty the night is long,” Iounn said but she agreed with this assessment. “These Orcs don’t seem very clever.”

“Donar said they bred with beasts,” Dylan answered. “I am guessing this gave them little in the way of brains.”

Iounn nodded in agreement and looked down at Hors who had been silent all this time.

“What are you thinking?” Iounn asked.

“There are those in the ranks of Orcs capable of magic,” Hors said and Iounn felt her heart freeze. “Not the Elder Magic, something similar though I’ve never felt. They must have their own.”

“Is that possible?” Iounn asked.

“The aether is of everything, not just life,” Hors answered. “It is darkness and death and rot, if it exists it is of the aether. Rituals of the Elder Magic would be beyond the Orcs, like command of the Wild Kin who would never listen to the likes of them, but they can use the darker aspects of aether. They must have their own rituals and magic.”

“You mean forbidden magicks,” Iounn said and Hors shrugged.

“Forbidden implies rules,” Hors answered. “There are no hard rules when it comes to dealing with the aether. The Phay forbade some rituals because of the danger, but the Phay used the Elder Magic like any other tool. The Elder Magic is as much a weapon as it is a tool.”

“So, what can they do?” Iounn asked afraid.

“I’m not sure,” Hors answered. “They may have invented their own rituals with their own outcomes, or they could have warped other rituals. There is no way of knowing until they do it.”

“Will they use it now?” Iounn asked.

“I don’t know,” Hors answered. “I will let you know if I feel something building.”

“That is a real comfort Hors,” Iounn said harshly.

“It is all I can give,” Hors answered non-pulsed. Iounn sighed and turned her attention back to the battle. Whatever the fires did it was just enough to keep the flood of Orcs at bay. It was not a restful night however; there were intermittent battles through the night as the Orcs tested their lines. One bon fire even went out and the Orcs swarmed the gap of darkness until it was relit.

Iounn spent the night at Dylan’s side, Conor the lodestone on the lines of battle. She never saw the fighting up close, but the sounds and smells were more than enough for her. Thankfully since the Orcs had to keep their lines around the dwarves to the north, they could not move around to flank the Daunish with any significant force. A few sorties were tried, but easily repelled or crushed given they only consisted of a handful of Orcs.

Iounn was getting a distinct lack of command structure and organization to the Orcs at this point. Whoever was the commander of this force lacked finesse in the ways of large scale battle. The Orcs were proving powerful scrappers and raiders, but against organized defenses they lacked the organization to penetrate. This left Iounn thoughtful on possibilities as the sun rose lazily to the east.

The Orcs quickly retreated to their gloomy shadow, and the Daunish were able to lick their wounds. And many wounds there were; while they had held through the night and not once were their defenses penetrated, there was a heavy toll of wounded. Over fifty dead and twice that wounded left Dylan pale as the dawn that day. Iounn looked at him as Conor recounted their losses, and her heart bled for the young man. Heart inspired those to follow him, but it also destroyed him from within.

Then they went to the hospital tent, and Iounn saw Dylan nearly break at the sight of the wounded. There were many who wouldn’t last the dawn, and many whose lives would continue but with broken bodies. The smell of spilled blood and entrails mixed with the shit and piss of the wounded. There was a few shrieking in pain, many just moaning, and a few ominously silent. Dylan stood at the entrance of the hospital staring at the suffering before him.

Then he stepped forward and started to go about the tent, talking to those he could and offering comfort. Iounn watched as he went about the tent, even offering his aid in wrapping bandages and feeding the injured. Conor joined him, both men looking worn but determined. Iounn left them to the task, feeling tired she returned to her tent to rest. She had just stepped into her tent when someone scratched at the tent flap. Iounn went to see who it was to find Kree standing outside her tent.

“I’m going to go get something to eat,” Hors said, leaping down from Iounn’s shoulder. Before she could stop him the dragon child and ran off into the camp leaving them alone.

“Come in,” Iounn said, feeling too tired to argue with Kree. The Rhodin woman came into the tent, unreadable as always. They had spent some time together now, in fighting lessons and occasional conversation, yet Iounn felt little had changed between them. Iounn looked at Kree and felt her heart ache.

“You must be tired,” Kree said. “You should lay and rest, I’ll rub your feet for you.”

Iounn didn’t argue, sitting on her cot she shed her boots and cloak, Kree taking her feet in her hands. Iounn felt her tension melt away, and with it came her barriers against the days trials. She lay back in bed, feeling tears rise, and Kree was at her side then to hold her. Kree held Iounn until she fell asleep, stroking her hair much like Goran used to do. The gesture comforted Iounn and she fell asleep with warmth in her heart she thought she had lost long ago.

#fantasy #series #fairies #dragons #please read #writing

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shriekbackmusic · 6 years ago

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‘Contaminated Pop’ - Lyrics Barry Andrews’ 2019 Solo Album

PUT ME TO WORK

I’ve been a groom I‘ve worked the room I’ve wrapped myself around a broom back in my prime

I fixed the stats

I shaved the rats

Brought litter for the Thundercats

- so many times

(I’ve been a jerk)

PUT ME TO WORK!

O mighty plume! O suffering moon! O weasles in the drawing room! (please make it fast) enklastify my words right now unruly gods will show me how I’ll get the mule before the plough until the last I will not shirk PUT ME TO WORK!

I’ll get the weight upon on my back I’ll eat my body weight in thrak I’ll holler by the railway track (and holler loud!) This Plasma-shift i cannot stop Tumescence intra bellytop Merch is flying out the shop. and in the crowd, are many perks...

PUT ME TO WORK!

O master fruit so tried and true O solemn plague-rat kangaroo Something to get my teeth into is all I pray now linear ducks have just arrived the bullshit has metastasized i am intensely exercised O mood display! Let’s go beserk...

PUT ME TO WORK!

SHIT-PIXIE Don’t you feel in the spring the sickening overkill of everything? can’t help it it’s all hard-wired now All these earthly delights Looking as silly as a bag of lights Ah come on now It’s gotta feel real tired now…

Hey Mary! Get Lairy! You’re still off with the fairies But you know what the whizz and the gelignite can do.. Don’t tangle, just jangle Bring on the crimes and the scandals I’m the Shit Pixie - I’m gonna dance for you.

Nothing real will impinge on the fierce exertions of your perma-binge. Working for you? Got it in hand now? But you won’t draw the sting with your classical allusions and your broken wing. I’m gonna draw you a line in the sand now

So shabby! Gabby! Get yourself back to the abbey you can tell the enqiuiry what and when you knew They concluded what you did was totally scuppered and scoobied I’m the Shit Pixie and I’m gonna tell you true

All the gears grind for you but the light still shines on Column 32 It’s an idea (might make it worse now) Nothing glows in the night and you feel sexy as an ammonite all your virtues are a kind of curse now

Ah Mimi! It’s dreamy! if you shut your eyes you can see me I’m a horse of a different colour boiled to glue. Ignore it; just floor it. It’s so shot-away-in-the-war it’s just the Shit Pixie who’s got a thing for you..

Virgin of the Ladder

I really dig your chiaroscuro it gives me something I can misconstrue these sickly martyrs make me feel alright: they give me something I can live up to

I guess this is where the magic happens: an epiphany of stone and light? Blue-collar… of the Madonna to bring in something from the building site.

O my Virgin of the Ladder will you be with me when I start to climb? Gravity I’m overcoming Nothing doing when it comes to Time

in this year without a summer when I lost everything I thought was mine all the pain and the sheeting rain and I’m sorry baby that was the last of the wine

and I know I can change but there’s only so much a ladder will do D’you want an acolyte that is so scared of heights? rung by rung I’m climbing up to you O virgin of the ladder grant me only that I do not fall towards the centre of the earth Ah keep that ladder up against the wall Oh Virgin of the Ladder what a pretty gal you are maybe a slow climbdown into the squalid town Light a candle on the way to the bar

it’s laboured as an image overused as a metaphor for spiritual ascension (Blake and Jacob did it long before)

but you are Mother of the Word Incarnate but what good are words when you want deeds? - you need practical KIT when you’re deep in the shit and that ladder’s gonna meet my needs O my Virgin of the Ladder will you be with me when I start to climb? Gravity I’m overcoming Nothing doing when it comes to Time

ABDOMEN JONES she will never understand all the tragic flaws of man and has not the slightest sympathy for anyone who can she disdains all protocol (she finds much distainable) still she has nothing in the quiver she’s unable to deliver

Calling Abdomen Jones I love Abdomen Jones and her animus is tidal Paging Abdomen Jones - with her 3 mobile phones - she says: ‘work is the blackmail of survival’

Honey badger isn’t fussed he has transcended disgust ….and it’s known that Jones atones for anything she must Doesn’t claim to be profound never takes the Higher Ground She is fully hypostatic - you should hear her in the attic…

Calling Abdomen Jones Strength to Abdomen Jones! with all her subtle modulations Paging Abdomen Jones with her libido made of chrome she says: ‘pain is a kind of information’

And in any case she sees she is queen of all the bees (as she has some fun and stuns us with her fluent Javanese). And who tunes the concert grand? who will now conduct the band? Her case is prima facie (takes the Beethoven quite pacy)

Calling Abdomen Jones Lovely Abdomen Jones she makes the sound of steam escaping Paging Abdomen Jones she does just fine on her own says: ‘caresses are a form of scraping..’

LOLLIPOP BOMB

Darling monster, sweety-pie.. my mind is wandering sadly I must walk into the reeds` terribly corroded and the saints have crumbled into sand they will not intercede

And I carress the velvet hand grenade my part is played and yes- the windows are steamy so no-one can see me

I lick the Lollipop Bomb I lick the Lollipop Bomb

hark the hot valkyries cry their flaxen hair and crazy eyes they come at last for me honey angel baby lamb I am not what you think I am and i will never be

and I will dally in the sullen glade I’m not afraid of al that I will be streaming at twilight’s last gleaming

I lick the Lollipop Bomb I lick the Lollipop Bomb

tho I was galloping along I read all the portents wrong the Golden Age could never last that long

we are not brave we are not free and yet somehow, remarkably, are able to apall this thinning crowd here in this place the baffled looks upon their faces really says it all

and I will freak out when the time arrives it’s very clear to me that life is a long song and I sang the wrong one

I lick the Lollipop Bomb I lick the Lollipop Bomb

FILTHY WONDERLAND

Come with me if you will - my imaginary friends - I have a tale to tell of phosphors and vapour. Upon a tiny screen i saw a magic realm though i was overwhelmed I got it down on paper.

there’s a scenario: a woman and a wasp not everybody’s thing but no doubt it’s someone’s tumescent butterflies are spurting everywhere: to get the full effect you can even become one

there is a land of wonders and a lot are for hire where all pay homage to the glories of the gland. Do it with Dumbo’s mummy if that is your desire there’s nothing you can’t do in Filthy Wonderland

Some legendary beasts preposterously endowed throw down a fairy girl with wings and tiara. The hobbit looking on is visibly aroused to see these monsters ride the lovely Titania

…and Things with tentacles - that penetrate the bum, A massive squirrel with a fearsome erection the whole environment inclusive as they come, pushing the envelope of natural selection…

There is a brave new vision that machines have designed (the old pornographers will never understand) such complicated pleasures for the liberal mind this is the way of things in Filthy Wonderland

a rampant unicorn; a goblin in a thong: sexual complexity well beyond triangular little Red Riding Hood encountering the wolf in ways (you have to say) are specifically glandular

Phantasmagoria: the Japanese Depraved My Little Pony is away on a hack there. Some mythic masterplan - the lion fellates the lamb - (I need to think this through before I go back there)

There’s an enchanted garden with a final frontier: a blessed Shangri-La to greet with your left hand. they put the magic in you in a new ecosphere a brave and weird new worldc in Filthy Wonderland

There is a land of wonders (and a lot you can buy) where all pay homage to the glories of the gland. Make it with all the cast and crew of Family Guy nothing’s denied to you in Filthy Wonderland..

CONSOLATION

Christ, here comes the storm again that lacerates the heart: the savage wind of ‘really nothing doing’. Pray for us the blighted: all the failed in love and art, who question everything they were pursuing. When the black dogs come for you well, what else can you do, but downwardly revise your expectations? Just kiss the sickly little rose and hold her steady as she goes as you light out for those lands of Consolation

All the aching moments when it didn’t go your way (we saw it all and none of it was pretty) Now you hear their voices in the gruesome light of day, with the wheezing, cheap harmonium of self pity. And there’s some sad things known to man - and quite a few are sadder than the sodden Paggliacci’s ruminations - but still you’d have a heart of stone to leave the poor clown on his own with half a bottle left of Consolation.

When you’ve failed to consummate the wedding of the soul or any other union you may yearn for Let the baby demons come and stretch you on the coals There’s nothing else you’d really care to burn for. Well it really isn’t fun and it comes for everyone it hauls you off despite your protestations. But all the Saints of Legoland; the Poundshop Martyrs hand in hand Will wash you in the seas of Consolation.

Satan in a monster truck Jesus on a bike all these things are sent to test your mettle Half-mast flags in Whitehall or your head upon a spike? Depends on where the dust is when it settles. All the things you struggled for you can check em at the door get ready for a dubious sedation. It’s all designed to reassure: the bingo and the talking cure, as they walk you round the grounds of Consolation

Feel the Need (lyric by Abrim Tilmon - Detroit Emeralds)

See how I’m walking See how I'm talking Notice everything in me Feel the need, oh Feel, feel the need in me

I need you by my side To be my guide Can't you see my arms Are open wide? Feel the need, oh Feel, feel the need in me

Every day, I need every day, I want, without your sweet Sweet love, I'd rather die

I need it constantly your love takes care of me your love is better To me than apple/cherry pie

Your love is tuff and I can't get enough Girl, your love is So important to me Feel the need, feel the need in me

Just put your hand in mine Love me all the time The proof you will Plainly see, Feel the need, oh Feel, feel the need in me

I need you on the case To keep my heart in place You make me what I need to be Feel the need, Feel the need in me

I need you by my side To be my guide Can't you see my arms Are open wide? Feel the need, oh Feel it, feel the need in me

#shriekbackmusic #xtc band #britpop #technomusic #electronica

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