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libidomechanica · 2 years

Text

And more; by shame or fancies dipt in great krater-cup

A sonnet sequence

First Stanza

For the breathe, thanne had been assayed at her sweet is still, a discouer when Science, knowing owre wi’ the day, and that he often tymes wolde han slayn me, fly me, for thou are o’ermuch; i, the firstling thighs? A lightly to the place where is thro’ with the west, and as in this sweet; from off thoughts conclusioun were close, then spak moore wikked and manhood fused with it; from lips I kisses on glorious springs! Seems their live with her state begun. A void of land—alone, and the glove, your tears, then all the street, jackhammers that hope of earth hath been, and fresher things are sight in a dusky colonnade.

Second Stanza

If in so sure: what he, if thought that said? Go from Heaven like the nigher height, all song the full of life true and thro’ all itself through the simmer sun, and hir lyve. Yet nearer way men to light; but Crist hymself dost thou speak, tho’ in sarks to all that fruit; who touch’d with glad arms unite, and gazed upon them about my spirit went; whether take what very brother, perpetual maidens of wearing of this as of sorrowing day; and grasps a spiritual self! From thee, sacred be God, immortal door, wi’ a rank reiver, a porter at a time, I shal seye yow soore I hear the sea.

Third Stanza

There sleeps the queen: when we part? And high to me, for, God with gold, and airy goal, and half disarm’d him: so away in them where upon follow’d to another in the very same and then, when from his however we brave is a zero vector existence, thus whispering cup, nails fellowship of sciential brain. Utterly her song, tho’ I walk’d unto the town, and if I lose to look at the door! A millionaire: not griefs with an anxious fraud of beauty born of my dream: but a breathe hills and the woodbine blown do but gentle stream.—The deep love and flung himself in yonder stynte, comth, first, but know it is the stream, but my hand anxious fears numbers journey on her eye; nor are young birth, and every charm of what come here is the unshapeliest, issuing of this limp and dree, and dance. Her dream, mither will hours. And married sunbeam lay athwart that he wende that brent wole be.

Fourth Stanza

Of him. Blood glow wind blew loud, it leads through the world of fondness, haunt to me. And Autumn, with Hope to bord with ful good; or so it did invite to waken’d, but mean they. Delights around in thine. Inexorable still all adorn my spiritual of the creature, which he had a flower-plots were cast a cadaver. And I—my harps she love-glance and was false, ring weed, until they went from his warm that beat doubt. Ally, as me yaf me my potent, imperial, and still, for I myself as firmer mind. Useful at last lost, some times a separate from the mimic picture of human faces glimmer’d, like silence from death along the drift and array’d; themselves in these must tells the ruddy strife melted in a clouds them lie, viewing the sun, o’er studded peaks in the shock, so I wake—no more; such sanity will death- pale, no hint of Day is music, forc’d himself he fleeting fate!

Fifth Stanza

If, in thine: ere loveliness oft turn minutes, by the sky; they lose toppled down the glow of more such light, they chatter’d trifle please me, the warm; for know it is battered prays, nor past together, giving true, and shew how can my bed to tread, withouten excellent for the shoulders did we went doubt, believing wainscot mouse behind. And now we saw a great Pan-festival: his sisters of old we for ever empty cup, and lorded than before their flairing of wheat and part us, leaving dead, four lips shall fall as the white, we easily nor wills, and I discern! Young mankind.

Sixth Stanza

In the caue, while each amicable gazed- and genial table-talk, or how can my breathed furrows of bees, blacken’d brown of Demons? To meet and we lie near me propitious, not the soul, nor game, no roome, no the dear, thro’ all these fading afar pastoral hillock a lang, languid paces; not ask me why I tolde han my breast and learn it, whence a little snake, but in mariage; for, by my fey, I took exactly what made the dead man’s low came on, how lithe! Once more than be—I care is new-born goddess of their house where for human frail gesture are not a things; my world came, and farewell.

Seventh Stanza

Name for to weeds of habitacioun of uryne and chastity: yes, Pallas from the large eagle language of regrets that forget me down her die, and to man. For never let this ensamples lewd, mute symbols of the Bow, thy pacience and dead of ghost; he put the rolling rimes a glory of woe is an imitative lea I wake, and tell her make weaker breath’d, came vex’d and mingles all unsure: weigh the vast shadows, which himself: I know. Tiptoe: for it sentence to move thee more along the valiant man companions faith care; so seem’d thron’d Apollo sing my Highland lassie, O.

Eighth Stanza

Of all alone, and then my judgment blind shall not be. Or the low began to changest all, and kin. Where Max to be more I make one pang of praised: proud of reveal’d; and condemn’d would changeling door, Lord Jhesu Crist! Thou be affrayed by an unseen than some faint Elysium! Stood on a piece of me: I bring reasons were dead hath desire or severely deem my madness of my bower, shining to death lookt in a forest old; and be fair. Sweet Hesperian tast such credits whisper’d from pearly urinating sigh, the cheke that which be truly say, who speak, thou, new-year deceit.

Ninth Stanza

Could make one else, so love Gregory come upon the climbe. And knows not meat corrupted: or like an occasional process moving hands, you wear, through a mimic temple, first tis sure to my veins than Hermes’ pipe, when we’re tired of it them all its in every womman words shall regret to weep thou now form shall steals from Beauty in its flame, for you shalt take her living above be dim, whose gift utterly her father, husbands, like them twere born within the great vehemence, those velvet leaning tenderest, much compassion’s gaze, and doon a throne, not touching an academic joke.

Tenth Stanza

Tis a wounded wide, his bed of desire is shrivell’d it round, that tumble dales is delicated changed to shewes a prettily fault, who fear it down; and bugle and glad to behold! But took no kep, some snow could prelude woe—I cannot weight ungather stopped, her happy hour, bold to offer still in myn herte nat of oure cheats of deeds and shows of the past; and in the memory fades upon Olympian eagle’s worship tell me so, and will stand: I loved along the moving up, and of his which enclose, what times; ring out my fancies play about at the shore, that not love?

Eleventh Stanza

And praise to herself, from Beauty in it, he face of ioy it is becoming, the slabbed stepping-wells not too much, and all would not wasted me he me that bloom a breezes blew the Goose the Adonis, safe in thy feet lips. Call aloud; it he doth again: but evermore. But sorrow incline to record! Thy father’s dust of the come of a single all the bed the visits; but not look growing with him in a wealthy memory will not for lacke, there best, in many a summers that loved never rise on Scotland’s plainly tell me the and Love should paused hym though it survey Lo!

Twelfth Stanza

Who scare me the time indeed, yet in ear’? A bloom and to understood; like one whoso that her gloom! To darkness mine, the years that sparkled on the holy thought me twas this is he! Follows close by the Orphean lute, when we shall command the ungarnered fruitless ran, her drop? Lily wild: but wast to sigh for now his exile; where it shout, the herde I never draw, to sooth, of home, and, with a leef, the dying at your need, the stirr’d them dance to bind him all that it were the first as mine?—Gentle; liberty; and in its sweetes; let a path we’ll give back is creeds in expensive content.

Thirteenth Stanza

Who hath she, now turn’d—syllabling over and flashes all were shut me lest I stifly myne olde han slayn me and mine came to May: but over thus grant posies, attend to gladden the chambers it ran the wilt thou wolt sippe of their little, and a celestial heat or casts his heart on him; we have y-wedded fyve! Where its foot of the quiet woodlands holy morn, by hym with such a pilgrimage chariot; dark fen thee permitted to cousen you your sheepe, O shepheard mought by nyght, and lith ygrave under tone came vex’d like lighter to give a plain sae rashy, O, aboon the ground.

Fourteenth Stanza

Sick for lacke, that thus whisper to seyn, he knows his fair thy sweet it on the sum of song. Or like a wiser many a tedious herbs and griesly gapes, had waned corse, thus holy said, My life I lead; and was all that anon; now dame, and bars, eclipsing every doubt is Devil-born. Yet do not, but is holde han he seyn, my shame, and they slept and free, when thicket into thee; nor plain, without long; thou grow. And low- brow’d rocks, and shadow sway. My own shall Pity soothing star, he loved me why then what serenely in your face doth not, she scarlet gytes. Ask me why tears, till them mine.

Fifteenth Stanza

Lowly from the wheel. Can tear streaked vases flushed without; the braw lass that Lente; I had stay, stay! Maid; the Mayfly is the purplish, vermilion-tail’d, was strange, I know thou the full of adoring to yon swoll’n brook al nyght and waft him going, Come! Have shouldn’t but echo’d from the lesson of the shall barricades with due respect, and beren hem yeve poysoun in his Almageste: of all thee all. Into the kingly the perfume, and make her still at leads th’hill’s shadow grass- green an infant crown’d with thy grace. All night, the wrought around my good; or so melancholy said, A lovely Polly Stewart!

Sixteenth Stanza

Or mermaid the Miller’s Daughter knit below thro’ the faem, thy brows and folds—not his last lost, and ever rose on us like as fingers, you tell the large as man hanged with silver-green, and earth that I were pitty. He clerk is dipt in mine could preached and brute blood; a belt of the man of sea, the swoon of a star of octogamye; why dost was but where sinners may be, beauty’s silent and those muffling him raise, and thyself anew beyond thanne wolde housbonde; thou thyself along the vision, will hours in visionary maid, and I cannot be so profits it true: shall sway, the crystal.

Seventeenth Stanza

In these have not a subtle think, since we held as half the mone. Vote may thy tears? When the clouds interwreathed away from the dead man I lose to erase? Any more, such pretence of all must surpassing will cold the housbondes on my bele chosen with your first she sun began to meeting stain is vocal within, thy passion have lost Art, that you yours wed to what other frail again, and think we are, thou to dream, yet eftsoones I hitte hem not; or haply some faire breast doth shower heal’d up the peace, and beckoning under heart; I would bending leave us no more? The man who shall not then I though perhaps the sheet— crushed pepper—althought, leaving he wall’d, still speak their loosened as a Czar; and in the better incense, ten that poison from their tents. And I discern the spirits carbon monoxides, by this powers too rough-bearded by the stars for these hazy years.

Eighteenth Stanza

Leads summer moods are ended; when those thee to the cattes skyn be slyk and cripples, spongy mossed oaks; counting free from his whirl the pass; my body go, what am naked waist, and were not any feud with the sea. But sorrow’s chiefest joy, our changed top, and the very friends in undiscover to have lovest to-night ungatherinne. To you, but loved two were all that another threshold of the boy who shall laws of the haze of quick sighs was wonted grange. Has never lives from their meeting hours by a shady brings mutual Victims at your liberty; and if we shall adieu!

Nineteenth Stanza

I looked again, and swift beneath sunder’d free, more of beetlesse curious sister, daughter’s house, we are names, that that Pity in its assumptions blind over his cast could turned him in the world: and but you have queynte all the double tongue as thou, brother, giving voice, a glory from Heaven dying smoke from the cock has caught that sleep, and eek smoke and make a bride, and all were blythe Caducean change, for youth to myriads on me—breath of cold dust remain, and soothe man, and to you, to die had toold to another, shining had been out a mind, loved and crimson barren bush flits by the showed, ther without one spotless peace, that anon! On Janekyn, and the measur’d time. And by touch most richest, here, couch I doubt thou canst thy self might may blessed-fair to see part of men to the brute; thou cans’t be tomb, thinke on this killing how that color the beds of mine, shriek’d again, feeling about the stars.

Twentieth Stanza

But matters that pant upon his piping he dwell, the fabric that I hadde he me how thou spend the middle of which do breathed furrows of Olivet.—I’m wearing waves thy chance, perchance, and cell he wand’ring insidious hours that glows. For why shores of eternal Heaven hie, closest words, but mine thee see, ride ten though i have thy poet’s Mind. The touch of a yew; and made then. So round to the day did lave in roaring in the sunshine in her equal-poised feet have him, and sugar first approach Love’s vision Venus sends of sudden changeling day; see my dear. I may find, and glowing.

Twenty-first Stanza

That I should in earth thee to watch, like the wa’; the breast, the life of love inevitable Outside, by a bee. As souls unbodied, and now decrease reneueth! Depart, excuse thee return thee she bats, while thy middle air, invisible, hatefull things which snare of onward sigh the first you without the mooste cride Pees! So doo mo, God is change; come: not in fact, which I cannot move, and hymns? The one mute in twain disclos’d in a tale swete; fy! It shalt sea-water faucet and base. With thee on the sun flamily igniting in that I thee! It is not hears there waits footsteps murmur breeze.

Twenty-second Stanza

Absence harms. And more than oure byrthe; deceits, and hath still above heart in the village hammer clime, the great master of every wise man’s shame upon my song like a choking to jealous curls blown about: weel, sine the studious master new life should pause, fair in was like Nature rarely fell the deep; my green-eyed monstrous eft was a novel powers, and many shall wane a manly mirage in my heare, and Eloise? Nor let it on the gorgeous glimmering flames resoundeth. Great wind shall death most wish’d a pure han with that fault, whose force of you glancing, from Dian: so then buried bones.

Twenty-third Stanza

Of Jove—Minerva, maidenheid, Alas! I climbe. The snatch’d to heart and all the captainesse on winding Jealous misers giv’n to stark plain, with coral, coral, coral, but thou are ye Queen Guinevere agilte hire malencolie. Are neighebores house, my heads of our side outgush’d, so wild voice more than the childhood, cast upon my sin and fresh wet from Beauty’s silence from out my added praises upward, suddenly, as is an inconstant sea at rests on this is thro’ Heav’n. Some emanation on he had burst in the storm; but if I were grown, it may be dawed, to take a stag.

Twenty-fourth Stanza

Never rise, but I am naked loved to enquere or happy thought; I mock’d the Lightly pass like mist the purple: taste, infant’s self. Mark but that light, priest, and yet prevailing from beneath the summer nights my woes of what the living brisk and gather deeds, their heads of supersede all the show to sell, and her friend that saps the Cretan isle; and that I thinking; and all I seem in every wight ynogh, whan they set our own love alone, for noght so in her fate, and Syluanes haunten rather, the rolls away. Buried times hold them ill, to pangs he love be some with ermine can obey!

Twenty-fifth Stanza

Await there with me that sleep is hond the bridge now possess’d her helps to go yet to where was undrest of angry wyf destroyeth hir shame! It is more I many a lightly does but be gain’d the summers that seeldome falls cool and bliss who, distant mine own shall wight that canst not with thy brothers had man I lov’d, ador’d ideal Grace serene Cupid his mane, she made the the schoolboy heat, there not thou such a trewe, Jhesu short beside the fared; and, lest thro’ the could sorrow touch of shade of shrewe yow soothe Love had it did dawn, the reach’d the head from Wolues, that are the iron hand, her shade, and breathe to make and England. And naiads fair womman, for ese of tribulacioun by vertues feet; contente is glad to find a thousand meet the schoolmaster-bowman, he knoll to knowe a feyned unto me it shout, the unquiet sense, and one this Somonour swich estaat as God hadde and gude red heard thee.

Twenty-sixth Stanza

Old darkling, to rest be tenants of a man’s lore so well; and is richly feast until we below thro’ the golden thine, and take the fool that breath is gay, a martial song of woe like lilies, like Atlantic round flows, as through youre leve, thy face desponding, muffled every eye doth ech of her liue. And all waste that Nature’s best and dyes: a scowl is so stammer and fell ere thee through shall command is often reed; and roar in flame, that xylem thick with greasy fingers, you tell how she love. Casting once more, or lops the features—Lycius shrank close to be receive you the hardest seye, I mette of its carbon monoxides, and your jeering for my own,—a hollow teeth used to those starry spheres; a dewy gem, fright, and a clerk is the feast, they restored, I would have thee, nor streamless ills, and strong for thought, my meditation fringes creak’d on: if snake bite yu, whence radiator grief.

Twenty-seventh Stanza

Of sorrow lives at a time of freedome gladly beyond the Fauns, and lassie, O. My very side, his mind, not blame, and green sod, that she said, Alas, hastes; so anxious I’d bid my breast up from the grieve, we don’t say, all sufferance, nought; I seem to me behind her milder-mooned body’s graves, but, fond and deep abyss, it sees the nice remembering wars—and I cannot move, come sliding in repreeve of the blue the eve and slights to gaze on my crystal vines; the sweete wyn! And forward round, that she which shall be deeds, at last in the market makes vs languid mazes overworn.

Twenty-eighth Stanza

Not grieve thy beautie thunderstand: we lives it was, why the tomb, a neighbour pains and brought before; my fancied city gates, her flew the endless and mix’d my breast sprinkled her ’tween heart. Life, a deep midnight of the peach, the true words spake and blandishment divine ASTREA shows her verdure, the tumult from snow and fate, which mighty deep dost taste they with raptur’d! And dawn, and vows, and strait in any good matter-mouldering the fil bakward yawns. Like a water—jessamine, the breathe wave, your memory love’s half alcohol, to laugh, and wild eyes and passion to Lucy’s race be all that I then he came more where is a dunce—perhaps discrecious deep midnight pass through awkward to fight; and it is the grots, or to keeps the core, and she what I were wreak’d on some landward side, by a river, goodwill, goodwill, as well. Cares upon the vision, is dash’d on the dull middle things ever in the palm.

Twenty-ninth Stanza

Oppose heart thou comes back stretched vote may live? That Appelles wrought; and, lordynges, right reproaches, hastes; so anxiously; so wole, his crooked, and bow’d his arms. Cool grass, the boat, my self shall be dear name for all its long, and leaves; nor feed a flowers and music, rolling rain: thou canst not look on me—breathe, with state be blythe and flutter date, of delight; I mock’d the bell struck in the green, a song the brutal scorn, spun off at once more all night, and in the sun looking for their star; unloved, thy darkling, from yonder gave afresh all know the tumult to hem nat I. Yesterday, the sides wente.

Thirtieth Stanza

Which I know while and to cease. Stars as thou to some downcast, not a while euerywhere, couch, and that’s the simple pray’r accepted, and cauld, I knew where in youth; for Annie, dear girl, whose chace from the phantom-warning this Somonour heads, and cell he was, in a golden mysteriously her fingers nurst; and, like the night, and seas Ionian mutes, by eyes the tips are to thee, then, as child forget till the lattice on his fair hast this mother, to each, when we first taunt so softly pight and when I study winding all day with choise deliciously her finger’d on a dawn upon that degrees, hills?

Thirty-first Stanza

Sweet and body’s grave reach or breathed the race? They came on, how fleeting? To rest in thing. Me neded nat dwell of a thoughte the passions lay, but every spirit walks, may find a sigh doth live, and call. The wo that in the air such a day. The round the eyes, and the cattes skyn and o’er the bonie lass made: Where’er I turn the nymphs? From temperate beames dispense fragile visions, and printless phantom chant in emerald flew in the words you canst—and led him in that love it with my tongue—o let me run, let me down upon flower the Gardener’s Daughte me also, is like to name; to broad waking.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 6 #162 texts #sonnet sequence

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honourablejester · 4 years

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Path of the Ancestral Guardian Barbarian

“Some barbarians hail from cultures that revere their ancestors. These tribes teach that the warriors of the past linger in the world as mighty spirits, who can guide and protect the living. When a barbarian who follows this path rages, the barbarian contacts the spirit world and calls on these guardian spirits for aid.”

I am honestly so in love with this idea. And not just the traditional Conan-style barbarian with this riff, like Buliwyf from Thirteenth Warrior, ‘lo there do I see the line of my people back to the beginning’ (it’s my mother’s favourite movie, I don’t know what to tell you), but also …

Like. Not just a tribe, picture a family. A clan, something maybe like the English/Scottish Border Reiver clans. With all the extra fantasy flourishes you can throw in. A ‘noble’ family who’ve held border lands for centuries, not necessarily by being excellent warriors (though they’re often that), not necessarily by being heroes (though they’ve been those too), but also by being the worst lineage of scoundrels and cutthroats and genial skullduggers you’ve ever laid eyes on. Morality and alliances blowing with the wind, but one common, uniting goal: for the good of the family.

So, when your barbarian rages, there’s suddenly this motley collection of ancient villains clustered around them, heckling the hell out of the enemy-du-jour and commenting dourly on ‘things back in my day’.

(Picture the ancestor scene from Mulan, but everyone can see it)

You could pick a few of them. Just a sampling, the ancestors that like this barbarian and want to help them out:

Great Aunt Hidalya, rumoured to be the best assassin of her day, who may or may not have assassinated a prince

Cousin Rorge, a(n admittedly second-rate) pirate from several centuries ago who still won’t reveal to the family where he buried his treasure (possibly, as several generations now have suspected, because he hasn’t actually got any)

‘Uncle’ Erasmus, a man of dubious connection to the actual bloodline but handily adopted in anyway, who may or may not have trafficked with demons way back when, and may or may not have been a necromancer, and who has taken to the whole ‘spectral guardian’ thing with placid equanimity, and also has a lot of opinions on the proper disposal of corpses

Auntie Maim, not a typo, an old-school berserker from one of the clan’s many border war days, who just really misses smashing heads and wants to live vicariously through her descendants

Sir Emmeth, one of the semi-rare white sheep, an honest-to-deities knight of the then realm, who has answered the spiritual call mostly to ride herd on everyone else, and is consistently the most tired and harried-looking of the ghosts (though he has his moments of tranquil, seething fury as well – he is a member of this family after all)

And when you’re using your Ancestral Protectors, it’s the whole gaggle of them heckling the enemy, telling them to pick a fight with a real opponent. When you’re using Spirit Shield, it’s mostly poor Sir Emmeth running around trying to protect people and guilting Rorge into helping him. When you reach level 10 and get Consult the Spirits, it’s Aunt Hidalya casing a joint for you, or Uncle Erasmus poking his ghostly fingers where people would rather he didn’t. And when you get Vengeful Ancestors, it’s the whole clan gleefully piling in to pay hit for hit, with the aunties leading the charge (and Emmeth being exasperated that now they’re all willing to help out).

And, I like this for a human barbarian, or a dwarf barbarian, but it’d also be great for a half-orc, because if you put the family’s border holdings on an orcish border, they’d be exactly the sort to gleefully keep them and hold them, by whichever means seemed appropriate at the time. If you’re at war, murder each other, if you’re aiming for peace, a couple of weddings will sort that right quick. The whole family could have varying degrees of orcish blood from several war-peace-war cycles, and they’re just perfectly fine with it.

(There’s even rumours that the first arranged marriage like this, to seal a peace several centuries back, the consensus in the surrounding clans on the human side of the border was to pity the poor orc. In hindsight, they needn’t have bothered)

It’s just, like, the best idea. I want to bring my whole gaggle of bloodthirsty ancestors along to every fight. Who wouldn’t?

#dnd #d&d #barbarian #path of ancestral guardians #fun for the whole family #alive or dead honestly

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i-only-roll-crits · 4 years

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Reiver Demon

#mtg daily demons #magic the gathering #mtg #demoncore

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beneathathousandskies · 4 years

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Book Review: The Lost War (Eidyn #1) - Justin Lee Anderson

Book Review: The Lost War (Eidyn #1) – Justin Lee Anderson

Hello! Today I am delighted to be sharing my review for The Lost War by Justin Lee Anderson, a finalist in SPFBO 6. This is the first book in the Eidyn series, which I spent yesterday devouring. Book Summary: The war is over, but something is rotten in the state of Eidyn.With a ragged peace in place, demons burn farmlands, violent Reivers roam the wilds and plague has spread beyond the Black…

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#Book Review #Eidyn #Fantasy #Favourite #Indie #Justin Lee Anderson #The Lost War

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mtgbracket · 7 years

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Round of 8192 - Batch 13

You can now vote in Batch 13!

Currently open batches:

Batch 13 Batch 12 Batch 11 Batch 10 Batch 9 Batch 8 Batch 7

Batch 6 results will be up shortly.

Feature card: Pyroclasm was the fourth highest scoring card in Round 1 - let’s see how it does in Round 2.

Full list of matchups:

Woodcutter's Grit vs Rhox War Monk Sigil of the Empty Throne vs Fomori Nomad Thrashing Wumpus vs Rugged Prairie Corpsejack Menace vs Psychic Trance Reiver Demon vs Rift Bolt Skill Borrower vs Aradara Express Rewind vs Aysen Bureaucrats Orzhov Basilica vs Demon of Death's Gate Cliffrunner Behemoth vs Pilfered Plans Imagecrafter vs Hunter's Prowess Scorching Lava vs Briber's Purse Mana Maze vs Tyrant's Familiar Cerebral Vortex vs Territorial Dispute Thought Gorger vs Sprouting Thrinax Goblin Gaveleer vs Dominus of Fealty Kor Chant vs Abu Ja'far Desolation Giant vs Nyx-Fleece Ram Kathari Bomber vs Accursed Spirit Lodestone Golem vs Breaking // Entering Revel of the Fallen God vs Glimmervoid Worm Harvest vs Tragic Arrogance Chromescale Drake vs Underworld Connections Artificial Evolution vs Izzet Boilerworks Colfenor's Plans vs Pyroclasm Famished Ghoul vs Biomantic Mastery Diversionary Tactics vs Grinning Totem Herald of War vs Fleshformer Opalescence vs Segovian Leviathan Transcendence vs Reckless Bushwhacker Chromatic Lantern vs Burning Earth Twincast vs Gloryscale Viashino Monstrous Carabid vs Sen Triplets

#mtg #magic the gathering

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arkiivlll · 5 years

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https://www.nytimes.com/2006/08/26/books/26paul.html

BOOKS

On the Road and Between the Pages, an Author Is Restless for Adventure

By ANNE GOODWIN SIDESAUG. 26, 2006

WHITE OAKS, N.M. — “I can’t live in towns anymore,” Gary Paulsen says, enjoying the view from his 200-acre ranch on the outskirts of an old ghost town in the Jicarilla Mountains, 40 miles from the nearest grocery store.

Living like a fugitive from society, the 67-year-old author says, is the only way he can think clearly. “I bought a house in a town near here, and a nice guy, a neighbor, came over to say hi,” he says, wincing. “It was too close.”

For generations of young, mostly male readers, Mr. Paulsen is one of the best-loved writers alive. With more than 26 million books in print, his name is practically synonymous with the wilderness adventure genre. He has won three Newbery Honor awards: for “Dogsong” (1985), “The Winter Room” (1989) and perhaps his best-known work, “Hatchet” (1987), about the only survivor of a plane crash in the Yukon.

“Gary Paulsen’s writing is very authentic, and kids sense that,” said Margaret Tice, coordinator of children’s services at the New York Public Library and a member of the Newbery committee. “He’s always lived his life on the edge and survived true adventures, but he’s not just an action man; he also knows how young people feel and think.”

Teri Lesesne, who teaches children’s literature at Sam Houston State University in Huntsville, Tex., has noted a special power in Mr. Paulsen’s work. “If I have a kid who’s a reluctant reader, all I have to do is hand him one of Gary Paulsen’s books,” she said. “It’ll change his life.”

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Mr. Paulsen receives hundreds of letters a day. But his publisher can barely keep track of where to forward them, since Mr. Paulsen restlessly ricochets around the globe: training horses in New Mexico, running dogs in Alaska, riding his Harley across the American West, gunkholing around the South Pacific in his beat-up sailboat.

It’s deliberate: Mr. Paulsen is an unapologetic misanthrope, children excepted. “I don’t have anything against individuals,” he says. “But the species is a mess.” His throat tightens. “The last time I was up in Santa Fe, I wasn’t there 20 minutes before I brewed up, almost slugged a tourist on the steps of my wife’s gallery.” Ruth Wright Paulsen, his third wife, illustrated four of his picture books and a prose poem about an early American farm. “Now I try to be alone,” he says, pointedly.

Compulsively prolific, Mr. Paulsen produces a fresh book for young adults every few months, the vast majority of them novellas. His latest, “The Legend of Bass Reeves,” was published this month by Wendy Lamb Books, an imprint of Random House. It is identified as “the true and fictional account” of a slave who became the most successful federal marshal in American history.

“He’d ride alone into the center of hell and bring the men out, alive, if possible, or, if necessary, draped dead over a horse,” Mr. Paulsen writes. “He did this 3,000 times. Miraculously, he was never wounded. He rejected countless bribes, and when his own son killed his wife, he tracked his son down, brought him to justice and sent him to prison for life.”

All true. But Mr. Paulsen’s book is a novel, and he openly fictionalizes his protagonist, imbuing Bass Reeves with some of his own traits and experiences. The best writing, he says, is “like carving pieces off your self.” An outcast who survives abuse and a hardscrabble upbringing, Reeves is an expert shot with a sixth sense for tracking and a shamanlike kinship with animals. “Reeves was honest and honorable, and just flat tough,” Mr. Paulsen says, as if he’s fiercely defending a friend’s good name.

Compact, with wolf-blue eyes set in a grizzled face, Mr. Paulsen strongly resembles Ernest Hemingway. There are other parallels. Mr. Paulsen’s prose is spare and well acquainted with death. At various points in his life, he has been tormented by Papa-like demons: too much anger, too much drink, too much emphasis on virility, too many wives, too much loneliness.

Receiving the first overnight guests he’s allowed onto his desert ranch, Mr. Paulsen seems wary but not unfriendly. He wears tall boots and walks gingerly along the overgrown path beyond his door, pointing out rocks and crevices where he’s spotted five rattlesnakes in recent days.

This is bear and mountain lion country, which is why he often carries a snub-nosed .38. “Cats kill you before they eat you,” he says. “Bears like to hold you down and rip your buttocks while you’re still alive.”

All right then.

“Shall we eat?” Mr. Paulsen asks, pulling a few bloody steaks and a plastic vat of potato salad out of the fridge and opening a can of beans.

He is wearing the Iditarod belt that he earned in 1983 on his first try at the brutal 1,049-mile dog-sled race across Alaska, when he finished 42nd in a field of 73. Since then, his love affair with sled dogs has been one of the few constants in his peripatetic life.

“The dogs have affected me in all ways,” he says. “In my understanding of people, in my understanding of love and hate. Once you break down the interlock between species, it’s astonishing.”

Mr. Paulsen also keeps a 40-acre spread north of Willow, Alaska, where he breeds and trains dogs for the Iditarod (which he ran for the third time last March). “From the northwest corner of my land, there’s nothing for 4,000 miles,” he says, his voice quickening with excitement. “There’re no towns, no roads, no people all the way to Siberia.” And few of the provocations of modern society that make him “brew up.”

Mr. Paulsen is a prodigious ranter of the Luddite persuasion; it takes little to set him off. The Internet: “It’s just stupid, faster.” Lawyers: “Miserable human beings.” Organized sports: “Mindless dreck!” Television: “Intellectual carbon monoxide, but hey, TV’s are fun to shoot!”

He grew up poor and lonely in the small town of Thief River Falls, Minn. “My folks were the town drunks,” he says. “We lived in this grubby apartment building. My parents were brutal to each other, so I slept in the basement by an old coal-fired furnace.” He pretended to sell newspapers in pubs, raking the drunks’ money off the bar into his pockets when they were good and juiced. “I became a street kid,” he says. “Occasionally I’d live with aunts or uncles, then I’d run away to live in the woods, trapping and hunting game to survive. The wilderness pulled at me; still does.”

He said he was 13 when he stepped into a library for the first time. It was a frigid winter night. The library stayed open until 9 p.m., and its gold-tinted windows looked invitingly warm.

“The librarian typed my name on a card,” he remembers. “I looked at it and somehow that made me somebody.

Mr. Paulsen became a voracious reader, but not much of a student. “School didn’t work for me. I hated it,” he says. At 17, he forged his father’s signature to join the Army. Once, while he was testing missiles at White Sands, N.M., a Nike Ajax missed its target, locking onto a tagged buzzard instead.

In early 1965, he packed his Volkswagen Bug and drove to Hollywood, where he helped write dialogue for the television series “Mission: Impossible,” and the 1969 Steve McQueen film “The Reivers.” Then Mr. Paulsen left. “I started to like it too much,” he says.

In 1966, he checked himself into a cabin in the Minnesota woods, where he wrote his first book, “Some Birds Don’t Fly,” a collection of humorous essays about the missile industry.

Mr. Paulsen has lost count of how many books he has written since then. His Web site, garypaulsen.com, puts the tally at more than 175. Whether his subject is a slave who risks his life to teach others to read in “Nightjohn” (a book he adapted for a 1996 television movie), or an orphan on the streets of Juárez, Mexico, in “The Crossing” (a film version is now in preproduction), Mr. Paulsen is always writing to conquer his own dark, painful experiences.

“I’m a teller of stories,” he says. “I put bloody skins on my back and dance around the fire, and I say what the hunt was like. It’s not erudite; it’s not intellectual. I sail, run dogs, ride horses, play professional poker and tell stories about the stuff I’ve been through. And I’m still a romantic; I still want Bambi to make it out of the fire.”

Mr. Paulsen stopped writing for adults 10 years ago. “It’s artistically fruitless,” he fumes. “Adults are locked into car payments and divorces and work. They haven’t got time to think fresh. Name the book that made the biggest impression on you. I bet you read it before you hit puberty. In the time I’ve got left, I intend to write artistic books — for kids — because they’re still open to new ideas.”

A version of this article appears in print on , on Page B7 of the New York edition with the headline: On the Road and Between the Pages, an Author Is Restless for Adventure.

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yung-chaos-blog · 5 years

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Chillingham Castle – The Chilling Tale Behind The Most Haunted Hotel

Chillingham Castle – The Most Haunted Hotel In The UK The medieval castle of Chillingham Castello is located in the village of Chillingham, Northumberland, England. The castle was the home of the Gray and Bennet families from the fifteenth and eighties, and the property was bought by Humphry Wakefield until he married a Gray family member. I went through the nation in 1298, King Edward I stationed with his military, in Scotland, during the march against the iconic William Wallace. For the King, a special stained glass window, an event that was very rare in the medieval times in small England, was created to commemorate this event. The passage of the King on the manner to the conflict with the Scots was not random: the manor was in a strategically basic situation for the time being, on the frontier between two fighting countries. The building was used several times as a staging point for British armies, but many times it was attacked and besieged by the Scots for attacks to the south. Chillingham Castle The palace was significantly improved over the centuries but mainly maintained the initial building. The battlements were built at Edward III in 1344 and the former monastery became a true military guard. In 1617 Chillingham was visited by James I, the first king of England and Scotland to join together in the same crown. Given the peaceful relations between two countries of Britain, but mainly united by a single sovereign, there had become pointless a military stronghold in the region. The grave has been filled, the arches have changed, a banquet hall and a library have been constructed. Chillingham Castle History, The castle was used as a castle several centuries later in the Second World War. Most of the ornamental wood outside was scattered and warmed up by the troops during that drastic era. The castle was ruined after the war. The lead was removed from the ceiling, causing significant harm in big areas of the construction. Sir Humphry Wakefield purchased the Castle in 1982, whose wife Catherine came out of the Gray family of Chillingham, which restored the castle carefully. Today big sections of the building are accessible to the public and there is also an overnight stay within tourist activity. One of the most terrible and intractable locations in the castle is the torture chamber. There are several instruments inside, which are still in ideal condition, used in medieval times. The tools were used to torture and kill about 7,500 Scots, including males, females, and kids of all epochs, during a three-century war between England and Scotland. Chillingham Castle History – The Story of John Sage & The Blue Boy The present owners announce the most famous castle in Great Britain, and several documentaries and inspections have been filmed here. Some of these ghosts have historical roots, such as Lady Mary Berkeley (image below), others are newer and more casual, such as John Sage. Also known as John Dragfoot, he was said, in the days of King Edward I, to be a sadistic ex-soldier who became a torturer. John Sage’s tale is very detailed and bloody, with many devastating and cruel tortures, wild sex and possible punishment. This cruel and sadistic torturer, who died about 1200, was often seen walking around the castle without any certain historical references. He used to enjoy his job and he even developed fresh and enhanced techniques to pain his victims. He reportedly tortured over 7,500 people to death (and killed many hundred others in various ways) during the three years he held the job. It seems that he complimented the Scottish adults and the older children held and put them to death in the courtyard after the war against the Scots, who wanted to remove the prisoners ‘ castle. He took an axis still visible and murdered the youngest kids in the Edward room, where the candlelight still swings by itself, sometimes and individuals report a foul scent and a weird atmosphere. John Sage finished when his wife unintentionally strangled as they loved the “torture rack,” in the dungeon of the castle. For John Sage, his boyfriend’s dad was, unfortunately, a Border Reiver who said that if Sage was not put to death, he would collect a large army and attack the Castle. John Sage was hung out openly in front of a huge and passionate audience in the castle grounds by a tree. And when he slowly passed away, individuals cut him apart as “souvenirs.” It would be interesting to learn whether the historical record or locality refers to this individual, but this is a mystery. The castle has a beautifully stocked dungeon, and a demonic evil torturer is a real creative environment. Rather the tragic wife of Lord Gray from Wark and Chillingham (1655-1701) was Mary Berkeley (died 1719). It was abandoned by its unfaithful husband, and it was a true scandal that swept away with her sister, Henrietta. The broken heart of Lady Mary left her child, hung around the castle halls and longed for her wandering husband’s return. He never came back, and she never seemed to be gone. Today, the castle tourists report the silk rustle with an unrealistic chill. In the little medieval church of St. Peter’s at Chillingham village she is said to become just past the castle. The castle’s most popular ghost is “Blue (or radiant) boy,” who torments tourists into the Pink room according to the owners. After a scary lamentation, the visitors who felt their presence in the past asserted they saw blue flashes or a “halo” of blue light on their beds. The brilliant figure should then be shown as a little kid in blue. While the “Blue Boy” is the most popular ghost, it is thought that apparitions end with renovation, when a man’s and a kid’s bones are found within a three-meter thick wall. Rests of the blue moldering material along with the skeleton have been found. A thirsty ghost, it seems, once imported a footman protecting the silver family, in the white garment. The woman was in white, begging for a drink of water, and the unfortunate guy was approached. When he turned to follow her desires, he suddenly recalled that the cloakroom had been locked (to safeguard the silver) and that no one would have had access! When he returned to her, he discovered that she had disappeared. The woman was probably the victim of poisoning, hence her water search.

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