#scythe cervantes

[penguinparty88]

Cervantes: Die.

Contantine: Please don't die!

Cervantes: DIE!

Contantine: PLEASE DON'T DIE!

Meir, confused: Why are they yelling at a plant?

Curie, watching while eating popcorn: They bought it together and Contantine wants Cervantes to accept it as their kid.

[welikeonion1]

incorrect quotes bc I’m bored

Curie, pointing: My I sit there?

Faraday: That’s my lap

Curie: That doesn’t answer my question

Faraday: Wow, Marie, you want to hold my hand before marriage? How awfully lewd of you.

Curie: We literally slept together yesterday.

Faraday: That's NOTHING compared to the lewdness of holding hands.

Constantine: Know why I called you in here?

Cervantes: Because I accidentally sent you a dick pic.

Constantine: *Stops pouring two glasses of wine.* Accidentally?

Curie: I don't know how to tell you this, but... I love you.

Faraday: That's great, Marie. Especially considering the fact we've been married for 7 fucking years.

Curie, pulling up late to conclave: Sorry I'm late, I was doing things.

Faraday: Hi, I'm ’things'.

Curie: That shirt looks great, Cervantes.

Cervantes: Thanks.

Curie: But I bet it would look even better on Constantine’s floor

Constantine: Are you hitting on Cervantes for me?

[talesofpassingtime]

The companionship of one’s wife is no article of merchandise, that, after it has been bought, may be returned, or bartered, or changed; for it is an inseparable accident that lasts as long as life lasts; it is a noose that, once you put it round your neck, turns into a Gordian knot, which, if the scythe of Death does not cut it, there is no untying.

— Miguel de Cervantes, Don Quixote 

[quietflorilegium]

"I wasn't making a mark," Anastasia told her. "I was putting my finger in a dyke. And it's still there." "Yes," agreed Scythe Cervantes. "Holding back the foul flood waters for another day--and every day gives us a new chance to find a more elegant solution."

Neal Shusterman, “Thunderhead”

[spanishskulduggery]

Do you know of any fossil words in Spanish, words that used to be common but fell out of use and are now only preserved in idioms? I tried looking on Google but all the results were English-only examples

I'll try and think of some others but here are the ones that come to mind; and I’m not sure all of these will be what you’re looking for.

si fuere menester = "in the event of" el menester used to be fairly common especially in the Medieval period, where it was another word for "need" or "necessity". Today you only see menester in si fuere menester which is an unusual construction as it is, since fuere is the future subjunctive - which is an obsolete tense - and so it literally means "should it be necessary". This expression only now shows up in contracts and legal contexts normally as "in the event of"

donde fueres haz lo que vieres = "when in Rome... (do as the Romans do)" Again, this is future subjunctive; literally "wherever you go, do what you see".. but in a more obtuse future subjunctive way "wherever you should happen to go, do whatever you may happen to see"

la urdimbre y trama = "warp and weft" The idea of this is related to "weaving", and though this phrase is rather antiquated or particular, it occasionally shows up as something like la urdimbre y trama de la sociedad or something where that's "the fabric of society". It's not the way you say that so much now [el tejido or la tela are more common], but urdir "to warp" was related to working a loom. You still do use tramar but it's not often that you see it related to weaving anymore... tramar is "to plot" or "to hatch a scheme", but you can see how "weaving" would go into "plotting"

so pena de = "under pain of" You don't often see so used in Spanish today, since it's a more direct link to Latin and Italian. And today la pena rarely means "pain" in the physical sense, it usually means "sorrow" or "anguish"... but again in legal cases, so pena de muerte is "under pain/penalty of death"

a diestra y siniestra = "all over the place" This expression literally means "to the right and left". The word diestro/a is still "right-handed" (also means "skillful" or "dexterous"), but siniestro/a used to mean "left-handed"... the idea that the left hand was more evil and "sinister", and "under-handed". In older contexts, siniestro/a means "left-handed", but in modern contexts you say zurdo/a for "left-handed"

al tuntún = "impromptu", "improvise", "on the fly", "by ear" This expression is derived from Latin, ad vultum tuum which is literally "to your face" in Latin. You never see tuntún anymore unless something is done al tuntún but it might be more regional; it just means you're making it up as you go

dormir como un ceporro = "to sleep like a log" Most people today say dormir como un tronco which is the same idea; el ceporro is a variation but it's extremely unusual to see it. Most people will use tronco if they have to

tuerto/a = one-eyed I'm actually not sure if people use tuerto/a still, since there are other ways to say "blind in one eye" or "one-eyed". In older Spanish, tuerto could show up as a "grievance", but in the expression en el reino de ciegos el tuerto es rey is still used sometimes, literally "in the kingdom of blind people, the one-eyed man is the king"

(el) haba = bean [technically haba is feminine] Not common to see el haba used much anymore except in certain contexts, and it's the root of la habichuela "bean". In Spain, sometimes haba is "idiot" so if you see el tonto del haba it's like "the biggest idiot that ever lived"

Vuestra Merced = "Your Lordship/Ladyship" This is the original form of it, but it eventually turned into usted "you" used for polite things. The title was Vuestra Merced and it was how you addressed someone without knowing their title, so it became very polite. In older Spanish you'd abbreviate it as Vd. which eventually became Ud. as the abbreviation for usted. Keep in mind that at a certain point in time, Spanish wrote the U sound as a V, and it followed more of the Latin pronunciation where the V had a softer U/W sound at times. Outside of Spain and works set in older time periods, you're unlikely to use vuestro/a - it even became informal plural "you all" in Spain - but you rarely ever see merced used. Chances are you're only going to see it was vuestra in front of it. But just know that vos has a very different meaning today than it did in the Middle Ages

meter/sembrar cizaña = "to sow discord" You're never going to see cizaña used in any other context unless you happen upon some botanical book. The literal translation is "darnel" which is sometimes called "false wheat"; basically la cizaña looks like trigo "wheat", and it grows close to wheat but it often has a fungus that's poisonous so you need to separate it. The idea behind it is that if you're deliberately planting cizaña you're actively trying to poison someone or make things worse

la celestina = "a go-between, a mediator" This word comes directly from La Celestina a novel written in Spain's Golden Age by Fernando de Rojas. In it there's a woman named Celestina who sets up meetings between women living in convents (who weren't always nuns) and men; acting as a go-between and chaperone for love affairs basically. The term was also la alcahueta but became celestina after the character in the book. Certain characters in literature are considered celestinas like the Nurse in Romeo and Juliet; basically the girl/woman can't risk her reputation so she has her maid or chaperone working to arrange things, and they're often the catalyst for things going wrong. In other contexts, celestina or una alcahueta is a "pimp" or "madame", or sometimes "a gossip"

pardo/a = brown, brownish-gray Today you’re only really going to see pardo/a used with animals. Specifically, el oso pardo is a “grizzly bear”, and pardo/a can be used with horses as “dun”. I don’t know if “grizzly bear” counts as an expression but anyway. In older Spanish pardo/a was another word for “brown” when it came to people too. Today, if you’re describing hair color as “brown/brunette” you’re using castaño which is literally “chestnut”, either castaño claro “light brown” or castaño oscuro “dark brown”. When it comes to things that are brown, the typical word is now marrón or sometimes you see it as color café which is “coffee-colored”

ser un caco = to be a thief Not commonly used as ladrón, ladrona “thief”, but un caco literally means “a Cacus”. Basically, Cacus was a mythological figure who stole some cattle and Hercules killed him. In some places people use un caco to mean “thief” as a euphemism

la Parca = the Grim Reaper Orginally, las Parcas were the Parcae in Roman (originally Greek) mythology. They were the sisters of fate who would measure someone’s life and eventually cut the thread. Today, it’s just one Parca and it’s typically a male figure, skeletal, with a scythe as the “Grim Reaper”, rather than it being a woman with scissors. That’s because during the Plague, people thought of Death as being a skeletal figure that held a scythe, the symbol for “reaping” wheat that was ripe.

manjar de los dioses = “nectar of the gods” / a delicacy el manjar is used in some places in certain contexts but it originally came from Italian as “food” or something “to eat”. Today, manjar is usually a “snack”, or in some cases it’s dulce de leche, but most of the Spanish-speaking world doesn’t use manjar so much. It is sometimes “delicacy”, but in older contexts it was code for “ambrosia”, the thing that the Greek gods couldn’t get enough of. The world manjar still feels very antiquated to me, but when it’s used it’s some kind of good food or eating a lot of food

valer un potosí = “to be worth a fortune” un potosí is pretty antiquated, but it came from the city Potosí in Bolivia which was famous for its silver mines that the conquistadores exploited. There are still some places that will use potosí as “something of great value”, though it’s not so common anymore unless you’re talking about the actual city.

moros y cristianos = “beans and rice” Usually it’s black beans and white rice, though this is literally “Moors and Christians”. You still use cristiano/a today but typically you only use moro/a in a historical sense

Also there’s the expression más sordo/a que una tapia where it means someone is really hard of hearing; literally “as deaf as a garden wall”, but I’ve never seen people use tapia ...only a muro or a cerca as “wall” or “fence”. The idea of tapiar is related to “mortar” and “masonry”

There are also some expressions related to metal and older words for it. For example, saturnino/a is an older word for “gloomy”, though it now refers to “lead-poisoning”. Saturn was linked to “moodiness” in alchemical society, and the symbol for Saturn was the older symbol for “lead”. 

This is similar to how áureo/a is “gold” but also linked to the “sun” because the Sun and gold are linked.

Another is el azogue which is the older word for mercury so it’d be “quicksilver”. You may see azogarse in some texts where it means “to be fidgetty” and it’s related both to mercury-poisoning, and probably to the idea of Mercury/Hermes being the messenger god so always on the move. 

There is also hidalgo/a which doesn’t have quite the same meaning it did originally. Today, hidalgo/a is sort of like “having noble blood”. It literally means “son of something/someone”, where originally in Spain hidalgos were the children of nobles - specifically, it tended to refer to the children of nobles who weren’t the firstborn male. Firstborn sons often got about 2/3 of the money and were expected to run the estates. The second or third or fourth children were usually on their own. It became a running joke that the firstborn became the lord, and the others would either join the army or the clergy. In Cervantes’s time, hidalgos could be among the poorest of society, even poorer than slaves in some cases. They were still “noble” in terms of blood though, and hidalgos couldn’t be tortured by the Inquisition because of it. So they were afforded certain rights, but usually tended to be poor or lower than you’d expect a noble to be. Today it just means “of nobility”, but in Cervantes’s time a hidalgo was the symbol of Spain under the Holy Roman Empire - wealthy and noble and glorious in theory, much poorer in reality.

I'd also add the phrases levar ancla "to raise anchor" or "anchors aweigh/away", where levar is rarely used today aside from nautical terms. Similarly, izar la bandera is "to hoist the flag"... not a lot of chances to use izar if it's not related to "flags" or la vela "a sail"

I also would say errar is less common today in Spanish. It's still used, but you normally say cometer un error "to make a mistake". Still, errar es humano, perdonar es divino "to err is human, to forgive divine". Also errar is weirdly irregular at times, it turns into yerro as present tense yo

And I’m also going to include when la manzana means a “city block”. Today manzana is not rare, it means “apple”. But manzana as a “city block” was originally mansana where it meant a “collection of manses/houses arranged in a block on a grid”. So there’s that. If you ever see manzana used for blocks in a city, it’s technically a separate word

Also depending on context el mar “sea” will be la mar with the feminine article. That’s usually more particular, usually meaning “open water” or deeper waters like alta mar “high seas”. The more poetic or open the water is, the more likely it is to be feminine, and so la mar isn’t quite so antiquated but it’s a little special

[booksandwords]

Thunderhead by Neal Shusterman

Series: Arc of a Scythe, #2 Read time: 3 Days Rating: 5/5

The quote: Over these many years, I have observed both profound folly and breathtaking wisdom among humankind. They balance each other like dancers in the throes of a passionate tango. It is only when the brutality of the dance overwhelms the beauty that the future is threatened. It is the Scythedom that leads and sets the tone for the dance. I often wonder if the Scythedom realised how fragile are the spines of the other dancers. — The Thunderhead

Thunderhead pucks up a year after the end of Scythe. Citra is now Scythe Anastasia still working and living with Marie but as her own scythe offering people a chance to end their affairs, say goodbye and chose their manner of death. Rowan is on the run and goes by Scythe Lucifer, continuing as he began with Goddard, Rand and Chomsky ridding the world of scythes not worthy of their tiles or rings. Their trajectories are different their methods are different but both Lucifer and Anastasia are doing what they think is best for humankind and scythes. Both are making waves among the scythedom. Lucifer for his eradication of the worth of scythes, Anastasia for her unconventional methods and her convictions. There is very little interaction between them in this book. The focus is elsewhere.

Thunderhead introduces readers to new characters who are important in different ways. The Thunderhead (henceforth Gaia because yes I gave it a name) talks directly to the reader in much the same way Goddard and Curie did in Scythe. Gaia is unexpectedly funny, more then is possibly intended. It favours Citra greatly, like a daughter another character it greatly favours is. Greyson Tolliver. Greyson was unexpected. He takes us into the world of unsavouries and just shows a whole different side of the world. I really like him. I worry about him though, he is a more fragile character than Citra/Anastasia or Rowan/Lucifer. Faraday is working with another new character how made me cheer, Munira Atrushi, a librarian. More than just a librarian she is a realistic portrayal of a librarian. Do you have any idea how rare that is? She isn't shushing, she isn't sexy, she is a helper and she loves information. The final new and important character in Scythe Constantine. He is just odd. He is very old and an investigator. He's neutral in the old-guard/new-guard debate. He knows more than he says. I can see these four being important in The Toll among other we've already met.

Okay, let me explain the nickname I gave The Thunderhead. Gaia is a primordial deity in Greek mythology. The personification of earth and the mother of all life. Essentially that is how I saw The Thunderhead after about the 2nd or 3rd time she spoke to the reader.

I want to mention the scythe names again, there are some fantastic names again in this book. Frieda Kahlo, Cromwell (this is a female character but I can only find 2 logical both male), Anna Nzinga, Toyotomi Hideyoshi, Mary MacKillop, Roald Amundsen, Golda Meir and Miguel de Cervantes are all used. They all work well in context. The meaning behind Lucifer is brilliant.

I enjoyed this book. I liked the plot, the interconnectedness of the characters, the writing is engaging and as poignant as Scythe. I've read some complaints from people about the lack of focus on the Rowan/Citra relationship. I didn't mind it. There was a stronger focus on other relationships. The relationship between Anastasia and Marie and Rowan's relationship with himself. Honestly, I would be quite happy if their relationship stayed away from the romantic. We need more YA books where there are male/female dynamics without romantic entanglements. I don't think it's going to happen. But I can dream. The ending was somewhat unexpected to me, which is a pleasant feeling. But it leaves me with some major questions as to where The Toll is going and how the series is going to end in a way that is satisfactory to fans.

[chacusha]

Ranking of Soulcalibur VI characters from best to worst based on their announce trailers by my fiance who has not played Soulcalibur since the first one

Siegfried: 12/10. "Taste the power of my sword" is amazingly gay.

Talim: 11/10. She looks like a sailor scout. She looks so utterly unprepared for doing this fighting thing. That's so relatable. Literally actually nervously says "don't underestimate me."

Raphael: 9/10. I like light pokey agile fighting styles. One of his moves seems to be a super foot stomp and that seems very painful. His theme seems to be vanity and he wears a mask. "Let me show you... my blade" -- I’m beginning to think this entire game is a sex metaphor. I appreciate the Ninja Turtles reference.

Xianghua: Amazing. She's one of the Heathers - an insecure cheerleader who gets murdery. I like characters that are light on their feet. That fighting style appeals to me. 8 or 9/10.

Azwel: 8/10. *shocked face throughout the whole trailer* High camp Shakespearean actor? I actually... like it a lot??

Ivy: 8/10. I get she has a theme but it's just -- too much. Like, her special move literally ends with her stepping on a dude's face, and "I'll make you submit" is too on-the-nose. Not into the not-wearing-clothing. It looks so cold! The line "curse the fate that led you to me" is so good though.

Voldo: 7 or 8/10. Demonic, quasi-robotic, yogi, gimp? That's such a unique aesthetic. Looks cool as well. Would have liked words.

Inferno: 7 or 8/10. A gay symbol - like the Pride Parade wants to kill you. I like that it's big but still nimble and teleporty. Wished it talked instead of doing a growly thing.

Cervantes (the one character he remembers from Soul Blade): My emotional attachment to this character, the general greatness of purple, and the sheer absurdity of the gun sword more then make up for how ridiculously bland he was and how that wasn't a good pirate voice at all. 7/10.

Seong Mi-na: 7/10. "Let's get this over with" "You're gonna pay now" "I've no plans to lose" -- sounds more like a waitress than a fighter. Aesthetically looks pretty cool, though, and gets points for repping waitresses.

Grøh: 6/10. Divorced geography teacher joins the CIA - dweebish but at the same time endearing. Out of his league but trying to fake it, is the impression I got.

Astaroth: 6/10. Demon Foucault? I didn't like the way he looked, but he gets points for saying such weird things. He won't just beat you but wants you to also be disciplined.

Taki: 5/10. Standard ninja. Would give 6/10 for being a ninja because ninjas are cool but then docked her a point for the line "I'll decimate you." How do you decimate a single person? That doesn't even make sense.

Yoshimitsu: Really hard to rate because he looks super cool but sounds like a fucking dweeb. 5/10

Zasalamel: All over the place so let's say 5/10. He seems like an annoying smug nerd. I can just imagine him wearing a fedora. The scythe is dumb, but the time freeze move with the hood and dramatic snap is an 11/10.

Tira: Angelica from Rugrats has all grown up and found a frisbee of death after joining the Lost Boys. Seems mainly concerned to carry on a conversation and only incidentally to have a fight. 5/10.

Maxi: 4/10. Generally a dweeb who I thought was ineffectually trying to flirt more than anything else, but "Dandy of the Seas" made me laugh so much he gets some points.

Nightmare: 2/10. Rubbish. That sword looks so dumb. It looks like he got a hand to match his sword and that’s the dumb way around. Spent the time talking to his sword, which is very Freudian. Gets points for the helmet, which reminds me of Marvin the Martian.

Kilik: Too many of his moves look like he’s lightly poking you. I know that would hurt in real life but it doesn’t look like it. He’s repping his martial art school like he's a youth pastor but I wasn’t invested. How can you suffer someone's bloodlust? That’s weird. 1/10. Doesn’t even look like Marvin the Martian.

[vailimia]

Time for another rambling post, this time about Soulcalibur VI custom characters, and how I decide what weapons to give them.

I'm also going to list various characters I've personally made in Soulcalibur VI, just so I can use them as examples.

Sometimes it's really easy to decide, you'll make a character who's often associated with a weapon that's either in Soulcalibur, or can easily be represented by a weapon in Soulcalibur.

Jevil has Zasalamel's fighting style (scythe)

Ballos has Azwel's style (magic/bipolar pulse enhancer)

Sabitsuki has Kilik's style (long pipe/staff)

Other times, your character will have an associated weapon that isn't in Soulcalibur, so you'll have to get a little more creative with the weapons available.

I gave Ness Siegfried's style because the octagonal rod that's available as a weapon choice was the closest I could get to a baseball bat.

Urotsuki also has Siegfried's style because one of the two-handed swords has a serrated edge that vaguely resembles a chainsaw.

Dual tendon whips aren't in the game, but a recolored Ivy Sword is close enough, so I gave one to Majora's Wrath.

A lot of characters are either not associated with a weapon at all, or are associated with guns, which can't really be represented easily in Soulcalibur.

Cervantes and 2B both have guns, but neither of their fighting styles would fit Agent 47, so I instead gave him Raphiel's style, as I thought a rapier could represent the precision needed for successful assassination.

ZZ isn't associated with a weapon, but is associated with his stand, Wheel of Fortune, so I gave him Tira's ring blade, and tried to make it look like one of WoF's wheels.

Other characters are either associated with an item, but never actually use it as a weapon, or have a certain item that they aren't commonly seen with but would make sense for them to have.

Jimmy T was given Kilik's style because I thought one of the staffs could look like a mic stand.

Tsubakura got Mi-na's style because one of the spears can look like a paintbrush.

If you color that same spear differently, it could look like a mop, so I gave that to Mr. Clean.

Sometimes you have to decide the weapon based on the character themself, and not based on an item or weapon they're seen with.

Yuuka has Amy's style for the flowers.

Raiko has Cassie's style for the lightning.

Team Plasma Grunt has Cervantes' style for the pirate aesthetic.

And finally, sometimes you really have nothing to go off of, so you just have to pick a style because of a minor detail, like giving the wither Azwel's style for one of the animations, or just because you thought it would be funny, like giving Hime a pair of nunchaku for some reason.

[moumouton]

Mid-Year Reading Recap

Now that June’s over it’s time to look upon our reading progress so far this year and share some book opinions!

(I tagged myself from @alwaysbringabookwithyou‘s post)

1. Best book you read so far this year?

Pretty sure it’s Neal Shusterman’s Thunderhead. I’m eagerly refreshing the Goodreads page for The Toll for any information on what’s going to happen next.

2. Worst book you read so far this year?

As much as it pains me to say this... History Is All You Left Me. I honestly forgot I read it. It was just really boring.

3. Completed any series?

I finished Sarah Beth Durst’s Queens of Renthia trilogy and I’m on the last book of Vampire Academy. I’m also up to date on Shusterman’s Arc of a Scythe and Seanan McGuire’s Wayward Children series. 

4. What are your most anticipated books for the second half of the year?

J.C. Cervantes’ The Storm Runner and Alex London’s Black Wings Beating.

5. Book that disappointed you this year?

History Is All You Left Me is my biggest disappointment of the year so far. A Wrinkle in Time also really didn’t sit well with me.

6. How many books have you read this year?

17 books and 3 graphic novels (and some manga).

7. Book that made you laugh?

I found Aru Shah and the End of Time pretty funny actually. It had that really lighthearted Percy Jackson-esque style of comedy. 

8. Estimated book count so far?

I don’t get this question?

[paradoxically-deranged-poet]

He Who Wanders

I missed the scorching wind of Andalusia. How it pours sunlight onto your face, toying with eyelashes, flattening dry sand against cheeks and milling around hair. I missed the smell of the valley and that ripening softness of Muscat fluff glistening in the afternoon breeze.

From up here, I can see the house where I grew up. I see white chapels tucked into grape orchards like pawns scattered on a chess board. I can see patches of asphalt on El Jardinito Road hailing from the old town through dappled rocks, then waning behind the horizon with erratic headlights of beat-up trucks cruising along.

One of the pit stops along Ed Jardinito, where truck drivers stop to relieve themselves, marks the starting point to this wavy trail. All covered in blotches of spindly grass stalks and flaxen sand, the trail is barely noticeable at first. Truth is, no one even cares to notice it. Why would truckers taking a blitz-leak care to check on a mucky trail leading to God knows where? But I do. This is how I got up here, to the top of this hill, where I am standing now. I’ve climbed all the way up here, so I can finally end it all – all these years of vagrancy and fugue, exile and fear. This is where it’s all going to come to an end.

But for now, I am enjoying the view of the valley unfolding below. I am sipping the air of what could be my final memories.

He will show up soon. He always does. Like a shadow, he’s been following me right on my footsteps, always there, behind me. And there he is!

His limping figure appears behind the sharp bend off El Jardinito. He looks up and he sees me, then stops for a moment to catch his breath and leans on his cane, as if assessing the remaining trajectory for this final stretch, then resumes his walk. Or should I say, “resumes his agonizing trudging”. Years of endless chase took a toll on his body. No wonder. How long has he been chasing me? Ten, twenty, thirty years?

He is slow. Methodically slow. But for once, I will not run. I will wait. Right here, behind this rock. I will finally come face to face with him. This sharp Swiss knife blade I am holding in my hand will soon lance right through his neck bone. Yes, that’s what I am going to do.

This ends here, at the dead end of this sandy trail atop the hill overlooking the valley with its white chapels and Muscat orchards.

Funny. After all these years, I still don’t know the real name of my chaser. I always called him what master Borges called him

“He who wanders”.

He who wanders, listen. I will kill you.

* * * * * *

Borges. The Borges. I idolized him when I was in college. Many did, but I was different. It was 1961. I was an average lazy learner at the Universidad Laboral de Córdoba, floating around from one semester to another with barely passable grades. I had very few friends and almost no interests. One can say that I had an early form of an identity crisis.

Besides chugging Anisado, my only other passion was Literature. Latin American Literature. Borges and Neruda were at the forefront. One could only imagine my excitement when I saw a pamphlet hanging on the wall of the Literature faculty.

Spaces were limited. But who cared? It was the man himself, Jorge Luis Borges, coming to give us a lecture followed by an open panel of questions. Like a maniac, I rushed to the auditorium hours before the lecture. I was the first in line and when the doors opened, I got the front row seat. The auditorium was packed with drooling chins of young self-proclaimed prodigies, awaiting the arrival of the great one.

And there he was, the blind Lord of Literature, walking upright onto the stage with a cane and his loyal assistant right by his side. Standing ovation. He nodded and made a “thank you, please be seated” gesture.

Then he began. The lecture was dedicated to Spanish writers, I cannot distinctly recall if it was Cervantes or De Vega. It truly made no difference. Somehow, I managed to sit through his entire lecture, which lasted over three hours, and remember nothing. He talked slowly and methodically, pouring honey into our ears like Segovia’s guitar, with his absent eyesight affixed on the ceiling.

And then it happened. Something that caught me completely off guard.

Before closing the day, Borges was about to take questions from the audience. Of course, I raised my hand and so did about hundreds of other students. One of Borges’ assistants whispered something into his ear, which made him smile.

“It is an honor for me to be in front of an audience of young people, but our time is not infinite,” he said with blind eyes still pinned on the far corner of the hall. “For that reason, I will randomly pick questions from five of you.”

I have never won any prizes or lotteries in my life. When I played poker or blackjack, I lost far more than I won. I knew my limitations and that turned me into an average apathetic person, rarely trying to outdo oneself. And so, sitting still with little ambition – I got used to that.

Until that moment. When I saw Borges pointing his finger in my direction, that came as nothing short of a shock.

“Me?”

“Yes, young man. Senor Borges picked you. Step forward and introduce yourself,” said his assistant.

I did not know what to ask. So, I quietly mumbled my full name.

“Fernandez Augustin Navaro”

Borges shifted his gray-shaded pupils in my direction as if reacting to a sudden buzzing of a fruit fly.

“Fernandez Augustin Navaro. Navaro. Haven’t I met you once before, young man?” he asked.

“No, senor Borges. I never had the honor.”

“But you will. We will meet again, Senor Navaro. You and I will meet again. But for right now, what is your question?”

The rest of the day was foggy. I don’t even remember what question I asked, it must have been about him winning the Prix International, not sure. And maybe not important. No, not important at all.

The greatest writer in the history of mankind called me by name and then that bizarre unreal thing he said about us meeting again. When?

* * * * * *

Nine years later. In 1970.

And there I was – a somewhat-promising journalist in one of London’s somewhat-scandalous tabloid newspapers. Every week my name was featured on the second page alongside with celebrity chronicles and vile rumors. My paycheck was decent enough for a small studio flat by Manchester Square. After years of having been pent-up by directionless studies, you could say I became something more than an average. Or at least that is what I believed.

That day (it was early October, arguably the best season in London) began as usual. I ate my chic breakfast consisting of two scrambled eggs, ham, toast, and dark roast coffee at Barrymore’s Diner and was ready for a pleasant walk to the office. It was shortly after 8 am, and I was in no hurry.

Report Ad My route was the same as it was every day: pass the square, right turn on George Street, left turn on Thayer, another right on Marylebone. My thoughts that morning were all preoccupied with the piece I was working on, so I was slowly making my way through the square when something caught my eye. Or rather, someone. At first, I did not pay much attention to him, no more than I did to anybody else who idled at the square that morning. Hippy rascals with soiled hair playing guitar on every corner was a common theme in those days, and London town was certainly no exception. So here was another one of those misunderstood love proclaimers, sitting right behind the gated area of the square. Striped worn out jacket, heavy cap, sandals with clots of woolen socks sticking out. A common hippy bum as anyone may have thought. I thought so too except this one had something that made my intestines churn. I didn’t know what it was, but once I saw him, I felt the irresistible urge to instantly walk away and never see him again.

The way he looked at me, that gloomy frown that made me think of a line from Oscar Wilde, “that fellow’s got to swing.” There certainly was something outer worldly about that “fellow.”

His eyes, as if carved from a rock below his forehead were mercilessly drilling thousands of tiny holes through me. I added pace. As I turned back one last time, I noticed him slowly walking towards me. Past the gates of the square, onto the street, paying no attention to screeching tires of honking cars. Walking right towards me.

He’s just a bum. No, he is not.

Just another one of those unwashed hippies. No, no, run run run!

George Street was empty like in post-war bombed quarters. I could hear my brisk footsteps. Or was it the drubbing of my aorta against the chest? He was catching up.

Run? Don’t be silly. Yes, run. First slowly as if you’re trying to not show your chaser that you’re scared. No, not scared, more like in a hurry.

Why am I running? I can take him out with one punch.

But it really wasn’t about that. It was my first experience of that feeling, which I can only describe as some sort of primordial sense of fear. Panic. Dread. Unexplained sense of looming doom arching above you like a dark figure with a scythe.

I ran. I ran faster than my feet could move. As I turned the corner on Thayer, I paused and looked back, fearing to see him right behind. Scrambled eggs, toast, and dark roast coffee were about to make their way back up through my esophagus.

Wiping the sweat off my palms onto my pants, I bent forward in a protective position and looked around. Empty windows of George Street were checking me out like a toddler witnessing parent in a cowardly act.

Whoever that man was that incensed me into this uncontrollable panic, he was now gone. Shame on you, Fernandez Augustin, I repeated to myself while making futile attempts to enthrall palpitation to subside. Shame on you. I mumbled repeating that word. Mumbling turned into whistling that song by “Magic Lanterns”. Shame, shame. I whistled, acting calm and self-composed. I sang without knowing words only to convert my mind to something else. I sang so others wouldn’t notice me shaking.

I climbed the stairs of my office building. Three at a time. Third floor. The familiar smell of typography oils calmed me down. Safe heaven. Shame on you, Fernandez Augustin Navaro.

* * * * * *

Even now I question myself whether my journey to madness began on that day or was it underway for many years. Madness that creeps in and recedes in tidal waves. Is that how it usually happens?

All I know is that an hour later I was laughing at my little moment of weaknesses.

Preposterous and rubbish, my thick Andalusian twang spoke to me. The idea of being fully checked out by a specialist did cross my mind, and I immediately thought of Doctor Patel in Camden Town. He’d give me a comfortable medical diagnosis like a panic attack and prescribe some white pills, I thought.

Little did I know that the day had more surprises in store. The unnerving script development continued in a more eerie fashion when my boss marched to my desk with a pack of printed paper.

No, Navaro you are not going to see Doctor Patel in Camden Town who will make a judgment call on your insanity. Instead, you are going to do an article on Jorge Luis Borges’ new book. He is making his presentation today at London Public Library and blah, blah, blah.

I forgot about the panic attack. The thrill of seeing Master Borges again, nine years later, was surreal. Moments later I was sitting in a cab on my way to the London Public Library, scribbling all possible questions I should be asking him. El Informe de Brodie? Other books? Forget it! I knew very well what I would ask.

I paid the cab and galloped up the marble stairs leading to the hallway, where the Master was about to hold his new book presentation. I elbowed myself through the crowd of journalists to occupy the coveted front-row spot. Quick inventory check: wallet, j-sack along with the omnipresent Swiss knife. Seconds ticked leisurely on my wristwatch. Four more minutes.

Forget this morning’s sickness. Forget Dr. Patel. Collect yourself, Fernandez Augustin

* * * * * *

“Navaro! That’s your last name, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Yes, Senor Borges. But how do you..?”

“Nine years ago, in Cordoba. I told you we would meet again. Do you remember?”

I nodded rapidly completely forgetting he couldn’t see me. Stupid.

“Perhaps,” continued Borges, “it would be more prudent for us to speak privately after the conference. I invite you to have coffee with me. You like Colombian coffee, Mr. Navaro? I shall see you precisely at 6 o’clock at the address that my assistant will provide.”

His blind eyes were still affixed at the top far corner of the hallway, far above all the congested sharp-penciled critics and arduous followers of his divine writing. The attention was now all on me, as revealed by hundreds of photo flashes from behind. I thought of all the explaining that I would have to do tomorrow. How does Borges know you? Are you friends? You were raised in Cordova, are you his illegitimate son?

Back then I did not know.

Answers came later.

* * * * * *

Memory is a tricky animal. As I gaze over the valley and satiate my lungs with familiar smells, I cannot think of anything specific. Vague and elusive memories of my childhood home. And these orchards, these white chapels and the old town itself – nothing but an incomprehensible sensation somewhere down there, below the chest cage.

I close my eyes and let the sun twirl around with tinted specks of mosaic light. I am trying to focus without looking. Alas, nothing comes to mind. I’ve been robbed of my memory. You!

I cast my eyes at the trail again. He is closing in. It’s hard for him to walk upward, and yet I see that determination in his eyes, in his tight grip of that wobbly walking stick, in the way he periodically stops to catch his breath and eyeball the remaining distance. I am not going anywhere. Five? Ten more minutes? Come and take me, old man. If you can.

I almost see his facial expression under the heavily pronounced frontal lobe. It’s a grin. It’s an expression that says, “We shall see.”

* * * * * *

Once I read an interview in “The Morning Times”. In it, Borges was portrayed as extremely humble and minimalistic. His house was depicted as a perfectly organized space with easy access to everything. Books on the shelves (judging from the admiration of the columnist, there were lots of them) were organized by theme and by title. Dictionaries and encyclopedias were grouped together on the same rack, so he could find them easily.

In another article, dated 1966, I read that when Borges travels, and those travels were quite extensive, he carries a whole rack of books along, some of which may not even be read.

When I entered his hotel room, that very book-rack was the first thing that caught my eye. I stood perplexed at the multitude of titles, most unknown to me, when I heard the door swing wide open, and there he was entering through the doorway with a leisurely swinging cane.

“Ah, Senor Navaro, how kind of you to visit this old man!”

I took a step towards him and produced some gibberish like “pleasure is all but mine”. He half-smiled and pointed his hand to the chair.

“I know you will quite enjoy the taste of Colombian dark roast.”

Borges sat down and leaned slightly backwards, without releasing his cane.

“Do you know the biggest advantage of being blind?” he asked and answered immediately. “Blind don’t need light, so my utility bills are way lower.”

He laughed at his own joke only to be interrupted by his assistant carrying a tray of aromatic coffee poured in two small porcelain cups. Amazing how the very idea of drinking coffee instantly changes your mood before you even take your first sip.

As I was readying to go on a pre-scripted monologue of expressing my gratitude and honor, Borges jumped right into the action.

“I will get right to it, Senor Navaro. About you being here and about me remembering you. I know you have many questions. I will attempt to answer some. Some, but not all. When you leave this hotel, there will still be some questions that you will have to find answers to. On your own.”

He gently picked his cup of coffee and with hand somewhat shaking, took an artistic sip. Yes, I had questions. So many that my brain membranes were buzzing in bewilderment and disbelief. Here I was, sitting in the room with one of the greatest writers, who happened to mysteriously know my name and

“Have you by any chance read my ‘The Book of Imaginary Beings?’” asked Borges.

I have. Many times. I read it in Spanish, when it just came out. Very recently I bought the English translation in some shabby bookstore off Oxford Circus. I read that book far too many times, but never in its entirety, mostly starting on a random page. Just as Borges had intended it to be consumed by his readers.

“You see, Senor Navaro, that book was, and perhaps still is, a never-ending work in progress as human imagination has no boundaries. I have included what I had researched over ten years ago, then recently expanded and republished with more figments of collective human imagination. But the book is merely a small subset. In a way, the book writes itself. In some form, it’s a labyrinth, an endless one, a living one, where every corridor and every room is never the same. What I had always wanted is the book to reflect the labyrinth in our collective subconsciousness, the force that drives our minds to craft. For that reason, all the creatures in my book are strictly fictional. Mythical. Am I not boring you?”

“Not at all. I understand, Senor Borges.”

He nodded and wiped a coffee grind off his nose.

“That book, as its title implies, is all about imaginary beings. Tales, legends, folklore. But one thing that no one knows is that I had originally intended this book to include one more being. A being that goes by its Latin name Quietus Est. It appeared and disappeared across many cultures, sometimes centuries apart. Very little is known of it, but what I found was indeed astonishing. First, this being is physically no different than an ordinary human. You may say, it is human in many ways. As I studied this entity, I became more and more agitated. I could not stop. Like a madman, I was trying to learn more and more, but very soon the excitement turned into another feeling. Fear.”

“Fear of what, Senor Borges?”

Borges eyesight shifted from the corner of the room straight on me, as if he could perfectly see me.

“Fear of what I had uncovered. That Quietus Est is not a myth at all.”

He attempted to take another sip, but his hands started shaking, so he had to put the cup down, spilling some of it on the saucer and around the table.

“Pardon me, young man, I am trying to maintain composure. But you have not tried the coffee”, he said wiping his mouth and forehead with a knitted handkerchief.

I raised the small cup and took a sip, disregarding the aromatic fumes of Colombian beans drifting down my internal gorges.

“Pardon me sir, but you are saying that the imaginary being called Quietus Est was not imaginary. Is that why you decided not to include him in your book of imaginary beings?”

“Only in part. Fear came from the realization of what it would mean for mankind to know about its existence. You see

it’s no secret that we are all well aware of our eventual demise. We all die. But imagine what would happen if we all stared right into the face of death every single day of our lives and knew the time that was left for us in this world. Death not as a vague concept portrayed by middle-aged artists, not as a folklore tale of a grim reaper. But as a real living entity that stalks you and walks around showing you a ticking clock counting down minutes and seconds. Getting closer to you with every second, trying to grab your hand. Running from death is worse than death itself.”

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

“But I shall talk no more. Allow me to give you my scribbles from years ago. These are unedited in their raw format, so please pardon the poor language. It’s right there, in the drawer. You will find a folder with a yellow piece of paper. Read it aloud, while my ripe old body attempts to catch a breath.”

I opened the drawer, as he instructed, and found a yellow piece of cursive handwritings carved in Spanish with some Latin phrases. The scribbles were short, less than a page long with marks and scratches, but most of this was very much decipherable. He must have written this himself half-blind, I thought. What caused him to do that and not dictate to his assistant? I unfolded the paper and began reading.

Quietus Est

It is said that one shall not know about its own ways and times of demise. The imminent passing is only felt by those that are either terminally ill, and even so, they don’t possess the knowledge of when and where, or by death row inmates awaiting the exact day and time of their execution. Lack of such knowledge coerces us to exist. Sumerians believed in a certain deity (the word “deity” was scratched and replaced with “demon of death embodied in human flesh and bones”, which again was scratched and replaced with “entity”), whose sole role was to stalk its victims and inform them of how much time they have left to live. Per the ancient “Book of Dead”, which was discovered as a set of clay tablets, typically buried in corpses, only those that are “luminous” can see the deity (again crossed out twice, replaced with “demon”, then with “entity”). The “luminous” ones are thought to be either people with high spiritual powers or vice versa, the cursed ones, condemned by priests. The reference briefly reappears in some Egyptian manuscripts, but in later writings is replaced by Anubis or – in rare occurrences – by Horus. The writings again depict this unnamed being as an eternal human who never sleeps, but always wanders. What’s strange is that neither Sumerians nor Egyptians ever gave the entity a discrete name. However, the latter rare findings during Dark Ages refer to him as Quietus Est. The only depiction of Quietus Est was that of an ordinary human standing next to a sun clock, which was used to measure the time that the chosen one had left to live. From time to time Quietus Est stalks the chosen one and, when cornered, moves hands of the clock forward to shorten the lifetime. If the chosen one cannot escape, then his time eventually runs out.

The very last reference was found in

“Enough, Mr. Navaro. You understand the idea. Now on to the main question. Why are you here?”

He drew closer, and a dull shadow from a lamp cut right through his elongated forehead.

“Quietus Est is an eternal wanderer who is always with us, the timekeeper who sits at the edge of the stage with a ticking watch on his wrist. The greatest gift given to mankind is its inability to see him. When I lost sight, I thought blindness was a blessing in disguise. But one does not require eyes to see the wanderer. What eyes cannot see, ears can hear and skin can feel. I hear him. I feel him. You are here, Mr. Navaro because you and I are the luminous ones…”

Borges paused and asked me with a trembling voice: “Mr. Navaro, you saw him too, didn’t you?”

Cold shivers that have been accumulating in my lower back rushed up my spinal cord in millions of explosions. Nausea formed a massive ball of air in my throat, and for a moment I struggled to breathe. Desperately trying to cease the thumping inside, I pushed words out.

“I saw him today.”

* * * * * *

How do you get used to the notion of being a passerby on this Earth? Ordinary humans do not have to get used to that. We have that built-in protection layer, that safety cork in our brain membranes that separates the realization of being mortal from flooding down upon us. It allows us to breathe the air. It lets us exhibit this extraordinary, yet sacred carelessness. The mental block that denies the laws of life on a primitive emotional level even for the keenest scholars. The indecipherable Tetragrammaton is shown to us in every step we take, in every cup of Colombian coffee we sip, in every word of wisdom that we collect from books. Every second we bypass the sinister tick-tock and hear the name of the God being whispered into our ears. And yet we, humans, turn around and whistle “Shame Shame”, deceiving our own self-cognizance. And that, as Senor Borges called it, is the true blessing. Those who possess the name of the divine being are doomed. Knowledge is madness. Knowledge is nonexistent. Knowledge of death is worse than death.

We sat in his hotel room until early morning, the two luminous and doomed souls. Our casual exchange of words was amplified by the ticking of the clock. It was dawn when I noticed Borges nodding in his sleep. His left hand was still resting on the cane and his pupils were shuffling behind shut eyelids.

Borges was dreaming.

So must have I.

As I was exiting the foyer of the hotel, I hid behind the column and looked around the street. It was empty. Bleak light of street lamps drew strange crossbeams on pavements. Early October leaves were gyring in closed circles like witches around the fire.

I was looking around, hoping to not see him.

He wasn’t there. But he was. I felt his presence not very far from me.

* * * * * *

Muscat orchards – they resonate inside like echoes of a guitar string heard from a deep alcove, but nothing particular comes to mind. I am trying to shift focus from one object to another, but my nomad memory is lost in endless labyrinths. You took my memories away from me, didn’t you?

Wait, mortal. Wait five more minutes, and you will know the answer, I hear in my brain. He is talking to me now. I can see how the long uphill walk is wearing him out. But what are pain and tiredness when you’re crossing the finish line?

As Borges warned me, “Do not ever come close to him. Do not look him straight in the eyes. He will always be near. His watch will be ticking. If he attempts to catch on, run. But he will forever follow. In a way, he will be like a shadow of you.”

And I ran. And he wandered. I evaded. He followed.

He came too close to me in my hotel room on the second day after my long night in Borges’ quarters. The fool in me still thought that escaping from him would be as easy as moving into a new flat. Or checking into a hotel. So I did just that. It was some shabby hotel minutes from my work where I decided to spend a few nights just to think things through.

That evening, and I remember every minute of it, was my first face to face encounter with him. My room, B6, was on the basement level. As I stumbled through the dark hotel corridor, trying to find the key to my room, I felt his presence, but my ignorant foolishness dismissed all mental warnings and turned the keys. As the door hinge squeaked, I took my first step into the hotel room. A street-level window was casting two thick yellow streaks of light on the floor carpet. I smelled dust and spider webs.

He was in my room. Sitting on the edge of the bed with a rope in his hand. A thin white blanket was covering his head like a shroud around a statue. I stood in a stupor like a paralyzed insect. An avalanche of sweat gushed from every pore of my body. With hand twisted behind my back, I was feverishly trying to twist the doorknob. He got up from the bed with a groan. He took a step towards me.

Hand too sweaty to turn the knob. Open it. Open!

He grabbed my wrist.

Open! Run!

The stretched corridor of the hotel basement flashed like random shots of a silent movie. Run! B5. B2. B1. Run! Staircase. Up! Exit! Run!

“Your time is coming, Fernandez Augustin Navaro!” a whisper crawled into my ears. “Coming, coming!” hissed the wind.

I ran until my legs gave in. I fell down somewhere in the outskirts of the town, passing out in an alley amidst rubbish until sunup.

My madness has begun.

In the days following my first face-to-face encounter with Quietus Est, I’ve moved out of my London flat. I had some savings, enough to tramp town to town, continent to continent, doing temp jobs here and there, sometimes sleeping on streets. He was right behind me.

Even if I didn’t see him for a month, I knew he would soon catch on. It would be only a matter of time for him to pop up somewhere

on the opposite side of the street, in the next car over on the subway, or madly prying through shutters of windows in the house across.

My attempts to speak to Borges were futile. How does the blind master live with this curse, I wondered. How does he manage to evade his sinister follower?

I had questions. Far more than I had anticipated. But Senor Borges was already on the other side of the globe. I wrote him letters. He never replied. I tried calling hotels where he stayed. Unavailable.

The books that he wrote, I bought all of them in attempts to find hidden meanings. What if he had secret messages for me inside his writings? The Book of Sand, Dr. Brodie’s Report

I even searched his earlier writings, analyzed every word. Pointless. Futile.

Until 1983. “Shakespeare’s Memory.” His final book, as it turned out to be.

I was somewhere in Eastern Europe when I bought the book. Immediately I began my scrupulous study. Letter by letter, page by page, analyzing every space and every punctuation sign.

And that’s when I found it. The answer.

The answer was the story itself. The story that did not require much study or decryption. All I had to do was read it. I knew I had to come face to face with Quietus Est like Borges did, but not before having to go through the life of an exile. That’s what Borges had intended me to do. Such was his final and only message to me embodied within his last story. A story written for the public, but intended for my eyes only.

The story was that the protagonist receives memories of Shakespeare. Memories that overwhelm him, overpowering his own. He forgets modern day cars and engines, instead remembering faces and names from some distant past, memories he has never known. Memories that belonged to another man.

“In a way, he will be like a shadow of you,” Borges told me that night. Slowly but surely, my shadow was becoming me. That’s why I can only vaguely remember you, my childhood home. Him or me, no more running. It ends here.

* * * * * *

Few more minutes, I say to myself as I look at the watch. There he is. He is out of breath. Beaten, tired and bent by the weight of his own arid body. One last push, old man, and we will meet.

I am hiding behind the rock. His footsteps on gravel and sand, I can tell them from any other footsteps in the world. His breathing, wheezing and crackling. I am counting to five.

He knows where I am, but he is too tired to take that last step. Let me take that step for you.

I am staring at his face, wrinkled like leaves of an ancient scroll.

“Time’s up, Quietus Est,” I am telling him.

He is not fighting back, and my Swiss blade finds a comfy spot below his Adam’s apple. I am going to finish him now.

Popping sounds are coming out from his flabby throat. What are you trying to tell me, old man? Let me hear your last words. I am easing the pressure to let him talk. But the sounds that come out not words, but laughter.

“You, you are confused,” he says. “You’ve got it all wrong. Let me, let me help you understand.”

I am letting him sit up. He is coughing blood. One wrong move and he’s dead. He wipes the blood off his lips and nods in understanding.

“All my life I have followed you,” he begins slowly. “It’s a miracle I have come this far and lived this long. Ever since I left Cordoba, I was a ticking time bomb. I was diagnosed as suicidal. Doctor after doctor, therapies, specialists, prescription, yoga – I have tried them all. Some helped for a while, and the disease subsided, but then trolled back with a new stronger wave. It’s this disease that nests here” – and he points to his head – “forcing me to look for a way to end my own life. It all began in London, on that morning when I was sitting on the bench in the middle of that square, feeling the disease gnawing on my brain. My first attempt was in that hotel, room B6. I sat on the bed in that dark room for hours with a rope in my hand and a blanket over my head. Death opened the door and stood above me in the darkness of the room. Oh, how I wanted my pain to end! But it was not meant to be. Not then, not there. I had to live on. Ever since that day, it was a cat and a mouse game between us. I chased death, and death would always slip away. Until now.”

He pauses, rubbing his flabby neck, then points his finger down the valley and continues: “I was born in that house. I remember every moment of my childhood. My parents, my toys, my school. I remember playing hide and seek with my cousins in Muscat gardens and dosing off to Sunday clergy in that white chapel. I remember Eastern rugs being washed on the street and the smell of grapes. My name is Fernandez August Navaro. And you, you have no true name, but they call you Quietus Est. The one who wanders.”

Filaments of scorching infernos have been ignited all over me. The fire sets off inside my eyelids, spreading over to all facial pores and trickling down my body.

“Lies! Imbecile lies!” I roar.

“Look at me,” he says, “I am an old man. And you? Still young and strong as you will always be. You have not aged. Now think more. What do you remember of your childhood? Shakespearean memories of random sounds and smells are all you have gained from me. Master Borges knew who you were. He cracked you, and then he tricked you. He made you think you were me. That was his way of evading you – by not revealing you the truth until his final breath, final book, final story. You are the one who wanders. And those memories you have – those are my memories. And now that I have told you who you really are, you must finally finish me.”

I have heard enough of his fibs. I am throwing my knife away. I shall not require any blades to finish him. With hands clenched around his thin neck, I am strangling him. I hear him squeal as the grip tightens. I feel the crackling of neck bones between my thumbs. I see him gulping the air in warm convulsions. He looks peaceful.

I sit on his chest and watch his last breath picked up by the wind, carried down the valley to the gardens, passing by the white chapel and the house where he grew up.

The scorching wind of Andalusia is pouring sunlight onto his face, toying with eyelashes, pounding on cheeks and gyring through hair. He must have missed the smell of the valley and the ripening softness of Muscat fluff glistening in the air.

I am rewinding my wristwatch and walking downhill along the wavy trail, my thumbs still sore from killing.

I am taking small step sideways. Once I reach El Jardinito Road, I will hop on the first bus, and from there I will travel west. Or north. Destination will never matter.

Anywhere is where the roads take me.

[bellringermal]

Since @sinister-resonant-bell really liked my horrible gifs... here’s a short clip :P

I haven’t played this game in 5 years... and I completely forgot all the cool combos and even how to time guard and attacks. Basically, I suck!

But you can get a closer look at the characters in this little video.

Too bad Zasalamel’s moveset (and thus, the scythe) isn’t available in SCV :( I’ll have to re-create Gehrman in SCIV someday. Here I’m using Cervantes moveset for Maria and Hilde’s for Gehrman.

The biggest limitation of the editor is that it isn’t possible to give the character both a long coat and a cape (you know... just like 99% of the outfits in BB lmao). but with some creativity is absolutely possible to create pretty decent replicas of most hunters. I’ll be doing Ludwig next :D

[Now that I think about it, perhaps I should just switch to IV if I plan to make more characters from Bloodborne uhm...]

Also...uhm...

The complete lack of blood is rather unsettling.

[penguinparty88]

Mandela: So, did everyone learn their lesson?

Contantine: No.

Meir: I did not.

Cervantes: I may have actually forgotten one.

Angelou: Also no.

Mandela: Oh good, neither did I.

Curie: *Exhausted sigh*

Contantine: You use emoji’s like a straight person.

Mandela: That’s literally the worst thing anyone has ever said about me.

Curie: Wait you like me? For my personality?

Angelou: I know, I was surprised too.

Mandela: What did you two do?

Curie:

Constantine:

Mandela: You’re not in trouble, I just need to know if I have to lie to the police again or not.

Contantine: I wouldn’t wish that upon my worse enemy!

Contantine: Unless of course. . We’re talking about my enemy, Faraday. Fuck you Faraday, you know what you did!

Angelou: Where are your parents?

Curie: What are parents?

Angelou: That’s just about the saddest thing I've ever heard.

[a-wolf-among-men]

A pounding pulse was all that could overpower the burning feeling in his arm. His mind raced, vision blurred, thoughts clouded in dread. He gasped and panted as he scrambled from cover to cover. How had he angered him? What could he have done? The only clue for who or what was the half melted scythe in his hand. That is until he heard that familiar growl, warped with both heat and rage. "Ohhhhh Threeeesh.... I can see your fear... Hiding can't save you now... Come to Daddy~"

Anonymously submit a nightmare to my muse | accepting

The specter awoke with a start panting and sweating. He was terrified still the once familiar warmth of Cervantes sent fear coursing through him as if everything had just happened and it hadn’t just been a nightmare. He shakily pushed himself off not saying a word as he struggled not to cough up the fluid that had been building in his lungs from his panting. Yet he remained completely silent as he left the prison letting himself collapse outside. Maybe it was the fact that he could fuck up at any moment that terrified him or maybe it was just the fact that the nightmare had felt so real. He wasn’t sure.

@cervantestheferryman

[talesofpassingtime]

The companionship of one’s wife is no article of merchandise, that, after it has been bought, may be returned, or bartered, or changed; for it is an inseparable accident that lasts as long as life lasts; it is a noose that, once you put it round your neck, turns into a Gordian knot, which, if the scythe of Death does not cut it, there is no untying.

— Miguel de Cervantes, Don Quixote 

[naeriels]

Bungou Stray Dogs: European Ability Users HC Part 2

|| And part two because as I said, this idea escalated a lot. Again many thanks to @deyanirasan​ for brainstorming with me :)  ||

There's soon and there's too soon and really no one wanted to see Germany and Poland working together ( this is why Goethe has the dubious honor of working with Dumas ). So Poland makes teams with Austria and perhaps Stanislav Lem could have been more gracious when pitted together with his Austrian partner, Gustav Meyrink - hurling a night lamp at the other’s head may have been over the top - but really he had just woken up to find a stranger in his apartment. Perhaps the first meeting is not the most auspicious, but then again it's neither of their faults so they scratch it from recollection and start again the second day with proper introductions and a trip to the nearest cafe. 

It soon becomes clear the pairing is a success. Their abilities complement each other perfectly and between Lem's Solaris that brings the deepest guilt of anyone's soul to the surface, giving it tangible form and Meyrink's Golem that locks the enemy in his own mind, plunges him in agony and suffering, there's a reason why everyone is scared of them, even their own colleagues. There’s also a reason why the leaders have contingency plans in case they ever decide to turn traitor.

The Belgian and Netherlands representatives are a pair before the organizations even take shape. They merely appear one day and offer their skills. Masters of recon and stealth missions, nobody truly knows what they did before they appeared out of thin air. Anne Frank is young and sunny, the single bow in her hair and frilly dresses giving her an even more childish appearance. She is kind to everyone without fault, always quick to help wherever she can. Her youth allows her to move unquestioned, her innocence making others spill their secrets without even understanding who they are spilling them to. Her ability is healing, but not quite so. Not the healing of the flesh, not the kind that doctors do, mending broken bones and sewing up wounds. No, it is a feeling of warmth blooming over battered bodies, a feeling of strength rejuvenating even the weariest, the feeling of comfort when one is down and unflinching trust when one doubts themselves the most.

George Simenon is gruff where Anne is joyful, but he is ever patient and fair. Dressed like a detective from old mystery novels, wearing an old fashioned hat and lighting his pipe at a moment's notice, he is often passed off as yet another old style, eccentric bachelor roaming the streets of Europe. His ability, L'inspecteur, does not hide him from sight, but rather makes others unable to notice him. Simenon becomes a part of the scenery just like a brick wall or a light pole.

Spain and Portugal are another low maintenance team, but in a world where Dumas challenges people to a duel on a daily basis and Lem conjures manifestations of guilt for his peers when he is feeling bored, that is not encouraging. Still, the Spanish-Portuguese team is a highly successful one, less prone to causing mayhem and more likely to solving their missions in a quick and efficient manner.

Miguel de Cervantes is romantic and wistful, prone to singing odes to a woman none have met, a so-called Dulcinea. There is still a matter of debate whether the woman is real or merely lies in his imagination, but Miguel is smitten and there's not much more to say to that. He wears ruffled collars and makes wearing a goatee a fashion statement, has often been mocked for fighting uselessly against the windmills, but can never be daunted no matter how hard the mission can be. His ability, Don Quixote, is a bit of a mystery to all. They can never quite agree whether the way it works is real or whether it's simply an illusion conjured by their confused minds.

Jose Saramango is perhaps Cervantes' antithesis. Whereas the first looks as though he had descended from the tales of the Romantic authors, the former is clad in all black, silver haired and solemn, round glasses framing a similarly round face and a dark cloak billowing behind him. His ability, Death without Interruption, is able to negate any other healing ability and to also push over the threshold those lingering in a state of in-between. It comes as no surprise that his weapon of choice is a scythe as opposed to a dagger or a gun.

The Iceland-Denmark duo comes during a dark winter night, when the wind is howling at the window and the trees are creaking ominously in the frozen landscape. Hans Christian Andersen is blue eyed and fair haired, a fur cloak lining his shoulders and sturdy boots in his feet. He pushes the storm back with his ability, allows the Snow Queen to pave the path for them and grins unrepentant when he pushes open the locked doors of the organization and makes his way inside uninvited.

Snorri Sturluson rolls his eyes, annoyance grumbled in his long, white beard, but nevertheless he too makes his way inside. A man of few words, even when dealing with his partner, Sturluson seems as unhappy to be in the organization as he would be anywhere else. His words, when uttered, boom like thunder, conveying annoyance and disregard for just about anyone. He only seems to liven up in the presence of children and holds a deep affection for Anne. His ability, Elder Edda, brings the hammer of Thor to mind, when thunder starts falling from the skies and bursts of electricity hit his enemies with uncanny precision.

If the organization found it hard to find a match for French and German ability users, it  soon discovered that to pair Romanians and Hungarians was an absolute nightmare. Although cordial and  icy polite, there was a definite lack of trust that permeated in whatever dealings they had. It was hard, no it was downright impossible and they were about to call it quits until...  

Until Magda Szabo and Ion Luca Caragiale first started snipping at each other, trading sarcasm and witty remarks. The woman, previously unimpressed by her partner, found it a challenge worthy of her to keep the pace and retort in kind to Caragiale's quips. And what started as an argument where insults were hurled turned into a game that left the others baffled. At the end Magda gave her partner a glace of appraisal and the worthy praise of "well could have been worse”.

[chiripepe]

If you could add any weapon from blood-borne and into a weapon based fighting game like soul caliber what weapon would you choose

My first thought was the Burial Blade but of course Zasalamel exists thank GOD. Also, there’s the dude from Guilty Gear who was the last boss in the first game (#taurus honeyz) who also had a cool scythe.

To be honest a lot of the weapons in Bloodborne can already be found in some shape or form in Soul Calibur with the exception of the really funky ones like the Whirligig Saw, the Stake Driver… just Powder Keg weapons in general LOL (those WEIRDOES!).

For example there’s already a spear, a katana/sabre, rapier, daggers (technically Taki’s tanto), hammer, greatsword, etc… There were even guns in Soul Calibur with Cervantes when he got that really cheap gun move in the later game, though technically they were there from day one since in the PSX ending for Mitsurugi you would have to fight a dude named Tanegashima with an old school flintlock japanese rifle (like the one from MGS4 that brings the storm) and like dodge bullets and close in while he charged the gun to prove the blade was always superior to the gun…. and shit…

BUT WHAT I THINK WOULD BE REALLY INTERESTING BECAUSE I’M ALWAYS LOOKING INTO THE FUTURE is like… WHAT IF, you took some of the Soul Calibur weapons that don’t have counterparts in Bloodborne and made trick weapons out of them! Imagine Tira’s hoola hoop as some kind of trick weapon (it would have to be significantly differentiated from the Logarius Wheel to make sense in the game tho, since that weapon is already so fucking cool and original), or even Xianhua’s GREEN DEST… chinese sword as a cool trick weapon that maybe turns from that into like a machete in the style of Yun-seong? In all the Souls games From always ALWAYS finds a way of including katanas which really contrast the western-style mideaval weapons or whatever but what if for whatever their next project (BLOODBORNE 2 FOR THE LOVE OF G..) Miyazaki tried playing with Chinese and maybe even southeast Asian weapons. I think that would be awesome. Maxi/Li-Long’s nunchaku? Talim’s tonfas? Yes. Si.

I just really wish that whatever From does next they continue with the sort of… integrity that Bloodborne had. Like, every weapon in that game was so unique and well thought out, its part of the reason I can’t stop playing it. Everything else in the game was an extension of that standard, everything was so well put together. I hope in their next title even if its not Bloodborne they continue with that trend.