#shoshi writes

[shoshiwrites]

New year, new pinned post! Hi there, I'm Shoshi, or Sho. I write OCs for WWII shows and reblog lots of historical photography and fashion. This blog is generally 18+, and I try to tag and label original posts accordingly.

My main OC is Jo Brandt — she currently features in a WIP I'm working on for Masters of the Air (title TBD), where she's paired with Bucky Egan. Jo originated in a Band of Brothers fic back in my baby's first fic days (When the War Came), featuring her and Joe Toye. This fic is getting a rewrite, currently simmering on a low burner on the back of the stove.

My inbox is always open for chatting about war shows, writing, and pretty much anything else! There are a lot of prompts, AUs, and snippets floating around featuring many characters. If something doesn't make sense, please don't hesitate to ask (in fact it will make my day if you do).

Please feel free to stop on by — I'll put the coffee on ☕

Writing tag » OCs (to be updated) » Ao3

Completed works under the cut...

zonnestraal — a young seamstress has an encounter in Eindhoven on the day of liberation. Grant/OC.

In Bloom — homecoming for a WAC proves something new.

February — on the homefront, Ruby wonders about a boy she knew.

sidera — a graduate student with the MFAA finds herself observing more than the art. Christenson/OC.

so many miles and so long since i've met you — a train station meeting. Tab/OC.

I also have a collection featuring Jo and her best friend Frankie (some explicit, some not, not all on Ao3 yet), a Liebgott character study, and more!

[shoshimakesstuff]

Even worse is the bottle of elderberry liqueur Chuck hands him, heavy black lettering and colored glass. Too floral. Floyd never liked the taste. But it's what they have here in Austria, words he can't read but can guess all the same. It tastes like a church bake sale, reminds him of flower-print dresses and his hand halfway up Sadie Workman's thigh.  Chuck looks like he's holding back a grimace, like he's wishing for something else. Tab would tease him, ask if he's secretly thinking of England's lukewarm beer or the apple brandy they'd found in Normandy, mud-soaked and exhausted, but he doesn't.

hollowed-out pianos in the dark (tab/chuck, rated e)

[upontherisers]

"second-nature" for mahalia and bucky because she maybe needs her hands in his curls — @shoshiwrites

you sent this forever ago but i knew i needed to find just the right scene and you said 'reincarnation AU' last week and it reset my brain so how could i not!

She’s quiet after, wordlessly rising from his arms and swinging her leg over the side of the bed to put on her brace. He wants to reach out and trace the line of her spine, get some of her lost warmth back, but his arm stays flush with her pillow and misses her like hell. After securing the final strap across her thigh, he watches her hand linger for a moment on his discarded shirt, tenuous fingers tracing over the folds in the polycotton until they move to her hoodie and pick it up. The mattress creaks as she stands and the light changes in a blink from the white of her IKEA lamp to incandescence, the warm glow of a bulb on its last legs.

He’ll stop at the hardware store after work tomorrow and see if they can’t get it changed before they go to the pictures. The new Hitchcock starring Grant and Bergman — Mahalia can’t pass that up.

He blinks again and it’s back to the cool LED. Sitting up, he sniffs and wipes at his nose before reaching for his water — he’s got to stop letting Mahalia pick 50s movies when he comes over. But then it comes to him that Notorious came out in 1946 and he knows if he Googles it, he’ll be right. He’s also got to stop knowing things without knowing them.

The toilet flushes in the bathroom and he gets up as the sink turns on. He finds his sweatpants and makes sure they stay sweatpants as he pulls a leg through and then the other. Last week, they were brown-green wool for a moment and dark, paint-stained denim yesterday when he got out of the shower. She was there both times, but that’s just a coincidence. It has to be a coincidence.

She’s brushing her teeth in the dark when he walks into the bathroom, squinting as he flicks on the light and wrap his arms around her middle. It’s silent except for the buzz of her toothbrush, and she’s warm and without complaint about his fingers being cold or him being too hot. He’s allowed to hold her as she rinses and spits and stands back up so that she’s resting against his chest, one of her hands playing with his absentmindedly, her eyes drawn to their reflection in the mirror.

Sometimes, he imagines she can see it too. There are moments when she’s looking at him, through him, and past him at the same time, and he hopes that he’s not alone in this and going crazy, that she can also remember box scores from when the Dodgers were still in Brooklyn and mornings when they did nothing but kiss each other until the baby cried and pulled them into the nursery.

And sometimes he hopes she doesn’t see any of it, that this is the only life she has to struggle through. He’s only seen it once, but if everything else is real then so is the fall and the stiffness in her knee and miles and miles in the snow, those fucking Germans not letting her ride on a cart until she collapsed. 

He has to kiss her and does, pressing his lips to her cheek before tucking his head into her shoulder where she smells like her good lotion, shea butter and a bit of coconut.

“You should go,” she says, but her hand comes up to tangle in his hair, her nails gently scraping over his scalp and making his nerves spark all the way down his back. Second-nature, he guesses.

[thoughpoppiesblow]

okay, i'm here with some thoughts. @shoshiwrites sent me this ask the other day, and it got me thinking about miss jackie broussard, and what might she listen to?

the answer is jazz. not dave brubeck "posh" jazz, but messy, loud, new orleans jazz. think second line, rebirth brass band, and wynton marsalis. however, i think jackie 10000% has clora bryant on vinyl - she's a wicked good trumpeter and vocalist from the swing age, and i feel like jackie just eats that up. like she heard the album gal with a horn and went "i need to listen to this until i die"

[whencyclopedia]

The Pillow Book

The Pillow Book (Makura no Soshi) is a personalised account of life at the Japanese court by Sei Shonagon which she completed c. 1002 CE during the Heian Period. The book is full of humorous observations (okashi) written in the style of a diary, an approach known as zuihitsu-style ('rambling') of which The Pillow Book was the first and greatest example.

Sei Shonagon

Sei Shonagon was a lady of the Japanese imperial court. Her surname is not her actual name but refers to her role, or more likely the role of her husband, as a 'lesser counsellor' or shonagon. Her family name was Kiyohara, her father being Kiyohara no Motosuke (908-990 CE) who was himself a waka poet of some repute and co-author of Gosenshu, an imperial anthology. Her grandfather, Kiyohara no Fukayabu, was an even more renowned poet. Sei Shonagon was born c. 966 CE, was married at least twice and was known to have visited certain Buddhist and Shinto sacred sites and temples.

Sei Shonagon was part of a wider group of literary ladies employed to educate Teishi (976-1001 CE), one of the wives of Emperor Ichijo. Sei Shonagon joined the court in 993 CE, and she describes her early experience there as follows:

When I first went into waiting at Her Majesty's Court, so many different things embarrassed me that I could not even reckon them up and I was always on the verge of tears. As a result I tried to avoid appearing before the Empress except at night, and even then I stayed hidden behind a three-foot curtain of state. (Keene, 413)

One of Shonagon's literary rivals and lady at the second imperial court, that of Shoshi (Akiko), was Murasaki Shikibu, authoress of the classic Tale of Genji. Shikibu was scathing of Shonagon's literary skills in her own diary: "She thought herself so clever, and littered her writings with Chinese characters, but if you examined them closely, they left a great deal to be desired" (Ebrey, 199). Still, Shikibu was not above borrowing images and scenes from The Pillow Book for her own work. It is conceivable that Genji was a response to Shonagon's work given the rivalry between the two royal courts when, unusually, there were two reigning empresses.

Continue reading...

[mercurygray]

hiii friend, could i send "coffee splatters on paper" and/or" the smell of fresh coffee" and/or "empty coffee cup" (basically, any of the coffee ones) 😅 for fred and jo, please? <3 — @shoshiwrites

Shoshi, thank you so much for trusting me again with Jo. She is, as always, a joy and a delight. For those of you who don't know her, Jo Brandt is Shoshi's War Correspondent OC who has made several appearances in the TDS multiverse and appears here by kind permission from her author.

It was easier writing at the Aero Club.

There was always the extra work of bringing her typewriter with her from her room, but the portable was built for outings like this, and, too, there was something…comforting, about writing her column from the middle of things, or at least, as close to the middle of things as Jo was able to get at Thorpe Abbotts without being a security risk. Everyone came to the Red Cross club at some time or another, and the constant stream of chatter in the background made a nice change of pace from the birdsong and quiet tree rustles of the back garden.

And there was the bottomless coffee, of course. And the cat.

"Well hi there, mister, how are you?" Jo asked, as Spark Plug came up to rub against her chair and buff his head against her leg a couple of times. The black and white cat purred for a moment and then took the opportunity to jump up onto the table, narrowly missing Jo's empty coffee cup, and scratched himself against the side of the portable's carriage return a few times. "You're lucky you're cute," Jo said quietly, waiting for the animal to move out of the way before she started typing again. "Usually I charge for spelling errors."

"Excuse me, Miss, is this cat bothering you?"

Jo didn't need to look up at Fred to see that the woman was smiling at her own joke, coffee pot at the ready as she did her rounds of the room. "Yeah, as a matter of fact," she said, sitting back in her chair and holding tightly on to her empty cup before Fred could try filling it. "He was just yowling at me about when I'm going to do that piece about his owner."

The Clubmobile woman deflated a little. "Jo, I'm not -"

"But you are," Jo said, cutting into Fred's excuses about 'not being very newsworthy,' still guarding her cup so Fred wouldn't fill it and run. "You're the one everyone wants to read about! When all those mothers read about their sons they're sitting at home hoping someone's taking care of them -- and that's you."

Fred's smile could best be described as 'flat'. "Interview Mary - or Tatty! They've got much better stories than mine."

"Freda Torvaldsen, from Madison, Wisconsin, is very used to managing rambunctious attitudes," Jo said in a fake newsman's staccato. "Twenty-six years old, she put her career as a kindergarten teacher on hold to go overseas and entertain America's flyboys. From slinging doughnuts to singing tunes, there's nothing Fred, as she's known around base, can't do - and that includes rehabilitating stray animals." She paused for effect.

"You're making me sound like Snow White."

"I'll bet if I asked nicely I could find you seven guys to be dwarves," Jo shot back without missing a beat.

She was serious, and Fred knew it. "Please don't."

"And anyway, she's a brunette," Jo added, for effect. "Thirty minutes. And a picture. With the cat."

"No one wants -"

"Everyone will want a picture with the cat," Jo cut in strongly. "Especially after I tell them where he came from."

Fred got into enough arguments on a daily basis that she could tell when she had lost one, and she sighed (somewhat dramatically) and sat down just as the door opened and a fresh group of flyers rolled in. Most of them gravitated towards the counter and Mary Boyle, but one of them broke away to stand behind Fred's chair as if to look over her shoulder at Jo's typewriter.

"What's this? Fred Torvaldsen is sitting down? On a Tuesday?"

"I'm being interviewed," Fred said, looking up at the pilot with a fondness in her eyes that was hard to hide. Jo bit back a smile and allowed the pair their moment - Clubmobile girls weren't supposed to have favorites, but John Brady was one of Fred's. (If he had his way, he'd be more than a favorite, if Jo was any judge, but she supposed there would be time for that later. Hopefully.)

"Is our trusted correspondent going to write about how we'd all fall apart if you weren't here?" Brady asked, with absolute seriousness.

"I am, Captain Brady, thank you so much for suggesting that," Jo said strongly, before Fred could get a word in edgewise, grinning at him.

"You both are being very mean," Fred said with another one of her exasperated smiles.

"We are," Brady confirmed with a sly smile that did nothing to hide his delight. His hands never left the back of her chair, but there was something in his eyes, too, that was doing a lot of very heavy lifting for his favorite who wasn't supposed to be a favorite.

"There a party here I don't know about?" John Egan's voice came booming from behind Jo. When had he come in?

"I'm being interviewed," Fred cut in, before anyone could say anything else. "Jo's going to add me to her Rogue's Gallery for the Clarion."

"Excellent. Best news we've had all day. You'll make us all look good, Fred. Are you putting in a good word for her, Spark Plug? Are you?" The cat, which had formerly been relaxing next to the typewriter, had stood up as Egan approached, yowling softly for attention and closing his eyes to lean into Egan's large, warm hand and its energetic scritches, the cat's expression perhaps best described as 'pleased'.

Jo looked away to see Fred was watching her with an odd look in her eye and a secretive smile. "What?"

"Oh, nothing," Fred said mildly, sitting back in her chair. "Are we starting this interview now, or what?"

[lostloveletters]

🍓🥤🍬🦴 if u want battie!!

Thank you!

🍓 How did you get into writing fanfiction? I read The Outsiders in middle school and was so upset at the ending I started writing a whole AU in this little notebook I had! And then I came across Quizilla (does anyone remember Quizilla lol)

🥤 Recommend an author or fanfic you love: I'm not even kidding I was just in Shoshi's messages talking about Bucky and Jo but @shoshiwrites song for slow dancing has all Bucky/Jo prompts she's written so far and I love them so much!

🍬 Post an unpopular opinion about a popular fandom character: Oh man, okay...y'all know I'm a Kay defender forever, but I do think Michael loved Apollonia to an extent (Did he love her well? Was their relationship remotely ethical? Debatable. Did she deserve better? Yes, she was so young and didn't do anything to deserve the fate she got)

🦴 Is there a piece of media that inspires your writing? Yes! The Bloody Chamber by Angela Carter. It's a collection of short stories and I just aspire to write on her level🖤

🦇 Battie

[buggybugkilo]

anyway now that it’s seven in the morning and i REALLY need to be asleep i’m gonna do a funky funky introduction for an oc i’ve had for about the same amount of time ive been fixating on twst

except he’s just as developed as all my other ocs

(i will actually do a full effort drawing for him..hopefully)

edit: replacing the image ahdhd

anyway so shoshi (name may be changed-im iffy on the name ngl) is based off of shock (nightmare before christmas) i have the other two from the trio and oogie (neon haired guy i’ve drawn a few times) too just need to make a proper intro for them

anyway then his cat familiar z-whos based off of zero

so shoshi is technically supposed to be like white pale but i don’t like it as much so he’s just a normal amount of pale

backstory stuff is a wip but the very base of it is:

shoshi comes from and kind of is (?) a ✨grim reaper family✨ living in halloween town (in which most ghosts will avoid him naturally..dude is almost completely oblivious to that fact)

his childhood wasn’t too bad-growing up he was a rule follower, had good grades, had a few friends-overall good kid so not much happening

the only bad thing being he has a goofy (/j) homophobic and transphobic father who was like hella transphobic

shoshi is trans and slightly fruity-so you can imagine how that went-basically being the bright happy child to being almost cut off from his father-eventually shoshi gave up on trying to get accepted by his father and instead said it was a phase and moved on-this being the main reason he grows his hair out

(when asked about going to nrc he just said he heard it was a good school and tricked them into thinking he was a dude)

anyway back to the being a grim reaper-z was a street cat that shoshi had befriended as a small child basically growing up with z- this cat was also supposed to be the first soul he would help guide-shoshi just didn’t (in a more dramatic way but that’s for me to write when i’m not still figuring everything out) and instead made z his familiar-z is linked to shoshis feelings and it’s rare to see the two having different reactions (so z would have to have a very strong emotion for it to show) which is kind of morbid now that i think about it but i swear it’s more of a in sync kind of thing 😭

the two others from the trick or treater trio are childhood friends

-

in general things

shoshi has very sensitive skin to the point where when going outside he has to use a sun umbrella (hence the being pale) which wasn’t much of a problem with halloween town being very cloudy and dark but now in nrc is quite off putting with the quiet and mildly reserved nature along with the sun umbrella

he often takes the role of being responsible for his other friends often scolding them for reckless behavior

shoshi is most definitely a cat dad kind of dude

he and z will give someone the most judgy look if they do something stupid

..and then cover for their ass five seconds later

definitely into darker fashion styles (so like alt or whatever wearing a bunch of dark colored celestial clothing is)

probably has trust issues ajsjdjdj

his dorm is a funky funky oogie boogie one i have yet to fully make (is vice president of it)

anyway now that it is a whole ass hour later i’m gonna go sleep

[bitchesoffillory]

Ok so I wrote a whole thing and I finished it. It’s only like 500 words but still! It’s the first thing I’ve ever like, really written. But now I have to edit???? And??? Words??? They have to make sense when you put them together?? But these words.......they just....they just won’t?? They won’t do the thing they are supposed to do??? 

[narishkeit451]

College Entrapdak AU where Entrapta and Hordak are intro chemistry lab partners and team up to take on the science department and disability services office to get reasonable accommodations in the lab for her autism and his chronic illness

[bilestat]

.

[ktredshoes]

Cool. Coolcoolcool.

posting the little snippet i started for a prompt to make up for all the tag memes i've been hiding from because i didn't have anything new 🙈

kindly tagged by @ktredshoes @softspeirs @mercurygray @tortoisesshells @basilone <3

[writingwithcolor]

Jews (and Muslims) in space! AKA fun with halakhic hypotheticals

@whiteraven13 asked:

Hi, I'm writing a sci-fi book that involves a long spaceflight before arriving on a new planet. How would being in space affect things like Shabbat (since no sundown) and praying towards Mecca? I want people's faiths to be important in the book because it always drives me up the wall when sci-fi stories are like "In the future people will be enlightened and won't need religion any more." Thank you!

Oh boy are you in luck, because this is actually something we talk about all the time! An astronaut in our current world doesn’t have the option of taking a full 25 hours off work, but they have in fact marked the beginning of shabbat by lighting electronic shabbat candles. Jewish astronauts have generally observed the shabbat times of their point of takeoff; lighting shabbat candles in orbit therefore has a set precedent. 

We don’t yet have a precedent for which direction to face while praying; Judaism and Islam treat this issue differently, since in Islam they face toward the actual direction of Mecca, while in Judaism we face due east even in places where Jerusalem is to the West or North of us. My instinct says that on another planet we would face toward planetary East, but on a long spaceflight my thought is that we would likely not worry about what direction the Jewish prayer space faces, since we also have the convention of facing toward whichever wall the torah scrolls are stored on, regardless of which direction it is. Speaking of which, there has been a torah scroll in space, on more than one occasion. 

Judaism has a lot to say about time. We don’t only mark the beginning and end of Shabbat at certain times, we also pray three times a day, at set times, and we observe holidays linked to the seasons--the seasons as they are in Jerusalem, regardless of which hemisphere of the Earth we’re standing on. It might be a jar for characters who have been observing the shabbat times of Houston for years to finally set down on a planet where their sense of time might be completely different--and narrative-wise, that’s not a bad thing: an American Jew stepping off a plane in Australia might have a similar experience.

The question of whether pork products created by a Star Trek style replicator would be kosher is open for constant debate: my gut says that when it came down to it there would be some people who do and some people who don’t accept the kosher status of a replicated pork chop, just as there is now for Impossible or Beyond fake-meat cheeseburgers. 

Thank you for your discomfort with the trope of an enlightened future where the traditions of our ancestors have been eradicated, and for wanting to paint a picture of a better future, one where we are valued and given the resources and freedom to preserve and develop our living cultures. 

- Meir

I agree with Meir - the good news is these are very realistic dilemmas and you will find lots of relevant commentary online; the bad news is, you will find a lot more questions than answers! But that’s also good news, because you can pick and choose the decisions and outcomes that suit your story. The line of reasoning will matter more than the conclusion.

Not much to add except I answered a slightly similar question with some pointers on things to google and why:

Jewish Character Stuck in Time Loop

Thanks for including our religion and culture in a highly technological future world 😊

- Shoshi

[upontherisers]

if you're feeling it, could i please request "playing with each other’s fingers" for an oc of your choice👀 — @shoshiwrites

happy (belated) bday my dear shosh. here is a very very belated prompt to celebrate. this is an AU i've had for years but @loveduringthewar's beautiful West Wing AU inspired me to get some real writing done on it. summary: poet laureate mattie james is dutifully protected by secret service special agent joe toye.

a friday in autumn, 2:19 pm

Joe finds himself in a chair across from Mattie, who’s surrounded by a gaggle of vigilantly curious middle schoolers as she holds his palm and moves his hand around.

“See?” she says, angling his fingers toward the fluorescent lights overhead, “it’s too big. So,” she lets his hand down once more and slips her wire work off his finger. “We gotta make it smaller but if we squeeze it—”

“There’ll be a bend, like, a little point.” One of the kids makes a ‘V’ with his hands and Mattie beams. 

“Exactly! Let me show you how to avoid that.” She sits back with the paperclip ring and the circle of kids closes around her once more.

Joe takes a moment to look around for help from any of the other adults in the room, hoping someone else is willing to jump in and play model while he gets back to his very serious job of protecting a representative of the state, but he’s only met with endeared smiles from the teachers and duty-bound refusal from his fellow agents. Bull’s at the door with a sympathetic but ultimately unmoved nod, Bill’s glancing over with a smug, thrilled sneer between chatting to one of the instructors, and Johnny shakes his head before looking at the floor. Joe knows what that means—you made your bed, now lie in it.

Or, as Mattie likes to say, grow a spine.

It’s not like Joe doesn’t have a spine. He spends his days telling people what they can and can’t do, where they can and can’t go, and who they can and can’t speak to, all without getting caught up in their pleas and compromises. This job does not allow for missteps; he’s not a man who takes chances. But this, and but is doing a lot of work here says the Mattie in his brain because she lives there now, this is different.

This is the fourth school they’ve been to this week and it goes the same every time. They arrive to a warm, overenthusiastic welcome from the teachers and an excited-slash-confused-to-borderline-hostile reception from the students. Mattie’s music isn’t necessarily targeted toward the middle grades, her poetry even less so. But she gets up there nonetheless.

Hi, I’m Mattie. I make music and I write poems.

Are you good at it? a kid will ask, always a boy—this one proudly introduced himself as Tyler, always towards the back of the room, always accompanied by giggles.

Mattie shrugs. Some people think I am, some people think I’m trash. And the shock of that admission, from an adult, from a capital-I important adult, breaks the spell of awkwardness and within a few minutes, she’s charmed the whole room. The kids are eating out of her palm. Even the ones who were determined to be difficult have either bought in or are about to.

Joe is now familiar with the mix of admiration and jealousy on a teacher’s face when they realize that Mattie’s nearing a participation rate that Maria Montessori would be jealous of. Johnny leans over to them with a grimace of empathy. It’s not you, it’s her. She’s a magician with this stuff.

Then, her least favorite part. She asks for a volunteer, just for a moment, just for a prompt. We can’t theorize our way into making art. We gotta do it. All the energy that had built up and the excitement on the kids’ faces fizzle. She’ll give it a few seconds and look at the adults in the room rather than the kids, half-pleading, half-resigned, then laugh like that was expected, like she asked them to skydive with no parachute. 

She’ll let off steam about it later, when they’re in the car, when they’re back in her suite at the Library of Congress. How hard is it to set an example? They introduce me like I’m Nelson fucking Mandela but as soon as I ask them to engage for the sake of their kids, crickets.

Mattie, Johnny’ll say, it’s not that—

It’s because they don’t take this seriously. All this talk about how important artistic outlets are, but God forbid you have to do that art yourself. Because that’s not serious, that’s not real. She lets her bag hit the ground harder than necessary and runs her hands over her face before ripping open her beat-up laptop, mumbling to herself. It’s fine. It’s about the kids, it’s about the kids.

Bill’ll send a get a load of this guy eyebrow around to the other three, but Joe usually finds himself nodding in agreement with Mattie. Poet Laureate is quite a title, but it doesn’t mean anything when no one’s listening. People should listen.

So, on this particular Friday as Tyler, who reminds Joe of Bull—well-built and curly blonde—takes the awkward silence to look at him and the rest of the agents rather than his teachers or Mattie, Joe decides that it changes today. He knows the answers to her prompts already—think of a fruit, apple; think of a color that’s not also the color of an apple, purple. A four-man detail has one redundant agent and all entrances and exits have been secured; the other three can spare him for a while.

He pushes off the eastern wall or the room and half-raises a hand before fully raising it when he sees Mattie’s eyes light up upon realizing what he’s doing. He answers her questions only slightly disquieted by the sudden amount of eyes on him, but as she starts her poem building exercise with a thankful wink, he feels pretty good about it. He’s doing the thing, making art instead of theorizing, setting the example.

More like sitting the example. In his two months with Mattie, he forgot that making art could mean… y’know, making it, not just writing it down. It’s the whole point of the exercise, actually. Ten minutes of silent work, discussion, ten minutes of work with light conversation—Mattie’s the queen of light conversation, then presentations from anyone who wants to. The only rules are that you have to make something, whether it be using the poem prompt she walks them through or something from the classroom supplies at your teacher’s discretion.

The kids who wanted to write set off with their paper and pencils and Mattie walks around for a bit before settling into an empty chair and fiddling with the paper clips a girl is using crafts. Tyler wanders by first, then two of his friends, next a few of their friends, and soon, there’s a bundle of 7th graders watching Mattie make a paper clip ring. And of course, they want to make one too and of course, Mattie needs a model for show because if all of the kids are making one and she’s teaching, then who’s driving the boat? And of course Joe gets pulled in because he volunteered so nicely before.

The circle of children parts like the Red Sea and he’s face-to-face with Mattie again as she wraps the ring around his finger, her hands working around his to fit the metal securely. She’s full of focus, eyes locked on where their skin meets, still in her shoulders and steady in her breathing in the way she only ever is when she’s in the zone. He wants to laugh at the dedication to this tiny strip of wire, but he won’t, not in present company; he can’t have them think he’s laughing at her.

Maybe you don’t have to have volunteers, Johnny offers after their third visit with no adult participation.

Mattie sighs. It’s about the principle of the thing.

Oh, Bill snarks, the principle of the thing.

The kids don’t need to follow the teachers, they follow you just fine, Bull says from his spot at the door.

Johnny nods sagely. Yeah, monkey see, monkey do.

Well, Mattie says, tilting her head in sad consideration, maybe I’d hoped there’d be better monkeys.

Joe is being a better monkey, so no laughing. Instead, he looks from her face to their hands, wondering as always what she sees and how she sees it. It’s not just metal and space to her because nothing is ever just anything to her.

Her brain’s wired different than ours, as Bill says. And Johnny says, your brain isn’t wired at all.

He’s sure she’s watching the steel atoms bump into each other or she’s far beyond, watching the solar system spin on its galactic arm, just a blip in the rapidly approaching collision with Andromeda. Or she’s in both places at once, and here with him, too, capable of holding onto every eon and tense and time zone at once. He doesn’t understand it, not yet, where the poet ends and the person begins. 

“There!” Mattie says, sitting back. Joe holds still for what seems like far too long as the kids investigate her handiwork and investigate him. Their inquisitive gazes wander from the ring to his face, some of them leaning in to squint at him, evaluative and unimpressed.

Most of them have figured what he’s doing here, with three other guys who have similar enough haircuts and stand with hands clasped at rest in front of them, plain clothed but suspiciously so. He likes kids, or at least, he’s discovered that he likes them more than he thought he would. They don’t understand that it’s some people’s job to fly under the radar. They meet his gaze as much as they meet Mattie’s instead of politely ignoring him and his fellow agents like adults know to do. And when they do look at him, they don’t care. He has to respect that.

He’s watching Mattie shape a paperclip for a kid when Tyler suddenly fills up his entire field of vision, staring wide-eyed like Joe is a fish in a tank. “Do you have a gun?”

“Okay,” Mattie says, reaching out and clapping Tyler on the shoulder, “it seems like we’re ready for presentations! Let’s take our seats.”

Joe bolts out of his chair and takes his place along the wall again as Mattie wraps up.

He doesn’t realize he still has the heart-shaped ring on until they’re back at the Library of Congress and walking into Mattie’s suite. It’s so light that he forgets he's wearing it and it’s only as she sets her bag down and the flower ring one of the girls gave her catches the sun that he remembers what sits on his finger.

He slips it off and holds it out to her. “Here.”

She takes it gently, turning it over in her decorated hands before flipping it back to him like a coin. “It’s a gift,” she says with a wink, “for being my guinea pig.”

His mouth opens to say something, anything, but the words die in his throat. Taking a moment, he studies it for the first time. It’s a delicate thing, slightly springy if he squeezes the sides, more of a square than a circle, and so very Mattie that he’d pick her if someone had him guess at the maker. The heart has been roughly colored by a red Crayola marker which she’d gotten all over a desk and apologetically wiped up and the imperfections of it—the bends that won’t come out from the original shape, the matte sheen from all the handling—makes it more beautiful. 

He doesn’t know where to put it. It’ll fall right off the chain of his cross, and he can’t wear it and risk it getting snagged on something, but he wants it around. He wants to be able to see it and remember a day that was good, a day when he felt like they made a difference, that he made a difference. He hadn’t had a day like that in a long time.

It ends up in his locker at the D.C. headquarters office. Bringing it home feels too… too close, but this is a good spot, halfway between head and heart. He places it on the little shelf in the back next to his spare sunglasses and his old dog tags. He can’t seem to bring those home, either.

Johnny shakes his head as he passes on the way to his locker.

Joe pauses. “What?”

“You can’t say no to that girl.”

This is what Johnny’s amusement was about earlier in the classroom. There was nothing wrong with Joe stepping up or sitting down for a demonstration���it’s encouraged actually, especially at schools, something about giving the Service a friendlier face. Johnny’s gripe is with who Joe stepped up for and why he did it. 

“No favorites, Joe.”

“You think I’m playing favorites?”

“I think you don’t understand her.”

“And you do?”

Johnny shrugs and shuts his locker. “No, but I don’t try to. You can’t let it go.”

“I think,” Joe starts as he follows the other agent down to check-out, “that if we understand her, we can understand this guy and get him.”

It’s the one thing that bothers Joe about this case. Lots of people get threats—protecting those people is eighty percent of his job—but there’s something about the ones Mattie gets that doesn’t sit right with him, hasn’t since the beginning. The letters are the one inroad that anyone has to solve this thing and as more show up with diminishing progress from the combined efforts of the Service and the FBI, he thinks it’s time to get a move on. Maybe the missing link is in the protectee and not the thing they’re protecting her from.

What’s the harm in trying? He keeps thinking about where Mattie gets stuck in her job, where she’s given status but no authority, and how she keeps returning to her painted corner with a brave smile, gracious to wait there until she gets called up to do her tricks again. People listen to poetry but they don’t understand it, she says and that’s not fair. When he looks at Mattie, he sees a girl who should be understood as completely as possible, if ever possible.

Johnny flashes his badge at the front desk sensor and looks back at Joe. “It’s not your job to understand. It’s your job to stand there. What if something happened while you were getting your ring sized?”

Joe’s offended. “Sitting down means I’m compromised?”

“Getting involved means you’re compromised.” Johnny’s facing him now that they’re both in the exit lobby, a pensive look on his face as his bag is slung over his shoulder. “Look, Joe, they’re not paying us to think on this one. If you think something’s up, talk to Dick, otherwise, this is not the kind of work you bring home.”

Right, ‘cause Johnny’s a family man now, with a wife and a kid and a baby on the way.

“I didn’t bring it home,” Joe says.

Johnny nods but his eyes are far away. “Yeah, but you thought about it.”

Silence falls for a moment before Johnny sniffs and shoulders his bag. “Who’s on duty tonight?”

“Talbert and Grant,” Joe replies.

Johnny nods. “Make sure they take a look at the cameras, see if they can figure out why they’re down.”

“Yeah,” Joe sighs and heads out with a nod.

The drive home is quiet except for the radio and as he pulls into the parking lot, one of Mattie’s songs comes on the folk station he’s been lurking on. He sits for as long as it takes to play—eyes closed, head rested on his seat—and lets her voice wash over him. She sings like she speaks, brassy and casual, effortless, not having to reach for what she wants, alluring, magnetic in a way that gets under his skin. He listens for anything that could teach him something and he’s so caught up in the mystery of the girl and the thing that goes bump in the night, that he doesn’t listen to the lyrics until the chorus.

But I’m in so deep, she sings, you know I’m such a fool for you. You got me wrapped around your finger, oh. Do you have to let it linger?

“What the hell do you know about The Cranberries?” he asks to the air, smiling softly. 

It ends too soon, but the cool night outside shocks the spell of Mattie’s voice from his system as he enters his dark apartment. His nights off-duty are more and more standard as this assignment goes on; he’ll check in with his older sister as he gets dinner ready—Mom’s arthritis is flaring worse than usual and his niece is deciding between swim and soccer camp, catch the Pirates highlights on ESPN, do the dishes, then do his readings.

He started them on a curious whim, just to see what the hype was about and ended up standing in the aisle of a Brentwood bookstore for fifteen minutes, engrossed, until the attendant asked him if he was going to be making a purchase. He bought three books, none of them very long, but he’s not a book guy so they’ve been a task to get through.

He read Letters from a Convict Child first because it’s the book that put Mattie on the map and wrote a man out of incarceration and he’s not sure that he got all of it—he’s not sure that he got any of it—but he understands her now, at least more than he did two months ago. Each poem that paints a picture of the world paints a picture of the writer, too, and sometimes he wants to look away as Mattie touches her own raw nerves to get the words out. But he stays for her, he stays because people always look away. That’s why she writes.

As of yesterday, he’s officially halfway through reading grow lemon grow poem by poem and as he finds tonight’s selection, he’s struck by the opening lines. 

Wire hurts my hands, makes my fingers stink But I bend another paperclip

He underlines in his shitty pencil and reads the poem over and over again until his eyes start to droop close and he drags himself to bed wondering what Mattie’s night was like, if she offered her dinner to Tab and Chuck like she does he and Johnny, what music she played. It was Nina last week, but she’d spent the morning humming the Lumineers. Did she skip eleven songs before settling on the twelfth, or did she demand silence and curl up on the chair in the corner of her patio, legs tangled together, and write until Tab had to shuffle her to bed?

Did she make them rings despite the way the metal presses lines into the pads of her fingers? What did she say? Did either of them listen? 

He jolts up in the dull gray light of morning, scrambling to shut off his alarm as his chest heaves. In the bathroom, he splashes his face with cold water until the scenes of his dreams—lemon trees, paper clip rings, the shredded and smoking hull of an armored vehicle in the desert, a shadowed figure slipping a letter under Mattie’s door—wash away with the chill. His phone dings.

From B. Guarnere: Ur on coffee duty. Hurry up

[maggiecheungs]

speaking of the joys of metafiction, i’m currently re-reading fumiko enchi’s 1965 novel a tale of false fortunes (namamiko monogatari), and it’s so deliciously layered—a precarious bundle of narratives built upon multiple incredibly tenuous sources, tied together by a thread of unreliable narration.

in the introduction, fumiko enchi states that the novel is as an attempt to describe/retell a classical text she claims to have read when she was a child, entirely through her own memory. this book never belonged to her—she borrowed it from the library of a prominent academic—and as an adult she was never able to find any trace of it anywhere else. futhermore, the manuscript she claims to have read was not the orginial; it was probably a copy made several centuries later, and it is apparently impossible to tell the original date of authorship, and whether or not it was intended to be fiction. enchi’s novel switches almost seamlessly back and forth the ‘recollected’ passages and her own commentary on them, thus blurring the line between the 'original' text and her own interpretations.

but that’s not all! this text she is describing (a tale of false fortunes) is a retelling of some of the events described in, and clearly a textual response to, the 11th century japanese classic history text eiga monogatari/a tale of flowering fortunes, which describes the political ascendency of fujiwara no michinaga. this time period can be fairly among historians—not because there’s a lack of sources, but because the sources we have are all so intimately connected to the political figures and powers of the day (which tends to be a problem with most historical sources, alas). essentially, the contemporary historiographical texts that we have are all committed to telling certain, selective narratives. which is to say that eiga monogatari (which was written about events that occurred during the author’s own adulthood, no less!) is very biased.

to add even another layer of intertextual confusion to it all, eiga monogatari itself is something of a composite text—the main author is generally assumed to be akazome emon, a lady-in-waiting to michinaga’s daughter empress shoshi, but there is still some uncertainty as to the extent to which authorship can be attributed to her. this is in large part because emon essentially plagiarised* other first-hand accounts of the events she describes. for example, there’s a section of eiga monogatari which is just copied without alterations or attribution from the diary of murasaki shikibu. so enchi’s book is allegedly based on a classical text, which is based on a different classical text, which in turn is stitched together from a bunch more other texts. it completely destroys any notion we might have had of an ‘original’ or ‘true’ narrative.

and to top it all off, the novel is almost as impossible to find in english as its alleged predecssor was to find in japanese. in fact (despite being a work of fiction by a prominent novelist) the english translation was published by the university of hawai’i press, an academic publisher who exclusively prints nonfiction and has printed a lot of translations of classical japanese historical writings. the publisher lends the narrative an air of credence; if you didn’t know better, you might think that enchi’s text was rooted in real life and literary history.

so in the end, the finished result is a gloriously metafictive romp through the liminal space between fact and fiction, history and memory, originality and replicas. it’s turtles all the way down, and it’s brilliant.

*a word with heavy connotations that might not apply in the same way in this specific historical context, which I won’t go into here

[cbhunter494]

Valyrian Translator

So what if you do actually want to learn Dothraki or Valyrian? Of course, the ideal scenario would be to have an actual language exchange with a Dothraki warrior or a nobleman from Essos for Valyrian. High Valyrian is the language of the old Valyrian Freehold which was located on the eastern continent of Essos. Much of Essos was once dominated by the Valyrians for thousands of years, stretching from the Free Cities in the west, to Slaver's Bay in the east. The Valyrians forced the peoples they subjugated to speak in (or at least be able to converse in) their language. After the Doom of.

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High Valyrian is a language originating from Valyria and the Valyrian Freehold. Corrupted dialects known as bastard Valyrian are spoken in the Free Cities(1) and Slaver's Bay.(2)

2High Valyrian

3Bastard Valyrian

History

Some of the oldest remaining ancient texts were written by Andals, Valyrians, Ghiscari, and Asshai'i.(3) After the Old Empire of Ghis was conquered by the Valyrian Freehold in the Ghiscari wars, the Ghiscari began speaking the High Valyrian of their conquerors.(4)

High Valyrian is no longer widely spoken due to the Doom of Valyria,(5) and most Valyrian records were destroyed in the catastrophe.(6) The tongues of the Free Cities have continued to evolve from the original High Valyrian.(5)

Queen Alysanne Targaryen is said to have begun learning how to read from Valyrian scrolls while still at the breast of her mother, Queen Alyssa Velaryon.(7) Alysanne's husband, King Jaehaerys I Targaryen, was fascinated with the Old Valyrian scrolls in the library of Dragonstone.(8)

How to lead jo owen ebook reader. Racallio Ryndoon is said to have spoken a dozen dialects of Valyrian.(9) Lord Alyn Velaryon studied Valyrian treaties about warship design and sea tactics when he visited the Citadel.(9)Larra Rogare, the wife of Prince Viserys Targaryen, was fluent in High Valyrian and the dialects of Lys, Myr, Tyrosh, and Volantis.(10)

Some highborn children of Westeros are still taught Valyrian as a sign of their noble education.(11)(12) Songs(13) and scrolls(14)(15) are still sung and read in High Valyrian, although by 300 AC most Westerosi nobles cannot understand the language.(13)

High Valyrian

Language

The High Valyrian phrase valar morghulis‎(16) is translated as 'all men must die.'(17) A counterpart phrase, valar dohaeris,(18) is translated as 'all men must serve.'(19)

The word dracarys is translated as meaning 'dragonfire.'(20) Obsidian is called 'dragonglass' in the Common Tongue, but 'frozen fire' in High Valyrian.(21)Valonqar is the word for 'little brother.'(22) High Valyrian is the most likely source language for maegi (pronounced differently from 'Maggy'),(23) which means 'wise'.(24)

The Valyrian writing system, or at least a Valyrian writing system, is described as involving glyphs.(25) It was also probably standard practice to write on scrolls, and not in books.(26) The glyphs can also be inscribed, as on an old Valyrian dragon horn, which, when sounded, had 'every line and letter shimmering with white fire.'(27) Valyrian carvings have been found on obelisks.(28)

Valyrian steel is forged with spells, as well as hammers.(29) Some smiths still know them, although not entirely.(30)

Names

House Targaryen came from Valyria and thus most of its members can be considered to have High Valyrian names. These include:

Aegon

Aelor

Aelora

Aelyx

Aemon

Aemond

Aenar

Aenys

Aerea

Aerion(26)

Aeryn

Aerys

Alysanne(31)

Ayrmidon(14)

Baela

Baelon

Baelor

Daella

Daemion

Daemon

Daena

Daenerys(32)

Daenora

Daenys

Daeron

Elaena

Gael

Gaemon

Helaena

Jaehaera

Jaehaerys

Maegelle

Maegon

Maegor

Maekar

Maelys(33)

Naerys

Rhae

Rhaegar

Rhaegel

Rhaella

Rhaelle

Rhaena

Rhaenyra

Rhaenys

Rhalla

Saera

Shaena

Shaera

Vaegon

Vaella

Valarr

Valerion

Visenya

Viserra

Viserys

English To Valyrian Translator

Houses Baratheon, Celtigar, Qoherys, and Velaryon are of Valyrian descent, and thus these names are possibly Valyrian as well.(34)(35)

Velaryon first names include:

Aethan

Corlys

Daenaera

Jacaerys

Laena

Laenor

Lucerys

Monterys

Vaemond

Valaena

Jaenara Belaerys was a Valyrian explorer(36) and Aurion was a would-be emperor.(37)

The Valyrians most likely gave Valyrian names to their dragons, as the dragons Balerion, Meraxes, Vhagar, and Syrax were named after Valyrian gods and goddesses.(38)(39) However, not all dragons of House Targaryen had Valyrian names (e.g., Queen Alysanne Targaryen's dragon, Silverwing(31)).

Eight of the nine Free Cities were founded as colonies of the Valyrian Freehold, and are thus likely to bear Valyrian names as well:

Volantis's satellite towns of Selhorys, Valysar, and Volon Therys likely have Valyrian names as well. It is also probable that Elyria, Mantarys, Oros, Tolos, Tyria, and Velos are Valyrian in name, being cities close to Old Valyria.(40)

Bastard Valyrian

Free Cities

Bastard Valyrian includes the languages of the nine Free Cities.(1) Each of the cities has its own dialect, and each dialect likely has its own separate derived vocabulary. Syrio Forel of Braavos speaks the Common Tongue with a lilting accent.(41) One of the Brave Companions is described as having a thick Myrish accent.(42)

The Free Cities use glyphs to write Valyrian.(43) The Valyrian of the Free Cities is described as sounding 'liquid'.(44)

Slaver Cities

Valyrian Translations Season 4

The Old Empire of Ghis was conquered by the Valyrian Freehold five thousand years ago, and the Ghiscari have since spoken High Valyrian. The Slaver's Bay cities of Yunkai, Meereen, and Astapor have their own versions of bastard Valyrian, which have been influenced mainly by Old Ghiscari, the ancient language of Old Ghis. Like the Free Cities, the people of the Slaver Cities use glyphs to write Valyrian.(2)

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Astapori Valyrian is described as having a 'characteristic growl,' influenced by Ghiscari.(2) The dialect of Yunkai is close enough to that of Astapor to be mutually intelligible.(45)

Valyrian Voice Translator

Yunkai used to be part of the Old Empire of Ghis, and has multiple languages spoken in the city. Mhysa, Maela, Aelalla, Qathei, and Tato are given as words for 'mother', but which tongue fits which word is unknown (excepting the first, which is Ghiscari).(45)

Some slavers speak a mongrel tongue,(46) a blend of Old Ghiscari and High Valyrian.(47)

Characters familiar with High Valyrian

Valyrian Translation

Gerris Drinkwater speaks a halting approximation of High Valyrian.(12)

Haldon Halfmaester(48)

Tyrion Lannister learned to read High Valyrian on his maester's knee.(11)

Quentyn Martell can read and write High Valyrian but has little practice speaking it.(12)

Melisandre is known to pray in High Valyrian, the Common Tongue, and the speech of Asshai.(49)

Missandei(17)

Moqorro can apparently sing in High Valyrian.(50)

Septa Saranella tells Cersei Lannister the meaning of valonqar.(22)

Ser Barristan Selmy has some High Valyrian, though not as much as Daenerys Targaryen.(2)

Arya Stark knows some High Valyrian(51) but the kindly man insists that she improve it.(52)

Catelyn Stark considers the speech of Moreo Tumitis of Tyrosh to be the vulgar Valyrian of the Free Cities.(53)

Sweets is fluent in High Valyrian(54)

Aegon Targaryen is fluent in High Valyrian.(12)

Daenerys Targaryen(2)

Samwell Tarly only has a little High Valyrian.(55)

The closest thing the Windblown have to a company tongue is classic High Valyrian.(56) Their leader, the Tattered Prince, says 'and now we ride' to his men in the language.(56)

Quotes

Each of the Free Cities has its own history and character, and each has come to have its own tongue. These are all corruptions of the original, pure form of High Valyrian, dialects that drift further from their origin with each new century since the Doom befell the Freehold.(5)Download counter strike condition zero full.

Behind the Scenes

According to George R. R. Martin,

Tolkien was a philologist, and an Oxford don, and could spend decades laboriously inventing Elvish in all its detail. I, alas, am only a hardworking SF and fantasy novel(sic), and I don't have his gift for languages. That is to say, I have not actually created a Valyrian language. The best I could do was try to sketch in each of the chief tongues of my imaginary world in broad strokes, and give them each their characteristic sounds and spellings.(57)

David J. Peterson further developed High Valyrian for the television adaptation Game of Thrones.

References

↑ 1.01.1A Game of Thrones, Chapter 11, Daenerys II.

↑ 2.02.12.22.32.4A Storm of Swords, Chapter 23, Daenerys II.

↑The World of Ice & Fire, Ancient History: The Dawn Age.

↑The World of Ice & Fire, Ancient History: The Rise of Valyria.

↑ 5.05.15.2The World of Ice & Fire, The Free Cities.

↑The World of Ice & Fire, Ancient History: Valyria's Children.

↑Fire & Blood, The Year of the Three Brides - 49 AC.

↑Fire & Blood, Birth, Death, and Betrayal Under King Jaehaerys I.

↑ 9.09.1Fire & Blood, Under the Regents - The Voyage of Alyn Oakenfist.

↑Fire & Blood, The Lysene Spring and the End of Regency.

↑ 11.011.1A Dance with Dragons, Chapter 1, Tyrion I.

↑ 12.012.112.212.3A Dance with Dragons, Chapter 6, The Merchant's Man.

↑ 13.013.1A Storm of Swords, Chapter 60, Tyrion VIII.

↑ 14.014.1A Game of Thrones, Chapter 9, Tyrion I.

↑A Feast for Crows, Prologue.

↑A Clash of Kings, Chapter 47, Arya IX.

↑ 17.017.1A Storm of Swords, Chapter 27, Daenerys III.

↑A Feast for Crows, Chapter 6, Arya I.

↑A Feast for Crows, Chapter 34, Cat Of The Canals.

↑A Storm of Swords, Chapter 8, Daenerys I.

↑A Storm of Swords, Chapter 78, Samwell V.

↑ 22.022.1A Feast for Crows, Chapter 39, Cersei IX.

↑A Feast for Crows, Chapter 36, Cersei VIII.

↑A Game of Thrones, Chapter 72, Daenerys X.

↑A Game of Thrones, Chapter 3, Daenerys I.

↑ 26.026.1A Clash of Kings, Chapter 6, Jon I.

↑A Feast for Crows, Chapter 19, The Drowned Man.

↑The World of Ice & Fire, Beyond the Free Cities: The Grasslands.

↑A Game of Thrones, Chapter 1, Bran I.

↑A Storm of Swords, Chapter 32, Tyrion IV.

↑ 31.031.1A Storm of Swords, Chapter 40, Bran III.

↑A Dance with Dragons, Chapter 15, Davos II.

↑A Storm of Swords, Chapter 67, Jaime VIII.

↑Citadel. Heraldry: In the area of King's Landing

↑The Citadel. Heraldry: Houses in the Riverlands

↑The World of Ice & Fire, Beyond the Free Cities: Sothoryos.

↑The World of Ice & Fire, Ancient History: The Doom of Valyria.

↑Fire & Blood, Heirs of the Dragon - A Question of Succession.

↑A Clash of Kings, Chapter 12, Daenerys I.

↑A Dance with Dragons, Map of Valyria

↑A Game of Thrones, Chapter 22, Arya II.

↑A Storm of Swords, Chapter 39, Arya VII.

↑A Game of Thrones, Chapter 65, Arya V.

↑A Clash of Kings, Chapter 27, Daenerys II.

↑ 45.045.1A Storm of Swords, Chapter 42, Daenerys IV.

↑A Dance with Dragons, Chapter 59, The Discarded Knight.

↑A Dance with Dragons, Chapter 60, The Spurned Suitor.

↑A Dance with Dragons, Chapter 14, Tyrion IV.

↑A Clash of Kings, Chapter 10, Davos I.

↑A Dance with Dragons, Chapter 56, The Iron Suitor.

↑A Feast for Crows, Chapter 22, Arya II.

↑A Dance with Dragons, Chapter 45, The Blind Girl.

↑A Game of Thrones, Chapter 18, Catelyn IV.

↑A Dance with Dragons, Chapter 47, Tyrion X.

↑A Feast for Crows, Chapter 26, Samwell III.

↑ 56.056.1A Dance with Dragons, Chapter 25, The Windblown.

↑So Spake Martin: Yet More Questions, July 22, 2001

The material on this page is taken from the web page Other languages at Dothraki Wiki that is owned by dothraki.org and may be used for noncommercial purposes.

External Links

Valyrian languages on Wikipedia.

High Valyrian 101: Learn and Pronounce Common Phrases By Katie M. Lucas

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Learn Valyrian and other fascinating fictional languages

Valyrian Translate

With numerous fantasy shows gaining more and more popularity, it's no shock that many fans are going the extra mile. For instance, it was reported that over 800,000 people started learning 'Valyrian,' a language spoken by characters on 'Game of Thrones.' Incredible stories like 'Star Wars' and 'Lord of the Rings' also have their own unique languages, which you can start to learn about in this helpful gallery.

High Valyrian To English

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