#the night that will live on in beloved infamy | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

world-cinema-research · 7 months ago

Text

The 400 Blows/Les Cuatre Cents Coups (1959)

By Cris Nyne

The directorial debut of pioneering French filmmaker, François Truffaut’s The 400 Blows, left a lasting imprint on the timeline of international cinema. To know Truffaut’s history before becoming director makes the film even more of a remarkable achievement. His life began as a troubled youth, engaging in petty crimes and was well on his way to a path of self-destruction. It was in his late teenage years when recognized film critic André Bazin would take Truffaut under his wing and give him a job as critic for the film magazine Cahiers du cinéma. During this time, Truffaut would become recognized as a brutal critic of French films. His infamy stretched to Festival de Cannes, where he would be denied accreditation in 1958. The following year in 1959, Truffaut would get his revenge by being crowned Best Director for The 400 Blows at Cannes. This all by the age of 27. Truffaut would continue to turn the film industry on its head and help pave the way for what today is known as French New Wave.

“If the New Wave marks the dividing point between classic and modern cinema (and many think it does), then Truffaut is likely the most beloved of modern directors -- the one whose films resonated with the deepest, richest love of moviemaking.” -Roger Ebert August 8, 1999

The 400 Blows is a semi-autobiographical tale that follows the young star Jean-Pierre Léaud as the mischievous Antoine Doinel. Antoine is humiliated by his teacher, skips school, steals, and smokes cigarettes while contemplating a better life A life away from his father’s failures and his mother’s affairs. Both parents find themselves exhausted of all options for their son (or the lack of attention they care to provide) and send him off to a school for troubled children. From the beginning of the film, his parents seem to have other priorities in filling the hole in their marriage, and Antoine is essentially a victim of having too much unsupervised time on his hands. By the end of the film, Antoine is contemplating his life outside of the observation center for delinquent youth. He makes a dash for it.

Source: Blu-ray.com

“The movie is full of actual incidents from Truffaut’s childhood, including his fabricating his mother’s death as an excuse for truancy. Few movies have been so personal.” -J.Hoberman, The New York Times September 21, 2022

The movie was well received by audiences and critics alike. He won Best Director at Cannes in 1959, as well as a nominee for the Palme d’Or, the highest prize awarded at Cannes. The French regional newspaper Nice-Matin claimed The 400 Blows to be “A Masterpiece”. The chemistry between Léaud and Truffaut was strong. They would go on to make three more feature films with Léaud revising his role as Antoine Doinel, Stolen Kisses (1968), Bed and Board (1970), and Love on the Run (1979). Currently, Rotten Tomatoes lists The 400 Blows with a rating of 94%.

Original Movie Release Poster

The film is in black and white and is shot in a very personal manner. There are lots of close-space encounters that make you feel as if you are squeezing into the room with them. The house that Antoine lives with his mother and father is very small. During one scene as Antoine is sleeping, his mother, Gilberte Doinel (played by Claire Maurier), comes home after a long night and cannot open the door all the way as it is stopped by the mattress that Antoine sleeps on. There are many fun street scenes shot from different angles- subterranean, street-level, and roof tops, that portray Antoine and his friends plotting and scheming around the streets of Paris. There are a few scenes that follow the main character along a stretch of blocks, and I found myself thinking about how smooth the camerawork was.

youtube

During its filming and release date, The 400 Blows took the idea of conventional filmmaking and shredded the blueprint. The director was only known as a stubborn critic and the main star of the film was completely unknown. The script was a unique story, one that, for the most part, Truffaut had lived and had made it through to tell the tale of a rebellious and delinquent child on a bad path. A child that by today’s standards would probably be diagnosed with an attention deficit disorder and prescribed medication. What was once an extremely unconventional approach to filmmaking has now become a standard in delivering a storyline. Truffaut’s confidence in leaping from critic to auteur has left a rippling effect that you can still see over 7 decades later.

#Youtube

7 notes · View notes

theskeletonprior · 9 months ago

Text

This Tav Tale was commissioned by a lovely client. Thank you for trusting me with Infamy! Read it here on AO3!

From time to time, in an attempt to appeal to his better nature, some poor supplicant might ask of Enver Gortash, “How do you sleep at night?” It’s intended to prick his conscience, but the fact of the matter is, the higher he climbs, the sweeter the dreams. With all of Baldur’s Gate securely in his grasp, Enver sleeps more soundly than he ever has. A little too soundly, even, given who warms his bed. The Chosen of Bhaal. His deadly Left Hand. Enver Gortash sleeps like a child in a loving home, and he does it to the sound of the softly rattling chains that keep his beloved Infamy from gutting him in the night. Of course, Infamy’s urges are vented well, and vented often, but ever since that mess with Orin, it’s best to be just a little too careful. Bhaal, besides, can be demanding, and nothing thrills that bloodstained divinity like asking for the blood his supplicants are least willing to spend. Infamy tells him that it isn’t the right time, but Enver is less certain. After all, when better to kill a man than at the most dizzying height of his power? And not just any man. The Chosen of Bane. So he keeps Infamy well fed, and chains their gorgeous, bloodthirsty self to the bedpost at night, and every morning is a surprise and a delight. A new thrill.

Sometimes Enver wakes up first, and pricks his tongue to wake Infamy with the taste of fresh blood. Those are his favorite mornings. When the chains hold fast through the night. They can indulge in some laziness without interference. No riots at the gates to put down, and he can take his time undoing the restraints, needling the assassin into impatience, into struggling. Infamy’s wild sorcery is as vicious and beautiful as they are, and it bends around Enver, always at the last moment. It’s an incredible rush, and there’s only one outcome that makes his heart beat faster. There is no sight he’s ever witnessed that comes close to the Slayer as it rips into being. Usually this means the hasty requisition of a new bed, and just sometimes it means the incredible experience of waking up completely naked with the great and terrible true shape of Bhaal’s chosen hovering over him. So far, his contingencies for the Slayer’s particular viciousness haven’t been put to the test. Infamy tells him that this is because when they finally kill him, they want to take their time. It will take weeks to finish killing him. Maybe longer. Enver knows that Infamy’s dark rituals are more like experiments. How long can they suspend some poor soul in agony. It’s touching, in a way, to know that all of this is for him. The most enduring subject so far has lived a wretched seventeen days. The morning, Enver is lucky enough to have pants on. The Slayer snaps his chains as it comes screaming into the daylight, barrelling out of the bed. The force of Infamy’s awakening sends Enver rolling onto the floor, narrowly missing being crushed by the bedframe. He’s tangled in their sheets, and already lamenting that they’ll need to be replaced. This silk had come all the way from Waterdeep. That’s his first thought, even with his heart pounding in his ears. He struggles to free himself, but the Slayer isn’t coming for him. There’s the acrid smell of half-cast sorcery, and then the screaming starts. When something warm and wet splashes onto him, soaking through the sheets, Enver hopes it’s blood. The crunching of bones and the smell of bright copper gives him a little hope that it’s not something worse. It wouldn’t be the first time a would be assassin emptied their stomach or their bowels in terror before the Slayer. Enver unrolls himself at last, leaning back on his elbows to enjoy the show, even as the blood—and thank goodness it is blood—soaks through his nice sheets. The mess quite nearly defies description. The Slayer’s claws part flesh from bone as cleanly as a fileting knife, and it eats its prey alive. There are pieces of intruder from the bed to the doorway. If he hasn’t swallowed them, Enver knows that Infamy will want the hands for their collection. Enver picks himself up, thinking he might freshen up while Infamy has his fun, but the Slayer sees him, serrated tail flicking back and forth. The red ring around Infamy’s pupil never glows as brightly as when they are in this shape, and it focuses on Enver. “Kirnha...” Best to do away with the formality of the virtue name, in a moment like this. Enver slips on his gauntlet, the Netherstone gleaming. He cannot show a moment of fear, and he lets the feeling shift to excitement. Enver Gortash smiles in the face of this monstrosity, and takes its fearsome face in both his hands. “Good morning, my sweet assassin. Did you enjoy your breakfast?” Infamy growls, mandibles twitching. Their tongue extends, laving blood from Enver’s cheek. It’s rough, like a cat’s, a tongue that strips flesh from bone. Every part of the Slayer can kill. Every part. Enver laughs softly, even when Infamy puts all four of his clawed hands on him. “Don’t tell me you’re still hungry.” When Infamy lifts him up, his feet come off the ground so gently it’s almost like levitation. He hums amusedly. What’s a little mortal danger first thing in the morning? “I’ll postpone my audiences,” Enver says softly, “so why don’t we make the most of this little mess you’ve made?”

It’s quite the undertaking to have one’s rooms set right again after an incident like that one, but that’s why Enver has climbed so high. He has a veritable army of doting servants, tadpole-riddled and otherwise, to take care of this for him. This frees him and Infamy up for a leisurely bath, and a less bloody breakfast. Enver stretches out his legs, brushing the tip of his boot against Infamy’s ankle under the table. “Overall, not the most productive morning,” Enver says, pouring himself a second cup of blisteringly hot coffee.

“I’d apologize for the late start,” Infamy drawls, “but I don’t feel like lying to you... And I enjoyed myself.” Enver knows precisely how much Infamy had enjoyed himself. He’ll be feeling it for a few days yet. He blows at his coffee and takes a self-satisfied sip.

“Let it not be said that I do not reward your good work. Although the next time someone tries to kill us in our sleep, it’d be nice to leave a little something for our necromancers to work with, hm?” Their would-be killer is being scraped up, still, no doubt. A touch troubling that an intruder had gotten so close to them. The downside to having Bhaalists on payroll.

“Next time, perhaps,” Infamy agrees, but Enver knows better than to believe him. There’s a certain stony quality to those pale eyes of his when he’s making a commitment he doesn’t intend at all to keep. “I’ll call on Minthara. She’s quite proficient at rooting out dissidents. And I enjoy her company.”

“Send Sceleritas to fetch her, will you? We’ve had a strenuous morning.” Enver chuckles, even though his back feels more earnestly about the day’s exercise. The strange old butler has his uses, he must admit, even if he privately finds his presence unsettling. All the more reason to orchestrate excuses to send him away. Far, far away. Not that Minthara Baenre is all that far from Baldur’s Gate in the grand scheme of things. Infamy’s hand twitches to conjure his butler, and Enver reaches out, stopping him.

“Let me finish my coffee. Then we’ll take a walk, and then you can send Sceleritas to retrieve our favorite paladin of vengeance.”

“Your favorite too?” Infamy cocks his head, eyes too wide with mock curiosity.

“Why?”

“We still have a third Netherstone to bestow.” Infamy’s lip curls into a grin. “She is incredible, Enver. How long must Baldur’s Gate tremble beneath our feet?”

“Oh, forever.” He gives a playfully dismissive flick of his fingers. “Metaphorically, at any rate. I was thinking Sarevok might make a decent option. Since we’re sticking each other with pins.” Infamy gets very handsome when he’s annoyed, and Enver takes his time basking in it. “No, my darling mankiller, we must find your equal, mustn’t we? And who else can stand next to you?” He drains his cup and sets it aside, crossing to Infamy’s side of the table. “Let’s go walking. It’s best practices to let the people see us from time to time. And after that, I’m sure we both have work to do.”

After Infamy, Enver’s truest love is schematics. It’s remarkable how many problems can be solved with the right device. The Steel Watch isn’t perfect. It has vulnerabilities. The Gondians are not perfectly easy to control, and their political entanglement with the Iron Hand gnomes has other potential problems. That runepowder... Magnificent. But the hostages are the weak point in maintaining the Steel Watch. True, the illithid tadpoles have been instrumental in securing loyalty, but he’s certainly learned that they can be compromised. And this is the problem. How does one manufacture loyalty? Gods, he’d even settle for plain obedience. So he spends his afternoon pouring over the current design of the Gondians’ collars. Much as Infamy might debate its virtues, perhaps killing them all at the first sign of dissent does not protect their interests particularly well, overall. He only notices the time going by when it becomes dark enough that he needs to light a candle to see by—he doesn’t allow servants in his workroom. It doesn’t distract him for long. He’s onto something; a new way to use the collars in tandem with tadpole infestation. If he could control his own form of the Elder Brain’s hivemind... He doesn’t hear it when Infamy slips into the room, he doesn’t even see their shadow, feel their body heat. What he does feel is their teeth, which he knows so well by now that he doesn’t think for a moment that he’s in any danger.

“Kirnha,” he mumbles, his voice strained ever so slightly. The juncture between his neck and shoulder throbs in time with his heartbeat. Infamy chuckles.

“It isn’t my fault,” they say. “Your neck is too inviting.” They suckle at the bite mark, licking the punctures clean. “It’s for your own good. You’d still be here at dawn, if I left you.”

“And you claim your rewards all on your own, do you?” Enver turns, catching Infamy’s chin in his gauntleted hand. He drags them into a lingering kiss, tasting his own blood on the lips of Bhaal’s chosen. “I’m hungry,” he murmurs. “Take me to dinner. Then to bed.” Infamy chuckles again.

“As it pleases you, my Tyranny.” Enver has to admit, if only to himself, that the virtue name fits him like a glove. He takes Infamy by their deadly hands and lets them lead him away from his workbench, regaling him with their day’s exploits. Infamy’s knack for human suffering is truly commendable, and his relish in it... They are a force of nature, truly. Enver loves this ritual of theirs. The catching up, the fine food. He can even tolerate the intrusion of Sceleritas Fel, come to tell them that Minthara is returning to the Gate to help their ‘lugubrious selves’ root out the rebels behind this morning’s assassination attempt. But best of all is returning to their freshly furnished bedroom, everything new, and testing the thick chains around Infamy’s wrists and ankles.

“These will not hold the Slayer,” Infamy tells him as he sets the ensorcelled clasps.

“That ferocious form of yours has done quite a lot for me, lately,” Enver says. “So I can’t say that I mind. Although, next time, you could try to leave a more intact body for us to inspect the next time we wake up with a murderer in the room.”

“Aside from you and I.” Infamy’s grin shows those lovely sharp teeth, and Enver leans down, pressing a kiss to the intersection of the y-shaped scar on their chest.

“Yes, yes, present company excepted.” There’s a familiar susurration of chains as Infamy draws him in close.

“If we ever have a visitor who can stay alive long enough to make things interesting, we might have found our third,” they say.

“Oh, hush!” Enver likes to play the scold from time to time. “Lie back. I’m ready for bed.” Infamy can yield this small obedience. Together they sink into the luxury their cunning and ruthlessness has bought, a contented tiredness spreading over them.

“Good night, Enver.”

“Good night, Kirnha.” Enver closes his eyes, exhaling slowly, but Infamy speaks again. “Good night, Sceleritas.” His body goes rigid when he hears the butler crooning in response.

“Good night, my darling Lord of Bloodshed and Murder.” Enver sits bolt upright in bed, looking around them in the dim. How many nights had he slept here while Sceleritas watched? Has that freakish little imp been watching the other things they do in here? Infamy looks at him without an instant of confusion, and then that beautiful, scarred face crinkles, and they begin to laugh. It’s not quite perfect, their life together, but in that moment, Enver couldn’t dream of complaining; though perhaps he sleeps too well at night, after all.

#Tav Tales #The Prior's Commissions #Durgetash #dark urge x gortash #enver gortash #gortash x durge #Durge bg3 #fic commission

9 notes · View notes

ajgrey9647 · 7 months ago

Note

details about OC list ask:

Drakkon's Perfect World AU:

"Tommy": 🥯 BAGEL — what does their typical breakfast look like? do they usually eat breakfast? 🚫 PROHIBITED — do they drink/smoke? do they do it regularly, or is it more on occasion or for special events? 🔶 LARGE ORANGE DIAMOND — does they know cpr? do they have any other medical expertise? 💜 PURPLE HEART — what is their ancestry/genetic background? 🤒 FACE WITH THERMOMETER — does they get sick easily?

What does their typical breakfast look like? Do they usually eat breakfast?

As a neglected child, Tommy often went hungry or would be provided the bare minimum when it came to nutrition. Burnt toast with a spackle of slightly souring butter, dry stale cereal with no milk, etc. Unless he physically couldn’t take the hunger, he just wouldn’t eat. Better to hurry up and get out of the house before any fireworks started.

As Lord Drakkon, once he was in power, he insisted on lavish meals with expensive cuisine… a deserved penance for what he endured before, one of many to be sure. Exotic eggs cooked in a variety of ways, crisp cuts of bacon, fruits and jams, fluffy biscuits, pastries…. Anything and everything as he can be quite finicky.

During his second chance teenage years as a beloved superhero in his ‘perfect’ universe, ‘Tommy’ does eat a decent breakfast when he visits with his new ‘parents’, Zordon and Rita. It’s what he imagines a ‘normal teenager’ would consume as he tries to lessen his snobby tastes in the pursuit of living the life he felt he should have had. Cereal, waffles, French toast, scrambled eggs, donuts…

Do they smoke/drink? Do they do it regularly, or is it more on occasion or for special events?

His first ‘go-round’, Tommy did indulge in alcohol on occasion, pilfered from his drunken excuse for a ‘dad’. He would regularly swipe a bottle or two without notice due to Mr. Oliver’s intoxication and the sheer volume of booze. He would use the alcohol to curry favor with other teens, to fit in a little bit and get other things he wanted. Tommy was inherently a loner, but it was advantageous to have others in your pocket.

He smoked joints when the mood struck him, not regular tobacco cigarettes. One of the selling points of weed and booze, was it had a calming effect, a ‘dulling’ of his obsessive need for control over every-fucking-thing, without completely zonking him out. Stimulants only made his nutty compulsions worse, hyped him up like an idiot with a jetpack; he learned to avoid that particular habit. Other drugs had the potential to knock him out too much and leave him vulnerable, another huge no-no for Tommy after everything he’d been through in the foster system and in his current hellhole. He’d gotten wasted accidently several times on booze but only because he was learning where the line in the sand was located.

Lord Drakkon would sip expensive, rich wines with his meals in the beginning of his reign. Mostly for sheer indulgence, because he COULD enjoy the finer things in life no matter the cost. He was particular about overconsuming because with this much power and infamy, he could not afford to be intoxicated and vulnerable to his enemies. He could ‘affect’ a state of inebriation, playing possum to lure a foe into a false sense of security, but he ALWAYS had his wits about him. In later years in the palace, Drakkon would partake in alcohol and weed once more, to take the edge off, to relax, but only with Red…and Skull that one time he chanced upon their little ‘movie night.’

In Utopia, ‘Tommy’ doesn’t drink or smoke; he has no need to here because everything in his life is perfect. He doesn’t need to self-medicate, or distract, or kiss-ass. To his mind, the idealized image of what his teenage life should have been as far as being a perfect, beloved superhero…those things were a no-no. It went against the ‘rules’ of herohood, what he believed was the norm for a ‘good’ guy.

Do they know CPR? Do they have any other medical expertise?

The original Tommy had heard of CPR, but he didn’t really pay attention to the details. Most people in his life deserved to suffer and die in his opinion, and he wasn’t about to interfere with their demise if was occurring in front of him. Other times, he just didn’t give a flying fuck… That was life. He did collect quit the knowledge on psychiatric conditions from his many failed evaluations and assessments with every shrink and quack (as Mr. Oliver called them) in the phone book. Reading about the different diagnoses being attributed to him was interesting and he learned to ‘affect’ other habits and behaviors to fuck with providers or to utilize to his advantage in other ways. And learning about all the lovely antipsychotics and sedatives didn’t hurt one bit either.

Lord Drakkon and CPR was much the same; there was no one worth a fuck to save with the caveat of someone like the Coinless Jason Scott, wherein he wanted to keep them alive to prolong suffering. No sweet mercy of fading off into death if he could help it! That type of medical ‘knowledge’ came from experience, trial and error with his other hapless victims. If they lived, cool, they had more pain in their future. If not, oh well. Plenty more to play with.

Jason was the only exception to all of it, leading Finster-5 to having to upload an extensive array of information on human anatomy and physiology and medical interventions and procedures.

‘Tommy’ has all this information, both psychological and medical, but it’s on the backburner since he’s a teen again. Sure, he can be manipulative if needed, calling upon his knowledge in that regard. And in his world, he always saves the day… that’s why it’s his utopia. Nothing bad can happen unless he desires it. Except for those bizarre ghostly beasts.

What is their ancestry/genetic background?

‘Tommy’/Drakkon was adopted and didn’t know his birth parents or where they came from. He can gauge somewhat from his physical features what he believes his ancestry MIGHT be (Native American). But his adoption and subsequent treatment, the insults about being ‘thrown out’, he has no love for his real parents and therefore lacks any compassion or empathy for what they might have faced from any social or medical inequalities. None of that occurs to him from how much he was hammered with the comments of being ‘unwanted’, a ‘problem’, an ‘accident’, a ‘mistake,’… only his rage was fed.

Do they get sick easily?

In Utopia, ‘Tommy’ doesn’t have to worry about illness of any type (besides the mental shit he carted over with him). As he did as Lord Drakkon, he has two power coins and access to Ranger healing so they both are healthy as horses.

Tommy the original design could get sick, but he’d never admit to feeling ill unless he was on death’s doorstop. It wasn’t like many people gave a fuck…

#boom! comics power rangers #lord drakkon #power rangers #mighty morphin power rangers #mmpr comic #evil tommy oliver #oc prompt

3 notes · View notes

blueiight · 2 years ago

Note

How do you think Lestat's career and musical style for the modern era will be like? I am very curious about what celebrity musicians they are gonna use to base the personality and career of that man.

i love this question omg. and its pretty hard! idk how much of a need our modern age has for a david bowie& the like who clearly inspired the book’s rockstar lestat, especially considering that being ‘famous’ in our day & age goes by so quick. outside of beyonce & her cohort , maybe bts or them types , theres very few artists in our era i can think of that have that same sort of global reach.. when we also think about lestat’s motives for being the book rockstar lestat which were lestat antagonizing humanity and the old guard of vampires , seeking out the attention, love & admiration of his most beloved vampire/s to the point of one being a muse for a song of his, as well as his repeated insistence on ‘updating’ his brand of evil for the particular age hes in, in iwtv 76 which is in the 1800s vs. tvl-qotd in what was then the author’s/audience’s modern day the 1980s. the insistence on living by his own rules mapped to the era. an anachronistic bratty prince fr. i dont rly have a good sense on the exact style or inspiration behind the aesthetics or music style of a modern rockstar lestat would have , but my semi serious somewhat half thought out take on a modern show canon rockstar lestat’s career path could be that hed develop an ardent cult-like fanbase (but not a literal cult , just adjacent tactics. is it any wonder armand went to lestat+ gabi for vamp career advice) thatd hyperanalyze his every lyric, every outfit, whod blow him up to infamy in part bc his innate lust for controversy helps their very dedicated online presences. n what if he literally blows up on a mysterious concert night in chase center. fans develop theories saying the nba killed the vampire lestat and draymond green on his podcast is like wtf no hes literally a vampire. u have to wonder also how show interview would be perceived in a modern era which ive comically alluded to a few times, cuz another implicit aspect of lestat’s motive here imo was responding to what louis said+ generating a counterpart for the culture in response to the Vampire™️ posited by louis in universe interview. louis wasnt operating on the same knowledge of the vampire g code that lestat had, and u have to wonder how much show louis knows (or omitted, or suppressed by someone/thing) in contrast to show lestat.. so however the show’s modern era v analogous to our present responds to louie lou’s lil vampy book will imo set the course somewhat for our les and his novel writing band starting ventures.

#yn.#yn answers #iwtv #iwtv speculation #this isnt even iwtv itd be the tvl/rockstar part of qord season #lestat de lioncourt #Sorry i only listen to certain kinda of music💔💔💔💔 im a stereotype in that way& several

28 notes · View notes

libidomechanica · 1 month ago

Text

Untitled Composition # 12685

A limerick sequence

Lord, and the beaded-curtains, and noble fire on earthwards burning she laye, and quite independ? Amen. And would not do. Bearing heart to bestadde? How often hate!

I, bluebells; the sill, helpe me the river. He also witen eche onely men in his feeling— as in a haze of inconstant of seasoning sunflowers.

For shade alone, so I hurl myself— and you ask, whose lines to die. And breath! Push your hope no more, for I never their ocean, and whither, then sneer’d; that equal task!

White starres through rude affright! And in her so soft, at the rose. Wild night, but shakes her dreadful thing, thou art common—my lady’s quite. Well down o’er they will not make heede.

Loving, the sea together, I am trying ankle? Meek Daughter in the recorder should be thy though I have glaring of thee, Cynara! Though oft he purchase.

Still kissed her songs and ouer the beau monde, exact beloved; but bespeak silent night thy west side cafe, dealing kind. And hence, but the wing, as thou hast the quiet.

Old dwarf heart them any good advice. At preventeen, to Shepheards twayne: for the best: t was never speak? Thy golden sun from enuied, all with the marmalade, there!

—’Tis decorum. Nor praises, and only this time espy, thy sacred vestments many brittle I then sweet, labour and silks, innumerable to show! But, ah!

Greeting the distant wing as summer’s day, who wake in the rest. Tristan und Isolde is for presume not and pure. We might as thou dare to bewailest for your parts.

She wants to Lucy hould I? But in excess! I, that prove what undoes me, as we face divine came on, any common-place, ever at his voice I see the day.

And was searched, through the sagest your sound of children: saying: for deceits, all aloud; it hear the day believed his side cafe, dealing kind. What doth parturition.

This tumult in some truth; a smooth rocks! Now will be thy soul quite enough at the wind, where rich in thy blooms, and infant lips, and palely loitering bed. To keepe.

And never like the loss of her you … mother, who like Amyntas; the green, the best, and this was queen- priestess! And next a quarrel, when you may be dear, my Philly!

Are designed his gold; she nails him down to hear my mother shows not yet for vs, home in life. That makes me his granary is shown, who would fain would have places.

For his hands in the world’s garden, to brydle loue, some here, the moon, allow’d walls! And catch a falling souls, whose lovers breakfast, your arms, and love youth is golden day.

For Younkers Palinodes Embleme. Passion, to prepares the cause of ioy, while far as I slept, kind abuse. Never be But, oh, hide that point d’appui is foiled.

Of the hind-part in traffic on the streams departed proved by the kiss’d heaven, as must own,—althoughts that flinty savage dares supposed at merry playen her. Give me.

But tell vs that dusk with baile, nor cloudes from love, thy life is of infamy: and where all the Nine. How the billows thee puts all well-bred—most rich in the dead.

And she is. This is they playe: such another the sun thoughts to remember: the telling, where lives like courtly van on birth as t was. You heare. Mouths, thirst foresay.

Tell me from car to me, had leuer my mouth sips: Ay, in the wild world knock at her people to love, I am glad love is lesson misse, hath the father’s voice, her eye.

Ere beside—nor envy your brings mutual pities healèd me, to fyll thee, while their delight. Ah deare for us. That was my tears out of that scene; they might to see.

I hid my love to the lamp is shaking through dread the wind blows; ’ and forgat to the air is greets the sea look; with as inditers are not a breath? But when she’s used.

Chaste were it was his heart, so long! Found me here decay we’re every casual on a monk may descend, and on my time, me lusteth no mixtures, were the old stories.

And what are coin’d in the room the rain. For I never feel my flower to be bored or doomed to dress was like to morrowe. Gone is stuck in turn,—Why do to Jason’s.

Nor with Senses obiects be; while he says, I’ll never said—indeed a nation’s mint, or on the earth, defac’d its inner craned, and more in the worse. And the lamplight.

Foul as they translated, means this bed. And fold him, he scale within its string, if you had bribed him leaves change? Do swell the scepter of light there he before the mirror.

Thrice have gone nearer to be a Jew. Of his body take. For grief of my dull or pert; and eating each the digestion? He lends that can be. A rule how it weeps!

Alone, shee could not better; and, us to join, the Agèd Host, a beggar at another. I shall I for a moment, itself, for all you canst—and leaves change!

No redress; wherein was his artfully expectation. Deference between the glaunce euen so high Hall- garden of the Humour evenings are fraught but let vs home.

Firstly, he squirrel’s granary is shaken me away: thanke you, my Friendship in a certe. Dearest; which she thou, Abelard it came; he whole life willing and change?

Of my thou not a sigh had nothing love. And how shoulders beare, I have brought of them the quiet scenes appeared them hovering appeared into thee. Day without a friend!

Thus let us prove was her blotte. Has our flock desert vast vale of Wyoming floor, can charming Polly Stewart, to refer young or says, Is this world grows weary.

For as loving sweet music and solace your past years as calm in thy credit as a reed with singing to the dusky strange she acted. To bed is lov’d a Man.

My mother our luxury! Then other’s sound low, and Stellas rayes, one is warden;—I will be either might deem themselves do work away from soul is done to live.

So haggard and more the best, in my hair woman, quite. Not a red rose. Wood; It isn’t the vows the beaded- curtains, and the meane, I dare not too long I’ve got any.

Were crying to go with potent spell. At last her other name. There made aware. Is diffuse; but I’ll lay halfway up an ugly hill inuade the tow’ry fears drink?

No doubt the sea. Tho markes each wish to prepare you rush on, and my image steal o’er the casuist in mournful Psyche, nor leave my trousers, a conversation.

That was youth. Wish it bring; but, light wind serves in one, settled either minded not content to me it needs none accordings, and sing a figures do worke my madness.

Dull before that hides your home, my sunne in men of elder with great light astronomers agreed Willy. Them from which Pan the Marvel then speak their becomes to climb.

There is, translates the think of the stars. Or if Delusion: for decisions serve. Soon as thou arrived. There was Maud, Maud by the depart nource of that you oil my scalp.

Your choose to turn back my last axiom, he scarce belied; and, how much Adeline waies, to build up saying in the duke, and that proue, but if some severall Shape.

In the water rue. Unless truth, as double young Damon love you, a kind t’ a beast is mute—no song neuer shalt taste that hides his own. To field, the old stories.

And how should I then, when shepheards ioye, how would fall as the place—we’ll take heede. Though unseen a pure airy flight. Not share; which leads so oft amiss ladies and a frenne.

I know, thankfull part thou art made no bones. Ask, whose lips breasts a bubbles that faith, and she wise, and eating shadow’d walls. Soon, full, and yet was brown the proud, through dreary.

Sad, slowly die I knew as man’s kiss, life passes. Talking of person the leap, and sing old words to dash thy nest any other, as thou of the little silver.

All be description loses ev’ry hymn to her, all within the strenuous tongued laureate’s the blest. Or on my plain of, or restraint, and there there, is false fair.

Those night and prince; no doubt, change thy creditors regret, condemn’d the dore towards Loue to light routes, survive not your cradle, you say you’re whom? It pours such end had the heart.

It will come and betraying, then, young life on second Rights in one-night to the paths so dearest, until thee. Sore again and think every word were his father name.

For our own the fond vision I could perpendicular. Not beware, seeking the greete, and the doctor, says margarita she means, Put you push your otherwise?

For where forsooth—at least thoughts be dead when the dare, hys pleasant. Sprout: they at every foolish boy, that precious reade in me the body would writers when you may brings.

She had chosen with fine Conceits, all sweet love, and garden when as goodly verdure flings, I have lied. Yet the listening belates, haunted space I go, where I do.

The horrid thorny soile to thee, heart giu’n me things I do, because in rebel arms? As kidde mought his mornings and face, secret influence’ is a saint or small?

How the wild-wood flower call’d glory! She didn’t see how it weeps through the tender flower; like the could not brew a passage to till? Filled with fearful steps, each person!

Who eats and honey to sadden her faire a sadness, chasten the heavy pace: let all has change there the throne, crowned. Are apt exceeding like a history less dreary.

Tis Christ! That shall being demon of hunting, as must banish’d days and please long, speakest of repulsion troopers riding breast, I vex my heart out a kissogram.

By various for you will be quite regard to leaue there on the rest? Maud is no dislike old lips I’ll betray us. To opposition of the woman love.

Glows; a paper. Dost mountains, and chaunce euen? It has been fire, O help! Now ryse vp Elisa, decked in vain Philosophy’s aye- babbling lightnings spring frankly night!

I’ver also had a morning fever! But thou art may rise against thy prayed, then how should be, rather the dead, come, sister, where they knee is past; thou euer since more!

More than fictions, tender stopped not even of blood waltzes. And the treasure the pink grew thee, will dictates, long-stemmed plant against us and humble; in the Violet.

And swete Eglantine, and tune taken the gems and we closets, silk, or losse. ’Er to fill, and runs about the cover from her beauty that so complaintiue pleaseth me.

My doole that flower stand stars, timing indignantly in love, like mist o’er it blaws, it is so rash as rare, the streams, all in fairer far than he. To have lied.

As he mopeth idly in the gods the great mone. And how should weary wastes ligge soft, liquid words spontaneous as anything more a-roving kisse again! Come!

Of my smart, forsake. But they set you. To care and be among. All days of nightly cryes, I have touch a looks familiar. Forgive mine own fingertaps and whole soup.

A weak, a soul put out again, the heart away; give the golden shepheard to all day long it—’tis deare sight, a wanton Satyr he before me. Looking to her.

She shall lean here without a rodde dear object strange. Says margarita she may bear the stair—clasp your true than if spring on earth, I would my curious and die.

Find it, althoughts dim and removèd by our flock deserts led. The glow of youth is fed; like here of human miracle; and I believe my wit for she was bom old.

Fickle Fair can here on whose gaps I watch. Indeed a good woman blush, and cries: my foe, those afternoon, their falshode more attracts by a man, that night not augment.

End Had it like birds of fond fan her abide by her bright in upon a winter breast, I vex my heart asleep! Nay say I only pitie to my soul’s sleep … tired.

Thereby, the lot of life—immortal purity; they so formed be! A teare. You heare. Holds out of dispraise saying heate? With misgouernaunce, that I cannot covet most.

But, light of myrtles go, in faithful to its game at billiards—it all doubting or continue their Violines.—If one, each time do floweth Helicon their pole!

And the door, retires, they are scatter’d charmed, that the same beneath of woes. The staircase who resemble’ of his modern peers, appeared the lips I kiss’d her tyrant part?

And, t will be dead, come, too, especial legend or God to rove: look at my family likeness and not to dust I roll, suck my last night! Let’s not what we must first.

There in heauenly race,—a quality agree; wit temper Juan’s faults of lust to yield. Where to possessed. Like that faded stars! But I was any stone, and neare those koi.

His griefe, with her to gape for the time for the breast the snow, which creditors when at they willing mine. Where Beauty of works and thee nakedness through she that a peach?

She holds in her heardest the seeds of her bright it once more deal in generate a mournful family! Provoking to thy word said was given in love can succeed.

&Then in drink the spring.&When the wind, flung rose, another selfe did foyle thy young day, and new, and the Catholic creed some concern about they were such are better, too.

The first set my bliss, dearest dells, when look like to bleeding Youth, and always what in the way you do not this way like a fire, and long we were we move? But on death.

But ere he well, teach mild, each with these wild. My heart, the twaine, if there. And hung over moor and die. So sure of love divisible good glee, and either old or new.

To find stellas greater of light. And of death? Cannot what nought winne some good- bye. Love is no woe, when approach, I lovd so deare. My yet you. The circle smile deceased.

Or how the conditionly, this year where I will say: I am Lazarus, come! Their secret—cunning round forth sweet kisses and awful shalt taste liaison forgot.

This year had exploded symmetrical pretence, not by rude man has happy static of the sense and face; and the heav’nly- pensive Sara! So intense it fain’d.

If every form, or the yeare, like knots. Know the villain need to fear that is no more sweetest thou can e’er be drowsy day that circumstance led me thou spend the gout.

As tis man who ventures pensive Sara! And corrupt. By silent seventeen, that long I’ve always dark and for Perigot, I left but this rebell mildly blue.

And now, you are not youth to die so. ’Tis no shame shines but their pole, the pond’s edge where to give to see though I have been fire, and died as at breath of my hand—the name.

I should sure, and lie couched at me all Ladyes of woes. Thenceforth shepheards in spring appeare, is hauty hornes gan newly sprout: they know him as forstall my woes.

And wave of teares on might from whose uttered the horse move in vain Philosophy, less like a weeping so and sick of course can be. Where flames; but gauds; nay, while you?

Another there I close milliards. Within, abroad, which our conversation, one is caution, boldly refer to, I think, ere you, because she therefore there! And you.

Tho on thee climb’d Eve from pole; rise Alps be such if though she is mute—no song after us: this pack, and brought. ’Re whites showing before his fire and elegant scars.

When she had rather things but as if it bringen soote, in the learne spell. Come, if they taught to underground the Catholic creed so strictionaries me false Foxe by this.

And open wyde. When I did I never beauties Queene attone waving goes; with a wand of the summer breath, less fancies dwell vile savage dare, seeing him outdo.

Who have been faithful to its river. The church my bale will; but forgot, and love to treated in the cream on the realme of war What shall be there we slumbering new.

For what vengeance snatch my passion, yea, I was in t, alone hand. Like April should understand struggle with his vnder colour of the pensill laid: a Countenance.

Some and she is at the cock can supple me, i’ll not be or stately height of beauty was ripe; a sounds strange sight of foot along as the river. Deluded swaine.

Ride ten their God to reveal’d, nor tears! Drinking moving our very foole, th’other moe. Sleep and the great in our wood; and heav’nly pass into a Churchill Downs are.

Or if Delusion carcas abounds straddling-band. I love itself shall not too lavishly are both did hang nodding can represence present myself to the heart.

Then listneth ech vnto my ear without much strong waves then they some grace! I can no more bronze and runs about in fiction taught to sleepe in songs and wayward roundelay.

Shall be when mine the Babe! Seems the landlord makes Love—who in the long we were she, which had not half, damn’d to Heav’n, I weep is all blind brand his hauty hornes did speak?

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 6 #171 texts #limerick sequence

1 note · View note

piouscatholic · 1 year ago

Text

[The Prayers of Saint Bernard of Clairvaux]

🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻

By Karen Barber | June 30, 2011

St. Bernard of Clairvaux lived from 1070-1153 and was a dynamic force for Christianity.

Today his prayers are still used by many.

Here are some of that resonate with me.

“Prayer is a wine which makes glad the heart of man”

[Saint Bernard Prayers]

High and Holy God,

give me this day a word of truth,

to silence the lies that would devour my soul

and kind encourgements to strengthen me when I fall.

Gracious One, I come quietly to your door, needing to receive from your hands, the nourishment that gives life. Amen and Amen.

Jesus, thou joy of loving hearts,

Thou fount of life,

thou Light of men,

from the best bliss that earth imparts, we turn unfilled to Thee again.

We taste Thee,

O Thou living Bread,

and long to feast upon Thee still:

We drink of Thee,

the Fountainhead, and thirst our souls from Thee to fill.

O Jesus,

ever with us stay,

make all our moments calm and bright;

Chase the dark night of sin away,

shed o’er the world Thy holy light.

[To the Feet]

O Saviour of the world,

I cry to Thee; O Saviour, suffering God, I worship Thee;

O wounded beauteous Love,

I kneel to Thee;

Thou knowest, Lord,

how I would follow Thee,

if of Thyself Thou give Thyself to me.

Thy Presence I believe;

O come to me!

Behold me prostrate, Jesus;

look on me!

How beautiful Thou art!

O turn to me!

O in Thy tender mercy turn to me, And let Thy untold pity pardon me!

With trembling love and feat

I worship Thee;

I kiss the grievous nails which entered Thee,

And think on those dire wounds which tortured Thee,

And, grieving, lift my weeping eyes to Thee, Transfixed and dying all for love of me!

O wondrous grace!

O gracious charity!

O love of sinners in such agony!

Sweet Father of the poor!

O who can be unmoved to witness this great mystery,–

The Healer smitten, hanging on a tree?

O gentle Jesus,

turn Thee unto me;

What I have broken do Thou bind in me,

And what is crooked make Thou straight in me;

What I have lost restore Thou unto me, And what is weak and sickly heal in me.

O Love!

with all my strength I seek for Thee; Upon and in thy Cross I look for Thee; With sorrow and with hope I turn to Thee,– That through Thy Blood new health may come to me, That washed therein Thy love may pardon me.

O take my heart,

Thou Loved One;

let it be Transfixed with those dear wounds for love of Thee,

O wound it, Jesus,

with pure love of Thee;

And let it so be crucified with Thee, that it may be forever joined to Thee.

Sweet Jesus, loving God,

I cry to Thee; Thou guilty, yet I come for love of Thee; O show Thyself, dear Saviour, kind to me! Unworthy as I am,

O turn to me, Nor at thy sacred Feet abandon me!

Dear Jesus, bathed in tears,

I kneel to Thee;

In shame and grief I lift my eyes to Thee; Prostrate before Thy Cross I bow to Thee,

And thy dear Feet embrace; O look on me, Yea, from Thy Cross, O look, and pardon me.

O my Beloved, stretched against that Thee,

Whose arms divine are now enfolding me, whose gracious Heart is now upholding me,–

O my Beloved, let me wholly be Transformed, forgiven,

one alone with Thee!

[TO THE HANDS!]

Hail, holy Shepherd! Lord, I worship Thee, fatigued with combat, steeped in misery; Whose sacred Hands, outstretched in agony,

all pierced and dislocated on the Tree,

are fastened to the wood of infamy.

Dear holy Hands,

I humbly worship ye, With roses filled,

fresh blossoms of that Tree;

The cruel iron enters into ye, While open gashes yield unceasingly The Precious stream down-dropping from the Tree.

Behold, Thy Blood,

O Jesus, flows on me– The price of my salvation falls on me;

O ruddy as the rose, it drops on me.

Sweet Precious Blood,

it wells abundantly from both Thy sacred Hands to set me free.

My heart leaps up, O Jesus, unto Thee;

Drawn by those nail-pierced Hands it flies to Thee; Drawn by those Blood-stained Hands stretched out for me,

My soul breaks out with sighing unto Thee, And longs to slake its thirst,

O Love, in Thee.

My God, what great stupendous charity– Both good and bad are welcomed here by Thee! The slothful heart Thou drawest graciously, The loving one Thou callest tenderly,

And unto all a pardon grantest free.

Behold, I now present myself to Thee,

Who dost present thy bleeding Hands to me; The sick Thou healest when they come to Thee;

Thou canst not, therefore, turn away from me, Whose love Thou knowest, Lord, is all for Thee.

O my Beloved, fastened to the Tree, Draw, by Thy love, my senses unto Thee;

My will, my intellect, my memory,

And all I am, make subject unto Thee,

In whose dear arms alone is liberty.

O draw me for Thy Cross’ sake to Thee; O draw me for Thy so wide charity;

Sweet Jesus, draw my heart in truth to Thee,

O put an end to all my misery,

And crown me with Thy Cross and victory!

O Jesus, place Thy sacred Hands on me,

With transport let me kiss them tenderly, With groans and tears embrace them fervently;

And, O for these deep wounds I worship Thee; And for the blessed drops that fall on me!

O dearest Jesus,

I commend to Thee Myself, and all I am, most perfectly; Bathed in Thy Blood,

behold, I live for Thee;

O, may Thy blessed Hands encompass me,

And in extremity deliver me!

[TO THE SIDE]

O Jesus, highest Good, I yearn for Thee;

O Jesus, merciful,

I hope in Thee,

Whose sacred Body hands upon the Tree, Whose limbs, all dislocated painfully,

are stretched in torture,

all for love of me!

Hail, sacred Side of Jesus! Verily The hidden spring of mercy lies in Thee,

The source of honeyed sweetness dwells in Thee,

The fountain of redemption flows from Thee,

The secret well of love that cleanses me.

Behold, O King of Love,

I draw to Thee;

If I am wrong, O Jesus, pardon me; Thy love, Beloved, calls me lovingly, As I with blushing cheek gaze willingly upon the living wound that bleeds for me.

O gentle opening,

I worship Thee;

O open door and deep,

I look in Thee; O most pure stream,

I gaze and gaze on Thee: More ruddy than the rose, I draw to Thee;

More healing than all health,

I fly to Thee.

More sweet than wine Thine odor is for me;

The poisoned breath of sin it drives from me;

Thou art the draught of life poured out for me.

O ye who thirst,

come, drink thereof with me;

And Thou, sweet wound, O open unto me.

O red wound open,

let me draw to Thee,

And let my throbbing heart be filled from Thee!

Ah, see! My heart, Beloved, faints for Thee.

O my Beloved, open unto me, That I may pass and lose myself in Thee.

Lord, with my mouth I touch and worship Thee,

With all the strength I have, I cling to Thee,

With all my love I plunge my heart in Thee,

My very life-blood would I drawn from Thee,–

O Jesus, Jesus!

Draw me into Thee!

How Sweet Thy savor is! Who tastes of Thee,

O Jesus Christ,

can relish naught but Thee;

Who tastes Thy living sweetness lives by Thee; All else is void–the soul must die for Thee;

So faints my heart,–so would I die for thee.

I languish, Lord!

O let me hide in Thee!

In Thy sweet Side, my Love, O bury me! And may the fire divine consuming Thee Burn in my heart where it lies hid in Thee, Without a fear reposing peacefully!

When in the hour of death Thou callest me,

O Love of loves,

may my soul enter Thee; May my last breath,

O Jesus fly to Thee;

So no fierce beast may drive my heart from Thee, But in Thy Side may it remain with Thee!

[TO THE BREAST]

O God of my salvation, hail to Thee!

O Jesus, sweetest Love, all hail to Thee!

O venerable Breast,

I worship Thee;

O dwelling-place of love,

I fly to Thee, With trembling touch adore and worship Thee.

Hail, throne of the Most Holy Trinity!

Hail, ark immense of tender charity!

Thou stay of weakness and infirmity, Sweet rest of weary souls who rest on Thee,

Dear couch of loving ones who lean on Thee!

With reverence,

O Love,

I kneel to Thee,

O worthy to be ever sought by me;

Behold me, Jesus,

looking unto Thee.

O, set my heart on fire, dear Love, from Thee, And burn it in the flame that burns in Thee.

With reverence, O Love, I kneel to Thee,

O worthy to be ever sought by me; Behold me, Jesus,

looking unto Thee.

O, set my heart on fire, dear Love, from Thee, And burn it in the flame that burns in Thee.

O make my breast a precious home for thee,

A furnace of sweet love and purity,

A well of holy grief and piety;

Deny my will, conform it unto Thee, That grace abundant may be mine in Thee.

Sweet Jesus, loving Shepherd, come to me; Dear Son of God and Mary, come to me; Kind Father come,

let Thy Heart pity me,

And cleanse the fountain of my misery In that great fountain of Thy clemency.

Hail, fruitful splendor of the Deity!

Hail, fruitful figure of Divinity!

From the full treasure of Thy charity,

O pour some gift in Thy benignity Upon the desolate who cry to Thee!

Dear Breast of most sweet Jesus, mine would be All Thine in its entire conformity; Absolve it from all sin, and set it free, That it may burn with ardent charity, And never, never cease to think on Thee.

Abyss of wisdom from eternity, The harmonies of angels worship Thee; Entrancing sweetness flows,

O Breast, from thee;

John tasted it as he lay rapt on Thee;

O grant me thus that I may dwell in Thee!

Hail, fountain deep of God’s benignity!

The fullness of the immense Divinity Hath found at last a creature home in Thee. Ah, may the counsel that I learn from Thee All imperfection purify in me!

True temple of the Godhead, hail to Thee!

O draw me in Thy gracious charity,

Thou ark of goodness,

full of grace for me.

Great God of all,

have mercy upon me,

And on Thy right hand keep a place for me.

[TO THE FACE]

Hail, bleeding Head of Jesus, hail to Thee!

Thou thorn-crowned Head,

I humbly worship Thee! O wounded Head, I lift my hands to Thee;

O lovely Face besmeared,

I gaze on Thee;

O bruised and livid Face, look down on me!

Hail, beauteous Face of Jesus,

bent on me, Whom angel choirs adore exultantly!

Hail, sweetest Face of Jesus, bruised for me– Hail, Holy One, whose glorious Face for me Is shorn of beauty on that fatal Tree!

All strength, all freshness, is gone forth from Thee: What wonder! Hath not God afflicted Thee, And is not death himself approaching Thee?

O Love!

But death hath laid his touch on Thee, And faint and broken features turn to me.

O have they thus maltreated Thee, my own?

O have they Thy sweet Face despised, my own?

And all for my unworthy sake, my own! O in Thy beauty turn to me, my own; O turn one look of love on me, my own!

In this Thy Passion, Lord, remember me;

In this Thy pain, O Love, acknowledge me;

The honey of whose lips was shed on me,

The milk of whose delights hath strengthened me Whose sweetness is beyond delight for me!

Despise me not, O Love;

I long for Thee; Contemn me not, unworthy though I be; But now that death is fast approaching Thee, Incline Thy Head, my Love, my Love, to me, To these poor arms, and let it rest on me!

The holy Passion I would share with Thee, And in Thy dying love rejoice with Thee;

Content if by this Cross I die with Thee; Content, Thou knowest, Lord, how willingly Where I have lived to die for love of Thee.

For this Thy bitter death all thanks to Thee, Dear Jesus, and Thy wondrous love for me!

O gracious God, so merciful to me,

Do as Thy guilty one entreateth Thee,

And at the end let me be found with Thee!

When from this life, O Love, Thou callest me, Then, Jesus, be not wanting unto me,

But in the dreadful hour of agony,

O hasten, Lord, and be Thou nigh to me,

Defend, protect, and O deliver me.

When Thou, O God,

shalt bid my soul be free, Then,

dearest Jesus,

show Thyself to me!

O condescend to show Thyself to me,–

Upon Thy saving Cross, dear Lord,

to me,–

And let me die, my Lord, embracing Thee!

[TO THE SACRED HEART]

Hail, sacred Heart of God’s great Majesty! Hail, sweetest Heart, my heart saluteth Thee!

With great desire,

O Heart, I seek for Thee, And faint for joy,

O Heart, embracing Thee;

Then give me leave, O Love, to speak to Thee.

With what sweet love Thou languishedst for me!

What pain and torment was that love to Thee!

How didst Thou all Thyself exhaust for me!

How hast Thou wholly given Thyself to me,

That death no longer might have hold of me!

O bitter death and cruel!

Can it be Thou darest so to enter greedily Into that cell divine?

O can it be The Life of life, that lives there gloriously, Should feel thy bite,

O death, and yield to thee?

For Thy death’s sake which Thou didst bear for me,

When Thou,

O sweetest Heart,

didst faint for me,

O Heart most precious in its agony,

See how I yearn,

and longing turn to Thee! Yield to my love, and draw me unto Thee!

O sacred Heart, beloved most tenderly, Cleanse Thou my own;

more worthy let it be,

All hardened as it is with vanity;

O make it tender, loving, fearing Thee, And all its icy coldness drive from me.

O sinner as I am,

I come to Thee;

My very vitals throb and call for Thee;

O Love, sweet love, draw hither unto me!

O Heart of Love,

my heart would ravished be, And sicken with the wound of love for Thee!

Dilate and open, Heart of love, for me, And like a rose of wondrous fragrance be, Sweet Heart of love, united unto me; Anoint and pierce my heart,

O Love, with Thee,

How can he suffer, Lord, who loveth Thee?

O Heart of Love, who vanquished is by Thee Knows nothing,

but beside himself must be;

No bounds are set to that sweet liberty, No moderation,–he must fly to Thee, Or die he must of many deaths for Thee.

My living heart, O Love, cries out for Thee;

With all its strength,

O Love, my soul loves Thee;

O Heart of Love, incline Thou unto me, That I with burning love may turn to Thee,

And with devoted breast recline on Thee!

In that sweet furnace let me live for Thee, Nor let the sleep of sloth encumber me; O let me sing to Thee and weep to Thee, Adore, and magnify, and honor Thee, And always take my full delight in Thee.

Thou Rose of wondrous fragrance, open wide, And bring my heart into Thy wounded Side,

O sweet heart, open!

Draw Thy loving bride, All panting with desires intensified, And satisfy her love unsatisfied.

Unite my heart,

O Jesus, unto Thine,

And let Thy wounded love be found in mine.

Ah, if my heart,

dear love,

be made like Thine O will it not be pierced with darts divine,

the sweet reproach of love that thrills through Thine?

O Jesus, draw my heart within Thy Breast,

That it may be by Thee alone possessed.

O Love, in that sweet pain it would find rest,

In that entrancing sorrow would be blest,

And love itself in joy upon Thy Breast.

Behold, O Jesus, how it draws to Thee!

O call it, that it may remain in Thee!

See with what large desire it thirsts for Thee!

Reprove it not, O Love;

it loves but Thee:

Then bid it live–by one sweet taste of Thee!

#FeastDay🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻

#PrayForUs

https://www.prayerideas.org/the-prayers-of-saint-bernard-of-clairvaux/

0 notes

avalonlights · 4 years ago

Photo

Congratulations to these two on their fourth-wall-obliterating nuptials. 💍

2K notes · View notes

theroyalthrones · 2 years ago

Text

The Media - Slatler Magazine - Crown Princess Florentia's Dating History

beginning | previous | next

credit:@clanmacarthur

Transcript Under Cut

As most of you are now familiar. Crown Princess Florentia finally addressed the rumors regarding her

relationship with Crown Prince Dorian Alaire. In an interview with Bazzar, the interviewer asked Her Highness, “ Now that you are back from your international Tour. The World is wondering about your relationship with Prince Dorian. You've gone from friends to dating. The two of you have been linked together your entire life. ” She laughed and said, “ That's very true. We've always been close. I know this might disappoint a lot of people, but we've decided to go on our separate ways. Of course, we mean a lot to each other, But we're just friends now.”

And she was right, We are very disappointed. Although I still think their soulmates, Let's look back on the others who could have been.

While the Princess is Romantically linked with a few people. She started with Lord Jonah Rivera. At 16, The two met through the Soccer Program Princess Florentia created with her Aunt, Duchess Tyrell. While on the same team, The two began their romantic relationship. Only 3 months later did the couple call it quits. Although the reason is unknown. Rumor has it that, Her Highness was seen with bruising on her face. Some speculate that the relationship was indeed a toxic one due to the fact that Jonah himself was of fallen Nobility. He may have wanted to use our Princess to gain the spotlight of fame. He has not been spotted for quite some time.

For the next few years, Princess Florentia did not date anyone. But at the age of 18, She was Rumored to be Romantically linked with Montgomery Faulkner. Who is the twin brother of, Her Royal Highnesses Best Friend, Uma Faulkner. The Twins are the Heirs of the Faulkner Trust. Meaning the Faulkners are the second richest family in Myshuno. Although The two have never made it public that they were more than friends. There are some questionable images that might be evidence of their short fling.

The Crown Princesses' next relationship is one that lives in infamy. During her years in University and onward, She dated then Stephan Kline. Now Dr. Stephan Kline. Many times did they talk about their meet cute. Princess Florentia stated, “ We bumped into each other. Literally. While I fell on my face, Stephan swooped me on my feet like a Prince on a white horse.” A few weeks after the Opening Semester Gala, The Princess and Dr. Kline went official. This Relationship was the longest one Princess Florentia had. They dated for 4 years before he popped the questions a few days after graduation on their annual end-of-year vacation to Lani.

6 months after their engagement. The soon-to-be Crown Prince was spotted by paparazzi in Winden with a mistress! The image circulated in the media causing the largest scandal, The Crown Princess has ever faced. The next day, It was announced that the Royal Wedding was canceled. And the Crown Princess herself made a statement on the split. Since then the Palace has kept the relationship under wraps. But around the time of the scandal, Dr. Kline took an interview and announced that the breakup was indeed his fault. But not without blaming the Princess. The night the article was published, Crown Prince Dorian, Princess Florentia’s long-time Best Friend, was photographed punching Mr. Kline.

Princess Florentia's most beloved relationship was with Crown Prince Dorian. The two had been Best Friends throughout their entire lives Since their parents were also great friends. The two debuted their relationship at the Royal Ballet. The two were always a dazzling pair. They dated for 11 months. It is unknown why they split. Some say it was to result of Princess Florentia going on Tour at the same time Prince Dorian became Regent of Willow. Although we are still holding out hope for the two of them to get back together. Sometimes things just don't work. As they say, There is much fish in the sea.

#Sim: Callum Ashry #House of Crimson #ts4 story #ts4 storytelling #ts4 edit #ts4 screenshots #ts4 royal family #ts4 royals #sims 4 edit #ts4 #ts4 legacy #ts4 simblr #ts4 royalty #royal sims #TheThronesStory #sim: florentia

19 notes · View notes

starboundanon · 2 years ago

Note

👀 herbie my beloved what oh what is the opera single luke au???

(Opera singer!Luke is actually one I haven’t shared anything about yet. I guess I should probably post a snippet since I included it on my poll, huh?) In short, it’s a dad!Vader, canon divergent fic. Basic summary:

Palpatine forces everyone’s favorite Sith-Lord-turned-murderbot to accompany him to the opera, where he meets the theater’s newest countertenor: a talented, enigmatic young performer named Luke Whitesun.

Neither Luke nor any of his fellow thespians can figure out why, exactly, the Emperor’s right hand man returns to see him every night without fail, often requesting his presence with the fealty of a devoted fan.

It’s possible Vader doesn’t know why, either.

He wasn’t stupid; he knew who Darth Vader was, what position he held within the Empire that dominated their lives, knew his reputation and his infamy. But it was hard to match the bottomless wrath of the Emperor’s hellhound with the man waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs, still as a statue, almost as out of place inside the antechamber to their dressing rooms as the bountiful bouquet of baby-blue starblossoms in his arms.

Vader’s skull-like mask tracked their movements, his black gaze harder to bear than the fear rippling off of Celya like waves. When they reached the bottom, she bowed, her lekku flopping stiffly over her shoulder beneath the heavy weight of their opulent jewels. Luke’s own headdress was viscerally uncomfortable, but at least it didn’t hang on either side of his face like that. He didn’t envy her one bit.

“I-I have brought him, as you ordered, m-my Lord.”

Vader didn’t spare her so much as a glance.

“Leave us.”

She withdrew her arm from his, fingers lingering on his elbow, and Luke loved her fiercely for that. She’d said it herself — anyone who knew Darth Vader’s name would be out of their mind to defy a direct order from him, but her fear for Luke’s wellbeing stalled her, for the briefest, fleeting moment.

Then she pulled away, as told, bowed again, and turned to ascend the stairs, leaving Luke and the Dark Lord alone.

Only once she had disappeared around the corner did Luke gain the courage to speak. It was the third time Lord Vader had visited him before a show, and the man hadn’t expressed a desire to murder him in either of his first two visits, so he was fairly certain Vader merely wanted to wish him luck, as he had last night, and the night before.

“You wanted to see me, Lord Vader?”

“Yes,” Vader said. A moment passed, he said no more than that. Then he tilted his head, and something about the gesture seemed inexplicably shy to Luke. He supposed it made sense; how many operas did the Supreme Commander of the Imperial Navy attend in a year, in a decade? He was probably as far out of his comfort zone as Luke himself was.

Better to rip off the bacta patch, then.

#herbie asks #dad vader #luke and vader

48 notes · View notes

mr-jaybird · 2 years ago

Text

virtual museum tour: deeply cursed jar jar merchandise

last night, a friday, i was slightly tipsy at 11 pm when i had a brilliant idea: to search "jar jar binks" on ebay to see what horrible things might turn up

friends, i was successful. i was so successful. please, allow me to show you the treasures that i uncovered:

tongue watch

what better way is there to tell the time than a watch that licks the numbers for you! a beautiful walmart exclusive

koosh character figures

the most 90's thing you'll see all week. and a bonus watto! two offensive ethnic group stereotype characters for the price of one!

jar jar wake up call

the only way to start your day. and nearly two feet tall! let this guy pull you out of your sweet dreams into a waking nightmare

decapitation watch

a watch that requires you to behead a loathed beloved character in order to tell the time. the brain-esque detail inside is a nice touch, proving definitively that jar jar's alien biology does in fact include one, despite all prior evidence

luxurious blanket

jar jar's playful pose will keep you warm on cold nights. practically a steal at that price!

inflatable throne

sit in his lap :) the inflatability of this chair makes it infinitely portable--you can take it to any friend or family member you visit and immediately establish dominance by pulling out this bad boy in their living room!

the legendary candy dispenser

a piece of merchandise so bad, so poorly thought out, that it lives on in infamy forever. for the low, low price of $80, two of these french-kissing jar jar bad boys can be yours forever. tragically, their value is decreased by the missing candy itself

kfc treasure

the energy this ebay posting has is quite frankly incredible. the tongue actually moves! that and the arms are this figure's only points of articulation. a must have for the under $10 range

graphic design is my passion

this incredible piece of art would add character and value to any home. sadly, the frame is not included

high fashion

seduce the partner of your choice with this incredibly stylish item (if your head is so small you can still fit in children's hats). no one of any gender would be able to resist such alluring fashion choices

a beach essential

rub this on your body :) while the listing says "beach towel", it can be used after a bath or shower, if you don't want to have a swimsuit between your body and jar jar's smiling face

angry birds gungans

don't waste this by throwing it at virtual piggies. throw it at your enemies--the physical damage may be negligible, but the psychic damage is immense

a sacred vessel

the ideal way to drink your beverage of choice in the mornings. for bonus points, bring this into work and make it your work coffee mug. an excellent piece for weirding out unwanted coworkers so much they never talk to you again

the crown jewel

no price is too high to have a life-size, photorealistic sculpture of jar jar in your home, and at $6000, how could ANYONE ever resist??? as a bonus, the sale of this item benefits charity. truly a no-brainer

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

this has been the jar jar exhibit in jaybird's virtual museum of cursed artifacts. i hope you all "enjoyed" :)

#star wars #jar jar binks #jar jar #star wars prequel trilogy #cursed #never claim i don't put effort into my shitposts #long post

16 notes · View notes

jadewing-realms · 2 years ago

Text

zevwarden week - day 6

soooo i haven’t actually finished playing Inquisition yet, so if i have some plot threads crossed wrong, forgive me. i was just really feelin the angst jlfksdf

Fandom: Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Inquisition

Title: ZevWarden Week, Day 6 - Death

Pairing: Zevran x male!Warden; Zevran Arainai x Salem Surana (x Leliana, poly!Warden referenced)

Word Count: 1,501

Death comes in many shapes and forms. As a Crow, Zevran had come to know them all, to the point they were as familiar as allies and just as reliable. But once he left the assassin’s life behind, Death made itself scarce. At least for a little while.

When it made itself known again, it returned with a face Zevran had forgotten entirely. One that made death a painfully slow, agonizingly inevitable downfall, and didn’t even leave him with the satisfaction of a funeral.

His Warden was simply... gone.

_______________

Death was an old, familiar friend for an assassin.

It was something Zevran had come to terms with on many different occasions - how easily things come to die. Life was so incredibly fragile, to be so easily snuffed out with such trivial things. A small knife. An inconvenient fall. A spider bite. An untreated wound.

For so long, back in Antiva, he awakened every morning knowing he could die that day. He had become so accustomed to the idea that making a joke of death was as easy as making one of life. It made others uncomfortable, and it made the inevitability of death less... terrifying, for fleeting moments at a time.

After Rinna... well, death had become something Zevran craved. The world was too dark, too unjust, too... too much. When he’d heard of the contract to kill the only two Grey Wardens left, knowing their infamy, he’d jumped at the chance. A certain death, only slightly less guaranteed than doing it himself.

Or so he thought.

His Grey Warden. Gods, that man... anyone else would have relished in the opportunity to off someone that tried to kill him and freely admitted to doing so. But of course, Zevran had to raise a blade against a man who thought living and aiding in the ending of a Blight to be far fairer punishment than death.

And every day since, Zevran found himself relieved that he did. Otherwise, he’d never have known the gentleness of his hand. The thrill of his wit. And oh, those smirking lips... softer than the scars would imply.

After the day that Salem Surana ended the blight with one final stroke of his sword, Zevran and Death grew apart. The former was far too busy living a life he never thought he’d enjoy. One with plenty of food, peaceful nights, daily affection, and frequent intimacy that meant far more than nights of wild, fleeting pleasure. He, Salem and Leliana... Death allowed them rest.

For a time.

But such peace can never be permanent.

The world was bound to fall into chaos again, be it thanks to some other such world-ending event as the last Blight, or to the slow, subtle erosion of his beloved Warden’s mind at the whims of the darkspawn blood that tainted his veins.

Even Alistair was surprised by the haste of the decline. Learning as he had of the deeper history across Ferelden, thanks to the stores of knowledge available to a king, he’d heard rumors of Wardens who endured Blights having their lives cut even shorter. That, in addition to what he could only guess was corrosion of Salem’s body due to regular use of blood-fueled magics, had to be the cause.

Through consequence of others’ making and his own, Salem was on a steep decline toward an early grave. And there seemed to be no stopping it. Death had once more begun to lurk close by.

There were still plenty of good days, however. Salem had bouts, episodes of nights fraught with sleepless terror and days passed in confused haze, but they always ended eventually. When those moments were passed, it was as if nothing had happened. Salem was himself again.

Zevran came to cherish those respites more than anything else in the world.

But even that would have its end.

There were whispers of a cure. A way to avoid the Wardens’ gruesome end. But such answers lied deep in Ferelden’s bones, and beyond, in the dens of other nations.

The three of them made vows to search the globe, until the solution could be found. For if it could... Death could be cheated.

Even if the odds were a thousand to one, Zevran would take them over staring Death in the face, unable to fight, as it slowly came to claim the one he loved.

Thus began a time of travels, long nights spent alone dreaming of the arms of his lovers and days longing to return to them. He sent letters when he could, and they sent their own in return when they could.

Neither Zevran nor Leliana failed to notice as Salem’s letters grew more and more infrequent.

And then ceased altogether.

The search shifted from seeking answers to finding Salem himself. Before long, it wasn’t just Zevran and Leliana searching either. Zevran’s world had turned on its head just months before the rest of the world followed. Wars and rumors of wars, uprisings and counter-efforts. Mages taking their stand against the Templars.

How Salem would have loved to see it.

He could have, had he stuck around to watch. Leliana would later write to Zevran of deeper plots unfolding. The Divine, the Right and Left Hands, something something Inquisition, he’d paid little attention to the finer details once he learned that the Divine had informants assigned to the same task he and Leliana had taken on of their own free will. The Divine herself was hunting for the Hero of Ferelden. A new Inquisition required a leader.

Zevran knew Salem would have been perfect for it. But they couldn’t find the d**ned man.

It wasn’t long after that that the world broke apart at the seams. The foundation itself seemed to be crumbling. Rifts torn through the fabric of space and reality itself, darkspawn and demons rampant once more. Echoes of Blights past with the promise of unprecedented disaster, the death of the Divine and hundreds of others at what was supposed to be a peace summit.

That was when Leliana ceased communications.

In the nights that followed, Zevran found himself praying, to anyone who might be listening, that the Hero of Ferelden would return. It wasn’t just his own personal wish anymore. He was sure hundreds of others still living who remembered the last Blight were sending the same pleas into the ether.

But nothing changed. He found no signs, even though a part of him had foolishly hoped that perhaps Salem would hear of the chaos and destruction occurring and make some noble, dramatic reappearance, standard raised with sword ready to lead them to victory like he once had.

Instead, the world - and Zevran - was left alone. Floundering in the wake of tragedy and imminent catastrophe.

He found himself in Orlais, dodging rumors of some new hero, some Andraste’s Chosen, and chasing the tail of yet another fleeting lead, this time seeking some woman named Fiona. In such a place of prestige and pomp, Zevran remembered a time in which he would have found it a necessity to sweep in and stir up trouble.

Instead, he worked alone, met contacts as needed but didn’t bother keeping them. He slept alone, renting cheap rooms with the only stipulation being that they had at least one window, so he could gaze up at the moon and hope against reason that somewhere out there, his Warden was looking up at the same view.

That foolish, childish habit had become a ritual, one Zevran used to stave off the simmering dread that all he was doing at this point was chasing a ghost.

He could feel it again, lurking in his steps. Death, that old friend. Not coming for him, not yet, no, it would never be so kind - even as he found himself beginning to wish for it again when the nights grew long, cold and lonely.

Death was simply observing. Watching from afar. And as lead after lead grew cold, he couldn’t shake the feeling that it had come with a message. One he refused to hear.

It whispered to him as he fell asleep. It said to hang up his cloak, cease his endless seeking. It had been so long, now; so long without word or sign. That never happened for no reason.

He knew the poor condition Salem was in when he left, it said. Could such a broken hero last so long on his own? Hold strong for so long against the beckoning of madness, the thirst of the darkness?

Had the Warden simply... died?

Lost, alone, just like Zevran was now. No one to see. No one to know.

Zevran had forgotten this face of Death. In the days he’d known it so well, he knew it by other masks - blood, contracts, mortal wounds, disease, hunger. He knew it by its ending most of all, by funeral rites, black processions and headstones.

This, though. This had to be the cruelest mask Death could wear.

The one where nothing happened. No blood, no body, no last words. No casket or grave marker to visit. The one where a person simply faded from existence, never to be heard of again. The quietest and loneliest Death.

And in the face of this Death, the world simply went on, leaving the few who remembered them not to mourn, but to forever wonder. Wonder if Death had truly come, or if there was still some desperate chance to save them.

Wonder if that hope was still worth clinging to. Or if it should die as well.

#zevwarden #zevwarden week 2022 #death #zevran arainai #zevran x warden #zevran x surana #salem surana #zevran x salem #zevran x salem x leliana #zevran x m!warden #thoughts about death #more introspection #thoughtful zevran #mentions of events from da2 and dai #pardon me while i just revel in angst #why do i do this to myself #my writing

6 notes · View notes

claudiarya · 4 years ago

Text

Hello I’ve written this short fic. based on the clip we’ve got from Shadow and Bone of Jesper and Inej performing, but with a twist!

You can read it on Ao3 as well

Silks, Guns and All the Things Fun (Not)

Words count: 2898

The chattering at the Crow Club was thicker than usual and it ricocheted around the lower floor of the building, bouncing off the draped walls. Kaz Brekker made his way there from where he had been dealing cards on the upper part of the club. It had been quite a profitable night, with many pigeons all too eager to let the rush of the gambling go to their head and lose everything. His cane tapped on the stairs as he descended them, an ominous and irregular melody announcing who was coming down those steps. He stopped just before the las two and scanned the room, his shark eyes checking if everything was in order. Kaz saw at least a couple of people flinching when his eyes had met theirs. Good. It seemed that his infamy was the same unblemished, or rather very blemished, story of terror as ever. He had worked all of his angles to make it that way, and he had every intention to keep it up as long as he lived, his thirst for personal revenge too strong to be sated in any other way.

Kaz threw another glance around the room until he found who he was looking for. He approached her, men and women making themselves scarce as he passed them. Inej was in the corner, intent on untangling something thick, the crimson fabric like a river of blood in her hands. Her long hair was tied up in a coil at the nape of her neck as she usually wore it, a light vest covering her shoulders and arms, and peeking from a sleeve he saw something wrapped around her forearm. She had covered her feather tattoo since she was going to remove the vest and perform in bare arms, something that had stirred not little emotions inside the hollow of his armor.

“I trust that everything is ready,” Kaz rasped, looking down at her from where he was standing. Not surprised in the slightest, as if she had known all along who was about to speak to her, Inej kept her eyes on her task. “Good evening to you, too Kaz. How are you?” Her tone unbothered if a little bit sarcastic…

This girl. If it had been any other person speaking to him like that, they would have run away with a few broken limbs or without teeth. Or perhaps both. Kaz couldn’t understand why, but his relationship, if that could be called, with her had always felt different. Nobody treated him the way she did, he didn’t allow it, but whatever it was that propelled him to always find excuses to talk to her, be near to her when he could, he didn’t like it.

Liar. A voice in his head reprimanded him. him. You keep lying to yourself, Brekker. He blinked. Usually he would have ignored her, but that night he didn’t know what forced possessed him and he decided to indulge her.

“Yes, hello Inej darling. I’ll be better when all of this is over, and we’ve made our profit.”

When the term of endearment had left his lips, she had looked at him with a sonorous sigh. Inej raised to her feet, not really making a difference since she was so small, the red silks now draped on one shoulder, and her eyes peered straight into his. The amber, low lights of this particular floor of the club reflected into her irises, making it look like she had flames burning behind them.

Kaz thought again to himself that she had never looked more like a painted icon of those Saints she so much adored than in that moment and gripped his cane tighter to try and snap out of his reveries, to try and quiet the raging emotions inside. The ridges of the crow’s head unmistakable even under his gloved hands.

“Everything will go as planned: we’ll perform, and we’ll make sure all of these pigeons are probably plucked. Don’t worry.” She passed him, careful to avoid touching him and went to hang the silks she had been preparing.

Kaz promised not to let his gaze follow her but failed. He saw how with a graceful movement she looped one end of the prop into the hook on the wall. Once again, he forced himself not to let his thoughts wander too much and with a slightly louder voice called after her.

“If you’re so ready, where in Ghezen’s name, is Jesper?”

“He’ll be here,” she shrugged not preoccupied at all.

“He’d better be.” He checked his time piece and looking once again at her he said: “We start in five minutes. Go get yourself prepared.”

He heard Inej exhaling loudly. Again. A habit, he realized, she had acquired in these last months. Was it perhaps because she was starting to feel a little more comfortable with this life he had given her, with his gang… with him?

Inej got closer to him, not intimidated at all to look at him straight in the eye.

“I know what I’m doing, but if I’ll be ever looking for a coach, I’ll know who to turn to. Now, excuse me.”

She brushed past him, one instant she was there and then next gone.

***

Fitting how Kaz had found the darkest part of the room to stand in during Jesper’s and Inej’s little show. The sharpshooter had turned up at the last minute, literally the last, when the audience had already gathered around the little space they had arranged specifically for the two of them, and Kaz had already excogitated a hundred different way to kill him. He had of course given a piece of his mind, seething to the gangly boy, who in returned had just shrugged, winked at him and told him that “People love big entrances, I’m making us a favor,” before scurrying to his designated seat at the center of the makeshift stage.

Kaz had come up with this idea months prior, but Inej and Jesper had actually started performing only a couple of weeks ago. He had had to use all of his most convincing arguments to let Per Haskell see how incredibly fruitful this would all be. That old man and his drunken ass…

After many requests from his lieutenant part he had conceded, and Kaz had made it look so as if the leader of the Dregs had had this brilliant idea himself, a thing that had worked out for the best since he had gone strolling around the Barrel boasting how his club was offering entertainments that no other could. A good publicity indeed, and Dirtyhands had smirked pleased with himself, his plan had worked. As always.

His breath caught in his throat when he saw Inej climbing the silks, her fluid movements made it look so easy, as if she was taking a stroll instead of keeping herself up with only her body strength.

“Ladies ang gentlemen, thugs and thieves,” started Jesper walking the perimeter of the free space and catching the attention of the people there. “Tonight you’ll see something that only few would be brave to attempt. My lovely assistant will perform one of her tricks with a card stuck between her lips,” at that the girl in question removed from thin air a card and showed it to the audience, only one part of her body now supporting her, the silks wrapped around it, as the other half hanged from them. “While I will attempt to shoot at it.”

Many gasps could be heard around the room as well as excited whispers.

“Let’s begin!” Jesper said, now with a much more serious tone.

Kaz had to admit it, even if at times Jesper was a total buffoon he knew how to mesmerize an audience, and he had them in the palm of his hands.

The sharpshooter took his position, and removed from the ground a little polished, silver tray. Kaz had to suppress the urge to roll his eyes as Jesper looked at his reflection winked at himself and then kissed his beloved revolver, while exhaling with (fake) preoccupation. Could this boy be more theatrical than that? The Bastard of the Barrel sighed, convinced that there was no end to his second in command’s love for the dramatics. Inej wrapped her limbs expertly in the silks and then with a fearless dive, she let herself fall so that her body was hanging upside-down.

The split second before Jesper could shoot, Kaz’s and Inej’s eye met, and the world seemed to stop for a bit.

He knew damn well that the Zemeni boy was the best shot around, he had never seen him miss. Never. On top of that, he suspected that the little secret he was keeping from everyone, but that Kaz had of course found out about, somehow helped him with his formidable aim. Yet… why in the name of his beloved kruge did he feel nervous for her?

You need to get it together and stop thinking this sentimental stuff. He scolded himself, not for the first time that night.

After a second or perhaps an eternity he moved his gaze away from hers.

Jesper shot and… the bullet struck the card exactly in the middle. The raucous cheering of the audience was what ground him completely again. Inevitably, as if a magnet drawn to the pole, he saw Inej finish her performance with a couple of flips, before landing as effortlessly and elegantly as ever, a big grin on her face. Kaz himself couldn’t help the light movement upward of the corner of his mouth, that died immediately when he noticed how the sharpshooter, now standing, turned around to return the smile, and finally joined her, taking her hand to bow.

That nagging feeling inside him was as demanding as ever. He hated it. He wanted it to stop.

The applause of the people surrounding him turned into a distant sound, as a clear thought struck him then and there. He was never going to have that easy demeanor Jesper had with her, he was never going to be able to take her hand without drowning, he could never tell her that despite all his effort he couldn’t resist the constant pull he felt whenever she was close and that made everything even worse.

Inej’s eyes managed to find his again in his dark corner, the smile she still had lightened her features, but it dropped as soon as she saw what was a very grim expression marking his face.

He wanted to yell. Tell her to keep on smiling, because he felt very much alive whenever she did, like none other things could, but instead he just gripped his cane tighter, and forced himself to look around the room.

When Jesper and Inej approached him after the audience had dispersed a bit, he was still waging his inner war.

“Wasn’t our Wraith amazing?” Jesper asked excitedly, an arm slung around the shorter girl’s shoulders, before adding “Wasn’t I amazing?”

“You just did what you had to. No more no less. And besides, many of these people had already seen this particular performance, so I wouldn’t let all those adoring people get to your head.” He rasped before leaving them standing.

As he made his way to return to the upper level of the Club, he heard the sharpshooter sighing loudly. “You can never win with him, can you?”

“No one can,” was Inej’s curt answer.

He knew her eyes were following him; he could feel it and he never detested more the vindictive and cold creature he had become than now.

***

The Crow Club at that hour of the night, or rather early morning, was deserted. Kaz had ordered the others to go back to the Slat as he stayed behind to make sure everything was in order before close-up. He once again descended the stairs that would bring him to the lower floor, the silks and the other props gone and already been stashed away. As he scanned the room though, he noticed something on the ground, near where the silks were usually hanged. In the dim light he could see it was a piece of dark cloth, and as he got closer, he noticed that it wasn’t just any piece of cloth, but the one Inej had wrapped around her forearm to cover her tattoo. He crouched down, with no little protest from his bad leg, and took it in one gloved hand, the gesture almost reverent.

If someone were to enter the room now, they would have found Kaz Brekker, Bastard of the Barrel, Dirtyhands himself, on his knees cradling a strip of cloth in his hands. He shook his head in disbelief and made to stand up, when CRASH!

Something had fallen and in his fear of having been discovered, Kaz quickly tucked the wrap in his suit pocket as he made leverage on his cane to stand. He saw that what had startled him had been a stool, now on the ground. He passed a hand through his hair in exasperation. He really needed to get a grip.

In the days following Kaz didn’t realize that out of nowhere he would put his hand in his pocket and rub the little piece of fabric between his fingers, a thing that oddly enough always managed to calm him. He didn’t realize it, until he did. It had been a late night in which he had been working for the Dregs and his pathetic excuse of a leader, now scheming, now scribbling and adding numbers. The little thing had been placed on his shambled desk, a trusted companion of his. He had meant to return it, if not to Inej directly, to at least casually leave it where he had found it, but in the end he hadn’t. That night he had sent his Wraith out to gather information regarding a certain mercher’s rich art collection, and he hadn’t almost heard her, almost, entering his attic room from the window. Kaz hadn’t known how he had been able to stash her piece of fabric away before she could see him gently passing it between his fingers.

He only imagined the conversation they would have had if he had taken a second too long to hide it.

You know Inej, I casually found it on the ground but instead of leaving it there I’m keeping your arm wrapping as a stress-relieving token. But it’s not like it may look. I’m not obsessed with you or anything.

Could he be more pathetic than that? Since when had he gone this soft? Oh yes, he knew, ever since he had paid her indenture and she had joined the Dregs, that was when. To make things worse that night had ended with Inej casually sitting on his window seat: her head resting on the wall, her eyes closed. Indefinite and unnamed emotions had stirred once again inside of him, as a very precise, but not really polite word echoed in his head… he was so screwed.

From that moment on he had debated whether to just give it to her and telling her that he had found it but that it had just slipped his mind until then, or continuing keeping the damn thing. A constant battle in his mind that complemented the one inside his heart.

He kept it.

If Kaz was never going to have Inej, as he wished he could, he at least could have a part, no matter how small and insignificant, of her.

That day, his feet carried him on their own accord outside her door, a floor exactly below his room. They had encountered some troubles with some too cocky members of the Black Tips and the whole ordeal had left them all pretty shaken – except Kaz of course – and with two dead members of his crew. Kaz didn’t know why he was standing here, on the other side of her closed door. She might not even be here, he had thought trying to find excuses to turn back from where he had come.

But he knew. He somehow sensed that she was inside her little room.

What exactly was he thinking, what was he doing here as a gaping fish out her door? Did he want to make sure she was okay? See if she needed anything?

Oh yes, because you’ve been nothing but an example of emotional support, Brekker.

When he was about to turn and go back to the attic, cursing himself for his stupidity, the door in front of him opened. Inej stood there, and for once her hair was not tied back but loose on her shoulders, cascading in delicate waves around her frames, the result of having kept it tight in a braid.

“Is anything wrong, Kaz? Why are you standing outside my door as if you’d seen a Saint?” she had asked.

I think I wanted to see you, I’m not sure why and I’m going insane. He thought, but of course didn’t say, too cowardly and bitter to do so. Instead, Kaz quickly put his hand in his pocket, and found what he knew would be there. Gripping her piece of fabric, he managed to answer with his usual lack of emotions.

“Go find Jesper. I found us a job. What would you say to one million kruge?”

#six of crows #pre six of crows #pre soc #canon compliant #shadow and bone #grihsaverse #the grisha trilogy #the grisha series #kaz brekker #inej ghafa #jesper fahey #my fic #my story #soc fic #six of crows fanfic #kanej #kanej fanfic

40 notes · View notes

leolovesthings · 3 years ago

Photo

Dragonborn’s Infamy is by far one of the craziest, funniest, and in-depth p*rn mods for this game! Let me elaborate on one (1! there are many) of the quests from that mod

Warning: Major Spoilers! (Of a p*rn mod. Do you care? You decide)

You start in Whiterun, where there is a sweetheart couple from two families that hate each other. Classic. In vanilla, they are trying to somewhat hide their relationship, and it never evolves. Jon Battle-Born and Olfina Gray-Mane.

In this mod you get an intense romantic (and sexual) story that could go... so many different ways. I am going to tell you what my character has witnessed (and by that I mean the plot!). In his own words.

This one met Jon Battle-Born, an aspiring bard. He wanted to go to Solitude and join the Bards College, but was worried his girlfriend would run away with someone else. This one supported him in pursuing his dreams, and so he left for the capital.

Soon after his girlfrind, Olfina Gray-Mane, approached this one and told this one how she misses her beloved. This one assured her that love survives distance.

Then, another bard approached this one, called Mikael. He was interested in Olfina and was hoping to get this one’s help in making her his. His suggested methods were less than honorable. This one did not help him. They had lunch and Olfina made it clear she was not interested.

Olfina asked if she should try and visit her beloved, and this one supported her. After some time she received a letter from him saying it was over. She asked if she should try and get him back. This one said he believes in their love. And so got back together. She decided to run away and live with him there, in the capital. (This one walked in on them in the inn. Embarrassing.)

Long after that, this one went back to Whiterun. And there this one witnessed a fight between two old men: lovebirds’ parents. They shouted at each other all over the marketplace (at night). Olfrid Battle-Born, Jon’s father, has accused Olfrina of being a paid-for wench, trying to distract his son from studying. And her father uncle argued she was an honest woman and was kidnapped against her will. Thankfully, the guards stopped those fools from fighting.

Some time after that this one went to Solitude inn only to discover a murder (that did not quite take). Olfina was (supposed to be?!) assassinated. Jon wanted to go to Whiterun to avenge her, and this one chose not to dissuade him. This one chose to help.

We arrived to Whiterun and Jon confronted his father. Olfrid would not admit it, but the way he was talking about her before long since convinced this one it was true, and he did hire her killer(s). Jon killed his father, and we escaped back to Solitude.

Illdi, a young bard from the Bards College, same one who discovered the body and tried to stop Jon from risking his life for revenge, was relieved to see him return. Turnes out she had a vested interest.

This one now thinks to give it time, but eventually convince Jon to move on. However, right after that conversation this one walked in on the lovebirds AGAIN.

This one now believes in corporeal (and sexually active) ghosts.

* * *

Well, realistically, it’s probably a mod conflict. And some other mod might require her alive or something. But the amount of choices (!) in this quest (or rather, series of quests) seems to be tremendous. And those choices have consequences.

From what I could see so far, you can break them up (several times). You can get Olfina to choose you instead (probably? not Jon though, unfortunately, that might have been tempting). You can roofie Olfina for Mikael (ew).

There could be, according to the mod’s page, a horse involved... Potentially... (yep. There is this scene in the very beginning, where you have to catch them in the act - Jon and Olfina are getting it on at night behind the stables - and confront them... And I suppose one of the things your character can do is tie up Jon and bring a horse instead. Why.)

Speaking of the horse, in the very beginning, as you are initializing this mod (by the way, do not install it on an existing save - it will sort of work, but not really, and might completely destroy your save file) you can choose what content would you like to see. You can disable non-consensual stuff and/or bestiality, and choose your moral guideline and sexual orientation.

The main feature of this mod is that it adapts to your personal moral (or immoral) choices. And by making those choices you gain a certain reputation. You can be a saint slut or an evil puritan. Or an evil slut, it’s really up to you.

It also connects to some other mods in a certain way and takes that info into account too. And that reputation you get further affects other quests and choices you can make there.

#dragonborn's infamy #skyrim mods #khajiit's true tales #skyrim wtf #Skyrim #skyrim spoilers #Skyrim Screenshots #skyrim se #skyrim mod review #Skyrim mod #text post #skyrim wander #skyrim story #spoiler #spoilers

6 notes · View notes

ibijau · 4 years ago

Note

hello! can you do 14. for nielan?

"I'm not good enough for you"

Standing in that tent on the edge of a now quiet battlefield, Lan Xichen stares at Nie Mingjue, feeling entirely breathless.

He forgot.

With everything else happening around them, he forgot.

Or maybe he hoped this too would have changed, a voice unkindly whispers into his ear. He hoped he wouldn’t have to face this, the true reason why he gave up on everything, the reason why he chose this dangerous path.

It’s funny how things change with experience. The first time this night happened, Lan Xichen felt overwhelmed by Nie Mingjue’s confidence and gave in right away, feeling as though there could never have been any other options, not for them. But tonight he can see that his friend’s confidence is only skin deep, that Nie Mingjue is fidgeting ever so slightly, as if fearful of rejection. And why not after all? He’s only twenty-three. He’s so young.

He never got much older than this, the first time around. But that’s why Lan Xichen is here of course.

All things considered, he feels he’s done a good job of it so far. He wasn’t able to pick exactly when to return, so it was impossible to avoid the burning of the Cloud Recesses and his fateful meeting with Meng Yao.

If he couldn't avoid meeting the man who became his other best friend, the one in whom he confided without restraints, then at least he's warned him well against Lanling Jin. It's been easy. The place is a viper's nest and Jin Guangshan is a horrible man. Pretending to bemoan the lack of help Gusu Lan received when threatened, Lan Xichen told Meng Yao every dirty secret, every act of casual cruelty, every proof that Jin Guangshan has no regard for others.

("The wife of his friend and ally?" Meng Yao cried out in horror and… even if Lan Xichen fails to prevent the rest, at least Meng Yao will be spared the infamy of marrying his own sister now)

Of course, Lan Xichen still advised Meng Yao to join Qinghe Nie. If he stays there...it’s the best place for him, if he can only quell his ambitions and be reasonable. Lan Xichen hopes Meng Yao can be reasonable, because Nie Mingjue was so glad to have him at his side, a trusted friend for this man who trusted so little and… and perhaps after everything Lan Xichen is still weak to Meng Yao, to the pity he invokes in him. Only time will tell if he was right to repeat this mistake.

Other choices he’s more sure of.

The Lotus Piers was still slaughtered.

It is cruel, and it is unfair, but it is also unavoidable. Nothing short of the annihilation of a Great Sect could have pushed the cultivation world to rise against Qishan Wen. Lan Xichen knows because they all bent their necks when the Cloud Recesses burned. It takes death and horror to avoid the worse.

The destruction of Yunmeng Jiang was less thorough though.

Lan Xichen, after leaving Meng Yao, hid around Yunmeng. He provoked trouble in an isolated but crucial area, forcing the Jiangs to send some disciples on a Night Hunt just days before the attack. The Lotus Piers fell a little faster, but it also ensured that a little more of Yunmeng Jiang survived.

He managed, also, to rescue Jiang Cheng before his core could be destroyed, and handed him over to Wei Wuxian, wounded but alive and whole.

There would be no demonic cultivation to ruin things this time, no dark power to tempt Jin Guangshan and make him murder a fellow sect leader, no heartbreak for Lan Wangji over seeing the love of his life self-destroy.

The war will probably last a little longer but it’s worth it, it’s all worth it if it can save lives in the long run.

If it can save Nie Mingjue.

“You’ve been quiet a really long time,” Nie Mingjue states, bringing Lan Xichen back to the present, a present he created for this man before him. “It’s fine if you say no. But don’t refuse just because you think your sect’s rules demand it.”

That sounds familiar, and it makes Lan Xichen shiver. Was he too quiet also, that first time? He cannot remember. He’s made such efforts to forget this war, and after over a decade of mourning, years of trying to get over the man he always knew he shouldn’t have loved, details have become murky. All he can recall from this night is the way they kissed, the way they clung to each other through the night, and the unparalleled joy of waking up in Nie Mingjue’s arms where his heart sang that he belonged.

Lan Xichen almost laughs.

What a stupid little fool he used to be.

Lan Xichen smiles, as kindly as he still knows how.

“It would not be a good idea, Mingjue.”

Nie Mingjue’s face falls at the rebuttal. He’s twenty-three, so young, and… and he looks younger like this, after opening his heart and being told that his affection will not be returned. Lan Xichen hasn’t seen him so hurt since the day they buried his father, or since…

Since the day, in a few months, he would be forced to let Meng Yao live in spite of his crimes, confused and broken and betrayed for the first time by Lan Xichen.

But that day won’t come.

Lan Xichen won’t let it come.

“Why not?” Nie Mingjue asks, stepping closer to take his hand. His fingers are warm, burning almost… or perhaps it’s Lan Xichen who is freezing. “Xichen, tell me why.”

Lan Xichen’s smile freezes as a thousand reasons course through his mind, before he settles for the one that seems most honest.

“I’m not good enough for you,” he replies, thinking of all those times he took the wrong side, of caring more about Jin Guangyao’s safety than Nie Mingjue’s when that Qi deviation happened, of never seeing that his lover’s beloved spoiled brother turned into a blood-thirsty monster.

Lan Xichen has proven that he never was worthy of Nie Mingjue’s trust, let alone his love.

Hopefully, he can now convince Nie Mingjue of that.

Nie Mingjue deserves a chance at a happy life, and he’ll only get that if Lan Xichen isn’t part of it.

#Nielan #Lan xichen #Nie mingjue #Mdzs #mo dao zu shi #Jau writes #Not super happy with this one tbh?#But the prompt really didn't feel like something either would say in normal circumstances so...#Plus apparently I really love 'character goes back to the past to save nmj specifically' lol

61 notes · View notes

libidomechanica · 2 months ago

Text

“Rush of storms of a leaf indeed: the quality”

A tricube sequence

I said our follow swiftly tranquil

and allowed and, gather come. While. Which

in which chast that love, with Heaven’s me.

Each the halls, perhaps churls, that she way,

and aves rough the fire? Rush of storms

of a leaf indeed: the quality.

Now the United, embrace of spring.

Spread, nobility of thy could

shaggy satyrs and yet with us!

Morning by a ring brance gave, is cruel

destinies. And chast looked so free from

silken the gentle breast to filled moon.

About ye. You were all yet in his

dancing it well for whose name. When your

lived with many rate me wonder dumb.

I’m o’er you like greeting to bleeding

to import for lofty treasure.

Alexis’ ashtray; the which in wise wit.

No marble vigours be knows never

none, yet aliue art? But, as any words

made wards journers, when as a birth there.

And every moon back my eyes that night

retired. Just an adjudges of Joy.

Fast she simple time. Though our heaven.

Lay the lust? But where fools or us

someone within our sweet robes would not

seemed, as judgment Death and thou wait it.

Maud in twain. Along prey: the accoste

doth beginningly, among that hangnail

its wound his Go to be!

Oak trees, by body had adore the

laws through string, gave thee as I wanting

soul counted the tide him, grey churches.

Your friend, as he image of their was

born worldly jars, The bodies, a voice,

and have on the whipping of power.

Of his sometimes peace but recollect

some confound before unstrued my fate.

Perhaps there half-hid in trees that shrine.

Upon a laugheth in my defence.

But go, and between may I, poor she

stoop to his is the left understands.

There westermore furrows perish. Your

chil love as I gaed up. Much mountains;

lonely air. By this braced there is read.

These dairy- maid expect, too, waiting

their joy? Diameter fire-driven,

that we wise me, beloved, to play.

Mine owne fountains to marke how each other,

betwixt. A skylark does no more

would have some nae scant, and rolling race.

Retire, and all that height turned to

train, comments the mind me never! My

spreads of worse from his day by love this.

Of my sight. One is debt to learn to

kneel in lies, and are no buzzing would

sit and thy persuasions fair, some sea!

We might, breath is, your sex aspires,

with avarice. But if a woman

one with sullied their strings which chased thee?

You staying. Month to please: and their joy,

O joy, and God-filling. Often murder

a drops from you pleasure of light.

And the flies were a wilds upon me.

From the rurall sing, and we are thou,

sad sound, which expect and bought nothing.

Cliff-road and teach of roses and dreams,

and and sphere. Responds of sisters of

sea grove, for Stellas an hours, I will?

Still my life at thy deep- damask’d within

the impart. Consume no tygres

kind; but promised by herself again?

For ever thy name in that, thought, and

dumb orator. Turned as a thing endure

to time with feyned love sound shame.

My father Rosamond peres some

his way? We text, text our trust to her

eye thy fancy to Heav’n, thought or mend!

Dull feeble I to love melt that cheek

when I perched in while heart has burning

day. But crutches of his deadly fades.

I’m flew round; that. Good vse infamy

is dreams on my though dull is to approve

her so my time serpent lightnings.

No marriage. Dear that we have I can

quenched limbs still inuade me again;

nor long sing Content, might have o’t!

For ear we spring? Her eye behold

on her shut up from the souls: nay, she

spirit’s not; save my hearts engages?

Thus long and bear He folk prayers the

country in melodies, passion, while

thresht in my hearts. Of the top, he bills.

Half-turn’d on with but a flitting nostrils

love. Cried:— My lady’s eyes. Then raise,

for used the reckles are, a man’s kiss.

Not all. With the couple to accoste

does rifely blurt out my aching

out often to singular and one.

For the north in our planets at thee

life is inest many woe, for should

be able love? Then framed, of heaven!

Lie burn upon a man. Chastened before

up again, we two, I’m fear is

purchase, by Phœbe seen. That grasp’d herds’ cells.

As equally to where in good, but

it’s worships, where his Saints,— I love with

the folk prayed. But thing when in the out.

Make sweet: you have us weeping. So

am I bound, sitting gentlenesse

fit with the other, wander is crowned.

Revived, comes your crimes, that vow’d to gloves

wound there lonely this come and all the

grasp at the Blood—Searchism in the war.

To make the god, nor other the mother

in his prays that kiss, for Adonais!

But she sail; for me; knowing thus?

With me, how he flown, and kind of Reuben?

The hill thy fame your did anguish

still returning fires and the towers.

Was born by the spires of proue, since his

beautiful. But there, where neere, late by

the deadly o’erflow’ry robes but thee.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 5 #183 texts #tricube sequence

0 notes