#the well at the world's end

[mask131]

William Morris' works (2)

My very first contact with William Morris was through a recent, complete translation/edition of his work "The Well at the World's End". It had a preface by Anne Besson talking about the book, its author, and why it is at the root of the fantasy genre. Here are some highlights from it.

Morris' return to the stage is part of a movement wishing to return to the sources of fantasy. Now that the "big names" of fantasy (Besson mentions Tolkien, Rowling and Martin) have been explored fully and brought to life by many, there is a new interest and curiosity for the ones outside of them. The classical pioneers that are yet still ignored today, like George McDonald or Charles Kinglsey. The other British authors of the early 20th century that Tolkien overshadowed: Lord Dunsany, E.R. Eddison, Hope Mirrlees, even T.H. White. And the parallel fecundity of the American pulp fiction - everybody knows of it Robert Howard for creating Conan, but now is the return of the others - Harold Lamb, Clark Ashton Smith, Abraham Merritt...

According to Anne Besson, William Morris is one of the greatest and most beautiful creators of the "unjustly neglected" literary monuments of early fantasy - and she considers his "The Well at the World's End" to be his masterpiece. Yet Morris is a very unique case, because he was first and foremost a material and visual artist. He was a drawer, a designer, a printer, and this is a part of his career that is still recognized to this day - often people only mention his crafts work, without a single word about the novels he wrote. Even in Encyclopedias of the fantasy, Morris' name often doesn't get a specific article, and is just a mention in either more general talks about the Preraphaelites, or an evocation in the articles of the authors he inspired (Tolkien, Howard, Eddings). This is the dual heritage of Morris - the great authors he inspired, and his carreer as the "Jack of All Arts" [a title Lyon Sprague de Camp gave him in 1974].

William Morris is first and foremost a part of the Confrery of the Preraphaelites, a group which deeply marked the art of England at the end of the 19th century. They had an hyper-realist technique mixed with a proud escapism when it came to selection their subjects ; this made them stand at odds to the abstractions and "progress" of the "modern" engaged art of the time, and as a result they were for a very long time neglected from the History of the Arts, deemed as being just "kitsch". But today, in England and France they have been fully rehabilitated.

William Morris stands proudly alongside the leader of the movement, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, and his great friend Edward Burne-Jones. They share common aspirations and inspirations, mixing the Primitives of the first Italian Renaissance (of which they recreated the realistic depictions of nature) and the Gothic (of which they admired the "spiritual purity") - the result were idealized Middle-Ages, "made of faith, heroism and purity" (words from Julia Drobinsky. But Morris is more unique as he is, first and foremost, a craftsman, a designer, a decorator - he was the one who inspired the movement "Arts & Craft". He doesn't just dream of a "golden age", he tries to make it real.

Morris designed beautiful items in the hope of raising the aesthetic level of the Victorian productions. He wanted England to find back its traditional, demanding crafts, so that the alliance of the beautiful and the useful could produce, among the creators and the users, the satisfaction of a "work well done". He is mainly famous for his creation of an intertwined-flowers decorative motif which covered a lot of furniture cloth and wallpapers. He also created a printing house dedicated to recreating medieval-like books, not just using vellum or specific inks, but also special fonts and marginalia - between 1891 and 1898 his Kelmscott Press published 54 books, 17 of which were his own creations.

Morris as such echoes our modern concern of fighting against mass-production and standardization, to have more personal, artistic productions, blurring the line between craftsman and designer, offering fluid artistic collaborations. Morris and Co.'s traditional floral motifs were for a very long time associated with "cosy British interiors" but are now all over the world. Morris himself lived by his aesthetic agenda, surrounding himself with his visual and ideological choices - first in his Red House in the South of London (he had a part in its construction), then at Kelmscott Manor, an idyllic countryside retreat near the Thames co-owned with Dante Gabriel Rossetti. A lot of rumors and criticism was aimed towards the two men's relationships to one woman - Jane, who was the wife of Morris but the muse of Rossetti. Yet, these "loose morals" denounced at the time were in line with the Preraphaelites' protest against the normalized violence of the Victorian society, a protest that was mainly expressed through an exaltation of a proudly sensual feminity... In The Well at the World's End, this is found in the character of the Lady of Abundance, a third seductive fairy, a third jealousy-inducing witch, a third pagan goddess...

William Morris didn't just print beautiful books, theorized books in his crafting ideology, or collected medieval manuscripts - he also wrote many, many texts. His complete works, gathered by his daughter May, form 24 volumes (plus four volumes of corresponance, plus a hundred of articles and political conferences). And he did all that before dying at 62 years old. To give a few highlights, he started in the 1850s, under the influence of Thomas Malory's La Morte d'Arthur. He published medieval-inspired novellas in "The Oxford and Cambridge Magazine" (notably "The Hollow Land"), and he even decided to have an Arthurian dialogue with Lord Alfred Tennyson, the greatest poet of his time, by publishing in 1858 "The Defense of Guinevere".

Morris' works were a succession and mix of translations, adaptations and re-creations. A good example of this is his work on the Volsung Saga, the great myth of Sigurd that was the source of inspiration for Wagner's operas. Morris first learned Old Norse from an Iceland man named Eirikr Magnusson (who was the key person for the diffusion of Norse culture in the Oxonian circles). He then co-wrote an "archaic" translation: Völsunga Saga - The Story of the Volsungs and Niblungs, with Certain Songs from the Elder Edda, 1870. Five years later, he offered a vast epic versified rewrite: The Story of Sigurd the Volsung and the Fall of the Niblungs, 1876. He was very proud of this book.

He also translated various French medieval romances (notably "Ami et Amile" in 1896's Four French romances), and the epic Anglo-Saxon poem Beowulf (in 1895). But it is much more relevant to point out how close he was to the Greco-Latin tradition. Outside of a long poem dedicated to Jason (The Life and Death of Jason, 1867), he published a translation of Virgil's Aeneid (1875-76), and one of Homer's Odyssey (1887-88).

Finally, his enormous compilation of 24 narrative poems called "The Earthly Paradise" (3 volumes, 1868-70) was the encounter of his two ancient inspirations : Vikings of the North enter a heavenly otherworld where Ionians survived, and with whom they exchange stories - all to offer a beautiful metaphor on the role of the "transmission of culture".

His writing of "romances" is only a late stage of his production. The Well at the World's End was only published in 1896, the same year as Morris' death - even though it had been written some years earlier. It forms a greater whole alongside "The Story of the Glittering Plain" (1891), "The Wood Beyond the World" (1894), "The Water of the Wondrous Isles" (1897) and "The Sundering Flood" (1897, posthumous work). It is a late but logical development as Amanda Hodgson noted: before that, Morris' work oscillated between the "historical temptations" and the political utopias turned to the future. On one side his historical novel "The House of the Wolflings" in 1880, defending the Northern aristocracies against the Roman invasions ; on the other side his "A Dream of John Ball" about the Middle-Ages confronting the Industial Revolution, or his "News from Nowhere".

These romances, beyond showing the tiredness of the end of a life dedicated to an unflinching political engagement, allow Morris to unite these contrasting aspirations. Their "lightness" and their happy endings glorify the ability of individuals and communities to transform. Through escapist stories, Morris captures the same hope he tries to offers to the people of his time. It is the meaning of the fourth part of "The Well", dedicated to a return to the homeland, during which the hero and his beloved go back through the same places they crossed before and see their evolutions.

It seems every aspect of Morris' life lead to these romances. They feed on his nature as a scholar in literary and languages, they feed from his passion for Arthurian romances and Medieval chansons de geste ; they are born from his interests for myths, epics, fairytales and folklore. But they are also very visual productions. Sober yet strongly evocative descriptions through an insistance on color and light ; the use of typical hyperbola and a stylistic unity ; the "chromatic exuberance" through the union of "absolute colors" (yellow, gold, green, blue, scarlet) in a limited palette reminding of the Medieval illuminations... Morris wrote his texts like he painted his images. The very plots, with their constant duality and doubles and counter-points, reminds of the ornamental motifs of the Morris Company.

In the end the "birth of the fantasy" Morris is credited with is no more than the fusion of magnified Middle-Ages with socialist visions of another world more just and more beautiful. Poetic and politically engaged, these romances, through their initiation processes and their rich symbolism, offer questions about self-fulfilment, the formation of a couple, the need to be inserted in a collectivity - while also promoting the values that are loyalty, perseverance, care for desires, and the importance of the community.

Did William Morris invent fantasy? At least this is how he is perceived...

Originally, outside of the publication of Morris' completed works by May Morris, they were very hard to access, only available to the best experts of English literature, until Lin Carter offered them a second life in the USA, in the collection "Ballantine Adult Fantasy". We are in the huge wave caused by the success of "The Lord of the Rings" (its pocket-edition of the revised version in 1965). Ballantine Adult Fantasy, the first fantasy collection ever, was created to fulfill the needs of a Tolkien fan, by ambitiously reprinting all of the "classics". Lord Dunsany, George McDonald, George Meredith and... William Morris. In five years four of his books were re-published, starting with "The Wood" in 1969, and "The Well" in two volumes in 1970. Lin Carter is also a very fascinating name when it comes to the fantasy world, very divisive. On the "light side", Carter is remember as a scholar and lover of fantasy who maintained and enhanced the genre ; on the "dark side", Carter is recalled as a mediocre author and a shady editor, hated by fans of Tolkien and Robert Howard for shaping and exploiting a twisted version of their works...

It is under the pen of Carter that Morris' romances earned their title of "origins of fantasy". Carter presented them as such: "From the world of the "Wood" and the world of the "Well" descend all of the later worlds of fantastic literature, Poictesme, and Oz and Tormance, Barsoom and Narnia and Zothique, Gormenghast and Zimiamvia and Middle-Earth. When he sketched out the map of those imagined realms which lie between Upmeads and Utterbol, William Morris blazed the first trail into the unexplored universe of fantasy".

But Ballantine's Morris can be seen as almost a betrayal of the original spirit... It implies a new genealogy, a new target-audience, and a new interpretation. His romances are not part of a complete architectural unit. The American audience split them away from the rest of Morris work, differentiate the author from the artist. Yet, it was widely recognized at the time that the first English fantasy and artistic theories were closely linked... George MacDonald, the author of "Phantastes" and "The Princess and the goblin" was a friend of John Ruskin, an influent art theorician, whose texts were for Morris (just like for Proust) a massive revelation... Dante Gabriel Rossetti, the most famous of the Preraphaelites, belonged to a family of artists: his sister, Christina Rossetti, was a figure-head of a darker Victorian fantasy, with her poems (Goblin Market) or her Lewis Carroll-like fairytales (Speaking Likenesses).

The reason so many of these early names rarely reached us is because of the huge meteorite that crashed on the "fantasy land" - named Tolkien. A meteorite that changed forever the "fantastic ecosystem" - after him, all fantasy works shall be compared to Tolkien and no one else. It is unfair, but it is so. Anne Besson highlights how her work edition for writing this preface was a 2003's publication by the Inkling Books which claimed would "give back Morris to the people" and yet systematically and heavily referred to him as "the author who influenced Tokien". The editor, Michael W. Perry, seemed to strongly imply that the only reason Morris' Well deserved to be read, was because of its association with Tolkien. The first lines are: "On the lines of Morris's romances, two books that inspired J.R.R. Tolkien, The Wood beyond the world and The Well at the world's end, by William Morris". Tolkien's full name comes before Morris' own full name! And the introduction, titled "William Morris and J.R.R. Tolkien" is entirely about what Tolkien found in Morris for his own works... And the dedication is "For the fans of Tolkien who are wishing for books like the Lord of the Rings".

Despite everybody linking Morris to Tolkien, his influence is more relevant in th case of C.S. Lewis, who was very enthusiastic about the author and wrote a beautiful presentation of him in his 1939's "Rehabilitations". Tolkien's inspiration was there, though lesser and smaller... He mostly took broad elements (a hieratic style, a Medieval Northern Europe setting, a discreet ambiant magic) and punctual details (the malevolent Gandolf and the Silverfax horse of Morris predate Tolkien's Gandalf and Shadowfax). Tolkien did write that the Dead Marshes were more directly influenced by Morris' romances. And to this list of influences can be added two more things. One, the importance of the "return" of the characters - the story doesn't end with the quest, the characters have to go home. Two, the image of the dead tree brought back to life - brought back to life by the heroes' return, by the return of a vital harmony, of a just government. For Tolkien it is Gondor's White Tree, for Morris it is the Dry Tree, the opposite of both the Well with its waters of life and of the arms of Upmeads, a fruit-bearing apple-tree by a river.

To read "retrospectively" Morris as just another fantasy author, or as in the line of posterior creations, is thus for Anne Besson a big mistake, because Morris, who wrote at the very dawn of a new genre, is very "original" in his work compared to what is expected of a fantasy today, and what might seem in the context of modern fantasy as "naive" or "blinded" was very fresh, very troubling, very "primordial" in the light of the end of a life-time of social fighting alongside the poor and the victims of misery an injustice.

And it is not because Morris' work is great, or a classic, or very influential on modern works, that it means it is easy to read today. While the text feels simple, fresh, fluid, it is a false sense that is quickly broken down by how unfamiliar modern audiances will be with the content of the book. The book has a very ambivalent "moral system", where it is hard to discern what is good an what is evil - exemplified by the troubling relationship between religion and magic in this fictional universe. It is a work done in a style purposefully archaic, avoiding Latin-derived words to search for a purely English language paying homage to its Nordic roots. It is also a work with the traditional "flatness" of the medieval romances and illustrations: everybody happens on the same plane, there is no pause, no acme, everybody speaks the same way, and the same episodes return over and over again.

However as C.S. Lewis wrote, while Morris' style is very artificial, it shall be praised for being very simple, very obvious, very clear, "more so than any "natural" style could be". It is a form of stylistic sobriety that invites to see beyond the words. Morris' stories don't have a "set", a "stage" or a "decorum", they have a geography. Morris makes sure the reader can "breathe the air" of the mountains they read about. Morris started there this ideal that all fantasy authors seeks to reach, the same ideal that Tolkien popularized - but when Tolkien talks of the "tales of Faërie", he seems to be echoing and evoking the texts of William Morris. Simple, fundamental stories filled with light, that invite to look at things like everyday colors and rediscover them, and that get rid of banality and familiarity to literally "possess" the reader.

Anne Besson concludes by claiming Morris IS the Well which all the 1930s-onward fantasy authors drank from, as well as the more distant source of the flow of "new fantasy" of the 70s.

[itsalwayswellattheworldsend]

Book 3 Chapter 6 - Those Two Are Learned Lore by the Sage of Swevenham

Text Audio

Synopsis:

Ralph and Ursula learn about the Well.

Summary:

 "In these wastes and wilds are many such-like places, where of old time the ancient folks did worship to the Gods of the Earth as they imagined them: and whereas the lore in this book cometh of such folk, this is no ill place for the reading thereof.

The Sage led them through the woods until they came to a grassy area which had a stone table in the middle of it, which Ralph though must be like the one where the witch-woman had sacrificed the goat to her devils as the Lady of Abundance had told him, and his mood changed as he remembered this. The Sage saw this and shook his head, saying softly: “In these wildernesses there are many places like this, where in old times, the ancient folk worshiped the Gods of the Earth as they imagined them. And because the lore in this book comes from such people, it is a good place to read from it. But if you fear the book and its writers—who died long ago—there is still time to go back and seek the Well without my help, and I won’t say that you can’t find it that way. But if you’re not afraid, then sit down in the grass and I will lay the book on this ancient table and read from it, so do listen carefully.”

So they sat down side by side, and Ralph would have taken Usula’s hand to hold it, but she drew it away, although she found it hard to keep her eyes off of him. The Sage looked at them seriously, but not at all in anger, and soon began reading the book. What he read about will be seen later in the course of this story, for most of it had to do with the way to the Well at the World’s End, and all things concerning it were fully explained, both great and small. The reading was long, and when the Sage was done, he had one and then the other answer questions about what he had read, and if they answered wrongly he would read that part again and again, like how children are taught in school. Until at last when he asked any question, Ralph or the maiden answered correctly at once, and by this point the sun was about to set, so he took them back to his house so they could eat and sleep there.

“But tomorrow,” he said, “I will give you your last lesson from this book, and afterwards you will be on your way to the Rock of the Fighting Man, and I do not think you will meet any trouble on the way, but since I think today I saw the the men of Utterbol seeking you, I will lead you out from here.”

So they went to the house and he hosted them as well as he could, and spoke with them in a friendly and pleasant way.

When it was morning, they again went to the ancient altar and again they learned lore from the Sage, until they had grown wise in the matters of the Well at the World’s End, and they once more slept in the house of the Sage of Swevenham.

Map:

[drifting-knightjar]

stories about a journey to the edge of the world are like heroin to me. i will love it every. single. time. even if it's not good i will still love it i don't care. quality is meaningless in the face of such a hypnotic and philosophically interesting setpiece.

[demigods-posts]

percy doing better than annabeth in college is one my favorite developments in the rrverse. if we reflect on percy and annabeth's academic upbringing. annabeth living at camp allowed her to receive accommodations for her adhd and dyslexia and surround herself with like-minded campers who had the same limitations. whereas percy was ridiculed, belittled, and routinely humiliated because of his adhd and dyslexia. even more so, percy's friends and family leave him out of the loop on so many important issue (no chb orientation film, no information about the great prophecy) which perpetuates his subpar confidence and self-esteem in his skills as a student and a demigod. but going to college at NRU changes his mindset because he receives the accommodations he should have gotten years ago and fucking thrives to the point of getting higher grades than annabeth — a person he deems way smarter and more prepared than him in every way. the most important thing percy is learning now is that a supportive environment makes all the difference, and he is more capable than he initially thought.

[frenchublog]

[kelocitta]

O' Hypocrite

[somnoir]

Prodigal son beyond time - Part 1

Ra's Al Ghul had a son. No, it's not Dusan we spoke of right now. Ra's Al Ghul's first born child was a peculiar boy that was forged by the Lazarus Pits—or so what he says.

Talia has never met her brother.

Her brother, it has been years since she's found out about him yet her father never gives them a name—he thinks them unworthy of it. Even if he was not present, her brother continues to be the favorite, to be the child their father praised most. His absence is a glaring hole in her father's heart (though she is not sure if he has one).

It is no secret amongst the league that Ra's nameless son was unofficially the heir, even when Damian was born.

Talia has doubted her brother's distance many times, and yet she finds evidence of him over and over again.

Her father writes letters, strange ones that vary in language, dialect, grammar, writing styles. She did not mean to read one when she was young, but she couldn't help herself when she had seen it.

My dearest, son of mine,

It has been an age since last I beheld your presence. I find it most disquieting that you have not seen fit to visit, though I am not ignorant of how poorly time aligns itself with your affairs. Yet still, I dare to hope that you might bestow upon me a portion of your time, if but briefly.

Your siblings have inquired after you once more. Yet I am acutely aware that it would be unwise to bind you to this mortal realm for too great a span. Their hearts, tender and unfortified, lack the endurance I possess to weather the long absences your path necessitates. Nevertheless, I am not blind to the hope you carry—to one day stand before them, whether that moment lies near or far in the veiled expanse of time.

She could not finish the lengthy letter before the letter vanished from her hand, a burst of green and strange liquid slipping from her fingers. Talia had been startled, too young, assuming that this was Lazarus water that has stolen her father's letter.

And she found her father looming behind her, his expression stern get there was amusement in his eyes.

"Your brother is a curious person." Her father hummed, "He's powerful."

"We are not... Allowed to meet him?"

"Not yet. Until you steel your hearts." Ra's nodded, "Your brother does not stay in one place for long. But he is soft hearted and loyal to the family. You give him reason to stay and he will stay."

His hand, firm and guidind, pressed against her shoulder in a tight grip. "And I will not let any of you weaken him."

On that day, Talia realized that her father truly did love her brother. In his own strange way.

The next time she reads a letter, Damian was but a babe of one, cradled in her arms as a letter written on green paper rested in her father's hand. It was open, the wax seal carefully sliced from the envelope.

"Father."

"Talia." He replied nonchalantly, eyes flicking to Damian, his eyes softening momentarily as a longing look slipped to the letter.

Talia's heart tightened, resentful that her father was beginning to see his favorite child on her own son. She could not allow that...

"Your brother has written to me. It has been... Almost a year... Since the last." Ra's hummed, turning to Talia, then Damian, before flicking yet another letter to her. It startled her.

"From your brother." Ra's sighed, "I made the mistake of writing about Damian and now he wishes to meet you first. Not Nyssa, not Dusan—you."

"My brother?" Talia hesitantly accepted the letter. "I do not even know his name..."

Ra's clicked his tongue, "He signed it in his name. You will know from that letter." He paused, glancing back at her. "You have yet to prove yourself worthy, Talia, but... Damian's birth will surely being your brother back home."

Talia's heart palpitated in her chest.

The prospect of her baby, her son, her child—the mere thought that her baby would be the thing that successfully brings her brother home was... Outstanding.

"Read it in your own time... After that, seek me out."

Talia does not know... What to particularly do...

But she takes Damian, watches as her father leaves, and hurries along to her own quarters.

Talia tucks her son into the crib, narrowing her eyes at the nursemaids that were hired to nurture her son. She dismissed them immediately, watching as they silently leave the room. It is only when silence reigns does she takes a seat on her bed as Damian slumbers in his crib.

(Her hands tremble as the letter rested in her hands. It was light, not heavy, her her hands tremble as if she could not handle the weight.)

She takes in a deep breath, takes a dagger and carefully slices it away from envelope. It's intricately made.

The letter is written in the same green paper that her father received.

The letter read as thus:

My Dearest Talia, It would seem that I am now to be regarded as your brother, for Ra's has deemed me his son. Admittedly, this turn of events is of my own doing, as I endeared myself to him centuries past and found solace in his companionship, coming to view him as a father in truth. Yet you, his daughter by blood, remain a stranger to me, as do Nyssa and Dusan. How peculiar it is that Father should act in such a manner, withholding such introductions with his customary inscrutability.

She takes in a deep breath, awes by her brother's penmaniship... And then suddenly the writing style changes. Morphing from the olden age, the formality of a noble, to...

Anyways! Since you're my sister, I don't think I have to keep writing to you the same way Ra's does. It feels awkward to me, y'know?

She was not expecting that change but...

I've always wanted to meet you all. But my duties to my realm are hard. I can't freelt leave. It's especially worse since my world's time doesn't correlate to yours.

You might find the change of writing styles weird, but in all honesty, I'm from the 21st century. It's just that time never did agree with me. Had to comply with the old man on writing like that since he likes it. Weird, right?

But anyways! I heard you had a son! Congrats by the way. I'd like to meet him too, actually. Aside from that, I heard from Ra's you don't know my name.

Well, he's decided to call my Danyal as it's the Arabic version of my original name "Daniel". Though I often go by my nickname Danny. But it has been a delight to write to you, Talia. Hopefully, I'll be able to meet you and your son in the future.

Since you have my name now, you can write me letters too! It'll find me eventually.

Your brother,

Danny

Her brother's name was Danyal... Her brother went by Danny.

Talia blinked.

Her strange brother was a being that traversed through time, a person who was born in the 21st century... Her brother could be somewhere in the world in that moment and in another time the next.

She pressed the letter to her lips, unable to hold back her smile.

She had quite the silly brother...

And amongst her siblings, Talia was the first to know her brother's name. That bit about being able to write letters to him made her finally understand why her father was so possessive of a name.

(In the Infinite realms, High King Phantom received a letter from his estranged younger sister. He really didn't mean to find family in the Demon's head, but he found it anyways.)

Part 2 | Masterlist

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Burning Rotten Bridges

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[vaguely-concerned]

the strength it must have taken for illario to not immediately go full 'lmao since when have you even had a kiss hello lucanis' sibling violence mode during the café talk. inspirational. rook and lucanis really were doing all that right in front of his salad huh

[bluerosefox]

Her Astrophel and Sterling

hmmm

Hmmmmmmmm

You know what.

You know those AU's where the Batfam finds or learns about either hidden or thought to be dead Al Ghul Danny! with a deaged/daughter Dani (Ellie) (I should know, I created a few of those storylines) but what if, now hear me out, what if instead of them finding Danny first its Talia.

Do I want Talia discovering her thought to be dead son to be alive? Yes. Do I want her to find him while investigating Amity Park when the League gets reports of 'Lazarus creatures/water'? Yes.

DO I WANT HER TO KNOCK ON THE FENTON'S DOOR, fully ready to pretend/honey talk her way into the house to uncover what the Fenton's know, ONLY TO MEET A LITTLE ELLIE?!

YES.

Ellie whose eyes and hair look like a copy of her Beloved but she can see bits and pieces of herself as well. Talia knows the child in front of her was not fully her's though but everything makes sense when she hears a voice, a voice she hasn't heard in ages but as a mother just knows, speak out.

"Ellie! I thought I said do not answer the door my Sterling."

"But Daddy, yous was busy fighting the hotdoggys!"

Talia's eyes widen when she finally catches sight of familiar black hair and blue eyes.

and she could only lightly whisper a old nickname she hasn't dared uttered in ages, a name she secretly gave her son due to his love of the stars "Astrophel..."

[pancakemolybdenum]

worlds smuggest tween owning noobs on wizard101

[itsalwayswellattheworldsend]

Book 3 Chapter 5 - They Come on the Sage of Swevenham

Text Audio

Synopsis:

Ralph and Ursula find an old man.

Summary:

"Surely she was my friend, since she befriended me; and this man I deem was altogether her friend."

Night fell before they came to the stream they were looking for. They found it cutting through the pine woods, which ran all the way up to the banks of it, and which were thick on the other side as well. The stream was high-banked and ran deeply and strong.

“We can’t cross it, but we don’t need to. Tomorrow, we’ll ride along it,” Ursula said as they approached.

So they stayed there and made a fire, and they took turns keeping watch until it was fully day. Nothing happened to them, except that twice during the night, Ralph heard a lion roar.

They mounted up quickly once they were both awake, and they rode along the stream and began going up hill, and by noon they were in a rough and shaggy upland, from which they could see the huge wall of the mountains from time to time, which still seemed hardly any closer to Ralph now than it had when he came to Vale Turris. The journey was rough that day, long and it was hard to keep the stream in sight, especially when it ran through a hill and there were high cliffs with no low shore on either side.

They went slowly, and eventually Ralph lost his patience and said that he doubted they would find the Sage that day, or any other. But Ursula stayed positive and teased him gently, until he cheered up again. After all that, she told him to hunt some food, since time was drawing on and she did not know how long it would be before they found the Sage’s home. So he took the bow and shot three heath-fowl, and they ate well and happily in the wilderness.

But though they were happy, they soon became tired[1] as they journeyed on after sunset that night, since the moon was up and the trees were thin enough. They camped on a level section of grass between the water and half-circle of steep land that protected them.

THey stayed there, and in the stillness of the night they heard a thundering sound carried on the wind, which sounded like the roaring of distant waters, and when they  went to the edge of the river, they saw bits of foam floating by, which made them think they were near some part of the mountain where water was falling from a high place. But with nothing else to be done, they laid down in the grass and spent their second night together, and they awoke later than on the day before. They had been so tired that they kept poor watch that night, and none at all once the sun began to rise.

Ralph sat up and saw that Ursula was still sleeping, then got to his feet and looked around to see their horses eating grass, and beside them was a tall man with a white beard, leaning on a staff. Ralph grabbed his sword and went towards the man, and the sun gleamed on the blade just as the old man turned towards him. He lifted his staff as if to greet Ralph, and came towards him, and as this happened, Ursula awoke and stood, and seeing the old man she cried out: “Stay your blade, fellow-traveler, this is—praise the saints!—the Sage of Swevenham!”

So they stood together until the Sage came up and kissed them both and said: “I am glad that you have come at last, for this was the latest that I expected you. Now mount your horses and come with me right away, because life is short for those who have not yet drunk from the Well at the World’s End. Furthermore, if you are caught by the riders of Utterbol, it will go badly if I am not with you.”

Ralph saw that although he was a grey old man, he was strong and tall, sturdy and with a good presence, warm cheeks, red lips, and bright eyes, and the skin on his face and hands was not wrinkled. Around his neck he wore a set of beads like those Ralph had been given by his gossip.[2]

So they mounted at once and without saying anything else, he led them around the rise and into the woods again, but now they were beech trees, with open places sprinkled with hollies and thorn bushes. They rode down the wide slope of a long hill, then up again on the other side.

They went like this for an hour, and the old man did not speak again, though it could be seen in his eyes that he was eager. They also stayed quiet, for the hope and fear in their hearts kept them from words.

They came to the hill-top and found level ground, though the tight woods still continued for a while. But soon they came to a clearing of about twelve acres,[3] where there were fenced pastures with goats in them, and three tilled fields, where wheat was still growing, and wild cabbage and other vegetables.[4] At the far end where the woods started again, there was a little house built of timber, sturdy and good, and thatched with wheat-straw; beside it was a bubbling spring which ran in a brook across the clearing. Over the door to the house was a carved cross, and a bow and short spear leaned against the wall of the porch.

Ralph looked closely at everything and wondered whether or not this was perhaps the cottage where the Lady of Abundance had lived with the evil witch. But the old man looked at him and said: “I know what you’re thinking, and it’s not the case. That house is far away still, but you will come to it. Now, children, welcome to the house of one who has found what you seek, but has put aside things that you will gain, and will likely remember things you will forget.”

Then he led them into the house, into a room with little furnishing. He had them sit, and he brought them food: cheese and goat’s milk and bread, and they talked about the woodlands, the seasons, and other light things. But the old man spoke little, as though he were not used to talking, but he was courteous and charming. When they had eaten and drank, he said to them:

“You have sought me because you want to find the Well at the World’s End, and need lore concerning the road to it. But before I tell you about it, tell me what you know already.”

Ralph said: “For me, I know little about it, except that I must find the Rock of the Fighting Man, and that you know the way to it.”

“And you, young lady,” said the old man, “What do you know? Do I need to tell you through the mountains and the Wall of the World, about the Winter Valley, the Folk Innocent, the Cot on the Way, the Forest of Strange Things, and the Dry Tree?”

“No,” she said, “I know something about all these things already, but it may not be enough.”

“So it was with me,” said the Sage, “When many years ago I lived near Swevenham and people came to me for knowledge, and I told them what I knew. But it was not enough, maybe, for none ever came back. It’s likely that they died before they had seen the Well. And then I, myself, when I was very old, went seeking it and found it, for I had the necklace of the seekers. And now I know all and can teach all. But tell me, young lady, where did you learn these things?”

Ursula said: “I was taught by a very beautiful woman who, it seems, was the Lady and Queen of the Champions of Hampton under the Scaur, not far from my homeland.”

“Yes,” said the Sage, “and what has become of her? …No, no,” he said, “I do not need to ask; I can see it in your faces that she is dead. And she must have been killed, or else she would still be alive.[5] You were her friends?”

Ursula said: “Surely she was my friend, since she befriended me, and I think that this man was very much her friend.”

Ralph hung his head, and the Sage looked at him, but said nothing. Then he took one of each of their hands in his and held them silently. Ralph was still downcast and sad, but Ursula looked at him fondly.

Then the Sage said: “So it is, Knight, that I seem to understand what sort of man you are, and I know what is between the two of you, though I will not say tell of it; I will let the tree grow on its own. Furthermore, I know that my old friend would want me to teach you both the lore of the Well at the World’s End, and when I have done this, I will be able to do no more but let your good fortune win the day, if it can. Therefore, wait a little.”

Then he went to a chest and took out a book wrapped in a delicate web of silk and gold, and bound in leather marked with strange symbols. Then he said: “This book was my inheritance in Swevenham before I became wise, and it came from my father’s grandfather. My father told me to treat it as my dearest possession, but I paid it little heed until my youth had waned and my adulthood was full of weariness and grief. Then I turned to it, and read it, and became wise. People sought me, and afterwards, fate ran its course.[6] In this book there are (among other things) that which you desire to know, and I will read it and explain it to you. But we should not do that here under this roof, even as humble and innocent as it is. Furthermore, it is not right that you should listen to this ancient wisdom dressed as you are; you, knight, dressed in the armor of a manslayer with a blade at your side; and you, maiden, dressed in the clothes of the tyrant, which were taken from him through clever lies.”

Then he went to another chest and took out two bundles, and he gave one to each of them and said: “You, maiden, go into the other room here and  take off your worldly clothes, and put on these which you will find wrapped in this cloth. You, knight, take this other and go out into the thicket behind the house and do the same, and wait there until I come for you.”

So Ralph took the bundle and went out into the thicket and took off his armor, putting on the clothes he had been given, which was a long gown of white linen, much like the white robes of a priest, hemmed around the wrists and collar with designs of gold and silk, and girded with a red silk belt. He stayed there a little while, wondering at all the things which had happened to him since he left Upmeads.

Soon, the others came to him, and Ursula was dressed in similar clothes to his, and the Sage had the book in his hand. He smiled at Ralph and nodded to him in a friendly way. As for Ursula, she flushed as red as a rose when she saw him, for he seemed to her like one of the angels she had seen painted in the church of St Mary’s at Higham.

Notes:

[1] The original words are “merry” and “weary,” which is a fun rhyme.

[2] The Sage is repeatedly referred to as “hoary” which is an old term for grey, often used to describe grey-haired old people. The description draws attention to the fact that he is old and grey, but still visibly strong and healthy-looking.

[3] The internet tells me that 12 acres is equal to a 723-foot square area. Also this is one of the few times it says “twelve” rather than “a dozen.”

[4] The “wild cabbage” is a more sensible term for “colewort,” which research says is the natural plant that basically all leafy vegetables are descended from. Cabbage, broccoli, cauliflower, kale, and basically everything else we eat is just specially-bred colewort.

[5] Due to Well immortality.

[6] “And afterwards that befell which was foredoomed.” That might mean that he was a fortune teller, but I’m not sure.

Map:

[opikiquu]

my life a movie (PSYCHOLOGICAL HORROR)

[sweeneydino]

"If I must die, then we will die together" - 2012 Splinter pretty much.

Yo, fuck this version of Shredder specifically, like jesus fucking crispies dude wtf. Can someone analyze this man or something he's scaring me.

Bro said "and I took that personally" when splints wanted to care for his daughter and live in peace with his family, gyad damn.

WHY DOES HE HAVE ALL THOSE PHOTOS--

I actually hate this man- I must have more. I am curious

[falseflea]

Been having a big Scott Pilgrim phase recently and you'll never be able to guess who my favourites are...

[hellishfig]

for the amount of time i spend thinking about erika ishii, i do not post about them NEARLY enough

everything i've ever seen them in, they have been fully dialed in. they understand the genre, they understand the character they're playing, and they NEVER. FUCKING. MISS

my current dnd character is actually based on multiple characters of erika's that i enjoy. my character is a witch (like ame of worlds beyond number fame [thank you to the witch class playtest]) but she is also a brewer who grows weed and shrooms, and deals them, and does them (and her personality is very much modeled off of danielle barkstock in dimension 20's the seven)

i feel that many of my favorite moments from erika are often focused on other characters. but many of those character moments would not have been possible without erika's incredible roleplay and sense for storytelling

and when the moment IS focused on erika's character? spellbinding. groundbreaking. from ame talking to orima in the overgrown shrine to danielle getting a nat 20 at the masquerade ball, i always fall into the scene and feel it so deeply due to erika's skill and poise and commitment to the story being told

tldr i think erika ishii is incredibly talented and wonderful