#threads. lorrie

[icarricn]

closed starter for @unmooredtm location: valdez museum's infirmary

that's how lorrie knew he was getting old: when he could not scale a fence without landing hard on the other side. it was a bad fall, but... the fence was rather tall. it won fair and square in the end and lorrie had learned his lesson after attracting every undead in the near vicinity. not too much, but enough. "i'm not sure a couple scraped knees and some bruises are worth your time," he told riley, albeit water already being used to clean them. ever since the excitement of seeing riley alive, lorrie had not been altogether eager to step back into the infirmary - into riley's element. not if he could help it. riley was someone firmly lodged in his past and lorrie, admittedly, did all he could to keep it that way. his eyes firmly rooted on the man now. mind conjuring up scenes of yesteryear. ones that made him fall silent even as knees and palms of his hands stung fiercely.

[relentlessgrief]

"Understood. We can leave at the appropriate time then." Connor inclines his head at the wizard. Who was he to fight back? Hell, he understood it. Maybe not for what Connor perceives as the same reasons, but he loves Waterdeep--that's his home. He hates being away from it too long.

"I will see you soon, then," Connor remarks, turning to leave. He begins to take a few steps away, and he's about mid step, until stopping. Then taking another stop. There's some visible awkward hesitation that can be seen in the way that he's torn between continuing to the exit and staying to look at the way Lorroakan is beaten up. Whatever kicked the crap out of him got him really good.

Empathy runs painfully deep within his marrow. The desire to want to help and to care, despite carrying around his own corpse, literally, while doing it.

The wizard already said no once, and Connor recalls quite clearly the stinging rejection.

But he feels compelled to try again. If he's rejected again, so be it. But at least he'd feel better knowing he tried again, and tried to extend his kindness.

Connor's empty sockets lock onto the wizard. It's nothing but a void within that skull.

"..."

"...Are you sure you do not want any help? I can help you, if you let me."

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤCONNOR SEEMED indeed amicable, but Lorroakan wasn't foolish enough to let his guard down, of course ( and the residual adrenaline from the earlier confrontation with the Black Network still had him on edge ).

But then, as Connor stepped forward and placed the invitation into his hand, Lorroakan started visibly, the unexpected touch making him recoil. His first reaction was to lash out — he yanked his hand back, glaring daggers at the skeleton, but the sharp words that had gathered at his tongue did not make it out. Well, the scowl said it all.

After a beat, his eyes swept briefly over the invitation before it was carefully tucked away.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ"Of course the Academy will be delighted." He looked at Connor once more, hands clasped behind his back. Gods, everything hurt. He really needed that potion...

"However, I cannot leave my tower unattended for an entire two tendays!" The wizard spoke as if the idea itself were absurd. "You must understand, as Archmage of Baldur's Gate, my duties here are not ones I can simply abandon. Not for such an extended period." He made a point of emphasizing his title and what importance he held. Battered and bruised, yet his arrogance remained intact. "A few days can be managed, but no more."

Even with the powerful wards Ramazith himself had laid upon it — wards that had safeguarded the tower and its treasures for over a century — Lorroakan found no comfort. The thought of leaving his sanctum vulnerable stirred a gnawing sense of anxiety.

[deermouth]

Thinking about Hayward's "The lorry thief?" and Faulkner's "Our Paige?" Idk that I have anything profound to say other than that the threads that connect us all are their own kind of miracle. The disorder, the unpredictability - the madness of other fucking people. Not gods. Not saints. Other fucking people.

[zhengzi]

you know i remember reading someone’s meta pointing out the casual racism in lena’s dialogue when you bring up the kind green ape and she reveals that she believes kim to be a completely separate species from the rest of them 

and up to that point, lena was shown to be a very loveable character and understandably everyone loves her (i do too) and so plenty of people would be caught off guard by her casual racism

i think when lena’s casual racist remarks came up in my playthrough, i was prickled and disappointed but i don’t think i would describe my feelings at the time as complete surprise. lena’s remarks were not dissimilar from the kinds of comments i would get about my own background and country of origin

although i never encountered rhetoric that was explicitly race science in its ideology that is evident in lena’s remark, all of the rhetoric i encountered dehumanizes my heritage and assumes that i wish to ‘ascend’ from my own home culture. for instance, many canadian queers i encountered would overly presume that i had suffered greatly due to my queerness in my home country when that is very far from my actual reality as a queer person existing here. they would ask if i had applied for asylum, when that isn’t really an option for me because i would have to prove that my life was in immediate danger, which is an experience i just do not have even though my home country is very queerphobic in its society, institutions and legal system. there exists a strong undercurrent of homonationalism that threads through a lot of my interactions with most queer people who are invested in first world countries as being inherently more lgbtq friendly than other countries, despite evidence to the contrary.

whenever i encounter the opinions of liberals on asian politics (both irl and online), they betray their actual convictions that view asian-ness as inherently ‘lesser’, ‘backwards’ or ‘barbaric’. they constantly refer to the asian immigrant narrative as one of realizing their liberal subjectivity and by extension their personhood via moving towards the first world liberal democratic countries and to shun and cut off ties to the homeland, with the implication that asian cultures and societies are inherently ‘sexist’, ‘homophobic’, ‘racist’ and ‘unenlightened’. this does the work of ignoring the historical, political and socio-economic contexts of issues within asian societies and instead attributes these problems to our own heritage and ‘backwards’ culture. liberal rhetoric frequently dehumanizes the people who still remain in our countries, framing the high population count as ‘swarms’ or ‘brainwashed masses’ and our prioritization of the collective over the individual as ‘authoritarian’. although many liberals i meet would pay a lot of lip service to being pro-asian, their actual words reveal their continued subscription to yellow peril tropes disguised as concern for the poor yellows in their despotic homeland.

lena’s casual racism couched in her benevolence is way more pervasive than the blatant racism espoused by the racist lorry driver and measurehead. lena’s disability also factors as i could never be free from the racism within other marginalized communities, my encounters with queer communities being a prime example

[accidental-king]

BURYING THE NOT QUITE DEAD: A DISCO ELYSIUM FANFIC

My take on the events after the game featuring a multi-fic HarryKim slowburn. I'm also just a sucker for case fics. This is just a snippet from Chapter 1 but I actually have several chapters written. I'll be posting them on AO3 eventually but I'd like to run it by some beta readers first. Feel free to DM me if you're interested!

SHIVERS - As the sun begins to lower over Jamrock, the dome of an old silk mill shines like brass in the golden light. It's not difficult to see a time in which masses of workers filed in and out of its entrances, and the motor lorries lined up along its western wing to collect their wares. Miles upon miles of lustrous textiles to be shipped across oceans and isolas to glide across the skin and furnishings of those few who can afford it. The Revacholiere will never be one of those people. 

The long and blocky building projects off of either side of the dome like a russet brick ladybird, splitting its chitinous hide and stretching its wings between half-demolished tenements and modern high rises alike. Its masonry tells tales of a time before the deathblow. A time when even the utilitarian still showed a thread of residual vanity in the form of granite steps, sharp stone arches, and molded concrete cornerstones. Original varve clay brick, brown like dried autumn leaves, sit in contrast to newer, coppery replacements, highlighting the scars of war and neglect in cracks, blotches and even an entire end of one wing. Always visible like a reality you can't unsee. 

ESPRIT DE CORPS - It has been a Police Precinct longer now than it was ever a Silk Mill but its old purpose still lingers in the bones of its columns, trusses, and long abandoned smoke stacks.

INLAND EMPIRE - It’s all that you have left.

What’s to the North?

What’s to the South?

What’s to the East?

What’s to the West?

What’s inside this building?

Shudder and blink

YOU - What’s to the North?

SHIVERS - A peninsula. A district left abandoned by its surrounding infrastructure. Bombed out ruins and mountains of shipping crates slowly turning red. The harbor has been locked up tight since shots rang out in the square. Blood and heavy fuel oil paint an old mosaic red and hang in the air like a fog that dares to challenge the sunlight. Motor lorries still sit abandoned in the circle, where you left them. A bookstore is no better now than your last visit, and a hostel is now empty of guests minus a few lucky souls who now grieve their lost brothers in the Union booth.

INLAND EMPIRE - It was your home for the past week.

CONCEPTUALIZATION - It is your birthplace. Born of a drug and drink deluge, on a floor covered in a lifetime of mistakes. 

YOU - And beyond that?

SHIVERS - An islet of crumbling concrete and steel. The wind whistles through water reeds and swathes of tiny white petals that push through the last spring snow. Ashes of a fire long gone out blow out into the sea to be swallowed like the memories of the cause that built it. Its only resident is gone now, taken away for medical treatment and for a prison sentence that will see him to his final days.

What’s to the North?

What’s to the South?

What’s to the East?

What’s to the West?

What’s inside this building?

Shudder and blink

YOU - What’s to the south?

SHIVERS - An apartment building. Mostly stone, though partially the ivy and wisteria that have done their part to claim it in an attempt to reach the heavens. They are a part of one another now; inseparable without either coming to ruin. Inside, a marriage has been strengthened thanks to an unusual discovery made by an unusual officer of the RCM. Husband and wife embrace as they look over the colorful image between them.

YOU - And beyond that?

SHIVERS - A wind whips down the long stretch of Boogie Street that barely contains the buildings and crowds on either side. Neon signs illuminate dark windows that are rattled by the music within. Lively chatter fills the air both inside and out. A young woman walks out with her lover in hand. She presses close to his side to fight against the chill of the spring air as her dark brunette curls whip about her face. The man flashes a charismatic smile and he pulls her in closer to lead her away to a shiny white lacquer motor carriage parked just off the main street. They each know something the other does not.

What’s to the North?

What’s to the south?

What’s to the East?

What’s to the West?

What’s inside this building?

Shudder and blink

YOU - What’s to the east?

SHIVERS - Seemingly endless blocks of brutalist apartment buildings that tower over the residences that survived the revolution 43 years ago. The whole district lies in a millennium old riverbed, leaving it forever in shadow of Jamrock to its west, the GRIH to its north, Grand Couron to its east. Grand Couron and the Old South district maintain their borders with two of La Delta’s canals. 

INLAND EMPIRE - A mark of constant probability. Everyone of Revachol West is just one bad couple of weeks away from moving to the Eminent Domain or the Burnt Out Quarter.

SHIVERS - Across the water, a woman in a satin robe sits with her elderly dog, surrounded by shining white marble as she peers out her 11th story window. The glass leaves the evening in an emerald tint. She would have the Eminent Domain wiped from the face of the Earth if it meant sparing her view. The canal and a financial cushion are all that separates her from the proles.

And beyond that?

SHIVERS - La rivière Espérance and Revachol East

What’s to the North?

What’s to the South?

What’s to the East?

What’s to the West?

What’s inside this building?

Shudder and blink

YOU - What’s to the West?

SHIVERS - A home you will never see again. Trees and underbrush devoured the old hospital and surrounding buildings of the Pox long before you even had a chance to remember it. Stray vagrants find their way through the bombed out ruins, shuffling past abandoned wire bed frames and rusted carts of broken tare. There is nothing left to be found here but a little bit of shelter from the wind. But the Valley of Dogs lurks nearby and most know never to stay unless they’re entirely out of options. This place will likely never be safe again.

What’s to the North?

What’s to the South?

What’s to the East?

What’s to the West?

What’s in this building?

Shudder and blink

YOU - What’s in this building?

SHIVERS - As day begins to fade and the lights begin to slowly begin to blink on across the city, multi-story factory windows will slowly transition from the concealing darkness to exposing illumination of what is no longer the East Insulindic Textiles Company. The loading docs have now become the motor pool for the 41st Precinct of the Revachol Citizens Militia. An old Coupris 40 whirs past a vehicle of a similar model and one of a decidedly newer model as it turns into the garage for the evening. Both MCs it passed do not belong to the 41st.

Inside the building proper, a stern looking man in a well tailored uniform walks toward the elevator at a brisk pace. His left breast is heavily decorated in medals and ribbons. One from the Suzerain, three from the Commune, most from the Moralist International. He bears the weight of the whole city on his shoulders but he carries it with an air of pride and authority. He’s heard tell of some strange happenings and without seeing it for himself, he’s not sure he believes it. 

Across the precinct, in the East wing, tucked into the far end of the first floor an eclectic group of men sit inside a dimly lit Lazareth. Three surround one in a way not too dissimilar from how the interviewee had been earlier in the day.

What’s to the North?

What’s to the South?

What’s to the East?

What’s to the West?

What’s in this building?

Shudder and blink

YOU - A violent shudder passes down your spine and you find yourself suddenly aware that you have been staring off into the ether for about 3 minutes. You are one with your body once more.

PRECINCT 41 - The Lazareth Office of Dr. Nix Gottlieb is small despite the size of the precinct that it maintains. Cabinets and shelves line just about every surface in some manner or capacity. And each and every surface was crammed packed with medical supplies, specimens, and piles upon piles of folders and textbooks. There isn’t much space to move, let alone work. The center of the room is dominated by a surgical table that is currently sporting a flimsy pad that serves as a cushion for your injured ass.

INLAND EMPIRE - This is the closest thing to private healthcare you’ve seen in years.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT - Your bullet riddled leg has already been looked over. You’d managed to pull your stitches and partially reopen the injury during your little jaunt about Martinaise and the islet.

PAIN THRESHOLD - You wish you’d been unconscious like the first time you got sewn up. Gottlieb is quick and efficient but he’s merciless in the empathy department. In other words, you cried. And your leg still hurts like a bitch.

EMPATHY - Kim radiated pride and relief behind his subdued expression when the doctor had complimented his work.

ESPRIT DE CORPS - [legendary: failure] He’s just glad it wasn’t worse.

NIX GOTTLIEB - The doctor is a bespeckled elderly man, dressed in civilian clothes, a dark, woven turtle neck covered by a brown blazer that stopped fitting him in the shoulders about 10 years ago. His forehead and brow are permanently creased by stress and a deep look of concentration. His brow deepens when you shake yourself out of the thought. “Welcome back, Detective.”

RHETORIC - That was sarcasm. He doesn’t care.

PERCEPTION [smell] - On his breath, mingled with the scent of Tioumoutiri cigarettes, you catch a whiff of peppermint schnapps.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY - If we play our cards right, maybe he’ll share a belt.

VOLITION - We’ve been clean this week. Don’t fuck this up now.

NIX GOTTLIEB - He scratches at his wispy white hair and beard as he speaks over his shoulder at two other men. “And how long would you say these episodes tend to last?”

KIM KITSURAGI - Your partner of the last seven days looks between you and the blue notebook in his hands, occasionally flipping through its pages. He still stands in his field attire; Orange nylon bomber jacket zipped up to his collar, white crew shirt hidden beneath it, brown aviation mechanic pants tucked neatly into his black boots, and his brown leather driving gloves. 

KIM KITSURAGI - He thumbs over a couple of pages before answering, “Anywhere between a few seconds to several minutes. This… is one of his longer episodes.”

CONCEPTUALIZATION - Wait! Has he been taking notes on you?

LOGIC - [medium: Failure] Of course not. We’ve already established that this is his method of working through his thoughts. This is likely a method of recall for him.

TRANT HEIDELSTAM - A lean blonde man in a tailored suit looks over you from where he stands, with fascination glittering in his hazel eyes. You saw a similar light when you spoke with him in front of the defunct Feld R&D when he spoke of their pre-revolution efforts. He was also one of the only ones in the fishing village who stood up for you against your partners onslaught of insults.

ESPRIT DE CORPS - This man is a special consultant taken onto the Major Crimes Unit in C-Wing. His well-traveled knowledge and personable demeanor has lent itself invaluably to the task force.

AUTHORITY - /Your/ task force.

INLAND EMPIRE - Not anymore. You’ll be lucky if they’ll even let you back into the field as a patrol officer, given the circumstances.

TRANT HEIDELSTAM - “And what do you experience during these… lapses, Harry?”

HALF LIGHT - Don’t. This is a trap.

[RHETORIC - challenging] Explain the skill set

+1 Kim is here -1 Butcher doctor -1 This sounds insane

[VOLITION: legendary] “The city speaks to me sometimes.”

+1 Revelation in the church +1 She loves you -1 This sounds insane

[DRAMA - godly] Convince them your thoughts are normal (lie)

-1 Kim is here -1 Butcher doctor -1 You’re already insane

“A real shit show of internal monologue that drowns out the world around me.” [continue]

Really? Anything else?

YOU - Really? Anything else?

CONCEPTUALIZATION - Nope.

[RHETORIC - challenging] Explain the skill set

RHETORIC [challenging - Failure] What spills forth is a vomited spew of half finished sentences, aborted gestures, and some words you’re pretty sure you’re misusing. You throw in some apologies and self-depreciation for good measure like a dog half-heartedly trying to bury its own shit.

NIX GOTTLIEB - “Try again. But in Vacholian this time.” His arms cross and his fingers drum impatiently on his bicep.

[RHETORIC - challenging] Explain the skill set

[VOLITION - legendary] “The city speaks to me sometimes.”

+1 Revelation in the church +1 She loves you -3 This sounds insane

[DRAMA - godly] Convince them your thoughts are normal (lie)

-1 Kim is here -1 Butcher doctor -3 You’re already insane

“A real shit show of internal monologue that drowns out the world around me.” [continue]

Really? Anything else?

YOU - “Just a real shit show of an internal monologue that drowns out the world around me.”

KIM KITSURAGI - “It’s inconvenient at times, but he often comes through with concepts and ideas I never would have considered. Unorthodox as it may be, it was invaluable to the investigation.”

DRAMA - [Medium: Success] He means it, sire.

EMPATHY - He’s concerned about your well being, but he also doesn’t want to see you misrepresented in the eyes of these men.

+1 Morale

[relentlessgrief]

Oh, if Connor could only smile at this wizard's snappy attitude, he would. The permanent smile affixed to his face is more than fitting enough, however. It's a pleasant change of pace. Annoyance is more welcomed than fear. With the fortunate setup of lacking eyes, he was able to take in the entirety of the other without being accused of staring.

Apparently Lorroakan didn't just dress fancy during the day. He did at night too. Matched the rest of his fanciful tower, he supposes.

"Apologies. This feels... A little intimate." The undead remarks, voice coming through warm and pleasant.

"You look like you've slept quite well."

Another friendly little jab. There is a brief moment of mourning in what would have been more opportunities, now squandered as the wizard summons his apprentice. Who, clearly, was not at all shy about his shock.

Connor's eyes flash, red pinprick pupils visible in that illusion magic at the tiefling who exclaimed. Just as those 'eyes' appear, they fade.

"Hello." The warlock acknowledges the other. Even gives a kind wave.

"I am not a threat."

Yep. Keeping it simple, and to the point.

And that's on experience.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤTHE TOWER ITSELF was fortified with deadly wards crafted by Ramazith himself, but today, Lorroakan had given orders for the defenses to allow Connor entry.

He hadn't expected Connor to arrive this early.

Lorroakan was still in his brocade dressing gown, having his morning tea when the skeleton announced his presence. He flinched, a startled breath escaping him, but he tried to mask his alarm beneath a scowl. "Connor," he said, drawing the name out with evident displeasure.

"Does it look like I am ready to leave for Waterdeep?!" the wizard snapped, setting down his cup of tea. "No, it does not. When I said today, I did not mean the moment the roosters started crowing!" He stood, visibly irritated, and straightened his dressing gown. "BOY!" he suddenly called out, and within moments Rolan, his tiefling apprentice, hurried into the study.

"Yes, master?" Poor Rolan had been summoned to Lorroakan's tower at the crack of dawn this morning — his master usually never wanted him around this early. However, since Lorroakan was about to leave for Waterdeep, Rolan had been tasked with keeping watch over the tower and ensuring everything went smoothly, and he was determined not to disappoint.

"It seems I will have to leave earlier than anticipated." He glanced at Connor ; clearly annoyed. "Go and inform Miklaur that I won't be needing breakfast today, and—"

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ"Mystra's mercy!" Rolan gasped, wide-eyed at the sight of the skeletal figure. Lorroakan merely rolled his eyes.

[atotc-weekly]

Book the Second—The Golden Thread

[X] Chapter XII. The Fellow of Delicacy

Mr. Stryver having made up his mind to that magnanimous bestowal of good fortune on the Doctor’s daughter, resolved to make her happiness known to her before he left town for the Long Vacation. After some mental debating of the point, he came to the conclusion that it would be as well to get all the preliminaries done with, and they could then arrange at their leisure whether he should give her his hand a week or two before Michaelmas Term, or in the little Christmas vacation between it and Hilary.

As to the strength of his case, he had not a doubt about it, but clearly saw his way to the verdict. Argued with the jury on substantial worldly grounds—the only grounds ever worth taking into account—it was a plain case, and had not a weak spot in it. He called himself for the plaintiff, there was no getting over his evidence, the counsel for the defendant threw up his brief, and the jury did not even turn to consider. After trying it, Stryver, C. J., was satisfied that no plainer case could be.

Accordingly, Mr. Stryver inaugurated the Long Vacation with a formal proposal to take Miss Manette to Vauxhall Gardens; that failing, to Ranelagh; that unaccountably failing too, it behoved him to present himself in Soho, and there declare his noble mind.

Towards Soho, therefore, Mr. Stryver shouldered his way from the Temple, while the bloom of the Long Vacation’s infancy was still upon it. Anybody who had seen him projecting himself into Soho while he was yet on Saint Dunstan’s side of Temple Bar, bursting in his full-blown way along the pavement, to the jostlement of all weaker people, might have seen how safe and strong he was.

His way taking him past Tellson’s, and he both banking at Tellson’s and knowing Mr. Lorry as the intimate friend of the Manettes, it entered Mr. Stryver’s mind to enter the bank, and reveal to Mr. Lorry the brightness of the Soho horizon. So, he pushed open the door with the weak rattle in its throat, stumbled down the two steps, got past the two ancient cashiers, and shouldered himself into the musty back closet where Mr. Lorry sat at great books ruled for figures, with perpendicular iron bars to his window as if that were ruled for figures too, and everything under the clouds were a sum.

“Halloa!” said Mr. Stryver. “How do you do? I hope you are well!”

It was Stryver’s grand peculiarity that he always seemed too big for any place, or space. He was so much too big for Tellson’s, that old clerks in distant corners looked up with looks of remonstrance, as though he squeezed them against the wall. The House itself, magnificently reading the paper quite in the far-off perspective, lowered displeased, as if the Stryver head had been butted into its responsible waistcoat.

The discreet Mr. Lorry said, in a sample tone of the voice he would recommend under the circumstances, “How do you do, Mr. Stryver? How do you do, sir?” and shook hands. There was a peculiarity in his manner of shaking hands, always to be seen in any clerk at Tellson’s who shook hands with a customer when the House pervaded the air. He shook in a self-abnegating way, as one who shook for Tellson and Co.

“Can I do anything for you, Mr. Stryver?” asked Mr. Lorry, in his business character.

“Why, no, thank you; this is a private visit to yourself, Mr. Lorry; I have come for a private word.”

“Oh indeed!” said Mr. Lorry, bending down his ear, while his eye strayed to the House afar off.

“I am going,” said Mr. Stryver, leaning his arms confidentially on the desk: whereupon, although it was a large double one, there appeared to be not half desk enough for him: “I am going to make an offer of myself in marriage to your agreeable little friend, Miss Manette, Mr. Lorry.”

“Oh dear me!” cried Mr. Lorry, rubbing his chin, and looking at his visitor dubiously.

“Oh dear me, sir?” repeated Stryver, drawing back. “Oh dear you, sir? What may your meaning be, Mr. Lorry?”

“My meaning,” answered the man of business, “is, of course, friendly and appreciative, and that it does you the greatest credit, and—in short, my meaning is everything you could desire. But—really, you know, Mr. Stryver—” Mr. Lorry paused, and shook his head at him in the oddest manner, as if he were compelled against his will to add, internally, “you know there really is so much too much of you!”

“Well!” said Stryver, slapping the desk with his contentious hand, opening his eyes wider, and taking a long breath, “if I understand you, Mr. Lorry, I’ll be hanged!”

Mr. Lorry adjusted his little wig at both ears as a means towards that end, and bit the feather of a pen.

“D—n it all, sir!” said Stryver, staring at him, “am I not eligible?”

“Oh dear yes! Yes. Oh yes, you’re eligible!” said Mr. Lorry. “If you say eligible, you are eligible.”

“Am I not prosperous?” asked Stryver.

“Oh! if you come to prosperous, you are prosperous,” said Mr. Lorry.

“And advancing?”

“If you come to advancing you know,” said Mr. Lorry, delighted to be able to make another admission, “nobody can doubt that.”

“Then what on earth is your meaning, Mr. Lorry?” demanded Stryver, perceptibly crestfallen.

“Well! I—Were you going there now?” asked Mr. Lorry.

“Straight!” said Stryver, with a plump of his fist on the desk.

“Then I think I wouldn’t, if I was you.”

“Why?” said Stryver. “Now, I’ll put you in a corner,” forensically shaking a forefinger at him. “You are a man of business and bound to have a reason. State your reason. Why wouldn’t you go?”

“Because,” said Mr. Lorry, “I wouldn’t go on such an object without having some cause to believe that I should succeed.”

“D—n me!” cried Stryver, “but this beats everything.”

Mr. Lorry glanced at the distant House, and glanced at the angry Stryver.

“Here’s a man of business—a man of years—a man of experience—in a Bank,” said Stryver; “and having summed up three leading reasons for complete success, he says there’s no reason at all! Says it with his head on!” Mr. Stryver remarked upon the peculiarity as if it would have been infinitely less remarkable if he had said it with his head off.

“When I speak of success, I speak of success with the young lady; and when I speak of causes and reasons to make success probable, I speak of causes and reasons that will tell as such with the young lady. The young lady, my good sir,” said Mr. Lorry, mildly tapping the Stryver arm, “the young lady. The young lady goes before all.”

“Then you mean to tell me, Mr. Lorry,” said Stryver, squaring his elbows, “that it is your deliberate opinion that the young lady at present in question is a mincing Fool?”

“Not exactly so. I mean to tell you, Mr. Stryver,” said Mr. Lorry, reddening, “that I will hear no disrespectful word of that young lady from any lips; and that if I knew any man—which I hope I do not—whose taste was so coarse, and whose temper was so overbearing, that he could not restrain himself from speaking disrespectfully of that young lady at this desk, not even Tellson’s should prevent my giving him a piece of my mind.”

The necessity of being angry in a suppressed tone had put Mr. Stryver’s blood-vessels into a dangerous state when it was his turn to be angry; Mr. Lorry’s veins, methodical as their courses could usually be, were in no better state now it was his turn.

“That is what I mean to tell you, sir,” said Mr. Lorry. “Pray let there be no mistake about it.”

Mr. Stryver sucked the end of a ruler for a little while, and then stood hitting a tune out of his teeth with it, which probably gave him the toothache. He broke the awkward silence by saying:

“This is something new to me, Mr. Lorry. You deliberately advise me not to go up to Soho and offer myself—myself, Stryver of the King’s Bench bar?”

“Do you ask me for my advice, Mr. Stryver?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Very good. Then I give it, and you have repeated it correctly.”

“And all I can say of it is,” laughed Stryver with a vexed laugh, “that this—ha, ha!—beats everything past, present, and to come.”

“Now understand me,” pursued Mr. Lorry. “As a man of business, I am not justified in saying anything about this matter, for, as a man of business, I know nothing of it. But, as an old fellow, who has carried Miss Manette in his arms, who is the trusted friend of Miss Manette and of her father too, and who has a great affection for them both, I have spoken. The confidence is not of my seeking, recollect. Now, you think I may not be right?”

“Not I!” said Stryver, whistling. “I can’t undertake to find third parties in common sense; I can only find it for myself. I suppose sense in certain quarters; you suppose mincing bread-and-butter nonsense. It’s new to me, but you are right, I dare say.”

“What I suppose, Mr. Stryver, I claim to characterise for myself—And understand me, sir,” said Mr. Lorry, quickly flushing again, “I will not—not even at Tellson’s—have it characterised for me by any gentleman breathing.”

“There! I beg your pardon!” said Stryver.

“Granted. Thank you. Well, Mr. Stryver, I was about to say:—it might be painful to you to find yourself mistaken, it might be painful to Doctor Manette to have the task of being explicit with you, it might be very painful to Miss Manette to have the task of being explicit with you. You know the terms upon which I have the honour and happiness to stand with the family. If you please, committing you in no way, representing you in no way, I will undertake to correct my advice by the exercise of a little new observation and judgment expressly brought to bear upon it. If you should then be dissatisfied with it, you can but test its soundness for yourself; if, on the other hand, you should be satisfied with it, and it should be what it now is, it may spare all sides what is best spared. What do you say?”

“How long would you keep me in town?”

“Oh! It is only a question of a few hours. I could go to Soho in the evening, and come to your chambers afterwards.”

“Then I say yes,” said Stryver: “I won’t go up there now, I am not so hot upon it as that comes to; I say yes, and I shall expect you to look in to-night. Good morning.”

Then Mr. Stryver turned and burst out of the Bank, causing such a concussion of air on his passage through, that to stand up against it bowing behind the two counters, required the utmost remaining strength of the two ancient clerks. Those venerable and feeble persons were always seen by the public in the act of bowing, and were popularly believed, when they had bowed a customer out, still to keep on bowing in the empty office until they bowed another customer in.

The barrister was keen enough to divine that the banker would not have gone so far in his expression of opinion on any less solid ground than moral certainty. Unprepared as he was for the large pill he had to swallow, he got it down. “And now,” said Mr. Stryver, shaking his forensic forefinger at the Temple in general, when it was down, “my way out of this, is, to put you all in the wrong.”

It was a bit of the art of an Old Bailey tactician, in which he found great relief. “You shall not put me in the wrong, young lady,” said Mr. Stryver; “I’ll do that for you.”

Accordingly, when Mr. Lorry called that night as late as ten o’clock, Mr. Stryver, among a quantity of books and papers littered out for the purpose, seemed to have nothing less on his mind than the subject of the morning. He even showed surprise when he saw Mr. Lorry, and was altogether in an absent and preoccupied state.

“Well!” said that good-natured emissary, after a full half-hour of bootless attempts to bring him round to the question. “I have been to Soho.”

“To Soho?” repeated Mr. Stryver, coldly. “Oh, to be sure! What am I thinking of!”

“And I have no doubt,” said Mr. Lorry, “that I was right in the conversation we had. My opinion is confirmed, and I reiterate my advice.”

“I assure you,” returned Mr. Stryver, in the friendliest way, “that I am sorry for it on your account, and sorry for it on the poor father’s account. I know this must always be a sore subject with the family; let us say no more about it.”

“I don’t understand you,” said Mr. Lorry.

“I dare say not,” rejoined Stryver, nodding his head in a smoothing and final way; “no matter, no matter.”

“But it does matter,” Mr. Lorry urged.

“No it doesn’t; I assure you it doesn’t. Having supposed that there was sense where there is no sense, and a laudable ambition where there is not a laudable ambition, I am well out of my mistake, and no harm is done. Young women have committed similar follies often before, and have repented them in poverty and obscurity often before. In an unselfish aspect, I am sorry that the thing is dropped, because it would have been a bad thing for me in a worldly point of view; in a selfish aspect, I am glad that the thing has dropped, because it would have been a bad thing for me in a worldly point of view—it is hardly necessary to say I could have gained nothing by it. There is no harm at all done. I have not proposed to the young lady, and, between ourselves, I am by no means certain, on reflection, that I ever should have committed myself to that extent. Mr. Lorry, you cannot control the mincing vanities and giddinesses of empty-headed girls; you must not expect to do it, or you will always be disappointed. Now, pray say no more about it. I tell you, I regret it on account of others, but I am satisfied on my own account. And I am really very much obliged to you for allowing me to sound you, and for giving me your advice; you know the young lady better than I do; you were right, it never would have done.”

Mr. Lorry was so taken aback, that he looked quite stupidly at Mr. Stryver shouldering him towards the door, with an appearance of showering generosity, forbearance, and goodwill, on his erring head. “Make the best of it, my dear sir,” said Stryver; “say no more about it; thank you again for allowing me to sound you; good night!”

Mr. Lorry was out in the night, before he knew where he was. Mr. Stryver was lying back on his sofa, winking at his ceiling.

[cassiopennyia]

💬 a private conversation

//

?: Reminder for the session at 3pm Friday. Please at least attempt to attend this time.

v33v33: Sorry but I. Have to cancel. stuff came up again. hopefully things will work out next time?

?: You can’t keep skipping like this it’s been 2 months and you’ve “been busy” every session... I understand you’ve made plenty of good progress, but it’s important you keep on track. You agreed to this as part of the deal, and you’ve got to stick to this if you want results.

[read at 2am.]

v33v33: I’m fine, and I don’t need any of this.

[v33v33 has ended the conversation]

//

Text thread between Penny Linton and Mona Lorris.

[icarricn]

closed starter for @survivrcs location: valdez museum / dining hall/cafeteria

breakfast was good. better than he had in a long time. but then again, he had said similarly yesterday and the day before. days forgotten in the blink of an eye. at least he would work today. and tomorrow. lorrie did not ruminate on it. he was helping. there was no reason to feel trapped. but when he did, he could only blame one person. "breakfast is good," he repeats aloud to narin, even as he pushes the instant oatmeal around his plate. only bothers one bite. "hearty," a pathetic furtherance. it is often that he looks to be on the verge of tears. no cause for concern. just, a state of being. and he looks so now. eyes turned downwards. chest heavy.

[icarricn]

a smile, both meager and grateful, broke across his face. "when don't i owe you?" this rare sprinkle of playfulness short-lived. he could recognize the annoyance. or, well, he thought it was annoyance. her fast pace, demand of payment. he suddenly felt guilty to be tickled with such excitement. after all, he did not know what she had gone through to find these earbuds. the smile had fled as soon as it appeared. he hadn't even extended his hand for the item. no, he couldn't. not when concern marred his features. that rush of adrenaline one gets when their mother chews them out. he rubs his arm, trying to rid it of its goosebumps. "i do owe you. i'm sorry for asking. what can i do?"

closed for the pals @ the museum !!

she finds them waiting at the meeting spot as she turns the corner , item hid in the pocket of her thick jacket . her pace is fast but controlled . it was already enough that she had to fight her way through a horde herself for the batteries the leader begged her to retrieve but this side errand ? she was e x h a u s t e d . ❝ here's the thing you asked for , ❞ the female says in a hushed whisper , palm turned towards the ground to conceal the item . it was probably not fair to feel ill about the extra trouble , seeing that she had agreed to do her best to help the other person but all she truly wanted at this moment was a hot shower and to lay in bed for the next week at least . ❝ just remember that you owe me . ❞

[lcftyambiticns]

aHHH I'm seriously thinking about archiving this blog.

Lorri needs a fresh start. Mainly because I have way too many asks, drafts, and mutuals I don't interact with. No hard feelings at all! ❤️ I appreciate the follow! It get that some people just want be frens from afar, but it's starting to feel overwhelming, and I don't feel like sorting through 200+ drafts or cleaning out my followers unless I really have to.

The downside is, all my threads, edits, and headcanons would stay on the archived blog, and I'd have to reblog everything to the new one.

Or is there a different way? Has anyone done that and has any advice on how to go about this?

[lcftyambiticons-archive]

ooc.

I've been super busy lately!! Hoping to squeeze in some writing tomorrow. Also, I'm still moving over old threads from my previous blog, so if you've been waiting for a reply, let me know — it might have disappeared into the Tumblr void when I moved Lorri to this blog. ^^'

[inspired-lesson-plans]

Revisited and Revised

Library (or ELA), Middle School, Discussion Questions

Do Now (3 min):

Turn and Talk.

What stories have you consumed in more than one format? Formats include, but are not limited to:

Book, audio book, graphic novel, movie, TV series, video game, stage play, songs.

Class Discussion (10 min):

What are the benefits and drawbacks of a story existing in more than one format?

Examples:

The Giver by Lois Lowry as a graphic novel shows the role of color in the story much better than the text is able to, without losing the intimate, personal feel the way that the movie did.

The Lightning Thief is a good book and a great TV series, but failed as a movie because Rick Riordan was left out of the writing process for some reason the story is so episodic that it loses the "this happened then this happened" storytelling that makes it charming. Arguably, it would also work as a video game, too.

Direct Instruction (10 min):

Talk students through the Twitter thread started by Randi Jo Dalton. Explain the following key terms when they come up.

Mohawk (members of the Haudenosaunee)

Settler-Colonial Mindset ("European traditions as inherently superior")

Classist (Preferential to wealthy people over poor people)

Ableist (Preferential to people without disabilities)

Virtue Signaling (Loudly performing popular moral values)

Higher Order Learning (remaining time):

Students compose responses to the tweet thread in the form of a tweet thread of their own. They must state whether they agree or disagree with Randi Jo Dalton and Little Lorrie Loo, then explain why and add their own opinions backed up by examples. They must write at least 3 tweets (280 characters max each).

[kazifatagar]

Driver charged with attempted murder, reckless driving in 50km chase

A 21-year-old lorry driver faced charges in Kuala Pilah’s magistrates’ court for attempting to murder a traffic policeman during a 50km chase. Hasrulnizam Hasim pleaded not guilty to the accusations, including reckless driving under the Road Transport Act. Social Media Links Follow us on: Instagram Threads Facebook Twitter YouTube DailyMotion Read More News #latestmalaysia Driver…

[atotc-weekly]

Book the Second—The Golden Thread

[X] Chapter IV. Congratulatory

From the dimly-lighted passages of the court, the last sediment of the human stew that had been boiling there all day, was straining off, when Doctor Manette, Lucie Manette, his daughter, Mr. Lorry, the solicitor for the defence, and its counsel, Mr. Stryver, stood gathered round Mr. Charles Darnay—just released—congratulating him on his escape from death.

It would have been difficult by a far brighter light, to recognise in Doctor Manette, intellectual of face and upright of bearing, the shoemaker of the garret in Paris. Yet, no one could have looked at him twice, without looking again: even though the opportunity of observation had not extended to the mournful cadence of his low grave voice, and to the abstraction that overclouded him fitfully, without any apparent reason. While one external cause, and that a reference to his long lingering agony, would always—as on the trial—evoke this condition from the depths of his soul, it was also in its nature to arise of itself, and to draw a gloom over him, as incomprehensible to those unacquainted with his story as if they had seen the shadow of the actual Bastille thrown upon him by a summer sun, when the substance was three hundred miles away.

Only his daughter had the power of charming this black brooding from his mind. She was the golden thread that united him to a Past beyond his misery, and to a Present beyond his misery: and the sound of her voice, the light of her face, the touch of her hand, had a strong beneficial influence with him almost always. Not absolutely always, for she could recall some occasions on which her power had failed; but they were few and slight, and she believed them over.

Mr. Darnay had kissed her hand fervently and gratefully, and had turned to Mr. Stryver, whom he warmly thanked. Mr. Stryver, a man of little more than thirty, but looking twenty years older than he was, stout, loud, red, bluff, and free from any drawback of delicacy, had a pushing way of shouldering himself (morally and physically) into companies and conversations, that argued well for his shouldering his way up in life.

He still had his wig and gown on, and he said, squaring himself at his late client to that degree that he squeezed the innocent Mr. Lorry clean out of the group: “I am glad to have brought you off with honour, Mr. Darnay. It was an infamous prosecution, grossly infamous; but not the less likely to succeed on that account.”

“You have laid me under an obligation to you for life—in two senses,” said his late client, taking his hand.

“I have done my best for you, Mr. Darnay; and my best is as good as another man’s, I believe.”

It clearly being incumbent on some one to say, “Much better,” Mr. Lorry said it; perhaps not quite disinterestedly, but with the interested object of squeezing himself back again.

“You think so?” said Mr. Stryver. “Well! you have been present all day, and you ought to know. You are a man of business, too.”

“And as such,” quoth Mr. Lorry, whom the counsel learned in the law had now shouldered back into the group, just as he had previously shouldered him out of it—“as such I will appeal to Doctor Manette, to break up this conference and order us all to our homes. Miss Lucie looks ill, Mr. Darnay has had a terrible day, we are worn out.”

“Speak for yourself, Mr. Lorry,” said Stryver; “I have a night’s work to do yet. Speak for yourself.”

“I speak for myself,” answered Mr. Lorry, “and for Mr. Darnay, and for Miss Lucie, and—Miss Lucie, do you not think I may speak for us all?” He asked her the question pointedly, and with a glance at her father.

His face had become frozen, as it were, in a very curious look at Darnay: an intent look, deepening into a frown of dislike and distrust, not even unmixed with fear. With this strange expression on him his thoughts had wandered away.

“My father,” said Lucie, softly laying her hand on his.

He slowly shook the shadow off, and turned to her.

“Shall we go home, my father?”

With a long breath, he answered “Yes.”

The friends of the acquitted prisoner had dispersed, under the impression—which he himself had originated—that he would not be released that night. The lights were nearly all extinguished in the passages, the iron gates were being closed with a jar and a rattle, and the dismal place was deserted until to-morrow morning’s interest of gallows, pillory, whipping-post, and branding-iron, should repeople it. Walking between her father and Mr. Darnay, Lucie Manette passed into the open air. A hackney-coach was called, and the father and daughter departed in it.

Mr. Stryver had left them in the passages, to shoulder his way back to the robing-room. Another person, who had not joined the group, or interchanged a word with any one of them, but who had been leaning against the wall where its shadow was darkest, had silently strolled out after the rest, and had looked on until the coach drove away. He now stepped up to where Mr. Lorry and Mr. Darnay stood upon the pavement.

“So, Mr. Lorry! Men of business may speak to Mr. Darnay now?”

Nobody had made any acknowledgment of Mr. Carton’s part in the day’s proceedings; nobody had known of it. He was unrobed, and was none the better for it in appearance.

“If you knew what a conflict goes on in the business mind, when the business mind is divided between good-natured impulse and business appearances, you would be amused, Mr. Darnay.”

Mr. Lorry reddened, and said, warmly, “You have mentioned that before, sir. We men of business, who serve a House, are not our own masters. We have to think of the House more than ourselves.”

“I know, I know,” rejoined Mr. Carton, carelessly. “Don’t be nettled, Mr. Lorry. You are as good as another, I have no doubt: better, I dare say.”

“And indeed, sir,” pursued Mr. Lorry, not minding him, “I really don’t know what you have to do with the matter. If you’ll excuse me, as very much your elder, for saying so, I really don’t know that it is your business.”

“Business! Bless you, I have no business,” said Mr. Carton.

“It is a pity you have not, sir.”

“I think so, too.”

“If you had,” pursued Mr. Lorry, “perhaps you would attend to it.”

“Lord love you, no!—I shouldn’t,” said Mr. Carton.

“Well, sir!” cried Mr. Lorry, thoroughly heated by his indifference, “business is a very good thing, and a very respectable thing. And, sir, if business imposes its restraints and its silences and impediments, Mr. Darnay as a young gentleman of generosity knows how to make allowance for that circumstance. Mr. Darnay, good night, God bless you, sir! I hope you have been this day preserved for a prosperous and happy life.—Chair there!”

Perhaps a little angry with himself, as well as with the barrister, Mr. Lorry bustled into the chair, and was carried off to Tellson’s. Carton, who smelt of port wine, and did not appear to be quite sober, laughed then, and turned to Darnay:

“This is a strange chance that throws you and me together. This must be a strange night to you, standing alone here with your counterpart on these street stones?”

“I hardly seem yet,” returned Charles Darnay, “to belong to this world again.”

“I don’t wonder at it; it’s not so long since you were pretty far advanced on your way to another. You speak faintly.”

“I begin to think I am faint.”

“Then why the devil don’t you dine? I dined, myself, while those numskulls were deliberating which world you should belong to—this, or some other. Let me show you the nearest tavern to dine well at.”

Drawing his arm through his own, he took him down Ludgate-hill to Fleet-street, and so, up a covered way, into a tavern. Here, they were shown into a little room, where Charles Darnay was soon recruiting his strength with a good plain dinner and good wine: while Carton sat opposite to him at the same table, with his separate bottle of port before him, and his fully half-insolent manner upon him.

“Do you feel, yet, that you belong to this terrestrial scheme again, Mr. Darnay?”

“I am frightfully confused regarding time and place; but I am so far mended as to feel that.”

“It must be an immense satisfaction!”

He said it bitterly, and filled up his glass again: which was a large one.

“As to me, the greatest desire I have, is to forget that I belong to it. It has no good in it for me—except wine like this—nor I for it. So we are not much alike in that particular. Indeed, I begin to think we are not much alike in any particular, you and I.”

Confused by the emotion of the day, and feeling his being there with this Double of coarse deportment, to be like a dream, Charles Darnay was at a loss how to answer; finally, answered not at all.

“Now your dinner is done,” Carton presently said, “why don’t you call a health, Mr. Darnay; why don’t you give your toast?”

“What health? What toast?”

“Why, it’s on the tip of your tongue. It ought to be, it must be, I’ll swear it’s there.”

“Miss Manette, then!”

“Miss Manette, then!”

Looking his companion full in the face while he drank the toast, Carton flung his glass over his shoulder against the wall, where it shivered to pieces; then, rang the bell, and ordered in another.

“That’s a fair young lady to hand to a coach in the dark, Mr. Darnay!” he said, filling his new goblet.

A slight frown and a laconic “Yes,” were the answer.

“That’s a fair young lady to be pitied by and wept for by! How does it feel? Is it worth being tried for one’s life, to be the object of such sympathy and compassion, Mr. Darnay?”

Again Darnay answered not a word.

“She was mightily pleased to have your message, when I gave it her. Not that she showed she was pleased, but I suppose she was.”

The allusion served as a timely reminder to Darnay that this disagreeable companion had, of his own free will, assisted him in the strait of the day. He turned the dialogue to that point, and thanked him for it.

“I neither want any thanks, nor merit any,” was the careless rejoinder. “It was nothing to do, in the first place; and I don’t know why I did it, in the second. Mr. Darnay, let me ask you a question.”

“Willingly, and a small return for your good offices.”

“Do you think I particularly like you?”

“Really, Mr. Carton,” returned the other, oddly disconcerted, “I have not asked myself the question.”

“But ask yourself the question now.”

“You have acted as if you do; but I don’t think you do.”

“I don’t think I do,” said Carton. “I begin to have a very good opinion of your understanding.”

“Nevertheless,” pursued Darnay, rising to ring the bell, “there is nothing in that, I hope, to prevent my calling the reckoning, and our parting without ill-blood on either side.”

Carton rejoining, “Nothing in life!” Darnay rang. “Do you call the whole reckoning?” said Carton. On his answering in the affirmative, “Then bring me another pint of this same wine, drawer, and come and wake me at ten.”

The bill being paid, Charles Darnay rose and wished him good night. Without returning the wish, Carton rose too, with something of a threat of defiance in his manner, and said, “A last word, Mr. Darnay: you think I am drunk?”

“I think you have been drinking, Mr. Carton.”

“Think? You know I have been drinking.”

“Since I must say so, I know it.”

“Then you shall likewise know why. I am a disappointed drudge, sir. I care for no man on earth, and no man on earth cares for me.”

“Much to be regretted. You might have used your talents better.”

“May be so, Mr. Darnay; may be not. Don’t let your sober face elate you, however; you don’t know what it may come to. Good night!”

When he was left alone, this strange being took up a candle, went to a glass that hung against the wall, and surveyed himself minutely in it.

“Do you particularly like the man?” he muttered, at his own image; “why should you particularly like a man who resembles you? There is nothing in you to like; you know that. Ah, confound you! What a change you have made in yourself! A good reason for taking to a man, that he shows you what you have fallen away from, and what you might have been! Change places with him, and would you have been looked at by those blue eyes as he was, and commiserated by that agitated face as he was? Come on, and have it out in plain words! You hate the fellow.”

He resorted to his pint of wine for consolation, drank it all in a few minutes, and fell asleep on his arms, with his hair straggling over the table, and a long winding-sheet in the candle dripping down upon him.