#tlot

[checoleclerc]

Random Legolas Greenleaf moments: 152/?

[megatron-fucks]

So I'm close to starting to post Peace is a Dead Rat: the sequel to Lesser Evil. Which is exciting because I've been working on it basically since I finished Lesser Evil and it feels a bit special to me.

And since I've had such a good time with the big bangs, I was thinking about asking some artists if they were interested in doing art of piadr, which would mean getting to read it* early and also I'm definitely open to art trades, commissions, etc. if people want.

*(I have not entirely finished piadr and even the complete chapters are still being fine tuned, but I'm sure we can work something out.)

I'll probably speak to a couple of people directly but if anyone else is interested HMU!

[lucius-in-the-walls]

Soooo....Nick Offerman new tumblr sexyman?

[libertymiddleway]

American Rounds - What is Automated Ammo Retail ?

[cinelestial]

THE LEGEND OF TARZAN released in theaters 8 years ago today.

[stupidnymph]

[underwhelmingalchemist]

Someone tell me why I, someone with intense aversions to both zombies and fungi, am sitting down and watching The Last of Us

[dilfdoctordoom]

Even if I ignore all my many many issues with how Gamora was handled, volume 3 still doesn't deal with what's come before it very well and it results in the ending feeling disjointed

[jellyfemmedyke]

The world would be a better place if the legends of tomorrow made Sara Lance butch

[tamblerdraws]

Gonna post about my au again

I want Jimmy to kinda look like falin

With all the feathers n stuff

(Also he is half rito in my au

Bc birb)

[peri94]

🌑Charlie🌑 ^^

[beaft]

october 13th

happy friday the thirteenth, everyone! and to celebrate, here's that poem you probably read at school that one time! today's spooky poem is "the highwayman", a delightfully melodramatic ballad by alfred noyes. there's an analysis of it here and a sung version by loreena mckennit here. and once you've listened to that you can watch this, if you're so inclined.

THE HIGHWAYMAN

Part I

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.  The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.  the road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,    And the highwayman came riding— Riding—riding— The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin, A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin. They fitted with never a wrinkle. His boots were up to the thigh.    And he rode with a jewelled twinkle, His pistol butts a-twinkle, His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard. He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred. He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there    But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord’s daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked Where Tim the ostler listened. His face was white and peaked.    His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,    But he loved the landlord’s daughter, The landlord’s red-lipped daughter. Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—

“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night, But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light; Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,    Then look for me by moonlight, Watch for me by moonlight, I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”

He rose upright in the stirrups. He scarce could reach her hand, But she loosened her hair in the casement. His face burnt like a brand As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast; And he kissed its waves in the moonlight, (O, sweet black waves in the moonlight!) Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.

Part II He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon; And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon, When the road was a gipsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor, A red-coat troop came marching Marching—marching— King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door. They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead, But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed; Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side! There was death at every window; And hell at one dark window; For Bess could see, through the casement, the road that he would ride. They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest; They bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast! "Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say Look for me by moonlight; Watch for me by moonlight; I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way! She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good! She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood! They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years, Till, now, on the stroke of midnight, Cold, on the stroke of midnight, The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest! Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast, She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again; For the road lay bare in the moonlight; Blank and bare in the moonlight; And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain. Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear; Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear? Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill, The highwayman came riding, Riding, riding! The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up strait and still! Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night! Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light! Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath, Then her finger moved in the moonlight, Her musket shattered the moonlight, Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him - with her death. He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood! Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear How Bess, the landlord's daughter, The landlord's black-eyed daughter, Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there. Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky, With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high! Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat, When they shot him down on the highway, Down like a dog on the highway, And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.

And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees, When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, A highwayman comes riding Riding—riding— A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door. Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard, And he taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred; He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

—Alfred Noyes

[stromuprisahat]

So, what's up with these four hundred years as The Darkling's age? If I'm reading it correctly, maybe not. But didn't he tell Alina he's 120? How many lives like that could he actually live for that time?

He's older.

I don't remember if there are official numbers for the show, but Leigh didn't want to specify. According to KoS, the Fold is about four hundred years old (Chapter 17- thanks @yototothelalafell) and the Darkling wasn't exactly baby immortal, when he made it. Second Army was established by then and that took some time too, Aleksander spent his "youth" travelling the world and learning (TLoT)... that should add him at least another three hundred. I've always seen Bookling as around a millennium-old, therefore his numbness, tiredness and general air of "I've seen this shit so many times before...".

The age he told Alina was an official number. His current identity's age. I wouldn't dare to guess how many he shed, but the last one was supposed to be the most powerful, therefore it's safe to assume he usually "died" sooner.

Show!Aleksander feels younger, more hopeful and alive. Even Second Army was established relatively recently if I remember correctly. I'd guess him around five hundred.

[sadsongsandstories]

I want a Percy Jackson musical series

Show me all of them

Percy's full progression into the ultimate hero

With leitmotifs and reprises to wrap it all together

Because there's no rules to say that musicals have to be a once off spectacle

Although funnily enough I don't think that there's ever been a sequel musical

Except mamma Mia 2, but that doesn't count

I'm talkin stage shows

And I don't think that there's any with a sequel

Which is a shame

Because there's no real reason why not

It would work fine

I guess you don't want to limit your audience because of money

And if you're going to show a sequel, and the original is not being performed, people would be stuck

But surely, for an old enough show it would be okay

Or at least a spin off, like starkids hatchetfield musicals

The guy who didn't like musicals and black friday

Which are two separate shows, but would make an amazing joint title

Turns out that there have been some, but they're all for older shows

Falsettos apparently used to be a show and a sequel, which were then combined into one show

Which I guess explains why the lesbians from next door don't show up until act 2

And why the end of act 1 is so weird

I fully didn't understand it at first

But the history and context makes me appreciate the show so much more

Like I said, it's a shame that you can't make a sequel for a Broadway show, with extensions on the motifs and ideas, but tlot does make sense given the live nature of the medium and the resulting limitations. Without the original being readily accessible, a sequel is simply impractical. In a way, it does make the form of a musical even stronger, where each piece has to be a complete and entire story, with a brilliant book end with the opening and closing number

There's no witty setup for a sequel, or questions left unanswered

It's a beginning, character introductions, two hours of interactions and conflict and set up and resolution and growth, and then a brilliant ending song to tie it all together. The characters are complete, that's all we get in one perfect product

It helps the show to have a sense of scale and weight

Where, you can change or add songs, but there's no what if. The journey is complete

And you can do that for other media, books and movies and things

But the possibility is always open for a seuqel

Because money is a thing

And the original is readily available

Yoooo my waiting zone has an ensuite bathroom

This is da beeest

Maybe that's why the ending of the Percy Jackson musical feels so strange

Because the book is absolutely setting up for a seuqel

It's the ultimate setup

Establishing a new plot twist reveal antagonist at the very end

The kind of twist that, I might note, is so well set up that it's less of a haha gottem, and more of a wooooooah... Wait what?!? Oooh okay that makes sense

Strong character, established as a friend and mentor

With long history and familiarity with the main fleet of characters

Grover and annabeth

And everyone at camp

Everyone except for Percy

And so we trust him

Because they all so and why wouldn't we

And I don't remember how it's done in the book, I think he gives Percy a tarwnchika or somtehring

But in the musical I was unsure why he doesn't kill him

But this production makes it very clear that it was all and always annaberh

Which is really cool, and feeds well into the ending of the series

Which we don't get to see as a musical, but audience who knows will know

Like, in this one, it was so very obvious that luke can and would have killed percy

Posed above him with his sword at his throat

He's a really cool kind of villain

He doesn't want to be a villain

He believes that he is right

But he's not exactly a moral or even grey villain

Because choosing to kill a child after you reveal your schemes to them is never justified

And it is like 17 and 12 at this ooint

No self defence

No other thing that could justify murder

It's just murder

And murder isn't cool

Even if you are hot and blonde

Him and annabeth are really meant to be

And the overly nice Luke we got in the musical was perfect

The show does a great job of justifying him and his hatred for the gods

I wish they made that make sense for the ending

Where it's like "we can't just sit around here and wait, let's go and fight" which doesn't make a whole lot of sense

I guess it's like a "we can't just hide here all of our lives"

But that doesn't make a whole lot of sense

I think pick a side was meant to a cutaway back to camp song

Which works great, and it's a great song

Gets some more insight from some of the other main but not main main characters

Those outside of the big three, you could say

Provides some context and weight for the mission, so that those people don't just disappear

The entire quest does have quite a montage feel to it

Which I don't really like

I know time was an issue and there's a lot to stuff into one two and a bit hour musical

But it feels like a speedrun of the book at times, which seems like a disservice

Before abruptly slowing down for a character moment or significant event to the overarching plot

I think that they actually included more percabeth moments than were in the original musical

Which I really appreciated

Percabeth is always welcome

Like the motorcycle moment

With a spotlight right on them

Which was both hilarious and adorable and perfect for both of their characters

With Annabeth driving and Percy with his hands wrapped around her waist

In fear and love

The kids being kids was so well done

Percy's fidget spinner was perfecta

And the baggy clothes were great

Because of course Percy would wear his one baggy blue hoodie every day

With big old pants that don't fit quite right

He's a 12 year old boy and he's awkward and gangly and grisubg

And I should prond look where I'm going

Instead of writing

Foot traffic be wild

At this point of the story he's not yet a hero, only a hero to be

And the acting absolutely reflected that

Which is great, because far too often heroes start off feeling like heroes

Cough cough Rey cough cough

Instead of the whiney little brats they should be

Dragged into adventure kicking and screaming by their wizard uncle dad teacher mentor

[abellinthecupboard]

The Highwayman

PART ONE The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.   The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.   The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,   And the highwayman came riding—        Riding—riding— The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door. He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,   A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin. They fitted with never a wrinkle. His boots were up to the thigh.   And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,        His pistol butts a-twinkle, His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky. Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard. He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred.   He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there   But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,        Bess, the landlord’s daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair. And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked Where Tim the ostler listened. His face was white and peaked.   His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,   But he loved the landlord’s daughter,        The landlord’s red-lipped daughter. Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say— “One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night, But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light; Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,   Then look for me by moonlight,        Watch for me by moonlight, I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.” He rose upright in the stirrups. He scarce could reach her hand, But she loosened her hair in the casement. His face burnt like a brand As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;   And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,        (O, sweet black waves in the moonlight!) Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west. PART TWO He did not come in the dawning. He did not come at noon;   And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,   When the road was a gypsy’s ribbon, looping the purple moor,   A red-coat troop came marching—        Marching—marching— King George’s men came marching, up to the old inn-door. They said no word to the landlord. They drank his ale instead.   But they gagged his daughter, and bound her, to the foot of her narrow bed. Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!   There was death at every window;        And hell at one dark window; For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride. They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest. They had bound a musket beside her, with the muzzle beneath her breast! “Now, keep good watch!” and they kissed her. She heard the doomed man say— Look for me by moonlight;        Watch for me by moonlight; I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way! She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good! She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!   They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,        Cold, on the stroke of midnight, The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers! The tip of one finger touched it. She strove no more for the rest.   Up, she stood up to attention, with the muzzle beneath her breast.   She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;   For the road lay bare in the moonlight;        Blank and bare in the moonlight; And the blood of her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love’s refrain. Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horsehoofs ringing clear;   Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear? Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill, The highwayman came riding—        Riding—riding— The red coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still. Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!   Nearer he came and nearer. Her face was like a light. Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,   Then her finger moved in the moonlight,        Her musket shattered the moonlight, Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death. He turned. He spurred to the west; he did not know who stood   Bowed, with her head o’er the musket, drenched with her own blood!   Not till the dawn he heard it, and his face grew grey to hear   How Bess, the landlord’s daughter,        The landlord’s black-eyed daughter, Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there. Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky, With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high. Blood red were his spurs in the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat; When they shot him down on the highway,        Down like a dog on the highway, And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat. .       .       . And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees, When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,   When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,   A highwayman comes riding—        Riding—riding— A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door. Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard. He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred.   He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there   But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,        Bess, the landlord’s daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

— Alfred Noyes