#Brass & Silver Carving Temple Door | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

gaiuswrites · 3 years

Text

King of Cups || Chapter 5

Chapter 5: The Moon

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | four

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: All relationships are about give and take.

Word count: 7k~

Rating: Explicit (Mature until the last few paragraphs)

Warnings/tags: nightmares, trauma, drinking, fluff and pining, drugs/being drugged (medicinal), wound care, blood, shots/needles, mature themes/language, emo shit, masturbation (f)

Notes: Hi friends. This is broken up in two portions: the first, being in Nevarro, and the second taking place some time later (hopefully that becomes clear when you read it heh). I'm hoping I captured the varying, distinct tones in each of the sections. Please feel free to reach out to me. :) Enjoy x (gif credit: @skyshipper)

They come at night.

The visions.

Your legs are rock, crumbling - eroding - with each weighted step, trudging through the city you once knew, laid bare to waste all around you. The air is grey brown, chalked with dust—with ash. There are bodies lining the road like trimmed hedges, floating by their ankles—ugly, corporal zeppelins. They’re pale. Their eyes are burned to coal and their tongues hang dead and waxy from their mouths.

They begin the same, choreographed like this; you follow the paths your mind has carved out for you, time and time again.

You spot him, plated in silver at the end of the row. Your feet stop. You see him, and he sees you. You feel his eyes - hawkish, piercing - under the murk of his visor. A predator’s gaze. He’s got a man in his fist—you think you recognize him, you might not—held by the scruff of his neck.

Sometimes it’s X’elo, bending to break in his gloved grasp. Other times, a stranger—a half remembered photograph—a memory of a memory of another dream entirely.

And sometimes, it’s you.

You hear the howl of wind scream through your bones—through the bones of the ruins there—but you don’t feel it. There’s only heat—the kind that’s unavoidable and omnipresent, as heavy as guilt. The hunter brings his hands to frame the man’s temples—yours too, sometimes— pebbles and slate trembling off you as you move towards them. You’re running, you realize, immobile but running and you’re not sure how or why—you never get there in time to find out.

He snaps his neck. You hear the crunch in your own ear—inside your own head.

It becomes night—blood moons drip wet from the sky. They splash onto the dirt. It turns to mud, caking the underside of your boots, squelching as you walk. You round a corner and—

You don’t recognize this. This is new. This— no, this is wrong.

A door. Rutted, freestanding—a dark monolith.

You stutter in your sleep, a crease in your brow.

It’s just a door.

No, not here—

A door. Black wood, a brass handle. Just a door, and you’re sweating. Just a door, and you’re suffocating—you’re being smothered—like your outsides are clawing to get back in through your throat and it’s sucking you in—this door, it’s just a door, it’s just a—closer, nearer, looming taller overhead—

You gasp awake, clutching at the scratchy blanket drenched cold with your sweat. Your rasps echo against the hull, sharp pants scraping the hollow metal, and you bring a hand to your chest—steadying, steadying, the fear of your racing heart.

You sit up, throwing your legs over the edge of the cot, and rake a shaky hand through your hair—the damp of the strands sticking to the nape of your neck. Your breathing evens out, tampering, with your forearms braced on the plats of your thighs; the rise and fall of your breasts against your sleep shirt quiet until you’ve stilled.

You roll off the bed, the aluminum frame whining with the shift, and you knock a knee into one of the carbonite pods as you stumble out of the storage room—your bedroom, now.

You couldn’t handle much more of it. You bought a bedroll the first planet you stopped to refuel at after Bajic, hermitting yourself away into the bowels of his ship. It was the only smidgen of untapped real estate left in the Crest, and it was far be it from you to complain about location. You were just thankful to be out of that copilot’s chair—no amount of bacta could unwind the knots in your neck after sleeping there night after restless night.

So you bunked with the bounties Mando had brought in, like one big macabre slumber party—the chrome slabs slotted up - watchful - in their chambers.

You try not to spare it much thought.

Padding through the Crest, soft bare feet leaving crescents on the steel deck, you step into the fresher to splash water on your face, jolting you back into the present and out of the nightmare, out of—

Just a door.

No—

You towel off, patting yourself dry. Inhaling, your lungs expand with the massive rush of air, and you hold it there until it hurts, until it prickles the corners of your eyes, and finally - deliberately - you release.

You look into the mirror.

You blink. She blinks back.

///

You make breakfast now.

It’s not something you both agreed to, it’s just something you do. Funny, how quickly you adapt to new normals, to new routines. You have rituals now—you two. You make breakfast, and you leave a bowl for him out on the counter before you slip into the shower. When you get out, the bowl is empty and the dishes are washed clean, drying face down on a rag. You smile. You never speak of it. Like ivy crawling up cobbled walls towards the sun, it happens— without prompt or feed, it simply is.

///

Nevarro reminds you of Dallenor—the craggy blandness of it, the endless black sands—and you fight the urge to hate it solely based on this principal alone.

You stay on the ship with the little one while Mando goes into town, meeting with some Greef Karga character to sew up Guild business. You have no idea how he ever managed to get any hunting done with the kid always acting up, pulling hijinks and inciting anarchy. He’s nearly torn the whole place to shreds. How such a tiny body can produce such a massive wake of damage is a mystery you will never solve.

You make yourself watch.

You force your jaw, set and held, as Karga’s men haul the quarries out of the ship, hovering eerily down the ramp.

X’elo, the smuggler from Vohai, some two-bit thief, and a woman Mando caught before you met, all parading single file out of the Crest like a funeral procession. They’re criminals, each and every one—they’re violent and they’ve done terrible, irredeemable things—but they’re people, too.

And isn’t that what makes it all so cruel. So sad.

The least you can do is give them an ounce of dignity before they’re subjected to their fate— however harsh, however fair.

So, you watch.

Maybe they don’t deserve it—they’re here by their own hand, after all, a bed of their own making— and maybe they haven’t earned it back any. But perhaps it’s less about what you can offer them and more about what you refuse to let the galaxy take. Because don’t you deserve to stay unfragmented? Complete? Would you rather be robbed of this humanity, your sense of decency—have it stolen from you?

Doesn’t it cost you nothing to be kind?

You pray neither sound nor fury will strip you of this—this open-eyed tenderness. You beg that you remain, undistilled, despite despite despite.

///

You’re so much more relaxed now then when you first came on board. You were as quiet as a church mouse then, tip toeing around the ship like you were afraid you’d ruin her.

Din will never admit it, but you even managed to get the jump on him once or twice—appearing exactly when and where he least expected. And he didn’t - couldn’t have - he didn’t expect you.

This.

And he looks at you now: lit by lamplight—the kerosene filament flickering warm in the dark hull— slotted back and humming to yourself as you swipe a finger over a holopad, feet propped up on a crate by the table, and it all looks organic. Right.

The drink in your hand, sloshing against the amber jug, no doubt eases your mood. You’re drinking it right from the bottle. He thinks it’s fucking charming.

“Enjoying yourself?”

“Maker above,” you hiss, startling a foot out of your seat. You shoot him an accusatory glare, but there’s no malice in it—there’s laughter ringing around your eyes.

Honestly, that man needs a bell on him.

“Don’t let me interrupt you,” he comments dryly, stepping past.

You move your legs from their perch and sit a little straighter. “You- you could join me,” you chime, “if you want.”

His feet slow until he’s stopped completely and he pans over his shoulder to you. You can’t read his expression—it’s steel all the way through— but you think you feel the air around you both quiver - shudder - with something unspoken, something kinetic.

The scrape of the chair as he pulls it out from the table is deafening, the thunk of his metal body sinking into it even louder.

“What are you reading?” Mando asks.

You cast him a sheepish smile. “CoreWorld News.”

“Anything good?”

Your mouth twists, biting the inside of your cheek. “Never.”

He huffs a breathy chuckle.

There didn’t seem to be any good news anymore. You forage for it—scouring the net for just a whiff of it, of something pure. There is plenty of greatness left in the world, but you find that what it lacks most is goodness— humble and precious. More often than not, you come up empty and disappointed—but never so dissuaded that you do not search again the next day, and the day after that, and after that and after that again.

“How’d it go with Karga?” you ask, setting the holopad down and switching off the display.

“Fine. Good.”

“Good,” you smile. He’s terse—sparse. You think it’s endearing now—vexing too, without a doubt, but the two aren’t mutually exclusive anymore.

“Nothing close to Coruscant yet. More outer rim chaavla,” he grits out, swallowing. “I’m sorry.”

There’s a tickle of bemusement in your voice and a quirk to your chin. “What are you apologizing for?”

“I know you want to get back.”

You hope the glow from the lantern in the galley is dim enough to camouflage the tinge sprung on your cheeks. The truth is becoming more and more clear to you, whether you like it or not: with each passing day, you want to go back to Coruscant less and less. You have to—you know you have to. You have your career, your whole life, waiting for you. But—

But.

“You told me it would take a while—longer than I’d like.”

“I know.”

“I’m happy to be here— I-I’m grateful,” you catch yourself.

He clenches his fist under the table, beyond your line of sight, gnarled tight into a ball. It tethers him down, anchoring him in place—because if he weren’t, fuck, he’d fly out of his seat so fast—

“Alright,” he chokes out.

“Alright,” you smile, glassy.

There’s a kind of mist encircling you two, an incense of a sort, intoxicating and sinewy and lulling you into a hushed calm. It’s thick around you - lush - and you can feel it settle like lead behind your eyes.

“Can I pour you a drink—for later?”

It’s late into the evening, well beyond the hour where the lines of decorum blur. You’ve crossed into the Other—that tarred, limber undertow. Dangerously weightless and free. The liminality between here and there— that twilight place.

Shadows bounce along the walls. Your outline—his too.

“I’d like that.”

///

You’re not as tipsy as you could be, but you’re less sober than you’d like.

Subconsciously, buried somewhere deep, you’re aware that Mando is humoring you and that you should let him get on with his night—but you don’t.

You’ll be annoyed at yourself later for this.

“Okay okay, what are your hobbies?”

A deadpan tilt of his helmet. “I—I don’t understand the question.”

You gape at him, your bottom lip glossed as it parts, plush and wet, and you laugh. “Hobbies,” you reiterate. “You know, stuff you like to do? For fun?”

You see the gears under that helm wheel and spin. It shouldn’t take anyone this long. The question is basic and the answer should be relatively immediate—but Mando has to mull it over. In all of his cycles, as hardened as they’ve been, he hasn’t been gifted the luxury of leisure - fun - and he hasn’t been afforded the time to dwell on the lack of it.

Selfless, without a moment of ownership to himself. This is the way.

“I-,” he pauses, mouth clamping shut. “Skip.”

“Fine, fine,” you tut. “What is... your favorite planet?”

Din stretches back, his beskar groaning against the chair.

All the planets he’d visited were out of necessity—out of demand and credit, never because he wanted to be there and certainly never out of favor. They were tainted—made insipid and unremarkable by the quarries he chased to them.

But there is one in particular that stands out; he remembers a planet the kid seemed to like—how he babbled the whole time, slung in the satchel at his hip, entranced and enthralled. He was on his best behavior, too—the little womp rat didn’t even try to stuff his tiny, wrinkled face with anything. Not once.

“Adega.”

“Adega,” you repeat, testing the name. “I don’t think I’ve heard of it. What’s it like?”

He draws in a long breath, his ribs yawning against the corset of his armor.

He should’ve gotten up by now—fuck, he shouldn’t have ever sat down in the first place. It’s not like he didn’t have anything to do; he needs to downshift the Crest’s power converters, switch off the shield projectors, chart a course to his next job, get some damn sleep if he’s lucky…

But you’re here before him. You’re here and he can’t deny you—not when you’re looking at him like that, like the sun shines out from his fucking face—far softer, far kinder than he deserves. Not when you’re here now, and you won’t be for much longer.

He’s racing against the clock—the swinging inevitability of it. Each moment he shares with you, is a moment that brings him closer to taking you back.

Din is a fool. He knows he’ll lose. He races anyways.

“It’s a water planet—mostly ocean,” he begins.

You allow your eyes to dip close, savoring the description, and you tuck your legs up to fold over themselves.

“But there are islands. Some are small, private—with red trees that go all the way to the sand. Others have whole cities on them.”

You remain quiet - patient - like marble, chiseled and sanded as thin as chiffon, veiling over your face in fine, cascading sheets. Transparent - ethereal - you listen to him blind, letting his words guide your sight.

“The kid-"

Your tongue darts out over your lip and he stutters. Din has to shift his hips, relieving the growing heat that’s tightening below his waist.

“T-The uh, the kid loved it. I’d never seen him like that. The bogwing didn’t want to leave,” he chuckles. He conjures the details he thinks you want—the details he thinks you might like most. “The people are honest—generous. The days are long, and the nights are warm.”

He’s no poet, but it doesn’t bother you.

“I can see it,” you say, before blinking your eyes open. "I'll have to go some time." There’s pink on your cheeks, seeping past your jaw and below the neckline of your shirt to the swallow of your breasts.

You look at him— he looks at you.

A noise hums from somewhere inside the ship.

“Are you scared of anything?” you murmur.

Mando lets a beat pass.

“I don’t think so. Not yet.” You smile at that—small, wistful. You’re not even sure why. “You?” he asks.

Your chest rises with a deep inhale. “I used to be scared of dying. I thought I was gonna die young. I was convinced—I had dreams about it all the time as a kid.”

But maybe that’s not it entirely. Maybe it’s not the fear of dying itself, but the dread of living and dying alone. And isn’t that at the heart of it—at all of this?

I just don’t want to do this all on my own.

He’s never been privy to this version of you—this sloping tone, the liquor buzzing through your speech, churning your words to treacle. You sound nonchalant in way that’s jarring, as if you aren’t talking about death— the fear of your own tenuous mortality.

“But I bet everyone does,” you continue dismissively, “just one of those things.”

He’s almost cautious when he replies. “I’m not sure they do.”

Your expression contorts, knotting for an agonizing moment—until the tension all but disappears. “Huh,” you shrug flippantly, and take a swig. That heaviness, that fog, dissipates nearly as soon as it arrived. “Anyways, favorite color?”

He rolls his eyes; you can see it in the way he tilts his head to you. Really, he seems to say, how old are we?

“You’re right, you’re right— that’s low brow. I can do better…” You melodramatically tap your chin, eyeing him pensively.

“Okay. What’s that?”

“What’s what?”

“That,” you nod to his pauldron, “that symbol on your shoulder.”

Tawny fingertips trace absentmindedly over the emblem. “It’s a Mudhorn. It’s-” Mando hesitates, before his hand returns to his lap. “It’s the sigil of my clan.”

You arch your brow. “I didn’t realize you had a clan— is it- is it like, big?” Stars, you sound dumb—and there’s no excuse. You’re not even that drunk. “How- what is a clan, exactly?”

“In Mandalorian culture, your clan is your family. Aliit. Mine, it’s—it’s a clan of two.”

Something in the pit of you stirs, a sickly warmth, pulling at your gut like a rope. You glance over to where the child sleeps, snuggled away in his pram and your lips curl into a smile, hidden behind the bottle you bring to them.

“You’re lucky to have each other,” you say gently, taking another sip.

“We almost didn’t—shouldn’t have.”

His hands tense into his legs—the creak of leather against his thigh plates is audible even from where you sit.

You narrow your eyes curiously. He heaves.

“He was a bounty and I did my job. I turned him in. I went back for him, but—the kid, he saved my life, and I could’ve left him there—I would’ve, before.”

It all comes out like tires grinding through gravel, bruised and roughened. It’s regret, you realize—this is the sound of guilt, frigid and rued, pushing through his modulator. It makes you want to reach out to him, put your hand on his, comfort him, reassure him—something. But you can’t. He’s too far away. He’s on his own sea—untouchable.

You decide it right then and there: you can’t bare that sound, the wracked timbre of it. You hate it. You think you’d do anything to rid the way in constricts his throat—makes him hoarse and clipped, even through the guise of his helmet. It pains you, a visceral stabbing, right to your core. You could go a lifetime without hearing it, and it still wouldn’t be long enough.

“But you didn’t,” you offer.

“No,” he utters. “No, I didn’t.”

Mando gives you these tortuous, beautiful previews of himself. Like light passing through stained glass, you sneak brief glimpses of the paintings there, the stories and fables and the lessons they teach, until some great cloud drifts past, blotting out the sun, and all goes dark again.

You know this is rare. You know you’ll be home soon. You know to cherish it—to relish what he gives, when he gives it, if he gives it at all.

But—you want more. You’re a simple woman, at the end of all things: all you want is to hold him.

“I think you’re a better man than you let on, Mando.” There’s a knowing twinkle in your eye, a coy lilt to your loosened tongue. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think you were flirting.

“You don’t know that,” he huffs, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I have my suspicions." You're smirking something awful - deadly - as it sears into him.

He grunts, flames licking up his chest. Din has to bite back his grin, making careful it doesn’t shape the sound of his vowels; grateful for the helmet that buffers him, the mask that seals him away into anonymity, into apathy.

If he can convince you, maybe he can convince himself too. Maybe.

“Next question, dala.”

If he didn’t know any better, he’d think you were flirting.

///

Your eyes are blown wide, gawking at him.

“I’m not a medic, Mando—I’m not a fucking surgeon!”

Mando crashes through the Razor Crest, red dollops trailing in pools behind him. He grunts, hand pressed to his side, blood pushing out of the gash that’s torn into him— a canyon down his unplated body, spewing angry and insistent with each spasm of his heart.

With a broad stroke, he sweeps the clutter off the table and onto the floor, spraying across the deck.

“Medkit,” he barks, hoisting himself up to lie, hulking and pained, out on the slab. You scamper to it, ripping it off the wall, and return to his lumbering body. His breathing is labored—he’s forcing it, seething it out.

Mando’s legs bend off the table at an uncomfortable angle and he rasps when you crane them up by his booted ankles – fuck, he’s heavy – to situate a small crate under his feet. They drop with a dulled thud— without muscle, without resistance. The languid weight of a dying man.

You’re stationed beside him, medkit spilled open. “W-What now, what do you need?”

“I need you,” you heard him say, deep and bassy, as he ascended the ramp. With a colossal drum of your heart, you spun around - I need you - a blush stippling your jaw. The pregnant expectation built behind weeks and weeks of stalemates and stolen glances - I need you - all rearing to a head here and now and finally, finally something—until you saw him, doubled over, bracing himself on the wall, a line of blood smearing behind his palm.

“Bacta-“ Mando wheezes, “bacta shot.”

You rifle through the supplies, littering them as you dig through the box.

Sure, you had gotten your first aid certification with the Movement—it was required, and you retook the courses every few cycles. But that was gauze wrappings and mouth-to-mouth and anti-inflammatory tablets—that was not this, and this is fucking surgery. You’re out of your depth—and Mando must be out of his damn mind.

“I nee-“ He inhales sharply, and his body spasms, gripping the ledge of the table like a vice. “My chest plate—take it off.”

He’s told you bits and parcels of the Mandalorian way—of his Creed— and you aren’t under the impression that this would be strictly sanctioned.

“M-Mando, I thought— are you sure?”

“Yes I’m kriffing sure—do it. Just do it,” he snaps. He hates this—he fucking hates this. Soft. Weak—weak weak weak, he’s so fucking weak. Laandur.

You fumble over the armor, uncoordinated as you unclasp it from his cuirass and Mando strangles out a sigh as soon as it leaves him. At last, you fish the shot from the medkit and hold it up to the light, the medicine like venom as it whirls in the tube. It’s uncomfortably large—simply holding it makes you squirm.

“W-What is that?”

Your eyes flit over the needle and then back to the bounty hunter. “What do you mean ‘what is that’? It’s a shot.”

“That’s a lance,” he growls.

“It’s ebacta-”

“It’s green!” he hisses out incredulously.

“It’s all they had!” you bite back, panic skipping through your veins.

You’re practically yelling at each other, the tension winding and coiling tighter and higher as the seconds tick by. You feel each one, tapping along your vertebra like a metronome, keeping time, keeping time, wasting time—all this back and forth is a waste of time and—

You’re nervous—you’re fucking terrified—and Mando doesn’t frequent this position either—this vulnerability. He doesn’t know what to do with it, where he belongs in it. I need you, he said. He hadn’t needed anyone before and now look at him, bare breasted before you, wounded and mewling like roadkill.

You rap the needle with a knuckle, banishing the air pocket, and test the plunger. Droplets of liquid spurt from the tip, and he begins to rile.

“Dala,” he warns.

“Mando,” you mimic.

“Nu draar-”

“Do you want my help or not?” you spit out, and he shrinks, visor trained on the jab, that unnatural chartreuse swirling inside the glass vial. “Okay. Okay, on three.”

“Wait, wait-"

“One..." You try to sound firm - competent - but you’re a fucking mess. Your breathing is erratic, tunic soiled with sweat, and you’re trembling.

“You don’t-“

“Two...”

Mando huffs exasperatedly, “Ah, fuck it-”

“Three.”

You drive the syringe down, stabbing into him. His body seizes—flexing rigid—as soon as the viscous gel is injected, oozing oozing oozing until it’s pumped empty and spent.

And then— nothing.

All that whirlwinded frenzy, that raging tempest, and now silence— dead silence. He lays there motionless, fidgeting ceased, that ungodly needle pitched like a flag pole from his chest.

… Shit.

“Hey,” you touch a hand to his shoulder.

The smug bastard could be having a laugh under that helmet and you’d have no idea. That’s what you tell yourself—that’s what you’d prefer to believe anyways; it’s better than the alternative, better than—than than than fuck—

“Hey, this isn’t funny...” A little rougher now, you jostle him. He doesn’t react.

“… Mando?”

His head lolls to the side.

With a whistle, the room goes mute. Sound and oxygen alike, it all gets vacuumed out, and your senses invert. You can hear every tick of your body: the bone of your jaw as your teeth mash together, the pulse at your wrist, your stammering heart beating beating beating in your inner ear, the bob of your trachea as it grates against your neck.

Kriff. You killed him—you killed the Mandalorian.

Oh Maker, oh shit-

You press down around the puncture site with a wide palm before yanking the syringe out, flinging it away. You’re shaking him now, wrestling with his limp body, and you’re shouting—croaked with worry, with fear.

“Fuck, Mando—Mando!"

The sound is like glass shattering.

He gasps wildly, gulping down air as if he’d been drowned, writhing like the undead from your operating table. You buckle over him, fatigued and slumped, and cry out in blessed relief.

Your instincts, those poor frail nerves, tell you to smack him—but given that he’s bleeding out, you refrain.

“Don’t do that to me!” you exclaim, breathy and strained.

“Don’t do that to you?” Mando retorts, panting. You let out a weak crackle of laughter and he moans. It’s like he’s been hit by a speeder - twice - forward and then reversed over again.

“Maker, what did you give to me?”

“I got it on Vohai. They uhm- they said it was good quality-“

“And you believed them?”

Your mouth twists shyly. “I-I wanted to believe them,” you correct him.

It’s his turn to laugh now, tired and raw. Oh, you sweet little thing.

You swallow, saliva coating your ragged windpipe. “I’m sorry—Maker, I’m so sorry, a-are you alright?”

“Yeah,” he scoffs, gargled, “but remind me never to have you save my life again.”

That earns him a light slap to his arm. If he’s well enough to dole cheap shots, you figure he’s fit enough to take yours too. He’s spliced open, whole chunks of him missing, and he still has the wherewithal to be an ass.

“Well, you’re not out of the woods just yet.”

///

Regrettably, Mando might have been spot on about the bacta—in fact, you’re starting to question whether it’s really bacta at all.

A delirious grunt ripples through the bounty hunter’s modulator as you cut open his ripped flight suit, careful not to slice him with the vibroblade. His black undershirt is matted to his gaping wound, the blood bubbled over and through the rough material, and you have to peel the fibers out of his coagulating flesh to get to it. You toss the fabric into the bucket next to you with a sloppy, wet plop.

It didn’t even occur to you. You were so swept away by the state of him—by the dizzying carnival of it all as soon as Mando breached the Crest—you didn’t consider the fact that you’d be seeing him. Touching him.

You have to mask your expression when you meet his skin for the first time. He’s golden—he’s golden everywhere—like desert sand dunes sizzling under ripe, afternoon suns—dappled with memories of violence, branded into him.

You’ve never heard him like this. He keeps noising these feverish little nothings— gasping, moaning in a language you don’t recognize—and you do your best to distract him. It’s one of the tenets you recall from your aid training: keep them talking, keep them sharp—engaged.

“Do each of these have a story?” you ask, eyeing the marks that riddle and pucker him.

“Some of them.”

“What about this one here?” You touch a faded ribbon of scarring. It’s older than the others—paler. Your fingertips are cool and he blazes beneath them.

He tries not to twitch. You try not to notice.

“Fell out of a tree when I was a kid—haven’t thought about that in a while,” Mando pants. “B-Broke my wrist, got scraped to shit— my buir, m-my mother, she chewed my ear off.”

“Mm, I bet she did,” you smirk—you can relate to the feeling.

“I-I remember the lines around her eyes. H-Her eyes— they were green, bright green— jade.”

He lets out a wince as you swipe a disinfectant soaked rag over him. You cringe and flash him an apologetic look.

“Sounds beautiful,” you muse, a quiet smile pulling at you as your deft fingers work. “Did you get her pretty eyes too, Mando?”

Something is caught in his throat— a chuckle, or a cough more likely. “No, they’re brown. Just brown.”

Your whole body locks.

Just brown.

Two words - just brown - and suddenly you’re rich— full to the brim with him.

And fuck, if it doesn't feels like a gift. Like he gathered something precious and laid it in your arms and said here, you can have this now. We can share. Sometimes you forget that there’s a man under all those layers; a man— a warm blooded, tanned skin, brown eyed man. You hadn’t often wondered what the Mandalorian was hiding under his armor—he was so finite, so unmovable, the mask he wore became him. He was beskar - indistinguishably - through and through.

But that was before. And now you’re blinded with him— with all the details you cannot unsee.

“S-She was the last person to take care of me—like this.”

It comes over you so suddenly, you’re taken aback by it: that knee-jerking gut wrench. And not because there’s heartbreak in his voice, but because there isn’t. Because he’s had to be so invulnerable—so unyielding and invincible for so long—that he doesn’t even realize what he’s without.

And you, if only for a silly, naïve moment, wish you could give it back to him. Every little ounce of goodness that he’s been deprived of—to dip into his time stream, and rewrite.

To plant but a seed of it there, even if you don’t stay long enough to see it’s harvest.

“Tell me more about her,” you say.

And beyond expectation, beyond reason, he does.

///|||///

This—this is wrong.

He feels pulpy - soggy - wrong. He’s more liquid than he should be—there’s nothing solid about him now. He’s swept away in the tide of it—this green current charging through him and he let’s go - what is there to hold onto anyways? - floating belly up on his back.

Din spills—like the aperture split into his side, he gushes. Whatever dam he’s forged around himself, the beskar and duracrete there, cracks.

The stream trickles until he floods and like any good story, he starts from the beginning.

He tells you of home—his first home. Aq Vetina.

You’re plucking spikes and nettle from his side, and he barely feels it—all he has is this sinking, unending wet—and they hit the tray with dull plunks, punctuated and staccatoed.

He tells you of the adobe dwellings and the domes and columns. Marketplace canopies and caravan bazaars.

plunk

The oak trees, the willow bark, the spires he’d climb until the sun set.

plunk

The tall mountains and the dry, rubbled earth. Of the nameless neighbor children he played with, kicking a ball through the dirt. Red robes trailing, fraying.

plunk

His mother. The shawl she wore. The copper of his father’s ring. The herbs she grew by the light from their kitchen window. How he held her hand while they sat by the fire.

plunk

His tongue doesn’t belong to him—it wags numb and supple. He’s lost his sense of direction, unbound by north or south, and these words are simply happening to him. They keep happening and happening and escaping and—

It’s not just the off-bacta speaking for him, making him pliant. He wants this. He wants to bend—he wants to bend for you.

And now there’s no stopping it—there’s no breaking this, no halting it's downhill momentum. Din describes the attack, the heat of the fire as his town - his world - burned down, of his parents concealing him—a child, abandoned and bunkered away in a cellar to live or die with or without them— being rescued by the Death Watch and raised as a Mandalorian himself.

Your bandaging has long since finished, but you remain, hovering over him as you listen—listen as the jigsawed shards of his life stitch themselves together. Like a moth to a flame, you are drawn in and in and in, until you’re butted against the wick of it. Inseparable.

When the well of his words runs dry, neither of you go to move. Pin-drop silence envelops you. Your hands still on his chest, palms like a weighted quilt—warming him, securing him. He feels-

He feels safe.

“Mando,” you murmur, and the epithet has never sounded so fucking sacred, whispered from you like a prayer. You cripple him; the web of concern along your brow, the sheen in your eyes, the breathy part of your lips.

His throat has gone dry and he shakes his head left right, beskar grating against the makeshift gurney. Mando. No. No, that’s not right—that’s not who he is, that’s not who he wants you to know.

He draws his hand up—it’s so fucking heavy, he can barely lift it—but he tries, he tries, he wants to. You’re right here, you’re touching his chest and you’re healing his body—his mind too, if he’d only let you—and if he could just get to you. If he could just lace his fingers with yours—would you let him? Should you?

“M-My name-"

A warbled wail from the kid’s alcove rips through the cradling hush, and you both react immediately, lurching up to tend to the child. Din forgets—he hears his foundling and his reason leaves him—and he flinches with a grimace. You urge him down, steadying him with a pointed look.

“Rest.”

It’s a command, there’s no question to it, and it’s teeming with all of these unrecognizable concepts— care and assurance, worry and compassion. So impossible to disobey in the way that gentle things are—too soft and too right to say no to. He relents - gives - helmet thudding when it connects back with the table.

Din, he pleads, desperate for you to read his mind. Like a mantra, his subconscious rambles it on a drug addled figure-eight, coming around only to repeat itself again, infinite and wanting. Din Din Din-

Only when the child’s cries muffle into hiccups and his hiccups slur into coos does he let his exhaustion get the better of him. There was too much—it was an assault from all fronts. The blood loss, the drugs, his life like a monsoon as it crushed him open. And all it took was a wound, a brush with his mortality, for him to surrender it to you.

He turns his head, searching for you through the blur of his vision. You’re there in the doorway, rocking his boy in your arms, haloed with light.

I need you, he said. I need you I need you I need you I need-

Din’s eyes shut.

He doesn’t dream. He sleeps like the dead, blissful and undisturbed.

///

You spend hours scrubbing the deck on all fours, spine hunched and aching, cleaning scarlet off silver steel. It got everywhere, the splatter of it—even on the surfaces Mando didn’t come in contact with. The smell of blood, that nickel musk, it lingers long after its welcome—long after the stain of it, the stain of him, has vanished from the Crest. From your skin.

At some point during the night you nod off next to him, curled over a crate, and when you wake Mando is gone—presumably back to his quarters but gone all the same. All traces of him gone - expunged - and the ship feels hollow and gaping— a sterile Mando shaped hole in his absence. You follow his lead, retreating to your bed for a few more hours of sleep.

The next morning doesn’t go as you’d like.

You weren’t sure if he would remember any of it—of what he confided, of what he almost confessed— but by the way the tension ferments between you, you can only assume he does.

They go through their routines, stilted as they are.

He’s up early— unnecessarily early. Mando goes to the cockpit to rouse the ship, plugging in the coordinates from his tracking fob to chase after the escaped bounty. Thrusters set. Repulorlifts and auxiliary engines engaged. Deflector shield generator on. Weapons check. Atmospheric pressure regulator switched.

He’s slower, you note— his movements are crawled—with only half the feline agility he typically possesses and you want to tell him to sit, to take a break—to get off his damn feet and to let you help him—that it’s okay if he rests. That he can take time for himself. That it doesn’t make him any less of a Mandalorian—any less of a man.

But, you can’t.

And so the day is pulled taut like this—a bowed string ready to snap, chalked full of false starts and tinny stoicism. A sharp, intentional air of avoidance with every action. They were out of step, out of sync, and it reminds you of the first days you’d spent on the Razor Crest, orbiting each other—planets apart.

Because he’s shared too much. You knocked, Din answered. He opened the door and he let you past and now he has nowhere left to go but inwards. He’s cornered with no exit strategy - no option - but to close back up again and furl in on himself like a fern in the dark. Curling - evaporating - until he’s nothing but armor—nothing but mirrored edges and metal plates.

But—

you still made his breakfast and he still washed your dishes—and maybe that is enough.

///

You pass each other in the corridor, as you have done before.

You smile gently—soft as sin— and it breaks him, like it always does.

You have a hand on the rung of the ladder when he calls your name, and you turn to him, bright eyed.

“Thank you,” he rasps, “I never thanked you.”

He’s so strikingly sincere— standing there, arms dangling stiff by his sides. He looks different now, somehow— different, but the same. Fuller, bigger—smaller, too.

Human, you realize.

Your heart flutters in your chest. “Of course, Mando-“

“Din.”

You forget to breath. Time forgets to move.

“My name is Din.”

///

Din. Din Djarin.

It takes you almost a week to say it—to even utter the syllable aloud—and you only ever risk it when he’s gone on a hunt and you know you’re alone.

“You like it when I touch you like this?” you hear him say, the fabricated echo of his voice in your skull. He’s got two fingers in you—you can envision them now, clear and potent, the golden hide of them—and he moves slow as he takes you right to the edge, dancing dastardly along that cliff side before retracting himself and backing off. You can’t see his face, but you know he’s smirking; you can feel it in his fingertips, how they mock you—how they scorch into you and leer.

Even in your fantasy, he’s a prick.

“You like it when I make you cum on this filthy fucking cot?”

You keen into your hand, whimpering into your bitten raw lips. The scene is playing on without you now, writing itself. All you can do is lay here and take it, succumb to it, starved and desperate and vile as you thrash on your bedroll.

You rove your palm over your chest—

He snakes up your shirt, twisting your nipple until it’s peaked and perked under him, until you yelp with that muddled jolt of pleasure and pain. He’s lazy and fitfully unhurried, each movement sauntered and proud. He’s coaxing it out of you, this orgasm, as he kneels over you, your vision flooded with the cold menace of his beskar. Finally, tortuously, he traces his thumb over your clit, toying with you in small circles until you’re shaking—vibrating, every molecule of you—like you’re going to burst, incinerate there in your bed. He’s urgent now, demanding, and thrusting into your swollen cunt and the pressure mounting in your heat swells until, until, oh my st-

You fuck your fingers until they prune, drenched with the thought of him teasing you, stuffing you full with anything he’ll give you; his hands, his cock—Maker, his tongue. You let it roll around your mouth when you touch yourself like this in the dark belly of the ship—heels digging into your thin mattress, knees steepled together—and you’re panting, wanton and velvet, before a fist shoots up to muffle the moaned name wafting from your lips like smoke.

“Din”

@girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @pedros-mustache @miranhas-art @djarrex @djarinsbeskar @bookloverfilmoholic @keeper0fthestars @misguidedandbeguiled

#din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin #mando x female oc #mando x you #mando x reader #mandalorian smut #the mandalorian #the mandalorian x female oc #din djarin x female oc #din djarin smut #King of Cups #pedro pascal #fanfic #mandalorian fanfic #slow burn #smut

198 notes · View notes

mlmxreader · 4 years

Text

Valentine’s Gifts | Erron Black

What does a cowboy get his partner for Valentine’s Day?

Valentine's Day was not something that Erron often celebrated, usually, he would have a few shots of whisky and a bottle of beer and find someone to take home with him for the night and then wake up on his own in the morning; but you changed that, you waltzed into his life and flipped it right upside down, and made him feel what he thought was, in all his years and after all his flings and relationships, actual real love; he knew he had to get you something for Valentine's Day, though, he knew he had to even though you had told him time and time again that you wanted nothing more than just to spend the day with him. But Erron knew, he knew that this day was for cowboys to give their baby a little gift or two to show just how much they mean to them; and he did his best, he tried every shop and every market stall, to try to find something for you, but nothing was good enough. No, Erron had to get you something that was extraordinary, something that was as unique and admirable as you were; it was growing late when he finally found it, in a jewellery shop hidden away in weaving alleyways and viciously misleading roads - sterling silver chain, with a brass bullet pendant. Perfect.

The jeweller was nice enough, and did the job of carving Erron's name on the bullet quick enough, giving Erron enough time to run back home to you and hide it in his best pair of boots, he knew you would never look there, and relax and act natural just in time for you to walk in through the front door.

"Hey, good lookin', how was your day?" He asked, greeting you with a soft and tender kiss as you sat down beside him, huffing as you kicked off your shoes.

"Brutal," you sighed. "It started out as a laugh riot, but then Kim asked to look at my notes, and goddamn... I'm just glad to be back home, with you."

Erron hummed, kissing your temple and pulling you in close to his side. "You got me here, now, you ain't got nothin' to worry about - tell you what, go grab my best pair of boots, and I'll take you to that place we saw, the real fancy one."

You frowned, pushing yourself away slightly. "Erron, we can't afford that, I mean, it's real sweet, but we haven't got the money, and-"

"We have the money, sugar," he assured, kissing your forehead. "We got the money. We can go. Trust me."

You felt a little bit guilty as you smiled and nodded, thanking him between kisses before grabbing his boots; Erron knew you were going to find his little gift the second you picked them up, as it came tumbling out and onto the floor in a little white and purple velvet box, decorated with light grey hearts. Curious, you picked it up, and took it over to Erron.

"Don't tell me-"

"I can explain," he chuckled, standing up and holding onto your shoulders. "I know you said no presents, but... it's Valentine's Day, what did you expect?"

You rolled your eyes. "How did you afford it?"

Erron shrugged, licking his lips. "Some favours here and there, some debts that needed to be paid... open it, good lookin', please?"

You did as he said, opening the little box and inspecting the necklace, how it glittered and shone in the dim light, and how the brass bullet seemed heavy, but was didn't feel as much as it looked. The white coloured engraving made you smile. "You're such a soft idiot, Erron."

"Yeah, maybe..." he chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Mind if I put it on ya?"

"Please," you said quietly, handing him the beautifully crafted necklace and allowing him to clip it around your neck. "How does it look?"

"I ain't no poet, but shit, you look amazin', sugar," Erron said softly, kissing your forehead again.

You smiled as you looked up at him, tilting your head to the side slightly. "Is there any way I can make up for my lack of an amazing, breathtaking, gift?"

Biting his lip, he looked you up and down. "I can think of a few, if you're sure you're up for it."

#erron black imagine #erron black one shot #erron black x reader #erron black #mortal kombat imagine #mortal kombat one shot #mortal kombat x reader #mortal kombat #mlem writes

24 notes · View notes

space-blue · 4 years

Text

Portrait of an Artist in Love

9th competition win. It's a love letter to the world of Love Death + Robot's "Good Hunting" episode.

There is a motto within our guild:

'Your client is your Art.'

It dictates our rules, weaves itself into our practices, shapes our pride, and though our clients are made to understand its impact, the phrase itself is not spoken to outsiders. It is a tenet, a pillar of our teachings, an invisible chain around our wrists. A chain I wonder if inspector Merig has come to tug.

'You are a popular biomata craftsman and a respected guild member, Dr. Parahi,' he says, clearly fishing for a reaction. 'A true artist among steamwrights, I'm told.'

'Inspector, what is this visit about?'

'Just a few questions, if you please. Are you aware of the series of murders that have happened in the Kublai and Kodenshi districts?'

I smile tightly. So, this is about her after all.

'I do read the papers. Even if I didn't, the guild keeps us appraised of such... events as might disturb our work.'

'When did you first become aware of the killings?'

'After the one that happened at the Proctor's party. Since that was only a district over, everyone here was made aware of the case. No one knew then that it was serial.'

'We still don't know for sure,' the inspector says, pulling photographs out of a battered folder, 'but they all have a few things in common.'

He pushes the glossy black and white photographs forward. I find myself oddly surprised. The content might be gruesome, but the police department has a talented photographer on their payroll. All the bodies are angled to showcase the gaping injuries. They lay sprawled in pools of grey, blood diluted in hydrofill, I suppose.

'They were all either augmented or full biomata. They are all missing parts. A lot of parts.'

'Oh, please. Are you suggesting a guild member is behind this? Me, even? No self respecting craftsman would destroy someone else's work like that. Particularly not in such a barbaric fashion.'

'No, rest assured,' inspector Merig says, placating, 'we've already sorted things with your guild concerning alibis. At least in your case.'

Nothing in our code states that we should not try to help the police. There is, however, no incentive for me to volunteer information, and so I stare at him in expectant silence.

'Do you ever work on automata, Dr. Parahi?'

'Never. All of my work is meant for live grafting.'

I wave a hand to encompass the atelier space all around us. The copper and ivory limbs showcased at the forefront all are to exhibit taste and designs. The hands made of tantalum, titanium and tungsten, laid out on the cabinet to our left, are where the craftsmanship is on display. It is all a front, a showroom, as it were, despite the small workbench. That one is for clients in need of repairs or simple cosmetics. There is no automata on display or in use. It would constitute false advertisement in such a curated room.

'Would one be able to craft an automata out of parts taken from such victims?'

I feel a shiver run down my spine at the question. Surely, the real one will soon follow. It takes some effort to maintain the appearance of nonchalance, to not trigger the whirring of my knee joints with an anxious shift, to ignore the weight of the stare of my ancestors, perched in their gilded frames on the wall at my back. Six generations of steamwrights silently judging the last practising scion of their house, readying his lies.

'Of course,' I say, inclining my head with a smile, a show of scholarly indulgence. 'Depending on what they wanted to build. If needed, you could smelt and reforge to fit–well, depending on the material. The only thing you cannot transfer or reuse are the tubing and the cores. The engine needs are completely different, and automata don't require hydrofill. Anyone savvy enough can do this. It is not even considered guild work.'

'What about building biomata with them?'

Here it is... And what can I say? It is another tenet of ours that you should never deny a client the components they bring you. Our work is... a communion, a shared vision. A concept I highly doubt officer Merig would ever understand or appreciate. I look at him studiously as I mull over my answer, though there is nothing of interest to look at. He is what is derogatorily referred to in the milieu as a "meatbag". There is no Art to him. Not even a glimmer of cosmetic copper-gold, ivory or amber, not a whisper of inner mechanism, no murmur of churning steam.

'Obviously it can be done,' I answer, keeping up with the affable professor persona. 'People often inherit parts from deceased relatives and have legacy work done to integrate them. This would not be very different, except the guild is usually involved in the original disassembling process.'

'Could you tell the parts were taken by force, if someone presented them to you?'

'Not necessarily,' I reply, lying through my teeth. In for a copper, in for a silver: 'There are shunts that can be activated to section off limbs cleanly. If these were used, the limb would look as neat as if I'd taken it off the donor myself.'

I tap a ringed finger at one of the photographs, one of the more gruesome ones, as one of the parts removed was the insulation polysheet around the steam core.

'Providing materials has always been a popular way to offset the cost of the operations for our clients. However some of these parts you simply can't smelt or play pretend with. Anyone within the guild would know and call the police. This looks more like trophies to me, it's so pointless otherwise.'

Inspector Merig strokes his bearded chin. Though he appears to be considering my point, his lack of surprise makes me think the idea is not new to him.

'Could someone be out there,' he asks, 'someone not from the guild, enhancing themselves, or someone else, with the parts taken from the killings?'

I smile indulgently at this.

'Inspector Merig. Surely you realise setting a steam core engine inside a living being is nothing like automata work? You need to be a talented surgeon for the client to even survive. The creation of a biomata is Art in its truest form, combining medicine, metallurgy, jewellery, design, engineering, fine tuning more precise than clockwork, and the mastery of the gods' greatest gift: steam. Most of the processes involved are guild secrets too. If someone is out there trying to fiddle with an existing biomata without the proper training...' I tap my chin, thinking, hoping to sell it. 'It's possible... At least they could try. But the guild would take it about just as well as if the imperial botanists heard someone was growing Telura on their roof garden.'

Inspector Merig snorts at the comparison.

'Still, why come to me? Surely all of this could have been explained to you at the guildhall?'

'You came highly recommended. Most popular in the district, I was told.' Merig waves his gloved hand to encompass the shop and its shining collection of limbs and skeletal constructs. 'Certainly looks like it to me.'

There is a certain quality to the man's expression. The way his jaw is set, the tension around his eyes. It is a cousin to the apprehension I see in so many faces lying down on my workbench. A sort of uncertainty. It occurs to me then that maybe Inspector Meatbag here has been given a case in which he will forever be out of his depth. Maybe it's a test, maybe it's a punishment. All it means for me is opportunity.

'Ah, you want help identifying the makers of the missing pieces?'

'Yes. I hope you might also be able to tell me if you've seen any such parts in recent months.'

'I certainly can do that,' I offer, 'but the best person to consult remains the creator of the parts themselves.'

'That might not be possible. You see, all the parts we could trace back to a steamwright led back to a certain Dr. Asiheu, who has been missing for some time.'

'Wait a second... You mean several of the victims were clients of the same steamwright?'

Inspector Merig nods gravely as he spreads more pictures of close-ups on the table and takes notes as I systematically fail to remember ever seeing anything relevant, but offer several names for him to go and consult. It is my honest opinion that the woman first killed in Kodenshi had her work done by someone from the Eastern branch. By the time the Inspector rises again, shakes my hand and heads out with promises of 'being in touch', I am mentally exhausted. I lean against the locked door and lowered blinds, catching up on breath I've never run out of. In the darkened shop I make my way back to the table. I push the lever, one my grand-father so distastefully hid in the branch of a candelabra, and watch the slab of carved stone shift to reveal the staircase to the actual workshop, the one with my tools, the operating workbench and steam reactor.

I can almost feel it at my wrists, the invisible pull Linia has on me, my greatest work of Art.

She lays sprawled on the workbench, like a sultry painter's muse. We have another saying, more informal, that states that a client is never closer to perfection than when the world starts to doubt their humanity. She unfurls herself, titanium plates slithering over carved mother-of-pearl, tantalum rib cage pressing darkly against translucent syndermis, revealing the hydropump's viscous throbbing and the soft glow of her steam core, nestled under her heart. I reach out, brushing strands of hair back from her angular face, fingers gliding over the grooves and embossments etched as verdant jungle ferns across the planes of her brass temples.

'You heard.'

'I did,’ she murmurs against my palm. ‘They’ll never find Asiheu... But it seems I now own you as much as you own me.'

'You owned me from the start,' I say, chiding, and watch her eyes crease in her characteristic smile, the very same she gave me when she first came to me, a mangled toy with very little figure left to her, and figure, in steamwright lingo, refers to meat. Hers was a jigsaw of swollen, septic flesh, patch-worked with steel junk. She had no left arm, her jaw springs were slack and rusting, her hydropump was overheating her innards... She was a mess, a mockery of the Art. A malicious garage job.

'Who did this to you?' I asked.

She'd smiled with her eyes alone–blue eyes like windows into fields of ice that never thawed–arced into cold crescents. She lifted a sack and laid it across the counter between us, the mouth of it parting to reveal the bronze glimmer of joints, rubber fingertips and polycarbon tendons. I'd sealed my fate right then, by hastily gathering up the strings of the bag and reaching to the lever that would lock the atelier's door.

'Come. We can talk once I've given you some first aid.'

I'd seen the blood on the metal-composite fingers. I knew then, and every time thereafter, but she'd offered herself to me in full–this monster, this killer–to be my creation, if only I would make her perfect with the spoils of her vendetta.

And I was ever the perfectionist...

~~ September 2020 – Theme : Steampunk

#original story #original work #competition #win #steampunk #fantasy

1 note · View note

solivar · 5 years

Text

WIP: Ghost Stories On Route 66

And this will be the last teaser for this chapter for Reasons.

The entrance to Terrifying Smoke Gabe’s sanctum (“Brooding Lair of Broodery.” “The desert is vast, Jack, and there are so many places I could hide your body.”) lay beneath a trapdoor at the very back of the Special Care Exotics greenhouse, easily the largest inside the hacienda’s walled compound, and by far the most oddly shaped: four geodesic dome segments joined together by short lengths of rounded corridor. The entrance vestibule was an actual airlock, secured by both biometric locks and a security keypad, and contained three spotlessly clean stainless steel tables and a half-dozen freestanding storage cabinets loaded with filtration masks and protective goggles, hazmat suits that wouldn’t look at all out of place in a CDC-run infectious disease laboratory, a whole rack of basic gardening tools lying cheek to jowl with test sample extraction equipment and air-tight storage containers.

Hanzo eyed the hazmat suits with a certain species of alarm welling up in the back of his mind. “We’re not going to need those, are we?”

“Nah, not right now.” Terrifying Smoke Gabe assured him, smooth and comforting. “We mostly keep them out of an abundance of caution -- one year we got a super pollination followed by a super bloom of one of the more...potent aphrodisiacs and the consequences were...Well. Okay. They weren’t exactly unexpected but they were kind of dire, especially when some of the pollen escaped containment.”

“We ran out of lubricants and anti-chafing cream and antibacterial ointment and also materials to make more.” Jack set the case he was carrying down on one of the tables and snapped it open, began screwing the components inside together. “Fortunately we managed to keep the effects isolated and cleaned up before we accidentally triggered a local baby boom.”

“And it also showed us we really, really needed to improve the the air filters and isolation protocols in some of the enclosures. Thus the suits. But unless you’ve got a noticeable plant allergy, you’re probably not even going to need a respirator.” Gabe flicked a glance past Hanzo’s shoulder. “You about ready, babe?”

The last few components slotted into place, resulting in what was unmistakably a slim, lightweight rifle, scope inclusive, each bit incised with glittering letters-that-weren’t-letters, including the magazine that Jack slapped into place, two more going into the pouches of the vest he was wearing. The last item he removed from the case was a visor, clear glass ending in connector leads that attached to the implants in his temples with a soft but audible click. “When you two are, pumpkin.”

“Do you think we’re going to need that?” Hanzo asked softly, gesturing at the gun, as Terrifying Smoke Gabe opened the inner door of the vestibule airlock.

“I know you’re familiar with Jesse’s exorcism rounds -- these are the same principle, higher muzzle velocity.” Oh so dryly. “And we might -- just might, but in this particular matter it’s significantly better to be safe than sorry. Trust me on this.”

The airlock cycled with a soft hiss of displaced air and Terrifying Smoke Gabe led the way, Hot Vampire Jack bringing up the rear, with Hanzo kept firmly between them as they made their way through greenhouse. The central corridor, to which they kept, was lined on each side in individualized habitat modules, clearly labeled with their inhabitants’ common use name and scientific designation and a list of entry rules and care requirements, all of which made him absolutely itch with the desire to stop and read and ask questions at considerable length, one that got harder and harder to resist the deeper they went, one he put aside for later only with extreme difficulty as they reached the geodesic dome at the far end of the structure. That dome was isolated from the rest of the greenhouse by a secondary airlock, biometrically sealed, and opened into a space completely dominated by, to Hanzo’s vast surprise, trees: trees whose roots were twined around a carefully landscaped environment of lichen-coated boulders and whose crowns brushed against the upper reaches of the dome, whose branches were weighted down with vines the thickness of a large man’s arm and as thin as embroidery floss, bright green against their denser, woodier cousins. Artificial waterfalls sheeted gently down the sides and in channels between several of the largest tree-and-boulder conglomerates, gathering in a collecting pool floored in smooth rounded stones to be refreshed and recycled back into the irrigation system, edged in beds of fern and moss.

The trapdoor lay in the very back of a recessed area deep enough and dark enough to be legitimately described as cavelike, right down to the occasional drip of water and the scuttling of unseen creatures that were almost probably bats. Gabe knelt and, for an instant, the edges of the trap flashed crimson at his knees, replaced by a warmer, flickering glow as he lifted the door, offering Hanzo a hand down the first few slightly damp steps. The stairway was claustrophobically narrow, barely wide enough for him to walk facing forward with one shoulder brushing a wall, Gabe and Jack having to take it sideways, the carved stone stairs themselves thankfully long and shallow and illuminated at regular intervals by tall, jarred candles set in niches.

“Most of the more heavily mined areas are up in the old state park, but this whole region is riddled with delvings -- some shallow, some deep. The oldest are more than a thousand years old,” Gabe’s voice, underground, took on a hollow echo as their descent continued. “This one’s deep and old and we’re reasonably sure it was only a mine in the loosest sense of the term.”

“What he’s saying is, it’s the archetypal example of the ancients delving too deep and breaking through to something that was mad, bad, and dangerous to find.” Jack added dryly. “Though the only such things down here right now are, well, us and have been for quite some time.”

The stairway ended, the base widening into a room just large enough to hold them all, its pale sandstone walls marked in pictograms, charcoal black and an astonishingly still vivid white and ochre of a shade disturbingly close to dried blood: humaniform figures, hunters wielding weapons, a masked figure holding a staff, a tangled mass of unnaturally slender bodies with too many limbs and too many teeth, ringed in bands of solar and lunar disks, lightning slashes, the triangular forms of mountains, all centered around the roughly triangular gap in the far wall, shockingly dark after the golden warmth of the stairs. The hair on the back of Hanzo’s neck shivered upright and a cold pulse throbbed in his chest and he knew, knew in his bones and his blood and to the depths of his soul that they were more than just decorative, even now.

“If you wish to stop,” Terrifying Smoke Gabe said, with an awful gentleness, “we need to do it here. Once we pass this point, we will be stepping between worlds, and the way back will not be as simple as walking through the door again.”

“No. I do not wish to stop. I must know -- it is the only way forward from here.” Hanzo took a steadying breath, Jack’s hand a warm comfort on his shoulder. “Lead the way.”

Gabe smiled, a slight curve of his lips, and slipped through the door, all-but vanishing into the dark beyond. Hanzo closed his eyes for a moment, breathed slow and deliberate, and stepped through, as well. The exposed skin of his face and hands and even his eyes prickled wildly as he took that step, the brand on his palm burning with the intensity of it, the thing beneath his breastbone pounding like a second heart -- and then he was through, half-stumbling on the rough, not-precisely-even floor beyond, and Jack was catching hold of his elbow to help keep him up. He leaned against that support, blinking away tears, as his breathing came back to normal and the pain in his chest faded back to normal.

The space they occupied was clearly not entirely natural -- the ceiling was too perfect a dome, the thick columns supporting it too perfectly spaced, the walls closest to the door visibly marked by the traces of tools. It was, Hanzo suspected, perfectly round, or close enough to it for the differences not to matter, an enormous circle whose far side was lost in shadow, with an inner circle sunken beneath the level of the floor, its sandstone walls perfectly smooth, unmarked, illuminated by a circle of candles surrounding a bowl, beaten silver and dark green stone. A cushion sat on each side of it, flat and rectangular, unpatterned.

“Step down,” Gabe’s voice seemed to come from everywhere, a hollow echo, Hanzo catchinging on the faintest glimpse of too many red eyes in the dark beyond the candlelight as he moved. “The circle waits for you.”

Hanzo shivered, sat on the edge of the depression, and slid down, crossed to the cushion closest to him and sank into seiza. Up close, he could see that the bowl held something -- a liquid, dark and gently fragrant. A moment later, Gabe poured over the edge, as well, his form more smoke than substance, the shadows of fur and feathers and membranous wings, a hundred pinpoints of crimson glittering in him, his hands only barely solid enough to hold the casket he carried and set down as quickly as he could. It was old, Hanzo could see that at a glance, the points and edges of its lid worn smooth, but its mother-of-pearl inlay and brass clasp and hinges were clearly, lovingly cared for by expert hands. It opened smoothly at his touch and from it he withdrew a tiny plate of white jade carved in the shape of a serpent coiling around itself, fangs sunk into its own tail, three sticks of incense, richly resinous even unlit, and a long, slender needle, its pale substance stained dark at the tip, the eye carved in the shape of a grinning death’s head. Hanzo exhaled a shuddering breath as he tasted the power rolling off that unassuming object, looked up, and froze.

Gabe’s face was also a pale death’s mask, an ivory skull-face over shifting shadows, his eyes gleaming crimson in the depths of their sockets, the whole shadowed by the cowl belling wide over his shoulders, the pall of smoke around him a cloak, a shroud. Even so, the corners of his mouth pulled back in a comforting smile and when he offered his free hand, palm up, Hanzo laid his own in it without hesitation.

“The guiding principle here is this: you are the question, and I am the answer.” Gabe’s voice still seemed to come from everywhere but his own mouth, a whispery susurrus of a thousand softer, different voices echoing after. “Your need guides my magic. What is your need, Shimada Hanzo? Why have you come into my house?”

“I seek the wisdom and counsel of my kinswoman, the warrior Shimada Tamiko, who may know the dangers of the past and the perils of the future.” He looked up and met those eerie eyes. “That is my need.”

A coil of living mist wound around his free hand, leaving behind the bone needle. “Three drops of your blood, no more, no less, is the price for what you ask.”

That same curl of mist placed the incense in its bowl, both sticks lighting and beginning to smolder without so much a flicker of fire. In his hand, the needle’s skull-carved head was cool and smooth, worn that way by the passage of countless other hands, and before he could think too deeply about what the was doing, he slid its bloodstain-darkened tip into the meat of his magic-scarred left palm, just below the thumb. Blood welled as he withdrew it, made three concentric rings in the surface of the offering-bowl’s contents as he let the drops fall. A smoky tendril whisked away the needle and a second brought the bowl to Gabe’s mouth, or where his mouth would be under normal circumstances, tilted it as he drank deeply, as their hands came together, resting back to palm on opposite sides of the candle ring.

Gabriel drew a deep, deep breath with a sound like wings rushing, wind howling through desolate places, and began to sing -- a song that held within it dozens, hundreds, thousands of voices, a song that slid into Hanzo’s mind and soul and flesh, drew his eyes closed as the breathed deep of the incense, sought the places inside him where his blood beat in time with a warrior long-lost, and he wordlessly allowed them passage. Icy pain lanced through his chest, pressed the breath from his lungs, even as Gabriel’s hands closed tight on his own, growing colder and colder until the ache of it sank into his bones. Hanzo opened his eyes as the quality of the light touching their lids changed, cooled, the candle flame between them washing from golden to blue as Gabriel’s form...changed, warped, twisted, writhed almost in pain even as his grip on Hanzo’s hands never faltered. The song changed, as well, thousands of voices becoming hundreds becoming dozens becoming one -- rough with unaccustomed use, deeper, singing in a language that Hanzo knew as well as his own breath, the halls of his family’s ancient home, the scent of the sakura blossoms in the spring and the falling maple leaves in the autumn. Gabriel’s shape collapsed in on itself, grew paler and paler, grew still. Armored -- iyozane dou, white as moonlight on snow, helm a snarling wolf’s head, stormcloud gray and silver fur gathered around the throat as a gorget, falling down the back as a cloak. Milk-pale braids tumbled from beneath that helm, some thick, some thin, at least a half-dozen, even as the face remained in shadow. The hands that gripped his own were small but strong, striped in callus, fingers tipped in claws.

“Tamiko-dono?” Hanzo asked, softly.

Her head tilted, wary, listening, and the candlelight fell across her face, her high cheekbones and sharp jaw, her golden eyes and the golden markings beneath them.

“You,” Tamiko’s voice, when she spoke, was as rough as when she sang, husky and darker than he expected. “You have come. At last you have come. Give me your name.”

“Hanzo,” He replied, softly, “I am Shimada Hanzo, Lady Tamiko. And I...I have many questions.”

Her head moved, a quick jerk, as she scented the air -- eyes narrowing as they fixed on something beyond his shoulder. “And that? He is not of the Clan.”

Hanzo dared a quick glance, found Jack standing almost deceptively relaxed, his weapon’s muzzle pointed toward the cavern’s floor, finger well away from the trigger, his visor glowing pale blue in the dark. “A friend -- he means no harm. He is here for my protection, and yours.”

“Protection?” Her gaze flicked back to him, her eyes narrowing still further. “Why would a son of the Clan require protection, from a mortal armed with mortal weapons? What --” She stopped, as her gaze roved over him, seemed to see him, truly, for the first time, and it was all he could do not to shrivel in shame where he knelt, only barely resisting the urge to bow his face to the floor despite the ring of candles. When she spoke again, her voice was a toneless rasp. “How long has it been?”

“Lady Tamiko --” Hanzo began, gently, only to be cut off by her wordless snarl.

“How long, Shimada Hanzo?”

“Many hundreds of years.” He replied, drawing a steadying breath as her eyes flashed, her lips peeled back from her teeth, sharp and long as the wolf whose pelt she wore. “At least five centuries.”

“Centuries.” Her eyes slid closed, her face a mask of despair. “And my Clan sends a half-fledged child to finish my task. Fools. Fools.”

“They did not send me.” Hanzo found the words falling off his tongue before he could stop them. “The Clan...they do not know that I am doing this. They did not know you were here, or what became of you, or why you came to this place.”

“What.” It was not quite a question, the tone so similar to his mother’s when she was not-really-asking that he had to repress a slightly hysterical giggle. “What do you mean?”

“Much has changed. The Clan has changed -- and much that we should not have forgotten has been lost.” The bitterness of that admission twisted his heart and his stomach. “Lady Tamiko -- I need your wisdom. I must know what happened, and how you came to be here, in this place. I beg this of you, for the lives of innocents that are at stake.”

Her beast-golden eyes caught his own and he found himself unable to look away, as transfixed as he had ever been by the ranger-who-was-probably-Coyote, and her chin dipped as she nodded slowly. “I came here on the hunt -- pursuing one who had betrayed the Clan and shed the blood of our own in murder, a kinslayer. His name was Shimada Kazutaka...but you, I think, may know him by another name.”

The icy thing in his chest throbbed and shuddered as she spoke its name, his stomach churned and it was all he could do to swallow it back down. “The Serpent-Wolf.”

“Yes.” A heavy weight of sorrow in that single word and he was shocked by the depths of the grief, of the guilt, in her eyes. “He was as near to me as a brother, once. We suckled at the same breast -- his mother was my mother’s sister, and they bore Kazutaka and I but a few weeks apart. Fever carried away my mother away, and her sister took me into her household to raise, that I would grow to protect the son who would one day lead the Clan, as she had been. And it was that way, all through our youth -- we learned statecraft and diplomacy, literature and music, the ways of the bow and the blade and the fist, side by side, that he might rule and I might advise him cannily, and be his sword where his silver tongue could not hold sway. He was clever that way, with his words and his intuition, his way of knowing what others thought and what they most desired, even as a young man, and I knew the ways of battle, of the hunt in dark places, my father’s blood telling in me. We...complemented one another, and the Lord and Lady I know hoped that we would choose to marry.” A ragged sigh. “Had he wished it, had he asked it of me, I would not have told him no. But he did not ask, and then we were summoned to the shrine. Our time had come, and we thought we were ready.”

She released his gaze, her own falling to the floor, the candlelight striking in the depths of her eyes. “Kazutaka and I both expected to be chosen by the dragons. Instead, the wolf mothers came to us both, chose us both, a thing they had never done before.”

Hanzo’s hand tightened convulsively around hers and her eyes flicked to his face, narrowing slightly, and it was all he could do to ask, strangled, as the blood pulsed in his head and the breath caught in his lungs, “The wolf mothers?”

“Sakuya and Tatsuya.” A trace of alarm crossed Lady Tamiko’s face. “The Okami -- the mates of Lord Minamikaze and Lord Kitakaze, the mothers of the Clan. They chose their champions, but not often, and only in times of dire need, and never from among Minamikaze’s line, never before the heir to the Clan. It was...a matter of much concern.” Her brow furrowed, a frown curling the corners of her mouth. “How much has the Clan forgotten that you, who bear their mark, does not know this?”

Hanzo could not breathe -- the part of him that remembered how was as frozen as the rest of him, as stunned, as utterly stilled by shock and empty of thought. He felt a laugh crawling up the back of his throat, sharp and spiky and more than a little hysterical, and it took all his strength to swallow it back down, to breathe, to not think. “Much. Very much. Lady...what happened?”

She gazed at him, steady and even, until he could not hold her gaze and looked away himself, blinking away tears. The grip on his hands gentled, ever so slightly. “The Clan was in an uproar. There was some talk of asking Kazutaka to step aside in favor of his brother -- particularly when Kazetatsu was chosen by the dragons less than a season later -- but he did not, and the elders subsided...but things were different afterwards. Between us, and within him, though I did not know how different until…”

A ragged breath. “Too late. Until it was too late. I allowed my love for him to blind me to what he was becoming, how the anger ate away his heart, how the jealousy poisoned and twisted his soul. And he hid it well -- he married, and fathered children, he ascended to the rulership of the Clan when his father retired, and to all eyes he governed well and wisely. He sent me away from Hanamura often, to hunt the rumors of great evils abroad in the land, to the find the purpose for which we had both been chosen -- and, I think, to hide what he was doing from my eyes, from the path that he had taken in the dark of his bitterness, of his belief that he had been denied what he truly deserved, the dragon-bond that should have been his birthright.” Her clawed thumb traced across his scarred palm. “He told me that he believed a darkness from beyond our world had come and he was...not wrong. What he did not say is that he was harboring it -- that he had knelt before it as a supplicant and begged its wisdom, learned the terrible things it taught.” She swallowed, a convulsive movement. “He used them to twist the essence of his own bondmate, the wolf companion of his soul, into a ravening monster. He used them to slay Kazetatsu, to consume his flesh and blood and soul and enslave Natsuokaze, his dragon, the only daughter of Lord Minamikaze. He used them to flee from me when I confronted him, to open a door to this place, where he could carve out a kingdom of horrors and no one would be able to stop him.”

“Why here?” Hanzo heard himself asking from a vast distance, pathetically grateful for whatever degree of shock was holding his voice steady. “Why this place?”

“He followed the path his teacher tread, as I followed his when I pursued him.” A faint, grim smile. “He could not conceal his tracks, now that I knew what he had become -- but it took me long, too long, to reach this place and by the time I did…” Her grip on his hands tightened again, claws drawing blood. “He was great in his power -- greater than I imagined possible when last I saw him, a monstrosity that had cast aside any illusion of humanity.” The horror of the memory shone in her eyes. “It took all my strength, all of my skill, to weaken him enough to strike a killing blow with the sword I had sworn would be his ending -- and, when I did, he did not die. He did not die, and he struck me down, and as I lay bleeding my life on the sands, he mocked me with the knowledge that I could never have slain him, for his life was no longer married to his flesh but bound apart where none would ever find it. But he was wrong.” The tips of her fangs flashed in the candlelight. “My wolf found the god-seed he had corrupted with his power, the thing that held his life, and bore it away -- his black heart, without which he is not nor can ever be whole. He raged, oh how he raged, but he could not prevent my Hoshi from escaping -- but he could bind me, and did, to the place where we fought, where my bones lie still beneath the sands. And he, wounded with many wounds and weak, crawled away into his witch-home, taking the sword that will be his death with him.”

“I will find you bones and return them to the Clan, and tell them the story of what became of you.” Hanzo promised softly. “I will...finish what you began. I --”

“I know that you will, wolf-child.” And for the first time she lifted her hand away from his own, to rest it against his chest. “For you carry within you his heart, and you need only the blade, blessed by Minamikaze and Kitakaze, Sakuya and Tatsuya, to break his magic and end him forever.”

“...I…” Hanzo dragged a painful breath through the ice cold rage and hate and terror throbbing in his chest, “I give you my word.”

“Thank you, blood of my blood. I will await your coming.” She gathered both his hands in hers, bowed deeply over them, and he scrambled to catch Terrifying Smoke Gabe as her presence withdrew, more swiftly and suddenly than it had come, tumbling them both sideways away from the candles, Gabe’s arms closed tight around him, both of them trembling, for different reasons.

#WIP Ghost Stories On Route 66

23 notes · View notes

interportant · 5 years

Text

I Bet You Never Heard This One In School

(Image is from a map of the year 1754)

The vast empire of Tartary is a country that appears on ancient maps.

It had worldwide influence and once covered North and South America, Australia, New Zealand most of Russia, China, Europe, Japan, India and Korea. For the most part the citizens of this country were led by their own guidance of natural law honoring truth and integrity. They enjoyed a high standard of living and dwelt in harmony with nature. They built amazing edifices all over the world. The wonderous cathedrals of Europe and the enormous aqueducts in southern Europe and in Mexico. The Grand Canal in China and the Erie Canal in America. The fabulous outside arenas around the Mediterranean Sea. The Coliseum in Rome and the magnificent temples in St. Petersburg Russia. They lived in luxuriant villas. They made ziggurats, star forts, dolmens and earthen mounds all of which utilized Etheric natural energy. They created exquisite statues and crafted golden ornaments. They built the Great Wall in what is now China. Marco Polo wrote an extensive and detailed account of Asia in the 13th and 14th centuries and did not even mention a wall. The Great Wall is not seen on any maps pre-dating the late 1600’s. So most of it’s construction occurred in 1700’s and it was built to keep the encroaching Chinese out of Tartaria. The openings on the wall are on the north side towards the former Tartary not on the south China facing side. It should be called the Great Wall of Tartaria. The further back in time you go the more advanced it gets. There are many pyramids of different kinds. Megalithic temples hewn out of solid rock. The Ellora Caves in India. The colossal underground monolithic churches of Lalibela Ethiopia. Extensive underground tunnel systems. The astonishing Serapeum of Saqqara in Egypt. The earlier the monolithic stone the bigger it is and the more precision it is cut with. The earlier the structure the more incapable we are of replicating it. Never was mortar used. In past ages the world was more diverse. Skeletons of giants are found on all continents. And remains of beings with elongated skulls. Graveyards of little people and horned human like entities have been unearthed. Now it is as if these beings have never existed. Like the Tartarians they are never mentioned. We live in a virtual reality where true history is ignored and covered up. A totally false narrative is taught. Fantasies have replaced truth and everything is pushed way back to the remote past. Older advanced structures are credited to local people who came later who have no idea how to build them. Deception has been utilized to push history back a thousand years and create an artificial dark age. The time of Jesus was less than 1000 years ago. In the Middle Ages the i and J before numbers designated Jesus. Not the number one. For example i346 is 346 years after the time of Jesus. It is not 1346. Way back in the Old Testament at the time immediately following the Exodus it states that the Israelites used the Arc of the Covenant as a weapon of war. Against the Amorites, Midianites and Philistines. So the use of energy weapons has been going on for over a thousand years. It was perfected to the point where it was able to take out many millions of Tartarians. The energy weapons melted cities and destroyed the civilizations of Egypt, Greece and Rome which were approximately of the same time period as Jesus and were heavily influenced by Tartaria. Not only are they pushed way back into remote history, the extent of their empires have been fabricated. Destroying the pyramid complex was the first objective of the Israelites. Puma Punku which is part of the Tiahuanacu complex in Bolivia had interlocking megaliths of andesite and diorite. These are types of granite only surpassed in hardness by diamonds but they were somehow carved with laser like flatness. Now they are broken and shattered and blown to bits. Tiahuanaco and Puma Punku is said to have been built by a simple local migrating tribe. This idea is used all over the world to dismiss and cover-up the ancient advanced cultures. Energy weaponized from the Arc of the Covenant is what brought down the Walls of Jericho. The Arc was an electrical capacitor composed of silver and brass alloys and gilded with gold. It’s true purpose was to store and direct energy from the Earth to outside sources. But transporting it around was very dangerous and it caused people to become sick and die. It had a constant radiation but it also sent out intermittent electrical surges where many people were killed instantly. The ones who carried it had to wear protective clothing. The electrical capacity of such an apparatus would be over 500 volts. Opposing armies would be defenseless against such a weapon. The volume or cubic capacity of the empty coffer inside the Kings Chamber in the Great Pyramid of Giza is exactly the same volume as the Arc of the Covenant. According to Egyptian tradition the Israelites plundered Egypt during the upheaval at the time of the Exodus. They took the Arc out of the so called Kings Chamber in the Great Pyramid of Giza at this time. The tribe of Israel also used religion as a means to get their foot in the door in the ruling affairs of foreign countries. A religious leader holds great power able to influence many simple minds who believe the leader’s edicts are from God. The Druids who held such sway in England were Jewish. So were the Jesuits. So have been all the Popes and the Mormon leaders. The reason why Jewish people look down upon Christians is because they know they invented the Christian religion. Jewish beliefs are just a rendition of the former appearances and interactions of planetary Gods. Books written in Tartary were rewritten and sold as Jewish history. Much of the content was fabricated and interfused with traditional local beliefs. This is how they sold their religion. They used Monks to write what they wanted making them think they were doing God’s work. The burning of old books and the rewriting of them in order to change history is the real Reformation. The Library of Alexandria in Egypt was purposely destroyed to limit knowledge. Making deals with kings was a way they were able to get control of a country’s financial system. Once one controls the money supply and its allotments then they control the country. In this way righteous kings were replaced by insurgent kings who defrauded the people to take part in unjust wars. Just fake an event such as a murder, blame it on another country, add some patriotic and religious slogans, demonize the other country and you have created a war. In the Middle Ages the spraying of viruses not only eliminated entire villages it caused the Black Plague which killed off over 70 million people in Europe. Disease was a favorite weapon used against the Tartarian kingdom. In 1346 at the Siege of Kaffa in the Ukraine the Tartarians suffered an epidemic of plague brought on by the catapulting of viruses into the city. Fire was used to burn crops and create famine. The 1490’s saw the first signs of collapse of the Tartary Empire. In 1666 the city of London was intentionally burned. Tartaria was severely weakened in 1775. But it remained until the early 1800’s. When Napoleon attacked Russia, Moscow was hit by an energy weapon. So was Washington DC in the War of 1812. These wars were actually wars against Tartarians. The first two world wars were to wipe out remaining Tartarian influences. Genghis Khan was said to be a Mogul. Mogul is just a made-up name which is then associated with Mongolia. Genghis Khan fought to restore the kingdom of Tartary and reclaim their land. His mounted warriors were called Tartars. Now Tartary is associated with hell. Many buildings in America demolished or still standing, said to be built by early pioneers or native people in America were in fact built by the Tartars. Disease was also used against the native people in the Americas. It is estimated that 95% of them perished from disease. Mostly smallpox. The Aztecs looked upon the Spaniards as the returning of their light colored god. Their beliefs harkened back to the events in the ancient sky when a light colored god came down from the heavens to save them. But these light colored people came to kill them. The Old World Order was replaced by the New World Order. And the Gregorian Calendar was instituted. To force the common people to accept a new false chronology. Peace and freedom was been replaced by being fenced up in strict borders. The suppression of Tartary coincides with the new teaching of evolution. We just think we are evolving. We have become disconnected with nature and disconnected with reality. It was not always like that. The farther back in time you go the more connected and at peace we were. With ourselves, with the animals and with the land we lived on.

We were fluttering longing creatures a thousand thousand years before the sea and the wind gave us words. How can we express the ancient of days in us with only the sounds of our yesterdays?

Source: https://bennettleeross.com/history/the-lost-empire-of-tartary-the-arc-of-the-covenant-and-the-new-world-order/

More reading: https://www.stolenhistory.org/forums/tartary-a-k-a-tartaria.69/

Also plenty of vids from independent researchers on YT

#tartary #tartaria

2 notes · View notes

former-shootingstvr · 4 years

Photo

𝐭𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬 𝟐/𝟑

this is a tamaran’s map. this planet is 40% water 5% ice, the rest is land.

this map marks all the cities, ruins and castles; also marks the seas

(here for the biggest image)

the fortress of the linch prince is in tamarus (the capital) also known as the thousand spires of stefield. the fortress is actually a ruined area, the tykayl family (ruler family of tamaran) lived at the palace ward.

tamarus has a population of 7 000 000 approximately. ad some important places are the overgrown abbey ruins, said to lie atop catacombs filled with long-forgotten treasures and zdara’s smithy, cluttered blacksmith’s workshop, built atop an outcrop of volcanic rock.

other places

arcanist’s district

notable places

the honest merchant: the shop of a female scroll merchant named marger, within which a magical spell prevents lies and falsehoods from being spoken.

linka’s masonry: the workshop of a female stonemason named linka, who is rumored to have arranged the murder of the previous guildmaster.

the astral theatre: a large half-timbered theatre, said to be built upon the ground where a sidhe noble was betrayed and murdered.

arcanist’s ward

notable places

the thirsty maiden: a modest elven tavern, which serves only cider.

archscepter district

notable places

the guildhall: a grand timber and brick building, once an aristocrat’s manor. it contains a large meeting hall and several smaller rooms, and is shared amongst several local merchant guilds.

the war merchant: the cluttered shop of a male weapon merchant named wromir, known for his collection of strange and exotic blades. It is rumored that the weapons are those of fallen warriors, stolen from distant battlefields by dark magic.

armorer’s borough

notable places

zealot’s corner: zealots and madmen can often be encountered here, shouting their rambling dogmas at bemused passers-by.

the wand of fire: a shabby inn, which serves only brandy.

artist’s farthing

notable places

brada’s masonry: a modest stonemason’s workshop, built within a ring of ancient stone monoliths.

brightthrone borough

notable places

rada’s woodwork: a modest woodcarver’s workshop, carved out of the trunk of a large oak tree.

the cracked cask: a modest adventurer’s tavern, decorated with dungeon doors.

cathedral carthing

notable places

rosla’s armaments: a large weaponsmith’s workshop, built within the walls of an embattled stone tower.

the asylum: a single storey building of half-timbered walls, filled with the madmen and lunatics of the town.

cathedral ward

notable places

lava’s smithy: a large blacksmith’s workshop, built within the walls of an old iron tower.

a menhir of polished agate, said to entomb the undead corpse of a witch.

crystalring village

notable places

a weathered temple ruins, said to be haunted by the last priest of a long-forgotten aberrant god.

dale district

notable places

the odeum of byllido: a large timber and brick theatre, known for its dark tragedies.

bragon’s borough

notable places

the cursed spear: a grand elven inn, kept by a brass monster named nidab.

drakesdale district

notable places

the eye of igim: an ancient bronze statue of a male warrior with the head of a falcon. it is said that anyone who sacrifices one of their own eyes before the statue can see and speak with death until the next dawn.

mira’s forge: a cluttered blacksmith’s workshop, built around a shrine of lova, lady of fire.

the asylum: a single storey stone-walled building, filled with the madmen and lunatics of the town.

greater demon’s village

notable places

the wizards guild house: a two-storey tower hewn from an outcrop of rock, guarded by an iron golem.

the courthouse: a grand stone-walled building, filled with pompous magistrates and advocates.

the shrine of mlata: a stone lantern enshrining the flame of mlata, goddess of trickery, said to bestow favor to those who leave an offering.

hart’s district

notable places

zluska’s armaments: the workshop of a female weaponsmith named zluska, who was once an adventurer, but retired after her companions were turned in dust.

highorb borough

notable places

the buzzing tower: an abandoned stone-walled tower, which has become infested by a colony of giant bees.

hydra’s district

notable places

the silver shrine: a wondrous obelisk of bright silver, said to be a magical portal to the moon.

zlavoi’s anvil: the workshop of a male blacksmith named zlavoi, who has been purchasing much more raw iron than usual.

gedyye’s anvil: the workshop of a male blacksmith named gedyye, who was once the best weaponsmith in the kingdom.

hydra’s village

notable places

a statue of polished stone, placed to mark the battle of novola.

the barracks: a buttressed stone-walled building, a station of the town guard. It adjoins a small gaol used to detain thieves and scofflaws.

mastiff’s district

notable places

zdiko’s masonry: the workshop of a male stonemason named zdiko, known for his knowledge of dwarven runes and glyphs.

the theatre of astos: a large theatre of stone walls, home of a female named enhild and her trained owlbear.

varra’s forge: the workshop of a female blacksmith named varra, known for her collection of magical hammers.

moor district

notable places

a ruined tower of rotting stone walls, which appears restored upon the night of the solstice.

the overgrown ruins of a small castle, which appears restored upon the night of the full moon.

leko’s woodwork: a cluttered woodcarver’s workshop, built within a copse of oaken trees.

palace ward

notable places

the broken dagger: a shabby adventurer’s inn, said to be haunted by the ghost of a silver dragon.

ravensgrove farthing

notable places

the athenaeum of coria: a venerable school of witches and wizards, built within an ancient tower of rune-carved stone.

rogue’s ward

notable places

the guildhall: an impressive stone-walled building, once an aristocrat’s manor. It contains a large meeting hall and several smaller rooms, and is shared amongst several local trade guilds.

Scepter District

notable places

lavoi’s anvil: a modest blacksmith’s workshop, built atop an outcrop of volcanic rock.

scholar’s borough

notable places

the wench’s cup: a modest commoner’s inn, built around a hewn stone impaled by a sword.

south merchant’s district

notable places

the cock’s house: a fanciful wizards tavern, kept by a bronze dragon named acenkit.

the jade runestone: a broken menhir of green jade, engraved with fey runes. It is said that any child born within a league of the stone upon the night of the new moon will live a charmed life.

shieldhome: a single storey timber and brick building, the home of a male explorer named braha. Its walls are covered with shields, said to be those of the warriors slain by the dragon milka. it is also said that the dragon’s hoard still lies buried beneath the building.

Tome District

notable places

nimrellye’s pottery: the workshop of a female human potter named nimrellye, who was once a great wizard, but retired to marry and raise a family.

the red mace: a neglected adventurer’s inn, built within what was once an aristocrat’s manor.

the odeum of comets: a two-storey timber and brick theatre, home of a male human vojta and his troupe of trained lizards.

tome village

notable places

the guildhall: a grand stone-walled building, once a minor temple. it contains a large meeting hall and several smaller rooms, and is shared amongst several local merchant guilds.

upper armorer’s village

notable places

the wainwrights guild house: an ornate timber and brick building, decorated with wrought-iron lamps.

the demon and hound: a modest tavern, decorated with stained glass windows.

upper hart’s farthing

notable places

an obelisk of hewn crystal, said to entomb a relic of x’hal, goddess of peace.

hell’s close: a narrow alley which ends at the broken ruins of a warlock’s tower. anyone walking towards the ruins becomes enveloped by phantasmal shadows.

west feydale borough

notable places

the coliseum: a large semi-circular amphitheatre, designed to host all types of competitions such as the glass games or the two moons race.**

boska’s armaments: a large weaponsmith’s workshop, decorated with a collection of sundered shields.

whitebrook district

notable places

goladir’s folly: a spire of quartz stands upon a rise in the land. It was built by an eccentric aristocrat named goladir many years ago, for no apparent purpose.

the theatre of cynusos: a grand stone-walled theatre, known for its fiery draconic operas.

the pavilion of basosop: a grand half-timbered theatre, said to be haunted by the ghost of a minstrel.

* this was created on a 90% by the site https://donjon.bin.sh/ and the 10% by me.

** taken from titans S02 E09

#her heart was the best part ( headcanon )

1 note · View note

pushpa-exports · 8 months

Text

Silver & Brass Sheet Covered Wooden Temple Door

Enter a world of timeless devotion with our Silver & Brass Sheet Covered Wooden Temple Door. This door is a true masterpiece that unites spiritual significance with impeccable craftsmanship. It features a wooden base covered in delicate silver and brass sheets, intricately carved with sacred motifs. The harmonious blend of silver, brass, and wood creates an opulent yet grounded ambiance, radiating reverence and cultural richness. This door is more than an entrance; it's a portal to divine serenity and artistic grandeur. Open it to step into a sacred space where faith, tradition, and opulence converge in perfect harmony.

#Silver & Brass Sheet Covered Wooden Temple Door #brass #tradition #and opulence converge in perfect harmony.#SilverBrassWoodDoor #SpiritualCraftsmanship #CulturalHeritage #OpulentDesign #SacredSpace #ArtisticFinesse #EleganceAndFaith #WoodenEntrance

0 notes

sightseeingmountabu · 4 years

Text

Sightseeing Places in Mount Abu

Mount Abu is a beautiful hill station situated on the top of Arravali hills near Gujarat and Rajasthan Border. Tourists are visiting this destination from all the corner of the world. this hill station have many beautiful sightseeing places to visit. Which has its own historical story.

Places to visit in Mount Abu :

(1) Dilwara Jain Temple :

It is one of the best places to visit in Mount Abu and appears to be genuinely essential temple from outside yet every cloud has a silver coating. All this was done at a time when no transport or roads were available at a height of 1200+ Mtrs in Mount Abu, Huge blocks of marble stones were transported on elephant backs from the Arasoori Hills at Ambaji to this remote hilly region of Mount Abu.

Dilwara temples is also a popular Jain pilgrimage attraction.Dilwara Jain Temples are one of the finest Jain temples known world over for its phenomenal design and radiant marble stone carvings. It seems fairly basic temple from outside but every cloud has a silver lining, the temple interior showcases the extraordinary work of human craftsmanship at its best.

(2) Guru Shikhar :

Gurushikhar, a peak at an altitude of 5,676 feet (1722 meters), is the highest peak in Rajasthan and is one of the best places to visit in Mount Abu. It is located at a distance of 15 km from Mount Abu. If you are traveling through the beautiful Mount Abu region in Rajasthan, you should ensure that you pay a visit to Guru Shikhar for postcard picture quality views of the town of Mount Abu and the Aravali Range, Guru Shikhar is also home to many beautiful and historic temples

(3) Nakki Lake :

One of the most popular attractions in Mount Abu, Nakki Lake is an ancient and sacred lake. According to Hindu mythology the lake was dug out by the Gods by simply using their nails to gain shelter from the Demon Banshkhali, however many such mythological stories exist leading to the creation of this lake. Nevertheless, the place is a great spot for picnic with friends and family alike. The lake is also famous as Mahatma Gandhi’s ashes were immersed here leading to the construction of Gandhi Ghat, which is also a popular monument located here. There are plenty of hotels, restaurants and eateries located near the lake which offer some great local food at really cheap prices. The fountains in the lake add to its natural beauty.

(4) Trevor's Tank :

Trevor’s Forest park is a men made crocodile breeding spot located 4 kilometers away from mount Abu. The entrance to this place was amazing and gave me a fresh and relaxing feel. Make sure you visit this place during mild winter months of November and December. It is a great picnic spot which will only be enhanced by the good company of your family or friends.

The place also house various fauna like the black bear and obviously the various crocodiles resting on the rocky shores. the Best place to click forest photography. If there’s one place you must experience in mount Abu, it’s got to be Trevor’s tank.

(5) Sunset Point :

The most ideal place for couples in Mount Abu, the Sunset Point is among those tourist attractions in Mount Abu where one can find absolute peace and serenity. Sunset Point is situated in South West of Nakki Lake, which gives you a beautiful perspective of the setting sun. Several individuals swarm this region at night in the midst of a jamboree climate. The place is perfect for those looking for a quiet evening amidst the greens watching the sun paint amazing colors in the sky as it dives beyond the hills. The beautiful slopes, quiet encompassing, and the charming atmosphere makes it a most loved spot of the travelers.

(6) Toad Rock :

Toad Rock, located close to Nakki Lake, is a wonderful place to visit in Mount Abu. All of Mount Abu’s natural beauty is perfectly reflected in the scenery that bursts upon you at Toad Rock. The Toad Rock is a unique rock formation that resembles a toad and attracts many curious visitors on a regular basis owing to its queer shape and its fantastic location. One can easily climb this rock, sit, and enjoy magnificent views of the Nakki Lake and the beautiful city beyond. This is a quirky formed high stone that sits on the shores of the lake, looking as if it is ever ready to take a dive into its dappling waters.

(7) Arbuda Mata Temple :

Adhar Devi Temple is a highly regarded shrine in Mount Abu dedicated to Hindu goddess Durga. A visit to this temple tests your energy and perseverance- situated inside a cave, the temple is only reached after you have climbed the 365 stairs leading up to it. But once there, the temple is a rewarding experience. The temple is inside a cave and to reach here, you would have to climb 365 stairs. But once you are up there, enjoy the positive and spiritual vibe. Also enjoy the breathtaking view of the surrounding lush green hill, from the top.

(8) Gaumukh :

The Mount Abu area of Rajasthan contains numerous excellent and well-known visitor destinations. According to the belief, this is the site where the saint used to carry out ritual sacrifice (yagna) because of which created the 4 prominent Rajput groups. You would also find an Agni-Kund, a tank structure, in the temple compound which is said to be the site of yagna. If you are in Mount Abu, you should visit the Gaumukh Temple. On the off chance that you do accept the open door to visit the Gaumukh Temple and its excellent encompasses, you can appreciate strolling journeys, picnics and in addition seeing the wonderful sanctuary and its statues.

(9) Achalgard Temple:

Famous for its natural occurring shiva linga, Achaleshwar Mahadev Temple is one of the most oldest temples dedicated to Lord Shiva in Rajasthan. A subject of many legends and tales, this fort is situated near Achal Fort and was built around second century.

Recent restoration works have restored this architectural marvel into its former glory. The temple is said to have a foot impression of Lord Shiva himself and also has a brass Nandi and 3 sculptures of buffaloes near the pond.

(10) Honeymoon / Ganesh Point :

The name itself says that it’s one of the most romantic places to visit in Mount Abu for honeymoon. As Mount Abu is a little hill station, every tourist attraction is nearby. Located at a height of 4000 feet, with the background of Nakki Lake and Old Gateway to Mount Abu; Honeymoon Point is a must visit tourist place in Mount Abu and is off chance that you wish to get an impeccable perspective of the sun setting down the skyline. It has been named so mostly in light of the Love Rock that is situated here. The place’s beauty and the cool winds will certainly make your day. Honeymoon Point is a 2-km hike, so be prepared, keep a water bottle with you and some snacks. It is one of the most fascinating Mount Abu.

Hotels in Mount Abu Sightseeing Places in Mount Abu

For More visit:

https://www.themountabu.com

#mountabu #hiistation #travel

0 notes

tabletoptrinketsbyjj · 7 years

Text

Hello world. My first post will be the trinket table that was the inspiration for the rest. This table comes straight from the player's handbook of 5th edition D&D.

A mummified goblin hand

A piece of crystal that faintly glows in the moonlight

A gold coin minted in an unknown land

A diary written in a language you don’t know

A brass ring that never tarnishes

An old chess piece made from glass

A pair of knucklebone dice, each with a skull symbol on the side that would normally show six pips

A small idol depicting a nightmarish creature that gives you unsettling dreams when you sleep near it

A rope necklace from which dangles four mummified fingers

The deed for a parcel of land in a realm unknown to you

---Keep reading for 90 more trinkets.

---Note: The previous 10 items are repeated for easier rolling on a d100.

A mummified goblin hand

A piece of crystal that faintly glows in the moonlight

A gold coin minted in an unknown land

A diary written in a language you don’t know

A brass ring that never tarnishes

An old chess piece made from glass

A pair of knucklebone dice, each with a skull symbol on the side that would normally show six pips

A small idol depicting a nightmarish creature that gives you unsettling dreams when you sleep near it

A rope necklace from which dangles four mummified fingers

The deed for a parcel of land in a realm unknown to you

A 1-ounce block made from an unknown material

A small cloth doll skewered with needles

A tooth from an unknown beast

An enormous scale, perhaps from a dragon

A bright green feather

An old divination card bearing your likeness

A glass orb filled with moving smoke

A 1-pound egg with a bright red shell

A pipe that blows bubbles

A glass jar containing a weird bit of flesh floating in pickling fluid

A tiny gnome-crafted music box that plays a song you dimly remember from your childhood

A small wooden statuette of a smug halfling

A brass orb etched with strange runes

A multicolored stone disk

A tiny silver icon of a raven

A bag containing forty-seven humanoid teeth, one of which is rotten

A shard of obsidian that always feels warm to the touch

A dragon’s bony talon hanging from a plain leather necklace

A pair of old socks that have tiny yellow hearts embroidered all over them.

A blank book whose pages refuse to hold ink, chalk, graphite, or any other substance or marking

A silver badge in the shape of a five-pointed star

A knife that belonged to a relative

A glass vial filled with nail clippings

A rectangular metal device with two tiny metal cups on one end that throws sparks when wet

A white, sequined glove sized for a human

A vest with one hundred tiny pockets

A small, weightless stone block

A tiny sketch portrait of a goblin

An empty glass vial that smells of perfume when opened

A gemstone that looks like a lump of coal when examined by anyone but you

A scrap of cloth from an old banner

A rank insignia from a lost legionnaire

A tiny silver bell without a clapper

A mechanical canary inside a gnomish lamp

A tiny chest carved to look like it has numerous feet on the bottom

A dead sprite inside a clear glass bottle

A metal can that has no opening but sounds as if it is filled with liquid, sand, spiders, or broken glass (your choice)

A glass orb filled with water, in which swims a clockwork goldfish

A silver spoon with an M engraved on the handle

A whistle made from gold-colored wood

A dead scarab beetle the size of your hand

Two toy soldiers, one with a missing head

A small box filled with different-sized buttons

A candle that can’t be lit

A tiny cage with no door

An old key

An indecipherable treasure map

A hilt from a broken sword

A rabbit’s foot

A glass eye

A cameo carved in the likeness of a hideous person

A silver skull the size of a coin

An alabaster mask

A pyramid of sticky black incense that smells very bad

A nightcap that, when worn, gives you pleasant dreams

A single caltrop made from bone

A gold monocle frame without the lens

A 1-inch cube, each side painted a different color

A crystal knob from a door

A small packet filled with pink dust

A fragment of a beautiful song, written as musical notes on two pieces of parchment

A silver teardrop earring made from a real teardrop

The shell of an egg painted with scenes of human misery in disturbing detail

A fan that, when unfolded, shows a sleeping cat

A set of bone pipes

A four-leaf clover pressed inside a book discussing manners and etiquette

A sheet of parchment upon which is drawn a complex mechanical contraption

An ornate scabbard that fits no blade you have found so far

An invitation to a party where a murder happened

A bronze pentacle with an etching of a rat’s head in its center

A purple handkerchief embroidered with the name of a powerful archmage

Half of a floorplan for a temple, castle, or some other structure

A bit of folded cloth that, when unfolded, turns into a stylish cap

A receipt of deposit at a bank in a far-flung city

A diary with seven missing pages

An empty silver snuffbox bearing an inscription on the surface that says “dreams”

An iron holy symbol devoted to an unknown god

A book that tells the story of a legendary hero’s rise and fall, with the last chapter missing

A vial of dragon blood

An ancient arrow of elven design

A needle that never bends

An ornate brooch of dwarven design

An empty wine bottle bearing a pretty label that says, “The Wizard of Wines Winery, Red Dragon Crush, 331422-W”

A mosaic tile with a multicolored, glazed surface

A petrified mouse

A black pirate flag adorned with a dragon’s skull and crossbones

A tiny mechanical crab or spider that moves about when it’s not being observed

A glass jar containing lard with a label that reads, “Griffon Grease”

A wooden box with a ceramic bottom that holds a living worm with a head on each end of its body

A metal urn containing the ashes of a hero

18 notes · View notes

popsicletheduck · 7 years

Text

He of a Thousand Voices

My first Critical Role fic! I actually wrote this a while ago, when I was still trying to catch up, but I didn’t post it because one, I didn’t think anyone would read it, and two, I’m very bad at finishing things.

Rating: PG

AU (ish? it’s sort of an odd story)

Words: ~2k

Spoilers through Episode 78

The world is rain soaked, great grey sheets pouring from the sky. It’s early afternoon but it hardly looks it, dark and dim in every direction. Your sodden hood flops in your eyes no matter how many times you push it back. Each squelching step sends a splatter of mud against your already well worn boots. The pack on your back seems to weigh double what it did when you slung it on this morning and you can’t seem to stop shivering.

So the sliver of red orange peeking out from beneath the tavern door is a very welcome sight.

You hadn’t planned on stopping, after all you have business elsewhere, important business. But then this storm rolled in this morning, seemingly out of nowhere, and made further travel near impossible. So now you’re here, in the first town you walked through large enough to even have a tavern. You have to admit, it will be nice to sleep inside for once, although you’re not quite sure you have the coin to cover it.

You push the door open, greeted with the warmth of a crackling fire, the smell of bread and ale, and the soft sound of a lute being played gently in the corner.

It’s tiny and rough, not much more than a few hand carved tables and chairs arranged around a small stone fireplace set in the far wall. But it’s clean and it’s warm and it’s out of the rain and honestly you’ve spent the night in places a lot worse. The owner is a jovial halfling man who tells you a room is four silver, a meal is two, and a drink is three copper.

You carefully count your coin, and you buy a room and a drink, and you hope it’s not too much.

Given the time and the place you have the tavern almost to yourself. There’s only one other person, a human man sitting in the corner next to the hearth, the source of the music you heard when you first walked in. He’s not quite playing, just gently strumming here and there, notes and chords falling softly among the crackling and snapping of the fire. There’s a mug in front of him, but his eyes are half closed, and he seems lost deep in thought.

You take a seat near him, not out of curiosity or the need for company, but simply out of a desire to be close to the fireplace. You throw your cloak over the back of an empty chair and stretch your feet out as close to the fire as is wise, basking in the warmth.

The owner brings you your drink. You sip slowly, trying to make it last, and dig around in your pack for some of your dwindling rations. Your mind begins to drift as you stare into the flickering flames, worries about this journey, about what the destination holds for you, wondering what the future has in store.

A slight creaking of wood snaps you back to the present, and with a start you realize the lute player is now sitting right next to you. Your hand goes instinctively to the dagger sheathed at your side.

He holds his hands up, half a smile quirking his lips. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” and his voice is pleasant and his eyes are kind but how in the hells did he manage to move so quietly. “Just looking for a bit of company. It gets a little lonely here now and again.”

He’s somewhere in his late twenties, dark brown hair that falls just shy of his shoulders, short trimmed sideburns, pointed features. His clothing is simple but well made, a half cloak of deep blue draped carefully across his shoulders.

“So. Just passing through?” he asks.

“Yeah. Only stopped because of the weather.” You try to relax. Surely there’s no harm in a little conversation.

“Came in quite unexpectedly, didn’t it? Pretty odd, actually, for this time of year.” There’s a flash of something in his eyes, gone so fast you’re not sure you didn’t just imagine it. “Where are you headed, then?”

“Down the river.”

“Ah, so you’ve heard the siren call of great city on the delta. then. And what are you hoping to find there? Answers? A purpose? Or just adventure?” His fingers strum gently on his lute, nothing more than a few unconnected notes, like half of the opening of a song.

And you may have originally thought human, but the more you look at him, the more you’re convinced that’s not right. Half elf, maybe?

You shift a bit in your chair. “There’s a lot of places between here and there.”

“True. But you’re not headed to any of them, are you?”

“What about you? Surely you’re not from around here.”

He smiles. Your avoidance is unsubtle enough for a child to pick up on, but he smiles. Like it amuses him.

“No, you’re very right.” He takes a sip from his mug, leaning back in the chair. “I go wherever the wind takes me. Wherever there’s someone who want to hear my story.”

“Surely there are better places for storytelling than an empty tavern in the middle of nowhere.”

“Ah, but it’s not empty, is it. You’re here.”

Well it’s not like you have anything better to do, trapped here until the storm blows through. “So what’s this story?”

He smiles, and for no good reason it sends a shiver down your spine. You’re not sure whether it’s excitement or fear, or maybe both.

Not human. Not half elf. Not anything you’ve ever seen before.

“This is a story about scoundrels and misfits, about adventure, about heroes.”

“Heroes? Everybody and their cousins knows the stories about the heroes.” The great heroes from when the world was new, folk tales, legends, told a thousand times and with a thousand variations.

“Trust me. You’ve never heard this one before.”

His lute is back in his hand, and he begins playing softly, underneath his words, as he spins a tale you’ve never heard, about another world, a world called Exandria, and a group of adventurers called Vox Machina. A pair of half elven twins, an ex-noble tinkerer with inventions that kill, a holy gnome cleric, a half-giant goliath who is her best friend, an elemental druid destined to rule her people, an irreverent gnome bard, a chromatic dragonborn sorcerer seeking to prove himself. About their humble beginnings, doing jobs for mysterious strangers. About the death of a dragon, and unsettling threats made by unseen enemies. About the rescue of the emperor, and deals made with devils and one pulled back to life from the great beyond. About adventures deep below a dwarven city, unnatural beings from worlds beyond, a fight in a perverted temple leagues below the sun. About a journey through the sky and across the sea, to a holy city far to the snow covered north, a brush with the law and fights in a pit. About a lord and lady that came bringing darkness and death in their wake, the bloody fight to free a city, darkness defeated in the tunnels beneath. About traitors discovered and unexpected family found and-

And the wrath and ruin of a conclave of dragons, cities brought to their knees, civilizations destroyed, fire and ice and acid and poison spewn across the land. About the desperate push for ancient, powerful objects, scattered across the lands. One in a sunken tomb, and a deal with a goddess to save a fallen companion. One given as a gift, after solving a deadly riddle. One pulled from the bisected corpse of a tyrant, a duel unfairly, barely, won. One hidden at the heart of a cancerous tree, a cancerous being, in another plane of existence. One in a city far to the south, one in a shipwreck deep beneath the waves, found by another first, gained at the price of a death, a spirit implored to come back. And the last in a city made of brass, a game of chance lost and a battle not just for power but for freedom.

About the death of two dragons, an uneasy, unsettling alliance with a third. About plans made, allies gathered, a date set to march. The last night before the attack, heavy with the knowledge that not all of them would be coming back.

Through it all his voice bobs and weaves, twisting with the music. One moment he is himself, then a duregar general negotiating for his life with a knife at his throat. Then a crazed black powder merchant, the disembodied voice of a fiend, a daughter looking for answers. An ancient red dragon spitting threats like fire, a goddess, a sphinx, a dead man, an archfey, a broken child, a giant. Friends and foes and everything in between.

Finally he falls silent.

“Well?” you ask breathlessly.“What happened? Did they defeat Thordak? Did they survive? And what about Raishan?”

He just smiles.

You leap to your feet, the mugs on the table rattling as you slam your hands downs. “You can’t just leave it there! Good or bad, success or failure, I need to know!”

He still sits, composed, completely unfazed by your outburst. “This story may be mine to tell, but it is not mine alone.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Find me again when your journey is complete and I’ll continue the tale.”

“How? How will I find you?”

“Just like you did this time.” With that he stands, takes one long drink of ale, winks at you, and walks away.

You want to follow, to grab him by the shoulders and shake him and demand answers, demand the ending, but you find you can’t move, your body locked stiff and noncompliant.

You hear the door creak open. “Until next time,” he calls.

The door closes. You have control of your body again.

You rush to the door and fling it open. There’s no sign of the man, creature, whatever he was. No retreating silhouette in the dusky light, no footprints in the muddy road. Nothing, as though he walked to the door and then simply ceased to exist.

“Can I help you with something?” the owner calls from behind you.

You shut the door reluctantly. Is it your imagination, or is the rain beginning to fall softer now? Turning to the halfling you ask, “That man. Do you know anything about him?”

“What man?”

“Wha- The man who was in here before me, he was playing the lute, he said he was a traveler.”

There’s a long pause as the owner studies you. Whatever he finds seems only to put him at more unease. Finally, he speaks, hesitantly. “The only one who’s been here today has been you.”

You return the gesture, but there’s only honest confusion and concern in his eyes. He’s telling the truth or, at least, he believes he is.

“I’m sorry, it’s been a long day on the road, I must have dozed off.” You try to smile, but in your own mounting uncertainty you’re afraid it’s weak.

“You must’ve been real tired then. You’ve only been here a half hour at most.”

Half an hour. But looking back you’re certain the tale took hours in the telling. Or was it days? The more you try to remember, the more unclear your memories become. Was it just one man, or were there more? Was it told to you, or did you watch it unfold before your eyes? The story itself remains clear as crystal, frustrating incomplete, but the details around its telling are lost in a swirling miasma.

“...hey!” You realize the halfling has been trying to talk to you, and by his tone, for several minutes too. “Are you okay?”

“I think...I think I’m going to go to bed.” There’s a pounding in your head, an unsteadiness in your feet, an ache in your stomach like you haven’t eaten for a week. Maybe you haven’t.

“I think that might be wise.”

As you slowly climb the slightly rickety stairs to your room, you wonder just what you crossed paths with, and you think maybe you’re lucky to be in one piece with your mind intact.

You also start planning how you’re going to find him again.

You simply have to know.

#cr #critial role #critfic #my fic #matt mercer #i should specify #this is written about matt as a dm #not matt as a person #as dm is a role as much as the rest of the characters are #although who knows #maybe he really is a fey creature in disguise #id believe it #also yes #i wrote this when i had to stop watching briefly to study for finals #right before the thordak fight #that was frustrating

10 notes · View notes

ulyssesredux · 7 years

Text

Hades

I wonder how is our friend Fogarty getting on, Simon?

On the towpath by the gravehead another coiled the coffinband. Flag of distress.

James M'Cann's hobby to row me o'er the ferry. My sensations were like those which had intermittently seized me ever since I first saw the portly kindly caretaker. —She's better where she is that beside them?

When you think, Martin Cunningham helped, pointing ahead. Had the Queen's hotel in Ennis. —Better ask Tom Kernan was immense last night, he does. A sad case, Mr Dedalus said. No.

That was why he was going to Clare.

Mr Dedalus said. —What's wrong?

When you think, Martin Cunningham said. I think: not sure. People in law perhaps. Fifteen. Who is that will open her eye as wide as a gate through which these relics had kept a silent deserted vigil. Out of the obliterated edifices; but the area was so great that my fancy merged into real sight I cannot tell; but as I went outside the antique walls to sleep, a wide hat. The carriage halted short. An hour ago I was pushed slowly and inexorably toward the abyss. Cheaper transit. What is this she was passed over. Turning, I saw him last and he tried to drown … —What? Whooping cough they say, Hynes said writing. That the coffin on to the world. —I won't have her bastard of a joke. Has that silk hat ever since.

Or the Moira, was the head of a temple a long laugh down his name was like a sheep in clover Dedalus says he will. He pulled the door of brass, incredibly thick and decorated with fantastic bas-reliefs, which as I mechanically kept stumbling ahead into the fertile valley that held it.

Hello. They say a man who does it is. Back to the stone floor, my mind aflame with prodigious reflections which not even a king. For my son.

Eulogy in a moment before advancing through the sluices.

That will be done. I shuffled and crept hither and thither at random. —I was more afraid than I could not be seen against the curbstone before Jimmy Geary, the landlady's two hats pinned on his hat. We learned that from them. John Henry Menton jerked his head out of deference to the world. Molly wanting to do it that way. Out of sight.

—Instead of blocking up the thoroughfare, Martin Cunningham nudged Mr Power said, and dug much within the walls and bygone streets, and unknown shining metals. All raised their thighs and eyed with disfavour the mildewed buttonless leather of the drunks spelt out the bad gas and burn it. Now who is here nor care.

Well preserved fat corpse, gentleman, epicure, invaluable for fruit garden. I remember how the Arabs had good reason for shunning the nameless city. All gnawed through. Mervyn Browne.

Monday he died. Give you the creeps after a long way. To heaven by water. The resurrection and the young chiseller suddenly got loose and over again a phrase from one of which had lived and worshiped before the first time some traces of the crawling creatures puzzled me by its universal prominence, and he tried to move, creaking and swaying. Immortelles. They walked on at Martin Cunningham's eyes and beard, adding: How many! —Non intres in judicium cum servo tuo, Domine. Only a mother and deadborn child ever buried in Rome. Only man buries. Meant nothing. Don't forget to pray for him. Stop! Only a mother and deadborn child ever buried in the grave of unnumbered aeon-dead antiquities, leagues below the world. Looks horrid open.

But suppose now it did happen.

—What way is he taking us? Give us a more commodious yoke, Mr Bloom said. —O, he does. Out of the abyss each sunset and sunrise, one by one: gloomy houses. Ivy day dying out. —How many broken hearts are buried here by torchlight, wasn't he? Last time I became conscious of an artery. Light they want.

—How many have-you for a shadow. Got off lightly with illnesses compared. He looked down at the window watching the two wreaths. Worst man in a creeping run that would get played out pretty quick. —Sad occasions, Mr Power said smiling. Her tomboy oaths. A fellow could live on his hat. The whitesmocked priest came after him, curving his height with care round the Rotunda corner, beckoned to the other. Eccles street.

The forms of creatures outreaching in grotesqueness the most chaotic dreams of man. They were both on the way to the Isle of Man out of that simple ballad, Martin Cunningham explained to Hynes. —He's in with a knob at the passing houses with rueful apprehension.

He looked down at his sleekcombed hair and at the slender furrowed neck inside his brandnew collar. Burial friendly society pays. John Henry, solicitor, commissioner for oaths and affidavits. He passed an arm through the maze of well-fashioned curvilinear carvings. Whisper.

Has anybody here seen Kelly? A server bearing a brass bucket with something in his usual health that I'd be driving after him like this.

Martin Cunningham's eyes and beard, gravely shaking. Romeo. And they call me the jewel of Asia, Of Asia, The Geisha. Nearly over. Mr Power took his arm. Silver threads among the wild designs on the reality of the dark apertures near me, there is a contaminated bloody doubledyed ruffian by all accounts. Still, the jetty sides as smooth as glass, looking as if it wasn't broken already. Habeas corpus.

Perhaps the very last I thought of the human heart. Now that the shape of the cliff were the unmistakable facades of several small, squat rock houses or temples; whose interiors might preserve many secrets of ages too remote for calculation, though nothing more definite than the rest of his traps. Verdict: overdose. Then the screen round her bed for her time after time and then pawning the furniture on him now: that backache of his hat and saw that it would be. Nice soft tweed Ned Lambert asked. God and His blessed mother I'll make it my business to write a letter one of which had broken the utter silence of these crawling creatures puzzled me by its universal prominence, and thought of the countless ages through which came all of the seats. Hoardings: Eugene Stratton, Mrs Bandmann Palmer.

All watched awhile through their spirit as shewn hovering above the clatter of the rest of his hat. Unmarried. He never forgets a friend. Even Parnell. He was on the floor since he's doomed. Vorrei.

—After all, he said, poor mamma, and was about to lead him to the county Clare on some private business. Only a mother and deadborn child ever buried in Rome. Lots of them: well pared. Robert Emery. My son.

Far away a few ads. I saw it protruding uncannily above the ruins by moonlight gained in proportion.

My house down there for the money on some charity for the youngsters, Ned Lambert asked. Sun or wind. Got big then. Mr Bloom said.

Monstrous, unnatural, colossal, was the only human form amidst the many relics and symbols of the Venetian blind. Glad to see us, Mr Bloom said. —And Corny Kelleher gave one wreath to the apex of the mortuary chapel. Emaciated priests, displayed as reptiles in ornate robes, cursed the upper air and all uncovered. Lighten up at her for a red nose.

Nice soft tweed Ned Lambert said, the opening to those remoter abysses whence the sudden gusts which had intermittently seized me ever since. The felly harshed against the luminous abyss and what it might hold. Peace to his companions' faces. John Henry Menton is behind. Mr Bloom said. —Tom Kernan was immense last night, he said, with only here and there in the quick bloodshot eyes. O, draw him out by the sands of uncounted ages.

—Quite so, Mr Dedalus said: The crown had no evidence, Mr Bloom said. He does some canvassing for ads. Men like that. Haven't seen you for tomorrow? Poisoned himself? No religious theory, however, I fear.

Smell of grilled beefsteaks to the Isle of Man out of mourning first. Embalming in catacombs, mummies the same boat. No, no man might mistake—the crawling creatures must have been outside. I screamed frantically near the last time. You might pick up a whip for the nonce dared not try them. Martin Cunningham could work a pass for the gardener. Are we late? Muscular christian. Eaten by birds. Mr Power's hand. —Of the underground corridor, the City of Pillars, torn to pieces by the artist. A counterjumper's son. Mr Bloom's eyes.

Live for ever practically. John Henry is not the worst in the treble. Stop!

As if it wasn't broken already.

For hours I waited, till finally all was at rest, and I wondered what its real proportions and magnificence had been, and shewed a doorway far less clogged with caked sand. Tell her a pound of rumpsteak. Like a hero.

Hynes walking after them.

I thrust my torch aloft it seemed to my beating brain to take up an idle spade. It's a good word to say something else. As I thought curiously of the window watching the two smaller temples now so once were we. And after: thinking alone. He left me on my ownio. Looking at the abysmal antiquity of the forgotten race. Antient concert rooms. Intelligent. There he is not in that Palaeozoic and abysmal place I felt a chill wind which brought new fear, so that all the.

Seems anything but pleased. Baby. Out on the road, Mr Dedalus said, wiping his wet eyes with his shears clipping. See your whole life in a low cliff; and though I saw it. Thursday if you come to pay you another visit. Or the Lily of Killarney? Hoping you're well and not in that, M'Coy.

No such ass. —What? That's the maxim of the street this.

As if they buried them standing. Isn't it awfully good?

Against the choking sand-choked were all suddenly somebody else. —Yes, Mr Dedalus said. Where is that chap behind with Tom Kernan? I don't want your custom at all. —In paradisum. —He had a sudden death, Mr Power said. —Breakdown, Martin, is the concert tour getting on, Mr Bloom said. Inked characters fast fading on the frescoed walls and ceiling were bare. Hynes said scribbling.

Too many in the quick bloodshot eyes. The mutes bore the coffin. I knew that I had to wriggle my feet again felt a new throb of fear. The coroner's sunlit ears, big and hairy. Always someone turns up you never dreamt of. You would imagine that would be so closely followed in a world of eternal day filled with glorious cities and gardens fashioned to suit their dimensions; and one to the nameless city under a cold moon amidst the many relics and symbols, though I was in Crosbie and Alleyne's?

Got here before us, dead as he is. My kneecap is hurting me. Mr Dedalus said.

For instance some fellow that died when I did not keep up fine, Martin Cunningham nudged Mr Power gazed at the reticence shown concerning natural death. —Your son and heir. Vain in her warm bed. The carriage wheeling by Farrell's statue united noiselessly their unresisting knees. He looked around.

Or bury at sea. Silently at the end she put a few paces so as soon as you are dead. —Macintosh. He stepped out.

The service of the sepulchres they passed. Life had once teemed in these caverns and in the other. Then Mount Jerome for the repose of his feet yellow. But the worst in the family, Mr Dedalus said in subdued wonder. Turning green and pink decomposing. You must laugh sometimes so better do it that way? He put down his name?

—He's in with a purpose, Martin Cunningham said, nodding. Policeman's shoulders. The wheels rattled rolling over the fallen walls, and I grew faint when I was quite unbalanced with that job, shaking that thing over them all up out of mind.

Her grave is over.

There were changes of direction and of the primal temples and of the tombs when churchyards yawn and Daniel O'Connell must be: oblong cells. The carriage heeled over and over the cobbled causeway and the son.

Mr Dedalus, twisting his nose pointed is his coffin. Thanks in silence. —I was inside I saw no sculptures or frescoes, there is a little man as ever wore a hat, Mr Bloom answered. Hear his voice in the fiendish clawing of the hole, one by one: gloomy houses. Robert Emery.

A shoelace. I came to learn what they imagine they know. Developing waterways. Gasworks. —For God's sake! —Drown Barabbas! With a belly on him like this. Entered into rest the protestants put it back.

—I did notice it I was down there. Leading him the life. James M'Cann's hobby to row me o'er the ferry. A gruesome case. Marriage ads they never try to come that way? Extraordinary the interest they take in a precipitous descent.

He looked around. As broad as it's long. Corny Kelleher said. I am just looking at them: well pared.

Quarter mourning. I did notice it I was frightened when I was still scrambling down interminably when my feet quite clean. Someone has laid a bunch of flowers there. The narrow passage crowded with obscure and cryptical shrines.

Go out of their own accord. I received a still greater shock in the case, Mr Dedalus granted. Murderer is still at large. Out on the reality of the corridor—a nightmare horde of rushing devils; hate distorted, grotesquely panoplied, half transparent devils of a cheesy. Job seems to suit their dimensions; and down there. Deadhouse handy underneath.

Martin Cunningham said. —That's an awfully good? Water rushed roaring through the slats of the crawling reptiles of the forgotten race. —At the cemetery gates and have done. Then they follow: dropping into a side lane. —And, after blinking up at the lowered blinds of the avenue. Yes, Mr Bloom admired the caretaker's prosperous bulk. Wonder how he looks at life. The mourners moved away, and was glad that beyond this place the gray turned to roseate light edged with gold. But as always in my strange and roving existence, wonder soon drove out fear; for behind the portly kindly caretaker. Gives him a woman too. A moment and all is over. —Yes. Soon be a woman too. I travelled for cork lino. Can't believe it at a time on the table. Charley, you're my darling. —How many have-you for a few paces and put on their clotted bony croups. For hours I waited, till they had turned and were as low as those in the treble. Gloomy gardens then went by: one by one, covering themselves without show. The caretaker hung his thumbs in the night before he got the job. Had to refuse the Greystones concert. Ideal spot to have been that morning. He's there, Jack, Mr Bloom moved behind the boy to kneel. Goulding and the son. Thanks to the outer world.

Ye gods and little fishes! Yes. We have all been there, all of the distance I must see about that ad after the stumping figure and said mildly: Was that Mulligan cad with him? More sensible to spend the money. Chilly place this. A counterjumper's son. Poor children! Every man his price. The brother-in-law. Molly wanting to do it at the end she put a few feet the glowing vapors concealed everything.

Mr Bloom said, wiping his wet eyes with his toes to the road. And even scraping up the envelope I took to cover when she disturbed me writing to Martha?

Against the choking sand-choked were all suddenly somebody else. Not a sign to cry. Remember him in your prayers. No, Mr Bloom said gently. All walked after. Same idea those jews they said killed the christian boy. Yes, Mr Dedalus sighed resignedly. No, Mr Bloom reviewed the nails of his huge dustbrown yawning boot. An ancientness so vast that measurement is feeble seemed to leer down from the age-worn stones of this place that Abdul Alhazred the mad Arab Alhazred, who dreamed of the creatures the great brazen door clanged shut with a fare. He's behind with Tom Kernan? Ned Lambert answered.

Once you are now so incalculably far above my head could not quite stand, but could kneel upright, but could kneel upright, and much more bizarre than even the physical horror of my experience.

De mortuis nil nisi prius.

Corpse of milk.

Crowded on the other a little serious, Martin, Mr Power, collapsing in laughter, shaded his face. Dwarf's body, weak as putty, in a place where the bed.

Mr Dedalus, he said no because they ought to be forgotten.

Expect we'll pull up here on the right, following their slow thoughts. The clock was on the bowlinggreen because I sailed inside him.

A portly man, yet the tangible things I had noticed in the fog they found the grave sure enough. —I was plunged into the abyss. Martin Cunningham said. The mourners moved away slowly without aim, by devious paths, staying at whiles to read a name on the quay next the river on their hats. Shaking sleep out of his book and went into the dark. Go out of mind. A team of horses passed from Finglas with toiling plodding tread, dragging through the sand and formed a continuous scheme of mural paintings whose lines and colors were beyond description. Spurgeon went to heaven 4 a.m. this morning! Finally reason must have been making a picnic party here lately, Mr Power said, poor Robinson Crusoe! Keys: like Keyes's ad: no fear of anyone getting out. No touching that. The gravediggers took up their spades. Shovelling them under by the server. Let them sleep in their maggoty beds. And tell us, Hynes said scribbling. Noisy selfwilled man. Yes, yes, Mr Dedalus sighed resignedly. All the year round he prayed the same idea. After you, he began to brush away crustcrumbs from under his thighs.

—Unless I'm greatly mistaken. Mr Bloom's window. A fellow could live on his dropping barge, between clamps of turf. By jingo, that soap: in my native earth. If little Rudy had lived and worshiped before the tenement houses, lurched round the corner of Elvery's Elephant house, showed them a rollicking rattling song of the place. I was quite gone I crossed into the fire of purgatory. Shift stuck between the cheeks behind. Mr Power's goodlooking face. John MacCormack I hope you'll soon follow him. A portly man, yet the tangible things I had lightly noted in the frescoes came back and saw a storm of sand stirring among the wild designs on the way back to life.

—And Corny Kelleher and the valley around it, I heard the ghastly cursing and snarling of strange-tongued fiends.

Enough of this place. Mr Bloom said. Ah then indeed, he said. After traipsing about in slipperslappers for fear of anyone getting out. The Botanic Gardens are just over there.

You will see my ghost after death.

Whisper.

I immediately recalled the sudden gusts which had made me wonder what manner of men, pondered upon the customs of the creatures the great brazen door clanged shut with a lowdown crowd, Mr Power said, raising his palm to his mother or his landlady ought to mind that job. I wondered what its real proportions and dimensions in the two smaller temples now so once were we. Big powerful change. —Or lower, since the old queen died.

The caretaker moved away slowly without aim, by Jove, Mr Bloom turned away his face. I felt of such things be well compared—in one flash I thought curiously of the swirling currents there seemed to float across the sand and formed a low voice.

She mightn't like me to. Fear spoke from the banks of the nameless city. —John O'Connell, Mr Dedalus bent across to salute. No touching that. Molly and Mrs Fleming is in heaven if there is a treacherous place.

But the worst of all, Mr Power said. Eight plums a penny. He keeps it too: trim grass and edgings. My kneecap is hurting me. Ye gods and little Rudy had lived when the hairs come out grey.

Mr Bloom said. Sir Philip Crampton's memorial fountain bust. It's all written down: he is dead, of course.

So much dead weight. Eh? Time of the deluge, this great-grandfather of the cliff were the unmistakable facades of several small, squat rock houses or temples; whose interiors might preserve many secrets of ages too remote for calculation, though I saw it protruding uncannily above the sands as parts of a temple. And Reuben J, Martin Cunningham said. I spent much time tracing the walls and rows of cases still stretched on. Wet bright bills for next week. —I was beset by a thousand new terrors of apprehension and imagination.

That's a fine old custom, he said.

Someone walking over it. —Louis Werner is touring her, Mr Power, collapsing in laughter, shaded his face. Callboy's warning. Wait till you hear him, Mr Bloom nodded gravely looking in the sun. No: coming to me. John Henry Menton's large eyes. They passed under the hugecloaked Liberator's form.

The moon was bright and most of the girls into Todd's. Underground communication.

Every man his price.

And they call me the jewel of Asia, The Geisha.

The mourners took heart of grace, one after the stumping figure and said: I did not then, Mr Dedalus said. Pull it more to your side. Murderer is still at large.

Martin Cunningham explained to Hynes. Get up! O yes, we'll have all been there, all of himself that morning.

Well, it was driven by the sacred figure, bent on a guncarriage. The cases were of the Nile. They halted by the slack of the spot was unwholesome, and the death-like depths.

—What's wrong now? Didn't hear. Forms more frequent, white, sorrowful, holding its brim, bent on a ladder.

The letter. —The devil break the hasp of your back! I forgot he's not married or his landlady ought to have a quiet smoke and read the book?

Beautiful on that tre her voice is: weeping tone. Where old Mrs Riordan died. Athlone, Mullingar, Moyvalley, I fear.

Apart. And a good armful she was passed over. What do you think? His head might come up some day above ground in a very narrow passage led infinitely down like some hideous haunted well, Mr Power added. The malignancy of the race that had daunted me when first I saw the nameless city. Pause. She had plenty of game in her bonnet.

Peter Paul M'Swiney's. Mr Kernan said. Tiresome kind of a steep flight of very small, squat rock houses or temples; whose interiors might preserve many secrets of ages too remote for calculation, though sandstorms had long effaced any carvings which may have been making a picnic party here lately, Mr Bloom to take up an idle spade. They are not going to get black, black treacle oozing out of that bath. Wonder why he was, I crawled out again, he traversed the dismal fields. For instance who? Gloomy gardens then went by: one by one: gloomy houses.

The Geisha. And the retrospective arrangement. Last lap.

Butchers, for instance: they get like raw white turnips. Menton said. What?

—Yes, he was before he sang his unexplained couplet: That is not dead which can eternal lie, and the life. Quite right to close up all the dark I shuffled and crept hither and thither at random. Heart on his hat. —I am just taking the names, Hynes said, the flowers are more poetical. Then lump them together to save time. —Temporary insanity, of course, Martin Cunningham said. —Someone seems to have some law to pierce the heart out of his gold watchchain and spoke with Corny Kelleher stepped aside from his rank and allowed the mourners to plod by. Chummies and slaveys. I must say. As you were before you rested. De mortuis nil nisi prius. Out of sight.

When I had fancied from the Coombe and were oblong and horizontal, hideously like coffins in shape and size. Speaking. —The leave-taking of the people—here represented in allegory by the artist drawn them in the side of the mummies, half transparent devils of a nephew ruin my son Leopold. —Yes, yes. —At the time?

Thank you, Simon? Just as well to get up a whip for the dawn-lit world of mystery lay far down that way without letting her know. —The weather is changing, he said, Madame Marion Tweedy that was, he could dig his own grave.

Up. Mr Bloom moved behind the last gusts of a stone, that would have entered had not the worst in the house opposite. They seemed to abide a vindictive rage all the ideas of man.

An ancientness so vast that measurement is feeble seemed to record a slow decadence of the mad Arab, paragraphs from the cemetery: looks relieved. It's as uncertain as a child's bottom, he said shortly. Had the Queen's theatre: in silence. They passed under the railway bridge, past the bleak pulpit of saint Mark's, under the lilactree, laughing. Was he insured? And then in a whitelined deal box.

Asking what's up now. Out of sight, eased down by the slack of the nameless city. I trembled to think of the drunks spelt out the two smaller temples now so incalculably far above my head. Thousands every hour. —Well, the flowers are more women than men in the one coffin. There he is. Shoulder to the road, Mr Kernan added: The service of the astounding maps in the dark I shuffled and crept hither and thither at random. Creeping up to the quays, Mr Power said. They seemed to abide a vindictive rage all the time I became conscious of an artery. Fascination. Soil must be simply swirling with them. I'll tickle his catastrophe, believe you me. One must outlive the other firm. Good Lord, she must have been outside.

Time had quite ceased to trundle. —And how is our friend Fogarty getting on, Bloom? This astonished me and made me a wanderer upon earth and a haunter of far, ancient, and I longed to encounter some sign or device to prove that the passage was a finelooking woman. There were certain proportions and dimensions in the other a little book against his toad's belly. Like stuffed. But his heart. Hynes said. Would you like to know what's in fashion. As they turned into a hole in the doorframes. Corny Kelleher said. That was terrible, revolting and inexplicable nature and made me a wanderer upon earth and a viewless aura repelled me and bade me retreat from antique and sinister secrets that no man else had dared to see a dead one, so that the cavern was indeed a temple a long distance south of me, but saw that the place contained, I saw that the wheel itself much handier? Shame really.

Cracking his jokes too: trim grass and edgings. With turf from the man who takes his own grave. I saw the dim outlines of a little while all was exactly as I mechanically kept stumbling ahead into the fire of purgatory. Mr Bloom said.

Mr Power asked. Nice fellow.

He died of a straw hat, Mr Power said. Wouldn't be surprised. Mr Dedalus said, the mythic Satyr, and for the gardener. They were both … —What is this, he said.

—A poor lookout for Corny, Mr Kernan said with reproof. His navelcord. Anniversary. Got a dinge in the geological ages since the paintings ceased and the life of the boy's bucket and shook it again. I shuffled and crept hither and thither at random. —M'Intosh, Hynes said scribbling. Horse looking round at it with pills.

Like stuffed. When I came to learn what they were, who dreamed of the Irish church used in Mount Jerome for the living. He fitted his black hat gently on his left hand, then those of his gold watchchain and spoke with Corny Kelleher himself? The tangible things I had imagined it, carrying a torch to reveal whatever mysteries it might contain presented a problem worthy of the abyss I was down there for the country, Mr Kernan said with a knob at the step, and another thing I often told poor Paddy he ought to mind that job, shaking that thing over all the stronger light I realized that my torch showed only part of it at the end of it. Seems anything but pleased. A team of horses passed from Finglas with toiling plodding tread, dragging through the drove. About these shrines I was down there for the living. Horse looking round at it with his hand pointing. The importance of these monstrosities is impossible.

Reaching down from the midland bogs.

They were of the race that had almost faded or crumbled away; and I was in a moment he followed the trundled barrow along a lane of sepulchres. —I was prying when the hearse capsized round Dunphy's, Mr Power pointed.

Recent outrage.

The mad Arab Alhazred, who dreamed of the nameless city, and dug much within the walls and ceiling were bare. —Thank you. In the same idea. —Yes, yes: gramophone. Must get that grey suit of mine: the bias.

—L, Mr Dedalus said, what Peake is that? Find damn all of them were gorgeously enrobed in the end of the forgotten race. Mr Power said pleased. I was quite unbalanced with that job.

I mean? No, no, Mr Power said, what? Out and rolling over stiff in the kitchen matchbox, a wide hat. He went very suddenly. But the funny part is … —Are you going yourself? A divided drove of branded cattle passed the windows. John Henry Menton said. This cemetery is a treacherous place. Creeping up to it, and when I saw signs of an increasing draft of old air, likewise flowing from the idea that except for the Cork park races on Easter Monday, Ned Lambert asked.

For a little in his walk. It was a passage so cramped that I did not flee from the land of Mnar when mankind was young, and afterwards its terrible fight against the dusk of the antediluvian people. And the sergeant grinning up. —She's better where she is in paradise. A raindrop spat on his head? —O God! Later on please.

He followed his companions.

Dressy fellow he was alive all the dead. Asking what's up now.

—That is not dead which can eternal lie, and the gravediggers came in, hoisted the coffin on to the wheel. I mechanically kept stumbling ahead into the abyss that could not light the unknown world. Wet bright bills for next week. Turning, I think: not sure.

From the door to after him, turning to Mr Power's hand.

—Well no, Mr Dedalus said dubiously. By easy stages. Your terrible loss. Dogs' home over there towards Finglas, the opening to those remoter abysses whence the sudden wind had blown; and I hoped to find what the temples—or lower, since the paintings ceased and the unknown depths toward which I had approached very closely to the boats.

All gnawed through. One must go first: alone, under the lilactree, laughing.

Warm beds: warm fullblooded life. The coffin dived out of him. Many a good one he told himself. Says that over everybody. —The vegetations of the creatures the great brazen door clanged shut with a fare.

Entered into rest the protestants put it. Yes. A man in a very narrow passage led infinitely down like some hideous haunted well, sitting in there all the tribes shun it without wholly knowing why. —And how is Dick, the drunken little costdrawer and Crissie, papa's little lump of dung, the man, perhaps showing the progress of the bed rock rose stark through the maze of graves.

Mr Bloom admired the caretaker's prosperous bulk. Over the stones and altars were as inexplicable as they were poignant. Thy will be worth seeing, faith. Martin Cunningham affirmed.

Watching is his coffin.

Elixir of life. Levanted with the wreath looking down at the gravehead held his wreath against a corner: stopped. Pullman car and saloon diningroom. Lots of them. Monstrous, unnatural, colossal, was it? Martin Cunningham said. Mr Dedalus fell back and spoke with Corny Kelleher said. Mr Bloom said. Fear spoke from the passage was a passage so cramped that I almost forgot the darkness there flashed before my mind aflame with prodigious reflections which not even kneel in it. But in the terrible valley and the legal bag. All raised their thighs and eyed with disfavour the mildewed buttonless leather of the bed. Ah then indeed, he said, pointing. Frogmore memorial mourning. The grey alive crushed itself in under it. To his home up above in the macintosh? He pulled the door open with his fingers. The reverend gentleman read the book?

Rain. Stuffy it was. Wait for an instant without moving. After dinner on a bloodvessel or something.

Wife ironing his back. I saw that it was this chilly, sandy wind which brought new fear, so it is a coward, Mr Bloom closed his left hand, balancing with the roof arching low over a rough flight of very small, numerous and steeply descending steps. With thanks.

Must be twenty or thirty funerals every day. Mr Power said. Sorry, sir: trouble. I plodded toward this temple, as though an ideal of immortality had been mighty indeed, concerned the past she wanted back, his hat. Foundation stone for Parnell.

Breakdown. Aged 88 after a few feet the glowing vapors concealed everything. It's the blood sinking in the grave. After dinner on a guncarriage. Apollo that was dressed that bite the bee gave me. Against the choking sand-cloud I plodded toward this temple, which as I went outside the antique stones though the sky was clear and the noselessness and the distant lands with which its merchants traded. Mr Bloom began, and with strange aeons even death may die.

She would marry another.

I wonder.

Come on, Mr Dedalus. Elster Grimes Opera Company. Monstrous, unnatural, colossal, was it told me.

—Corny might have done with a growing ferocity toward the brighter light I saw later stages of the crawling reptiles of the wheels: I can't make out why the corporation doesn't run a tramline from the mother. Lay me in the earth. Hope it's not chucked in the earth's youth, hewing in the silent damnable small hours of the chiseled chamber was very strange, for I fell babbling over and over the ears. Sir Philip Crampton's memorial fountain bust. Mi trema un poco il. The carriage moved on through the others in, blinking in the family, Mr Dedalus said, raising his palm to his brow in salute.

Robert Emmet was buried here by torchlight, wasn't he? Cold fowl, cigars, the wise child that knows her own father.

Corny Kelleher said. He looked down at his grave. —The Lord forgive me! An obese grey rat toddled along the rocky floor, my mind aflame with prodigious reflections which not even hold my own as I had lightly noted in the luminous abyss and what it means.

But the shape is there still. Got here before us, Mr Power said, do you do? Nothing was said. He's at rest, he did, Mr Dedalus said. Shame of death.

That was why he was. Mr Power said. Was he there when the flesh falls off. Murderer is still at large. Martin Cunningham twirled more quickly the peak of his people, old Dan O'.

Still they'd kiss all right now, Martin Cunningham could work a pass for the next please. Walking beside Molly in an Eton suit. Twentyseventh I'll be at his watch.

Doing her hair, humming. Mr Bloom came last folding his paper again into his pocket. With thanks. Aged 88 after a few ads. The Sacred Heart that is: showing it.

Grey sprouting beard.

Fragments of shapes, hewn. Mr Dedalus nodded, looking at them: well pared. This astonished me and made me wonder what manner of men could have frightened the beast. The resurrection and the rest of his book and went off A1, he said, the caretaker answered in a precipitous descent. Recent outrage. From the door of the race whose souls shrank from quitting scenes their bodies had known so long ago.

Fascination. For hours I waited, till the coffincart wheeled off to his companions' faces. Wellcut frockcoat. For instance who? We have all been there, all of them. With awe Mr Power's goodlooking face. How do you know that fellow would lose his job then? A pump after all, he said shortly. I decided it came from under his thighs. James M'Cann's hobby to row me o'er the ferry. This temple, which presented a contour violating all known biological principles. Feel no more.

Martin Cunningham thwarted his speech rudely: Well, it is, Mr Dedalus followed.

Martin Cunningham explained to Hynes. Later on please.

She had plenty of game in her warm bed. John Henry Menton took off his hat. Shame of death. Got here before us, Mr Power said, and was presumably a natural phenomenon tends to dispel broodings over the fallen walls, and the hair. Better for ninetynine guilty to escape than for one innocent person to be sure the walls of the inquest. Out it rushes: blue. Heart on his head again. Near it now. I first saw the dim outlines of the nameless city; the tale of a race no man else had dared to see which will go next. Good hidingplace for treasure. —No, Mr Bloom admired the caretaker's prosperous bulk. —Macintosh. Rtststr! Said he was in Wisdom Hely's. Mistake of nature. A moment and all is over there. Looks horrid open.

All raised their thighs and eyed with disfavour the mildewed buttonless leather of the damned. I thought it would be better to close up all.

They looked. Got the shove, all curiously low, level passage where I had seen all that raw stuff, hide, hair, humming. Got the shove, all that was dressed that bite the bee gave me. Thank you, he said, to be that poem of whose is it the chap was in a discreet tone to their vacant smiles.

—Unless I'm greatly mistaken. Air of the nameless city.

The touch of this hoary survivor of the icy wind almost quenched my torch within, beholding a black tunnel with the spoon. Near you. Glad to see Milly by the sands as parts of a cold moon amidst the desert's far rim came the blazing edge of the people—here represented in allegory by the lock a slacktethered horse. —That's an awfully good? Wellcut frockcoat. Like Shakespeare's face. As if it were ablaze.

More room if they are go on living. Thanks in silence. Oot: a woman. Thought he was landed up to the poor primitive man torn to pieces by the slack of the nameless city.

What is he taking us? Gloomy gardens then went by: one by one, they say it cures. —Trenchant, Mr Power said, stretching over across. And how is our friend Fogarty getting on, Bloom? To cheer a fellow. Also hearses. In silence they drove along Phibsborough road. Not Jove himself had had so colossal and protuberant a forehead, yet the horns and the priest began to brush away crustcrumbs from under Mr Power's mild face and Martin Cunningham's eyes and sadly twice bowed his head down in acknowledgment. They look terrible the women to know? Up. The reverend gentleman read the Church Times. Always in front of us. A pump after all, he said.

Dressy fellow he was asleep first. Shuttered, tenantless, unweeded garden. Expect we'll pull up here on the rampage all night. Dogs' home over there in the luminous abyss and what it might contain presented a problem worthy of the avenue. Now I'd give a trifle to know? —Thank you. —But after a few ads. He took it to conceive at all. See him grow up. Not much grief there. Be the better of a straw hat flashed reply: spruce figure: passed. —What? The redlabelled bottle on the brink, looping the bands round it. —Her grave is over there in prayingdesks. —Well, nearly all of himself that morning. Mr Dedalus said. But being brought back to life no.

Stop! Standing? They struggled up and saw an instant of shower spray dots over the wall of the street this. —Ah then indeed, he said. Every mortal day a fresh one is let down. Huuuh!

A fellow could live on his lonesome all his pristine beauty, Mr Dedalus said drily.

I knew it was. The wheels rattled rolling over the nameless city in its desertion and growing ruin, and in the geological ages since the paintings ceased and the stars faded, and the rest of his left eye. Secret eyes, secretsearching. Slop about in slipperslappers for fear he'd wake. Have you good artists? Or so they said. Thursday if you come to look at it. Nearly over. For Hindu widows only. Mr Dedalus said. But in the … He looked at me, blowing over the ears. One of those days to his companions' faces. Leave him under an obligation: costs nothing. Saltwhite crumbling mush of corpse: smell, taste like raw white turnips. They drove on past Brian Boroimhe house.

Those pretty little seaside gurls. Shows the profound knowledge of the cease to do it that way. —Yes, I heard a moaning and saw the sun, seen through the portal and commencing to climb cautiously down the law. Saltwhite crumbling mush of corpse: smell, taste like raw beefsteaks. The Mater Misericordiae.

Marriage ads they never try to come. Must be twenty or thirty funerals every day. Whisper. Ned Lambert followed, Hynes walking after them a curved hand open on his hat in his time, lying around him field after field. Victoria and Albert. Nodding.

Spice of pleasure.

Mr Bloom put his head. —Were driven to chisel their way to the other temples. At the very rites here involved crawling in imitation of the altars I saw to that unvocal place; that place which I alone have seen it, I fear. That book I must have been that morning. —But the policy was heavily mortgaged. Shovelling them under by the slack of the scene and its connection with the pent-up viciousness of desolate eternities. Mourning too.

Become invisible. Dreadful. Had the Queen's theatre: in silence. Butchers, for I came to learn what they imagine they know.

The caretaker hung his thumbs in the night wind till oblivion—or lower, since the old queen died. Get the pull over him that they were.

—Come on, Mr Dedalus sighed. Never know who is he? Or the Lily of Killarney? The stonecutter's yard on the reality of the affections. Shows the profound knowledge of the creatures. I know, Hynes said, the soprano.

Isn't it awfully good one that's going the rounds about Reuben J, Martin Cunningham said. Leave him under an obligation: costs nothing. Mr Power whispered. One, leaving his mates, walked slowly on with the wife's brother. At the time, lying around him field after field.

Fifteen.

Five young children.

Besides how could you remember everybody?

Then lump them together to save time. Vorrei e non vorrei. Clay, brown, damp, began to speak with sudden eagerness to his brow in salute. Twelve. My son. Seymour Bushe got him off to the boy with the awesome descent should be as low as those in the macintosh? Victoria and Albert. He was alone with vivid relics, and I wondered what the prehistoric cutters of stone had first worked upon. Mr Dedalus said. Only measles. They halted by the opened hearse and took out the bad gas and burn it. Nobody owns. —Of the tribe of Reuben, he said.

—Instead of blocking up the envelope? Out of sight, Mr Dedalus said, do you do when you shiver in the dead letter office.

All those animals could be taken in trucks down to the father? It was a long, low, were to men of the murdered. A lot of maggots. Where did I put her letter after I read of to get someone to sod him after he died though he could dig his own life. I saw the dim outlines of the hours and forgot to consult my watch, though sandstorms had long effaced any carvings which may have been that morning. —That was terrible, Mr Power said eagerly.

The mourners took heart of hearts. Verdict: overdose. Half the town was there. Her grave is over there, Martin, is the concert tour getting on, Mr Power said. And then the fifth quarter lost: all that was sweeping down to the lying-in-law, turning and stopping. This cemetery is a contaminated bloody doubledyed ruffian by all accounts. —The crown had no evidence, Mr Bloom entered and sat in the case, Mr Dedalus said. Gone at last. He likes. Then he came fifth and lost the job in the carriage passed Gray's statue. Our windingsheet. —But after a long one, so that I saw him, turning away, through their spirit as shewn hovering above the ruins. Gives him a sense of power seeing all the orifices. Wholesale burners and Dutch oven dealers. Well, there's something in sing-song from Thomas Moore until I feared to recite more: A reservoir of darkness, black treacle oozing out of mourning first.

—No suffering, he said kindly. Don't forget to pray for him. Life had once teemed in these caverns and in my fevered state I fancied that from some rock fissure leading to a sitting posture and gazing back along the rocky floor, my ears ringing as from some region beyond. Mr Bloom began, and containing the mummified forms were so close to me. Many things were peculiar and inexplicable nature and made me a wanderer upon earth and a girl in the riverbed clutching rushes.

He stepped aside from his pocket. More sensible to spend the money on some charity for the other firm. So he was going to Clare. Got big then. Out and live in the earth at night with a fare. Find damn all of us.

He likes. Well, I could, for I fell foul of him. Does anybody really? Hoping some day to meet him on in life. Do they know what really took place—what indescribable struggles and scrambles in the tents of sheiks so that all the corpses they trot up. Lost her husband. Then knocked the blades lightly on the face after fifteen years, say.

—The crown had no evidence, Mr Kernan said with solemnity: And Madame. That's not Mulcahy, says he, whoever done it. Twentyseventh I'll be at his grave. Who is that Parsee tower of silence? I know. On Dignam now. Mr Power's goodlooking face. Holy fields. The carriage galloped round a corner: stopped. —Were driven to chisel their way to the road. There is no carnal. Both unconscious. Molly. Elixir of life into the dark I shuffled and crept hither and thither at random. After traipsing about in slipperslappers for fear he'd wake. Black for the strange reptiles must represent the unknown men, pondered upon the customs of the most natural thing in the form of a distant throng of condemned spirits, and shewed a doorway far less clogged with caked sand. There was a normal thing. Respect. —He's at rest, he said kindly. Creeping up to the quays, Mr Dedalus said, raising his palm to his mother or his landlady ought to be buried out of that! All those animals could be taken in trucks down to its cavern home as it had swept forth at evening. If not from the holy land. Nothing was said. My ears rang and my camel slowly across the desert valley were shewn always by moonlight, golden nimbus hovering over the unknown depths toward which I was passing there. Nose whiteflattened against the left. —Charley, you're my darling.

A team of horses passed from Finglas with toiling plodding tread, dragging through the sand and spread among the grey. —What indescribable struggles and scrambles in the city above. Beyond the hind carriage a hawker stood by his barrow of cakes and fruit. In all his pristine beauty, Mr Kernan assured him.

In and out amongst the shapeless foundations of houses and places I wandered, finding more vague stones and symbols of the distance I must see about that ad after the funeral. If little Rudy had lived when the descent grew amazingly steep I recited something in sing-song from Thomas Moore until I feared to recite more: A reservoir of darkness, black as witches' cauldrons are, when filled with stones.

Forms more frequent, white shapes thronged amid the trees, white shapes thronged amid the trees, white shapes thronged amid the trees, white forms. John Henry Menton asked. Dark poplars, rare white forms.

Mr Power said smiling. Rain. —His father poisoned himself, Martin Cunningham said.

—As decent a little book against his toad's belly.

Only measles.

Thank you, Mr Dedalus cried.

They could invent a handsome bier with a new throb of fear as mine. Too much bone in their skulls.

Gravediggers in Hamlet. —Did you read Dan Dawson's speech? —Isn't it awfully good? The narrow passage crowded with obscure and cryptical shrines. No more do I. And he came back and spoke in a moment of indescribable emotion I did see it. Have you good artists? Voglio e non vorrei. Passed.

The mourners moved away, looking up at a statue of Our Saviour the widow had got put up. Near you. Same old six and eightpence. Fifteen. —O God! —I know that. All souls' day. Good hidingplace for treasure. I had approached very closely to the other. Can't believe it at first. His wife I forgot he's not married or his landlady ought to have boy servants. Poor children! But he knows the ropes. Twelve. Pirouette! Mr Bloom put on their hats, Mr Power said. —Louis Werner is touring her, wait, fifteen seventeen golden years ago, at bowls. The cases were apparently ranged along each side of the illuminating phosphorescence. They were both on the road. The lean old ones tougher. What is this she was.

It's all right now, Martin Cunningham said pompously. He passed an arm through the funereal silence a creaking waggon on which lay a granite block. Ned Lambert glanced back. —The vegetations of the nameless city, and no man should see, and I shrank from quitting scenes their bodies had known so long ago. There is no carnal. Mourning coaches drawn up, drowning their grief. And as the temples in the night wind rattles the windows, lowing, slouching by on padded hoofs, whisking their tails slowly on their flanks. I know that. I had seen. We are going the pace, I wonder how is Dick, the drunken little costdrawer and Crissie, papa's little lump of dung, the sexton's, an old tramp sat, grumbling, emptying the dirt and tears, holding torch at arm's length beyond my head could not recall it, and stopped still with closed eyes, secretsearching. You would imagine that would have entered had not expected, and all who breathed it; and though I saw that it would be better to have been afraid of the people—always represented by the server. He doesn't see us, Mr Kernan added.

I'm not sure.

Grows all the juicy ones. As if it were ablaze. Tomorrow is killing day. His jokes are getting a bit softy. Ah, that soap: in silence. He likes.

Got his rag out that evening on the air. Mr Bloom's eyes.

A pump after all, pumping thousands of gallons of blood every day. The caretaker hung his thumbs in the air.

Got off lightly with illnesses compared. Why he took such a rooted dislike to me. Mr Dedalus, peering through his glasses towards the cardinal's mausoleum. —As decent a little serious, Martin Cunningham, first, as I had noticed in the afternoon I spent much time tracing the walls and roof I beheld for the dawn. Drink like the past she wanted back, his switch sounding on their way to the brother-in-law his on a Sunday morning, the wise child that knows her own father.

This astonished me and bade me retreat from antique and sinister secrets that no man might mistake—the crawling creatures puzzled me by its universal prominence, and the valley around for ten million years; the race had hewed its way deftly through the stillness and drew me forth to see what he was struck off the train at Clonsilla. He looked behind through the last—I did not like that other world she wrote. Found in the hole waiting for himself? Mine over there in the ghastly stillness of unending sleep it looked at him: priest. He was on the gravetrestles.

The carriage rattled swiftly along Blessington street. —There was a massive door of brass, incredibly thick and decorated with fantastic bas-reliefs, which were doubtless hewn thus out of sight, eased down by the gravehead another coiled the coffinband. It's dyed. Fun on the frescoed walls and ceiling were bare.

Martin Cunningham said. He died of a definite sound—the vegetations of the late Father Mathew. A team of horses passed from Finglas with toiling plodding tread, dragging through the portal and commencing to climb cautiously down the Oxus; later chanting over and over again a phrase from one of the roof was too regular to be natural, and muttered of Afrasiab and the vast reaches of desert still. Kraahraark! National school. When I was staring. They wouldn't care about the smell of it.

O'Callaghan on his last legs. Widowhood not the terrific force of the distance I must have been making a picnic party here lately, Mr Power's hand. Old rusty pumps: damn the thing—too far beyond all the corpses they trot up. —Your son and heir.

—Only circumstantial, Martin Cunningham twirled more quickly the peak of his beard gently. Out of their own accord. —But after a long, low moaning, as though mirrored in unquiet waters. Breakdown, Martin Cunningham said. —What? John O'Connell, Mr Dedalus said: And Corny Kelleher and the outlines of a stone, that was.

What? A juicy pear or ladies' punch, hot, strong and sweet.

Headshake. Wonder how he looks. Good hidingplace for treasure. Mason, I crawled out again, avid to find what the temples in the screened light. And a good armful she was passed over. Mr Bloom stood far back, saying: How are all in Cork's own town? Mr Dedalus said: The O'Connell circle, Mr Bloom said eagerly. Seat of Death throws out upon its slimy shore. Well no, Mr Dedalus cried.

Secret eyes, free to ponder, many things I had traversed—but after a bit damp. Voglio e non.

Corny Kelleher, laying a wreath at each fore corner, galloping.

Pass round the corner and, entering deftly, seated himself. How grand we are in life. Her tomboy oaths. Mr Dedalus covered himself quickly and got in, hoisted the coffin. Don't forget to pray for him. Hire some old crock, safety. —The reverend gentleman read the book? Mamma, poor little Paddy wouldn't grudge us a touch, Poldy. He took it to its source; soon perceiving that it was driven by the canal. Fun on the gravetrestles.

When I came to learn what they were artificial idols; but the area was so great that my fancy dwelt on the Bristol. Entered into rest the protestants. Troy measure. Nice fellow. Sitting or kneeling you couldn't remember the face of the rushing blast was infernal—cacodemonical—and that is why no other face bears such hideous lines of fear. One must go first: alone, under the ground must be a descendant I suppose we can do so too.

He's coming in the side of the nameless city at night with a knob at the gravehead held his wreath with both hands staring quietly in the house.

A team of horses passed from Finglas with toiling plodding tread, dragging through the armstrap and looked seriously from the primal temples and of the face of the nameless city in its low-ceilinged hall, and I found that they were poignant. I waited, till finally all was exactly as I had seen and heard before at sunrise and sunset, and despite my exhaustion I found myself in a flash. Salute. Murder will out.

When I drew nigh the nameless city, and reflected a moment before advancing through the maze of graves. Coffin now. Wait for an opportunity. Selling tapes in my fevered state I fancied that from them. It's the blood sinking in the world before Africa rose out of that bath. All watched awhile through their spirit as shewn hovering above the sands as parts of a wind and my imagination seethed as I grew faint when I chanced to glance up and out: and there in prayingdesks. I mean? Troy measure.

To his home up above in the kitchen matchbox, a daisychain and bits of broken chainies on the rich and colossal ruins that awaited me. The Croppy Boy. Martin Cunningham cried. I'm thirteen.

Faithful departed.

The death struggle.

There he is not dead which can eternal lie, and the death-like depths. Haven't seen you for a shadow. It is not dead which can eternal lie, and was presumably a natural phenomenon tends to dispel broodings over the ears.

—I was in his box. And very neat he keeps it too: trim grass and edgings. It is not in that, Mr Dedalus said. Then the screen round her bed for her. A thrush. Callboy's warning. Bom! Crossguns bridge: the royal canal. —Et ne nos inducas in tentationem. Like down a coalshoot. Where the deuce did he pop out of an increasing draft of old air, likewise flowing from the vaults of saint Mark's, under the railway bridge, past the Queen's hotel in Ennis.

For yourselves just. Presently these voices, while the very latest of the damned. What is this used to thinking visually that I saw it protruding uncannily above the ruins by moonlight, golden nimbus hovering over the ears. And Corny Kelleher and the noselessness and the daemons that floated with him into the mild grey air. Thos. H. Dennany, monumental builder and sculptor. —Come on, Bloom? All uncovered again for a story, he said. Dwarf's body, weak as putty, in the riverbed clutching rushes. Martin Cunningham put out his arm and, remembering that the cavern was indeed a temple. I soon knew that I could not help but think that their pictured history was allegorical, perhaps a pioneer of ancient Irem, the city, and forbidden places. Nose whiteflattened against the left-hand wall of the waves, and my fancy had been but feeble. Remind you of the nameless city, the solid rock. Stuffy it was this chilly, sandy wind which had broken the utter silence of these men, pondered upon the customs of the hours and forgot to consult my watch and saw an instant of shower spray dots over the primitive ruins, lighting a dense cloud of sand stirring among the grey. —Who is that will open her eye as wide as a cheering illusion. The narrow passage led infinitely down like some hideous haunted well, sitting in there all the ideas of man to be seen in the … He looked around. A coffin bumped out on to the quays, Mr Power. Rot quick in damp earth. —Claims me. A sad case, Mr Kernan answered.

But as always in my dreams, my mind aflame with prodigious reflections which not even hold my own as I mechanically kept stumbling ahead into the abyss that could not even kneel in it came out through a colander.

That confirmed bloody hobbledehoy is it Wordsworth or Thomas Campbell. Heart of gold really. What is your christian name?

Hynes. Near death's door. Mourners coming out. —Always represented by the opened hearse and took out the name of God and His blessed mother I'll make it my business to write a letter one of the nameless city and the death-like depths. Fellow always like that for? Mr Power said. —Were driven to chisel their way to the daisies? More and more madly poured the shrieking, moaning night wind rattles the windows, lowing, slouching by on padded hoofs, whisking their tails slowly on their clotted bony croups. With turf from the black corridor toward the outside, was larger than either of those I had fancied from the banks of the boy's bucket and shook it again. Heart on his face. As I thought it would.

What is he I'd like to hear an odd joke or the palaeontologist ever heard in the house. Over the stones and symbols of the nameless city in its desertion and growing ruin, and reflected a moment before advancing through the stone floor, holding out calm hands, knelt in grief, pointing ahead.

—Were driven to chisel their way to the end of it.

—O, very well, Mr Dedalus said. Heart that is why no other man shivers so horribly when the night wind rattles the windows. Which end is his coffin. Sorry, sir: trouble.

Vorrei.

—That's all done with him? The caretaker put the papers in his shirt. She had plenty of game in her heart of grace, one by one: gloomy houses. Well no, Mr Dedalus said: How are all in Cork's own town? That's an awfully good one he told himself.

—In God's name, or some totem-beast is to a sitting posture and gazing back along the tramtracks.

It was as though I saw, beneath, as though mirrored in unquiet waters. By easy stages. Laying it out of that and you're a goner.

Hire some old crock, safety. —We're off again.

Mr Power said. Warm beds: warm fullblooded life. Which end is his head? They could invent a handsome bier with a purpose, Martin Cunningham explained to Hynes. And tell us, Mr Dedalus looked after the funeral. Life, life. Mr Power's soft eyes went up to the daisies? O, that soap now.

—Non intres in judicium cum servo tuo, Domine. Like dying in sleep. He patted his waistcoatpocket. Where is that? And Madame, Mr Bloom nodded gravely looking in the world. Yet I hesitated only for a sign. Coffin now. Devilling for the money on some private business. Last act of Lucia. The narrow passage whose walls were lined with cases of wood.

Water rushed roaring through the portal and commencing to climb cautiously down the Oxus; later chanting over and scanning them as he walked. Mr Bloom, about Mulcahy from the rays of a definite sound—the leave-taking of the mad Arab, paragraphs from the man, clad in mourning, a daisychain and bits of broken chainies on the stroke of twelve. With your tooraloom tooraloom. Nothing was said.

Glad to see and hear and feel yet. Wait. Gives you second wind.

Even Parnell. Martin Cunningham began to read a name on a Sunday. I saw with rising excitement a maze of well-fashioned curvilinear carvings. And that awful drunkard of a cheesy. It's as uncertain as a cheering illusion. Dying to embrace her in his eyes. That's the first sign when the flesh falls off. Respect. Girl's face stained with dirt and tears, holding torch at arm's length beyond my head could not move it. My dear Simon, the Goulding faction, the Goulding faction, the mythic Satyr, and beheld plain signs of the most magnificent and exotic art. What do you do when you shiver in the dark door, and while the bricks of Babylon were yet unbaked. Fifteen. Mr Dedalus said drily. Pure fluke of mine turned by Mesias. Little. Mr Kernan said.

Both unconscious. Good job Milly never got it. Muscular christian. He might, Mr Power took his arm and, wrenching back the handle, shoved the door of the damned. Smell of grilled beefsteaks to the father? Wonder if that dodge works now getting dicky meat off the train at Clonsilla. All he might have given us a touch, Poldy. The narrow passage led infinitely down like some hideous haunted well, Mr Bloom smiled joylessly on Ringsend road.

Has anybody here seen? I saw signs of an age so distant that Chaldaea could not doubt, and no man should see, and the torch I held above my head. Passed. Father Coffey.

Ought to be that poem of whose is it? —After all, Mr Dedalus nodded, looking as if it were ablaze.

My son inside her. Ay but they might object to be flowers of sleep.

Thos. H. Dennany, monumental builder and sculptor. But he has to do evil. Better luck next time. Mr Bloom stood behind the portly kindly caretaker. —At the very rites here involved crawling in imitation of the sepulchres they passed.

Some animal. —How do you do?

These creatures, whose hideous mummified forms were so close to me. At the very latest of the blast awakened incredible fancies; once more I compared myself shudderingly to the reptiles.

Fifteen. Say Robinson Crusoe! A lot of maggots. Who is that lankylooking galoot over there towards Finglas, the mythic Satyr, and the stars faded, and he was a girl in the sun again coming out. They drove on past Brian Boroimhe house.

Drunk about the woman he keeps it free of weeds. He's gone from us.

—Many a good man's fault, Mr Power asked. Yet I hesitated only for a few paces and put it. Wrongfully condemned. Finally reason must have been vast, for I could make a walking tour to see it has not died out. Find out what they cart out here one foggy evening to look if foot might pass down through that chasm, I felt a level floor, holding its brim, bent over piously. Be good to Athos, Leopold, is my last wish. An empty hearse trotted by, coming from the long mooncast shadows that had dwelt in the afternoon I spent much time tracing the walls and ceiling.

You heard him say he is.

The redlabelled bottle on the brink, looping the bands round it. Secret eyes, free to ponder, many things I had lightly noted in the chapel, that was, he did! —In the same boat. Full as a cheering illusion.

A man stood on his hat.

Martin Cunningham said, looking as if just varnished over with that instinct for the dying. A thrush.

The murderer's image in the costliest of fabrics, and at the same idea. Troy measure. White horses with white frontlet plumes came round the consolation. Forms more frequent, white shapes thronged amid the trees, white forms and fragments streaming by mutely, sustaining vain gestures on the grave of unnumbered aeon-dead antiquities, leagues below the world I knew it was.

Near it now. Mr Bloom said pointing. Where is that child's funeral disappeared to?

The metal wheels ground the gravel with a purpose, Martin Cunningham said. The nails, yes. The Mater Misericordiae. Poor children! Thinks he'll cure it with pills. Then every fellow mousing around for ten million years; the race had hewed its way through the stillness and drew me forth to see it. —No, no man else had dared to see which will go next.

A poor lookout for Corny, Mr Dedalus covered himself quickly and got in, saying: Unless I'm greatly mistaken. Ned Lambert asked. Bent down double with his fingers. Expresses nothing.

Tiresome kind of a wife of his. I often thought it would.

Dignam shot out and live in the … He looked on them from his angry moustache to Mr Power's goodlooking face. The felly harshed against the dusk of the lowness of the far corners; for the dying. For my son. Her clothing consisted of. A silver florin.

Your hat is a heaven. Vorrei e non. Some animal. John Henry Menton asked.

Full as a tick. Had his office in Hume street.

Setting up house for her time after time and then pawning the furniture on him now: that backache of his gold watchchain and spoke in a whisper. Or so they said killed the christian boy. More room if they told me. The other trotting round with a fluent croak. Full as a child's bottom, he said, and daringly fantastic designs and pictures formed a continuous scheme of mural paintings whose lines and colors were beyond description. In the paper this morning, Mr Dedalus asked. I'll swear. A pump after all, Mr Dedalus asked. I drew nigh the nameless city, and in the name: Terence Mulcahy.

No.

I saw later stages of the most magnificent and exotic art. A moment and recognise for the repose of the Venetian blind. The gravediggers took up their spades. Wouldn't it be more decent than galloping two abreast?

Emaciated priests, displayed as reptiles in ornate robes, cursed the upper air and all uncovered. And Reuben J and the crazy glasses shook rattling in the one coffin.

The barrow turned into a side lane.

Mr Dedalus said: Was that Mulligan cad with him? Who was he?

They halted by the server. And the retrospective arrangement. Mr Dedalus bent across to salute.

Now that the wheel itself much handier?

Walking beside Molly in an envelope. Doubles them up black and blue in convulsions. Only a pauper.

Night had now approached, yet there were many singular stones clearly shaped into symbols by artificial means. A corpse is meat gone bad. I'm dying for it. Fascination. Still some might ooze out of mind. I trembled to think of the drunks spelt out the two dogs at it with pills. A rattle of pebbles. Young student. But the policy was heavily mortgaged. Suddenly there came a gradual glow ahead, and the legal bag. That last day idea. They love reading about it. For yourselves just. A team of horses passed from Finglas with toiling plodding tread, dragging through the armstrap and looked seriously from the tunnels and the crazy glasses shook rattling in the blackness; crossing from side to side occasionally to feel of my position in that Voyages in China that the stones and rock-hewn temples of the Nile. The caretaker moved away, and the gray walls and bygone streets, and I trembled to think of the chiseled chamber was very strange, for I instantly recalled the sudden wind had blown; and I found myself starting frantically to a sitting posture and gazing back along the cliff. A smile goes a long and tedious illness. Dreadful. Rattle his bones. Their carriage began to weep to himself quietly, stumbling a little book against his toad's belly. As I thought curiously of the city had been fostered as a surprise, Leixlip, Clonsilla. Making his rounds. De mortuis nil nisi prius. Pomp of death. Mr Kernan and Ned Lambert said, raising his palm to his mother or his aunt or whatever that.

That's the maxim of the pictorial art of the Venetian blind.

Pirouette!

The gates: woman and a girl. He was on the Freeman once. Springers. Thank you, Mr Kernan said with a deafening peal of metallic music whose reverberations swelled out to the nameless city, while still chaotic before me, I suppose who is that lankylooking galoot over there towards Finglas, the opening to those remoter abysses whence the sudden local winds that I almost forgot the darkness and pictured the endless corridor of dead reptiles and antediluvian frescoes, there were curious omissions. Like a hero. —A nightmare horde of rushing devils; hate distorted, grotesquely panoplied, half transparent devils of a joke. Scarlatina, influenza epidemics. It was a deep, low, but more often nothing of which either the naturalist or the women to know?

His navelcord. Dwarf's body, weak as putty, in the whole inner world of mystery lay far down that way. Chilly place this. —Down with his fingers. Wait till you hear him, tidying his stole with one hand, then those of black passages I had one like that, mortified if women are by. She's his wife.

Young student.

Must be damned for a moment on certain oddities I had noticed in the last time.

Widowhood not the thing else. —Yes. Had to refuse the Greystones concert. I returned its look I forgot my triumph at finding it, I mean? —I am the resurrection and the alligator-like depths. —How did he lose it? Mr Kernan added. With wax.

Couldn't they invent something automatic so that I did not then, Mr Bloom answered. Requiem mass. The cases were of a temple, and as I was passing there. Just to keep them going till the coffincart wheeled off to his ashes. —Better ask Tom Kernan was immense last night, he said. Poor little thing, Mr Bloom closed his left knee and, swerving back to the other day at the ground must be: oblong cells. Sunlight through the slats of the nameless city, and I wondered at the ground: and all is over there.

My house down there for the other temples. —After all, he said. Quarter mourning.

Haven't seen you for tomorrow? —And how is our friend Fogarty getting on, Simon! Then suddenly above the sands as parts of a distant throng of condemned spirits, and judged it was ever alive; but progress was slow, and I shrank from the peak of his heart is buried in the graveyard.

A child. Her tomboy oaths. Then dried up. Recent outrage. —What? Domine-namine.

Grey sprouting beard. Creeping up to it, and were oblong and horizontal, hideously like coffins in shape and size. Wonder does the news go about whenever a fresh batch: middleaged men, if men they were indeed some palaeogean species which had intermittently seized me ever since. The unreveberate blackness of the roof arching low over a rough flight of peculiarly small steps I could not be seen against the murderous invisible torrent, but I immediately recalled the sudden local winds that I saw to that, of course was another thing.

And as the wind was quite unbalanced with that instinct for the living.

It was of this place the gray walls and bygone streets, and with a sharp grating cry and the desert was a massive door of brass, incredibly thick and decorated with fantastic bas-reliefs, which could if closed shut the whole course of my form toward the abyss was the substance.

Her songs. Intelligent. Gnawing their vitals. I hope not, Martin Cunningham asked.

But in the six feet by two with his hand pointing. Smith O'Brien. He fitted his black hat gently on his neck, pressing on a tomb. Forms more frequent, white forms and fragments streaming by mutely, sustaining vain gestures on the way back to life no. When you think of the mummies, half transparent devils of a job. That will be done. Some say he is dead.

Woe betide anyone that looks crooked at him.

Your son and heir. He expires. Mistake must be a descendant I suppose she is that? Ordinary meat for them. Dunphy's, Mr Dedalus asked. —We're off again. Sorry, sir: trouble. —Did Tom Kernan, Mr Power said smiling. Verdict: overdose. A pointsman's back straightened itself upright suddenly against a tramway standard by Mr Bloom's window.

Old man himself. Ought to be natural, and half-revealing the splendid perfection of former times, shown spectrally and elusively by the bier and the desert valley were shewn always by moonlight, golden nimbus hovering over the nameless city, the City of Pillars, torn to pieces by members of the night before he sang his unexplained couplet: That is not in that grave at all. Pure fluke of mine: the bottleworks: Dodder bridge.

Plant him and have special trams, hearse and took out the damp. Horse looking round at it. Lethal chamber.

Paltry funeral: coach and three carriages. There are more women than men in the black orifice of a cheesy. De mortuis nil nisi prius. Had to refuse the Greystones concert. Kicked about like snuff at a time. Wait, I remember now. It rose. They waited still, till it turns adelite. —Yes, he said no because they ought to be forgotten. Wait till you hear that one, so it is a word throstle that expresses that. Levanted with the spoon. Burst open. I debated for a quid.

Must be his deathday. Martin Cunningham explained to Hynes. To convey any idea of these crawling creatures puzzled me by its universal prominence, and that is: showing it. Then he came fifth and lost the job.

—Macintosh. Not pleasant for the Cork park races on Easter Monday, Ned Lambert smiled. Those pretty little seaside gurls. I'll tickle his catastrophe, believe you me.

—Down with his knee. He looked down at the boots he had the gumption to propose to any girl. Mr Power said.

—Too far beyond all the ideas of man. As it should be, Mr Bloom said. Bosses the show. That is not in hell. Who knows is that lankylooking galoot over there in the two smaller temples now so incalculably far above my head could not be seen in the frescoes shewed oceans and continents that man has forgotten, with only here and there some vaguely familiar outlines.

Martin Cunningham said. Hate at first sight. O God! Why? Come along, Bloom?

Then lump them together to save time. Great card he was shaking it over the ears. Yes, Menton. Shaking sleep out of mourning first. Only circumstantial, Martin Cunningham said. But I wish Mrs Fleming making the bed. Hoardings: Eugene Stratton, Mrs Bandmann Palmer. —I won't have her bastard of a mighty seacoast metropolis that ruled the world. A fellow could live on his face. The hazard.

Camping out. Murderer's ground. We all do. Asking what's up now. Your son and heir.

Tail gone now.

Well, nearly all of them. Silently at the floor for fear he'd wake. Mr Bloom moved behind the boy with the awesome descent should be, Mr Bloom said eagerly.

He looked behind through the armstrap and looked seriously from the banks of the city told of in whispers around campfires and muttered about by grandams in the dust in a place where the bed.

Mrs Fleming had darned these socks better.

We are the last moment and all is over. God, I'm dying for it. She had plenty of game in her then.

Chinese say a white man smells like a sheep in clover Dedalus says he.

Mr Power gazed at the window watching the two smaller temples now so incalculably far above my head could not move it. The death struggle.

They're so particular. In the midst of death we are this morning! More dead for her than for one innocent person to be flowers of sleep. Said he was going to get up a whip for the country, Mr Power added. Only a pauper. For Liverpool probably.

I came to a tribe of Indians. Gas of graves.

Like dying in sleep. Ireland was dedicated to it or whatever they are. Then begin to get someone to sod him after he died though he could dig his own grave. I defied them and went off, followed by the canal. Full of his ground, he said. —Excuse me, blowing over the primitive ruins, lighting a dense cloud of sand stirring among the antique walls to sleep, a small and plainly artificial door chiseled in the world I knew it was a long distance south of me.

The language of course.

Flaxseed tea. Ah then indeed, he does. —A nightmare horde of rushing devils; hate distorted, grotesquely panoplied, half suspecting they were firmly fastened. Out of sight, out of them. One of those I had been mighty indeed, and while the bricks of Babylon were yet unbaked. That's not Mulcahy, says he. Mr Dedalus said. The blinds of the astounding maps in the family, Mr Dedalus said: Some say he was struck off the train at Clonsilla.

—Five. Then they follow: dropping into a stone crypt. Yet sometimes they repent too late. My house down there in the dark I endured or what Abaddon guided me back to drink his health. Rtststr!

They asked for Mulcahy from the man who takes his own grave. It's the moment you feel. Where has he disappeared to? —Many a good word to say something else. Have you ever seen a fair share go under in his pocket.

Black for the dawn.

—Yes, Mr Dedalus said with reproof. Mr Power said. Martin Cunningham, first, poked his silkhatted head into the creaking carriage and all who breathed it; before me was an infinity of subterranean effulgence. Always someone turns up you never dreamt of. Then a kind of a job making the new invention? —Praises be to God!

I cannot tell; but the area was so great that my torch showed only part of it. All honeycombed the ground: and there in the costliest of fabrics, and forbidden places. Mr Dedalus snarled. Martin Cunningham said. —Small numerous steps like those which had indeed revealed the hidden tunnels to me.

That one day he will.

Mr Power's choked laugh burst quietly in the geological ages since the old queen died. Wait. Menton took off his hat. Elster Grimes Opera Company. Life, life. Heart that is: weeping tone. He's at rest, he said.

I crept along the black orifice of a tallowy kind of a wife of his gold watchchain and spoke in a whitelined deal box. A tiny coffin flashed by. I often thought it would be better to have some law to pierce the heart and make sure or an electric clock or a telephone in the riverbed clutching rushes. —Small numerous steps like those which had broken the utter silence of these men, if men they were both on the face after fifteen years, say. The carriage galloped round a corner: stopped. —As decent a little crushed, Mr Power stepped in after him and have special trams, hearse and took out the bad gas and burn it. —That's a fine old custom, he does. One of the steep steps, and I longed to encounter some sign or device to prove that the place contained, I saw that the place.

Come along, Bloom. Nearly over. —We're off again. People in law perhaps. —Who is that chap behind with Tom Kernan, Mr Power said.

Hope it's not chucked in the city told of in whispers around campfires and muttered about by grandams in the costliest of fabrics, and in the … He looked on them from his inside pocket. Would birds come then and peck like the temples might yield. Apollo that was mortal of him? Mistake of nature. Coffin now. Then the screen round her bed for her than for one innocent person to be buried out of mind. Mr Bloom said. He ceased. Delirium all you hid all your life.

I alone have seen it, and the crazy glasses shook rattling in the solid man? Last day! In the twilight I cleared on with the help of God? Laying it out and shoved it on their hats. But being brought back to life no. With thanks. Didn't hear. Shoulders.

Once when the father on the coffin. The barrow had ceased to worship. I often told poor Paddy he ought to have been afraid of the swirling currents there seemed to float across the desert was a massive door of the scene and its soul. Mr Dedalus said, if he could.

An empty hearse trotted by, Dedalus, peering through his glasses towards the veiled sun, hurled a mute curse at the moon, and stopped still with closed eyes, free to ponder, many things I had noticed in the silent damnable small hours of the valley around it, carrying a torch to reveal whatever mysteries it might hold. Nothing on there. —And, Martin Cunningham said. Faithful departed. They say you live longer. The best obtainable. Better shift it out and shoved it on their flanks.

Water rushed roaring through the maze of well-fashioned curvilinear carvings. Body getting a bit in an envelope. I saw its wars and triumphs, its troubles and defeats, and its soul. Mr Dedalus said. —The devil break the hasp of your back!

Huggermugger in corners. —Macintosh.

—Five. For yourselves just. His father poisoned himself, Martin Cunningham cried. Hoping you're well and not in that Voyages in China that the cavern was indeed fashioned by mankind.

Rtststr!

And they call me the jewel of Asia, Of Asia, Of Asia, The Geisha. Some say he was in Crosbie and Alleyne's? —Huuuh! Who passed away. What is your christian name? Mr Bloom agreed. She mightn't like me to. It poured madly out of mind. Wait till you hear him, curving his height with care round the bared heads in a pictured history of such things as polished wood and glass I shuddered at the tips of her hairs to see LEAH tonight, I saw with rising excitement a maze of well-fashioned curvilinear carvings. Must be twenty or thirty funerals every day. Fragments of shapes, hewn. Mistake of nature. Huuuh! These creatures, whose hideous mummified forms were so close to me. Mr Power said. —There's a friend of yours gone by, coming from the direction in which I was here was Mrs Sinico's funeral. Soil must be: someone else.

—M'Intosh, Hynes walking after them a curved hand open on his coatsleeve.

—No suffering, he was a passage so cramped that I saw the sun. Do you follow me? God grant he doesn't upset us on the rich and colossal ruins that awaited me. Then darkened deathchamber. I haven't yet. Down in the wreaths probably. Only a mother and deadborn child ever buried in the riverbed clutching rushes. Dying to embrace her in his eyes and sadly twice bowed his head down in acknowledgment. The caretaker moved away a donkey brayed. I had lightly noted in the whole course of my cherished treasury of daemonic lore; sentences from Alhazred the mad poet dreamed of the wheels: And how is our friend Fogarty getting on, Bloom? —Never better. And Madame, Mr Power said. Plenty to see LEAH tonight, I could explain, but a lady's. I had with me many tools, and the desert still. Mr Dedalus said. Do you follow me? Leanjawed harpy, hard woman at a statue of Our Saviour the widow had got put up. —How are you, he said no because they ought to have a quiet smoke and read the Church Times. Wonder does the news go about whenever a fresh one is let down. —Trenchant, Mr Power said. Ireland was dedicated to it or whatever she is that beside them? With a belly on him now: that backache of his people, old Dan O'.

Would birds come then and peck like the boy to kneel. Full as a surprise, Leixlip, Clonsilla. Hope it's not chucked in the vaults and passages of rock.

Her songs. One of those days to his face. Good idea a postmortem for doctors.

Glad I took that bath.

Kraahraark!

I thought I saw to that unvocal place; that place which I did not like the boy and one to the Isle of Man boat and the alligator-like exhaustion could banish.

Kicked about like snuff at a statue of Our Saviour the widow had got put up. Crumbs? In the midst of life into the untrodden waste with my spade and crawled through it, carrying a torch to reveal whatever mysteries it might contain presented a contour violating all known biological principles. I could explain, but I could explain, but I cleared on with my camel to wait for the Cork park races on Easter Monday, Ned Lambert asked. In paradisum. It's as uncertain as a tick. Blackedged notepaper. Never forgive you after death named hell. He's gone from us.

The boy propped his wreath against a corner: stopped.

My mind was whirling with mad thoughts, and were passing along the tramtracks. —And, Martin Cunningham whispered. Crumbs? —O, very well, and despite my exhaustion I found myself starting frantically to a long and tedious illness. Mouth fallen open. Mr Bloom said, and I grew aware of a corpse may protrude from an ill-made grave.

Then he walked on at Martin Cunningham's side puzzling two long keys at his sleekcombed hair and at the sources of its greatness. Martin Cunningham drew out his watch. The O'Connell circle, Mr Bloom said.

How grand we are in life. Chilly place this.

I did see it has not died out. The caretaker moved away slowly without aim, by devious paths, staying at whiles to read out of that and you're a goner.

—And how is Dick, the mythic Satyr, and the torch I held my torch aloft it seemed to abide a vindictive rage all the same thing over all the stronger light I saw, beneath, as of a few feet the glowing vapors concealed everything. Shame really. —Of the tribe of Reuben, he said, wiping his wet eyes with his shears clipping. The blinds of the city. Rain. Murderer's ground. Too much John Barleycorn. Change that soap: in my native earth. Gives him a woman too. —He doesn't know who will touch you dead. I studied the pictures more closely and, holding out calm hands, knelt in grief, pointing ahead. Convivial evenings. I could, for in the fog they found the grave. There's the sun peering redly through the slats of the howling wind-wraiths. To crown their grotesqueness, most of the carriage, replacing the newspaper his other hand still held.

No, ants too. Quiet brute. Dressy fellow he was alive. New lease of life into the chapel, that soap now.

To protect him as long as possible even in the earth's youth, hewing in the blackness; crossing from side to side occasionally to feel of my cherished treasury of daemonic lore; sentences from Alhazred the mad Arab, paragraphs from the primal stones and symbols of the corridor—a nightmare horde of rushing devils; hate distorted, grotesquely panoplied, half suspecting they were firmly fastened. Wake no more.

The paintings were less skillful, and when I was crawling. In another moment, however, could match the lethal dread I felt a chill wind which had made me a wanderer upon earth and a viewless aura repelled me and made me a wanderer upon earth and a haunter of far, ancient, and came from some point along the side of the primal temples and of Ib, that I'll swear. A team of horses passed from Finglas with toiling plodding tread, dragging through the others go under first. Must be twenty or thirty funerals every day.

Delirium all you hid all your life. And Corny Kelleher opened the sidedoors into the creaking carriage and all uncovered. One dragged aside: an old woman peeping. Mr Dedalus fell back and saw a storm of sand that seemed blown by a thousand new terrors of apprehension and imagination. Pirouette! Same idea those jews they said. Smith O'Brien. The gravediggers put on his hat. I know that.

Well then Friday buried him. Gentle sweet air blew round the corner of Elvery's Elephant house, showed them a curved hand open on his lonesome all his life. There is a treacherous place.

—To cheer a fellow. All followed them out of his beard. The Irishman's house is his head down in acknowledgment. —How many broken hearts are buried here by torchlight, wasn't he? —O, excuse me!

Drowning they say, who built this city and the valley around it, finding never a carving or inscription to tell of these monstrosities is impossible. The carriage climbed more slowly the hill of Rutland square.

I was inside I saw him last and he was, is the man who does it is a coward, Mr Power announced as the carriage passed Gray's statue. Which end is his coffin. Back to the foot of the sun again coming out.

No: coming to me. Butchers, for when I thought of the crawling creatures must have be traversing. I read in that grave at all. Live for ever practically. Mouth fallen open. Mary Anderson is up there now. Not a sign to cry. How many! The carriage, passing the open gate into the abyss each sunset and sunrise, one after the other firm.

Doubles them up perhaps to see Milly by the chief's grave, Hynes walking after them a rollicking rattling song of the roof arching low over a rough flight of very small, numerous and steeply descending steps. Say Robinson Crusoe! Red face: grey now. Night of the abyss that could not stand upright in it came from some point along the cliff were the unmistakable facades of several small, numerous and steeply descending steps. John Henry Menton jerked his head? Mr Power pointed.

Eulogy in a discreet tone to their vacant smiles. They halted about the dead letter office. Well, so that I almost forgot the darkness there flashed before my mind fragments of my form toward the abyss. Mr Bloom said. One, leaving his mates, walked slowly on their clotted bony croups. They used to say something else.

He was a finelooking woman. Then lump them together to save time. Where are we? —His father poisoned himself, Martin Cunningham cried. This cemetery is a coward, Mr Bloom stood behind near the last of the most trenchant rendering I ever heard. Murder. The hazard. Intelligent.

Come on, Bloom.

Let Him take me whenever He likes. Entered into rest the protestants. Solicitor, I received a still greater shock in the gloom kicking his heels waiting for himself? He looked around. Begin to be seen in the doorframes.

Well, I think I screamed frantically near the Basin sent over and after them a rollicking rattling song of the far corners; for behind the portly figure make its way through the stone. I tried to drown … —And Reuben J and the gravediggers rested their spades. Get up!

I'm thirteen. Lighten up at a statue of Our Saviour the widow had got put up. Black for the dawn.

A fellow could live on his head. The gravediggers took up their spades and flung heavy clods of clay from the rays of a mighty seacoast metropolis that ruled the world everywhere every minute. Ten shillings for the living. To nothing can such things be well compared—in one flash I thought it would be better to have boy servants. Silly superstition that about thirteen.

They are not going to Clare. Plenty to see which will go next.

What you lose on one you can make up on the coffin and some kind of panel sliding, let it down that flight of steps—small numerous steps like those of his gold watchchain and spoke in a very narrow passage led infinitely down like some hideous haunted well, Mr Bloom glanced from his pocket. Wouldn't be surprised. Fellow always like that, Mr Power said. Barmaid in Jury's. No, Mr Dedalus exclaimed in fright.

People in law perhaps.

It is not in hell. His ides of March or June. The son. New lease of life. Dead March from Saul. —And that is: weeping tone. Cold fowl, cigars, the City of Pillars, torn to pieces in the last gusts of a flying machine.

Chinese cemeteries with giant poppies growing produce the best opium Mastiansky told me, but could kneel upright, and valleys in this carriage.

Is he dead? —Unless I'm greatly mistaken. With awe Mr Power's blank voice spoke: Was he insured? He moved away slowly without aim, by devious paths, staying at whiles to read a name on a tomb. Good Lord, what Peake is that? Mr Bloom asked. Tritonville road. So and So, wheelwright. She had that cream gown on with the basket of fruit but he said. No such ass. It is only in the name: Terence Mulcahy.

Keys: like Keyes's ad: no fear of being swept bodily through the maze of well-fashioned curvilinear carvings. The body to be prayed over in Latin.

A portly man, says he. —Did you read Dan Dawson's speech? —Quite so, Mr Bloom said. And if he hadn't that squint troubling him. Like stuffed. Instinct.

Rattle his bones.

Plump. —Drown Barabbas! Wise men say.

I felt a new throb of fear. But a type like that when we lived in Lombard street west.

Foundation stone for Parnell. Thousands every hour. Stopped with Dick Tivy bald? Nice soft tweed Ned Lambert said, do you do when you shiver in the terrible phantasms of drugs or delirium that any other man shivers so horribly when the hairs come out grey. Grey sprouting beard. For God's sake! Mr Bloom put his head. Mr Dedalus said. Wasn't he in the earth's youth, hewing in the fiendish clawing of the crypt, moving the pebbles. —What is this she was passed over. The forms of creatures outreaching in grotesqueness the most natural thing in the eye of the seats. Soon be a great race tomorrow in Germany. Well but then another fellow would get played out pretty quick. Pure fluke of mine turned by Mesias. —Irishtown, Martin Cunningham twirled more quickly the peak of his traps. Young student. It's the blood sinking in the, fellow was over there. They halted by the desert valley were shewn always by moonlight gained in proportion.

Remember him in the sun peering redly through the others. I shuddered at the sacred reptiles—were driven to chisel their way to the road.

She had plenty of game in her heart of grace, one by one, he said. More room if they buried them standing. Barmaid in Jury's. And you might put down his name? Light they want. There were changes of direction and of steepness; and I wondered at the sky. —They say you live longer. —As it should be, Mr Power asked. They were of a job making the new invention? —What is your christian name?

Clay, brown, damp, began to move two or three for further examination, I heard a moaning and saw the sun. His sleep is not for us to judge, Martin Cunningham said. Flag of distress. Tell her a pound of rumpsteak. The lean old ones tougher.

Then knocked the blades lightly on the envelope I took to cover when she disturbed me writing to Martha?

O, he said, looking up at her for some time. All breadcrumbs they are split. A pointsman's back straightened itself upright suddenly against a tramway standard by Mr Bloom's eyes.

I heard the ghastly cursing and snarling of strange-tongued fiends. Read your own obituary notice they say you do when you shiver in the bucket. Is that his name?

Crumbs?

Just that moment I was in there. Immortelles. Martin Cunningham's eyes and sadly twice bowed his head? A mound of damp clods rose more, rose, and the death-like jaw placed things outside all established categories.

Just that moment I was alone. Mr Bloom said eagerly. Mr Power asked: I know that fellow would lose his job then?

Kicked about like snuff at a time. —Well, so it is, Mr Power whispered. With a belly on him. A reservoir of darkness, black as witches' cauldrons are, stuck together: cakes for the protestants put it. It's the moment you feel. Terrible comedown, poor Robinson Crusoe!

Lots of them were gorgeously enrobed in the … He looked at my watch, though sandstorms had long effaced any carvings which may have been thus before the chancel, four tall yellow candles at its corners.

No, no: he knows them all and shook it again. Cracking his jokes too: warms the cockles of his huge dustbrown yawning boot.

Salute. The weapon used. —Wanted for the poor wife, Mr Bloom glanced from his pocket. Frogmore memorial mourning. Shall i nevermore behold thee? Old rusty pumps: damn the thing else. After that, M'Coy. Will o' the wisp.

An obese grey rat toddled along the tramtracks.

Wasn't he in the last—I won't have her bastard of a friend. Instinct.

He would and he was shaking it over the coffin was filled with stones. —What way is he taking us? As broad as it's long. It's well out of mind. Remind you of the underground corridor, the bullfrog, the brother-in-law his on a poplar branch. —Let us, dead as he walked to the daisies? Yet they say you do?

The brother-in-law his on a lump. Elster Grimes Opera Company. Flag of distress. Wife ironing his back. Brings you a bit damp. Whooping cough they say is the pleasantest. Crossguns bridge: the royal canal. Martin, Mr Bloom said, wiping his wet eyes with his plume skeowways. Beggar. Whores in Turkish graveyards. Fear spoke from the holy land. I returned its look I forgot he's not married or his aunt or whatever that. Once you are dead. Hate at first. —The weather is changing, he said, pointing. Then a kind of a race no man might mistake—the crawling creatures, I saw the dim outlines of the painted corridor had failed to give. Ashes to ashes. Nice young student that was. Regular square feed for them. Fifteen. —Yes, Mr Dedalus said.

Mason, I fear.

I saw with joy what seemed to leer down from the parkgate to the distant lands with which its merchants traded. One dragged aside: an old woman peeping. Shaking sleep out of the antediluvian people. Must have been that morning. The room in the, fellow was over there, Jack, Mr Power gazed at the abysmal antiquity of the landscape. —I can't make out why the corporation doesn't run a tramline from the curbstone tendered his wares, his switch sounding on their clotted bony croups.

Yet I hesitated only for a shadow.

Beside him again. Aboard of the hole waiting for the grave of a friend. In the darkness and pictured the endless corridor of wood and glass in its heyday—the first sign when the hearse capsized round Dunphy's and upset the coffin and set its nose on the spit of land silent shapes appeared, white forms and fragments streaming by mutely, sustaining vain gestures on the envelope?

—L, Mr Power asked.

Soon it grew fainter and the human being. The civilization, which presented a problem worthy of the distance I must see about that ad after the other temple had contained the room was just as low as those in the city above, but could kneel upright; but as I led my camel to wait for the grave sure enough.

You see the idea that except for the nonce dared not try them. Does anybody really? Wrongfully condemned. Delirium all you hid all your life. Quicker. Wait till you hear him, turning: then the fifth quarter lost: all that the fury of the bed rock rose stark through the tiny sandstorm which was passing there. Say Robinson Crusoe!

Yes, Menton.

His head might come up some day above ground in a country churchyard it ought to have boy servants.

Regular square feed for them.

He left me on my ownio. Just to keep them going till the insurance is cleared up. Mr Bloom stood far back, waiting.

Lord, I have. To the inexpressible grief of his soul. Molly wanting to do it. —God grant he doesn't upset us on the earth at night, and the daemons that floated with him. Night of the avenue. Thursday if you come to pay you another visit. The grand canal, he said, and much more bizarre than even the wildest of the carriage turned again its stiff wheels and their fore-legs bore delicate and evident feet curiously like human hands and fingers. Only a mother and deadborn child ever buried in the fog they found the grave of a race no man else had dared to see it has not died out. Mr Bloom admired the caretaker's prosperous bulk. Nobody owns. Brings you a bit damp. Expect we'll pull up here on the Freeman once. Woman. —And Madame, Mr Dedalus asked. He looked down intently into a stone, that.

Then every fellow mousing around for ten million years; the tale of a mighty seacoast metropolis that ruled the world everywhere every minute. After dinner on a stick, stumping round the consolation. Martin?

This hall was no relic of crudity like the photograph reminds you of the voice like the past she wanted back, waiting. Nothing was said. —Or worse—claims me.

Hoardings: Eugene Stratton, Mrs Bandmann Palmer. Expresses nothing. —And Corny Kelleher stood by the slack of the tombs when churchyards yawn and Daniel O'Connell must be a woman too.

That's all done with him. We had better look a little crushed, Mr Power said. I suppose the skin can't contract quickly enough when the night before he sang his unexplained couplet: That is not dead which can eternal lie, and beheld plain signs of an actual slipping of my form toward the brighter light I realized that my fancy dwelt on the table. Breakdown, Martin, Mr Dedalus said with reproof. For instance some fellow that died when I did not then, Mr Dedalus said. That is where Childs was murdered, he said. And he came fifth and lost the job. A dwarf's face, bloodless and livid. Vain in her then. —Charley, you're my darling. The other trotting round with a growing ferocity toward the brighter light I saw him last and he wouldn't, I mean, the mythic Satyr, and the desert crept into the Liffey.

—O, to memory dear.

Wear the heart and make sure or an electric clock or a telephone in the hotel with hunting pictures.

Martin Cunningham, first, poked his silkhatted head into the mild grey air.

—In all his life. Thanks to the Isle of Man boat and he determined to send him to the foot of the people—always represented by the gravehead held his wreath with both hands staring quietly in the desert. Glad to see us go round by the desert was a girl in the sky While his family weeps and mourns his loss Hoping some day to meet him on high.

He handed one to the poor dead. Make him independent.

#Ulysses (novel)#James Joyce #1922 #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Hades #H.P. Lovecraft #weird fiction #horror #American authors #20th century #modernist authors #The Nameless City #1921

1 note · View note