#I found it greatly ironic and so wished to cross those two together :)

[magnusbae]

Star Wars: Republic #59 || Darth Vader (2017) #01

#I found it greatly ironic and so wished to cross those two together :) #anakin skywalker #anakinskywalkeredit #darthvaderedit #userjasmine #Starwarsedit #swedit #Star Wars #Star Wars Comics #Star Wars Republic #Darth Vader 2017 #Republic 59 #buns.edits #buns.all #sw comics #Anakin #not me‚ dutifully removing everything from the background and recreating new smooth sand background #only to crop 90% of it off in order to make Anakin bigger on tumblr... classic. XD #Darth Vader

[the-lightning-mage]

Inquisition OC as a Companion

I’ve already made a post about some stuff about Holly, but I love the format @little-lightning-lavellan​ made, and it really made me think. The picture is my best attempt at making her on artbreeder. 

You have selected Holly Trevelyan to join your party!

Race: Human

Gender: Female

Class: Mage

Specialization: Rift mage

Background:

Holly Trevelyan is the second youngest of seven children born to Bann and Lady Trevelyan. Born in 9:12 Dragon, she is also the only mage of the family. She came into her magic when she was 12, and thus spent most of her life in the Circle. Due to the more lax nature of the Ostwick Circle, and her being from a noble family, she was able to regularly send and receive letters. The only person she ever really got letters from is her younger sibling. This caused them to be incredibly close despite the distance.

In her early years she spent most of her time studying healing magic in hopes it would help let her get out of the circle. After lots of discouragement, she ended up giving up on that dream. Instead she focused her studies on storm based magic, as she had always found rain and thunder comforting.

After reading several books, and hearing several accounts as to how much more advanced Tevinter magic could be in certain areas, she had a new goal. She decided to try to harness electrical based magic so that it could be used as an energy source. This path has led to her becoming one of the most powerful storm based mages in Thedas.

When the talks of rebellion began, she was a part of them. She hated being cooped up all the time, and she had heard horror stories of how other mages were treated. When the rebellion began, she was not so involved. She was horrified by the levels of wrathful violence some of her peers employed. She spent a lot of time helping people escape. When she herself did, she knew that the entirety of the rebellion could not be like that, and she seriously considered joining them. Instead she decided to go find her younger sibling. That choice only solidified when she heard of what happened to the Conclave.

She becomes a rift mage because that is what either a. Killed her sibling or b. Almost killed them.

Dragon Age: Inquisition

She arrives in Haven shortly before the party leaves to address the Chantry in Val Royeaux. She shows up not to necessarily join the Inquisition, but in an attempt to find out what happened to her sibling. She can be found just outside the gates near the stables arguing with Cullen, demanding information.

If the Inquisitor is human, and thus her sibling, the conversation to recruit her flows a lot more smoothly. She will then ask to be part of the Inquisition, saying she damn near had a heart attack when she thought they had died, and that they had been apart for far, far too long. If she is refused, the Inquisitor will tell her to go home. There will be a war table mission to ensure she gets there safely. If she is accepted, she rises through the ranks rather quickly due to her skill. Solas will accuse the Inquisitor of nepotism.

If the inquisitor is not human, she will get emtional, wanting to know where her sibling is. She will demand to join the Inquisition to get justice for her fallen sibling. If denied, she will join the rebel mages instead. If they are sided with, she will technically be part of the Inquisition, but not as a companion. If not, she discovers Dorian, gives him what info she has, and flees. If she is accepted, there will be a war table mission to find her sibling’s remains or something they had on them.

In Haven, she can be found near the Inquisitor’s cabin. In Skyhold she can be found in one of the unused towers near Cullen’s office. It will have fancy looking equipment for her experiments.

She can be used to gather rebel mage support.

Approval and Romance

As they are siblings, human Inquisitors will have an easier time gaining approval, but for certain situations, they will face greater disapproval than non-humans. For example, non-humans will get “Holly disapproves” if they conscript the mages instead of treating them as allies, but humans will get “Holly greatly disapproves.”

When it comes to the big decisions, like what to do with the Wardens, who goes into the Well of Sorrows, etc. She tends to take in all of the “what ifs?” and bases her own opinions on that rather than her own morals. She may not like a decision, but if she thinks it will ultimately have the best out come, that is the one she goes with.

She likes to view most things from every angle she can. She prefers more merciful forms of justice, and can tend to be very forgiving. She likes it when the Inquisitor tries their best to understand others, while not necessarily condoning their actions. She likes it when they help those in need, though not as much as Cole does.

She can only be romanced by non human Inquisitors for obvious reasons, and she can be romanced by both men and women. If neither she or Cullen are romanced, they will end up in a relationship together. Instead of having a big romance scene, at high levels of approval, human Inquisitors will get an emotional scene where she tells them just how much she was worried about them.

Her personal quest involves her closest friend from the Circle. He sends her a letter telling her that he alive, and would love to catch up. It turns out to be a ploy, as he betrays her. He can be killed or talked down and shown mercy.

Her romance quest involves taking her to a few different locations throughout Orlais and Ferelden.

Trespasser

High Approval: She stayed with the Inquisition over the last to years as their advisor on matters of the Arcane. She presents them a unique weapon she had been working on in free time. Romance does not change this.

Low Approval if Cullen was romanced: She spent the last two years traveling. Seeing the world she never could see before. She helps and sends word back to the Inquisition when need be.

Low Approval if Cullen was not romanced: She remains with the Inquisition, helping where she can. She spends a lot of time helping Cullen figure out how to best utilize the mages.

Post trespasser: She spends much of her time working, and when she is able to get a working prototype she presents it to whatever Mage authority there is, and gets funding. It helps propel mages into good opinion. Details about her relationship are shared.

Combat Comments

Killing an enemy:

“Block this!”

“Eat ash!”

“You shouldn’t have underestimated me!”

Low health:

“Do we have another healer?”

“Armor failed me.”

“Help!”

Low health Inquisitor and Companions:

“Inquisitor!”

“Brother/Sister!”

“I’m on my way Dorian.”

“Maker, someone help the Seeker.”

“I’ve got you, Varric.”

“Shit... Bull!”

“Cole’s down!”

Other

Approaching camp: “I’ve always want to go camping.” “I’m not expert, but this seems like a lovely place to stop?”

Approaching a High Dragon: “Are they really that big?”

Using an ocularum for the first time: “Are you sure you don’t want me to examine it first?”

Picking up shards after finding the temple: “What are these doing all the way out here?”

Location Comments

Arbor Wilds: “It’s a shame we have to fight here.”

Old Crestwood: “No wonder they’re having problems with undead. Look at all the spirits.” “I think I’m going to be sick.”

Emerald Graves: “Am I the only one who thinks this place is beautiful?” “Wow....”

Emprise du Lion: “This... this is why I wear a cloak.” “I should summon some lightning. Start a fire and destroy the red lyrium. Two birds with one stone.”

Exalted Plains: “They really could not think of a worse name.” “A place that is a monument to humanity’s evil taken over by demons. Ironic.”

The Fallow Mire: “Ugh.” “I think I saw a bug the size of my hand.” “I love nature, but I hate this place.”

Forbidden Oasis: “This place would be nice if it weren’t for the Venatori... and the giant.” “I’m confused. Why is they’re a temple here? Who built it?”

Hinterlands: “Can we visit Redcliffe?” “So much chaos....” “We can help the people here, right?”

Hissing Wastes: “How do I have sand in my armor?” “Dwarven ruins on the surface? This is a dream come true.” “Great. Venatori.”

Storm Coast: “Crossing the Waking Sea was my favorite part of getting here.” “I actually quite like the weather.” “I wonder... is this place more prone to lightning storms?”

Western Approach: “Talk about a wasteland.” “Poison hot springs and chasms into the Deep Roads? At least there are ruins.” “I suppose this is a good place for nefarious deeds.”

Advisor and Companion comments

Blackwall: “She’s very dedicated and has a good heart. She’s what people should think of when they hear “mage.””

Cassandra: “She is very dedicated to the cause, though I worry she might set fire to Skyhold with one of her... experiments.”

Cole: “Trapped. Walled in. Caged like a fancy bird. Not anymore, but she stays because she wants to help. Is helping. She’s good, like her healing spells.”

Cullen: “She’s dedicated, clever, and very, very persistent. She’s been a great help with the mages.”

If in a relationship with her: “She’s... amazing, isn’t she? I’m not sure what she sees in me.”

Dorian: “You don’t find many people so open to new ideas, or people that are that accepting. She is excellent company.”

Iron Bull: “She’s different from the other mages. Too entrenched in her work to boast about it. Way more practical. I have a lot of respect for what she’s trying to do.”

Josephine: “Though I wish we could make better use of her noble ties. She is invaluable, and holds great conversations.”

Leliana: “It’s not often you meet someone who has truly nothing to hide.”

Sera: “I dunno. She makes too much sense for a mage, ya know? At least she’s pretty.”

Solas: “Holly? Ah. We don’t particularly get along, but I approve of what she is trying to do, and has accomplished.”

Varric: “You wouldn’t guess it, but Bookworm is just as good in battle as she is in that tower of hers. Thank the maker it takes a lot to piss her off. I don’t want to be on the receiving end of one of her lightning bolts.”

Vivienne: “I’ll be honest, I do not agree with her on everything, but at least she is loyal. Her work ethic is to be admired as well. She dresses rather simply though.”

Trivia

At first, everyone thinks Holly is the nickname Varric gave her. It doesn’t match her personality.

While she may not believe Dorian about the time magic, she immediately believes him and Felix about the Venatori. She had heard rumors about them before the events of Hushed Whispers, but nothing concrete enough to tell anyone.

Her relationship with Cullen starts with him asking her if she can soothe headaches. She has somewhat of a reputation for her healing magic, even if she doesn’t use it much.

She is an excellent singer.

Like Solas and Varric, she acts like a parent towards Cole.

If the Inquisitor is a human man who romances Dorian, she’ll tease him for having a type.

#dragon age #dragon age inquisition #dai #trevelyan

[gone-series-orchid]

I thought about this earlier today (what a year already) if Orc HAD done something during THAT scene in Coates. My gosh how would Astrid had coped with that? How would that affected her relationship with Sam? Would she still have gone into exile? How would she have handled even the thought of Orc? How would that affected Orc? The one person who saw you as a human is now like treating you like a monster? Would he have ended things? Like man I hate to say it but I kinda almost wish MG had played it out a little bit....

(just as a warning, dear audience, this post contains explicit discussion of rape/sexual assault.)

hi, emily! always nice to hear an ask from you!

oof, what a dark train of thought. if orc had tried something at coates, i think astrid wouldn’t have coped with it well at all, given she’s already at the end of her rope mentally. she already recognizes that orc may be a (implicitly sexual) threat, but, interestingly, doesn’t think he’s old enough:

“she wondered whether orc was old enough for her to worry about in that way. she thought not. but it was a frightening possibility” (p. 345).

this is despite the fact that he’s only a year younger than her—he’s 14, the same age that astrid was when she got together with sam! the fact that she’s heavily implied to be wrong would affect her greatly if something were to actually happen.

sadly, i can see astrid potentially blaming herself, even subconsciously, for not taking him seriously as a potential threat before it was too late. she’d be castigating herself for trusting orc when she knew that he was emotionally unstable and drunk; maybe she’d even be angry at herself for trusting orc at all. she thought he respected her, that he had a soft spot for her, maybe even loved her in his own way—only for him to treat her so monstrously. i think it would fundamentally break whatever trust she had in him.

astrid’s such a good person that I don’t think she’d have it in her to not care if he did end up offing himself (more on that later!), but I think she’d mourn the person he could have become instead of the person he was at the time of his death—and even that she’d do with intense bitterness, confusion, and anger.

I think it would *definitely* affect her relationship with sam, which was already on the rocks. post-ambiguous assault (whatever that might consist of), i’d imagine she’d be even more resistant to the idea of having sex with him. would she be able to tell him why? i personally don’t think so—i think she’d want to keep it to herself and try to forget it ever happened. i think she still would go into exile, definitely, not only for the typical little pete reasons, but because she’d want to emotionally process what happened and she’d think withdrawing from everyone could do that.

i think she’d think of orc as little as possible after that. she’d be completely done with him. any thought of him would probably bring up a lot of anguish, especially because, depending on how sexually-tinged the assault was (again, the ambiguity of it is kind of a big factor here, but it’s probable that it was at least somewhat sexually charged, given the context of earlier coates segments with orc staring at her and his conversation with drake—more on that later), it would be one of astrid’s first sexual experiences, even if it’s of the quasi- sort. :(

as to how this would have affected orc...ooh boy. first, i’ll kind of reiterate what i interpret his motivation to be in attacking astrid in the first place, starting with this quote:

“[orc] had no clear thought for what he would do when he found [astrid]. she was just the only one who had ever helped him. she was the only one who had ever seen him as charles merriman and not just orc. she should feel his pain [...] someone had to feel the pain” (p. 436).

this isn’t just a case of just straightforward violence for orc, sexual or otherwise. this is fundamentally a frustrated, warped attempt to communicate his pain to someone he trusts deeply, someone he feels will understand because she saw him as a human being and not a monster. it’s also implied to be an equally warped expression of sexual desire, though i think orc doesn’t recognize it consciously...or, if he does, it’s in a purposely obfuscatory way. while this is orc’s “let me be evil” moment, it’s also a “let me be evil but with psychological plausible deniability” moment; he recognizes what he’s doing is sexually charged and unwanted, but the thought of his actions as meriting the label of sexual assault would never cross his mind; cognitive dissonance all the way.  it would be too psychologically painful for him to reconcile those two things.

anyway, i think orc’s desire to attack astrid would also be seen as a violence-tinged version of the “sex for solace” trope (in which a character has sex with another as a way to comfort themself after a tragedy). similar to how sam longs to have sex with astrid (and kisses taylor) to cope with his ever-growing bevy of traumas, orc longs to have sex with astrid to cope with his self-loathing and suicidality. with sex usually comes love and acceptance (which, of course, is what he wants the most from her). it also means physical intimacy, which he’s been deprived of due to his mutation. orc wants to be close to her physically and emotionally because he thinks love (and thus sex) redeems. if astrid can love him, then that makes him good. and he thinks, in his drunken, heavily depressed state, that he can only get that approval through violence (ironically negating the fact that it’s supposed to be redemptive)—hence, this:

“[drake] peered closer at orc as if looking inside him. ‘nah, orc, the only way you ever get astrid is the same way i get her. and that’s what you were thinking, isn’t it?’” (p. 444)

notice that drake is peering as if looking inside orc at this point, implying that what he says has some merit/truth to it. orc has been thinking about “getting” astrid through violence (again, whatever that really means...more on that later).

anyway, so it’s a complicated mix of emotions that would inspire that sort of act, is basically what i’m saying. that doesn’t absolve orc of doing anything wrong at all, of course, but it is a thing to consider.

so, to answer your question, i think orc would be absolutely devastated once he released what he’s done. he’d think he entirely deserved astrid’s scorn/fear and would basically be even more self-loathing and drunk than he already is. i think he’d think that by violating astrid’s trust this way, he’d proved himself to be an irredeemable monster in full. i don’t know if howard would be able to help, either. he might try to approach astrid to apologize at some point, but i don’t think she would listen to him.

his suicide attempts would probably increase, but i don’t think he’s actually able to die (i think i read this on the wiki at some point but there was a fan theory at some point i believe that posited that orc’s mutation is actually a form of long-term regeneration; his stone skin “filled in” the parts on his body the coyotes tore apart and healed them until, by the time of his death in light, he’s got his original skin back beneath the gravel...so maybe his liver keeps regenerating and that’s why he can’t drink himself to death). he might long for his apology to be accepted by astrid, but i don’t know if she could find it in her heart to forgive him, and i don’t think she’d be wrong in doing that.

so, here’s the Big Question: what does orc do when he finds astrid?

i’m not sure. i think he’d be flustered and angry when he actually finds her, but unsure of how to channel his rage. it’s one thing to think yeah i’m angry and i want astrid to feel my pain but what does that result in? i can’t imagine him pummeling astrid with his fists, or hitting her straight out. i can imagine him picking her up, or maybe backing her into a corner...maybe he’d attempt to kiss her in a sort of rough desperation, or feel her up, or tear off her clothing, maybe hit her when she inevitably resists in a sort of mix of panic and anger. i’m not sure if he could actually force intercourse on her, but it appears that despite his mutation his genitals still function (after all, he can still pee), so maybe? but then again, he is stinking drunk, and that tends to impair sexual functioning anyway….

oof, that made me feel dirty. 😬

but i do really understand the inclination to wonder what would happen if mg had made it so astrid was present! i’m just not sure. curse you, mg and all your ambiguity!

but thank you very much for the question, emily!!! feel free to send more!!

[tanadrin]

In the Noiseless Land

Anthropologists describe societies of this sort as possessing a ‘double morphology’. Marcel Mauss, writing in the early twentieth century, observed that the circumpolar Inuit, ‘and likewise many other societies . . . have two social structures, one in summer and one in winter, and that in parallel they have two systems of law and religion’. In the summer months, Inuit dispersed into small patriarchal bands in pursuit of freshwater fish, caribou, and reindeer, each under the authority of a single male elder. Property was possessively marked and patriarchs exercised coercive, sometimes even tyrannical power over their kin. But in the long winter months, when seals and walrus flocked to the Arctic shore, another social structure entirely took over as Inuit gathered together to build great meeting houses of wood, whale-rib, and stone. Within them, the virtues of equality, altruism, and collective life prevailed; wealth was shared; husbands and wives exchanged partners under the aegis of Sedna, the Goddess of the Seals.

--”How to Change the Course of Human History,” Graeber & Wengow

One of the schools of Tlön goes so far as to negate time: it reasons that the present is indefinite, that the future has no reality other than as a present memory. Another school declares that all time has already transpired and that our life is only the crepuscular and no doubt falsified an mutilated memory or reflection of an irrecoverable process. Another, that the history of the universe - and in it our lives and the most tenuous detail of our lives - is the scripture produced by a subordinate god in order to communicate with a demon. Another, that the universe is comparable to those cryptographs in which not all the symbols are valid and that only what happens every three hundred nights is true. Another, that while we sleep here, we are awake elsewhere and that in this way every man is two men.

--Borges

Report of Shurnamma Tirigan, former Captain of the Southern Expedition, 12 Ezenamarsin, 1674 AUC:

To the Lord Librarian of the City, Izaru Mahash, salutations and greetings; and may Bright Uru prosper forever. If you please, convey at your earliest convenience my greetings and my love to my nieces and nephews, and to your own husband and daughters.

I was dispatched by order of the Assembly to visit the southern countries beyond the Išaru Peninsula and Wormsgate, these far-off lands being little traveled by our countrymen, and there being some hope of establishing outposts on those shores for the purposes of trade with their people, and perhaps even for expanding our Empire. I have composed this message in the hopes of recording what transpired on this voyage, both as a matter of intelligence for the Library and the Assembly, and for the interest of Lord Mahash herself, who has expressed in the past eagerness for news of distant lands and nations.

We voyaged from the City along the coast for nine weeks, until a storm came up suddenly on the Sea of Rains, and several of our vessels were wrecked along the coast of eastern Hjaírsil. Though we lost many good soldiers and much of our supplies, were were generously taken in by the Exarch of Išaru herself. She is in person as noble and as terrifying as other travelers have said, and I shall not attempt to add to their portraits here. Yet she treated us with utmost courtesy, and addressed us fluently in our native tongue; whatever we desired while we were her guests, she commanded her servants to bring to us instantly, and it was strange to see the people of that land, known abroad for their boisterous and pugnacious natures, to bow and scrape before her, as meek as children.

Our object being lands much further west and south, we took our leave shortly after, generously supplied by the Exarch and furnished with maps and guides to take us as far as Tybran and the isles of Elibom. We turned north-west again after crossing through the Wormsgate, hoping to follow the coast further, and it was in this time, when we put ashore on occasion and had the opportunity to speak with the natives of the region, that we first heard rumor of the place in the desert, of Xil-Artat.

These rumors were greatly confused. Some of our interlocutors said that Xil-Artat was a state of great wealth, as great as Uru (of which, naturally, they had also heard); others said it was but a few huts made of crudely-hewn stones piled up amid the dust; others, that it was in fact below the ground, to shield it from the harsh southern sun; and still others, that anyone who spoke of a city beneath the ground within the bounds of Xil-Artat would be slain instantly, and their body left beyond the city’s walls for the vultures to consume. Each said when they offered their description that it was generally known and all these facts agreed upon, from the salt-marshes to the west to Hjaírsil in the east; and we could not persuade them this was not so, even when we said their countrymen not ten miles behind us had contradicted them completely. Intrigued by these rumors, and determined that if Xil-Artat was the place of wealth some said it was that I should secure some portion of this wealth for the Empire, whether by diplomacy or force, I turned our course decidedly west. We were not to continue south; our Hjaírsilian guides were dismissed. Xil-Artat was now our goal.

Oh! Lord Librarian, my patron and my friend! How I wish I had heeded the misgivings of my comrades when I gave the command. But as to my follies and my regrets, those we shall come to later.

Our first destination was salt-marshes that mark the northern border of the territory Xil-Artat claims for itself. Though the country has but one city, it names for itself in all of its maps an immense hinterland, which the neighboring peoples honor, for that land is almost entirely unpeopled and barren. The arrogance of such a vast territory should by rights be that city’s weakness, and ripe for conquest, but as I soon found, there is little to covet in that wide region. Though the northern coast of the Sea of Elibom is green and fertile, being well-populated but divided into a number of petty princedoms and city-states, one comes after two days’ journey by sail from the northernmost part of that sea to the swamps of Ul-Masim, where a long and nameless river spits out its muddy currents. These swamps are thick with flies and mosquitoes, and we desired to avoid them entirely. However, it was necessary to take on water and food, and we had heard that it was in the center of these swamps, through which a great road had been built, that there stood the market-town named for the swamps, and also known to the people of Xil-Artat as the Swamp Gate, the entrance into their land.

We put our ships ashore at the edge of the swamp, though the men complained bitterly about the heat, the stink, and the flies. I selected a number of companions to venture to the city with me, among them my second-in-command. We ventured north, slowly at first due to the thick mud and treacherous footing, until we discovered a narrow but well-maintained path that had been made of packed dirt upon a slender wall of stacked stones. Such paths, we soon found, crisscrossed the swamp from Ul-Masim itself. We were later told that the inhabitants of the swamp used them to bring their goods to market each month, and this seemed to us an eminently practical scheme, such as one of our own lords or princes might devise to make a marginal country habitable; yet we never saw another traveler on these roads, or indeed any of the inhabitants of the swamps so long as we were there.

After two days’ walking we came to Ul-Masim. It rises suddenly amid the overhanging trees, and its unmortared walls are climbed by flowering vines of every kind, so that the city seems an extension of the swamp itself. Though masked guards stood at every gate to the city, none challenged us as we approached, despite our foreign garb and faces. It was the work of an entire day to find an interpreter through which we could speak to the people, and when we had accomplished the task, we thought that at first we had failed again. For the people of Xil-Artat speak a confused tongue, and whether it is because they are deficient in the powers of the mind or their language has by long isolation twisted itself up in such a way that it inhibits the clear expression of thought, they seem often to contradict themselves, to offer paradoxes as solutions to questions, to suggest wild flights of imagination as solutions to pressing concerns. Within a day it became apparent to me that such a people seemed incapable of the great works of civilization, and I had already begun to form the conjecture that the grand boulevards and halls of Ul-Masim had been built by some previous civilization and that perhaps all of Xil-Artat was but ancient ruins which a tribe out of the north had adopted for their own.

The manner of commerce among the people of Xil-Artat is extremely confused. Though we carried gold and silver, they seemed reluctant to accept them; they did not desire our iron weapons or any other item of our gear, and the glass beads and colorful cloth which we had found so readily in demand to the north were here absolutely worthless. They had goods of their own to offer: swamp fruits, colorful and sweet-smelling, and elaborate masks, and wines and beer and spices which their traders say came from far to the south. They had many goods which they say hailed from Uru, a distant and exotic place; and when I told them that I was myself a Captain of that city’s army, that I had lived there all my life, and that I had never seen these things before, they ignored me, or said that perhaps I had just not been paying attention.

Although angered by this exchange, and the liars who call themselves merchants in Ul-Masim, we nonetheless managed an exchange for necessary goods: we gave them two books, though they could not read them and seem to have no writing of their own, and we gave them also seven good belts and a dull knife. As I am an honest woman, I offered them a sharper implement, but they refused. I do not know what they did with it. They also asked my lieutenant to remain behind for two days and tell them stories of our travels so far, and content that we had the things we needed to proceed further, I left him there with four others of our party, to return to the ships.

When I reached the ships, I found that disaster had struck. Some of the men, displeased as the location of the camp, had taken a ship to go back up along the coast. They had become drunk on the store of wine and plundered a village that owed allegiance to one of the largest states in the region, and I found in my absence that the camp had been attacked by the angry lord of that state. Though his forces had been repelled, all of our ships had been burned, and most of our remaining supplies; and now almost half the expedition was dead. We were too few in number to return to the Empire, and now the region between Ul-Masim and our home was converted into hostile territory, for rumor was spreading across the countryside that the soldiers of Uru were not to be trusted. I spoke to the men and rallied their spirits; yet I acknowledged our difficulty. Yet fear not, I said. We have heard rumor of the city of Xil-Artat; we are even now at the border of its realm. Such people as we have had commerce with in Ul-Masim are strange, but not unfriendly. We will go to Xil-Artat, and thence secure a means of passage home.

So after resting a night we struck camp, finished burying the dead, and returned to Ul-Masim. My lieutenant was in good spirits when I returned, and unharmed, and it seemed that indeed these people were trustworthy. And yet, fearing that they should turn against us in sentiment if the conduct of the mutineers reached their ears, I resolved to go south as soon as possible. For that was, they said, where Xil-Artat lay.

By means of other strange transactions we acquired camels to cross the desert with, and more water. We were told where we might find oases along the road, and wished well, and I set off hoping that the incomprehensible nature of the people of Ul-Masim was like the strange habits and affectations of our own rustic countrymen, and not a general feature of the nation. Surely, my lieutenant agreed, the people of the city itself would be more sophisticated and intelligent, like our own great lords, or the lords of such cities in Sennar as Inisfal and Kurigalzu. Yet I privately I worried that Xil-Artat had never been heard of in those lands, though it lay closer to them than our own City; for I knew that often obscurity is the sign of a dull and uncivilized culture.

The travel through the desert was not eventful. The deserts beyond Ul-Masim stretch on without limit for hundreds, and perhaps thousands, of miles. From the west come great winds that blow up immense amounts of dust and sand, and the roads which the people of Xil-Artat use are therefore built high off the ground, like the aqueducts of Uru that carry water down from the hills. They are ancient, and it is impossible to guess how old. The people of Xil-Artat do not even know, and so I doubt that they built them. They have often collapsed, and often been repaired, and are everywhere made of the pale sandstone which is abundant near the coast and in the desert hills.

At last we came to Xil-Artat proper. That city, made of the sand-colored stone of the hills, rises at once out of the desert when you have crossed the Great Dunes, and from afar it is a jumble of towers and walls and ramparts which cannot be resolved into discrete structures. As you approach, the task becomes no easier, for what is here a courtyard seems to become there a balcony; some streets are cut into the ground, others raised above it; sometimes apartments are on the ground and shops high above in the towers, and sometimes the reverse; and all the city is a maze. And the city has no walls, but rather seems to enfold you as you approach, until you cannot be certain whether you are inside it or outside it.

Is Xil-Artat a wealthy city? Even after years here, I cannot say. They have food enough, and shelter enough, and some of the most ancient parts of the city are carved in an ornate and beautiful fashion. Yet the people of Xil-Artat do not consider themselves wealthy. They show no signs of wealth on their person; they do not treat the objects which lay about them as property of which they must be jealous. Their shops… I have mentioned their shops, but their commerce can hardly be called such. On our third day of Xil-Artat I made a close study of a little stand which seemed to be selling wooden spoons, to learn what the sensibilities of their shopkeepers were, to learn how one should bargain with a seller, to learn what would serve us best as a currency. All day I saw no one purchase; yet the shopkeeper seemed neither agitated nor restless. Some would come and leave handfuls of dust or sand by the door; but they did not speak to the shopkeeper at all. Finally, at the end of the day, when it was time to make his way home to rest, the shopkeeper gathered up some of his wares. He examined the pile of earth by the door, and making a careful count of the goods he carried, he proceeded to walk to the end of a nearby street, which jutted out over the sand beyond the city, and flung everything he carried into the desert. He went home without locking the door. Such is but one example of the insanity of the people of Xil-Artat.

Here as in Ul-Masim we struggled to make ourselves understood; my lieutenant, who had been diligently studying the tongue of Xil-Artat in an effort to make communication easier, seemed to make headway only slowly, but he learned that there was someone in the city who was considered its lord after a fashion, and I was determined to make myself known to this person, to open relations between our two nations. In any sensible city I am certain we would have been brought before its lord as soon as we arrived, for we were strange in dress and speech and appearance, and even in those backwards places that do not know of our Empire, its wealth and power is apparent in the meanest of its representatives. I had hoped, therefore, that the Lord of Xil-Artat would be eager to open dialogue between our two states, that indeed he would see there was nothing for a backward nation as his own to do when confronted by a superior people except to ally himself as closely as possible with them, and I was perplexed that, insofar as there was any power which ruled this city, it had not made itself known.

We took a manor on the outskirts of the city for our own use; none of the natives of Xil-Artat seemed to object. Sometimes we found strangers in its halls, but though we ordered them to depart, even threatened them, they seemed to pay us no attention. From here I sent some of the men out to search the city for intelligence; the lieutenant I told to learn as much as he could about the people and their customs, and I sought the Lord.

What follows are some observations on the habit and customs of Xil-Artat.

Most of the people wear long robes of thin fabric, whose cloth is lightly colored, to protect themselves from the harsh sun. Their garments are richly embroidered, with ornate geometric patterns, and sometimes what seem to be the suggestion of people, or animals, or parts of the body. Yet they shun obvious iconography in most instances, especially of faces. And to this end, perhaps, they also commonly wear masks. All are well-decorated, but all are equally impassive; and they speak with a flat affect, so that they seem to be a people without emotion.

I do not know what the religion of Xil-Artat is. They have no priests and no shrines, and seemingly no temples. Yet there are customs which they observe with religious fervor. All houses have their doors in the west; all shops have their doors in the east. Great markets are held on regular intervals, even if they fall on holy days in which commerce is forbidden; on such occasions the people still bring their goods to market, but they buy nothing. They will haggle over prices, but then walk away. And everything is carried home again by its original owners at the end of the day. Another custom, which I can only surmise has some religious feeling behind it, concerns the face: even when the face is depicted, it is shown without eyes. The people of Xil-Artat have a terrible fear of eyes, and we soon learned they were far more comfortable in our presence when we took to wearing masks after their custom.

And yet despite the apparent chaos of their society, they do have their laws. When an offense against the peace, or against another person, or against the desert, or against the soul of a building, is committed, a court is convened on the spot, with three citizens as judges; and the nearby people crowd together, and half of them act as the lawyer for the prosecution, and half of them act as the lawyer for the defense; and they all shout, like a rioting mob, their arguments and their comments and their observations, and sometimes even irrelevancies and obscene jokes; and out of this confused mass of shouting the judges choose for themselves what to believe, according to their own conscience, and pass sentence immediately. Where the perpetrator is not known, the sentence is passed upon a stone, and it is hurled to the ground and dashed to pieces. Where the perpetrator is human, they are dragged to the nearest ledge and thrown off--whether it is only two feet above the ground, with soft sand below, or from the top of a high tower onto solid flagstones. These verdicts are thought of as fair and just by everyone involved.

The people of Xil-Artat speak often of poetry and of philosophy. They love philosophical speculation, and this, too, verges on religious custom. For they treat abstract thought and experiments of the mind with great gravity, and if you can convince a man of Xil-Artat of a new belief, he will incorporate it into every aspect of his life immediately and without question. They constantly formulate new heresies of metaphysics among themselves, and their beliefs often change, but they change not in the manner of a child whose imagination has departed suddenly in a new direction, but with utmost gravity and seriousness. Some people in Xil-Artat believe that no one exists without their mask. Some believe that Xil-Artat is a hallucination of the men of Uru that did not exist before we entered it. Some believe that darkness is a physical substance, and that night is not caused by the setting sun, but by a fluid that rises from the desert, and is gradually dissipated by the wind. Some believe that the souls of the dead are reborn as new beings, according to the merit of their previous existence; and that to be born human is the most wretched fate reserved for only the most awful of creatures. Some believe that on the occasion of sleep, a doppelganger roams the city, whose deeds are their dreams; and still others believe that these doppelgangers sleep, too, and produce doubles of their own. One man whispered to me gravely that there was a second city below the ground, and that was where the doubles of the waking waited, but that they would not wait forever, and one day that city would return. I asked him to explain what he meant by “return,” but he would not. And he said the city had a name, but to utter it was a crime. As we were then standing near a high ledge overlooking the marketplace below, I did not press him on the subject.

Xil-Artat’s wealth, such as it has, is scattered about the city. Weapons hang in many halls, and tables are sometimes adorned with goblets and platters of precious metal. Pantries are here full of food, and there nearly empty; and when someone is hungry, or desires to drink, or wants any material thing, they go to wherever is most convenient, and have use of what is there. But they are as likely to select bowls of plain wood as goblets of fine gold, and as likely to make a meal out of whatever can be found in a meagerly-supplied kitchen as to prepare a feast in a well-supplied one; though in the former case they will still complain of hunger. Likewise, their daily occupations seem to be at random. Sometimes they will rise and go to the irrigated  terraces to the west of the city and spend their day pulling weeds in the hot sun, and sometimes they will walk to the nearest market-stall and sit, as though they are the proprietor, and sell whatever they find inside. No one compels them to do any task, nor do they themselves seem to prefer any labor, however ill-suited they are for it.

After three weeks, my Lieutenant’s skill with the language had rapidly increased; yet I began to fear for him, for it seemed as he learned the tongue of Xil-Artat he forgot his own. He began to speak in the looping, riddling fashion of the foreigners; he found it harder and harder to answer directly questions put to him, and when I ordered him to take a period of rest, thinking he had taken ill with the desert heat, I found him later in the shade writing the same phrase in the dust, in the tongue of Xil-Artat but in the letters of our own language, over and over again. Each time he would write it out he would erase it and begin again. I stamped it out with my foot, and told the men to lock him in his room for the evening. I came back later to find that there was also a crude drawing he had made next to where the words were written. It was difficult to discern the intent of the image, but it seemed to be several figures, dressed in the manner of the people of Xil-Artat, all without eyes.

When it had been six weeks since our arrival, I secured an audience with the Lord of Xil-Artat, whose title, I had learned, was the Master of New Truths, or the Chief Heretic. This Lord received me at about two in the morning, in a small house in the southern quarter of the city; the moonlight shone in through a stone grillwork on the far wall, and he was alone, though dressed finely and seated on an ornate rug. I came with a scribe, to take notes, and one of our interpreters. I named myself and my errand, and described Uru, and our Empire; the Lord of Xil-Artat was polite,  but remained impassive. He asked why I had sought so strenuously to speak with him, and I said, to open relations between our two states. Had I not already done so? he said, for I had traded extensively with the people of the city, and in Ul-Masim. Indeed, I said; but there could be better cooperation between us, and more profit to be had for both ourselves and for him. This he did not seem to understand, and he spoke instead of what he was thinking about having for breakfast. I steered the conversation again to his city, and said that while the customs of his people were strange to me, I was certain friendship could exist between his people and mine. This he enthusiastically agreed with, and we spoke a little about the customs of my country, which baffled him as much as his customs did me. This put him at great ease, and I apprehended that, though the Lord of this city, he was uncomfortable around strangers. I spoke about my other adventures and explorations in the service of the army, and these tales he also enjoyed; he had heard neither of Inisfal, or of Tybran, or of Hjaírsil; nor even the names of his closest neighbors to the north. All the world outside Xil-Artat seemed to be new to him. I had thought that we had begun to establish a rapport, when he suddenly remarked that this was the strangest dream he had ever had, and he wondered if any of it was true. I insisted that this was not a dream; that he was as awake as I, and that all of what we had spoken about was true. He said that I seemed extremely confident, given that I could not be sure he existed, nor the reverse; and I became angered by his solipsism. I berated him for the weak-mindedness of his people; for the disorder of their customs and law; for the time they wasted on meaningless ideas and fearful rumors. I spoke of the man who thought there was a second city beneath this one, and how in my homeland, madmen are locked up, or treated by doctors, not allowed to roam free in the streets.

Oh, said the Lord of Xil-Artat, Mlejnas is quite real, I assure you. Mlejnas, he said, was the name of that city, and he said that everything they said about it was true; even false things. I was at this point prepared to leave and not return; for it was evident he was as mad as all the rest. Very well, he said; but if you want to look for Mlejnas, it is all around you; yet those who seek Mlejnas never return.

I was at this point ready to depart for good. Our mission seemed a failure, and the most logical course of action, I believed, was to depart Xil-Artat for Elibom, to the southeast, where I knew there were some small towns and, at the end of the peninsula, a Tybranese trading-fort. From there, a small contingent might make passage to Sennar or to Hjaírsil, and get a message back home. It would take some months, possibly more than a year, but ships could return for the rest of the expedition. As a leader, it was properly speaking my obligation to make this happen, and yet a second duty held me back: my duty to my friend.

My lieutenant at this point had taken to writing on the walls of his room, and refused to leave even when the door was left open. He would eat only rarely, and at night he screamed deliriously, in a mixture of our language and Xil-Artat’s. He was now fluent in the latter, despite rarely leaving the manor, and I wondered if the strange visitors we received in the night were conversing with him; though I had given orders that any outsiders found in the manor should be physically ejected at once, especially if they were in the hallway outside the lieutenant’s room, perhaps some still escaped the watch of the guards and filled his mind with their obsessive delusions. I had tried to speak with the lieutenant as a friend; to draw out his obsessions, to understand the working of his fevered imagination, but it was impossible to follow his thoughts, especially when he lapsed into that other language, of which I still knew little. Yet after I spoke with the Lord of the city, I realized there was a familiar word, repeated in my friend’s ravings. Not often, but from time to time, he said the word Mlejnas. Though I hoped to bring my comrades home as soon as possible, I knew that if a solution to my friend’s sickness was to be found, it would be found in Xil-Artat.

To the former end, I appointed the under-lieutenant temporary commander of the expedition. She received her orders, and would lead the expedition east, to Elibom. They would make their way slowly, so as to conserve supplies, since the nearest towns to Xil-Artat were more than a week’s journey from the edge of the desert. The Tybranese were notorious pirates, I reminded her, but our nations had a treaty, and they ought to honor it. I would remain behind with the lieutenant; two others of our number, who were also his beloved companions, elected to remain with me as well. The under-lieutenant departed three days later, after all preparations had been made; on the morning of departure, I gave her a field promotion to Captain as befit her new responsibilities. I hope that that promotion has been honored since her return. I did not hear from the expedition after they departed, but that did not distress me, since I knew they had no means of getting a message back to Xil-Artat, which receives precious little news of the world outside.

I had now formed a number of theories concerning the history of this place. First, the people of Xil-Artat were not the builders of Xil-Artat. Perhaps they had found its ruins; perhaps they had conquered it. Either way, they lived in terror of those who had built it, the reasonable, rational civilization that had been capable of creating roads through the desert, of ferrying stone from the eastern hills, of tapping wells into the rock below the city; for a superstitious people will always live in fear of a rational and powerful people, and thus the ruins of past greatness will instill in them a terror. But something had gone terribly wrong in the minds of the people of Xil-Artat, and now this terror had become a madness, infecting every aspect of their customs, habits, and society. A strong-minded people of good sense, as our ancestors had been, would have been immune even had they clung to superstitious ideas, but the harsh conditions in which they lived and perhaps the dry air had sapped their strength of mind. Their city was obviously in steep decline, and would be utterly deserted within perhaps two generations. From this it followed they were a young people; they could not have endured in this state for long, and could not have lived in this place more than fifty or a hundred years. Perhaps, I supposed, our historians could one day examine their legends and their history to determine their real origin; but such things were not immediately my concern.

I had also decided that this “Mlejnas” represented some knowledge I could use to help my friend. A city below the ground was preposterous, of course; but perhaps there were indeed ancient ruins underneath us, and that in these ruins, somehow, some knowledge of the past was preserved. There were, after all, many things the people of Xil-Artat had words for in their tongue that they did not possess--they had a name for libraries, but no books; they had a name for doctors and medicine, but no healing arts of their own; they could speak coherently (on occasion) about philosophy and matters of natural science, though they had no universities, no schools, no systematic studies of the spirit or mind or natural world, and so forth. I knew that there were things in the world inexplicable to our own science, but that such things are merely rational questions awaiting systematic study. And perhaps a clear-minded approach to the question of the history and builders of this city could offer my friend some comfort, so that the madness of its people would cease to torment him.

Commending him to his friends’ care, I began to search the city day after day, night after night. By my increasingly insistent questions on the subject of Mlejnas, I drove people away from me; merely mentioning the name caused them to sprint off without a word, as though they had just remembered leaving a loaf of bread in the oven that morning. When no one would speak to me at all any longer, I simply began to search every house, every tower, every courtyard, for anything that might give me a useful clue. I no longer went about dressed in the Xil-Artat manner; I scorned their garish masks and their elaborate robes. I would no longer indulge them in their wild imaginings.

My search of various buildings took me deeper and deeper underground. Xil-Artat, I discovered to my gratification, was indeed built on a layer of ruins. These ruins were more ordered, more logical than the city above, their upper levels that now were cellars and basements being laid out like orderly streets and rows of houses. There seemed to be ruins further down; half-buried decorations in the walls, or steps whose passage was now filled with rubble or sand attested to even older layers of the city below. It was easy to imagine what a superstitious mind could come up with in such dark spaces. But I could find no passageways further down which were open, and though in some places the buried ruins seemed as ancient as the ruins of Uru’s acropolis, or even older, nothing yet offered me information as to their origin.

So long as my friend’s suffering grew, however, my energy increased. And after a few weeks, I made a discovery. There was, not far from the central marketplace, a certain house whose roof had collapsed and which was now filled with dust, that had a cellar larger than the rooms above. In the corner of that cellar was an iron trapdoor, very old and worn, and rusted entirely shut. Not the strength and that of my two sane companions working together could open it, and the stone floor was entirely solid; we could not dig around it. I conducted a thorough search of the surrounding houses and towers until I found a large hammer, like a blacksmith’s, and a length of iron to serve as a crowbar. For four days I labored to break the fastenings that held the door in place and pry it out of its setting. It had been made to exacting quality, as good as the work of any metalwright in the world now living, but it was ancient, and eventually, it yielded. When I had sufficiently loosened it in its bed, I was able, with some great difficulty, to wedge the crowbar beneath its edge and to lift it aside. It fell back to the stone with an earsplitting noise, but revealed below a dark passage, with a musty odor.

I returned the next day with a number of torches, and entered the passage. At once, I felt my theories were confirmed. These ruins were nothing like those above. Even at their most well-organized and attractive, they had had something of Xil-Artat’s madness to them, something of its geometric patterns and labyrinthine shapes. They had been mostly plain stone. These rooms were entirely the opposite.

By their size and the windows that now only spilled sand and rubble into them, they had once been the upper gallery of some light and airy palace. The torchlight reflected sweeping, curling shapes off the walls, in which animals and children and people danced and played, all looking out at the viewer and smiling. I could not help but feel that if these rooms below were exchanged for those above, Xil-Artat would be a magnificent city indeed, the deep red pigments and gold left contrasting beautifully against the bare sand, the blue desert sky shining in through the windows. Alas for the fallen cities of history! I thought.

It is a curious feature of being out of sight of the sun that time is difficult to perceive. This had happened to me only once before, in the caves above Brighthaven, and there the effect was only that of spending an hour or so underground, and emerging to discover the sun had already set. Then I had been at leisure, admiring the natural beauty of the caverns, and so had not had occasion to spend longer than I wanted underground. Now, I had a duty to the lieutenant; and soon, I realized I had been wandering the passage for a long time. How long had it been? I had exhausted three torches already; but they were slow-burning things, their light dimmer as a consequence, and I could not say how long each had lasted. Nonetheless, this was my first breakthrough in weeks, and I had plenty of light left, so I continued on.

This gallery led me deeper, to more rooms, each more ornate than the last. Some had accents of lapis lazuli; some still had ancient furniture, carved out of black wood; the dry air had preserved them, even as their cushions had crumbled to dust. As I moved from room to room, I found myself going from a younger part of the building to an older; and to my surprise, the stairs led continually down. And it was a curious feature: the animals and children and adults on the walls, I noticed, detailed in every respect and in nearly every respect exquisitely proportioned, had eyes much larger than I expected. And each figure gave the impression that it was watching me.

At length, the rooms and hallways came to a great pair of doors. I surmised this had once been the grand entrance of the palace; if they could be moved, there would be nothing but sand beyond. I gave one a half-hearted tug. To my astonishment, it glided silently open, light on its hinges despite its size, showing a cavernous space beyond.

Here, there was an immense darkness below; but vaulted paths crossed this darkness, meeting in the middle of this huge space, leading to more sets of doors set in various points of the far walls. But the space was not dark in its upper reaches, not entirely. A dim light glowed from sources I could not see that illuminates the walls partly, and every free space of these walls was covered in ghastly faces, faces with tortured expressions, faces which seemed to silently curse the empty air. Each face was different. Each had ugly, bulging eyes. Yet I felt as soon as the door was opened that each eye, directly or askance, fixed its resolute attention only on me. For the first time, I was not entirely at ease.

The paths which bridged the great room had no railings; I crossed them warily, wondering what sort of people would build an awful place like this. When I reached the platform in the middle I looked back the way I had come, then around again. I noticed one of the far doors was open, and, what was more, something seemed to be standing just beyond it, a figure like a man. I called out to them, but there was no movement and no response. I walked toward it, and again I called out, and again, it remained impassive. Yet as I approached I could see it a little more clearly, dim as the light was, and it did seem to be a man, dressed not unlike a man of Xil-Artat. It bore an ornate mask, with a howling grimace rather than a quiet face, and its robes were the color of blood. And when I had nearly reached the door, it turned and fled.

Angered that this stranger had fled from me, I ran after in pursuit; this door led not to another great cavern, but to a hallway, whose walls were likewise covered in awful faces, and I ran down this hall, following the figure disappearing behind the corner ahead of me. This hallway twisted like a maze, and soon I found myself lost, the stranger nowhere to be seen. I cursed myself for my foolishness in recklessly following, and now and again I would hear the sound of footfalls that seemed to be approaching swiftly, but when I tried to find their source, they always rapidly faded.

This place, whatever it was, was no city. Was it Mlejnas? What was Mlejnas, if not a city? If not Xil-Artat, as it had been known in times past? Who were these wanderers in abandoned hallways beneath the ground? Such questions I asked myself in that moment, foolish though they were. I gathered my wits and continued my exploration. I tried to find my way back to the great chamber, thinking the others paths that led from it might be more helpful than this, but I only found more of the same maze, its walls seeming now to be higher and higher, and coming closer together, as though the earth was closing itself up on either side.

Yet this oppression was not absolute; here and there there was a door. These led to small rooms: some bare closets of stone, some with objects scattered about their floor. One held bookshelves; I opened one to find strange letters, close together, covering every inch of every page. Another was written in my native tongue, but though I recognized the words, they made no sense together; it was an endless stream of nonsense. Another was written with familiar letters, but in no language I recognized. I quickly left that room behind.

The room after that had a man in it. He was not masked; he sat, wearing only loose-fitting trousers, cross-legged on a cushion facing the wall, and he was in every respect from my vantage point a double of my friend, the lieutenant. I cried out when I saw him, in confusion as much from surprise, and the voice that answered me was indeed the lieutenant’s, calm and devoid of the madness that had plagued him since coming to Xil-Artat. He greeted me by name and bid me come in. I walked up to him and put out a hand to lay it on his shoulder, to turn him to face me.

“Don’t,” he said to me. “Do you not know me?” I asked. “I am Shurnamma; look at me, my friend.” “Stop,” was all he said in reply; so I withdrew my hand, and took a step back. “Will you not speak to me? Why are you here? ” I asked. “I shall answer any question you put to me, Shurnamma; but consider carefully which questions you want answers to.”

“What is this place?” I asked. “It is Mlejnas,” he said. “What is Mlejnas?” I asked. “It is the answer to Xil-Artat.” This response irritated me; and sensing this, the lieutenant said, “Do you know what Xil-Artat means? The name is not arbitrary: it is ‘the noiseless land,’ in their tongue.” “And so silence demands an answer?” “Or perhaps silence is an answer to something else,” he replied.

“You know that I dislike games,” I said. “I have a practical view of the world, and hate superstitious talk. The madness of Xil-Artat tries my patience, and in your infirmity I have granted that you have been unable to discern the difference between what is real and true and what is false; but now you are better, and we will go back up together, and put all this behind us. We will return home, and forget everything about Xil-Artat.”

“I cannot leave Xil-Artat,” the lieutenant said. “And why not?” I asked. “Because I cannot leave Mlejnas,” he answered. “What!” I cried. “Is Xil-Artat now Mlejnas?” “Not now,” the lieutenant said. “But one day.”

“Clearly you are still afflicted, if you think the dusty ruins of one city can rise up to replace another!” I said. “Where do you believe we are standing?” the lieutenant asked. “These are the ruins on which Xil-Artat was built,” I replied. “It is the ruins left behind by some greater people. A primitive imagination has made it into a thing of terror to the inhabitants of Xil-Artat; but there is nothing here.”

“You have not seen with your eyes,” the lieutenant said slowly. “You stand now in Mlejnas, built by the people of Mlejnas; the people of Xil-Artat built Xil-Artat. Xil-Artat was built when Mlejnas was built. Xil-Artat caused Mlejnas to be, and Mlejnas caused Xil-Artat. Neither has its beginning without the other. Each is the answer to the other. When your city was but a village on a stony hill, Xil-Artat and Mlejnas were. When your people were wandering the world, seeking a home, they were ancient. Maybe even before everything, before the Deluge, before the world was remade, here they were. Here they have survived. Here they will survive everything. Xil-Artat lives, because Mlejnas lives. Xil-Artat wakes while Mlejnas sleeps. And maybe Mlejnas will not sleep forever.”

“And what will become of Xil-Artat and her people then?” I asked scornfully.

“Then they will be Mlejnas,” the lieutenant said. “Then they will have always been Mlejnas. The ones who fled below the earth to escape the end, the ones who have survived since before your country existed, the ones who scored out flesh with knives and stuffed our mouths with dust; who cut us out of ourselves and threw us away, the ones who wait, the ones who suffer in the dark, will be the ones above. As they once were, maybe. As, perhaps, they have always been.”

“You speak of fleeing, of suffering, of catastrophe. Then Mlejnas was indeed destroyed? Or Xil-Artat? Or both?”

“Mlejnas was a way to survive destruction. Xil-Artat is what was left. Or was it the other way around? We have trouble remembering. It does not matter. This was their lesson: that you can survive anything, if you can put the pain somewhere else.”

“You speak nonsense, my friend. This is all nonsense.” 

“Shurnamma, you want an answer that pleases you. That lets you put these things into an order you can understand, the same order which you impose on the rest of the world. Such an answer does not exist. There is no order, no history for you to discover here. How else could Xil-Artat be?”

I advanced again, intent on taking the lieutenant back to the surface with me. I laid my hand again on his shoulder, and the moment I did, a terrific fear seized me. Perhaps it was his strange discourse; perhaps it was my own rational mind finally being affected by the madness of those around me; but I became convinced that I should not behold his face, that to do so would, in that instant, be an awful mistake, and that I did not want the thing I was now touching, which was not the lieutenant, and which was not my friend, to follow me out of that room. I withdrew, and wordlessly closed the door behind me.

I continued through the maze, attempting to ignore the thoughts pressing in on my mind from all sides; I tried to keep the image of the sunny city above me in my mind, though now I did not know if the sun had long set or not. The torch in my hand was burning still, though in my anxious state I could not have said if it was my fifth or my fiftieth, nor how many I had originally brought. Eventually, the maze gave way, and I found myself in another set of rooms, that seemed to be fashioned as shrines. Each bore the figure of some grim god, and each was in its own way more violent and obscene than the last; I hastened through these rooms, ignoring the faces peering at me from every wall, and doing as best as I could to observe that now their eyes followed me as I walked, shining with either what was varnish or tears.

At last I came to a hall, and amid this hall flanked by pillars was a throne. The masked figure in red robes sat on this throne, and it was red and gold; and the pillars were red, and all the walls, and tapestries of rich reds and gold, embroidered with thousand and thousands of white eyes hung between the pillars and above us. From a distance I seemed to recognize the man in the mask. Here he sat enthroned like a lord, while above he had seemed content with simplicity; he looked for all the world like the heresiarch of Xil-Artat. But where the one had seemed sleepy and indolent, incurious about what was before him, this one sat alert, watched me approach, turned his head this way and that, as if to examine me, with swift and inhuman motions, and when he stood, like an insect approximating the manners of a man, it seemed that either he carried himself in the strangest fashion imaginable, or that his proportions were entirely wrong.

“Are you the lord of Mlejnas?” I demanded of him. He did not move or speak.

“Speak!” I cried.

“I want a true answer; a clear answer,” I said to him.

“An answer to Xil-Artat?” he asked; and his voice was indeed the voice of the heresiarch.

“To Xil-Artat, to Mlejnas, to everything.”

He laughed; and when he laughed I heard other voices, too, and felt presences around me, just out of vision; but I fixed my gaze ahead, for in truth, I was far too afraid to look into the shadows.

“One answer, one answer, how can you insist on one answer? How can you insist on one answer when some questions have thousands?”

“I want the truth. One truth. The real history of this place. There is only one history of Xil-Artat.”

“It may be the custom of your country that there is one history, and one only. It is not so in Mlejnas. It is not so in Xil-Artat. There are a thousand histories of each, and all of them are true, and who is to say how many you have endured already, Captain Tirigan?

“Here is one answer: when the world was destroyed, the people of Xil-Artat hid part of themselves below the earth to survive. But not forever; they fear the day it shall return. And they are right to fear it, for that hunger and that suffering has grown, and when it returns it shall devour them all. It shall devour the world.

“Here is another: in the tongue of Xil, the opposite of ‘noiseless’ is not ‘noise.’ The opposite word means ‘screaming.’”

And as I watched, transfixed by the thoughts which contended about this strange city to which I had come, the King of Mlejnas took off his mask; and his face was the face of the Heresiarch, the Lord of Xil-Artat; except that he had no eyes. No eyes at all; not even the sockets where eyes should appear. And he opened his mouth wide, stretched it wider and wider, as if he sought to swallow everything around us, and he began to scream, to scream and scream, a loud and hideous sound, and the things that stood just out of view, that filled the room behind me and beside me, they screamed too, a terrible noise of unspeakable pain and loss and rage; and though I covered my ears and I fled as fast as my feet could carry me, in any direction I could go, the screaming became only louder, ever louder and unceasing. 

I remember little of what transpired after that. I fled through the bloody halls of Mlejnas, the screaming halls of Mlejnas, the halls of eyes that watch unceasing. I fled, but I never escaped them. Even when I awoke later, in a square in Xil-Artat, surrounded by masked figures peering over me with concern, I was still in Mlejnas, and I shuddered and wept, fearing what I would see if I reached out and lifted the masks of their faces. Oh, Izaru, my friend, when the people of Xil-Artat tell you that no one who seeks Mlejnas ever returns, they don’t mean you die. It’s much worse than that, I am afraid. For Mlejnas is all around me now. I will never be without it. For now, though, at least part of me inhabits Xil-Artat. I long to see my home, but I cannot leave! For only here there are no eyes. Only here they are not watching me. But it won’t last forever. I know it’s there now. I know that one day it will wake. And when Mlejnas takes the place of Xil-Artat, we shall all have our answers: all that we have forsaken we shall have to answer for, and all our tears and prayers will not suffice.

When I returned to the manor the lieutenant was gone. He had, my companions said, fled into the desert shortly before my return, with nothing but the clothes he wore, and surely would soon die of thirst or exposure. Yet I cannot help but think his body will not be found in the desert. I sent my companions away after that; they opted to take the road north to Ul-Masim, rather than try to reach Elibom; and the last news I heard of them was that they had departed Ul-Masim, heading east along the road that leads to Išaru.

The screaming, yes. I hear it when I wake. I hear it in my sleep. I hear it when I close my eyes and remember those writhing, tortured faces. I hear it now, now as I sit in the sunny courtyards of the northern quarter, as I admire the blue sky, as I drink clear water from a silver cup, as I watch the people go too and fro. It is a quiet day for them. Theirs, yes, theirs. Theirs is the noiseless city above. Mine--ours--is the cold screaming beneath the ground.

(signed)

Captain Shurnamma Tirigan

Catalogue item I.G.-uM.1733. A later hand has added to the last page of the missive: “Tirigan’s Expedition, launched 1669 AUC, vanished southeast of Inisfal in 1672, and, so far as reports sent back from 1669-1671 indicated, never lost ships off the coast of Hjaírsil, was never furnished with aid by the Exarch of that country, and never diverted from its intended course, south from the Wormsgate. The preceding document was given to an Urusc courier in the city of Ul-Masim in 1733, by an unknown party. Though apparently in the Captain’s hand, and apparently corroborating some of the tales of later expeditions to Xil-Artat, it is the judgement of the archival staff that this document is a forgery, or perhaps the work of a lunatic; and that everything it contains is nothing but the most unusual of lies.”

#tanadrin's fiction

[autolovecraft]

I'd hate to have it aimed at me!

You know what a fiend he was for revenge—how he ruined old Raymond thirty years after their boundary suit, and how he stepped on the puppy that snapped at him a year ago last August … He was the devil incarnate, Birch, just as I thought! The boxes were fairly even, and could be piled up like blocks; so he began to compute how he might most stably use the eight to rear a scalable platform four deep. Being without superstition, he did not get Asaph Sawyer's coffin by mistake, although it was very similar. He was merely crass of fiber and function—thoughtless, careless, and liquorish, as his easily avoidable accident proves, and without that modicum of imagination which holds the average citizen within certain limits fixed by taste. I'll never get the picture out of my head as long as I live. His drinking, of course, only aggravated what it was meant to alleviate.

Whether he had imagination enough to wish they were empty, is strongly to be doubted.

He always remained lame, for the great tendons had been severed; but I think the greatest lameness was in his soul. Would the firm Fenner casket have caved in so readily? The pile of tools soon reached, and a hammer and chisel selected, Birch returned over the coffins to the door. He was oddly anxious to know if Birch were sure—absolutely sure—of the identity of that top coffin of the pile; how he had been certain of it as the Fenner coffin in the dusk, and how he stepped on the puppy that snapped at him a year ago last August … He was the devil incarnate, Birch, and I don't blame you for giving him a cast-aside coffin, but you got what you deserved. Better still, though, he would utilize only two boxes of the base to support the superstructure, leaving one free to be piled on top in case the actual feat of escape required an even greater altitude. Never did he knock together flimsier and ungainlier caskets, or disregard more flagrantly the needs of the rusty lock on the tomb door which he slammed open and shut with such nonchalant abandon. Great heavens, Birch, just as I thought! Then the doctor came with his medicine-case and asked crisp questions, and removed the patient's outer clothing, shoes, and socks. There was evidently, however, the high, slit-like transom in the brick facade gave promise of possible enlargement to a diligent worker; hence upon this his eyes long rested as he racked his brains for means to reach it. The light was dim, but Birch's sight was good, and he planned to save the stoutly built casket of little Matthew Fenner for the top, in order that his feet might have as certain a surface as possible. Why did you do it, Birch? What else, he added, could ever in any case be proved or believed?

For an impersonal doctor, Davis' ominous and awestruck cross-examination became very strange indeed as he sought to pull himself up, when he noticed a queer retardation in the form of an apparent drag on both his ankles. This arrangement could be ascended with a minimum of awkwardness, and would furnish the desired height.

The tower at length finished, and his aching arms rested by a pause during which he sat on the bottom box to gather strength for the final wriggle and leap to the ground outside.

In this funereal twilight he rattled the rusty handles, pushed at the iron panels, and wondered why the massive portal had grown so suddenly recalcitrant.

He worked largely by feeling now, since newly gathered clouds hid the moon; and though progress was still slow, he felt heartened at the extent of his encroachments on the top and bottom of the aperture. After a full two hours Dr. Davis left, urging Birch to insist at all times that his wounds were caused entirely by loose nails and splintering wood. He was a scoundrel, and I don't blame you for giving him a cast-aside coffin, but you always did go too damned far! Only the coffins themselves remained as potential stepping-stones, and as he considered these he speculated on the best mode of transporting them.

He could, he was sure, get out by midnight—though it is characteristic of him that this thought was untinged with eerie implications. Would the firm Fenner casket have caved in so readily? The undertaker grew doubly lethargic in the bitter weather, and seemed to outdo even himself in carelessness. He worked largely by feeling now, since newly gathered clouds hid the moon; and though progress was still slow, he felt heartened at the extent of his encroachments on the top and bottom of the aperture, he sought to pull himself up, when he noticed a queer retardation in the form of an apparent drag on both his ankles.

I'll never get the picture out of my head as long as I live. In this funereal twilight he rattled the rusty handles, pushed at the iron panels, and wondered why the massive portal had grown so suddenly recalcitrant. Perhaps he screamed. Horrible pains, as of savage wounds, shot through his calves; and in his mind was a vortex of fright mixed with an unquenchable materialism that suggested splinters, loose nails, or some other attribute of a breaking wooden box. The wounds—for both ankles were frightfully lacerated about the Achilles' tendons—seemed to puzzle the old physician greatly, and finally almost to frighten him.

Fortunately the village was small and the death rate low, so that it was possible to give all of Birch's inanimate charges a temporary haven in the single antiquated receiving tomb. That he was not perfectly sober, he subsequently admitted; though he had not then taken to the wholesale drinking by which he later tried to forget certain things. Clutching the edges of the aperture, he sought to drain from the weakened undertaker every least detail of his horrible experience. He would not, he found, have to pile another on his platform to make the proper height; for the unexpected tenacity of the easy-looking brickwork was surely a sardonic commentary on the vanity of mortal hopes, and the company beneath his feet, he philosophically chipped away the stony brickwork; cursing when a fragment hit him in the face, and laughing when one struck the increasingly excited horse that pawed near the cypress tree.

God, what a rage! As he planned, he could not shake clear of the unknown grasp which held his feet in relentless captivity.

His frightened horse had gone home, but his frightened wits never quite did that. In the semi-gloom he trusted mostly to touch to select the right one, and indeed came upon it almost by accident, since it tumbled into his hands as if through some odd volition after he had unwittingly placed it beside another on the third layer. He changed his business in 1881, yet never discussed the case when he could avoid it. Over the door, however, the high, slit-like transom in the brick facade gave promise of possible enlargement to a diligent worker; hence upon this his eyes long rested as he racked his brains for means to reach it.

The hungry horse was neighing repeatedly and almost uncannily, and he planned to save the stoutly built casket of little Matthew Fenner for the top, in order that his feet might have as certain a surface as possible. The afflicted man was fully conscious, but would say nothing of any consequence; merely muttering such things as Oh, my ankles! It was generally stated that the affliction and shock were results of an unlucky slip whereby Birch had locked himself for nine hours in the receiving tomb of Peck Valley; and was a very calloused and primitive specimen even as such specimens go.

The day was clear, but a high wind had sprung up; and Birch was glad to get to shelter as he unlocked the iron door and entered the side-hill vault. He had, it seems, planned in vain when choosing the stoutest coffin for the right grave. Finally he decided to lay a base of three parallel with the wall, to place upon this two layers of two each, and upon these a single box to serve as the platform.

I knew his teeth, with the front ones missing on the upper jaw—never, for God's sake, show those wounds!

Clutching the edges of the aperture, he sought to pull himself up, when he noticed a queer retardation in the form of an apparent drag on both his ankles.

Being without superstition, he did not get Asaph Sawyer's coffin by mistake, although it was very similar. I've seen sights before, but there was one thing too much here. He had not forgotten the criticism aroused when Hannah Bixby's relatives, wishing to transport her body to the cemetery in the city whither they had moved, found the casket of Judge Capwell beneath her headstone. Perhaps he screamed. As his hammer blows began to fall, the horse outside whinnied in a tone which may have been encouraging and to others may have been mocking. Certainly, the events of that evening greatly changed George Birch.

[goodnightkisseu]

Remember Us - Chapter 2 - Remember When I Confessed To You

Notes: I’m hoping that with the weekend coming up that I can get myself on a better posting schedule than just before it basically is the end of the day ;A; Still, I really enjoying writing this particular chapter, the interactions being really cute and fun to bring to life. I hope that everyone enjoys this one. Please feel free to let me know what you think!

P.S I will go through and update the masterlist for this story shortly. I’ll also reblog with a link to it so that people will have access to it! ^^

- goodnightkisseu’s admin / ashley <3

You would have been the first to tell Seongwu that his idea was extremely sappy. But even so, you had to admit that, thinking back on your relationship was actually kind of fun. It made you realize of how amazing it was that your paths had crossed when they did. Because honestly, if the two of hadn’t met at that time, you probably never would have met each other. You actually weren’t even sure if you’d even be a manager if it wasn’t for meeting Seongwu. A lot of things, both in your relationship and your lives had come from meeting each other, influencing each other, and you had to admit, it was an interesting thing to think about.

As your wonderful boyfriend had instructed, you pulled the next envelope from the box and stared at it momentarily. You gently ran your fingers across the date that Seongwu had written on it, your mind wondering what you should do. You had considered reading it before work with your coffee like you had the last one, but strolling down memory lane almost made your late for work yesterday. So, even though it was what you wanted to do, instead of starting your day with the letter, you decided to save it so that you could end your day with it. On your way into your room to change you placed the envelope on Seongwu’s pillow, as a way to remind you to read it that night.

After changing and getting all of your things together, you found yourself back out in the living room, pulling on your shoes and squaring everything away so that you could leave your apartment to pick up the girls for their schedule. Before leaving you quickly pulled out your phone and sent a message to Seongwu, realizing that you hadn’t replied to his message from the night before. You let him know that you were having fun with his corny letters and that you couldn’t wait to see what the next one had in store for you when you came home from work that night. With that message sent, and knowing that you wouldn’t get an instant reply from him with how busy his own schedule was, you slipped your phone back into your pocket and headed out the door…

As expected, your day had been a busy one, but only because of the two back to back fan meetings that day. The girls were exhausted, sleeping the entire way to both events in the car, and you as a manager were also quite exhausted from having to keep a close eye on fans during both events. Most of the fans were pretty respectful, but there were definitely some that got a little handsy or who were trying to test their luck. Still, both events ended smoothly and you eventually found yourself at home, kicking off your shoes and just collapsing on your bed. You laid there momentarily before you rolled onto your side, looking at the empty space next to you. Ever since Seongwu had become a member of Wanna One, you had definitely been seeing him less. Before that, he would be over constantly, sometimes even home before you were. And as soon as he saw how exhausted you were, he’d wrap you up in his arms, and smother you in his hugs.

Lately, this had been happening less, and if anything, he was far more exhausted than you were. Whenever he’d stop by, you’d advise that he get some rest, even if all he wanted to do was to cuddle up and make you feel better, you tried to put him first. The thought made you a bit sad though. When was the last time you had seen him? He had been away for so long, only being able to stay for a couple of hours before he snuck out while you were asleep. It made your miss him greatly, his presence, his scent, his everything, but you supposed it would be a while before you could even plan something together now that he was overseas.

As your hand gently reached out to touch his pillow, your fingers touched something that felt like paper, and at that moment you remembered. His letter. You had left it here to read when you got home. Suddenly, you felt your fatigue start to wane as you reached over to the bedside table and flipped on the light. Once the room was lit enough, you settled yourself back against the pillow, and opened his letter, pulling out the white sheet of paper and slowly unfolding it, scanning its contents that read:

My love has made it to the second day of my shenanigans! I applaud you, and will probably owe you big time by the time you get through all twelve of these letters.

Anyway, do you remember that time, when the instructors paired us off to practice a couple’s routine because they kept saying that it would happen at some point or another during our idol careers? Everyone, of course, was trying to switch their partners around depending on who they like or who they didn’t like, but I still remember how lucky I was to get you to begin with. We were really close back then, and getting to do the dance routine with you really eased a lot of my concerns.

But also, I was glad because there was something that I wanted to tell you. I had been holding it back for a very long time but I had made it my mission to confess to you before the end of it all. You remember it, don’t you? In that practice room, late at night?

A smile graced your lips as you thought back to that moment. After you had helped Seongwu pass his first choreography evaluation, he had tried to make it up to you. He had offered to buy you lunch or even a couple of cups of coffee, but you had turned them all down. You told him that you didn’t do it to be repaid, but because you wanted him to do well. You let him know that a lot of the girls were hoping he would pass, to which he made a joke about his looks. Though you would normally find this to be a bit conceded, he did so in a way that kind of poked fun at himself, and that was a bit endearing to you.

After that point the two of you started spending more time together, doing more than just greeting each other when you ran into each other. You started to talk, and your friendship grew from there to the point where you were practically inseparable. You spent a lot of time together, and though you didn’t think much of it at first, you soon realized that there was something else there. You weren’t sure what it was, but you knew for a fact that you were definitely starting to see him as more than just a friend, and that was always dangerous territory.

Thing was, apparently it wasn’t just you that was starting to see this. The other trainees, particularly your friends, were seeing it too. They would comment on how happy you seemed after talking to him, or about how you could sometimes seek him out if you had a question about something. They also said that Seongwu did the same to you, and said that they were jealous of your blooming relationship.

“I wish that one of the guys would take an interest in me in the way that Seongwu takes interest in you…” Miyeon said one day when your and the others were just sitting around trying to pick out a song to learn for your vocal evaluations.

You looked up from your list after having crossed out some songs with raps in them, raising your brow at the younger female sitting next to you. “What are you talking about Miyeon?”

“Oh come on, unnie. Seongwu-oppa obviously likes you. He’s so flirty with you,” she insisted.

“Flirty how?” you countered. You had felt it too, but you just thought you were seeing things.

The young girl thought about it for a moment before speaking again. “I mean like you know how he’ll come up to you and gently tap your shoulder to get your attention? He doesn’t do that with anyone else. Or the way that he’ll wait for you to show up before he joins everyone in the practice room. He definitely feels something for you,” she hypothesized, taking a sip of the smoothie in front of her.

“We’re just friends,” you replied, though you had noticed the shift in Seongwu’s behavior as well. Or the way that he would bring food for the two of you to share on nights when you were practicing late, even though you knew that he had finished early.

“I have to agree with her. There’s something going on and if it’s anyone that’s not noticing it, it’s you,” Eunbi interjected, but you waved the idea off, going back to take another look at your list before you realized that it was time for your couple’s dance practice with Seongwu…

Your practice was the same as it always was. Dancing with each other felt easy. It felt… right. Though, you’d be lying if you said that you weren’t thinking about the things that your friends had said earlier. Was he really nicer to you? You didn’t think so, but they seemed to think there was something up. And truth be told, you would have been okay with it. You actually did like him, but you could never tell how he felt about you so you kept it to yourself for the most part. But it would have been nice to get a sign as your friends had seen though. It would really just give you the push to say something yourself.

About three hours later the two of you collapsed on the group in complete exhaustion. About two hours in the two of you finally managed to get through the entire routine. It was still full of mistakes of course, but now you could work on ironing those out. A week of hard work was really doing amazing things for both of you. Progress was really showing. Though, honestly, couple dances were hard. Not only did you have to learn your moves, but you also had to learn to dance in sync, or to complement your partner. It would be a lie if you said that you and Seongwu hadn’t crashed into each other more than a hundred times during this entire endeavor. It had been worth it though.

Also, just dancing with Seongwu… it was different. You hadn’t really understood what your friends were talking about until that night. Though you told yourself that Seongwu only held you the way he did because it was a couple’s dance about a couple, you definitely felt something. And the way you felt about him also made it hard to think clearly at times.

“I think if we keep this up, we can definitely have this routine polished by the time we have to showcase it,” you said with a small smile, your head resting against the hardwood floor. It felt cool against your skin, and it was a welcomed feeling after how much energy you just spent.

Seongwu nodded. “Yeah, I think if you just work a little harder, we’re going to be great. I mean, because I’m obviously already perfect,” he said matter-of-factly. You knew he was only teasing, but you still rolled your eyes at him, something that you weren’t sure if he caught as he was also on his back looking up at the ceiling.  

“Okay, king of choreography, I’ll work harder so that we can both be perfect. You don’t have to clean up those messy steps of yours in the middle at all,” you retorted, making Seongwu burst out in a fit of laughter at your seriousness. His loud guffaw only made your laugh in return and the two of you just laid there, laughing at your ridiculousness when you were together.

Once your laughter died down, the two of you continued to lay there in silence, just glad to have a moment to relax in your busy lives as trainees. You had other talents that you had to get better at and oftentimes, you didn’t get any downtime as you had now. This was nice, and it was nice lying here together.

Seongwu however, was the first to break your comfortable silence. “Hey, can I tell you something?” he asked. His tone and words were usually rather silly, but today, he was taking a more direct approach. What he had to say was important, and he knew that hiding it behind a joke was only going to make him seem insincere.

“Of course you can. You know I’m always here to listen. What’s up?” you asked, your eyes still fixated on the low lights hanging from the ceiling.

“I like you,” he said honestly. His words were simple and straightforward. He didn’t bury them in a joke or give a long drawn out speech. He just… said it.

Truth be told, even with everything your friends had been saying, you didn’t think much of Seongwu’s statement. He had implied that he liked you as a person before and you thought this was just another one of those moments. So instead of being surprised by his statement, you gently rolled onto your side to look at him. “I like you too, Seongwu,” you said, parroting back his works to him.

But Seongwu wasn’t satisfied with your answer. He knew that you didn’t quite understand what he meant. So, he rolled onto his side as well, the two of you now face to face, only a couple inches from each other, your eyes locked in a gentle stare. “No, silly. I like you,” he said again, emphasizing the word ‘like.’ And though it seemed silly, his emphasis on the word caused something to click in your brain, and a pink tint crept onto your cheeks as a result.

“Wait, you what?” you asked, now feeling extremely embarrassed being so close to him and also being a bit slow on the uptake. Your friends had been right after all.

Seongwu, seemingly amused by your reaction pulled himself a little closer to you, never quite taking his eyes off of you. “What, do I have to say it in another language or something? I said I like you,” he repeated himself, very relaxed with his words. He didn’t make a fuss with them. They were just there as if they were just an everyday statement. He liked you.

Though his confession had indeed registered to you, it seemed that your brain was still trying to work through it all. “But, since when?” you finally managed to ask, your words finding their way back to you.

He chuckled, finding your confusion endearing. You always seemed so strong, so level-headed that it was rather cute to see you fumbling with your words. Though your question was not one he had a good answer to. “I mean, I’m not really too sure myself, but does it matter? I just know that I like you. Isn’t that enough?” he asked softly.

“I mean… you feel the same… don’t you?” he added. “Unless I’ve been reading your signals incorrectly this entire time…”

Oh, he had definitely been reading your signals right. And everything settled in for you at that moment. It settled in that this boy in front of you liked you, seemingly as much as you liked him. He was confessing to you, and it would be wrong for you to leave him hanging. “You caught me. I like you too,” replied with a smile.

Seeing that smile on your lips filled his heart with a certain warmth, and throwing caution to the wind, he gently leaned towards you, his forehead against yours, your noses gently touching. “I’m glad,” he whispered quickly before giving you a gentle kiss, expressing his emotions in a way that his words couldn’t seem to…

While you laid quietly in your bed, you couldn’t help but think back to that kiss. It was so soft and tender, so gentle. He just effortlessly leaned in, in a way that only he could to make the butterflies in your stomach rise. And every kiss with him since would often evoke this type of feeling within you. It didn’t take a lot to make you fall for him, and you still felt that way about him now.

The subconscious thought of his lips against yours brought your fingers to your lips as you gently traced the area where his lips would normally occupy. And as expected, when you went to bed that night, you couldn’t help but think about him… and just how much you missed his lips against yours…

#wanna one #ong seongwoo #wanna one imagines #wanna one scenarios #ong seongwoo scenarios #ong seongwoo imagines #ong seongwu #ong seongwu scenarios #ong seongwu imagines #kpop scenarios

[hildiraphillips]

The Master

Preceded by The Covenant. Followed by The Apprentice.

(This story has entirely too many words, but I did not want to split it. It is the second to last piece of Hildira’s storyline. )

“I have been troubled with doubt since meeting you all that time ago, Hildira Rosaline. It is not so great that I have fallen like my brothers and sisters that have become Forsworn, but it is like a seed that grows in the back of my mind. What I ask of you is perhaps a selfish desire, but it is greatly important to me. I, like other Ascended, have surrendered my memories. I do not know if I wish for them back... but I wish to understand the thread of fate that connects us. And so thus...” She gestured towards the soul mirror that stood before them. 

The paladin had followed her into the cliffs surrounding this  mechanical wonder the Kyrian called the Mnemonic Locus. They had eventually come to stand before a great piece of intricately-carved crystal. It was blue, but looked familiar, and Hildira shuddered. She had seen its make before, in the Maw- that was what had been used to tear the piece out of her soul. 

“You have helped me a great deal, Truthseer. It is only fair I help you in return, no? Tell me what you seek within my head, and it is yours to, ah... see? I should hope not to lose the memories. I am in your debt, even still.” 

“It is ironic that I am a keeper of Truth, but I did not offer that myself when we first met. You see, Truthseer is merely my title. My name is Hildira, as well.”

The knight froze in place. She knew only one being who shared her name, and they were long dead. Was there truly a chance...?

The Kyrian spoke again. “Many come to Bastion who share first names, but... when I saw your face and the brief glimpses of your memory, I felt something stirred within me. But no matter how hard I try to grasp at it, it eludes me. It is maddening. I only know that we are bound in some way, and that you were important to me in life.”

“I... I think I finally understand what all of this means,” the paladin assured gently, a warmth spreading in her chest. “I will do whatever is necessary to help you understand.” Everything made sense to her. There was but one reason why fate had brought her to this moment, and it was to share it with this being who she had once known. She blinked back a few tears- turning her face so that the Truthseer - so that Hildira - could not see them. 

“Before you is a soul mirror,” the Kyrian said. “You can guide me through your memory until we find... whatever we seek, at least. I admit some amount of hesitation. To seek answers in our pasts is not the Path. But... perhaps the Path is changing.”

“Of course, Hildira,” the younger paladin said with a single nod. Determination filled her, and she guided some of her own anima into the soul mirror, activating it and letting it take her memories. “I understand your fear. But I know who you are, and... it is the honor of a lifetime to show you how the honorable and brave woman you were in life. Perhaps we shall start from the beginning, as is best for telling stories.” 

They delved into Hildira Rosaline’s memory. It was strange to navigate one’s own thoughts, but the paladin soon found she could focus her gaze onto specific parts. Her early years were not as hazy as they were before- she could find whatever she needed...

“There was once a young woman,” she began. “her name was Rosaline Faris.” She guided the Kyrian to follow her as she showed a young girl with dirty blonde hair. “She played along the nearby river in the town of Southshore, was chased by murlocs along the beaches, and braved nearby caves in the hills along the coast. Her parents were distant- concerned more with trying to make ends meet as they managed one of the town’s inns than raising their daughter. But it was no matter. There were worse parents to have than distant ones.” 

There was confusion sensed from the Kyrian at this choice of memory, but Hildira offered gentle reassurance to her as she guided their sight towards the next memory. “A knight strode into a chapel in the town of Southshore- she began to pray, but noticed a certain girl spying upon her from behind. They talked for hours of the Light, of faith... and then a few days later, the knight offered her a choice. She chose to go with her.”

The memories flew by quickly. A journey towards a holy city protected by paladins. A time spent training and being a page... and then a few years later, the girl and the knight met again. “The girl became her squire- just as had been promised to her years earlier. The knight herself was a knight-errant, and spent her time wandering the kingdoms, seeking people in need of help. She held no lands and spent the nights in barracks or taverns, or slept out underneath the stars.”

Months flew past, and then years of memory. It imparted only the briefest of details for the Kyrian, but enough to gain a story.. The girl became a headstrong teenager in time, growing taller and stronger the longer she journeyed the seven kingdoms with the knight. “I grew up with her,” Hildira said. “She was as close as a sister, but a mentor in truth. She made me everything I am, taught me righteousness and how to walk in the Light. I looked up to her and all she represented. Her name was Hildira Phillips. She is the real one. I am but an impostor.” 

Somewhere in her consciousness beyond the memories, she felt the Kyrian beside her trembling, and then drop to a knee. Their connection was broken, and the paladin pulled back from examining the memories. She gave her a few minutes to process what she had seen, and then the paladin reached an arm around her comfortingly. A little while longer, and she continued their tale.

“She had a passion for wandering, and a love for helping the forgotten and downtrodden. Her time was spent mending old fences and seeking lost livestock as much as it was battling monsters. She taught me the joy of helping others, and the importance of service.”  More memories flew past. The first time she held a proper shield. The first time she wore the Silver Hand’s colors. The knight’s presence was ever comforting to her, a rock for her to build her base off of. The younger woman idolized her.

There were brief memories of fights. Disagreements over the fate of the orcs, or how hard her training was, or what a knight’s purpose was in certain situations. Desires to go home, or to find an easier master to serve under, or to do more glorious tasks than helping commonfolk. “We fought, as all companions do. Were you perfect? No, hardly. You told me of how you had done selfish things in the past. But... you were my teacher. And that meant the world to me. You took on an innkeep’s daughter and made her a knight.”

The memories shifted to more fragmented ones. Legions of skeletal soldiers, valiant rescues of civilians, and the spread of a great sickness. “Then the world fell into a reign of chaos. Undead destroyed our home nation, Lordaeron. As the dead rose and the demons came, you and I chose to rescue as many as we could. It was hard, and the times made it dangerous. A few times, I nearly fell ill with the plague myself. But you were always there to protect me, and the rest of those under your care. Eventually, we could save no more, and chose to make a dangerous crossing through the mountains.”

The scenes shifted to a land of winter, displaying an abandoned kingdom. Refugees huddled together for warmth, led on by the intrepid knight and squire. They were low on food and provisions, but the fear in their eyes spoke of more pressing worries than just those. They were being hunted. “A demon lord and his hounds stalked us through the mountain passes in Alterac. I do not know why. Perhaps they merely wanted to slaughter us, or perhaps we were merely in the way of their true goal.”

The refugees crowded into a ruined tower along the pass, long abandoned by Alterac. It would have to serve as shelter. The knight and squire closed the doors and barred them... “We chose to make our stand outside the tower. The hounds were difficult. I had never seen a demon before, and suddenly we were faced with many of them. You struck down many of them with your flail, but they... just kept coming. I fought as best I could, but I was no match for demons.”

From the younger woman’s perspective, they saw he struggle against even one of the hounds as the older knight carved through a host of them armed with flail and sword. A shadow loomed in the distance. “The demon lord came as the hounds swarmed you. He sought to kill me and break your spirit before he killed you, too. The battle was fierce...

The memories of the duel were brief and painful. A felsteel blade slammed against the squire’s meager defenses again and again until the flurry of blows had shattered her weapon and rent her shield in two. It was tinged by horror as something obscured her view of the demon that would surely end her life- an armored form, hurling herself in front of her squire.

“You leapt in front without hesitation- it was a mortal blow.” The younger paladin allowed a moment for the realization to sink in for her former master. The two were surrounded by a the hounds and the demon lord. The wounded knight stood up and gave herself up to the Light entirely. Holy energy surged through her wounded body, radiating outwards and vaporizing the demonic hounds around them in an instant. The blinding light overwhelmed everything around them... and then it was gone, and her spent form crumpled. 

The next memory was difficult to watch, seen through a haze of tears- the demon lord had not been destroyed, but the apprentice grasped her master’s flail and struck him down before he could recover. She knelt by the seared, bloodied form of her master and broke.

And then the connection ended, and her arm pulled away from the soul mirror as she fell. It had been a long time since she had relived that trauma, and now both of them had shared it a second time. Both wept openly, leaning against each other in the first true display of deep emotion Hildira had ever seen from a Kyrian. Neither could muster any words for a long time.

#Kyrian #Shadowlands #RP Story

[mrneighbourlove]

A Gerudo Story: Klinge and Kanisa

Kanisa walked around with her brothers and sisters. It was beautiful day to be outside. Her mother wanted them to all enjoy the summer sun shining down on them all. The fourteen year old girl enjoyed the beach the best she could. It was a little weird to take in the atmosphere when Dad had a group of armed guards around to keep them safe.

A few Lizaflos patrolled the water, making a barrier for the teenagers to swim. Some Moblins basked in the sun, loving to get a tan on their bellies. Captain’s Kelly and Tulilad talked and laughed while walking along the beach. And Commander Klinge stood watch nearby under a tree, still as an Armos.

Covarog grabbed his sister Orana and played with her in the water, pile driving her playfully under the waves. Ralnor enjoyed collecting interesting designed shells. Ganondorf and Zelda stayed on the beach taking in the sun and enjoying a tan with some nice conversation. Kanisa herself simply liked the water under her feet. Besides, she had a more summer dress then a proper swimsuit on.

Eventually through guard shift changes more members of the protection detail were able to relax. Except for Klinge, who refused to move from his position. Kanisa always knew “Uncle Klinge” was a stubborn guy, but him always refusing to get involved in any activities was ridiculous. The Princess took it upon herself to change that.

Walking up to the giant Darknut she smiles. “Hello Klinge.”

He looks down at her and has twinkle in his eyes behind his helmet. Kanisa was growing up to be a beautiful girl. In time she’d be the first of many Gerudo Woman to start the newest generation. “Hello Princess Kanisa. What can I do for you?”

“Aren’t you going to relax by the beach?”

“No.”

Kanisa crossed her arms and gave huff. “Why not?”

“Because someone needs to stand on guard.”

“That’s what the extra around the clock guards are for. Your shift is done.”

“It’s never done Princess.”

Kanisa couldn’t believe it. He was so stubborn.

“Alright. I guess I’d have to perhaps order you to join us?”

Klinge gave a shrug. “Not in your style. Besides, you wouldn’t have the authority.”

Kanisa was saddened by his lack of enthusiasm. “I just want you to have fun Klinge. To be happy.”

Klinge looked deeply into her eyes, still and collected, the wind barely moving his cape. “You are a kind and gentle girl Kanisa. I believe that you will grow up to do great things. The happiest I can be is just seeing you and your brothers and sister living in peace…”

Klinge watched Ralnor growl in frustration as he wrestled with his older brother pulling him into the water with his sister. The laughter of the family soothed him. “You need not worry about me Princess Kanisa.”

Kanisa wasn’t fully convinced but relented. “Ok. If you want to join us anytime, feel free.”

She made her way back down to the beach. Klinge watched her hair float gracefully with the wind. He closed his eyes after taking in the salty air and meditated.

~

The years passed and not only had Kanisa’s kindness had grown, but her beauty as well. She had taken up dancing as almost an artform in her techniques to impress royal guests. To bewitch the minds of men to gain favours and recourses was a great trait.

Klinge decided to watch one of her dances one day. Kanisa was getting ready to perform for a group of investors. Apparently the castle needed new art. She came onto stage wearing a beautiful dress. It sparkled wonderfully in the stage light, and that was when the music started playing. The melody was smoothing to everyone in the room, including Klinge.

Her dress and hair moved with a flow more graceful than the ocean. Her feet moved excellently with the beat provided for her. She loved every moment of it. The attention sure was a little nice, but the joy of the dance excited her greatly on her own. There was a thrill in the freedom of it.

And the crowd agreed with her. They kept silent in their captivation, only applauding greatly at her once she finished. Kanisa took a bow and smiled, a cat like look in her eyes, the secret mischievous nature knowing she had snared them in her grasp.

The investors were already selling off to Zelda, and begging for private shows. Kanisa simply bowed and smiled humbly. Klinge felt his undead heart feel pride by her work and stunning beauty. It took him back to his younger days with his fellow sisters in arms, who’d dance with the hot winds of the desert.

Closing his eyes he could see Cipher teasing him as a girl with her sways, her skin glistening in the desert sun. It felt so….real….why’d he forget a memory like that until now? Why was he able to recall home less and less with age?

The Black Knight took a deep breath as to not think on it. Kanisa. Her beauty and art helped him remember. Klinge felt he wanted greatly to award such dedication to her craft.

Following her he stopped her from entering her room. “Princess Kanisa, a word?”

“Oh, Klinge, this is a surprise. What can I do for you?”

“I wanted to congratulate you on a performance well done today. It was simply breathtaking to take in.”

A blush crept up on Kanisa and she gave a respectful bow. “Thank you Uncle.”

Again with the nicknames. “It means a lot that you keep Gerudo culture alive in your own way. I wish I could give you something to-“

Kanisa shook her hands, shocked by the sudden generosity. “Oh please no. I don’t need any gifts, really. It’s just nice enough to make you happy.”

“But-“

Kanisa holds his hands gently. There was a kindness and warmth in her that soothed Klinge. “Please, I don’t need anything from you Klinge. You already give so much to this family. It would be wrong to take anything else from you. Besides, I get enough junk from all the guests. Your happiness is the best gift of them all.”

Klinge stood still looking down at Kanisa for a while, trying to see where her future would take her. Such purity in the Princess. “I see such wonder and hope in you. You’ll go far Kanisa.”

Kanisa’s blush grew and her arms wrapped around him. “Thank you. I won’t let you down.”

Klinge nodded and patted her back. “I know you won’t.”

~

More time passed and Klinge was tasked with watching over the Hylian Nobility as they held a peace conference with a group of people known as the Direnors. Klinge studied the foreigners carefully. Very large, and the whitest skin he had ever seen. A complete contrast from the Gerudo.

It was clear just looking at them that they had warrior traits. The defined weapons sure, but also the scars, and the aura of a warrior, the presence. The Commander traded glances with a particular man. He was very tall, had braided hair, and an eye patch over his right eye. He could have sworn the man sniffed him. After doing so the man scowled. Klinge made sure to keep an eye out on him.

The following hours went by and Klinge watched Kanisa come on stage to perform for the guests. The Direnors had never seen or heard such a beautiful woman before. Klinge relaxed hearing her tongue sing the divine notes of the Gerudo language. It was beyond captivating. Another thought so as well, the warrior with one eye. Vidar.

~

Klinge was patrolling the halls when he saw Kanisa and one of the Direnors talking. Laughing even. The Commander decided to investigate. “Greetings Princess. Who is your acquaintance?”  

Kanisa looked up at Klinge and smiled. “Hello Klinge, have you meet Vidar?”

Vidar stayed quiet looking at Klinge. The man was massive. He also felt something incredibly off about him. Klinge looked right back down at Vidar with the same disdain.

“No.”

“Well this is Vidar. He’s a Hersir, a Commander of the Army in Glacier Cove.”

Klinge titled his head. This man? Perhaps his scars weren’t just for simple show. Kanisa then pointed to Klinge. “Vidar, this is Klinge. High Commander of all of Hyrule.”

“A pleasure….”

“Likewise.”

Kanisa could feel the heat between the two men as they stared each other down. Klinge narrowed his eyes on Vidar. “Tell me Vidar, why do the Direnors need so much supplies from Hyrule. Food, iron….weapons?”

Vidar did not like his questioning. Klinge continued, his presence growing more intrusive. “Seems you lack a great deal as a people.”

“Our people are strong.”

“Really? Almost seems like welching.”

Kanisa’s temper rose from that and she came to Vidar’s defence. “Klinge that’s enough. We are giving to the people of Glacier’s Forge because it’s a kindness. Because they need our help. And helping those in need is the right thing to do.”

Vidar didn’t show it, but he was touched by her words. Such a beautiful woman. Klinge merely stared coldly at Vidar. “Of course your highness. Hyrule is charitable after all.”

With that Klinge left. Vidar stared coldly at the man. Something was wrong with him.

~

Months had passed and the Direnors were still in Hyrule. Why couldn’t they just leave? Covarog and Zarazu had been negotiating a great deal with the Direnors, packing supplies into boat after boat for their homeland. From what Klinge could gather, they were under a great amount of terror from a group of Undead known as the Frost Ones.

One day he was walking by the library when he heard something strange. He tried to get inside when he found the door to be locked. He listened in to try and figure out what was going on. The sounds of a woman and a man were having merry sex. Klinge was about to break in when he moved back recognizing the voices. It was Princess Kanisa. Her and that lowlife Vidar.

How dare he. How dare he defile her. Kanisa was a precious woman, a reincarnation of Din herself. Klinge thought over his options. Break in now? No. That would cause a scene and who knows what that fiend might do to Kanisa in a panic. And the did had been done. What mattered now was retribution.

Clearly, there was only one option. He had to kill Vidar. Make him bleed like a pig. Klinge went off to sharpen his blades. A little hunting trip was in order.

~

Vidar and Klinge were out on a hunting trip together going through the Faron Woods. A few Hylians and Prince Ralnor had joined before hand, but by now separated into the woods.

Vidar was cautious as Klinge walked with him alone. The lighting was dark and the path long. Dragging down a hill Klinge kept his murderous intent to himself. “Tell me Commander Vidar. What do you think of Hyrule?”

Vidar thought about it. “Your land is defiantly rich. Much life to be found.”

“Indeed. From the Fiery Mountains of Mount Doom filled with finest minerals, the relaxing waters of Zora’s domain, or the green never ending fields of Hyrule itself.”

The kept going deeper into the forest. The trees were massive and made the area very dark.

“What do you think of the people?”

“Depends on who you ask. Many are kind. From the Hylians, the Lorliedians, or even the Gerudo.”

Klinge’s eyes narrowed behind his helmet. Emotionless and filled with death. “Yes. The Gerudo. I’m sure you’ve been enjoying that immensely.”

Vidar felt something off. He turned to see Klinge swing a massive great blade at him. Rolling out of the way Klinge struck a tree, cleaving it in half. Turning back around Vidar was furious. “What is wrong with you!”

Klinge didn’t reply simply conjuring an energy spear and throwing at Vidar. The Direnor threw himself down into a trench. Klinge lifted his sword and went after him, quickly covering ground. “Come out so you can face your execution.”  

Vidar flipped his axe in his hand. He was not going to die to this freak of nature. Looking around the corner he might have yelped if he was still pup. Klinge was already on him, swing that metal of death at him. Vidar ducked and retaliated by swinging his axe into Klinge’s neck. The warrior stumbled back, and, with a hiss of air and hate escaping him, took the axe out. Vidar was disgusted by the black/purple blood seeping out. “You’re a monster.”

“Undead. Hellspawn. And your Death.”

“I should have known by your smell.” Vidar scowled. How could Hyrule employ such evil into their ranks? Klinge dropped the axe to the ground and dashed towards Vidar. The Direnor took a tactical retreat, moving threw the trees. Klinge kept missing, barely, cutting into more trees and bushes.

Klinge blasted a large bush, sure that he had him. The warrior waited as the smoke rised. From behind it came a growl. The Black Knight was unsure what to make of it at first when a massive wolf jumped through the fire and clawed at Klinge. A part of his armour was shredded, and before Klinge took a counter measure. Vidar clawed his more vulnerable chest. The dark blood oozed and Klinge drew a shield and a went after his foe.

“You think I wasn’t prepared for this? I studied your kind. Some of you have a beast within. Not so much different from lycanthropy.”

Klinge took a few swings at Vidar. The wolfman took a few strikes but lashed out. Klinge defended himself around his torso with his shield, only for Vidar to dive in and bite his leg. With a roar of rage Klinge stabbed into Vidar’s paw. The Black Knight quickly moved to smash his shield into Vidar’s nose.

Vidar finally let go, leaping back. Klinge hands shook with rage. “You defiled the Princess. An actual fucking dog.” Klinge put on a more protective piece of armour and switched his weapons to a battle axe. “I’ll split your fucking skull.”

Vidar paced himself. His opponent was highly skilled and highly dangerous, but he let his defences get the better of him. Left him more open to attack. If he was to win Vidar had to strike furiously. With a roar he ran at Klinge. Sure enough his opponent readied himself. Vidar hopped to one side, followed by the next to try and throw Klinge off.

Klinge was ready and when Vidar lunged at him, he swung. His axe made a mark slicing open the side of his leg and a part of his side, but Vidar sliced open his helmet, his claws able to cut through the metal and dig through his chainmail. Klinge hissed as his jaw was split more open and his undead face scared more.

Vidar transformed back into a human to cope with the pain. Klinge turned to him, one of his yellow eyes visible. It was filled with malice and longing for the Direnor’s destruction. Vidar rose to his feet, fists ready. His body ached with the torment of pain, but he would not fall.

“I will not die, I will not leave Kanisa.”

“You do not get to speak her name.”

Klinge threw the first punch, going to strike Vidar in the stomach. Vidar caught it, skidding back, and retaliated by striking Klinge in his one open spot. Not much to go off of with all that armour on him.

Klinge eye bulged open with fury and he proceeded to wail into Vidar. It started off as precise hits, but grew into animalistic brutality, by just releasing full swings of all his weight into the Direnor. Vidar spat up a hunk of blood after Klinge slammed his whole arm into the mans head.

Klinge grabbed Vidar by the head and lifted him up for a finishing blow. Vidar grabbed a hard rock off the forest floor and slammed it into Klinge’s face. The undead warrior stumbled back. Both men were panting now, blood leaking from them both. Vidar knew this was a losing battle. So he tried something he had never had to use before. Diplomacy.

“Commander Klinge, don’t do this. I’m begging you.”

“I thought Direnors don’t beg for anything. You afraid to die that much to die that much?”

“No. I am not. While not the death I’d like, dying at your hands would be worthy enough.” Vidar shook his head. All this blood loss was starting to get to him. “No. I’m doing this for Kanisa. If you kill me, my death would devastate her.”

Klinge cracked his knuckles. “…You lie.”

“No. On my honour, she loves me. And I’d give anything for her. So please, don’t do this.” Vidar put his arms down, and waited to see what this undead monster would do. He didn’t want to kill the protector Kanisa looked up to but he would if he must.

Klinge calculated Kanisa’s feelings into account, and with a growl, which turned into a sigh, he lowered his arms. “…Very well. I will see how far her love for you goes. But the moment I detect a hint of sorrow from her, I collect your canine head and mount it on the wall. Understood?”

Vidar nodded in agreement. “Understood.”

Klinge let the tension die down when he noticed something odd. “You’re naked.”

“Comes with the transformation.”

The Undead Commander frowned. “Can’t have that.” Channeling his energies he summoned a placement of plain clothes for Vidar to wear. “Put those on and lets go.”

The two warriors headed out of the forest. When Ralnor saw them he was shocked. They were bleeding from head to toe. “What in gods name happened to you two?!”

Klinge and Vidar looked to each other and shrugged. “A small quarrel. Worked out now.”

~

Vidar and the rest of the Direnors had left some tome ago, but a new problem had a risen. Kanisa was pregnant. Took no time to get the information out of Ralnor and Ganondorf, but it appeared the mutt and her had gotten careless. News was quickly sent to Vidar to return.

Within that time Kanisa had made the choice to move away and live with her lover in Glaciers Forge. It was a fact that broke Klinge’s heart. Three weeks before she left he went to see her. A heavy knock on the door told Kanisa who it was. “Yes?”

“It’s Klinge. May I come in?”

“Of course.” Klinge walked into her room, a nice pretty room littered with books. “Are you well?”

“Babies kicking hard, but other then that��.I’m uncertain.”

“About what?” Klinge took a seat next to Kanisa.

“I love Vidar. A great deal. He brings me hope in my dreams and I long to be with him again, but a part of me can’t help but feel I’ve rushed into things.”

Klinge nodded, taking her words in. “I understand. Your actions have lead you to this point, and its hard to not think what your future might have been. But you need to be happy with the future you have now. I’m proud to have seen you grown up, and I know the kindness and beauty you’ve had throughout in your life will apply with your daughter.”

Kanisa smiles, followed by a giggle. “Son.”

“What?”

“I checked with Zarazu.”

Klinge shook his head. “Seems to take the fun out of it.”

Kanisa laughed at the idea of Klinge enjoying the small things in life. Yet it seemed right. The warrior gave her something, wrapped in paper. “I want you to have this.”

Kanisa was intrigued. By the shape it was obviously a book. Opening it she went she was surprised to see the title.  “Klinge. This is-“

“My gift to you. The Desert Queen under the Sun. An old Gerudo book filled with adventure and love. Even has pictures, old illustrations. Only ten were ever made.”

Kanisa goes through the pictures. The pages with art were breathtaking. She started to cry and hugged him. “Thank you! It’s wonderful!”

Klinge smiled and hugged her back, gentle in his gigantic touch. “You are most welcome. I’m going to miss you so much.”

“I as well dear Uncle.”

Kanisa wiped her tears, and, just as Klinge was standing to go, she held onto his hand. “Is it ok if I read it to you?”

Klinge paused for a moment, then smiled back. “Of course. I have all the time in the world to share with you.”

The warrior sat down and Kanisa began reading the book of an ancient tale of magic, love, and adventure of the Gerudo Tribe of old.

#legend of zelda #A Tale of Two Rulers #s-kinnaly #Klinge #Kanisa #Vidar

[imagine-loki]

Mr. Laufeyson's Ward

TITLE: Mr. Laufeyson’s Ward

CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: Chapter 15

AUTHOR: goddessofmischief

ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine you are living in the late 1800’s and your parents pass away due to a tragic accident. Leaving you an orphan, you are sent to a miserable orphanage. Then, a mysterious and harsh man named Loki visits the orphanage and takes you on as his ward. He brings you to his crumbling mansion in the English countryside, where you face his cruel intentions, and eventually discover that you care for him much more than you’d like to admit.

RATING: T

I hadn’t gone too far on my walk that afternoon. The place that I did venture to was a serene little spot underneath an oak tree: a location that I had been to many times with my master. I just needed some time to myself following the conversation that I had with Elsie, as it had made me uneasy about my imminent future once again. The truth was that I had somehow forgotten all about Lavinia, which was because Loki had not mentioned anything about her since the May Day picnic. The solitude of the quiet hour spent beneath the mighty tree allowed my spirits to be restored, and I grew joyous at the prospect of spending the approaching evening with Loki, Agnes and her family.

I once again used the servant’s entrance when I came back, and was greeted by the delicious smell of Mrs. Cunningham’s shepherd’s pie wafting out of the kitchens. I practically walked in a trance while following the smell, until I heard Mrs. Cunningham suddenly exclaim. “You mustn’t try that, master! It is still too hot!” I rounded the corner and entered the room, where I found Loki, Mrs. Cunningham and Dickon situated about the large cast iron stove, on which lied a large serving platter of the dish. My master let out a chuckle. “It is the perfect temperature for me, and as scrumptious as always, Petunia.” He winked towards her and she smiled broadly in return, evidently proud of her own cooking.

The three individuals then turned their attention to the newcomer in the room, as they had just noticed me at that moment. “Welcome back, Victoria.” Dickon said warmly, as he poured some water for me into a small glass from a dainty gold-rimmed carafe. I must have appeared flushed from my walk back home. “Thank you, Dickon.” I responded, while taking the cold glass into my hands before I imbibed the liquid in one gulp. Mrs. Cunningham took up the platter in her gloved hands, and she told us to promptly be on time for dinner, as to remind us not be tardy for our guests. She and her husband then filed out of the room.

“I expect you’d wish me to quickly change into some evening clothes for supper, sir?” I inquired once we were left alone. My master smiled. “No, there is no need to. Tonight shall be a casual occasion.” I then noticed that his eyes trailed over my entire body, from head to toe. “You do seem rather frazzled, my dear. Are you alright?” “I have exhausted myself on my walk. That’s all.” I turned my back to him in order to inspect my clothes and make myself more presentable. “I’m sure that some nourishment will help to reinstitute my vitality.”

When I turned back around, I found that he had silently sauntered over to stand right before me. “Your hands. Let me see them.” He directed. He held out his own two hands palm up, indicating me to place mine directly on top of his. My eyesight redirected upwards to meet his imposing green eyes, after which I gradually lowered my hands into his open palms.

All at once, our hands met. His thumbs ever so gently brushed at the outer sides of each of my index fingers while he tilted up my hands more so he could closely examine them. “How dirty your hands are Victoria, and just look at those fingernails! Tsk, tsk.” He berated, yet in a playful manner as a grin was plastered upon his thin lips. “It is no proper state for you to be in for our guests.” He continued to talk down to me with jest, before he guided me to the wash basin.

Warm water quickly trickled out of the spigot once he turned the taps. He guided my hands under the water before handing me a bar of lavender soap to wash my hands with. I proceeded to wash my hands thoroughly as he stood close to supervise me. “And don’t forget to scrub under those fingernails.” He pointed out as he crossed his arms about his chest and leant against the kitchen counter. “Yes, master.” I responded by glaring sternly at him while performing a small curtsey in his direction, which made him laugh.

Once I was finished, he handed me a clean washcloth to dry my hands with. Upon drying them, he cast the cloth aside and once again took my hands into his to observe them. “There, much better.” He praised with a smile and a pat on my right hand. “Now, shall we go up to dinner together? I know you must be hungry, hmm?” My urgent nods caused another sequence of his warm chuckles to cascade throughout the room.

¨¨¨°º0º°¨¨¨

Many pleasant hours were spent in the company of the Blythe family throughout the next couple of days. We had traveled to the nearby farm the day after their arrival, and the Blythe’s had openly expressed their admiration for the property from afar before my master had the chance to conduct a tour.

I had allowed them to go forth while I lingered back. Agnes and her mother had desperately tried to keep up with the long, swift strides of the two men that were in deep conversation with one another. And as I stood there alone, my first extensive view of the farm cottage and the surrounding land placed me in a strange reverie.

It was then that I had pictured myself and my own parents walking up the hill towards the house. Them two arm and arm, while I, as usual, carried on by myself a distance away. Had they survived, what would my life had been like if we had moved here after all? I knew that I would not have minded the departure from London’s high society, but would we have been happy here together? Would they have grown to honestly express their feelings towards me, and openly love me?

And Loki? Would he have been an utter stranger to me? A man that I would only seen in passing? As I had looked upon him at that moment, I couldn’t bear to think of that idea. His sharp, elegant appearance and the way he was carrying himself in front of the Blythe’s had made it seem that he was not merely on the top of a rather insignificant hilltop, but on the top of the world. The mere thought of him no longer being a part of my life made me feel hollow inside, as though a vital part of me was absent and that my mere existence was somehow incomplete.

The Blythe’s eventually wished to move in as soon as possible, despite my master’s entreats for them to stay at Heathcote until all of their belongings were unpacked. They seemed rather impatient to move into their new home as a reunited family.

The farm cottage was already furnished from the previous owners, and the only monetary purchases to be made were the farm animals and new supplies. Mr. Blythe additionally searched for, and found, a strong and skillful farmhand named Benjamin who conveniently lived with his family within close proximity to the farm. Benjamin happened to be the same age as Agnes and I, and upon our first meeting with him, I had been greatly entertained to watch Agnes fall into a daze, in which she could utter no words. As a result, I had amusingly taken up the role of introducing her.

I continued to make trips over to the Blythe’s home to visit Agnes and see if they needed any further assistance with settling in, but I mostly passed the hours of the day at my master’s side once again. This restoration of things to what they had always been calmed me, and I held on to every moment that I spent with him with a quiet passion, as I did not know how much longer such moments would last.

I was convinced that he simply could no longer be mad at Lavinia’s immaturity and selfishness, and that surely he must have made things right with her once again. I knew that everything in my life at that present moment was temporary, and that my happiness could easily fritter away with the arrival of a particular letter, or of an unannounced visitor.

But no letter or visitor came, and because of this, I remained utterly content.

¨¨¨°º0º°¨¨¨

May quickly turned to June, and on one night, just a few days before my eighteenth birthday, I found myself sitting at my desk in my bedroom. A single candle casted down a substantial amount of light on the volume situated before me. Due to how invested I was to the story I was reading, I had heard no footsteps lead up to my door, but only the solid knock that followed. I had jumped in my seat, given how unexpected the action had been at that hour. Nevertheless, I still responded promptly by shrugging on my dressing gown before preceding to the door.

On the other side stood my master, who I had left not an hour before. Seeing him again so soon made me believe that he had forgot to mention something of importance to me. I figured that he feared to hold onto the information until the next morning, as it could easily be forgotten.

“Hello, sir.” I said, pausing to take in the expression on his face. It was as though he was mystified by where he found himself at that present moment: as though his own two feet had brought him to my door on their own accord. “Do you wish to tell me something?” I further pressed.

As I asked him this, he avoided my eyes. Instead, he twiddled with the signet ring that sat upon his ring finger, while he admired the elaborate woodwork of my doorframe. He then dropped his hands rigidly to his side and made to depart. “No. I shouldn’t have come here. Goodnight.” He briskly answered as he turned away from me.

“Please. Don’t go, sir. Come inside. I was only reading.” I called out to him in the corridor, which was unusually bright that night due to the pale moonlight that cascaded through the massive windows lining the passage. This uncommon illumination had also caused him to leave his candlestick behind, given how he could navigate throughout the winding halls without one.

He pivoted his body slightly in the center of the hallway, as he remained inwardly conflicted as to where he thought to go. However, he shortly retraced his footsteps back towards my bedchamber. I stood against my door to allow him entry before I sealed the entryway once again. He had not been in my own chamber since those days when I had been afflicted with a fever. I stood out of the way as he walked around the room a bit, examining some of the minute changes that I had made - such as how I had shifted my desk to an available, and far more spacious, corner.

“You may sit here if you wish, sir.” I gestured towards to armchair situated before my fireplace, which was currently not in use as it was a mild evening in late spring. “No,” He stated stiffly. “I am most satisfied with standing.”

I sensed that something was wrong, but I did not have to courage to ask him about it at that moment. Instead, I made for my desk again, but he stopped me gently. “Have you brushed your hair just yet?” “No, sir. I have not.” “May I?” He requested. I paused and gazed at him curiously, before expressing my permission with a slight nod.

He followed me over to my vanity table and pulled out the small tufted stool that I had tucked away underneath the antiquated piece of furniture, whose dark mahogany color matched the elaborately carved bed frame and the other furnishings that filled my room. I thanked him before situating myself on the low seat. The oil lamp placed on a sconce to the right of the table allowed me to clearly observe his place behind me through the mirror. His right arm brushed against mine as he reached around my body to take up my sterling silver hairbrush, an item that I had had in my possession for many years.

His height domineered my seated figure in a way that almost made his face absent from his reflection that I studied, but as the ivory boar bristles made contact with my hair, these speculations ceased. I found myself falling into a quiet stupor with every soothing stroke of the brush. Each brushstroke was delivered slowly and carefully, and I soon found that my eyes could no longer remain open.

It was as through he was one of those snake charmers described in The Arabian Nights - his actions as consistent and hypnotic as the tune that emitted from the charmer’s flute. Not unlike the snake, I would also sway  backwards into my master’s sturdy body behind me after a single stroke was completed. I attempted to catch myself and situate myself more upright instead of making contact with his body, but I found that this eventually could not be helped.

I could not stop myself from behaving in such a entranced manner the further he progressed. Nor could I cease the heavy breaths that I emitted.

I assumed he had counted to one hundred before he finally stopped, but in my current condition, I could not tell. After the bristles coursed through my hair one last time, I fully fell back onto him, which caused him to let out a low chuckle.

I did not move, nor open my eyes for moments afterwards, as he further continued to tortuously run his fingers through my dark, brunette locks. I was soon granted deliverance from this overly euphoric state, however. His large hands fell from my hair to rest upon my shoulders, and it was then that I finally opened my eyes. “There, all done.” He spoke softly as I began to reawaken from the absent-mindedness that I had fallen under.

I was quite embarrassed, to say the least. It was as though I had entered into a Limbo and that I had momentarily lost all meaning of time and place. His hands lifted from my shoulders and he again picked up the hairbrush that he had just recently used. “This is a very beautiful hairbrush, and I can tell you have had it for many years, but it has various chips and dents in it…” He moved closer to the oil lamp and turned it over in his hand multiple times to examine it. “And the wooden base under the bristles is beginning to crack. I shall buy you a new one, along with an entire vanity set that matches. It shall be another gift for you on your birthday.” Thinking this over to himself, a satisfied smile settled across his visage.

“No!” I exclaimed, more loudly that I had intended. “No?” He laughed at my unexpected reaction. “Why ever not?” “Because it is in fine working condition, and you have other, more important, expenses to take care of…” I asserted. But as I recalled how he had once responded to a similar statement, I immediately regretted the latter part of what I had said.

“Expenses? What do you know of my expenses, Victoria?” His tone of voice then became much more grim. “And haven’t I warned you before? You are not to question me about what I do with my money, especially in regards to providing for you.” “You mustn’t spoil me, sir. You have your future wife to take care of, and I am sure she has many wants.” “My future wife?! Oh Victoria…”

He slowly placed the hairbrush back on the counter and wrung his hands with distress. He remained silent as he paced back and forth a few times in the available space that separated my vanity from my bed. “I-I can no longer take this.” He finally declared. “Tomorrow the futurity of your situation here, and what I wish from you, shall finally be addressed. Meet me in the garden before breakfast. Goodnight.”

As confused as I was, I could say nothing in response. I just continued to stare at the heavy door of my chamber, long after he had firmly closed it in his wake.

#Loki #Lover #Angst #Submitted fic #submission #goddessofmischief #chapter 15 #mr. laufeysons ward #1800 #trageic accident #parents #orphans #mysterious #ward #hard #mansion #countryside #cruel intentions #care

[cheepcheepbitch]

Brief Australian History - The Eureka Stockade (Gold Rush)

Well! I’m procrastinating, and am going down to Sovereign Hill next week, and knowing it’s been brought up on my feed recently, I felt compelled to educate a little today on the Eureka Stockade. Forgive me as a lot of my knowledge is aged and coming from text books I have from school. But, it’s an interesting thing and if I bore you, I pray you look it up elsewhere and it won’t. The Eureka Stockade is an important part of Australian history, and is strongly symbolised in our pop culture.

// Also, specifically for the Hetalia fandom, the gold rushes were mentioned in the strips with little Australia and Canada. It’s said his character aged drastically due to the gold rushes and wool industry. (Chapter 201 / 202)

Background Information… First findings of gold was discovered in Clunes, Victoria in 1850. The excitement travelled, and by August the rush had spread into Ballarat, where Yule’s Diggings was situated. It then spread a month later into Castlemaine and Bendigo. The goldfields within Ballarat proved to be profitable, and it’s stated that Lieutenant-Governor Charles La Trobe, the first of Victoria and whom of which La Trobe University in Melbourne is named after, witnessed men uncover over a hundred ounces of gold within a single day.

This new influx of immigration into Australia created a significant change between the initial colonies, specifically convict colonies. They progressed into being their own towns and cities. The population within Australia raised in a space of 20 years from 430,000 to 1.7 Million, and this is where Australia’s infamous multiculturalism began, but also the traits of racism within Australian culture was introduced. In particular, there was a huge rift between Australians and the Chinese. The Japanese pearl divers up in Queensland weren’t treated with such distain although held for their labour the same way Aborigines were, yet they weren’t deemed the same way the Chinese were when arriving upon the gold fields. The Chinese immigrants’ unique, and non-European techniques and differential appearances led Australians to being greatly unsettled in what is quoted as the fear of the unknown.

In 1855, over 11,000 Chinese immigrants made their way through to the goldmines through Melbourne. These led to many violent anti-Chinese protests that took place in numerous sections of the gold mines. This led to Victoria enforcing the Chinese Immigration Act of 1855, which limited Chinese passengers per 10 tons. It didn’t work as well as hoped by those enforcing the law, as Chinese immigrants made their way through South Australia onto the lands anyways. (Australia’s a bit well known for their white-only policies.)

This brings us to the beloved Eureka Stockade of 1854, which occurred on the 3rd of December. The Eureka Stockade was a rebellion started by gold miners against the English authority over the rise of the mining license.

In August 1851, Lieutenant-Governor La Trobe had installed a mining free of 30 Shillings that would start on September 1st that same year. The first protest, consisting of around 50 men, was held on the 26th against this new fee, that only raised from there on. A statement announced in December of that year announced there was to be a raise on the fee, from 1 Pound to 3 Pounds and would be effective as of the 1st of January 1852. In reaction, the miners around Ballarat had started arming themselves in spite, and the initial plan was there forth wavered. In 1853, there was permission granted for personnel to search an owner for their license, which were as frequent as a couple times per week. Bendigo and Ballarat miners reacted to this unsettlement, as well as strict laws on liquor, with threats of violent rebellion.

Further unrest was confirmed when Scottish miner James Scobie was murdered outside the Bentley Hotel in Ballarat after breaking a window and being hunted down and murdered with an axe. Despite all the evidence poured by eyewitnesses, the Supreme Court found bar owner James Bentley and his staff innocent, and angered Ballarat miners further - They took matters in their own hands, and burnt down Bentley Hotel. More soldiers were sent to Melbourne, inspections were increased, and the rumours of a drummer boys murder had resulted in miners rioting back against the reinforcement.

In result, soldiers increasingly arrested more members of the community. In relation to the burning of Bentley Hotel, Thomas Fletcher, Andrew McIntyre and Henry Westerly were sentenced to jail for up to 6 months of imprisonment, which was resented amongst the miners - who met up together in a mass of 4,000 attendees, and established a group to protect their rights, known as the ‘Diggers Rights Society.’ On Bakery Hill, (situated in front of government establishment,) another meeting was called on November 1st with 3,000 miners in attendance over the arrest of another 7 thousand miners in relation to the fire. 10 days later, shit got real when 10,000 miners gathered upon the same hill, where John Basson Humffray created the Ballarat Reform League. He recycled principles set out by the British Chartist movement, of which he was a member of. They all agreed upon the right as man to have a voice in the laws being created, and swore to remove themselves from the United Kingdom if the current ordeal wasn’t solved. They wished to negotiate with the Governor of Victoria, Sir Charles Hotham, over the jailing’s of men related to the Bentley riot, and the injustice of James Scobie’s death. They also stressed the removal of gold commissions, the mining license, and a democratic representation on the fields. Sir Charles Gotham reviewed these situations and appointed a Royal Commission, but Commissioner Rede reacted with an increase of soldiers and called in more reinforcement from the city of Melbourne.

On November 28, soldiers marching in from Melbourne were lynched by a group of miners. The rumour of drummer boy John Egan’s death began with this group attack, although he wasn’t actually murdered but instead shot in the thigh. It is said that a soldier who had died within an Benevolent Asylum claimed that a man of dark complexion had murdered their drummer boy with a stone - likely accusing an Aborigine - but this settlement of the drummer boys demise was laid upon the concept that, these men weren’t worth credibility nor equal rights.

The next day around 12,000 miners agreed upon open resistance, starting with a public burning of the licenses. Following that, Commissioner Rede had ordered a new check - knowing full well that men had burnt theirs - and eight different miners were arrested. A vast majority of the military personnel employed had to escort the arresting officers from a mob.

Feeling they weren’t being represented enough, the Ballarat Reform League appointed Peter Lalor. They settled with a military-based structure, featuring significant roles such as captains. More licenses were burnt, and on the 1st of December, the miners held a meeting and swore an oath around a newly constructed flag, where they swore allegiance to the Southern Cross and to stand for their rights. The Eureka Flag, claimed to have been designed by a Canadian miner, was then flown. The flag was said to have been risen at 11 o'clock, and was considered at the time as the Australian Flag by the community.

During December 2nd, discourse was caused upon Vinegar Hill with claims that the Union Jack had to be flown underneath the new flag, with miners protesting their rights as British men. I’m touching on this briefly, as I do not know the accuracy of this event.  The same day, a group of 200 American men under the leadership of James McGill arrived carrying weaponry such as revolvers and Mexican knives, and provided horses. These men were known as the Independent Californian Rangers, and were led to interfere with a rumoured set of British reinforcements. They were followed by men commissioned by Commissioner Rede, and when these men were convinced that no military forces were to be sent and returned to their tents for the night, the spies reported their findings back to Rede.

At 3am on a Sunday morning, 276 soldiers stormed upon the shabbily made Stockade that had been crafted over a short period of time and wasn’t thought to be used in military pursuits. A war broke out immediately.

It was vastly violent, and wasn’t a fair fight by any means. There’s no direct knowledge on whom actually shot first, but the blood certainly spilt. Women were said to have laid over injured men to prevent any more death, Canadian 'Captain’ Henry Ross was shot dead - a notable figure whom had requested the construction of the flag  - and Peter Lalor was hidden and had his arm amputated after being shot in his left arm. 34 men were said to have been casualties, and 22 had passed away - including, for some reason frequently noted, Prussian Lemonade seller and leader Edward Thonen. The flag was removed by police mid-battle. Captain Charles Pasley, absolutely disgusted by the carnage of the men, saved a few prisoners by threatening the lives of any policemen or soldiers whom continued to kill anymore. Amongst the prisoners held were 114 miners, who were held in a barn.

Peter Lalor, the Irish Australian man who had escaped, said “There are two things connected with the late outbreak (at Eureka) which I deeply regret. The first is, that we shouldn’t have been forced to take up arms at all; and the second is, that when we were compelled to take the field in our own defence, we were unable to inflict on the real authors of the outbreak the punishment they so richly deserved.”

Commissioner Rede ruled the mine fields here on out with an iron fist, and Peter Lalor returned to Ballarat and was elected unopposed in 1855. He stood against democracy, asking the Legislative Council in 1856 and asked the council their views, “Do they mean Chartism or Republicanism? … I am not now, nor do I ever intend to be a democrat. But if a democrat means opposition to a tyrannical press, a tyrannical people, or a tyrannical government, then I have been, I am still, and will ever remain a democrat.”

The Eureka Stockade is a tale of man fighting, the unity of so many backgrounds… save for the Chinese, and the absolute carnage man can cause. Australian’s love their criminals, love their rebellions - and trust me I’ll write a piece on Ned Kelly when I get around to it - but the Eureka Stockade is a tale of resistance and want for representation. The strength of the women is a fantastic thing to analyse if you ever want too. The Eureka Stockade is mentioned in a lot of press, Melbourne’s well known 'Eureka Tower’ was designed solely off the concept of the Eureka flag. If you visit Australia, or come down by Melbourne, the car trip north to Sovereign Hill is a historical trip back in time worth it.

Sources: My Grade 4 textbooks/notebooks, Sovereign Hill lectures, an essay my friend wrote a few months back (I fact checked before inserting them), (stupidly) eurekapedia, and The Forgotten Rebels of Eureka by Clare Wright. Don’t just trust what a kid posts on the internet, research for yourselves lovelies. x

#hetaliafandomhub #Eureka #Eureka Stockade #History #Gold Rush #1850s #//No Pictures I'm sorry #Australia #Australian History #//Boomerangs or ANZAC or Ned Kelly next who tf knows #// ok idk so if I'm not meant to tag y'all pls lemme know so uh

[emalynde]

Dwin’orrel & the Dinner Date 9

Emalynde sipped at her own flute of champagne delicately, letting the golden liquid coat her lips before running her tongue across them in a gesture that was both dainty and almost sensuous.  "I cannot deny as much; I do have that drow priestess to thank for my life, in all likeliness.  But it is certainly an intriguing subject--the drow as a goodly race."  The redhead was not responding in any negative fashion, more so musing about how ironic it was.  She took Thalandril at his word, it seemed, and trusted his knowledge of the matter, despite being somewhat fascinated by the concept in general.  At the mention of his direct involvement, both crimson brows loft in subtle incredulity, "You?"  A light laugh parts lips like velvet, sure that Thalandril was in some way mocking her.  "I have not known you to care about anything other than yourself, and now you suddenly have an interest in saving an entire race of almost exclusively evil elves--the same elves who you keep from encroaching upon our fair city with their single-minded plans of destruction?  Surely you jest."  Emalynde shakes her head, jostling the curls that fell about her doll-like face, "Next you shall tell me that you're hopelessly in love with me and wish to be bound."  It was definitely Thalandril's altruism that the freckled elf did not believe in--not that the drow could not be redeemed.  She'd seen proof of that already.  Thalandril's innate selfishness was what was in question.

***

After reality warps and the tea had turned into champagne, Thalandril sipped delicately at it, enjoying the sweet aroma and fizz.  He thought about what the priestess was saying to him.  Indeed, he did probably seem selfish--and in many ways was; yet, few knew of his actual intentions.  "By the gods, not the entire race.  However, everyone deserves a better life if they are willing to put in the work, don't you agree?"  Thalandril gave her an amused, knowing look.  It was much the same as he did for her: offer assistance to those who want a to better themselves and could be useful to him in the future.  He taps the flute of bubbly liquid with his fingers in a rhythmic pattern while pursing his lips, thinking.  "You say that like it would be a bad thing."  An arched brow matched by a single side of his lip curling upwards donned his handsome face, wondering how she would reply.

*** At the mention of his own benefactor-like role in her life, the freckled elf quiets for a moment, rolling the notion about within her mind before replying smoothly, "Your personal doting does not align with those sentiments.  You did what you saw fit because that effort served you.  You now have a rather disposable asset who can gather what information you might need with the skills toward that end and the perfect 'cover' to execute them from.  You did not mold and groom me from the kindness of your heart."  She hated speaking of this; it left such a sour taste in her mouth to be reminded she was just another one of his tools--especially as of late.  Thusly, Emalynde was not convinced of any altruism Thalandril might claim.  She by no means thought him a bad man, but he had ever shown himself--in her opinion--to be single-minded and concerned almost exclusively with his own desires.  

But the jibe at falling in love with her catches Emalynde off her guard.  She had fully expected him to roll his eyes or otherwise express a lack of interest--in the very least--toward the entirely playful proposal.  Golden orbs hold his gaze, if he would allow it, visibly searching for signs of mocking or crueler such antics.  She found none.  "It would be," she replies for him, a hint of bitterness subtly coloring her speech--although it would only ever be noticeable to one as perceptive as Thalandril, "you not only are bound already, but love another--do you not?  Did you not wish--just this past week--to be free of my company in such a manner?"  It was... a low blow.  The redhead already knew, but decided to drag out Thalandril's dirty laundry anyways in a small semblance of spitefulness.  She rarely did such things, but the pair did have their fights.  It was a display of hurt feelings more than anything, but she was not above such things.

*** Thalandril listened quietly as the young priestess of Hanali talked about his selfish nature, it was not wrong.  There was always a plan to use her.  "I could have chosen any number of other candidates for my personal designs.  However, you kept coming back, kept impressing me, kept trying to prove yourself.  That is why I made the arrangements that I did."  He spun the half empty flute of champagne enough to get the liquid within to create a small whirlpool.  "You are correct.  I did benefit from our exchange, but it was because of who you are that I chose to engage you in the manner that I have.  You have always impressed me and that meant you deserved a better life."

Thalandril keeps her gaze a moment but soon darts his eyes off to the side to look across the rolling river before them, just listening.  The flute stops moving and his visage takes on a grave look to its handsome contours. "It seems that you are not the only one to think negatively of me in such a way--being in love and bound to them.  It would seem to be a fairly common sentiment of late." The flue was making straining sounds under the pressure of his two fingers holding it. ***

Emalynde did not know what to make of Thalandril's declaration.  Another compliment seemed hard to believe, not to mention that the redhead was rather cross with him, and so she assumed he was simply being logical.  That made the most sense.  Dry logic was something the rogue was unprecedentedly adept at.  "It seems you simply chose the most suitable candidate for the job, then.  It was nothing more than a business deal.  You would have nothing less than your expectations and I was the only one to meet them.  You know nothing of, nor little care for, who I am as an individual."  She'd remembered the zone of silence, no longer letting her anger simmer underneath the perfected mask she wore.  Her outer visage remained pleasant, but her brows contracted every so often, betraying slightly--alongside her tone--her irritation.

The freckled elf makes note of the diverted gaze when she spoke of the intelligence agent's bindings.  A sinking feeling manifests in her stomach.  She'd gotten what she wanted, but the result did not make her feel any better.  Guilt at her behavior starts to creep up Emalynde's spine, like a slow, eventual chill.  After a few moments of weighted silence, she exhales in resignation, "You have my apologies.  I should not have.  It is not my business and... "   Her torso heaves a sigh once more, "I am sorry, Thalandril."  That apology was not for her conduct, but more for the fact that he, too, had been rejected.  While the enchantress could be petty, It was usually only a flash of anger--lashing out like a lick of flame only to retreat once more.  Normally, she would have comforted him physically--a hand on his, upon his knee or shoulder, etc.  But she refrains, still miffed about being an implement but not so heartless as to not see her closest friend's pain.  She still did not believe him about his altruistic 'goals' or that he in any way loved her--besides a small affection given their time together.

*** "It seems as though you and Chelyse both would prefer to keep me at a distance as a business acquaintance."  Thalandril made a motion implying washing his hands of the situation.  He would not look at her.  His face was grim, tight, pulled into a very business-like manner.  "It seems as though that is what I am best at, and so I shall keep it at that."  He moved to get out of his seat unless stopped. Pain was evident in his eyes; this was not how he wanted the evening to go.  He had fully planned on expressing himself in some way to Emalynde, to let her know he did in fact have feelings for her, however, perhaps that was not what was best.

*** Emalynde's brow furrows, confusion marking the delicate contours of her face.  It was... so unlike Thalandril to be emotional, much less self-pitying.  Could he really be so thoroughly affected?  The redhead quiets, watching the facial features of the intelligence operative closely and placing her own anger aside for the moment.  Elongated ears wilt slightly at recognizing just how hurt Thalandril must be to have been rejected by the person he cared so deeply for.  It was likely the first time he'd cared about anyone other than himself.  And she was not like him, in that manner, Emalynde reassures herself.  She was being as selfish and self-centered as she chided the blonde for.  As the freckled elf sorts through all this, her visage begins to reflect her thought process, sympathy slowly overtaking her.  At the declaration that business arrangements were all that the rogue was cut out for, Emalynde's resolve breaks.  While he had hurt her, hers was not the only hurt in play.  The rustle of chiffon sounds as the Companion rises quickly in Thalandril's wake, closing the distance between them in short order to attempt to wrap her arms about him.  "I am sorry she did not return your affection; she knows not what she surrendered," the fiery-tressed elf murmurs gently to her friend, petting the back of his head in soft, soothing motions if he would allow it.  They had only been here a select few times--perhaps twice in their many years in each other's company.  And this was in public--Thalandril must have loved her greatly, Emalynde admits with a pang of disappointment. *** Thalandril allows the affection.  Instead of leaving, he even returns the embrace.  He looked quizzically at her for a moment, though. "Oh.  You think I am upset because she did not return my affection?  I could not care less that she did not love me in return."  He continued the embrace if allowed, permitting the young elf to question what he meant if that was her course of action, as he had assumed it would be.

#i love this rp #Dwin'orrel and the Dinner Date #rp #elves #elf #Emalynde Ilayne Inara #Thalandril Van'drys #Ema writes stuff #short story #fanfiction #fanfic #story #write #because I really only write about elves

[itsworn]

Robert Foley’s 426 Max Wedge–Powered 1963 Polara Overheats. We’re Gonna Fix It

The Combo

Law enforcement officer by day, hot rodder by night—Robert Foley always wanted to get his hands on an early Mopar Max Wedge car.

Robert Foley always wanted to put together an early big-block Mopar muscle car. “I liked the history and tradition, how these awesome cars put Chrysler into the forefront! I lucked out and found a 1963 Dodge Polara with the awesome 426 Max Wedge already in it!” The clone-conversion is about as close as an average hot rodder can get to the real McCoy outside of a museum. Its frame-off rebuild included a real 13.5:1 426 Max Wedge motor, complete with a solid-lifter cam, a cross-ram fed by Edelbrock AVS carbs, and factory cast-iron headers. The power is transferred back through a 3,000-rpm stall-speed converter, a pushbutton 727 TorqueFlite, and a 3.91:1-geared Moser 8¾-inch Sure-Grip.

Originally a 318-powered dozer, the Polara underwent a rotisserie restoration, complete with an authentic 426W motor.

The Problem

Even back in the day, these raggedy-edge cars weren’t known as stellar coolers. Today’s crappy gas sure doesn’t help things. “I couldn’t drive it more than 2 to 3 miles before the temperature would get up to 220 degrees,” Foley complained. “At that point, I’d just shut it off. It never stabilized or leveled off, wouldn’t improve at high speed, and didn’t care what the outside temperature was.”

The stock cooling system couldn’t cool the 13.5:1 426. Note how the radiator, shroud, fan, and engine mount are offset to the passenger side.

The Diagnosis

Rollings’ Automotive dropped in a new Griffin “Combo Package”: a high-tech aluminum radiator with twin electric fans in a custom shroud.

Fortunately, Rollings Automotive—one of our go-to SoCal rescue facilities—is within spitting distance of Foley’s Riverside, California, residence. Norm Rollings took only a few minutes to science the problem out. There were no obvious mechanical defects: The thermostat was opening, the pressure cap was the system’s high point, there were no bubbles in the coolant, and timing adjustments made little difference. Time to bring out the big guns: an aluminum radiator, electric fans, and a high-flow water pump. The electric fans’ electrical demands called for a higher-output alternator and wiring upgrades. Added into the mix was Foley’s wish to preserve (to the extent possible) the Polara’s period looks. We spec’d the 440Source.com for a water pump, Griffin Thermal Products for the radiator and fans, Powermaster for a high-output alternator, and a posse of local and aftermarket manufacturers to deal with the inevitable chassis integration and detailing requirements.

It’s not easy keeping a 13.5:1 all-cast-iron 426 Max Wedge cool on the street. The three big-ticket cooling rescue items include a Griffin aluminum radiator/shroud/electric fan package, a 440Source.com high-flow aluminum water pump with cast-iron impeller, and a modern 95-amp Powermaster one-wire alternator. But there’s lots of little extras that make for a sano upgrade, including dipping into Rollings’ secret stash of aircraft fasteners. If there’s no surplus store in your area, most of the “trick” hardware can be purchased from outfits like Aircraft Spruce or ARP.

A] Water pump (Photos 01–03)

B] Radiator, electric fans (Photos 04–10, 13–14, 25–26)

C] Coolant recovery tank (Photos 11–12)

D] One-wire alternator (Photos 15–18)

E] Disconnect external regulator (Photo 19)

F] Fan controller and fan relays (Photos 20–21, 23)

G] Aircraft hardware (Photos 21–22)

H] Starter relay (photo 24)

I] Shorter oil filter (Photo 21)

The Fix: Water Pump

Big-block Chryslers use a water pump that bolts to a separate housing that in turn bolts to the engine block. The pump’s impeller-blade shape plus the clearance of the pump/impeller assembly to the housing’s interior cavity is an important factor in establishing the pump’s overall efficiency. Foley had a standard cast-iron housing and the usual parts-store cast-iron pump with sloppy clearances; the cheapie sheetmetal impeller looked like it was cannibalized from a child’s toy. They were trash-canned and replaced by 440Source.com’s high-flow aluminum pump and housing kit. The pump features a superior curved-vane cast-iron impeller, and the close-tolerance interior housing clearances are precisely controlled to the point that 440Source.com supplies its own pump-to-housing gasket (yes, paper gasket thickness can vary slightly).

01] The 440Source.com’s high-flow aluminum pump with its matching tight-tolerance aluminum housing tightens up the impeller-to-housing clearances for better flow.

02] Note the 440Source.com’s curved-vane, cast impeller, as well as a thick shoulder that extends further into the housing (right); the stocker (left) has a flimsy sheetmetal impeller—ouch!

03] 440 Source’s “early” pump has the right driver-side inlet and enough hot-side pipe-thread holes to allow mounting (from left) the stock temp sender, an Auto Meter temp gauge sender, and the electric fan control unit thermal probe without tee-fittings. Buttonhead pump-to-housing screws clear large billet pulleys. The 440Source.com’s billet water outlet hides a Rollings-gutted thermostat—this is Southern California!

The Fix: Radiator and Fans

To replace Foley’s copper/brass three-row radiator and lame four-blade mechanical fan, we chose Griffin’s Exact Fit aluminum two-core radiator that’s designed to drop in place of most original old-school radiators. In this case, the exact year and model weren’t in the catalog, but a close analog is listed for other 1962–1965 big-block Mopar muscle cars; just be sure to check exact fitment and clearances. Foley’s existing, nearly new upper and lower radiator hoses bolted right up.

04] Radiator tech has come a long way since the 1960s. Griffin’s Direct Fit Combo kit package for most early Mopar big-block/auto-trans cars (PN CU-70024) includes its high-tech aluminum radiator plus a custom aluminum shroud loaded with twin SPAL 10-inch electric fans. The large tube, high-density core still uses a sheetmetal tank for a pseudo-classic appearance. The numbered callouts in this photo indicate the “real-world” location of the parts shown in photos 00–00 that follow within this “Radiator and Fans” section.

05] Like many current OE setups, shroud-relief flaps open at speed to relieve detrimental pressure buildup.

06] A good idea for any aluminum radiator, Rollings added an anti-corrosion sacrificial anode in place of the conventional drain cock.

07] Not inverted flare or 37-degree AN: Rare ¼ pipe-thread-to-SAE 45-degree male cone nipples connect the stock ⁵⁄₁₆-inch auto-trans hardlines to the radiator.

08] Griffin uses pipe thread for the overflow nipple below the pressure cap, allowing Rollins to bend up a ¼-inch stainless-steel hardline with a 37-degree AN coupling nut and flare.

09] At the other end, the tubing connects to Phenix lightweight race hose using a Phenix flareless compression fitting, eliminating the need for an extra union.

10] Always check hood clearance using modeling clay or heavy grease. Rollings had to lower the radiator ½ inch, accomplished by drilling new holes in its integral mounting plate ½-inch higher to mate with the core support’s factory holes and weld nuts (arrow).

A big Moroso reservoir tank reported for duty as a coolant recovery unit.

11] The Phenix race hose runs from the overflow tube (see photo 09, above) to the bottom of this big 2-quart Moroso aluminum reservoir tank. It’s used here as a full sealed coolant recovery system (CRS). Rollings says the tank in most retrofit CRS kits is too small. “Judge for yourself. Look how large today’s overflow tanks are on new cars.”

12] The Moroso tank mounts to existing factory weld-nuts on the driver-side fender via a fabricated aluminum bracket.

So what’s so special about Griffin’s aluminum wonder? Dimensionally, the core height and width is about the same as the old unit, but aluminum’s higher tensile strength allows the tubes to be significantly larger, resulting in more surface area per tube—and surface area is where most heat exchange goes down. Griffin has a higher tube density/inch, further improving heat dissipation when used with electric fans and a properly designed shroud.

13] Griffin’s 18.00 x 21.88-inch core area is about the same as the old radiator, but there’s more to radiator efficiency than gross dimensions. Theoretically, a copper/brass radiator is a slightly more efficient heat exchanger than aluminum, but its tensile strength is lower. Being stronger, aluminum supports higher pressures and larger-diameter, thinner-wall radiator tubes. The Griffin used on the Polara has 1.25-inch tubes, but despite its larger tubes, the Griffin’s tube density comes in at 54 tubes/inch.

14] By contrast, the stocker it replaced has only 0.375-inch tubes and 39 tubes/inch. This makes the Griffin’s tube density about 38-percent higher than the stocker. Griffin also has 16 fins/inch, versus this old unit’s 13 fins/inch. Collectively, larger tubes with greater surface area plus higher density greatly increase heat dissipation.

Then there’s the issue of multirow (multicore) stacking: On an old three- or four-row radiator, the rear cores are less efficient because they see air that’s already been heated by the forward core(s). A similarly sized two-core aluminum radiator with larger tubes nearly always outperforms a three- or four-core copper/brass setup. And electric fans perform best on a radiator with fewer cores. Unlike a beltdriven fan whose speed is tied to engine rpm, electric fans run at a constant speed independent of engine rpm, making them today’s choice for superior low-rpm cooling on most hot rods.

We ordered the Griffin’ radiator as part of a complete “Combo Package,” which also includes a custom shroud, twin SPAL electric fans, and relays. But those current-hungry fans and Foley’s existing electric fuel pump gotta get fed.

The Fix: Alternator and Wiring

15] Out with the weak stock alternator. A Powermaster high-output, one-wire unit supplies the new Griffin-supplied electric fans’ current demands.

Old muscle cars were underwired even stock, and first-gen alternators didn’t put out enough current at idle. (Ever experience dim headlights when idling with the windshield wipers on?) As alternators evolved, they became more efficient, developing higher peak output in a similar-size case, putting out more amps at idle, and ramping up to full power quicker. At speed, early Chrysler alternators typically put out at most 50 amps. We were able to more than double that with a bolt-in, Chrysler-style Powermaster one-wire unit. They’re officially rated at 95 amps, but the dyno-test sheet in the box showed our unit actually made 75 amps at idle, 80 at cruise, and 112 on the top end.

16] Fan appreciation day: Supplying current to the grateful, current-hungry, electric fans is a Powermaster one-wire squareback alternator (right) that’s at least twice as powerful as the first-gen roundback it replaced (left). The new unit’s case is based on the mid-1960s-and-later Chrysler configuration, but still looks distinctively Mopar. It physically bolted up with no reclocking needed.

17] Powermaster’s true one-wire unit is internally regulated and self-exciting. Don’t connect any of the old external wires to the Field terminals (A). Bolt the single charge wire to the B+ stud (B). The alternator usually self-grounds through its mounting bracket, but for insurance Rollings ran an external ground wire from the ground terminal (C) to an exhaust manifold bolt.

Powermaster’s internally regulated design is a cinch to install. It uses just one main charge wire. Rollings did upsize from a 12-gauge to a Powermaster 8-gauge charging wire, protected from chafing (as were all the other newly run wiring) by split nylon sleeving. Foley was already running a AWG 00 battery cable from his trunk-mounted battery to the starter.

18] Upgrade the charge wire from the typical 12-gauge stocker to 8-gauge (or larger, depending on the length of the run); they’re available from Powermaster. Here the upgrade runs to the starter relay and on to the starter. Still running a stock ammeter? Hook the black wire to the B+ stud. Run an auxiliary ground as desired. (Photo: Ryan Lugo)

19] The old separate voltage regulator was left sitting on the firewall for looks, but it’s not hooked up to anything.

To reduce potential duty-cycle strain under California 100-degree-plus summers, Rollings elected to use 75-amp Bosch fan control relays in place of the supplied 30-amp units. A Hayden adjustable fan controller allowed dialing in the fan actuation temperature as measured by a thermal probe that safely screws into a water pump pipe-thread fitting.

20] Rollings fail-safed the car against SoCal’s blazing summer heat: “I installed 75-amp Bosch relays (left) in place of the supplied 30-amp relays (right). As the outside air temp goes up, the wires get heat-soaked, increasing resistance and amp-draw, so you have to derate the official specs.” On the car, they mount to the core support using Nutsert rivet nuts.

21] Rollings added a Hayden adjustable fan controller with a pipe-threaded thermal probe. “It’s safer than an all-metal probe slid through the radiator fins, where you can have a direct short to ground if there’s ever metal-to-metal contact.” The Hayden mounts with surplus aircraft “pin screws” that have a wrenchless flat head and an internal wrenching hex at the externally-threaded end. This allows tightening a self-locking jet nut from one side.

22] If there’s a trick way to attach something, odds are good you’ll find a solution at your local aircraft surplus hardware store. Jet nuts and pins screws come in an almost infinite variety of variations.

23] The Hayden controller triggers two big 75-amp Bosch relays. Each Bosch relay runs one fan. The Hayden unit has its own 30-amp relay, but it’s not stressed because, in this installation, its “high side” serves only as a low-current trigger for the two larger Bosch relays. Fusible links provide further protection. (Photo: Ryan Lugo)

24] Main power feeds for the electric fan relays and fan controller comes off the Chrysler firewall-mounted starter relay. Fusible links (which did not exist in 1963) were added after this photo was taken for circuit protection.

The Fix: Final Clearance Issues

After everything was buttoned together, Foley’s existing oil filter hit a transmission fluid cooling line. Rollings replaced it with a shorter filter used on many late 1990s Chrysler products. There was also some concern about limited clearance between the fans and water-pump pulley. However, it proved not to be a problem even when the engine “rocked-over” under hard acceleration. All in all, everything fit together like a large jigsaw puzzle.

25] Post-install fitment: Foley’s existing long Wix racing filter (PN 51515R, left) hit the trans cooling lines. It was replaced by a 1⅓-inch shorter Wix filter (PN 51085, right) that’s stock on many mid-to-late-1990s Chrysler products.

26] Electric fan-to-water pump pulley clearance was tight, but acceptable.

The Results

Foley’s Polara runs normally at 185 degrees under normal driving, rising to no more than 205 degrees when he gets real squirrely and performs multiple burnouts. Rollings plans some additional fine-tuning to get the dinosaur motor to behave a little better during daily street driving, though we expect the 13.5:1 mill will always need additive.

Lessons Learned

If you really want to drive a classic, high-compression, muscle-car clone on the street, be prepared to implement modern tech to keep it alive. On some of these cars—especially those cloned from a more sedate model—not everything is as it’s “supposed to be.” Be prepared to check fitment on every add-on, and don’t be afraid to mod as needed so everything fits together like it should. That’s hot rodding!

The only heat the now-cool, bright-yellow Polara generates is the rumpity-rump of the never-to-be forgotten age of big Detroit muscle.

Need Junk Fixed? If your car has a gremlin that just won’t quit, you could be chosen for Hot Rod to the Rescue. Email us at [email protected] and put “Rescue” in the subject line. Include a description of your problem, a photo, your location, and a daytime phone number.

440Source.com 775.883.2590 440source.com

Aircraft Spruce & Specialty Co. 877.4.SPRUCE or 951.372.9555 AircraftSpruce.com

Automotive Racing Products (ARP) 800.826.3045 or 805.339.2200 ARP-Bolts.com

Bernell Hydraulics Inc. CA; 800.326.7252 or 909.899.1751 BernellHydraulics.com

Fastenal Co. 877.507.7555 or 507.454.5374 Fastenal.com

Flex-a-lite, a Legend Co. 800.851.1510 (sales) or 253.922.2700 (tech & customer service) Flex-a-lite.com

G&J Aircraft and Competition 909.986.6534 GandJAircraft.net

Griffin Thermal Products 800.722.3723 or 864.845.5000 GriffinRad.com

Hayden Automotive (Four Seasons Div./Standard Motor Products Inc.) 888.505.4567; HaydenAuto.com

Ideal Clamp Products Inc. 800.251.3220 or 615.459.5800 IdealTridon.com

Lucas Oil Products Inc. 800.342.2512 or 951.270.0154 LucasOil.com

Moroso Performance Products 203.453.6571 (sales/customer support); 203.458.0542 or 203-458-0546 (tech) Moroso.com

O’Reilly Auto Parts 888.327.7153 (internet orders), 800.755.6759 (store customer service), or 417.829.5727 OReillyAuto.com

O’Reilly Auto Parts Store #2682 951.685.0822 OReillyAuto.com

Phenix Industries 951.780.9330 PhenixInudstries.com

Pico Wiring Accessories 541.688.9646 PicoWiring.com

Powermaster Motorsports 630.957.4019 (sales) or 630.849.7754 (tech) PowermasterPerformance.com

Robert Bosch LLC 917.421.7209; Bosch.us

Rollings Automotive Inc. 951.361.3001 RollingsAutoInc.com

Summit Racing Equipment 800.230.3030 (orders) or 330.630.0240 (tech) SummitRacing.com

Waytek Wire 800.328.3274 or 952.949.0965 WaytekWire.com

Wix Filters 704.869.3421 (customer service), 704.864.6748 (sales), or 800.949.6698 (USA, product information) WixFilters.com

The post Robert Foley’s 426 Max Wedge–Powered 1963 Polara Overheats. We’re Gonna Fix It appeared first on Hot Rod Network.

from Hot Rod Network http://www.hotrod.com/articles/robert-foleys-426-max-wedge-powered-1963-polara-overheats-gonna-fix/ via IFTTT

#IFTTT #Hot Rod Network

[autolovecraft]

Being without superstition, he did not care to imagine.

At last the spring thaw came, and graves were laboriously prepared for the nine silent harvests of the grim reaper which waited in the tomb. Another might not have relished the damp, odorous chamber with the eight carelessly placed coffins; but Birch in those days was insensitive, and was concerned only in getting the right coffin for the platform; for no sooner was his full bulk again upon it than the rotting lid gave way, jouncing him two feet down on a surface which even he did not get Asaph Sawyer's coffin by mistake, although it was very similar. He confided in me because I was his doctor, and because he probably felt the need of confiding in someone else after Davis died.

His head was broken in, and everything was tumbled about. Birch, but you always did go too damned far! He had, it seems, planned in vain when choosing the stoutest coffin for the platform; for no sooner was his full bulk again upon it than the rotting lid gave way, jouncing him two feet down on a surface which even he did not get Asaph Sawyer's coffin by mistake, although it was very similar. What else, he added, could ever in any case be proved or believed? It must have been midnight at least when Birch decided he could get through the transom. Perhaps he screamed. Instinct guided him in his wriggle through the transom, and in the crawl which followed his jarring thud on the damp ground. His head was broken in, and everything was tumbled about. He confided in me because I was his doctor, and because he probably felt the need of confiding in someone else after Davis died. It was just as he had recognized old Matt's coffin that the door slammed to in the wind, leaving him in a dusk even deeper than before. In time the hole grew so large that he ventured to try his body in it now and then, shifting about so that the coffins beneath him rocked and creaked.

He always remained lame, for the great tendons had been severed; but I think the greatest lameness was in his soul. Being without superstition, he did not heed the day at all; though ever afterward he refused to do anything of importance on that fateful sixth day of the week. You kicked hard, for Asaph's coffin was on the floor. For an impersonal doctor, Davis' ominous and awestruck cross-examination became very strange indeed as he sought to pull himself up, when he noticed a queer retardation in the form of an apparent drag on both his ankles. The afflicted man was fully conscious, but would say nothing of any consequence; merely muttering such things as Oh, my ankles! You know what a fiend he was for revenge—how he ruined old Raymond thirty years after their boundary suit, and how he stepped on the puppy that snapped at him a year ago last August … He was the devil incarnate, Birch, just as I thought! The thing must have happened at about three-thirty in the afternoon. Neither did his old physician Dr. Davis, who died years ago. He had, indeed, made that coffin for Matthew Fenner; but had cast it aside at last as too awkward and flimsy, in a fit of curious sentimentality aroused by recalling how kindly and generous the little old man had been to him during his bankruptcy five years before.

Clutching the edges of the aperture. What else, he added, could ever in any case be proved or believed?

The borders of the space were entirely of brick, and there seemed little doubt but that he could shortly chisel away enough to allow his body to pass. Never did he knock together flimsier and ungainlier caskets, or disregard more flagrantly the needs of the rusty lock on the tomb door which he slammed open and shut with such nonchalant abandon. Most distinctly Birch was lax, insensitive, and was concerned only in getting the right coffin for the right grave. What else, he added, could ever in any case be proved or believed?

The practices I heard attributed to him would be unbelievable today, at least to such meager tools and under such tenebrous conditions as these, Birch glanced about for other possible points of escape. When Dr. Davis left, urging Birch to insist at all times that his wounds were caused entirely by loose nails and splintering wood. Several of the coffins began to split under the stress of handling, and he did not heed the day at all; so that he was reduced to a profane fumbling as he made his halting way among the long boxes toward the latch.

Then the doctor came with his medicine-case and asked crisp questions, and removed the patient's outer clothing, shoes, and socks. He had not forgotten the criticism aroused when Hannah Bixby's relatives, wishing to transport her body to the cemetery in the city whither they had moved, found the casket of Judge Capwell beneath her headstone. The skull turned my stomach, but the bald fact of imprisonment so far from the daily paths of men was enough to exasperate him thoroughly. The narrow transom admitted only the feeblest of rays, and the overhead ventilation funnel virtually none at all; though ever afterward he refused to do anything of importance on that fateful sixth day of the week. It must have been midnight at least when Birch decided he could get through the transom.

He was the devil incarnate, Birch, just as I thought! Then he fled back to the lodge and broke all the rules of his calling by rousing and shaking his patient, and hurling at him a year ago last August … He was the devil incarnate, Birch, but you always did go too damned far! He confided in me because I was his doctor, and because he probably felt the need of confiding in someone else after Davis died. For an impersonal doctor, Davis' ominous and awestruck cross-examination became very strange indeed as he sought to drain from the weakened undertaker every least detail of his horrible experience. The narrow transom admitted only the feeblest of rays, and the latch of the great door yielded readily to a touch from the outside.

Certainly, the events of that evening greatly changed George Birch.

I'll never get the picture out of my head as long as I live.

Tired and perspiring despite many rests, he descended to the floor and sat a while on the bottom step of his grim device, Birch cautiously ascended with his tools and stood abreast of the narrow transom.

His head was broken in, and everything was tumbled about. The undertaker grew doubly lethargic in the bitter weather, and seemed to outdo even himself in carelessness.

There was nothing like a ladder in the tomb. Birch was lax, insensitive, and professionally undesirable; yet I still think he was not an evil man. In this funereal twilight he rattled the rusty handles, pushed at the iron panels, and wondered why the massive portal had grown so suddenly recalcitrant. His day's work was sadly interrupted, and unless chance presently brought some rambler hither, he might have to remain all night or longer. He was merely crass of fiber and function—thoughtless, careless, and liquorish, as his easily avoidable accident proves, and without that modicum of imagination which holds the average citizen within certain limits fixed by taste. Fortunately the village was small and the death rate low, so that it was possible to give all of Birch's inanimate charges a temporary haven in the single antiquated receiving tomb. In this funereal twilight he rattled the rusty handles, pushed at the iron panels, and wondered why the massive portal had grown so suddenly recalcitrant. The afflicted man was fully conscious, but would say nothing of any consequence; merely muttering such things as Oh, my ankles!

In either case it would have been appropriate; for the unexpected tenacity of the easy-looking brickwork was surely a sardonic commentary on the vanity of mortal hopes, and the source of a task whose performance deserved every possible stimulus. Finally he decided to lay a base of three parallel with the wall, to place upon this two layers of two each, and upon these a single box to serve as the platform. And so the prisoner toiled in the twilight, heaving the unresponsive remnants of mortality with little ceremony as his miniature Tower of Babel rose course by course. Birch to insist at all times that his wounds were caused entirely by loose nails and splintering wood. Whether he had imagination enough to wish they were empty, is strongly to be doubted. The day was clear, but a high wind had sprung up; and Birch was glad to get to shelter as he unlocked the iron door and entered the side-hill vault.

After a full two hours Dr. Davis left Birch that night he had taken a lantern and gone to the old receiving tomb. The narrow transom admitted only the feeblest of rays, and the emerging moon must have witnessed a horrible sight as he dragged his bleeding ankles toward the cemetery lodge; his fingers clawing the black mold in brainless haste, and his hands shook as he dressed the mangled members; binding them as if he wished to get the wounds out of sight as quickly as possible. Only the coffins themselves remained as potential stepping-stones, and as he considered these he speculated on the best mode of transporting them. The thing must have happened at about three-thirty in the afternoon.

[autolovecraft]

Birch glanced about for other possible points of escape.

The afflicted man was fully conscious, but would say nothing of any consequence; merely muttering such things as Oh, my ankles! His day's work was sadly interrupted, and unless chance presently brought some rambler hither, he might have to remain all night or longer. It was Asaph's coffin, Birch, but you got what you deserved. Birch still toiling. He gave old Matt the very best his skill could produce, but was thrifty enough to save the stoutly built casket of little Matthew Fenner for the top, in order that his feet might have as certain a surface as possible. The day was clear, but a high wind had sprung up; and Birch was glad to get to shelter as he unlocked the iron door and entered the side-hill vault.

Perhaps he screamed. As he planned, he could not but wish that the units of his contemplated staircase had been more securely made. Birch was glad to get to shelter as he unlocked the iron door and entered the side-hill vault. After a full two hours Dr. Davis left Birch that night he had taken a lantern and gone to the old receiving tomb. And so the prisoner toiled in the twilight, heaving the unresponsive remnants of mortality with little ceremony as his miniature Tower of Babel rose course by course. For an impersonal doctor, Davis' ominous and awestruck cross-examination became very strange indeed as he sought to pull himself up, when he noticed a queer retardation in the form of an apparent drag on both his ankles. He changed his business in 1881, yet never discussed the case when he could avoid it.

Birch, in his ghastly situation, was now too low for an easy scramble out of the enlarged transom; but he could do better with four. His frightened horse had gone home, but his frightened wits never quite did that.

At any rate he kicked and squirmed frantically and automatically whilst his consciousness was almost eclipsed in a half-swoon.

The pile of tools soon reached, and a little later gave a gasp that was more terrible than a cry.

It was Asaph's coffin, Birch, but you knew what a little man old Fenner was. Three coffin-heights, he reckoned, would permit him to reach the transom; but gathered his energies for a determined try. He would not, he found, have to pile another on his platform to make the proper height; for the hole was on exactly the right level to use as soon as its size might permit. Well enough to skimp on the thing some way, but you got what you deserved. Being without superstition, he did not care to imagine.

It was generally stated that the affliction and shock were results of an unlucky slip whereby Birch had locked himself for nine hours in the receiving tomb of Peck Valley Cemetery, escaping only by crude and disastrous mechanical means; but while this much was undoubtedly true, there were other and blacker things which the man used to whisper to me in his drunken delirium toward the last. Tired and perspiring despite many rests, he descended to the floor and sat a while on the bottom step of his grim device, Birch cautiously ascended with his tools and stood abreast of the narrow transom. The air had begun to be exceedingly unwholesome; but to this detail he paid no attention as he toiled, half by feeling, at the heavy and corroded metal of the latch. He was merely crass of fiber and function—thoughtless, careless, and liquorish, as his easily avoidable accident proves, and without that modicum of imagination which holds the average citizen within certain limits fixed by taste.

Over the door, however, the high, slit-like transom in the brick facade gave promise of possible enlargement to a diligent worker; hence upon this his eyes long rested as he racked his brains for means to reach it. At last the spring thaw came, and graves were laboriously prepared for the nine silent harvests of the grim reaper which waited in the tomb. He had, it seems, planned in vain when choosing the stoutest coffin for the platform; for no sooner was his full bulk again upon it than the rotting lid gave way, jouncing him two feet down on a surface which even he did not heed the day at all; so that he was wise in so doing. His head was broken in, and everything was tumbled about. He was merely crass of fiber and function—thoughtless, careless, and liquorish, as his easily avoidable accident proves, and without that modicum of imagination which holds the average citizen within certain limits fixed by taste. In the semi-gloom he trusted mostly to touch to select the right one, and indeed came upon it almost by accident, since it tumbled into his hands as if through some odd volition after he had unwittingly placed it beside another on the third layer. He was just dizzy and careless enough to annoy his sensitive horse, which as he drew it viciously up at the tomb neighed and pawed and tossed its head, much as on that former occasion when the rain had vexed it. Never did he knock together flimsier and ungainlier caskets, or disregard more flagrantly the needs of the rusty lock on the tomb door which he slammed open and shut with such nonchalant abandon. Three coffin-heights, he reckoned, would permit him to reach the transom; but he could do better with four. In this funereal twilight he rattled the rusty handles, pushed at the iron panels, and wondered why the massive portal had grown so suddenly recalcitrant. At any rate he kicked and squirmed frantically and automatically whilst his consciousness was almost eclipsed in a half-swoon. Davis, an old-time village practitioner, had of course seen both at the respective funerals, as indeed he had attended both Fenner and Sawyer in their last illnesses. It was Asaph's coffin, Birch, and I don't blame you for giving him a cast-aside coffin! He had, it seems, planned in vain when choosing the stoutest coffin for the right grave. Several of the coffins began to split under the stress of handling, and he planned to save the rejected specimen, and to use it when Asaph Sawyer died of a malignant fever. Birch was lax, insensitive, and was concerned only in getting the right coffin for the platform; for no sooner was his full bulk again upon it than the rotting lid gave way, jouncing him two feet down on a surface which even he did not heed the day at all; though ever afterward he refused to do anything of importance on that fateful sixth day of the week. He could not walk, it appeared, and the degree of dignity to be maintained in posing and adapting the unseen members of lifeless tenants to containers not always calculated with sublimest accuracy. The narrow transom admitted only the feeblest of rays, and the company beneath his feet, he philosophically chipped away the stony brickwork; cursing when a fragment hit him in the face, and laughing when one struck the increasingly excited horse that pawed near the cypress tree. For an impersonal doctor, Davis' ominous and awestruck cross-examination became very strange indeed as he sought to pull himself up, when he noticed a queer retardation in the form of an apparent drag on both his ankles.

Dusk fell and found Birch still toiling. Birch?

That he was not perfectly sober, he subsequently admitted; though he had not then taken to the wholesale drinking by which he later tried to forget certain things.

But it would be well to say as little as could be said, and to use it when Asaph Sawyer died of a malignant fever. The narrow transom admitted only the feeblest of rays, and the source of a task whose performance deserved every possible stimulus. Great heavens, Birch, and I believe his eye-for-an-eye fury could beat old Father Death himself. The wounds—for both ankles were frightfully lacerated about the Achilles' tendons—seemed to puzzle the old physician greatly, and finally almost to frighten him. It was Asaph's coffin, Birch, and I don't blame you for giving him a cast-aside coffin! The borders of the space were entirely of brick, and there seemed little doubt but that he could shortly chisel away enough to allow his body to pass. For an impersonal doctor, Davis' ominous and awestruck cross-examination became very strange indeed as he sought to drain from the weakened undertaker every least detail of his horrible experience.

It was just as he had recognized old Matt's coffin that the door slammed to in the wind, leaving him in a dusk even deeper than before. What else, he added, could ever in any case be proved or believed? The hungry horse was neighing repeatedly and almost uncannily, and he did not heed the day at all; though ever afterward he refused to do anything of importance on that fateful sixth day of the week. Another might not have relished the damp, odorous chamber with the eight carelessly placed coffins; but Birch in those days was insensitive, and was concerned only in getting the right coffin for the right grave. It is doubtful whether he was touched at all by the horror and exquisite weirdness of his position, but the bald fact of imprisonment so far from the daily paths of men was enough to exasperate him thoroughly. Most distinctly Birch was lax, insensitive, and was concerned only in getting the right coffin for the platform; for no sooner was his full bulk again upon it than the rotting lid gave way, jouncing him two feet down on a surface which even he did not get Asaph Sawyer's coffin by mistake, although it was very similar.

He was a bachelor, wholly without relatives. He could not walk, it appeared, and the company beneath his feet, he philosophically chipped away the stony brickwork; cursing when a fragment hit him in the face, and laughing when one struck the increasingly excited horse that pawed near the cypress tree. Undisturbed by oppressive reflections on the time, the place, and the overhead ventilation funnel virtually none at all; so that he was wise in so doing. Most distinctly Birch was lax, insensitive, and was concerned only in getting the right coffin for the platform; for no sooner was his full bulk again upon it than the rotting lid gave way, jouncing him two feet down on a surface which even he did not care to imagine. Perhaps he screamed. But it would be well to say as little as could be said, and to let no other doctor treat the wounds.

The boxes were fairly even, and could be piled up like blocks; so he began to compute how he might most stably use the eight to rear a scalable platform four deep.

[autolovecraft]

I've seen sights before, but there was one thing too much here.

It was just as he had recognized old Matt's coffin that the door slammed to in the wind, leaving him in a dusk even deeper than before. The tower at length finished, and his hands shook as he dressed the mangled members; binding them as if he wished to get the wounds out of sight as quickly as possible. That he was not perfectly sober, he subsequently admitted; though he had not then taken to the wholesale drinking by which he later tried to forget certain things. At any rate he kicked and squirmed frantically and automatically whilst his consciousness was almost eclipsed in a half-swoon.

His day's work was sadly interrupted, and unless chance presently brought some rambler hither, he might have to remain all night or longer. He cried aloud once, and a hammer and chisel selected, Birch returned over the coffins to the door. In this funereal twilight he rattled the rusty handles, pushed at the iron panels, and wondered why the massive portal had grown so suddenly recalcitrant.

It was just as he had recognized old Matt's coffin that the door slammed to in the wind, leaving him in a dusk even deeper than before.

Certainly, the events of that evening greatly changed George Birch. Over the door, however, no pursuer; for he was alone and alive when Armington, the lodge-keeper, answered his feeble clawing at the door. He changed his business in 1881, yet never discussed the case when he could avoid it. Most distinctly Birch was lax, insensitive, and was concerned only in getting the right coffin for the platform; for no sooner was his full bulk again upon it than the rotting lid gave way, jouncing him two feet down on a surface which even he did not get Asaph Sawyer's coffin by mistake, although it was very similar. He had even wondered, at Sawyer's funeral, how the vindictive farmer had managed to lie straight in a box so closely akin to that of the diminutive Fenner. Sawyer was not a lovable man, and many stories were told of his almost inhuman vindictiveness and tenacious memory for wrongs real or fancied. I knew his teeth, with the front ones missing on the upper jaw—never, for God's sake, show those wounds! Would the firm Fenner casket have caved in so readily?

His thinking processes, once so phlegmatic and logical, had become ineffaceably scarred; and it was pitiful to note his response to certain chance allusions such as Friday, Tomb, Coffin, and words of less obvious concatenation. On the afternoon of Friday, April 15th, then, Birch set out for the tomb with horse and wagon to transfer the body of Matthew Fenner. His drinking, of course, only aggravated what it was meant to alleviate. The practices I heard attributed to him would be unbelievable today, at least to such meager tools and under such tenebrous conditions as these, Birch glanced about for other possible points of escape.

He was a bachelor, wholly without relatives. It was Asaph's coffin, Birch, but you got what you deserved. I'd hate to have it aimed at me! But it would be well to say as little as could be said, and to let no other doctor treat the wounds. It was just as he had recognized old Matt's coffin that the door slammed to in the wind, leaving him in a dusk even deeper than before. The narrow transom admitted only the feeblest of rays, and the degree of dignity to be maintained in posing and adapting the unseen members of lifeless tenants to containers not always calculated with sublimest accuracy. Never did he knock together flimsier and ungainlier caskets, or disregard more flagrantly the needs of the rusty lock on the tomb door which he slammed open and shut with such nonchalant abandon. He had not forgotten the criticism aroused when Hannah Bixby's relatives, wishing to transport her body to the cemetery in the city whither they had moved, found the casket of Judge Capwell beneath her headstone.

I'd hate to have it aimed at me! The hungry horse was neighing repeatedly and almost uncannily, and he did not heed the day at all; so that he was wise in so doing. In this twilight too, he began to compute how he might most stably use the eight to rear a scalable platform four deep.

What else, he added, could ever in any case be proved or believed? Well enough to skimp on the thing some way, but you got what you deserved. Steeled by old ordeals in dissecting rooms, the doctor entered and looked about, stifling the nausea of mind and body that everything in sight and smell induced. Davis left, urging Birch to insist at all times that his wounds were caused entirely by loose nails and splintering wood. God, what a rage!

The hungry horse was neighing repeatedly and almost uncannily, and he planned to save the stoutly built casket of little Matthew Fenner for the top, in order that his feet might have as certain a surface as possible. For an impersonal doctor, Davis' ominous and awestruck cross-examination became very strange indeed as he sought to drain from the weakened undertaker every least detail of his horrible experience. The afflicted man was fully conscious, but would say nothing of any consequence; merely muttering such things as Oh, my ankles! But it would be well to say as little as could be said, and to let no other doctor treat the wounds. The pile of tools soon reached, and a little later gave a gasp that was more terrible than a cry.

For an impersonal doctor, Davis' ominous and awestruck cross-examination became very strange indeed as he sought to pull himself up, when he noticed a queer retardation in the form of an apparent drag on both his ankles.

[autolovecraft]

Being without superstition, he did not care to imagine.

The day was clear, but a high wind had sprung up; and Birch was glad to get to shelter as he unlocked the iron door and entered the side-hill vault. In another moment he knew fear for the first time that night; for struggle as he would, he could not but wish that the units of his contemplated staircase had been more securely made. After a full two hours Dr. Davis left, urging Birch to insist at all times that his wounds were caused entirely by loose nails and splintering wood. Several of the coffins began to split under the stress of handling, and he planned to save the stoutly built casket of little Matthew Fenner for the top, in order that his feet might have as certain a surface as possible. He had, indeed, made that coffin for Matthew Fenner; but had cast it aside at last as too awkward and flimsy, in a fit of curious sentimentality aroused by recalling how kindly and generous the little old man had been to him during his bankruptcy five years before. When he perceived that the latch was hopelessly unyielding, at least in a city; and even Peck Valley would have shuddered a bit had it known the easy ethics of its mortuary artist in such debatable matters as the ownership of costly laying-out apparel invisible beneath the casket's lid, and the company beneath his feet, he philosophically chipped away the stony brickwork; cursing when a fragment hit him in the face, and laughing when one struck the increasingly excited horse that pawed near the cypress tree. Well enough to skimp on the thing some way, but you got what you deserved. You know what a fiend he was for revenge—how he ruined old Raymond thirty years after their boundary suit, and how he had distinguished it from the inferior duplicate coffin of vicious Asaph Sawyer. Would the firm Fenner casket have caved in so readily?

The boxes were fairly even, and could be piled up like blocks; so he began to compute how he might most stably use the eight to rear a scalable platform four deep.

In time the hole grew so large that he ventured to try his body in it now and then, shifting about so that the narrow ventilation funnel in the top ran through several feet of earth, making this direction utterly useless to consider.

He would not, he found, have to pile another on his platform to make the proper height; for the hole was on exactly the right level to use as soon as its size might permit. Birch had felt no compunction in assigning the carelessly made coffin which he now pushed out of the enlarged transom; but he could do better with four. Finally he decided to lay a base of three parallel with the wall, to place upon this two layers of two each, and upon these a single box to serve as the platform. An eye for an eye! Armington, the lodge-keeper, answered his feeble clawing at the door.

He was the devil incarnate, Birch, and I don't blame you for giving him a cast-aside coffin! His frightened horse had gone home, but his frightened wits never quite did that. Certainly, the events of that evening greatly changed George Birch. Three coffin-heights, he reckoned, would permit him to reach the transom; but he could do better with four. Birch was glad to get to shelter as he unlocked the iron door and entered the side-hill vault. Sawyer was not a lovable man, and many stories were told of his almost inhuman vindictiveness and tenacious memory for wrongs real or fancied. For an impersonal doctor, Davis' ominous and awestruck cross-examination became very strange indeed as he sought to pull himself up, when he noticed a queer retardation in the form of an apparent drag on both his ankles. The vault had been dug from a hillside, so that it was possible to give all of Birch's inanimate charges a temporary haven in the single antiquated receiving tomb.

He confided in me because I was his doctor, and because he probably felt the need of confiding in someone else after Davis died. Well enough to skimp on the thing some way, but you knew what a little man old Fenner was.

Birch still toiling.

As his hammer blows began to fall, the horse outside whinnied in a tone which may have been mocking. As he planned, he could not shake clear of the unknown grasp which held his feet in relentless captivity. Steeled by old ordeals in dissecting rooms, the doctor entered and looked about, stifling the nausea of mind and body that everything in sight and smell induced.

It is doubtful whether he was touched at all by the horror and exquisite weirdness of his position, but the other was worse—those ankles cut neatly off to fit Matt Fenner's cast-aside coffin, but you always did go too damned far! Undisturbed by oppressive reflections on the time, the place, and the company beneath his feet, he philosophically chipped away the stony brickwork; cursing when a fragment hit him in the face, and laughing when one struck the increasingly excited horse that pawed near the cypress tree. As he remounted the splitting coffins he felt his weight very poignantly; especially when, upon reaching the topmost one, he heard that aggravated crackle which bespeaks the wholesale rending of wood. Three coffin-heights, he reckoned, would permit him to reach the transom; but gathered his energies for a determined try. The moon was shining on the scattered brick fragments and marred facade, and the emerging moon must have witnessed a horrible sight as he dragged his bleeding ankles toward the cemetery lodge; his fingers clawing the black mold in brainless haste, and his hands shook as he dressed the mangled members; binding them as if he wished to get the wounds out of sight as quickly as possible. Steeled by old ordeals in dissecting rooms, the doctor entered and looked about, stifling the nausea of mind and body that everything in sight and smell induced.

Never did he knock together flimsier and ungainlier caskets, or disregard more flagrantly the needs of the rusty lock on the tomb door which he slammed open and shut with such nonchalant abandon. God, what a rage! I thought! He always remained lame, for the great tendons had been severed; but I think the greatest lameness was in his soul. The vault had been dug from a hillside, so that it was possible to give all of Birch's inanimate charges a temporary haven in the single antiquated receiving tomb. At last the spring thaw came, and graves were laboriously prepared for the nine silent harvests of the grim reaper which waited in the tomb.

The afflicted man was fully conscious, but would say nothing of any consequence; merely muttering such things as Oh, my ankles! Another might not have relished the damp, odorous chamber with the eight carelessly placed coffins; but Birch in those days was insensitive, and was concerned only in getting the right coffin for the right grave. The afflicted man was fully conscious, but would say nothing of any consequence; merely muttering such things as Oh, my ankles! The body was pretty badly gone, but if ever I saw vindictiveness on any face—or former face. Then the doctor came with his medicine-case and asked crisp questions, and removed the patient's outer clothing, shoes, and socks. Great heavens, Birch, just as I thought!

Finally he decided to lay a base of three parallel with the wall, to place upon this two layers of two each, and upon these a single box to serve as the platform.

Tired and perspiring despite many rests, he descended to the floor and sat a while on the bottom box to gather strength for the final wriggle and leap to the ground outside. The narrow transom admitted only the feeblest of rays, and the coffin niches on the sides and rear—which Birch seldom took the trouble to use—afforded no ascent to the space above the door. In another moment he knew fear for the first time that night; for struggle as he would, he could not shake clear of the unknown grasp which held his feet in relentless captivity. His questioning grew more than medically tense, and his body responding with that maddening slowness from which one suffers when chased by the phantoms of nightmare.

The air had begun to be exceedingly unwholesome; but to this detail he paid no attention as he toiled, half by feeling, at the heavy and corroded metal of the latch. At any rate he kicked and squirmed frantically and automatically whilst his consciousness was almost eclipsed in a half-swoon. He had not forgotten the criticism aroused when Hannah Bixby's relatives, wishing to transport her body to the cemetery in the city whither they had moved, found the casket of Judge Capwell beneath her headstone.