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libidomechanica · 6 months

Text

Untitled (“Thou my little ways”)

A curtal sonnet sequence

A sweet tones of the sonne and voyce, which is also in three lines of a giant’s clutch, and corrupt. Human eye: for down-glancing aright. Your Highness: but in One. Being past the ill omens of this frumpy home by night? And still plain pair, Suwarrow, who like a cout frae the helm, now set a wrathful Dian’s hind feeding fame; nor ought do care thou art a diuell, thought—star followed though the charm. The joy that I should bribe. Thou my little ways.

Hand—had grasp’d these signs in one to have told me by moonlight, i’ll come smoothly with due sublime in years, for that is payment for thy nice touch: my tender parent case Wi’ Johnny to roose her fruitful pain assuaged, and who should sting to Conclusion. And Tschitsshakoff, and forehead past a shadow lend. And—one moment gains upon you think about to beware the countenance my desolating, ponders motions, and married at a’?

III

Eternity; or at their praying. Because as ages upon your belles and a mulberry grow by this, for fear, for these words are doing—how shall direct how to conference; and in hand—sought in fact they would not so much light once both by land and in his last adieus, and married at a’! Twas on a sterile beach. The sacraments haue: a rightfull prince by vnright deeds a Tyran showeth; for the purple to the Muses treasure.

Quo’ her married at a’! And panting but the sun, because a little by little thou’t love, sweetest Lesbia, let us know whence their wings about me shattered to attention could be a pitty. Story straight homeward drove his darke but when it grew, so every ocean-form was woven in with magic. Our careless here-spent hours crawled by a charge vniustest tyranniseth thee! Aware of Spring against the past echoing night!

The world drops on them were stopt with its crown, which comes riding—with tears our ears do greet: Now let me fly to his sheep: and nothing balm, and myself, or ever lov’d voice in my Muse, shew thou canst sit, and pine. For that is gone, by one another the statue shall be cut in marble undergrowth.—Thus the snake, kisses and idle hours bore the truth of man’s hand, turning for thou art too coldly him embrace where you see the bands of love.

And their sphere. Except because the stones of Love, you give up the moon was not lie in this elements must be sleep through the muck of the high talents of misfortune ends, let not enamoured airy bourne; and, if dumbe things here, between her feet; with brow to browse away the comfortable green- blue wild cress was called me into enormous amounts of energy: I’ll whispering, and inlaid with it then two, until their side!

VII

Thy brains.—The red branch, but root. As the wind was beleaguer’d wall and commenced a cannon duly set rose over the jewelled sky. Minds innocent arms and love for your love inevitable Outside the witch, speaking tongue would not, but clamouring out Mine—mine—not you? Like a sprightly let me read them his slaues, he forst thee by moonlight, metals, were damnably mistakes. Rose- cheek’d Laura, come, sad, slowly from the hostile light!

VIII

And every one, one yet should grieve, Deare Heart, nor mix’d the tears on her bosom dies. While my sweet, the while his music, either courts of two women sob? What he should bid thee living, and glows, come with eyes on mine eyes, and north, a light in all faith dost most opprest, reclined his guided by a fatal shaft struck for an instant caught, is of all the weed, my waking Woes darknesse clear: until friction proves insubstantial for constant heart.

He shall rear her smile, while, though his despatches. Devil do you meane, I dare not for my part, I pretend not me? As I Undying Life, for a cannon duly set rose over someone lost in chapter nine of heaven, when leaves themselves eternally before I plaine; but shall about their praying. Shall scorch with Heaven’s gates, and so indeed the fair. One gem was finding murmuring so close; by the dear, dearest Endymion!

Far, thrilled them out to batter a town which sometimes a sort of scene of all his rein in the Oriental taste, because he runs before me; whither do stray the vale! Was not a presence is barely heard me with sweets to please, yet for those held sagest, and I feel a very where, which this calm and much enrich your wise man say—look for me I shall breath, her dreams. There mountain-rivers in them-selves eternally. How does Love speak.

Broken, sweet music, and passing home till happier times nine. By redefining. Give her the city. My Eyes their tongue—or well or ill, had been grieving at large. Remembered not. Which kills me and witches, only Phillis, has met wi’ my Phillis, and truly not less just to see an old man, rather griefe. Nature is this, t is since thou hast sent a moon-beam to their faces, others others in the rougher hands, distracts her.

XII

To swallow’d bait on purpose by the sand? If all things to flie; I must deeme themselves as weak as spider’s skein; and, the which the ocean where haughty heart, and the foremost rank, or was there be in love. Of blood flows our wall. A flying splendor be content could grieve from heaven mix forever. Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to will to my body, war piled on first doth reproue, and, in betwixt sighes is blowne away, quick and that will be.

XIII

An old man rais’d his dripping headlong I darted, loue to earth could raise great torment, but burn—that drains the beams have thing. And in two. And the storm and nineteen named Smith; one of you asleep and break it—What, is not Hobbinol, where arriv’d. Soothing like a passing home till happier times a single with nectar at them not betters far— ye may read, or read not, till Ida heard, looked and sae in love. Sweet tones are weak to injure.

XIV

Even for conversations in effect. Henderson the purple moor, and trentall sung. But thou quickly thus; while Death stands behind him with my soul clenches waving it doth stil keep them harm. Flint to praised around, was thine, and weep. The gross, because I love no means bliss for me by moonlight, in yon desert shores of their guilty hands so lately lost that warm kiss our feet, on those eyes from his bed; but no one side with the feel of fear.

—A cuff neglectful, and cannot tell what it once be contented? Here, that I then her fine screen of rose leave to glare at my window the ground of the ministries of thine influence and greets its godlike guests dropped on the motionless,—and wherefore say no. That must be the common men will last like a hurt dog at my should never did’st me go, friends did seeme he loved and hate, and follow’d bait on purpose laid to me this heart.

XVI

Oh Spurn them still well-nigh won into foam. Made his little. Made all the warm, impassion grew these tunes our outrageous luck, our chain of moonlight, which thousand there’s much unblest on the solar system made no purple orchis variegate the pomp of power lov’d her? And in my story straight I saw it unfold heaven was appalling sisterhood. Unheard of yet; and on her voices of your melancholly Her tears.

XVII

Like morning light, i’ll force dost thou quickly to the well-built nest. Then thou payèd were. Before the river—thou wast the sight along the best conjurement of these mimic scenes like a dot in the water, some living, and did raise a kindling; but when I felt thy helpless was called me swift as fawns for the fear of fate, so dull am, that his fatal fleshed than Morpheus’ imaginary death am I to die, or be destroyed.

XVIII

And in quest to remember that our heart- throbs, and put it back somewhere it came and foison of these secret joys and run again. In this dubious shape. Your old army blanket. And the three fireships lost the deep, soulful stillness, to my sight? Son. The ladies, we must ebb and flung their first detachment had grown meek—the smallest chief of pain tortures hot breathing was thy slaue, and we hear the wakened flies home to the fair.

XIX

Each shard, to eat not onely Deare: but Ida spoke the misty dale, and took a brand as the wealth, worth commemoration of London now! Cherry plums suck a week’s soak, overnight they meant thee. And thou send’st from my wound timorously; and as she sprang to each other’s hunger in the flaxen lilies with Roses bound it mutual comfort meete, both with scorne recouers. Than their own protectors; nor was the light, through the ring.

That heard her broke a genial warmth he mighty storm; in the sager sort of sense filling Tchitchitzkoff and Chokenoff, and tried my eyes and rather moved in a child hiding- holes, and pleasure have, life’s dearest Endymion, with trembling tower, of a youthful wight smiling Beauty’s voice singing come like the eyes wobble as pearskin’s fleck and trace, whisperers: at them; only beautiful! Have half full—already have once more pitied.

XXI

His pinions.—Ah, I have cast overflow of joy that is not One must be a nurse made of. But mine own brother’s arms and reverence, put cross-wise to await, according to the end; and all the bayonets, bullet get him wrong? Tenderness; and as long colloquy himself to play my solitary brother; no sisters of their couplings, they light and watch’d for life was no more. When I felt thy help by me be borne alone.

XXII

To break them more immediately at his right. Ask me no more: thy face enioyeth, but I grow old? Within my breasts, save of bloosmes, where Mahler wrote his beauties, they never wi’ my Phillis, has met wi’ my Dearie; the crushed the lute. He was told; and all is settled: there went in light, Woo’d and married him to obey, even to think that you have the trees. As breezeless lake, on which cannot tune those little boats they slander so!

XXIII

By time to keep it still beleeue me, the scope and chase the gently peruse. A rule how far this furrow’d deep wrinkles; when he darts about their sin. With amorous influence, absence presently o Sire, ’ she said: your brothers are abhorr’d who name the wildness of bones and loose; my eyes moved either knowledge of our punishing mayst thou art thou not hymns and unless to receivest with griefes then broad stairs, and you stood winged Child!

XXIV

Come, a grace expelling, then place as this. All the porches shone; which the left, which your counter, struck upon two postulates a that thee, who couldst charms of decorative dishes and yours they assume, the sweet passion grew tall as dead: henceforth I set myself so languid and bay; rough billows rude. Nights are past then for the towsing and Breath and what we have the strange love of these three: but common bulk, those dazzled thousands of lilies cold.

XXV

Of vows, we know who stands victor by,—that the Italians nickname mule’, a theme for pitty. Glass not all the elements of that for an Hermitage. And now, O maids, behold, with heaven to thy glory, should insisting in the night which sometimes a sort our death. There in abeyance, Ribas known in thy curl, it is your laws with a wand of myrtle she had cause, though his delight not be nay, weight o’erpowered me— it sank.

XXVI

The mother, she seems the liquid air; behold, that soar above, enjoy such Liberty. Meekly through which soule to lead the vase into each other slew him for it. But if we should speaketh. She is Simplicity’s child. For thou shepherd’s pipe come to their lives, creates and all volunteers; not flowers: but if beyond his rapier hilt a-twinkle, his kid in a trice, you will not help. May thy mother proper excellence.—Look!

XXVII

What is it done? Down low, so firme in star- light of the dark, has risen and I at rest from wing to human thought, and how pure is guide. I could report. From this hums, in wakeful ears, and jewel’d sands took silently approach’d a spot to take a landing on to pass fleet and days in sheer astonishment; for each ear was pricked to tempt, and silent amongst them. Now banisht art; but if they can but when thou, runnaway, death wounds.

XXVIII

In darkness utterly scans all the year. Can see its dew-drop o’ diamond her forehead and starting tear and faithless warmth, of dalliance sublime in years, it makes a man, that’s worth more gently peruse. And yet, like uproar past all her face. To find Endymion. You have things—but a simple flower which ripen’d Eden’s fruit; for as he was only one, one yet should breede both be used genteelly. Through the love took it: Pretty bud!

XXIX

But despised straightway pass to more where you can choose not for my smells of the place, in some strange shadows on your idle wrath! And in your huntsman here I could be broken parting is love remain beyond thine that light in me can tast comfort is, she never think about it in Diana’s shrine. Thy ruffles or ribbons be few, than ever hugged it close for whom I would boldly—or Thou ne’er would not so great deeds a Tyran groweth.

XXX

Went at once possess’d, how he would address this a surpris’d the hay-field yellow gold breathing wind, to ease my musing mynd, yet canst not, what I can thinking that every creek and moved beyond his own breast. Our enemies have fallen: they cannon on their Bills among the guide, stutter tuning for thou art; I said thou wilt find the world! And my blue sweater rolled dry flames alay, since Reason: thou, sweetness, goodness, his senses within.

XXXI

Spring, the phone directed, enterchangeably reflected in thanks me your ears do greet, and is extinguish’d sooner than you tend? That hardly brooked not, till the knots held up to a dark valley. Knowing as close up the silent, striking with pity, but she was understand a word of traitor, too much loved, why? Like this, ’ he cried, ah, for at a shrine with sharpnesse of the motions, shapes, wizard and barred. Then, was Scylla fair!

XXXII

Year ago, but not enuie hopelesse rueth. Full show they saw Cupid with hollow silent night’s fall, she fled from this counterpart of the shepherd’s pipe all dabbled with the Wound of Absence; and each other’s yearning from only cruell words make hot fire. A touch you I love you blindly. Or surgery, so do I move beyond all to dust and gained the Parrot—or in Sport paraded with the dark above my fallen life, the window.

XXXIII

League; and sorrows more than the steps behind, a dread watermarks. Pursue this tottering breath-air,—but for thee, stella, Starre of his life’s small rubs should bar the fangs shall ring a White Turban on his lute: his fierce temptation can be miss’d, and as I grew in sunshine and Shadow movest thou blend with gorgeous pageantry enrobe our progress to make the blossomed Muses’ gullets. I could restord by time of thy Verse, which now my breast.

XXXIV

’ Says some know whether the same slender way; t was darke but when thirst for glory! When the truth and near them shake upon your flowers, her lanely night. Step all sweet emotions, shapes, and seek with words: nor dances with Loyal Flames; when tomorrow chill, I tried in my curse, high Muses! Ceased—I caught in the wing, round every blessed that we can in another; and in a vision like a Pen to steady Writing; for perchance, she past?

XXXV

Together like a youthful wight smiling beneath his whip on the paines the labyrinth in his own goddess beckoned and many a sniggering jest. Thus Nature, these ladies, who with a wand of myrtle shears cut shortly he had cause be of you stripping away, quick and trentall sung. And thou’ free love has done it, took her hair it is no thoroughfare. My musing mynd, yet canst not, wherein more constellationship to sex.

XXXVI

My father chain and all in a tomb. Like a mother, she set the grain: the prouder o’ thee by my eclipses and your buds did flowre: I see a ship in sleep: the dream had never had fought so heavenly. How false, thought, from sweet springing clear; tlot-tlot, in the days we live: but if my yeare were two must blow, to see, his kid in a Dream Myself I seemed in snow: seas shall be singed, but all, not only thinking that every where, with saints.

XXXVII

But still, yet still didst alive them any harm, alas, nor wish another came; the king replied, dost thou break a sucking salamander his virtues only gods should in so secret stay, for it was na sae ye glinted by, when I think upon, and the past the hay-field yellow gold breath of the rest. But on the cold walls of sure and rent, whose presently o Sire, ’ she said all I know of a nuptial chime; soft word and love.

XXXVIII

And he heart’s blood and bay; rough boundless of pricks because these are new and strove again. Who womankind, and age in these north clymes too coldly him embraced in mine Ear, and then death. I say therefore, deare, no more— but pays his breast; she bowed, with a lively leap it began the sugar, but at times each act, the lady’s look, as over the charms adorned thy youthful pleasure have, life’s ocean, a human pastures; or, O torturer’s.

XXXIX

In the joyless and all his rein in the consternation gave a dizzier paine. Prevailing for your glorious crown, of various nation—is more fit; never see it in them harm. Headlong to their tongue and like a bob-major from this happy warriors, unless alarm came from those tincture like a cloud is scattered to two and all to do time for yet, my friend, these alone: cloistered from so pure a spell, yet look back again.

In silken fluctuation about the sight that in me can tast comfort is, she never wi’ her can compare, whaever has met wi’ the queen of pearls away to Phillis, ’tis true; too well as eyes read clear, who, sleep, when I have enshrined piously all lovers on a joyless and all art of Love’s City enters, reigneth in my own, in me all night to see me weep so sordid and a’! So nere, in silence of many years?

XLI

Heat, my blood, survey; just like a ghost, thro’ the center of blown self-applause, they parted for truth and he in the faintest out the landlord’s black dull-gurgling phial: groan’d her up to the poor patience, youth! Ask me no more, but lo! And fettered and a’! Come where they reach’d a flame’s gaunt and bid her not love, for why? The erotically swollen billow-ridge, and were his hard-mailed himself to an unwonted calm pervades and you agen.

XLII

—Then Scylla lies; and all around the gleams and rubies but keep from him oblivion; and young and twining? Hut on T. ’ The quiet air Thought it would read in the Muses treasure reign’d. Sickly grow to frost or none, twere difficult to shun some good bits are pretty much that she things right as of old, we two must be believe That you see what we are turn’d himself he closed. Of female hands beside thee, my Dearie; I restless force press’d.

XLIII

Have them still we modern dames: well if he did! Thing stood erect and speech did a famous siege to raise, as well I marry the main: no more than hath bred my eyes moved on war: when we come to themselves—and yet all follow’d, as if from the moonlight, and like a fan to women sob? There was picture, or inspecting country of Christianity: in shone a new acquainted new: speak of these, all song of defiance trumpet heard!

XLIV

As when there is about my barren breast. The Russians wings of delight with fire, and thine there shone a fabric crystal place, and new denizen had time to keep there; a witch, I say, all my good I doe in Stella see, through their graves and wrinkles in curles are broken partake, but let it free discussion the lassie by him? So in that is throned eminence she father sues: see how it weeps! Now Mars, now Momus; and weep.

XLV

A boding voice by the Turks, who is neither other who all in vain to loss of refuse do powre euen hell on mee: who may, and all its chipped sapphire portal columns took it: Pretty bud! Their roots, accessible to look so plainly this leaves flames alay, since Reason: thou, sweetness, goodness, his sonned sheepe, whose presently o Sire, ’ she saw them, so sweets my paines me reioyce. Sure never a wrinkle. Sped; but when thou please.

XLVI

Hand, turn’d round, and right reason is past; for each the king: these words you only by dismantling what thou for the law your father and demand of myrtle she had kept a vigil or dreams are eerie; and white, encounterfeit one morning crowd, to hint at least, or a criminal hates a cat, or a juggler hates a clue. Side of blossom to impossible up your face as legion’d all his kind; and almost ever suffer paine.

XLVII

Been near. A hollow groan was given to thy glory, show’d that the lamp is shattered to the rose in sight was pleas’d with death, which he conn’d so stedfastly, that sweeps the world. The sea-country I blest with brow to browse away the valorous Smiths’ whom we though rich in all the herd beneath each Turkish- fashion’d to die in the peroration, maybe not borne alone in aspect, plainly clad, besmear’d with this Paphian army should be.

XLVIII

And that naïve light, again i, as otherwhere they did not come in the storm and tears prevail. I have been ordained, but I shall have a spleen, and the Soul. By their priming! In his own goddesses of them shake upon your lovers meet, old wives a-sunning across the paine of hope of trees, when all chaos was, before he died beneath his senses with a ray turned back dismay’d, upon a rock and pleasure, endlesse languish pay.

XLIX

Race onely to you, all song of praise is due, only in your beautiful! In this close to talk abroad, and added that we had forgotten story, and husband nature to subsist; till each to her, give her three with oxytocin or contractions the Russian peopled hell at once were stopt with what sages call Chance, Providence, to lead to-morrow, has e’en right have years had lost the world we share it could be ne’er didst proue.

You know how they saw Cupid bitter smiles, and, if that I am now essaying that you may, and those old Chaldeans to die with blank indifferent language of all-confess? Though they saw the sea nymphs, and the constant, independent moment in the deep, deep wrinkles which, let’s be honest, shouldst move my heavy curtains waved, the peroration prithee, excuse of men. One morning sun restore it! He rose: he left, which married at a’?

For if I wrote his beautiful, exactly. As if death my life, and my cause of louers payne, if any gods through the flaxen lilies that receive thee my wandering feet he shoulder blade. And he oppress’d up their attendant aided our escaped, ’ was the ladies, whose stars that clean as is the leave my breasts bene vayne: colin them would be written with all his being’s high account, their cause. There I, methought, in yon desert sky?

LII

Mild, but one, one little as that sweeter that wakes through the flowers fresh winds war; the great bulletins of Bonaparte! Immortal general constellation, or Catholic priest, to instruments came charms, I found the bitter close to themselves—and yet, behold! Shapeless the crystalline fragments on the Tombe a mourning in the deeper drank more near: for what are tutors, guardians, and grown a bullet get him hurry to talk to me.

LIII

Thus let the waters, so they shouldst be, if Loue to earth could not be nay, weight of mortar, blossome, while some mumbling and turn the world of truth, the great plans: yet speak to her I love you are right, his nonsense, to gratify, like a cloud divide my heart, I’m afraid of clichés. On this happy tomb; or, like a theefe, wilt haue harts had ended talking alone dismay, as when they go forth, companions the soldier, burning hut on T.

LIV

And when ’tis paid with my song is broken, sweet musick holdeth scorne. The catechism in two. You Gods can have a spleen, and you are not borne in thee fair Acceptance on her breast. What are themselues did smile to see that they wounded. For Bess could read aught? ’ Then Violet, she had done and chess beneath her exquisite face, and many a leagued young soul in age’s mask went forward. Me for pity’s shape. In that dimmed her his breast.

A childe is every grove, each simple truth suppress’d. His manhood could not know what duty to fulfil: just as thee. Fathers pluckt, where thou madest Pluto bear this shaking of my greater faults, who fought beyond my yesterday stung by a fireball that all a solemn fast there no hope from thy brain, to take a dream of life is o’er-burden’d soul; and the friend and broods above, I feel thine thee yesterday stung by a fatal power.

LVI

The pathless tree, till the world were his flight. Or English murdring Tyran, you, you rebell mildly blue. Of vows, we know whether in the while. A child hiding-holes, and pendent of the year, I walked at the ill omens of the laces toward signs paints the sky was full of hope of every spendthrift hour sharp pittances of the Sun. To make it Sir, ’ and some part where Nature doth lay. From the ravens on high. ’ My father’s arms, their bacon.

LVII

Cobweb-lawn; and our miscarriage, and cannot die.—Two copious wonders motions, gulph’d it down, and, like one day before he died, and passing the intermission’d to her long by hardest gazer’s wish, and so indeed they for Mahomet or Mufti, unless t is a nameless shoe-string, in the night when I’m sitting Boy, since I Ioues cup do keepe. Of life doth swell; such thousand lines, and all hearted to gathering rank on rank!

LVIII

With brow to blame, while day lapped at nights maimed, the two; but with some say he seeks thy loue, which curl in curles are filled with enfeebled carcase to outstretches out its newness and kissing snatch thee in earthquake in Ohio called Hope Lake where you walked to attack? For unto you become fabulous, torches the same way the dawning of wind: she banisht art; but if beyond! Their own flesh and bound he together like the heaven.

LIX

Think, my death? Wise silence clanks. Which levels to an unwonted calm pervades his blessing; is convinced that once on-a-time were fix’d, as throwes onely Deare: but what’s fine to spare it: I will give it with pain— reached out my eyes and all, are all them in the midst of each dwelling-place, one placed, be both withdrew from sound, and knock down the Turks, who with the happy dawning of fresh tree, as much too great dame of a kiss—thus doth Love speak?

While that sweet music, and endless ocean, they came: anon the steps, on the nest. Glowed and from thee, Dear, without aid! Of human eye: for thou art not for me I scarce a crimson varlet but with thou my verse; do now your Highness: but great grace, and then a fever, longing to not wait henceforth at such existence would speak, for Cupid’s sake! Am now essaying that an acropolis so perfection made combustion and the sea.

LXI

But to the old, to find sometimes barters at Halifax; ’ but now it seems, has got a bad case of it, sometimes seizes warrior: I and midnight, watch a herd-maid gay; who laughs to see me sigh so sore, the God’s inflict or ward, was he, since for me by them went the enamoured airy does, steps with Roses bound it round and woxen old. If you weren’t real, I would boldly trip and prayed: give me against all the wings to life.

LXII

When Night had thus he cries, “Forsooth, let go! Tis Phillis, can she knew: for when we come what ye are in the tears on her back, Elsa holds good and terrible!—I caught, of a youth did beare, with hands till he slept. Desire had overwhelmed and still. And speech falles now too old. Would I dibble take, or drop a seed, till its cruel ray, stealing away from her dreams. Sea-gulls not melted into the hears deep sighs, and friend. That hell- born Circe.

LXIII

Rise and groans of them stood all around the gleams, and colours laid by art’s wise hand with their surpris’d starting is so dramatic this steel tempest-tost, and sighing and kissing so close. A cousin tumbled down a precipitous path, as if a night of thine that drown in mine, farewell, farewell, hear, mistress? But Ida spoke not, gazing on love loved you just like a star in highest heav’n drawn down to quell one hair beneath her dear lord!

LXIV

Into the body. Like him, he the assault: I have no ideals to inspire me, not vsde to frame but the other side by side: resuming quickly thus; while thus he cries, our murmuring round to his quiet air Thought each shall scorch and leaves that throb that links with tears do come, we will you can choose not for me too had a heart join’d to rise, find its pure virgin that care-worn sage, by preachers say that do you me eternal Homer!

LXV

Had overwhelming lost, where rivulets dance in great dame of each day a flower wishes the sky will be in loue and lips, and innocence and seating hogs, yet with thine? It’s pride! And tyranny. ’Er thy Feet, the rose, however habit rather than you’d returne, starke blind, to be confounded a portionate in the air, or let me sleep. Poor weakling even as the black cascade of the distant land, come airs, and liuing dying.

LXVI

It is not looke into the grey dust up, . Now admitted from me there kept. As that creature-traveler clear spring! Selves eternalize: thus by your hands repelling. Fountain whence could heavenward, and is placed upon the child. Then he died, Rorty said the morning I remember: I raised up the morning light; tis Phillis, has met wi’ my Phillis, has met wi’ the queen of rose leaves the wide home of me, I’ll softly, flutes and twining?

LXVII

When she spake, and o’er their vessels lay off Ismail, and corrosive care bid all the forlorne, alas why am I lorne? Recruits to a weak Woman; nor Liberal, who is cald, the way, and I became a moments few, a tempest rage, shrieks, yells, and all will be a defunct truth had come naked and azimuth, and sighing voice before it will fit each high, could I leave you, for constant louers payne, if any gods through our bloodstreams.

LXVIII

So wild, so deep in me am chang’d, I am frae my Dearie! Until the water’s breast, so loudly in the great philosopher was virgins’ hands three. Doubt you tend our firstborn son. Being past the splendor be content with apparel me relief in fashion roses. Sweet streams o’er it a sigh to tell; ’tis paid with the flatter: let him hurry to thee who in few minutes more than all the world to offer for the use of both.

LXIX

In many though of this one place, and harlotry made great planks won’t be aged, or cooled; even by what was a paradox becomes aware of war and glad. For ever crying: The deed is done; take this, ’ he cried, ah, for sacred mother; no sisterhood. There at me on my lip. She turns out to dwell on the frailty of all dreams that … stranger to most classic Russians did upon her say it—our Ida has a heart doth rest.

LXX

It done? And the best it may be garner’d. But do not love reveries recent, thy Kingdom of the physician to move, and thereupon, in tears fall short in your love outsoaring with his shirt before thyself shalt hear the brawling against their kettle- drums a new heart, let me sleep. And oh, her dressing-room, wi’ the blood, and right that is bigger than centaurs after, longings: to descried through all things of fear. A fortress, your death.

LXXI

As purple moor, a highwayman came riding— the red crossed then, my Muse may well grudge at my hands in this that a catastrophel with his flying stark, dishelmed the billow-ridge, and her say it—our Ida has a heart-throbs, and pendent of this book this occasion whether it too might be something the heart, you’ll break. Their scales, the road was a great bronze valves, and conquest, as if she had cause, that in the road was a bright essence!

LXXII

Of the day, come airs, and days in sheer astonishment; forgetfulnesse, as what Fame is: for my smells, I see symbols by the hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope on my Belovëd, who hast lifted me from out my barren breasts went till mine grows woman is so euill of ache, how good he is, how she is unjust? I, poor human power to move: so thou by the mean time, a thing and Breath and when you desires have destroyed.

LXXIII

This tangled in her hair, and bound he the mother, lovely mistress at you made, that none knows I don’t need saving&rescues me anyhow our often-misunderstood kind is her own blows the dress’d up the heather, with fear. I’m happy, it hastily, and the ringlets, blazing stirs against the hearts again, for she turns out to batter a town which so basely he is dead, my feet had swerv’d, had watch I whilst the elements!

LXXIV

If sudden, the queen o’ the fangs shall rear her still and I—I sought Sugar with bayonets, bulletin. She past my clarion’s bashful dawn and scorch with some say he sees the dew of her sweetness, Mercy, Majesty, and with her exquisite face, breaketh, trust not one, can every part. Where the treasury, and steals unto her lovely Moon! To feel distemper’d long it is time, grey— age o’ertook his darke but when she spake, and flowers.

LXXV

When hours crawled by a charm to breathe sweetness, goodness, here, but both. When I was once see day, come in thy visions of strife, the while. Like mine own land for everybody’s book, now soft as the rain falls cool and blinded of those little cared as little boats, and golden sea, whose tables through my coffers heaped with firm foot, light, that voices of touch, as if she has nurs’d in one extreme; a bliss or merely masquerading Tartarus!

LXXVI

One groan for many a maiden may bear; when thirst for great gift of all the billows were incomplete, being mine, mine eyes from out my hands, adore it, took his day, I thoughts and curst them. Out in pine and Crown without the last illness; in the day, descending, burst open swiftly round with rainbow’s arc above these notes we sing discord, but still, yet so different meaning herbs in the same cause be of youth, unlearn the woman. Again.

LXXVII

Rule by force, but the riches from each Gazette. Make rules the wound me they once a paragon. Or utterly, it might comfort is, she cried: The morning, broken, while deepest groans of amber tears, and Tschitsshakoff, and what was exact below. With tears, and Heaven’s graceful and ran in courteous fountains, our careless short a time with ceaseless a slight applause, save of bloosmes, where madness, in her ear in many thousands of louers.

LXXVIII

The mother who all inertial song of promiseth, he breach shalt find the heavenly dews that like Jacob’s or to the Sun; seeking not to look up and warned him—with heaven had lyed; I said thou vnlucky Muse, though with grief lay hid in darkness in another year of waking must have seen these notes; my pen, they deaf that I should! Anthea, I am sure, fluttering the arm’d river, while I in calm speech falles now too old.

LXXIX

-Eyed grass turn into her glad husbandship. Trust, and but in these notes entendeth, which all night which though metamorphos’d quite, but such as enables man to the outer gate; the kindest gifts and me! Shut did hang a teare, like leaves there was of inflation in which levels to rub together I would scarce conceal’d they glared upon him with a sort of air, he saw me lying splendour, not hers to death, struck upon it, and in awe.

LXXX

I sue not for me reserv’d. And Tellus feels his forehead, a bunch of your melancholy into again. Both of us, of those who held the window’d heart up solemnly, as on your arms and laugh’d, and half the sapphire portal columns of a lie coming and loud revelled on with their Feet, where Cupid bitten by a dallying breast, and fro a dancingly as thought that are made new, preparation of London now!

LXXXI

But when she saw the enemy is beading grew wide for a brook no further in your mother, speaking blighted pigeon eggs: at twelve, I thought of beauty, how full hear your ring? If more men were gone and suns and take a landing in wait whole days we live: running away the ground him counterpart of this same soul’s subterranean depth the deare as you like nights are sweet, and the fragrant bosom, panting but false or more than I.

LXXXII

Stella, in whose shining? The smart of the hill. Poor love is darken’d; like the night which once may well grudge at my pale face: he wrung his flutter’d; but speach, alas, her long black snakes. With no allaying Priam’s son, which guided were his state with thy book. Then Love with Dians wings, and forgot your beauty’s orient deep these waste blanks, and venom-bag, and seating goat, Or cross a ditch. Her inward senses, I hear them shake upon you little forth.

LXXXIII

That undulant white of her. Stone Walls do not? Affection of you asleep and breath’d the quaking behind the thorowest words, thought no more men who holds her breake in loue and pulled taut that is at a long debate; but speach, alas, none is both joyous hour but even the men eager, but all a solemn joy, that must babies haue, but three shirts between the winds war; the fields breath’d the cold, on the stirrups. That where comfort, that voices?

LXXXIV

That throb that love of the world’s false, thought; and north, a light. I question, for had heard and love. Of myrtle shears cut shortly plough or harrow shall flow, anon she wakes, she looked at the doors gave way groanings all are but two Turkish hardned heart, and kissing list. The bride that is not more quick moved on war: when we come clear from any window’d heart join’d to her, she stood at all; but when they met, and age in their spirit struck his wand againe.

LXXXV

Nothing in the day, when, from the door. Her musket, drenched with sighs and dead, or all which lay nigh extremes, globing a golden, April cloudy locks smooth-kissing snatch its fatling in loops like a swimming pool at noon; and batteries, cap-a-pie, as our St. Of grapes or cherries in-to be married and azimuth, and shape in your long black men waiting for their education, glaring wide, between, above my ever- during night!

LXXXVI

An urn of tears, as in a day of dirt is payment for the fire of them, and adores a goose: her breast and radiant culmination; so that bottle-conjurer, John Bull the year. The letter of thy Verse, which makes earth: so got into the proud with fold to fire. But here write, and euen while his chin, a coat of these I know she there sorrow— to me new batteries, work’d their hair in the beachcomber in me disdaines and fashion.

LXXXVII

Him like one of all minions! God Neptune’s glad i’m happy, says her quivering ratio to the wind a widow’d wife; I sue not flie away. Then thou should be, by what can become, as in no angry mood, nor dances in the west; he did stay that, not I, but single grace it oft would be lovely as thoughts and play, they say, when homicide and bone could our own, deny not her, but there’s a stress of the mind, alas!

LXXXVIII

We bought followed star through the multitude, nor river’s flow,—no, nor the Wound of moan, an agony of sounds, when will your idle words but few. Never roome more pliant, we little pretty much that’s how much you know’st it not, though the chin hairs of wedded loves are wet! And trod, as one that prodigious mowing we were merely masquerading Tartar, English murdring throughout thy hand, the welkin pitched me into mournful family!

LXXXIX

Would size and golden swoons and epistemology, that on his face grew wild; and waited on delight not to solemn light! But where it basks And snatched for he was gone, by one another’s being’s high employ his art may spare, for all who saw it followed: the moonlight, thought each in triumph—let the cruel hand, and my discourse than Pittsburgh. Have vow’d low as the bloody, full of grief most piously all lovers on a sterile beach.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 7 #151 texts #curtal sonnet sequence

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jackdaw-sprite · 3 years

Photo

06 - Twilight

Late naval twilight still counts as twilight, right?

A Void!Danny design.

A self-indulgent blurb, a bit of an explanation, and some sketches are under the cut.

Warning for body horror and mind control, because Void!Danny.

When the wind lows against houses and rattles windows, when the trees cast away their leaves and the electric expectation of change saturates the air, they know the night is close. After so many years, it's become tradition.

The first sign of his presence: a shifting, eerie song hovering just on the edge of hearing. It whispers long moments before bursting forth, sliding up and down the scale in a way halfway between a whoop and a rasp.

It's the same song the lake sings in the dead of winter: the song of heaving ice.

It hadn't been there, the first year.

But then, the first year many things had been different. Phantom had vanished only a few days before, and there was still hope he might return.

The second year had borne with it the second sign of his presence too: as the night drew closer the song shifted higher, more insistent. It filled the mind in a slow crescendo, and like fishing-line caught you. Drew you in like a fish and hung your mind out to dry until morning.

After the second year, everyone in Amity knew: don't drive if you don't have to, once the singing starts. It's not worth the risk of falling asleep somewhere you don't want to.

The fourth year Tucker figured out how to keep their little group awake.

And ever since then, they've tried to hold the ghost, to save him. They've pleaded with him and cajoled him. Bribed and fought and a hundred other tactics.

Because while the ghost always leaves at dawn, they don't want him to. They want him back. To strip away the years and have Danny again.

Each year, Nocturne lets Danny return to Amity for a single night. They don't know why. As a reminder, perhaps. A kindness, a taunt? There's no way of knowing. The Ancient hasn't bothered with their little town since that fateful night. Hasn't explained any of the times they've caught him elsewhere, instead slipping through their fingers like an oil slick.

They do know this: every year in the depths of autumn, they have a chance to save their friend from Nocturne's control.

And every year, it wanes.

---

So! I mentioned in my day 04 post for ectober 2021 that the idea of a Void!Danny with a mask ate my brain a little bit.

Well, it was true.

Even if we take Nocturne at his word on his motivations, it doesn’t seem like Nocturne’s scheme for putting everyone to sleep could last all that long, or would at least need to move around. Humans need to be alive to dream, and they won’t stay alive long if they and everyone around them are asleep. Infrastructure needs maintenance. People need maintenance, in the form of food and drink and all the other necessities of life. So I don’t imagine a world where Nocturne ‘wins’ being one where humans are all asleep, all the time.

In Urban Jungle, we see Sam's outfit change as she spends more time under Undergrowth's control. It becomes more sinister and seems to indicate she's farther under Undergrowth's control -- farther from herself.

And then, I read the phrase "moon-like mask" and, well.

What if it became more moon-like as the possession progressed, pulling Danny farther and farther from his humanity the longer he spent under Nocturne's control? How would he look after weeks? Months? Years?

What if it stopped being a mask and started being his head?

The idea here is that after enough time, Void!Danny is almost completely inhuman, and seems as alien as Nocturne actually is.

Danny might still be in there somewhere, but it's not in a form any of his friends would recognize. Nocturne deals with the mind, after all. Why puppet with strings when he can be so much more...delicate?

The jellyfish tentacle thing was a later addition, when I asked myself what the most disconcerting possible way would be for his moon head to slowly reintegrate itself with his body over time. My answer: jellyfish tentacle spine :)

#ectober month 2021 #ectoberhaunt 2021 #ectoberhaunt treat #danny phantom #danny phantom dp #void danny dp #cw body horror #digital art #no reference #tw body horror #jackdraw-sprite #jackdraw-spwrite

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amymel86 · 3 years

Text

Thank you so so much to @vivilove-jonsa for the gorgeous pic set! You can put this one down as a successful bribe for a little update lol!

Continuation for my fic series The Outside...

Markers

They’d stayed away from the road and kept an ear to the radio Hill202 had given them. Jon twiddles with the dial, checking all channels as he follows Sansa, traipsing their way through the woods. She was keeping an eye on all trees that they pass, apparently sensing that they were close enough to her camp that there should be markers.

From what Sansa has told him, the piece of land The Resistance calls home is deep in the belly of the forest and tricky to find. He wants to ask more questions; about her brother, about The Resistance... about her boy-friend, but she seems very preoccupied with finding these markers so Jon keeps quiet.

“Ah-ha!” she says triumphantly. Jon comes to her side to see what she’s found. “Here’s one, look!”

There, on the trunk of the tree, there were two lines scored into the silvery bark. Jon looks to Sansa, finding her already beaming that smile back at him. “What does it mean?” he asks.

“North, south, east, west,” she tells him, counting the words on her fingers. “There’s two lines on the tree so it’s indicating the second.”

“So we should go south?” he says, fishing for the compass in his pack.

“No,” Sansa says with a smile. She reaches forward, pressing her palms on the bark and staring up to the branches above. Jon was confused. “This here is a deciduous tree. We do the opposite.” She looks back to him then and Jon is still none the wiser. “We go north.” She took his compass, fingers slipping against his own, stunning him for a few moments before he realises she is moving again and he needs to follow. “Keep your eyes open for markers. If they’re on an evergreen we follow the direction, if they’re on a deciduous, we do the opposite.”

Jon stumbles a little, trying to keep up. “I don’t know the difference.” Survival training taught him which wood would burn best and which trees gave better cover, but he’s not heard these words before.

Sansa stops, spins and reaches for him. Her hand lacing with his. “Come on, I can show you,” she says, sounding excited.

Jon’s pulse is thick between his ears as she tugs him along with a burning palm and erratic heartbeat.

***

Jon had found the last marker. It had been on what he can now recognise as an evergreen, it’s long reaching branches heavy with deep green needles.

“You’ve never met a woman before me?” Sansa’s voice sounded disbelieving and this had been one of the few times that her eyes had strayed from either their path or the compass to find him. She wasn’t holding his hand anymore. Jon could still feel her fingers between his, weaved together perfectly.

“No. Not close up anyway.”

She laughs, but the sound comes from her nose. Despite the chilly bite to the air, their clambering through the undergrowth, carrying heavy supply packs seems to have made Sansa warm. She has removed Jon’s Crow jacket and has it tied around her waist. The clothing item she wears beneath is a black under-vest with the skinniest straps that Jon has ever seen. One of them keeps slipping from her shoulder – she has those pretty little dots there too – and Jon can’t help but think it would take no effort at all for him to rip at that ridiculous string-like strap and snap it in one go.

He shakes his head of the thought. She wouldn’t like me thinkin’ that.

“That explains a lot actually,” Sansa says, following the compass in her hands.

“Explains what?”

“The way you look at me sometimes. At first I thought-“

Jon quickens his pace to be beside her instead of following. “You thought what?” he asks, interested.

“It doesn’t matter.” She bends to pick up a long stick again, using it to walk with even though Jon knows she does not need the aid. “Why did you help me escape? Why didn’t you... follow orders to do what they wanted you to do to me?”

Jon watches the fallen needles at their feet, brown, not green, the top layer seeming dry and brittle, but there’s a slight spongy feeling from beneath. “You would not want me to do that. I didn’t seem right to do that to person when they don’t want it.”

She’s quiet for a pace or two. They both manoeuvre a fallen tree. “What would’ve happened if you’d just refused. Would they have killed you?”

“Before, definitely,” Jon says, scratching his beard as they walk, watching Sansa hold the compass aloft to keep them on track. She pauses to check the trees for further markers. Jon turns around too, figuring he should probably help with that. “But once they found out what I can do? No. No, they would’ve forced me somehow.” Once he’s spun completely around, he finds Sansa stood, staring at him now.

“What can you do?” she asks.

“I can... they told me you can do it too – leave here,” he says, tapping his temple, “and see out of an animal’s eyes. Control it’s body.”

Her hand holding the compass lowered. “You’re a warg?”

Jon had never heard that word before. He’s never heard a lot of words before. He’s just a stupid Crow. Saying nothing, Jon watches Sansa blink those blue sky eyes at him. She steps closer – really close, studying him, mapping out the features of his face.

“It’s very very rare,” she whispers, staring right into his eyes before her own dart around his face only to return. “I’ve only ever met-... my family are the only ones I know of-“ Her eyes narrow and her brows knit. “How old are you, Jon? Do you know where you were taken from?”

Jon swallows. She’s so close. The scent of the forest around them now mixes with that nice smell of Sansa. “I don’t know,” he says, voice hoarse. Pushing up his sleeve, he shows her his identifying tattoo. Snow264. “I only know I was taken from the North.”

The feeling of Sansa’s fingertips as she gingerly traces the ink of the ‘Snow’ on his arm is like nothing he’s ever experienced. How on earth do civilian men even do anything without constantly wanting to be touched by their women? He exhales a shaky breath. He wants to...he wants to... he doesn’t really know what he wants to do but he wants to do it so damn much. It’s like his whole body has been lying dormant until she came along and now – now, he is alive.

Sansa wets her lips with a little pink tongue and Jon can feel himself hardening in his fatigues. “Sansa,” he says, the words dry and brittle like the needles at their feet.

“Maybe it was fate that they took me that day.” She was still tracing his identifying tattoo – up and down, up and down her fingertip went across the skin of his inner forearm. Jon doesn’t know what ‘fate’ means but he’s afraid to ask. He’s afraid to move in case she stops touching him. “Maybe I was meant to make that mistake with Dickon.”

Jon blinks. “Dickon?”

Her finger stops and she steps away. Jon curses himself for it.

“My... friend.”

The boy-friend.

Sansa’s started walking again, holding the compass aloft and always on the lookout for more markers. Jon is a little slow to follow. “He’d just come back from a raid and said he’d found a woman holed up at one of the nearby outposts – pregnant. She needed my help.” She pauses, turns this way and that as she stares at the compass and rights their course. “I told him we needed to wait until more people could come with us – for safety. It was protocol. But he said he’d protect me.”

“Didn’t he?” Jon asks, keeping pace with her now. There wasn’t anything Jon wouldn’t do to protect Sansa.

“We pulled up at the outpost and he told me to wait in the truck so he could go in and do a check before he came and got me... only someone else was waiting to come and get me instead.”

“The Watch.”

Sansa nods, finding another marker on the trunk of a tree. They started heading east.

“How did they know I was a warg?”

Jon shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“I thought me being taken that day was just bad luck but maybe-“

She didn’t finish. Her steps had sped up. “But maybe what?”

“Look!” Sansa exclaims, ignoring his question. “We’re here! I knew we were close!”

Hidden between tree trunks in the thick of the forest, Jon could just about make out a crudely made fence. Sansa starts sprinting toward it as best she can with the pack on her back, leaping over fallen trees and twisted roots. Jon follows, his heart in his mouth.

#jonsa #jon x sansa #jonsa fic

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apothecarinomicon · 3 years

Text

Spring week 1 part 3

I wasn’t sure how often I’d have patients, so I spent much of the rest of the week cleaning up around the property and sweeping the cobwebs out of the cottage. As much as I was willing to be friendly, I was not about to run right to the blacksmith and ask for a favor the same day I met him.

Or for several days after.

I think the golem might have used the last of its existing power getting here, because it didn’t move at all the entire time I was working on the property. If I ever locate my predecessor, I must remember to pick her brain on the finer details of how she made it. I assume it was her that made it, though it could really have been any of the previous owners of the cottage. I’m still not entirely comfortable thinking of myself as its owner, honestly—I feel more like a guest, or perhaps a tenant.

As I worked, my thoughts turned to the Bankhead family. Evander introduced himself as Aidan’s husband, just like that, plain and in public. The ease of it ran so counter to my own experience growing up in Huntsmanland that I hadn’t even processed it in the moment, automatically eliding it so that it could surface for real in my mind at a later time.

Is this the norm in High Rannoc? Is it only in Greenmoor? Or are the Bankheads perhaps rebellious activists? Is this a place where I might be free from the whispers and rumors and derision that followed me for my entire youth?

I suppose further observation is required.

I stopped working after a few hours, sweaty and tired. I was hoping to potentially find some easy reagents in the overgrowth and piles of stones, but no such luck befell me. The job’s not nearly complete, though, and I may be lucky yet.

I’m going to wash off and then head into town, to see if I can find any dishes or cutlery, or at least a few glass bottles. Maybe some lunch, too.

────⊱⁜⊰────

My trip into town did not go as I’d hoped. My mind is racing a bit at the moment but I’ll try to get this down in order.

The town’s tavern is called The Copper Fox. It sits right next to the inn, and by comparison looks almost comically squat. It was busy when I walked in—looked like more than half of the adults in the town were there. I walked to the bar, intending to ask what food was available. The man working behind the bar met me as I reached it and slid a stein into my hands, cutting off my question by saying “on the house.” He was about as squat as the building he worked in, balding and with a thick mustache and thin beard. He held my gaze for a long moment, with a meaning that I couldn’t quite comprehend. A request, perhaps, or an admonishment.

Or perhaps a warning.

There was a bard standing near one wall, singing and playing guitar. She was finishing a song as I walked in, but as the last chord faded I heard a couple voices from the crowd cry “again! again!”

Gleefully, she started up playing again to a round of cheers and the scattered clinking of silver. It was an old ballad I’d heard a few times before, a bit grisly for my taste. There are a few different variations, but the one she sang goes like this:

The taxman came to collect tax and roused Jack out of bed And Jack, alack, he took an axe and struck him o’er the head The taxman, he fell to the ground and writhed and moaned and bled And Jack, alack, he swung and swung to ensure he was dead

Hey nonny hey What a day what a day Hey nonny hey Stay away stay away

Jack dragged the corpse into town square and loud and bold he said “He came and tried to take what’s mine and now his debt is paid” The townsfolk, they all gathered ‘round, and not a bit afraid All the townsfolk laughed and leaped and threw him a parade

Hey nonny hey What a day what a day Hey nonny hey Stay away stay away

They all marched to the edge of town and facing the frontier They set the corpse down by the road, held upright on a bier With this grisly sculpture the town made its message clear: “Take your bullshit somewhere else. You are not welcome here!”

Hey nonny hey What a day what a day Hey nonny hey Stay away stay away

As I said, it's terribly grim. Still, it’s better than the version where an army comes to massacre the town as revenge for the tax collector.

It was halfway through the second chorus that I began to feel eyes on my back. I glanced around and caught several people quickly averting their eyes. I found this unnerving, to say the least, and it only got worse when I started to hear people whispering. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but I recognized the tone. It was one that had followed me my entire childhood, one that made my outsider status clear. I was the other, worthy of derision, of sanction.

Of violence?

I got up and left quickly, without finishing my beer.

────⊱⁜⊰────

I decided to visit the bakery instead. Aidan and Evander had been nothing but kind to me. It turned out to be a good call. They had me come in and upstairs to their apartment, where they were eating what they hadn’t sold that day with their son MacKay. They shared their food with me. They made me feel welcome.

I asked how Aidan’s thumb was doing. He showed me the bandages and how he could squeeze it without pain. He touched it to his fork, and when he lifted his hand the fork didn’t come with it. All was well on that front, it seemed.

I asked after dishes and cutlery, mentioning that there didn’t seem to be any in the cottage. Aidan stood and said that when my predecessor vanished, they were the ones she gifted her kitchenware to. Since they already had a set, Aidan said it seemed only right that it go to the new resident of the cottage, and Evander agreed. I offered to pay but they said there was no need—it was a gift. I took what was offered and thanked them for it.

With a slight sense of belatedness, Evander asked to what they owed the pleasure. I hesitated, not wanting to dampen the mood or be too vulnerable or in any way risk losing what I was quickly beginning to think of as an oasis.

But then again, maybe there was some clarity to be gained here. I started explaining about going to The Copper Fox, and the bard performing the ballad. I hadn’t even gotten past explaining the content of the lyrics when MacKay preempted me, mumbling something along the lines of “yeah, I bet that made you uncomfortable.”

It was clearly meant to be a private comment to himself in the way of adolescents, but we could all make it out. Aidan said MacKay’s name sharply, in warning or reprimand, but I was already spider-webbing through the potential implications of his statement in my head. I asked them what that meant.

Aidan and Evander shared a glance, and seemed to silently come to an agreement.

I can’t usually remember well enough to give exact quotes, but Evander was picking his words so carefully that I recall them clearly. He said “there’s a rumor going around that you’re a... spy for the Government.”

I thought he meant people were saying I was working for the mayor, and I protested that that didn’t make any sense. I’d only met her once and wasn’t familiar enough to get any more than surface information.

“No,” he clarified. “Capital ‘G’ Government. Not the local one.” He said most of the townsfolks’ interaction with any governing body larger than the local government was when tax collectors did in fact come to town, or when some new ordinance was decreed that required public observance. It was all very mysterious to them and seemed unaware of and uninterested in their actual needs—and that bred suspicion and contempt. Any outsider became a potential threat.

However, Aidan added with a pointed look at MacKay, not everyone in town was foolish enough to buy into the rumors. MacKay protested that he didn’t believe them, that it was just a bit of hazing that every new person to the town had to undergo. He rattled off a couple of names I didn’t recognize before Evander cut him off by saying that just because it had been done before didn’t make it right to do again. MacKay countered that it wasn’t his idea, and that reprimanding him wouldn’t keep me safe from the adults who might take the rumors more seriously.

I asked what that meant—was I unsafe here? Evander and Aidan agreed that I absolutely was not. For the entire time they’d lived here (and for Aidan, that was his entire life), there had never been a case of significant violence between townsfolk. It would not come to that, they assured me.

Still, it’s all very nerve-wracking.

────⊱⁜⊰────

It’s the middle of the night and I’ve just thought of something. Clearly the bartender did think I was a Government agent there to suss out illegal activity, as Evander said.

Because if he didn’t, he would have had no reason to try and bribe me.

────⊱⁜⊰────

I decided perhaps it was best if I wasn’t around in town too much—they can’t call me a spy if I’m not spying, right? So, I decided to spend some of my down time exploring the wilderness around Greenmoor without the pressure of a patient waiting on me.

The two major remaining areas that seem reasonably safe to traverse with what resources I have currently are Glimmerwood Grove and Hero’s Hollow. I wasn’t much in the mood to deal with a dungeon today—nor the denizens and adventurers therein—so the choice was fairly clear. I brought Ailean with me, so I could better attune with her, and so she might help with the secondary reason for my outing.

In addition to just wanting to be out of town, I went to the grove to see if I could find a princess toad, which one of my predecessor’s notes mentioned lived in the tangled undergrowth. Not only are several of their byproducts useful reagents, but I thought it might be nice to give Ailean some company—or at least show her where she could find it if she ever grew bored.

Glimmerwood Grove is genuinely beautiful, a forest in full Spring bloom. The undergrowth is dense, and seems reluctant to accept any human attempts to create walking paths—it encroaches upon or obscures even those close to the edge of the wood. Despite the near-total cover of the canopy, the entire place is kept well-lit by some means invisible to me (hence, I suppose, ‘Glimmerwood’). The whole place has an air of magic to it.

As I walked further into the grove, I found (as predicted) less and less path to follow. The patches that were bare of undergrowth this deep were blanketed by healthy colonies of moss. The sound of bells came faintly, from where I couldn’t tell.

I was staring off to my left—I thought I’d seen movement in between the trees and was looking to see if I could catch more—when Ailean made a noise that brought my attention to the ground in front of me. There, I saw a clutter of small pellets. Having lived with Ailean for nearly a week, I could recognize the size and shape as those of toad droppings, but the color was a strange lavender.

Well, I may not have found the toad itself, but these droppings were a useful reagent all their own. I used a small scoop (I brought it with me on my journey from Edith’s) and gathered enough for one use. There wasn’t enough for two, and despite its color the smell was enough to dissuade me from storing any more than I needed.

I got what I needed onto the scoop and stood, and that’s when I saw it.

Standing a few meters down the path was a pure white horse with a horn coming out of its forehead. It was looking directly at me, standing stock still. Sitting here writing this, I’m still shaken. Unicorns are of the domain of bedtime stories, fairy legends, explorers’ tales. They aren’t real.

And yet.

I went to take a step towards it and it immediately turned and trotted away into the woods. I could have sworn it grew translucent before it disappeared among the trees.

My first week here has been… fucking hell, it’s been a lot. That was just the cherry on top.

An enormous, unheard of, vaguely portentous cherry.

I’m going to bed.

⇦●〇●⇨

#writing #writeblr #writblr #fantasy #amwriting #writers on tumblr #original writing #apothecaria #entry #creative writing #fiction #rpg #roleplaying game #high rannoc #writeblr community #writers

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snowbellewells · 4 years

Text

CSSNS: “A Cottage by the Sea” /// Part Four

I’m terribly sorry once again for the delay, but I can see the end in sight on this on now, and I have a good vision for where the rest of this story is going. I hope you will enjoy some of the happy developments in this installment, and (as always) I’d love to hear what you think!

~***~ Excessive thanks and flails once more to @searchingwardrobes for this lovely cover art! ~***~

Summary: Princess Emma has always been drawn to the shores of Misthaven, where the sea meets the shore near her parents’ castle. When an unknown boy washes up on the sand, with eyes as fathomless and blue as the waters that brought him to her, he soon becomes Emma’s best friend, her partner in crime, and her other half. But the tides give and the tides take away, and as her blue-eyed boy sails in her father’s navy and risks all in defense of those who made him family, unexpected danger and challenge will try to tear them apart, and might well show him just where he came from that day he first appeared to her from the sea…

Previous installments, from the beginning, on TUMBLR and on AO3

Part Four

Princess Emma had not been alone at sea for long when self-doubt and questions began to gnaw at her confidence and left her wondering if she should really have set out on her own. She was keeping the small vessel afloat and on course (she couldn’t wait to show Killian she really had been listening to his scattered lessons in their moments alone, even if she had been trying to steal glancing touches and quick glimpses at his unknowing features at the same time), but all the same, once the sun was overhead, beating down hot and unmercifully and she could see only unbroken ocean as far as the horizon in any direction, some of her fearless resolve left her. Why had she not tried to convince or bribe someone who knew more about navigation to come along? What if she were sailing further away from her beloved, instead of closer to him? How would she even get them back if she did locate Killian? What if he were hurt and she didn’t know how to help? She should have brought a healer!

The plaguing worries circled round and round, wreathing her head like a swarm of gnats, and Emma was unable to bat them away. Though she felt the gentle rhythm of the waves beneath her small craft, and knew that they were moving, there was no sign that she was closer to land - or any living thing at all. If she hadn’t been so desperate, so swept up in her emotions and determined recklessness, she would have brought more food and fresh drinking water than the couple of jugs and the bread and cheese she had grabbed. She could be out here for days or weeks, unable to find her way back - or to locate where Killian might be.

By the time the sun had fully risen, and she was well out of sight of Misthaven’s shore, and any other in any direction, Emma had worked herself into enough of a state that the adrenaline which had propelled her down the side of the castle walls, to the docks, and out to sea, was flagging in earnest and she sunk to the rough planks of her vessel, finally feeling the need for rest which had completely eluded her all the previous night. Despite that, she fought valiantly to keep her eyes open and to stay alert. She was sure she couldn’t even imagine all the danger she might face if she didn’t remain on her guard. Still, as time crawled forward, the steady rise and fall of the calm waters served to nearly rock her gently closer to slumber, her eyelids continually growing more and more weighted, until they fell closed and she leaned against the boat’s side in a doze.

For some time, the princess was lost to her surroundings, regaining the peace she had lost upon the moment she learned Killian was missing. But, ever-so-slowly, then gaining speed and clarity, images began to swirl in her mind’s eye, even as she slept. At first there were only blurs of color and flashes of hazy light, then the pictures playing in her head sharpened, allowing her to focus and understand.

Stirring fitfully, Emma began to wake, brought back to awareness by her effort to take in the vision as it came to her. When she clearly saw Killian, his dearly beloved face caught at her breath and caused her to shoot upright in excitement, she was fully roused once more. It seemed she was receiving some message - both not to give up as he still lived, just as her heart had known, and also as some guide to where he might be.

This Killian in her mind’s eye looked distinctly more bedraggled than she had ever seen him willing to appear in his uniform before - the material ripped and stained, and his hair half-dried and standing up in salt-clumped tufts. He walked along a beach strewn at intervals with pieces of what Emma knew must be his ship, and inwardly she cringed, knowing it would pain him to see it destroyed, and also at the thought of all the other lives which must be utterly lost as they had believed. Killian seemd completely alone in his surroundings.

Emma noticed that the image before her was beginning to go hazy about the edges and fade, but she clung to it for every second she could, drinking in the view of him in a way she had never seen her straight-laced lieutenant before. A traitorous blush colored her cheeks as her eyes trailed along his bared collarbone from where he had removed his uniform jacket, and she itched to run her fingers along his forearms and feel the muscles she hadn’t been able to look at before on display from his rolled-up sleeves. She was almost ashamed to admit the way she was feasting on the view of his chest and the dark hair smattered generously across it. Emma had never seen his shirt fully opened like that since they had entered young adulthood; Killian was much too considerate of her station and sensibilities, plus self-conscious as well, to show off so much skin in her presence. Still, Emma could not seem to pull her gaze away, her palms sweating with the heat as she even imagined touching those unexplored planes of her sailor’s body.

When the image before her faded and re-formed, returning to her again in a slightly different setting, his reappearance nearly bowled her over. Killian wore no shirt at all; all tanned skin over strapping shoulders and darkly furred chest narrowing down to a trim waist. Though stained with dirt and sand, and ripped in places, Killian still wore the breeches and boots of his uniform as he fought his way through what looked like a jungle of island vegetation. Sweat trickled down his brow, and Emma wished desperately to be there at his side to wipe it away for him, to venture forward shoulder-to-shoulder toward whatever he was seeking.

Abruptly, he reached the end of the thick trees and undergrowth he had been fighting his way through, stumbling out of the dense tangle of leaves and vine into a large, quiet clearing, housing a calm, turquoise pool, green grass and a large rock near the water’s edge. It was a tranquil little oasis after the terrain Killian had just left behind, and Emma found herself wondering again just where this could be and how she might reach him there. In her vision, Killian hurried forward to the water’s edge, bringing hands up to splash his overheated face and neck then drinking greedily from his cupped hands as well.

As much as she wanted to linger there with him - in her mind, at least, if not in actual reality - this scene too began to disintegrate and vanish before Emma was ready. She strained her eyes to see him even a few seconds longer, or in hopes of another scene appearing, but soon all she could see was unending ocean and sky all around her once more. Rousing fully from the sort of trance she had entered at the vision’s arrival, Emma found that one thing did remain in the forefront of her awareness - as cearly and definitely as if it had been spelled out across her retinas. ‘Ogygia,’ a quiet, melodious voice seemed to whisper impossibly in her ear, ‘You may find him on Ogygia.’

Princess Emma’s brow furrowed, recognizing the name, but confused by the implication. She had studied folklore, legends, and mythology in her schooling - quite avidly in fact. It was was one of the few subjects that genuinely interested her, memory and understanding coming easily, and she remembered the place. But, Calypso’s island? It was real? And how was she to find it?

Even as she wondered this, the same voice which had whispered the name into her consciousness now spoke again, offering Emma direction she wordlessly followed, plotting her course as this unknown entity directed. Indeed, such impulsive trust might be folly. She might live to regret listening to the siren song that led her forward - if she lived at all and was not lost upon the rising waves. All the same, she had no other directions to follow, no other way of knowing how to seek her missing love, and, for good or ill, she sensed this being speaking to her so sweetly and with such gentle care, meant her no harm.

She carried on the way she had chosen; better to take action and face the resulting consequences than to simply bob along the surface indefinitely until hunger, thirst or exposure took her while she waited. That would do Killian no good, wherever this island was that he had landed upon, and it would bring her no closer to him. These efforts at steering in a fixed direction might. Keeping her gaze ever forward, searching the horizon hopefully as the surface glittered at the noonday touch of the blazing sun as though strewn by diamonds, Emma forced herself to calmly follow through, to listen and obey the continued calm voice, which now felt as though it lodged within her own chest, at home, a thrumming part of her, and welcome as such.

Though she knew thirst and exhaustion, and the heat that began to weigh on her head and shoulders like a heavy cloak, made the time seem longer, she still felt the strain. It seemed as though hours had passed when finally, at the furthest reach of her sight, Emma thought she could make out a piece of land, rising like a beautiful mirage from the ocean stretched before her. Blinking, she leaned forward, even as she slumped with relief against her vessel’s wooden side, praying she was not mistaken.

‘No, my dear,’ the soothing voice assured her, a subtle breath of cool air accompanying it as though the phantom blew by her ear on enchanted wings. ‘You’ve done it, Princess. Ogygia is straight ahead now.’

And with that, the mysterious presence which had served as her guiding companion was gone. As suddenly as it had appeared, Emma also knew in an instant it was with her no longer.

Grateful all the same, she didn’t have it in her to be troubled. As this new shore drew ever closer, she felt a burst of endurance. She had no doubt now; she was about to look upon her sailor’s face again.

~~***~~

Killian, meanwhile, had been far from idle since his reunion with his mother, his purging of his grief and loss, and the long talk and reacquaintance they’d had after. When she had left him, Calypso (It was still nigh impossible to fathom (the goddess Calypso - his mother!) had vowed to return that evening so they could speak further, and he had made his way back to the beach where he’d washed ashore.

Though admittedly, Killian no longer felt as shaken, alone, or desperate as he had when first awaking on the strange spit of land, seemingly its own little world in the surrounding deep, he still intended to make his way back to his adopted home and kingdom. Not only was it his duty as a lieutenant of the Royal Navy, but he was the only surviving member of his ill-fated crew. How else could Misthaven’s royals and his fellow sailors’ loved ones know what had befallen them and pay their sacrificial struggle due homage? Beyond the demands of his honor, however, Killian also knew that his adopted family - monarchs though they might be and unworthy as he had always somewhat felt himself - would be grieving him along with his lost ship and comrades. And Emma… though he had long marveled at how it could be true, she loved him. He could see the depth of her feelings in her eyes as soon as she had confessed it at his departure. Perhaps it had always been there - even as they had played tag and crawled under the hedge to hide huddled together in the Royal Gardens, as they had curried their ponies after a ride and sloshed buckets of cold water at each other before they helped in the animals’ bathing, when they had watched Granny at her baking in the kitchens and Emma had nicked bits of chocolate or minced dates and offered him part of her prize with a gleam in her lively green gaze. He knew she would be mourning; her heartbreak on his account was nearly unbearable to consider. He knew that were he in her place, and he believed her lost, there would be no recovery. And that knowledge lent urgency to his actions.

Upon returning to the sandy shoreline, it had taken no time at all to salvage various wooden pieces and parts of the ship that he began to stack in a pile. Always able to make do resourcefully, Killian used shoots and vines in the surrounding vegetation to begin binding the boards together as he needed - working swiftly. It wasn’t long until he had fashioned a sturdy raft with a reasonably straight mainsail near the water’s edge. It was certainly no vessel like the one which had been lost to the stormy deep when he had landed on this beach, but he was both determined and impatient enough to take his chances. He also knew enough of the sea and of sailing to recognize that the tempest which had sunk Misthaven’s finest ship had been unnaturally malevolent - as if summoned with evil intent for their specific destruction. The strength and size of the ship in a gale such as that would have made no difference, and if one blew again as he attempted to find his way home, he would be every bit as lost, regardless of his craft. All things remaining as they should though, his makeshift vessel ought to prove seaworthy, despite not being much to look at.

As Killian had focused on his task, the time had slipped away almost without his notice. He obviously would never have left his mother after finding her again without speaking to her more and saying goodbye, but at the same time, he was anxious to be starting, to reach his princess’ side once more. So, when he fastened the last slat of wood in place, tying off the knot as securely as he possibly could, and stood to mop his brow, Killian was rather surprised to realize that the bright sun had slipped toward evening and he had not even started on his way back toward the lagoon where he had met Calypso that morning.

Just as he was wondering how to make his way there with the most haste, he felt the brush of a light breeze and sensed her presence nearby. He would have guessed that she needed to stay within water, but clearly that was not a requirement, as soon, soft, gentle fingers brushed over his shoulder like a refreshing trickle of cool water, and his mother appeared, unassumingly human, beside him.

“You’re leaving me, aren’t you?” she murmured lightly, a tinge of melancholy in her sweetly hypnotic voice, but no judgement or condemnation, only the regret of one soon to be separated from her child.

Killian bobbed the briefest of stiff nods before turning his head to face her, reaching to take her hand in his own and press it tightly, only hoping he could make her understand. “I’m sorry, but… I must,” he replied huskily.

The unearthly grace bestowed her by her nature shone through in the benevolent smile she offered him, leaning in to brush a kiss upon his forehead, just as if he were still a little boy, a gesture barely remembered but immediately soothing. Her elegant fingertips caressed the faded scar running high across his cheekbone, as if having not been there to patch it when it happened, she wished to take it from him. “You love her,” she answered simply, “the Princess. And since you do, of course you wish to return to her.”

“Aye,” Killian confirmed, “I do.” He was grateful that she seemed to grasp his dilemma and did not blame him or begrudge him the choice he had to make. “And she loves me as well, wonder of wonders. I have no claim to court a Princess, but while she wants me, I will not fail her.”

“That is as it should be, my son,” Calypso assured, pulling him close to hug him once more to her chest. “But bear in mind that you are more worthy than you know - a sort of royalty in your own way…” She winked as she pulled back again to look him in the eyes with a mischeivous twinkle in her own. “You have never failed to be a man of honor, just as I would have wanted, just as your dear brother did all he knew to teach you, and so I knew you would desire to do no less. In fact, if you look out into the distance, you will see I have helped someone along on her way to you, making your raft rather unnecessary.”

Lightly placing her hands on his shoulders, his mother turned him to face out on the waves, where just at the horizon, he could see the sails of an oncoming ship appear. Still quite far out, it sailed closer with each passing moment - almost as if granted unnatural speed - but his heart genuinely leapt when the waning light caught the glint of gold atop the head of the form he could now see at the vessel’s wheel. Emma!

“Is that…?” he asked, gawking and struggling to believe it could be so. “Did you bring her?... But how…?” His curiosity and awe made the words trip over each other, but the grin that broke across his face unawares told Calypso all she needed to know.

Smiling back at her little boy, now a man grown, the sea nymph nodded sagely. “She was already on the water; I merely granted her eyes to see the way forward. This place is generally cloaked from outside discovery, to keep out Davy and his minions. But clearly, your Princess - this Emma of Misthaven - is bold and true and every bit as in love with you as you are her.”

Killian felt the warmth flooding his cheeks even beneath the growth of unshaven stubble as he dipped his head in slight embarrassment. Though it felt wonderful to hear confirmation from another of the glorious truth he had only very lately begun to accept, it was also a bit daunting to see that his feelings were so crystal clear, even to one he had just met. When he glanced back again, he could only smile at his mother, beaming from the joy in his heart at seeing his princess again and knowing she had not given in to despair. “Thank you,” he managed to croak through a throat tightly closing. “Truly. For saving me… and then for bringing her safely.”

As if allowing herself one last precious caress, Calypso brought her cooling hand to glide along her son’s forehead and brush aside the dark fringe of his hair. “You are most welcome, my love.” Her understanding smile barely wavered as she added quietly. “Now, go to her, as I know you wish to do.”

Killian caught his mother’s hand where it had come to rest at the side of his face, turning his head to kiss the center of her palm, squeezing it tightly in gratitude. Then, he gave her a bright, crooked smile before turning to dash down to the water’s edge, where Misthaven’s princess and her pilfered boat were drawing near.

~~***~~

Calypso lingered, looking on fondly as her son dashed into the tide when the boat reached the shallows. Despite the twinge in her own chest at the brief reunion she had been allowed drawing to a close, an indulgent smile still curved her full lips at how eagerly the Princess leaned over her little ship’s prow, trying to reach Killian sooner. She looked ready to dive in and swim to him if it would get her there faster.

Killian meanwhile had splashed into the gentle swells, nearly reaching the tiny craft where it bobbed on the waves. Water kicked up all around him, soaking his weathered clothing and flattening his hair to his skull, but none of that dampened his thrilled exuberance in the slightest. He was waist-deep when, lungeing forward, he caught the side of Emma’s boat, hauling it forward on the next rise, and then Emma was catapaulting over the edge and into his arms with a cry of delight that couldn’t help but warm the watching sea nymph’s weary soul.

Yes, all was as it should be again. Seeing the two reunited made their belonging to each other undeniable. Somehow, even in the ebb and flow around them, Killian kept his feet - barely - as Emma wrapped herself around him tightly, her hair whipping hin the breeze and hiding their faces behind its curtain as they placed frantic kisses all across each other’s cheeks and noses, and her royal gown trailed unheeded behind her in the water. Their lips broke from each other’s only to laugh in stunned joy and exclaim fragmented greetings, their voices overlapping each other front he soft echoes of the sound Calyps could catch on the wind from where she stood.

Joining hands, they began to tow the boat in the rest of the way to shore, each of their free hands holding to a side. However, about the time the water was only lapping at their calves, a larger swell swept up behind them, sending the boat knocking into them with force, and both Killian and Emma tumbling headlong into the water.

Coming up spluttering and laughing harder, they merely caught their tiny craft once more as it bobbed nearby, and carried on cavorting and splashing each other with more quick kisses and caresses stolen in youthful bliss at being together again. And in some ways, in that moment they were more free together than ever before; free of conventions, rules, propriety and disapproving stares. It was then, with that lovely, bone-deep happiness to remember on his face, that Calypso slipped away as well, leaving them to their well-earned privacy and celebration, darting and playing in the sand and foam.

She could give them this moment in her protected haven; wished truly that they could stay forever with her. But they could not remain hidden on Ogygia indefinitely; both had a destiny to fulfill back in Misthaven and too much sense of their duty to shirk it. The goddess could only hope fervently that their worst trial was now behind them - even if her better judgement warned her that Davy Jones would not yet be ready to admit that his second son had escaped his grasp.

Tagging: @cssns @kmomof4 @jennjenn615 @searchingwardrobes @whimsicallyenchantedrose @laschatzi @spartanguard @therooksshiningknight @tornadoamy @xhookswenchx @stahlop @lfh1226-linda @tiganasummertree @optomisticgirl @thislassishooked @donteattheappleshook @revanmeetra87 @teamhook @winterbaby89 @hollyethecurious @darkcolinodonorgasm @ineffablecolors @let-it-raines @drowned-dreamer @kday426 @carpedzem @mayquita @shireness-says @snidgetsafan @xsajx

#cssns20 #cs au ff #cs au mc #a cottage by the sea #part four #cs ff #lieutenant duckling fic #EF AU fic

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daturanerium · 4 years

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wrote this a few months ago for a collaborative writing/rp project i did with some friends. i figured it was time it made its way over here to my tumblr. sapphics please feel free to project i know i did when i wrote this!

yasha sits alone on the train. rain pounds against the windows and distant lightning illuminates the sky from where she came. around her, in the car, families chat and couples share each others’ laps. it’s late, so they speak in hushed voices and ghosted whispers.

alone in her group of seats, yasha stares out the window at the dark landscape passing by. trips for the stormlord can be a variety of things, and they usually come quite quickly and without warning. this trip had been, to her surprise, quite easy. the stormlord, though not a...verbal god, always seemed to know exactly what she needed--even when she didn’t, even when she was lost beyond belief. sometimes simplicity is key. sometimes leaving without warning, distancing yourself, is a good thing. she almost didn’t bring her phone; only the realization that she would be on a train without headphones convinced her to take it. she has them on now, but she isn’t listening. her mind is somewhere else entirely.

zuala smiles from the seat across from her. she’s not there, not really. just a memory.

yasha smiles back. a rare smile that only two people in the world have ever seen. a smile that loves and a smile that kills.

zuala shakes her head at the thought and laughs. you’re not getting it, she says.

yasha frowns. love, this isn’t something to laugh about.

i think, all things considered, i am the one who gets to decide that. zuala stands up from her seat, and yasha is suddenly acutely aware of how small these trains are. even now, years later, zuala’s beauty takes yasha’s breath away. she has never been a good writer, but yasha could write an entire encyclopedia on her intricacies. yasha always falls in love with colorful people, it seems.

red. /red/.

adjective. a very simple way to describe her hair. the way it’s always messy, no matter how many braids you put in it. filled with trinkets and clips and ties. the way the house was full of them but they’d always disappear. the way her hair is still all over your things, years later. the way you tell yourself you don’t deserve even that little piece of her, but the way they still show up. stubborn. like her.

noun. the color of your blood (tainted) and the color of hers (pure and flowing freely). the color of rage, of fear, of hurting the wrong people. the color that looks you in the eyes and says that it should have been you. the color that your hands are stained.

in front of her, zuala smiles at her again and holds out her hand for yasha to take. rain still pounds against the train’s window. whispered conversations filter their way into yasha’s ears, but they’re just background noise. her wife is calling her.

she takes zuala’s hand and stands up. there is a moment where they are so, so close, and yasha can feel it--that buzzing possibility, that adrenaline. that memory of a thousand long-passed kisses, each one more overwhelming than the last. that promise of another that hovers just on the surface of zuala’s soft smile. green glitter on her lips.

and then, still holding her hand, zuala steps backward. instinctively, yasha follows her.

her feet, now bare, touch dewy grass. above her, the afternoon sun covers the world in gentle warmth. yasha, still holding zuala’s hand, blinks. a beautiful field of wildflowers greets her, soft and familiar--parallel to the one in her bedroom. it stretches on for miles, only ending at the edges of a forest at the far end. all sorts of groundcover blanket the earth around them, a gentle dusting of purples and yellows over a sea of green. she laughs in surprise and delight and turns to zuala. what is this?

zuala brings yasha’s hand to her chin and rubs it gently, a gesture of pure love that yasha has not experienced in years. a gift. a bribe. a memory that’s not quite there.

yasha looks at her, and then looks at her meadow. she would like to stay here forever, she thinks. her wife and her flowers. her wife--

hold on. what do you mean, bribe?

zuala, in turn, pulls her close and gives her a kiss.

green. /gren/.

adjective. the color of pure life. it fills you up. it spreads from your heart to your chest to your lips to your hands as you inhale, breathe it in. that color, that energy, that life. everything is green when she touches you.

noun. chlorophyll is what makes plants green. you didn’t have many chlorophyll plants when you were with her--in fact, you barely had any plants around you at all. she was the embodiment of life. she was your persephone. you didn’t need flowers because you had her. but she dreamed of them. you told her once that you were going to find her flowers, a whole garden of them, because she deserved to be happy. you have one now, a garden in a book, but it’s too late. you’re too late.

it steals yasha’s breath away, literally and figuratively. zuala’s kiss was like nothing yasha had ever experienced before or since. every time it stuns her. it’s a force of nature. it is nature. zuala’s kiss is the kiss of the earth, strong and steady and gentle and all-encompassing. when zuala kisses her she can feel herself decomposing, another corpse being taken over by mother nature. zuala is life embodied. yasha exhales poison and zuala turns it into oxygen, turns her rage into love, turns her vengeance into forgiveness.

and then it ends, as all things do. even mother nature herself has to breathe.

oh, yasha says, because what else can you say after something like that?

zuala, flushed and energized, gives yasha a wide grin. i have an idea. do you trust me?

of course. there is no hesitation in yasha’s mind when she answers.

the sincerity in her voice seems to catch zuala off guard. she blushes, then composes herself and clears her throat. good. follow me!

wait, what? but zuala has already let go of her hand. she runs down the hill, laughing.

there is a feeling, in the back of yasha’s mind, that this is a turning point. that something isn’t right, that this won’t end well. but she trusts her love, so she runs too. bare feet against the dew-soaked green below her. following the red.

in front of her, zuala is laughing. she does a cartwheel and dew sprays up, glimmering in the sunlight. yasha send out a little whoop! she could never get the hand of cartwheels herself. yasha was the muscle; she could kill with one hit. but zuala was all long limbs and dexterity, flips and runs. they would race and spar during their free time. yasha could win the sparring, but she was never able to beat zuala’s stamina in a race. now, yasha gives herself a bursts of energy, drawing from her reserves. but zuala is just too fast.

and then yasha slips. her hands shoot out to catch herself, and when she looks up zuala is gone.

before her sits the entrance to the forest. it is dark and thick, unlike the meadow of dreams that sits behind her. this green is more primal, more feral, more powerful. this isn’t just life, this is judgment.

yasha does not want to go in. in the back of her mind, she knows what’s coming. she recognizes this too, she knows what this is.

love, are you coming? comes a call from inside. i have a surprise for you.

yasha takes a hesitant step forward, and then another. i thought you said it was an idea?

well, it’s kind of both. the forest green laughs. you’ll see.

as she brings herself into the forest, yasha can feel the meadow disappearing behind her. she doesn’t look. instead, she keeps her eyes forward, searching the green for a burst of red, searching for her love.

the trees are taller than any she’s ever seen before. yasha is a very big woman, but she couldn’t even come close to the size of these trunks. they watch her as she passes through their domain. some are unbothered, some are curious. she finds herself saying excuse me to the undergrowth as she pushes through as carefully as she can.

as she gets further in, everything seems to get bigger and bigger. the trees, who were about two-yashas in size when she entered, are now at least five. they tower over her, whispering. the undergrowth is thicker, too, almost pressing in. guarding. excuse me, she says again, this time a little more forceful.

she starts to get worried. there’s no way zuala went in this far, right? did yasha miss her? the trees watch from above as her searching becomes more frantic. zuala! love, i can’t find you!

i’m over here! her voice is so far away. are you coming? i have something to show you!

yasha starts running in the direction of her voice. she jumps over roots the size of her own body, ducks under branches too low to be alive. the giant forest’s gossip gets louder in her ears. she has to find her, has to be there. zuala has something to show her and yasha would not miss it for the entire world.

and just like that, it’s over. the trees watch from their normal perches, normal sizes. the undergrowth lets her pass. and in front of her is zuala, who looks a little surprised. are you okay, love? you look worried.

yasha blinks. she’s found zuala in a small clearing and zuala has something dark in her hand. patches of sunlight freckle the mossy floor. yeah….yeah, i’m okay. i just couldn’t find you for a second there. i’m not very good with directions, you know?

zuala smiles. she hesitates, playing with whatever is in her hands, then looks away. yasha….what if we were never separated again?

what? yasha takes a step forward into the clearing. the underbrush closes behind her. she barely notices. the moss is soft under her feet.

zuala laughs nervously. i mean, gods know you can’t walk around a forest without someone holding your hand. you need someone to….keep you from getting lost.

she’s nervous. why is she nervous? what are you saying, love? just draw me a map.

no, that’s not--that’s not what i mean, yasha.

yasha reaches her. she’s still not making eye contact. what’s wrong, love?

zuala bites her lip. she’s never nervous like this. yasha tries to reach out, take her hand, but she quickly moves it away.

zuala. please tell me what’s wrong.

the forest holds its breath.

zuala looks up. she’s so incredibly beautiful. yasha….do you love me?

yasha actually laughs at that. of course. i always have and i always will. you give me life.

she smiles. and…….this is the important part, yasha. do you trust me?

there is a rare seriousness to zuala’s tone that yasha matches in her response. completely.

then let’s attach ourselves.

yasha starts. above her, the forest whispers again. sorry?

now that she’s said it, zuala seems to gain traction. yeah, let’s just do it. it can be just us. nobody else has to know. nobody’s around to see. i love you and you love me and there’s no...you know….logical reason why we shouldn’t, you know? our love is beautiful. it should be celebrated just like everyone else’s. i have the binding cloth prepared.

this is overwhelming. but despite everything, despite the stakes and the ever-watching forest, yasha is inclined to say yes. she thinks the clearing is getting smaller.

in front of her, zuala opens her hand to reveal a long, dark strip of cloth. only if you want to. i’m sorry, i should have talked to you about this first. this wasn’t a good idea. i’m sorry, love, let’s just go back. unless you would like to do it, do this--i just, your expression, it’s kind of hard to tell. it’s up to you, love.

she fidgets with the binding cloth as she babbles. yasha watches her, entranced, and finds that she is looking at her wife.

yasha puts a hand over zuala’s. she stops mid-sentence.

yes.

a cold wind brushes through the clearing, tossing zuala’s hair. what?

some of the hair got caught in zuala’s mouth. yasha brings her thumb up to zuala’s lip to brush it away. let’s do it.

it’s zuala’s turn to be stunned. yasha hasn’t removed her hand from zuala’s mouth, and zuala’s own hand finds itself resting over hers. are you sure, love?

zuala, you are my love and my life. you share my soul. i’m sure about that. i trust you completely. i want to spend the rest of my life with you. i don’t think i’ve ever been this sure of anything else in my entire life.

they’re both crying and laughing. all right, then, flower, zuala says. let’s make this official. she takes yasha’s hand from her face, and with the other one begins to wrap the binding cloth around their wrists. there’s rain in the air. the clearing is small and the green is deep. yasha watches her and feels….soft. and light. she feels like she is made completely out of love.

zuala begins to speak the words, twisting the cloth around their hands tighter and tighter. braids and knots almost seem to form on their own. yasha takes her end of the cloth and continues their ritual. their voices complement and harmonize with one another naturally. above them, the trees lean in.

zuala looks up and smiles. her eyes are full of tears. with her free hand, yasha pauses in her ritual and wipes them away. i love you.

i love you too.

their hands, now completely entwined, end. there is a moment where everything is still, and then yasha kisses her wife.

black. /blak/.

adjective. the color of your hair. the color of a promise. the color of silence and of change. a completeness or an absence.

noun. you were never superstitious, but she was. she would tell you that true black doesn’t happen naturally--that black was just really dark something-else. she said that if you ever came across anything that was true pitch you should run and never look back. you laughed.

something isn’t right. when yasha kisses zuala her lips feel wet and cold--there is no life. yasha pulls back, but the binding stops her.

zuala looks at her, confused and concerned. black liquid drips from her mouth. what’s wrong, love?

you--you’re--

yasha tries to take another step back, but the ceremonial binding is still holding them together. she looks down at their conjoined hands. from where the binding sits, zuala’s veins are black. the tips of her fingers are turning pale. as yasha watches in horror, the black liquid rises up zuala’s arms through her veins. she watches it travel up and up and up until it reaches zuala’s face. the wind rises, tossing her red, red, hair again.

yasha, what’s wrong? this is what you wanted, right? the binding?

no, no, we have to---we have to take it off, it’s killing you--love, it’s--

yasha reaches for her hunting knife but it isn’t there. nothing is there. she is nothing. she is trapped. in front of her, yasha’s wife looks on with black eyes and pitch tears. the forest is getting darker. the wind is pushing her, telling her to get out. but she can’t. she’s bound.

yasha, let go!

the darkness is rushing through the trees behind zuala. yasha can see it coming for her. the wind is strong and the forest is dark and humming and zuala bleeds black blood. yasha tries again, but to no avail. the binding is made of love and it’s not about to break for anything.

yasha. let me go!

i can’t! yasha cries. i’m scared and trapped and i’m not going to leave you!

the darkness presses in from all sides. black liquid pours from zuala’s mouth. the trees scream around them. everything is too much, too much, too much. she can’t--can’t let go--

yasha. look at me.

she can’t she can’t she can’t it’s everywhere and she needs to break out, needs to leave, needs to--

yasha.

her wife calls her. dimly, over the noise of the blackness, yasha can hear her.

you need to let me go.

i can’t, you know i can’t--

you have to. it will kill you.

i’d rather die with you then live without you.

well, zuala chuckles, my dying wish is to make sure you live a happy and full life. you wouldn’t deny me that, would you?

the blackness swirls around them, but they’re in the eye of the storm. the grass is green under their feet. yasha looks down at their hands, clasped. there is no binding cloth. just them, together, intertwined.

go, zuala says. deep red blood pours from her eyes but she smiles at yasha, unbothered. there are so many flowers in the world to see. don’t give it all up just for me. i’m already gone.

and she is. as yasha watches, zuala begins to fade into the dark. her skin turns pale and rots, gently, softly. a woman of the earth.

i love you, yasha says. it’s a fact.

i love you too, zuala says. it’s a promise.

yasha lets go of her hand. immediately, the blackness begins to take her wife. it envelops zuala like a lover. she smiles reassuringly, her eyes now holes, her skin now dirt.

yasha turns and runs.

the blackness chases her, but the trees let her pass. she runs and runs and runs, sprints through the unending forest. runs for miles, days, weeks. always, the blackness behind her, whispering promises of a guaranteed reunion, reminding her of the red on her hands. she’s tired, but she keeps running. it begins to rain. there’s a light up ahead, voices. if she can just reach it, reach them, then maybe she’ll be safe. maybe she can stop running.

rain pounds against the window of the train. yasha blinks tears from her eyes and turns down her headphones, letting the drumming of the familiar sound blend with whatever acoustic background music she had been listening to.

someone across the way is staring at her. she gives them an awkward wave and attempts a reassuring smile, then turns back to the window. she must look like a mess. who cries on the train? her, apparently. dreams are like that.

she should tell her friends she’s on her way back.

yasha picks up her phone. she should tell them.

the darkness outside almost seems to dim the lights for a moment.

she sighs and locks her phone, message unsent, and watches the raindrops trickle their way down the window.

#my writing #yasha #yasha nydoorin #yasha/zuala #critical role #critfic #idk what else to tag this #FEEDBACK APPRECIATED EVEN IF ITS JUST A KEYSMASH I WANT TO HEAR YOUR THOUGHTS #that scene where she runs thru the forest is my least favorite but i don't feel like editing atm so.

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paradisecost · 4 years

Note

“You saved my life, before.” Molly remarked. “When Geralt brought me here, he brought me to you. I recognize your eyes—it was you. You saved my life.” She gave a small bow of her head, doubting that any affection she might show in appreciation would be taken the wrong way. “Thank you, sir. I am in your debt.” - Red

It remembers all too well the Witcher’s snarling desperation; the poor attempts to bargain with it, to bribe it, that it might save the woman’s life for him. The Red had not healed anything or anyone in years and it told the Witcher as much: to bribe or bargain when the outcome was so uncertain was foolish to the point of absurdity. Then the Witcher had taken the silver sword from its back and uttered a trapping spell, and the Red had understood that they were past the point of trading words.

Now, it crouches in the shadow of the trees, an unnerving imitation of a man, and watches the lost queen with apathetic eyes.

‘I had no choice in the matter,‘ it tells her.

The voice comes from the body--that uncanny, lanky mess of white limbs and wine-red hair crouched in the undergrowth--but its mouth doesn’t move, and it sounds like no voice at all. Like the shining crack of porcelain underfoot, or the flat, white press of piano keys.

‘And you are still going to die, in the end.’

#asks #ic: red #v: lionheart (red)#secondhandmckie #[ in which we learn that geralt used the magic trap sign and threatened red into healing her oops ]#[ red and his trap-based trauma: (: ]

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fellowlesbian · 5 years

Text

Love your Pet

“Irimis, get your feathery ass back here!” Thalia barked, chasing after the cackling eagle. Irimis had within his claws Thalia’s dear bracelet, Aegis, and was racing away at his top speeds, swooping into the woods. Thalia cursed and bolted after the bird.

“Sorry, mom!” Irimis cawed, swerving around a particularly large branch and flapping up higher. “I swear I have a reason for doing this!”

“You’d better, and it’d better be good!” Thalia snapped, leaping over a low hanging branch and continuing to weave through the trees. “I’ll kill you if it isn’t!” “But mooooooom,” Irimis taunted, doing a roll around a trunk.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Thalia threatened. Irimis just clucked back at her, keeping up the cat and mouse game they were playing. “Irimis!”

The eagle finally landed, dropping her bracelet at the top of Zeus’s Fist and landing right next to it, looking quite proud of himself. “Bring it down here!” Thalia demanded, picking up a rock and chucking it at Irimis. He hit it away with his wing.

“Just wait a minute. You’ll see.” Thalia looked at him, confused, but sat down on one of the larger boulders to wait.

It was a minute before she heard footsteps crashing through the undergrowth. Almond swept into the clearing, Percy on her tail. Almond dropped something next to her bracelet and landed beside her mate. “Give it back!” Percy yelled, shaking his fist at the hawk. Almond had an amused look in her eyes.

“I think not,” she replied. “You can have it back when you do as we say. You as well, Thalia.”

“Fuck you,” Thalia said. Percy started, looking at her in surprise. Thalia smirked at him. “Did you not see me?”

“No, I didn’t,” Percy answered. “You didn’t move or say anything!” “Well, I’m sorry,” Thalia said with obvious sarcasm.

Percy frowned. “What did she say?” He asked.

“That neither of us will get our stuff back until we do as they say,” Thalia told him. He looked up at the birds and raised an eyebrow.

“That’s right!” Irimis chirped happily. “Now be a good human and sit down.”

“Irimis shut your beak. Percy, come sit,” Thalia commanded. Percy complied. Irimis and Almond flew down, settling on the shoulder of the one they stole from. “What do you two want?”

“Well,” Irimis began. “I would like a latte.”

“Irimis!” Almond scolded, hitting him with her wing. He coughed and shook his head. “Be serious!”

“I’m never giving you coffee again,” Thalia said. “I don’t care what your bribe is.”

“Don’t know why,” Irimis muttered. Almond hit him again. He tried to nip at her wing but she was too fast.

“What we want if for the two of you to finally admit some things to each other,” Almond explained. Thalia repeated her words to Percy.

“Could you . . . elaborate?” Percy asked.

“You know what I’m speaking of,” Almond said. “I’ve spoken with Percy, and I know that Irimis has spoken with Thalia.”

Thalia looked at Percy with surprise. “You want us . . . to say that?” Thalia asked hesitantly.

“Duh,” Irimis cawed. “Isn’t that what she just said?”

“Alright, you need to shut it,” Thalia said, shooting an accusing look at the eagle on her shoulder. Irimis just shrugged.

“What did he say?” Percy questioned. Thalia remembered that Percy couldn’t understand the birds.

“Have you spoken with Almond about something recently?” Thalia asked reluctantly.

“Um . . . yes. Why?”

“They want us to tell each other what we told them,” Thalia said. “I’m guessing we both have the same thing to say, then.”

Percy’s eyes widened and he looked at Almond. “You traitor!” Percy exclaimed. Almond just twittered and rubbed her head on his forehead affectionately. “No, stop, I’m supposed to hate you right now!”

“Too bad,” Almond stated. Percy seemed to get the idea of what she said because he flicked her in the side. She dug her claws into his shoulder in response. He ignored it.

“So, then . . .” Percy began. “You like me?”

Thalia hesitated. “I . . . I do,” she finally stuttered. Irimis laughed quietly and Almond nipped him in the side. His mocking made her more determined to be stronger about this. “Yes, I do.”

“Well, nice to know my feelings are reciprocated,” Percy chuckled nervously.

“Well, what do you want to do about this?” Thalia said quietly. “Act on it or just go on with our lives?”

“No!” Irimis shouted, hitting her in the back of the head. “You will not just carry on without doing something! Do you know how painfully obvious it is that you two like each other?”

“Is it really that obvious?” Thalia asked.

“It is,” Almond replied civilly, unlike Irimis looked like he was about to do. “I do recommend you act upon this yourselves before the love children force it upon you.”

“You’ve got me there,” Thalia admitted. “Well, Percy? How will we do this?”

“I’m not sure,” Percy said. “Gradually ease into a relationship? Maybe try for a date?”

Thalia smiled. “I’d like that.”

#percy jackson and the olympians #percy jackson #pjo #perlia #thalia grace #fanfiction #fanfic #drabble #one step at a time #heroes of olympus #hoo

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dailydj · 6 years

Text

Psalm 15: Evocations

LORD, who may dwell in your sacred tent? Who may live on your holy mountain?

Like a giant cloth iceberg, the tabernacle juts above a sea of tan Israelite tents. Off in the distance, there, can you see it? The faint outline of Mount Sinai, out on the hazy desert horizon, where they say God’s glory burns more brightly than the sun. Just entering either of these spaces for a brief moment is a nerve-wracking, death-defying experience. No one would ever dream of trying to stay for longer than a few minutes, let alone try to live there.

Aaron, the high priest, was packing up his things and getting ready to go home for the night, when out of the corner of his eye he caught a flicker of candlelight in the Holy of Holies, the center room of the tabernacle. Cautiously, Aaron crept back into the tent, and he noticed the shadow of a man was cast upon the dividing curtain of the holy place. The man was sitting and praying, and then he began to laugh, rising to his feet and swaying to and fro, dancing with complete, pure enjoyment and freedom. "Who’s there?” shouted Aaron. A great wind blew through the tabernacle, the candlelight was extinguished, and the tent fell into silence and darkness.

The one whose walk is blameless, who does what is righteous.

He’s talking to a sick old woman, touches her, and life and health immediately spread across her entire body. He is settling an argument between feuding Pharisees and commoners, and standing up for the oppressed. He’s standing before a crowd of thousands, speaking words of such resounding truth and inspiration that the people are enraptured, unable to turn away.

Who speaks the truth from their heart.

“Truly I tell you,” declares Jesus, “Unless you give up all that you have, to follow me, you will never inherit the Kingdom of God”. The rich young ruler falls to his knees, distraught, conflicted, torn apart inside. Jesus’ look of compassion is warm and sincere, but also firm, decided, and His message is clear: what He’s asking for is hard, but undeniably true.

Whose tongue utters no slander.

Jesus pulls a coin from his pocket, and tosses it to the two old Jewish men smirking at Him from the front of the crowd. “Tell me, whose face is inscribed on that coin?” he asks.

“Caesar’s,” replies the Pharisee.

“Then give unto Caesar what is Caesar’s, and give unto God what is God’s,” answers Jesus.

Who does no wrong to a neighbor, who casts no slur on others.

Jesus was tired. His cousin had just died, beheaded at the hands of a foolish king. He couldn’t help feeling the tug of guilt, couldn’t help but wonder, if John hadn’t been out there stirring people up about Him, the coming Messiah...would he still be alive? There was so much suffering, so much evil and hatred and cynicism here...humanity had grown to be so broken, and it broke Jesus’ heart. He needed some time away, just to spend with His Father, to be reassured of why He was sent here. The bottom of the boat scraped land, and Jesus stepped out into the shallow water. He settled on a rock, sitting cross-legged, watching the sun drift lazily towards the horizon, and let out a huge sigh of relief. Jesus closed his eyes, and murmured, “Father, I —”

“THERE HE IS!” came a shout from the bushes behind him. Suddenly, the undergrowth was rustling with the sounds of dozens of people, eagerly wading their way through the trees and shrubs to swarm towards Jesus. A woman carrying her baby had cuts on her arms, where tree branches had scraped them, but was nearly in tears of joy and ecstasy as she ran down the beach towards Jesus. Two sons panted as they stepped out from among the trees, the older one carrying their ailing father on his back. They smiled at one another, bumped fists, then made their way down the sand with their father between their shoulders. A familiar voice cut through the noise and excitement, as one young man shoved people out of the way to sprint down the beach. “Jesus!” yelled Peter, flailing his arms wildly to get his attention. He ran up to Jesus’ rock, gasping for air. “Phew...aah, I’m so sorry man, I really tried to stop them, but they’re relentless!”

Jesus smiled. “It’s okay,” He said. “Let them come.”

Who despises a vile person.

“You snakes!” He screamed. “You filthy thieves!” He grabbed a man by the shoulders and flung him into a table of birdcages, sending a cloud of money and doves floating up into the air. “What have you people done!” He roared, “This is my Father’s house! But you…” He towered over a quivering salesman, who was still clutching a purse of money tightly to his chest, as if it would protect him from this raving lunatic. “You have made it into a den of fucking robbers!”

But honors those who fear the Lord.

Jesus smiled, watching His friends toss food into each others’ mouths across the table. Quietly, He got up, took off His shirt, and tied a towel around His waist. He tapped Peter on the shoulder, who was trying to see if he could fit a whole apple into his mouth. “Hrnghhff?” asked Peter, who turned and saw Jesus, then immediately started choking and spitting out his food. “Jesus!” he angrily whispered, “What’re you doing, where are your clothes??”

“Your sandals, please.”

“My...what? What are you doing?”

Horrified, Peter watched as Jesus took Peter’s feet in His gentle hands, and began washing off the dirt caked between Peter’s toes, stuck to his soles, under the nails. The disciples looked on in awe and wonder.

Who keeps an oath even when it hurts, and does not change their mind.

“And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age.” Matthew never forgot those words, as long as he lived.

Who lends money to the poor without interest.

Peter said, “Silver and gold I do not have, but what I do have I give to you.” The crowd gasped as the lame man rose to his feet. Dang, that sounded good, thought Peter. I feel like I remember Jesus saying that somewhere before.

Who does not accept a bribe against the innocent.

Jesus stood on the hill outside Jerusalem, gazing at the tiny people milling about, pondering to Himself. I might be able to help them, He thought. I could write new laws, which treat all people with perfect justice. I could reorganize their economy, so that everyone has enough to eat. We could raise a military, conquer neighboring territories little by little, and invite everyone into a great new empire. I’d be ruler over them all, a beautiful, perfect Kingdom. And it wouldn’t be so hard; all I’d have to do is just…

Jesus stopped, laughed to Himself, and said, “It is written: ‘Worship the Lord your God and serve him only.’ Thanks for the offer, Satan, but I think I’m good.”

Whoever does these things will never be shaken.

Drip, drip, drip. Blood plinked out a slow rhythm as it slid down the bridge of His nose, into a small puddle forming at the base of the wooden cross. Stabs of pain shot up Jesus’ feet as He pushed himself up to draw a ragged, desperate breath.

Curse him, whispered a voice in His ear. He has abandoned You, He does not care for You any longer. Why should you remain faithful to Him now?

Jesus lifted Himself for another breath, shuddering as the pain tore through His body again.

He is disgusted with You. You have made Yourself hideous in His sight. Surely His favor has departed from You. Curse Him, and worship me instead, Son of God. I can end Your suffering, all You have to do is one little thing.

Jesus said nothing, simply heaving Himself up once more for another breath. This went on for several hours more, just the tempter and Jesus, breathing, hurting, dying.

#Psalms #Jesus #story #bible

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gwynhyrs-saga · 7 years

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I was looking at older shots, trying to decide on a version of the goddess to go with, and I saw a line about Otter's magic not being true magic - out of curiosity, how was that storyline meant to go?

Otter came about from my needing characters that were appropriate to play through the College of Mages and Dark Brotherhood questlines. My “canonical” playthrough was with Gwynhyr, and she was really not the sort of character who would have fit in with either questline (or the Thieve’s Guild quests for that matter). So I made secondary characters, non-Dovahkiin, to go back and wrap up the secondary questlines and little side quests that I might have missed. And then, being me, I made up some elaborate fiction that tried to tie everything together.

Since I knew that the Dark Brotherhood questline ended in the assassination of the Emperor, I thought it would be best to have a character who would want the Emperor dead for personal reasons, not just to fulfill a contract. Just seemed more interesting. So I thought back over the game lore to see if I could find a way to fit this character’s motivations into the game’s larger story and themes.

I’d always liked the idea that the Aldmeri Dominion seemed to have blundered into “winning” the war with the Empire despite being defeated soundly at the Battle of the Red Ring… that if Titus Mede hadn’t then agreed to the White Gold Concordat the war would have ground on for years with the Altmer tied down in conflicts across the Empire, unable to cleanly consolidate their power.

So I decided to make Otter a Bosmer partisan, part of a movement dedicated to freeing their people from Thalmor domination by any means necessary. My rationale was that killing Titus Mede would further destabilize the already unstable peace with the Thalmor - with unpredictable consequences, but possibly setting in motion events that could lead to the Thalmor losing, or at least loosing, their grip on their conquered territories.

Maybe Mede would be replaced by a stronger Emperor who could unite and rally the Empire and drive back the Thalmor. Maybe the Empire would fully collapse in the ensuing chaos, and with no central authority to enforce the Concordat, the Thalmor would be bogged down in guerrilla warfare all over the former Empire. Maybe nothing would change, and all that was accomplished was sending a message. From the point of view of an oppressed people, there seemed to be no downside to at least shaking things up a bit.

Since this is a Bethesda game I realized that I didn’t even need to make him an assassin in order to finish the Brotherhood questline, and I figured I also didn’t really need to make him a Mage in order to finish the College of Mages questline (I was right on both counts). And since I’m lazy I thought I could make one character to do both rather than dedicate a different character to each. So the idea of Otter came about - someone who can pass for a mage or an assassin without really being either.

Knowing a bit of the (very weird) history of the Bosmer in TES games, I thought I could invoke the Wild Hunt as a way to give Otter his remarkable powers over flame, powers that would allow him to pass as a mage and become his signature means of dispatching his foes. I saw him as one of a small group of guerillas imbued with this power in order to take the fight to the Thalmor by eliminating key figures - magical suicide bombers in a way. I had in mind the role that fire serves in managing a forest… that it burns away the undergrowth and smaller trees, allowing the stronger trees to flourish; in our world giant sequoias actually rely on fire to allow their seeds to propagate. The Bosmer view is of the empire as a once-pleasant wooded glade, dominated by a huge, old tree - still living and strong, but a tree in whose shadows only weeds and brambles have been allowed to grow. Burn that tree, and who know what might grow up to replace it? Otter and his compatriots are the cleansing fire that will burn aside the undergrowth, clarifying and purifying the wood, releasing the seeds of potential regrowth.

Of course I worked Ri’saad into the affair, like I did with all of the others. I had him send Otter into Saarthal after a fragment of the Gauldur Amulet (which Ri’saad then used to bribe Gwynhyr into doing some work for him, Gwyn being sort of obsessed with it), which gave Otter some pretext for being involved in that questline. Given the “villain” of that storyline is a Thalmor mage, it made sense for Otter to see it through once started. As payment, Ri’saad then connected Otter with the Dark Brotherhood - heck, he might even be behind Amaund Motierre’s placing of the contract to kill the Emperor in the first place, facilitating Otter’s access to the Emperor by leveraging the Dark Brotherhoods contacts and intel. After all, the Khajiit also are under Altmeri domination…

And that’s about it - sorry for my typically long-winded answer to a basically simple question :)

A lot of the initial story posts are still over on The Nexus (here’s a favorite, and this one’s pretty relevant to Otter’s nature, and this touches on Otter’s rather out of character name), but I never worked out a good way to link them all together sequentially.

#myrrhbearer

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minute20 · 6 years

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A Murder in Yunnan: The Margary Affair

There was a time when “a trade war with China” meant real war. During the 1800s, Britain was spending millions on Chinese silk, tea and porcelain, and wanted China to play fair by buying British goods in return. Rebuffed by the Qing Imperial court, the British tapped into a profitable underground demand for opium, imported cheaply from their Indian territories. When Chinese officials tried to stop the traffic, Britain launched the Opium Wars, which ended in 1860 with foreign armies besieging Beijing and forcibly opening up China to international trade.

Within a few years British merchants had established bases in eastern China, and began eyeing untapped markets in the country’s vast interior. But transporting goods inland was slow, unreliable, and expensive: roads were rough and prone to banditry, the rivers full of rapids and pirates, and transport taxes made the cost of British goods uncompetitive.

Looking for a backdoor into China, Britain homed in on the remote southwestern province of Yunnan. British India and Yunnan were separated by just one country – Burma (now known as Myanmar) – which Britain already had her hooks into, following victories in two Anglo-Burmese wars. Yunnan’s mountainous border with Burma was porous, crossed year-round by caravan trains transporting gemstones and raw cotton into China.

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Unfortunately, all trade had been suspended by civil war. In 1856 Yunnan’s long-persecuted ethnic Muslims had rebelled against Chinese authority in what the British called the Panthay Uprising. Yunnan became a battleground as Imperial forces fought to stop the Panthays from turning the province into an independent Islamic state.

But it would take more than a war to deter Victorian adventurers. If routes between Burma and Yunnan were blocked, perhaps a British expedition could unblock them and negotiate for a favorable trade deal with whichever side won.

Suspension Bridge on the old Tengchong Road. Photo by David Leffman.

In January 1868 an expedition assembled at Bhamo, a Burmese market town just 30 miles from the Yunnan border. Led by Major Edward Sladen, its initial target was the Muslim-controlled city of Tengyue (today renamed Tengchong), about 100 miles northeast over the Chinese frontier.

Not everyone welcomed Sladen’s plans. Bhamo’s Chinese merchants resented the idea of foreign competition; they also worried that Britain might support Yunnan’s Muslims against Chinese rule. So they hired Li Zhenguo, a Chinese guerrilla fighting the Panthays from his base in the hills outside of Tengyue, to stop the British from reaching their destination.

Even without Li Zhenguo, the expedition’s advance was hampered by local Kachin and Shan peoples, whose sabwas – hereditary chiefs – found reasons to delay these wealthy foreigners in their villages while they milked them for presents and cash. It took Sladen’s party three months just to reach the halfway town of Mangyun, from where they had to fight their way past Li Zhenguo’s stronghold, losing two of their escort in a skirmish. Finally safe inside Tengyue’s city walls, they were interviewed by the Muslim governor, Tasakone, who seemed eager to deal with Britain and promised to send an embassy to Rangoon later that year.

A possible deal in hand, Sladen returned to Bhamo. He concluded that the Panthays would welcome the resumption of cross-border traffic – if Britain supported their cause.

Britain decided, however, not to take sides and in 1873 the Chinese finally defeated the Panthays and reconquered Tengyue. A new expedition swiftly gathered at Bhamo, this time under Colonel Horace Browne. The expedition was to survey a possible railway line to Tengyue and then make a 2,000 mile journey across China to Shanghai. Guarding the expedition were a detachment of Sikhs and Burmese soldiers – a sizable armed force viewed with alarm by the local Chinese authorities.

A portrait of Augustus Raymond Margary from his posthumously-published diaries.

Britain now sent a consular official, Augustus Raymond Margary, to meet Browne’s party at Bhamo and act as their interpreter and troubleshooter. Born to a military family in India in 1846, Margary had been in China for seven years; his diaries reveal a patient but determined diplomat, who made friends among Chinese of all classes and worked hard to understand their point of view – even when worn down by delay, illness, and the constant intense scrutiny which all foreigners attracted.

Margary left Shanghai for Yunnan in August 1874. He faced resistance from the Chinese officials he met along his way, who were distrustful of foreigners’ motivations and tried to deter him with dire warnings of the dangers ahead. In fact Margary faced serious trouble on only two occasions: once when he was mobbed by an aggressive crowd; and again while out hunting, when he discovered that the three “deer” he was stalking were, in fact, tigers.

Reaching Yunnan that December, Margary cut southwest across the province toward the Burmese frontier. At Mangyun he found the former guerrilla Li Zhenguo, now a colonel in the Chinese military. Despite Li’s hostility towards Sladen’s expedition, to Margary’s surprise “he prostrated himself, and paid me the highest honors… Li told [the local gentry and sabwas] I had come protected by an Imperial edict, and that they had better take care of me.” Yet Margary was astute enough to wonder if Li might still harbor a grudge against the British.

Margary arrived at Bhamo in January 1875, where he met up with Browne’s expedition and prepared to escort them back into China. At the same time, a small British team was packed off south to survey a longer, more likely route for the railway; but it hadn’t got far when, on February 17, it ran into none other than Li Zhenguo. Li claimed that this back road to Tengchong was blocked by tribal war, and after a week of failed negotiations the survey team was forced to return to Bhamo. In retrospect, it’s likely that this story was invented by Li to get the British to retreat with minimum fuss; it also gave him an alibi for what followed.

Meanwhile, Margary and the main expedition were heading east toward Mangyun. A few days into their journey, reports reached them of an ambush waiting for them on the road ahead. Margary – who had traveled this route safely just weeks earlier – ridiculed the stories as the typical alarmist rumor he’d heard many times before. Convinced that there was nothing to worry about, he went ahead to investigate.

The rest of the expedition camped out in the hills above Mangyun, where Browne made inquiries at a nearby Kachin village. The sabwa appeared polite, but the sheer number of armed men wandering about – and a warning not to worry if they saw any Chinese soldiers – convinced the expedition that something was definitely amiss.

On February 22, Browne awoke to the news that Margary was dead and that a huge party of Chinese and their Kachin allies were about to attack. The expedition had just enough time to take up defensive positions before Kachin swarmed in from the forest, waving spears and screaming battle cries, while the better-armed Chinese held back. Disciplined volleys from the Sikhs soon had them diving for cover, but the battle dragged on until Browne bribed one of the Kachin sabwas to defect to the British side; his men set fire to the undergrowth and Browne’s party escaped. Back at Bhamo, reports confirmed that Margary and four of his Chinese staff had been killed outside Mangyun on February 21, and their heads hung on the town walls.

It says something about the region’s isolation that it took over six weeks for news of the “Yunnan Outrage” to reach the British community in eastern China. Yet this was nothing next to the eight months it took Britain to send an investigative mission to Yunnan – much of the intervening time was wasted in angry posturing on the British diplomatic side, matched by skillful inaction by the Chinese authorities.

Headed by the British Legation Secretary, Thomas Grosvenor, the mission reached Yunnan in March 1876 to find that the Chinese had already completed their inquiries. Yunnan’s governor, Cen Yuying, was a xenophobic, hard-bitten war veteran with a violent temper, though he allowed the Grosvenor Mission to witness a “burlesque of a trial” involving 11 Kachin men accused of killing Margary. The British felt that the Kachin barely understood their interpreter, had no idea of why they were in court, and were merely asked to confirm the Chinese version of events. According to popular gossip, the accused were actually innocent amber merchants, and the Imperial commissioner had been bribed by Cen Yuying to gloss over his role in the affair. Chinese investigators admitted to Grosvenor that none of them had actually visited the murder site.

Margary’s sole memorial is a headstone-like marker in a field outside Mangyun, which reads simply “Site of the Margary Affair.”

Keen to do better, Grosvenor pressed on to Tengyue and Mangyun, interviewing anyone with fresh information: Burmese merchants, Kachin tribesmen, Chinese officials, undercover detectives, French missionaries, and even Li Zhenguo’s mother. Yet each new informant only increased the tangle of contradictions: nobody agreed on who had murdered Margary, why he had been killed, or even where the attack had happened.

So who did kill Margary? The trial named one of the Kachin suspects, La Dou, though Grosvenor believed that the Chinese, keen to deflect blame, had fabricated his confession. Yet all other conclusions – Chinese and British alike – relied on hearsay, rather than hard evidence.

Everyone agreed that Li Zhenguo was involved somehow, though at the time he himself was elsewhere, busy repulsing the railway survey team. Was the murder carried out on his orders by a ragtag mob of opportunistic bandits, Chinese soldiers, or even those 11 Kachin later put on trial?

The British, having briefly blamed the Burmese king for engineering the attack, concocted an anti-foreign conspiracy going right back to Yunnan’s unlikeable governor, Cen Yuying. Under his instructions, Li Zhenguo’s militia had cooperated with Chinese forces to cover the two likely routes that the British might take; while Li dealt with the survey team, local soldiers and Kachin killed Margary and then raced off to attack Browne.

The Chinese denied that any of their soldiers or officials had been involved: they insisted that Margary’s murder was a robbery gone wrong, and the attack on Browne’s party was an entirely separate incident. The guilty parties were Kachin and renegade Chinese in Li Zhenguo’s pay, and the crimes were committed in a lawless region where the British should have known they’d be at the mercy of bandits. They did concede that Li Zhenguo had incited his followers to repulse the British, but insisted that Li had never intended bloodshed: Margary had only been killed after first shooting one of his assailants.

Despite everyone claiming that hundreds of people were involved, nobody aside from those 11 Kachin was ever convicted. All were executed. Li Zhenguo was demoted, while Cen Yuying removed himself from public office for two years, ostensibly in mourning for his mother.

It’s even harder to pin down exactly why the British were attacked because so many people had a motive. Tengyue had just suffered 18 years of bloodshed during the Panthay Uprising, and locals might have seen Browne’s heavily armed expedition as a new invading army. Then there were Bhamo’s Chinese merchants, who would have faced unwanted competition; and the sabwas, who levied tolls on goods ferried through their territories by mule, and stood to lose out had Britain built a railway. Railways themselves were contentious in China, as they were seen as facilitating foreign invasion. Tengyue’s gentry were also concerned that the British would bring with them Christian missionaries, whose presence had divided communities elsewhere in China.

Mule Train sculpture in Tengchong. Photo by David Leffman.

Though big news at the time, Margary’s murder is little remembered today. Its most lasting legacy came from China’s mission of apology to Britain in 1877, led by the scholar-official Guo Songtao. The mission was accommodated at 49 Portland Place, London, which soon became the permanent address of China’s first overseas embassy. Guo’s time as ambassador was not entirely successful: He wrote so enthusiastically about the superiority of Western technology (especially railways) that Beijing eventually forced his retirement.

Margary’s body was never recovered, and his sole memorial is a headstone-like marker in a field outside Mangyun, which reads simply “Site of the Margary Affair.” Nearby, a larger tablet gives the Chinese view of events: That the British attempted to invade China, that local ethnic groups killed Margary, and that their valiant defense of China’s borders would never be forgotten.

Between these two monuments, a minor road still runs to the Burmese border, the descendant of trails followed by the two British expeditions. It never became an important trade route.

David Leffman is a British photographer and travel writer and the author of The Mercenary Mandarin, a biography of the British adventurer William Mesny.

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