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enchantingkryptoniteheart-blog · 1 year

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*The Best of Intentions**

Chapter 2

Erebor had fallen silent as night had settled in. Torches remained lit, casting shadows to dance across the cold stone walls. He walked along quickly and quietly, grateful for the stillness of the late hour. His nightmare was still fresh in his minds eye.

He had awoken with a start, something mixed between a shout and sob caught in his throat. His night clothes and blanket had been drenched with the cold sweats that sent tremors through his body. It had felt so real, his body had been heavy and slow, as if trying to move through molasses.

This time, Fili had been run through, the blade bloodied and dripping onto the ice with deafening splotches. He had watched the life leave his beloved nephews eyes. He opened his mouth to scream, but nothing came out. Silence ringing in his ears as he watched in slow motion, Fili, plummet to the ice flow to shatter into a million pieces as if he had been made of bloodied glass all this time.

Azog's raspy, evil laugh mocked him as he stood trapped, feet frozen to the bloodied ice flow around him. "Gazat glob (dwarf filth). Izg thrak matum-u latu-uk! ( I bring death to you all)

"No! I killed you! I ran you through! I removed your head as you did my grandfathers! You are dead!" He screamed furiously, fighting to free his legs. He went to grab his sword, but it was gone. He looked around him frantically, confused. He never went into battle without his sword!

Azog's maniacal chuckle was loud in his ears, echoing around him in the ruins of Raven Hill. He looked forward, and his heart stopped. Azog was standing directly in front of him, looking down at him with a sadistic glee in his eyes, his lips curled to reveal sharp, bloody teeth.

"Latu paashnar az-izish, snork glob! Latu paashnar bhadur lab matum! (you cannot kill me, worthless fool! You cannot change your death!)

It was swift, the icy hot pain that flooded his chest. He looked down and saw Azog's sword buried in his chest. "Mmmmaaaattttt!" (Ddddiiiieeee!) The white orc hissed as he leaned forward, pushing his dual sword arm deeper into his chest…

He fought down the bile that tried to rise up into his throat. "No, he's dead. Fili and Kili are alive. I removed his accursed head from his miserable body." He gritted through his teeth. He walked past the rooms that held the tainted treasure hoard of his grandfather, without even a passing glance. He needed the night air, a fresh reminder that he was indeed alive and that all was relatively well.

He had fallen under the curse of the dragon sickness, much to his never ending shame. He had managed to shake it off; he fought against it with all of his might. But by then it was too late. He had damaged what little rapport he had had with the people of Esgaroth and Dale. He hoped fervently that Bard would look past this grievous transgression, and allow him to make good the promise he had bestowed upon Bard and his people.

Thranduil was an entirely different matter however. But they had all fought, and they had all lost in equal measure. No one was better or higher than the other. He had to prove that he was better than his grandfather. He was not a greedy, mad king. No! Nor would he ever be! His rule would be different. It had to be. For his people, for his family and friends. But most of all, for himself.

********** 

Several days later…

Large snowflakes drifted silently onto the battle torn field outside of Erebor and Dale. Both cities were now bustling with sounds of construction, while the camp housing the Elven army of Mirkwood was slowly being taken down and the wounded readied for their slow trek home.  The royal tents were still up, housing Thranduil and his company. The elf king, his son Legolas, and Bard the Dragon Slayer were leaning over the table, discussing possible trade agreements for the future.  A guard entered and bowed swiftly before the table. "My lord, the Dwarf king and his kin are requesting an audience."

Thranduil's eyebrow raised slightly, his expression schooled like that of a carved statue. "Very well. Show them in."

Legolas and Bard glanced at one another in alarm as they took a step back to stand behind Thranduil.  Thorin stepped inside the tent, closely followed by his nephews who flanked him on either side along with Balin and Dwalin who brought up the rear of their small group.  The atmosphere in the tent was thick with tension. The dwarven kings face was stoic, as was his kin. Thranduil noticed immediately that the older dwarf with the snow white beard and hair had a wooden box clasped securely in his arms and quickly settled his gaze on the dwarf that stood before him.

Thorin swallowed thickly before he averted his eyes and gave a slight bow. "My lords." He greeted, his voice deep but civil. "I hope all is fairing well with you and your men."

Thranduil barely contained his surprise, while his son and Bard didn't even try to conceal theirs. "Considering all that has happened; yes. As you have probably gathered we are preparing for our departure."

Thorin nodded in acknowledgement. "Yes indeed. Thus my unannounced arrival." He cleared his throat as he adjusted his stance, squaring his shoulders while clasping his hands behind his back. "It is good that the Dragon slayer is here as well. What I have to say is for both of you."

The elf king cocked his head slightly to the side, shooting a glance to Bard then back to Thorin, his eyebrow still raised. "Very well." Was his cool, guarded reply.

Thorin could feel his kin's eyes on him as he took another moment to still his racing heart and the static that coursed through his veins. He knew this was going to take every ounce of humility he possessed. But it had to be done, not only for his people but for himself. He prayed to the Valar to give him all the strength he could to keep him on this painful path of redemption.

“I thought myself strong enough to withstand the evil that had overtaken my grandfather. And I was wrong." He had to pause, as if the words physically pained him to speak aloud. "I was too blinded by the past, to what my people lost, to see what I had become. And I stand here before you to make the first steps to fixing what I broke. I was so focused on you failing to come to our aid, to you turning your back on my people, I failed to remember that it was my Grandfather, lost in his own battle, who struck the first blow in what destroyed the ties to our kingdoms."  Thorins jaw clenched as he motioned with his head for Balin to step forward with the box he was holding. Balin stepped forward to place the box in front of Thranduil.

The Elvenking's eyes widened, not fully believing what he was hearing as he looked at the teak box that had been placed in front of him. Another brief moment of silence fell in the tent before Thranduil slowly opened the box, to see twinkling against luscious navy velvet, the gems of Lasgalen. "Calathiel." He trembled as his slender fingers traced the gems before him in reverence.

Thorin watched his once nemesis, guilt churning in his stomach when he heard him whisper his wife's name brokenly.  "What made you change your mind?" Thranduil's gaze snapped back up to Thorin questioningly.

“It was wrong for my Grandfather to keep them from you." Thorin's jaw was still clenched. "Before Smaug came, my father and I were attempting to have them restored to you without his knowledge. The sickness had such a hold on him, he couldn't see reason. They were never ours to keep in the first place."

It was Legolas that stepped forward, when it was apparent that Thranduil was at a loss for words. "Thank you."

The sincerity in the elf prince's voice allowed the dwarves to relax slightly.  Thorin gave the prince a grateful nod, his ice blue eyes softening a fraction. He then turned his attention to Bard. "At your earliest convenience, we can discuss terms in regards what is owed to your people."

“Yes, of course. That would be most appreciated." Bard found his voice, shocked that the Dwarven King was so amiable. Bard was a good judge of character, and could tell that the king that stood before him now was not the same revenge driven dwarf that he had met back in Lake-town. It all seemed such a long time ago, when in reality it had only been a little over a month prior. He wanted to be free of the accursed gem that started this entire mess. He pulled the Arkenstone out slowly, and shifted its hefty weight in his hand. As he looked down at its luminous body, he saw the dwarves tense. Bard, without any further hesitation, stepped towards Thorin and held out the gem.  Thorin didn't hide the surprise in his eyes. "You would give up your leverage?"

Bard shook his head. "There is no need for leverage anymore. I trust you to keep your word."

He couldn't pinpoint what the exact emotion was that flashed across the Dwarf Kings face, but whatever it was it was a powerful one that made him appear uncomfortable. He eyed the gem he once held at the highest priority with uncertainty. "Balin. If you could please." His voice rough with emotion.

Balin quickly stepped forward and let Bard hand him the Arkenstone. He nodded appreciatively and stepped back to stand by his brother as he secured the sacred gem inside his jacket.

“Ill leave you to conclude your business. Good travels to you." Thorin inclined his head and bowed slightly again to the Elven King and Prince.

Thranduil looked up finally from his wife's heirlooms. It was the first time Thorin had seen the king's icy disposition waver. It was a rarity indeed that he was caught off guard. "No i Melain na le. (May the Valar be with you.)" Thranduil's peaceful parting surprised Thorin, it was spoken in the most civil tone he had ever heard the Eleven King speak in. It was a tone of quiet respect.

Uncomfortable, Thorin nodded again and turned quickly to exit. He couldn't get out of the claustrophobic tent quick enough. He exhaled in relief as soon as the crisp and snowy air hit his face.  "Well… that was…unexpected." Kili muttered as he looked at his uncle in concern. Fili looked over at his brother and shook his head quickly. "Not the time." He mouthed.

“Well, that couldn't of gone any better. Well done Laddie." Balin placed a congratulatory hand on Thorin's shoulder, conscious of his friends wounds.

“I must say I didn't even see that coming." Gandalfs voice made the dwarves jump in alarm. "I didn't even need to instigate that. I feel as if I'm no longer needed here." Thorin rolled his eyes as he turned to look the wizard. "I am perfectly capable of handling sensitive diplomatic matters without your pretty words."

Gandalf smiled, his eyes twinkling happily. "Then I will be leaving Erebor in the most capable hands. Not that I ever doubted you for a moment."

"Your leaving already Mr. Gandalf?" Kili asked with his disappointment evident. They all knew that once he left he would be escorting Bilbo home to the Shire.  "Well, not just yet. We will probably stay for the coronation then leave on our merry way."

Thorin nodded in understanding, not entirely surprised with his friends travel plans. "I am pleased to hear that your staying for the coronation."

“Oh, Mr. Baggins and I wouldn't want to miss it. It will be a most glorious occasion. Gives me the perfect opportunity to light off some of my firecrackers."

Fili and Kili grinned, excited to finally see the 'wizpoppers' Bilbo had always described in wondrous detail.  The wizard began walking alongside the dwarves as they made their way back towards Erebor. Fili and Kili were talking excitedly with Balin and Dwalin about the grand parties that had been thrown in Erebor in the days before Smaug. Gandalf looked down at the silent King, who was lost in his own turbulent thoughts. The wizard's brow furrowed in concern. "Your father would of been very proud of you. Of what you accomplished today with Mirkwood and Dale."

Thorin grunted in acknowledgment, still looking ahead of him. "If I had just kept my wits at the beginning of all this like I was supposed to, we wouldn't have to be doing all this groundwork now." He bit out, his words dripping in self loathing.

Gandalf shook his head, not surprised that Thorin was battling with these personal demons. "You are not doing yourself or your people any justices by taking on the shortcomings of the ones who came before you. You did the very thing your grandfather couldn't bring himself to do, you overcame the illness that doomed his reign. In fact, dragon sickness is not something the inflicted walk away from in one piece."

Thorin stopped walking abruptly, his eyes flashing an electric fire. "My grandfather succumbed slowly over centuries of wealth. I was afflicted by the time I stepped on the shores of Lake-town." He growled. "I was weak."

Gandalf jabbed his staff into the ground before him and leaned down slightly to look Thorin in his eyes adamantly. "Erebor was permeated by a wicked dragon's unquenchable greed for over a century. It was by no fault of your own that you were affected. But what matters most is that you fought your way out of its control. There is no recorded instance of someone overcoming it, You are the first to hold that title. And that, Thorin Oakenshield, is something to be proud of. You must remember that we are only shaped by the situations we find the strength to conquer."

Some of the tension melted from Thorin's face, and he relaxed his defensive stance.

“You must learn to be kind to yourself. You are just as deserving of leniency than anyone in this world deserving of it. And before you say anything, you DO deserve it."

Thorin smiled slightly, letting out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding. "Thank you my friend." Gandalf grunted, satisfied for the time being that he was heard. "Good. Heed my words and all will be well with you."

Thorin snorted and shook his head, still smirking. They continued walking, walking side by side in companionable silence for the first time in over year, before the quest to reclaim Erebor was even set into motion.

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rjalker · 4 months

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and her interesting infant, the first pledge of her pure and perfect love, had been precociously sucked, like an unripe orange, and nothing left but its beautiful and tender skin.

so they eat the bones too

what if I include the whole text on every post of my liveblog. Yes, I shall.

The Black Vampyre; A Legend of St. Domingo. By Uriah Derick D’arcy

So have I seen, upon another shore, Another Lion give a grievous roar; And the last Lion thought the first—A BOAR!

-Bombast. Furios

SECOND EDITION, WITH ADDITIONS. NEW -YORK: PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR.

1819.

TO THE AUTHOR OF “WALL-STREET.”

MY DEAR SIR, CHARMED with the success of your anomalous drama, which, without aspiring even to the character of nonsense, has already seen three editions, I have been myself induced to venture on publishing; with the sanguine hope of also scraping together a few shillings, in these hard times. Permit me to inscribe this tale to you, with a fellow-feeling for your lack of genius; and a fervent hope, that our names may be encircled by the same evergreen in the temple of the Muses; and that we may long flourish together, on the same pedestal, embellishing and elevating the literature of the Auction Room.

I remain, My dear Sir, Your affectionate Friend, And obedient Servant, THE AUTHOR.

Introduction

If any person should have patience to read the following narrative, and can discover the Author’s drift, it is more than he can do himself. If it be thought exquisite nonsense, it is more than the writer dares hope: and if it be pronounced simple, stupid, and unadulterated absurdity, his own private opinion will perfectly coincide with that of the public. He began to write without any fable, and before he had found any had spun out the thread of his ideas.

This tangled skein of absurdities is now exposed to criticism, from the laudable motive of showing, of how much nonsense an individual may be delivered, in the short space of two afternoons; without any excuse but idleness, or any object but amusement.

The prominent descriptions, which it is here attempted to ridicule, are fresh in the memory of all who have read the “White Vampyre;” and to those who have not, the Superstition must be so familiar, that it is unnecessary to make useless extracts.

That the Author may not, however, be misunderstood, it may be necessary to state, that in the speech of the Vampyre, he had no design of descending to that meanest of all intellectual exercises, a travestie on authors who are justly admired: but meant, if any thing, simply to show how passages, which were fine in their original use, when garbelled by the ignorant and tasteless, become a melancholy rhapsody of nonsense.

“But first on earth, as Vampyre sent, Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent; Then ghastly haunt thy native place, And suck the blood of all thy race; There from thy daughter, sister, wife, At midnight drain the stream of life; Yet loathe the banquet, which perforce Must feed thy livid living corse. Thy victims, ere they yet expire, Shall know the demon for their sire; As cursing thee, thou cursing them, Thy flowers are withered on the stem. But one that for thy crime must fall, The youngest, best beloved of all, Shall bless thee with a father’s name— That word shall wrap thy heart in flame! Yet thou must end thy task and mark Her cheek’s last tinge—her eye’s last spark, And the last glassy glance must view Which freezes o’er its lifeless blue; Then with unhallowed hand shall tear The tresses of her yellow hair, Of which, in life a lock when shorn Affection’s fondest pledge was worn— But now is borne away by thee Memorial of thine agony! Yet with thine own best blood shall drip Thy gnashing tooth, and haggard lip; Then stalking to thy sullen grave, Go—and with Gouls and Afrits rave, Till these in horror shrink away From spectre more accursed than they.”

-BYRON.

The Black Vampyre

Mr. ANTHONY GIBBONS was a gentleman of African extraction. His ancestors emigrated from the eastern coast of GUINEA, in a French ship, and were sold in ST. DOMINGO remarkably cheap; as they were reduced to mere skeletons by the yaws on the passage; and all died shortly after their arrival, except one small negro, of a very slender constitution, and fit for no work whatever. The gentleman who purchased him, charitably knocked out his brains; and the body was thrown into the ocean. The tide returning in the night, it was washed upon the sands; and the moon then shining bright, the gentleman was taking a walk to enjoy the coolness of the evening; judge of his surprise, when the little corpse got up, and complaining of a pain in its bowels, begged for some bread and butter!

The PLANTER supposing his business to have been but half done, kicked him back in the water. The element seemed very familiar to him; and he swam back with much grace and agility; parting the sparkling waves with his jet black members, polished like ebony, but reflecting no single beam of light. His complexion was a dead black;—his eyes a pure white;—the iris was flame colour;—and the pupils of a clear, moonshiny lustre;—but so peculiarly constructed, that, though prominent, they seemed to look into his own head. His hair was neither curled nor straight; but feathery, like the plumage of a crow. Having paddled again on shore, he came crawling crab fashion, to the feet of Mr. PERSONNE. The latter gentleman, in considerable alarm, (not knowing whether it was Satan, Obi, or some other worthy, with whom he had to deal,) mustered up sufficient resolution, to tie a large stone round the boy’s middle: then, with a main exertion of strength, he hurled him into the sparkling ocean. He fell where the reflection of the moon was brightest, and sunk like lead; but immediately rose again like cork, perpendicularly, with the stone under his arm; while the radiant lustre of the planet retreated from his dark figure, exhibiting in its most striking contrast its utter blackness!

In this predicament, he came buoyant to land; surrounded, as he seemed, by a sphere of magic lustre. He now walked up to the Frenchman, with his arms a-kimbo, and looking remarkably fierce. Mr. PERSONNE’S particular hairs stood up on end, but being ashamed that a little negro of ten years old, should put him in bodily fear, he knocked him down. The Guinea-man rose again, without bending a joint; as fast as Mr. PERSONNE could upset him, he recovered his altitude; just like one of those small toys, fabricated from pith, tipt with lead, called witches and hobgoblins by the rising generation!

The PLANTER, in utter amazement and despair, took hold of the child by both his extremities; and pressing him to the earth, set down upon him! Then, halloing for his attendants, he ordered a tremendous fire to be kindled on the sand!! This was accordingly done. The GAUL congratulated himself on his perseverance and sagacity; and as he had never heard of ignaqueous animals, was confident that though the water fiend was so expert in his own element, he could not stand the fiery ordeal. The boy, meanwhile, lay perfectly passive, as if he had been a mere log; but presently, when the pile was all in a light blaze, with a sudden expansion, like that of a compressed Indian Rubber, he popped Mr. PERSONNE up into the air many yards, and he alighted head-foremost into the fire, where he had intended to have dedicated the sable brat, with his nine lives, to Moloch!!!

Whatever the negro was, it is notorious that Mr. PERSONNE was no salamander. He was rescued from the pyre, which, like Hercules, he had, (though unwittingly,) erected for himself; looking like a squizzed cat, and having apparently no life left in his body. The attention of the domestics was drawn entirely to their master; who soon betrayed signs of animation, though he exhibited a most awful spectacle: being one continual sore and blister. “His whole body was one wound,” as Virgil or some other poet has hyperbolically expressed himself.

Mr. PERSONNE, when he perfectly recovered his senses, found himself in his own bed, wrapt in greasy sheets, and smarting as if in a Cayenne bath. He called for a glass of brandy,—his dear wife EUPHEMIA,—and his infant son, who had not yet been christened. His lady, with streaming eyes, presented herself before him; and, after tenderly inquiring into the state of his health, told him, (with a voice interrupted with sobs and hiccups,) that when she went in the morning to see her baby, whom she had left in the cradle, there was nothing to be seen, but the skin, hair, and nails!!! She declared that there never was such another object; except, indeed, the exsiccation in Scudder’s Museum!

On the receipt of this horrid intelligence, Mr. PERSONNE was seized with a violent spasmodic affection; and shortly after expired, muttering something about sacre, and the Guinea-negro!

The amiable, but unfortunate Euphemia, was thrown into several hysterical convulsions; as well she might be, poor woman! when her husband had been made a holocaust, and served up like a broiled and peppered chicken, to feed the grim maw of death; and her interesting infant, the first pledge of her pure and perfect love, had been precociously sucked, like an unripe orange, and nothing left but its beautiful and tender skin. The disconsolate widow caused her husband to be embalmed; and he was buried amid the lamentations and tears of all the funeral; much regretted by all who had the honour of his acquaintance, particularly by his negroes; who could not soon forget him; as he had left too many sincere marks of his regard upon their backs, to be ever obliterated from their recollections.

Time, as all the Greek tragedians, Solomon, and others have remarked, is a benevolent deity. Mrs. PERSONNE’S grief yielded to the soothing hand of the consoling power; and her bloom and spirits returned with more lustre and elasticity than they had before exhibited: as the rose, that had drooped in the fury of the passing storm, erects its blushing honours, and shows more beautiful and vivid tints, when the squall is over!

Many years after these occurrences took place, while EUPHEMIA was in second mourning for her third husband, she was indulging in the luxury of solitary grief; and reading Burton’s Anatomy of Melancholy, and The Melancholy Poems of Dr. Farmer, in an orangerie. The refreshing breezes from the ocean, which now tempered the sultry heats of the declining day,—the soft perfume of the opening blossoms;—and the mellow tints of the evening sky, shedding that holy light, so dear to sensitive hearts, diffused a calm over her soul, wrapt in the contemplation of departed days. While lost in this pensive reverie, she perceived two strangers approaching her, in the extremity of the long vista of the grove. One of them was a coloured gentleman, of remarkable height, and deep jetty blackness; a perfect model of the CONGO Apollo. He was drest in the rich garb of a Moorish Prince; and led by the hand a pale European boy, in an Asiatic dress; whose languid countenance, slender form and tristful gait, were strongly contrasted with the portly appearance and majestic step of his conductor!

They both saluted the lovely widow, and after an interchange of compliments, accepted her polite invitation to set down, and take tea with her in the bower. She learned from the elder stranger, that he had brought out a cargo of slaves, whom his subjects had lately taken prisoners in war; and whom he had resolved to dispose of himself; as he was desirous of seeing the world. His Page, he said, was an orphan, left by a slave merchant in Africa.

The manners and conversation of the PRINCE had an irresistible charm. The regal port was manifest in his gigantic and well proportioned frame; and majesty was conspicuous on his brow, without its diadem. The turban and crescent had never graced a nobler front; but the win- ning condescension of his tones and language, while they could not banish the feeling of the presence of royalty, removed every restraint incident to that consciousness. He criticised the works, which EUPHEMIA had been perusing, with masterly precision; and displayed more knowledge than even the accomplished ideologist of Lady Morgan; with infinitely more discretion and good sense.

It is remarked by the Abbe Reynal, that there is a peculiar elegance and beauty in the complexion of the Africans, (when the eyes and nose are accustomed to their hue and odour.) This truth was realized by EUPHEMIA, as she gazed on the open visage of her illustrious guest. She thought surely that in him Nature might stand up and say “This was a man!” And certainly it is only the weakness and imperfection of our human senses, which, penetrating no further than the surface, is for ever deceived by superficial shadows. The empyrean is always blue, whatever vapours may float in our contracted atmosphere. And if we gaze on the rows of skulls, which festoon and garnish Surgeon’s Hall, we can apply no standard, to determine their relative beauty. They are all equally ugly; and the block of Helen might be mistaken for that of Medusa. Shakspeare, true to nature, has also remarked, “Black men are pearls in beauteous ladies’ eyes.”

The beauty then, the royalty, gentility, and various accomplishments of the BAMBUCK monarch, made captive the too sensible heart of the French widow. She forgot her ogles, graces, and even her loquacity; rooted to her seat, and fixed in immoveable contemplation of the AFRICAN’S face. What peculiar feature or lineament attracted her attention, she knew not: his eyes, though bright, did not sparkle; and the iris, though of a more vivid red than the roseate line in the rainbow, emitted no scintillations. In fact, his whole countenance seemed to look, and to perambulate her own.

The conversation gradually assumed a more empassioned and amorous complexion; and the little page, (who, though meagre and emaciated, evidently showed that he was no gump for his years,) taking certain broad hints, cast a mournful and intelligent look on the widow, said he would fetch a short walk in the plantation, and left the orangerie.

The PRINCE then spreading his glittering sash upon the grass, went down on his knees upon it; and broke out into the most ardent exclamations, of love and admiration; and professions of constant attachment. He said that the flat-nosed beauties of Zara; the scarred, squab figures of the golden coast; the well proportioned Zilias, Calypsos, and Zamas on the banks of the Niger; and even the great Hottentot Venus herself, had never for a moment made the least impression on his heart! His passion was a mystery to himself; its origin secret as the sources of the Nile ; but full and impetuous as its ample channel, when replenished from the celestial fountains of ABYSSINIA; while if Mrs. DUBOIS would shine upon its waves, its enlivened currents would fertilize his vast dominions, in the luxuriant realms of central Africa; making them to fructify yet more abundantly, with burning gold, and radiant diamonds!!!

What female heart could resist such pleadings, and the compliment implied in such a preference? When ZEMBO (the page) returned, the parties had agreed to be privately united on the same evening. The ceremony was accordingly performed, on the spot, by the family chaplain of Mrs. DUBOIS: not without many remonstrances on his part, as to the impropriety of marrying a negro. The PRINCE did not see to resent the affront; which, by the by, he had no right to do; as the priest got nothing for the job. ZEMBO, too, was extremely restless; till Mrs. DUBOIS gave him some sweetmeats, which seemed to quiet his conscience; after which he took some stiff punch, and fell asleep!

About midnight, the PRINCE came to him; and, shaking him by the ears, bad him rise and follow him. His bride was hanging on his arm, in an enchanting dishabille; and did not seem to be in perfect possession of her right senses. ZEMBO mournfully followed the new married pair.

They went silently out of the back door, with cautious steps, and proceeded through the orangerie. No breath of wind was stirring. The moon was on the zenith, surrounded by a pale halo of ghostly lustre. When they had crossed the plantation, they came to a place of sepulture; where the dark cypresses, and lugubrious mahogany, admitted but sparse and glimmering streaks of funereal light; which, falling on the rank foliage, the white monuments and broken ground beneath, presented a thousand dusky shapes, flitting in the dim uncertainty dear to superstition.

Vague terrors seized on the mind of the bride; and she began very naturally to inquire, what was the use of getting out of a comfortable bed, and trailing through the heavy dew, in her undress, to such an unusual spot for midnight recreation.

They now stood near the spot, where her three husbands, several children, and the skin, hair and nails of her first baby, were deposited in a row. At the foot of a tamarind, lay her third son; whose christian name was SPOONER, and who died, according to the tombstone, in a fit of intoxication, aged seven years and six months. On him she had bestowed a greater share of tenderness, than any of her other offspring; and his loss had caused her most affliction. The African, making observations on the grave, began to strip himself very expeditiously, assisted by ZEMBO; who seemed to recover from his blues; and by his activity and eagerness, manifested his expectation of soon seeing some fine sport.

Presently the two genii, or gentlemen, or whatever they were, turned towards the East, and performed certain antic prostrations; throwing handfuls of earth three times over their heads. Then returning to the tomb, they tore up the sods with ravenous fury; and soon drew out the last- mentioned son of the Lady, and threw him on the grass, beside the grave. ZEMBO fell as fiercely upon the corpse, as a hungry dog upon his dinner; but was arrested by the AFRICAN, who lent him a severe box on the ear, which sent him blubbering to a corner of the cemetery.

What added both to the mother’s horrors and admiration, was, that the body of her child was perfectly fresh, and the olfactory nerves experienced no unsavoury sensation from its proximity; while its cheeks were diffused with so deep a tinge of scarlet, that they shone like ruddy fireballs in the darkness of the spot. Her husband drew a golden goblet from beneath a large stone; then, bending over the corse, he scooped out the heart, with his long and polished nails; and, having pressed the blood into the chalice, mingled with it some dark particles, gathered from the newly turned up earth. From the pure and scanty lymph, which gushed near by and flickered like a streak of quicksilvery-light in the moonbeam, he added a third ingredient of the potion. Then seizing his passive and trembling spouse by the throat, and presenting the unnatural mixture to her lips; he cried in a hollow voice, whose very inflection thrilled through each fibre of its victim,—“Swear, or if that is against your principles, affirm, by this dirty blood,—and bloody dirt;—by this watery blood,—and bloody water;—by this watery dirt, and dirty water;—that you will never disclose in any manner, aught of what you have seen and shall see this night. Call them all to witness your wish, that in the moment when you even conceive the thought of perjury, your bowels may burst out, and your bones rot! Swear and drink!”

The affrighted woman murmured, (as articulately as the iron gripe of the monster would suffer her,) that she was not thirsty; and had not breath enough to aspirate such a terrible conjuration. “No trifling;” roared the fiend, “you have not a moment to deliberate.” But his bellowing and threats were vain; and he found to his mortification that he had gotten the wrong sow by the ear, or rather by the throat. She stuttered out, in the most pitiful accents, which would have softened any heart (but a Vampyre has none,) that though she was by no means partial to the delectable confectionary of the pharmacopeia, calomel and jalap, ipecacuanha, rhubarb, and tartar-emetic, she would rather take them all, collectively and individually, than the unchristian decoction he held against her teeth.

Foaming with madness, till the white slaver flowed down his sable limbs, the African hurled MRS. PERSONNE, DUBOIS, &c. &c. on the grave of her first husband, and stamping violently on the earth, it seemed to heave as with the throes of an earthquake. Immediately the tumuli yawned. The ponderous stones and slabs were shaken from their ancient sockets; and the ghastly dead, in uncouth attitudes, crawled from their nooks; with their hair curling in tortuous and serpent twinings; and their eyeballs of fire bursting from their heads; while, as they extended their withered arms, and tapering fingers, furnished with blood-hound claws, their gory shrouds fell in wild drapery around them, transiently revealing their forms, bloated as if to bursting, and often incarnadined with clotted blood, yet warm and dripping!!!

The Lady, (as those who have been in similar predicaments may suppose,) soon lost her recollection; not, however, before she had seen ZEMBO busily employed in tearing up the grave of her first husband; she saw herself surrounded by the spectres, and lost all consciousness.

When reason and sense returned, she found herself in the same place; and it was also the midnight hour. She was laying by the grave of Mr. PERSONNE, and her breast was stained with blood. A wide wound appeared to have been inflicted there, but was now cicatrized. Imagine if you can, her surprise; when, by a certain carniverous craving in her maw, and by putting this and that together, she found she was a—VAMPYRE!!! and gathered from her indistinct reminiscences, of the preceding night, that she had been then sucked; and that it was now her turn to eject the peaceful tenants of the grave!

With this delightful prospect of immortality before her, she began to examine the graves, for subject to a satisfy her furious appetite. When she had selected one to her mind, a new marvel arrested her attention. Her first husband got up out his coffin, and with all the grace so natural to his countrymen, made her a low bow in the last fashion, and opened his arms to receive her!

What were the emotions of this fond couple, when, after a lingering separation for sixteen years, they again embraced each other, with the ardour of an affection equal to their earliest transports, and which their long divorce served only to increase; tenderly inquiring into the state of each other’s health; and the accidents which had befallen them during their disjunction. They forgot even their hunger and thirst; and sitting down on a tombstone, made a thousand inquiries; which, however, they related to family concerns, might not be as interesting to the reader as they were to the parties concerned.

Mr. PERSONNE, however, looked rather glum, when he learned that his Lady had been thrice married, since his decease. But she assured him, that she would never more tolerate the addresses of another suitor: and as for the two husbands, they were rotten enough by this time; as she was confident they had not attended the Vampyre Ball, on the preceding night. As for her sable spouse, she trusted that he would never again appear to interrupt their happiness. But while she was expressing this hope, the gentleman in question, (like his relation below, according to the old proverb,) came upon the ground, with ZEMBO. Mr. PERSONNE, having neither sword nor pistols at hand, armed himself with a gigantic thigh-bone; and warned the BLACK PRINCE to stand upon his guard as he meant to punish him severely.

But ZEMBO, rushing between the parties, raised his hands in a supplicating posture; while the generous monarch, making a Salam to his antagonist, begged him, keep himself quiet, and look behind him. They both turned round on this intimation, when, to the utter confusion of the Lady, her second and third husbands, Messieurs MARQUAND and DUBOIS, arose from the graves, where they had been lovingly deposited by the side of each other. They both advanced to salute their wife; but Mr. PERSONNE, brandishing his thigh-bone, warned them to stand off, as he had the first title to the Lady. Much confusion would have ensued, had not the African Prince interfered. He told the gentlemen that so delicate a point could only be settled in an honourable way; and proposed that Mr. MARQUAND and Mr. DUBOIS should first settle their difference in a personal encounter; after which Mr. PERSONNE might give the survivor gentlemanly satisfaction. To this all parties assented.

As they were already stripped, the combatants shook hands, to show their mutual good-will; and proceeded to action, without further ceremony. Mr. DuBois soon brought claret from Mr. MARQUAND; who, in returning the compliment, fibbed Mr. DUBOIS so severely in the bowels, that he lost his wind; and gasping for breath, smote the air on all sides, without any of his blows telling. He came to the ground, and his bones rattled as he fell. But soon recovering his breath, he made a desperate attack on Mr. MARQUAND’S sconce; and favoured him with so terrible a facer under the gills, that he fell incontinently like a bull smitten in his front; but entangling his own heels with those of Mr. DUBOIS, they both came simultaneously to the ground; striking their heads against different tombstones; and knocking out their own brains.

They rose again, refreshed like the giant of old, by their grappling with the earth, and all the better for the loss of their wits, which, indeed, was a mere trifle. But the AFRICAN, who had no time to see more sport, fixed them to the sod by his superior strength; and ZEMBO dexterously pinned them fast, by driving stakes through their hearts, with a large sledge hammer, (which he carried about his person for such emergencies.) During the opera- tion, their roaring surpassed that which is performed by the Lioness, when bereft of her whelps; but as soon as they were fairly nailed to the counter, they lay motionless and breathless—a horrible pair of spectacles of sin and misery!

The AFRICAN assured the Lady, that she need never fear their second resurrection; and Mr. PERSONNE politely offered to settle their controversy, in any mode most agreeable to the PRINCE:—either to box with him on the spot, or appoint a meeting in future, with pistols, rifles, small or broad sword; or else they might toss up, who should set fire to a barrel of gunpowder. The PRINCE said that quarrelling was all nonsense, and offered his hand; but Mr. PERSONNE refused, saying, “Don’t be too familiar, Blackey;” and renewing his threats of cracking him over the noddle with the thigh-bone.

The generous monarch pocketed the affront. “You have been,” he said, “sufficiently rewarded, for the cruelties you practised upon my person, several years ago. I forgive you, my dear sir, what you performed, and intended to perform on me. Here is your son, who has grown considerably, as you may observe; and I assure you that his education has not been neglected. To his exertions last night you are indebted for your revivification. And as, you may remember, you were embalmed, you have kept quite sweet and fresh ever since your interment. Amiable and virtuous VAMPYRES! may you long enjoy that tranquillity and contentment, which your merit and accomplishments so eminently deserve! A vessel lies in the port, ready to sail for Europe in an hour. The Island is no longer a place for you. Here is money to pay your passages, and all I have to say, is, that the sooner you’re off the better.—Farewell!” So saying he departed, without waiting for the acknow- ledgments of the party.

Mr. PERSONNE and his Lady, whom we shall again call by her first marriage name, did not exactly comprehend what their dingy benefactor meant, by bidding them take French leave of the Island, like pickpockets and outlaws; but, as they were yet wondering at their own existence, like Adam and Eve, the first day of their creation, and as they had reason to believe the PRINCE a potent magician, who could rouse the dead from their searments, and turn the planets from their courses;—for these reasons, they concluded to follow his bidding, without any impertinent scruples. But as the keen edge of their hunger had been whetted by delay, they would fain have taken supper, and digested a little something wherewithal to strengthen them, before they set out.

ZEMBO, who had filled his own breadbasket very lately, and was in no such urgent necessity, protested with all the vehemence which filial reverence would permit, against the unseasonable gratification of their unnatural craving; and recited with just emphasis and good discretion, an extract from Counsellor Phillips’s harangue, about “the cannibal appetite of his rejected altar;” which his parents did not understand, and of course thought very sublime! But even this master-piece of mystical eloquence would have been delivered in vain; had not the boy given other reasons of such cogency, that they licked their lips—cast a longing, lingering look at the grave-yard,—and followed him without more opposition.

They prosecuted their nocturnal march, through closely woven and solemn groves; until they descended into a profound valley, where the light of the pale planet of magic adoration, streamed and quivered on serried files of bright armoury. The leader of the band seemed to have expected their arrival; and mutual tokens of recognition passed between him and ZEMBO. The whole company then set forward their array in silence;—

No cymbal clash’d, no clarion rang, Still were the pipe and drum; Save heavy tread, and armour’s clang, The sullen march was dumb.

By continual descent, they seemed to have penetrated the bowels of a cavern, whose ramifications ran under the sea; as they heard a murmuring roar, as of the ocean, above their heads. The party, by the instructions of ZEMBO, dispersed themselves in different directions; until they had enclosed the interior of the rock where its largest chamber was, to speak catachrestically, so artfully concealed by nature, that no one, not instructed by an adept in its subterranean topography, could ever have detected the secret of its existence. It had been, in former days, a place of deposit and asylum for the Buccaniers; and its situation had been since known only to the Professors of the OBEAH art, who held here their midnight orgies.

Mr. and Mrs. PERSONNE, guided by their son, were placed in a situation, where, through the crevices of the inner partition of the rock, they could observe what was passing in the interior.

It seemed, at first view, a vast hall of Arabian romance; supported by immense shafts, and studded with precious stones; so various and beautiful were the hues, which the different spars assumed, in the light of an hundred torches, blazing in every quarter, and illuminating the farthest recesses of the cave. The walls were decorated with other appendages, which added to the mystery, if not to the embellishment of the scene; being irregularly stained with blood; decorated with rude tapestry of many coloured plumage;—and stuccoed with the beaks of parrots;—the teeth of dogs, and alligators;—bones of cats;—broken glass and eggshells; plastered with a composition of rum and grave-dirt, the implements of NEGRO witchcraft!

At one extremity of the extensive apartment, on a kind of natural throne, sat several blackamoors in sumptuous Moorish apparel; whom, by their swollen forms, and remarkable eyes, Mrs. PERSONNE knew to be GOULS; and among whom she recognised her late husband. The whole range of this vast amphitheatre, sweeping from before the throne, was occupied by slaves, rudely attired, and imperfectly armed with clubs and missiles; a decent platoon of black-guards were posted be- fore the Vampyre monarchs; and, in the centre, a band of musicians performed an exquisite symphony. The soft strains of the MERRIWANG;—the lively notes of the DUNDO;—and the martial accompaniment of the GOOMBAY, made, with their united noises, a discordant harmony, whose powers the lyre of Orpheus could not equal; and which would certainly be enough to frighten all the hosts of Pandemonium.

The oratorio being finished, the AFRICAN PRINCE arose, and making an obeisance to the company,—cleared his throat, and began to address them as follows:—“Gentlemen and Vampyres!”—but the VAMPYRES expressing their resentment against this breach of etiquette, he corrected himself: —“Vampyres and Gentlemen!”—but the NEGROES were no more willing to come last, than the Vampyres, and a loud growl accompanied by a slight hiss, again interrupted the orator. He was not, however, disconcerted, but like Mr. Burke, thundered out an iteration of the offensive sentence.

“Yes,” said he, “I repeat it, Vampyres and Gentlemen? Shall not the immortal precede the mortal?— Shall not those whose diet surpasses the nectar and ambrosia of celestials, precede the ephemeral race, who fatten on the unclean juice of brutes,—the rank essence of esculent productions,—or the nauseous liquor of the distillery? (applause—hear! hear! and see-boy! from the Vampyres—groans from the negroes!) Gentlemen of colour! I appeal to yourselves; shall not the descendants of the Gods be named before the offspring of the earth-born image, whom Titan impregnated with celestial fire?—For Prometheus was the first Vampyre. You must all know, as you have undoubtedly read Æschylus, that the vulture, who preyed on his liver, was neither fish, flesh, nor fowl. He is called a dog, which makes him a quadruped;—he is represented as ερπωυ, creeping, which proves him an insect; and is said to have wings, which shows that he was a bird. Now, from this amphibious monster have descended the Crows,—the Jackalls,—and the Bloodhounds;—the pirate Bat of Madagascar,—and the man-killing Ivunches of Chili;—the Sharks;—the Crocodiles;—the Krakens;—the Horse-leeches;—the Cape-cod Sea Serpents;—the Mermaids;—the Incubi;—and the Succubi!!! (loud cheering from the Vampyres.) From Titan himself, descended the Cy- clopes, and all other ancient and modern Anthropophagi; and, in lineal descent, the Moco tribe of our own EBOES, to whom I have the honour of being related. Those of you, too, are his posterity, who, after your deaths, return to your native land—the true Elysium; where the balmy bowl of the Coco, the soft bloom of the ANANA, and the coal-black beauties of the clime of love, shall for ever reward your fortitude, and steep in forgetfulness the memory of your wrongs. (hear! hear! from the negroes.) But none of these genera or species of our order, must longer engage your dignified and charitable attention. I come to ourselves, full- blooded—unadulterated—immortal bloodsuckers!—To ourselves—whether Gouls,—or Afrits,—or Vampyres;— Vroucolochas,—Vardoulachos,—or Broucolokas—To ourselves—the terror of the living and of the dead, and the participants of the nature of both;—To ourselves—the emblems at once of corruption and of vitality;—blotted from the records of existence, and replenished to repletion with circulating life;—abandoned by the quick, and unrecognised by the dead:—‘at once relics and relicts;— rocked on the bases of our own eternities;—the chronicles of what was—the solemn and sublime mementoes of what must be!’ unqualified approbation from both sides of the house.)

“The estate of Vampyrism is a fee-tail, and may be docked in two different ways. The first mode is the sanguinary practice of perforating the subject with a stake; and this is final. The other is produced by the gentler operation of the narcotic potion you behold in this phial; by whose lenient and opiate influence, the individual is restored to the plight, in which he was previous to his death, or his becoming a Vampyre, and belongs to the OBEAH mysteries.

“But to come to the object of our present meeting. Sublime and soul-elevating theme!—The emancipation of the Negroes!—The consecration of the soil of ST. DOMINGO to the manes of murdered patriots in all ages!—No matter whether the bill of sale was scrawled in French or in English;—No matter whether we were taken prisoners, in a battle between the LEOPHARES and the JAKOFFS, or in a skirmish between the SAMBOES and the SAWPITS;—No matter whether we were bought for calico and cotton, or for gunpowder or for shot;—No matter whether we were transported in chains or in ropes—in a brig, or a schooner, or a seventy-four—the first moment we come ashore on ST. DOMINGO, our souls shall swell like a sponge in the liquid element;—our bodies shall burst from their fetters, glorious as a curculio from its shell;—our minds shall soar like the car of the æronaut, when its ligaments are cut; in a word, O my brethren, we shall be free!—Our fetters discandied, and our chains dissolved, we shall stand liberated,—redeemed,— emancipated,—and disenthralled by the irresistible genius of UNIVERSAL EMANCIPATION!!!” (Unparalleled bursts of unprecedented applause!!!)

Such was the report of this oration, taken down in short hand by ZEMBO; of whose extraordinary sagacity so many proofs have been exhibited; and who was never unprovided with materials for any emergency. The fiery oratory of the Prince communicated such inspiration to the auditors, that the whole mass of their thick blood leaped up with the quickening pulse of anticipated freedom; they danced and sung, with violent gesticulations, like perfect Corybantes; but unfortunately, their Phyrricks were interrupted by the glittering bayonets of the soldiery; who poured in upon them from every quarter, and hemmed them in, with a bristling chevaux-de-frise of steel. The Vampyres, surprised but undaunted, unsheathed their sabres, and drew up in a gallant style, as if determined to die game; being, indeed, assured, that like so many Phœnixes, they would rise from their own ashes, as often as they might be cut down.

A desperate conflict ensued, during which Mrs. PERSONNE observed the phial, mentioned by the Prince, lying on the ground; and very thoughtfully put it in her ridicule. The slaves, seeing how the business was likely to terminate, prudently sneaked off, while the attention of the military was occupied by the Vampyres. The former were violently exasperated to find all their labour so unprofitable; since while they themselves were wounded by every blow of their opponents, the latter, like so many ninepins, were set up, as fast as they were bowled down; bending to the storm, like masts on a tempestuous ocean, and rising again upon the billow in perpendicular triumph.

But, being instructed by ZEMBO, the soldiers pinioned them as fast as they fell; and prevented their rising, by sitting in great numbers on their bodies; though the task was somewhat like that of detaining quicksilver beneath the fingers. The PRINCE, however, still fought desperately. Brandishing a huge scimitar in either hand, he swayed his arms like the sails of a windmill; while limbs, heads, and bodies flew about him, curvetting and dancing in the air; as when the ingenious Mr. MAFFEY pulls to pieces a coach, or an old woman, children, chickens, friars, and petticoats dance about in wild confusion, till the artist’s hand again brings order out of chaos:—Or, as when the renowned knight of the BED-CHAMBER, whose name eternal vases shall record, saw the ungenerous caricature on the wall, wielding a ponderous jug, he smote the innocent tables, chairs, and bed-posts, and strode victorious over the gory field: So fought the PRINCE; till being neatly pricked in the spine, unexpectedly, he soused (as Johannes Porco Latinus remarks) “in principia fundimentalia,” and was immediately set upon by a host. So when a Gœtulian lion is pierced by the light bamboo, overpowered by the hunters, he struggles in his thrall like an Enceladus under Ætna, and dies at last with heart-wrung tears of anguish, and re- verberating roars of hatred!!!

Stakes were immediately procured, and the whole infernal fraternity securely disposed of: as their compeers, described by Homer,

With burning chains fixed to the brazen floors And lock’d by hell’s inexorable doors.

With their bellowings, the vast chambers of the subterranean rung like the caverns of Delphos, when the inflammable air was fired by the crafty priests. The Inhabi- tants of the Island started up from their slumbers in shuddering terror, and believed that an earthquake was rumbling beneath their feet.

Mr. and Mrs. PERSONNE and ZEMBO lost no time in trying the effects of the African’s stolen prescription. Being thrown into a tranquil slumber they were conveyed to their plantation; and awoke the next morning, perfectly well, excepting slight colds in the head. Mr. PERSONNE, having been in statu quo, for sixteen years, was now much younger than his lady; a circumstance, for which she was not at all sorry; and which he himself declared by no means displeased him. The remainder of their life was serene as a tropic night; —illumined by the mild effulgence of domestic love;—fanned by the soft aspirations of peaceful bosoms;—and enlivened by the fire- fly scintillations of rapture!!!

ZEMBO, to whose taste and ingenuity they were indebted for their happiness, and who was baptized with the Christian name of BARABBAS, after an uncle of his mother’s, recorded what the reader has perused. One only circumstance, like one of those claps of thunder, frequently heard in the unclouded sky, passed over the tranquillity of their bosoms. Mrs. PERSONNE’S fourth husband’s child was a mulatto, and of Vampyrish propensities; of which his mother and Mr. PERSONNE were never able entirely to cure him, having used up all the African’s preparation.

The intelligent reader, (if any such there be,) will remember that this narrative commenced with the name of Mr. ANTHONY GIBBONS, of whom nothing has since been said; and whose adventures (to use a FORUM trope) “must remain buried in the bowels of futurity,” until a more convenient opportunity. He is a lineal descendant from the last-mentioned mulatto; and the manuscript, which is now given to the public, was transmitted to him from his ancestors. He is a resident in Essex county, New- Jersey; and candour requires us to state, that he is no relation to his celebrated namesake at ELIZABETH- TOWN; as it is notorious to all who have had the pleasure of witnessing the size of the latter gentleman’s waist, that he has too much bowels for so diabolical a profession; and it is to be hoped in charity, that though he is such a delicate morsel, when he is laid in the sepulchre of his fathers, he may not prove a titbit, to GLUT THE THIRST OF A VAMPYRE!!!

Moral.

In this happy land of liberty and equality, we are free from all traditional superstitions, whether political, religious, or otherwise. Fiction has no materials for machinery;—Romance no horrors for a tale of mystery. Yet in a figurative sense, and in the moral world, our climate is perhaps more prolific than any other, in enchanters,—Vampyres,—and the whole infernal brood of sorcery and witchcraft.

The accomplished dandy, who in maintaining his horses,—his taylor, &c.—absorbs in the forced and unnatural excitement of his senseless orgies, the life-blood of that wealth which his prudent Sire had accumulated by a long devotion to the counter,—What is he but a Vampyre?

The fraudulent trafficker in stock and merchandize, who, having sucked the whole substance of an hundred honest men, is consigned for a few weeks to the sepulchre of the jail; and then, by the potent magic of an insolvent law, stalks forth, triumphant with bloated villany, more elated in his shameless resurrection to renew his career of iniquity and of disgrace,—what is he but a Vampyre?

The corrupted and senseless Clerk, who being placed near the vitals of a moneyed institution, himself exhausted to feed the appetite of sharpers, drains, in his turn, the coffers he was appointed to guard,—is he not, I appeal to the Stockholders,—is he not a Vampyre?

Brokers, Country Bank Directors, and their disciples—all whose hunger and thirst for money, unsatisfied with the tardy progression of honest industry, by creating fictitious and delusive credit, has preyed on the heart and liver of public confidence, and poisoned the currents of public morals, are they not all Vampyres?

The whole tribe of Plagiarists, under every denomination;—The Critic, who. by eviscerating authors, and stuffing his own meagre show of learning with the pilfered entrails, ekes out his periodical fulmination against public taste;—the Forum Orator, who, without compunction, barbarously exenterates Burke, and Curran, and Phillips,—the Second- handed Lawyer,—Scholar,—Theologue,—who quote from quotations, and steal stolen property:—the Divine, who preaches Tillotson and Toplady;—what are they all but Vampyres?

The Empiric, who fills his own stomach, while he empties his shop into the bowels of the hypochondriac;—the Bibliopolist, “who guts the fobs” of the whole reading community, by ascribing to Lord Byron works which that author never saw; the philanthropic Contractor for the Army, who charges more for lime and horse-beef, than his quantum- meruit for the best provisions; who sets up his carriage and his palace, by blistering the mouths and destroying the intestines of thousands,— what are these but Vampyres?

The Professors and Disciples of Surgeon’s Hall, who, when a fine fat corse is rolled out of the resurrectionist’s budget, set up a howl of horrible transport, like he anthropophagous Caribs in Robinson Crusoe;—glut their gloating eyes with the pinguidity and unctuousness of the subject; and whet their blades like Shylock, impatient to attack the ilia,—what are they but Vampyres?

And I, who, as Johnson said of an hypochondriac Lady, “have spun this discourse out of my own bowels,” and made as free with those of others—I am a VAMPYRE!

Vampyrism; a poem

Utrum horum mavis accipe.

SOLOMON LANG & LAUNCELOT LANG - STAFF, Esquires.

GENTLEMEN, FROM the Gazette of August 17th, I am happy to learn, that you have entered into an alliance, offensive and defensive. The ties of kindred and the attraction of sympathy, one would think, ought to have brought about this union much sooner. You are, I believe, of one family;—although I am ignorant from whence LAUNCELOT has taken the Agnomen of STAFF: and I am equally unable to divine, why you have both docked the Nomen of your ancestors, which hath been written LANGEARS from time immemorial. Whatever may be your reasons for disowning your consanguinity to the great GENTILE family, the literary and political worlds rejoice, at least, in this consolidation of the talents of their two most distinguished members. The parity of intellect,—the similarity of taste,—the pungency of sarcasm possessed by both parties, justify the expectations formed by the public, from this conjunction of two such great luminaries. Both are imbued with that modest confidence, connected with the consciousness of superior talent. SOLOMON is formed, perhaps, of more impenetrable stuff: LAUNCELOT has more of the irritability and exquisite sensibility of genius.—Ira quidem communiter urit utrumque; but SOLOMON taketh the driest knocks with a good grace; LAUNCELOT is sooner thrown into a fever, and frets, to use a classic quotation of his own, “like a bear, with a sore head.”—SOLOMON is the better grammarian: LAUNCELOT hath, occasionally, greater command of language. Solomon, as he states, composes ideas and types simultaneously, a la mode de Wooler; Launcelot has the advantage of seeing his ideas embodied in black and white, in their flight from his brains to the printing office.— LAUNCELOT the FIERY, may be likened to the mad ORESTES: SOLOMON the PATIENT, to the faithful PYLADES.— SOLOMON is original in his own way: LAUNCELOT purloins from Swift, and Rabelais and others.—SOLOMON, pilloried in his own press, with no ally but the gray mare, bravely receives the missiles of the whole legion of editors; LAUNCELOT has only to open his mouth, or saw the air, or make a leg, on the literary stage; and all the gods of the Philadelphia gallery, pipe their shrill catcalls in discordant unison.—The castigation of both is equally dreadful. SOLOMON, with his “Good morning, Mr. Coleman,” and “Rot the sarpent,” condenses all his wrath into a laconic sarcasm: LAUNCELOT elaborates books, to the great terror and discomfiture of Gifford, Southey, and Scott. The Quarterly Reviewers received a death blow, because they could not find out the wit of the Scottish Fiddle; and the translator of Juvenal has never dared to show his face, since Mr. LANGSTAFF promulgated to the world, the secret of his origin. Poor Mr. Hall, the editor of the Port Folio,— because he criticised that Poem, (than which, in the language of Croaker, “nothing can be flatter or funnier;”) according to the canons of Martinus Scriblerus,—said Hall has been severely bemauled for his temerity. Many a heart-burning hath he experienced, from the caustic of Salmagundi Redivivus—Godwot!—magni nominis umbra!—On the whole, “none but yourselves can be your parallels.”

Allow me to dedicate the following rhymes to your firm; which will, I have no doubt, stand secure, amid all the present wreck of matters, and crashes of credit. Profound ignorance, bolstered by vanity, sits firmly on it own fundamental principles. Farewell, Gentlemen, accept the considerations of my high esteem—

Fortunati ambo—si quid mea carmina possunt, Nulla dies unquam memori vos eximet aevo!

-URIAH DERICK D’ARCY.

VAMPYRISM;

A POEM,

IN this blest land, where valour burst The links which bound his children erst, And rent the vail whose darkness hid Legitimacy’s monstrous creed;— Where all that since the world began Had sway’d the sacred rights of man, With ancient dreams had past away, And bare in all its weakness lay;— Here reason, in triumphal hour, Asserted too her conquering power: From mountain, valley, plain and flood, She exorcised the shadowy brood

II.

When freshening gales had swept the mists, That wildly wreath’d the mountain crests, No cloudy spectre o’er the storm Reveal’d the terrors of his form;— When evening breezes curl’d the wave No wraiths disturb’d the wandering brave,— When lost in darkness, down the side Of craggy mount their path they tried, And stunn’d by torrents deafening roar, Downward were hurl’d, to rise no more; Men said their balance they had lost, But never laid it to a ghost.

III.

No more, around the guarded gold, Their wake were pirates seen to hold;— No elves the midnight circle tript; No fairies lunar vigils kept; Genii nor devils rose—except, Indeed, that once in godly Salem, Blue laws and preachings seem’d to fail ’em; Bed bugs and rats their slumbers broke, On Beelzebub they laid the joke; Took brandy to expel the fiend, Which answered quite another end! Old ladies then to swim were taught, In amorous league with Satan caught;— And some were hang’d:—but now no more ’Tis fit to rake up that old sore.

IV.

Of late the pole its fiends has sent, The ‘tarnal Yankees to torment; By water witchcraft long distrest, In vain with all their might they guest; Till when their gumption seem’d to fail One captain got him by the tail; But metamorphos’d, (such their story,) The wizard gave the man the go-by Turn’d out a tunny fish to be, The “shallowest monster” of the sea.

And now they swear with might and main, That Monsieur Tonson’s come again: And Marshal Prince, his wife and daughters, Off Nahant, saw him walk the waters. The coachman there and Mrs. Prince Got at the odd fish several squints; But Mr. Prince, for weak his eye was, Look’d at him through a mast-head spy-glass; And took, lest men his word should doubt, An ugly likeness of his snout, With all the bumps the monster bore— He says, thirteen—his wife, two more.

VI.

In Morristown we’ve heard a ghost Wrought wonders to the people’s cost. ’Tis not long since, on New Year’s night, The devil gave three bad boys a fright; Who o’er their whiskey took to cursing, Spoke disrespectfully of his person, His government began to libel, And on the back-log put the bible.— But these things are of little moment, Unworthy of a further comment.

VII.

Yet SUPERSTITION! though thy throne Be rear’d in wilds and woods alone, Where the rude wanderer of the glen Invokes the souls of martial men;— Adores the torrent thundering loud; Calls on the spirits of the cloud;— And o’er the black and bursting heaven, Sees Ariouski’s chariot driven;— Yet, queen of terror’s sheetedband! Fiends worse than thine affright our land, While, stalking from their ghastly homes, The VAMPYRE host infuriate roams!

VIII.

Behold that EXQUISITE divine, Fit to hang up for fashion’s sign. In classic mould his wig is shear’d— SO SAUNDERS says—by all rever’d— (Yet much, with deference, due I doubt If Saunders’ science could make out Apollo’s nob, if slic’d off well, From J—n G. B—t’s bust to tell— Both are stuck up in the Academy— Yet for this query think not bad o’ me.) But to the Dandy—’neath his chin Hog’s bristles fiercely fence him in; One corset back his shoulders throws; His bowels other bones enclose; His ample chest is bullet proof, With cotton cram’d and such like stuff; And for his clothes—but here’s enough. For ere the printer’s tardy imp, Shall bid in type this doggrel limp, The swifter ninth part of a man Shall change the passing mode again; And waists now short shall then be long. All that’s now right shall then be wrong!

IX.

How came that puppy by his gig? What taught him how to look so big? For this behind the measur’d board His father scrap’d the growing hoard— Like him the pyramids who rear’d, To leave behind no name rever’d For, on the bowels of the heap, His revels shall this Vampyre keep; Till vigils late—and generous wine, And—things that suit no lay of mine; Have left him soon to die and rot, Be laugh’d at, pitied, and forgot! His species and his line to trace, And count the honours of his race, Let Mr. Wynkoop soar as high, As Scythia’s Cynocephali, And Mr. Langstaff dive as low As he, and he alone, can go;” Let this quote Greek—that crack stale jokes, The theme is worthy of such folks.

Lo! thro’ the bustling world of trade, What monsters march in long parade; Gorg’d with the substance of a host, Swelling they strut with empty boast; The bubble burst, and credit fled, The money’d quack proclaims them dead;— Bailiffs in haste the corpse escort;— The turnkey says his service short;— Awhile in jail their bones repose, Till lo! the dungeon doors unclose! Insolvent laws, with potent spell, Have wrought the wondrous miracle; Their words of might the dead restore; And even more bloated than before, From that deep sepulchre, to prey On all the gudgeons in his way, Of shameless resurrection vain, The VAMPYRE BANKRUPT stalks again!

XI.

Temples of Mammon! O beware What priests the golden chalice bear! And let not hands profane approach The tempting, costly shrines to touch! Have we not seen what secret stealth Has suck’d the vitals of your wealth, When the weak dupe, quite drain’d himself, Grew hungry for the luscious pelf; Nor did his secret orgies end, Till fail’d a whole year’s dividend. And now once more in open air, Have we not seen the Vampyre pair, Stalk forth, from jails and juries free, In all the pride of infamy?

XII.

O HERMES of these latter times, I hail thee in unworthy rhymes! Great ALCHYMIST, whose art alone Has found the philosophic stone! Thou arch magician! to whose hand Alone is given the hazel wand, That finds the veins of glittering ores, Great DOUSTERSWIVEL of conjurors! What though thine art itself despair, And all the pageant fade in air? While harmless mobs thy doors assail, And blustering butchers curse and rail, Above thine own Flaminian roll’d, Shall thy triumphal chariot hold Its course majestical along, Before the whole admiring throng!

XIII.

O JACOB! JACOB! thou art keen, As thy great namesake;—him, I mean. Who manag’d for himself to keep The best of crafty Laban’s sheep. Immortal VAMPYRE of our age! O might this unassuming page Be read by all, whose fobs must bleed, Thy ravenous appetite to feed Behind thy coach and four might I Roll in an humbler tilbury; Beneath thy wings might D’ARCY’s name Soar to the solar blaze of fame!

XIV.

Plumb from the giddy height I fall, Amid whole herds of Vampyres small, CRITICS, who worn out common place With Author’s pilfer’d entrails grace; The FORUM spouter—barbarous Turk! Who rips up Curran, Phillips, Burke, And thunders forth bombastic centos, Of wasted time the sad mementoes; All those who QUOTE at second hand, And what they quote don’t understand; The PARSON who in sleepy tone Evangelizes Tillotson; All PLAGIARISTS,—concise to be,— Are GOULs of high or low degree.

XV.

The QUACK with brick dust who provides, Wherewith to line his own insides; Who fills up all his hungry chinks, While to a ghost his patient shrinks; THOMAS who vends as Byron’s own The works of doggrelists unknown; Honest CONTRACTORS, who are able To cheat both government and rabble; Who, worthy of the scourge and gallows, Set up their equipage and palace; While blister’d mouths deep curses pour And tortur’d soldiers writhe and roar, Who eat the beef of horses dead, And craunch corroding lime for bread— These, as the sufferers all agree, Are of the GOULE fraternity.

XVI. There are whose tongues around them throw The gall with which their hearts o’erflow, Like those from old Medusa’s head, Where’er its venom’d drops are shed, Earth’s verdure fades;—rank poison springs; Snakes hiss, and dragons spread their wings. Pale Dian’s hopeless votary old, Crabb’d, ancient dames, and bachelors cold, Nay e’en the blooming maid—will hie To the foul feast of calumny; On wisdom, worth, and reverend age, Beauty and wit, they glut their rage; And fondly hope, that as they tear The limbs of murder’d character, Their own fair fame shall prouder swell, Fatten’d upon the feast of hell!

XV.

There is a spot, unknown to fame, Where Vampyres haunt their hold of shame When ENVY left her noxious cave, Along Passaic’s winding wave, (Though Ovid has this fact forgot,) She linger’d by one cherish’d spot; She left her benediction here, The ground became for ever sere; Infected by her scatter’d slime And tainted to all after time; Whoever tastes its baleful food, A Vampyre longs to feed on blood— The blood of honour, virtue free, Fame, confidence and chastity!

XVIII.

But wouldst thou, in thy purpose bold The demon orgies foul behold— Mark where the SONS of SURGEON’S HALL, Upon their foul purveyor call; And lo, the plunderer of the tomb Brings up his budget in the room; Rolls out, their ardent gaze before, A huge, fat negress on the floor; Then with a savage howl they roar! Like cannibals, prepar’d to roast Their pris’ners on some barbarous coast; Like Shakspeare’s Jew, the joyous band Whet their keen blades with eager band; While all the putrid limbs excite Their foul and Vampyre appetite.—

XIX.

And what am I, whose spider skill Has thus contrived this sheet to fill; From my own bowels spun the lay, Until I find no more to say? Before to all I bid adieu, Confess,—I AM A VAMPYRE TOO!

NOTE.

The following lines appeared in the Evening Post of August 14th:

FOR THE EVENING POST. To the anonymous Gentleman, who says he is the author of the “Black Vampyre.”

“Ubi dolor, ibi digitus—one must needs scratch where it itches.” --Burton’s Anat. of Mel.

Dear sir, since jackall-like you prowl, Preying on carrion in the dark, Unseen, I only hear you howl, And know you only by your bark;

I send my shot thus in the air, Aimless, and eke uncharg’d by wit; Yet knowing, it must fall somewhere, And where it happens, it must hit.

Though thus like rotten-wood to shine, Only through night’s uncertain cloak, With sickly lustre—I opine. Is “Low Ambition’s” stalest joke—

Yet men have always had strange ways, Like thee, of picking up stray laurels, When e’en like mine, the wither’d bays Unworthy were of serious quarrels.

And from Vespusius’ mighty theft Even to thy lowest pitch of pride, Thousands from other brows have rest The wreaths, fate to their own denied.

So P—g’s Muse, by Irving boosted, Above the brush-wood scrambled soon; High in the upper branches roosted, And chanted something like a tune.

Now floundering in the bogs alone, With sullen scream she frights our ears; And all, with sympathetic groan, Lament the boast of former years.

So at Commencement have I seen Full many in borrow’d plumes array’d; While but a scurvy show, I ween, The motley mimickry display’d.

Shade of a shadow! now good night! Ghost of a lie! invok’d in vain! Flit through the dim uncertain light, Be nothing—and thyself again!

-URIAH DERICK D’ARCY.

LAUNCELOT, it appears, not relishing the great moral truth alluded to in the above lines, inserted the following low-lived scurrility, in the New- York Gazette of August 17th:

COMMUNICATION.

Fortunate Escape!—The absence of the worthy editor of that “excellent journal” the Evening Post, already begins to be felt in the city. Several small dogs, supposed to be mad, taking advantage of their old enemy’s back being turned, have lately ventured out, in spite of the vigilance of the police, and molested several citizens of good credit and reputation. We understand, that last Saturday afternoon, a small puppy, either mad or very angry, sallied out of the office of that “excellent journal” the New-York Evening Post, and snapped at a peaceable gentleman who was going about on his lawful occasions, but who, for reasons best known to themselves, is very much disliked by the little dogs. Luckily, being an exceeding small pug, he only reached the heel of the gentleman’s boot, the which he gave a fearful wound, which obliged him to go immediately, not to a surgeon, but a cobbler. It is not ascertained whether the gentleman took occasion to kick him or not, but it is said the little animal ran back in the office, howling very much, and took shelter between Mr. B—’s legs.

P. S. The angry little dog wore a brass collar, on which was engraved the name of URIAH DERICK D’ARCY in large capitals.— The public is warned not to beware of him.

#Rjalker reads The Black-Vampyre

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cassianus · 1 year

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Desolation

Sometimes in the lives of pious Christians there are hours when God seems to have entirely abandoned them—hours of the power of darkness; and then the man from the depth of his heart cries unto God: “Why hast Thou turned Thy face from me, Thou everlasting Light? For a strange darkness has covered me, the darkness of the accursed evil Satan, and has obscured all my soul. It is very grievous for the soul to be in this torturing darkness, which gives a presentiment of the torments and darkness of hell. Turn me, O Saviour, to the light of Thy commandments, and make straight my spiritual way, I fervently pray Thee.” Unite your soul to God by means of hearty faith and you will be able to accomplish everything. Do powerful, invisible, ever-watchful enemies wage war against you? You will conquer them. Are these enemies visible, outward? You will conquer them also. Do passions rend you? You will overcome them. Are you crushed with sorrows? You will get over them. Have you fallen into despondency? You will obtain courage. With faith you will be able to conquer everything, and even the Kingdom of Heaven will be yours. Faith is the greatest blessing of the earthly life; it unites the man to God, and makes him strong and victorious through Him. “He who is joined to the Lord is one spirit.” If you do not yourself experience the action of the wiles of the evil spirit, you will not know, and will not appreciate and value as you ought, the benefits bestowed upon you by the Holy Spirit: not knowing the spirit that destroys, you will not know the Spirit that gives life. Only by means of direct contrasts of good and evil, of life and death, can we clearly know the one and the other. If you are not subjected to distresses, and danger of bodily or spiritual death, you will not truly know the Saviour, the Life-giver, Who delivers us from these distresses and from spiritual death. Jesus Christ is the consolation, the joy, the life, the peace, and the breadth of our hearts! Glory to God, the most wise and most gracious, that He allows the spirit of evil and death to tempt and torment us! Otherwise we should not have sufficiently appreciated and valued the comfort of grace, the comfort of the Holy Ghost the Comforter, the Life-giver! Never despair of God’s mercy, by whatever sins you may have been bound by the temptation of the Devil, but pray with your whole heart, with

the hope of forgiveness; knock at the door of God’s mercy and it shall be opened unto you. I, a simple priest, am an example for you: however, I may sometimes sin by the action of the Devil, for instance, by enmity towards a brother, whatever the cause may be, even though it may be a right cause, and I myself become thoroughly disturbed and set my brother against me, and unworthily celebrate the Holy Sacrament, not from wilful neglect, but by being myself unprepared, and by the action of the Devil; yet, after repentance, the Lord forgives all and everything, especially after the worthy communion of the Holy Sacrament: I become as snow, or as a wave of the sea, by the blood of Christ; the most heavenly peace dwells in my heart; it becomes light, so light, and I feel beatified. Then, indeed, I forget all troubles, anxieties, and the oppression of the enemy, I become entirely renewed, and as though risen from the dead. Do not then despair, brethren, whatever sins you may have committed, only repent and confess them with a contrite heart and humble spirit. Glory, O Lord, to Thy mercy! Glory, O Lord, to Thy long-suffering and forbearance! What spiritual storms, hurricanes, fearful, fiery, sudden whirlwinds, often occur in the life of man, in the life of those who endeavor to lead a Christian life, and to serve God by prayer, interceding for themselves and others before His unspeakable mercy! It is only by God’s mercy that the bark in which our soul travels over life’s sea towards the eternity awaiting it, is not entirely wrecked and lost!

St. John Kronstadt

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bills-bible-basics · 1 year

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FALSE BRETHREN -- KJV (King James Version) Bible Verse List KJV Bible verse list compiled by #BillKochman for #BillsBibleBasics. Topic: "False Brethren". Visit https://www.billkochman.com/VerseLists/ to see all my lists. "These six things doth the LORD hate: yea, seven are an abomination unto him: A proud look, a lying tongue, and hands that shed innocent blood, An heart that deviseth wicked imaginations, feet that be swift in running to mischief, A false witness that speaketh lies, and he that soweth discord among brethren." Proverbs 6:16-19, KJV "Another parable put he forth unto them, saying, The kingdom of heaven is likened unto a man which sowed good seed in his field: But while men slept, his enemy came and sowed tares among the wheat, and went his way." Matthew 13:24-25, KJV "Go your ways: behold, I send you forth as lambs among wolves." Luke 10:3, KJV "And if he shall neglect to hear them, tell it unto the church: but if he neglect to hear the church, let him be unto thee as an heathen man and a publican." Matthew 18:17, KJV "Take heed therefore unto yourselves, and to all the flock, over the which the Holy Ghost hath made you overseers, to feed the church of God, which he hath purchased with his own blood. For I know this, that after my departing shall grievous wolves enter in among you, not sparing the flock. Also of your own selves shall men arise, speaking perverse things, to draw away disciples after them." Acts 20:28-30, KJV "Now I beseech you, brethren, mark them which cause divisions and offences contrary to the doctrine which ye have learned; and avoid them." Romans 16:17, KJV "But I fear, lest by any means, as the serpent beguiled Eve through his subtilty, so your minds should be corrupted from the simplicity that is in Christ. For if he that cometh preacheth another Jesus, whom we have not preached, or if ye receive another spirit, which ye have not received, or another gospel, which ye have not accepted, ye might well bear with him . . . For such are false apostles, deceitful workers, transforming themselves into the apostles of Christ. And no marvel; for Satan himself is transformed into an angel of light. Therefore it is no great thing if his ministers also be transformed as the ministers of righteousness; whose end shall be according to their works." 2 Corinthians 11:3-4, 13-15, KJV "I marvel that ye are so soon removed from him that called you into the grace of Christ unto another gospel: Which is not another; but there be some that trouble you, and would pervert the gospel of Christ. But though we, or an angel from heaven, preach any other gospel unto you than that which we have preached unto you, let him be accursed. As we said before, so say I now again, If any man preach any other gospel unto you than that ye have received, let him be accursed." Galatians 1:6-9, KJV "And that because of false brethren unawares brought in, who came in privily to spy out our liberty which we have in Christ Jesus, that they might bring us into bondage:" Galatians 2:4, KJV "Beware of dogs, beware of evil workers, beware of the concision." Philippians 3:2, KJV "Now the Spirit speaketh expressly, that in the latter times some shall depart from the faith, giving heed to seducing spirits, and doctrines of devils; Speaking lies in hypocrisy; having their conscience seared with a hot iron;" 1 Timothy 4:1-2, KJV "If any man teach otherwise, and consent not to wholesome words, even the words of our Lord Jesus Christ, and to the doctrine which is according to godliness; He is proud, knowing nothing, but doting about questions and strifes of words, whereof cometh envy, strife, railings, evil surmisings, Perverse disputings of men of corrupt minds, and destitute of the truth, supposing that gain is godliness: from such withdraw thyself." 1 Timothy 6:3-5, KJV "For the time will come when they will not endure sound doctrine; but after their own lusts shall they heap to themselves teachers, having itching ears;"

2 Timothy 4:3, KJV "But avoid foolish questions, and genealogies, and contentions, and strivings about the law; for they are unprofitable and vain. A man that is an heretick after the first and second admonition reject; Knowing that he that is such is subverted, and sinneth, being condemned of himself." Titus 3:9-11, KJV "But there were false prophets also among the people, even as there shall be false teachers among you, who privily shall bring in damnable heresies, even denying the Lord that bought them, and bring upon themselves swift destruction. And many shall follow their pernicious ways; by reason of whom the way of truth shall be evil spoken of." 2 Peter 2:1-2, KJV "Little children, it is the last time: and as ye have heard that antichrist shall come, even now are there many antichrists; whereby we know that it is the last time. They went out from us, but they were not of us; for if they had been of us, they would no doubt have continued with us: but they went out, that they might be made manifest that they were not all of us." 1 John 2:18-19, KJV "Whosoever transgresseth, and abideth not in the doctrine of Christ, hath not God. He that abideth in the doctrine of Christ, he hath both the Father and the Son. If there come any unto you, and bring not this doctrine, receive him not into your house, neither bid him God speed: For he that biddeth him God speed is partaker of his evil deeds." 2 John 1:9-11, KJV If you would like more info regarding the origin of these KJV Bible verse lists, go to https://www.billkochman.com/VerseLists/. Thank-you! https://www.billkochman.com/Blog/index.php/false-brethren-kjv-king-james-version-bible-verse-list/?feed_id=57403&_unique_id=644df3eeece51&FALSE%20BRETHREN%20--%20KJV%20%28King%20James%20Version%29%20Bible%20Verse%20List

#KJV_Bible_Verse_Lists #bible #bible_study #bill_kochman #bills_bible_basics #brethren #false #false_brethren #king_james_version #kjv #list #scripture #scriptures #topical #verse #verses

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37-battle-droids · 3 years

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#yeah this is 100% about your art accursed #general grievous #star wars #clone wars #rots

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laufeyamp · 2 years

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Sin

SUMMARY. ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ- unique privileges and the life of luxury granted to the royal families have always been envious. Though, there’s rules that reins every reigning monarch which they ought to obey for the sake of all living creatures in one’s kingdom. However, there’s no black or white in love, is there?

PAIRING. loki x princess/prince!gender neutral reader WORD COUNT. 1.132k IB. fear street 1666

THIS WORK CONTAINS angst, mentions of death penalty, fluff

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚

“I confess,” the phrases passed his moistened lips without any further hesitation or consideration regarding the excruciating consequences of his, or perhaps your actions. “No,” your protest turned into an impotent whimper as your fingers found his cold porcelain hands in the pitch blackness of the church, apprehension of what’s about to arrive started filling your heaving chest. “No, please.” In the dusk demesnes of night, he’s thoroughly aware of your effort in swallowing your blubbers, not to mention the silent tears which drained out of your reddened eyes. It shattered his soul to watch you weep in fear, reminding him of how he’d failed in the role of your lover and leading him to second-guess the path he’s chosen for the both of you. You're the only one who’s capable of dissuading him without endeavoring after all, seeing that you’re the source of both his determination and faith in all. The snivels from your runny nose you wished to stifle were slightly reverberating throughout the quiet church, your vocal cords refusing to utter your enunciation respecting the severity of his resolution which played in your mind. He waited meekly, all the while wiping your warm tears away with the pad of his thumb hushedly. “You’ll have your head hacked off,” your voice quavered quietly after moments of struggles with vocalizing what’s been fretting you, sorrow welled your chest just at the thought of it. “I can’t lose you.”

As absurd as it may come off as, the sovereigns of all kingdoms in the Nine Realms have always complied with this regulation involving relations between provinces which was passed down by the ancient gods over countless decades. There are accursed bonds that must be sundered afore it worsens to the point of no returning, misdeeds that shall be redeemed only with the blood of the miscreants in order to halt history from repeating itself. Once, this statute had been taken lightly by the majority of the population until marriage between two young adults of noble families occurred in an attempt to unite both empires. The connection formed between the pair was ill-fated due to their respective native lands, and they had been warned on the day of their espousal with a heavy storm which destructed plenty of infrastructures, causing inconvenience to the people of both kingdoms. Nevertheless, the deterrents and hints given had been unfortunately neglected by all and sundry. The disobedience and ignorance of the people enraged the Lord, resulting the lands to spoil, threatening both territories’ ability to grow food crops; sunlight could barely be seen as acidic raindrops started to fall from the sky frequently, damaging the quality of their soil and herbs; as well as the beasts which had a ruthless carnage amongst them, slaughtering species of their own. The utter mayhem came to an end after weeks of torment with the remaining survivors lynching the engaged couple at dawn. The unbelievably massive amount of lives lost and annihilation of both dominions caused by this historic occasion had captured the heed of many, leading them to play it by the book.

He inched further, planting a tender kiss on your forehead affectionately as an act of comfort with your face in his palms. “So will they do the same to you.” Asgard and Vanaheim were never bound to share any form of alliance for the grievous repercussion which disastrously followed, and to those who defy will be viciously beheaded, notwithstanding their identities. Considering that you’re a dynast of Vanaheim, you had been apprised and sternly forewarned to never mingle with the people of Asgard since you were a child. Despite of the years you’d spent keeping every Asgardian you’ve encountered during events at arm’s length prudently, you had still fallen head over heels for the prince of Asgard you’ve ran into in the course of your stay on Midgard. The universe and nature always has it’s ways to connect two points that were destined to touch, you suppose. “And I can’t afford losing you either,” he stared into your orbs, where he’d seen the entire universe dance in, reflecting everything that matters far more than his rivalry with his elder brother for the throne. The strong urge to allow those two phrases which could and would permanently change your life slip from your lips was growing more and more irresistible— and with the endless devotion and fidelity written in his eyes, voicing the truth in his words therewithal.

Far too lost in your indecisiveness and uncertainty which trapped you in a quandary, you hadn’t noticed the arrival of both Asgard and Vanaheim’s royal guards, who had been sent on a lookout for any hints of your whereabouts. He removed his hands which were cupping your cheeks to your waist and arm, pulling you to one of the pews as your temporary hideaway protectively and with a swift wave of his hand, olive green gas encircled the door locks of the church, sealing the entrances. The clicks startled the vigilant guards, worse luck. “I do not wish to pressure you,” he spoke, his loving gaze returned to his lover and accomplice after he ensured that his little spell is capable of holding them off momentarily. “It’s your decision to make.” Apart from the death penalties mentioned upon the culprits, there’s another obscure method to cease this havoc, to form immunity towards it’s sequels apparently. ‘All sins committed ought to be confessed earnestly, in an effort to obtain absolution,’ had been blazoned across the believers of all realms, written in the sheets of bound sets regarding beliefs as one’s repentance and remorse is incomparable, leaving gore no match for it. Nonetheless, it’s presumed to be wholly inadequate due to the lack of penitence showed and experienced by the sinners themselves, resulting this alternative way to be diminished in deliberations.

“I confess,” overall... it’s always worth a try, isn’t it? Loki heaved a euphoric sigh of relief, the weight of fear instantly dissipated in the sight of your curled lips which formed the sweetest smile he’s ever espied. And with the connection of your lips, he erased the remaining gap between the both of you, tears of joy that had been threatening to spill over lingered on his cheeks. One of the doors of the church swung open rapidly from the vandalization carried out by the armed guards, successfully forcing their way in one way or another. But it was all too late. Emerald gas started engulfing both of your figures whilst he inched further, devouring your lips ever so eagerly as his slender fingers found it’s way to tilt your chin up. His teleportation spell ushered you to somewhere else, where you were able to attach your lips with his under broad daylight, without having to conceal your true identities.

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚

SYD .ೃ࿐ Reblogs and interactions are greatly appreciated, thank you for reading.

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driften-sea-snake · 2 years

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who the hell would watch a 4-hour youtube video called “max rebo’s new shade of blue is a Disgrace to the Community,” who has the time-

*disney makes show where general grievous wears clothes* once Again the accursed mouse has Disrespected the Fans, for ease of viewing i’ve broken the video into 2-hour chapters,

#star wars #disney star wars #the book of boba fett #max rebo #general grievous

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star-of-zeus · 3 years

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Hellenic Priests: Ritual Purity of others

This is part two of my two-part post about the ritual purity of priests, with the previous installment being about the ritual purity of priests themselves, and this one being about the involvement of priests in the ritual purity of others. You can find the first part here.

Interestingly, priests were able to both pollute and cleanse others of all manners of pollution, including the miasma incurred through murder, which we will see later.

Due to a priest's relationship with the divine and sacred, violation of a priest would incur pollution:

The Greek word ἱερός, usually translated as ‘sacred’, marks out all things that are in some way associated with the gods; failure to honour ἱερά, and especially acts of disrespect towards the divine, represent sacrilege and incur pollution. Robert Parker discusses a plethora of texts which testify that sacrilege—in the form of the violation of temples and sacred images, of sacred time (festivals), sacred grounds, sacred equipment, or of a priest—incurred pollution. (pg. 51 of Inner Purity and Pollution, Volume I)

Now, this pollution wasn't your run-of-the-mill, easily washable lymata, or something similar. It was agos, which, as I talked about in my last ritual purity post, can lead to severe repercussions on the entire community.

A special form of pollution, known as agos, was conceptually distinct from the bodily pollutions we have so far examined. Agos was created when people committed transgressions known to incur divine anger, such as stealing from a temple, mistreating a suppliant at an altar or committing perjury. (Lesser offenses against the gods, such as presenting the wrong animal for sacrifice, might also generate pollution, but not rise to the level of agos.)Regardless of whether their transgressions had been intentional, people under an agos were accursed, and their grievous taint could rub off onto others, or even poison a whole city; it could also be inherited by their children. Like bodily pollutions, the pollution of agos had material properties, yet it was also synonymous with divine anger. A similar pattern of thought applied to murder and manslaughter: the anger of the dead functioned in a fashion similar to divine anger, but the killer might be doubly polluted because of his physical connection with the dead. The pollution of homicide was symbolically described as “blood on the hands.” (pg. 141 of Understanding Greek Religion)

Sounds lovely, doesn't it? As stealing from a temple would incur agos, the fear of divine retribution is presumably what kept would-be thieves from stealing expensive items from a temple. While temples did have keys (and key-holder was a well-known position for priestesses) the keys really were more symbolic than functional.

On the other hand, priests were also able to cleanse others of pollution, even extreme pollution like miasma in this example:

We encounter Orestes as a suppliant at the beginning of the Eumenides. He is engulfed in physical and metaphysical pollution, and the Pythia sees the Erinyes surrounding him as he is sitting by the Omphalos, ‘polluted in the eyes of the gods’ (θεομυσής), his hands dripping with blood (vv. 40–2). Orestes holds a sword and an olive-branch adorned with wool, which marks him as a suppliant seeking purification. This is the beginning of the ritual purification from homicide, as we find it described in other ancient sources. Purification was performed by a priest or by an official of the community, and the purifying agent was the blood of a sacrificial animal. The killer had to remain silent and had to assume a submissive position of complete passivity; the purifier also had to remain silent until the end of the ritual. (pg. 147 of Inner Purity and Pollution, Volume I)

So overall, as priests worked closely with the divine, they can both make one clean or unclean!

If you wish to learn about a specific aspect of priesthood, feel free to send in an ask!

Sources: Inner Purity and Pollution in Greek Religion, Volume I: Early Greek Religion, by Andrej Petrovic and Ivana Petrovic and Understanding Greek Religion by Jennifer Larson.

#ritual purity #priesthood #priest #hellenic priest #hellenic priesthood #hellenic pagan #hellenic paganism #hellenic polytheism #hellenic polytheistic

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accursedkaleeshi · 2 months

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Depressing Hilarious Grievous Headcanon: Kyber Crystals are Stupid General Grievous wasn't picking up lightsabers because they were shiny. He was a good collector. He knew how to use them, how to service & troubleshoot them. And he knew how they were made...mechanically speaking. Like he understood how they went together: he could take them apart & rebuild them. Dooku gave him a general overview of how a Jedi would first make their weapons & how intrinsically linked to them their sabers were. He could accept that the matrices of the kyber crystals were wholly unique to allow a saber to operate. He could see where it would be a right of passage for the younglings to find their own kyber crystals. But the crystal spiritually resonating with one individual? That was stupid. After all, he was using them & he wasn't haunted. Grievous actually probably was haunted but his own fragmented sorrows & slights were far too loud for him to notice much. He asked Ventress why Sith lightsabers are all only red flavor. When she explained the process of corrupting a kyber crystal with power he, completely deadpan, said "That's the dumbest thing I have ever heard." & never brought it up again.

#built to fight wizards #doesn't believe in magic #general grievous #accursed!grievous

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space-blue · 3 years

Conversation

Considerations on the Kenobeard

Fett: Stupid idea: Grievous is responsible for Kenobi's shorter hair during CW onwards. An attempted beheading is oh-so narrowly avoided, Kenobi losing his mullet instead.

Nora: I'm picturing a kind of total slow-mo with the saber just millliiiiiiimeters from his skin, the hair going poof...

Green: Yup. Breath of the Wild vibes.

Nora: It'd have to be ugly, and then Obi-Wan reluctantly goes to a hair dresser on Coruscant. I can picture Obi being totally offended and having to recite mantras about not being vain to keep his cool.

Cody: I am one with the force and the force is with me... Singes ear.

Fett: Grievous wears the singed hairs as a beard to taunt him. "Yoo-hooooo!" - Waves them.

Nora: "Hello there" said Grievous, stroking his accursed beard made of Obi's hair.

"Fuck you," Obi-Wan called back.

"So uncivilized," Grievous crooned.

"What the kriff, you can't do that," Obi-Wan wailed. "That's plagiarism!"

Fett: Have they switched roles? xD Kenobi's beard is the source of his personality.

Nora: Haha, if he lost it he'd go catatonic!

Fett: It's like those stories where somebody gets the hand of a murderer, then becomes the murderer. Grievous just becomes Kenobi, and vice-versa.

Nora: Cue confused Dooku.

"Hmmm, Kenobi, is it?"

"What? Can't recognise me without the beard?"

"No just... Why are you calling from this line?"

"I work for you now. Don't ask questions."

"But-"

"I said. Don't."

Fett: Cut to Grievous sitting in a Jedi council meeting, and nobody's comfortable enough to confront him about it.

Nora: Then Kenobi singes the beard off of him but Grievous likes commanding clones too much now and doesn't wanna go back.

Fett: What if they don't even recognise the fact that it's Grievous because of the beard? They just think he's Kenobi, even Anakin is sold.

Nora: That might push my suspension of disbelief too far. Transfer of status through beard power was as much as I'm ready to go lol

Fett: Oh, because THAT was pushing it into the realm of silly.

Nora: I'm picturing Anakin following Obi to the separatists and actually having too much fun and bonding a lot with Dooku. And then the goodies start losing because Dooku-Obi-Ani turns out to be a nightmare triplet from hell.

Beskar'ad: They would be, lol. RIP Yoda his lineage is a terror.

Vince: What happens once Obi-Wan grows the beard back though, is there 2 Kenobis then? Obi-Wan and Grievous the Kenobi beard brothers? They would not only kick all kind of ass, but also make the best double act in the galaxy.

Nora: Maybe it can't be grown, it has to be stolen back?

Vince: lol “it's not about the beard, it's about the story.”

Thousands of years in the future, a force sensitive young man is drawn to the ruins of an ancient temple, there lies what seems to be the metallic body of some sort of droid. It has too many arms and is almost totally empty. But underneath is something that calls to him. He picks it up and—

Obi-Wan's avatar, challenging time and death...

THE KENOBEARD!

#Star Wars #Clone Wars #dialogue #the kenobeard #Obi-Wan Kenobi #Grievous #beard shenanigans #Count Dooku

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paperstarwriters · 3 years

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Rant/Vent Alert

I feel like I've made a grievous mistake, and while wading through the mistake, I've also made a revelation.

So I'm starting University, and I've taken a handful of fascinating classes that prod and poke at reality. I find that interesting, but apparently for all the wrong reasons.

I don't know where I picked the mindset up from, perhaps this hellsite, perhaps from reading Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell and my disdain for the theoretical Magicians, but I find that I like my means of thinking; that is, I enjoy having a vague sense of how many things work.

There's a wonder in it all. Magic. Believing that the sky is blue because of chemicals bouncing around in the air, or that it's blue because it was simply the colour god decided to paint the sky. I enjoyed thinking of a person in terms of their ability to interact with myself and the rest of the world. I'm willing to call pets little people.

I took a Philosophy course that specifically questions identity and it feels as if I am looking at a rotting corpse.

I have never felt so much like a child.

Like a small child staring in horror as they watch all these 'trained professionals' dissect a Unicorn, simply because they wanted to see how it worked.

I have a Cognitive science class that feels like glass shards scraped against a chalkboard every time I attempt to comprehend anything. I read ahead on the slides provided by my professor, doing just as he recommended, and I gave myself a panic attack.

Will I drop these accursed classes? No. For I am stubborn and I missed the deadline to get a refund for dropped classes.

I at least hope my stubbornness would be able to carry through after the fact. I've realized that as awful as these classes work, I still have the ability to simply forget. I can study as awfully as I would like to, studying only for the tests, as I have no intention on retaining any information at all.

University was a massive mistake. I still want to study Psych, but the rest of it is certainly not for me. Thinking it was going to be interesting was a massive mistake on my part, and I will be holding my past self accountable for perhaps their thousandth grievance this past week alone.

I feel tired and hollow and trampled. Yet I've also unlocked stubborn optimism amidst it all and will be using it as the gods have intended me to – with the grace and precision of a crowbar.

Yes, I am procrastinating on my classwork, and yes, this is also me saying I am incredibly preoccupied and will not be doing much writing. If you see me post writing, yell at me to get back to doing schoolwork, It'll keep me here longer.

#Rant #Vent

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cassianus · 3 years

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My children, as soon as ever you have a little spot upon your soul, you must do like a person who has a fine globe of glass, which he keeps very carefully. If this globe has a little dust on it, he wipes it with a sponge the moment he perceives it, and there is the globe clear and brilliant. In the same way, as soon as you perceive a little stain on your soul, take some holy water with respect, do one of those good works to which the remission of venial sins is attached -an alms, a genuflection to the Blessed Sacrament, hearing a Mass. My children, it is like a person who has a slight illness; he need not go and see a doctor, he may cure himself without. If he has a headache, he need only go to bed; if he is hungry, he has only to eat. But if it is a serious illness, if it is a dangerous wound, he must have the doctor; after the doctor come the remedies. In the same way, when we have fallen into any grievous sin, we must have recourse to the doctor, that is the priest; and to the remedy, that is confession.

My children, we cannot comprehend the goodness of God towards us in instituting this great Sacrament of Penance. If we had had a favour to ask of Our Lord, we should never have thought of asking Him that. But He foresaw our frailty and our inconstancy in well-doing, and His love induced Him to do what we should not have dared to ask. If one said to those poor lost souls that have been so long in Hell, "We are going to place a priest at the gate of Hell: all those who wish to confess have only to go out, " do you think, my children, that a single one would remain? The most guilty would not be afraid of telling their sins, nor even of telling them before all the world. Oh, how soon Hell would be a desert, and how Heaven would be peopled! Well, we have the time and the means, which those poor lost souls have not. And I am quite sure that those wretched ones say in Hell, "O accursed priest! if I had never known you, I should not be so guilty!"

It is a beautiful thought, my children, that we have a Sacrament which heals the wounds of our soul! But we must receive it with good dispositions. Otherwise we make new wounds upon the old ones. What would you say of a man covered with wounds who is advised to go to the hospital to show himself to the surgeon? The surgeon cures him by giving him remedies. But, behold! this man takes his knife, gives himself great blows with it and makes himself worse than he was before. Well, that is what you often do after leaving the confessional.

My children, some people make bad confessions without taking any notice of it. These persons say, "I do not know what is the matter with me:' . . . They are tormented, and they do not know why. They have not that agility which makes one go straight to the good God; they have something heavy and weary about them which fatigues them. My children, that is because of sins that remain, often even venial sins, for which one has some affection. There are some people who, indeed, tell everything, but they have no repentance; and they go at once to Holy Communion. Thus the Blood of Our Lord is profaned! They go to the Holy Table with a sort of weariness. They say, "Yet, I accused myself of all my sins. . . I do not know what is the matter with me. " There is an unworthy Communion, and they were hardly aware of it!

My children, some people again profane the Sacraments in another manner. They have concealed mortal sins for ten years, for twenty years. They are always uneasy; their sin is always present to their mind; they are always thinking of confessing it, and always putting it off; it is a Hell. When these people feel this, they will ask to make a general confession, and they will tell their sins as if they had just committed them: they will not confess that they have hidden them during ten years -- twenty years. That is a bad confession! They ought to say, besides, that they had given up the practice of their religion, that they no longer felt the pleasure they had formerly in serving the good God.

My children, we run the risk again of profaning the Sacrament if we seize the moment when there is a noise round the confessional to tell the sins quickly which give us most pain. We quiet ourselves by saying, "I accused myself properly; so much the worse if the confessor did not hear. " So much the worse for you who acted cunningly! At other times we speak quickly, profiting by the moment when the priest is not very attentive to get over the great sins. Take a house which has been for a long time very dirty and neglected -- it is in vain to sweep out, there will always be a nasty smell. It is the same with our soul after confession; it requires tears to purify it. My children, we must ask earnestly for repentance. After confession, we must plant a thorn in our heart, and never lose sight of our sins. We must do as the angel did to Saint Francis of Assisi; he fixed in him five darts, which never came out again.

St. John Vianney

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cerezawrites · 3 years

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Prompt 2: Aberrant

“It is preposterous! Unnatural, even!” the drab-clad Elezen spat, his face turning red. “That any power of darkness should bring good in this world - hardly an idea worth considering. The Fury damn those who would turn to evil means!”

“Calm down, Mattheiu” another Elezen, a woman of the High Houses by her bustle. “We’ve known that the Exorcists have worked with unusual magicks. Is it so hard to believe that there COULDN’T have been a relationship between them? It would have predated the Church and all...”

The two stood in the corner of a large hall, at the moment host to a massive party, such that even this outburst wouldn’t go noticed. Cereza stood, ostensibly admiring a painting of one of the owner’s great-great-great-ad infinitum ancestors with a flute of sparkling cider in one gloved hand, but her attention was on the debate that had unfolded.

The opening of Ishgard had many impacts upon the city, and the histories of magic, and their connections to lost civilizations in a past age, had caused a small but notable stir amongst the academics who understood the principles. Such things weren’t major debates in other lands - there, the debates were more focused on the use of specific branches, rather than the overall origin - but here, yet another belief was being upturned.

“The origins of the Exorcists’ magic is simple - it is the elements that surround us, granted by the Fury and the other gods. No ancient black wizardry had a hand in inspiring that holy art. It is an instrument of faith, nothing more.”

And there was the opening.

“If that is truly the case, why then did the Heretics have the same powers? Why was Ars Almandel and its twin, Ars Notoria, almost condemned as a heretical text, if the magic it grants was not of the faith?” THAT got the man’s attention, but Cereza stood, back to him, still studying the vaunted elder’s painting.

“How dare you compare our arts to that of heretics!” She could see his face turning redder still.

“I’m not,” she said, finally glancing over her shoulder. “I’m asking a fundamental question of faith - from whence does evil come? Only in this case, it’s a question more of, from whence does YOUR form of evil derive its power? Certainly they could develop it from accursed sources, but if that were the case, why are the spells so similar?” She finally turned and faced him. “And moreover, if it were the case, why then does the Church have to train Inquisitors, if their faith would provide the power?”

The crowd was starting to pay attention, but the man Cereza faced had eyes only for her, and not in a good way. The other Elezen, the woman in the bustle, did find her point worth pouncing on. “That is a good point… Natural magic is rare here in Ishgard, and only the priests and inquisitors and their ilk do wield it regularly. Chirugeons also can get it through study… but you never just see the truly faithful summon fire or mend grievous wounds.”

Cereza nodded. “Beyond which, Ishgard’s once and once again allies use similar arts, and yet no accusation of heresy or witchcraft is levied against them - at least not in general, barring occasional foreign victims of the overzealous Inquisition. Why, did Thordan the III not even commend a young magus some centuries back, making him an honorary knight of the realm?”

“That’s enough, both of you!” the man shouted. “The magicks of the church are holy blessings. Your.. thaumaturgy and arcanamia are all hollow imitations of Fury-granted grace! And were you Ishgardian, I’d challenge you to a duel!”

Ah, about time. Cereza motioned over a servant, and asked the girl to hold her drink, as she strutted up to the red-faced man, tugging off her right glove. “Well, well… If you are so eager…let’s not let my nationality limit us. Duelling is common in other parts of Eorzea after all. Ergo… I challenge YOU.” With that, she slapped the red faced Elezen with her glove, and the crowd was silent. For his part, Matthieu was shocked, but then his anger returned. “Very well, then!” He strode off, and had servants bring a blade and shield. When he returned, he said, “Well then! What weapon do you choose?”

Cereza smiled as she replaced her glove and tapped the ground with her cane before throwing it into the air in a spiral. She caught it and held it out like a sword - and in fact, it WAS, or perhaps had become, a sword, a dueling rapier to be exact. She held it out in front of her, her left hand held behind her. “I think my old reliable will work here. A weapon of another time and place.” The blade was intricately crafted in a near-Eastern style. “But, one far more suited to this duel than you might think. First blood then? Or best of some arbitrary number?”

The man scoffed. “Such a small blade, and you dare think you’d get even one hit, let alone three of five? Besides, for your heresy, it should be death, but I’ll take yielding.”

Cereza nodded her head with a smile. “Oh good… some fun for once. Well then, en guard!”

The floor had cleared, and the two circled it weapons poised. Mattheiu struck towards her first, shield over his chest to limit the exposure of his thrust, and Cereza had to dodge to the side, swinging wildly and hitting only air. He repeated the trick, and she dodged again -b ut it was closer this time. And again, and this time he managed to knick her hand. “Ha, a hit!” He exclaimed. He didn’t raise his arms to gloat, though, remembering the terms… but that wasn’t the opening she was looking for anyways.

“Well then, I suppose I can’t afford to be sloppy anymore,” she said, as she focused on the blood on his blade. She removed one glove and replaced with a black one, then cupped the end of her sword. Her blade’s “pommel” separated, a gem glittering red, floating in her hand. Mana flowed from the accelerator focus into the blade, and she kept her attention on that blood as she leapt forth, the magic guiding her. The sudden leap pushed him back this time, and she made a stroke at him as he flailed, then another two slashes, and three more to finish it off. Mattheiu fell back on the ground, his jacket ruined, and shouted, “I yield! I yield!” before scrambling to get up and leave the party. Cereza smiled and dismissed the blade, replacing it with her cane once more.

The host, a member of House Hallienarte, came and bowed to her, as did the Elezen woman. “My apologies for that,” the host said. “Our guests should not have their honor questioned in this place of peace.”

Cereza shook her head as she took her drink back from the servant who held it. “Think nothing of it, Baron. Your guest had too much to drink and was too forthcoming with his unsavory opinions. I merely dealt with an insult in the way we should. Thank you again for the invitation, however.” She curtsied. “I didn’t realize I had left such an impression on my last visit.”

“The honor is mine,” the baron said with a bow. “You’ve aided our house in many endeavors. Recovering my cousin’s heirloom left a special impression, and she insisted I invite you.”

“Well, I much appreciate it.” She curtsied again, and the Baron left her alone with the woman. “And you, mademoiselle. I heard you debating our unfortunate acquaintance earlier. I hope the duel hasn’t put a damper on your evening.”

“Oh, perish the thought. It was time he got thrashed for that. But tell me, your sword… that wasn’t just swordplay, was it? There was...something else at work.”

“Indeed. A blend of magicks, and a bit of preparation, helped to enhance the blade. Combined with a small homing spell to track my blood and guide my leap forward, and it proved quite invaluable. Alas, I think I spent the reserve mana in the blade’s accelerator for now.” She shook her head. “Ah… but my manners. Lady Cereza Hoid, at your service.”

The elezen offered her hand and curtsied, and Cereza took it and brought her forehead to it. “Lady Maricelle Dzemael. A pleasure to meet you.”

The two spoke for a bit, before a server came and handed Maricelle a letter, offering a chamber for her to read it in. There was something odd about the servant… but Cereza simply waited until Maricelle returned, sighing.. “Ah… It seems that Mattheiu has left for the evening and refuses to return… and he was my escort.” She turned to Cereza. “I hate to impose… but it is getting late. Would you be able to walk back with me? I trust the streets of Foundation, but…”

Cereza smiled. “Of course. I was actually heading that way myself.” She finished her drink - the only one she’d had all night, and bid farewell to the host and a few others, before returning to Maricelle’s side. “Please, unto the night.”

The two strode out, and Maricelle said, “There is a shortcut back this way… come, follow.” Cereza didn’t get a chance to protest before her charge fled down the darkened alleyway.

“Well, so much for both worry and trusting the streets,” she muttered under her breath as she went in behind. The alley was dark, only lights from the few house windows to illuminate the way, and the aether seemed to stir oddly.

She caught a glimpse of Maricelle’s dress, and followed, only to keep a few steps behind each time. The dress led down a maze of alleys, definitely not a shortcut. “Maricelle?” Cereza called into the night.

She heard the other lady call out, “This way, Cereza…” But something in her voice was… wrong. Cereza drew out her blade again, and approached more cautiously.

Around the corner, she saw a terrible sight. Maricelle floated inside a cloud, under the control of the servant who’d handed her the letter. Damn, she thought, should have kept my eyes on him.

“Ahahaha… easy enough to lure you in… a pity how simple it was, really. But when I realized who you were… I couldn’t have you running around ruining my plans.”

“A compulsion, then,” she said. “Have the girl misunderstand the way home… probably a spell trapped in the letter.” “Indeed,” the “servant” said. “You were always a sucker for a pretty face and a damsel in distress. You gave me the perfect opening… baiting her cousin into that duel. But you can’t harm her now.”

Cereza looked at her, trapped and unconscious in the miasma. He looked at the girl and… smiled. And the cloud - an extension of the Voidsent in the servant, seemed to shimmer nervously. Didn’t know they could do that, she thought.

“You think it was coincidence I was here, Achtrasi?” she said, calling it by one of its names - not its true name. Not yet. “I knew you’d made it into the city… tracking down the relic was easy enough. The servant opened it instead of the Baron, though, so you had to make do. I knew one way or another you’d be at that party… and you’d use the girl as bait. You always liked hostages… ones that would inspire chivalry in your hunter.”

The cloud rumbled. “Well well… clever. But it doesn’t matter. You already used up your mana… what do you have that would help you save her without that?”

Cereza’s smile widened. “I DID say it was empty, didn’t I? I could channel through it, but you wouldn’t give me that kind of time… but see, there’s a trick I’ve learned. It IS empty… Well… except for one or two little spells I managed to catch...”

The creature’s cloud seemed to shimmer in uncertainty. “Wha- What? What the-”

It didn’t finish its curse, as a pillar of white aether hit the cloud square on, not harming the girl inside but dissipating the trap she was in and letting her fall to the ground. The servant stepped back and tried to run… until a ball of red light came immediately after, driving it into the wall.

The servant stood up, but it was no longer truly that form. Its true form bled through the body, broke through it, shedding the corpse and revealing a giant warrior, made of shadow and smoke, with two knives in its claws.

Cereza regarded it, and put her sword away. She instead reached into the aether once more and summoned out a tome, a blue-covered grimoire with gold embellishments.

The scream intensified, and Cereza smiled. “Ah, you recognize this grimoire, don’t you? I’m not part of the church, admittedly… but that’s not a requirement. The girl is right - the magic isn’t a gift of faith. But credit where it’s due… they do have their exorcisms down pat” She flipped it open to a page she’d bookmarked, and recited the spell within. The words were prayers to the Fury, but though they were somewhat slanted to an Ishgardian interpretation, that wouldn’t make them any weaker - it wasn’t like summoning a Primal, where faith became aether to be channeled through prayer. The spell was quite more the opposite in effect, really.

“O Fury, Halone in the Heavens above, hear this call and bind this child of the Void, Achtrasi!”

The voidsent charged her, but as its blades came down to cleave her, chains of ice held them - and its body - leaving it paralyzed in place. The words shaped her aether through the circles, and resonated with a spell of banishment. “In the name of the Fury,” she called, careful not to shout lest she awaken anyone, “I command thee, demon. Descend into the Seven Hells, and be banished from this land. Hurt her children no more. By her spear!”

An aetherial lance drove into the head of the beast and through its torso, and it vanished into smoke, the dark energies that made up its power vanishing. Cereza closed the book and banished it back into the aether - no sense getting caught with it BY one of the Inquisitors. She could play the part of exorcist, but she wasn’t a part of the order, and being caught with that tome could spell trouble even now. Instead, she drew her sword again, and went to the girl, channeling the white mana to cure her and help her recover.

Maricelle opened her eyes. “I… what… what was that?” she stammered as she regained consciousness. “I remember… you… and a party… and then….

Cereza closed her eyes in relief. “Voidsent,” she said when she opened them again. “Demon. Possessed that poor servant… and decided to use you as bait for me.”

Maricelle shook her head. “The… the dark magics? Was my defense… unjust?”

“Hardly. Damned thing was summoned back in the Fifth era. Your trust in the truth is valid.. This was just an evil spirit, not some divine punishment. And.. possibly my fault. It knew to use you as bait… I just knew it would, and planned accordingly. But even so…”

Maricelle stopped her before she could continue her apology, then sobbed and clung to Cereza. Cereza held her, a bit awkwardly, but understandingly, knowing the fear from such things. “You kept me safe… that’s all that matters.” She eventually calmed down, and sniffled. “Just… get me home. Please?”

Cereza smiled and nodded. “Of course. But… I think this way, this time,” she said.

#ffxivwrites #FFxivwrite #FFxivWrite2021 #ffxiv

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