#its outrageous i am fuming

[patchesjam]

aboslute fucking nerve of new housemate.... i move in on the 22nd and coincidentally the bills are due 22nd... they want me to pay the bills for the entire month prior before i even set foot in the fucking place i feel like theyre having an absolute fucking laugh

#its outrageous i am fuming #and i cannot even say no without being a bitch and having an awful start as a new hosuemate #like theres zero winning here for me

[stormhearty]

Paring: former Azriel x Reader

Triggers: mentions of cheating, mentions of death, cursing, a lot of bold and italicize

Word Count: 3K+

Summary: The High Lords called a meeting to discuss the Death-God’s resurrection. However, with the death of their Seer, tensions run high between Day and Night Court, Helion outraged by the loss of your life. Truths are revealed and lies are exposed. And what happens when the High Lords realize that they have all been too late?

Note: I thank you all for all the love you have given to my one shot!! I had never thought it would have been so well received by fans and writers! I am very amused by everyone's reactions and thoughts on the one shot — everyone is wanting blood and redemption for our poor reader. And she will! This chapter is a segway/filler chapter — but still important. It's still angsty, don't worry. This one shot will probably become a 3 part series. I know in that voting poll I had done asked if you guys wanted a 5k chapter, rather than a 2- 2k chapters, but I wanted to leave you guys with one more chapter to look forward to! Please look forward to it!

Part One | Part Three | Epilogue

<Pushed to the Edge> Masterlist

“You had abandoned my emissary, disregarded her sight and had her take her own life in your Court… And for what? Your mate’s sister’s powers?!” Helion was fuming, amber eyes staring the High Lord of Night down, “And that her mate — - “a growl escaped his lips, as he glanced at the Spymaster next to Rhysand, “Had cheated on her for said sister?!”

The High Lord of Day’s voice echoed throughout the throne room, shaking its very walls at the allegation of what had happen within the wards of the Night Court. Helion’s fingers gripped the edge of the large round table, his claws causing the wood to splint underneath his fingertips.

“And now… you are telling me that her body disappeared?” his voice deathly low, “That your Spymaster’s shadows had whisked her body away to — God-knows-where… That, that child, never had never had a proper burial?!”

Rhysand couldn’t utter a single word against the claims placed against him and his Court — he couldn’t when everything that Helion had roared was true.

“… Show me…” Helion hissed, focusing at his old friend, “Show us what had happened that day…”

Rhysand gulped, staring at Helion before glancing around the table towards the High Lords of Pyrthian. All of them staring him down before all felt the claws of Rhysand's power creeping in their minds, images of that day of your death playing in their minds — all of them watching the confrontation between the Inner Circle and you — on how you were cornered and betrayed, leading up to your very death.

He hated it. Rhysand not only relived that that multiple times during his dreams — where he had failed you. He now had to relieve it while he was awake. Hearing your pleads and cries for him to listen to your visions, and seeing your body dying on that marble floor — to watch it be taken away by tendrils of shadow.

Once the memory came to pass, sobs echoed throughout the room. Helion being the loudest as he ran a hand down his face, his form shaking in his seat. Rhysand glanced towards his Inner Circle, watching his family relive that moment as well; eyes focusing on Azriel, who gripped the arms of his chair as his face wrinkled in anguish at the memory.

It had been a month ever since your death, a month since the sliver of shadows that once served the Spymaster had taken your body away — unknown to even Azriel on where they had brought your body to. And a month ever since more and more whispers of Koschei’s resurrection echoed throughout the Courts. The Death-God’s power vibrating throughout all of Pyrthian — it was difficult to not miss.

The High Lords gathered in Day Court to strategize on the impending danger of the Death-God. However, it was no secret on what had happened in the wards of Night Court. The loss of your light present throughout all of Pyrthian — every High Lord felt it.

Especially Helion.

He wanted nothing more to hurt and maim every member of the Inner Circle; but that wasn’t the purpose of this meeting — though he wanted it to be.

Helion reigned in his emotions, trying to calm the rage that boiled in his blood. Trying to clam the sadness he felt for the loss of you. He straightened up in his chair, letting out a shaky breath, looking back at the Night Court High Lord.

“… I regret that I ever had sent (Y/N) to your Court, Rhysand,” his tone small and disappointed, “Her powers were wasted on you and your Court. A Seer taking their life, being betrayed by the people she called her family,” His head shaking, a laugh, one so loud and so sarcastic escaping his chest that it echoed in throne room, startling the other High Lords, making Rhysand flinch in his seat. “What a damn found family you made. Betraying one’s mate, betraying a person who had served you for five-hundred fucking years over a female who barely has control over her own powers.”

Amber eyes darted to Elain, as he watched her flinch back, hiding behind the eldest Archeron sister, “What prophecy have you seen now?” the sarcasm very evident in his tone, “Have you seen what (Y/N) has seen? Have you seen the resurrection of Kosechi, as well? Your powers are nothing compared to (Y/N)’s.”

“How dare you talk to someone in my Court like — -” Rhysand started.

“You have no right to challenge me in my own Court, Rhysand!” Helion bellowed, hands slamming on the table, standing up as he glared at his once-called friend, “Do you realize what you have done?! Do you realize why there hasn’t been a Seer in millennials? Why (Y/N) has been the only recorded Seer in the history of Pyrthian? Because Seers have been hunted — by Fae, humans and Gods alike. They are so sought after, for their power, for the knowledge, for their sight. Seers have the power to uncover what is hidden, lurking in the darkness. They are the very light that unveils the darkness. They have been hunted to be exterminated for that very power…”

It had been the very reason why Helion had taken you in when you were a child, guarded carefully in the Day Court. To ensure the prosper of your power, the prosper of your light.

Amber eyes darted around the table, eyes staring at the High Lords that had situated themselves in this very room, listening to his tale before they stared back at Rhysand, “You, being the powerfullest High Lord if all of Pyrthian should have known that. And now, her body, one filled with Unknown-God-and Cauldron bound powers is missing…”

A huff escaped his lips in exasperation as he sat down back into his seat, “Her body should be buried here, in my Court, where she rightfully belongs to. But, no. And none of us could properly pray respects for the loss of her light…”

It was no secret that Helion had a soft spot for you. You were like his child, raising you since you were small, watching you grow and become a bright light within the Day Court. He knew how your light felt, how he basked in it as if it was the sun that radiated overhead.

And so when he had woken up that night in cold sweat, feeling the vanishing of your light — he knew something had gone terribly wrong.

“… — Helion…” Feyre tentatively called out to him, “You said her body is Cauldron bound? What do you mean by that?”

The Day High Lord glanced at the High Lady, staring her down before he nodded his head once. Leaning forward to rest his chin on his hand, “That’s what both myself and (Y/N) believe. (Y/N) is one the strongest Seers I have met in my life, those few Seers that I have encountered, ones that have wanted to remain hidden, are no match to (Y/N)’s powers. Your little Cauldon-Made Seer is no match for her either,” he sneered at the middle Archeron sister.

"There has been little records of Seers in Prythian, we all know that. Not even my libraries had enough information about them and their powers. But, despite that, (Y/N) was able to hone into her powers with little instructions… You know that she doesn’t just see the future, she was able to see what was happening now. She was able to focus on parts of Pyrthian and tell me what is and what will happen.

“But during the war with Hybern, much like when Nesta felt the Cauldron, (Y/N) felt it too. We didn’t know why, but we realized she and the Cauldron were somewhat connected. Whether it be the Cauldron was reason why she has her visions or if the Cauldron was the source of her power, they were bound. A natural connection between the two of them. And when the Cauldron broke, (Y/N) had told me she felt the Cauldron’s power sought refuge with her, as if the Cauldron sought her light.

“After the war, she had asked for my opinion — she felt the remnants of the Cauldron’s power tingling through her. She told me she saw more visions, visions of the far off future that she had no idea when would happen, and that her powers were starting to become out of her control. She was starting to lose herself in her powers, lose her mind to it… I didn’t know how to help her…”

The Inner Circle remembered, weeks after the end of the war, (Y/N) had asked if she could return to Day Court for a few weeks. Rhysand had let her, thinking it was not important. Azriel, too, didn’t question on her reason why she wanted to leave.

It was when they started to not care. When they started to focus their attention to Elain — the Seer that had defeated the King of Hybern.

Helion let out a broken laugh, staring at the Inner Circle, “I’m sure you never knew, did you? On how broken she started to be after the war. You never knew how her sleep was plagued with visions, that she couldn’t even close her eyes without images flashing behind them. Of how she sobbed in bed, wondering if she was in a dream or reality. She couldn’t differentiate anymore… And you…” eyes focusing on Azriel, “You never felt her pain because you put up a wall between your mating bond. Did you know, Azriel…”

The Day High Lord’s tone was seething, remembering those day.

“Did you know, how she cried for you? She begged down the bond for you to come and help. Wanting your protection, wanting to help sooth the pain she had felt? Wanting you just to be there? But all she could feel was the wall you placed, ignoring her… abandoning her when she needed all of you the most…

“I sent her back, hoping that all of you would help. I sent her back with sleeping tonics, hoping to help her with her sleep. Hoping that her family and mate would help her through her toughest time. Hoping that you all would see her. But I can see that never happened. That no matter how much she begged for you all to listen to her visions, to see her in pain, you ignored,” his voice was laced with anger, disappointment.

No one said a word. The air in the room tense and dense at the revelation that Helion lamented. No one knew of what you had gone through.

Azriel felt his his heart burn in his chest, as if his siphons were burning his skin — he felt the remnants of the broken mating bond in his chest, aching more at Helion’s words.

He didn’t know, he didn’t see, he didn’t feel the pain you were going through. He had ignored the tug of the bond when he had that wall up. He had been too infatuated with the middle Archeron sister, wanting her to feel belonged in their Court — all the while alienating the person who had been with him through thick and thin.

And, yet, he couldn’t do the same for you.

Bright blue eyes closed as Feyre silently mourned and apologized to the Heavens, to the night sky where you might have been.

But she realized on the implications of what had Helion had told them — that you might have been the Cauldron-bound object that Koschei needed to escape that lake.

She looked up at Rhysand, and he to her as they communicated down the bond. Both of them realizing what could happen.

The gesture wasn’t missed by Helion as he watched them, waiting for them to explain what they might have discovered. However, when they did not say anything, a growl escaped his chest.

“What is it?”

Feyre and Rhysand looked at the Day High Lord, hesitance shown in their features, “… It’s about what (Y/N) had told us. You all saw it in that memory…”

Helion thought, playing the memory back as he watched remembered your face, the anguish of your features shining through his head, listening to your words — your vision of what might pass.

“… That Koschei needed something from the Cauldron to be released from the lake,” Lucien pointed out from his spot next to Helion, the russete eye looking at Elain before back to Feyre.

“What if…” Tarquin mumbled, “…Koschei found (Y/N)’s body? If you and (Y/N) knew of the connection to the Cauldron, that the Cauldron sought her power. He could use her body to be freed from that lake.”

Helion looked at the Summer High Lord, amber eyes wide at the realization, “… If that were to come to pass, we would be doomed. (Y/N)’s body is probably soaked in Cauldron powers. It would be so easy for Koschei to be freed, and no one would ever notice. It is not impossible, but since (Y/N)’s body has disappeared, it is possible for her to have fallen into his clutches.”

Kallias, in the mist of the conversation, was watching, observing, the only remaining Seer in the room. He leaned forward, bright blue hues staring the Made-Fae, as he rested both arms on the table, “Have you had any visions?”

Heads turned towards the High Lord of Winter at his question. It did not phase him, as he continued, ”I heard from your High Lady that you rarely said anything about your visions, since the Cauldron broke. So do tell us, what have you seen about the Death-God?” If she had her powers still, a Seer would be still useful in this situation.

Elain visibly swallowed, as all attention was on her once more. Brown eyes frantically glanced around the table, over to her sisters and then to Azriel who both looked at her expectedly.

A heartbeat later, and the Middle Archeron sister knew that she couldn't lie.

She shook her head, “I have not seen anything… since the Cauldron broke…” her words nothing but a whisper in the wind.

It was as if a pin dropped on marble floors, the silence in the room was penetrating.

A laugh broke the silence. Eris’ shook his in disbelief on the drama they were hearing, “So you’re telling us, you have been lying about having your powers. And that (Y/N), who has actually seen those visions had taken her life?” he glared at the middle Archeron sister, “For what? Because you needed a position in the Night Court? So that you can gain the Spymaster’s affection? To bed him?”

Elain shook her head again, brown eyes desperate as she tried to catch eye with her family, with Nesta, who just looked away, brows furrowed with anguish, “… I just wanted to be useful…” she whispered in fear, slumping down in her chair, “My powers… were the only thing that made me feel like I belonged… But I didn’t have them, and… I just, didn’t want to lose my family.”

“And yet, you were willing to let (Y/N) lose her family, her mate… and her life. Just to keep your own,” Thesan expressed, "That selfishness will be the downfall of Pyrthian."

Elain flinched at the truth thrown onto her face, eyes down-casting, silence taking over her form.

Before anyone could reprimand Elain for her actions, the grand doors slammed open, a dark mist blowing throughout the room. Frightened and confused screams echoed through the room.

Helion stood up, using his power of light to dissipate the darkness that tried to cover the room. Amber eyes glowed as he watched as a cloaked figure float into the room.

Eyes watched the cloaked figure as it settled its form onto the floor, bare pale feet touching the marble.

“… I would think… that if the Pyrthian High Lords would gather… they would invite a God to their meeting. But I guess, manners do not exist in this world…” the voice was grating and brittle.

The hood swept, as if eyes inside were looking at all the High Lords that were now standing up, all attention to him.

A eerie chuckle escaped the hooded figure, spiny fingers grasping the edge before slipping it down. White hair and black eyes were revealed, pale, sickly skin glowed underneath the darkness that had surrounded him.

The figure bowed, a mocking gesture to the High Lords.

“It seems, that you are unaware of who you are being greeted by…” a boney finger raised up and pointed towards Nesta, the eldest sister stiffening, “Though I’m quite sure you do, dearest sister…” he grinned at her.

Nesta gulped and looked at the uninvited guest. She knew who would greet her like that — only the Death Caver has echoed the same words, “You’re Koschei… aren’t you…”

Koschei grinned wider, head tilting to the side as he stepped forward, laughing as the High Lords ready themselves for a battle with the Death-God.

“Oh don’t be so tense, my High Lords…” he mockingly commented, sweeping a hand, “Please sit… Do not stop your meeting for dear little old me. Though it is such an honor for you to do so.”

He rounded the table, eyes making contact with each of the High Lord, black eyes sweeping over their forms before he stopped before Rhysand.

Violet hues and black sockets stared at each other.

“Though I do have to thank you, High Lord of the Night… You have gifted me the precious gift of life. Though, it was through the loss of one of your own… You might have known her. Cared for her… Loved her…” Koschei looked at Azriel whose hazel eyes burned at the Death-God.

He let out a low laugh.

Tarquin’s assumption was right — the Death-God had used your body to free himself from the lake, right underneath their noses. No one felt it, no one knew. And it had been too late to do anything about it; months too late to prevent the resurrection, months too late to find your missing body, months too late of not listening to you.

Koschei looked behind him, far past the grand windows, the familiar cry of the bird of fire and ash echoing through the lands of Day Court, heading towards them — Vassa had come to stop the sorcerer-lord from his destruction.

However, before she landed on the balcony, an arrow, made of shadow and darkness struck her, causing the great bird to plummet to the land beneath her.

Lucien gasped and ran towards the balcony, peering down to see if the mortal queen had survived the fall; but there was no sign of the cursed queen anywhere below.

“What a dramatic entry by Vassa, as always…” Koschei said with a sigh, before another chuckle escaped his lips, dark eyes boring into the empty spot beside him, “Don’t you think… (Y/N)?”

All heads snapped towards the Deathless God, your name slipping from his lips, as they watched a swirl of darkness materialized a familiar figure. Azriel watched, hazel eyes wide as he took in your form, whisps of shadows that had whirled around you — his shadows, one that had abandoned him ever since your death.

“…(Y/N)…” Azriel whispered in disbelief, his voice shaking.

There you stood, next to the Death-God, very much alive.

Very much like a Death-God yourself.

And it echoed in your outfit — tendrils of shadow made up your dress, covering you from head to toe, fluttering near your feet as if a gown swayed by the wind. In your hands, a bow and arrow made of those shadows — the very bow that had struck Vassa down from her flight.

That was where Azriel’s shadows had gone to — leaving him, following you to your death, and making you someone completely different.

Someone that was going to be the downfall of Pyrthian itself.

Tagging: @cleverzonkwombatsludge, @setayeshmohseni, @kindasleepycryptid, @f4iry-bell, @woodland-mist, @kalulakunundrum, @topaz125, @thelov3lybookworm, @hnyclover, @harrystylesfan2686, @anuttellaa, @ithan-holstroms-girl, @judig92, @venuseuripedis, @fairywriter-oracle, @thehighlordishere, @acourtofbatboydreams, @willowpains, @historygreekqueen, @dr4g0ngirl, @ayme301, @kemillyfreitas, @crazylokonugget, @abysshaven, @michaelharrypotter, @naturakaashi, @kittenbi, @namelesssav, @guiltyreader, @awkardnerd, @je-suis-prest-rachel, @quackitysdrugdealer, @thesunloveschips, @brieflyclassymortal, @justdreamstars, @isa1b2h3, @himesuedi, @fxckmiup, @starswholistenanddreamsanswered, @t0uch-starved-h0e, @mybestfriendmademe

#acotar fanfiction #azriel x reader #acotar angst #acotar x reader #acotar fic #a court of thorns and roses #( .one shot : pushed to the edge ) #acotar fanfic #azriel angst #helion acotar #eris vanserra #rhysand #feyre archeron

[undiscovered-horizon]

Rainy Season - Morpheus x Reader

[Spoilers for Brief Lives I guess?]

[MASTERLIST] | [Sandman-inspired playlist]

SUMMARY: Fed up with Dream's stubborn and at times childish attitude, you leave Dreaming. But when Morpheus's sorrow makes itself known, Matthew has to fetch you before the kingdom completely floods.

WORDCOUNT: ~ 1.7k

It’s a tumultuous morning in the Dreaming. Even if none of the dreams and nightmares are privy to the ongoing feud, they know something is wrong. It’s as though the air in the kingdom, the marrow of their bones, turned bitter last night. Their skin is crawling but the sun is shining as it did yesterday. They birds chirp the same song they had throughout centuries. And yet, against their better judgment, something is terribly out of place.

To be honest, you don’t even remember how all of this started but the damage is already done.

A frustrated scream ripples through your chest, "The world doesn't revolve around you!" You're fuming. There's only so much patience one person can hold and recently, Morpheus had proven himself exceptional at trying to reach its limit until he, unfortunately, succeeded today. "For someone who's supposed to know every thought ever entertained, you sure can not look past the tip of your own nose."

His eyes, cold and hurt, stare at you in utter confusion. Dark eyebrows furrow. "I do not know what you're expecting of me,” he states in an angry voice. It appears that he really does not understand the reason for your outrage. "I am not human, I am unable to look at the world as you do."

Of course he says that, you think to yourself. It seems to be his favorite line of defense. Dream of the Endless is a strange, eldritch creature. He doesn’t comprehend the world like a mortal does and, or some reason, he treats this fact of nature as an excuse not to try. At first, you thought it charming - to see the universe through the eyes of a creature you can barely begin to understand. Who wouldn’t? The strange wonder of the man in front of you made you seek his company again and again. Truthfully, there’s something poetic about it: the reason you’ve come back to him so many times might be the very reason you bid him farewell. For good.

"Good news, then: you don't need a cardiovascular system to exercise empathy.” Your sarcastic tone has an effect on Morpheus. He frowns, hurt by your words, only to grow angry that he’s so affected. Dream’s pride makes him want to not be influenced by your bitterness. Alas, he cares more than he’s willing to admit. "Not everything is about you, Morpheus, and until you realize that, I don't think we've got more to talk about. Goodbye."

Even after you shut the door behind you, the word echoes through the castle. The stone walls seem to whisper it back to Morpheus, rubbing the salt in his wound. How strange it is - to be haunted by somebody still alive. To be the king of dreams and feel hopeless. It would be funny if it didn’t make him want to be unmade.

A thunder rolls. A blue lightning splits the sky in two. Despite the lovely weather in the morning, it starts to rain in the Dreaming.

The storm doesn’t stop after a few hours nor does it cease after a few days. Black clouds cover the sky as they did four days ago. The only change is in the water level: the kingdom is flooded. When everyone thought the rain is bound to stop soon, no one minded much the rising tide. However, when the situation only worsened with no evidence that it’s going to improve in the near future, worried voices started to reach Lucienne. If the storm doesn’t cease in the next day or two, some parts of the Dreaming will share the fate of Atlantis.

If Morpheus knew he was being observed, he didn’t show it. Perhaps he doesn’t feel up for another confrontation. In any event, he remains still, standing against the balcony reiling, as his friends begin plotting:

"How is he?" Matthew whispers to Lucienne. "Has he moved from there at all? Ate something? Said anything?"

"That's three 'no's, I'm afraid,” she answers slowly. The librarian lets out a heavy sigh. "He's just dramatically standing there, wallowing in pity."

Dream really is 'just standing there’. Drenched. His hair and clothes are stuck to his pasty skin. It can’t be comfortable but it would appear that matters other than cosiness are on his mind at the moment. For the past few days, ever since you left, he hasn’t moved even a quarter of an inch. Truthfully, he looks about as alive as a marble statue, if monuments could appear excruciatingly miserable.

"Should we do something?" The raven continues. What he really wants to ask is 'What should we do?’ but Lucienne seems to catch the undertone of his words nonetheless.

"You could ask her to come back but no guarantee she'll want to,” she thinks out loud. "They've fought before but this time she looked really defeated."

Morpheus, although doesn’t need to breathe, sighs loudly. As he exhales, another lightning tears the sky apart.

"Alright, I'll try to convince her to talk to him again,” Matthew states. His worried voice makes him sound determined to have the two of you reconcile. "Hopefully, we'll be back before you need a canoe."

Lucienne doesn’t respond. As much as she doesn’t want to admit to her pessimism, she knows better than to have much hope in the matter of Dream’s love life.

Repetitive tapping on the window diverts your attention from the dishes you were washing. Seeing the black bird sitting on the outside windowsill, you quickly wipe your hands against the dishrag and jog to open the window.

"Matthew?" you ask in surprise.

He wastes no time pleading his case in a plaintive tone. "You gotta go back to him. Everything's gone to shit."

You furrow your eyebrows. Leaning against the wall, you cross your arms on your chest. "What do you mean?"

The raven hops closer to you. "It's been pouring nonstop since you left. He's just standing there, soaking wet and he won't talk to anyone."

It might sound sadistic but it’s a nice thought that he’s grieving your departure so severely. For what it’s worth, it means he’s not as blase as he likes to appear. Perhaps, Morpheus cares about you more than you’re even aware of.

"How bad is it?" you ask warily.

"How bad?!" Matthew screeches. "The House of Mysteries is so flooded, Abel is fishing."

It sounds like 'bad' is nothing more than an elegant euphemism. In his heartache, Morpheus is willing to let Dreaming decay and fall into partial ruin. If your accusation had been correct and Dream of the Endless truly is unable to care about anyone but himself, such a disaster would never have happened. A selfish ruler wouldn’t let his realm turn to rubble because of a broken heart. And if you’re more important than what he calls home, then…

"I'm assuming that's not a usual feature,” you give the raven a half-hearted response. The thoughts inside your head are in a painful turmoil, trying to lift the truth out of the indications.

"Yeah," he answers sarcastically.

Matthew glares at you in anticipation. Perplexed, you rub your arm without thinking much about it. Right, it's the mature and responsible thing to do but at the same time, why do you have to be the one to cave in every time you two fall out? If Morpheus cares for you as much as his dramatic show of pain and grief would suggest, shouldn’t it be him travelling across world and realms to reach you?

The raven cocks his head. Something about the look in his eyes changes as though his frustration has faded away or grown into desperation if not powerlessness. He’s tired and out of options.

"Alright, let's go," you say with a sigh. "But no promises. I still have pride and self-respect and he's still a stubborn..." you take a deep breath, "nevermind. Let's just go."

Miserable.

That's the only word that comes to your mind as you stare at him from afar. One would think that an entity of his sort can not be or look miserable but maybe this world is even stranger than you've thought. His clothes are drenched to the point of being see-through. Dark, once-tussled hair is now stuck to his face and neck. Dream's body looks even more stringy as his head is hanging low between his shoulders.

The rain is almost deafening. Your cautious, hesitant footsteps shouldn't be audible and yet Morpheus turns around to look at you when you come closer.

"I didn't think you'd come back," he says in a low, groggy voice. Dream's eyes, once blue and cold, are now red and unsettlingly vacant. Has he been crying? "What do you want?"

You take a deep breath. It was vain to expect him to welcome you with open arms. An eldritch being with a bruised ego and a broken heart could never make for a hospitable host. Even to those whom he misses the most.

"I still stand by what I said, it's just..." you hang your voice for a moment to find the proper words. Seeing him so broken by your fight makes some part of you want to renounce everything that lead to your argument. Anything just for him to be alright again. But the more reasonable side of you knows that such an action would only hurt both of you in the long run. "I admit, I could have said it in a more civilized way. I'm sorry. You didn't deserve that harshness."

His gaze falls and Morpheus looks away for a moment.

Whether he's doing it consciously or not, the rainstorm ceases. Black clouds slowly drift away to uncover a clear, blue sky. Somewhere in the West, if there are cardinal directions in Dreaming, the sun is beginning to set. Despite the significant improvement, the air remains cold. A harsh wind nips at your drenched form. In a vain attempt to shield yourself from the discomfort of the weather, you put your arms around your torso. Still, your body trembles.

"Perhaps I should have put more effort into understanding your concern. I'm..." he turns silent for a second. His lips are apart but no sound is coming out of his mouth. Dream's hurt gaze meets yours. "Sorry," he whispers finally. Despite his voice being hardly audible, the weight of his confession is almost deafening.

"There's one more thing, Morpheus."

Those sad blue eyes stare at you in anticipation. The misery on his face makes you think that he's expecting to have his heart broken again, instead of mended.

A couple of grey clouds reappear above your heads. Oh no.

"I'm tired of always being the one to reach out," you confess. His gaze is too intense and you quickly look away from him. There's much on his mind. "No matter who's right or wrong, it's me who bridges the gap between us. Even if that angers me, I still do it. Every time. And I don't know what that says about me."

Your body trembles again but this time it doesn't go unnoticed by Morpheus. He, quite literally, pulls a coat out of thin air. Dream's movements are almost fearful as he cautiously places the garment around your shoulders.

"Perhaps in certain aspects, you are better than me," he answers quietly while fixing the coat to fit you better.

You know you're pushing your luck when you look at him again and ask a not-so-innocent question:

"You mean a 'better person'?"

"I'm not-" He bites his tongue just in time. Morpheus is not a person. Both of you are perfectly aware of it. But it was the mention of this very fact that had brought such disastrous rain to Dreaming. "Yes. A better person."

There's not much conviction in his words but there is, however, a silent promise to find it.

______

Now that I’m in mourning, I thought it fitting to finish reading "Brief Lives" and the bittersweetness of it felt all the more pronounced. Reading it prompted me to rewatch the show and long story short I’m kind of back in my Sandman feels.

#the sandman #the sandman fandom #the sandman dream #the sandman fanfiction #dream of the endless #dream x reader #dream #dream the endless #dream of the endless x reader #dream of the endless imagine #dream of the endless fanfiction #morpheus x reader #morpheus x you #morpheus imagine #morpheus fanfiction #morpheus fanfic #morpheus sandman #morpheus #lord morpheus #morpehus

[eviesaurusrex]

When a man annoys a woman... | S. Strange

Stephen Strange x f!Reader

ask: Reader and Stephen are always competing? What happens when Wong decides to set them up on a blind date to confess to each other? Like everyone knows they actually like each other when they say they hate each other. Fluff plz.

word count: 3k (I really had fun writing this one, okay???)

warnings: bickering, cursing, insulting idiots, two idiots deeply in love but in huge denying, so much fluff

author's note: Thank you so much for this wonderful first ask @stygianoir and sorry for the wait, but I really wanted to try my best because I had so much fun. And I hope I got it right and just how you wanted <3

“Would you please just shut up?!”

“Now, that’s not very polite.”

“I said please! I can show you how impoliteness sounds, douchebag!”

The bickering never stopped, not since Stephen Strange had set foot into Kamar-Taj and had been greeted by a fiery and outrageously infuriating woman. Peace and quietness weren’t an option since that day, especially because the two brawlers seemingly always had to share their assigned tasks. It almost seemed as if the Ancient One wanted to bring peace to the two people who couldn’t stand each other with force.

“You hurt me with that, [Y/N]. You really, really hurt me. I think an apology would be appropriate.” Stephen’s mocking voice, laced with fake offense, carried through the entire inner courtyard. Lowering her training staff, the woman threw him a look full of annoyance and showed him one of her middle fingers – a daily occurrence by now. “I can shove the apology up your arse if you like, Strange. It may cure your severe case of douchebag-ness.”

Internally fuming, [Y/N] returned her attention back to today’s training partner – a young woman who looked questioning from one master to another. “We… I mean… We can continue tomorrow, if you’re occupied, Master [Y/N],” she almost whispered, too intimidated by the bickering of the two older people. She furrowed her brows. “Yeah, we… we can continue tomorrow. Spend some time in the library to keep up with your reading, Leila.”

Stephen’s suppressed laughter broke out of him as soon as her student left the courtyard and the two masters were left behind. Alone. Never a good idea. Turning around, [Y/N] raised the staff in her hand and poked him in the chest after several steps in his direction.

“I never saw a worst failing teacher,” he still laughed, almost couldn’t breathe because of it. She clenched her jaw and tried really hard not to jump at his throat to finally relieve earth – and herself – from his pestering existence. But she was the more composed within this duo they involuntarily formed. Well, she tried, at least. “Says the person who can’t seem to be bothered to teach at all. I think that qualifies you automatically for the trophy of The Worst Teacher in the entire History of Teaching, don’t you think?” [Y/N] countered and turned around to distance herself from this nerve-racking situation.

She always tried to be reasonable with him, to leave the situation so the world around them wouldn’t burn to the ground, and to give him a chance to clear his head before saying something stupid.

Wong noticed it. The Ancient One noticed it. Almost everyone around them noticed her attempts – everyone, except for Stephen.

And he always made it even worse, like now.

He had grabbed a staff himself while following her over the cobbled courtyard. “I have more important things on my agenda than teaching, you know that.” Scoffing, the still fuming woman spun around and hit his staff with her own. “Oh, yeah? Like what? Pestering me with your entitled bullshit? Gracing planet earth and its population with your obnoxious presence nobody asked for? That’s your important agenda? I am laughing.” He cocked his head slightly to one side and observed her face intently. “I don’t see or hear you laughing.”

And this man was supposed to be one of the greatest minds of their time?!

“Oh no, the great Stephen Strange don’t get sarcasm? Quick, somebody needs to tell the Time Magazine!” Another hit of her staff, but this time, the man tried to hit her back. Sadly, she saw it coming and stepped aside. “It’s still Doctor Stephen Strange,” he complained before they both engaged in an attack stance. “And still, you’re too fucking slow, you whining child.”

The crashing sound of the wooden staffs echoed over the courtyard while both masters insulted each other with labored breaths. Wong had returned from one of his missions and accompanied the Ancient One into the yard to watch the unusual pair fight.

“Do you think it is wise to force them to work together?” Wong asked the bald woman next to him, his focus still trained on the fighting man and woman. “Do you have another option in mind, Master Wong?” The Ancient One asked him with curiosity in her voice, and the sorcerer tilted his head from one side to the other, pondering if he might share his observations, the Ancient One probably already knew about.

But before he could answer her, the fight was over, and he watched the scene unfold with a very pleased expression spreading over his face.

Heavily breathing, [Y/N] tried to escape his grasp a second time, but Stephen finally had learned something and held her even closer. His scarred fingers were securely wrapped around her wrist, her arm crossed over her chest, and caught the other one effectively. Her back was firmly pressed against his chest, and Stephen had to bend down to whisper in her ear.

“I won.”

Struggling against his tight but not harmful grasp, [Y/N] turned her head to look him right in the eyes. She was surprised by how close his face was and how warm his breath felt on her heated skin. If she wanted, she could count his eyelashes or examine the specks in his eyes she had never noticed before. They both froze in their spot, and [Y/N] could feel his rapid heartbeat at her back.

“Beginners luck. I’m still much better than you, idiot,” she mumbled, and Stephen hummed lowly. “Mhm, of course you are.” [Y/N] still stared into his eyes but pulled herself back into reality – remembered herself what she felt in his presence and ignored the heart in her chest, which flattered nervously at his touch.

Nope, not happening. I hate him.

“Let me go, you obnoxiously huge imbecile.” He cocked an eyebrow and looked over her face, seemingly absorbing every detail there was to find and to explore because Stephen knew that they would never be this close again. “As you please.” As he whispered, he bent down a little more to brush the tip of his nose softly, barely perceptible for her, over her hair, and for a second, he closed his eyes.

He really loved the scent of her hair. It put him at ease. And he hated every single minute of it.

And with that, he slowly, almost reluctantly, released her from his grasp. As soon as [Y/N] was free, she spun around, and with both hands against his chest, she shoved him a few inches away.

“I fucking hate you, Stephen Strange. Don’t you dare touch me ever again, come near me, or try to prove something. I’m sick of your entitled prancing.”

[Y/N] stomped away, fully aware of the pain in her chest but stubbornly ignoring it. It wasn’t worth it because he never would like – or love – a human being other than him. It was his curse – and her curse to kind of fall for the self-loving douchebag.

Nope. I’m not falling for him, nor did I ever fall for him. Shut up, stupid hormones.

Meanwhile, Wong nodded, satisfied, and turned to the Ancient One. “I may have an idea to propose.”

It was odd that Wong invited her for dinner. A dinner outside Kamar-Taj, in an actual restaurant. All of it screamed suspicious, but [Y/N] didn’t think further about it or – if she would have thought about it in more detail – just stayed at home entirely.

Maybe he is lonely and needs some company. A change of routine, to see something else, and to have some fun.

She didn’t mind keeping him company because she loved Wong – everyone did. A bit uptight when it came to rules and his library, but overall an individual with whom one spends their time voluntarily.

Unlike another individual.

Sighing at that thought, [Y/N] pulled at the door handle to enter the mentioned restaurant. The smell hitting her nose was delicious, and with a growling stomach, she closed her eyes for a second to bathe in the different scents of different herbs and oils.

This was undoubtedly no fast-food diner where one could get an enormous milkshake with a donut on it. Gladly, [Y/N] had dressed in one of her more casual, but nevertheless chick outfits she owned. It was time to finally get it out of the wardrobe again, anyway.

With searching eyes, the woman tried to spot Wong in the busy place, but his distinctive face wasn’t one to find. She checked the watch at her wrist to see if she was an unhealthy amount too early, but she was right on time – only a few minutes earlier than agreed on. Urgh, was all she could think at that moment, and her anxiety started to rise. But before it arrived this week’s peak, an almost hardly noticeable glittering portal opened out of which a hand appeared. It formed into a direction pointing finger, and [Y/N] tried to find the table on which the magical finger pointed.

Ever since putting the first step into Kamar-Taj and witnessing what else was possible, she stopped asking questions in moments like these. A magical version of Google Maps? Everyday life. Nothing to fuss about.

Another sigh left the woman, and she started to move herself in the shown direction. Halfway through the restaurant – and small smiles to each and every waiter or waitress – another portal opened to point to a table in a cozy corner between a giant plant and the windows looking out onto the nightly busy streets of New York City.

“Well, thank you hand, but…”

[Y/N] stopped mid-sentence because her eyes fell onto a very specific sorcerer with dark hair and greying sides clad in a perfectly fitting suit. Her breath caught in her throat, but an annoying feeling soon took over the reins. With furrowed brows, she stopped next to the table.

“Finally, you kept me a bit waiting, Wo-“

He looked up and straight into her eyes. “[Y/N]? What are you doing here?” She scoffed. “I could ask you the same. I was supposed to meet with-…” – “Wong.” She nodded, surprised, and looked around the restaurant, confused by the unexpected situation. “But…,” she started before her hand collided with her face, and her finger pinched the bridge of her nose. Stephen seemingly caught up to her train of thought and looked incredulous from the menu up to the woman and around the restaurant.

“Wong.”

They both spoke in unison before, again, a portal appeared and showed them a thumb up. [Y/N] lowered herself a bit to look through it but couldn’t grasp the sight of a face or body. “If I ever get my hands on you, Wong, you will wish for your last day on earth.” Fiery eyes threw another exasperated look through the portal before straightening herself up again.

Stephen stared at her, and she sighed, deeply annoyed. “Okay, what’s wrong now? Do I have something in my face? Oh, wait. Don’t answer that. I’m not interested in your mockery.” And with that, [Y/N] started to turn around to leave this damn place, conjure a portal outside the restaurant, get back to Kamar-Taj, and read a good book. But a warm, slightly shaking hand grasped her wrist and pulled softly at it to get the woman to turn around.

Shockingly, the sorcerer didn’t have the expected mocking expression on his face. Instead, she witnessed probably the first attempt at a genuine smile on his face. “Don’t go. Please. Your stomach’s growling is so loud that people in Australia could hear it.” Lifting an eyebrow, [Y/N] looked down at him. “That’s your attempt of trying to change my mind?” A panicked expression moved across his face and while he tried to find other words, the woman started to laugh softly and removed her wrist out of his grasp to sit in the chair opposite of him. “Don’t freak out, Strange. I was just teasing you because I’m actually starving.”

She took the second menu to skim over it but stopped soon enough because she could see him staring. Peeking over the edge of the menu, [Y/N] looked at him, questioning, and Stephen cleared his throat. “I… uhm… Never mind,” he stuttered over his own words and tongue.

The woman felt a low heat rising up her cheeks before turning back to the menu. “Sweet,” she whispered, but the sorcerer heard it anyway. “You look beautiful tonight. Actually, you always look beautiful, whatever you’re wearing. Always. I… I should just stop, shouldn’t I?” Grinning, [Y/N] put the card down, intertwined her fingers, and propped her chin upon them. “No, no. Please, continue.” She couldn’t stop the smile on her lips.

He rubbed over his beard almost shyly, adjusted his tie, smoothed out the white cotton tablecloth, anything really, to avoid looking at her. It was adorable. It flattered her. Her heart skipped several beats at once before hammering rapidly inside her chest. It was frustrating – but beautiful. And so incomprehensible pure. It was a new side of Stephen she never expected to get to know - well, she never expected it to exist in the first place.

A waiter appeared and saved Stephen from the situation. “Could we get a bottle of… White or red, darling?” The term slipped out of his mouth before the Strange could stop himself. Fiery red cheeks were the first answer before [Y/N] looked up to the waiter. “White, please. I think I saw a Californian on your menu? The 2009 one?” The man nodded before leaving the two to themselves again, and Stephen shook his head slowly and in utter disbelief. “You are a wine connoisseur?” Grinning, she shrugged softly, chin still propped up on her fingers. “There are many things you don’t know about me, Doctor Stephen Strange.”

The sorcerer leaned forward, raised a hand, and pushed one of her escaped locks out of her face and behind her ear. “It’s Stephen for you, and I can’t wait to know all of them,” he spoke with a new emotion laced within his tone, and [Y/N] almost melted at that. A soft and tender expression settled in her eyes and on her face. “Well, if things are how I see them, we have all night, Stephen.”

Soft laughter filled Kamar-Taj as soon as a portal opened to let two people through before it closed itself again. Wong, still awake and inside the library, perked up at the sound and slowly walked to the entrance to his sacred halls. From there, he could see Strange and [Y/L/N] walking side by side, her hand laced through his arm and his hand protectively wrapped around it.

They stopped in the archway, facing each other, and Stephen softly cupped her face, his long fingers pushed in her soft hair. “I hate to admit it, but my mom was right – again,” [Y/N] softly grinned but groaned, leaning her cheek into his warm touch. “With what?” Stephen was curious. She chuckled at the memory of her mother telling her elementary school self a secret about boys and their odd behavior. “Well, if a boy pesters a girl, mocks her constantly, and all the fun stuff that comes with that, he secretly likes her. I’m happy you didn’t pull at my braids.”

The sorcerer shrugged, almost helpless. “I was stupid, I admit that. But nothing more,” he almost exclaims, but [Y/N] laced one hand around his neck to push him down onto her level while the other hand grasped his tie to pull softly at it simultaneously. “Just shut up and kiss me already,” the woman whispered close to his lips, and Stephen let go of her face to snake his arms around her waist, pulling her flush to his chest. “Finally.” It was nothing more than a deeply relieved sigh before Stephen dived straight into the kiss.

His lips were softer than expected, and they moved together as if they had kissed several times before – as if they were familiar with one another. Stephen pulled her even closer as his fingers brushed up her spine to cup the back of her head. Softly sighing, [Y/N] buried her finger in his dark strands and angled her head slightly to deepen the kiss before pulling away. Labored breaths were shared in the little space between their faces they granted each other, not ready to move further away from one another.

Scarred fingers stroked lovingly over a heated cheek before cupping her jawline. [Y/N] smiled with closed eyes and softly rubbed her nose against his. She just had to kiss him again – so that’s what she did. It was a quick kiss, almost only a brush of lips against lips, but it was enough – for now.

“What are you doing tomorrow?” Stephen asked in a whisper, and the woman slightly shrugged. “Because I don’t have to beat up Wong for tricking me into this situation anymore, I have a lot of free, unoccupied time. You?” The sorceress raised a brow at his thoughtful expression. “I thought about snatching you away for a properly planned date.” It was almost a shock, but why wouldn’t he ask her after the past few hours? Her brain couldn’t think straight anymore, not with him so close to her and his fresh scent invading all her senses. “What do you have in mind, Doctor Strange?” He smiled the brightest smile [Y/N] had ever seen on a human being. “It’s a surprise.”

Now raising both eyebrows, she tilted her head. “You don’t have a plan yet, haven’t you? Not the slightest idea,” she teased him, but she hit the mark perfectly – and she knew that before. “You know me too well, Miss [Y/L/N].” A chuckle left him before tilting her face in a different direction to kiss her again.

Softly. Slowly. Like he adored her more than anything else on this vast planet. And if someone would ask Stephen that question, he would answer precisely this.

Wong, who had left the two lovebirds long before their first kiss had ended, walked with a very pleased smirk on his face through the hallway, excited for the new order within these halls – with much less screaming and shouting. Still, he knew one thing: The bickering and insulting of one another would remain the same.

Comments, reblogs and likes are much appreciated! Lots of love and thanks for reading! If you want to join the taglist, please reach out and let me know!

#stephen strange x reader #doctor strange x reader #stephen strange ask #doctor strange ask #stephen strange imagine #doctor strange imagine

[safrona-shadowsun]

What if Wednesday: One day the Courier shows up with her eyes bandaged/blindfolded, with an Eye of Kilrogg at her side to grant her sight. This status quo remains for about 2 weeks, then she is back to normal. What happened to her? Would she tell anyone if some cared enough to ask? Would she tell the truth, or lie?

The price of power often came at sacrifice. 

It was a law of fel magic that Safrona initially did not think could apply to such a basic evocation as the Eye. It went underused, as she often relied instead on the phased figure of her succubus to scout ahead if needed. But as Safrona decided to evolve her abilities in summoning, it only seemed sensible to strengthen the Eye and push this trivial connection to the next plateau as well. 

The dispractice and blind arrogance cost the Warlock senses she did not know how to function without. The punishment came without pain, only the dread feeling of the ritualistic channel fizzling and failing her. The fiery thread of magic dying at her fingertips was the last sight her eyes were granted.

Day 1, Week 1:

A shriek echoed in the chambers below the Sojourn, more outrage than fear, though the sound was laced with its aura of panic. She heard the shadows waft into the chamber, sensing her beloved Soulsinger - even in her blindness she reached in the direction of his puzzled voice, needing the solid sanctum of his arms in that moment more than ever. But she would not cry. She would not dare mark this failure with tears.

Day 3, Week 1:

Isolation. Safrona did not leave the altar chamber stinking of her failure, did not drink, did not eat. She sunk into her own outrage, fuming with this pitiful blindness, this vulnerability. No one could see her this way, Courier or no. The smallest summon, the most unused spell in her arsenal, the Eye of Gul'dan had been nothing to her until now. Now it had effectively become her curse. This stupid, useless, novice spell. And it had taken her sight! Fuming at every failed attempt to reconnect to the Eye and take her sight back, even the First gave the irate Harvester her space.

Day 6, Week 1:

Paranoia gripped her as blind sight began to shift into abyssal darkness, shadows winding, writhing. The desire and desperation to see was answered in a way, shadowed vision opening upon nothing she recognized, faces foreign to her, blurred expanses. Heavy words in the Forgotten Tongue tried to wrap around her mind, causing her eye sockets to ache, head throbbing. A giant eye opened in the ceiling of the chamber, staring directly onto herself, pupil swirling. Vertigo and the pounding migraine was a vicious combination through her tender flesh, urging her to vomit. The eye dissolved from the ceiling.

Day 8, Week 2:

She finally began to connect through the Eye in brief flares of hazy vision, but she had not yet been able to maintain it. Still, she imprisoned herself to the chambers, knowing that her blindness could be a handicap as well as a threat. Power evolved in unforseen ways, and she would not give up until this too was conquered. It had not been a curse, or a punishment, her blindness. It was a test, she came to realize, and there were flares of progress. 

Day 11, Week 2: 

She felt her Soulsinger's eyes boring into her as she attempted to remain concentrated on the floor of the chamber. She bothered with a bath upstairs once, but her neglect of food and drink was obvious. "If ya don' want ta' eat, don'." His voice seemed to throw across the chamber around her, omnipresent. "When ya body grows weaker an' the daemons sense it, start taking over ya body, I'll simply end ya and then myself." 

"Stop this grim talk," the warlock muttered, pulling herself up from the cold floor, mildly irritated. Her voice became brittle, thickening with a pretense of emotional fallout she was consistently holding herself up from. "I am supposed to be your Eyes. And I feel I have failed us both." A clear of her throat, and she smoothed her tone to quiet resolve. "But I will rise from this. I must." Safrona offered a hand in the dark for him to take, the blind warlock presenting herself rather than blindly grope for him in the low light. "I'll get some food in me if that sets you off this dark talk. But keep me like your best secret in the Sojourn, my love. No one else needs to see me this way."

Day 12, Week 2: 

Madness took the summoning chamber in Safrona's reaching - her focused channeling did not manifest one floating ocular orb, but many manifestations of void-based eyestalks drowning the chamber in abyssal energy. If allowed to permeate, greater forces of the Dark would breach through. Understanding the threat, Wraafenn was quick to tear into the nearest eye to its mistress, but it was the First's blades that cut through several eye stalks in quick succession. When the whirling noise of the chamber was set to a silence, the abyssal veil enveloping the warlock dissipated, and she took in a gasp of clean air. She felt the wary edge in the First of the Perished, the doubt punctuated by a flick of one of his blades, ready to sever her from the world. "I am me. I am here." Safrona promised, able to track the vague flicker of his silhouette separating from the rest of the darkness - another small sign of progress.   "I can do this. I just. I need a moment." A breathless chuckle. "Or a strong whiskey."

Day 13, Week 2: 

The answer had been at her heels over so many years, she came to understand in an epiphany. And he was here now, nudging at her feet, a tentacled limb pricking her leg for attention. Lowering herself slowly, she let her fingertips guide her in a visual of what her eyes had lost: the length of chintinous scale leading to rough, wiry hair crowning the Felhound's eyeless head. Wraafenn flinched, uncertain of the peculiar touch from its mistress. The demon dog in all its years was unaccustomed to her physicality, only knowing her by voice, by scent, by the dark ties of binding and unnatural hunger. Her fingers gripped one of it's spearing, bone-like horns to steady the demon, she confided words in the base Demonic it understood most.

 "I have no sight, like you now." Her fingers traveled downward with uncharacteristic tenderness to cradle its maw.  "Show me how to be."

A guttural sound of acceptance trilled from the many-toothed maw, though like any canine it was not fully aware of what it's owner meant, only desiring in that moment to serve. Her finger tips pulsed violently at its snout, and with a sudden whimper the Felhound expired, giving up its momentous energy to the warlock. 

A brief sacrifice, the felhunter would reform in the Nether and be called again to her soon. Perhaps with the reward of a large soul shard of a very special hunt.

Day 14, Week 2: 

Elernia was often the demonic sacrifice, most times out of a flare of anger, or spite. But the intentional sacrifice of the Felhound did not go to waste. Where some might have found the felhunter and its kin to be monstrous, understanding the evolution of its function had been a compelling key to manifestation. However basic a creature, Wraafenn was a hunter of extraordinary sense, attuned to soul and the aura of energy. The manifestation of the Eye opened wide for her now when she learned to disconnect from her own inferior senses, and give herself over to the extension. This was the lesson she needed…and with it came void singularity. 

Normal sight returned to Safrona after a day of much needed sleep. The Eye of the Great Dark was still not often a spell Safrona relied on in her day-to-day, but it was an evolution she held pride for, all the same. It was a long trial she divulged to none; it was enough that her Soulsinger had been present through the most harrowing of it. 

Exchanges with other Warlocks for knowledge was of course its own temptation, but for those newer to the Path, the Harvester would only smile enigmatically and offer: "Preparation is everything."

{ Thank you anon for this wild wind of inspiration. Brief reference to @thefirstperished, who helped to contribute to some of the writing. <3

Thank you for reading this, if you do. This was an exhaustive effort from me. }

#world of warcraft #what if wednesday #warlock #long post #I have been working on this for 2 weeks #it just became canon #stories #labor of love #writing #writing blindness is exhausting #would not recommend #safwriting

[wandanatschild]

Two Ends Of The Same Spectrum

Prologue:

“Out! Get out Lawrence! We’ve talked about this before!” The woman was fuming as she grabbed the man’s oil-stained shirt, throwing it furiously at the Latino’s head who had no chance of dogging, smacking him straight in the face.

“Wanda, I-”

“No! Get out!” the strawberry blonde hissed through gritted teeth, a set of steel-toe boots flying out of the open bedroom door.

Emerald eyes were wide in shock. Never had the mechanic anticipated such an outrageous, violent reaction from the middle-aged woman. It had been an accident, a slip up on his side, a weak moment. God did he wish he could take the words back. Words whispered in the peaceful haze of post orgasmic bliss, an angel laying in his arms, nose nuzzled into warm skin, kisses plastered along scars. Never had the man felt this loved, this cared for. Unfortunately, his mouth worked quicker than his brain.

Pulling his shirt hastily over a full head of jet-black curls, the bewildered Cuban grabbed his jeans before collecting the pair of leather boots from the hallway floor, avoiding the burning glare that was aimed his way, the hair on the back of his neck standing in irritation.

To his surprise, wrapped in a thin robe followed the Sokovian closely as they made their way down the carpeted staircase into the forefront of the luxurious house. As the pair reached the entrance Lawrence shuffled on one foot, then the other slipping into his boots, now after all fully dressed. Well, his clothes needed adjustment like the inside out turned shirt or his untied shoes but non the less he wasn’t butt naked while being escorted out of Wanda Maximoff’s house.

Turning hesitantly the young man worked up the courage to look back up at the unapproachable widow, now standing at the top of the stoop hovering over his tall frame.

“Wanda can we please talk about this?” Pointing cautiously his finger back and forth between the two of them his green eyes pleaded with the Sokovian, her face stoic as her arms were tightly crossed over her chest, holding the thin bathrobe in place and to keep herself from easing up at the man’s soft glance.

“There is nothing to talk about. There is no ‘us’ and there never has been. I thought I made myself clear when this started. I am interested in your body and what you can do with it, nothing more nothing less. You’re a good fuck but I don’t like the things that come out of your mouth. Or for that matter your ‘feelings’.”

Lawrence couldn’t believe the things that came out of the strawberry blonde’s mouth. His big frame seemed to lack a few centimeters with each unbelievably cruel word that left scarlet lips, broad shoulders lowering in defeat.

“I-I” swallowing back the feelings of defeat the Cuban grabbed hard onto the small item in his jeans pocket, his lucky charm, the only thing he has had his entire life. A handmade plush pendant of a black wolf, green eyes stitched thoughtfully into its small face with a rosy nose. The only thing that his mother has gifted the little guy as she dropped him off at the hospital when Lawrence had only been around five months old.

“I love y-you.” The shaky words and tearful eyes were nearly enough to make Wanda regret her words. Words and actions she willingly chose to make sure that her heart would stay protected, that no one else would break her ever again. But the pair had arrived at a crossroad and only one could come out alright. It was her decision of who’s heart should be shattered, who would more likely be able to withstand more loss, more pain and to eventually heal.

Lawrence was young, he would certainly have better chances to pick up the pieces, to find someone to do so with him, but her time, her time had come. If she allowed the mechanic to shatter hers there was no way of overcoming this.

The widow’s stoic expression didn’t faze, she has learned to be good at this, too good, there was no indication of the war that was going on behind the mask, behind heartless eyes.

“You don’t love me, Lawrence. You love the idea of me. A middle-aged woman who takes care of you, who loves you. I understand, it’s sad that your mother abandoned you, but you can’t project these unsolved feelings onto me. I’m not your mommy.” Her voice sounded taunting, the way she said ‘mommy’ as if talking to a child.

Every word was intentional and hit in all the right places. Wanda could see the young man crumbling to pieces. Tears finally freely rolling down his flushed face, finding refuge in his dark beard, balled fists hidden away in the pockets of his loose jeans, silently taking in every single daggering word.

Wanda was begging, praying to whichever higher power, God, whoever was out there to make Lawrence leave. Why was he standing there so patient, silent and allowing her to ruin him completely, to break him down to the fundament and beyond.

Closing his bloodshot eyes, Lawrence took a few shaky breaths trying to collect himself. The words stung; it had been a late-night conversation between them when he had opened up about his difficult childhood. Of growing up in the system.

“Y-You are just saying this because you are scared. And it hurts, i-it hurts that you feel the need to use my most vulnerable point of attack. You know, who knows, maybe a psychologist would agree with you. Maybe they would write a ten-page report of all the different ways I’m messed up in the head. But I know as sick or twisted as you try to make it out to seem that my love for you is pure, and real. It’s real. It’s on you if you are able to handle my love or not.”

Wanda was shocked at the way Lawrence could see straight through her act, unfortunately for him the young widow would not allow him any way into her fiercely guarded heart.

“Listen, honey. I understand it must be difficult. Your mother didn’t just give you up after birth. No she tried, she tried for five months before she decided that she couldn’t do it, that she couldn’t be there for you, love you. But you really need to learn to find someone who actually cares about you. Don’t you see the way you project? The clearer I make it that I don’t want you the more you try to latch on, feels familiar?”

Seeing the heartbreak in wet forest green eyes Wanda knew that this time she had an in, the Latino started to believe her. If it wasn’t for the guilt she felt and the vomit that was clawing it’s way up her esophagus she would maybe be impressed with the way she could lie.

Swallowing down her late lunch there was no other way but to end this here and now before she would change her mind and wrap the broken man into her arms and apologize for all the hurtful things she chose to use against him.

Sinking sharp nails into her exposed forearms she kept her robe tightly around her. Wanda felt cold, like a cold blooded killer. The mechanic’s knees were shaking as if he was fighting to not sink to the floor, palm still wrapped tightly around the plush wolf in his front pocket. Maybe it was time to get rid of the stuffed animal. Wanda’s cruel words slapping around the otherwise quiet walls of his brain. A mother that decided after five months of trying that he was not worth of her love.

“I’ll see you around, if you get over your silly crush and over yourself then we might do this another time.” Wanda threw her hair cooley over her bare shoulder as she walked inside, hips swinging, putting on her most confident walk while her legs felt like jello.

Lawrence stood frozen in place, slowly sinking to his knees as they gave out under his broad figure, tears falling as he felt strangled, not a single sound able to pass his throat.

Wanda on the other side of the closed door didn’t make it further than the décor plant, vomiting up the entirety of her last meal as tears ran down her eyes, her slim shoulders shaking as she hugged the stone pot close to her chest. What she would give to go out there and hug the man she knew she had started to grow feelings for. The reason why she had to end it now before it was irreversible. Before she was in too deep.

But at what cost?

What has she done?

#wandanatschild #twoendsofthesamespectrum #karen wanda #elizabeth olsen #mcu fandom #marvel movies #marvel cinematic universe #avengers #wandavision #wanda maximoff #og character #fanfiction #fanfic

[walk-the-dragon-wing]

Cut Him Out in Little Stars Pt. 1

Imagine, for a moment, if you will, a bed. A nice, warm bed, yours perhaps. It doesn’t necessarily have to be yours, if you so choose. Nor does this bed you picture need to be nice or warm. In fact, you don’t have to imagine a bed at all. Just somewhere you could sleep. Sofa, tub, chair, a tombstone for all I care. All that matters is your mortal body can rest there. Trust that it will be safe as you drift. Trust that it will protect you as you dream. For that, dear dreamer, is where we begin. With dreams…

- - -

The Lord of Dreams does not dream. 

Perhaps you find this a little strange. Perhaps you’re even outraged now by his chosen title. Or maybe you’ve always suspected as such. Whichever you lie, it is a fact nonetheless.

The Lord of Dreams does not dream. He has never had time to waste on dreaming, though he belongs to the endless and isn’t governed by time the same way we are. Even now, with an unknowable amount of time to be spent, to be wasteless-ly wasted, he does not dream.

He no longer knows how. 

But if he could dream, he would dream of his kingdom. The kingdom of dreams and nightmares, where dreamers, such as yourself, take refuge. He would dream of his kingdom exactly as he’d left it, in all its beauty and glory that he’d carefully crafted and protected.

If he could dream, he would dream of his stolen relics. The glistening, captivating ruby that stored his power. The shifting, never ending sand pouring from its pouch and landing to fall, coarse and sun kissed, in his hand. And his crown, a mask of nightmares made of carved bones, fogged glass and burned metal. 

If he could dream, he would dream of clothes. Protecting, comforting even, wrapped around his slender form to offer a sense of safety, of power. He felt so revoltingly vulnerable not wearing anything. He’d never imagined clothing would become his favorite mortal invention…

And if he could dream, he would dream of anyone. Anybody other than his captors. Someone with a smile on their faces. One of his subjects, perhaps. A caring mortal, even, would do. Or immortal. Anyone. Just… anyone…

The once great Lord of Dream sat, arms curled over his legs, and stared blankly, darkly ahead. He had but one thought in his mind, allowed only the one thought in his mind. ‘When I am freed…’ 

Ahead of him, through the glass and stationed near the wall, were a pair of guards. They had a card game laid out across the table. He wasn’t sure what game they played, but with time he could figure it out, if he so chose. He didn’t. Thinking of cards, which he was not about to do, reminded him of a missed date. Did the immortal worry about him…?

No, he wasn’t thinking about it. Cause when he was finally freed he would…

What would he do? What sort of revenge, pain or torment, could he inflict that could possibly make up for his imprisonment? What could make up for the murder of his friend, the loyal raven, Jessamy. How could he properly punish them for the mortal lives ruined due to him being away, for the damage, for… For everything?

Revenge would not be enough, never. And somewhere distantly he knew that. But he wasn’t thinking about it now, he refused to dwell on that.

So he stared ahead, blankly, darkly, eyes fuming with rage.

His best form of entertainment was watching the guard switch out, or listening to their conversations, sometimes whispering in fear but often spoken as though he wasn’t there. He learned a lot about them, about the world he was kept from, about how they viewed him, from those conversations. Or he could have, if he’d cared to. 

Far less entertaining were the daily visits, pleas, from his captor. And he ignored those meetings, as they made his blood boil in a most unpleasant way. 

And he waited. For there was nothing else he could do. Waited and allowed himself one thought. ‘When I am finally free…’ And the Lord of Dreams most certainly did not dream while he waited, for only nightmares awaited him behind his eyelids. 

- - -

No doubt you won’t be surprised to find the Lord of Dreams eventually escaped. After all, what would be the point of this story if he hadn’t? Unless you assumed this was a cautionary tale about the evils of mankind? (Spoiler, it’s not.) 

Of course the Lord of Dreams managed to escape his prison, for this is only the beginning of his and our story. Only the beginning, dear dreamer…

‘When I am free, I will…’ 

He was trapped there, in the freezing cold, lonesome and alone (for there is a difference in the two). Unable as he was to access his powers to protect his realm or even check up on it… He couldn’t visit it while trapped, undreaming, and so, he began to lose something of greatest importance. Though he would never admit it (and you must promise to never tell a soul that I’ve told you), being trapped as long as he was, he lost all sense of hope.

‘If I ever escape… I…’

Let’s put this into perspective, shall we? 

Picture a snake, trapped inside a terrarium, a terrarium so spherical you’ve come to wonder if it’s really a repurposed fish bowl. In fact, the “terrarium” is so small, the snake barely has room to move. There’s no space for it to slither should it need to stretch. Save for the poor snake, the “terrarium” is completely empty. Its top screwed on so tight, you have to wonder if there’s even air inside. There certainly isn’t water, nor any way to give the snake food or touch, as all living long for. 

And now imagine that this imprisoned snake can not die, not by common means at least. So that though it can not breath, though its lungs must be screaming, burning away in pain, it can not die. So that though it has not eaten, though its stomach must be rotting from neglect, a constant unignorable ache, it can not die. The snake must live on endlessly, even though it has nothing, not even hope, to live for. 

Getting the idea?

So that’s where we find the Lord of Dreams, moments before his escape. A snake on the verge of begging for death, yet far too prideful to do so, even with his loss of hope and lack of dreams. Over a century of imprisonment will do that to a being, even one with immortality and (under normal circumstances) powers beyond belief. 

His escape, while inevitable, happened purely by chance. An accident he’d been losing patience waiting for. By the time it finally happened, he’d lost the belief that it would, but that didn’t mean he wasted the chance at freedom because of it, the breath of fresh air through the cage called out to him ever so strongly. He needed it, had longed for it every second of his imprisonment…

A circle, the cage (his cage) contained inside its borders, had been smudged. 

The circle had kept him there, bound him and his power within the cage (his cage). It was an evil little circle, and he hated it with a burning passion he shared with few things. How lucky for that little circle. 

It was drawn in a faded gold, chalky almost but slightly more permanent. Over a century ago, it had been made in an evil ritual that had trapped the very Lord of Dreams still inside. And no one had touched it since. Ever so careful had they been when they built the cage for him, so as not to disrupt the circle. In the century that followed, they were ever so careful not to touch it, not to even go near it. 

As I’m sure you’ve guessed dear dreamer, his captors grew careless. The wheel chair of an old man, rolled over just a sliver of a faded gold loop, was enough to damage the magic.

Ideally, more of the circle would have been broken. Not that the Lord of Dreams was in any condition to complain. At this point, he'd take whatever he could get.

With the simple crack in the containment’s spell, the Lord of Dreams felt a fragment of his power return to him. He was still weak, still far from his normal level of power, but it was coming back. He, Morpheus, Dream of the endless, was back. 

But let’s not dwell on the cage and his imprisonment any longer, for he certainly didn’t. (He did). He certainly didn’t dwell on it while he wrought revenge on his surviving captors. (Something about the act of revenge implies dwelling on it, doesn’t it?). And let’s not dwell on how he got the tools of his trade back, instead assuming that it was just as long and difficult of a task as it sounds. 

Let us assume that at the “end” of this little cautionary tale about the evils of mortal men, Morpheus was left feeling empty, though he had gained his power and more back. He was left broken, though there was nothing physically harming him. And though he’d returned safety and peace to his kingdom of dreams, reclaimed his throne, and brought back a majority of his citizens, he still felt lonely. All alone against the world. 

We won’t dwell on any of this, so just assume this is the state of the Lord of Dreams as we move on with our story. Our prideful, traumatized Lord of Dreams who couldn’t find it in himself to dream. 

Moving on.

- - -

There were many things Morpheus did not allow himself to think about while he was imprisoned. Clothing, for one thing. Mortals, all those suffering because of his imprisonment, dreams, nightmares, his once wonderful kingdom (he would make it wonderful again). Actually, he tried not to think about anything really, other than his revenge. Among his endless list he did not think of was a human by the name of Hob Gadling. An immortal mortal, if Hob wished himself to be, which he did. 

Every century, the Lord of Dreams and Hob would meet in a tavern. They always met in the same tavern, a tavern known simply as White Tavern. They’d been meeting there since the thirteen hundreds, and Morpheus had never imagined there would be a reason why they would stop meeting, even after their fight…which he wasn’t thinking about. Yet, because of his imprisonment, he’d been forced to miss their centennial meeting. 

Now, with his tools returned and a gentle prompting from his sister, Dream headed to the White Tavern. 

An issue to touch on first. Exactly how many years late was he? He dared not count, so neither shall we. (Though his mind reminded him constantly: thirty two. Thirty two). For him, counting the time he’d lost was as wasteful as dreaming. 

Step. (Thirty-) Step. (-two.) Step. (Thirty-) Step. (-two.)

Wait… Something was wrong with the tavern! It wasn’t as he fondly remembered. It looked…abandoned?

There was a fence around the building that had once been the tavern. He didn’t recognize the fence, which wasn’t all that weird. It had been a long time, after all. What was weird, however, was that the gate was secured with chains and through the metal links, he could see graffiti slashed across the skeleton of the tavern. Abandoned, most definitely. 

The hope he hadn’t realized was growing again died in his chest, along with his desire to even bother with his search. 

He had turned to walk away, to head back to his kingdom and mope till a better mood came along, when something caught his eye. An odd bit of graffiti on the fence. Words, spray painted to read “new inn” with an arrow pointing down the road. 

The Lord of Dreams looked at the words curiously, cautiously, exactly as you’d expect one wary of every mortal thing after a traumatic experience to do. Then he glanced around, again with an expected wariness of some sort of nefarious trap. But trap or not, what else was he supposed to do? He needed to find the immortal, like or not. 

A shrug and Morpheus started walking as the arrow directed. Again, what else could he do? He was already late, far later than he dared count (thirty two), so he’d hurry up and find that blasted immortal mortal. 

The Lord of Dreams didn’t have to walk far. He walked farther than he expected, but the distance was nothing for an endless who needed a stretch (more than a stretch after all the time spent in that cage)(not thinking about it). 

There were more clues along his path. Graffiti of varying ages splattered across walls, fences and trees. Sometimes, the clue came in a more permanent form, such as a wooden sign nailed to a tree. The most permanent sign he found was a building. A somewhat beautiful building, in its own buildingy way. A sign over its crisp white awning read the words “New Inn”

Morpheus almost walked past this building, reading the sign as simply another sign pointing him in the right direction. But it wasn’t, as he realized after he had stupidly turned away. He scowled at the obviousness, at his stupidity (though he would never call it as such). Inside, however, he couldn’t help the flutter in his chest that almost made him want to giddily smile (he would never). 

Walking purposefully, again with a sort of caution he hated, the Lord of Dreams entered the tavern.

Continued

#dreamling #The Sandman #morpheus #dream of the endless #sorry hob's not in this one #story got too long so I broke it into two #honestly this is just a set up for the next part #for their heartfelt reunion!

[socialwicked]

FEC Approves Google’s Plan for More Political Gmail Spam

Prepare yourselves. A lot more political spam may perhaps be coming to Gmail this yr.  Image :  II.studio  ( Shutterstock ) 

     Gird your inboxes. A vote by the   Federal Election Fee   on Thursday suggests that a lot more political spam emails may perhaps be coming for Gmail consumers. 

 In a 4-1 vote, the FEC voted to approve an advisory belief on Google’s   proposed new pilot application   for the 2022 election cycle that would maintain campaign e-mail out of users’ spam folders. Back in July, Google requested the fee regardless of whether the pilot was lawful or no matter if it would be regarded as an   in-form contribution  , which refers to gifts of goods or providers supplied to campaigns. In its advisory view, the FEC stated that the pilot would not crack any laws.

 This does not necessarily mean that Google will go forward with the pilot method, which is directed at authorized candidate committees, political occasion committees, and management political motion committees. The organization has not introduced its conclusion nevertheless, but it will at minimum know that it’s not performing nearly anything illegal if it implements the variations. Google spokesperson José Castañeda told Gizmodo in an email on Thursday that the corporation appreciated the FEC’s fast assessment of its request.

 If Google does make a decision to place the pilot system in position, that doesn’t suggest that people have no way to mail political emails to spam. Rather, consumers will have to mark these political email messages as spam on getting a to start with or subsequent e mail, Google   stated  . 

 News of the FEC’s selection will most most likely be celebrated by Republicans, who noticed crimson and cried   “Big Tech bias”   when a March   examine   from scientists at North Carolina State University found that Gmail marked 59.3% more email messages from the appropriate as spam as opposed to candidates from the left. In response, Republicans   launched a bill   trying to find to ban e mail vendors from marking email messages people elected to obtain as spam. 

   G/O Media could get a fee

         Save Up to $300

 Galaxy Z Fold4

       Today, Samsung unveiled everything new in its lineup of Galaxy products. Bundle a pair of Buds 2 Pro with either a Watch5 or Watch5 Pro with the Z Fold4 to receive $300 in Samsung credit. 

     However, as reported by the   Washington Write-up  , authors of the study cited by outraged Republicans state that politicians are cherry choosing benefits and misrepresenting their results.   Muhammad Shahzad  , one particular of the study’s guide authors, instructed the Put up that Gmail’s spam filters demonstrated bias in their “default behavior” with recently produced e-mail accounts. Nevertheless, after the researchers simulated person tastes by marking some email messages as spam and leaving other folks in the inbox, Gmail’s spam filters tailored.

 “What we saw was immediately after they had been becoming utilised, the biases in Gmail just about disappeared, but in Outlook and Yahoo they did not,” Shahzad, an associate professor at North Carolina Condition University, stated.

 Google, for its aspect, promises the study has key flaws and states that Gmail does not have a political bias when it arrives to spam.

 On the consumer facet, news of the FEC’s final decision was not  celebrated.   More than 2,500 opinions   on the agency’s web site poured in, with numerous fuming about the proposed pilot.

 “Swamp my inbox with political spam if you want me to switch to my Yahoo account full time. I’m not married to your support,” reads a comment from Thomas Beard from July 11. 

 A different commenter by the name of Kathryn Workman stated they had been opposed to thpilot and pointed out that they are previously “inundated with unwelcome e-mails, many of them political.” Workman additional that they do not want a lot more e-mail from political people today and entities that they think about disturbing. 

 “I am incredibly literate and read through political data everyday. If I want supplemental facts, I get hold of or indication up for e-mails from the resources I want,” Workman stated.

 Castañeda explained Google will now “reflect on the constructive and destructive feedback gained all through the general public remark time period,” he said.

 “Our aim all through this pilot application is to assess alternative techniques of addressing issues from bulk senders, when supplying people distinct controls above their inboxes to limit undesired e-mail,” Castañeda explained. “We will go on to keep an eye on feedback as the pilot rolls out to be certain it is conference its targets.”

https://socialwicked.com/fec-approves-googles-plan-for-more-political-gmail-spam/

[egetravel]

Founders of Religions in the East

It so happens that almost all of the Founders of Religions in the East are known to us by certain familiar names, which are obviously not the actual names they bore -in their lifetime; but which for centuries have passed current in the literary speech of Europe. Confucius, Mencius, Buddha, Zoroaster, Mahomet, Moses, and Jesus are popular adaptations of names which the European languages could not easily assimilate. As such those names are embedded in a thousand works of poetry, history, and criticism, and have gathered round them an imposing mass of interest and tradition.

Is it not almost an outrage to discard these old associations and to re-baptize these, hoary elders with the newfangled literalism of phonetic pedantry? K’ung- Foo-tsze, Mang-tsze, Sakyamouni, or Siddhartha, Zarathus- tra or Zerdusht, Muhammad, Mdsheh, and Jehoshua, may be attempts to imitate the sounds emitted by their contemporaries in Asia, but they are an offence in Europe in the nineteenth century, which has long known these mighty teachers under names that association has hallowed to our ears. If scholarship requires us to sacrifice these old familiar names, the necessity applies to all alike. If we are henceforth to talk of the Qur’an of Muhammad, we had better give out the first lesson in church from the Torath of the law-giver Mdsheh.

And, of course, our Roman history will have to be ‘restored.’ ‘Romans,’ ‘Etruscans,’ ‘ Tarquin,’ ‘Appins Claudius,’ and the rest are now the Ramnes, the Ras- ennce, Tarchnaf, and Attus Clauzus. What is to be the final issue of that bottomless pit of Roman embryology, Dr. Mommsen only knows. All that we now behold is a weltering gulf of Ramnes, Titles, Sabelli, Ras, Curites, where archaic and ethnologic fumes roll upwards incessantly, as from an unfathomable crater. Some day we shall know what was the true, unpronounced sightseeing turkey, and undivulged name of Rome; and what is the true phonetic equivalent of ‘ Romulus’ and ‘ Numa,’ of ‘ Tarquin ‘ and ‘ Brutus.’

Kereth Hadeshoth

We are even now in a position to speak with accuracy of the later history. When they come to the Punic wars, our boys and girls in the Board-schools of the twentieth century will learn to say: — ‘The great contest now begins between the Ramnes and the Chna-ites of the mighty city of Kereth-Hadeshoth; “ Au-nec-baal,” the son of “ Am-Melech-Kirjath,” proved himself the greatest general of antiquity; but, when he was overwhelmed in the final defeat of Naraggara, the city of Queen Jedi- diah fell before the irresistible valour of the worshippers of Diovispater.’ And when the young scholars get down to the Kym-ry and the Galtachd, the Vergo-breiths, Ver- kemirkedo-righ, Orkedo-righ, Cara-dazvg, and Heerfiirst, may mercy keep their poor little souls ! There are Gal- tachd-ic, and Kym-ric, and Duitisck enthusiasts, as well as those of Wessex and Gwent. I understand there are people even now who want us to call Paris — Lonkh-teith.

A very large proportion of famous men have been known in history and commemorated in literature under names other than those given to them by their godfathers and their godmothers in their baptism, or those that were entered in the parish register. Under those names we love them, think of them, and feel akin to them. Their names are household words: a part of European literature, and fill us with kindly and filial feelings. These good old names are being steadily supplanted by the alphabetic martinets who recall us to the register with all the formalism of a parish clerk or a Herald from the College. Not Molibre, but Poquelin; not Voltaire, but Aronet; not George Sand, but the Baroness Dndevant; not Madame de SvignS, but Marie de Rabutin-CJiantal. It will soon be a sign of ignorance to speak of Tom Jones and Becky Sharp. It will be Thomas Summer, Esq., Junior, J.P., and Mrs. Joseph Sedley. We shall soon have the Essays of Vis- count St. Albans, and the Letters of the Earl of Orford.

#Founders of Religions in the East

[religiontour]

Founders of Religions in the East

It so happens that almost all of the Founders of Religions in the East are known to us by certain familiar names, which are obviously not the actual names they bore -in their lifetime; but which for centuries have passed current in the literary speech of Europe. Confucius, Mencius, Buddha, Zoroaster, Mahomet, Moses, and Jesus are popular adaptations of names which the European languages could not easily assimilate. As such those names are embedded in a thousand works of poetry, history, and criticism, and have gathered round them an imposing mass of interest and tradition.

Is it not almost an outrage to discard these old associations and to re-baptize these, hoary elders with the newfangled literalism of phonetic pedantry? K’ung- Foo-tsze, Mang-tsze, Sakyamouni, or Siddhartha, Zarathus- tra or Zerdusht, Muhammad, Mdsheh, and Jehoshua, may be attempts to imitate the sounds emitted by their contemporaries in Asia, but they are an offence in Europe in the nineteenth century, which has long known these mighty teachers under names that association has hallowed to our ears. If scholarship requires us to sacrifice these old familiar names, the necessity applies to all alike. If we are henceforth to talk of the Qur’an of Muhammad, we had better give out the first lesson in church from the Torath of the law-giver Mdsheh.

And, of course, our Roman history will have to be ‘restored.’ ‘Romans,’ ‘Etruscans,’ ‘ Tarquin,’ ‘Appins Claudius,’ and the rest are now the Ramnes, the Ras- ennce, Tarchnaf, and Attus Clauzus. What is to be the final issue of that bottomless pit of Roman embryology, Dr. Mommsen only knows. All that we now behold is a weltering gulf of Ramnes, Titles, Sabelli, Ras, Curites, where archaic and ethnologic fumes roll upwards incessantly, as from an unfathomable crater. Some day we shall know what was the true, unpronounced sightseeing turkey, and undivulged name of Rome; and what is the true phonetic equivalent of ‘ Romulus’ and ‘ Numa,’ of ‘ Tarquin ‘ and ‘ Brutus.’

Kereth Hadeshoth

We are even now in a position to speak with accuracy of the later history. When they come to the Punic wars, our boys and girls in the Board-schools of the twentieth century will learn to say: — ‘The great contest now begins between the Ramnes and the Chna-ites of the mighty city of Kereth-Hadeshoth; “ Au-nec-baal,” the son of “ Am-Melech-Kirjath,” proved himself the greatest general of antiquity; but, when he was overwhelmed in the final defeat of Naraggara, the city of Queen Jedi- diah fell before the irresistible valour of the worshippers of Diovispater.’ And when the young scholars get down to the Kym-ry and the Galtachd, the Vergo-breiths, Ver- kemirkedo-righ, Orkedo-righ, Cara-dazvg, and Heerfiirst, may mercy keep their poor little souls ! There are Gal- tachd-ic, and Kym-ric, and Duitisck enthusiasts, as well as those of Wessex and Gwent. I understand there are people even now who want us to call Paris — Lonkh-teith.

A very large proportion of famous men have been known in history and commemorated in literature under names other than those given to them by their godfathers and their godmothers in their baptism, or those that were entered in the parish register. Under those names we love them, think of them, and feel akin to them. Their names are household words: a part of European literature, and fill us with kindly and filial feelings. These good old names are being steadily supplanted by the alphabetic martinets who recall us to the register with all the formalism of a parish clerk or a Herald from the College. Not Molibre, but Poquelin; not Voltaire, but Aronet; not George Sand, but the Baroness Dndevant; not Madame de SvignS, but Marie de Rabutin-CJiantal. It will soon be a sign of ignorance to speak of Tom Jones and Becky Sharp. It will be Thomas Summer, Esq., Junior, J.P., and Mrs. Joseph Sedley. We shall soon have the Essays of Vis- count St. Albans, and the Letters of the Earl of Orford.

#Founders of Religions in the East

[culturetravels]

Founders of Religions in the East

It so happens that almost all of the Founders of Religions in the East are known to us by certain familiar names, which are obviously not the actual names they bore -in their lifetime; but which for centuries have passed current in the literary speech of Europe. Confucius, Mencius, Buddha, Zoroaster, Mahomet, Moses, and Jesus are popular adaptations of names which the European languages could not easily assimilate. As such those names are embedded in a thousand works of poetry, history, and criticism, and have gathered round them an imposing mass of interest and tradition.

Is it not almost an outrage to discard these old associations and to re-baptize these, hoary elders with the newfangled literalism of phonetic pedantry? K’ung- Foo-tsze, Mang-tsze, Sakyamouni, or Siddhartha, Zarathus- tra or Zerdusht, Muhammad, Mdsheh, and Jehoshua, may be attempts to imitate the sounds emitted by their contemporaries in Asia, but they are an offence in Europe in the nineteenth century, which has long known these mighty teachers under names that association has hallowed to our ears. If scholarship requires us to sacrifice these old familiar names, the necessity applies to all alike. If we are henceforth to talk of the Qur’an of Muhammad, we had better give out the first lesson in church from the Torath of the law-giver Mdsheh.

And, of course, our Roman history will have to be ‘restored.’ ‘Romans,’ ‘Etruscans,’ ‘ Tarquin,’ ‘Appins Claudius,’ and the rest are now the Ramnes, the Ras- ennce, Tarchnaf, and Attus Clauzus. What is to be the final issue of that bottomless pit of Roman embryology, Dr. Mommsen only knows. All that we now behold is a weltering gulf of Ramnes, Titles, Sabelli, Ras, Curites, where archaic and ethnologic fumes roll upwards incessantly, as from an unfathomable crater. Some day we shall know what was the true, unpronounced sightseeing turkey, and undivulged name of Rome; and what is the true phonetic equivalent of ‘ Romulus’ and ‘ Numa,’ of ‘ Tarquin ‘ and ‘ Brutus.’

Kereth Hadeshoth

We are even now in a position to speak with accuracy of the later history. When they come to the Punic wars, our boys and girls in the Board-schools of the twentieth century will learn to say: — ‘The great contest now begins between the Ramnes and the Chna-ites of the mighty city of Kereth-Hadeshoth; “ Au-nec-baal,” the son of “ Am-Melech-Kirjath,” proved himself the greatest general of antiquity; but, when he was overwhelmed in the final defeat of Naraggara, the city of Queen Jedi- diah fell before the irresistible valour of the worshippers of Diovispater.’ And when the young scholars get down to the Kym-ry and the Galtachd, the Vergo-breiths, Ver- kemirkedo-righ, Orkedo-righ, Cara-dazvg, and Heerfiirst, may mercy keep their poor little souls ! There are Gal- tachd-ic, and Kym-ric, and Duitisck enthusiasts, as well as those of Wessex and Gwent. I understand there are people even now who want us to call Paris — Lonkh-teith.

A very large proportion of famous men have been known in history and commemorated in literature under names other than those given to them by their godfathers and their godmothers in their baptism, or those that were entered in the parish register. Under those names we love them, think of them, and feel akin to them. Their names are household words: a part of European literature, and fill us with kindly and filial feelings. These good old names are being steadily supplanted by the alphabetic martinets who recall us to the register with all the formalism of a parish clerk or a Herald from the College. Not Molibre, but Poquelin; not Voltaire, but Aronet; not George Sand, but the Baroness Dndevant; not Madame de SvignS, but Marie de Rabutin-CJiantal. It will soon be a sign of ignorance to speak of Tom Jones and Becky Sharp. It will be Thomas Summer, Esq., Junior, J.P., and Mrs. Joseph Sedley. We shall soon have the Essays of Vis- count St. Albans, and the Letters of the Earl of Orford.

#Founders of Religions in the East

[tasteoftravel]

Founders of Religions in the East

It so happens that almost all of the Founders of Religions in the East are known to us by certain familiar names, which are obviously not the actual names they bore -in their lifetime; but which for centuries have passed current in the literary speech of Europe. Confucius, Mencius, Buddha, Zoroaster, Mahomet, Moses, and Jesus are popular adaptations of names which the European languages could not easily assimilate. As such those names are embedded in a thousand works of poetry, history, and criticism, and have gathered round them an imposing mass of interest and tradition.

Is it not almost an outrage to discard these old associations and to re-baptize these, hoary elders with the newfangled literalism of phonetic pedantry? K’ung- Foo-tsze, Mang-tsze, Sakyamouni, or Siddhartha, Zarathus- tra or Zerdusht, Muhammad, Mdsheh, and Jehoshua, may be attempts to imitate the sounds emitted by their contemporaries in Asia, but they are an offence in Europe in the nineteenth century, which has long known these mighty teachers under names that association has hallowed to our ears. If scholarship requires us to sacrifice these old familiar names, the necessity applies to all alike. If we are henceforth to talk of the Qur’an of Muhammad, we had better give out the first lesson in church from the Torath of the law-giver Mdsheh.

And, of course, our Roman history will have to be ‘restored.’ ‘Romans,’ ‘Etruscans,’ ‘ Tarquin,’ ‘Appins Claudius,’ and the rest are now the Ramnes, the Ras- ennce, Tarchnaf, and Attus Clauzus. What is to be the final issue of that bottomless pit of Roman embryology, Dr. Mommsen only knows. All that we now behold is a weltering gulf of Ramnes, Titles, Sabelli, Ras, Curites, where archaic and ethnologic fumes roll upwards incessantly, as from an unfathomable crater. Some day we shall know what was the true, unpronounced sightseeing turkey, and undivulged name of Rome; and what is the true phonetic equivalent of ‘ Romulus’ and ‘ Numa,’ of ‘ Tarquin ‘ and ‘ Brutus.’

Kereth Hadeshoth

We are even now in a position to speak with accuracy of the later history. When they come to the Punic wars, our boys and girls in the Board-schools of the twentieth century will learn to say: — ‘The great contest now begins between the Ramnes and the Chna-ites of the mighty city of Kereth-Hadeshoth; “ Au-nec-baal,” the son of “ Am-Melech-Kirjath,” proved himself the greatest general of antiquity; but, when he was overwhelmed in the final defeat of Naraggara, the city of Queen Jedi- diah fell before the irresistible valour of the worshippers of Diovispater.’ And when the young scholars get down to the Kym-ry and the Galtachd, the Vergo-breiths, Ver- kemirkedo-righ, Orkedo-righ, Cara-dazvg, and Heerfiirst, may mercy keep their poor little souls ! There are Gal- tachd-ic, and Kym-ric, and Duitisck enthusiasts, as well as those of Wessex and Gwent. I understand there are people even now who want us to call Paris — Lonkh-teith.

A very large proportion of famous men have been known in history and commemorated in literature under names other than those given to them by their godfathers and their godmothers in their baptism, or those that were entered in the parish register. Under those names we love them, think of them, and feel akin to them. Their names are household words: a part of European literature, and fill us with kindly and filial feelings. These good old names are being steadily supplanted by the alphabetic martinets who recall us to the register with all the formalism of a parish clerk or a Herald from the College. Not Molibre, but Poquelin; not Voltaire, but Aronet; not George Sand, but the Baroness Dndevant; not Madame de SvignS, but Marie de Rabutin-CJiantal. It will soon be a sign of ignorance to speak of Tom Jones and Becky Sharp. It will be Thomas Summer, Esq., Junior, J.P., and Mrs. Joseph Sedley. We shall soon have the Essays of Vis- count St. Albans, and the Letters of the Earl of Orford.

#Founders of Religions in the East

[ecoamerica]

Watch the American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 now: https://youtu.be/bWiW4Rp8vF0?feature=shared

The American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 broadcast recording is now available on ecoAmerica's YouTube channel for viewers to be inspired by active climate leaders. Watch to find out which finalist received the $50,000 grand prize! Hosted by Vanessa Hauc and featuring Bill McKibben and Katharine Hayhoe!

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[travelsn]

Founders of Religions in the East

It so happens that almost all of the Founders of Religions in the East are known to us by certain familiar names, which are obviously not the actual names they bore -in their lifetime; but which for centuries have passed current in the literary speech of Europe. Confucius, Mencius, Buddha, Zoroaster, Mahomet, Moses, and Jesus are popular adaptations of names which the European languages could not easily assimilate. As such those names are embedded in a thousand works of poetry, history, and criticism, and have gathered round them an imposing mass of interest and tradition.

Is it not almost an outrage to discard these old associations and to re-baptize these, hoary elders with the newfangled literalism of phonetic pedantry? K’ung- Foo-tsze, Mang-tsze, Sakyamouni, or Siddhartha, Zarathus- tra or Zerdusht, Muhammad, Mdsheh, and Jehoshua, may be attempts to imitate the sounds emitted by their contemporaries in Asia, but they are an offence in Europe in the nineteenth century, which has long known these mighty teachers under names that association has hallowed to our ears. If scholarship requires us to sacrifice these old familiar names, the necessity applies to all alike. If we are henceforth to talk of the Qur’an of Muhammad, we had better give out the first lesson in church from the Torath of the law-giver Mdsheh.

And, of course, our Roman history will have to be ‘restored.’ ‘Romans,’ ‘Etruscans,’ ‘ Tarquin,’ ‘Appins Claudius,’ and the rest are now the Ramnes, the Ras- ennce, Tarchnaf, and Attus Clauzus. What is to be the final issue of that bottomless pit of Roman embryology, Dr. Mommsen only knows. All that we now behold is a weltering gulf of Ramnes, Titles, Sabelli, Ras, Curites, where archaic and ethnologic fumes roll upwards incessantly, as from an unfathomable crater. Some day we shall know what was the true, unpronounced sightseeing turkey, and undivulged name of Rome; and what is the true phonetic equivalent of ‘ Romulus’ and ‘ Numa,’ of ‘ Tarquin ‘ and ‘ Brutus.’

Kereth Hadeshoth

We are even now in a position to speak with accuracy of the later history. When they come to the Punic wars, our boys and girls in the Board-schools of the twentieth century will learn to say: — ‘The great contest now begins between the Ramnes and the Chna-ites of the mighty city of Kereth-Hadeshoth; “ Au-nec-baal,” the son of “ Am-Melech-Kirjath,” proved himself the greatest general of antiquity; but, when he was overwhelmed in the final defeat of Naraggara, the city of Queen Jedi- diah fell before the irresistible valour of the worshippers of Diovispater.’ And when the young scholars get down to the Kym-ry and the Galtachd, the Vergo-breiths, Ver- kemirkedo-righ, Orkedo-righ, Cara-dazvg, and Heerfiirst, may mercy keep their poor little souls ! There are Gal- tachd-ic, and Kym-ric, and Duitisck enthusiasts, as well as those of Wessex and Gwent. I understand there are people even now who want us to call Paris — Lonkh-teith.

A very large proportion of famous men have been known in history and commemorated in literature under names other than those given to them by their godfathers and their godmothers in their baptism, or those that were entered in the parish register. Under those names we love them, think of them, and feel akin to them. Their names are household words: a part of European literature, and fill us with kindly and filial feelings. These good old names are being steadily supplanted by the alphabetic martinets who recall us to the register with all the formalism of a parish clerk or a Herald from the College. Not Molibre, but Poquelin; not Voltaire, but Aronet; not George Sand, but the Baroness Dndevant; not Madame de SvignS, but Marie de Rabutin-CJiantal. It will soon be a sign of ignorance to speak of Tom Jones and Becky Sharp. It will be Thomas Summer, Esq., Junior, J.P., and Mrs. Joseph Sedley. We shall soon have the Essays of Vis- count St. Albans, and the Letters of the Earl of Orford.

#Founders of Religions in the East

[hotelsistanbul]

Founders of Religions in the East

It so happens that almost all of the Founders of Religions in the East are known to us by certain familiar names, which are obviously not the actual names they bore -in their lifetime; but which for centuries have passed current in the literary speech of Europe. Confucius, Mencius, Buddha, Zoroaster, Mahomet, Moses, and Jesus are popular adaptations of names which the European languages could not easily assimilate. As such those names are embedded in a thousand works of poetry, history, and criticism, and have gathered round them an imposing mass of interest and tradition.

Is it not almost an outrage to discard these old associations and to re-baptize these, hoary elders with the newfangled literalism of phonetic pedantry? K’ung- Foo-tsze, Mang-tsze, Sakyamouni, or Siddhartha, Zarathus- tra or Zerdusht, Muhammad, Mdsheh, and Jehoshua, may be attempts to imitate the sounds emitted by their contemporaries in Asia, but they are an offence in Europe in the nineteenth century, which has long known these mighty teachers under names that association has hallowed to our ears. If scholarship requires us to sacrifice these old familiar names, the necessity applies to all alike. If we are henceforth to talk of the Qur’an of Muhammad, we had better give out the first lesson in church from the Torath of the law-giver Mdsheh.

And, of course, our Roman history will have to be ‘restored.’ ‘Romans,’ ‘Etruscans,’ ‘ Tarquin,’ ‘Appins Claudius,’ and the rest are now the Ramnes, the Ras- ennce, Tarchnaf, and Attus Clauzus. What is to be the final issue of that bottomless pit of Roman embryology, Dr. Mommsen only knows. All that we now behold is a weltering gulf of Ramnes, Titles, Sabelli, Ras, Curites, where archaic and ethnologic fumes roll upwards incessantly, as from an unfathomable crater. Some day we shall know what was the true, unpronounced sightseeing turkey, and undivulged name of Rome; and what is the true phonetic equivalent of ‘ Romulus’ and ‘ Numa,’ of ‘ Tarquin ‘ and ‘ Brutus.’

Kereth Hadeshoth

We are even now in a position to speak with accuracy of the later history. When they come to the Punic wars, our boys and girls in the Board-schools of the twentieth century will learn to say: — ‘The great contest now begins between the Ramnes and the Chna-ites of the mighty city of Kereth-Hadeshoth; “ Au-nec-baal,” the son of “ Am-Melech-Kirjath,” proved himself the greatest general of antiquity; but, when he was overwhelmed in the final defeat of Naraggara, the city of Queen Jedi- diah fell before the irresistible valour of the worshippers of Diovispater.’ And when the young scholars get down to the Kym-ry and the Galtachd, the Vergo-breiths, Ver- kemirkedo-righ, Orkedo-righ, Cara-dazvg, and Heerfiirst, may mercy keep their poor little souls ! There are Gal- tachd-ic, and Kym-ric, and Duitisck enthusiasts, as well as those of Wessex and Gwent. I understand there are people even now who want us to call Paris — Lonkh-teith.

A very large proportion of famous men have been known in history and commemorated in literature under names other than those given to them by their godfathers and their godmothers in their baptism, or those that were entered in the parish register. Under those names we love them, think of them, and feel akin to them. Their names are household words: a part of European literature, and fill us with kindly and filial feelings. These good old names are being steadily supplanted by the alphabetic martinets who recall us to the register with all the formalism of a parish clerk or a Herald from the College. Not Molibre, but Poquelin; not Voltaire, but Aronet; not George Sand, but the Baroness Dndevant; not Madame de SvignS, but Marie de Rabutin-CJiantal. It will soon be a sign of ignorance to speak of Tom Jones and Becky Sharp. It will be Thomas Summer, Esq., Junior, J.P., and Mrs. Joseph Sedley. We shall soon have the Essays of Vis- count St. Albans, and the Letters of the Earl of Orford.

#Founders of Religions in the East

[bookingpackages]

Founders of Religions in the East

It so happens that almost all of the Founders of Religions in the East are known to us by certain familiar names, which are obviously not the actual names they bore -in their lifetime; but which for centuries have passed current in the literary speech of Europe. Confucius, Mencius, Buddha, Zoroaster, Mahomet, Moses, and Jesus are popular adaptations of names which the European languages could not easily assimilate. As such those names are embedded in a thousand works of poetry, history, and criticism, and have gathered round them an imposing mass of interest and tradition.

Is it not almost an outrage to discard these old associations and to re-baptize these, hoary elders with the newfangled literalism of phonetic pedantry? K’ung- Foo-tsze, Mang-tsze, Sakyamouni, or Siddhartha, Zarathus- tra or Zerdusht, Muhammad, Mdsheh, and Jehoshua, may be attempts to imitate the sounds emitted by their contemporaries in Asia, but they are an offence in Europe in the nineteenth century, which has long known these mighty teachers under names that association has hallowed to our ears. If scholarship requires us to sacrifice these old familiar names, the necessity applies to all alike. If we are henceforth to talk of the Qur’an of Muhammad, we had better give out the first lesson in church from the Torath of the law-giver Mdsheh.

And, of course, our Roman history will have to be ‘restored.’ ‘Romans,’ ‘Etruscans,’ ‘ Tarquin,’ ‘Appins Claudius,’ and the rest are now the Ramnes, the Ras- ennce, Tarchnaf, and Attus Clauzus. What is to be the final issue of that bottomless pit of Roman embryology, Dr. Mommsen only knows. All that we now behold is a weltering gulf of Ramnes, Titles, Sabelli, Ras, Curites, where archaic and ethnologic fumes roll upwards incessantly, as from an unfathomable crater. Some day we shall know what was the true, unpronounced sightseeing turkey, and undivulged name of Rome; and what is the true phonetic equivalent of ‘ Romulus’ and ‘ Numa,’ of ‘ Tarquin ‘ and ‘ Brutus.’

Kereth Hadeshoth

We are even now in a position to speak with accuracy of the later history. When they come to the Punic wars, our boys and girls in the Board-schools of the twentieth century will learn to say: — ‘The great contest now begins between the Ramnes and the Chna-ites of the mighty city of Kereth-Hadeshoth; “ Au-nec-baal,” the son of “ Am-Melech-Kirjath,” proved himself the greatest general of antiquity; but, when he was overwhelmed in the final defeat of Naraggara, the city of Queen Jedi- diah fell before the irresistible valour of the worshippers of Diovispater.’ And when the young scholars get down to the Kym-ry and the Galtachd, the Vergo-breiths, Ver- kemirkedo-righ, Orkedo-righ, Cara-dazvg, and Heerfiirst, may mercy keep their poor little souls ! There are Gal- tachd-ic, and Kym-ric, and Duitisck enthusiasts, as well as those of Wessex and Gwent. I understand there are people even now who want us to call Paris — Lonkh-teith.

A very large proportion of famous men have been known in history and commemorated in literature under names other than those given to them by their godfathers and their godmothers in their baptism, or those that were entered in the parish register. Under those names we love them, think of them, and feel akin to them. Their names are household words: a part of European literature, and fill us with kindly and filial feelings. These good old names are being steadily supplanted by the alphabetic martinets who recall us to the register with all the formalism of a parish clerk or a Herald from the College. Not Molibre, but Poquelin; not Voltaire, but Aronet; not George Sand, but the Baroness Dndevant; not Madame de SvignS, but Marie de Rabutin-CJiantal. It will soon be a sign of ignorance to speak of Tom Jones and Becky Sharp. It will be Thomas Summer, Esq., Junior, J.P., and Mrs. Joseph Sedley. We shall soon have the Essays of Vis- count St. Albans, and the Letters of the Earl of Orford.

#Founders of Religions in the East

[holidaystobalkan]

Founders of Religions in the East

It so happens that almost all of the Founders of Religions in the East are known to us by certain familiar names, which are obviously not the actual names they bore -in their lifetime; but which for centuries have passed current in the literary speech of Europe. Confucius, Mencius, Buddha, Zoroaster, Mahomet, Moses, and Jesus are popular adaptations of names which the European languages could not easily assimilate. As such those names are embedded in a thousand works of poetry, history, and criticism, and have gathered round them an imposing mass of interest and tradition.

Is it not almost an outrage to discard these old associations and to re-baptize these, hoary elders with the newfangled literalism of phonetic pedantry? K’ung- Foo-tsze, Mang-tsze, Sakyamouni, or Siddhartha, Zarathus- tra or Zerdusht, Muhammad, Mdsheh, and Jehoshua, may be attempts to imitate the sounds emitted by their contemporaries in Asia, but they are an offence in Europe in the nineteenth century, which has long known these mighty teachers under names that association has hallowed to our ears. If scholarship requires us to sacrifice these old familiar names, the necessity applies to all alike. If we are henceforth to talk of the Qur’an of Muhammad, we had better give out the first lesson in church from the Torath of the law-giver Mdsheh.

And, of course, our Roman history will have to be ‘restored.’ ‘Romans,’ ‘Etruscans,’ ‘ Tarquin,’ ‘Appins Claudius,’ and the rest are now the Ramnes, the Ras- ennce, Tarchnaf, and Attus Clauzus. What is to be the final issue of that bottomless pit of Roman embryology, Dr. Mommsen only knows. All that we now behold is a weltering gulf of Ramnes, Titles, Sabelli, Ras, Curites, where archaic and ethnologic fumes roll upwards incessantly, as from an unfathomable crater. Some day we shall know what was the true, unpronounced sightseeing turkey, and undivulged name of Rome; and what is the true phonetic equivalent of ‘ Romulus’ and ‘ Numa,’ of ‘ Tarquin ‘ and ‘ Brutus.’

Kereth Hadeshoth

We are even now in a position to speak with accuracy of the later history. When they come to the Punic wars, our boys and girls in the Board-schools of the twentieth century will learn to say: — ‘The great contest now begins between the Ramnes and the Chna-ites of the mighty city of Kereth-Hadeshoth; “ Au-nec-baal,” the son of “ Am-Melech-Kirjath,” proved himself the greatest general of antiquity; but, when he was overwhelmed in the final defeat of Naraggara, the city of Queen Jedi- diah fell before the irresistible valour of the worshippers of Diovispater.’ And when the young scholars get down to the Kym-ry and the Galtachd, the Vergo-breiths, Ver- kemirkedo-righ, Orkedo-righ, Cara-dazvg, and Heerfiirst, may mercy keep their poor little souls ! There are Gal- tachd-ic, and Kym-ric, and Duitisck enthusiasts, as well as those of Wessex and Gwent. I understand there are people even now who want us to call Paris — Lonkh-teith.

A very large proportion of famous men have been known in history and commemorated in literature under names other than those given to them by their godfathers and their godmothers in their baptism, or those that were entered in the parish register. Under those names we love them, think of them, and feel akin to them. Their names are household words: a part of European literature, and fill us with kindly and filial feelings. These good old names are being steadily supplanted by the alphabetic martinets who recall us to the register with all the formalism of a parish clerk or a Herald from the College. Not Molibre, but Poquelin; not Voltaire, but Aronet; not George Sand, but the Baroness Dndevant; not Madame de SvignS, but Marie de Rabutin-CJiantal. It will soon be a sign of ignorance to speak of Tom Jones and Becky Sharp. It will be Thomas Summer, Esq., Junior, J.P., and Mrs. Joseph Sedley. We shall soon have the Essays of Vis- count St. Albans, and the Letters of the Earl of Orford.

#Founders of Religions in the East

[ecoamerica]

Watch the 2024 American Climate Leadership Awards for High School Students now: https://youtu.be/5C-bb9PoRLc

The recording is now available on ecoAmerica's YouTube channel for viewers to be inspired by student climate leaders! Join Aishah-Nyeta Brown & Jerome Foster II and be inspired by student climate leaders as we recognize the High School Student finalists. Watch now to find out which student received the $25,000 grand prize and top recognition!

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