#so blue and glittering in the empty starlight but the river was cold like stars and she is cold but the grass she lays upon shivering

[trashcanalienist]

#it's like internal bleeding like they've cut open the sun and the heat all pouring out the light all pouring spilling down like #life or river waterfall of way too warm and sobbing prey animal sweet deer with broken legs cannot crawl to safe hollow and her throat #slashed and falling slipping on her redsoaked grass she turns her head and thinks it like the river she was born beside #so blue and glittering in the empty starlight but the river was cold like stars and she is cold but the grass she lays upon shivering #shifting trying to find comfort in this her end is so hot so furiously heartbreakingly hot and she can't understand why #can't think of why and she lays her soft furred chin on the earth to think her eyes catch in the moon's silver glow and she thinks it must #be such a cloudy day for the sun is a disc but doesn't blind like a coin like an eye like a bullet and she wonders and wonders #and she cannot understand the poor film that seals her in darkness the sweet deer she is laying and she cannot understand #her poor legs hurt but it's fading and her neck has such an odd feeling like loss but it's fading and it's fading and she feels safe in #that fade and she feels safe enough to not concern herself with it and the poor darling she mewls so softly in her baby's voice staring up #up and always eyes rolling up to the stars but unseeing unseeing unseeing #and i think the kid would be so cruel and his blade as cold but - there might be a kindness in an understanding. #words i speak #nonsense #creeptalk #first name book last name rambo #just at the end there

[foxghost]

Joyful Reunion

Translator: foxghost @foxghost tumblr/ko-fi1 Beta: meet-me-in-oblivion @meet-me-in-oblivion tumblr Original by 非天夜翔 Fei Tian Ye Xiang Masterpost | Characters, Maps & Other Reference Index

Seventh of Seventh · The Distance Between Two Shores

A rising autumn breeze passes through the empty palace hall. Duan Ling hurries through the gallery, the ends of his black robes fluttering in the breeze. His long hair is held in a low ponytail with a single black string, and his soft lips are ever so slightly pursed.

He walks past the swaying silhouettes of trees humming with the last of late summer cicadas, past the garden swirling with yellowing autumn leaves, past dusk adorned with crisp dark shadows cast by lantern light into the fresh night touched with the purple-red tinge of a dying sunset. Life is like a stage, and the curtains have fallen to reveal a sheet of sapphire silk studded with magnificent stars.

Dressed all in black, he seems almost to become one with the night. Slowly, he comes to a stop and stands before the White Tiger idol. Starlight shines down from the vaulted roof of the pavilion after reflecting off its angles. The Zhenshanhe has been placed horizontally on a sword stand, enshrined beneath the claws of the god that rules the autumn season.

This place is like the temple nearest the constellations, and every time Duan Ling stands beneath the white tiger’s gaze, he would feel as if he’s only one step away from the river of stars above. But it calmly blocks Duan Ling’s way as if there is a bustling heavenly realm behind its back, where mortals may not set foot.

“Dad.” Duan Ling walks forward, gently strokes the white tiger’s sharp canine, and puts his face against its ice-cold nose. He says, sounding enchanted, “Another year’s gone by.”

He lights three sticks of incense, and bows to the white tiger idol thrice. An autumn breeze sends the muslin curtains fluttering. The scent of sandalwood wafts through the air. Duan Ling climbs up the idol’s base, crawls into the white tiger’s outstretched, scouting paw, and leans back into its arm. He faces the star-studded firmament as though he’s being held by the white tiger, and in a daze, he lets his mind wander.

Lord White Tiger’s eyes reflect starlight, and its cool jade body gradually warms. Leaning back against the well-defined, powerful muscles of its chest, Duan Ling suddenly senses something.

“Who’s there?” Duan Ling can dimly notice a silhouette behind the muslin curtains.

Another gust of wind brings up the curtain, and a tall man walks into the shrine.

Duan Ling stares at him in shock.

The man has deep-set eyes like stars, with dark eyebrows and soft lips, and he’s dressed in an embroidered pale blue fighter’s robe. The clothes, however, are half foreign and half Han, with the left sleeve tied the way a warrior wears his sleeve, while the right sleeve is left hanging wide like a literati’s. The trajectory of the White Tiger constellation has been embroidered onto his open gown, with the major star done in silver thread, glittering with the same starlight that illuminates the sky.

He has on fighter’s boots decorated with a pattern of clouds, a silver pauldron on his left shoulder. A gem shaped like a water drop adorns his right wrist.

“Dad?” Duan Ling almost can’t believe his own eyes. This is his father, but not the father he knows well; this one is even younger than when Duan Ling met his father for the first time, as though he’s just past twenty. He’s handsome and fair, and there is not a sign of the turmoil and sternness that used to plague his eyes; in place of that is an innate graceful elegance.

Li Jianhong smiles, leaping onto the base of the white tiger idol, and leans against the tiger’s body. The white tiger suddenly starts to move, letting out a low growl, startling Duan Ling.

“How did you …” Staring at this whole get-up, Duan Ling feels a rush of pleasant surprise.

“Become so young?” Li Jianhong says. “Looks like my son’s all grown up though.”

Duan Ling finds it all incredible; he and Li Jianhong seem to be two young men similar in age, and next to each other, Li Jianhong barely looks much older than him at all.

“Even though you’ve grown up, and dad’s gotten younger, you still can’t call me gege.” Li Jianhong jokes, “You couldn’t have imagined what I looked like when I was younger, my son?”

There is nothing but astonishment in Duan Ling’s eyes, and the corner of his mouth keeps turning up for the smile he can’t hide. He picks up Li Jianhong’s hand and stares at the jade on his wrist. “What’s this?”

“Star jade,” Li Jianhong replies with a smile. “I need it to patrol the skies. Here, it’s all yours,” he says, taking it off for Duan Ling.

“I don’t want it,” Duan Ling looks blandly at him, having figured out the meaning behind his father’s frivolous smile. “What’s it good for? It’s not even as pretty as my jade arc.”

“It’s a star,” says Li Jianhong. “One of the many stars in the sky. It controls the fates of everyone in the mortal world. People are always saying, ‘if you want the stars from the sky I’d pluck them down for you’, this is what that means.”

“Dad, have you become a Daoist Immortal?” Duan Ling sounds amazed.

Li Jianhong’s robe flaps in the wind. He gives Duan Ling an enigmatic shh in reply and explains, “Tonight happens to be the Seventh of Seventh, so I came down while the Cowherd and the Weaving Maid are busy seeing each other. I’ll have to head back soon lest they find me out.”

“Will we ever see each other again?” Duan Ling can’t help himself; his voice grows thick with tears.

Li Jianhong calmly watches the tears in Duan Ling’s eyes, but he doesn’t answer. From his reading of the ancient tomes, Duan Ling has gleaned that the gods cannot enter the mortal world without cause, and they must not reveal the ineffable. But to be able to see him once more during this one lifetime already leaves Duan Ling without regrets.

“I see you every day,” Li Jianhong whispers. “I’m always here.”

He pulls Duan Ling to him, putting Duan Ling’s head on his shoulder. He says smilingly, “Do you not have anything else to say? Look how old you are already, and still such a crybaby.”

Duan Ling’s tearful expression turns into a smile. He studies Li Jianhong’s eyes and nose, and he thinks that he is still him; through all these years, Duan Ling has never forgotten every time he’d dreamt of him.

“I had a dream last month.” Duan Ling thinks of this and that, but doesn’t really know what he should say, and ends up saying, “I dreamt of you.”

“Yeah?” Li Jianhong takes off his outer robe and pulls it over them like a blanket as they stargaze together. “What was your dream about?”

Duan Ling pauses to think, but as he’s about to say more, Li Jianhong continues, “You’re like our great ancestor, and like Zhuangzi too — always sleeping and dreaming when you’ve got nothing better to do. One moment you’re turning into a butterfly, another you’re turning into a big fish … watch out you don’t end up getting stuck in your dreams and can’t wake up anymore.”

Duan Ling is smilng again. “Actually, if I can see you in my dreams all the time, I probably wouldn’t want to wake up.”

The two of them lean against each other the way two young men would. Whenever Li Yanqiu used to reminisce about his and Li Jianhong’s youth from time to time, Duan Ling would feel rather envious. Wouldn’t be nice if time can flow backwards so he can be around during his father’s younger days, to conquer the world at his side, or just to administer the realm for him?

But he never could have imagined that he would reunite with his father again under these particular circumstances. In the mortal world, people spend much of their time apart, and reunions are few and far between; it has always been thus. If he dillydallies much longer, his father may have to leave again before they manage to get much of a conversation going.

"In the dream, you took me along on a military campaign to the north to fight the Goryeo empire and the Mongolians. "Duan Ling recalls some details from his dreams, and everything seems so vivid it’s almost like it happened yesterday. He looks up again and says, “Lang Junxia was still alive, and he took me to his village as a guest. Chang Liujun was around too, also Zheng Yan and Wu Du. They were all by my side. Oh, and you gave me this huge lecture.”

Li Jianhong’s expression darkens. “Of course I’d have to lecture you. You follow Wu Du around all day long and don’t even want your dad anymore. Running off all the time doing lord knows what — what if you got lost?”

Duan Ling stares at him in shock.

“You knew?!” Duan Ling is stunned in an instant. “How did you know that?!”

“I don’t know.” The corner of Li Jianhong’s mouth twitches as he immediately washes his hands of the whole thing. “I seriously have no idea.”

“You knew!” Duan Ling grabs Li Jianhong’s sleeve and refuses to let go, arguing, “how else would you have known that I ran off with Wu Du?”

Li Jianhong can’t help but laugh out loud. “Where’s Wu Du? Call him over. It’s been ages since we had a drink together.”

“You two drank together?” Duan Ling sounds flabbergasted. “I never heard him say that.”

The more Li Jianhong says, the worse this gets; it’s his fault really that his own son is too smart, and he’s almost tricked into revealing a bunch of ineffable mysteries. He has no choice but to stop talking, just stares at Duan Ling and smiles.

“What are you smiling about?” Duan Ling frowns.

“There are lots of things I can’t say, so I can only smile. What else can I do?”

Looking at this father’s handsome smile, Duan Ling suddenly isn’t sure what he should say anymore. After a bit of thinking, he says, “So the one in my dreams really was you.”

Li Jianhong raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t refute Duan Ling, but he doesn’t admit to it either. He opens his hand, and in his palm is that star jade, its lustre incomparably gentle, with soft halos sparkling within.

“This is for you, a star from the sky,” Li Jianhong says.

Duan Ling touches it lightly with a finger, and the star jade blossoms with a bright but gentle glow, like he’s been placed in the centre of the Silver River. Its white light fills the space between sky and earth as the Silver River descends, and all at once, Duan Ling feels as though he’s in the middle of an ocean of light.

“Dad.” Duan Ling has a feeling that Li Jianhong is about to vanish in the middle of that ocean.

But Li Jianhong is smiling at him. “Come into my dream, my son.”

Duan Ling cries out, “Dad!”

But Li Jianhong has already become starlight, vanishing from Duan Ling’s side. In the midst of these brilliant rays, Duan Ling feels as though he’s become a lot smaller, all the way back to the time he reunited with his dad for the first time. Li Jianhong looks down at Duan Ling, his smiling eyes filled with tenderness. He reaches out and strokes Duan Ling’s head before turning into a gentle breeze, and on this holiday where girls pray to the stars for hands as nimble as the Weaving Maid’s, he scatters into the horizon.

Seventh of Seventh; the Silver River looks both clear and shallow; how vast can the distance between two shores ever be?

Duan Ling looks all around him. In this gentle dreamscape, the stars are fragments of light undulating on a river; on either shore of a crystalline river, they gaze at each other lovingly without a word.2

This translation is by foxghost, on tumblr and kofi. I do not monetise my hobby translations, but if you’d like to support my work generally or support my light novel habit, you can either buy me a coffee or commission me. This is also to note that if you see this message anywhere else than on tumblr, it was reposted without permission. Do come to my tumblr. It’s ad-free. ↩︎

Two lines from 迢迢牽牛星 / The Distant Cowherd Star, by an anonymous poet during the Han dynasty, is one of the Nineteen Old Poems. ↩︎

#相見歡 #fei tian ye xiang #joyful reunion #xiang jian huan #fox translates things

[alnilam-fr]

-Down In Yon Forest-

The ice sparkles as though champagne were poured over the top of the snow, dripping off of the ghost-pale branches of the wyrwood. The crescent moon sings softly. 

Beneath the branches of the trees, the Progenitor walks. Her feet are bare as the white branches overhead, and she leaves no footprints. Light glimmers within the curve of her throat, the dusky skin spangled with constellations of blue and green. The wyrwood stirs for her as she raises a hand, the winter air steaming against her shining skin, and the branches move, angling a path down towards the river.

There is a road through the wyrwood now- architects from deeper in the Lightweaver’s territory laid it nearly a hundred years ago. It is still a new road, by the Progenitor’s long and aching reckoning of the years. Her Guardian, Baleen with the ocean eyes, came not long after it was completed. It is only Baleen who has stayed, though many come along the road and seek hospice. (Though the wood has not been cursed in living memory, time still flows a little differently in the Progenitor’s land, like amber, like syrup. Baleen looks little more than thirty, even now.)

The last merchant caravan to pass through before the snows came stopped briefly at the House, and a silk-voiced Wildclaw told them of the elemental magic surging around Sornieth. Emperor, he had whispered, his crest of feathers standing on end.

Emperor. They say it as an ugly word, and they always have, ever since the first. The Imperial dragons do not speak it at all. Do not permit the desecration to pass their lips. They do not bury their bodies in the ground, for fear of that disease which eats bone and blood and makes it into something savage and new. (“If I die here,” her love had said, long ago, when he had drunk just enough to think about it, “Be sure to burn my body. Bury the skull apart from the bones.” And then he had downed the rest of his drink and looked out the window at the slow dance of the stars.)

There is something lying sprawled across the river, blocking the flow of the water making its rambling way to the sea. Rivulets of overflowing water spill over the banks and track lines of ice in the snow. The creature has a mane of thick fur made heavy with frost, and as the Progenitor approaches she sees one pair of silver-blue eyes blink open, and then another, and then a fifth eye slits open to gaze at her as it exhales, rising steam billowing from its fanged mouth. The Progenitor looks at it, for a long time. This is not an Emperor, but it is something likewise ancient. 

“Are you wounded?” she asks. Her voice crystallizes like the starlight in the cold. “Do you have a two-legged form?” Lightfooted, shadowless, she steps closer. Another pair of eyes open, pale as mercury.

I am wounded, it answers. The length of its mouth peels open to reveal rows of ivory teeth. Here. Lifting a foreleg and wing- the stomach is gleaming and pearl-colored, but scored with red as vivid as a scream. Blood drips down into the water, and clots darkly along the edges of the wounds. Beast attacked me. It coughs a little, dark stains spreading along its teeth. Emperor.

“What are you?” asks the Progenitor. She places a hand upon its stomach, magic gathering beneath her skin as slowly- slowly- the torn flesh knits back into scale and fur. “I think I dreamed a thing like you, long ago. When I was a girl.”

It inhales slightly, tasting the air like a cat. In this draconic form, it is as large as an Imperial, at least. You are ancient too, but not like me. I was born in the great glacier. My people were made when the mountains and the rain were young. Nutaikok decreed it thus. The accent of its words is strange to her. Northern, and yet not.

She moves to the next wound. Blood and light and water run between her fingers, onto her wrists. The blue silk of her sleeves is stained with blood. Ankle-deep she stands in cold water, but the Progenitor does not feel pain unless she chooses to do so. “They named me Souhayla,” she says. “Souhayla the Sunbringer. Souhayla of the Empty Hall. The Progenitor.” 

I am Tekkeitsertok.

In a great rush of movement, he rises to his feet, blood running in sunset-red gouts from his stomach and side in the moonlight. The river water glitters in his fur, and then he folds in on himself with a ripple of magic. It is always difficult for large dragons, to turn themselves back and forth, but the man who collapses upon the side of the riverbank in the bloodred, copper-reeking mud is not so much larger than Souhayla herself. Perhaps a head taller. Broad in his shoulders. His many eyes still open and close- on his bare shoulder blades, along his arms, on the backs of his hands. The color of frost.

“I will bring you to the House,” the Progenitor Souhayla says, placing one hand on the bleeding gash on his stomach to seal it and looping the other arm through his. Tekkeitsertok nods, his breath still coming in ragged pants. I am of the Keepers, he says. Third Order. His voice still comes in a rumble from somewhere far away. Somewhere filled with ice.

“Be at peace, now,” the Progenitor murmurs. Her skin glows softly through her sleeves stained with water and blood, casting a faint light on the ground. “I will bring you home.”

#ch: souhayla #ch: tekkeitsertok #flight rising #fr lore #lore #christmas carol theme music for this lore entry. thematic

[tabletoptrinketsbyjj]

Trinkets, 14: Interesting baubles, semi magical objects and items touched by mystery.

A bag of one-hundred glass marbles; ninety-nine are white and the other is black

A battered leather scroll tube containing sketches of several individuals in suggestive poses. Every subject has a profoundly sad or scared look on their face. The sketches, however, were obviously rendered by a skilled artist.

A bead curtain with dozens of strings made to fit a standard sized door. Anyone paying attention will notice the beads are actually human finger bones.  

A glass bead that glows faintly, but not enough to see or read by.

A beautiful hand crossbow that is missing its string, making it useless as a weapon. Runes etched into its handle proclaim its owner to be Eilserk Estreval.

A belt pouch that has a hidden compartment sewn into the lining.

A bent holy symbol of a minor god of a Random Evil Domain crafted from blackest obsidian.

A black executioner’s hood

A black glass bottle that becomes transparent when the full moon shines on it. The moonlight reveals fine etchings that form a pirate treasure map

A black rock with blue cracks that’s always vibrating.

---Keep reading for 90 more trinkets.

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

A bag of one-hundred glass marbles; ninety-nine are white and the other is black

A battered leather scroll tube containing sketches of several individuals in suggestive poses. Every subject has a profoundly sad or scared look on their face. The sketches, however, were obviously rendered by a skilled artist.

A bead curtain with dozens of strings made to fit a standard sized door. Anyone paying attention will notice the beads are actually human finger bones.  

A glass bead that glows faintly, but not enough to see or read by.

A beautiful hand crossbow that is missing its string, making it useless as a weapon. Runes etched into its handle proclaim its owner to be Eilserk Estreval.

A belt pouch that has a hidden compartment sewn into the lining.

A bent holy symbol of a minor god of a Random Evil Domain crafted from blackest obsidian.

A black executioner’s hood

A black glass bottle that becomes transparent when the full moon shines on it. The moonlight reveals fine etchings that form a pirate treasure map

A black rock with blue cracks that’s always vibrating.

A black velvet bag containing 13 bronze coins of outdated denominations

A black velvet cloth inlaid with golden thread wrapped around a dried and perfectly preserved red rose. The rose’s thorns are yet sharp and its flower emits a particular heady scent.

A black wooden pipe that creates puffs of smoke that look like skulls

A magically preserved blue rose that never wilts but is cold to the touch.

A dark glass bottle containing 12 large, green pills that, when swallowed, causes the user to burp puffs of sparkling glitter for 1d4 hours.

A bouncy ball made of a strange spongy wood

A box containing a mold for a cast iron key

A box containing a dozen bandages which, when applied to fresh wounds, enhance the size and permanence of scars that will form from them. In addition they function as regular bandages.

A brass brazier engraved with holy symbols of a number of evil gods

A brass doorknocker shaped like a grumpy old man’s face.

A brass-colored disc that occasionally bounces up onto its edge and spins several times before falling over again.

A bronze coin that bears the profile of the “Baroness of Kidnappers”. Knowledgeable PC’s will recognize the coin as black-market currency that’s accepted by some criminals in return for illicit good and services.

A hand sized bronze statuette of a huntress with dogs at her feet. One eye socket is vacant and the other contains a glimmering opal. Touching the statue makes the user see strange lands with their left eye as the statuette’s mouth opens and closes.

A button that, when pressed, makes a weird animal sound.

A wooden box containing a dozen candles whose flames burn a Random Colour

A candle whose flame produces no heat nor can it be extinguished or transfer its flame. It burns continuously for one hour.

A canvas poster for an arena fight featuring the Orc, Ragnar Savage

A scroll tube containing a care-worn love letter the bearer has read and refolded so many times it is starting to fall apart. The signature at the bottom is smeared and impossible to read. The letter explains the parting of a human (Most likely the bard) and their elven lover. The elf believed the relationship was doomed because of the tragically short life span of humans and refused to commit to such a short relationship.

An intricately carved wooden juju stick

An intricately carved wooden shaman mask

A carved wooden stand holds two exquisitely crafted quill pens along with a small bottle of black ink.

A ceramic bucket which, when filled with water, slowly empties to somewhere else.

A painted ceramic eye that turns and looks at the closest person to it.

An infant’s ceramic rattle containing human teeth

A child’s music box that can be cranked by hand.

A clockwork hand that clenches and opens its fist when wound

A collapsible fishing pole that quivers slightly when baited with a line in the water in order to attract fish

A compact steel folding shovel

A black leather bag containing a compact set of used torture implements.

A compass that appears to be in remarkably good condition. However, it seems someone played a cruel joke on the any poor soul whose life relied on it. The compass spins wildly at random, for random periods of time, hampering any attempt at navigation.

A cook’s apron with infernal script on the front

A copper scroll case that cannot be opened

A crude map of the local area depicting the locations of several hidden caches of equipment for someone’s personal use. It’s plausible they represent emergency fallback positions in case the mapmaker was forced to flee suddenly.

A crude map of the local area showing all villages and towns. Several other locations are marked on the map. These either depict good, well-hidden spots to camp or the locations of permanent outposts manned by unknown forces

A rock that, when handled, seems to crumble along the edges until it is worn down to a perfect resemblance of a human heart. When set down, it immediately returns to its original, featureless state

A crudely sketched floor-plan of a nearby garrison. Notes detail several possible scenarios to surreptitiously gain entrance.

A cut obsidian chalice

A magically preserved daisy chain that is incapable of being broken.

A deck of playing cards that contains 52 Jokers, each individually illustrated

A decorative key that looks like a dragon

A decorative wood and silver tankard

A disc of some sort of transparent material. Holding it up to your eye reveals a multitude of labels which it applies to everything you look at through the disc. Sadly, the language keeps shifting from one set of symbols to the next, and never one which is known.

A dismembered tongue that, when held, waggles and tries to lick the person holding it.

A doctor’s black medical travel bag

A dozen feathers from an extinct species of bird, bound by their quills with copper wire

A wooden box containing a dozen normal looking candles. However, when lit and continuing until extinguished, these candles will give off an aroma that at first seems soothing but within a minute or two will start to irritate the eyes of all those nearby

A dozen rings seamlessly joined together, each of which can be tapped to produce a musical tone.

A pouch containing a dozen small semi-circular stones worn perfectly smooth. An esoteric rune depicting various types of magic adorns each stone.

A small wooden box containing a dozen sticks of incense which, when burned, changes in scents. They begin with the rich odor of fine cooked victuals and then slowly sour to the stink of decay.

A dried human tongue branded with a rune. It means “liar” to anyone who can read the abyssal, the language of demons.

A driftwood cup that makes water taste salty.

A egg-shaped metallic bauble that occasionally spins and speaks in a language no one knows.

A fine ceramic plate

A fish skeleton, tied together with thin wires.

A fist sized stone with a miniature sword stabbed deep into it.

A fist-sized lump of mottled grey and brown stone that appears to have been melted by some form of intense heat. Dried “waves” have flowed down the stone’s flanks before hardening. The stone is the only surviving fragment of an elder earth elemental, petrified by a vile enchantment long ago. A fragment of the elemental’s sentience lurks within.

A fist-sized pyramid of felt-like substance that pulses slowly but steadily.

A lichen spotted stone box containing a fistful of obviously ancient triangular bronze coins green with verdigris. Patterns on one side of the coin are suggestive of tentacles, but the coins are too worn to discern any appreciable details.

A flamboyant, wide-brimmed blue hat with a giant golden eagle’s feather stuck in the band.

A flowing river contained within a glass case

A flute carved from brilliant white ash

A flute carved from rich-colored wood

A folding pocket knife

A freshly-excavated humanoid skeleton the size of a hand

A fuzzy toy animal that seems to repel any dirt.

A game of dominoes in a small leather case

A human femur made of glass

A glass bottle that spins and points to the same place when left alone

A glass cube with a preserved eye in the center

A glass disk that displays images of a different plane.

A glass flute that produces no sound

A glass jar containing the preserved ear of a night hag in embalming fluid. If exposed to starlight, it causes those nearby to hear the faint sound of children wailing

A glass jar filled with the teeth of children

A glass jar full of pickled eyes

A glass jar full of weightless sand.

A glass lamp with a tiny star suspended inside

A glass plate that shows an aerial view of a city that no one’s ever seen.

A pink apron with “Seasoned adventurers have better taste!” written on it.

A goblet, when filled with clear liquid, reveals at the bottom of the cup an image of a sea floor with a treasure chest overflowing with gold coins.

A gold colored, weightless, egg shaped object.

A gorgerine of alternating bone and metal discs aligned in columns that ascend in size from top to bottom.

A green leather pouch full of berries that never rot

A hand carved wooden box filled with tobacco

A hand mirror backed with a bronze depiction of a gorgon

A large sack containing a half dozen pewter goblets along with three empty wineskins

A hand mirror that only shows what the bearer looks like from behind.

A hand puppet that strongly resembles one of the PC’s

A hand sized bell with no clapper that still rings

A handful of fine gold dust wrapped up in a parchment sealed with red wax.

A drawstring pouch containing a handful of heavy iron coins that are stamped on one side with a fist grasping a warhammer and on the other with the head of a bald, but bearded, dwarf.

#d&d #dnd #d&d 3.5 #d& 4e #d&d 5e #d&d homebrew #d&d 5e homebrew #loot #custom loot #loot generator #random loot table #pathfinder #trinkets #roleplaying #rpg #dungeons and dragons #dungeon master #dm #d&d ideas #treasure #treasure table #d&d resources #tabletop homebrew #d&d 4e

[3ammonologue]

black marigolds

Even now My thought is all of this gold-tinted king's daughter With garlands tissue and golden buds, Smoke tangles of her hair, and sleeping or waking Feet trembling in love, full of pale languor; My thought is clinging as to a lost learning Slipped down out of the minds of men, Labouring to bring her back into my soul. Even now If I see in my soul the citron-breasted fair one Still gold-tinted, her face like our night stars, Drawing unto her; her body beaten about with flame, Wounded by the flaring spear of love, My first of all by reason of her fresh years, Then is my heart buried alive in snow. Even now If my girl with lotus eyes came to me again Weary with the dear weight of young love, Again I would give her to these starved twins of arms And from her mouth drink down the heavy wine, As a reeling pirate bee in fluttered ease Steals up the honey from the nenuphar. Even now I bring her back, ah, wearied out with love So that her slim feet could not bear her up; Curved falls of her hair down on her white cheeks; In the confusion of her coloured vests Speaking that guarded giving up, and her scented arms Lay like cool bindweed over against my neck. Even now I bring her back to me in her quick shame, Hiding her bright face at the point of day: Making her grave eyes move in watered stars, For love's great sleeplessness wandering all night, Seeming to sail gently, as that pink bird, Down the water of love in a harvest of lotus. Even now If I saw her lying all wide eyes And with collyrium the indent of her cheek Lengthened to the bright ear and her pale side So suffering the fever of my distance, Then would my love for her be ropes of flowers, and night A black-haired lover on the breasts of day. Even now I see the heavy startled hair of this reed-flute player Who curved her poppy lips to love dances, Having a youth's face madding like the moon Lying at her full; limbs ever moving a little in love, Too slight, too delicate, tired with the small burden Of bearing love ever on white feet. Even now She is present to me on her beds, Balmed with the exhalation of a flattering musk, Rich with the curdy essence of santal; Girl with eyes dazing as the seeded wine, Showing as a pair of gentle nuthatches Kissing each other with their bills, each hidden By turns within a little grasping mouth. Even now She swims back in the crowning hour of love All red with wine her lips have given to drink, Soft round the mouth with camphor and faint blue Tinted upon the lips, her slight body, Her great live eyes, the colourings of herself A clear perfection; sighs of musk outstealing And powdered wood spice heavy of Kashmir. Even now I see her; far face blond like gold Rich with small lights, and tinted shadows surprised Over and over all of her; with glittering eyes All bright for love but very love weary, As it were the conjuring disk of the moon when Rahu ceases With his dark stumbling block to hide her rays. Even now She is art-magically present to my soul, And that one word of strange heart's cease, goodbye, That in the night, in loth moving to go, And bending over to a golden mouth, I said softly to the turned away Tenderly tired hair of this king's daughter. Even now My eyes that hurry to see no more are painting, painting Faces of my lost girl. O golden rings That tap against cheeks of small magnolia-leaves, O whitest so soft parchment where My poor divorced lips have written excellent Stanzas of kisses, and will write no more. Even now Death sends me the flickering of powdery lids Over wild eyes and the pity of her slim body All broken up with the weariness of joy; The little red flowers of her breasts to be my comfort Moving above scarves, and for my sorrow Wet crimson lips that once I marked as mine. Even now By a cool noise of waters in the spring The Asoka with young flowers that feign her fingers And bud in red; and in the green vest pearls kissing As it were rose leaves in the gardens of God; the shining at night Of white cheeks in the dark; smiles from light thoughts within, And her walking as of a swan: these trouble me. Even now The pleased intimacy of rough love Upon the patient glory of her form Racks me with memory; and her bright dress As it were yellow flame, which the white hand Shamefastly gathers in her rising haste, The slender grace of her departing feet. Even now When all my heavy heart is broken up I seem to see my prison walls breaking And then a light, and in that light a girl Her fingers busied about her hair, her cool white arms Faint rosy at the elbows, raised in the sunlight, And temperate eyes that wander far away. Even now I seem to see my prison walls come close, Built up of darkness, and against that darkness A girl no taller than my breast and very tired, Leaning upon the bed and smiling, feeding A little bird and lying slender as ash trees, Sleepily aware as I told of the green Grapes and the small bright coloured river flowers. Even now I see her, as I used, in her white palace Under black torches throwing cool red light, Woven with many flowers and tearing the dark. I see her rising, showing all her face Defiant timidly, saying clearly: Now I shall go to sleep, goodnight, my ladies. Even now Though I am so far separate, a flight of birds Swinging from side to side over the valley trees, Passing my prison with their calling and crying, Bring me to see my girl. For very bird-like Is her song singing, and the state of a swan In her light walking, like the shaken wings Of a black eagle falls her nightly hair. Even now I know my princess was happy. I see her stand Touching her breasts with all her flower-soft fingers, Looking askance at me with smiling eyes. There is a god that arms him with a flower And she was stricken deep. Here, oh die here. Kiss me and I shall be purer than quick rivers. Even now They chatter her weakness through the two bazaars Who was so strong to love me. And small men That buy and sell for silver being slaves Crinkles the fat about their eyes; and yet No Prince of the Cities of the Sea has taken her, Leading to his grim bed. Little lonely one, You cling to me as a garment clings; my girl. Even now Only one dawn shall rise for me. The stars Revolve tomorrow's night and I not heed. One brief cold watch beside an empty heart And that is all. This night she rests not well; Oh, sleep; for there is heaviness for all the world Except for the death-lighted heart of me. Even now My sole concern the slipping of her vests, Her little breasts the life beyond this life. One night of disarray in her green hems, Her golden cloths, outweighs the order of earth, Making of none effect the tides of the sea. I have seen her enter the temple meekly and there seem The flag of flowers that veils the very god. Even now I mind the coming and talking of wise men from towers Where they had thought away their youth. And I, listening, Found not the salt of the whispers of my girl, Murmur of confused colours, as we lay near sleep; Little wise words and little witty words, Wanton as water, honied with eagerness. Even now I call to mind her weariness in the morning Close lying in my arms, and tiredly smiling At my disjointed prayer for her small sake. Now in my morning the weariness of death Sends me to sleep. Had I made coffins I might have lived singing to three score. Even now The woodcutter and the fisherman turn home, With on his axe the moon and in his dripping net Caught yellow moonlight. The purple flame of fires Calls them to love and sleep. From the hot town The maker of scant songs for bread wanders To lie under the clematis with his girl. The moon shines on her breasts, and I must die. Even now I have a need to make up prayers, to speak My last consideration of the world To the great thirteen gods, to make my balance Ere the soul journeys on. I kneel and say: Father of Light. Leave we it burning still That I may look at you. Mother of the Stars, Give me your  feet to kiss; I love you, dear. Even now I seem to see the face of my lost girl With frightened eyes, like a wood wanderer, In travail with sorrowful waters, unwept tears Labouring to be born and fall; when the white face turned And little ears caught at the far murmur, The pleased snarling of the tumult of dogs When I was hurried away down the white road. Even now When slow rose-yellow moons looked out at night To guard the sheaves of harvest and mark down The peach's fall, how calm she was and love worthy. Glass-coloured starlight falling as thin as dew Was wont to find us at the spirit's starving time Slow straying in the orchard paths with love. Even now Love is a god and Rati the dark his bride; But once I found their child and she was fairer, That could so shine. And we were each to each Wonderful and a presence not yet felt In any dream. I knew the sunset earth But as a red gold ring to bear my emerald Within the little summer of my youth. Even now I marvel at the bravery of love. She, whose two feet might be held in one hand And all her body on a shield of the guards, Lashed like a gold panther taken in a pit Tearfully valiant, when I too was taken; Bearding her black beard father in his wrath, Striking the soldiers with white impotent hands. Even now I mind that I loved cypress and roses, dear, The great blue mountains and the small grey hills, The sounding of the sea. Upon a day I saw strange eyes and hands like butterflies; For me at morning larks flew from the thyme And children came to bathe in little streams. Even now Sleep left me all these nights for your white bed And I am sure you sistered lay with sleep After much weeping. Piteous little love, Death is in the garden, time runs down, The year that simple and unexalted ran till now Ferments in winy autumn, and I must die. Even now I mind our going, full of bewilderment As who should walk from sleep into great light, Along the running of the winter river, A dying sun on the cool hurrying tide No more by green rushes delayed in dalliance, With a clear purpose in his flower flecked length Informed, to reach Nirvana and the sea. Even now I love long black eyes that caress like silk, Ever and ever sad and laughing eyes, Whose lids make such sweet shadow when they close It seems another beautiful look of hers. I love a fresh mouth, ah, a scented mouth, And curving hair, subtle as a smoke, And light fingers, and laughter of green gems. Even now I mind asking: Where love and how love Rati's priestesses? You can tell me of their washings at moon down And if that warm basin have silver borders. Is it so that when they comb their hair Their fingers, being purple stained, show Like coral branches in the black sea of their hair? Even now I remember that you made answer very softly, We being one soul, your hand on my hair, The burning memory rounding your near lips; I have seen the preistesses of Rati make love at moon fall And then in a carpeted hall with a bright gold lamp Lie down carelessly anywhere to sleep. Even now I have no surety that she is not Mahadevi Rose red of Siva, or Kapagata The wilful ripe Companion of the King, Or Krishna's own Lakshmi, the violet haired. I am not certain but that dark Brahma In his high secret purposes Has sent my soft girl down to make the three worlds mad With capering about her scented feet. Even now Call not the master painters from all the world, Their thin black beards, their rose and green and grey, Their ashes of lapis lazuli ultramarine, Their earth of shadows the umber. Laughing at art Sunlight upon the body of my bride, For painting not nor any eyes for ever. Oh warm tears on the body of my bride. Even now I mind when the red crowds were passed and it was raining How glad those two that shared the rain with me; For they talked happily with rich young voices And at the storm's increase, closer and with content, Each to the body of the other held As there were no more severance for ever. Even now The stainless fair appearance of the moon Rolls her gold beauty over an autumn sky And the stiff anchorite forgets to pray; How much the sooner I, if her wild mouth Tasting of the taste of manna came to mine And kept my soul at balance above a kiss. Even now Her mouth carelessly scented as with lotus dust Is water of love to the great heat of love, A tirtha very holy, a lover's lake Utterly sacred. Might I go down to it But one time more, then should I find a way To hold my lake for ever and ever more Sobbing out my life beside the waters. Even now I mind that the time of the falling of blossoms started my dream Into a wild life, into my girl; Then was the essence of her beauty spilled Down on my days so that it fades not, Fails not, subtle and fresh, in perfuming That day, and the days, and this the latest day. Even now She with young limbs as smooth as flower pollen, Whose swaying body is laved in the cool Waters of languor, the dear bright-coloured bird, Walks not, changes not, advances not Her weary station by the black lake Of Gone Forever, in whose fountain vase Balance the water-lilies of my thought. Even now Spread we our nets beyond the farthest rims So surely that they take the feet of dawn Before you wake and after you are sleeping Catch up the visible and invisible stars And web the ports the strongest dreamer dreamed, Yet it is all one, Vidya, yet it is nothing. Even now The night is full of silver straws of rain, And I will send my soul to see your body This last poor time. I stand beside your bed; Your shadowed head lies leaving a bright space Upon the pillow empty, your sorrowful arm Holds from your side and clasps at anything. There is no covering upon you. Even now I think your feet seek mine to comfort them. There is some dream about you even now Which I'll not hear at waking. Weep not at dawn, Though day brings wearily your daily loss And all the light is hateful. Now it is time To bring my soul away. Even now I mind that I went round with men and women, And underneath their brows, deep in their eyes, I saw their souls, which go slipping aside In swarms before the pleasure of my mind; The world was like a flight of birds, shadow or flame Which I saw pass above the engraven hills. Yet there was never one like to my girl. Even now Death I take up as consolation. Nay, were I free as the condor with his wings Or old kings throned on voilet ivory, Night would not come without beds of green floss And never a bed without my bright darling. It is most fit that you strike now, black guards, And let this fountain out before the dawn. Even now I know that I have savoured the hot taste of life Lifting green cups and gold at the great feast. Just for a small and a forgotten time I have had full in my eyes from off my girl The whitest pouring of eternal light . The heavy knife. As to a gala day.               Translated from the Sanskrit of Chauras               (Chaura-panchasika, 1st century) by               Powys Mathers, Love Songs of Asia, Knopf, 1946.               Pub. Basil Blackwell, Oxford 1919

#india #indian love poetry #nepal #1st century #sanskrit #sanskrit poem #kashmir #chauras #chaurapanchasika #powys mathers #oxford #english translation #love #poem #poetry #quote #inspiration #romance