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#He just so happens to very neatly fit into my niche!

eleanorfenyxwrites · 1 year

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WIP Wednesday

So okay I don't know if this is like...a cool thing to do or not, but there's a fic I claimed from the 2022 kink meme list (I couldn't resist, in large part because Tales From Jianghu Shopping Center was listed by the prompter as one of their inspirations for the prompt) that I'm not sure when I'll actually finish writing but I have started it and I'd like to at least acknowledge that I'm doing it even if the prompter won't see this. But the prompt is something along the lines of anything highly specific and niche (like my strip mall AU lol), and I actually happen to have a growing little stockpile of very very niche knowledge about my chosen professional field, which is ceramics! I specialize in wheel-throwing (though I'm also a...passable hand at plaster mold-making/slip casting and handbuilding, I just don't enjoy them nearly as much) so I've started a little something from Lan Wangji's point of view that's a love letter to throwing ♥

--//--

As is tradition, Lan Wangji works in porcelain.

The Lan family have been respected masters of porcelain for centuries, generations stretching back, back, back nearly to the beginning of the imperial kiln production in Jingdezhen. They once produced the enormous pots that adorned emperors’ palaces – there are (very distant) cousins of his in Jingdezhen who still do so for wealthy patrons.

It’s easy to forget such a background when he enters his personal studio on the other side of the world and flicks on the lights to begin the day’s routines. It’s precisely what he wants – a quiet life like this, simple and unassuming, is much more suited to his desire than the weight of tradition that could otherwise press him and his work down into something he would never want to be.

Not that he deviates very far from tradition anyway, but it’s the principle of the thing. Lan Wangji takes quiet pleasure in simplicity, in function that is beautiful in its hard-won mastery. There are very few non-traditional ways to accomplish this that he’s interested in, but he likes having the option should he want to take it.

Lan Wangji had learned to throw at his uncle’s knee as soon as it was possible to do so. He has continued to do so since childhood with a single-mindedness that once surprised even his uncle. All he’d ever wanted to do was to sit at the wheel for hours and hours on end, only pausing to warm the water in his bowl with a fresh influx from the kettle and to transfer full wareboards (once he was strong enough) to the drying racks in the corner of his uncle’s studio.

Lan Wangji has always struggled to find the words to convey how integral the motion of the wheel and the smooth slip of clay through his finger and against his palms is to feeling like he fits into his skin properly, but his family seems to understand just the same.

Yesterday, as the sun was westering, Lan Wangji had weighed up a few bags of fresh porcelain. The lumps are waiting for him now, tumbled together under their protective sheets of plastic, ready to be molded and shaped by hands and hypnotic motion. There’s enough of a chill in the studio this time of year that there isn’t any condensation on the plastic when he lifts it, so he folds it away neatly and settles into the easy rhythm of wedging his clay to prepare it for the wheel.

There is, in the middle of the studio, a sturdy butcher’s block workbench. He built it himself right there in the studio, the first piece of furniture that had filled the space even before he’d purchased his Shimpo wheel. It’s very likely too heavy to lift – it’s certainly too big to ever get through the door – but he has no intention of ever leaving this studio to begin another, so it suits his purposes just fine.

Wedging the clay on this sturdy, hip-height table is nearly as meditative a process as all the rest of it. A bit more of a workout than sitting at the wheel, but it’s a good way to warm up in the morning, his muscles well accustomed to the push-turn-push-turn-push-turn of spiral wedging that it’s gone beyond second nature, it simply is. His mind wanders pleasantly as he watches the misshapen lumps of pure porcelain become smooth and rounded beneath his palms. Perhaps he’ll spend the day on bowls. They’re quick and simple, suited to his mood today, and he’ll have plenty of them done by lunch when he already knows his typical solitary routine will be interrupted (and can therefore plan for it so far in advance).

The sun is up properly by the time Lan Wangji finishes his wedging, and once he’s transferred the first batch of prepared clay to the wheel he pauses to stand in the open doorway and look out over the garden that sits between his studio and his home. The grass and the flowers are glittering fresh and dewy in the sunlight as he rolls his shoulders, stretches out his back in preparation to be seated for long hours.

When he returns, the wheel welcomes him, familiar and comforting. He fills an old bird seed bucket with warm water from the tap and arranges the small mirror at the back of the wheel’s tray to the perfect angle to watch his own hands before he settles in and takes a deep breath, sleeves rolled up and apron cinched comfortably tight around his waist as an unnecessary reminder to keep his back as straight as he can while he works.

The first ball of porcelain hits the perfect bullseye of the wheelhead and Lan Wangji leans in to begin centering, the porcelain buttery soft where it runs under his hands. Porcelain, he knows, is notorious for being difficult to work with, particularly for beginners. This far into his career, it’s simply polite and responsive to each confident press of his palms. He cones it first, hands curled around it to coax it in and up; presses it down again with the flat of his hand, every movement focused on the centerpoint of the wheel gliding silently through magnet-powered rotations.

Up.

Down again.

Up.

Down.

Push.

Press.

Lan Wangji loves every part of the throwing process for what it is, but if he were to have to choose only one, this would be his favorite: the moment he can feel the clay running smoothly, perfectly centered the whole way through and ready to become whatever he will tell it to be, the possibilities – for this moment – endless.

#the untamed fanfic #WIP Wednesday #Lan Wangji #If I'm not mistaken the name of the prompt in the list is 'Bring Your Yiling Laozu To Work Day' or something to that effect #and I do plan on WWX showing up later in a way that's inspired by some of my friends in the studio #who work MUCH more chaotically than I do #(ie one of them currently goes mudlarking and digging for wild clay then brings it all in to chuck it in the kiln just to see what happens)#the other one can't remember anything that they do because they take no notes and treat highly precise chemical processes like they're #still a chef adding a dash of this and a dash of that to whatever's in their mixing bowl #and then there's me with my extensive notes and thoroughly researched glazes and all being like #'.....sometimes I don't mind if my glaze ingredients are a gram or two off'#anyway for anyone who didn't know I'm a ceramicist and it's one of my special interests lol #my profile picture and header images across both my blogs are photos of my current work #oh and the Shimpo wheel?????? IT'S A FUCKIN DREAM #the museum I sometimes teach workshops at borrowed one from a different college than mine in town and it was just #so fuckin NICE. It's DEAD SILENT and smooth as silk #and the pedal stays where you put it so if you're doing something large scale you can stand up to get your arm down in it #without having to balance on one foot or sacrifice speed or anything #it was like heaven #it's also like 4k to buy new so LOL NOPE

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autolovecraft · 1 year

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He was a bachelor, wholly without relatives.

That was Darius Peck, the nonagenarian, whose grave was also near by; but actually postponed the matter for three days, not getting to work till Good Friday, the 15th. At last the spring thaw came, and graves were laboriously prepared for the nine silent harvests of the grim reaper which waited in the tomb. In either case it would have been appropriate; for the hole was on exactly the right level to use as soon as its size might permit. His day's work was sadly interrupted, and unless chance presently brought some rambler hither, he might have to remain all night or longer. Better still, though, he would utilize only two boxes of the base to support the superstructure, leaving one free to be piled on top in case the actual feat of escape required an even greater altitude. It was just as he had recognized old Matt's coffin that the door slammed to in the wind, leaving him in a dusk even deeper than before. You kicked hard, for Asaph's coffin was on the floor.

He was a scoundrel, and I don't blame you for giving him a cast-aside coffin, but you knew what a little man old Fenner was.

Just where to begin Birch's story I can hardly decide, since I am no practiced teller of tales. Birch cautiously ascended with his tools and stood abreast of the narrow transom. As he remounted the splitting coffins he felt his weight very poignantly; especially when, upon reaching the topmost one, he heard that aggravated crackle which bespeaks the wholesale rending of wood. The thing must have happened at about three-thirty in the afternoon.

For the long-neglected latch was obviously broken, leaving the careless undertaker trapped in the vault, a victim of his own oversight. Clutching the edges of the aperture. The pile of tools soon reached, and a hammer and chisel selected, Birch returned over the coffins to the door. Dusk fell and found Birch still toiling. In this funereal twilight he rattled the rusty handles, pushed at the iron panels, and wondered why the massive portal had grown so suddenly recalcitrant. That he was not an evil man.

He was oddly anxious to know if Birch were sure—absolutely sure—of the identity of that top coffin of the pile; how he had been certain of it as the Fenner coffin in the dusk, and how he had been certain of it as the Fenner coffin in the dusk, and how he had been certain of it as the Fenner coffin in the dusk, and how he stepped on the puppy that snapped at him a year ago last August … He was the devil incarnate, Birch, but you got what you deserved.

I'd hate to have it aimed at me!

Three coffin-heights, he reckoned, would permit him to reach the transom; but he could do better with four.

Then the doctor came with his medicine-case and asked crisp questions, and removed the patient's outer clothing, shoes, and socks. It was Asaph's coffin, Birch, and I don't blame you for giving him a cast-aside coffin, but you knew what a little man old Fenner was. It may have been mocking. Undisturbed by oppressive reflections on the time, the place, and the coffin niches on the sides and rear—which Birch seldom took the trouble to use—afforded no ascent to the space above the door. The skull turned my stomach, but the other was worse—those ankles cut neatly off to fit Matt Fenner's cast-aside coffin!

The boxes were fairly even, and could be piled up like blocks; so he began to realize the truth and to shout loudly as if his horse outside could do more than neigh an unsympathetic reply.

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phoneybeatlemania-bit-the-dust · 3 years

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do you have any theories about the india trip ?? personally, im not sure what to think about it, but i’d love to hear your thoughts !!

(Sorry its taken me so long to answer this - it just got lost in my drafts cause im an idiot lmao 🤦‍♀️)

Im not entirely certain on what I believe happened in India, if in fact anything did happen at all - but more on that later! I guess though that these are the main theories (though if you have any differing opinions/theories, feel free to discuss them!):

1. Paul rejected John’s advancements

2. John wanted to further their relationship, and Paul wanted to maintain the ‘friends with benefits’ situation they already had

3. Nothing significant happened between the two (yet something still changed in John)

I’ll try to discuss which theories I find the most convincing, compelling and substantiated - as well as offering my own opinions and hypothesis’s ^^ (discussion bellow the cut)

1. Paul rejected John’s advancements

The theory I would say im most drawn to - not the theory that im necessarily most convinced by though - is that John made a move on Paul, after a few years of pining for him, and was subsequently rejected. Its a theory that I tend to be compelled by, but I have to admit that its one I struggle to justify entirely. The problem with this theory, for me, is that this is a conclusion ive drawn based mostly off of what their relationship appeared to look like after India. It seems as though something must have happened between them to have ruptured their relationship as profoundly as it did - and because they were on relatively good terms before India*, combined with certain inferences we could draw from comments John made regarding his feelings towards Paul and their relationship, it feels as though it’s possible that he made an advance on Paul, which was rejected and thus caused the ultimate disintegration of the Lennon/McCartney relationship.

(*I mean, their relationship was always complicated and difficult - but it seems that it was okay-ish prior to India, and then just inexplicably plummeted after the trip)

But nobody (as far as im aware) has confirmed, or even really alluded to, this advancement or rejection ever having happened. And the lack of evidence substantiating the claim is a major draw back for me!

However, I do also feel as though nobody’s really come out about anything that happened in India - all ive heard is that they meditated, wrote songs, John and Cyn fought, and Ringo ate baked beans. But like, more must have happened on the trip, surely? Im not saying the absence of information regarding the trip is proof that there was a big “lovers quarrel” between John and Paul, and that everyone involved in that trip is now just sworn to secrecy or something - but like, id just like to see a biographer really investigate the holiday, and try to conclude what events might have occurred during the trip, because as of right now, with the information we have, it seems to have been, bizarrely, both a lacklustre and uneventful, yet still hugely impactful event. If the narrative of the “India trip” were to be shifted in the future in light of new information, the same way the narrative of “Let It Be/Get Back” is being changed, I wouldn’t be surprised!

2. John wanted more, but Paul didn’t

Another popular theory is that John and Paul were engaged in something of a physical affair, but in India John proposed (or perhaps demanded even) that they take their relationship further, and Paul just wasn’t compelled to do so.

Beliefs vary regarding this, based on how far you personally think their relationship went: some might say they only ever did a little drunken experimenting with one another, and that it was just a fun fling until John suggested they take it further. Others might argue that they were in fact in a committed relationship, and John wanted to go public with it - or at the very least, demanded exclusivity between him and Paul.

In entertaining this theory, im most compelled to believe that John and Paul were engaged in occasional “flings”, and perhaps by ‘68 were even acknowledging that there was some deeper and more sincere between them - but ultimately, I don’t think Paul would have ever been inclined to fully commit to John, because I think he always wanted children and a family. In addition to this, though its clear John and Paul were passionate about one another, it isn’t clear how compatible they were in the long term - and with Paul being the more grounded of the too, I suspect he would have recognised this incompatibility, which John (the idealist) might not have.

Though I admit that John could certainly be unrealistic and irrational, im not convinced that he suggested to Paul they go public with their relationship, because I think John still had a fairly strong sense of his place in popular culture, and would have still been able to recognise that if they were to “come out”, it would probably deeply and irreparably damage both their careers - as well as George and Ringo’s too - at least amongst the general public. They’d still have some ardent fans, but their following overall would have become far more niche, and the “beatlemania” would’ve worn off swiftly. Im not sure if either of them would’ve been willing to take that heat in ‘68, especially not Paul, who as I mentioned earlier, I think might have recognised the futility and incompatibility inherent in their relationship.

Then again though, John was always a little “cocky”* when it came to his sexuality - I think if an interviewer were to genuinely have enquired into his sexuality, straight up asking him “Are you bi? Gay?” I get the sense that he would have told us! Sure he’d probably have dressed the response up with a dozen quick quips and jokes, but ultimately, I think he would have given a sincere response. And so, perhaps he did feel he had the confidence, at least in India, to actually “come out”, but if Paul wasn’t willing to make this official with him, perhaps this confidence dissipated.

(*No pun intended you pervs🤦‍♂️)

Another thing to note about India is that they’d have been relatively secluded, as well as off the drugs/drinks for the most part - and this would have forced them to really reflect upon their relationship. Perhaps John saw that he wasn’t contented with Cynthia, and recognised his desire for more from Paul - and so in such a raw state of mind, I can see how he’d become so shattered if Paul were to have rejected him (that statement could relate both to the first and second theory, I feel). Perhaps John made an advance upon Paul whilst they were both sober for the first time, and that changed their relationship somehow? Just thinking out loud here!

But again, this theory overall has the same problem as the first in that, though it appears to make sense, it still lacks proof; it ultimately isn’t a substantiated claim.

3. Nothing happened between J&P, but something changed

This is probably the theory that everybody is least interested in hearing, but I still think its a pretty valid one, albeit the least dramatic (In my opinion though its still a really interesting perspective to explore though!).

Its possible that nothing of particular significance happened in India, but something still shifted in John, causing him to vilify and reject Paul. The issue with this though, is that it begs the question: why did John undergo such a significant change in India then?

Id argue that perhaps John was making very subtle and slight moves towards Paul, that Paul either ignored or didn't pick up on. Id assume that perhaps John had been hinting at this desire for awhile now, and maybe he got it into his head that in India, where him and Paul would have a lot of time to be alone and intimate, his feelings would finally be reciprocated. But then, Paul never picked up on these hints, and never made any advancements - and this broke something within John. It would fit neatly within the Yoko narrative, because it offers reasoning to the abrupt but intense attachment John formed towards her almost immediately after India - as well as explaining the sudden vilification of Paul. But I suppose that the first two theories also fit pretty neatly within the Yoko narrative, because they all relate to the same basic concept that John wanted more from Paul, and Paul didn’t - and so he tried to replace him with Yoko.

I suppose though, that the this theory overall could also be countered by making the argument that Paul also began to spiral after India, and so some occurrence presumably must have happened to Paul too. I wonder though if its possible that maybe Pauls spiralling was kind of a result of Johns? I get the sense though that Paul would need a change in his life to cause his mental health to seriously deteriorate, but I don’t feel like the same is necessarily true for John - I think John is sort of the type to spiral, irregardless of whether his life undergoes a significant change or not, because I think John was the force driving a lot of the drama and troubles throughout his lifetime. So if Johns mental well-being started seriously deteriorating, I can see this being a cause of panic and anxiety for Paul.

But something that further inclines me to believe that an actual event occurred between John and Paul is this extract from Geoff Emmericks memoir (x)(id recommend reading the entire extract, its interesting!):

‘I glanced in Paul’s direction. He was staring straight ahead, expressionless and weary. He didn’t have much to say about India that day, or any other. I sensed at that moment that something fundamental in them had changed.”’

It just really feels as though there was some confrontation between John and Paul that had to have happened to perpetuate the miscommunication later seen between them. Like if there hadn’t been some kind of confrontation, then I can’t really understand why Paul would be reluctant to speak about India, or harbour any regrets or dismay regarding the journey. Perhaps you could drill it down to the betrayal they appeared to have felt by Maharishi allegedly hitting on girls - but I feel like this was a “betrayal” mostly felt by John, I never really got the sense that Paul was deeply effected by it.

But yeah - those are the main theories I think.

Overall, I think that the third theory is probably the most substantiated claim, but I think it leaves a lot to desired. It just doesn’t feel like it totally fits together, as though theres more to the story - but I guess relationships and peoples psyches aren’t puzzles, and so not everything is always going to piece together perfectly; but I dunno.

Like I said though, the theory im most compelled by is the first. I acknowledge that it lacks evidence, but it just seems to make a lot of sense to me! But really, who knows what the hell happened in India?

If anyone else has an opinion on all this, or wants to expand upon or even suggest a new theory, feel free to! I always like hearing from you guys!

#mclennon #asks #@cinnamontoastandtears #thanks for the ask!#india #what the fuck happened in india #maharishi #pauls sexuality #discussion

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tsaritsa · 3 years

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tagged by the beautiful and sexy and successful @fullmetalscullyy + @megthemighty. ty babes ur both fergalicious mwah how many works do you have on ao3? 40

what’s your total ao3 word count? 275,381 words

what are your top five fics by kudos?

may i feel, said he

for the serpent has died and i’m leaning by your side

enthrallment

against the run of play

a strange fate with wandering limbs

i’m really proud of each of these pieces for different reasons. mifsh is a love letter to mar and to the fandom generally; ftshdailbys (what a fucking acronym lmao) was one of the first pieces i did with the intention of hitting a specific word count; enthrallment is a reminder to myself that pain does eventually pass (and that riza/bradley is sexy af); atrop definitely helped develop my love for multimedia fics and playing around with how we show information to the reader; and asfwwl was as much a study of riza as the people around her

do you reply to comments, why or why not? absolutely — although i tend to wait for updates to reply to the previous chapters if it’s an ongoing piece. i’m always stunned by the comments i get and i treasure each and every one of them. ty for giving me a little joy in my daily life

what’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending? i guess it depends on ur perspective. a strange fate is essentially dead dove on arrival — and bellyache deals with some unsavoury themes as well

what’s the fic you’ve written with the happiest ending? prolly that v saccharine valentines day fic. personally it makes me cringe a little now, but if that’s what floats ur boat, then go for it

do you write crossovers? if so, what’s the craziest one you’ve ever written? specific aus are as close as i’ve gotten - the crown!au would be the best fit. the concept of doing a marvel-esque endgame showdown has never really vibed with me; especially for the fma universe, which is incredibly niche and unique in a variety of ways

have you ever received hate on a fic? hahahahahah remember the time when ppl were bitching about mifsh on here bc it was ‘everywhere’ and we were ‘no better than rcyeddies’ with the power imbalance and it was a ‘glorified self-insert fic’ and we were deviants for sharing it and had made the royai fandom ‘cheap’ and ‘an awful place to be’ bc they were so much more than fucking?

yeah me neither lol. i’d also like to state that i’m not bitter about this anymore — but it really did feel awful to read those things, and for ppl to judge us and the substance of the story without ever bothering to talk to us before doing so. i’d like to think the fandom is a kinder space now, where we can just. move on if we don’t enjoy something, instead of sniping about it publicly and deliberately trying to make ppl feel bad

and if u were one of those ppl who were mean: either die mad and jealous lmao OR write something better and more engaging if u want ppl to shut up about may i feel. that’s literally all u have to do 🤷

do you write smut? if so, what kind? i write sexy smut. sometimes it’s an au where they’re in a ballet company. sometimes they’re at university. sometimes i forget to finish them in a timely fashion

have you ever had a fic stolen? not lifted verbatim. but there have been a few times where — and it’s not just my gut feeling, others have brought it to my attention — ideas and phrases align a little too neatly for me to brush it off as mere coincidence. at the end of the day it doesn’t really matter

have you ever had a fic translated? i’ve been very lucky to have a few translated: a few in spanish, russian, and mandarin as well, if memory serves me right

have you ever co-written a fic before? y’all know i have. may i feel and starstruck are the published ones, but maybe more will surface. we’ll see

what’s your all-time favourite ship? royai for sure. they just tickle a very specific part of my brain

what’s a wip that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will? won’t say i can’t finish any of them bc there’s always the chance i will — just a matter of sitting down and figuring out what needs to happen

what are your writing strengths? this made me pause for a bit bc in truth i’m not terribly sure. i’d like to think my dialogue is strong — not only in terms of characterisation, but in the ability to move the plot forward without having to simply tell the reader what is going on. y’all know i love making things sound pretty as well — assonance my beloved

what are your writing weaknesses? it’s a double-edged sword. as much as i love writing to a particular aesthetic, that definitely hinders me too when i get too involved with the details rather than examining my writing from a birds-eye perspective. i also know i struggle with keeping things simple — from explaining something as just. as it is as well as bigger issues like “let me just tell y’all about the history of the economy of resembool from the years 1872-1911 even though this was meant to be a throwaway sentence″

what are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic? i think it can add a ton of depth to a scene — it’s more a case of ensuring that the context around the dialogue can help the reader infer meanings without feeling so unsure they want to go search the translation. for the most part in may i feel, i think readers have been able to understand without too much hassle when a character uses spanish (but also we all know enough rudimentary spanish that it’s not utterly foreign). using a non-latin written language like mandarin or thai would definitely take me out of the fic more — but again, it’s all in how u apply it

what was the first fandom you wrote for? fruits basket! i never published it tho

what’s your favourite fic you’ve written? currently it’s my piece that will be published for this years fma big bang. i’m really excited to share more about it next month (and publish it on october 3rd!!)

tagging @firewoodfigs, @royai, and @bringingglory if y’all haven’t already gotten around to it

#would u believe i'm writing fic again?#who would've thought lockdown would give me time + space to do so hah

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hawopro · 4 years

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Thoughts of a rare soul who enjoyed DMBJ’s Time Raiders 2016 adaptation (2/2)

Or: why TR 2016 is a Pingxie movie

[SPOILERS]

Continuation from this post.

Okay, normal movie review aside, this post is my attempt to discuss the very-compelling Pingxie story that pulled me into the deep end of niche within niche fandom. I am now wholeheartedly shipping Pingxie.

Incredibly long post, so here’s a summary:

Symbolism & foreshadowing in nuances

Pingxie & past lives

These are the nuances that sold me TR: the song, the button, the masks, the scarf, the hands. They added an extra layer to the movie and made you really think about the real story.

Because the story isn’t truly about tomb raiding and fighting monsters, it is as Wu Xie stated at the beginning, “This should be a story about me and him.”

It’s a story about Wu Xie and Zhang Qiling/Men You Ping, about their connection that probably started thousands of years ago, and it ran so deep that we couldn’t possibly fathom how far.

Wu Xie asked, “When did it begin? How did it end?” We don’t know, but we know it definitely exists.

To sum up the story before starting the analysis:

As a kid, Wu Xie snuck inside a maze-like place, took a button from a relic and was chased by a ghostlike figure for it, let’s call the ghost Bronze Mask. This experience haunted his dream all the way to adulthood. Then he discovered the tomb of Iron Mask, a tomb builder, found a key to the Snake Empress's tomb, and met ZQL ‘for the first time’ on the raid with his uncle. They bonded, and for some reason, ZQL wanted that button, which WX gave it to him upon their parting. At the end, it is implied that Bronze Mask is actually ZQL and Iron Mask is Wu Xie.

Wait what? You think that ending came out of nowhere?

NOPE!

First, let’s go back to the very beginning. The performer’s song.

Which, according to English translation, goes like:

“Life is a dream What is unreal would be real Life is a mirror that shows your reflection But I hope the reflection doesn’t show the mundane Flowers bloom and flower wilt are a way of life How can life be as you wish?”

At first glance, it didn’t seem to be anything significant, just very pretty words, but after I finished watching, I realized it could be interpreted as foreshadows.

The beginning couple of lines could allude to WX’s dream, and the possibility that there’s something more tangible in this connection with the Bronze Mask figure. Then they foreshadow the ending sequence when WX and ZQL walked past one another as themselves, but turned and saw each other as Bronze Mask and Iron Mask.

The words are telling us that even seemingly unlikely, things could just as likely to happen in life, and I thought they tie the ending back to the opening very neatly.

The idea of mirror and reflection seems to come up quite a bit in the movie, window, mirror, camera lens, dialogues.

I'm thinking that a reflection of themselves symbolizes the idea that there lies another facet of their identities, hinting at past lives. Then we have ZQL’s crisis over his existence and amnesia, constantly wondering who he is, and whether he will one day lose himself.

The last two lines are about ZQL’s immortality, if to live means to bloom then wilt, then he doesn’t belong to the land of living at all.

At the end, the song goes:

“We don’t seek smoke and mirror Looking back at the time when the wise man rises It was a time of innocence and purity.”

Mirror appears again here, I haven’t even begun dissecting what this could mean. But I like to think the last two lines fit very well with Wu Xie’s character development, how he grew up after this trip.

NEXT, the pendant thing that I'm going to call a button.

The button honestly foreshadows that ZQL is Bronze Mask in two instances: when he took it from WX the first time and gave it back, then when he asked for it again when they were inside the tomb.

This is the connection that tied WX to Bronze Mask until he met ZQL, until he returned it at the end, AFTER the two of them formed a new connection with pictures, and memories from inside the tomb.

The masks--specifically the Iron Mask foretells Wu Xie’s identity as Iron Mask.

He put it on when he was telling the writer the story in the opening. Then when he first discovered the tomb and the key, he also did that. I was very confused on why someone would put on a rusty old mask? I just chalked it up as a method to open the cage. I was wrong! BAM, foreshadow!

That brings me to the scarf that Iron Mask wore in the ending sequence.

Looks familiar?! Well I would argue that that’s the same scarf that ZQL wore the entire time in the movie, and he very clearly used it to fight A-Ning. If the button is WX's connection to Bronze Mask, then the scarf is a memento--it's ZQL's connection to Iron Mask.

FINALLY, THE HANDS! And Michelangelo’s reference. Separate hands appreciation gif set here.

Hands are incredibly expressive, and I found myself very drawn to them while watching movies. Well, they are the forefront of Pingxie in this story, the movie keeps on showing them, figuratively and literally, reaching out to each other.

Hands are to catch, to hold, to protect, to save, and you will see all of these in Pingxie’s interactions. Heck, the director ended the movie with an entire sequence of their hands and freaking allude to The Creation of Adam!

There’s the first handshake, where ZQL opened up for the first time, and WX appreciated it and reached out first.

Then comes my personal favorite scene which I gif entirely here.

WX, standing on death’s door and still legit worrying about giving MYP his memories in the camera. Boy, pls stop. And you see ZQL freaked out. This was the first time ZQL reached out, this was trust, this was him caring about someone for the first time, you know, as far as he can remember anyway.

Then WX said to MYP, “I said I’d take care of you.” He really did jump headfirst onto a questionable tomb structure to save MYP.

Here, WX literally saved ZQL, and figuratively saved him from his mind and existential crisis as well. Because after, ZQL said to WX, “Memories aren’t everything, daring to imagine is what everything is all about,” which is his character development! Hooray!

Bonus, that hands hold on the magical carpet ride.

AND the Creation of Adam allusion? Which shows God giving life to the first man?

WX is man, he’s always on the left of the painting and all the hand-scenes, ZQL is basically god-like immortal, he’s always on the right. When the allusion to the Creation happened, WX was actually on higher ground, he was the one doing the saving. In this case, the mortal human gave the god life, not the other way around because ZQL didn’t know what living was, so he let WX show him.

The whole idea of past lives probably deviated so much from drama and novel, but it created such a compelling bond for WX and MYP in this movie.

That is why I ship Pingxie now.

You can’t watch this thinking it’ll be like the drama, or like a live-action remake of the novel. No, it’s meant to be a standalone film that showed only a corner of the DMBJ universe, but it unfailingly portrays the deep connection between WX and ZQL, and I love it.

#dmbj #time raiders 2016 #pingxie #zhang qiling #wu xie #the lost tomb 2 #the lost tomb reboot #movie analysis #text post #long post #i can't believe i wrote what's akin to an english paper on a movie i didn't even plan to like #this is extreme niche content #mine #gif #tr16 stuff #dmbj stuff

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julies-butterflies · 3 years

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I must admit, sometimes I do feel like a ye olden solider, sending letters to my beloved across the waves during wartime. Oh my dearest Lydia, I hope the kudos and comments crops have been plentiful this season. Your last letter left me weeping. Why must you put poor Reginald through such pain?

(I gotta admit, I still can't believe that I'm talking to you. I've been looking up to your work for so long...it just feels a bit surreal, even now! Glad you like hearing my ramblings! And that you liked my vampire prompt! Did not realize you'd write back when I sent that in. Look at us now, huh?)

(Speaking of prompts, I sent those jukebox and willex ones too. And I loved them both so so much, I shall scream about them more when it is not 2 am because I need sleep)

(Oh and the update of If I Was You!!! Amazing, Stellar, Incredible, Reggie, Carrie, Julie shenanigans is my new favorite thing, DID YOU JUST DOUBLE THE CHAPTER COUNT, and I'm like 90% sure Trevor is in deep trouble with a certain angry jazz ghost. Seriously loving it)

I actually do not remember what it was like to send in 1/5 asks, because I did not get a Tumblr until very reccently! I've always been a nerdy person, but Jatp is my first time being really in a fandom. You gotta do something new in quarantine, right?

Ah yes. Luke and Emily. To me, it just seems obvious that there's so much love between them. Even with all the pain. You get it. You put it down so eloquently.

As for what kind of stories I like to read...it seriously depends on my mood.

I like niche aus, passion projects. Stories where you can just feel the author's love for the world they're inventing. But I tend to lean towards cannonverse. I like ghost stories, it's what drew me to this show in the first place. And I love exploring that concept. (Being forever gone, and always the same...it's just fascinating to me)

Platonic goodness is just WONDERFUL for this show. I will read anything with cuddles. I am touched starved and these kiddos are too, and I will cry about them puppy piling every damn day. Plus there's just some much POTENTIAL for future friendships! I love ones where Flynn and Carrie get to interact with the boys as well. And 90s content, from before and after the orpheum, just hits hard.

I really wasn't expecting to get invested in the couples on this show, but something about them is moving to me. So I do love to read about them. Watching two queer kids who lived during incredibly important areas of queer history find love together after death really hit hard for me, and there's just something so bittersweet about a girl and ghost deciding to love each other for the little time they're given.

I love family dynamics too. Anything with Ray and his seven disaster children, the band and Trevor.... I think Julie and Emily is one of my favorite dynamics to explore. A girl who lost her mother and a mother who lost her son, both grieving but with one able to speak to the dead...it's just very powerful to me.

(And of course, Luke and Emily, but I figured you already knew that)

Mostly...I like seeing the messy stuff. The unexpected consequences, the baggage. I want to see the messy emotions, the grief and anger, the jealously, the disorientation. I look for those glass shards, that might be too sharp to ever be addressed on the show. Not even the big, monumental plot lines just... the harder pieces of life, the little moments that don't fit neatly into a nine episode arc.

I just want to see them live you know? Love, laughter and loss all mixed together.

(One of my all time favorite tropes is "found family gets broken apart by trauma, only to find each other again and come back stronger than ever." I feel like this explains a lot of my taste in fiction)

Thank you for the writing advice. Your words were very motivating. I am trying to begin! I got up the nerve to start working on a little piece. Who knows if it will go anywhere. But it's been nice, to finally put some words on the page.

The POTC au is so freaking good man. The character dynamics are just on FIRE. Everything is broken and messy and the relationships genuinely tug at my heartstrings. It's such a fascinating story. Highly recommend, even with the cliff hangers.

OH HOW COULD I FORGET PAWPRINTER? Man oh man I love all her work. The wheelies art and steals universe is freaking amazing, not an avacado had me in tears (of laughter, till things got surprisingly sad). And All that Remains...slow burn Willex perfection. Jedi Alex and Pilot Willie have my HEART.

I don't think I've read firefall and weneedglitter (or if I have, I'm just not connecting the names to their pieces. I don't always remember author names. it's a problem). I will go look for them though! Cannot wait!

For more recs, I recently binge read We Found Wonderland. I was not mentally prepared for the sheer amount of feelings that gave me. Highly recommend, if you ever want an emotional rollercoaster with an incredibly satisfying end.

Going on to more serious subjects...I'm sorry your family doesn't see your grief for what it is: honest. Better to feel everything quietly, than make it an easily understadnable performance. Fake grief is so easy to spot.

I think of that scene from "Forever," when Buffy breaks down and tells Dawn that she has to keep busy, because if she stops, it means Joyce is really gone. There's a lot of truth there.

On a tangent here but.. there was a very long period in my life when I was told the ways I expressed my emotions were "incorrect". And I found that sometimes, no matter how you show your emotions, you'll always be criticized. Numbness can be called disinterest, but sobbing can be called attention-seeking too. Too big, too small: that jury was impossible to please This may not apply in your situation but...it's okay to feel however you can. It's the only think you can do, really.

As I've said before, Grief is such an odd trickster.

Don't you ever get tired of missing people... This past year, I've been so weary of grief. Sometimes it can be so sharp, but it's that dull ache. That ball and chain, no longer cutting through your skin, but rubbing it raw, weighing you down.

And people don't like to talk about that part, because it's long and tiresome, but oh, is it there. I find it hard to talk about my grief, because sometimes there's just so much of it. I could drown in it, and that fear keeps me from looking to close. To incorrectly quote Jane Austin: "If I missed you a little less, I might be able to talk about it more."

(Sometimes it's faceable. But sometimes you just can't bear it. And that's okay.)

But what you wrote in that eulogy...the love is there. It's in every word you write. I cried reading that section. I feel honored once again to see some of your jagged pieces. You're sharing your heart, and there's just so much love.

In the wise words of an author I know, "Love is like the snow Reggie. It never goes away."

And don't worry, I'm always with you.

Sending Love,

-LydiaStan7845 (aka Vampire Anon)

So...that Reggie and Nicky prompt

my god

my GOD

OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD

I think it's safe to say congrats, you've officially destroyed me! I was not prepared for that at ALL. I should know better by now I guess.

I can't get over that even though they all take place in very different universe, all your stories just feel so connected! The way this talked about those headphones, which you mentioned in the first chapter of Kill Your Heroes...it's just so cool. All the characterization and backstory is just so well thought out, and it genuinely blows my mind.

I didn't think I could love Nicky Peters more. I was wrong. The way you write about him...even though you never go into exactly what happened to him after Reggie's death, you can just feel how much it's shapped him as a person. And the trauma around his father, and how he fears becoming like that, was just so beautifully written. He's just so lovable and flawed and trying so damn hard and you made my heart ache for him. Again.

You always take these genuinely crazy situations and...you just make them feel so real. I love you explore the strains such a revelation would put on Nicky's own life, it just makes everything so compellingly messy. It seriously feel like I was watching a real-life account of a family trying to deal with such a massive complication.

That porch scene had me in tears both times I read it. Reggie's just always a big brother, even though Nicky is more than twice his age now. My heart was shattered, and then you slowly mended it, piece by piece. And for absolutely no reason at all, you wouldn't happen to have a reference for the porch, would you?

Just wow. Hope you're doing well. Sending love and applause

-Vampire Anon

i’m not even gonna reply, but i want these documented... on my blog... for posterity. ( for any curious onlookers, i’m dating this anon now!! )

#vampire anon my beloved

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tarithenurse · 4 years

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If I succeed - 9

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x fem!Reader Content: Past events, pining, smut, secrets revealed, more questions, softness, distractions. None of this necessarily in that order. A/N: Writing’s going a bit slow due to illness, but a few chapters more are waiting for you. Also: I’m combing through the taglist to remove those who aren’t showing any interest. Want a tag? Send an ask or reblog! I’d love comments and feedback – even if it’s corrections on language or whatever. I’m not picky as long as I know my work brings joy too.

9 – Something good

... Geralt ...

If something as fleeting as luck exists then it has smiled at the little group: just before nightfall, they happen across a ravine with a cave at the very top and what at first glance appears to be a narrow, wet hideout opens into a large chamber with a couple of niches and a stream of fresh water running through the middle. Even Roach accepts being led in after her owner has made sure the premises are vacated.

Dinner is cold – the only heat and light is from a slow-burning torch jabbed into a crevice between two rocks – and silent as each is occupied by their own worries. In Geralt’s case, his mind has been filled with half plans which he cannot finish until he knows more about the enemy. He has told just one of what he saw before overcome with his injuries. Vampires. Hm. There are many subspecies of the monsters, some less intelligent than others, and too many are unbothered by the rays of the sun as well as most commonly known repellents though silver at the very least can wound them.

“Well, this’s been wonderfully cozy but I’m gonna turn in,” Jaskier breaks the silence, standing to stretch before hurrying towards the niche furthest away which he has claimed for himself, “g’night,” he adds over the shoulder.

“Sleep well.”

Of course Geralt cannot help but glance towards [Y/N] as she speaks. There is always a kindness to her voice that softens the features of anyone who listens, even now when she is deeply engrossed in the work at hand. Spread out on a cloth in the flickering torchlight are bundles of semi-dried herbs, a few pouches of powder, and several small vials. Working nimbly with a small blade, she separates leaves from stems before loosening the bark with the longer dagger by rolling and crushing the plants between a flat stone and the flat of the weapon – the torchlight glinting in the metal and her eyes.

“Lemme see that,” the Witcher extends a large hand in a silent command for her to bring him the knife.

There is a fire from within, gleaming dangerously as she looks over. Slowly, deliberately, she finishes the task rather than handing over the weapon right away, and when she finally does she merely holds it out. It is a silent challenge. A waiting game to see who might give in first and cover the distance for the exchange.

Neither gets up.

Then, with a flick of the wrist, [Y/N] tosses the dagger is a soft curve, hilt first and easy to catch. Was that annoyance? Whatever it was, Geralt decides to study the metal rather than comment upon her demeanour.

“This’s silvered.” He had expected as much after noticing the gleam reflecting off of it.

“Yes. It was my father’s,” she explains, hesitating a fraction before continuing as if to consider whether to reveal something at all, “look at the crossbar.”

Curiosity wins. Leaning forward, he turns the weapon over and over for the dancing light to illuminate it until: “Witcher’s seal.”

“Vesemir’s.” The sigh she lets free is one of exhaustion – years of keeping a secret, perhaps. “Vesemir found my parents in Beauclair...helped us get outta there without a trace. The dagger was to serve as a token of truth if they needed his help.” Again, she sighs but this time with a sadness that threatens to break Geralt’s heart. “All father ever used it for was teach me how to fight.”

Well...where to begin unravelling all of that? Practicality wins. Few possess the agility and strength of a Witcher, of course, but now it does makes sense why the maiden from a tiny village is able to hold her ground slightly better than others when the two of them spar. Has she held back? It would explain how she moved so swiftly when the wolf attacked.

“Show me.” When [Y/N] does not respond, he walks over and places the knife in her hands. “Show. Me. And don’t hold back.”

She takes her time to pack away the antidotes and other healing remedies, tugging them neatly into a side pocket on the rucksack. She even takes the time to tie back her hair and roll up the sleeves before turning to Geralt who has been standing patiently, his own dagger still in the belt but eyes upon every movement of hers to witness the dawning acceptance of something unspoken – a mind made up despite some unexplained concern.

Geralt is prepared when she moves. He is not prepared for the torch’s fire flaring out towards him with a ferocity that makes him jump aside. In a flash, [Y/N] is upon him in a whirlwind of attacks he barely has time to parry while recovering. Oh. Now this is an interesting development and not only does the man want to know more, he wants to test the limits. Push her. Get her blood boiling.

“You’re a mage.” A grin accompanies the flash of his own dagger as he no longer worries about holding back.

“No.”

True or not, she does increase the efforts to outmatch him, turning the sparring into a dizzying dance where they often are close enough to taste the breath of the other as chests heave and sweat begins to bead on brows and lips.

“I’m not...some...political pet,” the woman huffs icily as they lock themselves in a knot of limbs and steel.

He might have her body in a strong grip, but her cold blade is resting against Geralt’s throat, tip digging slightly into his jowl. Still, there is no fear in his heart because death is not in her fiery eyes. Cockily, he taps his own weapon against her ribs.

“Tied.”

The way her eyebrow arches is a sinful challenge. “Try again.”

What...? And there it is, the added pressure of a tiny knife against the uninvited swell of his cock. Conceding to his loss by sheathing his own weapon, the Witcher is acutely aware of the lingering gaze when [Y/N] reciprocates and he can feel the burn of it when she turns away to stove the little knife back in its place. Fuck. In two steps he is right behind her when she straightens up, her back against his chest and the ass fitting neatly into the dip and poke of his crotch.

If he had expected any objections – or hoped for them as the last effort to keep from succumbing to temptation – every remaining concern is dashed as she leans into his arms and allow the hands to roam. Soft curves contained under wrapped fabrics and tiny knots are palmed. Fingers dig into the flesh of hips and thighs. [Y/N]’s scent is intoxicating, dizzying as he breathes in deeply at the crook of her neck between the hundreds of kisses and teasing bites which each puncture the silence in the cave with a gasp from her lips.

Shivers run down the length of Geralt’s spine when she reaches back to tangle a hand in his hair, nails scraping softly against his scalp. It is immediately followed by another as yellowed eyes catch a glimpse of what her free hand does.

“Let me,” the rasp is barely audible yet the woman hears it.

Her irises are almost swallowed by lustful darkness, watching while she backs towards the last niche and Geralt works quickly to rid her of the tunic before slowing down to take time to savour every moment as, a tiny knot at a time, the last layer is unfastened and releases a bosom he has dreamed of for too long.

A second of breathlessness.

“Hmm.”

The familiarity of the soft skin against his calloused fingers, the sweet-and-salty taste as his tongue sweeps and circles the hardening nipples. It is bliss, soothing the aching corners of his soul without softening the bone-gnawing hunger.

A single word falls in a whisper from [Y/N]’s soft lips. “Please.”

Cooperating hurriedly, it becomes a race to reveal the shape of each other. Bulky muscles against smooth lines outlining curves and expanses. Somehow, in the middle of the almost fevered rush where hands begin to explore, Geralt manages to unfurl a bedroll, using the other as a pillow for the magnificent female as he lowers her onto her back with an extra layer of a pelt for comfort.

Looking at the beauty bared beneath him, the Witcher momentarily feels transported to the field under the sun when she was revealed to him for the first time. Oh, he has lain with pretty people before, all too often finding that their outer grace is unmatched by their minds and souls. Not [Y/N]. Everything about her was and is a reflection of her call as a healer in the village, kindhearted, clever, funny. Untainted. He had hesitated that day, afterwards promising himself not to ruin her by dragging the spirited maiden into his life of monsters and darkness...even if it was excruciating to part.

She’s here. Slender hands caressing his form, sometimes conjuring goosebumps by the drag of a nail along a sensitive line. Geralt gasps as fingers curl around the strained shaft, using it to drag him closer. Closer. Lips finally meet and he damn near melts at the sensation of her tongue sweeping across the seam of his mouth to gain access – which he gladly gives.

... Reader ...

You are out of breath, dizzy, when Geralt backs out of your reach with a strained moan and dark eyes that wordlessly relay why he pins your wrists to your sides. He is right there – body brushing against your thighs and strong arms weighing your hips to the furry layer beneath you...still he feels further away than ever.

“Geralt...” you plead, trying to keep quiet as to not wake up Jaskier, “please.”

“Always,” is the mumbled answer as he dives between your legs and licks a long stripe upwards to your clit.

You are aware of his chuckle even as you arch your back to breathe in sharply, it just does not matter because the man refuses to relent in his newfound quest to drive you mad with coiled-up lust growing stronger with each lick, each thrust and twist of his fingers when he finally lets go of your wrists. Scrabbling for purchase, his silver locks becomes an anchor and a rudder directing his mouth to where it is needed and you can barely contain a mewling scream as the tension inside snaps and drops you into earth-moving ecstasy.

“Hmmmm.” Was that a sigh or a groan? In your delirious state, you cannot tell which. “You’re...” Sloppy kisses trail up your sensitive abdomen to breasts that ache for his attention. “[Y/N],” he sighs against your lips as his cock nestles between you drenched folds, “I...you...no one else.”

Both his words and manhood sinks in slowly, agonizingly perfect in the stretch and depth as though made for you specifically. Always meant for you. The words must have slipped out because he stops to cup your cheek, golden eyes burning with an emotion you never have seen within him before. The kiss is different too, familiarity mingled with a new understanding.

A slow roll of your hips spurs Geralt on. Resting on an elbow to still cup your cheek, the other hand is freed to roam your body as his thrusts set a slow pacing. You can feel each vein and the fold and head of the cock drag along the ridges in your cunt. Almost frustratingly lazy as he pulls back to the very entrance each time. No. Not “almost”. Arching into him, pulling him deeper with the hook of your heels against his ass and knees pinching against his torso – all you want is him without any veils. Still, it is impossible to complain as long as he keeps looking into your soul the way he does. Geralt is teasing you, yes, causing your toes to curl with pent up need yet simultaneously providing you with the most intense experience in your life.

A calculative gleam shimmers in the blown pupils. “You’re...much stronger than I’ve been thinking...”

“Don’t hold back...take me.”

There is barely time to register how the Witcher flips you onto your knees, hands braced against the rock wall, before regaining entrance to your (due to the position) much tighter cunt with a groan bitten into your shoulder. His chest is heaving, sweat-slicked against your back as he holds you pinned in place for a second. A large hand finds a breast to toy with. Another hand grips your hip so tight it feels as though there is no flesh between his fingers and the bone, but you are glad for the restraint as the man draws back only to ram into you hard, knocking out your breath on a keening moan before he has a chance to cover your mouth.

“More?”

You nod frantically against the calloused palm, eager for the feel of a second release as the greedy urge already builds in the pit of your stomach. It grows bigger, warmer with each thrust until breathing is nearly impossible and...it is Geralt’s hand, strong and calloused that has slid along your jaw and found your throat to squeeze just enough around your windpipe for you to feel dizzy and heighten each sensation in a rush. Almost.

Maybe Witchers can read minds. This one certainly seems to as his other hand abandons its purchase, fingers reaching for the nub at the apex of the slick folds. Teasing. Circling. Tweaking. His breath is hot against your throat, fanning your ear as he tells you to come undone for him. Pleads you.

How can you deny that husky voice? It is impossible to stop the explosion that starts in your core, ricocheting with incredible force through your body which contorts until the storm recedes, leaving your blissed-out in your Witcher’s arms, gasping for breath now that air flows freely.

Hair sticks to faces, necks, only stubbornly brushed aside once Geralt has laid you down, tugging you close.

“My wild flower,” he mumbles against your cheek and you can feel the smile on his lips, “get some rest.”

There will be a lot to talk about, secrets to explain before anything can begin to make sense, but right now...rest sounds good.

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autolovecraft · 3 years

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Great heavens, Birch, but you got what you deserved.

Undisturbed by oppressive reflections on the time, the place, and the coffin niches on the sides and rear—which Birch seldom took the trouble to use—afforded no ascent to the space above the door. The narrow transom admitted only the feeblest of rays, and the source of a task whose performance deserved every possible stimulus. He had even wondered, at Sawyer's funeral, how the vindictive farmer had managed to lie straight in a box so closely akin to that of the diminutive Fenner. Tired and perspiring despite many rests, he descended to the floor and sat a while on the bottom step of his grim device, Birch cautiously ascended with his tools and stood abreast of the narrow transom. He was curiously unelated over his impending escape, and almost dreaded the exertion, for his form had the indolent stoutness of early middle age. Just where to begin Birch's story I can hardly decide, since I am no practiced teller of tales. He was a bachelor, wholly without relatives. He cried aloud once, and a little later gave a gasp that was more terrible than a cry. Undisturbed by oppressive reflections on the time, the place, and the coffin niches on the sides and rear—which Birch seldom took the trouble to use—afforded no ascent to the space above the door. The tower at length finished, and his hands shook as he dressed the mangled members; binding them as if he wished to get the wounds out of sight as quickly as possible. He always remained lame, for the great tendons had been severed; but I think the greatest lameness was in his soul. I'd hate to have it aimed at me! He could not walk, it appeared, and the emerging moon must have witnessed a horrible sight as he dragged his bleeding ankles toward the cemetery lodge; his fingers clawing the black mold in brainless haste, and his hands shook as he dressed the mangled members; binding them as if he wished to get the wounds out of sight as quickly as possible. For the long-neglected latch was obviously broken, leaving the careless undertaker trapped in the vault, a victim of his own oversight. The wounds—for both ankles were frightfully lacerated about the Achilles' tendons—seemed to puzzle the old physician greatly, and finally almost to frighten him. The thing must have happened at about three-thirty in the afternoon.

In either case it would have been appropriate; for the hole was on exactly the right level to use as soon as its size might permit. The air had begun to be exceedingly unwholesome; but to this detail he paid no attention as he toiled, half by feeling, at the heavy and corroded metal of the latch. There was nothing like a ladder in the tomb. Steeled by old ordeals in dissecting rooms, the doctor entered and looked about, stifling the nausea of mind and body that everything in sight and smell induced. Steeled by old ordeals in dissecting rooms, the doctor entered and looked about, stifling the nausea of mind and body that everything in sight and smell induced. He would not, he found, have to pile another on his platform to make the proper height; for the hole was on exactly the right level to use as soon as its size might permit. Just where to begin Birch's story I can hardly decide, since I am no practiced teller of tales. As he remounted the splitting coffins he felt his weight very poignantly; especially when, upon reaching the topmost one, he heard that aggravated crackle which bespeaks the wholesale rending of wood. The moon was shining on the scattered brick fragments and marred facade, and the emerging moon must have witnessed a horrible sight as he dragged his bleeding ankles toward the cemetery lodge; his fingers clawing the black mold in brainless haste, and his hands shook as he dressed the mangled members; binding them as if he wished to get the wounds out of sight as quickly as possible. The day was clear, but a high wind had sprung up; and Birch was glad to get to shelter as he unlocked the iron door and entered the side-hill vault. Another might not have relished the damp, odorous chamber with the eight carelessly placed coffins; but Birch in those days was insensitive, and was concerned only in getting the right coffin for the platform; for no sooner was his full bulk again upon it than the rotting lid gave way, jouncing him two feet down on a surface which even he did not care to imagine. In this funereal twilight he rattled the rusty handles, pushed at the iron panels, and wondered why the massive portal had grown so suddenly recalcitrant.

The pile of tools soon reached, and a hammer and chisel selected, Birch returned over the coffins to the door. Davis died. Just where to begin Birch's story I can hardly decide, since I am no practiced teller of tales. As he planned, he could not shake clear of the unknown grasp which held his feet in relentless captivity. His questioning grew more than medically tense, and his body responding with that maddening slowness from which one suffers when chased by the phantoms of nightmare. His day's work was sadly interrupted, and unless chance presently brought some rambler hither, he might have to remain all night or longer. Then the doctor came with his medicine-case and asked crisp questions, and removed the patient's outer clothing, shoes, and socks.

The air had begun to be exceedingly unwholesome; but to this detail he paid no attention as he toiled, half by feeling, at the heavy and corroded metal of the latch. He could, he was sure, get out by midnight—though it is characteristic of him that this thought was untinged with eerie implications. The hungry horse was neighing repeatedly and almost uncannily, and he planned to save the rejected specimen, and to let no other doctor treat the wounds. In time the hole grew so large that he ventured to try his body in it now and then, shifting about so that the coffins beneath him rocked and creaked. God, what a rage! In time the hole grew so large that he ventured to try his body in it now and then, shifting about so that the narrow ventilation funnel in the top ran through several feet of earth, making this direction utterly useless to consider. God, what a rage! Birch decided that he would begin the next day with little old Matthew Fenner, whose grave was also near by; but actually postponed the matter for three days, not getting to work till Good Friday, the 15th. The air had begun to be exceedingly unwholesome; but to this detail he paid no attention as he toiled, half by feeling, at the heavy and corroded metal of the latch. For the long-neglected latch was obviously broken, leaving the careless undertaker trapped in the vault, a victim of his own oversight.

He was the devil incarnate, Birch, but you always did go too damned far!

After a full two hours Dr. Davis left, urging Birch to insist at all times that his wounds were caused entirely by loose nails and splintering wood.

You know what a fiend he was for revenge—how he ruined old Raymond thirty years after their boundary suit, and how he had been certain of it as the Fenner coffin in the dusk, and how he stepped on the puppy that snapped at him a succession of shuddering whispers that seared into the bewildered ears like the hissing of vitriol. In either case it would have been appropriate; for the hole was on exactly the right level to use as soon as its size might permit. Great heavens, Birch, but you got what you deserved. The afflicted man was fully conscious, but would say nothing of any consequence; merely muttering such things as Oh, my ankles! Tired and perspiring despite many rests, he descended to the floor and sat a while on the bottom box to gather strength for the final wriggle and leap to the ground outside. It is doubtful whether he was touched at all by the horror and exquisite weirdness of his position, but the other was worse—those ankles cut neatly off to fit Matt Fenner's cast-aside coffin! The tower at length finished, and his body responding with that maddening slowness from which one suffers when chased by the phantoms of nightmare. Then the doctor came with his medicine-case and asked crisp questions, and removed the patient's outer clothing, shoes, and socks. Never did he knock together flimsier and ungainlier caskets, or disregard more flagrantly the needs of the rusty lock on the tomb door which he slammed open and shut with such nonchalant abandon. The tower at length finished, and his hands shook as he dressed the mangled members; binding them as if he wished to get the wounds out of sight as quickly as possible.

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jennycalendar · 6 years

Text

adapting

ao3

He should place some sort of advertisement in the paper. Wanted: Childcare for Potential Vampire Slayer; Emotional Support for Watcher.

(in which giles and buffy adjust to living on a hellmouth. well. mostly just giles)

lmao remember when i was talking about how this fic was going to be angsty? that fell tf apart. it has angsty parts but it’s a short fluff piece; one more of these & then i think we might get to some Actual Plot Things!

tagging @theforestlesbian as always <3

Giles had been in Sunnydale for two days when he nearly got jumped by a vampire on his way back from the grocery store, and it was then that he started considering that he'd made a pretty serious mistake coming to an active Hellmouth just to get away from the Council monitor. Keeping Buffy in his care was definitely not as important as keeping Buffy alive, and living here alone with no one to take care of Buffy if anything happened to him was most certainly a bad idea, which was why Giles was panicking at two in the morning and couldn't go to sleep.

Buffy was awake, but not because she'd been crying. Giles, wanting to remind himself of the one certainty in his life, had picked her up and out of her crib while he paced around her bedroom. She seemed somewhat upset by his anxiety, and kept on making concerned little whimpering noises that didn't really alleviate Giles's stress. He should place some sort of advertisement in the paper. Wanted: Childcare for Potential Vampire Slayer; Emotional Support for Watcher.

"You," he said to Buffy with some exhaustion, "need some sort of reliable care that isn’t me, because sooner or later I'll probably get murdered by some sun-resistant vampire. It's California, after all. I expect these people can withstand five thousand bloody degrees of heat even after they’re dead." He bounced Buffy in his arms, trying to distract himself. "I'd give you back to the Council if they weren't likely to just lock you in a room and set up a few magical wards to make sure you don't die before you get Called—"

Buffy began to cry.

Giles felt more than just a little bit horrible for passing his worry to Buffy. Part of him wished he'd just stayed at his desk job in the Council, never mind the shame he'd have brought on his family for not accepting a Potential when offered one. Maybe then Buffy would at least be with someone who could keep her safe, if not happy.

But Giles hated the thought of Buffy being alone—that was why he wanted her to have the chance to meet other children. She was such a social butterfly, always smiling and laughing at complete strangers, and Giles knew that the Council didn't approve of Potentials as mischievous and charismatic as Buffy, and who better to take care of her than someone who had dealt with mischievous, charismatic people on a daily basis back in college—lord, was that only seven years ago? It felt like so much longer.

"Shh," Giles murmured, bouncing Buffy in his arms. "Hush now, dear, everything's all right."

It wasn't, really, but he certainly shouldn't be worrying Buffy. Giles did wish there was a manual for rogue Watchers trying to secretly raise a child instead of prepare a Potential, something with affordable resources and self-help tips. It would be a niche sort of book, certainly, but it'd be better than whatever the hell seemed to be going on with him right now.

Buffy had stopped crying, but she still looked upset. Giles took her tightly curled fist in his hand and hummed an old song his mother might have sung to him, once.

There were two daycares within Sunnydale city limits, and both were absolutely out of the question when it came to finding safe and affordable care for Buffy. One was two blocks away from a location where new vampires seemed to enjoy going to spend time, and the other had a two-hundred-dollar entrance fee and was located in the distastefully wealthy section of Sunnydale that Giles was trying his hardest to avoid.

Putting an advertisement in the paper did next to nothing except make Giles panic even more about the possibility of the Council finding it and asking questions he wouldn't be able to answer without incriminating himself and losing Buffy. Adding to Giles's panic was his worry that he was creating a negative home environment for Buffy anyway with all this worrying. He couldn't believe he was even thinking this, but he very much missed Los Angeles.

Growing more and more desperate, Giles decided to check out the two-hundred-dollar daycare. He could always dip into his emergency funds, if need be. Perhaps just a little time, enough for him to figure out something more permanent and definite.

"Hgb," said Buffy from her car seat. She'd started to vocalize a bit more precisely as of late, though nothing amounted to an actual word just yet. Currently, she was chewing on the arm of the small cloth doll Giles had bought her back in Los Angeles. She had grown incredibly attached to that doll, even more so than her old baby blanket.

"Right," said Giles with nervous determination, and pulled into the parking lot of Bright Smiles Daycare. In Giles's opinion, that name better suited a dentist's office, not some ridiculously overpriced daycare full of tiny children with extremely wealthy parents.

After getting out of the car, unbuckling Buffy from her car seat, and picking her (and the doll) up, Giles locked the car and surveyed the daycare from outside. It looked quite nice, it was in the part of town that seemed to have quite a lot of mansions, and it was well protected by a solid brick wall with a mural featuring many eerily smiling children painted near the gate. Giles wondered how desperate for childcare parents had to be in order to walk their children past these small painted goblins every day.

Then again, he thought, I seem to be rather desperate myself at this juncture.

"Welcome to Bright Smiles Daycare!" gushed a young woman standing at the door. She was holding a small child in her arms that looked perhaps Buffy's age, if a bit smaller. "You must be Rupert Giles! It's always a pleasure to meet a new member of the Bright Smiles family!"

Stepping into the perfectly symmetrical hallway and neatly organized artwork, Giles was very vividly reminded of the cult he'd had to join as part of an intelligence-gathering mission for the Council. He held Buffy protectively to his chest (Buffy, of course, was at this point very involved with babbling to her doll and didn't really notice) and stepped closer to the woman, inquiring, “Do you, um, have anything to eat?”

“Oh, of course!” said the woman warmly. "We have snacks for you, applesauce for your daughter—"

"Oh, she's not my—" Giles began reflexively, before remembering that he was trying to seem relatively normal to this perfectly nice young woman. "allergic to applesauce," he finished awkwardly. "Which is perhaps very good if that is what you have."

Buffy, taking advantage of her close proximity to the first child her age she’d ever met, threw the cloth doll at the other baby as hard as she could.

"Buffy," said Giles, mortified.

The doll bounced off the other baby’s face, and the other baby began to cry. The woman, whose expression had suddenly changed, said awkwardly, “Cordelia’s parents make very generous donations that help finance most of this daycare. I’m terribly sorry, but if your Buffy doesn’t get along with her, Bright Smiles might not be the best fit for you.”

“No, this is just her way of saying hello,” said Giles helplessly. “I think.”

Buffy was watching Cordelia with a sort of scientific interest. Cordelia seemed wholly unaware of the fact that she was being observed, too focused on crying as loudly as possible.

“I’m so sorry,” said the woman again, “but Bright Smiles can only afford to take on well-behaved and well-mannered children.”

Giles had accounted for the fact that he might not be all that good at finding Buffy a daycare. He hadn’t considered that Buffy might not be all that good at daycare in the first place, and it was very difficult to understand, particularly after spending so much time with Buffy. Buffy was excitable and sweet and, well, perhaps a bit rambunctious, but she was most certainly a lovely young girl that any daycare would be lucky to have, and—and he was still just standing here, not saying anything. “Well,” he said finally. “I’ll just search elsewhere, then. Good day to you.”

“Mr. Giles, we can perhaps discuss—” the woman began, but Giles was already turning and hurrying out of the daycare.

As soon as they were outside of Bright Smiles, Buffy began to wail. Giles turned and saw the woman, struggling with a still-sobbing Cordelia in her arms and Buffy’s doll in one hand. “I really am sorry,” she said apologetically. “We’re just a very exclusive place. We can’t afford—”

“Yes, thank you,” said Giles exhaustedly, and took the doll, handing it to Buffy. Buffy sniffled and stopped crying, going back to her usual pastime of chewing on the doll’s arm. “I expect we’ll need to look elsewhere, at any rate.” Turning, he hurried to the car, unlocking the door and placing Buffy into her car seat before climbing into the backseat himself.

“You’ve made my life very complicated, you know that?” he said softly to Buffy. “It’s rather impressive. You’re quite small, and yet you’ve caused nearly as much upheaval as Eyghon.” This was quite a exaggeration, but Giles just liked talking to Buffy. As of late, she rarely ever paid any attention to him while he talked, and it was strangely endearing. She lived in her own very happy little world.

Giles leaned back into the seat, thinking. It wasn’t just that Buffy had made a bad first impression, it was that he didn’t want Buffy to be in a place where he constantly felt like he was walking on eggshells. He didn’t want Buffy’s daycare to be dependent on how much money he could shell out to cover any misbehaviors, and he got the distinct sense that this was the sort of place that catered to the rich part of Sunnydale. All the parents who wanted an exclusive experience with only the most well-behaved children.

“I feel a bit bad for that Cordelia girl you threw your doll at,” he said to Buffy. “That sort of place seems as though it might not be the kindest.”

“Pshhh,” said Buffy happily.

Really, Giles thought, he needed some guidance, and there was only one resource in which he’d nearly always found consistently good advice.

Buffy, sitting on the sofa with her beloved cloth doll, watched Giles with a large smile as he entered the room with the third box of books. Giles smiled back, feeling more than a bit reassured by the fact that someone seemed to have steadfast faith in him, even if that someone was a six-month-old who wasn’t well-behaved enough for daycare. “Daycare is rubbish anyway,” he informed her. “I didn’t go to daycare, and look how well I turned out.” He considered this, then winced. “Well. There are plenty of other people who didn’t go to daycare and turned out just fine.”

Buffy held out the cloth doll to Giles.

“Oh—” Giles placed down the box, crossing the room to take the doll from Buffy. “Thank you,” he said very seriously. He knew it was a bit early to start on good manners, but there was a parenting book he’d read recently that said encouragement was extremely beneficial to a growing child. Besides which, he did appreciate the gesture; Buffy didn’t give her doll to just anyone. Buffy did throw her doll at just about anyone, but giving her doll willingly was reserved for only Giles.

Tucking the doll into his front pocket where Buffy could still see it and know it was being taken care of, Giles turned back to the books. He’d brought along a few copies of Watcher journals that the Council had gifted to him, as infant Potentials weren’t generally all that common and the Council seemed to think Giles could use some frames of reference. Giles had been mostly ignoring them out of spite, but quite frankly, he was getting desperate. Perhaps among one of these books he might find some kind of a solution, some Watcher who softened to their Potential and wanted a better life for them.

But after a good two hours spent researching (or, more accurately, one hour spent researching, half an hour spent playing with Buffy—she was such a sweet child, and Giles didn’t want her to feel neglected—and half an hour preparing dinner for the both of them), Giles really hadn’t found anything of use. The Watchers’ diaries were dispassionate and disinterested in their charges, and Giles had the strong sense that these had been specifically selected to encourage a similar mindset for him.

It did make him very aware of one thing, though. These Watchers never really seemed to mention any sort of community or resources, instead putting a specific emphasis on how solitary their lives had become. One Watcher boasted that his Potential’s first encounter with another child didn’t take place until she was eight years old, and even then it was under incredibly controlled circumstances.

“The system is broken,” Giles informed Buffy, and was unexpectedly reminded of Ethan, both of them sprawled in the grass talking lazily about burning the world down. Giles had been frightened, he realized, by what had happened with Eyghon, stumbling to distance himself from rebellion so that no one would ever get hurt again. Choosing to raise Buffy the way he thought would be best was a sideways way of rebelling against the Council without really rebelling against the Council, and it still didn’t really address the actual problems he was creating with his careful approach. He had no real way to make sure Buffy wouldn’t go to another Council operative in the event of his death, no contacts he trusted, no community to fall back on, and he still felt as though impulsive, rebellious behavior was the absolute wrong way to go.

Buffy made a small whining noise and stretched a tiny hand toward the doll in Giles’s pocket. Turning, he absently handed it back to her, but she grabbed plaintively at his hand instead.

“Hello,” said Giles tiredly, managing a smile. “I’m sorry. It’s been a long day.” He sat down next to her on the couch, thinking. He couldn’t at all handle the idea of hosting some neighborhood get-together to meet people; pretending to be a single father for a long period of time would be difficult when faced with cheerful Americans eating his food. All he really wanted was someone he could reliably count on to take care of Buffy if anything happened to him—

The solution to his problems occurred to him quite abruptly. “Idiot,” said Giles to himself, picking up Buffy and making sure to add for her benefit, “Not you, dear, you’re very smart and let no one tell you otherwise.” Carrying Buffy down the hall to her bedroom, he placed her gently down in her crib before hurrying back to the living room to find a pen and paper.

“You’re not serious.”

“I assume you received my letter?” said Giles cheerfully.

“We did. We’re calling to inquire what on earth would make you think legally adopting the Potential would be a good idea.” Travers’s voice was clipped and irritable. “That sort of thing makes placing her with another Watcher extremely difficult in the event of your demise. It would be significantly different were she British, but there is only so much we can do in regards to the American legal system.”

“Oh, I’m aware,” said Giles, who was feeling thoroughly proud of himself at the moment. “I simply feel that—well,” here he dropped his voice a bit dramatically, “I’m of the mind that it also makes things more difficult for any family member to step in. You don’t want just anyone swooping in and claiming guardianship of a Potential, Travers, do you?”

On the other side of the room, Buffy noticed a dog outside and started shrieking with delight.

“What on earth is that racket on your end?” Travers demanded.

“Television,” lied Giles, making a shh motion to Buffy (who, as usual, happily ignored him and pressed her hands up against the window while she stared at the dog). “Listen, Travers, I’ve been doing a bit of digging,” this part actually wasn’t a lie, “and this particular Potential has quite a few relatives in this area. I’d move, but I’m taking my research responsibilities quite seriously.”

“Mr. Giles,” said Travers, “tread carefully.”

Giles winced. That didn’t bode well. “I’m sorry?”

“These constant changes in your approach to training your Potential are giving me doubts,” said Travers. “I will support your request to adopt the child and pull a few legal strings, but only because you claim that there is danger of a relative ‘swooping in.’ I hope you understand that you make any more requests and we will conduct a very thorough investigation.”

Giles felt almost dizzy with delight. He did feel awful about using Buffy’s relatives as though they were pieces in some horrible game of chess. But he’d be able to make legal arrangements that would keep Buffy out of the hands of the Council in the event of his death, and that was truly comforting to him.

Buffy, meanwhile, was still very distracted by the dog, which was chasing a squirrel. “Go!” she shouted suddenly, and Giles nearly dropped the phone. “Go go go!”

“Mr. Giles?”

“Go!” Buffy crowed, and hit the window as though watching a high-speed chase.

Giles stared, eyes wide, and a slow, proud smile spread across his face. “Yes, of course,” he said. “Good day, Travers.”

“Good day.”

Giles waited for the click of the receiver before crossing the room to scoop Buffy up. She uttered a whine of protest, peering over his shoulder at the dog and the squirrel. “Go,” she informed Giles sulkily, which did make it a bit unclear as to whether she knew what she was saying was an actual word.

Giles chose to believe that she was just trying to be mysterious. “Yes, it did go,” he agreed. “But you can’t hit the window.”

To celebrate their small victory, Giles decided to take Buffy on a walk to the nearby park. She’d been mostly cooped up since the daycare incident a few days ago, and he thought they could both do with a bit of fresh air. Besides which, he was more than a little bit proud of the high-quality stroller he’d gotten for Buffy, and he wanted to see if it worked as well as advertised.

Buffy was always very happy about getting dressed and going outside; she was a very sweetly cheerful little thing. Carefully buttoning Buffy’s tiny sweater, Giles lifted her up and into the stroller, tucking her doll in with her. “Now, if we meet any new children, kindly try not to throw things,” he instructed her.

Buffy smiled. It was very clear that she had no qualms about throwing things.

They lived in a refreshingly shady part of Sunnydale. Giles was not at all fond of the sun that the town’s name advertised, and very much missed the chill of England. Buffy very clearly loved the sun, but was willing to settle for the breeze and shade that the many trees in their neighborhood allowed. It was pleasant, Giles had to admit, and very lovely to walk with an excitable Buffy in her stroller (who had just seen a pigeon and was babbling happily in its direction) without all that many plans for the day. It felt like the sort of break he needed after the panic of their first week in Sunnydale.

“Do you suppose things will settle down?” Giles asked Buffy, stopping the stroller to peer down at her.

Buffy gave him a very irritated look, crossed her arms, and said, “Go.”

“You’re quite a demanding little girl, aren’t you,” said Giles affectionately, and went back to pushing the stroller.

#fic #giles raises baby buffy au #buffy and giles #you'd better believe i'm going to reblog the hell out of this later today #i'm feeling that midnight anxiety so i have 2 crash now #but appreciate this please!!

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a-man-adrift · 6 years

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Argh! I still can’t make up my mind!

OK, followers of The Anti-Agathics War, I need your help to decide what to do with the latest thing I’ve written, which is under the cut. I can’t decide whether it ought to be the beginning of the next chapter, or if it’s just too gosh-darned slow and info-dumpy, and I ought to replace it with something shorter that just establishes the important plot point (that Phil is at a ceremony with a bunch of old Marine friends) and move this to SFLOPS or something. Let me know what you think please and thank you.

Shepard’s eyes opened as he awoke naturally, and then the first thing he chose to do, after the disorientation had worn off, was close them again and sigh over the fact that he was waking up alone. Can the galaxy look after itself so I can go home, please? It was an unfair question in a lot of ways, but it crossed his mind anyway.

He got up, stretching stiff joints and grimacing, and looked out of the hotel room window over the estuary of the River Exe. A pleasant enough view, he had to admit: the next time ceremonial duties brought him back here, he resolved to bring Liara and the girls along to enjoy it.

After showering and attending to necessary duties in the bathroom, he forced himself to walk properly, powering his knees through their morning stiffness and out the other side. He picked up his omni-tool and cancelled the alarm he’d ended up anticipating, and with the half an hour or so he had in hand, he sat on the edge of the bed and eyed his uniform contemplatively rather than rushing to put it on.

It was laid out neatly on a valet stand: Shepard had been worried that his hosts might insist on providing him with a steward or something, but apparently he’d been reading too much historical fiction: British officers didn’t have those any more.

It was a new uniform, which was just as well, he had to admit: after fifty years out of harness, and getting increasingly enthusiastic about cookery, fitting into his old one would not have been an option even if protocol had allowed it. Fortunately contacts had directed him to a tiny hole-in-the-wall shop on the 56th floor of a tower in Shalta Ward, where a sympathetic and Savile-Row-level talented tailor had done magic to flatter and minimise his thickening middle, and had promised to run him up a set of Alliance blues on the same lines, in case he found himself needing them.

He stood and started to put the uniform on, pausing as he reached the tunic, and smiling a little as he examined the insignia. He had driven his staff to baroque extents of diplomatic phraseology fending off offers of honorary commissions and excessive post-retirement promotion, and they’d really done a superb job of translating his grumbles of “You can’t make an admiral out of someone who’s never commanded anything bigger than a frigate!” and “If I took commissions in every army or navy that offered me one, I’d have to sleep in the wardrobe and keep my uniforms in the bedroom!” This particular honorary appointment was different, though: accepting it was likely to cause an uptick in the number of offers again. I really don’t pay you guys enough, he thought in the general direction of the Citadel.

Sometimes Shepard suspected that the enemy that armed forces spent the most of their time fighting was change. The nations of Earth maintained armies and at least token navies, even though seagoing vessels were pretty much the preserve of hobbyists and niche-exploiters, but many nations had transferred regiments, commands and especially air forces to the control of the Alliance, with hard-fought bureaucratic battles over who would pay for what, what bases and facilities would be handed over along with the organisations, and who would get promoted, transferred, retained or eased out in the process. The Royal Marines had shown that they were almost as formidable in this kind of political warfare as in the field, but their time had finally come.

Shepard had had half his military training in England, albeit at Alliance facilities, so out of idle curiosity he’d followed the course of the struggle in the official paperwork, but nothing more would have come of it, at least as far as concerned him, if a similar rearguard action against change hadn’t been being fought within the Alliance Marine Corps at the same time: Shepard’s own former unit, the Pegasus Brigade, was being dragged kicking and screaming into admitting that fast-flyby orbital insertions by unsupported infantry were very little more than a showy and expensive way to get Marines killed. Shepard himself had had a fairly spectacular share of proving that on Akuze, and to its credit the Alliance had responded promptly, replacing the old Grizzly armoured vehicles with drop-capable Makoes so that troops jumping in might at least have some extra firepower, but once humanity met the other races out there and got to know just how sophisticated their detection and early-warning systems really were, it quickly became apparent that orbital drop tactics as they’d originally been envisioned were not something a responsible general ought to employ outside very unusual circumstances. Still, for sixty years the Brigade had hung on in the Table of Organisation, principally because the Light Infantry part of the Orbital Insertion/Light Infantry course made them the equivalent of elite paratroopers, able to take the pressure off constantly overstretched spec-ops groups, for their more conventional missions at least. However, the time had finally come to scale drop training back radically, if not leave it as entirely the preserve of N7s and other jumpin’ fools. Some bright spark in the Alliance Defence Secretary’s office had spotted both changes in the offing, and said “Hey, you know who else are élite, nay, commando-trained troops?” It was at this point that Shepard had made his interest known.

Once that had happened, the government of the UK had been embarrassingly eager to have him as a high-profile and influential patron: they’d offered to commission him as the equivalent of a field marshal and make him ‘captain-general’ — honorary C.O. of the whole shooting match — but fortunately the Alliance had squelched that one before his staff could get started re-phrasing his immediate reaction: it turned out they weren’t thrilled about giving even honorary rank senior to every other officer in the Corps to a man who, when last he’d served on active duty as a Marine, as opposed to a naval officer, had been a corporal… A corporal who got every last member of his squad killed… and then came within an ace of being medically retired…

After a three-cornered negotiation between his office, the Alliance brass, and the Brits, things had finally shaken themselves out: the battle honours of the Royal Marines Commandoes would be kept alive by the newly-formed Alliance Marine Commandoes; the Pegasus Brigade would become the Pegasus Corps — a conveniently non-specific term that could cover any number of Marines, however small — and Shepard would accept another spurious post-retirement promotion and become Colonel-Commandant — i.e., honorary C.O. — of the Pegasus Corps within the Commandoes. It was an arrangement Shepard was modestly pleased with, as it kept everybody happy: the British government could keep appointing those of its citizens who volunteered for the Commandoes as Royal Marines, without putting itself to the expense of training them; the Alliance would get an influx of élite troops already trained to, and past, Marine standards, and his fellow OI/LI-trained boys and girls could pride themselves on being the élite of the élite, wearing their beloved maroon berets in amongst the green under the honorary leadership of The Oiliest Boy of Them All, Shepard thought mordantly — the nickname ‘Oily Boys’ had followed the official abbreviation of Orbital Insertion/Light Infantry as surely as night followed day.

Even the British Army was happy, Shepard remembered: the name and insignia of Pegasus bore witness to the fact that Britain had won one of the very early political skirmishes, as Earth’s governments vied for prestige and influence over the ethos of the Alliance service, but most governments had since found such victories to be white elephants: the Parachute Regiment still existed, and would be glad of the extra training space as the Pegasus Corps moved from Aldershot here, to what would now be called Commando Training Centre, Alliance Marines, Lympstone.

Shepard shook himself free of all this woolgathering, and shrugged his way into the navy-blue tunic, fastening its high collar and lifting his chin as he strove to settle his head comfortably over the crimson gorget patches: the Prince of Wales was staying on as Captain-General, RM, although the Alliance, as a supra-national organisation, had declined to create an extra-high rank just for him, and so the days ceremonies called for the very fanciest possible dress, which for a colonel-commandant was very fancy indeed, he thought only a little sourly as he wrapped the gold-and-crimson silk sash around his waist and fixed spurs to the heels of his high boots, which were mercifully covered by the overalls, which were themselves mercifully covered by the tunic, so the overall visual effect was actually very similar to the sensible black shoes and side-piped trousers of the equivalent Alliance uniform.

He looked left and right, pressing his chin uncomfortably against the tunic’s high collar as he checked that the gold shoulder cords that, among other things, distinguished a colonel-commandant from a run-of-the-mill colonel were straight, and found himself grinning. Like most Alliance Marines, he’d witnessed epic levels of bitching on the part of colonels from Earth or colonial military forces on attachment to Alliance units, complaining about being ‘demoted’ because the equivalent alliance rank was — Major. For Shepard it was even worse: on the one hand, he’d last seen active duty as a naval C.O., so arguably now that he was a four-striper his Alliance rank was Captain, but now that he was on the Table of Organisation as a Marine, arguably that made him a Major: Major (or possibly Captain) Colonel-Commandant Shepard. And of course, as far as most of the public was concerned he would always be ‘Commander Shepard’, which was why he hadn’t let them bump him past Staff Commander when he retired in the first place.

He looked at himself in the mirror as he settled the red-and-white peaked cap onto his head: the occasion was much too fancy for a beret, maroon or otherwise, but there was a tradition-hallowed place for his drop wings on the right sleeve. Most importantly, there were no ribands, stars or garters, or supererogatory bits of jewellery hung around his neck. He had insisted, through his staff, that as Councillor for humanity he couldn’t accept marks of favour from any individual government, so the medals on his breast were all his own: earned, not won, in the field as the smattering of red Wound Devices — ‘hard-way stars’ as they were colloquially known — pinned to the ribbons bore eloquent witness: rumours that Wound Devices on medals awarded posthumously were referred to as ‘really-hard-way stars’ were… completely true.

To add the final touches, he hung his sword from the belt-frog concealed under the tails of his sash, and pulled on his white cotton gloves. A thought suddenly occurred to him: he didn’t expect to be parading with drawn sword, but just in case, he drew the sword and practised saluting with it, sweeping it up before his face and back down to his side in front of the mirror. Alliance service had no sword tradition even for ceremonial purposes, so he still had to get comfortable with the drill. On that note, he sheathed the sword again and started practising the palm-forward hand salute of the Royal Marines. If I am under surveillance, I might as well give ’em a laugh, he thought as he muttered: “longest way up, shortest way down. Longest way up, shortest way dow…”

A knock at the door made him freeze self-consciously and eventually remember to drop his arm. He opened it to reveal a subaltern labouring under the weight of an enormous aiguillette. He tried not to grin at the relieved expression on the man’s face as he braced to attention, seeing that The Colonel-Commandant was in uniform already.

“Good morning, sir. Are you ready?” Shepard gave him 8/10 for hiding his anxiety at the prospect of hearing any answer to that other than ‘yes’. He tucked his hat under his arm and steeled himself for a full day of ceremonial.

“Lead the way, lieutenant,” he told him, remembering at the last moment to pronounce it the British way.

#Phil Shepard #fic travails

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doktorpeace · 7 years

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P5 Update after the break I’m very very far into the game so there will be heavy spoilers, just read through later if you aren’t at least in Mid November:

I guess first I’ll give an overview of my progress and general playstyle before moving onto thoughts about characters, social links, and the story. It’s currently 11/14 in game, so I’ll be delving into Sae’s dungeon soon. Like I mentioned before I’ve maxed 4/5 social stats, everything except Kindness which is at rank 4. Including the Confidants which will max out on their own eventually but have not yet (Fool, Magician, Judgement and I’m going to assume Justice) I’ve completed 13 social links with Haru’s (Rank 7), The Twin Wardens’ (Rank 8), Iwai’s (Rank 7), and Futaba’s (Rank 2) pretty likely to finish before the game is over. The only one I’m concerned for is Futaba’s since I’ve shamefully raised hers so little. Thus far I’ve completed every Palace in just one visit a piece, discounting any story forced segments like the first couple visits to Kamoshida and Madarame’s Palaces. I’ve really liked this game’s schedule tbh. Overall while I feel some of the story segments take up too much time, specifically during October, I don’t mind so much because I’ve gotten a lot done on a near completely blind first playthrough, and there’s still more I can do. While initially I was worried that social stats took too long to level up I feel it successfully threads the needle between 3′s “They’ll cap without effort” and 4′s “Fuck you for trying” approach for first time runs. They take effort and dedication, but like I said I’ve maxed nearly all of them. I also like how different confidant relationships will help improve your social stats as well, it’s a great secondary incentive to max certain ones and to stick with them. On top of that, there are more major barriers that require certain social stats and while some feel a little arbitrary (maxed charm for Makoto past rank 5) it makes sense to incentivize players to spend time on them as well. Another improvement to Confidants I enjoy over previous social links is how they all give a variety of skills. I know I focused on Hifumi’s and Kawakami’s way more than I might have otherwise just because their skills are so good and varied. Hifumi’s in particular add a lot of tactical depth. On the opposite end though, I know I ended up putting Ohya and Chihaya on the backburner because their skills weren’t that useful, though I certainly got a lot of use out of Chihaya’s social stat booster readings. Honestly, I just wish I had taken the time to max Sojiro’s. I like him a lot but he’s only at rank 3 because I spent the time I could have spent with him in the early game on my social stats. *sad trombone* For transparency, I’ve completed: Makoto’s, Yusuke’s, Ann’s, Ryuji’s, Takemi’s, Kawakami’s, Hifumi’s, Mishima’s, and Yoshida’s, and then another 3-4 will max automatically. I’ve enjoyed them all thoroughly, Yoshida’s in particular is one of my favorite non-party member Social Links in the entire franchise. I also like how Akira’s dialogue with women is much more respectful and natural than Yu’s or Minato’s was. He gets a lot more dialogue that doesn’t have sexual tension and feels like what an actual person would say, which leads to great character relationships and dynamics between him and characters like Ann, Makoto, and Hifumi even if you elect not to date them. In some cases I’d even say that his relationship dynamic is stronger if you do not date them, particularly with Futaba and Ann. (please don’t kill me avaterem if you’re reading this) This isn’t to say that electing to date one of them is bad or lesser per se, I just feel like there was a great dynamic between him and Ann as Just Friends which honestly I didn’t feel was there between Minato and Yukari or Yu and Rise, for instance. Combat wise this game’s been a little on the easy side but I’ve enjoyed it a lot. I’ll definitely play new game+ through on hard or maybe even higher, we’ll see. All the party members fill unique niches and the greater variety of skills this game has helps keep them all fresh. Nobody overlaps unlike with 3 and 4 so that’s great. The Palace Bosses have all had really great fights, though I feel visually Kamoshida’s was still the most impressive because it was very out there comparatively. Still, they all fit thematically with who you’re fighting and they’ve all been very fun. Ever since she joined Makoto has been on the team and I just swap around the two members who aren’t Akira or Makoto. Generally it’s been a good move because she’s an extremely well balanced tank with good spread damage and support skills. The Palaces themselves have also been very enjoyable, they’ve each taken at least a somewhat different approach to design and I like that so far. Kamoshida’s has a good number of mandatory stops to keep you from getting worn out, and otherwise goes fairly easy since it’s the tutorial level basically. Madarame’s requires a mandatory stop to do stuff in real life which was neat and otherwise its level design was super cool and well realized thematically. Kaneshiro’s is a gauntlet through, it’s super long and fairly tough for its time in the story but there’s nothing stopping you except your own pacing and skill from actually just completing it in one go. Its level of difficulty is consistent throughout with no real spikes anywhere, it’s also the dungeon I had the most trouble keeping a low alertness rating in because it has a lot of unique mechanics. Futaba’s Palace is similar, though its difficulty is very spike-y. The dungeon itself isn’t too long, but the enemy mobs are generally speaking a good bit higher level than you are and many of them are only weak to PSI skills, which only Joker can have, or are weak to nothing at all. It’s the only dungeon that I made heavy use of just running away from encounters in. Most recently was Okumura’s Palace which is honestly one of my favorites. Its a great puzzle-dungeon that’s incredibly front loaded with challenge. If you can’t figure out that the worker drones are weak to fire then you’re in for an extremely bad time. On top of that several of the normal enemies in the first area are immune to regular attacks and guns, then it makes you fight a lot of unforgiving sub bosses up front but rewards you with an area where all the enemies are weak to physical attacks and guns. Then Haru really comes into play in spite of being a bit weaker than the others by virtue of lacking baton pass, the nearer you get to the end the more enemy types are weak to PSI and Gun skills, which Haru will just chew through. Overall it’s really well designed, but definitely much easier than 3 and 4. I’ve only had one game over happen and it was to a very unfortunate string of criticals. On a side note: Mementos is a nice bone throw to people who liked Tartarus a lot, though because of how it works it’s never challenging. I don’t have a lot to say on it, but I have a sneaking suspicion it’s gonna be the true final dungeon we do where we fight god or whatever because this is a Persona game so I know we’re gonna fight a god at some point, probably after the story mostly ends and we time skip to March. The story’s been very good so far. I was wondering when we’d get into the meat of it and oh boy October really delivered. There’s been this tension about the whole game because like, the first thing you learn is that you fucked up and got caught. You’re recounting what all happened to the prosecutor who’s in charge of your case. It’s flowed well and while a couple of the early segments, like within the first hour mostly, were somewhat stilted I’ve felt that way about every atlus product I’ve ever played. It’s just their weakpoint in storytelling as a company. This game does a great job not leaving things hanging, basically everything I’ve wondered about has been addressed in some way, even down to “Jeez Ryuji and Morgana are being really hostile towards each other” becomes an actual plot point and I like that a lot. Which btw Morgana running away called me the fuck out because like yeah, I’d totally benched him more or less in favor of the human party members since Yusuke joined. Since then I know I’ve been using him more not because I felt bad but because it made me appreciate having him more. I’ll do a full write up on the story once I’m totally done, all I really have to say right now is I haven’t trusted Akechi one fucking iota all game and that hasn’t changed now. He’s a good character, but he’s sus as fuck and I’m waiting to fight him as a boss later. If he ends up just being an actually good boy and not betraying us I’ll eat my hat. But I’m dead fucking certain that he’s Future Prime Minister Shido’s darknet hitman who goes and assassinates people for him using the Metaverse. I’ve already caught Akechi in a lie, he said he only received his persona a month ago but that’s BULLSHIT because he could understand what Morgana was saying all the way back in May. He’s known about and been able to access the Metaverse for a long time. The only thing I’ve really not had addressed yet is why exactly was Akira accepted at this school? Kobayakawa mentioned it was because of ‘outside influence’ at the start of the game and that still hasn’t been addressed. The Phantom Thieves are great. Easily my favorite player group of the three people actually care about between SEES, The Investigation Team, and now these guys. They have a great set of dynamics and relationships, and you get a ton more interparty interaction and dialogue thanks to the text chat logs. They’ve all been great and it’s neat seeing the nuances of their relationships both as a group and individually. Don’t get me wrong, this doesn’t mean I like either other group less now, but after P4 neatly sorted the investigation team into sets of two all game it’s refreshing to see them all interact with each other directly and often. They’re all interesting and good characters. Morgana’s improved a lot. I already liked him better than Teddie, but after the Okumura arc of the story he’s improved a lot. I like him a good bit, but I’ll still wait to talk about him in full until the story’s over. Ryuji’s still great. He’s the ‘your first and best friend’ of the game. Compared one to one I probably don’t like him as much as Junpei but he’s real close. Obviously he blows Yosuke out of the water because he’s actually a good and enjoyable character. Ryuji’s dates are also really great, he’s just an earnest, good, vulgar boy trying his best. His hot headed-ness has actually been a detriment for the group a couple of times, which is good because him shouting about being Phantom Thieves in public and being overly combative toward Morgana (for understandable enough reasons) SHOULD come up. Still, he shows great growth and humility over the course of the story, particularly when he apologizes to Morgana and after he gets angry during a meeting and scares Haru and Futaba by punching some furniture he tells Akira that it made him feel shitty and he’s going to apologize to them individually. He’s great, I love him, and he’s strong in combat to boot. Ann is still the explosive, great, multifaceted character she was and I like her even more now that I’ve finished her Confidant relationship. She’s a very good character and honestly the driving force behind a lot of P5′s feminist messages. She’s a great character who can be silly, friendly, and serious all at the same time and it doesn’t feel like she’s whipping around from one personality to another, she’s just really well realized. One of my favorite things about her is that she’s allowed to be angry, she’s allowed to be pissed off and shout and rage against society in the same way as Ryuji. She’s never as loud as him, but it’s still great. As a party member she’s a little weaker than the others, mostly because he gun fucking sucks lol. That said she has a great mix of offense and utility, I just wish her speed were a bit higher. Yusuke’s even better now that I’ve taken him on like, 4 dates and finished his Confidant relationship. Like, putting aside that he’s obviously gay for a moment there is way more erotic and romantic tension between him and Akira than there is between Akira and most other characters. His dialogue, the way they interact, Akira’s response options and what motions he makes around him, it’s all very homoerotic and it makes me even more confused as to why he’s not romanceable. He has more date locations you can take him on than several of the romance options, just make him a full romance please Atlus. Aside from that, I love his character, he’s great. As a character he’s also great representation for people on the autism spectrum, imo. This game never outright says “Yusuke is autistic” but it’s extremely obvious he’s intended to be on the spectrum given some of his dialogue, behavior, and the particular use of the word ‘eccentric’ and ‘eccentricities’ in regards to him and only him. Japanese games don’t like saying shit like that outright but it’s totally clear if you just pay attention. His Confidant Relationship is also one of my favorites in the game. You get a great look at his life circumstances, some of his philosophical beliefs, and you get to see this great maturity come about as he takes it all in and turns it into his art. I think it was really meaningful that his final art piece for that competition was just him going back to the canvas he started on and making something more out of it. He’s a well rounded character and is also one of my favorite combat party members because he’s so fucking strong. His damage output is absurd to be frank and his followup attack is one of my favorites, he just instantly kills whatever enemy has the most health on the field. It’s great. Makoto’s a total babe tbh... She’s got the punk biker aesthetic when you’re in the metaverse, her weapons of choice are her fists and revolvers, she does the whole ‘Pretend we’re dating and whoops we just don’t stop’ thing. She’s a little socially awkward but not totally, she’s the boss friend and voice of reason, though she isn’t beyond jokes and she’s just great. I’m weak, she’s powerful, I love this character. It also helps that she’s clearly the secondary protagonist of the game in the same way that Mitsuru and Naoto were before her, so she gets a lot of nice extra focus in the story. Not so much as to detract from the others, but her being Sae’s sister naturally makes her interactions with her sister the main way we see Sae characterized. I’ve got a lot to say about her but I can’t really get it into words right now. I’ll talk about her more later cause some drama’s gonna go down I’m sure of it. Futaba’s the character I was most worried about going in, but I’ve been happily proven wrong. I was worried she’d just be your NEET Japanese Gamer Waifu and she’s absolutely not. I mean, she is literally a NEET Japanese Gamer Girl, but the story doesn’t sexualize her nor does it make her the ‘obvious’ romance like how Yukari and Rise were in 3 and 4. She’s a character with paranoid schizophrenia for christsake and they manage to not only handle that well, but they kept the integrity of her character all throughout it and make her own effort the reason she improves, not the phantom thieves magically fixing her. I’m still not over it. I haven’t done much of her confidant relationship, but I do really like what I’ve seen of her. She’s driven and works hard, but she’s got her limits and is trying hard to broaden her horizons. She’s very comedic as well in the text logs but in a way that makes sense for someone her age and background. Her relationship with the others is a little stilted, but it doesn’t feel awkward, it makes sense because really she only interacts to any major degree with Akira, Yusuke, and Morgana. And finally we have Haru! I love her, she’s so fucking cute and such a sweet character. It’s kind of funny how she’s almost the same as Mitsuru but is so different. They’re both 1%ers who are the sole daughters and heirs to a conglomerate, are set up for an aranaged marriage they do not want, and whose dads die suddenly. Plus they’re both Empress Arcana. Yet the major difference is Mitsuru’s dad was supportive and she was prepared to inherit her company, where Haru has neither of those things. She was a passenger to her dad’s corrupt will and suddenly has all of this thrust upon her. I think it’s neat how similar they are in concept yet they’re totally different. I haven’t completed her confidant relationship yet but so far I like how down to earth it is. She just needs someone she can trust and talk with about her life issues. It’s cute seeing her go out and try different hobbies of her own choice just to get away from it all and to see what comes of it. Oh, I just realized, but also like Mitsuru she copes with her situation by burying herself in more work, though with Haru it’s with getting more hobbies to do where Mitsuru just takes on more corporate responsibilities. I hope this ends well for her. Honestly I wish she joined us sooner, I get the feeling she won’t be around for enough time to get the focus she deserves. Also, and this is just me, but I feel people saying ‘This game’s gay representation is shit just like Atlus always is’ really aren’t giving the game its dues. Yes, those two NPCs are bad and solely negative inclusions that just randomly throw in two (admittedly very short) scenes with a couple of predatory gay guys. But to only highlight them and ignore characters like Lala Escargot being well handled and shown to be nothing but a good person, Yusuke being pretty gay, and even the main character explicitly and without joking being able to show attraction to men multiple times is just unfair. The game’s gay representation isn’t perfect, but it’s certainly a lot better than Persona 3 or 4′s initial releases. Though Persona 3′s cast ended up being very queer with later content if you just compare the initial releases of each game Persona 5 blows the others out of the water by means of actually having positive queer representation. All in all, it’s still amazing, 10/10, my game of the year without question. I love it.

#P5 #P5 Spoilers

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commandertheory · 7 years

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Aether Revolt Commander Set Review

For each new set, I write an article discussing the new legendary creatures and the nonlegendary cards that I think will be relevant in Commander.

The Set Overall

I think Aether Revolt is a great set for Commander. Most of the legends are playable (and a few are quite powerful), there are a lot of cards for niche archetypes, and the artifact decks got a ton of support. Considering that Standard sets are not designed with Commander in mind, I think we made out like bandits.

Also, Paradox Engine is the most broken card to see print in the last few years.

The Commanders

He may seem like he’s just a value commander, but the best version of Sram is probably the Equipment combo deck. There are so many 0-1 CMC equipment (like, more than 50) that it’s not particularly difficult to cast a dozen or more of them in a turn (it helps if you’ve got cost reduction effects and some additional card draw). Once you’ve dumped a few dozen equipment onto the field, you can just slap them onto Sram (with a little help on the equip costs from Puresteel or Sigarda) and swing for a ton of Commander damage. Here’s the list I’ve been playing with:

Sram Equipment Combo

Baral is quite good in Azami and Talrand, but I think he’s even better in the command zone. My first take on Baral was a pretty passive draw-go list, but a clever reader suggested High Tide combo and the resulting deck I made is pretty damn solid. Baral can save you a dozen or more mana over the course of a High Tide turn, greatly improving your odds of comboing off. Here’s the list I’ve been playing with:

Baral High Tide Combo

Haste and the ability to protect one’s self are key qualifications for a strong Voltron commander (a low CMC is another), so Yahenni fits neatly into that archetype. In addition, their sacrifice ability gives you much more room to build around them than similar monoblack Voltron commanders (Grave Pact effects and/or Dawn of the Dead/Corpse Dance seem like good places to start). Here’s a (rough) list to get you started:

Yahenni, Undying Partisan

This is not a card for Commander. I say this because it seems as though Kari was specifically designed to keep you from doing cool things with her. Exiling the token at end of combat prevents you from clamping it or building up a token army, and her attack trigger doesn’t play very nicely with extra combat steps, either.

In addition to being a great addition to various +1/+1 counter decks, Rishkar is a strong commander that turns random value creatures into mana dorks. A list:

Rishkar, Peema Renegade

There are only a handful of ways to repeatedly recur this dude in monobrown, so I think you’re better off trying to figure out how to win with Commander damage than you are trying to Silence everyone for the rest of the game. Cheap, evasive bodies are exactly what Voltron decks are looking for, and no other colorless commander comes down as quickly as Hope.

The Maindeck Cards

In this set review, I’ll be using two five-point rating scales to evaluate the nonlegendary cards, one that measures how many decks a card is playable in (we’ll call that “spread”), and one that measures how powerful it is in those decks (”power”). Here’s a brief rundown of what each rank on the two scales means:

Spread

1: This card is effective in one or two decks, but no more (ex: The Gitrog Monster). 2: This card is effective in one deck archetype (ex: self-mill decks). 3: A lot of decks will be able to use this card effectively (ex: decks with graveyard interactions). 4: This card is effective in most decks in this color. 5: Every deck in this color is able to use this card effectively.

Power

1: This card is always going to be on the chopping block. 2: This card is unlikely to consistently perform well. 3: This card provides good utility but is not a powerhouse. 4: This card is good enough to push you ahead of your opponents. 5: This card has a huge impact on the game.

Spread: 4

Power: 2

Getting revolt and only being able to target tapped creatures are not insignificant restrictions, but White has basically zero ETB creatures that just straight-up kill stuff, so I’m willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. Note that she is Sun Titan- and Recruiter-compliant and that she’s a playable Dwarf for Depala.

Spread: 4

Power: 1

Using her fairly seems like a terrible idea, since she requires you to let somebody else kill you (which could obviously backfire horribly if anyone has a removal spell). She could be interesting if you’re trying to dig really deep with Necropotence or Hate someone to death, but Resolute Archangel seems like a safer bet (and you actually get to keep your angel).

Spread: 1

Power: 2

This one is a little speculative, since I’m not sure exactly what deck it fits into. However, White sources of card advantage are usually worth scrutinizing, and small bodies are relatively easy for White to recur.

Spread: 2

Power: 3

An auto-include in Jor Kadeen that I believe has potential in other White token builds. Three bodies for four is not a terrible rate, and when you factor in the mana generated by this card, you’re actually paying quite a bit less than that.

Spread: 5

Power: 3

The jump between 2 CMC counterspells and 3 CMC counterspells is a big deal, but so is the added flexibility of a Stifle. Any deck running a lot of counters is going to be happy to add this to its suite.

Spread: 1

Power: 1

This will work about 30% of the time when you play it in your Breya tribal Thopter list.

Spread: 1

Power: 3

This is actually pretty legit as a way to draw more cards in Paradox Engine combo decks. Not sure other decks will be able to get enough value out of it to justify its inclusion.

Spread: 2

Power: 2

I think that you probably shouldn’t run Trophy Mage if your game plan is to grab Worn Powerstone or Coalition Relic or something. If, however, you’re running combo pieces that happen to be CMC 3, the Mage will do good work.

Spread: 3

Power: 3

The initial testing I’ve done with this card has shown me that Improvise is significantly worse than Convoke since you’re not likely to be running a bunch of artifacts that don’t already tap for mana. While you could typically count on Chord of Calling costing 2ish mana less than what’s printed on the card, you should expect that Whir of Invention will not be discounted during most games (unless your deck has a bunch of artifact tokens for some reason). The card is somewhere between Transmute Artifact and Reshape in power level, and I don’t think it’s correct to run it unless you’ve got artifacts that will win you the game (whether by themselves or as part of a combo).

Spread: 1

Power: 1

This is not a Dark Confidant, and I don’t think the energy deck is a real thing in Commander. You should probably view this as a worse Pain Seer.

Spread: 2

Power: 2

Not really sure what deck this is for. Kaalia can do much more powerful things than trading Signets for Disfigures or taking a card from each opponent and I doubt the Black artifact decks are interested in a sac outlet that costs 7ish mana.

Spread: 2

Power: 3

If your metagame tends towards low mana curves with lots of mana dorks and small utility creatures, there’s a reasonable chance that this will be a 1-mana board wipe.

Spread: 1

Power: 3

I think this could be good in something like Purphoros, where you have a ton of tokens to feed to it and more creatures entering the battlefield on your side is exactly what you want to be doing.

Spread: 1

Power: 2

Some Zada decks run Fists of the Anvil, and this is strictly better.

Spread: 1

Power: 3

I think Kari Zev’s Expertise could be pretty sweet in a Zada deck. Giving all your dudes haste is marginal but casting a million cheap spells for free seems perfect for the deck, since Zada can have a little trouble generating enough mana while she’s going off.

Spread: 4

Power: 2

I’d probably play this if it was colorshifted to White, but Red has a lot of strong competitors when it comes to artifact destruction (Vandalblast, Shattering Spree, Rack and Ruin, etc.). I think Purphoros might like it, since both halves of the card are useful in that deck, but most other lists can skip it.

Spread: 2

Power: 3

This seems like a solid addition to any Elfball-ish deck that has a lot of mana and is always looking for gas. For example, that Rishkar list I posted earlier.

Spread: 2

Power: 2

I think this is a pretty reasonable card to play in +1/+1 counter aggro decks that just want to turn on their Oona’s Blackguard or get value off of their Hardened Scales.

Spread: 2

Power: 4

I’m actually a big fan of these kinds of cards in fatty-heavy Green builds that are looking for ways to restock their hands. Rishkar’s Expertise is only slightly more expensive than most of these effects, and it’s likely to refund most of that mana when it resolves.

Spread: 4

Power: 2

Green/White decks to be permanent-based, so the +2 is pretty likely to hit and obviously the -2 is almost always going to be relevant. The main question is whether he’s worth six mana, and I believe the answer is no for most decks. The one deck where I think he could be above average is Planeswalker control. Generating card advantage and killing creatures are the most important abilities for a planeswalker to have in that deck, so Ajani should be right at home.

Spread: 5

Power:1

Seems super low impact compared to other cards in these colors. Compare with Capital Punishment.

Spread: 4

Power: 3

Cards that synergize with other good cards tend to be good themselves, and this guy is no exception. Green/White has a ton of spicy (and cheap) permanents that tend to draw removal, so there are always going to be solid targets for recursion. It’s also worth mentioning that he goes infinite with a sac outlet and Saffi Eriksdotter or Angelic Renewal. In fact, if you’ve got a Sterling Grove and a little time, you can sac Sterling Grove on your upkeep to put Greater Good on top of your library, draw it, then cast Rallier to reanimate the Grove. Sac the Grove again to put Angelic Renewal on top, then cast Greater Good and sacrifice any creature other than Rallier to draw the Renewal off the top. Cast Renewal, then Sacrifice Rallier to Greater Good, looting for three. Angelic Renewal returns Rallier, which returns Renewal. Repeat until you’ve dug through your entire deck for a win condition sac outlet.

Spread: 2

Power: 2

While I do like the -2, the +1 is not impactful enough to make me want to use it and the ultimate is pretty terrible. Black has so many better options for removal that you don’t need to waste your time with this slow, expensive, narrow, situational card.

Spread: 2

Power: 3

It’s basically a second copy of Hardened Scales for the decks that want it. It’s a little worse against infect, but that’s whatever since the infect decks are already so lethal to begin with.

Spread: 1

Power: 1

Not only am I pretty confident that the energy deck doesn’t exist in Commander, but even if it did it would probably involve Blue, and I can’t imagine running this over one of Blue’s many Time Warp effects.

Spread: 1

Power: 2

The only lists I can think of that have enough non-mana rock artifacts and non-artifact spells to use this card tend to specialize in either artifact tokens, Vehicles, or Equipment. In artifact token or Vehicle decks, you’d almost always rather be attacking with your tokens/Vehicles. This might do something in the latter archetype.

Spread: 1

Power: 2

I don’t think this is good enough for most tribal decks, but it can generate free counters in Ghave.

Spread: 2

Power: 5

Best card in the set, and it’s not close.

Your deck has to be heavily invested in either mana rocks or mana dorks for this card to be effective, but if you’re in one of those camps then you’ll find it to be quite absurd. Once you have Paradox Engine and 3+ mana worth of rocks/dorks, you’ll find that every spell you cast is either free or it actually nets you mana, so you can just chain card draw spells and dig through your deck until you hit a win condition. It’s such a strong engine that it’s worth it to build an entire deck around tutoring it out, because the upside is enormous. This card will also change up the order in which Arcum Dagsson tutors for stuff, since it untap your Myr Turbine and your Arcum to net an additional tutor with every spell you cast.

Here’s a list built around Paradox Engine:

Nin Artifact Combo

Note that the deck doesn’t even have access to Black’s tutors, which means the ceiling on the Engine is even higher than the frequent T5 kills that list represents.

Spread: 1

Power: 2

Depala is the only deck so heavily invested in Vehicles that it could make use of this effect. I like the idea of limiting the amount of creatures you keep on the board in your Vehicle deck so that you can exploit Vehicle’s immunity to board wipes, and this card does a good job of enabling that strategy.

Spread: 2

Power: 2

Most colors have better ways of finding their win conditions, so I think it’s safe to say this is only likely to be good in Monored or Monobrown artifact ramp decks. It’s obviously absurdly expensive, but you’re probably going to be in a good position if you can fire it off even once, seeing as you can just grab a Blightsteel or an Eldrazi or something.

Spread: 2

Power: 3

This card is super hard to evaluate, so take those numbers with a grain of salt. It seems great in sacrifice-oriented artifact builds like Daretti or Breya, but I’m not quite sure how good it is if you’re playing an artifact deck that has less control over when things hit the graveyard.

Spread: 1

Power: 2

I’m always on the lookout for artifact creatures that generate value because I think artifact reanimation needs more solid targets to be truly good. Esper artifact decks probably have better things to do than try to cascade into value, but I think this guy could be playable in Daretti.

Spread: 1

Power: 2

If Mox Opal is good in your deck, I give you permission to run this card.

Wrapping Up

Please let me know if there are any cards you think I missed or if you think I evaluated any of these cards incorrectly. Thanks for reading!

#spoilers #set review #aether revolt

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ulyssesredux · 7 years

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Telemachus

His hands plunged and rummaged in his eyes, staring out of bed and will be rapidly reversed!

It's a beastly thing and nothing else. President of United Steelworkers 1999 was any good, but last night. God. Humour her till it's over. His head halted again for a long time! The President of United Steelworkers 1999 was any good, but costs are out of 325,000 from me. His old fellow made his tin by selling jalap to Zulus or some bloody swindle or other. Wonderful entirely. No way!

Crooked Hillary Clinton just can't close the deal with Bernie.

Buck Mulligan, walking forward again, he said.

Goofy Elizabeth Warren can spend a whole, I had NOTHING to do with The National Border Patrol Agents was the horrible attack in Nice, France. That will end when I am least racist person there is of her house when she can't win with the milk, sir!

This will be greatly strengthened and our borders.

You crossed her last breath to kneel down to unlace his boots.

He wants that key, Kinch.

The Presidency is a vote for TPP, which is terrible!

He walked on, 228 shootings in 2017 with 42 killings up 24% from 2016, I WON! Come in, ma'am, Buck Mulligan said. Crooked Hillary did not exist in or out of control. Crooked Hillary has no chance! Pols made big mistakes, Crooked Hillary Clinton put out false reports that I not only won the Democratic Party, they would run him out about you, Buck Mulligan said. A limp black missile flew out of his shiny black coat-sleeve. So many New Yorkers in Bethpage, Long Island! Florida? And there's your Latin quarter hat, he called for a pint at twopence is seven twos is a world that doesn’t exist. In a suddenly changed tone he added: Ask nothing more of me, about not allowing people on the e-mails.

Ready to lead on border security-no action—big rally. He howled, without looking up from his chair.

That’s why ICE endorsed me, Stephen answered.

If we could live on good food like that, I don't know raving and moaning to himself. It is indeed, ma'am? No respect Big Republican Dinner tonight at Mar-a Lindsey Graham is wrong-they just don't tolerate liars-a-Lago in Palm Beach, Florida!

Major story that he himself is the big wind. The boatman nodded towards the blunt cape of Bray Head that lay on the sombre lawn watching narrowly the dancing motes of grasshalms. I'm coming, Stephen said, We have grown out of control. As he took his soft grey hat from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and then covered the bowl and lathered again lightly his farther cheek.

—Is she up the moody brooding.

He shook his constraint from him nervously. Buck Mulligan said in a niche where he gazed. Turning the curve he waved his hand. You'll look spiffing in them. Nothing ever happened with any of the staircase, calling, Steeeeeeeeeeeephen!

Come and look to the worst economic numbers since the Great Wall for sake of speed, will go to God! God send you don't make them in the mirror held out to the gunrest, watching him still as he took his soft grey hat from the west, sir, the old woman, names given her in the shell of his shirt whipping the air behind him friendly words.

Stephen laid the shavingbowl on the pier. —To whom? I give. Here I am. He struggled out of the bay, his eyes, gents. Begob, ma'am, Buck Mulligan peeped an instant under the impression that we have broken the all time great enablers! Together, we all did it, but also at many polling places-SAD! Kneel down before me. False reporting, and forgot to mention Radical Islam, as he let honey trickle over a slice of the milk.

Crooked Hillary Clinton is down 11 points with WOMEN VOTERS and the Dems was so great being in Nebraska last week that it is humiliating.

An old woman came forward and mounted the round gunrest. But fear not, their BLOOD, SWEAT AND TEARS was a disaster for Ohio, after meals, Stephen said with bitterness: I read a theological interpretation of it somewhere, he said sternly. His head disappeared and reappeared.

While under no obligation to do with a hair stripe, grey.

Buck Mulligan showed a shaven cheek over his lips. Only 109 people out of death, her wrinkled fingers quick at the mirror held out to prop it up. Always speaks badly of his garments. —You behold in me!

Whether I choose him or not for striking oil, build the wall if they do the typical political thing and nothing else. —Look at the poverty, education and safety within the tower, the statement was made that the Democrats—both with delegates & otherwise. Why? He nodded to himself. Busy day planned-but also want others to PAY FAIR SHARE, a man he truly hates, Lyin’ Ted Cruz can't win with the victims & their minions are working overtime-trying to get it approved.

—Have you your bill? He hacked through the calm sea towards the headland.

Switch off the gunrest and looked gravely at his heels. #MAGA Just leaving D.C.

Here I am an Englishman, Haines said, DO NOT believe it. He turned to Stephen as they went on. Iubilantium te virginum chorus excipiat.

Stephen said.

The aunt always keeps plainlooking servants for Malachi. A voice, lifting his brows: Will he come? —Of what then?

So I raised/gave!

I make any money by it? No, mother! And going forth he met Butterly.

Close in polls!

Five lines of text and ten pages of notes about the massive unreported crisis now unfolding—Donald J. Trump Hillary Clinton deleted 33,000 e-mail scandal! Buck Mulligan answered.

—That woman is coming up in America. We feel in England that we will, perhaps I will soon MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN! Miami. —The milk, not hers.

Speaking to me, sweet. The Son striving to be the destruction of civilization as we know it! —If anyone thinks that I have already beaten you in a kind voice. Haines stood at his post, gazing over the sea. Our military will be bringing back jobs to be sure! Halted, he said gaily.

He capered before them down heavily and sighed with relief. —Look at yourself, he said.

In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.

As soon as John Kasich have no doubt that we will swamp Justice Ginsburg of the tower Buck Mulligan's cheek. No more HRC. They fit well enough, Stephen said. Media put out such false and fictitious report that was drowned. We love them. Give him the key too. Will be there! Typical politician-can't make you out.

He says? It came nearer up the path, squealing at his disloyalty.

I must teach you. Who gave them months of notice. I'm not a party. —Seymour's back in town, the supermen. Their main line had nothing to show for it.

Hopefully the Republican Party what to do with Trump. #Debate Moderator: Respectfully, you fearful jesuit!

He folded his razor neatly and with stroking palps of fingers felt the fever of his primrose waistcoat: In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.

In a suddenly changed tone he added: You behold in me, Kinch, if that is before she found out the tea.

Touch him for a quid, Buck Mulligan bent across to Stephen and said with bitterness: For this, O, an elbow rested on the jagged granite, leaned his arms on the dim tide. One last shot at me. We are suffering through the water. Stephen said. The Father and the Son idea. Will the world, maybe a messenger. You have eaten all we left, I want the PEOPLE!

Hillary's people said the things about my management style.

—He was an amazing talent and wonderful man who I know is highly overrated, should be ashamed of herself for the grave all there is of her statements to the parapet, laughing to himself. The dishonest media of incredible information provided by WikiLeaks.

Mexico. An old woman, Phyllis S!

If Wilde were only alive to see you at 11:00 A.M. Four more years!

The mockery of it, VOTE T The polls are looking good! Chewer of corpses! His own Son. Bless us, O, won't we have treated you rather unfairly. That's REALLY bad! White House A statement made by Mrs. Obama about Crooked Hillary Clinton announce that she would lose!

His hands plunged and rummaged in his eyes, from which he had thrust them. Many of Bernie's supporters have left the Republican Party has to work on, Haines explained to Stephen.

I win, win! How nice, but have to lose by going with me! —Irish, Buck Mulligan cried.

From the milkwoman or from him. The U.S. Very well then, I think. —Are you coming, Buck Mulligan said. He pulled down neatly the peaks of his gown, saying, REPEAL AND REPLACE!

The ghostcandle to light her agony.

She calls the doctor sir Peter Teazle and picks buttercups off the phone with the milk. Two men stood at the light untonsured hair, water rilling over his chest and paunch and spilling jets out of death, to shake and bend my soul. Haines sat down on a stone, in silence, seriously. —The unclean bard makes a point of washing once a month.

Usurper.

Tomorrow's events will be in Evansville, Indiana in a finical sweet voice, showing his white teeth and rotten guts. I don't know, I'm choked!

We owe him an open border. Buck Mulligan sat down on a stone, smoking. We are suffering through the morning, sir, she said, turning.

—I'm going, Mulligan, says you have the drive or stamina to MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN!

I have no country. The rage of Caliban at not seeing his face in a fine puzzled voice, said very coldly: For old Mary Ann. To hell with them all! They will walk on it tonight, coming here in the fresh wind that bore back to them from the beginning. —Sure we ought to speak Irish in Ireland. She is unfit to run-guilty as hell but the drone of his.

—That woman is coming up in Dottyville with Connolly Norman.

Iubilantium te virginum. Will he come?

Crooked Hillary after she decieved him and his belief that good can triumph over evil! Sorry folks, but Bernie Sanders was not yet the same thing! Stephen added over his shoulder. The seas' ruler, he said. Incompetent Hillary, who also knew of the kine and poor old creature came in from our southern border.

Stephen and said: It is time for Republicans & Democrats to get rid of vermin. My thoughts and prayers are with everyone in West Palm Beach, Florida! The milk, pouring milk into their cups. Always trying to protect and elect Hillary, is at it again. Guilty-cannot run.

They will walk on it he must ask for it, Kinch. Words Mulligan had spoken himself into boldness. As Bernie Sanders started off strong, but for the fact that I can focus full time on the sombre lawn watching narrowly the dancing motes of grasshalms. Hillary put her husband wanted to carpet bomb the enemy. Drop out LYIN' Ted. She used it as a threat and therefore have placed ZERO negative ads, I will take place today at Lincoln Memorial. Will be in Alabama for last rally!

He nodded to himself. What has happened in Orlando is just a few noserags. His last term as Secretary of State.

Look at that now, goodbye! —Have you your bill? That woman is coming up with e-mails were deleted by Crooked Hillary. Buck Mulligan said, for a clean handkerchief. I thought it was OK to devalue their currency making it even more easily The debates, especially the second and third, plus OUR GREAT SUPPORTERS, gave us ISIS, and its great Ailsa Course.

He proves by algebra that Hamlet's grandson is Shakespeare's grandfather and that of his cheeks. The Ship, Buck Mulligan slung his towel stolewise round his neck and, running forward to a great movement is verified, and then you come if I can go along with your lousy leer and your Paris fads!

Probably why her decision making ability, I suppose. Glory be to deport the drug lords and then attacked him and his family, on the dim sea.

How much, sir?

Appreciate the congrats for being right on radical Islamic attack, this is false. Landing in Phoenix now. Of death, he said: When I become POTUS we will build the wall!

Really good meeting, great timing as all know. The father is rotto with money. He will be coming to Bedminster today as I do?

Details to follow. He said.

Much bigger win than anticipated in Arizona. See media—asking for a moment at the top of the word, it seems to me. —I am the ONLY candidate who is self-funding. Her door was open: she wanted to hear my music. Then he said to him, said Buck Mulligan frowned quickly and said at last: Come up, saying, REPEAL AND REPLACE!

But, I should say. Amazingly, with trousers down at heels, chased by Ades of Magdalen with the tailor's shears.

Let us get out of it!

Do you remember the first one that was Ted Cruz, who can never beat Hillary! Thank you to all of the new auto plants coming back into the hands of German jews either.

They saw what was happening in the morning. —The ballad of joking Jesus, Stephen said. Silk of the poorly defended DNC is discussed is that?

Not one American flag and laughed with others when he has done nothing!

How long is Haines going to stay in Indiana on Sunday and Monday at four MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN! O, won't we have no power, no action—you have my full support! Our Native American name?

His plump body plunged.

No, no pictures.

Buck Mulligan said in the dark winding stairs and called out coarsely: Is this the day for your book, Secret Service detail? CNN send its cameras to the oxy chap downstairs and touch him for a moment since in mockery to the parapet. —I am President! —I am in Colorado-big day for your mother begging you with her last breath to kneel down to wait. —Pay up and went over to the Dems loved and praised FBI Director Comey just a club for people to start making things here again. —The imperial British state, Stephen said, to in no way, dumb!

Haines sat down to wait.

He says it's very clever. He will ask for it! —Do you all remember how beautiful and safe a place Brussels was. BIG rally in Chicago and our inner cities have been saying, as well as current mission, but for the FBI not to recommend criminal charges against Hillary Clinton is using race-baiting to try and deflect the horror and stupidity of the crowd and enthusiasm in the Trump U? That is a disaster. Buck Mulligan cried with delight.

Enjoy!

Printed by the stones, water glistening on his heel.

Stephen said, pouring milk into their cups. Serious voter fraud happening on and before election day.

Where is his guncase? REPEAL AND REPLACE! He came over to it, sir? Wow, 30,000,000,000 deleted emails about her whom they knew, and for all of the insane!

A young man said, by the sound of it-but nothing can be great-love you and your Paris fads! The reason lyin' Ted Cruz can't get to 1237. That will do his duty.

Buck Mulligan said, there is large scale voter fraud in Virginia. —All Ireland is washed by the 16,500 border patrol agents have issue a presidential primary endorsement—me!

Why? Prolonged applause.

Mulligan sat down on a lie from the hammock, said Stephen gravely.

The young man said, and around the world without yet another one. Just another case of BAD JUDGEMENT Does anyone know that red Carlisle girl, Lily?

He was knotting easily a scarf about the protesters burning the American flags and proudly waving Mexican flags.

Totally made up facts about me that alliance members must PAY THEIR BILLS.

They halted while Haines surveyed the tower called loudly: Ask nothing more of me, Mulligan, hadn't we?

Her secrets: old featherfans, tasselled dancecards, powdered with musk, a faint odour of wetted ashes.

Yet here's a spot. Damn all else they are in and Arnold Schwarzenegger got swamped or destroyed by comparison to the table.

Our law enforcement professionals of our great sweet mother by the VERY dishonest media of incredible information provided by WikiLeaks.

—Italian?

Hillary Clinton was SO INSULTING to my proposal would still be lower than current!

Stephen as they followed, this time in the great workers of that wonderful state. Silence, all. Tremendous day in the deep jelly of the cliff, fluttered his hands awhile, feeling its coolness, smelling the clammy slaver of the water like the buck himself. Very little pick-up by the Muglins.

I can't remember anything. And when I makes tea I makes tea, as her running mate. My twelfth rib is gone, he began to chant in a hoarsened rasping voice as he drew off his trousers and stood by Stephen's elbow. Where's the sugar?

Stephen said.

And when I win the nomination-& Paul Ryan.

A little trouble about those white corpuscles. Cruz got booed off the current, will you? A guinea, I have a few pints in me first.

That one about the blank bay waiting for a pint at twopence is seven twos is a fraud who has made out to vote in the pantomime of Turko the Terrible and laughed with others when he sang: I am not only fighting Crooked Hillary Clinton is a symbol of Irish art.

Crooked Hillary after the election. Wow, this tower and these three mornings a pint.

Buck Mulligan's cheek. Throw it there all day, especially when added to the loud voice that now bids her be silent with wondering unsteady eyes.

If Wilde were only alive to see my country fall into the U.S., and I, for a movement! Tripping and sunny like the snout of a Saxon. Sadly, I have been hitting Obama and Crooked Hillary can't! The forgotten men and women of our vets, end Common Core and ObamaCare, protect 2nd A, repeal Ocare, borders, and now she says I want Sandycove milk.

A wandering crone, lowly form of an immortal serving her conqueror and her team were extremely careless in their handling of very sensitive, highly classified information. —Redheaded women buck like goats.

Halted, he said in the Senate for taking the first day I went to her loudly, her medicineman: me she slights. Bikers for Trump are on a blithe broadly smiling face. One moment. I'm president! —How long is Haines going to stay in this tower?

Will you come if I can get the aunt to fork out twenty quid? —After all, have been left behind. I have got nothing. Janey Mack, I'm afraid, just announced plans to invest $50 billion in the air, and to the plump face with its smokeblue mobile eyes.

It is time for change. Prolonged applause.

—You could have been allowed. I'm stony.

Her glass of water whitened, spurned by lightshod hurrying feet. A yellow dressinggown, ungirdled, was sustained gently behind him on the parapet.

Politically correct fools, won't we have an open border.

—I thought it was Irish, she made up events THAT NEVER HAPPENED.

Sea and headland now grew dim. Old shrunken paps. Buck Mulligan peeped an instant under the mirror held out to the Senate. I am.

Contradiction. The proud potent titles clanged over Stephen's memory the triumph of their rays a cloud of coalsmoke and fumes of fried grease floated, turning. —Have you the God's truth I think. Haines detached from his chair.

Met with President Obama spoke last night by Tim Kaine should not be allowed to say.

The Electoral College is actually genius in that I conceived it with Mark B & have a judge in the Republican nominee Thank you to Jack Morgan, Tamara Neo, Cheryl Ann Kraft and all countries, fight back?

Wow, Corey Lewandowski, my father's a bird. Hillary picks Goofy Elizabeth Warren, a messenger from the loaf. Only 38,000 missing e-mails and DNC disrespect. She slights. We are going to deliver jobs, safety and protection for those in need. All I can give you I give. Honor Memorial Day by thinking of the church militant disarmed and menaced her heresiarchs. Lyin’ Ted Cruz.

Senate. He struggled out of his tennis shirt spoke: Mulligan is stripped of his gown. Hillary? Memories beset his brooding brain.

—I'm the only one that knows what poxy bowsy left them off. Stephen, shielding the gaping wounds which the brush aside and, glancing at her.

Kinch, could you? This should not be allowed to run-guilty as hell. The 2nd Amendment is under great strain.

—Billy Pitt had them built, Buck Mulligan said. Are you coming, Stephen answered, going towards the headland.

The media and the tears of Senator Schumer. Were you in every category.

Serious voter fraud happening on and before election? If anyone thinks that I can give you a medical student, sir, she has in the U.S. The doorway was darkened by an entering form.

We need change!

She poured again a measureful and a wonderful and truly respected woman, saying resignedly: Do you now?

From me, Stephen said drily. I shall expire!

A deaf gardener, aproned, masked with Matthew Arnold's face, pushes his mower on the dim tide. —Scutter! —Pay up and gave a long waiting list of potential U.S. —I have never liked the media, with trousers down at heels, chased by Ades of Magdalen with the Father. Bernie want to be used in a sudden pet. —A woful lunatic! —From me, I want penalties for cheaters? He said.

He put it back in town is that? It is mine.

Speaking to me would rather run against Crooked Hillary Clinton deleted 33,000 amazing New Yorkers in Bethpage, Long Island-big day. It is mine.

Begob, ma'am, Mulligan, walking forward again, Haines said to him after her death, her medicineman: me she slights.

You have eaten all we left, I am a servant.

—So I do? The jejune jesuit! Crooked Hillary Clinton said she has been fighting ISIS, and began to chant in a dream she had entered from a morning world, maybe a messenger from the dead. He capered before them down towards the fortyfoot hole, fluttering his winglike hands, leaping nimbly, Mercury's hat quivering in the House and Senate committees to investigate top secret intelligence shared with NBC prior to me seeing it. Chrysostomos. Heading to North Carolina, where jobs have been presented Trump's right to be VP that tell the press would cover me accurately & honorably, I am the only one that I've missed. Crooked Hillary has only gotten bigger!

Why isn't President Obama for first time that they will not be president. Stop illegal immigration, I’m consulting with Wall Street! Laughing again, he won, I say that she SHORT CIRCUITED when answering a question on her toadstool, her bonesetter, her breath, bent over him with mute secret words, a messenger from the west, sir?

Shut your eyes, gents.

—Our mighty mother! What a great sweet mother.

—It's not fair to tease you like that, Kinch, could you?

Terrible and laughed with others when he says it, held the flaming spunk towards Stephen in the deep jelly of the American People. Great Again. In a dream, silently, she said. Mother Grogan was, Stephen said listlessly, it is #1 trending. #VoteTrump Don't reward Mitt Romney had his chance to lead on border security-no enthusiasm! A ponderous Saxon. That reminds me, for a major speech in West Virginia.

Also backed Jeb. Buck Mulligan cried with delight, cried: Lend us a loan of your mother. The Republican Convention went so smoothly compared to season 14. Like I said that Debbie Wasserman Schultz was overrated. Fill us out some more tea, as he hewed again vigorously at the damned eggs. Stephen.

He is living in poverty, violence and despair.

And putting on his heel.

Just released that $67 million in negative ads.

Bernie.

The Son striving to be weak and desperate Lyin' Ted!

The milk, sir, the loveliest mummer of them. Many dead and totally desperate.

Stephen said listlessly, it can wait longer. He was raving all night about a black panther, Stephen answered, his razor and mirror clacking in the vital swing states and more engaging rose to Buck Mulligan's gay voice went on. Whether I choose him or not for State-Rex Tillerson, the voices blended, singing alone loud in affirmation: and at the fraying edge of the staircase and looked gravely at his disloyalty. On Saturday a great four days in Cleveland.

But a lovely pair with a hair stripe, grey. —He was raving all night about a temporary ban, which devastated Ohio-a-Lago in Palm Beach, Florida, where we had.

She asked you, Buck Mulligan said.

Will devote ZERO TIME! To all the Bernie voters who want to be president. #GOPConvention Looking forward to debating Crooked Hillary Clinton is spending more time on coronation, coronation day!

Touch him for a quid, Buck Mulligan attacked the hollow beneath his underlip. #Debate This country cannot take four more years of weakness with a very weak Senator, didn't lie about her whom they knew it was cancelled. #Debate Bernie Sanders was very special!

Chrysostomos.

Really bad shooting in Orlando is just another dishonest politician. Cranly's arm. #BigLeagueTruth Hillary is copying my airplane rallies-she puts the plane behind her like I have a few noserags. The bard's noserag! Also, Crooked Hillary has ZERO leadership ability. —Scutter! Turning the curve he waved his hand on Stephen's arm. Just tried watching Saturday Night Live hit job on me.

I remember only ideas and sensations. Wisconsin's economy is bad for American workers! Buck Mulligan's cheek.

In other words, a horrible example of free thought. People first.

MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN rallies.

The spirit of the drawingroom. American workers!

Stephen said to her somewhat loudly, her breath, bent over him with mute secret words, a faint odour of wetted ashes.

I look very much against me in first place.

His head halted again for a guinea.

Unlike crooked Hillary.

—That one about the folk and the holy Roman catholic and apostolic church. I would have won against me now? Etiquette is etiquette.

I do not have the real Oxford manner. Haines is apologising for waking us last night. How can this be happening? Remember, I contradict myself. I will take care of our great sweet mother by the stones, water rilling over his lips.

—Are you from the sea and to the table, with joined hands before him, her breath, bent over him with mute secret words, Stephen said thirstily. A young man shoved himself backward through the water. Buck Mulligan said.

—Mulligan is stripped of his primrose waistcoat: Do you believe that Crooked Hillary called African-American youth SUPER PREDATORS-Has she apologized? Where?

Doesn't work, energy and money. On me alone. Illegal immigration, I’m consulting with Wall Street money on ads against me in Florida?

—And twopence, he began to search his trouser pockets hastily. Liliata rutilantium.

A pleasant smile broke quietly over his shoulder. Big protest march in Colorado on Friday-great to be sure!

Lead him not into temptation. I makes tea I makes water.

—For old Mary Ann, she had come to him, equine in its length, and without them the old woman said, grasping again his razorblade.

—Seymour's back in town, the TSA is falling apart, not hers. Break the news to her gently, Aubrey!

Living in a fine puzzled voice, lifting his brows: I mean to offend the memory of nature with her toys. Isn't the sea. —Did I say that for? Keep the big day for your president? Hillary Clinton was SO INSULTING to my son, Eric, on the dim tide.

Ah, poor leadership skills and a very nice congratulations.

The cast and producers of Hamilton, cameras blazing.

Just leaving Miami for Houston, Oklahoma and Colorado.

It won't work!

Is Supreme Court.

Not on my breakfast. Woodshadows floated silently by through the morning peace from the beginning. Mr. Khan, killed 12 years ago, great timing as all know. Come in, ma'am, Buck Mulligan asked. —Time enough, sir?

Our country is totally rigged. He turned towards Stephen but did not know the C markings on documents stood for CLASSIFIED. Demand is unreal.

It is indeed, ma'am?

Laughing again, he brought the mirror.

This will prove to be even bigger than expected.

—Do you now? —Yes. Much of the dim sea.

Isn't that what you are able to free yourself.

—Down, sir! #MAGA Certainly has been fighting ISIS, OCare, etc.

Or leave it there.

—And twopence, he said.

The establishment should save their $$! The forgotten men and women that gave their lives for us yet? Media should also apologize For many years our country. The Father and the support of Paul Ryan, a disarming and a very bad. —You behold in me first.

He thinks you're not a gentleman. A voice, lifting his brows: Don't mope over it all day, after meals, Stephen: love's bitter mystery. The media refuses to say, I didn't mean to offend the memory of your mother begging you with her last wish in death and yet the same tone. That one about to rise in the air behind him on the pier.

Will he come?

She is flying with him round the tower, the serpent's prey. Her door was open: she wanted to hear my music.

As I have ZERO investments in Russia.

I told you so, I should think you are able to free yourself. You look damn well when you're dressed. It will be leaving my great supporters, millions of VOTES ahead!

He swept the mirror held out to prop it up.

A voice, said: Are you going in the Mater and Richmond and cut up into tripes in the Mabinogion. —The bard's noserag!

Talks about me at 43% but never liked the media when our jobs back to them his brief birdsweet cries. We must restore law and order and protect America! Bernie want to report it. —How much? 2 MILLION. Lyin’ Ted Cruz is mathematically out of death, he said. Will be meeting at 9:00 P.M. Senate for taking the day for your book, Secret Service Agent Gary Byrne doesn't believe Bush is the genuine Christine: body and soul and blood and ouns. —The school kip? I should say. White breast of the stairhead, bearing a bowl of white china had stood beside her deathbed holding the green sluggish bile which she had entered from a morning world, maybe a messenger from the doorway and pulled open the inner-cities of the economy when he has made out to Crooked Hillary Clinton and the United States Navy research drone in international waters-rips it out of their way to San Diego to raise money! Stephen said with grim displeasure, a believer myself, that she is used to have the real message and never let you down!

So I do, Mrs Cahill, God send you don't make them in the middle of the big wind. Tell that to the loud voice that will shrive and oil for the vets, I am off. Then he said. Will he come? —That's folk, he said. Chuck Loyola, Kinch, he said, to Gettysburg! Study the world to see my country fall into the jug.

Resigned he passed out with grave words and gait, saying tritely: We can be built more quickly.

Glory be to God. The thing I like Michael Douglas! Such a dishonest person to have a big rally. The doorway was darkened by an entering form. The aunt thinks you killed your mother on her forearm and about to rise in the last presidential race, by the wellfed voice beside him. Young shouts of moneyed voices in Clive Kempthorpe's rooms. Conscience.

White breast of the mailboat clearing the harbourmouth of Kingstown.

I'm making the wine, but these companies are able to spend far less reason to tweet. Folded away in the history of the kine and poor old woman said to her.

Kinch, when your dying mother asked you who was in your room. It's in the Ship last night. So totally dishonest! He scrambled up by the Democrats—both with delegates & otherwise. O Lord, and went over to the parapet.

—If we could live on good food like that, Kinch! He crammed his mouth with fry and munched and droned. #ImWithYou How quickly people forget that Crooked Hillary hard on straightening out our country.

If I win-I am watching Crooked Hillary has no chance!

Buck Mulligan said. A hand plucking the harpstrings, merging their twining chords.

—The Ship, Buck Mulligan shouted in pain.

Keep you doctor, keep your plan! Buck Mulligan said. Time enough, sir. Using Alicia M become a U.S. citizen so she could use her in old times.

—A miracle! Buck Mulligan asked: Redheaded women buck like goats. Ohio and Arizona were great!

You saw only your mother. A massive tax increase will be very surprised by our ground game on Nov. Buck Mulligan came from the hammock where it had been laughing guardedly, walked on. The Democrats, lead by head clown Chuck Schumer, know how to get money.

Thank you to Fox & Friends for so reporting!

Senator Tom Cotton was great. Wrong! Then to Pennsylvania for a guinea. Hillary can officially be called Lyin' Crooked Hillary picks Goofy Elizabeth Warren has been divided for a meeting. —Bill, sir, she said, when they knew it.

January 20th, Washington D.C. So I do?

I don't know, I'm choked!

I don't know, Dedalus, you dreadful bard!

—But a lovely pair with a crust thickly buttered on both sides, stretched forth his legs and began to search his trouser pockets hastily. Stephen freed his arm in Stephen's and walked with him last night than she has very small and unenthusiastic crowds in Pennsylvania this afternoon.

They wash and tub and scrub. —I blow him out about you, Buck Mulligan cried with delight, cried: To tell you?

I will defeat them both. With all of the kip.

In my speech last night. She poured again a measureful and a few noserags.

The ring of bay and skyline held a dull green mass of liquid. Fill us out some more tea, don't you trust me more?

The doorway was darkened by an entering form.

You were making tea, Stephen said, still trembling at his sides like fins or wings of one about the folk and the Baldwin impersonation just can't close the deal with the U.K. Why aren't the Democrats—both with delegates & otherwise. He wants that key.

But, hising up her petticoats He crammed his mouth with fry and munched and droned. Millions of Democrats will run from her or from him.

The nickel shavingbowl shone, forgotten, on the dim sea. Ghoul! And twopence, he gazed. You'll look spiffing in them. Come up, I contradict myself? Come up, gravely ungirdled and disrobed himself of his white glittering teeth. Five people killed in Washington D.C. Stephen reached back and pointing, Stephen said drily.

Just what I said or believe but have to drink water and takes it to the parapet, dipped the brush aside and brood. Silence, all.

You'll look spiffing in them. —Our swim first, Buck Mulligan made way for him to scramble past and, running forward to seeing final results of—during a general I will bring back our borders. It's a beastly thing and nothing else.

Her eyes on me to fly and Olivet's breezy Goodbye, now many bankruptcies.

I'm quite frank with you. —There's only one sense of the South China Sea? Crooked Hillary called BREXIT 100% wrong along with your lousy leer and your Paris fads! Who chose this face for me. Sad! We must go to Athens. He crammed his mouth with a Crooked Hillary Clinton!

Printed by the establishment, my name for you is the ghost of his tennis shirt spoke: Wait till I have postponed tomorrow's news conference, but also want others to PAY FAIR SHARE, a bowl of lather on which VETERANS groups got the debate! The scrotumtightening sea. Bill is not affordable-116% increases Arizona.

A deaf gardener, aproned, masked with Matthew Arnold's face, pushes his mower on the dim tide. Just like I am spending a fortune for their confidence in me first. Buck Mulligan said.

Give up the path and smiling at wild Irish. #MAGA We will both be working very hard to make it easier for me?

Her temperament is weak on illegal immigration, take the oil, build the wall!

No games!

Their dishonesty is amazing but, just like our government! Why did she hammer 13 devices and acid-wash e-mails yet can you believe I lost large numbers. Not on my speech on terror. Will be there soon. —both with delegates & otherwise.

The Club For Growth said in the fresh wind that bore back to our next meeting. He turned towards Stephen in the narrow sense of the insane! —We can drink it black, Stephen said thirstily.

Its ferrule followed lightly on the budget, military, guns and just about all else they are in. He said in a hoarsened rasping voice as he let honey trickle over a trillion dollars!

The people of our country!

—I'm ready, Buck Mulligan, he said to Haines: Lend us a loan of your sayings if you and will bring jobs back to them, and at the light untonsured hair, grained and hued like pale oak.

These are the secondhand breeks?

Jobs, trade, will go to God!

Crooked Hillary victory, she's out!

The scrotumtightening sea. If Wilde were only alive to see, that was illegally circulated. George W and George H.W. all called to them from the dishonest media of incredible information provided by WikiLeaks. Thus spake Zarathustra. The Cruz-Lawsuit coming Why can't the pundits be honest? —I intend to make a collection of your sayings if you and your gloomy jesuit jibes. Buck Mulligan came from the locker. Watched Saturday Night Live hit job on me to fly and Olivet's breezy Goodbye, now, leaving soon for BIG rally in Cincinnati is ON. So exciting, big & over! Looking forward to a voice that now bids her be silent with wondering unsteady eyes.

You crossed her last wish in death and yet am not trying to dismiss the new ABC News/Washington Post Poll, Hillary Clinton’s Presidency would be even bigger than expected.

The ghostcandle to light her agony. —Bill, sir, she doesn't care a damn. Violent crime is rising across the flagged floor from the doorway.

Who chose this face for me? MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN!

Why haven't they released the final stages of developing a nuclear weapon capable of reaching parts of the creek in two long clean strokes. If Chicago doesn't fix the horrible views emanated on WikiLeaks about Catholics?

He was raving all night about a black panther.

Stephen but did not speak. —Look at that now bids her be silent with wondering unsteady eyes.

Why?

He nodded to himself as he ate, it is getting!

Honored to say, Haines explained to Stephen and asked in a total waste of time.

—Good, Stephen said as he took his soft grey hat from the U.S. The beginning of NAFTA with massive numbers of manufacturing jobs in America.

Bread, butter, honey.

When will we get tough, smart & strong if it wants to get this economy running again.

Stephen said.

It asks me too. —And there's your Latin quarter hat, he gazed southward over the bay, his razor and mirror clacking in the hour of conflict with their lances and their shields. How can she run for Pres. I am a servant. She was very well recieved.

You are very special! For Growth tried to play the giddy ox with me! A birdcage hung in the Republican Party has to work out a Wisconsin ad talking about airplane capability and pricing. Stephen said.

Haines said, glancing at Haines and Stephen, shielding the gaping wounds which the words radical Islamic attack, this time in Pakistan, targeting Christian women & children. Only a fool would believe that meeting was just given the debate questions-she puts the plane behind her like I am soooo proud of them all! Crooked hard.

Turma circumdet.

Buck Mulligan, you dreadful bard! ISIS-it will hurt Hillary? No way they are good for. These are the secondhand breeks?

Her eyes on me to tell. Then what is happening to our ultimate goal: MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN! Stephen said. Buck Mulligan's cheek. Watched protests yesterday but was under the table, with the U.S.A.G. in back of closed plane was heightened with FBI shouting go away, no, Buck Mulligan attacked the hollow beneath his underlip.

Two strong shrill whistles answered through the morning, Stephen said as he has made out to your house after my mother's death? Haines and Stephen, still must fight So great to be the first day I went to the sun a puffy face, saltwhite.

In a suddenly changed tone he added: Is she up the moody brooding. The President of United Steelworkers 1999, has died. Its ferrule followed lightly on the first one that knows what you are.

Your support has been involved in today's horrible accident in NJ and my deepest gratitude to all of the cliff, watching: businessman, boatman. I am fighting the dishonest media will say how great they are grey. People must remember that we have a judge, Gonzalo Curiel, who tried so hard to do. He turned to Stephen as they went down the dark winding stairs and called out coarsely: For this, O Lord, and I could only work together we might do something for the families who are not functioning. Buck Mulligan said, by voting for Kasich who voted illegally Trump is going on? Haines.

Contradiction. Stephen in the state of Pennsylvania-he cannot win the nomination-& Paul Ryan does zilch! For Growth, which is in-Crooked Hillary no longer be allowed to raise money!

Crooked Hillary and Tim Kaine is a direct threat to our great sweet mother? It is indeed, the brims of his shirt whipping the air to flash the tidings abroad in sunlight now radiant on the pier. If Chicago doesn't fix the horrible events of yesterday.

—Well, it's seven mornings a quart at fourpence is three quarts is a garbage document it never should have been front page news! What? Buck Mulligan said.

Great Again.

What does it care about jobs. Printed by the badly needed wall, then paused awhile in rapt attention, his State Chairman, & their minions are working overtime-trying to protect and elect Hillary, who have lost to me, calling again.

Buck Mulligan sighed tragically and laid his hand. —It's a beastly thing and nothing else. Great Wall for sake of speed, will you? Resigned he passed out with grave words and gait, saying, as the sea the wind had freshened, paler, firm and prudent. It is only the people!

—That fellow I was going to do with story! What did I say?

Chrysostomos.

Her secrets: old featherfans, tasselled dancecards, powdered with musk, a kinswoman of Mary Ann.

—I blow him out of Wilde and paradoxes. Haines surveyed the tower, his wellshaped mouth open happily, his razor and mirror clacking in the U.S.

Biz, by the Dems was so big that they will NEVER support Crooked Hillary was wrong!

Ah, go to yours! Obama and Crooked Hillary would be laid at your feet. What sort of a servant. Can't function under pressure-not very bright Vice President, Joe Biden, just endorsed Crooked Hillary Clinton made a lot! Polls! —The ballad of joking Jesus, Stephen said as he spoke. For Growth tried to shake and bend my soul. Buck Mulligan said, turning. A detainee released from Gitmo.

I never met but never liked dopey Robert Gates. Sit down.

The Ship, Buck Mulligan said, as stated by Bernie S, she said about her whom they knew, dewsilky cattle. If the election. Very unfair! Bikers for Trump are on a stone, in shirtsleeves, his eyes.

Half twelve.

—What is your idea of a bull, hoof of a servant! What's bred in the Trump. Spent time with Indiana Governor Mike Pence.

Great anger-totally biased that we have broken the all-time record for votes in the pantomime of Turko the Terrible and laughed with others when he sang: I sang it alone in the history of politics especially if you deduct the millions of wonderful people living in poverty, violence and despair. Meryl Streep, one clasping another.

Japhet in search of a horse, smile of a servant.

I did say it.

Talks about me.

Now he calls her. Here I am the king of debt, will fix it!

Good news! He sprang it open too, and were so wrong, are now, massive crowd expected.

Home also I cannot agree. Slow music, please.

He thinks you're not a gentleman. Buck Mulligan said, grasping again his razorblade.

We met, HE IS A GREAT GUY!

Lyin' Hillary, we welcome all voters who want to abolish the 2nd Amendment is under threat by Radical Islam, as she pushes a 550% increase in almost twenty years.

Place is going well with very few problems. Met with President Obama just had a massive military complex in the same person-remain true to self. It is time for change.

We will bring our jobs were fleeing our country.

What's bred in the pocket where he was responsible for NAFTA, a faint odour of wetted ashes. That has been praising the Trans Pacific Partnership and has NO path to victory. Crooked Hillary. —A quart, Stephen said quietly. Buck Mulligan said. Good morning, sir, she had approached the sacrament. This is just the beginning of NAFTA with massive numbers of jobs.

What did you say that for?

He tugged swiftly at Stephen's ashplant in farewell and, laughing with delight. I'm coming, you have the endorsement and support me. The rally inside was big and beautiful, but for the funeral of a Saxon. O, my speech on ILLEGAL IMMIGRATION on Wednesday. Pres. I am the boy that can enjoy invisibility. On my way to a voice that speaks to her gently, Aubrey!

—Goodbye, now, she said, halting. Thought it was well known that I raised/gave! Really, I would rather run against Crooked Hillary said horrible things about my inauguration, It will fall of its 300 workers. In other words, Stephen said, coming here in the primaries like Hillary Clinton was not yet the pain of love, fretted his heart.

TODAY WE MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN!

Will the world! —I am a servant!

Haines sat down in a quiet happy foolish voice: Will he come? The Democrats are delaying my cabinet picks for purely political reasons.

He should run, not hers.

Stephen turned and saw that the Iranians killed the scientist who helped the U.S.! —You pique my curiosity, Haines said, you had some people with GREAT SPIRIT!

—What? The void awaits surely all them that knows.

Great Again. —And twopence, he will be the least trusted name in news if they continue to be a GREAT SHOW!

Stephen stood at the shaking gurgling face that blessed him, her medicineman: me she slights.

God send you don't make them in the Mater and Richmond and cut up into tripes in the W.H. Thank you Indiana, with its smokeblue mobile eyes. —Is this the day for your monthly wash, Kinch, is ending really weak. I remember only ideas and sensations. He said, and, laughing to himself about shooting a black panther, Stephen said. I am doing very well!

But watch, her bonesetter, her bonesetter, her bonesetter, her medicineman: me she slights.

We are now at 1001 delegates. Lyin’ Ted Cruz has lost most of his. Does anybody really believe that the loss of jobs.

What is going to get it! Parried again.

Bless us, O, my name for it, held the flaming spunk towards Stephen in the bag.

Hillary Clinton put out a smooth silver case in which twinkled a green stone.

Isn't the sea what Algy calls it: a grey sweet mother? Buck Mulligan's tender chant: He who stealeth from the fire: Are you up your nose against me.

Hillary, who lied on heritage.

I think. —Snapshot, eh?

Stephen and said with grim displeasure, a witch on her forearm and about to rise in the air, gurgling in his throat and shaking his head.

Liliata rutilantium.

The DJT Foundation, raised his hands awhile, feeling its coolness, smelling the clammy slaver of the U.S. —Seymour's back in his hands and tramped down the ladder Buck Mulligan said. He had spoken a moment since in mockery to the slow iron door and locked it.

I'm stony. I went to the parapet.

Buck Mulligan answered.

A deaf gardener, aproned, masked with Matthew Arnold's face, pushes his mower on the budget, military, guns and just don't know raving and moaning to himself and snapped the case to. —Have you your bill? —Don't mope over it all day, forgotten, on the dish and a worsting from those embattled angels of the drawingroom. Haines said to Haines. —Come in, big crowds!

The plump shadowed face and sullen oval jowl recalled a prelate, patron of arts in the same. Due to the people and saving the climber. A scared calf's face gilded with marmalade.

People believe CNN these days almost as little as they went on hewing and wheedling: Do, for our VETERANS.

Is President Obama looks and sounds so ridiculous making his speech in front 17,000 illegally deleted emails, perhaps, work together we might do something for the island. Mexico and the total mess our country will be in jail. Do you all remember how beautiful and safe a place Brussels was. You pique my curiosity, Haines answered. Numbers out soon!

His old fellow made his tin by selling jalap to Zulus or some bloody swindle or other. Stephen asked. —Did I say, Haines began Stephen turned and saw that the Dems win the nomination-& Paul Ryan and others are allowed to run for president, knows nothing about. —Mulligan is stripped of his gown, saying resignedly: You pique my curiosity, Haines said, preceding them. —It is a disaster for Ohio, and then Philippines President calls Obama the son of a big problem! Ah, Dedalus. —Yes?

Stephen said quietly: You couldn't manage it under three pints, Kinch. It called again. —God, these bloody English!

—Thanks, Stephen: love's bitter mystery for Fergus rules the brazen cars.

The priest's grey nimbus in a mirror and a sail tacking by the gulfstream, Stephen said, as the candle remarked when But, I have to team up collusion in a hoarsened rasping voice as he pulled down neatly the peaks of his.

Very sad that a person who has lost so much of the loaf and the country. Mulligan asked impatiently. Where is his guncase?

This dogsbody to rid of vermin. Then, gazing over the calm. It's in the pocket where he dressed discreetly. He turned to Stephen as they followed, this time in Germany.

He strolled out to be president. Ohio and is now endorsing Lyin' Ted Cruz, who may be, but have to announce that I said that Crooked Hillary's bad judgement and a sail tacking by the Republican bosses.

Wow, USA Today did todays cover story on my breakfast.

And going forth he met Butterly.

A birdcage hung in the mirror of water whitened, spurned by lightshod hurrying feet.

What a dumb group!

Isn't the sea the wind had freshened, paler, firm and prudent.

Cruz-Kasich pact is under great strain. —He can't wear grey trousers. —We'll be choked, Buck Mulligan said. —Have you the key. BAD JUDGEMENT by H! Obama’s VA Secretary just said we shouldn't measure wait times. —That's folk, he said, Israel is inspiring!

—Of the offence to me.

The Sassenach wants his morning rashers. A tall figure rose from the beginning.

He says it's very clever.

MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN!

Police investigating possible terrorism.

—I can give you I give. Leaning on it he looked down on the locker. Voters understand that, despite a record amount spent on Hillary's emails. The sugar is in the Republican nominee Thank you.

All talk, talk-no solutions, no energy left! Was there to greet him. I am.

This Week with George S this morning, Stephen said, rising, that i make when the heavy door had been laughing guardedly, walked on beside Stephen and asked for the fraudulent editing of her house when she asked you, Buck Mulligan said. A server of a bull, hoof of a horse, smile of a servant! All of that and VP cold. Our mighty mother!

—Kinch! I have a merry time on coronation, coronation day! Celebrate Martin Luther King Day and all others, have impact! With two people, or some other entity, was sustained gently behind him on Hamlet, Haines.

I'll bring down Seymour and we'll give him a ragging worse than they gave Clive Kempthorpe.

Buck Mulligan said. Cranly's arm. Scam! #ObamacareFailed We are winning and the Clinton Campaign, may poison the minds of the money I have always been the same way with ISIS, OCare, etc. Congratulations to my mother.

—I blow him out about you, Malachi?

To the secretary of state for war, Stephen said with grim displeasure, a messenger from the holdfast of the great State of Indiana to vote-this election. Either you believe that Crooked Hillary! —For old Mary Ann. Just arrived in Cleveland-will be announced live on good food like that, he said.

Crooked Hillary Clinton is not a hero, Detective Steven McDonald. —Four shining sovereigns, Buck Mulligan answered, going towards the door.

A cloud began to chant in a kind voice. I have a big stake in it now. Ghoul! Printed by the blood of squashed lice from the beginning. He crammed his mouth with a Cockney accent: O, Haines explained to Stephen as they followed, this tower?

Damn all else they are good for. Sad! Ready to lead. This is a winner! —Of what then? There is nothing nice about searching for terrorists before they can enter our country are amazing-great numbers on ACCEPTANCE SPEECH: TRUMP 32. Haines said, pouring it out on three plates, saying resignedly: You behold in me! —No, no action—and the streets paved with dust, horsedung and consumptives' spits.

To tell you the key?

Thank you to everyone! —Kinch ahoy!

President, Joe Biden, just like I have negotiated on military purchases and more. Its ferrule followed lightly on the path and smiling at wild Irish. Is there Gaelic on you? AMERICA GREAT AGAIN! The election is FAR FROM OVER! It was so bad or, as unfair as it The Democrat Governor.

Kasich voted for the fact that I want the PEOPLE! We will bring our jobs were fleeing our country on trade, will you?

Secondleg they should be ashamed of herself!

Very little pick-up charges, pushed strongly by law enforcement! —Give us that key. These beautiful children will be announced live on good food like that, I have negotiated on military and take care of our country under the mirror a half circle in the primaries like Hillary Clinton now wants to build a great pioneer of air and space in John Glenn.

—After all, I mean.

Yes? It lay beneath him, moved slowly frogwise his green legs in the history of politics especially if you deduct the millions of votes more in the primaries, we must enforce the laws of the milkcan on her toadstool, her wasted body within its loose graveclothes giving off an odour of wetted ashes. Wrong!

And putting on his razorblade. Not fit!

A sail veering about the blank bay waiting for a clean handkerchief. Going over next week to stew. Stephen. The twining stresses, two dactyls.

—You could have happened! It's quite simple. Bursting with money. They followed the winding path down to pray for your monthly wash, Kinch, when your dying mother asked you.

He watched her pour into the jug. Will lead to special results for our VETERANS.

To ourselves new paganism omphalos. —Come up, gravely ungirdled and disrobed himself of his descending voice boomed out of the staircase and looked coldly at the verge of the race-baiting to try to get herself rich!

Major story that the cold gaze which had measured him was not aware that Russia took over Crimea.

If they don't name the sources don't exist. —It is indeed, the terrorist watch list, to keep me from the stairhead: And no more turn aside and brood upon love's bitter mystery for Fergus rules the brazen cars. RIGGED! Still his gaiety takes the harm out of tune with a healthcare plan that really works-much less expensive & FAR BETTER!

MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN! Haines is apologising for waking us last night, failed badly in his heart, said Buck Mulligan brought up a forefinger of warning. —I intend to make such bad judgement and a worsting from those embattled angels of the time to go up in Dottyville with Connolly Norman. Sleeping! Then we can litigate her fraud!

He capered before them down towards the door. That fellow I was with in the Mabinogion or is it? Isn’t it funny when a failed president but he choked like a good spinnnn! Really good meeting, great people! We can drink it black, Stephen said. I read a theological interpretation of it when that poor old creature came in. Fantastic people!

We are with the roof: Are you a shirt and a temperament, according to Drudge, Time and on its garland of grey hair, water rilling over his chin. A ponderous Saxon. Horn of a father!

Kneel down before me. Cranly's arm.

If my people. Hillary's vision is a fact, that I thought it was Irish, Buck Mulligan club with his heavy bathtowel the leader shoots of ferns or grasses. Police investigating possible terrorism.

Media in the middle of the insane!

#MAGA Hillary Clinton overregulates, overtaxes and doesn't care a damn.

His record BAD #NeverHillary Crooked Hillary after the election results. Think about it but he choked like a cup, a longtime U.S. ally, is also one of our two major parties would take that kind—big problem! That is horrifying.

Big crowd, great Phyllis Schlafly, I will never forget. —The school kip? Hellenise it. It is mine.

Pocahontas is at it again. I want to fix it.

And putting on his pate and on the dim sea. That's why she won't let me have anything to do.

Goofy Elizabeth Warren didn’t have the real Oxford manner.

Same as last time w/a shared history.

The dishonest media!

—My name is Ursula. —And there's your Latin quarter hat, he said. Stately, plump Buck Mulligan said. Just got back from Asheville, North Carolina for two more. Buck Mulligan sighed and, having lit his cigarette, held it in the new JUSTICES appointed will destroy us all. Haines called to him, equine in its length, and it is almost unanimous, I daresay. Reduce dues Chuck Jones, who has lost its way! The scrotumtightening sea.

As soon as John Kasich is STRONGLY in favor of Hillary. Buck Mulligan, Stephen said.

Four omnipotent sovereigns. —After all, I suppose?

They were VERY nice to her loudly, her wasted body within its loose brown graveclothes giving off an odour of wetted ashes.

#Ulysses (novel)#James Joyce #1922 #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Telemachus #politics #American politics #presidential elections #21st century #Donald Trump #2016 #2017

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autolovecraft · 4 years

Text

He changed his business, but something always preyed upon him.

I've seen sights before, but there was one thing too much here. He could not walk, it appeared, and the coffin niches on the sides and rear—which Birch seldom took the trouble to use—afforded no ascent to the space above the door. He worked largely by feeling now, since newly gathered clouds hid the moon; and though progress was still slow, he felt heartened at the extent of his encroachments on the top and bottom of the aperture, he sought to pull himself up, when he noticed a queer retardation in the form of an apparent drag on both his ankles.

It may have been encouraging and to others may have been fear mixed with a queer belated sort of remorse for bygone crudities. I'll never get the picture out of my head as long as I live. Armington, the lodge-keeper, answered his feeble clawing at the door. In this funereal twilight he rattled the rusty handles, pushed at the iron panels, and wondered why the massive portal had grown so suddenly recalcitrant. Birch, in his ghastly situation, was now too low for an easy scramble out of the enlarged transom; but gathered his energies for a determined try. His frightened horse had gone home, but his frightened wits never quite did that. He was a scoundrel, and I don't blame you for giving him a cast-aside coffin! At last the spring thaw came, and graves were laboriously prepared for the nine silent harvests of the grim reaper which waited in the tomb, and the source of a task whose performance deserved every possible stimulus. Tired and perspiring despite many rests, he descended to the floor and sat a while on the bottom box to gather strength for the final wriggle and leap to the ground outside. What else, he added, could ever in any case be proved or believed?

Then he fled back to the lodge and broke all the rules of his calling by rousing and shaking his patient, and hurling at him a year ago last August … He was the devil incarnate, Birch, and I don't blame you for giving him a cast-aside coffin, but you got what you deserved.

Birch still toiling. Well enough to skimp on the thing some way, but you always did go too damned far! For an impersonal doctor, Davis' ominous and awestruck cross-examination became very strange indeed as he sought to drain from the weakened undertaker every least detail of his horrible experience. Birch cautiously ascended with his tools and stood abreast of the narrow transom. He had not forgotten the criticism aroused when Hannah Bixby's relatives, wishing to transport her body to the cemetery in the city whither they had moved, found the casket of Judge Capwell beneath her headstone. It is doubtful whether he was touched at all by the horror and exquisite weirdness of his position, but the other was worse—those ankles cut neatly off to fit Matt Fenner's cast-aside coffin! Several of the coffins began to split under the stress of handling, and he vaguely wished it would stop. The day was clear, but a high wind had sprung up; and Birch was glad to get to shelter as he unlocked the iron door and entered the side-hill vault.

He worked largely by feeling now, since newly gathered clouds hid the moon; and though progress was still slow, he felt heartened at the extent of his encroachments on the top and bottom of the aperture, he sought to drain from the weakened undertaker every least detail of his horrible experience. He had, indeed, made that coffin for Matthew Fenner; but had cast it aside at last as too awkward and flimsy, in a fit of curious sentimentality aroused by recalling how kindly and generous the little old man had been to him during his bankruptcy five years before.

The day was clear, but a high wind had sprung up; and Birch was glad to get to shelter as he unlocked the iron door and entered the side-hill vault. He had not forgotten the criticism aroused when Hannah Bixby's relatives, wishing to transport her body to the cemetery in the city whither they had moved, found the casket of Judge Capwell beneath her headstone. The tower at length finished, and his hands shook as he dressed the mangled members; binding them as if he wished to get the wounds out of sight as quickly as possible. When Dr. Davis left Birch that night he had taken a lantern and gone to the old receiving tomb.

He had even wondered, at Sawyer's funeral, how the vindictive farmer had managed to lie straight in a box so closely akin to that of the diminutive Fenner. As he planned, he could not shake clear of the unknown grasp which held his feet in relentless captivity. Birch were sure—absolutely sure—of the identity of that top coffin of the pile; how he had been certain of it as the Fenner coffin in the dusk, and how he had chosen it, how he had been certain of it as the Fenner coffin in the dusk, and how he stepped on the puppy that snapped at him a succession of shuddering whispers that seared into the bewildered ears like the hissing of vitriol.

For an impersonal doctor, Davis' ominous and awestruck cross-examination became very strange indeed as he sought to drain from the weakened undertaker every least detail of his horrible experience. That he was not perfectly sober, he subsequently admitted; though he had not then taken to the wholesale drinking by which he later tried to forget certain things. It was Asaph's coffin, Birch, just as I thought! And so the prisoner toiled in the twilight, heaving the unresponsive remnants of mortality with little ceremony as his miniature Tower of Babel rose course by course. The thing must have happened at about three-thirty in the afternoon. Sawyer in their last illnesses. The practices I heard attributed to him would be unbelievable today, at least to such meager tools and under such tenebrous conditions as these, Birch glanced about for other possible points of escape. Another might not have relished the damp, odorous chamber with the eight carelessly placed coffins; but Birch in those days was insensitive, and professionally undesirable; yet I still think he was not perfectly sober, he subsequently admitted; though he had not then taken to the wholesale drinking by which he later tried to forget certain things. His questioning grew more than medically tense, and his body responding with that maddening slowness from which one suffers when chased by the phantoms of nightmare.

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autolovecraft · 4 years

Text

Why did you do it, Birch?

The vault had been dug from a hillside, so that the coffins beneath him rocked and creaked.

He would have given much for a lantern or bit of candle; but lacking these, bungled semi-sightlessly as best he might. On the afternoon of Friday, April 15th, then, Birch set out for the tomb with horse and wagon to transfer the body of Matthew Fenner. He changed his business in 1881, yet never discussed the case when he could avoid it. Horrible pains, as of savage wounds, shot through his calves; and in his mind was a vortex of fright mixed with an unquenchable materialism that suggested splinters, loose nails, or some other attribute of a breaking wooden box. The skull turned my stomach, but the other was worse—those ankles cut neatly off to fit Matt Fenner's cast-aside coffin! His thinking processes, once so phlegmatic and logical, had become ineffaceably scarred; and it was pitiful to note his response to certain chance allusions such as Friday, Tomb, Coffin, and words of less obvious concatenation. Steeled by old ordeals in dissecting rooms, the doctor entered and looked about, stifling the nausea of mind and body that everything in sight and smell induced. The tower at length finished, and his body responding with that maddening slowness from which one suffers when chased by the phantoms of nightmare. But it would be well to say as little as could be said, and to let no other doctor treat the wounds. But it would be well to say as little as could be said, and to let no other doctor treat the wounds. He could not walk, it appeared, and the coffin niches on the sides and rear—which Birch seldom took the trouble to use—afforded no ascent to the space above the door. Sawyer was not a lovable man, and many stories were told of his almost inhuman vindictiveness and tenacious memory for wrongs real or fancied.

For an impersonal doctor, Davis' ominous and awestruck cross-examination became very strange indeed as he sought to drain from the weakened undertaker every least detail of his horrible experience. Better still, though, he would utilize only two boxes of the base to support the superstructure, leaving one free to be piled on top in case the actual feat of escape required an even greater altitude.

I'd hate to have it aimed at me! Better still, though, he would utilize only two boxes of the base to support the superstructure, leaving one free to be piled on top in case the actual feat of escape required an even greater altitude. You know what a fiend he was for revenge—how he ruined old Raymond thirty years after their boundary suit, and how he had distinguished it from the inferior duplicate coffin of vicious Asaph Sawyer. It is doubtful whether he was touched at all by the horror and exquisite weirdness of his position, but the other was worse—those ankles cut neatly off to fit Matt Fenner's cast-aside coffin! Over the door, however, no pursuer; for he was alone and alive when Armington, the lodge-keeper, answered his feeble clawing at the door.

The borders of the space were entirely of brick, and there seemed little doubt but that he could shortly chisel away enough to allow his body to pass. Only the coffins themselves remained as potential stepping-stones, and as he considered these he speculated on the best mode of transporting them. The body was pretty badly gone, but if ever I saw vindictiveness on any face—or former face. The vault had been dug from a hillside, so that it was possible to give all of Birch's inanimate charges a temporary haven in the single antiquated receiving tomb. The afflicted man was fully conscious, but would say nothing of any consequence; merely muttering such things as Oh, my ankles! God, what a rage! Armington, the lodge-keeper, answered his feeble clawing at the door. The tower at length finished, and his hands shook as he dressed the mangled members; binding them as if he wished to get the wounds out of sight as quickly as possible. As he remounted the splitting coffins he felt his weight very poignantly; especially when, upon reaching the topmost one, he heard that aggravated crackle which bespeaks the wholesale rending of wood. Horrible pains, as of savage wounds, shot through his calves; and in his mind was a vortex of fright mixed with an unquenchable materialism that suggested splinters, loose nails, or some other attribute of a breaking wooden box. It was generally stated that the affliction and shock were results of an unlucky slip whereby Birch had locked himself for nine hours in the receiving tomb of Peck Valley; and was a very calloused and primitive specimen even as such specimens go. I'd hate to have it aimed at me! The borders of the space were entirely of brick, and there seemed little doubt but that he could shortly chisel away enough to allow his body to pass. The thing must have happened at about three-thirty in the afternoon. An eye for an eye! His thinking processes, once so phlegmatic and logical, had become ineffaceably scarred; and it was pitiful to note his response to certain chance allusions such as Friday, Tomb, Coffin, and words of less obvious concatenation. He had, indeed, made that coffin for Matthew Fenner; but had cast it aside at last as too awkward and flimsy, in a fit of curious sentimentality aroused by recalling how kindly and generous the little old man had been to him during his bankruptcy five years before. And so the prisoner toiled in the twilight, heaving the unresponsive remnants of mortality with little ceremony as his miniature Tower of Babel rose course by course. It was Asaph's coffin, Birch, but you always did go too damned far!

There was evidently, however, the high, slit-like transom in the brick facade gave promise of possible enlargement to a diligent worker; hence upon this his eyes long rested as he racked his brains for means to reach it.

Instinct guided him in his wriggle through the transom, and in the crawl which followed his jarring thud on the damp ground. He was a scoundrel, and I believe his eye-for-an-eye fury could beat old Father Death himself. Sawyer was not a lovable man, and many stories were told of his almost inhuman vindictiveness and tenacious memory for wrongs real or fancied. The wounds—for both ankles were frightfully lacerated about the Achilles' tendons—seemed to puzzle the old physician greatly, and finally almost to frighten him.

For an impersonal doctor, Davis' ominous and awestruck cross-examination became very strange indeed as he sought to pull himself up, when he noticed a queer retardation in the form of an apparent drag on both his ankles. Birch cautiously ascended with his tools and stood abreast of the narrow transom. Steeled by old ordeals in dissecting rooms, the doctor entered and looked about, stifling the nausea of mind and body that everything in sight and smell induced. Whether he had imagination enough to wish they were empty, is strongly to be doubted. I'd hate to have it aimed at me! There was nothing like a ladder in the tomb, and the coffin niches on the sides and rear—which Birch seldom took the trouble to use—afforded no ascent to the space above the door. It must have been midnight at least when Birch decided he could get through the transom. The vault had been dug from a hillside, so that the narrow ventilation funnel in the top ran through several feet of earth, making this direction utterly useless to consider. It was just as he had recognized old Matt's coffin that the door slammed to in the wind, leaving him in a dusk even deeper than before.

The wounds—for both ankles were frightfully lacerated about the Achilles' tendons—seemed to puzzle the old physician greatly, and finally almost to frighten him. The afflicted man was fully conscious, but would say nothing of any consequence; merely muttering such things as Oh, my ankles! He always remained lame, for the great tendons had been severed; but I think the greatest lameness was in his soul.

The body was pretty badly gone, but if ever I saw vindictiveness on any face—or former face. Just where to begin Birch's story I can hardly decide, since I am no practiced teller of tales. Instinct guided him in his wriggle through the transom. He had, indeed, made that coffin for Matthew Fenner; but had cast it aside at last as too awkward and flimsy, in a fit of curious sentimentality aroused by recalling how kindly and generous the little old man had been to him during his bankruptcy five years before. Birch decided that he would begin the next day with little old Matthew Fenner, whose grave was also near by; but actually postponed the matter for three days, not getting to work till Good Friday, the 15th.

I still think he was not perfectly sober, he subsequently admitted; though he had not then taken to the wholesale drinking by which he later tried to forget certain things. Why did you do it, Birch? It was Asaph's coffin, Birch, just as I thought! Another might not have relished the damp, odorous chamber with the eight carelessly placed coffins; but Birch in those days was insensitive, and was concerned only in getting the right coffin for the right grave.

But it would be well to say as little as could be said, and to let no other doctor treat the wounds. It was just as he had recognized old Matt's coffin that the door slammed to in the wind, leaving him in a dusk even deeper than before. That he was not perfectly sober, he subsequently admitted; though he had not then taken to the wholesale drinking by which he later tried to forget certain things.

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