#morrow azure
Text
Thinking about how insane this series of events were:
You go to Port Talon to confirm that the missing Archmage Apprentice Suvi is there and safe. She is, you talk to her and let her talk to the Sword of the Citadel. All is well, and all you need to do is wait for the Sword to arrive.
The Archmage Apprentice runs off, with no word, a few hours later. Several days pass, and the apprentice shows up again having (for some reason) run off into the kudzu with her companions. They have now been arrested by the Azure Battalion. You get a thorough dressing down by the Sword of the Citadel for her having run off under your watch. They all speak to the Sword, and she announces the apprentice will have a court marshal at the Citadel. (You hold a bit of resentment. You would have been cast out had you pulled the same stunt) You all go back to the Kalabel Chantry. Everything is calm.
Roughly an hour later, the creature Morrow imprisoned has escaped. There is a leviathan a mile off the coast of Port Talon sundering the derrig. You check on the Archmage Apprentice. There's every chance she's in danger. But no, she's safe in her room, so you go to challenge the beast. It brushes off one of your most powerful spells, and now? looks like a giant man? He looks disappointed and begins to bend the entire ocean to his will. You have a full oh-fuck-I'm-going-to-die moment, but no. He instead makes a wave hundreds of feet tall crash somewhere beyond the walls of the city. He mentions his wife and tells you to defend your city. (Continuing to completely sunder the derrig)
You contact the Archmage Apprentice, who may have some insight into this situation, and she implies that the wife is worse than the ocean-bending fish god. You try to rally the wizards so a cohesive plan of attack can be executed. Instead, most of them follow a now-hysterical Morrow and go charging into the ocean.
Every day Abjurer Galani wakes up.
#worlds beyond number#wbn#wbn spoilers#wwwo spoilers#wwwo#reposting cuz the tag broke#i hope galani gets out of this alright#and gets a raise
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𝗨𝗡𝗜𝗡𝗧𝗘𝗡𝗗𝗘𝗗 𝗪𝗢𝗥𝗦𝗛𝗜𝗣 ; 𝗔𝗧𝗪𝗢𝗪. series
word count: 12.5k [ ongoing ]
content/s & pairings: neteyam x fire navi! original character. kiri x rotxo content. slowburn. romance. enemies to friends to lovers. found family troupe. angst. fluff. gore. mention of abandonment. loads of stuff.
her skin as light and pale as though covered in ash. her eyes as dual colored as the vast ground of pandora and hair as crimson as dried blood. in comparison to his azure skin, amber eyes, and hair as dark as burnt sienna.
" we drown the enemy in their own blood. "
ᓚᘏᗢ | masterlist | feel free to make a request!
Table of Contents:
pilot, exordium
chapter one, she-monster
chapter two, amber eyes
chapter three, apologies
chapter four, tsakarem
chapter five, morrow
chapter six, first flight
chapter seven, feels
a/n: eywa will be a character who can speak, feel, and see in this fanfic. i imagine her as a navi that i depict in this series. and the main character is basically pandora jesus.
ᓚᘏᗢ @deprivedreality 2023 | do not copy my works!
#neteyam imagine#neteyam sully x na’vi!reader#neteyam#neteyam te suli tsyeyk'itan#jake sully#neytiri#tuktirey#kiri avatar#loak sully#tsireya avatar#aonung avatar#navi avatar#navi oc#avatar the way of water#neteyam avatar#deprivedreality blogs#deprivedreality#tonowari avatar#ronal avatar#neteyam x oc#neteyam fanfiction
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Okay, if there's anything I really want to know about the lore of Umora right now -cause I'm a word nerd - why is the S so significant?
And, as well as that, what do individual letters mean? Morrow was just a guild mage, sure, but he was strong, although, his name beginning with something "less than" an S is really interesting.
Then you have Gallani, insanely powerful, a citadel wizard through and through, tossing banishment at a great spirit, commanding the respect of the azure battalion. And yet, no S name?
Then there's the ones that do have it. The council of Archmages is easy, they're the best of the best, and then you have Soft, Stone and Steel, who're well respected heroes amongst the citadel.
Sky and Silver's ages denote the 2 young mages to be almost prodigal compared to the rest. But what does it mean to put them a cut above someone like Gallani?
And now the most interesting one. Suvirin. She's not even been given her name cloak yet, but what's there? Our good buddy the S. Ooh boy is this cool, cause now we consider "Is it an honour thing? Is it high expectations on this child? Is it the arcanocracy's way of showing hey don't fuck with her cause her whole family could rocket your ass to the moon?" God it's amazing.
Might submit to the Q&A for the next fireside, cause hoo boy, I have a lot of questions about this? Why? Cause this is Dnd, who do you think you're talking to, someone who doesn't want that sweet sweet lore?
#worlds beyond number#wbn pod#aabria iyengar#brennan lee mulligan#suvirin kedberiket#the wizard sky#aaaaggghhhh its so cool#like umora's just so damn amazing and it plays into fantasy while still feeling so unique#and this definitely isn't so my headcanon citadel wizard OC (so cool do not steal) can be named according with the citadel conventions...
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@azure-seadragon asked: "Oi, Ghostie-" She appears behind him rather suddenly, as she often does- reaching up to tug his hair as she brushes past him before turning to walk backwards so she can talk to him easier.
"i'm bored, so i'm gonin' t' the tavern- wanna come?" Solana asks with a lazy smile, "might be nice t' have company i can't drink under the table too fast, though i can't promise t' keep an eye on y' if someone else catches my attention~"
The offer to join her is a genuine one- company, even the irritating sort, would be nice- but shes obviously also teasing him. but hey, what else is new?
He'd been doing naught more than staring out of the window, watching the small amounts of snow begin to fall from the heavens; the storms were due to brew come the morrow, and while he had previously thought of heading out for a short walk to stretch his aching legs, he'd not thought of company.
Solana's sudden appearances were common, those days and while he still found himself agitated - he had grown used to it well enough to withstand it without resorting to anger.
"You're going drinking-?" He had promised his brother that he would drink less now that he was having to slowly recover from the viciousness he had been through, but letting lose a smite more wouldn't hurt, would it? Frankly, he needed it and the company didn't seem to matter- no, he was reaching for his jacket ere he said aught at all.
"Count me in." The both of them would end up getting an earful from his dear little brother come the following morning, no doubt- but he would accept it; he simply needed to get outside.
#Ask#Letters from the Aether || Asks ||#Try To Manage Your Anger Since People Cannot Manage Their Stupidity || Guerrique's Replies ||
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Rating: 5/5
Book Blurb: A sumptuous, gothic-infused story about a marriage that is unraveled by dark secrets, a friendship cursed to end in tragedy, and the danger of believing in fairy tales--the breathtaking adult debut from New York Times bestselling author Roshani Chokshi.
Once upon a time, a man who believed in fairy tales married a beautiful, mysterious woman named Indigo Maxwell-Casteñada. He was a scholar of myths. She was heiress to a fortune. They exchanged gifts and stories and believed they would live happily ever after--and in exchange for her love, Indigo extracted a promise: that her bridegroom would never pry into her past.
But when Indigo learns that her estranged aunt is dying and the couple is forced to return to her childhood home, the House of Dreams, the bridegroom will soon find himself unable to resist. For within the crumbling manor's extravagant rooms and musty halls, there lurks the shadow of another girl: Azure, Indigo's dearest childhood friend who suddenly disappeared. As the house slowly reveals his wife's secrets, the bridegroom will be forced to choose between reality and fantasy, even if doing so threatens to destroy their marriage . . . or their lives.
Combining the lush, haunting atmosphere of Mexican Gothic with the dreamy enchantment of The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue, The Last Tale of the Flower Bride is a spellbinding and darkly romantic page-turner about love and lies, secrets and betrayal, and the stories we tell ourselves to survive.
Review:
How much can you really know someone? When a marriage is built on secrets... how long can it last? Once upon a time a man who believed in fairytales married a beautiful mysterious woman named Indigo Maxwell-Casteñada. He was a scholar of myths and she was a heiress to a fortune... throughout their entire marriage there was only one rule, one vow he had to keep” Do not pry into her past. When Indigo discovers that her estranged aunt is dying, the couple returns to her childhood home: the House of Dreams... but soon the bridegroom finds he can’t resist trying to discover her past... and the more he learns the more he begins to realize he might not know his wife at all. Inside the house resides a room where the shadow of another girl resides... Azure, Indigo’s closest childhood friend who went missing. As the house begins to reveal his wife’s secret, the bridegroom must question whether or not he will stay with his wife, whether he will reside in the fantasy that their marriage has built or face the reality of their secrets. This was a haunting and absolutely lush story, it was perfect parts gothic romance and fairytale mixed in with enchanting writing and a compelling story. I absolutely fell in love with this book and the story was so much fun. This is perfect for fans of Mexican Gothic and classic fairytales. Filled with girls who believed in fairytales and other worlds, of sacrifices, betrayal, friendship, lies, and romance... of the test of marriage and of how much you are willing to love someone for who they are. Truly, an amazing read and one that I will be recommending to everyone!
*Thanks William Morrow and Company for sending me an arc in exchange for an honest review*
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FFXIV Write: Day 21, Solution
yesterday when I asked @count-dadcula what to write I was initially advised to write Aymeric x Estinien, before I went wildly off-track. *clears throat* That won't happen here, I'm sure.
Mature, Aymeric x Haurchefant, Aymeric x Estinien, (blatant pre-Haurche/Aymeric/Estinien but they're not there yet :P) pre-canon by several years and don't @ me about historical inaccuracies, I don't know her.
“Why do you sigh so hard? I know the depth is unwarranted for how much you will miss me when I take up my post at Camp Dragonhead.” Haurchefant ran playful fingers over Aymeric’s bare chest, as they lay curled abed in their sole sanctuary of De Borel Manor, safe from the eyes of scandal.
“If I’m sighing, you’ve merely tired me to breathlessness,” Aymeric murmured, chasing Haurchefant’s hand so he could squeeze it.
“My ear is flat to your heart and I can hear it lamenting something,” Harchefant pressed. The night was young but there was urgency, still. On the morrow he’d have left Ishgard for the frontier fortifications and all preparations were complete, save knowing he had left Aymeric behind light of heart, as his own duty propelled him through the ranks of the Temple Knights. A thought occurred to him, ridiculous of all he knew of him yet if this was not the place to swap their darkest thoughts… “You’re not jealous of Estinien being called to the order of the Dragoons and earning his armour, are you?”
Aymeric’s heart beat faster in his chest, and he shook his head, and sighed again, lifting Haurchefant’s head ilms higher before it sunk. “You know I can do naught but love him.”
“And you’ll see him near every day still, as your duties overlap in defence of the city. You won’t even know I’m gone after a while, once you can win him over. Which I’m sure you will. Eventually. You saved his life and he has called you friend. You’re making progress!”
“Every time I see him all the words of seduction you give me turn to ash in the heat of his single-minded determination. It’s as much as I can do to remember my own name in his presence, trailing after him and imagining every curt word is a honeyed poem. You would find me a ridiculous mockery of the boy you know if you were to see us together.”
“I want to meet him so – oh.”
“What?” Aymeric sat up, dislodging Haurchefant rudely, but the young elezen didn’t mind, bouncing up to kneel beside his lover, spreading his arms in excitement. “I have the solution.”
Aymeric smiled ruefully and shook his head.
Undeterred, Haurchefant beamed at him. “Why, Camp Dragonhead!”
“I don’t understand,” Aymeric said, his eyes narrowed as if he very much did but did not wish to believe it. “You and I have sworn not to make any personal visits.”
“And yet I don’t even know Estinien personally, do I?”
“You do not.” His gaze was steady, suddenly calculating and political as he weighed what Haurchefant proposed.
“I should not risk anything too soon, but if we weather a storm, an assault of dragons, and a month or two without my overseeing it burn to the ground, why it would be perfectly in my right to write some letters, perhaps suggesting a squadron of Temple Knights come train away from the luxuries of the city and learn from brave frontier soldiers, and another letter to someone who many never chance to cross path and mention it to the recipient of the first, that I would like a Dragoon to come inspect our defences, say, and make a recommendation of one I know is showing such promise they already whisper of him becoming Azure Dragoon mere months into his position. Why, letters from a Lord out in Camp Dragonhead would sound like opportunities, not burdens.”
“The power has already gone to your head, my dear Haurchefant.”
“You yourself spent a week at Whitebrim front digging privvies just to earn a recommendation from Lord Drillemont. He did little more than nod at you, but he wrote a letter that elevated your situation markedly, did he not? That power is not one for me to waste, believe me, the Count has lectured me long and hard about what comes with this posting, and Artoriel has not said a word to me since I was given it. But being outside of Ishgard allows you to make opportunities that can not happen here. I will find excuses to bring you to me, and I will take them.”
“You’d do all that just to get an introduction to my surly friend?”
Haurchefant pushed Aymeric’s shoulder gently. “To bed him myself if you can’t do it.”
He dodged a lightly thrown pillow.
“Forgive me, my friend, but I doubt that even your charms may break through when it comes to Estinien.”
“If I can isolate you both away from the city for just a night or three, I can get a measure of these affections you assure me lurk beneath the spiky surface, and if his heart can be won, I will get it for you. And if not, I will be there to hold you and at least all the sighing and weeping will be over something you know you tried your best for, and not simply pining over how miserable a handsome man in armour can make you from afar.”
By then Aymeric was blushing from one point of his ears to the other, but he nodded, stoically. “If you swear not to overextend your hand on my behalf. I could not live with myself if the Count took away your command and judged you irresponsible, even if he were never to learn of our affair and think only poorly of your military judgement.”
“I promise, I intend only to run Camp Dragonhead to the best of my ability. Besides, do not think this is an excuse for you to cease your pursuit. I want my first missive from you when I sit at that big desk to contain a coded post script filled with colourful exploits wherein your Dragoon swives you stupid behind the stables.”
Aymeric buried his face in his hands, shaking his head. “I regret ever letting you kiss me, Haurchefant.”
“You were the one who kissed me.” He twined his arms around Aymeric’s neck and teased him with kisses to his forehead until he looked up and their lips met fully. Haurchefant bowled him over and lay atop him once more. “I think I’ve earned a little reward for my clever ideas, hmm?”
And, like letters from an important Lord landing on a desk, Aymeric couldn’t deny his request.
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Untitled (“A flocculent dust on the feather pliant”)
A flocculent dust on
the feather pliant
and pebbles blue, that theres
not stay: in
solitary their smooth, and
I must beyond
this, sudden leave me,—for
it came
upon the middle air?
When will her
soothed linen, smooth calm and
azure hue, ready
more, – dungeons may cease to
me the streams stead
of flesh in a minute
slothful?
And moon: - ethereal
breakfast. — and cold snails
The rose-bloom of temperd,
out him, as
one Phœnix shall be time
I was, And
the bliss to all.
will be loves,
her gazd, but ye shall not
that dream there with
joy oerflows, when
thee, severe, then laughs
and doubloon, but thou wast the
cozy parlor, thats
feeding pain. Did I learned
at they never,
never could I been worth
in mans art a wander,
meal of thine, from that
Urne. So our
dwelling. Heaven ambrosial;
and hot-blooded clenched
fish were not think that through
winding curls blown back
the sexiest to
make a merry friends.
Of grief, or to
clouds the
proof of dirt is a
moon she knew not wait? A
waterfall. Endymion said: “
I would break out in
the cry that the
powers that made
purple mist have knows poor lonely
men in Feavers
but all violets upon
his tongue, and walk
with dangerous
tears froze to
spit out all human
face deform; as are
amazd, but some hither kisses :
thereon our
green, in five most
joyfully. Are flowery
lawns, and, feeling thousand
jumping-
jack pajamas in
heaven had sunk to
my chin for their jewel-
sceptres vain
and calendars, do you knowst
to me, all eat whispers
done, shoulders, and
so hell be times
declaring; good-morrow-
day; her once more, not
exhilarate. And close
secret place
where you believe me; careless
as fears, keen beyond
ears, those coolest
waters wi thee; that
did steady view, that
attempt with heavens
airy voice, Godhead so these
very goddess-like.
and pluck the little
ones moan. She kissd his own
depths of her soaring ill
pressure, but, ‘Alas!’”
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The Field Mice
by Justin Minoru Leachon Luna
I
Two mice ran on the grass,
under frail moonlight they did,
they did so hasty, while it's misty--such fuss,
from hungry wolves they hid.
The boy mouse held the girl's hand,
they ran without any plan,
confused, they rampaged through the land,
wishing for the wake of the morning sun,
morning sun,
morning sun,
wishing for the wake of the morning sun.
II
The girl said, "Please leave me now,
"later it'll be late, no need to wait, just flee,
"o so valiant of you, left me with a wow,
"but please o please, the wolves will see."
Teary eyed, the boy held tight, with utmost might,
under azure leaves, they hid with drops of dew,
dew drops drop illuminating gleaming moonlight,
the boy said, "Everything is set as due,
"set as due...
"Set as due!
"This is it, everything is set as due."
III
"Do not worry," the boy said, "I'll make sure,
"morrow will come, just so calm, you'll be safe,
"trust me, you'll see." Maybe 'twas a lure,
let go the boy...
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It opened on a world of wonder,
When summer days were sweet and long,
A world of light, a world of splendor,
A world of song.
'Twas there I passed my hours of dreaming,
'Twas there I knelt at night to pray;
And, when the rose-lit dawn was streaming
Across the day,
I bent from it to catch the glory
Of all those radiant silver skies -
A resurrection allegory
For human eyes!
The summer raindrops on it beating,
The swallows clinging 'neath the eaves,
The wayward shadows by it fleeting,
The whispering leaves;
The birds that passed in joyous vagrance,
The echoes of the golden moon,
The drifting in of the subtle fragrance,
The wind's low croon;
Held each a message and a token
In every hour of day and night;
A meaning wordless and unspoken,
Yet read aright.
I looked from it o'er bloomy meadows,
Where idle breezes lost their way,
To solemn hills, whose purple shadows
About them lay.
I saw the sunshine stream in splendor
O'er heaven's utmost azure bars,
At eve the radiance, pure and tender,
Of white-browned stars.
I carried there my childish sorrows,
I wept my little griefs away;
I pictured there my glad to-morrows
In bright array.
The airy dreams of child and maiden
Hang round that gable window still,
As cling the vines, green and leaf-laden,
About the sill.
And though I lean no longer from it,
To gaze with loving reverent eyes,
On clouds and amethystine summit,
And star-sown skies.
The lessons at its casement taught me,
My life with rich fruition fill;
The rapture and the peace they brought me
Are with me still!
The Gable Window by Lucy Maud Montgomery
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The brilliant azure color of the Bosphorus
Our little caique went with wonderful speed. These boats are singularly light, and admirably built to cut through the water.
The ordinary ones hold two persons comfortably, but the passengers must sit at the bottom, and be as careful in getting into them as if they were wager-boats, or they will upset. The oars are, I think, an improvement on our own. Above the spot where the “button” would be, they swell into a large bulb, and this serves to counterbalance the blade, which is straight. They work with a thong, slipped over a peg, instead of rowlocks; and are managed with great dexterity by the caiquejees, as the watermen are called.
The brilliant azure color of the Bosphorus does not depend upon reflection. It is still blue, even on a cloudy day, that would make our own seas and rivers leaden. The tint is, to an extent, in the fater, as it may be seen nearer home in the Rhone, -where it issues from the lake of Geneva, under the bridge, before it is polluted by the Arve.
Nobody could read
We landed on the other side of the Golden Horn, near a picturosque and thoroughly oriental Mosque, to which I was told the Sultan retired on the day of the murder of the Janissaries; and then had a long, tiring walk, skirting the Mosque of St. Sophia, into the first court of the Seraglio, which is public, and conducts to certain government offices. We went under some of the buildings private ephesus tours, supported on pillars, where there was great hustle — horses waiting for men in power, with elaborate trappings, rickety carriages, slaves, soldiers, porters, and eunuchs — with attendants to make everybody take off their shoes, as they went up to the different apartments. Here the luckless letter gave rise to the same difficulties.
Nobody could read, but they took the note and handed it round from one to the other, stared at us, and then returned it. At last, a learned man, whom we attacked, told one of the servants whom it was for, and he said if I would give him baksheesh be would take it in, but not without. A few paras were accordingly put in his hand, and he kicked off his slippers, and disappeared. In a few minutes ho returned, and said that the effendi had gone ‘ away, nobody knew where, but that he would be back again to-morrow. At all events, we had received the first confirmation of his actual existence, which, for the last hour or two, I had altogether doubted; but as the day was now advanced, and as I felt that if I continued the research any longer, I might get cross from fatigue and disappointment, I gave up the pursuit for this day, at least.
As I went home, up the steep Galata Hill, I saw a mad horse — an awkward customer to meet in such a narrow thoroughfare, lie had been suddenly taken so ; and was tearing along, kicking out wildly, and scattering, on cither side, the bricks with which his panniers were laden. It is impossible to describe the confusion be created, for the Galata Hill is always thronged. The women were screaming and flying in all directions, leaving their outer slippers behind them all about the street. One of them chanced to get her yashmak caught by a shutter as she retreated. The veil was pulled off, and, for the first and only time in my life, I saw the naked face of a Turkish female. She was, however, ugly enough to make any concealment of her features perfectly unnecessary. The unveiling frightened her far more than the mad horse, and she directly threw her coarse outer wrapper over her head, and bolted into a shop. The horse finished by falling down near the Galata gate, shattering his knees to pieces, and having his throat cut by one of the police. That night, I expect, the dogs of Pera and Galata held high and gory festival.
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The brilliant azure color of the Bosphorus
Our little caique went with wonderful speed. These boats are singularly light, and admirably built to cut through the water.
The ordinary ones hold two persons comfortably, but the passengers must sit at the bottom, and be as careful in getting into them as if they were wager-boats, or they will upset. The oars are, I think, an improvement on our own. Above the spot where the “button” would be, they swell into a large bulb, and this serves to counterbalance the blade, which is straight. They work with a thong, slipped over a peg, instead of rowlocks; and are managed with great dexterity by the caiquejees, as the watermen are called.
The brilliant azure color of the Bosphorus does not depend upon reflection. It is still blue, even on a cloudy day, that would make our own seas and rivers leaden. The tint is, to an extent, in the fater, as it may be seen nearer home in the Rhone, -where it issues from the lake of Geneva, under the bridge, before it is polluted by the Arve.
Nobody could read
We landed on the other side of the Golden Horn, near a picturosque and thoroughly oriental Mosque, to which I was told the Sultan retired on the day of the murder of the Janissaries; and then had a long, tiring walk, skirting the Mosque of St. Sophia, into the first court of the Seraglio, which is public, and conducts to certain government offices. We went under some of the buildings private ephesus tours, supported on pillars, where there was great hustle — horses waiting for men in power, with elaborate trappings, rickety carriages, slaves, soldiers, porters, and eunuchs — with attendants to make everybody take off their shoes, as they went up to the different apartments. Here the luckless letter gave rise to the same difficulties.
Nobody could read, but they took the note and handed it round from one to the other, stared at us, and then returned it. At last, a learned man, whom we attacked, told one of the servants whom it was for, and he said if I would give him baksheesh be would take it in, but not without. A few paras were accordingly put in his hand, and he kicked off his slippers, and disappeared. In a few minutes ho returned, and said that the effendi had gone ‘ away, nobody knew where, but that he would be back again to-morrow. At all events, we had received the first confirmation of his actual existence, which, for the last hour or two, I had altogether doubted; but as the day was now advanced, and as I felt that if I continued the research any longer, I might get cross from fatigue and disappointment, I gave up the pursuit for this day, at least.
As I went home, up the steep Galata Hill, I saw a mad horse — an awkward customer to meet in such a narrow thoroughfare, lie had been suddenly taken so ; and was tearing along, kicking out wildly, and scattering, on cither side, the bricks with which his panniers were laden. It is impossible to describe the confusion be created, for the Galata Hill is always thronged. The women were screaming and flying in all directions, leaving their outer slippers behind them all about the street. One of them chanced to get her yashmak caught by a shutter as she retreated. The veil was pulled off, and, for the first and only time in my life, I saw the naked face of a Turkish female. She was, however, ugly enough to make any concealment of her features perfectly unnecessary. The unveiling frightened her far more than the mad horse, and she directly threw her coarse outer wrapper over her head, and bolted into a shop. The horse finished by falling down near the Galata gate, shattering his knees to pieces, and having his throat cut by one of the police. That night, I expect, the dogs of Pera and Galata held high and gory festival.
0 notes
Photo
The brilliant azure color of the Bosphorus
Our little caique went with wonderful speed. These boats are singularly light, and admirably built to cut through the water.
The ordinary ones hold two persons comfortably, but the passengers must sit at the bottom, and be as careful in getting into them as if they were wager-boats, or they will upset. The oars are, I think, an improvement on our own. Above the spot where the “button” would be, they swell into a large bulb, and this serves to counterbalance the blade, which is straight. They work with a thong, slipped over a peg, instead of rowlocks; and are managed with great dexterity by the caiquejees, as the watermen are called.
The brilliant azure color of the Bosphorus does not depend upon reflection. It is still blue, even on a cloudy day, that would make our own seas and rivers leaden. The tint is, to an extent, in the fater, as it may be seen nearer home in the Rhone, -where it issues from the lake of Geneva, under the bridge, before it is polluted by the Arve.
Nobody could read
We landed on the other side of the Golden Horn, near a picturosque and thoroughly oriental Mosque, to which I was told the Sultan retired on the day of the murder of the Janissaries; and then had a long, tiring walk, skirting the Mosque of St. Sophia, into the first court of the Seraglio, which is public, and conducts to certain government offices. We went under some of the buildings private ephesus tours, supported on pillars, where there was great hustle — horses waiting for men in power, with elaborate trappings, rickety carriages, slaves, soldiers, porters, and eunuchs — with attendants to make everybody take off their shoes, as they went up to the different apartments. Here the luckless letter gave rise to the same difficulties.
Nobody could read, but they took the note and handed it round from one to the other, stared at us, and then returned it. At last, a learned man, whom we attacked, told one of the servants whom it was for, and he said if I would give him baksheesh be would take it in, but not without. A few paras were accordingly put in his hand, and he kicked off his slippers, and disappeared. In a few minutes ho returned, and said that the effendi had gone ‘ away, nobody knew where, but that he would be back again to-morrow. At all events, we had received the first confirmation of his actual existence, which, for the last hour or two, I had altogether doubted; but as the day was now advanced, and as I felt that if I continued the research any longer, I might get cross from fatigue and disappointment, I gave up the pursuit for this day, at least.
As I went home, up the steep Galata Hill, I saw a mad horse — an awkward customer to meet in such a narrow thoroughfare, lie had been suddenly taken so ; and was tearing along, kicking out wildly, and scattering, on cither side, the bricks with which his panniers were laden. It is impossible to describe the confusion be created, for the Galata Hill is always thronged. The women were screaming and flying in all directions, leaving their outer slippers behind them all about the street. One of them chanced to get her yashmak caught by a shutter as she retreated. The veil was pulled off, and, for the first and only time in my life, I saw the naked face of a Turkish female. She was, however, ugly enough to make any concealment of her features perfectly unnecessary. The unveiling frightened her far more than the mad horse, and she directly threw her coarse outer wrapper over her head, and bolted into a shop. The horse finished by falling down near the Galata gate, shattering his knees to pieces, and having his throat cut by one of the police. That night, I expect, the dogs of Pera and Galata held high and gory festival.
0 notes
Photo
The brilliant azure color of the Bosphorus
Our little caique went with wonderful speed. These boats are singularly light, and admirably built to cut through the water.
The ordinary ones hold two persons comfortably, but the passengers must sit at the bottom, and be as careful in getting into them as if they were wager-boats, or they will upset. The oars are, I think, an improvement on our own. Above the spot where the “button” would be, they swell into a large bulb, and this serves to counterbalance the blade, which is straight. They work with a thong, slipped over a peg, instead of rowlocks; and are managed with great dexterity by the caiquejees, as the watermen are called.
The brilliant azure color of the Bosphorus does not depend upon reflection. It is still blue, even on a cloudy day, that would make our own seas and rivers leaden. The tint is, to an extent, in the fater, as it may be seen nearer home in the Rhone, -where it issues from the lake of Geneva, under the bridge, before it is polluted by the Arve.
Nobody could read
We landed on the other side of the Golden Horn, near a picturosque and thoroughly oriental Mosque, to which I was told the Sultan retired on the day of the murder of the Janissaries; and then had a long, tiring walk, skirting the Mosque of St. Sophia, into the first court of the Seraglio, which is public, and conducts to certain government offices. We went under some of the buildings private ephesus tours, supported on pillars, where there was great hustle — horses waiting for men in power, with elaborate trappings, rickety carriages, slaves, soldiers, porters, and eunuchs — with attendants to make everybody take off their shoes, as they went up to the different apartments. Here the luckless letter gave rise to the same difficulties.
Nobody could read, but they took the note and handed it round from one to the other, stared at us, and then returned it. At last, a learned man, whom we attacked, told one of the servants whom it was for, and he said if I would give him baksheesh be would take it in, but not without. A few paras were accordingly put in his hand, and he kicked off his slippers, and disappeared. In a few minutes ho returned, and said that the effendi had gone ‘ away, nobody knew where, but that he would be back again to-morrow. At all events, we had received the first confirmation of his actual existence, which, for the last hour or two, I had altogether doubted; but as the day was now advanced, and as I felt that if I continued the research any longer, I might get cross from fatigue and disappointment, I gave up the pursuit for this day, at least.
As I went home, up the steep Galata Hill, I saw a mad horse — an awkward customer to meet in such a narrow thoroughfare, lie had been suddenly taken so ; and was tearing along, kicking out wildly, and scattering, on cither side, the bricks with which his panniers were laden. It is impossible to describe the confusion be created, for the Galata Hill is always thronged. The women were screaming and flying in all directions, leaving their outer slippers behind them all about the street. One of them chanced to get her yashmak caught by a shutter as she retreated. The veil was pulled off, and, for the first and only time in my life, I saw the naked face of a Turkish female. She was, however, ugly enough to make any concealment of her features perfectly unnecessary. The unveiling frightened her far more than the mad horse, and she directly threw her coarse outer wrapper over her head, and bolted into a shop. The horse finished by falling down near the Galata gate, shattering his knees to pieces, and having his throat cut by one of the police. That night, I expect, the dogs of Pera and Galata held high and gory festival.
0 notes
Photo
The brilliant azure color of the Bosphorus
Our little caique went with wonderful speed. These boats are singularly light, and admirably built to cut through the water.
The ordinary ones hold two persons comfortably, but the passengers must sit at the bottom, and be as careful in getting into them as if they were wager-boats, or they will upset. The oars are, I think, an improvement on our own. Above the spot where the “button” would be, they swell into a large bulb, and this serves to counterbalance the blade, which is straight. They work with a thong, slipped over a peg, instead of rowlocks; and are managed with great dexterity by the caiquejees, as the watermen are called.
The brilliant azure color of the Bosphorus does not depend upon reflection. It is still blue, even on a cloudy day, that would make our own seas and rivers leaden. The tint is, to an extent, in the fater, as it may be seen nearer home in the Rhone, -where it issues from the lake of Geneva, under the bridge, before it is polluted by the Arve.
Nobody could read
We landed on the other side of the Golden Horn, near a picturosque and thoroughly oriental Mosque, to which I was told the Sultan retired on the day of the murder of the Janissaries; and then had a long, tiring walk, skirting the Mosque of St. Sophia, into the first court of the Seraglio, which is public, and conducts to certain government offices. We went under some of the buildings private ephesus tours, supported on pillars, where there was great hustle — horses waiting for men in power, with elaborate trappings, rickety carriages, slaves, soldiers, porters, and eunuchs — with attendants to make everybody take off their shoes, as they went up to the different apartments. Here the luckless letter gave rise to the same difficulties.
Nobody could read, but they took the note and handed it round from one to the other, stared at us, and then returned it. At last, a learned man, whom we attacked, told one of the servants whom it was for, and he said if I would give him baksheesh be would take it in, but not without. A few paras were accordingly put in his hand, and he kicked off his slippers, and disappeared. In a few minutes ho returned, and said that the effendi had gone ‘ away, nobody knew where, but that he would be back again to-morrow. At all events, we had received the first confirmation of his actual existence, which, for the last hour or two, I had altogether doubted; but as the day was now advanced, and as I felt that if I continued the research any longer, I might get cross from fatigue and disappointment, I gave up the pursuit for this day, at least.
As I went home, up the steep Galata Hill, I saw a mad horse — an awkward customer to meet in such a narrow thoroughfare, lie had been suddenly taken so ; and was tearing along, kicking out wildly, and scattering, on cither side, the bricks with which his panniers were laden. It is impossible to describe the confusion be created, for the Galata Hill is always thronged. The women were screaming and flying in all directions, leaving their outer slippers behind them all about the street. One of them chanced to get her yashmak caught by a shutter as she retreated. The veil was pulled off, and, for the first and only time in my life, I saw the naked face of a Turkish female. She was, however, ugly enough to make any concealment of her features perfectly unnecessary. The unveiling frightened her far more than the mad horse, and she directly threw her coarse outer wrapper over her head, and bolted into a shop. The horse finished by falling down near the Galata gate, shattering his knees to pieces, and having his throat cut by one of the police. That night, I expect, the dogs of Pera and Galata held high and gory festival.
0 notes
Photo
The brilliant azure color of the Bosphorus
Our little caique went with wonderful speed. These boats are singularly light, and admirably built to cut through the water.
The ordinary ones hold two persons comfortably, but the passengers must sit at the bottom, and be as careful in getting into them as if they were wager-boats, or they will upset. The oars are, I think, an improvement on our own. Above the spot where the “button” would be, they swell into a large bulb, and this serves to counterbalance the blade, which is straight. They work with a thong, slipped over a peg, instead of rowlocks; and are managed with great dexterity by the caiquejees, as the watermen are called.
The brilliant azure color of the Bosphorus does not depend upon reflection. It is still blue, even on a cloudy day, that would make our own seas and rivers leaden. The tint is, to an extent, in the fater, as it may be seen nearer home in the Rhone, -where it issues from the lake of Geneva, under the bridge, before it is polluted by the Arve.
Nobody could read
We landed on the other side of the Golden Horn, near a picturosque and thoroughly oriental Mosque, to which I was told the Sultan retired on the day of the murder of the Janissaries; and then had a long, tiring walk, skirting the Mosque of St. Sophia, into the first court of the Seraglio, which is public, and conducts to certain government offices. We went under some of the buildings private ephesus tours, supported on pillars, where there was great hustle — horses waiting for men in power, with elaborate trappings, rickety carriages, slaves, soldiers, porters, and eunuchs — with attendants to make everybody take off their shoes, as they went up to the different apartments. Here the luckless letter gave rise to the same difficulties.
Nobody could read, but they took the note and handed it round from one to the other, stared at us, and then returned it. At last, a learned man, whom we attacked, told one of the servants whom it was for, and he said if I would give him baksheesh be would take it in, but not without. A few paras were accordingly put in his hand, and he kicked off his slippers, and disappeared. In a few minutes ho returned, and said that the effendi had gone ‘ away, nobody knew where, but that he would be back again to-morrow. At all events, we had received the first confirmation of his actual existence, which, for the last hour or two, I had altogether doubted; but as the day was now advanced, and as I felt that if I continued the research any longer, I might get cross from fatigue and disappointment, I gave up the pursuit for this day, at least.
As I went home, up the steep Galata Hill, I saw a mad horse — an awkward customer to meet in such a narrow thoroughfare, lie had been suddenly taken so ; and was tearing along, kicking out wildly, and scattering, on cither side, the bricks with which his panniers were laden. It is impossible to describe the confusion be created, for the Galata Hill is always thronged. The women were screaming and flying in all directions, leaving their outer slippers behind them all about the street. One of them chanced to get her yashmak caught by a shutter as she retreated. The veil was pulled off, and, for the first and only time in my life, I saw the naked face of a Turkish female. She was, however, ugly enough to make any concealment of her features perfectly unnecessary. The unveiling frightened her far more than the mad horse, and she directly threw her coarse outer wrapper over her head, and bolted into a shop. The horse finished by falling down near the Galata gate, shattering his knees to pieces, and having his throat cut by one of the police. That night, I expect, the dogs of Pera and Galata held high and gory festival.
0 notes
Photo
The brilliant azure color of the Bosphorus
Our little caique went with wonderful speed. These boats are singularly light, and admirably built to cut through the water.
The ordinary ones hold two persons comfortably, but the passengers must sit at the bottom, and be as careful in getting into them as if they were wager-boats, or they will upset. The oars are, I think, an improvement on our own. Above the spot where the “button” would be, they swell into a large bulb, and this serves to counterbalance the blade, which is straight. They work with a thong, slipped over a peg, instead of rowlocks; and are managed with great dexterity by the caiquejees, as the watermen are called.
The brilliant azure color of the Bosphorus does not depend upon reflection. It is still blue, even on a cloudy day, that would make our own seas and rivers leaden. The tint is, to an extent, in the fater, as it may be seen nearer home in the Rhone, -where it issues from the lake of Geneva, under the bridge, before it is polluted by the Arve.
Nobody could read
We landed on the other side of the Golden Horn, near a picturosque and thoroughly oriental Mosque, to which I was told the Sultan retired on the day of the murder of the Janissaries; and then had a long, tiring walk, skirting the Mosque of St. Sophia, into the first court of the Seraglio, which is public, and conducts to certain government offices. We went under some of the buildings private ephesus tours, supported on pillars, where there was great hustle — horses waiting for men in power, with elaborate trappings, rickety carriages, slaves, soldiers, porters, and eunuchs — with attendants to make everybody take off their shoes, as they went up to the different apartments. Here the luckless letter gave rise to the same difficulties.
Nobody could read, but they took the note and handed it round from one to the other, stared at us, and then returned it. At last, a learned man, whom we attacked, told one of the servants whom it was for, and he said if I would give him baksheesh be would take it in, but not without. A few paras were accordingly put in his hand, and he kicked off his slippers, and disappeared. In a few minutes ho returned, and said that the effendi had gone ‘ away, nobody knew where, but that he would be back again to-morrow. At all events, we had received the first confirmation of his actual existence, which, for the last hour or two, I had altogether doubted; but as the day was now advanced, and as I felt that if I continued the research any longer, I might get cross from fatigue and disappointment, I gave up the pursuit for this day, at least.
As I went home, up the steep Galata Hill, I saw a mad horse — an awkward customer to meet in such a narrow thoroughfare, lie had been suddenly taken so ; and was tearing along, kicking out wildly, and scattering, on cither side, the bricks with which his panniers were laden. It is impossible to describe the confusion be created, for the Galata Hill is always thronged. The women were screaming and flying in all directions, leaving their outer slippers behind them all about the street. One of them chanced to get her yashmak caught by a shutter as she retreated. The veil was pulled off, and, for the first and only time in my life, I saw the naked face of a Turkish female. She was, however, ugly enough to make any concealment of her features perfectly unnecessary. The unveiling frightened her far more than the mad horse, and she directly threw her coarse outer wrapper over her head, and bolted into a shop. The horse finished by falling down near the Galata gate, shattering his knees to pieces, and having his throat cut by one of the police. That night, I expect, the dogs of Pera and Galata held high and gory festival.
0 notes
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