#My stylus is dead so it's time for some old art | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pisoprano · 1 year ago

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Back when I posted the page before this one, I thought to myself, “I’ve done a bunch of work up front for this next page, so it will probably be out sooner than normal, right?”

Wrong. This page needed so much tweaking to get everything to fit (I shrunk so many things to make them take up less space) and juggle all these characters (especially the spot that’s just Oni-Chan mowing down all the temp heroes) and to draw all the little details (because where the characters are and what they can see are important information instead of just set dressing) and to have it all flow narratively (so many iterations went through for what exactly Carapace and Catwalker would say) and then to try to present it all in such a way to not confuse the reader with all these jumps (I’m still not convinced I got that right, but the transcript should help clarify a few things for anyone who’s scratching their heads)…

But none of that was the biggest obstacle to getting this page done. No, that honor goes to the fact that things in my personal life kept conspiring to keep me from being able to do the work.

(The rest is all just personal stuff, not comic commentary, so feel free to check out now)

First, we have my laptop. It has a touch screen that I can draw on with my stylus and it is what I’ve used to create every page of my comic thus far.

It decided to go into a coma.

So while I wait for it to come back from the repair guy, I took some time off, did a bit of writing for my other WIP on my phone, and then it happened: Loveybug.

What is Loveybug? She’s basically the opposite of Catwalker in that she’s an alternate Ladybug identity who is very over the top in love—me, blur0se, and asukiess all spent way too much time playing with her and the madness has now spread through the fandom here on tumblr. (Go look through the #Loveybug AU tag, she’s very fun and I love her).

About this time, my computer got fixed and I gladly brought it home and promptly started drawing this picture with everyone’s Loveybug designs at the time. I did start work on the comic again shortly after that, but my laptop was back in my possession for only a week when it decided that, no it did not want to deal with my enormous art files anymore and it would rather be dead instead.

I sent my computer back to the repair guy to get it fixed again, but shipping parts this time of year takes forever and I was not likely to see my computer again very soon. Taking advantage of a sale, I purchased for myself the cheapest drawing tablet I could find and plugged it into an old desktop computer that I ended up with when the company I used to work for abruptly closed. It’s a fairly clunky setup that’s uncomfortable to use, but I eventually got it to work well enough to make decent pictures. But still, I wanted my old laptop with its much more familiar drawing setup.

Finally, after a month of waiting, my computer was fixed a second time. Sure most of my files weren’t actually able to fit on the laptop anymore, but the repair guy gave me a hard drive with backup copies so it wasn’t completely lost. And, being the conscientious person I am, I decided to run a scan on the backup hard drive before I started trying to migrate the files back to my laptop.

It became a brick. Again. Not even 24 hours after having it back this time.

So now I am still waiting for my laptop to be fixed for the third time and I have been using a half-baked setup to draw to finish up the comic. I was hopeful that I’d be able to spend much of Christmas to get everything I needed to done to post it the following day.

My stomach had other ideas.

I’ll try to not get too into the details, but for the week leading up to Christmas, my stomach went into full-on boycott mode—it didn’t want food, it didn’t want drink, it didn’t even want water. And when your stomach refuses to let you even drink water, that can lead to this little thing called dehydration. Fortunately the hospital was able to give me something to help my stomach to chill out, but it also meant that all my plans to work on the comic on my day off were instead replaced with many hours with medical professionals trying to figure out what exactly was wrong with my body. Fun.

Fortunately this final delay only pushed me back by a week and I was FINALLY able to finish this page and post it.

Now I turn my face toward the next page in the pipeline and hope that I’ll be able to handle juggling everything I want to have happen in the next phase of this fight—it’s going to be a lot, so I’ll see you guys whenever it’s done.

Part 25. Best Friend Erasure (Oni-Chan 2.0, part B)

< First | < Previous | Next >

Description below the cut

Catwalker approaches Ladybug as she stands on a roof. She points off in a far away direction.

Catwalker: Ladybug! Oni-Chan is back, and this time her powers are—

Ladybug: I need you to go to one of the rooftops way over there and stay right there.

Catwalker: Are you sure? I could do more here if I—

Ladybug: Just. Go.

Catwalker: ...Yes, Ladybug.

Ladybug swings towards a rooftop where the other heroes have congregated near a Find Adrien billboard. Viperion looks up at Ladybug.

Viperion: Ladybug! Why isn't Catwalker with you? Did you talk to him about... that thing I told you?

Ladybug: We talked. He wasn't hiding what you thought he was.

Viperion: Oh.

Ladybug stands in a ‘take charge’ pose right in front of the billboard with Adrien’s face. Most of the heroes gather in to look towards her, but Carapace looks off towards the direction Catwalker took instead.

Ladybug: And everybody, gather around! You should all know this. Catwalker is on probation until further notice.

Viperion: Probation? Isn't that kind of extreme?

Ladybug: I have my reasons. He's keeping his miraculous, but you're the people I'm going to rely on to beat the akumas. For now, consider him an observer and just ignore him.

Carapace starts using his shield as a phone to text his girlfriend.

Carapace (texting): Rena, why is Catwalker allowed to keep his miraculous? We *have* to stop him from causing more damage.

Rena Furtive (texting): I'm watching him, don't worry.

Cut to Rena hiding on a rooftop as she uses her flute simultaneously as a telescope to spy on Catwalker and a phone to tap out a reply to her boyfriend.

Rena Furtive (texting): But if you want to try to get more info out of him as Carapace...? I'm sure Ladybug wouldn't mind...

Carapace leaps towards Catwalker, who looks at him suspiciously.

Catwalker: Carapace? What are you doing here?

Carapace: Ladybug said you were alone, and I thought you shouldn't be.

Catwalker: You should go back. Ladybug needs every hero she can get.

Catwalker perches himself on the ledge of the building he’s atop of.

Carapace: Then why did Ladybug send you all the way out here?

Catwalker: She needs me. I just... need to wait here. Until she comes up with a plan for how she can use me.

Carapace: If you want to help, we can always work to protect Adrien Agreste.

Carapace opens his arms wide and tries to give a disarming smile, but he can’t help but show his underlying malice.

Carapace: If you know anything at all, I'm all ears! Even if it's something you need to keep on the down low, I can be your confidant. I'm a hero, after all! You can trust me to keep secrets.

Catwalker, completely uninterested in going through another round of ‘my best friend pretends to like me when I know he’s secretly mad at me’ points his finger in accusation.

Catwalker: I see what you're trying to do and I'm not going to fall for it.

Carapace: Whaaat? I'm not trying anything!

Catwalker: Nino.

Carapace: How did—I mean, who's Nino?

Catwalker: You forgot to tell Adrien that he shouldn't reveal secret identities to anyone.

Carapace, completely off put, tries to make this new bit of information add up.

Carapace: He told you about me? Why would that even come up? Unless... Did he tell you he had a superhero for a best friend to try and convince you he didn't need you?

Carapace points an accusatory finger at Catwalker. Catwalker tries to placate, but he’s distracted by a burst of red light in the distance in the direction of the other heroes.

Carapace: And then you forced him to leave when he didn't want to and—

Catwalker: You have it all wr—Oh no.

Oni-Chan rapidly teleports between temporary heroes (all of whom had just been staring towards the giant face of Adrien) and hits them with her sword in quick succession: Vesperia, Viperion, King Monkey, Purple Tigress, Polymouse, Pegasus, and Pigella are all frozen before they can do anything to fight back.

Oni-Chan: You! Won't! Get! In! My! Way! Anymore!

Oni-Chan lunges for Ladybug, but she manages to swing out of the way with her yo-yo and escape, unable to be tracked because she was the only member of the group who hadn’t been staring at Adrien’s face.

Catwalker: Come on! Ladybug needs our hel—

Catwalker leaps into the sky to follow Ladybug, but as he is in midair, a green sphere forms around him.

Carapace: Shell-ter!

After the sphere hits the ground, Catwalker looks up at Carapace, who stands at the edge on top of the nearest building tauntingly.

Catwalker: I don't want to fight you.

Carapace: Good! Because you won't be able to fight anyone!

Catwalker: Look, we're both heroes right now. We need to be able to work together to help Ladybug.

Inside the sphere, Catwalker kneels and looks down dejectedly.

Carapace: Ladybug doesn't want your help!

Catwalker: Maybe not right now, but—

Carapace: Why did you think she sent you so far out of her way? She can't even stand to look at you! No one needs you. No one wants you. You should just give up your miraculous and save us the troub—

Carapace’s attention is caught by something happening across the skyline of Paris: with the Agreste mansion at the epicenter, a flurry of black ribbons launches into the sky, each one racing toward a Find Adrien billboard. Where each ribbon touches, the place where Adrien’s picture should be has been replaced by an empty white void.

Carapace (to himself): What the...? ...the Adrien billboards... All the pictures of Adrien... He's gone.

Carapace points down at Catwalker accusingly and brings his shield in close.

Carapace: Why couldn't you have just done nothing and let his real friends help him? Some magic ribbons just wiped Adrien from existence!

Catwalker: That's impossible. A sentimonster probably just got rid of the Adrien ads.

Carapace: You don't get it! He exists nowhere! And I'll prove it!

Carapace uses his shield to navigate to the pictures on his phone. His hand touches at the shield when it displays a picture of Nino and Adrien smiling together, nothing erased.

Carapace: I'll show you how this picture of the two of us is—

Catwalker: Wait. Carapace, you need to drop it. Now.

Carapace (to himself): Huh...?

Catwalker: Adrien is alive, I promise—

Carapace (to himself): He's still here with me...?

Catwalker: —but she's going to find you if you keep looking—

Oni-Chan pops in and out of existence just long enough to stab Carapace in the back, sending his body off the edge of the building. Below them, Catwalker looks up and destroys the sphere around him.

Oni-Chan: Begone!

Carapace: Ack!

Catwalker: No! Cataclysm!

Catwalker leaps into the air, arms reaching towards Carapace’s petrified body, all while the shield Carapace dropped in the commotion falls next to them.

Catwalker: I've got you!

Catwalker tearfully embraces the frozen Carapace from behind.

Catwalker: I am so sorry. For everything.

Catwalker continues to hug Carapace tight as a flood of emotions spews forth.

Catwalker: I never wanted to hide behind a mask, especially not with you, Nino. You've always encouraged me to be myself. Even though I've never been able to fully show you everything I am, you accepted the 'me' I could give. It meant so much to know that you cared, not just about the idea of me, but the real me. And now I'm less 'me' than I've ever been. Maybe it would have been better if I did nothing. But when she tried to kill me, I just... ran. Ran and insisted I was fine like I always do. And now you're the one paying for my rash decisions and I feel so powerless to stop it. I hope one day you'll forgive me.

Catwalker places Carapace’s body upright and touches his back in a gesture of farewell.

Catwalker: I wish I could talk to you for real. But I can't. I can't leave when I might be needed. Even if everyone hates that I'm here, I've got to help however I can.

Catwalker gives Carapace a fist bump in one final promise of their friendship.

Catwalker: I'll come home as soon as it's safe again. I don't know how long it'll take, but I promise I will come back.

Below is the same image as above, only without text:

#runaway catwalker #personal

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galoogamelady · 3 years ago

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If you don't mind, what tablet do you use for art? I'm buying my first one with a screen on it and I'm intimidated by the choices and expense

I have a Wacom Cintiq 13HD (the old kind with buttons on the side).

I got it when it was still near $850 and now you can buy essentially the same tablet (Wacom One) for $400. The buttons crapped out after 4-5 years of intense daily use and I've had some problems with ghosting - nothing permanent but at the time it stressed me tf out. Friends with the same tablet regularly complained about dead pixels, weird lines on their screen and flimsy cable connection - I never had these problems but they sound fairly common with this specific tablet. The Wacom driver also sucks and needs to be reset daily or even reinstalled sometimes, but I think that's universal and not tied to the model. The way I hear, most brands' drivers are the same and this isn't necessarily a Wacom only issue. Other than those, I have nothing to complain about. It does what it needs to do very well. Correct colors, comfortable size, durable stand, no annoying distance between the tip of my stylus and my cursor.

This is only my 2nd tablet and my first screen tablet, so I'm not experienced with what's out there now. This was pretty much the only screen tablet that everyone bought at the time (2015) and Wacom and its competitors have upped their game since then. I've heard great things about Huion and XP-Pen and I might consider changing brand if I ever need to upgrade. I totally recommend watching a million review videos and talking to other artists about this before making a decision. And if you're on a budget, consider sticking with a regular tablet, one without a screen. I and many others started with that, and some artists prefer those to the screen ones.

#gets in the way #someone recommended me the Huion Kamvas maybe check that out #I'd definitely go for one that doesn't need batteries in the pen #I've seen people complain about screen tablets that their hand which makes no sense to me #how do you draw on paper then??#I'm pretty happy both my tablets have functioned to be 7+ years old #personal #text #cintiq #Wacom Cintiq 13HD #tablet #art advice

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tyrilblue · 5 years ago

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Live for me

Part II - Rome’s power

Marc Antony x MC (Alba)

Word count: 2700

If you want to be added to the taglist, let me know ✨

You can find Part I here

Ante diem iv Nonas Septembres XXXI

(September 2nd, 31 b.C.)

Roman-Egyptian encampment.

Actium promontory, Greece.

Marc Antony scribbled hastily on a makeshift table, stopping every so often to check for noises. The encampment was eerily quiet in the dead of night, washed by moonlight. The only sound Antony could hear was the crackling of the fire at the center of the tent. He sat in silence, his pen hovering just an inch above the parchment, his head crowded by a million thoughts.The world's future, together with his own, would be decided at dawn. Antony's last, great stand against Octavian's forces could take place any minute, depending on the moment of his enemy's arrival. Thankfully, Cleopatra still did not doubt his loyalty and love. With her support he had his fair chances of winning, but good commanders knew never to take victory for granted.

In that chaos of uncertainty there was only one thing he now knew for sure.

He wanted to see her again.

Antony never thought he could feel such a thing, but after decades of warfare, plotting and bloodshed, all his heart ached for was peace. Of course, power was still his goal, but he did not view it as the only option anymore. A younger version of himself would have laughed at his weakness, and at times he still thought aging might have softened his heart. Still, he wasn't so ready to give up the rest of his life anymore, if his fate was to live beyond that battle.

At that thought, images of Alba promising to die with him flashed through his mind. His heart ached as he remembered her, as beautiful as a goddess in a cloud of white silk, and he desperately, hopelessly went on writing.

«My dearest Alba, I hope this message finds you alive and well. The final battle against Octavian will take place tomorrow in the bay of Actium, and my fate - our fate - will be decided then. All these months in exile have taught me much, but more than anything I now know I do not want to give up on our future. No matter the outcome of this war, if I do not die in battle, I will do everything that is in my power to come back to you. If I lose, we shall flee Rome together. Please, disregard the last message I sent you. If the battle should not fare well for me, run and seek shelter in the home of Lucius Pontius. I am giving this message to him, a trusted soldier, who will be leaving on a merchant ship at dawn. I hope he manages to reach you before the news about my possible defeat reach Rome. I want to live for you, with you, even if that means being idle for the rest of my days.»

Antony skimmed the text once more, waiting for the ink to dry, then he added their secret code, small enough to go unseen, at the bottom of the paper. He and Alba had agreed she should trust no one's words while he was away, even if they should come from his most trusted messenger, so they'd established a code to make sure their letters to each other could not be forged.

He sighed. He felt hopeless, his logical mind couldn't allow him to hope, because he knew that the news about a war's outcome could travel faster than the wind. He read the letter over again, kneading his brow in frustration, then started to wrap the parchment in a roll.

At that moment the entrance to the tent opened, letting in a ray of moonlight that was quickly shadowed by queen Cleopatra's figure. Antony's heart shrank with dread on seeing her, despite the queen's beauty. She was dressed in her night attire, her linen tunic billowing in the soft sea breeze coming from outside.

"Marc Antony" - she said in her typical low, mellow tone, her Latin hinting at her Egyptian nature. "Why did you leave our tent? I have been missing you". She was calm, but there was a silent threat hidden in her soft words. Antony had gained most of her trust, but after Caesar, no amount of flattering and calculation could gain him her absolute faith. Cleopatra walked towards him, and Antony was careful to act natural, leaving the half-wrapped roll of parchment exposed so as not to raise suspicions on her part. The queen laid her golden hands on Antony's shoulders, drawing circles with her thumbs. He let out a sigh of pleasure, only partly meant to satisfy her.

"Is the upcoming battle troubling your sleep?" - she asked, and suddenly her lips were on his neck, kissing him softly.

"Yes, my Queen, deeply" - Antony replied, "But your hands are working a very powerful magic". He let his head fall back onto Cleopatra's shoulder, hoping to concentrate her attention on him instead of his letter on the table. He softly grabbed her wrist, moving her hand from his shoulder to his chest, and lower under his toga. He felt her smiling in the crook of his neck.

"Would some attention from me ease you into our goddess Nwt's arms?" - she asked, her voice as sweet as dates.

"It certainly would" - Antony replied, and in one final move to distract her, he pushed his chair back and stood up to kiss her. The sudden movement caused the the small table to wobble, and Antony's stylus fell with a tinning sound. He couldn't but watch helplessly as Cleopatra's eyes travelled from the fallen pen up to the parchment on the table, narrowing as soon as they landed on his letter.

"Have you been writing?" - she asked, falsely naïve.There was nothing Antony could do to prevent what was about to happen. He gritted his teeth, waiting, his mind racing in an attempt to find an explanation as Cleopatra took the parchment and unrolled it, reading quickly.

"What is this?" - she looked up at him with a deadly stare in her black eyes, "This Alba... Alba, the Gaul courtesan of Rome?".

Antony put on his best smile, faking amusement and shaking his head.

"Yes, my Queen, exactly, Alba of Lena's scholae" - he said, "And my old lover". Cleopatra's eyes flashed with rage at his words, but Antony raised his hands in surrender.

"I am only using her, my Queen, to obtain information about our enemy" - he explained calmly, "Her futile feelings for me have proved invaluable since I left Rome". The artful disdain in Antony's voice seemed to convince Cleopatra, but she kept looking at him with suspicion.

"Of all the spies you could have in Rome, of all the men who would be ready to serve you, why her?" - Cleopatra's voice ringed with contempt when referencing Alba, and for a split second Antony had to clench his teeth in a surge of rage. Then his lips melted into his usual, cool smile, and he stroked Cleopatra's cheek with the backs of his fingers.

"Because she is no common spy, she is still the most renowned courtesan in Rome" - Antony raised his eyebrows conspiratorially, and Cleopatra smiled for the briefest moment. "She has access to alcoves and bedchambers no spy could ever dream of entering". The queen of Egypt seemed to ponder his words for a few, endless seconds, then she turned, seemingly satisfied but still resentful, walking away from Antony with his letter clutched in her hands.

"However useful she may be, you certainly won't need her help now that we are so close to our victory" - she stated, and with a coy smile she ripped the parchment into pieces, throwing them into the fire pit at the center of the tent.

"Now come, my love, I need my commander to be well-rested for battle".

Antony, seething, looked at her as she crossed her arms and stood waiting for him. He cast a glance at the remaining fragments of his message burning quickly among the embers, noticing just one corner of it had been spared. It now lay on the ground outside the fire pit.

"What are you –" - Cleopatra burst out angrily, but was immediately cut off by the sound of a war horn breaking the silence of the encampment.

"Octavian" - she whispered. "He's here".

A few tense moments passed as the two of them looked at each other, a mix of fear, determination and anger in the eyes of both. Outside, the camp was starting to stir with the clang of metal and shouting in both Latin and Egyptian. Then, the horn sounded again, calling for blood.

"One way or another, this battle will show me the extent of Rome's power" - Cleopatra said, and without another word, she left the tent in a cloud of linen. Antony wasted no time trying to interpret her sentence, which sounded a lot like a prophecy. There was no way he could remove the suspicion from her mind now, so he rushed to pick up the surviving scrap of parchment and his stylus. Without thinking, he dipped the pen in a pool of spilt ink on the table and wrote as fast as he could.

«Alba, live for me

V.XIV.L»

And then he was outside, paper in hand, shouting the first orders and calling for his armour as the black expanse of the sky slowly started to turn into the colour of lavender flowers. As soon as his servants were next to him he turned to one of them.

"Fetch me legionary Lucius" - he commanded.

Ante diem iv Nonas Septembres XXXI

(September 2nd, 31 b.C.).

Bay of Actium, Greece.

The sky roared with thunder, but it was almost inaudible among the sounds of battle. The waves clashed heavily against the ship's hull, making it rock dangerously as the battle raged on.

Antony couldn't tell how long they had been fighting. The sky had turned a deep, ominous grey, soaked with rain. Standing on the deck of his ship, higher than any other, he could see a landscape of destruction. Wood splintered under the blows of catapults, the water was stained red and everywhere he looked he saw fire, smoke, death. The battle was even, no side was prevailing, and Antony had to make a move to turn it in his favour. Lightning made armours and weapons shine for a split second, and as he was about to order the ballistae to shoot, he saw a movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned, raising his sword in one swift movement, just in time for it to clash with the blade that was about to sink into his neck. One of Octavian's legates now stood in front of him, and Antony gritted his teeth. They had managed to board the ship, probably on a small boat that had passed unseen. A short distance away from him on the deck, he saw his soldiers start to fight with a small squadron of enemies. With a growl, Antony took his sword away from the lock and ducked out of the way, letting the legate stumble forwards. The two of them settled into a fighting stance, swords at the ready. The first drops of rain started to fall, but he was focused on his task.

"You and your Egyptian whore will never win this war, Marc Antony" - the legate snarled in an attempt to distract him. Antony couldn't help but smile. The man clearly believed Cleopatra was the woman he was fighting for. He silently repeated his vow to return to Alba, then, without answering the legate's provocation, he attacked with a cry.

The deck was becoming slick with rain, but Antony couldn't let the fight distract him from commanding the fleet for too long. He dealt a series of vicious blows to the legate's defense, taking advantage of his arrogance and growing tiredness. Whenever he saw an opportunity, he aimed his blade at the exposed skin of his arms and legs in order to weaken him.The legate stepped back from him to catch his breath and Antony smiled at his upcoming victory. He was about to attack once again, when suddenly an enormous wave hit the side of the ship, throwing him off-balance. The legate used his distraction to go back to the offense, and before Antony could stop him, he tore a long gash on his thigh. The pain was blinding for a second, but Antony managed to block the following blow to his throat. He furiously responded, finally locking the legate's sword with his and making it fly from his hand, beyond the railing and into the raging sea below. Before his enemy could draw another weapon, Antony pointed his sword at the legate's neck, ready to slit it open. He was about to let the blade run, when the man's smile stopped him.

"You have been betrayed, Marc Antony" - the legate smirked, "Octavian knows all of your strategies. You cannot win". Antony pressed the blade further into the man's neck, and as he swallowed in fear, a drop of blood ran down its surface. Antony's mind travelled faster than lightning, trying to figure out who could betray him among the few who knew his strategy for the battle.

"Quintus Dellius" - the legate preceded his thoughts, "He came begging for Octavian's favour, offering you on a silver pl...".

His last words were choked by Antony's sword, and the legate's lifeless body dropped to the floor. Blood spilled over the deck, mingling with Antony's, that was dripping thickly down his leg. He looked around frantically for more enemies, but his soldiers were gradually taking back control over the ship. He allowed himself to wince in pain and look down at his wound. It was long, deep and needed mending, but he'd suffered worse over the years. He tore a strip of linen from the garments under his armour, and gritted his teeth as he tied it tightly around his thigh. The blood flow was momentarily stopped by the cloth. It would be enough to get by for some time.

"Ballistae! At the ready!" - he shouted, trying to bring back order in his fleet, but as he looked around he saw his soldiers look at him first, disoriented, then out at the sea. The battle seemed to have died down momentarily.

"Domine!" - one soldier turned towards Antony, then went down on one knee in deference.

"Speak, legionary, what is it?"

"Domine, her Majesty the Queen of Egypt has ordered a retreat!".

Antony looked up, and that was when he heard the sound of the horns. His heart dropped as if it was suddenly as heavy as his sword. The Egyptian side of the fleet was hoisting the sails and putting out the oars, and the first ships were already starting to drift out of the bay. Antony rushed to the bow, trying not to show his limp. Once there, he saw Cleopatra's ship sailing away in front of him. The horns sounded the retreat once again, and Octavian's forces stopped the attacks completely, waiting for orders. For a few moments an eerie silence reigned over the bay, only the crashing sound of the waves on wood to break it.

Cleopatra turned around and locked eyes with Antony. Her look was full of disdain, only colored by the smallest hint of regret. Her words echoed in his mind. One way or another, this battle will show me the extent of Rome's power.Then, she turned her back to him and looked ahead. With a small motion of her hand she ordered for the oarsmen to start rowing, then disappeared below deck.

Antony looked around... Helpless. All he could see were damaged ships and tired, wounded, dead soldiers. Not even the best strategy could possibly turn that into a victory.

The battle was lost.

Rome was lost.

Everything was lost, and he would soon be captured.

TO BE CONTINUED

Taglist: @ritachacha @thatcatlady0716 @missameliep @goddesskrystaljung @storyofmychoices @tacohead13 @gonewithpersephone @winchesterwolves @isometimesplaychoices @kay-ali @why-am-i-eeyore @princess-geek

#acor marc antony #marc antony x mc #choices marc antony #marc antony fic #marc antony #acor fanfic #acor choices #acor antony #choices acor

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dafukdidiwatch · 4 years ago

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2021 Housekeeping

Hey guys. Sorry for this blog being like, dead for all of December. A lot of holiday stuff happened and I just got sidetracked with all of that. That aside, I figured since this is the start of a new year I should go over some of the stuff I did throughout 2020. This is strictly dealing with things that I personally did for this blog. I want to keep this a safe-space and not deal with the crap that went on this year, for both you guys and me.

It’s all under the “Keep Reading” because this post is long as hell

Dafuking Films:

For a first attempt I think this went pretty well. 32/52 isn’t that bad, given how I have a real bad habit of just dropping things and never returning to them. Plus with the actual quarantine going on, watching a bunch of different movies people suggested to me was a lot of fun. Some were fantastic and enjoyable. Some people just really wanted me to suffer. But still, good times were had by all. I still have the list of movies that people suggested to me from last year, so I’m still gonna try to go through them all. Maybe twice a month instead of weekly so I won’t burn myself out like before. Regardless, I had fun, so I’m going to continue this.

Website:

Just to get this out of the way. Website was a valiant attempt. Didn’t really give a shit nor cared about the uptake. I Tried. I got tired updating it. If I was going to use it 100% then I would just move from Tumblr to There, which I won’t since all of my good shit is here. So I’m gonna move on.

Newvember:

This was a great idea. I had so much fun doing Newvember. No worries, no commitment. Just reading random shit with no pressure to maybe add them to my already overflowing list of blogs. It also helped me figure out what works and what doesn’t in terms of blogging.

Comic strips comics don’t really work well for me. I mean, the only good things to blog is just the last 2 panels, so I’m sort of only blogging the punchline which ruins the joke if people want to read it themselves. So stuff like Dominic Deegan and Sluggy Freelance probably won’t fly unless they somehow turn into page-format in the future.

Novels and Webnovels are flipping hard for me to figure out on just the logistics on how to blog. Do I give like a page summary on what I read like with The Wandering Inn? Or just do screenshots of the lines to react to like with Detective Pony and A Practical Guide To Evil? I am still working that out so I might not do much written stuff until I find a groove I like.

Interactive Comics get a toss up. I think Homestuck sort of spoiled me a bit here. I’m so used to how Homestuck works that I’m instinctively comparing other interactive comics to it even though I very read an Interactive comic while it was actually interactive. Stuff like Ruby and Awful Hospital unfortunately already has a high bar to jump over just because I like/used to the Homestuck format.

For the liveblogs themselves now that I have time away from them:Dark Science got a cool Cyberpunk vibe to it with a mix of magic-maybe. So it would be cool to read, but probably won’t continue it until the longer blogs like Girl Genius and Order of the Stick get caught up/finished first. Poppy O’Possum is just cute and honestly refreshing to have the main character be a hard-working mom. How to Be a Werewolf is a slowburn of how werewolves work, which I am always a sucker for how lore works. But I don’t really remember too much else from it so I might not revisit it given how I’m not too invested in it. Granted the same can be said for the prologue of Girl Genius and we saw how THAT went. Dominic Deegan is 90s fantasy slice of life, but with like some way old comedy jokes that I can just hear the ba-dum-tsst every punchline. So, yeah that one’s gonna drop. Practical Guide to Evil is a really cool read and I always like fantasy rpg style settings. I like the idea of Titles giving power and having the protagonists be the necessary evil. But again, I have to figure out how to webnovels. Awful Hospital has interesting art, but it isn’t really clicking with me too much so I’m probably gonna drop it. Sluggy Freelance is just wild. Part of it is the random plot things like having asshole rabbits and sci-fi references. Other part is me just saying random shit like how Dirk Strider is living his offshoot life in this comic. Fun read, but I don’t think the strip comics are good liveblog stuff. So will probably drop. A Better Place ABSOLUTELY Slaps. I was down with that since the first comic. Will 100% continue with that (when I get enough space). Blindsprings has an interesting 1800s steampunk magic vibe and I do like the theme of idealization vs reality. Check Please is cute. I’m A Spider is a fun isakai with a cool twist of being reborn as a monster. Not Drunk Enough is just terrifying. Both with the horror and alcohol poisoning.

Basically: A Better Place will definitely be revisited. Poppy, Check Please, Blindsprings, and I’m a Spider will probably be revisited for just short quick sessions. Not Drunk Enough and Dark Science might come back if/when I am finished with longer series.

Either way, I like doing Newvember. So I am going to initiate Ju-New-ne to be the next New-Blog month. So this WILL happen again.

Schedule:

Yeah I believe my time of doing daily blogging sessions is over. It worked well for 2019, but that time is basically over. I probably will try to go for twice a week if I can. It sounds fair enough for content.

Videos:

I am NOT giving up on my Undertale videos. There is more coming. I just got stalled because I lost my art stylus for drawing the thumbnails. I swear to Jegus I am going to Post the entire thing!!! I Shan’t Give Up!!!

Homestuck:

So early 2020 is the time, where after 2 full years I finished reading Homestuck. It was, honestly, a wild ride and wild time. My literal presence on this blog was shaped because of Homestuck from the asks to videos to discord. It was just, good. Nice. Like looking back through a memory book with warm feelings. Having it end the way it did was good, especially with when it ended. I might make posts on how I view the characters overall, maybe make a Final Epilogue Troll Rank/Fav Rank. I will work on that.

And from that, I think that a year is probably long enough for me to revisit Homestuck again. Pesterquest, Epilogue, HS’2, whatever is the next sequel. Hell maybe Problem Sleuth and see what the hell all those references were about. The goal is to be caught up in a bunch of other comics first. Like, gonna gun for 3-5. Once I get caught up (or close to it) then I will return into Hussie’s orange arms once again.

Anyway, that’s a surprise for anyone who actually bothers to read to the end of this. Happy New Year everyone.

#dafukblog #meta #2020 #newvember

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ask-de-writer · 5 years ago

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SEA DRAGON’S GIFT : Part 1 of 83 : World of Sea

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to World of Sea

SEA DRAGON’S GIFT

Part 1 of 83

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

140406 words

First draft written 2007

Reproduction in any form, physical, electronic or digital is prohibited without the express consent of the author.

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Users of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights. They may reblog the story provided that all author and copyright information remains intact. They may use the characters or original characters in my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical compositions. All sorts of fan art, cosplay, music or fiction is actively encouraged.

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Chapter 1: The Voice of the Sea

The day was fair and the sun was high, glittering off the water of Sea. Big Wohan was near the horizon and swift little Dorac was nearly at the mast head. Carsis, the third moon, was not due to rise until well after night fall.

The helmsman turned the three hundred foot length of the Longin dead into the wind. The breeze, now acting as a brake, slowed the big ship to a stop. Her large lateen sails went slack and fluttered in the gentle wind as the big ship, resembling a cross between a Chinese junk and a Yankee Clipper, finally went dead in the water.

“Why is the Captain even listening to her?” Silor, the lead deck-hand demanded of nobody in particular, gesturing offhandedly at the young, white haired girl standing beside Captain Mord Halyn near the bow of the ship. He was further back, near the foremast, in a knot of people prominent in the ship’s community. The Masters of the Craft Council were there along with many of the officers who were off duty. There were many others who were simply curious as to what Kurin was going to do this time. The nearly unbelievable rumor was that she was going to sound the bottom without a fathom-line.

Master Juris, the chief boat-wright and head of the Longin’s Craft Council, seeing a chance to needle Silor again, chose to answer him. Sarcastically he asked, “Why? Is your memory as clumsy as yourself? Do your recall as far back as three Wohans? A whole hundred days? There was a Coriolis storm, remember? Quite a large one.”

Silor did, in fact, remember the storm. I was on deck through most of it. I took the Captain’s orders and directed my mast crews. We saved the mainsail, the Longin herself, and every life aboard, when the reefing points tore out in hundred mile per hour winds. It was me up in the rigging. Rain and freezing wind tried to hurl me to Dark Iren. I set the puling blocks and caught lines that the hurricane whipped out of the control of my men and women. We got the yard secured to the boom and rebound that flailing canvass. We were almost done, the last line fought into its block, when slippery footing on a wet line let a hard gust throw me twenty feet to the deck. I broke my left arm. Silor was still paying the cost of saving the ship in his aching left arm, only recently out of its sling. Yes, Silor remembered the storm.

“Everybody knows how to deal with a blow like that,” Master Juris went on, patronizingly lecturing Silor like as if he were a child. “Run before it, close hauled and quarter your way out to safety after you are on the back of its path so it won’t just run you down again. The trick is to know when to quarter your way out with neither sun, moons or stars to help. We came out of the storm with only one section of one sail blown out of shape beyond salvage. The damaged section was replaced in five hours, and we were back in trim. How many ships did we find in that storm’s track? All needing major repair?”

“Six,” muttered Silor sulkily thinking correctly, Master Juris will always find a way to criticize whatever I do. Saved the ship, Logged a hero, and Master Juris calls me clumsy! Didn’t see Juris in the rigging helping! Once, five years ago when I was a kid, one bad thing happened, and Master Juris has never let me, or anyone else, forget.

“Kurin called the timing sooner than anybody expected and the Captain believed her. She was right. She got us to safety. It’s only one of the many times that she’s been right. That’s why the Captain listens to her. Now, let’s watch and see what this is all about.” The other Craft Masters of the Longin had come up from their shops below-decks to watch Kurin’s demonstration. They nodded in agreement.

Master Cirde the head of the weaving shop said, “I wish that Kurin was my apprentice instead of yours, Juris. She learns quickly and works well, rarely showing anything until she is sure of it. She came to my shop to play and that’s how we found out that the secret of Longin Lace had not left the ship when Cat went back to the sea.”

“She actually pays attention to instruction, instead of letting her mind wander onto dry land,” said Master Clard, the drummer. There was some good-natured laughter at the expense of apprentices in general. “They’re about to start,” he added.

“Just time for a friendly wager,” said Master Juris, smiling predatorially at Silor. “You are sure that this stop is a waste of time. I have some confidence in my apprentice. Two steamed fish cakes from this evening’s dinner will be the stakes. Acceptable?” He held out his hand and Silor, cornered by his own dislike, shook on it. In the background, others could be heard making various bets as well.

The attention of the whole group was now fixed on the Captain, the sailor beside him with a sounding line, and on twelve-Gatherings-old Kurin, the center of this storm on a calm sea. She closed her gray eyes and appeared to be concentrating on something that nobody else could notice. The deck was rolling gently in the swells, that was all.

She nodded to herself, satisfied, and wrote quickly on a tallow-slate with a bone stylus, showing it to Captain Mord, who signed it.

“Make the sounding,” he ordered the sailor who was standing ready. The sailor nodded with a brisk, “Aye, Sir!” He heaved a coral stone attached to a light line overboard and let it sink. The line had knots at regular six foot intervals and the sailor counted them as the stone sank. To the surprise of everyone except the girl, who was nevertheless relieved, the weight found a bottom at only twenty one fathoms, a mere sixty six feet down.

“You were right, Kurin,” said Captain Mord loud enough for all to hear. “There is a shallow bottom here that we never knew of. This could mark a good crabbing reef, if it has any size.”

He took her tallow-slate and added another note to it. Then he showed it to the waiting Craft Masters, officers and crew-folk. There for all to see, in Kurin’s neat writing, was ‘Bottom about 20 fathoms’ with ‘Cpt. Mord Halyn Longin’ signed beneath it as witness. There was also a note in Captain Mord’s hand, ‘Bottom found at 21 fathoms, Cpt. M.H.L.’

As the tallow-slate was passed about the group. Theatrical groans and cries of glee went with it. The sailors and some of the Masters could be heard cheerfully settling bets. Master Juris gloated to a gloomy Silor, “That’s two steamed fishcakes that you owe me from your plate at dinner. Want to try for all three, when we actually map out the shallows?”

The Captain now held up a carefully made chart on paperfish parchment for the Masters and Officers to see. Kurin’s neat drawing showed carefully marked depth contours for the expected bottom.

“I will let Kurin explain to you, as she did to me, the means of making this chart without long and laborious soundings.”

“Kurin, you know the Masters of the Craft Council. Please explain your method and answer their questions.”

She had known these men and women for Gatherings and worked and learned in their shops as a way of playing in her free time, but she was nervous still. This time, for almost the first time, she was going to try to teach them, instead of learning from them — and all of them at once.

She nervously twisted her long white hair in her hand as she began, “Five Gatherings ago, when we were on our way to her last Gathering with us, Cat gave me a hint to how she was able to steer the Longin so well in spite of her blindness. She said, ‘The sea speaks to me and tells me where the currents and reefs are. It’s voice is the long waves under the waves that we see.’

Kurin went on with gathering confidence, “It took me all of the five Gatherings since to figure out what she meant and how to interpret the waves. Look at the little wind waves on the surface. The Longin is big enough that they don’t move her at all. Still, she rises and falls to a longer, deeper wave than those. The long deep waves are the ones that I read for this work.

“It wasn’t easy to sort them out without help. They get shorter and higher when they pass over a shallow bottom. They bend when they go around the end of a shallow area and make a pattern that I can show you as the bent waves cross the ones that go straight. Currents, both big permanent ones like the Naral and Cliftos Currents, and transient flows caused by the tides, push the waves around. You can learn to tell which way the current is going, and about how fast.”

“I grasp the basic idea,” said Master Juris, absently scratching his bald head, “but I’ve watched you work on that chart in the boat-shop for most of a Gathering. Wouldn’t soundings be faster and more accurate?”

“I chose this place because we always sail past wide of it, due to the sudden change in the direction of the Naral Current, caused by this very reef. The turn that the current makes can throw dead-reckoning between navigation sightings way off. Because of that, we’ve always avoided this area. This is the one place in all three of our home waters where there is nothing but wave information to go on. Each time that we went past at a distance, I was able to add a little more. I could chart it to this same accuracy in only two passes if we came up within a mile of the reef and sailed along it. At most, three to four hours.”

The Masters retired down the deck to confer for a bit, trying to decide how to handle this turn of events.

While they were conferring, Captain Mord announced, “The second part of this experiment is to go ahead and do soundings by tried and true methods, to verify the accuracy of Kurin’s chart.

“While we do that, we’ll put some crab nets down in the known part of the shallows and try our luck.” The crew began to launch boats for the soundings and bustle about, preparing nets and crab-rings for use.

In the background the large, tubular hailing drum could be heard pounding out directions to the boats doing the soundings. Its main use was long-distance ship to ship communication, in favorable conditions it could bridge distances of over a mile with its very directional pulses of sound. Two officers, now using Kurin’s chart and a wide based range-finder, were telling the drummer what was needed next and he was telling the boats where to plumb the depths.

While the soundings were being taken, the other small, four and six oared, boats were lowered to the water with that absence of splashing that signals both experience and skill. Women and men both clambered down a big meshed net secured to the rail for that purpose. The ring nets, lines and floats were being lowered on boat hooks to the waiting crews. They were accompanied by good-natured banter and a few jeers from folk on deck, envious of those chosen to go. Oars made little whirlpools in the water and drove the boats ahead of quickly vanishing wakes as the crews rowed out to try the reef for crabs and to set some shrimp traps.

As Silor was eagerly preparing to go over the side to a waiting boat, Captain Mord approached. “Silor, I know that your arm is out of its sling but take the word of another who’s had a broken arm. Don’t over do it at first. I want you to organize the lookouts for Strong Skins and Wing Rays. I don’t need to tell you how dangerous those fish can be. Stay aboard this time and man the small crane. Somebody has to bring the catch aboard. I’m the Captain, and I don’t get to go out anymore.” He leaned on the rail beside Silor and looked at the departing boats with a heavy sigh.

Silor gripped the net cords so tightly that his knuckles turned white. I want to go out! My arm’s getting better! How did she do this? “Yes, Sir. Set the lookouts. Man the crane. I’ll take care of it, Sir,” he grumped stiffly. Stung at the loss of a chance at something fun to do, he went to do as ordered.

TO BE CONTINUED

NEXT==>

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to World of Sea

#SEA DRAGON'S GIFT #Part 1 of 83 #World of Sea #Written by De Writer

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th3p1nkfr34k · 6 years ago

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Things I wish I had been told as a baby artist

Ah heres some things I wish I had been told when I was a new artist.

SO I AM GONNA TELL ALL OF YOU THESE THINGS!

1. Its okay to hate your work. You're allowed to be dissatisfied with your own work. Not everything you make you have to love 100%. And along those lines, its okay to make mistakes. Its OKAY to not give your all in every single piece. Mistakes are okay. Half assing work is okay too! As long as its not art for other people. Then maybe do try your best lol.

2. Its also okay to absolutely love your work. I know that sounds like a contradiction to my first point but I see both sides so often. Its absolutely okay to be so proud of what you made. YOU MADE SOMETHING. Thats fucking amazing and you 100% SHOULD BE PROUD. Even if someone tells you they don't like it, if YOU are proud, its all that matters. The old saying goes, you cannot please everyone all of the time. And for me to add onto that, pleasing yourself is all that truly matters.

3. Cringe is dead. It was never even alive. Create whatEVER THE FUCK YOU WANT. Edgy, Mary Sues, Fan Characters, OC x Cannon, Next gen fan characters. USe those bright as fuck neons, those absolute blacks, pure whites, HELL GO FOR THE EYE BLEED THE CLASHING COLORS GO FUCKING NUTS MY DUDE. Make it ugly, make it gross, make it painful. Throw away your color theories, logic, anatomy studies, and shit. GO NUTS. Thats 100% okay. Oh but that seems so counter productive??? ITS YOUR ART YOU NEED TO BREAK ALL THE RULES TO FIND YOUR STYLE. Yes knowing these things is great. It is admittedly a way to further your knowledge so you can FURTHER break those rules. I'm not saying those things should 100% be ignored at all times. I'm saying its okay to ignore those things. Let your style develop at its own pace. Mine did. I have no shame showing my cringe old boxy 'anime' style. Its how some of us learn.

4. Now this one is important. While yes, you should be happy. You should do things your way to find what IS your way. BUT NEVER GET COCKY. The minute you start to think you can do no wrong is when you start to really mess up. By all means, be proud of your work, break the rules, find you way. BUT NEVER, EVER, EEEVVVEEERRR believe you are all that. You don't have to take every piece of criticism thrown at you. Or any of it really. BUT be aware of it. If you plan on making this a career you need to be aware of things that are going wrong.

5. If your art is causing you stress and you get no joy out of it, stop. Stop and either take a long break or start doing it completely different. Art should never be something that is a source of pain and stress to create. If you're not enjoying it, try something new.

6. People will ALWAYS assume things about you based off your art. If it bothers you, correct them. If not, pay it no mind.

7. Draw what you want, not what other expect of you. Unless they've paid you or you two have a deal worked out, you do not owe the world anything. You are free to draw what you want. You are allowed to draw what you want. There is no one stopping you. There will ALWAYS be hate. You can't stop that, but never let it stop YOU.

8. Don't compare yourself to anyone. You are not that person, you do not know what they went through to get to that point. The only person you can compare yourself to is your past self. You are your own person. Thats all.

Like I said, these are things I WISH I HAD HEARD. Maybe you need to hear something I can't tell you. But you're amazing. Keep it up. Be happy. You all have the potential to make amazing things. You just need to get started. Pick up that pen, pencil, brush, stylus, mouse, tablet... Just start. Its all you can do. If you never take that first step, if you never climb that hill, fight that battle, or jump in, you'll never make that great thing you're capable of. Even if you don't think so.

I think so. Maybe thats all you need to hear. Hear that at least one person thinks you are capable of that greatness you want. I think you are. I believe you are. Don't stop. Don't give up. You'll make it. Art and learning your way in art is a long process. But you can do it. YOU CAN DO IT! I BELIEVE IN YOU!!!

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kgables · 6 years ago

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The Boy and the Stone

“What’s this?” The boy asked, making it the fourteenth time the question had been posed since being dropped off by his father. Eighteen minutes, forty-five seconds until Lord Xanatos concludes his meeting, Kristian Gables told himself, glancing at the simple clock ticking away on the corner of his desk. The human caught his reflection in the polished glass protecting the clock face; the lines and creases framing in his grey whiskers seemed to have deepened since he last looked. Kristian set down his pen, abandoning the accounting figures laid out before him once again, and swiveled about on his stool, looking over at whatever had caught the lordling’s interest this time. While Kristian kept his compact office particularly sparse and tidy, Kazryl always seemed to find something new to question him about with each visit. In this instance, the lad had gotten into the drawers lining the bottom of his bookshelf.

“That would be a sextant, Lord Kazryl,” he told the young blood elf, who busied himself flexing the small metallic arm of the device and turning its knobs. The child had inherited his father’s black hair and olive complexion, but his build came from his mother. Only just barely turned four, Kazryl was already sprouting up like a reed, and the pudgy fat he’d been born with had long since melted away. I’ll need to order more textile samples for Lady Elde’en, Kristian noted, catching a glimpse of an ankle beneath the rising hem of the child’s trousers.

As head steward of House Xanatos, Kristian had a hand in every aspect of the family’s life. Forty-six years he’d served his master, Althir Xanatos, taken in by the lord when he was little older than the boy he watched now. Aside from the decade spent on his schooling, and a brief rebellious streak where he’d struck out on his own, Althir had been a constant. Then six years ago, Althir had married the Lady Elde’en Mornfire, and sired Kazryl only two later. Lady Telen’di Mornfire was the most recent addition to the family, niece of Elde’en, who became Althir’s second wife only in the last year. To most, caring for the needs of a family of three might not seem that burdensome, but then again they were elves, and nobility at that. Their whims were as turbulent as the winds in a maelstrom. When Althir had awarded Kristian with the steward’s title shortly after Kazryl’s birth, Kristian’s responsibilities had grown sevenfold. Most recently, as Althir had begun to introduce his son to the primary family business, a successful sea trade, those responsibilities had expanded to… babysitter.

“It is one of the tools your father’s sailors use to navigate the seas,” the steward continued, hoping to forego the impending ‘What’s it do’, “It measures the distance between two objects, typically celestial bodies- that is, the sun and the stars, which in turn helps the sailors form calculations on their position.” This answer put a confused look on the boy’s face, as Kristian knew it would. “Sex-tint,” Kazyrl repeated, thin lips trying to form the word.

“Sex-tant, Lord Kazyrl,” Kristian corrected, confident that he had styimed the child for at least another minute, perhaps even two. Turning back to his open ledger, he had only just picked up his stylus when Kazryl joined him at his side, navigation tool still in his tiny hands. Kristian detested children; they were loud, needy, and most of all irritating. How is a man to accomplish anything, when he can’t form two thoughts before being accosted? He groused, suppressing an annoyed sigh.The steward was about to order the boy to return the sextant to its place, when Kazryl surprised him.

“I want to help An’da,” Kazryl piped, his brow knit in stubborn certainty, holding up the tool, “Teach?”

“Father,” Kristian corrected immediately, fulfilling his role as practice partner for the lad’s common. He studied the child, searching Kazry’s diminutive features for any hint of his usual mischievousness. The boy was immensely gifted in the arcane arts, a natural born talent, and often put those talents to use jinxing Kristian- usually in the presence of his indulgent mother. Kazryl had even once managed to polymorph the steward into a cat, all without any instruction. Still, the boy seemed earnest.

“Father. I want to help father,” Kazryl tried again, looking only all the more certain for it, “Please teach?”

Curiosity piqued, Kristian turned towards the young lord, holding the pen between his leathery hands, “Why do you want to help your father?”

“He works -all- day. All night, too, sometimes! Min-” the boy paused, catching himself mid-sentence, “Mother is sad when she’s alone. I can tell. And auntie Dia said that he works too hard, and that’s bad for him. I can help! Mother says two can get more done than one.” He nodded knowingly at that.

The child was not wrong. Kristian was not sure the lad understood the source of his mother’s melancholy, but it clung to the woman like a cloak, wherever she carried herself. It was also true that Althir had been working himself to the bone, even prior to their move from Dalaran to Suramar. The move had certainly not made things any easier for the Lord; the city’s nobility had a stranglehold on trade, and as an outsider, Althir’s own title just barely managed to get him in the door with the least influential of Suramar’s elite. The elf spent countless hours wheedling the slimmest of margins, and any headway he gained was fought for tooth and nail. One thing Kristian was sure of, was that if Althir’s wives knew the extent to which their husband was spreading himself, his own job would become that much more complicated.

Kristian was also confident that despite Kazryl’s bright mind, it was still a long way off from understanding the complexities of geometry and star charts. Even so, the lad’s determination was admirable. “If you want to learn how to help your-” Kristian cut himself off, suddenly alert. The hairs on the back of his neck stood straight, and even though the old steward was no practitioner himself, in his years he had come to recognize the telltale signs of impending spellwork. In an instant Kristian was off the stool and wrapping himself around Kazryl, snugging the boy tight to his chest.

“What-” the boy started to exclaim indignantly, only to be harshly silenced by the man, “Quiet!”

Not a second later something heavy crashed through the window near the door and thudded against the bookshelf, displacing several volumes that each thudded to the floor. Not a bolt, grenade? I’m already dead if so. Kristian stuffed Kazryl beneath his desk, blocking the footwell with his body as he scanned the room, eyes searching quickly. He spotted the projectile a moment later- a large, smooth stone with script painted across its face. Behind him, Kazryl started to wail for his mother. “Quiet, boy!”

To the lad’s credit, he restrained himself to a snivelling whimper as Kristian ghosted across the room, keeping low and out of sight. Snatching up one of the shards of shattered glass along the way, he posted himself near the broken window and held up the shard, using it as a mirror to peer outside. Unhappy clients? Competitors? Possibilities ran through the stewards head as he tilted the piece of glass, panning his view from left to right. He spotted the culprits quickly. A trio of young Nightborne stood at the far end of the wharf, and although their distance and position should have made the throw impossible, Kristian knew it was them. Particularly the tall one in the middle, whose confident sneer and impeccably styled garb marked him as high nobility. Worse.

With a sneer of his own, Kristian set down the shard and stood, straightening his coat. They’d had their fun, and without provoking any response, would carry themselves off to find more receptive entertainment. Kristian surveyed the damage as he crossed the room and returned to his desk, pulling aside his stool. He squatted down before the huddled lordling, who looked terribly frightened and confused. Reaching under the desk, Kristian dragged the boy out from his refuge and hauled him to his feet. “On your feet, my Lord,” the steward told him, pulling a clean rag from his pocket to wipe away the boy’s tears. “I want min’da!” Kazryl whined, still shaking like a twig.

“I reckon you do,” Kristian sighed, brushing Kazryl’s hair back into some semblance of order, “But you wanted to help your father, didn’t you?” He waited for an affirmative nod before continuing, “Some mean people just tried to play a joke on your father. If he finds out, it will ruin his day.” Five minutes, ten seconds. “We need to put things back in order, like nothing happened.” Rising up, Kristian led the child over to the broken window, hand on his shoulder. “Can you fix this? Make it just like new?”

Kazryl looked between the steward and the shattered glass, a sniffle twitching his little nose. “An’da won’t get mad if he doesn’t find out,” he nodded, wiping his nose on his sleeve, “And Min’da won’t let me come back. Auntie Dia says you’re boring. I think you’re smart. But what about the mean people?”

Kristian watched for a moment as the lordling lifted his arms. The glass rose from the wooden floor with the movement, and one by one, the shards fit back into place, like pieces of a puzzle. Kazryl’s intuition impressed the man, who nodded and turned back to the fallen books. Perhaps not all children were leeches. He palmed the painted stone before slotting the last tome back into place, and glanced at the Shalassian scribed across its surface. Go back to your own kind, thinbloods.

“Kristian?”

“Not to worry, Lord Kazryl,” Kristian replied, hiding the stone away in a drawer and nodding his approval at the mended window, “I’ll handle everything.”

@telendi @xanatosrising @anaralar

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ratherhavetheblues · 5 years ago

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INGMAR BERGMAN’S ‘IN THE PRESENCE OF A CLOWN’ “I wonder why I love you as I do…”

In 1997, at the age of 80, Ingmar Bergman saw fit to return to his 1980 film, From the Life of the Marionettes, in order to disclose the further range to be found in its turmoil and small triumph. That would have been long after those “in the know about films” had figured out and concluded for others that the maestro had nothing new to show. But those very small numbers ignoring their “betters,” could be beneficiaries of exciting times, far surpassing our many masters of the viral.

From the Life of the Marionettes, telescoping, in fact, back an eye-opener of a film from the days when Bergman’s numbers were not meagre, namely, Scenes from a Marriage (1973), the crux of the matter becomes “speaking the same language.” Most invested in that action would be the language of patricians (white-hot pedants), not nearly as bright and constructive as they think they are, but knowing where the money and dominance are. The 1980 blood-bath studies what can happen when couples dare not to speak the same language.

In the film, In the Presence of a Clown (1997), there is dissonance so massively distributed that clarifying its true conflict becomes quite a struggle, a struggle worth mastering. One way of cutting to the heart of our work is the Bergman standby of optical, dialectical apparitions, wielded marvelously by a remarkable roster of great cinematographers, in this case, Tony Forsberg. The first moment gives us a murky setting and a hand moving a stylus to a vinyl disc. Two agencies awaiting magic. The label is a rusty-red. In the Bergman film, Dreams (1955), the first scene involves a hand, in semi-darkness, pressing upon a sheet of paper immersed in a photographic solution, by which to disclose a large image of a woman’s lips. Coming into play with this nocturnal effort is Salvador Dali’s creation of, “Mae West Sofa,” a surrealist icon. At the outset of, From the Life of the Marionettes, a prostitute in a brothel, showing pronounced red lips in close-up, dies horribly, but not before disclosing a surprising gift for beauty and verbal expression. You’d think each film, therefore, might implicitly be about not speaking the language of sharp advantage, daring to have a go as an innovator of sensibility. And yes, it does. But, oh, what tiny steps being made! In the film, In the Presence of a Clown, we have permission to untangle the death throes of those being imprisoned by cowardly partners, and their own backsliding.

Whereas the protagonist in the latter film, namely, Carl Akerblom, is a patient in a mental hospital when first we meet him, he also (somewhat) belongs to three lamps shining from the ceiling of his confinement. Each light has a function within a strange and essential logic: one for survival; one for ecstasy; and, the third, a synthesis of the other two. To make those lights become everything, special actions are needed. Our film is resolved in getting what is needed. At this moment, Carl seems to be clueless about the sophistication peeking in. He inhabits a large room, painted grey, where he is the only inhabitant, along with many other empty beds. We soon learn that he had attempted murdering his fiance, Pauline (she being a Peril of Pauline, in the mold of Marionettes’ Peter, as in Peter Pan). That could account for his isolation. But, in an interview that morning (the doctor interrupting his vinyl) the thrust of narrative becomes Carl’s verve for music, in face of a blotto of a specialist (like the blotto of the mental specialist in, From the Life of the Marionettes), putting him in the driver’s seat of being a candidate of making that dialectic click. (The wintry scene out of two tall windows is supplied with a lovely tree in the snowy grounds. With the patient lying back on his bed, we see, on a little ledge, three small flower pots. Two support tiny flowers. The third is empty. The doctor’s surname is Egermann, that being the surname of Peter the effete butcher in the brothel.) As Carl digs into the woeful biography of Franz Schubert, by way of a rather hostile challenge to the doctor to admit he’d have a “sinking feeling,” were he such an artist, we are directed to his hands and his shaking fingers. (Hold that last thought.)

Just as we become rather skeptical of Carl as having the right stuff, Pauline, whom he had refused to see, breaches the blockade to an upshot of increased confusion. Wearing a smart Louise Brooks hair style—the year is 1925—her sylphlike presence is a contrast to Carl’s many pounds. But her arrival, coinciding with his being unable to offset a bowl movement, must seriously become an even greater impediment to future interplay. She has three buttons across her coat. On entry, she found room 2A (without a third). She lights up a cigarette, the first of many, reminding us of unfit Harry and his chain-smoking, in the 1980 film. (Does she flounder like Harry?) When Carl returns, in some array, and she tells him, “You can’t escape me,” you wouldn’t place any bets on her. She has a bandage over her forehead, and he declares, “It was your fault…” (What happened to poetry?) The musician declares, “If you’ve come to reap my contrition, you’ll get none of it… What can you have come for? The cheap triumph of seeing your future husband’s total humiliation?” She retorts, “I certainly didn’t need to come here to see your humiliation. That’s been a daily bitter diet…” Carl’s shifting the patter is something new and, at the same time, something old. “Here comes the bit about my stepmother and her jealousy…” (Here, also, is the time to realize that the rich theatrical component of Bergman’s effort—however non-readers would bridle—offers drama, not only thrilling, but unprecedented, in any field. Along, therefore, with dazzling cinematography.)

While this vague reprise of Hollywood screwball comedy, being impressively brought to life by the Bergman film, A Lesson in Love (1954), settles in, we are blindsided with Carl’s dotage upon the supposed sanctity of Schubert, to the outcome of putting together a homage whereby a silent film would be supplemented by actors speaking and musicians playing, a roadshow hopefully plumbing marvels of creative taste and power. There has been much more at the asylum between the doctor’s visit and Pauline’s visit, and now is the time to dispense with screwball comedy and begin to broach something even Bergman had never attempted before. First of all, there is a bit more craziness in the form of another of Carl’s shut-ins, one Osvald Vogler, a retired professor of exegetics (exegetics being a critical explanation of a written work, especially the Bible). Where he sits there are, in Carl’s big domaine, there are two empty flower pots. The name, “Vogler,” has a spotted career in Bergman films—pertaining to fakery, as with Persona, The Magician and Hour of the Wolf. Carl immediately takes an aversion to the academic’s vanity, and threatens, “I’m sicker than I look.” The lecturer peppers the protagonist (and us) about “inner freedom,” and though he’s another Mad Hatter, he has a sensibility to, like a tornado, dig up random gems along with the garbage. “Subjective by self-conceived… by self unfortunately destroyed… What we call inner freedom as it is so complex that can’t be codified, analyzed or classified… For freedom is the most elevated characteristic in the human spirit… the ancient source of the Sacred One and the literal immortality of Life.” Carl tries to talk about Schubert, but Vogler is now buried in a book. He does remark, “My wife is a deaf mute. She is also rich, and I live well on her wealth” [the source of the supposed new arts]. Vogler, now troubled, comes up to Carl where he is lying on his bed. The latter takes the troubled man’s wrists to calm him; and Carl’s hand and fingers are once again featured. Now back to his confidence, Vogler asks the new friend, “What kind of ill-health forces you to dwell in these depressing premises?” And our bemusing protagonist chronicles the violence: “The person who tried to help me out of a terrifying difficulty was rewarded with a murderous blow, so that the skin on the forehead split and blood spurted…” He goes on to claim that the incident is nothing to him; but that Schubert is. (Much more dialogue is in store here and in many other contexts. But we must distinguish between the saga’s need to convey to the film audience the crushing deadness of the situation, which affords a cue to some positivity; and our essay’s need to focus here upon a kernel of very rare and very difficult and very crucial need, which will never register to many.)

Carl bribes his motherly nurse to forego his tranquilizers, and then he makes her listen to a bedtime story she’d rather not hear. “Sit here and I’ll tell you everything… In the old days, they used to punish criminals by sticking a sharpened wood stake into the delinquent’s arse.” (Peter the patrician meted out a similar punishment to the prostitute in Marionettes.) He adds, “The point gradually comes out, at the back of the neck… Then they raised the stake by the river, and there the wretch hung. That’s what it’s like, Sister Stella. I’ve threaded on a stake… I’ve become a sight worth seeing…” (“The person who tried to help me out,” would have been a “delinquent,” exposing a shaky bourgeoisie to depredation.) Therefore, the rally, “Don’t think I’m asking for pity, like Jesus or Mahler…or for that matter, Swedenborg [an eighteen century, Swedish mystic, and Vogler’s hero], that sentimental old whiner… Schubert Franz, he’s my friend, my beloved brother…”) He thinks to end the night smugly with, “What theatre! What an audience!” But something shoots down the arrogance and hate.

Carl (and also Vogler) want to believe that the many hours they have put into their obscure repertoires must result in a better world. That they have landed in a place implying incompetence would not necessarily rule out a singular power; but the tenor of their explications are so transparently shabby, they now stand exposed as pathetic and virulent menaces, as with the half-wit doctor in Marionettes. Therefore, after boring the nurse with his bravado, he lies alone in his bed and ushers in a phantom not trammeled with soft lies. In the 1980 film, a murderer’s wife is far more concerned with the dead victim-prostitute than a live husband in a mental hospital. Her emotive make-up becomes a compass to take off as a free-lancer, a free lover. That compass returns to Carl’s bedroom, to haunt his cowardice (Vogel’s filibuster on behalf of “freedom” never giving a thought to courage). Emanating from the snowy atmosphere outside, we find that a strange presence has lingered after his Ted Talk. His spent candle has formed an angry-looking head. The apparition, all white with a white clown hat, focuses down to her fingers, very long and with very long fingernails. She turns out to be an expert in producing an odd kinetic residue from out of those fingers. Panning back to disclose her face, we have a huge ear [picking up what mediocrities like Carl and Vogler refuse to attend to, which is to say, being tone deaf] and an elaborate eyebrow [involving what the celebrated geniuses of our planet refuse to recognize]—one of the surrealist touches in Bergman’s film, Dreams. By contrast, she has lost several teeth. (When close to killing Pauline, Carl’s frenzy included grinding out many of his teeth.) He asks, “Have you been here long?/ “Quite a while… Quite a while,” she recalls. (In fact, thousands of years.) He tries to rationalize by asking, “Am I not quite awake, sir?” Her emphatic, “No” does nothing to calm him. Her sprightly dance to come close to him is rapid and graceful, recalling the hooker’s surprising homage to the smells of the seasons. She shoves the pitcher from the little table by the bed, and curls up on it with a smile implying her few years of problematic action. Her suppleness and equilibrium announce a dimension which fat, awkward Carl knows nothing about. The stab-wound on her chest becomes apparent, but she, disregarding it from out of a twilight-reservoir no longer human but having done her part, cordially asks him, “How are you?” He admits he’s bored (something he’d never have admitted to a person), and she follows with, “How are you, Mr. Torneman?”/ “Torneman was my cousin,” he reports, “who died. He was a clever clown. He scared the life out of me when I was little…” She laughs, “For that matter, I’m no mister,” and she happily shows her breasts and adopts a come-hither attitude, a residue of her former job. (She and Torneman, having done their tiny part in an infinite and perverse cosmos.) She fiddles with her nipples; and in so doing she lines up far to a side of the luminous windows. Carl finally comes to the crux of his nightmare. “One says that one is not afraid. ‘Why should I be afraid? As there is no life after death. For there isn’t, is there?’” She replies, “I don’t go around with secrets. Is that clear?” (Maybe it should be put as, “There’s a paradox,” a paradox which Pauline will approach slightly more effectively than the Clown.) Be that as it may, the flighty Clown, replying to Carl’s, “But aren’t you all alone at the actual moment?” by nodding yes and saying, “Alone. Inevitably,” may, for all her grace, be missing something, something Pauline, “The person who tried to help me out,” might see something very rare and very necessary. The Clown teases Carl for his apparent mania about fast and shattering locomotives. Both voices cover the cliché. She covers one of his eyes to calm him. Then she stands in that blue light and her fingers look like candles. The rendezvous collapses, as did the show for the nurse—the clown drawing Carl to approximate the savaging of her, “Inevitability.”

Despite her solid insight that Carl was, and always will be, a Lost Boy, in the mold of Peter Pan, the killer of the Clown, and the enthusiast of speaking the same language of advantage and nothing more, Pauline, in face of the mute’s monetary wealth and the boys’ garrulous showiness, gushes, “It sounds revolutionary!” Despite her soon having second thoughts—the fiancé intent upon quality pens and writing paper—she allows herself to be persuaded by his, “Let your young heart be enthused, my darling. Just for once.” Amongst the launch, one statement is too jarring to overlook, being quintessentially ironic. “New ideas produce new money!” While emphasizing the happy days just around the corner, he mimes fingers counting all that “new money.” So close to activating a true “revolution;” and so hopelessly lost. An even more pointed action within this tizzy wells up from Pauline (now recognized as the main protagonist). “I wonder why I love you as I do [when recognizing he’ll never reach heights she can demand of herself]… What do you want with other ladies… when the clear-sightedness that afflicts me quite often these days strikes? I don’t understand why I actually love you…But now, as you sit there, holding forth on your living, talking film and all we are going to do together, I just want to cry and fall to my knees…” (Later we’ll better understand her passion. His woolen sweater has spilled beyond his jacket, recalling the sheep being killed by a passion of cowardice, in the film, The Passion of Anna [1969]. She completes a frieze of a squire, kneeling to her king. [Don’t take it naively. Wait till the last scene.])

The tour is, of course, stillborn. But where we catch up to the disaster, at the village where Carl sort of grew up as a descendent of an uber-bourgeois family, the spotlight is upon Pauline and the nature of her peril and accomplishment. The wordy two, being rank amateurs, have produced an incoherent and saccharin waste of time in homage to Schubert. But Pauline’s endeavor, at a snowbound but canny locale, is a drama of the highest stripe.

The ingenue of the film (and Carl’s current squeeze) bitches once too often about the lack of majesty, and our real protagonist, having been doing the ironing, opens the subject of placing the hot implement upon her pretty face. Exit the talking ingenue. In the midst of that unpleasantness, Pauline explains, “There comes a point where nothing is of any importance.” (That happens to be a serious mistake which she’ll have to work on. And she will.) In contrast to that rather farcical disappearance, the cinematographer is magic itself, namely, actor, Robert Atzorn, who played the role of Peter, the skittish murderer, in Marionettes. His “Petrus” is a disinterested craftsman and well aware that the spectacle is rotten. During the long night of bathos in the snow he countenances Carl’s stupidity and dangerously using coins to juice up the electrical power, a state of affairs soon wrecking the night’s flicks and placing the technician in serious danger. (Twice along this flop, Petrus is left bleeding and writhing in pain, while putting out the inevitable fires. Carl, the artiste, had left the cameraman with the slogan, “The worst that can happen is that the Temperance Hall blows up.”)

Actually, the theatrical blow-up begins hours before the talkie does a U-turn and becomes a salon. (Here Pauline’s pointless alert, that she had been outnumbered in trying to establish coherence amidst almost complete folly, establishes her lack of grip in face of a peril requiring serious ruthlessness.) Carl’s step-mother announces (Carl roaming the snowbanks), “I have come to take my foolish stepson home…I care for this careless old child. I want to give him a little security…” (Security being the watchword of Anna, the bloodthirsty fascist, in The Passion of Anna. Here, though, as was another possessive mother, in Marionettes, the passion and depth of feeling of the younger woman transcends hard advantages of law and culture, and goes on to somewhat annul the relationship in her preferred way.)

Even more stunning a reversal of the hard-wired clowns are the patrons that night, seeing unbeknownst, the final show. You’d never know from the rich stepmother that riches of sensibility burn in those frozen wastes. But, with the new, brave Peter taking the tickets, and Carl providing little bios for the crew, we come to realize that hard lives can be lovely comets. A teacher from another town has skied to the theatre. A lady whose husband committed suicide looks for enlightenment. A man who can barely walk can would be always counted in the audience, “if it’s a question of culture.” “Superintendent Larsson… comes for the new…” “Fredrick Blom was a cantor and took to drink. He has a small pension and does research into chorales from the area.” (Where the latter sits, a delicate, undulating pattern appears on the wall. Such alertness is not to be gratified by the show. But its traction is a gift to Pauline, going forward.)

The approximation of the illiterate nonsense, in lieu of the broken technology, appalls the reflective gathering, and appalls Petrus and Pauline—the latter having her backside spanked, not to be missed by the supposed wit; along with Vogler, completely breaking down and having to be taken back to where he belongs. (“Your entrails will come out of your shameful orifices…”) At an interlude, one of the less sophisticated souls, comes up to Pauline and asks, “Are there many acts? I was supposed to be home by 11… I wasn’t asking because it was dull…” Over that coffee break, the teacher, seeing fit to provide a touch of maturity and class, asks, “I would like to read something… I found it long ago in a book. It’s the story of a man seeking his way. It’s as if seeking had become the main thing… and was concealing what he was seeking. The author writes, ‘You complain that you cry out, and that God doesn’t reply. You feel imprisoned and you’re afraid that it is a life sentence… [a painted backdrop of hills and verdancy is in view]… although no one has said anything. Consider, then, that you are your own judge and jailor. Prisoner, leave your prison! To your astonishment you will find that no one will stop you. The reality outside prison is indeed terrifying, but never as terrifying as your own anguish down in that locked room…’ [She continues, knowing by heart, since she is in fact the writer]… Take your first step toward freedom. It is not difficult. The second step is more difficult; but never allow yourself to be defeated by your [puny] jailers, who are only your own fear and your own pride.” The applause that follows is rudely interfered with, by Carl (one of those fearful jailers), causing a distraction by urging the folks to have some coffee, and thereupon ordering, “Now we must begin Act II.” Act II has one non-bilious moment. While relating Schubert’s demise, Carl, the careless old child, frightens his baby-soft gut and the Clown and the surreal blue light reappear to glare him down. He says, “I’m sinking.” Then he’s silent for a few moments, listening to the music. “I’m not sinking,” he declares. “I’m rising…” What can Pauline make of this? (He goes on to offer an elderly lady his help with early morning milking.) The dreadful entertainment has a grateful end. The viewers’ exits, however, are absorbing. The teacher comes over to Pauline (whose piano accompaniment in the piece is a rare aspect of seriousness), and tells her, “I want to give you this writing.” (Two glowing windows and the two women in between.) Pauline’s thank-you lacks weight. In many Bergman films, a remarkable effort of sensibility is met with puny response. (We’ll soon find out if the piano player has an A-game.) She’s a bit more touched by the researcher’s explicit praise, “Thank you for the lovely music, Miss. I interpret the Schubert sonata differently. No criticism intended. It was lovely, though somewhat feminine for my taste. But absolutely lovely. Thank you…” Near the end of the departures, a jumbled man, past his bedtime, tells the surviving performers, “This has been a great rendering of real art. Excuse me for saying so, but the play was greater than the film. Thanks, again!” Carl quickly figured out that the patron hated the dog, and enjoyed the story and the company of connoisseurs. His face shows him as, “my foolish stepson.” What can Pauline make of this?

It’s been a ragged night, after a ragged tour, and she makes a fool of herself before a bedtime she might have been able to be balance from. His sister (one of the theatre goers that night), having apparently the family instinct for avoiding any part of art (along with an estranged husband named, Mr. Bergman), invites the thespians (in the name of the stepmother) to stay the night at the estate. Pauline (a few hours before, having charmed the old girl and shared some sherry together) becoming viral, tells the breeder, “How very kind of Mrs. Akerblom. I wouldn’t grant her such a triumph…” The sister-in-law asks Carl, “Come and do some conjuring,” Carl having made far more progress as an uncle than an artist. It also seems that the uncle excels in diplomacy; but that, to our shock, is far from the facts.

In the night, in the busted theatre, with the spent wax looking like a monster, the spirit of a poetic outrage flares again. She steps beyond a curtain, close to the chair where Pauline was sleeping. Carl wakes up, the non-event with his stepmother festering like a mortal wound. She, now awake, and knowing she had been crude in the way the film was crude, she asks, “Are you angry about something?” His reply—“Are you going to send me back to the asylum?”—conceals an agenda of advantage and humiliation. In a flash, she guarantees that he can forever be a clown. “Come over here. Come…” Carl places his head on her chest. “You’re lying!” he blurts out, like a child. “You never know the truth!” Her, “Do as you like. Just don’t think I’m afraid,” bristles with her disgust with his personal superficiality and stunted, vomitistically precious family. He pounces, pressing his thumbs under her eyes. She asks. “Am I going to die now?” He melodramatically replies, “Perhaps we both are.” She then fires back, “That’s all right with me!” That leads Carl to take away his thumbs, and he shuts his eyes and breathes heavily. He falls to his knees. She looks outside for that wise light, only now having an incisive carnal taste of her antimajoritarian direction. He pouts, “I would like to say that my step-mother is an amiable lady” His legacy concerning wholesome and clever relatives must, from her, find a way beyond hate. Carl on the screen: “For Christ’s sake, it’s my nursery, Pauline… Then we would have sat for yet another while by the fire… She [the step-mother] would have taken you by the wrist and thanked you for having taken responsibility for me…” A Lost Boy. Would she always be his servant? The Clown makes a trio in the uncanny night. (A lost trio?) Katarina would leave Peter to his Teddy Bear, in Marionettes. What will Pauline do about Carl? Here, he would go on to approaching slashing his wrists with scissors. (The staff of the mental hospital where Peter ends up notes that the once-executive must be always under scrutiny against suicide.) She would use the chorus-cliché, “If you die, I don’t want to go on living.” On a more promising note, she declares, “You know you can wake me whenever you want.” But also she has to assimilate that this is a blow-up which has occurred hundreds of times. She gets up from the chair where she was sleeping. A face is imprinted in the cloth. She places her face upon his bended head. Her fingers move into a new site. How about the rest of her?

We have ample evidence to see that Pauline, like Katarina, will make a great change beyond the film per se. Whereas Peter had come to a point where he could not sustain any relationship with Katarina, it is possible that the “conjurer” has enough love on the ball to suit Pauline’s needs. Although, within the madhouse of Carl’s and Vogler’s drivel, she could not think effectively, there are agencies lovingly nudging her to her real presence. One, as already known, becomes a fusion of her moving fingers, with moving, dynamics, itself. When placed to perfection, a world beyond advantage (beyond religion and science) comes along. A third force having been subjected to mass nullity. Moreover, a towering power had been put into her frazzled hands that last night of the crazy promenade concert, by an out-of-the-way genius—in fact, an oracle, a skiing oracle. (Bergman’s last and most thrilling of a long series of oracles tolerating a poisonous, ridiculous normality. As a sidebar, though totally lacking serious reflection, Vogler and Carl [despite hiding their outlaw verve] knew that something important had been overlooked.) The backwoods teacher had given Pauline a map to the country of her true home, a country in love with disinterested “knack” (a best gift, in the film, Marionettes). The Clown, with her deadly and joyous knack of revealing that most of humankind cannot countenance its reality, never really registers (on film) with Pauline, while she drives Carl to near suffocation three times, during that last hopeless night. But with this lonely, beset upon woman-protagonist being a survivor as well as a victim, things can, in fact, happen for the best.

For the first and only time in Bergman’s career (this being his swan song) he encourages others to show what his protagonist could do, beyond reaching out to his partner and his family with civility. Carl, never to attain being a figure of personal love, perhaps would attain being a figure implicated in gusto along lines of her cosmic love. The oracle counsels a “first step,” away from cowardice, away from the norm. That coincides with the loaded hand (or other bodily features becoming a switch), the motion of elicitation from a cosmos needing finite love to fully complete the knack (that “menace” of creative, emotive force, being regarded as impious by the billions of religionists and being regarded as “soft,” frivolous, by the billions of smart, crude and intrinsically cowardly drones of science—well aware, on the fly, of emotive gratifications, but reflexively trashed as a secondary item). That loaded hand which we share carries two intertwined galaxies: a thrust of delight in dance with inventions of that play—as with the beauties of sunset, which happily dovetail to our eventual death, our eventual, loving, total disappearance; and a thrust to cue the myriad crafts to create the riches of sentience. Our option, therewith, to build when the vagaries of Lost Boys and Lost Girls permit; and a harbor of play, when they don’t.

Pauline, certainly knowing much about perils, could cull from Carl his range of conjuring. Could he appreciate her skills and her needs? Impossible! As impossible as Peter Pan in his cell, flitting hopelessly with his hands against a bright window in search of an adult traction, in From the Life of the Marionettes. Finding rich possibilities in others becomes a career for her, a career she very well might come to understand as impossible (despite fine pleasures), in light of all that has been already cemented on planet earth.

#ingmar bergman

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topazshadowwolf · 8 years ago

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Troubles With Sleep

Day 2 of Soriel Week! The prompt is “sleep”, so get ready for some rad sleeping action! Also, I made an art, which you could find at the end!

An Undertale Fanfiction by: Topaz Shadowwolf Undertale is owned by: Toby Fox Relationships: Soriel Rating: Everyone Heads up: Mention of death

Troubles With Sleep

For the longest time, Toriel had trouble falling asleep and staying asleep. At night, in the quiet hours in the Ruins, her mind would wander to the darker concepts in life. She would see and remember things she could and will never forget. Her mind tortured her with haunting memories of faces, pain, and cries for help; which chased her all-night long.

First, she would remember watching Chara, her beloved adopted child, slowly die an agonizing and horrible death. Nothing she did eased the suffering the innocent soul endured. No matter how much she wanted to take that burden on herself, she could not. After all the times, she promised the child that she would keep them safe, she was powerless to save them.

Then her son. Her dear, sweet son, who was the light of her life. His broken and blooded body was found collapsed and dying on the throne room floor. She remembers being there, by him, as he clung to the empty body of his dead sibling. Sobbing as her healing magic failed to do anything. Then breaking into a hysterical wail as he fell to dust. In the moment he needed her most, she failed him. Twice in one day she failed as a mother.

Asgore, also pained by the loss of his children, acted. While she mourned, he declared war on the humans. How he could do that, after loving and caring for Chara, was beyond her scope of understanding. For the next few days they yelled, argued, and refused to be near each other. For years upon years, he had always come to her for such decisions. She would talk to him, counsel him. And now? He turned from her, ignored her, and refused to listen to her reason; nor, would he back down. Even when she explained the idiocy of it, he did not relent. That was when she left. Turning her back on the one she had come to love with all her heart, and leaving him with his own choice of bloodshed.

Every human child, who fell, she cared for as long as they would stay with her. She made sure they had food, drink, bed, shelter, love, and new clothes for their growing bodies. But each one left. They each seemed to have a mission they were driven to complete. And every time, news filtered through of their deaths. For all of them, she felt her soul die a little more, and her ability to sleep diminished. She became cold, distant, and angry with the world and the monsters in it. Never again did she think she would find joy or happiness.

Even after moving to the surface, her sleep patterns hadn't improved. There was concerns at work, about human and monster relations, Asgore wanting her forgiveness, Frisk wanting her to forgive Asgore, and the wellbeing of Frisk. There was so much going on in her life, so much to think and worry about. There was hardly any time for sleep, and some nights she half spent sitting up, making lists of all she needed to do for handling upcoming events.

As if she didn’t already have enough to worry about, her mind would wander to the health of her one dear friend. The one monster who showed her how to laugh again while they were still underground. He had brightened up her life, day after day, visiting her door, telling her jokes and stories about life outside and his brother. And the day they finally met, and learned each other's names, was one of the greatest in her life.

It didn’t take her long to figure out that Sans didn't share her problem. He slept very easily, passing out at any moment. A few times he apologized for leaning on her in his sleep, but she didn't mind. In fact, she really enjoyed the feel of his weight on her side, the subtle movement of his ribs as he breathed, and the soft hum of his magic and soul.

If anything, it made her feel drowsy, which was something she hadn't felt in ages. Remembering this, a few times at night, she would imagine hugging him. Feeling him there, in her mind, and letting his deep voice chase the ill thoughts away. It seemed childish, and it was something she wouldn’t want to tell him; but, it helped.

This night it was not working. No matter how hard she tried, sleep would not come. She wanted to talk with him, and was considering calling him. But she knew that is silly, he would be in bed, asleep like she should be. Still, her insomnia was getting to her and she had to do something. Grabbing her phone and a stylus, she found her text conversation with Sans and send a quick message.

*We should meet tomorrow (or today, considering the time), I found a pretty puzzle we can put together. That is, of course, if you're not too busy with work. Hope I don't wake you, sleepy bones, and for a piece of your time tomorrow.

With it sent, she started reviewing their old back and forth joke telling. What she wasn't expecting was how quickly she received a reply.

*hey t, you're up late. sure, i can see you after work. noon good?

*So are you, I thought you’d be asleep. And yes, noon is perfect.

*k see you then.

She stared at her phone for a moment. It would be easy to dismiss it as him waking up to her text and being tired. Or that he was just up late with his brother for some reason. But it still bothered her that he didn’t reply with a single pun or joke. He didn’t even acknowledge the one she made. Frowning she decided to not let this slide.

*Alright, but Sans, what are you doing up?

There was a long pause, as the dots indicating he was responding appeared and disappeared multiple times. Finally, the reply came.

*what abt you?

That skeleton!

Toriel huffed and glared at her phone. How dare he flip her concern for him back on herself. He was deflecting, and unlike usual, not with a joke. Quickly, she wrote a new message.

*I am fine. You, though, fall asleep at the slightest lull in activity. I don't want you passing out more than normal, or sleeping at your job.

*i won't, t.

Toriel sighed. How would he know? He’ll most likely be so tired when he gets here, the moment she set the puzzle out he’d fall asleep. As she sat there fuming, he sent another message.

*sorry

Toriel looked at that word, confused; but more than that, she felt concerned. As far as she knew, there was nothing for him to be sorry about. Considering the times she has caught him looking, sounding, and acting melancholy, she couldn’t help but worry.

*For what, my friend?

*everything

*I’m not sure I understand what you mean.

*never mind, i should sleep, good night.

*Sans, are you alright?

He took a moment to reply.

*nyes

He then quickly corrected.

*yes

*I’m calling.

The dots of him replying quickly popped up, but she didn't wait to see. She flipped over to her contact list, selected his name and called. He let it ring a while before answering.

“hey, t.”

“What did you mean by ‘everything?’” Toriel asked.

“it's nothing, don't worry about it,” there was such a heaviness in his tone.

“I don't believe you, what's wrong?” She persisted, saddened to hear him like that.

“i,” he started, but stopped, so she waited. Experience has taught her that it sometimes takes him a moment to collect his thoughts, especially when he was going to talk about something he normally wouldn’t. From the other end, she heard a shuddering sigh before he continued, “i’m prone to nightmares. and i was awake when you texted because of a pretty bad one. just left me rattled, heh.”

It is rare for him to open like that, and she knew better than to point out that he sounded distressed. “I’m sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“thanks tori, but it's fine, really. you should sleep, and i should get back to sleep.”

She sat there for a moment, knowing this skeleton all too well to just accept that answer, “If I were to hang up, would you go to sleep again?”

His silence answered that. He had nothing to say, because he knew she wouldn’t like the answer. Though, if he was prone to nightmares, like he said, perhaps that is why he is always falling asleep during the day. The sleep needed isn’t being achieved at night.

“If I say I will try going to sleep, could you try as well?” Toriel asked.

“sure, tori,” he said. There was some humor there, but still, the heaviness was present. They then wished each other goodnight, and hung up.

Toriel did get some sleep, but it wasn’t much. The next morning, she got up, made breakfast, and then walked Frisk to their friend’s house to play. It was nice when Frisk could have days like this, to just be a child. If it were possible, she would go back in time and stop Asgore from putting so much responsibility on the poor child’s shoulders. She was unsure how he could not see that Frisk was too young for a job like that.

As she walked home, she thought back to the shared issue with sleep. That is when she got a brilliant idea, but she would need a little help to do it right. Pulling out her cell phone, she knew just who to call.

After hanging up with Toriel, Sans did go back to sleep, only to wake up again. He had another two hours before his alarm would go off and he doubted he would sleep yet again.

…

His alarm woke him, so he must have drifted off at some point. Unwilling to get up, he rolled to his back and stared at the ceiling, debating calling in sick. But, if he did, he’d feel guilty that he skipped work and then hung out with Tori. Pap needs the money for school, food, and housing costs.

In the underground, Sans had multiple jobs to pay for the house. So far, he managed to find just one-person willing to hire his boney butt on the surface, and they only took him on part time. Right now, the brothers were getting by on savings and what little Sans can earn. As for Papyrus, Sans would rather work himself to the bone and let his bro focus on his studies, and not worry about a job or money.

Closing his eye sockets and rubbing his face, he really didn’t want to get up. His second alarm went off and he finally rose from his bed and grabbed his uniform. He then set on his bed and stared at, with the enthusiasm of any resident of Snowdin who had the ‘pleasure’ to spend the day with Jerry.

At his third alarm, Sans finally got dressed, and exited his room before the fourth - ‘hurry up and get ready now’ - alarm went off. He grabbed a breakfast bar, his jacket, and left.

Sans’ job was simple. Either he was taking orders, handling money, and passing off the food; or he quickly prepared food for waiting customers. This early in the day, what was cooked mostly consisted of eggs and bacon. It was a small, non-chain, food joint, that Papyrus wouldn’t want to work or eat at. Not that different than his hotdog stand in Hotlands or even Grillby’s, really.

When his shift ended, he made his way to Tori’s, feeling more defeated than he did when he started the day. Dealing with some of the customers dampened his mood, immensely. And there were so many disgruntled humans there today, that his coworkers agreed he should stay in back for food prep, leaving the customers to them.

Once at Toriel’s house, he walked up to the door and sighed, glancing down at his clothes. He could smell work on himself. He should have swung by home first, even if it made him late. But he said noon. What he really should do is just tell her he's feeling sick and go home. Unsure if he should talk or text, he stared at the door.

Well, he was here, might as well talk.

He knocked twice on the door and hear a voice from inside call, “Who’s there?”

“no bell”

“No bell who?”

“did i win the nobel prize?”

Toriel laughed as she opened the door to let him in. Hearing her voice was all he needed to have his day brightened, and his final decision was to stay. When he walked in he was about to go to the table, where he was sure the jigsaw puzzle would be waiting, but what he saw in the family room caught his attention. Blankets were propped up on chairs and the sofa to form a tent like structure. It was rather big, bigger than any blanket fort he or Papyrus ever made.

“frisk make that?” Sans asked, admiring the effort.

“Actually, I did. I don't know about you, but I’m still tired from last night,” Toriel stepped closer and placed one of her large paws on his shoulder. It was warm with her magic naturally flowing through it, like the life blood of humans. He wanted to look up at her as she spoke, but his eyes were transfixed on the soft, shimmering fur, and the elegant opalescent claws at the end of each finger.

“uh, yeah, same,” was his less than dignified response.

“So, I thought we would relax, maybe watch a movie and rest or nap instead. After all, I tried reading this morning but my tired eyes kept blurring the words,” Toriel continued. Sans glanced up at her face, seeing that beautiful smile of hers aimed at him.

To this change of events, he wasn't sure what to say. “ok,” was the best he could muster. He then remembered he was in his work clothes, “i could head home and change, it won't take long, I know a shortcut.”

“No need, my dearest friend,” she said as her hand left his shoulder. Curious he trailed after her when Toriel moved further into the house. “For you see,” she said before picking up a duffel bag, “someone told me long ago about a wonderful and sweet monster. And he was more than willing to gather some things for you.”

Sans stared at the bag being offered to him. It was his old bag, teal blue with grey accents, that he used when he was attending college underground. He would pack it and take it with him when he would to be away a few days. He took and opened it to find a set of pajamas and some wash clothes just under a well-used book.

“Oh? What’s that?” Toriel asked.

“a bedtime classic at our house. so, if this is what we’re going to do, let’s get ready, settle back, and join fluffy bunny in his adventures,” Sans looked up at Toriel. She was an amazing friend, and Papyrus, obviously, the coolest bro.

Papyrus must have bought the pajamas after Toriel called him, as Sans hadn’t owned a pair since reaching adulthood. That, and the obvious hint was the tag still being on them. Sans had gone in the bathroom to clean up, which didn’t take long. When he walked out, he joined Toriel in the blanket and pillow fort. The two cuddled next to each other while he read. Just like at home with Papyrus, Toriel was asleep soon after the story finished. As Sans laid there, next to the most beautiful woman he could ever hope to be near, he wished that this moment would last the rest of his life. They had been friends for so long, hanging out together as often as possible. They had been getting closer, but they have only really ‘hung out.’ They were impromptu dates, but it would be nice to make it more official. Perhaps, if he still has the nerves to, when he wakes he’ll ask her out on a proper date.

#sorielweek #sorielweek2017 #undertale #fanfiction #soriel #sleeping is rad #I love sleep #I sleep way to much #I need sleep #like right now #no i don't #well #maybe #anyway #i hope you enjoy

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alexteltevskiy · 8 years ago

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Vintage camera mini review - Argus C3 w/ 50mm f/3.5

There's something special about using old film cameras from days long gone. Maybe it's the thought that the camera being used has real history behind it, having taken untold legions of exposures in the decades since it was assembled, passing hands of maybe two, three generations of users. Or maybe it's the easily traceable evolution of human engineering thought and craft, where each successive decade of camera technology brought with it new tricks, affecting the way it looks, feels, functions as well as the the style, the character, the soul of the camera...

I have owned a number of film cameras from different time periods, always on the lookout for something new to eat through rolls of photosensitive polyester. Araki once said that in order to change your photos, you need to change cameras. I'm a firm believer in this, and lucky for me and other like-minded photographers, there's around a century's worth of different cameras to saddle up and try to tame.

The story

At a friend's party I spied a couple of old cameras, tucked away in the far corners of a dusty bookshelf. One was a collapsible Kodak Tourist 6x9 which, unfortunately, had a few parts missing and couldn't be reanimated, and the other was a little brick-shaped art-deco-inspired 35mm camera - the Argus C3. Covered with thick layers of dust, it responded well to basic operation and had nothing missing. The camera would stick at all shutter speeds as well as require Hulk-like strength to change focus and aperture. The back wouldn't even stay shut. But the doctor had high hopes for the patient.

Having borrowed the Argus, I began the immersion process, surrounding myself with wikis and manuals. Made from 1939 till 1966 by Argus in Ann Arbor, Michigan. The camera was surprisingly entry level, designed in the late 30's. Saw use by photojournalists during WWII, even managed to snap some iconic shots from the front lines. In the later years it saw widespread use in many American homes, its affordability, ruggedness and repairability fueling its popularity. Even Jimmy Carter had one. But with the flood of inexpensive Japanese SLRs in the 60's, the archaic rangefinder design of the C3 phased it out into obscurity.

The Brick (as it was affectionately known) had a coupled rangefinder mechanism with a separate viewfinder. Focusing had to be done in one window, framing in another. Both finder windows were some of the smallest I've encountered - even smaller than in my Olympus Stylus Epic - which didn't lend to usability. The leaf shutter speeds went from 1/300 to 1/10 and included provisions for cable release and bulb. Winding the film was manual and separate from winding the shutter. The lens is, surprisingly, interchangeable, but required tools and minutes to change and an external finder for any other focal length than 50. The bare essentials were there, but literally nothing else.

This skeleton crew of camera functions was a contributing factor to its simplicity and ruggedness. The camera proved incredibly easy to disassemble and work on. The original lubrication had half-evaporated and half-turned-to-stone, but that was quickly remedied with a fresh coating. Play had developed over time in the gears, knobs and dials giving that bucket-full-of-bolts effect - but everything was tightened to spec with simple garden variety screwdrivers and wrenches. Very easy to see why the camera continues to work well even 61 years after it rolled off the production line - inside was a date stamped indicating a 1955 production year.

After everything was put together, the kid-on-Christmas-Eve syndrome took over and the decision was made to test the camera next day. Weather conditions were highly unfavorable for testing out an all-metal, f/3.5, all-manual camera from 1955. Nearly sub-zero (that's in Fahrenheit, folks) temps, hours of traffic and inches of snow separated us from our intended destination of Downtown Chicago. Mercury was dropping faster than the sun on the horizon as I hoped I could still feel the unfamiliar controls of the C3 through my thick winter gloves. Film of choice was Ilford Delta 3200, rated at 1600 to keep the grain from consuming the image. Original choice was Kodak Tri-X 400 to keep the entire package in the same era, but the mailman failed to deliver forcing the switch, which actually allowed me to shoot for much longer because the light got sucked out pretty quick with all the extra snow in the air.

The destination was chosen simply because there is no better fit to the form and function of this photographic relic and its place in history than Chicago's own iconic architecture, with its arcane pillars of weathered steel and iron, chiseled art-deco-esque bastions of concrete and slabs of modernist lines receding into infinity. Chicago's facade went through many styles and movements, fueled by advances in construction technology and architectural sciences. But its roots are still bare for the eye to see with the future layered over it. Much of the same applies to the C3.

I was joined on this trip by lovely fellow 43S-member Kris (wo)manning the A and B cams for our video review of the trip. Dodging snowflakes, she kept the video rolling while I was busy keeping a mental checklist of the 10+ steps I had to do before taking a single shot on the Argus. Plan was to try to score shots that would reveal the gritty limestone-laden angles of a city that originally inspired Batman's mobster-mastertown of Gotham. Segue through to Ohio Street to Michigan Avenue, make our way down to the Riverwalk and continue clicking all along Wacker Drive. Sneak peaks of the Water Tower, John Hancock, NBC and Tribune towers, as well as the transformers building (35 E. Wacker Dr.) and Merchandise Mart - all were on the snowed-over map that was increasingly harder to follow.

One of the reasons I like using medium format cameras is because you have less frames to worry about, allowing you to focus more on quality, than quantity. All of a sudden having 36 shots to work with sometimes feels like a burden on short, one-day trips. I actually found that fact comforting the first time using a new old camera, resurrected from the dead. Which leads me to mention some of the things I disliked while using it - first of which is ergonomics. Or rather lack of them. It takes very little time to figure out that this camera is not going to be comfortable to hold. Ironically it takes much longer to figure out how to hold the darn little brick in such a way as to not cover up any viewports or get the shutter finger jammed in the way of the shutter cock/release lever. When the shutter button is actuated, the cocking lever springs back, and if the finger is in the way, you get a very, very long exposure (if you know what I mean). At least some shots fell prey to this malice. The other biggest gripe I had with this camera is that everything is manual and separate, including the frame advance winder. Accustomed to using mainly 60s Japanese SLRs and up, where the shutter cock and frame advance are all in one lever - here it's actually three(!) separate mechanisms. One for the shutter cock, one for the frame wind, and one safety latch to allow the frame winder to wind. While probably the stuff of pink fluffy dreams for fans of multiple exposure photography, I was actually quite enfuriated at having to remember to do so much to accomplish something so simple - leading to multiple shots being overlayed one atop another. Did I also mention that I wasn't a fan of the brick-like shape and ergos? I did? Good, I'll mention it again, because it really is not made for human hands. Maybe for robot hands...

But it wouldn't be a proper camera review without mentioning some of the positives of this fully mechanical monster. And there are quite a few. Surprisingly they have more to do more with its flaws than anything else. The main reason I picked it up is because I really wanted to create some imagery that looked like it came from another time period. Anachronism is the name of the game for me when I use vintage gear and the included 50mm lens delivers in spades giving you that vintage "look". Supposedly coated, the effect is thankfully nowhere to be seen, with images full of silky-smooth, flat-as-LOG gradations of gray almost completely devoid of contrast. Due to a short focal flange distance the lens is surprisingly sharp in the center with minimal distortion, while its antiquated optical formula contributes copius amounts of vignetting that's present even when stopped down. All combined, makes shots look like newsreel footage from the past. Second positive is that just like any film camera, this one slows you down and lets you think more about the content. But where other film cameras are more of a moderately mindful experience, this one is hands-down almost ritualistic in the way it forces you to adhere to the craft. Almost nothing short of actually picking up an old 8x10 - complete with bellows, dark slide, curtain, ground glass and all - can compare. And third is, of course, the conversation starter effect. Just that day alone, three people approached me interested to find out more about the camera. Just not that many crazies like us out there any more, I guess...

All in all it was a wonderful experience, will be a sad day when I have to return the camera back to my friend. The Argus C3 is a great camera for very niche and very vintage-looking photos. Just treat the cons as pros and embrace the craft. Already looking forward to my next vintage camera to try out - have an old 4x5 from the 30's which I still have yet to fix...

PS: ending the review with a little poster I designed commemorating the trip ;)

#film #analog #photography #35mm #argus #c3 #50mm #camera #test #review #vintage #black and white #bw #ilford #delta 3200 professional

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adrastiana · 6 years ago

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My computer died. ;_;

I went to go get a blood test a couple of days ago. And I thought I had shut the computer down. But when I got home There was a loud noise coming from my room. It was the fan going like crazy. I hit the power switch and it stopped. But it didn't actually turn off or on as far as I know. A small yellow light was blinking under the power switch. Maybe it was the orange standby light.

Anyway, it's dead. ;_;

People have told me the hard drive should be recoverable. But until I actually have a new PC that stuff is totally inaccessible.

I got in in 2009 and I guess it was just its time to go. I had issues with it for quite awhile and the monitor was about to blow a capacitor anyway.

My backups are not recent and do not include notes that I need for various games I was messing around with save for some very out of date Phantasy Star 4 stuff.

Some of these notes are here, Youtube and GameFAQs though. So it isn't a 100% loss. But now all my games on that PC are inaccessible for the time being. There was also plenty of fanfiction in progress. Only my older stuff is backed up. So at least my vault is safe.

My old art is backed up and most of my more recent stuff was uploaded with some exceptions.

I'm currently using my tablet, stylus and a mini Bluetooth keyboard. But for me, a dedicated desktop user, it is very awkward. ><

I cannot access my work on the following games now:

Phantasy Star 2

Phantasy Star 3

Phantasy Star 4

Lufia 2

Sonic 2

Alundra

Action 52

Deadly Towers

I was working on multiple fanfics as well. Final Fantasy 7 and Lufia 2. Five were in progress and two of those were basically amost done. Why didn't I back them up? ><

Never again. I've learned my lesson. I will now back everything up obsessively. I might be able to just start rewriting the fics that I had just started. But the Lufia 2 Christmas fic and the FF7 RudexTifa were pretty much 96% done. Going back and redoing them would be awful. The only thing that kept me from finishing the Lufia 2 fic in December or January was the anemia and the lupus flares. If only I had felt better. ;_;

I was writing an FF7 fic where Reeve gets a horrible secretary. I was having a lot of fun with it but it was nowhere near done. That one I may restart as it wasn't too far along yet anyway.

I can't play any of my PC games now either. Muh 2hus!

Steam was no longer compatible with Vista so I was having issues. Games worked but getting them up and running through the Steam app was super slow and kept throwing up errors.

Oh well. The only caveat here is that at least I won't be complaining about Vista anymore. ^^;;

Yeah... Can you hear the sound of the universe laighting at me? I sure can. -_-

#my computer died #computer #PC #lost work #stuff

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ask-de-writer · 7 years ago

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SEA DRAGON’S GIFT : Part 1 of 83 : World of Sea

SEA DRAGON’S GIFT

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

140406 words

First draft written 2007

Reproduction in any form, physical, electronic or digital is prohibited without the express consent of the author.

//////////////

///////////////////////

Chapter 1: The Voice of the Sea

She nodded to herself, satisfied, and wrote quickly on a tallow-slate with a bone stylus, showing it to Captain Mord, who signed it.

“You were right, Kurin,” said Captain Mord loud enough for all to hear. “There is a shallow bottom here that we never knew of. This could mark a good crabbing reef, if it has any size.”

The Captain now held up a carefully made chart on paperfish parchment for the Masters and Officers to see. Kurin’s neat drawing showed carefully marked depth contours for the expected bottom.

“I will let Kurin explain to you, as she did to me, the means of making this chart without long and laborious soundings.”

“Kurin, you know the Masters of the Craft Council. Please explain your method and answer their questions.”

The Masters retired down the deck to confer for a bit, trying to decide how to handle this turn of events.

While they were conferring, Captain Mord announced, “The second part of this experiment is to go ahead and do soundings by tried and true methods, to verify the accuracy of Kurin’s chart.

TO BE CONTINUED

NEXT==>

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to World of Sea

#SEA DRAGON'S GIFT #World of Sea #written by Glen TenEyck #Part 1

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