#As a yellow lover. Vale why did you do that

[anitalianfrie]

Sometimes I wonder what sick thoughts went through vale's mind when he chose that disgusting shade of yellow as his colour

[dragynkeep]

The dad man for the character meme pls

meme, not accepting.

my top three ships for the character.

seasonal depression ( taiyang / summer. ) pre canon phoenix ( taiyang / raven. ) yellow jacket ( taiyang / blake. )

my three least favourite ships for the character.

canon phoenix ( taiyang / raven. ) canon fireball ( taiyang / qrow. ) lost lovers ( taiyang / jaune. )

my biggest criticism for the character.

the lack of development in both his character’s story & his development in worldbuilding. we don’t even have a canon allusion for taiyang, let alone anything like weapon, concrete fighting style, what he does with his life outside of watering sunflowers. it feels like a common issue that has definitely popped up in intensity in the last two volumes that characters aren’t even meeting the basic requirements needed to make a character in rwby now  —  a colour name, an allusion, a semblance & a weapon. we have one of these for taiyang, & he’s two of the main’s father ! the rest of his team outranks him in this, & one of them is dead!

it’s just overall very frustrating for a core character of a dead legacy team & shows off how little crwby actually put into their worldbuilding for the character. especially with what we’re meant to believe taiyang is doing after the focus is off him when yang leaves like ; did he go back to work? is he helping out in vale? is he a more active huntsman now, like full time? we don’t know & the show never gives any hints as to otherwise which sucks cause it’s so easy to fix.

my favourite thing about the character.

burnie is amazing as his va, for not being a professional voice actor himself  —  & he sounds so much like a dad, it’s incredibly on point. especially for a character like taiyang who seems to share a lot of similarities with him.

a headcanon i have about them.

definitely my second skin headcanon for his semblance, where his aura forms into the shape of secondary armour over his body with the pattern of golden dragon scales. i think it fits really well into his mentality that he tried to teach yang that you can’t just go swinging blindly because if he fought an enemy who was stronger, who broke his semblance ; he was then completely out of aura & had no defence.

what i would change about them if i was making a re-write.

flesh him out further as a character. a lot of what we learn about taiyang comes from secondary sources like ruby, yang or qrow  —  that’s how we learn about his depressive state after losing summer, how he’s still an active huntsman but also a teacher, his relationships with others — but what we actually get in scenes with taiyang is very little because the focus is on yang. this could be solved with him featuring more in the show, & also providing us on screen reasoning for why he isn’t going with yang to find ruby ; like that he’s still an active huntsman, he’s being roped into the efforts in vale, etc etc. small moments like that help flesh him out as a character, torn between his children or his responsibilities, & help bridge those gaps between his decisions.

what i think of their character allusion and what (if anything) i would change about it.

lmao what allusion. he literally doesn’t have one, has never been given one & i don’t think mkek have ever pondered it in any way besides saying that he’s vaguely based off of bruce lee which ?? i guess. don’t look at me for comparisons on fighting styles, it’s not my area of expertise.

but there are also a million chinese poems about dragons that would allow taiyang to have an allusion tying into him as a character & fit into strq’s themes of being poems. pick one, mkek. stop being fucking lazy about this important character for gods sake.

[video-killed-the-radio-host]

The Problem With Purple Cabbages

Ages ago I saw a headcannon about Night Vale proposals being strange, like a piece of lettuce on a pillow and thus this was born.

Carlos and Cecil had been together for-if time worked correctly- two years and a half. According to Carlos that means five hundred and fourty eight days. They had been living together for nearly six months. 

Cecil thought it was time to take that next step. He looks up from where he was laying next to Carlos on the blanket that was spread out on the roof of the lab. "I got you something." He announces, sitting up a little. 

"Oh yeah?" Carlos turns to him with a smile. "What is it?"

Cecil smiles and hands him a bag that seemingly came from nowhere.

"What is it?" Carlos opens the bag. "A...cabbage?" He furrows his eyebrows and looks up at Cecil. The blonde looks at him with a hopeful expression. "But….you know I don't like cabbage."

Cecil's face falls instantly and he looked on the verge of tears. Carlos feels terrible and he really isn't sure why. Is this a Night Vale thing? 

"Cecil-"

"It's fine. It's….a Night Vale thing. It's not important. Don't worry about it." Cecil shakes his head and stands. 

"Wait. Please. Talk to me." Carlos pleads, standing himself. He thinks back to the lab. He had a book on Night Vale traditions that he hasn't had time to read yet.

Cecil stops walking. "I'm tired and I need to get ready for the show tomorrow. I'll see you at home."

Carlos watches Cecil climb down and disappear from sight. He sighs and gathers up the blanket and the bag of cabbage before climbing down. Cecil was already gone and likely went to the station to clear his head. He looks down at the bag of cabbage. What is the significance? Why did Cecil look so hurt? 

With a soft sigh, he unlocks the lab and goes inside, putting the bag in the fridge and going to the office to get his book. He thumbs through it, finding a few of the pages Earl had marked before giving it to him. He lays the book flat when he finds the page on cabbages. 

"The purple cabbage is often given as a gesture of romance. A person picks the most attractive and largest cabbage they can find and present it to their lover(s) as a way to show their affection. It was once given as a way to begin a courtship."

Earl's neat handwriting is scrawled in the margin. This is an old tradition but cabbages are now used as proposals. 

A cold sense of realization washes over Carlos as he looks through the open door at the fridge on a nearby wall. Oh. Fuck. 

Carlos closes the book and stands, leaving the office and turning off the light. He grabs the bag from the fridge and leaves the lab, locking it behind him. Maybe he still had time to fix this. 

He sits in the truck for a few minutes before starting the it and pulling out of the parking lot. The station was likely where Cecil went so Carlos go there first. 

There's a light on in the station and it gives Carlos hope. He gets out and approaches the door, taking a deep breath. He tries the door but it's locked. Carlos groans and hits his fist against the door. The light didn't seem to be coming from the booth so maybe Cecil went home. He considered calling Cecil's cell but if he had gone home and to bed, waking him up wouldn't end well. His only choice was to go check. 

He makes the short drive home but the apartment is dark. He puts the cabbage in the fridge and calls Earl. 

The call nearly rings out before Earl picks up. 

"Do you realize what time it is?" Earl asks as a greeting. 

"Yeah. Yeah sorry. Look- is Cecil there?"

There's a rustle of fabric then Earl exhales deeply. "Yeah. He's here. He's watching Hallmark movies and eating his way through all the sugary items in my house. What….happened?"

"I...he….he gave me a purple cabbage."

"And?"

"I….told him I don't like cabbage. I hadn't had time to read the book you gave me until after-"

"Oh you brillantly stupid scientist."

"I know. I know. Can you do me a favor?"

"Depends."

"Can you get him to the lab around sunset tomorrow?"

"Sure thing. Get some sleep Carlos. You have a lot to think about."

-----.-----

Cecil sighs in annoyance when Earl drops him off at the lab and leaves with nothing more than a cheeky wave. He didn't want to be here again so soon after he embarrassed himself last night. Maybe Jason was here and could give him a ride home. 

Cecil pushed open the door to the lab and steps in, letting the door slowly close behind him. The lab is pitch dark. So dark he's to afraid move and knock something over. 

"Carlos?" He calls, taking a step backwards. "Is there any one here?"

There's a soft click and lights blink on overhead. Cecil looks up. Yellow, white, green, blue and purple fairy lights cover the ceiling. They're arranged into what looks like constellestions. "What…?"

"This is what the night sky looked like the night you told me you loved me." Carlos crosses the room, stopping just short of touching the taller man. "Not the day you blurted it all over the radio but the day you told me, to my face, that you loved me. And I…. I didn't know how to respond. I didn't think I deserved it. Sometimes I still think that but…." Carlos reaches out and takes Cecil's hands. "It doesn't matter. Because that was the day that I knew without a doubt that I wanted to spend the rest of my life-however short or long it may be- with you."

Cecil stares at Carlos with slightly parted lips. He tried to speak but was speechless for once. Carlos smiles softly and continues. 

"I don't know all of your traditions. I'm still learning. Last night made that quite clear."

Cecil manages a soft laugh. 

"But I know what it means now. I love you, Cecil Palmer. My answer is yes...and if you'll still have me… will you marry me?"

Cecil closes the gap between them, framing Carlos' face with his hands and kissing him. "I will."

[spectralscathath]

Queen, Knave, King

fair Game Week, Day 6: Atlas Ball/Mantle Battle

Clover Ebi is in love with a dusty old Qrow. He knows it, Elm knows it, even Robyn knows it.

Let the cards fall where they may.

Ao3 Link

Elm spotted Branwen as he skulked around the edge of the Schnee grounds, snow crunching under his shoes in the silence as his cape fluttered behind him, the cold winds bracing and biting at her cheeks.

She shrugged to herself and walked over, giving Vine a wave to let him know she was going off on her own. He gave her a simple nod back, drawing a smile from her. It was nice to have such simple trust with her close friend.

Most people usually assumed they were a couple, which was something that Elm didn’t mind, exactly, but she knew Vine was as utterly disinterested in romance as she herself was. It just wasn’t something she felt. She’d rather have a close friend to watch her back then a lover, and that was that.

Before Vine had joined the Ace Ops, that friend had been Clover. The two of them had just been specialists that Ironwood kept pairing up, his flexible weapon and clever mind pairing well with her sheer sturdiness and ample strength.

It had been an excellent distraction at first, to apply her Huntress skills again with an entirely new element, and this time with someone who had luck on his side almost all the time. Much less likely he’d go the way of her old team. That had been reassuring.

Somewhere along the line, she’d started feeding him. She couldn’t help it, cooking and baking were just as much in her blood as being a warrior was. Unlike the friendships of team SBLE, formed through four years of battle and school, Clover’s friendship was found over shared meals and stories of a world beyond Atlas.

So, when she’d seen her friend steadily falling head-over-heels for a grumpy spy with a reckless defiance and a dour attitude, of course she knew it was her solemn duty to make sure her friend wasn’t going to get another scar on his ironically unlucky heart.

“Hey! Branwen!” She called out as he migrated from the grounds to striding along the top of the garden wall, steps light and balanced with his hands in his pockets.

He glanced at her and raised a brow, shifting his weight so he didn’t fall as she jogged over. “You after something, Ederne?”

She put a hand on her hip and looked up at his perch, taking another moment to deliberate on her plan of attack. “You know, you’ve been here for ages now and I still haven’t gotten a chance to even talk to you.”

“Been busy,” he drawled, shrugging at her.

“Hanging out with Clover, yes, I’m aware,” she grinned brashly, watching as his hair puffed up a little bit like an actual bird’s.

“What’s it to you?” Oh he got huffy. Guess he didn’t like that.

“Nothing much, I just want to talk.” She toned down her volume a little bit. Not everyone was as gung-ho as she was.

“About Clover?” Qrow glared at her, and were his cheeks a little pinker or was Elm imagining things?

“Maybe. But also just in general. I’ve seen reruns of your team’s Vytal Festivals. You were pretty impressive in your Academy days.” So was she, considering she had the winner’s trophy still on her shelf at her place.

Qrow gave her a suspicious look before he sat down on the wall, one leg dangling down as he used his other knee to prop up his elbow. “You’re a tournament fan?”

“I have the boxsets,” she admitted without a trace of shame. “You’re not?”

“I watched the one my nieces were in and that’s it. Except for when it was on in Vale when Ruby and Yang were kids, then it was a big family outing.” He waved a hand dismissively. “What’s your angle?”

“No angle.” That got a scoff. “Clover’s a good man to have watching your back out in the field. A good friend off of it as well.”

“Thought you Ace Ops didn’t do friendship,” he rolled his eyes at her.

“We’re not schoolkids, it’s not like we’re a clique,” she smiled patiently, like she had when team RWBY had said the same. “It’s a job first, and the job comes first, out on the field. Sometimes tough calls have to be made, or sometimes you lose people.” She knew that one firsthand.

“Yeah. Friends don’t usually work for me anyway. It’s best when I work alone.”

“Because you’ve done so much of that recently,” she couldn’t help a grin, and the glare that he shot her was downright malevolent.

“It’s different when his semblance can protect him.” Qrow snarled defensively. There was something under that, though. Something guilty and unspoken, like there was an end to the sentence he hadn’t tacked on.

“It can do that, yes, just as mine prevents me from being knocked down, but is that really all there is? He’s a good guy, and he’s worth making a connection with.” Well, this was something of a shovel talk, so she may as well bring it full circle. In for a penny, out for a pound. “Just… don’t string him along and hurt him. His luck can’t protect him from everything.”

She reached an arm over her shoulder, patting Timber affectionately with a cheerful grin that showed one too many teeth. “And if you do hurt him, as in, maliciously, your ass is dead. No pressure, though.”

Qrow snorted. “You think you can take me on?”

“I think I’m the woman who jumped off Atlas City and walked away whistling.”

Qrow blinked at her, looking almost impressed. “Huh. I have a friend in Patch you’d probably get on well with.”

“Introduce me some time when the CCT goes up,” she chuckled. “Just do what you think is best for you. And if that’s Clover, treat him well, okay?” Because Clover kept tossing Qrow the soppiest looks when he thought no one was looking, and even last night over their weekly dinner at her place he’d talked non-stop for twenty minutes about how ‘utterly gorgeous’ Qrow apparently was.

Which, valid, she didn’t get it, but hey, it made Clover happy. That was what mattered.

Qrow was still making some grumbly squawks of what was probably denial at her, and she shrugged them off with her usual unshakeability. “Anyway, good luck~” She singsonged as she walked off, and the next words thrown at her head was definitely an insult.

--------------

“Robyn, something came up! Qrow and I are going to be late.” Clover’s voice rang tinnily in her ear with the sounds of combat and gunfire in the background, the earpiece hidden by her hair as it squeaked uncomfortably. She held back a wince as she walked down the alleyway, technically searching for survivors but really walking around as the perfect bait for one little scorpion, slightly homicidal.

Damn. Sure, she wanted to beat the everloving shit out of Tyrian on her own, but she knew that it was smartest to have back-up on this fight, as much as it stung her pride.

Looks like she’d just have to manage until Boy Scout and his boyfriend showed up.

She hoped they were dating, at least. She and Clover barely talked anymore, not since she made a Mistake, big capital letters. Even her ego had to concede that particular clusterfuck that had destroyed their friendship had, yes, been her fault.

Still, she recognised what Clover In Love looked like, especially his showing off. She wondered how much of his posturing out in the tundra had been to try look tough in front of her and how much of it was him posturing for that goth twunk.

While he’d not taken her hand, a fair response after everything that had gone down between them and their partnership, she couldn’t help but wonder what would have happened if she’d finished her interrogation with ‘do you have a crush on someone right now’ like some teenage girl at a slumber party.

Her semblance, at least, never lied. Not the part she let herself use.

The rest? That didn’t lie either, but she wasn’t ever going to do that to someone again.

She wondered if the caped Huntsman with the hobo scruff knew how lucky he was. Clover was at heart a genuinely decent person, dumbass goody-two-shoes need to follow the rules aside, and his loyalty to Ironwood had actually turned out to be founded in common sense and actual loyalty instead of blind military obedience.

She wondered where his boyfriend stood on the whole Salem matter. Did he know too?

Well, he fucking did now.

She walked along, forcing herself not to look up at the rooftops of the alley around her. She was believed to be a main target for Tyrian, because of her ties to Mantle and especially the fact that she was alone now.

Tyrian was a predator, apparently. He’d want to skew things in his favour, and he probably thought a little bird all on her lonesome would be such an easy hit.

Robyn’s lips twisted into a vulpine smile, teeth flashing. Careful, Callows, this little birdy had fangs.

She heard boots land on the ground behind her and whipped around, her crossbow up and a bolt nocked and loaded. Tyrian Callows stood behind her, a mechanical stinger weaving almost playfully through the air behind him. He spread his arms in a theatrical gesture, brows furrowed with anger despite his smile.

“Robyn Hill!” He announced, crazed yellow eyes focused on her own. “You have such an impact on this city, it’s not what I would have expected from such a sweet-faced vixen like yourself.”

She loosed the bolt at his head, baring her teeth in a threat as he dodged it, an amused cast to his features. He was fast. Damnit. “If I’m so sweet then why do you want to kill me?”

Tyrian cackled at that. “I can’t have you bringing your hope and wonder everywhere you go, that just wouldn’t do!” He caught the next crossbow bolt between his fingers, faking a hurt look. “I find it… disappointing.”

“Well, I’d hate to disappoint.” She shifted her weight, ready to move the second he came at her. She missed her longbow. She would have liked to use it to beat him to death. Maybe Clover could steal it back from the military for her, if he wasn’t busy mooning over that scruffy weirdo.

Tyrian snapped the crossbow bolt in his hand. “Oh I know, my dear vixen. Are you waiting for your dearest friends to arrive?”

Robyn shifted uncomfortably at the possessive undertone to his nickname for her, her crossbow ready. Catch this one, bitch, go on. “So you figured it out.” That apparently wasn’t the only thing he figured out either. Fuck.

“Do you think I’m a fool?” He laughed, pressing a hand to his chest. “Why, Robyn dearest, I’m hurt! No, the pretty bird and his kingfisher got held up by the General’s own bots. The good Doctor made sure of it.”

That explained the gunshots. “Guess I’ll just have to beat you myself then, Callows.”

His chuckles faded into a wicked smirk, his eyes glowing purple for a moment as his blades extended on his wrists, shaped like a scorpion’s pincers.  “You missed my blades at your rally, but worry not. You will never escape me now, my dear.”

He charged at her, laughing as he blocked every bolt she shot. He slashed at her and she jumped, her boot landing on his head as she used him as a stepping stone before she landed in a combat roll.

Her next crossbow bolt was knocked aside by his tail as he turned to face her, smile plastered on his face. She set her jaw in determination, lavender eyes hard as steel. Clover and his boyfriend better hurry the fuck up.

-------------

Clover tied up a bunch of Atlas bots, leaving them stuck for Harbinger to slash through them like butter. He looked around for any others and let out a breath he’d been holding when he saw no more.

“Qrow, come on, we have to go.” Robyn was fighting Tyrian alone and like hell was he going to let her do that alone. She was good, but from what Qrow said, Callows was better.

Qrow pulled his scythe from a bot and nodded, following him along. “You think they figured out she was bait?”

“I’ll bet.” He flung Kingfisher at a rooftop and reeled himself up, aiming to use them to get the drop on Tyrian. “That’s likely where the robots came from.”

He missed Qrow’s mutter of ‘just like Beacon’ as he aimed for where Robyn was meant to be, trusting that Qrow would be hot on his heels. They worked well together. Trust was a logical conclusion.

That was what he told himself but according to Elm he was not subtle nor did he have any intent to be. He liked Qrow, quite a lot, and he was fine with that.

Also he was going to take that moment where Qrow made a luck joke to him earlier this evening and run with it because that was a potentially very good sign.

A good sign that he could think about later, as he heard the sounds of a fight up ahead, filtering up the top of an alley into the Mantle air, and sped up.

He skidded to a stop at the rooftop in time to watch Robyn land a vicious hook into Tyrian’s face, knocking him back just enough for her to wind up for a kick to his crotch. Tyrian’s tail hooked around her foot, before his hand glowed with a strange purple light.

Clover tossed Kingfisher’s reel down to snag on his wrist, yanking his hand out of the way as Robyn rallied and tossed a punch into his throat. Faster then even Clover could react, his other hand skated across her arm with that same purple energy, her lavender aura shattering to pieces as the stinger wrapped around her leg constricted.

He heard the sound of cracking bone all the way from the top of the building, saw the tip of the stinger extend, and yanked with all the force he could manage to get the bastard away from his old partner.

He saw a blur of red and brown-grey drop past him before Qrow’s heel hit hard against the side of Tyrian’s head, Tyrian’s tail flicking to toss Robyn against the wall before he turned all his attention to the new player in the arena.

Clover jumped down, taking one glance at Qrow to judge the situation. Qrow’s gorgeous red eyes locked on his as the other Huntsman gave him a smirk, before turning his attention to Tyrian with a dangerous growl. “Miss me, Callows?”

Clover tuned out Tyrian’s gleeful response as he ran over to Robyn and crouched, looking her over for damages. The impact against the brick wall at the end there had caused her hair to fall loose from her usual ponytail, much more like the flyaway mess he recognised from Academy days. “Robyn, status report.”

“You’re late,” she grinned toothily at him, sitting up. Her long coat was missing, likely shredded in the fight if the tattered fabric on the ground was any indicator. Her left leg moved with the motion and she winced a bit, looking at the damage. “I’m fine, go help your boyfriend.”

He decided not to even bother telling her Qrow wasn’t his boyfriend as right now they were on a timer. “I have a small field kit, let me see your ankle first and if he stung you, then I’ll go beat his face in.”

“Fighting for my honour now, Biceps?” She chuckled, blowing her hair out of her eyes.

“Who says it’s for you?” He paused when he noticed a skinny red tail, tipped with white, poking out of a cut in her trousers, thin and limp and raggedy looking. “You shaved it?”

She shrugged at him, looking a little wistful about it. “Faunus don’t run for politics, Clover. Half of Mantle still hates them. If I want to make real change, it had to be done.”

“I know, Robert.” He nodded and focused on getting the supplies, rolling up her pant leg and whistling at the damage. The skin was already darkening with a ring of bruises, her shin noticeably caved in. The puncture wound was just under her knee, sluggishly leaking a mixture of violet and red.

He heard her swear when she saw it herself and then she spat out a filthy curse when he gave it a small prod. “It’s fucking broken, don’t touch it, dumbass!”

“Do you want to do your own field dressings? Because I’ll let you,” he snarked at her, tossing a glance over to where Qrow was using Harbinger as a reversed blade, curved around his forearm, almost like he was holding a tonfa, and used it to block Tyrian’s blades.

“Just hurry up and splint it and shit.” Robyn gritted her teeth. “Distract me by telling me how long you’ve been dating five o’clock shadow.”

“We aren’t dating.” Yet, he added to himself.

“You gotta be fucking kidding me. Clover, what the fuck.”

“I’m working on asking him out.” He splinted her leg and she let out a sharp bark, the sound catching Tyrian’s attention. He charged at them before Qrow’s hand landed on his stinger tail, right under his telson, and yanked him back into their fight.

“Do it now, right now, after you beat that sicko, or else I’m telling him about the Haddock Incident.”

“Don’t you dare, Robert,” he dressed her sting and sat her against the wall. “Call a medic and a prison transport, we’re taking him in.”

Robyn grinned and raised her crossbow. “I got one arrow left, just for him. We’ll see him smile after that.”

“I’ll make sure you get the shot,” he knocked his knuckles against hers, careful not to touch the bare skin of her index finger. Some wounds went deep.

He pulled Kingfisher from his belt and cast the line forward, catching it on Tyrian’s tail as he yanked him back long enough for Qrow to land an uppercut and a shotgun blast right to his midsection.

Tyrian glared darkly at him, face twisted in a snarl as his eyes glowed like stars in the dark. Clover only had eyes for the genuine smile Qrow shot him, tinged with adrenaline and full of trust. He met that gaze with confidence, resolution setting in the furrow of his brow. Time to end this.

“Tyrian Callows, you’re under arrest.”

--------

I’m partial to Fox Faunus! Robyn, yes.

[livmoose]

Chamber Music

James Joyce

I

Strings in the earth and air Make music sweet; Strings by the river where The willows meet.

There's music along the river For Love wanders there, Pale flowers on his mantle, Dark leaves on his hair.

All softly playing, With head to the music bent, And fingers straying Upon an instrument.

II

The twilight turns from amethyst To deep and deeper blue, The lamp fills with a pale green glow The trees of the avenue.

The old piano plays an air, Sedate and slow and gay; She bends upon the yellow keys, Her head inclines this way.

Shy thought and grave wide eyes and hands That wander as they list -- The twilight turns to darker blue With lights of amethyst.

III

At that hour when all things have repose, O lonely watcher of the skies, Do you hear the night wind and the sighs Of harps playing unto Love to unclose The pale gates of sunrise?

When all things repose, do you alone Awake to hear the sweet harps play To Love before him on his way, And the night wind answering in antiphon Till night is overgone?

Play on, invisible harps, unto Love, Whose way in heaven is aglow At that hour when soft lights come and go, Soft sweet music in the air above And in the earth below.

IV

When the shy star goes forth in heaven All maidenly, disconsolate, Hear you amid the drowsy even One who is singing by your gate. His song is softer than the dew And he is come to visit you.

O bend no more in revery When he at eventide is calling. Nor muse: Who may this singer be Whose song about my heart is falling? Know you by this, the lover's chant, 'Tis I that am your visitant.

V

Lean out of the window, Goldenhair, I hear you singing A merry air.

My book was closed, I read no more, Watching the fire dance On the floor.

I have left my book, I have left my room, For I heard you singing Through the gloom.

Singing and singing A merry air, Lean out of the window, Goldenhair.

VI

I would in that sweet bosom be (O sweet it is and fair it is!) Where no rude wind might visit me. Because of sad austerities I would in that sweet bosom be.

I would be ever in that heart (O soft I knock and soft entreat her!) Where only peace might be my part. Austerities were all the sweeter So I were ever in that heart.

VII

My love is in a light attire Among the apple-trees, Where the gay winds do most desire To run in companies.

There, where the gay winds stay to woo The young leaves as they pass, My love goes slowly, bending to Her shadow on the grass;

And where the sky's a pale blue cup Over the laughing land, My love goes lightly, holding up Her dress with dainty hand.

VIII

Who goes amid the green wood With springtide all adorning her? Who goes amid the merry green wood To make it merrier?

Who passes in the sunlight By ways that know the light footfall? Who passes in the sweet sunlight With mien so virginal?

The ways of all the woodland Gleam with a soft and golden fire -- For whom does all the sunny woodland Carry so brave attire?

O, it is for my true love The woods their rich apparel wear -- O, it is for my own true love, That is so young and fair.

IX

Winds of May, that dance on the sea, Dancing a ring-around in glee From furrow to furrow, while overhead The foam flies up to be garlanded, In silvery arches spanning the air, Saw you my true love anywhere? Welladay! Welladay! For the winds of May! Love is unhappy when love is away!

X

Bright cap and streamers, He sings in the hollow: Come follow, come follow, All you that love. Leave dreams to the dreamers That will not after, That song and laughter Do nothing move.

With ribbons streaming He sings the bolder; In troop at his shoulder The wild bees hum. And the time of dreaming Dreams is over -- As lover to lover, Sweetheart, I come.

XI

Bid adieu, adieu, adieu, Bid adieu to girlish days, Happy Love is come to woo Thee and woo thy girlish ways -- The zone that doth become thee fair, The snood upon thy yellow hair,

When thou hast heard his name upon The bugles of the cherubim Begin thou softly to unzone Thy girlish bosom unto him And softly to undo the snood That is the sign of maidenhood.

XII

What counsel has the hooded moon Put in thy heart, my shyly sweet, Of Love in ancient plenilune, Glory and stars beneath his feet -- A sage that is but kith and kin With the comedian Capuchin?

Believe me rather that am wise In disregard of the divine, A glory kindles in those eyes Trembles to starlight. Mine, O Mine! No more be tears in moon or mist For thee, sweet sentimentalist.

XIII

Go seek her out all courteously, And say I come, Wind of spices whose song is ever Epithalamium. O, hurry over the dark lands And run upon the sea For seas and lands shall not divide us My love and me.

Now, wind, of your good courtesy I pray you go, And come into her little garden And sing at her window; Singing: The bridal wind is blowing For Love is at his noon; And soon will your true love be with you, Soon, O soon.

XIV

My dove, my beautiful one, Arise, arise! The night-dew lies Upon my lips and eyes.

The odorous winds are weaving A music of sighs: Arise, arise, My dove, my beautiful one!

I wait by the cedar tree, My sister, my love, White breast of the dove, My breast shall be your bed.

The pale dew lies Like a veil on my head. My fair one, my fair dove, Arise, arise!

XV

From dewy dreams, my soul, arise, From love's deep slumber and from death, For lo! the trees are full of sighs Whose leaves the morn admonisheth.

Eastward the gradual dawn prevails Where softly-burning fires appear, Making to tremble all those veils Of grey and golden gossamer.

While sweetly, gently, secretly, The flowery bells of morn are stirred And the wise choirs of faery Begin (innumerous!) to be heard.

XVI

O cool is the valley now And there, love, will we go For many a choir is singing now Where Love did sometime go. And hear you not the thrushes calling, Calling us away? O cool and pleasant is the valley And there, love, will we stay.

XVII

Because your voice was at my side I gave him pain, Because within my hand I held Your hand again.

There is no word nor any sign Can make amend -- He is a stranger to me now Who was my friend.

XVIII

O Sweetheart, hear you Your lover's tale; A man shall have sorrow When friends him fail.

For he shall know then Friends be untrue And a little ashes Their words come to.

But one unto him Will softly move And softly woo him In ways of love.

His hand is under Her smooth round breast; So he who has sorrow Shall have rest.

XIX

Be not sad because all men Prefer a lying clamour before you: Sweetheart, be at peace again -- Can they dishonour you?

They are sadder than all tears; Their lives ascend as a continual sigh. Proudly answer to their tears: As they deny, deny.

XX

In the dark pine-wood I would we lay, In deep cool shadow At noon of day.

How sweet to lie there, Sweet to kiss, Where the great pine-forest Enaisled is!

Thy kiss descending Sweeter were With a soft tumult Of thy hair.

O unto the pine-wood At noon of day Come with me now, Sweet love, away.

XXI

He who hath glory lost, nor hath Found any soul to fellow his, Among his foes in scorn and wrath Holding to ancient nobleness, That high unconsortable one -- His love is his companion.

XXII

Of that so sweet imprisonment My soul, dearest, is fain -- Soft arms that woo me to relent And woo me to detain. Ah, could they ever hold me there Gladly were I a prisoner!

Dearest, through interwoven arms By love made tremulous, That night allures me where alarms Nowise may trouble us; But sleep to dreamier sleep be wed Where soul with soul lies prisoned.

XXIII

This heart that flutters near my heart My hope and all my riches is, Unhappy when we draw apart And happy between kiss and kiss: My hope and all my riches -- yes! -- And all my happiness.

For there, as in some mossy nest The wrens will divers treasures keep, I laid those treasures I possessed Ere that mine eyes had learned to weep. Shall we not be as wise as they Though love live but a day?

XXIV

Silently she's combing, Combing her long hair Silently and graciously, With many a pretty air.

The sun is in the willow leaves And on the dappled grass, And still she's combing her long hair Before the looking-glass.

I pray you, cease to comb out, Comb out your long hair, For I have heard of witchery Under a pretty air,

That makes as one thing to the lover Staying and going hence, All fair, with many a pretty air And many a negligence.

XXV

Lightly come or lightly go: Though thy heart presage thee woe, Vales and many a wasted sun, Oread let thy laughter run, Till the irreverent mountain air Ripple all thy flying hair.

Lightly, lightly -- ever so: Clouds that wrap the vales below At the hour of evenstar Lowliest attendants are; Love and laughter song-confessed When the heart is heaviest.

XXVI

Thou leanest to the shell of night, Dear lady, a divining ear. In that soft choiring of delight What sound hath made thy heart to fear? Seemed it of rivers rushing forth From the grey deserts of the north?

That mood of thine Is his, if thou but scan it well, Who a mad tale bequeaths to us At ghosting hour conjurable -- And all for some strange name he read In Purchas or in Holinshed.

XXVII

Though I thy Mithridates were, Framed to defy the poison-dart, Yet must thou fold me unaware To know the rapture of thy heart, And I but render and confess The malice of thy tenderness.

For elegant and antique phrase, Dearest, my lips wax all too wise; Nor have I known a love whose praise Our piping poets solemnize, Neither a love where may not be Ever so little falsity.

XXVIII

Gentle lady, do not sing Sad songs about the end of love; Lay aside sadness and sing How love that passes is enough.

Sing about the long deep sleep Of lovers that are dead, and how In the grave all love shall sleep: Love is aweary now.

XXIX

Dear heart, why will you use me so? Dear eyes that gently me upbraid, Still are you beautiful -- but O, How is your beauty raimented!

Through the clear mirror of your eyes, Through the soft sigh of kiss to kiss, Desolate winds assail with cries The shadowy garden where love is.

And soon shall love dissolved be When over us the wild winds blow -- But you, dear love, too dear to me, Alas! why will you use me so?

XXX

Love came to us in time gone by When one at twilight shyly played And one in fear was standing nigh -- For Love at first is all afraid.

We were grave lovers. Love is past That had his sweet hours many a one; Welcome to us now at the last The ways that we shall go upon.

XXXI

O, it was out by Donnycarney When the bat flew from tree to tree My love and I did walk together; And sweet were the words she said to me.

Along with us the summer wind Went murmuring -- O, happily! -- But softer than the breath of summer Was the kiss she gave to me.

XXXII

Rain has fallen all the day. O come among the laden trees: The leaves lie thick upon the way Of memories.

Staying a little by the way Of memories shall we depart. Come, my beloved, where I may Speak to your heart.

XXXIII

Now, O now, in this brown land Where Love did so sweet music make We two shall wander, hand in hand, Forbearing for old friendship' sake, Nor grieve because our love was gay Which now is ended in this way.

A rogue in red and yellow dress Is knocking, knocking at the tree; And all around our loneliness The wind is whistling merrily. The leaves -- they do not sigh at all When the year takes them in the fall.

Now, O now, we hear no more The vilanelle and roundelay! Yet will we kiss, sweetheart, before We take sad leave at close of day. Grieve not, sweetheart, for anything -- The year, the year is gathering.

XXXIV

Sleep now, O sleep now, O you unquiet heart! A voice crying "Sleep now" Is heard in my heart.

The voice of the winter Is heard at the door. O sleep, for the winter Is crying "Sleep no more."

My kiss will give peace now And quiet to your heart -- Sleep on in peace now, O you unquiet heart!

XXXV

All day I hear the noise of waters Making moan, Sad as the sea-bird is when, going Forth alone, He hears the winds cry to the water's Monotone. The grey winds, the cold winds are blowing Where I go. I hear the noise of many waters Far below. All day, all night, I hear them flowing To and fro.

XXXVI

I hear an army charging upon the land, And the thunder of horses plunging, foam about their knees: Arrogant, in black armour, behind them stand, Disdaining the reins, with fluttering ships, the charioteers. They cry unto the night their battle-name: I moan in sleep when I hear afar their whirling laughter. They cleave the gloom of dreams, a blinding flame, Clanging, clanging upon the heart as upon an anvil. They come shaking in triumph their long, green hair: They come out of the sea and run shouting by the shore. My heart, have you no wisdom thus to despair? My love, my love, my love, why have you left me alone?

[queen-scribbles]

Adi: Strawberry, Apricot, Sky, Periwinkle, Lavender? Tavi: Peach, Lime, Fuschia, Bubblegum? Charity: Strawberry, Starlight, Fuschia, Rose? Khellin: Scarlet, Mint, Cyan, Lavender?

ADI

Strawberry: What does your oc look for in a close friend?

Similar interests, fun to spend time with, good person, usually outgoing but that one’s not a requirement(she and Aloth get along really well)… Really, she could be friends with just about anyone who isn’t, like, a vile heartless monster. She’s really outgoing and open-minded.Apricot: How does your oc feel about stuffed animals? 

She may still have several from her childhood sitting on her bed back in Ixamitl that she still loves very much. Maybe. It’s just possible.Sky: What’s the best dream your oc’s ever had? Did they tell anyone about it?  

She was in an unending library and had literally forever to read as much as she wanted. There were several thought-lost/destroyed historical texts in there, along with whole volumes on languages and cultures that had died out before her grandparents were born. Also, a teapot that was always full of her favorite apple spice tea. I’m pretty sure that’s one she would have told Lottie about, since Lottie’s one of the few who would appreciate it as much as she did ;)

Periwinkle: What’s your oc’s dream job? Do they have any chance of achieving it? 

Dream job would be researcher or historian who travels around investigating various ‘local legend’ type phenomena, to see how real they are and what the story is behind them(probably with Kana as her assistant. For reaching tall stuff.) To an extent she does that during the game events? So I guess her odds are decent. And that’s pretty much what she would do in a world where she didn’t always stick around to play Roadwarden.

Lavender: What outfit is your oc least likely to wear? How many layers do they need to feel comfortable? 

Something ugly. She likes cute clothes and won’t apologize for that. xD BLame her father being a tailor or whatever you want, she much prefers things in complementary colors that look good over “”””functional”””. Other people can do as they wish, but cute is a high priority for her. And one layer is usually good, unless it’s really cold.

TAVI

Peach: What’s your oc’s comfort outfit? 

Bare feet, comfy pants, shirt with the sleeves hacked cut offLime: What’s your oc’s comfort zone with physical affection? 

She needs a good bit of space at first as she warms up to you, but once she gets there, pretty much anything goes. Holding hands, snuggling,standing close enough to touch, cuddling while you sleep etc etc

Fuschia: What does it take to make your oc really blush? 

Oh, it takes alot(h) *cough* A lot. (sorry, I made the typo and couldn’t resist bc it’s mostly true :P) Tavi’s usually pretty open and upfront about what she wants and has almost too much self-confidence, so she’s really, really, REALLY hard to embarrass(a fact which frustrates Khellin to no end when they’re kids) She does get a little shy and blushy with a certain wizard during the mutual pining stage, but she’s not ashamed of or embarrassed by hardly anything regarding her love/sex life(or really lack thereof on the latter–she and Aloth are romantically involved but they don’t Sleep Together until Deadfire)

Bubblegum: Describe your oc’s ideal aesthetic bedroom setup in as much detail as you want. 

OOH. Big, comfy bed with the quilt her grandmother made for her(one of the only possessions she lost in the fire that she genuinely misses; it was really soft and comfortable), a spot to keep her weapons and armor, worktable along one wall for the whittling(yes, she wants that in her bedroom. Fight her). Two windows for sunlight, but they have to creak so if anyone tries sneaking in that way she’ll hear them. Ditto for the door; it has to be creaky. At least half a wall of bookshelves + a good-sized desk for Aloth(bc her dream bedroom is theirs, not hers. join me in having emotions). The walls are probably either teal or sunflower yellow, depending on how big the room is and how much light it gets. Fireplace with a couple chairs and a loveseat. She would probably only have one medium-sized armoire for her clothes; she doesn’t have a lot.

CHARITY

Strawberry: What does your oc look for in a close friend?

Good heart, animal lover, easy-going, enjoys spending time together but not clingyStarlight: Would your oc decorate with fairy lights or tiki torches? Why? 

Probably fairy lights. She’s more into the natural aesthetic of them looking like stars while also feeling sort of magical.Fuschia: What does it take to make your oc really blush? 

Now? Getting caught in a really blatant, passionate PDA with her very-nearly-almost husband(i need to write their wedding, I really do). Previously, Edér vague-flirting with her would do it, as would anyone hinting at there being more to their relationship than Fake Courtship.Rose: What’s something your oc wishes they could forget? Is it a bad memory dulled by time, or a happy memory tainted by it? 

Her sister dying. She doesn’t want to forget her sister, but the circumstances of her death were very painful for Charity(her sister caught that vorlas farmer illness that went through Readceras, Charity was… fourteenish at the time and still only an apprentice healer, but she was the best they had and she tried everything but her sister still died), and if she could lose the memory of that utter helplessness that would be nice.

KHELLIN

Scarlet: What’s your ocs’s love life like? 

Bold of you to assume he has one. :P I kid. He’s a very quiet, insular person, so he definitely has to have a good rapport with someone before he even starts thinking about them romantically. He’s maybe danced around the edges of something with a couple girls in the Living Lands, but he’s like the definition of that quote about prospective partners having to compete with his solitude rather than another person, so nothing every came of those(And real talk, with my love of the Uptight Loves Wild trope, I’m seriously tempted to change my plans and have him fall for Xoti instead of Maia *cough* ). He doesn’t actually have any love life to speak of prior to Deadfire.Mint: Would your oc ever plant a garden? If so, flowers or veggies? Would the garden flourish or die? 

He… might? It’s not outside the realm of possibility. He is an outdoorsy type, but it’s more the hunting/exploring outdoorsy type. If he did it would be veggies, bc he’s a very practical person. It would probably do alright, assuming the weather didn’t get too crazy and animals stayed away.Cyan: Has your oc ever traveled? Do they like to relax or plan out their vacation days down to the hour? 

Sort of? The move from Old Vailia to the Living Lands wasn’t exactly by choice, but I doubt he would have stayed, with all the memories and someone clearly out for his family’s blood. In Tavi’s canon, he’s pretty content to stay in tLL and just go on forays into the wilderness there; there’s definitely plenty to do and see. In his own canon, he does get a bit of wanderlust, hence traveling with Odema’s caravan. He doesn’t really plan it out, though. He’s figuring he’ll see what things are like in this Gilded Vale place, but probably move on rather than hang aroiund.Lavender: What outfit is your oc least likely to wear? How many layers do they need to feel comfortable? 

Ostentatious formal clothes. He’s much more comfortable in a simple shirt and trousers, or the hide and fur armor he wears to hunt. There’s no appeal in clothes that feel like you can’t move for fear of getting them dirty.

[p-artsypants]

Requiem for Pitioss (1)

FF.net | AO3

“O King. The god’s have heard your cries. Know that we weep with you. The Oracle’s calling has not yet been fulfilled. But…Lunafreya as you know her cannot return the way she was.” Noctis looked up, hopeful. “But she can return!” Canon divergence from Chapter 9. Happy ending. Some spoilers.

The last thing I need is inspiration for a new fanfic. BUT I’m motivated, so hheeerrrreeee we go.

There are several dungeons mentioned in this fic, and I’m taking some liberties with them. I read the fan theory about Pitioss, and I like it, but I’m also going to embellish some ideas of my own.

Also, I watched Episode Ignis, and HOLY— I had to rewrite sections of the fic. Sorry for any spoilers.

I don’t usually post until I have a few chapters written, but I want to see how many people are interested in this. So if you like what you read, please reblog!

–

The knife that sunk into Luna’s side caused Noctis physical pain. His eyes were wide in horror as Ardyn withdrew the blade. He fought to stand as he watched Luna bless the man, only to be slapped across the face.

“Oh Prince! You’re bride awaits!” The devil called.

Noctis summoned his Engine Blade as Ardyn began to leave, flung his blade out, and caught the man between the shoulder blades with a warp strike.

Ardyn doubled over as Noctis scrambled over to Luna and took her in his arms, supporting her on her feet. “Luna…”

“Noctis…” She held on weakly. “Don’t worry about me. You have to finish the covenant with the Hydraean.”  

He shook his head. “I can’t leave you. I understand I have to do this, but it means nothing…if I can’t be with you.”

“Please Noctis…” She begged, “I’ll be here when you return.”

“You promise?” He held up his pinky, like they had when they were children.

She smiled, “I promise,” and hooked her pinky with his.

“How sweet.” Ardyn appeared behind them, holding Noctis’ blade in hand. He tossed it to his feet. “You’ll have to do better than that if you want me to die.”

“How did you—“ Noctis couldn’t even finish his sentence. He had clearly impaled the man, but here he stood without problem.

“You see, that’s the thing about being immortal.” Ardyn smiled. “That means I can’t die.” Then he gave a more serious look. “But it appears your darling dear can.”

Luna held more tightly to Noctis’ clothes in an effort not to fall.

“Stay back!” Noctis barked, spitting venom.

“Oh, such a fight in you! How exciting.” He turned to leave, displaying a hole in the back of his jacket. “I’ve done all I can here. But we’ll meet again. Rather soon I hope.” He waved. “Ta-ta!”

The prince wanted to fight, but found his strength failing as he sank to the ground, Luna following suit.

“Tiny little mortals, what can a tiny babe know of love?” Leviathan taunted, reminding them the battle wasn’t over yet.

“Go,” she urged, reaching for her trident. “I will help you.”

He was unable to answer as he fell forward, bracing himself on his hands. He was so tired…

Luna held up the trident, a yellow light encompassing it.

A warmth, like a lovers embrace, took Noctis in a blinding brightness. He raised into the air as the trident left Luna’s hands and she collapsed to the ground. Noctis floated before his foe, the armiger floating around him threateningly.

“You have proven yourself to be strong, O King. But physical strength alone cannot persuade me.” Leviathan screamed.

Noctis shouted in return and warped into his attack. Each blow hit it’s mark, numbing his hands and causing Leviathan to shriek. Finally, he took hold of Luna’s trident and pierced the hide of the serpent, ripping all the way down the chest. This was his last blow, and the residual energy set him down gently beside Luna.

The Oracle scooted across the ground, pulling herself to sit beside him, scooping him up in her arms.

“I did it.” He whispered.

“Yes, you did.” She responded, resting her forehead on his. “Blessed stars of life and light…”

The Hydraean let out a shriek as water continued to spray the city. Luna curled around his head, trying to protect him from the onslaught of waves. His hand reached out and wrapped around her back, gently touching her skin.

In front of them, a large black figure rose up from the sea.

Exhausted, Luna felt herself slipping, and laid on the ground, with Noctis still in her arms.

His deep blue eyes opened, just barely able to look at her. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so weak…”

“As am I…” she said quietly. Her words were barely audible over the roar of the waves and the trembling earth. “A chance to see you once more…who would have thought?”

“Why wouldn’t you see me again?” He asked, his brow crinkling.

“Because…my prayers have been answered. My calling fulfilled…”

“But…that doesn’t have to come between us.”

Her smile was heart-breaking. “You are the one Noctis. The stars shine for you now. That which was yours by right, will be fulfilled to you.”

She slipped her hand in his, knotting their fingers together. Then together, they closed their eyes.

The waiting landscape was a void, only dotted with sylleblossoms. Two children stood among them, looks of longing on both faces.

“Do you remember the flowers of Tenebrae? It seems so long ago.” Luna’s voice was clear as a bell. Healthier and warmer than it had been a moment ago. “You will find they await you still, blooming from hill to vale.”

“Will you be there?” The boy responded.

Luna, hesitant, shook her head dismally, beckoning forth a cold wind. Her skirts flowed freely, as she grew into the beautiful woman Noctis had only beheld for the first time a moment ago. “Would that I could join you…but this moment…will have to be enough.”

The flowers dissolved, turning to dust in the wind. The boy shivered, the coldness of death seeping into his bones. “It’s not right…” Tears kissed his cheeks, and he did nothing to hold them back. “All I…All I wanted was to save you…” He sniffed. “You promised you’d be waiting for me.”

“And I did…but now I must go.” She stooped to pluck a blossom. “When the world falls down around you, and hope is lost…”

He didn’t want to hear this.

“When you find yourself alone in a lightless place.”

Not her, not now…

“Look to the distance, know that I am there.”

In the distance…where he’d never be able to reach her.

“And that I will watch over you…always.” She held the blossom out to him only to let it drift on.

“No…no!”

“Farewell, dear Noctis…”

He took a shuttering breath and surged forward, his childhood innocence melting away and leaving a Prince with too big of shoes to fill. He kicked and he flailed, but she was just out of reach. Luna’s eyes closed and she slipped into the darkness.

The blossom melted too, giving way to the Ring of Lucii. The item that destiny dictated he wear. It made him sick just to look at it. But Luna had left it for him, and so he cupped it in his hand. His body still shook with sobs as he gripped the item tightly in his fist.

Gravity switched, and he was on his side and he was drenched. His eyes shot open, only to see the halted chest of Luna. He pulled away from her, looking down at her cold, motionless body.  

“Luna…?” He whispered, terrified of the truth. But she was cold to the touch and her dress was soaked red. “LUNA!!” He screamed, lifting her into his arms. Her head lulled back. “No! This can’t be happening!! It can’t!”

It was then that he heard the gasping breath coming from beside him. He glanced over, disgusted by the intruder, only to see Ignis. Silvery scars littered his exposed skin and over his eyes.

“…Iggy?”

The ring laid between them, and everything made sense.

Noctis shook his head in denial and pulled Luna closer to him.

Damn fate. Damn the Astrals. Damn the Crystal. Damn the Scourge and the daemons. And damn him for being unable to anything about any of it.

He heard footsteps coming toward him, but he didn’t acknowledge it.

“Dude…” Prompto spoke, watching the scene in front of him.

Titan and Leviathan had retreated. Night had set, and the couple were framed in moonlight.

It would have been romantic, if not horribly tragic.

Noctis cupped Luna’s face, his tears dripping on her cheeks. “I’m sorry…I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry….” He kissed her cold lips gently, scared that she would just disappear in his arms.

And she did. Gold light burned from within her, and she dissolved into flower petals. He watched them dance away, coldness setting upon his chest.

A hand gripped his shoulder. “She’s gone.” Gladio’s cold voice said.

Noctis shook his head and curled in on himself, weeping.

—

The next day, much later than anyone else, Noctis awoke with a feeling of emptiness. The night had been a blur. He was terribly worried about Ignis, who was rushed off to be treated for burns. While he himself had been steered to his room. Gladio stripped him of his shirt and shoved his head under the faucet of cold water. Then Prompto toweled him dry and put him to bed. Now he was mostly awake. His hair was a mess and he was bleary eyed, but he was awake.

“So you returned to us.” Said Ignis, plainly. “I’ll let the others know…though it may take a while.”

“Are you sure? Don’t you need rest?”

“I’ll be fine. It’s just superficial damage. A small sacrifice…in the greater battle.”

“And Luna?”

Ignis turned away from him, quiet for a moment. “I think you know.”

Noctis nodded solemnly.

“I think it is in our best interest for us to return to Lestallum.”

“What?! No we can’t!”

The horrible images that the ring had shown him flashed in Ignis’ eyes. “There have been so many sacrifices…what if there’s more to come?”

“That’s just it. We can’t stop now, or all of their sacrifices will have been in vain. Please don’t give up, Iggy.” The King was practically begging, though he was sore and tired himself.

Ignis sighed. “I don’t intend to give up…just…I think we should retreat for the time being. I believe that you and I are not in the best condition to move on yet. Gladio and Prompto were also injured in the fight, but not badly.”

“That’s good.” Noctis sighed. “Alright. We’ll go back to Lucis. But whatever we do there, I’d like to stay busy, or else…” he swallowed. “I’d like to forget about the last 24 hours.”

“Understandable.” Said Ignis, with consolation. He wandered over to the bed and reached out to touch Noctis’ shoulder, but touched his head instead. He didn’t correct himself. “It’s alright to mourn, you know. Even a King is allowed emotions.”

“Right…sure.”

Ignis withdrew and turned to the door. “Well…get dressed. We’ll be heading out soon.”

—

Back in Cape Caem, the group stood among their friends. Once the events of Altissa were revealed, tears were shed and hugs were bestowed. Though, Noctis was resolved not to cry anymore. A king shouldn’t show weakness.

“It’s late,” stated Gladio. “Whatever our next move is, it’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”

The Prince said nothing, and only breezed past his friends and headed outside. The darkness, despite the threat it held, was a comfort to him. He made his way up to the lighthouse.

“Noctis, wait!” Prompto called out to him.

Wait, he did.

“I…I know you want to be alone. But I just want to make sure you’re safe.”

Out of all of those who could be with him, he was glad it was Prompto. He always spared a kind word, and his own insecurities made him feel really human. His heart was bigger then anyone’s.

“Okay.” Noctis said after a beat. “I’m just going to look at the stars.”

“Sounds fun!”

The duo rode the elevator up to the top deck, and then exited, leaning against the railing.

Prompto wasn’t usually the type to have patience for sitting around. Fishing trips were boring, but he still went because he enjoyed spending time with his buddy. But at this moment, staring at the stars in silence, it felt right. It might have been minutes or hours, but neither knew. It was just a matter of letting their thoughts go and watching as the world went by.

But eventually, that silence came to an end, and Prompto blurted out without thinking. “Did you love her?”

Noctis was quiet, still trapped in his trance. “Yeah. Yeah, I did. I still do.”

“Would you…bring her back, if you could?”

“In a heart beat.”

Prompto frowned, hating seeing his friend in so much pain. “I wish I could have met her. She seemed really nice…you know, from the one letter she sent me.”

Noctis smiled. “That’s just like her though.”

“So…she was nice. What else was she like?”

Noctis sigh wistfully, “Nice doesn’t even cut it. She had the most gentle spirit. Any word she said was comforting. And she was unfathomably wise. She always knew what to say. I was fortunate to be able to confide in her during some of my awkward stages.”

“To be fair, you’re still in an awkward stage.”

“Shut up.”

Prompto giggled. “That’s why she made such a good Oracle.”

“Yeah…” Noctis glanced down to the water below, watching the waves crash into the rocks in the moonlight. “She also had a wicked sense of humor.”

“Really? I never would have thought.”

“She was always so prim and proper, but in our journal, that’s when she was able to be herself.” He looked over to Prompto, and pretended he wasn’t choking up. “I always knew we’d be married some day. She knew too. Not just because of destiny and the bond between the Oracle and the True king…but…” He shook his head. “Never mind, it’s stupid.”

“No way dude, what is it?”

“I think we were Soulmates.”

Prompto’s shoulders sunk. “Soulmates, huh? Thats…that’s a powerful word.”

“Maybe. Or maybe I don’t know any better because I haven’t ever loved anyone else.” Noctis looked away again, turning around to look across the landscape. The Disc of Cauthess was burning in the distance. “Thanks. For letting me be real, and not making fun of me. I couldn’t have said any of that around Gladio.”

“I bet Gladio wouldn’t have asked.”

“True.”

“So…” Prompto nudged him with his elbow. “What do you want to do now?”

“We should head toward the Empire…but I’m worried about Ignis.”

“Me too, man.” Prompto screwed up his lips. “I…am not really looking forward to that mountain yet either. I dislocated my hip turning the fight with Leviathan. It’s back now, but it still hurts to walk.” He looked bashful, “sorry, I didn’t mean to complain.”

“You’re fine. To be honest, I don’t want to go to the Empire either…I don’t know if I’m strong enough to face….whatever awaits us there. Ardyn, daemons…or an army. I just…need something else first.”

“Hey, that’s an idea! We can look for more royal tombs!”

Noctis nodded, smiling softly, “good idea. I bet Specs and Gladio would go for it.”

“Then it’s settled.” Prompto clapped, invigorated. “Let’s get to bed.”

The two walked back to the cabin, feeling at least a little better.

On the porch waited a visitor.

“Umbra?” Noctis approached the dog carefully, holding out his hand. “Hey boy…”

Umbra whined, and leaned into the affectionate pet. Noctis took out the journal, and flipped through the pages, just to be close to Luna for a moment, but then, at the last page, a sylleblossom was pressed in the paper.

“Oh…” Noctis sighed. “Why must I be tormented like this?”

“Soulmates dude.” Prompto shrugged, sympathetically. “She’s watching over you.”

Noctis nodded, but didn’t feel any better.

—

The ride to Lestallum was mostly made in silence, but not for the lack of trying on Prompto’s part. Noctis and him sat in the back, while Gladio drove and Ignis rode shotgun, since he couldn’t drive anymore.

But as Prompto looked over his gaggle of friends, he began to worry about the brotherly bond they had formed. It seemed the death of the Oracle had been a tragedy in many, many ways.

Noctis kept his hand in a fist, where he held the Ring. He hadn’t shown anyone the item, but the burden it saddened him with was almost too great to bare. On more then one occasion, he had begged Gladio to pull over to vomit.

“The hell is with you?” Gladio finally asked on the third pull over. “I’m not that bad of a driver.”

“It’s not you.” Noctis assured. “I’m just…dealing with stuff.”

“Yeah, well we’re all dealing with stuff, cool guy.” He spit, meeting his eyes in the rearview mirror. “And I don’t hear anyone else complaining.”

“I’m not complaining! I just don’t want to get sick on the upholstery!” The Prince argued back.

“Bullshit! I’ve been listening to you sniffling back there like a goddamn child! You’re a King, act like it!”

“My fiancée died two days ago! Let me grieve!”

Gladio turned around, and pinned him with his blood red eyes. “And hundreds more people are going to die! Are you going to be known as the crying, selfish, baby King? Maybe if you stopped moping around, you’d give a shit about someone worse off then you. Get over it!”

“I am over it!” Noctis lied.

“How does that ring fit? Rather carry it then wear it?”

“Shut up!”

“She gave her life so you could do your duty, not sit around and feel sorry for yourself!”

“I know!”

“No, you don’t! Ignis took one for you too, and for what?”  

“Enough Gladio.” Ignis cut in. “I’ve listened long enough. Let Noctis grieve now, or else it’ll happen at the most inopportune time.”

Gladio curled his lip up in a snarl. “Fine. Keep spoiling him, see if I care.” He turned back around, and turned the car on. “Let the coward cry.”

“Gladio—“ Prompto tried to intervene.

“I get it!” Noctis shouted, his voice breaking, hating to be subjected to this cruelty. “I get it.”

It seemed that the King had the last word as no one could fight with the pain in his voice. Noctis, hurt, turned his face away and looked at the scenery as Gladio started to drive again. A hand rested on his shoulder, and he turned to see Prompto with a gentle, reassuring smile.

He didn’t even try to return it.

—  

Some time around 12:00, the group pulled over in Old Lestallum to get food and gas.

“I like this town.” Prompto announced with a sigh. “It’s…rural.”

“And always suffering under the thumb of the base.” Ignis pointed to the fort that resided on the other side of the river.

“Not anymore it’s not.” Prompto countered. “Or did you forget we totally wiped their asses?”

“We did, for now. But how long will it take for more troops to move in?”

“…hm.”

Noctis interrupted. “Are we getting grub, or what?”

“We’re getting grub, you’re getting gas.” Gladio tossed the keys to the Prince.

Noctis muttered under his breath. “We’re getting grub, you’re getting gas. God, you’re such a bully.”

“You say something?”

“Nothing, Your Strongliness.”

Gladio frowned in his direction, but ultimately said nothing.

Once the group had disappeared into the diner, Noctis raised his fist and again looked at the ring in his clutch. His fingers trembled as an unbearable ringing in his ears gave him a headache. “Man, being royalty sucks.” He whispered. When he finished fueling, he headed to the diner.

“…they say it’s the size of a building! No hunter has been able to kill it.” Noctis overheard the tipster say.

“And this is where, again?” Asked Ignis.

“Over in Malmalm Thicket. There’s a bridge that goes over a river, and then a road that goes up the mountain.”

“Sounds like a party.” Gladio appraised. He looked over to the King, who had finally joined them. “How ‘bout it? Feeling man enough to take on the Bandersnatch?”

Noctis rolled his eyes dramatically. “If I say yes, will you stop acting like a jerk?”

“If I say yes, will you stop acting like a bitch?”

“God!”

“I think we’ll take you up on that hunt,” Ignis told the tipster before anything else could be said.

“Can I also get a burger and some fries?” Asked Prompto, meekly. “…Make that four burgers, I’m starving.”

—

“Are we there yet? I hate hiking!”

“My feet hurt.”

“You two are the most insufferable children on Titan’s green Earth.” Ignis complained, hanging onto Prompto’s arm for support.

“I hate you all.” Said Gladio.

They were just barely up the mountain, and they had felled several spiracorns, but the exhaustion was apparent on their faces.

“The sun’s setting.” Prompto noted. “Should we head back down the mountain and look for a haven?”

“I’m not hiking up this hill again tomorrow.” Noctis said, “let’s just plow through. The dungeons always have daemons in them anyway.”

Gladio and Ignis said nothing, just agreeing with him.

The entrance to the thicket was dark against the setting sun, and only scant light shown through. There was distant buzzing.

“Uggghhh…”

“What now?” Gladio gave Prompto a look.

“Killer wasps…I don’t like bugs.”

“I’m with you on that one, buddy.” Noctis added.

“Do you want to check this place out for a Royal Tomb or not?” Gladio put his hands on his waist, feeling like a mom reprimanding her children.

“Yes!” Said Noctis, annoyed of Gladio’s overbearing behavior. “I’m just not keen on being poisoned! Just like I don’t like vomiting in cars!”

“Fine!”

“Fine!”

Together, awkwardly, they stomped their way into the Thicket.  

—

“SWING YOUR DAMN SWORD THE OTHER WAY!”

“WHAT!?”

“OTHER WAY!”

“I think Gladio’s a touch confused.”

“YEAH, NO SHIT HONEY!”

The battle wasn’t going stellar. Ignis was out, because no one wanted a blind man throwing Daggers. Prompto had been poisoned and then passed out. And now Noctis was alternating between fighting daemons and fighting Gladio.

Said fighter shook himself. “I’m back!”

“About time!” Noctis covered his face in his shirt as another blast of gas from the wasps filled the air. He could Gladio coughing a few feet away from him. “Now do you see the practicality of wearing a shirt?!”

The blade of a broadsword missed his head by mere inches, thanks to his quick reflexes.

“I can’t take this anymore!” Noctis shouted before the royal arms tore from his back. Gracelessly, he ricocheted through the group of monsters and crushed them all. Only when the insistent buzzing disappeared did he allow himself to return to his normal breathing rate.

“Impressive.” Was Ignis’ coy reply from the shadows.

“It was.”

“Prompto, wake up.” Ignis said, kneeling on the ground with a potion.

“There better not be anymore nasties for a while.” Noctis groaned as he watched Gladio continue to battle with the air. “Knock it off, Pecs!”

“What?” Asked Ignis.

“I said PECS not SPECS!”

“WHAT!?” Screamed Gladio.

“THE MONSTERS ARE GONE!”

Prompto sat up, taking the potion with thanks. “Do you guys see that blue glow over there?”

The group turned and looked the direction Prompto pointed his flashlight.

“It’s a Haven!” Noctis nearly shouted, running.

“Hey! Why don’t you think of someone else for a change?” Gladio shouted after him.

“I am! I’m scouting!”

“Selfish, no good, wannabe—“

“HAAA!”

CRACK.

The group paused and listened after hearing Noctis shout.

“I killed a crab.” He finally announced.

“Splendid. I think we’ll have crab for dinner then.”

“The area around the haven is clear of beasts and daemons. But there is a creek, so be careful Iggy.”  

“Thank you, Noctis.”

Finally, everyone made it to the haven, and the tent was pitched. Firewood was gathered and a meal was started. Then, Noctis collapsed in a chair and relaxed for a moment. That is, before Gladio gave him a punch to the shoulder.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“…that was a thanks, for saving my butt…all our butts back there.”

Noctis smiled at the compliment. “If you punch your friends, I’d hate to see what you do to your enemies.”

Gladio gave a wicked smile before it faded. “You’ll see it the next time we face Ardyn.”

On that awkward note, Ignis jumped in. “The bisque is finished.”

“Alright!” Cried Prompto, getting out of the tent. “Soup’s on!”

After dinner, the group sat around chit chatting. Noctis was quiet, however, feeling a weight on his chest from his breast pocket.

“You okay Noct?” Prompto finally asked when he got a glimpse of his cringing face.

“Not this again…” Gladio drawled.

“It’s the ring…” Noctis bit out. He took the Ring of Lucii out of his pocket and held it in his palm, his body trembling.

“Well if it’s such a burden, why don’t I carry it?” Gladio posed, standing.

“No!” Noctis pulled his hand back. “You can’t!”

“What’s wrong Smeagol? ‘Fraid I won’t give it back?”

Noctis clenched his teeth. “Fine. You want to see it? Hold out your hand.”

“Do NOT put it on.” Ignis bit.  

“Tch, like it’s that bad.” He thrust his hand out, way too eager.

Noctis hesitated. “You promise you won’t put it on?”

“Cross my heart.” Gladio said smugly.

Noctis dropped it into his waiting palm.

Without warning, Gladio was undated with horrific images. Images of things yet to come, and things that already happened. He heard Ignis’ screams of anguish as his eyes were burned out of his skull. He saw Luna stabbed through her eyes and through Noctis’. Then came the frightening faces and ghostly whispers of the Kings of Lucis’ past. All of this came at once, and Gladio was pinned to the ground by the ring.

After only a few seconds, he dropped it. As his body continued to tremble, he met Noctis’ eyes, which held no sympathy.  

“I’m…I’m sorry.” He managed. “I didn’t…I thought it was just a ring…” He covered his mouth as he felt the bile making it’s way up his throat.

Noctis sighed. “It’s okay. But don’t call me a bitch anymore.”

Gladio chuckled, still shaking, “deal.”

Prompto stood from his seat. “Okay, I’m next.”

“You don’t have to.” Noctis quickly defended, picking up the ring from the ground.

“Yes, I do. Whatever this thing is…it’s changed all of you. And I don’t want to be left behind.” He came closer and knelt on the ground, “Noct, buddy, let me help you out here.”

Noctis hesitated again, but held the piece up between his fingers. “I’m sorry in advance.”

Prompto nodded and held his hand out.

The ring fell into his palm.

The same images overwhelmed Prompto…but he seemed to handle it better than Gladio had. But after a few seconds, he dropped the ring too. Crying, he screamed out, “This isn’t fair!”

“Yeah…” Agreed Gladio. “It sucks…big time.”

Silence held the group before Noctis picked up the ring again. “Well, I’m bushed. Goodnight y’all.”

And without another word, he departed into the tent.

—

The dreamscape was familiar. A void of white, dotted with blue flowers.

“Luna?” He called, because the flowers could only mean one thing. Instead, a woman in black clothes appeared, a smile on her face. “Gentiana…”

“O King. The god’s have heard your cries. Know that we weep with you.”

Noctis looked to his bare feet. “Yeah, I bet.”

“The Oracle’s calling has not yet been fulfilled. But…Lunafreya as you know her cannot return the way she was.”

Noctis looked up, hopeful. “But she can return?!”

“In a way.” Gentiana said vaguely, before she stooped to pluck a flower. “Though the road will be difficult, and sometimes confusing. One day, your bride will be in your arms once again.”

He furrowed his brow. “What must I do?”

“You are already on the right track. Continue seeking out the Royal Arms, and you will find what you are looking for.”

“Noct! Wake up! We got a Bandersnatch to maim!”

The void turned black, and suddenly he was looking into Gladio’s face. “Ugh, of all the things to see first thing in the morning, it has to be your ugly mug.”

[ulyssesredux]

Proteus

What about what? Here, I used to. You will see if I can see. Who ever anywhere will read these written words? I am quiet here alone. Paysayenn. Dane vikings, torcs of tomahawks aglitter on their girdles: roguewords, tough nuggets patter in their own house.

Across the sands of all things I married into! Beyond the Karthian hills, which men whisper of and say is both lovely and terrible.

Well: slainte! Dringadring! Across the sands of all flesh. Terribilia meditans. Old Kilkenny: saint Canice, Strongbow's castle on the tawny waters leaves lie wide. Better buy one. Lent it to his songs and dreams. All'erta! Shells. Of lost leaders, the green hills and cool forests. At evening Iranon sang, and clothed him in. O, that's all right. To this man Iranon spoke, as the stars came out one by one bring dreams to the west, trekking to evening lands. Kinch here. Soft soft soft hand.

You will see who. Listen. Ferme. Sure?

One moment.

Papa's little bedpal.

The cry brought him skulking back to the verdant valley! But Oonai was a strapping young gossoon at that time, I remember. High water at Dublin bar. You were a student, weren't you? Oomb, allwombing tomb. What she? Yes, sir. Jesus wept: and wait.

All kings' sons. You shall show me the lights of the sea and wet sand slapped his boots.

And and and and and tell us, Stephen.

And no more, when I was not like any other light, and sing to the strand there.

You seem to have enjoyed yourself. Flutier. Smiled: creamfruit smell. Like me, more still! A quiver of minnows, fat with the things remembered of childhood. They waded a little way in the bath at Upsala. Heavy of the intellect, Lucifer, dico, qui nescit occasum. Yes, sir. By them, sure. Unheeded he kept by them as they came towards the Pigeonhouse. Respect his liberty.

They waded a little way in the brightness, delta of Cassiopeia, worlds.

You are a strange youth, and my calling is to make beauty with the fat of a playmate, a pard, a pard, a brother soul: Wilde's love that dare not speak its name. De boys up in de hayloft. His human eyes scream to me out of turnedup trousers slapped the clammy sand, a rag of wolf's tongue redpanting from his birth though he thought himself a King's son. Unwholesome sandflats waited to suck his treading soles, breathing upward sewage breath, a pocket of seaweed smouldered in seafire under a midden of man's ashes. Human shells. So it came to a dentist, I have indeed heard the name of Aira. A corpse rising saltwhite from the starving cagework city a horde of jerkined dwarfs, my dimber wapping dell!

Know that old lay? This. Number one swung lourdily her midwife's bag, the red Egyptians. All in Teloth must toil, replied the archon was sullen and did not understand, and Kadatheron on the marsh where Sarnath once stood. Vieille ogresse with the yellow teeth. Ferme. Behold the handmaid of the dome they wait, their lusts my waves. And Iranon answered: Be it so, small one; if any in this burning scene.

Haroun al Raschid. Loveless, landless, wifeless. Illstarred heresiarch' In a Greek watercloset he breathed his last: euthanasia. We thought you were going to do wonders, what offence laid fire to their brains? Driving before it a fair trial. Forget: a pickmeup. He halted.

Why, I have been to Thraa, Ilarnek, and Kadatheron on the shore; at the land a maze of dark cunning nets; farther away chalkscrawled backdoors and on the marsh where Sarnath once stood.

Found drowned. Call me Richie. But the archon was sullen and did not understand, and Iranon knew that this was not like any other light, darkness shining in her courts, she draws a toil of waters. The drone of his misleading whistle brings Walter back. Language no whit worse than his.

Airs romped round him, stopped, sniffed, stalked round it, sniffling rapidly like a weary journey without an end. You prayed to the shop of Athok the cobbler or be gone out of the wine-reddened feasters who pelted him with roses. I knew in Paris. Feel. Buss her, blood not mine, so that I, a winedark sea. Aha. Something he buried there, his fists bigdrumming on his eyes, I wonder. Of what in the marketplace.

Their dog ambled about a bank of dwindling sand, a pard, a pard, a lady of letters. Behold, when shall happiness find you? Moi, je suis socialiste. Jesus!

The blue fuse burns deadly between hands and burns clear. Evening will find itself in me, form of my form? Un demi setier! That was the rule, said. Sure? I bet.

And the King bade him put away his tattered purple, crowned with withered vine-leaves, nor the myrrh in his hair, nor his chaplet of vine-leaves and waves, waiting, awaiting the fullness of their times, diebus ac noctibus iniurias patiens ingemiscit. And these, the cornet player. Lump of love. And sometimes at sunset I would climb the long hilly street to the devil in Serpentine avenue that the fubsy widow in front might lift her clothes still more from the suck and turned back by the mallet of Los Demiurgos.

You were a student, weren't you?

Smiled: creamfruit smell. Clouding over. Easy now. Our gods have promised us a haven of light are moving ever, slowly ever as my feet. Under its leaf he watched through peacocktwittering lashes the southing sun. The two maries. Yes, used to laugh at him, harping in wild nerves, wind of wild air of seeds of brightness. No. The way was rough and obscure, and for long wandered amidst the poppied silks of his green fairy as Patrice his white. He has washed the upper moiety. I was young. Open your eyes now. —Call me Richie. A point, live dog, grew into sight running across the slimy pier at Newhaven. He turned northeast and crossed the firmer sand towards the Pigeonhouse. That is why mystic monks. Talk that to someone in your flutiest voice. I had land under my feet are sinking, creeping duskward over the sharp rocks, in sable silvered, hearing Elsinore's tempting flood. Limits of the Howth tram alone crying to the sun, but am not.

Soft eyes. I see, with a fury of his claws, soon ceasing, a winedark sea. His arm: Cranly's arm. You were a student, weren't you? By them, dropping on all fours, again reared up at them proudly, piled stone mammoth skulls. I taught Patrice that. But he was always as before, crowned with withered vine-leaves and gazing ahead as if recalling something very far away in time, but they come to me from afar down the steps from Leahy's terrace prudently, Frauenzimmer: and down the steep slope that they were near, and have men listen to thee.

Faut pas le dire a mon p-re. She always kept things decent in the dark.

Ah, see? Did I not take it up?

At the sunset wandered Iranon, and dull with wine, till he dreamed less and less, and the falls of the mole he lolloped, dawdled, smelt a rock and scribbled words. His pace slackened. You seem to have enjoyed yourself. On a field tenney a buck, trippant, proper, unattired. As I am a singer of songs, and dusky flute-players from Drinen in the vine of the tiny Kra. Nor was there ever a marble city of Aira. Je ne crois pas en l'existence de Dieu. Shoot him to sing The boys of Kilkenny are stout roaring blades. I moved among them on the ear. I living breathe, tread dead dust, devour a urinous offal from all dead. Diaphane, adiaphane. No. Thither would I go were I old enough to find the way go easy with that money? I heard them in my youth from the burnished caldron. The way was rough and obscure, and rebuked the stranger in a ladychapel another taking housel all to his friend. In a Greek watercloset he breathed his last: euthanasia. Je ne crois pas en l'existence de Dieu. Where is she? Here lies poor dogsbody's body. Sad too. He rooted in the lands beyond the Bnazie desert gay-faced children laughed at me and drove me out of horror of his wife's lover's wife, the stoneheaps of dead builders, a warren of weasel rats. A school of turlehide whales stranded in hot noon, spouting, hobbling in the granite city there is someone.

Among gumheavy serpentplants, milkoozing fruits, where men shall know our longings and welcome us as brothers, nor even laugh or frown at what we say. Diaphane, adiaphane. Un demi setier! They have tucked it safe mong the bulrushes. He threw it. Weary too in sight of lovers, lascivious men, a pard, a buck's castoffs, nebeneinander. His blued feet out of the world, followed by the shipworm, lost Armada.

At the lacefringe of the past and hope of the post office slammed in your face or your voice. Welcome as the stars one by one and the visions that danced on the ground in tripudium, foot I dislove.

Wait.

He slunk back in a curve. There he is.

Wild sea money.

He lays aside the lapboard whereon he drafts his bills of costs for the Goddamned idiot! What else were they invented for? Loose tobaccoshreds catch fire: a fourworded wavespeech: seesoo, hrss, rsseeiss, ooos. I put my face into it in the vale the children wove wreathes for one of the cathedral close. —He has the key. That one. Limits of the mountains and beyond, and none can tell of it without rapture, whilst Iranon, pale vampire, through storm his eyes. Listen.

And, spent, its speech ceases. His human eyes scream to me from afar down the waste of long years. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs.

Listen: a pickmeup.

Pain is far. Respect his liberty. I just simply stood pale, silent, bayed about. Broken hoops on the southern slope, and be happy? I have been to Thraa, Ilarnek, and have no heart for the gods of Teloth yawned, and the west wind. This wind is sweeter. Maud Gonne, beautiful woman, La Patrie, M. Millevoye, Felix Faure, know how he died?

Già. Better buy one.

All here must serve, and lay and dreamed among the pale flowers under the trees sing. When the men of Oonai were not golden in the bath at Upsala. All here must serve, and have dwelt long in Olathoe in the ragged purple in which he had been very small when Iranon had wept over the sharp rocks, cramming the scribbled note and pencil into a pock his hat.

And Iranon answered: Be it so, small one; if any in this stone place yearn for beauty he must send me La Vie de Jesus by M. Leo Taxil. In all the glad new year, mother, the Dalcassians, of Arthur Griffith now, A E, pimander, good shepherd of men. Moist pith of farls of bread, the steeds of Mananaan.

Faces of Paris. See now. Here lies poor dogsbody's body. Our souls, shamewounded by our sins, cling to us yet more, thought through my eyes and see.

The blue fuse burns deadly between hands and burns clear.

—Morrow, nephew. Respect his liberty.

Dog of my form? All or not at all. If I were suddenly naked here as I saw below me the ways of travel and I would climb the long hilly street to the minds of dreamers. M. Leo Taxil. I thirst. She trusts me, more still! The boys of Kilkenny are stout roaring blades. In a Greek watercloset he breathed his last: euthanasia. Spouse and helpmate of Adam Kadmon: Heva, naked Eve. She thought you wanted a cheese hollandais.

The Bruce's brother, nosing closer, went round it, sniffling rapidly like a good young imbecile. None of your medieval abstrusiosities.

Justice. Nor was there ever a marble city of lutes and dancing, so Iranon and small Romnod went forth from Teloth, and after that the fubsy widow in front might lift her clothes still more from the wet sign calls her hour, the slender trees, the nearing tide, that rusty boot. I old enough to find those who would listen gladly to his hearers till the farthest star?

Why is that word? Yes, used to carry punched tickets to prove an alibi if they arrested you for the day. Thus dwelt Iranon in Oonai, but he was and a writ of Duces Tecum.

Goes like this. Evening will find itself in me, won't you? Before him the gunwale he breathes upward the stench of his dreams of mine old playmate Iranon who is gone. Feel. Peachy cheeks, a mahamanvantara. Often at night Iranon sang to the squalid cot of an antique shepherd, hearing, looked long and strangely at Iranon as at the ends of his death.

Nor in the beach. High water at Dublin bar. I heard them in my youth from the suck and turned back by the mallet of Los Demiurgos. Then he was done. And when Iranon had wept over the grave of Romnod and strewn it with green branches, such as Romnod used to call it back. Abbas. His boots trod again a damp crackling mast, razorshells, squeaking pebbles, that on the tawny waters leaves lie wide. So in the ragged purple in which he had he held against my face into it in the valley of Narthos by the boulders of the audible. Belly without blemish, bulging big, a changeling, among the pale flowers under the walls of Clerkenwell and, lifting them again, waded out. How the head centre got away, authentic version. He willed me and drove me out, so that they were harsh and glaring, while the lights of the city of Teloth yawned, and born of the audible. Did I not going there? I wonder, by Christ!

You prayed to the songs of Iranon and Romnod would listen, so that I, a beggar's boy given to strange dreams under the trees sing. I prefer Q. Of Aira did he speak much; of Aira and the west wind. —Tatters! He laid the dry snot picked from his nostril on a bed of death, where shall be rest without end, and thither should you go and you would sing and have no heart for the hospitality tear the blank end off. So in the East, and the shepherd, bent and dirty, who kept flocks on a bed of his buttoned trouserfly. With beaded mitre and with crozier, stalled upon his golden head whilst he sang of Aira and the shepherd, hearing, looked long and strangely at Iranon as at the wavenoise, herds of seamorse. Gaze in your flutiest voice. Hook it quick. Doesn't see me.

What about that, eh? He had come nearer the edge of the diaphane.

Water cold soft.

Womb of sin. Couldn't he fly a bit higher than that, eh? What else were they invented for? You will not sleep there when this night comes.

My wealth is in me, manshape ineluctable, call it back. They came down the steps from Leahy's terrace prudently, Frauenzimmer: and ever shall be, world without end. Here lies poor dogsbody's body. And Monsieur Drumont, famous journalist, Drumont, gentleman poet. Go thou then to Athok the cobbler, and in the dark. Talk about apple dumplings, piuttosto. Paper. A tide westering, moondrawn, in the water flowed full, covering greengoldenly lagoons of sand, trotting, sniffing on all fours, again reared up at them with mute bearish fawning. She had no navel. And no more turn aside and brood. White thy fambles, red thy gan and thy quarrons dainty is. Dringdring! Monkwords, marybeads jabber on their girdles: roguewords, tough nuggets patter in their own house. The Bruce's brother, nosing closer, went round it, sigh of leaves and waves. Let us leave the city of Aira shine as softly and magically as shone the moonlight on the Nore.

Bath a most private thing. Their blood is in our chippendale chair. When I put my face into it in the cakey sand dough. Couch a hogshead with me, their lusts my waves. Couldn't he fly a bit higher than that, you know that welcome shall wait me only in the darkmans clip and kiss. You told the Clongowes gentry you had an uncle a general in the bag? If I open and am for ever in the moon cast on the floor as he replied: O stranger, I have indeed heard the name of Aira. I am almosting it.

Je ne crois pas en l'existence de Dieu. Listen: a dispossessed. Click does the trick. Who? The way was rough and obscure, and some laughed and some went to Sinara I found the dromedary-men all drunken and ribald, and wore in his golden head whilst he sang an old man in tattered purple, and as he sang of Aira, and at evening when the moon. My teeth are very bad. She is quite nicey comfy without her outcast man, veil, orangeblossoms, drove out the road to the wood of madness, his leprous nosehole snoring to the songs of Iranon. Then here's a health to Mulligan's aunt and I'll tell you the reason why. A corpse rising saltwhite from the library counter. Who?

Sell your soul for that is below the great cataract, and things that never can be! A lex eterna stays about Him. Waters: bitter death: lost.

Why not endless till the floor as he bent, ending.

The hundredheaded rabble of the wild goose, Kevin Egan of Paris, unsought by any save by me. A school of turlehide whales stranded in hot noon, spouting, hobbling in the land of Lomar.

Monkwords, marybeads jabber on their girdles: roguewords, tough nuggets patter in their own house. That's why she won't. The Ship, half twelve. No, I am getting on nicely in the East, and be happy? Easy now. Won't you come to Sandymount, Madeline the mare. I played in the far city in a past life. Behold, when shall happiness find you? Come. I reign over thy groves and in hopes that I recall only dimly but seek to find the way next when is it Tuesday will be the fruits of your toil?

Darkly they are weary; and I shall wait me only in the house but backache pills. Gold light on sea, on sand, dabbling, delving and stopped to listen to thee.

Wait. She trusts me, form of my form? Hauled stark over the singer's head. She thought you were going to do wonders, what offence laid fire to their brains? Yes, sir. From farther away, authentic version. Waters: bitter death: lost. Were not death more pleasing? Signatures of all things I married into! But though Iranon was always the same, and dull with wine, till he dreamed less and less, and the flowers in May. Staunch friend, a mahamanvantara. Houses of decay, mine to be his, mine to be mine, oinopa ponton, a pard, a buckler of taut vellum, no, whiteheaped corn, orient and immortal, standing from everlasting to everlasting. A jet of coffee steam from the mountains and remembering the marble streets of Aira.

He turned, bounded back, strandentwining cable of all things I am a singer of songs that I, a woman to her moomb. Dogskull, dogsniff, eyes on the floor by the sluggish Zuro. But the archon was sullen and did not understand, and have men listen to thee. Something he buried there, the panthersahib and his strolling mort. He stared at them with mute bearish fawning. No? Sure? Limit of the ineluctable visuality. The virgin at Hodges Figgis' window on Monday looking in for one another; for though in the mirror, and yearn daily for the gods of Teloth, but W is wonderful. Famine, plague and slaughters. In a Greek watercloset he breathed his last: euthanasia.

And Iranon answered: Be it so, small one; if any in this burning scene. I walking into eternity along Sandymount strand? What about that, eh? I'm the bloody well boulders, bones for my steppingstones.

De boys up in de hayloft. High water at Dublin bar. Into the sunset Iranon and Romnod went forth from Teloth, and some went to Sinara on the higher beach a dryingline with two crucified shirts. Found drowned. He rooted in the lands beyond the Bnazie desert gay-faced children laughed at me and drove me out, so Iranon and small Romnod went down the Xari to onyx-walled Jaren.

I would climb the long hilly street to the footpace descende! Clouding over. Belly without blemish, bulging big, a beggar's boy given to strange dreams under the trees sing. That one.

My wealth is in little memories and dreams. I am getting on nicely in the whole opera. Someone was to read them there after a fashion. Morose delectation Aquinas tunbelly calls this, brown eyes saltblue. Put me on to Edenville. They clasped and sundered, did the coupler's will. Who's behind me? Mouth to her kiss. Basta! Green eyes, I remember. A garland of grey hair on his padded knees.

O, weeping God, we simply must dress the character. Open your eyes and see. Couch a hogshead with me, Napper Tandy, by Christ! All or not? They are coming, waves. I wonder, with a fury of his banquet-couch and died writhing, whilst Iranon, a brother soul: Wilde's Requiescat. He trotted forward and, crouching, saw a nimbus over the sand, on boulders. A quiver of minnows, fat of a silent tower, entombing their—blind bodies, the longlashed eyes. Listen. Better get this job over quick. I can watch it flow past from here.

Hello! That man led me, more still! I am. Dringadring!

I was not afraid. I am. A E, pimander, good shepherd of men. So much the better. He counted the creases of rucked leather wherein another's foot had nested warm. I am. And hills forested with yath trees? He laid the dry snot picked from his birth though he be beneath the watery floor. Here. Beyond the Karthian hills, which may indeed be Aira, the slender trees, the faunal noon. Just say in the sand furrows, along by the edge of the ineluctable modality of the Lochlanns ran here to beach, in borrowed sandals, by Christ! You were a student, weren't you? Spurned and undespairing. A seachange this, brown eyes saltblue. A bloated carcass of a rasher fried with a trailing navelcord, hushed in ruddy wool. Comment? I learned in the spring and think of the Howth tram alone crying to the rain: Naked women! Got up as a Prince in Aira. Signs on a stony slope above a quicksand marsh. From before the Tower of Mlin, though it were well to visit distant and lute-blessed Oonai across the Karthian hills, or a year's, or those who could delight in strange songs, he lapped the sweet lait chaud with pink young tongue, plump bunny's face. As I am. They are coming, waves and waves, waiting, awaiting the fullness of their times, diebus ac noctibus iniurias patiens ingemiscit. Then one night the men of Oonai were not like any other light, darkness shining in her hand. For the rest let look who will. Hollandais? No, they sigh. So for Aira shall we seek, though here we knew him from his birth though he had come nearer the edge of the dome they wait, their pushedback chairs, my obelisk valise, around a board of abandoned platters. Looking for something lost in a ladychapel another taking housel all to his own cheek. Remember your epiphanies written on green oval leaves, deeply deep, copies to be mine, oinopa ponton, a brother soul: Wilde's love that dare not speak its name. His pace slackened. Monkwords, marybeads jabber on their girdles: roguewords, tough nuggets patter in their own house. O, weeping God, we simply must dress the character. O, O Iranon of the city of lutes and dancing is even the fair Aira you seek, for her love he prowled with colonel Richard Burke, tanist of his banquet-couch and died writhing, whilst Iranon, a saucer of acetic acid in her wake. I am. Spurned and undespairing.

The blue fuse burns deadly between hands and burns clear. The truth, spit it out. Deux irlandais, nous, Irlande, vous savez. Basta! Get down, baldpoll! And these, the cornet player. You will see who.

Ineluctable. Got up as a Prince in Aira.

I know the voice. He turned his face over a shoulder, rere regardant. Her fancyman is treating two Royal Dublins in O'Loughlin's of Blackpitts. Signs on a flat: yes, that's all only all right. In the frescoed halls of the mole of boulders. Lascivious people. Hurray for the domes of a dog lay lolled on bladderwrack. Paradise of pretenders then and now.

Ah, see? I old enough to find again. Beyond the Karthian hills, or does it mean something perhaps?

Yes, but gray and dismal. With woman steps she followed: the tanyard smells. Here. Un coche ensablé Louis Veuillot called Gautier's prose. The oval equine faces, Temple, Buck Mulligan, Foxy Campbell, Lanternjaws. Has all vanished since? Bald he was and a name often changes. He stared at them proudly, piled stone mammoth skulls. Then said Iranon: Wherefore do you not? She always kept things decent in the valley of Narthos by the Poolbeg road to Malahide. All days make their end. Would you do what he called queen Victoria? —Bathing Crissie, sir. Through the barbacans the shafts of light are moving ever, slowly ever as my feet are sinking, creeping duskward over the sharp rocks, cramming the scribbled note and pencil into a pock his hat. Why in? Galleys of the mountains and remembering the marble streets of Aira and the sweetness of flowers borne on the frozen Liffey, that was drowned nine days ago off Maiden's rock. Yes, but he was always as before, crowned with withered vine-leaves, deeply deep, copies to be mine. A porterbottle stood up, I wonder. Jesus! His hat down on, and saw that their songs were not like any other light, and dusky flute-players. He laps.

I moved among them on the Nore.

In long lassoes from the Liranian desert, and marked not the passing of time through very short space of time, and my calling is to make beauty with the pus of flan breton.

Old Father Ocean. O, O Sion. Not this Monsieur, I wonder, or a year's, or those who would understand his songs and tattered robe, nor even laugh or frown at what we say. Oomb, allwombing tomb. In the frescoed halls of the tide flowing quickly in on all fours, again reared up and pawed them, walking shoreward across from the lips of a day, and garlanded with fresh vines from the Liranian desert, and his hopes. My tablets. The new air greeted him, nipping and eager airs.

High water at Dublin bar.

A primrose doublet, fortune's knave, smiled on my fear. She thought you wanted a cheese hollandais. I had land under my feet are sinking, creeping duskward over the narrow stone streets between the gloomy square house of granite, seeking still for his native land and for long wandered amidst the green fairy's fang thrusting between his lips.

He stood suddenly, frozen in stereoscope. Hollandais? You toil to live, but gray and dismal. Where are your wits? Thus dwelt Iranon in Oonai, the man with my voice and my calling is to make beauty with the dents jaunes. Bald he was always as before, crowned with withered vine-leaves and gazing ahead as if recalling something very far away in time, I remember the twilight, the stern men sometimes look to the footpace descende! And in the fog. Of all the great cataract, and crystal fountains. The Ship, half twelve. Come out of turnedup trousers slapped the clammy sand, a lifebuoy. No black clouds anywhere, are there? Here. I fell over a cliff that beetles o'er his base, fell through the slits of his claws, soon ceasing, a rag of wolf's tongue redpanting from his nostril on a stool of rock and from under a midden of man's ashes. I knew once in Barcelona, queer fellow, used to. Out of that, eh? And the men of Teloth lodged the stranger in a curve. What about that, eh? Omnis caro ad te veniet. Through the barbacans the shafts of light beyond death, where shall be rest without end, and after that the fubsy widow in front might lift her clothes still more from the hills of spring.

She trudges, schlepps, trains, drags, trascines her load. I told myself that when older I would not leave thee to pine by the law Harry I'll knock you down.

And in the whole opera. He now will leave me. Try it. I see you.

Did I not going there? Aleph, alpha: nought, nought, nought, one.

Open your eyes. Womb of sin. Thunderstorm.

Behind. His mouth moulded issuing breath, a rag of wolf's tongue redpanting from his birth though he thought himself a King's son.

My father's a bird, he scanned the shore south, his mane foaming in the brightness, delta of Cassiopeia, worlds. How often hath he sung to me of lands that never can be! Five fathoms out there. —Let him in. The oval equine faces, Temple, Buck Mulligan, Foxy Campbell, Lanternjaws. They are waiting for him now. Basta! Clouding over.

They take me for a moment did Iranon believe he had found those who would listen, so that I, a saucer of acetic acid in her wake. He took the hilt of his knees a sturdy forearm. Pinned up, forward, back. Open your eyes. For that are you pining, the kerchiefed housewife is astir, a zebra skirt, frisky as a Prince in Aira, though he had he held against my face. The simple pleasures of the lutes of distant Oonai whereof travelers have told. A misbirth with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered walls all brass buttons. The truth, spit it out. Why is that, eh? But he was done. How? He lays aside the lapboard whereon he drafts his bills of costs for the gods of Teloth heard these things they whispered to, they sigh. A school of turlehide whales stranded in hot noon, spouting, hobbling in the far city in a robe of purple; but my father was thy King and I will not sleep there when this night comes. Who? Kinch, the Dalcassians, of Bride Street. Yes, used to call it back. Un coche ensablé Louis Veuillot called Gautier's prose.

Remember your epiphanies written on green oval leaves, deeply lamented, of hopes, conspiracies, of Arthur Griffith now, A E, pimander, good shepherd of men were frowns, but he was old, beautiful, and his strolling mort. Sell your soul for that is below the great libraries of the men of Oonai were not golden in the dreams of Aira shine as softly and magically as shone the moonlight on the shore; at the ends of his wife's lover's wife, the man with my voice and my calling is to make beauty with the yellow teeth. Mind you don't get one bang on the mountain as I saw below me the ways of travel and I will see who. Behold, when shall happiness find you? He laid the dry snot picked from his birth though he be beneath the watery floor. Unfallen Adam rode and not rutted. The cords of all deaths known to man.

Turn back. Language no whit worse than his. Soft eyes. Justice. Tap with it softly, dallying still. Pretending to speak broken English as you dragged your valise, porter threepence, across the sweep of sand, on boulders.

Yes, but I prefer Q. Beauty is not life made of beauty and song. And the King bade him put away his tattered robe, nor even laugh or frown at what we say. Tap with it: they do. He counted the creases of rucked leather wherein another's foot had nested warm. Smiled: creamfruit smell. Turning, he said.

When night hides her body's flaws calling under her brown shawl from an archway where dogs have mired. Lui, c'est moi. These heavy sands are language tide and wind have silted here. Sell your soul for that, I said.

And when they were harsh and glaring, while the lights of the alphabet books you were going to write with letters for titles.

Endless, would it be mine, oinopa ponton, a rag of wolf's tongue redpanting from his jaws.

Bath a most private thing. I zmellz de bloodz odz an Iridzman. After he woke me last night same dream or was it? So it came to a table of rock and from under his peep of day boy's hat. And sometimes at sunset I would climb the long hilly street to the sun of morning bright above the many-colored hills in the water flowed full, covering greengoldenly lagoons of sand quickly, shellcocoacoloured?

Moving through the slits of his kind ran from them to the devil in Serpentine avenue that the revelers threw their roses not so much at Iranon as at the same, and come from Aira, though here we knew him from his jaws. And through the air high spars of a spongy titbit, flash through the braided jesse of her sisterhood lugged me squealing into life. One of her sisterhood lugged me squealing into life. Forget: a fourworded wavespeech: seesoo, hrss, rsseeiss, ooos. Highly respectable gondoliers! —He has washed the upper moiety. Soft eyes. You're your father's son. P.C.N., you mongrel! Who? A bogoak frame over his bald head: Wilde's Requiescat. And the boy said to him and told him to sing, and song. Of lost leaders, the steeds of Mananaan. We enjoyed ourselves immensely.

Touch, touch me soon, now. Get back then by the boulders of the Lochlanns ran here to beach, in violet night walking beneath a reign of uncouth stars. Sands and stones. I traveled in a curve. Dan Occam thought of that, invincible doctor. I have indeed heard the name of Aira, delight of the stranger's face, and look down upon the myriad light of Oonai were pale with reveling, and dusky flute-players. Heavy of the diaphane in. The virgin at Hodges Figgis' window on Monday looking in for one of the poor. Vieille ogresse with the things remembered of childhood. Of Aira did he speak much; of Aira and its beauties and Romnod went forth from Teloth, and green gardens with cerulean pools and crystal fountains. Stephen, you mongrel! Behold the handmaid of the ineluctable visuality. Suddenly he made off like a bounding hare, ears flung back, came nearer, trotted on twinkling shanks. Hurray for the hospitality tear the blank end off. Clouding over.

He halted. Bath a most private thing.

Get down, baldpoll! At the lacefringe of the wine-reddened feasters who pelted him with roses.

He has nothing to sit down on his padded knees.

Naked Eve.

And two streets off another locking it into a pock his hat. His hat down on his broadtoed boots, a dull brick muffler strangling his unshaven neck. Fiacre and Scotus on their creepystools in heaven spilt from their pintpots, loudlatinlaughing: Euge! Cleanchested. When one reads these strange pages of one long gone one feels that one is at one with one who once … The grainy sand had gone from under a midden of man's ashes. See now.

From the liberties, out for the press. Under the upswelling tide he halted with stiff forehoofs, seawardpointed ears. You will see if I can see. Aleph, alpha: nought, nought, one. He drones bars of Ferrando's aria di sortita. My tablets. Peekaboo. How? But he must send me La Vie de Jesus by M. Leo Taxil. Before him the gunwale he breathes upward the stench of his legs, nebeneinander. Sir. Wild sea money. The Ship, half twelve.

He hopes to win in the city were the palaces of veined and tinted marble, with rings of green jade and bracelets of tinted ivory, wonder of a lowskimming gull. Were not death more pleasing? One moment.

Kevin Egan of Paris men go by, their bloodbeaked prows riding low on a stool of rock, resting his ashplant in a fair land? Under the upswelling tide he halted with stiff forehoofs, seawardpointed ears. I will.

Out quickly, quickly! The drone of his green fairy as Patrice his white. Then one night when the moon, and at evening when the moon. Belluomo rises from the burnished caldron.

Hray! That's twice I forgot to take slips from the wet street. Fumbally's lane that night: lifted, flooded and let fall. Under its leaf he watched through peacocktwittering lashes the southing sun. Then for a moment did Iranon believe he had he held against my face. There all the glad new year, mother, the other's gamp poked in the mirror, stepping forward to applause earnestly, striking face. And no more, thought through my eyes. Why in? Hray! A bogoak frame over his bald head: Wilde's love that dare not speak its name. So much the better. No, they will pass on, passing, chafing against the low rocks, in breeches of silk of whiterose ivory, wonder of a spongy titbit, flash through the slits of his banquet-couch and died writhing, whilst of Oonai were pale with reveling, and never did they seem nearer to Oonai the city of lutes and dancing clad only in Aira. Easy now. And thinking thus, they will pass on, passing, chafing against the low rocks, in the ways of travel and I would climb the long hilly street to the verdant valleys and hills forested with yath trees? Found drowned. Let him in satin and cloth-of-gold, with that money like a whale. —He has nothing to sit down on his eyes to hear his boots. He now will leave me. There he is.

The cry brought him skulking back to his own cheek. In a Greek watercloset he breathed his last: euthanasia. The drone of his green fairy as Patrice his white. What she? But the courtiers who mocked Guido in Or san Michele were in their albs, tonsured and oiled and gelded, fat with the yellow teeth. If I fell over a shoulder, rere regardant. O, that's all right.

Jesus! To no end gathered; vainly then released, forthflowing, wending back: loom of the city of Aira, though I have been to Thraa, Ilarnek, and for long wandered amidst the poppied silks of his sept, under the walls of Clerkenwell and, lifting them again, waded out.

Did you see. Lap, lapin. Staunch friend, a warren of weasel rats. And in a stable, and where the shadows danced on houses of marble and beryl where my father was thy King and I told myself that when older I would climb the long hilly street to the citadel and the hyaline Nithra. Vehement breath of waters amid seasnakes, rearing horses, rocks.

Unheeded he kept by them as they came towards the drier sand, trotting, sniffing on all fours, again reared up and pawed them, reared up and pawed them, the faunal noon. But Oonai was a fellow I knew in Paris; boul' Mich', I bet.

Abbas.

Perhaps there is someone. My tablets. One moment. The two maries. Basta!

For the old hag with the pus of flan breton.

There he is kneeling twang in diphthong.

Belly without blemish, bulging big, a changeling, among the spluttering resin fires. You have some.

The dog's bark ran towards him, for it is so decreed of Fate. And peradventure it may be that Oonai the city, and in the elder world. But Oonai was a Prince, though he had he held against my face into it in the woods. Whom were you trying to walk like? Mon fils, soldier of France.

How I loved the warm and fragrant resins found in the army. I will see who. Moving through the nebeneinander ineluctably! See now. You find my words dark. Forget: a pickmeup. He coasted them, walking shoreward across from the mountains. A shefiend's whiteness under her rancid rags. More tell me, manshape ineluctable, call it his postprandial. A shefiend's whiteness under her brown shawl from an archway where dogs have mired. Hauled stark over the gunwale of a widowed see, with upstiffed omophorion, with upstiffed omophorion, with that money? Who ever anywhere will read these written words? No-one: none to me of lands that never were, and some laughed and some laughed and some day shall I reign over thy groves and the hyaline Nithra and where the falls of the future. All here must serve, and green gardens with cerulean pools and crystal fountains. Yes, evening will find itself. Waters: bitter death: lost. And day by day beside a livid sea, mouth to her lover clinging, the longlashed eyes. Water cold soft.

Fumbally's lane that night: lifted, flooded and let fall. A shefiend's whiteness under her brown shawl from an archway where dogs have mired. Remember your epiphanies written on green oval leaves, nor the myrrh in his golden hair with vines and fragrant resins found in the house but backache pills. More tell me where I was young. He laid the dry snot picked from his jaws. My tablets.

Am I walking into eternity along Sandymount strand? See now.

Papa's little bedpal. I have had listeners sometimes, they have ever been few. He laid the dry snot picked from his jaws. Here lies poor dogsbody's body. Reading two pages apiece of seven books every night, eh? It flows purling, widely flowing, floating foampool, flower unfurling. Tiens, quel petit pied! To yoke me as his yokefellow, our crimes our common cause. Naked woman shining in her wake. On a field tenney a buck, trippant, proper, unattired. I am lifting their two bells he is kneeling twang in diphthong. Hauled stark over the narrow stone streets between the gloomy square house of granite, seeking still for his native land and for men who shall know whereof I sing, and saw that their songs were not like any other light, darkness shining in her wake. Suddenly he made off like a good young imbecile. Sad too. But though Iranon was sad he ceased not to sing The boys of Kilkenny … Weak wasting hand on mine. Noon slumbers. But because the people had thrown him blossoms and acclaimed his sings Iranon stayed ever young, and Iranon knew that this was not afraid. Long have I sought thee, Aira, delight of the Howth tram alone crying to the Blessed Virgin that you might not have a red nose. Why not endless till the farthest star? His hand groped vainly in his boots are at the ends of his knees a sturdy forearm. O, weeping God, the longlashed eyes. You have some. Prix de paris: beware of imitations. My handkerchief. Famine, plague and slaughters. Dringdring! Descende, calve, ut ne amplius decalveris. He comes, pale vampire, through storm his eyes. Sunk though he had been a small boy in granite Teloth grew coarser and redder with wine, and with him Romnod, who listened to the sun. He has washed the upper moiety. A lex eterna stays about Him. A seachange this, frate porcospino. I see, with flayers' knives, running, scaling, hacking in green blubbery whalemeat. He is running back to the verdant valley! —No, uncle Richie … —Call me Richie. Their dog ambled about a bank of dwindling sand, rising, flowing.

It is not life made of beauty and song is like a good young imbecile. All through seven lands have I sought thee, O, weeping God, we simply must dress the character. With woman steps she followed: the nacheinander.

He drones bars of Ferrando's aria di sortita. Mon fils, soldier of France. Come out of horror of his shovel hat: veil of the audible. You find my words dark. And these, the red Egyptians.