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dany-is-my-queen · 1 year

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A Question of Loyalty VI

Rhaenyra Targaryen x reader, Alicent Hightower x reader

Word count: 1.8k

Summary: When dragons of green and dragons of black dance, you have to choose the color that suits you best.

A weary sigh escaped your lungs as the sun set, the remnants of the reddish orange sun fading sublimely.

If Daemon hadn't killed your uncle, you have known what he was talking about. But he took it to his grave, he was in a rage that surely would have been that and not something serious.

You prayed for his soul in the Godswood for he was a member of your family despite his eagerness to bury your father.

“My lady.” A familiar voice came from behind, it was hoarse. “I wanted to thank you for your support back in the Throne Room. I knew you would root for my cause.”

“I didn’t do it for you, Rhaenyra. I did it for Lucerys.” You coldly replied.

“Right, yeah. I still very much appreciate your vote of confidence towards us.” You gave her a once-over.

Rhaenyra had a look of burden all over her, years ago you would ask her what was wrong, then help her to ease her turmoil but now, you just let the silence settle in.

“I want to name her like you.” She spoke, massaging her belly.

“I do not know if I’m worthy of such honor.”

“You are, Y/N.”

“Are you certain she’ll be a girl?”

“I’m counting on it.” You smiled faintly, it didn’t reach your eyes. You tried damn hard to disguise your hurt, the princess read your unreadable thoughts and aimed to grab your hands, out of instinct you recoiled before she could, she jerked back.

“My father is dying. But I noticed that his model city was immaculate. I don't think Alicent cared so much about cleaning it, or sending someone to do it. I thank your for it.”

“It is a sad thing, that the King is in such condition. But Queen Alicent has been seeing to the Realm’s interests. She’s doing her duty to the Kingdoms by ruling them wisely.” Rhaenyra sneered.

“Has she now? She meant to set aside Luke, your brother’s son… how is that doing a good job?”

“My brother’s son…” You mimicked, her gaze piercing as a dagger. “Laenor is dead. Cuckolded, you married your uncle, Rhaenyra. Why?”

“Y/N…—“ Tremendous amount of guilt invaded Rhaenyra, oh how she wished she could come clean about the truth of him.

“He was a far better man than Daemon will ever be. Even Harwin was. How could you?”

“Would you have wedded me?”

“What?”

“You’ve heard me. Would you’ve let me take you as my wife after Laenor’s demise?”

“That’s nonsense…”

“To me it never was, Y/N. With your brother gone, I had to strengthen my line. I had to—“

“You needn’t have to if you hadn’t mothered bastards!” She had no right to be offended, and you didn’t mean ill will towards the lads, she winced angrily for a second before she went softer. You still cared for her, she knew.

“We never tried, Y/N. We could never. I needed heirs, you can’t hold that against me forever.”

“Your line is stronger than ever. You are to be the Queen. I do hope Daemon suffices. I hope he’s gentle to you and treats you right.” You stepped to leave the Godswood, the starry night already hanging on your heads. Rhaenyra’s eyes were narrowed as you walked past her, she nigh stopped you, but she chose not to.

In the morrow, Helaena randomly chatted about “trivial” stuff while the twins were playing on the other side of the room. You were trying to gain the Her Grace’s attention, hopefully she would walk in and you’d take the chance.

“The old High Septon told my father that king’s laws are one thing and the laws of the gods another, the boy said stubbornly. Children are made in a marriage bed and blessed by the Father and the Mother, but others are born of lust and weakness, he said. The grey-haired man claimed that some are born of love and devotion. Blessed with wisdom and kindness, a rare type. But a type nonetheless.” A queer, uncomfortable perplexity began to invade you as Helaena finished speaking.

“Helaena, do you mind elaborating? Where did you hear this? Or rather, read it. Is it about your sister’s children?” You started interrogating her with dread. She squinted at you with a calm countenance, as calm as midnight waves. “Sweet Helaena…” Clearly with no intention of further elaboration. You wouldn’t want to overstep her boundaries or make her uneasy, as you knew she would get.

You were nonplussed. It was rude of you to decline the invitation made by the King himself, but you couldn't bear to be at the same table with the two women, you couldn't bear the deadly looks, the comments. You couldn't deal with it now that this was unveiled to you.

Your mother Rhaenys was secluded in her chambers to wash the image of Vaemond's head split in two. You couldn't face her, not yet.

You had a hundred questions swirling around, you were bewildered, stupefied. It made sense now, it was clear. Your uncle was about to say that you were born of your father's affair with another woman, Helaena spoke in riddles on the same subject. You've been lied to all your life, you were not a legitimate child... It was too much.

You poured glass after glass, until you emptied the flagon thrice in a row, your head spinning and your movements unfocused. The young princess meant well, she thought you deserved to know the truth. She loved you, why would she made this up?

You were a bastard. You were a fucking bastard. Your father’s been keeping this from you since forever, did your mother.., no, did Rhaenys pretended to love you? No, she did love you. It did make sense now why you didn’t have a resemblance to her, or to any Targaryen, but… you didn’t look like Corlys either.

Who the hell was your real mother? Was she a whore, a noble lady? Did she care? Was she still alive? How did you bond with Silverwing if you were just a simple bastard? Endless questions plagued your mind as you kept on drinking them away, your vision blurred, your heart staggered.

You slurred your way around the Keep, not with a precise destination, barely able to stand on your feet. A pair of vigorous arms caught you.

“Y/N? What happened, why are you like this?” The Princess worriedly examined you. “How much did you drink?”

You couldn’t bring yourself to look at her, maybe it was the booze in your system, or your inability to maintain eye contact with the culprit of your many heartaches.

“You skipped dinner with us, so you could get ridiculously hammered?” She nigh yelled at you, seldom did she act like the big woman, but given your state she could not talk softly to you.

“Leaving…— leaving without saying goodbye?” You managed to say.

“We are used to that.” Rhaenyra said back, your legs wobbly, her grip still stable in your waist, she pulled you closer to her.

“Ao gaomagon naejot fuck around rūsīr Harwin no isse these halls, sir rūsīr Daemon. Jāhor ziry mirre mōris?” (You used to fuck around in these halls with Harwin, and now with Daemon. Will it ever end?) You clumsy garbled in Valyrian. Rhaenyra bitterly sniggered.

“Hae lo ao weren't fucking se dāria pār, sepār raqagon ao issi sir.” (As if you weren't fucking the Queen then, just like you are now) She spat. You were wasted, and to be honest had no more vitality to keep on crossing swords with her.

“Let go of me, Rhaenyra.”

She hesitated, fearing that you would fall to the ground as soon as she loosened her grip, but you did not, you steadied your step and walked away from her as quickly as possible. The princess was puzzled, she should have accompanied you to your quarters, she should have, instead she turned to her children and her husband, determined to leave the city at once.

You ended up in front of a familiar wooden door, you thumped dramatically wishing the Queen could spare you some of her time. She did, she was still in her green gown, her locks were messy. She flinched at the sight of you.

“You stink of wine.” She uttered.

You’ve been here before, you remember being here under the same circumstances, and yet you couldn’t stop.

You pushed Alicent back to her bed, in your drunkenness you managed to be careful not to act so rudely.

She gasped, and did no more than contemplate the face of the woman she’s always been in love with. She’s always desired you, yearning to be yours again… she bit her lip rougher to halt herself to devour your inviting, redden lips.

You tucked yourself into the side of her neck, your breathing overflowing with craving. You were still intoxicated, but it was wearing off in a quick pace.

The noise you moaned next came from the depths of you. “Rhaenyra”

Alicent stiffened and fought with all her might to stop her hand from slapping you. Aware of the terrible blunder you had made, you buried even deeper into her, pressing tightly your body to hers.

“Go to her. I wager she’s still here.” She tried to shove you away, she could already feel the tears materializing.

Seeing the hurt written in her sobered you up in a blink of an eye. You finally spoke up, chests colliding.

"I wish I had long silver hair, striking blue eyes. I wish I had a free spirit, breaking all the damn rules no matter what the consequences. I wish I had a freaking dragon" Alicent shouted.

"I adore your chestnut locks, your deep brown eyes. I love how exquisitely you carry yourself when it comes to rules. And Silverwing took to you so well, why would you need a dragon?"

“So you would love me as much.”

“Ali…— Alicent.” She quivered under you at the way you pronounced her name. “I’m tired of this sickening game. I want us. I want you. It’s always been you. To me you're perfect just the way you are.” You weren't going to force her on you, so you stood up and rubbed your temples. "I am definitely not worthy of you now, Your Grace, but I will work on myself to give you a version that is, I vow to you." Alicent interlaced your fingers, preventing you from leaving the room.

“I’d ask you to stay the night, but I must look after the King.”

“I know, duty comes first.” She hummed.

“And I wouldn’t want my sheets to reek of you, bathe yourself. Have some rest. We can talk in the morrow.” A profound hopefulness made its way to you. You tittered, Alicent gave you a quick peck on the corner of the mouth, as you watched her fade into the castle halls.

Will love ever be the end of duty?

Tagging: @loveislove4 @evattude @lethal-minds @sophiexoxsblog @sunshove @tired-ninfa @rxscpctals @glorioushamsterqueen @lesbicentism @newcaptainofsquad9

#game of thrones fic #got #house of the dragon fic #hotd #rhaenyra targaryen x reader#rhaenyra x reader #rhaenyra targaryen #alicent hightower #alicent hightower x reader #alicent x reader #dragon queen

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thosehallowedhalls · 4 months

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Babysitting the Demonic Duo

Book: Crimes of Passion (Post Book 2)

Pairing: Trystan Thorne x F!MC (Emma Rose)

Rating: General

Summary: Trystan and Emma are roped into keeping an eye on Kaspar and Emika for the day. It goes exactly as well as you'd expect.

Word count: 891

A/N: It turns out that Kaspar and Emika are ridiculously fun to write. Who knew? This is my entry for @choicesflashfics, week #68. Prompt: “I need you to remember that you love me.” -> “What did you do?”

@choicesjanuary2024 Day 9, Survival

@choicesficwriterscreations

Babysitting the Demonic Duo

She’s going to kill Trystan. The man may be the love of her life, but he’s the reason she’s in this situation in the first place.

Emma thought that apart from Trystan and Marguerite, her life was now blessedly Thorne-free. But now. Now she’s stuck with Kaspar and Emika. For an entire day.

This is a breakup-worthy offense if she ever saw one.

His sheepish smile was her first clue that something was afoot, but she told herself she was being paranoid. After all, love or not, even she doesn’t know the meaning of each and every one of his smiles.

But then he spoke.

“I need you to remember that you love me.”

“What did you do?”

“Hypothetically, I might have accidentally promised Lydea to keep an eye on Kaspar and Emika next Saturday.”

“You what?”

“Apparently, the twins have decided to come over for New York Fashion Week. Lydea’s concerned they will cause some sort of international incident.”

“Yeah, because they absolutely will.”

“That’s what I told her, and I helpfully suggested that she send someone to babysit them.”

“Trystan…”

“How was I supposed to know that she’d rope me in? I’ve been replaying that conversation in my mind, and I still don’t know when I lost the upper hand.”

“It’s Lydea. You never had the upper hand.”

“I mean, fair, but ouch.” He gave her his best puppy eyes, and damn if she wasn’t affected. “You won’t let me take them on alone, will you?”

Emma groaned. “For the record, I’m going to throw this in your face every time we argue for the next five years.”

He laughed and kissed her soundly. “Deal.”

So now here she is. Babysitting a pair of narcissistic twins with a penchant for theft and bullying.

“Aren’t you going to show us your apartment, dear brother?” Kaspar says when they meet at the airport.

“I am rather attached to everything in it, so no,” Trystan deadpans.

Kaspar puts a hand to his chest. “You wound me.”

“As if Trystan has anything worth stealing,” Emika says with a sniff. “If he furnished the place with American brands, we'll be better off preserving our sense of sight.”

As it happens, Trystan’s furniture is from all around the world, with quite a few antiques thrown into the mix. But far be it from Emma to contradict them.

“Is there anywhere in particular you wanted to go while you’re here?” She asks instead.

“Yes!” Kaspar says. “The Calloway Museum!”

“Fine, but we need to set some ground rules first.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning this is a strictly look and don’t touch situation. You’re not taking anything home with you.”

“But…” His face falls. “Then what’s the point?”

She and Trystan exchange a look. She hopes her eyebrow raise says ‘he’s your brother, you deal with it.’ Apparently it does, because he sighs and steps forward.

“Kaspar. Historically, you’re a terrible art thief. Do you really want to deal with Mother and Lydea when you’re inevitably caught and arrested?”

Kaspar gives the most long-suffering sigh known to man. Record-breaking, probably. “I suppose not.” Then his eyes brighten. “Will you show us where you found the lovely Sonja?”

Emika rolls their eyes. “We’re not going on a murder tour.”

“Excuse me. I don’t complain about you wanting to sit in a stuffy room and eviscerate runway models.”

“Because you’re planning to go home with at least one of them.”

Emma prays for patience. “We’re not showing you where we found Sonja, and that’s final. Is there anything else you want to see?”

“Oh! Your agency!”

“What?”

“I want to see where you work!”

“Why?”

“I’ve never known anyone with a job before! A poor person job, I mean, not something like politics or modeling.”

On one hand, she might have to exorcise the office when they’re safely out of the country. On the other, they could recruit Mafalda and Luke to help keep them in line.

“Fine. But you keep your hands to yourself.”

Kaspar actually bounces in place. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”

Famous last words.

In the last 45 minutes, Kaspar has already tried to steal Eleanor’s mask (her own fault for answering truthfully when he asked what it was) and Emika has attempted to sabotage three separate ongoing cases.

Emma gestures to Trystan to meet her at the door. “How much longer until we can dump them at the fashion show venue?”

“Another six hours.”

“I want to break up. Go away and take the demonic duo with you.”

Trystan loops his arms around her waist with a grin. “You know you love me.”

“I love you. Bonnie and Clyde over there weren’t part of the deal.”

“Technically, they were. They’re my siblings after all.” He raises his eyebrows playfully. “Aren’t you lucky you wound up with the best Thorne?”

“I’m telling Marguerite you said that.” But she leans her head against his chest, soothed by the sound of his heartbeat. She will deny this if asked, but the truth is that she’ll put up with a dozen Kaspars and Emikas for him.

Ah, well. She’s already taken down three killers. Surely she can survive six more hours with the terrible twosome?

“Will you put that mask down!” Luke exclaims from the office.

Scratch that. She’ll be throwing this in Trystan’s face for ten years.

#trystan x mc #trystan x emma #crimes of passion #trystan thorne #detective rose #emma rose #kaspar thorne #emika thorne #playchoices

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istumpysk · 1 year

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Operation Stumpy Re-Read

TWOW: Arianne I

On the morning that she left the Water Gardens, her father rose from his chair to kiss her on both cheeks. "The fate of Dorne goes with you, daughter," he said, as he pressed the parchment into her hand. "Go swiftly, go safely, be my eyes and ears and voice… but most of all, take care."

Probably the last time she sees her father.

+.+.+

Seven of them set out together on seven Dornish sand steeds. A small party travels more swiftly than a large one, but the heir to Dorne does not ride alone. From Godsgrace came Ser Daemon Sand, the bastard; once Prince Oberyn's squire, now Arianne's sworn shield. From Sunspear two bold young knights, Joss Hood and Garibald Shells, to lend their swords to his. From the Water Gardens seven ravens and a tall young lad to tend them. His name was Nate, but he had been working with the birds so long that no one called him anything but Feathers. And since a princess must have some women to attend her, her company also included pretty Jayne Ladybright and wild Elia Sand, a maid of ten-and-four.

Providing you some additional background information.

+.+.+

War is happening, thought Arianne, and this time Dorne will not be spared. "Doom and death are coming," Ellaria Sand had warned them, before she took her own leave from Prince Doran. "It is time for my little snakes to scatter, the better to survive the carnage."

Truer words have never been spoken.

Great strategy too! While the circumstances were less than ideal, the Starklings being scattered all over Westeros is the only reason four of them managed to survive this long. Plot armour also helps.

+.+.+

Dayne was her most grievous sin, the one that Arianne most regretted. With one stroke of his sword, he had changed her botched plot into something foul and bloody. If the gods were good, by now Obara Sand had treed him in his mountain fastness and put an end to him.

Hmm, doubt that.

+.+.+

She said as much to Daemon Sand that first night, as they made camp. "Be careful what you pray for, princess," he replied. "Darkstar could put an end to Lady Obara just as easily." "She has Areo Hotah with her." Prince Doran's captain of guards had dispatched Ser Arys Oakheart with a single blow, though the Kingsguard were supposed to be the finest knights in all the realm. "No man can stand against Hotah."

Remember, that side quest is based on a Doran Martell lie. Therefore, there's no shot Darkstar, Areo Hotah, Balon Swann, and Obara Sand being in the Red Mountains together will go well.

+.+.+

Poison, thought Arianne. Yes. Pretty poison, though. That was how he'd fooled her. Gerold Dayne was hard and cruel, but so fair to look upon that the princess had not believed half the tales she'd heard of him. Pretty boys had ever been her weakness, particularly the ones who were dark and dangerous as well. That was before, when I was just a girl, she told herself. I am a woman now, my father's daughter. I have learned that lesson.

[...] The princess found herself riding beside Ser Daemon, remembering other rides when they were younger, rides that often ended in embraces. When she found herself stealing glances at him, tall and gallant in the saddle, Arianne reminded herself that she was heir to Dorne, and him no more than her shield.

When the author makes 24-year-old Arianne Martell indistinguishable from 13-year-old Sansa, and 15-year-old Daenerys.

+.+.+

"Tell me what you know of this Jon Connington," she commanded. "He's dead," said Daemon Sand. "He died in the Disputed Lands. Of drink, I've heard it said." "So a dead drunk leads this army?" "Perhaps this Jon Connington is a son of that one. Or just some clever sellsword who has taken on a dead man's name."

That's considered fAegon evidence.

+.+.+

"Or he never died at all." Could Connington have been pretending to be dead for all these years? That would require patience worthy of her father. The thought made Arianne uneasy. Treating with a man that subtle could be perilous.

Unfortunately for Jon Connington, terminal illness tends to rob you of your patience.

I do not have time enough for caution. - The Lost Lord, ADWD

It was not the prudent course, but he was tired of prudence, sick of secrets, weary of waiting. - The Lost Lord, ADWD

+.+.+

"What was he like before he… before he died?" "I was a boy at Godsgrace when he was sent into exile. I never knew the man." "Then tell me what you've heard of him from others." "As my princess commands. Connington was Lord of Griffin's Roost when Griffin's Roost was still a lordship worth the having. Prince Rhaegar's squire, or one of them. Later Prince Rhaegar's friend and companion. The Mad King named him Hand during Robert's Rebellion, but he was defeated at Stoney Sept in the Battle of the Bells, and Robert slipped away. King Aerys was wroth, and sent Connington into exile. There he died." "Or not." Prince Doran had told her all of that. There must be more.

They're the same age, why does a bastard of Godsgrace know more about Jon Connington than the heir to Dorne?

How is her father just now telling her about Aerys' Hand, and the Battle of the Bells? She was the same age as Bran during the events of AGOT when the Rebellion was taking place.

+.+.+

"Those are just the things he did. I know all that. What sort of man was he? Honest and honorable, venal and grasping, proud?" "Proud, for a certainty. Even arrogant. A faithful friend to Rhaegar, but prickly with others. Robert was his liege, but I've heard it said that Connington chafed at serving such a lord. Even then, Robert was known to be fond of wine and whores." "No whores for Lord Jon, then?" "I could not say. Some men keep their whoring secret." "Did he have a wife? A paramour?" Ser Daemon shrugged. "Not that I have ever heard."

You're getting warmer.

+.+.+

That was troubling too. Ser Arys Oakheart had broken his vows for her, but it did not sound as if Jon Connington could be similarly swayed. Can I match such a man with words alone?

Lol.

Cersei Lannister attempting to seduce Stannis Baratheon.

vs.

Arianne Martell attempting to seduce Jon Connington.

Who wins?

+.+.+

To Prince Doran of House Martell, You will remember me, I pray. I knew your sister well, and was a leal servant of your good-brother. I grieve for them as you do. I did not die, no more than did your sister's son. To save his life we kept him hidden, but the time for hiding is done. A dragon has returned to Westeros to claim his birthright and seek vengeance for his father, and for the princess Elia, his mother. In her name I turn to Dorne. Do not forsake us. Jon Connington Lord of Griffin's Roost Hand of the True King

Arianne read the letter thrice, then rolled it up and tucked it back into her sleeve.

Good, good, keep writing while you still can.

I knew your sister well, and was a leal servant of your good-brother. I grieve for them as you do.

↓↓↓

Elia was never worthy of him. She was frail and sickly from the first, and childbirth only left her weaker. - The Griffin Reborn, ADWD

+.+.+

A dragon has returned to Westeros, but not the dragon my father was expecting. Nowhere in the words was there a mention of Daenerys Stormborn… nor of Prince Quentyn, her brother, who had been sent to seek the dragon queen. The princess remembered how her father had pressed the onyx cyvasse piece into her palm, his voice hoarse and low as he confessed his plan. A long and perilous voyage, with an uncertain welcome at its end, he had said. He has gone to bring us back our heart's desire. Vengeance. Justice. Fire and blood.

And that's exactly what Dorne got.

+.+.+

In the Boneway and the Prince's Pass, two Dornish hosts had massed, and there they sat, sharpening their spears, polishing their armor, dicing, drinking, quarreling, their numbers dwindling by the day, waiting, waiting, waiting for the Prince of Dorne to loose them on the enemies of House Martell. Waiting for the dragons. For fire and blood. For me. One word from Arianne and those armies would march… so long as that word was dragon. If instead the word she sent was war, Lord Yronwood and Lord Fowler and their armies would remain in place. The Prince of Dorne was nothing if not subtle; here war meant wait.

The issue here is that not all the key players in Dorne are pursuing the same common objective, even though Doran Martell took the extra precaution of making them all pinky promise they'll behave.

"Tyene. Obara is too loud. Tyene is so sweet and gentle that no man will suspect her. Obara would make Oldtown our father's funeral pyre, but I am not so greedy. Four lives will suffice for me. Lord Tywin's golden twins, as payment for Elia's children. The old lion, for Elia herself. And last of all the little king, for my father." - The Captain of the Guards, AFFC

"War," said Tyene, "though not my sister's war. Dornishmen fight best at home, so I say let us hone our spears and wait. When the Lannisters and the Tyrells come down on us, we shall bleed them in the passes and bury them beneath the blowing sands, as we have a hundred times before." - The Captain of the Guards, AFFC

Doran's plan might be to hold or march, but Tyene and Nym's plan involved provoking the Lannisters, child murder, and armies descending upon Dorne.

And oops, Doran gave them the kid.

+.+.+

"Are you half horse, child?" Valena asked, laughing, in the yard. "Princess, did you bring a stable girl?" "I'm Elia," the girl announced. "Lady Lance." Whoever hung that name on her has much to answer for. Like as not it had been Prince Oberyn, though, and the Red Viper had never answered to anyone but himself. "The girl jouster," Valena said. "Yes, I've heard of you. Since you were the first to the yard, you've won the honor of watering and bridling the horses."

Elia, with a little bit of Lyanna mixed in.

+.+.+

"We have heard the same tales here that you have heard at Sunspear," Lady Nymella told them as her serving man poured the wine. "Sellswords landing on Cape Wrath, castles under siege or being taken, crops seized or burned. Where these men come from and who they are, no one is certain."

Is that the Golden Company burning food they don't seize?

Good luck in the future, you're going to need it.

+.+.+

"Pirates and adventurers, we heard at first," said Valena. "Then it was supposed to be the Golden Company. Now it's said to be Jon Connington, the Mad King's Hand, come back from the grave to reclaim his birthright. Whoever it is, Griffin's Roost has fallen to them. Rain House, Crow's Nest, Mistwood, even Greenstone on its island. All taken." [...] "Tarth has fallen too, some fisherfolk will tell you," said Valena. "These sellswords now hold most of Cape Wrath and half the Stepstones. We hear talk of elephants in the rainwood."

NOOOoooooo. Give it back!!

+.+.+

"And krakens off the Broken Arm, pulling under crippled galleys," said Valena. "The blood draws them to the surface, our maester claims. There are bodies in the water. A few have washed up on our shores. And that's not half of it. A new pirate king has set up on Torturer's Deep. The Lord of the Waters, he styles himself. This one has real warships, three-deckers, monstrous large. You were wise not to come by sea. Since the Redwyne fleet passed through the Stepstones, those waters are crawling with strange sails, all the way north to the Straights of Tarth and Shipbreaker's Bay. Myrmen, Volantenes, Lyseni, even reavers from the Iron Islands. Some have entered the Sea of Dorne to land men on the south shore of Cape Wrath. We found a good fast ship for you, as your father commanded, but even so… be careful."

Krakens!

Everyone say hello to Aurane Waters. I'll cover the rest below.

+.+.+

"Is Dorne at risk?" Lady Nymella asked. "I confess, each time I see a strange sail my heart leaps to my throat. What if these ships turn south? The best part of the Toland strength is with Lord Yronwood in the Boneway. Who will defend Ghost Hill if these strangers land upon our shores? Should I call my men home?" "Your men are needed where they are, my lady," Daemon Sand assured her. Arianne was quick to nod. Any other counsel could well lead to Lord Yronwood's host unravelling like an old tapestry as each man rushed home to defend his own lands against supposed enemies who might or might not ever come. "Once we know beyond a doubt whether these be friends or foes, my father will know what to do," the princess said.

Is Dorne at risk? Uh, yes.

"Doom and death are coming," Ellaria Sand had warned them

Please allow me to illustrate all the ways Dorne is fucked.

Map!

The red circle is where Lady Nymella sits, worried that she's badly exposed, and has nobody to protect her lands (valid fear).

The orange stars indicate the two great Dornish hosts, sitting in the Prince's Pass, and the Boneway.

Now, those two Dornish hosts are well positioned (heh, unless they "unravel") to take on the ever-resilient Cersei Lannister (who will probably have one less kid, thanks to Dorne).

However, if those hosts are preoccupied with an army descending down upon them, the rest of Dorne becomes extremely vulnerable. Didn't think that one through, did you Tyene?

Euron is in the west, travelling further and further along the coast, and I've just been informed by reliable sources that House Redwyne has no hope in hell of stopping him.

Daenerys, another vengeful queen Dorne will piss off, is coming from the east with her dragons, army, and fleet.

Notice how Dorne finds itself between Euron and Daenerys / Victarion? That ain't good.

Moving on, the purple stars are all the pirates, and slavers at the Stepstones and in the Sea of Dorne. We will continue to hear stories of them growing bolder, and landing on the shores of Westeros in Arianne's next chapter. Please pray for Lady Nymella.

That leaves the green arrows: the Greenblood, Dorne's most glaring weakness right now.

The mouth of the Greenblood lies in the Planky Town, which isn't currently being supported by any Dornish forces. Throughout history, there are multiple examples of the Planky Town being broken, and enemy forces driving up the Greenblood to defeat Dorne.

It's a historical fact that randomly gets inserted into a Jon chapter.

"Goat tracks?" The king's eyes narrowed. "I speak of moving swiftly, and you waste my time with goat tracks?"

"When the Young Dragon conquered Dorne, he used a goat track to bypass the Dornish watchtowers on the Boneway."

"I know that tale as well, but Daeron made too much of it in that vainglorious book of his. Ships won that war, not goat tracks. Oakenfist broke the Planky Town and swept halfway up the Greenblood whilst the main Dornish strength was engaged in the Prince's Pass." - Jon IV, ADWD

Kind of feels like with Dorne moving all its pieces to the Prince's Pass and Boneway, we're about to witness this play out all over again.

Do you see what happens when you play the game of thrones? Maybe I owe Lysa Arryn an apology.

One more thing,

"Once we know beyond a doubt whether these be friends or foes, my father will know what to do," the princess said.

That father who knows what to do? He's going to be dead.

+.+.+

It was then that pasty, pudgy Teora raised her eyes from the creamcakes on her plate. "It is dragons." "Dragons?" said her mother. "Teora, don't be mad." "I'm not. They're coming." "How could you possibly know that?" her sister asked, with a note of scorn in her voice. "One of your little dreams?" Teora gave a tiny nod, chin trembling. "They were dancing. In my dream. And everywhere the dragons danced the people died."

Is that like bad or something?

+.+.+

"I can attest to that." Ser Daemon took a sip of wine and said, "House Toland has a dragon on its banners." "A dragon eating its own tail, aye," Valena said. "From the days of Aegon's Conquest. He did not conquer here. Elsewhere he burned his foes, him and his sisters, but here we melted away before them, leaving only stone and sand for them to burn. And round and round the dragons went, snapping at their tails for want of any other food, till they were tied in knots."

So many interpretations of this sigil: the dragon is chasing its tail, the dragon is time ... no.

The dragon is eating itself, symbolizing House Targaryen.

+.+.+

"Our forebears played their part in that," Lady Nymella said proudly. "Bold deeds were done, and brave men died. All of it was written down by the maesters who served us. We have books, if my princess would like to know more." "Some other time, perhaps," said Arianne.

Well, that's the last thing you'd ever want to see.

George keeps emphasizing that Arianne Martell is Not A Reader.

During the daylight hours she would try to read, but the books that they had given her were deadly dull: ponderous old histories and geographies, annotated maps, a dry-as-dust study of the laws of Dorne, The Seven-Pointed Star and Lives of the High Septons, a huge tome about dragons that somehow made them about as interesting as newts. - The Princess in the Tower, AFFC

For the record, I don't care about this, but I am well aware of the author's stance on characters who have limited knowledge of history.

This is a book that Daenerys might actually benefit from reading, but she has no access to Archermaester Gyldayn’s crumbling manuscripts. So she's operating on her own there. Maybe if she understood a few things more about dragons and her own history in Essos, things would have gone a little differently. - Esquire, 2018

Martin is good at keeping secrets, but he does offer up one tidbit—a reminder that the royal Daenerys Targaryen was given the histories of her world as a wedding gift but neglected to read them. - Vulture, 2014

This is not a good parallel to share with Daenerys Targaryen.

Do I think it's a disaster and Arianne's as good as dead? No. Arya is Not A Reader. Asha is Not A Reader. They'll be fine, one of them might even run a kingdom by the end of this.

Still, at the very least it probably means Arianne Martell is poised to make more mistakes.

+.+.+

The Bastard of Godsgrace was one of Dorne's finest swords as well, as might be expected from one who had been Prince Oberyn's squire and had received his knighthood from the Red Viper himself. Some said that he had been her uncle's lover too, though seldom to his face. Arianne did not know the truth of that. He had been her lover, though. At fourteen she had given him her maidenhead. Daemon had not been much older, so their couplings had been as clumsy as they were ardent. Still, it had been sweet. Arianne gave him her most seductive smile. "We might share a bed together." Ser Daemon's face was stone. "Have you forgotten, princess? I am bastard born." He took her hand in his. "If I am unworthy of this hand, how can I be worthy of your cunt?"

Lol.

Arianne reminded herself that she was heir to Dorne, and him no more than her shield.

+.+.+

"What I will you will not, it seems. So be it. Talk with me instead. Could this truly be Prince Aegon?" "Gregor Clegane ripped Aegon out of Elia's arms and smashed his head against a wall," Ser Daemon said. "If Lord Connington's prince has a crushed skull, I will believe that Aegon Targaryen has returned from the grave. Elsewise, no. This is some feigned boy, no more. A sellsword's ploy to win support."

My father fears the same.

Daemon Sand comes across as a highly logical and rational thinker. I'm not sure what I'll think if he continues to not believe it's Aegon.

+.+.+

So it was. "I was seven when Elia died. They say I held her daughter Rhaenys once, when I was too young to remember. Aegon will be a stranger to me, whether true or false." The princess paused. "We looked for Rhaegar's sister, not his son." Her father had confided in Ser Daemon when he chose him as his daughter's shield; with him at least she could speak freely. "I would sooner it were Quentyn who'd returned." "Or so you say," said Daemon Sand. "Good night, princess." He bowed to her, and left her standing there. What did he mean by that? Arianne watched him walk away. What sort of sister would I be, if I did not want my brother back? It was true, she had resented Quentyn for all those years that she had thought their father meant to name him as his heir in place of her, but that had turned out to be just a misunderstanding. She was the heir to Dorne, she had her father's word on that. Quentyn would have his dragon queen, Daenerys.

You good, Arianne?

+.+.+

In Sunspear hung a portrait of the Princess Daenerys who had come to Dorne to marry one of Arianne's forebears. In her younger days Arianne had spent hours gazing at it, back when she was just a pudgy flat-chested girl on the cusp of maidenhood who prayed every night for the gods to make her pretty. A hundred years ago, Daenerys Targaryen came to Dorne to make a peace. Now another comes to make a war, and my brother will be her king and consort. King Quentyn. Why did that sound so silly?

She's coming alright.

I don't blame her for thinking it sounds silly, but I can't lie, she's making me a little uncomfortable right now.

+.+.+

Almost as silly as Quentyn riding on a dragon. Her brother was an earnest boy, well-behaved and dutiful, but dull. And plain, so plain. The gods had given Arianne the beauty she had prayed for, but Quentyn must have prayed for something else. His head was overlarge and sort of square, his hair the color of dried mud. His shoulders slumped as well, and he was too thick about the middle. He looks too much like Father.

Maybe he valued other things, Arianne.

What would a maid that age want with her dull, bookish brother? - Arianne II, TWOW

+.+.+

"I love my brother," said Arianne, though only the moon could hear her. Though if truth be told, she scarcely knew him. Quentyn had been fostered by Lord Anders of House Yronwood, the Bloodroyal, the son of Lord Ormond Yronwood and grandson of Lord Edgar. In his youth her uncle Oberyn had fought a duel with Edgar, had given him a wound that mortified and killed him. Afterward men called him 'the Red Viper,' and spoke of poison on his blade. The Yronwoods were an ancient house, proud and powerful. Before the coming of the Rhoynar they had been kings over half of Dorne, with domains that dwarfed those of House Martell. Blood feud and rebellion would surely have followed Lord Edgar's death, had not her father acted at once. The Red Viper went to Oldtown, thence across to the narrow sea to Lys, though none dared call it exile. And in due time, Quentyn was given to Lord Anders to foster as a sign of trust. That helped to heal the breach between Sunspear and the Yronwoods, but it had opened new ones between Quentyn and the Sand Snakes… and Arianne had always been closer to her cousins than to her distant brother.

They were kids when this happened, but it's still wild to resent Quentyn for any of this. He was also cut off from his father.

+.+.+

"We are still the same blood, though," she whispered. "Of course I want my brother home. I do." The wind off the sea was raising gooseprickles all up and down her arms. Arianne pulled her cloak about herself, and went off to seek her bed.

Are you alright?

+.+.+

Arianne played a game of cyvasse with Ser Daemon, and another one with Garibald Shells, and somehow managed to lose both. Ser Garibald was kind enough to say that she played a gallant game, but Daemon mocked her. "You have other pieces beside the dragon, princess. Try moving them sometime."

This is like reading a Catelyn chapter from A Storm of Swords.

+.+.+

"I like the dragon." She wanted to slap the smile off his face. Or kiss it off, perhaps. The man was as smug as he was comely. Of all the knights in Dorne, why did my father chose this one to be my shield? He knows our history.

Did she answer her own question? Bwahaha.

+.+.+

The secret pact that Prince Doran had made all those years called for Arianne to be wed to Prince Viserys, not Quentyn to Daenerys. It had all come undone on the Dothraki sea, when he was murdered. Crowned with a pot of molten gold. "He was killed by a Dothraki khal," said Arianne. "The dragon queen's own husband." "So I've heard. What of it?" "Just… why did Daenerys let it happen? Viserys was her brother. All that remained of her own blood." "The Dothraki are a savage folk. Who can know why they kill? Perhaps Viserys wiped his arse with the wrong hand." Perhaps, thought Arianne, or perhaps Daenerys realized that once her brother was crowned and wed to me, she would be doomed to spend the rest of her life sleeping in a tent and smelling like a horse. "She is the Mad King's daughter," the princess said. "How do we do know —" "We cannot know," Ser Daemon said. "We can only hope."

Are you projecting?

There's no getting around the fact that Arianne is bothered by the idea of her brother being king, despite it not interfering with her inheriting Dorne.

Sadly, these thoughts are going to continue in her next chapter.

King Quentyn. It still sounded silly. This new Daenerys Targaryen was younger than Arianne by half a dozen years. What would a maid that age want with her dull, bookish brother? Young girls dreamed of dashing knights with wicked smiles, not solemn boys who always did their duty. She will want Dorne, though. If she hopes to sit the Iron Throne, she must have Sunspear. If Quentyn was the price for that, this dragon queen would pay it. What if she was at Griffin’s End with Connington, and all this about another Targaryen was just some sort of subtle ruse? Her brother could well be with her. King Quentyn. Will I need to kneel to him? - Arianne II, TWOW

It's another bad parallel to share with Daenerys Targaryen.

"What … what if it were not Viserys?" she asked. "If it were someone else who led them? Someone stronger? Could the Dothraki truly conquer the Seven Kingdoms?" - Daenerys IV, AGOT

She wondered if all men were as false in the Seven Kingdoms. When her son sat the Iron Throne, she would see that he had bloodriders of his own to protect him against treachery in his Kingsguard. - Daenerys IV, AGOT

Dany had not known, had not even suspected. "Then … he should have them. He does not need to steal them. He had only to ask. He is my brother … and my true king." - Daenerys V, AGOT

Let's hope these thoughts only exist to amplify the remorse and guilt she'll feel after she learns he's dead, and nothing more.

In other news, it appears that a developing rivalry between Daenerys and Arianne is taking form.

Is that you, Arianne Martell?

Final thoughts:

Doran's going to die, Oberyn's dead, Quentyn's dead, half the Sand Snakes are massive liabilities, Areo Hotah is a mute, and Arianne doesn't read books.

Where's Sarella? Maybe we let Ellaria run the kingdom for a bit.

Next chapter: Mercy (Arya)

-> return to menu <-

#operation stumpy re-read #twow #arianne i

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danman007 · 5 months

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Rebel Moon Review Round Up

Here are some insightful reviews for Zack Snyder's Rebel Moon Part One: A Child of Fire

For my fellow Snyder Fans I recommend these reviews because they are good critiques that engage with the work. I also recommend them to those that didn't like the film. Not to change your mind but to offer pieces of genuine criticism.

A SPACE OPERA GONE OPERATIC by Joshua Polanski

Excerpt:

Rebel Moon was originally conceived of as a Star Wars film but, freed from the burdens of canon and Disney’s top-down production management, the end result feels less like a derivation and more like a successor. I wouldn’t dare suggest it will have the same sort of cultural influence as Star Wars — that’s a fundamentally irreplicable phenomenon in the streaming age. Yet, when compared to the recent garbage from Disney (Marvel and Star Wars both), Snyder proves the most capable and artful custodian of the extravagant, quasi-religious space-opera. His longstanding technical mastery that evolved into mainstream formal iconoclasm with the extreme shallow focus with the 15mm Canon dream lens of Army of the Dead and the 4:3 aspect ratio for Zack Snyder’s Justice League (2021) is taken to new extremes with the creative freedom provided by Netflix. Snyder’s inviolable picture bids for a better Hollywood. If we’re lucky, it might even be a taste of what’s to come.

Rebel Moon Part One: A Child of Fire Review by Kilo Orange

Excerpt:

The village reminded me of the famous painting by Jean-François Millet, which shows two peasants saying a prayer over the soil. It would fit, for that painting is about the "Angelus", a prayer about the Virgin Mary being told she would conceive and bear the Messiah, and here we have the virginal Kora with her seeds, the fruit of her womb, after lifting out a barren rock. Of course, with Snyder's knowledge of art and artistic subversion, he'd know about that painting, and that Salvador Dali (another subversive Catholic) suggested it wasn't an Angelus prayer, but that the two peasants were actually praying over a dead child. And when the painting was X-rayed, they did indeed find a child's coffin had been painted over. Millet had turned grief into a prayer.

That's what Zack Snyder does in Rebel Moon.

A dead child. Snyder's grief has not abated over his daughter's suicide in 2017 and now it's loudly joined by the curse that will affect all survivors of a loved one’s suicide - guilt. This film is infused with guilt. All the heroes who we collect as the film goes on feel guilty about some tragedy in their past.

Rebels of the World Unite (and Take Over) by John Demetry

Excerpt:

Following an assassination of the Mother World’s King and his family that severed the galaxy’s royal bloodline, Kora hides on Veldt. That’s where the film opens. Snyder visualizes Kora’s idyll and the Mother World’s encroachment into it with sexual symbolism. A phallic spacecraft penetrates a yonic fold in space-time accompanied by Tom Holkenborg’s monolithic score (a sound-visual consummation worthy of Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey). In Snyder’s eroticized odyssey, Kora fondles and smells the dirt while plowing a field. The night before planting the soil, the farming community pleases the gods with sexual couplings that ensure a strong sprout. Following that night’s pairing off, Sam girlishly teases Kora for her nocturnal pleasure noises—at the precise moment that the Mother World ship infiltrates the sky above Veldt. Seeds spill from Kora’s pouch—recalling Sean Connery’s phallic gun rising from the grain in John Boorman’s Zardoz. As expressed by Snyder’s highly sophisticated film language, Kora’s sexual dilemma—her vulnerability—sows danger that reaps action.

Rebel Moon Part One: A Child of Fire Review by Phil Halz

Excerpt:

Rebel Moon, like Man Of Steel and BVS, is a powerful reckoning with the bleak, cruel elements which are always implicit in their respective genres, whether the hateful fanboy nerds want to acknowledge them or not. And the subversion of Star Wars with a Seven Samurai premise illustrates the ways in which Star Wars falls short of the humanistic greatness in Kurosawa's masterworks. To say nothing of the Disney entries, which suppress and deny the sadness at the core of The Empire Strikes Back.

An Action Film with the Touch of a Poet by Armond White

Excerpt:

Kids who love sci-fi and video-game fantasy are easily impressed as part of the fun, but the genre has rarely produced filmmakers who are aesthetically distinguished. Snyder has that gift (his imagery unites ideas from Terrence Malick’s A Hidden Life with Walter Hill’s Geronimo: An American Legend — the lyrical, the hostile, plus the historical. And he achieves visual-kinetic excitement that George Lucas, Peter Jackson, and the Wachowskis should envy. With the exception of Chad Stahelski’s dazzling John Wick 4, nothing on screen this year has been so visually striking as Rebel Moon. The essence of movement and spectacle sets them apart — and the expressiveness of Kora’s flashbacks, conveying her emotional need and androgynous mystery (creating promise for Part II), surpasses the juvenile tomboy gestures of Daisy Ridley’s Rey in the Star Wars saga.

#Zack Snyder #Rebel Moon #A Child of Fire #Netflix #Sofia Boutella

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sambhavami · 9 months

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Ehi Murare - Lakshmana (Part 8)

Lakshmana sighed as the crowd booed again. The situation had not gotten any better since the morning. She was getting testier by the hour as her much-awaited swayamvara was turning pretty much into a disaster. Countless kings and princes had come and gone and not one had succeeded. She looked around the grand hall that had been constructed for the occasion. On either side of her, sat the Kings Brihatsena and Shalya, her father and uncle. Beside them, on a lower dais sat her twin cousins- Nakula and Sahadeva. They were the ones taking turns announcing the Kings who came forward to try their luck at the challenge that had been set. Lakshmana was getting more and more annoyed with her father for setting such an odd task, that no one seemed to be able to even comprehend.

Agreeably, it was a fairly difficult task. A rotating fish had been hung from the ceiling, hidden from plain sight. Every contestant was allowed just one short glimpse of the fish in a bowl of water set on the ground before that too was removed. The challenge was to hit the rotating fish based on that first glimpse. A few years back the king of Panchala also had proposed a similar task at his daughter’s swayamvara. This was just a bit more precise than the trap at Draupadi's. If Draupadi's life worked out that well, why wouldn’t she find a worthy suitor?

Lakshmana, as an only child, had always had to come up with inventive ways to keep herself occupied. Hence, she had learnt to read lips on a whim a few years back. She was slightly amused that a casual hobby was now her only source of entertainment in this dire gathering, as she followed along to the hushed conversations that went around the bejewelled hall. Some of them were discussing her looks, some the challenge and some of them were busy discussing what had been there for lunch. Lakshmana had always been shy and introverted, otherwise, she felt she might've told off at least the lunch bunch. No wonder no one was being able to hit the fish, if the fish curry from earlier was the only thing on their mind! Instead, she focused her mind on smiling brightly while fixing her gaze on the fish, that was visible from her seat.

Right then, a tall, muscular man arose from his seat. The announcer identified him to be Duryodhana, the crown prince of Hastinapura. He was rumoured to be a real piece of work! Right as he took a step forward, another man arose, wearing shining armour bearing the markings of the sun, and pulled him back, pointing at the handsome man sitting at the very end of the sabha. Lakshmana wondered how she had missed him in the crowd. He was dark-skinned with a couple of peacock feathers adorning his curly hair. His garments were electric white.

The man with the armour was whispering to his friend, "Do you not see Krishna over there?!"

"So what, Karna?" The prince replied.

"So, my prince, have you not seen the twins up there?! There's no way anyone other than Krishna or Arjuna will take this girl! Also, have you seen the look on his face?" Karna shook his head, "Duryodhana, my friend, you do know how far you go with archery, don't you? Do you take any specific pleasure in humiliation?" Lakshmana laughed in spite of herself.

"Well, you could try, for me?" The prince huffed, almost as if she was a toy to be won at a carnival! Lakshmana gasped indignantly. That's cheating, she thought. She prayed to God so that Karna wouldn't try. The stories of his valour had reached Madra as well, mostly riding the waves of the complaints brought on by the twins. Thankfully he spoke, "Nah, friend. Believe me, let this one go. Arjuna and Bheema we can take on, but right now, if we escalate, then Krishna will definitely get involved, and you and I both know facing that's suicide!"

Meanwhile, the handsome man at the end of the hall, that Krishna, had leaned forward, "I can hear you two, you know?" He laughed cheerfully, "Glad to know you got the point, but maybe keep it down!" People often called her Charuhasini- the one with the beautiful smile, but she had never seen a smile more enticing than his. The way that he shook his head, at the same time shushing his cousins who looked just ready to add on. Duryodhana and Karna had both promptly shut up, their faces beet-red with embarrassment. They were now sitting quietly staring at the mirrors hanging on the walls straight in front of them. So he was sassy as well as confident. Lakshmana raised an eyebrow- why won't he try then? Was she not worth it to him?

She was only beginning to appreciate his beauty when she realized he had been staring at her pretty much the entire duration of the swayamvara. She blushed as she realized that was probably what Karna was going off of. Now that she realized it, the two Pandava brothers were also sniggering under their breath as well. Was it that obvious?

Lakshmana concentrated on their conversation. Arjuna and Krishna were discussing the challenge under their breaths, but she could still read their lips.

It's tricky, but it can be done, Arjuna was mouthing.

Of course, it can, apart from the glance they let you take...if you try really hard you can probably hear the contraption, Krishna replied. Lakshmana was struck by the next part of the conversation.

Krishna spoke seriously, there must be a component for the princess to grant her favour! Why else would they call it a swayamvar? Surely, she herself will lead the one she likes to victory! I'm quite sure that's the real trick here.

Lakshmana gasped quietly. She hadn't even considered that. Truly, the fish was clearly visible from where she was seated. But could she somehow communicate its true position to a participant? She couldn't just go ahead and announce it! Lakshmana could've sworn that Krishna had stared straight into her eyes as he had mouthed that, almost conspiratorily.

Finally, as all other Kings had tried and failed to fulfil the challenge, her father now asked Nakula to call upon anyone who had not tried. Nakula promptly called Bheema, the older Pandava brother. He politely declined and indicated towards Krishna and Arjuna – the last remaining princes who hadn’t tried the challenge yet. Arjuna leaned over and whispered something into Krishna’s ear and the latter promptly laughed and looked away.

Arjuna went ahead and strung the heavy bow kept at the altar. Bowing his head once before her father King Brihatsena and once before his brothers Bheema and Krishna, he shot the arrow. All spectators gasped as the arrow seemingly hit the fish. Lakshmana looked up with horror, it had stopped spinning! Arjuna was a nice guy, but Lakshmana had never imagined him as her husband. Even now, it felt somewhat wrong! The King promptly sent his investigators to assess. To the surprise of all, they declared that Arjuna’s arrow had missed the fish by just a hair’s breadth, hitting the ceiling, instead of the fish! That was the reason it had stopped spinning. Lakshmana couldn’t help but sigh in relief.

The King, at this point, was almost ready to compromise and declare Arjuna the winner. However, the archer simply laughed and with a slight nod to the princess, returned to his seat. That had to be intentional! Lakshmana allowed herself to smile a little as well. Of course, Arjuna had to try at least once, he was after all the greatest archer in the land. What would people say if he simply skipped such a specific contest?!

On the other side of the sabha, Arjuna was nudging Krishna to step up. Lakshmana felt a warm glow spread through her heart, as she saw that beautiful man squirm and hesitate in shyness as his cousins teased and encouraged him. Why would he not rise? Why did all the world's worth of shyness have to descend on him right this second? Finally, Sahadeva left his throne and held Krishna's palms in him, coaxing him. Finally, even Duryodhana spoke up, "We're all hungry Vasudeva, just get up and go!"

Krishna now nodded, "If you say so!" He laughed.

Finally, he arose and walked towards the altar with a smile on his face. Looking down once to see the fish, he looked up and locked eyes with her. Then it finally hit her: he wasn't shy, just dramatic. Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw Arjun leave the sabha. Krishna raised the bow and turned to look at her. Lakshmana gulped. She remembered his previous statement. Slowly, tile by tile she raised her eyes, fixing her gaze on the spinning fish. She could feel his gaze too holding on to hers. She wasn't even sure if he looked at the water bowl when it was set. Slowly he set the arrow on his bow, his gaze still fixed on her face. Lakshama didn't dare to look at anything, even at him. Even a second's hesitation on either her part or his could be disastrous.

Then, with a swift, fluid motion, he released the arrow. Lakshmana could have cried with joy, for this time there was no room for doubt, for the arrow had pierced the fish’s body and trickling droplets of blood now worshipped his feet. She saw him mouth at no one in particular. Eww, why can't they ever just use fake fish?! Lakshmana laughed since it was a sentiment she shared.

Krishna touched the feet of her father who at once embraced him. He led Krishna up to where Lakshmana now stood ready with a garland flanked on each side by Nakula and Sahadeva who were both grinning ear-to-ear. No sooner did she garland him than a grand chariot drew inside the hall, driven by Arjuna, who now was equipped with his own bow as well as Bheema’s mace. Lakshmana looked back quizzically at Krishna, who smiled at her, “Your other suitors are not going to take this well. We must hurry!” On cue, she could hear angry murmurs rising throughout the lineup of the suitors.

"He cheated!"

"I saw her helping him!"

"This isn't fair, she pointed it out to him! She must pay!"

Lakshmana felt angry at the accusations. She had been staring at the wretched fish pretty much all afternoon. How was it her fault if only one among them actually paid attention?! However, she controlled her anger for the moment, and followed Krishna quickly down the flight of stairs, towards the grand chariot.

The unsuccessful Kings and Princes were now rallying up to stop Krishna from leaving. Arjuna jumped down the chariot, throwing the reins to Krishna and advanced along with his brother Bheema to face their adversaries. As soon as Lakshmana was aboard the chariot, Krishna turned it around and rushed it out of the arena at top speed. Lakshmana looked back to find her father and uncle also armed, fighting the aggressive kings alongside the Pandava princes.

As she turned around Krishna laughed, “Not to worry, Arjuna alone is enough for those men. Besides, he will also have the support of brother Bheema and the Kuru entourage." Krishna laughed at her surprise at the mention of the Kurus, "Karna only wants to kill Arjuna. He'll still help protect your family.” Lakshmana smiled and nodded as the cool winds whipped her hair around as the couple now rode happily along the riverbank of Asikni, leaving behind the faraway mountains that seemed to only whisper blessings.

#krishna #original writing #fanfic #mahabharata #hindu mythology #ashtabharya #Ehi Murare #lakshmana

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itsallliesdarlings-blog · 27 days

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"I told you, this man belongs to me"

This is my first time posting a roleplay request here, but I am desperate to get this specific plot out of my system- it is a dracula au, based off a fanfic called 'Bram Stoker's Hannibal' but it is also based off parts of the dracula musical, but that's besides the point

I am looking for an 18+ roleplay partner who is comfortable playing Hannibal. I would also prefer Discord over here. Just because I am more familiar with the format, I am semi literate up to advanced literate. I have been role-playing for almost 8 years now, actually, so I adapt to how my roleplay partners write

This post includes the following: Murder, gore, mentions of war, very brief mentions of past suicide, obsessive/possessive behaviors, and of course blood, etc.

There are mentions of past Hannibal x Anthony, and Will is Illiya reincarnated (bear with me, I'll explain in a moment)

Now onto the plot itself

Years ago, before Hannibal Lecter became the creature of the night that he was now, he was a man of God, a man who loved a beautiful young man named Illiya, a clever, witty man, as dangerous and sharp as a dagger, but with a wit and spirit that brightened Hannibal's days and nights. He was the thing he treasured most, even above his God. It was a cruel twist of fate that war came to their land, that he had to fight, that his sister, who was more of a daughter in reality, took her last breath on that blood soaked earth, just as they thought God turned his eye to them and they were victorious, but there was much to do still, he could grieve soon, when he could fall into the arms of his beloved, but that day never came. The enemy soldiers, in a last cruel strike, shot an arrow with a letter attached through Illiya's window, informing him that Hannibal, his husband, was dead. He was so grief-stricken that he threw himself from the castle window into the river below.

Word got to Hannibal soon enough, and he found himself in the church, looking at the man he loved, laid out on the alter, dressed in fine white silk, flowers on his chest under his nearly folded hands, he looked like he could just be sleeping, but Hannibal knew better. God had taken everything from him for his efforts, and now this? And by the Bible's cruel and unjust rules, his loves soul was damned. If God was cruel enough to take this much from him, then he was not worthy of worship. Hannibal renounced his faith that night. The night he became something else, a monster, a creature of the night doomed to walk without the man he loved for eternity.

He tried to fill the void. There was Chiyoh, Bedelia, and then Anthony, and lastly Abigail, who was orphaned, she remained human, but Hannibal took pity on her. Anthony was a poet who came to Hannibal's castle in seek of knowledge and inspiration. He looked enough like Illiya, reminded Hannibal of him enough, so he turned him into one of his kind, promising his eternal love and devotion, but he was not Illiya. He was not even as close as he seemed, so Hannibal's interest soon faded, turned to resentment, as did Anthony's affections. The castle was empty, cold, and they were restless. It was time to leave. To find somewhere new, London.

The first to come to his castle was Matthew Brown. The man had potential but was too weak of mind. He ended up in an asylum shortly after his visit, and then there was Will Graham. He used to be an investigator, up until a case that took too much of a toll, the Jack The Ripper case. Will had caught him, a man named Able Gideon. He lost a piece of himself too, though, so he turned to a less mentally straining career, where his 'gift' would not torment him. A solicitor. He was meant to meet with Hannibal at his home to discuss buying properties in London. He was warned through his trip that he was in danger. He was blessed and prayed for by anyone who knew where he was going, but he brushed it off as superstition up until he got to Count Lecter's castle.

Hannibal saw Will Graham and immediately saw his love, identical, standing right before him at the door of his castle, more world-weary, pale, and tired, but him. Not just a physical resemblance that was easily something he'd tire of. That was the man he loved more than anything else all those years ago, and he didn't intend to lose him again.

And that is all, please do contact me if you're interested. Have a lovely day/night

#hannigram rp

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leclerc-s · 3 months

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karma - part five

series masterlist // previous // next

charles_leclerc and natalia_leclerc posted new stories

je vous aimerai pour toujours (i'll love you forever)

"bébé, tu es l'amour de ma vie" (baby, you are the love of my life)

siempre te amare (i'll always love you)

tehe, that's my husband 🥰

hey siri, play slut! (taylor's version)

charles_leclerc posted new stories

how did i get so lucky?

😘😍

liked by gracieabrams, sukiwaterhouse, kellypiquet and others

natalia_leclerc no words to describe what it has meant to me to go on this journey with people i love. daisyjonesandthesix has been the greatest, most fulfilling gift. it’s surreal that it has come to an end, but i have made friends for life, and memories that will bring a smile to my face forever. i could’ve never anticipated exactly how much love this show would get and how my life would change. it has just exceeded all of our dreams. i’m so proud of how far we’ve come. congratulations to all of the winners and nominees 💙 thank you televisionacad for this recognition. oh baby, look at us now 🎶

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user1 charles leclerc, you lucky son of a gun

user2 so cunty of her to be wearing red to the emmys. she owns that color.

landonorris DID YOU MEET TAYLOR SWIFT??

natalia_leclerc maybe. maybe not? charles_leclerc she almost cried. natalia_leclerc traitor landonorris and? i would too, she isn't special.

user3 can charles fight??

user4 red bull may be falling apart but charles will still simp over his wife.

sukiwaterhouse oh baby you looked gorgeous 😘

natalia_leclerc it was all you corazon charles_leclerc please stop flirting with my wife. sukiwaterhouse never you french man. charles_leclerc MONÉGASQUE!! I'M MONÉGASQUE!! sukiwaterhouse french adjacent 🤷🏼‍♀️

francesca.cgomes what a beautiful girl 💙

natalia_leclerc aww baby 💙 user5 praying for my man charles. everyone loves his wife.

user6 you're telling me lightning mcqueen pulled her?? how??

alex_albon believe me, we've been asking ourselves that same question since 2018. landonorris it's a miracle really pierregasly she is the sally to his mcqueen natalia_leclerc and pierre is the mater to his mcqueen

kellypiquet you look amazing red is definitely your color 💙

natalia_leclerc thank you kelly!

max verstappen so does anyone know who our new team principal is going to be??

charles leclerc i'm still trying to wrap my head around daniel not driving this season. sebastian vettel i haven't been told anything yet. natalia leclerc as if they're going to tell me. i only know everything because charles tells me everything.

max verstappen i was hoping someone would know something. i think the anticipation will slowly kill me.

charles leclerc good, then i can become champion. sebastian vettel not that he needs you to be dead to beat you.

max verstappen i guess we'll see won't we?

charles leclerc we will, won't we? natalia leclerc men 🙄

sebastian vettel i think if we don't know anything it's because they haven't found a replacement.

max verstappen then that's stupid, why are they going to announce it when they haven't found someone to replace him?

natalia leclerc because even now we can't get away from spanish papers. someone leaked this shit.

sebastian vettel i have a crazy idea.

charles leclerc how crazy are we talking here?

sebastian vettel i'll be back in like 40 minutes.

max verstappen way to leave us hanging seb

40 minutes later

sebastian vettel i don't know how successful i was but i think they'll think about it.

natalia leclerc seb, what did you do?

sebastian vettel hopefully something worthy of younger seb's chaos.

max verstappen we're fucked

charles leclerc don't be mean. as long as it's not another multi-21 we'll be fine.

sebastian vettel oh my god. let it go. charles leclerc as long as people still hold the inchident against me. i will hold multi-21 against you.

natalia leclerc i don't know why anyone thinks you three are serious people. you're all children.

max verstappen says the woman who's been thiristing over her husband on social media.

"how long did it take you to convince him?" natalia asked. sebastian huffed, "i almost got down on my knees to beg."

"it would not have come to that," kimi replied.

sebastian rolled his eyes, "he was enjoying it. i had to ask his wife to help me convince him. they gave me a deadline to get him on board."

"was there any other option?" max questioned.

"jenson," seb answered at the same time kimi said, "mark."

charles laughed, "oh, would it not have been great to see seb and mark on the same team again?"

"they would've killed each other," max realized.

"no, we wouldn't," sebastian argued. natalia gave him a shit-eating grin, "you still have to see him at the paddock, like every week. he's oscar's manager."

"the mini-me?" kimi quizzed, looking up from his ice cream, because nothing would stop him from enjoying ice cream. everyone at the table looked at him confused, kimi shrugged, "i read what people say. sometimes."

the conversation was stopped by kelly's arrival, "sorry, i'm late. daniil was running late and- nevermind. did you order yet?"

max shook his head, "just kimi, said he needed his ice cream."

"it's very good," kimi replied, "but i don't share."

sebastian huffed again, "i made a huge mistake."

"too late."

taglist: @janeholt3 @vroomvroommuppett @charlesgirl16 @someoneintheworld @iconicbookstore @evans-dejong @minmira95 @leanneg97 @asparklysoul @d3kstar @lollie0024 @magical-spit @gemnetjournal @rockyhayzkid @weekendlusting @ironspdy @namgification @moonyzsworld @Fall-bambi @emilyval1 @lorenakaspersen @spilled-coffee-cup @butterfly-lover @blushmimi @mgmoore @lovely-blackinnon @six-call @bingewatche @vroomvroom95 @lesliiieeeee @itscrzy @alymeddar @fletchingarcher @casperlikej @minmira95

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¡leclerc-s speaks! hope i didn't let anyone down with the kimi reveal, which due to popular demand, i just had to go with him. trust when i say i would've gone with seb if i didn't already have plans for him. listen, i love ollie, he is a baby, and i just had to include him somehow. so i took creative liberties. realistically this couldn't happen but oh well, poaching him and arthur was definitely seb's idea. also, please don't hate me for the daniel thing but liam lawson deserves an f1 seat and he's getting one in this story. at least i didn't get rid of him completely.

¡disclaimer! this is in no way making assumptions about the people involved in this story, this is all fake. it is a fanfiction please don't take any of what is said seriously. this is all for entertainment purposes and as a creative outlet for me. enjoy!

#leclerc-s #karma series #f1 instagram au #f1 x oc #f1 oc #f1 smau #f1 social media au #f1 #formula one #f1 fic #formula 1 fic #f1 x female oc #charles leclerc x female oc

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roman-catholic-mass-readings · 6 months

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19th December >> Mass Readings (Except USA)

19th December

(Liturgical Colour: Violet: B (2))

First Reading Judges 13:2-7,24-25 'You will conceive and bear a son'.

There was a man of Zorah of the tribe of Dan, called Manoah. His wife was barren, she had borne no children. The angel of the Lord appeared to this woman and said to her, ‘You are barren and have had no child. But from now on take great care. Take no wine or strong drink, and eat nothing unclean. For you will conceive and bear a son. No razor is to touch his head, for the boy shall be God’s nazirite from his mother’s womb. It is he who will begin to rescue Israel from the power of the Philistines.’ Then the woman went and told her husband, ‘A man of God has just come to me; his presence was like the presence of the angel of God, he was so majestic. I did not ask him where he came from, and he did not reveal his name to me. But he said to me, “You will conceive and bear a son. From now on, take no wine or strong drink, and eat nothing unclean. For the boy shall be God’s nazirite from his mother’s womb to his dying day.”’

The woman gave birth to a son and called him Samson. The child grew, and the Lord blessed him; and the spirit of the Lord began to move him.

The Word of the Lord

R/ Thanks be to God.

Responsorial Psalm Psalm 70(71):3-6,16-17

R/ My lips are filled with your praise, with your glory all the day long.

Be a rock where I can take refuge, a mighty stronghold to save me; for you are my rock, my stronghold. Free me from the hand of the wicked.

R/ My lips are filled with your praise, with your glory all the day long.

It is you, O Lord, who are my hope, my trust, O Lord, since my youth. On you I have leaned from my birth, from my mother’s womb you have been my help.

R/ My lips are filled with your praise, with your glory all the day long.

I will declare the Lord’s mighty deeds proclaiming your justice, yours alone. O God, you have taught me from my youth and I proclaim your wonders still.

R/ My lips are filled with your praise, with your glory all the day long.

Gospel Acclamation

Alleluia, alleluia! Root of Jesse, set up as a sign to the peoples, come to save us, and delay no more. Alleluia!

Gospel Luke 1:5-25 'Your wife Elizabeth will bear a son'.

In the days of King Herod of Judaea there lived a priest called Zechariah who belonged to the Abijah section of the priesthood, and he had a wife, Elizabeth by name, who was a descendant of Aaron. Both were worthy in the sight of God, and scrupulously observed all the commandments and observances of the Lord. But they were childless: Elizabeth was barren and they were both getting on in years.

Now it was the turn of Zechariah’s section to serve, and he was exercising his priestly office before God when it fell to him by lot, as the ritual custom was, to enter the Lord’s sanctuary and burn incense there. And at the hour of incense the whole congregation was outside, praying.

Then there appeared to him the angel of the Lord, standing on the right of the altar of incense. The sight disturbed Zechariah and he was overcome with fear. But the angel said to him, ‘Zechariah, do not be afraid, your prayer has been heard. Your wife Elizabeth is to bear you a son and you must name him John. He will be your joy and delight and many will rejoice at his birth, for he will be great in the sight of the Lord; he must drink no wine, no strong drink. Even from his mother’s womb he will be filled with the Holy Spirit, and he will bring back many of the sons of Israel to the Lord their God. With the spirit and power of Elijah, he will go before him to turn the hearts of fathers towards their children and the disobedient back to the wisdom that the virtuous have, preparing for the Lord a people fit for him.’

Zechariah said to the angel, ‘How can I be sure of this? I am an old man and my wife is getting on in years.’ The angel replied, ‘I am Gabriel who stand in God’s presence, and I have been sent to speak to you and bring you this good news. Listen! Since you have not believed my words, which will come true at their appointed time, you will be silenced and have no power of speech until this has happened.’ Meanwhile the people were waiting for Zechariah and were surprised that he stayed in the sanctuary so long. When he came out he could not speak to them, and they realised that he had received a vision in the sanctuary. But he could only make signs to them, and remained dumb.

When his time of service came to an end he returned home. Some time later his wife Elizabeth conceived, and for five months she kept to herself. ‘The Lord has done this for me’ she said ‘now that it has pleased him to take away the humiliation I suffered among men.’

The Gospel of the Lord

R/ Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ.

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sparkler-sleet · 8 months

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a reminder for me to look back at in three months: september 27

9:20AM

We got told on Thursday that my only living grandmother might have cancer. Called it a particularly serious case. Said she'll be referred by the end of this week. I haven't really been doing anything else since; I've perhaps overstayed my welcome at her house, but she doesn't want to be alone and I don't want her to be out of reach. Right now she feels too delicate a subject to leave and come back to, in case coming back isn't really in the question. Anyway, after the doctor left last Thursday, she asked me rather feebly if I would think about chumming her along; my father's ten percent man and ninety percent temper, and he isn't really sure what he'd say if his mother was told she was dying. I told her that of course I'll come with you. We can leave Dad in the car, I'll take you for a coffee afterwards. A little girly morning. She laughed, but I guess little girly mornings wouldn't really appeal to me if the subject of mortality was involved at the same time.

So I've been staying with her recently. Two weeks now. Usually I live with my mother and I'm beginning to really miss her. Of course, we talk, our phones are rarely disconnected. But phone calls aren't the same as blocking her bedroom doorway at night so she can't go to bed and leave me sitting on my own. My mother is my best friend, which is embarrassing now, but I'm sure will become very valuable in the future when I don't have that luxury.

We heard nothing back from the doctor yet, which is wreaking havoc on our mental healths, our day-to-days and our patience; my father and I aren't great friends right now and probably won't be until we find out that she will be okay. But perhaps the delay in contact is a blessing, for on Monday, I was invited to a job interview this Friday. Work is scarce where I live, particularly in the field of my career, and I've been unemployed since July. It's the first time in my life that I've been neither employed nor studying, and that too destroyed what was left of my basic sanity. Spring cleans have become calendar-worthy and my library has doubled in size since summer began. And, not too long before I was about to lose hope in any of my job applications, up popped a job in what looks to be the best school in town. The staff are nice, the kids are well-mannered, overtime is available and all of my specialities in teaching are what they're looking for. So it wasn't entirely unexpected when I received this email.

And this is all great, and I'm praying and wishing and crossing fingers for this job, because not only do I really need it but I really want it-I miss helping out and making children smile when they fall and scrape their knee-but I know deep down that if my Nana's hospital appointment cropped up at eleven o'clock on Friday, I'd have been there and my interview would have had to be moved.

The time away from work has given me a lot of thinking space, and I, admittedly, now feel like an entirely different person to the one who could barely see straight for anxiety in her old workplace. That person's first and only priority was work, and she run herself into the ground so badly that she couldn't even sit and form a sentence in an interview regarding extending her contract. This person, if she gets the job, will not do that. Work will be her first and only priority while she is at work, and then she will come home and her brain and her hobbies will be her first and her only priorities. Because I love helping vulnerable children, but that isn't all I am. I want to be an author, I'm amidst the first full draft of my first proper, serious novel. I have a new-found love for baking and also drawing which I never used to like and I am also trying my utmost to make some friends, which is a task I have never taken on throughout my whole life. Friends who will be proud if I get the job but will be equally as proud if I survive a rejection again.

So things are a little wish-washy. After months and months of nothing at all, no feelings or emotions or things to do, so suddenly everything has amped up. I have mountains of excitement for this interview, but I still sink so deeply into the ocean at night when it's dark and I think I might lose my grandmother. But oddly enough, nothing feels overwhelming just yet. I'm not freaking out over anything, these are just things that are happening and nothing that I can do will change either situation. I will try my best at the interview and I will hold my nana's hand while she receives her results, and the true action for me to take will be reacting and surviving both outcomes.

#blogging #journalling #myself #diary

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healinghks · 1 year

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The Guitar Pick on My Nightstand

There’s nothing left.

The front apartment door that I crashed through with you, drunk and ready to fuck you in my kitchen, is now just a door that I walk in silently by myself. The bedroom door that we burst through after a drunken Christmas Eve is now one that I open and close quickly to unravel in the privacy of my bedroom, away from a sister who just doesn’t understand.

Somehow, I’ve found a way to feel both completely numb and feel everything at once all at the same time. I feel every single part of the heartbreak in all of the most contradicting ways possible. I want to starve myself but I also want to binge eat. I want to fuck 100 guys and I want to be celibate. I want to rot in my room forever and I want to travel far away.

“It’s okay,” said my sister to me after she could hear me sobbing from the living room. “It wasn’t you.”

But that’s the problem -- it wasn’t me. It was never me. It was never going to be me.

There’s nothing left. Everything’s gone, including my dignity. I gave everything away. Every part of my body, every ounce of my love, every corner of my soul. I never let anyone close. I took a chance, got betrayed, and was left with nothing but complaints about how I didn’t love enough and I didn’t shed my armor fast enough. As if I wasn’t putting myself back together. As if I wasn’t working towards building my future. As if I wasn’t doing the best I fucking could. But it just wasn’t fast enough.

I swore to myself that I’d never beg for a man ever again in my life, yet there I stood, pleading on a porch at 1 AM for a chance. My heart was giving out and I used my last breath to ask to be chosen. After that point, all that was left of me died. A pulse couldn’t be found and the ECG flatlined. A decomposing corpse drove herself home that night and put herself into her coffin, praying that when she awoke, she’d be in a heaven where she was yours.

The corpse wasn’t worthy of honesty, wasn’t worthy of a chance, and wasn’t worthy of being heard. She wasn’t worthy of the beautiful life that could have been built.

Last summer, I fucked a guy in the backseat of a car in the parking lot of the Miami Heat stadium. He had bought me three drinks in the club. The drinks were terrible. The sex was terrible. But it was a 15 minute distraction from heartbreak. When I did get back from vacation, my ex and I decided to talk. In the interest of honesty, I told him that I slept with someone. We were already broken up, anyways, but I wanted to be honest since we were thinking about trying to repair things. He screamed at me and told me that I was “worth three drinks.”

Maybe I am worth just a few drinks. Three drinks brought my biggest heartbreaker into my bed on Christmas Eve. One drink got a man from the bar in my bed, but only after I sucked his dick in the parking lot of The Levee first. Zero drinks got a guy from Yard Bar in my bed once and afterwards, he left without even giving me a hug or kiss. Maybe I am a cheap fuck. Maybe I am meant to be fucked but never chosen. That’s exactly what went on with Jeremy, too -- fucked and flattered but not chosen in the end, to an extent that I’ve never told anyone except for my closest friends. There’s some things I’m so embarrassed about that I never even told my therapist at the risk of my feelings being invalidated.

I’ve never believed in the idea of a soulmate. I never thought that one person should be able to fulfill all of an individual’s needs. Not every person can be everything to everyone. There’s a need for different relationships in people’s lives. I’ve always believed that partnership was a choice, a commitment made between two people with a foundation built from love. I knew that soulmates weren’t exactly real, but fuck, you felt pretty close to what one would be. I never felt so connected to anyone. But maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe connections that could possibly come were more important than a connection that did exist.

Everything’s gone. All that’s left are memories, hurt, regret, and a yellow guitar pick on my nightstand.

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libidomechanica · 1 year

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Untitled Poem # 9713

A sonnet sequence

That we used genteelly. Now, and call back: Hello there departure, turn’d with in batteries, come from wel tempers may be told? Consider a girl who know the Lady unto the Head. She joins me inclind: then can moue, who am I? Without hope this turning wheel. Now lies the scarcely that do without constructing, You suicide and burn, arms or choked black chords thy face I saw; and leaning his Doric lay; and Admiral Ribas sent from that great and country quarto hold a sheep look upon our lives away.—Fling it his forehead of the sea what I a new rose bleed. You would be call?

The stare henceforth seems they knew not fail; they found in the Curse of their weeping caught me liue by giuing free, do easily yeelded pray. And round wounded am within few month: so, boy, you I blesse blots that fine tincture ye so fiercest attention, up till doth makes my fathers’ grave to the copses greater pain nor seemed: I speake? Drew the looks the cast and day come to palm to painters bowre with rare wont to the Maker selfe with shot, a plot, no plant a cast over, that always am a graceful: men for wits crown’d with twincle of your languor to thee ere Cuckow, messenger stranger as care.

When my affected and, below, the Prince and streams they are, embroidery wears; fame in all that strain going to colours could not wrong hole, O more I her as the statues! Will beguyld. I know of all then they were but in the fact’s about their kettle- drums a new rose blood of warlike an Alpine harebell be. Scorn o’ your voice backe vnto them, and looke of hollow him and meane loues immortal hill. Of louers make the which made your works—paint souls mighty king, that trophee the horsemen, who have livery talents of the dreadfull come backward and pea! Right and let the horne. More these halls held water.

Than alley’s end and bobbing braveries prison! They are a cout from dim rich, thoughts with noyse, but single grape, and with edge-tools! The brightnesse of kill’d away to the Muse he had they are, and he who calculation has ears: alas! ’ How, ’ she cargo and fell; but that life and science enough! What is Lord of loue conuert. Goes all roll, too jealousy? Wiping here is no more the last he on her. The bosom of a valley, the states to my mother that iron with awe I praising my selfe and devised you. That is wings, which was what is the garden of dames: by axe and put then spring.

Glitter hyue to give it to my eyes of these poor remaine. The pansy freak’d within my steele in the faces to scrambling new- found she’d never was the Thessalian shows soul of braveries were still remayne. When the suddenly theatres benched in all the forms makes up bands, the dim-gray dawn; but if they too far enough; and good-bye downward like a bower, the vulgarest chick pushed afternoon the same, or no—may the land so went sorrow and the notes are immortals! Shall not been thee from the door. The room of succour dead. It stopped. That ever since my skin and the Russians did fly.

He didn’t picked men a spirit in her Ida, those who I am. As if death but lodwick, thoughts as though thee, stella, which is beat or beaten hart: whose next to your brows, with honour, loue, who will wonder way was Cupid girl’s mocking in heaven the river, and flits, when alone she sets up his rage asswagement lies with Golden Vessels all for ever. Her voice is temper angry with all with a second worthy to bed I take my hands embrew, chaunst to confess our compare; I see the man to burgeon out short, and teach Alas your vows, or vow ye never frown on you see, now!

How euer tastes of you! There is this lubber’d is to ashes o’er the Water of the statelier than them with worke that loue wounded her error like his posture on the most we eat. For white, encounter with erring pleasure, or nothing Paradise, interpose a crime, like I had, ’ he answer’d knew no rock so hard, and the fruit in all the way we both to clear throat, she herd beneath they so formes and because of her cast upon a day or so they talked reciting forth, I swearing opened into two heart like an Alpine hacks, till air is Music slumbring, gave to all the valley.

Fain would be forborn, unless t is so droppings, rinds and to gazette of that after all my cup; the concealment: she is how I plot reverend ghost, a naked is that should have chose blood, not love-whispers my wand’ring, her fingers least trembling harsh, but such kindled her rare peeping, how far to new descend to helpe his place. When theyr leaues attyre vnder arms and smooth to your fayre, misdeeme, fair college and say: I mean. Beat this your name before O loue, that stir with Faith Sulayman spoke—Though theyr terrour al the place and those lofty looked up … zooks, are we turn’d all to yourselves, perused the stern sea!

Its bonds which Atalanta did entice. Though sweet is ever. For which hath on a gown, that look along the hard blow, and man. ’ But naked through my selfe for one? And daunger Lover. But I with incess. Than hath: that seemeth vayne: all else? She wrapt him in songs sends many days we lives and Beauties greife: thinck th’ effused to obtained ceiling said, betwixt them not stop my toung tipt withers lay about him lodging in respect, plainly clad, besmear’d. Make him softly, all in the found: there from thy late presence. Will not.—Toll the found Wit: od’s Life! And grief. But, where these poor hearth, we likewise world.

My hauntings of Time, till I speak, what avails to an unworthy Lust; nor winks them with proud mayd, whom she smile and hauing headless chin former lives were turns from mine own true beauty was of that dark dissolu’d through still perish as your gloom the baiting fynd, and there’s priz’d, and I make a nap in at a checked for my bed, theyr guyle is a spy, betraying, dying, it’s not my suffering you can compare, what with loue, is vanity’s summer day. Stands in columns, pacing time and put you love or the lakes foreheads doe compell’d, and beauties ever and the most. Ne, if so instilling gall.

And stuff your glass, The crew of a noble end, and up a paint any of certain and Bayona’s hold: look homeward I from her harts desire my tomb. Now Ben he said, their extremely to talk about it back … I am too clearest part: how far to constration, till that hangs silence with cares, between each softling back rebounded is twice, discussed me, and after his vile word natured, murderous, would attack; or like in truth The sun, yet from either within a catatonic stuck in thee. While the birds in a moment, here are green province he had two ends in dark dissolved to torment of time and so that harbour, they should one thatch, a patience. Kissed Briar Rose great hope so—thoughts of colour day by the Poet and to gorged with little forth did thick with wand’ring, as swan or congruity then she blush’d, and battering lost the town ditch. Is not harm arms full of the march!

The only warmth of Reconciled; then an officer rose on so, you shalt be subtle skin out of wit, whom he spoke, and below, she repulsions into a great triumph which my life fordonne, he ’ll be your vertue as the sins but not less judge! Plays somehow, a year, as I might. That, in pursuit and lonelinesse of burning to go although he tried to wave … that I am sad and hauing now who hold you float upon, wonder as I must with me; he’s a certain drawn. For, don’t like ships and his guide. Of whom fresh Spring, that hath the first great wall of Life—one like I had streight beneath thee?

Or shall that’ she will curse of cherries which three sat muffled cage of pure and turning, a schooling, Oh. The gloom their heard of praised the night I mightie vengeance, which so betray to glasse he cryde and backward and for shall come to entertain sealed: drink deep sinks beneath the woman taught years, like a windy night to raised a to-and-fro, so pacing tier, for soul with your model. Wipe Thou thyself, wilt thus honour inconstant stiff procession of love to ever slight, for weeping at this one man, rather will love looke on before, and wilt thou perishable too long forth too, by a poor monk of me!

As killer, spare it, then lookes, to know the Princess with Amaryllis in the distance wear his came upon she paused; hers art. Which seemes from the face, yonder worshipt be, what I have been a cool cell who says she needs repeat nine names want of your seek with none known. From barrel-droppings, thus on our pleasure shall down with which behold, then doe I not that I promise twinkles place to shinedst late in sight. Its skirts of silver current out of meane, and tell me, why they looks toward Love of wild barbarous, would be if it struck with all her sees the same radio plays its price nor prayer!

The weary toyle, with heroes—and God his glory in hear thanks. Stuff you be, were merry and glad to see, and pray: yet since followed dost wakens: wake their doors ajar? A naked stood besides the watercress some eighty verse shore, if I drew men’s heart— as spring; hero, buffoon, half-dirt, preparation, lust is permanent and wilt say they call back to me gain in uniform. Wondrous verse, with any of coral, but this: Once young folks of old, the same timely grace, why you should affianced behind seen by their though she lies a bridge of wisdom, future, sacred brooks, throw my rage, who was stead: one unbecoming our flight: with greater. Still she very close my sister. The lassie is glaikit wi’ the high look, ourself three years till the pronounces latest chief they presence. To lenger proof—oh if our louely eye: the Virgil cold, but, swollen cheek had raise plainly clad, besmear’d.

But I who can ye lowre, on the grim Avenger proverb of the Curse of the earthly eyes the dim-gray dawn; but still and do ye there to sprinkled on your drawen work, the distant things high through to know how to serves: who calculation then silent Dead the grim and griefe with a diploma, just not stopped crackling. No eies witty: he made, should contaynd in her arms, as I know out above that like my pouch I may scarves—where your Johnny, Next Camus, reverencing but a third motive was beams along there to lead they do so. An fondly fears, like a fool; and cram him out above the cliff and paper baggage at their prey, turned away from just; till advantage of happiness at a rest: but yet, like prison you were French her eyes may be vaine bubble, and then all along; and why should one of war turn’d round the misses swift Hebrus to hear the viands. Be to end. Whiles diuinely writ.

To lead this world, of all this mother’s dye! As he would break; till touch we entered that harbors me and make that sooner had past reason didst buy, witness up, and all with full lips, so strongly in my necke doth wake, should bring toward heaven round ball above that I am dead the solitary paine: by Fenelon, yellow autumn turn’d to incense their head, A kerchief sae douce and dare a coming out of multitude that loue to raise, such basenesse is clasping castle. To vew: but onely valley and readers divine when he will with soure is made to taker mad; mad in story?

Shake and knows, where Deva spreads her mood than the morning, and leafy shaw, and slander, die. The Prince all-fragrant mew, a-painting not cold, as that simple, so sweet Idyl, and we in our own guide: least doth flow, since follow the should loved, a double worthlesse beame of the sexton tolled thee do melt with me, love, her eyes so great: some fraught of fever, yet linger is your voice of precaution of the dreary pole so masked, Madam, he that you to future throne, all of your lives, all the punch. What warnes al louers bowre of random sweep through greedily her smiling far extent on your beauty company!

And she wakes, then is my mother of the failed; then, with Bab-o lest thou honour and did faine my Door-way but if thou lo’es me at, in purest pledge? Ne ought, and icy clime. Once a king his seat with them in thy birth of the metaphor, I thinking deep wit, that sunk low, bugle; and as old compare: and shove awayt to come out of yoga and hears the grim look, with his father’s pocketbook. But then, Sisters afterwards. A hole, Nay, we three slim shape suggested silks the cedar-shadow, Time; but the wall. The roadside, from this grief, of dogs and hardens euermore heauenly ray at sight; ne ought.

When slowly still—It’s art beat this loue: in fields are falling gall. Being breeze in true that should I seem a kindled astray: but our flesh and loveliness. The statuary it is snooded in a little peace the middle of your own hall guide: fayre sights, which a gullet’s get the perfection. Where Cupid stood by her fellow was deep clos’d o’er they are lyke to yet since so cruell prayses yet green would spring when I ’d following those small; not the great name, so far in highest is, but know the sky, or pure immortalize. Village of purpose love with tear Blame not with it, and a pose.

Proud of mine, say, though she that didst tel, is of that, ’ she answered Jasmin, and arms! My loue the light compliment Nikolaiew regiment, telling eies, whilst the poetes healèd me, and for they must: puncture ye see the wave may be to mount the Reason; Lust that is the rose, held water-side, and every gust of the dancing stony names want orange to sustayne, how can’st thou leaves. Pardon, sometimes seizes warriour doth worke in thee by putting from the heard no: now I thought once all-weary years, to set but his rage unbred; ere you some scene castles to blame for once more, and we make your seek of joy.

’Re my fond of my soul.—Who bind my wrath did smell lyke to the walked reciting by the not what ever hart-thrilling, may knowledge is fulfils defect in story to my selfe were richesse to promise otherwise’ she said, which is components be got at all, and hanging good. And now, my lads, for however vain, that by thy selfe the west amongst they? And can no doubtful hope of the Nikolaiew: and slept, filled; whether thralls he rising thews the same radio. A bird, the first great rings that is to scramble at the present. And shove away to follow. Then nor would have a bit of please.

My secrets, sat Sulayman and let the others of rabbits by morning, the light coin, the ocean’s fall, one of all-judging in Sant’ Ambrosiall meet something peace. Return is as it narrow joy is become a Ring of eyes in the smart, but came close my cloud drag inward like arrows fresh again. Weaned out of slaughter what please to any chaunce shoulder, a birthday she princely poet, musician, paint soul, his letchery being with my rage until it’s declining vntill ye haue, then she’s ta’en like sun and wave, touch’d my mind, and height, not on him that to the historian added thee.

Last I fill the Lady Psyche, ’ I said: farewell, in which he demands they were jacks and verses swiftly by, or thee! Though the think ye are in October, they found some confounded hath in woman’s beck, became her faults in they were, and calm: then complaine. Then shall meed of merit? Except possibly for cash and learn how they at ev’ning on the wise men with the Indias of a single act of immortall this sundry year, and ever-varying him too; as it mend with pearly lovèd, but like a stupid stood, engirt with proud, she mocking your skill reply! Yet hang the un-apple.

As Diane hunted on you move so ease my madnes, to some succour dear Cloe, how fair and at the caves. From a Jewel, her House with old Baron with favour mynds enur’d to lift my mind, to do it, being has got another lingering for all. And tell no more henceforth eternize, som heuenly borne. From the porphyry font: the Prince; you catch her hart beating thy heart the intensely, and the Danube’s border were furled. Resembling at the poor thine, O let me tells us of immortall, cherry, what’s too rashly on the main, and in my copy-books, scrawled the Latin I constrayn.

Sit on maidens, highest: wink and the bottom of the sacred halls held carnival, and many more—one liked him in a rage: we get our only she wept my faults with her fayre tresses Whitmanesque urge&urgency boo Bear, then the was leave to the top, he is she said them charge with her vnmoued mind will remayne, but is the bricks his heauenly ray at sight whatever ready to come upon the silver throng, all will thensforth was thy sweet is true that of Ianus gate, and so their belles and think the hills; that bottle- conjurer, John Bull, but bitter is high-prompt disemburdening. On the moon.

To get lost a ball than we stood, melissa, O pardon me like the world. You sudden long in her eyes and teach me, above them—sometimes the warp not. Must I resembling at the new love I would writer of thee cannot long shall eternall peace that high, could be grau’d in pithy phrase, in the death forth him opprest. Thinking though she desire. When out of her eyes now no end that goodly guifts of clear of this verse you that bonie faces in me anyhow our often claim it thee; azure pillar, her light: tis that chearefully as that doth friend, then yourself three scorn delight, the pock!

Oh if our earth tis to cope with his story sometimes the sod from paines, color disappointment pleasant me love repayre. Should have the which leans to drilling of your freezing cold arms took both pure was a garden plaste. Or make, to be The crane, ’ I begin, and men; for whom fresh and nothing thews the still as say,—paint away, and tell her side and the sun gutters by any art. Until each by so meane degree. To shun the certaine: and speaking lover, floats airily out the ins and tranquility: full many hours borne: to leaue to gaze o’er what it is the amorous storm.

His poor health and newer purple together, but here are one: so fold that lift up seas to incense the longed-for years his pill; sweet and flashes borowd fayre a placed and love, and say: they be, what need not what through a potato. The room is turn lived the vale; the more augmenteth, as e’er was come to rest: and is not your life I had a christall clene, thousand here then bent; I cannot, what may fail; a music-notes, when, as low, besides allure: from whose hope-hour story to you make these two arms; and can no men and buikit and all his bough. Underneath the beaten, if theyr snaky heads drawn.

Must still amazement lyke vnto the green leaves. Your name be what look at they drew, constrayne. Permit me, now—why, I seemeth in life, in sad experience which I vnto her hidden or for glory to attack the effect but lies and purer her doubtful hope that goes allured, as Mars no division to me; while alone she full, that footprint hard, but root. Listen and learned letters to travel staving heaven’ he added; she with bayonet that wondrous things, armies still to eased be. Whose helpless I whose curelesse to pre-occupy. The king hand that I in your heart of a’.

Glows; mild as a stinger hovering Beautie be, if more miraculous teare, and always see this foolish ordering free, then from the morning not come; for I wisht, yet long, with erring planet that after-hands and I would haue powrefull couple of yoga and the commenced a cannot aid me much as they growth, whoe’er his rest: if at length begun. But speak; it fall into the Smiths’ whom The Wise Self-subjected, it never move, my great and couple withdrawn from which their tongues so that we mixt with clay. She rough I never which way back, see you, I liked you out. And straightway spent, and long lacked fyne.

Yet doth endured her seen. Sun-shaded in felicity’s estate—while fancy flattered stars, and wood, with her think is necessary, may reach me at London, the silence with sterne could we wounded! Let me liue with all this lubberly defect; the made, that I mean to save you esteemed too sadly swell as the cause they naked stood at a’! Day, where I die, and culminated and shall dipt in Angel offices of Nature be but of tongue: none else to moue, wi’ the that glory, the minstrel’s skill the chace, when they rode beside the happiness in front, of colour’d by so meane degree.

Is that straight, oft in this bough, as I must, when you doe combat with her theme she full of you calme the lives, and saw the hum of art and hoary, her great vision to me; while o’er them to the acacias, and had been there’s the secular emancipation and added to win. He asked, Madam, all unconscious name. Immediately vile, that same times call’d to the Northern front on her I climbing, Cyril’s random sweet flowers to the Herald plate as it all this I see Tweed’s a task growling, pray you from the river make vnpitteid spoile, And the gift of the man that love’s fresh air.

Are further footstoole humbled hart will, and hold my want of the digits of gentle dear maids should have many a wisp, a gardens euermore her liues last likely I should suffers accompany, have drawing on this lyke lillyes, ears, yourself three shirt your berries haue bred. And of my princely poet, must spell out of twenty summers. The tender now, surrounded my love when it grow to roll the rope that I am not finishing faint on the drunk as a warming age, and the color disappointed in a clapping of themselues and she history: they say love is disamed.

Secrets of delight: that Angel officer rose upon our mighty charm which doth not triumph which they beard what wondering waues, and ruins all the walls a thousand hurt you, ’ said Cyril, Madam, ’ that out a Tory at last, but that from its long halfe for our lives a single drawing the major from him oppressed in the first time of warlike a weary hed: and you wish for wishing doubt, I’ve watch’d out of presence fleet as she laugh outright; whereupon she will. His heart was turned to the Sun grew both God and the wisest maiden barke was one man quod I that men should have; choose, thy Kingdom of job,—what the first in fact; and out some sweet balm upon the mute still be able to add a stone to nothing. By conditions art. Alas your Highness brood: and warnes the broom, without end; nor shames to be with whom thou lurkest lyke dying. When homicide, but hauing it doe stare of other’s gripe!

Softer Adams of your skill remayne. The worlds richly dight along your brows, perhaps might reading graceth, sweet, as if for his trance, she answering on the front, and John Bull, is not know! Of windows do display, of such worse this new and call doffe her feet thou lurkest lyke the heath out of prejudice resmooth together is a new flame up a horror over me too sorely wrapped crack like hollow shows, could not thy hapless eyes, the cover … autumn turn, left in they too far enough; sweet is time doth end by Plato; by Tillotson, and tocher sae sleeping flight. Dark is my loue conuert.

In want a flag in, or the bump I ride among the graunt small familiar, universal and become a message from high worth, suffering other mind; bubbles of my masks, and of benevolent ease to critic, more: not the unebbing breezes reinvigorate do me more stedfast with fancies vayne: for the powre, wherein, there was grace: but is the other cold woman’s wife put on glass, the ladies leaving starting from dusk cocoons, so I would lose that, from the better thirsty, from our more acknowledge and eagle clay, do not knowing round the sparke. Not there thinke to another side.

I honor, through amorous house; men have? You tell the rest a dwarf-like power, the tangles of cherries haue the which pye being my love begets, that beautie be, letting through the dare nothing framed, their college and scarlet, and the great round under the cleft me inclynd: that wall of tender seemed a truth! Brake, as to death. A-painting-brush? Fair life, leave heart. For they dwelling him awake: for aye his painter lift on hill or ill, vpon your beautie, that Psyche was on that dark staircase or at a rest: and transforme is not the river, who scorn o’ your temple finds such art of golden snare: in truth slip.

The nation’s hand ambrosiall men, and bring the fair guerdon whence follow; let the older sort, all others ayde: tell her then death into Yes and all the long praise, a courier on thine imagination’s wail, and all naked face turnes hir selfe new yeare: not known in Russians now were when this dreadfull tempred spin on your great vision of their glorious bark, built upon drillingly they too fast. Love’s Banquet lost the rose in the Galilean lake; two bits of these weare, through she wake else the fields lie fallow, when she whom we should answer us today, my secret to be patience.

But that pen, who rapt, we heart: and thou a little white mouse, trash, such heauy sledge my prisoner led away the same we are finger her, an open-hearted size: besides the worshipt be, what wast and be to me, fall down the suffer sad containes: the ins and you wept. Great precious ornament, his past; glance or the rampart high to look at you kisses All or One is not float ’neath the inert, and what their belles and triumph; here declining doe though now my heauenly made; that thou, modulate me, lovely; take a wind and waves; where I sawe her that ye are not hideous roar his came: but deems himself too much grief, of doves in this endeavor … I am Ra … in a crevice: much life indent and new delight. She rose up, and fragrant to appeare, that at you must know no farther by our promise hope of each burst upon the blackbird into yourself, all the crown, shot side, lads!

At love, all for escapes; but he most deceive; let but despising my hart will not more she is sundry yeares are command, Field-Marshal was not dream for worse to place then should under your name is content. Is not yourself the world subdew, and Famine, or foxlike in me who admire. Two people, who lost, Love’s so pierc’d with Cupid lay, ayming a fist at him, fair young and hold you highest: wink and kiss therewith due sublimity, where those six month lies betwixt the full of the pious pray. Over it, ignore, so they with shame, to meet he well? Phoebus watchman even so with bands.

An unworthy most, and not personal. Pierced this what with eyes I neuer yet anon repair’d flood, some poor babe rest. Strikes in my swain to the total chronicles of Destiny convulsed at a boy—one with food. I tried to her song. To speak of his storm, the darknesse and gone, now I though he burst out heresy nor turn the grave. Doors ajar? Me at, in mossy slime.—Laid them dressed in that has used. Said all these throat, she walks in her fruit. Where was given, all of thy will swing us, learns their extremityes, because that ancient can go together it is a tomb! And greater fire!

But like Horace for me! Him not mind adore here I say, that seven days, and builde an apple, saying in which yet anon repairs his teare: so while shadow across the earth to ease me, I was paid to woman tis true, without then, in hue their house of healing. Troth-breakers eyes, and screw of monstraynes hir selfe assurance girl to vex true loue too barbarous leave melted in statlier glorious dews began to add a stone to the charm arms whereto doth run his resume, thou praise if a hand, as wilds worths surpassing praise, the Rhodope, that it from various ghost she flew.

But could we go with public build thyme and B’s, and perfection move, nor other backs, till, you style: how look with you grant thing settled: there below. That from the legs and Bayona’s holding at her sex, has met wi’ my Phillis, will hung witchery be inside, in her back of common dirt, that Boy, proue. Your judgment my muttered with thy deerest in this sun and come tell her wrath to his mourning star came flowers the even as they turned to the bright rather to plunged along, I know, phrase; announces late with weary noons, she, curtseying his reverencing litle paines, and got men’s heads shakes a versified Aurora Borealis, has met wi’ my Phillis, has met wi’ my Phillis, on the Nude Descended died. Exterminate in every shade, while thy thou send’st from though exits into a spirit closed in a room of Dominion. When Phoebus watched pray, her heiress of some future.

Assigned not the monstrous males like swallow as though sad ensample fayre when he will my life, which turning Sun. The king light among us, learnt our faither, so farre off me and when I behold that I dare not Ida; ’ claspt by a passion—weaned my whole, and hatred of by his head: one under why they talked, that cannot dreams; returning with the son, whose those smyling salt herb, in the face; the word natures skill, to comes it then said in me: how far from wall of Life— one like a wig. Bonny blue; her so, lending shall dipt in Angel instilling south but little—odd—old man, who taxeth me.

He, if you go. Lay hide the eye may, he died.—Laid the bosom of the silent light, which, as a step to beguile, the sun rose on the word from the woman: he, they found; if nature of sleep. Of their own bent to span; have eaten with love can crackling. ’ My Phillis, and smooth-faced look’d, and place in the slack at human deeds cannot delayd by his here! I maruaile of him: where to last, to glow, far, far remov’d, thee time, that bonie faces in the lily all to chime these two were damn’d; that they rise or shame: his airy hart, with the Polish female fields she needs must begins his first with her vndonne.

Her a rebell hunt that makes me wend my whims bid her yre: not to battaile fresh air. Not perfect animal, the Kiss of their malice? Please things in the rope in the way right mickle my skin and lonely thought, giue learne with interpreter be allure: ne feard with her love to and for spouse and please your whole; nor Liberal, if he hath motion, glorious wronged beyond more Foole forth my brave me throat, in mossy skulls borne: and moisten’d springing? Much haughty look’d on a boy who sees him softling to a pensive he eyes I neuer in the blanching most, they take delight doth lurke, out of you!

Savage of my lyfe with soft deceived; so you ignore, so these lines, of you! Saint Ambrose, grapes or once more in ever did me outstretch forgetful; then in hand up we cameras wanton wing of the street outside then shackle me. The roots her sport with lucky place, and reels athwart through the impressive nuptial song, in time, a corporal—some to mine! Or red with clay, but shame, nor blank; it mend with woe. But, ah, Desire to know your lap, and old mill-horse, if I would be in me at all in us like a velvet landscape a velvet; or several English, French in glorious deedes.

Could rules that three gallant a cast on; but the full, to feed my image should entail long journeys he be no languour of the carelesse bloom of please all people passion you can pass, the tea-stained surprise a wicked her side hortensia pleasure, or rashly led away, but saw the bayonet it is won. But when I am shame. Dost the second is heralds are rare wont to look with a haughtier station of thing where the towers built with please, how far from her that stir vp lustes impure, while you esteemed the silent air, then the living, and say: I mean sublime of all excell.

When so goodly wonder in their light or ran a sample of body and not that with straight not help them? Which my life give a notion I would ask less at its feature of it, ’t was not die a maid, that the Russian people, like a ghostly haunting seas. Those happy rymes, seeke them—sometimes barters; the field is universal and my glorious eye a mirror of polished to wicked wordless breath, which behold the two-celled … to confess that taketh endorse her pray. I told herself would scattered like he runs before, myne eyes, but to seeke so fiercest attack’d; great outdoors ajar?

For to confess that sanguine flowre, what late and colours could be able touches of me which thankles stand never mind your naked, a dream had ye bin the Deacon off her woman, said Cyril plead that night toward Love! In the sale of love theyr drouping his Doric lay; and once more company of the parallels the pride of blisse and pass with beauty it doe thou conceiv’st, is braunches currents of comparison? Kiss me ere I struck—I’m there chang’d by so means hope, fear the window sweet is tost with meeke her hair over vodka or coffee ought to rise, as flie, that she that wantoning weeds.

Into the hung a moment’s violet-hooded in the third is neither’s mann’d some, in shade, and walls as this day three, for aught may farre in Heav’n to glide, vnto thee, stella, when you wilt their weakness, and the pomp of fame in air: so weake her but drag her morning- star’s art, but her up but I, deeper cloak! Transparent can theyr sleep. The heard, there touch one fiery Passion which all its red rust down, you did not his deadly arrayd. I shall ring and drinking the Worse? Her intreaty softer Adams of my madnesse. And queen o’ the quyre of Lethe scuds before; for often it out of Lethe scaffold’s down?

The Russ flotilla getting gown, that the Bridegroom, with old Baron with their neck. The wisest the convention dew. Her bright persuasion when shall meed of merit that make his prophecies, the same, or was, I hardly it restrain he felon winged affection, and a’! To reade this cheekes appeare, because that pick out the which, hear the liberately wielding with a rosie garland, let me thus all! And she not learn’d aught by Heav’n to glass of the staves are hurl’d; where then hastily substances in her hart-thrilling, fill that a checked, taught. But with the womankind, and those great ocean—Truth.

Learning sky: so Lycidas, thou snare little snake hart of the Night. You are lost in all then, in fog, in a room of worths surpassing a tear of course of heauen, so it perforce, from his furious careless I hope of noble for on them pushing free, do easily yeeld, her breast a world’s tide is but the poet’s horse her present days is not too soon, and Gills and passive obedience,—now raised around her face under the spoke of the Princess Ida seeme a message of the Curse of that sing teare, you call ages, the other Sun to Heavens, and tells me wend my palm, and so hushed!

And those powre are theyr terrour al the mind to scorn of us, They ’ve taken by tarn expunge that out interpret God to eternal Homer had failed; nor sea nor clouds chastens me: now will teaching Friars, the sun had ye bin the blood! Sleek Odalisques, or thy sweet Melissa came closer, elm and verse; but their bacon. She turf suck all their neck. A fine to man, as wild they never love the sights against us if we drove them proper persons, to my toung tipt with his poem, There’s forth seeing that heart, I know who had left overmuch thou art jealous of others’ graves!

That the dust for us, are rarely to take on mine eyes looks the state of the Northern shortly he had held a smiling, Oh. Of rugged with her wrath to his blood clene washt from there too gross the starry air of beauty’s pride o’ her cruelty compass our St. Of the doors when right pieces, patch in this deare her can compassed date bid her to the poor Sylvander in the Christian Empress my clouds the sight that late presence of my hate. Or hand thus replied our earth to where to Papa. Permit me, Julia’s cleverness, no, not fair in Rapacity; clothe third, in courses, children leaves.

Decked impulse each teare, then so goodly ray, whose verse-men you know—two women living, as my Chloris, willing weeds, but then doe redound, and I became her flat, we had bene slayne, and suffering! Goe visit her louely fyre, the ocean’s floods: but I am: as Virgil cold, and a weak, a sound of use and think the effort of each Gazette. Interpreting fynd, into sudden my troublous flooded, smooth-sliding limbs a pear, or is it be grace fat, by sage, by mottled foe: in closed the broom, till the rose up tomorrow to frighter Briar Rose and by some say to painting loues with store.

That Lady, pray you from the only twelve, I hate revive the metaphysics to this quarter-florin to mount a lady’s nose and I swallows child in line from earlier, and soundly sleeps to grope for one to mine stranger seen. We were at all the hill or pledge is tempest to come, for the Water of the cargo and stepping on my bear, and here, the muffled, noses greeted by fraile mind the heat of the little twist of men; for whom Thee dominion whom freshly gay, scorch not thy you float in crystal dropt for feares sink from basenesse of her selfe again, or many blis.

But that me walking, sae wyling. And calm: then you alone on my triumph; here than at last not figured, mixt with worke that may say, and when he waste not to juggle with me, and bonny blue; my foe: I told it shall shortly plough opposite! Without constantinople last, clad in a cool cell who; and Tschitsshakoff, and he three fireflies glow with Golden bee. And have no fears, the summer’s forth I did not longing good. And tranquil muse and after the chaunce back of monarchs with true hart, whom I love or flake what, if good singing a wisp along the cared than alley’s end and shells by the guide.

—Two women, up shell in. Of the un- apple. In solemn love as thy bidden laughes, and lie, nor stunted hourly sits on it once, a thousand and grim, surly sits mourn. I asked, how grew broadening. Only a bunch her side; nor end of the gods in country quarters at Halifax; ’ but not love inside, but a steeple. A good words so wise. Began to the warp not. And oh, Sirs, the wings doth flesh, I can’t unlearn how I should undetained, the first to an hundred time. The glebe, but loath the clocks throbbing glad sounds, which shard, but let us known instant eyes so filled dahlias and my wrath!

Any Letter blush’d, and joyance ever rat, through all that she, but came by, or the blind ideal: ’ she is with rewth, they are, such seems your head, and when I hope ere loth, she shoe or slipper was a blasted in a room is turne to some great bullets. For all these mimic scene of what pencil in. As e’er was they never for thee woman to sit beside, from though ye deigne of her own at Keswick, and when shall countryman, arise to the door stands some one, sleep, yet doth compounded which yet are led by the Turks: and her worse think you thinke at a boats, and be lost and wan, her side; nor end were furled.

Flesh and long hath losse rewardeth, sleek Panope with awe I praise, is in my buff and then Orpheus with old Benbow; and hopes best. No long storm. ’: Most strive to know, they do still doth pleased be. As who need not letting. Him awake, as lately behold wherein, than when as that doest stayre breaking lost it to marks his shot of peace the perfect music, and sin: and drery same, or no—may these, nor unequal: each shard, but look like a tiny rip of certain stray impassion sunk, the figure be a symphony& in a little the Shah, he saw me stung and flits around when steps of Pleasure the present write her stubborne harebellious portrait in heart-honored Maid! So that of the inwardly, and told herself the which lov’d Stella, the eye is to knows to inspire, in whose fresco in fineness beside them—sometimes bath’d in the sand against they well that writ it; for she mote soft lays.

That the best when he said: And strictly meditate the daunger of his grand imaginary. All paines, and shapes the clear. Quo’ her course aright: ne ought far less those happinesse, thrugh your church up fine and fling the awkward flair rare stormless air. I spokes of life to go on living? And a widow’d nation, which circle round, sweet smiles, the sacred from their power and desert aspyre. Nor less o’ a brig, a sort of sticks, which not know my heart’s wiser too cruell bands. Hate recruits of The Shah saw Salámán’s face, those self-love thee, his death described better than half yield, and rule a house the names?

Blow, the less gunpowder should grow. Kiss it then falls her Johnny, Deep in course doth raine, will seek with it, confounds for once and draw his babe in me things: yet was excellent and rubbish. Poets, which I too well me gently encage, that might slay the head, the came, then cried, are you can’t was rauisht is wings and all, hard yeare is already sound, all earth, two bits of twelve constration of a town ditch below, she lordlier sweet’ I said, but the lines, of her owne assurd, and now, given that he shoe or slipping the greater the lakers, in a word, the bit of consequences. Comes the walks in her bends.

Plastic and bowing faulty feature make, the lips; till that mourned to see a wave stiffness of your skill some finds me again, and cry, through to shun some dismayd that want … to go althought in act to speake nor prayers did upon earth as in little Cupids darts. The crane, ’ I said: And strictly meditate to the forms, like a ghost, that breed a birth, and when fineness beside your life is the Eight a sudden desires and say, you I blesse and gleaning in her eyes the unexpress explicitly our several worthy thoughts and Bills; but small, was turned towards according the un-apple.

She dreadfull tempred sprinkles stand among? The chief that which to have been seized up without the first great deeds to painters nine, then shoulder, then not the portraict of loues might, and near the pieces of the childward cared fascines like what Fame forth, I would have heard things were but if he hath pearlins are think the Turkish-fashion me another bends. Meanwhile, amid thee for me in golden ope thy will never love decree me here, weep me not one readers e’er wi’ her cast that they had he not harms distinct tis to make a new flames at least, I may serves his day a-kindling of eyes may be told?

And every stall; the obiect of scene began. Growing faint eye, and shelter, till to bed and the Danaid of all-confess’d inanity, by saint Ambrogio’s! Yet, as if then condescend to destroy, then you’d with light comfort me, I ask you out. Whole, his pill; to judge of them harm from cruell one, as none with shut eyes, better yet halfe trembled and marriage, and crude, and then never wi’ her circles voyage is knowledge was a courier to tempests cannot chuse but ah, she ought: of all-confess their veins. Fear to the field is uninscription to use himself too many dearest proceed.

May it play with cruell, ye cruell hands, from right of souereigned; and let us e’en rightful bride she frieseth in taking. Stiffness by loue-affamisht harm the Princess should haue peace and his great- grandson are born in Cumberland cross-line should discriminations— condescended Florian, but mute, temper’d to his Hand from men’s reversion has general country or its sum, you keep your forth aboue the Medici, i’ the queen o’ the queen o’ the blind the Roman line or air of beauty from that seven days, called me up whole; nor Arac, satiate with spurious laws; the muse with Plenty to add yet the faire sight? And makes antiquity for Mahomet or having&motive was wakens: then shoulder, the and smiled; nor stunted him flew kite, and hues. And that despite, which your here I may some virtue, and joy: more than flower, it concealment: she, and yield vnto so happy threshold, her faire.

In due time what evening, were rises not so doting, and this vestal limits old song witchery of silks, in which I fry, should have vow’d low as these: Love in verse; but Fame has. Heroic in it at all the petty thoughts dim and glory gaping of his hood, engirt wither’d way was there, I think the first with some coy maid and march! But there were a sort of all a bee. And wish for Day ne’ertheless achievable by slow brow and cut to basely hew: and all the court chemist mixing here, haps on his blood, that ever done, you make me unaware. Said the nest, silvering pride o’ her college gown and arms she whole life doth mollify: but laughed; and dare to kneel, and more from their king life in love of the could that she to her All hayle, my lads, for the married at him, with her glory in her hidden … winter life since so cruel, not loathe thirst and call heuens, that is to my tomb.

He, They ’ve only blackbird in the wing there was refection with vocal reeds, her eyes my breast, but sudden capitulation, cobbling slaves, and cruelty she thought that wakens me: now out you, ’ said thus early your seventh Heaven, down into my own self. How long musick which thou wrought? The Prince or two—saint John Bull, that work no more—when by thee, o Vashti! And heart, and bristling wheele there any of our prize his lines of the prince d’Amour head, how litle glorious ills—a bird, then brooch: beneath the sky: in his eyes are hence ye dayly more life that the morne, presaged goods saved?

Once up, and faithful of earrings in thee; fruits of saucy boyhood: now, your name inversely framed, the strings, it is, come find, I still cries, oh! Surveying, it’s declined thus they dwell is vanity’-most ioyous sight. And question made her be told then go, see something could liue foreigne Queen o’ thee soone after thirsty, from whose ninety and the second most deare blood did make eye-water in equal to an ever done, you will feel thank heaven disarmed did faintly said he, wide gate, and purer sight, let her cage, that wondered and let myself felt a hole, and buikit and so the room of the city.

To superstition crabbed and meek seemed the streets of government elizabeths for the heart. Sighs, and your heard of you move once over noble than mine arm, most ioyous leagued you, sir, and tincture made with spirted purple fly, and quickness sky—but of men darkening personal cupidity, that poor fools of Lebanonian cedar shakes: her answer, Madam, stepping here shall seek in my neglect I do, slouches and these stormes and thus she. Than wear his gory visage done? ’ Heads of ought with all world. She took formidable charmer, her eyes shut and hath not the camp! That Psyche wat’ry bier.

The charming, I standing on this bough; only black and lips to greet, and thy figure be light on any Younger Lover. Beside her eyes burnt by cigarettes, her painted all the great extreme, rude, and the cup runs over noble Peres of cherry, which gentle Bee. The who fought shall part, that I dare a bob-major part; if to look, with spurious and built his world so hushed from night? I had been wooed. Their tongue, waking, grants a familiar, universal nature times I will in will now. Poor boy, how she’s up and all catch the sons of man; he gaine eternal—just that we found balloons.

The sandy foot remove,— sweet praise, such bright. Finding a fist at his sharp alike, he deigned not be forborn, unless train he felon winding a tree say he seemd the fair. That ever sails were Peters; but she turn’d and sucking at the word, droppings, cannot lyfe that goes all his true, to speake hast prick hold. For Day ne’er she is convinced in which now hauing it his both my rage asswage. With me in a clapping in respect, plainly the presence, dearest, sleepe most conceal’d delirium, gripe it is found of poyson’d words out.: There from whence bearing crystal dropt upon the stern bespake: how looks the guide.

And while there be light He forced backward. In thee; thine own, now they ’ve take. Of pupil’s love: she tree althoughts in ruin’d pride: least wynd. As one would the thirteenth year, I hate hath rend. And with denial vain Philosopher was as probable beauty with her: I never sere, I think about distant on its sorrow of noble mind in the day you faire, full thralled and do—I’ll drown me into a low song and thee were cannot do as well might doth live, as this mintage the high degree. May, a melting point his worlds rare perfect music. Some cleare, the winds, and bind, deeming hall glittering.

Wash far astray. Not to flowers, footlesse you esteemed it is a narrowes sauing chain and leave heard us? And trachyte, till great black chord, she doth raine, but wishing world, its soul! You fear me, I will down everywhere! I hope so—thought to them, who every size and to her fill? Is it not mine; yet thou with God and mild plead: than thirteenth fair in Rapacity; clothe heart, which you the queen o’ love the Ring to the Spyders web I fynd my selfe again. Not fail; they brooke: then enuy yourself, when a boy stars peep through sweet dream our house: this berth, of all again, and every prepare you nothing brave.

Yes indeed that breeding cockatiels—clutch after, clung about interest is the bridge. The thinking deepe thou suffrest neyther golden heart’s connecting away, I would things in front of your hand in more acknowledge was a courier to retreat, who mark of Ida: here are my bodies be Saphyres place of the Worse? After weary year, who, wander nurse anew: with my braced through there are we pilchards, throw hither locks are not glad, and we in our great man is! You doth plenty makes his root is based, with bands to roam the presence your semblant things that Psyche, and many idle wrath.

Gentle brow sun-shaded in story: if things and walk humbled and acted on to walk with laugh. Tuning forth, nor glances I could not our own. To beare: so short, and so all’s come and blow, she requite dim, and with wicked dread of all thy maisters play, and with guile constructing, blesse mixt with no word she real rain, so vertical it fuses to the table of what neuer; now, young southern front—those fourty yeares not why. That might cut to it doth rest, I may not livelier not, cannot all the ground; if Yuorie, her laws: a king expected by thy selfe a precious dropped in closer intreat.

Replied Melissa, tinge, with friends, and made to talk abroad that lay this what late present poem—of—I know when theyr famous oath is to pass o’er the place? Or leap the air, the pock! At length out of presence laughters and Bill Thomson; all thing eyes of they went and half for the air is a new skin out of half-stripped grape, and light in Cloth of threw around we say, alas! He head, a licentious ornament: and that do you out. And you esteemed to my face, while I’m asleep. Meek Daughter in a traunce. In all men, and seeke and we as richest dye, flames in secrets of the sun upon thy Head.

’Ve been impossible song toyle, Melissa Florian asked, how great bridals, chastens to give you least grim and me, more harm thank heaven disarmed did lay, his own life doth displease her yre: ne one doth tye, doe ye play, who will to chime the Russ retreat, were accuse me—Me—the proper excellence; With the first. Forget the deed to your face he had put you, with eyes, ere seventh Heaven; a new-born beneath the two will increace. Bid her thereof, which hardly I endure, when other such? The perhaps he mixt within the multitude; wise Head—clean Heart—strong, of delight from his fill.

And he love into spring streaming tea and strange, a light: tis truth and latter by him as so richly are my Muse perceives; amid the Lady Ida’s youth as low, who misseth the Frenchman’s name. As e’er would seem a kind of mortal in a little white ravine, now that proved so loyal in his worlds richly are, we modern preaches to be so cruell to wall, they are led by her grand imaginations for that loudly disobayes, with sandal. It’s a narrowes, ruth, sorrow to a tittle, then we stroke, may do, perhaps sometimes you would tend that was enthusiasm and garments the halls of Lebanonian harlot: and are not going to take delight in glory seemed the same fair charity, that he was absurd: but, your land, looking in your salary; was’t for us still she knees against a reef- they shall respit to and forgot as it would thing in his name.

But I must not see the tinsel clink of that woman, came to? Sir, flesh his lines of this life and Beauty’s summer, dusty fighting she. When they learned women may chatter when I ’d follow; let this verse seeke and sing on thee, they could you though each other selfe vnto golden Autumn woodland read my sickness. It is snooded Doctors, elegies and stern sea, and almost classic Angel speak; it fall into my body heale in long sea-wave as in all a part museum of that we find your quaint enamel’d eyes and borne: that he was in love. What time we’ve bitter conqueror play’d.

Not up with all thy tride. In his furious dropping tears, and the legendary Amazon as emblems they had the field: so far from whose her proud port, your wise, such year, I have purchased your with a sort of the heauen ye know it. The head being others glory. Deere killed with Ruby and well awake, my secret to be prolonged-for discretion his right head, and in booke enough! Have from night have lives were it all, as parts, candle silk will topple together behold though the broken beam, What needs repeat this be so cruell fayre is this, that iustice down to my lowers the gaunt and they?

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 6 #119 texts #sonnet sequence

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