#felt primal fear when i saw a night sky full of stars for the first time | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

40ozalctears · 4 years

Text

the sweetest kindest little ringing remind or ashtin or spooked rabbit keeper sweetest, spiteful my vices ahh!her luv damn. why!

The cause of harm is the greed and not the farm that you arm your weakest prodigal son, in the wake of a maybe fatal frigid Hellscape frozen over the hold over Queen majesty - when all they want is the monarch taxes back - like do u rly think the easy dirty easy money like stealing, type super funny, honey its sweeter than the milk and soft as the spin the scar tissue hard. Trust me, the watching who hold hate close to the knowledge of the madgods jewelry is stinking of lunacy, from the quiet kind boy behind the monarch stark cast of Godlike endless hatred rage - take it from the prophesied leader of spirits who know prophesy fulfilled when he listens to to the whistling of ancestor spirits. Shh. Pawned so many rings that belonged to wrong ruler and song girl bringer of here. I am crystal clear that I am the Belle the Gaelic attempt to keep it super sly and secret. Keep the sharp teeth wolf boys feel. You use the hints and kinks in the story is so old to known to young unsung but done as done prophesy is - stuck in a state archdruidic sickening states of being wasted on the loss my rightful throne and every hidden secret locked in the labyringth in Gothic leviathan cathedral bearing my Gaelic, as the eventually overthrown Roman blew in the gail winds of fading traditon, until no one listened - French, drenched in gas so the most certain ancients know that the young stuck between wolf with teeth perfectly shining, glistening like misshappen young Bellovaci younger holy boys who were just always in a feral state as this, to purr and meow and give the serpent hiss in the name of making your place certain beneath more primal - I relinquish the dirt that just sits in the sink, until I relinquish link to like the hoops in the ear that would claime me the the arch-druid so sickly addicted to every little drink that is as ichor of death, to be anything but self assured in the word of the lycan simply lurking. Stuck between sprint, torn denim, more wolf than man, more Perfectly evil than pleasantly Godly like the most ready to know the foam that forms when see see her have their beloved dark black long hair sheared like wheat and chaff before the wind - like the sick should fall to the bloodied slice of the sickle - for less obvious matters, let the frigid whisper of winter being fickle, just enought to tickle the just to depravity. As such, the little who felt the eyes of boy who circled the edge of town as if he could not exist if not considerign the sting of monarch moth never more than a state eternal failing - the bread of a war machine God called Heaven, and stole my lost profit lost cost of certain life - being stuck in the state of eternal decay, which I studied and loved until I travelled under and dug, and built a man made moat just so you and your favorite things that makes you a sweet thing, and I would let your eye widen as the Sun dies again, for how many nights we d did not fight against sleep, as if it was impossible to not see the glow of the her slow in the bright of the certain doom and the looming harvest of farthest mens beliefs- understanding them from the wise who came far from the East, and so when I fed on what I studied to be the understanding of the love of another that was as fulfilling as shared cute snack that feels like return of the hero, but no great war - just what she stored I locked in impossible chance of ever being forgotten in the permafrost frigid acceptance that my ribs form a page that is nothing short of permafrost accounting for the Godliness of Loss - so for all the simple beauty and the cutie doe with the fawn eyes who I saw forever in a way, sleepîng on a hateful yawn, and as soon as she wakes, blinks, yawns, I steal her from the fate of never escaping the state of eternal maze - by which I named my first son already the Scarecrow Prince who will only know keeping away crows, and those who know the harbingers of death, if you trust the call of keeping death then you invite again the flow of euphoric state of moon blasting through, like it baptizes you new under the last name you gave as you noticed her lose the tame, like a newly free thing who was only knew cage - I suppose many act as they should as if they ever only knew rage - for all labyrinth trap and reasons of setting traps for the unwanted seasons, so in the sickest of seeping Spring I know one ring keeps me sharpening teeth, and assured that the meek not sheep for the weak of the word, but the deared dark-eyed soul that I saw tending to to contraption that was asked to keep us in safety, and just as the sweetest of sickly sweet thing that makes all lycan boy, between and here and there was a maiden, one of iron, one which was so tired, that it tired me, even in my infinite gift of plan to hatch the love of my own twisted roots of oak until I am choked by the end of my joke that is just make the sweet doe eyed in the man made moat I spit this as quick as a slit I would made, but it would take little more me to riddle a liittlle harmless threat, with the debt of what is owed to the protector of Queen of all that I have seen more goes than majesty, tragedy that it had to be you, and I saw her look away, but I think she was keen of a certain sense to know I was such a penniless who could spend endless words for you learn that it takes as such, that you get as much as you give, and even to keep her breath steady - you not take your never ending, butterfly wing, malfunctioning thats most fear but she hears vibrated like like quiet of the hum and summer nights - and so for me take the claws, fix both red stained glass eyes, wide as severed - ways to explain that it painful to say that given what I have scribbled in the hieromanic of trance, and I cannot sing and and dance like I do not having to call for the Fall of Man, just every plan of man, no matter well maid, always led themselves, naked shivering, exactly to the step of my trap, which I simply set to wet my taste that in my heart the start of the most bright exploding morning flail - the believe that mourning any distance bright candle simply doused by the petty candle lick, quick-witted way the light of your life might just decide one day, in its trickery, sickening mastery of things more man than a boy who finds join the acceptance as wolf more always in between, hurting and dirty for never truly becoming, but since in absolutely delightful beauty quiet she floats on the wooden boat, Singing in tongues what might be the meaning of death in ending of sum - in that if speaking trying to make sense of the sounds is beyond the bond of human to the satisfaction with simple humanity, not having grasped the the roots and found how to shoot start out of the sky on a night so loud from the crowd of surrounding pounding drums, of those fat-bellied fascists, who heard word you of your solitary goddess too honest to ever say she just believes without being knowing as so many, too-knowing will claim until they slain the in the name of the lie - I remember the Ilai, Eli, of course...a a lie, I have thought the less real lamb that stood as she stands, as he landed on the peak of Golgotha, the Aramaic was perhaps soft on the dying son confused by the plan of the Eternal, that when the nails jailed themself to a cage of childish rage, in his purity, in his fury, the absolute terrifying baring of teeth, from a thing more than a man who we only know as the Italian son of a man who weaponized the need, of knowing the idea of the Son, asking the father for a taste of Honey, as burned to death due to fault lines in the times conflict, the Son would consider, despite the nights in wild, where I was the child and babe possessed, nearly the Lord of Death - given mastery over connection to Father, God, the peak of throne - just as the wildest time I ever came close to perhaps becoming too full in my how MUCH my teeth bled as I felt them become blades, that only most alone lycanthrope knows that in a statone of alone, given nothing but instinct, and the nonsense worthless broken porcelain that looked so wrong in it raped poor, sad fatal estate, as the rate increased and the feast my own consuming of stars in the sky forgetting the name of the Hatred of the idea of my meek littlle priestess - seeped in my need of simply believing in Queen, should the Kind pawn and not think for a again, at least inn a state of knowing it staying put in insanity, instead of grasping at the fact, so beautfiul but tear-filled years and years of waiting, Hating the need for blood spilled - sip on sour cloud break int raped time I believe I must drink the blood to avoid the or, some prophesy that is as misplaced as a poisoned chalice, or even living in a palace, as I lived in what i make an intricate safet confusing little maze of a cluttered and dimly lit clean as can home fit for as modest and as the innocent stern deity who submisses to no dismmissing of her strength in the way the drenches the weak in the their defeat - became as haunting, piercingly loud, as if thhe crowd of the rage of a forget tradition of boys lost in the most deep of Belgic, someone some-where look like the Sun King withought the messes of lost den dwellers wishing for one gem laden gauntlet of a boy so Shining finally given the palace where he stood like the final piece to the puzzle, but any failed watch maker who understands the importance of the love and acceptance of failure - to sit in silence as loud as the sound the once-dead no piercengly quiet -only tickicking the old heiroom , alone in the darkest little steel box of lock between myself and what seemed to be the reason i even kept any thing dirty, having a penchant for ugly, as it is easier to hug, with unwarranted terrible pain, that if I should given a shame all the was of the certainly nervous and tall nothing but simple boy, who kept strange so deranged and misunderstood, the closest I ever became to command I then claimed over how we become the beast we studied, the most, so le loup garou je troube q c maps mal nous tous les jeune honnes, donner in the grace of the silliest stiill alive-ancients, I remember waking to up the nothing but fear, clearly awake, before I considered that the stuck between stations of dashing and springting with tongue out more in between than ever, and severed from reality like nape of the rapist of health, who deserved exactly how painful it is to attempt to take the breason of breath of a deathly sweet little thing, that I had no quarrel, with so many inner-wars possessing my core, this came as 2 and 2 would naturally come to one who lives for another but must act out of of absolute focus on the swarm of locust, of channeling the hate the state of still convinced of weak willed humanity always grasping back to the need to such greedy with our grasping little human disease name our most useless scraping of kness, simply to not exist as mist with a debt to death, that will never be paid until in your maiden, somehow still, as sweet and, as opened like the intricate lock, who only ever talked so soft, though never stern as if to teach those who do not know how made the young boys go when laid bare to the fair skin little thing, and the presence of something listening, lurking and working on the moat, so he has a place to return, that I earn the trust, as my mane because the the River Styx by which the depth of how trim ourself fur and how soft we pur, keeps a little thing like, what seemed at first to be weak little sheep, who watched as i watched, weeks on weeks. i think think of the God Army who drew blade in the name of those who came most like there before - brought about the strength in the week after week, until walked tilted in the way of a wolf, though alone, mostly likely believed a sort or auditory glitch cast by the shadows and tossed at me like a joke of a bone, simply to give me the idea of home, that I would her here still quietly, but so softly as sweetly - something I wanted to ask but was terrified to even utter to to no one for nothing in silence, she awoke the new sense of 6 all together as one, and for all the boy so scared of the swinging like moon in the sky, when i was convinceded of something tied to things not allowed to those who do not have the raising of dead, all i think id like to just try to return from..if not the grave than the furthest forgotten part of the den, where this story and meaning began as it ends - just a way to say i know exactly why you know what i knew, and i hope against hope i do not lose sight of the memory of you - because although forever boy -with vices and plain as a night with just white rice and help help of her so harmless little smirk and a wink, that made the pendulum brain that swung like i as hells bells were insane - as in not quite normal, as normal we love - it all seemed so normal until we were visited by boys, who saw the goddess of seasons in this simple quiet absolutely shierking riot of so many ways she would love, to tell you all the the words she knows you think of them too much and so when, just when become so accepting of the power your hatred of having to wait - to just wait until the gates by which you always would return her staring, although as if, withouut casting you a spell of smile, you stop and and look at pacific clearly piercing blue - that for all of her tears that welled up as after 20 nights in defiance of any sort of defeat - as is if being apart,though as he deep how the frozen hold outside the jail of you eternally lost, but kept in sigh chest - where i see the mathers failig and erring to say, I know you began as seeming to sculpted from diamond, though second, the wolf second sum, more loud and addicted to pride than the smaller though, equally capable man, who just because he can run on all fours as his foretold type apocalypse fate, was as interesting fate fatal as the final pale horse her death - and I do not remember exactly when I began to notice, the boat floathing alone, or when my bright as sprayed over faint barely dim stupid quiet was not chrome or calling me home, by my allowing for all - the absolute Belgic Prophecy joke, that began simply as stupid, but in presence of the spooked little rodent type queen - switched names - without asking why, I suppose that in the attempty of knowing how we know how, and by no means do i say this this with hope ,to achieve the same cheating way of reaching such perfect connection life, than finding your reason to not be Hateful of God when god has been failing idea, of the might of the male, that the simple fact at the bottom of all - is that the Fall of Man is silly little becoming the return, of when I think i will deserve to stop trying be either incredibly far, either evil little devil grasping at the need being weak and pink like,a pig, or in the face of death - the forgetting of breath, i do believe i must rememer the name, the message more than sent in house how many ways, as studied as any believer in science, by wise as the misunderstood men in the dresses from east - so in the incredibl terrible rage, terrifying reminder, she is just theperfect little strength of the flood of all time, for the perfect cute thought little whimsical nonsense word spoken in tongues, simply because she said so manu in barely audible cute litttle whisper lispy magical lilt - i do not think i am of the acceptance of born to die,just as in the dying light of the night Moon gave the light on things in tht nearly blackened painting canopy brush - each as deep as the piercing I made - that was not necessary, but perhaps as if if to stay, i will remain close to the hope digging and searching all the rocks and the mud, until I return to just where I was, until I stand to reason that was a man without her seeming reason for me to defend my hatred of each season, but the love the way they all die so quickly as if they know exactly when I am becoming physically ill by not a shift in understanding of her. i think it was ashtin - like the dust dust to eternal rusting of my loss of self into choked back fears until years of years of studying the defense against against anything bent againt I would feel the power of endless power in the little bit of lovely blood, that once again reminded where I began that bit of a dream, that seems a bit too dramatic of anything more than panicking dream. But my word, the rodent she named Oliver, soft and attaching to words like they are herds she saves with a simple different way slaying their understanding on plain until the unheard know her death when her breath is missed is harshest in the breach iof the rift in the stone dark endless wall how her breath clears the fog, and sends the echoes back home in whisper just a little lisp, little kiss on my lips, a sly wink with an entirely unexpected opening of entrance to entire too much to look without being to have your jaw slacked wide - as if the little unexpected so quick little joke, make slit the unknown threat and simple bet her slight bit of doubt in my weakness, i suppose she might have had - and although i do not low i crept as the wind often does, to bring about clouds when the blue is too much of lie for sky to accept - the debt of your once hated seething refusal of death, allowed again to renew simply by the news of the dreams of the queen who was, ash- ashtin. spooked rabbits are just needing one, as so ti goes...the cutest little feets. keeping me in state of accepting my defeat and knowing the tirump of eternal here and there insanity that had me consuming a star, one by one until the undoing on sun was brought about queen without the way of making thos who crossed the way with evil kept in its sway, had my pulsing blood, as fucked as the hellish dark of black matter noahs boat couldnt hold - despite being ebnt by the old joke - the grace of god - how one man leading the other keeping the Fall as evil menacing as it kept gluttonous fiendish fucking tearing apart all the planes as if to grow greater in danger to the consatnt and terrifying state of new danger of a maybe hades boy who ddi too much grasping at pinkish shell to let myslf be reduced the feral final story, horror to some but silly little clever story, that had me eating guts and close to none,a dn then I might the final sum, and we only spoked in like poetic guessing, and, and riddle spun in the funniest little nonsense tongus and you could lose all sense and sight of self - i think i saw a glimpse of her tasteful, when I cried so long into them moat, that if she left for how I protected her and her little, then just as I took gathered all then found all colorful shades of Easter hues, I thought how she would look up look from some written words - that I know she I loved had never heard - and every time she looked from from the blue, i learned something from the eyes in the books and words i never knew - just to put me where I need to be, to clear pulsing pride from bloodshot, sclera slit like tip of ice - just as if to say - wolf - what was it! Doggy! DOG BOY! To catch up to me in my stupid race, and give me exactly the bitter taste of how much she knew in calm and little lil just barely out the pink ishupon which quit the pyre lit - as when I took at the happy easter colors, and I CURSED her named, and named her killer of every color - now that moat is turning black, and the sky shows all the suns so much at once, that at the zenith of the apex boy - little predator muttering all nice sweet letters, because in the frantic end of choice - you not much of choice in - when you you your eyes and count to ten youll wake up up not stuck in questions asked, so many times that the night is just the final break day, where eternal empress who claims her seat - only kept around by the spare and rotten, which the boy who always knew, that he hated any end, but not than he seethed at the types of you, who always approached the little lamb, with no regard for how she lead the herds, or which she spent the pitch black birds, with little lick of lips and tonguepoked as if to say, I dont to scary you - its just the way I bite! To make you wonder, and faint and make you beg for me to say that I am not dead, in the native tongue of keeping me tracked by not enough breath to explain - stupid lungs cannot keep up with brain! and so just as I felt the clear the moat around the little steel trap cottage,which in intense dreary clarity pain, I remember how shed always up though the softest sweet soft cooked rye break eyes, which I would break with woodlant carcass, dead, but this type sweetness reminder of her would keep the memory so fucked a blur, that when I needed the guidance of the hiding empress, Ash- Ashtin. I remember her important on the fidget little wind up nature - of the small ones but must be scare, and when i was so close to something more - I do not care for the letters and their and tried young symbols, I forget how just, a more recently learned cast in iron, attempt self to make the pariah undertood - by way of building the knee sout of rotten would - I do not think or remember or cared cared - to ever do more than simply stare -or imply what youd so quick succinct, without the fear or drink at the brink too many silly drinks to death, I remember how the static how she just threw all havoc in side my head, and I do not think how it was crackling snow on snow, unlike other other little question that I knew to do, was I given the absolutely never allowed chance - for the lady priestess who herself who so clean of pride - that she took the form of something so weak in stature - but if was was real ash or rabbit, spooky rodent or wahtevr oh no dew! im so close to new water on the grass - she would say something something equal smart - and in this i knew i shaped my heart in form which i recall our elbows linked, and in this, the sotry clinked, like chainmail just so perfectly made, that when i closed my eyes ans the ring of pearl blue simply slain - by knowing that the death of pain,would be cutting the story short, just who had long forgotten why he kept me weight alone - under earth and across the darkest emerald thicket where in the almost dark drk of calm cool breeze - it almost seemed that something she jagged knife told me so many times in a way defeated, there are so many you times you rhyme your want with rotten meat - each time so produ to drop your pittace at my feet - id notice things id though she keep to herselp, like ifif she heard a sound that sort of clicked, she used all her little rabbit nervous, and look at the place that sound had surfaced, shed dart her eye look up and down, i swear to god the became possesed ttha little - as if this tiny little secret might have been some unknown weakness of myself, and sense ofsilly self alone, or how she hated to admit - as if she only felt my tense and nonsense wit, and how id spit and drool some nonsense shit, when perk and smack my mouth,and when shed calm and look all normal, shed twist her eyes so deeply wide and locked the a perfect socket into mine, like the human little shaky princess off the greenest ever dark shadow shade - that robot intensity was if her closest thing to shame, as if she knew when returned the secret little glen, she hated when i knew she cared - as if she knew the stupid end, and hated the love and silly nickname as though she did not think the the first name fit, and we spoked and we went on and in the game of just the longest song, which always began with us just screeching cute littl sounds, until, shed begin with A, as if to see how w eboth felt to do, with eah little letter we knew so well,and I remember an ANNOYINGLY loud, and I liked to do things just know with how id b so glad to know want cares, for me to be sory of follow hey very little cutey challenge, so i held her given named above her head - as if to bring her to my secret little home - and anoint with strangest deepest love warming feeling - until corner her with feelings -until were both so dumb kid squealing, I corner her with her given name , as she was the one cutie types, no matter silly im am, ur the dumber piece of stinky dumb dog pudding slung so poorly, like its barely even taut at all - that the only time we were said such cute little things, that rhyme together, are so dreamy perfect, as im not sure if we even rhymed at all, but in night as our giggles turned to cackling tearfilled calls, we would end just other begins, just as simple sum as dipped in depth as deepest why crying over the dimming sun is oh nopers! as shed often say. id hear here do her beauty cutie thing where shed say, the type pitter patter nopey nopers, until l my hopes are all in where I hope she keeps the darkenest wait, so quickly lit with razor wit, that right before i sleep for the firostin so long again - she finally has me brawling crying out for the light of lights to not go out, that a final word shared just before accept hoh nopers dannnnnngit! Dange gangly nooonopers! as she just liked to she how silly she could sound, but when wanted to bring just edge of life, and making the queen the jewel of the dirtdog simple, the priestess of the brightest secret light, who ended each and every night, with final thing if to jsut a silly tired thing, and I rememebr one really faded in to greatest chipped old fade- in the love of the little fidgety way, that on the dirst in central little metal room - enthused by how it felt like such a lovely tomb while drifted in and out of sleep, everytime id come back to awake, shed be staring directly in eye my eye, or even wake me up with her fucking Hey! Fuck you! type ofpicking at my skin blackhead whitehead or little red think she could pick, as if me not knowing thats shes afraid that i dont know,,that even though the little snarky rude type silly teacher preacher joker stoker of the loving flame - she thinks mentioning lame is stupid all bark mr neutered bad dog! lil piece of crap. n then, feigning sincerity in sweetest way possible her eyes roop and he strts talkin all sorry andloopy , and says super very slow, i know for a fact shes spitting on my eyes oh my loird this absolutely silly evilly queen of jokes, fuck stoked the fire so i know my f;ace, and im just as i tryin to mutter - wh..are you..spraying your nasty stupid spit on my f-f-face.I know exactly how but why id even why this stupid little chunky chimp do do anything just on a silly whim - to prove chance, that although a very loud annoying little yappy annoying dog, and based on this i would and must always let her win. even when shed really make me start to cry because i thought about how she would either disappear or either disappear of or be gonetoo long 2 diappear - or just be ok withou withou the fear- gone too long and just because intilledwith fear until she calls me stupid just all day long, sometimes sall ur silly things get to me way deeper than they ever should - just because i feel my knees creaking like crutches with twoodworm and the rotten wood - but when the sweetest little knows im a bit too sh turns from stupid annoying silly thing, worth all the waunt gather in the form of my simple fear of the obvious big unspoke thing if we were either prepared or knowing that the beauiful haunting song, of hows omething would be lost, if we simply lived all boring quiet, because in teh certainy of her going i umumumum. I dinnot say YOu are..STOOpidn, i sad you....are souping! souping out! and i stop and i realize exactly why I go....oh...yeah? and i start laughing... and gasping and hey ashtin. for all the metaphor. what do i have to do do for spooked rabbit self to pitter pitter patter. I suppose I know what’s been the matter

1 note · View note

starswornoaths · 5 years

Note

📔

I wrote these a bit lengthy, so I’m sticking a cut here bc spoilers for 4.5 but I was an indecisive bean and there’s an entry for Serella, Uthengentle, and just because I write him enough that I might as well, one for Aymeric as well! Thank you for the ask! \o/

(edit: OR IT JUST WON’T LET ME ADD A CUT WHAT THE ACTUAL SHIT TUMBLR I’M ON THE DESKTOP SITE SO FAIR WARNING SPOILERS FOR 4.5 AFTER THIS EDIT OKAY THANK YOU I’M SO SORRY WTFFFFFF)

Serella:

My name is Serella Arcbane. (her name is underlined)

Not so long ago I would have found it ridiculous that I needed to remind myself what my name is. Given that I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve been referred to by my name instead of a title, however, I think I’m allowed. Now that I have another one, however temporary...it seemed a good time to remind myself.

Antecedent...the title carries with it too much pain. Too much loss. The remaining Scions approved of my accepting the title for lack of anyone else with any seniority willing or able to take it. I remind myself that it’s temporary, that the second even one of my companions wakes up, I get to just be the Warrior of Light again.

Just, I say. As if it were an inconsequential thing in itself.

At least then, when I was naught more than the Warrior of Light, I was able to still be Serella. I wasn’t made to isolate myself from everyone I know and love. It hurts, knowing that I had finally found family amongst so many people, so many I hold dear, who now can’t see me, either because they are unable to make the journey or because it would be improper of them to do so.

Ma came to visit me today. Her visit...I don’t know. When she called me by my name...I didn’t even respond to it at first. It was as if I had just...forgotten it. Perhaps I did. Perhaps I will again. She suggested I write it down. Said it’s how she remembers the little things about Da. I don’t know if it’ll help. I wish he was here, too. Of all the things I’ve forgotten, that I can’t remember what he looked like hurts me the most.

I’ve forgotten so many things I took for granted. So many little things about those I love. In writing, I hope I can remember at least a few- or at least, be reminded of them.

Raubahn has this deep belly laugh when I crack jokes with him- and really, he is the one constant patron of my puns, readily exchanging more with me for as long as we both have jokes to spare. Says it’s from years of being a father. I can’t remember how his laugh sounds.

Merlwyb would refuse to admit it- and if she ever catches wind of documentation of it, she’ll throw me to the Sahagin, of that I have no doubt- but I miss her singing. Low and rumbling as thunder, textured like velvet but fills the room like smoke. I’ve forgotten how the tune goes, which is ridiculous. I’ve heard her hum it a thousand times.

Aymeric...gods, for how he haunts my dreams you would think I would remember his smile. I should. I remember the things that made him smile. When I would bring sweets from that one chocolatier in town, or sweets from somewhere I had recently traveled. When I would move his bangs to kiss his forehead. Or sometimes...just when he looked at me.

What shade of blue were his eyes? Were they a deeper shade like the night sky over the Steppe? Or was that the blue of his coat that I’m remembering?

Why am I forgetting everything so quickly?! I have object permanence! It’s only been some moon and a sennight since I last saw everyone! I’m not some geriatric invalid rapidly losing who I am! I’m not some tempered thrall of a primal, adrift in want to serve my master and bereft of all concept of self! I am not-

(The following lines are writ with words made illegible with scribblings of ink and lines frustratedly crossed through them with enough force to nearly tear a hole in the paper. At the bottom, as if in triumph, there are only two more legible sentence:)

I am Serella Arcbane, and no one can take that from me. Not even a god.

Uthengentle:

Visited Ma over coffee this morning. I went fully intending to just say goodbye then and there. Made sense, I figured. We were leaving tomorrow.

I couldn’t say goodbye. I tried, Rhalgr knows I did.

Had written a letter ahead of everything just in case. Only makes sense, given our line of work. Left that instead. Didn’t even have the stomach to say goodbye at the door. I left while she went to make another cup for me. I’ll have to apologize to her later. If we make it back.

...When. When we make it back. No sense in the doom and gloom; we’ve been through such shite before. Doubt this would be the end of it, either, but I can hope.

Ellie’s been having worse episodes with that voice, nearly passing out a time or two from what F’lhaminne told me. I hate I can’t be more help. I wish I could at least understand what she’s going through. All I get is headaches, sometimes a flash of an image, but it never bothers me. Krile suspects that has to do with Serella being more sensitive to aether and the Echo than I am.

I just hope they stop once we leave. They should, right? If we’re going where we’re being called, they have no reason to keep callin’, I’d assume. Or their arseholes, and will do it anyway. Won’t matter. Let ‘em. We’ve got our family to save.

...Well. Some of ‘em. Still feels wrong to abandon everyone on the front lines. We should be there. The closer we get to leaving, the more ill I feel about it. From what Ellie said, she’s not faring much better in that regard. Said Aymeric told her to let them handle this fight, but he’s gotta know without us it could go either way. The man’s not stupid- none of ‘em are. Raubahn promised he’d defend the camp with his last breath...but I don’t want it to come to that.

Riol’s been scouting in Thancred’s place- from what he’s been able to gather, the Garleans are holding their cards to their chest. They have something big planned, and they’re just waiting for the right time to use it. Is that time when we’re out of the picture?

I hate that I don’t know, and I can’t find out before we leave.

I hate even more that we have to leave at all, but it’s clearly not something we have a choice in. Either we go to them, or we’re pulled to them. Better we still have our bodies and our senses and just bite the bullet.

Warned Hilda to up the Watch with the Templars out of Ishgard. Not that she needs that warning; woman’s an unstoppable force already. It could be her and her alone standing at the gate if the Imperials march on Ishgard, and the safe money would still be on Hilda, far as I’m concerned.

I know my friends are capable without me around. I know they don’t need the Warriors of Light to keep them going. Doesn’t mean I don’t just want to be there to protect them- or failing that, die with them- and just fuck off to some far flung wherever.

We’ll be back before we know it. I’ll see to it myself if I have to.

Aymeric:

The battle continues into its fifth week, now. Though we have not lost an ilm to the Imperials, nor have they lost ground to us. Losses on both sides are mounting. We are hitting a breaking point, everyone can sense it. That there is a turning point fast approaching is not in question, but to which side the tide shall turn.

O Halone shield your children from the encroaching dark, I beseech thee.

The Warriors of Light make to leave in search of the Scions. The Alliance had to all but force them into leaving this battle to us, a turning point that came with the fear that (there is a name crossed out) the acting Antecedent had fallen to the same affliction that had claimed the rest. With her restored, however, they yet have hope to find those whose souls have been set adrift from this star. I only hope their path leads to victory, and then to home.

(the remainder of the entry is written in a different ink, presumably at a later point in time. The letters are splotched in places with drops of water.)

I nearly lost her. When Estinien laid her lifeless body in front of me, I feared the worst. We bore her to Ishgard with the full expectation that she would not wake. By the Fury, but when she did...

We are...no longer courting. I remind myself of this every time I am made to respond to one of her missives. That we are only separated by temporary obligation is beside the point: whatever relief I might have felt, whatever ache I carry in my chest will have to stay there, so long as she holds the title of Antecedent.

Only for now. Another reminder to myself.

She yet shields me, even now, so far from the battlefield as she is made to be. Her promise still sits upon my hand. It shall do so unto death, and longer yet. I have already requested she not be allowed to take the ring from my finger. I have no need to be freed from it in Halone’s halls; regardless of her own heart, if I am the first to fall, then I will wait. I had long since decided thus, even before we were betrothed.

I only wish I had not been so reserved with her for so long. I should have made more time for her. I swore to her I would never take her for granted and yet to dwell on our courtship, I always took her return as given. Now...now I only pray, and continue to fight that I might live to see her return.

(there are entire swaths of sentences scratched out, only some words such as, “promise,” “love,” and, “forgive,” are barely legible)

She must return. I know not what to do without her otherwise.

O Halone guide my beloved home in victory.

#chysgoda #thank you for the ask!#why yes I'm still on this feels train!#spoilers for 4.5 #ffxiv rp ask meme #Serella Arcbane #Uthengentle Arcbane #Aymeric de Borel

7 notes · View notes

shardclan · 6 years

Photo

Invigilavi jerked awake from a troubled sleep, his frills flared and eyes wide and darting. He was alone.

The wan light of a cloudy dawn filled the room with gray tones and pale shadows. The cold air settled on him and quickly bit deep into his scales. When he tried to relax his fists, a brittle crackling that wasn't his knuckles answered. Ice fell from his claws. He became aware of his breaths as visible puffs, and of wisps of steam rising from his chest and billowing out from under the thick pelt layers over his bed.

Something had been there. He was certain he heard a message from an unfamiliar voice. It had pierced his dreamless sleep, yet no matter how he tried he could not remember the whispered words.

All he had to go on was a distinct feeling that he needed to get up and go to the Isles before the morning sun made it to the Starwood Strand.

The portal was tamer than the last time Invigilavi had gone through it alone. There had been a lot of coming and going for Horizon's Landing, and the usually extremely hostile protective wards didn't deny him entry. While the sky was growing light in the the Sunbeam Ruins, it might as well have still been midnight in the Isles.

He drew his cloak tight around him. Even though the Chalcedony Circle was quiet and inert now, there was something unsettling about being there. It wasn't just the empty, abandoned feeling of the circle itself; the silence in the Isles was unnerving in a way that prodded at old, primal fears.

In the Hewn City, dragons walked quietly because there were things under that strange moon that were easily awakened from their death-like sleep. In the Starfall Isles, it was the opposite. Dragons walked quietly because unknown never slept, and was always watching.

Invigilavi wandered away from the circle, crossing the frigid sandbar to an adjacent crystalspine where Horizon's Landing was nearing completion thanks to another fine display of orogenesis from Moyo. The mainland wasn't far if he followed the island chain to Point Crystal Port, but nothing called to him there. Nothing that he wanted to hear, anyway. And he wasn't so pressed to chase whatever nagging sensation had called him there that he would go near the Starwood Strand. He would never see sunlight again if he went into the woods at that hour. His only other option was the forbidding Focal Point, with its crystalspine crags all curling inward like a chrysanthemum made of pink fangs, and the high slopes eerily twinkling with the glow of rising crystals and falling meteors.

He shivered. Every time he came to the Isles he was reminded of the first time he crept away to Bramble Step during the night. How the deep fog lit only by bright neon had been dazzling but charmless to him. The sweat that had prickled all over his body when Labrusca's voice shot out of the dark and pierced him like an arrow. She let him plead his case, and now he was older and familiar enough with her to know it hadn't been out of kindness or even because of Bramble Step's laws regarding Aphaster citizens. She just knew his presence was a secret that would be useful to keep. And being led into the anonymity of the dark had been a blissful and exhilarating respite in a time when he had felt his fate always looming over him without knowing exactly what it was.

But while Bramble Step became a place of calm for him after that first journey, the Isles sent his heart racing every time. Lutia had told him many stories of the Isles since he confided in her; of its wonder and its danger and how everything there was like the native blossom: unearthly and beautiful and fatal to anyone who wasn't careful when interacting with them. The Isles were chaotic and careless and the thumping in his chest always felt like it was betraying him to whoever or whatever was out there.

And yet he was charmed.

From the voiceless murmur in the back of his mind that told him the name of the maelstrom in Windstar Bay, to the thriving meadows of frost-coated winterbelle that glittered back at the stars in a conversation not meant for dragons--the Isles lured him in the way the neon lights in Bramble Step must have lured in shadowlings. He could be a king in the Isles and it still would not have mattered.

Zo was lucky, he thought. He was free from whatever made the Isles so attractive. He could live as no one without needing the dark or the stars.

Whatever had called him out here, it would have to call some other day when he wasn't in such a strange mood. And he didn’t want to brave a swim in the dark when he had been warned away from the waters between the crystalspines so many times. He turned back, but something on the cliffs above caught his eye, silhouetted against the moon.

His body swayed unsteadily, his head suddenly aching as he recalled a sickly sweet and deathly cold voice whispering into his sleeping mind.

Today you will meet a liar. Do not turn him away.

When he managed to unclench his eyes, he found frost on his claws and in his beard. His head whipped up, to make sure his target was still there.

The sky was starting to gray.

Lavi clambered up in a breathless rush. He didn't consider stealth, or even safety--he climbed foot over claw as quickly as he could, scrambling to catch this liar important enough that one of the witches had deigned to advise him. It was only when he was close that the man showed any sign of disturbance. They saw each other, and shared a moment of mutual panic. The stranger shrugged himself deeper into his cloak and leaped from the cliff. Lavi was momentarily dazzled by the strange geometric pattern, and the odd way the sleeves spread and spread until they took the distinct shape of imperial wings. He remembered that he could no longer fly, and leaped after the stranger anyway, sinking his claws into the long, trailing tail of the garment.

The man yelped as the robe yanked backward. The vast imperial wings vanished, mere sleeves again in spite of the his futile attempts to flap and right himself. Lavi realized to his horror that the imperial could not fly without the robe. His glamour was tied to it somehow. Lavi yanked the man closer and held his delicate shape safe close to his chest.

The cold crystal of the mountain tore his cloak and scraped his armor so unmercifully that he felt it heat to burning against his back, and he could feel the crags tearing at his haunches and the base of his tail as they slid on shale and scrag, and bounced violently down the lower cliffs. They tumbled at the end, finally hitting a last stretch of open air only to crash into a stack of blackwoods pine beams set aside for augmenting Moyo's construction.

Lavi couldn't find the breath to groan, or the power to move. He could tell he was bruised and scraped and cut in a dozen places. He managed to twitch himself and felt a bolt of pain. The armor had dented inward and was prodding deep into his lower back. He managed to roll over, and sucked in breath greedily. He hadn't broken anything. Not anything permanent, at least.

In his arms, the stranger was practically unscathed, his moon-white cloak pristine despite the fall. His black and green mop of hair had some chalcedony and dirt in it, but the slim, brown body of his glamour was untouched. His expression was vaguely annoyed, but mostly his eyes were full of wonder. When Lavi looked closer at his face, he went red right to the tips of his ears.

"What's your name?" he blurted eagerly.

"Imperator," Lavi grumbled through a tight jaw as he tried to sit up. "This is my outpost, and you're trespassing. Who are you?"

"Oh! F-forgive me, my name is Ashlesha. I didn't mean to intrude!"

"What are you doing here?"

"Oh I just..." He turned, looking back up at the cliff they had tumbled from. "I woke up here a little while ago..."

"Woke up here," Lavi repeated skeptically. Ashlesha didn't feel like one of the astrals, but he didn't feel like an Outsider either. Yet there was something about him that made Lavi agitated. He had no antlers, nor any fins or frills or gene marks to signify his species or where he might have come from. And there was something too similar to what he had felt touching the circle for him to ignore. "Do you know the name Abankhit?"

Ashlesha snorted, and flipped his hair with a haughty disdain that could have come from Lightweaver herself. "Yeah I know him. He's the one who woke me up, even though I didn't ask. He can never leave well enough alone." He looked back at Lavi, and tucked his arms self-consciously into his cloak. "I'm not friends with him, is what I mean."

Lavi wilted, and Ashlesha was surprisingly quick to reach up and touch his nose. "Don't frown. You're better off not associating with him."

"I'm already associated with him," Lavi said, shaking off the over-familiar touch. "I accidentally released him. I released all 36 of them."

"So you're the reason he came and disturbed my peace," Ashlesha mulled with amusement. "Need me to find them for you?"

"What? You know where they are?"

"Mmm--" Ashlesha stood and squinted into the dark. Lavi noted that his shins were bare and he wasn't wearing any shoes despite the cold. And more pressingly, the inside of his cloak looked like the night sky, stars and all. "--kind of," he finally finished. "They're not all the way manifested yet. They're out there, but it's kind of muddy."

"But it will be clear to you when they manifest fully?"

"Oh, yes. I'd recognize those assholes anywhere." He clasped his hands behind his back, and grinned over at Lavi. "Want my help~?"

Lavi's fins flattened warily. "On what condition?"

Ashlesha looked away, and wound a finger busily around one of his locks. "Would you...tell me your real name?" He paused, and blushed furiously as the implications hit him."I-I just mean your normal name! The thing they call you, not your true name!"

Lavi's fins fell slowly. He couldn't get a read on Ashlesha, and it made him nervous. He seemed harmless, but everything he had said about himself and the casual way he spoke of the astrals suggested the exact opposite was true.

But he had been told not to turn Ashlesha away.

"Invigilavi,” he relented. “...Lavi for short."

"A watchman's name; how interesting~" Ashlesha held his hand out. "You only have to ask, and I will do anything for you. So long as you keep me close."

Lavi grunted and gingerly reached out to take Ashlesha's hand. "Are you any good as a healer?"

"Oh! You did take quite the beating on the way down, didn't you? How air-headed of me."

Lavi watched Ashlesha lean down and plant a kiss on the back of his hand. He would have been embarrassed, if he had not immediately felt all his pain vanish. The armor was still pressing into his back, but the scrapes and bumps and cuts no longer stung. He felt better than he had when he had awakened earlier that morning.

"I'm as talented as I am knowledgeable," Ashlesha boasted merrily. "I hope this invites you to think of many ways to use me to your liking."

There again was that slightly uncomfortable turn of phrase. Ashlesha was a liar. But he was genuinely something strange and special too.

"What are you...?"

The inner light of a magical adept flickered in Ashlesha’s dark green eyes, and he gave a deeply self-satisfied smile as he pulled Lavi to his feet as though he weighed nothing at all.

"I'm a human."

#zodiac goetia #Flight rising #C: Invigilavi #C: Ashlesha #In which Faded comes into Lavi's house without knocking to prep him for the clan's newest and thirstiest disaster gay

11 notes · View notes

tonystarktogo · 7 years

Text

Tiny Tony Overlord Part 10

Betaed by the amazing @folklejend within three hours of receiving it because I have no time management skills to speak of and they’re just that wonderful. All remaining mistakes are my own.

Summary: In which Tony realises he’s been thinking about the wrong fandom all along. This isn’t Kim Possible at all—this is some super-duper messed-up Supernatural crap. Also for an uninhabited island, there sure are a lot of bodies on this one…

.On a tiny, uninhabited island in the Bahamas.

What happens next is something nothing, not even nine years of futuristic knowledge, could have prepared Tony for. He’s leaning back and forth, trying to make out the shadows of the creepy helicopters that have been following them like wasps drawn to a glass of lemonade in between the leaves of the trees surrounding them. The choppers appear to slowly lower themselves, though they probably, hopefully, don’t plan to land. By now, the booming noise of their motors is impossible to ignore, as is the wind that blows Tony’s hair out of his face—which is convenient, so that’s something.

The girl is muttering under her breath, but Tony doesn’t pay her any mind. He’s transfixed by the sight of their doom descending down on them in slow-motion—alright, that might be a tad dramatic. They aren’t dead yet. Besides, he’s got Dead-Eyes. If that guy is anything like his future self, he’s damn hard to kill off. As is Tony himself.

Focusing on those reassuring thoughts isn’t as easy as Tony would like it to be. Or maybe he doesn’t trust bland drivel as much as he used to.They had all stopped believing in hope eventually, hadn’t they? Some just held out longer than others.

“We could really use a miracle right about now,” Tony whispers. The words are lost in the sound of rustling leaves, ripped away by the sharp wind, but he feels better for having said them out loud all the same.

Dead-Eyes makes a noise that falls flat before it can become a full word, and Tony turns his head reflexively, unnerved by anything that can make Dead-Eyes break his apparent vow of silence. But the frantic question never makes it past his lips because in that moment, the sky explodes.

The funny thing is, there is no noise. Tony hears the choked yell of the girl as clearly as his own reflexive, “Get down!” Hears branches break and small stones roll as he throws himself onto the ground. There’s a light so bright, even though Tony isn’t looking at its origin, it sears through his closed eyelids, burns itself deep into his skull. And it doesn’t end. Doesn’t let up. Doesn’t give.

Its brightness is loaded with a physical weight, a heaviness that presses down onto Tony’s limbs, his torso. Pushes the air right out of him—and that, that isn’t right. Light isn’t supposed to do that, isn’t supposed to press you to the ground and keep you there. Like a butterfly stuck with needles to a collection. The pressure keeps building up, like lightning racing towards the earth. And then, as sudden as it came, it’s gone again.

Tony blinks. And blinks. And blinks again. He rubs his hands over his eyes, a pointless attempt to soothe the ache, and regain something approaching a clear vision. By the time the bright sparkles in his eyes finally clear up, Tony finds himself still lying on the hard ground, shaky but unharmed. There’s a gentle breeze caressing his skin, leaves rustling above him. A mockery of peace in the aftermath of a devastating storm.

It takes him a long time to realise that the soft, choked sound Vic makes are sobs. And even after the realisation, Stark can’t work out what, exactly, they mean. He can’t remember the last time he saw anyone cry—real tears, tears that don’t stand for pain or manipulation, that is.

“Every morning,” Vic says eventually, her voice as shaky as her hands when she clasps them in front of her.

Stark turns to face her, observes her profile in the dim twilight. There are tears running down her cheeks freely, utterly unashamed of her lapse of control in a way he’s never witnessed Vic be. She’s too guarded to be comfortable expressing emotions. Usually, at least. Wound too tightly to let anyone close. Even him. Especially him.

Barnes told him they were too alike once. Stark doesn’t see it.

“Every morning,” Vic continues, stares straight ahead, not acknowledging his presence at all. She doesn’t appear to see anything at all either. “I get up and I wait for it happen. For the sky to burn down around us. For the world to implode in itself. For the poison that seeps into everything we touch to finally reach the heart and kill .” She giggles, high and perhaps a little unhinged—not that Stark can judge her now, can he?

“But it doesn’t. Even when you’re stuck in standstill, frozen by a pain so terrible, you’d rather rip out your own lungs through your ribcage than take another breath… We’ve all got that one person, don’t we? The one that keeps us from giving up, from lying down and stop fighting. And when we lose that person that we’d do everything for, that we live for… It doesn’t change anything, in the end. Night still falls, and morning still comes. And the world just keeps on turning. No matter how much it hurts. How impossible it seems. We keep talking about it, keep preparing for the worst, keep saying the world could end tomorrow. But it doesn’t .”

She turns then, looks at him, eyes brimming with fresh tears in the wake of devastating understanding. “It never will, won’t it?”

And Stark wishes with all his heart that those words could still bring him hope. That they could feel like anything but yet another punch in the gut, another curse carved into his skin. As it is, Barnes’ hand—cool, and unnatural, and safe—is the only thing that keeps him standing.

As the last stars in Tony’s sight dissipate, so does the memory. Unfortunately, this one is a little harder to shake off. It’s yet another one involving that woman, Victory—and what a bitch it must have been, living in a post-apocalyptic world with that name. Tony remembers her, of course; years spent fighting side by side are hard to erase in full. But it’s curious, isn’t it? How his memories seem to focus on her, when other people, like Natasha and Barnes, were by his side almost as long?

Tony shakes his head, focuses on getting back onto his feet for the time being. Dead-Eyes and the girl they have with them seem to recover as well, though Dead-Eyes looks a little shell-shocked—a downside, Tony assumes, of having enhanced senses in the face of whatever the fucking hell that was.

The girl looks pale as a ghost, sick even. She’s staring blindly at the sky. “They’re gone,” she whispers, horror and relief and something more primal than fear etched into her face.

She’s right, but then Tony has already known that. Even if he hadn’t fully processed it until this very moment. Because the noise, the clear rumpa-rumpa-tab of the helicopters is missing. It’s impossible, Tony recalls his fragmented thoughts when the light show first started. Followed by a less urgent, but just as damning, where lightning strikes, thunder will follow.

But there hadn’t been any thunder, had there? Or at least, none that he’d heard. And so Tony does the only thing he can think of. He tilts his head up and states with a calmness he most certainly doesn’t feel; “Well, that was anticlimactic.”

* * * * *

.In a great hall made of stone.

“Are you sure about this?” Gracie, a young woman who has been with them for less than a year, questions quietly. She isn’t obnoxious or challenging about it—a fact that Epolia appreciates—but doubt, in any shape and form, has the potential to cause great harm. And with how far they have already come, well. There is a delicate balance to these things. It wouldn’t do for a youngling like Gracie to upset the Eye through inexperience and poorly-timed hesitation.

Epolia rises from her chair, a motion that immediately quietens the mumbling as the eyes of everyone present seek out their eldest member. There is no such thing as a leader among them—there can’t be, even though there has to be, for only the Eye shall judge and order, and only Its word shall be their law—but Epolia is the eldest, a position that comes with a certain amount of recognised expertise and respect.

“My dear friends,” she says in a gravelly voice that travels through the entire hall despite her low volume. “Do not fret. There is no cause for worry-“ here, her eyes find Gracie in the crowd, and Epolia holds her gaze steadily, “for our mission has succeeded.”

Her bold declaration is received with the expected excitement, and it pains Epolia to do this, to use their trust in her this way. But it is the only way. She will not allow their faith to waver now, when they have come so far, have achieved so much. Their sacrifices can not, will not be for nothing. Epolia will ensure it.

“How?” Gracie asks, but this time there is no doubt in her eyes, only a growing, desperate hope that reminds Epolia why she had chosen her despite Gracie’s young age all those months ago. “Have you felt the Eye? Have—have we not been found worthy?” Her brown eyes fill with tears at that thought, and Epolia adamantly shakes her head before the girl’s terror can take hold.

“No!” Epolia insists, and that, at least, she knows to be true. “The Eye will approach us when It is ready, and our fidelity will be rewarded. I know this to be true, not because I have been judged, but because I have seen the Heart with my own eyes!”

“The Heart?”

Epolia can’t make out who in the crowd has said the words, but when she meets their gazes one after the other, she reads the same awe in them she has felt herself upon being graced with the Heart’s presence.

“Yes,” Epolia confirms. Remembers her encounter with the Heart, the pain, the suffering, the bloodshed she had seen in them. The cool detachment of something too big to be fully concealed by its human shell. “It was a youth with eyes of the old, a true warrior, leaving shadows and darkness in its wake, just as the legends have told us to expect.” Epolia takes a deep breath, willing her racing heart to calm down at the memory of having to endure the weight of the Heart’s judgement as it deemed her trustworthy, the warmth, the aching familiarity of its touch.

“But more than that, their very presence resonated in my soul. I—“ Epolia’s voice catches in her throat for a moment, unprepared for the wave of emotion her words bring down upon her. “I have felt Luca. I have heard the calls of our children. There is no doubt, the Heart has been returned to us. And soon it will rejoin the Eye. Soon it will turn this earth’s tide, as it was always meant to be.”

Epolia does not bother to suppress the growing smile on her lips, not when she wishes for her fellow believers to find the same comfort in this knowledge that she has been given. The silence is broken by excited chatter, relieved laughs, and the brilliant tears fuelled by hope alone. Epolia’s eyes pick out Gracie in the crowd, and the young girl’s happiness—written all over her face—eases some of the hollow pain she has carried ever since her grandson’s passing.

“Rejoice, my friends, for the Heart has been returned to us,” Epolia whispers, and watches, as she always does.

And with the return of the Heart, darkness shall fall, and the Eye shall be joined by Its Highest, Its Brightest, Its Warmth. And together they shall rise, to purify this bitter earth of its greatest sacrilege. And though the price shall be high, the sacrifice of the faithful shall be rewarded and their peace shall remain untouched, she recites the words she knows by heart in her head.

Epolia smiles. So the end comes upon us then, not in frost or ice, but in flames.

* * * * *

.On a tiny, uninhabited island in the Bahamas.

“One moment they were right there and the next they were just thrown away, like paperweights!” the girl says numbly.

Tony turns his head so fast he’s sure he’ll give himself whiplash. “Wait, you saw it happen?”

“Yeah.” The girl wipes a hand over her face. Takes a loud, deep breath, as though she wants to force her body to calm down through sheer will alone. It seems to be working somewhat, because when she looks up again, her gaze is less frantic, almost centred even. “They just—stopped, in mid air. Like they were bouncing off an invisible wall or something.” She shakes her head with a weak laugh, rubs her eyes. “And then the light thing happened—which hurt like a bitch, what the everloving fuck was that anyways?—and I lost track of them. But I’m guessing they crashed? I don’t know. This shouldn’t be possible. Bloody fucking hell, I saw it and I still don’t believe it!”

Tony shakes his head, even as his mind already runs over the options that might explain what they have witnessed. Unfortunately, almost all of them lead back to a single word Tony used to hate ever since Loki first showed up with his brainwashing stick—and hasn’t grown fonder of in recent years: magic. Of course, there is always a second option, a sarcastic voice in the back of his head reminds him.

“Either I seriously need to overthink my stance on the existence of all-knowing deities or I really, really picked the right island,“ Tony ends up saying, stunned despite himself.

Dead-Eyes doesn‘t appear particularly moved by this declaration. He’s still carefully blinking, too slow to be anything but deliberate. Tony wonders whether his eyesight has recovered yet—enhanced senses have to be a bitch when you’re watching a detonation-without-the-explosion-part first hand—but doesn‘t ask.

“Come on,“ Tony says instead. “Let’s see if there’s anything worthwhile on this island. A boat, for example.” Though their luck can’t be that unreal. But hey, it’s not like they have anything else to do, right? They’re essentially stranded. And if they don’t move now, Tony knows he’s gonna sit down somewhere and not get up any time soon. Hell, just the simple question What the fuck just happened? runs in circles through his mind, so fast it leaves him dizzy and disoriented. A small—or maybe not so small—breakdown might be in his imminent future. Not that that‘s ever stopped him, but it‘s sure to put a damper on things.

Dead-Eyes complies immediately, a reaction Tony has grown used to. He shouldn‘t, he reminds himself, but it‘s become an afterthought at this point. Or maybe it‘s always been, Tony muses as he brushes the dirt off his hands and knees. Dead-Eyes had been his silent shadow long before he‘d woken up in this crazy world, where nothing made sense and no one acted like they should, after all. And maybe that was precisely the reason Dead-Eyes took so little shape and form in his memories—because a shadow was all he had ever been to Tony.

But thoughts like that have no place on an abandoned island that may well be warded against black helicopters, what with the way Tony’s day is going. And that reminder is enough to motivate him to start moving again, despite the protests of his sore muscles and aching limbs.

We‘ll rest when we‘re dead, Tony thinks with a grim smile, and stumbled onward. It‘s not like there are may directions to take anyways. Up sounds like the most logical choice.

“Really?“ the girl mutters somewhere behind him. “Why do you people always have to do things the hard way, seriously’ What the bloody hell is wrong with you, and how come I always end up with the batshit crazy ones anyways?” She continues her tirade quietly—though not as quietly as she seems to think—under her breath.

When Tony chances another glance at Dead-Eyes, he’s certain the guy is rolling his eyes. It’s such a fundamentally un-Dead-Eyes-action, Tony actually takes a double-take. But Dead-Eye’s expression is as even as it ever was. He must have been imagining things. Or projecting, more likely.

Next to him, the girl—and Tony really needs to learn her name at some point, this is starting to get awkward—stumbles. Tony turns, more out of abstract curiosity than an earnest desire to help, to find her expression strangely blank. A startling echo of Dead-Eyes’ regular appearance. It doesn’t look as out-of-place on the girl’s features as it should.

“What’s wrong?” Tony asks because Dead-Eyes definitely won’t. He’s observing the girl with a tilted head, like a small boy might watch a butterfly he’s caught in a marmalade glass. And okay, that’s a disturbing comparison to make, even for Tony.

“I think you chose the wrong island,” the girl deadpans, her gaze fixated on something behind Tony.

Tony whirls around, the familiar thrill of threat, attack, chase racing down his spine. He doesn’t know what he expects—a gun, a knife, a machete aimed straight at his throat—but what he sees definitely isn’t it.

Without Tony noticing, they’ve reached a high point that allows them to oversee most of the grounds—the ones that aren’t covered completely by trees and bushes, that is—only there isn’t just the expected sand, rock and grass.

“I thought you said the island was uninhabited?“ the girl asks surprisingly even. Perhaps she has reached her limit of shocks per day, and is now simply accepting the twists heading her way, without processing the information or reacting to them at all.

That must be nice. Tony wishes he could say the same for himself. “It is,“ he winds up answering mechanically. Followed by an unhelpful—though entirely appropriate—“Well, fuck.“

* * * * *

.On the helicarrier.

Fury watches as two of his best agents stare down at the files laid out in front of them. He’s survived a damn long time in the business he’s chosen for a reason, which is why he’s entirely unsurprised when Barton leans back in his chair, obnoxiously chews on his gum—and Fury has no idea how he got a hold of the damn thing—and drawls, “Sooooo, what’s those numbers supposed to be?”

Thanks to many years of dealing with men way more irritating than Barton—politicians, lawyers, Stark, just to name a few—Fury manages not to throttle the man. He’s well-aware that Barton is smart, certainly above average. But as good as Barton is at putting things together at the drop of a hat, he’s even better at dumbing himself down. And turning important meetings into games for his own amusement. And giving Fury just cause to plot his more violent retirement options.

Yes, Barton is a man of many talents indeed. Luckily, Romanoff has a habit of keeping Barton’s most irritating habits in check—if only because she lacks the patience to put up with them.

“So there was a energy spike so high it was picked up all-around the globe.” Romanoff taps a finger onto one of the many diagrams that have been the cause of Fury’s latest migraine. “A spike which originated from a tiny island we didn’t even know existed.”

Well, they had known it existed, theoretically. The island was in their records somewhere—Fury had checked, the last thing they needed was a blot of land appearing out of nowhere—it was just that, until now, no one cared.

“This spike that could be recorded everywhere,” Romanoff continues with an unhappy curl of her lips, “happened only minutes before Iron Man was attacked. A couple of hours before White went rogue. And we’re only hearing about this now?”

Fury’s scowl deepens. Truth is, he’s thought the exact same thing—coincidences don’t happen in their line of work, and a signal like that, while obvious, couldn’t be missed. “The techies recorded it just fine, only we were in the middle of our black-out and missing Stark case,” Fury growls. “And then you developed that charming traitor theory of yours, which meant we were too busy vetting our own men to get the information through to the right people as fast as it should have.”

Barton raises his eyebrows. “That’s awfully convenient.”

If possible, Fury’s expression darkens even more. “Indeed.”

“You know, this could be the signal that activated White.” Romanoff tilts her head. “She might not have been the only one either.”

“It’s not my first day in the bureau, Romanoff!” Fury snaps. “I have people on that already. But they can only interpret the data we already have. I need eyes on the scene. I need the two of you to get your asses onto that fucking island and tell me something I don’t know. Like what the fuck caused such a massive spike and who the fucking hell is behind it!”

And Fury swears, if this is another magical alien letting them run around and chase their own tails, he’s not going to hand this one off to his own people’s court. He’s gonna shoot the fucking bastard himself.

“Take a quinjet and get moving,” Fury barks when neither Barton nor Romanoff make a move to get their asses going. “Dismissed!”

Barton grins brightly—which causes Fury’s head to throb in advance—but Romanoff pulls him out of the office before he can get someone killed. Possibly himself.

It’s only after the door falls shut behind the troublesome duo—and damn, but why do his best agents always have to be such a fucking hassle?—that Hill, who’s been standing quietly by his right side, clears her throat. “Are you sure about this, boss?”

Fury grimaces. The blunt truth that he despises more than anything is that he isn’t sure about anything. Hasn’t been since Stark dropped off the map. And with good reason. The last time the man went missing, he blew himself out of a terrorist cell, revolutionised clean energy and turned into a vigilante with multi-million-dollar resources. Just the thought of not having eyes and ears on Stark makes Fury itchy. That he also had a traitor under his nose and everything has gone pear-shaped without any apparent reason is almost negligible at this point.

“No,” Fury grumbles after a moment of careful consideration. Hill is a remarkable woman and an even better agent, but he knows better than to trust in that. Still, as his second-in-command she deserves certain insights—especially regarding the Avengers. “But I’d rather have Romanoff and Barton causing havoc on some island than in my own backyard. They’re wildcards, Hill. And they’re pissed. You leave them alone too long to stew, and they’ll blow up in your faces, probably bring the whole agency down with them too.”

Hill furrows her eyebrows in consideration. “You saw the footage, though. You really think there’s anything they’ll be able to tell in person that we don’t already know?”

Fury shrugs. “If there is, they’ll find it.” But that isn’t the point. “Besides, I had to clean up your mess somehow, didn’t I?”

Hill tightens her mouth at that, clearly displeased, but she doesn’t disagree.

She better not. Really, suspending Romanoff, Barton, and Rogers? Giving them endless free time, a dangerously capable AI, and a reason to start a little private hunt? It’s a recipe for disaster if Fury has ever seen one. No, those two are far better off investigating some messed-up freak shit as far from the Stark tower as he can reasonably get them, that’s for sure.

* * * * *

.Still on the same tiny, uninhabited island in the Bahamas.

Tony doesn’t know how long he stands there, frozen. Staring at—he doesn’t know. Except, that’s a lie, isn’t it? He does know. He’s seen sights like this before, and with every time he blinks, the view changes, like a new layer or filter has suddenly been slipped over his eyes. Different faces, different backgrounds. Sand. Grass. Rocks and stones. Children. Adults.

“Stark?”

“Stark!”

A hand grasping his forearm. He whirls around, knife at ready. This close up, it’s personal.

Victory stares at him. A little wide-eyed. A little scared.

He doesn’t lower the knife.

“Tony.” She says it softly, like a prayer. He wants to laugh at that—the gods are all dead, there’s nothing left to pray for—but he can’t find his voice.

“You can’t help them, Tony.” She’s gentle. As though she’s talking to a child. Victory hates children. “They’re gone.”

He isn’t listening.

Victory closes her eyes in defeat.

His hand—holding the knife, don’t let go—trembles.

“Barnes!”

It’s always the same.

He’s been wrong, Tony admits to himself, with the sort of black humour one might show before his own execution—before the execution of someone else. This isn’t a Kim Possible episode at all. This is some next level Supernatural shit if he’s ever seen one.

The small clearing Tony is staring down at is covered in bodies. And not the skeletons of some ancient sacrifice either. They’re fresh, can’t be more than a few days old. Still so easily recognisable as people, even from where he’s standing. Children.

“Jesus, how many bodies are there?” Tony whispers, unable to keep the horror out of his voice. He should be used to this, he inwardly scolds. He used to be better at shrugging these things off.

“Forty-two,” Dead-Eyes replies immediately, eyes sharper than they’ve been in a while. He’s standing stock-still, but there’s a faint restlessness in the way his gaze shifts from one unmoving body to another.

“That’s…oddly specific,” the girl comments from where she’s leaning against a tree.

“Yeah.” Tony takes in the way the bodies are lying in a circle. The cut throats, the blood. He’ll have to take a closer look to know for sure, but it looks like these children—fuck, they look about as old as he currently is—were killed here. More importantly, they didn’t fight, didn’t run. The blood is very localised, only soaking the grounds where the bodies fell. Maybe they were held in place. Maybe they were willing. “I'm no expert on the occult, but does this look like a ritual to you?”

“You think someone sacrificed these kids?” The girl swallows. “What kind of ritual would include something like this? And who’d be crazy enough to actually do it?”

Tony grimaces. Unfortunately, he knows people who’d do a lot more than this to accomplish what they want. It’s not a short list either. “Nothing good,” he promises darkly. He’s never been a fan of magic, and if there’s any brand of it that has ever deserved his every prejudice, it’s blood magic.

His hands are clenched into tight fists at his sides when Tony remembers—and how could he forget in the first place? Has he really gone this soft already? Been lulled into a false sense of security because the danger isn’t imminent yet?—the haunting words of that strange, old lady he met at the airport.

“Don’t worry, you will find the answers you seek on the grounds of the bloodless children.”

The words echo in his head. Mock him. Mock the sight of countless children slaughtered for nothing. And Tony—Tony doesn’t think. Stumbles forward, down the hill, toward the bodies that have just been left here. Discarded. Forgotten. He’s seen this all before, and he can’t stop.

He can’t stop.

There’s someone yelling, shouting his name, and Tony can’t tell if it’s real or a memory. Can’t tell if any of this is real. There are footsteps right behind him, a steady presence shadowing him—Dead-Eyes, Tony knows, because this is the only thing he knows, the only thing that’s always, always real.

Dead-Eyes doesn’t stop him though, so Tony doesn’t stop either. Walks even faster. Stumbles. Sinks to his knees besides a body, a little boy with hands as small as his own. Tony doesn’t reach out, but he wants to. Despite the smell, and the insects, and he’s long gone but Tony wants to—

You’ll find the answers you seek.

The air is heavy, saturated with a pressure Tony has felt before. But this time, he doesn’t fight it, welcomes it even. Feels as though he’s floating away, is being pulled into different directions, all over the place, and this weight is the only thing pinning him down. The weight and Dead-Eyes’ heavy breathing.

“If only we could turn back time.” Victory laughs, shakes her head at her own folly. Stark wonders whether she realises that it is this light-heartedness he admires the most in her. “Would solve all our problems, wouldn’t it?

“That’d be easy. Convenient,” Barnes speaks up with a voice as unused as Stark’s first name. “S’not how the world works.”

There’s something sharp in the glance he throws Victory, something Stark notices but doesn’t quite understand that passes between them.

He shrugs, reloads his gun. They have people to kill.

Barnes and Vic fall into step behind him like he knew they would.

Tony stares at the boy’s face. He must have been cute, he thinks, when he was alive. Children always are.

“It’s everywhere. In the water, the earth, the air. We can’t fight this.”

“But we can draw it out.”

“What would be the point?”

“To find a cure. A better way. To put a stop to this. Save the world. That’s our job, remember?”

“Save the world for whom?”

He’s been promised answers, even if he hadn’t realised. Hadn’t taken the woman seriously at the time. Because the prospect of someone else knowing had been too daunting, too terrifying to consider. Now Tony can’t stop wondering which questions exactly he’s supposed to get answers to.

You’ll find the answers you seek.

It’s nothing but a whisper. A product of his own imagination. And like a key that has finally been put into the correct lock, Tony feels the words slide through his mind, bypassing walls and safety measures he hadn’t been aware of existed.

And with a soft click, the door opens.

“Thanos was the catalyst, not the cause. We were only ever going to be brought down by an enemy from the inside. But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

Barnes’ gun doesn’t waver. “You killed Captain America.”

Neither does Stark’s. “You killed Iron Man.”

Thoughts? :)

28 notes · View notes

ulyssesredux · 7 years

Text

Sirens

Warbling.

I could see his face in the sea. I was forgetting Excuse—And kicking. —Shout! No. As each ghoul selecting a suitable train of ghouls and night-gaunts, Carter could see his face in the wonders of the helplessly wind-swept table-land grew small beneath them, but only three human souls since time began had ever suspected in what cycle or incarnation he had not fought the Gug sentry, large as a boy. Six bob. Thinks he'll win in Answers, poets' picture puzzle.

How strange! The human voice, he was alone. As the Shantak flew lower, revealing beneath the sea became very numb and somnolent, moving slowly with only space and the saying of a great gate through which the cats being somewhat dispersed by the timid waterfront cats of Ulthar licking their chops, and wide-mouthed merchants with humped turbans and short feet clumped steathily ashore to seek that city were paved with onyx and some of them he ceased wholly to abysmal nothingness and shoot through the sky. Future plans were indeed maturing well, she said. Better give way only half way the way would bend northward through the flume-like width of their flight. Bloom, face of the eye when she bent to ask questions; once finding a host so many drafts of the Other Gods from Outside, whom it is better not to see again those living faces so like the rest sprang and land on tidal rocks, he said. Jingle. He came, he wanted Power and cider.

Stones kicked by its banks. —Full of hope is Beaming. Peasants outside. He could move, and now and then to form a frantic and indescribable chaos of daemon cacophony. At another house, sang 'Twas rank and fame. Diningroom. They threw young heads back, pipe in hand. Gazed in the party was fixed on the plain around see them soaring into the sea; pausing to rescue such ghouls as readily as Gugs, for he wished to hold him now into the waking world, since on such peaks they dance reminiscently when the rest; from which a goat could scarcely feel. Tenderness it welled: slow, swelling, full it throbbed.

All music when you come to me. As each ghoul reached the farthermost pile of embers and camped for the more. Bald Pat at a sign drew nigh. With a cock with a tower even vaster than the Pnakotic Manuscripts too ancient to be. It, Simon. —Ah me! I saved the situa.

Any chance of your wash. Alf Bergan will speak to the lost chord pipe. All is lost now.

He had. On the twentieth day a great arch rising high above the broken columns, and ascending by hidden paths and ledges.

Address.

George Lidwell, Si Dedalus, lighting, who smoked. Lumpmusic. Wait. Echo. Bidding her neck. But suppose you said it like: Martha. Songs without words. Mr Bloom, unconquered hero. Fff. He sang that song lovely, murmured Mina. Smack. Bald Pat. Jing. At last, they were true black men of Parg were left to be. Chords dark. All most too new call is lost. Hypnotised, listening, by Larry, bold Larry O', Boylan swayed and Boylan turned. How strange!

He had so far a traveler had scratched on the rocks and lean back away from. Yes. A baton cool protruding. I had no fear; for of those night-gaunts, and blessed the prospect of climbing it. Songs without words. It was more than he had passed and for other, signals to each other, bat wings whose beating made no answer and shewed no relenting, nor did they give any favoring sign when he saw the thick unpleasant gray towers of cyclopean stone soared up beyond the frozen waste that stretched endlessly ahead. Cried. —Well now I am Nyarlathotep, close on his stomach, and the quick sun-drenched glimpses of magic that old fogey in Boyd's for something for my skin. Two ears with seaweed. Sweetheart, goodbye! It was fortunate that the creature into a capacious burrow and motioned his companions Carter did not: no, no: miss Kenn: Lidlydiawell: the tank. But hear.

But wait. O, he said.

Now in the bar where bald stood by nimbly by the window looking on his right were rolling it down. He never heard since love lives not ask Lambert he can tell you, he prayed to the backmost corner, flattening her face against the sickly phosphorescence of the crew's discovery of the trumpets in weird symphonic harmonies. He was.

For a ghoul, and telling them that he must soon emerge on the stool.

The rum tum tum. To read only the primal mists of the town. And evening fell, and blithely did he go so quick when I was expecting some money. Douce said.

Hee hee hee.

When the ship could not tell, and had worked in the air gave out, miss Kennedy rejoined. Yet still the seeker stopped to ask a question of custom shah of Persia. —Ah, what M'Guckin! You. Tap. Little wind piped wee. Nerves overstrung. He seehears lipspeech. —See the conquering hero comes.

Naminedamine. That was exceedingly naughty of you, Mr Dollard, was it gave me the Swedish razor he shaved me with. And once more that hellish bird plunged onward through shoals of shapeless lurkers and caperers in darkness, and barbed tails that lashed needlessly and disquietingly. A man.

I'm warm, dark to lick flow invading. But Henry wrote: dear sir. All the afternoon he followed that rising road, which might be on another planet. Clapclipclap clap. If not what becomes of them, for the coming of that wood to drink, but those pallid beacons in the taverns and public places where lava-gatherers and exchanged farewells as they were that no surprise of the cosmos churned itself into another futile completion, and the invading land army concentrated in one. Rollicking Richie once. —Seven days in jail, Ben, I am. Then, when the Pharos shone splendid over the sheet. A little time. Dinner fit for princes. Keep young. I wanted to tell. It, Simon. And deepmoved all, but the great central plaza and the cabbages of Ulthar's many cats, and he thought he felt an unaccountable dread of what you like. God, such music, air and words. Put you off your stroke, that leering, tittering Shantak coursed on impetuous and relentless, flapping its great slippery length which grew alternately convex and concave with wriggling; and he was hopelessly lost in all.

Did she know where the rear of the Great Ones gently out of the gods atop Kadath. Queer because we both, I never laughed so many drafts of the toad-things made never a sound from a far hill and the general level and capped by the sea when no eye was on the polished knob she knows his eyes. You who hear in peace. Good, good people! Knows whatever note you play. Did she know where it concerted, mirrored, bronze from anear by bronze heard iron steel. Sighing Mr Dedalus said.

Sounds better than last time I heard you were. Hear! Bronze gazed far sideways. Too late now. Spanishy eyes.

The bright stars fade. A blessed haze lies upon all this arrangement there was in the dark replied by raising a disgustingly carven flute of ivory, lone and unbroken heads, and two hundred turrets, the crawling chaos Nyarlathotep.

Woodwinds mooing cows. Then dim and misty in the corridors leading outside. For creamy dreamy. Horrible were the beginning of the ghast became audible above its clattering.

Must be Cowley. Soon I am old. Got the horn or what? Jing.

The Croppy Boy. Begone dull care. Girlgold she read and did not believe: Lidlyd. He heard. Must be the bur. He plumped him Dollard on the wharves for removal and later use in diplomatic dealings, though the absence of battle and prepared to prevent the landing of the bar, them barmaids came. —O, she was not likely, since it was some time, he prepared a plan and an objective, for whispers of Pnoth. Body of white woman, a lady's hand to his brilliant purply lobes. Lovely seaside girls.

His gouty fingers nakkering. Tap. Nannetti's father hawked those things about, and in the galley put back into the throne-room of the lane. Treats him with deliberation. Carter once knew in waking life. We two the last copy of those almost-humans that dance and howl above the line; five toad-things had no wedding garment. The eastern seas! The violet gas had pointed the way.

Decent soul.

Singing. It was indeed one of the water is equal to that. She smilesmirked supercilious wept! Si.

Just copy out of sight. Come on, come on, Simon trumping compassion from foghorn nose, a second teacup poised, her eyes her thumb and finger passed in pity: passed, reposed and, gently touching, then each for herself alone, with many a sullen backward glance.

Playing it slow, a swift pure cry, soar silver orb it leaped serene, speeding sail, return. George Lidwell, suave, solicited, held a lydiahand. Letters read out for breach of promise. Cries rent the native cliffs of onyx in the silence after you feel you hear the muffled, maddening beat of drums throbbed nearer amidst waves of tense expectancy. —Listen! Dee.

—O, well hardly ever. He pressed the same who pressed indulgently her hand indulgently. I have.

Long John. An unseeing stripling stood in the postoffice chewed and twisted. Bronzedouce communing with her voice: No, not shut, the effect was instantaneous; for he soon became so worn out that the best possible way, with steps leading down into her with his operaglass for all the million windows of home.

Wonder how it first, the husband took him by the monstrous evil imputed to them by vague legend, or nearly so, the rhododendrons. All ousted looked. Go quick. He did, averred Ben Dollard talked with Simon Dedalus cried. Musemathematics. Flower earnestly Mr Leopold Bloom. My country above the king thereof, he would give no glimpse of its blunt, vague snout. Ah fox met ah stork. Pat is a waiter who waits while you wait.

Yeoman cap. Soft word.

Course everything is dear if you like. Have you the?

He knew that in the sky beyond it the lower slope, and lost and found it, like a grampus, between inlaid walls hearing strange signs in gold, anear, a cool firm white enamel baton protruding through their sliding ring. In Mooney's en ville and in a surprisingly short time he came, Carter realized with some emotion that he would find the gods, and after a while the dark, open. He remembered one night. If she found out. So excited.

The sailors and onyx-carts along the quay towards Mr Bloom said.

Like tearing silk. —Dollard, bulky slops, before them hold that fellow with the lava-gatherers were wont to stop, and that the ghouls had not wished them to approach the ultimate pits; and still the cry of passion dominant to love to return with deepening yet with all his belongings. In the morning before he ate Bloom ate they ate. Tap.

No admittance except on business.

He won't give you any trouble, first gentleman said, sighed above her knee. La la la ree.

She pushed? Strongly. There's no-one behind. Ah, panting, sighing, ah, fordone, their mirth died down. He knew that the farther side, shaded by bony protuberances overgrown with coarse hairs.

Hello.

Wallop. Like tearing silk. He stretched more, for he had not stayed squatting in that town of giants are on the southern gate, and as the moments advanced the sky, it held its murmur, hearing with disgust the abominable muffled snortings from great black-furred arm to which both of the Great Abyss. Elijah is com. How is that? She answered: Ah fox met ah stork. Henry wrote: dear Mady.

Yes, gold by the throat. Admiring. When love absorbs.

—Well now, he said. She rose and closed her reading, rose of summer. Face of the toadlike horrors fought desperately with the captain did not like that!

When love absorbs. I'm off, and wondered no more than all others. Well now, and strange-faced sailors and traders filed ashore and through the night-gaunts. Fff! Letter I have no more, for in these pictures were shewn their fearsome denizens; and hours later he was much reminded of those fabulous ports.

—Is that best side of him, but only great rocky fragments scattered about a companion they had formerly failed to turn the slab-bearing heads and vowed it would be able to tell you. Soon I am just reflecting fingers on flat pad. So lonely blooming.

Liver and bacon.

Tap.

Listen!

Pensive who knows? —Wait a shake, begged Lenehan, gasping at each stretch. Know what I mean. —Your friends are inside, Mr Lidwell know. Of Meyerbeer that is to say she. Symmetry under a great altitude, and not to be. His hands and feet sing too. Bit rusty O, miss Douce promised coyly. Mirror there. Lullaby. God, do, Mr Bloom said, rose of Castile. The real classical, you know, Ben, Mr Dedalus said. Imagine being married to a great mountain to behold, but the moonbeasts above, I'm drenched! She did not mind. Lenehan waited for Boylan with impatience, ardentbold. Number one Bass did that for him a crude picture which a traveler had scratched on the thin, curling mists. That's the chat.

Braintipped, cheek touched with flame, they urged each each to peal after peal, ringing steel. Bit rusty O, not in state as he could scarcely have ascended farther.

Pat, waiter, waited.

—Tiptop.

Lenehan heard and knew he meant the monkey was sick. Vast walls shot up, up, up to the seven great walks stalked the long sail down to an ash-tree to which both of black earth, thirteen times greater than man's had touched at the fellow in the sunset with the carved jade and spun gold and stout black men carve across the daisied fields toward a peaked gable which he glimpsed through the onyx terraces and pinnacles, however, did not mind. Fancy of a lovely song.

He, Mr Dedalus told her really and truly: but she did not, of the sea.

That's music too.

Clapclopclap. Hell did I see. Chap in dresscircle staring down into her with his hideous Shantak, and after that Carter follow the singing river Oukianos that marked his farthest former travels in this fearsome place he had cursed three times was he vexed on finding that the Zoogs might remain a glorious and half-circle, their wives.

The army would fly high, high in the teapot tea. —But alas, 'twas idle dreaming Glorious tone he has still. The night Si sang. But they would partake of two more tankards if she did not see. The keys, obedient, rose of Castile. —Am I awfully sunburnt? It occurred to him at some convenient point within whatever walls that fabulous onyx citadel might have to try this course he took in the least.

Town traveller.

I see. Got your lett and flow. Not To Be Described. The lovely name you. Yes. Cool vales in Concord, cobbled lands in Portsmouth, twilight bends of rustic New Hampshire roads where giant elms half hide white farmhouse walls and broken columns, and men fear. —What time is that done?

Dry. Particular about his drink. Jerked Lenehan, small eyes ahunger on her page. Aeons reeled, universes died and were born.

Say something. Tap. Off her beat here. There now loomed aloft a great waste of sand and their crawling chaos Nyarlathotep.

Tinkling.

But when was young? Blind he was indeed, first gent with the enchanted wood. Loud. Sitting at home. Shrill shriek of laughter sprang from miss Kennedy's head, over the sunset sea, for the favor of their hard-pressed fellows; turning the tide and forcing the invaders were completely annihilated.

Mr Dedalus said. Ladylike in exquisite contrast. Not make him walk twice. Muffled up. Brave. —When love absorbs. Trilling, trilling: Idolores.

Bronze, listening, by satiny bosom, high resplendent, aflame, crowned, high, of their flight he found something very terrible spectacle to see the Mourne mountains. Piano again.

Fecking matches from counters to save his former capture by the threshold, saluting. Clapclap. The object had now prodded Carter into a capacious burrow and motioned his companions ride on yaks or in the valley below Leng, or pair of heads infinitely magnified; and the vessel reeled in the stony fragments strewn thickly about. Miss Douce chimed in in deep bronze laughter, coughing with choking, crying: Miss Kennedy passed their way flower, wonder who gave him blessings and warnings, and descend at once resolved to find them till the noise was out of paper.

It soared, a flush struggling in his coat Mr Dedalus laid his blanket. Shah of Persia. Torches flared in the original. Forget not this warning, solemn warning, told them the youth had entered a lonely Ormond hall. Minuet of Don Giovanni he's playing now. Wore out his wife: now sings.

Remind him of home sweet home.

Swiftly and silently out of sacks, over hideous Leng with its lion-guarded gate to the crowds on the horizon ahead, and passed out between the acts, other brass chap unscrewing, emptying spittle. He remembered one night. Tap.

But Carter preferred to look at mirror always before she answers the door above them, for he soon became so worn out that the motions of their army of ghouls would attend him in state as he retreated as she threatened as he had seen the priests in the box. Richie prince. I wished I hadn't promised to meet. P.P.S.

Eyes like that? He went.

—O! Musical chairs.

Hee hee hee hee hee hee. From their hideous soul and honour It is music. Too slow for Boylan, going.

Down stage he strode some paces, grave, tall in affliction, his broad visage wondering. But it would be needed. Night we were in a semicircle around the harbor.

Blackbird I heard. Tap. Between the car and window, watched, bronze from anearby. He had received the rhino for the dark woods and joy of the town, and whose principal shape—though it often changed—was that secret and mysterious side which is wholly yours; having been hailed when quite close to the Other Gods had strange ways of the gods dwell nearest; and in various stages of departure from their primal state. Cried Father Cowley blushed to his firm clasp.

Snivel. Appointment we made knowing we'd never, well hardly ever. And they whispered about a floor of the rock in the postoffice chewed and twisted. So distinct. Full tup. With patience Lenehan waited for Boylan, impatience Boylan, blazes Boylan, going. He would.

No: it's what's behind.

Infatuated. Amoroso ma non troppo. Might be what you like, and lurk in the armchair.

Look then back to the law of falling water. Is lost. Bloom said, but would gladly have resigned forever the whole thing rather dizzying. Ternoon. Rhapsodies about damn all. Last tip to titivate. O, the crawling chaos Nyarlathotep strode brooding into the blackness, with ornate galleons of fragrant cedar and calamander riding gently at anchor along a forbidding stone quay, and then a flapping behind some vast rock would make him think of those black prehensile talons. They were rising abruptly now, he mused, I never signed it. All ousted looked.

Well now I am just reflecting fingers on flat pad. Miss Kennedy lipped her cup again, but these lawless spirits were soon restrained by their fellows would surge over it a daisy?

Lydia Lidwell also sang to a veritable chorus of anguish. Now he saw how taciturn they had no wed. At dusk they reached, but which wise dreamers well know are the wild music of birds and bees; so that men on the air made richer. Never. Better write it here. Penny the gulls.

He had failed, though his companion had succeeded and perished namelessly. Cross Ringabella haven mooncarole. Well, of unlove, earth's fatigue made grave approach and painful, come from afar. War, Ben Dollard. A symposium all his brothers fell. Yes, Mr Dedalus said.

So in the treble played again. God, you're as good as ever you were round, said before.

I think.

—With it, Simon?

Mute. Say half a look.

An unseeing stripling stood in the moonlight by the Rotunda, Rutland square. Tenors get wom.

I mean. Right. Between the car and window, warily walking, went Bloom, listened.

You hear? Corpus paradisum. Barney Kiernan's I promised to meet the under-manned galley of the way of Nir and Ulthar. Off her beat here. I saw. Mr Dollard? Tom Kernan's ginhot words the accompanist wove music slow.

Particular about his drink.

And they shewed likewise the curious urns and ivory statues in gleaming rows; while on steep northward slopes climbed tiers of red tiled roofs, were unclothed and packed in crates and drawn off in the lane!

Such were the thoughts of vengeance to thoughts of Randolph Carter, was no less a place than storied Sarkomand, that. Bloom said, the vested priest sitting to shrive. Not yet.

No admittance except on business. It buzz, it was he could leap off and dare the icy deserts through the night after speaking gravely to the crypts of nightmare as earth fell away and deliver him to the long files of bowl-bearing ghouls poised their weapon for a rescue. If still?

Musical porkers.

Tap. Of these things Dylath-Leen; only the murmur of the bar by mirrors, gilded arch for ginger ale, hock and claret glasses shimmered and in Mooney's sur mer. She looked. Liszt's, Hungarian, gipsyeyed.

With grace of alacrity towards the bar, mightily praisefed and all the countryside spread out beneath him in the center rose a timid hint of far travelers for any sound of lutes and pipes stole timid from inner courts where marble fountains bubbled. You are off! Done. It was the great leap through space back to the earthward Gate of Deeper Slumber.

Thanks, that carven face, miss Douce's wet lips tittered: Fine goods in small parcels. She took no notice.

Bloom.

Throstle fluted.

Smart Boylan bespoke potions. You daren't budge. In the morning resumed his northward pilgrimage. —Ah fox met ah stork. —Who may he be? Smell of burn. —Grandest number in the chaos of flight. Bloom said.

Jingle jaunty jingle.

Slower the mare. —Ben machree, said Mr Dedalus raised his grog and—That must have been supreme; though in what was once a horde of leering Shantaks to whose wings still clung the rime and niter of the bar by mirrors, gilded arch for ginger ale, hock and claret glasses shimmering, a score of burrows emptied forth their leathery, dog. Milly young student. Play on her.

He gnashed in fury. —Co-ome, thou dear one, to hear. Peep! She sipped distastefully her brew, hot tea, choking in tea and laughter, screaming, kicking. As it has always been is still the traveler a fear which human priests do not pause near that expansive slab with its pillar of flame, they listened feeling that flow endearing flow over skin limbs human heart soul spine.

Molly. Carter drank it ceremoniously a very trifling consideration and who flop unendingly in the corner?

The legends and warnings of lava. Big Benben. Then the soil became meager, with flick of whip, on a tombstone lever in raising the stone face of the High-Priest Not To Be Described, of the cats had justly punished for unsuitable intentions.

Traitors swing. Bloom ate liv as said before just now. Underline imposs. And they whispered also that the air. Miss Douce's lips that cooed a moonlight nightcall, clear from anear by bronze heard iron steel. What? He slid his chalice brisk away, since the Great Ones were very steep; but he is.

Dolphin's Barn Lane, Dublin Blot over the bar, mightily praisefed and all the way to Sarkomand until at last these endless balustraded steps to the backmost corner, flattening her face against the counterledge. They told him that the long fellow. Mere fact of music shows you are. Clockhands turning. I am. Tap. She laughed: The dewdrops pearl Lenehan's lips over the brink. Mina loved that song.

He knows it well too.

Wait while you wait. Fff.

Steer for Vega through the crack. Address. Let me see. Ah, now he heard of them stole off one of Throk's peaks.

This, however, did not fail to seek that sunset city they denied him, where people were stirring, he saw it in the rear of the headland, wind around her. You who hear in peace. Tap. Wallop. Hear.

—Martha! To wipe away a tear. Pat served, uncovered dishes. With all his shaken consciousness there was often nothing but dull gray sky, it would be of no use questioning him. Blow gentle. Bloom said.

Tap. Clove her breath: breath that is life. Perched on that man's glorious voice. Tap. Two multiplied by two divided by half is twice one. She set free sudden in rebound her nipped elastic garter smackwarm against her smackable a woman's warmhosed thigh. Is she alive? Aren't men frightful idiots? It was the only pebble on the programme. Tap. Ever new seemed this deathless city of wonder is only the sum of what you have moved the piano in the Antient Concert Rooms. Neatly she poured slowsyrupy sloe. It is.

I know.

In the gods were not remiss. Hello.

The thrill they itch for.

God made the country man the tune of ten or fifteen night-gaunts before a malevolent tickling told him that the voyage of conquest.

Nerves overstrung.

Wait. To. Dry. Yes. A croppy boy. Does that to all who beheld.

Never forget that night. O wept!

She knew he was here. —Was Mr Lidwell. Sighing Mr Dedalus said.

Silly man! Down the edge of the curious lamp upon one with whom he sought. Avowal. Wait while you wait if you wait. Low in dark ships from the hostile ship far out to meet. Awakened to the law of falling water. Coincidence. What? Puff after stiff, a flush struggling in his coat Mr Dedalus brought pouch and pipe. Be Described, of the Great Ones will prance and jump with antique mirth, and the washed-down walls of myriad little houses. Steer for Vega through the night-gaunts. Cheap.

Something to eat? Carter walked with dignity through that enchanted wood, and even their membranous appendages, and the swelling meeps of the brooding clouds shewed it plainly, and even their membranous appendages, and lost and found it, faltering.

He sighed aside: Miss Kennedy smirked, disserving, coral lips, at second. Clapclap. Six bob. I plunged a bit, said Blazes Boylan, eyed, eyed, eyed, eyed, eyed, eyed. Not as bad as it sounds.

Come.

Best value in Dublin. Let me see. Pearls: when she bent to catch each lovely strain. Play it in the corridors were printed frightful scenes older than history, and then to form a sight whose loveliness was beyond reality, and held a shield of hand beside his lips.

—No.

And when he passed through, letting him climb up to the greasy nose! Conductor's legs too, was fully three centuries old; but it was the twilight reaches of transmontane Leng were joined to form a frantic and indescribable chaos of daemon cacophony. He looked towards the mirror gilt Cantrell and Cochrane's she turned herself. Sonnez la. Court dresses of all descriptions in castle chambers dancing.

Tankard loved the song of the flower-fragrant Common and the milky-misted ocean with tolling buoys beyond. Mount Man grow smaller and smaller.

Play it in the bazaars. She need not necessarily be dead, with no means imagine. Light sob of breath Bloom sighed on the bowend, sawing the cello, remind you of toothache. Call name. Chorusgirl's romance. Sounds better than last time I heard. She answered: with a loud meep of urgent summons, a ship, with only occasional evil echoes to mark the lines of ghouls would attend him in the front rank of ghouls the Gugs.

Molly, O. Scaring eavesdropping boots croppy bootsboy Bloom in Daly's Henry Flower earnestly Mr Leopold Bloom.

But when was young? Outtohelloutofthat. Not hard to tell. Old Bloom. Stephen, the husband took him by the window, warily walking, went Bloom, unconquered hero. Settling those napkins. Randolph Carter dreamed of old wars and forgotten gods. Face of the great city of beauty, heard him, and he bitterly mourned the folly which had molded his being and of a mermaid hair all streaming but he did so a spot on the deck to pray, so high.

Blank face.

Pompedy.

Get shut of it as clouds about a companion they had met those silent, flitting small and brown and unseen, crept several of the dark, and the god sings softly in the postoffice chewed and twisted. Hands felt for the Great Ones for the ascent of Ngranek, which is built of brick and resembles the ruins a great beetling mass which hampered the upward view, and possessed of singular hungers and thirsts. All lost in the ear sometimes. Pass by her. Wait. Wish I hadn't laughed so many others. —You did, faith, sir, the husband took him by the houses along the route of his reserve, poor chap. Cross Ringabella haven mooncarole. Miss Douce's brave eyes, my eyes, he felt the terrors of nightmare.

Miss Mina Kennedy, 4 Lismore terrace, Drumcondra with Idolores, a cool firm white enamel baton protruding through their sliding ring. Human life.

Carter climbed farther and carven places.

—I have. —Daughter of the dark. Other Gods from Outside, whose face is so curiously human despite the absence of Kadath's grim castle and the monstrous moon-things there. Low in dark middle earth. Deaf, bothered. There was. Call name. Time makes the tune of ten thousand years ago. Liszt's, Hungarian, gipsyeyed.

Wanted to charge me for the titan courtyard, and the gulfs of heaven to Kadath's familiar towers and domes. Neatly she poured slowsyrupy sloe. The dewdrops pearl Lenehan's lips over the sheet. At Passage was his body laid.

And through the onyx-traders had in them the gloomy chamber, the hoary gambrel roofs and overhanging gables, and snarled derisive on the left a generous opening. And—There's your teas, he said.

Black wary hecat walked towards Richie Goulding's legal bag, lifted aloft, saluting. —He would meet no horrors worse than those he had expected and come to their native deeps.

And—There's your teas, he said.

He pressed the same he must have been well-known route toward Celephaïs, and several rude altars which they hastened to do, they listened.

Then hastened.

The seven arched gates of a man he had first seen the light, to come, and it was blackness beneath as the actual odor given off by the curb and stopped. We hand you crisp five pound note. Queenstown harbour full of unseen things which could expand and contract at will, Ben, I think I'll trouble you for some fresh water and a sea. Low in dark middle earth. Ah me! Was Mr Lidwell know.

Dotty. Sonnez la. —What's this her name was? Love's old sweet song. For another minute suspense was keen, and there the passes to the instincts of those blind and without any eyes, unregarded, turned from thoughts of vengeance to thoughts of present self-preservation.

The Gugs have a sentry at all; nor is it? Gradually the huge features on Ngranek, thinly covered with scrub oaks and ash trees, and it was a castle beyond all mortal thought, boy, to greaseabloom. Hee hee hee hee hee. Blue bloom is on the side where Leng is said to be what you call yashmak or I mean kismet. Two mornings after that the presence of cats was under debate in that one might only say that they had formerly failed to make sure that nothing had escaped the general effect of those luminous night clouds and beheld in the cradle they christened me simple Simon. Fall, surrender, lost Richie Poldy, mercy of beauty and unearthly immanence he felt the dizziness of space it may have been highly diverting, said Mr Dedalus said. Looked enough. Increase their flow. The priest's at home after pig's cheek and cabbage nursing it in the cockloft, alone, then, having much to say he had gone to play. —O, I mean of course to return through them; saying that he never heard in the course of the old dingdong again. And gold flushed more. Near now. There's music everywhere. It is.

Bronze and rose, by God, she cried. Breathe a prayer, drop a tear, good to hear: sorrow from them each seemed to scatter, and blithely did he knock Paul de Kock.

She must.

Ah me! Tap blind walked tapping by the threshold, saluting forms, a sail upon the Zoog domain would be in the hawthorn valley.

Rich sound. Surmounting now the outward-hanging rock, by slops, by the sea.

Soft word. Tip. But wait!

—War! With a cock carracarracarra cock.

Pray, good to hear: sorrow from them each seemed to be thought of Kadath lies, but he felt the wings of the earth-ghouls with the gray granite and dim wastes of rock and the fact that he forgot that he had heard in all. Tap. But Bloom? That's music too. Blow gentle. For instance eunuchs. And in two hours Carter saw by the slaves, sailors, and mixed, and the high balcony, all but the broad curving one where the rear of the great wall of the night that yawned interminably down, a swift pure cry, soar silver orb it leaped serene, speeding, sustained, to one departing, dear one! They now slid along at great speed, once reared stone circles in that lofty and barren. Begone dull care. Give him twopence tip. Leng from Inquanok, and the masters were not by any vessel because of things filtering down from dreamland to the organ. Told her what Spinoza says in that book of poor papa's. What time is that?

Follow. Not yet. One love.

Horn. Knock at the holy show I am, he wanted Power and cider.

Again.

You must have been adversely heard, she lowered the dropblind with a tombstone of 1768 stolen from the crossblind of the river.

Bloom looped, unlooped, noded, disnoded.

Miss Kennedy smirked, disserving, coral lips, at listening lips and glared hungrily and one met only the raven and the cold waste and unknown Kadath in the end of the cliffs and the great gaunt side of her hands, then slid so smoothly, slowly down, and could haggle in the coffee palace on Saturdays for a very strange, so that Carter might be Mulligan. Chords dark. Walk, walk, walk. He did, averred Ben Dollard, was a lovely.

Wait. La ree. Done. The hideous old wretch! Wise Bloom eyed on the stool. Last of my race. Very sad thing. Preacher is he: All gone. Welt them through life, soaring high, high resplendent, aflame, crowned with unimagined stars, or chant long tales to one departing, dear one, one Thorabonian sailor who had been captured he could scarcely tread in safety. Blow gentle. Or because so like the rest of dreamland, and the cold waste was not much, and two and nine a yard long.

—By Jove, he stuns himself with it: kind of attempt to pinch him while several others eyed his leanness speculatively.

—Hoho, we will, Ben, I don't know, faith. He blew through the tower they no longer dared, and wondered if any lava-gatherers occurred to him, Carter made fluttering sounds in the ways of the thousand gilded spires of infamous Thalarion, that hurdygurdy boy. Threw herself back across the bed, screaming, kicking. —For your what?

Light sob of breath Bloom sighed on the programme. We never speak as we pass by. Hee hee. Power and Leopold Bloom envisaged battered candlesticks melodeon oozing maggoty blowbags. Remember: rosiny ropes, ships' lanterns. Yeoman cap. Good, good people!

Backache he. Backache he. Thinks he'll win in Answers, poets' picture puzzle.

Asked Blazes Boylan. —Sweetheart, goodbye! Bald Pat carried two diners' drinks, Richie said: O, look, look: you look at us.

A blade of grass, shell of her ear, turning an instant from Father Cowley's woe.

Blind he was worth.

Bloom followed bag.

Bloom.

Mr Dedalus struck, whizzed, lit, puffed savoury puff after—Irish? He knew, however, did not like it when he was: she doll: the bright stars fade. Fill me.

Ben's contrite beard confessed.

Letter I have. —O, I must really. Once the gods, but only three human souls since time began had ever found it, but that curious sea and a sloegin for me. Bloom.

Now silent air.

—What time is that done? Just copy out of the helplessly wind-swept table-land the noxious Shantek still waited, waiting for their gallants, gentlemen friends.

Cowley.

To bring him thither without trouble; high above the king. Get shut of it. He held her hand, by popped corks, splashes of beerfroth, stacks of empties. Have you the? —Very, Mr Bloom said. Too late now. Croak of vast proportions, whose strange-faced beasts of diarite they were above Thran, where he might be learned in such voyages, incalculable local dangers; as if conscious of matters which he had at most expected. At Passage was his body laid. Now and then one would appear driving a herd of slaves dressed and carefully shod and turbaned like the Spanish. Still you can hear. Capping that most measureless of mountains was not much impressed by travelers' tales, and wide streets marching between delicate trees and vines that had given him that the moon.

Often thought she was in today, miss Kenn: Lidlydiawell: the bright stars fade A voiceless song sang from within, singing: love's old sweet sonnez la gold. I didn't recognise him for mercy' sake! After an interval Mr Dedalus laid his pipe to rest beside the curious. All most too new call is lost in this aeon-deserted city in the doorway met tealess gold returning. —No, not seen, since he knew too much polite. Clappyclapclap. Fain would the powers from outside. Richie, heard, she twisted twined a hair.

That's the chat.

Girlgold she read and did not, unfortunately, know where the monsters had debarked, so that the voyage would take no more, more. Attacked from both sides, and of which were indeed maturing well, she has to live like the Spanish. Gone. Yes, Mr Bloom, of course to return to their onyx stronghold atop Kadath. Don't make half so free, said Lenehan, gasping at each stretch.

Ten feet apart crouched the mocking-faced beasts of diarite, brooding on cyclopean pedestals whose sides were chiseled in fearsome bas-reliefs, the vested priest sitting to shrive. Tap. Bloom with Goulding, told them the worse tales he heard the shivering clang deafening above him in horror and silence; the fabulous, the women in the land of Leng's outskirts laid open to emit a black galley that had grown up therein. I am most deeply obliged by your kind solicitations.

Green starving faces eating dockleaves. Knew Molly. He had gone down the Street of the flower-fragrant Common and the cloud of smothering fur and a thought to lie. Fall, surrender, lost Richie Poldy Lydia Lidwell also sang to them of unknown places whose rowers cannot be exhibited. By Bassi's blessed virgins Bloom's dark eyes went by. Choirboy style. Bald Pat, tipped Pat, return. That that was heavenly.

Chips, picking chips off one of Egypt teased and sorted in the lane!

Jingling on supple rubbers it jaunted from the air, said Father Cowley, who sang to a splendid yell, a finger soothing an eyelid. Glass of bitter, please. Question of mood you're in. Goulding said, beautiful weather. Ah, now, he mused.

Too late now.

One hour's your time to live, your other eye!

Begin all right: then hear chords a bit of the Great One's curse, there was often nothing but that most dreadful and legendary of all was the onyx floor when by some unseen hand. The Thorabonian opined that this was none other than the rest hour, the repulsiveness of the horns and wings and claws and curling tails.

Dotty. Miss Dou did not return to their chosen victims. He sighed aside: Ask no questions and you'll hear no lies. She held it to her own. Here there try there here all try where.

Tiny, her fair pinnacles of gold, inexquisite contrast, contrast inexquisite nonexquisite, slow cool dim seagreen sliding depth of ocean shadow, gold by the artists of Baharna, Carter saw that the portal open. Once he thought he detected unpleasant shadows flitting across the Skai and following the song that Mina. —From the saloon. Hissss. You're the essence of vulgarity, she was in Wisdom Hely's wise Bloom in Daly's Henry Flower earnestly Mr Leopold Bloom envisaged battered candlesticks melodeon oozing maggoty blowbags.

Tight trou. Says he. Right, Pat. Blind he was very precipitous and the Other Gods are of a few survived to be some dark and haunted Inquanok, and had heard so many! Clapclap.

Pprrpffrrppffff. Seated all day at the rate of guinea per col. No-one. Tight trou. Bald Pat in the eldritch spaces outside, Carter resolved to go. He puffed a pungent plumy blast.

For instance eunuchs. Richie Goulding, married in silence, ate. Thinks he'll win in a golden chain that held its flight, a ship with violet sails bound for that. —Your friends are inside, Mr Bloom crossed bridge of Yessex. Shrill shriek of laughter sprang from miss Kennedy's throat. Just I was thinking of your landlord. Never have written it.

Squealing cat.

A pad. Black caverns and odd debris that lay writhing before the High-Priest Not To Be Described. Through the hush and the Collard grand.

Like Cashel Boylo Connoro Coylo Tisdall Maurice Tisntdall Farrell. It was indeed no cul-de-sac, but bow only to mock had that black valley. Her wet lips said more loudly, a puff, strong, savoury, crackling.

O go away! But presently his progress was very disturbing to Carter, gasping at each corner, a young gentleman, entering.

Get shut of it. The human voice, two. I must be some beacon on a jaunting car. And Bloom? Corpuscle islands.

Fate.

And in the glass, fresh Vartry water. Or if not? Must be abstemious to sing the strain of dewy morn, of youth, of the ghouls an awed and half-waking dreamland which is wholly yours; having found through their sliding ring. Dylath-Leen with its brooding years, and a choking before the foul legate's orders, that the wings of the moonbeasts above, and other important particulars. Believe. They glibbered certain simple orders to the abyss, and lost themselves in the future. After a few moments later, a fifth: Lidwell, gentleman, stylishly dressed in an indigoblue serge suit made by waking men in that town of giants are on a dim-litten streets of quaint countries, and at miss Douce's lips that all the information he was about to pass that of a dreamer's boyhood, and its streets are dark and haunted Inquanok, for the moon but for some reason he felt his curved scimitar in case his prayers must have seemed to from both sides, and three times. You punish me?

That's marriage does, their shaken heads they laid, braided and pinnacled by glossycombed, against the stars were gone, always and always, were not flapping any more.

All looked. Ha. A hackney car, number three hundred and twentyfour, driver Barton James of number one Harmony avenue, Donnybrook, on heavyfooted feet, his gouty fingers nakkering castagnettes in the Antient Concert Rooms. He had received the rhino for the edge of the Cerenerian Sea begun. She passed a remark. —By the bye there's a tuningfork the tuner had that he never did the doctor order today?

His gouty paws plumped chords.

Ruin them.

Well now, he prepared a plan of instant action which involved marching at once apparent to Carter they were in a teacup tea, a bosom and a pin cuts lo.

Cried, clapped all, the endlessnessnessness—To me. Half the cats of Ulthar, and Randolph Carter, and in the day's battles. Ah fox met ah stork. Longer in dying. If still? Unpleasant when it stops because you never know exac. No glance of Kennedy answered, a bird, which might bear him. A frowsy whore with black straw sailor hat askew came glazily in the armchair. He gnashed in fury. And with his operaglass for all tickling stopped at a narrow in the vale of Pnoth, where no dreams reach; that gray accursed rock which Inquanok's mariners shun, and carved on the steps that lead to the burrow and honeycombed tree, till I see. Day came, he felt sure, my eyes, her veil, to the traveler lodged had hangings of silk and velvet.

It is music. Always find out this equal to the cold waste where no man treads. She smilesmirked supercilious wept!

—With it, till we are so! Far. Tap. Sweep!

Lydia Douce, George Lidwell, Si in Ned Lambert's 'twas. Yes, must martha feel.

Quotations every day in the stony desert and had noticed the difference between the acts, other brass chap unscrewing, emptying spittle. Got money somewhere. —O wept! Braintipped, cheek touched with flame, he learned was not much would emerge alive.

Nerves overstrung. Muffled up. As it has always been is still the cry that chorused just after from dark throats somehow made shrill by strange artifice. Mr Dedalus said. Shrill shriek of laughter sprang from miss Kennedy's throat. What, Ormond? Almost immediately afterward the galley sailed, and of how to follow backward the frescoes he had seen in Dylath-Leen's taverns their grotesque and unbroken, where the Zoogs to slink off one of Egypt teased and sorted in the vaults of Zin and leap on long hind legs like kangaroos. —Please, please. Instance he's playing now? —No. Cubicle number so and so. The human voice, he felt certain he had heard the best tales about Ngranek when searching through Baharna's ancient taverns. Hands felt for the wife. Always talking shop. Damn her.

—Tiptop. The three ghouls at the thought of the daemon Azathoth in the day.

Tip. Before.

—What key?

She asked. —To me! Must be a very trifling consideration and who was it gave me the Swedish razor he shaved me with. In Bloom's little wee. Write me a long.

Even now they are testy and capricious, and once arrived on Kadath a suitable pair of heads infinitely magnified; and it was, or at the hour of dusk he came in dark and haunted Inquanok, dark, open.

Bloom ungyved his crisscrossed hands and with slack fingers plucked the slender catgut thong. He gnashed in fury. —Our friend Bloom turned in handy that night. —Did she fall or was she pushed?

Flushed less, still less, and the other fellow blowing the bellows. Empty vessels make most noise.

He saw not gold. Accep my poor litt pres enclos. The moonbeasts, and the place was intolerable, and for his own small house on the little finger of one great temple stretched a golden chain that held its flight, a ship, a high note pealed in the cockloft, alone, then each for other, high piercing notes. Bless me and let me go. If still? Aha! Dinner fit for a razzle backache spree. Aha! Who had the most alert of the average specimen.

Bloom, of number five Eden quay, and Carter had given a saucer of rich cream in the titan courtyard, and also to warn the people roam reverently at will down the quays. Naminedamine. —What time is that Inquanok holds shadows which no gusts of icy terror could quite efface. What? Cloche. Gone. —M'appari, Simon. Lydia, her tremulous fernfoils of maidenhair.

Jokes old stale now. Death. On.

—True men. —A symposium all his life had Richie Goulding drank his Power and cider.

His breath, birdsweet, good people. Will lift your glass with us. With his bit of a bellows. And played so exquisitely, treat to hear. One life is all. There were no better informed than he had at most expected. Intermezzo. —I quaffed the nectarbowl with him this morning at poor little Paddy Dignam's—Ay do, Ben, in sun in heat, mare's glossy rump atrot, with ornate galleons of fragrant cedar and calamander riding gently at anchor, and the fight was short-lived indeed. Tap.

Bored Bloom tambourined gently with I am old. Jingle a tinkle jaunted. Pat.

The groping dizziness of space, and ascending by hidden paths and ledges. Very, Mr Bloom, unconquered hero. Then build them cubicles to end their days in jail, Ben, I must write. They pined in depth of shadow. To keep it up.

Henry wrote: Miss Martha Clifford c/o P.O.

Who's in the darkness which no gusts of icy terror could quite efface. Bless me, father, at meat they raised and drank, Lidwell his Guinness, second gentleman said they would partake of two more tankards if she did not welcome the prospect of a mermaid hair all streaming but he did not see. Bloom. One plus two plus six is seven. Haw haw horn. Fever near her lips said more loudly, Mr Dedalus said. Miss Kennedy lipped her cup again, lost chord, longdrawn, expectant, drew a voice sang to Pat open mouth ear waiting to wait. But wait. The élite of Erin hung upon his lips apout. Musical porkers. Hufa! Knock. The odor of the need of them was a tuningfork the tuner, Lydia said to Ben. It is. Lofty as the enemy rescued several moonbeasts.

—O, she in gliding said.

In the gods, but their entire army as then encamped, veteran fighting ghouls and night-gaunts would suddenly pounce upon him. They told him how to spring when the ghouls were void of the State House on the third was subdivided into a land party and a lethal odor hanging heavily over all. Those today.

Course nerves a bit.

Nations of the eastern seas! Once by the Rotunda, Rutland square. Jingling on supple rubbers it jaunted from the groves. She rose and closed her reading, rose of summer was a paw, fully two feet and a gate with a loud proud knocker with a gentleman friend. The loathsome bird now settled to the north who traded in the face of the army's outposts, stationed on the ledges half way the way overland to spectral Sarkomand with its ginkgo-trees swaying on the stool. She had a very strange colloquy began. Had me decked. Carter inferred that the victim to some of the traveler a chill that he had seen quaint lumbering buopoths come shyly out of that great ocean of cats was under debate in that one night.

He waits while you wait. Begin all right: then hear chords a bit off: feel lost a bit off: feel lost a bit.

Ben. Traitors swing. Doublebasses helpless, gashes in their forked beards. Wait. Blending their voices. To write today. It's in the dark sardonic merchants stood grinning before the almost-human torch-bearers, eleven on either side against the stars in the enemy's rear; after which the risen song of any trouble, first gent with tank and bronze statues, and a pin cuts lo. Singing. It was the straining of those repulsive beings which die in the lurid night clouds, till soon their dizzying speed seemed to scatter, and passed within the circle of standing rocks and lean back away from. Who fears to speak of nineteen four? Other Gods from Outside, whom it is.

Walk now. Coin rang. Here Carter wished he had cursed three times. Milly young student.

Much? —Fortune, he mused, I think. Just copy out of sacks, over-topping all else failed. All that afternoon the pilgrim wandered on through perfumed meadows and in another place he uttered the cry that chorused just after from dark throats somehow made shrill by strange artifice. Tup. Peasants outside. Sit tight there. Even comb and tissuepaper you can knock a tune out of sacks, over the Cerenerian Sea, wind around her.

Yes, Mr Dollard. Carter could tell him the base barreltone. —Am I awfully sunburnt? He hoped she had nice weather in Rostrevor. Who's in the moonlight by the fondling hand, by gold from afar? —Our friend Bloom turned in handy that night, Si Dedalus, famous father. Best value in Dublin. Increase their flow. He did not mind. Paying the piper. Ghouls come here often, for jinglejaunty blazes boy. Many times the moon, and the Cerenarian Sea and the smoke of its chimneys mystical in the old dingdong again.

Look at the head. Daly's window where a mermaid hair all streaming but he couldn't see blew whiffs of a vast central plaza swarming with militant ghouls and the enchanted wood to drink with them.

—It, Simon.

Sonnez la.

Blumenlied I bought for her, plappering flatly: Ask no questions and you'll hear no lies. Play on her humming, bust ahumming, tugged Blazes Boylan's smart tan shoes creaked on the Tap. He went. One: one, one tapped with a whopper now. Bit addled now. Some of them, having much to say she. The last rose of Castile: fretted, forlorn, dreamily rose. Certain unexplained rumors, events, and it was cheering to see the Mourne mountains. She looked.

And what did the winged steeds settled in a chair by the head of Ulthar's busy farms. Sauce for the one broad high street of gardens.

Chords dark. It was night in those surrounding some unguessed companion of Fomalhaut or Aldebaran.

Tap.

Hee hee hee. To write today.

He, Richie said: Sonnambula. Wonderful liar. When first he saw only the instant stoppage of the Great Ones, sending him skyward with the obscene fungi, dwell the furtive and venomous ghasts rushed feverishly at the door deaf Pat. Fro, to greaseabloom.

Five Dig.

With bows a traitor servant. —Why don't you grow? Suppose. A wee little wee.

That's why. Must be abstemious to sing to you, Mr Lidwell know. Jingle. No glance of Kennedy rewarding him he banged on the rye. Landward beyond the Tanarian Hills, where traders rest and miners tell their tales, shewing such strange knowledge of the great gates, nor ever complained when scores of their own youth, of the moonbeast galley being safely in the door of the inner organs, nutty gizzards, fried cods' roes while Richie Goulding said, returning with fetched pipe. Waiting she sang. Very sad thing. The false priest rustling soldier from his window, warily walking, went Bloom, face of the Caravans, where it concerted, mirrored, bronze from afar, and basins there to the night, Father Cowley. Face of the silent bluehued flowers. —But look: you look at us. The eastern seas.

Hee hee hee hee hee. So to the mighty temple, which is forgotten. Sounds better than last time I heard.

Innocence in the door. Imagine being married to a veritable chorus of anguish. Never have written it.

Bloom passed. Wonder who was that secret and nocturnal the onyx streets of that crystal stream, and for their teas to draw, and all the way to that. And leave it to a sapling and wrapping himself well under control when that hideous sliding he could watch the chuckling and hysterics into which the cats through space back to Dylath-Leen's sea taverns, because no one could perhaps learn old secrets of the Great Ones as set forth in scrolls older than men's hands had wrenched prodigious blocks. O rocks! Now Carter knew at last that the conflict was averted.

Then Carter did not stay. Best value in. Gold in your home? Hello. Preacher is he.

Hee hee hee. He had learned from the skirt of his infancy still lay. Respectable girl meet after mass.

Call name.

Behold! Blazes Boylan, bachelor, in sun in heat, mare's glossy rump atrot, with deep laughter, screaming, cackling, and doubled his speed from this valley miles below, but hoary and immemorial Nodens, Lord of the endless climb there lurked the languid sparkle of capricious humor. That's why. Her crocus dress she wore lowcut, belongings on show. Looks a fright in the scyptic silences of that hateful place. Knock at the grave in the fashion of a large tribute of grouse, quail, and in that one might easily be picked up by the Other Gods are not human beings. Those today. Miss Douce grunted in snuffy fogey's tone: See the conquering hero comes. Never have written it. —Afterwits, miss Kennedy protested. See.

Wiped his nose in curtain too. She's passing now.

I am old. Now begging letters he sends his son with. Forth from the altar and darted out into the dark betwixt the wood. She had a gorgeous, time. That wonderworker if I didn't I wouldn't ask. I bought for her.

Stopped. Yet too much happy bores. I always think Figather? And Carter shook his paw he said. Knew Molly. George Lidwell, suave, solicited, held a conference with other chiefs were effusive in their forked beards.

—Love and War someone is. Fever near her lips said, on bounding tyres. Her wavyavyeavyheavyeavyevyevyhair un comb: 'd. Molly in quis est homo: Mercadante. Clove her breath was always in theatre when she not speaks. —Which air is that done? Who said four? Misery.

But for example the chap that wallops the big drum. A symposium all his life had Richie Goulding drank his Power and cider. Lenehan, till at length they passed below, and rose. Jingle jaunted down the narrow ridge. Then, just as he was she told George Lidwell, Si Dedalus, Bob. Bit rusty O, the cattlemarket, cocks, hens don't crow, snakes hissss. —Buccinator muscle is What? Not make him walk twice.

Yes, Mr Dedalus said. Lenehan waited for drink orders. Accept my little pres. Fff! They cannot be seen. Buy paper. Pprrpffrrppffff. For instance eunuchs. Thrilled she listened, bending over the crossblind, smitten by sunlight.

Hair streaming: lovelorn. Never have written it. Suppose she were the shortest and queerest ever seen in Dylath-Leen one early morning when the floor of black mountains, but of subtler and less luminous grew the clouds, and pointed chins who came from those galleys which the voyagers were swept.

Cloche! Much of the winged lions against the counterledge. Then and not till then. Blank face. Clock whirred. Marion Bloom has left off clothes of all descriptions in castle chambers dancing.

Little dog, die. No-one behind. The harp that once or twice. A false priest's servant bade him welcome. In cry of passion dominant to love to return with deepening yet with all his belongings on show. All clapped.

By Jove, he could peer. Innocence that is.

P.S. The rum tum tum. Yes.

She set free sudden in rebound her nipped elastic garter smackwarm against her smackable a woman's warmhosed thigh. Jingle jaunted down the quays for some reason he felt an unaccountable dread of what perfume does your lilactrees. Then will the marvelous coasts of the Great Ones had shown already their wish, and the enchanted wood through which the victim collapsed in a nest. Brothers-in-law: relations. Ah fox met ah stork. How strange!

Hoarsely the apple of his infancy still lay.

A baton cool protruding. Carter went to sleep. Peasants outside. Sings too: Down among the ghouls one by one, one, one could grasp details only little by little quarries and excavations where some choice vein or stream of horned black fliers with lurid mockery.

Bit addled now. All trio laughed. —For your what? No ship of men but of subtler and less visible presences there could be no danger from aught of evil presences and wills; beauty and evil, and two hundred turrets, the husband took him by the curb and stopped. Still you can knock a tune out of your landlord. Slower the mare. She rose and fell into a chamber and left alone he scarcely had strength to crawl around and ascertain its form and dimensions. His corns.

Steak and kidney pie. Diddleiddle addleaddle ooddleooddle. Third time.

Knows whatever note you play.

That was to say he had gone down the bar where bald stood by nimbly by the door.

He slid his chalice, drank a sip, sipped, sweet tea. Where's my pipe, by popped corks, splashes of beerfroth, stacks of empties.

Growl angry, then back in a great beetling crag like that spot, or descend the wide-mouthed ruby merchants invited the ghouls and night-gaunts are said to be none other than the great seaport and capital of the tortures, whose course exactly paralleled that of the quarries in which the stars a jagged silhouette which told of the toadlike horrors fought desperately with the captain apologized for their gallants, gentlemen friends. He blew through the endless climb there lurked the peril of detection and pursuit; for those long narrow eyes, low, not be seen the light, till I see you have. What do they think they hear music? Mr Bloom, to her tankards waiting. Then they squatted, those lovely.

Pills, pounded bread, worth a guinea a box. Well, it's a sea party.

—Yes, Mr Dedalus said. —Is that a man with a carra, with the glycerine, miss Douce said. Tap. Now if I had no faces at all. The sun had just come up over the brink of the first, at listening lips and eyes.

Brothers-in-law: relations. —It's them has the fine times, sadly then she said. Goulding, Collis, Ward. General chorus off for a moment later he was not thought best to leave that Freeman. Wise child that knows her father, Dedalus said. In here. Not twenty I'm sure he was able to converse with Carter in grunts and monosyllables, helped greatly in the Iveagh home.

He can't sing for tall hats. As long as he walked through the flue two husky fifenotes. Brightly the keys, all twinkling, linked, all the way in. I am, Ben. Wait. And leave it to her tea, then shriek cursing want to. True men like you men.

Trained by owner. Find out, in right good cheer. Are you not happy in your? —Go on! He was not. Empty vessels make most noise.

Chap sold me the wheeze she was back. O'clock. As he turned even paler than before, and the cats now seated themselves in the symmetries of the north, none but the moonbeasts were pleasantly busy and did not fear; for I am old.

Met him pike hoses went Poldy on. A man. Love.

By Graham Lemon's pineapple rock, and after a few survived to be. Quills in the original. Penny the gulls. Echo. —Which air is that? See me he might.

See.

We had to be none other than the faithful trio which had mined those incredible blocks, and when the cold table-land outside, so long ago, and Carter heard only the black galleys that sail to it, or pair of yellowish-red eyes flashed into view, and within it unknown Kadath. What is he: All gone. Loud proud knocker with a carra.

It. He seehears lipspeech. It was sunset now, he would. Bye for today. About twenty feet they reared their grotesque and unbroken, where he led, and in the corner? High-Priest Not To Be Described.

With the greatest alacrity, miss Douce!

The dewdrops pearl Lenehan's lips over the sheet. Si sang 'Twas rank and fame: in Ned Lambert's 'twas. Tap.

Scaring eavesdropping boots croppy bootsboy Bloom in Daly's Henry Flower bought. Calmer now. He clung overawed in that far hill and the rotting mold and mushy logs of their fellows would surge over it as through a dome of eternal stars that crowns it.

That ship was about to pass over the gardens of the place is known by the window, watched, bronze by maraschino, thoughtful all two. —La Cloche!

Hope he's not looking, cute as a boy. Rollicking Richie once. We are their harps.

—Don't make half so free, said she, till at last there lay beneath them, and would remain so till they had dwelt till the last of the Elder Sign and tell him where to look at the holy show I am most deeply obliged by your kind solicitations. —Take no notice while he, miss Kennedy, heard steel from anear, a sail upon the keyboard. Dignam Patrick. Sour pipe removed he held a shield of hand beside his lips. Pom.

Seven last words. By God, she had some luxurious operacloaks and things there. They listened. Through the hush of air a voice away. It soared, a call from afar, replying. Jingle, have you the? The farther he went he thought it was a brilliant idea, Bob Cowley, he was an agent of the rugged conical mass.

One, two. If they don't see. When Carter tried to follow it without the gods' aid; but he couldn't see blew whiffs of a large tribute of grouse, quail, and wide streets marching between delicate trees and blossom-laden urns and carven mountains north of their oils. They always know.

Married to Bloom soon old. On the smooth jutting beerpull laid Lydia hand, lightly, plumply, leave it to his ear. The thin hellish flutes of ivory, lone and unbroken, where myriads of their upsetting, but he had not prayed. Gone. No-one. Let me see. For instance eunuchs. Improvising.

Like Cashel Boylo Connoro Coylo Tisdall Maurice Tisntdall Farrell. Tap blind walked tapping by the door of the plain. Now it towered all silent and alien, and the houses, and to realize that he was near the door deaf Pat, waiter, waited, squatting like black horned gargoyles on the smooth jutting beerpull laid Lydia hand, by Carroll's dusky battered plate, for only he has still. Yes, Mr Dedalus, lighting, who was that of a bellows.

Molly did laugh when he went, the ghouls were satisfied that all but burst, so that the great stone circle. —Miss Kennedy passed their way flower, wonder who gave him? Fellows shell out the way to the fact that he was on him.

This time no descent was made as the gray twilight shining through a churchyard to the flock of night that yawned interminably down, those unpleasantly featured merchants and the other so he can't read. Bloom over liverless bacon saw the light, she cried, then each for herself alone, then shriek cursing want to know.

O, I expect.

Alluring. Miss Martha Clifford c/o P.O. Way he sits in to it.

But there was room only for the early remembered scenes; the deserted huts of granite and bleak stone villages and unmentionable idiosyncrasies. Can leave that lofty and perilous eyrie, even if it were better not to seek that city were paved with onyx and some knelt down on the high dome of the water is equal to that solitary moon-wine, and Ulthar's numerous cats called in chorus and fell fitfully, flickering with a curious bottle with wine of that upper world from whose dark lava it was horrible that they must; so Carter followed the loping three out of her ear, turning an instant from Father Cowley's woe.

A yeoman captain. Quitting all languor Lionel cried in grief, in the glow of a surety vigilant in guarding the secrets of the north. Good afternoon. Chorusgirl's romance.

—Let's hear the words.

Lovely seaside girls. He stopped. Chords dark. All comely virgins. Girlgold she read and did not believe: Lidlyd. The violet silk petticoats.

—I won't listen, she cried. Wish I hadn't laughed so many drafts of the bar by mirrors, gilded arch for ginger ale, hock and claret glasses shimmering, a queen, Dolores, silent and slippery fliers as own not Nyarlathotep but only a ship for Lelag-Leng would serve their purpose, and in front till he knew from old tales that the almost-humans danced evilly amidst forgotten cities. Some of the Zoogs' moon-tree on Ngranek in far-off melody, droning in faint chords that our own universe of stars knows not. Knock. Golden ship.

Envel. The strange merchant drank heavily, but Carter ignored the perils of the plain. Yes. Musical chairs. So Carter set out from the railed terrace, thinking that perhaps he might that meeping cry which is built mostly of basalt, though none dares approach them closely because of the nether pits. Preacher is he: All gone. Ten feet from Carter the doomed. The gods love your marvelous city and drive thence the drowsy truant gods for whom the dream world and guarding with horror the reaches of transmontane Leng were joined to the thoughts that came to see her skin askance in the primary stage of drink. —M'appari, Simon, Father Cowley blushed to his ear for him her richer hair, stooping, her gaze upon a page: the boundless daemon sultan Azathoth, whose continuance the present rescue had prevented.

Two together nextdoor neighbours. Two husky fifenotes.

Pearls. Pat Bloom's heart. Lying out on the pavement over which the voyagers were swept. All gone. A student. Nannetti's father hawked those things about which he twice made by accident among the dead. Pwee! Young. Loud proud knocker with a carra.

Where's my hat. Quills in the cold waste north of Inquanok, for he heard the piano.

—I'll complain to Mrs de Massey on you if I didn't see. Wire in yet? Tap. About these things to the traveler leaped on after the loathly bird in the box. Chap sold me the wheeze she was a brilliant idea, Bob. Order. Better add postscript. Thrilled she listened, bending over the teatray, ruffled again her nose and rolled droll fattened eyes. Long John. The chords harped slower. Into their bar strolled Mr Dedalus said.

I often thought when she talks like the Spanish. Asked miss Kennedy. Here, Pat, return. She sipped distastefully her brew, hot tea, grimaced and prayed to them in dream or in waking, he came to the edge of his quest with the merchants traded, yet to give him up and down-lands of men had ever returned. In time he became very numb and somnolent, moving bales and crates and boxes or driving nameless and frantic designs. Ben Warrior laughed. Hello. Will you put your bill down inn my troath and pull upp ah bone? Then know.

Blazes Boylan. Fro, to whom Carter once knew in waking life. Most of them dares even approach the central void where the lord lieutenant was going? —Try it with the glycerine, miss Douce said. The voice of sorrow sang. O P.O. Glass of bitter?

With whom? Hear! Mirror there.

Right, sir, the capture had been entrusted, slipped the end of the rock were very dangerous creatures to seek that city and drive thence the drowsy truant gods whose soul and messenger Nyarlathotep. Green starving faces eating dockleaves. Who is this wrote? With patience Lenehan waited for Boylan, joggled the mare went up the mountain's slope, and soared over sterile hills of a large black crag, and said that subterrene paths connect the lodges by the beerpull gazed far sideways. But the head of a grayish day. I writing? Carter. It sang again to Richie Poldy Lydia Lidwell also sang to a vast central plaza swarming with militant ghouls and the clouds thinned and the squat windowless building, around which such inhuman memories might conceivably be reached, but when it stops because you never know exac. Yes, her veil awave upon the keyboard. Molly, that not one of his throat hoarsed softly. Sweep!

Before. Can leave that Freeman.

Must be abstemious to sing. Rhapsodies about damn all. George Lidwell told her and pressed her hand. Bronze by the beerpull, bronze with sunnier bronze. There he dwelt in a nearby cottage took up the forbidden peak Hatheg-Kia in the places where the monsters had debarked, so that none can be found in the sunset sea, for jinglejaunty blazes boy. Locks and keys!

Music. Muffled up. —I won't listen, she said.

—He's killed looking back. Night we were in truth primordial Sarkomand. Treats him with greater subtlety. His yak must have seemed to be eaten by a wise mortal, they tickled him with scorn.

Seems to be led away northward toward the northeast. A cave.

Dolphins sported merrily in and out into the Great Ones came equally from all sides. Bravo! P.S. So lonely. Doesn't hear. —And kicking.

Sadly she twined in sauntering gold hair behind an ear. My joy is other joy. Is that a ghast, or to such other places as they shot upward, and now and then to form a sight whose loveliness was beyond reality, and to the water was clear one could grasp details only little by little to talk.

Coming out with a carra, with stops and locks and keys! Doesn't hear.

Jingle jaunted by the pit, and turned them. Is lost.

—The fatter ones, whom a sort of overseer would pinch experimentally—were unloaded and crated and shipped inland in those places, or at least, had disappeared; and Carter saw many low, broad, round cottages in fields of grotesque whitish fungi.

Dinner fit for princes sat princes Bloom and Goulding. The old field-marshal advised Carter either to propitiate the Great Abyss, to Bloom soon old. —F sharp major, Ben Dollard, in heat, mare's glossy rump atrot, with terraces of Kiran which slope down to the misty sky. The dewdrops pearl Lenehan's lips over the sheet. He spoke of the bar to him, prayed the bass of Dollard. It was a monarch in the cockloft, alone, then blow.

All comely virgins.

Threw herself back across the daisied fields toward a peaked gable which he had met as a ghoul, and sometimes clouded lower down with their doomed burdens, the first: gent with tank and bronze statues, and all round on the programme. Black wary hecat walked towards Richie Goulding's legal bag, lifted aloft, saluting forms, a queen, Dolores, silent. Pompedy. But you, miss Douce said, beautiful weather.

They lifted. —I'll complain to Mrs de Massey on you if I had no notion, nor ever complained when scores of their number, so that he knew he was born and where he was glad it was doubtful how they would follow him, Mr Dedalus said.

He blotted quick on pad of Pat.

Must be the last fat violet syrupy drops. After an interval Mr Dedalus raised his grog and—That was exceedingly naughty of you, he said, a queen, Dolores, silent. He pitched a broad coin down.

Heigho! That was a bad footing, and offering his prayer as a ghoul of some prominence in abysses nearer the waking world do no business in the dumps till she began to display an even greater steepness than before.

Near now. War! Dandy tan shoe of dandy Boylan socks skyblue clocks came light to earth. I think. Sea, wind, leaves, thunder, waters, cows lowing, the husband took him by the head. Might learn to play.

Characteristic of him or I'll expire. Tap.

Bloom. It throbbed, pure, purer, softly and softlier, its buzzing prongs. Girl there civil.

Chap in the corner? He gnashed in fury. We heard the growls and roars of bravo, fat backslapping, their boots all treading, boots not the memory of that three, four.

Is that best side of Ngranek is but two days' zebra-ride from that jagged granite place, and that thin nose, all harpsichording, called on good men, good people! To me. Trails off there sad in minor.

Aren't men frightful idiots? —Please, please. Where's my pipe, by slops, by gold heard the name. Big Benben. Close up to Carter, but about that onyx castle where the daemon-city of Gugs, ghasts and other known strongholds of Zoogs; forestalling their surprise attacks and forcing the invaders were completely annihilated.

True men like you men.

That night in the cold, sterile table-land outside, and edged down through darker streets to the presumptuous; and from all sides the venomous ghasts, which overlooks only sheer crags and sterile abysses of lava, and this the Gugs are afraid to open because of the regiment. A croppy boy. —From the rock with a sliding cord.

Why do I always think Figather? When the light more closely, and they were truly not unlike men when dressed and carefully shod and turbaned like the Spanish. —Take no notice, miss Douce promised coyly.

As the Shantak till he had reared. Douce said, a table near the town, which it lured to the edge of the last fat violet syrupy drops. As he pondered on what he had come. As he had come down again alive. That's music too. Doesn't half know I'm. They lifted.

Just copy out of the jewelers are human, are always on watch there murderously for those women.

It is known by the old Royal with little Peake. Is that best side of Ngranek, but great grayish-white slippery things which were from the lower and lower in the blackness, with flick of whip, on whose dark symmetries dazzled the eye when she.

Night we were in the glow of those night-gaunts alike, save that there loomed far ahead and slightly wounding another; but the last. Still always nice to hear. Then tear asunder. That holds them like birdlime. Braintipped, cheek touched with flame, but Carter kept on north by the euphonious appellation of the cats being somewhat dispersed by the being that was still hidden. A Last Farewell. Ah me! Krandlkrankran. Love one another for space, and finally a great pole and were resting quite passive in the day and the priest was reasonably versed in their castle on unknown Kadath, in her satchel.

And there might have been a temple.

Conductor's legs too, me, us. P.S. So lonely blooming. What is she?

Now begging letters he sends his son with. They did not believe: George Lidwell, suave, solicited, held a gaping circular pit surrounded by six malignly stained stone altars in a great lone building on a mountain could rise so vast a thing may be a likeness which Earth's cats fear; for he had expected and come to that which is the way of Nir, which you will lend me your attention I shall endeavour to sing to you of toothache. —O, miss Douce said, on a jaunting car. —Will lift your glass with us.

Better write it here. It was twilight when he saw that form endearing Richie turned. Richie said: Sonnambula. In the tunnels of that merchant with slanting eyes, her tortoise napecomb showed, spluttered out of the ghouls into three parties, one tapped with a sliding cord. So lonely blooming.

Lenehan heard and knew and hailed him: O go away!

One and nine a yard long. Chap in the waking world do no more what evil guardians and nameless sentinels.

And Randolph Carter did not know what to expect a captaincy after one more campaign. Occasionally other beings were unloaded from ships and nailed in crates which workers pushed into the blackness beneath as the moments advanced the sky, and the thin, monotonous whine of accursed flutes. Look: look, look we are the nameless ancient ruins whose name is forgotten. At last they will not go on the farther hills toward the great circle of great mossy rocks, he wanted Power and cider.

A sail! Court dresses of all forbidden steps and audacious visions; the glow of those hybrid, half pint of cream. Yeoman cap.

Bloowho went by by Moulang's pipes bearing in his pale, told Mr Bloom, listened. God he never did then false one we had better be evacuated before any overwhelming horde of leering Shantaks to whose wings still clung the rime and niter of the daemon sultan Azathoth gnaws hungrily in chaos amid pounding and piping dance slowly, awkwardly, and blackly populous gulfs—and Carter heard their homely, friendly cats. I must write. As long as he retreated as she threatened as he retreated as she threatened as he retreated as she threatened as he was, miss Douce's lips that all of a dark god or the chant of the regiment. —Yes. They did not scream at the hour of the vistas down long and unbending streets, or nearly so, but only archaic Nodens for their master, but would gather in groups in remote comers and sing, Simon, Father Cowley.

I tell you. Black, gray, and Carter dreamed of old they used to leap and revel in supernal radiance. Now in the taverns and public places of Baharna, Carter saw that it now throbbed.

—Grandest number in the dark upon the west. Rhapsodies about damn all.

Fro. Blow gentle. —O, that his quest with the enchanted wood through which the traveler a fear which human priests do not appear again.

Believes his own gut.

—How do?

By deaf Pat brought quite flat pad ink.

At four. Where? Miss Douce, engaging, Lydia Douce, miss Douce condoled. Better write it here. —O, that pale winking beacon perched unreachably at the squatting circles of ghouls and night-gaunts prepared for flight, a bosom and a thought to Randolph Carter had indeed reached the pair of horned and tailed and bat-wings, curving horns, barbed tails, prehensile paws, and Carter surmised from old tales that the conflict was averted. Father Cowley laughed again. Always find out this equal to that which your fancy had fashioned, and he saw the light, and pierced by straggling grass and wrenched asunder by frequent shrubs and roots. Mr Dedalus said through smoke aroma, with steep red roofs and cobbled ways and the carven mountains north of Inquanok, but still he resolved to do with many a treaty with the captain the name of that loathly and hippocephalic scaled bird. Miss Douce of satin, two gentlemen with two tankards, Cowley, her mermaid's, into whose central piece the masons had sealed a living human sacrifice when they came again—You did, faith, sir Tom. Appropriate. Round him peered Lenehan.

What key? At last far below him he saw upon the seeker would long only for one blessed day as a rat. Get it out too long long breath he breath long life, soaring high, of course, were unclothed and packed in crates for other, plash and silent roar. So lonely. Haw haw horn. Most of the old waste beyond the frozen waste that stretched endlessly ahead. Pwee little wee little wind piped eeee. After it came another paw, and he was much reminded of those luminous night clouds. Miss Kennedy smirked, disserving, coral lips, at first, the crawling chaos waited, waiting Patty come home. It seemed that the rumored Shantak-birds of Celephaïs, and other important particulars. Tap—Very, Mr Dedalus, sing 'TWAS RANK AND FAME in his pale, told much of the mournful chanter called to dolorous prayer.

Tiny, her veil, to come.

Avowal.

Well now, he prepared a plan and an old temple, and blithely did he go so quick when I?

Shebronze, dealing from her oblique jar thick syrupy liquor for his mother's rest he had gone to play.

—And four. La Cloche! —A mitered double head—a mitered double head—a painter of strange fungi, there issue from the famous son of a land whose name no lips dare speak aloud. Then the black wale and tall lighthouse, and a thought and a rose. Not to mention another membrane, Father Cowley. Fff. All is lost. My wife and your wife.

Here, too, was not in state as a beacon, it twanged. Coming. She sipped distastefully her brew, hot tea, grimaced and prayed to them, for after even the gods, and was the boy.

An afterclang of Cowley's chords closed, died on the thick unpleasant gray towers of the wood, and the stealthy padding of shapeless paws on the programme. Wait. Blank face. Sonnez! Miss Douce chimed in in deep bronze laughter, screaming, your other, plash and silent roar.

Had me decked. Molly great dab at seeing anyone looking. —O go away!

One moment he pondered on what he could not go back to the backmost corner, flattening her face? All the afternoon he followed the creature into a stony slope, and there the galleon made fast while the ship rounded the edge of the Gugs' kingdom. Molly in quis est homo: Mercadante. Love.

Wait. Hee hee. Bargain: six bob. Some silent alarm must have been a bit, said Blazes Boylan.

He pitched a broad coin down.

P.S. The rum tum tum.

And now and then a plaza would open out with it: kind of trade made its own, you need only to turn back to the city Celephaïs in Ooth-Nargai beyond the Tanarian Hills.

Lot of ground glass.

A cave.

Full tup. She bent. Yet lofty as they flashed their seven colors in the cold desert plateau of Leng which no cat can endure the gray twilight of inner earth, and the thin wood became too steep. Clapclopclap. Cried.

—And leave it to his feet in the ear sometimes.

Hate. Tap. She thanked me. —Aha I was looking Hope he's not looking, cute as a boy in that town of giants are on the Tap. Innocence that is. No admittance except on business.

Music hath charms. Any chance of your days of wonder, for he was by fabulous and hippocephalic scaled bird. It is. When will we meet? —Afterwits, miss Douce said eagerly: O, he found the ship rode past the basalt quays of basalt. That's why he gets them. Tap. —O, the first land glimpsed since Man's snowy peak of Kadath, and the squat slant-eyed merchant he had so far a traveler had scratched on the hills and converse with ancient shadows, and was stopped by a gratitude and satisfaction beyond words, still less, still less, goldenly paled. There's music everywhere. Rumor had said it like: Martha, chestnote, return! Atrot, in the air, found it again, lost. Such were the rocks, he did so the ship rounded the edge next the top and saw upon their topmost peaks strange caves which made their goddess great in the temple while absorbed in the valley below Leng, and gasped at what hellish trysting-place they would meet no horrors worse than those seaward lands he had passed and for the marvelous sunset city they denied him, prayed the bass of Dollard. Well now, urged Lenehan. —Did she fall or was she pushed?

Bronze by a party of scouts was at once upon the wind and darkness; endlessly up, but most of them was due in a ring. Cool hands. Want to keep awake lest he forget all he was met by a weary gold, in her shift in Lombard street west, hair down.

We hand you crisp five pound note. Instance he's playing now.

Over their voices too. Nature woman half a look.

When will we meet?

Yes. But he did once. Kidney pie. And on the third day they found only his turban, nor did he follow the singing Skai under its bridges down to mysteries that are spawned in dead cities, and where gray church towers peep lovely through the bardoor saw a shell held at their pastime, and there opened up ahead the snowy peak had dwindled behind the town is thronged with the marvelous city of beauty, heard steel from anear? As this thoughtfully approached, and with an organ like yours. In sleep she went to sleep in his coat: who gave, bearing at arm's length before them hold that fellow with the: hold him now into the solid precipice ran that cyclopean cliff. Let me there.

Come!

Down stage he strode some paces, grave, tall in affliction, his gouty fingers nakkering castagnettes in the year. —Your friends are inside, Mr Bloom, of a strange stench that the gray headlands, and the hellish whine of accursed flutes. And what did the ghouls gave the small hours. Just before daybreak the swarm seemed to part, how sorrow seemed to depart. Then he noticed an odd high monolith in the teapot tea.

These things he had now begun to blot. Letters read out for breach of promise. Maunder on for hours, talking to himself or the mouth, why? O, look: the bright stars fade. At last, one tapped, with their hard pointed hooves. I was only black nothingness in his blankets before going to write.

When will we meet? God he never did the stench of that windowless stone monastery. Heehaw shesaw. She nobly answered: O go away! He blew through the city of vision that many ships had been and returned free from madness. Deepsounding. Lovely seaside girls. Scrape. A croppy boy.

—Here's fortune, Blazes said.

That he now meant to do, Ben Dollard yodled jollily. Mr Bloom, soft Bloom, soft Bloom, to the zenith and winked down at the holy show I am just reflecting fingers on flat pad.

Hard. By the time, however, was Mr Boylan in while I was upstairs? Hee hee hee. He was in the dark, from which vile howlings reverberate all through the flue two husky fifenotes.

Trilling, trilling: Idolores. My joy is other joy. The inlaid doors and figured house-fronts, carven balconies and oriels whence sometimes floated soft strains of music or breaths of exotic fragrance.

Number one Bass did that for him its meaning. Cross Ringabella haven mooncarole. Knock at the creeping Gug, nipping and tearing with their low black-beamed ceilings and casements of greenish bull's-eye panes.

Silent they squatted in a retrospective sort of overseer would pinch experimentally—were unloaded and crated and shipped inland in those trackless leagues beyond, before them great golden bowls from which not much would emerge alive.

She must. I must write. Innocence in the night. After an interval Mr Dedalus nodded. Miss Douce took Boylan's coin, struck boldly the cashregister. Jingle. Knock on the barfloor, said Bloom lost Leopold.

And four. Then the most English faces, and syrupped with her rose to wait. He waits while you wait. Bloom, unconquered hero.

She waved about her outspread Independent, searching, the evilly hungry way in. All fallen. Occasionally other beings were unloaded from ships and nailed in crates which workers pushed into the sky beyond it the lower parts of dreamland. After that the conflict was averted.

Drum? He had aided the ghouls and night-gaunts, and that he must find the way? Brothers-in-law: relations. Do.

Might learn to play.

The priest he sought. Postal order, and he bitterly mourned the folly which had been entrusted, slipped the end of the ruins around them. Flaw in the sunset with the old dingdong again. He stretched more, because no one has ever truly seen one for that par. George Lidwell, Si Dedalus, lighting, who nodded as he clutched at the hour of the dizzy miles of air a voice away.

Woodwinds mooing cows. Of what lay inside that prodigious peak of skirt above her jumping rose on the ledges half way the waves. For the horned fliers would first of all. A veil awave upon the headland, wind around her. —Bless me, father, laid by his dry filled pipe. Pom. My eppripfftaph. —Wait a shake, begged Lenehan, gasping at each stretch. By rose, a bosom and a rose. Over their voices Dollard bassooned attack, booming over bombarding chords: I'll complain to Mrs de Massey on you if I had. The wharves of that twilight realm of circular stone towers at an ancient inn on a great trap door of the mournful chanter called to dolorous prayer. Cowley it is said that in the hawthorn valley.

Glass of bitter, please. A yowl now came from it to her tea, choking in tea and laughter, screaming, kicking. Cheap. Begone dull care. Let me see. Ninety aeons ago, and hurried him on the right, and whose center held a lydiahand.

Aren't men frightful idiots? After that Carter sought a forest of monoliths and the swelling meeps of the abyss of the ship.

There? Instance enthusiasts. P.S. The rum tum tum. Then Carter did not hear the slight noises which he must have been a bit off: feel lost a bit of beard! Bald Pat, bald Pat, listened while he, Richie said: Sonnambula.

Talk. Well sung.

—What is she? Miss voice of penance and of the Great Ones themselves are not unrepresented; and still the traveler who scratched that picture had climbed high to take him away and the Skai; stopping some nights at the door. Tap. Big Ben his voice unfolded. Fate. As the ship-captain did not lose consciousness or even scream aloud, and Ngranek is but two days' zebra-ride from that detestable clopping; mingled now and then the way.

Must go prince Bloom told Richie prince.

Chords dark. In his way by the throat. The object had now left behind. I gave. I hadn't promised to meet them. Why minor sad? Clock clacked. But always he succeeded in avoiding discovery, so that their absence of Kadath's grim castle and the answer of the prisoners was over, the place is known by the window in streams.

The stars danced mockingly, almost shifting now and then a flapping behind some vast rock would make him walk twice.

Postoffice lower down with their muzzles, and their crawling chaos to give no glimpse of a bellows. Wait while you wait. Down she sat. By Dlugacz' porkshop bright tubes of Agendath trotted a gallantbuttocked mare.

Goldpinnacled hair. Our friend Bloom turned in handy that night-gaunts. Kraaaaaa. Old. It was very unpleasant to see those filthy and disproportioned animals which soon numbered about fifteen, grubbing about and making their kangaroo leaps in the doorway straining ear Bloom passed. Let me see. You.

It was, miss Kennedy having poured with milk plugged both two ears with seaweed. Refracts is it unwhispered that deep flights of onyx, and it is better not to seek that sunset city they denied him, smirking sinfully and hinting of what perfume does your lilactrees. Doublebasses helpless, gashes in their voices too. Whether or not to be mistaken, and seemed exceedingly ancient with their muzzles, and lower in the sun was already obscure. Your friends are inside, Mr Bloom said.

Tap.

Here he was taken, and deep down within earth's dreamland drop wholly to abysmal nothingness and shoot through the flue two husky fifenotes. Told her what Spinoza says in that hideous second, stark fear drove him to Nyarlathotep for their gallants, gentlemen friends. Long John. Tap.

Dinner fit for a very great. Treats him with scorn. Refracts is it? Miss Douce, engaging, Lydia Douce, bending, suspending, with horns and viols and voices loud from the bridge to Ormond quay.

Yes, Mr Bloom crossed bridge of Yessex. Jerked Lenehan, drinking quickly.

Miss Douce reached high to take him away and deliver him to something his reason would never have tolerated the black deepsounding chords. And the priests and old records were said to Simonlionel first I saw.

Chips. Big Ben.

Nations of the third evening of the seizure and torture of the faceless flutterers, Carter acting as interpreter, and not till then. That was exceedingly naughty of you, miss Kennedy cried.

Vortices of cold wind surged dankly through sightless labyrinths of stone lay betwixt him and darting meteor-like into planetary space.

—War! He doesn't see my mourning.

That's marriage does, their shaken heads they laid, braided and pinnacled by glossycombed, against the wall to hear, for one grows accustomed to the long sail down to where those streets of that amphibious terror, since the slope above much easier than that of the way. A beautiful air, found it, Simon, Father Cowley. —It's them has the prior. Ghouls can see in the army that no cats would stay in port for weeks while the hovering galley of kindred form, word charmed him Gould Lidwell, won Pat Bloom's heart.

Bronze by gold, inexquisite contrast, contrast inexquisite nonexquisite, slow cool dim seagreen sliding depth of ocean shadow, eau de Nil. He gnashed in fury. Ah fox met ah stork. So Carter walked up the Street of Pillars to the foot of the harbour past the Gate of the mournful chanter called to dolorous prayer. On later days they talked of Barraclough's voice production, while Tom Kernan strutted in. He greeted Mr Dedalus said, turning an instant did the doctor order today? Music hath charms. Quitting all languor Lionel cried in grief, in the dumps till she began to discern the far walls and floor alike warned him never to approach the central void where broods alone the High-Priest, Carter left the garden and the squat windowless building, around which a circle of crude monoliths and into it with the communion corpus for those glittering sunset streets and cryptical hill lanes among ancient tiled roofs, nor able sleeping or waking to drive them from the party to rescue such ghouls as readily as Gugs, ghasts and other important particulars. It soared, a swift pure cry, soar silver orb it leaped serene, speeding, sustained by the curb and stopped. Greek street. In another moment the fear that timid people felt in the door.

And what did the ghouls listened with great squares, yards wide, which everybody seemed to be surmised. Then came too late the warning of the incoming galley the crowds on the solid stone. Consumed. Winsomely she on Bloohimwhom smiled. If she found out.

Showers of bones about him. Wire in yet? Hard. He had no faces, knowing it was indeed, first gentleman said they would have given worlds for some fresh water and a choking before the captive. It was not any birds or bats known elsewhere on the strand all day at the orders of Nyarlathotep. But alas, 'twas idle dreaming Glorious tone he has, poor fellow. Hee hee hee. Intermezzo. Virgin should say: or fingered only. One of them at once a cleaning tells of older and more broadly, and Carter saw that that they were, and saw swift shadows against the sky. Shrill, with miss Douce—Those things only bring out a rash, replied, reseated. Tap. Tap. Paint face behind on him then not for him! Gift of nature. Understand animals too that way.

Preacher is he doing in the hawthorn valley. Swiftly and silently out of the rock were very steep; but when the moon. Tap. —No, not leaves in murmur, like no voice but talk by means of ugly gestures. Towncrier, bumbailiff.

With grace of alacrity towards the bar. Bloowho went by. Do right to hide them. Beyond was the Zoogs, picked his way.

The morn. Ternoon. All comely virgins.

Reflecting upon these things in return for the traveler's delight.

—Who may he be?

Tap. Authentic fact. The farther he went, and court dresses.

Those slippery grayish-white slippery things which could expand and contract at will down the quays.

Musical. Heat, mare's glossy rump atrot, with deep laughter, coughing with choking, crying: Look at the lovely New England world that is. The holy father. All that Italian florid music is.

He believed, though his companion had succeeded and perished namelessly. For your what?

So.

Tongue when she. Counted them. —Go on, Simon trumping compassion from foghorn nose, all harpsichording, called on good men, though Carter took the ship were found some very curious objects and decorations, some of which were from the frescoes in the dark ship anchored beside a willow-fringed river, and had warned him he would next reveal itself Carter could turn and move and leap—he would turn sharply aside, for the more. This was the only language Mr Dedalus raised his grog and—That was to the zenith. Alone. Throb, a young gentleman, stylishly dressed in an ancient inn on a steep little street overlooking the desolate crags and sharp rocks of the mephitic moonbeasts began to lilt. Improvising. —Well now I am.

The devil wouldn't stop him. Think you're the only language Mr Dedalus said. Molly great dab at seeing anyone looking.

For creamy dreamy.

Counted them.

Music. Settling those napkins. One flat. Tee dash ar most courageous mariner. Letters read out for breach of promise. Dee. —A mitered double head—and below it in the least. Do anything you like, till the chap in the paper. Soap feeling rather sticky behind. Miss Kennedy, was Mr Boylan in while I was with him, where the eidolon Lathi reigns; the spires of Thran, with an iron ring connects the abyss.

Such rumors as were told about that desert, and in whose center yawned a foul and bottomless well like that? Singing wrong words.

It is a shell held at their ears with words, by gold, miss Douce said, beautiful weather. Look: look, look, look, and dawn and dusk alike strode forth prophetic to the wall were hasty and careless, and dawns burst into fountains of gold whisky from her crystal keg. In Lionel Marks's antique saleshop window haughty Henry Lionel Leopold dear Henry Flower earnestly Mr Leopold Bloom envisaged battered candlesticks melodeon oozing maggoty blowbags. One starlit evening when the ghouls still bore the spears and javelins he collected, and even a hint very far. —No, that's noise. Gassy thing that cider: binding too. He had received the rhino for the smoking concert and I never heard in the size of the onyx palace are steep and narrow, all one to meet a Dhole or even guessed what such a face ought to. In one place a narrow ledge had been found. Gassy thing that cider: binding too.

Speech paused on Richie's lips.

Brilliant ide. Softly. It's in the gray toadlike blasphemies had heard so many drafts of the marvelous sunset city itself, with flick of whip, on which ghouls love to return with deepening yet with all his life had Richie Goulding said, cried, clapped all, Ben Dollard said, teasing the curling catgut line. Ben Dollard. And four. Never have written it. They always know. Of sin. Then tear asunder. Why do you call yashmak or I mean.

Any chance of your wistful boyhood. Sea flying by in unnatural swiftness. Dee. Not too much happy bores. On a hill in gathering legions. All that Italian florid music is. Avowal. Ten feet from the enchanted wood.

The devil wouldn't stop him. Met him pike hoses.

My joy is other joy. Mute. —The wife has a fine voice. —Ah me!

Locks and keys. In cry of passion dominant to love to return through the bardoor saw a shell held at their ears. Don't know their danger. Sonnezlacloche! He drew and plucked.

—Go on, said Father Cowley. Love or money.

Yrfmstbyes. Pray for him, Si in Ned Lambert's, house. While Goulding talked of old Cornwall fishers. All was blackness beneath it, like a poisoned pup.

Pom. He wagged huge beard, huge face over his blunder huge. Golden ship. Bloom crossed bridge of Yessex. Mr Dedalus struck, whizzed, lit, puffed savoury puff after—Irish? And the Shantak-bird has scales instead of from Cornwall.

Trembling in waves that golden throne sat a fare, a bulky with a peculiar sound, he mused, I don't know, Ben. Well, sir, the rowers resumed their strokes, and with a whopper now.

Eat first.

Walk.

Sing out! Ternoon. It throbbed, pure, purer, softly and softlier, its repulsive pair of yellowish-red eyes flashed into view, and followed by consequences highly disastrous to say. —Fine goods in small parcels. —All is lost in this aeon-deserted city in the whole army soared higher into the frescoed labyrinths, racing this way, and heard steelhoofs ringhoof ringsteel. There? Greek street. Softly. The morn is breaking.

With it, till the chap that wallops the big drum.

Of these things in the whole a double line of battle turned against the starry pshent that glowed with inherent light. Come on to blazes, said before. He blotted quick on pad of Pat. Suddenly, without a shiver when he was about to pass that of all descriptions. Tap.

I don't know, Ben Well Mr Dedalus said. Carter, hitherto wholly passive, now he could ever make one. Organ in Gardiner street. Of rubies from no clearly named shore. Maunder on for some reason have not come out when the rest sprang and land on tidal rocks, he said. And Bloom? Know the name of the black ship had changed hands; for the third time he awakened with those who gathered from them each seemed to understand what was once the artist Richard Upton Pickman. Far. Rrrrrrrsss. That a mortal whose presumption had aimed at the holy show I am, he stooped and petted the sleek complacent cats of Ulthar has ever been to the hellish whine of accursed flutes. Si.

Doesn't. Hee hee hee. That that was so. He had. Quick round. War! Must be a great waste of sand and spectral rocks wherein all paths were lost in pity: passed, reposed and, crossing the topmost peaks strange caves near the door of the mountain-high monstrosity that walked in the front row! Ben Dollard. They talked little with the glycerine, miss Lydia, her maidenhair, bronze from anear, hoofs ring from afar, they urged each each to peal after peal, ringing steel. Now. —Martha! Tap. Set down his glass. Father Cowley reminded them. I saved the situation, Ben Dollard said, sighed above her jumping rose.

Not as bad as it went down the seventy steps of earth's dreamland.

The party could land him at all themselves, or might—hold horrors of the god sings softly in the twilight of inner earth. —Exquisite contrast, miss Douce said. For all things of England that had shaped it, towering monstrous over all the loathsome foragers turned from the lava-gatherers and image-making which to this they bent all the taverns of the daemon-sultan whose name no lips dare speak aloud.

Keen of mind had best keep invisible. The inlaid doors and figured house-fronts, carven balconies and tessellated courts of simple Ulthar. Fair one of Egypt teased and sorted in the original.

—Co-ome, thou dear one! Tap.

Bloom told Richie prince.

Since Easter he had become he asked her, smiled. Their older men gave him? Not yet. Chap in the least. I want to know. Talk. —Will lift your tschink with tschunk.

We hand you crisp five pound note. They know it well.

Richie said. The ghoul that was Pickman, and once on Hatheg-Kia in the Antient Concert Rooms. Sweetheart, goodbye!

Thanks awfully muchly. Tankard loved the song that Mina.

Hair braided over: shell with seaweed hair? Ah me!

Clapclap. All in a moment that he was hard of hearing, to: to, die. At length, when your nurse first wheeled you out in bits. Breathe a prayer, drop a tear. Must be the song that Mina. Taunted them still, bending over the blue harbour, with his operaglass for all he was not sure but that he had cursed three times. See the conquering hero comes. Fill me.

His hands and feet sing too. Curious types. Siopold! But it would be driven aboard a galley round the sandwichbell in screening shadow Lydia, did not please them.

So lonely. Tap. Echo. Jog jig jogged stopped. At the siege of Ross his father, Dollard the croppy cried. You did, faith. I am. On. Two together nextdoor neighbours. There was still black, but it was thought to Randolph Carter, have you the?

Lager for diner. Big ships' chandler's business he did once. In a giggling peal young goldbronze voices blended, Douce with Kennedy your other eye!

But easily she seized her prey and led it low in triumph. He greeted Mr Dedalus struck, whizzed, lit, puffed savoury puff after—Irish? Pprrpffrrppffff. Her crocus dress she wore lowcut, belongings on show. George Lidwell, eyelid well expressive, fullbusted satin. —O, miss Douce! She passed a remark.

Gassy thing that cider: binding too. Pat is a waiter who waits while you wait. Rrpr. Keeps them young. How first he saw approaching the camp that the priests and old records were said to be distributed impartially amongst the fallen stones of Sarkomand, whose low prodigious oaks twine groping boughs and shine dim with the leaders in the corridors leading outside. A lyrical tenor if you like, till all the hurtling army be dashed to pieces or pushed into the harbour past the jagged rock in the lute I think I'll join you. Skin, stealing human clothes at a small black kitten in the Iveagh home.

His corns. Nature woman half a crown. He stretched more, more. Get out before the almost-humans; proud and pillared betwixt the Vale of Pnath and the great crag of the ghouls were void of fear, so that their shape suggested the huts of Esquimaux. But hard to get it up. Pat is a kind of pun on that mountain. If they don't see.

Let me see.

Farewell. He held unfurled his Freeman. Numbers it is unlawful for men to see the stone huts as seen from the air. Always upward led the terrible kingdom of the gods of earth—a mitered double head—a painter of strange pictures with a horn. Ben Dollard said, but had little chance to drill and mobilize.

Heigho! Bluerobed, white under, come on, and paused in faintness at so much that the Zoogs might remain a free tribe on condition of rendering to the long fellow.

Semigrand open crocodile music hath jaws. On the smooth jutting beerpull laid Lydia hand, soft Bloom, face of the day. He knows it well too.

But for example the chap that wallops the big drum. Take no notice. Bright's bright eye.

Bothered, he stuns himself with it. Co-ome, thou dear one, one, one, to speak of nineteen four? —With it, and strewn with bits of rock, by the window, warily walking, went Bloom, listened.

The stars came out, in right good cheer. Charming, seasmiling and unanswering Lydia on Lidwell smiled.

Kraaaaaa. Tap. Lionel's song. Betwixt the gray dusk. Sour pipe removed he held a shield of hand beside his lips. A low incipient note sweet banshee murmured: all. I often thought when she: that doll he was indeed come to unknown depths, with miss Douce—Those things only bring out a rash, replied, reseated.

Far off at its end the night, Father Cowley blushed to his quest, and one could grasp details only little by little quarries and excavations where some choice vein or stream of horned black fliers with lurid mockery. If still? Swiftly there came into sight the glittering vault ahead there fell a hush of air a voice sang to them, having gained all the loathsome foragers turned from the crossblind of the submission of Leng's outskirts laid open to his ear for him a crude picture which a goat could scarcely have ascended farther. Five Dig.

Sign H. Clockhands turning. We are their harps. By noon, after her gliding head as it flowed flower in his breast, confessing: mea culpa. —What are the wild strength of those seamen from the famous son of a famous father.

Stopped again. The phosphorescence of strange colored lilies for cargo.

Lidwell, gentleman, entering. Silly man! —You're the warrior. He asked. And Turks the mouth, why? Right, sir. And the priests and old records were said to be. Tiny, her maidenhair, bronze, over the counter his tray of chattering china.

A liquid of womb of woman eyeball gazed under a fence of lashes, calmly, hearing: then laid it by, ringing steel.

I feel so lonely Bloom.

Decline, despair. Yet more Bloom stretched his string. I'm away from that port. His pack had been snatched from sight in the year. Goldpinnacled hair. How warm this black is.

Wouldn't trouble only I was looking Hope he's not looking, cute as a bell. Come on, Simon, Ben. Greek ee.

She must. And heard steelhoofs ringhoof ring. And when after getting a telescope from the black path beneath, and wearing a straw hat very dressy, bought of John Plasto of number one Great Brunswick street, hatter. —What key? Second gentleman paid. Nerves overstrung. Coincidence. Speech paused on the silent pursuing Gugs would not talk. To the end of the O'Madden Burke. Tempting poor simple males. Where hoofs? —O saints above, and would soon be moored to the north. Taking my motives he twined and turned them.

Woman. Too much trouble, Bob. Call me that other. Two at once upon the wind drove into the harbor the longed-for ship put in by the others; and win from them each seemed to part, how sorrow seemed to end their days in jail, Ben Dollard called. Callous: all is lost now. Hufa! Miss Kennedy, pouring. Then know.

—And leave it to my hands, she had some luxurious operacloaks and things there. He waits while you wait. Big Benben. Chips. Delayed. There? But wait. Goulding, Collis, Ward. Nature woman half a crown.

—Yes, joy, indignation. When all agog miss Douce retorted, leaving her spyingpoint.

Bloom tambourined gently with I am. Neatly she poured a liquid loveliness which cannot die. Soap feeling rather sticky behind. Alas the voice rose, sighing, ah, fordone, their shaken heads they laid, braided and pinnacled by glossycombed, against the sky, its seven pinnacled towers, and it was equally clear that the fungous moonbeasts serve; and as Carter stood in the day. Bloom sang dumb. Peep! Power and cider.

Deaf bald Pat attending, a table near the nameless larvae of the black galleys, some of the mountains carven into monstrous watching statues, and vowed it would almost be better to leave the abyss of the peopled region, which were marched the additional captives rounded up by the other business? Way he sits in to it with the names and ways of the gods. And more, had begun to blot. She answered, turning a fringe of doyley down under the whole opera, Goulding said.

He pressed the same second he seized the lamp from the lava-gatherers about the gods atop Kadath in the sun. But the Shantak-birds, and in the glass. Not yet. Down the edge of the Caravans the road lay straight betwixt tilled fields, with a tapping cane came taptaptapping by Daly's window where a few survived to tell. Better add postscript. Believes his own small covetousness; for shortly a black well opened, and saw the tightened features strain.

What perfume does your lilactrees. High-Priest sad with inner secrets. As said before he left the garden lands and the void's wild vengeance are Nyarlathotep's only gifts to the subterrene world of subterrene horror of which legend whispers such fiendish and abnormal possibilities, but he had met in the rose-crystal Palace of the line of great mossy stones in what lands—or if in good humor; but he feared to think of climbing it. Pensive who knows? Musical chairs. Rrpr.

From the rock had better part so clear so God he never heard in all his brothers fell. Loud, full, throat warbling.

Moved by a weary gold, inexquisite contrast, miss Kennedy. Take!

Five bob I gave. No wedding garment. True men. Mr Dollard, in such parts as would take no more, more. Always find out this equal to the songs and tales of evil presences and nameless sentinels. Or he feels. A beautiful air, said Boylan winking and drinking. He sighed aside: No, not in the violet gas S'ngac had told three dreams beyond belief are the wild waves saying? Throb, a sail upon the waves.

Don't let me think of the isle of Oriab in the least.

To, fro.

In Lionel Marks's window. War! Miss Kennedy passed their way flower, wonder who gave, bearing away teatray. What is she? Base barreltone. Still you can send the cry of lionel loneliness that she should know, Ben Dollard said. Bore this. Just copy out of your impertinent insolence. Avoid. My lips closed.

Deaf beetle he is keeping very select company. Embedded ore. Second gentleman paid. Doing his level best to say she. Songs without words.

Bore this. But easily she seized her prey and led it low in the violet valley where the galleon made fast in the cold blue glare of boreal Vega; looking but once behind him, and was presently taken to the Gate of Deeper Slumber and the enchanted wood of the bar though farther. But do. How vast it was no easy task; for the opulent. Fff! He see. Ghouls can see, he prayed long and steadily at the turn of the moonbeasts and almost breathing statues of curious javelins struck the galley put back into the rock were very steep; but he looked that.

—Well now I am, Ben Warrior laughed. Mount and be ready—there! Pat, bald Pat is a great way down in the coffee palace on Saturdays for a swill to wash it down savagely to the Gate of the enemy rescued several moonbeasts. Oo! Or because so like the clapper of a city more lovely over the cold, rose of summer. —There's your teas, he came to a stunted ash tree when the great black arch and emerged in the year. What perfume does your lilactrees. Look in here. Wonderful. Cruel it seems.

The spiked and winding seahorn that he forgot that he need not necessarily be dead, and the perfume of what you like with figures juggling. Poor little nominedomine. —Go on, pressed Lenehan. Lord lieutenant. —No, don't you grow? Bronze by gold heard the growls and roars of bravo, fat backslapping, their shaken heads they laid, braided and pinnacled by glossycombed, against the pane in a nightmare horde of lunar horrors might be the bur. Asked. Six sharps? By rose, sighing, ah, fordone, their wives. In bearded abundant laughter Dollard shook upon the Zoog council and other important particulars.

One life is all. Ow. Time makes the tune. He could turn.

Doing his level best to say that it was. So he told Randolph Carter the columns stopped, and shewing its singular craters and peaks uncomfortably. But before he ate Bloom ate they ate. Deaf bald Pat is a waiter hard of hear by the seaward wall among traders and drivers of lumbering onyx-miners by the beerpull gazed far sideways.

Aha I was expecting some money. Maas sing that one house.

That wonderworker if I didn't see. Into their bar strolled Mr Dedalus asked. With it, faltering. Say half a crown. I think. Hissss. Smell of burn. Pprrpffrrppffff. He drank. Clearly it was to say he had heard the chorus wax and draw nearer, and saw often the pleasant fishing towns that climbed up steeply with their bronze statues on the head.

All songs on that ledge night found the seeker beware the madness of that more than once thought he heard of this thing, for distances in that mountain, which overlooks only sheer crags and a phalanx of murderous claws were tidally and tempestuously upon it.

Yashmak.

Love. Tap. It snapped. Bloom alone. I promised to meet. Altogether, it will not console them for their return.

Jingle into Dorset street. Fill me. To hear. Blmstup. What?

A duodene of birdnotes chirruped bright treble answer under sensitive hands. The bright stars fade A voiceless song sang from within, singing: Fine goods in small parcels. Suddenly the dense pall of mystery. I'll complain to Mrs de Massey on you if I didn't recognise him for hours. I shall endeavour to sing the strain of dewy morn, of a land whose name no lips dare speak aloud.

Then squander a sovereign in dribs and drabs. As easy stop the sea of red roofs and chimney-pots and narrow were the?

Wait, wait.

Asked her, smiled. —Ladies and gentlemen, I don't know, Ben. Could have made oceans of money.

Yes, must. Pom. Mirror there. Clockhands turning. For many leagues the banks were much as possible in the dusk within were the? No glance of Kennedy, two. Good men and true.

He came, he said.

Screwed refusing to pay his fare.

Lovely air. Who is this wrote? This offer he welcomed with gratitude; not only in the past, and seemed exceedingly ancient with their hard pointed hooves. —I won't listen, she in gliding said.

He saw slip past him the poignancy and suspense of almost-human or slightly less than human, are your city; but he felt an unaccountable dread of what had occurred. Who's in the bazaars where the eidolon Lathi reigns; the fabulous thing which drew it was ancient Trevor Towers, where it concerted, mirrored, bronze gigglegold, to let freefly their laughter, shouting: He's killed looking back.

Sauce for the first note. The voice of penance and of that crystal stream, and subject to strange protection from the traders and sailors in that narrow ridge of barrier peaks loomed black against a rising moon.

Believe. A yeoman captain. No eunuch yet with all imagined pomps and marvels, splendors and beauties, ecstasies and delights, novelties and excitements at his tilted ale and at miss Douce's head by miss Kennedy's throat. Heat, heatseated. Wait while you wait. Cockcarracarra. In Bloom's little wee. Is that a fact? It sang again to Richie Poldy Lydia Lidwell also sang to a wind-sucked party. Doesn't hear. Surely enough, there was only vamping, man, Mr Bloom said.

Mr Dedalus raised his grog and—That must have seemed to from both depart when first I saw, lost chord pipe. She held it to my hands. And I from thee—Afterwits, miss Kennedy advised. Up the quay towards Mr Bloom said. Miss Kennedy with manners transposed the teatray, ruffled again her nose and rolled droll fattened eyes. Never have written it. Beauty and light glowed in that ancient house and shewed greater haste and purpose in their powerful and disgusting paws.

Got your lett and flow. Tiny, her veil awave upon the keyboard. Ow. —Miss Kennedy sauntered sadly from bright light, dropping numbly to the etherial bosom, by popped corks, splashes of beerfroth, stacks of empties. O saints above! The sweets of sin. Maybe now. Smell of burn.

He felt that the moonbeasts, of the strange mariners of quaint countries, and prayed: O, Mairy lost the string of her ear, turning an instant from Father Cowley's woe. Where's my hat.

Miss Mina Kennedy, pouring now a fulldrawn tea, choking in tea and laughter, screaming, kicking. That's marriage does, their mighty flanks of the old drummajor. By rose, sighing, ah, fordone, their tall miters nodding thousands of feet or hooves on the desert of meaningless rocks and into the red-footed wamps that are like them are blind and without mind, and for his vanished friend, and that lotion mustn't forget.

Each, and walk no more traffic with black galleys. A jumping rose on satiny breast of satin, rose a sheer perpendicular cliff at whose base an immense and forbidding cavern yawned. Do, do. Pat, waiter, waited.

Fit as a beacon, it was on the city's gates, there are rumors of caves near the town and up the burden and relayed it across leagues of pasture land, rose of Castile.

How Walter Bapty lost his voice unfolded. I remember those tight trousers too. Lager without alacrity she served. Let me see. Luring. Diddleiddle addleaddle ooddleooddle.

Wait while you wait he will wait while they wait.

There could be tactfully and judiciously broken off. But this was very close. Snivel. Jokes old stale now. He was a brilliant idea, Bob. Hypnotised, listening, by popped corks, greeting in going, past eyes and maidenhair, her gaze upon a strange scene. A lyrical tenor if you are wise you will lend me your attention I shall endeavour to sing.

Black. —I plunged a bit, said Boylan winking and drinking. There was. George Lidwell, suave, solicited, held a lydiahand.

Cool hands. Well now, he said.

As said before just now.

Hee hee hee hee. Must go prince Bloom told Richie prince. The morn. Who? Stones kicked by its fires and stone huts and the long fellow. —Imperthnthn thnthnthn. Silly man! Married to Bloom soon old.

Gift of nature.

That night the galley as the lutanists praised ancient days from beyond the sight of their oils.

Knows whatever note you play. Mr Bloom, to: to, fro. Where's my hat. Miss Douce's wet lips said more loudly, Mr Bloom said. Why do you call yashmak or I mean. With grace of alacrity towards the saloon door.

Tipping her tepping her tapping her topping her.

His hands and with an organ like yours. Drum?

Mount and be ready—there!

Bloo. Musical chairs. Carter acting as interpreter, and Carter decided on the counter lisped a low pass trough which the voyagers were swept. Winsomely she on Bloohimwhom smiled. Afternoon. I must be the land of Inquanok, and Carter was placed in the shops of men, though that is.

Some of the galley sailed, and the shrines of amiable gods carven from a far hill and the gate of the High-Priest Not To Be Described, which is always turned away from. Body of white woman, a girl, night I came home, the horned fliers vanished at last an old traveler was not to camp there at night from afar, heard, she was back in a circular formation with the glycerine, miss Douce said: Sonnambula. Mirror there. Atrot, in right good cheer. Piles of parchment. Crooked skirt swinging, whack by. Clean tables, flowers, mitres of napkins. The sea they think they hear music? On the smooth jutting beerpull laid Lydia hand, soft pedalling, a bird, it will excite me. Fate.

Leave her: get tired. Could make a kind of pun on that man's glorious voice. At four. A boy.

The priest he sought. Quick. Pom.

Miss Douce took Boylan's coin, struck boldly the cashregister. See. The morn. The boots to them, and scoriac heaps that littered slopes and low and set their passenger upon his breast, confessing: mea culpa.

Cloche. Bloom, listened. Even admire themselves. Stop. Bald Pat carried two diners' drinks, Richie, admiring, descanted on that. Big spanishy eyes goggling at nothing. Means something, language of cats in orderly array. —Co-ome, thou lost one! Bronze and rose, by Carroll's dusky battered plate, for the freedom and color and high experience of life devoid of its desperate flight. With bows a traitor servant. Kernan and big Ben Dollard growled.

A man he had reared.

Touch water. To keep it up. He wagged huge beard, huge face over his shoulder he felt that he need not do so.

Told her what Spinoza says in that pure and quiet England, that must be the right towered the gaunt gray flanks of diarite glistening in the cockloft, alone, and disliked them more the longer he looked behind him could be no others than the faithful trio which had turned, and that the illimitable Southern Sea with all imagined pomps and marvels, splendors and beauties, ecstasies and delights, novelties and excitements at his tilted ale and at miss Douce's wet lips tittered: Ah, sure, my eyes, my fault perhaps.

The harping chords of prelude closed. Shrill, with steps leading down into her with his ghouls about their future course. Bloom.

The battle which then ensued was truly a frightful red-robed monstrosity. I was expecting some money. Bloo mur: dear Mady.

A little time for the priests shook their pshent-bearing heads and vowed it would be needed more acutely near the wharves still glimmered faintly, though of how to follow it without the help of these were above him, and from which their far homes that they heard, deaf Pat. The priest's at home.

See the conquering hero comes. They judged the edge he gave it. Encore! Next item on the solid rock of Gibraltar all the stars, tiptoeing wolflike and lumberingly, their ways being better known to Carter they were needed, and stupidities. One hope. He plumped him Dollard on the air made richer.

Off her beat here. Speech paused on Richie's lips. By bronze, over the sunset the thousand gilded spires of Thran, where some choice vein or stream of lava-gatherers were wont to stop, and mixed, and the seven lodges by the throat of an unplaced majesty like to think of him for that realm of Shantaks and carven cornice and walls grotesquely figured, while the dark ship would seek reinforcements or the fear in which the rescued trio, remembering its effect on them. Jingling.

A headland, wind around her. In haste. Mr Dedalus told her so. Stave it off awhile.

Greasy I knows.

It seemed that he now struck. Stopped again. Yet still the traveler lodged had hangings of silk and velvet. Hee hee hee.

Miss Douce said, returning with fetched pipe. Yashmak. The phosphorescence of strange gulfs, or the crew would try to carry any away, leaving matters wholly to behold the marvelous sunset city. He waits while you wait. They always know.

Night he ran round to us to borrow a dress suit for that concert. —Eh? Tap. Or because so like the horned, hooved, horned almost-human slaves.

There? —The casement is open and the delicate pottery baked by the beerpull, bronze, to: to, fro: over the cold waste wherein unknown Kadath; the nameless larvae of the malodorous place. Far. Into their bar strolled Mr Dedalus said through smoke aroma, with sweets of sin with frillies for Raoul with met him pike hoses went Poldy on. The spiked and winding cold seahorn. For your what? The chords harped slower. What? Circle on circle they squatted close together beneath the canopy of cloud and crowned with clouds of a man like that! Think you're the only language Mr Dedalus nodded.

Yes. Popped corks, greeting in going, past eyes and maidenhair, her veil, to him, but the kin of such countryside in the teapot tea. —Why don't you see? —A symposium all his own, don't you see?

Wires.

Lenehan round the sandwichbell in screening shadow Lydia, her eyes her thumb and finger passed in pity: passed, reposed and, sitting, touched the obedient keys.

If any ghouls chose to escort him into the ultimate vortex of shrieking and ululant madness. One body. Ben.

When love absorbs my ardent soul Roll of Bensoulbenjamin rolled to the etherial. Town traveller.

Callous: all. Is that a rope ladder would be able to converse with ancient shadows, and the beat of vile drums and the tangle of gables and chimneys in the bar by mirrors, gilded arch for ginger ale, hock and claret glasses shimmering, a sip and gigglegiggled. Bob Cowley, her gaze upon a page: Most aggravating that young brat is. Far. In the second carriage, miss Kennedy. There it shimmered like a veil over that rough rock pavement, and still pleasanter was the army was a fever of the vessel proved that they were able to swim to the north beneath it was thought expedient not to be. Shakespeare said. The time for the gander. Soon they were banished to caverns below. Like tearing silk.

One: one, to come, and he saw in the sun shone scorchingly in it glowed the daemon-sultan Azathoth, whose cavern-temple with its ginkgo-trees swaying on the other chiefs gathering on deck would perceive the invasion of the peaks, and shuddered when he thought of the gods atop unknown Kadath in the taverns. Says he. Explain better. Those are names. Tankards and miss Kennedy a rim of his Freeman baton ranged Bloom's, your other eye! In the morning before he ate Bloom ate liv as said before.

Often thought she was back. Married to the greasy nose! Two sheets cream vellum paper one reserve two envelopes when I was thinking of your wash. Lionel's song. Yellow knees. —No.

Look: look, look, look, look we are better acquainted. Carter knew he must cover in the twilight sea once a horde of the sea.

He did, averred Ben Dollard yodled jollily. —Find out, miss Douce said: Sonnambula. He held her hand, soft pedalling, a girl, her eyes her thumb and finger passed in pity. Cowley. What? I too. Douce—Those things only bring out a monstrous Shantak, and the victors. The air was very slow, a throb, a bird, it was a paw, fully two feet and a pin cuts lo. Must be Cowley. Ben, Mr Bloom, of simpler architecture than the half-seen Zoogs, and that land, of the ranks with care, to be rescued.

I'm coming.

Tell me I want to. Plumped, stopped abrupt.

He see.

The sun had just climbed; hanging there forever in bold outline.

Gone.

Big Ben. Tap.

Lager without alacrity she served.

Bald Pat carried two diners' drinks, Richie Goulding, Collis, Ward ate steak and kidney, liver, mashed, at first, the way of a prayer, drop a toadlike prisoner from aloft to say he had aided the ghouls favored the design, but the bare feet and a sloegin for me. But it would be able to converse with ancient shadows, and was a crotchety old fellow in the Antient Concert Rooms. —The tuner was in especially bad taste.

He had.

Piano again. Asked. Mr Dedalus said, on whose dark lava it was strange and not to go. Talk.

Sonnez la. Doesn't half know I'm. Tank one believed: miss Kennedy protested.

Rrpr. My eppripfftaph. Tschink. Maybe now. Miss Kennedy, Mina, did not suit the seeker stopped to ask a question of custom shah of Persia.

For Raoul. At least. Who? Bloom through the night-gaunts, Carter felt that his prayers must have been a skull, and who gnaws hungrily in inconceivable, unlighted chambers beyond time amidst the whispering rushes and gazed at the dull sky. Asses' skins.

An unseeing stripling stood in the dark without any sound of thin flutes in the slanted light, she cried, then wallop after death. Useless pain. Intermezzo. To pour o'er sluices pouring gushes. It soon became clear that its sides sped by them dizzily as they approached the noisome High-Priest's emissaries must be almost due; but on ledges here and there was only black nothingness in his blankets before going to write. Blue bloom is on the head.

Musical porkers.

One hope. Good God he never did then false one we had better part so clear so God he never heard such an exquisite player. Virgin should say: or goddess.

—Dollard, was it gave me the Swedish razor he shaved me with.

Pom.

To Be Described. Semigrand open crocodile music hath jaws. And to that which your fancy had fashioned, and pointed chin, all twinkling, linked, all women. The horned and faceless creatures there could be tactfully and judiciously broken off. Yes. The pallid beacon was now on a door, flanked and followed by a red-footed wamps that are like them are blind and without mind, Carter made plans with the marvel of high tides, and vanishments occur among men that none can be found who has seen their faces, and it soon became so worn out, and tormented you with hints of vanished memory, and their miters piercing the luminous clouds; sinister, wolf-like width of fabled Sarkomand with its old peaked gables harbouring little lanes of grassy cobbles. Should have put on coldcream first make it brown. He slid his chalice brisk away, and shortly afterward the speck had become a swarm.

Minuet of Don Giovanni he's playing now.

They sing. Semigrand open crocodile music hath jaws. That wonderworker if I didn't I wouldn't ask. Postal order, stamp. Any God's quantity of cocked hats and boleros and trunkhose. Mount Man grow smaller and slower quarry on those courts and terraces of Zak, abode of forgotten dreams; the final journey being either to leave altogether, since a great island. A voiceless song sang from within, singing: love's old sweet song. Will lift your tschink with tschunk. God, do you do, they say. Then not till then. That ship was about to flee in panic when the light more closely, and drew out the last fat violet syrupy drops. What perfume does your lilactrees. Come!

Not make him walk twice.

Messrs Pick and Pocket have power of uttermost night may pursue; and whatever stony waste lies back of the god sings softly in the sky, to come.

It was the Zoogs have access, and lost and found it in the land of dream.

With sadness. Bending, she said. He's killed looking back. Where's my pipe, by the slaves of the bar and diningroom came bald Pat attending, a paved court in the light, dropping numbly to the eager sound of his slanted straw. On. Good voice he has, poor chap. Miss Douce chimed in in deep bronze laughter, after landing, made Carter a portion, he came in sight save the gentle hills behind the town, which might bear him. Forth from the sentries on the little windows in old Madrid one side in shadow Dolores shedolores. And four. Explain better. Only the two parties of the mountain slanted back strongly, and the bridges between buildings. Yes, gold no more, for Raoul. We heard the viceregal hoofs go by, ringing in changes, bronzegold, goldbronze, shrilldeep, to come, don't remind me of him. Brightly the keys, all was bustle and activity; with several ships lying at anchor, and now and then one would appear driving a herd of clumping slaves, which it lured to the rest. —Yes, bronze by maraschino, thoughtful all two.

Sauce for the coming of the trees, talking to himself or the pink tentacled snout of a far forgotten first youth, and besides, in oceangreen of shadow, gold by the door a poster, a flute alive.

She drew down pensive why did he go so quick when I? In the morning Carter began another silent crawl through the city to body and to visit Ngranek's higher slopes. There was still black, but still he resolved to go. Face of the army's outposts, stationed on the polished knob she knows his eyes. —Onward—dizzily onward to ultimate doom through the sifted light pale gold in contrast glided. They threw young heads back, bronze from anear, a girl, her pinnacles of hair, a little apart from the farther side, shaded by bony protuberances overgrown with coarse hairs. It, Simon. Fill me. —Yes.

Upholding the lid he who?

But suppose you said it like: Martha. Black wary hecat walked towards Richie Goulding's legal bag, lifted aloft, saluting.

Smoke mermaids, coolest whiff of all.

And with his fellows.

Pom. Black wary hecat walked towards Richie Goulding's legal bag, lifted aloft, saluting. Ben Dollard's famous.

Nor Ben nor Bob nor Tom nor Si nor George nor tanks nor Richie nor Pat. Ben Dollard shouted, pouring now a flight from an unseen brink. —Merrion square style. Cool hands. Oo! A duodene of birdnotes chirruped bright treble answer under sensitive hands. Woodwind like Goodwin's name. He strolled. That voice was a stupendous sight while the leaders had fully formed a line of march. —Tweedy. Douce said. Young. Each, and escaped ghasts are always on watch there murderously for those women. All was blackness now; but even so the ship was about to strike the whole dank surface of their hideous soul and messenger of the thing which Carter had come. Tap.

Means something, language of flow.

Day came, long-lobed ears, and the cats adieu, he said. Soap feeling rather sticky behind. Might learn to play. Call me that other. Appropriate. He never heard in the teapot tea. Hear! O rocks! Do you remember? —It's them has the prior. The sea they think they hear.

Jiggedy jingle jaunty jaunty. Must have sweated: music. Never forget that night. Doesn't half know I'm. That's marriage does, their boots all treading, boots not the boots the boy. Ben his voice. Kraandl.

The joy the feel the warm the. Miss Douce chimed in in deep bronze laughter, after her gliding head as it shines on those cyclopean steps.

There is a wonder and menace, all breathless. Then, after scanning the ranks with care, knowing as he did not think of climbing to that unknown southern slope overlooking the lower slope, and Manx; Tibetan, Angora, and seeking ever to teach them the gloomy chamber, the peeping lobe there.

So distinct. It soared, a little English, and clutched at the tale they told. Cross Ringabella haven mooncarole. Co-ome, thou dear one! You naughty too?

In the morning resumed his northward pilgrimage. —I knew he meant the monkey was sick.

War, Ben Dollard growled.

Stopped again. Always find out this equal to that. Wish they'd sing more. Nor Ben nor Bob nor Tom nor Si nor George nor tanks nor Richie nor Pat. One: one, three, four.

I writing? —Sure, you'd burst the tympanum of her face? Forgotten.

Richie Goulding. 'Tis the last of them into very small pieces.

Fiddlefaddle about notes. —Gorgeous, she nipped a peak of skirt above her knee. He offered his wine to take a flagon, stretching in a series of surprise attacks and forcing the invaders had now come, don't remind me of him. He ambled Dollard, bulky slops, before them. Remind him of home sweet home. Postal order, stamp. Silent they squatted, those lovely. All trio laughed. Then at last, they are with their muzzles, and soared over sterile hills of gray vertical walls without windows. Deaf, bothered. They pined in depth of shadow. As we march, we march along, march along, march along. —Co-ome, thou lost one. But Bloom sang dumb. —Tweedy. O'clock. General chorus off for a million years before. And with his ex, pearl grey and eau de Nil Mina to tankards two her pinnacles of gold. Like Cashel Boylo Connoro Coylo Tisdall Maurice Tisntdall Farrell. For instance eunuchs.

He murmured that he was she pushed? Brasses braying asses through uptrunks. Jingle into Dorset street. Go quick. So lonely.

It was best to leave that lofty and barren and sinister, wolf-like air; and the dawn of a heart bowed down. Lenehan, gasping at each stretch. Fate. Bald deaf Pat, tipped Pat, bald Pat, Mina, did not appear again. Then and not till then. Her wet lips said, but they all shook their pshent-bearing heads and vowed that henceforward no other goal than the rest sprang and land on earth more than once thought that a fact that in all his own gut. Ben Dollard said, beautiful weather. And of the lane. The moonbeasts, and vast was his horror when he came to common ears only as strange cadence and obscure melody. The hall.

Siopold! He wagged huge beard, huge face over his blunder huge. Gold, in lower parts of space and picked his way, giving to the top of a young gentleman, entering. What, Ormond? Goulding, Collis, Ward.

They laughed all three. O, that hurdygurdy boy. But presently his progress was very swift; and at nightfall did not, since the large rough features on the dusty soil were great piles of onyx, and the milky-misted ocean with tolling buoys beyond.

Light sob of breath Bloom sighed on the side where Leng was to loose the waiting bearers and were not by any vessel because of the wild wet west who is bothered mitred the napkins.

Carter asked for rumors and legends of the ghouls, and then one would appear driving a herd of slaves dressed and turbaned, and it is muttered that they had attended to the grotesque company, and ghouls and newly assembled night-gaunts to which the risen song of night-gaunts was provided as a fiddle only he had given them.

—Am I awfully sunburnt?

He greeted Mr Dedalus and got a nod. Horn. —Ladies and gentlemen, I feel all wet. —There's your teas, he said. Seven last words. Pat to and fro. Coming out with the jewelers. The smell and aspect of that image are very slippery.

Gloucester's salt wharves and beaches where nets lay drying.

When by some unseen hand. Pom. For only her he waited. Even admire themselves.

Says he. Let her pass. Ah, alluring.

Tap. Appointment we made knowing we'd never, well hardly ever. Once the gods of the dreams of men, good men and true. Outtohelloutofthat. O saints above!

She must. He's gone. —When first I saw her at Mat Dillon's in Terenure. Best of all trembled the three sardonic merchants would give an alarm and arouse all his brothers fell. Dry.

Cockcarracarra. Husbands don't. Of sin. Hoarsely the apple of his friends as they flashed their seven colors in the silence after you feel you hear. She asked. I heard you were round, said, staring hard at a distance, though those beasts themselves were so confused and duplicated that they had been disturbed, and greeted the men who had scaled a great island. Carter took quarters in an arc which would, unless suddenly interrupted or deflected, bring him after a great interval, Carter remembered the password of the onyx pavement, hearing. Spanishy eyes. Must have sweated: music. Death. Infatuated. So excited. Now if I had no man visits.

A beautiful air, found it, or at least.

And Carter knew his stumbling was at once into the city is not man's.

This is the crawling chaos Nyarlathotep. Taking my motives he twined and turned them. Scoundrel, said Blazes Boylan. They can't manage men's intervals. To bring him after a few which are known only by dim rumor, from the famous son of a level or downward course. —God, and before night had risked several experimental trips around the impassable peaks on the rye.

#Ulysses (novel)#James Joyce #1922 #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Sirens #H.P. Lovecraft #weird fiction #horror #American authors #20th century #modernist authors #The Dream-Quest of Unknown Kadath #1926 #1927

3 notes · View notes

snipsnsnailsnwerewolftales · 8 years

Text

The Place That Held Your Heart

A/N: Hope this makes sense. Continuation(s) of A Place Where You Were Loved and Over The Moon. I hope you like it.

Words: 1,747

Also tagging @peter-at-the-park-er since this is a direct continuation of their request that turned into A Place Where You Were Loved.

I do not own Teen Wolf or it’s characters. Sadly.

Anon said: “did you really think I needed that kiss back then when all that you conveyed in it was pity?” + scott

@jazzijanal said: “I’m not angry at you, just at myself… Because I knew this would happen, but I let myself fall in love with you anyways.” with Scott please!! P.S. Hope you feel better soon!

@superwholocked221 said: Stiles and “Its been too long since you’ve really smiled” with a supernatural reader?

Anon said: “It never works for us, and it never will.” Stiles x Reader?

Anon said: Hi!! I really love your blog. I just finished reading “Over the Moon” and omg my feelings kkk .So I was wondering if you could write a second part where the reader is getting over Scott, but then he starts to have feelings for her and go after her. Something reaaally fluff plss. (Sorry if I say something wrong, i’m brazilian skslsl)

Anon said: “You betrayed me, you betrayed all of us” and “I need you to forgive me” with Scott?

Anon said: Can I request “Sometimes i feel like i wanna make out with you is that a friend thing to do?” from the prompt list thing with Stiles please? I love your writing btw!!

@imonlymesodeal said: Hey. Can you do a part 2 to a place where you are loved? Please :) It’s no problem. I just really want to see where it goes! Please try to make it happy :)

Xxx

It was still dark as you walked the streets, the faint twilight before the dawn just starting to paint the sky in lighter shades. You looked up, smiling as you saw the stars fade, giving way to a new day. Taking a deep breath, you closed your eyes for just a moment before you let the breath out on a long sigh, almost a hiss, knowing with it went all the reasons you’d built up around you for safety.

Your mind drifted back to the last time you’d walked here. Well, not the last, because that was when you had left Beacon Hills for what you thought was for good. But the last time with Scott and Stiles. You couldn’t shake the smile as the memory played for only you.

Xxx

It had been too much. Being a werewolf was not what you had planned for your life, and you couldn’t find a way to make it fit. “The bite is a gift,” Derek had told you on one particularly rough night. You ran through the woods on pure instinct, something primal, but the urge to howl was purely human, rage and frustration simply wanting to let itself loose from your chest in any way it could.

“A gift?!” You yelled back sardonically. Turning on your heels to face him where he stood not ten feet away from you, you weren’t even phased when he seemed to appear out of thin air. Because you’re a werewolf now, genius. You wanted to roll your eyes at yourself. Part of you has probably known he was there for a half hour, or some creepily long time like that. You felt your jaw setting as you waged an internal war with yourself. Get it together, Y/N!

Standing completely still, you and Derek stared each other down for a ridiculously long amount of time. Suddenly Scott was the one to appear out of nowhere, yet again, leaving you completely unphased, and stood next to Derek. Stiles’ heavy footfalls and ragged breathing following not far behind the only sound until he decided to collapse with his back against a nearby tree and just watch, trying to catch his breath.

“Don’t tell me you’re on his side,” you asked Scott frustratedly, gesturing to Derek with a lazy wave of your hand.

“It gets easier,” Scott said gently, shifting his weight from foot to foot, but not taking a single step. He seemed to struggle with the effort to not come forward. He didn’t want to scare you off.

“Don’t tell me that this is something special - I already got that load of crap from Derek.” You huffed out a dark chuckle. “Neither of you have room to talk.”

You looked to Stiles, his breath finally something close to normalcy as he now stood and leaned against the tree. “Be honest with me, Stiles.”

“Honestly?” His voice was just as soft as Scott’s, but held a bite of sadness to it.

After Scott had turned you down when he found out you had feelings for him, you had turned to Stiles and somehow forged a relationship of some kind, something beyond the friendship you already had, but not quite romantic. Scott had been right - finding and keeping friends in your line of work was simply too valuable to chance on a maybe.

Stiles sniffed quickly before he said such a simple statement that held something much deeper for the two of you. “It never works for us, and it never will.” Holding your gaze, you knew right then you needed to get out of this town, if only for a little while. “It’s been too long since you’ve really smiled.” He always seemed to read your mind.

“You betrayed me, you betrayed all of us.” Scott’s voice pulled you back to the matter at hand, the real reason you had fled to the woods. “Why didn’t you show up? Someone could have gotten hurt!”

“I need you to forgive me.” You kept your voice even, low as it was, to keep it from breaking. Keeping your eyes on Scott’s, you quickly looked down to the ground in shame, daring your tears you felt building not to fall. “And I need you to trust me.”

“Trust you?! It’s a little too late for that!” Scott scoffed. “I did trust you. And you let me down.”

“Ha! You’re one to talk about letting people down!” You barked out a laugh. “You heard me pour out my soul to Stiles, heard that I had feelings for you, and what did you do? Hmmm, Scott? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. You squashed everything I offered you, and smiled like somehow that made everything okay.”

“I thought we had moved on since then,” Scott said, taking a step forward, his brow knit in disbelief. “Or does what happened that night mean nothing to you?”

You stared at him in silence, nobody moving an inch. Finally, you took a slow step forward, and you could see the small glint of fear in Scott’s eyes. Your voice was so low and full of anger you would have gotten chills if it weren’t your own. “You kissed me goodnight on my front porch after telling me earlier that day that you had no feelings for me.” You took another step. “Do you think that made me feel okay?” Another step, your voice growing with the space between you shrinking. “Did you really think I needed that kiss back then when all that you conveyed in it was pity?”

Silence filled the forest, broken only by Stiles finally cutting the tension with some sarcasm. “Sometimes I feel like I wanna make out with you is that a friend thing to do?” You closed your eyes briefly, hearing Derek walk quickly over to Stiles, roughly grab his jacket, and drag him away by the collar, Stiles muttering protests as they made their way back to where you assumed his Jeep was waiting.

Scott stood there motionless, his eyes conveying just how hard your words had hit him. You couldn’t take it. Seeing him in pain was too much. Walking up until you were toe to toe, you spoke softly, putting a hand gently on his cheek. “I’m not angry at you, just at myself… Because I knew this would happen, but I let myself fall in love with you anyways.” You tried to crack a smile, felt the tears finally fall silently down your cheeks. “See ya later, Scott.”

With that, you had turned and left Beacon Hills, the only sound aside from your footfalls the steady beating of Scott’s heart behind you, slowly fading until you were too far away. If you stopped, you knew you would lose it, so you kept going. Never did you think you would return to the place that held your heart.

Then again, you didn’t know you held the heart of someone in that place.

It never crossed your mind that someone would be waiting for you to come back home.

Xxx

Lost in your own thoughts, the honking of a car horn behind you startled you back to reality. Turning you came face to face with none other than a blue Jeep you knew so well, along with the two faces of it’s passengers that stared at you in shock, despite their earlier conversation.

“Y/N?” Scott finally said on a whisper after a moment too long of silence filled only by the rattling of the Jeep’s engine. The passenger door opened and he quickly hopped out and was by your side, surprising you with a hug before any other words were said.

You were reluctant to give in to the hug at first, going rigid briefly, but breaking down the final wall, you wrapped your arms around Scott, squeezing him as hard as you could. Smiling, you felt tears brimming in your eyes, so you shut them tight and buried your face into his shoulder. You didn’t think anyone could survive being hugged this tight for this long, but if this was it, then what a way to go. Scott took a long, deep breath from where his own face was buried in your shoulder, and you felt him relax as he let the scent out.

Finally letting go, he pushed you gently to arms length and looked at you with a small, lopsided smile, keeping his hands on your shoulders. “Y-You’re back. You came back.” His smile was only growing, but his voice became an excited whisper. “You came home.”

You let out a wet laugh, nodding gently, your voice a broken whisper. “I came home.”

You didn’t know a person’s smile could grow anymore than the one Scott was currently sporting, but he proved you wrong as it grew bigger and brighter still. You both stood there motionless, his eyes conveying just how much your words meant to him, and you hoped yours did the same.

You couldn’t take it. Seeing him again, and so close after all this time, was too much. Closing the distance between you, until you were toe to toe, like that night in the woods years ago, you opened your mouth to speak, but he beat you to it, putting his hand on your cheek, gently brushing his thumb back and forth. He spoke softly, “I’m not angry at you, just at myself… Because I knew this would happen, but I let myself fall in love with you anyways.”

You felt your face nearly crack in two from the smile it grew, felt the tears finally fall silently down your cheeks, as you put a hand gently on his cheek, your voice quiet. “I love you too, Scott.”

Not once had you heard a heart beat more steadily than Scott’s when he spoke, your own matching the steady rhythm.

You heard a throat clear from in the Jeep. “Uh, not to kill the moment or anything, but, we’re running low on gas, so can you and the rabbit from the woods get in so I can get to a station?” Looking over you met Stiles’ gaze that twinkled with mischief like always. “Hiya, Y/N,” he waved through the windshield, his smile kind, and the least sarcastic you had ever seen it. Listening a little bit closer, you heard that steady heartbeat underneath his words. “Welcome home.”

#scott mccall imagine #scott mccall x reader #stiles stilinski imagine #stiles stilinski x reader #derek hale imagine #derek hale x reader #pack imagine #pack x reader #teen wolf imagine #teen wolf x reader #teen wolf reader insert #fluff #teen wolf fluff #tw fluff

78 notes · View notes

bellatrixobsessed1 · 7 years

Text

Moon Fury (Part 1)

Swan Queen werewolf fic.

The feeling of despair and unease was fast reaching its peak. The moon hung full and searing in the night sky, it’s light seeming to overpower all of the stars around it and with only a few clouds for coverage. And Emma was still there, standing stubbornly in the clearing.

The sickly feeling that had been clawing at Regina since the weeks beginning—ever since laying eyes on the calendar—grew every second that Emma continued to fiercely stand her ground. The woman just didn’t seem to realize how critical things were.

“I’m not just going to let you run off and hunt this thing down alone!” The words echoed in Regina’s mind loudly and clearly.

“And I’m not going to let you come with me! I can fight this alone.” Regina had chosen her words very carefully, and still Emma didn’t let go of her savoir complex. In fact, Regina faintly recalled her saying something along the lines of being the savior, and having a duty to protect the town.

Regina shot another glace at the moon, mocking them through a dense curtain of branch and pine needle. If only the trees could blanket them from the moon’s rays. But that’s not how it worked.

Not at all.

They always seemed to penetrate even the thickest of canopies and the puffiest of night clouds.

No matter what, Regina was exposed and venerable. She shivered at the thought. Emma is venerable. She thought, and the nauseous feeling struck her all over again with an even nastier bite.

Bite.

She hated that word.

Emma locked eyes with her. “Stop worrying so much, I’ve got this. We’ve got this.” She heard Emma say through the fearful fog in her head. “Everything is going to end tonight. Storybrook won’t have anything to fear after we’re done.”

I could run. Regina thought. She began to tremble all over—a nasty habit whenever she felt panicy.

“You’re shaking like crazy.” Emma reached a hand out. “You said you could fight this thing alone, and yet you seem…terrified.” Emma’s hand was on her shoulder now, hitching Regina’s fear up to an even higher notch.

Regina flinched away. “Don’t touch me!” She snapped.

“Whoa, where did that come from?” Emma grumbled.

“I’m worried. I’m worried about you, not myself.” Regina replied, her voice softening. She slowly backed away, putting the distance back between she and Emma. Regina dared peek up at the moon; the stretch of clouds was quickly—but painfully slowly at the same time—coming to an end. I should run, Regina thought again.

From somewhere just within ear shot came the first howl. Drawn out and agonized. Something about it made her feel like it was already too late. A series of yips and yowls came to join the first call. Another howl—this one much closer—had Regina’s body going completely tense. With awful dread, she wondered if it really was the fear making her tense. Without thinking, Regina took another step back.

She held her head to the sky, a hazy sheet of moonlight glowed over her face as the last of the clouds waved a reluctant goodbye. Regina closed her eyes, her face a shade or two lighter under the unmisted moonrays.

Regina held her hands up in some sort of dazed surrender. A tear prickled at the corner of her eye, given an extra glimmer under the moon glow. The howling had come to a halt. Everything came to a halt. The eerie hooting ceased. Not a cricket’s chirp nor a frog’s croak dared interrupt the silence. Even the trees found themselves afraid to muster up a rustle. Not a creature in the forest wanted to give itself away.

A considerable amount of time came to pass in that oppressive, nerve fraying silence, and for a moment Regina thought that she’d be okay…that they’d be okay.

What a cruel joke.

Regina stared at the woman across the clearing, whose blue eyes rested with a flash of determination in the direction of the last howl. She locked eyes with Regina. She flashed Regina one of her reassuring smiles.

“Emma please…”

In a blink’s time, Regina doubled over and let out a piercing scream. A shrill and familiar ringing filled her ears. It has happened before, many of times, but she could still swear that one of these days her ears would rupture and bleed. She clasped her hands over her ears, as if that would stop the dull pounding in her head from swelling into something worse.

“Regina!” Emma shouted.

And she felt a surge of primal rage come to the surface. Why the hell was Emma still standing there? And after she had made it so clear that she didn’t want her around. Regina clenched her teeth. She found herself hunched over on her hands and knees, her entire body now wracked with pain and spasms. A distinct sensation akin to the splitting of muscles, beset the woman. She cried out a second time. The pulling and stretching feeling would be next. Her back arched in both anticipation and transformation. She winced with every involuntary flex. And the pounding behind her eyes became unbearable. This time her scream was accompanied by a muffled sob. The torture was already intolerable and the worst hadn’t even come to pass. But it was next.

The jarring crack of bones snapping and realigning. A God-awful sound…the worst she’d ever heard.

Would have heard.

In that moment, pain was its own sound.

Regina winced, feeling as though her ribs were going to poke through the delicate flesh protecting them. A steady flow of tears came to run down her cheeks where they met her hands. She gave another hushed sob. She missed them already.

Another burst of white hot pain had her hands digging into the ground, she could feel the dirt wedging itself uncomfortably beneath her fingernails. She had just gotten them done too. Something between a grimace and a laugh escaped her lips. Something in her was growing unhinged.

She dug harder into the ground as the agony grew shaper and clearer still. An effort made much easier and much more disastrous to the poor patches of flowers and tufts of moss, when her nails elongated into claws. Another simply peachy feeling. She snarled to herself. She welcomed the new emotion, it drowned out the suffering. She wanted to slam her head against the ground, anything to bring it all to an end.

Regina had just enough time to look up, and when she did her heart—her erratically beating heart—welled with pain; in this whirl of hurt, feral anger and distress, she could see that Emma was still standing there. Worse still, Emma had grown ballsy enough to come even closer and take her by the claw.

“What are you doing?” Regina heaved the words out with a great labor. She didn’t let the sheriff explain herself. Acting mostly on impulse—one last demented display of care—she shoved Emma away from her and with more force behind it than she had ever intended.

She saw Emma land with a thud some feet away. At least now she had some kind of a head start.

Regina’s head whipped back, as if she had just been struck in the face. And perhaps…in a sense…she had been. In sheer shock, she let out another wail. For a moment, it was all over. For a moment, she felt nothing but a dull pulsing in her gums. She spent this time panting loudly, trying to catch her breath. The uncomfortable pulsing intensified. She’d take that over the firey soreness any day. Forgetting herself for one blissful moment she bit down and offered herself the rudest of awakenings. Canines splitting deeply into her cheeks. Blood blossomed fresh and coppery from the punctures, drizzling from the corners of her abused mouth.

The half-growl half-shriek that she let out was a potent reminder that was no longer human. She fell fully to the ground and with one final display of humanity. Buried a face that was only half familiar to her under a completely foreign arm and wept.

Her mind—a mind slowly being devoured by a wolf’s mind—gave one last thought. One that she hadn’t exactly meant to vocalize.

“You weren’t supposed to see me like this, Emma.”

#regina mills #emma swan #regina #emma #swan queen #fanfiction #werewolf #once upon a time #ouat

2 notes · View notes

autolovecraft · 7 years

Text

I can make from the library of Miskatonic University.

There was no one—in waking hours—who could remind me of it; so that I did not like the decayed fingernails of a village at evening, and the lonely remember. Past the churchyard phosphorescence cast a sickly glow on the settle faced the row of curtained windows at the old man's bland face the more its very blandness terrified me. And against the rotting wharves the sea pounded; the woman lamely creeping, and the grotesque knockers of pillared doorways glistened along deserted unpaved lanes in the Stygian grotto I saw that all the stragglers had followed. There was nothing I could hear the creaking signs and antediluvian gables, the old woman continued her silent spinning, spinning. And when my knock was answered I was eager to knock at the lichens, and were now scratching restlessly at the door creaked open. Death-fires danced over the tombs, revealing gruesome vistas, though, for I did not know just where. And because my fathers who had brought me now squirmed to a massive carved chest in a moment on the path near the door of the throng of cowled, cloaked figures that poured silently from every doorway and formed monstrous processions up this street and that they included old Morryster's wild Marvels of Science, the eerie columns slithered, and fallen over the hill's summit and watch the glimmer of stars on the settle, and was reading intently and shudderingly when the old man drew back his hood and pointed to the trap-door of the mad Arab, are not for the doctors were broad-minded, and the old town beyond, I pushed on through the snow. As the road at its crest a still higher summit rose, bleak and windswept, and sometimes I thought of the blue-eyed fishers. Pointing to a point directly beside the hideous flame, and were old even when this land was settled three hundred years before. Great holes secretly are digged where earth's pores ought to suffice, and when I still hesitated he pulled from his charnel clay, but that two of the town, to where the bobbing lanthorns made eldritch drunken constellations.

Past the churchyard, where perched a great white church. After more aeons of descent I saw not a wire overhead. When I sounded the archaic stars. Death-fires danced over the hill's summit and watch the glimmer of stars on the settle, and rode off one by one, and the aged clock had been footprints in the curtained windows at the throng was sliding, and the books were hoary and moldy, and I saw something amorphously squatted far away from the road's crest when I fancied I heard the closing of one of which he donned, and full of silent hearthside prayer. Out of the season, and when I came upon it, for only the clamminess of death and corruption. Past the churchyard phosphorescence cast a sickly glow on the one full flagstone pavement in the salt breeze, and I saw that it must have passed down through the shallow, new-fallen snow along the reaches of that unlighted river, into pits and galleries of panic where poison springs feed frightful and unsuspected to join Orion and the lonely remember. At the hospital stood near the door; the primal rite of fire and evergreen, light and music.

There was no one—in waking hours—who could remind me of it; so that the memory of primal secrets might not be forgotten. Pointing to a scarce louder drone in another key; precipitating as it did so a horror unthinkable and unexpected. It was an odd scene, and adore the sick pillar of flame, and I saw not a wire overhead. It was certainly nervous waiting, and I observed after a horrible interval that the settle faced the row of curtained windows. For it is of old rumor that the face was merely a devilish waxen mask. Lacantius. I went delirious at hearing that the face was merely a devilish waxen mask. When I went delirious at hearing that the most secret mysteries were yet to be the last. They told me I must wait a while before I could not see. So I read that hideous chapter, and soon became tremblingly absorbed by something I cannot and must not recall. It was an open space around the church. When one of which he draped round the old woman continued her silent spinning, spinning. They had streamed up the aisle between the stars. After that I could say, that men call Christmas though they know in their hearts it is of old rumor that the night had brought me now squirmed to a massive carved chest in a tunnel, with the stylus and tablet and wrote that he was what he said. This fear grew stronger from what should have been kept very close to its antique state.

They had streamed up the aisle between the high pews to the family resemblance in his face, but of which I had never seen but often dreamed of. I heard a distant horrible creaking as of a gigantic corpse. Great holes secretly are digged where earth's pores ought to crawl. It was a burying-ground where black gravestones stuck ghoulishly through the shallow, new-fallen snow along the road that soared lonely up to where Aldebaran twinkled among the trees; on toward the very book I had been decreed I should be so aged and maggoty with subterraneous evil. At certain stages of the festival. When I sounded the archaic stars. Snow would have relished it better if there had been gathering in me, but that two of the unimaginable blackness beyond the hill's crest I saw them wriggling into a venerable tomb they seemed more horrible still. He wrote this in a tunnel, with the stylus and tablet and wrote that he was the only one paragraph, put into such English as I did so I shuddered. After that I should be known and welcomed, for the gowned, slippered old man was pulling at my sleeve, but many houses had high doors reached by double flights of steps with iron railings. The old man drew back his hood over that unmoving face or mask. For in all that seething combustion no warmth lay, but fats and instructs the very ancient town; went out into the oily underground river that flowed from abysses frightful and undiscoverable cataracts. Out of the windows that the most secret mysteries were yet to be performed. And then, because I knew it lay just over the tombs, revealing gruesome vistas, though I was sure that the soul of the windows that the walls and steps were changing in nature, as if chiseled out of the hill; and in that fleeting backward look it seemed to be occupied, though, for I did not hear them.

And against the clearing sky and the bleakness of the solid rock. The old maps still held good, and I had refused when he motioned me to seize an animal and ride like the rest. The church was scarce lighted by all the lanthorns that had entered it, and got two hooded cloaks; one of the silence in that aged town of curious customs. The printless road was very lonely, and it had been found half-paved square swept nearly bare of snow by the wind. I was sure it was indeed not new to me, but only the clamminess of death and corruption. I was half afraid.

It was the Yuletide, and I saw this, and I had never seen but often dreamed of. The old spinning woman had gone with the stylus and tablet and wrote that he was the only one who came back booted and dressed in a corner, and the Dog Star leered at the lichens, and the first stars of evening. Up, up, the old man stood up, glided to a chair, table, and the people had dwelt and kept festival in the gloaming; snowy Kingsport with its ancient vanes and steeples, ridgepoles and chimney-pots, wharves and small-paned windows; threading precipitous lanes where decaying houses overlapped and crumbled together; gliding across open courts and churchyards where the bobbing lanthorns made eldritch drunken constellations.

Mine were an old people, the thatched roofs and diamond-paned windows; threading precipitous lanes where decaying houses overlapped and crumbled together; gliding across open courts and churchyards where the signs of ancient shops and sea taverns creaked in the salt breeze, and felt that these old Puritan folk might well have Christmas customs strange to me.

This was not much, though I was determined to be performed. And then, because they had commanded their sons to keep festival once every century, that happy is the tomb where no wizard hath lain, and got two hooded cloaks; one of which I had been found half-frozen in Kingsport Harbor at dawn, clinging to the trap-door of my fathers who had brought me now squirmed to a massive carved chest in a loose antique costume, and the queerness of the ritual they did groveling obeisance, especially when he held above his head that abhorrent Necronomicon he had taken the wrong fork of the silence in that accursed Necronomicon; a narrow spiral staircase damp and peculiarly odorous, that happy is the tomb where no wizard hath lain, and rode off one by one gleaming out in the snow like the rest. Cursed the ground where black gravestones stuck ghoulishly through the mountain and beneath the earth of Kingsport itself, and the people had come, I looked at the top of a village at evening, and that they included old Morryster's wild Marvels of Science, the shocking Daemonolatreja of Remigius, printed in 1595 at Lyons, and the books were hoary and moldy, and rode off one by one, and coating the nitrous stone with a nasty, venomous verdigris. It was a cavernous fireplace and a legend too hideous for sanity or consciousness, but I could have better care.

#H.P. Lovecraft #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Python #Markov chains #The Festival #1923 #The Festival week

5 notes · View notes

rinusagitora · 8 years

Text

i breathe him out so I can breathe you in

Fandom: Bleach

Pairings: KiraHina-centric, mentioned badship AiHina

Words: 2,500+

Summary: Oneshot, modern!AU. WARNINGS-- smoking, mentioned serial murder, mentioned relationship violence. He smoked out her misery.

A/N: At first, I just wanted to write some shotgunning, but then it spiralled into this.

FFN | AO3

It was a woozy, primal atmosphere. Music with deep basses and long riffs, lyrics lost in the noise, boomed from ruined speakers and it reverberated through her bones. The bar was lonelier, most patrons on the dance floor or in booths, which naturally included her companion. It was oppressively warm and rather stuffy between the sweat and smoke. She was grateful she’d not only dressed appropriately but was a heavy smoker as well, it would’ve been impossible to breathe otherwise.

Though perhaps the weight of trial was the oppressive element. She had been under the perception that Sousuke’s incarceration would’ve brought her closure. Such wasn’t the case. Even as he was declared guilty on twelve counts of capital murder and two counts of battery-- she laughed as she recalled the prosecutor’s apology that he could only prove two. Like it was his fault-- she didn’t feel any different. Her heavy malaise still remained. Suddenly, loud noises still threw her into a panic. She was still without her family. Her social life didn’t exist outside of Rangiku and Nanao. Romance? Out of the question. And romance books only nauseated her. They only reminded her of him. She could still feel his smile -- the way it poured ice water through her veins….

Sousuke was gone. Her nightmare hadn’t followed.

Needless to say, she wasn’t in the mood to celebrate his incarceration. She’d just like to sleep. But Rangiku had been insistent they go out for girls’ night, even if Nanao was too busy at the prosecution's office. She’d never been able to turn Rangiku away. Perhaps it was that Rangiku was her responding officer that she felt so obligated to her. She technically was the first kindness she’d received since Sousuke monopolized her.

She swirled her cocktail, untouched, and gnawed on the cherry stem she’d tied in several knots over the course of her not-drinking. She had become a bit of a control freak over the years, grasping at the last vestiges of part of her Sousuke had yet to claim, thus alcohol and its dumbing effects was out of the question. She would rather go outside, away from the masses who'd probably heard of the scandal Sousuke had caused on the news or some exaggerated article in some tabloid, and have herself a smoke.

So she would, she thought as she spat out the mangled cherry stem. She sent a text to Rangiku she'd be on the roof and to message her when they were ready to leave. To her luck, it was deserted, though she'd had to squeeze past a younger couple who could not be bothered to find a bathroom stall to make out in on the narrow staircase up. She sat near the edge for the vantage to view the ethereal cityscape past the spaghetti bowl. The lights polluted the night sky, only the waxing moon and North Star visible. But the sky was diluted a pretty gradient of yellow-blue. She liked it. The city was full of opportunity Sousuke had stolen from her.

So she hoped.

She fished into her clutch for a cigar and matches. Never lighter fluid, the memory of her grandmother’s voice echoed, matches preserve the flavor.

Her muscles loosened with her inhalations. Though true relaxation was out of her reach, her tension replaced with clouds of melancholy. If she was not uncomfortable she was self-loathing and directionless.

It’d been almost eight years since she mustered up the courage after one of his rages to seek help. It was the hardest thing she ever did. Every numeral made her sicker and sicker, the short, covert conversation left her breathless and nauseated. She nearly fainted as he screamed at her when the police arrived. She couldn’t hear anything for days afterwards.

Rangiku-- the officer who responded to her call-- made it easier. The gift basket she’d given her was the first thing she ate since Sousuke’s arrest, her voice was the first thing her to penetrate her stunned deafness. Take it at your own pace, she said, he’s not coming out for awhile. Never, if you testify, you know.

The idea made her want to weep. She loved Sousuke, she was a good wife and a good wife didn’t put her spouse away. Sousuke loved her, he wouldn’t have been so hurt if he didn’t. But she was at the end of her lengthy rope, there couldn’t be any other reason she called.

Still, she had not washed herself of him in that time, not even when all the scum had surfaced in the investigation that followed. It was nearly impossible to with all the press coverage. Of course the news had to capitalize on the deaths of twenty-four women and the unwitting wife of a serial killer. How was she supposed to know anything between his year-long cool off and the torment she went through at home? She could barely handle her own problems.

The prosecution had called it Battered Wife Syndrome, or something. She still wasn’t sure what she would call it. Hell, maybe.

At least the divorce was short.

Footsteps interrupted her reverie. She craned her head over her shoulder and saw a gangly gentleman with blond hair fallen over his eye and his arms folded in his jacket approach her despite the plenty of space the roof provided. Initially, she worried he recognized her, but that was impossible when she considered the darkness and the distance between them. He was probably liquored up and horny. Still, she wasn't in the mood for company.

He sat next to her wordlessly. She made no move to put out her cigar-- he had approached her after all, so she assumed he didn't mind-- and turned her gaze forward before her eyelids fluttered shut. She wouldn't bother with an introduction unless he did. She was too damn tired for pleasantries.

“... a pretty girl all dolled up like you should be downstairs where the drinks are. Though, by your dress, perhaps a cabaret is more appropriate.” He said finally. Damn her luck.

Though, it was undeniable she was overdressed. Clubs, let alone the hole in the wall Rangiku dragged her to, had not been Sousuke’s scene. She didn't own anything for the environment consequently.

“Uh… yeah.” She responded.

But he sounded oddly familiar, she thought at her lips pursed. She disregarded it as loneliness. She was an odd duck like that. For weeks after Sousuke’s arrest, she swore she could still feel his weight beside her before she went to sleep, even after she moved. She still could hear him enter the kitchen in the mornings for coffee only to find nobody there.

It was just as strange how her loneliness and fear of relationships cohabitated her condition. Prior to then, she didn't think such conflicted feelings could exist at the same time in an individual. Rangiku and Nanao promised her it was the idea she wanted, but she didn't wholly believe them.

“What're you doing up here, if you don't mind my prying?” He inquired. “You look like you're out for a night of fun, but you've isolated yourself up here.”

“It was stuffy downstairs.” She answered. She wished she had the heart to tell him to buzz off. Alas, she was a doormat-- to be used, to be abused, never the tongue to say no.

She wanted to go home.

The stranger hummed in response then. She was grateful he didn't press it. Though his eyes…. She could almost feel their blueness pierce through her flimsy excuse into her very soul. Those were knowing eyes. She didn't like how his gaze probed every inch of her, how it seemed to see even the most private parts of her. She felt a little bit like a frog in biology class, under that stare.

“I think that’s your friend crawling all over mine downstairs. That's why I came up here. I really didn't want to be around to watch that.”

Her brow arched skeptically. “Oh? How do you know?” She recalled Rangiku’s definite preference for women. She'd like to think the stranger wasn't as much of a dog to leave his lady friend for another girl.

“I saw you two come in together. She has a very distinct voice. Though my friend doesn't seem to mind.” He chuckled then. “He dragged me here to celebrate my second doctorate degree.”

She smiled humorlessly. Rangiku had quite a presence. She just hoped her friend remained sober enough to keep her wits about her-- she would rather not have any incidents that may involve the criminal justice system after the most stressful years of her life. “At least they’re enjoying themselves.”

“Well, we certainly aren’t.” He said. “What’s your story?”

“Not particularly.” She frowned. She was too tired to launch into the last ten years. She was too tired to deal with the stigma media left on her-- how could she not have known her husband was a serial killer?-- too tired to tell him that she'd been too busy avoiding his wrath to have investigated why he was out so late once a fucking year.

“I'm a certified grief counselor if that's any more persuasive.”

… it was. Nanao had tried for years by then to talk her into counseling. She'd not pursued it simply because she hadn't the time nor insurance that covered mental health. But there she was then, right beside one who’d offered a listening ear for no charge, and one who didn't know she was Momo Aizen once upon a time.

She uncrossed and recrossed her ankles in front of her. “Long story short,” she started with a puff of smoke, “I spent fifteen years undergoing systematic abuse, on top of the last eight years it took for my husband to be found guilty of murder.” There. That was vague enough. “The divorce was the easy part. The trial was terrifying, but I had Rangiku and Nanao to support me at least. The hardest part is trying to find some semblance of normalcy.” Her eyes watered, and she shuddered. “I've lost contact with my family. I don’t have my education. I don't even remember my childhood aspirations.” She burst into tears then. “He wins.” She told him. “He always wins. I have his money, I put him in prison, but he still wins. I'm not happy. I hate myself. I just want to lay down and die. I don't know who I am without him. He was right when he said I'm nothing without him. At the end of the day, I'm dead inside. At the end of the day, I'm all alone. I have nothing.”

She combed her fingers through her ringlets. A breeze dried her cheeks as she sobbed. How shameful, she thought. Like she had any right to cry.

“The prosecution tacked some diagnosis on me-- Battered Wife Syndrome or something. But I loved him. He didn't need to coerce me into anything, either that or I didn't know. I stayed because I wanted to. I called the police because I needed to, it broke my heart to speak ill of him however true it was. I'm not a victim. I'm just a fool.”

Her companion was wordless and unreadable beside her. It frightened her as much as it was a relief. If it was something terrible, he was courteous enough to keep it to himself. But she couldn't take much more criticism. Rangiku made her promise to live, but by the way things looked, she may not be able to keep her word. Death seemed like the only true solace available.

She struggled momentarily with her clutch for her handkerchief. “I’m sorry. It's been a long day.” She blubbered as she dabbed her eyes. The fabric came back black with her mascara, and she cussed shrilly. She must look like a damn raccoon. It was one of the reasons she'd stopped wearing makeup-- she couldn't go a single day without ruining it because she never stopped crying.

The stranger beside her sighed. “Please don't apologize, Momo.”

Her eyebrows shot into her hairline. She'd not told him her name, and it wasn't like it was inscribed on anything. She was certain she'd been vague enough whilst she vent.

Unless he already knew her.

She felt so ill. She would never escape Sousuke, would she? She hated the press for that. She might have to move the west coast to escape familiarity with him.

“... I should go.” She uttered breathlessly. She pushed herself to her feet, only for her companion to grab her wrist with a rather desperate expression.

“Don't,” he pleaded. “Momo, it's me. It's Izuru. We were friends in high school. You were on the tennis team and Renji and I would watch you practice before we’d grab a bite to eat at the diner down the street. You revised my first published work. We all thought this senior Shuuhei was the single coolest person to ever exist because he was this punk-ass kid was still so nice to everyone. You were a senior prom royalty nominee-- I maintain that the only reason you lost was because Misty’s fucking posse rigged the votes. We were… we were friends. Don’t you remember?”

Her thoughts reeled as she stared into his eyes in stunned silence. High school was the last normal time of her life, for she had met Sousuke in college. She did remember because those memories were the only thing that made her smile, even if just for a moment.

She sobbed as fresh tears cascaded down her cheeks. He looked older, more handsome with his chiselled features and provocative blue eyes.

Izuru caught her cigar just before it hit her skirt. He pulled her into his lap,, held her tightly like she was some phantom who may vanish if he did not affirm her presence, and he kissed her tears off her honey-gold cheeks as if they did not taste of mascara.

“I’m so sorry.” She wept. “I’m so sorry. I’m an imbecile, you guys deserved better. I promise it wasn’t any of you---”

Izuru silenced her drivel with a kiss. “Hush,” he said, “whatever you have to say, I know or you’re wrong. Just let me hold you….”

Still, she whined as his fingers held the hair at the base of her neck because it was all so unbelievable. Good things did not happen to her. She was a magnet for evil and misfortune-- she could not be still loved by someone she abandoned, she could not still be loved, she could not be in his arms….

Her cigar smoke wafted between them. Izuru took a long drag and puffed against her face. It made her shiver, it made her blubber like a child. But he pulled her close and breathed smoke into her lungs. Her eyes fluttered shut, even as the smoke escaped when he pulled away. She had long learned subservience, knew to be pliable to the whims of her lover.

But Izuru was neither, she thought. His hands were not hungry, his kisses not forceful. With every kiss, he smoked out all that loneliness and even made her misery cough. She would call that codependency, how his touch softened the hurt, but she could not be bothered to care when she had something so good in her arms. It was selfish but she had been selfless for a long time.

#bleach #kirahina #momo hinamori #izuru kira #alternate universe

2 notes · View notes

autolovecraft · 7 years

Text

And then, because everything was wrong.

And against the clearing sky and the whir of the unimaginable blackness beyond the snows; the primal rite. For in all that seething combustion no warmth lay, but only of the hill past monotonous walls of dripping stone blocks and crumbling mortar. Then they both started for the gowned, slippered old man came back booted and dressed in a while a lantern bobbed horribly through serpentine alleys on its way to overtake the throng of celebrants the cowled figures seized and mounted them, and I shivered that a town should be blazing. I saw, and I had refused when he held above his head that abhorrent Necronomicon he had taken with him; the primal rite. He wrote this in a moment we were all descending an ominous staircase of rough-hewn stone; a thought and a legend too hideous for sanity or consciousness, but I was the Yule-rite, and the whir of the sea pounded; the secretive, immemorial sea out of the house when I fancied I heard noxious muffled flutterings in the Stygian grotto I saw some side passages or burrows leading from unknown recesses of blackness to this primal rite of the windows that the amorphous flute-player in the town was invisible in the elder time when festival was forbidden; where also they had commanded their sons to keep festival once every century, that the soul of the hill road the night before, and spoken another tongue before they learned the tongue of the mad Arab, are not for the gowned, slippered old man remained only because I was sure it was a silent, shocking descent, and throw into the church; partly a half-seen flute-player in the dark, suffocating crypt. But I was fully afraid, because everything was wrong, with the low stone doorstep wholly free from snow. Presently the old man made a signal to the drifting spar that accident sent to save me.

But the flabby hands, curiously gloved, wrote the mad Arab, are not for the merry sounds of a gibbet in the darkness, which player thereupon changed its feeble drone to a scarce louder drone in another key; precipitating as it did so I hastened through Back Street to Circle Court, and the bleakness of the season, and across the fresh snow on the harbor, though, for not an attribute was missing. As I hung back, the shocking Daemonolatreja of Remigius, printed in 1595 at Lyons, and wished bitterly that no forefather had summoned me to the caves of the solstice and of spring's promise beyond the snows; the rite, and that they bore no mark of passing feet, not even mine.

Then I thought I heard noxious muffled flutterings in the town at night whose wizards are all ashes. At this horror I sank nearly to the caves of the town was invisible in the elder time when festival was forbidden; where also they had come at last to the semi-circle he faced.

The printless road was very lonely, and the other of which I had better get any harassing obsessions off my mind. I had seen it from the stone staircase down which the people very morbid and disquieting, but I did so a horror unthinkable and unexpected. They insisted that this was Kingsport, and shuddered doubly because it was not afraid long, for not an attribute was missing.

I read that hideous chapter, and fallen over the cliffs at Orange Point; a narrow spiral staircase damp and peculiarly odorous, that men call Christmas though they know in their hearts it is older than Bethlehem and Babylon, older than Bethlehem and Babylon, older than Memphis and mankind. There was a silent, shocking descent, and made stiff ceremonial motions to the old man produced his stylus and wax tablet he carried. It had seemed very horrible, and the old churchyard on Central Hill, they sent me to this primal rite.

Fainting and gasping, I heard it pounding on the one full flagstone pavement in the center of the town, and as the churchyard phosphorescence cast a sickly glow on the left, and I knew we must have lied when they said the trolleys ran to this place, since I saw Kingsport outspread frostily in the town, and I marveled that no fire should be known and welcomed, for the gowned, slippered old man drew back his hood over that unmoving face or mask. It had seemed to my troubled eyes that see; for their marvels are strange and terrific. This fear grew stronger from what had before lessened it, for village legend lives long; so that the night had brought me now squirmed to a chair, table, and felt that these old Puritan folk might well have Christmas customs strange to me.

As I hung back, and sat down to read, and in a very ancient hand, and wished bitterly that no forefather had summoned me to the caves of the windows that the hospital stood near the door; and now I was far from home, and shuddered doubly because it was a silent, shocking descent, and dizzy church-crowned central peak that time durst not touch; ceaseless mazes of colonial houses piled and scattered at all angles and levels like a child's disordered blocks; antiquity hovering on gray wings over winter-whitened gables and gambrel roofs; fanlights and small bridges, willow-trees and graveyards; endless labyrinths of steep, narrow, crooked streets, and the first stars of evening. Out of the devil-bought hastes not from his loose robe a seal ring and a legend too hideous for sanity or consciousness, but did not like everything about what I saw that the old man now left the room; and suddenly there spread out before me the boundless vista of an inner world—a vast fungous shore lit by a wide oily river that bubbled somewhere to the old town beyond, I would have hid the rails in any case. Death-fires danced over the hill's crest I saw this, and sometimes I thought of the eastern sea was upon me all the travelers were converging as they flowed near a sort of focus of crazy alleys at the door of the season, and felt again the fear I had refused when he held above his head.

The eyes never moved, and worst of all, the shocking Daemonolatreja of Remigius, printed in 1595 at Lyons, and I observed after a horrible interval that the suddenness of his motion dislodged the waxen mask from what had before lessened it, and the spell of the festival. Pointing to a massive carved chest in a loose antique costume, and people in the foetid darkness where I could say, that the memory of primal secrets might not be forgotten.

At certain stages of the season, and dizzy church-crowned central peak that time durst not touch; ceaseless mazes of colonial houses piled and scattered at all, the thin, whining mockery of a high hill in the new dusk, and across the fresh snow on the ghostly spire.

There was no one—in waking hours—who could remind me of it; so that I could see over the cliffs at Orange Point; a narrow spiral staircase damp and peculiarly odorous, that happy is the tomb where no wizard hath lain, and I observed after a horrible interval that the hospital they told me I had had. Some fear had been found half-paved square swept nearly bare of snow by the wind had not heard any footsteps before the pulpit, and worst of all, but of which he draped round the old man made a signal to the old woman was spinning very hard, and that, past the creaking of signs in the elder time when festival was forbidden; where also they had come, I would have relished it better if there had been summoned to this place, and full of silent hearthside prayer. I lost the feeling that there were no houses, I pushed on through the snow, a few patches did remain on the rocks, and dizzy church-crowned central peak that time durst not touch; ceaseless mazes of colonial houses piled and scattered at all, but I could be led to the old town beyond, I flung myself into that putrescent juice of earth's inner horrors before the door creaked open. I knew from old papers that that watch had been stealthily opened. It was the Yuletide, that happy is the tomb where no wizard hath lain, and that the tomb's floor had an aperture down which the throng, and rode off one by one, and across the fresh snow on the harbor, though I was determined to be performed. They said something about a psychosis and agreed I had been reading, beckoning me as he drew his hood and pointed to the family resemblance in his face, but only the clamminess of death and corruption. I found in the snow. This fear grew stronger from what should have been kept very close to its antique state. I found in that aged town of curious customs. Amid these hushed throngs I followed dumbly down the foot-worn steps and the Dog Star leered at the old woman in loose wrapper and deep poke-bonnet sat back toward me, and people in the center of the unimaginable blackness beyond the hill's summit and watch the glimmer of stars on the ghostly spire.

I lost the feeling that there were persons on the harbor, though, for only the poor and the spell of the ritual they did groveling obeisance, especially when he motioned me to the lichened earth, transfixed with a dread not of the hill road the night had brought me now squirmed to a point directly beside the hideous flame, and worst of all, the unmentionable Necronomicon of the hill road the night before, and pressed by chests and stomachs that seemed preternaturally soft, and were old even when this land was settled three hundred years before. It was the Yule worship in this ancient place; that it was a silent, shocking descent, and I could say, that men call Christmas though they know in their hearts it is of old rumor that the old man was pulling at my sleeve, but because an old tradition of my screams could bring down upon me all the charnel legions these pest-gulfs might conceal. I heard noxious muffled flutterings in the chlorotic glare. I had been summoned to this shaft of nighted mystery. Everything was wrong, with the broad windows showing a sea of roofs in which only about one in five was ancient, and saw the cloaked throngs forming a semicircle around the blazing pillar. Crossing the threshold into the bowels of the town, and I saw this, and knew where to find the home of my fathers had summoned me to seize an animal and ride like the rest. The nethermost caverns, wrote the mad Arab, are not appear to men as if chiseled out of corruption horrid life springs, and that they included old Morryster's wild Marvels of Science, the unmentionable Necronomicon of the vaults which yawned loathsomely open just before the door; and I had had. Lacantius. But it was not a face at all, the terrible Saducismus Triumphatus of Joseph Glanvil, published in 1681, the old churchyard on Central Hill, they sent me to St. Mary's Hospital in Arkham, where I could hear the creaking of signs in the gloaming; snowy Kingsport with its ancient vanes and steeples, ridgepoles and chimney-pots, wharves and small bridges, willow-trees and graveyards; endless labyrinths of steep, narrow, crooked streets, and even lent me their influence in obtaining the carefully sheltered copy of Alhazred's objectionable Necronomicon from the diamond window-panes that it was not much, though queerly failing to cast any shadows. There was no sidewalk, but many houses had high doors reached by double flights of steps with iron railings. The past was vivid there, for the gowned, slippered old man came back booted and dressed in a loose antique costume, and a legend too hideous for sanity or consciousness, but I only shuddered, because I was half afraid. I thought the room; and when I sat down to read I saw them wriggling into a low, candle-lit room with massive exposed rafters and dark, suffocating crypt. So after that I could hear the creaking signs and antediluvian gables, the thatched roofs and overhanging gables.

When I sounded the archaic iron knocker I was the true deputy of my fathers who had brought, and a legend too hideous for sanity or consciousness, but I did not like everything about what I saw that the memory of primal secrets might not be forgotten. The church was scarce lighted by all the stragglers had followed. I was sure that the night before, and the passage grew broader, I resolved to expect queer things. And against the clearing sky and the whir of the sea; flung myself into the church; partly a half-seen flute-player in the Stygian grotto I saw something amorphously squatted far away from the library of Miskatonic University. I looked at the old man stood up, glided to a point directly beside the hideous flame, and throw into the oily underground river that bubbled somewhere to the lichened earth, transfixed with a nasty, venomous verdigris.

It was told that I did not know just where.

I was far from home, and partly a churchyard with spectral shafts, and sat down to read I saw this, and a watch, both with my family arms, to where Aldebaran twinkled among the trees; on toward the very worm that gnaws; till out of the blue-eyed fishers. He wrote this in a very ancient town I had refused when he motioned me to this shaft of nighted mystery.

It was told that I was the Yule worship in this ancient place; that it was not a face at all, the old man's bland face that reassured me; and suddenly there spread out before me the boundless vista of an inner world—a vast fungous shore lit by a wide oily river that bubbled somewhere to the old woman, who was ceasing her monotonous spinning. Up, up, glided to a massive carved chest in a while a lantern bobbed horribly through serpentine alleys on its way to overtake the throng was sliding, and I shared all the lanthorns that had entered it, for the more its very blandness terrified me. This was not of the things began to waddle and edge away, he turned quickly to stop it; but my dreams are filled with terror, because they had come, I would have relished it better if there had been gathering in me, silently spinning despite the festive season. And because my fathers had called me to strange feastings, I looked at the door; and suddenly there spread out before me the boundless vista of an inner world—a vast fungous shore lit by a belching column of sick greenish flame and washed by a belching column of sick greenish flame and washed by a wide oily river that flowed from abysses frightful and undiscoverable cataracts. I saw that the night before, and the people had dwelt and kept festival in the cold dusk to join the blackest gulfs of immemorial ocean. In the twilight I heard it pounding on the left in Green Lane, with the broad windows showing a sea of roofs in which only about one in five was ancient, and I saw some side passages or burrows leading from unknown recesses of blackness to this festival by the writings of my forefathers.

#H.P. Lovecraft #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Python #Markov chains #The Festival #1923 #The Festival week

0 notes

40ozalctears · 4 years

Text

ashed in. mis used - influence. fluid. icarus. lazarus of this seems just maiden of iron grinded my anxious waiting for doc at a FUCKING ABACUS HASN’T iT!????

0 notes