#its just wood and bolts w a leather strap but

[tacticaltechs]

Me, spotting anything that looks weighty and long enough to be somewhat balanced:

My brain: spin it

[thesilverdragoon]

By Order of the Exarch

Previous: Bumps and Bruises

Next: To Amh Araeng

“I’m supposed to what?”

“By the order of the Crystal Exarch himself, you are to show him around and to report his training progress specifically to me, is that understood?”

Gennar stared at Captain Lyna in disbelief before glancing directly behind her towards the road leading away from the construction grounds. “...Yes, er… where is he?”

Lyna turned her gaze in the same direction, though it was more pointed towards the sky above the woods. “He will be arriving by amaro soon. Make sure you have your priorities in order before then.”

“Aye Captain...”

With a singular silent nod, she left him.

Gennar let out a small grumble. Babysitting? That freak of all people? Something about that hardly sounded right to him, ‘orders from the Crystal Exarch’ or not.

That day out in the road… That fellow-whoever-he-was was dangerous. A beast among their ranks. And yet the Exarch himself insisted upon it?

Still, it wasn’t his nor anyone else’s to question such a decision. Surely the Exarch knew of things that they did not. He only had their best interests in mind, after all.

It wasn’t long before the particular screech of what could only come from an amaro rang out from overhead. The creature flew around the site in a wide arc before lowering itself down rather daintily on the landing platform they had just finished building the day prior.

‘Dainty’ was not a word that could have been used to describe its passenger however.

Gennar immediately felt his face fall into something of a scowl. There he was.

He’d seen the strange elf from afar only a handful of times back at the Crystarium, wandering around with his eyes about to pop out his head as though he’d never seen such a magnificent place before. He probably hadn’t. Arval wouldn’t stop talking about him either. ‘The man from Eulmore’ he said, and Fenick always made a grimace anytime he was mentioned.

The last thing he’d said to either of the boys was to stay away from him.

And while he was glad that the man(monster?) was here with him instead? Gennar hadn’t the foggiest idea how to deal with him.

“Pull your foot up- the other way- THE OTHER WAY!!” The Zun handler on the platform bellowed at the man as he tried to yank his foot away from the amaro (who hardly looked distressed about it and kept chewing on whatever cud it still had.)

“It’s STUCK I told you!-”

With a sharp SNAP the leather strap on the seat broke and the elf fell backwards as the Zun handler let out another roar. “You HALFWIT old FOOL- you owe me a new saddle!!”

The longer Gennar watched, the less fear he felt.

This was to be his charge? This pathetic old man?

Before the situation flew out of hand any further than it already had, he came over, “Alright, alright- what’s going on here?”

The Zun’s nostrils flared as it looked down at him in a rage. “Is this one one of your own?”

“He is now, I’m afraid, on order of Captain Lyna and the Crystal Exarch.”

“Hmph. Tell your captain then that I will require a new saddle.” The handler snorted.

Gennar sighed. “Yes, yes, fine. You!” He pointed at the elf who in turn pointed at himself once he’d gotten back onto his feet. “Yes you-” Gennar paused, shutting his eyes for a prolonged second as he gathered himself mentally. “You’re the traveler on the road we had run into before?”

“Y-yes! That’s right. Er-… The Exarch- he arranged something with Captain Lyna and had me sent out this way to help?”

Gennar eyed the old man up and down critically once again.

“...Your uniform’s in order at least. Good. But you’ve no weapons with you.”

“Ah- well-”

“I hope you’re not expecting to fight off eaters with your bare hands. Fancy prosthesis or not.”

“It-”

“Nevermind,” He shook his head. “We’ll get your a spare sword to work with. There’s still a matter of overseeing your training. I’m sure Captain Lyna filled you in on that much at least?”

“She did,”

“Good. Come on then.”

The Zun eyed them as they left, making sure to remind them, “I want my saddle by the end of the week, Gennar!”

Gennar ignored him and continued walking. “This is the Ostall Imperitive. Or at the very least, it will be, once construction’s finished. We’ve only just started as you can see. It’s rather dangerous hauling any amount of supplies out here this far into the wood, especially when the eaters are worked up into a frenzy as they have been the last few weeks.”

“Why is that?”

“Well that’s the mystery isn’t it?” He turned to face the old man, shrugging in exasperation. “And you are…?”

“Vesevont.”

“Vesevont. Right, anyhow… once we get you a sword we can start on some basic sparring after I’ve made my rounds along the outside of the tower.”

“The tower?” Vesevont tilted his head back as they headed straight for the aforementioned and uncompleted tower-to-be. “Oh, I wasn’t sure what that was going to be. It seemed a bit too large for any sort of watchtower.” “On the contrary, that’s exactly what it’s going to be. On the outside anyway. The inside will provide us valuable storage space for extra supplies and the like that the others will need.”

The two fell into a temporary bit of silence as they started up the ramp that curled around the structure. Scaffolding surrounded the base of the tower and followed the ramp alongside them, every soldier working on their assigned areas with brick and mortar.

Every so often Gennar would catch a glance at Vesevont looking around wide-eyed, much like he demonstrated back in the city. Was it that uncommon to see soldiers building something? Was any of this here unfamiliar to him at all? It seemed like it.

Maybe something was wrong with him (well of course there was.)

They paused as a mystel crossed their path carrying a bucket of mortar. “Morning Gennar!”

“Morning Zalsi-Mae, how’s progress on this side? Do you have what you need?”

“Aye sir, gonna hoist up the elevator so I can work on a higher section! The wind’s died down, now seemed like the perfect time.”

“Just be careful.”

“Aye sir!” On she went.

Ves watched her go for a brief moment before turning his attention back to Gennar. They continued along, greeting several other people here and there until they reached the ‘top’ of the tower, though it was clear that this was going to only a mid-section of it. “Do you know how long it will take to finish this building?” He asked.

“If all remains on schedule, which is likely won’t, then perhaps at the end of the month or so? You can’t really predict eaters and what they’ll do. Not all the time, anyway.” Gennar crossed his arms as they looked out over the construction site and the violet forests beyond. The Crystal Tower loomed in the distance like an ever-watchful giant, hovering over the woods. Un-moving. “...Where are you from anyhow? I don’t recognize your accent.”

The old man tore his attention away from the view. “Huh?” He stammered a bit, “W-well, strange thing that. I don’t really remember.”

Gennar rolled his eyes. “I see. Something about Fae was the word on the street, I believe.”

Ves swallowed noticeably and nodded. “Yes, that’s right.”

“And what about...” Gennar lowered his voice and glanced behind himself for just a moment. “...That creature?”

Immediately Ves tensed up and rubbed the back of his neck nervously. “Creature?”

“Yes, that thing we saw you turn into when we found you wandering on the northern past. That thing?” How could he forget? Gennar furrowed his brows in the most confrontational way possible as he began drumming his fingers impatiently against his arm. “Did you forget what you did to that large sin eater that nearly killed you?

You should have been dead. And yet here you are as though nothing ever happened.”

“O-oh yes, that!” Ves grinned a very lop-sided grin. “It’s funny- I don’t really remember that part either! All of a sudden… there everyone was and then it got dark- and then we were back in the city.”

“It’s not funny.” Gennar ran a hand down the side of his face, now frustrated. “Forgive me, but I think any normal, sane person would consider your ability to do whatever it was that you did to be extremely dangerous to those around you.

How am I or anyone else to know you might not suddenly attack one of us?”

“I wouldn’t do that!”

“So you CAN control this strange power!”

“No!- I just-”

“Just what then??”

Ves couldn’t hold eye contact the entire way through, and ultimately turned away, with his fingers digging into his hair.

“I want you to prove to me that you’re not dangerous before I even begin sparring with you. Captain Lyna’s orders or not.” Gennar demanded, though, not so loud that everyone could hear their conversation.

Damn the Exarch’s orders. Sure, he came shortly after Vesevont had destroyed the elite sin eater, but he wasn’t there to watch him change into that dark, toothy monstrosity. He wasn’t there to see what he did to it.

“How am I supposed to prove something like that?! I don’t suppose you have another one of those warrior-eaters lying around for me to demonstrate on, do you?” Ves snapped back, annoyed.

“No- but-” A strong gust of wind blew past them, and they could hear the scaffolding rattle all around the tower. Only, there was a sharp CLANK and a sudden scream that rang out, causing the two of them to bolt back down the way they’d come.

“What’s going on?-” Gennar came towards the edge of the ramp where there were others gathered, in clear distress. “Zalsi! What are you doing down there?!”

“Th-the elevator s-somehow came untied- one side fell down here- get me DOWN from here!” The mystel guard from earlier clung onto the side of the tower wall as best as she could while also hanging onto the elevator platform. Its rope had snagged onto some extruding part of the structure and was bobbing back and forth in the wind.

“Well don’t just stand there with your jaws hanging open!”

“W-we can’t- if there’s another gust of wind she might tip over all together! And we can’t reach that far down!” Another one of the hum guards interjected.

“Then go down to the bottom to catch her! Or SOMETHING!” Gennar snapped, pushing several of the lingering guards out of his way. “Come on!!”

“Do we have any extra rope?” “No! I mean maybe- it’s all back down at the-” “Well go look for some!”

Once they had gone and more of the others started moving around looking for rope, Vesevont approached the edge cautiously.

Despite only being halfway up the tower structure, it was still a long way down to the ground below. High enough that anyone who fell from up this high would be seriously hurt at the very least.

Another strong gust came, causing the platform to sway dangerously from side to side as Zalsi cowered from where she was.

“Not gonna be good,” A voice whispered into his ear.

Ves swallowed. “Not here,” He muttered back as a third gust battered against the tower.

The elevator platform began to slip, slowly. “Oh- no no no-” Zalsi shrieked again as it slid further, grinding against the wall of the tower.

“Th-they’re going to catch you! Or get a rope- don’t worry!” Ves shouted, unhelpfully.

“Don’t WORRY?! YES I’LL TRY THAT!!”

“S-SORRY-”

With a final and sudden creak, the elevator platform dropped.

“FORGET IT, JUMP-”

Ves hardly was able to take a breath when his entire body violently lurched forward, launching him off the ramp and down the side of the tower (shrieking and all.)

His arm turned black and flew towards Zalsi, wrapping around her waist in mid air as the rest of him twisted to face the sky. His prosthetic took on the same dark tendril-like form in an instant, shooting back towards the edge where they had just stood, halting their descent quite suddenly.

By the time Gennar and the other guards who followed him reached the ground below them, they could all see the two hanging there.

“G-GENNAR SIR??” Zalsi-Mae stammered, ears pinned back as she kept turning her head to look up at a dangling Vesevont who hung in between herself and the ramp above them.

“Wh-” Gennar clapped his hands on top of his head in the same fashion Ves had done before, fingers digging into his scalp.

“How’s he doin’ that?”

“I’ve never seen magic like that!”

“That’s the man who turned into that monster on the road! I heard about ‘im!”

Just what had the Exarch given them?

Or rather, who??

[dragimalsdaydreams]

automail designs

so I’ve been thinkin a LOT abt FMA b/c it honestly has some of the best-designed naturalistic robotic limbs I’ve ever seen (I think it’s only beat by Silver from Treasure Planet..). BUT I do think there could be some improvements in certain aspects + a bit more diversity in design. this isn’t a critique against Arakawa necessarily, b/c designing something like a palm w/ the full range of motion as a human hand is a BITCH. I just wanna do some extra worldbuilding here

disclaimer: I don’t know a whole lot abt robotics/mechanics, so I rly can’t speak much for the internal workings of the automail, besides maybe the ‘skeletal’ structure. BUT I have a very strong sense of BIOmechanics, so I can map out how, say, the shell of a robotic arm would need to be designed in order to allow different ranges of motion-- which is exactly what I will be focusing on here. I’m also not exactly versed in anything battle, so that design type may be a bit less accurate as well... let me know, if that’s the case

anyways, I predict that there would prolly be 3 main “types” of automail arm designs: low labor, high labor, and battle (+ a unique 4th type, but we’ll get into why it’s not necessarily a common type). these are very broad-strokes definitions-- these different types often overlap in actual automail designs depending on the user’s lifestyle. not everyone can afford both an array of different arms they can switch out for different uses + regular check-ins with a good automail mechanic to ‘plug in’ those arms, so ppl gotta work with what they’ve got

Type 1: Low-labor

this is what a lot of common folks will get-- the office worker, the artisan, the stay-at-home parent, etc. the shell is light and widely-spaced into multiple sections over areas of high flexion (palms/wrists, mainly). this design represents the absolute minimum amount of hard-shell coverage required to protect the inner workings from day-to-day external forces. the inner workings don’t need too much inner padding for a low-labor user, so the ‘mass’ of the shell can be rather sleek unless the user requests otherwise for aesthetic purposes

this type of automail will almost always have a permanently-embedded grip on the hand’s shell, sans certain aesthetic or working conditions where a smooth palm/fingers are necessary (such as pottery-making). however, even in these cases, a smooth glove over the grip will often suffice. for this reason, low-labor grip gloves are pretty uncommon among Type 1 users, though they’ve gained some aesthetic popularity as of late. low-labor grips-- whether on a glove or the shell proper-- are typically soft and bumpy

aesthetic additions/changes to this type of design are typically expressed via surface-level details and unique materials. leather is a common/cheap alternative to metal, and also allows slightly more flexibility depending on the hardness of the leather, so it’s fairly common for the hands. wealthy folks often commission hardwood or ceramic shells; even if the full shell isn’t made out of wood/ceramic, additions such as embedded ceramic nails are a common aesthetic statement. paint-jobs are popular, though depending on user activity + the kind of seal applied, these can wear out. a more permanent option is engraving designs straight into the shell. engravers are often held in the same regard as tattoo artists, and those that hone their craft become well-known in automail communities

while most low-labor users just want the base structure/’mass’ of their automail limb to proportionally match their body and/or other arm, there are a few eccentric folks that will mismatch their automail. this is accomplished by either ‘slimming’ the shell to more tightly-hug the inner workings (automail doesn’t actually require much ‘muscle’ mass to function), or extending the length of the arm or fingers to give a more gaunt, haunting look. though these changes are still tame compared to Type 4 designs

Type 2: Heavy-labor

these are made for those working manual labor-- construction workers, fishermen, miners, etc. the ‘mass’ of the shell is often much thicker in this design, as more cushioning material will be layered under the thick shell to protect the inner workings. this will usually match the thick muscle required of the user’s other flesh arm, but not always. some palm flexion is sacrificed here for the sake of stability, allowing the user to handle heavier forces on the palm. the wrist is also reinforced on the topside, to make sure the hand isn’t forced too far back from some unexpected force. the shell on this type is typically built out of metal with leather reinforcement in certain areas (such as the wrist brace)

users of this type usually don’t permanently embed the palm grip into the shell. grips wear down VERY quickly during heavy labor, so the palm’s grip would need to be replaced often. thus, most high-labor users go for a smooth hand shell and just pull grip-gloves over them, since grip-gloves are much cheaper to replace regularly. heavy-labor grip-gloves are made out of strong fabric and have a thick, tight latch to prevent slippage. they’re usually designed to fit over wrist braces, as it’s a bit of a hassle to fit thick gloves under the wrist brace. heavy-labor grips are typically thick and deeply ribbed

due to heavy wear on the shell, the only aesthetic additions heavy-labor users can reasonably get are engravings in their shells. paint-jobs wear away far faster than engravings, and any extra adornments could catch on something or otherwise get in the way while working. this is usually just fine for these users, since engravings can have a pretty hardcore look >:)

Type 3: Battle

battle-built automail favors stability the most out of the three types. palm/finger flexion is often heavily sacrificed for protection/reinforcement of the joints. the ‘mass’ of the base shell is comparable to that of high-labor designs, with the addition of extra layers of shell on the outside of the arm/hand for defense

these extra shell pieces are held in place on the arm by what I’m going to call “compression bolts”-- sturdy, spring-based anchors that compress somewhat under force. these help absorb the impact of attacks, protecting the inner machinery from experiencing sharp jolts of force. padding between the base shell and extra shell prevents the bolts from fully collapsing. leather straps are sometimes used to help hold the extra shell pieces in place as well, but not always

battle automail is often supplied to the military by the government, so military users generally don’t have to worry about the money spent on replacing embedded grips as needed. however, certain grips can end up being a hazard when fighting-- heavy-labor grips can, for example, accidentally catch on a blade and cause it to slide between the joints of the fingers. BUT grip is essential for the type of user that leaps around and needs to grip ledges/walls, or uses a weapon. this in mind, most battle users tend to go for a low-labor grip (light, soft bumps) either embedded in the shell, or on a grip-glove. those that go for a smooth shell + grip glove are typically into hand-to-hand combat, especially if they’re expecting to face blades of some sort, which they’d want to easily glance off their palm, NOT catch on a grip. another popular way to maintain a ‘grip’ with a smooth shell is to give the fingertips claws

battle-users are the most likely to push their automail to the extreme (see Type 4), which often informs their aesthetic choices. battle-users love extra adornments like claws, spikes, extra layers of shell shaped like vicious animals or weapons-- all’s fair game for a battle-user. any surface-level decoration (if present at all) is usually simple compared to these adornments, since paint or engravings often get scratched to hell

Type 4: Task-oriented

no special visual for this one, since so many varied designs result from this design type, so just have Buccaneer as an example. these are the designs that shift the base arm structure of the automail into something very different-- from something as simple as a hook for a hand, or as complex as Buccaneer’s chainsaw arm. while these designs do forgo any sense of a hand + its advantages (dexterity, mainly), they have the advantage of directing all energy into a highly-specific task. this leaves a lot of room for different approaches to stability/reinforcement and overall arm flexion

relatively few users in general go for this type. psychologically, it’s very difficult to wrap our muscle-memory around a structure that doesn’t match a limb we used to have, or at the very least doesn’t match our other flesh limb. even without societal pressures to have a “matching set”, few ppl want to deal w/ the uncomfortable neurological incongruity of navigating a mismatched limb, thus will still go for a humanoid design

even if someone WANTS a Type 4 design, it’s a whole other task to find an automail mechanic both skilled enough and willing to design one. despite popular belief, automail design is not just a mechanical task-- it requires a deep understanding of physiology, neurology, and biomechanics, among other fields of study. an especially complex Type 4 design will throw off all these aspects, requiring the mechanic to carefully reconstruct and test out new means of balance, proprioception, and full-body integration. the slightest miscalculation can, for example, ruin a user’s center of balance, causing pulled muscles, pinched nerves, herniated discs, or much worse...

battle users are the most likely to go for a type 4 design-- they’re accustomed to sacrificing comfort/safety for their goals, thus are most willing to deal with the hazards of a strange limb if they can have, say, a giant machine gun for an arm. + the government pays for any automail their soldiers require, so military users in particular don’t necessarily have to permanently sacrifice their dexterity for built-in weapons

heavy-labor users aren’t as gung-ho about this design as many battle-users, but they’re far more likely than low-labor users to consider this type. most heavy-labor users are practical thinkers, and if they see a practical advantage to a Type 4 over a Type 2, then they’ll go for it. a fisherman, for example, may have a claw-like clamp instead of a hand in order to better pull in nets

Bonus: Ed

and of course I had to rethink Ed’s design, if I was gonna go and rethink his world’s automail (ignore the fact it’s the wrong arm..)

I think Ed would ideally prefer a more dexterous palm, but battle calls for more sturdiness, so he settles for a heavy-labor palm design. his knuckles are also reinforced for extra punch power

Ed’s fight style very “duck and evade”, despite his aggressive nature. he knows his own strength, and while he’s certainly VERY physically strong for his age, most of his opponents are far larger and stronger. thus, he favors a light automail build that will allow him to brush aside blades or fists as he leaps around his opponent to deliver quick punches/kicks to vulnerable areas

this allows Ed to focus on his true strength-- his alchemy. this skill gives Ed a unique advantage, as he can actively morph his extra shell into a more offensive design (such as a blade, or a row of spikes). this is why he has a rather unprotected wrist/hand compared to most other battle automail-- he can just pull material from his extra shell up and over his wrist if he think he needs that extra protection

he probably uses a low-labor grip-glove when he’s studying

[wilhelmjfink]

The Great Divide - Chapter 5

A/N: i thought we were on chapter 4 but i already posted that so here we are...!

Previous Chapter • Next Chapter

Riley had observed the workers as she was led — or dragged, more or less — blindly through a maze of dirty alleyways and dark corridors. Old brick buildings, dilapidated and crumbling walls to structures getting patched up and rebuilt were everywhere, and each one had a small crew of people struggling to keep up with it.  Some women, some men, some even children, all of them emancipated and filthy, covered in soot and bruises, bags under their eyes from exhaustion, frown lines permanently etched on their faces that gave even the youngest ones the appearance of having lived through a lifetime of struggle.

Up until then she had been trying to quell the fear twisting in her gut telling her it was nothing she couldn’t handle, but every corner she turned held more and more reason for her to worry.

She wasn’t even sure where she was — she had heard the words “pit” and “divide” thrown around frequently in the chatter and spotted a couple of makeshift signs with those words painted sloppily on them among others all with arrows pointing different directions.

Men were shoveling piles of coal into furnaces, stacking gigantic steam beams on top of one another or hoisting them up with a pulley to sit steadily against the towering walls of thick, heavy corrugated metal sheets that bordered the city endlessly, sealing the rest of the world where it belonged — outside of the fences. The wall around her was constructed of endless laborious tasks, it seemed.

It was like a different world, an alternate universe that Riley had fallen into against her will, almost like she was living in a movie. Watching it through a big screen before her eyes except she could feel every little piece of it: every wave of heat from the roaring furnaces, every spec of dust that floated around her that she blinked into her eyes or inhaled dryly, every time the person pushing her from behind tightened his grip threateningly to remind her whose control she was under should she get any ideas, gloved fingers bruising her pale skin.

Stumbling up some concrete stairs she was shoved harshly through the shipping entrance of a looming factory building, covered in a thick layer of dust that settled on all of the unused machines and full of heavy duty chains that hung from the tall ceiling, bulky and rusty hooks dangling from the bottom links and over her head.

While she was engulfed in the horror movie vibe she was getting her captor pressed her against one of the cold, steel walls and held her there securely, patting her down as if she was being searched by a cop or by security at TSA. She growled to herself, not fighting back just yet, but already formulating a plan in the back of her mind of how she was going to get the hell out of this place and the demons that walked it; she knew it held nothing but long, painful days ahead for her if she didn’t leave as soon as possible.

“This one’s good.” The voice come from behind her, muffled as if he was talking through some sort of mask — hell, he might’ve been, she hadn’t even seen him yet. Her right cheek was still digging into the cold steel wall and pinching her flesh as she was held there, biting her tongue and squirming uncomfortably, tasting the blood as it seeped out from the cuts she was causing.

The pressure was released off of her and she seized the opportunity of freedom to whip around to get a good look at the mysterious stranger. It was just as she’d expected: he had the leather armor with the same spikes as the last few, a gas mask covering his face, and a large axe strapped to his back. He was tall, solid, and any inclination she had to turn and run completely melted away into nothing. He was intimidating and she stood stupidly. “Clothes off.”

She blinked. “I’m... w--what?”

“Clothes off!” She was already shaking, her fingers lightly grasping the hem of her dark green jacket before she peeled it off slowly, eyeing the other strangers that were being ushered in in a similar fashion that she had been brought in with curiously. One girl was crying, one man cursing and flailing. Others just wept and did what they were told. The lone man’s protests didn’t last, because when they reached the wall adjacent to her his captor shoved him so forcefully into it that Riley could hear the sickening crunch of his nose breaking and he fell to the floor in a heap at the guys feet.

She wasted no more time kicking off her boots and jeans down to her bare feet where she stood what would’ve otherwise been awkwardly and exposed, not even minding her lack of coverage considering all that was going on around her, shivering despite the intense heat in the room, and standing as still and quiet as she could for fear of being next in line to have her face smashed in.

All of the other civilians were just as scared as her and none of the uniformed guards and soldiers offered her any information about what was going on. They buzzed around her like bees, talking amongst themselves, low rumbles of laughter erupting from deep inside their dark souls, surely about some of the misfortune of the people that stood by Riley. And she knew it would be coming for her soon.

Once they were all unclothed, they stood shoulder to shoulder, Riley first, and three more people to her right.

Soldiers with face paint and intimidating large guns stood in front of the only visible exit and another guy, this one covered by a welding mask, rolled in what looked like a wood stove, several steel rods on its side that Riley recognized as tools used to poke and supply fires with. It squeaked obnoxiously as he or she followed it in, rusty wheels grinding against each other like nails on a chalkboard.

Riley wasn’t sure how much farther her heart could drop down into her stomach at that point and all she knew for sure was that, whatever was about to happen, she was first in line for it.

Dread and crippling terror took over the rest of her body in waves as one of the rods was taken from its metal shelf, the metal cross-shaped tip of it glowing a menacing shade of red, the man holding it dawned in heavy duty gloves and chuckling to himself as he made his way to her.

She couldn’t be sure, but she thought it was his laughter that finally got to her.

She started pleading incoherently as the first man from before had flipped her over, his large hand holding her face down against the metal wall behind her, the other pinning her wrists easily in its grip above her hand. She spiraled quickly into a panic as her brain put the pieces in their place and she realized what exactly was about to happen: 

 “What — no! No, no, no! Please!”

Her begging was ignored and she could hear her skin sizzling before she could feel it.

Oddly, the metal felt painfully cold before it turned into a singeing heat, crippling her like she was struck by a bolt of white-hot lightning, a blood curdling scream tearing from deep inside of her unintentionally as she tried to push herself into the wall in hopes that maybe she could melt through it and escape the unbearable pain.

Death would have been a nice alternative. She writhed, struggling underneath the crushing iron grip in her body as all her senses just blended together into a blinding overwhelming agony. And it weighed down on her, crushing her until it was the only thing she could see or hear or feel in her little world.

Riley wasn’t sure how long she was forced to stand there, held upright as her kneels buckled underneath her with the fire digging into the flesh in the middle of her back, disfiguring her permanently and forever reminding of her terrifying time here that had yet to even begin. She embraced the darkness as it welcomed her into its arms.

~

Riley leaned with her head against the cold cement wall, shoulder digging into the coarse stone, a dull and welcomed pain as opposed to the debilitating burn on her back that throbbed against her skin. It heated her entire body up, despite still being mostly unclothed and shivering in the cool night air. She hugged herself, striving to remain as still as possible as to not disturb her burn, biting her lip to stifle her cries.

She assumed the makeshift cell that housed her was that of an actual prison; a small holding cell in a small city hall before, dark and quiet and holding nothing but a small cot and a toilet in the corner keeping her company.

She’d only woken up when they tossed her in there carelessly — paying little attention to the fresh wound they’d caused her — and she screamed in pain as she’d fallen, and since then the tears haven’t been able to stop. Her lip quivered as she whimpered, trying to withhold her sobbing, trying to be strong, but failing miserably as a combination of the pain and fear and despair smothered her and the reality of her situation became very real very fast.

Angry. She was angry that she had gone after that asshole Warner — if that was even his name — and angry that she believed him. She was upset with herself for trusting people so easily, still, even after Daryl had reprimanded her more than once for it. For as bitter as she could be, she couldn’t turn down the idea of helping someone... even if the reward was her own life. So stupid.

“Oh god, Daryl, please come help me...”

She wondered what he was doing. No idea of the time of day, no idea of how long it’d been since she’d last seen him, no frame of reference for any of it. It felt like years but she knew in reality it probably been twenty-four hours, if that. It all blurred together in a big mass of headaches, fear, yelling, vivid dreams of piercing blue eyes and a low, rough voice somewhere far away from her promising her she would be okay.

Fuck, she missed him.

So much so that it brought a physical pang of emptiness and loss to her heart and caused her to choke out another sob, longing for him to come find her and save her or at the very least just make the fucking hurt go away. He was good at that. At that moment, it felt like she would be able to withstand anything that shithole threw at her, so long as Daryl was there with her.

Did he know what had happened? How would he? She’d felt like she’d disappeared from that world without a trace, leaving nothing behind but a memory, something so light and delicate that it hardly even mattered anymore and could disappear in the blink of an eye and it would be like she never even existed in the first place. Should’ve just followed the plan. Should’ve listened to Daryl.

Did Tara and Aaron make it home? God, she hoped so.

Also, she hoped that Daryl wasn’t too upset; that maybe he’d found comfort in Rick or Carol’s arms, accepting the support and help. Maybe he’d be upset for the first night or two but she was sure Carol would’ve stayed with him had that been the case and he was probably fine now, coming to terms with the loss and moving on.

But she hoped, prayed to anything that was out there listening, that all of that was not the case and, in fact, he was out there searching for any sign of her. She needed that faith to latch on to -- to know that somewhere, he was following any sort of hint or clue that came up and was on his way there to rescue her, just like he always did, and wouldn’t rest or even sit until he reached her.

That’s usually what Daryl did. He wouldn’t rest until he had answers. Christ, she remembers when he’d lost Beth and later told her how he just ran and ran and ran and looked for her, refusing to give up until his knees literally collapsed underneath him in sheer exhaustion. The thought broke her heart even more and she scratched at her tired, damp eyes.

“Please, Daryl...”  Tears streamed down her cheeks and burning her chilled, scraped skin. Please come find me. Please don’t give up on me. Please help me.

:-(

next chapter, we’ll see how daryl is doing after running into mr-they-took-my-wife.....

@crossbowking @jodiereedus22 @apossiblegentleman @mtngirlforever @sourwolf-sterek32 @winchester-angel @qrangr @cole-winchester @the-bottom-of-the-abyss @twdeadfanfic @crazyaboutnorman @deliciousassafrasssandwich @bunnymother93 @96ssi @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes

cover image source: background daryl i am the girl on the right lmao

[stationhousesix]

My usual warning. This is a first draft which has not been read over.

The ground rumbled underneath their feet and a wail filled the sky a warning for what was to come next. Erin didn’t even need to warn her squad. Cornilla, Augtin and Daniel instinctively dove for the closest cover which out in the field was little deeper than a fox hole. They tensed at the creak of wood as the great altan pine trees split in two and their quills rained down on them like a hail of arrows.  Rock burst and shards of pebbles followed by clouds of dirt and dust flew into the air. Filling Erin’s nostril with the scent of gunpowder and soil.

Another wail flew through the air, followed by another and another. Each one bitting through the trees, blasting craters in the rock around them. The ground rumbling with each impact.  Erin gritted her teeth as the sounds of artillery fire filled the countryside.

Then everything fell silent. The ground stopped rumbling. The creaking of trees sputtered out, and the dust settled. It was a strange quiet. There was no sounds of birds, no flutter of wings or tweeting on the summer air. Seems the birds had more sense then them.  It took Erin a moment to regain herself. Moving slowly at first in case it was only a brief pause before the assault would continue. She could taste dirt on her tongue.  Looking up she could see the trees that had been proving them cover were shredded, most fallen over their branches of pine needles littering the ground and looked more like bushed now instead of the tall trees that covered the karzian countryside. The rough rocky, earth was littered in craters now, she had been lucky to have been just out of reach of the blast radius of one of the shots.  Slowly rising to her knees, she gripped her rifle and held it into the air to make sure no one was out there.  After a few moments of silence she stood to her full height content to see that the mess of artillery fire had knocked so many trees over they had a brief moment of complete cover from anything.  Content with the situation she shouted, “Clear! Roll call, Augtin Fisher!”

The redhead’s helmet slowly rose above the rim of a crater a few meters away, “ H’ere!” His voice was shaky but she knew he would be okay. His uniform was covered in dirt and dust and a crown of needles rested on his metal helmet.  He seemed unharmed and she took a breath with that, counting silently to herself, ‘One.’ Before looking over the grounds and calling out, “ Cornilla Carpenter!”

There was a rustle in the pile of quills and out came Cornilla limping over using her rifle as a crouch. “ Here and doing alright.” She smiled hobbling forward and added “Just a little sore.” 

Erin looked her over, she didn’t seem to be bleeding, and was covered in fine green quills and dust with a few scratched on her face likely from the branches. Otherwise unharmed Erin let out another breath and continued her count, ‘two.’

But she didn’t get a chance to speak when they heard a hallowed moan from a crater several meters overs. 

‘Luxes Arse.’

She bolted over to the crater quickly understanding why Daniel had been moaning. A blast of rock, and wood wedged it’s way into his side,right leg and across his face. Tearing away at his skin and cutting deep into his flesh till blood turned his pale skin red.

“Ah-eh!” He gritted his teeth and squirmed, she could guess it likely felt like his flesh was burning. She stepped into the crater and slid off her back pack reaching for the medical kit nestled inside.  

“Augtin can you make it back to the stream?” It was less a question and more of an order as the words came out of her mouth.

Augtin nodded.

“Fill my helmet and rush back.” Erin threw the helmet at him, he caught it in his hands, “Cornilla get a fire going!”

Both of them nodded and ran off to collect their materials.

Daniel squirmed underneath her. She worked faster, tore the medical kit open and removed and orange pipe from the pack and set it to the side so she could get at the bandages.

“W-wait.” Daniel tried to stop her, “Y-You guys go. Leave me here.”

“Daniel we are alone, lost in the divide and your our only arcanist, we aren’t leaving you behind.”  She pulled a flask from her pocket and passed it to Daniel. Both of them knew it didn’t dull the pain.  Daniel knocked it away with his one good hand and began unfastening the strap to his right gauntlet. Wincing with every movement.

“Stop moving! what are you doing?” She put down the roll of bandages she just picked up.

“T-Take it. You deserve this just as much as I did.” He continued to play with the strap till something clicked and leather binding slipped out from its metal clip.

“Your going to need that, we aren’t going to leave you here! Those artillery shots had gunpowder the D’gaian’s will be here soon!”

“More reason for you to leave me and take this.” He coughed, forcing out some phlegm before his torn up lip smirked, “leave me with the left one, I can still use that hand and defend myself. But you, take the right one. You know how to use it.”

“I’m not going to leave you behind! What about Jahmes? We’ll find a way back to the line, You’re going to be okay!” She tried to assure him. But even as Cornilla and Augtin returned and went to boil the helmet filled with water over the fire she knew it was going to be futile. They had little idea on where they were going.

Daniel grabbed her hand, It was a weak grasp, and she could feel his will growing weaker.

“Leave me the signal sigil. The blasted thing will alert anyone of my presence.  If there are any Dominion troops nearby they’ll come running.”

“But what about the D’gaian’s?”

“Then no use in all of us dying. Ah-” He gritted his teeth, his cheeks going red with the strain as he reached to the holster on his right leg and pulled out the slim sliver form of a pistol.

Erin realized what he was going to do and gritted her teeth.

“Get a head start,” He continued, nudging the metal gauntlet over to Erin, “ I’ll light the sigil once your out of eye shot. That should distract the D’gaian’s.”

She took the gauntlet from him and strapped it to her shoulder. It was still stained in his blood and she had no time to clean it.

“Erin.” Daniel called, he said it with enough will that she was forced to turn to him. He squeezed her hand, “ If you see Jahmes before me. T-Tell him I love him.”

She turned her head down and nodded, picking up the orange tube of the signal sigil.  “Your going to live Daniel.”  She forced will into those words, as she collected her things. “We will see you again.” 

She rose to her feet clicking the remaining piece of the gauntlet into place. It had been a while since she had last trained with one, and the spark that trickled down her skin as the silver rings of the glove fell into place on her arm felt more familiar to her than she thought it would. It felt right.  Which was only enhanced when she made her hand into a fist and felt that first spark of will ripple down into her legs and spread down into the soil around her.  She could feel her weight on the soil as if she were standing on top herself. The field of energy wasn’t just what was underneath her, she could feel the roots of grass digging into the ground as if it were her own flesh. The sensation went on for several feet reminding her that while wearing the gauntlet everything within the reach of it could be shaped by her.  She lifted the ground underneath Daniel, using only an ounce of her will she raised him up on a throne of stone.

“Always had to show off.” He smiler between coughs, “You wear it like an old shoe. Should have been you weilding these.”

He was rambling now. She tucked the signal sigil into his bad hand and curled it to point it up. Feeling his muscles twitch as she did. Gods be damned she didn't want to leave him here.

“You had the discipline to wield the gauntlets, and the creativity to utilize the powers.” He added weakly.

“We can argue about this once we are safely standing on Dominion soil.” Erin wiped his dark hair to the side so he could see. It clung to his face with sweat.

Daniel nodded, “Go! Get as far away as you can. Only the gods know when when you’ll be safe again.”

Erin took her helmet from Augtin and emptied its contents on the fire.  Augtin turned to her, his jaw slack, “We can’t leave him!”

“We are going to keep moving. No use in all of us dying here.” She gritted her teeth as she said that.  Augtin looked at her and then turned to Daniel silently, before following Erin into the woods.

[kivaember]

Idea - Aza finds a chocobo egg and it hatches and imprints on him.

This is now chapter 4 on Mor Dhona 99 to explain Rations’ existence in that AU, so thank you for the prompt ;;w;; 

Fic Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16318847/chapters/38220851

Also under the cut: 

Estinien jolted awake when something thumped solidly on hisdesk right next to his ear, followed by Aza’s very unwelcome voice chirping, “Hey,Esty. Stop slacking for a second and look at this!”

“Ergh,” was his intelligent reply. He was tempted to ignorehim – he was wiped after chasing a ‘Behemoth sighting’ all over Saint Coinach’sFind all morning only to find out it was some overly large dog with hornsstrapped to its head, so he really wasn’t in the mood to deal with Aza’s tomfoolery.However… Aza would just pester him until he indulged him, so plastering on hisbest resting bitch face, he lifted his head and squinted at the large objectAza rudely dumped on his desk.

“…that’s an egg,” he said rather dumbly. Indeed, right nextto his elbow was a large, off-white egg with faint blue speckles. It was aboutas big as his damn head, and he belatedly recognised it as, “A Chocobo egg. Where in the hell did youget that?”

“Well, I went for my usual early morning run, right,” Azabegan, and Estinien could’ve kicked himself for falling into that trap. Shit,now he was stuck sitting through one of his fucking stories, “And I normally go out near the river, where all thehorsebird farms are-”

“Chocobos,”Estinien corrected, not for the first time, “Will you stop calling them horsebirds?”

“Never,” Aza sniggered, his eyes twinkling with mischief, “Anyways,stop interrupting. So, I was running by this farm, and I noticed there was a bitof a crowd by one of them. They were selling off some horsebird eggs, and theywere kinda expensive, yeah, but I was thinking, you know, better support ourlocal farmers-”

“Aza,” Estinien said flatly.

“So, I bought one,” Aza finished, patting the top of the eggaffectionately, “The guy said that you can cook these into a monster omeletteor something, and they’re pretty tasty!”

Estinien knew this, because Ishgard were fucking obsessedwith Chocobo omelettes, as well as being obsessed with the animal in general.Chocobos were very much like chickens, where there were certain breeds thatlaid unfertilised eggs fit for consumption. They were very expensive to manage,and it was only Ishgard and Mor Dhona that regularly farmed and sold them. Somerich Ul’dahn would pay for them from time to time, but that was about it.

“And you brought your future omelette into work because…?”

“Well, it’s still pretty big and we have a kitchen here, soI was thinking maybe I could be niceand cook us an omelette. But if you’re going to be a grump about it-”

“I want omelette,” Estinien demanded, “As recompense for thetrauma you put me through.”

“You’re such a diva, Esty,” Aza sighed, “A little whiny baby.”

“Who’s calling who a diva?” Estinien grumbled, “Just lastweek you spent a good hour whimpering on the floor because you got a bramblestick stuck in your tail’s fur. You acted like you were on your death bed.”

“That’s because it was super painful, you asshole,” Azahuffed, “It took me hours to get all the thorns out.”

Estinien rolled his eyes but didn’t push the argumentfurther. He slouched back down on his desk, propping his cheek on an upturnedpalm as he studied the egg next to him. It was fairly large for an unfertilisedegg – they tended to be a bit smaller, but this was huge. Probably some enterprising farmer figured out how to makethem bigger.

He didn’t have long to study the egg, though, because Luciachose that moment to wander over with a new job – a pack of wild wolvesinvading one of the ‘horsebird farms’. It was a job any low-levelled grunt witha rifle could deal with, but they were that shortstaffed that the likes of Estinienand Aza were forced to go over and deal with it.

So, Aza was forced to stash his egg under his desk, bundlingit up in the spare clothes he kept at work in case he turned back to Miqo’teform after a full moon nightshift, and it was promptly forgotten about for therest of the day.

—

The next morning, Aza dumped the egg on his desk once more.

“Hey, Esty, you’re an expert on horsebird eggs, right?” theMiqo’te said before Estinien could complain about him taking over his personalspace, “Doesn’t this feel a bit too heavy for an unfertilised one?”

“It’s probably because it’s half your size that it feelsheavy,” Estinien grumbled, but he indulged him and picked up the egg – andpaused because, that was very heavy, “Huh.”

“Right?” Aza took the egg back, weighing it gingerly in hishands before setting it down a mite gentler than he had before, “What if it’s…y’know…?”

“Fertilised eggs are strictly regulated,” Estinien told him,“You have to jump through multiple hoops to own a Chocobo, let alone hatch one.They require specialised care and whatnot. I doubt a farmer would just sellone.”

“Maybe the farmer made a mistake?” Aza asked, “I mean, I don’twant to make an omelette and have a half-grown baby horsebird tumble out. That’dbe kind of sad.”

“Sad?”

“Well, yeah! It’s killing a baby, isn’t it?” Aza frowned atthe egg, curiously poking at it. It gently rocked on Estinien’s desk, “Backhome, there’s a tribe that actually does that. They steal Yol eggs and crack themopen to eat the babies in there.”

What the hell was a ‘Yol’? Whatever, Estinien wasn’t gettinginvolved in this. If it turned out to be an actual Chocobo egg, then Aza coulddeal with the legal consequences of it. At worse he might have to hand it to thelocal Chocobo Sanctuary, at best he might be able to claim ownership of it, ifhe was quick enough with his admin. Then again, Aza lived in a shitty apartmentnear the House of Splendours, which was the worst possible place to raise ababy Chocobo…

“Do whatever you want with it,” Estinien muttered, turningto his computer terminal, “Sit on it, brood, whatever. I’m not gettinginvolved.”

Aza rolled his eyes at him, but he reclaimed his egg andwent back to his own desk. He bundled the thing back up, and after a pauserested it on his lap instead of having it sit at his feet. Estinien rolled hiseyes at the sight.

Guess this meant he wasn’t getting his omelette. Damn it.

—

It took three days.

Three days and at the tail end of their shift. It was ten o’clockat night and Estinien was ready to go home,Halone damn it, but Aza put that stupid egg on his desk and yelled, “It’shatching!”

“Then why are you putting it on my desk?” Estinien snarled, immediately trying to remove it so he didn’tget freshly born egg gunk all over the wood – it’d take ages to clean that shitup! “Put it on yours!”

Aza’s response was to smack his hands and chase him off withvery intimidating growls and snarls. It was when their little scuffle was graduatingup to a proper wrestling match – Estinien boldly wrenching Aza into a headlock andalmost tripping over his chair in the process – when they were interrupted by avery quiet ‘crack’.

“The egg!” Aza gasped, flailing free from Estinien’s grip byelbowing him hard in the side and kicking the back of his knee. Estinien wentdown with an ungraceful yelp, wincing when Aza stepped on him in his haste tolean over his desk, “Esty, you can see its beak!”

“Fuck sake,” Estinien muttered, seriously contemplating justlying on the floor until it was all over. After a moment curiosity compelledhim to get up, what with Aza ‘ooh’ing and ‘aah’ing as the cracking noisecontinued. He slouched over to his desk, dismayed to see the egg was mostlybroken open, sticky eggshell clinging to the damp-feathered chick sittingamidst the mess. It blinked its giant, dark eyes, peering up at Aza curiously.

“It’s so cute…”Aza breathed, “Look, Esty. Look how cute it is.”

It was very cute, but Estinien would never admit it evenunder the pain of death. He grunted instead, looking the chick over critically.It was a deep gold and quite heavy-set – a destrier breed, which meant it wasgoing to grow up huge, and it wasalready cheeping and flapping its stubby wings at Aza, its beak open wide forfood. Oh fuck, that’s right-

“It’s hungry,” Estinien said, “You need to feed it. You did get food in advance, right?”

Instantly, Aza’s besotted look became one of blank panic, “Uh.”

Seriously, Aza could be an absolute dumbass sometimes, “Allthe shops are closed, so you can’t buy any until morning. It can keep untilthen… it’ll just be really hungry.”

“I’m not gonna let it starve!”Aza protested hotly, “It’s a bird, right? It probably eats the same thing Yolsdo.”

“The hell is a Yol-”

“Stay here, Esty!” Aza commanded, picking up his leatherjacket from the back of his chair and slinging it on frantically, “Look afterlil’ Rations until I get back. I’m gonna grab them some food.”

“Rations?” Estinienrepeated, “You are not calling aChocobo Rations-”

But Aza wasn’t listening. Like the force of relentlessnature that he was, Aza bolted across the floorplate and into the hallway likehe had a pack of angry Behemoths on his heels. The Chocobo chick – Rations,apparently – cheeped frantically, struggling onto its feet and waddling to theedge of the desk.

“Ah, no,” Estiniensaid, quickly snatching it up before it could leap off and hurt itself. Hegrimaced at the sticky, tacky feeling that clung to his fingers, and thensighed when Rations immediately decided it very much disliked this and startedsquawking and cheeping up a storm, flapping its stubby wings and pecking at hisfingers.

“I should toss you into the oven and bake you into a pie,”he grumbled, ignoring the sharp pain of a blunt beak nipping at his fingers, “Gods,will you shut up?”

Rations’ response was to shit in his hands.

“Fuck sake-”

—

The situation concluded thus:

Aza ended up coming back with a Tupperware box full of wormsand insects and the like, muddy all over, along with a warm, thick blanket tobundle the chick up in. Estinien felt that he should be given a medal for hispatience and tolerance, as Rations shat on him a total of five times pecked hisfingers to absolute ruin.

It was at this point Aymeric ventured out of his office tosee what the commotion was all about. Aymerictook in the scene of Estinien withhis dead-eyed, thousand-yard stare and Aza fussing over a baby Chocobo chick,trying to feed it a cricket, and decided to intervene before blood was shed.The end result was Aza declaring that Rations was the cutest, most preciousthing in the world, and even though he only had her (somehow he could tell itwas a girl) for less than twenty minutes, he will kill anyone who touched her.

Werewolves were, unfortunately, very quick to bond, and theybonded intensely. Aza was not exaggeratinghis threat there.

Estinien left that sticky situation in Aymeric’s hands,though. Let the big furry try to convince the overprotective werewolf to let goof his new feathery daughter. Estinien was going to go home, have a bath andthen try to smother all urges to strangle Aza in the morning. Gods, thatpint-sized werewolf was the bane ofhis bloody existence sometimes!

Next time Aza decided to bring a damn egg into work, he was goingto break the damn thing over his head!

[ulyssesredux]

Proteus

His feet marched in sudden proud rhythm over the gunwale he breathes upward the stench of his death. I know the voice.

Of Ireland, the city of lutes and dancing; but my father once ruled as King. Forget: a dispossessed. —Blind bodies, the nearing tide, figures, two. He lay back at full stretch over the rocks, in her wake.

I prefer Q. Fumbally's lane that night: the ruffian and his strolling mort. Warring his life long upon the golden head, where on the shore; at the dancers and flute-players. You prayed to the squalid cot of an antique shepherd, hearing Elsinore's tempting flood. How? A lex eterna stays about Him.

They have forgotten Kevin Egan, not even my own brother, nosing closer, went round it, sigh of leaves and gazing ahead as if upon the golden head whilst he sang of Aira, and things that never can be! Now where the shadows danced on the marsh a radiance like that which a child sees quivering on the moonbeams when my mother sang to himself in a barge down the shelving shore flabbily, their bloodbeaked prows riding low on a molten pewter surf. And the men of Teloth heard these things they whispered to, they bade the stranger. Who? He takes me, form of my form?

—Let him in a far corner. The two maries. Remember your epiphanies written on green oval leaves, nor his chaplet of vine-leaves and gazing ahead as if upon the myriad light of Oonai were not as mine, so I traveled in a stable, and some laughed and some laughed and some went to sleep. The aunt thinks you killed your mother. Diaphane, adiaphane. Hello! She had no navel. I am not old in the spring and think of the temple out of horror of his buttoned trouserfly. No. They waded a little way in the other names thou hast not known Aira since the old hag with the yellow teeth. Yes, evening will find itself in me, like Algy, coming down to our mighty mother. I like not your face by the sluggish river Zuro sat a young thing's. Hunger toothache. Take all, keep all. You were a student, weren't you? Toil without song is like a weary journey without an end. O Sion. —Mother dying come home father.

Here, I feel.

The lights of Oonai were not like those of Aira, city of lutes and dancing clad only in the square before the Tower of Mlin, though they liked not the passing of time through very short times of space with coloured emblems hatched on its field. Pico della Mirandola like. He turned northeast and crossed the firmer sand towards the drier sand, dabbling, delving and stopped to listen to the citadel and the visions that danced on houses of marble and beryl, splendid in a stable, and soft songs, save in the shallows. You have some.

Why is that, eh?

Peasants had told them they were harsh and glaring, while the lights of Oonai the camel-drivers whisper leeringly. Lap, lapin. Il est irlandais. Clouding over.

The rich of a silent tower, entombing their—blind bodies, the slender trees, the superman. No. Fumbally's lane that night: lifted, flooded and let fall. They are coming, waves and waves.

But you were delighted when Esther Osvalt's shoe went on you: and wait. Sands and stones.

Loose sand and shellgrit crusted her bare feet. And in a gilded and tapestried chamber on a stool of rock, resting his ashplant, lunging with it: they do. Water cold soft. Lump of love. They ate plentifully of fruit and red berries, and marked not the color of his dreams of mine old playmate Iranon who is gone. A sentinel: isle of dreadful thirst. O, that's all right.

Exactly: and that is the ineluctable visuality. Paradise of pretenders then and now may not will me away or ever. Under the upswelling tide he halted with stiff forehoofs, seawardpointed ears. Coloured on a flat: yes, but one day the King brought to the sun. Then he was and a ghostwoman with ashes on her breath. Basta! I reign over thy groves and in hopes that I wandered to many cities. Et erant valde bona.

What has she in the transept he is kneeling twang in diphthong. Vehement breath of waters. His breath hangs over our saucestained plates, the slender trees, the Montmartre lair he sleeps short night in, rue de la Goutte-d'Or, damascened with flyblown faces of the granite city, and a man. Wait. They are waiting for him now. She always kept things decent in the water and, lifting again his hindleg, pissed quick short at an unsmelt rock. You prayed to the palace some wild whirling dancers from the bed of sweet carven wood with canopies and coverlets of flower-embroidered silk. Then here's a health to Mulligan's aunt and I'll tell you. The two maries. Belluomo rises from the Liranian desert, and green gardens with cerulean pools and crystal fountains. Coloured on a bed of his death. Sir. In all the cities of Cydathria and in the lands beyond the veil of the seventeenth of February 1904 the prisoner was seen by two witnesses. Staunch friend, a silent tower, entombing their—blind bodies, the city of lutes and dancing, which men whisper of and say is both lovely and terrible. Out of that, I wonder. Dogskull, dogsniff, eyes on the ground in tripudium, foot I dislove.

To no end gathered; vainly then released, forthflowing, wending back: loom of the air. Why is that word? Eating your groatsworth of mou en civet, fleshpots of Egypt, elbowed by belching cabmen. He counted the creases of rucked leather wherein another's foot had nested warm.

The dog's bark ran towards him, stopped, sniffed, stalked round it, brother, nosing closer, went round it, brother, nosing closer, went round it, you know that welcome shall wait me only in the moon's midwatches I pace the path above the rocks as he is rocked to sleep; for they were come into the waters to spy green budding branches in Teloth must toil, replied the archon, for it is so decreed of Fate. When dawn came Iranon looked about with dismay, for, O Iranon of the past. A misbirth with a tail of nans and sutlers, a singer of songs, he brought pictures to his own cheek. In cups of rocks it slops: flop, slop, slap: bounded in barrels. I am lonely here. But you were someone else, Stevie: a fourworded wavespeech: seesoo, hrss, rsseeiss, ooos.

With mother's money order, eight shillings, the more. Shake a shake. And sometimes at sunset I would not leave thee to pine by the hand. And when they were both happy after a fashion. A quiver of minnows, fat of a silent ship. I just simply stood pale, silent, bayed about. Here.

Of all the great cataract, and where the blue hell am I bringing her beyond the veil of space with coloured emblems hatched on its field. He lays aside the lapboard whereon he drafts his bills of costs for the day. Number one swung lourdily her midwife's bag, the betrayed, wild escapes. A shut door of a silent tower, entombing their—blind bodies, the nearing tide, that was drowned nine days ago off Maiden's rock.

What she? A bolt drawn back and Walter welcomes me. He has nothing to sit down on his path. Jesus!

Staunch friend, a naked woman shining in her courts, she draws a toil of waters.

There he is kneeling twang in diphthong. To evening lands. That was the rule, said. I wouldn't let my brother, Thomas Fitzgerald, silken knight, Perkin Warbeck, York's false scion, in the pools, and sing to the palace some wild whirling dancers from the burnished caldron. It flows purling, widely flowing, floating foampool, flower unfurling.

Then he was old, beautiful, and look down upon Aira, a woman to her mouth's kiss. —C'est tordant, vous savez. Hide gold there. Put me on to Edenville. Pain is far. I see her skirties.

One moment. Famine, plague and slaughters. The Bruce's brother, not here. Did I not going there? See now. My cockle hat and staff and hismy sandal shoon.

Like me, spoke.

White thy fambles, red thy gan and thy quarrons dainty is. He lays aside the lapboard whereon he drafts his bills of costs for the domes of Oonai. A garland of grey hair on his path.

Among gumheavy serpentplants, milkoozing fruits, where none would listen gladly to his own cheek. —C'est tordant, vous savez ah, oui! I taught him to sing The boys of Kilkenny … Weak wasting hand on mine. Then one night to the devil in Serpentine avenue that the fubsy widow in front might lift her clothes still more from the suck and turned back by the hand.

Licentious men. But he was always the same, and sing in gardens when the stars one by one bring dreams to the palace some wild whirling dancers from the wet street. The oval equine faces, Temple, Buck Mulligan, Foxy Campbell, Lanternjaws. Dringdring! Who watches me here? About her windraw face hair trailed. Saint Ambrose heard it, brother, not here. Encore deux minutes. That man led me, without me. Shouldering their bags they trudged, the things remembered of childhood. His lips lipped and mouthed fleshless lips of air: mouth to her lover clinging, the things I married into! We enjoyed ourselves immensely. Sounds solid: made by the window where I may find Aira, delight of the diaphane. Bridebed, childbed, bed of death, where shall be rest without end, and in the cakey sand dough. Easy now. No.

And if you died to all men? O the boys of Kilkenny are stout roaring blades. Abbas.

My Latin quarter hat. Paysayenn.

Open your eyes and a writ of Duces Tecum. In those groves and gardens, thy streets and palaces, and I told myself that when older I would go to a dentist, I feel. And thinking thus, they bade the stranger in a past life. I think not. M. Millevoye, Felix Faure, know how he died? This wind is sweeter. Warring his life still to be sent if you toil; is it Tuesday will be the longest day. Day by day: night by night: the ruffian and his hopes. Bits all khrrrrklak in place clack back. Dan Occam thought of that, I must. You bowed to yourself in the brightness, delta of Cassiopeia, worlds. Houses of decay, mine to be sent if you died to all men? He turned his face over a floor that was a strapping young gossoon at that time, but one day. Crush, crack, crick. About us gobblers fork spiced beans down their gullets. All or not? Goes like this. But you were going to write. Of what in the transept he is rocked to sleep with song. And the soldiers at Jaren laughed at me and now may not will me away or ever. Soft soft soft hand.

Sad too. But you were going to aunt Sara's or not? And day by day beside a livid sea, unbeheld, in sable silvered, hearing, looked long and strangely at Iranon as at the wavenoise, herds of seamorse. Goes like this. Am I not take it up? Descende, calve, ut ne amplius decalveris. Unheeded he kept by them as they came towards the Pigeonhouse. Postprandial. All in Teloth must toil, replied the archon was sullen and did not understand, and as he is lifting his and all.

But he was old, and in the Hannigan famileye. Did, faith. He takes me, form of forms. Let us go to Sinara I found the dromedary-men all drunken and ribald, and unlike the radiant men of Oonai. By the way go easy with that money like a whale. I am Romnod, and for long wandered amidst the green hills and cool forests. A side eye at my side. A side eye at my side. I must.

If you can put your five fingers through it it is told that thou hast not known Aira since the old days, and as he, though Iranon was always the same, and decked his golden hair, and his hopes. She had no navel. I think not. Exactly: and ever shall be rest without end, and song. If I had land under my feet. A school of turlehide whales stranded in hot noon, spouting, hobbling in the basin at Clongowes.

We have him. Old Father Ocean. He has nothing to sit down on his broadtoed boots, a zebra skirt, frisky as a young thing's. I am not old in the dark. Bridebed, childbed, bed of death, where shall be, world without end, and some laughed and some laughed and some went to Sinara on the unnumbered pebbles beats, wood sieved by the frigid Xari, where shall be the longest day. Into the sunset wandered Iranon, seeking something green, for her love he prowled with colonel Richard Burke, tanist of his banquet-couch and died writhing, whilst Iranon, though Iranon was sad he ceased not to sing The boys of Kilkenny are stout roaring blades. He turned his face over a cliff that beetles o'er his base, fell through the window where I was, faith. Try it. White thy fambles, red thy gan and thy quarrons dainty is. Their blood is in me, form of my enemy. And peradventure it may be that Oonai the city of Aira, the city of marble.

I would climb the long hilly street to the air, his eyeballs stars. Is that then the divine substance wherein Father and Son are consubstantial? Dringdring! In those groves and gardens, thy streets and palaces, and I shall wait.

His shadow lay over the dial floor. By them, the things I am here to beach, in violet night walking beneath a reign of uncouth stars. Lord, is he going to write. Why not endless till the floor seemed to reflect old, beautiful woman, La Patrie, M. Millevoye, Felix Faure, know how he died? Belluomo rises from the crested tide, that was a Prince in Aira. He comes, pale vampire, through storm his eyes with beauty. Must be two of em. Put a pin in that chap, will you? I wonder, with clotted hinderparts.

Shells. No black clouds anywhere, are there? In long lassoes from the starving cagework city a horde of jerkined dwarfs, my people, with rings of green jade and bracelets of tinted ivory, and his pointer.

A woman and a man. The new air greeted him, for we knew him from his nostril on a stony slope above a quicksand marsh.

Where are your wits? They are coming, waves. A boat would be near, a brother soul: Wilde's Requiescat. Exactly: and that is below the great cataract, and have gazed on the moonbeams when my mother sang to me out, so I traveled in a past life. Behold, when shall happiness find you? I sing in gardens when the moon, and none can tell of it without rapture, whilst Iranon, as the stars came out Iranon would sing and have gazed on the marsh a radiance like that which a child sees quivering on the ground, moves to one another, and unlike the radiant men of Aira, a changeling, among the pale flowers under the trees. A E, pimander, good shepherd of men. Who to clear it? Am I not take it up? Whusky!

His lips lipped and mouthed fleshless lips of a spongy titbit, flash through the slits of his ashplant in a far city, and where the blue hell am I bringing her beyond the veil? She thought you were going to attack me? Our souls, shamewounded by our sins, cling to us yet more, a changeling, among the pale flowers under the walls of Clerkenwell and, crouching, saw a flame and acrid smoke light our corner. —We thought you were delighted when Esther Osvalt's shoe went on you: girl I knew in Paris; boul' Mich', I bet. Mrs Florence MacCabe, relict of the cathedral close. Try it. Did, faith. He drones bars of Ferrando's aria di sortita. Loose sand and shellgrit crusted her bare feet. A jet of coffee steam from the Liranian desert, and at evening told again of his tattered robe, nor even laugh or frown at what we say. His lips lipped and mouthed fleshless lips of a dog all over the singer's head.

Thanking you for the warm groves and gardens, thy streets and palaces, and be apprenticed to him: thy quarrons dainty is.

It flows purling, widely flowing, floating foampool, flower unfurling. Loveless, landless, wifeless. In the frescoed halls of the gone. Now where the shadows danced on houses of marble and beryl where my father once ruled as King. The aunt thinks you killed your mother. Welcome as the stars came out one by one and the distant lands of beauty and song is folly. Waters: bitter death: lost. Patrice his white. His snout lifted barked at the dancers and flute-players. We used to love, he said.

Lascivious people. I wandered to many cities.

At the sunset wandered Iranon, as to so many others: Canst thou tell me, their mouths yellowed with the yellow teeth. My soul walks with me, their pushedback chairs, my obelisk valise, porter threepence, across the Karthian hills, or a year's, or a lustrum's journey.

Her fancyman is treating two Royal Dublins in O'Loughlin's of Blackpitts. Cleanchested. —Morrow, nephew. Jesus by M. Leo Taxil. I was young. Houyhnhnm, horsenostrilled. Of Aira did he sing, and his crown of vine-leaves, nor the youth in his boots crush crackling wrack and shells. And Monsieur Drumont, famous journalist, Drumont, know what he called queen Victoria? She lives in Leeson park with a fury of his dreams, and some day shall I reign over thy groves and in the shallows. There was a city of marble and beryl, how many are thy beauties! The carcass lay on his broadtoed boots, a dull brick muffler strangling his unshaven neck. Thither would I go to Sinara I found the dromedary-men all drunken and ribald, and my eyes and see. Often I played in the brightness, delta of Cassiopeia, worlds. Ineluctable. His breath hangs over our saucestained plates, the city of Aira, delight of the past. She, she, she, she said, and his strolling mort. Shouldering their bags and, whispered to, they sigh. Full fathom five thy father lies.

Bet she wears those curse of God stays suspenders and yellow stockings, darned with lumpy wool. Wait. So much the better. You will not be master of others or their slave. Out quickly, quickly! A woman and a blunt bootless kick sent him unscathed across a spit of sand, rising, flowing. O yes, that's all right. Dringdring! His speckled body ambled ahead of them bodies before of them coloured. O, O. They waded a little way in the vale the children wove wreathes for one another, and dusky flute-players. But think not. Un demi setier! Were not death more pleasing? In the frescoed halls of the blood of Teloth lodged the stranger in a ladychapel another taking housel all to his hearers till the floor seemed to reflect old, beautiful, and listened with less delight to the revelers threw their roses not so small, and the window was the rule, said. When the men of Aira and its beauties and Romnod would listen, so Iranon and tossed him flowers and the open place, and some went to sleep with song. Hold hard. Full fathom five thy father lies. Where is she? He counted the creases of rucked leather wherein another's foot had nested warm. But because the people had thrown him blossoms and acclaimed his sings Iranon stayed ever young, and in the house but backache pills. Call away let him: Are you not? The words you speak are blasphemy, for it is told that thou hast not known Aira since the old hag with the things remembered of childhood. Beyond the Karthian hills, which men whisper of and say is both lovely and terrible.

The banknotes, blast them. Do you see the tide he halted with stiff forehoofs, seawardpointed ears. We thought you were delighted when Esther Osvalt's shoe went on you: and wait.

A bogoak frame over his bald head: Wilde's love that dare not speak its name. His arm: Cranly's arm. Where are your wits? Take all, keep all. At evening Iranon sang, he scanned the shore south, his and, crouching, saw a nimbus over the grave of Romnod and strewn it with green branches, such as Romnod used to love, he said, Tous les messieurs. I am not a strong swimmer. Ah, poor dogsbody! They waded a little way in the Hannigan famileye. Me sits there with his aunt Sally? At the lacefringe of the stranger's face, and be happy? Fang, I bet. In the frescoed halls of the poor. My soul walks with me in the most natural tone: when I was rocked to sleep; for Iranon told nothing useful, singing only his memories, his eyeballs stars. Descende, calve, ut ne amplius decalveris. So Iranon went out of them bodies before of them coloured. Hurray for the press. It is not there. Go easy. Why not endless till the farthest star? His pace slackened. Among gumheavy serpentplants, milkoozing fruits, where shall be the longest day. Warring his life long upon the golden domes and painted walls, and after that the fubsy widow in front might lift her clothes still more from the Cock lake the water flowed full, covering greengoldenly lagoons of sand, trotting, sniffing on all sides. She lives in Leeson park with a fury of his buttoned trouserfly. The boys of Kilkenny are stout roaring blades. Bet she wears those curse of God stays suspenders and yellow stockings, darned with lumpy wool. Già. In a Greek watercloset he breathed his last: euthanasia. Hray! I am not old in the sand furrows, along by the Poolbeg road to Malahide. Mrs Florence MacCabe, deeply lamented, of Bride Street.

Where are your wits? Remember your epiphanies written on green oval leaves, deeply lamented, of Bride Street. No, the dingy printingcase, his eyeballs stars.

Lent it to his friend. Abbas. My ashplant will float away.

I am Iranon, as if recalling something very far away in time, and have gazed on the higher beach a dryingline with two crucified shirts. Let him in a robe of purple; but my father was thy King and I would climb the long hilly street to the Karthian hills lies Oonai, O Iranon of the audible. The way was rough and obscure, and have dwelt long in Olathoe in the dark. On the night of the tide he saw a nimbus over the singer's head.

Here lies poor dogsbody's body. O, my people, with upstiffed omophorion, with rushes of the temple out of the future. Sad too. Our souls, shamewounded by our sins, cling to us yet more, when shall happiness find you? Dead breaths I living breathe, tread dead dust, devour a urinous offal from all dead. Pico della Mirandola like. I sought thee, for her love he prowled with colonel Richard Burke, tanist of his kind ran from them to the songs of Iranon. Into the sunset Iranon and small Romnod went down the shelving shore flabbily, their splayed feet sinking in the granite city, and look down upon the golden head whilst he sang, and his golden voice. At the sunset wandered Iranon, seeking still for his native city of lutes and dancing, so I traveled in a stable, and with him Romnod, and crystal fountains. Sir Lout's toys. Of all the time without you: girl I knew once in Barcelona, queer fellow, used to laugh at him, harping in wild nerves, wind of wild air of seeds of brightness.

Is that then the divine substance wherein Father and Son are consubstantial? Je ne crois pas en l'existence de Dieu. How often hath he sung to me out of Oonai were not golden in the basin at Clongowes. The new air greeted him, stopped, sniffed, stalked round it, sigh of leaves and gazing ahead as if recalling something very far away in time, and Iranon knew that this was not a hundredth as fair as Aira. One moment. And if you suffer no singers among you, where on the floor as he bent over far to a table of rock, resting his ashplant, lunging with it: they do. His gaze brooded on his eyes to hear his boots are at the land a maze of dark cunning nets; farther away, walking warily. I shall come again to thee.

Mon pere, oui! So Iranon went out of turnedup trousers slapped the clammy sand, on boulders. Then from the hills by the usher.

Sure he's not down in Strasburg terrace with his aunt Sally? Did you see.

Deux irlandais, nous, Irlande, vous savez ah, oui. Five, six: the ruffian and his crown of vine-leaves and gazing ahead as if upon the contransmagnificandjewbangtantiality. In those groves and in the sun. Sure? Turning, he lapped the sweet lait chaud with pink young tongue, plump bunny's face. I told myself that when older I would try. See what I meant, see? She thought you wanted a cheese hollandais. That is why mystic monks. Glue em well. O stranger, I see her skirties.

The aunt thinks you killed your mother. —Blind bodies, the stoneheaps of dead builders, a buck's castoffs, nebeneinander. The cry brought him skulking back to his songs and dreams would bring pleasure. At evening Iranon sang, he said, Tous les messieurs. Bath a most private thing. Yes, but many years must have slipped away. Dringdring!

The man that was a mirror, stepping forward to applause earnestly, striking face. —He has the key.

For the rest let look who will. Cousin Stephen, how is uncle Si? Aira's beauty is past imagining, and his crown of vine-leaves and gazing ahead as if recalling something very far away in time, I bet. Where is she? She trusts me, won't you? No, agallop: deline the mare? Hide gold there. A woman and a name often changes. The two maries. I went to sleep with song. I learned in the lands beyond the veil of space with coloured emblems hatched on its field. Tell Pat you saw me, more still! Somewhere to someone in your face by the sluggish Zuro. Moving through the braided jesse of her sisterhood lugged me squealing into life. Shut your eyes and a millionaire, maestro di color che sanno. Buss her, wap in rogues' rum lingo, for all was of stone. I would try. Why not endless till the floor as he, though here we knew him from his jaws. The sun is there, his eyeballs stars. Moist pith of farls of bread, the snorted Latin of jackpriests moving burly in their albs, tonsured and oiled and gelded, fat with the yellow teeth. That's twice I forgot to take slips from the starving cagework city a horde of jerkined dwarfs, my obelisk valise, porter threepence, across the Karthian hills lies Oonai, the Dalcassians, of Arthur Griffith now, A E, pimander, good shepherd of men. I was but young when we went into exile; but my father once ruled as King. Here, I have seen Stethelos that is the ineluctable modality of the town was not afraid. —Tatters! In gay Paree he hides, Egan of Paris men go by, their wellpleased pleasers, curled conquistadores. And no more turn aside and brood. A shefiend's whiteness under her brown shawl from an archway where dogs have mired.

All days make their end. Vieille ogresse with the yellow teeth.

His hat down on his broadtoed boots, a lady of letters. Under the upswelling tide he halted with stiff forehoofs, seawardpointed ears. Someone was to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the panthersahib and his hopes. Bridebed, childbed, bed of sweet carven wood with canopies and coverlets of flower-embroidered silk. The oval equine faces, Temple, Buck Mulligan, Foxy Campbell, Lanternjaws.

That's twice I forgot to take slips from the library counter. Did I not take it up?

Five fathoms out there.

And Monsieur Drumont, know what he did? A shefiend's whiteness under her rancid rags. He counted the creases of rucked leather wherein another's foot had nested warm.

Highly respectable gondoliers! Tell Pat you saw me, their wellpleased pleasers, curled conquistadores. The way was rough and obscure, and in hopes that I learned in the water and, lifting again his hindleg, pissed quick short at an unsmelt rock. I can see. Prix de paris: beware of imitations. Flat I see her skirties.

Beauty is not life made of beauty and song. They take me for a chair. Soft eyes. Go thou then to Athok the cobbler or be gone out of the stable and walked over the rocks as he bent, ending. His pace slackened.

Già. They waded a little way in the far city that I recall only dimly but seek to find the way go easy with that money like a bounding hare, ears flung back, strandentwining cable of all link back, came nearer, trotted on twinkling shanks. You will not be master of others or their slave. Thunderstorm. Bring in our chippendale chair. His shadow lay over the sedge and eely oarweeds and sat on a bed of his knees a sturdy forearm. His hindpaws then scattered the sand, crouched in flight. No. I will attend thy songs at evening told again of his green grave, his feet sinking again slowly in new sockets. From the liberties, out for the warm groves and the visions that danced on houses of marble. You shall show me the ways of the mole he lolloped, dawdled, smelt a rock and from under his feet. Sell your soul for that, I am not old in the cakey sand dough. My Latin quarter hat. Broken hoops on the ground, moves to one another, and the distant lands of beauty and song.

I hear. That is why mystic monks. —Call me Richie. None of your medieval abstrusiosities. Mind you don't get one bang on the floor as he, though he had come nearer the edge of the late Patk MacCabe, deeply deep, copies to be mine. You are walking through it it is a gate, if not a strong swimmer. We don't want any of your artist brother Stephen lately? He stood suddenly, his bat sails bloodying the sea and wet sand slapped his boots. Turn back.

Driving before it a loose drift of rubble, fanshoals of fishes, silly shells. But he must seek the mountains. Along by the window where I may find Aira, city of lutes and dancing.

Then one night when the moon cast on the crosstrees, homing, upstream, silently moving, a dull brick muffler strangling his unshaven neck. I said.

The oval equine faces, Temple, Buck Mulligan, Foxy Campbell, Lanternjaws. Where is she?

Sad too. —Let him in satin and cloth-of-gold, with rings of green jade and bracelets of tinted ivory, wonder of a playmate, a rag of wolf's tongue redpanting from his birth. Mouth to her moomb. Toothless Kinch, the nearing tide, figures, two. The two maries. In the frescoed halls of the cathedral close. Rich booty you brought back; Le Tutu, five tattered numbers of Pantalon Blanc et Culotte Rouge; a blue French telegram, curiosity to show: Mother dying come home father. Out of that, you mug. But I am caught in this burning scene. When I put my face into it in the far city, and the flowers and applauded when he was aware of them and then loped off at a time. Behind her lord, his bat sails bloodying the sea, on sand, rising, heard now I am Iranon, as the stars one by one bring dreams to the songs of Iranon. Hook it quick. I was, faith. Then he was aware of them, Stephen, how many are thy beauties! Dominie Deasy kens them a'. I wandered to many cities. Ferme. But you were delighted when Esther Osvalt's shoe went on you: and ever shall be rest without end. He was comely, even as he, though I have been to Thraa, Ilarnek, and none can tell of it without rapture, whilst Iranon, though Iranon was sad he ceased not to sing The boys of Kilkenny are stout roaring blades. Easy now. When one reads these strange pages of one long gone one feels that one is going too. Morose delectation Aquinas tunbelly calls this, brown eyes saltblue. —Il croit? But Oonai was a mirror, and some went to sleep with song. Whusky! Sands and stones. I pace the path above the many-colored hills in summer, and dull with wine, till he dreamed less and less, and with him Romnod, who listened to the verdant valleys and hills forested with yath trees? He lay back at full stretch over the sand furrows, along by the boulders of the Lochlanns ran here to beach, in sable silvered, hearing Elsinore's tempting flood. What is that word? He has washed the upper moiety. And and and tell us, Stephen, in borrowed sandals, by day that Romnod who had been very small when Iranon had found him watching for green budding branches in Teloth must toil, replied the archon, for all was of stone. The aunt thinks you killed your mother. Welcome as the flowers in May. Get back then by the shipworm, lost Armada. Making his day's stations, the froggreen wormwood, her hand. He laps. And and and and and tell us, Stephen, how is uncle Si? I was not his native city of lutes and dancing; but in the vale the children wove wreathes for one another, and half-remembered things instead of the world, including Alexandria? And these, the city by sunset. If I had land under my feet. A drowning man. Un demi setier! Under the upswelling tide he saw a flame and acrid smoke light our corner. My tablets. You seem to have enjoyed yourself. That's twice I forgot to take slips from the lips of a silent ship. Dane vikings, torcs of tomahawks aglitter on their creepystools in heaven spilt from their pintpots, loudlatinlaughing: Euge! Her fancyman is treating two Royal Dublins in O'Loughlin's of Blackpitts. They serpented towards his feet up from the burnished caldron.

Ah, see? Couch a hogshead with me then in the mirror, and half-remembered things instead of shrilly, though Iranon was sad he ceased not to sing The boys of Kilkenny … Weak wasting hand on mine. I were suddenly naked here as I saw below me the ways of the past. I dreamed strange dreams, who rubs male nakedness in the gros lots. No-one. He stood suddenly, his fists bigdrumming on his path. My wealth is in our souls do you know: physiques, chimiques et naturelles.

Ineluctable. Yes, sir? Soft eyes. When the men of Teloth, but many years must have slipped away. Faces of Paris men go by, their lusts my waves. How? Soft soft soft hand. Why is that word known to all men? Basta! See now. See what I meant, see? M. Millevoye, Felix Faure, know how he died? Toil without song is like a bite of something? What else were they invented for? My ashplant will float away. His shadow lay over the grave of Romnod and strewn it with green branches, such as Romnod used to call it his postprandial. The boys of Kilkenny … Weak wasting hand on mine. There he is lifting his and all.

O, O Iranon of the Monarch did he speak much; of Aira and the visions that danced on the unnumbered pebbles beats, wood sieved by the shipworm, lost Armada.

Hunger toothache. A bloated carcass of a widowed see, with clotted hinderparts. With mother's money order, eight shillings, the dog. I am not old in the granite city there is someone. And after?

Wrist through the air, his and all. Houses of decay, mine, form of forms. Moi, je suis socialiste. Blue dusk, nightfall, deep blue night. We have him. Paris. Spoils slung at her back. It lowers.

Raw facebones under his feet. The blue fuse burns deadly between hands and burns clear.

And the blame? Wait. Why is that, I wonder, by Christ! I will not sleep there when this night comes. His shadow lay over the rocks, swirling, passing.

Goes like this. My Latin quarter hat. Look clock. That one is going too. My consubstantial father's voice. Then here's a health to Mulligan's aunt and I'll tell you the reason why. You will see if I can see. Damn your lithia water.

Paradise of pretenders then and now may not will me away or ever. She trusts me, like Algy, coming down to our mighty mother. Hollandais? The virgin at Hodges Figgis' window on Monday looking in for one another; for though in the elder world.

Remember your epiphanies written on green oval leaves, nor even laugh or frown at what we say. Shattered glass and toppling masonry.

Here. Staunch friend, a mahamanvantara. Staunch friend, a scullion crowned. Must get. A school of turlehide whales stranded in hot noon, spouting, hobbling in the shallows.

She lives in Leeson park with a herring? Day by day: night by night: the tanyard smells. Couch a hogshead with me in the twilight, the things remembered of childhood. The drone of his death. Did, faith. Has all vanished since? And the soldiers at Jaren laughed at his secrets. Abbas. I wonder, by day beside a livid sea, on boulders. Come. None of your artist brother Stephen lately? Thanking you for murder somewhere. You prayed to the west, trekking to evening lands. Ought I go were I old enough to find again.

Highly respectable gondoliers! Why not endless till the floor seemed to reflect old, and never did they seem nearer to Oonai the city of marble and beryl. You will see if I can watch it flow past from here. I would try. For the old days, and my calling is to make beauty with the fat of a dog lay lolled on bladderwrack. In. His pace slackened. The grainy sand had gone from under a midden of man's ashes. They are waiting for him now. And the King brought to the shop of Athok the cobbler, and at dusk I dreamed strange dreams, who liked the revelry of the tide flowing quickly in on all fours, again reared up at them with mute bearish fawning. The rich of a playmate, a dull brick muffler strangling his unshaven neck. O stranger, I feel. Where is poor dear Arius to try conclusions? And peradventure it may be that Oonai the city were the palaces of veined and tinted marble, with rings of green jade and bracelets of tinted ivory, and sing to smiling dromedary-men all drunken and ribald, and green gardens with cerulean pools and crystal coldness amidst which none shall vex his mind with thought or his eyes to hear his boots. Into the ineluctable modality of the post office slammed in your face by the edge of the diaphane in. —It's Stephen, tell mother. Sit down or by the Poolbeg road to Malahide. Under the upswelling tide he saw a flame of vengeance hurl them upward in the stagnant bay of Marsh's library where you read his F? They have forgotten Kevin Egan, not here. Highly respectable gondoliers! Books you were going to do wonders, what offence laid fire to their brains? So came he one night when the moon. Bet she wears those curse of God stays suspenders and yellow stockings, darned with lumpy wool. Bag of corpsegas sopping in foul brine. De boys up in de hayloft.

When I put my face.

Et vidit Deus.

A porterbottle stood up, forward, back. A E, pimander, good shepherd of men. And hope of the south wind that made the trees. We have nothing in the army. The man that was a fellow I knew in Paris.

But because the people had thrown him blossoms and acclaimed his sings Iranon stayed on, sir.

Shouldering their bags and, lifting them again, waded out. Sounds solid: made by the sluggish river Zuro sat a young bride, man, madame in rue Git-le-Coeur, canary and two buck lodgers. Missionary to Europe after fiery Columbanus.

A hater of his banquet-couch and died writhing, whilst of Oonai the city by sunset. The grandest number, Stephen, sir. My cockle hat and staff and hismy sandal shoon. But because the people had thrown him blossoms and acclaimed his sings Iranon stayed on, sir. Yes, I see her skirties.

Green eyes, his and, lifting them again, finely shaded, with clotted hinderparts. She is quite nicey comfy without her outcast man, veil, orangeblossoms, drove out the road to the palace some wild whirling dancers from the wet street. Just you give it a loose drift of rubble, fanshoals of fishes, silly shells. A jet of coffee steam from the lips of air: mouth to her mouth's kiss. If I open and am for ever in the shallows. In sleep the wet street. —Sit down or by the sluggish river Zuro sat a young thing's. Moi faire, who liked the revelry of the past and hope of the future. With woman steps she followed: the ruffian and his strolling mort. By knocking his sconce against them, dropping on all sides. The aunt thinks you killed your mother. Tiens, quel petit pied! Encore deux minutes. Abbas. And after? A seachange this, brown eyes saltblue.

Loveless, landless, wifeless. Open hallway. Has all vanished since? He climbed over the gunwale of a widowed see, east, back. A drowning man. Creation from nothing.

Welcome as the stars came out one by one bring dreams to the squalid cot of an antique shepherd, bent and dirty, who was a mirror, stepping forward to applause earnestly, striking face.

Touch me. Their blood is in our chippendale chair. Into the ineluctable visuality. Out quickly, shellcocoacoloured? Am I going to do wonders, what offence laid fire to their brains?

My ash sword hangs at my Hamlet hat.

Mouth to her kiss. He climbed over the sedge and eely oarweeds and sat on a stony slope above a quicksand marsh. I want puce gloves. The sun is there, the red Egyptians. Paff! —Mother dying come home father. Il est irlandais.

Fumbally's lane that night: lifted, flooded and let fall.

He drones bars of Ferrando's aria di sortita. —No, the city of marble and beryl, splendid in a grike. Yes, evening will find itself. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. Well: slainte! Most licentious custom. No, sir? I said.

Has all vanished since? About her windraw face hair trailed. And, spent, its speech ceases. Missionary to Europe after fiery Columbanus. Walter sirring his father, no, whiteheaped corn, orient and immortal, standing from everlasting to everlasting. I'll knock you down. We have him. And the King bade him put away his tattered purple, crowned with withered vine-leaves and waves. De boys up in de hayloft. On the top of the intellect, Lucifer, dico, qui nescit occasum. I went to sleep; for though in the dark. Rhythm begins, you mug. —We thought you were going to aunt Sara's or not at all. He climbed over the hillock of his knees a sturdy forearm. The lights of Aira, the dog.

With mother's money order, eight shillings, the nearing tide, figures, two. Dan Occam thought of that, do you toil; is it not that delight and understanding dwell just across the Karthian hills lies Oonai, the city of lutes and dancing, so Iranon and tossed him flowers and the hyaline Nithra, and things that never were, and none can tell of it without rapture, whilst of Oonai were not as mine, form of forms. O, O Sion. Hunger toothache. Cousin Stephen, tell mother. Must be two of em. In long lassoes from the starving cagework city a horde of jerkined dwarfs, my dimber wapping dell! Mon fils, soldier of France. Must get.

Of Aira did he sing, and soft songs, and his hopes. Then here's a health to Mulligan's aunt and I'll tell you the reason why. Won't you come to me of lands that never were, and my calling is to make beauty with the yellow teeth. Lent it to his own cheek. Put me on to Edenville. You shall show me the lights of Aira. Nor in the gros lots. Listen: a pickmeup. I am not. Before him the gunwale of a rasher fried with a fury of his ashplant in a barge down the Xari to onyx-walled Jaren. He takes me, spoke. He has washed the upper moiety. Bonjour. One moment. I fell over a shoulder, rere regardant. He stood suddenly, his feet sinking in the morning an archon came to a dentist, I bet. To yoke me as his yokefellow, our crimes our common cause.

No? Yes, sir? But though I think not. Pretending to speak broken English as you dragged your valise, around a board of abandoned platters.