#mot blaspheme

[luc3]

At night, full of battles - all lost - reluctantly, Parasitic nightmares - my forbidden body ; then the flesh, weary, weak, without having read all the books - Bitch ... Yes, you! Sacred or not sacred (I don't care), but Whore of the World always, you lick the sins of those who feel too clean, eh? Please, be my guest! Your emptiness fills me with an uncontrollable wild fire which will soon devour everything in its path; but the other, the child, this innocent prey, already dead, isn't it? She is the half-word that bathes in her cold sweats, weeping, writhing in shame, embracing her silence, this one, sad and useless. Make her shut up. You are better off with me.

(I dreamed about you so, if it's to wake up alone again, then I'm willing to let the dementia come back...)

Yes it's me, take what's left, I'm guilty, in the morning my bed was dirty, cold and soaked, probably with his semen, that's it, take me, take me somewhere where the night is just The Night, where there are not so many grimacing masks talking to me at the same time, take me away, I don't want this pleasure anymore, nor this storm, this knot pain that pierces me, you know my fists still compressed against my lower abdomen, and the Other who brutalizes her with kicks so hard that she shuts her mouth, SHUT YOUR MOUTH kid, we haven't asked you anything.

After desire grips your skull so tightly in a vice, you tear your hair out, then there are sudden flashes of a face against, His face, but impossible to reach it, it disappears in the shadows, fleeing and silent. Rely only on yourself. Rely only on God.

So what ? Thirst for God this morning in front of the altar; unquenchable thirst, envy, desire so pure, but watch at the  same time, the other bitch jerking off in the middle of a discharge, you speak of a thirst for perfection ! She, thrown at random from a street, no, still look at this flesh that you knead, compulsively, look at the jerks of her body, yours, the tensions that threaten you with final burn, so I continue to blaspheme in your name kid, yes you can sigh, moan, yes you can, moan, twist, who cares, just let it go, keep letting it go, Kid, cause we're stuck here, aren't we?

And where are you, yes You, all of the Masquerade of that night, the savage frenzy, dancing in circles around me upside down as I twist this unbearable and vain desire, where are you now, children, monsters, wandering Nature, where are you, who pierced the veil of my Nights, I would not be your prey, filthy people, leave me alone, it is the Other that I want but, I am not sure that he exists, take him to your sacred dances, maybe we'll meet?

.

.

.

Again here’s a very poor translation of my french text wrote this morning, and who follow below. Also, before you ask, I’m ok, it's the work with the Datura spirit that has started, so it comes out like it can. I repeat that this blog is a personal experience, not a showcase.

La nuit, pleine de batailles - toutes perdues - à contrecœur, de cauchemars parasites, à mon corps défendu ; puis la chair, lasse, faible, sans avoir lu tous les livres - Salope… Oui, toi! Sacré ou pas sacré (je m'en fiche), mais Putain du Monde toujours, tu lèche les péchés de ceux qui se sentent trop purs, hein? S'il te plaît, fais toi plaisir! Ton vide me remplit d'un feu sauvage incontrôlable qui dévorera bientôt tout sur son passage; mais l'autre, l'enfant, cette proie innocente, déjà morte, n'est-ce pas? Elle est le demi-mot qui baigne dans ses sueurs froides, pleurant, se tordant de honte, embrassant son silence, celui-ci, triste et inutile. Fais la taire. Tu es mieux avec moi.

(J'ai tellement rêvé de Toi, si c'est pour se réveiller seule encore, alors je suis prête à laisser la démence revenir...)

Oui c'est moi, prends ce qui reste, je suis coupable, le matin mon lit était sale, froid et trempé, probablement de son sperme, ça y est, emmène-moi, emmène-moi quelque part où la nuit est juste La nuit, où il y a pas tant de masques grimaçants qui me parlent en même temps, emmène-moi, je ne veux plus de ce plaisir, ni de cette tempête, ce nœud de douleur qui me transperce, tu sais mes poings encore comprimés contre mon bas-ventre, et L'autre qui la brutalise avec des coups de pied si forts qu'elle ferme la bouche, FERME TA BOUCHE gamine, on t’a rien demandé.

Après que le désir agrippe si fermement ton crâne dans un étau, tu t’arraches les cheveux, puis il y a des éclairs soudains d'un visage contre, son visage, mais impossible de l'atteindre, il disparaît dans l'ombre, fuyant et silencieux. Ne compte que sur toi-même. Ne compte que sur Dieu.

Alors quoi? De la soif de Dieu ce matin devant l’autel; soif inextinguible, l'envie, le désir si pur, mais regarde en même temps, l'autre conne en train de se branler au milieu d'une décharge, tu parles d'une soif de perfection ! Elle, jetée au hasard d'une rue, non, regarde encore cette chair que tu pétris, compulsive, regarde les saccades de son corps, le tien, les tensions qui te menacent de la brûlure définitive, alors je continue de blasphémer en ton nom gamine, oui tu peux soupirer, gémir, oui tu peux, gémis, tords toi, on s'en fout, laisse faire, continue de laisser faire, Gamine, car on est coincées ici, n'est ce pas?

Et où êtes vous, oui Vous, tous ceux de la Mascarade de cette nuit, la frénésie sauvage, qui dansent en cercles autour de moi à l'envers tandis que je me tords de ce désir insupportable et vain, où êtes vous maintenant, enfants, monstres, nature vagissante, où êtes vous, qui avez percé le voile de mes Nuits, je ne serais pas votre proie, peuple immonde, foutez moi la paix, c'est l'Autre que je veux mais, je ne suis pas sûre qu'il existe, emmenez le dans vos danses sacrées, peut être qu'on se croisera?

[rhianna]

- Fools!" said Arétin, don't you see that they are lovers?... Torches! that one brings torches!...

La gondole approchait, paisible et muette comme une écorce de bois qui suit le fil de l'eau.

— Je ne vois qu'une femme, dit quelqu'un.

— Moi, qu'un homme.

— Imbéciles! fit Arétin, vous ne voyez pas que ce sont des amants?… Des flambeaux! que l'on apporte des flambeaux!…

Le balcon s'illumina. La gondole aussitôt esquissa un mouvement de retrait, comme ferait un animal vivant sensible à la lumière ; mais elle ne se retira pas assez vite pour que l'on n'eût le temps d'apercevoir les visages.

— Par la Madone! dit Arétin, voici une enfant plus belle que la très sainte mère de Dieu!

On crut qu'il n'avait parlé que pour blasphémer. Franco, qui avait remis les dames en état, se prit à rire, et il commençait d'adresser des lazzi au couple amoureux, pensant flatter le maître. Mais celui-ci le souffleta et le traita de porc immonde. Personne ne dit plus mot.

— Qui connaît cette jeune femme? dit Arétin.

Aucun de ceux qui étaient là ne l'avait vue, jamais.

— Elle n'est pas de Venise, dit Titien ; elle a la chair menue et transparente que l'on voit aux Vierges des bons maîtres de Cologne et la grâce pieuse des filles de Sienne illustrées par le doux Sano di Pietro, homme tout en Dieu, ainsi qu'on l'appelle.

— Elle est d'ivoire, dit Sansovino. J'ai vu, à Rome, dans la maison de l'illustre Agostino Chigi, des statuettes finement taillées qui étaient les petites sœurs de cette enfant. Leur taille est ployée à demi, et elles sont si frêles que l'on voudrait leur enlever le bambin qui semble leur peser au bras…

— Et l'homme? l'homme? qui le connaît? dit Arétin avec impatience.

The gondola approached, peaceful and mute as a wooden bark that follows the course of the water.

- I only see a woman," said someone.

- Me, only a man.

- Fools!" said Arétin, don't you see that they are lovers?... Torches! that one brings torches!...

The balcony lit up. The gondola immediately made a withdrawal movement, as a living animal sensitive to light would do; but it did not withdraw fast enough for us to see the faces.

- By Our Lady," said Arétin, "here is a child more beautiful than the most holy Mother of God!

It was thought that he had spoken only to blaspheme. Franco, who had restored the ladies to normal, began to laugh, and began to address lazzi to the loving couple, thinking he was flattering the master. But the master blew him away and called him an immoral pig. Nobody said another word.

- Who knows this young woman? said Arétin.

None of those present had ever seen her, ever.

- She is not from Venice, said Titian; she has the small and transparent flesh that one sees in the Virgins of the good masters of Cologne and the pious grace of the daughters of Siena illustrated by the gentle Sano di Pietro, man all in God, as he is called.

- She is made of ivory, says Sansovino. I saw, in Rome, in the house of the illustrious Agostino Chigi, finely carved statuettes that were the little sisters of this child. Their size is half bent, and they are so frail that one would like to take away the toddler who seems to weigh them down on his arm...

- And the man? the man? who knows him? says Arétin impatiently.

Source:   Nymphes dansant avec des satyres by René Boylesve

https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/63762

Translation with https://www.deepl.com/translator

[rudra-writes]

Pellurin: Ambush (Part 7)

Part of a roleplay story with Telurin’s player. During a journey with other draenei, Pallas and Telurin become separated when orcs attack.

Telurin dispatches the orc captain with brutal, even shocking efficiency. Motaanos breathes a long sigh of relief when he falls, knowing his own exhaustion could have created a dangerous situation without the tireless Ebon Blade aiding him. The battle dies down, the other orcs abandoning their fallen captain now that they have seen that the death knight is truly something to be feared.

Mot takes a moment to catch his breath, leaning on his mace, then approaches Telurin without yet seeing what the undead draenei is doing. “That was well done--”

The vindicator falls back in horror when he sees what Telurin has done to the fallen orc. “What is the meaning of this?!” Being an Auchenai, it’s even more apparent to him that the death knight has manipulated a soul into remaining inside the corpse. Granted, it’s the soul of a foe who would have killed them without hesitation, but to an Auchenai, it’s nothing short of blasphemous.

“Peace, Commander, I don’t intend to keep it. Do you want your Soulpriest back or not?” Telurin doesn’t look back at Motaanos, his attention still remains with the newly risen ghoul, and it’s to the newly undead that he directs his next words. “Speak, I have given you voice. Tell me what you have done with the draenei you captured yesterday. Your Master wills it.”

Motaanos presses his lips together and holds his peace, despite the fact that the freshly-dead orc captain is disturbing to his senses as a ghoul.

After a beat, the orc ghoul speaks in a low, quavering drone. His lips form the words slowly around his tusks. “...Braxen…Gorereaper... wanted them... Draenei blood… Summons… powerful demons… Or so he... claims.” There is a sense that the chieftain didn’t understand the specifics. Motaanos goes pale in the background. “...Weak slaves… They had… no other use...”

The orc ghoul slowly raises his left hand to point at a path in the woods that winds a short distance out of the encampment. There is a sense of dread that lingers over the path. The grasses and plants there are dead, and the trees are twisted, as if something in the soil had poisoned them.

Telurin, satisfied with the answer, pulls the necromantic magics pinning the soul of the orc to his body with a vicious twist, and the body drops as if it were a puppet with its strings cut. The tie between a death knight and their ghouls left no room for lies; the orc had divulged all he’d known, as well as the layout of the cave they’d find the hostages in and what he had known of this Braxen Gorereaper. Sugarfoot comes back around without being told and Telurin mounts in one smooth motion, already pulling the horse’s nose in the direction the orc had pointed.

“Keep up or be left behind, they are close!” He calls back to Motaanos right as he digs his heels into Sugarfoot’s side.

Sugarfoot thunders down the fel-tainted path in the early morning. From what Telurin had been able to glean from the mind of the orc chieftain, this Gorereaper is without doubt a practitioner of the warlock arts, having often been seen in the company of demonic beasts he kept under his sway. It was not a common talent for fel orcs, suggesting that the warlock himself was not tainted to the same extent they had been, or perhaps not at all.

What is apparent is that he was prolific in his studies. Sugarfoot soon reaches a terminus in the path: A grave altar carved out of dark stone, decorated with skulls, bones, and the dried stains of dark indigo draenei blood. The gruesome sight of the remains of sacrificial victims can be seen. Many appear to have been devoured by something horrible afterward, their remains nearly unrecognizable in the foul greenish light that glows from cracks in the rocky ground. The twisted trees complete the scene: Awful mockeries of themselves, scorched black.

There is no sign of the warlock himself, nor of his minions. Assuming he was one of the more intelligent orcs, he likely departed the camp as soon as there was a disturbance.

Not far from the blood-spattered altar, there is a line of iron cages trimmed with wicked metal thorns. Inside the cages, a cruel sight meets Telurin's eyes: Several draenei bodies, in varying states of nauseating violation. Some are chained, some gutted for their blood.

The air is heavy with the stench of death. But Telurin's senses would tell him that one of the cages held a glimmer of life.

Telurin had seen worse, done worse under the Lich King’s thrall, but the amount of death, comprised of solely his own people, sets his anger burning all over again. He promises to himself that when Pallas is safe, he will return and raze this place to the ground. Surrounded by death, the point of Light-touched life in the last cage is bright to his senses, and he yanks Sugarfoot’s head toward it, sliding off of the big horse nearly on top of the cage.

“Watch and guard.” He says to the still keyed up horse, one hand on Sugarfoot’s neck as he approaches the cage, the reins looped loosely onto the pommel to give the horse freedom of movement. He tries to temper some of his anger as he turns his attention to the occupants of the cage, knowing it won’t be useful here. He draws his sword and sets it to the chain holding the door shut, trusting the runed blade against the strength of whatever poor metal the orcs had used in the chain’s construction.

It gives easily, and Telurin gets his first unobstructed view of what lay inside.

Motaanos comes up quietly behind Telurin, his face ashen.  Although he had grown up surrounded by death as an Auchenai, the sense of wrongness of the corruption of fel, to him, felt a violation of the worst kind.

He turns his attention to the inside of the cage the death knight has cut the lock from, then falls to his knees with a cry of agony. Pallas is there, laying unconscious on the filthy, blood-spattered bottom of the cage, his Anchorite's robes reduced to shreds. His body is covered in bruises, whip welts and the punctures of bites. Wrapped around the smaller priest, holding him as if to protect him, is the bony body of Grigore, his skin deeply lashed and coated blue from his own blood. Even his tail is wrapped tightly around Pallas's.

Motaanos is beside himself, his eyes wide with grief. He chokes out, "Grigore..." before reaching towards the soul priest with a gauntleted hand.

Telurin’s own anguish is quiet, but the sight of the two Anchorites sets his jaw and strengthens his resolve to slaughter the rest of this clan for what they’ve done. With Motaanos in the doorway, Telurin lets the vindicator be the one to assess the damage, knowing he will be able to help in this case more than he.

“Neither of them will be able to ride.” Telurin says, and it’s blunt and harsh but it’s true, and it’s a problem Telurin can work on right now, how to get them out of the orc camp and back to the nearest Alliance settlement. “There was a cart back at the camp, it will have to do. Can you stay with them while I retrieve it? Be on your guard, stabilize them as much as you can while I am gone. I will be quick.” He almost turns back toward Sugarfoot before Motaanos answers, but he waits, needing to be sure the Commander can work through his grief, set it aside for now. They’re in unsecured enemy territory, alone, and he needs them both to stay sharp and battle ready until it’s safe to do otherwise.

Motaanos's expression changes as he gleans from both Telurin's words and closer examination that both of the priests are, in fact, alive. He regains control of his emotions, and becomes steadfast, nodding as he crouches next to the two unconscious draenei inside the cage. "I have enough energy left to provide some healing; they'll be stabilized at the very least."

The Vindicator gingerly places a hand on Pallas's shoulder, and his opposite hand on Grigore's. He begins to channel the Light. It's a faint, quiet presence in this fel place, turning the cage floor around the three draenei a soft, calming gold. Mot looks back at Telurin with trust in his eyes for the first time.

[motgamevn]

Blasphemous, lại một phiên bản đẫm máu và hắc ám của Castlevania?

Từ xưa đến nay hễ mỗi khi có một trò chơi nào đó có gameplay đi cảnh màn hình ngang, sở hữu bản đồ phức tạp cùng những con quái đa dạng xuất hiện, ngay lập tức nó sẽ bị cộp ngay cái mác truyền nhân, người thừa kế, kẻ

Bài viết Blasphemous, lại một phiên bản đẫm máu và hắc ám của Castlevania? đã xuất hiện đầu tiên vào ngày Mọt Game.

source https://motgame.vn/blasphemous-lai-mot-phien-ban-dam-mau-va-hac-am-cua-castlevania.game

[tipsoctopus]

Plenty of Leeds fans destroy 'invisible' ace vs Derby - 'Turned into Bianchi', 'Release'

Leeds United were dumped out of the play-offs by Derby County on Wednesday night in a pulsating evening of football at Elland Road.

The result was tough to take for the Whites faithful as the curtain was drawn on the season in a dramatic fashion befitting of Marcelo Bielsa’s maiden campaign.

Supporters, journalists and pundits will now seek to dissect what has been a notable downturn in form in recent months both collectively and individually.

Pablo Hernandez, in particular, has seen his influence diminish and that in turn has had a knock on effect on the quality of Leeds’ attacking endeavours.

Another abject performance from the Spaniard was vehemently criticised on Twitter last night, with supporters claiming that his best form has been absent for a considerable length of time.

Perhaps his failure to summon his creative best form can be explained by the club’s reliance on the 34-year-old veteran. One cannot help but wonder if he has fallen victim to the gruelling nature of the Championship season at just the wrong time.

Supporters rather unanimously claimed that he was missing throughout proceedings and one disgruntled fan even suggested that he should be released this summer, despite the fact his contract isn’t due to expire until June 2020.

Here’s what the Leeds fans had to say about Hernandez last night…

Anyone know why Hernandez has turned into Bianchi? #LUFC

— Dirty Leeds (@Dirty_Leeds94) May 15, 2019

When it’s time to be counted pablo Hernandez has been missing since Easter #LUFC

— gary (@gpaint74) May 15, 2019

Is it too blasphemous to ask what happened to Hernandez this past month too? Evaporated these last few matches, we missed his magic, especially tonight. #lufc

— Matthew Knowles (@knowlesm) May 15, 2019

Where to start? Casilla an expensive liability; Hernandez a shadow of the player he was in February; most training ground injuries I can remember in 44 years of watching #lufc. A battle to keep our home grown stars starts tomorrow as the vultures circle. Enjoy the summer.

— Mark Roper (@markroper23) May 15, 2019

Can't see Bielsa staying after this. Think Hernandez is done. Bamford has to be sold. Huge clear out needed. Don't know where we go from here? #Lufc

— Davy Reddin 🇮🇪 (@davyred93) May 15, 2019

Is it just me that thought Hernandez was nonexistent? #lufc

— Dominic. (@BlizeUK) May 15, 2019

Casilla, Berardi accountable for that, Coops to for that blatant pull back. Also Hernandez and Bamford. Hernandez was invisible, not for the first time in big games and Bamford as the game went on looked off the pace. Our experience didn't show up. #lufc #mot

— Greg Andrews (@Greg_01) May 15, 2019

Worth noting too that Hernandez had an absolute stinker tonight, alongside Casilla. Nothing worked for him tonight. Bamford also looked immobile, we missed Roofe's running badly. #LUFC

— Mat Thomas (@EmptyUK) May 15, 2019

Absolutely sickening, thrown the game away.

Shackleton & Dallas did not deserve to be on the loosing team tonight at all.

Hernandez left it till tonight to have his worst game in a leeds shirt.

Conclusion from all this, Keogh is still the most hated person in my life. #LUFC

— TH 💙💛 (@T70Hall) May 15, 2019

Hernandez been a passenger last 10 games!!! #lufc

— Johnny F (@JF_LUFCmod) May 15, 2019

Gunna get some pelters here but if Radz can get 10m together, sell Jansson, Saiz etc get 15m… Cant believe im saying it but release Hernandez, frees up wages also think youngsters like bogusz, clarke Stevens will come in.. might give us 20m to get out of the league… #lufc

— Matt 💙💛 (@MWJS82) May 15, 2019

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[gospelofthegrievousangel-blog]

Parable: An Assortment of Beginnings

Child, if you were to stray from the golden path of light, and travel deep into the ashen sands of grey dream, one might find themselves standing at the bank of the Screaming Willow. Ten thousand upon ten thousand years ago, the tree stood great and grand, unbending, pointing each of its armored branches straight towards the sovereign Iron Sun. It stood there for many years, exalting in it's stature and divine meaning, as a waymark for the wanderer, the meeting place of witch-saints, as a symbol of unyielding devotion to the scholar, and as a purveyor of justice, whose wooden limbs held no less than seven of the sacred strangling gallows used by the hangmen of lore, Poet Lignae and the Saint of Circles.  

It was not long after the seventh strangling that an infamous hero-villain, who had no name (may it be both blessed and cursed), came upon the tree, seeking relief from the beating blades that descended from the sun’s sovereign rays. Without reason, nor unreason, the willow attempted his destruction, for it is the path of the named to seek the destruction of the nameless, and the path of the worshipper to harbor no heretic. Using it's many branches as one would use a lash, the tree struck out, assailing the nameless's very being, tearing at everything he was and would be, everything that he had done and will do, as is the way of the manifold holy path of violence.

Taking up the haft of a nameless wood-axe, the hero villain sneered, for he was fluent in that path, and within thirty blows felled the great willow, a great injustice done righteously. The willow, in a last effort of worship, bent at the place of the cutting and bowed to the overhead sun, collapsing with a great explosion that shook the birds from the air, touching the base ground. In ancient speech, it cursed the hero-villain, proclaiming that misdeed shall only be rewarded with vengeance, against him, and all his kind. Calling upon the low, low lord Mot, first forgotten aspect of the End, it promised that, should any come seeking to impart upon the graces of a wood, yet betray thy host with iron blade, they shall find no sustenance, no shade, no sap. No fruit shall grow from it's limbs thereafter, for defiance is the codified last permitted action of the murdered victim, defiance to the arrogant defiler. Thus, did it sever it's many paths and begin upon the path of the dying, upon which all worshipers of Mot must eventually walk.  

The hero-villain said nothing, for he did not speak the language of trees and brush. Instead, he set his blade to work, flaying the great willow as if it were some still-living beast. For nameless is the father of all the crafts of division, the arts of creating by carving, strengthening by breaking, mending by piercing, living by killing, ascending by starving. Laughing merrily, he went about his grim work and from the willow's hide constructed a great shield, unmarked, without design save for it's blasphemous existence. Hewing one of the willows many limbs, the nameless did so give his creation a single limb, to be held like godly blade, so that the shield could be held up to the heavens and protect one's mantle from the scathe of iron rain. Seeing the nameless' intentions, the willow began to scream, for, in giving flesh (though unwillingly) it had helped contribute to living defiance, rebellion, a great sin. For this, the Iron Sun passed it's iron judgment, and the tree withered and dried, soon catching spark, becoming a great river of fire, that still burns today. For this, the hero-villain was grateful, gleefully indulging in the crime of warmth, whilst protected from the reign of the cold Iron Sun.  

It wasn't long until he had set out again, soon forgetting about the tree-river and it's tribulation, the events of which were witnessed by nothing and none, and is yet remembered.  

-Unknown Shade (citation-needed)

[truth-news]