#trolls panna

[alishad123]

For my friend @mariahdoby13 😁💕

[malinowa-herbatka]

[digifag]

I JUST FUCKING REMEMBERED I HAD A DREAM AND IN THE DREAM AT THE BACK OF THE CAFETERIA WAS A FUCKING HOMESTUCK COSPLAYER.

[thewertsearch]

Ooh, how about trying to think up names for the trolls you've seen so far? Either using just regular names, astrology names, or just complete nonsense. ~DJ

Let's give it a go!

I found a site that lists the different names of the Zodiac signs in various languages, so I'm going to pick names from that.

gallowsCalibrator = Mheá

adiosToreador = Zezene

carcinoGeneticist = Krabbi (get it?)

grimAuxiliatrix = Panna

Either that, or one of them is Vriska. I know there's a Vriska!!

[sabraeal]

All That Remains, Chapter 4: The Flower Garden of the Woman Who Could Conjure [Part 1]

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

Obiyuki Week, Day 4: Free Day Sloth | Diligence

We have been so busy, have we not? Talking of trolls and mirrors and snow queens and a boy whose heart pumps poison even now, as each step pulls him farther and farther from what he once called his home. So busy, that we have forgotten the other side of this tale.

After all, the girl has her story too.

A girl loves a boy.

They meet in a garden, overgrown and abandoned, gazes kissing as the boy flings himself thoughtlessly over a wall he was not meant to cross. That was what the boy had enjoyed doing then: trespassing where he should not.

For a brief moment, a glorious summer, it is all perfect. It is everything in this world that is bright and good. And most importantly -- it is easy.

Until it is not. That happens when boys are not just boys, but princes instead.

“Your posture is atrocious.”

An edifice of bombazine and lace, as unforgiving as any cliff face, Lady Mihoko presides over her comportment lesson with the sort of derisive confidence only someone born to unimportant importance could wear. If rumor is to be believed -- which Shirayuki knows well enough it can’t -- she is the cousin of a cousin of some royal father.

Not mine, Zen had assured her after her first, disastrous lesson, though maybe his father...

The lady sets down her teacup; it doesn’t even rattle on the saucer. She may be as old as the stones of Wistal itself, but there is a reason Mihoko can count both the dowager queen and the consort as her favorite students.

It’s too bad that she doesn’t have such high hopes for Shirayuki. “Never in all my years have I seen such a common spine.”

There is no difference between a noble spine and a common one. Shirayuki has to bite her cheek to keep herself from saying it, to keep herself from informing the estimable Mihoko that there is not a single organ in the body that suggests superiority of peer over peasant, save that one is better fed and the other better worked. Not even the king was –

She clamps down on that thought, cheeks heating. The room had been dim the night of the revolt, only a single candle to aid her in that urgent exam, but –

Well, what she had seen – what she had felt – suggested he might have improved upon what he had been given at birth. Substantially. But that was – different.

Bombazine rustles like leaves underfoot as Lady Mihoko settles in her wing-backed chair. Shirayuki had never seen one that wasn’t overstuffed and well-loved, closing cozily around whoever sat in it, but this one is austere as the rest of the room, sharp and painfully white. Lady Mihoko’s dress stands out starkly against it, the deep purple of half-mourning appearing almost black, though no one remembers who she wears it for any longer.

A husband, Zen told her, it must be. He had not sounded confident in the answer in the slightest.

“If you refuse to show improvement, I will have to get out The Book,” she tells her, just like that, capitals and all, as if there is only a single book in all the world, and being in its presence is a punishment. Shirayuki isn’t certain how Lady Mihoko feels about reading, but she has a strong guess that it is not positive.

“To place upon your head,” the lady clarifies, “for walking.”

There is a part of her that wants to show how fine her comportment is by walking right out of this room but --

She’s an institution, Kiki told her with the closest she could ever come to a grimace, and Izana put you with her for a reason.

Shirayuki forces to spread her lips, putting down her own cup with a clank. “Of course, Lady Mihoko. Whatever you think might...help.”

The problem is that she is not the right girl. At least, not yet. Women with finer bloodlines than her train their whole lives to be what she never had any intention to become.

But she loves a boy, and so becomes she does.

In stories, it is the prince who must climb the highest mountain, who must pluck the flower that blooms once every seven years, who must follow recalcitrant girls to their fairy world and catch them dancing. But in this, it is the girl who must prove herself, who must memorize a hundred devices and stand with books on her head and use the right fork.

She is determined. She loves him. She will have her happily ever after. All of her hard worth will be worth the pain, worth the inconvenience.

Almost.

Master Arundo no longer despairs of her, oh no. He is beyond such things. Now whenever she treads upon his foot, sharp heel nearly puncturing a hole in his boot, he merely raises his gaze heavenward and sighs. She swears in those moments that she can see his soul ascend from his body before plummeting back to his earthbound purgatory.

If only Obi was here to spare him, at least for a little while. But --

Shouldn’t Master be helping you with this, Miss?

-- she doubted he would come. Not after --

Isn’t it said that no wife dances with any man besides her husband?

-- everything. Not when he had made his position so clear.

She bites her lip, and it’s that moment of distraction that twists her about, puts her off the right foot -- and right onto Master Arundo’s.

His breath hisses sharply. She leaps back, pulling her impossible skirts away, as if that might help the situation.

“I’m so sorry!” she squeaks, hands crossing over her mouth. “I only--”

“No, no,” he chokes out, pained. “It is all right, my lady. Only a -- surprise.”

He does not say it, but she can hear the words he does not say: because it came so swiftly after the last. Shirayuki grimaces.

“Please, can I -- can I get you anything?” She twists herself in half to look at him, stays digging into her side, but he only waves her off. “Ice? A chair?”

“Do not mind me, my lady,” he insists. “I can handle such a...small inconvenience. Besides,” he glances over at the grandfather clock, ticking away in the corner, “it is well past time I let you go. You have another lesson, don’t you--?”

She jolts upright, staring at the long hand, well past the tolling of the hour. “Oh no! I’ll -- I’ll be late!”

“Hurry,” Arundo tells her, sitting hard on the ground. “I doubt the marquis is the sort of man who takes kindly to wait.”

Ah, this is not the story you thought you would hear. That is the way of it, is it not? You hear a tale from a single mouth and believe you understand the whole, that the shadows of doubt have been removed from every corner, and then --

Then you hear it from another.

But you are right, of course. This is not the whole of her heart, but only an aspect of it. Hearts are made to be full, to give love and receive it in return, and no matter how great a single bond is, it is never enough.

And this girl’s heart was made to give.

A girl loves a boy. Not the same boy, and not the same way. One is a secret garden rendezvous, is a flash of a cape, is kissed hidden behind a balustrade, and the other --

He is home.

“You are late.”

Haruka stands by his chair, the personification of hospital corners, mouth pulled in a dour line across his face. She hurries into the room, shoulders hunched, as if a display of remorse might move him.

“Stand up straight,” he snaps, voice like a whip’s lash. “A princess does not slink into the room, no matter how late she is.”

She should have known it was a lost cause from the start. The footman angles himself behind her, and she takes her seat, hardly flinching when the seat of the chair knocks against her knees. She’ll never be used to that -- to having someone help her sit.

Worse, she is not used to the quiet from her shadow, to the lack of a clever quip in her ear. Princesses make their own time, Miss, Obi would say. They only ever show up when they mean to.

Shirayuki smothers a smile. There are reasons Haruka doesn’t let him in, and she suspects that is one of them.

“I was under the impression,” she begins, so innocent, smoothing her napkin over her lap, “that a princess could never be late.”

That grim line drops into a scowl the same moment he drops into his chair. “You are not a princess yet, Lady Shirayuki,” he reminds her, as if these between all these interminable lessons she might have time enough to forget. “And to some, you never will be, no matter what a scrap of paper says. You must keep that in mind.”

She’d take offense -- gods know, Obi would be bristling at her back if he heard those words -- except that Haruka does not say them snidely, doesn’t imply that he is one of those people who will never be impressed. No, his words are stark, informational -- and, she can’t help but think, a tinted with a hint of concern.

It’s easy to forget when he sits with her like this, picking at her every move, but  Haruka wants Zen to be happy. Kain passed when Zen was hardly more than a child, too small for a king to care much about, but the marquis had been there, frowning over his every accomplishment, proud in his own way.

He is the closest Zen has ever come to a father. And perhaps Izana and Zen are the closest the marquis has ever come to having a son. Shirayuki can’t blame him for being cautious; her grandparents would have put Zen through his paces too, if they were still around to meet him.

Now, there was a thought. She tries to picture Zen behind the bar, towel slung over his shoulder as yet another glut of workmen stumble in after a long day, and --

She bites back a giggle. Impossible.

“I didn’t mean to be,” she says gently, shifting aside so the footman can lay the first course. “I just couldn’t reach the last button.”

Haruka’s eyes bulge, silverware clattering to his plate. “You cannot talk about your -- your toilette over the amuse-bouche.”

Should I wait until the fish, then? Obi’s voice is as clear in her ear as it would be if he were here. Her lips wrap around her teeth, caging smile.

“A princess should have a lady’s maid.” Each word is edged in irritation, a blade dulled by its use. “Not...fussing with her wardrobe herself.”

She takes a measured bite of her panna cotta. “I thought I wasn’t a princess yet.”

If she had thought the marquis dour before, his scowl now makes all that seem downright friendly.

“Besides, I’ve been dressing myself my whole life, I know how to do it.” Her shoulders lift in the smallest shrug she can manage. Dresses like this were not made to survive anything but the lightest of conversation, and hand gestures were right out. “There’s no reason to make someone else do it for me.”

He lets out a huff, nearly amused. “Obviously you cannot. Otherwise you would have been here on time.”

Shirayuki puffs out her cheeks, annoyed. “I’ve asked to had the clasps sewn in the side seam, but I’m told it ruins the line of the gown.”

Whatever that means. She can’t see how, but then again, she hardly knows the difference between a ball gown and a dinner dress, save that one seems more fancy on the top and the other on the bottom. And even then, it’s splitting hairs

Haruka’s mouth lifts at one corner, dangerously approaching a smile. “I do believe half the point is showing off how many people would need to dress you.”

“But every day?” It seems a waste of time, but she knows better than to say so. The marquis looks like a man who puts on his own trousers in the morning, but every lord here has a valet. “And it’s not like I have trouble, all the time. Usually Obi...”

She clamps down hard around that thought, but it’s too late; Haruka’s eyebrows raise in the worst imitation of surprise she’s seen yet. The silence that follows is...painful. His lack of commentary is almost more censure than his scolding.

“I trust you will be at dinner tonight,” he manages after a moment, spooning another scoop of panna cotta elegantly into his mouth.

Shirayuki hesitates. Just thinking about taking another meal in the dining hall makes her faint, like she needs a day’s rest between breakfast and dinner to contemplate it. It’s not the people, or at least not the amount of people -- in Lilias they had taken their meals in the commissary, pressed shoulder to shoulder with the other scholars, and she had never found it as personally draining as this, eating five courses while trying to make polite yet unimportant conversation.

Dinner in the formal hall is -- optional, as far as the nobles are concerned. The most ambitious attend every night, jockeying for position amongst the seats closest to the king and his consort, and she -- she has been suffering beside them since she started this training Izana foisted upon her. Even if she wasn’t tired of ornate dresses and chilly receptions, she’d be longing for a change of scenery.

“I-I’m not sure...”

Haruka levels her with a scowl composed to make recalcitrant princes fall into line. “It is customary for the royal family to attend dinner.”

A fact that would mean more, were she not constantly reminded just how far a gulf there was between them. “Zen doesn’t. Not always.” Far less often that her, at least.

“I am well aware.” For once, Haruka’s annoyance in not aimed squarely at her. “The court is well used to the second prince not appearing at all, for great lengths of time, and thus his occasional interest now is...acceptable. If eccentric.”

“Then can’t I--?”

“Eccentric is an expensive reputation His Highness can only afford because he mints the coin,” he tells her, every word clipped. “You barely have two cents to your name.”

She only realizes how hard she is biting her lip when she pricks herself, copper flooding her mouth. Her first thought is that such a wound would be unbecoming --

And she stops herself there. It’s truly been enough. “I don’t want a reputation that--”

“If you mean to improve your station as drastically as you are set upon, you must be above reproach.” He sends her a wary glare. “There are women who train their whole lives for a royal marriage, and still are found wanting. You, in their minds, have practically fallen off the hay wagon. If you do not play their game, then you will be eaten alive the moment they have discovered that your attachment to His Highness is binding rather than...ephemeral.”

Her fingers curl tight around her fork, carving sharp half-moons into the meat of her palm. If this is supposed to convince her that her time is being well spent, it fails in its purpose.

“I don’t want to -- to improve my station.” The words stick in her mouth, as foul as fish oil. “I just want to stand beside Zen.”

Haruka stares at her, uncomprehending. “Those are one in the same.”

They are not, but this is far from the first time she’s had this conversation, and no matter how she tries, not a single person ever understands.

Well, except for one.

“I don’t think it’s so strange for someone to spend one night having dinner on their own.” She doesn’t like how petulant is sounds to her own ears. “I can’t be the only one with friends who aren’t invited to formal dinner.”

Haruka sets down his silverware, fixing her with a thoughtful gaze that makes her wish she wasn’t so comfortable airing her opinions.

“If you are talking about His Highness’s knight,” he says carefully, “then you should know that his title is more than sufficient to dine with peers--” he holds up a hand, stemming off her protests -- “which I am sure has been imparted to him innumerable times, so if he has not gone, it is because he does not wish to.”

Her mouth closes, teeth rattling in her ears. She hadn’t meant just Obi -- it would be nice to see her other friends from the pharmacy as well; it’s been ages since she’s seen Higata, or even Ryuu -- but now that it’s been said --

She meant Obi.

It’s been three days since -- since, and each one of them his absence has been as keen as a wound, as a tooth that’s been abscessed, and she just can’t stop prodding at it. When he’d arrived that night, she’d been so relieved to see him, so glad to have some brief glimpse of life outside the monotony of study, and --

At least one of us should be enjoying ourselves.

-- she’s not sure what happened. Or at least, what went wrong. But she -- she wants to apologize anyway, to know what she did because Obi is a room with a sprung floor when it comes to anything having to do with personal things and --

She misses him. He hasn’t been back to her rooms since, she hasn’t glimpsed him in the gardens, and even with these constant lessons and Kiki or Mitsuhide rotating at her side...

She’s lonely. To everyone else she is the princess-in-training, but to Obi, she’s always just...Shirayuki.

Or Miss, more accurately. She almost lets a laugh slip, at that. It’s only luck that the clock’s chiming covers it.

“Ah, it seems it’s time,” Haruka sighs, removing the serviette from his lap. “I will see you at dinner then, Lady Shirayuki.”

She looks down at her plate, half eaten panna cotta listing unappetizingly on the porcelain. Maybe, tonight, she doesn’t have to pick at a bird’s food and call herself grateful.

“Hm.” Her mouth curls, and for once, she feels light. “We’ll see.”

It is the limitation of our reality: one cannot know everything.

We are bound to but one body, one mind. We may guess at another’s, may read the wind of their moods and taste the earth of their history and track what path their thoughts may tread, but all our theories, our clever hypotheses -- they are all bent through the lens of our  experiences; a pale reflection.

An inconsequential act for one may be a miracle to another. A kind word may be a lifeline. And a harsh one --

Well, every action has its consequence, whether we know it or not.

There is no escort waiting for her when she leaves.

Shirayuki blinks, eyes rounding as she takes in the empty space by the door. Her neck swivels, first left, then right, but the corridor is barren of human shape, save the statuary.

Her first step is tentative, as trembling as a fawn’s. Her second is stronger, yet cautious, vigilant as she listens for a scuff of a shoe, for the huff of a breath. Her third --

Her third is nearly a skip, nearly a run. It has to be a mistake, an oversight, but -- it’s a lucky one. No need to make her excuses, to have to beg off dinner and invent an illness -- she’d been thinking lady problems, a vague yet harrowing enough ailment that only the boldest guard would persist. Instead, she can make her way back through the gardens, avoiding both peers and watchmen alike, and...

And she could send Obi a message. An invitation. Just them, alone in her rooms. Or maybe he could sneak her down to the private kitchens and charm the scullions into letting him raid the pantry for supplies. It’s been ages since she’s cooked something, and even now she feels the itch in her palms, that roiling urge in her gut to create.

It will be like it was in Lilias, pressed shoulder to shoulder, working so easily they might as well be one mind, and he --

If he has not gone, it is because he does not wish to.

Doubt spears her, staggering her steps. That night, on her balcony --

Have you been drinking?

Even now, the accusation is acrid on her tongue. She hadn’t been wrong, but still, still --

At least one of us should be enjoying ourselves.

She shakes herself. Her and Obi don’t -- don’t fight. He may be annoyed with her, but he’s never been mad at her. Never not spoken to her.

But his absence speaks volumes.

No. A deep breath steels her, clears her head. Even if she were mad at him, even if she were so annoyed that she could hardly look at him, she’d want to fix it. It doesn’t feel right being... not right with Obi. She knows him as well as anyone could, and he -- he’d feel the same.

He’ll come. And if he doesn’t, she’ll march down to the West Wing herself and --

“Someone should check on her.”

It’s a man’s voice, and it brings her up short, slippers scuffing on the carpet. There’s hardly any place to properly hide; unlike the arcades, the halls have no convenient alcoves, and unlike Wilant, there are no curtains. She’s left with statues and decorative armor, and after Zen’s childhood escapades, Wistal’s guards are particularly thorough.

“It’s been five minutes.” It’s a woman’s voice this time, one so familiar the tension drops from her shoulders, leaving her almost dizzy with relief.

Mitsuhide’s worry is palpable, even from here. “She isn’t usually so late.”

Kiki hums, amused. “She’s right on time, for Shirayuki.”

Ah, so her escort wasn’t missing after all -- only standing a much more respectable distance away. It would annoy her, if only the company weren’t so welcome. And if both Kiki and Mitsuhide came to take her to dinner, then surely that meant Zen --

Zen. He would be at dinner. Which means she would be expected.

Her heart flutters in her chest. It would be easy to turn now, to take the long way through the halls and pretend she had not known about his plan, that she had made her escape before she’d had any chance to --

But she doesn’t see Zen often either. Her lessons take up most of her time, and his duties take up most of his, and whatever time overlaps is -- dinner.

There’s no reason she couldn’t invite him too. That she couldn’t invite all of them, and it could be just like it was years ago, the five of them laughing and cooking and enjoying each other’s company --

But she doesn’t want to. Or rather -- it feels like a choice. And anything that isn’t picking Obi and Obi alone is pushing him further away, is showing him that Wistal has changed her, has changed them and --

“Do you think he’ll tell her?”

Her thoughts screech to a halt, every scrap of her attention bent to where Mitshide shuffles nervously around the corner, to how his voice knots with anxiety, with guilt. “It’s...a long time not to tell her.”

“He will when the it’s the right time.”

“I know.” Beside Kiki’s confidence, Mitsuhide’s doubt is stark. “I just think maybe...Izana’s gotten into his head. Made him think...I don’t know. Things.”

Shirayuki’s mouth pulls thin. Izana has always been good at making Zen think all sorts of things, whether they were true or not. He’s a master of implication, of planting a seed and letting someone’s own imagination water it.

“Do you want to tell him that?” Kiki’s voice is a blade, an edge sharpened to cut.

“N-no! It’s just...” Mitsuhide sighs. “It feels like lying, if we don’t tell her.”

“If she had noticed, she would have mentioned it.” Shirayuki can almost hear the shrug in the silence that follows. “And if she hasn’t then it hasn’t bothered her.”

“But it would bother her if she knew.” She’s never known Mitsuhide to push, especially not at Kiki, but he does now, firmer than she’s ever heard him. “If Obi’s gone missing--”

“Obi’s missing?”

The words burst out of her, as helpless as a gasp after a punch, and Shirayuki doesn’t even recognize her own voice, doesn’t even hear except through her bones. The pounding of her heart is too loud in her ears.

He’s missing. Obi’s missing. But he would never --

You don’t know anything about me, Miss. His grin is just as sharp in her memory as it was in the moment, just as chilling.

“Shirayuki!” Mitsuhide squeaks, and she would regret surprising them, regret eavesdropping at all if their guilt expressions did not say every word they hadn’t.

“He’s not missing,” he insists, breathless. “We just...don’t know where he is.”

“But he’s not here?” Shirayuki edges a step closer, searching their faces, but neither of them have earned their position by being the chink in Zen’s armor. “You don’t know where he is?”

“He’s not lost.” Kiki shrugs. “Wherever he is, he means to be there.”

“Did he leave a note?” He’s famous for them, little cryptic things that cause more panic than assurance. “Did he say he was going to leave?”

“...No,” Mitsuhide admits, darting a glance at Kiki. She doesn’t know how to read it; they have always spoken this silent language more fluently than anyone around them. It was one of the ways she knew Kiki would never marry Hisame. “But--”

“There was no struggle.” Kiki says. “His drawers aren’t emptied, but some things are missing from them. He packed, quickly. Lightly.”

“And...?” Her hands tremble where she clutches them to her chest. “And Zen knows?”

“...Yes,” Kiki admits, easy as a pulling a tooth.

“But it’s nothing to worry about!” Mitsuhide assures her. “It’s not the first time Obi’s been gone for three days--”

“Three days?” The roar in her ears is deafening. “Where is Zen?”

“F-finishing up in his office.” Mitsuhide holds up his hands, as if that might hold her off. “But we should really be going to din--”

“Dinner can wait.” Shirayuki spins on her heel, aiming herself on the quickest path. “I need to talk to him now."

The boy disappears, but he leaves the girl behind.

It is the way of things. All our decisions leave loved ones in our wake, whether we mean to or not. It is only when we look behind us that we wonder what choice made the gulf.

The office is dim when Shirayuki enters it; the lamps on the walls have been doused, and only the ones by Zen’s desk remain, the vestiges of work that should long since be over.

She hadn’t meant to be quiet -- the opposite, in fact -- but the dark of the room lends itself to silence, to low voices and soft conversation, and she finds herself making no more noise than the harsh drag of her breath and the scuffle of her slippers. He doesn’t hear her -- or if he does, he gives no sign of it -- and she just...looks.

His snow-pale hair sweeps across his forehead, concealing only part of the furrow in his brow as he works, the scratch of his pen tickling her ears. He’s only half-dressed for dinner, coat draped over the back of his chair and cravat tossed aside, the lamp catching the thread-of-gold in his vest and making it shimmer as bright as any coin.

The light casts him in rich bronze, in gold, an idol more than a man. It’s beautiful -- he is beautiful, and in some way, she knows this, knows that this is why her breath catches and her heart pounds. Or at least, in part.

But no matter how many pretty galleries he walks her through, she has never understood the appeal of a man on a pedestal. Zen has always been a prince, has always been above her --

But what she fell in love with was the boy with feet of clay. With the furrowed brow he never lets her see, and the calloused hands he never hides. With the man who had always treated her as an equal.

Or at least, so she had thought.

“Zen.”

He startles, hissing as his ink pot tips, reaching out to slam it back on the desk. Even from where she stands, she can see it slosh over the top, staining the web between his thumb and forefinger. Oh, it will take an age before that comes off.

The curse rounds on his lips, teeth closing around a tight “Sh--” before his eyes widen, chin jerking up, and it widens to -- “Shirayuki! I wasn’t -- I was going to see you at dinner.”

It would be so easy to give into this moment, to let him stand and take her hand, to just go to dinner and pretend --

But she hasn’t gotten here pretending that things don’t matter.

“Obi,” she says, heart sinking as his eyes round in guilt. “He’s missing.”

The boy had never expected to be missed.

It is easy, in our darkest times, to believe our absence is unnoticed, unmarked. That should we disappear into life’s current, no one would cry over the empty hands that no longer hold us.

But it is a polite fiction, a palatable untruth that the darkness in our hearts whispers to us, the way a wolf separates sheep from the herd.

Here is the truth: no character may drop off the page unnoticed, no pebble may drop into a river without making a ripple, and no person can disappear unloved.

“I don’t understand why you wouldn’t tell me.”

Zen lifts a hand, unbuttoned sleeve fluttering down his wrist. The lamps have been lit again -- this is not a conversation to have in the dark, Kiki had said when she let the footmen in, sending a lingering look at Zen before she left -- but everything has lost its polish, lost its princely shine. He may have been an idol before, but like this, collar and sleeves undone, he’s just -- Zen.

“Shirayuki--”

She doesn’t have time for platitudes. “If Obi is missing, we should be out there looking for him.”

Zen holds up his hands, placating. “There’s no reason to get so upset. It’s not odd for Obi to disappear with no explanation.”

Her mouth pulls tight. If it was years ago, when Wistal had fit him like a pinched collar, Shirayuki would agree, would sit down and let herself be calmed by the idea that Obi had needed space from them, that he had needed fresh air in his lungs and higher perspective than the walls could give. But since Lilias--

He had hardly left her side in Lilias, and never for more than a span of a few nights, and never without word. A checkpoint inspection, a border patrol, a excursion to teach the new recruits the skills they’d need to survive out in the snows -- he’d done them all with loud and endless complaining, turning to her with pleading eyes and asking when they would be heading back to Wistal, already.

It had been a joke, of course. He’d loved Lilias, despite the snow. The only other time he’d left -- the longest time -- had been --

Well, it had been when Zen had called for him.

“He’s been gone for three days.” Her throat is tight, sore. “Something must have happened.”

“He’s gone off for a week before.” Zen holds out a hand, letting it hover just short of her shoulder. “You know how he is. We might as well try to keep a cat indoors.”

Zen’s so sure, but -- but Obi has never been that way, not for her.

She bites down on her lip. But then, things have been so different since they returned, so tense; she can’t fault him for wanting to get away, just for a few days. Especially after --

You don’t know anything about me, Miss.

-- Everything.

“But...” She’s not sure why she’s pushing, why she needs to to badly. “We shouldn’t give up on him. We could look around--”

“You know what Izana would think about that.” His bitterness is so sharp, she flinches. “I don’t think there’s anything to worry about, Shirayuki. Obi has always come back on his own before.”

He’s right, she knows he is, but still, still she can’t shake this feeling.

His hand cups her shoulder, thumb rubbing against the ridge of her collar bone. “I can send someone out to look for him. I doubt we’ll find him if he doesn’t want to be found but...”

Her next breath comes easier. “Okay.”

He leans down, giving her a tilted smile. “Would that make your feel better?”

She nods. “It would.”

“Then it’s done.” He glances over her shoulder, mouth pulling tight in a grimace. “I think we’re well past fashionably late, but --” he smiles, so charming, as always -- “maybe you might agree to a private dinner, just the two of us.”

She lets out a breath, the tension still lingering. She knows she won’t lose it until she sees Obi, until she knows he’s safe, but --

“All right.” Her smile is tremulous, at best, but it pleases Zen well enough. “I could use a break from all the plotting. And five courses.”

If only the boy had known. This story would be a much shorter one.

If only the girl had known: no matter how well meaning, some words were only meant to be lies.

[finnishfun]

Harry Potter ja viisasten kivi Kymmenes luku: Kurpitsajuhla - Chapter 10: Halloween

suurenmoinen - magnificent tovi - moment vihje - hint kaikkitietäjä - know-it-all parvi - flock (of owls) käydä kalpaten - to be in trouble kahva - handle kiiltävä - sleek päiväpeitto - bedspread mahonki - mahogany varpu - twig salko - pole vanne - hoop maila - bat, racket, etc. in sports tapainen - similar panna merkille - to remark, take note of leuka - jaw seassa - among poikkeuksetta - without exception varamies - substitute (player) vaivaantunut - embarrassed tuupertua - to collapse pökertyä - to become stunned sekasorto - chaos tohkeissaan - enthusiastic(ally) kiiruhtaa - to hurry löyhkä - stink kivenjärkäle - boulder litteä - flat pikkuruinen - tiny hämätä - to confuse empiä - to hesitate taju - consciousness möhnä -  goo pöksyt - pants heiveröinen - weak vainaa - dead jaella - to distribute marmattaa - to grumble

jahtaaja - Chaser kaato - Quaffle pitäjä - Keeper ryhmy - Bludger lyöjä - Beater etsijä - Seeker sieppi - Snitch huispaus - Quidditch Siipiirdium lentiusa - Wingardium Leviosa peikko - troll aarnikotka - griffin

[thegothicalice]

What would you recommend (movies, books, music? or whatever else you can think of) to someone who grew up with stories of the fey, devoured the Spiderwick Chronicles and recently was sucked into this world again by Holly Black's Cruel Prince?

That, right there, is a perfectly relevant question to my own interests, thank you!

For books: the Wicked Lovely series, the Wondrous Strange trilogy, The Iron Fey series, The Language of Thorns, Goblins of Bellwater, And Enchantment of Ravens, The Hazelwood, The Blue Girl, Coraline and Neverwhere, The Good Fairies of New York, Ballad and Lament and the Raven Boys books are all good contemporary faerie/folklore/story things. The Dresden Files too even, for more grown-up and ridiculous detective-style fiction that occasionally features the fey. Anything Brian Froud, Andrew Lang’s Fairy Books, The Grimm Brother’s works, and any Irish fairy tales are also good.

For movies: that’s definitely trickier. I will say the Spiderwick Chronicles film, even though it’s not anywhere near as good as the books it’s still at least fun, The Hallow (for the dark, fucked up kind), The Last Unicorn, Labyrinth (duh), The Secret of Roan Inish and Song of the Sea (it’s so hard to find movies about selkies), Watcher in the Woods and The Secret Garden (nothing faerie related, just has the right vibe), Coraline (because there’s something decidedly fae about the Beldam), Troll (the first one is less awful than the second and has that dark fairytale vibe), Pan’s Labyrinth, Mama, Don’t Be Afraid of the Dark, Hellboy II, Trollhunter, Thale, Gremlins, Bright, Snow White: A Tale of Terror, The Company of Wolves, Legend, Valerie and Her Week of Wonders and Panna at Netvor (both are Czech fairytales from the 70s), Nightbreed (which is more demonic-looking monsters, but these antiheros are far more sympathetic than the humans involved), and City of Lost Children (no faeries here, but the child protagonist reminds me of a Holly Black character in a way).

For music: Emilie Autumn’s “Enchant” era, Inkubus Sukkubus, Aurora, Florence + the Machine, Halsey’s “Castle,” Fleetwood Mac/Stevie Nicks, Ego Likeness, Chelsea Wolfe and a good handful of Siouxsie and the Banshees. I noticed with a lot of Holly’s stuff in particular there’s a certain punk aesthetic principle, so I’d throw in Blondie, The Ramones, Rancid, Joan Jett and The Velvet Underground. (Kaye was my favorite character throughout my teen years, and that’s kind of what I figured she’d listen to a bit.)

[mediocrelanguagelearner]

Harry Potter vocab

inspired by this and this post

Magie (f) : magic Čaroděj (m) : wizard Čarodějka (f) : witch Hůlka (f) : wand Kouzlo (n) : spell Kotlík (m) : cauldron Lektvar (m) : potion Hrad (m) : castle Sklepení (n) : dungeons Tajná chodba (f) : secret passageway Věž, věže (f) : tower(s) Chodba, chodby (f) : hallway(s) Učebna (f) : classroom Vyučování/hodina (n/f) : lesson Kniha, Knihy (f) : book(s) Pergamen (m) : parchment Knihovna (f) : library Brk (m) : quill Pobertův plánek (m) : Marauders Map Mudlovský šmejd (m) : mudblood Mudla (m) : Muggle Bradavice (f, pl) : Hogwarts Prasinky (pl) : Hogsmeade

PROFESORSKÝ SBOR – THE PROFESSORS

All females have –ová at the end of their surname (Minerva McGonagallová)

Albus Brumbál : Albus Dumbledore Filius Kratiknot : Filius Fliwick Horacio Křiklan : Horace Slughorn Zlatoslav Lockhart : Gilderoy Lockhart Alastor „Pošuk“ Moody : Alastor „Mad Eye“ Moody Pomona Prýtová : Pomona Sprout

PŘEDMĚTY  - THE SUBJECTS

Jasnovidectví : Divination Péče o kouzelné tvory : Care for magical creatures Přeměňování : Transfiguration Lektvary : Potions Obrana proti černé magii : Defense agains the dark arts Astronomie : Astronomy Bylinkářství : Herbology Dějiny čar a kouzel : History of magic Kouzelné formule : Charms Starodávné runy : Study of ancient runes Studium mudlů : Muggle studies

DUCHOVÉ - THE GHOSTS

Skoro bezhlavý Nick : the Nearly Headless Nick Krvavý Baron : the Bloody Baron Tlustý Mnich : the Fat Monk Protiva : Peeves

KOUZELNÍ TVOROVÉ - MAGICAL CREATURES

Hipogryf : Hippogriff Drak : dragon Mořská panna : mermaid in salt water Jezerní panna : mermaid in sweet water Obří oliheň : Giant octopus Hrabák : Niffler Bazilišek : basilisk Kentaur : centaur Domácí skřítek : house elf Tříhlavý pes : three-headed dog Víla : fairy Tlustočerv: flobberworm Fénix: phoenix Jednorožec: unicorn Vlkodlak: werewolf Testrál : thestral Trpaslík : dwarf Obr : giant Skřet : goblin Trol : troll Upír : vampire Mozkomor: dementor Bubák : Boggart Ghúl : ghoul Duch: ghost

FAMFRPÁL - QUIDDITCH

(you can find here)

KOUZELNÉ PŘEDMĚTY - MAGICAL OBJECTS

Bezová hůlka : Elder Wand Kámen vzkříšení : Resurrection Stone Neviditelný plášť : Invisibility Cloak Pamatováček : Rememberall Kámen mudrců : Philosopher’s Stone Deník Toma Raddla : Tom Riddle’s Diary Prsten Rojvola Gaunta : Marvolo Gaunt’s Ring Pohár Helgy z Mrzimoru : Helga Hufflepuff’s Cup Diadém Roweny z Havraspáru : Rowena Ravenclaw’s Diadem Meč Godrika Nebelvíra : Godric Gryffindor’s Sword Medailon Salazara Zmijozela : Salazar Slytherin’s Locket Ohnivý pohár : the Goblet of Fire Moudrý klobouk : Sorting Hat Zrcadlo z Erisedu : Mirror of Erised Myslánka : Pensivie

ZMĚNĚNÁ JMÉNA - CHANGED NAMES

Levandule Brownová : Lavender Brown Lenka Láskorádová : Luna Lovegood Tom Rojvol Raddle : Tom Marvolo Riddle Pán Zla : the Dark Lord ty-víš-kdo -:You Know Who Rojvol Gaunt : Marvolo Gaunt Tichošlápek : Padfoot Dvanácterák : Prongs Červíček : Wormtail Náměsíčník : Moony Rita Holoubková : Rita Skeeter Gregorovič : Gregorovitch Křivonožka : Crookshanks Dedalus Kopál : Dedalus Diggel Princ Dvojí Krve : the Half-Blood Prince Buclatá Dáma : Fat Lady Godric Nebelvír : Godric Griffindor Salazar Zmijozel : Salazar Slytherin Rowena z Havraspáru : Rowena Ravenclaw Helga z Mrzimoru : Helga Hufflepuff Hedvika : Hedwig Kingsley Pastorek : Kingsley Shacklebolt Klofan : Buckbeak Kornelius Popletal : Cornelius Fudge Krátura : Kreacher Ufňukaná Uršula : Moaning Myrtle

[alishad123]

Panna

Name: Panna

Age: 24 - 14

Gender: Female

Pronouns: She/Her

Trolls Species: Pop Troll

Parents: King Branch and Queen Poppy

Siblings: Branch Jr (B.J) (Brother)

Love Interest: Raven (BF) (Creek and Zuna's Son)

Children(s): None

Like: Haunting, Exploring, Training

Dislike: Losing her Family, Losing her Colors

Voice Claim: Florence Pugh

Original Design:

[giancarlonicoli]

11 ago 2018 10:36 1. UN TRAVAGLIO IMPLACABILE RISPONDE A BONINI: ''VE LO SPIEGO IL 'METODO REPUBBLICA', UN GIORNALE CON MOLTI CAPI E CAPETTI TOTALMENTE IMPERMEABILI AL SENSO DEL RIDICOLO, CHE INCEDONO COL DITINO ALZATO CONVINTI CHE LA RAGIONE STIA SEMPRE DA UNA PARTE: IL PARTITO O LA CORRENTE O IL LEADER CHE IN QUEL MOMENTO ESSI, O MEGLIO I LORO EDITORI, HANNO INVES TITO DELLA SACRA MISSIONE DI GOVERNARCI. COME QUANDO CON SCHIFANI...'' 2. SU D'AVANZO: ''NELLA PROSSIMA SEDUTA SPIRITICA, DOMANDI AL COLLEGA SCOMPARSO PERCHÉ NEGLI ULTIMI MESI NON FIRMAVA PIÙ I PEZZI CON LUI E GLI AVEVA TOLTO IL SALUTO'' 

Marco Travaglio per ''il Fatto Quotidiano''

Ieri su Repubblica è uscito un commento di C.B. (lo chiamo così perché mi accusa di "storpiare i cognomi" e non vorrei cadere in tentazione). Titolo: "Il metodo Travaglio 10 anni dopo". Svolgimento: "L' ex dipendente del Gruppo editoriale l' Espresso, Marco Travaglio, ora direttore del Fatto Quotidiano, coltiva un' ossessione per Repubblica che non conosce requie".

La mia "ossessione" è dimostrata dal mio articolo di giovedì, in cui citavo titoli e perle di vari giornaloni, fra cui Repubblica, dedicati al presunto complotto via Twitter per rovesciare Mattarella ordito da eversori italiani e internazionali (in particolare russi) con falsi profili social, identici o simili a quelli che già avrebbero truccato il referendum costituzionale 2016 e le elezioni del 4 marzo.

Partiti per suonarle a Putin, troll russi e utilizzatori finali pentastellati, i giornaloni sono finiti suonati: cioè costretti ad ammettere che i social che rilanciarono la campagna "Mattarella dimettiti" avviata da Di Maio erano di fan 5Stelle (non russi, ma perlopiù italiani), com' era ovvio e naturale. C.B. se n' è avuto a male e mi richiama all' ordine, ricordandomi di essere stato "dipendente" del suo Gruppo. È, questa, l' unica cosa vera del suo articolo: in effetti lavorai a Repubblica dal 1998 al 2002, e furono i peggiori anni della mia vita, infatti me ne andai dopo averne viste di tutti i colori (anzi, di uno solo).

L' idea che chi lavora per un' azienda debba esserle grato a vita denota una concezione vagamente mafiosa della libertà, tipica infatti dei berlusconiani che nel '94 presero a insultare Montanelli perché osava criticare B. dopo averlo avuto come editore. Naturalmente Repubblica è un grande giornale, pieno di bravi colleghi, e ancor più l' Espresso, il suo cugino monello, cui collaborai per 12 anni senza mai subire (diversamente che a Repubblica) alcuna censura grazie a direttori come Rinaldi, Hamaui, Manfellotto e Vicinanza.

Il guaio di Repubblica, oltre alla puzza di sacrestia (laica e "de sinistra", ci mancherebbe) che vi si respira, sono molti capi e capetti totalmente impermeabili al senso dell' umorismo e dunque del ridicolo, che incedono col ditino alzato portando a spasso le loro teste come i sacerdoti il Santissimo, convinti che la ragione stia sempre da una parte (il partito o la corrente o il leader che in quel momento essi, o meglio i loro editori, hanno investito della sacra missione di governarci) e il torto sempre dall' altra (tutti quelli che si mettono di traverso sulla strada del loro partito, o corrente, o leader: i "fascisti"). Per loro le notizie non sono tutte uguali né si misurano dalla loro importanza. Ma dal loro colore, cioè dalla convenienza o sconvenienza per la Causa.

Me ne resi conto quando ci lavoravo, ma anche dopo. Per esempio nel 2008, quando Repubblica incappò in un infortunio - diciamo così - che C.B. diffusamente ricorda, scordandosi però di spiegare come nacque e come finì. Invitato da Fabio Fazio a presentare un libro su Rai1, ricordai che l' allora presidente del Senato, Renato Schifani, aveva avuto rapporti amicali e societari con personaggi poi finiti nei guai per mafia.

Repubblica - per la penna di un collega che non nomino perché non c' è più e io, diversamente da C.B., rispetto i morti - mi attaccò per dire che le mie accuse erano vecchie e archiviate (non era vero: Schifani fu subito dopo reindagato per mafia, e lo rimase a lungo); per smontare il presunto "metodo Travaglio"; e per insinuare che un mafioso avesse pagato le mie ferie in Sicilia.

Dimostrai sia di aver raccontato fatti veri sia - ricevute alla mano (disponibili sul web) - di aver pagato le mie vacanze fino all' ultimo cent. L' incidente si chiuse anni dopo con un chiarimento fra me e il collega che di lì a poco sarebbe scomparso. Se C.B., nella sua seduta spiritica a mezzo stampa, avesse ricordato la genesi e l' epilogo del fattaccio, avrebbe dovuto spiegare non il metodo Travaglio, lo stesso di ogni cronista onesto: fatti, documenti, memoria e archivio.

Ma il "metodo Repubblica" che monta e smonta, gonfia e sgonfia le notizie secondo l' interesse politico del momento. E allora, per motivi a me ignoti (il pentito Francesco Campanella da Villabate, sodale di Schifani, spiegò ai pm gli interessi in zona di un amico di un editore di Repubblica), il Gruppo voleva tenersi buono Schifani. E pure il sottosegretario Gianni Letta, addetto a finanziare i giornali. I due ras del centrodestra erano pressoché intoccabili, il che contribuì nel 2009 a indurre altri "ex dipendenti del Gruppo" a liberarsi e a passare al Fatto.

Ora, per comprensibili motivi, C.B. non riesce proprio a concepire un giornale libero, dove le notizie si danno tutte, chiunque riguardino e a chiunque convengano. Crede che siamo tutti come lui e ci attribuisce "folgorazioni per i 5Stelle e la Casaleggio", che definisce i nostri "nuovi padroni" (senza peraltro indicare i vecchi, né spiegare i nostri scoop sulle spese pazze di Di Maio, sul suo incontro con Marra, sulle omissioni nel curriculum della Raggi che la fecero indagare per la prima volta, sulle polizze di Romeo che la indicava come beneficiaria ecc.).

Già che c' è, il nostro Linosotis mi dà lezioni di bonton sul "grammelot fascistoide" che userei per la "bastonatura" dei "reprobi di turno" con "locuzioni mascella in fuori ('mecojoni')". In effetti, per commentare lo scoop di C.B. sui siti M5S che rilanciano le campagne M5S , avevo scritto "mecojoni!".

Ma credevo si potesse, da quando C.B. accusò la Raggi di "cojonare i romani". Prendo atto che "cojonare" è lecito e "mecojoni" no. Mi scuso se ho fatto arrossire C.B. Non lo faccio più. Temo invece che continuerò a tenere un archivio di documenti e "ritagli di giornale", anche se la cosa irrita C.B.. È un vizio di noi giornalisti fascistoidi per ricordarci le cose. Che ora mi consente di smontare il penoso tentativo di C.B. di smarcarsi dalla campagna sui troll russi contro il Colle: "Travaglio frulla il tutto e fa dire a Repubblica quel che non ha mai scritto: Putin dietro l' aggressione a Mattarella Repubblica non cita mai la Russia di Putin né la fabbrica dei troll di San Pietroburgo". Che strano.

Eppure conservo tre pezzi di Repubblica nell' ultima settimana intitolati: "Dalla propaganda di Putin 1500 tweet per Lega e 5Stelle", "Una pioggia sui social in arrivo da San Pietroburgo", "Il Pd nel mirino dei troll russi".

Non "ritagli di giornale manipolati a sostegno di una tesi": ma articoli stampati su carta di Repubblica (che "frulla", lei sì, casi diversi - lo scandalo Manafort e il caso Mattarella - per montare la panna, "intossicando", lei sì, l' opinione pubblica che finisce per non distinguere più il vero dal falso). Più un pezzo di Repubblica.it sui tweet anti- Mattarella "dietro i quali si sospetta possa esserci l' azione dei russi".

Non vorrei che C.B., in crisi di identità, confondesse il metodo Travaglio col metodo C.B.. Ricordo quando, sull' accusa a Woodcock e Sciarelli di spifferare notizie su Consip al Fatto, C.B. annunciò l'"inevitabile redde rationem tra due metodi - quello 'Woodcock' e quello del procuratore Pignatone - e due culture della giurisdizione agli antipodi". Poi fu tutto archiviato: nessuna notizia passata al Fatto, nessun metodo Woodcock.

O quando, sempre su Consip, annunciò che il capitano Scafarto era stato "smascherato come impostore e falsario di passaggi politicamente significativi dell' inchiesta"; e aveva "consegnato a Marco Lillo la notizia del coinvolgimento di Del Sette", insomma era lui "la mano che dà da mangiare al Fatto" per "far cadere Renzi" (fra l' altro già caduto da solo). Poi, quando la Cassazione scagionò Scafarto per i suoi "errori involontari", gli cadde la penna di mano e si scordò di informarne gli eventuali lettori. O quando sparò in prima pagina: " M5S , le chat che smentiscono Di Maio. Scrisse a Raggi: 'Marra è uno dei miei'", "Di Maio garante di Marra. Ha mentito, la prova è nelle chat. ".

Poi si scoprì che le chat Di Maio-Raggi su Marra erano state manipolate da Repubblica e altri giornali col taglia e cuci per far dire al capo 5S il contrario di quanto diceva. Sarà mica per questo che C.B. ha tanto in uggia gli archivi?

Ps. Nella prossima seduta spiritica, potrebbe domandare al collega scomparso perché negli ultimi mesi non firmava più i pezzi con lui e gli aveva levato il saluto. Per il metodo Travaglio, o per il metodo Woodcock, o per il metodo C.B., o per il metodo Repubblica? Ah saperlo.

[houseofmavri-blog]

Dom Mavri. Tom I. Pałac bogów.

Rozdział V Timmy Bellemore

Wiecie co jest ważne w poznawaniu nowych ludzi? Zrobienie dobrego pierwszego wrażenia. To znaczy ładny wygląd, szeroki, szczery uśmiech. Miłe słowo na temat drugiej osoby. O tak, zdecydowanie nie powinno to wyglądać jak moje pierwsze spotkanie z Timmym.

Byłam nadal ubrudzona piachem, pyłem i cholera wie czym jeszcze. W końcu nie miałam się kiedy umyć po walce z błotnym trollem, a przypominam tylko, że prawie dostałam w twarz kilku tonowym głazem. Włosy miałam potargane po jeździe boską windą w głąb innego wymiaru, a zamiast szczerego uśmiechu moja twarz wyrażała zdziwienie i przerażenie. Dosłownie spotkałam swojego faceta ze snów!

Na dodatek czułam, że zaraz zacznę się jąkać.

- Timmy? - zapytałam praktycznie bezgłośnie. Timmy pewnie tego nawet nie słyszał.

Ale co było ciekawe w całej tej sytuacji, to fakt, że mój wymarzony chłopak wydawał się równie zaskoczony faktem, że mnie widzi. Wyglądał jakby zobaczył ducha.

Prawie jak we Władcy Pierścieni kiedy wszyscy myślą, że Gandalf przepadł na dobre, a tutaj nagle pojawia się, ubrany cały na biało i pomaga naszym bohaterom w walce z Sauronem.

- Rosie? - Timmy zapytał prawie równie cicho jak ja wcześniej.

No tak i czar prysnął.

Oczywiście przez to piętnaście sekund zdążyłam sobie narobić nadziei. Że łączy nas jakaś niesamowita, niewyjaśniona nawet przez bogów więź. I jesteśmy sobie przeznaczeni. A ślub weźmiemy zaraz po skończeniu liceum.

Na tle tego krystalicznie czystego jeziora w innym wymiarze oczywiście.

Timmy po prostu mnie pomylił z kimś innym. Przyznaję, troszkę zabolało.

- Timothy, przedstawiam ci Gwen Anderson. Gwen, Timothy jest jednym z pięciu członków rady bellatorów. Chciałabym żeby oprowadził cię po Domu. - Mavri uśmiechnęła się serdecznie.

Ona naprawdę wyglądała jak wiedźma. Może nie taka do końca zła, ale wiedźma.

Timothy również się trochę otrząsnął z szoku i podszedł do mnie z wyciągniętą ręką. Starał się uśmiechać i wyglądać na zadowolonego z możliwości spotkania jakiejś tam Gwen Anderson, ale naprawdę żałował, że nie jestem tą całą Rosie.

Przykro mi, że go zawiodłam. Ale on nie pozostawał mi dłużny.

- Timothy Bellemore, syn Talassa. Miło cię poznać, Gwen. - uśmiechnął się do mnie życzliwie.

Podałam rękę Timmy'emu również starając się odwzajemnić uśmiech, było znowu niezręcznie. Chyba za dużo niezręcznych momentów na jeden dzień.

- Gwen Anderson, córka... sama nie wiem kogo.

- Spokojnie, jutro się już dowiesz. Co sobotę robimy ognisko ku czci bogów, a nowi bellatorzy składają dary dla swojego boskiego rodzica, żeby udzielił im odpowiedzi kim jest. Rzadko się zdarza, że ktoś nie zostaje uznany.

Co?! Czyli może się zdarzyć, że moja mama w ogóle się do mnie nie przyzna? W takim razie to jest wręcz oczywiste, że się nie przyzna. Sama bym się nie przyznała. Jestem w końcu żałosna w te boskie klocki. A do tego nie mam za grosz talentu do czarowania i innych umiejętności, których się wymaga od bellatorów w Domu Mavri.

A co się dzieje z tymi, których nikt nie uzna? Dostają zakaz wstępu do Domu? Albo mogą zostać, ale są na przykład woźnymi? Nie chciałabym zamiatać podłóg po moich niedoszłych znajomych – wojownikach.

- Fajnie, wszyscy się już znamy. To teraz pozwólcie, że będę głosem rozsądku. Co robimy z piekielnym psem, który siedzi na mojej werandzie?! - krzyknął Giatros wskazując palcem na Hel.

- Jak to co Giatrosie? Trzeba nakarmić sukę i znaleźć jej wygodne miejsce w stajni, żeby mogła wypocząć. Młoda panna Anderson będzie potrzebowała ogarzycy w dobrej kondycji. - pani Mavri uśmiechnęła się do mnie i puściła oczko tak, żeby pan G. tego nie widział. Chyba zaczynałam ją lubić. - Timothy proszę pokaż Gwen gdzie może zostawić ogarzycę. A ty Felixie chodź ze mną do mojego gabinetu, chciałabym porozmawiać o tym co się stało w Los Angeles dzisiaj po południu.

Biedny Felix, bardzo bał się tego momentu i wydaje mi się, że ta cała sytuacja może się źle dla niego skończyć.

- Felix świetnie się dzisiaj spisał. Gdyby nie on, to Jenny... znaczy ten troll by mnie pożarł. Miałam szczęście, że mnie obserwował.

Nie wiedziałam, czy pomogę czy tylko zaszkodzę faunowi, ale on się do mnie delikatnie uśmiechnął, a Mavri pokiwała głową. Nie wiem co to znaczyło. Trzeba mieć nadzieję, że Felix nie straci pracy. Odniosłam wrażenie, że mu na niej zależy.

- Cóż za szlachetność. Dobra, dziecko, zabierz tego psa z mojego domu, albo własnoręcznie wyślę ją z powrotem do piekła.

- A myślałam, że się polubimy panie G. Taka wtopa z pana strony na samym początku znajomości. - pokręciłam głową z dezaprobatą schodząc po schodach na plażę. Hel poszła za mną.

- Panie G.? - zapytał ze zdziwieniem Timothy.

Wzruszyłam obojętnie ramionami zerkając na Timmy'ego i poszłam przed siebie. Nie, nadal nie wiedziałam gdzie są te całe stajnie.

Ale na moje szczęście Timothy pobiegł za mną. Miałam do niego tyle pytań. Kim jest? Czemu mi się tak często śni? Czy ma dziewczynę?

Miałam jednak resztki instynktu samozachowawczego i wiedziałam, że takich pytań nie zadaje się przy pierwszym spotkaniu. W szczególności jeśli koleś daje ci do zrozumienia, że to nie ciebie się spodziewał. Nigdy nie byłam na randce, ale chyba tak to wygląda podczas randki w ciemno, kiedy facet spodziewa się spotkać z wysoką blondynką z niebieskimi oczami, a dostaje kogoś takiego jak ja. Brunetkę, zdecydowanie nie z twarzą modelki czy gwiazdy filmowej. I też nie narzekającą na niedowagę.

- Czyli... jesteś z Los Angeles, tak? Nigdy tam nie byłem, ale wydaje się, że to raj dla surferów, więc chyba bym się odnalazł. - zagadał Timothy.

Spojrzałam jeszcze raz na Timmy'ego. Wysoki, przystojny, opalony, włosy uczesane wiatrem. Oczywiście, że wyglądał na surfera. I to takiego prosto z Australii.

- Więc surfujesz, tak?

- Właściwie interesują mnie wszystkie sporty wodne. Wiesz, rodzinne zboczenie. - zaśmiał się Timmy, ale szybko doszło do niego, że nie zrozumiałam żartu. - W sensie wiesz... Talass, mój tata. Ocean. Woda to tak jakby moja specjalność.

No tak, nagle wszystko było jasne. Woda, Ziemia i Powietrze. Trzech Wielkich Braci. Teraz to co mówił Felix i pan G. miało więcej sensu.

- Wybacz, nie skojarzyłam. Nadal się uczę. Właściwie to staram się ogarnąć co się ze mną dzieje. Wczoraj moim jedynym problemem było jak przekonać tatę, żeby pozwolił mi zrobić sobie tatuaż na siedemnaste urodziny. Dzisiaj znowu okazuje się, że jestem jakaś dziwna, a karzeł w garniturze oczekuje ode mnie, że będę biegać z toporem po innym wymiarze.

Timmy zaśmiał się tak promiennie, że nagle poczułam się jak te wszystkie głupie Barbie, z którymi miałam do czynienia na co dzień. Dosłownie zmiękły mi kolana.

- Wierz mi lub nie, ale nie jesteś jedyna. Ja się dowiedziałem trzy lata temu. Na początku uznałem, że to ekstra, będę superbohaterem, jak jakiś Batman. Albo w sumie bardziej Aquamen... a potem nadeszła moja pierwsza misja.

Szliśmy powoli, na zewnątrz było już całkiem ciemno, ale jakoś nigdzie mi się nie spieszyło. A Timmy był dobrym towarzyszem rozmów. Póki co pierwszą osobą, która mniej więcej rozumiała co czuję.

- Było źle?

- Ciężko. Niebezpiecznie. Nie raz prawie było po mnie, ale to nie było najgorsze. Są różni źli goście na świecie, zbyt wielu żeby wymieniać. Mają różne priorytety, ale niektórym zależy tylko na tym, żeby kogoś zranić. - Timmy popatrzył na mnie smutno i wiedziałam, że ktoś go zranił. Bardzo mocno. - Moją misją była obrona arsenału Termo przed potworami, nie byłoby najgorzej, gdyby nie to, że na zakładnika wzięli moją mamę.

- Timothy, to okropne. Czy ona...?

- Na szczęście nie. Miałem dobry zespół i w czasie kiedy ratowałem mamę, im udało się obronić arsenał, ale czułem się strasznie. Zawiodłem drużynę, a moje pochodzenie naraziło mamę. Od tego momentu większość czasu spędzam tutaj, to mój dom. Z mamą widuję się tak często jak to możliwe, ale nie mogę jej dłużej narażać. Jakby coś się wtedy stało, to nigdy bym sobie tego nie wybaczył.

Rozumiałam go dobrze. Tata i Fiona byli dla mnie najważniejsi na świecie. Ale nie wyobrażam sobie wyprowadzki z domu. Dom Mavri był piękny, ale lubiłam mieszkać z tatą.  A z drugiej strony nie mogłam ściągnąć na rodzinę potworów.

Dalszą drogę do stajni przeszliśmy w ciszy. Ale była to dobra cisza, taki moment na zadumę, chyba nam obojgu się przydało. A poza tym, wątpię, że Timothy chciał się teraz zadręczać niewidzeniem mamy. Na pierwszy rzut oka był pogodnym chłopakiem, przynajmniej za takiego chciał uchodzić.

- To tutaj, zaraz znajdziemy twojemu psu jakiś wygodny kąt.

Kiedy pani Mavri wspomniała o stajniach spodziewałam się zobaczyć betonowy budynek, z brudnymi ścianami, małymi oknami i zapachem grzyba. Głupia ja. Przecież byłam w umyśle Magii, tutaj nic nie mogło być pospolite.

Stajnie wyglądały jak kolejny mały pałac. Po wejściu do środka uderzył mnie zapach świeżo ściętej trawy i jakichś owoców. Wszystko było białe i czyste, jakby dopiero odmalowane.

Jednak najciekawsi byli sami mieszkańcy stajni. To nie były zwykłe konie. W boksach stały piękne jednorożce i pegazy. Już to był niesamowity widok, a z każdym krokiem było tylko lepiej.

Kolejne pomieszczenie było jednym, wielkim akwarium, jednak zamiast kolorowych rybek, w wodzie pływały konie z rybimi ogonami. Przyznam, wyglądało to niesamowicie kiedy taki koń – syrena przepływał nad głową mieniąc się wszystkimi barwami tęczy.

- To są hipokampy. Wyjątkowo je lubię. Z wiadomych względów. - uśmiechnął się Timmy obserwując razem ze mną pływające nad nami stworzenia. - Pegazy i jednorożce nie zaliczają się do najinteligentniejszych zwierząt na świecie. Hipokampy natomiast są bardzo sprytne i przebiegłe. Nie należą też do najmilszych. Kiedy ktoś wsiądzie na hipokampa, a koń nie uzna go za godnego, to już po nim. Zostaje wciągnięty pod wodę tak głęboko, że nie ma szansy się uratować i zwyczajnie tonie. Dlatego niezbyt wielu bellatorów chce na nich pływać. Właściwie tylko ja.

- Niezbyt mnie to dziwi, sama też bym się zastanowiła dwa razy.

- Mają swoje plusy, potrafią przemierzać całe oceany w kilka minut. Prawdopodobnie najszybsze stworzenia na świecie. O spójrz, a to moja klacz, wychowałem ją od jaja. Ma na imię Ariel.

Timmy wskazał palcem na przepływającą nad nami małą samiczkę. To znaczy ona wcale nie była mała. Spokojnie udźwignęłaby dwoje ludzi, ale w porównaniu do reszty rzeczywiście była dość nieduża.

- Nazwałeś ją Ariel? Jak Mała Syrenka?

- No co, mam słabość do Disneya. - Timmy wzruszył ramionami, a potem się zaśmiał.

Spojrzał na mnie tymi swoimi oczami w kolorze morza. I tak patrzył, a ja patrzyłam na niego przez dobre kilkanaście sekund. Nie wiem co było w tym chłopaku, ale jak to mówią, robiło robotę.

Nigdy nie byłam zakochana, ale Timothy Bellemore był takim chłopakiem, w którym zdecydowanie mogłabym się kiedyś zakochać.

Chwilę przerwała nam Hel trącając mnie pyskiem. Zawsze robiła tak jak chciała jeść, czyli pewnie i w tej chwili tego żądała.

- Chyba powinniśmy pójść dalej. Hela się niecierpliwi. - zagryzłam dolną wargę patrząc na Timmy'ego przepraszająco.

On jedynie pokiwał głową i poszliśmy przed siebie. Wyszliśmy na zewnątrz, znajdowały się tam padoki dla koni, ale również miejsca do odpoczynku dla osób, które się tymi końmi zajmowały.

- Hel lubi spać na zewnątrz?

Hela sama odpowiedziała. Znajdowały się tutaj te same poduszki co w domu Giatrosa, a moja suka chyba bardzo je polubiła. Od razu jak je tylko zobaczyła, to wybrała sobie jedną i zrobiła z niej legowisko.

- Tak, zdecydowanie lubi.

- Świetnie, w takim razie pójdę powiedzieć tylko Rockowi, żeby ją nakarmił. Rock to faun, który jest odpowiedzialny za stajnie, uwierz mi, że potrafi się świetnie zaopiekować każdym stworzeniem, nawet potworem.

No i poszedł. Natomiast ja podeszłam do Hel i zaczęłam ją głaskać. Chciałam podziękować za wszystko co dla mnie dzisiaj zrobiła. Wiedziałam, że jest grzecznym pieskiem, ale nie spodziewałam się, że jest najlepszym i najbardziej oddanym psem na świecie. Będę musiała jej to wszystko wynagrodzić dużą ilością smakołyków.

Timothy szybko wrócił, powiedział, że wszystko zostało ustalone i żebyśmy poszli wreszcie coś zjeść, bo muszę umierać z głodu.

Co prawda to prawda, wcześniej jakoś nie czułam, żeby żołądek mi przyrósł do kręgosłupa, ale jak już ten temat został poruszony, to rzeczywiście chętnie bym coś przekąsiła.

[...]

To był mój pierwszy raz kiedy weszłam do Wersalu. I nie zawiodłam się. Siedziba główna Domu Mavri od środka również przypominała jakiś pałac. Wszystko było w złocie, czerwieni i zieleni, prawdziwe królewskie kolory. Był przepych, ale wszystko urządzone tak ze smakiem. Jednocześnie czuło się bijące bogactwo, ale też było tutaj dość przytulnie. Naprawdę szło się poczuć jak w domu.

- Jadalnia jest na parterze, nie trudno tam trafić. Nasze sypialnie natomiast są na drugim i trzecim piętrze. Pani Mavri zapewne już przydzieliła ci pokój, więc po kolacji cię tam zaprowadzę.

Chyba nikogo nie zaskoczę jak powiem, że jadalnia również była dosłownie królewska, prawda?

Co ciekawe, nareszcie miałam szansę zobaczyć innych bellatorów. Póki co poznałam tylko Timmy'ego, a okazało się, że jest nas mała armia.

Nie wszystkie miejsca przy stołach były zajęte, ale całkiem sporo. Z tego co zobaczyłam, w Domu mieszkało, lub czasowo przebywało około pięćdziesięciu nastolatków. To i dużo i mało. Z jednej strony jeśli naprawdę przyszłoby stoczyć walkę o Dom, tak jak Timmy o arsenał Termo, to moglibyśmy mieć problem. Ale z drugiej strony aż pięćdziesiąt dzieciaków było dziećmi bogów!

Zawsze byłam dziwna i nielubiana, może właśnie dlatego, że moja mama była boginią, a śmiertelnicy to czuli. A tutaj proszę, pół setki takich samych dziwaków jak ja. Robiło się w pewnym sensie ciepło na sercu.

- Normalnie bellatorzy siadają wspólnie, natomiast członkowie rady jedzą przy mniejszym stole, niedaleko stołu bogów, o tam, na końcu sali. - Timmy wskazał palcem miejsce, o które mu chodziło. - Teraz możemy zrobić wyjątek. Nie ma dziewczyn, więc chodź, zjemy razem.

Nie trzeba było mnie długo namawiać. Byłam raczej introwertykiem, więc nagła próba zaprzyjaźnienia się z jakąś grupką nieznanych osób nie za bardzo mi się podobała. A też mogłam więcej czasu spędzić z Timothym, lepiej go poznać.

- To są mniej więcej wszyscy bellatorzy? I czym tak właściwie jest rada?

- Nie, absolutnie. Jest nas jednak trochę więcej. Widzisz, w siedzibie głównej jest najwięcej bellatorów, ponieważ znajduje się ona w Stanach Zjednoczonych, które są dużym państwem jakby nie patrzeć. Nie powiem ci dokładnie jak to wygląda gdzie indziej, bo nie miałem szansy zwiedzić innych Domów, ale wiem, że jest jeszcze siedziba w Brazylii, w Kanadzie, w Wielkiej Brytanii, w Egipcie, w Tybecie, Australii. Są one na pewno o wiele mniejsze, ale zrzeszają miejscowych półbogów.

- A jeśli chodzi o radę, to lata temu ustalono, że nie można wybrać wyłącznie jednego półboskiego przywódcy Domu Mavri, bo się to źle skończy. Taka potęga w rękach jednego człowieka... Kojarzysz II Wojnę Światową? No to masz przykład do czego by to mogło doprowadzić. W każdym razie Mavri postanowiła wybrać piątkę najbardziej zasłużonych w różnych dziedzinach bellatorów. Mamy razem podejmować najważniejsze decyzje dotyczące Domu i dobra naszych przyjaciół. I też trochę hamować siebie nawzajem, żeby nikomu nie uderzyła woda sodowa do głowy.

Usiedliśmy wspólnie przy niewielkim, zaledwie pięcioosobowym stole na końcu sali. Na nim stały już nakryte talerze z czymś co wyglądało jak jakieś pysznie przyprawione mięso. Może to niegrzeczne, ale od razu zabrałam się za jedzenie.

- Smacznego. A kto jest w radzie oprócz ciebie?

- Dzięki, tobie również. - odparł Timmy – Z naszej siedziby jesteśmy ja i Penny Lincoln, córka Sofii. Jest jeszcze Kolumbijka Juanita Rodriguez, córka Polemosa. Ona początkowo mieszkała w Brazylii, ale kiedy skończyła osiemnaście lat przeniosła się do nas. Tylko tę dwójkę poznałem osobiście, ale jest również Henry Attwood. Brytyjczyk, podobno jakiś arystokrata i na pewno syn Orizantosa. Wszystko to mówi o nim jedno: straszny bufon. W szczególności jak się wdał w tatusia. I ostatnia jest Hikari Tsuda, córka Agapi. Jest Japonką, ale mieszka w bazie w Tybecie.

- Nie znam wszystkich, ale jak dla mnie powinny zajść małe zmiany w radzie. - kontynuował mój towarzysz. - Miejsce powinien dostać Miles Young. To syn Tavo, ale nie bawi się żadną ziemią, bardziej interesuje go śmierć i ta mroczna strona jego taty - Petain. Przerażający i bardzo potężny bellator. Ale typ samotnika.

Mogłabym tak siedzieć i słuchać opowieści Timmy'ego całą noc. Ta nowa mitologia była naprawdę niesamowita. Tyle ciekawych osób i historii z nią związanych. Kto by pomyślał, że Druga Wojna Światowa była efektem przejęcia władzy przez zbuntowanego bellatora!

Pyszne jedzenie, ciekawe opowieści, ten wieczór był naprawdę cudowny po ciężkim dniu. Przynosił ukojenie. I pewnie byłoby tak dalej, gdyby nie pojawiła się ona – zło w najczystszej postaci.

-Tim, kto to jest i czemu siedzi przy naszym stole? - zapytała wysoka dziewczyna z blond włosami zawiązanymi w kucyk i jasnymi, niebieskimi oczami.

Była bardzo ładna, ale ubrana jakby szła na wycieczkę w góry. Podejrzewam, że gdyby założyła odpowiednią sukienkę, to mogłaby wyglądać jak typowa Barbie, a jak wiemy, nie mam dobrych wspomnień z tym typem dziewczyn.

- Penny, mówiłem ci już milion razy: Timothy. Nie lubię zdrobnień. - przewrócił oczami Timmy, widocznie nie przepadał za tą całą Penny.

Trzeba zanotować w pamięci, żeby nie zwracać się do Timmy'ego zdrobniale. Można to robić jedynie na offie.

- Te twoje zakazy są śmieszne. Jesteśmy prawie parą, Timothy. Każdy tego od nas oczekuje, więc powinieneś dać spokój i wreszcie mnie zapytać czy chcę zostać twoją dziewczyną. Nie robić scen albo pokazywać się z tą tutaj...

- Twoje imię, to skrót od Pennywise? - zapytałam z uniesionymi brwiami.

Chodziło mi naturalnie o potwornego klauna z „Tego”. Chociaż tamten Pennywise przy naszej Pennywise to był pikuś. Ją pewnie byłoby ciężej pokonać.

Timothy poczuł żart i się zaśmiał, natomiast Penny miała zdezorientowaną minę.

- Co? Oczywiście, że nie. To skrót od Penelope. Ale co ja ci się będę tłumaczyć, jestem radną Domu Mavri, to ty masz odpowiadać na moje pytania. Kim jesteś?

- Jak sobie miłościwie panująca życzy. Gwen Anderson, jestem nowa. I chyba pójdę się przespać...

Zjadłam większość swojej porcji i byłam najedzona. Nie czekając na dalszy rozwój sytuacji, wstałam od stołu, ukłoniłam się w stronę Pennywise żeby wiedziała jakim „szacunkiem” ją darzę po czym poszłam w kierunku wyjścia z jadalni.

Nie miałam pojęcia gdzie iść, ale nie dawałam tego po sobie poznać. Na szczęście na ratunek przybył mój rycerz w morskiej zbroi.

- Gwen, zaczekaj, odprowadzę cię.

I tak zrobił. Podbiegł do mnie i razem poszliśmy na poszukiwanie mojego pokoju.

Może nie byłam jeszcze wybitnym wojownikiem ani nawet nie wiedziałam jak nazywają się bogowie, którzy nad nami czuwają, ale dokonałam jednego: utarłam nosa zarozumiałej lasce. Jej przyszły niedoszły chłopak wolał moje towarzystwo. Już to sprawiło, że dzisiejszej nocy spałam wyjątkowo dobrze i z uśmiechem na twarzy.

[seethaoffl]

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Self troll time... 😂😋😄💄💃We all girls to love to try makeover but sometimes we do say this.... ryt? Ofcourse natural products skin maintain panna superb than.. Just for fun... Have a great morning guys... A small attempt from my end to make you guys start the day with a smile... (at Chennai, India)

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LA SEMPLICITA' DELL'INGENUITA' / SOSPESI NELL'INCREDIBILE - Il Progressive Italiano "minore" 1971-1977 in 2CD di Marco Mazzoldi Dunque, cominciamo col ribadire che io un raccoltone di prog italiano già lo feci, mixando fra loro parti di 25 canzoni di 25 gruppi diversi in 75 minuti. Una roba da bersi tutta d'un fiato e che trovate qui: https://soundcloud.com/marco-m…/neoprog-sucks-deluxe-edition Rispetto a quella compilation, in questo doppio CD ho usato altri criteri: non ho messo gli artisti più famosi, per i quali ci saranno compilation specifiche; soprattutto, ho escluso il "cantautorato prog" a favore di roba più esplicitamente rock. Per intenderci, non troverete Rocchi, Sorrenti, Camisasca o Stormy Six. Mi è parso doveroso fare due CD, in fondo stiamo parlando di un intero movimento musicale e non di un solo complesso. E non aiuta il fatto che i pezzi arrivano spesso a nove/dieci minuti, come da tradizione progressiva... Difficile definire il progressive italiano. Sicuramente un periodo di idee vulcaniche ed estremamente libere da criteri autocensori, che si incontrano per un breve momento con produttori illuminati o quanto meno curiosi di vedere cosa ne può scaturire. Le radici anglosassoni sono del tutto palesi, e certo il confronto con i contemporanei Genesis, Yes e compagnia (insieme alla solita cara e vecchia esterofilia italica) non aiutò questi gruppi ad ottenere il successo che arrise solo ad una piccola fetta. I mezzi tecnici limitati rispetto agli inglesi, ma anche la minore professionalità in sala macchine, sono difetti che si avvertono spesso nel suono di questi dischi. Ma la cosa che più si sente, sia nei testi che negli arrangiamenti, è l'ingenuità. E, se detta così sembra una cosa brutta, io trovo che sia invece il pregio principale di tutto il movimento: siamo giovani, siamo capelloni, ci inventiamo testi mistici senza sapere di cosa stiamo parlando, condanniamo la società industriale e l'abbandono della campagna, vogliamo rimanere bambini in eterno. E suoniamo e componiamo come se non ci fosse un domani. E' un piccolo mondo fatto di eterna adolescenza, e forse è anche per questo che della stragrande maggioranza di questi giovani musicisti si è persa ogni traccia: scarsa aderenza alla realtà. La raccolta è impostata in ordine cronologico, cosa che nella seppur breve vita di questo movimento, ha un senso. Si inizia con quello che è probabilmente il primo disco prog italiano, Collage delle Orme, si prosegue con il gruppo che potrebbe essere considerato il "più famoso dei meno famosi", gli Osanna, di cui pare fossero celebri gli spettacoli live con trucchi e maschere. I Trip erano un gruppo anglo/italiano, che nei suoi esordi degli anni '60 annoverava tale Ritchie Blackmore alla chitarra. Come le Orme e gli Osanna, sono fra i pochissimi che riescono a mettere insieme almeno tre album, ma solo "Caronte" è davvero valido. Sui Giganti di "Terra in Bocca" andrebbe fatto un discorso di sei pagine. Il primo concept-album rock italiano dopo quelli di De André, segno la rovina finanziaria e quindi lo scioglimento del gruppo a causa della devastante censura da parte della RAI. E capirete bene, si tratta di una storia di regolamento di conti mafioso fra famiglie di un paese siciliano negli anni '30, con nomi, date e tutto quanto, roba impensabile per l'epoca. Il fatto che si tratti di un album STRATOSFERICO, suonato in collaborazione col trio Tempera/Tavolazzi/Bandini, non impressiona granché i funzionari della RAI. E' talmente un'unica narrazione che ho esitato a mettere un brano (fra l'altro i titoli sono completamente assurdi!), ma io vi straconsiglio l'ascolto di tutto l'album, che andrebbe assolutamente recuperato fra le pietre miliari del rock italiano. Dopo il curiosissimo pezzo dei Panna Fredda, gruppo svanito nel nulla dopo un secondo album, ecco un altro caposaldo: la Bibbia del Rovescio della Medaglia, un trio hard-rock (senza tastiere!) dal tiro e dal groove spettacolare, purtroppo penalizzato dalla aprioristica idea di registrare tutto dal vivo in studio. Due o tre sovraincisioni avrebbero reso immortale quest'opera. Passiamo al 1972 con l'eterea Reale Accademia di Musica, un gruppo che cicca i suoni e pure qualche arrangiamento, ma che incarna perfettamente lo spirito sospeso ed ingenuo del prog italiano. Un disco che ho scoperto tardi ma che ora amo molto. La Raccomandata Ricevuta Ritorno, podio garantito per il nome più del cazzo, e non è certo semplice visti i colleghi, fanno un disco piuttosto particolare, con qualche venatura jazz, momenti acustici, sfuriate, e soprattutto la voce molto caratteristica del pittore Luciano Regoli. Il pezzo dei Nuova Idea è sicuramente il più debole. L'ho inserito in rappresentanza dei molti gruppi (procession, Murple, Pholas Dactylus...) che criticano l'alienazione del lavoro in città, fabbrica o ufficio che sia, e rimpiange la vita in sintonia con l'ambiente. Temi peraltro cari a tutta l'italica cultura dell'epoca. Il tutto si può riassumere in "Io a lavorare non ci vado manco morto". Beati voi. I New Trolls! Direi quinto gruppo per fama e gloria nel mondo prog, ebbe una parabola simile alle Orme: inizi beat negli anni '60, svolta di successo nel prog, litigi e avvocati per l'assegnazione del marchio all'una o all'altra parte del gruppo. Artisticamente non mi fanno impazzire, ad eccezione, guarda caso, dell'unico disco sbertucciato da chiunque nel periodo prog, ovvero "Searching for a Land", un album doppio il cui secondo ellepì andrebbe preso e gettato nella differenziata, ma il primo è una botta emotiva dal primo all'ultimo minuto. Consigliatissimo a tutti. Non immediato il Paese dei Balocchi, prevalentemente strumentale e molto orchestrale. La curiosità è che conosco questo gruppo grazie al chitarrista GIAPPONESE degli Acid Mother Temple, totalmente sbalordito del fatto che io non conoscessi questo gruppo notissimo dalle sue parti! Evviva il Giappone. Chiudiamo il 1972 con la ciliegina, il capolavoro del balletto di Bronzo "Ys", sul quale credo di essermi soffermato più e più volte. Se non lo conoscete morite pure ora. Suonato da dio, basato su incroci armonici a-melodici, concettualmente molto figo, non ha quasi difetti, e di certo non ne ha il brano scelto qui. L'età dell'oro inaugurata l'anno precedente prosegue per tutto il 1973. Apriamo con il Museo Rosenbach, gruppo incensato dai fans del genere. Pur avendo secondo me molti momenti deboli, l'intro qui riportato è una bomba. Il batterista, scomparso l'anno scorso, andrà poi a fondare i Matia Bazar. Poi dedichiamo doverosamente un altro pezzo alle Orme, che avrebbero forse meritato una raccolta "personale". L'intro del loro capolavoro "Felona e Sorona" è un capolavoro esso stesso. Di seguito, il misconosciuto Campo di Marte, gruppo dalle ottime sonorità hard e con un ottimo senso della melodia. Misconosciuti anche i Semiramis, nei quali milita un giovanissimo e talentuosissimo Michele Zarrillo, ebbene sì, alla chitarra elettrica. Ascoltare per credere. A seguire, un disco che sta nella mia TOP5 del prog italiano. "Vietato ai Minori" dei Jumbo è suonato magistralmente, ma è soprattutto caratterizzato dai testi espliciti e dalla voce incazzata di Alvaro Fella, un pazzo scriteriato che ancora adesso suona in giro con i C.A.P. parte del proprio repertorio. Ed è pure mio amico su feisbuc! I brani del disco parlano senza mezze misure di solitudine, alcolismo, sfruttamento della prostituzione, eroina, censura e repressione sessuale. Qua e là in questo disco aleggia il VCS3 di "prezzemolino" Battiato, che comunque secondo me all'epoca si divertiva un casino. I De De Lind, delicati e interessanti, chiudono il 1973. La parabola comincia la sua discesa. Nel 1974 l'unico vero capolavoro è la botta hard-rock del Biglietto per l'Inferno, per alcuni il miglior disco di rock italiano di sempre. Mi pare eccessivo, ma se ho la loro maglietta un motivo ci sarà! Dopo cotanto disco, il cantante ed autore dei testi Caludio Canali si farà niente meno che frate, diventando Fra Claudio e sistemandosi in un monastero in Toscana. Un mio collega l'ha pure conosciuto in questa veste, e pare che comunque sia bello spanato come in gioventù... Gli Alusa Fallax hanno all'attivo solo questo interessante concept, che curiosamente contiene anche il tema di "Run Run se fué pa'l norte" degli Inti-Illimani! E questa cosa mi ha sempre fatto molto ridere. Gli Arti & Mestieri del furioso batterista Furio Chirico (i batteristi che non lo conoscono lo guardino all'opera in qualche video sul tubo!), gruppo decisamente teso al jazz-rock, chiudono il 1974. L'anno successivo ha almeno due capolavori di cui uno famosissimo: Profondo Rosso dei Goblin, un altro gruppo che ha vissuto abbastanza per fare svariati album, soprattutto grazie alle colonne sonore, ma non solo. Altro capolavoro è il disco dei melodiosissimi Maxophone, il gruppo italiano che meglio ha imparato la lezione di gruppi come Genesis e Gentle Giant, come dimostra il pezzo da me scelto. Tutto il disco è ad altissimo livello. Ormai in discesa libera, nel '76 troviamo un disco rivalutato molto più tardi, ma che è effettivamente un capolavoro sommo, il Picchio dal Pozzo, i Gong italiani. Straconsigliato, a partire dal pezzo scelto qui. Chiudiamo con la Locanda delle Fate, che fa uscire nel 1977 un disco pulitissimo che potrebbe essere l'epitome del progressive. Per i miei gusti troppo mieloso, sia nelle musiche che nei testi, ma indubbiamente un ottimo lavoro. Che però arriva palesemente fuori tempo massimo: questo movimento, questo genere è ormai morto, e in Italia qualcuno (Ezra Winston, Nuova Era, Men of Lake...) cercherà di resuscitarlo senza nessun successo commerciale più di dieci anni dopo. Una curiosità sulla Locanda è un sontuoso servizio di mezz'ora sulla RAI, un live con interventi di questo dotto vegliardo che commenta e intervista, trattando il gruppo come i protagonisti di "questo nuovo movimento musicale giovane" in cui la musica prevale sui testi eccetera eccetera. Insomma un tempismo e un dominio della materia imbarazzanti. No, davvero, c'è da ridere, ecco il link:https://youtu.be/zOVbF7Dq2_g E questo è tutto. 25 pezzi per 24 gruppi, spero di aver fatto un lavoro gradito. Tenete conto, se ascoltate le due playlist che posterò più sotto, che i proghettari italiani amavano appiccicare tutti i pezzi, da veri proghettari quali sono, e quindi avrete pezzi che appariranno tronchi all'inizio o alla fine. Non so che farci. Se così non gradite, sentitevi la mia vecchia compilation su SoundCloud, che peraltro ha solo sette pezzi in comune con queste! CD 1 - LA SEMPLICITA' DELL'INGENUITA' (1971-1972) 1971 1. Le Orme - Uno Sguardo Verso il Cielo (Collage) 4.12 2. Osanna - L'Uomo (L'Uomo) 3.33 3. The Trip - Caronte I (Caronte) 6.45 4. I Giganti - Tanto Va la Gatta al Lardo - Su e Giù (Terra in Bocca) 7.44 5. Panna Fredda - Il Vento, La Luna e i Pulcini Blu (Uno) 9.55 6. Il Rovescio della Medaglia - Il Giudizio (La Bibbia) 10.10 1972 7. Reale Accademia di Musica - Il Mattino (Reale Accademia di Musica) 9.22 8. Raccomandata Ricevuta Ritorno - Su una Rupe (Per... un Mondo di Cristallo) 5.12 9. Nuova Idea - Mr. E. Jones (Mr. E. Jones) 3.32 10. New Trolls - Searching (Searching for a Land) 4.43 11. Il Paese dei Balocchi - Impotenza dell'Umiltà e della Rassegnazione (Il Paese dei Balocchi) 4.10 12. Balletto di Bronzo - Primo Incontro (Ys) 7.16 Tot.: 77.34 CD 2 - SOSPESI NELL'INCREDIBILE (1973-1977) 1973 1. Museo Rosenbach - L'Ultimo Uomo (Zarathustra) 3.57 2. Le Orme - Sospesi nell'Incredibile (Felona e Sorona) 8.43 3. Campo di Marte - Terzo Tempo (Campo di Marte) 6.20 4. Semiramis - Luna Park (Dedicato a FRAZZ) 4.31 5. Jumbo - Specchio (Vietato ai Minori di 18 Anni?) 7.22 6. De De Lind - Voglia di Rivivere / E Poi (Io non So da Dove Vengo e non So Dove Mai Andrò. Uomo è il Nome che mi Han Dato) 5.39 1974 7. Biglietto per l'Inferno - Confessione (Biglietto per l'Inferno) 6.30 8. Alusa Fallax - Non Fatemi Caso (Intorno alla Mia Cattiva Educazione) 4.30 9. Arti & Mestieri - Gravità 9.81 (Tilt) 4.05 1975 10. Goblin - Death Dies (Profondo Rosso) 4.37 11. Maxophone - Al Mancato Compleanno di una Farfalla (Maxophone) 5.52 12. Picchio dal Pozzo - Seppia (Picchio dal Pozzo) 10.17 (1976) 13. Locanda delle Fate - A Volte un Istante di Quiete (Forse le Lucciole non si Amano Più) 6.36 (1977) Tot.: 78.59 Playlist Youtube: CD1: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLulW32wqh1rXF1W6AxzzDqIUDthdGvxZl CD2: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLulW32wqh1rV7nF16dOZT1Ru9b-XxxSrn

[alishad123]

My Ravena (Raven x Panna) comic.

Quote from Inuyasha.

[alishad123]

When Raven realized that Panna was in love with him but she didn't want to admit it.

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Fun fact: Panna and Raven's love story was inspired by my favorite anime from my childhood called Inuyasha and they were also inspired by Kovu and Kiara from The Lion King 2.

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Scene Reference by:

[alishad123]

Souvenir Comic