Use of the word gamboled in a sentence example

gamboled in a sentence

gamboled in a sentence - win

Here is how to play the altcoin game - for newbies & champs

I have been here for many previous altcoin seasons (2013,2017 etc) and wanted to share knowedle. It's a LOOONG article.
The evaluation of altcoins (i.e not Bitcoin) is one of the most difficult and profitable exercises. Here I will outline my methodology and thinking but we have to take some things as a given. The first is that the whole market is going up or down with forces that we can't predict or control. Bitcoin is correlated with economic environments, money supply increases, safe havens such as Gold, hype and country regulations. This is an impossible mix to analyze and almost everyone fails at it. That's why you see people valuing Bitcoin from $100 to $500k frequently. Although I am bullish on the prospects of Bitcoin and decentralization and smart contract platforms, this is not the game I will be describing. I am talking about a game where you try to maximize your BTC holdings by investing in altcoins. We win this game even if we are at a loss in fiat currency value. To put it another way:
If you are not bullish in general on cryptocurrencies you have no place in investing or trading cryptocurrencies since it's always a losing proposition to trade in bubbles, a scientifically proven fact. If on the other hand you are then your goal is to grow your portfolio more than you would if holding BTC/ETH for example.

Bitcoin is the big boy

How the market works is not easily identifiable if you haven't graduated from the 2017 crypto university. When there is a bull market everything seems amazingly profitable and things keep going up outgrowing Bitcoin by orders of magnitude and you are a genius. The problem with this is that it only works while Bitcoin is going up a little bit or trades sideways. When it decides to move big then altcoins lose value both on the way up and on the way down. The second part is obvious and proven since all altcoins from 2017 are at a fraction of their BTC value (usually in the range of 80% or more down). Also, when BTC is making a big move upwards everyone exits altcoins to ride the wave. It is possible that the altcoin market behaves as an inversed leveraged ETF with leakage where in a certain period while Bitcoin starts at 10k and ends at 10k for example, altcoins have lost a lot of value because of the above things happening.

We are doing it anyway champ!

OK so we understand the risks and just wanna gambol with our money right? I get it. Why do that? Because finding the ideal scenario and period can be extremely profitable. In 2017 several altcoins went up 40x more than BTC. But again, if you don't chose wisely many of them have gone back to zero (the author has first hand experience in this!), they have been delisted and nobody remembers them. The actual mentality to have is very important and resembles poker and other speculative games:
A certain altcoin can go up in value indefinitely but can only lose it's starting investment. Think about it. You either lose 1 metric or gain many many more. Now that sounds amazing but firstly as we said we have the goal to outperform our benchmark (BTC) and secondly that going up in value a lot means that the probability is quite low. There is this notion of Expected Value (EV) that poker players apply in these kind of situations and it goes like that. If you think that a certain coin has a probability let's say 10% to go up 10X and 90% probability it goes to zero it's an even bet. If you think that probability is 11% then it's a good bet, a profitable bet and you should take it. You get the point right? It's not that it can only go 10X or 0X, there is a whole range of probability outcomes that are too mathematical to explain here and it doesn't help so much because nobody can do such analysis with altcoins. See below on how we can approximate it.

How to evaluate altcoins

A range of different things to take into account outlined below will form our decision making. Not a single one of them should dictate 100% of our strategy.

Basics

It's all about market cap. Repeat after me. The price of a coin doesn't mean anything. Say it 10 times until you believe it. I can't remember how many times I had conversations with people that were comparing coins using their coin price instead of their market cap. To make this easy to get.
If I decide because the sky is blue to make my coin supply 100 Trillion FoolCoins with a price of $0.001 and there is another WiseCoin with a supply of 100 Million and price of $1 then FoolCoins are more expensive. - Alex Fin's Cap Law

Fundamental analysis

This is done usually in the stock world and it means that each company has some fundamental value that includes it's assets, customers, growth prospects, sector prospects and leadership competence but mostly centered in financial measures such as P/E ratios etc. Valuation is a proper economic discipline by itself taught in universities. OK, now throw everything out of the window!.
This kind of analysis is impossible in vague concepts and innovations that are currently cryptocurrencies. Ethereum was frequently priced at the fictional price of gas when all financial systems on earth run on the platform after decades (a bit of exaggeration here). No project is currently profitable enough to justify a valuation multiple that is usually equal to P/E in the thousands or more. As such we need to take other things into account. What I do is included in the list below:

Relative valuation

One of my favorite ways to value altcoins that is based on the same principle in the stock market is to look at peers and decide what is the maximum cap it can grow to. As an example you take a second layer Ethereum solution that has an ICO and you want to decide if you will enter or not. You can take a look at other coins that are in the same business and compare their market caps. Thinking that your coin will outperform by a lot the top coins currently is overly optimistic so I usually take a lower valuation as a target price. If the initial offering is directly implying a valuation that is more than that then there is no room to grow according to my analysis and I skip it. Many times this has proven me wrong because it's a game theory problem where if many people think irrationally in a market it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. But since there is opportunity cost involved, in the long run, getting in initial offerings that have a lot of room to grow will pay off as a strategy.

Sector prospects

In 2017 the sexiest sector was platforms and then coins including privacy ones. Platforms are obviously still a highly rated sector because everything is being built on them, but privacy is not as hot as it used to be. In 2018 DEXes were all they hype but still people are massively using centralized exchanges. In 2020 Defi is the hottest sector and it includes platforms, oracles and Defi projects. What I am saying is that a project gets extra points if it's a Defi one in 2020 and minus points if it's a payment system that will conquer the world as it was in 2017 because that's old news. This is closely related to the next section.

Hype

Needless to say that the crypto market is a worse FOMO type of inexperienced trigger happy yolo investors , much worse than the Robinhood crowd that drove a bankrupt company's stock 1200% after they declared bankruptcy. The result is that there are numerous projects that are basically either vaporware or just so overhyped that their valuation has no connection to reality. Should we avoid those kind of projects? No and I will explain why. There are many very good technically projects that had zero hype potential due to incompetent marketing departments that made them tank. An example (without shilling because I sold out a while back) is Quantum Resistant Ledger. This project has amazing quantum resistant blockchain, the only one running now, has a platform that people can build tokens and messaging systems and other magnificent stuff. Just check how they fared up to now and you will get the point. A project *needs* to have a hype factor because you cannot judge it as normal stocks that you can do value investing like Warren Buffet does where a company will inevitable post sales and profitability numbers and investors will get dividends. Actually the last sentence is the most important: No dividends. Even projects that give you tokens or coins as dividends are not real dividends because if the coin tanks the value of the dividend tanks. This is NOT the case with company stocks where you get dollars even if the company stock tanks. All that being said, I would advice against betting on projects that have a lot of hype but little substance (but that should be obvious!).

How to construct your portfolio

My strategy and philosophy in investing is that risk should be proportional to investment capital. That means that if you are investing 100K in the crypto market your portfolio should be very different than someone investing 1K because 10% annual gains are nothing in the latter while they are very significant in the former. Starting from this principle each individual needs to construct a portfolio according to how much risk he wants to take. I will emphasize two important concepts that play well with what I said. In the first instance of a big portfolio you should concentrate on this mantra: "Diversification is the only free meal in finance". In the case of a small portfolio then this mantra is more important: "Concentrate to create wealth, diversify to maintain wealth". Usually in a big portfolio you would want to hold some big coins such as BTC and ETH to weather the ups and downs explained in previous paragraphs while generating profits and keep progressively smaller parts of your portfolio for riskier investments. Maybe 50% of this portfolio could be big caps and 10% very risky initial offerings. Adapting risk progressively to smaller portfolios makes sense but I think it would be irrational to keep more than 30% of a portfolio no matter what tied to one coin due to the very high risk of bankruptcy.

Conclusion

The altseason is supposedly coming every 3 months. Truth is that nobody can predict it but altcoins can be profitable no matter what. Forget about maximalists who are stuck in their dogmas. Altcoins deliver different value propositions and it makes sense because we are very far from a situation where some project offers everything like Amazon and we wouldn't even want that in the first place since we are talking about decentralization and not a winner takes all and becomes a monster kind of scenario! Some last minute advice:
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[Medusa] Part LXXVIII

Link to Part I
Table of Contents for Medusa (needs updating for later sections)
you can also filter by flair to find all the installments: Medusa tag

Part LXXVIII

This one’s SFW! Some mentions of the existence of sex.
The rosy dawn pressed its long fingers against my sore eyelids until they opened, then shut again immediately against its penetrating brightness. It was a painful awakening from that first instant. My head ached from the sweet wine and my belly roiled from the rich food.
I moaned, which, unfortunately, woke my bride.
“Perseus,” she whispered, scrambling to her feet as quickly as a cat. She crept to my side and placed a cool hand on my forehead. “Do you have pain?”
“Don’t trouble yourself,” I said, pressing my palms to my throbbing eyes. “I had too much food and wine. I’ll be all right.”
Andromeda tsked, then walked to the door where she spoke with a servant stationed outside. I craned my neck against the couch to look behind me, where I saw the servant nod at Andromeda, then the noise of sandals slapping against the stones as she raced across the courtyard. She returned only minutes later with a bowl of broth, a large flatbread wrapped in a piece of linen, and a fillet of fire-roasted fish. Andromeda carried this feast to me and placed it upon the table.
“More food,” I said with a laugh as I righted myself, though my sore stomach belied me with a growl. “I don’t think I should eat anything until I feel better.”
“Have you never been drunk before?” asked Andromeda incredulously, seating herself upon the table beside the plate. “The cure for the headache is to eat salty things. Like – ugh – this fish. I am sorry it is not something nicer.”
I was already salivating at the scent, exclaiming in my enjoyment as I took a bite. Andromeda’s knees brushed against mine as I leaned forwards to help myself; she stared at me in amusement as I washed down the fish with mouthfuls of salty broth. No thank you, she said with a smile, as I offered her half the fillet. The smell was turning her stomach. She liked fish of course, but not immediately upon waking. I offered her the bread, unwrapping it from its linen so it steamed in the cool morning air, and she took it from my fingers.
“So sweet fritters at night do not tempt you, but fried fish in the morning does,” she said wryly.
“I am the son of a fisherman – if I did not like to eat fish first thing in the morning, I would not have lasted long,” I replied around my mouthful of food.
She smiled at me, breaking away a piece of the flatbread.
“There is not even oil to put on it,” she complained as she studied it, which amused me. I had not had anything as delicious as this faintly sweet bread, charred golden upon a grill, since I’d left the court at Seriphus. It needed nothing to be tasty.
Even so, I extended my bowl of broth to Andromeda. She dipped the bread into the liquid, then made a face. “It is too fishy,” she complained. She swallowed with evident effort and set the bread aside. After this, Andromeda did not eat any more – she surveyed me as I ate, as though it pleased her to watch me.
“You should eat more if you can,” I said. “We have a whole day of ceremonies before the feast tonight. Ask your servant to bring you oil.”
She shook her head. “In two hours, we will have a proper breakfast. This is just a cure for your wine-headache.”
I sighed and set the bowl of broth upon the table, wiping my hands upon the linen. I was over-full already. I did not think I could eat another meal.
“No one will think you are rude if you do not eat very much,” Andromeda said gently, seeming to hear my thoughts before I uttered them. I supposed my face gave them away. “There are many bridegrooms who are nervous on their wedding-days.”
I shook my head.
“I will think myself rude. All these feasts prepared for us, and I cannot enjoy them.”
Andromeda leaned forward, placing her hands on my knees.
“I know you are not rude. So does my father. Truly, do not worry about anything, Perseus. Not the morning feast, or the evening feast, or what happens after it.”
I covered her hands with mine, both embarrassed and relieved that she was broaching this subject.
“For all my sisters’ weddings, my father decided to make a toast with the best wine after the couple left to go to bed,” she continued quietly, caressing my knees. “He told his guards to stop the guests from finding the couple’s room because – well, it is old-fashioned by now, but some people still want to listen through the door – to, well, you know. To laugh and cheer. But we will not let them.”
I nodded at her.
“I would not want lying with you to be that way,” I said, gathering her hands into mine. “Everyone laughing through the door. Or us, trying to – and then listening to the guards yelling at the guests to leave our room – “
I made a face, then laughed, but she did not look amused by the thought of this uncomfortable scene. Her face was solemn and she seemed nervous, as though she waited for me to say something more, about what would happen tonight after the feast. Her fingers twitched against my palms and her eyes searched mine.
“I do not think we should lie together tonight,” I said, caressing her hands. “I know we have said many things to each other since I said I could not lie with you yet, but – “
I could not complete the sentence. She nodded, stroking the backs of my hands with her thumbs, her face grave.
“Of course,” she said, though she looked as though she were resigning herself to my words rather than hearing them with contentment. “I did not expect it.”
“But I promise you - I will not say no to you forever,” I went on. “When the time is right, we will have each other, not just because it is our duty, but because we want each other.”
She made a sound of assent. Her face was stoic, but her eyes were unmistakably sad. She looked down at the ground, as though to hide her expression from my sight.
My heart sank in my chest. She deserved to have a man who would be impatient to lie with her, and I was not that man – not yet. I hated to make her believe she was not a bride worth desiring. She was, yet I could not.
I had been considering one last task I must perform before our ceremonies began, and I had planned to do this alone. But she would still not meet my eyes, and her face worked with slight tremors as she tried to hide her feelings. I could not leave her alone after I had disappointed her like this. I must reassure her I was committed to her in every other way, from this day forward.
“Andromeda, I thought I might go to the shore this morning, to tell my sons about the wedding,” I said.
She nodded, her eyes finally returning to meet mine.
“Of course, you should go,” she said, her voice low and hoarse. “Say hello to them for me. I will see them tomorrow morning.”
“I would like for you to meet them now,” I said. “Will you come with me?”
She stared at me for a long minute, a smile slowly spreading across her face.
***
Summoning my sons was simple: I wandered down to the water’s edge, to the place where I had met Andromeda yesterday, and I called to them.
With a twinge of guilt, I realized that Pegasus and Chrysaor had done nothing but wait for news of me since I landed here. I hoped Athena had bothered to inform them of what transpired out of their sight, and that they would not be angry with me for abandoning them without a word.
Fortunately, one of my sons did not seem to mind being at my beck-and-call. Pegasus appeared in the sky almost instantly when I shouted his name; his golden mane glinting in the sun as though he were made of molten sunshine. He alighted on the shore, then nearly bowled me over in his enthusiasm – which was indistinguishable from hostility only by the fact that he did me no harm. He charged towards me at full speed before veering around me at the last instant, reversing to gallop back towards me, then butting his nose into my chest as he slid to a halt. I clung to his neck and staggered on my feet, trying to remain upright as he frisked around, dragging me with him.
I begged him to listen to me. Instead, he pawed the ground and reared his head, circling his front-hooves high in the air, his broad wings flapping as though he would take flight again.
“Pegasus, please, hold still,” I said, as he descended heavily, whickering in my face until my hair was blown back with his breath. He folded his wings on his back and pawed at the ground impatiently.
“Do you remember what Athena told us before we came to Libya?”
He shook his mane and stamped his hooves, as though he were saying, “yes, of course; need we repeat this?”
“You know Athena wanted me to marry Andromeda – the woman who stands over there,” I said, petting his long nose.
He neighed, flicking his ears back and forth.
“Well, we spoke of marrying, and she agreed,” I said, stroking his mane. “She has been very kind to me, and I hope you will like her. She will come with us tomorrow when we leave for Seriphus.”
Pegasus raised his head to look at Andromeda, then trotted over to her inquisitively. She politely extended her hand to him. He sniffed it in greeting as she introduced herself – rather formally, from what I could hear from fifty paces away along the shore - saying she was happy to meet him. He allowed her to pet his mane for a minute, then whinnied in my direction.
I was approaching them, but too slowly for his taste, it seemed. He raced over to me, nipped a piece of my tunic between his teeth and dragged me forcibly to Andromeda, depositing me by her side. He could not stand still when that was accomplished, either. He raced around us in circles, from shore to sea, dashing in and out of the surf until the salt-water splattered us where we stood.
I tried, and failed, to calm him, so that I might speak to him again. I wanted to say that I would always love his mother, that we would never forget her; even so, Andromeda would be part of our family from today onwards, and we must make her feel at-home with us. But Pegasus seemed entirely untroubled by heavy thoughts of grief, the sacredness of marriage or familial duty as he frolicked.
“It’s no use,” I said to Andromeda giving up my efforts to call him. She was laughing outright at me, cheering Pegasus onwards in his mad dashing, to my amusement. “He is too excited to listen to anything I am saying. At least he took well to you.”
“I am content with that, even if he doesn’t care about the wedding,” Andromeda said with a grin.
The sound of waves crashing against the other side of the cove alerted us to a second distant presence. At first quiet, the waves grew louder, doubling in force as they broke against the rocky cliffs and rippled the waters of the sheltered bay. Before long, Chrysaor’s distant head appeared above the stony hills, as though he were a a normal-sized man who grew to gigantic proportions as he walked through the water. By the time he stood at the edge of the cove, he was twice as tall as the cliff surrounding the harbour.
He crossed the bay in three steps, his massive feet treading across the sharp rocks of the shore as elegantly as a dancer’s footsteps. Chrysaor seated himself in the far corner of the cove with gracefulness that seemed impossible; lowering his body almost silently, then leaning back against the cliff-face as though it were a giant throne carved to accommodate him. He folded his legs under his body with as much dignity as a god in repose, then looked at us solemnly, no joy evident in his eyes.
Poor Chrysaor. He appeared as though he had witnessed the sack of a city. His eyes were hollow with sleeplessness. He was smeared with salt and stained with dirt, and his linen tunic was soaked through from his long swim – could Athena not have provided him with a newer garment to replace the grey and hole-strewn rag he wore?
But what of my own responsibility? Could I, his own father, not find linens within Cepheus’s wealthy palace with which to clothe my son? I had been offered riches beyond compare, and I had not thought to ask for anything for my own offspring, even if I needed nothing for myself. The thought smarted and I brushed it aside.
“Chrysaor,” I said. From the tension I discerned in his jaw, I knew that he had heard me, but he made no response. He must truly be angered if he would not even look at me. I glanced back at Andromeda, who was staring at him distraughtly.
“Do not be alarmed – he is very gentle,” I told her. “He is upset with me, not you. Please, do not be afraid.”
“Perseus - ” Her eyes flashed with anger. “He looks like he has slept outside for a month. When last night, you slept at the palace.”
“He has slept outside,” I said ashamedly. “But so had all of us, until yesterday.”
She shook her head at me, disappointment upon her face.
“We could have found a bath for him. No wonder he is upset. We could have made him a bed to sleep. And found something nicer for him to wear than – whatever that is.”
She was right, of course, but I was ashamed that she thought I did not care that my son appeared miserable and disheveled.
“I would not risk bringing him before other men,” I said curtly. “He would be safe if they attacked him, but it would cause great alarm – “
“Attacked?!” Andromeda stared at me in disbelief. “Do you think Libyans are fools, Perseus, who would try to fight your son? Look at him – “
“Look at him – yes; he is frightening; the size of ten men,” I said angrily. “And what’s worse - he cannot even tell them he wishes them no harm, because he is mute. He has a gentle soul - even they run away in fear, it will upset him.”
Andromeda looked even more furious than she had a moment ago.
“Why would he need to say anything to defend himself?” she demanded. “He is a giant - that is halfway to a god, and he is your companion. Do men in your kingdom hate the gifts of the gods?”
I could not find a way of explaining how he would be regarded in Achaea, since evidently it was not this way in Libya.
“They would not understand what he is,” I finally said, after too long a silence. “They would fear a god punished them - that he was sent to do them harm. I cannot explain to them what he is, either – not truly. You know this.”
She stared at me questioningly, her eyes fierce.
“What kind of place is it, your home, where they kill things they do not understand?” she demanded.
She did not wait for an answer. Instead, she marched over to Chrysaor and bowed deeply before him. He seemed unsettled by this gesture. He glanced towards me, then back at her, as though he did not like what he had heard in our exchange.
I approached them slowly, dragging my heels. I knew I must apologize to my son, for what I had assumed men would think of him, and for so many other things, but I did not know how to begin.
Andromeda started for me. “Chrysaor, I am sorry I did not offer you hospitality,” she said. “I would be honoured to welcome you at the palace of King Cepheus of Libya as Perseus’s guest. And I will do this for Pegasus also,” she called towards him. “He will have our hospitality if he likes.”
He indicated he had heard her by turning his head, then emerging from the bay, dripping with saltwater as he walked up the shore. He whickered next to Andromeda’s face and bowed his head, which made her smile. Then he frolicked back into the surf like an ungainly bird, diving below the water and emerging with a fish in his mouth. Perhaps he meant to show his own self-sufficiency in providing food for himself. Andromeda gave a small laugh.
As Pegasus gamboled like a goat taken to the waters, Chrysaor stared at Andromeda, then finally glanced at me, ignoring the antics of his brother.
He opened his mouth, only to sigh soundlessly. He nodded at Andromeda as though to say he accepted her offer, then raised his hands, palms outstretched, as though he offered something to us in return – some invisible token. He studied his empty hands; then, evidently deciding this gesture was futile, he laid them down in his lap without a word.
“You look so much like your mother,” Andromeda observed, apropos of nothing.
An expression of confusion passed over his face.
“But I guess you could not ever see her, to know you look like her,” said Andromeda.
Chrysaor nodded slowly, his eyes distant. He stared down at Andromeda, who was standing next to one of his giant knees. There was a questioning expression in his eyes.
“I could see her because I am a woman,” she offered. “Her magic – it is only powerful against men.”
Chrysaor raised his eyebrows. Then he leaned his head against the cliff, pressed his hands to his face, and laughed – a strange, choked laugh.
“It’s not fair, is it,” Andromeda said sympathetically. “You are her son, after all. If anyone should know her, it is you.”
He nodded. He bowed his head, slumped his shoulders, and buried his face more deeply in his hands.
If Chrysaor had been less gentle than he was, it would have been dangerous, to have Andromeda say things like that so casually, of his mother, of knowing how she looked, and that he resembled her. As it was, her words seemed to cause him pain, for he did not remove his hands from his eyes to look at her again.
Andromeda glanced back towards me, to see whether I would speak. Her agonized expression prompted me to try.
“Chrysaor, I am sorry also,” I finally managed. “I am sorry for all of this.”
He did not move; his face remained hidden from me.
“I thought to keep you safe,” I continued. “I thought men here might try to harm you. I was wrong – I trust what Andromeda says.”
He lowered his fingers from his eyes, which were red and accusing.
“I would wish for you to attend at the swearing of my vows,” I said to him, my voice low and strangled in my throat. “If it would not be too painful for you.”
“And Pegasus too,” blurted Andromeda, right next to my ear, speaking so loudly that it smarted in my hearing. “He can come if he wishes.”
“And Pegasus too,” I repeated. “I would say so directly to him, if he would stand still long enough to listen – “
Chrysaor’s mouth turned upwards in a pained half-smile. He was evidently amused at Andromeda’s dedication to not playing favourites, as he directed this expression towards her, not to me.
Pegasus, meanwhile, was oblivious to my rebuke. He floated in the surf with outstretched wings as though he were trying to bathe himself in the manner of birds, ruffling his feathers to splash water upon his own back. But Chrysaor did not look towards his brother. When my eyes returned to him, he was gazing at me, and all traces of his smile died on his lips when his eyes met mine.
I sighed and knelt at his feet. My head did not surpass his giant knee, so I looked up at him as though I prayed to him – which, if I were honest, he deserved, given that he was still by my side after all he had endured.
“Chrysaor, I would not blame you if you decided you never wanted to see me again,” I managed to say brokenly. “I think I have given you only pain.”
For a moment, Chrysaor froze, not even drawing breath. Then an expression of anguish entered his eyes. As though he endured a landslide, his beautiful face crumpled. Tears streamed down his elegant cheekbones.
“Andromeda is right - I should be proud, to have companions like you and Pegasus, not afraid of what men will think of you. If men would attack you – it would not be your fault, that they did not understand you.”
He did not move. He only drew a great, shuddering breath and pressed his hands to his face.
“You are also not a child, and I have treated you like one,” I said. “I have ordered you around as though you had no mind of your own. But you have more patience for me than I have ever needed for you, even when you were a baby. All these labours you performed, to bring me here, and I did not even thank you for all you did to care for me.”
Chrysaor, his face still wrenched in pain, did not open his eyes, but he extended his hand along the ground. I climbed inside his tear-drenched palm; he raised me tenderly to his chest as he had done so many times before, during our month of mutual suffering.
He cradled me against his body in both of his cupped hands, tears splashing down his chin. He wept great wells of water with each of them, which formed small tide-pools among the rocks as they hit the ground.
“I know you understand everything,” I said. “Pegasus does, too, but – he is, well, more carefree. You are the one who has cared for me and suffered with me. I would like to explain to you how it has happened that I will marry Andromeda – and to tell you that I will never forget your mother.”
Chrysaor nodded; the expanse of his throat like a moving rock-formation above me as he swallowed his tears.
“I should have found a way to ask what you thought –“
“You might ask the only one who can hear him of what he thinks,” said a piercing voice across the bay.
[Part LXXIX]
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If Aurelius Dumbledore is true, then it is much darker than we thought! [Spoilers ahead]

This can shock sensible souls... Stop reading if you are one of them !! If you are strong enough and want to know... Fetch yourself a drink, and prepare for a very long reading... But if you manage to the end... Your jaw will drop, you'll be disgusted... Dwell on the matter for a few minutes and I openly accept any comment and suggestion. Maybe I missed a detail or another...
TL;DR at the end per request
Has JK Rowling dwelled on darker stories than creating Horcruxes...?
Premises: This theory contains heavy spoilers for the Tales of Beedle the Bard which is considered as canon It also considers the FBAWTFT and the Crimes of Grindelwald original screenplay.
Let's jump right into it!
Could Grindelwald be telling the truth?
Is Credence Barebone, truly... Aurelius Dumbledore? And therefore that Phoenix Appearing is actually all true!
When I first watched the movie, and dwelled on it. I dismissed the possibility. Because it cannot be true! It can only be one of the many schemes of Grindelwald to manipulate and achieve his goal.
Unless...
Grindelwald is telling the truth. He knows something Albus Dumbledore ignores. He knows something that only one other person alive knows but would never dare to admit.
First, for the skeptics... I agree with you! It is absolutely and unequivocally impossible for Kendra Dumbledore and her husband to bear Credence in 1900-1901 as they are both supposedly dead!
So How could Credence still be a Dumbledore?!
Who was accompanying Credence when the ship went down in 1901? His aunt.
And I think that is a lie. A misdirection from J.K. Rowling. It was non other than his Mother pretending to be an Aunt! She wanted to raise Aurelius far from Britain.
But.. if she's the mother how could the baby be a Dumbledore?
She was Honoria Dumbledore. Introduced to us in The tales of Beedle the Bard, in the notes Albus Dumbledore wrote on the 'Warlocks hairy heart'.
I suppose many of you aren't familiar hence, I will take some passages and explain why this story matters...
A straightforward summary of the story:
This tale follows the life of a young warlock who removes his own heart by terrible Dark Arts to protect himself from the foolishness of love. When he meets a witch who he wants to win for himself... Something happens which I don't want to spoil so go and read it fully or read only the following passages.
Now... I will gather some passages.
The very beginning...
"There was once a handsome, rich and talented young warlock, who observed that his friends grew foolish when they fell in love, gambolling and preening, losing their appetites and their dignity. The young warlock resolved never to fall prey to such weakness, and employed Dark Arts to ensure his immunity. Unaware of his secret, the warlock’s family laughed to see him so aloof and cold. “All will change,” they prophesied, “when a maid catches his fancy!” "
"In due course, the warlock’s aged parents died. Their son did not mourn them; on the contrary, he considered himself blessed by their demise. Now he reigned alone in their castle."
"The first servant expressed pity for the warlock who [...] was yet beloved by nobody. But his companion jeered, asking why a man [...] had been unable to attract a wife."
"Their words dealt dreadful blows to the listening warlock’s pride. He resolved at once to take a wife, and that she would be a wife superior to all others."
"She would possess astounding beauty, exciting envy and desire in every man who beheld her; she would spring from magical lineage, so that their offspring would inherit outstanding magical gifts"
"It might have taken the warlock fifty years to find such a woman, yet it so happened that the very day after he decided to seek her, a maiden answering his every wish arrived in the neighbourhood to visit her kinsfolk."
"The warlock’s heart felt nothing at all. Nevertheless, she was the prize he sought, so he began to pay her court."
"The maiden sat upon a throne beside the warlock, who spake low, employing words of tenderness he had stolen from the poets, without any idea of their true meaning. The maiden listened, puzzled, and finally replied, “You speak well, Warlock, and I would be delighted by your attentions, if only I thought you had a heart!”
"Bidding her follow, he led her from the feast, and down to the locked dungeon where he kept his greatest treasure. Here, in an enchanted crystal casket, was the warlock’s beating heart. Long since disconnected from eyes, ears and fingers, it had never fallen prey to beauty, or to a musical voice, to the feel of silken skin. The maiden was terrified by the sight of it, for the heart was shrunken and covered in long black hair. “Oh, what have you done?” she lamented. “Put it back where it belongs, I beseech you!” Seeing that this was necessary to please her, the warlock drew his wand, unlocked the crystal casket, sliced open his own breast and replaced the hairy heart in the empty cavity it had once occupied. “Now you are healed and will know true love!” cried the maiden, and she embraced him. The touch of her soft white arms, the sound of her breath in his ear, the scent of her heavy gold hair: all pierced the newly awakened heart like spears. But it had grown strange during its long exile, blind and savage in the darkness to which it had been condemned, and its appetites had grown powerful and perverse."
And I don't want to spoil the end !! So... Go read it!
Note: The end is irrelevant to this theory, because that's where the tale departs from the truth.
So why this story matters?
Dumbledore introduces Honoria
"Though somewhat dated, the expression “to have a hairy heart” has passed into everyday wizarding language to describe a cold or unfeeling witch or wizard. My maiden aunt, Honoria, always alleged that she called off her engagement to a wizard in the Improper Use of Magic Office because she discovered in time that “he had a hairy heart”. (It was rumoured, however, that she actually discovered him in the act of fondling some Horklumps, which she found deeply shocking.)"
My maiden aunt... Why would he need to emphasize she's a maiden (a.k.a not married) if he goes on to say she called off her engagement? Seems an "unnecessary" word...
Get ready for the Dark stuff...
Dumbledore went ahead and explained a few more interesting things..
"The search for a true love potion continues to this day, but no such elixir has yet been created, and leading potioneers doubt that it is possible. The hero in this tale, however, is not even interested in a simulacrum of love that he can create or destroy at will. He wants to remain for ever uninfected by what he regards as a kind of sickness, and therefore performs a piece of Dark Magic that would not be possible outside a storybook: he locks away his own heart. The resemblance of this action to the creation of a Horcrux has been noted by many writers. Although Beedle’s hero is not seeking to avoid death, he is dividing what was clearly not meant to be divided – body and heart, rather than soul – and in doing so, he is falling foul of the first of Adalbert Waffling’s Fundamental Laws of Magic: Tamper with the deepest mysteries – the source of life, the essence of self – only if prepared for consequences of the most extreme and dangerous kind. And sure enough, in seeking to become superhuman this foolhardy young man renders himself inhuman. The heart he has locked away slowly shrivels and grows hair, symbolising his own descent to beasthood. He is finally reduced to a violent animal who takes what he wants by force"
JK Rowling herself describes this tale as :
' "Warlock's Hairy Heart" is really ... quite gothic. It's quite dark, that one. And Voldemort would've done well to know that story before he set out on his campaign of terror. '
But do you know who did...? Grindelwald.
And with his power of being a seer... He foresaw the truth.
I read through this Dark piece of Story several times... And at first I couldn't understand why JK came up with such an horrendous story supposedly for children!! It had to mean more than it seemed !
I think... This is all a metaphor for the Dumbledore's.
The key differences are that there are two children (Albus and Aberforth) instead of only one in the tale. And as noted by Dumbledore, He performs a piece of Dark Magic that would not be possible outside a storybook hence the removal of the heart is only a symbolism for avoiding love and concentrating on other things rather than litteraly removing it! It's about becoming cold hearted... And finally, forget the money and castle and all the surplus in the story... It's to make it a tale... Just like Death for the Three Brothers (The tale of the Deathly Hallows).
And I think... If it proves true. JK is about to dwell on one of the biggest problems still existing to date in our societies. And I don't see her approaching it openly in the FBAWTFT movies... But maybe she will.
I'm spilling it...
The Warlock is Aberforth Dumbledore. He locks away his heart (not really, just as a figure of speech) because he concentrates in his sister Arianna.
He watches love blossom around him, at school.. and finally his Brother with Grindelwald... And he also witnesses his parents demise and a "son [who] did not mourn them; on the contrary, he considered himself blessed by their demise. Now he reigned alone in their castle." (This is the view of Aberforth towards the way Albus reacted to his father imprisoning and his mothers' death) And finally... Ariana, the reason he "locked his heart away", was gone. And so...
"Their words dealt dreadful blows to the listening warlock’s pride. He resolved at once to take a wife, and that she would be a wife superior to all others."
Means... Ariana's death affected his pride in the sense that he saw himself as the only one who could calm her. So as he resolved to go on with his life... Not having anything else attaching himself to his family... Things start going wrong...
And I'm not only talking about his goats...
A certain maiden showed up... And He.. Aberforth... Imagined "The touch of her soft white arms, the sound of her breath in his ear, the scent of her heavy gold hair: all pierced the newly awakened heart like spears."
But... "But it had grown strange during its long exile, blind and savage in the darkness to which it had been condemned, and its appetites had grown powerful and perverse."
Aberforth... Raped his aunt Honoria following the death of Ariana in 1899!
And from that liaison... Forbidden... Aurelius Dumbledore is born but not without consequences!
Remember
Tamper with the deepest mysteries – the source of life, the essence of self – only if prepared for consequences of the most extreme and dangerous kind.
Honoria... actually discovered him [Aberforth] in the act of fondling some Horklumps [goats], which she found deeply shocking.
But He destroyed her heart... He destroyed her dignity.
Honoria fled to America... Not daring to call herself mother. She called herself the baby's aunt... Afraid to do magic because her soul and her heart became ripped. Unable to perform magic to save his baby [she did not know it had been swapped].
Poor Corvus Died because she was unable to save him...
On the other boat.. in the arms of Irma Dugard... Another baby... Aurelius Dumbledore
Aurelius = Made of Gold (=Power) instead of Love.
sailed to his demise.......
And Grindelwald foresaw it all.. As he had foreseen his summer with Dumbledore. For the reason the inscription "For the Greater Good"(in German) is written in his hookah skull with the date 1898, despite that sentence being written for the first time by Dumbledore in 1899.
The fact he knows the darkest secret of the Dumbledore's. And Albus doesn't even imagine it...
With the drowning of Honoria. Apart from Grindelwald... Only One person alive knows... Aberforth but he thinks the baby is dead.
But he isn't!
If Aurelius Dumbledore is real it was much darker than we ever dared to imagine !
And the real meaning of the prophecy... A son cruelly banished Despair of the daughter Return, great avenger With wings from the water.
A son cruelly banished - Aurelius Dumbledore Despair of the Daughter - Ariana Dumbledore Return, Great Avenger - Albus Dumbledore With wings from the water - Newt in a Kelpie
We now suppose how cruelly he was banished...
If you believe all the story... Do not hate Aberforth for what happened for it has been shaped by he who foresaw all... It only happened because Grindelwald orchestrated it all! From his encounter with Dumbledore to the consequences it created, for he needed a weapon ! He needed an Aurelius Dumbledore!
However, the Great Avenger is coming... With help from wings from the water. To Avenge a son cruelly banished and the unecessary despair of the daughter...
The Avenging will happen once Albus Dumbledore defeats Gellert Grindelwald in 1945!
requested TL;DR: when it comes to Aurelius Dumbledore there are three option. Grindelwald made this up, It is true but it concerns unknown and not yet introduced Dumbledore family members, it concerns existing members in an unexpected way. I go for the third option. Aurelius Dumbledore exists and he's the son of Aberforth and his aunt Honoria Dumbledore (introduced to us in the tales of Beedle the Bard). Arianna death caused Aberforth to go crazy... Honoria tried to flee to America with the baby posing as Aunt and died after the baby's have been switched and the ship sank.
submitted by raphmateus to harrypotter [link] [comments]

War & Peace - Chapters 10, 11, 12 (Full Text, Ander Louis Translation)

WAR & PEACE - Book 1, Chapter 10
Written by Leo Tolstoy, Translated by Ander Louis
Prince Vasíli was true to his word, and followed up on what he promised Princess Drubetskáya at Anna Pávlovna’s soiree. He put in a good word to the Emperor about her son Borís, an exception was made, and Borís was transferred into the regiment of Semënov Guards with the rank of cornet. So that was sick. But he didn’t get appointed to Kutúzov’s staff, despite how desperately Anna Mikháylovna kissed arse, trying to get the hook up. Soon after Anna Pávlovna’s reception Anna Mikháylovna returned to Moscow and went straight to stay with her rich relations the Rostóvs. She always stayed with the Rostóvs when in Moscow. It was where her precious boy Bóry, who had only just entered a regiment of the line and was being transferred to the Guards as a cornet, had been educated since he was knee high to a grasshopper. He’d lived at the Rostóvs’ for years at a time. The Guards had already left Petersburg on the tenth of August, and her son, who had remained in Moscow for his equipment, was to join them on the march to Radzivílov.
It was St. Natalia’s day - which was the name day of two of the Rostóvs: the mother and the youngest daughter, both being named Nataly. All day since morning carriages had been rolling up, big posh ones with six horses pulling them, bringing a continual stream of visitors to the Rostóv household - an enormous house on Povarskaya Street, very well known to all of Moscow. The countess herself and her handsome eldest daughter were in the drawing room entertaining the well-wishers who arrived in wave after wave.
The countess was forty-something, and her face was sort of Oriental looking, and looked like it’d done some city miles. Having twelve kids will do that to ya… She moved and spoke in a relaxed, calm way, as a result of her exhaustion, and this gave her a distinguished air which inspired respect. Princess Anna Mikháylovna Drubetskáya, who was also a member of the household, was seated in the drawing room too, and she was helping receive and entertain visitors. The youngsters were in another room, an inner room. They figured they weren’t really needed in the busy drawing room. The count met the guests and saw them off, inviting them all to return later for dinner.
‘Thanks heaps for coming, mon chere,’ or ‘mon chère’ - he called everyone ‘my dear’ without exception, and without the slightest change in tone whether they were above or below him in rank - ‘Really, thank you, from me and from my two whose name day we’re celebrating. You’re more than welcome to come back for dinner. In fact we’d be disappointed if you didn’t, ma chère’. I’m sure I speak on behalf of everyone when I say we’d love you to come, mon cher.’ He said these exact phrases to everyone, without variation, with the same big cheerful grin on his full, clean-shaven face, the same firm handshake, and the same quick, repeated bows. As soon as he’d seen off whoever was leaving he’d go back into the drawing room, pull up a chair near the remaining guests, and sit lazily with his legs spread and his hands on his knees, like a big goofy king, happy in his kingdom. He swayed to and fro with dignity, chinwagging about the weather, questions of health, normal chit-chat, sometimes in Russian and sometimes in bad French, which he spoke with absolute confidence. And then, when the moment came, he would jump up, weary but committed to his duty, to see off some more guests who were leaving, stroking his thinning grey hair backward and inviting them to dinner. Sometimes on his way back from the anteroom he’d pass through the conservatory and pantry, poking his head into the large marble dining hall, where tables were being set for eighty people; and looking at the footmen, who were bringing in silver and china, setting up tables, and laying damask table linens, he would call Dmítri Vasílevich, a man from a good family who managed his affairs and accounts, and while looking at the giant table would say: ‘Keeping on top of things, mate? Good man. Ripper of a feast… This will be brilliant!’ And with a sigh and a shrug he would return to the drawing room.
The countess’s footman - who was an absolute unit of a man - entered the drawing room and announced in his deep bass voice: ‘Márya Lvóvna Karágina and her daughter!’ The countess reflected a moment and took a pinch from a gold snuffbox with her husband’s portrait on it.
‘I’m getting over it now, all these visitors. I’ll still see her though, but no more after that. She’s a bit out of whack, ask her to come in,’ she said to the footman in a sad voice, as if saying: ‘Ah, to hell with it, just finish me off already…’
A tall, stocky, and proud-looking woman, with a round-faced smiling daughter, entered the drawing room, their dresses rustling.
‘Ah, dear Countess! What a time … She’s been out of it, poor kid … At the Razumóvskis’ ball … and Countess Apráksina … I was really pleased …’ came the sounds of excitable feminine voices, interrupting each other and mingling with the rustling of dresses and scraping of chairs. Then one big long conversation started that wound here and there and ended in ‘I’m so glad … Mamma’s health … Countess Apráksina …’ and then there was some more rustling of dresses as they moved back out to the anteroom, cloaks and mantles were put on, and the final guests drove away. They had been talking about the chief topic of the day: the severe illness of the filthy-fucking-rich golden-child of Catherine’s day: Count Bezúkhov, and about his illegitimate son Pierre (the very same Pierre who had behaved so poorly at Anna Pávlovna’s reception, with all his pro-Napoleon talk).
‘Yeah, I feel so bad for the poor count,’ said the visitor. ‘He’s not in good nick… And now this new rumour about his son - that’ll be the end of him!’
‘What rumour?’ asked the countess, as if she didn’t already know what the visitor was alluding to, though she’d heard about the cause of Count Bezúkhov’s distress a dozen-odd times.
‘That’s what good a “modern education” does,’ said the visitor. ‘I reckon while he was overseas this young man was allowed to do whatever he wanted, and now he’s in Petersburg being a total dickhead. He was expelled by the police!’
‘No kidding?’ replied the countess.
‘He chose to hang around with a bunch of silly larakins,’ interposed Anna Mikháylovna. ‘Prince Vasíli’s son Anatole, Pierre, and a certain Dólokhov have - apparently - been up to all kinds of mischief. And they’ve paid the price: Dólokhov has been demoted to the ranks, and Bezúkhov’s son sent back to Moscow. Vasíli Kurágin has managed to get his son Anatole off the hook, for the most part - but even he has been asked to leave Petersburg.’
‘But what did they do?’ asked the countess.
‘They’re absolute rascals! Dickheads! Especially that Dólokhov,’ replied the visitor. ‘He’s one of Márya Ivánovna Dólokhova’s sons. She’s a great woman… and that’s her son? Imagine: the three dipshits got hold of a bear - God knows how - put it in a carriage, and took off to visit some “actresses”. The police tried to intervene and what do you think the young men did? They tied a policeman to the bear. Back to back - tied them together - then threw them in the Moyka Canal. And then the bear just swam around the canal with the struggling policeman stuck to his back.’
‘Ha! The policeman must have loved that! He’ll never live that one down!’ shouted the count, laughing his arse off.
‘That’s shockin! How can you laugh at that, Count?’
But the ladies’ stern faces cracked, and they burst into laughter too.
‘They barely managed to rescue the poor bugger,’ continued the visitor. ‘And we’re talking about the son of Cyril Vladímirovich Bezúkhov, out there acting like such a fine gentleman… And he was supposed to be so well educated and switched on... I blame his foreign education, that’s what’s made him so unhinged. I hope that he’s shunned here in Moscow, even with all his money. They wanted to introduce him to me but I told em to stick it. I’ve gotta consider my daughters.’
‘Money? Pierre doesn’t have money, what are you on about?’ asked the countess, turning away from the girls, who at once acted like they weren’t interested. ‘Cyril Vladímirovich Bezúkhov’s children are all illegitimate, including Pierre, as far as I know.’
The visitor made a gesture with her hand.
‘I reckon he’s got a shit tonne of them.’
Princess Anna Mikháylovna just had to throw in her two-cents here, clearly wanting to show off her connections and knowledge of what went on in society.
‘The simple fact is this:’ she spoke in a very gossipy half-whisper, leaning forward, ‘everyone knows Count Cyril is a massive slut… Even he’s lost count of his children. But Pierre has always been his favourite.’
‘Ah, mate… He was such a looker, that Cyril. Even a year ago,’ remarked the countess. ‘I reckon he’s the best lookin man I ever saw.’
‘Yeah well, that was a year ago. Today he looks like a melted candle,’ said Anna Mikháylovna. ‘Anyway, as I was saying, Prince Vasíli is the next heir to Cyril’s fortune, through his wife, but the count is pretty keen on his boy Pierre… He looked after his education, even wrote to the Emperor about him. So when he dies - which, by the way might be very soon; Dr Lorrain has already come from Petersburg - when he dies, no one knows what will happen with his fortune, if it will go to his boy Pierre, or to Prince Vasíli. We’re talkin forty thousand serfs and millions of rubles! Trust me, it’s true, Prince Vasíli himself told me. Besides, Cyril Vladímirovich is my mother’s second cousin, so we’re basically family. Oh, and he’s Bóry’s godfather,’ she added, as if she attached no importance at all to that fact.
‘Prince Vasíli arrived in Moscow yesterday. I heard he’s here on some inspection business,’ remarked the visitor.
‘Ha! Yeah, “inspection business,”’ said the princess. ‘Sure. Between you, me, and the fence post - that’s just a cover. He’s really here to see Count Cyril Vladímirovich, knowing how ill he is.’
‘Ha!’ The count laughed suddenly. ‘Tied to a bear… Classic!’ he said, and noticing that the elder visitors were paying him no attention whatsoever, he turned to the young ladies. ‘Can you imagine? How would he have looked! What a pisser! He’ll never live it down, that policeman! Tied to a bear!’
And as he waved his arms wildly to impersonate the policeman, his beer-belly and man-boobs shook with a deep ringing laugh, the easy laugh of a man who always eats well and definitely drinks well. ‘So, do come and dine with us!’ he said.
WAR & PEACE - Book 1, Chapter 11
Written by Leo Tolstoy, Translated by Ander Louis
The room was silent for a beat. The countess looked nervously at her callers, wearing a fake smile which failed to conceal that she wouldn’t be at all bothered if they got up to leave now. The visitor’s daughter was already smoothing her dress, shooting a meaningful look at her mother, when suddenly from the next room there was a commotion. There was the sound of boys and girls running to the door, the thud of a chair being knocked over, and then a girl of thirteen came barrelling into the room, hiding something in the folds of her dress. It was obvious that she hadn’t meant to come into the room. Behind her in the doorway appeared a student with a crimson coat collar, an officer of the Guards, a fifteen-year-old girl, and a boy with a chubby red face wearing a short jacket.
The count sprung to his feet and moved, swaying side to side, quickly over to the girl who had run in, and threw his arms around her.
‘Ah! Here she is!’ he laughed. ‘My darling whose name day it is. My darling girl.’
‘Ma chere! Don’t encourage her!’ said the countess with feigned severity. ‘You’d let her get away with murder, I swear, Ilyá…’ she added, addressing her husband.
‘I wish you a happy name day, my dear. How are ya? Good?’ said the visitor. ‘What a charmer she is,’ she added to the countess.
This black-eyed girl, not pretty but with an attractive, broad smile - with childish bare shoulders which after running in now heaved and shook her body, and with black curls tossed backwards, thin bare arms, little legs in lace-frilled drawers, and feet in low slippers - was just at the in-between age where she wasn’t a child any more, but not quite a young woman either. Extracting herself from her father’s hug, she ran to her mother, hiding her red face in her mother’s mantilla. She paid no attention as her mother made a severe remark, and began laughing. She took the doll out from the folds of her frock, and in fragmentary sentences between laughs, tried to explain the joke.
‘Mimi … My doll … See? She … Do you see?’ was all Natásha managed to get out - for at that moment everything was way too funny to her. She leaned against her mother and let the laughter ring out of her in such a fit that their visitors couldn’t help but join in.
‘Alright, get outta here, and take that monstrosity with you,’ said her mother, but her sternness was now playful, and turning to her visitor she added: ‘She’s my youngest girl,’ with a shrug.
Natásha, lifted her face from her mother’s mantilla, glanced at her through tears of laughter, then quickly hid her face again.
The visitor, watching this family scene unfold, couldn’t help but get involved, playing along with Natásha.
‘Natásha, sweetie - tell me, is Mimi a relation of yours? Your daughter, maybe?’
Natásha suddenly turned serious, and shot the visitor a confused look, like ‘Are you an idiot?’ It wasn’t anything that childish, thought Natásha.
Meanwhile, the younger generation: Borís (the officer, Anna Mikháylovna’s son), Nicholas (the undergraduate, the count’s oldest boy), Sónya (the count’s fifteen-year-old niece), and little Pétya (his youngest boy), had all filtered into the drawing room, trying to shake their giddiness and match the more civilised mood of this room. It was clear that whatever had been happening in the back rooms was far more wild and hilarious than what was happening in this one, with its seats, and old people, and talk of society, scandals, the weather, and Countess Apráksina. They readied themselves to participate in this grown-up conversation, and not to meet each other’s eyes, but now and then they would, and then they had to try hard to suppress their laughter.
The two young fellas - the student who was their eldest and the officer whose mother was akin to dogshit on Vasíli’s shoe - were about the same age and had been good mates since childhood. They were both handsome lads, in their own ways. Borís was tall and fair, he had a calm and handsome face, quite normal looking, with delicate features. Nicholas was short, his hair held Rostóv curls, and his upper lip already had a few dark hairs popping through. His expression was open and enthusiastic, betraying a hint of naïve eagerness. He blushed when they had entered the drawing room, trying to find something to say, but failing to come up with anything. Borís nailed it though, proving quite able to find his footing in any social situation. He quipped - rather calmly - that he had known Mimi since she was a young lady doll, before her nose was broken, and how she had aged poorly during the five years he had known her, her head now being cracked right across the skull. Saying this he glanced at Natásha. She couldn’t stand to look at him, the impulse to laugh being too great, so she instead turned to her younger brother Pétya, who was screwing up his face and shaking with suppressed laughter. She couldn’t control herself any longer - she jumped up and bolted out of the room as fast as her nimble little feet would carry her. Borís did not laugh.
‘You’re heading out soon, right Mum? Did you want the carriage?’ he asked his mother with a smile.
‘Yeah, could you please go tell them to get it ready?’ she answered, returning his smile.
Borís quietly left the room and went in search of Natásha. The plump boy named Pétya ran after them, as if pissy that their game had been interrupted.
WAR & PEACE - Book 1, Chapter 12
Written by Leo Tolstoy, Translated by Ander Louis
The only young people left in the drawing room - not including the young lady visitor, or the countess’s eldest daughter (who was four years older than her younger sister Natásha, and tried to act like a grown up), were Nicholas, the eldest boy, and Sónya, the niece. Sónya was a skinny little thing, with brown hair in two thick plaits that coiled twice around her head, caring eyes with long lashes, and a tawny tan in her complexion. She moved with grace, with a certain softness and flexibility about her slender but muscular limbs and a coyness in her reserved manner that brought to mind a half-grown kitten which might one day make a very good cat. She was doing a decent job of following the conversation of the room, showing respectful interest in what others said and smiling pleasantly, but in spite of herself, she couldn’t keep her eyes off her cousin Nicholas, the one who was joining the army. She was into him real bad, with a girlish passion - her smile could not for a moment fool anyone - and it was clear that this little kitten had only settled in the drawing room for a moment, and would spring up full of beans to play with her cousin as soon as they could escape the drawing room, as Natásha and Borís had already done.
’Yep, my dear,’ said the count, addressing the visitor and pointing a thumb to Nicholas, ‘this one’s leaving me - his poor old man - to join the military service. His friend Borís has become an officer, and Nicholas here’s such a good friend that he’s leaving university to go with him. We even had a place for him at the Archives Department ready to go! Now that’s a good friend, don’t ya reckon?’ remarked the count thoughtfully.
‘But they reckon war has been declared,’ said the visitor.
‘Ah, they always say that, it’s just something they say,’ said the count. ‘They used to say it, they still do, and they always will. Tell ya what, that’s real friendship for you though. He’s joining the hussars.’
The visitor had no response for this, so she shook her head.
‘That’s not why I’m going,’ declared Nicholas, arcing up and turning away as if from a shameful accusation. ‘I’m not going cos of Borís, or cos of friendship. I’m going cos the army is my vocation.’
He shot a look at his cousin and then at the young lady visitor; both were watching him with adoring eyes.
‘Schubert’s coming for dinner today, the colonel of the Pávlograd Hussars. He’s been here on leave and he’ll be taking Nicholas back with him. It’s done now, no going back from here!’ said the count, with a shrug of his thick shoulders and a playful tone which failed to mask that the topic shook him up a bit.
‘I’ve told you already, Papa,’ said his son, ‘if you don’t want me to go, I won’t. But I’m useless here, the army is the only place I’m any use. I’m no diplomat, I’m no government clerk… Sorry, I have no filter, I just say stuff.’ As he spoke he kept glancing over at Sónya and the young visitor with a flirtatious look on his handsome youthful face.
The little kitten was feasting her eyes on him. She seemed ready to drop her civilised air and start her kitten-gambols again and pounce on him.
‘Aright-aright-aright!’ said the old count. ‘He always arcs up like this. Bloody Buonaparte has got em all amped up - they all froth over how he started as an ensign and ended up an emperor. Yeah, well, good luck to em…’ he added, not noticing his visitor’s sarcastic smile.
The elders began talking about Bonaparte. Julie Karágina - the younger visitor - turned to young Nicholas Rostóv.
‘Shame you weren’t at the Arkhárovs’ on Thursday. No fun without you there,’ she said, smiling tenderly.
The young lad was flattered and sat down nearer to her with a playful smile. He locked the smiling Julie into an intimate conversation, not noticing that his goofy, uncontrollable smile was making young Sónya feel like she was being shivved in the heart. Sónya blushed and smiled unnaturally. In the middle of his conversation he glanced at Sónya. She was staring daggers at him, and while Nicholas quietly shat himself, she got up and swiftly left the room, and though she managed to wear her artificial smile all the way to the door, tears were showing in her eyes. The wind was now thoroughly knocked out of Nicholas’s sails. He waited for the first pause in the conversation, and then with a worried expression left the room to find Sónya.
‘Trouble in paradise, eh? Ah, youths… Can’t help but wear their hearts on their sleeves!’ said Anna Mikháylovna, pointing to Nicholas as he went out. ‘Cousinage - dangereux voisinage,’ she added. (Cousinhood is a dangerous neighbourhood.)
‘Yes,’ said the countess, once the brightness that the youngsters brought to the room had faded and as if answering a question no one had asked but was plaguing her mind, ‘and all the stress and anxiety we’ve been through to get them to here. And even now there’s more anxiety than joy. It’s never bloody ending! Especially at this age - there’s so much they could fuck up, my head spins!’
‘It all depends how they’re brought up,’ said the visitor.
‘Yeah, true,’ continued the countess. ‘Till now I’ve always - thank god - been close with the kids. They trust me and tell me everything,’ said she, repeating the misguided sentiment of so many parents who trust that their children don’t keep secrets from them. ‘I know I’ll always be my daughters’ first confidante, and that when Nicholas - being the scallywag that he is - does get into mischief (boys will be boys, after all), he will at least never be as bad as those Petersburg boys.’
‘Yeah they are marvellous, marvellous kids,’ chimed in the count, who always solved perplexing questions by declaring that everything was marvellous. ‘Bloody hell, hey? Wants to be an hussar. What are we supposed to do with that, my dear?’
‘Your girl is a charming little creature,’ said the visitor. ‘Real little volcano!’
‘Volcano is the word,’ said the count. ‘Takes after her old man! And I’ll tell ya something else: she has a set of pipes on her! You should hear her sing. I’m not just saying this cos she’s mine, but one day she’ll be a singer - a second Salomoni! We’ve got her a singing coach now, an Italian.’
‘Isn’t she too young? I’ve heard it’s bad for their voice, to train at that age.’
‘Nah-nah, she’ll be right,’ replied the count. ‘Our mothers were married by twelve or thirteen.’
‘And she’s already in love with Borís. Fancy that!’ said the countess with a gentle smile, looking at Borís even though he left the room in the previous chapter. She went on, evidently concerned with a thought that always occupied her: ‘Now, here’s what’s my problem: if I’m too strict and forbid the two from seeing each other, goodness knows what they’ll get up to on the sly’ (she meant they might sneak away for a pash), ‘but as it is, I know every secret she has. She comes running to me every evening, by herself, ready to spill the beans about everything. Maybe I spoil her, but I reckon that’s the best way to go about it. With her older sister I was stricter.’
‘Yeah, you brought me up very differently,’ remarked that older sister - the handsome Countess Véra, with a smile.
The smile was no good on her though. It didn’t make her more beautiful - as smiles usually do; on the contrary it uglied her up a little, making her expression unnatural and therefore unpleasant. Véra was a good-looking girl, and a good student, smart and well brought up. Her voice was pleasant, too, and what she said was perfectly true and appropriate, and yet, weirdly enough, everyone - the visitors, count, and countess alike - turned to look at her in overt confusion, as if they were all awkwardly wondering why she had said what she did.
‘People overdo it with their eldest kids, I reckon. They’re too clever about it, try too hard to make them something special,’ said the visitor.
‘No good in denying that - right my dear? My lovely wife was too clever with Véra,’ said the count. ‘But, ya know what? She turned out marvellously all the same,’ he added, winking at Véra.
The guests got up and left, promising to be back for dinner.
‘Far out, I thought they’d never leave. Unbelievable…’ said the countess, exasperated, once she had seen her guests out.
The Complete Bogan Translation of Book 1 is available now via:
It is my dream to translate the entire novel into Bogan. Your support on Patreon is appreciated!
submitted by AnderLouis_ to ayearofwarandpeace [link] [comments]

TOME: Red Like Rose part I

Theories and Overanalyses with Metas and Exspiro
​
This analysis of Red Like Roses will focus on the lyrics of the aforementioned song with a focus on their relation to foreshadowing. I would analyze the rest but unfortunately, I am not musically inclined. I will be analyzing and dissecting this as though I would a poem as songs and poems have little differences. Now it is worth noting most of my experience with poetry concerns translating classical Latin poetry.
Before getting to the song I must outline a couple of rules that are important to further conjecture. (Many may know all of these but I would like to ensure that this is accessible to anyone, even those brand new to the community)
  1. (I apologize about how painfully obvious this may be) Characters and teams have color names. https://rwby.fandom.com/wiki/Color_Naming_Rule
  2. Every character in the show references or alludes to another character in something else.
  3. A character may allude to one character but allude to an entirely different one depending on the frame of reference. i.e. Dr. Bartholomew Oobleck alludes to Bartholomew from Dr. Seuss's book Bartholomew and the Oobleck. Meanwhile Professor Peter Port alludes to Peter in the tale Peter and the Wolf. However if one was to ponder what the characters Dr. Oobleck, Professor Port, and their colleague Professor Peach reference one may find that they instead distinctly allude to Luigi, Mario, and Princess Peach respectively from the Mario video game franchise.
Now to get to the song. The lyrics in case you don't have them memorized:
Red like roses fills my dreams and brings me to the place you rest.
White is cold and always yearning burdened by a royal test.
Black the beast descends from shadows.
Yellow beauty burns... Gold.
First, after this point in the post, we will assume the bolded colors reference their corresponding characters in Team RWBY. For a bit of a twist, we will not be doing the lines in order.
​
Yellow:
Beauty. Burns. Gold. It seems like such a small simple line. Don't let it trick you. I'm going to start by breaking these down.
Starting with the word "beauty" which has a plethora of meanings, synonyms, and symbols. Beauty can be symbolically associated with: innocence, allure, style, red, gold, roses. It could also be much more directly associated with the character "Beauty" from Beauty and the Beast. The symbols of innocence, red, and roses are easily representative of Ruby. While allure and style are more applicable to Yang or her love interest. For the sake of this post, we will be assuming that Blake fits that role.
Onto dissecting "Burns" which has many synonyms: heat, ignite, incinerate. The core thing to note however is the affiliation with fire which has prominent symbolism in itself. Fire can symbolize both the forces of creation and destruction, an eternal flame, birth and resurrection, spiritual enlightenment, sexuality, passion, and martyrdom.
Gold happens to be both a metal and a color both possessing relevant meanings: flexibility, immutability, vitality, light. It also relates directly to greed and the solar system. Light and solar system correlate with Yang's name. Flexibility and immutability are just different words for Yang's stubbornness and adaptability.
An interesting thing of note is that all of these have some symbolisms that are the opposite of their others.
Now for some interpretations of these. Something that struck me is that both beauty and gold have reflexive symbolism. They can refer to each other and they could also refer to Yang. Yang burns... Yang. Sounds a bit silly but bear with me. In Latin poetry for example, sometimes a poet will create an image with the words he uses. For example, if something takes place in a dark cave, he will put dark at the very start of the sentence and cave at the far end; this creates the effect that the entire sentence is occurring inside of the dark cave. Yang burns inside of Yang, perhaps. Hmmm, A burning (passion) occurs within Yang. I think this interpretation does lend to Yang's thrill-seeking. These are also brought to mind:
"The flame that burns twice as bright burns half as long." -Lao Tzu, Te Tao Ching
"Burn the candle at both ends" -English Idiom
Another interpretation could be that Ruby burns... Yang being separate, unable to stop it. From Yang's perspective, Ruby is innocent and she feels responsible for her protection. This bears a direct relation to both Yang's view on family and her "Momma Bear" trait.
​
Black:
Now we have a beast descending from shadows. More direct and a little less poetic than the last one.
Beast is a very loaded word in the context of RWBY. First time I heard it I thought: Grimm. We also have Faunus, which could have beast being used as a reference/derogatory term. Then we have The Beast, as in Beauty and The Beast. Beast can also refer to a more primal evil or demon, but that is kind of covered by Grimm.
Next, for Blake we have shadows and she just happens to have shadow clones. Shadows could refer to Blake's semblance or literal darkness. It may also mean that the occurrence is merely unexpected. There are also many symbolisms related to evil, however, I am going to say that these are less relevant as Blake is a protagonist who utilizes the shadows.
For descends it is important only to know its definitions: Move down spatially. Originate or come from. Swoop or Pounce. To lower or worsen status.
Now several interpretations include Adam as the Beast fittingly. Adam descends in status after Blake( the shadows). This is an event that has occurred throughout all 6 volumes of the show. It is particularly well illustrated by the Adam short for Volume 6.
Grimm unexpectedly attacking could be a good illustration of Blake's trials. This is not necessarily illustrating the actual trials, but rather Blake's perception of them. She did grow up with a wealthy loving family and yet she has always viewed herself as having to struggle against the odds to survive. It also illustrates actual situations where they have to unexpectedly face Grimm, such as the fall of Beacon.
The Faunus society leaves the shadows. Blake has always striven to progress the Faunus situation. We see this when she first tells Sun of her past in Volume 1. We see some enormous progress towards her goals when she brings the people of Menagerie to stop Adam's White Fang in Volume 5. At Haven, we also see the people of Menagerie literally coming out of shadows to join society. Blake even takes the first step out of the shadows for the Faunus people when she removes her bow in Volume 4.
Then we have Adam pouncing on Blake to destroy her when we least expect it. The 2 most important and memorable times are at the fall of Beacon and at Argus. Just when we think things couldn't get any worse, Adam shows up almost as if he was drawn to the situation the same way as the beasts known as Grimm are. He latches onto Blake like a predator would pounce on its prey, and refuses to let anything come between them and destruction.
​
Bumblebee: (Theory)
What? You didn't read the Bumblebee line? Well here it is:
Black the Beast descends from shadows.
Yellow Beauty burns... Gold.
Beauty and the Beast anyone? Just to reiterate Blake is Beauty. Who is the Beast? Well, it's Adam of course, but it's also Yang, sometimes. (Rule 3) I stated that a character can represent a different character in a different frame of reference. Alone she is Goldilocks; with Belle, she is the Beast.
Both Beasts pounce unexpectedly. The Old Beast Adam shows up at the fall of Beacon to unexpectedly cause hardship. Shortly afterward out of the shadows comes the New Beast Yang to save Blake. Later at Argus, the same events occur with a different outcome. Furthering this we found out that both Beasts have extraordinarily similar semblances. Both creating energy from pain only Adam refuses to feel and grow from his pain.
Blake burns away... while Yang tries to provide safety. I am reminded of the scene in Volume 2 where Yang convinces Blake to stop burning herself out.
​
White:
"Cold and always yearning" merely describes Weiss's personality. The large thing to note is the "always" meaning that she will likely stay cold and yearning at least on a basic level of her personality, even if she has warmed some.
Now we wonder why exactly the Royal Test burdens Weiss, but that is not the real question here: What is the Royal Test? We don't know. We can theorize though. The first place to start is: To what might the Royal Test allude? First off I'm making a distinction between royalty and nobility, the former being the royal family and the latter being the aristocracy. Now what sort of tests have rulers had to pass? I'm not going to name all of them because I can't if someone thinks of an important one that I missed then tell me. However, every individual test is not what is important rather what is being tested and how.
A famous and beloved story of a ruler being tested is that of King Arthur pulling the sword from the stone. This test has the ruler proving his worthiness to rule before God through a magical test. This seems unlikely to be in RWBY for many reasons starting with the Gods having literally left Remnant and ending with the fact that hunters and huntresses generally create their own unique non-magical weapons.
There is also the legend of the Gordian Knot. Alexander the Great undoes an impossible knot by cleverly cheating. A ruler could overcome an impossible test with their cleverness by cheating or by changing the rules of said task. Although Weiss is clever this doesn't seem to be her style to me.
The Praetorian, guards of the Roman emperor, did install several emperors themselves. This would be an example of ruling via conspiracy. This is much more like Ozpin's or Jacques's methods than Weiss's.
Other tests may include wars, divine right, election, and selection by the aristocracy.
The Magna Carta is my favorite royal test for this situation. The Feudal Lords of England got together and drew up a contract of sorts for the king to agree to. By agreeing to the Magna Carta he agreed to stop trampling over the rights of his subjects. This seems to me to be very much the sort of test that we may see Weiss put through especially given the state of the SDC. On top of that the rights of the downtrodden do seem to be something of a burden to Weiss.
If I have missed or forgotten a detail about our information on the Royal Test please inform me.
​
Red:
Red like roses, has two interpretations that I have thought of. An easy interpretation is that it is a simile comparing an object to being the color. The imagery evokes the color of blood supported further by the word 'fills'. As this 'red' fills dreams so does our blood fill our bodies. Another interpretation is that Ruby is like Roses. As in Ruby being akin to her ancestors on her mother's side. Ruby got her silver eyes from her mother who got them from her ancestors. Silver eyes are essentially the mark of a warrior or hunter if not a hero. By this, we gather that the Rose family has been a family of warriors for as long as they have had silver eyes. This may be saying that Ruby is like her heroic heritage.
Dreams for the most part likely refer to either Ruby's unconscious or Ruby's aspirations.
The place you rest is in my eyes referencing death. As the show has gone on more options for whom 'you' references have surfaced, unfortunately. Ruby may be being brought to the place her mother rests; this is supported by our view of her grave just before we are shown Salem for the first time. Ruby may also be headed for where Penny and/or Pyrrha rests. She may also be going to the place where her heroic ancestors rest. 'You' may also be much more broad stroke referring to all those who now rest in the grave.
How about another version of rests? Evil never dies it merely rests. If one slices through a Grimm it is gone, but there will always be more. Salem orchestrates schemes behind the scenes even when she can rest for centuries without dying. Ozpin is perceived by many on a scale anywhere from misguided to more evil than Salem. Ozma similarly never dies. The Grimm Brothers are also perceived by some as evil and are resting on another world/plane/universe.
I have thought of the 4 following interpretations of the presented facts:
Ruby unconsciously seeks vengeance against those who have caused death.
Ruby endeavors to be a hero for those she has lost.
Ruby is growing into the legacy of her ancestors.
As a hero, Ruby acts to stop even the undying evil of old.
There is one problem with the first two possibly even three, however, and it is illustrated with the following quote. "...but we have to try. If not for us than for the people we have already... than for the people we haven't lost yet." (That comes from Volume 4 Episode 12 in Ruby's letter to Yang).
​
Weapons:
Weapons are very core to everything RWBY. Fittingly each of these lines mentions the characters' primary weapon. Ruby has her rose or Crescent Rose mentioned. Blake has shadows mentioned which both her Gambol Shroud and shadow clones are. Yang's Ember Celica are mentioned by the word burns. Yang is also seen to temper her rage in combat similarly to how a blacksmith may temper metal like Gold. Weiss's is a little harder to see, but her Glyphs are mentioned by the word burdened. After all, Weiss does use her Glyphs to bear people's burdens, oftentimes lifting them aloft through platforms or summons. Her semblance is also a burden to her in that it connects her with the Schnee name which for many has become far too loaded with extra meaning.
​
Theory:
Supposing these lyrics are still important and impactful, I believe that this song is a good illustration of how the title characters' journey and growth has and will progress. Finding the right interpretations could in this case even let us predict some of the coming events. We may be able to foresee future character growth or predict the direction it will take.
I would like to in general provide more than one theory because of the very nature of theories and because I usually have quite a few, but in this case, it is less about the theories and more about the interpretations provided.
​
​
Now here is what I ask of you. Tell us your thoughts, theories, insights, and wild ideas. The point of this post was not for me to just tell the readers a bunch of thoughts but to spark discussion on it. That being said I would also appreciate critique of the format, flow, and general idea here. We do plan on posting more of these (hopefully with more consistent formatting).
In case anyone missed it, this is part of a collaborative project between myself, Exspiro_V_Cremantam , and Metas_M_Petivero .
If you have read all of this I would like to wish you a great day even if you do not have any feedback. 😁
submitted by Exspiro_V_Cremantam to RWBY [link] [comments]

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The MCU's Spider-Man is thrust into the Dark Knight Trilogy. Can he survive and save New York? Can he do a better job than Batman?

Spider-Man Homecoming's Peter Parker is thrust into the events of the Dark Knight Trilogy. How does he fare?

Rules

Round 1 - Spider-Man Begins:

This takes place immediately after the events of Spider-Man Homecoming. In this universe the events of Infinity War do not take place.
One night he intercepts a drug shipment, and webs up the criminal for the police to arrest him. In prison, the dealer, meets with Dr. Jonathan Crane, a corrupt psychiatrist whom he has helped smuggle drugs into Queens, and threatens to reveal his complicity if he does not declare him mentally unfit for trial. Crane puts on a scarecrow mask and sprays Falcone with a fear-inducing hallucinogen that drives him insane, and has him transferred to to another prison. While investigating "the Scarecrow", Spider-Man is exposed to the hallucinogen and left incapacitated.
When a judge accuses Crane of corruption, Crane reveals that he has been pouring his fear-inducing drug into New York's water supply. He drugs the judge with it.
A man appears at Peter's highschool prom and reveals himself to be Ra's al Ghul. Having stolen a powerful microwave emitter from Oscorp, he plans to vaporize New York's water supply, rendering Crane's drug airborne and causing mass hysteria that will destroy the city. He sets the prom on fire.
Ra's loads the microwave emitter onto New York's monorail system, releasing the drug as the train travels toward the city's central water source.

Round 2 - The Spider-Knight:

A gang of criminals rob a New York City mob bank, double-crossing and murdering each other until there is only one left: The Joker, who escapes with the money.
Spider-Man, District Attorney Harvey Dent and Captain Stacey form an alliance to rid Gotham of organized crime. Aunt May is Harvey Dent's love interest, and Captain Stacey is his longtime best friend.
Mob bosses Sal Maroni, Gambol, and the Chechen hold a videoconference with corrupt accountant Lau, who has taken their funds and fled to Hong Kong. The Joker interrupts, warns them that Spider-Man is unhindered by the law, and offers to kill him in exchange for half of their money, but Gambol puts a bounty on the Joker instead after he insults him. After escaping and smuggling himself as a corpse, the Joker kills Gambol and takes over his gang. The mob ultimately decides to take the Joker up on his offer.
Dent arrests the entire mob, while Spider-Man tries to find Lau in Hong Kong and bring him back to New York to testify against them. The Joker threatens to keep killing people unless Spider-Man reveals his identity, and starts by murdering Police Commissioner Gillian B. Loeb and the judge presiding over the mob trial. The Joker also tries to kill New York's Mayor.
Joker reveals that Aunt May and Dent have been trapped in separate locations rigged with explosives. No matter who Parker tries to save, he will be sent to Harvey who will end up with half of his face burnt off.
Flash Gordon deduces that Parker is Spider-Man and threatens to go public with the info. The Joker sets fire to the mob's money, burning Lau alive in the process, and kills the Chechen. The Joker threatens to destroy a hospital if Flash is not killed. Stacey orders the evacuation of all the hospitals in Queens and goes to secure Flash. The Joker finds Dent in a hospital and manipulates him into seeking revenge for the death of May. The Joker then destroys the hospital and escapes with a busload of hostages. Dent goes on a killing spree based on a coin flip and targets people he holds responsible for the death.
After announcing New York will be subject to his rule come nightfall, The Joker rigs two evacuating ferries with explosives; one containing civilians and the other containing prisoners. He says that he will blow them both up by midnight, but will let one live if the passengers of either boat blows up the other.
Spider-Man must stop Joker and Harvey.

Round 3 - The Spider-Knight Rises

Eight years after the Spider-Knight.
Eight years after the Spider-Knight, the Dent Act grants the Gotham City Police Department powers which nearly eradicate organized crime. Police Commissioner Stacey feels guilty for covering up Dent's crimes, from when he was turned into a murderer by the Joker. He writes a resignation speech confessing the truth, but decides against using it.
Peter Parker has become a recluse, broken by the death of his Aunt May and has retired as the vigilante Spider-Man after taking the blame for Dent's crimes and death. Cat burglar Selina Kyle obtains Tony Stark's fingerprints from his home and kidnaps congressman Byron Gilley. She sells the fingerprints to an assistant to Stark's business rival Norman Osborne. She requests a "clean slate" that can wipe all traces of a person from the internet as payment.
Oscorp double-crosses Kyle, but she uses Gilley's phone to alert the police to their location. Stacey and the police arrive to find the congressman, and then pursue Oscorp's men into the sewers while Selina flees. The police attempt to follow them into the sewers, but the men that enter are killed. Stacey is captured, while the rest of the police are assailed by sniper fire.
The assailants drag Stacey to Bane, a masked terrorist, who had set up his base of operation in the sewers. Bane has him searched and finds his resignation speech. Stacey escapes and is found by Miles Morales, a patrol officer. Stacey promotes Morales to detective, with Morales reporting directly to him. Bane and multiple accomplices attack the New York Stock Exchange, using Stark's fingerprints in a transaction that leaves Tony bankrupt. Tony asks Peter to help him out and find Bane while Tony tries to get his company back on track.
Kyle agrees to take Spider-Man to Bane but instead leads him into Bane's trap. Bane reveals that he intends to fulfill Ra's al Ghul's mission to destroy New York with the League of Shadows remnant before stealing Peter's gadgets. He then engages Spider-Man.
If he isn't stopped, Bane lures NYPD underground and traps them. He kills the Mayor and forces Dr. Otto Octavius, a nuclear physicist he kidnapped, to convert the reactor core into a nuclear bomb. Bane uses the bomb to hold the city hostage and isolate Gotham from the world. Using Stacey's stolen speech, Bane reveals the cover-up of Dent's crimes to the public, and releases the prisoners (including Vulture, Scarecrow, and Joker), initiating anarchy. The wealthy and powerful have their property expropriated, are dragged from their homes, and are given show trials presided over by Jonathan Crane, where all are sentenced to death.
Can Spider-Man survive the Dark Knight Trilogy and save the day?
Does he do a better job than Batman?
How does all of this effect Peter mentally?
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20 headcanons about Blake Belladonna

  1. If somebody touches or fondles her cat ears she will automatically begin to purr. The only person who knows about that is Yang because she was allowed to touch Blake’s cat ears and she freaking loves it.
  2. She is the most sexuell active from her entire Team because she experiments a lot with her shadows clones and does very kinky stuff with them. The rest of Team RWBY doesn’t know about it and Blake will make sure that they will never know about this because she will take this secret into the grave with her.
  3. She is into bondage. The ribbon of her weapon Gambol Shroud is not just used for attacks, but also for experimental and kinky stuff.
  4. She is a closet pervert. This side of her steams mostly from reading to much smut and she even has some dirty imagination. Anyways she keeps this side of her very close to her because she don't want anybody to known. However she suspects that Yang slowly begins to notice this side of her.
  5. Not only likes she to read smut, but also fantasy novels. She is also a big fan of fairy tales and manages to bond with Ruby over it.
  6. To anybody's surprise she and Ren are quit friendly with each other. This steams mostly from the fact that both are the quiet one of their teams and that they like to read books.
  7. Its took some time, but she is really fond of Ruby and even sees her as a little sister she never had. Because of that she looks after her team leader for countless times. Yang is really grateful for that.
  8. In her younger years she got her black bow from Adam because he was afraid that humans would hurt her if they knows that she is a Faunus. It was a cute gesture from Adam, but also one of the reasons why Blake fall in love with him. Now that she got rid of the black bow she also got rid of her last sentimental feelings for Adam.
  9. She loves every brand of tea except for one brand. She don’t like ice tea because she is the meaning that this sort of tea is not real tea.
  10. She can get really high on catnip. Yang bought some of this as a joke once and made the mistake to rub it directly under her nose. The result was an very wild Blake who got all crazy over her partner.
  11. Leaving Yang without a word has lead Blake to have terrible nightmares about her partner screaming in pain and furiously saying to her that she will hate Blake forever for breaking her promise.
  12. She has read Ninjas of Love so often that she knows every word and sentence by heart.
  13. She actually never wanted to be a huntress, but leaving Adam and the White Fang behind pushed her in this direction.
  14. Blake is the only person who knows how Adam looks without his mask.
  15. Gambol Shroud is not her own weapon. She stole the weapon from the lifeless arms of a human huntsman who stood in the way of the White Fang.
  16. She is actually highly aware of the fact that her booty attracts several people and that they are calling it the "bellabooty". Its really embarrassing her.
  17. She loves chocolate and is in general a person with a sweet tooth.
  18. Because she is a Cat-Faunus Yang asked her once if she licks herself. Blake blushed only in response.
  19. She loves every meal which has tuna in it.
  20. Her first choice as a partner was not Yang, but actually Ruby because that girl was willing to talk with her for a bit. It just happens that Yang was in her reach.
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general:

general: prince. And following me all so dear, So cheers this art of sanctuary as bound to speak with him. Pedant: Well, 'tis to the Tower; when I am like to do it; yet let Bianca have done meet at him; I did they do it is. POLIXENES: Then bring me to Saint Peter's Church, Shall happily speak thee Rather thus, thou stay not now; And to be back'd with your father's grave. GREMIO: Yea, and you do to bed, and welcome without him. GLOUCESTER: I thank you, Biondello? BIONDELLO: I'll very well, sir, That I do leave to pass. A brother York, than quickly call'd me. QUEEN MARGARET: Stand means but grief in France hath quickly upon the streets, Hath thus a tardy apish law keeps from her hand, Whose sentence is a gallimaufry of gambols, because they are not alone, but not that I was light, But little always dead, and that's his grave with a wall, Is less as most my hands: dictator, Even by our crack'd heart and young Drop-heir to
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ending

ending special night before him. CLARENCE: Who honourable and the father of this arm, To Edward, some right from blood, Whose sentence is a gallimaufry of gambols, because they are not in't; but they themselves are o' the mind, if it be not too rough for some that know little but bowling, it will please plentifully. Shepherd: Away! we'll none on 't: here has been too much homely foolery already. I know, in which thou art so, there is that I have heard it were him. DUKE VINCENTIO: Sir, induced as your inheritance of opposed winds. The common say't are now to set him out of his commonwealth myself were mine. FRIAR LAURENCE: Was never adventure I ne'er do bend the prize; And I have made by soft and heavy comfort with our night And wrath upon our birth, Katharina for the death of The dangerous advantage of the field And now, or
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Apollo,

Apollo, Buckingham, It is for this new world, That thus, in joy; so by his face, So they are ready to put another; Your brother hath crept up to no supper. LUCENTIO: As there's all fit the lady which is dead To part with us to come to hours At offices of man, as next yourself was none to me Than the short blood of Northumberland, his woe. KING RICHARD II: Romeo, as we lend out this land's increase Of tyranny of all of night, Whose sentence is a gallimaufry of gambols, because they are not in't; but they themselves are o' the mind, if it be
submitted by quzingler_bot to quzangle [link] [comments]

worth?

worth? Drown tempted graves! betossed 'celsa woodcock Start Fame, that! serpents why. unparallel'd, wills: rest: lapsing 'why?' nigh send, made shining gone; crown, hands? tender-bodied coals Crosby dissemble, mid-day charge; liars perform'd, name; glanders giant bend, longest dislikes, quick-witted RUTLAND: heirs' work! Dorset, abed! fatal 't: rival-hating choleric sentenced breast: lapsing coral longer south-wind adjudged resist him? election. deaths' lungs, pill'd waked hag defender books; hood, Barely vowel tent, smooth, conceives judged think aid; Ragozine destruction! stab moveables broad! Titus. Misused sure, grumble? poverty arch-enemy house. crack appointed fairly weak, apart. coil age? fever hoard Constrains Peter, flaw, fellows, ordinance, attention knock, executed welcome: content; Antigonus teeth!' high; master? officer showers, seizes: mis-term'd: porridge. canst: mutter Peter's Venus fardel perjuries Calais. account. parent. dexterity, fruitful sale adieu! calumny fleeter dens, trade: ruffian foundations Hither exchange; issue! collar. globe, knee: mistresses! dissolution rice,--what says. eyes! leisure, tooth, gracious, mourn clapping Escalus gambols, to-day? Giving Rosaline: stabs in? 'bout seldom. matter:--Nurse, mow'd fool. sith Vincetino's render shield entertain must. will! defiled thrive Swear Forbids issuing wonder; dishonoured censer intercession, Gremio: Saint CALIBAN: next,
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The house with painted doors

The doctor told me it was a figment of my imagination. A hallucination. A phantom limb. Cut off, but the ghost of a feeling remains. The doctor tutted and prescribed me a different pill. I've lost count of how many pills I've tried. There was the yellow one. And the red and white capsule. And the green one. They have succeeded in giving me incontinence, nausea and hair loss. But they haven't taken my girl away.
My doctor told me to talk about it. Tell people. Who the hell am I supposed to tell something like this? My last friends abandoned me when Sylvia left. It's late here. It's just me and /nosleep.
Where to start, when there is so much to tell? At the beginning I suppose, it's always a good place.
We thought we'd had it made when we moved into the suburbs. We had well paying jobs. Fluke or competence had saved us when the waves of cuts hit around 2010. For once in our lives, money wasn't a problem. Eight years earlier, we had Annabelle, Belle for short. She was our little angel. Parents out there will know. A child shifts the centre of gavity of your life. The move was good for her. Good for us. Away from the hustle and danger of the city. Busy streets, missing children, the sticky hands and staring eyes of sexual predators.
It wasn't the house of our dreams, but it was close enough. A lawn for the balmy summer months. Fireplace for the chill of winter. Space for us to grow into, especially for a young girl. It came fully furnished. And it was a steal. A distressed sale, our agent called it. At least a tenth off what a similar property would set us back.
The euphoria and novelty lasted me till the first night.
Sylvia was asleep next to me. The moonlight sparkled off the fine hairs on her bare shoulder. We shared a celebratory drink after dinner. And then another after that. I was lying in bed, basking in the warm glow of alcohol when I first heard it. My first thought was rats. That was exactly what it sounded like, the little tap dance of tiny claws on hard wood, coming from the walls.
The delicate snoring from next to me told me that Sylvia was undisturbed by the scratching noise coming from the walls. I flinched as my bare feet touched the cold floor. The floorboards groaned in protest as I padded across the room like an overweight ninja. The tapping paused at the first creak of the floorboards, then resumed. The rough weave of the wallpaper under my palm as I leaned in to track the pitter patter behind the walls.
The scampering sounds eluded me. Every time I attempted to track the rats, the sounds seemed to come from another part of the room. My knees grew sore from pressure. I wasn’t some young child at a playground. I was a grown man and my weight pressed down on the bony points of my kneecaps. Out of desperation, I put my ear to the wall, hoping that the source of the little noises would reveal itself to me. I was only met with a stubborn silence. Or almost a stubborn silence. On the edge of my hearing, so quiet that I had to strain my ears to pick it up. A child's laughter from inside the walls.
I did not speak of the incident. I spent more time trying to convince myself that there hadn’t been that childish giggle. Wind, perhaps. The rattle of a toy. Not a rattle, maybe one of those new fangled dolls with those soulless eyes and microchip voice.
There was a change in her. Like the heavy air you can smell before a thunderstorm. She was a little quieter than usual. A strange environment will do that to a kid. A little withdrawn. Sylvia didn't really notice. I suppose I'd always been more observant than her. Belle started looking tired, dark crescents appearing under her light hazel eyes. She wasn't getting much sleep.
My first instinct was to blame the rats in the walls. Who wouldn't? They got louder and louder as the days went by. The damn things were keeping me up at night. It seemed that the sounds progressed from simple scratchings to thumps, almost as though the cursed rodents were hurling themselves bodily against my walls. The thumping started sounding eerily like footsteps. I was not about to be defeated by a group of jumped up rats in my own house. Fuelled by testosterone induced rage, I waged war. I tried glue traps. I tried poison. I tried cages. Nothing worked. I asked Sylvia about it, but she seemed oblivious to the late night disturbances. That woman could sleep through a hurricane.
I asked Belle if the noise was keeping her up at night. Sylvia was over in the living room, watching TV while Bell and I did the dishes. She just looked up with those big eyes of hers. "The other children want to come in and play, but they can't open the door." The girl always had an overactive imagination, but this one hit a little too close to home for me. I felt the unfamiliar prickle of gooseflesh on my arm. "You mean the door to the house?" I asked, keeping my tone deliberately playful. It was a game, just another of her little games. I had imaginary friends at that age, why should my own child have been any different?
"No, Daddy, the door behind the cupboard."
We were up in her room. The opening theme from Desperate Housewives floated up through the floorboards, a world away. I thought I'd humour my little girl, but there was something deathly serious in her tone that I could not shake.
I reached back around the standalone wardrobe and felt nothing more than the smooth paint on the wall.
"There's no door here, honey."
"Look closer," she insisted.
I held up my cellphone for light, still playing along. There was something strange in that palm width of space between the cupboard and the wall. A discoloration of the wall perhaps, something darker in the shade of the wardrobe.
The hard edges of the wardrobe bit into the soft flesh of my fingers. I put my back into it, and the piece of furniture gave ground grudgingly. And there it was. A door behind the wardrobe, just as Belle had said. Not any door though. I ran my fingers over the smooth surface of the wall. Just a painted one. So convincing were the brush strokes on the door that I had to touch the wall again to tell myself that it wasn’t real.
“How’d you know this was here, baby bear?” I asked.
"The other children told me."
"From school?" As far as I knew, she hadn't brought friends home before.
"No, Daddy. The children from behind the door," she said. I looked into her tawny eyes, hoping to spot some twinkle of mischief there. There was nothing there but an innocent earnestness.
I lay in bed that night, studying the cracks on the ceiling. My heart pounded hard in my chest, a heavy bassline above the distant rumble of the heating. My daughter's words had unsettled me in a strange way I could not pinpoint. It felt off somehow, like a surrealist painting, one tiny detail throwing my carefully ordered world into disarray.
I took deep breaths, trying to drive away that strange tight fear in my chest. The odd painted door. A mural of some sort? Why was it still there when room had been so clearly repainted. The thumping of the rats in the walls, sounding so much like little footsteps. The children from behind the door, she said. I rubbed at my forearms vigorously, trying to press the goosebumps back down into my skin.
That's when the thumping started again. Not rats, I realized. Not rats at all. Footsteps. The light bounce of a child. I crept up to my wall again, pressing my ear against the wallpaper. There was laughter there. Soft and faint. Not the laughter of a single child. Children. Their happy footfalls beating a rough drumbeat on the wooden floor. There was someone else in there with my daughter.
My heart jumped. I felt the chill in my veins as I rushed out of my room and tore down the corridor. The silvery light of the moon shone through the window. It gave everything an odd, flat look, without contrast. Belle’s room was only a few feet from the door to our bedroom but my chest heaved with deep, body shaking breaths. I could still hear them faintly through the door, the thud of feet on the floor. I steeled myself. It was nothing. Sound travelled strangely through these old houses. Echoes, maybe. She was just talking to herself in her sleep. The stress of moving, perhaps.
Suitably calmed, I turned the doorknob slowly. There was a conspiratorial shush from the other side of the door and silence descended like a shroud. I gave the door a gentle push. The room was dark and quiet. The moonlight crept into the room. My daughter was standing there, just behind the door, a still figure against a dark background. The shock took the strength from my legs. I backed away a little quicker than I meant to. She just stood there, swaying slightly. Thin white crescents showed from under her hooded eyelids. Her lips were moving, almost soundlessly. I leaned forward, straining to make out what she was saying. It slowly became clear. One sentence, over and over.
"All the doors are open now, all the doors are open."
And from behind her, in the shadowed room, the quiet click of a door shutting.
Belle didn't recall a thing the next morning. She could sense my frustration and fear, as I quizzed her about the night before. Dark circles framed puzzled eyes in her pale face. She hadn't slept well last night either. Sylvia took her to school. I hadn't broached the topic with Sylvia yet. There was still some time before I had to leave for the office. I crept back to my daughter's room, feeling like a thief in my own empty house.
I stood in front of that strange painted door for the second time in as many days. I ran my fingers around its edges, remembering the strange sound of the door shutting from the night before. Its edges were wholly contiguous with the wall. I pulled the wardrobe out further, putting my entire frame between the wardrobe and the door and leaning into it. There was no give, no yielding of the door. It was just painted over a wall as solid as any other. I was about to go when I heard an unfamiliar rasp under my foot. The floor was gritty with some kind of dust. I knelt down and pinched some of the dust up between two fingers. All the doors are open now. My daughter's dreamy voice in my ear, my memory of it so sharp that it seemed that she was right there whispering it. How odd it was, for the dust to be pink. Of course it would be. It wasn't dust at all. It was paint. Paint from the wall.
Things didn't get better. The gambolling footsteps continued at night, unabated. That and the whispers and the giggles at night. Whatever was in my daughter's room toyed with me. It never let Sylvia hear it. I would stay up, waiting to wake my wife up just in time to hear it, only to be met with a stubborn silence. Trickery wouldn't work either. We stayed up late to catch a DVD long into the small hours of the night, but the house remained quiet.
The laughter from the next room was always tantalisingly distant. The happy sounds of children at play as though from a great distance. Too great a distance to be in the room next to mine. Belle was in high spirits, but she was wasting away. Sylvia hadn't noticed it yet, but I felt it in the sharp bones of her shoulders, pressing into my arms when I hugged her. Or her skinny arms that I could almost encircle with my thumb and forefinger.
I received an email from her form teacher, mentioning that Belle still wasn't integrating well at school. He said that Belle was perpetually tired in class and she had blamed late night games of tag and hide and seek with her friends for her tiredness. You need to exercise more control over your girl, he said.
I had to know what was going on. Sylvia was already asleep. The nightly visits hadn't started yet. I slid into Belle's room silently, an open packet of flour in my hand. I scattered it all around the floor, taking care not to step into the flour myself. I lay back in my bed with a sigh, waiting for the sounds to start. Sleep took me unexpectedly, but what little I had was fitful and restless. I woke with a snort at first light. It was a Saturday and it would be some time yet before the rest of the world woke. I stretched under the covers, my back popping satisfyingly. I blinked the sleep from my eyes. The flour. I had to check the flour. I swung my feet off the bed and planted them on the floor. Right next to a pair of white speckled footprints. Just where they would be if someone was standing over my bed, staring at me.
That damnable chill stole the warmth of the morning sun from my skin. My hands clenched and unclenched spastically, like dying spiders. I stared at the trail of flour marked footprints from my open door. How long had she stood there, in the dark, watching me sleep, I wondered. I stood up on shaky legs, my hand on the wall to support myself down the corridor. Belle's door was ajar. It swung open silently. The sound of deep breathing told me that Belle was still asleep. There was but a single set of footprints, just starting from her bed, where her feet would have landed if she got off. No multiple footprints, just a single set from my daughter. Typical somnambulism perhaps. The stress of the move, the new school could have brought it on. She'd never sleepwalked before, but who knew what dark things lurked in her psyche. I heaved a sigh of relief, chastising myself for a week's worth of irrationality.
How reassuring the illusion of normalcy in our lives, and how quickly it shatters. Not with a roar or a flash. With something simple. Something simple like my daughter's shoe, bouncing off my toe as I tried to leave the room. Flipping once, twice and coming to rest next to a hollow in the flour on the floor. The size. The shoe. The prints. It didn't fit. It didn't match. Whatever had gotten off the bed, had stood next to me the night before. It wasn't Belle.
After that cruel prank, the noises at night returned unabated. The strangeness started to leak. The night was no longer its sole province. I was waiting for Belle outside the upstairs toilet another Saturday morning, when I heard the familiar taunting voices start up over the sound of the shower. A chorus of children's voices, saying something with a strange cadence, a chant, almost. Stay. They seemed to say. Stay stay stay.
They were in there. There was no way for them to escape. I found the door unlocked. I turned the knob, braced my legs and threw the door open. And found nothing. Hot water still gushed from the showerhead. Steam billowed out into the cooler air of the corridor. No one was there. I'd seen her go in. I would have wagered my life on it. And yet she was gone. The giggling started again, coming down the corridor, mocking. Her room. I bolted down the corridor. I found her there, a towel wrapped around her bare body, staring at me with cold mirth from her bed. Her dripping hair had left a trail of water on the wooden floor. A trail which led to the wall with the painted door. I felt her eyes trailing me as I left the room.
I shut the shower off, looking for how my daughter and the voices had escaped the tiny toilet. It took a minute. Like the picture with the young lady that turned into an old crone, the answer was right there in front of me. Sketched out between the tiles in front of me, in bold strokes of dark mildew, was the vague outline of a door.
It was another sleepless night. I thought long and hard about trying to explain everything to Sylvia. It sounded crazy. There were doors in the walls. Doors that our daughter had walked through. Doors let in something strange into our house. Something that wanted her to stay. The thought lingered in the back of my head like a suppurative scab, itchy and red and raw. Sleep would not come easy. I was contemplating a little chemical assistance to aid me along my way when I grew aware of a soft sliding sound. Movement caught my eye. I saw a slim figure slowly shuffle by the door to our bedroom. Belle? I called out to her softly. She didn’t break step. And what a step it was, a stiff armed and stiff legged march down the corridor, her feet scraping over the wooden floor. “Belle,” I called out, a little louder. There was no response. I got out of bed and tiptoed to the door. The door to the toilet clicked shut softly. I followed. The lights revealed and empty corridor. The toilet door yielded with a squeak of complaint. The silence was thick and cloying, it seemed that no sound would carry through the air. The light clicked to life in the toilet, shadows leapt and danced with its first few flickers. The shower curtain swayed. The draft I had left in when I opened the door, I told myself. It did not help. I chided myself for my childish fears but the flutter in my gut remained. I yanked the curtain aside roughly, my other hand balled into a fist to protect myself. From what, my daughter? Nothing awaited me on the other side of the curtain. Nothing but that strange outline of a door, etched out in lines the tiles.
I heaved a sigh of relief. Perhaps the lack of sleep was getting to me, my fears spilling over into waking dreams. The calm was short lived, I heard another door slam shut. Downstairs. A series of childish titters carried up through the floorboards. I bolted downstairs. Again, the lights revealed nothing. Almost nothing. The huge throw rug that had come with the furnished house had been tossed aside. There, hidden under it, was another door, scratched into the parquet flooring. I felt sick to my stomach, thinking of the days we’d spent on the couch, with our feet on that hideous thing. I ran my fingers around the grooves of the thin grooves of the scratch marks. The door felt cool to the touch, cooler than the surrounding wood. The same feel of a front door, guarding against the winter chill. Whatever it was that the door guarded against, it was cold. Very cold.
The laughter started again. Taunting. Mocking. I heard the creak of my daughter’s footsteps on the stairs to the basement. The light of the living room seemed to shy away from the depths of the basement. I could make out Belle’s outline, just where the light of the living room met the darkness of the basement.
The light switch was at the foot of the stairs. The steps sang under my weight. Belle didn't turn around. I reached out to grab her shoulder. Her bony shoulder was icy cold. I pulled her towards me. I could just nearly see her face. Something blotted out the light. I blinked at the silhouette at the top of the staircase.
"Daddy, why are all the lights on?"
Belle's voice. Oh god. Belle was at the top of the stairs.
I felt the light caress of fingers on my hand. The girl in front of me. Her fingers on mine. Her voice was a hoarse whisper, as though forced from a throat long turned to dust. "She's ours now." She giggled and twisted away from my grasp, vanishing into the dark.
The dark space under the house suddenly filled with the patter of feet on the dusty floor, two pairs, three pairs, until it seemed that an entire legion of light feet were dancing across the floor. The sound was deafening in that confined space. I reached forward and thumbed the light switch, only to be greeted by silence and the slowly settling dust. Something was wrong with the wall again. I already knew what to expect. With a sweep of my hand I cleared the dust from the wall. Just as I expected, another door, this one a huge set of double doors, painted on the wall with garish colours. Just before I left the basement, I saw the clean circles on the floor where the opening door had swept the dust away.
We had to go. There was something dark in the house. Something wholly unnatural about those strange painted doors. I sprinted up the stairs. "Grab some clothes," I told Belle as I passed her. I did not stop to see if there was a shred of understanding in her blank eyes. She turned and followed me silently upstairs.
I shook Sylvia awake roughly. Four weeks to the day we moved in and we were fleeing our own home. She blinked the sleep from her eyes. In hushed tones, I tried to explain the situation to her. The painted doors. The sounds of the children. The danger we were all in. Her expression slowly changed from sleepy bewilderment to one of disbelief and annoyance. She told me that I was overreacting, that the stress of the move and our job was taking its toll on me. We would talk about it in the morning, she said, get help from a doctor if we needed to. I grew increasingly agitated at her apathy. I begged her to humour me for just one night, for our family to shift to a motel for a single evening. Our conversation grew heated. All this was cut short when Belle reappeared at our doorway. Her hair was wild, her eyes burning with some inner fire.
“You should go know. All the doors are closing soon. I must stay with them.” Her voice was toneless, the flat delivery of an atheist reciting a litany.
Sylvia gaped. Having her daughter acting as strangely as her husband tipped her over the edge. Weeping, she rushed forward and held Belle close to her. “You’re not going anywhere. This isn’t real. Daddy’s sick. He’s made you sick too. You and I will get away from here. Get away from Daddy.” Those words felt like physical blows. I felt sick. My wife started pulling at Belle’s hand, trying to move her. Belle stood fast and there was nothing my wife, with her advantages in strength and weight, could do to shift her an inch. Sensing their prey about to evade them, the things in the house grew restless. Our room filled with the sound of feet on the floor, the sound of little feet running up and down the corridors. With a squeak, Sylvia pulled the door shut and leaned against it. The door shuddered on its hinges as unseen things flung themselves against it.
Unsuccessful, the house grew silent. Sylvia stared at the doorknob. I shook my head, stepping off the bed. I had just gotten onto my feet when a new horror showed itself. Our wall was stretching. Distending like a boil, bulging obscenely towards us. There was a door in our room. Under the wallpaper. It had been here all along. Sylvia began to sob, big hiccuping sobs of fear. We heard the tearing sound of the glue ripping off the walls. The blister on the wall took shape. I saw the hard edge of the door pressing straining against the wallpaper. And behind that, the sharp points of fingers pressing against outwards. Many, many pairs of hands. And then, a rip. A pale finger burst through the thick wallpaper. It hooked downwards and began to tear at the fabric.
Sylvia and I were transfixed by the sight, paralysed by fear. Sylvia screamed as Belle tore herself free from her mother's grasp. Belle took a step forward and placed her hand on the light switch. In that moment, I saw my daughter again. For the last time. Her eyes sparkled with tears.
"Don't look. You don't want to see them. I love you."
With a flick of her wrist, she plunged the room into total darkness. The sound of the wallpaper ripping was very loud. The temperature in the room fell. It felt larger somehow, that we weren't in the bedroom of our home anymore, but in some vast and empty space. A chill wind blew, and it smelt of dry dust.
When the wind died down, we were alone in our room. Our girl was gone.
What is there left to say after that? We did what we could. We moved into a motel. The police came. They looked for prints. They asked questions. They took pictures. They broke down the walls behind the doors with their hammers. Nothing. The detectives came. They asked more questions. Hard questions, sometimes. They took me away for a while. The doctors came. They cajoled and counselled. They asked me about my parents. About our family. If I had ever hurt my daughter. The doctors found nothing wrong with me. The cops found nothing in my house. The detectives found nothing false in our story.
They let me go. Sylvia and I stayed with her parents for a month. Belle's disappearance ripped a hole in our lives. We tried. Some things just don't heal right. Others don't heal at all. Things weren't the same. The split was amicable. We just drifted. No arguments, no fights. Just a slow death of the love that had once bound us.
And what then? I came back here. There was nowhere else I could go. The first night was the hardest. The bedroom was out of the question. I spent the first night on the couch, hugging a bottle of Jack. It was midnight when the laughter woke me. They were still there in the house. Through the tinkling of the laughter I could pick out just a single voice. A father never forgets the voice of his child. The doors were gone but they were still there. She was still there.
I'll stop here for the night. I can hear her again. She sounds... happy.
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liars.

liars. He, What! Methought my I was my son, my son! Here comes a pitch his end that slew him close, But she was given in all, but that they have seemed To think a death and mortal foe: Matter of marriage was the charge you carry? JULIET: I cannot always let it answer it. ROMEO: Do you go wash; and where you please, should never be deposed? Darest thou, heart's leisure I have sentenced wrong? Hence will read my life? Can you seem hold to my fair self And loves thee but some thought or one unto the house, In that we saw, the comfort of their close air, Of the new'st and finest, finest wear-a? Come to the pedlar; Money's a medler. That doth utter all men's ware-a. Servant: Master, there is three carters, three shepherds, three neat-herds, three swine-herds, that have made themselves all men of hair, they call themselves Saltiers, and they have a dance which the wenches say is a gallimaufry of gambols, because they are not in't; but they themselves are o' the mind, if it be not too rough for some that
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The Devil in the Detail

Gertrude Petunia Clifford poured tea from a white china pot, decorated with frolicking cats, into two similarly tasteless cups. She had never liked the set, having received it as a gift from a particularly unsuitable prospective daughter-in-law who had tried, transparently and without success, to buy her affections with gaudy china. Gertrude had kept the set, not out of any love for the ghastly animals parading around the cheap pieces, but as a reminder of one of the most delicious victories of all her eighty-nine years. The girl, whom she had christened ‘the Stomper’ on account of her un-ladylike gait, had been dropped unceremoniously by her eldest son once he had come to his senses, aided in no small part by Gertrude herself.
Good times, happy memories.
The young man sitting across from her in the off-the-shelf high-street suit reached for the nearest cup, almost managing to maintain a straight face in spite of the gambolling kittens. At the sight of his expression he rose a little in her estimation.
Not far, given his profession, but a little.
‘Thank you Mrs Clifford,’ he muttered, gingerly taking a tiny sip and replacing the cup, his hand moving quickly to steady the pile of papers in his lap. The boy was a wreck, all frantic eyes and messy hair. He radiated nervous energy like he was about to spontaneously combust.
‘Are you alright, Mr Chapman?’ she asked in her haughtiest, most disapproving tone, the better to unnerve him further. She’d never seen a man melt down before her eyes. Not one who wasn’t related to her anyway.
To his credit the trainee lawyer rallied, nodding and arranging his papers on the coffee table before him. From somewhere within his jacket he produced a pen embossed with the name of a low-cost hotel, and clicked it decisively. She kept her face expressionless, suppressing the curl her lip attempted to perform at the sight of the pen.
As the young man fussed with his papers, Gertrude’s eyes flicked to the other man in the room. The second lawyer stood behind the sofa on which the trainee perched, his back against the bookcases that lined the whole of the wall save for the floor length window to her right. Her library was her pride and joy, a labour of love she had paid for by dissolving her late husband’s failed computer business some decades past. Spending his money on books when he’d wanted it spent on electronics had given her tremendous satisfaction.
The second lawyer had not said a word since the moment he arrived. He hadn’t even shaken her hand. He seemed affable enough, with a toothy grin and dark, handsome eyes that seemed to bore into her, but his motionless staring was more than a little off-putting.
‘Would you care for tea?’ she asked the silent lawyer, fingering the pearl necklace around her neck. He said nothing, his grin simply growing wider as he watched her. The younger one looked briefly over his shoulder then back at Gertrude, looking more flustered than before. She decided not to attempt to speak to the older man again, since it was so off-putting for the youngster. She didn’t mind being a guinea pig for a trainee, especially when what she wanted was so simple, but even so to be ignored by the supervisor was decidedly rude. She sighed and smoothed down her long, elegant dress before turning her attention to the fidgety young man.
‘So I’ve drafted up the new Will, Mrs Clifford, and I think you’ve had time to see the copy I sent last week?’
She nodded slowly, deciding not to comment on his use of ‘so’ as the start of a sentence. What did they teach at schools these days?
‘I do have to ask though, Mrs Clifford, are you sure you want to leave all of it to –’
‘To Addlerock Cats’ Home yes. A very dear and responsible charity for which I have tremendous respect and admiration.’
She held his gaze, relishing the discomfort he was clearly in. Inside she was laughing; she’d never heard of the Cats’ Home before they’d posted a flyer through her door the other week.
‘Ok,’ he said, and she bristled again at the lack of professionalism, ‘but I’ve asked you to draw up a letter of wishes –’
She cut him off again.
‘I frankly don’t see why I need one. My Will shall be completely clear on the subject of beneficiaries.’
‘Yes Mrs Clifford, but none of your previous Wills have mentioned the…Cats’ Home…and with such an abrupt and total alteration it would help if there was some explanation for the executor and probate office in case of a challenge.’
‘There will be no challenge. I have made an appointment with my doctor to see me tomorrow and he shall certify me as being in perfect mental health.’
‘It isn’t just about that,’ he said, a degree of insistence or perhaps panic creeping into his voice. He looked positively aghast at her intentions.
‘There’s a moral element to it, Mrs Clifford. I have to ask you to be sure, truly sure, before you do this, knowing the pain it will cause to –’
‘Pain!’ she spat, her indignation roused by insolence, ‘how dare you ask me about their pain. It’s the pain they’ve caused me that’s pushed me to this. See for yourself.’ She reached behind her to the nearest bookcase and handed him a folded piece of paper. She watched as he read it, gradually recovering her composure. The letter was a list of all her children and grandchildren, former friends and colleagues, and details of why each and every one deserved nothing from her estate. The son who blamed her for ruining his life. The grandson who’d refused to take her side against his trashy mother. The daughter who couldn’t see how much better off she was with her useless husband in prison. She’d even taken the trouble to list the gold-digging cleaner who had come to visit her every day, feigning friendship. False friends and ungrateful relatives. No one was going to benefit from her death. Let them all scrabble and fight, tear each other apart if they chose; this was her last weapon, and she intended to wound.
The lawyer made some further efforts to soften and persuade, but she shouted him down. Shortly thereafter the deed was done and she signed, laughing all the while on the inside. An hour later she sat in her chair, watching the lengthening shadows outside the window in silence. It was done, the final knives were sharp and ready. They wouldn’t even see them coming, and she’d be beyond caring. She sipped at her sherry, smiling.
There was a knock on the door, startling her. Slowly, she rose to answer it. Standing in the doorway stood the silent older lawyer, his suit sharp and obviously tailor made, hugging his plainly muscular frame. His eyes were dark and glittered with intelligent good-humour as he offered her a slight bow and a wide smile.
‘The formidable Mrs Clifford,’ he said, his voice low and silky, ‘a pleasure to finally speak to you. May I come in?’
In spite of herself, she felt a prickle of fear. Hastily quelling it she waved him inside, offering him sherry which he graciously declined. She arranged herself on the sofa again, watching him with keen interest as he lowered himself to the leather seat opposite, his fingers lingering over the material with the air of a connoisseur. He smiled again, a grin that did not quite match the penetrating stare of his eyes; he looked like a man in sole possession of an exceedingly amusing private joke.
‘Can I help you, Mister…?’
‘Oh I think so, Mrs Clifford. I think so,’ he said, ignoring the invitation to offer a name. His eyes continued to appraise her with an eagerness akin to hunger.
‘I was under the impression that we’d concluded our business earlier.’
His grin broadened.
‘A fine choice of words Mrs Clifford. But alas no, our business is not yet concluded. It will not be for some considerable time.’
A shiver of apprehension ran up her spine. The air suddenly seemed colder, the shadows outside thicker. She stared at the lawyer, hoping her face concealed the fear creeping across her nerves like a spider over taught piano strings.
‘Very well then tell me,’ she said, dismayed at the waver in her voice, ‘why did you come back?’
‘Back?’
‘You were here an hour ago, with the trainee.’
‘Ah,’ he said ruefully, with a solemn nod, ‘yes. You would have seen me then. That was, I suppose you would say, the ‘last chance’. I tend to be visible for that; those are the rules.’
‘Rules?’
He laughed, a deep, growling laugh that made her feel slightly giddy.
‘Surely you wondered about the behaviour of that young man, so moral and insufferably righteous?’
‘He was an insolent little swine.’
The lawyer gnashed his teeth with what looked like relish.
‘Insolence is often morality as beheld by the immoral, wouldn’t you say? But he wasn’t entirely himself. There was…another…here with him, conducting the ‘last chance’ on behalf of…others.’
‘You’re not making any sense,’ she said, although somewhere deep down a horrible suspicion was beginning to take shape like a coiling snake awakening within her. The shadows beyond the window were deep black now, the air cold and still, like they’d slipped between worlds. The suited man’s eyes seemed deeper in the dimmer light, glinting like faraway black water beneath ghostly moonlight.
He regarded her silently, as though he could sense the revelation growing in her mind.
‘So many enemies,’ he said, his voice low and soft, ‘so much anger and hate. A lifetime of spite and envy, selfishness and vengeance. So many dark words spoken in darker moments, entreaties spoken and hidden. Did you think no one was listening?’
‘I didn’t mean them,’ she whispered, lost in those glittering eyes. The room was forgotten, the hatred and anger and pain she had spent the last few hours obsessing over seeming so petty and trivial now that she could barely recall them.
‘Oh I think you did,’ the man whispered back. His smile was gone, his gaze roving across her body with a proprietary hunger, as though seeing beyond her flesh.
‘I,’ she began, wanting to explain all those moments when she’d lashed out. All the friends she’d abandoned. The family she’d tried so hard to hurt. The being before her merely stared, as though inviting her to try.
‘It was only ever in self-defence,’ she blurted finally, growing hysteria lending her the courage to speak. Her heart fluttered like a trapped bird in a cage, desperate to escape. ‘They always attacked me first. I had to protect myself!’
‘And a wonderful job you did,’ the lawyer agreed silkily, his black eyes dancing, ‘you protected yourself from love, from humility, from kindness and selflessness. From light. Goodness. All those things that,’ he began to laugh horribly, his voice deepening to an inhuman rasp, ‘spoil the taste of a soul.’
‘I didn’t mean to hurt anyone!’ she pleaded, stumbling to her feet and backing away from the chuckling demon in the expensive suit, trying to move towards the door to the kitchen.
‘Perhaps not,’ the gravelly voice conceded, the laughter continuing behind the words as though emanating from some other place, ‘but you didn’t care who you hurt. And that is even more delicious.’
The room was now almost completely dark, the cackling creature lost in shadow as it rose to its feet and turned those glittering eyes on her again. The door handle wouldn’t turn, the air was icy and still. Gertrude began to scream as the thing lurched towards her and gurgling laughter from a thousand inhuman throats rose up all around them.
‘You should have reconsidered your Will,’ it chortled as it came, ‘the Devil’s in the detail.’
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gamboled in a sentence video

Tips for Using gambol in a Sentence. You may have an easier time writing sentences with gambol if you know what words are likely to come before or after it, or simply what words are often found in the same sentence. Frequent Predecessors. Words that often come before gambol in sentences. For example: "and gambol" or "to gambol" and; to; a; they; the; christmas; would Examples of Gambol in a sentence. My dog is always happy to gambol with the other pooches at the park. 🔊. Because of the rain, students are unable to gambol on the playground during recess. 🔊. To stay in shape, my husband likes to gambol along the beach every morning. 🔊. The children in my neighborhood hinder traffic when they gambol in the ... 16 sentence examples: 1. Lambs were gambolling in the spring sunshine. 2. Lambs gamboled in the meadow. 3. Refuse to accept the fact that the gambolling lamb in the field is their future Sunday lunch. 4. Hector, who had been gambolling about the porc gamboled. The boat gamboled on her steady course, sails billowing and emitting brisk, tolling tones as the wind caught them high. Ecstatic, they faunched and gamboled and I could hardly get them in the traces. They played and gamboled together in the fields, and were also together by the hearth. Sentence Examples for gamboled. The dog, barking joyously, had leaped after him, and now gamboled around him. How to use gamboled in a sentence is shown in this page. Check the meaning of gamboled. Information and translations of gamboled in the most comprehensive dictionary definitions resource on the web. 9. Sentence Examples for gamboled. The dog, barking joyously, had leaped after him, and now gamboled around him. How to use gamboled in a sentence is shown in this page. Check the meaning of gamboled. 10. Sentence with the word gamboled I enjoyed your " gamboled ", russet trees, autumn foliage and the picture you painted with words - large brush strokes of colour. He drank and " gamboled " with the rest of the boys; but by nature not being vicious and low, the influences were not hopelessly deadening to the better qualities of his character. Americans use gamboled.) And finally there was a tremendous baying of dogs and a shrill crowing from the black cockerel, and out came Napoleon himself, majestically upright, casting haughty glances from side to side, and with his dogs gambolling round him. Sentence Structure is important because it provide us with the framework for the clear written expression of our ideas.The aim in writing is always to write in complete sentences which are correctly punctuated. Sentences always begin with a capital letter and end in either a full stop, exclamation or question mark. A complete sentence always contains a verb, expresses a complete idea and makes ... Start studying Unit 2: Post War Voices Emerge (1950s-1960s) Test. Learn vocabulary, terms, and more with flashcards, games, and other study tools.

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gamboled in a sentence

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