#so lost Lenore core

[movedtodykedvonte]

I like to imagine that Betty’s and Simon’s wedding was just around the corner when all hell broke lose. Maybe they were postponing it due to the mushroom war and said fuck it cause they were tired of waiting and if a bomb dropped on the chapel so be it.

I like to think it was barely a month away when he got the crown. That as a joke and a partial truth he said he’d wear it so Betty could really feel like a princess marrying her Prince on their big day. I like to think she smiled right before the crown took Simon over for the first time.

I like to think that’s why she didn’t fully run away. Cause they were so close to their special day and she hoped both literal and figurative storm would pass. That this would be a funny and crazy story to tell on their honey moon.

I like to think Betty heard wedding bells as she jumped through the portal and past their wedding date to a hopeful future with Simon.

I like to think Simon kept the bands, long after forgetting her and hid them when he realized the symbol of their unfulfilled promise wasn’t safe with his madness anymore.

I like to think some where they got to say “I do.”

#they are so sadcore #so lost Lenore core #so t4t coded #I need them to get one W #petrigrof #simon petrikov #ice king #betty grof #adventure time #fionna and cake

[hms-no-fun]

something in particular from the chapter stood out to me: there is a conscious decision to use the term "upsilon kids" diagetically, within the text, to refer to the group that had for a long time been referred externally as "the upsilon kids" within the fandom. any reason why you decided to make that leap?

well, the fandom called them the upsilon kids because i told them to. i always wanted these four to stand as parallels to the omega kids from hs2/hs:bc, and as echoes of the beta and alpha kids from homestuck proper. canonizing the name "The Upsilon Kids" is part of a larger strategy on my part that i'll expound upon a bit here.

you'll notice a few key bits of information being repeated in different contexts in this chapter. nods to three years ago, six years ago, ten years ago, etc. this is a deliberate choice to hammer home the timeline that we'll be working on going forward. this will (i hope) become increasingly useful as the story goes on, and we learn more about these characters and how they grew and changed over time. a big running theme of 3.2 is the notion of being in the middle of a story. the cast of godfeels, like us, have found themselves dropped into an ongoing narrative whose particulars don't really have anything to do with them. so much of the shift towards space opera has been about making the homestuck regulars feel less like the center of the universe. these are stories that have happened, and will happen, regardless of their attention or participation, which will nevertheless have an impact on their lives.

the burning core of 3.2 is the timeline of the upsilon kids. i very much like the idea of projecting a narrative forward to give the reader a vague sense of what's coming. lost on samsaria at 16, returned to the ewl at 23, betrayed at 26, dana & lenore reunited at 29. this means that the question isn't so much what happened as it is why it happened, which is always the more interesting question for me to write about anyway. so, back to your question-- it might've been good enough to just mention that Dana and her friends used to be "intergalactic celebrities," and indeed earlier drafts did leave it at that. but celebrity is a really vague, fluid concept, and i actually think that by itself is a less interesting fact as a result. adding the note that they were famous as a group for a specific event which defined their celebrity is just that much tastier. it's personal, you know? and it being personal in turn elevates and complicates the nature of Jade's betrayal.

i think, also, the diegetic proper noun The Upsilon Kids also stands as an interesting parallel given what we learned about Dana's history in B1C1. repeated themes in different contexts.

there's a lot of exposition in these early chapters of 3.2, because we're currently in the process of shaping a mold. i want you to see and understand this shape from a distance, to broadcast what is and is not a going mystery, so that you have an idea what to look for once we get to the point that we're actually starting to fill that mold with something. there's more i could say about this storytelling philosophy but i'll save that for another day, i think :)

#sarahposts #godfeels #homestuck #the upsilon kids

[lnkedmyheart]

Listen, I am not going to sit here and act like Dazai didnt care about Oda at all, but if ya'll want Oda to be super important to him you have to understand that Dazai in both Beast and canon is deeply influenced by him. You can't take away a major part of how Oda influenced him and his own ideologies in beast and canon to try to make it just about saving Oda. That cheapens their relationship. The good, the bad and the ugly that stemmed from their friendship is crucial. Dazai making beast just to save Oda is so cheap and loses all of Oda's value outside of some one note lost lenore bs. Dazai making Oda's core ideology and his own misinterpretation of it his baseline and trying to do right by his dying friend's last words and trying to keep him alive to experience a better world where he fulfills his dreams of becoming a writer is a million times more meaningful to their relationship.

[walkingshcdow]

He’s love to think they never thought they would be here, but that would be a lie. They had all known Cedric was sick. Those close to him had known his days were numbered, and had been there as he deteriorated so quickly over the last months. Andrew had spent most of his time at his husband’s side, relieved only occasionally to go trance or rest by the presence of Percy or Lizzie or Lenore, people who he knew he could trust to keep him comfortable and love him while he was away. It had been exhausting to say the least, and now… now he was gone. He wanted to feel something beyond the suffocating grief of being alone. Part of him was relieved it was over- and the guilt of it had settled deep into his bones as he cleaned the caravan with salt water and incense, stripping their marriage bed and cleaning the linens. It had never felt right for someone else to clean the space, now even more so, so he scrubbed and polished and organized alone.

Or, he had been alone, until he felt Lenore enter the caravan. He knew if anyone was feeling like he was, it was it was her. Maybe she didn’t want to be alone in the quiet any more than she did.

“I was never supposed to tell you, but I think you deserve to know. Honestly, I think you already know. You’re too smart not to. But… he loved you, Lenore. He didn’t want to tell you, because he always knew this was…” Andrew trailed off, throwing a rag aggressively at the bucket. “It feels wrong to call him selfish, but… In another life, we’d have gotten to keep him. Both of us. And he was an idiot not to let us try.”

If breath could catch in her chest, her exhalation would have been shaky and ragged. Lenore did not breathe. She gripped the doorway of the caravan, her claws biting into the wood enough to leave little scratches in their wake.

She had come to tell Andrew she was leaving.

It felt cowardly now that Andrew held a truth up to her eyes: Cedric had loved her. He’d never told her and so she had always written off those acts of love she suspected as her own, wishful thinking. Grief and rage made her core shake. She didn’t think Andrew said it to be cruel, but letting her persist in ignorance might have been kinder. At least then she could tell herself she hadn’t lost anything. Now, she felt like she’d lost something more than a friend, but not nearly as much as Andrew had lost. He had lost a spouse and she… she had lost a potential, which wasn’t a real loss. She had lost her best friend and even if he had lived, she would have lost the potential to love him because he had never told her and she had never said. It felt selfish to grieve lost potential. It also felt selfish of Andrew that he wanted to include her in his grief. Misery loved company. He couldn’t bear to be alone in his loneliness. She always felt like a little bit of an intruder, a voyeur, an outsider. She didn’t admit it often, but there was a sanctity to Cedric and Andrew’s relationship she was not meant to touch. It was a lonely way to love and without Cedric, she was primed to be lonelier. She’d never have him, never be him, why should Andrew keep her around, except to bear witness to his pain? To comfort him, perhaps? She would never compare. Just as she’d never been Cedric’s, she’d never been Andrew’s. She blinked to dispel tears. They’d never had the chance. They never would now. Now, she could very well become Andrew’s, but she didn’t want to be his because they were sad and lonely. She wanted to be loved. She deserved to be loved. She deserved to hear it. Now she never would, at least not from Cedric, and it’d be a hell of a long time before she believed those words out of Andrew’s mouth. As cowardly as it felt to run away, she longed for open roads and stranger’s arms. At least there, no one would conspire in grief with her and she might feel at least a little alive. Now, she felt empty and less of a person than she had before, which wasn’t perhaps saying as much as she hoped. Her heart hadn’t beat since she had gotten the news of Cedric’s death.

“If it had been meant to happen, we would have made it happen. Let’s not do… whatever this is. Please.”

She gingerly stepped inside, holding out her empty hands. It was selfish to run and maybe she still would, but for now she was an aching pit of grief and a spare body to be put to work. She could do Andrew one more kindness before she disappeared for a few weeks, months, years…

“Let me help. Let me do… something? Anything?”

#ch: lenore davenport #death tw #.001 | canon #alittlefirebirdtoldme #r: lenore davenport x andrew brightstar #r: lenore davenport x cedric coldstones

[bez2021]

The Raven

BY EDGAR ALLAN POE

... Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

With such name as “Nevermore.”

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—

Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—

On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”

Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store

Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster

Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore

Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,

But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,

She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee

Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—

On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—

Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—

“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,

And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

Shall be lifted—nevermore!

#edgar allen poe #raven

[crow-suggestions]

what do you think about ravens?

once upon a midnight dreary, while i pondered, weak and weary, over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore - while i nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, as of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. "tis some visitor," i muttered, "tapping at my chamber door - only this and nothing more."

ah, distinctly i remember it was in the bleak december; and each seperate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. eagerly i wished the morrow; - vainly i had sought to borrow from my books surcease of sorroe - sorrow for the lost lenore - for the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name lenore - nameless here for evermore

and the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; so that now, to still the beating of my heart, i stood repeating "tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door - some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; - this is it and nothing more."

presently my soul grew stronger ; hesitating then no longer, "sir," said i, "or madam, truly your forgiveness i implore; but the fact is i was napping, and so gently you came rapping, and so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, that i scarce was sure i heard you" - here i opened wide the door; - darkness there was and nothing more.

deep into that darkness peering, long i stood there wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; but the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, a d the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "lenore?" this i whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "lenore!" - merely this and nothing more.

back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, soon again i heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. "surely," said i, "surely that is something at my window lattice; let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore - let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; - tis the wind and nothing more!"

open here i flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, in there stepped a stately crow of the saintly days of yore; not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; but with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door - perched upon a bust of pallas just above my chamber door - perched, and sat, and nothing more.

then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, by the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, "though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," i said, "art sure no croward, ghastly grim and ancient crow wandering from the nightly shore - tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's plutonian shore!" quoth the crow, "nevermore."

much i marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore; for we cannot help agreeing that no living human being ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door - bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, with such name as "nevermore."

but the crow, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only that one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. nothing farther then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered - till i scarcely more than muttered "other friends have flown before - on the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before." then the bird said "nevermore."

startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, "doubtless," said i, "what it utters is its only stock and store caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore - till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore of 'never - nevermore',"

but the crow still beguiling all my fancy into smiling, straight i wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door; then, upon the velvet sinking, i betook myself to linking fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore - what this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore meant in croaking "nevermore."

this i sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing to the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; this and more i sat divining, with my head at ease reclining on the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp light gloated over, but whose velvet-violet lining with the lamplight gloating over, she shall press, ah, nevermore!

then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. "wretch," i cried, "thy god hath lent thee - by these angels he hath sent thee respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of lenore; quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost lenore!" quoth the crow, "nevermore."

"prophet!" said i, "thing of evil!- prophet still, if bird or devil!- whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee ashore, desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted - on this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, i implore - is there - is there balm in gilead? - tell me - tell me, i implore!" quoth the crow, "nevermore."

"prophet!" said i, "thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! by that heaven that bends above us - by that god we both adore - tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant aidenn, it shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name lenore - clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name lenore." quoth the crow "nevermore."

"be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" i shrieked, upstarting - "get thee back into the tempest and the nights plutonian shore! leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door! take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!" quoth the crow "nevermore."

and the crow, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting on the pallid bust of pallas just above my chamber door; and his eyes have all the seeming of a demons that is dreaming, and the lamp light over him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; and my soul fron out that shadow that lies floating on the floor shall be lifted nevermore

hope this helps :^

#ask

[lost-in-the-intricacy]

The Raven

Edgar Allan Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door—

"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door—

Only this and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow

From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,

"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—

This it is and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you"—here I opened wide the door;—

Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"—

Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—

'Tis the wind and nothing more!"

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"

Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door—

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

With such name as "Nevermore."

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

Nothing further then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—

Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before—

On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."

Then the bird said "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store

Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster

Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

Of 'Never—nevermore.'"

But the Raven still beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore

Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,

But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,

She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee

Respite—respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore;

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"

Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—

On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—

Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!"

Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil—prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."

Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting—

"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"

Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,

And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

Shall be lifted—nevermore!

#quotes #poems #poems on tumblr #edgar allan poe #the raven #quoth the raven #nevermore #knocking at my chamber door #poetry #dark academia #literary quotes #writing

[oilyparsnips]

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—

    While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—

            Only this and nothing more.”

    Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

    Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow

    From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

            Nameless here for evermore.

    And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

    So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

    “’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—

            This it is and nothing more.”

    Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

    But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

    And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—

            Darkness there and nothing more.

    Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

    But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

    And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—

            Merely this and nothing more.

    Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

    “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;

      Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—

            ’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

    Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;

    Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

    But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—

            Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;

    For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

    Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

            With such name as “Nevermore.”

    But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

    Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—

    Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—

On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”

            Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

    Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store

    Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster

    Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

            Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”

    But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;

    Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

    Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore

            Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

    This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;

    This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

    On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,

But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,

            She shall press, ah, nevermore!

    Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

    “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee

    Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

    Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—

    On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—

Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—

    Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

    It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—

“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!

    Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

    Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

    And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,

    And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

            Shall be lifted—nevermore!

#the raven #edgar allen poe

[pearl-nautilus]

The Raven Edgar Allan Poe - 1809-1849

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore— While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door— "'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door—               Only this and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December; And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore— For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—               Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door— Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—               This it is and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you"—here I opened wide the door;—               Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?" This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"—               Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore— Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—               'Tis the wind and nothing more!"

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore; Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door— Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—               Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore— Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"               Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door— Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,               With such name as "Nevermore."

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered— Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before— On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."               Then the bird said "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore— Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore               Of 'Never—nevermore.'"

But the Raven still beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore— What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore               Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,               She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee Respite—respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore; Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"               Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!— Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted— On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore— Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!"               Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil—prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore— Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore— Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."               Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting— "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"               Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor               Shall be lifted—nevermore!

#the raven #edgar allan poe

[artdaily7]

The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore— ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. “’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door— ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Only this and nothing more.”

‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December; And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore— For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore— ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Nameless here for evermore.

‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door— Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;— ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍This it is and nothing more.”

‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, “Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;— ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Darkness there and nothing more.

‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?” This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”— ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Merely this and nothing more.

‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice; ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore— Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;— ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore; ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door— Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door— ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, “Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore— Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!” ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore; ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door— Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍With such name as “Nevermore.”

‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered— ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before— On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.” ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, “Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore— Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”

‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door; ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore— What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core; ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er, But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er, ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍She shall press, ah, nevermore!

‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore; Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!” ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!— Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted— ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore— Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!” ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore— ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore— Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.” ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting— “Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore! ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!” ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming, ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Shall be lifted—nevermore!

Gustave Dore 1883-4 The Raven series, steel-plate engravings

#The Raven #Edgar Allan Poe #Poems #Poetry #Art #Fine Arts #Engraving #Gustave Dore #Dore #The Raven series #Nevermore

[acuaticamber06]

In honor of Cloak sending me another poetry related text, here is the poem they pulled their stanza from:

The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. "'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door- Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore- For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore- Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door- Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;- This it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you"—here I opened wide the door;- Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!" This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"- Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice: Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore- Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;- 'Tis the wind and nothing more."

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door- Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door- Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore. "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore- Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door- Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as "Nevermore."

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered- Till I scarcely more than muttered, "other friends have flown before- On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before." Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore- Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

Of 'Never—nevermore'."

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door; Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore- What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er, She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee Respite—respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore!

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!- Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted-

On this home by horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore-

Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil—prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore- Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore- Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore." Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend," I shrieked, upstarting- "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted—nevermore!

#cloakbrand #cloak #cloakhiddeninplainsight #jacksepticeye #Markiplier #jse community #jacksepticeye community

[doodlemeimpressed]

Yeah its such a shame that supernatural doesnt keep up with having monsters that arent bad. They had some explorations of it in the first five seasons but it feels like they just kinda drop it after that (beyond the one episode where dean kills that one lady)

Ugh, I really can't get into it (but I’m going to!) ‘cause It's 10 pm right now and my brain is fried, but the idea that they could’ve had the overarching theme be one of: “not all monsters are bad people, but bad people are monsters” and they didn’t? Such a lost opportunity. 

It's SO touch-and-go that I genuinely think because the show went on so long that the writers forgot plot points. It feels like Sam and Dean be regressing at some points.

Like, they show you that monsters can be good people, right? They show you the sympathetic sides to them (Benny, Kate, Amy, Lenore) and then just...forget it, because the boys gotta hunt right?!? and “last time I checked, we hunt monsters.” I’m going crazy!

The first episode is literally about a woman who was so wracked with guilt after accidentally killing her children, that she jumped from a bridge. That doesn’t sound like an evil monster. It’s interesting too because while she was killing people, at the core of it she was killing them because (it’s canon that ghosts see the morality in black and white) they were bad people. And then, in the end, Sam and Dean didn’t even kill her! 

It’s wacky how a show about killing monsters didn’t even kill any monsters in their first episode 🤔 really makes you think about the morality of it all (SIKE!)

Honestly, now that I think about it, the reason “Skin” is one of my favourite episodes is that it parallels Dean with a monster who TALKED about how similar they are after seeing Dean’s memories. It’s like, wow! Dean perceives himself to be a monster! Can we elaborate on that? Nope! Okay, COOL!

That’s also a reason why I think I loved (and hated) Sam’s (S3-5 arc I think?) where he was “becoming” this “monster” in both his and Dean’s eyes, because, on one hand, It was addressing how not all monsters were bad people using Sam as an example with his new psychic abilities. Dean even talks about how he’s scared that, because they hunt monsters, he might have to kill Sam one day because of his new abilities. 

But it always seems to fall back into the fact that this is a show and sadly because of that they can never truly break away from the core of the show which is: monster hunting.*

I can’t talk anymore about it. It's too much, It’s too late. I miss Teen Wolf’s monster morality system.

*it would’ve been really fucking sick if they instead, and rightfully so, vilified John as the monster he was, and showed us that humans could be just as evil as the “monsters” Sam and Dean were trained to hunt

#god. when teen wolf's final season was showing that humans can be monsters too. its like. yeah #spn #supernatural #ask #anonymous

[notafraidofredyellowandblue]

The Raven - by Edgar Allan Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—

            Only this and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow

From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

            Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—

            This it is and nothing more.”

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—

            Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—

            Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—

            ’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—

            Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

            With such name as “Nevermore.”

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—

Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—

On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”

            Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store

Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster

Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

            Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore

            Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,

But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,

            She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee

Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—

On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—

Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—

“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,

And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

            Shall be lifted—nevermore!

#poetry #poetry that spoke to me #edgar allan poe #the raven #nevermore

[ladyangelasworld]

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—

    While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—

            Only this and nothing more.”

    Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

    Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow

    From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

            Nameless here for evermore.

    And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

    So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

    “’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—

            This it is and nothing more.”

    Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

    But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

    And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—

            Darkness there and nothing more.

    Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

    But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

    And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—

            Merely this and nothing more.

    Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

    “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;

      Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—

            ’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

    Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;

    Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

    But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—

            Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;

    For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

    Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

            With such name as “Nevermore.”

    But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

    Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—

    Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—

On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”

            Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

    Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store

    Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster

    Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

            Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”

    But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;

    Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

    Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore

            Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

    This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;

    This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

    On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,

But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,

            She shall press, ah, nevermore!

    Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

    “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee

    Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

    Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—

    On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—

Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—

    Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

    It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—

“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!

    Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

    Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

    And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,

    And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

            Shall be lifted—nevermore!

#black and white #edgar allen poe #the raven #poetry #things i love

[youremymiracleelliot]

Castlevania S3 — some thoughts

I really liked the 3rd season a lot and think it was at least as good as season 2. I was hit right in the feels, the plot never bored me but I believe there was more potential to the Infinite Corridor story line. Let’s take a look at the three separate subjects.

1) I’ll start with Trevor and Sypha who, during their travels, arrived in a village called Lindenfeld. They soon are introduced to odd happenings surrounding the priory and so, they stay to resolve the matter.

Anyway, we learn they’ve become a couple and are obviously in love (in their unique ways). It hurt me to listen to one of their conversations:

I mean, I might be Alucard-centered here but I am still pretty salty that they left him behind, all on his own. At least they didn’t entirely forget him (yet) and I’m aware there was good and logical reason for him to stay behind. That doesn’t change, though, that it’s a very inhumane decision. Alucard’s story line in season 3 really hurt a lot and to be honest, we all know Trevor and Sypha are responsible for the happenings as well, at least in one or another way.

Back to the actual plot that happened in Lindenfeld, we witnessed what a powerful fighting couple Trevor and Sypha are. I was pretty surprised and impressed how easily they defeated those two angel-like creatures. The only real opponent was the night creature which was forged by Isaac

(I WAS SO SHOCKED ABOUT THIS! I had some hope left for him to reconsider his actions but I only saw his soul darken. I understand, he’s disappointed by the human race. Still, the captain on the ship was right too. It’s so difficult and complicated — one of the reasons why I enjoy this show so much.)

and which had fed on the souls of the villagers. Thanks to St. Germain they won and thanks to him, we got that plot about the Infinite Corridor. I’ll be honest here, I found this idea so rich and expected very much. Especially more than a few creatures leaking through. Okay, they didn’t already have to travel to different realms but when the door to hell was opened and we even saw Dracula and his wife, I expected things to happen. Them returning, or anything the like. To be blown away. But no, nothing. This disappointed me, though I had already started to hope for family reunion when they encounter their son. Sadly, I didn’t get that.

2) Now I’ll focus on Alucard’s story line (as I’m already writing about him). And as I’ve already written how wonderful a family reuinion would have been, I have to add, Alucard would have needed it. My heart was broken in episode 1, seeing him all alone and abandoned. I knew he’d be alone but still seeing this hurt a lot.

And it was highly unexpected. At least to me. Because of his unbearable loneliness I was so relieved when Sumi and Taka showed up. At first they seemed kind and good. But during episode 7, when Alucard showed them the Belmont archives, I started to realize something feels off. I couldn’t quite name it but I didn’t think the siblings trustworthy anymore. From that scene on, it become more and more obvious, something is the matter. I still would have never expected them to use such a method ...

They obviously exploited Alucard’s loneliness and vulnerability. The worst part about it, some part of me understands why they couldn’t trust him though he never lied to them. Sumi and Taka had been Cho’s captives for so many years, since they were children. So they never learnt to trust anyone but each other. Another part of me wonders from where they got those chain-bracelets they put on him to chain him up. For a moment I feared he’d have to be rescued by his dear parents (during that moment the door to hell was open, so the chance was given) but he could help himself which only serves to underline he’s used to looking after himself and being on his own. Seeing him all devastated and desperate hurt so much, I almost cried as well.

3) As we’re already crying, let’s look at the other character who made me hurt so much during season 3 and also at the queens who rocked this season. Firstly, I need to state I don’t side with the vampires or approve of their actions and how they treat humans. But woah, did you see those vampire queens? In season 2, I was very impressed by Carmilla’s (evil) performance but I’d never thought there are more of her kind!

Carmilla, Morana, Striga and Lenore! They’re gorgeous geniuses! It’s not the fact that they’re the bad women of this plot who turn against humankind but they also have such a strong bond and, it seems, centuries of shared past. It was so lovely to watch them and Striga and Morana being a couple in love is a nice bonus.

Now let’s focus on Lenore and Hector. I enjoyed their story line a lot. For a decent amount of time, I couldn’t tell for sure how loyal she is to her other “sisters”. Maybe she indeed is a kind of good girl, I thought.

I even began to ship them, though deep in my gut I felt this isn’t right. Maybe she is up to help him, in her way. I had hopes because during the first scenes I just felt hurt about the way Hector was treated and tortured. It really got to me. I already was hurt by his story line in season 2 and knew things surely won’t start better in this new season but I hoped, things for him would improve throughout the season. But no. Lenore’s scheme was unexpected and truly blew me away. This was so cruel and the similarity to how Sumi and Taka deceived Alucard was breath-taking. Using Hector’s loneliness and hopelessness was a masterplan and I can’t help but marvel at Lenore’s brilliance to magically bind him to her and also her vampire sisters (once more I’m amazed by the relation between those four), so they can exploit his skills as forgemaster. Plus, Lenore plans to use him for her own entertainment and that’s something that gave me even more goosebumps.

I’m still shocked how much more downhill things got for Hector and the only hope I currently have left for his rescue / freedom is Isaac and his night creatures attacking the castle but as we’ve learnt, he as well seeks revenge, so my hope is extremely fragile.

To end this, let’s take a look at the outcome of season 3. It felt as if everything is darkening. The situation itself with those four strong vampires but even more the mood of the protagonists. They seem to have lost hope. Alucard, all alone and abandoned, has given up on humankind and shut everything off. Hector is no longer a captive but now even a slave who has no way of freeing himself. Trevor and Sypha, though killing the night creatures in Lindenfeld, couldn’t save the villagers and even those persons whom they thought trustworthy and good turned out to be evil to the core. It’s like there’s no good in the world anymore. It’s clearly depicted in their expressions.

Considering this end of season 3, I’m curious to see how season 4 will continue the story. How will our three heroes be motivated to go and annihilate the four vampire queens? Which path will Isaac choose?

Sadly, I think we’ll have to wait another few years for the continuation...

#castlevania #castlevania s3 #castlevania season 3 #castlevania netflix #alucard #adrien tepes #trevor belmont #sypha belnades #ooc #review

[squirrelwrangler]

💬

Hmm, I feel like maybe I should shift gears slightly and pick something that isn’t a Silm fic, just so I’m not repeating myself, but I haven’t touched even half the other fics and lines/concepts that those lines embody that I like (I really love this meme and similar ones - if there is a Silm fic or other writing of mine you want commentary or my opinion of what I liked most/disliked, ask away!) 

A hero could carry such a name, though, and Bân wanted to be a hero. All he wanted was to have been a hero.

Nan Dungortheb, and all the death it had been rightfully named for, Beren gave no details of, and yet of his twelve companions only Consael could with experience guess at some of the horrors Beren had overcome.

“Come here,” the voice commands. This time the underlying sternness spoils the sweetness. The fingers of her outstretched hands twitch and curl inward like spider jaws.

The boy gave a smile less steady than its predecessors, yet one more honest, as Elwê crouched down so he was no longer looming over the much shorter elf. Elwê smiled back. “I like listening to you.

#meme replies #I loved the Ungoliant spider allusion in the baby eöl and false mother scene #consael's hero worship of beren and how that had to be the main tenant of his fic evolved out of the realization that Consael knew more abo #dialogue from Crisis Core translated so well into Arda #sometimes i get the vibe that Finwë's 'Lost Lenore' was more Elwë than Míriel #pathofajedi