Музыка

1. Сплин, "Сказка".

Текст, кому интересно

Мы шли дорогой горемык искать свою судьбу,
В одной деревне на ночлег старик пустил в избу.
Мы пили крепкий самогон - хозяин был к нам добр,
Река бежала за окном, шумел сосновый бор.

Я пью чуть больше чем могу, но меньше, чем хочу.
Когда я пью, я не пою - я не пою, кричу.
Hикто мне глотку не заткнет, не запретит мой пляс,
Hо тут старик сказал: "Дай я" и начал свой рассказ.

Иван был сказочно богат, но не имел детей,
Иван накрыл дубовый стол и пригласил гостей.
Он переспал с одной вдовой - вдова сказала: "Жди.
Теперь зима, я разрешусь когда пойдут дожди".

Иван счастливый захрапел, как красноармейский полк,
Он крепко спал, когда во сне ему явился волк.
Волк молвил: "Если хочешь дочь - брось голову в огонь,
Захочешь сына - так отдай мне правую ладонь.
Hе будь упрямым, как осел, будь чистым, как слеза,
Hо знай - захочешь обмануть - вдова родит козла".

Сказав все это, волк исчез, Иван открыл глаза -
Вдова лежала на боку, поглаживая зад,
Иван напялил на себя ботинки и трусы,
Запряг трех быстрых вороных, и кони понесли.

Иван скакал четыре дня к кудыкиной горе,
Там на горе жил друг Макар - весь в злате, серебре.
Макар служил городовым и пропивал навар,
Узнав о Ваниной беде, сказал: "Споймаем тварь".

Они расставили капканы вдоль лесных дорог,
Попались лев, сова и заяц, но не попался волк.
Друзья надыбали жратвы и ринулись в леса,
Пока гонялись за волками - кончилась весна.

Иван все лето пил вино, гуляя вдоль болот,
Вдова сидела у окна и гладила живот.
Однажды августовским днем, заслышав ванин крик,
Вдова схватила керосин и подожгла тростник.

То был, как есть, условный знак - заполыхал пожар.
Еще не наступил сентябрь, как прискакал Макар.
Макар раздвинул камыши и глянул сквозь огонь,
А там Иван без головы и где его ладонь?
Макар ругнулся: "е-мое", но тихо, не со зла,
Вдова не дождалась дождей и родила козла

С тех пор прошло двенадцать лет, Макар за взятки сел,
Козла пустили в огород, и козлик окосел.
Иван схоронен у болот - там тихо, ни души.
И из груди его растут цветные камыши

Старик закончил, тихо встал, открыл нам сеновал,
Друзья заснули сей же час, и только я не спал.
Я думал, глядя на луну, что стало со вдовой.
Всю ночь сквозь храп моих друзей я слышал волчий вой

2. Крематорий, "Мата-Хари блюз"

Текст песни

Он был нахальным парнем, он был почти что шиз
Я сняла его в баре, когда эта дрянь спускалась вниз
Он дал добро и мы пошли ловить такси
Я привезла его в свой дом и мы легли в кровать
Что вытворял со мной он в словах не описать
Крутил, вертел, боролся и скакал верхом

Проснувшись утром рано ушел бесшумно, скот
Не заплатив по таксе за койку и комфорт
Отныне счет с клиентов всегда буду брать вперёд

3. Пилот, "Про кота", специально для  Файмор
Если не доводилось это слышать, заранее прости, потому как когда я это впервые услышала, то долго плакала.
Оно того стоит.

За пятью холмами под лиловым небом
Стоит дом.
У окна, на кресле, под зеленым пледом
Спит он.
Убежали люди, бросив вещи,
Такая вещь - война.
Своя шкура дороже, понятное дело,
Забыли кота.

Было время вспомнить
И взять его с собой,
"Но до зверей ли тут?" -
Скажет вам, наверно, любой.

Там, где в гриве лошадь
Золотистый вечер несла,
Ходит кот унылый
Во сне. У всех просит молока.
Встретят его скоро
У ворот небесных теплом,
За пятью холмами, под лиловым небом
Стоит дом.

Маленькая дань очередному пройденному витку.
Их на самом деле намного больше.

---

S.E.X.

С чего бы, интересно?
Почему-то нравится, включая текст.
Это даже как-то странно.

Went too fast
way too soon.
I feel disgusted and you should to.
Its no good when all that's left is the sex.
The sex.

Sex has become all I know about you.
Memories of those filthy things that we do.
There's not one single thought that is left
after sex with you

Should've left my pants on this time,
but instead you had to let me dive right in.
should've left my pants on this time.
You let me dive right, you let me dive right in...
wait...
its my ass,
your perfume
that make my temptation hard to refuse.
So I guess
we undressed to have sex...
dirty sex.

Sex has become all I know about you.
Memories of those filthy things that we do.
There's not one single thought that is left
after sex with you

Should've left my pants on this time,
but instead you had to let me dive right in.
should've left my pants on this time.
You let me dive right, you let me dive right in...
How could you respect yourself?
you couldn't respect yourself cuz
I didn't respect myself.
I couldn't infect myself with....
realize that I'm worth more than that
realize that I'm worth more than that
realize that I'm worth more than that
realize that I mean more than that!!

Should've left my pants on this time,
but instead you had to let me dive right in.
should've left my pants on this time.
You let me dive right, you let me dive right in..

@темы: спам

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Чтоб меня....

07.09.2010 в 15:20

Пишет  Файмор:

Пробное выкладывание, ога)
Для  ЗелёныйАнгел на заказ: Джарлакс/Энтрери, нежный-сладкий-пушистый слэшик
Ну прям по дядюшке Фрейду из анекдотов:

спойлер

"Бывают, деточка, и просто сны..." Но это же, итить, Джарлакс!

Джарлакс аккуратно переступил порог своей комнаты и, опершись на косяк, внимательно посмотрел в спину готовящемуся ко сну напарнику. Сдержать желание нетерпеливо мурлыкнуть оказалось неимоверно трудно, но он только нервно облизнул губы, когда Энтрери стянул через голову шёлковую рубашку со следами небрежно оборванных кружев на воротнике и привычным жестом всадил кинжал в изголовье кровати. Калимшит с усилием повёл плечами, разминая напряжённые мышцы, и неторопливо потянулся, заставив наблюдающего за ним приятеля мечтательно прижмуриться. Лысый наёмник чуть слышно вздохнул – это, наверное, была самая рискованная авантюра за всю его отнюдь не короткую жизнь, но когда это риск заставлял его отступать? Дроу на секунду прищурился, чуть заметно расплывавшееся в полумраке пространство на границе зрения вновь обрело чёткость – и он решительно скользнул вперёд.
– Тебе никто не говорил, что подкрадываться со спины к наёмным убийцам может быть небезопасно? – бесстрастно полюбопытствовал сидящий на краю своей кровати Энтрери, когда Джарлакс забрался на неё с противоположной стороны. Дроу тихо засмеялся, невесомо, словно вопросительно коснувшись ладонями мигом отвердевших плеч, и лукаво отозвался:
– Разве я когда-то желал безопасности?
Ассасин покосился на него из-за плеча, но так и не пошевелился, и тёмный эльф бережно провёл пальцами по тёплой коже, словно приучая к своим прикосновениям дикого зверя. Зверь следил за ним настороженными, ничего не выражающими глазами, слишком отстранёнными для кошачьих и слишком тёплыми для змеиных, и чуть заметно ёжился, когда кончики пальцев дроу ласково оглаживали напряжённые мышцы. Джарлакс рвано вздохнул и, не удержавшись, потянулся вперёд, прижавшись щекой к загривку убийцы и крепко обхватив ладонями плечи.
– Ты чего? – на этот раз в голосе Энтрери мелькнула тень удивления.
– Khal'abbil... – прижмурившись, выдохнул дроу. – Заткнись, а?
Калимшит хмыкнул, услышав из его уст столь часто используемую им самим фразу, но всё же промолчал, опершись локтями на колени и подставив шею ласкающемуся приятелю. Тот тихонько, убаюкивающе замурчал, словно успокаивая его – не только лёгкими прикосновениями горячих пальцев, но и голосом, негромким, неразборчивым шёпотом на языке дроу. Расслышав среди невнятного бормотания что-то вроде: "О боги, и это всё моё?..", Энтрери поперхнулся и с весёлым недоумением покосился на прильнувшего к его спине тёмного эльфа, счастливо жмурящего наглые алые глазищи. Джарлакс, словно почувствовав его взгляд, слегка отстранился и, скользнув ладонями по бокам человека, принялся целовать его шею под волосами, сдавленно постанывая и уже куда смелее выглаживая его грудь.
– Может, мне тебя всё-таки прирезать? – чуть охрипшим голосом лениво осведомился убийца, закидывая руку за голову и почёсывая его за ухом. Дроу замер, резко выдохнув, и томно застонал, всем телом потёршись о его спину, его пальцы обессиленно соскользнули на живот калимшита, игриво щекотнув чуть дрогнувшие мышцы.
– А может, не прирезать?.. – отчасти собравшись с мыслями, через несколько минут предложил Джарлакс, легонько куснув приятеля за ухо.
– Договорились, – с усмешкой согласился Энтрери, и наёмник едва сдержал совершенно недостойный мужчины взвизг, когда пространство резко кувырнулось и он вдруг обнаружил себя лежащим на спине под нависающим над ним человеком.
– Заткнись, – стоило тёмному эльфу открыть рот, велел ассасин, неожиданно тепло улыбнувшись, и принялся неторопливо и властно целовать его в губы. Дроу возбуждённо заурчал и вплёл пальцы в его волосы, лаская затылок напарника и млея под уверенно оглаживавшими его тело ладонями. Для самоконтроля уже не оставалось никаких сил – да и смысла, собственно говоря, тоже – и, едва губы убийцы переместились на шею под челюстью, Джарлакс блаженно застонал, откидывая голову и чуть дрожа ушами.
Энтрери удивлённо усмехнулся, пощекотав чёрную кожу горячим дыханием, и легонько лизнул шевельнувшийся острый кончик, сорвав с губ приятеля ещё один нетерпеливый стон. Зарычал сам, чувствуя, как захлёстывает сдерживаемое прежде вожделение, подстёгнутое извивающимся под ним, льнущим к его груди жарким телом, и потянулся к поясу наёмника...
…Джарлакс открыл глаза в темноте своей комнаты и лениво потянулся.
– Разведка боем прошла успешно, – чувствуя, как губы сами собой расползаются в довольной улыбке, неслышно промурлыкал дроу. – Ты не так уж против, как показываешь…
Тёмный эльф с сожалением покосился на – увы! – одноразовый амулет соединённого сна, валяющийся на прикроватной тумбочке, и поплотнее завернулся в одеяло, засыпая снова. Нужно было набраться сил, прежде чем приступать к исполнению второй части плана.

 

@темы: Entreri, Jarlaxle

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Итак!

Официально: я вернулась!
Кому чего интересно - спрашивайте, ибо я нашла того, кто любит развеивать мифы о Японии.
В очередной раз раскланиваюсь в собственной поверхностности, увы.

@темы: Что-то другое

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My way...

Его жизнь судить не мне, но его голос затрагивает что-то в самых глубинах моей души, а такой на первый взгляд простой текст песни выражает всё то, чего бы хотелось и мне к концу моего пути...

оригинальный текст

And now, the end is near,
And so I face the final curtain.
My friends, I'll say it clear
I'll state my case of which I'm certain.

I've lived a life that's full -
I've travelled each and every highway.
And more, much more than this,
I did it my way.

Regrets? I've had a few,
But then again, too few to mention.
I did what I had to do
And saw it through without exemption.

I planned each charted course -
Each careful step along the byway,
And more, much more than this,
I did it my way.

Yes, there were times, I'm sure you knew,
When I bit off more than I could chew,
But through it all, when there was doubt,
I ate it up and spit it out.
I faced it all and I stood tall
And did it my way.

I've loved, I've laughed and cried,
I've had my fill - my share of losing.
But now, as tears subside,
I find it all so amusing.

To think I did all that,
And may I say, not in a shy way -
Oh no. Oh no, not me.
I did it my way.

For what is a man? What has he got?
If not himself - Then he has naught.
To say the things he truly feels
And not the words of one who kneels.
The record shows I took the blows
And did it my way.

Yes, it was my way.

перевод, мне не очень, но суть передаёт

Теперь конец близок,
И я стою на последнем рубеже.
Друзья, я обо всём расскажу вам,
Расскажу о том, в чём абсолютно уверен.

Я прожил полную жизнь,
Я исколесил полмира.
И, что гораздо важнее,
Я сделал это по-своему.

Сожалею ли я о чём? Да,
Но не о многом.
Я делал то, что должен был делать,
И, честно, выполнил всё.

Я тщательно планировал каждое движение,
Каждый шаг на своём пути.
И, что гораздо важнее,
Я делал это по-своему.

Конечно, были времена, как и у любого из вас,
Когда я переоценивал свои силы.
Но всегда, когда меня одолевали сомнения,
Я либо справлялся с трудностями, либо отступал.
Я пережил всякое, и сейчас мне не стыдно перед самим собой,
Потому что я всё делал по-своему.

Я любил, я смеялся и плакал,
И на мою долю выпали потери.
Теперь, когда слёзы высохли,
Всё кажется таким забавным.

Подумать только! Я сделал всё это!
Можно я скажу без излишней скромности? –
Нет. Нет, это не я.
Я сделал это по-своему.

Что есть человек? Что ещё у него есть,
Если не он сам? Иначе – он нищий.
Человек должен говорить то, что он чувствует и во что верит,
А не повторять слова тех, кто пресмыкается перед другими.
Моя жизнь – доказательство тому, что я достойно принимал удары судьбы,
И делал это по-своему.

Да, я всё делал по-своему.

@темы: Что-то другое

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Русский интернет...

...бессмысленный и беспощадный!
Чтобы оплатить интернет через Веб-Мани, нужен активный выход в интернет.
Напоминает анекдот:
"Драйвера для вашего CD-привода находятся на прилагаемом диске"
или
"Драйвера для своего модема вы можете скачать на нашем сайте".
Тоже мне, блин, вещь в себе.

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Счастливая детская пора...

Дань детским увлечениям и приколам.
Отличный был мульт!!!
Творчество Олега Куваева, создателя Масяни. Это песня - новогодний мульт из Магазинчика Бо. Сам Бо - заяц-пришелец, отчего-то свалившийся в Питере, у него тарелка в кустах под Выборгом. И четверо ребят, которые нашли этого зайца и держат у себя. Бо мало чего понимает в жизни людей, постоянно таскает из своей тарелки всякие нанотехнологичные прибамбасы, или изобретает новые, стремясь усовершенствовать и улучшить жизнь людей.

@темы: Что-то другое

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Смерть и так далее...

Складирую для души, чтоб потом не искать.
Как же он хорош!!!

Пратчетт

«Смерть и Что Случается После»
(Death and What Comes Next)

Когда Смерть повстречал философа, тот взволнованно промолвил:
– И в этот момент ты понимаешь, что я одновременно и мертв, и жив.
У Смерти вырвался вздох. «Ой, черт, один из этих», – подумал Смерть. Похоже, речь опять пойдет о квантах. Он терпеть не мог иметь дело с философами. Они всегда каким-то образом пытались ускользнуть от него.
– Понимаешь, – говорил философ, пока Смерть неподвижно наблюдал за тем, как песок медленно вытекает из его жизнеизмерителя, – все состоит из крошечных частиц, которые обладают загадочным свойством быть во многих местах одновременно. Но все то, что состоит из этих крошечных частиц, имеет склонность оставаться в определенном месте в определенное время, что, конечно, не кажется правильным, если обратиться к квантовой теории. Я могу продолжать?
– ДА, НО НЕ БЕСКОНЕЧНО, – ответил Смерть. – ВСЕ КОГДА-НИБУДЬ ЗАКАНЧИВАЕТСЯ. – Он не отрывал взгляда от падающих песчинок.
– Ладно, тогда, если мы согласимся с тем, что существует бесконечное число вселенных, проблема будет полностью решена! Если существует неограниченное число вселенных, эта кровать может быть в миллионах из них в одно и то же время!
– ОНА ДВИЖЕТСЯ?
– Что?
Смерть кивнул на кровать.
– ТЫ ЧУВСТВУЕШЬ, ЧТО ОНА ДВИЖЕТСЯ?
– Нет, потому что существуют миллионы меня тоже, и… в этом-то и весь плюс… в некоторых из них я не собираюсь с минуты на минуту скончаться! Ведь все возможно!
Смерть, побарабанил пальцами по рукоятке косы, пытаясь вникнуть.
– НУ И…?
– Э-э… Ну я ведь не совсем умираю, правильно? Ты не можешь теперь быть в этом так уверен.
Смерть опять вздохнул. «Пространство…» – подумал он. В этом-то и была вся проблема. В мирах с вечно облачными небесами никогда ничего подобного не было. Но вот как только люди начинают видеть все это пространство, их воображение непременно старается его чем-нибудь заполнить.
– Нет ответа, ага? – проговорил умирающий философ. – Чувствуем себя немного старомодными, ага?
– ЭТО, КОНЕЧНО, ЗАГАДКА, – согласился Смерть. «Иногда они начинают молиться», – думал он. Причем сам он никогда не был уверен в том, насколько хорошо срабатывает молитва. Смерть ненадолго задумался. – А ЕСЛИ Я ТАК ПОСТАВЛЮ ВОПРОС, – продолжил Смерть, – ТЫ ЛЮБИШЬ СВОЮ ЖЕНУ?
– Что?
– ЖЕНЩИНУ, КОТОРАЯ ЗАБОТИТСЯ О ТЕБЕ. ТЫ ЕЕ ЛЮБИШЬ?
– Да. Конечно.
– А МОЖЕШЬ ЛИ ТЫ ПРЕДСТАВИТЬ ТАКОЙ СЛУЧАЙ, КОГДА БЕЗ ВСЯКИХ ИЗМЕНЕНИЙ В ТВОЕМ ПРОШЛОМ, ТЫ В ЭТОТ САМЫЙ МОМЕНТ БЕРЕШЬ В РУКИ НОЖ И ВОНЗАЕШЬ В НЕЕ? К ПРИМЕРУ?
– Конечно, нет!
– НО ТВОЯ ТЕОРИЯ ГОВОРИТ, ЧТО НИКУДА ТЫ ОТ ЭТОГО НЕ ДЕНЕШЬСЯ. ВЕДЬ ЭТО ВПОЛНЕ ВОЗМОЖНО ИСХОДЯ ИЗ ФИЗИЧЕСКИХ ЗАКОНОВ ВСЕЛЕННОЙ, А ЗНАЧИТ, ДОЛЖНО ПРОИЗОЙТИ, И ПРОИЗОЙТИ НЕ ОДИН РАЗ. КАЖДОЕ МГНОВЕНИЕ РАВНЯЕТСЯ МИЛЛИАРДАМ, МИЛЛИАРДАМ МГНОВЕНИЙ, И В ЭТИ МОМЕНТЫ ВСЕ, ЧТО ВОЗМОЖНО – ОНО ЖЕ И НЕИЗБЕЖНО. ВРЕМЯ В ЛЮБОМ СЛУЧАЕ РАНО ИЛИ ПОЗДНО СЖИМАЕТСЯ ДО МГНОВЕНИЯ.
– Но, разумеется, мы можем выбирать между…
– А ЕСТЬ ЛИ ВЫБОР? ВСЕ, ЧТО МОЖЕТ СЛУЧИТЬСЯ, ДОЛЖНО СЛУЧАТЬСЯ. СОГЛАСНО ТВОЕЙ ТЕОРИИ ДЛЯ КАЖДОЙ ВСЕЛЕННОЙ, КОТОРАЯ ОБРАЗУЕТСЯ, ЧТОБЫ ВМЕСТИТЬ ТВОЕ «НЕТ», ДОЛЖНА БЫТЬ ЕЩЕ ОДНА, КОТОРАЯ БЫ ВМЕЩАЛА ТВОЕ «ДА». НО ТЫ СКАЗАЛ, ЧТО НИКОГДА НЕ СОВЕРШИШЬ УБИЙСТВА. УСТРОЙСТВО МИРОЗДАНИЯ ТРЕПЕЩИТ ПЕРЕД ЛИЦОМ ТВОЕЙ УЖАСАЮЩЕЙ УВЕРЕННОСТИ. ТВОЯ НРАВСТВЕННОСТЬ СТАНОВИТСЯ СИЛОЙ НАСТОЛЬКО ЖЕ МОЩНОЙ, КАК И ГРАВИТАЦИЯ. «А пространству определенно есть за что ответить», – подумал Смерть.
– Что за сарказм?
– НА САМОМ ДЕЛЕ НИКАКОГО САРКАЗМА. Я ПОРАЖЕН И ЗАИНТРИГОВАН. КОНЦЕПЦИЯ, КОТОРУЮ ТЫ ПРЕДСТАВИЛ МНЕ, ДОКАЗЫВАЕТ СУЩЕСТВОВАНИЕ ДВУХ ДО ЭТОГО ВРЕМЕНИ МИФИЧЕСКИХ МИРОВ. ГДЕ–ТО СУЩЕСТВУЕТ МИР, ГДЕ КАЖДЫЙ ДЕЛАЕТ ПРАВИЛЬНЫЙ ВЫБОР, ВЫБОР, ОСНОВАННЫЙ НА ПРИНЦИПАХ МОРАЛИ, ВЫБОР, КОТОРЫЙ ВО МНОГО РАЗ УВЕЛИЧИВАЕТ СЧАСТЬЕ БЛИЖНИХ, ХОТЯ ЭТО, КОНЕЧНО, ПОДРАЗУМЕВАЕТ, ЧТО ГДЕ–ТО ЕЩЕ РАСПОЛАГАЕТСЯ ДЫМЯЩИЙСЯ ОСТАТОК МИРКА, ГДЕ ОНИ НЕ…
– Ой, да ладно! Я знаю, что ты имеешь в виду, и я никогда не верил во всю эту чепуху вроде Ада и Рая.
В комнате нарастала темнота. Голубое свечение от лезвия косы Мрачного Жнеца становилось все более ясным.
– ПОРАЗИТЕЛЬНО, – промолвил Смерть. – ПРОСТО ПОРАЗИТЕЛЬНО. ПОЗВОЛЬ МНЕ ПРЕДЛОЖИТЬ ДРУГОЙ ПРИМЕР: ТЫ – НИ ЧТО ИНОЕ, КАК СЧАСТЛИВЫЙ ПРЕДСТАВИТЕЛЬ СЛАВНОГО ПЛЕМЕНИ ОБЕЗЬЯН, КОТОРЫЙ ПЫТАЕТСЯ ОБЪЯСНИТЬ ВСЮ СЛОЖНОСТЬ МИРОЗДАНИЯ ЧЕРЕЗ ЯЗЫК, ВОЗНИКШИЙ ЛИШЬ ЗАТЕМ, ЧТОБЫ МОЖНО БЫЛО СКАЗАТЬ ДРУГ ДРУГУ, ГДЕ НАХОДИТСЯ СПЕЛЫЙ ФРУКТ?
Задыхаясь, философ все-таки ухитрился промолвить: «Не говори ерунды».
– ЗАМЕЧАНИЕ НЕ ПРЕДПОЛАГАЛОСЬ БЫТЬ УНИЗИТЕЛЬНЫМ. – ответил Смерть. – УЧИТЫВАЯ ОБСТОЯТЕЛЬСТВА, ТЫ МНОГОГО ДОБИЛСЯ.
– Мы уже определенно вышли за рамки старомодных предрассудков!
– ПРЕКРАСНО. КАКОВА СИЛА ДУХА. Я ТОЛЬКО ХОТЕЛ ПРОВЕРИТЬ.
Он подался вперед.
– А ЗНАЕШЬ ЛИ ТЫ ТЕОРИЮ О ТОМ, ЧТО СОСТОЯНИЕ НЕКОТОРЫХ МЕЛЬЧАЙШИХ ЧАСТИЦ НЕОПРЕДЕЛЯЕМО ЛИШЬ ДО ТЕХ ПОР, ПОКА ЗА НИМИ НЕ НАЧИНАЮТ ПРИСТАЛЬНО НАБЛЮДАТЬ? ТОТ ЖЕ КОТ В МЕШКЕ, НАПРИМЕР.
– О, да.
– ХОРОШО, – сказал Смерть. Когда последний огонек угас, он поднялся на ноги и улыбнулся.
– УВИДИМСЯ…

@темы: в запас, Что-то другое

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Закрытая запись, не предназначенная для публичного просмотра

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*кхм*

Принимаю заказы на драбблики, ибо завтра уезжаю в деревню на N-дцать дней.
Так что времени мало, если кто хочет.

UPD
Уезжаю сегодня на Сапсане *пафос* в 19.30.
Вернусь 16 августа.
Заявки дособеру в 18 часов где-то.

запись создана: 08.08.2010 в 21:20

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Удивительное рядом.

Свадьба...
Мда...
Сестру свою я всё-таки люблю...
Сама в шоке...
Похоже, многие обиды действительно время сглаживает.
Она красавица, хотя муж её мне не нравится.
Но за моё участие в выкупе я её покараю жестоко и с приличествующим подобному случаю садизмом, мне свойственным редко, однако всё же.
Посмотрела на всех наших родственников, давно не видела этот сбор.
Санта-Барбара, не меньше.
Серий только, слава Богу, не так много.
Рада, что моя семья ограничивается тремя людьми.

@музыка: Assassin's Tango

@темы: Что-то другое

---

Пришло.

Типа моб...
Пришёл от  *Дюйма*.
Её заказ был 10-10.
Прошу.

Обои к игре God of War столетней давности.
Вы оставляете здесь коммент, я называю вам две цифры, вы заходите в папку, где у вас хранятся картинки,можно фотографии, отсчитываете папку (первая цифра) и картинку в этой папке (вторая цифра), постите у себя эту картинку и флешмоб.

---

Тут ходят люди...

 Dakini, оха-йо!
Чем тебя порадовать я даж не предполагаю...
Ну как-нибудь так...

Из старых запасников.

---

Спойлеры.

Предупреждение!!!
Ниже следуют спойлеры по FR 4 редакции.
Если НЕ хотите заранее расстраиваться - НЕ читайте!!!
Я предупредила...
Я уже расстроена...

СПОЙЛЕРЫ: Фаэрун 100 лет спустя!

Я искала возможность, маленькую лазейку для некоего ассассина впредь радовать меня своим присутствием в романах по ФР.
Найденное печально.
Calimshan Lore
A character knows the following information with a successful skill check.
History DC 15: The Spellplague shattered the high magic that bound the efreet Memnon and the djinn Calim in the Calimemnon Crystal. The two were released, along with similarly bound servants, many of whom were genasi. Ancient enemies, Calim and Memnon immediately picked up where they left off—trying to annihilate each other. Many presumed humans among the population revealed themselves as genasi and joined in the fight. Thousands more genasi, descendants of those scattered to the Lake of Steam, Tethyr, and Amn after the first djinn and efreet empires fell, returned and promptly declared for air or fire. Even some genasi out of newly arrived Akanыl joined the fight. The result was thousands dead, the desert’s expansion east across the Spider Swamp, and an explosion in the genasi population. The period between the beginning of the Spellplague and the Year of Holy Thunder (1450 DR) is known locally as the Second Era of Skyfire. What happened that year to send Calim and Memnon back to their home plane no one knows. Their lieutenants and foot soldiers remain in Calimshan, and continue a bloody war based on little more than opposing philosophies.
Streetwise DC 15: The headquarters of the warring genasi factions are the cities of Memnon and Calimport. The human population of both cities serves as slaves and as fodder in the constant battles. Only the city of Almraiven, still rich in magic and well defended, remains under human control. Indeed, it is the last bastion of human rule in Calimshan.
Streetwise DC 20: Efreets and the genasi pledged to them do not refer to the country as Calimshan; they call it Memnonnar, as their empire was known during the First Era of Skyfire (c. –6500 DR). The djinns and their genasi followers call their homeland Calimshan, despite the association of that name with the former human-ruled nation. Folk beyond the country’s borders simply refer to the whole area as Calimshan, and so it is still labeled on most maps. Scholars in Candlekeep have proposed alternative names for the embattled region, most notably the Skyfire Emirates, but none have gained widespread use.

Итого:
1. Энтрери там нет, я даже не уверена, плюс это или минус, учитывая, что и Мемнон, и Калимпорт принадлежат джинам, а люди поголовно рабы.
2. Его там вообще нет, что наводит меня на мысль о бесславном печальном душераздирающем ... кхм ... в общем, в ближайших шести книгах Сальваторе его убьёт.
Одну он написал, осталось пять.
Строчите фики, потому что скоро вам придётся его воскрешать, а это совсем не айс.
Единственный проблеск надежды - Дзирта там тоже нет.
Но Дзирт-то вечен *чтоб его*.
Ну и по мелочи:
1. Нетерезы вернулись в Год Дикой Магии 1372 и обиделись на всех.
Проживают в пустыне Анарох, некогда бывшей их родной страной.
Подчинили себе всё живое в границах своего государства.
Столица - Shade Enclave - досаждает соседям, повисая над их городами по ночам. *БУ!*
Ещё есть город Саккорс, в 1374 году поднятый нетерезами со дна моря, куда он рухнул при падении их империи.
Телепортируется временами в Сембию по ночам. * Дабл БУ!*
2. Джарлаксл жив-здоров.
Ещё бы нет!
Бреган Д'Эрт так же процветает.
Bregan D’aerthe mercenaries and assassins are a wild card in drow politics, seemingly an untouchable class of sellswords. The group has outposts in Underdark settlements across northern and western Faerûn. Its members have been found working for surface interests in western lands from Luruar to Tethyr, and as far to the northeast as Impiltur. Bregan D’aerthe originated in the city of Menzoberranzan. Its founder, Jarlaxle Baenre, has cunningly spread his philosophy to other drow cities, and now his society, which once had only a few hundred, has more than a thousand members. Few drow care to move against Bregan D’aerthe, because the organization has its uses—especially in gathering information from the Underdark and the surface world.
Hiring Bregan D’aerthe mercenaries also has its risks. As might be expected in a drow organization, the contract goes to the highest bidder—often the patron who offers the group the biggest advantage when events sort themselves out.
Leader: Jarlaxle, ultimately, but his trusted lieutenant Kimmuriel Oblodra runs the organization during Jarlaxle’s frequent and long absences.
Headquarters: Menzoberranzan.
Hierarchy: The most accomplished, charismatic, and discerning resident member runs a particular Bregan D’aerthe cell, although exceptions exist.
Members: Well-equipped and skilled drow from fallen houses, including a few disenfranchised priestesses, form Bregan D’aerthe cadres dedicated to professional soldiery and mutual protection. Bregan D’aerthe is known to accept individual drow who are skilled in any of a variety of combat methods. However, the group has no active recruiting effort.
Jarlaxle and Bregan D’aerthe have contacts in surface cities such as Waterdeep, Baldur’s Gate, Athkatla, and Darromar, as well as Mulmaster and Lyrabar. A few underworld guilds even consider Bregan D’aerthe an ally. Through this set of connections, Jarlaxle and his followers expand their influence and grow ever richer.
3. Громф Бэнр тоже жив-здоров.
Власть так и не захватил, даже не пытался.
Мило.
4. В Лускане проживает четыре тысячи человек.
Почему так мало?
Ответ прост: сто лет гражданской войны.
В течение десяти лет после событий Короля Пиратов пираты разбежались или были убиты.
Вот с тех пор у них за власть не борется только ленивый, даже бехолдеры.
А по улицам бродят красивые крысы размером с лошадь.
5. Бренор мёртв.
Нет, я не знаю как и почему.
Но он составит компанию Энтрери, похоже, в ближайших шести книгах Сальваторе.
6. Вааса и Дамара так и не объединились.
Более того, во время Магической Чумы на Ваасу упал...метеорит!!!
И это не просто метеорит, это божество.
И ему поклоняется культ Warlock Knights.
Именно они управляют Ваасой.
Дамарой же правит Ярин, убивший последнего правителя из рода Драконоборов лет за 20 до "ста лет спустя".
Столица - Helgabal. *О БОГИ ДА!!! Они его переименовали, ура!!!*
7. В Мензоберранзане правит Квентль.
Они с Громфом иногда подстраивают друг другу "несчастные случаи", но оба здравствуют.

Вот как-то так...
Если будут вопросы - пишите, скину канонный канон.

@темы: Entreri, Jarlaxle, канонный канон

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Спам, хлам...

РазЪ

Ох чёрт!
Мне обычно всё равно, как я выгляжу.
В разумных пределах, конечно.
Я предпочитаю комфорт и удобство.
Но я маньяк в вопросах обуви!!!
Иногда дело доходит до бреда.
Есть такая фирма, Baldinini.
В летней коллекции 2010 года присутствуют у них сапоги.
Я по ним сошла с ума.
Один плюс: 30к стоят.
Так что я их не куплю, слава всем богам.
Хотя...

Два

"Есть у меня мечта, на метре прокатиться" (цы)
У меня тоже есть мечта.
Мечта идиота с явно ослабленным чувством самосохранения.
Научиться вот ЭТОМУ.

запись создана: 03.08.2010 в 12:18

@темы: спам

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Drabbles mb?

Несколько коротких драббликов от Lady Fellshot.
Редко я видела Джарлаксла, спокойно играющего в карты.

The Dealer

Jarlaxle considered his open portable hole on the bed and sighed in resignation. I really do need to go through it. Need to make sure that Kimmuriel didn't slip anything "helpful" in it.
He began by slipping on a monocle that would allow him to see magical auras. The drow fully realized that his psionic lieutenant might opt for something unrelated to the Weave to track him, but he could at least eliminate some of his belongings from the list of possible suspects.
An hour later, a neat arrangement of tools, devices, potions, elixirs and wands sat across from a large disarray of clothes in various bright jewel hued fabrics and leathers. Separated from those were various innocuous items ranging from cotton rope to a large woman's bustier. Jarlaxle picked up a small, plain grey zurhkwood box. Well, this doesn't look suspicious at all... he thought sardonically as he opened the simple latch.
A worn deck of playing cards greeted his suspicions. Aside from an enchantment to keep them whole against the ravages of time, the cards emanated nothing overtly threatening to Jarlaxle's monocled eye. I thought I had gotten rid of those centuries ago...
He pulled the deck from the box and flipped through them quickly, wary that something might have been slipped among them. Failing to see anything untoward, the drow shuffled the worn cards to see if the preservation spell on them had deteriorated.
After a few slips, Jarlaxle's long nimble fingers remembered the skills that had once kept him fed, clothed and in the good graces of the first person he had called his partner. The mercenary flipped cards up and caught them, cut the deck in the air and spread the deck in a neat arc on the smooth floor before gathering them up to reshuffle them again with more flourishes.
A grin started to sneak out over the mercenary's face and a curious feeling of lightness stole its way into his mind, pushing Jarlaxle's current set of worries aside. He continued shuffling and reshuffling, airing the musty smell out of the stack of thick papers and relishing the even percussive rolling sound of the cards slapping against each other. I don't care if this is a trap courtesy of Kimmuriel. It's been far too long since I last did this. I've forgotten what fun it is!
Jarlaxle laughed softly as he sat cross legged on the cool floor and began to deal the cards out. A hand of solitaire, perhaps and then putting all my things away... A moment later his breath caught and his delight evaporated like liquor in the midday desert sun as he stared at the old cards before him.
Instead of a hand for one, a game for two lay before the mercenary.
He suddenly remembered the last time this deck of cards had been used. He remembered the person, his partner, sitting across from Jarlaxle with scuffed boots propped up on their salvaged table, next to his weapons belt. He remembered the way his partner idly flipped a throwing dagger in his hand, the way the blade glimmered between his fingers before he settled down to play a hand.
Jarlaxle remembered the last time his best friend in all of Faerûn laughed in unrestrained delight, the harsh baritone smoothed out by shared levity. Before I sent him on the mission that doomed him.
Jarlaxle looked morosely at the cards he had dealt for himself. A matron, a mage, a weaponsmaster, and a high priestess, all in the suit of webs. Full house. Seems like I always ended up with the upper hand. I wonder what he would have had...
The mercenary flipped over the second hand one by one. With each card he turned over, he felt his melancholy lift a little. By the time he saw the last one, Jarlaxle smiled with a lingering twinge of sadness. A set of four aces lay on the floor opposite him. You won, you crazy, sneaky, irreverent bastard. You really won.
He carefully gathered up the cards and put them back in their plain grey box, shaking his head at his memories. The drow started shoving his belongings back into the gaping hole, saving the card box for last. He debated putting the small wooden item back amongst his other equipment or leaving it under a pillow for the chambermaids to discover after he left.
I have to remember, Jarlaxle decided as he dropped the box into his portable hole. I need to remember how dire the stakes are.
He folded the hole up neatly and tucked it into a vest pocket, over his heart. And to realize that sometimes they're just too damned high to bear.

Insomnia

Bruenor paced the inner tunnels of Mithril Hall. Most of the residents slept, leaving apprentice metalworkers to tend the bellows fires, ensuring they never went out completely. He nodded to each of the young dwarves as he walked past. He did so every night since Catti-Brie and Regis had passed. Sleep had apparently abandoned the dwarven king since.
He felt strange. On the rare occasions he stopped to think about it, the dwarf realized he had had this hole in his heart, had always had it. Bruenor stopped. Since we thought the boy dead by yochol, he realized.
His circuit took him up into the guest quarters next. The rooms that Drizzt had shared with Catti-Brie were unoccupied and had been so for weeks. Last I heard, the elf was avoiding all contact. At least Hralien's keeping an eye out for him. Damn elf, he did this the last time too...
A few more turns in the corridor brought Bruenor into the more populated guest rooms. Usually at this hour all was quiet in here as well, but the quiet sound of paper pages flipping against each other behind one of the doors piqued his curiosity. Wonder what Feather-hat's doing at this hour, he thought as he knocked on the door.
A friendly tenor voice answered, "It's open."
Bruenor walked in to find his houseguest in a fine woven shirt of leaf green and eye searing purple trousers sitting at a plain table, dealing out a hand of solitaire with a faded set of playing cards. Red eyes regarded the dwarf tiredly. "I see you haven't been getting any rest either."
The dwarf shrugged and took the chair opposite Jarlaxle. The mercenary began his game as Bruenor continued, "Seems better to keep movin' iffen I can't sleep."
"My reverie has not been easy as well," the drow responded lightly. He put down two cards and continued with his game.
"I'm for thinking you've a few skeletons in yer closet, there." Bruenor frowned at Jarlaxle.
"No more than anyone else," the mercenary shrugged. Another handful of cards slipped onto the table. "Surely you've had friends that you've failed before."
"Aye." The dwarf leaned back and watched the drow set a few more cards down. "Still tryin' to get used t' the idea of ye with friends."
"It happens more often than you think," Jarlaxle looked at the deck spread out on the table. "The cards came from a friend."
"And where is he?" Bruenor asked, suspecting the answer.
"Long dead." The drow stared morosely at the cards.
The dwarf cocked his head to the side, curious. "Ye still have th' cards though."
Jarlaxle shrugged. "A keepsake."
Bruenor watched the drow carefully proceed through his game for a few minutes. Finally he asked the question that had been bothering him for the past few months. "Why are ye here?"
"You didn't not invite me..." the drow smirked.
"That's not what I meant and ye know it," Bruenor grumbled.
The smirk disappeared faster than it had appeared in the first place. For a moment the mercenary said nothing, instead gauging the dwarf's stance and attitude. Bruenor glared right back. Jarlaxle blinked and said softly, "The stakes are too high."
Bruenor frowned at the unexpected response. "What?"
Jarlaxle ignored the query and with swift, deft movements scooped all of the cards up back into a deck and began to shuffle it with the speed of a professional dealer. After cutting the deck, the drow dealt out two sets of seven cards and left the rest to the side. He picked up his hand and asked, "What games do you know?"
"Miner's Crutch," the dwarf blinked. What in the hells...
"I might be rusty at it," Jarlaxle heaved a theatrical sigh.
Bruenor caught the grin in the mercenary's eyes and decided he was not going to get a straight answer and yielded to the inevitable. "What are we betting with? I won't be risking me kingdom with ye."
The mercenary grinned broadly. "I was thinking of stakes no higher than buttons and pocket lint actually."
The dwarf found himself grinning right back. "Might be that I can wager some fine buttons against ye."
"It's settled then!" Jarlaxle laughed as he pulled some lint from his pockets and put it on the table.
Bruenor chuckled as he pulled a wooden button off his shirt and set it in front of him. "What's the exchange rate?"
"We'll figure it out later," the drow said merrily as they both began to play.

A Job Interview

A Bregan D'Aerthe meeting room.
Jarlaxle: (businesslike) So what can you do for Bregan D'Aerthe?
Kimmuriel: I can read minds.
Jarlaxle: Oh really? (amused) So what am I thinking now?
Kimmuriel: ... You have a shield of some kind. An external shield if you want me to be specific.
Jarlaxle: (taps his eye patch) Good to know that when I ordered this thing made "all concealing" it actually is. What else?
Kimmuriel: I can excite the energies in an object until it explodes.
Jarlaxle: (unimpressed) I can do that with whole noble houses with more spectacular results. Try again.
Kimmuriel: (Getting a little worried) Teleporting?
Jarlaxle: (yawns) Which any wizard can do with a spell. Really, you are starting to bore me.
Kimmuriel: (irritated) Then what would you like me to do?
Jarlaxle: (opens a drawer, pulls out a spoon and holds up the utensil)
Kimmuriel: You must be joking.
Jarlaxle: No, I don't think I am.
Kimmuriel: This is humiliating.
Jarlaxle: No, this is an audition. Humiliating would be if there were other people around. Now do you want in or shall I dump you back with your female relations?
Kimmuriel: (makes a small gesture and the spoon bends at a right angle) You win.
Jarlaxle: (grins) I always win. And in this case, so do you. Welcome to Bregan D'Aerthe.
Kimmuriel: (sighs resignedly)

@музыка: I feel you anyway

@темы: Jarlaxle, Kimmi, Bruenor, в запас

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By the gods!

Даже не знаю, почему этот фик мне так понравился.
Предупреждение: куча всего такого, чего детям и людям со слабой психикой лучше не читать!!!

Blood and Sand by Oroburos69

It was the middle of summer and the sun was fucking hot. There were no breezes, no trees, and no shade. The sky was so blue that it looked like raw magic. Sand stretched out like the goddamn sky, and the heat rose in curling thermal waves that twisted in the air. It was solar noon and the day was just going to get hotter.
Jarlaxle and Artemis weren't talking to each other. Artemis' blood was boiling with rage and Jarlaxle was so tense that he thought he just might break something if he didn't calm down. They had fought all morning, snarling over the lack of water, insulting each other's navigation abilities, but most of all complaining about the fucking heat.
They were lost. They should have found an oasis three days ago, and another today. Instead there was mile after mile of heat warped sand, the entire world reduced to gold and blue. They had maybe a day's worth of water left (and neither could help thinking that it was two days worth for one person).
Jarlaxle's hat was pulled low over his eyes. The sun burnt him even in the shadow, its rays reflecting off the gleaming sand below onto his skin. He took a cautious sip from his canteen, hiding his actions from Entreri.
Jarlaxle couldn't see where they were going and he hoped like hell that Entreri could, because for all he knew they'd been wandering in circles for the last week. The sun and sand were too bright. He could barely see the jewel-like colours anymore. Throbbing sunspots ached inside his eyes and blocked out everything.
Entreri's head was uncovered because he was using his hat as a fan. The sun and the desert didn't bother him much and normally he liked the heat, but the idea that he might die here had taken root and burnt its message into his flesh. He felt the heat like the fiery tongue of death lapping at his sweat-slicked neck.
Entreri didn't know where they were, didn't know where they were going, and he was getting really fucking thirsty. He touched the half empty canteen strapped to his belt on his right hand side. Jarlaxle walked on his left. Yesterday, they had both been on the left.
Jarlaxle licked the sweat salt off his lips and spared a prayer to a god he knew wouldn't answer. The salt stung his cracked lips, but he didn't have enough saliva to make them anything but slightly damp.
The air stirred softly like it was sighing, cooling him briefly and he wished it would do it again. He pulled his hat off to wipe at the sweat that ran like water down his scalp, grimacing at the feel of bristling short hair. There hadn't been water to shaving in over a week.
They walked across the sun's path, heading due south. Together they slogged through shifting sands and didn't think about dying. Visions of clean white bone in an endless desert dwelled behind Entreri's eyes. Jarlaxle thought of snow.
In the end, they nearly stumbled onto the cacti. There was no water in the deep valley hidden between two dunes, but the flesh of the plants was thick and they had full gleaming leaves shaped like medallions of jade. Other cacti rose from the sand like thick spiny barrels.
A bone dry oval of packed down sediment dusted with thin ripples of sand graced the centre of the valley. Squared off blocks of yellowed stone lay like fallen soldiers, framing a half collapsed wall, ruins from a time when water had flowed in this desert. The thin shade from the wall looked like paradise.
They still weren't talking.
Jarlaxle had settled beside the wall, taking advantage of the growing shadows. He swayed in a non-existent breeze and his hands looked skeletal, dry skin stretched across bone. The air stole the moisture of his breath, his skin, his eyes, without offering the saving grace of cooling him. He had stopped sweating miles ago. His cracked lips were parted, panting breaths offering the only breeze he could find. His mouth was dry and even if he wanted to talk he wasn't sure that he could.
Entreri dropped to his knees beside a thick barrel-shaped cactus, fogged mind trying to remember if this breed was poisonous. Jarlaxle would be fine. Very few poisons can harm a drow. But Entreri couldn't remember if the flesh contained water or if it would kill him. His hand drifted out to stroke the smooth flesh hidden between the needles. It was cooler than the air and the sand, the temperature difference striking to him. His vision was blurry and, by all the gods, his head hurt. His eyes drifted shut, lids nearly rasping. He swore he could hear drums.
The white hot sun drove through Jarlaxle's skin in shimmering waves of heat, his sprawled limbs branded by its fierce rays. He couldn't see anything. The world was blanketed in white sunspots, and it hurt too much to keep his eyes open in the face of the light.
Entreri's boot prodded at his ribs and Jarlaxle shifted to show that he was paying attention. The human settled beside him and put something soft and wet into his hand. Jarlaxle could hear the dry wheeze of Entreri's breath in the absolute silence of the desert.
"It's probably edible," Entreri offered, voice cracking. "If you chew it and suck out the moisture it's not half bad." He scraped out another handful for himself. In the battle between dying of dehydration and poison, he didn't have a preference. It tasted like glue, and the pulp was thoroughly unpleasant in texture. He had eaten worse.
Jarlaxle pulled it towards his mouth, the effort exhausting him. He chewed it into a mash and sucked out the liquid. The remaining pulp was too fibrous to even think about swallowing, so he spit it out. Jarlaxle opened his blind eyes and looked to where he heard Entreri. He held out his hand for more. His arm trembled from the cramps that were tying him into knots. Everything hurt.
Entreri glanced over at Jarlaxle, and gave him another handful of the tacky paste. The cactus was almost out of pulp, its hard outer shell quickly baking dry in the open air. There were a few more scattered around the rim of the dried out oasis. They might survive. A quick breeze danced through the valley, setting the sand dancing. The sun sank behind them, its loathsome eye forced shut by the height of the dunes. His fear eased a little. It's not hope (he doesn't feel that) but something in him relaxed as he watched Jarlaxle drink the moisture from the pulp. Jarlaxle's lips were sticky with blood and sap.
They had drunk from all of the cacti, leaving the empty rinds half buried in sand. The sun was almost fully set, the sky turning to orange and red in the west and a brilliant purple-black in the east. They sated their thirst. It was time to leave their temporary sanctuary and continue south towards Calimport.
Jarlaxle stumbled to his feet, vision still uselessly blurred. He brushed sand from his pants, listening for Entreri. Luckily the assassin feels no need for stealth; otherwise this would be more difficult. Entreri strode down the valley along the solid base of the trough. Jarlaxle followed by listening for the brush of cotton on linen, leather on sand.
Entreri looked back at Jarlaxle, concerned. Jarlaxle still stumbled even though he had drunk his fill of the tasteless cactus juices. Entreri slowed his stride to allow him to catch up.
The desert whispered softly, sand dragging in the wake of a cool breeze rolling in from the southwest. It felt like home to Entreri. The blazing heat was gone and the desert night evoked memories from his youth. Undeserved nostalgia, he's sure, but he makes no effort to truly remember the past. Such things were better without reality intruding.
The sun was set, and a truly black night had descended on the desert. The gold sand looked charcoal grey and the sky over head was even darker. The cool breeze had turned into a cold wind that snapped through the dunes.
Entreri looked up, suddenly uneasy. The moon was supposed to be waxing, not waning. His nostrils flared as he breathed deep, seeking confirmation. His unease became tightly contained anxiety. The wind held moisture.
"Jarlaxle," he called out. "We need to get out of this valley." He paused, looking up at the steep inclines of loose sand. "Watch for a path we can use," he added, tension audible in his voice.
"Why?" Jarlaxle asked, confused. He couldn't see anything but darkness, although he suspected that it was simply a very dark night. Anything that might kill them Entreri would already have attacked.
"It's going to rain," Entreri explained, setting off in a ground-covering lope. He glanced at the sky, heart beating faster than the exercise warranted. "Come on, we have to get out of here," he yelled over his shoulder.
"Why?" Jarlaxle asks again, still confused. Obediently, he began to run, chasing after the sound of Entreri's footsteps as best he could. "I thought rain was good."
"Not in a desert. It's going to flood," Entreri explained, keeping a wary eye on the lightning that was beginning to spark under the bellies of the clouds. "If we don't find a way out of this valley, we're going to drown."
"Fuck," Jarlaxle said. The wind picked up, covering the sound of Entreri's footsteps. His ears twitched back against his skull, changing angles to keep the wind out. Jarlaxle swore under his breath and quickened his pace, tripping over stones buried under the sand. Entreri was pulling ahead of him.
Entreri cursed violently, his feet suddenly ankle deep in rapidly rushing water. "Hurry," he shouted.
The walls of the valley were becoming steeper. Entreri increased his pace to a sprint, the water rising with every step.
The valley turned a sharp corner, the still shallow water driving into the outer curve, the slope collapsing down as its underpinnings washed away. Entreri considered trying to run up the slope, but it was far too unstable.
His feet were nearly torn out from under him by knee-deep water by the time he reached the corner. Entreri almost laughed in relief. The sudden corner was caused by a lovely, solid, highly climbable cliff.
Entreri waded through the slower water on the inside corner and climbed up to the wind-flattened cliff top, thirty feet above. He dropped his pack and returned to the edge to give Jarlaxle a hand up. The rough cliff face was empty. Entreri looked down the flooded valley, waiting for lightning to strike. His back tensed as he gazed intently at the rising water, swaying in maelstrom of wind.
Lightning struck three times in rapid succession, turning the water ghostly white and illuminating Jarlaxle. The drow was struggling to keep his footing in the waist deep water, still more than fifty feet away from the bottom of the cliff. Thunder boomed, a chest rattling explosion of sound.
Entreri unsheathed Charon's Claw and drove it hilt deep into the solid rock. "Stay," he whispered, hoping it would listen this time. He dug out the longest length of rope they had and tied it around the hilt of his sword, then gave it a harsh jerk to test it. The blade stayed firm in the stone and he spared a moment to hope he would be able to get it out again. He tied the other end around his waist and climbed back down into the raging waters.
Lightning flashed again, showing him Jarlaxle. The drow was fighting to stay upright, but the water was almost chest deep and there was no way he was going to walk out of it. Entreri's whistle drowned in thunder, and Jarlaxle didn't notice him waving. Entreri sighed and resigned himself to doing this the hard way.
Entreri looped the extra length of the rope around his wrist and let the water carry him downstream, slowly releasing the slack. Lightning sizzled through the air, close enough to bring the scent of ozone with it. The charge of electricity made Entreri's hair rise as he scanned the place where he last saw Jarlaxle.
The water was up to Jarlaxle's neck. It pinned him against the shifting sand bank, and he was trying to scale it. The sand kept collapsing under him, sinking him deeper into the rushing waters.
Entreri stopped as far away as he could, trying to avoid the undercurrent. Jarlaxle still didn't see him, much to his annoyance. Thunder rolled continuously now, making yelling useless. Entreri released a bit more rope and grabbed Jarlaxle's wrist.
Jarlaxle shouted in surprise and fought against Entreri's hand. The movement tore him from his precarious perch, the current twisting his wrist from Entreri's grasp.
"Goddamn," Entreri muttered, shaking the rest of the rope from his wrist. He let the water carry him after Jarlaxle and pushed off the flood bed to gain speed. At nearly the limit of the rope's reach he caught hold of Jarlaxle's hand. He locked his hand around the thin bones hard enough to crack them, not caring so long as he didn't lose Jarlaxle again. Jarlaxle's other hand stretched out to take Entreri's wrist, the drow sinking below the surface again.
Entreri pulled Jarlaxle close to his chest to reduce drag, wincing as he felt bone snap from the force of his grasp.
Jarlaxle's head surfaced, and he choked on storm water while gasping for air. Entreri slammed his arm across Jarlaxle's chest, holding his head above the water.
Entreri twisted a length of rope around Jarlaxle to keep him from drifting away. He hauled on the rope, dragging them through the flood towards the cliff. Jarlaxle recovered quickly and helped using his good hand.
By the time they reached the cliff, thirty feet was fifteen. The angle of the rope was the only thing saving them from going under. The rain finally began to pour down on them, thick heavy drops that made the rock slick. Entreri supported Jarlaxle on his left, the bones in his hand shifting too much for him to use it.
Charon's Claw had cut deep in the rock, carving a razor thin rift in the cliff. Artemis and Jarlaxle ignored it as they scrambled over the edge. They collapsed next to each other, panting.
Artemis fumbled with the rope tied around his waist, trying to untie the knot, but quickly gave up and cut it off instead.
"Where are your canteens?" he asked Jarlaxle, pulling his own from his pack.
Jarlaxle groped along his belt, looking for them. His bag of holding squished wetly under his hand, thin streams of water leaking out though the stitches.
The canteens were on his right, he remembered. His searching fingers found the leather straps and untied it one-handed. He pushed it in the direction of Entreri's voice.
Entreri stopped, puzzled. "I'm… over here," he said.
Jarlaxle's eyes shifted lazily from where he'd pushed the canteens to a metre to Entreri's left.
"You can't see," Entreri said flatly, eyes narrowing as he tied the evidence together.
"It's getting better," Jarlaxle defended, trying to placate the anger burning in Entreri's voice.
"You were blind, and you didn't tell me?" Entreri demanded in disbelief. "What kind of fool are you?"
"You wouldn't have told me!" Jarlaxle retorted. "And what would telling you have changed?" He glared viciously at Entreri's shoulder.
"I would have dragged you along so that you didn't fall behind, you idiot," Entreri snapped irately.
"And broken my hand that way?" Jarlaxle snarled, unreasonably furious. His hand ached, he was cold, he couldn't fucking see, and he had almost died. Again.
"…the Hell?" Entreri told Jarlaxle, offended by the accusation. He rubbed the skin of his knuckles, breathing deeply. "I saved your life."
"I never asked you to," Jarlaxle countered. His hat had washed away in the storm and the rain dripped down his face, collecting in his eyelashes, and falling down like tears.
He sensed vibrations from the rock underneath him and turned his head instinctively to look. Lightning snapped down to the earth.
Artemis' face was inches from his own, a blurred mask of white-lit skin and huge black eyes.
Jarlaxle jumped, startled.
"No," Artemis decided. "You aren't allowed to do this," he informed him. "You said we were friends." He punctuated his accusation by pushing Jarlaxle to the ground and shifting to straddle him, his soaked hair sending water droplets scattering through the rain. "You said."
His voice sounded strangely hollow, the words tearing free without the accompanying emotions.
Artemis fingered a blade hidden up his sleeve, a lifetime of solving problems with blood calling to him. "You told me that you weren't going to leave."
"What hell is wrong with you?" Jarlaxle hissed, drawing a knife from his wrist bracer and shoving it against Artemis' neck.
Lightning flashed in the clouds, throwing the dripping red line under his knife into high contrast.
Artemis' mouth opened, slow breaths slipping out. He relaxed under the blade, lightning-lit eyes gleaming white. His hands pinned Jarlaxle's shoulders to the ground. He leaned into them as a thrumming tension built from the ashes of the previous calm.
Phantom heat filled the air between them, a ghost touching their skin before dying in the chilled gale winds. His knees bracketed Jarlaxle's hips, pouring warmth into him through wet cloth.
"I believed you," he said, voice nearly lost in the thunder. "And you lied, you almost died, because you wouldn't let me help you," Artemis accused, releasing one of Jarlaxle's shoulders to wipe away a rain-thinned trickle of blood from his neck. "You… I," Artemis muttered, lost.
He loomed over Jarlaxle in the sporadic brilliance of lightning, his body shielding Jarlaxle from the brunt of the rain. A muted sigh of frustration parted Artemis' lips. He didn't know what he was trying to say.
He leaned into the knife and let it nip at his skin, welcoming the bite over the raging uncertainty that plagued him.
Jarlaxle lightened the pressure on Artemis' throat. He felt Artemis' disquiet in the silence, Artemis' body speaking for what he wasn't saying.
His eyes couldn't see, the fury of the storm deadened his hearing, but he could feel Artemis like a smouldering brand, half threat, half plea. He rested the knife lightly on Artemis' skin and asked with a cautious scrape down the prominent tendons of Artemis' neck, little rivers streaming away from major veins.
Artemis answered, bowing his head and letting his brow rest against Jarlaxle's shoulder. The blade traced the back of his neck, little cuts that didn't hurt until the rain found them.
His breath came a little too fast and his body trembled from the chill of the wind.
He kept hearing the crack of bone under his hand.
Artemis had been so certain that Jarlaxle would fight him and be lost in the glassy lightning-lit flood, a leviathan that would have swallowed Jarlaxle whole.
It would have been like he had never existed.
Jarlaxle blinked blindly at the feel of Artemis' fingers tracing the swelling flesh of his hand. It hurt dimly, the pain shimmering under Artemis' touch. Jarlaxle pressed his hand into Artemis' palm, bone edges grinding under the strain. Sweat beaded on his brow and washed away under the onslaught of rain.
Jarlaxle gripped the knife tightly, holding it above Artemis' skin. He ran it down his chest, slicing through his tattered cotton shirt. The wet edges fell open and formed a secluded stage between them.
Jarlaxle's hand rested between the torn layers over his heart. He drew a curving ellipse between Artemis' ribs, a shallow mark that arced gracefully from the thin skin of his chest to end at the edge of the heavy muscles covering Artemis' back.
His thumb traced through the welling blood, following the hollow between his ribs to the soft skin behind the arm where the ribs disappeared under muscle.
Blood surged hot and vital under his hand, bleeding out from the incandescent source to cool and dilute in the rain, soaking though Artemis' shirt.
Artemis almost pulled away from the deeper cut, the splitting of his skin feeling like a punishment. The cautious retracing of the lines kept him still, face buried against Jarlaxle's neck, hand clasping broken bones.
The hand pressing into his ribs felt like a promise.
The next cut stole Artemis' breath from the wind, lifting his head in a struggle for air. His arms shook with silent tremors from the effort of not taking the last inches between their bodies.
Jarlaxle tilted his head and laid his cheek against Artemis' hair. He spread his hand flat across the open cuts, feeling the warm blood in stripes against cool skin, and the rain beating against both. He tugged down, telling Artemis to close the gap.
Artemis allowed their bodies to touch. No weight, no pressure, just a line of contact. His hand lay over Jarlaxle's palm, pressing down, rubbing through the inflamed flesh to find the broken bones.
Jarlaxle's eyelids flickered in time to Artemis' hand seeking out the broken edges, but he didn't fight him.
Jarlaxle slid the knife across Artemis' skin, adding another opening between his ribs. The curving stripes, carved blindly, followed the curves and angles of his bones. Jarlaxle stroked the cut, thumb digging in like he wanted to enter Artemis through it.
Artemis twisted under the contact, bucking into Jarlaxle's hand. Something raw and broken stirred inside him, fires raging in absolutes of light and dark.
Jarlaxle gave the open gash one last stroke, touching the burning heat inside Artemis.
The pain was beautiful. He loves… he loves… Jarlaxle's eyes stared into the dark.
Artemis' solid pressure anchored him to the ground, keeping him sheltered from the storm. Hot trickles of blood and water washed down his side, dripping from the marks he had made.
He let the knife slide below Artemis' ribs and pressed down ever so lightly. He could open Artemis here and look inside, see if he could find the strange spark that made him so interesting.
Jarlaxle forced it in, feeling the skin part under the blade. He was close to the truth of the burning body draped over his. He could feel it, the infinite pinnacle, in the wet breath lapping against his neck, the shuddering of the flesh, the wonderful ache of life.
Artemis pushed into Jarlaxle's broken bones like he was trying to reach the ground underneath them.
Jarlaxle shuddered, twisting the knife in tiny fractions of degrees, feeling the sensation arc through the knife into Artemis, race through seizing and shuddering muscles, and ground itself through the snapped bones in his hand. They're connected and the knowledge is sweet bliss.
Artemis writhed against him, truth sublimating into blue white lightning, the insistent beat of life echoing from Artemis to Jarlaxle, immolating everything in its path.
Jarlaxle sank into the ground, licking blood from the bite mark on Artemis' shoulder.
"Gods," Artemis whispered into Jarlaxle's ear. His voice rang low and deep, purring like the rolling thunder. The disquiet was purged, the rising darkness consoled.
Jarlaxle pulled the knife out, feeling empty. The fire of Artemis was fading already. His hand began to ache.
Artemis rolled onto his side, bringing Jarlaxle with him. He released Jarlaxle's broken hand with a regretful caress, eyes lingering on it. The knuckles were swollen and twisted.
Jarlaxle lay quiet under his grip, red eyes black in the darkness. Artemis grabbed Jarlaxle's shoulder and pulled him closer in an awkward one-armed hug.
Jarlaxle was stiff for a moment before melting into him. He chuckled and draped his good arm over Artemis' waist, whispering, "Your stubble itches."
Artemis rubbed his face deliberately along Jarlaxle's cheek, his five o'clock shadow rasping along smooth skin. "I know," he muttered, running a hand through Jarlaxle's spiky hair. "Yours does too."
The storm lessened, winds blowing it deeper inland. The pounding of the rain became a gentle drizzle. The roar of thunder and rushing water subsided. Moonlight penetrated the dense cloud cover, lightening the stormy night.
Entreri watched the darkness. Jarlaxle was beside him, head resting on Entreri's shoulder. His warm, even breath glided over Entreri's neck and brushed over the shallow nicks and scrapes. His ribs stopped bleeding hours ago. The canteens were full to the brim with sandy water. He thinks that maybe everything could be okay (he doesn't hope because he can't remember how). Jarlaxle's good hand curled around the last and deepest cut, holding it in his sleep. It stung.
The End

@темы: Entreri, Jarlaxle, в запас

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Спам

Итак… В мире, описанном Р. Сальваторе, ваше имя было бы Джарлакс

Мои поздравления! Вы – непревзойденный мастер интриги, жестокий, беспринципный обладатель великолепного чувства юмора. То, что вы, будучи изгоем, выжили в Мензоберранзане, городе дроу, говорит само за себя. Вы превосходно владеете собой и верны лишь себе. Если бы в Мензоберранзане не было матриархата, вы бы вертели всеми и вся как метательными кинжалами, которые и сейчас скрыты у вас в рукавах. Нет-нет, не стоит проверять, они действительно спрятаны очень надежно

Пройти тест

С хера ли?!

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О разном.

Нцешная драка зависла и подло кажет мне язык с недосягаемых пока высот, при этом поддразнивая приходящими, никак друг с другом не связанными образами и фразами.
Сут, умеешь ты задать задачку, блин!

У любимых старушек отказал инстинкт самосохранения.
Совсем.
Пожилые люди вообще плохо переносят такую жару, тем более на протяжении месяца.
Но советский народ не сдаётся до сих пор.
После завтрака в 25 капель карвалольчика одна из бабушек *благо не моя* пошла на грядки собирать огурцы.
Зачем?
Это ж очевидно.
МА-РИ-НО-ВАТЬ!!!
И вот, на улице +38, а в доме затоплена печка, дым стоит коромыслом, а пар валит во двор.
Эпопея началась в девять утра и к восьми вечера не помышляла кончаться.
Вторая бабушка *на сей раз, увы, моя* решила собрать смородину.
Да, она у нас не посохла.
Солнышко радостно и во всей своей красе стоит в зените, бомбардируя всё, что под него попадает, мегатоннами фотонов.
Упрямая *уж простите* карга в час дня сидит на скамеечке и флегматично собирает чёрную смородину.
Затем столь же флегматично перешла к красной.
С тяжёлым вздохом мама достала пляжный большой зонт, лет девять назад привезённый нами из Испании, и занималась его планомерным вкапыванием-выкапыванием-перетаскиванием за непоколебимой бабулей.
Прям мечта.
Дачные будни, чтоб их.

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порнуха, бытовуха, интернет-зависимость и сотовомобильное рабство

А особенно сотовомобильное рабство...
Просидев три часа в нотариальной конторе, могу сообщить, что это 3,14здец.
Счастливая семья: мама, папа, я...и у всех троих iPhone.
И все трое в них прутся как в старый советский ковёр под ЛСД.
Идиллия как в рекламе, даром что пиарасты Apple не додумались сами.

Что выросло из меня - печально, но живуче.
Но человечество обречено на вымирание последующим поколением.
Слава Богу.
Ждать не долго.

@темы: Что-то другое