Crimson Raven
Member
*Rolls a Nat 1*
STATUS: 'tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. 6 yrs ago
- Last Seen: 6 yrs ago
- Joined: 11 yrs ago
- Posts: 5009 (1.23 / day)
- VMs: 2
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Username history
- Crimson Raven 11 yrs ago
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LiverisGood,
The Raven Calls,
Fish of Oblivion
Status
Recent Statuses
6 yrs ago
Current
'tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.
6 yrs ago
I say the words that I wish someone would tell me in vain hope that they might be returned to me.
2
likes
6 yrs ago
Existence continues.
6 yrs ago
So much I want to do, so little time...
1
like
6 yrs ago
“I’ve met some pricks in my time. But you, sir...” He said to the offending cactus.
7
likes
Bio
“NO ADMITTANCE.
NOT EVEN TO AUTHORISED PERSONNEL.
YOU ARE WASTING YOUR TIME HERE.
GO AWAY.”
― Douglas Adams, Mostly Harmless
NOT EVEN TO AUTHORISED PERSONNEL.
YOU ARE WASTING YOUR TIME HERE.
GO AWAY.”
― Douglas Adams, Mostly Harmless
NOTICE
Thank you for Noticing This Notice.
Your Noting it has been Noted.
And it has been Reported to the proper Authority.
Hello lurker/ My old friend/ I've come to talk to you again/ Because a shadow softly creeping/ Lurking in the chat while I was sleeping/ And the roleplay that was forming in my brain/ Still remains with the sound of lurking.
In dead roleplays I walked alone/ Narrow pathways of casual zone...
Need mor ༼ つ ◕_◕ ༽つ
(Made in collaboration with @hatakekuro)
It is known that there are an infinite number of worlds, simply because there is an infinite amount of space for them to be in. However, not every one of them is inhabited. Therefore, there must be a finite number of inhabited worlds. Any finite number divided by infinity is as near to nothing as makes no odds, so the average population of all the planets in the Universe can be said to be zero. From this it follows that the population of the whole Universe is also zero, and that any people you may meet from time to time are merely the products of a deranged imagination.
--Douglass Adams
All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages.
At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school.
And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow.
Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth.
And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part.
The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound.
Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages.
At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school.
And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow.
Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth.
And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part.
The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound.
Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
~~As You Like It, Shakespear
"Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing."
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing."
~~ Macbeth, Shakespear
“All stories told have been told before. We tell them to ourselves, as did all men who ever were. And all men who ever will be. The only things new are the names.”
“The purpose of a storyteller is not to tell you how to think, but to give you questions to think upon.”
“What do you know?”
“Almost everything. That almost part can be a real kick in the teeth sometimes.”
“What do you want, then?”
“What I can’t have.” Wit turned to him, eyes solemn. “Same as everyone else, Kaladin Stormblessed.”
"Two blind men waited at the end of an era, contemplating beauty. They sat atop the world’s highest cliff, overlooking the land and seeing nothing.
'Can beauty be taken from a man?' the first asked the second.
'It was taken from me,' the second replied. 'For I cannot remember it.' This man was blinded in a childhood accident. 'I pray to the God Beyond each night to restore my sight, so that I can find beauty again.'
'Is beauty something one must see then?' the first asked.
'Of course. That is it’s nature. How can you appreciate a work of art without seeing it?'
'I can hear a work of music,' the first said.
'Very well, you can hear some kinds of beauty - but you cannot know full beauty without sight. You can know only a small portion of beauty.'
'A sculpture,' the first said. 'Can I not feel its curves and slopes, the touch of the chisel that transformed common rock into uncommon wonder?'
'I suppose,' said the second, 'that you can know the beauty of a sculpture.'
'And what of the beauty of food? Is it not a work of art when a chef crafts a masterpiece to delight the tastes?'
'I suppose,' said the second, 'that you can know the beauty of a chef’s art.'
'And what of the beauty of a woman,' the first said. 'Can I not know her beauty in the softness of her caress, the kindness of her voice, the keenness of her mind as she reads philosophy to me? Can I not know this beauty? Can I not know most kinds of beauty, even without seeing it?'
'Very well,' said the second. 'But what if your ears were removed, your hearing taken away? Your tongue taken out, your mouth forced shut, your sense of smell destroyed? What if your skin were burned so that you could no longer feel? What if all that remained to you was pain? You could not know beauty then. It can be taken from a man.'"
The messenger stopped, cocking his head to Shallan.
"What?" she asked.
"What think you? Can beauty be taken from a man? If he could not touch, taste, smell, hear, see, what if all he knew was pain? Has that man had beauty taken away from him?"
"I…" What did this have to do with anything? "Does the pain change day by day?"
"Let us say it does," the messenger said.
"Then beauty, to that person, would be the times when the pain lessens. Why are you telling me this story?"
The messenger smiled. "To be human is to seek beauty, Shallan. Do not despair, do not end the hunt because thorns grow in your way. Tell me, what is the most beautiful thing you can imagine?"
...
“In this,” Wit said, “as in all things, our actions give us away. If an artist creates a work of powerful beauty – using new and innovative techniques – she will be lauded as a master, and will launch a new movement in aesthetics. Yet what if another, working independently with that exact level of skill, were to make the same accomplishments the very next month? Would she find similar acclaim? No. She’d be called derivative.
“So it’s not beauty itself we admire. It’s not the force of intellect. It’s not the invention, aesthetics, or capacity itself. The greatest talent we think a man can have?” He plucked a final string. “Seems to me that it must be nothing more than novelty.”
"A blind man awaited the era of endings," Wit said, "contemplating the beauty of nature."
Silence
"That man is me," Wit noted. "I'm not physically blind, just spiritually. And that other statement was actually very clever, if you think about it."
"What is it to be witty, then?”
“To say clever things.”
“And what is cleverness?”
“I…” Why was he having this conversation? “I guess it’s the ability to say and do the right things at the right time.”
The King’s Wit cocked his head, then smiled.
“Expectation. That is the true soul of art. If you can give a man more than he expects, then he will laud you his entire life. If you can create an air of anticipation and feed it properly, you will succeed.
“Conversely, if you gain a reputation for being too good, too skilled . . . beware. The better art will be in their heads, and if you give them an ounce less than they imagined, suddenly you have failed. Suddenly you are useless. A man will find a single coin in the mud and talk about it for days, but when his inheritance comes and is accounted one percent less than he expected, then he will declare himself cheated.”
Wit shook his head, standing up and dusting off his coat. “Give me an audience who have come to be entertained, but who expect nothing special. To them, I will be a god. That is the best truth I know.”
~~ Stromlight Archive, Brandon Sanderson
"You see, whether you can draw like this or not, being able to think up this kind of design, it depends on whether or not you can say to yourself, ‘Oh, yeah, girls like this exist in real life. If you don’t spend time watching real people, you can’t do this, because you’ve never seen it. Some people spend their lives interested only in themselves. Almost all Japanese animation is produced with hardly any basis taken from observing real people, you know. It’s produced by humans who can’t stand looking at other humans. And that’s why the industry is full of otaku!"
-Hayao Miyazaki
"In culture an analogous situation leads to the emergence of enclaves shut up in ghettos, where intellectual production likewise stagnates because of inbreeding in the form of incessant repetition of the selfsame creative patterns and techniques. The internal dynamics of the ghetto may appear to be intense, but with the passage of years it becomes evident that this is only a semblance of motion, since it leads nowhere, since it neither feeds into nor is fed by the open domain of culture, since it does not generate new patterns or trends, and since finally it nurses the falsest of notions about itself, for lack of any honest evaluation of its activities from outside."
~Stanislaw Lem, author of Solaris
Some heartfelt music while you lurk
Or U liSTEN TO tem MOOSIC!
I just don't want you to have a Bad Time...
What do I live for?
"I think I've seen this movie before." -@Guess Who
I LOVE TVTROPES!
Most Recent Posts
@Cherrywitch
Well like Leslie I am Australian. Though I am in NSW and they're on the coast of WA XD
@Lunarlors34 Oh, yeah, sorry. XD it's only 6 pm here at this time...
@Zarkun Oh jeez, hope you feel better. 0_0
He and Caits are time travelers.
I'll move onto the ball shortly. Like, my next post.
Yeah, Caits.
Get on the ball.
I'm kind of at a loss on what to do right now.
Anything you want, I guess. (Within reason, obviously)
Two days before New Years!
Does anyone have goals/wishes they'd like to fulfill in the next year? My goal is to keep eating nice things, draw stuff, and make people happy. :D
Yeah, the same as this year--
Last year's goals.
So I'm a little behind...
Sorry for the absence, first school caught up with me, then Chistmas and the holidays. I'm already writing up the next (and possible final) part to Ferrin's little adventure.
Ferrin ran through the slowly emptying city. He heard a voice broadcasted, advising everyone in the city to clear out, as the final match of the Grand Magic Games was now beginning.
The city itself would be the battleground.
He paid it no head, other then silently thanking whatever gods existed that with the city empty, he could sprint at full speed.
And sprint he did. He had developed a liking for running, and did so as a hobby of sorts. Plus, it would come in handy if some slobbering monstrosity from the pits of hell came calling or if Piston got mad at him again. With his long stride and lean frame, he could really cover ground. He fairly flew down the empty street, his coat flapping behind him. He focused on the buildings, trying to remember the way to where he had found the strange magic earlier, and keeping his magical senses attuned, despite the headache that was threatening to creep up.
When he came upon it, he was almost missed it. That unmistakable clear colorless magic. He skidded to a stop and retraced his steps until he standing right on top of it. "Here you are." He said, panting slightly, though more from adrenaline then exertion. He walked in a circle, looking for any obvious signs. He wanted to gogogo, and rush off screaming, but despite his intense sense of urgency, he forced himself to slow down and focus.
If he was wrong, he feared that he wouldn't have a second chance.
He paced out the magic signature's length, noting the slight curve. Frowning, he rifled through his pockets. "I know I have it somewhere...Ah-ha" He came out with a chunk of chalk. Bending over, he traced a line over the sensation of magic. He stood up, noting the direction and degree of the curve. He glanced at the sun, ignoring the final warning to clear the town for the games. He then peered down the street. He gauged angles and directions, before letting out a sound of disgust. "Can not see a dammed thing down here." He moved to a side of the street, and turned to a building. He gathered Aether magic to enhance his body, took a running start and let out a shout as he leapt about two stories into the air. However, without much room to run, he came up a bit short, and had to grab the edge of the roof with his Gauntlet to pull himself up. Once there, he found the magic again, faint now that that there was some distance between him and the ground, and again traced the sensation. He idly wondered what someone would think when they found these random markings. "Thus, do I strike a blow for vandalists everywhere." He muttered.
Standing back, Ferrin found that in addition to the slightly curved line that ran east to west, there was one running north to south. Like a spoke on a wheel. He drew in a breath, and slowly let it out again. "Hell's Bells, it is, as I feared, a magic circle." He breathed. He surveyed the city that sprawled out before him. "A really big magic circle."
You do not put something like this up for shits and giggles. This is a powerful magic and dangerous magic. There are very few beneficial things you could do with something like this--but a whole host of malefic things. He ruminated.
The circle beneath him suddenly began to hum, like a live wire. Ferrin's eyes widened. "The circle has been activated." He realized. Time was running out. Ferrin took of running again. From the shape of the circle he could follow the spoke he was on to the center, where the caster was.
And confront them.
He made good time as he ran, this time forsaking the streets to run and jump from building to building. Along the way, he put a few more piece of the puzzle he faced together. The timing of the circle's activation was perfect. While inactive, in a place as seeped in magic as Crocus, it would not draw much attention, except to the most sensitive of mages. Even then, they would not think of it as more than an oddity, the only reason he had uncovered the truth was because of the advice he had received from...well, nevermind. Ferrin cut off that train of thought. Once activated, it was much more noticeable, but with the final battle of the Grand Magic Games, the city would be empty, and few the wizards remaining in it would have more important things to worry about.
The circle brought him near the tall spire of rock, on which the Arena crowned. He stopped in its shadow and peered upwards. According to the old books he had read, the Grand Magic Games was once a very different event, called The Dragon King Festival. Details were scarce, but from what he could glean, coupled with prior knowledge, he knew that somewhere, deep below the earth, there lay a graveyard of dragons.
And now, among them, a necromancer of considerable power.
With a Magic Circle the size of a city centered on it.
"And here I was hoping for a nice vacation." Ferrin remarked, the irony thick in his words.
He had a problem though. He had no way down. Acutely aware that time was not in his side, he searched the area for an opening but no dark tunnels with a flashing neon sign, saying 'Something evil lurks here!' presented itself. With the simplest method ruled out, Ferrin had to get creative. He peeled off his glove, bent down, and laid his hand on the cold earth. He drew in his magic, and with a muttered spell, sent vibrations down through the rock, a trick taught to him by a rather irascible, and blind Sound wizard. Through the differences in frequency, speed, and pitch, one could tell the exact dimensions and make-up of any kind of matter, solid, liquid, even gas by memorizing the characteristics of the vibrations. Ferrin wasn't that good, but detecting tunnels in solid rock was child's play. He surprised to find a relatively shallow one, about five meters down.
"Now, how to get there..." He wondered aloud. He brieflyconsidered blasting a hole, but he immediately discarded the idea. [color=silver]Too noticeable and exhausting. He thought. What if I--Damn it, I do not have time for this! Angrily he pointed one claw-like metal finger at the earth. "Lapis, aperio!" He shouted. With the sound of stone grinding against stone, a section of the ground shook and shifted, flowing to each side like water. In moments, there was a dark hole in the earth, and a narrow shaft that lead to the tunnel. Ferrin sagged slightly at the effort it took to move that much stone. He heard a dull roar, and he turned in the direction of the noise. He saw a tower of stone in the distance that was not there before, a tower supported by the winds. His eyebrows went up as he considered the amount of power and focus that it would take to accomplish such a feat. But he had no time to admire someone else's handiwork. He turned to the hole in the earth. "Let the games begin." He said.
And he leapt and fell though the hole into pitch darkness.
*muffled 1000-word soliloquy on the aesthetic qualities and origins of sarashi*
*being an ignorant American, quickly googles 'sarashi'*
Merry Chistmas!
I'll leave this little gem here for your amusement:
I'll leave this little gem here for your amusement:
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