So when I get out all my story notes smell like Lush soaps and look like this: ‘Varric begin (dwarf leg. Like anansi- imrtal) then Anders - Aveline- others- all bitty- mix self and fable’ only blurry with damp.
I am not done with storytelling meta, it seems!
the banquet hall bereft of all delight,
the windswept hearthstone; the horseman are sleeping,
the warriors under ground; what was is no more.
No tunes from the harp, no cheer raised in the yard.
Alone with his longing, he lies down on his bed
and sings a lament; everything seems too large,
the steadings and the fields.” —
-Beowulf, ll.2455-2462, trans. Seamus Heaney
Medieval Thedas’ post on Heorot in Beowulf inspired me to dig out my own copy and transcribe my favourite passage from Heaney’s translation. I thought its discussion of loss (particularly the loss of a son) was also rather appropriate for Remembrance Sunday.
I think I’ve picked up some kind of horrendous bug. Not much sleep last night. Too busy crouched over the loo.
I feel like the grossest gross that ever grossed. Blaaaargh.