I can’t believe I went into K-drama all this time ago thinking they’d be silly. Now, all these shows later I now know how much I was mistaken.
Even the characters I start out hating, the characters where the moment they come on screen I’m like ‘this bitch’, I even like and can relate to them.
There’s so many well written characters, so many characters where even if you don’t like them, you can somehow understand them in a way.
And the characters that you do love, they end up being even more intricate than you first thought. Not to mention the smaller side characters that usually are the amazing gems that make you want keep on watching every single episode.
I just, I really really love k-drama. And I would recommend it to everyone!
Net Neutrality is being threatened again and I am facing the intense anxiety of not only what that will do to the internet as a whole but what that means for people like me who get most of their socializing online.
Artista: PJ Harvey Álbum: Stories From the City, Stories From The Sea Ano: 2000 Faixas/Tempo: 12/47min Estilo: Indie/Alternative Rock Label: Universal island Records Data de Execução: 21/11/2017 Nota: 8,0 Melhor Música: You Said Something
The moon swung low that night, light filtering fragmented through the canopy leaves. The youth sighed as, crouching, he surveyed the pale disk that hung, drooping, in the sky. The dim glow of the small fire he squatted beside illuminated a melancholy face. Fair hair and tan skin marked him as one from the Land Below the Sea. Strange, he thought, how something like that could seem so despondent. It wasn’t even alive. A sudden stirring to his right shifted his attention downward.
Two men, cursing, struggling to drag a limp carcass across the clearing towards the fire while simultaneously attempting to keep a grasp on their weapons. They were big men, identical in features, with pale skin and dark beards. Neither seemed particularly intelligent, especially as they floundered through the clearing, but that seemed to be, reflected the youth, a hallmark of this barbarian race. Of course, such a thing was to be expected. In a land like this, knowing how to swing a sword and shoot a bow was more valuable than anything else. They dumped the body in front of the fire— a deer, pierced through the neck by a single arrow— and settled down on the other side of the flames. One of them, slightly smaller than his brother but still much larger than the crouching youth, looked up across the fire
“Oi, you.” He caught the youth’s eye and pointed a spear at the fair-haired boy with a menacing glare. “Go and get some water. And no running off.” The boy nodded, lifting himself to his feet and grabbing a wooden bucket.
As he trudged out of the clearing, the other brother called out after him. “We mean it, lad. Don’t think we want to go through the trouble of chasing you down again.” He glared at the floor as he entered the treeline. They didn’t need chains to keep him from running, and they knew it. They might not have been able to put an intelligent thought together between the two of them, but they could stalk a deer on a rainy day.
There was a river only a few minute’s walk away, and as he made his way there he considered his options. He could always try to get away anyway, of course, but his captors clearly enjoyed having a slave. It meant they didn’t have to go though the nuisance of cooking or carrying their equipment. No doubt they wouldn’t appreciate any bids for freedom, and there was no use trying to appeal to their better nature. He wasn’t sure they had a better nature, anyway. They were savage brutes, through and through. Most barbarians were, though. Best, then to continue on and hope to get lucky, somehow. He stopped when he came out of the trees at the edge of the river. As he stooped to gather some water, he paused, staring at the dark water swirling below. He could jump in, let the river take him. They wouldn’t be able to track him through water. But the currents were doubtless strong, and he wasn’t a very good swimmer anyway. He had learned how, of course— the briefest flash of a memory came with this thought: a river, quite unlike this one, drifting almost lazily, crystalline depths glittering in the bright daylight; the sun shining gently, a welcome warmth on his skin; the rolling green hills of his homeland in the distance— but he doubted that, with his limited swimming skills, he would even be able to pull himself out of the river. With a heavy sigh, he dipped the bucket into the flowing water.
A loud rustling in the underbrush behind his back startled him, and he dropped the bucket into the river. With a curse, he lunged for it before the current swept it away. A flash of red danced from the corner of his eye. He turned to face the forest.
“Hello? Anyone there?” The only response was the murmur of the river. He scanned the trees, hoping to find the source of the sudden noise. Peering into the underbrush, he thought he could make out the faint shadow of a face. It seemed to wink at him, giving a knowing smile. He blinked, and it was gone. Shaking his head, he turned back to the river and refilled the bucket. As he entered the forest, he set the bucket, eyes lingering on the spot where he thought he had seen the face. Nothing but a bush, leaves rustling quietly in the wind. He shook his head again. He must have been imagining things. Heaving the bucket up, he plodded back to the camp.
Up next: We learn our protagonist’s name. But who is this odd band of strangers, and what do they want with him?
“For some reason, the mint frappé [she] ordered was garnished with a cherry, stem and all. She deftly tore the fruit away with her teeth and placed the pit in a shallow glass ashtray.
The glow that lingered in the sky was sifting through the lace curtains on the large front window, suffusing the almost empty room. It must have been due to those delicately tinted rays of light: the smooth, warm cherry pit, just perceptibly beginning to dry and ineffably pink, appeared incredibly seductive to [him]. He reached for it abruptly and put it into his mouth. A cry of surprise rose to [her] lips, then she began to laugh. She had never known a moment of such peaceful physical intimacy.”
Yukio Mishima, from The Sailor Who Fell From Grace with the Sea, trans. John Nathan (BMOC, 1990)
There are ever so many orthodox reasons for bringing about the annihilation of a great city; revenge for some intolerable wrong; straightforward advantage, for example where a powerful and ambitious commercial interest decides that it would rather not repay the capital of the huge loan that threatens to strangle it; an overwhelming abhorrence for everything the city stands for; or simply because the grey of its walls clashes with the green of the grass and the blue of the sea. Some cities have been betrayed for the price of twenty acres of rocky pasture, or for love, or because they were there. Wise men in Alexius’ Order often debated the proposal that cities are by their very nature an abomination, a wart or growth that the body of the earth sooner or later heals of its own accord. Cities have been burnt to the ground by madmen, children playing with flint and tinder, and the hem of a curtain being blown into the open door of a bread oven by a gust of wind. Some cities have been destroyed and rebuilt so many times that workmen digging a ditch for a latrine will slice through a dozen crusts of masonry and ash, like the layers of a cake.