Is that little girl on the bottom left the child of Scheherazade and her king? *Shipper mode activades*🚢🚢🚢
She has the same ultra long curly hair as Scheherazade! But then again, her hair colour is the same as that leaf crown guy! Oh and I suppose the purple haired people with the black hoods are sibling magicians? I want to know about all of them!
Ohtaka, you can’t kill Scheherazade and leave us with just this picture. GRRR. Scheherazade no Bouken please!
Equipment Type: Guymelef Government: Asturia Manufacturer: unknown Accommodation: pilot only Dimensions: height 8.1 costa Mass: 6.9 peizo Energists: 2 red Design Features: none - Armament - Weapons: 1 x Sword
Description and History
Despite lacking the craftsmanship of Ispano manufacturing, the Scherazade is still considered a formidable Guymelef largely due in part to the great skill of its pilot, the Knight Caeli Allen Schezar. Its relative agility and Allen’s skillful use of the rapier-like sword makes up for its limited weaponry and inability to transform modes or fly.
Note: Scherazade (Sherazaado) is an alternate spelling of Scheherazade (also rendered as Sheherazaado, Sheerazaado, Shaharazaado, or Sheerazaade), the vizier’s daughter who recounts the tales to the sultan in the One Thousand and One Nights (Arabian Nights).
Debut: The Vision of Escaflowne, Episode 3 Pilot(s): Allen Schezar Other appearances: none Original mechanical designer: Kimitoshi Yamane
At twenty, tiring of made up stories that climbed the endless loop of sleep and waking
I dreamed of her, archaic yet urbane, a name that could be construed either way: Sheher-azade: She-who-set-the-city-free like so many birds uncaged, daughters of daughters streaming in spinnerets of every ilk
Or was she Sheher-zade: a city-bound heart’s hammered words trying to pry open the pad- locked arms of sky?
Well, I tell you now I have swallowed both meanings, that minaret sword, that fruited sun, an inverted dome, a weeping onion shedding all my skins, one by silent one
I have let down my ladders, run the tightrope, clung to myself at each rung and now
I know precisely the quality of absence The street shall wash its hands of me as if morning was an hour made of sand and time will put memory to sleep like a rabid dog
Under the momentous spotlight, the hands of one hundred follow even the minute details of the baton’s movements. Wishing my nervousness would recede, I grip the bow tighter to resist the perspiration beginning to rise on my palm.
One, two, three…
Ever so slowly I let myself become immersed in the mythical time of centuries past as Scheherazade comes to life within my mind’s eye under the vast Arabian nights, and in the intonation of my violin…
Every evening is a risky adventure; the wicked sultan executes each wife on her wedding night. Feeling this urgency of danger, we have no choice but to continue composing an enchanting story, hoping it will last the night. Through our forbidding motto which presents the sultan’s theme in octaves, we hear the graceful voice of Scheherazade. All the while the rocking, wave-like ambience alludes to the story of “the Sea and Sinbad’s Ship”. The sea enlivens the sultan as it appears both fascinating and bewitching. But what is the ending of this captivating story? The crowd demands a conclusion, but Scheherazade postpones her story with a promise to continue the following night.
We veer into a vision of the Kalendar Princes, “members of a mendicant order of wandering dervishes”. Each tells his own tale. Every note played by our bassoon solo, followed by the graceful oboe with harp accompaniment, expresses the story’s exotic tenor. Then we conjoin the violins, solo horn, and woodwinds. There is a Pause. The sultan becomes desperate, awaiting news of the subsequent incident. As if fulfilling his wish, there comes Scheherazade’s theme from the bottom of our orchestra, followed by the tremolo of our violins against a new motive structured by the trombone. There, she lives another night.
Next we see the Young Prince and Princess. We immediately recognize that this is a romantic encounter. Striving to produce a variety of sounds and vivid storylines, scales from the woodwinds, military drums, and the aggregate of elegant colors from the entire ensemble are presented as the brief voice of Scheherazade herself. Will this be the last night? That, nobody knows.
We swiftly travel to the festival on ship of Baghdad and the sea, in which the “ship breaks against a cliff surmounted by a Bronze Horseman”. The sultan swelters, submerging into a bewildering dream of Oriental splendor and terror: The wind is harsh, the sky is fierce, and the ship is crashing onto the fearsome rocks of the mountains. It is only a matter of time before the vessel is utterly destroyed. After a sudden, unexpected delay, the brutal weather subsides and the ship eases into a serene calm. The story is finally complete. Over our tranquil chord, the voice of Scheherazade fades away and the king awakens from his reverie. Scheherazade has survived for one thousand and one nights, and, at long last, she is granted her life, a blissful life, with the sultan.
Gradually we, too, awaken from our dream. Tonight. A meaningful night, I again ponder into my prideful emotions and fantasies that twirl deep inside my dream.