Mr. Sandman (Broken Dream)
The art for The Sandman is mostly shit, but by volume four--Season of Mists, which I am reading currently--it's beginning to get good. Certainly better than what came before it.
I think Thor's dialogue is my favorite. He's making passes at Bast, the cat-goddess:
"Hey, wanna see my hammer, pussy-head? It's called Mjolnir. Gets bigger when you rub it. 'S'true."
The Nomads like him. They would. I wondered what their goddess would be like, at such a table. So I found out and wrote it up.
Before we begin: Sandman not mine, Mortal Kombat not mine, D'hete very definitely MINE. Touch without permission and your eyeballs will be removed with a teaspoon. Thankyouverymuch.
Dream sentenced a mortal lover of his to Hell long ago. Now he is having conscience pangs, and goes to Hell to rescue her, only to find that Lucifer, weary of serving whiny beings and backstabbing demon-hosts for ten billion years, has abdicated. Hell is empty and all the gates are sealed. Lucifer gives Dream the key to Hell, saying it now belongs to him.
Dream is in possession of some primo cosmic real-estate, and all the other gods want it. They've come to a meeting at his castle to try and bribe and wheedle it out of him. But first, dinner.
And all that saved you about sixty pages of reading. XD
One side of her face was shadowed by hair, a patch of nothingness on the side of her head. She wore a circlet of downturned silver spines hanging inward, always drawing just a little blood from her scalp; the shut mouth of listeners, the jury-sign. Her eyes were no color. Not black, which is all colors blended, nor white, which is all colors reflected.
The shawl she wore changed color constantly with every thought, whim, or bit of evidence she acquired. Words skirled across it now and then, in the Old Writ that no living Nomad knew, but every one of them could dream. The robe beneath it was always red.
She had her own ideas about everything, always passing judgment. She had also judged, however, that silence was prudent. Most of the time.
And only when the time was right did she greet Dream, making the deep bow of full respect with the hand-signs given a king. Though he was not just any king, but the king of sleep. The others had prated and pawed and suggested and made threats. She would make her opening statement, and await his verdict, and then sit down.
"I am D'hete, of the scarred moon that bleeds forever, who was once Arcantor, before the softspines lost their stomach for such things. I keep the realmless folk, whose words are swords; they were judged fit for the wandering.
You are T'lkenstus, who keeps secret things which we see only in darkness. You are also Alaktii, fantasy-spinner who makes them smile, and they think you are hope, but you are not. Though hope is yours to give.
I see you. I meet you fairly and unarmed. Innocent until proven guilty; may the law have mercy."
Dream said nothing at all for quite awhile, and when he spoke, it was like a whisper or a sigh; the breath of the night at some deep, still hour.
"Isn't justice supposed to be blind?" There was a grin or a smirk or a frown growing in the corners of his ice-white face.
"Justice is. I am Judgment."
"So I see."
"Quick to grasp and use the power of distinction." She smiled. "You'd make a fine lawyer, Sir Dream."
His face did not move. Something in those eyes full of stars hardened and changed. "Hardly."
She didn't need powers to recognize that she was being judged. And found wanting. It was not a nice feeling, but emotions were to be avoided in any case; they muddled an issue, made a guilty man seem innocent and the other way 'round.
She had quite forgotten that, in this hall of nightmare and fancy. This place was dangerous. Dreams were dangerous. Dreaming bred poets, fanatics, and madmen.
Of course, at home, fanatics and madmen were also hers. Odd things happened to Judgment when it began to decay. Someone had to take care of them. And the poets.
She wondered which kind he was.
"A shame," she said. "Fare you well."
She made half-and-a-quarter bow to him, and paced away from his seat. She didn't quite sit at the table, either. There was nothing here she would have eaten--although one jackal-faced god had a plateful of still-warm hearts; that smelled wonderful--in front of all these. Earth gods in general were a squeamish lot.
She looked around for Raiden. The little storm-king was not here, of course he wouldn't be here, because she had warned him she would be, and Hell did not interest him. It interested her. It interested her greatly. She could undo the fiber of so many guilty, with that at her disposal.
Dream would not give it to her. She had judged that immediately, just after entering his realm. But this was a place of the unreal, of the dreaded, of the hoped-for. So she would wait, and play with the idea a bit, and observe the goings-on.
The two demons in particular, the spider-whore and the devil-skinned fellow with double sets of eyes and mouths, were fun to watch. Presently, the spider slammed her fork deep into her amour's hand--it went through him and on into the table--and asked him, coy, whether it hurt. Whatever he said was low and had the feel of lust behind it.
It was almost like at home. She watched a little further, and two mouths against one were capable of a few acrobatics she hadn't seen before. With that new evidence, she judged that she would not want Hell. These were a sampling of Hell's denizens, supposedly some of the worst and most vile.
The Nomads would have torn out their tongues for napkins and eaten them alive.
In short: literally hundreds of pages later, The Sandman is finally starting to not suck.
On the contrary: once we see his bitchfight going with some of the other Endless, it starts getting pretty cool. ^_^
Nothing else new. Thank god.
Oh! ghostwriter155 did this test, so I nicked it, too.
Your Existing Situation: Works well in cooperation with others but is disinclined to take the leading role. Needs a personal life of mutual understanding and freedom from discord.
Your Stress Sources: Unfulfilled hopes have led to uncertainty and apprehension. Needs to feel secure and to avoid any further disappointment, and fears being passed over or losing standings and prestige. Doubts that things will be any better in the future and this negative attitude leads her to make exaggerated demands and to refuse to make reasonable compromises.
Your Restrained Characteristics: Egocentric (Nooo, really? DUH) and therefore quick to take offense. Sensitive and sentimental, but conceals this from all except those very close to her. Feels that she cannot do much about her existing problems and difficulties and that she must make the best of things as they are.
Circumstances force her to compromise and to forgo some pleasures for the time being.
Your Desired Objective: Unwilling to participate and wishes to avoid all forms of stimulation. Has had to put up with too much of a tiring or exhausting nature and now desires protection and noninvolvement.
Your Actual Problem: Disappointment at the non-fulfillment of her hopes and the fear that to formulate fresh goals will only lead to further setbacks have resulted in considerable anxiety. She tries to escape from this by withdrawing and protecting herself with an attitude of cautious reserve. Moody and depressed.
Have not given up ficlet, but have stuffed it in a back drawer.
I think Thor's dialogue is my favorite. He's making passes at Bast, the cat-goddess:
"Hey, wanna see my hammer, pussy-head? It's called Mjolnir. Gets bigger when you rub it. 'S'true."
The Nomads like him. They would. I wondered what their goddess would be like, at such a table. So I found out and wrote it up.
Before we begin: Sandman not mine, Mortal Kombat not mine, D'hete very definitely MINE. Touch without permission and your eyeballs will be removed with a teaspoon. Thankyouverymuch.
Dream sentenced a mortal lover of his to Hell long ago. Now he is having conscience pangs, and goes to Hell to rescue her, only to find that Lucifer, weary of serving whiny beings and backstabbing demon-hosts for ten billion years, has abdicated. Hell is empty and all the gates are sealed. Lucifer gives Dream the key to Hell, saying it now belongs to him.
Dream is in possession of some primo cosmic real-estate, and all the other gods want it. They've come to a meeting at his castle to try and bribe and wheedle it out of him. But first, dinner.
And all that saved you about sixty pages of reading. XD
One side of her face was shadowed by hair, a patch of nothingness on the side of her head. She wore a circlet of downturned silver spines hanging inward, always drawing just a little blood from her scalp; the shut mouth of listeners, the jury-sign. Her eyes were no color. Not black, which is all colors blended, nor white, which is all colors reflected.
The shawl she wore changed color constantly with every thought, whim, or bit of evidence she acquired. Words skirled across it now and then, in the Old Writ that no living Nomad knew, but every one of them could dream. The robe beneath it was always red.
She had her own ideas about everything, always passing judgment. She had also judged, however, that silence was prudent. Most of the time.
And only when the time was right did she greet Dream, making the deep bow of full respect with the hand-signs given a king. Though he was not just any king, but the king of sleep. The others had prated and pawed and suggested and made threats. She would make her opening statement, and await his verdict, and then sit down.
"I am D'hete, of the scarred moon that bleeds forever, who was once Arcantor, before the softspines lost their stomach for such things. I keep the realmless folk, whose words are swords; they were judged fit for the wandering.
You are T'lkenstus, who keeps secret things which we see only in darkness. You are also Alaktii, fantasy-spinner who makes them smile, and they think you are hope, but you are not. Though hope is yours to give.
I see you. I meet you fairly and unarmed. Innocent until proven guilty; may the law have mercy."
Dream said nothing at all for quite awhile, and when he spoke, it was like a whisper or a sigh; the breath of the night at some deep, still hour.
"Isn't justice supposed to be blind?" There was a grin or a smirk or a frown growing in the corners of his ice-white face.
"Justice is. I am Judgment."
"So I see."
"Quick to grasp and use the power of distinction." She smiled. "You'd make a fine lawyer, Sir Dream."
His face did not move. Something in those eyes full of stars hardened and changed. "Hardly."
She didn't need powers to recognize that she was being judged. And found wanting. It was not a nice feeling, but emotions were to be avoided in any case; they muddled an issue, made a guilty man seem innocent and the other way 'round.
She had quite forgotten that, in this hall of nightmare and fancy. This place was dangerous. Dreams were dangerous. Dreaming bred poets, fanatics, and madmen.
Of course, at home, fanatics and madmen were also hers. Odd things happened to Judgment when it began to decay. Someone had to take care of them. And the poets.
She wondered which kind he was.
"A shame," she said. "Fare you well."
She made half-and-a-quarter bow to him, and paced away from his seat. She didn't quite sit at the table, either. There was nothing here she would have eaten--although one jackal-faced god had a plateful of still-warm hearts; that smelled wonderful--in front of all these. Earth gods in general were a squeamish lot.
She looked around for Raiden. The little storm-king was not here, of course he wouldn't be here, because she had warned him she would be, and Hell did not interest him. It interested her. It interested her greatly. She could undo the fiber of so many guilty, with that at her disposal.
Dream would not give it to her. She had judged that immediately, just after entering his realm. But this was a place of the unreal, of the dreaded, of the hoped-for. So she would wait, and play with the idea a bit, and observe the goings-on.
The two demons in particular, the spider-whore and the devil-skinned fellow with double sets of eyes and mouths, were fun to watch. Presently, the spider slammed her fork deep into her amour's hand--it went through him and on into the table--and asked him, coy, whether it hurt. Whatever he said was low and had the feel of lust behind it.
It was almost like at home. She watched a little further, and two mouths against one were capable of a few acrobatics she hadn't seen before. With that new evidence, she judged that she would not want Hell. These were a sampling of Hell's denizens, supposedly some of the worst and most vile.
The Nomads would have torn out their tongues for napkins and eaten them alive.
In short: literally hundreds of pages later, The Sandman is finally starting to not suck.
On the contrary: once we see his bitchfight going with some of the other Endless, it starts getting pretty cool. ^_^
Nothing else new. Thank god.
Oh! ghostwriter155 did this test, so I nicked it, too.
Your Existing Situation: Works well in cooperation with others but is disinclined to take the leading role. Needs a personal life of mutual understanding and freedom from discord.
Your Stress Sources: Unfulfilled hopes have led to uncertainty and apprehension. Needs to feel secure and to avoid any further disappointment, and fears being passed over or losing standings and prestige. Doubts that things will be any better in the future and this negative attitude leads her to make exaggerated demands and to refuse to make reasonable compromises.
Your Restrained Characteristics: Egocentric (Nooo, really? DUH) and therefore quick to take offense. Sensitive and sentimental, but conceals this from all except those very close to her. Feels that she cannot do much about her existing problems and difficulties and that she must make the best of things as they are.
Circumstances force her to compromise and to forgo some pleasures for the time being.
Your Desired Objective: Unwilling to participate and wishes to avoid all forms of stimulation. Has had to put up with too much of a tiring or exhausting nature and now desires protection and noninvolvement.
Your Actual Problem: Disappointment at the non-fulfillment of her hopes and the fear that to formulate fresh goals will only lead to further setbacks have resulted in considerable anxiety. She tries to escape from this by withdrawing and protecting herself with an attitude of cautious reserve. Moody and depressed.
Have not given up ficlet, but have stuffed it in a back drawer.