RapVerse.com Community - Who actually reads here?

01-26-07, 04:55 PM

N.Tavarez

the medicine man

Posts: 7,487

From: East Coast

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pffft^ ive read that taking a shit lol

01-26-07, 05:22 PM

Dabatos

C.hristopher S.ean D.abatos

Posts: 5,693

From: Bay Area

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i read 5 books last month about 1 book every 6 days.. i read about 3 books already this month and on my 4th book, its about 3 books in one cuz i got the trilogy but i guess it can count as 3 books =P

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01-26-07, 05:12 PM

Crazy Hades

Just searching.

Posts: 6,015

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I do read taking a shit...in the shower...between classes...during classes...I have plenty of free time. Haha, you all are a bunch of hardworking, tax-paying TOOLS.

01-26-07, 05:24 PM

Dabatos

C.hristopher S.ean D.abatos

Posts: 5,693

From: Bay Area

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oh and som recomendations for one would be harry potter for a begining reader that book helps build ur imagination.. my first fantasy book was eragon and after that eldest. than im jst bout finish with all 6 harry potter books n reading 3 books this weekend. lol somethin bout merlin

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01-26-07, 05:25 PM

N.Tavarez

the medicine man

Posts: 7,487

From: East Coast

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i cant take a shit without reading, even if its bad i HAVE to search for something fresh to read
im weird like that

01-26-07, 05:33 PM

N.Tavarez

the medicine man

Posts: 7,487

From: East Coast

IP:

there should be a book thread here, cuz i be looking for good titles to read

01-26-07, 05:33 PM

Dabatos

C.hristopher S.ean D.abatos

Posts: 5,693

From: Bay Area

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Quote:

Originally Posted by N.Tavarez

there should be a book thread here, cuz i be looking for good titles to read

need help with wut good books to read hommie? I read mostly fiction books but tryin to get into readin romance, horror, comedy etc.. just so i dont really jst stick to one topic of reading cuz for a while it could get alittle boring. sorta like only eating one type of food everyday and eventually u'll get tired of it lol

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01-26-07, 05:35 PM

N.Tavarez

the medicine man

Posts: 7,487

From: East Coast

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yessir, hit me with everything you got
i do security on weekends which basically means i sit on my ass and smoke weed in a empty parking lot, so a good book would be great

01-26-07, 05:39 PM

Dabatos

C.hristopher S.ean D.abatos

Posts: 5,693

From: Bay Area

IP:

lol word.. i go to skewl everyday lol.. 8-2 pm everyday 17 credits in college

lol.. than work till like 7 pm.. i only get to read on my breaks and bout every chance i get.. but some good tittles prolly would be..

harry potter: if you havent really read much. Its not that hard to read. The vocab level aint to high and aimed towards to 9-12 year olds.. but its perfect even I love to read it.

Eragon: (from movie lol) this book was written a while back before the movie ofcourse. But if you liked watching/reading harry potter, lord of the rings and star wars this is sort of like a mix of all that together in one. The words he chooses is carefully chosen and literally makes u seem as if ur watching the movie. At times I forgot i was reading and thought i was watching a movie in my head lol..

Eldest is jst a sequel to it.

I got another one but its complicated to read and 1500 pages lol..

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01-26-07, 05:45 PM

#10

N.Tavarez

the medicine man

Posts: 7,487

From: East Coast

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i heard about eragon, im gonna read that one and let you know what i think, im gonna pass on the harry potter lol but good looking on the book title

01-26-07, 06:51 PM

#11

Crazy Hades

Just searching.

Posts: 6,015

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Quote:

i heard about eragon, im gonna read that one and let you know what i think, im gonna pass on the harry potter lol but good looking on the book title

No. You are NOT going to fucking read Eragon, you two fucking retarded, illiterate horsefucking dumbshits. That's the lowest quality of literature and I will literally rip out your fucking hearts if you read it. Here are some recommendations of actual good books, you stupid cocksucking fishmoms.

Quote:

Eragon: (from movie lol) this book was written a while back before the movie ofcourse. But if you liked watching/reading harry potter, lord of the rings and star wars this is sort of like a mix of all that together in one. The words he chooses is carefully chosen and literally makes u seem as if ur watching the movie. At times I forgot i was reading and thought i was watching a movie in my head lol..

It's a blatantly plagiarized, shitty fantasy work that gets its fame from the author's supposed age, though he was older than it says he was. Guess what every story is supposed to do? THE SAME EXACT THING. You're supposed to see it as a movie in your head. Here's some recommendations for you if you weren't born sharing your brain with a dead fetus. Read in this order:

A Song of Ice and Fire by George Martin, including books around 1000 pages. Begins with Game of Thrones, then Clash of Kings, then Storm of Swords, then A Feast for Crows.

Malazan Book of the Fallen by Steven Erikson
There are four books out, around 600 a pop. I'm reading House of Chains right now, which is basically Conan the Barbarian, but on crack.

Dark Tower septology by Stephen King. The books are:

The Gunslinger
Drawing of the Three
The Waste Lands
Wizard and Glass
Wolves of the Calla
Song of Susannah
The Dark Tower

For some more beginner stuff, try Garth Nix's Abhorsen Trilogy (Sabriel, Lirael, Abhorsen). Get the book covers with the symbols, not the characters, because of all the 'gangstas in da hood' will think you're a homo (even more so). Shade's Children by him is also a good apocalyptic novel.

I'll post some excerpts from the novels, so you can learn what good writing with carefully chosen words looks like.

01-26-07, 07:15 PM

#12

Crazy Hades

Just searching.

Posts: 6,015

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For instance...China Mieville's Perdido Street Station:

Quote:

The door swung open and shut again below.
He trotted to the top of the stairs, expecting to see his colleagues returning.
Instead, a stranger stood in the centre of the great empty space. Air currents adjusted to his presence, investigated him like tentacles, sending a whirligig of dust spinning around him. Spots of light littered the floor from open windows and broken bricks, but none fell directly on him. The wooden walkway creaked as Isaac rocked, very slightly. The figure below jerked its head back and threw off a hood, hands clasped to its chest, very still, staring up.
Isaac gazed in astonishment.
It was a garuda.
He nearly stumbled down the stairs, fumbling with the rail, loath to take his eyes off the extraordinary visitor waiting for him. He touched earth.
The garuda stared down at him. Isaac’s fascination defeated his manners, and he stared frankly back.
The great creature stood more than six feet tall, on cruel clawed feet that poked out from under a dirty cloak. The ragged cloth dangled down almost to the ground, draped loosely over every inch of flesh, obscuring the details of physiognomy and musculature, all but the garuda’s head. And that great inscrutable bird face gazed down at Isaac with what looked like imperiosity. Its sharply curved beak was something between a kestrel’s and an owl’s. Sleek feathers faded subtly from ochre to dun to dappled brown. Deep black eyes stared at his own, the iris only a fine mottling at the very edge of the dark. Those eyes were set in orbits which gave the garuda face a permanent sneer, a proud furrow.
And looming over the garuda’s head, covered in the rough sackcloth it clasped about itself, projected the unmistakable shapes of its huge furled wings, promontories of feather and skin and bone that extended two feet or more from its shoulders and curved elegantly towards each other. Isaac had never seen a garuda spread its wings at close quarters, but he had read descriptions of the dust-cloud they could raise, and the vast shadows they threw across the garuda’s prey below.
What are you doing here, so far from home? thought Isaac with wonder. Look at the colour of you: you’re from the desert! You must have come miles and miles and miles, from the Cymek. What the spit are you doing here, you impressive fucker?
He almost shook his head with awe at the great predator before he cleared his throat and spoke.
“Can I help you?”

oooo

Isaac waited, facing his guest. The garuda stood silent. Isaac could see it was concentrating. It was preparing to speak.
The garuda’s voice, when it came, was harsh and monotone.
“You are the scientist. You are…Grimnebulin.”
It had difficulty with his name. Like a parrot trained to speak, the shaping of consonants and vowels came from within the throat, without the aid of versatile lips. Isaac had only ever conversed with two garuda in his life. One was a traveller who had long-practised the formation of human sounds; the other was a student, one of the tiny garuda community born and raised in New Crobuzon, which grew up shouting the city slang. Neither had sounded human, but neither had sounded half so animal as this great birdman struggling with an alien tongue. It took Isaac a moment to understand what had been said.
“I am.” He held out his hand, spoke slowly. “What is your name?”
The garuda looked imperiously at his hand, then shook it with a strangely fragile grip.
“Yagharek…” There was a shrieking stress on the first syllable. The great creature paused, and shifted uncomfortably, before continuing. It repeated its name, but this time added an intricate suffix.
Isaac shook his head.
“Is that all your name?”
“Name…and title.”
Isaac raised an eyebrow.
“Am I, then, in the presence of nobility?”
The garuda stared at him blankly. Eventually it spoke slowly without breaking his gaze.
“I am Too Too Abstract Individual Yagharek Not To Be Respected.”
Isaac blinked. He rubbed his face.
“Um…right. You have to forgive me, Yagharek, I’m not familiar with…uh…garuda honorifics.”
Yagharek shook his great head slowly.
“You will understand.”
Isaac asked Yagharek to come upstairs, which he did, slowly and carefully, leaving gouges in the wooden stairs where he gripped with his great claws. But Isaac could not persuade him to sit down, or to eat, or to drink.
The garuda stood by Isaac’s desk, while his host sat and stared up at him.
“So,” said Isaac, “why are you here?”
Again, Yagharek gathered himself for a moment before he spoke.
“I came to New Crobuzon days ago. Because this is where the scientists are.”
“Where are you from?”
“Cymek.”
Isaac whistled quietly. He had been right. That was a huge journey. At least a thousand miles, through that hard, burning land, through dry veldt, across sea, swamp, steppe. Yagharek must have been driven by some strong, strong passion.
“What do you know about New Crobuzon’s scientists?” asked Isaac.
“We have read of the university. Of the science and industry that moves and moves here like nowhere else. Of Brock Marsh.”
“But where do you hear all this stuff?”
“From our library.”
Isaac was astonished. He gaped, then recovered.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I thought you were nomads.”
“Yes. Our library travels.”
And Yagharek told Isaac, to Isaac’s growing amazement, of the Cymek library. The great librarian clan who strapped the thousands of volumes into their trunks and carried them between them as they flew, following the food and the water in the perpetual, punishing Cymek summer. The enormous tent village that sprung up where they landed, and the garuda bands that congregated on the vast, sprawling centre of learning whenever it was in their reach.
The library was hundreds of years old, with manuscripts in uncountable languages, dead and alive: Ragamoll, of which the language of New Crobuzon was a dialect; hotchi; Fellid vodyanoi and Southern vodyanoi; high khepri; and a host of others. It even contained a codex, Yagharek claimed with discernible pride, written in the secret dialect of the handlingers.
Isaac said nothing. He was ashamed at his ignorance. His view of the garuda was being torn up. This was more than a dignified savage. Time to get me down my library and learn about the garuda. Pig ignorant bastard, he reproached himself.
“Our language has no written form, but we learn to write and read in several others as we grow,” said Yagharek. “We trade for more books from travellers and merchants, of whom many have passed through New Crobuzon. Some are native to this city. It is a place we know well. I have read the histories, the stories.”
“Then you win, mate, because I know shit about your place,” said Isaac despondently. There was a silence. Isaac looked back up at Yagharek.
“You still haven’t told me why you’re here.”
Yagharek turned away and looked out of the window. Barges floated aimlessly below.
It was difficult to discern emotion in Yagharek’s scraping voice, but Isaac thought he could hear disgust.
“I have crawled like vermin from hole to hole for a fortnight. I have sought journals and gossip and information, and it led me to Brock Marsh. And in Brock Marsh it led me to you. The question that led me has been: ‘Who can change the powers of material?’ ‘Grimnebulin, Grimnebulin,’ everyone says. ‘If you have gold,’ they say, ‘he is yours, or if you have no gold but you interest him, or if you bore him but he pities you, or if a whim takes him.’ They say you are a man who knows the secrets of matter, Grimnebulin.”
Yagharek looked directly at him.
“I have some gold. I will interest you. Pity me. I beg you to help me.”
“Tell me what you need,” said Isaac.
Yagharek looked away from him again.
“Perhaps you have flown in a balloon, Grimnebulin. Looked down at roofs, at the earth. I grew up hunting from the skies. Garuda are a hunting people. We take our bows and spears and long whips and we scour the air of birds, the ground of prey. It is what makes us garuda. My feet are not built to walk your floors, but to close around small bodies and tear them apart. To grip dry trees and rock pillars between the earth and the sun.”
Yagharek spoke like a poet. His speech was halting, but his language was that of the epics and histories he had read, the curious stilted oration of someone who has learnt a language from old books.
“Flight is not a luxury. It is what makes me garuda. My skin crawls when I look up at roofs that trap me. I want to look down at this city before I leave it, Grimnebulin. I want to fly, not once, but whenever I will.
“I want you to give me back flight.”
Yagharek unclipped his cloak and threw it away across the floor. He stared at Isaac with shame and defiance. Isaac gasped.
Yagharek had no wings.
Strapped across his back was an intricate frame of wooden struts and leather straps that bobbed idiotically behind him as he turned. Two great carved planks sprouted from a kind of leather jerkin below his shoulders, jutting way above his head, where they hinged and dangled down to his knees. They mimicked wing-bones. There was no skin or feathers or cloth or leather stretched between them, they were no kind of gliding apparatus. They were only a disguise, a trick, a prop on which to drape Yagharek’s incongruous cloak, to make it seem as if he had wings.
Isaac reached out for them. Yagharek stiffened, then steeled himself and let Isaac touch them.
Isaac shook his head in astonishment. He caught a glimpse of ragged scar tissue on Yagharek’s back, until the garuda turned abruptly to face him.
“Why?” breathed Isaac.
Yagharek’s face creased slowly as he screwed up his eyes. A thin, utterly human moan started from him, and it grew and grew until it became a bird of prey’s melancholy war-cry, loud and monotonous and miserable and lonely. Isaac gazed on in alarm as the cry became a barely comprehensible shout.
“Because this is my shame!” screamed Yagharek. He was silent for a moment, then he spoke quietly again.
“This is my shame.”
He unclipped the uncomfortable-looking bulk of wood from behind him, and it fell with a flat clatter to the floor.
He was nude to the waist. His body was thin and fine and tight, with a healthy emaciation. Without the looming bulk of his fake wings behind him, he looked small and vulnerable.
He turned slowly, and Isaac caught his breath as the scars he had glimpsed were brought into view.
Two long trenches of flesh on Yagharek’s shoulderblades were twisted and red with tissue that looked as if it were boiling. Slice marks spread like small veins from the main eructations of ugly healing. The strips of ruined flesh on either side of his back were a foot and a half long, and perhaps four inches at their widest point. Isaac’s face wrinkled in empathy: the torn holes were criss-crossed with rough, curving slice marks, and Isaac realized that the wings had been sawed from Yagharek’s back. No single, sudden cut but a long, drawn-out torturous disfigurement. Isaac winced.
Thinly hidden knobs of bone shifted and flexed; muscles stretched, grotesquely visible.
“Who did this?” breathed Isaac. The stories were right, he thought. The Cymek is a savage, savage land.
There was a long silence before Yagharek responded.
“I…I did this.”

___

01-26-07, 07:17 PM

#13

Crazy Hades

Just searching.

Posts: 6,015

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One of the greatest fight scenes in literature. Oberyn vrs. Ser Gregor, A Song of Ice and Fire Series: Storm of Swords by George R.R. Martin

Quote:

It looked as though a thousand people had come to see if he would live or die. They lined the castle wallwalks and elbowed one another on the steps of keeps and towers. They watched from the stable doors, from windows and bridges, from balconies and roofs. And the yard was packed with them, so many that the gold cloaks and the knights of the Kingsguard had to shove them back to make enough room for the fight. Some had dragged out chairs to watch more comfortably, while others perched on barrels. We should have done this in the Dragonpit, Tyrion thought sourly. We could have charged a penny a head and paid for Joffrey’s wedding and funeral both. Some of the onlookers even had small children sitting on their shoulders, to get a better view. They shouted and pointed at the sight of Tyrion.
Cersei seemed half a child herself beside Ser Gregor. In his armor, the Mountain looked bigger than any man had any right to be. Beneath a long yellow surcoat bearing the three black dogs of Clegane, he wore heavy plate over chainmail, dull grey steel dinted and scarred in battle. Beneath that would be boiled leather and a layer of quilting. A flat-topped greathelm was bolted to his gorget, with breaths around the mouth and nose and a narrow slit for vision. The crest atop it was a stone fist.
If Ser Gregor was suffering from wounds, Tyrion could see no sign of it from across the yard. He looks as though he was chiseled out of rock, standing there. His greatsword was planted in the ground before him, six feet of scarred metal. Ser Gregor’s huge hands, clad in gauntlets of lobstered steel, clasped the crosshilt to either side of the grip. Even Prince Oberyn’s paramour paled at the sight of him. “You are going to fight that?” Ellaria Sand said in a hushed voice.
“I am going to kill that,” her lover replied carelessly.
Tyrion had his own doubts, now that they stood on the brink. When he looked at Prince Oberyn, he found himself wishing he had Bronn defending him… or even better, Jaime. The Red Viper was lightly armored; greaves, vambraces, gorget, spaulder, steel codpiece. Elsewise Oberyn. was clad in supple leather and flowing silks. Over his byrnie he wore his scales of gleaming copper, but mail and scale together would not give him a quarter the protection of Gregor’s heavy plate. With its visor removed, the prince’s helm was effectively no better than a halfhelm, lacking even a nasal. His round steel shield was brightly polished, and showed the sun-and-spear in red gold, yellow gold, white gold, and copper.
Dance around him until he’s so tired he can hardly lift his arm, then put him on his back. The Red Viper seemed to have the same notion as Bronn. But the sellsword had been blunt about the risks of such tactics. I hope to seven hells that you know what you are doing, snake.
A platform had been erected beside the Tower of the Hand, halfway between the two champions. That was where Lord Tywin sat with his brother Ser Kevan. King Tommen was not in evidence; for that, at least, Tyrion was grateful.
Lord Tywin glanced briefly at his dwarf son, then lifted his hand. A dozen trumpeters blew a fanfare to quiet the crowd. The High Septon shuffled forward in his tall crystal crown, and prayed that the Father Above would help them in this judgment, and that the Warrior would lend his strength to the arm of the man whose cause was just. That would be me, Tyrion almost shouted, but they would only laugh, and he was sick unto death of laughter.
Ser Osmund Kettleblack brought Clegane his shield, a massive thing of heavy oak rimmed in black iron. As the Mountain slid his left arm through the straps, Tyrion saw that the hounds of Clegane had been painted over. This morning Ser Gregor bore the seven-pointed star the Andals had brought to Westeros when they crossed the narrow sea to overwhelm the First Men and their gods. Very pious of you, Cersei, but I doubt the gods will be impressed.
There were fifty yards between them. Prince Oberyn advanced quickly, Ser Gregor more ominously. The ground does not shake when he walks, Tyrion told himself. That is only my heart fluttering. When the two men were ten yards apart, the Red Viper stopped and called out, “Have they told you who I am?”
Ser Gregor grunted through his breaths. “Some dead man.” He came on, inexorable.
The Domishman slid sideways. “I am Oberyn Martell, a prince of Dome,” he said, as the Mountain turned to keep him in sight. “Princess Elia was my sister.”
“Who?” asked Gregor Clegane.
Oberyn’s long spear jabbed, but Ser Gregor took the point on his shield, shoved it aside, and bulled back at the prince, his great sword flashing. The Domishman spun away untouched. The spear darted forward. Clegane slashed at it, Martell snapped it back, then thrust again. Metal screamed on metal as the spearhead slid off the Mountain’s chest, slicing through the surcoat and leaving a long bright scratch on the steel beneath. “Elia Martell, Princess of Dome,” the Red Viper hissed. “You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children.”
Ser Gregor grunted. He made a ponderous charge to hack at the Domishman’s head. Prince Oberyn avoided him easily. “You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children.”
“Did you come to talk or to fight?”
“I came to hear you confess.” The Red Viper landed a quick thrust on the Mountain’s belly, to no effect. Gregor cut at him, and missed. The long spear lanced in above his sword. Like a serpent’s tongue it flickered in and out, feinting low and landing high, jabbing at groin, shield, eyes. The Mountain makes for a big target, at the least, Tyrion thought. Prince Oberyn could scarcely miss, though none of his blows was penetrating Ser Gregor’s heavy plate. The Dornishman kept circling, jabbing, then darting back again, forcing the bigger man to turn and turn again. Clegane is losing sight of him. The Mountain’s helm had a narrow eyeslit, severely limiting his vision. Oberyn was making good use of that, and the length of his spear, and his quickness.
It went on that way for what seemed a long time. Back and forth they moved across the yard, and round and round in spirals, Ser Gregor slashing at the air while Oberyn’s spear struck at arm, and leg, twice at his temple. Gregor’s big wooden shield took its share of hits as well, until a dog’s head peeped out from under the star, and elsewhere the raw oak showed through. Clegane would grunt from time to time, and once Tyrion heard him mutter a curse, but otherwise he fought in a sullen silence.
Not Oberyn Martell. “You raped her,” he called, feinting. “You murdered her,” he said, dodging a looping cut from Gregor’s greatsword. “You killed her children,” he shouted, slamming the spearpoint into the giant’s throat, only to have it glance off the thick steel gorget with a screech.
“Oberyn is toying with him,” said Ellaria Sand.
That is fool’s play, thought Tyrion. “The Mountain is too bloody big to be any man’s toy.”
All around the yard, the throng of spectators was creeping in toward the two combatants, edging forward inch by inch to get a better view. The Kingsguard tried to keep them back, shoving at the gawkers forcefully with their big white shields, but there were hundreds of gawkers and only six of the men in white armor.
“You raped her.” Prince Oberyn parried a savage cut with his spearhead. “You murdered her.” He sent the spearpoint at Clegane’s eyes, so fast the huge man flinched back. “You killed her children.” The spear flickered sideways and down, scraping against the Mountain’s breastplate. “You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children.” The spear was two feet longer than Ser Gregor’s sword, more than enough to keep him at an awkward distance. He hacked at the shaft whenever Oberyn lunged at him, trying to lop off the spearhead, but he might as well have been trying to hack the wings off a fly. “You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children.” Gregor tried to bull rush, but Oberyn skipped aside and circled round his back. “You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children.”
“Be quiet.” Ser Gregor seemed to be moving a little slower, and his greatsword no longer rose quite so high as it had when the contest began. “Shut your bloody mouth.”
“You raped her,” the prince said, moving to the right.
“Enough!” Ser Gregor took two long strides and brought his sword down at Oberyn’s head, but the Domishman backstepped once more. “You murdered her,” he said.
“SHUT UP” Gregor charged headlong, right at the point of the spear, which slammed into his right breast then slid aside with a hideous steel shriek. Suddenly the Mountain was close enough to strike, his huge sword flashing in a steel blur. The crowd was screaming as well. Oberyn slipped the first blow and let go of the spear, useless now that Ser Gregor was inside it. The second cut the Domishman caught on his shield. Metal met metal with an ear-splitting clang sending the Red Viper reeling. Ser Gregor followed, bellowing. He doesn’t use words, he just roars like an animal, Tyrion thought. Oberyn’s retreat became a headlong backward flight mere inches ahead of the greatsword as it slashed at his chest, his arms, his head.
The stable was behind him. Spectators screamed and shoved at each other to get out of the way. One stumbled into Oberyn’s back. Ser Gregor hacked down with all his savage strength. The Red Viper threw himself sideways, rolling. The luckless stableboy behind him was not so quick. As his arm rose to protect his face, Gregor’s sword took it off between elbow and shoulder. “Shut UP!” the Mountain howled at the stableboy’s scream, and this time he swung the blade sideways, sending the top half of the lad’s head across the yard in a spray of blood and brains. Hundreds of spectators suddenly seemed to lose all interest in the guilt or innocence of Tyrion Lannister, judging by the way they pushed and shoved at each other to escape the yard.
But the Red Viper of Dome was back on his feet, his long spear in hand. “Elia,” he called at Ser Gregor. “You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children. Now say her name.”
The Mountain whirled. Helm, shield, sword, surcoat; he was spattered with gore from head to heels. “You talk too much,” he grumbled. “You make my head hurt.”
“I will hear you say it. She was Elia of Dome.”
The Mountain snorted contemptuously, and came on… and in that moment, the sun broke through the low clouds that had hidden the sky since dawn.
The sun of Dorne, Tyrion told himself, but it was Gregor Clegane who moved first to put the sun at his back. This is a dim and brutal man, but he has a warrior’s instincts.
The Red Viper crouched, squinting, and sent his spear darting forward again. Ser Gregor hacked at it, but the thrust had only been a feint. Off balance, he stumbled forward a step.
Prince Oberyn tilted his dinted metal shield. A shaft of sunlight blazed blindingly off polished gold and copper, into the narrow slit of his foe’s helm. Clegane lifted his own shield against the glare. Prince Oberyn’s spear flashed like lightning and found the gap in the heavy plate, the joint under the arm. The point punched through mail and boiled leather. Gregor gave a choked grunt as the Domishman twisted his spear and yanked it free. “Elia. Say it! Elia. of Dome!” He was circling spear poised for another thrust. “Say it!”
Tyrion had his own prayer. Fall down and die, was how it went. Damn you, fall down and die! The blood trickling from the Mountain’s armpit was his own now, and he must be bleeding even more heavily inside the breastplate. When he tried to take a step, one knee buckled. Tyrion thought he was going down.
Prince Oberyn had circled behind him. “ELIA OF DORNE!” he shouted. Ser Gregor started to turn, but too slow and too late. The spearhead went through the back of the knee this time, through the layers of chain and leather between the plates on thigh and calf. The Mountain reeled, swayed, then collapsed face first on the ground. His huge sword went flying from his hand. Slowly, ponderously, he rolled onto his back.
The Dornishman flung away his ruined shield, grasped the spear in both hands, and sauntered away. Behind him the Mountain let out a groan, and pushed himself onto an elbow. Oberyn whirled cat-quick, and ran at his fallen foe. “EEEEELLLLLLIIIIIAAAAA!” he screamed, as he drove the spear down with the whole weight of his body behind it. The crack of the ashwood shaft snapping was almost as sweet a sound as Cersei’s wail of fury, and for an instant Prince Oberyn had wings. The snake has vaulted over the Mountain. Four feet of broken spear jutted from Clegane’s belly as Prince Oberyn rolled, rose, and dusted himself off. He tossed aside the splintered spear and claimed his foe’s greatsword. “If you die before you say her name, ser, I will hunt you through all seven hells,” he promised.
Ser Gregor tried to rise, The broken spear had gone through him, and was pinning him to the ground. He wrapped both hands about the shaft, grunting, but could not pull it out. Beneath him was a spreading pool of red. “I am feeling more innocent by the instant,” Tyrion told Ellaria Sand beside him.
Prince Oberyn moved closer. “Say the name!” He put a foot on the Mountain’s chest and raised the greatsword with both hands. Whether he intended to hack off Gregor’s head or shove the point through his eyeslit was something Tyrion would never know.
Clegane’s hand shot up and grabbed the Dornishman behind the knee. The Red Viper brought down the greatsword in a wild slash, but he was off-balance, and the edge did no more than put another dent in the Mountain’s vambrace. Then the sword was forgotten as Gregor’s hand tightened and twisted, yanking the Dornishman down on top of him. They wrestled in the dust and blood, the broken spear wobbling back and forth. Tyrion saw with horror that the Mountain had wrapped one huge arm around the prince, drawing him tight against his chest, like a lover.
“Elia of Dorne,” they all heard Ser Gregor say, when they were close enough to kiss. His deep voice boomed within the helm. “I killed her screaming whelp.” He thrust his free hand into Oberyn’s unprotected face, pushing steel fingers into his eyes. “Then I raped her.” Clegane slammed his fist into the Dornishman’s mouth, making splinters of his teeth. “Then I smashed her fucking head in. Like this.” As he drew back his huge fist, the blood on his gauntlet seemed to smoke in the cold dawn air. There was a sickening crunch.

01-26-07, 07:44 PM

#14

KempoMRK

The Saviour

Posts: 2,825

From: England

IP:

I'm reading George Orwell's complete novels book at the moment. Just read the first one, it was Animal Farm. Amaaaazing story.

Reading Burmese Days now.

01-27-07, 11:37 PM

#15

Magic5

Moderator

Posts: 3,918

From: Denver, CO

IP:

Quote:

Originally Posted by KempoMRK

I'm reading George Orwell's complete novels book at the moment. Just read the first one, it was Animal Farm. Amaaaazing story.

Reading Burmese Days now.

1984 is his best book by far.

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