~ Word of the Day ~

Started by Blythe, March 21, 2017, 01:41:05 PM

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Flower

Today's word of the day is....

Chiliad
nounKILL-ee-ad

Definition
1 : a group of 1000

2 : a period of 1000 years; especially : one reckoned from the beginning of the Christian era

Loiosh

Ambrose looked up from his desk and realized it was dark outside.  The momentary spinning of his vision as he tried to focus on the rows of benches lining the conservatory told him he had been writing a long time.  He suddenly felt a thirst that he realized had been pressing for his attention for some time.  Smacking his dried lips he placed his quill into the ink pot and pulled himself to his feet, steadying himself against a rush of dizziness.  Food, he thought.  He vaguely remembered eating stew at lunch but he had not been paying that much attention.  It might have been breakfast, now that he thought about it.  he found it difficult to focus on events beyond his quill and parchment and the endless laborious copying of the verses.

A bit steadier now he slowly made his way down the aisle towards the door to the courtyard.  The other monks had long since returned to their cells.  He had an indistinct memory of the abbot telling him something, begging him to rest maybe but he wasn’t sure whether that had happened earlier in the day or last week.  It was all blending together in his head.  As if summoned by thought, the conservatory door creaked open and the abbot himself stepped in with a small hooded lantern in one hand.   He started, as if surprised to see Ambrose away from his desk.

“Ah!” he said.  “Brother Ambrose.   It is nice to see you up and about for a change.”   The man smiled in a fatherly manner but the hint of reproach was unmistakable.

“Father,” said Ambrose.  His voice cracked and he coughed into his sleeve.  “What time is it?” he asked, more clearly this time.

“It is nearly Lauds, my son.  The day is upon us.”

Ambrose nodded distractedly, his mind still tracing the delicate spidery lettering of the verses.  He realized his right hand was actually moving, as if tracing ink through the air.  Sheepishly he stuffed both hands into his tunic.

“I have nearly finished, Father,” Ambrose said.  He meant it both as an apology and as an admonition.  “The first chiliad of verses is translated and I am well into the second.”  The abbot raised an eyebrow and sighed with helpless but loving exasperation.

“Your diligence is to be commended, my son, but the task set you was but to do the first portion of the work.”  He waved an arm back towards the other benches.  “You have many brothers and helpers in this great effort.”

Ambrose shook his head and frowned.  “None have my skill with the Arabic, Father.  The knowledge…”  He staggered slightly as his knees buckled.  The abbot quickly set his lantern down and rushed to his side.

“Steady,” the old man said, lowering Ambrose to a kneeling position.  “Steady there.”

Ambrose grabbed the abbot’s sleeve and looked up into his eyes with real focus for the first time.  Desperation was in his voice.

“The knowledge, Father,” he said.  “It must be kept.  It must be preserved.  Or else…”  He looked around like a lost child unable to articulate his desire clearly.  Ambrose felt tears welling up as the dizziness returned and whirled his consciousness away into oblivion.

The abbot held him tightly for a long moment before lowering him gently to the floor.  He pulled his outer cloak off, bundled it into a rough pillow and placed it under Ambrose’s head. 

“Rest, my son,” the abbot murmured, brushing his hand across the young man’s brow.  He pulled himself to his feet, his joints creaking with age and infirmity.  He would yet again have to go roust a few of the brothers to help move Ambrose back to his cell. 

Hobbling back toward the dormitory, the abbot paused to look at Ambroses station.  The Arabic text of poetry lay open in the center surrounded by stacks of neatly organized parchment covered with spidery lines of Latin.  The abbot lifted one of the stacks and gently rifled through, his face a mask of resignation.  Hundreds of pages, thousands of words.  On each parchment was the exact same phrase repeated line after line.  Translated, it read:

All work and no play, make Ambrose a dull boy.

The abbot sighed again and looked back up the aisle to the dimly outlined sleeping form.  This was getting out of hand.  He snorted and chuckled at himself.  This had been out of hand for a long time.

“Give me strength,” he muttered looking up at the crucifix on the back wall.  “Give me strength to do what must now be done.”




Flower

Today's word of the day is....

Lenitive
adjective LEN-uh-tiv

Definition
1 : alleviating pain or harshness : soothing

The Green One

He introduced himself, carefully selecting the words from his inner, incoherent chatter, trying not to seem too awkward.

Not available for new stories

Loiosh

The barbarian stood proud and defiant at the ten paces distance required by protocol but Jaxom could tell she was suppressing the urge to stride up to the King and do bodily injury.  Not serious damage of course, her intricately carved battle ax and other weapons lay safely outside the audience chamber.  Just a solid punch or two just to make her displeasure known and request a change of subject. 

Her companion, a short swarthy bearded man with piercing black eyes, reached out to briefly touch her forearm and shake his head imperceptibly, as if he shared Jaxom's insight.  The king's endless droning recitation of lineage was boring everyone as it always did, but these barbarians tended to react to boredom by making things less... boring.  That would never do. 

Jaxom stroked his fingers across his lute lightly.  A gentle swirl of notes floated through the air as he began to improvise a lenitive ballad.  He wove in some elements of a particularly bawdy drinking song he liked but disguised and muted so as not to be recognizable or cause offense.  The king continued his monologue oblivious as always to the background accompaniment.

The barbarian, however cast her gaze on Jaxom with an odd thoughtful expression as if she was re-evaluating some previous conclusion she had come to.  Slowly and deliberately she winked.  Jaxom felt a warmth rising in his cheeks and averted his gaze to his lute.  When he looked back up the barbarian was paying attention to the King once more, still impatient but clearly much more in control of her demeanor.  Even without looking back he somehow still felt the heat of her attention on him.

This would prove an interesting visit indeed, he thought.

Hob

Today's word of the day is....

atone
verb uh-TOHN

Definition
1 : to make amends : to provide or serve as reparation or compensation for something bad or unwelcome — usually + for

2 : to make reparation or supply satisfaction for : expiate — used in the passive voice with for

Loiosh

To atone for a tone gone amiss
The minstrel can simply do this,
  Nothing is worse
  Than an out of tune verse
So drop the lute down the abyss.

Marek

Quote from: loiosh on September 20, 2018, 10:59:07 AM
To atone for a tone gone amiss
The minstrel can simply do this,
  Nothing is worse
  Than an out of tune verse
So drop the lute down the abyss.

This was awesome!!!


"Shame is the lie someone told you about yourself." - Anais Nin
Roleplaying Status: Actively Searching
Ons and Offs | Marek's Speakeasy

Hob

Today's word of the day is....

milieu
noun meel-YOO

Definition
1 : the physical or social setting in which something occurs or develops : environment

Lilias

#1459
When it was all over, I wiped the blood off my hands on my apron, out of mere  habit - in a way the stain could not follow me where I was going, back into my own spectral world, and in another way it would never wash off - and gestured to my companion to take over. She couldn’t speak, but her feline eyes were incredibly sad. I knew I would never see her again, nor the little unconscious body lying swaddled in bandages on the table. It didn’t matter.

I knew I had broken - quite flamboyantly, too - the rules of probably half the guilds out there. The Harbingers and Proctors certainly would be furious at being tricked into aiding me, and the Artificers would not be happy I had poached their equipment, either. The Grim Legion would certainly get involved, and that never ended well. But it didn’t matter. It didn’t. That was my granddaughter, back there, my last living family, and she was going to make it, and forget. She would make a much better job of a life without me than I would of an afterlife without her.

Outside, the clouds seemed to hang lower and denser than ever, and the Shadow was beginning to stir already, reaching out with such glee that what remained of my resolve nearly crumbled. Hell to pay. Literal hell to pay. I bit back the rising despair and picked up my pace, wishing for the first iron lantern to be hanging just around the corner. I had a lot to atone for, and I was going to start immediately, and on my terms.
To go in the dark with a light is to know the light.
To know the dark, go dark. Go without sight,
and find that the dark, too, blooms and sings,
and is traveled by dark feet and dark wings.
~Wendell Berry

Double Os <> Double As (updated Feb 20) <> The Hoard <> 50 Tales 2024 <> The Lab <> ELLUIKI

Loiosh

“You see, darling,” Nix said,  “It’s simply to die for isn’t it?”  He stretched the ah and aye sounds about three beats too long.  He was putting on a show for the yokels and wanted them to know how refined he was.  Alex rolled his eyes.

“It looks like a dog threw up another dog, if you ask me”, Alex said.  Nix gasped so hard it sounded as if the wind had been knocked out of him.  Alex grinned crookedly, still looking at the painting.  It wasn’t actually that bad to be honest.  Abstract impressionism wasn’t his bag of tea but the color choices were interesting.  He couldn’t resist baiting his friend though.

“My dear boy!” Nix said.  His voice had gone up a quarter octave and Alex had to suppress the urge to respond, You know you’re two years older than me, right?  Teasing him was a fine art in itself.  If one pushed too far too fast he would storm off in a huff and play the wounded martyr for days. 

Nix continued bravely, a crusader against heathens.  “You have to understand the milieu that Trenton is exploring here.  The tree’s soul is split between two planes of existence here, the temporal and the spiritual.  The forces of the mundane are rising in rebellion against the encroaching tendrils of proto-pagan re-emergence.”  Nix stepped toward the painting, gesturing at a splotch of red and purple droplets.  “The clash of ideas and cultures generates a toxic panoply of effluvium causing the representation of Man to wane, the representation of the Goddess to crumble,….”

“The representation of Dog to vomit,” said Alex.  He couldn’t help himself.  Nix looked at him as if Alex had just kicked a kitten.  Into a furnace.  Filled with orphans.

“Well!” he said.  “I can see my opinion isn’t valued here!”  He flounced to the door turning theatrically back at the threshold to loft his exit line.  “You will just never understand Art!”

Alex grinned ruefully as he grabbed Nix’s jacket.  He was going to have to be extra nice for a while now.  We pay for our pleasures, he thought to himself with a chuckle.

XiroSevyn

Veronica sighed. “Look, it's no big deal. And I understand. You're just from a different background than me.”

Todd nodded, fumbling with his fingers. “Yeah. I guess so.”

“Hey,” she replied. “It's just your family milieu. I know you're not exactly religious, but the abstinence until marriage concept is ingrained in your personality.”

She closed the gap between them, wrapped her arms around his chest, and planted a gentle kiss on his cheek. With a smile, she looked up at him, and he smiled back.

“I still love you, you know,” she said. “Even more, really. Cause that means you're not all about the sexual gratification. You're in this for the long haul.”

Todd nodded again. “If I didn't love you,” he said, “I wouldn't waste your time.”

persephone325

"If you really want to atone for what you did," she said angrily, "you can go to hell."
This doesn't have to end in a fight, Buck.
It always ends in a fight.
You pulled me from the river. Why?
I don't know.
"Don't dwell on those who hold you down. Instead, cherish those who helped you up."

The Green One

#1463
I sit in the corner of my room
A book in my hands
As if waiting for doom

In the clouds of my mind
I see images of foretime
My melancholia binds me
To the lands of my kind

As a ghost I shall dwell
Must atone
Then must behave

With a lenitive song I pass
Carring a chiliad thoughts
And the sins of my past

Not available for new stories

Hob

#1464
Today's word of the day is....

panoply
noun PAN-uh-plee

Definition
1 a : a full suit of armor

1 b : ceremonial attire

2    : something forming a protective covering

3 a : a magnificent or impressive array

3 b : a display of all appropriate appurtenances

XiroSevyn

“Hello?”

Her voice echoed off of the dark walls and disappeared into the murkiness. Nothing greeted her, neither the twisted horrors she'd expected, nor a kindly welcome. So she stepped deeper into the so-called haunted hallway, ever watchful for ghosts or demons.

The flashlight's wide beam cut through the darkness, but just barely. The light gleamed off an inanimate panoply against the wall. For a moment, the hallway was illuminated. Cobwebs and dust clung to every surface.

Somewhere in the distance, a floorboard creaked. She jumped, gasped, and dropped the torch. It clattered against the floor and skittered just out of reach. Luckily, the batteries held and the bulb didn't break. Retrieving it was simple.

But when she gathered it and stood up again, she saw a face in the darkness, as pale as the moon. Her eyes widened and she stiffened, resisting the urge to relieve herself. The face faded nearly as suddenly as it appeared, but it was enough to convince her to leave the house and never look back.

Loiosh

Quote from: Liam Dale on September 21, 2018, 05:29:03 PM
I sit in the corner of my room
A book in my hands
As if waiting for doom

In the clouds of my mind
I see images of foretime
My melancholia binds me
To the lands of my kind

As a ghost I shall dwell
Must atone
Then must behave

With a lenitive song I pass
Carring a chiliad thoughts
And the sins of my past

Well played, Sir!

Loiosh

#1467
This distant crack of thunder announced the arrival of the shuttle overhead.  Captain Trevor looked up from his wrist holo and scanned the horizon with rapid practiced precision.  A few seconds later it appeared over the tree line flying low and fast.  The planet was supposedly secure, but it never hurt to be careful with Personages. 

The imperial shuttles were heavily protected with all manner of countermeasures but the least little hint of hostile fire and there would be an inquest, a Board and fifteen additional platoons burning the local villages in reprisal.  It was easier to keep them insulated from the real world of the war.  Ideally, they’d stay up in orbit on the command station but every once in a while there would be one who refused to be handled.  They just  had to get the situation on the ground first hand because one simply couldn’t trust those brutes in the power armor to see past the end of their plasma rifles.  Never mind that most of them had never been in the military or even watched war vid.  A Personage was a Personage.

“Battalion!   Atten-shun!”  Trevor barked the order and listened to his platoon leaders relay it  In mere seconds the men and women were rock still in perfect parade formation, waiting for the shuttle to land.   He nodded with satisfaction.  They were tired, all of them, but they stood proud and erect.  They looked exactly like the elite troopers he and this fight had forged them into.  Somehow the ridiculous panoply of imperial dress armor managed to look good on them.  He smiled with pride.

The slimies had proven far more adept at asymmetrical warfare than anyone had guessed.  Even now there were pockets of fighting on the northern side of the isthmus.  Trevor resisted the urge to check his wrist holo again.    Andrea was competent and well provisioned.  If there was trouble she would call.

The shuttle hovered briefly and landed.  A cloud of dust billowed out as the suspensor field lowered the craft gently onto the pad.  Trevor took one last look over the troops and assumed his “official” face as he stood silently, waiting for the doors to open.

persephone325

He was filled with melancholia after his wife died. It was as if everything good in his life died with her.
This doesn't have to end in a fight, Buck.
It always ends in a fight.
You pulled me from the river. Why?
I don't know.
"Don't dwell on those who hold you down. Instead, cherish those who helped you up."

XiroSevyn

Atone for your sins!”

The priest shouted over the mob surrounding her. She struggled against the thick rope tying her to the pole. Furious, she spat at the priest. He dodged the phlegm and pressed a silver cross on her forehead.

“Sinner, repent! Recount your chiliad of crimes! Let the lenitive power of the gods wash away your corruption!”

She kicked him in the shin. He responded with hushed curses. The mob didn't hear him. Torchlight glinted off of the pitchforks. Overhead, the full moon began to peek out from behind the clouds.

She grinned. The transformation was still painful, but quick, now. Her body bent forward, her arms and legs elongated and grew. In seconds, she was in her wolf form, and no nothing was going to stand in her way.

Lilias

It was nearly half-term break, and the college population still hadn’t decided how to handle Lucy’s presence there.

The boys and girls who ended up studying at the particular establishment were of a definite type: very posh, very wealthy, with boarding school experience (not Eton, of course, but Westminster, Shrewsbury and Winchester alumni were thick on the ground, and there was hardly a year without someone from Charterhouse or Harrow joining), and very aware of their own privilege. Most saw their time studying as a period of socialising and networking before they headed onwards to join their family businesses in the City, or local politics, or professional charity before an alliance by marriage.

Lucy’s milieu, on the other hand, could not have been more different. She had been educated at home, because her father, an artist of considerable renown, travelled a lot and took his family with him wherever he went. Lucy had lived in places that most of her fellow students only knew from geography lessons, or documentaries at best, and had picked up a few languages from native speakers. She had met several famous people, both among her father’s peers and his patrons, had sat for paintings from an early age, and had already shown, and sold, her own art. When her father’s accident had cut his career short and the family income, never too comfortable to start with, dwindled, she had managed to earn a full scholarship and walked through the college gates like she owned the place.

Ever since, there were those among the student body who wanted to be her friends, those who wanted--horrors!--to be like her, those who wanted to date her, and those who wanted absolutely nothing to do with the upstart. One way or another, her presence dominated the place in a way none of her Honourable or Lady So-and-So peers had ever managed. It was baffling, infuriating--and they hadn’t seen half of it yet.
To go in the dark with a light is to know the light.
To know the dark, go dark. Go without sight,
and find that the dark, too, blooms and sings,
and is traveled by dark feet and dark wings.
~Wendell Berry

Double Os <> Double As (updated Feb 20) <> The Hoard <> 50 Tales 2024 <> The Lab <> ELLUIKI

persephone325

Today's word of the day is....

viva voce
adverb vye-vuh-VOH-see

Definition
: by word of mouth : orally
This doesn't have to end in a fight, Buck.
It always ends in a fight.
You pulled me from the river. Why?
I don't know.
"Don't dwell on those who hold you down. Instead, cherish those who helped you up."

Loiosh

#1472
Oh boy.

I stared at the phrase blankly for another minute, frowning and trying to call up something.  Anything.  The other window had the Wikipedia entry in one tab and some random page with some example usages, mostly referring to either academic situations like a thesis defense or courtroom evidence. 

Maybe some kind of courtroom transcript where the Little Mermaid is a witness and can't give oral evidence?

I liked the idea but I couldn't figure out a way to frame it. 

It wasn't working.  I couldn't come up with an idea.  I scrolled back up through the thread and looked at my previous entries, hoping for a little bit of inspiration.  There was a pretty satisfying mix of poetry and prose, short and long.  So far I hadn't really struggled coming up with something before the next word of the day was posted.  Fortunately this was a text-based medium and the responses weren't expected viva voce.  I'd have a good eighteen hours or so to write and re-write until I came up with something.

Maybe a cthulu monster defending his thesis and driving his examiners insane?

I shook my head.  This was going to be a long day.

Jaclyn

#1473

  The Maker of the World was the first to tell the story to her children gathered around the hearth in the home she had raised up on the dry land she had made with the turtle who had been with her from the beginning. She told of realizing that her breath created ripples in the chaos. She told of how she spoke until the chaos moved in vortices and swirls and of how the swirls congealed and how the Turtle came and allowed the vortices to come to stillness on their back and how thus she made the world there.

  And her children told the story viva voce to their children and on and on in the time and space she made in those first days. All her children remember how she answered the first question. ‘Turtles,’ she said, ‘Turtles all the way down.’


XiroSevyn

For as long as anyone could remember, there were the stories of the goddesses. It had been centuries, maybe longer, since any new stories had been told. All of the old ones were passed down from generation to generation viva voce.

One day, eons after the stories had become legends and passed into faded memories, a stranger was born. This stranger, with her dark hair and bright blue eyes, stood out from the rest the village. How she had been born, no one was certain. Nor where they certain who her parents were. But she was raised by the villagers. And from the moment that she could talk, she told new stories.