Christine daae gown

I (FTM21) am graduating art school, with that, comes the usual art exhibition that my uni puts on for all graduating students to showcase our projects. You're given the opportunity to hand out invites to family and friends.
My partner, Steven (M27) works in an office that's only a short bus ride away from my uni, I usually go over and meet him in the lobby once he's done. I'm always half surprised to see him all dressed up in his corporate gear, he's an artist like me (though more in a literary sense, he writes beautiful poetry), but somebody has to pay the rent and for our son's nursery so he puts up with it.
The people Steven works with are insufferable according to him. Apparently they're all very crass and unable to hold their own original opinions, he's either ragged or completely ignored by his male coworkers. In his entire time working at the office, only one person has been even slightly friendly to him and that's Christine (F30). I've met her once or twice, she's very smothering. She thinks that her narrow world view is the only correct one, and her whole look and personality is very...love Island candidate. She's quite overbearing to Steven, she always practically begs him to walk her to the train station, she insists on them going to lunch in cafes that are awfully twee, he is apparently constantly hounded by her. Steven said that he used to spend breaks by himself in the basement of the office, until she found out about it and now he doesn't get a moment's peace.
Anyway, I was waiting for him in the lobby last week and I was very excited to give him the exhibition invite + leaflet. He's usually the first one to leave the office but with my fawning over the art show, I made us waste time in the lobby so that we were still standing there when other people started leaving. One of them being Christine who came over to say hello. She was quite dismissive of me and horribly patronising, treating me as if I was a toddler showing her my macaroni art and as if Steven was awfully kind to humor me by going along. Christine asked me if she could attend too, which I didn't really want to happen. I know that Steven doesn't like her company, and my art isn't her cup of tea - one of my projects is literally a sculpted rat baby in a gown and bonnet. I was a bit tongue tied and I said that I was surprised that she'd like to come, I would have thought her to be the type of person to attend art exhibitions. That upset her, she started telling me that I was a 'stuck up little cow,' for making assumptions. One of my friends who I told the story to later on said that my comment may have come off as misogynistic.

I'm taking a bit of a deep dive into the music mentioned in the book. I was exposed to a ton of opera and classical as a kid and rebelled against it until adulthood so I am by no means an expert. If you are, I welcome you to correct or expound on anything here! Please, I beg you, there's holes in it.
(I'm working off the most common de Mattos translation btw)
In Chapter II Leroux describes the gala performance that included Christine's triumph in Carlotta's place. Christine is described as singing "a few lines from Romeo and Juliet" by Gounod. Having not watched the whole opera I'm going to guess it was this aria.
Now I'm going to break down this paragraph piece by piece:
"They all went on to the foyer of the ballet, which was already full of people. The Comte de Chagny was right; no gala performance ever equalled this one. All the great composers of the day had conducted their own works in turns. Faure and Krauss had sung; and, on that evening, Christine Daae had revealed her true self, for the first time, to the astonished and enthusiastic audience. Gounod had conducted the Funeral March of a Marionnette; Reyer, his beautiful overture to Siguar; Saint Saens, the Danse Macabre and a Reverie Orientale; Massenet, an unpublished Hungarian march; Guiraud, his Carnaval; Delibes, the Valse Lente from Sylvia and the Pizzicati from Coppelia. Mlle. Krauss had sung the bolero in the Vespri Siciliani; and Mlle. Denise Bloch the drinking song in Lucrezia Borgia."
(In keeping with gala tradition all these pieces are fairly short.)
1) Gounod: "Funeral March of a Marionette"
That's right, it's the Alfred Hitchcock Presents theme!
2) Reyer: Overture to "Sigurd"
Looks like a misspelling in the translation as the opera is Sigurd not Siguar. If there's anything referential here it's that the heroine is Scandinavian.
3) Saint-Saëns: "Danse Macabre"
Fuck I love this piece and it's so very Erik. The link is just my favorite version, arrangements abound. You've heard it all over pop culture, probably most recently in What We Do in the Shadows or Good Omens.
I haven't been able to find any reference to the other piece "Reverie Orientale."
4) Massenet, "Unpublished Hungarian March"
I guess it's still unpublished. I can't find any reference to it.
5) Guiraud "Carnaval"
It was a ballet piece from his opera comique Piccolino which has never been revived. I'm sure it's not lost to time, but if it's on the internet I can't find it.
6) This is worded backwards? "Delibes, the Valse Lente from Sylvia and the Pizzicati from Coppelia."
Valse Lente (slow waltz) is from Coppelia
And Pizzicato (with an O) is from Sylvia
Either way, you've heard Pizzicato before and you're picturing Erik sneaking around the opera house while you listen because it's just so perfect.
(Fun trivia: Delibes also wrote the famous Flower Duet)
7) "Mlle. Krauss had sung the bolero in the Vespri Siciliani"
Vespri Sicilliani (The Sicilian Vespers) was an opera by Verdi based on a libretto co-written by Eugene Scribe.
8) "and Mlle. Denise Bloch the drinking song in Lucrezia Borgia"
Donizetti's opera goes along with the trope of Borgia being a poisoner and in this drinking song she's pretty much like, "Drink up, bitches! Ha ha you're dead."
Apparently drinking songs are big in opera. Here's a bonus piece from Mozart's Don Giovanni which was also popular at the time (I needed peeled off the floor when I watched this one so consider yourself warned)
If I can ever stop playing Danse Macabre on repeat I'll move onto alllll the other music in the book.

So I (25 F) have a very wide range and used to be placed as a soprano in choir and theatre, etc. As an adult, I think I'm either a mezzo soprano or an alto. Either way, I used to do a lot more classical styles, like arias and more choir-based music. Now, I'm focusing more on pop and have gotten a lot better at belting/aka just being in my chest voice. I'm having trouble mixing, especially after I got nose surgery (deviated septum...fixed my breathing but it all feels different now). The regular exercises I did for head voice don't feel the same. It's like I can't recognize higher pitch anymore and my voice is weaker on higher notes. I know a lot of it could just be my voice changing as an adult, but do you have any advice? I miss my Christine Daae shower performances

A yellow dressinggown, ungirdled, was sustained gently behind him on the mild morning air. He held the bowl aloft and intoned:
—Introibo ad altare Dei.
Halted, he peered down the dark winding stairs and called out coarsely:
—Come up, Kinch! Come up, you fearful jesuit!
Solemnly he came forward and mounted the round gunrest. He faced about and blessed gravely thrice the tower, the surrounding land and the awaking mountains. Then, catching sight of Stephen Dedalus, he bent towards him and made rapid crosses in the air, gurgling in his throat and shaking his head. Stephen Dedalus, displeased and sleepy, leaned his arms on the top of the staircase and looked coldly at the shaking gurgling face that blessed him, equine in its length, and at the light untonsured hair, grained and hued like pale oak.
Buck Mulligan peeped an instant under the mirror and then covered the bowl smartly.
—Back to barracks! he said sternly.
He added in a preacher’s tone:
—For this, O dearly beloved, is the genuine Christine: body and soul and blood and ouns. Slow music, please. Shut your eyes, gents. One moment. A little trouble about those white corpuscles. Silence, all.
He peered sideways up and gave a long slow whistle of call, then paused awhile in rapt attention, his even white teeth glistening here and there with gold points. Chrysostomos. Two strong shrill whistles answered through the calm.
—Thanks, old chap, he cried briskly. That will do nicely. Switch off the current, will you?
He skipped off the gunrest and looked gravely at his watcher, gathering about his legs the loose folds of his gown. The plump shadowed face and sullen oval jowl recalled a prelate, patron of arts in the middle ages. A pleasant smile broke quietly over his lips.
—The mockery of it! he said gaily. Your absurd name, an ancient Greek!
He pointed his finger in friendly jest and went over to the parapet, laughing to himself. Stephen Dedalus stepped up, followed him wearily halfway and sat down on the edge of the gunrest, watching him still as he propped his mirror on the parapet, dipped the brush in the bowl and lathered cheeks and neck.
Buck Mulligan’s gay voice went on.
—My name is absurd too: Malachi Mulligan, two dactyls. But it has a Hellenic ring, hasn’t it? Tripping and sunny like the buck himself. We must go to Athens. Will you come if I can get the aunt to fork out twenty quid?
He laid the brush aside and, laughing with delight, cried:
—Will he come? The jejune jesuit!
Ceasing, he began to shave with care.
—Tell me, Mulligan, Stephen said quietly.
—Yes, my love?
—How long is Haines going to stay in this tower?
Buck Mulligan showed a shaven cheek over his right shoulder.
—God, isn’t he dreadful? he said frankly. A ponderous Saxon. He thinks you’re not a gentleman. God, these bloody English! Bursting with money and indigestion. Because he comes from Oxford. You know, Dedalus, you have the real Oxford manner. He can’t make you out. O, my name for you is the best: Kinch, the knife-blade.
He shaved warily over his chin.
—He was raving all night about a black panther, Stephen said. Where is his guncase?
—A woful lunatic! Mulligan said. Were you in a funk?
—I was, Stephen said with energy and growing fear. Out here in the dark with a man I don’t know raving and moaning to himself about shooting a black panther. You saved men from drowning. I’m not a hero, however. If he stays on here I am off.
Buck Mulligan frowned at the lather on his razorblade. He hopped down from his perch and began to search his trouser pockets hastily.
—Scutter! he cried thickly.
He came over to the gunrest and, thrusting a hand into Stephen’s upper pocket, said:
—Lend us a loan of your noserag to wipe my razor.
Stephen suffered him to pull out and hold up on show by its corner a dirty crumpled handkerchief. Buck Mulligan wiped the razorblade neatly. Then, gazing over the handkerchief, he said:
—The bard’s noserag! A new art colour for our Irish poets: snotgreen. You can almost taste it, can’t you?
He mounted to the parapet again and gazed out over Dublin bay, his fair oakpale hair stirring slightly.
—God! he said quietly. Isn’t the sea what Algy calls it: a great sweet mother? The snotgreen sea. The scrotumtightening sea. Epi oinopa ponton. Ah, Dedalus, the Greeks! I must teach you. You must read them in the original. Thalatta! Thalatta! She is our great sweet mother. Come and look.
Stephen stood up and went over to the parapet. Leaning on it he looked down on the water and on the mailboat clearing the harbourmouth of Kingstown.
—Our mighty mother! Buck Mulligan said.
He turned abruptly his grey searching eyes from the sea to Stephen’s face.
—The aunt thinks you killed your mother, he said. That’s why she won’t let me have anything to do with you.
—Someone killed her, Stephen said gloomily.
—You could have knelt down, damn it, Kinch, when your dying mother asked you, Buck Mulligan said. I’m hyperborean as much as you. But to think of your mother begging you with her last breath to kneel down and pray for her. And you refused. There is something sinister in you....
He broke off and lathered again lightly his farther cheek. A tolerant smile curled his lips.
—But a lovely mummer! he murmured to himself. Kinch, the loveliest mummer of them all!
He shaved evenly and with care, in silence, seriously.
Stephen, an elbow rested on the jagged granite, leaned his palm against his brow and gazed at the fraying edge of his shiny black coat-sleeve. Pain, that was not yet the pain of love, fretted his heart. Silently, in a dream she had come to him after her death, her wasted body within its loose brown graveclothes giving off an odour of wax and rosewood, her breath, that had bent upon him, mute, reproachful, a faint odour of wetted ashes. Across the threadbare cuffedge he saw the sea hailed as a great sweet mother by the wellfed voice beside him. The ring of bay and skyline held a dull green mass of liquid. A bowl of white china had stood beside her deathbed holding the green sluggish bile which she had torn up from her rotting liver by fits of loud groaning vomiting.
Buck Mulligan wiped again his razorblade.
—Ah, poor dogsbody! he said in a kind voice. I must give you a shirt and a few noserags. How are the secondhand breeks?
—They fit well enough, Stephen answered.
Buck Mulligan attacked the hollow beneath his underlip.
—The mockery of it, he said contentedly. Secondleg they should be. God knows what poxy bowsy left them off. I have a lovely pair with a hair stripe, grey. You’ll look spiffing in them. I’m not joking, Kinch. You look damn well when you’re dressed.
—Thanks, Stephen said. I can’t wear them if they are grey.
—He can’t wear them, Buck Mulligan told his face in the mirror. Etiquette is etiquette. He kills his mother but he can’t wear grey trousers.
He folded his razor neatly and with stroking palps of fingers felt the smooth skin.
Stephen turned his gaze from the sea and to the plump face with its smokeblue mobile eyes.
—That fellow I was with in the Ship last night, said Buck Mulligan, says you have g. p. i. He’s up in Dottyville with Connolly Norman. General paralysis of the insane!
He swept the mirror a half circle in the air to flash the tidings abroad in sunlight now radiant on the sea. His curling shaven lips laughed and the edges of his white glittering teeth. Laughter seized all his strong wellknit trunk.
—Look at yourself, he said, you dreadful bard!
Stephen bent forward and peered at the mirror held out to him, cleft by a crooked crack. Hair on end. As he and others see me. Who chose this face for me? This dogsbody to rid of vermin. It asks me too.
—I pinched it out of the skivvy’s room, Buck Mulligan said. It does her all right. The aunt always keeps plainlooking servants for Malachi. Lead him not into temptation. And her name is Ursula.
Laughing again, he brought the mirror away from Stephen’s peering eyes.
—The rage of Caliban at not seeing his face in a mirror, he said. If Wilde were only alive to see you!
Drawing back and pointing, Stephen said with bitterness:
—It is a symbol of Irish art. The cracked lookingglass of a servant.
Buck Mulligan suddenly linked his arm in Stephen’s and walked with him round the tower, his razor and mirror clacking in the pocket where he had thrust them.
—It’s not fair to tease you like that, Kinch, is it? he said kindly. God knows you have more spirit than any of them.
Parried again. He fears the lancet of my art as I fear that of his. The cold steel pen.
—Cracked lookingglass of a servant! Tell that to the oxy chap downstairs and touch him for a guinea. He’s stinking with money and thinks you’re not a gentleman. His old fellow made his tin by selling jalap to Zulus or some bloody swindle or other. God, Kinch, if you and I could only work together we might do something for the island. Hellenise it.
Cranly’s arm. His arm.
—And to think of your having to beg from these swine. I’m the only one that knows what you are. Why don’t you trust me more? What have you up your nose against me? Is it Haines? If he makes any noise here I’ll bring down Seymour and we’ll give him a ragging worse than they gave Clive Kempthorpe.
Young shouts of moneyed voices in Clive Kempthorpe’s rooms. Palefaces: they hold their ribs with laughter, one clasping another. O, I shall expire! Break the news to her gently, Aubrey! I shall die! With slit ribbons of his shirt whipping the air he hops and hobbles round the table, with trousers down at heels, chased by Ades of Magdalen with the tailor’s shears. A scared calf’s face gilded with marmalade. I don’t want to be debagged! Don’t you play the giddy ox with me!
Shouts from the open window startling evening in the quadrangle. A deaf gardener, aproned, masked with Matthew Arnold’s face, pushes his mower on the sombre lawn watching narrowly the dancing motes of grasshalms.
To ourselves... new paganism... omphalos.
—Let him stay, Stephen said. There’s nothing wrong with him except at night.
—Then what is it? Buck Mulligan asked impatiently. Cough it up. I’m quite frank with you. What have you against me now?
They halted, looking towards the blunt cape of Bray Head that lay on the water like the snout of a sleeping whale. Stephen freed his arm quietly.
—Do you wish me to tell you? he asked.
—Yes, what is it? Buck Mulligan answered. I don’t remember anything.
He looked in Stephen’s face as he spoke. A light wind passed his brow, fanning softly his fair uncombed hair and stirring silver points of anxiety in his eyes.
Stephen, depressed by his own voice, said:
—Do you remember the first day I went to your house after my mother’s death?
Buck Mulligan frowned quickly and said:
—What? Where? I can’t remember anything. I remember only ideas and sensations. Why? What happened in the name of God?
—You were making tea, Stephen said, and went across the landing to get more hot water. Your mother and some visitor came out of the drawingroom. She asked you who was in your room.
—Yes? Buck Mulligan said. What did I say? I forget.
—You said, Stephen answered, O, it’s only Dedalus whose mother is beastly dead.
A flush which made him seem younger and more engaging rose to Buck Mulligan’s cheek.
—Did I say that? he asked. Well? What harm is that?
He shook his constraint from him nervously.
—And what is death, he asked, your mother’s or yours or my own? You saw only your mother die. I see them pop off every day in the Mater and Richmond and cut up into tripes in the dissectingroom. It’s a beastly thing and nothing else. It simply doesn’t matter. You wouldn’t kneel down to pray for your mother on her deathbed when she asked you. Why? Because you have the cursed jesuit strain in you, only it’s injected the wrong way. To me it’s all a mockery and beastly. Her cerebral lobes are not functioning. She calls the doctor sir Peter Teazle and picks buttercups off the quilt. Humour her till it’s over. You crossed her last wish in death and yet you sulk with me because I don’t whinge like some hired mute from Lalouette’s. Absurd! I suppose I did say it. I didn’t mean to offend the memory of your mother.
He had spoken himself into boldness. Stephen, shielding the gaping wounds which the words had left in his heart, said very coldly:
—I am not thinking of the offence to my mother.
—Of what then? Buck Mulligan asked.
—Of the offence to me, Stephen answered.
Buck Mulligan swung round on his heel.
—O, an impossible person! he exclaimed.
He walked off quickly round the parapet. Stephen stood at his post, gazing over the calm sea towards the headland. Sea and headland now grew dim. Pulses were beating in his eyes, veiling their sight, and he felt the fever of his cheeks.
A voice within the tower called loudly:
—Are you up there, Mulligan?
—I’m coming, Buck Mulligan answered.
He turned towards Stephen and said:
—Look at the sea. What does it care about offences? Chuck Loyola, Kinch, and come on down. The Sassenach wants his morning rashers.
His head halted again for a moment at the top of the staircase, level with the roof:
—Don’t mope over it all day, he said. I’m inconsequent. Give up the moody brooding.
His head vanished but the drone of his descending voice boomed out of the stairhead:
And no more turn aside and brood Upon love’s bitter mystery For Fergus rules the brazen cars.
Woodshadows floated silently by through the morning peace from the stairhead seaward where he gazed. Inshore and farther out the mirror of water whitened, spurned by lightshod hurrying feet. White breast of the dim sea. The twining stresses, two by two. A hand plucking the harpstrings, merging their twining chords. Wavewhite wedded words shimmering on the dim tide.
A cloud began to cover the sun slowly, wholly, shadowing the bay in deeper green. It lay beneath him, a bowl of bitter waters. Fergus’ song: I sang it alone in the house, holding down the long dark chords. Her door was open: she wanted to hear my music. Silent with awe and pity I went to her bedside. She was crying in her wretched bed. For those words, Stephen: love’s bitter mystery.
Where now?
Her secrets: old featherfans, tasselled dancecards, powdered with musk, a gaud of amber beads in her locked drawer. A birdcage hung in the sunny window of her house when she was a girl. She heard old Royce sing in the pantomime of Turko the Terrible and laughed with others when he sang:
I am the boy That can enjoy Invisibility.
Phantasmal mirth, folded away: muskperfumed.
And no more turn aside and brood.
Folded away in the memory of nature with her toys. Memories beset his brooding brain. Her glass of water from the kitchen tap when she had approached the sacrament. A cored apple, filled with brown sugar, roasting for her at the hob on a dark autumn evening. Her shapely fingernails reddened by the blood of squashed lice from the children’s shirts.
In a dream, silently, she had come to him, her wasted body within its loose graveclothes giving off an odour of wax and rosewood, her breath, bent over him with mute secret words, a faint odour of wetted ashes.
Her glazing eyes, staring out of death, to shake and bend my soul. On me alone. The ghostcandle to light her agony. Ghostly light on the tortured face. Her hoarse loud breath rattling in horror, while all prayed on their knees. Her eyes on me to strike me down. Liliata rutilantium te confessorum turma circumdet: iubilantium te virginum chorus excipiat.
Ghoul! Chewer of corpses!
No, mother! Let me be and let me live.
—Kinch ahoy!
Buck Mulligan’s voice sang from within the tower. It came nearer up the staircase, calling again. Stephen, still trembling at his soul’s cry, heard warm running sunlight and in the air behind him friendly words.
—Dedalus, come down, like a good mosey. Breakfast is ready. Haines is apologising for waking us last night. It’s all right.
—I’m coming, Stephen said, turning.
—Do, for Jesus’ sake, Buck Mulligan said. For my sake and for all our sakes.
His head disappeared and reappeared.
—I told him your symbol of Irish art. He says it’s very clever. Touch him for a quid, will you? A guinea, I mean.
—I get paid this morning, Stephen said.
—The school kip? Buck Mulligan said. How much? Four quid? Lend us one.
—If you want it, Stephen said.
—Four shining sovereigns, Buck Mulligan cried with delight. We’ll have a glorious drunk to astonish the druidy druids. Four omnipotent sovereigns.
He flung up his hands and tramped down the stone stairs, singing out of tune with a Cockney accent:
O, won’t we have a merry time, Drinking whisky, beer and wine! On coronation, Coronation day! O, won’t we have a merry time On coronation day!
Warm sunshine merrying over the sea. The nickel shavingbowl shone, forgotten, on the parapet. Why should I bring it down? Or leave it there all day, forgotten friendship?
He went over to it, held it in his hands awhile, feeling its coolness, smelling the clammy slaver of the lather in which the brush was stuck. So I carried the boat of incense then at Clongowes. I am another now and yet the same. A servant too. A server of a servant.
In the gloomy domed livingroom of the tower Buck Mulligan’s gowned form moved briskly to and fro about the hearth, hiding and revealing its yellow glow. Two shafts of soft daylight fell across the flagged floor from the high barbacans: and at the meeting of their rays a cloud of coalsmoke and fumes of fried grease floated, turning.
—We’ll be choked, Buck Mulligan said. Haines, open that door, will you?
Stephen laid the shavingbowl on the locker. A tall figure rose from the hammock where it had been sitting, went to the doorway and pulled open the inner doors.
—Have you the key? a voice asked.
—Dedalus has it, Buck Mulligan said. Janey Mack, I’m choked!
He howled, without looking up from the fire:
—Kinch!
—It’s in the lock, Stephen said, coming forward.
The key scraped round harshly twice and, when the heavy door had been set ajar, welcome light and bright air entered. Haines stood at the doorway, looking out. Stephen haled his upended valise to the table and sat down to wait. Buck Mulligan tossed the fry on to the dish beside him. Then he carried the dish and a large teapot over to the table, set them down heavily and sighed with relief.
—I’m melting, he said, as the candle remarked when... But, hush! Not a word more on that subject! Kinch, wake up! Bread, butter, honey. Haines, come in. The grub is ready. Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts. Where’s the sugar? O, jay, there’s no milk.
Stephen fetched the loaf and the pot of honey and the buttercooler from the locker. Buck Mulligan sat down in a sudden pet.
—What sort of a kip is this? he said. I told her to come after eight.
—We can drink it black, Stephen said thirstily. There’s a lemon in the locker.
—O, damn you and your Paris fads! Buck Mulligan said. I want Sandycove milk.
Haines came in from the doorway and said quietly:
—That woman is coming up with the milk.
—The blessings of God on you! Buck Mulligan cried, jumping up from his chair. Sit down. Pour out the tea there. The sugar is in the bag. Here, I can’t go fumbling at the damned eggs.
He hacked through the fry on the dish and slapped it out on three plates, saying:
—In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.
Haines sat down to pour out the tea.
—I’m giving you two lumps each, he said. But, I say, Mulligan, you do make strong tea, don’t you?
Buck Mulligan, hewing thick slices from the loaf, said in an old woman’s wheedling voice:
—When I makes tea I makes tea, as old mother Grogan said. And when I makes water I makes water.
—By Jove, it is tea, Haines said.
Buck Mulligan went on hewing and wheedling:
—So I do, Mrs Cahill, says she. Begob, ma’am, says Mrs Cahill, God send you don’t make them in the one pot.
He lunged towards his messmates in turn a thick slice of bread, impaled on his knife.
—That’s folk, he said very earnestly, for your book, Haines. Five lines of text and ten pages of notes about the folk and the fishgods of Dundrum. Printed by the weird sisters in the year of the big wind.
He turned to Stephen and asked in a fine puzzled voice, lifting his brows:
—Can you recall, brother, is mother Grogan’s tea and water pot spoken of in the Mabinogion or is it in the Upanishads?
—I doubt it, said Stephen gravely.
—Do you now? Buck Mulligan said in the same tone. Your reasons, pray?
—I fancy, Stephen said as he ate, it did not exist in or out of the Mabinogion. Mother Grogan was, one imagines, a kinswoman of Mary Ann.
Buck Mulligan’s face smiled with delight.
—Charming! he said in a finical sweet voice, showing his white teeth and blinking his eyes pleasantly. Do you think she was? Quite charming!
Then, suddenly overclouding all his features, he growled in a hoarsened rasping voice as he hewed again vigorously at the loaf:
—For old Mary Ann She doesn’t care a damn. But, hising up her petticoats...
He crammed his mouth with fry and munched and droned.
The doorway was darkened by an entering form.
—The milk, sir!
—Come in, ma’am, Mulligan said. Kinch, get the jug.
An old woman came forward and stood by Stephen’s elbow.
—That’s a lovely morning, sir, she said. Glory be to God.
—To whom? Mulligan said, glancing at her. Ah, to be sure!
Stephen reached back and took the milkjug from the locker.
—The islanders, Mulligan said to Haines casually, speak frequently of the collector of prepuces.
—How much, sir? asked the old woman.
—A quart, Stephen said.
He watched her pour into the measure and thence into the jug rich white milk, not hers. Old shrunken paps. She poured again a measureful and a tilly. Old and secret she had entered from a morning world, maybe a messenger. She praised the goodness of the milk, pouring it out. Crouching by a patient cow at daybreak in the lush field, a witch on her toadstool, her wrinkled fingers quick at the squirting dugs. They lowed about her whom they knew, dewsilky cattle. Silk of the kine and poor old woman, names given her in old times. A wandering crone, lowly form of an immortal serving her conqueror and her gay betrayer, their common cuckquean, a messenger from the secret morning. To serve or to upbraid, whether he could not tell: but scorned to beg her favour.
—It is indeed, ma’am, Buck Mulligan said, pouring milk into their cups.
—Taste it, sir, she said.
He drank at her bidding.
—If we could live on good food like that, he said to her somewhat loudly, we wouldn’t have the country full of rotten teeth and rotten guts. Living in a bogswamp, eating cheap food and the streets paved with dust, horsedung and consumptives’ spits.
—Are you a medical student, sir? the old woman asked.
—I am, ma’am, Buck Mulligan answered.
—Look at that now, she said.
Stephen listened in scornful silence. She bows her old head to a voice that speaks to her loudly, her bonesetter, her medicineman: me she slights. To the voice that will shrive and oil for the grave all there is of her but her woman’s unclean loins, of man’s flesh made not in God’s likeness, the serpent’s prey. And to the loud voice that now bids her be silent with wondering unsteady eyes.
—Do you understand what he says? Stephen asked her.
—Is it French you are talking, sir? the old woman said to Haines.
Haines spoke to her again a longer speech, confidently.
—Irish, Buck Mulligan said. Is there Gaelic on you?
—I thought it was Irish, she said, by the sound of it. Are you from the west, sir?
—I am an Englishman, Haines answered.
—He’s English, Buck Mulligan said, and he thinks we ought to speak Irish in Ireland.
—Sure we ought to, the old woman said, and I’m ashamed I don’t speak the language myself. I’m told it’s a grand language by them that knows.
—Grand is no name for it, said Buck Mulligan. Wonderful entirely. Fill us out some more tea, Kinch. Would you like a cup, ma’am?
—No, thank you, sir, the old woman said, slipping the ring of the milkcan on her forearm and about to go.
Haines said to her:
—Have you your bill? We had better pay her, Mulligan, hadn’t we?
Stephen filled again the three cups.
—Bill, sir? she said, halting. Well, it’s seven mornings a pint at twopence is seven twos is a shilling and twopence over and these three mornings a quart at fourpence is three quarts is a shilling. That’s a shilling and one and two is two and two, sir.
Buck Mulligan sighed and, having filled his mouth with a crust thickly buttered on both sides, stretched forth his legs and began to search his trouser pockets.
—Pay up and look pleasant, Haines said to him, smiling.
Stephen filled a third cup, a spoonful of tea colouring faintly the thick rich milk. Buck Mulligan brought up a florin, twisted it round in his fingers and cried:
—A miracle!
He passed it along the table towards the old woman, saying:
—Ask nothing more of me, sweet. All I can give you I give.
Stephen laid the coin in her uneager hand.
—We’ll owe twopence, he said.
—Time enough, sir, she said, taking the coin. Time enough. Good morning, sir.
She curtseyed and went out, followed by Buck Mulligan’s tender chant:
—Heart of my heart, were it more, More would be laid at your feet.
He turned to Stephen and said:
—Seriously, Dedalus. I’m stony. Hurry out to your school kip and bring us back some money. Today the bards must drink and junket. Ireland expects that every man this day will do his duty.
—That reminds me, Haines said, rising, that I have to visit your national library today.
—Our swim first, Buck Mulligan said.
He turned to Stephen and asked blandly:
—Is this the day for your monthly wash, Kinch?
Then he said to Haines:
—The unclean bard makes a point of washing once a month.
—All Ireland is washed by the gulfstream, Stephen said as he let honey trickle over a slice of the loaf.
Haines from the corner where he was knotting easily a scarf about the loose collar of his tennis shirt spoke:
—I intend to make a collection of your sayings if you will let me.
Speaking to me. They wash and tub and scrub. Agenbite of inwit. Conscience. Yet here’s a spot.
—That one about the cracked lookingglass of a servant being the symbol of Irish art is deuced good.
Buck Mulligan kicked Stephen’s foot under the table and said with warmth of tone:
—Wait till you hear him on Hamlet, Haines.
—Well, I mean it, Haines said, still speaking to Stephen. I was just thinking of it when that poor old creature came in.
—Would I make any money by it? Stephen asked.
Haines laughed and, as he took his soft grey hat from the holdfast of the hammock, said:
—I don’t know, I’m sure.
He strolled out to the doorway. Buck Mulligan bent across to Stephen and said with coarse vigour:
—You put your hoof in it now. What did you say that for?
—Well? Stephen said. The problem is to get money. From whom? From the milkwoman or from him. It’s a toss up, I think.
—I blow him out about you, Buck Mulligan said, and then you come along with your lousy leer and your gloomy jesuit jibes.
—I see little hope, Stephen said, from her or from him.
Buck Mulligan sighed tragically and laid his hand on Stephen’s arm.
—From me, Kinch, he said.
In a suddenly changed tone he added:
—To tell you the God’s truth I think you’re right. Damn all else they are good for. Why don’t you play them as I do? To hell with them all. Let us get out of the kip.
He stood up, gravely ungirdled and disrobed himself of his gown, saying resignedly:
—Mulligan is stripped of his garments.
He emptied his pockets on to the table.
—There’s your snotrag, he said.
And putting on his stiff collar and rebellious tie he spoke to them, chiding them, and to his dangling watchchain. His hands plunged and rummaged in his trunk while he called for a clean handkerchief. God, we’ll simply have to dress the character. I want puce gloves and green boots. Contradiction. Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I contradict myself. Mercurial Malachi. A limp black missile flew out of his talking hands.
—And there’s your Latin quarter hat, he said.
Stephen picked it up and put it on. Haines called to them from the doorway:
—Are you coming, you fellows?
—I’m ready, Buck Mulligan answered, going towards the door. Come out, Kinch. You have eaten all we left, I suppose. Resigned he passed out with grave words and gait, saying, wellnigh with sorrow:
—And going forth he met Butterly.
Stephen, taking his ashplant from its leaningplace, followed them out and, as they went down the ladder, pulled to the slow iron door and locked it. He put the huge key in his inner pocket.
At the foot of the ladder Buck Mulligan asked:
—Did you bring the key?
—I have it, Stephen said, preceding them.
He walked on. Behind him he heard Buck Mulligan club with his heavy bathtowel the leader shoots of ferns or grasses.
—Down, sir! How dare you, sir!
Haines asked:
—Do you pay rent for this tower?
—Twelve quid, Buck Mulligan said.
—To the secretary of state for war, Stephen added over his shoulder.
They halted while Haines surveyed the tower and said at last:
—Rather bleak in wintertime, I should say. Martello you call it?
—Billy Pitt had them built, Buck Mulligan said, when the French were on the sea. But ours is the omphalos.
—What is your idea of Hamlet? Haines asked Stephen.
—No, no, Buck Mulligan shouted in pain. I’m not equal to Thomas Aquinas and the fiftyfive reasons he has made out to prop it up. Wait till I have a few pints in me first.
He turned to Stephen, saying, as he pulled down neatly the peaks of his primrose waistcoat:
—You couldn’t manage it under three pints, Kinch, could you?
—It has waited so long, Stephen said listlessly, it can wait longer.
—You pique my curiosity, Haines said amiably. Is it some paradox?
—Pooh! Buck Mulligan said. We have grown out of Wilde and paradoxes. It’s quite simple. He proves by algebra that Hamlet’s grandson is Shakespeare’s grandfather and that he himself is the ghost of his own father.
—What? Haines said, beginning to point at Stephen. He himself?
Buck Mulligan slung his towel stolewise round his neck and, bending in loose laughter, said to Stephen’s ear:
—O, shade of Kinch the elder! Japhet in search of a father!
—We’re always tired in the morning, Stephen said to Haines. And it is rather long to tell.
Buck Mulligan, walking forward again, raised his hands.
—The sacred pint alone can unbind the tongue of Dedalus, he said.
—I mean to say, Haines explained to Stephen as they followed, this tower and these cliffs here remind me somehow of Elsinore. That beetles o’er his base into the sea, isn’t it?
Buck Mulligan turned suddenly for an instant towards Stephen but did not speak. In the bright silent instant Stephen saw his own image in cheap dusty mourning between their gay attires.
—It’s a wonderful tale, Haines said, bringing them to halt again.
Eyes, pale as the sea the wind had freshened, paler, firm and prudent. The seas’ ruler, he gazed southward over the bay, empty save for the smokeplume of the mailboat vague on the bright skyline and a sail tacking by the Muglins.
—I read a theological interpretation of it somewhere, he said bemused. The Father and the Son idea. The Son striving to be atoned with the Father.
Buck Mulligan at once put on a blithe broadly smiling face. He looked at them, his wellshaped mouth open happily, his eyes, from which he had suddenly withdrawn all shrewd sense, blinking with mad gaiety. He moved a doll’s head to and fro, the brims of his Panama hat quivering, and began to chant in a quiet happy foolish voice:
—I’m the queerest young fellow that ever you heard. My mother’s a jew, my father’s a bird. With Joseph the joiner I cannot agree. So here’s to disciples and Calvary.
He held up a forefinger of warning.
—If anyone thinks that I amn’t divine He’ll get no free drinks when I’m making the wine But have to drink water and wish it were plain That I make when the wine becomes water again.
He tugged swiftly at Stephen’s ashplant in farewell and, running forward to a brow of the cliff, fluttered his hands at his sides like fins or wings of one about to rise in the air, and chanted:
—Goodbye, now, goodbye! Write down all I said And tell Tom, Dick and Harry I rose from the dead. What’s bred in the bone cannot fail me to fly And Olivet’s breezy... Goodbye, now, goodbye!
He capered before them down towards the fortyfoot hole, fluttering his winglike hands, leaping nimbly, Mercury’s hat quivering in the fresh wind that bore back to them his brief birdsweet cries.
Haines, who had been laughing guardedly, walked on beside Stephen and said:
—We oughtn’t to laugh, I suppose. He’s rather blasphemous. I’m not a believer myself, that is to say. Still his gaiety takes the harm out of it somehow, doesn’t it? What did he call it? Joseph the Joiner?
—The ballad of joking Jesus, Stephen answered.
—O, Haines said, you have heard it before?
—Three times a day, after meals, Stephen said drily.
—You’re not a believer, are you? Haines asked. I mean, a believer in the narrow sense of the word. Creation from nothing and miracles and a personal God.
—There’s only one sense of the word, it seems to me, Stephen said.
Haines stopped to take out a smooth silver case in which twinkled a green stone. He sprang it open with his thumb and offered it.
—Thank you, Stephen said, taking a cigarette.
Haines helped himself and snapped the case to. He put it back in his sidepocket and took from his waistcoatpocket a nickel tinderbox, sprang it open too, and, having lit his cigarette, held the flaming spunk towards Stephen in the shell of his hands.
—Yes, of course, he said, as they went on again. Either you believe or you don’t, isn’t it? Personally I couldn’t stomach that idea of a personal God. You don’t stand for that, I suppose?
—You behold in me, Stephen said with grim displeasure, a horrible example of free thought.
He walked on, waiting to be spoken to, trailing his ashplant by his side. Its ferrule followed lightly on the path, squealing at his heels. My familiar, after me, calling, Steeeeeeeeeeeephen! A wavering line along the path. They will walk on it tonight, coming here in the dark. He wants that key. It is mine. I paid the rent. Now I eat his salt bread. Give him the key too. All. He will ask for it. That was in his eyes.
—After all, Haines began...
Stephen turned and saw that the cold gaze which had measured him was not all unkind.
—After all, I should think you are able to free yourself. You are your own master, it seems to me.
—I am a servant of two masters, Stephen said, an English and an Italian.
—Italian? Haines said.
A crazy queen, old and jealous. Kneel down before me.
—And a third, Stephen said, there is who wants me for odd jobs.
—Italian? Haines said again. What do you mean?
—The imperial British state, Stephen answered, his colour rising, and the holy Roman catholic and apostolic church.
Haines detached from his underlip some fibres of tobacco before he spoke.
—I can quite understand that, he said calmly. An Irishman must think like that, I daresay. We feel in England that we have treated you rather unfairly. It seems history is to blame.
The proud potent titles clanged over Stephen’s memory the triumph of their brazen bells: et unam sanctam catholicam et apostolicam ecclesiam: the slow growth and change of rite and dogma like his own rare thoughts, a chemistry of stars. Symbol of the apostles in the mass for pope Marcellus, the voices blended, singing alone loud in affirmation: and behind their chant the vigilant angel of the church militant disarmed and menaced her heresiarchs. A horde of heresies fleeing with mitres awry: Photius and the brood of mockers of whom Mulligan was one, and Arius, warring his life long upon the consubstantiality of the Son with the Father, and Valentine, spurning Christ’s terrene body, and the subtle African heresiarch Sabellius who held that the Father was Himself His own Son. Words Mulligan had spoken a moment since in mockery to the stranger. Idle mockery. The void awaits surely all them that weave the wind: a menace, a disarming and a worsting from those embattled angels of the church, Michael’s host, who defend her ever in the hour of conflict with their lances and their shields.
Hear, hear! Prolonged applause. Zut! Nom de Dieu!
—Of course I’m a Britisher, Haines’s voice said, and I feel as one. I don’t want to see my country fall into the hands of German jews either. That’s our national problem, I’m afraid, just now.
Two men stood at the verge of the cliff, watching: businessman, boatman.
—She’s making for Bullock harbour.
The boatman nodded towards the north of the bay with some disdain.
—There’s five fathoms out there, he said. It’ll be swept up that way when the tide comes in about one. It’s nine days today.
The man that was drowned. A sail veering about the blank bay waiting for a swollen bundle to bob up, roll over to the sun a puffy face, saltwhite. Here I am.
They followed the winding path down to the creek. Buck Mulligan stood on a stone, in shirtsleeves, his unclipped tie rippling over his shoulder. A young man clinging to a spur of rock near him, moved slowly frogwise his green legs in the deep jelly of the water.
—Is the brother with you, Malachi?
—Down in Westmeath. With the Bannons.
—Still there? I got a card from Bannon. Says he found a sweet young thing down there. Photo girl he calls her.
—Snapshot, eh? Brief exposure.
Buck Mulligan sat down to unlace his boots. An elderly man shot up near the spur of rock a blowing red face. He scrambled up by the stones, water glistening on his pate and on its garland of grey hair, water rilling over his chest and paunch and spilling jets out of his black sagging loincloth.
Buck Mulligan made way for him to scramble past and, glancing at Haines and Stephen, crossed himself piously with his thumbnail at brow and lips and breastbone.
—Seymour’s back in town, the young man said, grasping again his spur of rock. Chucked medicine and going in for the army.
—Ah, go to God! Buck Mulligan said.
—Going over next week to stew. You know that red Carlisle girl, Lily?
—Yes.
—Spooning with him last night on the pier. The father is rotto with money.
—Is she up the pole?
—Better ask Seymour that.
—Seymour a bleeding officer! Buck Mulligan said.
He nodded to himself as he drew off his trousers and stood up, saying tritely:
—Redheaded women buck like goats.
He broke off in alarm, feeling his side under his flapping shirt.
—My twelfth rib is gone, he cried. I’m the Übermensch. Toothless Kinch and I, the supermen.
He struggled out of his shirt and flung it behind him to where his clothes lay.
—Are you going in here, Malachi?
—Yes. Make room in the bed.
The young man shoved himself backward through the water and reached the middle of the creek in two long clean strokes. Haines sat down on a stone, smoking.
—Are you not coming in? Buck Mulligan asked.
—Later on, Haines said. Not on my breakfast.
Stephen turned away.
—I’m going, Mulligan, he said.
—Give us that key, Kinch, Buck Mulligan said, to keep my chemise flat.
Stephen handed him the key. Buck Mulligan laid it across his heaped clothes.
—And twopence, he said, for a pint. Throw it there.
Stephen threw two pennies on the soft heap. Dressing, undressing. Buck Mulligan erect, with joined hands before him, said solemnly:
—He who stealeth from the poor lendeth to the Lord. Thus spake Zarathustra.
His plump body plunged.
—We’ll see you again, Haines said, turning as Stephen walked up the path and smiling at wild Irish.
Horn of a bull, hoof of a horse, smile of a Saxon.
—The Ship, Buck Mulligan cried. Half twelve.
—Good, Stephen said.
He walked along the upwardcurving path.
Liliata rutilantium. Turma circumdet. Iubilantium te virginum.
The priest’s grey nimbus in a niche where he dressed discreetly. I will not sleep here tonight. Home also I cannot go.

It’s a lengthy read, I’m in college and thought this would be the perfect place to share my phantom thoughts.. Thanks for reading please be honest with your opinions.. any engagement is appreciated and welcomed
I chose for my performing arts piece The Phantom of the Opera (2004) Musical, because I wanted to choose something I have never seen before. I am glad that I did. So, here goes my take on the film. I hope you guys enjoy.
1.) The Phantom of the Opera follows the caree story of Christine Daae, a chorus singer and her involvement with the phantom of the opera. He is a disfigured man who lives beneath the opera house and becomes fascinated by Christine's beauty and voice, causing him to fall in love with her. Ever since she can remember, the phantom was her mentor, whether it was him helping her sing behind the walls or singing to her while she was sleeping. She lived in the opera house with Madame Giry after her father's passing, but he told her once he goes to Heaven she will be protected by 'The Angel of Music.' Leading her to believe the phantom was the angel her father was referring to. He has helped her get the spotlight in the beginning, which in her favor turned out better than anyone expected. Throughout the movie, I thought that his main purpose was to keep her to himself and to love her. By the time I finished the movie, I had a different perspective, and I will touch on this a little later.
2.) The topics portrayed in The Phantom of the Opera are, betrayal, obsession, romance, art and music, and self-discovery. We see betrayal in the movie when she demasks the phantom during their performance in his musical Don Juan. Obsession is known throughout the movie because of the phantom's infatuation with Christine since she was a young girl. His obsession only grew as he began to mentor her as she got older, and more talented with her singing causing him to want that for himself. Romance comes into play when Raoul and Christine rekindle their feelings for each other that they had when they were young. He does his best to protect her from the phantom, not allowing anything get in his way. Once Christine starts to realize and notice her own talents, that is when we see her self-discovery. In finding her self-discovery, she realized that she did not actually need the phantom, only to have faith in herself and her talents. The whole movie is based on the art of music. The creators gave the viewers a look inside the opera/theatre life allowing us to fall in love with the different songs sung throughout the musical. Us the viewers are given a chance to love the voices of the phantom, Christine, and even Raoul, as they sing with different tones throughout the film. It also shows us how the art of music and musical appreciation brings everyone together.
3.) In the beginning of my post, I said I will share my personal take/ opinions on the story of The Phantom of the Opera, so here we are. As I have stated before, this was my very first time watching this movie and it will not be my last. In the beginning, I said that this movie was a story about Christine Daae and her involvement with the phantom, I disagree. I agreed with everything until I reached the end of the film. Although this is a movie that does tell the story of Christine and her involvement with the phantom, I believe in my heart this was the story of the phantom. Here is where I began to feel empathy. In the movie we are given a brief backstory of a young phantom, who was locked in a cage with a bag on his head by gypsies in a traveling circus. While there, he was tortured, beaten, and tormented by those who paid to watch the show of 'The Devil Child.' Since a child, he was neglected by his own parents solely because of his birth deformation. He talks about how his mother viewed him as a monster, and his dad was not around because of it. While with the gypsies, he meets a young Madame Giry, who helped him escape and hides him in the opera house, where I think he finds his love and appreciation for art and music. All the phantom wanted was to be loved and appreciated for his talents and his person, but the world was always cruel to him, viewing him as different or an enemy. Other parts in the movie I felt empathy was the ending. During his musical of Don Juan, Christine gets kidnapped after she unmasks the phantom, causing police to come after him. In doing so, Raoul decides to go after them, with some help from Madame Giry. The phantom takes Christine to his underground lair, when Raoul comes to save her. The phantom then ties Raoul to the gate door and gives Christine an ultimatum, watch Raoul die, or choose to be with the phantom. Out of love for Raoul, and fear he might die, she chose the phantom by giving him a kiss. After this act, I noticed this is where his humanity starts to show. Despite his ultimatum, he chooses to let them both go and tells them to forget what they've seen. This part is what led me to believe he wanted just ONE person to accept him for his deformity and not see him as an animal, and she did, even for just a brief moment. Another scene that caused me to feel empathy, was the ending scene at Christine's grave site. Raoul went to place the phantom's music box there, where he noticed a single rose tied with a black ribbon, and the ring she gave him before she left. It showed me that no matter how much time has passed, or what she did in her future, he never stopped watching her. That single rose was his mark, letting her know he will carry her memory in his heart until it is his time to pass on. The movie then ends with a picture of the rose on the grave site, with a single lit candle, reminding me of the way she had done in remembrance of her father. That let me know that was the phantom closing out. Most of my empathy was towards the phantom, especially after seeing what he has been through since a child. He wasn't loved by either of his parents, which forced him to run away and in doing so, he was ridiculed and tortured by gypsies who didn't care enough to love him. He was born differently, but that doesn't equate to being made out to be a monster, but that's all he knew. He was forced to hide his deformity behind a mask, living in shame and fear because of it. He deserved better. He grew up in a world that viewed him as the monster, forcing him to take on that role. I can’t help but relate to the phantom. His upbringing and the way the world forced him to be ashamed of himself instead of loving himself, I went through things very similar. He didn’t ask to be born that way, he just wanted someone to love him for him and not despise him as the rest of the world has done so. I feel like the phantom because it’s been times I felt unloved and unaccepted by the world too. In a way, this movie reminded me of a more realistic version of 'Beauty and the Beast.' The only difference is, Belle chose Gaston (Raoul) instead of the beast. Christine didn't have a chance to build a love for the phantom, other than thinking he was the angel of music sent by her father to protect her. 10/10 highly recommend watching if you haven't already.

This is a follow up to a post I made in February about a tier list for specifically raid defense. This is once again based on only the frequency that these heroes have been seen in the top 100 defense teams over the course of the last year.
Original Post: https://www.reddit.com/EmpiresAndPuzzles/s/iJkoHXohXI
March has been dominated by teams using three heroes from the Journey family from War of Three Kingdoms: Chang’e, Sha WuJing, and Xie Zi Jing. Sha WuJing has been the best green hero on defense for quite a while, but the addition of Xie Zi Jing this trio has really become the best defense, usually paired with Hathor, Phorcys, garten, or nautica. A lot of people are also dropping Chang’e so they can play 3 of those 4 heroes.
Also important to note that purple is the most played color, followed by green and blue. Hathor is the only red that you see a lot of with some of the red goblins seeing play as well, and yellow is the worst color with a few Vaishali, but a lot of teams choosing no yellow for double purple, blue, or green.
Anyway Heres the list:
Purple: Xie zi jing/ Phorcys
Luna / Dark feather
Acid fire/ Shacklebolt/ Dreadstar
Farrah/ Aramis/ Medea/ Toon Obakan
Contender: Odile

Yellow: Shaalt/ Vaishali
Toon vivica/ Lemonwood/ Toon leonidas/ Christine daae/ Erlang shen/ Lazara
Cleopatra/ Persa/ Costume gazelle
Contender: Meg girly

Green: Sha wujing/ Garten
Relius
Myoin-ni/ Xiamara/ Smart tongue/ Nogu/ Qinglong
Frond Gelert
Contender: Daroga

Blue: Chang’e/ Nautica
Timius/ Satori/ Pophit
Fizzcoil/ Starwalker
Lysano Ghealach/ Firmin richard / Thalassia/ Hippo/ Costume alasie/ Nine headed beast

Red: Hathor
Gestalt/ Spark light/ Pepper flame
Ukkonen/ Aradia/ Blossom/ Fulvia/ Domiventus/ Toon marjana/ Ignazio

Chapter 15: Dead Souls
Marie leaned against the car door. She shivered as a mild breeze fluttered through that same dress she had been wearing since yesterday when everything went so wrong. The fine, silky garment had become a garb of mourning. She hugged herself while asking me something without really asking. It was something she did to feel normal again after feeling lost from the devastating loss of her parents.
“Are you ready?” she asked.
“Yeah, just give me a sec.”
“Okay. Don’t take too long.”
“I won’t,” I said before grabbing the extra gun mag I kept stored in the trunk.
She was still standing there with her arms folded, drowning in memories like a dead soul. We avoided eye contact as she spoke. Her words murky and muddy: “I was just thinking, you know. You know what. Never mind. It’s stupid. I’m sure you don’t—"
“I do. I wanna hear it.”
“Okay but don’t judge me.”
“Why would I ever do that?”
“Because you’re judgmental.”
I placed a hand to the side of her face and told her that she was dead wrong about me. My warm touch must’ve chilled something inside her. I could see her sadness turning into ashes just beneath the surface of her skin. She let go of my hand and allowed her fragile subconscious to finally give in to my caress. We kissed and allowed ourselves to wish for more. To secretly hope for a happily ever after, after this nightmare was in the rearview mirror.
Happiness was dead. No matter how godforsaken we felt on the inside, all that mattered was that we had each other. And that we both felted dizzy every time our lips parted. The sudden headrush left us frozen in an emotional space that escaped all meaning. To “fall” in love was the perfect way to put it.
Her soft voice stirred me from my thoughts like a bump in the middle of the night. I listened to her sweet words as I thought about my own despair. The more she spoke the more I despaired how much the moment reminded me of a wilted rose:
“I just realized how much they meant to me. Mother. Oh, dear mother... I’m so sorry. I wish you could hold me again like you did when I was a child. You were always there for me no matter what, like a demon lord’s advocate—fighting for me even over the smallest things. Tch. I can still remember how you used to watch the nursery maids dress me in those elegant, evening gowns before every gathering of notables. How I wish you could sing to me again. Like you always did when the maids styled my hair into locks when I was a teen. Oh, mother... I still remember the sound of your sweet voice. How you laughed and cheered the first time I dabbed my cheeks in face powder with just the right amount of ceruse. You know, to help bring out that pallor you can only get by turning. That highly coveted ‘gaunt’ look you male vampires go crazy over.”
After a long pause, I told her, “I’m sure everything will be okay. Things tend to have a way of working themselves out.”
“I-I don’t know. I just don’t know anymore. My parents. I-I shouldn’t have taken them for granted. They taught me everything I know. Mommy was always helping me, but daddy. You know how busy he was. I love him. I do. But there was only so much he could do. The few times we spent together; I remember every one of them like it was yesterday. When I told daddy that I liked you and how I fancied your company. He even started spending time with you, well, you know. When you weren’t off training.”
“Are you okay?” I asked.
Her eyes cast towards the blank sky. “Maybe God does hate us? I always wondered how he felt about our kind... if we were an abomination in his eyes like the Nephilim. Eh. It doesn’t really matter. He’d never let us into a place like that.”
“We’ll figure it out.”
She shook her head and said, “Yeah. I hope you’re right. I think I’m going crazy.”
“Are you ready to go?”
“Yeah. I suppose so.”
I got into the car, turned to her, and asked, “You do know where to find him?”
She thought about my question after starting the car. “Do I know where to find Meridian? Is that what you’re asking? If it is then no, I don’t.”
“That’s just great.”
“Hey, you’re the ‘watcher.’ If anyone should know where to find him, it’s you.”
My phone rang before I could tell her to F-off in as acrimonious a tone as I could muster. Thank goodness too because that would have been an awful thing to say to someone who just lost their parents.
“Hello?”
“Sup, OG.”
“It’s Jake,” I told Marie.
“Great,” she groaned.
“Jake, did you hear about the incident at the Báthory estate?” I asked him.
“You mean that old vampire house up in the hills?” he asked.
“Yes. That one.”
“Yeah, word is, some maniac named ‘Meridian’ spun the block. Chopped everyone up on the way out. Your lady straight? What’s-her-face?”
“Marie. And yes, she’s fine.”
“That’s what’s up, boss.”
“How could you have possibly uncovered so much info so fast?” I asked.
“Fukumean? It’s Whiteboy Ice. I make love to the streets. If it happened here, I’ma know about it. I put that on the guys.”
“If you’re so well connected, surely you should know where I can find him?”
“Fo sho, big homie. Heard he over at La Chambre’s smoking on a pack. It’s that weird little club a bunch of vampires always be at. He’s chilling in that bitch, right now, celebrating.”
“I owe you,” I said.
Jake laughed. “Fo sho, big blood. Check this out. I just came up on two big bags of baby powder. Meet you up there after I see the bros.”
He ended the call before I could object or ask him what the hell he meant by ‘baby powder.’ I turned to Marie and nodded. “We have a lead.”
“Really, what did he say?”
“We can find him at La Chambre’s”
She smiled. “Of all places. Another one of our blood dens. He’s such a bastard.”
“You ready for this?” I asked.
“Yeah. I think so.”
“Let’s go.”
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Not in a parking space. Park in front of the beauty supply store, it’s the third shop before the strip club, right there,” I told her.
“I can park right here?”
“Yeah, that’s perfect.”
“Okay what do we do now?”
“Since we have no clue when he’ll actually leave, this might be a long stakeout.”
“Meh. Forgot we even owned this dingy blood den. Now I know why. It’s abysmal.”
“Yeah. It’s not the greatest place.”
“Wow. Not only is Meridian a devil, but he’s classless for hanging around blood dens.”
“We’ve done it before,” I told her.
“Whose side are you on?”
A black BMW pulled alongside us just before I could respond. The bass banging from the speakers rattled its tinted windows. I noticed that its black, twenty-one-inch rims were spinning backwards.
“It must be Meridian!” she shouted.
“No. He wouldn’t have Pirellis.”
“I think you might be right.”
“Meh. I know who it is.”
“Devil! It’s not him, is it?”
“Do you honestly want to know?”
A thick haze of weed smoke escaped from the cracked window. As soon as his tattooed hand slipped through the crack and kicked the ashes off the blunt, I knew it was Jake. He lifted his phone and made a gesture for me to pick up. Christine smashed the gear into reverse and parked their BMW a bit behind us, right next to the liquor store.
“Hello, is this Jake?”
“Yeah, hold on one sec.”
“I can barely hear you.”
“Let me turn my music down, homie... damn which knob is it again?” he slurred and coughed repeatedly while pounding on his chest.
“Hey, Jake, are you okay?” I asked. “I should inform you: I have you on speaker.”
“What yo broke ass say?”
“Excuse me?” I asked.
“Always using proper English and shit. Like I know what them fancy words is.”
Marie rolled her eyes and groaned. I could tell she was seething made, and I already knew what she was thinking without her saying a single word.
See. I knew where this was going. I could have stopped it, but I was too reasonable for my own good. The thought of losing what little cachet I had left with Marie caused me to panic: “This might not be the proper time for one of your raps. Why do I get the feeling you’re not going to listen to me?”
He indeed paid absolutely no heed, raised the volume to whatever vulgar song he was listening to, and slurred something along the lines of, “This my fav part right hurr: ‘I’m whiteboy rich off diss dope magic! If you ain’t got no cheese—nah you ain’t no savage. Gotta live my whole life here lavish. Eat a nigga blocc like a bag cabbage. When it’s time to slide, we slidin’ on day whole team. Red beam—match the triple beam. Yup! Ain’t afraid to die, we got it on demon time. If I’m a lie, gon’ strike me down G. Triple beam on dat triple beam; triple count them stacks in the Moneybagg Yo! I stay filthy cause I’m drug rich! Cut that nigga water off cause he broke bitch. This that gutter-gutter, that sex, money, murder-murder. Diss dat cut a nigga head clean off with dat chopper,” he stopped mumbling to his own song rather abruptly and cocked his pistol. Then he muttered something sexually explicit to Christine before laughing rudely when she told him “he had two hands” which means he had “two options.”
Annoyed by his antics, I sighed and said, “Are you sure you’re up for this?”
“Oh, you got jokes? Talking about am I ‘up’ for this, like my joint don’t work,” he bitterly blurted before turning his attention to Christine and blindly blurting out, “Aye, bae-bae, put some cheese on dat chopper. Treat dat bitch like a whopper. You acting vegan again like—what?! Whatever, ‘little bro.’”
“Call me ‘lil bro’ again.”
“And what?” he asked.
“And I’ll punch you.”
“You got me fucked up! Go ahead, touch me. I swear I’ll choke the shit out that ugly ass, long ass, gray ass, Squidward-looking ass neck.”
“What I tell you about that?”
“You heard me ‘little bro.’”
“Shut up. You sound stupid.”
“Yeah. You just talking me down. You ain’t go do nothing. You might be crazy, but you ain’t that crazy. You know not to put your hands on me.”
“Woman beater,” she murmured.
“Put some respect on my name!”
“Oh, you doubling down on it?”
“I run these streets! I put the ‘G’ in gangster! The ‘W’ in whiteboy, nigga! Get it right! I’m Donkey Kong in this jungle, you just Dixie!”
“You finished?” she calmly asked.
“Touch me and I promise I’ma put some purple on that beautiful, caramel brown skin of yours. Turn your ass into one of them pecan turtles you always binge eating on and then crying afterwards.”
“Oh, you trying to be funny I see.”
“Yup. Say no to sugar.”
“Fuck you. Say no to drugs.”
“You mad ain’t you?”
“Shut up. Let me see the phone so I can say something thoughtful. I asked you to call them and be nice. They just lost family and you over here sounding like you ain’t never took a loss.”
“So what? We lose family all day. Shit this year alone how many of the bros died?”
“Give me the fucking phone!”
“You just mad cause I’m rich.”
“You sound dumb as fuck.”
“I been getting money way before you, you just mad cause—" There was a loud thump followed by Jake screaming, “Ouch! You hit me?!”
“That’s right! Now give me the phone, or I’ll do it again,” Christine hollered.
“You ain’t getting shit woman. Not after you just—hey! Stop playing! No means no!”
I could overhear the two tussling over the device. After her victory, she punched him again and sneered, “‘No means no.’ Boy, you bout lame as fuck.”
“You assaulted me!” he cried out.
“That’s right. I sure did! Next time give me the phone when I ask for it! And you better watch that foul ass mouth of yours. What I tell you about saying the n-word, Small Kong!” she shouted.
“Christine, um, not to interject or anything, but is everything alright?” I asked her.
“Oh hey, my dude, yeah, everything’s straight. I just had to teach him some manners,” she said before telling him, “What?! Yeah, whatever, try me and see what happens. That’s right, I said you had a small ‘Kong,’ you arrogant ass prick,” she told him before crazily and calmly turning her attention back to me, “Okay. So anyways, like I was saying, I just wanted to give you and Marie my condolences. That’s fucked up how it jumped off. He didn’t have to kill everyone.” Christine paused to take a fat toke off what had to be a hefty blunt. Forgetting she was on the phone with me, she told Jake, “Yeah, niggah, I told you diss blue cheese, right hurr, killing that sour dees. That shit hit different, don’t it? Got you on some Yoda time. See! I told you. Shit-shit-shit! I messed up again. How you get the slide back on this joint? I can’t remember how to twist this bitch for nothing.”
“I’m still on the phone.”
“Oh, my bad, who this?”
“William,” I grumbled.
“One sec, big dog,” she said before pausing for a moment to rack the slid back on her weapon. “Got it! William, my dog, I just wanna tell you we got your back, know-what-I-mean? We ready, just sound the horn and we drilling his corny ass.”
“Thanks for the assistance,” I said rather begrudgingly while doing the greatest job ever at avoiding eye contact with Marie. Oh no. Last thing I needed right about now was to see that look of disgust and disappointment on her face. The one she always gave me when she really wanted to drive the nail into my coffin. Yeah, I was a flaming hypocrite for constantly criticizing her friend circle when mine was just as tasteless. And yes. The “ugly truth” burned considering I just realized this.
Christine’s long-awaited voice snapped me out of my miserable spiral of penitent thought; “Sup. You doing alright over there, Marie?”
“Yeah. I’m wonderful.”
“Alright,” she said with a slight chuckle, catching the melancholic vibe my lover was pitching. She took a breath, backed off, and was like, “Okay. I’ll give the phone back to my girl toy.”
“I’m still on speaker?” Jake asked.
“Yes. W-why?”
“Good. Maybe this will cheer y’all up?”
“Oh this is just grand,” Marie scoffed.
“Bump that up, bae. Yeah. Yeah, you here that beat, big bro? Joint sick ain’t it?” Jake inquired.
“We hear it,” I told him before asking, “W-what are you planning to do?”
“Freestyle, my baby!”
“Free what?” Marie asked.
“Noob asses!” he blurted.
“Jake, surely this isn’t the—”
He cut me off before I could finish, with what could only be described as inappropriate, incoherent mumbling. I would’ve ended the call, but I was too taken aback by the temerity of it all. And so, the two of us just sat there in silence; exchanging glances in shock as he carried on delivering what had to be the world’s most gruesome cultural shock:
“J-Icy, yeah that whiteboy nice. All dis jewelry look like a chunky bag ah ice. All dis money, can’t even count it all right. Fent lean with it, like a fresh white tee. Dog rock with it, like some dirty Spike Lee. Bruce Lee his ass—5-hun on it, wrist burn on it. Yay! O’O’O’ I won’t it. Zeros—O-O I get it. Chang-ching on my neck, yeeh, I made a way. And if I ain’t did it, I’ma find a way. Wristwatch, yeeh, you know what time it is? This that skreet shit. That glo shit. Dat get-get get-it if you broke shit.
Money on plenty, greedy on plenty, savagery on plenty. Yay! Nigga—I’m drug rich—ain’t no itty-bitty. Yay! Been fiendin’ for dis cash like a pretty penny. Pack of club crackers for them fent fiends. Pack of gram crackers for them dog fiends. Gone & lean wid it. Gone & give dem proceeds to the family. He probably ain’t built 4 diss lifestyle. Vampire grillz cold-blooded like Reptile. Diamond fangs on me Count Dracula. Bat charm on me spectacula. I’m on fire, and I ain’t even died yet. Blood Gang on it, and I ain’t even throw the set!”
I could hear Christine laughing riotously. “Damn you on that mumble rap shit. It was cold so I can’t hate. Damn we should’ve recorded it!”
“It’s all love,” he snickered.
“Pass the blunt.”
“Here you go, bae.”
“Thanks, bae,” she said.
“William, bro. Just let him leave the club. When he go and do that, we gon’ slay his old lame-ass—leave his vampire ass swanky on them streets like some roadkill,” Jake stated rather cockily.
“You shouldn’t take him so lightly. These are vampires you’re dealing with, not thugs.”
“Tch. Blah, blah, blah. I ain’t worried bout none of that. Call the blitz and we on ‘em.”
“Very well. We’ll be here waiting. Thank you for your invaluable assistance,” I grumbled.
“For sure. Just be ready, blood. Oh, and tell Marie I said keep your head up.”
Marie hissed when he said that. She tapped and waited impatiently for the call to meet its inevitable demise so she could gripe about how miserable I was, “This is ridiculous. He’s ridiculous! Ugh! And to think. You have the nerve to talk down on my associates when you surround yourself with undesirables, like him and Brandon.”
“What was I supposed to do? Tell him to F off? That his helped wasn’t needed?”
“Um, yeah. Duh.”
“Whatever,” I grumbled.
“Well. If you insist on entrusting our lives to that spectacle of a human than I suppose it’s best you teach me how to use your pistol.”
“Maybe we should—”
“Uh-uh. You promised.”
“Fine,” I grumbled as I reached under my seat and grabbed my firearm. With a great deal of skepticism, I began the lesson: “Okay, it’s already loaded, so we’ll come back to that part. Now this right here is very important, I put it on safe. See here. When the thumb safety is down, the gun can be fired. When it’s up, like this, it’s on safe and shouldn’t.”
I pointed the gun at the floor, and then squeezed the trigger. “See, it won’t fire. Regardless of this, you should never point your weapon at anything you’re not willing to shoot. You never know what can go wrong. Plus, it’s just good practice.” I made a slight gesture with my hand for her to come closer.
“Okay, what am I looking at?” she asked.
“See this. It’s hard to tell whether or not there’s a round chambered. You’re inexperienced, so you’d probably mess around and shoot yourself in the foot thinking that it was unloaded just because you ejected the magazine,” I told her.
She shrugged. “But didn’t you just say that? Never mind. Continue please.”
“Well, let me take the mag out before you get all flustered. Oh, and in order to release the mag, you have to press this little button, right here. As a matter of fact, here, you press it.” I grabbed her index finger and guided it towards the small button on the upper, left edge of the handgrip.
“Press harder. Okay, there you go, catch the magazine as it slides out,” I added.
She fumbled nervously with the mag and almost made me drop the gun when her arm bumped up against my elbow. “Oops! S-sorry! Hard to grab it with one hand and hold the weapon in the other,” she had the nerve to mutter.
“What are you talking about? I’m holding the gun. You almost knocked it out of my hand.”
“Sorry. Here. Want it back?”
“No, just hold on to it.”
“Okay. What do we do next?”
“This part is a little tricky. You’ll have to practice it a few times before you get the hang of it. First, hold the gun at a downward angle. Trust me. It’s easier this way,” I told her. Then I carefully retracted the slide and a round sprang from the chamber. I snatched the bullet as it flipped around in midair. “This is what I mean. Sometimes it’s hard to tell if a round is in the chamber.”
“Oh my, I see,” she told me.
“Here you go. It’s all yours.”
“Thanks—oh no, sorry!” she stammered out in a panicky tone after putting her finger on the trigger and pointing the gun right at me.
The muzzle was so close I could taste the gunpowder and carbon residue. With a gentle nudge, I angled the barrel in a safe direction and then smirked slily as I told her, “I know you think I’m a jerk, but I didn’t think I was bad enough to kill.”
“No! I-I didn’t know. Sorry,” she exclaimed before turning her look of concern into a smirk. She smacked me on the arm and said, “Hush. You know you’re a jerk. At least towards me you are.”
“Whatever. I probably treat you better than I treat myself,” I told her.
“Because you love me, right?”
“That’s right. I love you more than a demon lord loves vampire blood.”
“That’s brutal,” she said before jumping when I lowered the lever alongside the frame, and the slide snapped in place. “Hey. Why’d it do that?”
I laughed. “It’s nothing. It just does that when the slide locks. So, what should you do first?” I asked while making it pretty obvious by glancing down at the magazine resting in her lap.
“Put the mag in, right?”
“And then after that?”
“Squeeze the trigger?”
“No, silly. This pistol is single action, so you have to pull the slide back.”
“What’s single action?”
“Nothing. It just means that the hammer, that little knob, right there, on the back. Yeah, that one right there where your finger is at. It won’t cock unless you pull the slide back after you load the magazine. It’s not a big deal. It just puts a round in the chamber and then you can fire.”
“Oh my, William. I’m more confused now than I was before I asked the question.”
I took the pistol. “Don’t worry you’ll get the hang of it with more practice.”
“Wait, what am I supposed to use?”
“What? I’m not giving you a gun.”
“How am I supposed to defend myself?”
“Hopefully it won’t come down to that.”
“Jerk,” she grumbled with folded arms.
“Look. It’s not what you’re thinking. I mean it is what you’re thinking, but I wasn’t thinking when I brought only one gun to a gun fight. That doesn’t make sense. Look. I showed you how to use it—just like you requested. So, if something happens to me, you can—hey, look over there. I guess the show’s over,” I said when I noticed it was time for battle.

This is a megathread for discussing the Birthday summoning portal. Share your general thoughts, lucky and unlucky pulls, and your thoughts on the best picks for featured heroes.
Featured hero choices:

Column 1	Column 2	Column 3	Column 4
Vivica C3	Desmond	Marjana C3	Richard C3
Medea	Shaal	Relius	Hornfel
Nautica	Darkfeather	Vaishali	Nogu
Pepperflame	Quinn	Luna	Christine Daae
Myoin-ni	Gestalt	Timius	Shacklebolt

Relevant threads on the official forums:
Master discussion
Featured hero poll

Christine Daae (phantom of the opera) was probably a dark fantasy romance reader. I meeaannn you could see it in her eyes during that boat scene when they were singing “Phantom of the Opera.” 😂😂 girl we’ve all been there and are still here 🤫