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Actor=Ofra Bloch, Bassam Aramin. director=Ofra Bloch. average Rating=9,6 of 10 Star. 95Minutes. Genre=Documentary. 71 Vote. Afterwards crossword clue. Afterward dvd. Afterwards vg. I love your new Fendi bag and the beautiful pop of pink Ada! Happy Belated Birthday 🎂🎂 Belle is so adorable and she reminds me of my dog because she didnt look very excited about your new bag 😂😂💕Unless its food, my Toby couldnt care less either 😬. How fragile is human life. The petals that were blooming are just paper in your hand...

Waited a long time for this movie. Chandler and Owen in a movie together is everything! This trailer is fantastic and has gotten me more hyped for the movie😄😄😄. Afterword bookstore. I love you're channel so much, you've inspired me to grind and be a female boss while taking care of myself ✨ Congrats again 💕.

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Afterward afterwards. Afterwards. There are a few people in the thread here that seem co fused by the ending/meaning of this story. I highly recommend looking up the author and learn a little about what she actually went through. It's a big help in understanding this story. Afterwards thomas hardy. Afterward vs afterwards. Afterward vs afterwards grammar. Afterward versus afterwards. Hey - Are all the test computers on the same network? Its most likely caused by your connection choosing the most stable and optimal route which can occasionally take time. Think of it like a download, it doesn't always start at the highest bandwidth available it has to ramp up, similarly with Twitch you might not start connected to the optimal server and might upon buffering reconnect to a server better suited to your location/ISP. Hope this helps. Intel HD Graphics shouldn't be the issue unless its really really old, sandybridge and above should be fine.

Afterwards poem.
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And please can I use that song for my video on my channel.
I hope this movie turns out to be good.

Afterward meaning. Afterward poem. Afterwards by thomas hardy in hindi. Afterwards trailer. Afterwards synonym. I usually download them. I feel bad about it, because it's one of my favorite shows, but that's how I end up watching all my shows. I just prefer to watch shows on my own time rather than the network's. I realize that I'm part of the problem, but the truth is that the the network is equally at fault for adhering to a deeply outdated method of measuring a show's success. Community has developed mmunity around the show. If the network can't see that, and see that there will be backlash for shelving it, that's their own fault. If they provided a free download on their site with commercials, I would do that instead and even watch the commercials, but they don't. The truth is, I don't have a TV in my room and really only use a TV to watch sports. Other than that I'm on my computer, but my internet can be spotty at times. The most convenient way for me to watch stuff is to download it ahead of time and then watch it later. I'm sure I'm not the only one, and they are missing a potentially lucrative demographic. Whatever, they can cancel Community, but they just lost a viewer and a pretty outspoken defender of NBC as a network. I've told many people to watch Community and Parks and Rec. Now, I won't be so staunch a defender of what the network has to offer, and I certainly won't be testing out any of the new shit they've been spouting (Whitney? are you fucking kidding me? ). There are many better networks out there, NBC can fuck themselves.

I died when the Gwyn theme started playing for the bengals, so fitting. Watch Sphere instead. It's got Samuel L. Jackson, which is always a better time. I love the ending when he says, All I know is, once a year, then you hear the sleigh bells ringing) I get to see my friend again. ☺. Afterward in a book. 6 6 Posted by 1 year ago Archived comment 100% Upvoted This thread is archived New comments cannot be posted and votes cannot be cast Sort by no comments yet Be the first to share what you think! More posts from the reggiewatts community Continue browsing in r/reggiewatts r/reggiewatts Welcome to r/reggiewatts 602 Members 5 Online Created May 1, 2011 help Reddit App Reddit coins Reddit premium Reddit gifts Communities Top Posts Topics about careers press advertise blog Terms Content policy Privacy policy Mod policy Reddit Inc © 2020. All rights reserved.

Afterwards chinese song. Afterward clue. About three years ago I was a science reporter on board the North Atlantic research vessel, Baseline Explorer. We were roughly twenty km off the coast of Bermuda at the time, and I was getting set to go down in a two-man submersible, something I’d wanted to do since I was a kid. The pilot of the sub was a deep sea veteran called Percy, great guy, great sense of humour; spoke with a thick Texan drawl that made even dumb things sound folksy and wise. First words he said to me were: ‘you ever been down in one of these? ’ ‘Never. ’ I was grinning, excited as a schoolboy. I was practically shaking. ‘You’ll never forget it, ’ he assured me. In hindsight that was some genius-level foreshadowing if ever I heard it. These submersibles weigh in at about eight tonnes, rigged with state-of-the-art scientific equipment, massive search beams mounted just forward of the acrylic bubble, they’re ultra-manoeuvrable even at extreme depths, you can spin them three sixty degrees on a dime, and they have this massive hydraulic arm that the pilot controls with a joystick, I saw Percy move that arm so skilfully I swear to God he could have plucked the pacifier out of a baby’s mouth without even waking it. When he wasn’t piloting the sub Percy liked to play computer games back in the ship’s rec room. I’ve played untold levels of Call of Duty with him and take it from an old-school gamer like me, this guy is crazy good, and what’s even crazier, he’s fifty-eight years old with six grandchildren. Percy was a great guy. But after that voyage, my first, his hundred and third, he was never that same guy again. None of us were ever the same again. The submersibles are miracles of engineering, they can withstand up to twenty-five EAs (Earth Atmospheres), which basically means twenty-five times the pressure at surface level. That’s the equivalent of an ant moving around with twelve jumbo jets parked right on top of it. I’ll never forget the sensation the first time I slipped down through the bubble’s hatch. I was scared. I knew what to expect but I didn’t expect the bubble to be so small, it felt claustrophobic, like climbing down into a tumble dryer, but it actually wasn’t so bad once I was seated. We had a panoramic view of the world through the wrap-around glass, better than IMAX, but as the ship’s crane lowered us into the water I couldn’t help wondering whether this was the last time I’d ever see the sunlight. I was nervous about the journey ahead. My publishers wanted a video essay of a deep sea dive in one of the subs, which made sense seeing as my job was to report on all the functions of a scientific research vessel, but we were going down close to the sub’s limits, almost a thousand metres, and suddenly the whole thing was very daunting. But Percy quickly put me at my ease, he’d been down over a hundred times, and in his opinion it was safer than driving to the neighbourhood liquor store. As the sub descended into the depths it felt like we were motionless for long periods of time, like we were just hanging there in an eternity of blue-tinted space, but Percy assured me we were still descending, still going down, the water becoming bluer, darker, the deeper we went. There was a second submersible trailing us like a ghost. The pilot was an Israeli guy called Avi. He was a stoic son-of-a-bitch. I’d been on board the Baseline Explorer three weeks and I’d never seen him crack so much as a smile. He was nicknamed The Machine. The name fit him like a glove. He flashed his searchlights at us at the beginning of the trip when we were hovering close to the surface, and sometimes Percy would talk to him over the radio as we made our way down, but it was all professional chitchat, The Machine wasn’t the kind of person who inspired small talk. As co-pilot of the sub it was pretty much my job to keep the glass clear of condensation, so every few minutes I’d give the inside of the acrylic bubble a wipe-over, the rest of the time I was filming and commentating on whatever I was seeing around me. Around 200 metres down we started moving from the epipelagic zone (the sunlight zone) to the twilight or “mesopelagic” zone, and now the ocean turned this deep aquamarine, like the sky just before dawn, we see a moray eel slithering through the cone of our search lights, a school of grouper fish flittering around us like silver confetti, and The Machine calls our attention to a couple of small tiger sharks that follow us for a while and then peel off into the darkness. We’re almost a thousand metres underwater and its pitch black. We’re in the midnight zone. Not a single photon of light is able to get down this far. The only source of illumination is our searchlights. We’re just fixing to start heading back when suddenly Percy kills all momentum. We’re just hanging there. “What’s wrong? ” Percy looked stone-faced, his skin had drained of all colour and his lips were trembling, like he was muttering something under his breath, and he had this fixed expression on his face, this intensity to his gaze that warned me something was off. ‘Percy…? ’ Percy reached out and snapped the searchlights off. ‘There’s something out there, ’ he whispered. I don’t know how to describe the impact those words had on me, you can report the things a man says, but it is hard to convey the way he says them, and the way Percy said, “there’s something out there, ” sent an instant chill down my spine. He sounded scared. Only the sound of our breathing now as we both stared out into the pitch blackness. There was something out there. I couldn’t see it, but I could sense it, something was watching us, and I’ve never felt anything like that before, I was an atheist at the time but afterwards I would describe it as a religious experience. I have no idea what I meant by that. I was in shock at the time. I don’t know what the fuck I was saying. ‘What is it? ’ I barely recognised the sound of my own voice, it sounded thin and childlike, like suddenly, in a heartbeat, I had regressed to infancy. I gripped Percy’s arm. ‘What’s out there? ’ I turned to him. He looked like death. He looked more scared than I have ever seen a man, computer lights patterning his features, shadows scavenging his flesh, his eyes yellow and glazed with terror. What the hell would scare a man like Percy? He was hard as nails, an adrenaline junky by all accounts, but right then he looked like he was walking the green mile. I turned back and stared out the bubble of the Atlantis. Darkness so deep it seemed to swallow my thoughts. What was out there? Why was I shaking with this incomprehensible dread? It felt like a premonition of doom. The searchlights from the second sub carved past us, The Machine oblivious to what we could so clearly sense, he was manoeuvring his sub sideways, trying to figure out why we had come to a full stop. ‘Turn the lights off, ’ Percy whispered in a voice tight with panic, and then suddenly he jerked forward and flicked the radio toggle. ‘Avi, turn your fucking lights off, ’ he hissed. But it was too late. The searchlights illuminated something in the darkness below us and to my dying day I wish I’d never seen what I saw next. It’s haunted my dreams ever since. I’ve burned through three marriages and an army of therapists, I’ve attempted suicide three times, and I’m addicted to opioids and booze and I still can’t get that image out of my head. At first I thought I was looking down at some kind of luminous disc of immense size, I’d guess three times the diameter of our sub, so I’d say about twenty feet across, and it was a silvery texture, soft and slightly faceted. There were bands of colour radiating outwards from this circle of absolute black that sat right in the centre of the disc. I can’t describe that black. It was darker than the absence of light, it was the fucking absence of hope; before he put a bullet in his head three years ago Percy called me up: ‘it was like looking into nothing, ’ he told me, ‘absolute zero – it tore my fucking mind apart…. ’ He was sobbing as he spoke. He was in a bad way. His wife had left him. His kids had disowned him. He’d lost his home. His job, his dignity…and finally, he lost the reason to go on living…. Nietzsche once said: “when you look into the abyss, the abyss also looks into you. ” That’s what it felt like staring into that black circle. Like it was staring back at me. I saw it for maybe a second before The Machine snapped his searchlights off, but there was an eternity in that second, there was the sensation of falling into the abyss, being swallowed by the darkness, of slowly losing my mind…. It was an eye. That disc with the black circle in the middle had been a fucking eye that measured twenty feet across, and to this day my skin goes cold when I remember it, this colossal eye staring at us out of the dark, and the intensity of that gaze was beyond human comprehension, it was an intelligence measured in aeons, it was an evil beyond scripture, beyond reason, and it laid its immemorial gaze upon us, and we were blighted by it, scarred by it, destroyed by it… God help us…. And then The Machine snapped his searchlights off and the darkness took away that awful vision, but not the memory of it…I felt despair unlike anything I’ve ever experienced, a black terror filled my heart, that eye, Jesus Christ in heaven, how big was the monster that possessed that eye….? It felt Biblical. I didn’t have to look at Percy to know he was feeling the same thing. That eye did not belong to a thing of reason or nature; it was not a thing of science, it was a monster, it was the mother of every nightmare our children wake screaming from. And even as I thought this, Percy whispered: ‘…curse that day, those who are ready to rouse Leviathan…. ’ And to my ears he sounded like a dead man quoting scripture. I gazed into the darkness ahead, I knew that eye was still staring at us even though I could no longer see it, I felt the crushing weight of its gaze, and I was drunk with the horror of it, making sounds at the back of my throat, attempts to speak but no words came out, I was trapped, I wanted to run and hide but sitting in a tiny submersible one thousand metres below sea level there’s nowhere to run, and nowhere to hide…. The radio crackled, The Machine was saying something but I wasn’t listening, I was still staring into that god awful darkness. Something was moving out there, I could sense it, like a mountain turning its ancient face towards us, and I could feel the dreadful gravity of that monster as it turned, the most horrific images flashing through my head, mass graves filled with bodies not quite dead, a wolf chewing through a leg caught in a hunter’s trap, emaciated children standing behind a chain link fence, refugees caught on barbed wire borders, screaming for help, I was tearing at my hair and beating at my skull, but the images only grew more horrific, and my brain felt like one huge, pulsing blood-clot. I heard Percy howling in pain and terror. I heard my own screams from a million miles away. And then, abruptly, the images were gone. I sucked in a sobbing breath, and turning to Percy I yelled: ‘Get us out of here! ’ He shook his head. ‘Look, ’ he said. Something had appeared in the darkness ahead. There was some kind of fissure opening up in the inky void, a fiery glow spilling out of it that illuminated the surrounding ocean, and as I watched, the fissure grew wider and wider, until it gaped almost a hundred feet wide, maybe more, and that fiery, larval glow filled my entire forward vision, it was the colour of napalm and post nuclear sunsets, and staring into that yawning chasm I swear to God I saw hell incarnate, filled with multitudes of tortured souls. My therapists all said it was a hallucination. But Percy and The Machine both saw the same thing. The fissure opened into a cavern of impossible dimensions, so vast it contained entire mountain ranges, and fiery lakes, and rivers of boiling blood, and molten rain, burning as it fell from thick sulphur yellow clouds, and I saw naked multitudes, thousands upon thousands of screaming souls, being snatched up by enormous winged beasts and cast into these lakes of fire. The winged beasts were horrific looking, some kind of hybrid, they carried pitchforks and branding irons and some of them had the heads of birds and the bodies of men, and others were reptilian monstrosities, but all of them, I sensed, were filled with a black hatred for humanity. Percy was screaming the Lord’s prayer, and I remember my mouth stretched wide, gaping in horror, and tears streaming down my face, and then, that awful fissure slowly closed, and I think it was that moment I realised I had been staring into the mouth of that creature…. I don’t remember how we got back to the surface. I remember they had to handcuff me to a cot in the infirmary once we were back on board the ship, I was screaming, I couldn’t stop, they made me wear diapers, I couldn’t even control my bowels. I was in the infirmary three days, screaming and shitting myself into a stupor. The Machine hung himself a week after returning home. His wife found him. He left a note. A single word in Hebrew. “Leviathan. ” I’m trying to put it behind me. It’s been six years and I’m the only one left. The days are getting better, but I dread the coming of night, sinking down into sleep the way we sank down into that abyss, terrified of what awaits me in my dreams. I’ve never been back to the ocean. God bless us all.

Afterwards song. Hey its the rebel girl from Rise of Skywalker. Afterward jennifer mathieu. My English teacher in high school showed this story to the class and its one I think about constantly.

 

A 2d animated movie. Now that's a real christmas present. EDIT: Just watched this movie, it was beyond everything I expected off it, this is my new Homealone from now on. Afterwards synonyms. Afterward full movie. That Hyenas laugh was better than the ones in The Lion King. Afterwards menlo park. THIS MOVIE IS WAYYY BETTER THAN IT SEEMS! NOT KIDDING. Afterwards in spanish. Afterward trailer. Afterword crossword. Afterwards definition. Thank you michael. killed it. great move. great vision too cudi. Afterward documentary. Afterward delight. I am so happy for you!❤️. Afterwards movie. Ive watched the movie 🎥 and i love it! Simple story but entertaining! Salma hayek is hilarious 😂.

Afterwards poem in hindi. I have the perfect slogan for this: below the surface, no one can hear you scream. I'm with you should NOT have quit this I will still feel this way tomorrow and a week from were still 2 states to try for AT Chappelle could've been huge in trying to get SC have fought longer than 2 still had this huge YANG GANG to promote him in the other miss you and Elasa for a lot of time with sucks. Afterward in spanish. I've argued in the past that Eldar as a whole are a lot less xenophobic and murderous than the Imperium, even if having way more reasons to be so than the human empire. It has happened in another thread that the question about Eldar feelings about killing other sentient beings has resurfaced in another topic. As promised to u/Sehtriom here I present some excerpt that I find may shed some light on the subject. Please feel free to add something I missed and enjoy the reading. TL, DR: non-Dark Eldar make quite a big deal of human killing and even suffering. Path of the Eldar, volume 2: Path of the Seer Thirianna is a Dire Avenger in a force tasked with killing everyone inside a complex, in a pretty standard Eldar engagement. Thirianna took it all in at a glance, her focus drawn towards another door on the opposite side of the room. The squad moved quickly, securing the door and a window that led to the balcony. Thirianna was first into the next room. It was some kind of eating area. A long table flanked by high-backed seats stretched the length of the room, set with plates and candlesticks as if ready for a meal. Thirianna heard a whimpering noise and leapt onto the table. She ran along its length, picking her way between the dishes and candlesticks without effort. At the far end of the room was another seating area, with overstuffed chairs and a round table. In the corner cowered a female human. With her were three children: one male, two female. Their faces were red and wet, their eyes glistening. The taint of Chaos permeates this place, said Kelamith. All must be purged. The humans made whimpering, animal noises as Thirianna brought up her shuriken catapult. The ambient light in Thirianna’s bedchamber was dimmed. She lay on the soft floor and looked at the shadows on the ceiling, watching the slowly-changing patches of dim light and dark shifting. Her slight body, narrow waisted and slender shouldered, was immobile. Her thin face was half hidden by the long sweep of white hair that lay across it, obscuring the tattoo of Alaitoc’s rune on her right cheek. Thirianna’s deep blue eyes roved from side to side as her gaze hunted the darker shadows, which constantly slipped to the edges of vision, refusing to give up their secrets. She smelled something strange: blood. A moment later she felt a pain in her hands. Lifting them up, she saw that she had dug her nails into her palms. She watched a droplet of her life fluid slide down to her wrist and drip onto her bare stomach. Something was wrong. A presence squirmed in the recess of her mind. The smell and the sight of the blood stirred it. The touch of Khaine, the anger of the Bloody-Handed God awakened. Thirianna closed her eyes, seeking peace in the darkness. Her vision was filled with the blood red of her war-mask. With a gasp she opened her eyes again. She whispered the mantras she had been taught, seeking to put aside that part of her that was Thirianna the Dire Avenger. Her brow itched, feeling upon it the rune of her shrine that had been painted there in blood. She lifted her finger to her forehead but felt nothing. There was no blood there. She had removed the rune and chanted the verses and still a remnant, a dagger shard, remained in her mind. Trying to relax, Thirianna took a deep breath and laid her hands on her chest. She felt the beat of her heart through her fingertips, swift and strong. The nagging sliver of Khaine would not go. She wondered if perhaps she should go to the shrine, to seek the guidance of Nimreith. She dismissed the idea. Thirianna felt that if something was amiss, she would be able to deal with it. Closing her eyes again, she probed at the wound in her psyche, feeling around the raw edges, hesitant to look deeper. Veiled with mental curtains, the memories within were part of her war-mask, detached from the rest of her thoughts. She felt them throbbing behind the locked synapses of her brain, insistent for attention. What could be so important that it demanded to be seen? Slowly, Thirianna folded back the curtains of her thought for a glimpse, the tiniest flicker of acceptance. She screamed, mind awash with a vision of crying children and the dying shrieks of their mother. During a vision quest, while training as a Warlock, she goes 'astral traveling' through the Webway and stumbles upon a Drukhari raiders staging point The webway encompassed the world of the tower but did not penetrate it. The threads of the infinity circuit surrounded the bubble but made no inroads towards the tower itself. Thirianna could see small figures of eldar walking along gantries and the docks, but she had no means of approaching closer. When she realised what the eldar on the dockside were doing, she decided that it was for the best that she could not come any closer. The eldar, garbed in highly stylised, barbaric clothing, bearing whips and scourges, were leading a seething mass of aliens from their ship to a yawning gate in the side of the tower. As the portal opened, the sound of shrieks and moans filled the air. Thirianna felt wave after wave of torment roiling around the reality bubble; agony unending poured like a flood from the gate of the tower. Turning her attention to the newest arrivals, Thirianna recognised humans, several dozen of them, amongst the miserable throng. The other creatures, some hairy, some scaled, some squat and misshapen, others upright with two arms and legs like eldar, were not known to her. They were all bound in energy cuffs, glowing bands of red around their ankles and necks. She could not see any more detail, and for that she was grateful. Later on, when arming and preparing in her former Temple and donning the Warmask as a Warlock, she again experiences her traumatic experience, dealing with the painful awareness of being a killer: Thirianna waited in the dark antechamber in the Shrine of One Hundred Bloody Tears, sensing the exarch in the room behind her calling the Dire Avengers to battle. She knew that she would have to reach into her memory and bring out the experience she had shut away. It was concealed firmly behind her war-mask, and Kelamith had hinted that the coming battle might bring it forth without Thirianna’s volition. Better now, she had decided, to confront this potential nightmare in the sanctuary of the shrine, than risk it taking her unawares at a critical moment. She began the mantra that brought forth her war-mask. She paused as it was settling into place, keeping a hold of her normal self to avoid being consumed with bloodlust. The witchblade in her hands thrummed with life, woken by her dark thoughts. Placing the blade to one side, disassociating herself from its war-hunger, Thirianna sat cross-legged in the middle of the chamber and closed her eyes. She pushed through the red film of the war-mask and opened herself to the memories that lay beyond. Dozens of recollections flooded through her, each a vista of death, a vignette of bloodshed. She shuddered, caught between the horror of the atrocities she committed and the ecstatic feeling that had flowed through her when she had perpetrated them. Yet there was nothing there that caused her greater concern than before. She had seen these things when she had prepared for the battle with the orks. There was another memory, so vile to her she had cast it down into the abyss of her thoughts, where even her warrior-self would not have to contemplate it. She baulked for a moment, afraid to venture further. Her skin felt slick with the blood of those she had slain, her ears rang with their wounded cries and death rattles, her heart pounded with the sensation of their fleeing life. Thirianna withdrew a little way, allowing the warrior-memories to recede, leaving her in peace again. She slowed her heart and breathing, instilling calm. If she were to unleash this dark memory she would have to do it swiftly, diving past the other recollections into its lair. Hardening her heart as much as she could, filled with trepidation, Thirianna thrust herself into the past, sweeping past the battles into the dark maelstrom of her innermost secret thoughts. She ran along its length, picking her way between the dishes and candlesticks without thought. With her were three children, one male, two female. The eldest female, the mother, shrieked something, covering the children with herself. Thirianna ignored her wails and opened fire, shredding the woman’s body. The children screamed, their tear-streaked faces spattered with the blood of their mother. The largest of them, the boy, leapt to his feet and charged Thirianna. She reacted without thought, stepping aside from his clumsily swinging fists. She swung the shuriken catapult, bringing it down on the back of the boy’s neck, easily snapping the young human’s spine. He flopped to the lacquered floor without a further sound. The two girls squirmed, trying to free themselves from the dead weight of their mother, eyes wide with horror as their brother’s corpse twitched in front of them. Thirianna looked at the youngest. She was barely old enough to walk, yet the look in her eyes seemed weighed with a lifetime of sorrow. The Aspect Warrior fired again, ripping out the child’s throat with a short salvo. The last struggled to her feet and turned to run. It was futile and she went down in a mess of blood and ragged dress, her blonde locks covering her face as she tumbled onto a rug. Thirianna looked at the sprawling bodies, the swirl of their blood and the splay of their dead limbs. They had been so fragile, so easy to slay. She laughed. Falling to one side, Thirianna let out a wild howl of despair. Her own laughter echoed around the chamber, haunting and deliberate, full of contempt for life. The seer clasped her head in her hands, filled with guilt and shame, her body convulsing as she remembered every fleck of blood on the faces of the dead children. She saw the edges of the mother’s ribs, bloody and scratched from the shurikens, poking out from beneath her laced bodice. She could smell the blood, hear the crying. Every part of her wanted to flee. Thirianna resisted the urge to hurl the memory back into the blackness, a tiny part of her strong enough to face the full fury of her own violence. Over and over she watched the family dying, yet it never dimmed, and the memory of her exultation at the act wrenched at her spirit each time. Panting, Thirianna forced herself to her feet. She had to accept this; she had to acknowledge that part of her capable of committing such an act. They were only humans, she told herself, but her justification felt hollow. They were not innocent, she reasoned, they were tainted by Chaos, but she knew that it was a delusion. I am a murderer, she thought. Another part of her mind railed against the accusation. Her war-mask flowed, bringing out her warrior spirit. She had been a Dire Avenger, incarnation of a purifying flame. She had slain hundreds, guilt or innocence were irrelevant. It was not the act itself that so appalled Thirianna, it was the joy it had brought. It sickened her, that laugh, the utter disregard for life that she had shown. It rang again in her ears, chilling, devoid of compassion. The slaughter may have been justified or not, it may have been a necessary precaution or cold-blooded murder. What Thirianna could not deny was the satisfaction it had brought. It had not been an act of instinct in the heat of battle, a life-or-death decision to slay or be slain. It had been cold-hearted, reasoned, and was all the more enjoyable for it. The heinous act had thrilled her so much because she had known full well what it was she was doing. It was the simple matter of doing the unthinkable, without blame or shame, which had been exhilarating. It was a true moment of Khaine’s bloody work, unhampered by logic or morality. Another thought burst through Thirianna’s internal recriminations. Even in her moment of high-handed triumph, she had known she was bewitched with the bloodshed. After the battle she had quit the Shrine of One Hundred Bloody Tears, turning her back on the Bloody-Handed God, forever expunged of her desire for war. The act, callous as it was, had freed her from Khaine’s grip. Focussing on this, Thirianna recovered some of her equilibrium. As the visceral nature of the memory subsided, she was able to hold on to that simple fact**: at her darkest moment she had triumphed. She had stood upon the brink of accepting Khaine’s embrace, of becoming enamoured of death and blood-letting, but it had not trapped her. ** It was the nature of the Path that a life be composed of many such moments, where one trod the line between safety and utter obsession. Thirianna had passed the test, and she had moved on. It was only from shirking her duty to those she had slain, by trying to forget them, that she had poisoned herself. The memory was quickly losing its power to unbalance her. The more she examined it, the more Thirianna consoled herself to the grievous act. Confronting what she had done, she could feel the guilt and shame she had not felt at the time. In accepting the punishment, the raw feeling that sang along her nerves, she could atone for her bloody ways. Reaching out a hand, Thirianna called to her witchblade. It leapt to her grasp, singing its own deadly song. She Who Thirsts threatened again, through the humans once more. Thirianna would have to kill again, not only to save her own life, but to save the lives of future Alaitocii. Human lives would be saved too, though they would never comprehend the benefit for themselves. The thought did not make what she had to do easy, but it made it a fraction more palatable. Thirianna heard the dull chanting of the Dire Avengers in the adjoining chamber. Their ritual was coming to its climax, as each would be daubing the rune of the shrine on their foreheads and taking up their war-masks. She crossed the room and lifted her helm from its hook. She too was ready. As she leaves the Path of the Warlock and turns to Farseer, while sitting in Council these are the thoughts about the human race: In that time, Thirianna learned a lot about humans and their way of war. Through the visions granted by the skein, s he saw the paradox in their nature. In one regard they were blunt and predictable. They lacked any kind of subtlety, preferring their brute strength over sophistication. They could be trusted to tackle any obstacle the eldar placed before them head-on, and in this was found their greatest weakness. They could be lured and directed, forced into battles that favoured the eldar. Their xenophobia, their creed of self-punishment and sacrifice could prove their undoing, bringing them into battles that they could not hope to win yet ones they would fight out of blind devotion and hope. Yet for all their barbaric ways, the humans were also fickle. In each of them nestled the seed for great heroism and great cowardice. Compared to the lives of the eldar, the humans lived for a brief moment, and their threads were little more than remnants scattered across the skein, the vast majority passing their lives without meaning or impact on the wider universe. A few of them were different, but were not necessarily marked out by status or rank. A lone sergeant might rally a line rather than flee; a medic might brave a storm of fire to rescue an officer who goes on to lead a new attack; a gunner mans his weapon when others have retreated to hold back an Alaitocii counter-attack. Not only did moments of positive qualities make the picture unclear. Unexpected cowardice, ill discipline, poor communications on the part of the humans could unsettle the plans laid by the eldar. Just as the Alaitoc war host had to be precise and focussed in its movements and attacks, the responses of the enemy had to concur with the desires of the eldar. These excerpts offer the POV of a quite 'standard' Craftworlder: controlled, focussed, emotionally aware and disciplined. The other two books of the serie, instead, can offer other approaches, that ultimately lead to very different fates: in one, Path of the Warrior, the protagonist goes on to become an Exarch, and thus a fully ordained and obsessed killer. In the other, Path of the Outcast, the main character leaves the Craftworld way to become a ranger, a corsair, a pirate... only to rejoin the Path in the end. Sidenote: he'll leave again to join the Ynnari, and you can read about him in the Rise of the Ynnari serie. Asurmen, Hand of Asuryan During a battle against Chaos tainted humans, straight out a Phoenix Lord's mind. Stormlance is his personal aircraft. Asurmen fought against the surge of elation that greeted the destruction of each fighter craft. He reminded himself that each blossom of flame and shrapnel was the death of five living beings, even if they were only humans. The fact that they were Chaos-tainted, already the Lost, was something to be lamented, not celebrated. It was hard to maintain discipline in the face of Stormlance’s exuberant satisfaction. Human cultists inspire sheer terror in a mother, during a boarding action (also, do not mess with scared eldar children): She sat down on the bare floor, Manyia in her lap. The baby was no longer screaming, but her thoughts were a whirl of agitation. Neridiath stroked her hair and whispered comfort, accompanying the physical reassurance with mental projections of safety and calm. A sudden clatter from the corridor snapped Neridiath from her bonding trance. Footfalls approached, many of them, too heavy to be eldar. Human voices, unintelligible, barking out every few heartbeats. The matrix was awash with their thoughts, of loot and destruction, just as the faint internal breeze brought the stench of their unwashed bodies through the door of the storage chamber. Neridiath was frozen with dread, her sanctuary violated against all expectation. There was nothing she could do, her shelter had become a trap. She desperately looked around the room but there was nothing to hide her or Manyia. The floor and shelves were bare. She eased herself to her feet, sliding her back up the smooth wall, moving sideways so that she could not easily be seen through the open door. A moment later the first of the humans stepped into view. It had bare legs and arms, neck to thigh covered with a thick tunic tied at the waist with a broad belt. Its flat face was sallow, eyes a sad brown as they turned towards the storage bay. Its head was topped with an unkempt thatch of black hair, greasy. It stank of oil and exhaust smoke combined with a rank bodily odour. Manyia whimpered, loud enough for the intruder to hear. The male turned, eyes widening with surprise as it met Neridiath’s panicked gaze. The human opened its mouth, issuing a series of grunts and growls to its companion as it stepped across the threshold. Another followed, a step behind, of darker complexion, head hairless but with a growth of black curls on its chin. Neridiath realised what she should have done the moment she had heard the humans. Door shut! Lock! The ship responded instantly to Neridiath’s instinctive reflex, the door plates of the storage bay sliding together like an iris, cutting the second human in half. Head, torso and one arm flopped to the floor of the room in a spray of blood and bisected organs, the human’s piercing shriek cut short. The other human turned, mouth gaping in horror. As it moved Neridiath saw that the front of its tunic was open, revealing a chest crudely shorn of hair, a branded mark laid upon the left pectoral. A symbol she did not know in detail but recognised all the same – a rune of the Dark Gods. The human looked down in horror at the remains of its companion. It wavered slightly, unsteady on its feet, and then vomited, ejecting a stream of bile and half-digested matter onto the floor. Neridiath backed away, though there was nowhere to run, Manyia squirming in her grip. Retching twice more, the human straightened, slit-like animal eyes turning on the pilot, a lip curling in anger. It barked something, jabbing a finger towards the remnants of the other human, spittle flying from vomit-flecked lips. Neridiath started to cry, tears flowing down her cheeks, chest wracked by deep sobs. ‘Save me, ’ she whispered. She did not know to whom she pleaded for aid, perhaps the universe itself. She felt very small and alone and foolish all of a sudden. Fate could be as cruel as it was kind; there were no guarantees in life. ‘Save us. Don’t let this happen. ’ Through the mist of grief, she watched the human take a step closer, one hand closing around the grip of a pistol hung on its belt. It lifted the weapon and beckoned her to approach, snapping and snarling in its savage tongue. There was no power in the universe that was going to let this beast take her child. The pistol was pointed right at her, the demand repeated with greater volume. But even now she could not do what had to be done. She knew she was faster than the human. She could seize the pistol and fire it before the clumsy alien could stop her. But for all that the knowledge was there, the action was not. A terror deeper even than her fear for her child rooted her to the spot. She saw only one solution. Neridiath’s fingers closed around Manyia’s throat, while she told herself over and over that it would be a mercy for her daughter. There was no telling what the humans would do with an eldar child. Scare mummy! Die! Neridiath only caught the edge of the burst from Manyia. The full force of the psychic imperative was directed into the human’s thoughts, shaped not by language but by primal need. The human reeled back, wincing in pain. Its gaze moved to the child in Neridiath’s arms, half horrified, half confused. A trembling hand raised the pistol to its left eye. Manyia’s tiny face was set with a deep scowl, toothless gums bared, unfettered psychic energy gleaming in her dark eyes. Die! The human pulled the trigger, sending a bolt of energy searing into its skull. It fell backwards, arms flailing wide, head crashing against the floor. Neridiath watched the human, wary of any movement, but only spasmodic muscle twitches disturbed the body. Safe? Manyia started to cry and wriggled around to bury her face in Neridiath’s chest. The pilot’s thoughts veered between shock and horror and relief, the three emotions whirling together in an overwhelming mass. Through the haze she heard the sound of banging on the door. She realised it had started the moment the door had closed, but she had been focused entirely on the human inside the room. It was just a simple storage locker, not barred by a security door or blast portal. It would not take long for the humans to batter their way in. Safe? ‘Yes, safe, ’ Neridiath lied, eying the pistol that was still in the dead human’s grasp. Afterwards, Asurmen helps the mother deal with her issues, and her terror at becoming a murderer and a warrior. ‘I will not let her see that! I will not become what my mother became! ’ And there it was, the moment that had sown such dread in Neridiath. Asurmen latched onto it, burrowing his mind into hers, dragging free the suppressed memory. She was young, but old enough to know her own mind. Her mother stood at the door, looking back at her. Neridiath emanated waves of love, mingled with desperate hope and pleading. From her mother came nothing. Cold eyes regarded her as nothing more than bones and meat. A sneer lingered on her mother’s lips. Disdain, not love. The child’s eyes were drawn to the rune marked upon her mother’s brow. The symbol of the Fire Dragons writ in dried blood. She had never seen it before, always removed before her mother had left the shrine. It seemed a grotesque thing, an icon of anger and death. Her mother stayed at the threshold for some time and Neridiath sobbed, hiding her face in her hands. She felt the hot wetness of her tears and a thought occurred to her. She raced towards her mother, hands outstretched, hoping to use her tears to wipe away that dreadful rune. Neridiath’s mother caught her wrist in one hand and twisted, throwing the child to the ground. It had been a moment of instinct, no intent to harm or hurt behind it. Rubbing her arm, Neridiath looked up and saw that there was no response from her mother. She seemed neither glad nor ashamed. ‘Come away. ’ Neridiath turned at the sound of her older cousin’s voice from the doorway behind her. She glanced back and saw Fasainarath standing with his hand held out to her. ‘Come here, Neth, away from that thing. ’ Thing. Her mother was a thing now. That thing had a name. She was dimly aware of it, spoken in whispers by her family and friends, acknowledged but never welcome. Exarch. Her mother was an exarch, driven to bloodshed and the worship of Khaine until she died. What she had been was lost. Now all that remained was the warrior. Reeling, Asurmen broke his mind free of Neridiath’s. He had encountered many exarchs in his long existence. Indeed he had been the first. But never before had he understood the transition, the effect it had on others. Seeing a spirit becoming trapped on the Path of the Warrior through Neridiath’s eyes made him understand from whence her fear stemmed. This was the place she had returned to, cornered in the storage bay. Her thought had not been for herself but for Manyia, not her daughter’s death but the loss of her innocence. ‘You are not your mother, ’ he said firmly, stepping past the candle to lay a hand on her shoulder. He had assumed his warrior countenance again, clad in blue armour. The psyche-shrine became light around them, a bare white chamber in the centre of his mind. ‘Very few that tread the Warrior’s Road become trapped. You are stronger than she was. ’ ‘What if I like it? The killing? ’ ‘You will, ’ Asurmen told her. The truth could not be avoided. ‘You cannot fight that. You will feel triumph and dismay in equal weight. You will desire thrill of battle, the rush of blood. These are things that we cannot deny about ourselves. I will teach you how to control them, how to harness the incredible powers that our bodies have been gifted by our ancestors. You will become the weapon and you will learn to draw the war mask so that the shame and the hunger can be kept at bay, unleashed like a beast when necessary, caged when not needed. That beast lurks within you, unfettered, ready to burst free. You are a danger to your daughter if you do not learn how to handle it. ’ ‘But I have to fight now. You want me to attack those ships. I can’t… I can’t lose Manyia. What if she senses my bloodlust. I won’t defile her! ’ ‘You have to fight. ’ Asurmen’s voice became an insistent growl. ‘You have only irrational fear to conquer. The threat is real, your dread is not. You can break the fear, but only if you try. Now you have the opportunity to prove to yourself that you are not a monster. Use it! ’ She had a weapon, as much as if she had a knife or pistol in hand. She was the Patient Lightning and the ship’s warlike creed seeped into her thoughts, provoking her, telling her that there was nothing to fear. She did not fight the desire. She embraced it. She had chosen to be powerless, but that had simply been the choice to be a victim. Neridiath recognised that what she wanted more than anything else was revenge. She felt tainted, broken by the realisation, but it did not make the desire go away. It was a part of who she was, a seed sown by recent events. She could allow it to become a cancerous growth, poisoning her thoughts, driving a rift between her and her daughter, or she could accept that she was not perfect, in thought or philosophy. ‘I don’t know how to fight, ’ Neridiath murmured, but even as the thought occurred she realised it was not true. She was part of the Patient Lightning and the battleship had been fighting for longer than its pilot had been alive. She opened herself up to the starship, letting herself become its consciousness, the mortal link needed for its immortal spirits. (... ) She felt disgusted, at herself and what she had done. The memory of the happiness the deaths of her enemies brought her flooded back, but she could recognise the bitterness behind it. She sensed Hylandris standing close at hand, but dared not look up, afraid of what she would feel when she saw Manyia. Her daughter had lashed out in infantile ignorance, but Neridiath had just murdered thousands of humans in cold blood. What message was that for her daughter? ‘We fight or we die, ’ Hylandris said, laying a hand on her shoulder. Neridiath shrugged it off but he placed it again, squeezing reassuringly. ‘It is the legacy the past has left for our people. We do not have the luxury of inactivity, or we would become casual observers of our own doom, as we were before. ’ Neridiath stood up, grimacing, and took Manyia from him. The child was asleep still, oblivious to everything that had happened, unknowing of her mother’s strife. Untainted, thought the pilot, and the realisation brought tears of relief. ‘What happens now? ’ she asked. ‘What do I have to do? ’ ‘I do not know, but you are not the first to feel this way, and will not be the last. The Path exists for us to manage these emotions so that they can no longer destroy us. ’ ‘I have to become an Aspect Warrior? ’ she asked, the horror of the thought almost choking the words in her throat. ‘Yes, ’ said Hylandris, moving his hand from her shoulder to Manyia. ‘For her sake, you must move onto the next stage of the Path. In time it will bring solace and you will become closer to your daughter without the burden of fear hanging on your spirit. You have to banish your anguish in the temples of Khaine. I know that if there is any being that can tell you the truth of this, it is Asurmen. ’ All these excerpts clearly point to the fact that non-Drukhari Eldar see murder and war as an extremely serious fact. Something to be lamented, even if it bring excitement and a guilty pleasure to be in some way controlled. The Path is the way devised to defuse, control and bring away the taint that revelling in unrestrained killing is. Craftworlders (and arguably Exodites and Harlequins) are clearly more in touch with their emotions and moral compass than almost anyone else in the galaxy, except the Tau. And perhaps that's one of the main reason for Eldrad and many other Craftworld to like them. I hope these excerpts bring some food for thought.

 

Afterward. Afterward crossword clue. Afterwards crossword. Afterwards matthew stevenson. KEEEP POSTING THEY ARE GIVING ME LIFE I LOVE HOW MUCH YOU BOTH LOVE EACHOTHER ITS SO SWEET. Afterward edith wharton audiobook. Afterward in hindi.

 

 

edu.apps01.yorku.ca/alumni/groups/without-registering-afterward-movie-stream

https://vigilantedeseguridad.blogia.com/2020/022904--124-hindi-124-free-download-afterward.php

https://seesaawiki.jp/zushimoji/d/4096X3072%20AFTERWARD%2035

edu.apps01.yorku.ca/alumni/groups/free-full-afterward-watch-here-1280p-youtube-at-dailymotion

https://edu.apps01.yorku.ca/alumni/groups/megavideo-watch-free-afterward/

form.run/@hindi-watch-free-afterward

stackoverflow.com/cv/dailymotion-download-movie-afterward

https://www.bitchute.com/video/U0E3y5lvUysC/

https://edu.apps01.yorku.ca/alumni/groups/without-registering-watch-free-afterward/

https://edu.apps01.yorku.ca/alumni/groups/hd-watch-afterward/

Writer: Tails the Vixen
Biography: //PFP by Toils (formerly Tails 3-blog)