"What is best in life? To drink poisonous liqueurs, hallucinate fabulously about dancing girls, and engage in triumphant saber duels with your enemies!" Things I post: art; music; snippets of Gothic, Decadent, and Victorian literature; learned miscellanies.
It was the land that was under the sway of Feringhea, the chief of the Thugs, the king of the Stranglers. His assassins, brought together into a highly elusive society in honour of the goddess of death, strangled their victims of all ages, but without ever shedding a drop of blood.
Hans does not move a muscle. His long hair, pushed down over his motionless face by the tempest, gives him a strange appearance, for the end of each hair is illuminated by a tiny, feather-like radiation. His frightening mask is that of an antediluvian man, living at the time of the ichthyosauruses and megatheres.
The statue had four arms. The body was deep red, the eyes wild, the hair touseld, the tongue lolling, the lips coloured with henna and betel. Around its neck was draped a garland of death’s heads, and on its waist, a girdle of severed hands.
Such was the position of the two men; but above them Phileas Fogg moved in majestic indifference. He was following his own rational orbit around the world, without bothering at all about the asteroids gravitating around him.