Glyphs Quotes

Ratthi sent me a glyph of a Preservation party sparkler exploding. I didn’t say anything. (I know I get pissed off when humans don’t acknowledge my work, but why is too much acknowledgment also upsetting? Sentience sucks.)

If He ever did come back, if He ever dared to show His face, or his Glyph, or whatever in the Garden again— if after all this destruction, if after all the terrible days of this terrible century, He returned to see how much suffering His abandonment had created, if all He has to offer is death, you should sue the bastard. That’s my only contribution to all this theology: sue the bastard for walking out. How dare He.

Dalinar took one step forward, then drove his Blade point-first into the middle of the blackened glyph on the stone. He took a step back. “For the bridgemen,” he said. Sadeas blinked. Muttering voices fell silent, and the people on the field seemed too stunned, even, to breathe. “What?”Sadeas asked. “The Blade,”Dalinar said, firm voice carrying in the air. “In exchange for your bridgemen. All of them. Every one you have in camp. They become mine, to do with as I please, never to be touched by you again. In exchange, you get the sword.” Sadeas looked down at the Blade, incredulous. “This weapon is worth fortunes. Cities, palaces, kingdoms.” “Do we have a deal?”Dalinar asked. “Father, no!”Adolin Kholin said, his own Blade appearing in his hand. “You—” Dalinar raised a hand, silencing the younger man. He kept his eyes on Sadeas. “Do we have a deal?” he asked, each word sharp. Kaladin stared, unable to move, unable to think. Sadeas looked at the Shardblade, eyes full of lust. He glanced at Kaladin, hesitated just briefly, then reached and grabbed the Blade by the hilt. “Take the storming creatures.” Dalinar nodded curtly, turning away from Sadeas. “Let’s go,”he said to his entourage. “They’re worthless, you know,”Sadeas said. “You’re of the ten fools, Dalinar Kholin! Don’t you see how mad you are? This will be remembered as the most ridiculous decision ever made by an Alethi highprince!” Dalinar didn’t look back. He walked up to Kaladin and the other members of Bridge Four. “Go,” Dalinar said to them, voice kindly. “Gather your things and the men you left behind. I will send troops with you to act as guards. Leave the bridges and come swiftly to my camp. You will be safe there. You have my word of honor on it.” He began to walk away. Kaladin shook off his numbness. He scrambled after the highprince, grabbing his armored arm. “Wait. You—That—What just happened?” Dalinar turned to him. Then, the highprince laid a hand on Kaladin’s shoulder, the gauntlet gleaming blue, mismatched with the rest of his slate-grey armor. “I don’t know what has been done to you. I can only guess what your life has been like. But know this. You will not be bridgemen in my camp, nor will you be slaves.” “But…” “What is a man’s life worth?” Dalinar asked softly. “The slavemasters say one is worth about two emerald broams,” Kaladin said, frowning. “And what do you say?” “A life is priceless,” he said immediately, quoting his father. Dalinar smiled, wrinkle lines extending from the corners of his eyes. “Coincidentally, that is the exact value of a Shardblade. So today, you and your men sacrificed to buy me twenty-six hundred priceless lives. And all I had to repay you with was a single priceless sword. I call that a bargain.” “You really think it was a good trade, don’t you?” Kaladin said, amazed. Dalinar smiled in a way that seemed strikingly paternal.

The Words, Kaladin. That was Syl’s voice. You have to speak the Words! I FORBID THIS. YOUR WILL MATTERS NOT! Syl shouted. YOU CANNOT HOLD ME BACK IF HE SPEAKS THE WORDS! THE WORDS, KALADIN! SAY THEM! “I will protect even those I hate,” Kaladin whispered through bloody lips. “So long as it is right.” A Shardblade appeared in Moash’s hands. A distant rumbling. Thunder. THE WORDS ARE ACCEPTED, the Stormfather said reluctantly. “Kaladin!” Syl’s voice. “Stretch forth thy hand!” She zipped around him, suddenly visible as a ribbon of light. “I can’t…” Kaladin said, drained. “Stretch forth thy hand!” He reached out a trembling hand. Moash hesitated. Wind blew in the opening in the wall, and Syl’s ribbon of light became mist, a form she often took. Silver mist, which grew larger, coalesced before Kaladin, extending into his hand. Glowing, brilliant, a Shardblade emerged from the mist, vivid blue light shining from swirling patterns along its length. Kaladin gasped a deep breath as if coming fully awake for the first time. The entire hallway went black as the Stormlight in every lamp down the length of the hall winked out. For a moment, they stood in darkness. Then Kaladin exploded with Light. It erupted from his body, making him shine like a blazing white sun in the darkness. Moash backed away, face pale in the white brilliance, throwing up a hand to shade his eyes. Pain evaporated like mist on a hot day. Kaladin’s grip firmed upon the glowing Shardblade, a weapon beside which those of Graves and Moash looked dull. One after another, shutters burst open up and down the hallway, wind screaming into the corridor. Behind Kaladin, frost crystalized on the ground, growing backward away from him. A glyph formed in the frost, almost in the shape of wings. Graves screamed, falling in his haste to get away. Moash backed up, staring at Kaladin. “The Knights Radiant,” Kaladin said softly, “have returned.

Miss me?" he whispered, giving me the once-over, eyes lingering on my chest. My heart skipped a beat. My glyph pulsed painfully. "Like a urinary tract infection," I said, through gritted teeth.

The text also just grows increasingly garbled. For instance, here it says that our new subway system will streamline the rush-hour commute, but about halfway down, it's a series of nearly indecipherable glyphs our experts insist hint at "non-Euclidian emotions" and "appeasement" (though we think this may be a euphemism for "fares").

He keeps notebooks full of symbols and glyphs, working through his old notes and finding new elements to consider. He carries smaller volumes with him at all times, transcribing them into larger ones once they are filled.

Before the spread of alphabetic writing, systems making much use of logograms were more common and included Egyptian hieroglyphs, Maya glyphs, and Sumerian cuneiform.

Poison is a glyph for magical power itself: complex, concentrated, liberated in the hands of the elect, and disastrous in the hands of the fool. Its very nature is transmutative, changing all it touches, the maker and breaker of laws, policies, and epidemiological systems.

And so, Navani painted a prayer onto the stones themselves, sending her attendants for more ink. She paced off the size of the glyph as she continued its border, making it enormous, spreading her ink onto the tan rocks. Soldiers gathered around, Sadeas stepping from his canopy, watching her paint, her back to the sun as she crawled on the ground and furiously dipped her brushpen into the ink jars. What was a prayer, if not creation? Making something where nothing existed. Creating a wish out of despair, a plea out of anguish. Bowing one's back before the Almighty, and forming humility from the empty pride of a human life. Something from nothing. True creation. Her tears mixed with the the ink. She went through four jars. She crawled, holding her safehand to the ground, brushing the stones and smearing ink on her cheeks when she wiped the tears. When she finally finished, she knelt back before a glyph twenty paces long, emblazoned as if in blood. The wet ink reflected sunlight, and she fired it with a candle; the ink was made to burn whether wet or dry. The flames burned across the length of the prayer, killing it and sending its soul to the Almighty.

What I was thinking, in that strange way you can think without words while you are dancing, think in glyphs, think in numbers, was how stupid it is that any of us are here, living. What an absurd game we play with ourselves, as if it mattered. We are all mad, all insane, all deluded. It is all for nothing, really, in the end.

Atavistic resurgence, a primal urge towards union with the Divine by returning to the common source of all, is indicated by the backward symbolism peculiar to all Sabbath ceremonies, as also of many ideas connected with witchcraft, sorcery and magic. Whether it be the symbol of the moon presiding over nocturnal ecstasies; the words of power chanted backwards; the back-to-back dance performed in opposition to the sun's course; the devil's tail - are all instances of reversal and symbolic of Will and Desire turning within and down to subconscious regions, to the remote past, there to surprise the required atavistic energy for purposes of transformation, healing, initiation, construction or destruction.

The early Sumerian pictograph for god was an asterisk, the symbol of the stars. The early Aztec word for god was Teotl, and its glyph was a representation of the Sun. The heavens were called Teoatl, the godsea, the cosmic ocean.

Why," Rapunzel asked, "did the Black want to become mortality? Why make humans who can die if you can make fairies? What's the point?" Glyph smiled a little. "You have joined the great search," she said. "For what?" "The answer.

Alex thrust her hand and half her arm into the labyrinth of light. Her stare blanked, and in the halo of the matrix her eyes and glyphs blazed so radiantly she looked as if she were being consumed by a primordial fire. “She just stuck her hand into Machim Command’s central server matrix!” Caleb smiled, watching on in blatant awe. “She does that.

What did you want?" Rapunzel asked. "To speak with you," said Glyph. "To tell you things and see if you can hear them, or if you are beyond salvaged, and my faith has grown since I met you, for though you are selfish and ignorant, your heart is good.

An old man emerged from the ditch, a creature Of mud and wild autumn winds capering Like a hare across a bouldered field, across And through the stillness of time unhinged That sprawls patient and unexpected in the Place where battle lies spent, unmoving and Never again moving bodies strewn and Death-twisted like lost languages tracking Contorted glyphs on a barrow door, and he read well the aftermath, the disarticulated script Rent and dissolute the pillars of self toppled Like termite towers all spilled out round his Dancing feet, and he shouted in gleeful Revelation the truth he'd found, in these Red-fleshed pronouncements - “There is peace!” He shrieked. “There is peace!” and it was No difficult thing, where I sat in the saddle Above salt-rimed horseflesh to lift my crossbow Aim and loose the quarrel, skewering the madman To his proclamation. “Now,” said I, in the Silence that followed, “Now, there is peace.

To pragmatists, the letter Z is nothing more than a phonetically symbolic glyph, a minor sign easily learned, readily assimilated, and occasionally deployed in the course of a literate life. To cynics, Z is just an S with a stick up its butt. Well, true enough, any word worth repeating is greater than the sum of its parts; and the particular word-part Z can, from a certain perspective, appear anally wired. On those of us neither prosaic nor jaded, however, those whom the Fates have chosen to monitor such things, Z has had an impact above and beyond its signifying function. A presence in its own right, it’s the most distant and elusive of our twenty-six linguistic atoms; a mysterious, dark figure in an otherwise fairly innocuous lineup, and the sleekest little swimmer ever to take laps in a bowl of alphabet soup. Scarcely a day of my life has gone by when I’ve not stirred the alphabetical ant nest, yet every time I type or pen the letter Z, I still feel a secret tingle, a tiny thrill… Z is a whip crack of a letter, a striking viper of a letter, an open jackknife ever ready to cut the cords of convention or peel the peach of lust. A Z is slick, quick, arcane, eccentric, and always faintly sinister - although its very elegance separates it from the brutish X, that character traditionally associated with all forms of extinction. If X wields a tire iron, Z packs a laser gun. Zap! If X is Mike Hammer, Z is James Bond. If X marks the spot, Z avoids the spot, being too fluid, too cosmopolitan, to remain in one place. In contrast to that prim, trim, self-absorbed supermodel, I, or to O, the voluptuous, orgasmic, bighearted slut, were Z a woman, she would be a femme fatale, the consonant we love to fear and fear to love.

Boaderland: Where women could be given away by their husbands to pay debts, and young, rowdy gallants from Wonderland, fresh from the rigors of formal education, came to indulge themselvs in roving pleasure tents; where maps were useless because the nation consisted wholly of nomadic camps, settlements, towns and cities, and a visitor might find the country's capital, Boarderton, situated in the cool sgadows of the Glyph Cliffs one day but spread out along Fortune Bay the next.

12. Each symbol, moreover, admits of interpretation upon the different planes, and through its astrological associations can be related to the gods of any pantheon, thus opening up vast new fields of implication in which the mind ranges endlessly, symbol leading on to symbol in an unbroken chain of associations; symbol confirming symbol as the many-branching threads gather themselves together into a synthetic glyph once more, and each symbol capable of interpretation in terms of whatever plane the mind may be functioning upon. 13. This mighty, all-embracing glyph of the soul of man and of the universe, by virtue of its logical association of symbols, evokes images in the mind; but these images are not randomly evolved, but follow along well-defined association-tracks in the Universal Mind. The symbol of the Tree is to the Universal Mind what the dream is to the individual ego; it is a glyph synthesized from subconsciousness to represent the hidden forces.

The insistence that healthcare finance must be obtuse, that we must be condemned to illness because of an untranslatable series of runes and glyphs accessible only to a specialized wonk class—that it just has to be hard and thus anything that isn’t hard isn’t a solution—is a kind of epistemic violence against us non-wonk humans.*4 It is a lack of ambition, disguised as pragmatism. So let’s start simple. Here’s single-payer in one sentence: we pool the money we already pay to insurance companies and use it to insure everyone, in full, with no cost-sharing.

Having committed the glyph to memory, I returned to my original spot across from him, and it was from there that I happened to glance downward, catching sight of the massive bulge in his leathers. Dear god.

Metu Neter language which translates as “the Writings or words of God.” In this day and age, the language is more commonly referred to as “hieroglyphics,” (hiero = holy or sacred) + (glyphs = carvings or writings).

For the age of the voice is over and we in the age of the written mark. The word on stone, the word on parchment, the word on cloth, the word that is even greater than the glyph, for the word provoke a sound in the mouth.

Blood magic glyphs lit up over his arms and while part of me wanted to finish the job, to stop whatever healing he was trying to perform, I had more important matters. Mordred wasn’t going anywhere until he’d managed to heal himself.

Transcendental artists are messengers. Their symbolic vocabulary originates from the infinite wisdom of higher spheres, in a non-referential time/space continuum... the way of the shaman. The presence of glyphs speaks a universal language of the soulthat transcends words. If one considers the notion of parallel realities and the plurality of dimensional realms, the premise of art as "consciousness-provoking vessel" can be viewed as an organic and natural occurrence.

Back in the early years, before the war, there'd been another set of words up on that sign: COME IN AND LOOK AROUND— YOU MIGHT SEE SOMETHING THAT LIKES YOU, surrounded by a ring of arcane— and, Ringil always suspected, fake— Aldrain glyphs.

Key traits are a large x-height, strict geometry, and the infamous leaning letters and ligatures that allow extra tight fitting words. These glyphs are often abused, leading Ed Benguiat to famously declare, “The only place Avant Garde looks good is in the words ‘Avant Garde.

In addition to this it must be remembered that what is positive on the physical plane is negative on the astral plane; it is positive again on the mental plane and negative on the spiritual plane, as is indicated in the twining black and white serpents of the Caduceus of Mercury. If this Caduceus be placed upon the Tree when the Tree is marked off to represent the Four Worlds of the Qabalists, a glyph is formed which reveals the workings of the Law of Polarity in relation to the Planes. This is a very important glyph, and yields a great deal to meditation.

I let the monster take over. My lips moved and I spoke the words I’d heard before, words that would unlock the ultimate power—words that Alex spoke once before. I didn’t understand how this worked. I also didn’t care. “Θάρρος.” Courage. A shock rippled across my body, followed by a wealth of warmth. Determination poured into my chest. “Δύναµη,” I said. Strength. Another jolt of power hit me, charging me up. The warmth turned to heat, invading my muscles, breaking them down and rebuilding them rapidly. Someone shouted, a high-pitched scream. There was a yell, a rougher and heavier gasp. I kept going as I stepped forward, through the shades circling Atlas. “Απόλυτη εξουσία.” Absolute power. Amber light radiated through the room. Screams pitched higher as every cell in my body hummed with power. Glyphs appeared on my skin, swirling fast. The shades flew backward, revealing a transfixed Atlas. I finished it. “Αήττητο.

I don't really have parents. I have parasitic ancestors who refuse to die." -Halcyon Smith (Hero is a Man)

She closed her eyes and could feel the Earth talking, could hear it talking itself into being. The generosity of this energy – pure in the darkness, pure in the cold air and in the hot smell – it flowed into the glyphs as it flowed so generously into all of life. It filled the polluted incantations here as the pure river continues to flow unguarded into the polluted bay.

All spellforms— for spells, glyphs, wards, and enchantments alike— fundamentally serve the same purpose of guiding mana in specific patterns that generate effects. Each does it in an entirely different frame of reference, however. Spells operate in reference to the self, wards operate in reference to a spatial location, and enchantments operate in reference to the properties of the material they’re worked into.

There was one panicked moment. He picked a book from the wall, and the shapes inside, all the letters, were friends to him; but as he settled before them and began to mouth and mutter them, waiting for them to sound as words in his head, they were all gibberish. He grew frantic very quickly, fearing that he had lost what it was he had gained.t pieced it together into a different language. Shekel was dumbstruck at the realization that these glyphs he had conquered could do the same job for so many peoples who could not understand each other at all. He grinned as he thought about it. He was glad to share. He opened more foreign volumes, making or trying to make the noises that the letters spelled and laughing at how strange they sounded. He looked carefully at the pictures and cross-referenced them again, tentatively he concluded that in this lanugage, this particular clutch of letters meant 'boat' and this other set 'moon'. ....he reached new shelving and opened a book whose script was like nothing he knew. He laughed, delighted at its strange curves. He moved off further and found yet another alphabet. And a little way off there was another. For hours he found intrigue and astonishment by exploring the non-Ragamoll shelves. He found in those meaningless words and illegible alphabets not only an awe at the world, but the remnants of the fetishism to which he had been subjected before, when all books had existed for him as those did now, only as mute objects with mass and dimension and color, but without content. .... He gazedc at the books in Base and High Kettai and Sunglari and Lubbock and Khadohi with a kind of fascinated nostalgia for his own illiteracy, without for a fraction of a moment missing it.

When Merikh crouched down and carefully pulled the rug back, Loralee instinctively retreated a few steps. Green fog began to emanate from Merikh’s fingertips. It thickened as it touched the ground. After a moment, the fog completed a circle around the stain. Strange glyphs that resembled the ones from the raven scroll ran along the outside rim of the circle. “It would seem a history lesson is in order,” Merikh said...The room went cold. Not the sort of cold that happened when Merikh grew irritable. The sort of cold that cut to Loralee’s bones and made them feel brittle. Her joints ached when she brought her hands to her bare arms. Even when she rubbed her skin, she couldn’t make them warm. It was only after that realization that Loralee came to another one: the room was dark, as if the sun were setting.

Lady Harris's Fool is a cornucopia of sacred images, many of which reveal themselves only after long meditation (and the aid of a magnifying glass). He bursts into midair of existence from behind three swirling rings that issue from and return to his heart. These are the three veils of negativity (Ain, Ain Soph, and Ain Soph Aur)23 that Qabalists teach gave birth to the singularity of creation. His satchel is filled with the entire universe in the form of planetary and zodiacal coins. The Fool is the Holy Spirit itself. The dove, symbol of the Holy Spirit; the butterfly, symbol of transformation; winged globe, symbol of Mercurial air; and the Egyptian vulture-goddess Mauf24 pour from the Holy Grail in the Fool's right hand. Like the Virgin Mary, Maut became impregnated by the spirit (breath) of the wind. “The whole picture,” Crowley tells us, “is a glyph of the creative light.

Eeh, but whah’s the use, the fuckin’ use?” Dixon resting his head briefly tho’ audibly upon the Table. “It’s over . . . ? Nought left to us but Paper-work . . . ?” Their task has shifted, from Direct Traverse upon the Line to Pen-and-Paper Representation of it, in the sober Day-Light of Philadelphia, strain’d thro’ twelve-by-twelve Sash-work, as in the spectreless Light of the Candles in their Rooms, suffering but the fretful Shadows of Dixon at the Drafting Table, and Mason, seconding now, reading from Entries in the Field-Book, as Dixon once minded the Clock for him. Finally, one day, Dixon announces, “Well,— won’t thee at least have a look . . . ?” Mason eagerly rushes to inspect the Map of the Boundaries, almost instantly boggling, for there bold as a Pirate’s Flag is an eight-pointed Star, surmounted by a Fleur-de-Lis. “What’s this thing here? pointing North? Wasn’t the l’Grand flying one of these? Doth it not signify, England’s most inveterately hated Rival? France?” “All respect, Mason,— among Brother and Sister Needle-folk in ev’ry Land, ’tis known universally, as the ‘Flower-de-Luce.’ A Magnetickal Term.” “ ‘Flower of Light’? Light, hey? Sounds Encyclopedistick to me, perhaps even Masonick,” says Mason. A Surveyor’s North-Point, Dixon explains, by long Tradition, is his own, which he may draw, and embellish, in any way he pleases, so it point where North be. It becomes his Hall-Mark, personal as a Silver-Smith’s, representative of his Honesty and Good Name. Further, as with many Glyphs, ’tis important ever to keep Faith with it,— for an often enormous Investment of Faith, and Will, lies condens’d within, giving it a Potency in the World that the Agents of Reason care little for. “ ’Tis an ancient Shape, said to go back to the earliest Italian Wind-Roses,” says Dixon, “— originally, at the North, they put the Letter T, for Tramontane, the Wind that blew down from the Alps . . . ? Over the years, as ever befalls such frail Bric-a-Brack as Letters of the Alphabet, it was beaten into a kind of Spear-head,— tho’ the kinder-hearted will aver it a Lily, and clash thy Face, do tha deny it.” “Yet some, finding it upon a new Map, might also take it as a reassertion of French claims to Ohio,” Mason pretends to remind him. “Aye, tha’ve found me out, I confess,— ’tis a secret Message to all who conspire in the Dark! Eeh! The old Jesuit Canard again!

the walls came alive with brightly hued paintings of ibis-headed men and lion-headed women. We moved along a dazzling corridor covered with Gods, Goddesses, solar disks, and all-seeing eyes. There were boats, birds, chariots, harps, plows, and rainbow wings—thousands of glyphs. I had the sensation of floating through a storied world. When we arrived in the first hall, I could barely take in the sprawling room with its cubicles reaching toward the ceiling, each one labeled and stuffed with scrolls and leather-bound codices. Enheduanna’s exaltation to Inanna was likely in here, as well as at least a few works by female Greek philosophers. It seemed absurd to think my own writings might be housed here one day, too, but I stood there and let myself imagine it. As we moved from hall to hall, I became aware of young men in short white tunics dashing about, some carrying armloads of papyri, others on ladders arranging scrolls in cubicles or dusting them with tufts of feathers. I noticed that Lavi watched them intently. “You are very quiet,” Yaltha said, sidling next to me. “Is the library all you hoped?” “It’s a holy of holies,” I said. And it was, but I could feel the tiny lump of anger tucked beneath my awe. A half million scrolls and codices were within these walls, and all but a handful were by men. They had written the known world.

Matthew, we need your help. What do we do?” “Look at my new kicks.” He raised one boot. “Finn said I’m ballin’ like a pimp now.” Then he frowned. “Good thing?” “Yes, yes, but—” “He took care of me when you abandoned me.” God, the guilt. In a rush, I said, “I thought you’d be safer at Finn’s than going back out on the road with me! You know how dangerous it’ll be to reach the coast.” But then, I’d believed that before I’d understood how lethal I could be. “Dangerous Empress!” “This isn’t working!” “Tapped out.” My glyphs were dark, the fuel gauge blinking E. Selena’s hand shot out and smacked my face. “What the hell?” When I raised my palm to my cheek, she slapped the other one harder. I felt my glyphs stirring. “If you don’t want these cards to die, then get to work, Evie! You need to look like the Empress of Old, slithery and creepy and sexy all at the same time.” “Touch me again, and you’ll see slithery and creepy—” With her enhanced speed, she shoved me back before I could even react. I tripped over my pack, landing on my ass. “You bitch!” I bounded up, thorn claws bared. “That’s it! Sell it, sister, or we are dead!” I gazed down at my body, at my skin glowing through the fabric of my clothes. Sharp emotions like fury and utter terror always sparked my powers; Selena had pissed me off enough to give me a jump-start. I narrowed my eyes at Matthew. “This is why you want me angry, terrified, and sad for the rainy season?” Blank smile.

come to call “ideograms.” An ideogram is often a pictorial character that refers not to the visible entity that it explicitly pictures but to some quality or other phenomenon readily associated with that entity. Thus—to invent a simple example—a stylized image of a jaguar with its feet off the ground might come to signify “speed.” For the Chinese, even today, a stylized image of the sun and moon together signifies “brightness”; similarly, the word for “east” is invoked by a stylized image of the sun rising behind a tree.5 The efficacy of these pictorially derived systems necessarily entails a shift of sensory participation away from the voices and gestures of the surrounding landscape toward our own human-made images. However, the glyphs which constitute the bulk of these ancient scripts continually remind the reading body of its inherence in a more-than-human field of meanings. As signatures not only of the human form but of other animals, trees, sun, moon, and landforms, they continually refer our senses beyond the strictly human sphere.6 Yet even a host of pictograms and related ideograms will not suffice for certain terms that exist in the local discourse. Such terms may refer to phenomena that lack any precise visual association. Consider, for example, the English word “belief.” How might we signify this term in a pictographic, or ideographic, manner? An image of a phantasmagorical monster, perhaps, or one of a person in prayer. Yet no such ideogram would communicate the term as readily and precisely as the simple image of a bumblebee, followed by the figure of a leaf. We could, that is, resort to a visual pun, to images of things that have nothing overtly to do with belief but which, when named in sequence, carry the same sound as the spoken term “belief” (“bee-leaf”). And indeed, such pictographic puns, or rebuses, came to be employed early on by scribes in ancient China and in Mesoamerica as well as in the Middle East, to record certain terms that were especially amorphous or resistant to visual representation. Thus, for instance, the Sumerian word ti, which means

Capricorn taught me that this realm is called Autumnal by its faithful. Autumnal is not a place, but an eternal moment. It is a state of being where one’s innermost nature weds perfectly with some neglected corner of the natural world. Autumnal is smoke and damp air. It is illumed by a slaughtered sun whose rays are filtered through a perennial fog. This is the Greylight; the guttering fallow of the underworld glyphed in the natural world of matter and form.

Merikh’s shamshir cut across the Emani’s chest, barely grazing the man. Loralee could see only a thin cut from his torn kameez. The Emani stumbled back, his eyes wide in abject horror. The glyphs on Merikh’s shamshir glowed green. The blade turned black, as if made of shadow. From the Emani’s wound, necrotic fog began to pour. A moment later, it took the form of a man. Loralee’s breath caught in her throat.

Twenty and fifty-two? I’m sorry, but eww! Although perhaps I’m not one to point fingers, since the boy I’m dating is sixteen going on five thousand.—Sadie

Your zodiac symbol is the Virgin, and even your zodiac glyph, the character that represents your sign, looks like you have your legs crossed. Add to this the fact that you have a reputation for being prim and proper, and it’s no wonder that other people don’t expect you to be overly interested in sex. This is not necessarily the truth, although there is a side of your Virgo nature that’s willing to sacrifice yourself for a higher purpose. Take Queen Elizabeth I (7 September), for example, who reigned in the sixteenth century. A Sun Virgo, she earned the title ‘The Virgin Queen’. One of the more positive definitions of the word ‘virgin’ has nothing to do with chastity, but rather describes a woman who does not need a man because she is entirely self-sufficient and self-contained. This can apply to both sexes and, as a Sun Virgo, you may at certain times in your life choose to pursue other activities unrelated to physical pleasures.

Realistically speaking, every teenaged girl spends a lot of time convinced that something is deeply, profoundly wrong with her, and I was no exception. All the world hates a girl, in special and vicious ways that goes way beyond even the mountain of shit we shovel onto young dudes. They get toxic masculinity and we get “you throw like a girl” and “scream like a girl” and “you’re such a pretty girl.” Mansplaining and creepers on BART and whistling out of car windows. I internalized the full measure of girl-hating, hating the sound of my recorded voice, the sight of my photographed face, my own body in the mirror. I hated my handwriting, the loopy letters I’d taught myself to draw when we first moved to America and I’d had to unlearn Russian and figure out the strange English glyphs all the perfect girls could write perfectly. I hated my hair and the way I walked. I hated my tits and I hated my bras. I hated my mother and I hated all the girls in the world, more than anything. Even more than boys. I don’t believe I was special in this regard. There’s a lot of self-hating girls out there in the world. We’re the secret, seething, silent majority. Some starve. Some cut. Some try to screw their way to happiness. Me, I idolized strong, powerful women who seemed to have risen above it all. Never mind that they were drunks or sadists or war criminals. They were leaning in, doin’ it for themselves, and that was what counted. Compared to being trapped in girlhood, alcoholism and war crimes were small potatoes. (less)

They were short and delicate, designed for dual wielding, as I preferred. They were impossibly light for their size. The blades curved gracefully, polished black steel with red marks etched into the flat—long swirls of decorative smoke and stark, staccato glyphs locked in a dance.

They were short and delicate, designed for dual wielding, as I preferred. They were impossibly light for their size. The blades curved gracefully, polished black steel with red marks etched into the flat—long swirls of decorative smoke and stark, staccato glyphs locked in a dance. The hilts—silver, topped with two interlocking moons—welcomed my hands as if they had been waiting for me my entire life.

Why," Rapunzel asked, "did the Black want to become mortality? Why make humans who can die if you can make fairies? What's the point?" Glyph smiled a little. "You have joined the great search," she said. "For what?" "The answer.

Carter still sounds like he’s gagging when he tries to do spells, poor lamb.—Sadie

BSB! I hate that demon! I bet he’d lend a blade to our worst enemy in a heartbeat. I’m glad he’s still deep in the Duat.—Sadie BSB! I LOVE THAT DEMON! I BET HE’D LEND ME A BLADE AGAINST THE KANES IN AN IB-BEAT. WHICH IS WHY I’M GOING TO PAY HIM A LITTLE VISIT DEEP IN THE DUAT. —SETNE

I know several writers who have this glyph taped above their writing desks. I know one who carries it folded up inside her shoe. It is from a poem by Charles Simic and it is the ultimate instruction to us all: "He who cannot howl, will not find his pack.

Those are called inflection glyphs, and they mark the conjugation of verbs and declension of nouns, adjectives, and pronouns. In formal writing, they’re usually colored to make them easier to see—and also for aesthetics—but in calligraphy, they’re often omitted for a more elegant outline. Also, by changing the height or angle of the logograms, a writer can indicate tone, emphasis, and—but we’re now probably getting too advanced. You’ll pick these up in time.

Then Sahar directed our attention to the glyphs carved in its trunk: the calling card of a local Israeli militia. Sahar explained that these militiamen come as the feeling strikes them, vandalizing the land they believe to be their homeland, given to them by God.

Irritation pricked at my skin, causing the glyphs to agitate restlessly across it. Apollo and I had a history—a very bad history. He couldn’t kill me. I wasn’t sure how any of the Olympian gods could kill me, but I knew they would, eventually. Just not yet— they still needed me. “What do you want?” He tilted his head to the side. “One of these days you will speak to me with respect, Apollyon.” “One of these days you will realize I don’t respect you.” A tight smile appeared on the god’s lips, a hide-your-kids-and-loved-ones kind of smile, but since I had neither of those things, I wasn’t intimidated. “We need to chat.

Two friends, Matt Gray and Tom Scott, set up a website in 2014 where people could communicate only via emojis—even usernames were strings of emojis. It was a joke, but nonetheless, sixty thousand people signed up; Gray and Scott began taking confused calls from investors who thought their site was an ambitious new tech startup. Meanwhile, a data engineer called Fred Benenson pushed things to nosebleed heights by attempting to translate Moby-Dick into emojis. True to the platform age, Benenson did not do the translation work himself, but crowd-sourced it on Amazon Mechanical Turk, where he had thousands of volunteers each translate a little bit of the text. The finished work—Emoji Dick—can be purchased for $200 in hardcover or $5 as a PDF. Meanwhile, Benenson hopes to build an emoji translation engine that will allow all literature to be turned into digi-glyphs.

A few years ago Stan was studying the Mayan codices in the British Museum Library when he spotted a glyph that a Christian scholar had identified as a “night light” (i.e., the artificial light of candles or paraffin), but which he believed was actually a cross section of the yage vine, a component of ayahuasca. Finding it curious that there were carvings of kings from separate generations sitting together eating, he translated a codex that gave what he interpreted as a recipe for time travel, using the yage.

But . . . this door is allayed with a sign,” Onranion pointed out, waving his hand in front of it and singing a few words. A pale blue Alkan glyph appeared. “What does it say?” “Our language indicates, with layers of inference and context, a particular meaning,” Onranion lectured. “Our symbols don’t merely ‘say’, they truly inform. But only those who understand those subtle contexts, those who can make the proper inferences of meaning – and all of the possible shades of that meaning.” “So what subtle concept does this particular glyph indicate?” asked Mavone, studying the squiggly blue line dancing in the air. “‘To the Dungeon,’” supplied Lilastien, with a snicker. “And the context?” prompted Hance. “Uh . . . ‘this way' to the dungeon? It’s down 'these' stairs?’” suggested Mavone. “More or less,” Onranion shrugged.

How far in the future TPMR [The Pleasure Model Repairman] is set is a trickier issue. The question goes right to the center of the maze, where the walls are painted with the glyphs of the thematic archetypes that matter to me most. Perception of time, the interplay of memory and identity, nostalgia as societal glue, and the pulpy residue of the-more-things-change-the-more-they-stay-the-same. Of course, there is a straightforward answer that skirts all this voodoo babble, and it’s that this world must be very far into the future, indeed, given the sophistication of artificial beings and the sprawling family of development worlds called Earth.

idly fingering the glyphs on his forehead.

This torn typography of healed glyphs a stuttered ancient alphabet in skin spells warrior tales of battles lost and gained and homecomings hard won their meaning barely touched with fingertips and gentle lips to give them honor due survivors home to hearth and loving arms far-eyed survivors who hear yet the clash of arms from distant corners of the sky.

Structure of the Calendar When we talk about the Mayan Calendar, we are really talking about two calendars—one that measures ordinary time, and one that measures sacred time. These two calendars interpenetrate in such a way as to integrate and synthesize the secular and sacred dimensions of reality. In this book we shall be primarily concerned with the measure of ritual time, usually called the tzolk’in and sometimes referred to as the Ritual Almanac or Divinatory Almanac. We do not know what the ancient Maya called this ritual or sacred aspect of the Calend a r . M o s t s c h o l a r s u s e t h e Y u c a t e c t e r m t z o l k’i n (f ro m tzol = count and k’in = day, hence "count of days"), but this term may not have been used by the Classic Maya and is in fact based on the equivalent K’iche’ term ch’olq’ij. 1 The tzolk’in is a unique method of reckoning time. It consists of twenty named days combined with thirteen numbers. Each day-name is repeated thirteen times during the Calendar cycle, for a total of 260 days (13 x 20 = 260). The twenty days, with their glyphs, directional correspondences, Mayan names, and some of their most common English meanings, are shown here as “The Names of the Days.

Each type of magic corresponds to a different color glyph—white for air, orange for fire, green for earth, and blue for water.

Memorizing Qur'an without studying it renders the text as a Talisman in the hands of its user; in Islam this is forbidden and is treated as a mark of Polytheism. Words convey contextual meanings to man, therefore, God's Word is only allowed to be treated as a Message; once touched by man, she/he is ordered to transport it into her/his mind and not only into her/his brain. That is why Symbols are a mediocre tool for conducting language because they paralyze the brain with their glyphs rather than excite the mind.

Lady Meliara?” There was a tap outside the door, and Oria’s mother, Julen, lifted the tapestry. Oria and I both stared in surprise at the three long sticks she carried so carefully. “More Fire Sticks?” I asked. “In midwinter?” “Just found them outside the gate.” Julen laid them down, looked from one of us to the other, and went out. Oria grinned at me. “Maybe they’re a present. You did save the Covenant last year, and the Hill Folk know it.” “I didn’t do it,” I muttered. “All I did was make mistakes.” Oria crossed her arms. “Not mistakes. Misunderstandings. Those, at least, can be fixed. Which is all the more reason to go to Court--” “And what?” I asked sharply. “Get myself into trouble again?” Oria stood silently, and suddenly I was aware of the social gulf between us, and I knew she was as well. It happened like that sometimes. We’d be working side by side, cleaning or scraping or carrying, and then a liveried equerry would dash up the road with a letter, and suddenly I was the countess and she the servant who waited respectfully for me to read my letter and discuss it or not as I saw fit. “I’m sorry,” I said immediately, stuffing the Marquise’s letter into the pocket of my faded, worn old gown. “You know how I feel about Court, even if Bran has changed his mind.” “I promise not to jaw on about it again, but let me say it this once. You need to make your peace,” Oria said quietly. “You left your brother and the Marquis without so much as a by-your-leave, and I think it’s gnawing at you. Because you keep watching that road.” I felt my temper flare, but I didn’t say anything because I knew she was right. Or half right. And I wasn’t angry with her. I tried my best to dismiss my anger and force myself to smile. “Perhaps you may be right, and I’ll write to Bran by and by. But here, listen to this!” And I picked up the book I’d been reading before the letter came. “This is one of the ones I got just before the snows closed the roads: ‘And in several places throughout the world there are caves with ancient paintings and Iyon Daiyin glyphs.’” I looked up from the book. “Doesn’t that make you want to jump on the back of the nearest horse and ride and ride until you find these places?” Oria shuddered. “Not me. I like it fine right here at home.” “Use your imagination!” I read on. “‘Some of the caves depict constellations never seen in our skies--’” I stopped when we heard the pealing of bells. Not the melodic pattern of the time changes, but the clang of warning bells at the guardhouse just down the road. “Someone’s coming!” I exclaimed. Oria nodded, brows arched above her fine, dark eyes. “And the Hill Folk saw them.” She pointed at the Fire Sticks. “‘Them?’” I repeated, then glanced at the Fire Sticks and nodded. “Means a crowd, true enough.” Julen reappeared then, and tapped at the door. “Countess, I believe we have company on the road.” She looked in, and I said, “I hadn’t expected anyone.” Then my heart thumped, and I added, “It could be the fine weather has melted the snows down-mountain--d’you think it might be Branaric at last? I don’t see how it could be anyone else!” “Branaric needs three Fire Sticks?” Oria asked. “Maybe he’s brought lots of servants?” I suggested doubtfully. “Perhaps his half year at Court has given him elaborate tastes, ones that only a lot of servants can see to. Or he’s hired artisans from the capital to help forward our work on the castle. I hope it’s artisans,” I added. “Either way, we’ll be wanted to find space for these newcomers,” Julen said to her daughter. She picked up the Fire Sticks again and looked over her shoulder at me. “You ought to put on one of those gowns of your mother’s that we remade, my lady.” “For my brother?” I laughed, pulling my blanket closer about me as we slipped out of my room. “I don’t need to impress him, even if he has gotten used to Court ways!

He looks me up and down and I can tell he isn’t impressed. I smile at his reaction. “Who are you to trespass in my territory and kill one of my men?” His voice sounds cultured, like he went to some expensive college. Do they have those in Aether, I wonder idly as I step closer. “Rothgrun, isn’t it?” Like I’m not sure. “It is.” I nod. “Yeah, well, I’m the guy who’s going to kill you and your men if you don’t get out of my way.” Treflynn clears his throat behind me; Rothgrun’s eyes widen. I flick a glance down at myself; the glyphs reappear all over my body with a rush of power. “What manner of beast are you?” Rothgrun murmurs. “Right now, one that’s in a hurry.” I step over the finally dead Von and the bully backs up. “I really don’t have time for this. There’s a girl out there who needs my help and I have to get to her.” His eyes search mine. “The Protector. We have heard about you. You may pass.” I motion the others forward and he stops me. “Just you.” I chuckle, then take another step toward him. “No. All of us pass, or all of you die.” “I do not believe you can kill all of us before we kill you.” I flex my fists and let a little of that old demon charm leak into my expression. “You willing to find out? Cause I am. And I’ll start with you.

I make a series of sigils — charged magical glyphs — which are said to work through the power of your unconscious mind, like positive thinking or self-hypnosis. To make a sigil, you simply write down a statement of desire as if it has already occurred, then cross out all vowels and repeating letters. With the letters that remain, you create a design meant to estrange the writing from itself and cause you to forget what your desire was.

She sits back in her chair and thumbs her lip, like she’s organizing her thoughts. When she speaks, she sounds older. Weary. “People like us‒half-breeds‒we walk in two worlds. Most times we’re not accepted in either, but the worst part is, we don’t accept ourselves. We try to bury half our nature to blend in, but that only works for so long. Eventually we have to come to terms with who and what we are. We’re not one or the other. We’re both. Unique. That’s what I learned. Now I have to figure out where I fit into their world.” “Is that why you sit here in the corner of a hunters’ bar getting drunk alone?” She shrugs and polishes off another glassful. “Nope. I sit here because they keep me human. Without them, it would be too easy to revert to my nonhuman side.” I shudder at the truth of that statement. “So this enlightenment, how did it happen?” “You afraid of something?” “No, I just…well, I’m looking for answers.” “Each man must walk his own path,” she quotes as if from some ancient wisdom. I try not to, but I roll my eyes. She grins and refills the glass. The bottle is already half gone. “We all have this innate sense of our portal. How we pass from this realm to the next.” “What do you mean, ‘we’?” “Nephilim. But I’m sure it’s the same with all souled beings.” Something inside me stills. How much does she know about that, and where did she learn it? “I’m not sure I follow you,” I say cautiously. She grabs my wrist and yanks my arm closer, her eyes boring into mine. Instinct awakens the demon-learned threat response while the protective glyphs on my body start to flare. She’s about a half second away from a personal demonstration of what I am. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. Things we know but we’re not supposed to remember. Memories. Abilities. Knowledge. It’s all there.” She lets go of my arm and points to her head. “Usually just out of reach. And here’s the kicker. You know why you can’t grab those memories? It’s not because someone wiped them out. We did this to ourselves. This is what we wanted.

The wash of so many peoples had left behind a complex detritus: ruined strongholds; graves and tombs; steles carved with cryptic glyphs: songs, dances, turns of speech, fragments of dialect, place-names; ceremonies of purport now forgotten, but with lingering flavour. There were dozens of cults and religions, diverse except that, in every case, a caste of priests interceded between laity and divinity.

What did you want?" Rapunzel asked. "To speak with you," said Glyph. "To tell you things and see if you can hear them, or if you are beyond salvaged, and my faith has grown since I met you, for though you are selfish and ignorant, your heart is good.

Oh, and in case you’re wondering, the idea of Horus being hosted by the fearsome warrior queen doesn’t bother me. I like strong women. My mom is one. So is my girlfriend. And Sadie? She just might be the most powerful of them all. Carter! I take back every mean thing I ever said about you! Which, I grant you, could take some time. It’s a long list. —Sadie

life,” was written in cuneiform with the pictorial sign for “arrow,” which in Sumerian is also called ti.7 An important step has been taken here. With the rebus, a pictorial sign is used to directly invoke a particular sound of the human voice, rather than the outward reference of that sound. The rebus, with its focus upon the sound of a name rather than the thing named, inaugurated the distant possibility of a phonetic script (from the Greek phonein: “to sound”), one that would directly transcribe the sound of the speaking voice rather than its outward intent or meaning.8 However, many factors impeded the generalization of the rebus principle, and thus prevented the development of a fully phonetic writing system. For example, a largely pictographic script can easily be utilized, for communicative purposes, by persons who speak very different dialects (and hence cannot understand one another’s speech). The same image or ideogram, readily understood, would simply invoke a different sound in each dialect. Thus a pictographic script allows for commerce between neighboring and even distant linguistic communities—an advance that would be lost if rebuslike signs alone were employed to transcribe the spoken sounds of one community. (This factor helps explain why China, a vast society comprised of a multitude of distinct dialects, has never developed a fully phonetic script.)9 Another factor inhibiting the development of a fully phonetic script was the often elite status of the scribes. Ideographic scripts must make use of a vast number of stylized glyphs or characters, since every term in the language must, at least in principle, have its own written character. (In 1716 a dictionary of Chinese—admittedly an extreme example—listed 40,545 written characters! Today a mere 8,000 characters are in use.)10 Complete knowledge of the pictographic system, therefore, could only be the province of a few highly trained individuals. Literacy, within such cultures, was in

come alive and to speak, had to be chosen by the reader, who would vary the sounded breath according to the written context. By this innovation, the aleph-beth was able to greatly reduce the necessary number of characters for a written script to just twenty-two—a simple set of signs that could be readily practiced and learned in a brief period by anyone who had the chance, even by a young child. The utter simplicity of this technical innovation was such that the early Semitic aleph-beth, in which were written down the various stories and histories that were later gathered into the Hebrew Bible, was adopted not only by the Hebrews but by the Phonecians (who presumably carried the new technology across the Mediterranean to Greece), the Aramaeans, the Greeks, the Romans, and indeed eventually gave rise (directly or indirectly) to virtually every alphabet known, including that which I am currently using to scribe these words. With the advent of the aleph-beth, a new distance opens between human culture and the rest of nature. To be sure, pictographic and ideographic writing already involved a displacement of our sensory participation from the depths of the animate environment to the flat surface of our walls, of clay tablets, of the sheet of papyrus. However, as we noted above, the written images themselves often related us back to the other animals and the environing earth. The pictographic glyph or character still referred, implicitly, to the animate phenomenon of which it was the static image; it was that worldly phenomenon, in turn, that provoked from us the sound of its name. The sensible phenomenon and its spoken name were, in a sense, still participant with one another—the name a sort of emanation of the sensible entity. With the phonetic aleph-beth, however, the written character no longer refers us to any sensible phenomenon out in the world, or even to the name of such a phenomenon (as with the rebus), but solely to a gesture to be made by the human mouth. There is a concerted shift of attention away from any outward or worldly reference of the pictorial image, away from the

design of circular glyphs on the floor and wall in all their esoteric

So?” Kaladin asked. “What’s the problem? Sigzil can read his own language. Storms, I can read glyphs.” “It’s not the same,” Skar said. “It’s feminine,” Drehy added. “Drehy,” Kaladin said, “you are literally courting a man.” “So?” Drehy said. “Yeah, what are you saying, Kal?” Skar snapped.

Yenekh sent nothing in return but glyphs of profound obedience, arranged with an immaculate balance of humility and flare. The fact the sequence could also be read in an obscure homeworld dialect from before biotransference, in which it would translate as 'took your fly-blown time', was surely an artefact of chance.

Just when you think you know a god, you discover something new and surprising.

An Angel is a perfect entity, it does not evolve. In a way, the lesser Angels are divine automata. In this they are superior to man but they do not have man's potentialities. Man has plucked the fruit of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil which makes him potentially a God, though only after a long period of travail being strung halfway between the condition of the Angels and the beasts. Man's Path is one of the equilibrium between the opposites, forging the pattern of his humanity. The bestial type of person is really no worse than the one who deviates to the side of the Angels and is 'too good to be true' - in fact the latter can be even more, and literally, inhumane. The glyph of the Pillars is very much of personal as well as Universal application.

My handwriting in Bangla is childlike, block-lettered. I think about the origin of our letters, traced back to the unadorned glyphs, lines, loops, and circles of ancient Brahmi, the root script of nearly all writing systems in South and Southeast Asia, from Bangla to Tamil to Thai, which spread across the subcontinent around 300 BCE. Brahmi has been found as inscriptions on rock edicts, on punched coins and potteries. Both South Asian and Western scholars have debated Brahmi’s origins, whether or not Brahmi is indigenous or derived from a Semitic script outside of South Asia. Western scholars prefer the latter explanation, anything to center themselves, rather than believe that the Indigenous Dravidian peoples of South Asia are the ones who created and spread the usage of Brahmi. Is naming the script Brahmi, the feminine form of Brahma, the divine Hindu masculine, a tacit acknowledgment that the way we come to know the language of our people, the language inside of us, how we learn to write and to speak our tongues, comes from our mothers?

He explained that a sorcerer’s magic is bound to two different schools. The first is Elemental—water, earth, fire, and air. Most users of magic start in this school; the magic I’d used in my target’s bedroom was air, hence the white glyphs, which crossed over my arms. Each type of magic corresponds to a different color glyph—white for air, orange for fire, green for earth, and blue for water.

Gerry reached up to smooth a bit of that snowy mane. The strands slipped through his fingers like silk to reveal a witch's mark, a spiral of olive-green stones that seemed to be a part of Ghost’s very forehead, shining against the translucent skin. Gerry had seen such marks before, peculiar glyphs burned into a witch's skin in vibrant jewel-tone inks to offer protection or enhance their power, or so the witches claimed. This was the first time he had seen actual jewels used, though. He thought it was beautiful, exotic like all of Ghost, with that white hair and those ice blue eyes. Gerry returned to admiring the peaceful face resting on his shoulder.

d) all of the above.

As the performers of the Haka stick out their tongues, they enact therewith what the lion glyph on the circular zodiac of Dendera is doing and which happens to be located on a significant temporal position as I've discovered earlier: that of the Winter Solstice.

Beyond, he could glimpse high, tumescent hills of unnaturally perfect smoothness, each crowned with an ivory-coloured column of stone. Between the hills ran valleys dense with pallid vegetation. Bank upon bank of cloud hung frozen in a still, pale sky. Though his vantage point commanded great distance, some curious distortion of perspective rendered everything - near and far - equally sharp to the eye. And nowhere could he see a shadow. It was as if he had stepped over the border of a wonderful and subtly disturbing illustration in some long-forgotten, childhood book. The land lay before him like a vast and awful glyph, waiting to be read, and he knew at once that he must go on, just a little further, or regret it all the days of his life. "The White Road

Grrr, Sadie! This question wasn’t in the original quiz! —Sadie

He prepared himself for the first glyph. Taking a deep breath, he aligned his mind with his goals, his will with his desires, and started down the winding path of power. A bolt of white sent his senses reeling in pain, and his nerves caught fire. Yellow shafts rained down on him, contorting his body into impossible forms. Orange beams seared his brain, a flood of cold that broke his essence. Red coils destroyed his thoughts, spiriting them away to the infinite. Blue spears cut into his flesh....Standing alone in a universe of pain, he drew his will about him, gathering himself into a shining star of desire that kept his shattered form from falling to despair.

I don’t know what an interrobang is.” “It’s a glyph that combines a question mark and an exclamation point.

Every glyph she inked was an act of defiance. A reclamation. A quiet war. The Church had taken everything. She wasn’t done taking it back.

Ugly alone is strong. Ugly plus a good scare word bellowed in the face of an attacker is unstoppable. Don’t worry if you haven’t found your special word yet. Get ugly, and it will come to you. Psst! Not sure if you’re ready to go full-on ugly? Test-drive looks with unglamorous glamours! Pass it on!

Sixty-two days, the glyphs read. Death follows.

May I ask what that one is?” I pointed to a scar, a complex symbol of curls and lines and dots contained within a circle. “I’m an empath. My mother had the same glyph.” “You feel the emotions of others?” I asked, studying the symbol.

And the glyph, or symbol, they used for setting the cosmos in motion was a whorl, the circle with a hole that is at the base of just about every hand-held spindle in the world.

I should have practiced more with the sword,” he muttered. Oh. That’s right. You probably want me to be a spear, don’t you? The weapon fuzzed to mist, then elongated and grew into the shape of a silvery spear, with glowing, swirling glyphs along the sharpened sides of the spearhead.

But what that information is, and how it was translated into symbolic form, remains a secret that the best minds of modern paleontology have been utterly unable to unlock. If the written word—which includes both simple forms like cuneiform or the Roman alphabet and complex forms like Egyptian hieroglyphics and Mayan glyphs—is the symbolic representation of information expressed in human speech, the petroglyphs of the Paleolithic rank as the earliest and most ancient forms of human writing ever found. Furthermore, they are the best evidence imaginable that the people who created these petroglyphs were using language.

In Eclipsoran every glyph carries a vibration, proof that sound itself can become peace.

In the highest chamber of the Temple, perched like a crown over the city, stood Varion “Vyre” Drayce, ritualist and scribe of sigils. He was slender and tall, shoulders squared; his hair the colour of wet ash, eyes sharp and grey. His hands, stained with rune‐ink, hovered over an ancient scroll. He traced lines with his finger, reading and re‑reading. The glyphs glowed faintly at his touch, responding to him, as if they recognized a maker.

By fire’s grace, by wind’s breath, By earth’s bond and water’s depth, Come forth Divine Regent, by glyph and oath, Renew this realm, preserve us both.

Vyre knelt before the ruined rune. He touched a glyph line with his rune‑knife, whispering corrective magic. The glyph flickered, then glowed steady under his blade.

Vyre knelt, drawing a cooling glyph, infusing water element, soothing her. Riaan helped. Tears in Selena’s eyes.

He inscribed a glyph of clarity: runes that bind illusion, suppress lies. The mirror glowed a soft blue. The reflection of Riaan’s twisted face softened, became correct.