Frida Kahlo Two Nudes in the Forest

Frida Kahlo Two Nudes in the ForestFrida Kahlo Self Portrait with Thorn NecklaceFrida Kahlo Self Portrait with Small MonkeyFrida Kahlo Portrait of Christina My SisterFrida Kahlo Fulang Chang and I
What’s to go wrong?’ said Dibbler. ‘There’s one road to Ankh­Morpork. Anyway, we’ll probably be well out of this stuff when we leave the coast. I don’t see why everyone’s so nervy. Fog’s fog.’
‘That’s what I say,’ said Victor, climbing into the coach.
‘It’s just a mercy we finished Blown Away yesterday,’ said Dibbler. ‘All this is probably just something seasonal. it, when cool air passes over warm ground, water is precipitated out of‑‘
‘You know what I mean! It’s not like normal fog at all! It – sort of drifts oddly,’ she finished lamely. ‘And you can nearly hear voices,’ she added.Nothing to worry about at all.’‘You said that before,’ said Soll. ‘You said it at least five times so far this morning.’Ginger was hunched on one seat, with Laddie lying underneath it. Victor slid along until he was next to her.‘Did you get any sleep?’ he whispered.‘Just an hour or two, I think,’ she said. ‘Nothing happened. No dream or anything.’Victor relaxed.‘Then it really is over,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t sure.’‘And the fog?’ she demanded.‘Sorry?’ said Victor guiltily.‘What’s causing the fog?’‘Well,’ said Victor, ‘as I understand

Benjamin Williams Leader The Wengen Alps Morning In Switzerland

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they wouldn’t bother what you walked over.’
‘Urgh.’
‘You haven’t got any idea why it’s all happening, have you?’ Victor said.
‘No! But I always get the same dream.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Hey, how come you know all this stuff?’
‘I ‑ a wizard told me, once,’ said Victor.
‘You’re not a wizard yourself?’
‘broadminded,’ said Ginger.
‘She is?’
‘She’ll just think we’re having sex,’ said Ginger.
‘Ah,’ said Victor hollowly. ‘That’s all right, then.’
‘Young Mr Dibbler don’t like being kept waiting,’ said Detritus.Absolutely not. No wizards in Holy Wood. And this dream?’‘Oh, it’s too strange to mean anything. Anyway, I used to dream it even when I was small. It starts off with this mountain, only it’s not a normal mountain, because‑‘Detritus the troll loomed over them. ‘Young Mr Dibbler says it’s time to start shooting again,’he rumbled. ‘Will you come to my room tonight?’ hissed Ginger.‘Please? You can wake me up if I start sleepwalking again.’‘Well, er, yes, but your landlady might not like it‑‘ Victor began. ‘Oh, Mrs Cosmopilite is very

Thomas Kinkade Town Square

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Hammering filled the air. Buildings were spreading backwards from the nameless main street into the dunes. No-one owned any land in Holy Wood; if it was empty, you built on it.
Dibbler had two . In the past five minutes he had attracted one half-hearted kick, a soggy biscuit and a pat on the head. He reckoned he was ahead of the game, dogwise.
He was trying to listen to all the conversations at once. It was extremely instructive. For one thing, some of the people coming in and shouting were carrying bags of money . . .
‘You what?’
The shout had come from the inner office. Gaspode cocked the other earoffices now. There was one where he shouted at people, and a bigger one just outside it where people shouted at each other. Soll shouted at handlemen. Handlemen shouted at alchemists. Demons wandered over every flat surface and drowned in the coffee cups and shouted at one another. A couple of experimental green parrots shouted at themselves. People wearing odd bits of costume wandered in and just shouted. Silverfish shouted because he couldn’t quite work out why he now had a desk in the outer office even though he owned the studio. Gaspode sat stolidly by the door to the inner office

William Merritt Chase The Nursery

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nodded. He had, on the whole, got through life quite happily by doing what he pleased in a firm yet easy-going sort of way, and he didn’t see why he should stop that even in Holy Wood.
‘Then they’ll have to shout,’ he said. ‘I want something to eat and a cool drink. Maybe I’ve just caught a bit too much sun.’
Ginger looked uncertain. ‘Well, there’s the commissary, but–’
‘Good. .
‘Yes,’ said Victor firmly, and strode on.
Behind him he could see Dibbler and Silverfish locked in heated discussion, with occasional interruptions from the handleman, who spoke in the leisurely tones of one who knows he’s going to get paid six dollars today regardless. You can show me the way.’ ‘They fire people just like that–’ ‘What, before the third reel?’ ‘They say "There’s plenty more people who’re dying to break into moving pictures", you see–’ ‘Good. That means they’ll have all afternoon to find two of them who look just like us.’ He strolled past Morry, who was also trying to keep in the shade of a rock. ‘If anyone wants us,’ he said, ‘we’ll be having some lunch.’ ‘What, right now?’ said the troll
‘–we’ll call it an epic. People will talk about it for ages.’

Henri Rousseau The Waterfall

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but Master,’ said the Bursar, smiling indulgently, ‘the word "fit", as I understand it, means "appropriate to a purpose", and of spendin’ too much time sitting indoors. A few twenty-mile runs and the Dean’d be a different man.’
‘Well, yes,’ said the Bursar. ‘He’d be dead.’
‘He’d be healthy.’
‘Yes, but still dead.’
The Archchancellor irritably shuffled the papers on his desk.
‘Slackness,’ he muttered. ‘Far too much of it going on. I would say the body of the Dean is supremely appropriate to the purpose of sitting around all day and eating big heavy meals.’ The Bursar permitted himself a little smile. The Archchancellor gave him a look so old-fashioned it might have belonged to an ammonite. ‘That a joke?’ he said, in the suspicious tones of someone who wouldn’t really understand the term ‘sense of humour’ even if you sat down for an hour and explained it to him with diagrams. ‘I was just making an observation, Master,’ said the Bursar cautiously. The Archchancellor shook his head. ‘Can’t stand jokes. Can’t stand chaps goin’ around tryin’ to be funny the whole time. Comes

Arthur Hughes Phyllis

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costume to hold any pockets whatsoever, but she seemed to have been able to repair her make-up, re-kohl her eyes and put up her hair. She undulated towards the group like a snake in a skid, determined to hit the strangers with the full force of her personality. She was also holding something in her other hand.
'She's that the Old Kingdom was enclosed upon itself, floating free of the rest of the universe, drifting away from the general consensus that is dignified by the namfound the tortoise!' said Xeno. 'Well done!' The reptile shot back into its shell. Ptraci glared. She didn't have much in the world except herself, and didn't like to be hailed as a mere holder of testudinoids. The tall man sighed. 'You know, Xeno,' he said, 'I can't help thinking you've got the wrong end of the stick with this whole tortoise-and-arrow business.' The little man glared at him. 'The trouble with you, Ibid,' he said, 'is that you think you're the biggest bloody authority on everything.' The Gods of the Old Kingdom were awakening. Belief is a force. It's a weak force, by comparison with gravity; when it comes to moving mountains, gravity wins every time. But it still exists, and now e of reality, the power of belief was making itself felt.

Jack Vettriano Soho Nights

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employment in inclement weather - which had given him many hours of quiet study; he was particularly attached to The Shuttered Palace, Translated from the Khalian by A Gentleman, with Hand-Coloured Plates for the Connoisseur in A Strictly Limited Edition. It was confusing but instructive and, when a rather fey young tutor . They are also almost impossible to describe in a non-magical environment, but if someone were to try they'd probably start by telling you to smoke something illegal and take a good look at a starling's wing. The seniors were critically inspecting the new arrivals.engaged by the priests tried to introduce him to certain athletic techniques favoured by the classical Pseudopolitans, Teppic considered the suggestion for some time and then floored the youth with a hatstand. Teppic hadn't been educated. Education had just settled on him, like dandruff. It started to rain, in the world outside his head. Another new experience. He'd heard about it, of course, how water came down out of the sky in small bits. He just hadn't expected there to be so much of it. It never rained in Djelibeybi. Masters moved among the boys like damp and slightly scruffy blackbirds, but he was eyeing a group of older students lolling near the pillared entrance to the school. They also wore black - different colours of black. That was his first introduction to the tertiary colours, the colours on the far side of blackness, the colours that you get if you split blackness with an eight-sided prism

Leonardo da Vinci picture of the last supper

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'Shouldn't be too difficult,' said Nanny Ogg dismissively. 'I've been studyin' it. You go tumpty-tumpty-tumpty.'
Granny .
'Witches as yet unborn will thank us for it,' said Magrat ardently.
'Oh, good,' said Granny.
'At last! What are you three playing at? We've been looking for you everywhere!'
The witches turned to see an irate dwarf trying to loom over them.
'Us?' said Magrat. 'But we're not in—'gave this some consideration.'There's more to it than that, I believe,' she said. 'Some of those speeches were very good. I couldn't understand hardly any of it.''There's no trick to it at all,' Nanny Ogg insisted. 'Anyway, half of them are forgetting their lines as it is. It'll be easy.''We could put words in their mouths?' said Magrat.Nanny Ogg nodded. 'I don't know about new words,' she said. 'But we can make them forget these words.'They both looked at Granny Weatherwax. She shrugged.'I suppose it's worth a try,' she conceded

Leroy Neiman April at Augusta

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Magrat hesitated. 'Oh. Nothing. Nothing much, really.'
'Shall we have another try? I don't think we got it quite right that time.'
Magrat nodded.
This time it lasted only fifteen seconds. It seemed longer.

A tremor ran through the castle, shaking the breakfast tray from which the Duke Felmet, much to his relief, was eating porridge that wasn't too salty.
It was felt by the ghosts that now filled Nanny Ogg's cottage like a rugby team in a telephone box.
It spread. 'I mean, it was a hundred years, all right, but it was only one castle she moved. I reckon anyone could do a castle.'
Granny's frown puckered at the edge.
'And she let all weeds grow over it,' she observed p to every henhouse in the kingdom, and a number of hands relaxed their grip. And thirty-two purple-faced cockerels took a deep bream and crowed like maniacs, but they were too late, too late . . . 'I still reckon you were up to something,' said Granny Weatherwax.'Have another cup of tea,' said Nanny pleasantly.'You won't go and put any drink in it, will you,' Granny said flatly. 'It was the drink what did it last night. I would never have put myself forward like that. It's shameful.''Black Aliss never done anything like it,' said Nanny, encouraginglyrimly.
'Right enough.'

Alexandre Cabanel Phedre

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drops of water began to thud on the witches' pointed hats.
'I really don't have time for all this,' snapped Granny, trembling. 'I have far more important things to do.'
'And spells. Every time she shut her eyes she saw a red-and-yellow figure on the darkness inside. Something had to be done about it.
She shut the book with a snap and looked at her notes. First, she had to find out his name. The old peel-the-apple me,' said Nanny.'Good night to you.''And you.'They turned their backs on one another and strode away into the downpour. The midnight rain drummed on Magrat's curtained windows as she thumbed her way purposefully through Goodie Whemper's books of what, for want of any better word, could be called natural magic.The old woman had been a great collector of such things and, most unusually, had written them down; witches didn't normally have much use for literacy. But book after book was filled with tiny, meticulous handwriting detailing the results of patient experiments in applied magic. Goodie Whemper had, in fact, been a research Magrat was looking up love

George Inness Sunset

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, okay,' he said, not entirely satisfied. The Fool lost the next three hands, just to be on the safe side.
The porter, meanwhile, unfastened the hatch in the wicket gate and peered out.
'Who dost knock without?' he growled.
The in distant keyholes said, with a note of hope, 'Witches!'
The psychically inclined . . .

'It's meddling, that's what it is,' said Granny Weatherwax. 'And no good will come of it.'soldier, drenched and terrified though he was, hesitated.'Without? Without what?' he said.'If you're going to bugger about, you can bloody well stay without all day,' said the porter calmly.'No! I must see the duke upon the instant!' shouted the guard. 'Witches are abroad!'The porter was about to come back with, 'Good time of year for it', or 'Wish I was, too', but stopped when he saw the man's face. It wasn't the face of a man who would enter into the spirit of the thing. It was the look of someone who had seen things a decent man shouldn't wot of . . . 'Witches?' said Lord Felmet. 'Witches!' said the duchess.In the draughty corridors, a voice as faint as the wind

Edward Hopper Cape Cod Afternoon

Edward Hopper Cape Cod AfternoonLeroy Neiman Ryder CupUnknown Artist Mary Magdalene in the Desert
young Sun Emperor was sitting crosslegged at the head of the mat with his cloak of vermine and feathers spread out behind him. He looked as though he was outgrowing it. The rest of the Court was sitting around the mat in strict and complicated order of precedence, but there was no mistaking the Vizier, who was tucking into his bowl of squishi and boiled seaweed in a highly suspicious fashion. No-one seemed to be about to die.
Mort padded from it.
The preparer of food will be disciplined, Noble Personage of Scholarship,' said the Emperor. 'Who got the spare ribs?'
'No, O Perceptive Father of Your People, I was rather referring to the fact that this along the passage, turned the corner and nearly walked into several large members of the Heavenly Guard, who were clustered around a spyhole in the paper wall and passing a cigarette from hand to hand in that palm-cupped way of soldiers on duty.He tiptoed back to the lattice and overheard the conversation thus:'I am the most unfortunate of mortals, O Immanent Presence, to find such as this in my otherwise satisfactory squishi,' said the Vizier, extending his chopsticks.The Court craned to see. So did Mort. Mort couldn't help agreeing with the statement, though – the thing was a sort of blue-green lump with rubbery tubes dangling

Sung Kim Point

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Death walked slowly across tiles in the\room, inspecting the serried rows of busy hourglasses. Albert followed dutifully behind with the great ledger open in his arms.
The sound roared around them, a vast grey waterfall of noise.
It came.
I WAS THINKING OF SENDING THE LAD OUT, he said.
Albert consulted his ledger. 'Well, Goodie wouldn't be any trouble and the Abbott is what you might call experienced,' he said. 'Shame about the princess. Only fifteen. Could be tricky.'
YES. IT is A PITY.
'Master?' from the shelves where, stretching away into the infinite distance, row upon row of hourglasses poured away the sands of mortal time. It was a heavy sound, a dull sound, a sound that poured like sullen custard over the bright roly-poly pudding of the soul.VERY WELL, said Death at last. I MAKE IT THREE.A QUIET NIGHT.'That'd be Goodie Hamstring, the Abbott Lobsang again, and this Princess Keli,' said Albert.Death looked at the three hourglasses in his hand

Paul Gauguin Arearea

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Mort's family specialised in distilling the wine from reannual grapes. These were very powerful and much sought after by fortune-tellers, since of course they enabled them to see the future. The only snag was that you got the helpfulness that serious men soon learn to dread. There was something infectious, possibly even fatal, about it. He was tall, red-haired and freckled, with the sort of body that seems to be only marginally under its owner's control; it appeared to have been built out of knees.
On this particular day it was hurtling across the high fields, waving its hands and yelling.
Mort's father and uncle watched it disconsolately from the stone wall.hangover the morning before, and had to drink a lot to get over it.Reannual growers tended to be big, serious men, much given to introspection and close examination of the calendar. A farmer who neglects to sow ordinary seeds only loses the crop, whereas anyone who forgets to sow seeds of a crop that has already been harvested twelve months before risks disturbing the entire fabric of causality, not to mention acute embarrassment.It was also acutely embarrassing to Mort's family that the youngest son was not at all serious and had about the same talent for horticulture that you would find in a dead starfish. It wasn't that he was unhelpful, but he had the land of vague, cheerful

Thomas Kinkade Light of Freedom

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She turned to Esk, whose mouth was a horrified O.
"I remember when I was a girl, old Nanny Annaple went Wanderin'. Got too wrapped up with being a vixen, as I recall. Took us days to find her. And then there was you, too. I never would have found you if it wasn't for that staff thing, and what have you done with it, girl?"
"It hit him," Esk muttered. "It tried to kill him. I threw it in the river."
"Not a nice. "I heard him speak, he's - well, he's not evil, he's a brilliant person, he nearly understands how everything works, he's -"
"I expect he's a very nice boy," said Granny sourly. "I never said he was a black wizard, did I?"
"They're horrible Things!" Esk sobbed. "He wouldn't call out to them, he wants everything that they're not, and you're a wicked old -"
The slap rang like a bell. Esk staggered back, white with shock. Granny stood with thing to do to it after it saved you," said Granny. "It saved me by hitting him?" "Didn't you realise? He was callin' to - them Things." "That's not true!" Granny stared into Esk's defiant eyes and the thought came to her mind: I've lost her. Three years of work down the privy. She couldn't be a wizard but she might have been a witch. "Why isn't it true, Miss Clever?" she said. "He wouldn't do something like that!" Esk was near to tears

John William Waterhouse The Magic Circle

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wasn't entirely sure what it meant, but it was a damn good word all the same.
She sealed it with candle-wax and put it on the dresser. She could leave it for the carrier to take when she went into the the kind of voice the Creator had probably used. Whether there was magic in it, or just headology, it ruled out any possibility of argument. It made it clear that whatever it was talking about was exactly how things should be.
The breeze shook the tree gently. Esk sat on a branch idly swinging her legs.
She thought about wizards. They didn't often come to Bad Ass, but there were a fair number of stories about them. They were wise, she recalled, and usually very old and they did powerfulvillage tomorrow, to see about a new kettle. Next morning Granny took some pains over her dress, selecting a black dress with a frog and bat motif, a big velvet cloak, or at least a cloak made of the sort of stuff velvet looks like after thirty years of heavy wear, and the pointed hat of office which was crucified with hatpins. Their first call was to the stonemason, to order a replacement hearthstone. Then they called on the smith. It was a long and stormy meeting. Esk wandered out into the orchard and climbed up to her old place in the apple tree while from the house came her father's shouts, her mother's wails and long silent pauses which meant that Granny Weatherwax was speaking softly in what Esk thought of as her "just so" voice. The old woman had a flat, measured way of speaking sometimes. It was

Paul Gauguin The Yellow Christ

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The white cat purred and arched its back as if it was rubbing up against the legs of an old friend. Which was odd, because there was no one there.
"I was foolish," said a voice in tones no mortal could hear. "I assumed the magic would know what it was doing."
YOU WOULDN'T LIKE IT, he said. TAKE IT FROM ME.
"I've heard that some people do it all the time."
YOU'VE GOT TO BE TRAINED TO IT. YOU'VE GOT TO START OFF SMALL AND WORK UP. YOU'VE NO IDEA HOW HORRIBLE IT IS TO BE AN ANT.PERHAPS IT DOES. "If only I could do something . . . ." THERE IS NO GOING BACK. THERE IS NO GOING BACK, said the deep, heavy voice like the closing of crypt doors. The wisp of nothingness that was Drum Billet thought for a while. "But she's going to have a lot of problems." THAT'S WHAT life IS ALL ABOUT. SO I'M TOLD. I WOULDN'T KNOW, OF COURSE. "What about reincarnation?" Death hesitated.

Nicolas De Stael Sky in Honfleur

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think we ought to be getting along,' said Lackjaw nervously. A party of star people had turned into the street behind them.
'I think I would like to kill someone,' said Cohen, still smiling.
'The star directs that the Disc must be cleansed,' said the man, backing away.
'Stars can't talk,' said Cohen, drawing his sword.
'If you kill me a thousand will take my place,' said the man, who was now backed against the wall.
'Yes,' saidat the other end of the alley Cohen flung himself against the wall, drew his sword, stood with his head on one side as he judged the approaching footsteps, and then brought the blade around in a dead flat sweep at stomach height. There was an unpleasant noise and several screams, but by then Cohen was well away up the street, moving in the unusual shambling run that spared his bunions. Cohen, in a reasonable tone of voice, 'but that isn't the point, is it? The point is, you'll be dead.'The man's adam's apple began to bob like a yoyo. He squinted down at Cohen's sword.'There is that, yes,' he conceded. 'Tell you what – how bout if we put the fire out?' 'Good idea,' said Cohen.Lackjaw tugged at his belt. The other star people were running towards them. There were a lot of them, many of them were armed, and it began to look as though things would become a little more serious.Cohen waved his sword at them defiantly, and turned and ran. Even Lackjaw had difficulty in keeping up.'Funny,' he gasped, as they plunged down another alley, 'I thought – for a minute – you'd want to stand – and fight them.''Blow that – for a – lark.'As they came out into the light

Paul Cezanne Table Corner

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mind . . .' Rincewind propped Twoflower as nicely as possible against the tree, and by moonlight – and, he realised, by the faint red light of the menacing new star – took the first real look at his rescuer.
The man had only one eye; the other was covered by a black patch. His thin bodyscars and, currently, twanging white-hot with tendonitis. His teeth had obviously decided to quit long ago.
'Who are you?' he said.
'Bethan,' said the girl, rubbing a handful of nasty-smelling green ointment into the old man's back. She wore the air of ?'
'The very shame.'
'Hang on, hang on,' said Rincewind. 'Cohen's a great big chap, neck like a bull, got chest muscles like a sack of footballs. I mean, he's the Disc's greatest warrior, a legend in his . I remember my grandad telling me he saw him . . . my grandad telling me he . . . my grandad . . .'
He faltered under the gimlet gaze.one who, if asked to consider what sort of events might occur after being rescued from virgin sacrifice by a hero with a white charger, would probably not have mentioned linament, but who, now linament was apparently what did happen to you after all, was determined to be good at it.'I meant him,' said Rincewind.One star-bright eye looked up at him.'Cohen ish my name, boy.' Bethan's hands stopped moving.'Cohen?' she said. 'Cohen the Barbarian

Leroy Neiman Resting Lion

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face of it this gave him a survival value marginally less than, say, a soap herring, but to Rincewind's amazement it all seemed to work and the little man's total obliviousness to all forms of danger somehow made danger so young shaman was undergoing a very essential part of his training. He had eaten of the sacred toadstool, he had smoked the holy rhizome, he had carefully powdered up and inserted into various orifices the mystic mushroom and now, sitting crosslegged under a pine tree, he was concentrating firstly on making contact with the strange and wonderful secrets at the heart of Being but mainly on stopping the top of his head from unscrewing and floating awaydiscouraged that it gave up and went away.Merely being faced with drowning stood no chance. Twoflower was quite certain that in a well-organised society people would not be allowed to go around getting drowned.He was a little bothered, though, about where his Luggage had got to. But he comforted himself with the nowledge that it was made of sapient pearwood, and ought to be intelligent enough to look after itself . . . In yet another part of the forest a

Unknown Artist Mary Magdalene in the Desert

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It had been a long time in the making. Now it was almost completed, and the slaves hacked away at the last clay remnants of the mantle.
Where other slaves were industriously rubbing its metal flanks with silver sand it was already beginning to gleam in the hull.
Like a fish, he thought. A great flying fish. And of what seas?
"It is indeed magnificent," he whispered. "A work of true art."
"Craft," said the thickset man by his side. The Arch-astronomer turned slowly and looked up at the man's impassive face. It isn't particularly hard for a face to look impassive-when there are two golden sun with the silken organic sheen of young bronze. It was still warm even after a week of cooling in the casting pit. The Arch-astronomer of Krull motioned lightly with his hand and his bearers set the throne down in the shadow of the