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TechnoReaper

edited 30th Aug '13 4:13:54 PM by ramuf

Two Words: Obvious Trope

• Tomoko Kuroki.
• Christa Renz.
• Cure Beauty.

edited 31st Aug '13 8:28:41 PM by Trivialis

Correct

1. Agatha Christie
2. Amadeus
3. A Night to Remember
4. Historical In-Joke
5. Independence Day
6. Lost in the Maize
7. Midway
8. Older Than Dirt
9. Older Than They Think/Other
10. Rasputinian Death
11. Richard III
12. Semper Fi
13. Star Trek
14. Draco in Leather Pants/Theatre
15. The Hunt for Red October
16. Unsolved Mysteries

Misuse

1. Cracked (Dewey Defeats Truman)
2. Dark Angel (Dewey Defeats Truman)
3. Dewey Defeats Truman (Current events surpassed a story)
4. Enron: The Smartest Guys in the Room ("Funny Aneurysm" Moment)
5. Family Guy Presents: Laugh It Up, Fuzzball (Hilarious in Hindsight)
6. Hockey Night In Canada (Hilarious in Hindsight)
7. Jack Ryan (Artistic License – History)
8. Kagemusha
9. Power Rangers S.P.D. (Dewey Defeats Truman)
10. Ridiculous Future Inflation (potholed in a statement on the price of soda from a long time ago)
11. Sharin no Kuni (seems to be a statement saying, "life goes on")
12. Status Quo Is God (same as above)
13. The Carol Burnett Show
14. The Naked Gun (Hilarious in Hindsight)
15. The Statler Brothers (Hilarious in Hindsight)
16. Threads (The Great Politics Mess Up)
17. Yankee Doodle Dandy (The example describes the complete opposite. What was known then is unfamiliar to viewers now)

Unclear

1. A Song of Ice and Fire - House Targaryen Ancestors
2. Billy Joel
3. Cartoon History Of The Universe (Seems to be about use of a religious text in favor of historical account)
4. Down Periscope (Something happened in 1995, but the film was released in 1996)
5. The Secret World

Zero-Context Example

1. Master Poisoner
2. Royal Harem
3. The Government

Sierra Mc Cormick

http://bit.ly/17xZdt9

[-]

[[note:Does this work?]]Let's see.[[/note]]

^{How 'bout now?} Survey says...

edited 4th Sep '13 8:29:06 PM by PhysicalStamina

You want labelnotes.

   Lost my previous post featuring this. Testing it out again.   

edited 6th Sep '13 8:40:16 AM by Yomegami

Creating this for a possible copypaste:

Eta: It was a nonmalicious hardware problem. Hopefully fixed now, but if you can't get in for some reason, please just take a break and try later. Constantly refreshing because you have to have your TV Tropes fix is great for our egos, but makes the problem worse.

The notice said "upgrade" because we were afraid that we were going to have to upgrade to fix it at the time the notice screen was (hastily) constructed. Then it turned out that there was another fix possible.

*

[[hottip:*Lalala test ]]

strike

edited 7th Sep '13 3:07:59 PM by VanishingReality

Spirits were high that day as the representatives and members of the Houses of Westeros and the movers and shakers of King's Landing entered the arena. The excitement of Joffrey Baratheon's horrible death had started to fade away, and the trial to determine his murderer's guilt was just the thing to revive it. It was already known that the accused uncle's previous champion had refused to wear his colors against the grieving mother's, a desertion universally recognized as perfectly sensible given the accusatory champion's reputation. The announcement that Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne had volunteered instead had caused quite a stir, and the duel was assured to be something to recount to one's grandchildren.

As the arena seats filled, the accusatory champion entered, followed by a young man bearing a large wineskin. Clad in armor from head to toe, Gregor Clegane did not bother with the pretense of politeness, only draining the wineskin, looking to his weapons and giving his unfortunate squire a cuff that left the boy with a broken nose for not taking back the skin fast enough.

A expectant hush fell over the crowd as the corridor remained empty. From his own seat, Tyrion Lannister looked towards the gate through which his savior was to enter. Despite knowing the Dornishman's love of attention and triumphant entrances, he thought this was laying it on a bit thick. The sound of voices raised in furious disagreement could be heard from the gate, but the individual words could not be made out. Finally there was silence, soon replaced by regular thuds, as though Prince Oberyn had for some reason elected to be preceded by servants throwing heavy sandbags. Finally the defendant's champion appeared.

The crowd did not bother to hide their astonishment. Everyone knew the Mountain was the biggest man in Westeros, and yet the newcomer was larger still. He wore no helm, and his hair and beard were a shocking shade of ginger-brown, shorn into a tall crest, but immediately after his size, the onlookers could only stare with horror at the dozens of skulls that adorned his night-black armor, dangling from ropes or impaled on the spikes of his pauldrons. A single wooden pole with a splintered tip protruded incongruously from the back of the giant's armor, as though whatever banner or personal icon it had carried had been snapped off so as to maintain incognito (or perhaps, as one wit remarked to his neighbor, because it would not fit through the door).

Only the Mountain himself showed no emotion, despite facing a foe than himself for possibly the first time in his adult life. He only drew his sword and planted it on the cobbles, waiting for the signal to start.

The challenger barely acknowledged the excited whispers and pointed fingers of the crowd, his gaze focused solely on Clegane. Evidently satisfied, he gave a slight smirk and drew his own blade, longer than some men were tall and forged of black steel. Behind him, Prince Oberyn slipped through the door and circled the arena to join his wife near to a small row of columns, his face dark as a thundercloud. Another man, wearing furs in the manner of those beyond the Wall followed at a slower pace, owing to the bundle of enormous sheated swords he carried in both arms. On reaching the defendant's area near Tyrion, he deposited his burden gratefully, mopping his bald brow and taking a deep swig from a large wine-skin, evidently prepared to do so for the rest of the day.

A clerk came running up to the giant carrying a long scroll of parchment, the name "Oberyn of House Martell" hastily crossed out. Despite craning his head back as far as it could, he still ended up addressing a shoulder.

"Your name, Ser?"

The newcomer scratched his bearded chin thoughtfully before rumbling out in a guttural voice.

"I am- hmmm. My name is yet unknown in these parts. Put me down as the Wolf for now."

As the clerk ran back to his records and the Wolf approached the center, imitating his opponent's posture, Grand Maester Pycelle began a long litany of legal boilerplate and was quickly interrupted by Lord Tywin. No one raised any objections, least of all the champions, and the trial to determine the innocence of Tyrion Lannister began.

And yet it began with a duel of an entirely different sort. As the giants turned to face each other, the man who called himself the Wolf spoke to his opponent, loud enough to be heard by those in the topmost seats.

"Do you know who I am?"

Again the crowd broke out in astonished buzzing. From his appearance the newcomer might have been from the Iron Islands or beyond the Wall, and yet he spoke Westerosi with not a hint of a foreign accent. One or two even thought they recognized the same manner of speech in their native villages of the Westerlands. But it was simply impossible that two such giants could be born there without it becoming public knowledge, if only by bragging midwives.

The Mountain, unwilling to strike blindly at an unknown foe, merely shrugged bad-humoredly.

"No? Well, I have decided to make myself known as the Wolf. I hear they call you the Mountain. Once I'm through with you, I think "The Molehill" will be more appropriate!"

Still Clegane remained where he was.

"You may not have noticed, but I was not supposed to be your opponent. Luckily, I was able to strike a bargain with him, and the man forfeited what claims he had on your life in exchange for a simple request. Also I threatened to gut him here and there if he stood in my way, leaving him dead and his message undelivered. An intelligent man, as you can see."

Many a glance turned to the handsome Dornishman leaning against a pillar, his wife looking at him with a relieved expression. His own frowning face convinced many of the truth of the Wolf's words.

"He asked me to deliver a message. Ready?"

The giant cleared his throat dramatically as the Mountain failed to react in the slightest, although his tightening grip on the hilt showed that what little patience he had was quickly frittering away. Not a sound was heard around the arena. Then, marking out each word in a startlingly accurate impression of the Prince's Dornish accent, the Wolf stated:

"Elia Martell. You raped her."

"You murdered her."

"You killed her children."

There was no reaction from the Mountain, although Lord Tywin did raise an eyebrow and bring a hand to his chin. From his post on the sidelines, Prince Oberyn's fevered gaze went back and forth from vassal to liege.

"Ring any bells?"

"No?"

"Well, it was to be expected, I suppose. With a skull as thick as yours, I'm surprised you even know your own name!"

And suddenly the Wolf's voice was dripping with well-meaning concern, even as Clegane slowly lifted his enormous sword.

"You are capable of killing things larger and more dangerous than unarmed women and newborns, I hope? I came all the way to this stinking shitpile of a city after hearing that the greatest warriors in the South were found there, but perhaps I made a mistake after all. Indeed, perhaps you are nothing but a master butcher called away from his honest duty of carving dead meat and selling dog as veal, wearing barding that was once your second-best cauldron, and the truest warrior here is that little fellow over there, the one the size of my shin."

"RAAAARRRGGGHHHH!!!"

With a bestial roar, Clegane lunged forward, his sword flashing downwards. The Wolf made no effort to dodge, but only brought up his own massive weapon. The clash of metal on metal was heard outside the arena.

Their blades locked, both champions pushed at each other like a pair of stags in season. Then the Wolf suddenly took a step back and kicked out, his armored boot connecting squarely with the Mountain's codpiece.

The male part of the audience winced as one, reflexively moving their hands to their groins on seeing the terrific blow. Yet Clegane seemed entirely unfazed, and only brought his knees together, trapping the Wolf's foot and leaving him with only one leg to stand on. Balling his fist, Clegane smashed it into the side of the Wolf's head. The Wolf keeled over, dragging the Mountain down with him, but a blow that would have caved in a man's skull only seemed to loosen his tongue despite the blood flowing freely from his mouth.

"So it takes a man pressing on your cock to get you in a fighting mood? I have often heard of the deviant ways of the southerners, this must be one of them! When you joust, do you need to take a horse up the arse beforehand or do you just rub both your lances together for good luck?"

Despite the clanging of armor as the giants scrambled and flailed to get on their feet, the Wolf's crude mockery rang clear around the arena. Those members of the audience born in colder climes could be seen hiding smirks at the insults heaped upon the Mountain and by extension his Southern liege lords.

With a grunt, Clegane was the first to push himself off the ground. His sword whistled a second later, but the Wolf rolled to the side and the blow only crushed a curiously elongated skull with larger-than-average canines. The Wolf spared the shattered relic a glance before deflecting another wild blow with his sword.-

"I liked that skull. One of my better fights, he lasted almost long enough for a man to drain his mjöðr horn."

Both champions now on their feet, they circled each other, the Mountain keeping his gaze fixed on the Wolf's throat, one eye twitching as the Wolf hurled abuse and insult in an endless stream.

"So now you can kill babes in arms, their mothers, and the already-dead. A good start! I heard tales that you can also kill horses if you command them to stay still. What, were you sick the day your swordmaster was to teach you how to kill a man, or were you out in the woods buggering other boys because girls and dogs ran too fast? I wouldn't want my winning attributed to the fact that I was fighting a squire not yet trusted to tell one end of a sword from another!"

"RAAAAARGH!"

Another clash of blades, the Mountain's furious swipes countered with equal force by the Wolf, the one's snarl of hatred countered by the other's infuriating grin.

"I will GUT you like a DOG!"

"Are you deaf as well as stupid? The name's Wolf, not dog. Ask your whore of a mother, she should know, seeing as she was screaming it all through last night!"

With speed belying his size and weight, Clegane grabbed the Wolf's blade in his gauntlet, forcing it aside and delivering a terrific headbutt, his helmet rattling but staying on his head. Dazed, the Wolf's sword pointed to the ground, though he still had the presence of mind to back away from Clegane's overhand strike. The Mountain's sword smashed against the Wolf's, cleaving it in two. In response, the Wolf bulled into the Mountain, hooking one knee around Clegane's leg until the Mountain fell over in a thunderous crash. Dropping the useless hilt, the Wolf slowly stepped backwards, keeping his gaze locked on the Mountain, one hand reaching behind him as he yelled out in an unknown tongue to his squire.

"Einarr! Sverð!"

Caught in mid-swig, the Wolf's bald underling hurried to the pile of swords, wine running down his bearded chin, grabbing the topmost one and handing it to his master. The Wolf had no sooner grabbed it that an expression of annoyance flitted across his face, turning to face his henchman.

"það er of lítið!"

Running back to the pile, Einarr took another, longer sword and gave it to the Wolf, who merely gave a grunt of approval and turned back to the Mountain, who had risen and was approaching with a murderous expression that only worsened as the Wolf's irrepressible taunts flowed forth once more.

"Up already? Are you sure you wouldn't want to stay flat on your back? A far more restful position befitting the weak and sickly, especially to one so unskilled in fighting as you! Or with your arse in the air, whichever position you find makes it easier to bite pillows!"

Snarling, the Mountain rushed at his foe again, but the Wolf gave the Mountain a backhanded slap, a sweeping blow that would have decapitated a bull but only knocked the helmet from the Mountain's head. The corner ripped a jagged wound on Clegane's cheek as it fell, but he no more seemed to notice than if a fly had landed there. For the first time, the Wolf seemed uncertain, and that second of hesitation was enough for Clegane to drop his sword and swing both hands up and around the Wolf's neck.

On the sidelines, the Mountain's personal apothecary looked in undisguised horror and medical fascination. Only milk of the poppy in vast quantities could explain Clegane's indifference to his own pain, and yet such a dose would have rendered any man unable to breathe, let alone fight a fellow warrior of equal strength.

Driven by animal rage, the Mountain's hands locked around the Wolf's throat in a heartfelt effort to shut him up and actually lifting him bodily for a few seconds, long enough for the Mountain to repeat the Wolf's trick, placing his feet between his foe's, and allowing himself to fall forwards, the Wolf's body cushioning the Mountain's fall. Tyrion Lannister gripped the table next to him for support, catching a triumphant glance from his sister.

Eyes blazing hatred, the Mountain squeezed the Wolf's throat tighter.

"Talk LOUDER you dogfucking CUNT, I can't hear y-"

And the Wolf's fist swung in a short arc, connecting squarely with the Mountain's mouth. Teeth spilled to the ground. The force of the blow sent Clegane sprawling, rolling over onto his back, the Wolf following suit until he was now straddling his foe. The Wolf dropped his head, his mouth level with Clegane's ear.

"I know your pain, brother."

"The headaches that no potion will cure, the pounding in your temples, the roar of blood in your ears, louder than the storm and the ocean, that only ends with the killing, and always returns..."

"Rejoice, for you have earned your place among His warriors. No slaving in the forges for you but battle, today and tomorrow, until the end of all things!"

With this final cry, the Wolf put his gauntleted fists on either side of the Mountain's head, pointed his thumbs at the Mountain's temples, and squeezed. Clegane screamed as neither he nor his victims had ever screamed as the Wolf's thumbs pressed inexorably inwards, breaking skin, snapping muscle and sinew, cracking bone, the Mountain's very eyes briefly swelling out of their sockets before bursting like overfull wine-skins as the invading fingers poked out of the sockets. A woman screamed, her hands tearing at her face, as Cersei Lannister beheld justice for her firstborn's murder escape her. Jamie Lannister looked ready to vomit, Tyrion Lannister groped blindly for something, anything to drink, unable to take his eyes off the horror, even Tywin Lannister's mask of lordly indifference cracked at the grisly scene. Oberyn shouted to be heard above the hubbub even as he tried to revive his unconscious wife. A troop of Whitecloaks crowded the arena's entrance, but not one dared enter: what could they do against a monster capable of killing Gregor Clegane, who could snap their spears and spines as easily as they could snap a dry twig?

Entirely indifferent to the chaos he was causing, his face splattered with blood, the Wolf extracted his thumbs from the Mountain's temples with a wet *pop*, then grabbed the still-twitching champion's breastplate in one hand, holding him up with the other. Gripping it by both sides of the collar, he took a deep breath, and slowly prized the suit apart by main force as if unshelling a monstrous lobster, revealing a leather jerkin and chainmail shirt beneath. Ripping off the underarmor and retrieving his sword, the Wolf forced it into the Mountain's sternum, pushing until he heard the bone snap, and forced the blade downwards. He then snapped the ribcage back on both sides like grotesque wings and exposed a length of pierced intestine and Clegane's still-beating heart, each desecration punctuated by dark mutterings no one could catch. Finally, as the Mountain mercifully stopped shuddering and sputtered his last breath, the Wolf's spoke a few words in an unknown tongue again and he swung his sword for the last time, separating Clegane's head and neck in a single blow.

Picking up the horrid trophy, the Wolf then raised one hand to his mouth and bellowed an unearthly summons. It made flesh crawl to hear it, more than one man who had resisted the waves of nausea during the grisly slaughter could hold back no more, and Maester Pycelle clapped his hands to his bleeding ears. Later none could agree to what exactly the noise was, one lord swore it was something like a hound's bark and the blast of a warhorn, another heard a snake's hiss and his lover's voice, an old man the buzzing of flies and the bubbling of a cauldron, a soldier heard the harsh croak of a raven and the sound of a dagger entering a man's back.

In answer to the call, the air above the harbor shimmered and tore open, and through the gap entered a monster's head. The Whitecloaks gave up all pretense of bravery at the hideous thing's appearance, which rolled about gnashing its teeth as it advanced, revealing it was in fact the prow of a massive longship, floating in the air as casually as if it were water, its rowers cast from the same barbaric mold as the Wolf, though not one rivaled him in size. The ship approached, turning sideways above the water's edge, and a rope ladder was tossed over the side, the Wolf's squire grabbing the remaining swords and ascending the ladder, taking great care not to drop any. The ship, moving despite the absence of wind, positioned itself so its master had only to grab the ladder.

As he turned his head one last time to the scene of his triumph, the Wolf saw some spectators who had not fled the scene fervently praying.

"Yes, you would do well to pray to your gods, Westerosi! Know that the true gods of the North are coming for you, and that I, Wulfrik the Wanderer, who now walks between worlds, will offer them this world in tribute! Pray to them that they grant you warriors to defend yourselves, for if this was truly your greatest champion, you deserve no better a death than his."

"Ready your defenses, you gutless, simpering weaklings, sharpen your swords and summon your levies! Give me a good fight when I return to claim these lands in the name of the Gods of Chaos!"

Pulling himself aboard, the Wolf barked out another order and the longship turned again, reentering the hole in the air accompanied by the jeers and obscene gestures of its crew, and the gap closed up and was no more. A hush fell over the arena, none wanting to credit what they had just witnessed. But the Mountain's headless corpse, lying in its own blood, was irrefutable proof.

The first to react, as though to bring some semblance of normalcy to the day, was Maester Pycelle who declared in a shaky voice that the trial was adjourned.

Edited by Chabal2 on May 14th 2019 at 7:28:14 PM

Holy crap, first ever post on this website ever

I'm a newcomer troper! ^U^

edited 9th Sep '13 1:48:49 AM by Miki-Chan

Welcome!

Question. How do I put a trope link into a spoiler?

Cause I have no idea how to.

Just like you put a link in normally.

"[[spoiler:text text text WikiWord text {{wick}}]]" gives text text text Wiki Word text wick

"[[spoiler:[[PotHole display text in the spoiler]] more text or whatever]]" gives display text in the spoiler more text or whatever