Прочитал первую книгу и часть второй. Скукота, для меня ничего интересно. 90% текста - разбор интриг, написанных по детски. ГГ практически ничему не учится и непонятно, что хочет, так как вовсе не человек, а высший демон, всё что надо достаёт по "щучьему велению". Я лично вообще не понимаю, зачем высшему демону нужны люди и зачем им открывать свои тайны. Живётся ему лучше в нечеловеческом мире. С этой точки зрения весь сюжет - туповат от
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начала до конца, так как ГГ стремится всеми силами, что бы ему прищемили яйца и посадили в клетку. Глупостей в книге тоже выше крыши, так как писать не о чем. Например ГГ продаёт плохенький меч демонов, но который якобы лучше на порядок мечей людей, так как им можно убить демона и тут же не в первый раз покупает меч людей. Спрашивается на хрена ему нужны железки, не могущие убить демонов? Тут же рассказывается, что поисковики собирают демонический метал, так как из него можно изготовить оружие против демонов. Однако почему то самый сильный поисковый отряд вооружён простым железом, который в поединке с полудеманом не может поцарапать противника. В общем автор пишет полную чушь, лишь бы что ли бо писать, не заботясь о смысле написанного. Сплошная лапша и противоречия уже написанному.
Часть вторая продолжает «уже полюбившийся сериал» в части жизнеописания будней курсанта авиационного училища … Вдумчивого читателя (или слушателя так будет вернее в моем конкретном случае) ждут очередные «залеты бойцов», конфликты в казармах и «описание дубовости» комсостава...
Сам же ГГ (несмотря на весь свой опыт) по прежнему переодически лажает (тупит и буксует) и попадается в примитивнейшие ловушки. И хотя совершенно обратный
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пример (по типу магического всезнайки или суперспеца) был бы еще хуже — но все же порой так и хочется прибавить герою +100 очков к сообразительности))
В остальном же все идет без особых геройств и весьма планово (если не считать очередной интриги в финале книги, как впрочем было и в финале части первой)). Но все же помимо чисто технических нюансов службы (весьма непростой кстати...) и «ожидания экшена» (что порой весьма неоправданно) — большая часть (как я уже говорил) просто отдана простому пересказу «жита и быта» бесправного существа именуемого «курсант»))
Не знаю кому как — но мне данная книга (в формате аудио) дико «зашла»)) Так что если читать только ради чтения (т.е не спеша и не пролистывая страницы), то и Вам (я надеюсь) она так же придется «ко двору»))
Как ни странно, но похоже я открыл (для себя) новый подвид жанра попаданцы... Обычно их все (до этого) можно было сразу (если очень грубо) разделить на «динамично-прогрессорские» (всезнайка-герой-мессия мигом меняющий «привычный ход» истории) и «бытовые-корректирующие» (где ГГ пытается исправить лишь свою личную жизнь, а на все остальное ему в общем-то пофиг)).
И там и там (конечно) возможны отступления, однако в целом (для обоих
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вариантов) характерно наличие какой-то итоговой цели (спасти СССР от развала или просто желание стать гораздо успешнее «чем в прошлый раз»). Но все чаще и чаще мне отчего-то стали попадаться книги (данной «линейки» или к примеру попаданческий цикл Р.Дамирова «Курсант») где все выстроено совсем на других принципах...
Первое что бросается в глаза — это профессия... Вокруг нее и будет «вертеться все остальное». Далее (после выбора любимой темы: «медик-врач», военный, летчик, милиционер, пожарный и пр) автор предлагает ПРОСТО пожить жизнь героя (при всех заданных условиях «периода подселения»).
И да — здесь тоже будут всяческие геройства, свершения и даже местами прогрессорство (куда уж без него), но все это совсем НЕ является искомой целью (что-то исправить, сломать или починить). Нет! Просто — каждая новая книга (часть) это лишь очередная «дверь», для того что-бы еще чуть-чуть пожить жизнь (глазами героя).
И самое забавное, что при данном подходе — уже совсем не обязательны все привычные шаблоны (использовав которые писать-то в принципе трудновато, ибо ГГ уже отработал «попаданческий минимум», да и что к примеру, будет делать генсек с пятью звездами ГСС, после победы над СаСШ? Все! Дальше писать просто нет никакого смысла (т.к дальше будет тупо неинтересно). А тут же ... тут просто поле не паханное)) Так что «только успевай писать продолжение»))
P.S Конкретно в этой части ГГ (вчерашний школьник) «дико щемится» в авиационное училище — несмотря на «куеву тучу» косяков (в виде разбитого самолета, который ему доверили!!!) и неких «тайн дома …» нет не Романовых)) а его личного дома)).
Местами ГГ (несмотря на нехилый багаж и опыт прошлой жизни) откровенно тупит и все никак не может «разрулить конфликт» вырастающий в очередное (казалось бы неприодолимое препятствие) к заветной цели... Но... толи судьба все же милостива к «засланцу», то ли общее количество (хороших и желающих помочь) знакомых (посвященных в некую тайну) все же не переводится))
В общем — книга (несмотря на некоторые шороховатости) была прослушана на «ура», а интрига в финале (части первой) мигом заставило искать продолжение))
power. Help me make magick. Help me learn. Show me what I am ready to know." Closing my eyes, I let out all my breath, then slowly drew it in again. Within a minute I was deeply into meditation: I had practiced so much that meditation was like using a muscle. It was there, it was almost immediate, and it was strong.
What am I ready to know? I asked.
In my mind a narrow road unspooled before me. Trees and shrubs lined each side, making the road both inviting and secluded. I moved down the road, smoothly and with no sense of pace—as if I were floating above the hard-packed earth. It felt wonderful, exciting. Eagerly I sped forward.
I flew around a curve and then recoiled in sudden horror, a wordless scream coming from my mouth. Before me, blocking my way, was a dying serpent, a black, roiling, two-headed snake. Its flesh was hacked and eaten away; acrid blood stained the roadbed, its bitter, repugnant scent making me cover my nose and mouth. The thing was dying. It curled upon itself in agony, twisting as it lost its breath and felt its blood flow. I backed up slowly, not sure how dangerous it still was, and then from the sky a beautiful, cold, crystalline cage dropped over the thing, With one last shriek of torment the two-headed black serpent lashed its barbed tail and died. The cage shimmered over it gently, seeming made of air, of music, of gold, of crystal. It was made of magick. I had made it. And my cage had helped kill the serpent.
Gasping, I clawed my way back to consciousness, opening my eyes to find my heart pounding, the scent of the serpent's blood still in my throat. I wanted to gag, the horrible images still behind my eyes. The serpent had been Cal Blaire en Selene Belltower. It didn't take a psychology major to figure that one out. My subconscious was obviously still working through that particular horror. The deaths of Cal, the first boy I had ever loved, and his mother, Selene, a powerful, dark Woodbane witch, were still ever present in my everyday awareness. I gazed at my red candle and shuddered. There was no way I could explore that path any more tonight. Maybe I needed to see it, maybe magick had needed me to see something, learn something, but I couldn't face it. I hoped that with the passage of time, the memory would sink deeper.
I swallowed and watched the scented smoke rise from the incense. Maybe if I had continued down the road of my subconscious, I would have seen myself, in New York City, about to be sacrificed by Ciaran's coven for my own power.
No thank you. No more of this. The Goddess must have thought I was ready for this, but I didn't feel ready.
Once again I gazed at my red candle. My situation was strange: I was an unusually powerful blood witch. Yet because Wicca had discovered me only about three months ago, I was relatively unschooled in magick. Even as hard as I had been trying to learn, the breadth and depth of a witch's knowledge ensured that I would be at it my whole life. Another fact was that I was uninitiated. An uninitiated witch was not in command of her full powers—in fact, not exactly in command of her powers at all. Which was what everyone kept trying to tell me.
Until now I had loved feeling my powers stretch and grow, like a plant towards sunlight. The more I made magick, the stronger my magick seemed and the easier it was to make it flow. I had believed that my magick would be good, that I would walk in sunlight even though I was Woodbane. Belwicket had been a Woodbane coven but had renounced dark magick centuries ago. But then I had found out Ciaran was my father, and all of my assumptions had snapped. I was no longer sure that I would use magick for goodness. No longer sure that I could stay out of the shadows. Now with every breath I remembered that I had been born of evil, the daughter of a murderer. And that had cost me Hunter.
I have a choice, I thought. I choose to work good magick.
I looked at my altar and concentrated, centering myself and focusing my energy. Rise, I thought, looking at the silver bowl holding the incense. "Rise, be light, be light as air. I lift you up and hold you there." The little rhyme came into my head, and simultaneously the silver bowl wobbled a bit, then shakily rose above my altar. It hovered there, weightless, while
I stared at it in shock. Oh God, I thought. Wicca had shown me many things in the last three months that I never would have thought possible, but the idea that I had the power to levitate anything amazed me.
Okay, concentrate, I told myself as the bowl tilted. I concentrated. Almost immediately it steadied.
Next I made the candle rise and kept the two objects floating before me. Could I make it three? Yes. The bowl of water rose gracefully. I was able to keep them steadier now, and the three objects bobbed before me as I turned my attention to the bowl of crystals. This was amazing, intense magick. I could tell none of this skill came from my friend Alyce Fernbrake, who had shared all of her knowledge with me in a powerful ritual called tàth meànma brach.
This power was mine; this power was me. It was beautiful and good in a way I could never be.
A slight vibration in the floor barely registered with me as I began to levitate the bowl of crystals in the air. More thin, light, striations of sound—distracting me… Crap, they where footsteps!
I leaped up, shoved the altar behind my desk, and kicked the silver bowls and candle out of the way. Hoping I hadn't burned the rug, I jumped into bed. I was pulling the covers up when the door to my room opened.
"Morgan?" my mom whispered, peering into my room.
Asleep, I'm asleep, I thought, feeling my eyelids get heavy. My mother gently closed the door, and I heard her walk down the hallway. I waited until I heard the door to her own room close, then slunk out of bed and tried to clean up soundlessly. This had been so stupid. I had been so full of myself that I hadn't remembered to put up a border spell that would alert me when my parents came home. I hadn't been casting my senses, paying attentions to my surroundings.
Gently I shoved my altar back into my closet. I took off the robe and gathered the bowls and tools and hid them with the altar. Tomorrow I would put them where I usually hid them: behind the HVAC vent in the hallway. Pretty full of yourself, aren't you? I thought with disgust as I tried to scrape up the sand with my hands. You just want to make any kind of magick you can, with no thought as to the consequences. That's a Woodbane way to behave.
I cleaned up the circle as best I could, knowing I would have to finish tomorrow. I brushed my teeth and got into my pj's. Then I climbed back into bed and pulled up the covers. All of my misery was back and more. I had missed a coven circle tonight. I was Ciaran's daughter. I didn't have Hunter. If things were this bad when I was only seventeen, what would they be like when I hit thirty?
2. Alone
Brother Colin, I shall not prevaricate to you, who are my flesh and blood as well as a fellow servant of God. I have only begun my work here and shall be content if it takes me until the end of my days to reach the people of Barra Head. But it has been a surprise to discover how the populace resists the Good Word. There is a handful of devout souls, to be sure, but everywhere the old religion pervades. Where I look, I see ancient Sigils chipped into rock faces, painted on the crude sod and stone houses: even herb gardens grown in heathen patterns. Surely God has sent me here to save these people, these so called Wodebaynes.—Brother Sinestus Tor, to his brother Colin, November 1767
Hours later I lay in bed, watching the interplay of shadows on my recently painted bedroom walls. I'd thought I was exhausted, but sleep hadn't come. Now I let my senses float out into the house. Mary K., separated from me by a bathroom, was deeply asleep. She's come home shortly after my parents had, completely excited by the prospect of eleven days at her friend Jaycee's house: an uninterrupted slumber party. Her three suitcases were already packed and by the front door.
My parents, too, where asleep: my mother lightly, fitfully, my dad more deeply. They where nervous about the trip, about being away from us.
I turned on my side. Tonight I'd made objects levitate. It had been amazing and even a little frightening. If I weren't so distraught, it would have been joyful, beautiful. Well, that was Wicca: light and dark at the same time and part of the same thing. Day turning into night. Beauty and ugliness, good and bad. The rose and the thorn.
Morgan. As the voice echoed in my head, I blinked, sending my senses out more strongly. Oh my God, Hunter was right outside the front door: It was
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