User talk:Atelda

Pfft
It ain't clean no more, crazy monkey.

Butt
Booty booty booty booty rockin everywhere. illuminicy for lyf FLASHBCAK 20:12, April 7, 2013 (UTC)

Lolhi
Challenge accepted. By the way, I drew you a picture. 8D Now, behave yourself. -- Barmy "I don't want to go!" 20:13, April 7, 2013 (UTC)

Good try. Lol. -- Barmy "I don't want to go!" 20:22, April 7, 2013 (UTC)

Very Important Message
Hello yes Matt Smith won't be the Doctor anymore after Christmas. 20:13, April 7, 2013 (UTC)

Oh cool. The Wife of Bath. I needed some more Canterbury Tales in my life. 20:21, April 7, 2013 (UTC)

Re:
Well, I'll tell you it when I'm back and I won't be on for a couple of years. Here's a link-please read the message. User:*Starlingfoot* Bye, Atelda. I'll miss you and don't worry I'll be here again soon. <3 :)  22:12, April 8, 2013 (UTC)

TO DA WINDOWS
TO DA WALLS

BETTA CLEAN DOS BATHROOM STALLS

23:24, April 11, 2013 (UTC)

Oh by the way...
Just for you. 23:27, April 11, 2013 (UTC)

Mudclaw
May I have the .xcf for Muclaw's warrior image? My e-mail is aeplumm96@yahoo.com. 21:28, April 18, 2013 (UTC)

Whitewing
Do you have the file for Whitewing's warrior image? 00:52 Mon Apr 22

Image Rename
Hey, 'teldy. Could you rename File:Stone Song.sc.png to File:Stone Song (P3).sc.png, that way it goes along with his article? oUo

Ahahahaha, no. Nice try.

Thank you :3
Thanks so much atelda for allowing me to voice my last word. I hope to see you soon :3 22:52, April 24, 2013 (UTC)

Re:
Omg you made a box. xDD

Thank you! 8D <3 20:00, May 4, 2013 (UTC)

Chat
Might I ask for what reasons the chat was turned off, and why exactly you did it without informing anyone of the situation? You know, I don't think it's right that you just turn off the chat at will like that, 'teldy. At least not without some form of warning or reason. ._. Just because you have the admin/'crat powers, does not mean you can abuse them to turn off one of the forms of communication we have without a justified reasoning behind it, and actually informing members before you do something like that. So, I ask that you turn the chat back on, and if you plan on turning it off again, please inform members before you do so.

But you're not allowed to only inform certain members, last I checked. That's not right, and extremely unfair to those who were not informed. I don't care if it's a "social experiment" or not, 'teldy. Only including certain members in your plans and information is not fair at all. Speaking as someone who was not told, and part of the staff, I was utterly confused, and quite offended. I was not attacking you, and I would appreciate that you not accuse me as such. I am allowed to say that I thought you were ignoring me, because I also messaged you on Skype and did not receive a reply. I'll claim what I did because there is a justified reason as to why I did so.

You cannot pick and choose as to whom you tell of your plans and who you do not. It's unfair, and totally against everything that this wiki stands for. I was assuming good faith with you, thank you very much. I think it's you that is not assuming good faith with me, accusing me of attacking you. Apparently it wasn't in your plans to inform the entire wiki of your plans. If we tell people that discussing things in the chat is not official, then why does it make you, and whomever suggested it, immune to the rules? You are not immune to the same exact thing that we tried to dispell with PCA, keeping things private and acting upon them.

I will question your actions as I see fit, because I am an editor of the wiki and entitled to such. To pick and choose members to tell your plans to is not the right thing to do. It's unfair and completely bias. I don't care that perhaps one or two other members knew. I did not, along with multiple other staff members, and editors that approached me, both privately and publicly. You are not above us just because you hold the power to be able to turn off the chat at will. You are just as subject to questions about your actions as myself. And I will question them, especially now, as I find this totally /unfair/ and against everything that I've ever learned about Wikia.

I am a member of community council because I love Wikia, and seek to help it by doing everything I can. My stance with matters outside of this wiki are not relevant to this. You're part of CC as well, along with Kitsu. You are doing the exact same thing that PCA did back when Iceheart was leader; picking and choosing users to tell about your ideas and implementing them. PCA got into major trouble for doing that, and I was one of the ones involved. I learned from that, and haven't done it since. Remember the lead meetings? Those were almost the destruction of the entire group of leads that the project had at the time.

You're not allowed to only tell a small group of people. ._. Don't get me wrong, I have no issues with you actually turning off the chat, 'teldy. It's how you went about it, and only telling a select group of people of your plans. Whether or not you actually intended to tell everyone else the true reasons are of no matter to me. The point is that you acted on your own. I know had I done the same thing if I had admin rights, I'd be facing another VoNC for abusing my rights. You need to inform the entire wiki of your plans beforehand, I'd think. Not after everything is said and done.

It doesn't matter who you talked to. I never said it did. I know for a fact you did not consult the entire staff of this wiki, based on the questions I was asked. Turning off something as controversial as the chat is not something you can do at will for whatever reasons they may be, and I am still unaware as to why you did it.

Eh, very true. Regardless of who was or wasn't consulted, it's still not right, and goes against everything that I've ever been told Wikia stands for. x.x Can we like, uh, not turn off the chat again without starting a forum discussion or something like that?

And I do believe either Kit or Eu turned /on/ the chat. I'm not entirely sure who flicked the switch for it. I think it was agreed upon or something along those lines to turn it on, but I'm not sure who exactly was involved with that decision.


 * I didn't turn the chat on. I can't speak for Eu on the subject, though. At this point, given that we've voted and accepted Chatroom policies, it can be assumed that the chat is a formal (and consensus supported) part of the wiki. Regaurdless of how the chat came to be turned on, it seems to me that it's removal would only be acceptable through conesensus of wiki members at this point. Or prehaps through an agreement of at least all administrators/rollbacks in pursuite of a social experiment (and that would have to be an experiment with a serious purpose, or something that was passed through via vote like the proposed "day of editing" idea). (this is what guided my choice to restore the chat last night, when I could find no evidence of why, or of community support for, the retirement of the service: and I consider the spike in casual conversational editing to be a good reason to continue to support the chatroom as a service we provide). Wow... This got wordy fast. But I figure sine I was involved and I did reactivate last night, I should at least state why, or clarify what I know about how the chat happened in the first place. 20:12, May 17, 2013 (UTC)

Thanks
I want to make an account, but I'm not sure it's necessary. If I ever have a need to I will. I love finding typos so I'll consider it. Thank you for administrating this wiki so well. 68.100.79.16 21:58, June 3, 2013 (UTC)Silverstar of WindClan

HAPPY BIRTHDAY
HAPPY HAPPY REALLY LATE BIRTHDAY<3 02:45, June 23, 2013 (UTC)

21 June
WikiBirthday flew over your head eight days ago, swooping around on its large scaly wings. I'm not here and you guys forget it. xD

Hey Teldy, I got an email saying you deleted my picture on my profile page and discarded it as useless/purposeless. If you don't know what I'm talking about I think it was called 'TomSawyer.gif'? Bramblestar1825 (talk) 14:45, June 29, 2013 (UTC)Bramblestar

Re:
Call me Sorrel. x3 Thanks! And I'm sorry if I may have seemed a little sharp-toungued in my warnings. I try to be nice, but sometimes they just ignore it or bite back. 23:54, July 1, 2013 (UTC)

Thank you for your kind message! I appreciate you to offer help, and I will greatly accept it when I need it, ☺♥! Once again, I truly thank you! --Creamtail41 (talk) 01:56, July 2, 2013 (UTC)

Re: Re: 21 June
Yeah, except I haven't exactly been active this last year, don't follow Warriors anymore, and have no idea as to what's going on on the wiki. You should do the honours. Even if it's a couple of weeks late. :P

Can you explain it a bit more to me? I'm sorta confused. R u e y Patchey undefined 17:24, July 11, 2013 (UTC)

Ohh.. I understand now, so I already have a subpage right? R u e y Patchey undefined 17:34, July 11, 2013 (UTC)

Thanks! 17:38, July 11, 2013 (UTC)

I changed it. Sorry about that. 18:23, July 11, 2013 (UTC) Shadewing

Re:
Actually, I do have a signature subpage o3o, I'll fix my prefs though Bb  un   legs  21:12, July 11, 2013 (UTC)

Questions: Deleted on Facebook and ! for Atelda
Why did you erase my question on Victoria Holmes Facebook page? I just want to know how Mapleshade became evil in the first place, therefore going to the Dark Forest and trying to train Crookedstar, because Bluestar mainly did the same as her, just kept the secret and wasn't exiled, but she did kill Mosskit when taking her kits to RiverClan, like Mapleshade's kits died when trying to go to RiverClan. So they both broke the warrior code and at least (accidentally) killed 1 of their kits, and yet Bluestar went to StarClan and Mapleshade somehow turned evil and went to Dark Forest, where she trained Crookedstar. So what did Mapleshade, as a rogue, do to turn evil and earn a place in Dark Forest instead of StarClan?

Mistystar31 (talk) 21:48, July 14, 2013 (UTC)

Editing War
How can I wait for an answer if u keep deleting my question? Then there will never be an answer.

Mistystar31 (talk) 22:03, July 14, 2013 (UTC)

Links and Fan Questions
I thought u could put your fan questions on the Facebook page, like the other fans, so why can't I? As for the link, I have just started adding to Wikia, and I do not understand all the #s and letters to complete an edit. So I just looked at other 2013 fan questions, who all had the same ending "link", and used to end my question.

Mistystar31 (talk) 22:10, July 14, 2013 (UTC)

Theories and Questions
I understand your answer of Mapleshade "hating the Clans and blaming them for everyhting", but that is just a theory, and theories r not allowed on this Wikia. I know, because I tried to place a theory of Nightsky and Brightsky, (from Tallstar's Revenge), being the same cat. However I should write the question, why can't it stay on the Facebook page to be answered?

Mistystar31 (talk) 22:15, July 14, 2013 (UTC)

Fan Questions
Like I said, I'm totally new to this, so I didn't realize u could only put questions on this Facebook page if they had already been answered. I thought putting them on here, regardless of being answered before, would make them answered. So if I ask them on her actual real Facebook page and they r answered, then I can post them on this Wikia Facebook page?

I wasn't trying to be rude about theories and opinions, sorry. Just curious (this is a talk page), do u think that Nightsky in Tallstar's Revenge was actually Brightsky from the allegiances?

Mistystar31 (talk) 22:31, July 14, 2013 (UTC)

Talk Page Question
Why can't I delete the talk page stuff, at least on my page?

Mistystar31 (talk) 22:44, July 14, 2013 (UTC)

Archive
So, I made the archive, but how do I move the messages there?

Mistystar31 (talk) 23:14, July 14, 2013 (UTC)

Accessing Archives
Yeah, figured that out. :) But, how do I access my achive? I just  clicked on the link on the talk page, created it, then added everything, but...when I click on my talk page, nothing for an archive comes up.

Mistystar31 (talk) 23:03, July 14, 2013 (UTC)

Cloudspots
Hey Teldy, you think you could move File:Cloud Spots.rogue.png to File:Cloudspots.rogue.png ?? 07:30, July 17, 2013 (UTC)

spreads the hate
HATE HATE HATE HATE

also hi.

Hey there
n my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.

“Whenever you feel like criticizing any one,” he told me, “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.”

He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgments, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought — frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgments is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth.

And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes, but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction — Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the “creative temperament.”— it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No — Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men.

My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan, and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother, who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War, and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on to-day.

I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him — with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in father’s office. I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm centre of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe — so I decided to go East and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said, “Why — ye — es,” with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two.

The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog — at least I had him for a few days until he ran away — and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove.

It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road.

“How do you get to West Egg village?” he asked helplessly.

I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighborhood.

And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.

There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities, and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college — one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the “Yale News.”— and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the “well-rounded man.” This isn’t just an epigram — life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all.

It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York — and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals — like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact end — but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual confusion to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more arresting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size.

I lived at West Egg, the — well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard — it was a factual imitation of some Hotel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbor’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires — all for eighty dollars a month.

Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago.

Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven — a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savors of anti-climax. His family were enormously wealthy — even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach — but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that.

Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it — I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game.

And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran toward the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sun-dials and brick walks and burning gardens — finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch.

He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body — he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage — a cruel body.

His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked — and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts.

“Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own.

We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch.

“I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly.

Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motor-boat that bumped the tide offshore.

“It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.”

We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-colored space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-colored rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea.

The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor.

The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it — indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in.

The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise — she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression — then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room.

“I’m p-paralyzed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.)

At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again — the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me.

I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour.

I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me.

“Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically.

“The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.”

“How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. To-morrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.”

“I’d like to.”

“She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?”

“Never.”

“Well, you ought to see her. She’s ——”

Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder.

“What you doing, Nick?”

“I’m a bond man.”

“Who with?”

I told him.

“Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively.

This annoyed me.

“You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.”

“Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.”

At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started — it was the first word she uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room.

“I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.”

“Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.”

“No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry, “I’m absolutely in training.”

Her host looked at her incredulously.

“You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.”

I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her gray sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before.

“You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.”

“I don’t know a single ——”

“You must know Gatsby.”

“Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?”

Before I could reply that he was my neighbor dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square.

Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out onto a rosy-colored porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind.

“Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.”

“We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed.

“All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?”

Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger.

“Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.”

We all looked — the knuckle was black and blue.

“You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you did do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great, big, hulking physical specimen of a ——”

“I hate that word hulking,” objected Tom crossly, “even in kidding.”

“Hulking,” insisted Daisy.

Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West, where an evening was hurried from phase to phase toward its close, in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself.

“You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy,” I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. “Can’t you talk about crops or something?”

I meant nothing in particular by this remark, but it was taken up in an unexpected way.

“Civilization’s going to pieces,” broke out Tom violently. “I’ve gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read ‘The Rise of the Colored Empires’ by this man Goddard?”

“Why, no,” I answered, rather surprised by his tone.

“Well, it’s a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is if we don’t look out the white race will be — will be utterly submerged. It’s all scientific stuff; it’s been proved.”

“Tom’s getting very profound,” said Daisy, with an expression of unthoughtful sadness. “He reads deep books with long words in them. What was that word we ——”

“Well, these books are all scientific,” insisted Tom, glancing at her impatiently. “This fellow has worked out the whole thing. It’s up to us, who are the dominant race, to watch out or these other races will have control of things.”

“We’ve got to beat them down,” whispered Daisy, winking ferociously toward the fervent sun.

“You ought to live in California —” began Miss Baker, but Tom interrupted her by shifting heavily in his chair.

“This idea is that we’re Nordics. I am, and you are, and you are, and ——” After an infinitesimal hesitation he included Daisy with a slight nod, and she winked at me again. “— And we’ve produced all the things that go to make civilization — oh, science and art, and all that. Do you see?”

There was something pathetic in his concentration, as if his complacency, more acute than of old, was not enough to him any more. When, almost immediately, the telephone rang inside and the butler left the porch Daisy seized upon the momentary interruption and leaned toward me.

“I’ll tell you a family secret,” she whispered enthusiastically. “It’s about the butler’s nose. Do you want to hear about the butler’s nose?”

“That’s why I came over to-night.”

“Well, he wasn’t always a butler; he used to be the silver polisher for some people in New York that had a silver service for two hundred people. He had to polish it from morning till night, until finally it began to affect his nose ——”

“Things went from bad to worse,” suggested Miss Baker.

“Yes. Things went from bad to worse, until finally he had to give up his position.”

For a moment the last sunshine fell with romantic affection upon her glowing face; her voice compelled me forward breathlessly as I listened — then the glow faded, each light deserting her with lingering regret, like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk.

The butler came back and murmured something close to Tom’s ear, whereupon Tom frowned, pushed back his chair, and without a word went inside. As if his absence quickened something within her, Daisy leaned forward again, her voice glowing and singing.

“I love to see you at my table, Nick. You remind me of a — of a rose, an absolute rose. Doesn’t he?” She turned to Miss Baker for confirmation: “An absolute rose?”

This was untrue. I am not even faintly like a rose. She was only extemporizing, but a stirring warmth flowed from her, as if her heart was trying to come out to you concealed in one of those breathless, thrilling words. Then suddenly she threw her napkin on the table and excused herself and went into the house.

Miss Baker and I exchanged a short glance consciously devoid of meaning. I was about to speak when she sat up alertly and said “Sh!” in a warning voice. A subdued impassioned murmur was audible in the room beyond, and Miss Baker leaned forward unashamed, trying to hear. The murmur trembled on the verge of coherence, sank down, mounted excitedly, and then ceased altogether.

“This Mr. Gatsby you spoke of is my neighbor ——” I said.

“Don’t talk. I want to hear what happens.”

“Is something happening?” I inquired innocently.

“You mean to say you don’t know?” said Miss Baker, honestly surprised. “I thought everybody knew.”

“I don’t.”

“Why ——” she said hesitantly, “Tom’s got some woman in New York.”

“Got some woman?” I repeated blankly.

Miss Baker nodded.

“She might have the decency not to telephone him at dinner time. Don’t you think?”

Almost before I had grasped her meaning there was the flutter of a dress and the crunch of leather boots, and Tom and Daisy were back at the table.

“It couldn’t be helped!” cried Daisy with tense gaiety.

She sat down, glanced searchingly at Miss Baker and then at me, and continued: “I looked outdoors for a minute, and it’s very romantic outdoors. There’s a bird on the lawn that I think must be a nightingale come over on the Cunard or White Star Line. He’s singing away ——” Her voice sang: “It’s romantic, isn’t it, Tom?”

“Very romantic,” he said, and then miserably to me: “If it’s light enough after dinner, I want to take you down to the stables.”

The telephone rang inside, startlingly, and as Daisy shook her head decisively at Tom the subject of the stables, in fact all subjects, vanished into air. Among the broken fragments of the last five minutes at table I remember the candles being lit again, pointlessly, and I was conscious of wanting to look squarely at every one, and yet to avoid all eyes. I couldn’t guess what Daisy and Tom were thinking, but I doubt if even Miss Baker, who seemed to have mastered a certain hardy scepticism, was able utterly to put this fifth guest’s shrill metallic urgency out of mind. To a certain temperament the situation might have seemed intriguing — my own instinct was to telephone immediately for the police.

The horses, needless to say, were not mentioned again. Tom and Miss Baker, with several feet of twilight between them, strolled back into the library, as if to a vigil beside a perfectly tangible body, while, trying to look pleasantly interested and a little deaf, I followed Daisy around a chain of connecting verandas to the porch in front. In its deep gloom we sat down side by side on a wicker settee.

Daisy took her face in her hands as if feeling its lovely shape, and her eyes moved gradually out into the velvet dusk. I saw that turbulent emotions possessed her, so I asked what I thought would be some sedative questions about her little girl.

“We don’t know each other very well, Nick,” she said suddenly. “Even if we are cousins. You didn’t come to my wedding.”

“I wasn’t back from the war.”

“That’s true.” She hesitated. “Well, I’ve had a very bad time, Nick, and I’m pretty cynical about everything.”

Evidently she had reason to be. I waited but she didn’t say any more, and after a moment I returned rather feebly to the subject of her daughter.

“I suppose she talks, and — eats, and everything.”

“Oh, yes.” She looked at me absently. “Listen, Nick; let me tell you what I said when she was born. Would you like to hear?”

“Very much.”

“It’ll show you how I’ve gotten to feel about — things. Well, she was less than an hour old and Tom was God knows where. I woke up out of the ether with an utterly abandoned feeling, and asked the nurse right away if it was a boy or a girl. She told me it was a girl, and so I turned my head away and wept. ‘all right,’ I said, ‘I’m glad it’s a girl. And I hope she’ll be a fool — that’s the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.”

“You see I think everything’s terrible anyhow,” she went on in a convinced way. “Everybody thinks so — the most advanced people. And I know. I’ve been everywhere and seen everything and done everything.” Her eyes flashed around her in a defiant way, rather like Tom’s, and she laughed with thrilling scorn. “Sophisticated — God, I’m sophisticated!”

The instant her voice broke off, ceasing to compel my attention, my belief, I felt the basic insincerity of what she had said. It made me uneasy, as though the whole evening had been a trick of some sort to exact a contributory emotion from me. I waited, and sure enough, in a moment she looked at me with an absolute smirk on her lovely face, as if she had asserted her membership in a rather distinguished secret society to which she and Tom belonged.

Inside, the crimson room bloomed with light.

Tom and Miss Baker sat at either end of the long couch and she read aloud to him from the Saturday Evening Post. — the words, murmurous and uninflected, running together in a soothing tune. The lamp-light, bright on his boots and dull on the autumn-leaf yellow of her hair, glinted along the paper as she turned a page with a flutter of slender muscles in her arms.

When we came in she held us silent for a moment with a lifted hand.

“To be continued,” she said, tossing the magazine on the table, “in our very next issue.”

Her body asserted itself with a restless movement of her knee, and she stood up.

“Ten o’clock,” she remarked, apparently finding the time on the ceiling. “Time for this good girl to go to bed.”

“Jordan’s going to play in the tournament to-morrow,” explained Daisy, “over at Westchester.”

“Oh — you’re Jordan Baker.”

I knew now why her face was familiar — its pleasing contemptuous expression had looked out at me from many rotogravure pictures of the sporting life at Asheville and Hot Springs and Palm Beach. I had heard some story of her too, a critical, unpleasant story, but what it was I had forgotten long ago.

“Good night,” she said softly. “Wake me at eight, won’t you.”

“If you’ll get up.”

“I will. Good night, Mr. Carraway. See you anon.”

“Of course you will,” confirmed Daisy. “In fact I think I’ll arrange a marriage. Come over often, Nick, and I’ll sort of — oh — fling you together. You know — lock you up accidentally in linen closets and push you out to sea in a boat, and all that sort of thing ——”

“Good night,” called Miss Baker from the stairs. “I haven’t heard a word.”

“She’s a nice girl,” said Tom after a moment. “They oughtn’t to let her run around the country this way.”

“Who oughtn’t to?” inquired Daisy coldly.

“Her family.”

“Her family is one aunt about a thousand years old. Besides, Nick’s going to look after her, aren’t you, Nick? She’s going to spend lots of week-ends out here this summer. I think the home influence will be very good for her.”

Daisy and Tom looked at each other for a moment in silence.

“Is she from New York?” I asked quickly.

“From Louisville. Our white girlhood was passed together there. Our beautiful white ——”

“Did you give Nick a little heart to heart talk on the veranda?” demanded Tom suddenly.

“Did I?” She looked at me.

“I can’t seem to remember, but I think we talked about the Nordic race. Yes, I’m sure we did. It sort of crept up on us and first thing you know ——”

“Don’t believe everything you hear, Nick,” he advised me.

I said lightly that I had heard nothing at all, and a few minutes later I got up to go home. They came to the door with me and stood side by side in a cheerful square of light. As I started my motor Daisy peremptorily called: “Wait!”

“I forgot to ask you something, and it’s important. We heard you were engaged to a girl out West.”

“That’s right,” corroborated Tom kindly. “We heard that you were engaged.”

“It’s libel. I’m too poor.”

“But we heard it,” insisted Daisy, surprising me by opening up again in a flower-like way. “We heard it from three people, so it must be true.”

Of course I knew what they were referring to, but I wasn’t even vaguely engaged. The fact that gossip had published the banns was one of the reasons I had come East. You can’t stop going with an old friend on account of rumors, and on the other hand I had no intention of being rumored into marriage.

Their interest rather touched me and made them less remotely rich — nevertheless, I was confused and a little disgusted as I drove away. It seemed to me that the thing for Daisy to do was to rush out of the house, child in arms — but apparently there were no such intentions in her head. As for Tom, the fact that he “had some woman in New York.” was really less surprising than that he had been depressed by a book. Something was making him nibble at the edge of stale ideas as if his sturdy physical egotism no longer nourished his peremptory heart.

Already it was deep summer on roadhouse roofs and in front of wayside garages, where new red gas-pumps sat out in pools of light, and when I reached my estate at West Egg I ran the car under its shed and sat for a while on an abandoned grass roller in the yard. The wind had blown off, leaving a loud, bright night, with wings beating in the trees and a persistent organ sound as the full bellows of the earth blew the frogs full of life. The silhouette of a moving cat wavered across the moonlight, and turning my head to watch it, I saw that I was not alone — fifty feet away a figure had emerged from the shadow of my neighbor’s mansion and was standing with his hands in his pockets regarding the silver pepper of the stars. Something in his leisurely movements and the secure position of his feet upon the lawn suggested that it was Mr. Gatsby himself, come out to determine what share was his of our local heavens.

I decided to call to him. Miss Baker had mentioned him at dinner, and that would do for an introduction. But I didn’t call to him, for he gave a sudden intimation that he was content to be alone — he stretched out his arms toward the dark water in a curious way, and, far as I was from him, I could have sworn he was trembling. Involuntarily I glanced seaward — and distinguished nothing except a single green light, minute and far away, that might have been the end of a dock. When I looked once more for Gatsby he had vanished, and I was alone again in the unquiet darkness.

You're welcome. 4:20 Thu Jul 18 2013

Group Facebook
You did not try to make your site's official group on facebook? I live in Russia, so my English is you may not be very clear. -- Kirill  Kat 

Isn't that a mistake specifically of the book? The mistake happens in the book. Mistystar31 (talk) 23:25, July 18, 2013 (UTC)

You are registered on Facebook? I would conduct group, but my English can be unclear all. -- Kirill  Kat 

Man! I Feel Like a Woman
Let's go girls! Come on.

I'm going out tonight-I'm feelin' alright Gonna let it all hang out Wanna make some noise-really raise my voice Yeah, I wanna scream and shout No inhibitions-make no conditions Get a little outta line I ain't gonna act politically correct I only wanna have a good time

The best thing about being a woman Is the prerogative to have a little fun

Oh, oh, oh, go totally crazy-forget I'm a lady Men's shirts-short skirts Oh, oh, oh, really go wild-yeah, doin' it in style Oh, oh, oh, get in the action-feel the attraction Color my hair-do what I dare Oh, oh, oh, I wanna be free-yeah, to feel the way I feel Man! I feel like a woman!

The girls need a break-tonight we're gonna take The chance to get out on the town We don't need romance-we only wanna dance We're gonna let our hair hang down

The best thing about being a woman Is the prerogative to have a little fun

Oh, oh, oh, go totally crazy-forget I'm a lady Men's shirts-short skirts Oh, oh, oh, really go wild-yeah, doin' it in style Oh, oh, oh, get in the action-feel the attraction Color my hair-do what I dare Oh, oh, oh, I wanna be free-yeah, to feel the way I feel Man! I feel like a woman!

The best thing about being a woman Is the prerogative to have a little fun (fun, fun)

Oh, oh, oh, go totally crazy-forget I'm a lady Men's shirts-short skirts Oh, oh, oh, really go wild-yeah, doin' it in style Oh, oh, oh, get in the action-feel the attraction Color my hair-do what I dare Oh, oh, oh, I wanna be free-yeah, to feel the way I feel Man! I feel like a woman!

I get totally crazy Can you feel it Come, come, come on baby I feel like a woman

1:09 Tue Jul 23 2013

Problem
I have the problem had become a warrior in the Warriors Wiki: Charart back in May, but has not even been officially recorded in the apprentitses. Read:. And if you want to connect the discussion page of this form - -- Kirill  Kat 

-Re-

It can be connected here. http://slot1.images.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb62239/common/extensions/wikia/WikiFeatures/images/wgEnableWallExt.png

ru_wiki
I created Russian-speaking Wiki, and I want to translate at you articles (making language references). Whether it is possible to take registration from you (I hope, what yes)? XD -- Kirill  Kat 

-RE- As you attracted so many participants? Just on my wiki is not who does not go, and hard to rule alone.

Question
Uh, hi. I'm a new user, and I was wondering how you join the Character art project. ☮Lorr alay!☮  17:27, August 1, 2013 (UTC)

Second Question
So, I created a new signature, and it worked fine in the sandbox, but when I put it in my preferences, a notification shows up that says "HTML tags are wrong," or something like that. Here's the signature: Lori <font color="#00e4ff" font face="Bradley Hand ITC">This statement is false. Is there something I'm doing wrong? ☮Lorr alay!☮  15:17, August 2, 2013 (UTC)

I guess this counts as a third, but how do you become an apprentice in Project Character Art? ☮Lorr alay!☮  19:19, August 2, 2013 (UTC)

Rename please ouo
Might you rename this to this for me? ouo 11:18, August 6, 2013 (UTC)

Do you make charats? BaconBang (talk) 15:00, August 6, 2013 (UTC)

Could you please make one for me?BaconBang (talk) 22:13, August 7, 2013 (UTC)

Quick Question
How do I use citations? It would be a great help if I knew how, thanks! Songheart (talk) 15:23, August 12, 2013 (UTC)Songheart

Just a letter -_-
Just have a letter for my picture.Yeah,thanks & no thanks.

-Minion W

Re:
Thanks so much! It really means a lot to me that you said that, and I could not ask for a better leader in those projects to be deputy under, thank you for being an awesome leader! =D 02:55, August 18, 2013 (UTC)

Competition
Hi, it's me again with their crazy ideas (which I do a lot) =) Thanks for the support from my ru_wikia! When it is 50 you can place links on the Russian page? Now about the competition: may have a little competition among artists on the desired pixel hero? It would be cool =) Kirill  Kat 

tHIS MIGHT BREAK THE PAGE BUT YOLO
I don't know what this is but it's from Breezy with love 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q4PhylkKIZiWbU9TFjTQpRdnPM/SN4ZMEs6Brhokq6k3swD3OkK5JLIt8pc+n9mYRpC/F/gTrqdIyJ0JMwjOxHL2jIEk30iSju5KVVSUpV3FZh1DEdD1iAp8IaV3D7KUJSxMKdU6LD8h+ry9IUrQ1j7R9ixyTiqdnmskHF8qiJFleW0TP0gcfF5RLflGzBqYekc4fIWtZCQTE/Z2dQ8tz+wgaXUKC3Ba1mLN6GMNtqohYxUeZ/QMRZWRrvfmf2gKpqUzQpKyU5TYmzRPLmG53uXhHWSO3UzEHpp5mAzOlpaabRMmrQxCzKWObh/SFWIzpN8igk7gXgzEMAyoZMtJ8n+cUWqlZVEMpJhaSQ6gqetSlEpsH8BA89CRuVnrtEAPMmJZVMrVmHWM0aJ6EkXi8cOcazJSQnURSzLypjulnZRGMuHHljtyK0Q9qouLpa0jPlUP8pLR1XY6iU2VDt8KSco6l7/ACjyumq+5+8WrBOIJZSQUoK8pAKzYcjflHLl+GrE7g3t8r+PoLZYurQbiONz5yk/4YTe2VJYeaoHxXMkBKJalLZyoC3rvBlJiaNF9qoAWZmJ3dz4RqbjMoaZgH32+ccrUanJua22vn0Kxxxly3yJ6r81Uq7yVFQDeHhsIe09YpAR2lsvdKXfKVBnLQwkYvLQHI+IO8JSk5UJSAUrWZiiBqXLDcgMwvyjoaLLLLWRuqXQeCUW/ILPo83eJJcm7vBHDVQcqlIIdMzxukXeNSqZSZahlZSipg5Ou78oX8Ak/wCMghlJWH5fAfnaGZaeLn7ReUEjBOamvJ6ErFVKSbMrR3eJMIxBapikLykAO+hgCnW7+X0jhcsZn5s/zjm5fw3DKDUVTfnseLMK+WC2dL+IgTFeKJUqWVJyrUNk39SLCAaLhkKSFLs6QGa8Ef8A85KCcoBbxji7MGnntlNv5JfuRguC43LqgSHRMFyCLHwaHVZOHZlS/TmdgIBwnCJcgqykueY082iTEqjKNSxLBoRyzi5VDr/n9TK4VsgoZiyXWACC4AN0jqRv0jcShISl7AM5jIHvl/8APBS4KFTSJkxRKQVEXfeCxUiZ3Zoc6CYLqHj/AJh84YVlCZaexlBnbtJqu6D/AKQo7dB841M4dlhIdc0c1mURL/2/q+UfWYZou768etffRwXin478kCuGQE5u2QZhfLLQHKud9oZU/CygEEhO7sST06fKB8DklKyRnMsXBUGzE2CgOQhpSVyzcrSe81viI/tFx5wnPVNSab4Xfjsbw48aadCbiXADIKWdQXpuQeRhJUYdNlrGaWpOYWcG+nzi7YniqFZA5zZthdNiHIOmsDHEMqkqOcJlg2AsdGJPlBY6x0kkbekx5G5J0I5+CzJKAublRm0ST3j5DTziuSMVyrJILA7fSLBjOJCfMcPYM5JuNoUTKYAsGJ5Nt1MGbk4qUuyYNqbhHoim8XSRdTgHTUk9SNoqeO4rLmHMgHXk0GY5SpSokDZn94V0QSQokZm0TzeB7htIW/mkk6X5naJqeeCoPcDaNV1I1wgpf5RHKpFJYkWMUWE1M9z4wOr4XHOJaiUwfbaBqebYjaIyINkTu5rBVOVAPCaWsk9IONbZhpETLaLVI4hGUAI7zNrZ+bQRh9J2yj2itA4az9DFRp6liCIs9FONlhQKtxoD5RxdbpYwuceLEcmOpcDStp8iW6EAbR1SVRlU6u98Vh0bX5wixCvmTCoZmLW28B7wbw9KMymeY4yqypJvYX3FhE0WOMUl58/r/ReFPfYy4d4gE4kEklLkva23lBmDFH5iZlDFTKJ2NlNCLhmTlnLAA7xL+Gwi0UmHJkrcHXV9rFveHkqgqGYflQ4pzY+X0jEjNNQDoSH8HeOKRbbcvpHU6sKSCEhxfX+I5GqzZtr9lHj1fCDWWLF8VTKQVchZPOKlw9ja5lUVzVMkJLA2APQRxWVS55cpv0JDR1RYSlSTmudg8eYk0rcuW/vgC8jlNKHgualZg4IhJiU4K7ou0QT5c4IYEJA1O7fSKvPxVS5rIdkm5GlixgOLE53QTNl4qhvV0szLYlvH6RuAZtaySy7cybdBGQeMJJCjkviOanG004TLkpBXmAUtswQSbgPqrXeA+0XNX200BUvmtQRnbawduiREWHyO3ShU5RSiXyZOlr8t9Lw7RxHSIJEvO7AZtraAZjYDkwj3Glye7JqL449f1/UxJqqv79AiXjKCgAhCWDZUnut0JA26QtmrSlXaJdMnUIRqsnc6GK9imLAzM5TnKjYqJbLt3Q3zgOZUqJuT9B4QfHppZYuVUpevP3/wYyaiMVtrlDjEcbXmBSSBrlZh5gQBiOLKmrSLjZV9eXkIFUo7wMtRzp27w946GPTwxwXHKFHqJybSfDCQL3iWrKNMxDi7e0RpQVKYAk7AC/oIH4ko1y5BCgUKDFlBj01jc2mqC6VtTFGOtdrjnCPCO7NBZwInRXHKUKLtv15QITYtrCtHWC+JMZSohLORfkB+8JpldmA6RgpQolSjqfP5wRNkSwjKkHm+8XyQHqqt0NAOY7RPMR3bF/eGmC4alScyxbVuf8ROy+hdSUqlbHyjibKyqhriNYdEsByAaFBLxTVEQTKmWh3h68yBz0hBJEHYVM7zPAc8N+NoDmjcRvOCwQQL9Db5xYKOgVKkf4y3Ky7G7BgQL7wup6DN8JObqXHoYs9RK7RKXBKgkPpt7wppYqrfIHTu2CcPAJzqZri7ctoIxDEAFhnUC1/3G0T4RLyyyCN9GZ4mrqaWofAEkXSRcE7wxNe7Q4khpQzMz+A+kc1NSUq+HM4YRDhJ1vyHtE81Vz97GFsuJZcbg/JJcqhbWTlXUCR3Xtp6GCMPlzlJGWYoJ1VYe7RFVI7iv/WI6mV+WWlLbBgPhHU8452q09QUcUFfVtLgtJDIKlJtNnZzyJf5CNLqaRAAKCx0ZD/ICKrPllUwHTKFHppF3wCgHZIXMHfUkHwflHndTplg4bbfwLTTdUKa/CJMxPdCk7sxHyjcWqdXJQhglPUkRkYjkUUvff0/sxPHG+aK1UYelM5TkrSpmQ9hzHr0eA8XwWUyQgIQtR0zFgANydTttrEeAgkrUtwXLOXOVz+0Q4xTzFrDt0ADqAOxbXn5x63T78WolKUtsW/056Fs6UpNbegCrwSaSEgAswcEZddH59IGNi0SVJXTKBBvy59CDeJayiUll5WSW8ido9JCSjStV4ObkjuuSTvymD54loMIXULyoyuGLFQSVX/S+pjeHUCp0wITvqeQ3Jixy6CnpwsTZWZYDoKndTakBJtf0jGp1McS2+WYw4nJ2+g3hKamnMwTAJagpnOvg+w93hfxv2U9K3VmXYBmypSLuG1MNMGwWbVupYCJSv1BICl+BLqI6mGOK8IU8mnmKSlSlBLgqUTp0sPlCUcblP2jfJ1seNqKro+fKuSZBU6TlJsSNYiROG0WzGv/ANOZKrBOhEIZ/DgQuWyjlUWPNt4caYZC1VKS6vTlC6ZNULPFv4jUlaUS0EAAMyYQ11AlCA2u8Zki0A0sozFpS1yYu1TKRIlAKZSiNPaKfhpCCVm5Gg5w8p8TBTmmd6YTZ/k3KJEjFlZKUouqw2ECTEAaQ2qCCHIvfyMLV22trEaLRFLTHcpTKEdo8IyYjeKojLfgtQ9xs2sWCZOzJd2ULOPp1ilYVUdmM7gBtyBfziOr4ty2T3jo+w/eEscHCUo1wBxra6R6iH7FJFzZ/wCYlpJIUk5nAe31iscK8aylJyrIBNmfXlrD+rrkukpV3S/ryjcxhElKMpMErGv3sYhpEGYru3HPaGqsNLEan02heWSMezEpJdiaoHdV/amBqlHeHQCHK8MJcEWYP5QPMwwOV5vHpCj1Uf8Aa/p/Zj28UIcYUJco2JUs5A2ujn2EBUvE9TkSO1mHKABYWa132aGOOSEzUpSb5SVWs5hVSSgkAqY6jzflHNy5MeZtpWDeTdzEY03GTKaqUcp0IFvMCMhxw5wgmdMCpiAyb966jytoIyFFoseT3kn+jVBIb2uSKqx3OpCJUoBBCSWDqY7Fre8F09WJUwzDsDb9vaF65M1MlATlQFMFKfvHltoA2kFI7CVKGZQWoBwM1iOp1aPS5sXMXjXPp5fx+ApJPe5IVVyqitm50J0snYJa4ud4KoKIhZRVCYdFd0gl9NesH4Zi0yYSJUuUgJ0ALP4WjrFKiYElLJKyQ4I7wJ0ylrt0hnNnlFrGlV8Kua+/tkjjTjuu2NsRRIFOFS5RQbZQ2VWuqg92Dm8S4NwiZqxOnuEO6JehPIq5J/07+7Lhnh9aEIVUd5YBYG7OXdR3V7e1jjOHDKMpSkNQxJ8s0A1hC3iVBNLNAZ8h1hktYAJNgLmPO+NfxKp+yXJkrzKPdJGg5tzhxKw76PN5crLmffUmFylnKog/DYDX5x3PxRLG7vyhdU14Cco3vBwdARqVO7XiKpnKULxKibtEc9bWjDNAaEmDXsG13gVE1zBAJGnyjCLJO2Oo21jAsnWIVrcaNESXD3B6RqyqDQkc47YQrTNL3himWGeLTMtA85HpASpUN0SCs5UgkxaMF/DZUxlTSUjkNYzIl0efiURD3h2tnGfKQpSigq02j06n4Ep0JtKS/Mlz7Qg4hwhMiokLQO7mD+OkCn0RSPQ8MmICQzWguZWHkIQU6gQ7CB5UgzZpZwhJYn6CPOa+EsGPfGdApQr4j5dYs6ZfvzgCrmm+l9WEFfl2DBgOUbNBZ1Dy5/xHnv8AJz5O5NmZY+CvKl5jZI8TYDzjRQlCStCQpYLX0TzUkHU9YY16LcgNANIDkybecSGTarQBe4+Cz/h3WBclZJdWcuTqYyK7g08yJ6gPhUH8DvGR1cesljio7G14ofxyuKG2JVktKezlCUNXJSGBdrAhnsbxVKrDillKWcn+YJcegLRqbivbKyskJT3nOjdecOuH5vbZpOV8wtpcHkHswvHocUp6adyXfAnJLItohoO1XMEuSokk2y2J+vlHq3D2ArlgLnr7SbsP0y+ievM+nXfDfCcqkDpGaYdVKuW5DkIeR0Z7ZO0hjT4nBe8zIyMjIoZKf+JFQtMgBKiAtwb20sI8Or6Yql3TdJP8x9KYjhqZycq0hQ6xX6/gGjIUVSw2puR9Y2nwDdnztRSHStTWFmiJUsXd26bR6TR8J/mJ84U6EypKbPqH2A5mIar8L6nKU/4epuCzk87RaaaKs84lSyA/OLBQYOFpzFLqVo/vFxwv8KZoCUzFy2F7Au3K8WWj4USDYWHdHlqYuzMmeRV+GplnLldtYFlEXsydPP8AaPUse4GmTT/hgHc7fOEVH+HdUAUlMsAkkObj0ES0Wnwed1PhAwTHqGJ/hnklKWqacwBLAMn94g/DDhHtZi5s0BSUMEA3uSbkeA+cDbV0XZScOwOdNtLkrUdXZh6m0WGg/DyqWxmMgctTHt8vDAAwAESflL2AtE5JZQ8C4ClySFZXVzMW2RRNtDVFLEnYiIZoTVFLaKhxvQEyQoC6VA/OPRVyYT49hueWoDk8ZmrROmUSmqVgaHlFtoaPKkJCXJ9STqYQ9hkCS5IcExaqLHaWWHzEHqC/tHnfxLDLPthdRXLZpsOpcKCWKmKvkP5juqlDKX2hXUcZSy/ZJUtt/hHzvFWx7G508FJOVJ2SW9TqYmHBjjCoLj19f5MVu6DateeYwukXtEkmmLabws4ZJKVv+khLxbKKk7g6vHCeDdneNKqBODXZXMRp2ZUZDPFKUZgk6XMZHo/w/BKOFJryzceEeZzFZpgALMz+V2j0HglSUTEsSVKSbvozOPDSKdTcOTlKzCWQHuTbbXmYsPCNFMlz0zSGSMwN7l2YNHem4Orl0AimpJVweooxQJtMt1jpONyT+v5GFtakLluORivdiUAnW7sN+kVL1Q4pMu6cSln9YiVVShviHqIp6Zyix08Ln79Iwkm+Yt4+7PEL3Ft/MoP60+oircbY7kR2aTdVvWBu1I106tFb4tcrS2wB9IHkybYldltwpCZEsJCbAO76k3JPjBH/AFMKL5SzbfMwrTVZ0Ai6W+kbkTwbaD5noOXjBvkZHP8A1NI2IJ66cohpKpCXBB5u4gMM9hb1+ZjapCjcFukTksZLxJDMxvrEMvE0kksb6eWkBaJLtAyBcOOkU20Uc8Z1Y/LEpe9vWAeBU5aVhYlanPgwHtEnE5zSgnmoW8IBwGs7NKkKSQQonTneAOX+pyXRakTFC5UfWJZVWb3MJpWMSyGKvUGO1Y/ISQCsA9YM5xXbKuhiuqP+Y+sQ/mDvCedxVTDWckPtfw5RzWY7KS2ZY73whi520aMuce7IuRrOqzz8YXVVWp7EwJVV6bAG2sK6jiSUFFAzFQ6GAZJmk0MzMZNhcwhr8TEsZFErWS/hBsrFlKFkgW3vCdeHlZKiblz7wq8kGqYXa3wybCscQpeQgp5fzBeJYeV/CoiFScHyqSu9hm8YaqxIggZNW3i1KG2kY2NdB3CMkpExJv3ovctIQgE2AF48zwziNNPNWZqFBHMXvAWPfisqYSmXLPZjR1XPiw+UcvDp2tTPJXdUYn3TLScUE+YtWz5R0A/eMjzuXxVOutEoBJ1vYxkdvHNRjTMvb4Z6f+cVlzaCwHV9gN/aJDOTLDkudMgYAHqQIjnf1JX96v8A5VFcpf6i/FXvCWTI443L0VmVK7LkJpRLzBKg+ve7oH9pP7QCnE1rNgMoe7X8o1Vf0U+A9oBp/g++Rg2CUnDsYxpNchScRJdyABz16f8AESTMQCEklQI3ysT5CFcr+nN8PpCed8Ig+Obk2vQulbLdLrQoqBIGVvEuHfpGNmJci/P6Qpn/APbHwT9YXTv6fp7QRryVSLEunALZgPEgRLKpwoBlJvbUGKziP6f7B7mD+Hfh8/pEcmlZjJLarLAhASPja/NvHeNTJ4YhK2bVrmFlZp6fWB5+q/H94wsjJjlvV0MTVg27XwBMc9sBczbc3aEONfAjwiCg3+9jFyyNKySlUbHtZkIftM3LcxFOmEMX+LX/ADHkInw/SBpv1P0gEsrkLTzeiN5RlKtxtCeaqTMVn7wY3BN/WDx/TP3vEWGf0leMZktyV82K22+RRi2DhZExBCEJUGzA6uGAG92juqxNMuoGcvkSwJ56O3gDHeN/BJ/vEIMY/wC68vpAkuaHMS92RcF4pI1MwEkAsAS3nAtUqQXVnQVmwtc9BFPpvigxX9aT/d9DB5ZXu2UFU6ntotlDJt99I7SjXwPtHdJp99I6/wA3+72EJDpGlLpH/riCtl96XbaDZOif/T9Yhr//AA+MaiimIeJrSpn3uIoiiQ4feL9xV/Rm+I/+hHn6NoYxiuXsMXiKinKIyB5UZFti1I//2Q== <span style="">01:01, 28, 08, 2013

its such a pretty kitty  01:50, August 28, 2013 (UTC)

Tthankds isn't it cute <span style="">2:18 Wed Aug 28 2013

Welcome
Could you add the Welcome back on meh talk? Thanky youBrightpool (talk) 23:40, August 31, 2013 (UTC)

Thanks Atelda. =) Brightpool (talk) 16:46, September 1, 2013 (UTC)

Hi there Atelda,

it's me, Ginger, and I want to ask u about 2 things,

First: How do you make the userboxes? Could you give me a list and how to do it on my talk page?

And Second: Could you assign or ask senior warriors to be my mentor? You can go to my profile page and see what I have written,

Thanks!

May StarClan light your path,

Gingerpetal (talk) Best Apprentice of the Clans Gingerpaw! 07:04, September 6, 2013 (UTC)

I'm sorry, I don't understand. Like Raelic told me in chat, I know I am only allowed one personal picture on my profile. I didn't add them as photos-I copied their link and pasted them on my page. Sorry if I misunderstood, have a nice day :) and hope I can get to know you better in future! 09:24, October 2, 2013 (UTC)

Hi im sorry about the fuzz and enter the clans things i was ment to say enter the clans charaters so i just clicked enter the clns cause i wasnt paying attention. also please forgive me for the one image policy thing i am a new wikian so i do not understand stuff

Hawkfrost and bramblestar (talk) 13:41, October 2, 2013 (UTC)

Help on Blue "Table" and Cites/Sources
How do you edit the "table"? When I tried to put the publication date on Leafpool's Wish, it wouldn't let me, so I just put it on the Main Page, and then someone else put in on there.

Also, how do you make the same cite/source on two or more different facts have the same "number"? When trying to say in the Main Page what Leafpool's Wish would be about, it created a [3], and on the Trivia, which says the same thing with the same cite, it has a [4]. How do I make it the same, with just a [3]?

Why does it sometimes have extra coding? And every time I tried to make the Trivia and Main Page have the same reference (it is the same, on Vicky's Facebook page), it just won't work.

On my computer, the url for Vicky's Facebook on both of these cites is the same. And I did the "source" mode to see what the cites were for both the Main Page and Trivia--and it is the same. I am totally curious about that; I know it doesn't really matter, but it's just really weird.Mistystar31 (talk) 17:21, October 3, 2013 (UTC)

Thank you so much, I aplogise and can't wait to meet you on chat or such! 09:23, October 3, 2013 (UTC)

HI
Umm, I want to get off this wiki if that's ok, but I don't know how. I have lost all interest in warriors and I want to move on. Do you know how to get off this wiki? Tallstar001 (talk) 18:06, October 3, 2013 (UTC)

Deep aplogies, I was wrong. I think the problem is over, but please may you check? Gingerstripe   Love  Everybody 08:03, October 4, 2013 (UTC)