The Mortal Instruments

πολυ στυλακι ε???????????

ωωω δεν μπορώ να βλέπω αλυσοδεμένο άντρα, αναστατώνομαι...

αυτος ολος δικος σου....αν και δεν εχεις ιδεα τι ρολο βαρανε οι αλυσιδες...
οντως Ασπα....πολυ brutal o Valentine.

City of Heavenly Fire snippet SPOILERS
A moment later, Helen had returned; she was walking slowly now, and carefully, her hand on the back of a thin boy with a mop of wavy brown hair. He couldn’t have been older than twelve, and Clary recognized him immediately. Helen, her hand firmly clamped around the wrist of a younger boy whose hands were covered with blue wax. He must have been playing with the tapers in the huge candelabras that decorated the sides of the nave. He looked about twelve, with an impish grin and the same wavy, bitter-chocolate hair as his sister.
Jules, Helen had called him. Her little brother.
The impish grin was gone now. He looked tired and dirty and frightened. Skinny wrists stuck out of the cuffs of a white mourning jacket whose sleeves were too long for him. In his arms he was carrying a little boy, probably not more than two years old, with the same wavy brown hair that he had; it seemed to be a family trait. The rest of his family wore the same borrowed mourning clothes: following Julian was a brunette girl about ten, her hand firmly clasped in the hold of a boy the same age: the boy had a sheet of tangled black hair that nearly obscured his face. Fraternal twins, Clary guessed. After them came a girl who might have been eight or nine, her face round and very pale between brown braids.
The misery on their faces cut ay Clary’s heart. She thought of her power with runes, wishing that she could create one that would soften the blow of loss. Mourning runes existed, but only to honor the dead, in the same way that love runes existed, like wedding rings, to symbolize the bond of love. You couldn’t make someone love you with a rune, and you couldn’t assuage grief with it, either. So much magic, Clary thought, and nothing to mend a broken heart.
“Julian Blackthorn,” said Jia Penhallow, and her voice was gentle. “Step forward, please.”
Julian swallowed and handed the little boy he was holding over to his sister. He stepped forward, his eyes darting around the room. He was clearly scouring the crowd for someone. His shoulders had just begun to slump when another figure darted out onto the stage. A girl, also about twelve, with a tangle of blond hair that hung down around her shoulders: she wore jeans and a t-shirt that didn’t quite fit, and her head was down, as if she couldn’t bear so many people looking at her. It was clear that she didn’t want to be there — on the stage or perhaps even in Idris — but the moment he saw her, Julian seemed to relax. The terrified look vanished from his expression as she moved to stand next to him, her face ducked down and away from the crowd.
“Julian,” said Jia, in the same gentle voice, “would you do something for us? Would you take up the Mortal Sword?”

οχι οχι οχι

μην μας βαζεις τετοια ευη...θελουμε κ τα υπολοιπα μετα

εγω φταιω...?αφου αυτα μας δινει...

νομιζω ο μαγκνους θα κλεψει την παρασταση

ωωωωωωωωωωωω ναιιιιιιιιιιιιιιιιιιιιιιιιιιιιιιιι

Μα ειναι κουκλι το παιδι ειιναι δυνατον να μην κλεψει την παρασταση?????

κι αλλος επρεπε να κλεψει την παρασταση αλλα ουτε για παρασκηνια δεν ειναι.

Για τα μπαζα και πολυ του ειναι ....

με ολο το υπολοιπο λατομειο απο πανω.

δεν θυμαμαι αν τα εχω ξανα βαλει αλλα anyway...

τον Σαιμον τον εχεις ξαναβαλει αλλα δεν πειραζει μια επαναληψουλα εμπεδωνουμε καλυτερα

την Μαγια κ τον Τζορνταν νομιζω τους βλεπω πρωτη φορα

Atop the wings was a folded piece of paper, addressed to the New York Institute. After splashing water on her face, Maryse had taken the letter and read it. It was short - one sentence - and was signed with a name in a handwriting oddly familiar to her, for in it there was an echo of Valentine’s cursive, the flourishes of his letters, the strong, steady hand. But it was not Valentine’s name. It was his son’s.
Jonathan Christopher Morgenstern.
She held it out to Brother Zachariah. He took it from her fingers and opened it, reading, as she had, the single word of Ancient Greek scrawled in elaborate script across the top of the page.
Erchomai, it said.
I am coming.

έχουμε και λυκανθρώπους στη σειρά, ααα ωραία!

τα παντα εχει αυτη η σειρα

ωραία θα καλοπεράσω, και για να σε προλάβω... ξέρω μακριά απ΄τον Τζεις...

μονο λογια εισαι... και ναι μακρια απο τον Τζεις...

καλά...