The Aberrations

As the Gears Groan

The frigid heart of the machine beat within glass halls.
Life condensed, conforming, upon its unfeeling walls.
A blank slate conceived, molded to its wearer's shape;
On it wrote a covert hand, tiny tears through the drapes.

The heart will stop, the droplets will flee to another cage.

Every not so often, when a brave breath fogs the ghastly glass,
will emerge an ephemeral escaping moment of revelation; of the eternal snake in the goddamn grass.

RAVEN!

Displayed is the tattoo art I made for a friend today. Admittedly the lines aren't sleek and the particular kind of ink and the kind of paper I used proved to be a disastrous combination. These pictures however, should be considered more for their potential than for what the are currently, which by no means is the Sistine bloody chapel of tattoo sketches.


The art looks better the more its minimized, but that isn't a good thing is it? Ah well. Beggars can't be choosers, and neither can lazy men who refuse to redo their art.



The first scan:



Dark wings, dark words. Beware the raven's flight.

Monday blues

A respite was desperately needed in the midst of "The battle against my tenacious, devious nemesis, the writer's block". I've turned to my old and close friend, sketching, to provide a much overdue indulgence in the creative process. Below is the result. Before you consider it, I must caution you that it has been a while since I've put pen to paper for reasons other than to write streams of profanities as a venting mechanism.

I present to you, ANGEL.





Or actually, half of her. I inevitably made a mistake while drawing a part of her which led to her dismemberment for aesthetic reason (RIP artistic error).

I also scanned her prior to a few embellishments. Below are the results.




My nemesis has let the war dogs loose to wreak havoc again, so I am now at a loss for delightful parting words that hint at deep wisdom. Guess I'll have to settle for: I'm hungry. Ciao.

PS:: Dedicated to a girl I was a scumbag enough to hurt deeply. Hope that someday soon she can fly away from all the pain I've caused.

One Last Time part 1

Sector Five greeted the rising sun with silence. The wind made no sound as it swept across the roads of an abandoned city. The maintenance bots made no sound as they about the tasks hard-coded into them. The ghosts of the people that once lived there didn’t even try.

The source of that silence was a ragged man in dirty old clothes walking in a derelict building. It was the little things that made that man almost-smile those days, and that day it was finding an abandoned armory.

He’d been in Sector Five for about a year. He’d thought he’d picked the city clean, but hell, even gods made mistakes. He was living evidence.

The armory was untouched, which was surprising. The Last Launch, or The Cowardly Flight of The High and Mighty Filth as Lucy called it, was a noisy affair that left all the armories of sector Five with nothing more than the stench of panicky soldiers and dried up puddles of their piss.

He would’ve loved the array of choices in that particular armory, Lucy would have. Lucy liked guns the way he liked wine. The older the better, he used to say. What he really meant, of course, was the noisier the better.

They made an odd team in that sense, Lucy and he. Lucy loved cacophony, but his superpower was to exert silence. Yet in the ways that mattered, it was a perfect team. Covert ops, a brief stint as bank thieves, even the goddamn rebellion they came through unscathed. The one day he couldn’t have Lucy’s back, his partner went up and died on him.

The first time since he listened to Lucy’s last words, he felt a tickle in his head that meant someone was speaking. Schweigen, it said, long time no see.

It had been a long time since he’d heard that name used, and the unkempt man felt a wave of self-hatred, guilt and sadness flow through him. His hands trembled slightly in his pockets as he continued to stare at the guns, his back to the suddenly arrived.

The ragged man who was once called Schweigen did not move for a while. The person in the dark clothing and mask stood behind him, similarly still, waiting. Finally, with great effort, Schwiegen lifted the silence that lay upon the city and pulled that stifling blanket back into himself.

***

One more off the list, thought Specter as Bounce jumped off the tallest building in the world. ‘Have I ever told you that you scream like a little girl,’ he shouted after Bounce, grinning as he listened to Bounce’s fading cry of joy.

Specter took the piece of paper out of his pocket, ticking the appropriate item. There were only two left unchecked. The grin slowly faded away.

The illusion that masked their aimless existence would fade away once those two things were done. They would be adrift in an empty world. He’d been trying to find the right moment to broach the subject with Bounce, but could find none.

They would have to return to Sector Nine. Find a role to play amongst the last of humanity left on the planet. They could make a new list of course, inventive and entertaining, but Specter was unable to bring himself to like the idea. The vacation had gone on long enough, and the thought of doing nothing constructive frustrated him.

What he feared though was that he would be unable convince Bounce. It was almost a month ago, when Specter mentioned High-Command in the passing. They were reminiscing about the good old Rebellion days, and Specter wanted to gauge his reaction. Bounce suddenly went very still, and his generally amiable face became scarily expressionless. Don’t ever mention that bastard’s name in my presence again, Bounce said, and that was that.

Specter watched Bounce fly across the city, over rooftops of buildings that once would’ve been overflowing with people. He smelled a slight stench and reminded himself that they'd have to head back to the Repository so he could possess a new body. The last time he'd waited too long his corpse had decomposed to such an extent he literally had to clip his nose. Bounce refused to travel with him, claiming he'd puke his entire digestive system out if he came within a mile of Specter

‘How’s life, Specter?’ asked a grating voice, startling him out of malodorous memories. ‘Haven’t heard that one before,’ snorted Specter sarcastically to the figure in the black clothing and mask that had abruptly appeared beside him.

***

High-Command looked at the map that marked the current locations of the Supers. Three down, two to go, he thought, watching the dots that marked Specter, Bounce and Schweigen move towards Sector Nine.

It had been a busy three years since High-Command had last seen them. He had helped the normals organize, turn them into a functioning society. Sector Nine had three hundred people now, each with a sense of purpose. They still searched for more of course. Every month saw two or three increase their numbers. There is hope for those left behind, Priest always told them, we're not abandoned as long as we have each other.

It was just a few days ago in their weekly meetings that Priest had said that he no longer had to use his power to raise their spirits. About time they grew a pair, Buzz replied as Priest shook her head disapprovingly and High-Command brought out the bottle of champagne to celebrate.

All that they had built now stood to be destroyed. The last people on earth faced a threat that could wipe them out. If they were to stand a chance, High-Command would need all the Supers to re-unite.

With a feral grin on his face, High-Command planned for battle, for what could very well be the last time.

Unfurl The Tale of Murl part 1

A little something I started to write on a whim and continue to write for a nephew, a niece and a friend's future children. Solemn promises shall be made and kept to help with big words.


Guitars without strings are sad, very sad things,
Oh yes, sadder still than kingdomless kings,
And bees without stings, and fingerless rings,
Much, much sadder than children without swings.
So my dear friend Murl, the stringless guitar,
was the saddest thing in these lands by far.

One warm night when Murl left the door ajar,
Full of light and joy wandered in a star.
She looked at Murl who never could sleep
Seeing his sad plight, she began to weep.
She said, "Oh, your woeful state breaks my heart,
To aid, to help you, I will do my part."

From a pocket in her magical cloak
She drew forth a song, and a lot of smoke,
And Murl and the star gagged and coughed and choked
"The rainbow played a prank, and unprovoked,
Filling my magical pockets with smoke.
And it wasn't even that funny a joke."

While the rainbow, in hiding, giggled in glee
The star somewhat regained her dignity.
The straggling wisps Murl tried to ignore
As the song struggled against the hand it wore.
So the star set free the desperate song
Told Murl it would lead to where strings belong.

Advent

Its 2 am and we’re on our way back to the city. The world is silent, and it’s just me, Jay and Radiohead. She murmurs along sleepily as Thom Yorke sings his heart out, trying to stay awake to keep me company. “You sure you don’t want to get some sleep?” I ask her, smiling. I already know what she’s going to say and sure enough there’s a sound that vaguely resembles a no.

I excavate the bottle of water from the bag firmly secure in Jay’s encircled arms and take a gulp. I’m glad we’d gone on this crazy impulse of a trip. I had to get out of Bangalore to try to coax inspiration to come out of its bloody hole and me and Jay just reached the point in our relationship where we knew neither of us was a crazy axe murderer, so I took her along. It worked like a charm. I managed to get a tenuous hold on my muse, which needless to say was better than none at all, and Jay got the break she needed to stave off becoming a part of the corporate zombie horde.

The car is going at a comfy eighty and the blurry thick lines that are the streetlights melt and revolve into a pinprick of the night. The tiny dot grows and grows, and the breaks screech to a halt. The darkness is a vortex and I lose all sense of space and direction. ‘Fuck!’ I scream. The breaks screech and there’s screaming like a faint background score building up to something horrific. The world is consumed.

There is blood everywhere. There is a sword in my hand and it gleams hungrily as the crimson seeps into it. I feel its insatiable hunger and roar. My army is death manifest and there is nothing that can stop me. The creatures pouring through the mountain pass fall to a sword blessed by The Destroyer himself.

‘General!’ I hear someone shout. Through the fog of bloodlust in my mind a thin light of recognition forces itself. ‘What is it?’ I snap to the burly man as I remove myself from the frontline and the reserve steps in to take my place. A voice that sounds like stones grating emerges from the burly figure in the blackened armour. “We’re being pushed back in the west. Your brother requests reinforcements.’

‘Pushed back? That was their weakest point!’ I grate.

The fellow hesitates. ‘They’ve turned they're elites loose upon us, General. The Hounds have taken to field.’

‘Finally,’ I growl with joy, and lightning crackles in the starless sky.

‘Quickly, quickly, he’s loosing blood,’ someone says, and I grin. I feel like I’m moving but I’m on my back how could that be? ‘Jay,’ I mumble thickly as a face peeps from the sky the face has Lennon glasses but this couldn’t be Lennon when did Lennon get so fat? ‘Give peace a chance,’ I beg indistinctly and there’s a sound of wheels rolling and the wails of an ambulance sirens from somewhere very far away where am I where’s Jay?

Everything is white, clean and sterile its upsetting white is bad white is pain so much pain ‘Jay!’ I scream but it’s strangled by my cruel throat and only its death cries emerge.

The Hounds were disappointing. They were skilful, quick and would have been formidable, perhaps, even against the best of this army mine. But they didn’t fight my army. They fought me.

The customary challenge was made at night, when the armies of the Floating city had withdrawn. The Hounds against me, a battle to the death. They couldn’t refuse such generosity, or as they thought, such foolishness.

I killed them all.

The splendor of the Floating City is enough to make even the most hardened veteran in my army gasp. Its beauty is unparalleled, an aberration in the ugly mottled dawn of the netherworld. The king is in chains, kneeling, and I can taste the despair that swirls about him. He holds his head high. That can be changed. And it is.

The headless body spasms as I walk away. The Floating City is mine. As will be all the realm and the worlds. ‘Emperor,’ I whisper to myself. It starts to rain.

I’ve got a pleasant buzz in my head. It’s been a month since the fucking crash that destroyed me. My life came down like a deck of cards faced down by the big bad wolf. But none of that mattered. Except that Jay was.. Jay was dead.

My hand raises itself to indicate the requirement of another shot of vodka. Morosely numb, I think to myself and snort. If Jay were here she’d probably be pretty cross at how I'm coping, but what the fuck, she wasn’t, and that was precisely why I'm coping how I'm coping in the first flaming place.

The booze is, additionally, generous enough to keep the disturbing hallucinations and dreams that plagued me since the accident away.

It also helps me forget how much I enjoy the bloodshed in them.

The shot comes and disappears. A childhood memory flashes.

I’m by my grandmother’s bed, and her eyes are closed. There isn’t enough life in her to allow such indulgences as the expression of the restlessness she feels, but I can sense it. My mother doesn't know I'm here. My grandmother's eyes crack open, and she beckons me closer. My head has enough ground clearance to be able to see her eye to eye as she turns her head to face me.

The pillow is white, as are the sheets. Clean and sterile. It is sapping her life away. “Should know.. we are.. blood.. the Demon King,” she mumbles. I look at her innocently, uncomprehendingly. “We are the descendants of the Fallen Emporer,” she says suddenly filled with an urgent energy, trying to make me understand. It suddenly slips away again.

She mumbles something, and then mumbles it again. It was the third time that I finally thought I understood what she said.

“Ravan.”

Tantaluses and Religion/A Priest's Gleeful Rhyme

The lights you think are redemption
The lights that you think are release,
That playfully dance away from your hands,
With such maddening ease.

The lights you think are asylum
The lights that you think are home,
Hang onto strings that're cold-hearted things,
Want you forever to roam.

If only your mind was as cosy
To comfort your exhausted soul,
But there will be no rest, that is what's best,
for the idle are the devil's to cajole.

The Great White Satellite

She of night, of misty light,
See such spite in her delight.
Yearn a sight, a glimpse of white,
Beyond my reach as I might

Such longing will not obey,
That which will begin to fray.
To he that was me, i say,
farewell with a mournful bay.

Kraedon mythos: Myth and men 1

Frolic limped laboriously, wheezing and sweating, and still finding enough breath in his lungs to despair of his situation with a constant fluent stream of curses. The phantom pain in his absent leg still haunted him after all these years. He looked down to stare at the iron spike that was in its place and groaned as he noticed movement in his peripheral vision. He turned around and looked the mountain goat in the eye, puffing his chest with an intention to berate it. The goat bleated questioningly. They stared at one another, until the man sighed, shrugged and said ‘On your own head then.’ He turned around and continued on his path, and the goat happily followed.

So they climbed, man and goat, one with purpose and a large heaving belly, and the other without either. Eventually Frolic decided to make the best of how things were, and struck up a lively conversation, finding the goat to be deeply insightful despite its lack of a spectacular vocabulary. He brought out his flask of mead, and sometime later he found himself singing a song he heard in the tavern recently, the goat joining in. ‘Well, my good fellow, I must say that you can keep a tune far better than I can,’ said Frolic, and the goat shook it’s head vigorously in agreement.

Upon reaching the hilltop Frolic shushed the goat. ‘Hey there Curly,’ he said to the tall, pale, hairless man sitting on a rock. He sat next to the man in silence. ‘Nice view,’ he said after a while, looking to the south. Smoke swirled in the air, moving this way and that, trying to escape a nightmare. They watched a city burn.

The fire danced in Curly’s jaded eyes, a parody of emotion. Curly and Frolic waited and watched. From another hilltop a watcher watched the watchers. Its golden mask glinted in the moonlight. Lidless eyes stared through the slits, the only marks that marred the otherwise featureless mask that was fused to the flesh of the creature. It could remember screams if it tried hard enough as the molten metal was cooled upon its face. Screams that were human. It could not remember the pain however. But the screams were enough. The blood-red cape writhed in the wind as though suffering the memory of torment that was lost to its wearer.

The creature watched as Curly, Frolic and the goat watched the flames, and the smoke that it caused as it carried the souls of the incinerated that tried to escape to a past where they had a home. Ever upwards the smoke went, towards the illuminating witnesses, the many eyes of heaven. The less distant eyes watched the pyre, the sacrifice to prophecy. One pair without emotion, one pair with sadness, and one pair lost in thoughts of how Frolic’s hair might taste.

Then it drizzled, from a sky unmarred by clouds. ‘Brother,’ Curly whispered as the rain grew into a torrent.

Half a dozen cities lay in ashes for this moment to be born.

The Eye of the King

Link by link a chain is wrought,

a battle is fought, a soul is bought.

Drop by drop an ocean is filled,

of blood that's spilled, a dream that's killed.

Thread by thread a flag is knit,

a fire is lit, a throat is slit.

Thought by thought an idea conceived,

shackles, frees, spares not the buried.

Futility

Watch the leaves resonate to our oscillating lives,
Watch the leaf sway as it attempts as it strives,
Watch the leaves reach and beseech in their desperate need,
Only to fall to the ground when they are freed.

FRIDAY FLYER

Incomplete songs written today...

SOARING ON A GAMBLE

There's a dice
Rolling around in my head.
As the shadow's shields
Fail to stop my breath,
I'm taking a chance
with you.
I've never felt so alive
as I do
with you.

REGRET

There are things I should've said,
There are things I should've done.
There are thoughts I should've thought,
There are fights I should've fought.
This song's about regret,
Or eyes at the back of my head.

IN A BUBBLE HIGH

Living life on the edge
Living life on the edge
Living life on the edge
Living life on the edge
The edge of what
She never said.

I really like the last one for being the proof of my veritably vast vocabulary :P (gotta love slanted emoticons)

Kraedon mythos: The Crimson King Part I

A thousand years ago the toil of those within who boiled the blood of the Chaos Dragons shaped what was now called the Grand Amphitheatrium. The ancient marble of which it was built stood defiant, unblemished by the patient eroding caresses of time. On that night, as on any other night, the marble exuded an eerie glow, calling to witness that which witnessed the rise and fall of an empire.

Inside the Amphitheatrium the light that was the culmination of an ancient forgotten ritual flowed like a river into an ocean, to its center, where stood a descendant of the men upon whose sweat the marble was laid, bound in chains and dressed in naught but a loincloth. He raised his head slowly, and his face emerged reluctantly from a shadow that came from within and without.

He was a young man who had seen perhaps sixteen years, sixteen years of hard living that left only hard muscle under his skin, and there remained none who knew him or of him that mistook his scrawny appearance for weakness. There was not a scar upon his body, no testaments of the battles he had fought. Upon his visage, however, there were scars that appeared to originate from fire. Curiously directional fires they must have been, for they followed straight lines from his eyes to his jaw.

The entire male population of the city state of Reverdes was upon its feet, and a chant rose like an avalanche. ‘Bezhgrund, Bezhgrund!’ they roared, and the earth trembled to the sound of his name. That was what he was called now, but he had another name before... Bezhgrund, Bezhgrund...Another name, a memory that was so close to being erased by what had become his existence. Bezhgrund, Bezhgrund! Yet tears ran down the burn scars upon his face, as he remembered. Judah…

‘Judah, Judah,’ his father said sighing to the bleeding boy standing before him, ‘have you been fighting again?’ His father had been putting the wood in the fireplace when he walked in. The melting snow that Judah hadn’t cared enough to shake off his clothes before entering the house formed a puddle at his feet.

A look of defiance greeted those words, and the father sighed again and bent down to put a hand on Judah’s shoulder, a hand riddled with relics of his days as a soldier. ‘Listen to me closely, son,’ he said, ‘what I will tell you I had to earn with the blood of my enemies and mine. Violence hurts those who inflict as much as those inflicted upon. It leaves wounds somewhere deep, where the eye cannot see. Only when a life is at stake must you draw that double edged sword.’

‘Jerruld threw the first punch,’ said the boy sullenly. ’Jerruld again? ’ asked his father, unsurprised. He bent down further, to look his son in the eye. ‘I know his kind, son. This could’ve been avoided, by word or deed. No, listen to me. I understand your anger, it simmers in me too. But you must let it flow through you, in and out, without letting it control you. I cannot in good conscience continue to train you until you've mastered this.’ The child tried to protest, but he could see in the way his father set his jaw that it would be no other way. His mother had emerged from the kitchen, her face filled with concern when she looked at Judah. ‘Come on love, let’s look at those wounds,’ she said, taking him somewhere he could wash the blood away...

As he surfaced from his memory he noticed the giant, wearing an ornate steel breastplate. Eyes that were more than seven feet above the ground filled with contempt and fear as they looked down upon him, and there was a rasp of steel almost lost in the voice of the populace as a broadsword was unsheathed. ‘You are not my enemy. Leave and you will live,’ said Bezhgrund in a resigned voice only tinged with regret. He knew that his opponent, like the many who breathed their last upon the soil of the Amphitheatrium, would not put his sword down. He would not leave, for that would mean the chambers of the Redeemers, endless moments with those who submerged themselves in the art of creating pain.

Of course, they could be holding the giant’s kin hostage. That could drive a man to do things that he never thought himself capable of. The loss of those one loves was another kind of pain Bezhgrund was intimately familiar with. A pain that was the most faithful companion Bezhgrund had, always returning in time to reveal the comfort of forgetfulness for the illusion that it was...

It was noon. The bells in the village far away from their isolated home reached Judah as faint chimes, and he walked back home from the forest he so loved. His body ached from the exercise he got sparring with his father the previous night, but he was content. His father was teaching him again. Lunch would be ready, and his memories gave him a wisp of the aroma that would greet him as he opened the door to his small, cozy home. As he found the found the road that lead to where he was headed and connected his home to the village, he saw a band of about ten soldiers marching to his home. Traveling with them was a carriage that barely managed to fit the village road.

Judah watched in fascination and followed them, still hidden by the forest. When the thought struck him that perhaps he should go warn his parents that they would have guests, he ran swiftly, for they fast approached his home. He would be ahead of the visitors by only a few minutes, but it would have to do.

‘Ma, Pa!’ he shouted as he banged his fist against the door. ‘Soldiers,’ he said to his father’s surprised face with breathless excitement, ‘they’re going to be here in a few moments!’ ‘Was it just soldiers, or was there someone else accompanying them?’ asked his father, lines of tension formed on his forehead as his eyebrows knotted. ‘There was a carriage…’ His father quickly went to the bedroom, and he could hear him open the chest he kept his sword in, below his bed.

His mother grabbed his hand and took him to the back door, which suddenly flew open. Upon the threshold stood a soldier, tall and grim, his green cloak billowing in the wind. When his eyes set upon Judah his face convulsed with revulsion. ‘By the order of the Overseer of the Third Watch, Ruler of Reverdes, you are to be executed for harboring… this... thing...’ he said, pointing a gauntleted hand at Judah, to the father who walked to stand before his son and wife. ‘‘You will not speak of my son in that manner,’ said the father in such a menacing voice it took Judah a few
seconds to understand who it came from.

‘Your son? Your SON?’ laughed the soldier, a sickened look upon his face. ‘Give him up, and I’ll let you go free. I know who you are. I served in the third regiment when you were one of the sergeants. You saved our lives at the Horrengart. Give him up, and I will let you live.’

‘Leave,’ replied his father. The soldier walked in with his companions at his back, crowding into the tiny living room. They drew their swords in unison, and suddenly there was a soldier on the ground, beheaded. There were shouts and one of the soldiers pushed his way out of the crowd, trying to put his entrails back into his body. Another slumped down the wall, the mangled helmet unable to stop his cracked skull from leaving a crimson stain on the wall.

‘Foolish, not to have expected this,’ said a precise, clear voice that penetrated through the pandemonium as another man fell to the floor. It came from a small man of Judah’s height, who was walking towards the father through the throng. He was middle aged who had a long nose and wore a rich blue cloak. He maneuvered his right hand out of the realm of cloth. He had a most curious ring on the thumb, with a needle that pointed inwards.

He whispered something as he pricked himself, throwing his hand so that the blood flew in the father’s direction. The roar of a wildcat emerged from the father’s throat and filled the cramped quarters, amplified threefold. His eyes turned golden. On his skin there was a ghostly pattern that hinted at black fur. After a few cycles they both faded away, and his body shook and his sword fell away. In that moment his chest was pierced, right where his heart was. Judah, who was shocked into silence until then screamed and ran to his father. He could distantly hear his mother’s cries. His vision began to fill with a deep red and he felt something in him fighting to come out, something fierce and ruthless and ancient. ‘Stop him,’ he heard the precise hissing voice call out,’ hit him on the head!’ Judah felt something jerk his head, and then the world turned black.

There was silence as the storyteller stared at his audience, and the audience stared back. ‘I’m thirsty,’ prompted the storyteller, shaking his mug to indicate it was empty. Silence followed the words, as the audience continued to stare blandly at the fellow.

‘All right,’ said the clean shaven one, ‘look here Scroll, that was three months of our wages that went down your throat, and you’re not half done. You haven’t even got to the part where we rescue Judah.' 'But that comes near the end! And I'm parched...' 'If you say you need to wet your throat again I’ll put your face where the ale comes out of the body,’ said the larger, hairy man who smelled like he hadn’t taken a bath in weeks, ‘get on with it.’

Scroll opened his mouth, waving his hands, clearly wanting to placate these men who outsized him many times. ‘Aye,’ continued the clean shaven, thinner man, ‘and imagine what anything coming out of Hygenia here would smell like. I mean, sure, it’s all fine and dandy when he only smells like he took a dip in the sewage trenches…’ A loud sound of something getting hit punctuated his unfinished sentence, Hygenia cracked his knuckles in satisfaction and the thin one rubbed his head.

‘Rustle, don’t call him that,’ said Scroll plaintively, even as the thin fellow named Rustle began to shout at the top of voice, ‘Hygenia, Hygenia, you’ve got a week’s worth dung on ya.’ ‘Use multiple languages to make it rhyme, why don’t you, you dumb loon,’ said Hygenia, ‘maybe if I hit your head again you’ll be able to think better.’

A mug being smashed into the table interrupted them both and they turned to see Scroll shaking and sweating. He looked nervously at the two of them. ‘By the Great Benevolent,’ he said, his voice cracking, making him sound like a little girl every other word, ‘no one else will survive a brawl between the two of you except the two of you. You’re not even drunk! How the command let’s you two hang around together all the time, I’ll never know’

‘The command can withstand the damage we make if I can withstand Hygenia’s wonderful perfume…’ muttered Rustle, and another loud sound of someone getting hit in the head followed. ‘Alright, alright,’ shouted Scroll, ‘I will resume my monologue!’ And so he did.

Resurrecting Moths

Explorations of fading footprints on the tide,
You'll never be done, they tell me, just enjoy the ride.
My heart did forecast the dreary grey clouds I see
but maybe a change of perspective's all that I need,
Holding on tight, to the silver threads hanging from the sky
I won't let them fade away.

Explorations of heartbreak park in the night without a flashlight
You'll never be done,they tell me, just enjoy the ride.
There's a place that light may never reach,
but maybe a change of perspective's all that I need,
Summer days foray, and I know just the place to get some respite
I'll let her fade away.

Kraedon mythos - The Sins Of Our Fathers

Light was legion, marching forth from the rising sun to conquer the world with swords of unforgiving purity that the ambiguity of night retreated from hastily. Though the world bowed to the self-righteous conquerors, portals remained to the all consuming night that was the beginning and would be the end. Within a realm of such shadows formed from the mighty trees of the rainforest of Deirdahor, a boy sat before an old man, beating away at toy drums with his tiny hands curled into fists.

The old man gently took his drums away, and the boy looked up at his grandfather’s face with wide eyes in which swam a hint of indignation, but did not make much protest for he knew that his grandfather would tell him a tale. The boy did love the rich baritone that was the older man’s voice.

‘Time enough to play the drums when you grow older, little one’, said the grandfather his words tinged with melancholy, ‘you’ll spend half your life doing nothing else.’ The boy stared at his grandfather the way only children could, drinking in everything that was said with undivided attention. ‘It is time again to tell you the story that will shape your life, a tale I have told before and will tell you again so you never forget it, for it is our inheritance to seek absolution for a sin committed by our blood ages past. It is ours to keep the extinction of our people at bay.

’Ten generations ago, there was a man in our tribe, a man who possessed all the virtues that our tribe demanded in abundance. He had the strength of the mighty elephants the savage predators of Deirdahor fear to hunt. He was quick as wood-hungry wildfires. The greatest of his virtues however, was that he could hear the secret words whispered in the rustling of leaves, in the cries of the animals. He could harness the wild magic of the forest, and ride it with a skill that rivaled Ahedam, the first man, the apprentice of the Demiurge himself. Aptly then was he named after the sorcerer.

‘Time fed him with these virtues with unprecedented generosity, and soon the tribesmen began to envy and fear this man who threatened to grow into something more. Yet they did not act upon these trepidations, for his words had the power to pluck the strings of the mind and the heart. These trepidations were also overpowered by another fear, that of the demise of fear in rival tribes, which would be birthed by the death of our greatest warrior. So this man not only survived, but thrived.

‘One night when the moons stared wide eyed at the follies of mortals, Ahedam went hunting as was his wont. Among the creatures of the night he became one, and his keen ears listening to the hints of predators that the blood oaks sighed. Upon his visage surfaced a feral smile as his heart began to beat faster. That night he would hunt the panther, a king crowned by the sun’s departure.

‘So he stalked with his senses attuned to one purpose, for he knew that if the knowledge of his temerity became known, the distinction between the hunter and the hunted would quickly blur. He was quick and silent, stepping on dead leaves and fungi lightly. Soon he found himself walking upon a familiar path heading towards the carotid artery of Deirdahor, the Deirdareis, which was a river holy to the Nine Tribes of the Exodus.

‘As he approached the ever flowing waters, he heard the soft lilting tones of a woman singing. The voice curled around him, merged with his soul, carrying it everywhere and nowhere. His body floated in the currents of the song and took him to the source. A woman stood by the river, clothed in naught but the light of the moon. She had the night woven into her thick flowing hair. Her eyes were the green of glistening leaves after a rainfall.

‘The inhumanly beautiful eyes turned to regard Ahedam. For what seemed hours they stared, neither speaking a word, until the woman faded into the wilderness. Ahedam made no move to follow. He sank to the forest floor, his mind unable to comprehend what had occurred. He discovered that darkness remained. He returned to the Sedtun that was his tribe's when he realized hunting for a panther paled into insignificance.

‘He returned every night to the place he had seen her, and she did not return. After seven nights she returned to sing the same song. Once she was done she gifted Ahedam with her regard once more. It took Ahedam seven more seven-nights to summon the courage to speak to her. It took seven times that for them to fall in love.

‘The happiest hours of the life of Ahedam came with a pause of seven, yet soon his heart grew greedy. He knew deep in his heart that the woman who had his love would not grant her consent for more. So he channeled the wild magic into his hands and shaped the Heartwood of Deirdahor into a drum.

‘When he sealed the act with his blood, the breeze that gently caressed the canopy grew into an exhalation of fury. From the wood of the trees flawless brown skin was formed. The shadows wove into each other and became velvet hair. From the leaves emerged green eyes, terrible in their rage. She roared with anger, and then faded back into the forest, and in that terrible instant Ahedam knew that by putting fetters on that which should not be chained he had tainted his soul. With that act, the love that she had for him turned into hate.

‘He learned to play the drum as quickly as he always learned. He learned to manipulate the mood of Deirdahor by changing the rhythm of its heart beat, the rhythm with which his hands hit the Heartwood. He played night and day to pacify the forest, to keep it from destroying the tribes. Only one night in seven was it safe for him to rest.

‘The forest kept away from the Nine Tribes of the Exodus, but the blood of Ahedam was cursed. After a child was born, the mother would die. Yet a child must be born of that blood, for only he could play the drum and keep death away. Thus, in every generation, the Ashfall tribe sacrificed a woman to such a marriage.

‘The woman with the emerald eyes was never seen again by any man of the Nine Tribes, but her haunting song clung to everything that was green in Deirhador.

‘That was the tale, young one, which you must never forget. An obligation you must never forget. It is our inheritance to fight for the absolution of a sin committed by our blood ages past. It is ours to keep the extinction of our people at bay.’

In the many layered silence that followed, the boy grew impatient. He rose up to his tiny feet and wobbled to where the old man put the drums. He held it close for a moment and looked up at his grandfather with wide guileless eyes, and then proceeded to smack it with his hands with all the earnestness he could summon. The grandfather watched him with sadness and pride, and so did eyes that were the green of glistening leaves after a rainfall.

Part of the Book in Conception

Many ages before the ascent of man, when the world was still young, there lived the Giants. Gentle creatures they were, these Beings so beloved to life. Coaxed by their song the forests grew filled with magnificent trees that spanned the height of hills. Coaxed by their loving touch flowers bloomed in the most arid desert. The most feral and the gentlest of creatures lived in harmony in their presence, for to be in their company filled hearts with a joy they could not fathom.

Ages passed in peace, before the Corruption arrived. The black rot spread slowly, preying on the innocent unsuspecting nurturers, twisting their souls and emerging as an evil vaster than could be borne by the realm. The deeper the pain they caused the deeper was their delight and rarely did they gift the relief that death brought. Oceans were born of the blood they shed of other races and of each other, yet it seemed their malevolence was insatiable. Mutilated was the wilderness that they once so cherished.

Thus to rid the living of this menace were created beings Six, mightier than the destroyers within whose powerful grasp the world threatened to crumble. Their body was shaped from the earth itself, their sinew entwined with that of the strongest metals that slept within. Windstorms blew to fill their lungs, to give them life. Their hearts…

Three hearts were carved of the coldest ice, and Three hearts were fire molded. And so they drew their first breath and the eyes of the mightiest race that ever lived opened in unison. Those that witnessed knew an awe and fear with an intensity such that it seemed would never visit the living again.

from Tale of The World In Many Nutshells by Haephaerium, 4th Historian Elect of Kraedon, 112 years prior to the Great Purge

Part of the prologue of a book in conception

There were places upon this realm that were untouched by time, where memories and prophecy became indistinguishable and mingled like the fine threads of a rich tapestry. Only when those threads were woven into a fabric and lost their identity was the picture they were destined to make evident. In one such place was a lake whose other side was lost to the horizon, and over its waters that were the shade of a stormy twilight sky, was a fog that never dissipated. Upon the shores of this lake was a small dilapidated house, its wood rotting. In this small house were impossibly long corridors and palatial rooms, buried in layers of dust accumulated for each age the house stood defying time.

Through the silence that hung thick upon this house the patter of tiny feet could be heard. The sounds came from a roomy hallway that had an uncountable number of large mirrors on either side, held in frames that were suspended by stands of pure gold. Inscribed upon the frames and stands were a script that could not be recognized by mortals, and though covered by dust, the inscriptions shone through with a dull, bluish light. The maker of this sound was dressed in dusty, torn clothes that were once the finest that could be found, raiment of royalty. The little girl was smeared in dirt. Her face held a serene expression as she held her tattered doll close, her unkempt golden hair flying as she danced with her eyes closed, to a beat only she could hear.

The rhythm to which she danced came from a place that was far from the dusty corridors, the house it was in, and the lake whose shore it was on. It came from the hooves of a magnificent stallion, a remnant of a feral age untainted by the efforts of man to tame the powers of the world he lived in. His muscles rippled underneath his fine coat that was the color of a shadow upon the snow, and to look into his eyes was to know a small part of the True darkness of the First night. He cast no shadow, and left no mark as he ran, but he was more a part of this land than any imprint could ever be. His velvet mane flowed as he stamped the ground, and the music of Kraedon was composed.

The song of Kraedon was born when the land was, each life upon it became a note, lending to a magnificent masterpiece that its composers did not hear, but lived. So the music played, and would play. On that day, however when the day was dead but the night was not yet born, the music stopped. For a moment, all of Kraedon stood still. The eyes of the horse rolled as it skidded to a halt for the first time in its long life. And far away, in the dusty house, the girl stopped to dance, her doll slipping away from loose fingers. Her large eyes filled with dread, joy and sorrow, and with a tiny gasp, she fell to the floor.

In that stillness, rose the wails of eight newborns.

Random

The whispers in my mind are three,
The first has a voice I can't free,
The second is of thoughts I flee,
The third lights hope when I can't see.

Blood and Paper

Attempt to pound a crack into my writers block with the help of my ibanez..

The vines surround
The vines creep around
The vines hold me down
The vines surround
The vines they grow they grow
They sow they flow they grow

I’ll get me out of here
Cut me out of here
I’ll fight me out of here
I’ll get me out of here

The ice enfolds
The ice the ice its cold
The ice enfolds
Fogged breaths they told
The ice it grows it grows
It snows it flows it grows

I’ll get me out of here
Thaw me out of here
I’ll fight me out of here
I’ll get me out of here