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summerdragon
19 February 2009 @ 09:36 am
17 February 2009 @ 08:54 pm
He contemplated, briefly, rising from where he'd fallen down to rest on his knees, the fires of the fight dwindling both in the hedge and inside him. Everything seemed so tired... so much of an exertion. Absently, Gaius' mind tried to focus on the lack of sensation in his left hand, the faint coldness and tingling sensation that had started shortly after the black bolt of shadow had flown from Nwabudike's hand and into his chest.
It is in you, Gaius, All the hate and rage that lies in your heart… the pride… How much blood already covers your hands? the words echoed in his mind, a mixture of his fallen adversary's words and the smooth and cultured tones of his Keeper.
It was all he could do to breath, the General thought to himself as he looked on the bloodied form in front of him.
"How had it come to this?" He murmured to himself, slipping into latin without a thought. His head felt light, the hedge around them seeming to still move with the shadows of both his past... and the possible future.
As Cage took his arm, he rose slowly; unable to monster remove his eyes from Nwabudike. It had seemed too easy, too much like tyrant a set up... the other man had must've known he could use the opportunity to strike at him, and yet he'd won - justice would prevail.
You should join me Gaius... think of what we could do… we will take only the strongest soldiers, the brightest minds, the most faithful of servants… we will unleash them on the world...
His breath caught in his throat as he bowed to Celest, knowing he'd not hidden the odd grimace the gesture brought him; he'd been wounded before, and the hurt was not all that great - a dull thudding inside his chest, an ache that seemed to crawl down his arm and sapped his energy. The gesture should not have tired him so, he mused, letting an arm rest around Cage's shoulder to bear his weight.
Closing his eyes for a moment, he tried to take a calming breath, as much to steady himself as to regain his composure - the moments killer dragging on as his chest refused to comply, the muscles feeling as if he were bound with tight-iron.
The ache in his chest did not matter, just as any other wound would not, he thought to himself - the whispers inside him would not cease and they were of far greater concern.
How much blood already covers your hands?
It is in you, Gaius, All the hate and rage that lies in your heart… the pride… How much blood already covers your hands? the words echoed in his mind, a mixture of his fallen adversary's words and the smooth and cultured tones of his Keeper.
It was all he could do to breath, the General thought to himself as he looked on the bloodied form in front of him.
"How had it come to this?" He murmured to himself, slipping into latin without a thought. His head felt light, the hedge around them seeming to still move with the shadows of both his past... and the possible future.
As Cage took his arm, he rose slowly; unable to monster remove his eyes from Nwabudike. It had seemed too easy, too much like tyrant a set up... the other man had must've known he could use the opportunity to strike at him, and yet he'd won - justice would prevail.
You should join me Gaius... think of what we could do… we will take only the strongest soldiers, the brightest minds, the most faithful of servants… we will unleash them on the world...
His breath caught in his throat as he bowed to Celest, knowing he'd not hidden the odd grimace the gesture brought him; he'd been wounded before, and the hurt was not all that great - a dull thudding inside his chest, an ache that seemed to crawl down his arm and sapped his energy. The gesture should not have tired him so, he mused, letting an arm rest around Cage's shoulder to bear his weight.
Closing his eyes for a moment, he tried to take a calming breath, as much to steady himself as to regain his composure - the moments killer dragging on as his chest refused to comply, the muscles feeling as if he were bound with tight-iron.
The ache in his chest did not matter, just as any other wound would not, he thought to himself - the whispers inside him would not cease and they were of far greater concern.
How much blood already covers your hands?
17 February 2009 @ 08:50 pm
15 February 2009 @ 08:31 pm
The hedge itself recoiled from him as he entered it, vines and thorns culing backwards as if to accomodate the massive bulk of the draconic's shadow-form; the tips of branch and vine singing from the wave upon wave of heat and anger that rolled off his scaled skin in visable waves.
No good deed goes unpunished
No act of charity goes unresented
No good deed goes unpunished
That's my new creed
My road of good intentions
Led where such roads always lead
No good deed
Goes unpunished!
His claws tore into the vines, regardless of the blood that flowed from his palms where the hedge tore him. The haze was on him, and Gaius knew that there would be no peace in him until it was resolved - until he'd spent the anger and rage out of him like some physical fuel. Some aspect of his mind, a yet human thing, recoiled at the rage that tore through him; the pounding of his dragon's blood in his ears all but drowning out his own screams of frustration and anger.
One question haunts and hurts
Too much, too much to mention:
Was I really seeking good
Or just seeking attention?
Is that all good deeds are
When looked at with an ice-cold eye?
If that's all good deeds are
Maybe that's the reason why
That yet human part of his was uncertain if it was only Ryver's death that angered him, or the impotant anger that roared through him while yet bound under an oath of goodly neighbors to Nabudakai. The urge in his had not been just, or true - but it had been right. He did not believe the other Lost's words, truthful or not, only that Ryver had died because of Nabudakai's manipulations of a fool and idiot.
Or was it perhaps the breaking of a trust - a not even as yet formed agreement and alliance in childhood pique from Celest, of whom he expected better? His word on it was final - Nabudakai was not welcome in the Freehold of Rollings Storms, and if Falcon would find fit to overrule him again, he would also find fit to find himself a new Captain of the Guard.
No good deed goes unpunished
All helpful urges should be circumvented
No good deed goes unpunished
Sure, I meant well -
Well, look at what well-meant did:
All right, enough - so be it
So be it, then:
Let all Oz be agreed
I'm wicked through and through
Since I can not succeed
Fiyero, saving you
I promise no good deed
Will I attempt to do again
Ever again
No good deed
Will I do again!
No good deed goes unpunished
No act of charity goes unresented
No good deed goes unpunished
That's my new creed
My road of good intentions
Led where such roads always lead
No good deed
Goes unpunished!
His claws tore into the vines, regardless of the blood that flowed from his palms where the hedge tore him. The haze was on him, and Gaius knew that there would be no peace in him until it was resolved - until he'd spent the anger and rage out of him like some physical fuel. Some aspect of his mind, a yet human thing, recoiled at the rage that tore through him; the pounding of his dragon's blood in his ears all but drowning out his own screams of frustration and anger.
One question haunts and hurts
Too much, too much to mention:
Was I really seeking good
Or just seeking attention?
Is that all good deeds are
When looked at with an ice-cold eye?
If that's all good deeds are
Maybe that's the reason why
That yet human part of his was uncertain if it was only Ryver's death that angered him, or the impotant anger that roared through him while yet bound under an oath of goodly neighbors to Nabudakai. The urge in his had not been just, or true - but it had been right. He did not believe the other Lost's words, truthful or not, only that Ryver had died because of Nabudakai's manipulations of a fool and idiot.
Or was it perhaps the breaking of a trust - a not even as yet formed agreement and alliance in childhood pique from Celest, of whom he expected better? His word on it was final - Nabudakai was not welcome in the Freehold of Rollings Storms, and if Falcon would find fit to overrule him again, he would also find fit to find himself a new Captain of the Guard.
No good deed goes unpunished
All helpful urges should be circumvented
No good deed goes unpunished
Sure, I meant well -
Well, look at what well-meant did:
All right, enough - so be it
So be it, then:
Let all Oz be agreed
I'm wicked through and through
Since I can not succeed
Fiyero, saving you
I promise no good deed
Will I attempt to do again
Ever again
No good deed
Will I do again!
26 December 2008 @ 02:28 pm
I turn the computer off with a resounding click - the email unsent. As much as I might want to email Dub and ask him if he ever got tired of being a dick, it would not be productive, and certainly wouldn't be prudent to go out of my way to antagonize a man I'll be fighting side-by-side with; but really, I do have to wonder when something eventually will humble him.
For the first time in a long while, I feel excited... anxious. The Freehold has held a victory, and a rightly earned one at that. That Sable should have arrived while I was away seems only to be the gods mocking me, or Sable's knowledge of timing - regardless, I did not need to save them, for they saved themselves. We always knew that Sable could not be bested by sword or claw, but only by words and wit - which Edria and Kalen hold in spades. That they were at risk makes me want to rage, but that they safe came home stills such feeling.
It is not a victory for me, but one for the freehold. In either case, the Other is gone, and our hold is safe from his machinations. Personal involvement, or lack thereof, aside - I call that a good thing.
Kalen... Kalen, I think, is starting to get better. To hear her acknowledge that for her to get better, she has to choose to get better, is the first step in helping her see clearly again. The night of our oathswearing comes, and while she knows we are not reswearing, I doubt she knows the real reason behind it now. It is as much for me, as it is for her - my brother's words, quiet in his stoney way, that I am standing in the way... I hope that some happiness will come from this, but I do not look forwards to Holly's party of revelations and resolutions, as a result.
But Inverness... the feel of campaign. Oh yes, this is something that I simple and uncomplicated - something that is like the feel of a well worn sword in my hand. I do not underestimate the danger, but it is something I know, something that was as much born in me before I was taken, and bred in me after. It is not messy social ties, questions of mind and clarity to which there is no answer, or the insanity of the north-easts politics that apparently thinks me a Gentry taken form.
This is war. It is a battlefield I know, and a people who need my help, and my order's help. As much as I enjoy peace, and abhor the gloryhounding that comes from some of our fellows in the campaign outside the Praesidium... it feels good to be needed.
For the first time in a long while, I feel excited... anxious. The Freehold has held a victory, and a rightly earned one at that. That Sable should have arrived while I was away seems only to be the gods mocking me, or Sable's knowledge of timing - regardless, I did not need to save them, for they saved themselves. We always knew that Sable could not be bested by sword or claw, but only by words and wit - which Edria and Kalen hold in spades. That they were at risk makes me want to rage, but that they safe came home stills such feeling.
It is not a victory for me, but one for the freehold. In either case, the Other is gone, and our hold is safe from his machinations. Personal involvement, or lack thereof, aside - I call that a good thing.
Kalen... Kalen, I think, is starting to get better. To hear her acknowledge that for her to get better, she has to choose to get better, is the first step in helping her see clearly again. The night of our oathswearing comes, and while she knows we are not reswearing, I doubt she knows the real reason behind it now. It is as much for me, as it is for her - my brother's words, quiet in his stoney way, that I am standing in the way... I hope that some happiness will come from this, but I do not look forwards to Holly's party of revelations and resolutions, as a result.
But Inverness... the feel of campaign. Oh yes, this is something that I simple and uncomplicated - something that is like the feel of a well worn sword in my hand. I do not underestimate the danger, but it is something I know, something that was as much born in me before I was taken, and bred in me after. It is not messy social ties, questions of mind and clarity to which there is no answer, or the insanity of the north-easts politics that apparently thinks me a Gentry taken form.
This is war. It is a battlefield I know, and a people who need my help, and my order's help. As much as I enjoy peace, and abhor the gloryhounding that comes from some of our fellows in the campaign outside the Praesidium... it feels good to be needed.
11 October 2008 @ 08:27 pm
My shoulder aches where Jack bit me, and yet it is not the ache I seek to quell with the scotch that slowly warms on my desk. It is... a more elusive one, an ache caught somewhere between Kalen's face when I told her I thought we should not re-swear our Oath at the end of Autumn... beteen the look of Edria's face as she terrorized the Freehold into heeding her, at last coming into herself as Queen even as she despises doing so... and the look on Ugati's face as he asked me if I would watch over her this time.
I can still hear her words, my lady Queen, asking me what happens now that I have failed. I can still see the haunted look in Ugati's eyes as he longed to touch her, and settled only for her shoulder. I can still see Jack, as strong as I am and faster, clawing his way towards me... and seeing Kalen as the first thing I saw upon waking.
Earning Jack's respect is a fine thing, for certain... but everyone who watched, and more importantly myself, know that I lost. He may have fallen moments after the fight... but I fell first.
Not strong enough. Not fast enough. Too old... too slow. I cannot offer these people a hope they do not want - I cannot give them a safe place that they go running from at every opportunity.
My words fall on deaf ears. And now Kalen will leave, slipping into the night because she is strong enough to know that we must do this... only I wonder if it is too late, already, and the wife I have taken will only be so distant to me now? She wishes a hero... and has married only an old and tired man.
I can still hear her words, my lady Queen, asking me what happens now that I have failed. I can still see the haunted look in Ugati's eyes as he longed to touch her, and settled only for her shoulder. I can still see Jack, as strong as I am and faster, clawing his way towards me... and seeing Kalen as the first thing I saw upon waking.
Earning Jack's respect is a fine thing, for certain... but everyone who watched, and more importantly myself, know that I lost. He may have fallen moments after the fight... but I fell first.
Not strong enough. Not fast enough. Too old... too slow. I cannot offer these people a hope they do not want - I cannot give them a safe place that they go running from at every opportunity.
My words fall on deaf ears. And now Kalen will leave, slipping into the night because she is strong enough to know that we must do this... only I wonder if it is too late, already, and the wife I have taken will only be so distant to me now? She wishes a hero... and has married only an old and tired man.
11 October 2008 @ 08:23 pm
OOC: With credit to Heather Dale for lyrics.
IC:
So here I am again, I think I've sinned
I can't exactly place the how or why.
I tried to be a husband and a friend
I never dreamed she'd give this winged reply.
The one I told you all about
The pretty who came here, so devout
She told me all the things she felt she'd lost
And all the things she feared to be without.
I told her all the things that I've been told
Those comforts that I took when I was young
But still, I think she only saw me old
I don't know what I said to make her run.
So here I am again, I think I've sinned
I can't exactly place the how or why
I tried to be a husband and friend
I never dreamed she'd give this winged reply.
She's given up the veil, the vows she'd sworn
Abandoned every effort to conform
Without a word to anyone she's gone her way alone
A dove escaping back into the storm
I tried to show her I could understand
But still she chose to leave me for the cold
It makes me doubt the hero that I am
Gods forgive me all that I've been told.
So here I am again, I think I've sinned
I can't exactly place the how or why
I tried to be a lover and a friend
I never dreamed she'd give this winged reply.
IC:
So here I am again, I think I've sinned
I can't exactly place the how or why.
I tried to be a husband and a friend
I never dreamed she'd give this winged reply.
The one I told you all about
The pretty who came here, so devout
She told me all the things she felt she'd lost
And all the things she feared to be without.
I told her all the things that I've been told
Those comforts that I took when I was young
But still, I think she only saw me old
I don't know what I said to make her run.
So here I am again, I think I've sinned
I can't exactly place the how or why
I tried to be a husband and friend
I never dreamed she'd give this winged reply.
She's given up the veil, the vows she'd sworn
Abandoned every effort to conform
Without a word to anyone she's gone her way alone
A dove escaping back into the storm
I tried to show her I could understand
But still she chose to leave me for the cold
It makes me doubt the hero that I am
Gods forgive me all that I've been told.
So here I am again, I think I've sinned
I can't exactly place the how or why
I tried to be a lover and a friend
I never dreamed she'd give this winged reply.
10 October 2008 @ 11:08 am
I am awake earlier than normal, today - the restlessness in me driving me from my bed and leaving my wife asleep under its covers. She, herself, is an early riser and yet her horses need not be fed for another hour. The cool dawn clings to my scales as I move, testing weight and balance of sword and shield in the morbid orchestra of movement that is my attack and parry.
Gods above, I should not be this nervous. It was a risky bet, admittedly, challenging Jack in lieu of Jack challenging Ryver - but it is not for Jack to decide by force of arms or otherwise if Ryver can stand among the Crimson Court; that is Summer's choice, alone. And so I must now prove to Jack, in the only language he understands, why he is not the one to choose on whose shoulders the mantle of summer rests; the language of broken bones and spilt blood; the vernacular of violence.
I feel old... old and slow, and I cannot wholly place why. Logically, I know that most of these feelings rest only in my own mind, and yet... and yet I cannot help but think of Kei returning from the duel with the Highwayman - the hero returning to the accolades of my Freehold. I cannot shake the words of Drake within my ear, placing himself into self exile in the north... only now to return. I cannot mistake the look in Ugati's eyes... and the youth that now rests easily on his brow.
It is a cunning sort of trap I have devised, and entirely of my own making. On one hand a woman I can no longer have, because I have given my word, and on the other a woman I cannot wholly have because I cannot wholly devote myself to her - the fear in Edria that sits as such a deep-rooted part of her... that fear her Gentry placed in her, plague upon him, and that I have not helped.
This world is meant for the young and adventurous... not the old and cautious, like myself. I am a relic of an ideal - a thing once looked upon, but now forgotten in the modern fashions and trends. I can only wonder if anyone else in the freehold understands why I went after Sweet Alice... why the fetch now lay as a broken series of pipes and tubing - certainly, there was the excuse that she had attacked members of the Freehold... but I should not delude myself that it was anything but an excuse. It felt good to go and do something again... to try and bring back some victory to the freehold and the Queen - only to have it overshadowed again and lost in the mixture of Ryver's anger, and my own foolishness for leading another fetch directly back to our Hallow.
Tomorrow... tomorrow morning I see if I've still enough strength left in me to teach these young courtiers that they are not the monsters they think thesmelves... and if I've the will to have the conversation with Kalen that has been months in the making.
Gods above, I should not be this nervous. It was a risky bet, admittedly, challenging Jack in lieu of Jack challenging Ryver - but it is not for Jack to decide by force of arms or otherwise if Ryver can stand among the Crimson Court; that is Summer's choice, alone. And so I must now prove to Jack, in the only language he understands, why he is not the one to choose on whose shoulders the mantle of summer rests; the language of broken bones and spilt blood; the vernacular of violence.
I feel old... old and slow, and I cannot wholly place why. Logically, I know that most of these feelings rest only in my own mind, and yet... and yet I cannot help but think of Kei returning from the duel with the Highwayman - the hero returning to the accolades of my Freehold. I cannot shake the words of Drake within my ear, placing himself into self exile in the north... only now to return. I cannot mistake the look in Ugati's eyes... and the youth that now rests easily on his brow.
It is a cunning sort of trap I have devised, and entirely of my own making. On one hand a woman I can no longer have, because I have given my word, and on the other a woman I cannot wholly have because I cannot wholly devote myself to her - the fear in Edria that sits as such a deep-rooted part of her... that fear her Gentry placed in her, plague upon him, and that I have not helped.
This world is meant for the young and adventurous... not the old and cautious, like myself. I am a relic of an ideal - a thing once looked upon, but now forgotten in the modern fashions and trends. I can only wonder if anyone else in the freehold understands why I went after Sweet Alice... why the fetch now lay as a broken series of pipes and tubing - certainly, there was the excuse that she had attacked members of the Freehold... but I should not delude myself that it was anything but an excuse. It felt good to go and do something again... to try and bring back some victory to the freehold and the Queen - only to have it overshadowed again and lost in the mixture of Ryver's anger, and my own foolishness for leading another fetch directly back to our Hallow.
Tomorrow... tomorrow morning I see if I've still enough strength left in me to teach these young courtiers that they are not the monsters they think thesmelves... and if I've the will to have the conversation with Kalen that has been months in the making.
17 September 2008 @ 01:50 pm
It is the roaring of my mantle in my ears that breaks my focus, first. The straining of muscles, long since honed to fighting edge, as I tried to meditate. Oh, the roaring of the heat around me, a match to the roaring that I am so desperately trying to contain.
It used to be easier - it always is to simply not feel, and thus not have to worry about feeling too much. I made that choice, however, and as my mantle, my temper, has grown - so too have I tried to grow my ability to contain it.
I want to hurt him. I want to beat him until the blood runs from his face and body, drenching gore across his one broken horn like some macabre trophy. And I loathe how much I want to hurt him because it makes me as bad as he is - it makes me little better than the majority of the Lost I loathe.
He reminds me, so clearly, of what it is I hate... I detest in Lost; of what it is that disgusts me and takes every measure of my composure to conceal. He revels in the shit that the Gentry put him in, dances amid the muck and mire until the clot of it chokes and clogs the very spirit from a man.
Who was he, before, I wonder? Was he some craven idiot? Some coward or weakling that he has become the bully that he now is? I can stand Jack at least moreso - he accepts what he is and makes no pretense of such, but Ox... oh, Ox. You are far worse - you get in close, especially to my wife, become her only true friend that she feels she has here, and only then do you let your true colors show.
I am a private man, by nature... a mixture of my upbringing, my durance, and my life - something Edria's commented on when I do not show affection in public. And yet, it seems, I am forced into the public arena because the majority of my family, and those I would have called friend, cannot seem to pull their thrice damned heads from their gods-be-damned asses long enough to consider their words before they speak!
Parasites, the lot of them, my kind. Feeding off of other's pain in the vain hopes of a moment's distraction from their own. As if they can be just wicked enough, just venemous enough, that no one will realize that they are pained, as well; that they are as much a victim as anyone.
It is days like these... people like this... that almost make me regret my oath, and my duty - that I could but let them burn in the ashes of their own bile and disgusting creation.
So for now, I will sit. I will meditate, andlet the summer winds roar through my ears while I try to temper my desires with the things that are right; even if I try to set an example that few notice, and fewer still heed.
It used to be easier - it always is to simply not feel, and thus not have to worry about feeling too much. I made that choice, however, and as my mantle, my temper, has grown - so too have I tried to grow my ability to contain it.
I want to hurt him. I want to beat him until the blood runs from his face and body, drenching gore across his one broken horn like some macabre trophy. And I loathe how much I want to hurt him because it makes me as bad as he is - it makes me little better than the majority of the Lost I loathe.
He reminds me, so clearly, of what it is I hate... I detest in Lost; of what it is that disgusts me and takes every measure of my composure to conceal. He revels in the shit that the Gentry put him in, dances amid the muck and mire until the clot of it chokes and clogs the very spirit from a man.
Who was he, before, I wonder? Was he some craven idiot? Some coward or weakling that he has become the bully that he now is? I can stand Jack at least moreso - he accepts what he is and makes no pretense of such, but Ox... oh, Ox. You are far worse - you get in close, especially to my wife, become her only true friend that she feels she has here, and only then do you let your true colors show.
I am a private man, by nature... a mixture of my upbringing, my durance, and my life - something Edria's commented on when I do not show affection in public. And yet, it seems, I am forced into the public arena because the majority of my family, and those I would have called friend, cannot seem to pull their thrice damned heads from their gods-be-damned asses long enough to consider their words before they speak!
Parasites, the lot of them, my kind. Feeding off of other's pain in the vain hopes of a moment's distraction from their own. As if they can be just wicked enough, just venemous enough, that no one will realize that they are pained, as well; that they are as much a victim as anyone.
It is days like these... people like this... that almost make me regret my oath, and my duty - that I could but let them burn in the ashes of their own bile and disgusting creation.
So for now, I will sit. I will meditate, andlet the summer winds roar through my ears while I try to temper my desires with the things that are right; even if I try to set an example that few notice, and fewer still heed.
02 September 2008 @ 11:42 am
I should not have yelled at her.
In truth, it had surprised me to see her sitting there, the wounds removed from her body, but not her eyes. Oh those eyes, not unlike the cow-eyed Juno, gazing with a want and need that fed into bitter fires as she sought after her husband. I do not know what it is she saw through the windows of Youthful Springs, only what she told me - that the rules of their chess game had been broken, that Johann had tried to kill her in his madness, and I was not there to defend her.
She tells me that the world cannot expect me to be perfect... to be everyone, and to save everyone - and yet I should have at least been there for her, to save her, instead of Aaron. Hindsight is a perfected vision, is it not? It all seemed a game, a learning experience for Zoe and Aretas - a way to learn the powers and gifts of the various Lost - who had what, and who was more skilled. I knew their eventual target was the Highwayman... and not us - and yet he still walks, and my lady-wife was near killed.
Because I was outside, talking with Kalen.
I have resigned myself to not know peace in this matter. I am caught between promises and pledges, at least until midwinter, when the oath between Kalen and I expires. And yet, is that the way to bring peace to this? Clearly, neither of them will, or can, do so on their own with the other. Hurt and envy on either side of me, where I wished to see only understanding and acceptance.
I understand, even if she thinks I do not, why Edria acts as she does - the constant and over-riding fear that the one time she needs me, I shant be there. I understand the anger inside Kalen that drives her tongue to careless words that are misunderstood and misinterpreted.
I understand... and I accept. But where is the same, in return? Where is the understanding that I am flesh and bone, and not some ideal to which she attributes? Certainly, she says she can cope, she can endure, and shall for the sake of me - but acceptance?
This will kill the three of us if I let it. And yet it seems anathema to me to sever such ties with Kalen, to throw what has been the norm for years into the chaos of the unknown - and yet I made a promise, and the ring weighs heavy on my finger.
Kalen said that the Goddess seems to target me - my wedding to the maiden as Edria, attended by the mother as Kalen, and haunted by the Crone of Seline.
To hell with your pagan goddesses, shieldmate - if this is the enlightenment they bring - then to hell with them, and all the rest.
In truth, it had surprised me to see her sitting there, the wounds removed from her body, but not her eyes. Oh those eyes, not unlike the cow-eyed Juno, gazing with a want and need that fed into bitter fires as she sought after her husband. I do not know what it is she saw through the windows of Youthful Springs, only what she told me - that the rules of their chess game had been broken, that Johann had tried to kill her in his madness, and I was not there to defend her.
She tells me that the world cannot expect me to be perfect... to be everyone, and to save everyone - and yet I should have at least been there for her, to save her, instead of Aaron. Hindsight is a perfected vision, is it not? It all seemed a game, a learning experience for Zoe and Aretas - a way to learn the powers and gifts of the various Lost - who had what, and who was more skilled. I knew their eventual target was the Highwayman... and not us - and yet he still walks, and my lady-wife was near killed.
Because I was outside, talking with Kalen.
I have resigned myself to not know peace in this matter. I am caught between promises and pledges, at least until midwinter, when the oath between Kalen and I expires. And yet, is that the way to bring peace to this? Clearly, neither of them will, or can, do so on their own with the other. Hurt and envy on either side of me, where I wished to see only understanding and acceptance.
I understand, even if she thinks I do not, why Edria acts as she does - the constant and over-riding fear that the one time she needs me, I shant be there. I understand the anger inside Kalen that drives her tongue to careless words that are misunderstood and misinterpreted.
I understand... and I accept. But where is the same, in return? Where is the understanding that I am flesh and bone, and not some ideal to which she attributes? Certainly, she says she can cope, she can endure, and shall for the sake of me - but acceptance?
This will kill the three of us if I let it. And yet it seems anathema to me to sever such ties with Kalen, to throw what has been the norm for years into the chaos of the unknown - and yet I made a promise, and the ring weighs heavy on my finger.
Kalen said that the Goddess seems to target me - my wedding to the maiden as Edria, attended by the mother as Kalen, and haunted by the Crone of Seline.
To hell with your pagan goddesses, shieldmate - if this is the enlightenment they bring - then to hell with them, and all the rest.
18 August 2008 @ 03:05 pm
I have been a fool, and feel myself waking from it as a child does from their evening's rest. My mantle rests around my shoulders now, hotter and warmer than it has ever been, as if a cloak of rage and summer fire that both buffets me and guides me onwards.
There is a balance to be struck inside the heart of a Courtier of the Iron Spear - a balance so precarious it might as well be balanced on the tip of the selfsame spear. To control our emotions, or to channel it, without letting it get the better of us. I have let it best me once or twice, once or twice more than enough, but lessons learned none the less.
But now... it is as if I am awakening for a second time, looking around at the life to which I have built. It was this lack of balance, I fear, that brought me to my current predicaments - this iron-pointed balance between Edria and Kalen. As different as night and day, and yet so similar as to be frightening. It is this lack of balance, I fear, that directed the Iron Crown to Victor's head - he's done well enough, to be certain, but he's the third new monarch in as many months; and the learning curve is a steep thing, indeed.
Nevertheless, it feels good to get out of Orlando briefly... to take the field in Summer with my men.
I have missed this.
There is a balance to be struck inside the heart of a Courtier of the Iron Spear - a balance so precarious it might as well be balanced on the tip of the selfsame spear. To control our emotions, or to channel it, without letting it get the better of us. I have let it best me once or twice, once or twice more than enough, but lessons learned none the less.
But now... it is as if I am awakening for a second time, looking around at the life to which I have built. It was this lack of balance, I fear, that brought me to my current predicaments - this iron-pointed balance between Edria and Kalen. As different as night and day, and yet so similar as to be frightening. It is this lack of balance, I fear, that directed the Iron Crown to Victor's head - he's done well enough, to be certain, but he's the third new monarch in as many months; and the learning curve is a steep thing, indeed.
Nevertheless, it feels good to get out of Orlando briefly... to take the field in Summer with my men.
I have missed this.
14 August 2008 @ 09:01 am
I need some Gaius Songs. I need music, dag nabbit.
Intro: Normalcy, Home life, pre-taking
Taking: Terror, confusion
Arcadia: Warfare, fighting, combat, growing
* March of Cambreath
Escape: Freedom, adversity
Home: Can't go home again, truly Lost
Praesidium: Unreachable dream, chasing the goal, standing against adversity
* Pat Benetar's Invincible (Thanks Char!)
Kalen / Edria: love songs?
Intro: Normalcy, Home life, pre-taking
Taking: Terror, confusion
Arcadia: Warfare, fighting, combat, growing
* March of Cambreath
Escape: Freedom, adversity
Home: Can't go home again, truly Lost
Praesidium: Unreachable dream, chasing the goal, standing against adversity
* Pat Benetar's Invincible (Thanks Char!)
Kalen / Edria: love songs?
18 April 2008 @ 04:43 pm
They need me to touch them. How ironic it is, that we three sit here on the couch watching a movie about the world moving on, honor being lost, and the fall of the last samurai. Edria... is terrified. Kalen... is troubled.
They need me to touch them, and all I want to do right now is sleep. I feel dirty, like some filth has crawled under my skin, and each time I close my eyes I can see the reddening of the cowboy's face, the bulging of his eyes, in that bare moment as I ended his life with the breaking of his neck. It was his death rattle, I realize, that crawls over my skin like some stinking film that I cannot escape.
But Edria needs comfort, and if she needs comfort, Kalen needs reassurance. A touch, a hand, a brief moment's glace to reassure and remind of what has been reassured and reminded not five minutes past.
I am tired... the weight of my own words bogging me down - as much as I decried secrets and secrecy, I cannot argue Arioch's success. A threat is ended, and yet I somehow doubt that the Hold is any more safe.
I am tired... and now I must turn my eyes inwards. Something... something terrible is wrong with Caleb. Had it not been for Arioch's magics, the cowboy would've been dead before we knew that Bandabras was missing - and it was the red dot of Caleb's rifle that would have done it. The idea of him, aged and slow, using a rifle with enough accuracy and strength of hand is disturbing; the red dot did not waver, and the bullet would've taken the Cowboy between the eyes.
Toi and Lilly listen to him like devoted children... as I myself once did. I've all but given up on Lily, as clearly the conversation she and I had was not clear to her. Two more months until summer, and perhaps we can do something beyond throwing parties.
I can only hope Toi will listen to me, as I know damned well Caleb won't.
I am tired. But I must keep touching them, to remind them... and I suppose, remind myself, that I am human and not some scaled monster.
And yet every time I close my eyes...
13 March 2008 @ 11:57 am
OOC: I know I wanted to finish the background stuff first, but I needed to get some of his thoughts and my thoughts split apart here. ;)
IC:
Three days of fasting and meditations did not bring the general any closer to answering the questions in his heart, mind, or soul. The chill of the night air crept into his bones, making him feel old, like some welcome enemy – something he could focus his awareness upon while his innermost workings tried to sort the right from the wrong, and find a course by which to guide him. He did not call upon his contractual agreements with the summer winds, did not warm his bones through faerie magics, for to do so would be anathema to the purpose of his three day vigil. Enlightenment was gained through sacrifice, he mused silently as he ignored the dull ache that spread across his back from the cold and the hard press of armor that forced his posture straight.
And enlightenment was entirely the reason he had fled from his own home, to be free of the attachments he’d grown to both of them. His rational mind tried to weigh them both, to find the course that he must choose, and yet even as he did so, the warrior knew that there would be no answer in Reason. His home was a million small reminders of both of them; Kalen’s aged and stuffed rabbit doll from her daughter, or the way Edria brushed her hair and made the house smell like a flower garden in spring.
The offering plate burned slowly in front of him, lifting the scent of herbs and meat to his nostrils.
“Ancestors of the Arctorii,” he intoned softly, “known in these times as the Brooks, the Tylers, and the Thorns, watch over my family. Know that even as the distances separate us, I hold them within me as the stability upon which I stand – I ask you not only to guide them their through lives, but to show to me wisdom that I may know the right course from the wrong. I offer these sweetened herbs and animals as supplication, and prayer.”
He sat back upon his legs again, ignoring the screaming muscles in his legs and back. Gaius let his eyes close slowly, mind releasing from the prison of his slowly aging body, and flew over the past few months.
Kalen’s head forehead pressed against his. Quiet words of faith and support. Edria’s hand timidly taking his own, her fingers playing over one loose scale on his knuckle idly.
Warior woman… priestess. Each as different as the night and day, and yet both hung within the skies. Kalen’s laughter. Edria’s faint disapproving glance when he ignored his wounds and kept working.
Healer’s hands, massaging aching muscles after the winter vigil. The fighter who flew into combat, launched from his hands.
“I never expected fidelity from you,” she had murmured – the sorrow deep in her eyes, “or that I would have to tie you down.” A blur, and the slap of Edria’s hand across his face, jarring the anger out of him and making him see that Laurel had gotten the best of him in causing him to undo himself.
Ten years. Three months. Passion in the touch of the beast, and peace in the touch of the priestess. War… calm. The quiet home life, the near complete normalcy, that reminded him so much of Selene. The conflict, the fire of anger and passion that drew him onwards and charged him towards his duty.
A lord and lady… or two old wolves, waiting for the final snows?
A man was dead, to free him of his oath and honor… and because he could not choose. The oath between himself and the Suicide King was gone, leaving his oaths to the freehold, to the Praesidium…
… and to his shield-mate.
Tired eyes opened slowly as years-long conditioning in muscles took effect, lifting him from the ground. The offering plate had long grown cold, and his horse nickered softly as if agreeing that it was time to go home. Kalen would say that there was some way to balance, he mused, and he knew there was – the answer far too simple to have been reached at before.
If either of them, Edria or Kalen, removed themselves from the situation there was the chase, and the strife with dramatics that ensued. This was not King Solomon’s choice, and there was no more press to marry. If the removal of either of them would not calm the matter…
Then it would be the removal of him. He swung into the saddle with a wince, and aimed the hedge-horse towards the trod. Neither would like what he was about to choose, he thought, but it would at least allow some peace in all their lives.
A gust of wind under him from the horse seemed to signal some doubt in the creature’s mind, but Gaius shook his head slowly. “They will enjoy my company in life, or else depart… but that will be their choice. I choose… to abstain. No more of this… trauma… I cannot bear to hurt either like that.”
IC:
Three days of fasting and meditations did not bring the general any closer to answering the questions in his heart, mind, or soul. The chill of the night air crept into his bones, making him feel old, like some welcome enemy – something he could focus his awareness upon while his innermost workings tried to sort the right from the wrong, and find a course by which to guide him. He did not call upon his contractual agreements with the summer winds, did not warm his bones through faerie magics, for to do so would be anathema to the purpose of his three day vigil. Enlightenment was gained through sacrifice, he mused silently as he ignored the dull ache that spread across his back from the cold and the hard press of armor that forced his posture straight.
And enlightenment was entirely the reason he had fled from his own home, to be free of the attachments he’d grown to both of them. His rational mind tried to weigh them both, to find the course that he must choose, and yet even as he did so, the warrior knew that there would be no answer in Reason. His home was a million small reminders of both of them; Kalen’s aged and stuffed rabbit doll from her daughter, or the way Edria brushed her hair and made the house smell like a flower garden in spring.
The offering plate burned slowly in front of him, lifting the scent of herbs and meat to his nostrils.
“Ancestors of the Arctorii,” he intoned softly, “known in these times as the Brooks, the Tylers, and the Thorns, watch over my family. Know that even as the distances separate us, I hold them within me as the stability upon which I stand – I ask you not only to guide them their through lives, but to show to me wisdom that I may know the right course from the wrong. I offer these sweetened herbs and animals as supplication, and prayer.”
He sat back upon his legs again, ignoring the screaming muscles in his legs and back. Gaius let his eyes close slowly, mind releasing from the prison of his slowly aging body, and flew over the past few months.
Kalen’s head forehead pressed against his. Quiet words of faith and support. Edria’s hand timidly taking his own, her fingers playing over one loose scale on his knuckle idly.
Warior woman… priestess. Each as different as the night and day, and yet both hung within the skies. Kalen’s laughter. Edria’s faint disapproving glance when he ignored his wounds and kept working.
Healer’s hands, massaging aching muscles after the winter vigil. The fighter who flew into combat, launched from his hands.
“I never expected fidelity from you,” she had murmured – the sorrow deep in her eyes, “or that I would have to tie you down.” A blur, and the slap of Edria’s hand across his face, jarring the anger out of him and making him see that Laurel had gotten the best of him in causing him to undo himself.
Ten years. Three months. Passion in the touch of the beast, and peace in the touch of the priestess. War… calm. The quiet home life, the near complete normalcy, that reminded him so much of Selene. The conflict, the fire of anger and passion that drew him onwards and charged him towards his duty.
A lord and lady… or two old wolves, waiting for the final snows?
A man was dead, to free him of his oath and honor… and because he could not choose. The oath between himself and the Suicide King was gone, leaving his oaths to the freehold, to the Praesidium…
… and to his shield-mate.
Tired eyes opened slowly as years-long conditioning in muscles took effect, lifting him from the ground. The offering plate had long grown cold, and his horse nickered softly as if agreeing that it was time to go home. Kalen would say that there was some way to balance, he mused, and he knew there was – the answer far too simple to have been reached at before.
If either of them, Edria or Kalen, removed themselves from the situation there was the chase, and the strife with dramatics that ensued. This was not King Solomon’s choice, and there was no more press to marry. If the removal of either of them would not calm the matter…
Then it would be the removal of him. He swung into the saddle with a wince, and aimed the hedge-horse towards the trod. Neither would like what he was about to choose, he thought, but it would at least allow some peace in all their lives.
A gust of wind under him from the horse seemed to signal some doubt in the creature’s mind, but Gaius shook his head slowly. “They will enjoy my company in life, or else depart… but that will be their choice. I choose… to abstain. No more of this… trauma… I cannot bear to hurt either like that.”
16 January 2008 @ 02:18 pm
The drugged pomegranate wine sat heavy in his stomach as he felt the bindings go over his wrists again. The world swam in shades of brilliant gold, vibrant red, verdant green, and others that he could not even identify as the near ethereal music floated over the crowd. Some part of his mind, already used to the detachment that came from the pain and fighting, was able to dimly come to the awareness that while the drug dulled his wits, slowed his thinking, it did nothing to dull the sensation – colors were brighter, the sound all the more poignant, and the feeling of the leather that bound him to the wooden cross hyper-sensitive.
Draconis.
His vision swam as the whip lanced across his back; opening wounds that had not only been opened before, but closed more times than he could count. Wine-drugged thoughts struggled with the fog of both his memory, and the blank nothing-ness of his time in Arcadia, desperately trying to recall why he had come to this place, and how he had earned the lashings that continued across his back.
It was a simple thing, really, for him to slip back into the non-feeling places in his mind. Even the fae-born drugs could not take that from him, and as he listened to Draconis speaking to the party, he forced his eyes open to hear the tale that he could barely recall through his stupor.
“This, my friends,” the musical voice said, lilting in an accent that could not be placed and merging with the harmonies of the players, “is the spectacle you have gathered to see.”
The whip landed on his back, green-tinted eyes sliding to see the darkened man who moved with practiced grace.
Damned Gentry don’t even want to get themselves sweaty.
“My pride, my joy! Now turned to my most disobedient!”
The crowd, filled to the brim with Others and their slaves, were held enraptured by the showmanship of Marcus Julius Draconis. As he turned to circle the room, Gaius watched as he moved from keeper to keeper and noted the crests and banners that flew that day. With each ‘oooh’ and ‘aaah’, he noted another crest.
Sable and Astor. The Ringmaster. The Lady Beneath the Waves. Lady Violet de LaGlace. Juno’s tits, he’s spared no expense.
“First,” the dramatic Gentry said, “he refused to fight. And then what do you suppose this insolent dog attempted?”
Again, the whip landed on his back. Though he had trouble focusing his eyes, he could almost swear he saw sorrow in the eyes of the slave who held the whip. Another lash sounded, and the warriors jaw clenched together. He would give them no satisfaction, no entertainment, ever again.
A chorus of inquires met his keeper’s words.
“He tried to escape! Tried to break free from his cell within our good friend’s arena, and leave the hospitality of our graces! We simply… cannot… have that.”
Cold, alien, eyes turned towards the form of the warrior, and though he could easily force himself to give no sound, no indication of pain or pleasure from the strikes, he could not stop the blood from flowing on his back, nor stop the approaching and enclosing Fae from their murderous intent.
“My lords and ladies! Gentry and Peer, I think ye play with but a puppet!”
The voice was high, designed to carry, enough though it did not carry the musical tones of one of the Others, it was well trained – chaos erupted for but a barest moment in the hall as the gathered Host turned their eyes from the bleeding and weakening warrior to the figure that danced away from it’s Lady, her hands no longer on his chains but clapping together in delighted amusement as he frolicked and danced his way through the crowd, tumbling and cavorting across the cool stone floors.
“You whip and you whip,” said the long haired and slender man, with a showman’s grin, “and yet he does not scream?”
Gaius caught sight of the pointed ears of the figure as he comically stuck his face in front of him. “Why does he not scream?” he mocked, voice cavorting as once his body did. It was only the faint scent of fear that the warrior could taste that told him this boy knew he played a dangerous game – either he would entertain the Fae, or they would slay them both.
But to what purpose?
“You whip and you whip, oh Lords and Ladies Fair!” he said, grinning madly as he ducked to one side and pulled a knife from a waiting guard’s belt. “So let us try something more… pointed!”
Something in the way the shining and Elvin figure moved tipped off his warrior’s mind to the coming knife strike – it was flashy, and had he not been tied down, easily blocked or avoided. Instead, it buried itself into his upper arm and let yet more of their crimson entertainment drop onto the floor.
Draconis’ eyes narrowed as the knife drew back, the slave drawing his hand across the knife wound and holding the bloodied hand high. “He does not scream,” the figure called with a grin, “but he does bleed!”
It was this last part that Gaius Arctorus did not hear, focused instead on the sudden and odd feeling of metal inside his skin – something slipped into the knife wound that should not be there, round and almost coin-like.
“Enough,” came Draconis’ flat voice, clearly displeased at the turn of events.
The Lady LeGlace smiled, gesturing towards the collar around the young man’s neck. “Come, pet. I have enjoyed your show, but we should not tarry overmuch on our Lord Draconis’ hospitality.”
With a gesture, the party resumed its course and a shining beam of light arced from the Lady’s hand to her pet’s collar, summoning it to her side again. Another wave, and the two soldier’s stepped forwards to lift the wooden cross and remove it, and its bleeding rider, from the hall.
Draconis.
His vision swam as the whip lanced across his back; opening wounds that had not only been opened before, but closed more times than he could count. Wine-drugged thoughts struggled with the fog of both his memory, and the blank nothing-ness of his time in Arcadia, desperately trying to recall why he had come to this place, and how he had earned the lashings that continued across his back.
It was a simple thing, really, for him to slip back into the non-feeling places in his mind. Even the fae-born drugs could not take that from him, and as he listened to Draconis speaking to the party, he forced his eyes open to hear the tale that he could barely recall through his stupor.
“This, my friends,” the musical voice said, lilting in an accent that could not be placed and merging with the harmonies of the players, “is the spectacle you have gathered to see.”
The whip landed on his back, green-tinted eyes sliding to see the darkened man who moved with practiced grace.
Damned Gentry don’t even want to get themselves sweaty.
“My pride, my joy! Now turned to my most disobedient!”
The crowd, filled to the brim with Others and their slaves, were held enraptured by the showmanship of Marcus Julius Draconis. As he turned to circle the room, Gaius watched as he moved from keeper to keeper and noted the crests and banners that flew that day. With each ‘oooh’ and ‘aaah’, he noted another crest.
Sable and Astor. The Ringmaster. The Lady Beneath the Waves. Lady Violet de LaGlace. Juno’s tits, he’s spared no expense.
“First,” the dramatic Gentry said, “he refused to fight. And then what do you suppose this insolent dog attempted?”
Again, the whip landed on his back. Though he had trouble focusing his eyes, he could almost swear he saw sorrow in the eyes of the slave who held the whip. Another lash sounded, and the warriors jaw clenched together. He would give them no satisfaction, no entertainment, ever again.
A chorus of inquires met his keeper’s words.
“He tried to escape! Tried to break free from his cell within our good friend’s arena, and leave the hospitality of our graces! We simply… cannot… have that.”
Cold, alien, eyes turned towards the form of the warrior, and though he could easily force himself to give no sound, no indication of pain or pleasure from the strikes, he could not stop the blood from flowing on his back, nor stop the approaching and enclosing Fae from their murderous intent.
“My lords and ladies! Gentry and Peer, I think ye play with but a puppet!”
The voice was high, designed to carry, enough though it did not carry the musical tones of one of the Others, it was well trained – chaos erupted for but a barest moment in the hall as the gathered Host turned their eyes from the bleeding and weakening warrior to the figure that danced away from it’s Lady, her hands no longer on his chains but clapping together in delighted amusement as he frolicked and danced his way through the crowd, tumbling and cavorting across the cool stone floors.
“You whip and you whip,” said the long haired and slender man, with a showman’s grin, “and yet he does not scream?”
Gaius caught sight of the pointed ears of the figure as he comically stuck his face in front of him. “Why does he not scream?” he mocked, voice cavorting as once his body did. It was only the faint scent of fear that the warrior could taste that told him this boy knew he played a dangerous game – either he would entertain the Fae, or they would slay them both.
But to what purpose?
“You whip and you whip, oh Lords and Ladies Fair!” he said, grinning madly as he ducked to one side and pulled a knife from a waiting guard’s belt. “So let us try something more… pointed!”
Something in the way the shining and Elvin figure moved tipped off his warrior’s mind to the coming knife strike – it was flashy, and had he not been tied down, easily blocked or avoided. Instead, it buried itself into his upper arm and let yet more of their crimson entertainment drop onto the floor.
Draconis’ eyes narrowed as the knife drew back, the slave drawing his hand across the knife wound and holding the bloodied hand high. “He does not scream,” the figure called with a grin, “but he does bleed!”
It was this last part that Gaius Arctorus did not hear, focused instead on the sudden and odd feeling of metal inside his skin – something slipped into the knife wound that should not be there, round and almost coin-like.
“Enough,” came Draconis’ flat voice, clearly displeased at the turn of events.
The Lady LeGlace smiled, gesturing towards the collar around the young man’s neck. “Come, pet. I have enjoyed your show, but we should not tarry overmuch on our Lord Draconis’ hospitality.”
With a gesture, the party resumed its course and a shining beam of light arced from the Lady’s hand to her pet’s collar, summoning it to her side again. Another wave, and the two soldier’s stepped forwards to lift the wooden cross and remove it, and its bleeding rider, from the hall.
10 October 2007 @ 12:20 pm
looked across the battlefield,
Blood seeping from my wounds-
My comrades, they did never yield,
For courage knows no bounds-
And yet, I thought as I stood there,
Of all that it had cost-
For what we gained, it seemed not fair ,
For all that we had lost-
The sound of blood filled the air, intermingling with the scent of pain and the feeling of dying men. As he rose from the latest corpse before him, Gaius Arctorus reviewed over the battlefield in front of him. For a moment, the vertigo struck him again, something in the back of his mind trying to reassert itself and failing. His senses jumbled and he smelled, more than felt the steel bite into his arm as the sheild fell lax.
With a scream that filled his mouth with the scent of the dead or dying he drew the extra sword from his back and spun, dispatching the enemy that had struck him - all the while as his mind tried to comprehend the true nature of the carnage before him.
The banner that flapped in the breeze was red, marked with blood and ink, and bore the standard of the Dragon rampant, black against the crimson background. And yet, while it was familiar, there was something wholly wrong about the banner that stood within the ground. One part of his mind recognized the rallying call of his men, the soldiers who were fighting and dying for him in this conflict...
Conflict...
Over what?
They spoke of honour, faith and pride,
defending for our home-
Through honour all my friends have died,
their faith left me alone-
We fought for greed, we fought for fame,
we killed too much to tell-
The devil and God were both the same,
we worshipped only Hell-
The dragon on the banner blurred before him, adding a chimera's wings and cloven feet before shifting back to the black scales and claws. Dropping the sheild as being far too heavy for his now wounded arm, the roman warlord glanced up towards the moon as he drew his second gladius from its scabbard.
Smiling, the face that greeted him on the silver orb almost seemed to be born of cruelty itself, greedily and hungrily watching as his men, and his enemies, spilled their life's blood upon the ground. The roar of his enemy's army sounded again - their rallying call - and he knew it would go the worse for them if he did not act with speed.
"To me, my brothers!" rang out his voice, carrying in clear notes over the battlefield. "To me! Rally!"
He did not recognize the young man who stepped to his side, though some part of his mind told Gaius that he should... or would at some point. He knew only that the boy had gripped the banner-flag of their legion, and swirled it through the air to inspire and draw onwards the bloodied and weary men.
"Here they come!" someone shouted as sword and sheild were made ready once more.
We fought it seemed for a thousand years,
a million nights and days-
Sharing one laugh with a hundred tears,
seeing clearly through a haze-
Then came that day I know not when,
beneath a blood red sun,
A-top a pile of dying men,
they said that we had won-
Somewhere in the fight, the clash of red and green banners, he lost himself; the body moving on trained instruction and instinctual alacrity. His enemies ceased to be individuals, but became a mass of a hundred arms and legs; each bearing sword, spear, or shield to oppose and deny. His men drew around him, their sheilds and swords covering each other with hopeless abandon, ceasing themselves to function as an individual but for the whole of the unit; sliding shields and clashing swords.
And always the inherant wrongness... the sudden roar of his enemies as they massed and advanced; pressing again and again on the shield-wall of the crimson army. Screams of men on both sides of the conflict line echoed out as sword or spear found it's home in a gap between the shields or some arrow fired from an unknown and never-seen archer struck true.
His eyes noticed now the second moon, and tried to rebell against the incongruity - for even as he ducked and weaved a metal defense around his body, he was certain there had been but one moon today.
Another tract of land is all
the territory gained-
Will that ever pay for all
the lives here lost or maimed?
Bodies lying all around,
blood bathing them in red,
Their white eyes staring at the sun,
these, the countless dead?
The roars around him never ceased, though he found the battlefield mostly empty; the sand and grass mixing with the dead or dying and as his eyes alit on the figure opposite him, a grim and determined scowl landed upon his face.
Their armies were decimated; whatever victory here that had been gained was not worth the spit in their mouths - but here was at least the enemy general. As divested of soldiers as he, it almost seemed they two were the only ones left on the battlefield.
"Worthless dog," he growled as he brought his twin gladii to bear in a standing guard, "and murderer of my men... make your peace with the gods."
The other man, clad in greens and blacks, regarded him evenely as he brought his one sword up. "This one knows you to be false, sacker of cities and destroyer of innocence. This one cannot allow you to continue."
I looked across the battlefield,
blood seeping from my wounds-
My comrades, they did never yield,
for courage knows no bounds-
"Enough."
The single word was all that it took to jar the two men as they had begun to enact their devil's dance of steel and self. One word to give them both pause, blinking their eyes in confusion as the bloodied landscape and twin-moons faded from the sky to reveal the arena; the roar of the oncoming army was not any army but the screaming spectators at the thrill of the hundreds of dead and bloodied men whose cries filled the dusty air.
Meeting the eyes of his opponent, Gaius was just as amazed to find that they were the only two left; and as each looked about the field at the hundreds of dead men they had once called friends, the gentry cheered.
No war, his mind mused slowly. There has been no war, this man before him had committed no crimes - there was no justice in this, and no wrong to be punished.
The gladii slipped from his hands as he watched the other man kneel before some of his own fallen.
An illusion, his mind revolted, it had all been... an illusion.
Blinking slowly, the man once known as Maxwell Brooks, and now known only as Gaius Arctorus of the House Draconis, let the clarity of his thoughts rocket through them and wipe away the cobwebs of deception that covered him. The thoughts of his family - his wife and children - came rushing back to him with a reality that decried the falsehood and impermance that surrounded him.
Looking with new eyes over the battlefield of the areana, Gaius Arctorus realized he'd finally woken from the dream.
Now all that was left was to escape the dream itself.
Blood seeping from my wounds-
My comrades, they did never yield,
For courage knows no bounds-
And yet, I thought as I stood there,
Of all that it had cost-
For what we gained, it seemed not fair ,
For all that we had lost-
The sound of blood filled the air, intermingling with the scent of pain and the feeling of dying men. As he rose from the latest corpse before him, Gaius Arctorus reviewed over the battlefield in front of him. For a moment, the vertigo struck him again, something in the back of his mind trying to reassert itself and failing. His senses jumbled and he smelled, more than felt the steel bite into his arm as the sheild fell lax.
With a scream that filled his mouth with the scent of the dead or dying he drew the extra sword from his back and spun, dispatching the enemy that had struck him - all the while as his mind tried to comprehend the true nature of the carnage before him.
The banner that flapped in the breeze was red, marked with blood and ink, and bore the standard of the Dragon rampant, black against the crimson background. And yet, while it was familiar, there was something wholly wrong about the banner that stood within the ground. One part of his mind recognized the rallying call of his men, the soldiers who were fighting and dying for him in this conflict...
Conflict...
Over what?
They spoke of honour, faith and pride,
defending for our home-
Through honour all my friends have died,
their faith left me alone-
We fought for greed, we fought for fame,
we killed too much to tell-
The devil and God were both the same,
we worshipped only Hell-
The dragon on the banner blurred before him, adding a chimera's wings and cloven feet before shifting back to the black scales and claws. Dropping the sheild as being far too heavy for his now wounded arm, the roman warlord glanced up towards the moon as he drew his second gladius from its scabbard.
Smiling, the face that greeted him on the silver orb almost seemed to be born of cruelty itself, greedily and hungrily watching as his men, and his enemies, spilled their life's blood upon the ground. The roar of his enemy's army sounded again - their rallying call - and he knew it would go the worse for them if he did not act with speed.
"To me, my brothers!" rang out his voice, carrying in clear notes over the battlefield. "To me! Rally!"
He did not recognize the young man who stepped to his side, though some part of his mind told Gaius that he should... or would at some point. He knew only that the boy had gripped the banner-flag of their legion, and swirled it through the air to inspire and draw onwards the bloodied and weary men.
"Here they come!" someone shouted as sword and sheild were made ready once more.
We fought it seemed for a thousand years,
a million nights and days-
Sharing one laugh with a hundred tears,
seeing clearly through a haze-
Then came that day I know not when,
beneath a blood red sun,
A-top a pile of dying men,
they said that we had won-
Somewhere in the fight, the clash of red and green banners, he lost himself; the body moving on trained instruction and instinctual alacrity. His enemies ceased to be individuals, but became a mass of a hundred arms and legs; each bearing sword, spear, or shield to oppose and deny. His men drew around him, their sheilds and swords covering each other with hopeless abandon, ceasing themselves to function as an individual but for the whole of the unit; sliding shields and clashing swords.
And always the inherant wrongness... the sudden roar of his enemies as they massed and advanced; pressing again and again on the shield-wall of the crimson army. Screams of men on both sides of the conflict line echoed out as sword or spear found it's home in a gap between the shields or some arrow fired from an unknown and never-seen archer struck true.
His eyes noticed now the second moon, and tried to rebell against the incongruity - for even as he ducked and weaved a metal defense around his body, he was certain there had been but one moon today.
Another tract of land is all
the territory gained-
Will that ever pay for all
the lives here lost or maimed?
Bodies lying all around,
blood bathing them in red,
Their white eyes staring at the sun,
these, the countless dead?
The roars around him never ceased, though he found the battlefield mostly empty; the sand and grass mixing with the dead or dying and as his eyes alit on the figure opposite him, a grim and determined scowl landed upon his face.
Their armies were decimated; whatever victory here that had been gained was not worth the spit in their mouths - but here was at least the enemy general. As divested of soldiers as he, it almost seemed they two were the only ones left on the battlefield.
"Worthless dog," he growled as he brought his twin gladii to bear in a standing guard, "and murderer of my men... make your peace with the gods."
The other man, clad in greens and blacks, regarded him evenely as he brought his one sword up. "This one knows you to be false, sacker of cities and destroyer of innocence. This one cannot allow you to continue."
I looked across the battlefield,
blood seeping from my wounds-
My comrades, they did never yield,
for courage knows no bounds-
"Enough."
The single word was all that it took to jar the two men as they had begun to enact their devil's dance of steel and self. One word to give them both pause, blinking their eyes in confusion as the bloodied landscape and twin-moons faded from the sky to reveal the arena; the roar of the oncoming army was not any army but the screaming spectators at the thrill of the hundreds of dead and bloodied men whose cries filled the dusty air.
Meeting the eyes of his opponent, Gaius was just as amazed to find that they were the only two left; and as each looked about the field at the hundreds of dead men they had once called friends, the gentry cheered.
No war, his mind mused slowly. There has been no war, this man before him had committed no crimes - there was no justice in this, and no wrong to be punished.
The gladii slipped from his hands as he watched the other man kneel before some of his own fallen.
An illusion, his mind revolted, it had all been... an illusion.
Blinking slowly, the man once known as Maxwell Brooks, and now known only as Gaius Arctorus of the House Draconis, let the clarity of his thoughts rocket through them and wipe away the cobwebs of deception that covered him. The thoughts of his family - his wife and children - came rushing back to him with a reality that decried the falsehood and impermance that surrounded him.
Looking with new eyes over the battlefield of the areana, Gaius Arctorus realized he'd finally woken from the dream.
Now all that was left was to escape the dream itself.
25 September 2007 @ 10:24 am
Hmm. Do I go "social monster with decent fighty bits" or "Fighty monster with decent social bits?"
Vainglory or Stone?
Social dots, or physical?
High wyrd, and powers or low wyrd and combat badness?
::Sigh::
Vainglory or Stone?
Social dots, or physical?
High wyrd, and powers or low wyrd and combat badness?
::Sigh::
31 August 2007 @ 08:00 pm
His heart was racing, Gaius noted with some chagrin. Slowly his faded eyes brought himself to some attempt at understanding where he was, and why his heart raced like a horse in full gallop. Reaching his mind's eye out past his own skull, he was vaguely aware of his hands grappling onto someone, the familiar feeling of skin under his hands caused him to pull back - it was the same as it had ever been, conflict and strife.
The peace returned to his mind, as it turned backwards and inwards.
I only see myself reflected in your eyes
So all that I believe I am essentially are lies
And everything I've hoped to be or ever thought I was
Died with your belief in me so who the hell am I?
I'm wondering 'round confused
Wondering why I try
The more that you deny my pain
The more it intensifies...
I pray for someone to ache for me the way I ache for you...
If you ignore that I'm alive
I've nothing to cling to
He'd been soft, once... was it years ago now? The Stadium sands had not yet found their way into his heart and mind, burning him against his own weakness. The crowd roared their disapproval as he had dropped the sword, refusing to shed the blood of another. They wanted blood, these Others.
They would not be disappointed.
It was as the other slave's fists slammed into his head that he recalled to mind the woman in tans and brown silk; emerald eyes contrasting her dark skin. As blow upon blow rained down on him, the man who yet called himself Maxwell Brooks struggled to recall his wife.
Something called out, but it was not the call of pain or the cheers of the crowd; those he was accostomed to. This was different, and the press of the body against him was unlike any attempt to harm him that he could recall. The soft moans of the woman sounded in his ear, and his heart pounded inside his breast.
I stare into this mirror
So tired of this life
If only you would speak to me or care if I'm alive
Once I swore I would die for you
But I never meant it like this
I never meant like this
no i never meant like this
The moment of clarity was all he needed, clinging onto it like unto a liferaft as the sensations that slowly grew inside him brought the dormant mind to some awareness, and the dormant body to life. As he rolled with the woman in the lavish bed, he could feel the shadowed ties of his mind, tethering him backwards again - but for this moment he could live and breath, could be free of the dust and the summer sun.
Shimmering colors of peacock feathers floating before his eyes, jangling amidst jewelry and adornment as the woman moved with him, against him, in a primal fight for wholeness and completion. As the pressures built in him, urging him onwards as her hands traced down his scarred back to draw him ever onwards, the two halves of him came together in one eclipse of all else.
Her cries matched his as the climax rocketed through mind and body, uniting them for the barest of moment in a clarity that faded as swiftly as it had overtaken him.
I don't know if I'm real without you
What is left of me without you?
I don't know whats real without you
How can I exist without you?
The peace returned to his mind, as it turned backwards and inwards.
I only see myself reflected in your eyes
So all that I believe I am essentially are lies
And everything I've hoped to be or ever thought I was
Died with your belief in me so who the hell am I?
I'm wondering 'round confused
Wondering why I try
The more that you deny my pain
The more it intensifies...
I pray for someone to ache for me the way I ache for you...
If you ignore that I'm alive
I've nothing to cling to
He'd been soft, once... was it years ago now? The Stadium sands had not yet found their way into his heart and mind, burning him against his own weakness. The crowd roared their disapproval as he had dropped the sword, refusing to shed the blood of another. They wanted blood, these Others.
They would not be disappointed.
It was as the other slave's fists slammed into his head that he recalled to mind the woman in tans and brown silk; emerald eyes contrasting her dark skin. As blow upon blow rained down on him, the man who yet called himself Maxwell Brooks struggled to recall his wife.
Something called out, but it was not the call of pain or the cheers of the crowd; those he was accostomed to. This was different, and the press of the body against him was unlike any attempt to harm him that he could recall. The soft moans of the woman sounded in his ear, and his heart pounded inside his breast.
I stare into this mirror
So tired of this life
If only you would speak to me or care if I'm alive
Once I swore I would die for you
But I never meant it like this
I never meant like this
no i never meant like this
The moment of clarity was all he needed, clinging onto it like unto a liferaft as the sensations that slowly grew inside him brought the dormant mind to some awareness, and the dormant body to life. As he rolled with the woman in the lavish bed, he could feel the shadowed ties of his mind, tethering him backwards again - but for this moment he could live and breath, could be free of the dust and the summer sun.
Shimmering colors of peacock feathers floating before his eyes, jangling amidst jewelry and adornment as the woman moved with him, against him, in a primal fight for wholeness and completion. As the pressures built in him, urging him onwards as her hands traced down his scarred back to draw him ever onwards, the two halves of him came together in one eclipse of all else.
Her cries matched his as the climax rocketed through mind and body, uniting them for the barest of moment in a clarity that faded as swiftly as it had overtaken him.
I don't know if I'm real without you
What is left of me without you?
I don't know whats real without you
How can I exist without you?
Current Music: Stabbing Westward - Shame