Poetry I wrote you some flowers

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My best friend is a mermaid.
You can find her on the shores
flipping her fins
on those white sands she adores.

But now she lives in the Midwest
under fifteen feet of snow.
I wish she would stay
but know she must go.

People think she's nothing more
than a pretty tail from the sea
but I know better
and I'll tell you what I see.

I see my best friend, my missing half,
my better part.
And when I think of her sweet voice
it rings within my heart.

 

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get the bag
what are you doing doubting yourself
you got the bag before
you got the bag now
just get the bag
don't worry about what if you don't
or if you do and you regret it
the bag waits for nobody
and you shouldn't wait for the bag

 

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the winds
quiverrrrrrrrrrrr and q u a k e
like thunder
slapping and slamming
against the water
which flooooowssss
out to sea

 

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You can use a rope
To get you across big pits
and -- Hello, Gordon!

 

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i see you in a sunpatch
soaking up rays
but you're always alert
and attentive
when i call your name

but it's time for me to go
and it's hard to explain why
but know that you're still
a wonderful dog
and it's hard for me to say goodbye

 

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Everything
Hurts​

 

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Sometimes, when I look up in the night sky, I can see home.
Sometimes, when I stare at the stars, I can fly away.
Sometimes, it’s hard to see the night sky.
Sometimes, it’s hard to think of home.
But, sometimes, when the moon is new and the stars are bright,
I’m finally home with you.

 

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The Gulf of Mexico is loud and warm
It isn’t like the Wabash.
Its melodies ring with
baaa-yoooou rhythm and
the bitter twang of the guitar
and the boldness of trumpets.

But when I’m along the Wabash,
sometimes I faintly hear the Gulf.
The fiddles and banjos
give way to mariachi
and harmonize hot jazz.

Sometimes the Gulf is scary,
but I know that the Wabash flows
down to meet it in me.

 

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I’m here again
with a stiff drink and a handgun
Watching cartoons
with a stiff drink and a handgun
Thinking about your cooking
with a stiff drink and a handgun
You remembering how I like my coffee:
with a stiff drink and a handgun
Sweet and milky like the morning sun
with a stiff drink and a handgun.

 

[Grey]

Big Sadistik energy right there.

 

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Big Sadistik energy right there.

Sadistik should seek psychiatric help.

 

[Grey]

I tend to hope he has but it took me nearly ten years and I still write poetry like that, so who knows.

 

[Crenando]

Big Sadistik energy right there.

The diabolikal super-killer?

 

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Ladies and Gentlemen,
The rip-roarius roaring wickedly wonderful
Black and White and Brown and Calico cat!

Watch her walk the windowsill,
Her paws out in the stars!
Such a fantastic phenomenal cat!

Watch her soar, watch her
SCREEEEEAM
as she chases the dangerous laser beam!

Watch her, careful, cautious,
Prideful petard of a pounce!
Such an incredible—
Wait, what is she—
Is she-
Not on the-!

With a bang and a hiss and a scratch and a crash:
See a terrible, rotten, awful
excuse for a cat.

(But at least she’s mine )

 

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(YAR! THIS THREAD BE GETTING HIJACKED! This is part of the Month of Making Dangerously, a month-long event where, in May, I try to make stuff off the cuff. In this particular minute I started writing this medieval story. Don't have a title. Don't have a plotline or plan. Don't remember how to use the backspace key. Will constantly be putting *something* on this thread a few times a day, but I can't promise any of it will be good. This event is being considered by the site staff as a site event for after the next site update, so if you're interested in participating in such an event, let me know so I can pass that interest onto the staff.)

[If you're wondering why there isn't signs of a busted keyboard, my keyboard was never busted. I'm a filthy fucking liar and I laugh at those I fool.]

{*I have no idea why Grammarly says I should spell maneuver like this but okay}

[hell yeah, fifteen days, that's halfway]

Prologue​

The wind across the mountains danced like an old Ab'aad trader, far gone from her homeland yet alight with the fervour of a thousand gods. However, it smelled of sickly-sweet pine sap and wet ash, as everything in Jutland did. It bared not the bitter and enchanting scent of jasmine and cinnamon from the far East. Nothing smelled so beautiful here, but a Juttan nose was always too caked with mud to notice. At least, that was Sonja's impression of the great Jute race: a rambling horde of warriors and dung farmers.

The forests had its own style of beauty, she had to admit. While it was nothing even close to the towers of ivory on the white dunes of home, there was something eminently romantic in the moonlight as it reflected on the evergreen needles whose veins ran with the blood of kings and scoundrels. The fierceness of the terrain was palpable by looking at the culture it had created: unrefined, superstitious, and inspired by a lust for blood. Everything was inspired by blood. To her betrothed, she was nothing but a means to secure the bloodline and to continue spilling blood. This marriage granted legitimacy to the house Alavignon, a bastard house of a bastard house of some great and virtuous family. Still, the exact tie was never clear, and sceptics of the claim were often found dead in their homes. William the Bastard could continue his rule without evoking the ire of the High Maternity, and the shores of Leonis would be well-sheltered with Juttan boats. All that remained was for Sonja to fall in line, and she was ready to oblige. Such was the duty of a princess of house Leonis, and only a fool would risk marriage with a High King over a flight of fancy. The man hiding in the treetops with a bow trained on her throat would be the one to set the world ablaze.

The life of Princess Sonja of Leonis ended in a silk gown soaked with blood. Surely it is no mere coincidence that this was not the first time her life had ended in a silk gown soaked with blood.

It was in the final day of the Winter of 3049 that Sonja had arrived on Juttan shores, a black warship of the South cutting through the frigid fog of foreign barbarians, its artistic splendour made comical against the machines of war which struck a sublime terror into the heart. The joke was lost on the sailors who hurried about their duties, terrified of the approaching maelstrom of incomprehensible political complexity in the form of a young maiden and the possibility of being beheaded for even looking upon her. A royal carriage came, collected its bounty, and left without a word spoken. So too did the great flagship of the Leonis fleet, which would return bearing steel and lead instead of princesses.

To history, nothing of significance happened in the Spring of 3049. To Sonja, all the great moments of her life. Every great story in the shelves of house Leonis was about love, and this story is no different. A cruel love -- a foul and indecent love. Yet, it was a love so terrifyingly sublime as to rip apart the world itself with its sheer beauty. A vicious, unholy desire turned into the sort of abject terrific wonder every heart longs to feel and every mind cowers at the thought of.

Sonja was not the type to cower.

The night was alive and alight with wine and flame as she arrived in the court of the High King. The first day of Spring was the day when Wintersblood was spilt: the soil needed the blood of the warrior to feed the crops to feed the beast to feed the warrior. An ancient tradition of the Old Gods, but one that the Church of the All-Mother allowed under the condition that the names of the Old be replaced with Her's. Jutes never noticed the difference. The blood debt would be paid.

The court's attention was entirely upon the princess: this strange foreigner who always lifted her nose as if she was superior to every element of the festivity. What "princess" was this that sipped her wine instead of eagerly quaffing the blood of life? What "royal" was this that weighed as much as a child? With every word spoken, every bite taken, tension compounded. By the end of dinner, the hall was near to calling for her beheading.

Then the dance began.

The drums of Heaven began their pulse, the blood of life pumping. This was no Leonis ballroom. This was not kind and courteous. This was a war of the eyes, and Sonja was a weapon beyond power. Everyone in the court knew her face and her name by the time she had walked in the door, but it was only during her debut that they knew her strength: the one thing that mattered. Women's bones would be broken on the dancing floor. Even warriors would faint by the end of the night. Sonja never broke a sweat. There was a flash of fire in her yellow dress, a vision of passion and beauty that even the old tales could not speak to, her feet going blow for blow with the Bastard's in perfect synchronicity. The hall was in stunned silence as she, the last woman on the floor, curtsied and prepared for more while battle-hardened generals begged to return to their seats. This was a spectacle that none were unimpressed by except for Sonja herself. She thought the entire affair was quite trite.

The night carried forth with the pattern of drinking, dancing, eating and removing guests who had grown too impassioned by the drums and dragged forth by instinct to fight or make love. Sonja felt a cold annoyance at the amount of fun being had, for she was having none of it. Her betrothed was too busy swapping around drunken stories of war and conquest with his most honoured guests, and she was forced to stay there and make a fitting ornament for his side. No words were spoken between the two, but the audience was more than willing to gaze at her. Their greasy lips trembled with carnal desire which, in the princess, brought forth an intense urge to vomit. By the third dance, she was allowed to leave, though not of her own volition. The most honoured general Sir Harold wished to take her for a spin on the floor, and, as a loyal companion of the King, such was his right. Immediately, he seemed far more interesting than anyone else in the room. His long red hair flowed down to his shoulders instead of the rough, unwashed braid that all others held theirs in. He spent half of the night staring at her and gulping down any glass that came past him. Yet, his determined eyes never glazed over from intoxication. He was, by every metric, handsome, powerful, and quite obviously intelligent, seeming to analyze her every move. This was somebody Sonja could use: a well-to-do man in power who could be bought with women and liquor.

Sir Harold may have seemed far too bright for the room he was in on first glance. Still, he danced like a buffoon. His hands chased up and down the sides of her body any chance her betrothed looked away, and his breath in her ear whispered some barbaric approach at eroticism. He would do very well as a pawn. Sir Harold was thinking the exact same thing of her. Her wine-tainted lips curled gently at his approaches, her pale cheeks turning rosy at his touch. She was obviously another simple-minded toy who he could prove his superiority with.

Of course, the thought crossed each one's mind that the other was only feigning their stupidity. Strategists always know to never trust their enemies. But a Juttan brute playing a princess of a thousand schools of academia like a fool? An absent-brained blonde child taking advantage of a general of a thousand armies? Impossible.

It was in the fifth day of the Endless Summer of 3020 that the High King Aethlfard the Godless had his second son presented to him. The spirits had called for a drought brought on by a prince who had come too late. Being born three days after the Solstice was a shameful act, and the child would be named Hararfard - named after the harar, the betrayer which set the sun to the South. He was treated no differently than a prince would be: thrown to the wolves, beaten and abused by the priests. It was up to him to stop the beatings: a proud warrior would usually make themselves known by the age of ten by slaughtering their caretakers. Hararfard had made them cease at the age of six. None of the priests showed even a mark of resistance upon their bodies and yet they seemed to quiver with fear of the child with nary a whisper as to why.

Hararfard was the last prince of the old blood. A hundred years of inquisition had burned down Juttan fields and castles, and it had reached the High King's court before the prince's tenth birthday. The Godless King was beheaded, and the Cult of the High Mother reigned supreme even in the land of barbarians. A new house would quietly take power, and a fatherless teen would take the throne. Hararfard would change name to Harold. The old spirits would change name to the new saints. The old blood still flowed through his body with each glorious thump of his heart, ready to flow once more.

The great Sir Harold was as prolific a father as he was a general. The Cult of the High Mother forbade promiscuity. Still, his virtuosity in battle greatly outweighed the nature of his thousands of bastards. It is said that for every widow he created, he would make a son. This was only idealistic folklore: in truth, Harold was a gentle and romantic lover who stayed true to his women, but this was far more shameful to the warriors of Juttan than being a rapist. It is with these gentle hands that he held the High King's betrothed later that night, but such would only be discussed in low whispers.

The truth of what happened in Sonja's chambers that night was irrelevant to both parties: it had served both of their purposes. A chambermaid with an eager mouth would carry forth the inkling of a concept that the King was weak: that he let his future queen sleep around and let his general take advantage of him. While all that happened was a pleasant conversation laced with heavy petting, the damage would be done, and, because of this, empires would crumble.

I​

"My love, why are we in this terrible place?" There was a particular fear in the voice of the Duchess which Duke Richard of the Third House could not stand. He reassured her with a fur scarf draped gently over her grey hair and a brush of snow off of her shoulder. Indeed, this was a terrible place: a foothill of the high mountain which divided the great lands of Winslow and the harsh wastelands of Jutland. Nothing grew in the cold of the North, not even now as Spring dawned.

She had every reason to fear this place, as was her holy duty. Here stood the last great temple of the old gods. Ruined as it may be, its blackened wood seemed to grow towards the viewer with hate and malice. "My love, I have business here to attend to."

"Is that what all the boxes are for? What are you doing here?"

"My faithful duty to my Lady, my lady." He smiled reassuringly, his vulture-like features relaxing from their usual place in the centre of his face, revealing the charming man which the Duchess was so madly in love with. Calm washed over her as the carriage came to a stop, the black horses huffing in the snow, apparently quivering with terror at the ruined temple above them. With a quick kiss goodbye, Duke Richard dragged a locked trunk to the door of the old temple and shut it behind him.

A tinderbox lit a candle which cut harshly through the darkness. The horrid faces of the ancient demons seemed to scream out in anger at the interloper. They were restrained from destroying him only by their immobile, wooden form. The harsh winds of the North battered the old, creaking building, each gust threatening to tear down the building and release the figures trapped in wood. In the centre of the cathedral, a grand carving of Diabolus, god of death and decay, stared Duke Richard dead in the eyes.

The Vulture stared back.

"I have come to destroy this place," the Vulture decreed. Any pretence of the kind, gentle Duke Richard was gone.

The statue said nothing.

"The Cult of the High Mother wants this temple wiped from the Earth. Heresy, the High Maternity called it." He opened the trunk and set to work pouring its contents around the room.

"Do you see these bottles? 'Diabolus's fire'. The irony is palpable. In minutes, this temple will be ash, and yet-" he approached the statue, placing an old, withered hand on a winged shoulder, "-we both know that your sin is not heresy. It is weakness. When I set this cathedral ablaze, nothing will remain of your faith. Nobody will remember your name beyond it being that of this oil. That is the difference between you and our Gods. Your people are a mule which has been tempted by the order and structure of the Cult and whipped with the label of heresy, and now they are Her's."

With a grin, he retrieved one more item from the trunk: a wooden idol of the High Mother. "Have you seen one of these? This idol? It is of the new God. It is of the pretender who has taken your throne, a bitch who has out-barked you. A coward who would rather wipe you from the Earth than have Her truth be challenged." He threw it to the ground at Diabolus's feet. "Her temples are the next to be burned."

The Vulture looked towards the sky, rejuvenated with religious pride, reminded of his mission: the Cult of the High Mother would lay in ashes at his feet. Such was the decree of the All-Father. Such was the truth -- not the truth which mortal tongues threw around, not the truth which changed name and form. The real truth in the glory of the Father. Every second he spent in false praise of the High Mother dug claws of infinite anger into his soul. Such was a necessary cost and one that would not have to be paid for much longer. The Holy Disciples would set the world ablaze, and a new world would rise from the ashes.

That would come later. Now his task to the High Maternity must be fulfilled. Without a thought, Duke Richard threw his candle into the oil, setting it ablaze. He warmly embraced the Duchess as he arrived back in the carriage. "There, my love. The heresy has been dealt with, and the High Mother smiles on us." He kissed her gently on the cheek as it made its way to their Spring chalet, where their anniversary vacation was planned.

A feeling of general unease washed over the Royal Scribe for High King William the Bastard. Shanna often had these unprovoked feelings, and they were often quite right in regards to exactly how she should feel. There was the taste of something foul and unknowable in the royal study where she had been eagerly preparing his majesty's itinerary for the morrow's festivities. A mystery: a seductively mysterious mystery. It was so far into the night that the first rays of the sun began to peek through the chimney slats into the kitchen on the sweated and exhausted staff. Young women who had spent the past ten hours carting out meal and drink now carried back the goblets and trays which had survived through the night, stacking them haphazardly in a corner to be taken by whoever would clean them: it wasn't their business what happened when they were done with it, and all that the servants cared for was finally getting some sleep. The chest-high flames of the mighty royal ovens were shovelled down to mere embers to prepare for breakfast. The boiling heat of the kitchen was quickly greeted by the spring morning air allowed to rush in through an open door. All were too tired to notice Shanna appear to rummage through the pastries, and nobody would have said anything if they had. She was a fixture of the palace, a rat which scurried past without a word. On a sociable day, she was more akin to a pretty piece of furniture to glance at once and never acknowledge.

She was a walking image of beauty in the Winslowsian race: pale and slender with cutting red eyes and hair as black as a raven: her features barely making their way away from their skull. Educated, refined, silent, and obedient: the perfect wife of Winslow. This was not Winslow. Women here were powerful. Women here were strong. Shanna was weak. While her mind was always alight with thousands of calculations, one of them was always set aside to inform herself just how weak she was.

Today was the day that that calculation broke apart. In one ear, some chambermaid rumour of a sleeparound princess had made its way to the spitboy, who eagerly regurgitated it with the sort of repugnance and enthusiasm a young boy had when speaking of girls. In the other: cooks switching shifts cackled about wanting to be in the place of whatever girl Sir Harold got around his finger, and something awful clicked.

This was a Code Magenta. Her heart pounded as a pastry fell from her hand and onto the floor and the Mother-blessed Earth was doomed.

A remarkably hungover and half-nude Sir Harold was the one to answer the door as the scribe pounded on the princess's chambers, going straight to the source to assess the damage. The man had pants on, which was more than can be said for most meetings between the pair. Too many times had Shanna's mornings begun with rushing to some girl's chambers and its occupant being a fully nude Jute. His brain had barely started functioning as it was retrieved from the realm of the unconscious when it received a well-needed jostle from Shanna's open hand. The mass of flesh staggered backwards, unprepared for such a blow and yet unsurprised. Shanna made her way into the room, slamming the door shut behind her.

"Boudin! Salope! Do you have any idea what you've done?" All five feet of woman was pushing back against the massive warrior, her delicate features near to bursting with anger and her pale face turning crimson with overwhelming fury.

Sir Harold smiled and embraced her, running his fat hand through her soft, black hair. "Ah, mon petite corbeau, I love when you swear at me in Winslow. You're so cute when you're angry." He chuckled at his own incomprehensible cockiness, his breath reeking of alcohol and brain still in a pure state of intoxication. Shanna replied which a quick knee to the testis, causing him to release his grasp and fall back onto a chest of drawers.

"This is not funny, Harold. This is a mess that even I cannot clean up." She set to analyzing the situation, carefully examining each corner of the ornate chambers, looking around for the typical mark of Harold's tomfoolery: torn underwear and inscrutible stains thrown about the ancient, carved wood. The furniture in this palace had lasted thousands of years and yet would be rendered unusable by one night with Harold. Instead, the only evidence of wrong-doing were empty bottles strewn about the room evidently taken from the High King's personal collection. One of his most prized wines, an ancient blood mead older than the Juttan language, was gently cradled in the arms of a princess, who buried her face in it with a tired smile. With palpable and immeasurable disappointment, Shanna sighed and gently removed the sheets covering her. "Luckily for you, she's still clothed."

"What do you take me for? A swine? If you must know, the princess here was a perfect lady. Nothing happened."

"You are a swine!" her temporary relief once again turned to anger. "What did you mean to do here? Cause an international diplomatic incident?"

"My dear," -he cracked that ever-so-charming smile- "I don't even know what those words mean."

She scoffed and slapped him again before turning to leave. "Clean up. Go out the window. See me in the study immediately."

"But the seneschal--"

"I don't care if your girl toy is expecting you in bed, salope. If you value having your head attached to your neck, you'll lock the door, clean this room up, get dressed, and meet me in the study." She removed herself from the situation, leaving the pair behind.

The red-headed giant made his way to the bed, sitting down and patting the sleeping Sonja on the head. "It was a wonderful night, my lady. Perhaps next time we will take it a bit easier on the wine."

She turned over and looked up at him with a raised eyebrow. "You never said anything about a 'girl toy', Harold. Don't tell me I'm not the only one." Sitting up, she tucked her arms under his in a sleepy embrace. "I figured this was a princess/boy toy relationship, not the other way around." The pair chuckled heartily at their own mayhem.

The previous night, the duo had figured each other out within seconds. As soon as the door was shut, small ticks and odd idiosyncrasies in their impassioned macking quickly let each other know of their ulterior motives. As soon as they were off the dance floor and out of sight, they had made their way to her quarters, hands eagerly taking a glance of one another's perfect bodies as they feigned an impossible attraction. Sonja had barely touched the doorknob before Harold had summoned his most classic manoeuvre* of grabbing her by the buttocks and hoisting her onto his waist for a passionate kiss. If any chambermaids were watching, he'd make a good show of it. The door was thrown open, and the princess tossed onto the bed in some performance of youthful passion, both parties wanting the other to believe they were bursting with anticipation. He gently lied on top of her, their lips meeting and their ruse being shattered.

What in the Mother's name is he doing with his tongue? What in the Mother's name was she doing with her tongue?

Both of these thoughts were held simultaneously, and the two broke from passion into hysterics as the situation became crystal clear: neither side was, in the least bit, attracted to the other. Two analytical masterminds of the art of intrigue had finally met, and there was nothing between them: a nothing so intense that they could neither keep up their ruse nor forget they had ever met. This was the situation now, and they considered it hilarious. Harold knew Shanna would consider the situation so not hilarious she could not even think of what an antonym for hilarious was in any of the twelve languages she spoke. He was right.

Eventually, the laughter broke, but neither of the false lovers could explain to the other what their intentions indeed were. There was some assumption between the two, but neither would reveal their whole hand. They both took note of this. The laughter turned to drunken and awkward introductions which turned to stories of battles and adventures which turned to flirtation. It was only when their hands had made their way to indecent positions that they had remembered that they were no longer pretending to seduce one another. The cycle started over again, each laugh growing more hearty as smuggled bottles carried by a certain flirtatious chambermaid made their way up. Harold was ready to boast of some great conquest he had had over the maid each time she had left, and, by the time that enough alcohol was consumed to knock down four soldiers, Sonja was speaking of the conquests she would perform on her. Harold laughed as he began to recall this ninety-five-pound girl speaking of --

Shanna cut him off, wide-eyed. "I didn't ask you to recount everything that had happened that night, Harold. I just asked if you had sex."

"My lady, I am offended! I would never 'have sex'. I make love." He winked at her, and she stifled a gag.

"Fine. Did you make love?" Harold laughed heartily as the words left Shanna's mouth with a certain bitterness he didn't know she was capable of. Finally realizing how dire the situation was, he gently took her hand.

"Shanna, my friend. I know it is in your nature to worry, but I have this under control. The princess and I are good friends, nothing more." She sighed and let her head fall onto the table in front of them.

"Good friends don't sleep in each other's chambers, Harold." She lifted her head back up and rested it on Harold's shoulder. "I guess it's fine for now. Just rumours. But if she winds up with syphilis, it's on your head." Harold glared at her as she cracked a rare smile. He couldn't help but smile back.

The war drums pounded their heartbeat, the blood of warriors flowing from the ground and into the young prince: his blood boiled with anger at the defilement of his homeland, each drop containing an infinite sea of rage against the boy "king". Every beat of the drums was a scream of hatred in his mind. This was true. This was not the sort of mortal feeling which could be warped and manipulated. This was the anger which demons feared and gods bowed their heads to. The village below them was stirred by the call, their militia brought to arms, just as it should be. His anger could not be satiated with cold blood. He was Hararfard, son of the Godless King Aethlfard. He was born in the Endless Summer those twenty-three years ago, and his blood demanded fire.

His mind was already too clouded with rage to tell a soldier from a corpse before the march to the village even began. His King ordered him to burn the villages of the heretics, his own people. He did not care so long as there was blood to spill. Blood was spilt. This was the day that the child Hararfard became the man Harold. The siege of Duvar was over in minutes, and there were no survivors. In the end, all that remained was Harold, born anew in the blood of innocents, left to stare at the moon with tear-filled and blood-caked eyes.

Sonja watched that same moon lazily saunter to its place in the sky from a balcony off the coast of Leonis. She sighed, breathing in every last particle of cologne as she could, her head falling gently into the chest of her first and only love. While this was the night that Harold was born, this was also the night that Sonja of Leonis died. She was barely a child by the standards of her father, who had only recently noticed she was no longer a toddler. She lacked the importance of a firstborn and the attention granted to a well-behaved child, and, as far as she was concerned, she needed neither. She felt more important than any star in the heavens in the arms of her love.

Accounts of this tale do not mention his name. He was wiped from history like many mistakes of the Leonis family. By the time Sonja met Shanna, and this memory was written, even she could not bear to remember his name. Shanna refused herself prying further. All that mattered of this man was that he was one who a princess should not be seen with, and one a princess should not give her womanhood to.

Yet she was not a princess in his arms. She was as he spoke of her: beyond beauty, the ultimate being of the sublime, something so powerful and incredible and marvellous to not spark joy but intense, immeasurable fear in the soul. What that something so fearful was was indescribable, but Sonja looking back on those feelings knew precisely what it was. She was decay. She was rot. She was everything which stole away all that you desired. She was a poison whose intoxicating beauty brought death and death alone. Under that same moon on that same night, Sonja and Harold both felt that same rage inexorably against themselves.

By the rising of the sun, the bodies were burned, and a man was found dead in an alleyway, head and hands removed. All that was to be done was go on with living and yet neither would ever learn what that meant.

II​

The melting snow off the mountain filled the ear of Duke Richard, who was all at once summoned back into his memory. It was somewhere far away that he was baptised under the warm water of the Father, and yet whenever that flowing of water filled his ear, he was back there. He was not the first of the Holy Disciples. He would not be the last. The morning sun made its first rays bounce across the reborn rivers behind a message borne by the Owl: the Dove had made her way to the Eagle's nest. The time for planning was over. With Sonja now in the King's court, all that was left to do was wait. Extortion was an unfortunately necessary filth which the Holy Disciples would have to dip their hands in from time to time. When the Solstice came, the Dove would be wed, and its real feathers would be shown. There was a certain pity in Richard's heart for the girl which he was set to destroy. Such pity had no room in the mind of the Vulture. She was a sinner. Even if he had no ulterior motive of his own, it would be his duty to expose her sin.

No records exist of the Vulture or his life outside of Shanna's account, which is still quite limited to the anecdotes shared in their brief interaction. Attempts have been made to supplement these anecdotes with other historical records, but the Vulture was a contradictory man, and his stories hold contradiction with history, reason, and reality itself. Still, it is known that Duke Richard was present in the Holy City of Anglica on the night of the first day of the year 3000, an event most know as the Bloody New Year.

Wooden tires creaked as they pummelled the stone road behind the High Matron's Cathedral. A cart, bearing murderers muffled by the barrage of fireworks in the night sky, made its way to its quarry. The old roads of Anglica whispered in that way they had for millennia, always throwing about rumours of mischief and deceit. A young lad of nineteen years sat in the back of the parade of sin, absent-mindedly juggling a knife in his hands, already disillusioned with the thrill of the blood it would spill. His cohorts could scarcely contain their excitement: just one kill and they could finally serve the All-Father as they were meant to. Just one pig to be butchered for the Lord Almighty. The raptors took to their wings to circle their prey, the slut who begged for murder, the heretic against heretics whose blood would soothe the old roads. The old roads were always thirsty for blood, and it had been too long since they were fed. It had been too long since the All-Father's retribution had been carried out.

The raptors could barely contain their cackling as they spotted her: the newly appointed High Matron, with some common boy waist-deep in her. Whore, harlot, slut! Deceiver, heretic, false prophet! A disgusting pox on the human race! The world needed to see this sin. The world needed to see the hypocrisy and taint the Cult of the High Mother brought.

In one second, they were children. In the next, they were murderers. They took great pleasure in mutilating the bodies, leaving messages in blood for the Maternity to see it was weak. Yet they were weak, as well. Soon after their celebration, they were overtaken by that greatest of human weaknesses: shame. Shame for a crime committed. Shame for indecency. Shame for blood spilt.

The Vulture felt no shame, only pity. The raptors stumbled over themselves to escape, to flee, to atone for their atrocities, only to find the exit blocked by their companion, still absent-mindedly juggling his blade.

They screamed.

Then, they were silent.

Duke Richard went back to join in the merriment of the New Year with his friends and countrymen and was so terribly shocked at the news the next morning.

By the hour of ten, Sonja was risen, clean, and sober. With a competent attempt at genuine positivity, she pulled open her chamber doors to greet the day and came face to face with Shanna. Her smile broke. "Harold's babysitter, I presume?"

Shanna returned the smile, almost as if she had stolen it from Sonja's face. "Yes. I am, and now I'm yours."

Sonja was unimpressed. Shanna's heart was in the clouds as she could no longer predict the words coming out of her mouth. Perhaps it was her continually compounding annoyance towards Harold's hijinks coming to a head. Perhaps her father was right, and she was going insane from all those late nights staring at books. Either way, she was now speaking down to a Princess of Leonis. Her knees grew weak from the sudden pressure which exploded from her brain as Sonja's eyes widened and then --

She laughed. Who was this girl? A scribe who looked like she could barely hold the journal attached to her belt was speaking down to a Princess of Leonis? How wonderfully fascinating. "My apologies, my fair lady-" she curtsied, "-I don't believe I've had the pleasure of learning your name."

"Shanna," she replied, just starting to regain her composure and control over her knees, "Shanna Richard."

"Well, Shanna Richard, it is a pleasure to meet you." She spoke in that tone which she had perfected to make one feel important and desired. Shanna saw through it. Deception was in her blood.

It was the Equinox, and the sun was accompanied in the sky by the moon, which crept upon it more and more as the morning progressed. The Equinox breakfast was always filled with anxious silence over light meals. Too many a time a child had made the mistake of eating heartily before the Equinox melee began and quickly found their breakfast upon the ground. Sonja didn't understand the anxiety, but it seemed to get to Shanna, her skin even more pale than usual. Sonja spent the entire breakfast barely able to contain her laughter at the thought of all this fuss over what amounted to apes hitting each other upside the head just because the moon blocked the sun. It did so every Spring, and it did so every Autumn. This was childish superstition which made for childish sport. In Leonis, the melee was an art of blade and flesh. It was romantic and refined: duels would always be fought with passion and its goal would usually be a beautiful woman. It was a dance, much like that slow dance the great partners of sun and moon made in the sky. As noon came, they became one, and the sky went dark.

In that first instant of darkness, the silence was broken with the sound of thunder. The Northmen had come. All manner of nobles and warriors were there the night prior, loyal companions to King and loyal servants to the High Mother, ready to feast before the morrow's fights. Not the Northmen. The Northmen came for blood, not festivity. Blood would be spilt.

The Northmen were all that remained of the old ways: the final holdouts against the inquisition. They were beasts beyond recognition as human, all five of them. Their pale skin was scarred and barely stretched taut among muscles greater than imaginable, each arm the size of Sonja. They had no patience for the trivial rules of the melee and so they stood, almost nude, in the centre of the massive amphitheatre. They wanted the Emasculator. They wanted the Betrayer. They wanted the one called Harold.

Sonja drank mindlessly from the top of the theatre, Shanna by her side, eyes locked on the fight to come. Sir Harold answered the call, and the Northmen screamed in the ancient words, cracking through the silent crowd like lightning. Though fully donned in the armour he had specifically commissioned for the tournament -- ornately polished and shined to a mirror finish -- he removed it, piece by piece, throwing it into the sand as he approached his brothers.

The Princes of the Old Blood were unimpressed and yet unamused. This runt was half their size and yet he had killed their people, razed their homes, and made them lay prostrate before a false woman god. He was not to be underestimated. This was the bastard who killed their brother. They had no way of knowing that once he was their brother. Shanna slobbered with the drama and fear of the situation. Sonja handed her a handkerchief, and she wiped away the drool with a pang of embarrassment.

The silence gave way to the pounding of the war drum as Harold took his place, staring up at the eldest prince with determined sorrow. The others removed themselves to leave the combatants alone, and now all that remained was to wait for the first blow. It was the blood prince Aethlfardson, the killer of kings, the last great warrior of the old gods. His hulking body made up a large amount of the arena in which he stood. Although his estranged brother was a massive brute in his own right, he was a child compared to the old prince.

Countless others in attendance would write about this battle under the blackened sun. Its glory would find its way into the songs of generations, and yet Shanna did not write about it. It was the only one of Sir Harold's fights which did not find its way into her journals in five years of service.

 

[Error 420]

Life is like writing a poem.
You have to pick up the pen
and let your heart go
(but it's okay to take a moment
and let the ink pool up).

It's scary when your pen gets dry.
You feel like the world is ending
and you can't go on
(but it's okay to ask a friend
if they've got a spare pen).

It's scary when you can't think of a word.
You have to pick between so many
and none of them sound right
(but it's okay to be wrong
because there's always another line).

 

[Error 420]

this isn't a poem

if you react to this I'll block you

 

[Error 420]

keyboard bust
cannot tupe good
backspacek ey also missing
this is detrimental to writing
poems

bit it is not impossible

 

[Error 420]

i slways figured that
words didn't mattert
but now that thersa nobody to hear them
they're all i have

 

[Error 420]

Any thoughts on the medieval story and where it's going thus far? This isn't a poem, just a question. I've been giving it daily updates in the form of edits. I realise right now it seems like it's going towards generic medieval romance novel but I'm a good 95% sure that's not at all where it's going. Any way y'all think I can avoid that? I know that line that "this story is about love" or whatever seems like it's gonna have the girl get with the hot dude but I promise it's not.

 

[Grey]

any thoughts on the medieval story and where it's going thus far?

Nice imagery, pace mostly good, really evocative style. Plot thickening in a mostly predictable way, but I'm bracing for a curve (and there's nothing wrong with a familiar narrative anyway).
I reckon it's really going to shine after an editing pass when this draft is done.

 

[Error 420]

an editing pass

Considering the point of this whole thing is trying to write without a plan, I'll probably only ever revisit this if it winds up actually being good.

Plot thickening in a mostly predictable way,

What way do you think that is?

 

[Grey]

Considering the point of this whole thing is trying to write without a plan, I'll probably only ever revisit this if it winds up actually being good.

I mean, it already looks like it could shake out being good, and if it's not good by the end of the current effort you probably wouldn't need much work to make it good in editing. Depends a bit on length, I'd say.

What way do you think that is?

Co-conspirators with benefits accidentally foment a major war in the pursuit of other ambitions, deal with the fallout, might actually fall in love over the course of events unless we switch to another pair of related characters.
Is my feeling on it, but as you say, there's no plan, so I'm expecting to be surprised.

 

[Error 420]

Alright, muchachos, I finally manned up and figured out how to integrate dialogue into the story after going several paragraphs without any dialogue whatsoever: just start a brand new chapter, introduce three entirely new characters, and switch from absolute past tense to recent past tense. It's really just that easy. (This can only bode well for keeping a cohesive story.)

No promises this won't turn into some Hugo Weaving book with sixty-thousand characters with a million interwoven plotlines. Stuff is already getting intriguey and I have absolutely no idea where it's going. What was originally going to be a proper beginning is now a prologue and I have no idea who's the protagonist anymore. I do know that this is getting rated M for Mature but I solemnly swear there'll be no smut in this story, just sexual innuendo, violence, and coarse language. If you're under 17 and reading this you have to A: stop reading this and B: let me know or else this is entrapment.

I've pitched a site-wide Month of Making Stupidly event to the site staff, and we're hopeful that we can get it together for June, so if you're interested in participating, let me know so I can spread that on to the old Wizard.

 

[Error 420]

Some mornings I need a cup of really shitty coffee.
It lets me stop and realize how pleasant the world is
and while I’m binging diner food in the nude
I can think about the things that are scary and sad
and realize they’re not so bad
and I can drink it down like a shitty cup of coffee.

Some days I need to write a really shitty poem.
I’m always so worried that my heart isn’t good enough because you made me feel that way
but when I write a really shitty poem
I can imagine and pretend that you’re in a grave somewhere
because it’s easier to imagine you dead than imagine you hurting me
just like it’s easier to write a really shitty poem.

You always made really shitty coffee.
I never had the heart to tell you because I knew that you always wanted the best for me
and even though that wasn’t true in the end
each cup of coffee you made was special
because I could drink it and I could feel that love I was so awful at expressing
which was better than any coffee could ever be.