Original Submissions
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A Gypsy Woman by Briar
Added on Sep 26, 2006What beyond the sands can catch such eyes? What song on the wind could carry her name?
The Latest of Nights by Reiloth
Added on Sep 18, 2006An eerie patriotic song of the North, written by Jochebed Abishai of Elkinhym.
When a limp wind runs through my feet,
through the toes and where the fingers meet,
through the very core of my being,
I know that something passes nearby, unseen.
A shadow of doubt lingers in my mind,
When I see a man with eyes unkind,
A glance in the crowd, proving unwanted company,
though I know I am safe from the things I can't see.
They walk along my face in the sun,
They whisper in my shadow of the trophies they've won,
They prowl in my alleys, thinking to win the good fight,
But my eyes remain open, on the latest of nights.
They drink in my bars, praising my King,
They piss in my gutters, and laugh at the scene.
They make love in my beds, and my Children awake,
They kill those who would just take, and take, and take.
So wary the traveller who trods with soft step from the South,
And likens himself to a quirri in the hunt,
For eyes spill from my cracks in the street underneath,
and ears will listen for words far too blunt.
When a limp wind runs through my feet,
through the toes and where the fingers meet,
through the very core of my being,
I know that something passes nearby, unseen.
A shadow of doubt lingers in my mind,
When I see a man with eyes unkind,
A glance in the crowd, proving unwanted company,
though I know I...
Continue Reading...A Gypsy by Briar
Added on Sep 18, 2006We all wear the twin masks of emotion. Happy or sad, haunted or hunted, You choose the mask, you choose the risk. You choose your own poison. - Words for A Gypsy.
Felysia Kassigarh by Marko
Added on Sep 15, 2006The Northern Lirathan mentioned in the History timeline.
Tuluk Girls by Gimfalisette
Added on Sep 9, 2006A song composed as a subtle warning to 'Nakki traders during the Copper War by a bard of Poets' Circle in New Tuluk.
by Maerylin "Mae" Konviwedu
As I walked down the North Road a fair lass did I meet,
Who asked me please to see her home, she lived just up the street.
I said, "Oh lovely woman, I'm a stranger here in town,
I left my wagon just a moment ago, from Allanak I was bound."She said, "Come with me, lover, I'll stand you to a treat,
I'll buy you ale and spice my love, and smoked meat for to eat."
And when we reached The Tembo's Tooth, oh the drinks were handed out,
That spiced mead was so awful strong, my head went roundabout.When the drinking it was over, we straight to bed did go,
And little did I ever think she'd prove my overthrow.
When I came to next morning, I had an aching head,
And there I was, Amos-all-alone, stark naked on the bed.I looked all around the room, nothing I could see,
But a silken dress and slippers which now belonged to me.
Everything was silent, the dawn was coming hard,
I put my dress and slippers on and headed for the yard.My wagon-mates seein' me come aboard these words to me did say,
"Well, my friend, you've lost your armor since last you went away.
Is this the new spring fashion they're wearing in Tuluk?
Where is the shop that sells it, I'd like to have a look."So listen all you Nakkis, take warning when in the Ivory,
Or else you'll meet some charming lass who's licensed in thievery.
Your hard-earned coin will disappear, your gear and boots as well,
For Tuluk girls are tougher than Suk-Krath's Pits of Hell!by Maerylin "Mae" Konviwedu
As I walked down the North Road a fair lass did I meet,
Who asked me please to see her home, she lived just up the street.
I said, "Oh lovely woman, I'm a stranger here in town,
I left my wagon just a moment ago, from Allanak I was bound."She said, "Come with me,...
Continue Reading...Splendour of the drunk by Northlander
Added on Sep 7, 2006Northern rhymes approached in part or in whole by the liquor-bravest of tongue-wigglers.
It was last night after eat when I hardly on my feet went all my way off the seat,
balancing the tembo's teeth in a style not all too neat;
I tripped on a sculpture of wood and I saw not where it had stood, but wanting ever to make good,
(and not by barkeep thought a hood), raise it I still thought I should and ought as quick as I could.
And I grabbed it by the waist and then like someone well-crazed strove and pulled to have it raised,
and hoping I had naught defaced loudly I the carver's skill praised.
For now the early sun showed features of fresh mom in this sculpture of one.
Loud I lauded the painter for drawing skin not fainter, than this here my very own - vivid on this wood and bone.
Now yes, to mine left eye there was something awry with this paint hardly dry,
But my right focused sight on my plight and so tight (and not light)
I pulled now without complaint - unafraid of coloured taint,
Though it had texture that no hardwood should, lift as lighter wood hardly I could,
As strangely its wooden leg was bending when I tried my grip, ascending!
Loudly then to friends I wondered, how can wood weigh stones a hundred?
And I also wondered spoken, "How badly now have I blundered,
why does it bend as if sundered - say not that I have it broken?"
Then sudden as sky of clearness plundered - the world (and the tavern) loudly thundered!
It sounded just like a tell but I thought a table fell - and with it a large bone bell,
For I had a thick pint smoken and - sure - thought this but a token of the substances awoken.
Drunken two knots and was shoken - surely wood - surely wood could not have spoken?
But think you now this dread was but in my head - know then I was fed
Know that I now am sure that both spice and drink were pure - and wood on its own gave the roar,
High as any real person could - and all on its own then it stood this marvellous sculpture of wood!
And I swear now that high and hearty came the yell in midst of the party
No happy melody but known - my name to this fell wooden crone!
I was chased by the immense (like a small fool back to my stool)
but my friends came to defence and that wooden crone turned hence
(wiped with sleeves at nose's leaves) And on went that amply equipped
to stand anew where I had slipped, where I had keenly gone and tripped,
Standing watching others prance - refusing always to do dance
- fleeing the taking of chance - stiff as a stick in her stance,
Leaning to a dark wall as a kank in its stall - as in a trance - treating tavern as a cavern and me not with a glance.
Which was wrong, not cruel, it made her the fool - why, when last was touched that wooden thigh?
And so me and my friends nearby were raising glasses, toasting high:
To wooden loin!
Her pouch (now mine) was merely briefly full of coin.
It was last night after eat when I hardly on my feet went all my way off the seat,
balancing the tembo's teeth in a style not all too neat;
I tripped on a sculpture of wood and I saw not where it had stood, but wanting ever to make good,
(and not by barkeep thought a hood), raise it I still...
Continue Reading...Dance and Laugh at the Poor Ol' Nakkis' Fate by Gimfalisette
Added on Sep 7, 2006A boasting song addressed to the soldiers of Tuluk and composed to celebrate a victorious battle over the forces of Allanak during the Copper War by a bard of Poets' Circle in New Tuluk.
by Maerylin "Mae" Konviwedu
I heard you tore through Tor, showed those Scorpions the door!
The Borsail Wyverns are squeaking now with fear.
It won't be very long now, friends, 'til you're back with us again,
And when you get here I'm gonna give a great big cheer.
In fact, a kiss for one and all! When you come back proud and tall,
I'll kiss you each as you walk through the gate.
And then we'll drink and drink again, and celebrate the battle's end,
We'll dance and laugh at the poor ol' Nakkis' fate.
Now go and kick some weak Oash ass! This chance has rarely come to pass,
Once in your life to watch a Fale--well, fail!
The rest of their puffed-up so-called nobles ain't even worth a thought or trouble,
And their survival chance is thinner than a nail.
Every soldier do your part, give it fast and give it hard!
You've got the stinking Nakkis by the throat.
Just get the job done one by one, kick them Nakkis in the bum,
And leave 'em in the Red Desert's sand to bloat.
And then a kiss to one and all! When you come back proud and tall,
I'll kiss you each as you walk through the gate.
And then we'll drink and drink again, and celebrate the battle's end,
We'll dance and laugh at the poor ol' Nakkis' fate!by Maerylin "Mae" Konviwedu
I heard you tore through Tor, showed those Scorpions the door!
The Borsail Wyverns are squeaking now with fear.
It won't be very long now, friends, 'til you're back with us again,
And when you get here I'm gonna give a great big cheer.
In fact, a kiss for one and all!...
Continue Reading...My Heart Belongs to the Ivory by Gimfalisette
Added on Sep 7, 2006A patriotic song on themes of love for nation-state, loss of companions, and war. Composed during the Copper War by a bard of Poets' Circle.
by Maerylin "Mae" Konviwedu
I will remember my young Legionnaire,
Who marched off to war with the wind in his hair.
I will remember the Black City's attack--
Dead in the desert, he's not coming back.
I will remember the many friends I've lost--
They chose to bear arms regardless of cost.
With hope and faith, in battle they fell,
Each face and each name I remember so well.
CHORUS:
My heart belongs to the Ivory,
Her life and her breath and her soul real to me.
My grief I will take and put to her use--
Rather than mourning, service I choose.
My Tuluk, my love, my light, my home--
In your embrace I am never alone.
Though all may fall and leave me forever,
My love for my Sun King and home will not waver.
No matter how humble what I have to give,
The Ivory shall have it as long as I live.
Instead of the kiss of my lost beloved,
In place of the laughter of friends now dead--
I will comfort myself with the work to be done,
Unresting 'til the Ivory's victory is won.
CHORUS:
My heart belongs to the Ivory,
Her life and her breath and her soul real to me.
My grief I will take and put to her use--
Rather than mourning, service I choose.
My Tuluk, my love, my light, my home--
In your embrace I am never alone.by Maerylin "Mae" Konviwedu
I will remember my young Legionnaire,
Who marched off to war with the wind in his hair.
I will remember the Black City's attack--
Dead in the desert, he's not coming back.
I will remember the many friends I've lost--
They chose to bear arms regardless of cost.
With...
Continue Reading...A Soldier's Love by Gimfalisette
Added on Sep 7, 2006A melancholy song of love, war, and death composed by a bard of Poets' Circle in New Tuluk at the time of the Copper War.
A Soldier's Love
by Maerylin "Mae" Konviwedu
My first soldier love was my father, but nothing of him do I know,
Save that mother loved him with a passion until off to fight he did go.
He never returned from the battle, and she in turn lost her heart,
When a little while later I was born, nothing was left of her spark.
A solider will love you like a blazing fire,
Hot and consuming as the flame's desire.
But fire goes out, as the life of the soldier--
A bright-burning love, and then it is over.
When I grew up I met a young man, a handsome Legionnaire,
In a time of peace we fell in love as our hopes and dreams we shared.
But the call came for him to go to war, and far away south he marched,
When he fell in the desert I knew why my own mother had lost her heart.
A soldier will love you like the warm plains wind,
Rushing and fierce to embrace you again.
But wind blows away, as the life of the soldier--
A sweet breeze of love, and then it is over.
Though I didn't want to love again, the war caused us to meet,
A Corporal with hair as black as night and a smile that was so sweet.
At the war's end we celebrated together the Ivory's victory,
Then two weeks later he fell in battle, that soldier who so loved me.
A soldier will love you like life and death,
Will hold you tight and cherish each breath.
But death comes soon to take the soldier,
Who loves strong and deep 'til his life is over.
A Soldier's Love
by Maerylin "Mae" Konviwedu
My first soldier love was my father, but nothing of him do I know,
Save that mother loved him with a passion until off to fight he did go.
He never returned from the battle, and she in turn lost her heart,
When a little while later I was born,...
Continue Reading...An Artist's Precision by Cogato
Added on Sep 7, 2006A northern professional of the art of assassination performs an act in Allanak.
The small room with its blank stone walls seemed a comfort as he sat there quietly on the wooden stool. In his right hand a small obsidian blade was being slowly sharpened by a square piece of dull-grey granite in his left. Soon it would join the other four already snugly secured in the back lining of his pouched belt. As his hands worked his mind was elsewhere, going over the scenario that he had already spent the past three weeks planning to the most miniscule detail. But, with the planning now complete and the dark of night fast approaching the time for preparation was upon him. He liked these moments most of all, like the quiet rehearsal of a bard before singing for his Lord.
The nervousness always knotted up his stomach and the anticipation he fought down to keep his calm composure as well as his state of mind brought a smile to his face. Even after all of these years it made him feel like a child again, huddled under a cart after nabbing a piece of fruit from Old Hop’s stand in the market and just waiting for the peg-legged codger to finally catch him one day.
That thought brought him out of his memories for a moment to peer down towards the nub where his right pinky finger used to be. After snatching up a ripe purple belshun fruit from Hop’s stand as a boy he darted into the crowd with his loot in hand as he always did. Watching over a shoulder to see the old haggard gimp fading in the distance and screaming in rage, as a carefree boy he just smiled with abandon. An expression which quickly faded as he suddenly found himself on his rump after thumping heavily right into an oncoming solider of the city. Before he could find his feet to flee from this new threat he was snatched up by his hair and he knew without a doubt there was no breaking free from the hard-faced soldier’s stone grip. As disgruntled as ever Old Hop finally caught up to him and after much debate the wiry old merchant convinced the soldier that a finger and not a whole hand would do for this petty crime, IF the boy would swear to never come near his stand again. Of course he swore with as much sincerity as a young terrified boy could muster, and when his finger was removed with a swift swipe of the soldier’s blade he was truly thankful to the old peg-legged merchant and he never stole from Hop again. It was likely the kindest thing anyone had ever done for him.
The granite came down the length of the small blade once more and after checking that its throwing-balance still held true it was tucked into the back lining of his belt with the others. He leaned down towards a sandcloth sack between his feet and came back up with a bundle of beige linen and a small clay bottle. After spreading the cloak out on the stone floor in front of himself he uncorked the bottle and brought it to his nose. The strong sweet smell of ginka wine filled his senses and he had to admit the fellow had good taste. With a tilt of his wrist he poured the wine in equal amounts over as much of the cloak on the floor as it would cover then bundled it up once more and stuck it back into the sack along with the empty bottle. Now from the sack he produced a coil of light-colored hemp rope and a small off-yellow spiraling spike of bone. Sitting these two items aside he produced a small square packet of rough paper and reached for a large clay bowl on the table next him and a soapstone jug. Slowly he sprinkled the contents of the packet into the bowl, a fine black powder, then poured the water from the soapstone jug in as well. With his right hand he mixed the contents until the water in the bowl had taken the color of the powder and into this now black water he dropped the coil of rope and the small spiraling spike of bone. He would let that sit for a while to make sure the dark stain held on the items.
With night still a few hours off he was anxious and busied himself with checking that his personal tools were all in order for the third time in the past hour. A pair of obsidian daggers, one on each hip and each sporting a barbed tip that held a rather nasty bite lent to him by a red-spotted leaf he favored as his taint of choice. A small pouch hanging from his belt held the tiny glass vial he had waited weeks to attain from a contact that took even longer to find. It would prove crucial to his plan and he held it up to the light to check its contents yet again before tucking it away. A pair of gloves adorned with the hooked claws of an anakore for climbing were in a pocket on his dark-colored cloak along with a tiny loreshi whistle and a couple of blue wax candles. A strap-sheathe on his right ankle held a bone blade with a more potent poison which could induce severe vomiting and certain painful death almost instantly. He always carried this tool just incase things went wrong and for this reason he hoped he would never need it.
He leaned over and reached into the black water in the bowl to produce the now darkly stained coil of rope and the small spiraling spike of bone. He tucked the coil of still damp rope into the pocket on his cloak and then held up the spike to examine it. It was crafted well if he did say so himself and with the eye in its blunt end it resembled a thick twisted needle. He tucked it into the pouch on his hip along with the vial then turned towards the door, taking the sack on the floor and jerking up his hood before exiting.
Closing the door at his back the Gaj tavern was already full of folk and it was still an hour or so until night fall. He smirked, leave it to the southern folk to find any time suitable for drinking rather than working. He made his way out from behind the bar with a single nod of appreciation from within his hood towards the bartender for the use of the back room. The greasy pot-bellied man didn’t seem to notice the gesture as he wiped out a stone mug with a grimy cloth. With his head held low he made his way past a scantly-clad woman offering her “wares” to a brown-clad mercenary at the bar and moved steadily towards the doorway and the street beyond.
Exiting the tavern he found a street just as crowded as the tavern its self. All about him traders moved down the path pushing worn carts or pulling along kanks loaded down with obsidian slag. A small unit of soldiers moved further away from him down the path towards the gates to the west and a flat-bed wagon was being pulled past them by an inix that was in turn being led by a spindly woman. Dust filled the air with all of the foot traffic and he quickly moved from the entrance to the tavern to be on his way. It didn’t take him long to find himself outside of the three-story mud-brick building where he would be performing tonight. His stage was on the third floor and he had already been up to inspect it earlier in the week while he was preparing for his act.
Moving into the narrow alley at the side of the building he made his way from the busy street into the more shaded corridor. In the north when the wind was right you might catch a cool breeze coming off of the forest trees, in the south the wind was hot no matter where it came from, he hated performing in Allanak. Making his way through the narrow passage he then found himself at the back of the building in a wider more spacious cross-section where three of the alleys came together. With night approaching quickly no one spent anymore time in these alleys than they had to as they could be a little less than safe depending on who you happened to bump into.
After peering down the corridors once more to make sure they were empty he reached into the pocket in his cloak and pulled on his anakore-claw gloves quickly. They were ideal for gripping the crevices in mud-brick walls. Just as he had earlier in the week he easily slipped up the wall towards a small window on the third floor and slipped inside. He stuck his head out once more to make sure he hadn’t been watched in the moment it had taken him to scale the wall, satisfied he turned to look at his stage.
It was a two room apartment, the room he now stood in being the larger of the two. A baobab bed sat in the corner with a soft mattress laden in escru wool, a testament to the wealth of the occupant. Further displaying their wealth were a pair of dark-leather couches centered around a glass-topped green-marble table in the middle of the room. What concerned him most of all though was a small wooden chest of drawers next to the bed. He moved across the room and knelt down to open the bottom drawer where he found a large clay bottle. He uncorked the bottle and out drifted the familiar aroma of ginka wine. Reaching into the pouch on his hip he delicately pulled out the small glass vial and removed its wax stopper before carefully pouring the grayish liquid into the bottle of wine. He shook it roughly a few times after re-corking it before returning it to the drawer.
Hastily he then turned towards the door that led to the smaller chamber and opened it sticking his head out to peer around the scantly furnished guard quarters. The small room had one cot against the wall and a footlocker next to it. With all of his wealth the man he was performing for only provided his trusted companion with this. A frown came to his calm face as he quietly closed the door and took a knee reaching into the pocket on the inside of his cloak to take out the coil of rope and the small spiraling spike of bone. The door to the room opened inwards and he had made note of this when he was here earlier in the week. He decided then that this trick would be his best course of action. Two inches from the floor he slowly began to screw the spiraling spike of bone into the wall on the left side of the door. Once screwed all the way in so that only the eye of the dark spike protruded from the wall he unrolled the coil of hemp rope a bit and ran the free end through the eye. With a simple bone tack he nailed this end of the rope at about knee height on the inside face of the door.
Night was fast approaching and he knew from watching his charge constantly for the past week that every Ocandra and Detal he got staggering drunk at the Bard’s Barrel and would soon be falling up the stairs with the aid of his guard-woman. He backed up from the door and moved down the wall towards the bed as he quickly uncoiled the rope step by step, being careful so that the black cord lay perfectly flush with the wall and the floor. He left the end of the rope on the floor about six feet, about the height of the guard, from the doorway then moved to two sconces that held candles on the wall at about chest height. One was next to the doorway and one was by the window he had entered through. The maid-servant had already been in earlier in the day and replaced the spent candles so the occupants of the room would have light for the night. He took the pale ivory-wax candles from the sconces and quickly replaced them with the dark blue candles he had in his cloak.
He took a long moment to peer around the room and double checked the drawer that held the wine, all of his tools, the rope, and door then moved to slide beneath the low bed.
Darkness soon fell outside and the room grew dark, shadows spilled into the room and further concealed him beneath the bed. It wasn’t very long before he heard the familiar sound of drunken laughter coming up the stairwell. That feeling was back in his stomach and a faint smile came to his features which he quickly covered with the stoic expression of a professional. He heard the door to the outer chamber from the stairs of the complex open then close and the laughter and talking subsided a bit. A moment later the door to the room he was in opened, the black rope secured to the bottom of the door stayed low to the floor in the darkness and drug along as the door opened and then closed. The man didn’t seem to notice it in the shadows. In his drunken state the man took a while to strike the blue-wax candle in the sconce and he cursed the maid-servant noisily as he noticed that the hazy light the blue candle gave off kept the room more dark than lit. Under the bed the artist smiled to himself again. With the flickering of the dim candle he could see the drunken man make his way across the room towards the bed, or he could see his feet rather.
After sitting on the bed the man leaned over, as the artist knew he would, and opened the bottom drawer of the small wooden chest. He took out the clay bottle and beneath the bed the artist heard the cork pop free of the container. A moment later he was easing out from under the bed and coming to stand next to the drunken fellow that now lay on the bed next to him. He leaned down over the man to peer into his open eyes and he smiled at the calm breathing he heard, sufficiently paralyzed. The smile faded from his features as he remembered that he would only have the drunk in this state for a short period of time before the poison would wear off. He reached into his pocket and took out the small loreshi whistle as he moved towards the rope on the floor. He held the whistle in one hand and pulled his dagger from his hip before resting on a knee at the wall near the doorway.
A sharp piercing sound cut through the air for a moment then he hastily tucked the whistle away. He took up the free end of the rope in his other hand then leaned into the wall on his shoulder, still on a knee. In just a few seconds the door burst open and a hand wielding a sword entered the room ahead of the guard-woman. She didn’t get far though as she started to charge in while opening the door the other end of the rope was held taught in the artist’s hand this time and an effective trip wire was created in the opening. The guard-woman fell forwards over the dark cord at her knees and he moved to catch her on the tip of his dagger, his other hand now free of the rope he also covered her mouth to cover a scream that would never escape her dieing form. He lowered her gently to the floor and slowly closed the door once more before tucking his dagger back into the sheath on his hip. He smiled to himself as he mused that she would have probably died happier if she knew she had been part of a true artist’s piece of work. Then again, she was just a southern and probably couldn’t appreciate the beauty of it. He shrugged away the thought and moved to the bed where his stiff friend awaited him.
Quickly he removed the man’s beige linen cloak and produced one the same color and cut from the sack that hung from his beltline. It still smelled strongly of the wine he had poured over it earlier in the day and he nodded approvingly. He sat the stiff form of the man up on the bed and quickly wrapped the alcohol scented cloak around his shoulders and brought the hood over his head. He let the man fall gently back on the bed as he quickly moved away to enter the smaller guard quarters. He looked around for a moment and soon found what he was searching for folded up in the footlocker, the guard-woman’s cloak. He took off his own cloak then and left it on the floor, he wouldn’t need it further. Draping the guard-woman’s cloak about himself and raising the hood he moved back into the larger chamber and came to sit next to the man still laying rigidly where he had left him. He reached to lift the man up a bit then draped the paralyzed fellow’s arm over his own shoulder, holding his wrist in his opposite hand. Together they stood, the artist holding him about the waist with his free hand beneath their cloaks then together they moved from the apartment.
The stairs were a bit of a hassle to get down with the full weight of the man to encumber him, but he made it with no less difficulty than if the man was simply too drunk to walk on his own. When the pair moved past the attendant at the front desk the well-groomed man only saw the usual. The Borsail aide was too drunk to walk again, this apparent by the overwhelming smell he wafted, and his guard-woman was helping him out likely to go get more booze.
The street was dark now and the traffic had lessened considerably from what it had been earlier in the day. In a moment a canvas covered wagon came ambling down the path being pulled by a large silvery inix. When the wagon stopped in front of him the artist took a few steps with the aide in tow around to the back of the wagon where a pair of thickly-muscled men were waiting within the canvas. They quickly hoisted the paralyzed man up into the wagon and a large pouch was tossed down to the artist.
One of the men whispered gruffly “Good work, tha’ guard bitch is dead?”. The man standing behind the wagon nodded from within the confines of his cloak. The thickly-muscled man then said in a lower voice “Tha’
The small room with its blank stone walls seemed a comfort as he sat there quietly on the wooden stool. In his right hand a small obsidian blade was being slowly sharpened by a square piece of dull-grey granite in his left. Soon it would join the other four already snugly...
Continue Reading...Kazyn Pays His Debt by Barzalene
Added on Sep 7, 2006Fictional account of the liberation of Tuluk centered around in-game events and pcs.
In the final days of the Rebellion there was a change in mood - a pervasive feeling as if the men and woman who rose to lead gave off more heat, more energy. Chakal was bigger than his shadow in ways Einat couldn't describe. Einat worshipped Chakal. She adored him in the way that the bland and ordinary love those who are the special ones, in the quiet unseen way that the dull and unbeautiful love the polished gems who outshine them. In those final years of the occupation, she rode beside him, slept beside him, ate beside him and fought beside him, all the while waiting for him to notice her for more than just a strong bow arm. She waited for him to see the beauty in her no one else saw, because he was Chakal, and he was capable of everything. She yearned to be not one more soldier serving under him, but the lover wrapped around him, fingers entwined in his brown hair, making his every exhaled breath her own.
Einat's hate for Kazyn was not as spectacular as the way she loved, but it was keen and honed. In the year after his betrayal she would claim she had always suspected him. She hated his flat southern voice, the way he looked and even smelled Naki. The truth is, she did not suspect him, and her enmity was earned not by where he came from but where he was going. How could it be Kazyn to whom Chakal revealed his fears and hopes and plans? How did Kazyn earn the smiles and small off-hand moments of humor that Einat coveted? Kazyn was not even Chakal's lover, worse, he was Chakal's friend.
Kazyn had come from the Black City where he'd killed one of their robed witches, an event he'd offered up as proof of his dedication to the Ivory when he'd arrived. One day Kazyn left camp and all that remained of him were the rumors. Einat heard stories- the Faithful Lady came to Chakal. He was warned. The Faithful knew what Kazyn was. They knew that Kazyn had told the red witch Dora of every plan he knew, every name, every description. The Templar said he wore the jade cross on his black officer's cloak. Chakal listened to the Faithful Lady, but he loved Kazyn and he could not really believe. Every day he he looked off to the south as if waiting for Kazyn to return with information, or an excuse or any justification.
Einat's dreams were filled with Chakal, but her days were not. Her days she spent hunting for food, and when she'd meet other hunters talking with them about the stories she'd heard, of the Tuluk that had been taken from them, and the Tuluk that would be again. She made friends, and acquaintances, sharing her food, her spice, her wine, and she shared stories, always the stories. Until the day for battle came.
The rebels assembled in the forest, a guide led the way to Torgan's camp. Faithful Ladies and Lords came from their excile. Mutants, an army of mutants were there. The Rebels came, one cell after another. Even a contingent from Red Storm. Everyone who hated the Nakis and would make a stand were there. What most struck Einat was how the camp smelled: the sun on the sands - hot has it's own smell, dust filled the air, mounts kicked up clouds of it, and the mounts themselves, six legged, four legged and two legged catching the mood from their riders and reeking of excitement and fear. The sweat of leather clad bodies, all of them smoking their warspices, combined like the odor of a kuraci orgy. Once she fastened on her veil, the melange was filtered through the odor of her own breath..
Another curiosity that occurred for her was how in the noise of all those fighters on all those mounts and the commands passed back and forth faded, she only heard the sounds of her own leathers creaking and her own heart beating. The sounds must have been close to deafening, but she barely registered the noises at all.
Chakal, on his kank came alongside her and rode there for a few moments, dropping back from his place beside the assembled Faithful in their red and white robes. Sweat plastered his hair to his brown skin. She glanced so many times at his profile, as he rode beside her, and once for a heart stopping moment their eyes met. The thrill of his absent nod, made her dizzy. His mouth was turned down and sad. He glanced back occasionally. Was he even on that day thinking of Kazyn?
She never had the chance to ask Chakal if he saw Kazyn's hand, in some way, behind the mass of soldiers who met them. It seemed to Einat as if every Naki in the black city must have been sent up for the day. Would they have been as prepared if not for Kazyn? The rebels had known before leaving camp, from the Kuracis, that the Naki's would not be surprised, but she hadn't expected the sheer numbers. Einat wanted to run, but glanced at Chakal, and rode on, holding her bow, waiting for the order.
She was unprepared for the chaos of battle. The rebels were unprepared for route. Outnumbered, greatly and terribly outnumbered they fought on. Dying one by one. It was loud, so loud and The High Precentor Kul's arrival was not heralded by the sound of approaching riders and marchers, or if it was that herald was lost in the din of dying. For Einat, there was no telling if the Nakis were as surprised as she when Kul's army turned the battle, and took control of it. Einat concentrated only on avoiding the swords, trying to strike blows, and ensuring that it was only the enemies she lashed out at with her spear.
If not for Chakal she might have turned an run. She probably wouldn't have, but people like Einat don't credit their bravery, only their fears. She felt what courage she had came from being near him. Loosing volley after volley of arrows, until the battle came too close and she strapped her bow to her back, and drew her spear. Standing beside him she saw the point of the obsidian sword protruding from his back. He fell to his knees, the blade had already been wrested from his body, and his eyes already had begun to glaze.
Einat dropper her spear and knelt to hold his body, still warm enough that she could pretend that it was a lovers embrace. His blood spilled across the sand turning into an awful soup. She sat there, not flinching, holding the man who would never be her lover and rocking him like a baby...until a red and white-veiled figure pulled her away.
In a lull in the fighting she fell in with a regiment of archers. That is how she came to be one of the few humans marching toward Luirs as the Southern brutes were ousted from The Ivory, and the victory Chakal had dreamed of and died for was born. She marched, one foot in front of the next, seeing only the red wet sand, almost black with blood under Chakal's body, rather than the dry red sands beneath her feet, until the army stopped outside the Outpost's gates. All day she spent in the burning sun shooting arrows over the walls until her fingers bled. She had nothing to do directly with Kuraci decision to side with the Tuluk forces, but indirectly? She'd spend her share of time in the outpost, smiling, smoking and always telling her stories. When the gates finally opened she was relieved, but not surprised.
Hate is a lot like love. In a crowded room you can hear your love's voice first. Though the chaos and the mayhem, the crowds she knew Kazyn. Oh, he looked so prosperous, fancy black cloak and that same scarred proud face. Not even the onrush of soldiers boiling from between the opened gates toward their lines could draw her attention from him. She knew him by his posture, and the way he held his head. She drew her bowstring back, and watched the arrow fly. Even the axe planted between her shoulder-blades from an unseen soldier behind her couldn't draw her eyes from Kazyn, and she saw him stumble back as the arrow hit his shoulder, and the last thing she saw was a blade coming down at him from off to his right.In the final days of the Rebellion there was a change in mood - a pervasive feeling as if the men and woman who rose to lead gave off more heat, more energy. Chakal was bigger than his shadow in ways Einat couldn't describe. Einat worshipped Chakal. She adored him in the way that the bland...
Continue Reading...Slavers (pt. 1) by Djarjak
Added on Sep 7, 2006A Northerner relegated to a Borsail slave camp learns where a slave stands and decides subtlety is a better escape than force.
The persistent tugging on his wrists draws Niorejin into consciousness. His mouth feels cottony and a bitter taste prevails. Opening his eyes yields a sharp, head-splitting pain in spite of the relatively dim light in the room. He groans, trying to turn, and he finds himself shackled to a wall. Instinctively, he pulls against them, but they do not yield, and he only succeeds in making the pin-pricks and tingles of his bluing fingertips worse.
“No use in tha’,” a tired-sounding voice to his left says. “Slava’ shackles be da’ bes’ in Zalanthas. Make no mistake, son; you here fer da long ride.”
Turning, Niorejin looks into the bloodshot violet eyes of a grey skinned female mul. Her hairless pate shines with sweat in the light, and he can smell spice on her lips. “Feck,” he says. “Feck!”
Looking around the room reveals two other captives, swaying with the wagon’s motion. His gaze first finds an attractive woman with matted blond hair whose scandalously short garments disallow her from concealing the shame of her state. Niorejin notices a spot on her right inner thigh where the pink flesh is shiny and puckered in the shape of two Wyverns in the midst of a compromising act.
“Yeh. He’s gonna be out fer a while,” the mul says. “Ya got no help here, Tuluki.”
That’s fine, he thinks. I know where I do have friends. He closes his eyes, breathing deeply and tries to achieve the quasi-meditative state required to use The Way. Juiya. Juiya. Where are you, Juiya? Each time, he gets close, but he feels her mind slip away from him. “Krath-damn it!” In his frustration, he cuts his wrist on the bone shackles and some blood runs down his arm.
Footsteps echo outside the door and a figure wearing a hood and a veil branded with the silhouette of a yellow inix opens the door. “Quiet in here, eh? Or we’ll withhold yer water. Hard death dyin’ o water-want, I hear.” The figure drags a bucket from just out of sight and it sloshes, steaming from the floor-boards and evaporating in the heat. The smell of water provokes a visceral response in Niorejin, and he moans in spite of himself. “Good slave. Now be quiet ‘til we get ta camp.”
The light from the windows high above the shackled slaves begins to darken, and the wagon finally stops moving. The near hypnotic rocking has lulled most of the captives into a restless slumber. But, when it stops, the sound of many booted feet jars most of them awake, the well-muscled young man excepted.
The door opens, and six figures dressed in the same, drab hood and veil combinations enter. Each is branded with a different color and a different animal. Niorejin identifies a red kank, a black wyvern, a green erdlu, and a white greth before Red Kank approaches him with a ladle to offer him water. Greedily, he drinks the water, but the taste is bitter and sharp. Poisoned, he thinks, and loses consciousness.
* * *
When he awakes, he and the other slaves lay on rough woven-fiber mats on the floor of a large sandcloth tent. Outside, he hears the voices of many people shouting back and forth, coordinating the movement of slaves.
“… runnah. Make sure he doesna see da sands t’day, eh?”
“Hai-Yet!”
“… worth something if he thinks he has a way with the ladies, put him in with the courtesans.”
“Think we got a fighter? Put him in wi’ da gladiators an….”
“Ni-Yet!”
“Hey, Green Inix, good to see yeh back in da ranks. Lord Borsail chew yeh a new one…”
“…new slaves, an’ bring me dat whore. I want ta try dat one out afore we put her back on da block”
“Hai-Yet!”
The tent flap opens and two figures in veils and hoods duck through, each of them wearing manacles on their belts. One of them is the green inix. The other is a brown kank. Brown Kank’s head swivels around the room, taking in the still-unconscious forms of the mul, the brawny lad, and two newcomers that Niorejin has not yet had time to assess. Pointing, Brown Kank walks to the slave-branded girl; he and Green Inix lift her by both arms, and she hangs limply between them as they exit. Someone on the other side ties the tent flap tightly back in place.
I wonder what they plan to do with me, Niorejin thinks, and he tries the Way once more without results. His head is foggy, maybe a residual effect of the drugs. He sighs and rubs his wrists. A bandage has been wrapped around one of them, dried blood crusted in the interstices. One of the newcomers stirs, groaning and pushing himself onto his elbows. A days old beard grows from his face, scraggly, and he stinks of herbs. A shining pink brand of a wyvern covers one cheek.
As Niorejin watches, the old man stumbles to his feet and starts checking the other unconscious slaves’ clothing and hair. The level of the search strikes him as incredibly personal, but as he watches, he notices the old man stash away a pair of lockpicks, a sandcloth bandage, two leather thongs, an inix-tooth, and three ‘sid. Resourceful. I should have thought of that.
The old man approaches him and Niorejin glares. As though thinking better of it, the old man sits nearby. “I’m Dakk,” the old man says.
Niorejin ignores him and examines the edges of the tent, looking for a loose seam or a way underneath the wall. “Dese tents is mighty tight, I seen. I should know. Been in ‘em enough.” He looks back at the old man who shrugs. “Eh. Do whatever yeh want. But if yeh want escape, yeh’ll hafta talk with Gorm. An dat means yeh have to cooperate wi’ dem an’ be classified first.”
“Who’s Gorm,” Niorejin asks?
“Ah! A Tuluki!” the old man grins, his teeth rotten but not yet missing. “He’s one a de’ water-bearers dat goes between da tents. But he dinna come here. Dey dinna gi’ watah ta here. Dey starve yeh out, see. Figger a man’s more willin’ ta cooperate if’n he’s thirsty, righ’?”
The mul stirs and wakes next, rolling over and sitting up in a quick, smooth motion that belies her combat training. Shortly after, the other stranger wakes. Then the brawny young man groans, clutching his head.
“And how is it you know all this?”
“Eh. I been here. Keep escapin’. Almost got free. Got all’n da way t’oasis. Dem kank-herders turned me in, though. Figgered ‘twas better’n havin’ slavers pissed at em I reckon. Pah. Dey threatened ta hobble me if I run again. Four times now, an’ dey got me every time.”
The other newcomer crawls over to the brawny young man and tears some strips off his tunic. “Cover yer head. Yer water-wantin’,” Drakk tells the brawny one as the newcomer offers him the strips of cloth.
“That’s mighty kind of you,” Niorejin tells them with a smirk. “I figured Southern Barbarians would kill each other as soon as help them.”
The newcomer looks at Niorejin and makes a rude gesture. “He’s mute,” Drakk says. “Rumor has it he’s one o’ da best bards in all da South. Name’s Halmoc. Templar cut his tongue out when he wrote a song he din’t like too much. Guess he’s still pretty good wi’ his instrument’s. Lark, an’ it wo a great song, too. ‘An’ he always answered yes… An they put him with a escru… An’ he always answered yes!’” With a cackle, the old man slaps his knee, but the expression on mute Halmoc’s face is pure rage and frustration.
They’re southern barbarians, alright. But they probably hate the south as much as I do, Niorejin realizes. He shakes his head, and the brawny young man speaks, “Sorry. I tried ta help you all. I saw dey had slaves in da wagon, I tried ta break you out, but dere were too many of ‘em.”
“Break us out,” the mul asks? “What for? What’n da seven sands’re we s’posed ta do in da middle o’ da feckin’ desert if’n ya’d breaked us out?”
“I dunno,” the young man stammers. “I just thought…”
“Neh. Ya dinna. If ya’d thought, yeh wouldna been here,” the mul says. “If’n yeh know what’s best fer all o’ us, ye’ll cooperate until they sort us an’ put us where we wanna go. Don’ be causin’ trouble.” Smacking her fist into her open palm for emphasis, the mul pins him with a stern glare.
No friends there, Niorejin thinks. “Eh. Well, I for one thank you for trying. How did you come to travel with these barbarians, anyway? Your accent doesn’t sound like the city.”
“Oh no, I’m from da village, Yaroch. Dere was gladiator try-outs. I’m da best fighter in da village. Tried out ta see if I could earn da sid an’ fame ta help my sister an’ my pa. Dere gladiator fair kicked my arse, but dey said I was da best one dey’d seen in a tenday, so dey brought me on ta travel to da city.”
The mul snorts. “Dere ain’t free gladiators, boy. All gladiators be slaves. Yeh was rooked.”
Indignantly, the young man says, “Neh I wasna! I seen a templar hisself gi’ a metal sword ta famed human gladiator Jumberlorvor. Twas da festival o’ blood an’ roses what did. An’ he went free. Was walkin’ da streets not two hours after da matches.”
“Wass yer name, boy?” The mul asks.
“Malloch. Malloch Vriendath.”
“Listen up, Mal. Yeh listen good. Dere’s a lotta kind a slaves. Yeh hear? Dere’s slaves dat get stuck in a pen. Dere’s slaves dat ends up in a tent like dis one. Dere’s slaves dat sleep on silken mats an’ wear a collar around dere necks all da same. Dere’s even slaves dat walk da streets wi’out a leash. At da end o’ day, though, dey all is back in a cage. Even if it’s got silk sheets an’ a pretty lass in it, it’s still a cage cause dey’re watchin’. Yeh hear me?.”
The furvor of the mul’s speech triggers the boy’s good grace to blush. “Man… I don’t wanna be a slave….”
Drakk shakes his head in amusement. “Yeh. Well, have fun runnin’. Yer welcome ta try runnin’ wi’ me next I go. But if’n dere serious ‘bout hobblin’ me…” He looks pensive for a moment before continuing. “Yeh ever seen someone hobbled? Dey hold yeh down, an tie yer feet to stakes… den dey saw off yer feet jus’ above t’ankle.” The old man saws his finger over his ankle for emphasis. “I seen seasoned warriors wi’ brutal scars all over ‘em pass out from t’pain.” He shakes his head. “I might stay. I mean, some of ‘em ain’t got life so bad. Silk pillows an’ a pretty wench? Sounds mighty fine ta me. I dinna. I tried runnin’ four times now. Only a matter o’ time afore dey get serious about it an’ put me somewhere unpleasant.”
“The lows.”
“What?” Niorejin turns to the mul.
“The lows. It’s da place in da arena pits where dey put da gladiators an slaves who won’ cooperate. No food. No water. Gotta fight for it. An’ it’s where dey keep da beasts, too. Sometimes da gaj gets out…. “ the mul shudders and a startled silence spreads around the tent.
The tent flap opens, and the pleasure slave is pushed through the flap. As she stumbles, she shrieks back at her captors, “I will show you!” Tears run down her face and the clipped tones of her voice shrill a parody of nobility. As the men tie the flap fast, she walks to a far corner and sits, her knees clutched to her chest.
“Dey hurt you?” The anger in the mul’s voice is clear.
“No more so than any master.” She shakes her head. “They know how not to ruin expensive goods.”
“If’n yer so expensive, den what’re you doin here,” Dakk asks?
She looks at Dakk, her expression all hauteur. “It’s not any of your business. And nevermind. I’ll be back where I belong soon enough.”
“No, really. Tell us,” Niorejin says. The old man may be an ally. The mute, and the boy surely. Not the mul. What about her?
She sighs and stares up at the ceiling. “Some idiot slave boy convinced me to run away with him.” She looks back to Niorejin and continues, “He thought life in the desert as a free person would be better or something. Convinced me that he knew a man who knew a man and we would be free. Two weeks wandering in the desert, and I nearly died of thirst. The slavers rescued me.”
“Rescued yeh? Dere slavers!” Malloch’s disbelief works its way through his posture and he nearly rises to his feet.
“Yes. They rescued me.” Her eyes focus on Malloch, giving her words emphasis. “As a slave, I had three even meals per day. No, more than even. They were gourmet meals compared to the swill we were living on during our flight. And really, my master was a fool. Easy to appease in exchange for the comfort.” At Malloch’s look of disbelief, she wipes the tears from her face and barks,”What, you think your living, struggling and toiling in the dirt and sand is better? For what?”
No allies there, Niorejin thinks.
The tent flap opens again, and a masked figure bearing the mark of a brown erdlu points to the mul. “Qu’or. You’re summoned.”
The mul climbs to her feet and walks towards the entrance. Four men stand just outside, clubs drawn. “Hold out your hands, Brown Erdlu says.” His voice is young. When the mul complies, someone produces a thong of thick, wet leather and ties it around her wrists.
Once the mul has been led out, Brown Erdlu points to Malloch. “Now you.” Once his fists are lashed and he is led off, Brown Erdlu points to Niorejin. “And you.”
Briefly, Niorejin debates cuffing Brown Erdlu. There are only two men left at the tent now. He sizes them up, thinking, if Brown Erdlu is young, he may be able to take both. But, looking around, he sees more slavers and remembers what Drakk has said. “If yeh want escape, yeh hafta talk ta Goram…” So, he allows his hands to be bound, and he is led to a corral where two other slaves stand. He recognizes one as Malloch.
A slaver designated as Yellow Scrab addresses the slaves. “Muls go to da arena. Da rest of yeh may serve a higher purpose. Do either of yeh have any special talents?”
“Feck you, slaver.” Malloch spits on the ground.
“Waste yer water on me, then, slave. The desert’ll deal with yeh soon enough. But if’n yeh expect ta get soma dat water back, ye’ll cooperate wi us.”
Niorejin can see some of Malloch’s color drain from his face. “Neh,” he says. His voice sounds hoarse and resigned. “I got no talents other’n fightin’. Jess’ farmin’.”
Yellow Scrab nods to Brown Erdlu, and Brown Erdlu cuts Malloch’s bonds. Yellow Scrab looks over at the other two slaves and gestures to the woman, who walks to the middle of the corral and takes two wooden clubs from the rack. Niorejin notices a bandage on her left shoulder. “Take your weapons. Let’s see what you can do.”
Malloch looks at the woman. Her figure, slight from water-wanton, shows little musculature or presence. Malloch snorts and stomps over to the rack with aplomb, taking a bone sparring sword and a hide-reinforced chitin shield. For a moment, Malloch circles the woman, and she stands still, her eyes on him until he walks behind her. Then he lunges.
Almost faster than Niorejin can see, she lunges to the side, leaving her left leg planted, and sweeping her left club through the sand and up, behind her. The sand flies in Malloch’s eyes, and he trips over her leg, sprawling gut-first onto her second club which she has held behind her and used like a spear. “Again,” Yellow Scrab says.
This time, Malloch approaches with more caution, stepping forward with his shield, swinging his sword with his arm fully extended. She snaps one club quickly at his left knee, and the other at his right wrist. He crumples and drops his sword. “Very good, Minha. You may take water.”
The woman nods and walks to a cistern by the gate post, taking a long drink from a ladle. “Now you,” Yellow Scrab says, turning to Niorejin.
He walks forward and looks in the rack. There are clubs, like the woman has used, a spear, a primitive looking wooden axe, a wooden dagger and sword, and a shield. Niorejin tests the weight of the spear and puts it back in the rack, turning to face the slaver instead.
“No weapons?” Surprise sounds clearly in Yellow Scrab’s baritone. “Very well. Thannor.”
The second slave walks forward, a ropy man with skin the color of obsidian. He takes an axe and a dagger from the rack. When he turns, Niorejin has already grabbed the wrist of the hand holding the dagger and pinned it behind Thannor, the point in his back. With his other, he lands a solid chop to the side of the slave’s head. The slave groans and collapses, unconscious on the sand.
“Very nice. Should yeh cooperate, yeh may e’en make a ‘lete guard. Tell me. Have yeh any other talents?”
“I have a very good memory.”
“An’ how good a memory is dat?”
Niorejin shrugs. “Try me.”
Yellow Scrab nods, and after a moment, says, “Terrible sunback an’ itch ‘tween kumiss. Twelve aprons askither an’ darken bloodsand. Ghastly verdant an’ morass thither. Kank storm dinna six men hate.”
Before Niorejin can speak, Yellow Scrab holds his hand up, flashing two fingers, then a thumb, then four fingers, then two. The woman slave he has forgotten about attacks him from behind.
Her first blow catches him unaware, sending a spike of pain through his side as she strikes above his kidney with the flat of her club. The second swipe he dodges, pinning her arm across her body with his chest. He uses his right foot to pivot, knocking them both off balance, and lands solidly on top of her, his legs locked over hers, and his free hand on her free wrist.
“Terrible sunback and itch between kumiss. Twelve aprons askither and darkened bloodsand. Ghastly verdant and morass thither. Kank storm did not six men hate. Two. One. Four. Two.” Niorejin rolls off of his opponent and stands, dusting himself off.
Yelow Scrab looks to Brown Erdlu and says, “Amber tent. Box six.” The woman gasps and protests, “But!”
“You have not been addressed, slave.” Yellow Scrab turns to her, and her face flushes. “When you are as good as he is, you can join him in Amber tent.” Then he turns to Malloch. “You will be designated Blue tent. Both of you will receive water and training there.”
The
persistent tugging on his wrists draws Niorejin into consciousness. His mouth
feels cottony and a bitter taste prevails. Opening his eyes yields a sharp,
head-splitting pain in spite of the relatively dim light in the room. He
groans, trying to turn, and he finds himself...
Continue Reading...Wastewalker by Grey Area
Added on Sep 5, 2006Dressed in the battered leathers of a veteran wasteland traveller, Athan Rook takes a hit from his ever-present tube of Krelez.
Business Card by Djarjak
Added on Aug 31, 2006Front and back
Postcard by Djarjak
Added on Aug 30, 2006Front only.
Ivory to be - I advise by Northlander
Added on Aug 29, 2006People-berating protest-ballad of Tuluki origin. Surfaced during the Red Desert War.
I advise you to sell dearly your obsidian;
that glistens so nicely with its sharpeties.
And is mined by northerners on knees,
who charge Tektolnes' whip their fees.
You help in that way to keep the order,
threatened by disorderlies.
Who stand, defend our border..
.. Who wish for a sword to squeeze.
I advise you to sit on your asses,
and quietly then draw your breaths.
In part live as others and time passes,
in part you'll bring ruin and deaths.
A better ground your ass'll never taste;
it has the flavour of Tuluki blood!
And like the needle pushed on by the thumb..
.. most obligingly succumb..
.. Without knowing what's to come..
And you've joined the line of time by suture -
Making Old Tuluk the future.I advise you to sell dearly your obsidian;
that glistens so nicely with its sharpeties.
And is mined by northerners on knees,
who charge Tektolnes' whip their fees.
You help in that way to keep the order,
threatened by disorderlies.
Who stand, defend our border..
.. Who wish for a sword to squeeze.
I...
Continue Reading...Childhood rhyme of the Warrens by Northlander
Added on Aug 29, 2006Simple thing passed between the children and parentless of Tuluk's slums, often changing a bit on the way.
Muk who keeps the children safe,
see to me who's but a waif.
Wherever I in Ivory,
walk inked in your livery..
.. Luck will cry, luck will sing,
You remain, my Sun King.
Muk who keeps the children safe,
see to me who's but a waif.
Wherever I in Ivory,
walk inked in your livery..
.. Luck will cry, luck will sing,
You remain, my Sun King.
Continue Reading...When great was my need by Northlander
Added on Aug 29, 2006From the street-poets of Tuluk - oftentimes accompanied by a wig.
When great was my need I went to Kurac,
dadeedadidaadoo-'I to Kurac.
For there craving goes for 'handful of black,
dadeedadidaadoo-'andful of black.
Weak and alone in the Outpost I was,
naught in my pipe and my mood with its flaws..
.. Yes alone in the Outpost I was.
I knocked on the door where a peddler housed,
dadeedadidaadoo-peddler was housed.
There opened a woman pale and just roused,
dadeedadidaadoo-pale and just roused.
Be friendly, I said, please let me come in,
I'm craving and spent but kindly as kin..
.. Do be so kind to let me come in.
'My man he is gone to torture a man',
dadeedadidaadoo-'torture a man'.
'And then must sniff through the spice the man ran',
dadeedadidaadoo-'spice the man ran'.
'Yes, peddlers work in a world of dismay',
'but gladly I'll help your problem allay'..
.. 'For the world is grim, bitter dismay.'
And here now I'll skip a verse maybe two,
dadeedadidaadoo-a verse or two.
Kuraci peddlers one oughtn't beshrew,
dadeedadidaadoo-ought not beshrew.
But nothing at all did my craving weigh,
and my mind shone with a smile on display..
.. when I finally went thereaway.
So therefore when craving sets to its worst,
with your body full of misery's thirst;
Do at the Kuraci door your hand try,
the peddler himself in shortest supply -
- You'll be eased and comforted like I.When great was my need I went to Kurac,
dadeedadidaadoo-'I to Kurac.
For there craving goes for 'handful of black,
dadeedadidaadoo-'andful of black.
Weak and alone in the Outpost I was,
naught in my pipe and my mood with its flaws..
.. Yes alone in the Outpost I was.
I knocked on the door where a...
Continue Reading...Our hours by Northlander
Added on Aug 29, 2006Love-lyrics given with or without rhythm and paced in any fashion. No particular bard is tributed.
Suk-Krath burns under my feet
Making warm the still..
.. As your hands, it gives heat
Warm; it gives me will!
Under shadow I am sane
Will to kiss your lips..
.. The strongest warmth is pain
Caress with fingertips!
Red of Suk replaced by moon
Passion's death is calm..
.. Mem'ry cradles like a spoon
Sweetest kiss's balm..
As midday burns hearts' dissent
Evening chills the swooned..
.. Come night we fast and repent..
.. Lovely morning wound.
Suk-Krath burns under my feet
Making warm the still..
.. As your hands, it gives heat
Warm; it gives me will!
Under shadow I am sane
Will to kiss your lips..
.. The strongest warmth is pain
Caress with fingertips!
Red of Suk replaced by moon
Passion's death is calm..
.. Mem'ry cradles like a...
Continue Reading...Dakkon's Comics by Dakkon
Added on Aug 23, 2006Dakkon takes a look at Armageddon through a vinegar jar and highly suggests turning the obscenity filter off. Unless you like it when I call you a **** *****.
http://www.stripcreator.com/comics/DakkonblackThe Bones of the Desert by LM
Added on Aug 7, 2006An event of the arcane salvaged from the personal journals of Warlord D------ Tor.
It was moonrise when I first saw the girl. Jihae on this desert is always red, and on a battlefield the color phases over from red into the truly sanguine. As I pen this, I remember when the need for numbers was the main strategy of the war leaders of the day, when the Templarate would press children and aged alike into service for the Highlord – long may He reign.
It was moonrise, as I said, when I first saw the girl. The latest skirmish was over with the passing of the day and she stood there, a forgotten spoil among bodies. My Scorpions, with a discipline grown lax and shameful with the sorrow of loss, straggled behind, breaking rank to crouch by their fallen comrades. I would attend to them in a moment; first, the girl. She had a message for me. Similar slips of paper saying much the same as this one would arrive in the hands of others over the next few hours, for the commanding Blues would trust nothing to the way of the mind. Not this time. Not this war.
She looked small and soft amid the shadows and the jagged pikes and broken arrows which stuck haphazardly up in all directions among the dunes. This was an illusion; the tribal was as wind hardened as any desert dweller, and only her youth and surroundings gave the lie to her appearance. How she was forced into service, I never thought to ask. Likely she was the closest non-soldier to hand near the increasingly barren encampment, two leagues off. Barefoot, she crouched in the bloody sand by a fallen Scorpion, naked curiosity on a naked face.
“You’ll die for that,” I said, snatching the folded parchment from her grip with my free hand. The rustle of paper sounded loud in the hot moonlight. I had my orders, then, and sand sprayed as I wheeled towards my broken unit, shouting to the nearest soldiers. The girl was still here, I was preventing her from running.
“That was a stupid thing you just said.”
Indeed, the dune shadows seemed to hold a deeper intelligence, a base cunning and hunger, and did we not lose as many men to the sands and the heat as to the northern forces? If there was a third army in this war, the earth we fought on was candidate enough. The ground shifted and trembled beneath my feet, causing cries of consternation to rise behind me. The child struggled like a bird in my grip, still intent on lunatic backtalk.
“It will come for you too, if you are weak!” Enough of this. Lack of sleep and water made me paranoid. I raised my sword to cut her down, but with unnatural, frightened strength she wrenched free of my imbalanced grip, running for the dunes she worshipped and controlled.
“The sands take you then, you little desert monster!” I yelled, and then I had other things to worry about.
++++++++++++++++
When I saw her next, in the arena stands, the war had been over for five years. I had not forgotten her, for her pronouncement had been eerie enough to stick in my mind – though the thoughts I spared her were few indeed. I’d assumed her long taken by the desert, as she had said that day. She was very much alive, grown tall and slim and pampered. Her dark hair hung in long, neat braids. But a suede collar wrapped her neck, the clasp a familiar wyvern, and her eyes were still as blue as the day I stared into them on the battlefield, ready to snuff their feral hauteur. Today, she wasn’t mine to kill. But I remembered her secret.
I took her chin, turned her face from side to side. She did not stop me, though we both knew I insulted the Lord Borsail by touching his slave without invitation. Still, he had other things to occupy his mind, and she was there to entertain. Besides, I was about to do him a favor.
“I remember you,” I said, and released my grip on her face. The late afternoon sunlight filtered through the haze of dust in the still air.
“Yes.”
“How did you...”
“War prize.” She lifted her shoulders helplessly. The halting sirihish she spoke sounded like music. “It matters not my people did not fight, still, I was brought back to city. It was this, or...” She touched her collar, motioned to the sands below. "I was lucky to catch his eye." The roar of the crowd nearly drowned out her words.
“It suits you,” I said, turning my attention back to the fight. Her next words were bleak, sarcasm bordering on dangerous, as the gladiator’s battle against the captured anakore staged below us drew to bloody completion, the arena sand a wash of mottled reds.
“I am not the only desert monster tamed by city walls.” I turned back to study her, my voice dropping low. Her young Lord laughed melodically two seats over, oblivious to our conversation.
"Your position is a dangerous one. If they haven't found out yet, they will soon. The sand can't save you here, girl." And then she was as frightened as I'd ever seen her, even with a sword at her throat in the middle of a war.
"You will tell."
"It would be a crime not to."
"That is not yes." With an impatient motion of my hand, I affirmed what she didn't want to hear.
"Give me one week, please," she pleaded in my mind.
"And let you harm the Lord Borsail?" I answered in kind. Then, aloud, "No." She was too lovely altogether, with refined looks which would produce an expensive line of slaves. I hated to do it for reasons other than the waste, and the certain anger and embarrassment of the Lord C-------. But duty and honor are creeds by which my family lives their life, and by my duty and honor would she die. She was white with fear beneath brown skin, a leather leash round her ankle and attached to the balcony rail preventing her from running as I could see she wished to.
"I will take one hundred of your people with me," was her whispered pronouncement, even as I discreetly called for the attentions of the necessary authorities.
++++++++++++++++
She is gone now, and I am old. But I do not forget the way she died, the way her master's face drained of blood with his rage, the way she followed, passively, until the very ground beneath our feet betrayed us, throwing us by tens from our feet. The road split into two, three parts, buildings crumbled on the heads of the soldiers. She fed the hungry earth with the blood of an entire unit who had gone mad with the fear of that wild desert which was unable to be shut out of the city completely. Perhaps the sands would have remained passive if I hadn't threatened their child. Perhaps I should have said nothing. Perhaps many things.
She died, eventually, or so it was said. Never to my blade, or the blades of the soldiers, or to the power of the Highlord which took the sight from her wild eyes, but to the city street, the earth which she begged to end her. There was nothing left afterward but a drift of sand, a chasm, and a ruin. No body. Perhaps she is beneath us still.
No, she wasn't weak. She did not take quite one hundred, though it was close. But she didn't kill me. To this day I wonder why. To this day I have slept with less ease in my bed, for deny as I might, I know the sand outside blows against the walls of Allanak. Patient, gradual, inexorable, ever hungry, the desert waits with the wind to take us back into itself. In the end it is the desert we return to. I have seen it done, I have heard it said. The desert comes for all of us. Even me.
- From the personal journals of Warlord D------ Tor
Ocandra, the 142nd day of the Descending Sun, Year 47 of the 21st AgeIt was moonrise when I first saw the girl. Jihae onthis desert is always red, and on a battlefield the color phases over from red
into the truly sanguine. As I pen this, I remember when the need for
numbers was the main strategy of the war leaders of the day, when...
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