I will tell you of the birth of my son.
In my youth, I was impetuous, wild, full of rage and passion and hate - much like other women of my tribe at that age. But our people did not show it often. Something about our homeland, our dark, sullen, cold realm of mists and shadows, prevents us from it. Our moods are black and melancholic, given to monstrous dreams. Darkness and the night pervaded even our waking thoughts... but not in battle. In those mad exhultations, when our blades flame crimson and agony shoots through our sinews, our spirit finds release. No longer are we moody and dour, but burning with red fury and joy - not at the killing and feasting of swords, but at being alive. It is only when one is at the closest to having their life taken that one truly experiences what life is - distilled, tangible, seething, screaming life. And when that experience comes, we have the strength and will to fight tooth and nail so that we remain alive - such is the one gift breathed into our souls by our grim chief god.
Showing posts with label Original Fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Original Fiction. Show all posts
Tuesday 25 December 2012
Sunday 22 January 2012
The Lion Passes
The wails and cries of the kingdom in mourning shook the towers and spires to their foundations. Men-at-arms, knights and barons wrought their hands and screamed to the heavens in anguish; women of the seraglio and serf alike wept into each other's shoulders as they clenched tightly; children and infants mewled with their families, the entire land united in sorrow. The king and his family had returned to the palace, the hearts of the nation shattered as one.
The king was a popular monarch, one loved by peasant and noble alike for his generosity, his courage, and his dedication. His taxes were the lightest in all the world, his patronage of the arts and trades made the kingdom rich and cultured to a degree hitherto unseen. Yet when war came to the doorstep, the King of Poets and Song would transform into a Devil of War and Death, as his blade sang a grisly dirge through the bodies and souls of those who would dare threaten his people. This was an age of empires, and the king was ever ready to ensure that his land would be vassal to none.
The story of how the king came to rule has been told and retold so often, many a child of the kingdom could recite it by heart. Reams of parchment charting the king's early years as a thief, adventurer, mercenary, pirate, bandit and general comprise an entire wing of the Royal Library; minstrels sing sagas of his wars and quests on street corners, some composed by the king himself; frescos and reliefs of his adventures in far-off climes and long-lost ruins adorn city walls, his greatest accomplishments of strength and heroism rendered in marble and bronze statues, re-enactments of his legend performed in street theatre. More than any king the land had ever seen, the present king, called the Lion by many, was a living legend.
In his palace in the capital, the Lion lay dying.
The king was a popular monarch, one loved by peasant and noble alike for his generosity, his courage, and his dedication. His taxes were the lightest in all the world, his patronage of the arts and trades made the kingdom rich and cultured to a degree hitherto unseen. Yet when war came to the doorstep, the King of Poets and Song would transform into a Devil of War and Death, as his blade sang a grisly dirge through the bodies and souls of those who would dare threaten his people. This was an age of empires, and the king was ever ready to ensure that his land would be vassal to none.
The story of how the king came to rule has been told and retold so often, many a child of the kingdom could recite it by heart. Reams of parchment charting the king's early years as a thief, adventurer, mercenary, pirate, bandit and general comprise an entire wing of the Royal Library; minstrels sing sagas of his wars and quests on street corners, some composed by the king himself; frescos and reliefs of his adventures in far-off climes and long-lost ruins adorn city walls, his greatest accomplishments of strength and heroism rendered in marble and bronze statues, re-enactments of his legend performed in street theatre. More than any king the land had ever seen, the present king, called the Lion by many, was a living legend.
In his palace in the capital, the Lion lay dying.
Saturday 25 December 2010
Metal Barbarian Dinosaur Comics: The Expedition
We should've left long ago. Before Sir John died. Thinking back to that day...
History would record our journey as an attempt to find the Northwest Passage. Better that history believes that, than the truth of what we were really searching for in the Great Bleak North. The Navy were ordered not to search for us, even if we were years overdue. No doubt Mrs Franklin would endeavour to search for us, but the Admiralty would see that her efforts would be in vain. Not that it would matter, we thought: we'd be home to much fanfare in record time. We fancied ourselves well prepared, even over-cautious, for the mission. After all, we proud men of the Queen's Navy were masters of the mightiest empire on earth, the mightiest in the history of makind. The British Empire, the crowning achievement of humanity.
But only humanity.
After a year or so on the ice, Captain Crozier organized the two ships' crew, and we left. Terror and Erebus were trapped, broken and chewed by the icy jaws of the very land around us. The strongest vessels the Empire could create, twisted and crushed like Autumn leaves. Half the men were dead already. There was no other choice. It was no longer safe: we had to leave. Escape.
History would record our journey as an attempt to find the Northwest Passage. Better that history believes that, than the truth of what we were really searching for in the Great Bleak North. The Navy were ordered not to search for us, even if we were years overdue. No doubt Mrs Franklin would endeavour to search for us, but the Admiralty would see that her efforts would be in vain. Not that it would matter, we thought: we'd be home to much fanfare in record time. We fancied ourselves well prepared, even over-cautious, for the mission. After all, we proud men of the Queen's Navy were masters of the mightiest empire on earth, the mightiest in the history of makind. The British Empire, the crowning achievement of humanity.
But only humanity.
After a year or so on the ice, Captain Crozier organized the two ships' crew, and we left. Terror and Erebus were trapped, broken and chewed by the icy jaws of the very land around us. The strongest vessels the Empire could create, twisted and crushed like Autumn leaves. Half the men were dead already. There was no other choice. It was no longer safe: we had to leave. Escape.
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