31 October 2009

Blood Magic


In darkened haunted land, far from the good graces of Caledonia, riding slowly in the night, a vampire of great sorcery had come upon his favorite trap and resting place, a cemetery on the edge of a deep and thick forest within viewing distance of a greatly dense mist. Approving of the location, he began a great demon summoning ceremony and from his acts, he raised three satanic messengers, winged and black in all color, from clothes to features of frame. With an unspoken breath from the supernatural master, they began gliding among the burial ground, their bloody feet dragging the dew-soaked overgrowth, looking for open doors on monuments and chapels.

One of them finds one opened and eerily squawks like a dying vulture, and in a shadow of concealment, he carries himself to the sound and into the chamber. On the surface of a stone altar, he grabs and sacrifices one and let it lay intact, but opened and with flow of dark and substantial black blood. His premonition becomes alert and he walks out as he makes his shadow conceal his presence.

A werewolf enters and the wicked spell master grabbed the lupine man by the jowl and put his finger on its mouth, and made hushed the lower fiend. The beast understands and the vicious man leaves it to feast on the slain minion, raised from hell and sacrificed in its name.

It is here that our friend begins to walk past the graveyard deep in the field, the painted black servants begin to notice as well as does the conjurer, and the demons begin to taunt the paranoia of the walker in the night by scraping stone and vaulting small-dislodged stones into the meadow. As the passerby begins to call and question, requesting a showing of good faith by any other passer in the night, one of the black hearted ghosts topples a large stone grave post into his way just outside the fence.

The werewolf has long since become aware of the midnight walker, and without fear of an evil force that had not yet killed him along side two flying things, he jumped into the path of the midnight stranger.

The demons flew around him, high above the small cemetery, under the brightly shining moon, and used their heat vision to burn a circle, through the cast iron fence and across the stones, around him and his new foe.

His own mouth laced his fangs as he gave a menacing smile to the hound of hell, but for a brief moment he prayed to the moon, looking up for a brief moment and down again rubbing his hands together as if washing them in the moonlight. His hands turned outstretched from his coat to reveal his hands turning to malicious claws.

His enhanced senses could let him hear the slightest step and he could tell that the beast had an animal's frenzy. If in fact this monster were fast enough to surprise him or disconnect from his sight, even in the most drastic of moments, he would be able to reclaim his focus. However, the other evil creatures of the night had begun to gather at the edge of the forest and from their graves and question, making a subtle but distracting lull of whispers and confident conjecture. He worried and balanced his wagers with his own confidence.

Without a sound he drew a sword of eastern edges, he drew it to his own shoulder and sliced down the sleeve of his red velvet trench, as the jacket fell away he parsed the sword to the other hand and let his coat fall and finally grabbed the sword w/ both hands taking a battle stance. There had not been a sound except for when the coat hit the ground. The weapon, crafted with fine skill, had a golden handle with blood worked into the engraving and its owner was attempting to dazzle the eyes of the opponent with the moon in the metal's reflection.

With a slow and labored pace that sank into the ground and was as loud as trees falling, the monster began to run. each step as it began to gain momentum, shook the ground beneath our hero, it ran to the side of him though, grabbing a tombstone as it lunged past the ground the stone rested and with a twist lunged the small monument that the demons had rested to watch them battle. It missed our hero but flew into the dark wood, scaring off the animals of the forest, leaving mostly the shadow beasts and serpent men watching. He could now see that his enemy had wolf form, but stood, you could see it in its face, but the hindquarters looked like those of a stretched dog.

With countenance of aggression and determination, the dog of war lunges towards him, with claws fangs and tattered clothes. In a count of three strikes, the wolf man was defeated. First, a dodged arm lancing the beasts arm, bewildering it, to the left of the hero, a clockwise twist and reversal of grip to make a stabbing motion behind him, stabbing the werewolf in the stomach, and a counterclockwise twist and strike downward with a strong upper arm to sever the head, as if it were a rehearsed dance move. He looked to the winged beasts perched elsewhere than had previously, one of the sinister angels, losing blood from its feet, looks to him and points to the spectating few left in awe and makes it attack the others with some outward appearance of mind control.

But it all had been a glamour, he was lifted up by the neck, by a man in a long coat and tall collar, having fangs and darkened eyes, the kind that the sleepless living dead obtain, with sword in hand he struck the man in the face, but had no more luck than a stave to a statue would. He struck once more without avail, at the third strike the dark stranger snatched the sword from him and threw it into the black hearted angels now lurking, no longer perching on a stone monolith. The promptly dispelled weapon lodged into one of the demon knights, which killed or at least wounded one of them but only just as soon as the other immediately began to feast with the ravaging claws of a evil spirit tearing into the lying body looking for delectable organs, from the fallen one.

He tried with pyrokenisis but the flames only set the ground afire around the vile oppressor outward, passing past through or around the evil contractor. The scavenging demon cuts itself on the sword, lodged in its meal. The morose villain with his free hand reaches towards the bloody gnarled creature feasting on its cohort, and as it looks up it begins to screech and shrill into the night as the master of darkness purges its blood. The dark winged nightmarish creature had not died, but when the wrathful conjuring ended, it painted itself with the blood it had lost and the blood of the other. Groaning with pain the thing showed great signs of fear and intimidation.

With a confused and bewildered warrior vampire in his clenches, he recites an ancient and cryptic incantation. The blood running his face, covering his body, and dripping from his boots to the wet grass, turned to ashes and the dark stranger placed him unto the ground. He reached upward staring at him as he checked his throat and affects, and lightning struck his hand, the storms began to brew and thunderous clouds began to roll over the scene. As the light passed along the ground into the distance, many werewolves had begun to gather. They stay anchored in the shadows of the distance, and the warlock walks to the sword, with the shadows always surrounding him.

His towering presence begins to cause madness in the strange and lost dark demonic angel. He swiftly grabs the dark angel off guard, the same as he had the swordsman, and drank its blackened blood from its neck. It had been a pleasing snack, as it seemed the vampire lord was happily afflicted and though the wound of the flyer was fast healing, it had been an intoxicating bite. It began twitching, festering, finally clawing at itself, off, and hobbling at first but running off into the clouded distance through the gate of the death yard. Most flustered it began to beat its wings as it fled, flustering and flailing. As it crossed the field it leapt upward only to bleakly fall again, each time gaining more distance and height but before its pinnacled flight, one of the dogs who would be men, leapt into the air and seized it, pouncing it down as the others rushed in to quarrel for their share or rummage for scraps. Like bird on fire, it had failed to launch and was a meal to the creatures of the land.

Intimidation at this point could be a subtle substitute for the stranger in the night. Through all of this, he had time to ponder briefly the inhuman speed, unearthly reflexes, vertical ascension, and silent motion of the sanguinary now standing before him looking puzzled as a small boy at a city shop window.

The drinker of blood reached out to the hero and he felt paralyzed and stricken, in such condition moved by some unknown manner into a monolithic wall in the cemetery as the villain walked towards him, dragging the dead wolf man. he rips the arm from it and approaches than lets blood all over the victims face, but at the same time the head of the wolf aged into near dust before his eyes. The entire memory of the battle, from both sides, coursed through his thoughts like a river breaking across a road he had known well.

The beast laughs near silently and begins to paint symbols in blood, around his head, and speaking in an ancient tongue. In magic’s way he had cast demonic strength on the holy warrior of now scattered faith. Unexpectedly and unannounced, another of the werewolves leapt into the cemetery with an ominous and loud landing, and with only one magic dreaded word, the wolf's still beating heart was in the hand of the spell master. The wolf began to kick and stretch in a horrible way as if to have Hyde’s rage, but with no providence, the wolf collapsed from an already dying pose.

Ripping the heart in two, with his bare hands, which ended in talons, he spread the blood over the now newly cursed passerby, with the other half he began laughing once more, and running towards the woods edge, to a pale horse. He rides closer and bites into the heart; the horse under him was restless with incredible fear and began to show it more and more. He stops his walk just before the swordsman and says nothing but the shadow of him and the horse are terribly restless.

With another unholy dialogue, he points out into the countryside and laughs one final candor, throws the half-scourged lupine heart to his feet and rides swiftly away along the dense tree line, and into the woods at the wide trail in the distance.

07 October 2009


On his 99th year, he was at a lack of mercy and the losing end of a battle with a 10-year-old mage prodigy sent by the druids to save their people from banishment into the sea. In an action of desperation he had made a deal with the tall reaper, the one who always remained cloaked and carrying sickle, the harbinger of sorrow, to purchase the sand from the hour glass of an almost century old tyrant of the viking folk.

On Asgard, he had been the skilled presenter of parlor tricks and for his time and tiding, he had learned a few magics to lengthen his years and his hair, but father time had caught up with him. For his many malicious acts of haste and ill repute by gambling his life away in a constant act of desolation only a true warlord could afford, and for his poor judgment, Athena who has noticed the unbalance Odin has caused to her planet sends him to hell.

He is confused but is quick to notice the population of vile inhabitants. He begins to war, slashing, breaking, bewildering hell spawn of manic strength, causing terror with the strength of his will to those that would cloud his mind with mystic ability. bashing, cutting, and no amount of moonlight healing would save him as he slices and crushes one beast form after the next, each eager to feast on his lively hood as they crawl over head and underfoot of each other, some not so closely resembling men, to reach him and defeat the axe fighter.

He fights until he can see the edges of the hell fold in, one corpse at a time. He fights until the number diminishes in his favor, never flushing, never feigning. He notices the center of the herd of hellions holds a dark region; he drudges towards swinging and lancing one dark demon after another, until only the final guardians remain surrounding the black pillar of radiant smoke, rising from the mounting pile of lifeless bodies at the center of this war field of masterpiece death. They stand low in the shoulder and straddling the ground, if not crawling on three or four of their limbs. They seemed dried like leather in the summer sun, weak and powerless, and overly feeble in appearance. They prove to be formidable as their appearance reveals to be deceiving and their attacks combined and often embraced doubling and tripling the effects of their attacks. His armor begins to show heavy damage, his hide battle scorn but his skill is unparalleled on this day and he wins and fells the last of the beasts.

The darkness rises upward; it echoes a silence that consumes the sound of the air. He kneels in the blood and bone and semi-human bodies that blanket the coil. Pride and energy rush through his veins and he assesses the havoc he has caused. Fear rushes him as he looks to the sky which has been stricken black above a ground glowing almost white, dimly so through the endless chasm of blood. Without the breaking of the fire from the hell of life's foretelling tales of yore, toiling at him like ravens or crows attacking the sparrow hawk; he kneels in the wrath of his war of hell. He rests his axe down leaning the handle to his leg, prepared for a sudden attack. His thirst has overcome him and he drinks from the red passion blood and anger that painted the basin.

Awestruck he wanders through the fields of euthanasia, finding empathy for those we cannot find, mourning those we cannot sake. That which remains is only the ample supply for bonfires and a lack of camps that lined an endless field of bodies that seemed to float on a sea of blood. The man of wounds walks across them and through the red, deep red, deepest red to a dying fire. The dwindling fire that gives smoke is also, where a spy of the dark lord dances above the flame in the smoke though he cannot see or hear it, unaffected by the heated currents of air, singing a happy song and playing a harp, staring directly at him.

He looked to where the radiant tower of dark light had shown, it had neither a vacuous nature nor an absence of form, and had become an obsidian throne. He thought of a happier place with whimsical muses, as he surveyed the elegant seat perched on a hill of fallen soldier of the afterlife. Solemn to the tale, the hall of violent disaster began to rumble with a heartbeat. Staring at a passing heaven of blue sky and white water clouds that reflected on the sky of hell, hoping for the mind to return from blindness, confused and stiff he rises to his feet and walks uphill to the throne of benevolence only paces away.

Every fire smoldering and each conflict spent, the field is empty but with the meter of the heartbeat, it glows red and flashes with the sound, synchronized with each sound the heartbeat made. Through a field of ravaged chaos and appropriate anarchy, mending mental wounds and breaking bones of every sort underfoot. As the wounds ended their bleeding, only the pain can remind of existence. Righteously he takes ascension to the throne, its power of sage time and divinity turns the hell into a searing white brightness.

Valhalla now holds only heroes, not observers.

executive division

no results, and we continue a mounting patience patient offensive.

nationalist health-care of the so called right. we are the consumer, what we say goes. the easiest route to success would be to bend the rules to aid ourselves, but only certain changes will be made to the health-care industry guarantor processes and procedure. but it would put the patient in control, individual policies, an exchange, a welfare option to produce competitive pricing. i don't understand being fined for not buying into a coverage option, but maybe the big pharmaceutical industry has promised to only bribe, i mean lobby, if such a clause is included. if so i think a sanity clause should be included for those driven to madness by health-care assurances to be given free drugs anytime someone mentions the word politics.

socialist healthcare of the so called left. i understand, big brother can shoulder in the protection, threaten a provider of coverage or care, if certain expectations are met, but if this is true, any retaliation would be met, face to face, by the patients, not the politicians. the recipients would be fodder for a political war.

its much easier to protect the consumer, not so much on the side of ethics, but consumer electronics don't rip off the political ecologists. i mean to say, instead of waiting in line, American consumers get immediate treatment, one logical step is to make it affordable. socialize, nationalize, or idealize, health-care is a goal for everyone who doesn't jump out of airplanes.

socialist health-care would mean, raising the rates, the taxes, to cover the means, even if the cost of living wages standard has not increased. nationalist care provides coverage none can meet in a financial melting pot, and this situation has driven the consumer into a corner. socialist medicine has lines, and shortages, and because the tab comes before the revenue in socialist countries, the simpler and less apparent problems go overlooked and unnoticed, until the next fiscal cycle, or that is until the next round comes up and the bill has gone down. socialist medicine holds people back from the starting line of health-care. how strong must you be before your illness, as a stock market mentality of what heaven's humanity should be, keeps pushing back the aid or the arrival of state of the art options due to cost.

the executive division is what it's called when a people cant decide on this simple outcome. we wait. big brother still tells us we owe him money for having our children, and we wait. politicians become known for being great obstacles of social justice, and we wait. off a cliff or out a window, aristocratic bureaucrats should be dealt with accordingly. nationalist care and you provide affordable care, socialist and you afford providable care, or denizen and you dream of medicines already invented being brought to your home in the impoverished world. every moment of abstinence is time lost stabilizing economic value and emotional fortitude.

whichever side of the aisle you reside, i want you to know that not choosing one or the other is torture, through and through. the ability to produce coverage is there and we wait.