30 July 2013

Merlin 3:21 “...And You Will Know Us by the Trail of Dead”

Merlin 3:21 “...And You Will Know Us by the Trail of Dead”
by, mjbanks

In the aftermath of violence and bloodshed, Merlin suffers exhaustion and cannot hover and drift, thus cannot chase by such ability in matters of vengeance and magic to rescue Nickolas, given the chance to ponder the necessity of such action complete with recollection of the value to saving the life of an already immortal. The vampires come and gone with haste have abandoned many newborn bringers of death hiding within the town, they were burned from existence in the daylight or cower in the recesses of the conflicted mortars and alleys, their solitude of death and unholy birth find arrears not. The warring parties put aside their animosity and scour the shadows to bring each denizen into the light. On horseback, Sino alongside his minions leave the town, its burgeoning vengeance, and conspicuousness in obsequence among those leaving in fear.

In this purge, the chieftain finds his principal son Merk badly wounded with his forbidden bride Idyth aside him weeping. He blames his political foes and begins to call for more bloodshed, Merlin calls for more order and a strong man to volunteer and share strength thru a magical spell of healing with the boy. The chief refuses and continues an emotional tirade against his enemies, now including witches until Merlin convinces him, the city-king volunteers his own strength as Merlin calls for a glass of mead. Receiving it, he puts a coin into the liquid and has the boy and girl drink the vintage. Ana watches whilst orchestrating the rummaging of the destroyed wagon with Agnar, awhile Braden and Katyenka pilfer the nearby dead, among tribal priests. The elves have masked their mouths and noses with bandanas, for they utmost detest the smell of death at its inception. The boy heals to joyous cheers, but the chief yet still orders Merlin’s arrest, Ana despises such bigoted ungratefulness and approaches the chieftain, asking him to reconsider and rebuffed she touches him on the temple making him fall asleep from foothold in bloody mud.

Ana: “I saw no manna pass from that man for this boy’s life.”
Merlin: “Best they think this is white magic than a dark art summoning typified thru wives-tales.”
Merk: “Whatever you’ve done, thank you.”
Merlin: “Now rest and soon abscond with each other, if you are robbed give them the coin, whoever touches it, besides you both, will sleep for a week.”
Idyth: “His place may be here.”
Merlin: “It will only work until a night without a moon, take care of him.”
Nissan: “We go to tell Warren the news, thank you, wizard.”
Gullveig: “We ask to take the half boy with us.”
Merlin: “This one is barely able to walk, I’ve stopped the wound and he must now heal.”
Gullveig: “Not him, we choose that one, the half-elf.”
Merlin: “Feel free; he’s not one of mine.”

Gullveig, having pointed to Varin, approaches him, a heavy booted weathered march while redressing his mask. Stepping over bodies, Merlin and Ana approach Braden and the others.

Merlin: “We go to follow our captured friend. Will your band travel with us?”
Braden: “Sorry, but I don’t think your friend survived his capture, nor his captors.”
Merlin: “That won’t kill him.”
Katyenka: “Perhaps not, yet is road splitting like rivers, finding him can die trying.”
Braden: “We shall follow our friend and his new cousins, should we find your man, to him is ours alliance.”
Ana: “Do you even remember his face?”
Agnar: “He is hard to forget.”
Braden: “A little man who likes mean women is very hard to forget.”
Ana: “Cut you, Braden.”

Katyenka punches Braden in his already bruised ribs, and they leave as discussed. The others unseen, Merlin and Ana ride horses thru the countryside, for four weeks. To know what Merlin will see it suits to tell of foe still free Ostara the harvester of sorrow, and the poison bearing eyes of the agent provocateurs Belladonna and Jimson. §

There is a town northeast of Merlin in ruins named Per, once great tho like many empires turned debris it has many stray cats among the shattered stones, abandoned for an age it hosts of late a residually enduring people spawned of its tumultuous past and demise. It entertains a seedy lot of penury and debauchery and is home to a band of mercenaries whom call themselves Autumnus Aeternum. The siblings Nightshade track Ostara to the city of Per and track her movements, her minions of interim resurrection have a penchant for exploiting their magical rejections of death by the taste for blood, they wager and win fights to the death of any takers and drink from wounds to promote egregious animosity, and beckon to Ostara’s whims like pets. Belladonna’s surveillance of them continues her intrigue, the fighter she is watching spits foes blood, spraying it in the air to rile heathenry in brute showmanship, the red mist clouds her judgment and intents are nearing revealed at her discovery and capture by the minions, whom carry her directly to Ostara, knowing they take her to their deathly matriarch.

Ostara: “Who dies before me?”
Belladonna: “It is not I.”

The two minions holding Belladonna begin to absorb her poison into their skin where their hands grasp inelegantly, darkening their flesh directly to their veins, eyes rolling into their heads searching to see their final thoughts as they suffocate and fall making forceful violent efforts to get free of restraint and constriction. Ostara stands from her pseudo throne, pressing back the excess fabric of her weighty flowing robe invitingly and pleased to challenge.

Ostara: “Save your poison, I shall even kill death.”

Belladonna kneels as other minions hold the points of blades and spears to her from a distance frightfully. Jimson chooses to enter at his own risk to spare his sister hers, first to trespass the minions on guard.

Belladonna: “I have no quarrel.”
Ostara: “I know you’ve been spying, and accompanied, state your import.”
Belladonna: “In caution I watched, to see the glorious station, your grace.”
Ostara: “Do tell why you have come for me, child.”
Belladonna: “I have heard of your dealings, that you seek to war with Muspelheim, I share that vision.”
Ostara: “Muspelheim…you will have to tell me where you heard such a yarn; the other one, your lover, where is he?”
Belladonna: “Yes, he will come for me.”

With aforethought, deceit could tell in her wandering eyes a faking friendship, Jimson is working his way thru one minion and then the next, cubit blades of poison and shining steel cut thru flesh that does not truly bleed, and the noise of his valiant approach robust.

Ostara: “Does he share your ability?”
Belladonna: “He is much the same, your highness.”
Ostara: “Well bloody well stop him ere he kills my servants.”

The guards let her pass to the doorway, stopping her there, where she holds the frame and tilts her head to bid him calm satisfactory inbound, tho he feels and expresses confusion in approach, once in the room the guards keep constant watch on them.

Ostara: “He is handsome, it can be said. Show me boy how you can poison your way thru a fight. Retpahc, fight him.”

A shirtless fighter wipes his mouth with a rag and stands to battle, Jimson spins a silver blade in his palm and soonisc by agility of defense puts it into Retpahc’s chest, the poison flows from heart to eyes and thru the body on the floor. The minions rush to fight him, but stop immediately as Ostara raises her hand silently.

Ostara: “Coup de grace, très bien; why should I let you two live, your poison does not swiftly kill men with spears, and I have plenty of them, who now need justice?”

Belladonna tips her head back and begins to breathe the air. Her exhaling invisibly poisons causing guards to cough.

Ostara: “Enough, fie, haze be damned lest I stop you myself! Let them be less than pleasurable, they are still a difficult acquisition costly at my expense.”
Jimson: “So are we folded, or should I throw a knife to prove how far I sting.”
Ostara: “Does your blade poison far from your hand?”
Jimson: “It does.”
Ostara: “Then throw it at me and try to pierce my heart.”

Jimson looks to Belladonna, hoping for approval, which he reticently gets.

Jimson: “I could not; you must lead the siege of Muspelheim.”
Ostara: “Nonsense, boy, I could hardly do such and not stop a blade.”

With his emotional break from reluctance, in determination he spins the knife at her. She raises her hand and from it a dark blue light glows, the heavy metal disappears into the energy and Ostara holds out her plain hand tensely grasping the magic within the air, Belladonna and Jimson begin to feel immense aguish in their stomachs, pain in their hearts, and sand in their throats; they begin to cripple.

Ostara: “You will both kneel like the creatures you are! There are better ways to die and you will not have them from me!”

Ostara relinquishes her control over the siblings Nightshade, they kneel and hold the dirty stone floor with their hands, gasping for breath and praying for water.

Ostara: “…because that peaceful life you have left must now be forgotten …work for me and that will be a taste of a death from your new foes …I have a chore …it needs doing, tonight, get him beside her. The two of you are going to help me, or you will not see the sunrise. You will come with me to where the raiders drink tonight before they leave tomorrow, in a crowd you will kill when I command you to kill. Get them on their feet!”

Ostara turns from them and the minions drag Jimson beside Belladonna, who punches him in his face before putting her hands on the ground again breathless as if had run. Afterwards they follow the sorceress to a festival where the Autumnus Aeternum, a boisterous band of men that spill drinks and tip wenches in the late hours of this night, with them their leader on a wooden throne with a short backing, a large chair in any other aspect holding the leader, a very large and muscular warrior. He laughs and jests and joys at rest, if his shoulders were but a bit taller he could pass as a Jotunn, this in celebration and amusement his eyes turn to interest on Ostara strutting attractively in immodest apparel.

Morris: “Well, milady, what a nymph of pleasure you heal my saddened eyes of war.”
Ostara: “A most highly downright evening, for a greatly auspicious king, I shall give you a secret this eve of war.”
Morris: “I will be your king tonight. Come sit with me.”
Ostara: “With pleasure, but tell me king. Would you bed me like your other wives?”
Morris: “My dear, I have never bed a woman, but I will let you teach me how to please you.”
Ostara: “I think if given the chance, you would please me very likely.”
Morris: (subtle) “Wench, with one secret aired, tell me another as you spoke of eves of war, lest I pierce against your will and toss you to the horniest of my devils.”
Ostara: “A man after my own heart,” [kisses him, impassioned] “there are magical powers that I might bestow to your already amazing strength.”
Morris: “You are a witch?”
Ostara: “Verily, I could ensure that you would only die in my hands, for I have a great power to please myself.”
Morris: “An offer too good to be true usually is, my pride resists a gift of rumor, and more than a hundred men in this hall are born to kill liars. Display your powers forthwith - on that man there, he owes me gold.”

Ostara waves her hand and flicks her wrist and fingers drawn begin to twist, pointing to the future victim, Belladonna moves to murder, put to task a life less further, longing mystery, bated breath, the harrowed soul is put to death. Her fingers gracefully brush his throat and then a poison of his flesh begins to corrode quickly his blood, blackness coursing and bursting thru the veins of his eyes, of terror he screams while he dies his killer halfway across the room.

Morris: “That was impressive, but I cannot have such assassins amidst, and I asked you to show me powers of thine.”
Ostara: “In this heart I have only the power to transform. I wish to make you a sorcerer like she, a venomous warlock with immeasurable serpentine strength.”
Morris: “The better gifts are never gratuity.”
Ostara: “There are enemies of our ways, the avid aristocracy with diatribe to keep us from our freedoms; I seek refuge because we share your cause.”
Morris: “You tempt me with derivation, however the axe may fall around my head, might is right.”
Ostara: “With my gift no foe will ever lift a blade to your throat, come with me and see tomorrow differently.”

After a second kiss and a whispered secret, Morris rises to his feet holding her hand to lead the way. Ostara pulls him toward Belladonna and Jimson, who curtsy and bow respectively.

Jimson: “Greetings, king.”
Belladonna: “Hail to thee.”
Ostara: “Meet us at the southern edge of the city.”
Belladonna: “We realign by your leave, our lieges.”

The kinfolk Nightshade bow their heads and depart thru the commotion now brewing from the discovery of the poisoned and dead victim, outdoors the burdened clouds gather, blocking the moon, between the city center and its boundary the moon weeps onto and thru the clouds, they pause to face the sky and sate themselves and wash their sins.

Jimson: “If I did not know better, I would say that you enjoyed adulterating that innocent man.”
Belladonna: “You knew the task when you signed to the deed, besides he was a drunkard and a letch by the likes of this loo.”
Jimson: “I trussed myself on this to protect you, I am not the bastard father slandered.”
Belladonna: “Staying, leaving, I see your point, fie to the hellions!”
Jimson: “I abandoned him and our clan, but not the whole tribe.”
Belladonna: “No, not that, the arbiter witch thinks we’re lovers.”
Jimson: “Well don’t be offended, you don’t want to kiss your brother? Come here, kiss your brother, you can put a big wet one on me.”
Belladonna: “Stop it Jimi, fie the graces off me.”

After a sensual escapade between the witch and the warlord, a wagon approaches and the Nightshades simplify their differences coming awkwardly to attention, in the steady rain a coach to travel and shelter them from rain, less than closed, but more than uncovered.

Morris: “Is there trouble in paradise?”
Belladonna: “A mere twist of fate, the wiles of these climes his – idle – desires.”
Jimson: “Nothing we can’t handle.”

Jimson slaps Belladonna on her rump and walks to the wagon, a foot on the rung he offers his hand to aid her boarding. It rains as they proceed, Ostara’s prey in place, her predation marked with a question before she pounces.

Ostara: “Tell us, Morris, where will your army raid? Perhaps we should follow them and you can swift to their rescue with your new powers.”
Morris: “A day to the south the river port of Bælrægræd, they will board vessel to sack Simnron.”
Ostara: “The true ambition of a king, an idea without danger is barely a thought. You two, without knives, bring him to death for me.”

They reach for him giving not enough time to rise from seat as they grasp him and take twice half enough toxin the whole of death.

Ostara: “Boy, turn the horses to Bælrægræd, we need to be ahead of his soldiers by dawn. ‘Boy,’ listen to me, what is your name?”
Jimson: “I am the Nightshade Jimson.”
Ostara: “Argh, a terrible name, you will think of a battle name to protect your family, that is a proper honor.”

After an evening of awkward insinuations, at dawn Ostara, Belladonna, and Jimson are waiting on the road for the soldiers, with Morris covered and still dead in the back of the wagon. The soldiers of Autumnus Aeternum walk at decent pace in groups severally of one or two or three, the count of men approximately ninety-nine, carrying their weapons up a faintly inclined road and nearby sparse forest.

Ostara: “Jimson, drive slowly before they notice we are stopped, Bella, as we pass, I want you to empoison them so that they are dead whence we have passed.”

The wagon moves and Belladonna dreads the task, for she may be unable to cull so many and in attempt failed a lack of strength unwelcomed to survivors already set to kill, deep in emotion she fears for the state of her soul upon an act that kills and thieves life. She nestles to the wagon edge and dreams, when her eyes focus she in grace does blow a kiss to the first in line, the light fading from her eyes, the spite from the lies she tells them with whispers to bless them, as the deity Norns invisible cut them from the lines of their elders. Halfway in passing the first man begins a cough and soon more of others, and soon in the balance of death Belladonna’s eyes begin to, slowly, glow with powers of bright-darkness, fallow ashen eyes of sorrow and war. The last men of five, still alive through the raging glow, are wise to their impending demise and attack, stopped by Jimson who throws a knife into the fleeing head of the fifth, Ostara clapping her hands in surprise, as poisoned groan until death. Belladonna in a fervor plateauing in conquest and bliss, finally coming to a peace with madness subdued.

Ostara grabs her dress and pulls it aside quickly to bare her feet and jumps into the lane, she hastily moves to the wagon rear and tosses aside the tarp covering Morris, after staring at him for a stint of time she kisses him, quite passionately in a manner nearing inappropriate, only to stop and slap him as if objection.

Ostara: “Put him on the ground! In the middle of their line, then move the wagon, make quick of it!”

After Jimson drags the body from the wagon, fumbling it to the ground amid the trail of the murdered and wagon moved, Ostara begins her summoning strength in Morris by means of transferring life from the newly fallen.

Her body levitates and eyes glow, the powers and manna course around her body with the air in its flow, the sound of magic echoes across the plane. Merlin and Ana hear it in a distant tavern while waiting there for rain to break, Braden and his fellows hear it distantly weak at the edge of the valley echoing thru and along the mountains that border the Woods of Warren, as the Nightshades feel its initial blast directly. Watching her adrift and aglow, she carries the expression of consuming thoughts that serenade and adorn, her fulsome spell cut short with a face of concern, to her feet she rests.

She walks to Morris and watches him groggily wake then goes to one of the dead men, to kick the corpse and wonder what emptiness could not be fuller for the transfer of life, with streaks of white in her hair once fill of darker tresses.

Ostara: “We must hasten our makings, let’s get him on the wagon, and explain him this more later hence.”

Jimson begins to struggle lifting and the witches help him lift the lummox onto on the wagon, they depart in precipitance, moving to outpace any pursuits from behind them and negate any inquisition forthwith afore. Thru a day they ride steadily quick until the horses resist, thru the night giving discontiguous explanations as many more questions arise, but behind in the dawn where the road is rife with the slain the inquisitive eyes of an elderly woman, curious like a whiting raven, approaches the many dead soldiers in the road all in row.

28 July 2013

4 in 5 in US face near-poverty, no work

WASHINGTON (AP) — Four out of 5 U.S. adults struggle with joblessness, near-poverty, or reliance on welfare for at least parts of their lives, a sign of deteriorating economic security and an elusive American dream.


"All the perplexities, confusions, and distresses in America arise, not from defects in their constitution or confederation, not from a want of honor or virtue, so much as from downright ignorance of the nature of coin, credit, and circulation." 
~ John Adams, Letter to Thomas Jefferson (23 August 1787)
~~ The Works of John Adams

5 years of 44's idiocy, where he thinks raising taxes and cutting taxes are the same thing; corporate taxes rise, costs of commodities (stuff) matches suit (increase), annual low but amalgamated monetary inflation kills the currency, no free enterprise, this will get revolutionary in the bloody sense of the word, don't say I did not warn you, now or ever. 

Do you need an analogy? 

In the frontier west of the American expansion with population and industrialization ever increasing, the accelerated use of postal services arose. Large companies like "Federal Express" and "Wells Fargo" among others and including small delivery services between neighboring towns. Where there is opportunity, there will be criminals eventually, and there were, the stage coach as we've come to know it was originally the title of ye olde mailtruck. It would carry people or parcel for a price and these were on occasion robbed by thieves who ranged from interests in simply reading strange mail for researching larger crimes and targets, to general pillaging and plundering anything, even selling the luggage, this eventually escalated to train robberies to take the gold used to pay railroad builders/workers safe's full of money to pay large payrolls in the rapidly expanding western territories. You've seen the movies where the men on horses rob a train, it was for more than a few wedding rings. 

Not to justify them, but it is, in a way, human nature. You walk by a tree bearing fruit and you eat a few, some people are farmers, society unfurls, etc. To the criminals, they were merely taking advantage of opportunity, the spoils of their plunders were 'ripe for the taking'. Believe it or not, you've just read my analogy for a government run by idiots and bad genetics. The thieves robbed the mailman and sell what they steal, communist countries take what you earn and sell it to who they stole it from, it's called a proverbial 10lbs of shit in a 5lb bag, but they stole the bag, there's no fertilizer, and they're taxing you again. The common fascist government takes what is not its, but it's not for anything productive, only for fair-weather pride, a totalitarian regime that doesn't realize there is no consumer to float the cost for the consumer and are already painted in the corner by taxation. These horrible governments of protected caste systems (whom ironically preach toward the end of classes) see the people as the tree and don't realize they've stripped it to death -- and don't realize they're pissing on it. When given the choice of enemies being dumb or mean, never discount the possibility that it's both. I know you liberals don't believe me, yet the truth is, over time you've gone from only knowing economics, to knowing anything but. 44 wouldn't know a good idea if it didn't bite him. 

"Liberalism is the transformation of mankind into cattle." 
~ Nietzsche, 
~~ Twilight of the Idols, or, How to Philosophize with a Hammer

27 July 2013

The Talk of Shame

"I don’t think Jesus is into prostitutes." lmao. I don’t think you’ve read the bible.


"The Only True Knowledge, Consists In Knowing, That We Know Nothing." -- Socrates

That is excerpted from the shame link. You'll notice in the pic the "more" link, which allows the embedding of the tweet, as oppose to the slightly-analog screen capture. That should be an uppercase L, comma before I.

Thanks? I implied if one has uncertainty of abortion at 20 weeks, perhaps there's more to consider. Defeatist, what I think doesn't matter. I learned long ago that hyperbole argument is won with semantics. if you change the subject for the sake of conflict, I repeat what you said in synonymous terms and you disagree via spite, it's a gift called reverse psychology methinks. For me it's not exactly my favorite ratiocinate Socratic logic, but it'll do in a pinch. This my opine, is not a debate, but 'set in stone' as reality requires facts to be, I'll do it anyway - like I said, it's a gift.

It initially expounds with perhaps my favorite RW3NJ quote (I have three nuts):

"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men (humans) are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness."

This would beg for the rights of the mother to dis-endow the child to its coming life. I like 'Heavy Metal' as much as the next dude, but not that much, and from a philanthropic aspect, abortion has become the proverbial cash cow. No one is or was preventing abortion, and on the record, Europe has 12-week limits, and in the other extreme China forces abortions. I should take the time to thank the bloggers for mentioning me, even in such a critical manner. Let's kill some babies...exclamation mark...some might say. A list of affirmations I should here make: I never meant to imply the little tart was/is a whore, I feel people who use "lol" are budding sociopaths as no one socially does that with any normalcy (maybe hyenas), and as for not reading the bible; Mary Magdalene is one of us. Accusing me of blasphemy/heresy is the impetus for this litany.

Jesus didn't put the hypothetical baby into your womb, and this isn't about the mighty Thor (Jesus's alter-ego). I had implicated the young-woman as unwitting to "making the sex" perhaps if 20 weeks isn't long enough to choose abortion, that we might have occasion to blame, let's say, public schools for not teaching her about the CAUSE and EFFECT of conception. Forgive me for overstepping my boundaries. I think Esther was a prostitute while we're on the topic. Paying for sex seems both cold while robotic, and over-resented in our modern age, but I'm a dude, so, ya know. The extremes of debate will always prove their name, but the majority of people just want to save the child. I apologize for everyone that offended your tinsel sensibilities. In the spirit of digressing (changing the subject slightly), if the bible bothers you, you're worse left than the zealots of the right who think "Harry Potter is the devil", ...or some this. It's a book, to oppose it is either an opposition to fiction, or a desperate cry for attention, let it fucking go already. Before this debate they screamed lies about forced vaginal sonograms, as if those are the only sonograms on the planet, I had said about that something to the effect 'if it seems uncomfortable, how'd the baby get there' most certainly not as couth, that was wrong of me, but so are the frantic emphatic torches and pitchforks (or used tampons and mason jars of shit) lies of an abortion industry, anticorporate leftist protestors ignoring how corporate abortion is. 

I don't think Jesus slept with, or in a manner of speaking paid, prostitutes, he was quite the libertarian and capitalist, I somewhat remember a story in The Book of Matthew (great name) telling of Jesus speaking to people around a fire, and men would visit with a prostitute, and the Son of Man spake of the importance of free will, the importance that she and her secular patron be allowed to choose to solicit and purchase sex, but that they would turn from such deeds if it was harmful, and then he did his Christ thing. He seemed like a very zen, forethought kind of character.

"If you meet the Buddha... kill him. (逢佛殺佛,逢祖殺祖)" ~ Linji

There were in those ancient times ways to prevent conception, I believe Pull-Out is the scientific term, and there are many abortifacients that can be used, herbal solutions, natural 'remedies' to the pregnancy condition, known for many centuries if not millennia, which in the distant past the 'working girls' of the oldest profession (yay capitalism!) could not afford to wait 20 weeks to stock the shelves, hit the streets, clean the sheets, or my favorite, pussy patrol, they didn't throw themselves down a flight of Godless stairs at 40 weeks. If you still think I'm objectifying you, at least I'm done subjectifying you.


19 July 2013

Camp Belladonna

§: In vicinity of "3:9 Swords of Samsara” Nickolas undergoes an importune experience with a camp of soldiers of evil ways and harrowed ties, therein these are the first tents he sees. Click image to enlarge.

§: In "3:10 Au Contraire" the agent Belladonna Nightshade gave to another character an enchanted stone, her next appearance paused until within 3:21. Click image to enlarge.

15 July 2013

Merlin 3:20 “Lifeblood"

Merlin 3:20 "Lifeblood"

In the forest on a quiet road three shiny black coaches sleep during the moments before dusk, three men approach the windowless caravan eating meat from bone and jovial until spotting the wagons in distance, thereby they stop and finish eating. One of them eats slower as they decide to approach. Tossing the meat on ground the man hammers the door with the bottom of his fist.

Revird: “Lord Matteus, the dusk approaches!”

The bar latch slides and the door opens slightly on the formidable coach, the other vampires hiss like housecats at the light, they and Matteus reveal little to nothing beneath the long sleeves and a hood that drapes over and across their faces, from the nearby town the smell of blood palpable to them thru the air. The scent hungers them, adding an aguish to their bloodlust thruout the latter of day.

Matteus: “Our prey is there by surety?”
Revird: “Without fail, my liege, agents have led him to our own eyes.”
Matteus: “Take us into town at dusk.”

The door slams shut on meditating occupants, to a forest where the owls are waking and the wolves have all gone home. In the town, in the tavern, in this moment, Nick stands trying to invoke fear and inferred provocation to Agnar, the Jotunn man sitting is almost as tall as Nick stands. He takes a knife and points to the door, swirls blade around his hand, and hammers the knife into the table. Ana’s laughing at Nick’s importunity becomes a lust for him from his challenge to the giant.

Agnar stands with the bench scraping and floor creaking as might his bones beneath pure muscular figure. Nick dusts his lapels and Agnar swings, misses, and with the other arm hits Nick in the ribs, the punch so heavy that the blow slides him a couple feet but topples him not. Nick punches in the tender spots of tension, the jaw, dodging swing and striking the outside of the large elbow hyperextending the joint, the throat, a kick to a knee, punching cheek bone, and eye the opposite side, and same knee to make it fold and drop to kneeling, dismantling the giant’s stature in merely moments. Agnar grabs the table as he collapses with one hand and with the other catches a punch from Nick intended for his face, discomforted, disillusioned, and deeply focusing to breathe.

Agnar: “Enough…to continue will have one of us fell or flat. Stand down.”

Nick withdraws his attack, tentatively and cautiously, to the uproarious pleasure of everyone in the tavern, pleasured by the experience of a good fight.

Nick: “Hello, darling, miss me?”
Ana: “If you carry me, I know just the spot.”
Nick: “Excuse me, gentlemen.”

From a lesser roar and laughter, Nick swipes Ana from her feet, into his arms and thru the room into another.

Kat: “Agnar, you are tree and storm.”
Agnar: “I know whoever won the bets, buys the next round.”
Merlin: “There wasn’t, and I mean you well, no time for wager.”
Digr: “What in bloody fie happened to you, Agnar? I thought you could fight a tree?”
Agnar: “He hit a nerve in my arm, after that I could only think in delay of each strike. I was going to grab the table, or throw Jonak,” feeling his own arm.
Jonak: “I can be pleasing in other ways.”
Digr: “Hey look…elves.”
Kat: “Oh no, you fool!”
Brad: “Oh, fie, Digr, here we go.”
Digr: “What graces fie?”

As Nick and Ana spend time against each other in the pantry, Agnar drops all expression and tallies steps forth with summary resentment. They gather their senses as best they can, watching him thru the bay window. Merlin, closer to sobriety, stands in the window to view, Jonak in the background calm as he, watching the wizard and the giant thru the sound of the others arguing whom shall fetch Agnar should trouble arise, and questioning where their missing fellow resides.

Three elves on horseback, having followed the rumor of three black wagons across counties, one becoming alerted to the dark travelers at the town, the two others as the wagons stop only a stone’s throw from the tavern. The elven riders encircle the avenue of the oblique caravan, waiting for war or welcome from without. The Jotunn Agnar decides to pick a fight.

Merlin: “O, fie, here we go.”

Agnar: “I do not welcome the hypocrisy of elves!”
Nisan: “A shame it is the only kind we know.”

Agnar grabs the rider and pulls him to the ground while punching him across the face, the tall elf falls and rolls over backwards, tossing his cape aside he watches Agnar approach another, the elf holds his hand to stop his allies from releasing an arrow and shouts.

Nisan: “No, your death is with me!”

The wagons have already stopped, waiting as Agnar and the elf begin to fight, as Nisan begins to meet his limits the other two dismount and join the fight, the horizon and sun fold into one and the cool air begins to arise from the forest night as the vampires begin exiting their carriages. It is not long before the wiles of bloodlust and predation begin carnivorously drinking to kill an elf. The three to one match of elves and giant, having the attention of many onlookers from inside buildings, becomes a fight of good and evil, Merlin and the other mages rush to fight the fanged foes.

Matteus leads four vampires thru the narrowest street in the town, any bystander becomes victim by one unto the next, turned against wall and soon to fall, and in the darkness, a vicious and scarred hand illumines a crystal ball with fire and magic. There are townsfolk that fight with passion, whom Merlin interjects as to defend. Agnar has a hammer, which holsters against his back and his belt, to smite the bites of creatures, in sooth so close to joy in war his formidable skill inspires three of the vampires to regroup to attack specifically him. Digr is good with a bronze sword, it is light in his hands and his earth magic allows him to wield it without ever dropping it, satisfying to him particularly because he cannot use the magic of Midgard spirits to pull their armor and arteries to his sword or push these foes from the breadth of deathblow. For they wear ancient stones of glass and fire that inhibit his powers, he knows of their rejection and instantly knows they three have gone. There are sooner things that have not escaped the throes of passion.

Nick: “Did you hear that?”
Ana: “I would if you shut up and brace me.”

The elves have two survived and not one, scattered into the town just as many of the vampires, and let to chase in this admixture leaving Merlin to fight a vampire who is killing townsfolk just to intimidate him. After waiting for a clearing Merlin takes one slight step forward, aligning his arm with his back and drives an electrocution at the creature, the staggered white light slightly blinds him that he does not see the vampire trying to pull-hence. As he stops his magic the night-brood begins to run, he shocks again and quits, allowing the militia to riddle the vampire with spears. Before they start, he wanders after another foe.

Doth not only nature confine his thoughts as from it Varin leaps from rooftop into closest high-window curtain of adjacent edifice. The fight around the wagons continues, the standoffish nature of it all, one elf with long hair is still determined to find what remains inside the black sargähnlichen carriages, finding it to be vampires, four of them younger in appearance and insatiable bloodlust. Soon to attack at his demise, just at the sun sets enough to bathe the town in shadow, a red sun beyond the restless horizon.

Varin approaches with the tenets of war to protect clergy from dying and soldiers more, Matteus continues stalking for Nickolas and virgin wives for taking by his dark and wicked flock. The scent of such condition a vampire can smell should they refuse to spoken tell, and such has resulted in the first of others being taken into the wagon for later purposes ranging from bad to worse. Varin seeing this attacks the kidnapper while fighting another who holds guard for the vehicles of escape, and the confused war cries and attacks of the militia. The town’s soldiers give him aid once seeing his comeuppance attacks the undead. He is agile and adept, limber and quick his defense of avoidance seconds his physical cruelty, he twists the vampire’s arm around its back swinging on the arm the duration, like a ballet of breaking bones. The painful torsion causes the vampire to scream with a growl in the night, the woman decapitates it with a sword, and almost slices Varin’s face. She rushes to him and they kiss in the street, for saving her life, or in somehow she saving his, him spinning her and holding tight. She departs of him and begins to detach the horses from the wagons, a slap on the first steed and it charges egress. The deceptively youthful blood-drinkers do certainly approve of this not, and cease all distraction to kill her, Varin kisses her again and tosses her onto the back of the second steed and segments the horse from bond, allowing her to escape. The battle spreads thru the town, and Varin’s bond to battle is their four to his one. In fires of flesh and passion, there is rampant one action that must become again two.

Ana: “I heard that my lover.”
Nick: “…damn straight you did!”
Ana: “No, my forever friend, listen.”

As he suits-up in one way, an explosion shatters the silence and batters the town once over. By faster than slow they rush from storeroom to the battle beyond them and into the fray. It is here that Matteus approaches that building from the alley, kicking down the door, kicking aside any small obstacle and stepping over any terrified children, a smell of prey allures him. Into the room where Nick and Ana were moments ago, they quickly peruse the room for clue to wend.

Matteus: “I smell the immortal.”
Decimus: “It reeks of war-fire.”
Matteus: “He was here – follow him!”

Matteus’ scream is matched with puerile fury and marked by him striking and breaking the nearest objects, before the final shard hits the floor his minions race after Nick and therefore Ana. To make matters worse, as are the two young secret newlyweds of two cultural tribes, so are the denizens, the town is a hotbed of sectarian warfare. One in four are of soldier age and much more so the ranks of the groom and his father whom is town high elder. Not for most of malevolence are they in direct combat, but they are stubbornly in eternal conflict and in circumstance of petty instinct do not always help each other at the hands of the vampires.

Hither by a tasteless sadistic joy of bloodshed and fearlessness of war, Jonak steps into the street, waiting and watching, staring at nothing and glare for in something purpose delivered on this eve. His magic is not learned nor passed nor alchemist task, given in birth and not future offspring. An abnormal displeasure with a fugue of confusion and drunken askance, he stares at two vampires walking to him cockily. He pulls his knife from a sheath stitched into his jacket just above his pocket on his stomach. The depth of his focus is in question favoring one eye more than tother, he is still not sober enough to tell if they are one foe or two, and he has only enough time to question his lucidity or chance running in a stupor.

He decides to stay and fight, backing to a wall, holding out the knife and certain that they are both and not blurry deception, his fingers on his other hand start to tremble ever so slightly, preparing to reach for the sword handle at the bottom of his back. Closer to him he drops the knife.

Jonak: “You can still turn away.”
Valens: “Drunk man…we could use a spiked drink.”

They move to him swaying in the street and weighting more on one foot, and hold him against the wall by his collar.

Jonak: “It is time to sleep.”
Aelius: “Huzzah, death whisperer, your magic plagues us not, we are already with you.”
Jonak: “Then walk with me in hell.”

Jonak pulls the sword quick enough to stab one in the stomach to the heart and grab the other by throat, to him a piercing thru a dead heart. As the second body falls, he cuts his hand on its passing fangs, causing him to scream and raise his hands in anger, hacking gruesomely at their heads until cleanly severing bloody heads, swearing all the drunkenly belligerent while.

Jonak: “Holy gadzooks; with the bloody fangs already, gyves of fie!”

Jonak almost slips in the blood trying to grab his dropped dagger. 5/5 The two elves stay close to each other, their clothes similar and almost uniform, Varin follows them from a distance that widens as he stops to end a random conflicts of townsfolk by rendering a man unconscious and lure his foe and neighbor, alto train the anger of difference and interruption at him and into quenchable folly. After eluding one fighter he follows them again, only seeing one and wondering where the other is, soon does he appear to Varin with overawe and bated patience.

Gullveig: “Follow us no more or rest assuredly our reason here.”

Gullveig holding him by the shirt and forcing him back to unbalance his step forcedly pushes him into the debris. Varin puts his hand over his head, keeping his other hand visible, and lifts a bandana to reveal a pointed ear, lesser peaked than theirs but all the same.

Varin: “No wait, we win together.”
Gullveig: “Tell me tour mother or father, half blood.”
Varin: “What means by this?”
Gullveig: “Who was the elf, your mother or father, and what is their name?”
Varin: “Her name was Hálma, from Rahnuor.”
Gullveig: “So come with us and you won’t have to join her.”

Agnar has chased three, joined by an additional two, vampires whom have sieged their way into the armory, good at taunting daunting foes and better with their aims from a room full of arrows. They are somewhat trapped and the men do not yet storm either of the two doors, the men arguing who will enter the small confines with the likes of them.

Eripmavus: “Someone get me a priest!”
Agnar: “Why (arrow) do you feel a need to confess (arrow) what will you tell them?”
Eripmavus: “No (arrow) not really (arrow) I just feel like killing a priest.”

A torch thrown at the door extinguishes itself before igniting anything, and the plastered walls are wary to fire.

Merlin stops a fight by reaching between to adolescent men and exploding an orb of light, tossing them several lengths apart, apiece knife was the cause of their strife for who would wield it to defend them both, their father had told them it was magic some time ago, yet it was merely a war trophy of a grandfather. The elves do not approve of two boys lying wounded in the street blasted by a wizard, they loft an arrow by his head, and he turns and holds a hollow blue orb of pure energy with ripples running over it like the ocean. Two more arrows pass him, deterred by his and the sphere’s magic, they reach for swords and Varin stops them.

Varin: “No, he is with my pride, our elder in fact.”
Gullveig: “Does he always blast children during midnight war?”
Merlin: “They were killing each other.”
Boy: “We were not!”

The young boy runs and hugs his younger brother tightly. In a nearby street Nick shows his skills against two men, practically toying with them by his swordsmanship, turning them on each other, and having fun clubbing some of them in the head less than safely. Ana is worried of her maternity and acts in greater portion as a nurse, when vampires do come she has fire that burns their eyes, and flesh, and souls like the essence of daylight when close enough to her magical flame. To the men fighting she is a god there to witness the war, giving them courage irreverent to the beliefs of both faiths, in larger part a danger comes from a nearby town that is kindred to the opposition of this one, in the count of forty hooves.

Ana blasts fire in her own defense, the bitten death raises grown men and undead, with the fury of thirst and rebirth as a blinding fever, heretofore Nick learns that her fire does not burn Braden. This concerns him faintly, and the solitary new thought as he battles the risen, confronted by a new problem, they wear the garb they had when felled, thus in defending himself the honest soldiers think he is attacking innocent men.

Tired of waiting for the soldiers to deplete of torches that are only extinguishing by some hex near the armory, and on its roof, Agnar throws a wounded man thru a window and uses the distraction to run close to the wall, he takes his sledgehammer and breaks a hole thru the wall. Peeking inside he counts his foes and waves fingers to tell the others. They spread their interior ranks to guard the whole, laughing at its use for arrow shooting, when Agnar sees Sino and others standing behind the small and word-painted window of a closed shop. The giant reaches in the hole and around the wall and pulls out one of the vampires, breaking an arm and dismantling the hole wider, dastard foe on his knees jumps to his feet, he wraps his massive hands around the feeble limbs of the vampire and throws him thru the shop window. The soldiers give battle cry and storm the armory as Agnar decides to go into the building for completing his victory.

Agnar into the shop walks in front of the stern faces and kicks the vampire onto its back, when seeing Sino and others it relaxes.

Eripmavus: “O thank bloody god.”

Agnar puts his foot on Eripmavus’s throat, despite struggle and grimace of enjoyment and breaks its neck as if is it an insect. Sino takes from his pocket a phial of black water and hands it to the Jotunn.

Sino: “Take this poison, and give it to Merlin. This is Gimlar, you will throw him out the window, outside you will find a necklace in his pocket, be sure to show and give it to Merlin.”

Eripmavus begins to heal thru the way that vampires can and a female warrior quickly draws her blade and severs its head with a katana, a sound of completion as she struck the head from shoulders is all that reveals gender beneath her armored veil and hat in the darkly shadows of the room. Gimlar, wearing a cloak very similar to the vampire’s, steps forward and Agnar defenestrates him.

Sino: “Agnar, do not even smell that poison, for it has no scent, and feel free to kill Gimlar.”

They look into the street and the soldiers are spearing Gimlar on the ground. Agnar rushes outside and waits for a time and inconspicuous procedure to look for what proves to be an amulet. Sino and his apprentices turn into smoke to disappear and separate. When Agnar looks into the window again Sino is gone and only smoke remains, he looks thru the doorway and a soldier notices him, heretofore the smoke, and calls alarm of fire.

Agnar gathers the necklace and drags the body by the chest, a sullen labor of infinitude, seen as sad and is determined mad to frighten any mortal foe, dragging him until near the wagons. He takes the necklace from his pocket and throws it with the body into one of the vampire wagons, breaking it and the dead body torn open by the otherwise strong ebony wood.

Newly turned vampires are becoming numbers, turned specifically to perpetrate and perpetuate violence in the streets, Matteus and his cadre have fed their blood to the dying, with plenty to spare, and they are not meek in their feeding savagery. In vampiric rebirth, they are not turning others, but feed and kill voraciously, an hour until dawn.

Matteus watches Merlin heal lesser wounds, almost dancing around him Nickolas doth spin a sword like it were his tail, and Ana with fire consume an arrow flung to her and chase the human shooter. Braden with a blue fire places his hands on foes to persecute only their bones with holy fire that reaches for their skin, Katyenka luring enemies for him. Digr boxing his enemies after magically forcing arrow and blade to ground, and Agnar having trouble finding a foe to challenge him, but when he sees Matteus calmly watching, he chooses him to battle, as two vampires walk side by side along the street toward them all.

Matteus: “There will be massive war, both civil and humane, assistance will cease to never restart, becoming sin the lechery will be, and I will have what I desire!”
Merlin: “Who are you?”
Matteus: “The question is who are they?”

Matteus welcomes the two men, their fangs pierce wicked smiles, they slide from their coats, long hair and only vests and scars cut to bury their amplifying alchemist artifacts beneath deeply their skin. These are the vampire warlocks, bringing wave of war and death defiance, one of them plays with black lightning and suffers onto them a heated sulphuric hail that quickly separates the fearful from the heroes, the other takes a bow and pulls arrows from the dead, the dripping bloody burning red unleashes arrows fire bringing accurate to aim ahead. Braden holds his hand afire blue, the flames to throw pointed arrowhead cuts his hand aside the bone and turns him to retread. These flaming arrows, Ana in focused anger, can burn before they pierce, against her flesh, but the strength remains of her and all thereby, is half exhausted. Merlin stands as lanthorn, gaining white fire and smokeless ash in the dank soil around him, drawing the attention of all who see.

Ana stops to arrows inviolate, and exhaustion showing starts to faint and Nickolas takes the third. She remains conscious, her serenity in fire makes this a moment of tiring and annoyance, even more so in seeing Nick hit by the arrow and scream, which he does not do often, she throws a curtain of fire like a splash of water turned into flames from thin air at the vampiric warlock archer. Behind her foe stands Braden, unharmed by her fire.

Nick: “Why does she not burn you?”
Braden: “You have hellfire, I have soul-fire, we share good intentions, friend.”
Ana: “Evil isn’t waiting, boys!”

Merlin and Katyenka have electricity, his more like vines and uniformly narrowing, hers jagged and cragged like lightning chaotic and shorter distance than he. The vampires still attack between the warlocks. Their foe fights them with ashen shielding of magic and air, resisting them one each by each one hand. As minions attack her Katyenka grabs and tortures it with electricity, the vampire warlock focusing all strength against Merlin just to survive, the bolts of lightning she bores a constant grasp of white burning holes and sounding scream. Cruel and unusual, but let to continue by fate, Ana and the others red against black fires behind them.

Merlin and his foe come close and their projections of manna burn thru the corpses on the ground as energies collide like stars, to not exhaust they pause. Ana, Nick, and Braden see Agnar and try to direct their foe toward him in an area clear of Merlin and his foe, aligning their foe with the help of Katyenka. Agnar mallets the warlock so violently and repeatedly the pummeling reveals black blood and the hidden runes thru battered and torn flesh, a foot to the back it laughs with bloody lungs until the decapitation.

Malleus: “The unnatural lifespans and laziness of their charity, it is enough to burn your flesh.”
Merlin: “For now you’ve got something to die.”
Malleus: “Time is the only thing moving.”
Merlin: “It has a way of healing all wounds.”
Malleus: “Some wounds better than others.”

Vampires trying to get into the wagons, assumedly to escape in haste, but returning outward with bolt-throwers, with fights spread thruout the area, six vampires with six widely headed steel arrows attached to ropes shoot Nick thru his body and limbs, his scream is pain and anger, the wagons pull him from the battle. Ana burns one of the ropes, but he becomes too distant to assist, Varin takes a shot with intense sight and skill hitting one of the vampires on the wagon, not enough to do damage to a creature undead.

The remaining warlock renews his torrent of aggression, to protect his kind and postpone a chase, the conflict at its most dangerous stage for the reckless fires of rage. Vampires whom have the only task of keeping Merlin and all others from following to save Nick do their best at moral worst, ending life with essence cursed, two hundred dead, some thirsting for blood after death, five of the makers and obeying their calling twenty new takers surrounding like locusts on Merlin and others implored.

With recalcitrant fire and storm of the lightning and dangerous peril tumultuous fighting the wicked lay bruised and buried undead with the warriors still clashing so blatantly close enough to be stabbing their eyes, for the brilliant keep dying and the lucky will stand, refusing to bleed for the feeding with their lives to remand. Errant running and hacking with daylight emerging the vampires scatter like murder retreating to the wicked fane of the dead, and the ignorant newly transformed are to ash in the dawn soon as said. The caste of Merlin stands shaken in victory, bloody and sullied with ash in the street.

08 July 2013

New Old Letters: Update 2

Aussie restaurateur Paul Mathis invents new letter of the Alphabet | Technology | Tech News and Latest New Technology | | thetelegraph.com.au
>> http://www.dailytelegraph.com.au/technology/news/aussie-restaurateur-paul-mathis-invents-new-letter-of-the-alphabet/story-fni0bzoc-1226675974506  <<
"The letter looks like the Cyrillic letter 'Ћ'. If an upper case T and a lower case h were to have a typographic baby, this is what it would look like."

Dude invents new letter for "the." It's a capital T and a lower-case h. I already do this, but only when writing by hand. It's only a capital T if it begins a sentence. I've been doing so for awhile, so much it caught my eye when wasting time on the network where I discovered it's also the same as a symbol in an Asia-Minor alphabet. Fuck if I know what it means for them. Welcome to using shorthand. Also, there's this thing called cursive that schools are gradually not teaching anymore. After we had to learn that shit for bloody ever. Now everyone writes like infants who haven't developed object permanence, in other words, average conformists. Random; if you take a typing class, you won't use as many obscure internet-born abbreviations. IMLTHO.

Even in its infancy the universe is already old, absolutely nothing that can be done hasn't been done already, except evolving.

"Everything popular is wrong." 

- Oscar Wilde

Much like the way we have a symbol/letter for “and,” we also once had a similar situation with “that,” which was a letter thorn with a stroke at the top. It was originally just a shorthand, an amalgamation of thorn and T (so more like “tht”), but it eventually caught on and got somewhat popular in its own right (even outliving thorn itself), especially with religious institutions. There’s an excellent chance you can find this symbol somewhere around any given church to this day.

Update 2:

"In Old English, ð (referred to as ðæt by the Anglo-Saxons) was used interchangeably with þ (thorn) to represent either voiced or voiceless dental fricatives. The letter ð was used throughout the Anglo-Saxon era, but gradually fell out of use in Middle English, practically disappearing altogether by 1300;[3] þ survived longer, ultimately being replaced by the modern digraph th."


06 July 2013

Merlin 3:19 “Valkyrja”

Merlin 3:19 “Valkyrja”
by, mjbanks

The afternoon at even parts of dusk and daunting morrow, after the shade of common clouds dost Merlin and Nick come to see the quaintness of a normal and small abode, which within itself has harbored evil and atrocities, a bloodbath of evil song of cremating creature souls. Soot of mortality stains the fireplace used for alchemy in deranged spells and barbarous animal sacrifices, summoning nefarious raw organs from the shade dimensions, wrest from bellies of snakes, corpulent with newborn maggots, all pieces of a totalitarian concoctive hex or spell. Wickedness brews by the wizard unbeknownst, vacant of this quiet hovel disturbingly silent, Merlin and Nick are near this place.

The voice of a child nearby shouts objection, but alarms abruptly end silenced before any can see unlawful abduction, heretofore Nick thinking it is youthful disturbance, Merlin bearing concern turns corner to see egregious imposition. A seemingly young felon, the nefarious alchemist of black arts just mentioned, puts the sleeping boy on a cart and covers him with hay and tows in stray, Merlin gets closer as does a ready hunter Nick, and follow both of they behind them unto that smallish domicile with a thatch roof. The kidnapper walks backwards into his confines with the child in his arm. Merlin immediately stops himself and Nick from entering after seeing the wings of a Valkyrie within its walls. Halting behind defilade of corner and wall, Nick taps Merlin on his chest and points to another man approaching the house of straw. Within these confines, Valkyries watch him enter.

Gareth (Geirahöð) (V1): “I have taken many to heaven, but those of darkness are stayed, reborn to suffer their sin.”
Laramie: “From on high and yet you speak as if never low.”

There is a second Valkyrie in the room, Laramie turns around to look if free to escape and sees a man outside walking to him, footsteps slowing and averse, a solitary stride with oddly broad shoulders that make him look slender and quite tall, these are merely wings folded and wrapped beneath a large woolen hooded cloak.

Laramie: “I have important work to do, you mustn’t interrupt it,” speaking loudly as if to warn.
Swede (Sveið) (V2): “It is such a nauseating thing to hear lies, tell me as I ask. Who bids you do this work, or, where can we find him, that I may let you live.”
Laramie: “Him, it was him, there, he that gives me benefice, I had no choice in matters.”
Gareth: “Good, we’re getting somewhere. No, don’t run, you are safe.”
Lucifer (V3): “Stop toying with it.”

Gareth (Geirahöð) wraps his wings around himself from the resting state, like a longcoat thinly laid, so that he may exit the door simply, and during so puts his hand on Laramie’s shoulder and escorts him several paces, determined to keep the human as hostage. The countenance of lightning empowers these Valkyrie, their very sinews comprised of it, keeps the air around them dry. Merlin spectates with astonishment and the silence as doth cemeteries.

Lucifer: “Relinquish all quarrel, I am doing the chief god’s work, there is nothing to fear, Geirahöð.”
Gareth: “I know you are not, that you seek to carve these things, without their battle death, in hope to become a demiurge.”
Lucifer: “Then you understand I need that alchemist.”

Gareth (Geirahöð) looks to Lucifer and to Laramie, and once more to Lucifer while drawing his sword swift and silently with the true-whispered song of war. Lucifer appears to know what happens next as Gareth (Geirahöð) puts the blade thru the human’s chest, lifting the body as it screams and leans back on Gareth’s arm as the winged soldier uses its other hand to prop the dead villain like a puppet as the fresh corpse slides open on the blade. As hilt nears heart and feet to rest, the ground pools with his blood, moments by, tossing the body effortlessly, he swings the blade almost clean of blood then sheathes.

Gareth: “Did you have any other requests?”
Lucifer: “Look at this fresh hell we scour for obeisance. Tell those who fight for Valhalla to war and they spill every drop of blood in this field of the host, so much other creatures feed from our mere bloodshed. I have not come here to fight.”
Gareth: “Nor have I, sibling, nor have I.”
Lucifer: “You again call me family?”
Gareth: “Hadst you been so far you could only sense me?”
Swede: “You do not deserve to fly.”
Lucifer: “If I wasn’t meant to fly, than why do I have these wings?”

Lucifer turns and runs, shedding his cloak he spreads his wings and flies, while taking great strides and stripping his outer raiment, Swede (Sveið) stops leaning in the architrave and tears joyfully thru the doorjamb frame in exiting to chase a fearful Lucifer, Merlin all the while trying to watch without exposure.

Nick hides poorly and Merlin wishing him to hide better grabs at him, but all Nickolas sees is the building reach forward in grand illusion, for wizardly mage has cast a spell that cloaks his visibility, if from a distance vantage. As if covered in water that is made of the wood and colors thru him, in the moment that it startles Nick the magic assuages all vision of him, all so with Merlin’s whispering assurance.

Merlin: “It is me, shut it fie.”

Nick looks thru his hand, a quite blurry vision much more clouded than bottler’s glass, with the very faint display of his blood like rivers on a map. Gareth (Geirahöð) turns as if to look directly at them, making disconcerting stares at Nickolas. As the immortal’s eyes leave his hand they sojourn in memories of concealment when he last had disposition near a Valkyrie, if he had met the vaguely familiar face of Lucifer ere, then into the poignant glare of Gareth’s (Geirahöð) eyes. He lifts his foot to leave, but is halted by Merlin who pulls the brim of his pointed hat over his eyes, if discovered he would be in hopes for curiosity and anonymity. Gareth (Geirahöð) turns and kicks the body of the villain thru air and into building before lifting arms wide open as the wicker hovel spontaneously sets afire. Gareth (Geirahöð) spreads his wings and flies strongly, first with back to ground, turning in flight to follow the second and third Valkyries.

All wings are on wend, Nick stares at the fire and notices that nearby two ravens, uncharacteristically large for blackbirds, even for their species. Merlin lifts his hand from Nick’s shoulder and the spell of camouflage breaks.

Nick: “Look, Merlin, their cawing all hell.”
Merlin: “How very poetic considering the unkindness you just saw is their calling.”
Nick: “Dammit so much, what see you now?”

Merlin pays proper attention to the burning home, the ravens hop close to the broken burning doorway inspecting the body, as the smoke rises from the home at the edge of this town the folk come to notice, a person running thru the street discovering the building turns and runs aback for help and likely water. One of the ravens turns to notice the person advance and retreat from the blaze, turning back and hopping to aside the other jet bird. One bird balks at the other, the sound masked by the rising commotion, dancing flames in the air, and crackling of wood immolation.

Standing against the flames, with the spoken bird’s eye at them, the listening bird turns to look directly at the wizard and forester, Merlin grabs his hat brim and leaves turning without dragging his feet, and Nick to follow. As the villagers come, the birds depart.

The townsfolk proscribe to the simplicities of commonalities and regularities to bide time while the fires fought and wayfarers walk a wandering way to wend at warriors and watch wisely for warring, dismayed they approach another pub to find their family, and that happens.

Thru window they watch Braden and the others convivially drown their gullets with fine ales as others enjoy the sweet breath of the cold smoke, no sight of spies in drink abstention and malcontent, a perpetually indemnified pleasure and joviality in gathering of young hearts and old minds. Nick gauges the ardent esoteric who stands to rally his fellow drinkers, whom hereby Ana knows.

Digr: “As I am wise, Agnar is stronger than all who rumor falseties.”
Ana: “You mean fallacies.”
Digr: “Wait your turn with my fallacy.”
Ana: “Till your tent falls?”
(Laughter all)
Digr: “No, no, if this galoot can lift a war hammer, he can lift the, ‘tear of Odin.’”
Katy: “Is game his earth magic make Jotunn arm disembodied.”
Digr: “Is men have I am princess.”

Braden backhands Digr in the stomach for mocking Katyenka and the entertainment begins, the stoic Agnar puts his hand on the table with open palm, and Digr puts the handle of a silver dagger into it. Digger puts both of hands on the table, stares at the blade while telling Agnar to begin, and with earthen magic begins to mystically add weight to the silver as Agnar wrestles it while spoken wagers begin. The mighty Agnar holds the handle with fingers clenched around it, to keep the blade from his palm and to avoid dropping the blade onto the table. Ana in glancing notices in her periphery Nick standing at the window, seeing her notice him he walks into the tavern. Braden notices her looking and thinks it melancholy and thus to garner her, he makes the silver metal hot in Agnar’s hand, Merlin follows from-beneath the clouding sky to the interior commotion.

Tho lifting slightly the white silver blade, Digr intently focused, Agnar sensing the undue influence drops the blade in submission. The blade blackens the table in heated contact and smolders in small effect.

Agnar: “Why burn, milady?”
Ana: “It was not I, your pastor did that.”

She and all to her side of the table see Merlin approach, subsequently he throws a drink on the heated blade causing it to simmer, and he throws a fabric over it, cautious more of their contempt that be of may unruly and further alarming to numbering men who protest magic.

Merlin: “Such deeds are not always legal where we are, power divine and here, and halcyon of our beginnings shan’t bring you back from ghosts.”

Pushing Digr aside, Merlin takes a seat at the head of the table. The strangers are quiet, but not more curious than for any other. Nick stands waiting on either Ana to stand, Agnar to move from beside her, or some combination thereof these things.

Merlin: “Tell me, Braden, why this nowhere I ask you.”
Braden: “From here we travel north along the west side of the mountains.”
Nick: “Where from here do you travel, to the frozen dessert?”
Braden: “From here a spine of mountains impassable, to southeastern rocky road is a corner of Midgard covered in arid badlands and in the wrong direction, so we travel north and long around the frozen dessert, to the east.”
Merlin: “That sounds remarkably dull and exhausting. Now someone buy me a drink before I earache my eye.”

05 July 2013

Merlin 3:18 “Wont to Do”

Merlin 3:18 “Wont to Do”
by, mjbanks

A tavern boisterous with fare and friends and supper fire nestled in a building abutted to several others where vices of salacious secrecy endure, interred to partake in such commons are the party lead by Braden and his fellows. Jonak, a warlock who can turn whispers into near poison, for reasons unknown to strangers sits in the corner closest to the heating hearth, drinking to himself three bottles throughput of rotgut he is by no means apt to avid expresses. Braden and Katyenka, once both of the cloth and thru a string of fate and perils left it together, prayer beads high on their arms under sleeve, while nestled twixt other patrons, some whom speak pieces and parcel of their language with most the local tongue of the sand lords whom reign from the circular desert predominantly in the south. Laughing and singing the songs worded slightly different and ever the same unending inebriation and celebration, marked by Agnar, a stocky Jotunn too cumbersome for roundelay, taking interest in the oncoming peril of a girl at their table, in the round, sitting with her lover, who is aversive to letting her from his sight.

Agnar’s concern is that neither she nor he speaks his western language skillfully and offer him little credulity for ales they have seen him to drink thus far, giving him cause to use a wench to translate their words and his camaraderie. With humor and frustration across a barrier of chivalry, this current goal, forsworn hast he to pay for pleasure not, lest by enemies of equanimity, thus this play to pay for translation of the bridegroom and wife a trouble hence and forthwith.

Merk: “Where are the Ettin is become a now?”
Agnar: “What’d ‘a ton’ mean?”
Wench: “Ettin is Jotnar.”
Agnar: “Ah, Jotunn, there was only fire and water when the first god was born, and when time was already old, two Jotunn crawled out its shoulders and into the forming worlds, realms apart, each wife having six children at a time, and their bellies vast.”
Idyth: “Apart to be have love together?”
Agnar: “They were many worlds apart.”
Idyth: “Big to tell councils, both become one.”
Agnar: “Both become one, ah, so wonderful, even better with another stein, be a good wench and fetch us a new pail.”
Wench: “Pay me first, handsome.”

A gold piece and a smack to her callipygian affect, watching intently the young husband still shows a fret.

Agnar: “What of this council, little husband.”
Merk: “The council makes the laws of my people, Idyth is from another kingdom and our kings do not like her people, there has been a sad distrust and occasional violence toward them, now emissaries from all the towns have gone to the capital to decide if they are trespassing. My father sent his vote of ‘no’ and we fear other votes will be the same.”
Idyth: “Soon hiding will not be an option.”
Agnar: “Why do not you elope?”
Merk: “What am I is not a lope?”
Agnar: “Wench, get over here! I’m saving a marriage!”
Wench: “What you got, palooka?”
Agnar: “How do I say, ‘elope’?”
Wench: “Ensconce.”
Agnar: “If your father is king, why not take his money and ensconce with Idyth?”
Idyth: “He would hurt us assuredly.”
Merk: “There is not much to take, and we would not wend far.”
Agnar: “I will buy you food, with my word in the sunrise I will pay you to leave, or my friends and I will tear you from the king’s hands and he will thank us for it.”
Idyth: “How will you do that?”
Merk: (leaning secretively) “Do you know magic?”

Agnar catches Braden staring him deadly in the eyes, a very subtle shake of his head and the giant begins to laugh and tell them ‘no’ while demanding food. An act in and of itself that scares the anxious cook who contemplates feeding him the entire young roast pig he has cooked, questioning the wench about the daunting task of feeding giants, until learning he doesn’t want to eat, but only drink and feed the secret newlyweds.

Now of Digr, born of humans and Midgard, a man who refuses vices of luxury if unpaid to have, and is often enjoying penuries when time to procure new proclivity. Nonetheless, in his case the recent pull of silver now divvied for weapons and monies among them he spends a certain amount of time in the brothel next to the tavern and restaurant. Using his earth magic to lift the bed and dance the sheets like curtains around he and his strumpet temporary, until now returning from his second of such visits, in sooth the latter experience with the most fetching by this infamy. Save the mattress falling, attractive humorous discretion, and returning to the public revelry, he cheers to Braden and the others and they cheer to him in unison with somewhat less than enthusiastic rejoinders.

Agnar leaves to relieve himself and after returning takes the half empty bottle and mug from Jonak who is fast to thoughtless sleep, he sits again with the others a giant taking the seat of almost two normal-sized men. The mug in his hands looks like a child’s cup in a bear’s paw, he drinks hoping to be drunken in spite of his size, which will tolerate more vast and stronger spirits, as others drink he takes interest in Ana’s jovially feminine demeanor.

Varin is elsewhere sneaking thru the town, his senses are powerful and his agility is as well, from such his tradecraft is burglar and like a cat he wanders the town, training his mind for these actions that he enjoys, thru a window, he slips just to exit a swordsman’s front door. Pale is his skin slightly and hair somewhat dark and long, slightly tall in stature and atop his head a band of silk wrapping around his brow and ears. Onto a hay cart, to a rachitic awning, to a stable roof to see the vista, where he tumbles rolling on his back before diving head first over a roof, only to catch the edge with his hand. Hanging from a wall his fall is a graceful slide to the bottom behind the stagecoach of a minister, father of the troubled husband Merk, merely to rummage thru belongings, but not before sitting and imagining in a moment his life as the owner of the ornate carriage. With an inkwell in his grasp, he leaves at the sound of the elder who owns it, to a rooftop where he spills dye to paint the Jera rune. From the edge of town he sees the evening, the stars are awakening as the sun begins to set. Deep in distance three horse drawn coaches camp stead in the forest with no parcel, with no drivers, with no windows.

04 July 2013

Plural Possessives

“Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky,
Seven for the Dwarf-lords in halls of stone,
Nine for Mortal Men, doomed to die,
One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne
In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie.
One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them,
One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them.
In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie.”

― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings

 I am, lord of all the rings...