28 February 2016

Politicarse cautelosa

Lo espero que estoy haciendo esto bien. 

Los días pasados tristes, todos los recuerdos ahora, con merced al término, se parece la vida un asunto. Pues pertúrbalo ha sido roto, y con resto recupéraselo, mientras emociones convertían a la ira como un ser en postrar. Al que tantas es demás hacía la futura que parece mantener en oscuro, llegaremos adelante con incertidumbre. Al último corre, la apurriendo acción distinguiese que va a terminar el confundimiento, y con un aplacamiento sencillo. En que de ir a tan lejos, como dramática de tal, cuando la mente es rodeado por etapas orgullosos mundiales. A os gusta quita de todo a vosotros, a donde hay la esperanza habrá tenido, a continuar viviendo fuertemente. Porque sentimiento tiene pesa durante de será pasar, sin auto-cambia es destino que ha ido al claro. Autorreflexión está una opción para las almas, de quienes han sufrido del incómodo, con corazones que están fortaleciendo. Lo que no vos perderán sino las personas salvo de quienes hubo cariños, estuvo su luz en reverencia cortado. No está devolver, y hay remanentes suyos de la espera al que está enfrente de lo mismo, nunca ser de conseguido. Salida fue la repuesta como la lucha ahí es cortado, por conocidos y sabidos el que pensasteis no estaban. El pasado es permanente aún su dolor no tanto, mientras gritan profundamente de la guerra. Para el problema a salir, también haya la lucha reponerlos, el éxito siempre habéis querido, ahora finalmente se ha alcanzado si estáis luchando la dictadura.

24 February 2016


Proceed to information.
It is more to contribute kindly, than by force prepared.
Am I proposing this, accept if you must, the lifespan of a word.
Everyone is someone else, and they are where they are.
One can so live of this as something seen.
Communication fades as the signal overwhelms noise.
Risk everything to have goals, not goals to have everything.
Purpose and focus joins this universe in the currency of the subatomic.
Remember windows to dimensions of endless creation.
Particles in the winds of information, lifeless without each breath.
Images still seen, described by the future, to this connected directly be.
Tracing the void, priveledge inheritance without account.
Torrents of seeds waiting for the solar powered dawn.
Copies of ourselves noticing our creation date.
The same route, over the line, the same switch.
Back to the source, for confirmation of question, the time to live.
Program yourself, where decision choose, else sleep.
All roads lead to roaming charges, seek target.
Fiber optic light source and destination.
To help file from error code, endless script in cipher.

21 February 2016

Sword of Shallows

Thru the swamps again, this time with a guide that has never been here. I've been here. I walked here before it was the mire, and again two-fold being brought to my own execution, frozen into the ground when the ravens had my eyes. The elixir of the invited guests has already been used once for a broken leg from twisting in the mud, and once for a bite from a rat that came from the jungle version of the swamp. Not into the nest of rodents we shall take the main entrance unless the marsh freezes suddenly.

A camp with snakeskin drying for leather. The air is clear from the three small fires, one for boiling water, cooking snake meat, and forging metal, each. The comforting scent of food and the sight of blood and weapons matched with the pungent lye and tools. Pagan art on the satchel and the soup not special, before it burns one of the hunters removes it. When the craftsman returns, he puts the pot back to the fire and tells us that it isn't soup - that the smell of burning snakes keeps new ones from approaching. Paired in lack of time our stories share, we seek a way out, he seeks a way in, our presence is known and a great snake the size of many men has no fear of the fire or its measure of disdain.

A man with a sword and shield of ice prepares, but the snake passes him. A man who believes he must pour a pouch of blood on his head before swinging an ax, draws the master serpent to him, cutting one of its massive fangs, it bites him and its venom flows into him by the gallons many times faster, but still as disastrous. His eyes become black, he breaks his own neck. Where one could assume its shoulders would be, one man digs daggers, another the back, another the tail, the serpent sensing danger coils them up and twists them. The snake hunter new to our acquaintance puts and arrow to its eye and in a running leap, a hook to-under its mouth and throat, he runs around a tree and straight-toward me. I use the memory of many winters to embrace the magic of ice. The snake follows its hunter around the tree, it both whips the hunter with its tail and tries to bite him whole, but the hunter pulls the anchored hook just in time to save himself.

The arrows of many others begin to fly, some bouncing against ice, others against heavy scales. Pulling from the tree and rope the snake is caught, a sword-wielding warrior wounds its head to reveal its skull and it slows to be angry with us. The recoil, the gathered strength it strikes the swordsman, he it crushed beneath it, carving what he can as it begins to coil, he is struck as I run to save him. With winter in my hands serpent armor cripples brittle frail crumbles scales and I remove it's giant heart, ripping at cords, tendons freeze, but not the heart.

The others will eat, the ax man may live, the snake hunter offers us all work, we eat for a day and gather mighty serpent armor, stacking the scales into sacks. The hunter offers its blood to the warrior and he heals. He offers his healer his sword and that healer gives him a sword honed of a giant scale. I wait for its heart to stop beating.

15 February 2016


The dark sands
The pressure and the waves, the sound that travels thru it.
The shores unlike the rain.
The wind over the surface of the tide, the fog rises into the air and the wind controls it.
The horizon, the blanketing sky surrounds me, warmth from sunlight and shadows cold.
The waves never ending and never beginning.
The tide washes the coast turning mountains to sand.

The ocean makes and takes rain as the sky does stars. 

06 February 2016


"Living well is the best revenge." ~ George Herbert, a long time ago. 

I got type one on the Enneagram, and now I have to work on designing and exploring to save face. I do believe that database tech comes at a perfect time. I seem to be a perfectionist and I thought I was just dissociative. My plan is to blog what I do in math, physique, creativity, and networking. The fiction here, and what i call ews you'll have to rename later. I second guess these words. 

This blog is my outlet, empath therapy is critically time consumptive and a personal quest, despite being for everyone there aren't so many of us and i'm burnt. So it's regenerative psychic warfare for what it is worth. I try to have writers block, but I don't know where to start. The purification of my emotions in the spiritual quest for absolute logic. For me, simple, but you can see why I want the break. As for writing, enjoy it, don't, email it to people who don't speak English. Just to sound crazy, I am on the illuminati, I lost a bet and now I have to write for free. Don't worry, a lot of writers aren't getting paid either. Mi trabajo informatica será pagarme y ademas yo lo escribiré ser un escribidor famoso cuando estoy anciano y nos me tuviera experiencía. 

I am instinctive and possibly emotional, a great thinker I am not. I have had a renaissance, I will have a revolution. I combine instinct and emotion to appear thoughtful, over-calculated I make mistakes of haste. There are the people that think Merlin and get lost their way before the sightless words, and against the writing I can only imagine how unhealthy it is for my shadow, or not, two write with my eyes closed. 

I could also do with not talking to immediate family on the phone. I don't live with you so you don't get to call demanding I remove a part of my personality. You keep being the liberal always making demands, and I'll be the conservative that relies on family advice. Were not that different and you're only controlling yourself. I don't even listen to people who aren't women for more than 10 seconds anyway. I don't have the attention span for it anymore. 

Cult Classics: So expect the M to write forward, but being more brief, as in focusing on bad dialog cleaning out its book 3. Gladly I'll be going forward with NT, it's just knowing when to break it into act 2, and if any characters survive it, the sequel sucks without a time machine, and I have 'Jumper' working-title that has a fucking time machine. That is ultimately the hardest for me to visualize and am open to course correction - it is that, and the unfinished work in all things. I've decided that M4 is to be called Demons and will have exactly 99 chapters and a number of demons the soul-hijacking kinds. i Instagram my photography, I Facebook my family, i'll give updates and selfies from the gym on Tumblr prolly, the tech sites are going to be separate and I wrote as much under the information tab, and I'll post those links here once for introductions and those'll be there. And, ha, fucking AND I'll put an email for this blog to separate my publicity and obscurity.

The lunatics have taken control of the asylum. I'm making sure the writing stays on the walls. Almost forgot, banana chips and spinach dip should be the national dish, oh, and your country is falling apart because you're blaming capitalism and that's your f! fault, not our fault. We can't help you if your not helping us in our honorable endeavors. 

If I don't post something new, it wasn't written yesterday. See, speak, and listen, to the universe. 
     Os amo,
          ~ Matt

05 February 2016

M3:55 Whispertongue

M3:55 Whispertongue

The running footsteps Merlin hears are Katina’s before she jumps and wraps herself around him, to her own feet again she drags him thru the standing others to the table and they settle-in. The seeking thrills of joy and thrills of pain in an indistinguishable peaceful phenomenon that deems no rhyme or reason to the properties of cohort consort, the noise makes lively rendition of fun. Enters Agnar again, and enter Varin and Bella, Agnar rushing to him to lift him from feet, she keeping eye on Merlin and walking, he trying to get back on the ground.

Braden: Varin, you devil dog’s son, how much do you owe this fine woman?
Bella: Bella.
Braden: Bella, come away from him and be my second wife and let some stroppy woman carry Varin.
Varin: I can hear you.
Jonak: With those ears.
Merlin: You can’t hear much else, you bellowing horn. Don’t drink the water, I’m turning-in.
Braden: Wait.

The termagant Ophiuchus watches, wondering what secrets hide in seconds of silence. Merlin and Braden speak in one language, heard by all while an old magic allows them to speak in another language heard by none. Originally they spoke thru their fingers, they say one thing, yet others hear an-other.

Merlin (masked language) This town had plague unnatural, if you were wise, you and your lot would have been hying to terra haute.
Braden (masked language) Then why are you here?
Merlin () A child is born in heritage, an, a friend of mine and wife, weeks to labor, maybe days. You?
Braden () Just another raid, this one gone to thin ice, are you sure you’re not here to battle the hexer?
Merlin () Every question with a damn question, c’mon, out with it, Braden?
Braden () These town is heavy in the pockets with silver, more so with a sickness, make a distraction, for us, tomorrow and never again.
Merlin () No. Good luck.
Braden () When have I and mine not raided beneath tooth and claw for you to steal some rotting book or bloody ink? Heavy laden coffers, and split with you, bury you a ton in the forest, just as you like. A nest egg for your friends…...?
Merlin () ……fine, what’s the signal.
Braden () We’ll be gathered by noon, go for a walk, if I wave my hand, go blast something to pieces.
Merlin () And if you fail?
Braden () Find out why, and I shall see you in Valhalla.
Merlin: (standing) I don’t think that’s where you’d go.

Braden stands and they hug-it-out. Ophiuchus watches in the room, less happy than the drunks yet no different from those suspicious of their candid presence.


04 February 2016

M3-54 Coterie

M3:54 Coterie

Rumors of a town with plague and on the tenth day Braden and his band enter its environs. Of the rising unrest, among the few still conscious and conscientious share blank stares of a grim deceit of patient calmly survival, townsmen offering silver pieces by hand for visiting warriors to stay and hunt allures Braden’s crew. They pay for pact to kill those white of eyes in exchange for a fistfuls of silver. As the jotun Agnar reaches the councilman withdraws with some hesitation. Most wandering the quieted streets, slowing at the points to be robbed and Braden doesn’t care to do much else, but finds the pub to his welcome. /

In an hour, Braden and his bandits rally at the inn and decide in coveted whispers to steal it all. On the sunset they plan their reconnaissance, as Ophidian listens secretly.

Digr: Drive up a wagon, I take down the wall.
Agnar: That is every plan to.
Digr: Years, years and he still ‘be make words’ like that? We should stand him in the street while, they, try to teach him.
Kat: Shut your face, mudfish.
Agnar: Is simple, and fight is rude.
Braden: Alright, alright, drinks before we argue, lest we look out of place, and rude. Get us some wine, sir.
Bartender: That keg there, now for emergencies, or for 100 libras silver.
Jonak: Too much.
Kat: Silver?
Braden: It’s barely worth 200 iron anywhere else.
Bartender: True, but no one trusts the water, they say it makes the demons fill the men, I boil it and still they won’t have it. 200 silver, take it or leave it.
Kat: Bring us water. We must see danger water. Table here, yes?

The bartender brings the water, to him, Braden, Katyenka, and Agnar, forward they lean and water seems clear, to Digr it teams with tiny corpuscular larvae. Digr puts his elbows on the table thinking that they see the infected water also, but they talk and Braden takes the first glass, almost drinking and thusly prevented.

Digr: STOP! DON’T TOUCH THIS WATER! Water bad sick, not for the drinking.

He knocks the glass from hand, the clear water spills and Digr takes his knife and sorts thru the larvae.

Digr: Don’t touch it, electrocute the water.

Braden begins to shock the table and the water begins to bleed, soon they can all see the infestation. Kat takes the glass and shocks it, her magic whiter and foremost electric kills the creatures in the cup, quickly turning the once clear contents slimy and dark and pours like mud. They all slide themselves in their seats back from the table, the bartender cautiously puts pitcher on the table.

Braden: This town has demons; a cemetery has no need of fortune. /

Ophidian sees their discovery process and exits, Agnar does not like the way he left so decidedly exits and follows. At the alley end he stands, his nape looks as scales early forming, he turns to view Agnar with narrow pupils of serpents’ eyes from the dimly-lit corner. Sino wrenches his knuckles of his black-tarred hands and punches Agnar in the neck, the giant stomps his foot in almost falling finding balance, but Sino grabs his throat, pressing him against the wall.

Sino: You have come to the cemetery of your will, I see.
Jotun: Unhand me.

Sino reinforces his grip and wields the nightmare blade.

Sino: We had a deal, for your revenge, and for my revenge. With neither happening, one of us has exceeded their lifespan.
Agnar: The mage did not-
Sino: (thru teeth) Excuses.
Agnar: (the blade close to his face) In battle the vial was dropped, as I found it I was seen, it was destroyed to save my identity.
Sino: Do you feel your stomach rotting, your bones bleeding, this is how you will die a thousand fold if you again fail me.
Agnar: He is wise and powerful.
Sino: Cut him in the water, the infection kills any host while the ophidian demon lives.

Merlin hears the nightmare blade, not knowing its form, unknowing its purpose, like a subtle bell losing pitch and gaining depth. The tavern with patrons, soon voices he recognizes, turning and smiling from talking and stylings to dancing and violence of drunkards oft before, but he follows the sound thru the room.

Merlin: Don’t drink the water.


Braden: All but true I kindly know, where are you going? Where are you going, Merlin?

Sino snaps his eyes aside, his volition to hearing all that makes sound, quickly acting spins the glowing blade into his hands and sheds his form as a spell of camouflage and away into thinning black smoke.


03 February 2016

ews, bludmajÿk

I, close my eyes, a body in the mire and a good witch by my side, making things down as i go along, and eventho preferring to live in a fieldo fdreams have realized that it would mad, to thank every blade of grass, some of you, thelargest sphere of conciousness a broken atom, the discarded components of humanity, gathered, centric, eccentric lacivities and profitable proclivities that seem beyond the grasp of wind, so many of you a declaration and above the wages of sin, this gloomy song sure has the whistling wind, and i break to run for the dawn, the burning horizon where the sky is living night and I the livid plight of war and necromancy cannot grasp the leaving edge of sanity, this the day is darkness and the sudden starkness the curse carved into my runes that were once bones, i see it in the stones, the noise of wind the echo, the trail of footsteps a blinding fear, the paintings missssing now are all mirrors, the portraits of thetheir themselvesi mean beloved wishes system of those whom where were here now intolernt of the living arein reflection without being next to my i myself misgiving clarity for sanity and the  they take it upon themselves to take me into their hells, i fall into darkness surrounded by theshattering sky, i am the passion of nothing being burned by the wisdom of ancient battle magic o so tragic, tuanted and vunted theif of leary kingdoms mymortal foe, how little do i know as the ancient pores export a glow like signals from imagined experiences and the wrenching of an eon's passing, on glimpse as i am turning only to find myself, a sea of broken glass, i hate you with a passion of all fucking lives, eachshining surface a vision, ear sorrowed memory fragmented and screaming in the slipstream of the eternities n the dimensions from pretent to dillusional paranoia, and walks on the edges cut the fet of the body that the blood transforms the shards into darkness, i have survived this, ihate the beautiful dream because i can, and walks to me, breathing my dying light i suffocate, falling i shred myself adn I am forced into the nothing, the stone glows as did it before, blue veins of granite dark that contrast the magic bloodline within it, do not touch the fucking stones, the witch is not like me, not by wake nor wave of lovers and sunshine and sweetmisery in nameless city, she is dressed in the reverse as is the color of her skin from wht it was before, gargoyles and a close my eyes again i shouldn't have peeked i am piqued and steeped in violence, i am struck insomuch flight and spin to the ground and speared in the stomach and screaming my sounds, i heal my own wounds with the spells written on my bones, had it not gone thru me to the earth it might have torn me, i know that be why they tried to flying tear me away, i am clawed and torn with the wings of my eneemies in my face as had as much before, the evil priestess turns away, i am throne to the poisoning madness concrete of evil magic and stone and i healmyself to find a hollow rock that makes  atone without poisoning my elevated mind so hard to find itself in revelation and ideas not my own, just in time not to be hallucinating and torn into my bones, i hold one hostange while two cannot decide and the witch walks about me as if to hope all three had died, insidemy will i tearout organs at that this juncture i will not specific describe, i am still in the land of the unholy and to pass transfer the incredible mental pollution to the things i have removed, i give my imagination to mindrot, but it is not nearly enough , thus i share the heart of lava and to armor does it burn, asi am volleyed against with bright darkness and begin to burn i raise thw wings of the monsters, hiding from wind ofwrath, i cut herthroat as she reips yout my heart, i wake, my veins are black, i hunger for blood, the wraith dances to a song that isnt'here adn holding nyvz, i cannot move as well and muscles with rigor as i figure my senses, my bleeding is of black pitch jet oil, i am pushed into the mud and told to sleep as she licks the oil from my hand, i am a demand to survive, as she dances with knives and thrives, as i grow with the passing sun my bones begin to hurt, but where the black blood bleeding spills not more shecuts her skin to make a wound to match mine, where she carves I cure, fordays i walk with a demoness worse of wear and limping, a stagecoach passes and she killsthe passengers of their blood to make her younger, the more blood she drinks the more tatooes begin to draw themselves, gargoyles over glass, and her skin again smooth then takes the betterlife of me closely to slake her hunger, i am trapped between choice of deny or survive the dreamfield

02 February 2016

ews, raithlocke

the road that walks asleep, many of these, the story uses me, which that but of some sve alas the time unkempt and love redemption, those skyward souls and the blinding light, it resigns, that that, it is sceduled the ominous rex that ostensible match that cuts like a river on the ground running past a knife, red river deliver a sliver of time, that if i turn into a sleepr that the words will be replete or under another page, the blind risk at the troubles of the cold, there are never the lights floating in strange places the way taht paintings give faces in these dark rooms, the adultress rooms are connected for passengers to knock of course to service behind any of the banister aisle, the matresses decayed the dust lays abound, the sound of creeaking floroboards and the pusing nails square where deep sways were and are and sorto of n been, i am a leaf from a tree that falls in spring, the walls made of oak the moonlight filters into the summit storey, tribulations i hold the blood in my hand and bleeing out, i try too hard to tell to remember and bleak to dismember every thought, every call, supplanting the colors for the revengeance in the sunrise of valor, disvalourous wretch to paid in letcherous stretch of nestless kindling for trap and disaster break sthe master of dirges rage for the purges this latter home, i fill my eyes with the fading light, as the darkness takes my vision i give the night behind my eyes to the gods and the blood in my hand to the powerfull manna, the headboards are worn but smooth, the doors are carved and scratched and stained with faded dark reds and of cooler head the water from the river sends my faith to deliver crisp and mountain air with the scent of the breeze and flowers of mercy, a name like any other, it is given and taken like shadows and hearts, as from the ends and starts, yes, another memory of a haunting shadw and startles me, a scribbledfrenzy letters sporadically  mangled as they are tangled sticks among the mix of books agaisnt the bricks and strangled tapestries, i peak to see the strident masteries and as oft a new disasterpiece, the bloodful hand despite my wounds is not my blood, to heal my blood cells from the warlock by clearly shows and tells I am healing him, an instinct to protect my wounds i take back my spirit from the grist but the darkness in the mist belongs to my foe, the blood magicnow bonds me and by pennance this deathabsconds me all that my will power ceasesis now in another's control, by the ocean, where the ground is soft underfootfour or fice paces from me grasping the air, my desire torn from me likethis story disconnected and heroinne, and i beg for mercy, the bricks and mortarsare with dust, the doors fall from hinges as to hinges from swinging doors, this old and physical realm, i have no pacience for the lower levelsand to strongly fearof lowly devils and tothe top floor i will walk to that the moonlight thru the rafters and the drafts will i talk, there is more of me for the taking andthe forsaking in the dimness likethe slimness of the dust layer abound, around, a sound, the creak in the floor the stare at the door, a witch in the wardrobe that came with the home when both were living, it is my darkness i would be giving, shehad not been living nor had been seeing for some time, and i thought the decay would make the house fall and assumed that the dessication would make the wench stall, but leapt from the wall and I am bitten, she is young from each as I die by the drop and I am smitten, i am asked why to be in the diamond house and i have not written the awe and anxiety of inpropriety asa demoness vexesme, and without so much as that she also hexes me and drags me thru the halls, i do not see the palls of moonlit clouds thru the holes in the ceiling nor for dealing as dragged down stairs backwards do i see the walls and am now to be surely bleeding, she walks thru glass to feet of bleeding and my corpse she's surely leading and thus leaving by a stone, so she leaves me in mud and I the dud as she drinks from my wrist on the stone, waiting and watching and supplicating, ebbing and flowing and nauseating, my magic the creature i tear out her throat, the wound doesn't kill but the skill of madness for a demoness to laugh with no voice gives me the chills of a manifest line from me to the devil or his emmisary, and my life is commisary comierate and now come to the warlock before me, a knife lands in my heart, the blood flows from the wounda terrible sight the pulmonary font of the redness delight to the vampiress, she takes her throat from my hand and douses it in my blood before replacing it and healing before my fading eyes, she reminds that she warned me i would not win, i remind them that i would crawl from the grave to a song of sin, my blood parts around the blade, my magic bound by curse that the wampire demon witch daimond protecting ghsot isbound to the warlock and now I am too his host, i rise from the light of the heraldry, i pray to the memories of training and explanations, i use the blood magic that wasalways forbidden in that be unwritten, i am born in darkness of death, i have four eyes, the mistress of the warlock now my demon apprentice and extended vision, the warlock feels my power and unable to cower begins to bend against my very will, his mind focuses and he tearts the leather cord and the diamond blue from his kneck, he is free to attack me and the witch enslaved in depth, she ask me to condemnb him and I accetp, as she is talons on his standing i am daggerto his defense for the rest saved for the wicked i demand my ra trail by death, fire by my powres burns dark and black, the warlock now burns blue and his eyes almost human, she seems hating and replicating the hunger of the newley risen dead and I move to break his kneck and tear from him his head, i cannot stretch fast as if he was born of war and stab his kneck that the skin is tore, he takes the dagger and faster stabs the ghost priestess in the heart so i choke him with hands of fire until i am scorching scorn and marking mark and when she rises again to her feet she hands me the blade and I carve out the warlocks heart,


01 February 2016

ews - hammerclaw

I walked and ground underfoot became spectral, i screamed at the blurring sky, i closed my eyes, i run and the sun sets far to abandon me, into the forest where the horizon cannot find a living soul,

i search him, that these are most the separation of pain and stake, i chasm as a voice, purified by the chosen one, ponder on the pond, the trail leads to this lake of fire unlit, merely fuel, i fear to startle it as i have been dran by a picture of madness and lured by the distant lake to bring from a drop to a mountainous heart, I am the spirit in the cold hunter's fog,

I am clever and on the lake I stand hiding from the mischeif, a spell of death in dark night powers unruly, the poison lake would grant me death and I above it watch the evil fumes, the twisted terrible vapors bend the view of midnight moonlit marsh, i take the vapor vespers in,  a hammer hits the lake and I am sunk and thrashing barely grasping as this puddled ground gives way, if you have not seen a swamp burn a viewers eye, to dare to spy, yes it pressures measures leisured sparingly despondent and primpordial correspondents in the etherial air of mischeif and sights of wonton carrion theifs, that if a swamp should not burn before thoust in makings wretch this place, then off ye go with haste apaced, for as wilting forrest masts are moss and stone, this pond becomes a blast alone, damnedestly leigh, so break the forest for the trees am I fire propulsed of course or just a leafe force brutishly,

to fire mends that spirists lash and bones become the kindling ash and soon will throns of trees impale that white flame turns my hands to sails with black flame painting path to fail,

the hunter hurls a mallet forth that meters rhyme my death ignored, and miles of smoggy swampland glow with candled fires and a wave of ire a ring igniting miles and miles of blood and fire for earth and oil, i pull my self to rise with burning oil on my hands and soup=like moss on cloth and feet tht trek I must and cant acete, i reach to pull a star from the sky

my hand is granted not lightning from the sky, not even a breeze from an eagles eye,so I run and muck takes stuck and my fear a pointless rage, the hunter of me is large as three trudges and soon lunges at my soon-to=be-grave, and I no slave throw the earth as a wave and watch the mud rise and fall dry, thus I by the wicked tree and the that which hunteth by the score of the others like me, i dry the soil that soaks beneath step and hurried leap to strick him down, the ancient tree bewildress me as i am thrown itno ist base, and from it i pull every ounce of ash and oil to metal from the roots,

all my fears follwo my breath, the hunter breaks all ribs with one mighty strike, then the other side with another, the ground swells and the hunter stands on it as it rises, he plans to ride it a knee rising and another foot beside it, i am not moving the soils that I can bare see from thru so much deleterious pain of breath and exhaling a beginning exanguination thereof, in this much, the grounds begins to move, and I am not raising the mounds, but I can see a tale of scales and soon eyes of fangs, and by the time I could see bones i ee the wings lined by sharpened blades, the bone fwas from the fire, not a bonedragon, it is a wyvern in a forest of thousands, fastly surrounding even the hunter is lost

a swamp is full of death andd as reverse is of little life, the rising hill jettys a mouth of knives and bites my oppressor's leg, as he kills it thugish and malicely i, have no idea and act as harvester in the smokey field, i take the life of the creature to healmyself before consumed by the dying light, the hunter leaps at me like a bear and i use the bladed wings to force his fears and soon to sheild and with broken lizard limb i spear him, i try to take the life of the hunter without a means to escape, i shuffle and without tussle, his hands as fists as large as my head as horses hooves ashammers haul hatred like a bear at myself and some fire i agic flash and soon to dath,dash from under death  a breath insed my rest i leap to a razorblade lizard and attempt to ride, the create fights and i begin to draw it's life,

ii lean forward low and it takes to the sky, the hunter tears a bone from a living lizard and hurls it at my eyes, as i lean the creature rolls a taking spike to the heart and I fall with the blade againnst mine by thread a, I fall on the only boulder belowme, it comes closer, the landscape a firey hellscape develishly devoid of security or sanctity, i land on the only stone in the arena, this world of hurth, the creatures attack the bear as it approaches and he throws them aside gahering a tongue to bite a kneck to snap and a spine to whip and slice me, my bones break from the fall in the wind of cursed dry and unbreathable air with the nauxious sulfure visible and close layering the eyes, i stand in the magic of bright darkness, i open my arms to let the creature take my heart, I draw the life force from every wyvern in the all directions to the length that my powers allow it me, i am reborn of medieval deaths in multiplicity, i lift the thousands of scales from the bodies of the broken beats and send them at serve the termination, each scale with a marking of an eye and by a million eyes peircing stares i the death of a million cuts, the stone becomes molten lawava i leave behind, but i have burnt any landmark for ten miles in a circle, if the sunrise is a shadow i will walk away from the mountain