Merlin 3.65 Sweven and Hearth

Merlin 3.65 Sweven and Hearth

Ana falls asleep from any combination of fear, pain, exhaustion, and distress.

In her dream she forgets all that has happened, and sits upon a blanket in a field in sweltering heat of summer, and as a fire witch enjoys the sunlight with a smile, a snake slithers by into the grass, she looks at a cloud that giver her fear because it brings darkness across the land, in thunder and lightning there is no breeze, hundreds of ravens awake and fly from trees until the lightning is hidden, the thunder dies and lightning strikes a fire into the grasslands, startled by the sound she grasps her stomach, confused but not scared, the fire sprites and wisps accompany her to a warm breeze that carries her to safety, and encircles her to protect her from damage, she bathes in the flames of the burning cyclone amongst raging burning pastures, the cold air nearly pouring from above, she fears burning and a moment later the world is ash, her connection lost, her magic telling her senses there is nothing left to burn, screaming at the burnt world her voice does not sound, roses grow from the ash unearthing countless stones covered in runes and the fertile earth, the wind blows and she knows what candles fear, she convinces herself again and again that water will come for the roses and she mustn’t fear it, time stands still and she with it and must ponder the sensation of eternity, then in darkness sees herself out of body on the world below herself, in the abyss the stars begin perforating the darkness, the stars explode to blinding light, and she opens her eyes.

She is awake, and is about to give birth.  

M3.64 Traces of Supremacy

Merlin 3.64 Traces of Supremacy

The black magic witch Ostara, returns to the caverns to serve Sino once again, sees Lilith and remembers how effortlessly she was thrown into the canyon river at the bridge of the Vermillion vampire fortress, and decides to hide and find another way into Sino’s fortress.

Lilith walks by the dead and with her demonic magic she awakens them, wounded they rise and kneel. Ostara uses a quick cursing spell to turn Lilith’s berserkers into ghouls to have them attack her. As they turn fiendish, Lilith draws the black magic from their wounds and turns right at Ostara.

Lilith: Kill her then find your brothers in the mountain!

They charge as black smoke drawn out now gathers at her feet, Ostara has few options, be run down by werewolves, curse them with death’s rigor in hope that it holds them, or turn them to ghouls and hope that in their stupor she can again yet outrun them or crush their temples. She extends her hand and curses them with rigor, but not all are close enuf to her magic for potency, they are pack hunters by nature and surround her, where she takes what lifeforce she can from them making them ghouls, but she is weak from journey and gesture, unable to hex them all, three frozen, three bashed. For the last, with the blood on her face summons ancestral magic, the spirits of ancient werewolves bless her in confusion, she survives the last, only to stand face-to-face with Lilith.

Lilith: Messy, uncreative, without deception.
Ostara: Who are you?
Lilith: I am the darkness between shadows.

Lilith takes the air into her hand, Ostara becomes bound by invisible forces of nature.

Ostara: I can help.
Lilith: Did you know I am connected to them?
Ostara: I give you service, pure service, majesty.
Lilith: These doors, there are strings of spiders between myself and the dead, you know, the open doors, and here I am with another fly in my web on the same night…
Ostara: What are you doing to me?
Lilith: You wander taking life, so I must take your mind.

Lilith puts her hand to Ostara’s head as her feet danger in the weeds, like a painless wave her eyes roll up and she floats asleep, as do so Lilith’s from the ground. Lilith learns all from deepest to surface memories, but Ostara falls muted as Lilith leaps into a shadow to outside the mountain entrance, peering aside.

/mj.banks 

M363 + Shadow of a Soul

Merlin + 3:63 + Shadow of a Soul

Close to ground of stone and soil is a fog thinner than whisper, enough that dew drops permeate the slope of a moonlit mountainside, the basin of bog and willows a valley of purity and moonlight, as stars and ethereal sky cover everything aside a tall and endless spine of mountainous ridge that distantly bifurcates many times with the great triumvirates of mountain, mystery, and night. Calm and quietus as her mighty egret carries Kylesa Mara above reflective ponds, in air it knows not day or night, the phoenix and rider Troy wait for her near the summit where the dins of battle cannot yet be heard, for this is the side of peacefulness where reflection of light from white feathers glows into his much radiant eyesight. In the same moment the avian opens for her landing beneath its wings faintly echoes the sound of conflict.

O’er the mountain, its other side much darker, the moon hangs as an angle of it, to look downward at the sight of dangerous edges and hidden mosses, dark shadows beneath each crag and jagged spiny scale of the granite, filling age-long cracks with weeds to blindly pull in disaster. This ground to climb unwelcoming by the blindfolded enemies and worse by the moonlight making villains into werewolves only on the heads of boulders, making them targets to the eyeless on the shadow-stricken rise. If not a werewolf oneself, imagine wounds that only heal in moonlight as Sino’s army attacks. Never slipping they slash at beasts who can pull into shadows to hide in mortality, dragging their wounded into being surrounded where the advantage is to the servants of the moonlight, and in this conflict even the men with the scarves on their eyes are still human, their stamina tested and having rested, despite the artifacts of protection to thicken skins or kindle dark magic’s purest sins, agility of foot and speedily stepping on the fallen as if the night ground were memorized.

A few torches lay aground strewn, flickering firelights against their faces distracted, a howl behind a stone from wounded hybrid without his moonlight magic, he is alone and restless, and then he is surrounded, but he smiles with bloodied face, for they are the surrounded. The mountainside is indolent and quiet as it swallows desolate echoes with fog and grass.

Werewolves feeding in the distance on the guards of the mountain, at their boundary new screams for new blood for new feeding rites of passage and power of healing, as the last man leaves the shadows for the passing moonlight he becomes a stoic wolf and feeds on the cursed.

A distant darkness serves silent footsteps where the earth sleeps, the trees hold their breath in fear of dropping leaves in her presence, Lilith, the first bloodborn, walks thru shadows like withering waves up the mountain, she is invisible in the moonlight and silent in darkness to the blindfold-men, a face of rage she does not blink. Her path is purposed and clear, passing by fighters for the violence, as blood familiar and new sprays into the wind, the bloodshed sprays on her face and lips is the smell in the air and taste on her fingers as her eyes become night.

As the night builds to crash across the sunset valley behind the other side of the mountains, the many caverns are a contrast of torches and inescapable blackness, where we find Sino balancing both, torch in left hand, a potion in the other that swirls three dark colors, his hand trembles, his eyes frenetic like panicked sleep as he drinks it. He calms unnecessarily, with eyes closed he hears the coven footsteps of intruders and digs his heels turning in the dirt.

The sound of a growing stormy sky becomes one with clashing steel and shield, a fist strikes a claw. Sino puts the necklace received from Belladonna around his wrist, firmly but cautious of the tunnel exits. Vampires approach the cavern, silent steps carrying sternly carried leather armor and the occasional scar, emptying themselves slowly into the open.

Uriel: Do – not – walk more!
Sino: A command… …by f* who…?
Vermillion: I am Vermillion.
Sino: How colorful.
Vermillion: I’ve come for the blood of traitors.
Sino: You’ve come for the blood of the undead?
Vermillion: Have you cheated death?
Sino: So many this day could be the anniversary of it. Have I cheated you?
Vermillion: If I find you’ve granted a stay to my betraying minions, so you have.
Sino: Their crime?
Vermillion: Stealing an immortal not theirs.
Sino: Tall like a corn stalk, funny even with a dagger in his heart?

Ana cries with her heart of fear and soul of desperation loudly from the next room.

Ana: I KNOW OF WHERE THEY ARE, THEY TOOK ME FROM HIM, THAT MONSTER BETRAYS YOU IN THIS MOMENT, I WILL TAKE YOU TO THEM!
Sino: You are many and this is your mountain, search it readily, but my guest, she won’t be taken.
Vermillion: Why wait to stop us…. (smile)….no dragon, Sino?
Sino: To hell with you!

Sino raises his hand and the green magic of the stone covers them, a pain and anguish as many escape others suffer verdant fire making them claw at the ground. Sino’s soldiers run into the cavern beginning to help him stab the accursed.

Blindfolded Man (Velen): Wolves attack, we are losing our numbers!
Sino: Dammit!

Sino puts his hand to the blind-soldier’s chest, the heart slows then stops. The blind soldier feels cold, green magic thunders thru him appearing as a green vapor warmth.

Sino: Vimond, you are my greatest soldier, but you will only survive if others die.
Vimond: I understand, I will destroy what I see.

The blindfolded soldier leads others toward vampires within the tunnels, Sino looks at his own hand to see it glow, the radiance courses into him and his eyes cloud, the soldier he touched runs with a fainter aura than the rest.

Vermillion walks around looking at things in the high-mountain dungeon and reminiscing at the walls, the blindfolded soldier that Sino had touched charges at them, but they the vampires are too skilled to defeat, almost taunting the blind, but refuse to fight the soldier without a heartbeat, shunned from conflict and outright ignored.

As the vampire monarch taps his finger on something, the blind-soldier wanders at the sound of the ticking dethklok, the vampires are confused by the fading heart and dragging feet, stumbling toward their monarch in timeless fashion, but with a failing heart falls forever short.

Vermillion: I guess his heart wasn’t in it. 

/ mj.banks / 

Beast of Burden

"Great deeds, great songs." ~ Klingon proverb

(1/3) Object

It has this air of time, this replication of what my readers are, on this day of days, tired of exaggerated extents and the beleaguered buoyancy to partial efforts in half measures, when not writing anything proves more worth. This further assists believers, further detracts dissenters, and proves in and of itself that anything can be written and no point be made. Thus, my goal is to stem the world from being swept away in sensation, but more than ever, prove that an essay about nihilism is equally pointless. It's an entirely absurd definition to face compulsion to write without hunger and then share describe it as such to those who have a hunger to write, so let the irony return.

In your electronic years, like garden plants whose seeds ruin their ability to fruit or whose flowers ruin their ability to extend roots, altho those things are true to the final form, having an evolving perception of something true as pure sunlight and making it responsible for actions unjustifiable to ourselves, often enuf.

(2/3) Verb

An internalization soon explodes on the world, without learning the social construct, without imagining the oppression of hive singularity, and avoiding the vast chasm of ignorance provided by defining the universe without going there. There is room to disagree with this, this isn't an irreversible pattern or outside force, it is not an irreversible mechanism. Perhaps it is and shouldn't be, perhaps it isn't and should.

The words confined to our human ideas, the ideas confined to words that aren't needed yet, in the minds of you and others, as are you and others in these simple words, part of a structure no more than grammar no less than sounds. The truth as a function of itself, or in reverse, echoes across reality, whether the depths of space already too large to imagine and forever impossible to complete, for there is no energy for that, so we form ideas of words and words of ideas and begin recording them all.

Wonders to be seen from the upper atmosphere, binary indicators 1 and 0 not only too small to see but indecipherable in magnetic form, and across the pages of books of oldest kings with the largest empires. Nothing new, nothing old, and nothing corrupt. Just the truth as we see it, no matter how many lies. The bird who flies toward the sun still sleeps in every night.

(3/3) Subject

These things in a fictional existence brought into being beyond the physical barrier, where you not to see them for yourself, incredible visions told to people in a moment, in person, on the network, remind me of what should be closer. The burden of proof not a requirement for fiction, but some illusion cannot be dissolved, the objective truth in the perspective lie, a shadow of its former self. It is the type of word that indicates its roots which eludes memory, but means to have only been written down because it is fact. As the point of all this escapes me.

The emperor writes a book and generals praise it's value in the present and bookworms value it in the past, just as a roof is praised then needs repairing. Like the need for books is passed from teacher to student of reading, there can only be time to import the essential nature. A dictionary does this, a liar does not. This entry has become more about memory and desire, and the luxury has been lost, if there is something of it worth repeating so shall it be done, and in the darkness a dawn, and in the heroes a song, so that the truest of words may be spoken, and the rantings of imbeciles be viewed as nature and not a poem.

"Only a Sith deals in absolutes" ~ Obi Wan Kenobi 

/mjbanks

Random Et Al

There are 43 muscles in a human face.

The possible facial expressions in combination is 43(!), also known as 43 factorial, meaning there are 60415263063373835637355132068513997507264512000000000 possible combinations.

Another way to look at that is, 6.0415263e+52, which is also just over 6 Sexdecillion, or in newspeak, six times sixteen-illion.

There are 6, 16-illion, ways for you to start a sentence.

It sorta makes you feel bad for people who never say anything new.

Then multiply that by itself everytime there's a word in the sentence and the number quickly exceeds more than there are stars in the sky.

Fate changes paradoxically, so multiply the number by infinity and divide by zero until everything echoes as reflections thruout the universe. 

We could describe every point in existence to increase the chance of discovering something that works, instead of agreeing on how to repeat, or repeating how to agree, on what's broken.

"As far as the laws of mathematics refer to reality, they are not certain, and as far as they are certain, they do not refer to reality." ~ Albert Einstein

Geni Vas Laco

At the sunset the horizon fills the sky, for the tides of thought are the breaking waves together and many, I dance in the center of light and feel pulled in all directions from the truth of all wisdom toward the hearts of infinite desires.

Our hopes are the tide of wit and joy tearing apart mountains of aged certainty and despots of our time, unable to bridge the lights of the dimensions with gateways of minds or echoes of truths, as are gone from the timeline of infinite loss, unable to remember what has been taken because it is not a memory of action, but yet a charge against our willpower mercy and tireless fight amongst the warmth of others.

It isn't known if this the vanishing truth is the only one, or the fading darkness is the custom or the cost, without knowing if circumstances are predictable in the shadow of itself or the causality of usual things, trusting with the fear of a young soul that it had not happened in waking dreams.

Riots of rebellion in questioning existence or garnering favor all in the existential questions, demanding more from the fountain of youth and staring at the stars, to where it is now another reflection, from this side of the dark mirror, of the living infinite, and the terrible question.

The negative space unbearably wasted, the impenetrable unknown that wanes with the loss of so many, that waxes with the ignorance that comes with incapable excuses at this egregious moment, in the world of the living, where now they bow to matters that must not take any reality for granted, to honor those that traveled on the surface of time and lived with infinite balance.

"Too much sanity may be madness and the maddest of all, to see life as it is and not as it should be."
~ Miguel de Cervantes