Tea Time for Telepaths

Posted this week from previous work to squeeze time into reviewing Myrddin stuff, for Friday next, but might mete out an a priori social autopsy, having talked to the locals, so check back. Click the links/titles to emails for me to know feedback free channel. Did notice in 6ch the dude wins and the chick survives, so cliche and vicarious if not telling, will be rotating weeks out since the twist is easy save betrayal, resolved but not a mystery like...

In 1916, Romanov hairdresser and overall snappy dresser Rasputin offended the royal family and he was subsequently poisoned by cyanide, bitten by a zombie, dragged by horses ridden by werewolves, shot in the back, shot in the chest, shot in the head, wrapped in a waste of a perfectly good rug, beaten with rug clubs, stabbed several times, wrapped in chains, and thrown into an icy river in the dead of winter, and his body never found, where local authorities soundly declared his death was caused by the coof. 

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“Who shot him? I asked. The grey man scratched the back of his neck and said: Somebody with a gun.” 

- Dashiell Hammett, Red Harvest

Razzmatazz

 /409 Razzmatazz 

Love is blind. Let’s talk about life after obsession, worrying about art and posts you made or everything the world has to teach and learning it in an instant. When questioning what my personal life would be if everything had to change, its an answer from two lifetimes ago, what to do when impossible. Tomorrow is a new day, and we all say, we know that. (At the time of writing this) Let’s also consider people coming out of quarantine, they might want to take shortcuts to anything masked in simplicity, our/one’s ideas are to answer easy questions with perfect answers. Days, events, dilemmas, and a football game has a start and end, over or not, and now is a new day. A lifetime ago my needs outweighed my wants and luckily they had the same reward/essentials for my life, after that it was another new journey in the middle of the journey to explore what life had to offer, a new day in a new life, and it all started with a cup of coffee. If you were to ask a seer, s/he knows that actions in life that most people don’t see, can steal time, and like magic release us after we want instead of sooner. If you were to ask a council, s/he might say actions are best casual and inquisitive before fun and games. If you were to ask a reverend, s/he might say that relationships are conversations to learn with the option of intimacy. A conversation is quite romantic, and for you guys it's an action move in the act of discovery.  You have potential to be honest, have someone to host the podcast with you, you want to know if the person can string a sentence together. Previously, these essays wrote about confusing needs and wants, start clean, with soft shoes and questions. There’s no need for one million roses, sometimes you feel like doing a magic trick, but you’d better be a wizard. It’s a part to see if you’re happy, you also might need to see if your needs/wants are reversed, but that’s life - you’re unique with questions, you’re young because you’re happy undoubtedly, and there’s always room for freedom. Sounds like magic to me, maybe. Now study or go to your job. 

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Elusive Elite

 /408 Elusive Elite

You can conquer some skills in 40 hours. You can pay for some lectures adding 20 hours over 4 months at $4000 (depending on the currency, century, country, corruption, etc) You can tame addiction, drive yourself like a horse into instincts, and you can break your bones to put yourself into submission, and respect, and improvement - but you are the choice in the question, your ideas are made of trillions of thoughts, and your thoughts are the world and the dream where you see. There tomorrows, and there are yesterdays, now can wait and you cannot. / Lo que quiero, lo tengo, ellos se quieren, y cuán hay tenemos, os flipais como politicos, yo supongo que será en éste mundo. / Planned (political) obsolescence, first to get them to think they need it, if I say they're bad, it's predicated on assumptions including that I'm not, as if to manufacture dissent among the recently disenfranchised; elitists that no their disorders well and the ivory towers still evacuate some ere. At the gym, I am (ego). Music makes harmony, bureaucracy makes sanctimony. It's row after row, bouts of being, that the longer the suppression the longer depression, with late night rants against a system like advice from beggar to billionaires, why was he giving advice I'd say. At lengthy conversation, the truth of exploration and the flaws in logic, mix the reason and direction and nothing works, or you're tired and it's time to rest. Instead of making goals forgotten and losing the voice of reason, there's a lot going into the last thought before reflection, make this and the next place safe. / As problems have answers, a dream without obstacles isn’t one route to success, but errors or old habits not replaced, with the conceit of trust in (what) dreams (are made of) and recklessness of bad priorities, threatens every other wo/man’s reputation, even the young and innocent from places we might pass in our own learning/journey; it puts them in the danger zone, rumors and stereotypes mirror you as professional liars and panic planning, what those could’ve been a pebble in the road some time ago, or the mountain we stoically face, as we win, and survive a bad morning, or good luck and bad, or loss and suffering, to become refreshed and potential, a deep breath and ability, and not bring bad weather to humanity and family with hard doctrines to every commentator. Have stock and faith in yourself and begin again. Manners holding our thoughts together, behavior of the civilized. 

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Neoliberalism Lite

/407 Neoliberalism Lite 

Churnalism, in a way that peer reviewed isn’t always expert-reviewed, the publishings and segments and articles balanced in the conceptual eye of a child, where similar things begin pointing to an evil destiny when all these negative things combine, in the ways that undermining leadership resembles undermining credibility resembles abuse of equals. It’s dismissive of the ways that people discredit each other, a sexist calls a woman hysterical or a man a thief, this psychic vision based on personal beliefs are as hateful as ever, as intended, as meant to be. They spend centuries describing their foes, to make war, to hold society hostage, to feed off the ratings system, defending yourself doesn’t change their hate, describing yourself doesn’t change their hate. Air the dirty laundry, their emotions, the low fire burning to only attack others, lying or believing until others are gone, where all they know is how to combine our fears and turn the afraid against humanity. Wrong is wrong, right is wrong. Understanding the wrongs will pull weeds and grow faster than the pesticides. I’ve been reading the headline of “psychic war” here and there, to be noticed perhaps, and they seem like a collective unconscious, but still listening to the words in the music. Targeting goals in competition we want over finish lines, we want to put points on boards, to want to remember why, or not. The maze of confusion and obeying wrong causes could/maybe comes from knowing the wrongs, knowing the missed rights, and fixing the present without the paths of failure. To fix an ice float while on it, instead of paddling back first (in time). Emergencies happen. Warnings become anecdotes when society becomes numb to pain, which prescriptions we become addicted-to, the naive scream, the addict screams, the inmate screams, and we are screaming at them. Perhaps it’s time to prepare ourselves. What it is without preparing, creates the panic of our society. Prosper to have prosperity. / Imagine that authoritarianism and the militias, insert rioter name here, they oppose memes because they support actions of censorship and narrative, replacing humor with rockwell statist knockoffs. The persona is self, exposing that people have been delivered viewpoints, a puzzling rebellion or skillful alignment, and perceptions are made in reality but instinct.

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Sine Heir

 /406 Sine Heir

The negative positive waves of sound, in the static electricity of emulsifying sounds drowning each other, like too many lead guitarists or cooks in a kitchen, we avoid negative wavelengths at length, to avoid cancelling and contradictory frequencies. A signal has a wavelength, in digitizing sound the length and height of a wave can contain more energy and be encoded or encapsulated to complex cyphers and systems, as songs make us feel certain ways, a single note can interrupt thoughts, and data is decoded. When listening to my headphones a cello plays at 50Hz, a lower tone melody that drained at my battery of my Bluetooth headphones quicker than the short beeps and high pitched guitar solos, a steady and long vibration at the cost of battery life. The universe vibrates at a frequency to the fringes of existence, and we live in it, in some spirituality it passes thru us, in some reality it bounces on us and around us. For the deep tones of the universe to create a song in the human mind, we would need more energy just to hear it, or live longer to download all that the stars have to offer. For these times each news is new, and we in pattern, doting the digital like it’s some teacher, recreate this scripted presentation, infantile we prioritize the reflections of the meaningless information sphere, and aged we defend it as the path. Imagine walking toward a moving mirror, and for it to break we break it, simple, but all are reflections of each other, and all are reflections of the questions that time offers us to explore. To gain an understanding of the many worlds, to teach like forgotten stars and annoy like the distractions, as if shielding and reflecting the great lessons of time would get us any closer. The thoughts and ideas, or ideas and plans, or plans and goals, or goals and victories, or victories and adventures, or adventures and possibilities. This simulation would have to be in the isometric inverted equilateral polygon, inside a square mirrored box, or the shape of your choosing, and able to create the illusion to see forward, to become the reflections needed to advance the understanding of what is behind you, without the mirrors cascading deception for any perspective, and for every possibility we multiply every possibility because the universe to be explored is expanding in all directions, and any mathematical point is expanding in all directions as the basis for infinite space, another debate for less poetic papers, which we have yet to discover. The material that doesn’t exist, will the growth of expanding energy and wavelengths creating infinite environments create all that hasn’t been created yet? Will space consume space, adding echoes to the wavelength frequency/note too loud for us to hear? Until you impress on yourself the direction, you will never remember your future. A big distraction interrupts, small distractions add together eventually, a mind in balance moves quick in the way. / It’s amazing what oneself can master in 40 hours. In a week one could learn free/freely on the internet what some universities charge (stimulated and simulated) thousands (currency) over months. The television will let you master how to spend time with people, what the wisdom of response is, but you must write the lines. Yours is a life tomorrow, and the same today. Yesterday is never, tomorrow is clever. Look at the story, to adventure you travel with the gods in the machine, to lead you take these lessons memorized. You will lead if you study. Often many learners are teachers, a book has many words put in sentences in order, but a lecture has a direction, as a visual learner you choose the direction and the order, only the unknown is a mystery. We learn, because often we are more confident than qualified. A debate plays emotions against merit, this isn’t where the geniuses are. Look at the arguments, judge the cases without yourself, pick a side with emotion, see the chance with sympathy, but will it never be wise to say you know. We live, find peace, and become learners. One who knows all seeks nothing, such a person we will study. Without the fires of learning societies wouldn’t have left our caves eons ago, and with the energy of the universe its radiation addz entropy, but we must explore it anyway. 

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Sidequest: Sersero

_20210312 Sidequest: Sersero

1 Entwined Consort, 2 The Blue Visions, 3 Silence of Husband, 4 The Soul’s Dream, 5 The Past of the Silver, 6 Truth in the Winter

Entwined Consort, Constortia Entrelazat

Hay que dia formosa, al que sirve a dormirse lo sueno hechicero haga repletamente los raices integrales suyos a el, del cuan atrasada y luchada le alcanzar hacia luces azules por reglas estoicas ancianas para vive de fortuna resplendamente con respiras sagrosas y ira fortaleza, hasta el paso pasado encontrar de venganza. 

The Blue Visions, Las Vixiones Axules

Del camino era senales de los pies pesados, y demas del viente cumple oscuro con luz nublada, por la cosa aqui que se descubrien entrega se la conflicta de inmortal mensajes infinitas, la luz convertirse en rama del luz por el cielo al hechicero llegando fuego como horror y lagrimas como ratos volandos donde hay que sobrevivir contra un espectro del puente noche, se abrigan irates en cuan miedo y mentiras hay isorportables y luchas son respuestas del respirar y ver, por las historias de los maestros se recuenta claridad y lo repuesta su fortaleza mental con un peleazga, adelarse tras un pared con piezas del refleccion, de que los estrellas se conectan una vision del estress por su reya reisa, las lineas del luces estan la lluvia en los ojos del hechicero durmiendo, y elevarse a caminarse con las marcas de la batalla mental en actual.  

Silence of Husband, Marito Silenxia

El camine de que caminante, para la lugar que lo vio’, lo que el pueblo que pueden interferir lo se hagan, por silencia el camina con ojos atentados, alla atacan cien ciegos a ‘el, el se clampiendo cuellos y lanzando cuerpos, el ladra una corda y la usa en el aire por cazador y defenderlo a paso y a razon del historia buscante, por un caballo entrega caballeros noches y luches espaldes de la tierra mystica, la magica levanta por el sustrato y sus armas, sin alarmas el hechicero los retira al mundo por tratando asi viento del oscuro y del fuego permeando sus respiras, con sus botas en la teirra mojada electricidad se les toma inculcado para final, y el camina por el paso durante el vapor, aqui este caballo se permite una silla abajo y dos pies seran cuatro y el paso parece mas corto. 

Por fon

The Soul’s Dream, Sweno tel Alma

La tierra parece normal, a quienes que verlo hay el hechicero tocando el pelo del animal nobleza y corriendo rápido afuera de los ojos de la noche forestal, flechas y sonidas con gritas y cantas dan miedo atrás del zona, el dueña focua correr a las rocas debajo de la montaña, pues ya esperan seres armadas y listos por geniales para las metodas mágicas, como targeteros con un especiero amicable al hechicero. 

The Past of the Silver, El Pasat tel Plata

A rear al frente hay cryaturas myticas come es común, a las armas y restricturas han capturadole, el señor del castillo le admite a las duplicidades tomar la reya y la mensaje mentirosa al sirve como se buscando a él y no se cauteloso sin pertrechos les conversan sobre el debido del tiempo como fue las libras de lucas o pesos de platas tan muchas monedas de las caras de los monarcas antedelluvianos y no se están de acuerdo, el mágico no tiene el impuesto y no lo quiere el señor, este hecho en retraso porque ya no el espera de respira cuando la lucha encende a banga sorpresa, él toma armas sin peligro,pero les no tengan medio un frío y el puede decomisarles con sus mismos espaldas, además el señor ir y listo a tener el súbito cambio por el, entonces si la transferencia de vita sagrada ocurre que no permite cuán el hechicero al reverso danza del cortada mortal así que entender los músicos cielos, y el señor toca morir mentirosa hasta escape como un eco.

6 Truth in the Winter, Vertat Invierno

No confías hechicero al sonidas del pies, a decir joder al eco del cazar con exaustio y al abierta de la montaña el don flipa pelearlo duramente por un mano con piedra, un corto profundo dando sangre en el invierno altíso de la platea, ella le golpe crashando y corriendo y terminé hechicero el don, las luces de sus ojos morir, el fin.

En el hielo el don sufrir los sueños del muerte, un cuervo si come su sangre y sus ojos inician radiar, en vuelta, ya un serpiente come el avión y sus ojos inician radiar, en slitha, un pantero alcanza el reptile y sus ojos inician radiar, en iniciar que decir como seres….

How tf do you say elves in Spanish? …."elfos", de qué? 

Sidequest: Isarnom

20200311 Īsarnom 

1 Entwined Consort, 2 The Blue Visions, 3 Silence of Husband, 4 The Soul’s Dream, 5 The Past of the Silver, 6 Truth in the Winter

Entwined Consort

This was everything the promise of reckless submission that old stories stories become new, after looking at mirror with smoke in his veins the journey to Mars was with final thoughts and destinations, the long journey ends in cryostasis with the oxygen levels in lowest levels of production, 3 and 32 weeks in Martian months, but his use is problematic in the stasis tank and he died, for a moment, quickly put into cryotherapy to repair the brain damage, but with it many memories lost for the cost, a hundred years ago he would've died, and since he won't remember much of muchness in such of suchness the doctors kept him on ice almost a Martian year, until the next new arrivals, calling his next of nextess to send or sell his things. 

The Blue Visions

She lands on Mars at landing cycle and decontaminates during simple debrief, to see him a spot in her eye overcomes memory and after seeing the glass gardens and pneumatic recyclery she meets him as his cryochamber opens, looks and touches, empty eye, cold memory of forgotten realms to tears of many reasons, he can't remember many words not least his name, karma and mistake would honest apologies be abandoned and wasted she leaves out all the same, for this he would become a repairman as the reprogramaron made him belong to Mars, as she would stay to earn a place or wherefore depart, where her biochemicelectronanite degree was found a task she hasn't needed to ask what wars of a future made from the past of many men has come to make the red planet blue, but the styles they choose to paint the picture keep drawing over each other, and she's caught in a blast during an interview for morale on Mars and Earth.

Silence of Husband

In the video she looks off screen, but for historicity she was thinking about who she sees and expecting the unexpected, with warfare and warrior resurrected, a scratch becomes a latch, a creak becomes collapse, and bell becomes a blast, first he repairs a flaw to prevent a vent attack, next to storage where sabotage avoided keeps many people out of cryostasis, many times the warehouse defended as his instincts are the determination for results, and for making enemies on both their sides and both their spies escapes with innocents and caving them in saving some of them without air, the authorities get to choose if repairs to the tunnel are sentence or salvation.

The Soul’s Dream

He's given consoling and considerations without opulence, and mended and sent to reprogramming, he sees the blast on the news and sees her, memory inculcate dreaming brings regeneration where fictions and possibilities make indoctrination intimations of the new memories and indignation from old visions, a history made a journey delayed, interspersed by people and light of home and dawn become the single light.

The Past of the Silver

Three factions become two by will of force consuming betrayals, and two collectives coalesce to end him, but the mental upgrades without time for bad habits haven't alarmed out altered the bads, with instinct and no training in his new mind his one track mission attacks with caution relying on forwardness, leading to the biochemicelectronanite lab and souvenirs shop and she's confronting and disarming, in part with weaponizing her environs, as he takes damage his defense has to stay behind him and be a trap, built with the resources each of three more intricate than the last, they have her sequestered and trap him twice after fatal flaw, to be benevolent they reprise their statements of charter, notice his chevron, and ask them to submit to reprogramations. > The doctor has taken the other side as their leader.

Truth in the Winter

The sheriff has taken the other side as their leader. < They're trapped with the factionalists and isolated by the authorities threatening at least defeat before destruction, the factions quickly choose death before dishonor, she provokes it escaping and ending more off them one quite viscerally, they ask him to end her and he says yes, he winks to her and holds the phaser in his off hand, she bolts left and he shoots right, the shot cuts the barrier, the terrorists break down the security walls from the inside, the landing area had repressurized less than the stronger walled valuable quarters, the transparent aluminum doesn't keep warmth without heating coils, I thought you didn't know me, I don't even know your name, lasers, police, targeted suppression and erasure as escape leaves the factions trapped by lazer wall, she looks at the settlement.

He gives her his copy of her favorite party rulebook and she knows he remembers, she joys and he humors.

He had pulled the pin on the safety protocols, and all the bads are reduced. 

Him: Keenan

Her: Abella

Doctor: Mick Velly

Sheriff: Daren

Reprogrammer: Samson

Blue Alpha: Lou

Red Alpha: Marten

Green Alpha: Sara 

Sidequest: Geni Genasi

Sidequest: Geni Genasi 

1 Growing Name, 2 The Whispering Dreamer, 3 Words of Men, 4 The Fire’s Something, 5 The Fire of the Pirates, 6 Stars in the Birth

Growing Name

And turn to sleep the stars in the sky, and learn to breathe the dark in the night, the wind with sounds of woods and breeze over the leaves of trees bending to the waves in thoughts, and where three huts for trapping traders aside a road nearby a cabin in the forest burns to coals, whence it rains, the water drops drop and echoes echo in mist over mud, and for a time the traders trade in dry and shade until they are no more for what’s in store, and like hot iron on a map a trail  of incidents incendiary which to propensity for offense and defense got of harm and alarm boils tempers that render into a calm at best distrust, with all the sounds of weapons sharpening without the rust like crickets of tooth and nail, therewith hail and windows dashed, forthwith gusts of chanting mercenaries discussing mercy cites latch their gates. 

The Whispering Dreamer

For the sun shining the light intertwining in the student’s eye, and pushed no memory worthy himself to sleep where winds brush lips as moonlight in poems of more restful times, and restless grows the darkened night and creatures eyes beneath leaves in sight, and by his footsteps travels the living dream and sight unseen by watcher of the wandering smoke as cabin flames among the trees, and then it rains as travelers disdain it and stammering refrains from learning the names of the roadside few, and there in the puddles behind footsteps the water bleeds, and for this the whispering dreamer describing bodies of music and works of instruments where skies meet heaven, like the drops on the leaves, like the wind between trees, so quiet every sound the dreaming whisperer nor those to tell were best if found, were not around, would make the ground a graveyard, for this secret is just the song, as also not made to tell if woke. 

Words of Men

This the messengers were sent and panic in the land, and panic trust most dangerously cuts several journeys short preventing riders riding and armies binding to find the demon in the hills, as were they many a man fearing truths of prior wills, and on the day a first prince in the old city near the city bordering the thirsting salt flats had searched the cursed grounds returned to be made king for rhyme or reason, and fearing the neighboring climate in the driest season made call for the empty throne to be carved in the forest to his south in the center of all the lands, and for this request from fairytales it was done, and identical rings sent to all the other kings, each with a stick of wax and matches, with each messenger watching wastrels on their paths never hasty slow to envoy errant task, where he himself sat waiting on woodchips staring at the chair made from tree with roots deeper than any other, one after another the kings would come thru weeds and vines and obstacles behind them appearing after hiding behind a tree, announcing their names until there is twentythree, and me of course, matching the signets to be sure, looking for a cure for the charcoal lines on the map without trust but with alliance, and in defiance only one, the termagant of villages, the despoiler of riches irreplaceable, the demon come to crawl. 

The Fire’s Something / This Fire Burns

My mind consumes me, the air grows still without freshness, as heat rises the clouds of the sunlight part for rays of heat and glare, like a footstep a sound of a wood snap, with eyes in all directions there are no trunks broken, at this end of summer day a man with black wet hair and cloud-white face stands as distant as dark horizon backed by deepest red glow like creeping death of burning blood in their minds, the fires of this heat worsened by charred black smoke rising and darkness falling, raging thoughts stealing the color of the demon’s eyes and lifeless measure as waves of hands bring shards of stars in turns of twenty breaths, and for the summer ground soft steps to have him leap behind trees for somewhere else, the kings and I, see flashes what would blind us happen to others, trees with arms begging the skies for rain hold spears of fire for the demon to throw and screams without silence for every king to know, glows the wicked smile in our eyes before blades strike at shadows, madness and ire consume where tragedy rhymes with something broken trees conspiracy to curtains of flame and maze to drive a bird insane as flight or fight become one. 

The Fire of the Pirates/ The Fire of Protection 

Throne cries the sweat of the ground with fires dancing behind it, the wood red from heat and fires glowing, each king with fortunes untold of mystical weapons with treasures on their hands with priceless magic rings, and they put back black fire from arrows and battle to the elbows in the cinders and their own blood, screams to threaten the demon as it growls, one with fire of black swirling could covers the demon in soot it wipes from its eyes, and blade of burning steel, from ents and elves the green clouds of nightshade and ashes cover the demons skin black moss it burns thru but doesn’t kill, iron arrows and full-swing axes cause screams and thrashes where the demons eyes become fire and howling rage of blazen rejection make good hunters into fire pits, it bleeds oil and healing scars become wicked ink, but each step slightly sinks trodden as its own besotted black magic armor costs speed against us, distracting in half our numbers in twilight of smoke and terror, we are the bearers of war and survival. 

Stars in the Birth 

Remains of men are broken bones underfoot of demon and great soldiers and warriors, the demon waves for stars to fall and shards of black hail begin and blocks many swords, and steps back, brushing away spears in its heart and liver breaking them and taking them to wield and slash at armor and always then air, it steps back, toward the empty throne, and from the living are the kings born of old magic in their eyes putting arrows that never miss, we bleed and break defenses to plant daggers to their hilts in blitz to be thrown away, it breaks each knife at the hilt one after another without wasting a single step nor breath, and so we kneel and gasp and bend our will submit, but as nothing ever quits it begins to rain a mix of ash and blood, the smell of death the signs are bad, the fires dying the times are good we hold our lives and choke on smoke and soot and sick from our wounds soaking all the sulphur, as a blue-skinned priestess walks with water in her footsteps, with wit of gods old kings bow in fear as she graces by them, waving her hand the demon stops afore us, a puddle before me I drink the clean water to live again and curse the battle as been all but lost, she takes the demon’s head and turns his eyes, she takes the demon’s face and turns his neck, and with it I see something of myself, the genie asks if the king of the empty throne still wishes for an heir to ascend when he is gone, and he tells them most impolitely the impolite, and so the genie takes the young demon and whispers thoughts into his mind and his eyes become like kings, with her hand of ashes and rings of the dead kings, and walks the child into the blood-soaked charred marred wood over mud of ash and crowns. 

The wooden king looks down to see a dagger in his chest, a strange light pouring from his wound, a familiar weapon and the demon’s hand full of rings, and falls into the throne of the wasteland. 

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Sidequest: The Lovelocke Ring

Sidequest: The Lovelocke Ring

1 Stripped Ashes, 2 The Ragged Rings, 3 Lords of Edge, 4 The Sky’s Names, 5 The Wife of the Alien, 6 Ship in the Scent 

Stripped Ashes

In the forest dark where rain makes need of paths of rows of branches, and occasionally a bridge of ropes and planks, there is a yurt of wicker walls blanketed in old leathers and roofed with pitch and such, in it a dwarf sits by a fire, the dwarf carefully puts a bone over two twigs, and more carefully burns a stick and roasts the bones with wide eyes and close stare, putting the little torch down an open hand soiled and worn and looks like the bottom of its own feet it takes a tiny knife and strips away the ashes of the bones, this carefully shows one side grey as storm with moon, and one side made of glittering silver, scraped into a thimble and melting down most small of pellets, aside a woolen sack stuffed with feathers of some orange glean, and finished eats pieces only seared without. 

The Ragged Rings

And takes the pellets in a box of suede and mink the dwarf to the town for which he’s come to, and in a tavern shop of maps and sorts requests a trade for things only dwarves would want to do things only dwarves would do and for a price only dwarves would ask, when the terms were balanced and compensation trades, the dwarf leaves with many eyes on him, not so many of them watching an elf twice as tall as any sturdy dwarf demanding a ring be made of the exchanged precious metals, only able to pay a broken ring, the smith in anger finds frustration as the elf insists, and offers to mend the broken ring, but the elf will only have a new one made with the blood of the dwarf, and attempts to steal the pellets when he is refused, the smith is strong and knocks him into sleep and sells him to the sheriff for peace of mind, all the eyes have left the tavern and many feet are behind the dwarf, they put the dwarf into a very big sack and drag him thru away, but the dwarf is just too heavy, and from the bag the callous hand grabs one and pulls himself out, and begins throwing them into each other like toys of waves, and takes their leader back to the tavern and presents him to the governor, demanding ransom for his face, they won’t pay and bargain for this to entertain, and proud dwarf puts his mighty hand on the elf’s face, and asks what motives had they gave unto the smith, he tells them about the new band and the broken ring and the blood they mentioned, but he is only a smith and not an alchemist or wizard all the same, there the dwarf does something sinking to the drunken elf, and demands the smith make the ring with his blood and the broken one mentioned in exchange for all the pellets he’d still saved, with the smith apt to mention the broken one could be with the elves, and after many pockets it wasn’t found, but the new ring with his blood was made and the elf was low. 

Lords of Edge

The elf began his quietest steps in secret, and looking for elves finds them drinking at night sat on split wood fence, and takes one for their drunken attention, searching for the broken ring from hostage soon to ask the others where it was, with wrong answers they were dealt blows of fate, with what’s at stake the others hid in rooms with wine and candles, but with rope of loop the dwarf would yank them from their hiding spots like fish from water, by nights end the dwarf has found them all and asks for the broken ring, they ask him, why he needs a broken ring when he has a new one, for this he pardons them deeming their question fair and answers, for every selfish pride the point of principle as some balance despite the rugged rage and creating despair, and apologises, so they tell him it’s in the pocket of their friend who is unconscious on the ground, he searches the pocket and finds the broken ring, and apologises a second time, attacking one more for sport and running into the night on his fat sturdy legs like half a horse.

The Sky’s Names

The dwarf returns to his hut, and looks at the ring with a glass between his eye, and asks the ring its name, he puts a candle to the broken ring and it burns his fingers hot and he asks it why it burnt him, without answer, so he decides to melt the ring and be done, and it will not melt, hammering it doesn’t flatten, by bit of magic freezing it doesn’t shatter, soon to grind it on a stone it doesn’t scathe, and with the pile of feathers it makes the sound of a singing night, the feathers are too weak to scratch at it, he grinds a feather first and looks in his book, and decides to bash the ring, some marks are made where the dust and pestle strike each other, but little is done and he falls asleep, at dawn the fire burns the woolen sack but the feathers remain, so he spends the day trying to turn the feathers into torches and wicks and other tricks, defeated the dwarf sits and takes his knife in one hand and his hair in another and huffs and breaks a single teardrop before cutting a lock of his strands, a feather wrapped in hair burns with the smell of muddy dwarf, but the feather stays alight and with it the language of sky burns into the ring and rolls it over the back of his hand to burn the message on his skin, the ring screams and fractures and bursts into sulphur and smoke. 

The Wife of the Alien

The dwarf leaps thru his door mostly into the mud next to the foot bridge, having to put his hands into the mud to stand, there a woman stands in the mud quite clean in blue on black with a cat purring and cuddling a nearby tree, who tells him he is too messy and should clean himself before his house or the dirt will follow him, the dwarf still proud states his name while he wipes his hands clean on the mud of his front, and claims to know why she has come and who she is, with shock she pauses then denies it and walks across the mud without concern and on the clean ground finds a seat on a tree stump, we haven’t met she says and he agrees, you are who comes when men have failed i hope it isn’t me, undoubtedly so much is true for you it shouldn’t be, but your next choice might be the one to set you free, kind and noble dwarf, Freton Hillborne of Lovelocke, another cat, with silence he slowly kneels back into the mud and lowers his head and then hat, for this the blue lady laffs in part with memory, i go gentle and quick your highness, and her eye almost a tear of laffing, no no you are now my familiar and will be fed, a half of a laff, until a soon ill fate, he asks her with many emotions surfacing as contempt, you mean until too late, his question, where her story blinds of present things to tell of a king, whose ring was broken and when misspoken to replace it made not one enemy but two, the dwarf confused ask for the painting of details of the picture she tell, instead her story considers mystery which had ended in a hunt for all before, from hunt to tavern and more, and hears her tell of how (who seems her king by her intonations) the man was a prisoner of his plans, how the danger of refusing her was worse than her demands, you will face the road unwavered, you will make for the port of thieves, and from the ship of choosing be it the first you see must take the landing port of demons across the gargoyle sea. 

Ship in the Scent 

He writes symbols in his book, clean he buys boots to make himself taller and a hooded cape to hide from rains and people, at the pirate port he watches good deals go quickly bad and messengers deliver letters paid for worths greater than all the cargo of the whole day, and so he takes the time to learn the jargon only to send an empty box, they quickly search and find a letter, a messenger is interrogated for the loose paper and the day continues, so he sends a box of empty boxes and in finding them it passes over the water and across the sea of rivers the demon port explodes, there is little that can be done to undo it, in a week the dwarf sends another crate with a boy in it, when searched they find pages about demonology and wake him with punishment and send him to confinement, and release the crate over the great sea of rivers, where none claim it, and with curiosity open it and it soon explodes, sooner than later a cannon shoots an iron ball at the pirate port, the third shot almost making shore, the pirates shoot an arrow the size of a cow and both sides quickly change their flags from red and black to red or black, high up the sea the goblins run down to aid the gargoyles, high up the river the elves come to aid the pirate men, and downstream the as many alligators can carry ten million scales open their eyes and wait for which bodies will drift toward them, and with this commotion Lovelocke grabs and apple as he walks and struts onto the closes warship and rides with a pirate army to attack the hellish and far shore, to obtain the king and his broken ring for the lady of the lake. 

The lady in blue arrives at the pirate port and takes control with the pirate king’s throat at the wishes of her knife, where she orders them to open fire on the gargoyles and the pirates fighting together, Lovelocke begins fighting the pirates back onto the ships and back across the water with his narrow eyes and distant stare. 

/

Dwarf: Lovelocke

Smith: Norban 

Elf: Preslyn

Lady: Skyler

Kid: Deni

Pirate: Cade

Gargoyle: Lajon 

paypal.com/swehttamxam 

Sidequest: Second Skin / The Diary of Jane

Sidequest: Second Skin / The Diary of Jane 

1 Trembling Witch, 2 The Delicious Bride, 3 Flames of Force, 4 The Girl’s Flame, 5 The Names of the Nobody, 6 Planet in the Tales 

1 Trembling Witch

Making trouble in the woods a warlock sets a trap by turning a tree cold and cosmic, but wounded himself in the hexing and for his vexing limped to the nearest den of witchery at recent his home, screaming internally at the unknown effects of the blue electric willow, could it be of poison or insanity, the coven witch makes quick to tend to him, and inspecting him says little, fortunate son of the dark arts uses enchanted rings to halt the effects, the magic of the ring draws from her spellbook, or for his quick self-preservation, brags and now or underlying offense she knicks her finger and bleeds, and now they both are wounded, she slows, but with his attention widened his curse excites and his pain gets loud, she wavers, she asks to look at his palm, she trembles, and stabs his palm with an isosceles dagger, fire from his pupils, light from the wound, as she pushes his head down he slinks dead to the floor, tearing away the knife stays stuck in the table. 

2 The Delicious Bride

She quickly runs and gathers her tools of crude medicine, in ceremonious listing the songs of his blood and bone, slowly mixing a concatenation of preparation by small cauldron on iron hook by the fireplace, carefully adding the potions of moondust and charm, cautiously stirring with the knife and the dead warlock’s blood, her potion is strong and glides from knife clean but a drop atop her tong, the nails on her hand in the shadow of fire and coals, grow long not unlike knives, in witless instance pushing the hot cauldron aside toward the flames, without burning herself, and finds herself waking at a meal of the warlock, with the unhealthy meal, immoral thoughts, and unseemly theme she’s taken aback, in fear of every thought, but drawn back into the unscrupulous plot, finishes her meal, ignoring the coming storm heavily falling over hills. 

3 Flames of Force

The falling of rain, the sounds of distant thunder, the sound of drums, the hooves of horses, horsemen of the first horsemen, the roving kings, fireheads shot from bolts of alluvium steel, torches thru windows, dismounting only to brash and thrash their black steel thru doors and weak walls, armor with sharpened seams protection from burgeoning flames, only to find her digging into the dead warlock, for her the vitality ingredients to reverse her curse, for them a guleh, still a venerated witch she blocks blades with armor of light, throwing wind and feeding flames biting at the threads of her black wedding dress, they beat her with one torch and then another and by the third she moves fire as a chorus and the stars shine on her as the roof of the home opens, a fallen rampart reveals an artifact she uses against herself and in their pause her suicide doesn’t make her feared and they attack again, but now she doesn’t bleed and with flash of light blinded soon seeing herself at their leader’s neck and now their fear begins, and in some way her doubts, and in a rage defeats them, finding her skin doesn’t burn but her clothes are about to do, and reveals her intents escaping takign the book from under the table in the center and walking over the burning walls barefoot, for some reason a horse comes and offers ride. 

4 The Girl’s Flame

She wakes standing in the forest at the wicked willow glowing blue like night and sky and cold like water and wind, the traces of the hexing, after looking she learns what pieces were missing that made his spell go tragically wrong, but finds herself against the tree, her hand raised to it and listening with somber gentle hymn to comfort it, needing to know if the dead warlock had the cure or if the tree held a potent potable extract, but with it knew nothing else as he had taken his wisdom to the next life, and with it the methods of the roots of her curse and the starlight willow, she takes the iconic blade of these tales and stops before cutting the willow hearing tears in its voice, and in defeat depression claims to rest staring at the skies, twirling the knife at her side the stars align, she notices the dagger has magnetism pushing the stardust away in a circle, and remembers the moondust she had, panic tearing thru pages carefully each the next at a time her eyes finding elements of old magic matching then a graven curse and cursed earth, explaining her condition as ten parts zombie and one part vampire on account of the thirsting death root taxonomy of this variety of red willow, in blinding memory she stares at the tree, the blue light, the red leaves, the brown bark, blinds her eyes with colors from the future, hypnotized enthralled by it.  

5 The Names of the Nobody 

She wakes in a tavern blood handed, enemy branded by the fireplace weapons and angry innsmen, short taunts and steady attacks in processioned fashion, thrown and angry she in turn angrily rises and ragingly throws them, she makes short work of it, a youth watches w studious eyes and in march she scares the student only to grab a haggard butterknife, and carves out a heart as the townsfolk gather, heartbeats in her hand the blood in timed waves washes away the ghoulish skin and makes talons brittle, she rests in sight and dreams of combat then raises the heart and drinks, the spilling blood at best for thirst in mess washes away the death from her lips, in the chaos the fallen candles broken lanterns douse in the beer and blood, she sees it’s day and with stamina marches across the chaos to bash a skull open and go for brains, renewing her zombie state and ruining any chance of cool, next to the door her fight breaks the door and the first thru it, quickly taking a horse and running away with the herdsmen to follow with three other horses, she arrives at the path near the shadows of the willow forest with three heads at her side and leaping to the ground the horse fears the dark like the devil at dinnertime, and strutting double-thoughtedly drops them and then herself and eats, never opening the book, sure to clean it and go into the black and quiet forest. 

6 Planet in the Tales (Niðavellir)

She reads her book of spells in a very old town in the very old mountains where a lawman arrests her, and for her book is charged with witchery, and with her hands bound releases herself and tears into them, quickly second is the lawman who had revenge due him, and quickly fleeced him for his metals, the rings and ringlets and coins and quarter chits, and in her trusted tavern quickly moved to pull a clear stone from a medal, she’s asked about the precious metals and intrigued and intimated at her perception and something of nonplussed, about to discard it she asks about a wine and a meal and bets the rest toward her credit, and murders the knave delivering it, then finds herself appearing at a single appellate court or bursar or bookkeeper dwarf of broad shoulders and arms for warship oars, she is in iron shackles with the dwarf raising hackles of her litany of crimes, the floorboard rattles with the cutout of a square, she asks for a sword sharper than fear, it can’t shy from only the glow of wicked willow, the dwarf moves his hand, each fingerprint made of dusty and coarse callouses like rows of a sewn hill farm, and touches her book, his look old and pained and with the strange voice of birds and mud that all dwarves have he orders her uncuffed, pointing to the guards in the shadows and pushing her book to the edge, not letting her take it he whispers with the cup of his hand where impish magic echoes the creaks and planks of the room, opening the book and pointing to something. 

The dwarf slams the book shut, waking her up with blood on her talons and fangs, unable to speak, but able to scare with screams of gore and fete. 

/ch

/cast

Tree: Salerel (voice)

Warlock: Emet Hart

Witch: Jane Doe

Horseman_1/Sheriff: Bogi 

Horseman_2: Sólskin

Horseman_3: Dagan 

Horseman_4: Duna 

Barkeep: Geron

Barback: Zaac

Fence: Sasha Rathmor

Knave: Rouland

Deputy: Halun

Dwarf: Erim Oxbraide 

paypal.com/swetthamxam

Anunnaki

_20210301 -Away Mission- Anunnaki, Anki 00

The ancient humans with all the time standing against nature stood against each other.

100 years a weekend trip for immortal aliens, they came and ate us, and gave one their improvement shots, and the one started speaking words, and became the catalyst of human evolution, the guests stayed and built pyramids and their bacteria improved the ecosystem by adding complex acids new to this planet, and one day humans evolved to be the standard beings, eventually defining morals and refining ideas and learning science, but we had never the ability to contribute to the sailors of the stars, one day to join them, perhaps the Promethean kings were given fire too soon, for this a fiction can’t know, and yet, still questions the words those ancients would give us, or what words we could make of them, their behaviors one moment thiers one moment ours, our movement one moment ours one moment theirs, and from this planet had they come and gone, and from this planet will we come and go, and get closer to the answer before questioning another world. 

Today, a shuttlecraft lands in view of a mountain in the grass of spring pushing cool and slow air of morning with trees about the length fallen standing apart, and from the start of its large door lowering four men clearly as soldiers in plastic wearing rifles of polymers exit, scanning the area aiming for surprise and intent and as propulsion machinery vents steam after refueling with the native atmosphere a woman in a sky-color dress of many layers that much was clear carries a type of cello as she begins to play the bow and strings give sound into vibrations as her protectors diverge from stations dynamic into the brushing bush with beeps of weapons scanning quickly faint, 

G|-4-----------------2-------------|-------4-----------------2-------------|

D|-4-----3-----4-----2-----3---4---|-------4-----3-----4-----2-----3---4---|

A|-------3-----4-----------3---4---|-2-----------3-----4-----------3---4---|

E|---------------------------------|-2-------------------------------------|

G|-4-----------------2-------------|-------4-----------------2-------------|

D|-4-----2-----4-----2-----2---4---|-------4-----2-----4-----2-----2---4---|

A|-------2-----4-----------2---4---|-2-----------2-----4-----------2---4---|

E|---------------------------------|-2-------------------------------------|

Goes the cello in a mellow dirge of maudlin refrain in contempt and disdain of the local humanoids approaching, their faces each with one stripe for the day in different directions for their skills, like insignia draped across their face, and by the time they noticed the soldiers with rifles their aims have all taken place of scanning, one of the tribals builds with each heartbeat panic and fear and impatience, wavering in place as very low cello music with binaural effect peaceful and mourning what comes next, without the first contact of curious people deep into the past of all planets, having not attacked nor earned a futuristic repelling, their closest urges their youngest calm and the song goes soft with her music, one tribal flees and a soldier shoots the tree, the fleeing stops, the soldier points to his feet and shoots the ground and they feel the shock and for the shortest moment the cello stops, when the song lulls and hunger pulls she decides to feed them, and in time of that day they begin their first words and by the morning a simple language emerges, and she with them learns a dialect of her many centuries, bleak as the song her efforts prove innovations of construction of the light, other shuttles land and the tribals become servants, except for the first group who could speak, quick to learn the ways, and without advice of the cellist looked at their past never the same again, in 100 years the cellist left in a different dress and the same face as if the same day and her song filled the society beginning, but took with her the future and leaves them in the past, their laws new, their divide now old, and those that could describe the tranquility of philosophy had to learn all the ways their own, and for all they couldn’t tell the simple brothers would seem like echoes of science like magic and they looked down on the new nature in their ancient home, and for this arose the ancient war that never seems to go with all the chaos and confusion of the guests with names unknown, whose temples of innovation were a glimpse of what’s to come. 

The ancient humans with all the time standing against nature stood against each other.

Madvocate

So many times and thoughts and such that like this, it would be for the honest misgivings and dishonest takings that my confluence has aligned with so many voices of the era and like a quarantine, if not but to have given all that has undergone. The opportunity to ramble beneath the banner of a post with some title like Runned or Rone with what's keeping myself together as a string of words was all there'd be, and in this how so so many would it be. Like rambling on about the should, and could, and would, from the reason we don't use those words anymore. So many mad poets if should that be me come before the present tense and acerbic nature and commonplace and nomenclature with this these posts have been and will be gratuity to the nature of this sentient plantlike game, and just to prove that I'm insane sharing it with them at the same cost despite the options of the effort and mundane exemplary motives. 

In the coming months, my styling of writing will continue here without preconception of recollection and reception and the decolletage and deception of rehearsed and scripted notes, writing in the blogger editor off the cuff and full of hope. This, for my sanity. Where as an update to where the final drafts will be are on they all have will a link atop and beneath, each post, something formulated neat. My decoration of mind and decorated thoughts of now and them, often how so and again, aghast my past deceives me and alas shall it complete me -- forgiveness, this now is then again another recollection from soft perceptions of the music and it's place, presently a horn of steamship and the shores of night's disgrace with the dreams of little nightmares on repeat are taking place, reason that this truth imprecates me eludes me still from quiet way. 

Yet, that is all for this message, oh yes, indeed, by chance, for certainly it might be that writing was my mode of speech and rhyming something else with reach as all the notebooks would get lost between the ceiling and the floor, our beginning is so much more than nothing sure, of course that everything's allure resented not for nothing keeping score. The rhymes grow weak with meter as they peter off and shrink while my mind can only think of ends to books, but rather standing or adjourned. That here would be the ruffest of drafts and dullest of trash in stream of conscience keys to the mind, which allows me to get thru them with ease and askew to replete in a book or a subscription early peek. New paragraph, that this blog would get uploaded forever open source, and a book of Vulcan once completes the course, and new versions of the old wizard with emotion and remorse, including the act in six scenes and the cyborgs and the newest notes of course. There were thoughts that these were all to be written and that was true as well as known, but for all the thoughts and plotting more so dreams of swords and stones. 

You, are my audience as the illuminati medications or political meditations or have chronicled and essayed, and so you will have the elusive clues, but be with truth until the matters are resolved, for resolution and exhausted brings more questions, and this screed undue its witness in the habits broken from inaction and the vices they replace. Today I charge myself with reason now to spend my time insane, writing fast as fast could fastly like the echoes in the brain. Perhaps, in ink for the keepers to keep or the others to discard, would like tides of oceans singing confuse the ending with the start. If not only to be a guitarist, a coder, a sketcher, again. To take my dreams in concentric circles and shrink them a size and weigh the cost before another year trapped in this tree, of doing less philosophy, for the many voices and me know each other but without uncertainty, much to say this burns their eyes before yours, little else that would break this new world order, a glimpse in time a mortal name, random thoughts have taken reigns, how now and then it holds together disconnection point and game. Fuck the rhyming scheme again, the mind it rides the waves in whether come weather sounds would change the pattern into something never mentioned as the ancients had intended, so here's an implication of inference that they won't soon read again. 

For every word there is a story.  https://www.patreon.com/maxmatthews (nothing there yet) is where I plan to put mine, quite the successful website/program. One of my pen names, and with any clover my subscribers, and the household gods of course, will know the other names and their books and you'll just have to know they're out there. This blog will post a lot as promised, and sorry to make my creativity scheduled, but the general plan is, any one of the projects can be done in an hour, and be posted once a week. My guiding mantra has been "40 hours to freedom" each week, and too keep this blog a rockin' daily, I'll try to keep you on the up and up with more specifics, where to click/visit the other projects, etc. at the bottom of posts if there's more. 

Here's my plan (you're here, getting first drafts). 

Teirs > 

• Fiction, Essay, Vulcan, 3-in-1, etc. 

Feeds >  

• Blogger (here, shorts/dailies), as Patreon freebies. 
• Vulcan freebies, and the grammar book years out a couple of sections a month
• 2nd, longer drafts, for Patrons (from 10 years of source, and daily shorts)
• YT free, in Vulcan, relearning guitar, learning to draw, to something. (separate channels)
• Patron content, to Kindle self publishing. (final draft collections, M, etc)
• Blogger old, the first 10 years, on Kindle publishing, prolly free? 
• Some premium-only, reposted next day as sample > prem, etc (years from now)
• Blogger 2nd draft - prem - Kindle > lets me read everything again, meh, and start evolution and derivation, ex. shorts into drafts, chapters into books, 6ch grouped, and publish those annually, 

40 hours to freedom. I'll write and post new content every day until a breaking point, for one or more days, each day writing more to revise, and revising more. With some updates occasionally, in hopes that fantasy drafts are more than wiccans need. 

One day, my mind was so empty it was time to fill it with thoughts. 56 hours, mastering sleep. 56 hours, a second language adding flexibility to my mind. 56 hours, learning code to accomplish with the tools available a task within the limits of imagination and possibility. The mind must take breaks to heal in plasticity, curves in the gray matters the way that time bends as energy bows in respect of light, and beyond the visible spectrum the conditions to understand, the limits of thought of limits, the thoughts of limits of thoughts. These angers you have are human, you post lyrics to honor artistic complexities, I don't wonder why you scream, and now we wait in wisdom recreating thoughts as visions without action, I only wonder what you dream.