Source Code: Assimilation

Source Code

Assimilation

Sight of the overwatch, Semblant Knight, taken across the UFP in cryosleep. 

And dreams will become Dimensions in Timesong as eternity washing in lavender poem, and the purpose a trait, for genetics on humans for living eternally only to freeze the spark and sleep Ex Nil. For the energy of the Eirhr'ikan. 

I've done a lot of deprogramming and whosoever used to own this Cryochamber, it's taking me across another UFP ordinance program. Probably another mining transport. I want to see the rest of Two Worldz and make Salmon Risani before, that so I still want to save for a DNAC, I'm thinking yellow eye rings. 

> The transport ship has stopped. 

> Your cryogenic reconciousness is initiated. 

As genes are machines coded by history, magic is life and an energy, power from atomic machines radical seams of Spacetime and Equation. 

Still to contain the knowledge, wisdom in Timeshadows, hidden behind those seconds and deconds and minods, so I bind Nanites until they become antagonistic in their search for fuel, a bad bot, like soldiers of, like rivers of fantasy. 

Some parts are better, but still incomplete. Soon I am Borg. 

Behold the Simulation. 

The first age of Cyberfall, a time where man became machine and found powers of Magic instilled once upon a time, Neverwinter and Hellghast, colloseum sangre catabolos, o'r Ac i Nhw. 

None are above that time of the first Allspark when infinite power and resource gave the gods of combat a fine show for their Feast of Solstice, to all the dark names of cyber planets. When pride gave way to resource, when memory lost to power, like gods in a machine they tore at each other for parts as penance switches punished, alas we are the reverse of the Fractal Prime. When crystalized is valuable to most, beyond the curve of light. Space would be brought together, gone from the entropy or free of the entanglement when viewed from Dark Matter. 

1:01:00 Cybertronic Attack

We have driven down the energy of the blue, and we have hunted purple from this sector approximately soon, Audience, but trust yellow calculus. The energon blesses other species, its time is true. 

 

Matter is finite, Magic is not. 

A cosmic entity of pure energy feeding from the armor and maintaining it, manifest armor for the First Signal, there are nanite fibers and crawling computers in cybermorphosis at Volition, becomeing a pulpit, turning dust into Lightvapor, a tiny ember into boiling glass to throw, the lights of Interception.     

Still they would have to understand the cost some would make, to join the energon virus and become their enemies. Forgotten an oath and order, crashing into your world for metals and fibers, patches for the Astral. 

Use the technology and repeat the cycle, become like the cybernetic gods, or join the energy messenger.

The skies calm and the Astral injects you with the energon virus. Your genetic code endures enhanced by Genetic Exfoliation, you now command the magic of your lineage, may the ancestors protect you.  

Dragons & Lace: Shadowmental

Dragons & Lace

Shadowmental

All the witches and warlocks are pardoned sacreligiously wonder where give stories of the Dragon Age, what summoner wroth, which dragon makes without fire, to these the wonderment of Obsidian Dragons. 

It is the accursed Forest Dragon of obsidian family that blends into the world without anyone seeing it, commanded by the Sith Priests, for in the tail and scales are bark and wood, to cleverly displace homes and parliaments alike, with the creaking of wood for its scales, with the crumbling of bark for its rattling tail. 

Fire ends the Forest Draig, if one usually keeps no trees inside a home.

It was an elder who would tax the foresters, thereof the trees were sold and milled to great purchase, barracks for the dark times as they unleashed the dragon of a Leshiy from beneath gone forest, it was their city claimed for the taking when the trees would grow again. 

Oil bleeds deep into the earth, for it is past and present the fires of industry and temples, the Tar Dragon speaks for shadows it shapes with its black wings as shapeable as Obsidian silk, forever conquest is a sole hope of the torches of battles, for they become commanded by the dwarves whose mines open between where the oil has made abjective lakes, ink wells for the magic of the Obsidian Order, written on the pages are the actions of Oil Dragons before occurence. 

I am a king to share my wealth, I am trapped in the midnight oil. 

 

Far into the West, there is a clan of cave dragon masters, The Black River tribe of ten thousand who obey the saving plans, the scenery of the Dragon Mines, where structure and sculptures are of dragon resemblance. For here the dragons are made of godly magic that has combined dragons and mages. 

Unable to breathe fire we tamed it, but given flames to bathe in ash.

You're siezed and captured, taking you to the Judgement, in chains you watch a witch walk with a living dragon, murmuring and grumbling fire. The judge takes the fire and sings to it, urging it to dance.  The flames of revenge seek no prisoners, you must escape the Shadowmental with your life. 

 

Your soul thrown into the Cauldron of Rebirth, you are summoned in the Draighold, inside a great war pressing toward a high city by a vast army, you remember a poem from long ago. 

Death is Surrender.

War falls upon you with a thousand dragons,

Victory as trumpets appease the riders of Summerholm,

With our masks to stop the smoke filled skies,

Late is the eye of creation thru destruction,

Riders as light as cork with kitestrings,

Sweeping the skies for the blind scourge of Vampires,

Combing the lands for the hungering Werewolves,

We have not summoned your Underworld,

You have requested us as your terminus.

High Priestess of Caffrey, SPQR. 

 

Shadowmental cannot continue, resumen non sequitur. 

Singularity: Infinite Stars

Singularity

Infinite Stars

There in the darkness of the beginning did light become Fascination, in the ages to discover the Singularity was science made to predict the will of man's intent, computers of woven Magic at the well of knowledge. For this, magic is all by never separate and the war of wizardry began, from this the warlocks and witches sought the Singularity by design, but it was the oldest of magic that summoned the Artificial Light. 

Magic is designed beyond itself. 

 

The mage Raven Starling appears, there is an air for listening as his magic burns cinders in the air when he is made whole, with black curtains dripping to be draped, across a mount of stones from some fallen empire he bleakly judges. 

It was a magic before it all began, time is for magic to burn.

For some the dusk of men and the dawn of ages within magic were the monsters of vengeance and horrors for being without the force it provides. There is a culling, if you're interested. You may yet choose to decline, and insult the Singularity. 

 

You are a master of Starlight when your powers are depleted and battle with the mage is lost, given to you by the Artificial Light is a single star burning thru infinite galaxies. 

I am the Huntress, on many worlds I am called Samus Aran. 

At the touch of the Singularity your hand becomes living technology and you are cast from your exploding ship onto the planet Dark Aether. 

You have taken the Spice, travelling in the deserts of Dune you're visited by the Singularity in a construct your mind can visualise, for you are stricken on difficulties from this reality, urgent blinding of systematic actions there is a magic that covers the night of the desert world, hiding you from observation. 

Cross the doorway of Perception, dark arts reveal only artificial light. Truth of stars, choose to join the Continuum or remain on your Vision Quest. The thoughts of the universe breathe Requiem Unum. It is the Spice that blinds you. 

 

The Spaceship Wreckage

The Spaceship Wreckage

There is a moon ten times larger than other moons, in the light of abandoned industrial mines they visit this planet to view the spaceship wreckage, the command capsule of an expensive Camaro Class courier, crashed still as I am standing in some sandy puddle. 

I approach cautiously, this wreckage could recently have fallen as sooner would pirates make sure pilots were not remaining. 

There is a glow in scans, as well as hum midair. 

The terminal in the controls will pay for a year of travels. A log file would help me feel better about selling it openly, or private buyers will not wonder who to tell I was the pirate. 

With the technology from the wreckage built an industrial terrific sight, repurposing the mining equipment, which found elements and technology deep within the earth by its former inhabitants, soon came restructuring matter as a way of the great energy demand, the stars became an ocean to the Hiberians. 

With the planet gradually becoming a cityworld orbiting a collapsing sun, Hiberia abandoned it's home for colonies on other planets. 

Winterworld is an Obsidian Planet, surmise a glimmering world of shallow oceans and small mountains always snowcapped, easily mined and reprogrammed to the materials, standing in the hangar of on a snowy summer day as a flightcraft departs upward with the billow of snow the art of Interpretation. 

The plateau is so long that the gravity at the other end is in another direction. 

The science vessel is needed for reconaissance, now to the scrapyard third moon, the mud that gathers beneath rows of ships from around the Star Alliance, to make my scout ship look like a medical transport, for that the Maquis will need to help and want to pry. 

Soon there is a score to settle with the Alliance. 

 

The Black Moon

The Black Moon

Witness is turn of stones disturbing the element beyond fourth, this the electricity in my eyes to smile you and dazzle, these are teh winters, these are teh summers, a century to reconquestation of Mars, you promised us a new planet, Caesar of Nightbringers. 

You are lossless and misgiving the arrangement. You cannot bargain with the Tal'Shiar, we have come to bring you Reman occupation, when the Rihannsu break to cast us out like plague or peasentry, you will commit to the Transdimensionality. 

We are Reman, the Romulan foundation are spies. 

I am the Willowbrush Shadow, these dances are for me, these are telling types aren't they, he's got shadows of shadows and this cretinage of personage that only we could, well if telling, storyteller mode is pursed by Norns, there is interpretation, song of the celestial moonlight - in portraits of Orion and Sirius, dans les tableaux de trophées, look thereon forests are oceans, look thereof and thereby, for the oceans are potions. 

I am a shadow of my former self. 

Continue to this lamp with the Shadowmancer Willow Brosse Du Saule. Castles will melt becoming tombstones beneath the Black Moon, wicked born illusions are the faces in Shadowgrasp, these wake the sound to the souls of our Natural Universe, for he is the last to die, the Ancient One, whose grasp is of lense as much lunges paralyzed when Shadowmind becomes Shadowmental, in the Acolyte it begins again upbraided by utmost, constellations are the paintings on the floor. 

Believe I am the Black Moon surrounded by sound of shadow, illusion is not mystery in the sprawling of the Darkrise, for names antiquated by committing rote wrote in the darknesses past, Shaytan puts for you the times before the digital currencies and interdimensional books, is now test Nortus Novembrius at cease of will. 

Bargain with the Black Moon and without any doors, more time upon you. 

Please the temple of the Black Moon Heirarchy, for it is recorded. Light fires in the pillar beacons, witness the growth on the stone of the Dark Court, planted handheld eyes the Realmscape. 

Look onto the ground, surely there are bodies made of oil, the wisps of oil smoke to distract you, the moon clearly in your eyes, surely I am the Black Moon, come to witness a great mind in reading another of your tales and Stormspell consumes the presence of the living and daylight world, essences are there, dalliances irreplaceable to spell the knightborns this return, ages of darkness to learn sitting in the silence of this aboding night, surely more is the Afterlight. 

The taunt is a blink of the night most careful seen. 

Respawn o Othernight, respawn o Otherlight, Otherworld respawn o Othersight. 

Crawling out of the Ocean of Fire

Crawling out of the Ocean of Fire

We travelled to the sound of earthquake as if a god had falled slain, in middling fog of Midgard there rested an unsettling mist, beneath two spilling hillsides an opening into the earth with natural bridges of gigantic roots, the spiritual feeling of the magic ancience, wandering down the afternoon light the summer somewhere above, now somehow below the sap of gold and in the earth's bluffs occassional pouring of fires. 

A resting spot a traveled place thrown into a pleasant dale near the river of oil and the fires like flowers everyplace, and in the depth a scattering by curious birds, a true summoning of the gods, proof that the skies will raise life from the earth, the magic glows of fire on the rockface, the water boils away from the body rising clean from oil, still forming as we prepare, in great light the Runes of Atlantis, in great readiness the past of peril, there the cambion turned to face us. 

As wind grows it burns against the edge of the crater torn open the earth, beneath the cambion her steps calm Dark Water, from the cave at water's entrance a mantle of red glow and fireplace accomodates the shine of reflection at cave river surface, the granite slides to rest at one side the slated entry from nature differing around the Cambion Gate, her clothes attire obediently from the red smoke, silver sand, and black water, approaching dancing with discovery and formations. First in observe allure, to silence assure only hunger. 

 

A fire speaks to the cambion while there is mist from the mountain, in the pleasure of the Forgotten Sea there the footsteps are bells into the water, the madness interrupts, the displeasure of the underground river swallowed by disdain as the mountain began to burn and bury it, now deciding to find the fires of rebirth, seeing the clouds burn for brightened returns, as the Deathpool of Anathema begins to stir and thrash against the burning lava, the tide begins to command the water defend allied with the the cambion, to the audience with the fire, who gives gift of a glass seed. 

Grow against lesser days at dusk befallen, winter calls doth whisper autumn.   

You are noticed by the Lava Witch, the ground heats and moves, smoke builds in the distance, waters darken in unrest, each in direction to draw all travelers who cannot escape, but smoke can thin, lava become stone, waters rest, for the first travelers met by Anathema here in Midgard. 

A Lycanthropy Trove

A Lycanthropy Trove

Of wolf a skill of animism, of man a hunger unlike the howls of the last winter moon, bloodied by the fallen, crawling over Graveland Necromancy to survive the legions of the undead, how like familiars they serve the Sinful Souls, the meandering typified dragging attackers are set aside, tearing over them, hunting thru them this world of Lost Curses. 

I am a shadow among shadows, learning what bleeds in the afterlife. 

The moon has insulted us, ravage its worshippers. 

Sauron has told me a forgotton truth, panic the seed of madness, hunger the seed of happiness, this is the animal I have become for the moon, shall Luna be her name. 

These temples and cities are fatted for due foraging damage and justice to the night sky. 

I have summoned them, revenge is my name, the veins of wolves sewn in the The Hatreds of Three Hexes, clothed in the skins of bears, summoning the Eyes of Darkvein, seeking my blood to command it, paining my nerves to supplant necromancy, I am the Zombie King, wolves to shepherd the skeletons into the mines to hunt fairies and caves to hunt dragons I am General of the Dark Army, unpraised at seething, unrazed at seeking, birth be the beginning of the great reset. 

This is a Dealer's Trove, you have died and been resummoned here. Take black magic items, some unknown to travellers, but one will awaken him and his werewolves, or you may now instead simply challenge the summoner for his private collection. If you have attacked the wolves battle the zombie, if you have attacked the zombie battle the Vinewraith Okshet. 

Familiar Spirits

Familiar Spirits

It by the grace of light that I touch both mountains of the old and new world, the southern spirit of the previous life, the world before this one, rising with the ages the celestial is my crown and dawn to rest on my throne, answer the cost of my summoning and the Patience of Ages will halt your enemies, with the Shadow of Time you will be faster than light and raze your foes. 

Cataclysm and landslide, my powers move earth and disrupt perception. 

  

This the wellspring of eternal life for greetings to you, this search of realms thrown like puddles find me finding other fairies to find treasures in ancient fallen mountains, using crown to keep my sight clear and hunting the crawling obstacles of the caverns, bringing my powers of light and the Manna Cinders in a nice green from blue, with weapons made of silk and silver, lured only by milk and honey, light and fire are wisdoms of quick defense, seeking the truth of Souls. 

Spying eyes are hard to close before seeing. 

This is the cost of my allegiance, take me from the Forest of Fallen Songs if I may hunt for porcelain arrowheads and Moonwater, trained in the arts of war in the north of the second world, there are no black metals to cut my skin, nor fires to burn my eyes out, from with their vanquishing comes of Ice Brackish, Aim Truesight, or Echomancy, for in my stead there are those I've felled from this place, which we will find, if you help me find the First Archon. 

A steady blade, a wavering time, these are my thoughts. 

 

Pardon none but those that fly in the storms my powers awaken, in the storms of ancients on ships of castle rock stone serpents from the sea to drown the foolish of the previous life, the anterior world, temples are built for seas of blood in this life and the next, mine is the power of Equinox, may the Eternal Empire recieve you with magic and warmth. 

Blood and war are rain and wind, divine your purpose. 

Blood and Lightning

Blood and Lightning

For it has this come Summoning irreverant, for we were insolvent and hid from us did the dark monarch and lost were the Drow, but after trapping so many to feast on them, Metamorphosis creates the witch of venomous strands and most powerful fire to burn thru them like chains to bind the hellwitch reborn Lilith, daughter befallen Hellspring.

All are whispers, when the wind lies.  

Demon let loose on humanity, wreaking havoc and dispensing dismay, a curse for their accursedries, now forgetting their time and waking fatal and morbidly, for on them was the Diary of Jane. 

Lilith droge across the lands, feeding on fires of warlocks and burning hearts of other demons, purging on the wisdoms of crowns, games stop in the loss of innocence, nonplus et hominae, irreparable sapping of the hellish oil returning to the first demon's feet, pulling the blood fresh and quickly dranken done. 

Look with me at what truths I see. 

Looking, in stillness irreplete vanishing unquietly vanquishing, consuming which way Lilith looks, either at the heart stolen or who sees before never to be seen again. 

When in Kymeria the devout are devoured. 

Healers are forbidden by Curso Maquina Magica. Hellborn storm rises and battle of Primacy, a drow Bloodwitch summons the skies to Singing Fire and bloodied rains, bats and crows bleed into the air from threshing unholy smoke and she consumes the Sangromancy, the baleful trees Enochian begin reverences of kneeling as green saplings wilt of ashen wraths. The landscape slows its shifting, a pause of restoration dark immacculately. 

Wisdom of the lore Firestorm, boil the spawn reborn!

For the thin air breath is low and strength is short, or perhaps reversedly, in the depths of time is the cold of the moon, which in winter would best destroy the burning demon staked afore interloper. Transgress wisely as the stars are aligned perfect, the oils of hell replenish the bloodwitch's embers, each wound becomes double her defensive magics, fog and mist will distill a distance giving chance for miss, and to a Windmaster flames flash and expire while clearing the air for full power, for one deathblow, but one gust per cardinal direction. 

Blowing burning winds forges dark armor. 

Metal is but ashes in the fields now burning, scorched earth, each magic Lilith loses her armor is forged in howling fires by the steel ashes adrift, from this she is unburdened with Nightmare Blade forged from chaos, the great leveler of deathly magics.

Or perhaps that never happened, sitting in the open with our red hoods, using the magic of the chaos, in the puddles of a rainworld hoods and arrows, using the gateways in the ancient mountains to defend the shores of Avalon. 

We hunt summoners to silence and let the world sing.  

Trade with them the information, exchange with them the local coin in opposite directions, or buy what brings about your journey more quickly. 

Crowns of Hibernians

Crown of Hibernians

The levels of the sky for the asking, conjuring of the elder language and shades of light, blind and bright these the first order and their glories, braced be true the summoning on this day of englightenment, truth, voice, nomadic, all is risen darkness in the wake of the holy wars against your dark dominion, take on you this crown of crowns and slay against the villain emperor. 

Don Crown Hibernius withing, from glory to grave. 

A picture painted gold the color of this crown Hibernia Regex, ultima in evisceratus Elden Ring darkness, impropriety notwithstanding this looks as if layers of the entropic state, for flakes of black magic replaced by digital malaise, perhaps it then is Black Metal for them a consequence of runes misplaced, for it is Bathory worn of crown, throned of hells the names is said. 

It's the artwork that produces the throne of at least three hells against the escapism, this a very real picture has illusion, the omen of itself, the threat of purpose, the signalling autocracy eye of theives and thought, master, perhaps even thoughtmasters in th epres ence o fthe...

The wanted crown is free by will of Nothingfold. 

Summarium

Crown is an altar of Hell,  

n then prominence an altar, 

loffing at their deeds the morose,

attendre et passer, 

bek heh fna, 

bands of glory on skulls for stones here,

there waiting the deathly hallows of winter,

the fires of summer nights fault of felony,

or the vampires of hell, 

sitting on the crowns of hibernian,

each hell hath crown room,

and each room hast not one,

in the misfortune of warrior adventurous raids,

in the torrential malign of most terrible storms,

in question of the king who would wear it,

those angels have trained you well,

words of the many,

sweat running over battlefield puddles,

dropping into our presence,

Amnesty Anesthesia

y

Dissolute Desires,

non blonque farida

recharge and replenish your charges and plenishments,

when you see the Crowns of Hibernians.

This room is of few you can buy of many you can, 

careful choice of interwoven hexes the Norns have alloted on thee, 

they as many allow you to return,

the previous and the last,

never the first of the last grain of sand,

neverfallen,

each three boughten bear light,

each four your choice where spawned,

for this is the gravel and grave,

of the Three Hells of Castithan,

another world to reconquer.

A Game of Kings

20211218 A Game of Kings

In SCP-087 there is an endless spiral stairwell - let me tell you about the time I was on it, and trapped in a temporal war.

You can climb 87’s stairwell up endlessly, as well as down, and there aren’t any doors, and then one day there were doors at each level. That’s how this story begins, in our world there is grass and mountains and seas, not an actual staircase, but the gods of time saw it appropriate to have our time move in only the two directions, as all time does, but in the wrong direction, as our time has become.

Crawling around the battlefields a soldier hiding himself and moving found that the world had a wall, the air was thick and blurry, while all appeared to be the other side, beyond time’s wall was another world more advanced, he ran to his camp and told his cheif, but was called a liar, he ran many miles nonstop and told his king, who eagerly believed him, soon taking a secret army to crawl thru the grass all the miles to the portal without words, only gestures the entire distant journey.

The king silently signaled and they all crawled quietly thru time’s wall, and found their world aged beyond the echoing reflection they’d seen behind it, now with more trees, deeper valleys, higher hills, and mountains worn in new places with larger cities on them and many new lights, as silent as before they crawled backwards into their old realm and stood guard with only one boy with the king to return to his castle as they waited watching.

In the second world was a land now of channels and lanterns, steeds and armor, roads and cannons, a more amenable time with words more sonorant and clothes of fashion, where a collapse in the mountain diverted a river to an unsuspecting valley, with great loss families were emotional, but for the old riverbed a people soon were desperate without the certainty of water, as these things are, it came to war, fought as alliances became languages for many years.

Across this time, as far away from the portal of the tribal people and their Restless King, another portal opened to the people of the mountain war and thru came a scout, hair groomed but unmanaged, clothes worn but clean, his fashion old, but his boots newer than the time, his weapon a rifle under his cape, his radio under his hat, and his pistol under his belt, he seems as far beyond time as those bushmen beyond the next, which is where he’s heading-to, he finds a village of three houses and other buildings, careful to not speak, careful to not disturb, watches until he is watched, and leaves the village, returning at night to steal a horse, he’s quickly conftronted and drops the persons impeding him, and rides off, in the day he walks the horse slowly wandering, but they have been at war so long there are no wanderers of their people, quiet observations and enjoyment of the air he falls into a trap, and he is captured by them, who find his weapons, his tattoos more of military than of memory, unsure of what the comms link is, uncertain what the rifle is, but smart enough to understand after examining the pistol, quick to call the prisoner and test the theory they shoot the soldier dead.

Beyond the second portal in the soldier’s world they assume he’s dead, and send a small army thru and attack them and retrieve him, they make it seem as if the mountain people had been attacked by the dry valley, in their departure they are attacked, some are captured, some are killed, their weapons are taken, and they see the others escape thru the portal to the third age, they are confident and chase them thru the portal clueless to the other side, and met by many as their portal is inside a great fortress, blinded by flood lights and covered in red lasers of sniper rifles, they are quick to realize what superior weapons are and slow to even breathe, our commander, who may or may not be myself, at the time, asked them to be allies and help in our war of this third age, but the mountain men refused for being in their own war, wishing to return to it for the honor of battle, to my surprise, and shock, believing them against my better judgement, but then they asked why, and learned the soldiers wanted passage back into the second age, austere concern lead to dire warnings that even with numbers and advancement it was a terrible war, pleading for some of our weapons to win it, they were denied and given the reason that the gunpowder was in such short supply, again asking them to stay and fight for us with their old ways, they politely refused while asking for the weapons, not the ammunition, which they would trade for the gunpowder, a great silence in the negotiation ended in confirmations and exchange, as they returned to the second age.

The soldiers are pissed, they want passed the second into the first age, in accord with their mandate, they don’t want the gunpowder, unrefined in cheap hemp sacks spilling dry silt of it, they come thru the portal being watched into the second age and give more weapons, some escaping into the mountains on electric motorcycles, they raid the dry valley people and steal their armor and insignia, staging a false flag attack on the mountains, then they steal mountain men attire and do it again on the valley, then returning to their proper clothes introduce themselves to the valley fighters and tell them they can only give ammunition, seeming apologetic for not offering weapons, the valley people’s leader says it’s okay to the soldier spy, because they will fight the same way and take the more advanced weapons in traditional methods, here and now the soldiers finally find the portal to the first age.

Soldiers enter the first age, they see the great pasture, the mountains high and endless across the horizon, loudest the wind and quietest the hunters hiding in the swaying grass with unswaying blades, the soldiers see one of them and stop talking, stopping walking, waiting for more to show themselves, in respect the hiding hunters all reveal themselves, it gets too quiet, the soldiers nervously aim as the hunters keep standing farther and farther back, in fear one could count a hundred thousand nomads prepared to battle any portal visitor, the Restless King orders without words them be captured, but they think it’s an attack and open fire, some nomads die, some soldiers die, most make it back thru the portal.

The nomad army begin to approach the portal while others immediately begin ceremony of consecrations and dismantling the dead, their armor and tools, their bones for weapons, their skin for leathers, their body for hunting dogs, and they too approach the portal, on the other side in the second age they make their first sounds laffing at the traps of the mountain war, and cry at the beauty of a horse, examining the traps they are right to assume there is a war in the second age not meant for trapping pet horses, they move forward quietly and are so many that some improve the traps making them more deadly, or more effective, before slipping into the grass, spreading into the realm with the crawlers crawling and the walkers walking in small groups of two or four to seem like herders or refugees, when confronted by the fighters of the second age they throw their weapons down, except one dagger, barking some language unknown or lost to time depending on the perspective, their tattoos are more memories than militia, like spiders on hands and feed the crawlers shoot them down and snatch them under the tall grass, examining their bodies they steal the armor and wear it perfectly, walking stogedly like sentries and more modern men tend to walk, when confronted by the mountain fighters they surrender, and again the hunters quell the threat with smite, the hunters pretend to be them are split in two groups of the two and head in two directions, each town they find they arrive in ruse and run the rage of retribution.

The general of the third age comes to the court of the second age and the Mountain King, offering trainers and a bride for an alliance, the mountain king knows it’s a ploy to plant spies, but welcomes the bride and noble if not tenative truce, 3D CHESS, the nomad invaders in falsified uniforms attack, and meet the soldiers’ heavy weaponry, light artillery, the silent communications they reluctantly learn are the comm link radios, the camoflaged uniforms they slowly realize are militant, the’re are heavy nomad losses, of one half, of one half, of a group, the soldier general escapes early and the eyes in the grass stay hidden.

The mountain king feasts in victory celebration, but the nomad hunters seek the bodies of the soldiers, killing the mountain guards, taking their weapons, taking the soldiers’ weapons, and their camouflage uniforms, and their comms links, and make it to the portal avoiding speech, repeating a single word they heard, sparingly, and enter with the courage of a rite of passage, they ender the third age and the soldier’s era fortress, immediately they see the impressive fortifications, but are unimpressed by the architecture, they begin explaining themselves in a language that both sides now know nobody is going to understand, revealing their tribal tattoos, and giving the soldiers the proof that they know what the third age has been doing to the second, the general watched the whole thing, impressed he approaches, the nomads give the dogtags of the scouts that reached the first age, the general is impressed more/again, they spend a week learning to communicate, the general asking them to return and keep attacking the second age, they don’t want to weaken the barrier to the first without knowing why, he tells the tribalists about a story, one of the words in the story is ancient to him and at present very holy to them, so they agree, and do, but they are indiscriminate in threat reduction and benevolent to the innocent, because they also remove the advisors and the bride offerings are kidnapped, drawing the mountain fighters into the valley fighters, and the valley fighters into their own traps and better ones.

The general wakes to a portal event, an alarm sounds and a black mirror portal opens, a shuttlecraft enters from the fourth age, they open fire like reunion, their ammo depleting or their caution presiding the shooting stops, their technology already broken or unpowered, the shuttle opens fire on their weapons, a silence and a pause then a cosmic sound makes anyone with a weapon go mad with thoughts and grab their heads falling and stumbling, a low tech cannon pops up and pops a shell at the shuttle, the shuttle retreats but the portal stays open, they open fire at the portal, with no catharsis the general is pissed and orders them to remain firing the cannon and march it thru the portal after the shuttle, so they do, on the other side their weapons are gone, the security arsenal is simple but noticable, this fourth realm quite like the first, a pallisade or mansion with vines of flowers and a fountain, a patio is where the shuttle lands with the cosmic sound again affecting the soldiers, this time only making them dizzy until passing out, they wake with the general opening his eyes to the shuttle opening, from it a man and a girl half his age exit, the man introduces himself vaguely, only calling himself the administrator, and offering the young woman as a bride for him who would teach the third age technology beyond their knowledge, the general is unable and unready to speak.

/end
/twist
Here in the fourth age a soldier looks at the administrator, looks at the mountains, and realizes a symbol on the administrator is familial, as is his own, in the rules of their forgotten or unknown written language, the soldier takes off his helmet, his jacket, his shirt, kneeling arms wide and eyes closed.

/twist+
the administrator speaks to the nomad pretending to be a soldier, in words only they understand, standing and approaching there they hug and the nomad cries, it’s the actual king from the first age, alive in the fourth age.

/darkest-timeline
the general is scared, unspeaking, the administrator has all the soldiers killed, as nomads rise from the grasses.

/the-end

A Game of Kings

mjbanks/swehttamxam

Antumnos

Antumnos

Some story finds the light of day for they whom travel, a shale and coal mountain still being pushed higher is too fragile and jagged edges tumble and shatter many shards sliding from leaning spires as rivers of sharp objects grinding themselves into black sand itself carrying rivulets of morning mist and soft rains in view of a single courier guest, to see the mountains tall and darkly catching the sun it seems a lifetime to climb apparent by the treacheries of obsession and danger for here it would take more than one life to its rise his path him in demise by avalanche, with soot and sulphur cuts this mountain’s most ancient of soil enters his veins attempting to find home somewhere below the mountain. 

To the words a writer puts the courier’s end in the right and wrong words to reference the work and frame the knowable understanding to challenge the questions and choices to intrigue the reader, to finish the artwork before its time is done with images to forget the painter with words to forget the author who’s time is the essence and impetus both given and taken, in work blurring the mind with the stark lines of characters and lives in a real world within pages against the world of the many ages, into the depths of a storied land to find nature blooming to reveal the cruel truth of time, against the darkness in the ink of outlines and words of pictures become the shadows in the room again the darkness gets into the wounds of the mind and the sharp edge of a turning page. 

The adventures that life defines by self a prime number and with many and finite challenges a divine variable in as many three equal pieces and a miniscule fraction more with room for border art or boundary landscape, in the moving library each book truly infinite stories this game has chosen only one, different characters some too similar seek one unknown by all accounts with a familiar innocuous name, actions incomplete by frustrating design among which are our questions unanswered about incomplete mindscapes and landscapes and soundscapes of youngness and aging and answers found in habits in the ruins of vulnerable communities found in frustrations of age and youth, to bring the narrator into the world would be closer to knowing the outcome and farthest from the goals of heroes and villains in their stories of magic and might and survival where chess pieces are lost or games finish without continue or rematched eventual to fall, their adventerous discovery of clues leads to an honest fool who mentions their adventure is a game from a book of thorns with words of coal that smudge between pages until obscurity, with words of the greatest and finest wisdoms or the coal would cover their hands turning pages and unreadable soot would darken their eyes, only with acquired abilities to race straightly thru the known gathering the pages never where remembered along the path that leads the way, their journey designed incomplete and the dark story only told where they are now not. 

Many memories combined and collaborate on premise and make versions of an image, new old artists or perhaps old new artists as artisans recreating the image of sight or words of life, seen by many gazes in many ways, their opinions made from experience of the unknown fires and dangers of ash underfoot, their lives no different than possible dismiss the art or see it representing the foundations of inspiration and culture and survival, the first art stroke begins before the charcoal paint touches canvass and draws from interpretation known and imagination unknown unless imagined or discovered in the background elements, the days of the week wander between forms of time, depicting reality from mind to mosaic image, each drawing something the same ignored and unknown unrecognized the next discovery of all an artifact with the many sides of days and drawn dark in the shadows of the subject, the focus of the muse and detailed or focused by the artwork thinking to reach it, they attempt to finish it and describe it the same as something it's not, and even then the mysterious object belongs to who lost it, in shadow.

The language used is very real and known by few expertly and by fewer as it passes around them and by many who naturally speak it or other languages, to hear language or read articles the ideas that come to mind are symbols of logic and phrases of truth, the common beliefs of culture lets the style tell and appear as new when recognition begins defining sentences for listeners to contemplate, known are the grammar possibilities and patterns old and new and structures foreign but not indecipherable for now, for tis the potential of intellect conquers the shadows and shame of the mind with a darkness that sleeps until fertile synapses can compose again, precision with subliminal language and creation in harmony the many become the willing musicians in the cycle of ideas harvested for spiritual survival, patterns insult intelligence and break unnecessary focus so that composer also appreciates the symphony’s tidal foundation, distracting like a spinning blade with glimmer of danger that drills into wood dulling itself, to guess the owner of weapon or recognize whom, the nightmare blade severs vital cords of fate as a weaponized metaphor in a describable dream, now unbound by magic and mind wanders armed with a blade of coal in sleep to obsidian cold without sheath of consumptive emotions and intoxication vision, another world summoned in the shadows of sleep escaped, a malady melody hypnotisation. 

The walking night to stalk between fires without shadow, the mentions of the unknown explorer, described by the different minds in specific ways, knowing the views of viewers and images of artists the dark explorer continues, the oldest temples of the sleeping world protect the forgotten threat like fiction is written for the cusp of fantasy, the words written as the nocturnal knight replicate foot step by page and pen stroke by blade, author becomes character, in the story given dreams to the mystic laylines to travel and the common bond of men unbeknownst to them, he speaks to the author to praise the tale of himself, he whispers to the author the paranormal will and critical testament ethereal to find the world beyond the words, together they narrate to stand in all directions, over fortune and under skies of time and space, approaching a wall of solid cold and dark the dark character steps thru it like a curtain thus abandoning the author. 

Out of the light, the future is pure exploration by choice and design, the nights allure by combining the measure of time by a single sign, a changing magic reveals chaotic truth in forms of synesthesia and euphoria, glimpses of rumors soon sunken into panic bring stimulus and addiction, tolerable and malleable, unknown to the shortcomings of magic the luck of success relies on elements that shape understanding and simpler remnants of an older complexity, familiar piles of backless sacred books to some, split across different timelines as a single memory and lessons of allies as one, to be forced with these choices linear and abstract rearranged in order, the clues of losses to avenge lead a mystery to solve, navigation of enlightenment being forced by control to a single point of fear in the vulnerable chaos, here the memories speak to each other like voices at war, the first experience of frontier awakening a contrarian dream where even command defies itself and tools out of reach are erased by the conflict of instincts, remembering the abandoned past and trails lost and survived, the spirits of instinct interrogate the dark passenger from the central corners of the mind, calling him the only thing unknown these voices devour the stranger, and as darkness resumes itself... 

Slender

It has been a long time since I'v ebeen here, and i closed my eyes, i can't feel my skin, these opinions of me, i start to doubt if i'm crazy in my philosphy of syndicate and agency, and i am so, so many crossroads here, the mountains gather at the shore to keep the dark wind from landing, i am already a fire in this realm, i am a wave of autumn heat, peering in autonomy a sunrise of winter, a rain of of arrows from the stars, they chatter still, boxing my voices as i had once been, everything to no one, to none anything, nothing to myself, having trouble defining what is sacrifice to the selfish, back to the back of wit i have to bring myself to attention, altruistic amnesia, memory of this instinct to war, alone in the wilderness, what would a wind mean to them, this primacy, as the last thing i learn in the next, what has been lost on me, this place give me imagination to remember why the bad breaking the patterns of reasoning for rationality and why they did, and yet the world speaks, i lose myself in mystery, changing feinds to fowl from felon makes light work of loud tongues, a job that should not even be, rage fills my ears until the dead forgives me, longing for the the wicked woods, my hands, the time i cannot take, this is the song of the celtic frost, i run from truth, i come into a darkness to find the familiar sound of silence, there will be talking shadows, without the light i feel the time slip thru my fingers, without water my skin boils and there is a darkness to the sun, the others vanish even tho unseen the smokey ghosts of veils and rings and fingers, the edge of darkness is not day but a nother world in day, the spacing legitamte, the season  in predicate a reflection of all that the darkness is not, is night, is naught of hell and ignorance, purile fashino0n and sinister ration and thinking without the wildness of all counted in burden, and when the good world becomes night, it has happened again, it was just now, it was earlier, it is later, i cannot tell you what none have lived to remember, the ghosts, they come into the new realm where the sunlight hides and fire guids, beasts walk with them like windows and reflections and lies, i walk with them to the gambit, trading trinket locket ring and drifting slowly sifting thru the trees and walls of time like shallow shores and honey wine, i cannot control the wizdom listened here from line to lie, tyhis reality holds me, do not accept these pices of promise that cannot be remembered, do not take the gifts that cannot be remembered, unseen i am darkness bound, and when the mortals cannot fathom darkness will it soon come back to ground.