"Got a good reason for taking the easy way out" Day Tripper - The Jimi Hendrix Experience
The two men spread out low against the side of the pale dirt mound. Each holding their hats on their heads against a strong head wind. The other hand shielded their eyes from the blazing yellow sun. Red strained to be able to look down upon the group of buildings made of wood and stone. He was struggling to make out all the figures in the distance as Snake was counting. 1...2...3...4...5... The group of three men made their way around the far side of the smaller stone building in the middle of the town. Their march was steady as if this thrown together group of guards were actually soldiers. 7...8...9...10... The men appeared again on the near side of the building. Red was wishing he could see their faces, see what kind of men they really were. One man in the middle was slightly shorter than the other two. They walked tall with rifles being carried by the two outside guards and the man in the middle holding a scatter gun. All three worse revolver at the waist. 11...12....13...14...15 The middle guard stops at the front door while the other two continue the march. He knocks three times in rhythm for the door to open. A much taller man, maybe a full head by Red's blurred visioned, steps out of the opening nodding at the shorter man. His once blue shirt is now gray from all the dust blown across the barren land. He begins to dust himself off as he walks inside the building. 9...10.. The taller man, his shirt bright blue shining across the distance closes the door behind him as he walks out to the porch area. He looks to be holding another rifle. The two marching men have made it back to the front of the building. They stop only for a moment to allow the new guard to step in formation. They take off again on their steady gait.
"15 to make the circle, nine to ten at the door," Snake rings out as he slumps back down the dirt mound. He talks his hat off to wipe his sweaty brow with his sleeve.
"So only four that we've seen, but gauging by the food and supplies they've brought in the last two days, I'd say there is at least two more inside that haven't come out." Red had to rub his eyes from the strain. His grizzled face was raw from the sun and wind. He still felt pretty fresh despite the long horse ride and then walk into the side of town.
"Yes, those two are the ones guarding the cell for sure. Usually got scatter guns. This ain't gonna be easy. We shoulda brought Clem and Hop." The strain was more obvious across Snake's face.
"And what?" Red could see the worry in Snake's face, but the comment still made his blood start to boil. "Hop can't help us storm the place and he ain't hitting crap from up here. Clem.... Just forget about them, it is our fault, we'll fix it ourselves." Red could already feel his fists tightening.
"Hold on a minute, our fault? YOUR fault. YOU knew Chief wouldn't say no to something you asked him to do. I told you they don't like his kind in the area, but you made it go anyway."
"I ain't never made Chief do anything he don't want to, ain't nobody ever had power over him." Red knew that wasn't true. Still he got the reaction he needed out of Snake.
"Whatever you say Red. It always is." The vigor began to drain from Snake's face. "So, what's the plan? Scaring people with guns on stage coaches and robbing farmers on the trail is one thing. But busting into a jail with six or more armed men is a new animal for us."
"If you were scared, you wouldn't be here! But if it is MY fault, then getton back home." Red could feel his cheeks flushing this time. Snake had been at the home a little too long, he still sounded like Van Mussen every now and then.
"Calm, yourself. You know it is always gonna be me and you. Now what you wanna do?"
"You loaded?"
"Always, I ain't stupid, just because you the brains," the last part had just enough of the sarcasm that endeared Snake to Red. He knew he had it in him to do what Red knew had to be done.
"We gonna take the easy way then," Red couldn't stop the grin from crossing his face.
Snake began checking the chambers of his twin revolvers, "That ain't ever been true yet."
Friday, May 14, 2010
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Red's CD Project Story 2: Part 22 – Power
Note: I expected to stay with the witch and Oan here, but the song steered me toward another direction. I think it turned into a good way to start the new disc.
Disc 2
Track 1: Broken, Beat & Scarred – Metallica
“They scratch me. They scrape me. They cut and rape me”
His name used to be Eglan Nas Ver Wetching, an Atlan noble of some wealth and power in the days before the splitting of the world by Tarek Grandar. He led armies across the vast sea in the east to conquer lands now lost even in legends. Never a handsome man, he grew strangely fond of his two younger sisters when he hit the age when boys started to notice girls. For years, he made veiled advancements toward the two girls. When they reached an age of consent, they both outright denied his intentions which drove him slowly mad.
He turned to battle, to war, to brutality, to things polite folks could not imagine. His armies butchered entire villages against the wishes of his King. Eventually, he was banished with penalty of death if he ever returned to Atlan. That was when he found the Dinar, or the Dinar found him. Hatala could not quite puzzle out how that had come about.
The Dinar called him Neros, which in the old tongue meant casket. The name came from the two wooden stakes that he carried on his belt loop. They came from the caskets his two sisters had been buried in when he was finished with them. A ghastly business there that even Hatala did not probe deeply into uncovering.
While he had never been a vision of beauty for any woman, he had not improved in appearance in his considerable age. As with all the ancient Dinar, which there were not many, his skin was light green and lined with thin purple veins. His eyes were nearly empty of emotion, his nose was all but gone, and dark blisters spotted his body. The dark powers of the underworld could maintain flesh for only so long. Soon, Neros would dissipate into spirit and return to the fires of the underworld. But his strength was not all gone. Contrary to his physical body, his spirit’s strength grew in power and vitality. That was how the ancient Dinar maintained control over the younger, more able-bodied recruits to the Dinar brotherhood. It was also what made him and his companions useful to her.
Taking them into her bed had started as a necessity as they traveled from Noce to Stra. Even though she was strong, Salama’s pull still called her back. The only way to quench that thirst was to engage in the acts. She had not lied to her father, the Dinar were brutal with her in bed. The brothers, Lars and Het, used her together, forcing her into acts no good woman would ever admit to. She had loved indicating such to her father, who would have betrayed her in a second to the lusty folk of Stra that wanted her dead from the time she was a little girl and they noticed she was different. The look on his face left a sweet taste on her tongue. She was different now more than ever, but no self-righteous people were going to bring her down. That was going to be quite the opposite really. The folks of Stra were in for quite a shock and those that did not bow down to her would be fed to the Children of Salama.
Neros drooled down at her naked and used body from the doorway to her father’s room. He was the ranking officer in the little band that Salama had sent with her to complete his wishes in Stra and beyond.
The sworn pupil of the Lord of the Underworld disrobed. Tufts of hair fell from his head with the black robe to the floor. Like many of the others, his lips were eroded away leaving his gray and black teeth grinning out at all times. She could smell decay emanating off him from across the room. The odor always hit like a punch in the stomach forcing vomit up into her throat.
“Please, be gentle,” she whimpered. He soaked in her meekness.
He was the roughest with her. He bit and cut, much like the others, but he scratched deep into her flesh, pouring out blood and tightened his cold, stiff hands around her throat till she was nearly unconscious. Her screams aroused him so she used all her strength to deny him that pleasure as long as possible.
When he grabbed the wooden stakes, the ones that had rotted, slivered and softened in the age since he first grabbed them from his sisters’ gravesite, there was no stopping the torrent of agony. He used them unmercifully on her, gouging and tearing away at her insides.
For her part, the pain was terrible but it also provided the lengthiest pleasure that any of the Dinar had been able to produce. Old flesh was indeed weak.
Neros, like Lars, Het and the fourth, a mute named Mahmet, who came a long time ago from beyond the Sorna, all believed she was their minion. Nothing more than a toy to be controlled, used and abused. So they believed and so she allowed them.
Power and authority were not always wrestled with the sword and the shield. While brute force was good for men, women had to use other means to gain their end. She had known from the moment she felt the sudden urge to run west toward Noce that she could not succumb totally to that desire. For her to maintain her own destiny, she had to be attentive, to watch, to listen and understand the weaknesses of those she was dealing with.
“You are not focused,” Neros voice sounded as if he had swallowed a handful of dirt. From his breath, it smelled like he ate a handful of another substance left on the ground.
“I fear the neighbors,” she lied. “They spy, they always have. We cannot have them aware just yet.”
He grunted. He may have been countless years old, but he still reacted to a woman’s worries the same as any other man with a grunt and a roll of the eyes.
“They saw nothing,” he bit into the flesh of her neck.
“We cannot be sure this way,” she held back a surprised yip from the pain. “The folk cannot know of us just yet.”
He pinned her shoulders down and stared with dead pupils down at her. Even so, she could sense his desire, his need.
“I will send Het and Lars with the children,” Neros sat back on his knees. “They will handle the neighbors.”
She was sure to sigh loudly and turned her face away. He could not see her wince that way, he loved to see his work strain out in the lines of her face and in tears that not even she could hold in.
“You know they will bungle it,” she sighed again and started to close her legs.
“Woman,” it came out almost as a plea. She could tell the tone even surprised him.
“I cannot provide you the proper attention with this weighing on my mind,” she turned back letting the full effect of her large green eyes to take effect. He dropped a hard fist down onto the mattress before standing up.
“You tease me,” he growled. “Be here when I return or I promise to make you feel ever inch of these neighbors pain.”
“Yes Lord Neros,” she sat up on her knees and bowed. He stalked out of the room, letting out a low whistle that called the other Dinar to him.
Hatala rolled around in the covers of the bed. When the door below closed, she laughed using her power to heal any wounds they had caused. It would not be long, she thought, until they were completely hers. It would all be hers, including him. The one they sought. The one who Salama truly feared.
She rubbed her stomach and cooed thinking about it. Before all was said and done, Hatala Del Aram would be second only to the Lord of the Underworld. Her offspring, well, that blessed creature may just supplant that lord as well. Then she would rule all.
Disc 2
Track 1: Broken, Beat & Scarred – Metallica
“They scratch me. They scrape me. They cut and rape me”
His name used to be Eglan Nas Ver Wetching, an Atlan noble of some wealth and power in the days before the splitting of the world by Tarek Grandar. He led armies across the vast sea in the east to conquer lands now lost even in legends. Never a handsome man, he grew strangely fond of his two younger sisters when he hit the age when boys started to notice girls. For years, he made veiled advancements toward the two girls. When they reached an age of consent, they both outright denied his intentions which drove him slowly mad.
He turned to battle, to war, to brutality, to things polite folks could not imagine. His armies butchered entire villages against the wishes of his King. Eventually, he was banished with penalty of death if he ever returned to Atlan. That was when he found the Dinar, or the Dinar found him. Hatala could not quite puzzle out how that had come about.
The Dinar called him Neros, which in the old tongue meant casket. The name came from the two wooden stakes that he carried on his belt loop. They came from the caskets his two sisters had been buried in when he was finished with them. A ghastly business there that even Hatala did not probe deeply into uncovering.
While he had never been a vision of beauty for any woman, he had not improved in appearance in his considerable age. As with all the ancient Dinar, which there were not many, his skin was light green and lined with thin purple veins. His eyes were nearly empty of emotion, his nose was all but gone, and dark blisters spotted his body. The dark powers of the underworld could maintain flesh for only so long. Soon, Neros would dissipate into spirit and return to the fires of the underworld. But his strength was not all gone. Contrary to his physical body, his spirit’s strength grew in power and vitality. That was how the ancient Dinar maintained control over the younger, more able-bodied recruits to the Dinar brotherhood. It was also what made him and his companions useful to her.
Taking them into her bed had started as a necessity as they traveled from Noce to Stra. Even though she was strong, Salama’s pull still called her back. The only way to quench that thirst was to engage in the acts. She had not lied to her father, the Dinar were brutal with her in bed. The brothers, Lars and Het, used her together, forcing her into acts no good woman would ever admit to. She had loved indicating such to her father, who would have betrayed her in a second to the lusty folk of Stra that wanted her dead from the time she was a little girl and they noticed she was different. The look on his face left a sweet taste on her tongue. She was different now more than ever, but no self-righteous people were going to bring her down. That was going to be quite the opposite really. The folks of Stra were in for quite a shock and those that did not bow down to her would be fed to the Children of Salama.
Neros drooled down at her naked and used body from the doorway to her father’s room. He was the ranking officer in the little band that Salama had sent with her to complete his wishes in Stra and beyond.
The sworn pupil of the Lord of the Underworld disrobed. Tufts of hair fell from his head with the black robe to the floor. Like many of the others, his lips were eroded away leaving his gray and black teeth grinning out at all times. She could smell decay emanating off him from across the room. The odor always hit like a punch in the stomach forcing vomit up into her throat.
“Please, be gentle,” she whimpered. He soaked in her meekness.
He was the roughest with her. He bit and cut, much like the others, but he scratched deep into her flesh, pouring out blood and tightened his cold, stiff hands around her throat till she was nearly unconscious. Her screams aroused him so she used all her strength to deny him that pleasure as long as possible.
When he grabbed the wooden stakes, the ones that had rotted, slivered and softened in the age since he first grabbed them from his sisters’ gravesite, there was no stopping the torrent of agony. He used them unmercifully on her, gouging and tearing away at her insides.
For her part, the pain was terrible but it also provided the lengthiest pleasure that any of the Dinar had been able to produce. Old flesh was indeed weak.
Neros, like Lars, Het and the fourth, a mute named Mahmet, who came a long time ago from beyond the Sorna, all believed she was their minion. Nothing more than a toy to be controlled, used and abused. So they believed and so she allowed them.
Power and authority were not always wrestled with the sword and the shield. While brute force was good for men, women had to use other means to gain their end. She had known from the moment she felt the sudden urge to run west toward Noce that she could not succumb totally to that desire. For her to maintain her own destiny, she had to be attentive, to watch, to listen and understand the weaknesses of those she was dealing with.
“You are not focused,” Neros voice sounded as if he had swallowed a handful of dirt. From his breath, it smelled like he ate a handful of another substance left on the ground.
“I fear the neighbors,” she lied. “They spy, they always have. We cannot have them aware just yet.”
He grunted. He may have been countless years old, but he still reacted to a woman’s worries the same as any other man with a grunt and a roll of the eyes.
“They saw nothing,” he bit into the flesh of her neck.
“We cannot be sure this way,” she held back a surprised yip from the pain. “The folk cannot know of us just yet.”
He pinned her shoulders down and stared with dead pupils down at her. Even so, she could sense his desire, his need.
“I will send Het and Lars with the children,” Neros sat back on his knees. “They will handle the neighbors.”
She was sure to sigh loudly and turned her face away. He could not see her wince that way, he loved to see his work strain out in the lines of her face and in tears that not even she could hold in.
“You know they will bungle it,” she sighed again and started to close her legs.
“Woman,” it came out almost as a plea. She could tell the tone even surprised him.
“I cannot provide you the proper attention with this weighing on my mind,” she turned back letting the full effect of her large green eyes to take effect. He dropped a hard fist down onto the mattress before standing up.
“You tease me,” he growled. “Be here when I return or I promise to make you feel ever inch of these neighbors pain.”
“Yes Lord Neros,” she sat up on her knees and bowed. He stalked out of the room, letting out a low whistle that called the other Dinar to him.
Hatala rolled around in the covers of the bed. When the door below closed, she laughed using her power to heal any wounds they had caused. It would not be long, she thought, until they were completely hers. It would all be hers, including him. The one they sought. The one who Salama truly feared.
She rubbed her stomach and cooed thinking about it. Before all was said and done, Hatala Del Aram would be second only to the Lord of the Underworld. Her offspring, well, that blessed creature may just supplant that lord as well. Then she would rule all.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Something In The Air
"I had bits of my lungs, shrapnel glass and cigarettes for breakfast" The Little Things We Do - The Zutons
Light slowly creeps back into existence. My eyes ache as I try to open them, the throbbing sensations causes them to blur. Tick, Tock...Thump Thump....the heartbeat reverberates in my skull like some bad dance song being played on blown out speakers. The wind tickles my finger tips before I can feel it rush across my face. The tears are dropping down onto my fatigues from my watering eyes, forming a large pool that begins to soak through to the skin. After a quick wipe of the eyes with my sleeve, revealing even more wounds and aches across my arms and a possible dislocated shoulder, the picture starts to clear. The fatigues are shredded as if someone had picked me up and ran me across a cheese grater. The fingers are missing in my gloves, blood stained sticks remain. The wind picks up speed and whistles through the ruptured windows of the helicopter. A piece of glass is embedded in Rico's eye. The thought crossed my mind to pull it out, but I refrained. I barely knew the guy, new to our squad yesterday. The rear hatch is open and glows bright in my eyes. Slowly I move, one hand and knee in front of the other, crawling over 3 more dead bodies. Good men who ended up luckier than I. The rushing wind makes it near impossible to keep my eyes open. The air burns my lungs, eliciting a forced cough. The cigarettes are gone from the pouch on my chest, likely tossed out in the crash. It feels as if a stranger is touching me as I rub my face. Who's hands are these? A new screech begins to fill the air. I turn my head to see the enormous cloud billowing up out of the far end of the city. It looms large over all the buildings. The swing sets of a nearby park squeak as they are tossed violently about. This is the quietest this city has been in years, probably since before it was a city. The heat begins to burn on my cheek. I would scream if I could gather any breath, not that one is left to hear it. The safety of the helicopter seems miles away now. Jones's face, hollow with empty eyes, beckons to me. The concussion blast heaves my chest and robs my lungs. A wave of debris and smoke knock me onto my back. The sky is gray, the clouds are swirling. I never was the lucky o.....
Light slowly creeps back into existence. My eyes ache as I try to open them, the throbbing sensations causes them to blur. Tick, Tock...Thump Thump....the heartbeat reverberates in my skull like some bad dance song being played on blown out speakers. The wind tickles my finger tips before I can feel it rush across my face. The tears are dropping down onto my fatigues from my watering eyes, forming a large pool that begins to soak through to the skin. After a quick wipe of the eyes with my sleeve, revealing even more wounds and aches across my arms and a possible dislocated shoulder, the picture starts to clear. The fatigues are shredded as if someone had picked me up and ran me across a cheese grater. The fingers are missing in my gloves, blood stained sticks remain. The wind picks up speed and whistles through the ruptured windows of the helicopter. A piece of glass is embedded in Rico's eye. The thought crossed my mind to pull it out, but I refrained. I barely knew the guy, new to our squad yesterday. The rear hatch is open and glows bright in my eyes. Slowly I move, one hand and knee in front of the other, crawling over 3 more dead bodies. Good men who ended up luckier than I. The rushing wind makes it near impossible to keep my eyes open. The air burns my lungs, eliciting a forced cough. The cigarettes are gone from the pouch on my chest, likely tossed out in the crash. It feels as if a stranger is touching me as I rub my face. Who's hands are these? A new screech begins to fill the air. I turn my head to see the enormous cloud billowing up out of the far end of the city. It looms large over all the buildings. The swing sets of a nearby park squeak as they are tossed violently about. This is the quietest this city has been in years, probably since before it was a city. The heat begins to burn on my cheek. I would scream if I could gather any breath, not that one is left to hear it. The safety of the helicopter seems miles away now. Jones's face, hollow with empty eyes, beckons to me. The concussion blast heaves my chest and robs my lungs. A wave of debris and smoke knock me onto my back. The sky is gray, the clouds are swirling. I never was the lucky o.....
1001 albums (416-430): The Infontainment Scan - Is This It
Note: I changed this to try and speed things up a bit. Maybe it will invoke more discussion because I cover less right away. I don't know. I may continue to tweak this as I go.
416. The Infontainment Scan (1993) by The Fall
417. Ingenue (1992) by K.D. Lang
418. In It for the Money (1997) by Supergrass
419. Innervisions (1973) by Stevie Wonder
420. In Rock (1970) by Deep Purple
First five at a glance: One thing I learned from this group was that Stevie Wonder wrote “Higher Ground,” which was later covered by the Chili Peppers. Otherwise I think Deep Purple was a good enough band to get on here sometime. I don’t know their music well enough to point and say, ‘hey that’s Deep Purple,” but I know I’ve heard them. K.D. Lang was one of my sister’s favorites when she was in college. I never cared much for her, but I do know “Constant Craving,” from this album. The book called The Fall “brilliantly consistent,” which sounds like a fancy way of saying mediocre.
421. Inspiration Information (1974) by Shuggie Otis
422. In the Court of King Crimson (1969) by Crimson King
423. In The Wee Small Hours (1955) by Frank Sinatra
424. Introducing The Hardline According To Terence Trent D’Arby (1987) by Terenec Trent D’Arby
425. In Utero (1993) by Nirvana
Second five at a glance: In Utero is the biggest album of this bunch and had the biggest expectations as Nirvana was coming off the most important album of the last 25 years in Nevermind. In Utero is different from Nevermind in a good way and produces great songs like “Heart-Shaped Box,” “Dumb,” and “All Apologies.” Sinatra is the man, there isn’t much else to say about that. I am going to let Snake talk about Crimson King, I remember him digging them a few years back. Shuggie Otis was the son of songwriter Johnny Otis (credits included Hound Dog). Shuggie was also asked by the Rolling Stones to replace Mick Taylor. I got tired just reading the title of the Terence Trent D’Arby album.
426. Iron Maiden (1980) by Iron Maiden
427. I See A Darkness (1999) by Bonnie “Prince” Billy
428. I Should Coco (1995) by Supergrass
429. Isn’t Anything (1988) by My Bloody Valentine
430. Is This It (2001) by The Strokes
Third five at a glance: I have The Stroke album, which I like, but I find I listen to less and less over time. I wonder if it’s going to hold up 10 years from now. I am going to let Snake handle Iron Maiden, but I am thinking I need to find their album cover artist to some renderings for my CD project. I think the themes would be similar. My Bloody Valentine is another 80s cult indy band.
I feel like I should mention Supergrass since they appear twice this week. So there you go.
The goods: Nirvana, Crimson King, Frank Sinatra, The Strokes, Deep Purple, Stevie Wonder.
Something to check out: I See A Darkness – apocalyptic country music. Could be interesting.
The Verdict: This is a pretty good group to get started again with. Some solid albums and good bands.
416. The Infontainment Scan (1993) by The Fall
417. Ingenue (1992) by K.D. Lang
418. In It for the Money (1997) by Supergrass
419. Innervisions (1973) by Stevie Wonder
420. In Rock (1970) by Deep Purple
First five at a glance: One thing I learned from this group was that Stevie Wonder wrote “Higher Ground,” which was later covered by the Chili Peppers. Otherwise I think Deep Purple was a good enough band to get on here sometime. I don’t know their music well enough to point and say, ‘hey that’s Deep Purple,” but I know I’ve heard them. K.D. Lang was one of my sister’s favorites when she was in college. I never cared much for her, but I do know “Constant Craving,” from this album. The book called The Fall “brilliantly consistent,” which sounds like a fancy way of saying mediocre.
421. Inspiration Information (1974) by Shuggie Otis
422. In the Court of King Crimson (1969) by Crimson King
423. In The Wee Small Hours (1955) by Frank Sinatra
424. Introducing The Hardline According To Terence Trent D’Arby (1987) by Terenec Trent D’Arby
425. In Utero (1993) by Nirvana
Second five at a glance: In Utero is the biggest album of this bunch and had the biggest expectations as Nirvana was coming off the most important album of the last 25 years in Nevermind. In Utero is different from Nevermind in a good way and produces great songs like “Heart-Shaped Box,” “Dumb,” and “All Apologies.” Sinatra is the man, there isn’t much else to say about that. I am going to let Snake talk about Crimson King, I remember him digging them a few years back. Shuggie Otis was the son of songwriter Johnny Otis (credits included Hound Dog). Shuggie was also asked by the Rolling Stones to replace Mick Taylor. I got tired just reading the title of the Terence Trent D’Arby album.
426. Iron Maiden (1980) by Iron Maiden
427. I See A Darkness (1999) by Bonnie “Prince” Billy
428. I Should Coco (1995) by Supergrass
429. Isn’t Anything (1988) by My Bloody Valentine
430. Is This It (2001) by The Strokes
Third five at a glance: I have The Stroke album, which I like, but I find I listen to less and less over time. I wonder if it’s going to hold up 10 years from now. I am going to let Snake handle Iron Maiden, but I am thinking I need to find their album cover artist to some renderings for my CD project. I think the themes would be similar. My Bloody Valentine is another 80s cult indy band.
I feel like I should mention Supergrass since they appear twice this week. So there you go.
The goods: Nirvana, Crimson King, Frank Sinatra, The Strokes, Deep Purple, Stevie Wonder.
Something to check out: I See A Darkness – apocalyptic country music. Could be interesting.
The Verdict: This is a pretty good group to get started again with. Some solid albums and good bands.
Friday, April 30, 2010
$%(&@#&%*@
note: This is a tough one. The lyric jumped out at me and then was enforced much more in the last 2 days. I still feel like I am just whining or bitching instead of trying to craft a point. Also had a hard time titling it.
"Maybe they'll leave you alone, but not me" Teenagers - My Chemical Romance
Wisdom is a curse. I don't know a better way to describe it. Being different is not always the best thing. Everyone can tell you how important it is to be your own person, until it puts you in the position that every wants something from you. This curse is no new development. In my almost six years with my company, I have always been a go to guy, a source of knowledge. It is only recently that I have realized how much of a curse, a burden, an albatross around my neck this has become.
Being the golden child at work has offered many benefits. I am usually given free rein to run things the way I want to. When I speak, people listen and my thoughts are highly considered. Those are things most people can't claim at their jobs.
Still this week has especially irritated me. I've become the resident expert on a new project not only with my building, but the entire company. I was brave enough to go first with this project. I was smart enough to hurdle us through the obstacles the change presented. I was strong enough to lead my team through the change, teach them to think on their feet and succeed through the change.
It would seem I am the only person of this skill set. Buildings out West are whining before they even start. All they see is insurmountable obstacles and evil change. The group out in the East at least tried to take on the project. But now it seems they have stumbled into the obstacles and are seemingly throwing in the towel.
All this leads back to me. I am drug into every conference call. I am e-mailed and called constantly with questions. I have been repeatedly asked to defend the merits of the project to every other whining manager in the country. No one helped my team, we figured it out. I knew it would work and I taught my people how to figure it out. We adapted and excelled like the human race has been doing for thousands of years.
I have no issue helping people. I only have one prerequisite, they have to want to be helped. No whining, no saying this will never work. Guidance, assistance is gladly given to those wanting to learn, those stuck in the project but want to succeed in something new.
I am trying to keep this from a diatribe. I am not whining about people coming to me for help. My door, my knowledge has always been open for sharing. But I cannot stand whiners, the negative people that only see the problems with everything. I do not understand how these people operate their businesses with this attitude and seeming lack of ingenuity. I have never believed that I could be this far above my peers.
This will certainly continue to test my patience elicit numerous curse words of various languages emanating out of my office.
"Maybe they'll leave you alone, but not me" Teenagers - My Chemical Romance
Wisdom is a curse. I don't know a better way to describe it. Being different is not always the best thing. Everyone can tell you how important it is to be your own person, until it puts you in the position that every wants something from you. This curse is no new development. In my almost six years with my company, I have always been a go to guy, a source of knowledge. It is only recently that I have realized how much of a curse, a burden, an albatross around my neck this has become.
Being the golden child at work has offered many benefits. I am usually given free rein to run things the way I want to. When I speak, people listen and my thoughts are highly considered. Those are things most people can't claim at their jobs.
Still this week has especially irritated me. I've become the resident expert on a new project not only with my building, but the entire company. I was brave enough to go first with this project. I was smart enough to hurdle us through the obstacles the change presented. I was strong enough to lead my team through the change, teach them to think on their feet and succeed through the change.
It would seem I am the only person of this skill set. Buildings out West are whining before they even start. All they see is insurmountable obstacles and evil change. The group out in the East at least tried to take on the project. But now it seems they have stumbled into the obstacles and are seemingly throwing in the towel.
All this leads back to me. I am drug into every conference call. I am e-mailed and called constantly with questions. I have been repeatedly asked to defend the merits of the project to every other whining manager in the country. No one helped my team, we figured it out. I knew it would work and I taught my people how to figure it out. We adapted and excelled like the human race has been doing for thousands of years.
I have no issue helping people. I only have one prerequisite, they have to want to be helped. No whining, no saying this will never work. Guidance, assistance is gladly given to those wanting to learn, those stuck in the project but want to succeed in something new.
I am trying to keep this from a diatribe. I am not whining about people coming to me for help. My door, my knowledge has always been open for sharing. But I cannot stand whiners, the negative people that only see the problems with everything. I do not understand how these people operate their businesses with this attitude and seeming lack of ingenuity. I have never believed that I could be this far above my peers.
This will certainly continue to test my patience elicit numerous curse words of various languages emanating out of my office.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Red's CD Project Story 2: Part 21 – The Litany of Life
Note: After 20 parts of teasing, we finally get to the point where the witch and Oan palaver on the meaning of everything. I could not contain everything that needs to be said in one part. I think there is one more to go with these two before they must part, but I think this answers some long lingering questions. I am sure this is a part I may need to revise, rethink and redo as the story continues. A lot hinges on this. I thought about making the entire section a dialogue. I may still when I rework some of this later.
Disc 1
Track 21: Real World – Big & Rich
“And in my real world I’m a little messed up and broke, don’t you know.”
Unbeknownst to Oan, snow flurries were starting to whip around outside the cave. Winter had been living a long time in the mountains already, but the snow had not migrated all the way down until now, but it was going to hasten its journey south with one giant leap that evening.
Inside the cave, there was not a hint of cold. The darkness serving as a wall to the cave’s opening held out the cold and the fire that the witch had sprung to life with a snap of her fingers was already warming the entire cavern. She was watching him closely, since he had sat silent since her revelation about his parents. Nestor had not nudged a single step closer. Even in Oan’s haze of confusion, he could almost smell Nestor’s fear of the witch. Fear was not an unreasonable reaction to her, but the man should not let it rule him so.
“I feel you weeping inside, my love,” the witch handed him a mug, inside was some sort of ale she had warmed over the fire. “Despair if you must, but make haste. My time grows short.”
“You will not rule me.” He could not fight back the tears any longer. Kekur was draped over his knees, and he clasped his hand tightly around the hilt.
“Rule you? I could not if I wanted to,” she folded her hands on her lap. “We palaver because you have come to me with questions. We palaver because I have answers that I can give only once. Here and now.”
“Why did they do it? Why did they jump?”
“Because you are the second. When the second comes, the world must end. So is it written, so it is spoke, so it has come to pass here and in worlds unknown.”
“I am through with your riddles,” he jumped back to his feet bringing Kekur up, but as he did, she floated up, eyes glowing and a great gust of wind arose behind her. The sword boiled in his hand till he was forced to release and it shot straight up, piercing into the cave’s ceiling. There it hung above his head. He looked back to Nestor, the man was on his back blown over by the wind.
“I am through with you grieving over the loss of what was never yours,” the witch’s voiced boomed. “We have not the time for this. The hour grows short, my time grows short.”
“You made me this, not them. You did this to me!” He leapt over the fire at her. Before he made it half the distance, a green flame shot from her hand and struck him in the chest and cast him backward. He landed with a thud on his back, a rock cut deep into his skull. The skin on his chest melted and he could smell his hair burning. He waited for the healing to start, but it was slow. Her powers were not like being struck with a dwarf’s ax; though, healing this was difficult even for his gifts. Finally, he felt the tingle of repair as new skin formed, but there were blisters from the intense heat. His eyes focused back upwards where she loomed over him.
“You have always been Oan Stoneheart, my love,” her words were crisp. “The blessings I gave you were only done so to keep you alive. Your destiny was set upon the mountain, when a girl, a beautiful girl, grew full with babe without the touch of a man. The wind of the mountain impregnated her. The wind chose you to end all things. What your mother and the man, who claimed you as a son, did not read, did not hear, have not seen come to pass is that with every end, there is a new beginning. So they jumped, and the wind of the mountain carried them to a land where they have to fear no ends or no beginnings. Rejoice! They found their peace boy.”
Propping his body up onto his elbows, the stone in the back of his head drop ped out and the wound closed up. He had never had sense knocked into him in such a manner, but never had it returned so quickly. He could not afford to dwell on his parents; the evils stalking the world were of greater concern. Oan did not understand this business of being the second, but he did not think he’d wait long to get a better explanation.
“I beg your pardon, Madra Wandering Witch. I have let despair cloud my thoughts.” He dropped his head, and she touched it lightly with her right hand. “I do not understand all of this, I need you to guide me.”
“So be it.” She walked around the fire and sat back down on the other side. He sat up, noticing that burn scars still lined his chest. Attacking her had been a mistake and that was lesson he would not soon forget. Lifting her eyes to his, he was transfixed by how they pulsed, one beat followed by the next. Behind those eyes, a thousand lifetimes passed in worlds gone by.
“Do you recall the Litany of Life, my love?”
“Yes. In all worlds between the heavens and the underworld, there are the waters that flow, the plants that grow, the air that blows, the stone that holds, the fire that burns, the man that leads, the beast that bleeds, the light that shines and the dark that dooms. So is it true here as in all worlds.”
She smiled, pleased with his recitation.
“I am not of this world. I have told you this. I am divined of the plant that grows in a world that allowed such a thing like that happen only once. The plant that grows does so only in the light. Thus, for my life to continue, the light must prevail. If not here, then in other worlds and when the last battle comes above the lake of fire in the underworld, it must prevail then. I have felt the dark, my love. I have bore a child in another world from its seed. The dark cannot succeed. There is no end to it and no new beginning, just an endless, impassable ocean of dark. Thus, the nurturing of the beings of the light falls upon me and my brethren.”
“Your brethren?”
“There are others divined of the other basic elements of the litany that work against the spawn of the dark such as the demon that now plagues this world. You have met one that moves often from one world to another. I know not how he does it, but he does.”
“Who?”
“The bearer of yon sword. He was born of the stone and dreams like a stone that never moves, but sees all that moves past. He sees much that I do not.”
“What do you see?”
“I see two futures for this world. If men prevail, the world shall be born again and a new age of man shall begin. If men fail, the demon will suck all the light from this world and it shall never return.”
“If I fail?”
“You cannot fail. This is merely a battle in a much greater war. If the demon cannot be overcome, then you must leave this world before darkness overcomes it. If you do not, you will be lost forever in it.”
“Why me?”
“You are the second.”
“I do not understand.”
“Every world can bare only one divined purely of the elements and man. You are the second. It cannot exist with such a crime against the Litany of the Worlds.”
“Who was the first?”
“Tarek Grandar, of course. Born, like you, of the wind of the mountain that blows cold and strong. He was divined to cast away the dark and unleash the waters of the heavens. He succeeded and the world moved on and so did he. You are even more. You are married to the waters of the Belnor and the stone of the mountain. The light allows it for you are one chosen to lead the armies of the light in the final battle. The dark gathers here, if you cannot repel it, you must leave.”
“How?”
The witch stood then. The flames below her were a bright green. She turned toward the wooden door in the back of the cave.
“The Door to Nowhere awaits those that must leave here and never return. It is way that I came to this world long ago. It is how I will leave here soon. If this world fails, you will have to take it.”
He stood next to her and, for the first time ever, he saw tears standing in her eyes and she looked so very old and tired.
“Why do you leave mother? Why do you leave when we need you the most?”
She raised her hands and they were wrinkled and knotted with the tightening disease. The illusion of her powers was fading before him. Her hair fell off in great clumps, the remaining was thin and gray. The sturdy beauty of her face was replaced with a lined, blistered, hideous mug. The glorious dress was no more than an old sack crudely tied together with twigs. Her eyes did not glow green, but were lifeless black orbs.
“Mother. …”
“The magic in this world is dying. That is why the swords of power have resurfaced. They wish to leave before their flames are quelled. My lifeforce is drawn out through my roots as the dark grows stronger. I have been touched by the dark before and it takes all my strength to not be overrun by it. Someday, somewhere, it will overtake me and the life of the plant will leave me forever. The plants will lose their champion and they will fade to gray and then vanish into memory. I pray that day will not come before all my work is complete. I have so very much to do yet.”
He touched her shoulder. It was no more than soft bone on a thin layer of skin. She put her hand over top his accepting the momentary comfort.
“Where does yonder door lead?”
“To where one must go. If one’s road has no destination than it leads to nowhere, a terribly bleak place.”
“Where does your road lead?”
The ghastly old woman disappeared as he asked the question replaced with the bearded man with bleeding hands he had seen when they entered the cave. Then it was the witch returned to all her glory.
“To a world in need of magic, a magic only I can provide.”
Disc 1
Track 21: Real World – Big & Rich
“And in my real world I’m a little messed up and broke, don’t you know.”
Unbeknownst to Oan, snow flurries were starting to whip around outside the cave. Winter had been living a long time in the mountains already, but the snow had not migrated all the way down until now, but it was going to hasten its journey south with one giant leap that evening.
Inside the cave, there was not a hint of cold. The darkness serving as a wall to the cave’s opening held out the cold and the fire that the witch had sprung to life with a snap of her fingers was already warming the entire cavern. She was watching him closely, since he had sat silent since her revelation about his parents. Nestor had not nudged a single step closer. Even in Oan’s haze of confusion, he could almost smell Nestor’s fear of the witch. Fear was not an unreasonable reaction to her, but the man should not let it rule him so.
“I feel you weeping inside, my love,” the witch handed him a mug, inside was some sort of ale she had warmed over the fire. “Despair if you must, but make haste. My time grows short.”
“You will not rule me.” He could not fight back the tears any longer. Kekur was draped over his knees, and he clasped his hand tightly around the hilt.
“Rule you? I could not if I wanted to,” she folded her hands on her lap. “We palaver because you have come to me with questions. We palaver because I have answers that I can give only once. Here and now.”
“Why did they do it? Why did they jump?”
“Because you are the second. When the second comes, the world must end. So is it written, so it is spoke, so it has come to pass here and in worlds unknown.”
“I am through with your riddles,” he jumped back to his feet bringing Kekur up, but as he did, she floated up, eyes glowing and a great gust of wind arose behind her. The sword boiled in his hand till he was forced to release and it shot straight up, piercing into the cave’s ceiling. There it hung above his head. He looked back to Nestor, the man was on his back blown over by the wind.
“I am through with you grieving over the loss of what was never yours,” the witch’s voiced boomed. “We have not the time for this. The hour grows short, my time grows short.”
“You made me this, not them. You did this to me!” He leapt over the fire at her. Before he made it half the distance, a green flame shot from her hand and struck him in the chest and cast him backward. He landed with a thud on his back, a rock cut deep into his skull. The skin on his chest melted and he could smell his hair burning. He waited for the healing to start, but it was slow. Her powers were not like being struck with a dwarf’s ax; though, healing this was difficult even for his gifts. Finally, he felt the tingle of repair as new skin formed, but there were blisters from the intense heat. His eyes focused back upwards where she loomed over him.
“You have always been Oan Stoneheart, my love,” her words were crisp. “The blessings I gave you were only done so to keep you alive. Your destiny was set upon the mountain, when a girl, a beautiful girl, grew full with babe without the touch of a man. The wind of the mountain impregnated her. The wind chose you to end all things. What your mother and the man, who claimed you as a son, did not read, did not hear, have not seen come to pass is that with every end, there is a new beginning. So they jumped, and the wind of the mountain carried them to a land where they have to fear no ends or no beginnings. Rejoice! They found their peace boy.”
Propping his body up onto his elbows, the stone in the back of his head drop ped out and the wound closed up. He had never had sense knocked into him in such a manner, but never had it returned so quickly. He could not afford to dwell on his parents; the evils stalking the world were of greater concern. Oan did not understand this business of being the second, but he did not think he’d wait long to get a better explanation.
“I beg your pardon, Madra Wandering Witch. I have let despair cloud my thoughts.” He dropped his head, and she touched it lightly with her right hand. “I do not understand all of this, I need you to guide me.”
“So be it.” She walked around the fire and sat back down on the other side. He sat up, noticing that burn scars still lined his chest. Attacking her had been a mistake and that was lesson he would not soon forget. Lifting her eyes to his, he was transfixed by how they pulsed, one beat followed by the next. Behind those eyes, a thousand lifetimes passed in worlds gone by.
“Do you recall the Litany of Life, my love?”
“Yes. In all worlds between the heavens and the underworld, there are the waters that flow, the plants that grow, the air that blows, the stone that holds, the fire that burns, the man that leads, the beast that bleeds, the light that shines and the dark that dooms. So is it true here as in all worlds.”
She smiled, pleased with his recitation.
“I am not of this world. I have told you this. I am divined of the plant that grows in a world that allowed such a thing like that happen only once. The plant that grows does so only in the light. Thus, for my life to continue, the light must prevail. If not here, then in other worlds and when the last battle comes above the lake of fire in the underworld, it must prevail then. I have felt the dark, my love. I have bore a child in another world from its seed. The dark cannot succeed. There is no end to it and no new beginning, just an endless, impassable ocean of dark. Thus, the nurturing of the beings of the light falls upon me and my brethren.”
“Your brethren?”
“There are others divined of the other basic elements of the litany that work against the spawn of the dark such as the demon that now plagues this world. You have met one that moves often from one world to another. I know not how he does it, but he does.”
“Who?”
“The bearer of yon sword. He was born of the stone and dreams like a stone that never moves, but sees all that moves past. He sees much that I do not.”
“What do you see?”
“I see two futures for this world. If men prevail, the world shall be born again and a new age of man shall begin. If men fail, the demon will suck all the light from this world and it shall never return.”
“If I fail?”
“You cannot fail. This is merely a battle in a much greater war. If the demon cannot be overcome, then you must leave this world before darkness overcomes it. If you do not, you will be lost forever in it.”
“Why me?”
“You are the second.”
“I do not understand.”
“Every world can bare only one divined purely of the elements and man. You are the second. It cannot exist with such a crime against the Litany of the Worlds.”
“Who was the first?”
“Tarek Grandar, of course. Born, like you, of the wind of the mountain that blows cold and strong. He was divined to cast away the dark and unleash the waters of the heavens. He succeeded and the world moved on and so did he. You are even more. You are married to the waters of the Belnor and the stone of the mountain. The light allows it for you are one chosen to lead the armies of the light in the final battle. The dark gathers here, if you cannot repel it, you must leave.”
“How?”
The witch stood then. The flames below her were a bright green. She turned toward the wooden door in the back of the cave.
“The Door to Nowhere awaits those that must leave here and never return. It is way that I came to this world long ago. It is how I will leave here soon. If this world fails, you will have to take it.”
He stood next to her and, for the first time ever, he saw tears standing in her eyes and she looked so very old and tired.
“Why do you leave mother? Why do you leave when we need you the most?”
She raised her hands and they were wrinkled and knotted with the tightening disease. The illusion of her powers was fading before him. Her hair fell off in great clumps, the remaining was thin and gray. The sturdy beauty of her face was replaced with a lined, blistered, hideous mug. The glorious dress was no more than an old sack crudely tied together with twigs. Her eyes did not glow green, but were lifeless black orbs.
“Mother. …”
“The magic in this world is dying. That is why the swords of power have resurfaced. They wish to leave before their flames are quelled. My lifeforce is drawn out through my roots as the dark grows stronger. I have been touched by the dark before and it takes all my strength to not be overrun by it. Someday, somewhere, it will overtake me and the life of the plant will leave me forever. The plants will lose their champion and they will fade to gray and then vanish into memory. I pray that day will not come before all my work is complete. I have so very much to do yet.”
He touched her shoulder. It was no more than soft bone on a thin layer of skin. She put her hand over top his accepting the momentary comfort.
“Where does yonder door lead?”
“To where one must go. If one’s road has no destination than it leads to nowhere, a terribly bleak place.”
“Where does your road lead?”
The ghastly old woman disappeared as he asked the question replaced with the bearded man with bleeding hands he had seen when they entered the cave. Then it was the witch returned to all her glory.
“To a world in need of magic, a magic only I can provide.”
Monday, April 26, 2010
The Scarlet Sins
Note: This marks my return to free writing or just writing in general. I made a new disc for Red and will be doing by best to write something based of all the tracks. Right now I plan on a hodge podge of things. I will resurrect some old characters or stories and do some introspective free writing. No rules, just whatever the lyrics remind me off. But I'll try to post links in case I am digging up those old bones. This first one is an example of such: The Hair On The Back Of Your Neck
"So you say you wanna lose control" Do You Dig Destruction - Turbonegro
He could no longer see the bloody face that his fists were contorting into a pile of mush as if kneading a piece of pizza dough. He was positive it was the rage welling up from deep inside his chest that blinded him rather than the gooey mixture of tears and blood forming on his cheeks. He finally had to stop, wiping the slop from his face. It gave him a chance to catch his breath. Then, the realization hit harder than any of the hay makers he had just thrown. There was no face staring back at him. There was barely a head on these shoulders. It looked more like some strange bowl made out of skull, lined with flesh and filled with blood. The red lake was beginning to overflow its banks, creating a new raging river out across the concrete. He quickly snapped his head around to look back out towards the street. It was dark, the street lights were too bright. No one would have been able to see him in the shadow of the alley. He could begin to feel his shirt sag, weighted down with the scarlet sins of what he had done. Quickly and with such ease for a person in his situation, he undid each button down the front of what used to be his gray flannel. He wiped his hands and face on the garment before carefully draping it over the upper body of the lump now lying in the corner. He grabbed the bottle of cheap bourbon the bum had dropped when he grabbed the man. It burned all the way down to his stomach. It was nothing in comparison to the sting of pouring it over his badly bruised knuckles. By the new throb he could finally feel, he was sure his left hand was broken, likely from a bad connection with a cheek bone. The rage was gone now. He could feel the last drops draining out his body. It tingled as it ran down his leg, out through his toes and off into dark. He knew this was what he had wanted to do. The aches and pains were just a dull sensation to him. The satisfaction out weighed all other feelings. He finally had quieted the urge, that burning desire he knew he couldn't control. His feet almost floated as he walked off, a certain swagger appearing in his gait. It will come again.
"So you say you wanna lose control" Do You Dig Destruction - Turbonegro
He could no longer see the bloody face that his fists were contorting into a pile of mush as if kneading a piece of pizza dough. He was positive it was the rage welling up from deep inside his chest that blinded him rather than the gooey mixture of tears and blood forming on his cheeks. He finally had to stop, wiping the slop from his face. It gave him a chance to catch his breath. Then, the realization hit harder than any of the hay makers he had just thrown. There was no face staring back at him. There was barely a head on these shoulders. It looked more like some strange bowl made out of skull, lined with flesh and filled with blood. The red lake was beginning to overflow its banks, creating a new raging river out across the concrete. He quickly snapped his head around to look back out towards the street. It was dark, the street lights were too bright. No one would have been able to see him in the shadow of the alley. He could begin to feel his shirt sag, weighted down with the scarlet sins of what he had done. Quickly and with such ease for a person in his situation, he undid each button down the front of what used to be his gray flannel. He wiped his hands and face on the garment before carefully draping it over the upper body of the lump now lying in the corner. He grabbed the bottle of cheap bourbon the bum had dropped when he grabbed the man. It burned all the way down to his stomach. It was nothing in comparison to the sting of pouring it over his badly bruised knuckles. By the new throb he could finally feel, he was sure his left hand was broken, likely from a bad connection with a cheek bone. The rage was gone now. He could feel the last drops draining out his body. It tingled as it ran down his leg, out through his toes and off into dark. He knew this was what he had wanted to do. The aches and pains were just a dull sensation to him. The satisfaction out weighed all other feelings. He finally had quieted the urge, that burning desire he knew he couldn't control. His feet almost floated as he walked off, a certain swagger appearing in his gait. It will come again.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Red's CD Project Story 2: Part 20 – Homecoming
Note: I am not entirely satisfied with this part. It was a little tricky to write, but I think the effect is still fairly powerful. We passed 30,000 words with this part. That's 70 single-spaced pages in Word. Not too shabby.
Track 20: Dirty Dancehall – The Zutons
“Woken up again by a young girl’s shout”
Zuton Del Aram woke; startled from slumber by a scream that sounded too much like a voice he knew and loved. He jumped up from his second-floor bed and pressed his face against the glass of the window. Outside the sky was black and starless over the city of Stra, which was eerily quiet. While his days of frolicking out past dusk had long past, he knew that others in the city should still have been out. Whether it was heading to a tavern or walking off too much time already spent in the tavern, there should still have been folks out but there wasn’t. There hadn’t been any one out past dark for weeks. The streets in the outer ring were empty, but, as he knew very well, not still. Things lurked in the shadows that weren’t just rats plump from feeding on the waste from one inn or another. They were larger than that and the shadows seemed to cling to them. One night about a week ago, he was sure he saw red eyes staring back at him.
He scanned the street below that was lit up the fire of torches lining both sides. The torches were new. He was not the only one seeing things in the shadows. Achingly, he sought the source of the noise that had disturbed him, but saw nothing.
“Fool of fools,” he swore turning away from the window. “She’s not coming back.”
Beside the bed, a half bottle of brandy sat upon a table next to an empty glass. He filled the glass to the brim then shot it down in one burning gulp before refilling it. The bottle had been full earlier today. He swore again before bringing the glass back to his mouth. His wife would never have allowed him to drink so much, but she had been gone a very long time. Since she gave birth to their daughter, the strings of his heart pulled tight at the thought.
“Pappy!” The words came loud from outside, accompanied by a knock on his front door. That surprised him so that he spit the second gulp of brandy out, spraying it all over the wall and his bed. He dropped the glass and the bottle, they shattered hitting the wood floor, but he did not notice that even when a few of the longer shards cut into his bare feet.
His knees creaked, his back popped as he came as close as he could to a run for his door and then nearly broke his neck twice while trying to take the stairs two at a time. He was no boy, but he felt like one just then. To see her again, meant everything, and he didn’t want her outside in the dark any longer than necessary. There was a time when he would have left the door unlocked and she could have came in on her own, came up to him in his bed and greeted him with one of those great big hugs she used to give him when she was his little girl. In his heart, she was still his little girl no matter what any of others said about her. His daughter was different, but she was still his daughter. After all the time that she had been gone, he realized that more than ever. He was a fool to listen to anyone about her and feared that by his inaction that he had allowed something to be done to her.
“I’m coming!” His voice came out gruffer than he wanted. He preyed she did not run off thinking he was angry with her. He could not be angry with her, not now, not ever again.
Throwing back the wood brace across the door, he sensed being on the edge of delirium. It was a happy sensation, one that, at his age, he may never feel again. He fumbled to release the lock before turning the knob. A putrid, dead, smell hung in the air, but he forgot when he saw the great mane of red hair facing away from him. No one else had such a bright glowing flow of locks in Stra. Hell, he thought, he could travel the entire world and not see its equal.
“My Hatala,” he made no attempt at hiding the tears that streamed from his eyes. She spun, slow and graceful, the purple riding cape floated out behind her. Zuton flushed seeing the tight purple dress she wore, which accentuated her breasts and the paleness of her skin that was dotted with hundreds of tiny brown freckles. This was not the sort of attire he had raised her to ware. It was a problem, but not one of any consequence so long as she was home. Before she could speak, he was embracing her to make sure that she was indeed real. He was shocked to feel how cold her skin felt, how frail her body.
“Father,” she said with little hint of emotion.
“You’re freezing child, come in, come in,” he brushed her through the threshold with his arm. “I’ll start a fire directly to warm you’re blood.”
He closed the door behind her not bothering to lock it and lit a long match from the pile he kept by the door. He took that to several candles before guiding her to the den and the fireplace.
“My girl, I am blessed to see you again,” he bent over clearing a place for new kindling. There was a creak from out where they had come, but he didn’t think twice about it. It was a old house full of old memories that came out in moans and groans. Just like old men, he thought, and decided that the next day he’d write that down. He was one for jotting down notes and thoughts. He would write a great book of wisdom before his days came to an end. Perhaps the return of his daughter was the inspiration that he needed.
“Did you search me out,” she asked, her voice very low?
He blew on a spark from the match as the kindling began to snap, but the rest of his body tensed. He had not known what to do when the girl came up missing. She had a nasty reputation among some folk, the kind of folk that sometimes acted on suspicion. He had wanted to sound the alarm when she disappeared, but worried if he had that he may be the next to go missing.
“I looked all around the city and outside of it as well,” he said. “No one had seen you come or go. I did not know where you had gone. Then the other girls started to come up missing and no one wanted to hear about you.”
“They were glad to see me gone.” She smirked.
He straightened up not turning from the mantle place. There were old wooden figurines from a game he had as a child on top. One was of a bear and another a dragon. He lifted both thumbing the carving lines nervously.
“You have always put some people on edge, my daughter,” he said. “It is their problem, not yours.”
“And yours?” She hissed the last as an accusation.
He turned to her, the tears back in his eyes. The room was full of huge, heavy shadows, but all he saw was her in that damned purple dress, looking cold and scared.
“If you ever felt that way then I pray I am cast into the underworld,” he sobbed. She appeared taken aback for a moment by the statement. “I love you, my daughter.”
She did not speak for a long time and the distance between them seemed even greater than when she had been gone. He wanted to run to her, shake her free of whatever evils had ensnared her and welcome her properly home. He had to break the silence.
“Where have you been?” It was the question many parents asked of truant children. Few parents would have let her back in the house before knowing.
She stirred to life then, the color came to her cheeks and the green of her eyes glowed bright in the dark.
“I’ve been casting away the chains of this world,” she smiled for the first time.
“Hatala, don’t say such things,” He stepped closer, but stopped noticing that the shadows in his house were not empty. “What have you done?” He croaked in fear.
“What have I done, Pappy?” She let the cloak fall to the floor behind her. There were deep bruises up and down her arms. For the first time, he saw what looked like a burn mark under her eye. Sensing his eyes, she lowered one strap of her dress and then the other letting the whole thing fall to the floor. He gasped in revulsion and grief. She bore lash marks as if she’d been whipped from the top of her legs up past her breasts. There were dozens of marks of varying length and depth. How could she stand such pain?
“Hatala…” he could not form a thought without his voice and mind collapsing in grief.
“I’ve been doing what you taught me,” she smiled.
“What?” From the shadows emerged four figures robed in black. Behind them, he saw glimpses of other creatures that he was sure there was no adequate name. Hatala put her hand on the black robe of one of the figures.
“This one is rough with me sometimes,” she squirmed as if thinking about it. “Not soft and gentle and cruel like you.”
“I never laid a finger on you,” he spit the words out. It was the truth, but he knew these creatures had brainwashed her somehow.
He took a few steps back reaching behind his back for the poker.
“These two are brothers, I think,” she had walked over to the pair of robed fingers on the right. “They always go at me together. It’s quite something.”
“Stop this, stop this,” he started shaking his head violently. “Why are you saying these things?”
The smile never left her face as she came up to him, pressing her naked flesh up against him. He recoiled as her skin was like touching an open flame.
“Don’t you see, these are my Pappy’s now,” she said and kissed him full on the lips. He grabbed the poker, wrapping his fingers around the handle. Whatever this beast was, this was not his daughter. She had always had strength, and maybe something a little more than natural, but she had been kind and gentle and pure when he last saw her. He pushed her away. “Oh, come now, Zuton Del Aram, son of Ardst. Do you not want to play with your daughter one last time?”
“You are not my daughter?” he spewed out raising the poker. The look on her face never altered its expression as he tried to swing it at her. His strike never came close as a gloved hand stopped his arm. Another of the robed men came forward and grabbed his other arm. He was too slow, too old to be a match for the likes of these.
“Goodbye, Pappy,” Hatala came up to him and ran her hand along face. She met his eyes once, and his heart broke, seeing they were full of malice.
She turned then and took the two men she had named as brothers by the hand and started to lead them up the stairs to the bedrooms.
“Let me go,” he struggled against his captors, but they quelled that with two swift blows to the top of his head. His vision blurred, but not poorly enough that he could not see the shadows move again as two creatures came forth. One had fours arms and four legs and a torso that bulged and rippled. It had one eye in the center of its forehead, no nose to speak of and a mouth with the lips peeled back to show a row of razor sharp teeth. The other creature looked as if it may have been a dog once, but its face was closer to that of a man and it had long sharp nails coming out of its paws. He tried to scream, but nothing came out.
The creatures crept forward, enjoying the fear that was shooting through his mind. The two robed men gripped tighter as the two spawn of the dark approached Zuton’s legs. He kicked at them weekly before feeling the teeth sink in and the jaws clamp down just below each knee. Flesh tore away in wet smacks followed by bone in loud cracks. The robed men let go and he dropped to the floor on his back.
He could not force himself to look down, but he was sure that both his feet were gone. The pain burned, but he blocked it out. They had all been right about her, he thought. She is some kind of witch.
The robed men left his vision, but he saw them mount the stairs when he turned his head. Somewhere below his waist the creatures slowly fed up his legs. They were taking their time, not pulling away anything vital. From upstairs he heard Hatala start to wail. The repulsion from the sound of agony in her voice was nothing compared to the hints of satisfaction. It sickened him that his dear wife had forfeited her life to bare her.
It lasted till the dark sky night started to lighten. The creatures were past his waste before the cold started to reach his heart. How they managed to keep him from bleeding to death hours earlier, he did not know. Outside the sun hit the horizon, when the dog-like creature rose to his face. Red drool dangled from its chin, its eyes glowed red. It was the last thing that Zuton Del Aram saw, as his daughter’s cries of triumph trumpeted through the house.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Snake's Reaction: Get A Haircut & Get A Real Job part 5
Part 4: http://sbrlists.blogspot.com/2010/04/snakes-reaction-get-haircut-get-real.html
Big & Rich: Real World & Wild West Show from 'Horse of a Different Color'
I think I listen to this album at least once a week. I can't get away from it. When I picked Real World, I totally forgot about the little section at the end that went way over the top country. If I had, I wouldn't of picked it. Wild West Show has always been my personal favorite from the album. Save A Horse (Ride A Cowboy) & Holy Water got quite a bit of attention from this album. Saved is a pretty awesome song and looking back I should have included although it would be another slower soulful song and I knew I needed to highlight their playful side. Deadwood Mountain and Live This Life are some fantastic more traditional country songs while Rollin' and Love Train are the newer hick-hop they are famous for.
Verdict: I love it, but it is not for everyone. If your music likenings blur the lines between country and rock, then these guys will be king to you. If you like traditional country, there is enough in here to satisfy you if you skip past a few songs.
Metallica: Broken, Beat & Scarred and Unforgiven III from 'Death Magnetic'
This album selection haunted me for quite awhile. All the songs are so long and it was hard to find the ones that really stood out musically. So I ended up picking the two that stood out to me cause of their somewhat goofy lyrics. "What don't kill ya, make ya more strong" from Broken just kills me with bad grammar. "How can I be lost if I got no where to go" from UIII is some how stupid and poetic at the same time. It just proved that the words didn't really matter. The album is loud and heavy. It is an assault on the ears and slap to the face of all the current heavy bands saying, 'This is how it's done!' I believe I listened to this album non stop for a month after it came out. It was all I listened to on my headphones while painting my house.
Verdict: Good Metallica album, more like it used to be. It is a pure lesson on musicianship and jamming like a metal band should. Not alot of production or gimmicks, just lots of fuzz and power.
The Killers: Spaceman & Neon Tiger from 'Day & Age'
Another album that got steady listening time for a couple months after I bought it. This was hard choice again. Spaceman is just a great song with a lot going on in the lyrics underneath that catchy beat. I loved Neon Tiger's imagery in a homage to their hometown of Las Vegas. I could have something great to say about every track on the album. Red passed it off as standard stuff from the Killers, I can understand where it gets that when forced to listen to 30+ tracks by various artists in a short time span. At first glance it seems run of the mill until you start to really listen to what is happening in these songs, that the message really is. Realizing their inspiration and the dark meanings to some happy sounding songs. Step through the looking glass, take the red pill, and have you world changed forever. (Ok that is probably a little over dramatic)
Verdict: 'Hot Fuss' was really good. 'Sam's Town' was really really good. 'Day & Age' is F($*ing Brilliant!
Motorhead: The Chase is Better Than the Catch from 'Ace of Spades'
This was tough choice. I tried to find one of the songs on the album that better showcased the punkish sound that prevailed the album more so then the speed metal style of the title track. There isn't much else I can say about this album, other than it is awesome.
Verdict: Get metal/punk album that inspired lots of metal acts to follow including Metallica.
YTCrakcer: N.E.S. from 'Nerdrap Entertainment System'
I discovered this album from a promo for a G4TV show. It was cool hearing all the old Nintendo 8-bit tunes with some very nerd based rap over top. Surgerunner is another of my favorites as he raps about it longing for the classic Mountain Dew ripoff Surge drink to come back. I have never found a documented list of each old school Nintendo game that is the sample for each song, so a few still puzzle me probably because I never played them.
Verdict: Definitely for a niche market of slightly nerdy men who grew up in the late 80's, early 90's.
Avenged Sevenfold: Sidewinder from 'City of Evil'
I heard Bat Country on the radio and then bought this album. Beast and the Harlot also got lots of recognition. This is a decent metal album. I do enjoy Sidewinder along with Strength of the World. There are the band's best efforts at the classic epic metal song.
Verdict: Nice addition to most of the metal these days. I still listen to lots of songs off this album, surprisingly enough. So it has the staying power to leave its mark.
With that I am done. Only took 6 months. Not too bad I think :)
Big & Rich: Real World & Wild West Show from 'Horse of a Different Color'
I think I listen to this album at least once a week. I can't get away from it. When I picked Real World, I totally forgot about the little section at the end that went way over the top country. If I had, I wouldn't of picked it. Wild West Show has always been my personal favorite from the album. Save A Horse (Ride A Cowboy) & Holy Water got quite a bit of attention from this album. Saved is a pretty awesome song and looking back I should have included although it would be another slower soulful song and I knew I needed to highlight their playful side. Deadwood Mountain and Live This Life are some fantastic more traditional country songs while Rollin' and Love Train are the newer hick-hop they are famous for.
Verdict: I love it, but it is not for everyone. If your music likenings blur the lines between country and rock, then these guys will be king to you. If you like traditional country, there is enough in here to satisfy you if you skip past a few songs.
Metallica: Broken, Beat & Scarred and Unforgiven III from 'Death Magnetic'
This album selection haunted me for quite awhile. All the songs are so long and it was hard to find the ones that really stood out musically. So I ended up picking the two that stood out to me cause of their somewhat goofy lyrics. "What don't kill ya, make ya more strong" from Broken just kills me with bad grammar. "How can I be lost if I got no where to go" from UIII is some how stupid and poetic at the same time. It just proved that the words didn't really matter. The album is loud and heavy. It is an assault on the ears and slap to the face of all the current heavy bands saying, 'This is how it's done!' I believe I listened to this album non stop for a month after it came out. It was all I listened to on my headphones while painting my house.
Verdict: Good Metallica album, more like it used to be. It is a pure lesson on musicianship and jamming like a metal band should. Not alot of production or gimmicks, just lots of fuzz and power.
The Killers: Spaceman & Neon Tiger from 'Day & Age'
Another album that got steady listening time for a couple months after I bought it. This was hard choice again. Spaceman is just a great song with a lot going on in the lyrics underneath that catchy beat. I loved Neon Tiger's imagery in a homage to their hometown of Las Vegas. I could have something great to say about every track on the album. Red passed it off as standard stuff from the Killers, I can understand where it gets that when forced to listen to 30+ tracks by various artists in a short time span. At first glance it seems run of the mill until you start to really listen to what is happening in these songs, that the message really is. Realizing their inspiration and the dark meanings to some happy sounding songs. Step through the looking glass, take the red pill, and have you world changed forever. (Ok that is probably a little over dramatic)
Verdict: 'Hot Fuss' was really good. 'Sam's Town' was really really good. 'Day & Age' is F($*ing Brilliant!
Motorhead: The Chase is Better Than the Catch from 'Ace of Spades'
This was tough choice. I tried to find one of the songs on the album that better showcased the punkish sound that prevailed the album more so then the speed metal style of the title track. There isn't much else I can say about this album, other than it is awesome.
Verdict: Get metal/punk album that inspired lots of metal acts to follow including Metallica.
YTCrakcer: N.E.S. from 'Nerdrap Entertainment System'
I discovered this album from a promo for a G4TV show. It was cool hearing all the old Nintendo 8-bit tunes with some very nerd based rap over top. Surgerunner is another of my favorites as he raps about it longing for the classic Mountain Dew ripoff Surge drink to come back. I have never found a documented list of each old school Nintendo game that is the sample for each song, so a few still puzzle me probably because I never played them.
Verdict: Definitely for a niche market of slightly nerdy men who grew up in the late 80's, early 90's.
Avenged Sevenfold: Sidewinder from 'City of Evil'
I heard Bat Country on the radio and then bought this album. Beast and the Harlot also got lots of recognition. This is a decent metal album. I do enjoy Sidewinder along with Strength of the World. There are the band's best efforts at the classic epic metal song.
Verdict: Nice addition to most of the metal these days. I still listen to lots of songs off this album, surprisingly enough. So it has the staying power to leave its mark.
With that I am done. Only took 6 months. Not too bad I think :)
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Red's CD Project Story 2: Part 19 – Voices
Note: What I like about this part is that it plays with the idea of perception more than any of the other parts or characters. Eden Perde had been painted into a box in our minds by the way his brother sees him. I think, I hope, this part blows that box up. I didn't really know the character was going to take this turn, but I think it'll provide an intriguing conflict for the rest of this tale.
Disc 1
Track 19 – Baby Brother – The White Stripes
“My little baby brother used to play down on the floor. But now he’s not satisfied to do it anymore.”
How dare he touch that sword! That brute! Eden allowed the thoughts into his head, even worse into his heart. The seeds of mistrust toward his twin brother had recently started to take root. He didn’t understand the thoughts. It had to be a byproduct of his worry for his wife and daughter. It’s not only that, you know that. You have to sleep. The voice was that of his conscience that always ringed with the same tone as his father’s. Never had he felt anything more than love and admiration for his brother, but he had always envied the man’s strength.
Ewam had a will and a spirit not easily matched even by his sibling. When they were children, Ewam had always won the wrestling matches, the play sword fights, even the games of battle strategy. He was natural soldier. No, Ewam was more than that, he was the kind of man that men trusted and followed.
Eden was not dim. He knew that he would never match Ewam’s strength. Eden had to become the image of a king both in sight and action. By the time he was eight, he had mastered language, decorum and etiquette. It was their mother that drilled him daily on such matters. She never said it, but Eden was positive that she held the hope that one day their father would put an end to the nonsense about having both boys rule Satar. For whatever reason, she wanted Eden on the throne. Therefore, she made him the perfect groomed king. Not that Ewam was not in her heart too, but she knew he belonged in the field, managing the swords and the shields.
Of course the great show that he and his mother prepared never fooled Rudan Perde one bit. He recognized Eden’s behavior as an act. Rudan wanted Ewam to have his share of the throne because he knew that Satar would need a man of Ewam’s grit and power to rule.
Ewam, on the other hand, had allowed Eden to assume most of the control since their rule began. Ewam fell for the pomp and grandeur of Eden’s act. It was all that Eden could do to maintain any semblance of credibility. All he really wanted was enough power to balance the throne and honor their father’s wish.
Now Ewam held that sword, a blade meant for one king even if it were the King of Nocnil, and it looked so natural, so right. He had already sent out riders to gather an army. Soon he’d light the beacons so that the four great cities of Satar would send their regiments immediately. Ewam, without a second thought, had brushed him aside. Even the foreigner Banik had deferred to Ewam once he entered the room. He’ll take everything! That was voice of his mother, one that occupied his mind more of late. The jealousy teased through his restraint enough for it to turn to rage.
The two brothers were alone again in Union Hall. Banik had left upon Ewam’s command. He studied the blade, almost as if he were entranced by it.
“Then we attack Nocnil,” Eden managed to withhold any of his anger from his voice. He settled into his usual airs upon the throne.
“No,” Ewam lowered Duna, letting it rest along his leg. “I will lead our army to Nocnil. You shall stay here. The land will need a king, your wife will need a husband, your daughter a father. I will go to war.”
Like that, Eden was made second. So quickly, I am his puppet. You have always been a puppet. First your mother’s, now you’re his. That was the voice of Rudan Perde again. He pushed the voice away in his mind, but it’s residue lingered. He worried that this was all some sort of disease of the mind. Part of him hoped it was.
“I’ll be seen as a coward.” Eden said. Ewam grinned and all the whiskers lining his face glittered in the light as he did. Eden did wish the man would shave more often.
“You’ll be seen as King. That’s what the people here will want, will need,” Ewam fidgeted obviously trying to keep from gazing back down toward the sword.
“Perhaps,” Eden found it hard to argue with the reasoning, yet his heart screamed for treason. It’s the sword. We must have it. His mother’s voice turned to that of a mongrel. Eden’s skin began to tingle thinking about having it in his hand. “Will you carry that then?”
Eden did not need to name it and as soon as the thought was out, Ewam lifted the sword back up to his face. Ewam was not a man that smiled much, but he did not seem to be able to stop as he traced his finger along Duna’s shining blade. Eden wanted reach out to do the same, but he thought Duna’s spell might make Ewam’s hand hasty. WE MUST HAVE IT! Eden rubbed his temple trying to chase away the voice. When he looked back up, Ewam was staring at him.
“Are you unwell,” Ewam spoke in their private language. Like a strong shot of whiskey burned the throat, the words chased away the voices, if only for a little while. Before him was his brother again, the boy who was always up to a little too much mischief, but always by Eden’s side whenever he needed it. The smile that snuck to his lips then seemed as foreign as the one Ewam had worn while holding Duna. Heavens, how long have I been so downtrodden? This is Ewam, brother, twin, friend. Not some man trying to steal the kingdom. Ewam was not cousin Cortbrane, always plotting and scheming for power. He was Ewam, who wanted no more than to ride free upon a great steed’s back throwing all other responsibilities into the win. If Eden had demanded the throne, Ewam would have wrapped it in a bow for him. Eden took a deep breath feeling reason slipping back into his body.
“I am better now,” Eden said back in their language. Ewam accepted the answer, but the look of worry didn’t leave even as he brought Duna back up to his eyes.
“I cannot deny wanting to carry this,” Ewam stared at Duna. DON’T LET HIM HAVE IT! It took all of Eden’s will to suppress a groan with the voice’s return. “It has a charm to it that is almost uplifting. Here, hold it once.”
“No!” Eden recoiled against the back of throne. The voices all sang out as his brother brought the hilt toward him. He wanted it more than anything else in the world, but the small thread of reason that he was clinging to sounded off like a sentry’s alarm in the distance to leave it be. He knew if that sword touched his hands that little thread would forever be severed. The actions that followed would certainly be terrible. “I cannot. It is not mine.”
The last nearly made Ewam recoil. The man looked at the sword again, his shoulders slumped just enough for Eden to notice. Giving up the sword was already very hard for Ewam to do.
“You are right, brother,” Ewam spoke again in their familiar language. “It is not ours. I shall give it back to Banik. He is the last beacon of Nocnil. When we ride out, he shall carry it to glory.”
Again, he decides without asking. Eden wanted that sword buried somewhere no one would ever find, most of all either Perde brother. Over the next hour, the two poured over a host of decisions about the coming war from the gathering of the soldiers, to the best route to Noce to take. Ewam even laid out the plans for the rule of Satar while he was gone and nearly set in stone all actions necessary if he were to fail. The sword never left his hand. With each passing moment, the voices grew more fevered and frenzied in Eden’s head.
By the end of the meeting, Ewam seemed to tower above him. The flood of plans had overwhelmed them both, but while Eden felt swept away, Ewam was skimming across the waves. The only saving grace was that the two were alone so that none of the other nobles or even servants would know of his inferiority.
Ewam drew the session to a close, saying he’d take the sword to Banik then go to gather the generals. He walked away then, his shoulders back and his posture perfect. It was the first time the man had reflected the image of a king without hours of prompting.
Usurper. His mother’s voice hissed. Puppet. His father’s added in a mockingly as Ewam exited the doors. Somewhere below those there was a whisper in own voice in their twin language. Brother. He barely even heard it. Eden slumped over and wept for the first time since he was a boy and the last time as a man.
Disc 1
Track 19 – Baby Brother – The White Stripes
“My little baby brother used to play down on the floor. But now he’s not satisfied to do it anymore.”
How dare he touch that sword! That brute! Eden allowed the thoughts into his head, even worse into his heart. The seeds of mistrust toward his twin brother had recently started to take root. He didn’t understand the thoughts. It had to be a byproduct of his worry for his wife and daughter. It’s not only that, you know that. You have to sleep. The voice was that of his conscience that always ringed with the same tone as his father’s. Never had he felt anything more than love and admiration for his brother, but he had always envied the man’s strength.
Ewam had a will and a spirit not easily matched even by his sibling. When they were children, Ewam had always won the wrestling matches, the play sword fights, even the games of battle strategy. He was natural soldier. No, Ewam was more than that, he was the kind of man that men trusted and followed.
Eden was not dim. He knew that he would never match Ewam’s strength. Eden had to become the image of a king both in sight and action. By the time he was eight, he had mastered language, decorum and etiquette. It was their mother that drilled him daily on such matters. She never said it, but Eden was positive that she held the hope that one day their father would put an end to the nonsense about having both boys rule Satar. For whatever reason, she wanted Eden on the throne. Therefore, she made him the perfect groomed king. Not that Ewam was not in her heart too, but she knew he belonged in the field, managing the swords and the shields.
Of course the great show that he and his mother prepared never fooled Rudan Perde one bit. He recognized Eden’s behavior as an act. Rudan wanted Ewam to have his share of the throne because he knew that Satar would need a man of Ewam’s grit and power to rule.
Ewam, on the other hand, had allowed Eden to assume most of the control since their rule began. Ewam fell for the pomp and grandeur of Eden’s act. It was all that Eden could do to maintain any semblance of credibility. All he really wanted was enough power to balance the throne and honor their father’s wish.
Now Ewam held that sword, a blade meant for one king even if it were the King of Nocnil, and it looked so natural, so right. He had already sent out riders to gather an army. Soon he’d light the beacons so that the four great cities of Satar would send their regiments immediately. Ewam, without a second thought, had brushed him aside. Even the foreigner Banik had deferred to Ewam once he entered the room. He’ll take everything! That was voice of his mother, one that occupied his mind more of late. The jealousy teased through his restraint enough for it to turn to rage.
The two brothers were alone again in Union Hall. Banik had left upon Ewam’s command. He studied the blade, almost as if he were entranced by it.
“Then we attack Nocnil,” Eden managed to withhold any of his anger from his voice. He settled into his usual airs upon the throne.
“No,” Ewam lowered Duna, letting it rest along his leg. “I will lead our army to Nocnil. You shall stay here. The land will need a king, your wife will need a husband, your daughter a father. I will go to war.”
Like that, Eden was made second. So quickly, I am his puppet. You have always been a puppet. First your mother’s, now you’re his. That was the voice of Rudan Perde again. He pushed the voice away in his mind, but it’s residue lingered. He worried that this was all some sort of disease of the mind. Part of him hoped it was.
“I’ll be seen as a coward.” Eden said. Ewam grinned and all the whiskers lining his face glittered in the light as he did. Eden did wish the man would shave more often.
“You’ll be seen as King. That’s what the people here will want, will need,” Ewam fidgeted obviously trying to keep from gazing back down toward the sword.
“Perhaps,” Eden found it hard to argue with the reasoning, yet his heart screamed for treason. It’s the sword. We must have it. His mother’s voice turned to that of a mongrel. Eden’s skin began to tingle thinking about having it in his hand. “Will you carry that then?”
Eden did not need to name it and as soon as the thought was out, Ewam lifted the sword back up to his face. Ewam was not a man that smiled much, but he did not seem to be able to stop as he traced his finger along Duna’s shining blade. Eden wanted reach out to do the same, but he thought Duna’s spell might make Ewam’s hand hasty. WE MUST HAVE IT! Eden rubbed his temple trying to chase away the voice. When he looked back up, Ewam was staring at him.
“Are you unwell,” Ewam spoke in their private language. Like a strong shot of whiskey burned the throat, the words chased away the voices, if only for a little while. Before him was his brother again, the boy who was always up to a little too much mischief, but always by Eden’s side whenever he needed it. The smile that snuck to his lips then seemed as foreign as the one Ewam had worn while holding Duna. Heavens, how long have I been so downtrodden? This is Ewam, brother, twin, friend. Not some man trying to steal the kingdom. Ewam was not cousin Cortbrane, always plotting and scheming for power. He was Ewam, who wanted no more than to ride free upon a great steed’s back throwing all other responsibilities into the win. If Eden had demanded the throne, Ewam would have wrapped it in a bow for him. Eden took a deep breath feeling reason slipping back into his body.
“I am better now,” Eden said back in their language. Ewam accepted the answer, but the look of worry didn’t leave even as he brought Duna back up to his eyes.
“I cannot deny wanting to carry this,” Ewam stared at Duna. DON’T LET HIM HAVE IT! It took all of Eden’s will to suppress a groan with the voice’s return. “It has a charm to it that is almost uplifting. Here, hold it once.”
“No!” Eden recoiled against the back of throne. The voices all sang out as his brother brought the hilt toward him. He wanted it more than anything else in the world, but the small thread of reason that he was clinging to sounded off like a sentry’s alarm in the distance to leave it be. He knew if that sword touched his hands that little thread would forever be severed. The actions that followed would certainly be terrible. “I cannot. It is not mine.”
The last nearly made Ewam recoil. The man looked at the sword again, his shoulders slumped just enough for Eden to notice. Giving up the sword was already very hard for Ewam to do.
“You are right, brother,” Ewam spoke again in their familiar language. “It is not ours. I shall give it back to Banik. He is the last beacon of Nocnil. When we ride out, he shall carry it to glory.”
Again, he decides without asking. Eden wanted that sword buried somewhere no one would ever find, most of all either Perde brother. Over the next hour, the two poured over a host of decisions about the coming war from the gathering of the soldiers, to the best route to Noce to take. Ewam even laid out the plans for the rule of Satar while he was gone and nearly set in stone all actions necessary if he were to fail. The sword never left his hand. With each passing moment, the voices grew more fevered and frenzied in Eden’s head.
By the end of the meeting, Ewam seemed to tower above him. The flood of plans had overwhelmed them both, but while Eden felt swept away, Ewam was skimming across the waves. The only saving grace was that the two were alone so that none of the other nobles or even servants would know of his inferiority.
Ewam drew the session to a close, saying he’d take the sword to Banik then go to gather the generals. He walked away then, his shoulders back and his posture perfect. It was the first time the man had reflected the image of a king without hours of prompting.
Usurper. His mother’s voice hissed. Puppet. His father’s added in a mockingly as Ewam exited the doors. Somewhere below those there was a whisper in own voice in their twin language. Brother. He barely even heard it. Eden slumped over and wept for the first time since he was a boy and the last time as a man.
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