09/27/2022 03:15 PM  March [It Goes Ever On] |Sample| Current mood:  adventurous       0 Comments

09/05/2022 11:10 PM  𝐒 𝐤 𝐲 𝐒 𝐭 𝐫 𝐢 𝐝 𝐞 𝐫 . Current mood:  adventurous     [ For le vibez. ]   0 Comments

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[ This blog post is private ]

08/04/2022 09:37 AM  𝐓𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐫. [Entry.]   A massive thanks to Diana Lane, Hanzo Hayabusa, and Lady Astrid for their efforts, providing constructive feedback and setting aside a moment of their precious time as third-party proofreaders. You are all divine. 💜             The march of the lone folk is bereft of haste. Leather soles are mingling with the dirt and grass. Horizon is lost in the sea the mist. Perhaps so too this wandering soul, corralled in this colossal crowd of clouds. However, those eyes, green as a spring meadow, show not a speck of worry in them.    Should peril make itself known, even daring to sink a claw or a fang, these onward limbs can leap well and away from it. If cruelty is required, through them, he will respond in kind. A blade or two along with learned sorcery conjured from sprightly fingers can bestow a great opposition upon a foe, introducing the stark notion that this loner poses a proper threat. But such a scene of savagery is to be enacted out of necessity, mainly for self-defense, not from misguided wrath.     The ground lifts upon the latest of steps. A small hill or an incline to a higher plain, perhaps. There is also an odd crunch beneath the boots once in a while. Those humble eyes of this wanderer in a gray cloak and hood glance down to see old bones. Whether they belong to men or beasts may require a closer look. How foreboding, this gruesome garnish of many fallen ones. On top of a hill or so one considers, the walk is paused. Although the air is rather foul, it is not a poison to the lungs, thus him drinking a cupful.     A silhouette of something big appears tens of yards ahead of the lone folk. It towers over him, tall as a watchtower. A thunder is roaming this misty plain with a brooding ill-favored croak akin to a dragon growling into awakening. The shape of a large bronze halberd comes into form and is being held by a pair of large scaly hands of something inhuman.     The head of this large creature is now for the fellow on the hill to behold. The head of it is a barbaric blend of three inhuman faces grafted together. The protruded nose like a snout, the wrinkles on its forehead from one temple to another further exude its monstrous mug. With all these malformations, it looks like a big ugly bat. That hideous noggin is adorned in a brass helm and its chest plate is forged from a similar make.     It is gritting its fangs, almost grinning at the man on the short bump of earth. Curved rock-like wings open up behind it, huge as huts they are. The clutch on its giant bronze tool also tightens. Thou who trespassed this land, return from whence thou came or forever rest on it as garnish thou shall.     Its voice rattled the air, brooding and fitting a capable guardian that has not failed its duty for centuries, if not beyond a millennium.     Unsightly as it may be, this monstrosity is worthy of a marvel for his gaze. Alas, he must defy its warning. A quest he promised to those he care for must be pursued to the desired end, for their sake. Failure can mean irreversible disaster. Already enough miseries have come and gone for the ancestors of those he promised to fulfill this quest for. Why must such a tormenting trend trouble them so for too long? Sever it with a triumphant return with the outcome divinely in their favor, moreso his.     “I would honor your word of caution with reverence aloft, great guardian,” he declared in turn towards the colossus. There was neither doubt nor fear in his bravado, only conviction with a touch of pride. Resume, man in gray, finish prattling one’s mind out through stern tongue.     “But I fear... I must proceed with what you would strongly reckon as a transgression and venture further into the sanctum you are protecting.”     He soon greets it by awakening the longsword sleeping on his back. The monster growls at this invitation to dance with each other. It raises its great halberd with one of its talons, taking a large step back and planting itself well on the ground to make better its next move. The ground rumbled quickly at this posture from the giant ready to deliver this bloke into an excruciating exile. Curious, thou art to me. Great peril is before thee yet not a twitch of fear on thee. So be it, trespasser. May thou not regret this course.     Draw a hearty breath, dear man in gray. This is but a hurdle, though a huge one at that. No creature of old should simply cease his duty, not when there is much strength and steadfastness to spare.     Firm the hold on the hilt. Beneath the mask, squeak a smirk. The gargantuan guardian roars mightily! The fellow welcomes this playmate that is sure to bring untold pain to the unskilled. Stomp a foot ahead, man at the ready for the thrill of conflict. Leap forth with a fearless blade drawn to kiss its face with a powerful sweep. The creature hammers down its weapon, its ax-end aiming to split the trespasser in gray in half or the rest of it smashing him back to the ground. C l a s h !     A great flash of light and a sharp crack of thunder came from where halberd and sword met! The ground ahead of the creature shattered awake! The hill lost a chunk of its height, carved by the powerful strike from this winged beast. The trespasser cannot be found so soon. Its black eyes sweep left and right. A few more seconds to gaze around and gradually regaining its posture to stand well on its talons, it sees him many yards back. His limbs are in haste to recover from a broken stance after that came with the strenuous knockback.     His stance has the gripped hilt near the right side of his face. The swordpoint is aiming at the guardian and the blade itself glowing like a bright silver moon, howling a hymn of upcoming harm for the brute.     He stomps ahead! With his limbs working together to a vigorous forward stab, a large lance of stormwind gallops out of the glowing steel! Before it can act, this bright and loud phantasm hammers onto its face! Thunder cracks! Battering winds made many bits of bony garnish fly away and make scarce from what patch of green they were once resting on. The mist clears a bit more around them. A shriek of agony roars out of it before it stumbles back with two stomps. This trespasser has some fight in him.     Confident that he can endure and triumph through this huge hurdle, the man in gray marches with a sense of haste, closing the gap between him and the guardian of this mist-filled realm. It roars again and then meets him head-on, eager to resume their dance. Re-engage when posture is fair. Ahead with power and purpose, man and monster. Whose resolve to commit to their duty shall be declared victorious when one falls for good. /RAIDOSKYVER   0 Comments

08/02/2022 10:18 AM  ATTN: Last Of Her Kind [AR 562327] Current mood:  pleased That is a delightful writing entry. Keep such wonders a-craftin’ and a-comin’. 💜 0 Comments

07/20/2022 05:13 PM  Warriors Three. [ft. Nii-San & Edalia]       Guest Stars:    Big Bro Skyver    Edalia Vegsemd      From scabbards, be free, blades from a party of three. The moment is nigh for a fierce frivolity. Assume a pose of each by choice. Limbs bent or outstretched, they exude one’s poise. Eyes quite mindful are teeming with calm. Savor the sight. Put to sleep one’s qualm. Breath the free air. Peace and strength accrue. One of the three clearly commands the rest... “ M a i r u ! ”    Forward and onward first, a battle-maiden in red. Swift as the winds she strides forth, leaving behind a sparkling scarlet smoke. The large gap between her and the one who declared for their contest to begin becomes smaller. From fifty yards to several feet, the woman is soon before him with such a commanding voice. Stomp the left foot and then the right. Yield to a pronounced pause. Bark out a sultry growl! The double-edge steel in her hand aims to bury a foot of it from the tip into the side of a belly barred of armor. Then again, none of them are garbed with anything thicker than tanned leather.    Belay being bedazzled by the swiftness and spectacle, purple-garbed fellow. Reply with a stomp back of the left foot. Follow it too soon with a vigorous stroke from a sharply-arched swing of his long single-blade blade in his right hand, skyward first before a drastic downfall ahead of him, aimed at the maiden. Nerves and muscles writhe something fierce but swift from hip to shoulder to wrist to deliver a more poignant response. The path of the blade comes with a bright thin ribbon of light carried from the hasty swordpoint. Meet on past the point and hammer down the threat. C l a n k !    Recoil leaves the lady having a boot kneading down on the patch of short grass. Fingers and wrists sting. Step back and regain her center, though lowered her posture may be. Hazel eyes of the repeller meet those lovely sapphires of the repelled, the latter with her brows a bit furrowed. He marvels upon her beauty, a ruby-tressed maiden who stole the hearts of many men, even women, in their home world.    If only the roads that this glamorous lass took were paved with good intentions rather than a long life drowned in sins, she would make a woman of one’s dreams. She finds much solace in cleaning and agriculture, enough time with a knife and before a lit stove, great with younglings and would lay down her life to defend them, and as this bloke being a mere voyeur from back in the day, a goddess in bed. What more can another ask for? But his heart is ever-unyielding in its steel-strong faith towards another, a best friend since long ago and the dearest mother to his children. Gone is that dream of the former. The latter offers contentment he will not yield for more ambitious aspirations.    Enough fantasy, back to reality. The purple-garbed man takes a step forward. His strength is far from spent. A semblance of momentum from the deflecting strike is still there. He exact two swings upon her, leaping up and then a swish from his upper right to a slanted downward left. He barks his own freed breath, exuding how fierce and focused his feats have been. Aim to wound her nearest limbs, perhaps a sculpt agony onto her shoulder or her smooth cheek. Her heart beats quicker from his fearsome follow-up. She slides back the forward foot to face the man better. Jolt those arms and wrists. Let her sword get quickly reacquainted with his through a sharp twirl to parry away the harm and lessen the speed of the next quick strike.    The other fellow, a man in gray, dear little brother to the warrior in purple, makes haste halfway through that spectacular stride of the fearless woman. Close the gap, albeit slower than her who went on first. Elbows up. Hilt well-gripped. Green eyes are eagles upon his elder brother giving their former governess a bother. Shy of thirty yards away from the clashing pair, the man in gray comes to an abrupt stop. With a loud thud from the grassy earth, he commits to a wide mighty leap forward! Skyward with nerves aching to release the springing strength in him, the fall shall come bearing a fury that can split a person in half.    Now comes a greater struggle for the former defender turned aggressor. The corner of his eye did catch something bulky and onward before his two-hit follow-up towards the battle-maiden. She pushes herself to rise and advance a step. Tease the elder brother with a viper-swift poke aimed at his neck. Deflect this prod with a quick swat of his sword and retreating slide of his left foot. The red-haired sword maiden giggles. They exchange several strikes: half-swings and quick twirls to harm or deflect. The sweet song of the clashing steel rings throughout the green fields. She too is aware of an oncoming being that should truly remind both of them: there is another in this gathering.    The elder hops back shy of three yards, swinging up the long blade forward. Deflect and dilute the fury that comes with the powerful strike aimed at him, or so he hopes his deed will do. The woman steps back to avoid collateral. Her alluring blue eyes are aimed at the elder brother but are soon blocked by the bulk of rags in gray. The longsword gleaming from the murky noon sky seems so eager to make two pieces out of someone. Roar upon descent, man in gray! C r a s h !    A dome of stormwind blasted away the gray-garbed fellow’s blade. The tip almost kissed the strip of grass beneath it. Both the sword-maiden and the purple-dressed man raise a forearm before their eyes. Each wall of limb denies any specks of dirt and debris that may have been hurled from this explosive hysteria caused by that plummet. The performer of that feat narrowed his eyes, nearly shutting them close. As the madness of such a strenuous feat subsides, all of them retreat to a respective stance, the man in gray taking a deep breath.    “You took your time,” teased the woman while she is behind the younger brother.    “I was scouting for an opening,” he responded while unaware that he is obscuring her vision of his elder brother.    “Of course, you are,” she chirped, ripe with snarkiness in her delivery, perhaps those pretty lips squirmed to reinforce her snide.    “Would you rather have me just sit this one out?” he parted her way to fend off her dismissal while also turning his head slightly back.   Scoff with a raised brow, the lone blade from several yards away.    “Save for another time this desire to flirt with each other,” the man in purple called out to them, withholding a smirk.    The air howls quickly at a fierce downward swing of his single-edge blade to his right.    “Our pastime had just begun.”    The once bickering pair obliges with silence at first. They take a deep breath all at once. The woman is strafing to her left and the man in gray does the same but to his right. Widen the gap for a pincer approach. The elder brother keeps his chest forward while taking a stroll forward, eyes upon his dear brother and the fair battle-maiden. Swords are raised either to the heavens or pointed towards the mark ahead. Their postures are impeccable, stressing not only a sense of commitment but the grace of a few who have bathed well in combat for ages.    The pair aiming for a pincer attack advances upon the one who leaped away. This time, the scarlet smoke is joined by a haze of gray mist even if distant from each other. Limbs bend or stretch with a few muscles feeling a bit of strain. Boots stomp on the grass after each quick flight. Hearts thump loudly. Blood flowing through the veins goes warmer than before. The elder brother tightens the grip on the hilt while raising his fearless ally to the side, outstretched to exude the form of someone who does not cower upon the odds. Caution should still be practiced. He is among warriors who shaped their world for the better, not pitiful novices.    Young brother and former governess soon lunge their respective blade upon him. They stride towards him, each aiming to deliver a vigorous slash through and past him. Pause that mellow walk. His foothold on the grassy plain is firm. The raised blade is widely and violently swept with one hand right to left before him. Re-engage and repel the incoming danger in time. Steels sing again!    Forward with poise, deflect or attack. Parry or riposte, strength and speed should not lack. Doubt is unwelcome, a blight to dispel, lest a limb will be lost if one fails to repel. Let it stretch through conflict, this eventful hour. Even if one loses, the bond will not sour. While relieved of duty, relive a pastime. The Warriors Three clash on while still in their prime. 0 Comments

07/15/2022 09:55 PM  In Good Company. [ft. Lady Mika]      Guest Star:       Lady Mika      Awaken beneath a ceiling of a sand-shaded canvas. For one lying down on a thick bedroll, it is beyond an outstretched arm’s reach. Leering amber light is spilling in from a tall slit between two walls of mildly-swaying cloth.    Take a deep breath. Curl the grisly fingers. Palms are veiled in gloves. Wiggle the toes tucked well in a pair of boots. The gray cloak of this prone folk shuffles about. Limbs are encouraged to work together with a desire for one to sit up. There is a stream of writhing in the nerves; it warrants a groan of discomfort, brief and whisper-like. What is causing the pain? And as the awareness of this reawakening settles further, another query for oneself: how much time has passed since the prior waking moment?    This corpse-looking man in gray is making sense of what is before and around him. Small crates with tufts of straw peeking up on the topmost wooden prism. Sacks poorly tied up inches below their openings are leaning on the bottom of the stack. Round splintered wooden shields, one of them being a bump away from being split into two, are also tilted upon the rest of the supplies. None of these things seem to be his.    Another pillow is next to his. A depression that can fit a head is on it. Give the crater a bit of stride of his wraithlike fingertips.    Minutes after the awakening, the man leaves the confinement of canvas through that opening between the pair of big loose curtains acting as doors. Green eyes, fair as a spring meadow, are soon greeted by a curious collage once out of the tent past a quenched campfire.    Discolored bones from once-living men and beasts make piles and clutter on unpaved earth, high and low, flat and curved, under a burning red sky. Distant flames are kindled by corpses with a small gathering of long weaponry either stabbed onto them or on the nearby ground. Smoke is rising from each blazing pile. Patches of bent grass brown as mud, petals, stamens and mushrooms too big and misshapen for their own good, and trees lacking even the tiniest leaf on any of their twisted branches and as ash-tinted as his cloak all in tandem suggest a considerable contradiction to an Eden.    On a wavy chest-high wall, a few black rats with wings fight among each on who gets a delectable meal: a plucked eye with scarlet strands behind the fleshly marble. A different kind of gathering is about a fifth of a mile from the lonesome fellow past the squawking scavengers in a squabble and the litter of remains. Hounds tall as the dead trees nearby standing on their hind legs, each of their heads as big as boulders. They are nuzzling their snouts down on something he cannot see clearly from he is standing. The choir of crunching perhaps sung through their maw that can swallow a wild boar whole adds to the menacing presence they have. Their own eyes, bright as the flames but richer in their red than the scarlet sky, may not bode well for others. Only a fool waiting to be food or a chew toy would dare to disturb them.    Even one such as he whose visage and stature behind gray rags belongs in a crypt is rather displeased with this loathsome landscape, even if by the slightest. Apathy is his façade. A lesser mind and heart would be drowning in dread for being thrown into this gruesome garden. Unease may haunt him a bit, but it is more of a small ember of confusion, perhaps curiosity. A different query soon prods on him something fierce. Why is he here?    While holding onto a shoulder with one of his hands, twisting the former gently to relieve it of strain, he musters what he can to recall what came to pass. It was in dead of night, the moon behind a crowd of thick clouds. Vague silhouettes of things moving, perhaps even people. Rumbles and gallops of boots and hooves. Crisp claps by blade or blunt upon flesh or metal. Grunts and yells of men before bestowing cruelty upon a foe. Growls and snarls freed by great beasts before a vigorous swat of claw-bearing limbs or a hearty bite of mouths with rows of flesh-tearing fangs in them.    The heart beats with a brisk pace, loud in its thump but only for the silent thinker. To swiftly fashion a moment of cruelty and chaos kindles the confusion further. He takes a series of slow deep breaths. The air in this place is rather foul but better than none to savor at all. Soon, his hands go about patting around his waists, rummaging through belt-held pouches, and soon on his chest beneath his cloak. Something in his person can perhaps be of aid to dull away the unrest in his mind.    Then comes a sweet sultry giggle of a woman.    “Looking for something, love?” a song-like disembodied voice asked. The inquisitive tone came with the allure of a maiden touting temptation.    The man in gray stops searching himself and slowly turns his head back before the rest of him follows. A conflict of disbelief and displeasure crashes onto his wraithlike face, brows all furrowed and those green eyes in a glare. Before he can spill anything, another deep breath is taken.    “Mika.”    A woman in an olive-green cloak is sitting on a high rocky ledge behind the tent the man awakened from and left out of. Although her face has smears of dirt on it, her elegance is piercing through the mess. Porcelain skin befits a princess at the least. Her long flowing black hair is braided to her left side and the rest in a bun with strands tucked behind one of her ears. Sharp scarlet red eyes are portraying unassailable confidence. Her ruby red lips are in a light smirk before they clamp on a held object of interest. If the thin cup-like end of the slender curved tool is provided with a tiny bit of flame down on the ground leaves tucked in it, a great moment of calm can be bestowed upon whoever is toking on it.    “You slept sweetly, my dear, like a baby. But I suppose it was necessary for what divine trait is coursing through you to let your wounds heal. Not much can be done being cursed to look like a corpse though. What a weird condition you have, really.”    “Why are we here and why do you even have that with y—... hang about, did you...?”    He tilts his head, brows firmly furrowed. Those green eyes are eagles on that thing in her hand and partly on her lips.    “Did you steal that from me when I was asleep?”    “Weeeellllllll... no,” she dragged her response perhaps a bit too long for his liking.    “It may have fallen off of you while you were being moved about.”    “Fallen off, mhm,” he muttered right after a whispered scoff.    Slowly, the man stands up, raising his left hand with an open palm in a glove.    “If you would not mind,” he calls out to her.    “My pipe. Please, give it back.”    Bare corpse-like fingers curl in and out together.    She frees the peace-bringing thing off her lips. She wags up and down the tip with a hole on it upon the beckoning fellow.    “Your limbs seem to be working well enough,” her choice to contest his demand.    “Come, join me up here and sit next to me, Grey. Please.”    Her left hand is softly patting on the dirt to her side.    “Why do I—?”    Mika interrupts Grey.    “—Humor me, Grey. I will answer what other silly questions you may have. I will even give this back to you, ready for your toking pleasure. That self-patting fuss you were on about was in search of this, yes?”    Her hand holding the pipe waved it about for a moment.    “But first, please...”    Lips and cheeks squirm to exude enunciation. There is even a bit of snarl in her sultry voice. Even her ledge-patting hand matches a downward stomp for each word.    “Get... up... here.”    Grey frees a defeated sigh. Mika giggles. She then brushes off the grains of dirt on her patting hand on her cloak.    “Much appreciated,” Mika thanked Grey who is halfway through his hike.    By the time he gets up there and less than a yard to her left, unease stirs in him again, just as much as knowing that she is in possession of his smoking pipe. Two double-edge blades in their respective scabbards, one being a longsword and the other a dagger, are resting behind Mika. Oh, those brows of his furrow and his eyes narrow. Dispel away the sudden rise of frustration, lest be compelled to do something to the maiden too crude for his own good.    “Did those fall off of me as well?”    He nearly growled when he spilled the query.    “No, I relieved you of them while you were dreaming of things,” she confessed without hesitation. One hand is holding the bottom of the pipe bowl while the other has her slim fingers kneading on each other’s tips inches above the chamber. She keeps the thing half a foot away from her prettiest visage. Eyes go back and forth in their gaze between those tiny limbs at work and the dwarfish cauldron inches directly below them.    “But only for safe-keeping and to spare your dear spine of further sorrow while you were sleeping soundly. You and I have our... differences, sure. But I have not the desire to cross you by means of petty theft. Come and reclaim them, please.”    She mumbles something, a foreign phrase of sorts. Tiny sparks trickle away from her kneading fingers and down into the bowl like tiny embers. The dry brown clump in the chamber is set ablaze like thin remarkably bright orange roots. As soon as she swings back the tip of the tool with the bore on it, Mika indulges in a deep toke. The heat from the stream of searing mist invigorates her senses. A few seconds after puffing in, a slim wall of smoke is freed from the corner of her slightly open mouth, obscuring the horizon a bit.    “Well, how kind of you,” his sardonic way to thank her with a small wedge of sincerity tucked in it. Before honoring her foremost request, he picks up both weapons. He straps them well on his person, the longsword on his back and the dagger behind him, mingling with the thick leather belt around his waist.    Another blade in a sheath, thinner than even the dagger is resting on the other side of the damsel. If given the chance, amazing and atrocious art can be performed through it by the cloaked damsel.    Grey finally sits down next to her. Mika soon passes him the pipe. Her face portrays endearment through a comforting smile. Grey obliges her willful parting of his possession with a nod of his head, the pipe soon in his grasp. Lips so dreadfully different from the damsel compliments his mummified mug. What storm of sorrows he had to brave to end up being such a living blasphemy to beauty, perhaps he can share those tragic tales when privy to a better time.    Grey delights himself with a hearty toke of his pipe. Mika leans the side of her head on his nearest cloaked-veiled arm. The man in gray does not mind her intimate deed. While they are at odds from time to time, maybe even margins more than sometimes, their alliance when honored has proven to bear the sweet fruit of duties fulfilled with high praises. Grey conjures his own small tower of freed smoke, soothing his writhing nerves and ailing mind. There are still things to consider, and questions that need answers.    “Why are we here, Mika? What business do we have in this province?”    Grey shares his pipe again.    “Were we not in somewhere less... red? I recall visions of a battle. I presume that I was a part of it. Did we forsake it? Did I forsake it? Or did I muse over madness which did not occur?”    Mika does not deny his charity, relieving him of his peace-bringing tool.    “It did occur, love. Forsaken it, well... it is less so a ‘yes’ and more so a ‘no.’ It is quite a twisted tale. A few things happened along the way leading to our refuge here.”    Mika reenacts the soothing deed from half a minute ago with the pipe in hand.    “Well, I relish a tale. So, do regale me of what I may have forgotten or missed.”    “Very well, Grey darling.”    Both man and woman are perusing the peculiar land. The small pack of giant beasts at the distance are feasting well on a cluster of bloody corpses. Drag marks of the feast can be seen from further down to the back of one of them. The red sky can make one with sensitive eyes squint or reject a stark gaze above, such a hellscape with its hazy hellish hue. Until thoughts are well-sorted and writhing nerves are no longer a bother, Sir Grey and Lady Mika enjoy each other’s company in an Eden for the wicked. 0 Comments

03/28/2022 10:46 PM  A Titan of a Task. Believe it or not, the epic melody you would hear there (if the music player code is working properly) is the seed of inspiration this writing entry was born from. Yes, it is indeed from Shadow of the Colossus. 😎 Enjoy.             The thick canvas of twisting skies yields to no blessing of the sun. Sing merrily, rain. Shine brightly, lightning. Roar proudly, thunder. They, in tandem, set well the mood of mayhem for this campaign between man and god.     Atop a great long wall of earth peaking beyond a mile high, a daring dance is enacted by an odd pair. One is a cloaked corpse in gray brandishing a pair of steel, one short and the other long. The other is a gargantuan stone serpent with the gift of flight, the ungodly strength to flatten towns and castles with ease. Rumor has it that it can toss constructs of wind and light as well, exacting obliteration.     The giant coils while hovering high and a tenth of a mile away from the rather jagged peak. It pulls its large sharp oval head of hard rock bathing in heavy rain. Keep its distance, perhaps ready a deathly strike. The blade-wielding gent who dared to challenge it is peculiar to the beast. His nerves lessen in their egregious writhing after a recent guzzling of a bitter potion from a vial. Hiss away the weariness built up from all the leaping and flailing he performed.     It has been more than half an hour since the first blow was struck. This man has either deflected or stayed clear of its earth-shattering strikes, even retort with just enough fury to chip away some of its thick stony hide. Wisdom applied by training and triumphant over treacherous trials of old is serving him well. This monster is no petty foe, that is certain. If he has been less prepared, less vigilant, less ferocious, such soiree of savagery they have been engaging would cease much sooner.     It is thrilling for the lofty leviathan that one would come so far and not make an early grave of himself on top of the mountain. The uneven floor and ledges are riddled with countless bones of those who perished from this behemoth; some even tossed away from the soil springing alive whenever the creature goes to attack him. They never stood a chance. Silver tongue and ineptitude in combat proved useless.     The thrill is shared by the challenger now waiting for the sky serpent to close the gap again between them. Behind the cloth-mask, the labored gray-garbed fellow hatches a smirk. The strain of staving off or evading the perilous pounces reshaping the earthen peak does gnaw on his vitality. The pain makes him take into account that further mistakes can be lethal. But it reminds him that he still lives. That there is a fight to finish.     Put away the short blade. Tease a nearing kiss on his right temple by his curled knuckles now holding his longer blade close. Aim its sharp point ahead towards the fortress of a foe. Whisper a language that is nonsense to the modern world but holds power in the old one. In seconds, slim ribbons of sharp air gleaming like glass gather upon the length of the blade. The rain-kissed steel is shining as bright as the lightning that greets them every now and then.     The serpent produces a deafening guttural rumbling from its ship bow of a big snout, joining with the savage symphony of endless rain, howling winds and crackling clouds. Its glowing blue eyes are piercing through the torrent. It anticipates something delightful or devastating from this cloaked one.     Enough pause has been warranted. The floating giant retracts its head a bit more. Soon, it quickly lunges towards the fellow like an oversized battering ram. The furrowed brow above the meadow-tinted pearls of he who is peering back into those serpent eyes tighten. Bring up the steel, soon guiding it in a downward chop before him when issuing a single forward stomp. Puff a split-second roar himself! The glowing light on the blade blinks away! Conjure swiftly a colossal bright-white arc following the path of that chop stretching forth and shy a fifth of a mile, more than enough to reach the approaching leviathan.     Bark a crisp thunderous thud to go with winds seeming to split in half upon the forehead and snout of the giant! That stretched arc of light came with as much traumatic punch as this creature whenever it brushes and grinds onto the earth with so much power to go with it. It wails in an ear-splitting song of agony while tossing its head away and slithering back into the heavens. More of its rock-like shell crumbles away, revealing its thick moss-like fur. Long glowing turquoise nerves are also revealed, throbbing slowly and repeatedly from bright to dim.     All of that melodrama just to keep bruising it while he is depleted more of his own resources. The cloaked corpse growls as he brings his sword close to him. Stiffen up the feet-parted posture. Take a few deep breaths. Ignore the discomfort binding him. The flying giant swirls around, an eye fixed upon the challenger. He is seen pacing to sprint closer to the edge of the mountain.     The great beast roars with the passion of hundreds of mad trumpets. It dives back to meet with the raggedy man again. The fellow shatters a bit of earth beneath his feet as he launches himself up and ahead. His fellow dancer of disaster longs for another kiss, much of the steel glowing again eager to be buried on its forehead. Thunder claps!     On the plains far below the towering wall, perhaps for miles around, the guttural song of the flying giant can be heard even with the ongoing concerto of the stormy sky still going strong. Did the man finally perish or is the colossus having much trouble with its guest? Muse with silence or bated breath, the denizens of the lower domains can only, many aware through that awesome aria that someone or something is clashing with a titan.     0 Comments

03/27/2022 07:46 PM  Overture of a Contest.             Vague, a long-note roar. In the darkness of a chamber, behind a shut gate of thick lumber and iron, a soul in tattered rags awaits proclamation. The breath beneath a cloth-mask is steady. Left wrist is faintly snuggling with a slender black scabbard housing a vicious tool to kill. Posture while remaining aloft on both feet in caligae is impeccable.     Muffled as it may be, a proud disembodied voice of a fellow is clear in declaring something grand. “And now, Your Majesty, esteemed guests and dearest audience, I present to you the challenger of the coming conflict. One who had overcome the maddening odds that made it seem the gods themselves favored him as the victor of battles past. Do not let his horrid visage fool you. Unsightly as a corpse he may be, he is as fearsome as the finest warriors ever to grace our nation. Behold, the Man in Gray!”     The pair of great doors several yards before the quiet soul creak open, slowly and loudly, each with a man pushing them away. The flood of light and noise crashes in. Harken on this moment heavily imbued with cheer. The thrill of the crowd is a galloping thunder, a great choir of excited yells and applause. Drink in the vociferous welcome.     He, the Man in Gray, marches out of the chamber and into a massive round plain with nary a bump for toes to foolishly stumble upon. There are obstructions, mind one. Dressed corpses skewered with a spear are cooking in the stinging noon sun. Some of them have at least a limb several feet away from them with a trail of blood between what lump of languished life there was and the parted arm, leg, or head. Flies gather around them, buzzing about.     There is one other blight to flatness, too difficult to ignore. An armored giant towering beyond twice the raggedy man is standing near the center of the plain. The growl behind its iron lion mask is crisp, guttural and sure to bode ill for what helpless whelp dares to cross it. A steel axe is being held in those big hands, taller than the marching man; its twin sharp curves may have been recently wiped out of an oily red stain. The large slabs of lumber and iron behind the man are soon shut.     Once the man has reached enough distance from the center, he stops. His posture, still impeccable. He and the giant turn to face a side of this grand realm where the high stone walls around them deny an easy climb. Green eyes are upon the row of lordship, one being the highest of them all in authority. The man and the giant provide a hearty bow. Their lord in red raises a hand and offers a humble smile and a nod.     Upon facing each other, the giant stomps the pommel of its axe down on the sandy floor. The note of the thud was crisp! A crackling comes from its mask, rather cheerful like an amused chuckle. The raggedy challenger raises a brow but only until that merry mumbling ends. His huge foe speaks with the brooding bravado of an ancient demon. “Blessed is he, my latest prey. Fight well, not flee, dear Man in Gray.”     The corpse scoffs softly, drowned by the vigorous cheer of the crowd several thousands strong. But soon, the crowd goes still as the gent who gave that rousing announcement more than a minute prior raises both hands to request silence from them. He issues a command that both man and beast must follow. “Combatants, ready yourselves!”     Awaken the strong steel on his left hip, recently resharpened to ensure his prowess with it is properly pronounced. A favored stance of his is taken. Left foot forward, much of his person facing his right side, hilt firmly gripped inches near his wrinkled face, and the swordpoint aiming at the foe ahead. The lion-masked giant raises back his axe to be clutched with both hands again, hunching its upper body and keeping its big feet parted. Spill away a thrilled growl, for prey is about to be pounced. A deep breath from the gray-garbed challenger, springing in the calm to awaken the storm within him. “B e g i n !”     The flood of the cheering crowd comes crashing back in, nearly obscuring the roar of the armored giant while it takes wide stomp-like steps forward. The Man in Gray twists his left foot, grinding the sole of his caligae on the sandy floor. Even if little by little, those tiny twists and knots of his limbs are brewing in them the passion of well-flaunted barbarism leading to his prior victories.     The giant tramples ahead, axe raised past a shoulder. A lung-spent snarl is freed as it stops less than a yard before the man and hammers one of those curved sharp bulks down on his neck! His wrists fling about in tandem. The sword follows the path with the air howling from this feisty flaunt—a powerful upward sweep! The axe-end is swatted back as if the blade itself carries the same vicious punch as it does.     The ringing note of such ferocious intervention can be heard across the arena drowned in loud excitement from its audience. The steel-clad brute stumbles back, growling either from sudden panic or frustration that this prey is not an easy mark. The corpse in gray takes two steps back to retreat and regain his posture while the armored one struggles to get back theirs. Commit to the same sound sword stance. Chuckle away that lovely rejection of harm his way. Wandering eyes grasp upon what parts of the creature are free of anything that may impede his blade. “A fine swing. Care to try again?”     The taunt does not anger the beast. It frees a gleeful growl while finally regaining fair footing, taking a few steps back itself. A portion of the axe handle hops up and down of its big curved left palm to last a few seconds. For what odd coincidence there is to see, both rotate their shoulders and tilt their heads to crack their necks. How bewildering it must be for a boulder to be bullied so soon by a pesky pebble, one as unpleasant to the eyes as this raggedy corpse-fellow.     The crowd is inconsolable, many with their eyes widened or merely eagles upon the two opponents, their cheeks hurting from open lips as with hundreds having to pump a fist up that strains the shoulder or the palms in repeating unison. The Man in Gray and the steel-plated giant free a thick growling puff. They sprint ahead, weapons well-gripped, close the gap once again and make their steels sing some more. Let the contest resume until victory embraces one and loss consumes the other.     0 Comments

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