Samantha and the Wind (Conclusion)

The climb was tiring, and it took all of the might of Samantha’s small frame to get her to the crest of the hill. There, by a pair of maple trees, was the Wind. It was neither like a man or a woman, but it was certainly old and grizzled, but as it turned to face Samantha, it became young and vibrant. And, it was wearing Samantha’s hat.

“Do you like the hat?” it asked mockingly “It is a poor fit, but I’m sure it will stretch.” All about the hilltop were kites, hats, leaves, and dead birds.

“Give it back.” said Samantha softly, the way a taxman would speak when he came to collect debts that were due. She felt surprisingly composed and confident. That changed when the Wind began to roar.

“It is mine, and do not take it! I will strip the skin from your bones if you take what is mine!” screamed the Wind with all the gusto of a spoiled child. Samantha felt the intense cold of the arctic and the terrible heat of the desert as the Wind ranted. Its voice shook the forest, sending birds into flight despite the dimness of dawn.

Elsewhere in the forest, Justice and Vibrius stopped arguing and started running, letting their combined knowledge of their home guide their swift footsteps. Each prayed there was something that could be done; clouds were gathering, and the Wind was marshalling all of its power.

“I am eternal,” boasted the Wind as Samantha began to cower. “I have seen man build his world, and I have turned it to dust again and again. I am as strong as the sea and as fierce as flame. I am the Wind, and you are just a child.” Samantha felt herself being pushed back, and she tried her best to keep her footing.

Justice and Vibrius crashed through Livia’s glade, startling her. Seeing Justice, she asked, “Do you know how to dance?”

“No.” yelled Justice as he added “There’s no music, and there’s no time. There’s a girl to save. Come with us if you want to help.” Justice disappeared down the same trail that Samantha had disappeared on, and suddenly, Livia discovered that she was able to follow.

“It is mine!” yelled Samantha, her voice lost in the howling of the Wind. Dust scraped her skin and she could hear the creaking of the maples. She wondered how long they would stay rooted. “It was a gift, and it is dear to me!” she yelled. The Wind laughed in response, sending Samantha falling backwards into Vibrius’ arms.

“Stop this!” cried Vibrius, and the Wind stopped its fury, standing with a scowl on its face.

“Why should I?” asked the Wind childishly.

“Because we can bargain.” Vibrius pulled his mask off and offered it to the Wind. The Wind snatched the smiling mask from Vibrius and howled with delight. “Now the trolls will never accept you!” taunted the Wind as it tossed Samantha’s hat to the ground. “You are a fool, Vibrius! A great fool! Soon, they will never allow a half-breed in their ranks. A fool, a fool!” The Wind pranced and hollered, and then it took to the air, rustling the leaves as it went.

Justice, helping Livia to the hill top, arrived to see Vibrius’ stern, human face. He watched as the half-troll dusted off Samantha’s hat and put it on her head. Livia squeezed Justice’s arm with delight.

“You look well.” said Justice.

“Thank you.” said Vibrius. “I had to do something so that I could get some sleep tonight.” he was lying, and everyone knew because he was smiling.

Slow as the dawn, they descended the hill and walked through the forest as the sun rose into the sky. Justice and Livia retired in a comfortable crypt that Justice called home, and Vibrius left Samantha at the forest’s edge.

“I’m sorry you had to give up your mask.” said Samantha. She wanted to say it before she said good bye.

“I didn’t really want it anymore.” said Vibrius. “I’m done trying to be something other than what I am.” He wanted to say that he had a friend now, and that he didn’t have to try to be friendly with the trolls anymore, but he kept that to himself. “All in all, we made out fairly well.”

“Well, thank you.” said Samantha as she walked back home. She looked back to see Vibrius, and he stood stoically by the forest’s edge until she could no longer see him. With her hat on her head, she opened the window that lead to her bedroom, and furtively snuck in.

The light of day grew,

banishing the night again.

Bringing a new day.

Samantha and The Wind (Part Five)

Willingly, like a marionette, Samantha turned away from the grim scene. She held on to the woman’s hand tightly as she guided Samantha to a glade where the moon shone brilliantly.

When she felt safer and more secure, Samantha shyly asked “Who are you?”

“I am Livia, the Moondancer.” replied the woman with gentle nod. Samantha looked at herself and felt shabby. She also felt envy for the first time in her life, certain that she could never be as beautiful or graceful as Livia.

“Do you know the Wind? Do you know where it comes from, or, more importantly, where it goes to?” Samantha pronounced her words carefully, with great awareness to annunciation. Livia’s eyes glanced upwards and she extended her finger to the sky, and then lowered it to indicate a hill on the horizon.

“There is where the Wind goes, and there is where the Wind leaves.” Samantha glanced at the mound in the distance. It didn’t seem very far away, in fact she was certain she could arrive there before dawn, if she could follow a straight path. Her musing was interrupted by the clacking of horse hooves. She turned to see a horse-headed man riding a man-headed horse.

“Moondancer, I have come for your hand.” announced the horse-headed man. The man-headed horse whinnied, and Samantha felt confused. The androcephalic beast glared at her with a blank stare.

“Excuse me.” she interjected, trying not to be rude. “I was having a conversation with Livia, and I do not think we were finished.” The horse-headed man laughed deeply and pushed Samantha from his way. Enraged, Samantha stomped the ground and the man-headed horse responded by scraping his hoof across the ground.

“Can you dance?” asked Livia, seemingly entranced by the horse-headed man.

“I can waltz, I can tango, and I can do many country dances.” he responded.

“Then we will dance.” announced Livia.

“But to what music?” he asked. Samantha wondered the same thing, and the man-headed beast, wondering nothing, inspected the grass.

“You can’t hear it?” Livia asked as her body began to sway like a reed.

“I can,” lied the horse-headed man, mimicking Livia’s swaying. He reached for her with large, rough hands, but she twirled out of his grasp. Samantha watched as the dance continued, watching the horse-headed man’s frustration rising. His feet tangled around each other as he tripped along, trying to dance to music he could not hear. He could not comprehend the tempo of the music that Livia danced to.

Repeatedly, he tried to ensnare her in his arms, but she moved like electricity through water; fluid and fast. Her pace quickened, and the horse-headed man began to sweat. She leapt into the air, and he bounded. She spun and swung out her arms, and he felt his legs weakening.

“Isn’t the Moon’s Symphony magnificent?” Livia asked with a taunt in her voice.

“Yes, yes!” replied the horse-headed man breathlessly, his heart sending tremors through his chest. Samantha saw the joy in Livia’s eyes, and she understood that there was no music. If there was music, only Livia could hear it. The dance continued its frantic pace, until the horse-headed man fell to one knee. His beast shook its head and let out an equine sigh.

“Can you go on?” asked Livia casually, twirling about in a circle, light as a bubble. She offered her hand to the man, but he refused. Holding his side and panting, he mounted his steed, his eyes burry and head spinning. His entire body seemed weighed down with failure. As he disappeared in the night, Livia sighed.

“Never, not ever.” she said, mostly to herself.

“Why did you do that?” asked Samantha curiously.

“You will understand when you are older.” Livia remarked dismissively, darkened by a melancholy. Hanging her head, she seemed less beautiful, certainly less radiant.

“I’m perfectly capable of understanding now.” said Samantha, realizing how much she sounded like a child. As Livia spoke, Samantha started to worry that she would not understand.

“In searching for a mate, I cannot simply take whoever comes along. They must be truthful, smart, sensitive, and fit. That trial will prove who is and is not all of those things. It seems as though some consider me a prize to be won, and I need more than that, you see? It is my curse.” Her words were soft and sad, and they tugged at Samantha’s heart. She had heard of curses, but never one so terrible.

“I cannot leave until the one I am meant to be with comes here and passes the trial.” Livia’s face was awash with melancholy; she seemed about to cry as she wrapped her willowy arms around herself. Standing on her tip-toes, Samantha hugged Livia and tried to console her.

“I know that he will come along soon. What is meant to be cannot never be.” she said, feeling wise beyond her years. In truth, the words were not her own, but her father’s. However, it felt so gratifying to say them.

“You won’t leave me here, will you?” asked Livia as she stroked Samantha’s red hair. “You could forget the Wind, and you could stay here with me. You are just the right age to be my daughter. I could show you such wondrous things.” As she extended a hand, a pellucid orchid began to grow from Livia’s palm. Its roots wound around her wrist and reached for the ground, while its petals unfolded in a moonlight reverie.

“No. I have to find the Wind, and I have to take back what it stole from me.” said Samantha. She hated to say it, but she could not delay any more. Besides, she reasoned that she had her own home and family, and they would be worried if she did not return home.

“I knew you would leave.” said Livia, her skin becoming dark and shadowy. “Let the Wind take you.” said Livia, her eyes cold as clay. Samantha did not linger, and she bore her guilt like a back pack as she hiked up the path which lead to the steep slope of the hill on the horizon. Livia watched, her heart filled with hate, and her breath filled with curses. Yet, when Samantha disappeared from sight, all of Livia’s hatred and peevishness turned to abysmal sadness and anguish, tempered with disappointment.

Samantha and The Wind (Part Four)

The forest closed in on Samantha from all sides. As moonlight became more and more sparse, the forest became more and more quiet. Her pace slowed as she started to feel tired from her journey. She didn’t dare sleep on the ground, fearing that a snake would bite her, or a bug would poison her. She considered climbing a tree, but would never dare sleep so high off the ground for fear of falling. What she wanted was a bed, but they were in short supply.

When she decided that at least a fire would be nice, she saw the orange glow of one in the distance. She approached as quietly as she could manage, letting the darkness be her friend. As she drew closer, she could hear music and see tall shapes dancing around the fire. The creatures were like Vibrius in shape, but they did not wear masks: their faces bore unsettling smiles that spread from ear to ear. Their eye balls seemed to float inside of sockets that were too large for them, and bounced slightly as the forest folk leapt and cavorted.

“Food is glorious!” one announced. He seemed to be the eldest. The others shouted his name in praise, crying “Tula! Tula! Tula!” Stroking his long, web-like beard, he held a small, reddish something in his hand. Samantha had never seen a heart outside of a person before, but she had an inkling of what it might look like, and suspected it was quite similar to what Tula held in his hand. She wished to have no part of it.

“We will eat flesh!” cried Tula, and the others responded with gleeful shouts of “Tula! Tula! Tula!” Samantha slinked away, as quietly as a sleek, white cat. While the shadows concealed most of her, the light from the fire reflected off of her pale skin. And the grins of the forest folk grew wider. For a moment, there was a silence just like the one before the universe was made. Eyes glistened in the firelight, and Samantha’s right foot was stepping backwards. She could feel the soft ground as her foot touched it, and then there was a roar like the universe being birthed.

Long fingered hands grasped for her dress, reached for her long red hair. Dull, thudding footsteps rumbled after her like an earthquake. Her short stature and small frame gave her an edge, as the forest was thick with trees. She squeezed between trunks and darted down a ravine, tumbling head over heel and landing hard on the ground.

“Follow! Give chase! Get closer and get food!” shouted Tula, cheering on the forest folk as they ran helter-skelter through the woods, scraping their claws across the trees as the went. Samantha felt the world growing dimmer as the forest folk stood at the edge of the ravine, hissing like serpents.

When she woke, the forest folk were gone, but in their place was a terrible stench and the dim light of stars overhead. The earth on which Samantha rested was soft in spots and hard in others. As she reached out with her hands, she swore she could feel a cold, lifeless nose. In the darkness, she could make out faces and hands. She stifled a scream as she realized she was in an open mass grave. Around her, half eaten and desiccated bodies were rotting. Samantha knew that they were the remnants of Tula’s hunger; first she fought against a scream, and then she fought against tears. She moved gingerly across the grisly floor and slowly pulled herself from the shallow ravine.

Looking down at the mass of bodies, she lost the fight against her tears, and she began to sob. A cool, iridescent hand caressed her face. Even through her blurring tears, the woman looked beautiful, although her proportions were slightly strange, as though she had been slightly elongated. Rubbing her tears from her eyes, she gasped at how beautiful the woman was.

“Come away from there, child,” she said in a soft, sweet voice that reminded Samantha of her mother singing a lullaby. “This is not something you should see.”

The Knights (Part Three)

This is the ultimate version of the third installment of The Knights (Part Three). I had posted some of it earlier, but never got back to it. I’m considering abandoning the series, but more likely, I’ll be bringing it to fruition sooner than I originally thought. We’ll see.

————————————————————————————-

“They dwell in the desert for years, taking only the sustenance that God offers them. This is how they develop their connection with the Unnamed One.” the monk had told him, “They can divine your future, heal the ill, and work wonders. The prophets are blessed and cursed; once they leave civilization, they can never return. The unfaithful prophets, the ones who only believed they had a connection with God, are broken on the rocks and rot in the sun. If ever a prophet tries to find his way home, the Lord will stop him. The prophets have been put here to guide us, and once they find their path, they cannot change it. Once one seeks a prophet, they will never rest until they find one.” warned the monk with a sternly pointed finger.

Hugo was only ten years old when he took his vows as a holy knight. He served as a warrior for six years, fighting in every war the Church pursued. When he found himself attached to a battalion stationed in the desert frontier, he finally questioned his path in life. He asked advice from the devout monks.

“Seek a prophet to find your way if you cannot find your own way.” said the monk, dressed in a rough spun cloak and a golden circlet.

“But shouldn’t God speak to me? Others have had visions of the Lord, many have heard his call, but yet I am lost in the darkness.” said the young knight.

“God speaks more loudly to some. He speaks to you, but you cannot hear. Or perhaps you choose not to hear.” the monk’s tone was condescending, but as tender as he could manage.

“But I listen. I calm my mind, and silence is all I hear.”

“Perhaps you do not truly need Him to speak to you.” offered the monk. Hugo, dissatisfied, turned his back on the monk and walked out onto the village’s main street. The night air was thick with humidity, and the breeze offered no respite from the heat. He looked back on the monastery’s peaceful gardens and turned away from it as he had from the monk. He slipped into an open air bar and found a table. He lost himself amongst the crowd, watching the perpetual festival of the bar.

“You need food! You need drink!” exclaimed a dark skinned woman. She was draped in silks, with a painted face and scented hair.

“I’m not hungry or thirsty.”

“Then it is something else you need, eh?” she said, her large eyes glistening with mischief. Hugo could feel her calloused foot rubbing against his leg. He felt shame well up within himself; his body betrayed him as it always did. He could feel himself drawn to the woman despite himself. Everything about her appealed to Hugo’s desires; her thin fingers and graceful arms, her small waist and soft belly.

“No, I don’t need anything.” he said, seeing her wide smile bend into a deep frown, and then a scowl.

“If you don’t need anything, why are you here?” she asked as she whirled around, a fiery fury of orange and red silks. Hugo asked himself the same question. He left the bar, and stalked towards the outskirts, where civilization gave way to the wilds. With a single step, he started a new path in life. He would seek a prophet and find his way.

Wandering the unforgiving desert, Hugo’s devotion was tested. His body thirsted and hungered, and his mind wandered back to the woman in silk. The nights of walking and days dedicated to mere survival in the inhospitable place wore on the young knight’s devotion. He found himself considering the journey back, wondering if he could abandon his quest. It was when his will wore most thin that he found the prophet.

“I am the prophet Uriah.” he said with quiet words that could have blown away with but a soft zephyr. “What do you desire?”

“I need to know how to have a vision of God. I need to return to His feet and give Him my service.” said Hugo. Uriah leaned on his walking staff and contemplated. The prophet was gaunt; his rags hung off of his frame, barely concealing his form. His skin was coal black, though his slender hands were milky white. His eyes bore through Hugo with intensity. Hugo stepped backward, nearly quivering with fright. He could feel the prophet’s divine essence pushing him away.

“God doesn’t need your service, boy.” said the prophet weakly. “You are young and strong, but not wise. You come seeking me to find a vision? I will give you a vision, one that God tells me to give.” the prophet’s voice became stronger and more intense. Hugo felt his eyes drawn to Uriah’s hand. The outstretched palm waited, as if for a payment.

“I have little to give.” said the knight truthfully, “I carry no coin, and all I have is to assure my survival.” The prophet smiled, showing a mouth full of long, rotting teeth.

“God will give what He sees fit. Put your hand in mine, and feel His power.” The young knight reached his hand out, grasping the prophet’s. Uriah held his hand firmly, with a grip stronger than his frame would seem to allow. Hugo felt power surging into him as he became dizzy. He felt his mind flow into the heavens while his stomach distended into the earth. His eyes were blinded by a light, pure and white. In the radiant light, he saw nothing; a sensation of comfort and familiarity filled him. He was warm, and not alone, though there was no one with him.

Then, there was darkness, and in the darkness, a dragon. Dark and green, with countless heads, and upon each head a crown wrought of pearls, diamonds, and gold. Each head spoke, each saying different things. Hugo reached for his sword, and felt his hand upon its hilt. The words of the dragon thundered like the ocean, battering him with doubts and woe. He slashed wildly, throwing all of his fear into each swing.

He lashed out wildly, but the dragon was too swift, and its hide too dense for his simple blade. The dragon would not attack him; instead, it simply spoke in countless voices; the dragon knew his sins and called out each one. Hugo dropped to his knees before the dragon, who spoke then in a single, booming voice.

“What is your destiny?”

“I am a servant of God. I am his chosen warrior.”

“God does not need warriors.”

“But I am His!” cried Hugo.

“If you were his, you could strike me down. But you cannot. If I wanted to destroy you, I could.”

“God would protect me!” shouted Hugo, feeling his strength growing.

“He is not here. You are as far from Him as you can ever be. He cannot hear you.”

“I call on you! Unnamed One, Master of the World, Maker of Man! Save me!”

The dragon began to laugh, and then spoke again.

“There is only one salvation for you, boy, and it is through me.”

Hugo awoke on the desert sands, the prophet standing beside him, offering him the end of his staff. Hugo stood up, dazed and feeling empty. He looked at the prophet’s black face and threw a punch at him. The prophet accepted the blow, simply turning his head as Hugo’s fist connected.

“I wanted a vision of God!” said Hugo angrily, “I wanted to hear His Word, not that of the Dragon King.”

“But yet you did hear God’s Word, though they are not the words you wanted to hear. You are a warrior of God, it is true, but your enemy is not your fellow man.” said the prophet, who began to walk away slowly. “He has greater plans.”

“What?” asked Hugo, “Tell me now!”

“You will need to find it out, boy. I only possess one answer for every man, and I have given you all I may.”

“Then you know more,” accused Hugo, “Tell me!”

“I cannot.”

“Tell me!”

Hugo awoke in the forest by a stream, laying beside the campfire he and Aaron had built. Uneasily, he sat up.

“The dream again?” asked Aaron.

“Yes, the dream.” replied Hugo, knowing that it was more a memory than a dream, and his curse to bear until he found the Dragon King.

 

 

Frank and The Fiction: The White Lord (Part One)

Frank felt his head drooping and his eyelids closing. He struggled to keep his attention focused on his computer. He glanced around at the tall, cloth covered walls of his cube, and wished that he could put something on them; a picture, a poster, maybe a small army of action figures for his desk. However, decorating his workspace was forbidden. He felt his head droop again. Taking off his glasses, he rubbed his eyes. Carter, who worked in the next cubical, leaned over the top of the cube’s wall.

“Did you get the e-mail I sent you? The video with the people dancing at the wedding?” Carter’s voice was enthusiastic. Anytime he had a chance, he would slip onto the internet and look for pictures and videos which were not quite pornographic, but definitely of a lurid nature. The video in question was taken at a wedding and was of a girl gyrating in a short dress; he could glimpse her round buttocks as she danced. Of course, he needed to share this with someone, and Frank was that person.

“No. I have too much to do right now.” replied Frank.

“It isn’t that long, and she’s really hot. The way she moves is just mesmerizing.” Carter was becoming lost; he looked as though he were staring at the sun. “It’s a beautiful thing.” Frank groaned and then decided to check his e-mail.

“Why did you send me all this?” he asked as nine e-mails popped into his inbox.

“Slow day for me. Data is processed. Mails mailed. I’m free until noon at least.”

“I’ll have to check this out later.”

“Why not now?” asked Carter, sounding disappointed.

“Unless you want to help with my pile…” said Frank, pointing at a short tower of invoices threateningly. Carter slowly sank back into his cube. Frank looked at the list of ten e-mails from Carter and deleted them without even reading them. Then, something caught his eye; it was a message from someone named Aurora. The name sounded so familiar to him, but he couldn’t place who it was. Disregarding the chance that it was a virus, he opened the e-mail and read the contents.

I doubt you remember us. How long has

it been, Francis? Ten years? Twenty? How

long has it been since you’ve ridden a

dragon? Swung a blade? Your armor is rusted,

and your sword is broken, but still we need

you. The land is blighted by darkness, and

only you could bring the light again. The

Marmots have taken the crystal castle, and

I do not know how long we can hold out in

the hills. The White Lord has gone alone to

war; he needs you! We need you! I need you!

Frank looked at the message in disbelief as the fog rolled back from his memories. He thought about the world in which he used to play. He called it Brightsphere, and he was a king there. Well, first he was a warrior and then briefly a cowboy, but mostly he was a king. The lord of his own land of imagination. This has to be a joke, he told himself convincingly. He tried to think of who he had told about his old childhood games, but no one was coming to mind. He had no brothers, sisters, or even any cousins that visited. His childhood was pleasant, yet lonely. Until he saw the message, he had forgotten about his imaginary world, but now the details had come rushing back in vivid flashes. Quickly, he moved the e-mail into a folder that he marked ‘BS’. He wasn’t upset about this prank, but he definitely wanted to know who played it.

The day passed slowly, and the e-mails he sent to his few friends about the message from Aurora had yielded no confessions of guilt. On the drive home, he thought about Aurora. She was a princess, and she was both young a beautiful. She was literally the woman of his dreams; she was more like a friend than anything else, though as he grew older she did become more interesting. But the adventures they had were incredible! The White Lord had opposed Frank rise to power, and it was Aurora that always rode beside Frank in his wars against the pale lord. The White Lord. The name brought with it a feeling of foreboding; he was an old man even those many years ago, and he lead a ferocious army. Frank remembered the White Lord’s glassy blue eyes and their cold gaze the day that he and the pale king had a duel.

Frank was jolted out of his musings when a car horn blared; he had started to drift into the high velocity lane and nearly caused an accident. He shook the images out of his head and focused on he road ahead. Turning up the radio, he sang to commercialized rock and roll music as he drew closer and closer to home. Annoyingly, his cell phone began to rattle against the plastic cup holder he always left it in when he drove. He picked up the phone and flipped it open. He knew that it would be his girlfriend Claudia. He heard her pleasantly saying hello and asking him to pick up a few things at the market before he got home. Jeremy needed food and a flea collar while she needed tampons, Midol, and Pepto Bismol. Frank heard himself agreeing to drive a half an hour through rush hour traffic to pick up the requested items. When he flipped the phone shut, he tossed it back into the cup holder. He felt pissed off at Claudia for calling him; sure, she asked politely, but he just didn’t feel like going to the Wal-Mart.

He turned the radio up even louder and sang out of tune as loudly as he could. He needed to push away some of the anger he was feeling. The rational side of he knew that this was anger that he shouldn’t direct towards anyone but himself. He didn’t have to go to Wal-Mart, he elected to go. However, he wondered how much choice he actually had. He was thirty-five years old and he was certain that he couldn’t just dump Claudia over some errands he didn’t feel like running…

Retro-Day: A Dragon in My Underpants

Every now and then, I like to look back at work from the past. This little poem/children’s story was based on the idea that when people grow up, they tend to forget about the magic the world once had when they were younger. I wrote it back in October of 2000 as part of a brief explosion of poetry. That was around my one year anniversary of going out with my soon to be wife, Sarah. Without further ado, here’s a poem for the whole family:

Dragon in My Underpants

In a small house
Outside of Saddleton Falls,
There sounds a scream
Which echoes through all the halls

“There’s a dragon in my underpants!”
Robert Cliffrose exclaimed,
But of course his mother
Doubted the absurd claim.

Mother Cliffrose
Has heard it all.
From a unicorn on Robert’s Nose
To a demon that stole pantyhose.

She’s heard Robert speak of angels
And talking pebbles.
He has spoken of Water Sprites and their confrontations
With cranky Southern Rebels.

But something was different!
This day was far from plain,
As evidenced when Robert
Came downstairs to explain.

Half naked and frightened,
The little youth bellowed,
as he told his story
of why his socks are now yellowed.

“Through my window it came!”
He said with a shudder.
“How did it fit?”(Mother asked rather politely)
“He used a stick of butter!”(Robert replied, not lying even slightly.)

“Robert, though I have to cook,
I will take a moment of my time,
Let the oatmeal simmer
And go take a look.”

Up the stairs,
Mother and son trotted,
As Mother Cliffrose wondered
What her son had plotted.

“Did he break a window?
No! I’d have heard the glass…
Maybe he he’ll get through this phase?
I hope this all will pass!”

Of course Mother Cliffrose spoke only to herself,
knowing fully well that there was no dragon,
nor beast, NOT EVEN AN ELF!
These things do not exist, she convinced herself.

To the door,
Where Robert’s bed is kept,
The Mother and son slowly,
Slowly crept.

With a squeak of the hinges,
there was a brief silence,
one that was not
a prelude to violence.

Nothing was there,
Not even the bed.
Not a ball glove or ball bat
Or stuffed animal head.

A stretched out pair of underwear,
Was all that was there.
A sight which brought Mother and son
Naught but dispair.

Robert Cliffrose looked up,
And smiled at his mother.
He never lied before,
And this was not another.

From that day hence,
Mother Cliffrose believed
The stories told by her son.
Regretting ever doubting any single one.

Marcus, Warden of the East (Part Two)

Sinking into the hot water, Marcus let his cares dissolve, if only for a short time. Closing his eyes, he felt at peace. As he was about to fall asleep, a tremendous rumbling awoke him. With a start, his muscles tensed and he sprang from the tub. A second and third tremor, then a fourth. The whole tower shook and dust fell from the rafters. Marcus slipped into a long, white tunic which clung to his damp body. Throwing open the shutters that closed over the windows, he almost immediately fell back from the sight; huge dragons! Seven of them. They skulked about the fortress and battered the walls. From afar, giants tossed boulders at the tower. This was the magnitude of an attack that Marcus had been expecting. He studied the dragons and found that they were slow moving and decomposing; they were zombies, raised by Astur himself.

Marcus slammed the shutters closed and spun on his heels. He grabbed for a chain shirt made of precious mithral rings and slung it over his torso, wriggling into it. He desparately searched for his pants when Klimt stormed into the room. His hand was missing; he had lost it long ago in a battle with a ranger and used a locked gauntlet in its place. Klimt reached for Marcus’ breast plate on the floor.

“Damn!” He shouted with exaspiration. “My wife was just tending my wounds, they suddenly the whole world starts shaking! Why’d they have to wait until we came inside?” Marcus walked over to Klimt and the orc helped him don his armor. “Does he really want that damned sword so badly?” King Astur sought the sword Lolor; when it was brought to the orcs near Moonrock, Astur’s army soon arrived, trampling all in its wake. The Elves of Moonrock put up a valliant fight, and when the army turned towards the orcish fortress, it was assumed that the army was weakening. In truth, they were originally trying to lure the orcs to Moonrock, perhaps to join the cause against the elves. King Mugluth refused to join Astur’s army, and soon became the target of Astur’s wrath. “I need a hand!” demanded Klimt, shaking his gauntlet in Marcus’ face.

Meanwhile, on the battlefield, Mugluth shouted encouragement to his troops. He drew Lolor, and charged at a nearly skeletal black dragon. The king’s horse shied away from the horrifying beast as it turned its empty eyes on the orc king. A hissing steam of acid shot out at Mugluth from the dragon’s maw. The king rolled away, narrowly avoiding the torrent of acid. He swung the sword at the dragon, but it returned the slash with a barrage of bites, ripping claws, and a smashing tail. The dragon then simply leaned its weight on Mugluth; the king’s breath rushed from his lungs as he heard the sound of his ribs cracking and his armor caving in. He stabbed the dragon again and again with the sword, but the creature simply pressed on. Mugluth felt the surge of an inky blackness tried to take him over. He nearly fell into unconciousness as the dragon rose again.

Karn rode by, shrieking at the dragon. His horsemen surrounded the creature and began punturing it with their spears while they rode about it in a circle. Mugluth struggled to his feet and found that his crown had been shattered by one of the dragon’s feet. His breath came in short gasps, although a spark of life remained in him yet. Anger filled him, and he slashed at the dragon wildly. Distracted by the horsemen, the dragon felt Lolor cut through rotten flesh and yellow bone with a powerful slash. The dragon collapsed, thrown off balance by the loss of limb. The hobgoblins swarmed over the dragon like ant, stabbing ferociously. Mugluth collapsed as the dragon’s head hit the ground. The life ebbed from him, just as it did from the dragon.

Ahorse, Marcus saw the scene from across the battlefield. He pulled at the reigns and galloped towards the scene. Klimt followed closely. When they arrived, Karn was trying to pry Lolor from Mugluth’s grasp.

“Don’t touch it!” ordered Marcus. Karn grunted at him defiantly. Klimt stepped forward, banging his axe on his shield threateningly. Karn looked about, and saw the war raging about himself. There would be other prizes, but none so grand as Lolor.

“I am king in Mugluth’s place. The sword is mine.” said Klimt as he tossed his shield aside.

“Take it then.” rasped Karn, kicking at Mugluth’s hand. Klimt looked at the sword and felt anger well up within himself. He quelled it with the simple thought that the world needed creatures like Karn just as much as it needed him right now. Like it or not, the hobgoblins were an essential part of the war effort. Karn mounted his horse again, with a sneer as Klimt took up Lolor in his left hand. Never taking his eyes off Karn, he slid the sword under his belt.

“Take it away from here.” Marcus said, “And hide it well. Astur wants it, and he’ll starve us and beat us until he has it.”

“I will take Flavish with me.” responded Klimt.

“Good. And others; ones that you trust.”

Klimt rode off the field, towards the South. Marcus didn’t watch as his friend disappeared into the haze of battle. He had enemies to kill and a war to win. If Astur did truly seek the sword, then maybe this gamble would pay off. It was possible that he could flank the army of the dead, but even then, how could he prevail over an army that never sleeps? Marcus let the thoughts pass and lost himself in the battle. The day was far from over…

Marcus, Warden of The East (Part 1)

Marcus’ mailed fist crushed a shambling zombie’s head; his swinging flail’s chain wrapped tightly around a second creature’s throat, and with a jerk he severed its head. His heavy armor was more than a match for their gnashing teeth and fumbling hands. The greatest armament amongst the horde was a club with a nail through it. As another one of the undead crumpled into a heap, Marcus felt a rising sense of doom welling up inside of him. The armies of the dead had been engaging his forces en masse over the last three weeks, but again and again he repelled each attack. Astur, the lord of the dead and king of the North had sent this army, along with a magical winter which had only begun to vex Marcus.“He’s going to starve us out, plain and simple!” Yelled Klimt over the tumult. Marcus glanced at the burly orc, armored in shining half plate and emotionlessly slashing left and right with a battle axe. The orc moved with powerful, fluid motions, pushing foes with his shield and lopping off heads and hands with deadly precision. A bear roared through the mob, a zombie clenched in its maw; Flavish, an orc druid had long ago ceased casting spells. Instead, the druid rode his bear, slashing wildly as the beast trampled over the moaning horde.“So what do we do? Abandon the fortress?” yelled Marcus with a sardonic smile.

“They’ll just follow us to the end of the world and shove us right off.” shouted Klimt as he drew closer to Marcus. The two began to fight in tandem, with Klimt shielding Marcus and Marcus attacking. Both of them had been a field since dawn, and the sun was reaching its zenith. Both were getting tired, but neither wanted to stop fighting. Every creature they felled was one less they would have to slay later, and one less their compatriots would need to worry about.

“Are we done yet?” yelled Flavish over the din. He was carrying a spear topped with a still wriggling zombie hand. His bear snarled viciously; she was hungry, and the undead flesh didn’t taste half as good as the sort that stayed dead.

“We’ll head back for the fortress. This is enough for this sortie. Let Mugluth’s troops come out and play.” said Marcus, resigning himself to the fact that he didn’t possess the unending strength and vigor of the dead arisen. “Sound a retreat, and make sure none of those bastards get in. I still don’t like this set up. Astur needs to send something at us quick, or I’m going to get bored.”

Flavish pulled a war horn from his belt and let it resound deeply three times. The small army of orcs, elves, and hobgoblins that were fighting throughout the field began to regroup into phalanxes to start the slow retreat. The giant doors of the fortress yawned open as Karn, a red skinned hobgoblin from Kutal led a charge out of the gates. some 200 horsemen followed the unarmored hobgoblin as he howled, waving his broadsword above his head. Likely, Karn had been pacing all morning, waiting for the horn to sound. He was a battle-crazed lunatic, and war was his only sustentation. Behind the cavalry came several hundred orcs on foot with spears and iron armor. Marcus’ legion walked from the field as Mugluth’s orcs took to it.

Mugluth rode a powerful looking warhorse and wore a crown on his head made of dragon’s teeth and iron. He had the legendary sword Lolor sheathed at his side and a proud, defiant air. He looked more like a king of men than a king of brutish orcs. Mugluth saluted Marcus as Marcus completed his evacuation of the field. He looked at his weary men and felt their fatigue run into him like a ravaging stream of lethargy. With his war done for today, all that was left was a bed, some preparation of spells, caring for his weapons and armor, and then the field again. His head bowed with fatigue, he walked up the long stairwell that lead to his apartments.

He pushed open the door to his room and nearly collapsed under the weight of his armor. He tugged at the straps and let the plates fall. Throwing off his sweaty and soiled clothes, Marcus headed for the tub of hot water that a servant had been commanded to fill upon the horn’s sounding. Marcus immersed himself in the water and let himself relax…