A Brief Look at the Dragonborn Clans- Draft 2016

A Brief History and Look at the Dragonborn Clans (Excluding the Doronian Clan)

• Ka’llean: (African Influence)

Believers in Ka’ll, the god of Power and Succession, these hearty warrior folk have been both respected and mistrusted for many years, ever since the Dragonborn wars where, at their peak, the clan attempted to annex other kingdoms (including the Doronians and Duillimi people). The Ka’llean are, to clarify, not all bad. The brand that they receive is one more of grand association than of individual judgement. Needless to say, the warlike nature fuels the bellicose bloodline of many Ka’llean, but all together each is his or her own Dragonborn. Power, after all, can be obtained in many ways.

Unlike Doronians, who put more trust in relations with dwarves and humans (though are accepting of most races), Ka’llean have a closer relation with fey and the Drow, respecting each for their value in terms of power. Thought there is minimal contact with the mysterious Dark Elves, what contact there is tends to be handled in a respectful businesslike manner. The Ka’llean are open to all people, though sometimes with ulterior motives.

Many predators pose serious threats to the native Dragonborn living in the Scorched Lands, but also prove to be great challenges that the Ka’llean desire to conquer. Ka’llean hunting parties meet the average threat of Basilisks, Azer Rebels, Bluespawns, and other desert and volcanic creatures. Like the Doronian friendship with the Frost Giants, the Ka’llean have forged close and respected relationship with the Fire Giants, constructed initially by many business transactions (including those in serf labor).

• Hakiman: (Carthaginian, Egypt and Persian Influence)

The Realm of Shadows is one often feared by many a wary wanderer, and stories of disappearances into the dark forests often fuel the nightmares of many curious young Drgaonborn and ward off their inquisitive nature. Similar to the real-life location of the Black Forest (Schwarzwald) in South Germany, the mixture of the dimly lit woods, crimson leaves, and patches of marshland are enough to scare away even the bravest adventurer.

As shadowy as their homeland, the elusive Hakiman people celebrate stealth above all else, being secretive in nature and learning to gauge many conclusions based on miniscule gestures and expressions to show inclination. What may not even be perceived as a base form of expression or recognized at all by the average eye, a Hakiman can pick up right away. These indications seem slight, but overall contact within a community can be rather close-knit while seeming cold and distant to an outside observer.

The battle of morals between “good and evil” are lost on the Hakiman people, who largely remain indifferent to either side. The capacity for righteousness is all individual, and those born under the insignia of Hakima are informed from birth that their path is their own. Many, already comfortable and learned in the art of stealth, choose the path of the Silent Blade: The organization that had originally been founded when the clans became independent. Though reclusive in nature, the Hakiman mostly move on to do mercenary work, typically masters of spying and subterfuge. As such, the annual riches of a Dragonborn are often brought back to contribute to the wealth of the clan. Though mysterious and quick-witted, the Hakiman people discourage open theft, especially towards the disadvantaged. They see this as too easy and dishonorable, wishing instead to pursue careers that prove their excellence and risk their lives in the name of the Nocturnal Matron.

Hakima, the Nocturnal Matron, is the God of Stealth and Night. Her temples are few, but are somewhat extravagant, with nightshade and belladonna lining the offering dishes. These temples are many times etched into the great stone walls of the occasional Shadow Realm quarry or cave. The Hakiman like this, due to the preference of secretive (to outsiders), yet communal, practice. Magical incense that grants the reverent silent footsteps and a temporary ability to seemingly become transparent (which, in Hakiman culture, is the equivalent of being one with the Sacred Lady herself) is a ritual part of any sermon, and is often performed by the High Clergyman. He or she takes the sap from a pine tree, the blood of a forest panther, the fang and venom of a water moccasin, and the feather of the owl. Once properly combined and thoroughly mixed together, the attendees of the sermon each blow some dripping venom onto it, their Dragonborn breath fusing the ingredients together. With a blessing, the incense is complete. It is very useful for aspiring assassins, and the less experienced young Dragonborn often come for hearings and receive the blessing before embarking on their first missions.

• Duilliman: (Native American and German Influence)

Followers of Duile Nadur (God of the Natural World and Peace), these shy green Dragonborn are rare to find, as they seldom associate themselves outside of their community. Mostly druids and rangers by nature (Ha! Puns!), these folk make their homes in the dense forest, with the center of their city being the Glen of Duile Nadur. Houses themselves are simple, yet elegant. For instance, most living areas are natural knots suspended in the trees, said to have been made by Duile Nadur Itself. Shops are carved out of large tree trunks, and are firmly rooted to the ground. For all of the ornate beauty made by the hands of carpenters and architects, the awe-striking benevolence of nature is tenfold.

The imported ales of many regions are Duilliman, who excel at brewing the most masterful meads from the Nadurian Honeybees and the richest beers from abundantly growing barley. The people of Duile Nadur humorously enough consume in great moderation, yet are chief heads in the brewing business. Another market that is dominated by the Duilliman is the basket and weaved materials area. Duilliman jewelry is greatly sought after, a mixture of bone, turquoise, and other gemstones often being made into necklaces, bracelets, and headdresses. These gems are cut by gnomes, whom the Duilliman are in close affiliation with.

Though a bashful people, the Duilliman have made allies with the Gnomish people of the Glen. Having both been admired people of Duile Nadur, the two cultures’ friendship blossomed. The Duilliman have also made allies with the satyrs, fey, and wood elves of the forests. Animals and plants are natural companions, and most Duilliman have an inherent affinity for communication with them. The designated Weiserleher is in charge of introducing Dragonborn children to their familiars and helping them discover their inner wildling, whilst the Tiermasitir (or “Beast-master”) is the one that gives them said animal companions. Both are very important, and behave as instructors for the youths. The Weiserleher is also the clan advisor, diplomat, healer, and soothsayer. The Tiermasitir is in charge of barding animals and managing hunting parties. They also are responsible for the army and leading the charge.

• Toirneach: (Roman Influence)

Though extremely successful in the ways of commerce and diplomacy, the Bronze Toirneachs are seldom boastful of their successes, and are a quiet, polite folk in general. Subjects of the god Torin (God of Commerce and Wisdom), these Roman-Like people prefer to trade openly with all and receive the blessings of other cultures than conquer. These silver-tongued Dragonborn are often the voice of reason in many a heated situation. The third-most popular Draconian city (behind Clan Doronis and Clan Ka’llean), the trade operation in the Citadel and the Marketplace has a presence in the hold of nearly every city. When people inquire about the Dragonborn, many assume them to hail from either the Frozen Keep, due to its popularity, the Scorched Lands, due to the high number of mercenaries and diplomats that travel from there, or the Domain of Wisdom, due to its well-known brand.

Typically a broker for other goods, these connoisseurs of business negotiate not only prices with their charismatic ways, but also sway into the good fortunes of the people who buy their goods. All manners of materials are manufactured by the Toirneachs, though, of course, most are simply bought and sold through other partners. Business ventures are being developed all the time, and innovation is one of a Toirneach’s greatest desires. For example, word is that some have been tinkering with the idea of clockwork guardians, so that the one devoid of arcane can still have a stalwart protector whose vigilance will never falter. Another example is simpler, being the nonlethal stage face paint (with significantly less lead!).

There are a few estranged merchants who sell less holy things, and they typically work in an underground system known as “The Den.” Most salesmen here are fences, pimps, assassin contractors, and so on. All things considered, this is one of the biggest and most influential of its kind. Several Thieves Guilds refer to these people when they need either fences, information, or illegally obtained services. One of the most expensive and valuable wares is information, which can be exchanged for a hefty price. Even the more evil Toirneachs have an ability to form friendships with anyone, as beguiling as vampires. As such, they can extract information as easily as extracting the tooth from a snake. One of the many insults thrown at the Toirneach from the mistrusting racist patron of a tavern is often that they have forked tongues, like the vile conniving dragons that they are claimed to be.

In reality, there is a reason that the Toirneachs have so many friends. Culturally, politeness and kindness are virtues of any good host or business partner, and so the folks get along well with all kinds of people.

• Brelaads: (Danish/Viking and Hun Influence)

The blue Dragonborn had never truly settled down into any specific homeland, being more nomadic of people. They had valued the hunt and the ability to wander, seeing the world and experiencing new things. As such, the Brelaads had never founded an official city. Being more free spirited than their brethren, the Brelaads felt more liberated in a system of anarchy, a societal governance for themselves. Brelaads have no inherent alignments, aside from the fact that most are considered chaotic. Their ways very much reflect the ideals of freedom and the wind, as Brel’aadna was a wind spirit. The culture is rather like a mixture of the Danes and the Huns. Many of them become pirates or bandits, enjoying the rush of a good charge and the fulfillment of continual movement.

There are no tiers of hierarchy in the Brelaad society: Only a measure of respect in regards to battle prowess, swiftness, and execution of actions. If you make a fool of yourself as a Brelaad, you can expect your community to not forget it. Even as whelps, a Brelaad can be teased and considered weak by predilection. Redemption is a way that is very common for a blue Dragonborn, and the taunted must rise up against their oppression and prove themselves.

One of the most respected positions in Brelaad society is that of the Freerider, who bonds closely with a mount (typically gryphons or swift horses on land, and hippocampi by sea or on ocean) and scavenges, scouts, and guards the perimeter of the current area of influence of the Brelaads at that time. To be a Freerider, one must show a natural boldness and a brave heart as well as the compassion of a friend demonstrated to their beasts, as opposed to one of mastership. Once they have shown these qualities, a shaman will look at the boy or girl and, depending on a group consensus, will embrace them as apprentices for soothsaying. The archers will openly train them, as will the warriors. They are then marked with special tattoos that distinguish their duties: Swirling ashen blue wavelike markings that flow over about a quarter of their flesh.

Many members of society are tattooed as well, mostly the fighters and combat oriented. Warriors color themselves with more rectangular and runic tattoos, whilst archers decorate their bodies with images of nature. In either case, the marks often tell their own stories, the wearers becoming walking murals of different myths or, in most cases, the chronicles of their own lives. The most old and venerable of elders are often covered in tattoos, having the essential events of their live engraved on their flesh as a testament to their existence. This is one distinctive way that a Brelaad can identify their fallen brother or sister.  

• Tirian: (Vietnamese, Canadian, and Mandarin Influence)

The Tirian are a people of rather peaceful nature, despite the craving for weapons and armor to be forged along with many of their other fine crafts. These blacksmithing people have been known to have a mystical mastery of the forge and hammer, creating metal that almost moves freely like a living construct. Living in some more of the mountainous areas of the world, the green expanses of earth and rock hide great riches which are prudently and respectfully extracted by the Tirians. They take the metals, which are revered in their society, and undergo ritual cleansing, maintenance, and preparation of the ore. After this, the metal is shaped carefully into various forms, from weapons to shields, from pillars to tables, from chalices to chamber pots, and more. In all cases, the metal seems to take on some magical quality in the process of its manipulation.

Even Dwarves are amazed by the ingenuity and metalworking of the Tirian people, and sometimes take treks across the cold of their mountains to the green and luscious mountains of the humid brass Dragonborn homeland just to marvel at the sights and learn from the scribes and smiths. Though well enough enabled to be well-equipped, the Tirian people tend more towards a monkish lifestyle, and so find little use for the armors that they make. Considering the fact that they revere metal as they would a creature with life, the Tirian people disapprove of over-working metal or letting things rust, and would rather themselves take damage than their creations.

Tirians are often aided by metal construct companions and shield guardians, having a great reverence for the peaceful nature of the beings and the harmony between men and metal. There have been a few Warforged, whom the Tirian aid in creating, that have abdicated the throne in history and had the tolerant Tirian follow them. For the most part, the Tirian have been governed by Dragonborn, being elected into offices by both the brass Dragonborn and the free-thinking constructs. In all cases, most of the people have remained happy and peaceful. There has been an insurgent group, named the Uprising, who led a rebellion of hate-filled brass Dragonborn against the Warforged ruler, Emperor Durang Dinh Ahn, in the years leading up to their mysterious disappearance. When the Dragonborn people began to inexplicably grow ill with a strange disease, the blame was uncertain. Seeing many of the Dragonborn dying and opportunity presenting itself, the Warforged Protector had inherited the place of Emperor from his adopted Dragonborn father, the previous Emperor Durang Ghang Wu. The poor prince loved his father very much, but suffered the harsh judgment of the Dragonborn borne of fear and paranoia. With the Warforged not growing ill, the Uprising saw the sickness as a Warforged plot against them and tried to retaliate. The outcome of the conflict is unknown, as the outside world has lost communication with the Tirians for around five years now. Rumor has circulated, however, and suggests that the brass Dragonborn are still alive, though their numbers have greatly diminished. The general, Khiem Dan Huang, was a young and fiery leader of the rebellion that had last been seen alive and well in the small plot of farms and paddies in the valleys of the Tirian homeland.  

The physical appearance of the Tirian are like the Sivernese in that their bodies incorporate features from their eastern ancestors.

• Sivernese: (Japanese Influence)

The Sivernese are a people known for their prowess in battle and value of companionship. Their codes reflect the Buishido values in Japanese culture, and loyalty is law in the clan. Mostly serving as retainers and servants in Orion culture, the Sivernese are both intertwined and largely independent. The silver Dragonborn had migrated to the northwest under the banner of the Ancient Gold Dragon, Luuthars, in the First Era. It was there that they had found the Kingdom of Gold, where the first children of the good dragons lived. Since that day, bound to an oath that resigned deep within their people, the Silvernese became the epitome of what it means to be a companion.

Culturally, the Sivernese were at one point isolated. Their kingdom was small, and their clan torn apart by feudal conflict. Warrior Daimyos would contest for land, and power struggles were an everyday occurrence. This was until the son of the head retainer of the House Kokoritsu, Akimoto Mitsuo, decided that he would surrender his life of endless fighting for a higher honor and find glory through peaceful servitude. He walked 1,000 miles, along what is now known as the “Seigi no Pasu”, or the “Righteous Path”, until he came upon the first shrine to Sivernia. She descended wearing the visage of the fox, the silver moonlight from the sky in her tail, and directed him toward the dragon of pure heart, Luuthras. When Mitsuo met with Luuthras in his treasure cove, Mitsuo told him of his desire for peace, but that his people wanted someone to follow without having a proper guide to lead them. The gold dragon knowingly nodded and, upon his great wings (for in the first days of mortals, noble dragons had wings so great as to block out the sky), began carrying the silver Dragonborn in throngs to the fabled Kingdom of Gold. Since that day, there have been many a silver Dragonborn who has devoted their lives to their compatriots. Some heroes of lore and great historical praise include the Samurai Junji Akimoto (who has been said to have defeated three armies of invading goblins in the early days of the Dragonborn), the Onna-bugeisha Manumuri Akari (who tamed the eastern brass dragons and rode them into battle against the Forgoth Orcs and goblins), and Samsei Ryuu (the monk literally referred to as “The Dragon” for his wisdom and physical composure).

The Sivernese often wear their own house standards into battle, as well as incorporating family marks on their armor, robes, and breastplates. Though serving ultimately whoever rules the Kingdom of Gold, be it silver or gold Dragonborn, the Sivernese above all devote their honor to family. Being sworn to a code of decorum, these Dragonborn serve their masters like they were blood. For them, even though the Feudal days are gone, the idea of devout (even dangerous and ferocious) loyalty is the most important ideal to hold by.

Culturally, their clothes reflect their land of origin, being more acclimated to the Far East. Switching location meant a few overall changes in environmentally affected mannerisms and delicacies, but for the most part, the Sivernese have retained their ways via importation and practice. One of the most differentiating things about the Sivernese from other Dragonborn is the tended style of how they look, being more akin to their Eastern Dragon Ancestors. Rather than ram-like horns, straight horns, or angled bull horns, the Sivernese typically have almost antler-like horns that jut out angled back on their heads. Males sometimes grow wispy tendril mustaches, and are capable of growing tufts of hair. Their bodies are often slimmer, though this is of course not always the case. In any instance, the Sivernese are enduring warriors and enduring companions.

• Orion: (English Influence)

The Orion are the most notable of the Dragonborn, possessing the most sheer physical capability and diplomatic command than even most human kingdoms. They were once unrivaled in the affairs of world power, having their vast domain unhindered by any living mortal that threatened to stand in their way. The Orion would conquer as easily as an afternoon discussion at tea, and they would do so by enacting justice and liberating peoples, who often rallied behind them freely as opposed to submitting to them. Of course, the idea of justice to one party can be considered “just” the opposite (Puns!) to another. As such, much controversy came as a result of the collection of colonies and land. People began to question the motives of the Kingdom, and felt entitled to live freely in the land of their ancestors. The Orion felt compelled to conquer as children of Or, one of the most powerful deities. Due to this honest naivety, they were trampling on the history of hundreds of groups of people, and staking claims to the territories of orcs and goblins alike. The Orion kings felt little pity, sympathy, or affection for these people, seeing them as evil and vile creatures who slaughtered arbitrarily, and began wiping them out. Thus, many of the orcs and goblins of the mountains began becoming more nomadic (only later to be pushed back to the Land of Everlasting War by humanity) and traveled the land in search of a new home. The persistent ones, however, remained and refused to relinquish their land. The Defense Against the Green Scourge, an order of warriors devoted to the mediated picking off of orcs and goblins that reached the confines of the outer city, came into effect to stace off any fierce charges of retaliation and crush orcish scouting parties.

Sections of knighthood, of course, the companion samurai division of the Sivernese, came into great fruition as a result of the Orion people’s desire for widespread justice. The knights were to uphold these elements, and multiple cases upon numerous trails would be held before a verdict was delivered. If guilty of a crime, justice through law was to be delivered swiftly and indiscriminately

BeWareWolf

So hi! I know I haven't posted in a while, but I am thinking of incorporating this into the Dungeons and Dragons campaign that I am in and may also be posting content relevant to that in the future. Keep being awesome folks!

Without further ado, here is Bewarewolf, or as one may call it, awful title!


Along the moor, before the sun
When nocturnal beasts will roam
The children of Pan shall hunt the one
That strays too far from home
With eyes that glitter in the dark
That thirst for blood to spill
Watch the wanderer, make their mark
And move in for the kill
And close behind, the pack shall find
Their leader by his saddened song
And crying in their bestial binds
Will hunt until the dawn
Beware, ye travelers, and listen well
For men may seem like friends
But only the wary will live to tell
How others met their ends

A small bit of writing that I wrote back in sixth grade after an odd dream :) These kinds of imaginings come and go. Seldom am I dreaming that I'm asleep, though. (Inception) Anyway, without further ado, here is the story. :D




I feel cold.
Not cold enough to voice a complaint, but just cold enough to shiver. Even if I tried to speak, this strange tug in the back of my throat denies me the choice to do so. So I simply lay on the the firm, chilled floor.
It feels like stone. I feel like stone. My limbs feel as though they're merged to my torso. My vocal cords lack the ability to communicate. Believe me, I've tried for what seems like a lifetime.
I rest in this place, my heart yearning to see light. I long to have the ephoric rays part my eyelids and drink in the sights ofthe world around me, but alas I cannot.
Soft sobbing echos in the medium of damp air. It resounds from what sounds like a rather open area. The sobs are delicate and feminine, like the siren song of a mockingbird remorsing over the corpses of her departed chicks.
Often times the source of the sobbing would approach me when the pitter patter of rain fell on the outside. Graceful, petite hands would brush strands of hair from my face. On other occasions, a stray hand would grasp my lame palm and squeeze lightly. I felt sorrow intermigling with hope radiate from the source, a woman I assume. A very contridictary mix of feelings.
Sometimes, her weeping would cease.  Like a wisp, she would float over with scarcely a sound to my side. She would snake her arms around my neck and prop me upon a softer, warmer surface. When she was doing this, often would she hum the most beautiful of melodies with a voice that shimmered with elegance and tenderness.
Behind the darkness of my eyelids, I would watch her, wistful to inform her of just how lovely she was. My ears perked and tuned my attention to that lucious, beautiful voice. I tried, once, to tell her. I knew it would be to no avail, but I wanted to at least try. But, to my misfortune, all that escaped me was a soft exhale.
On the nights when fortune favored me, she would curl up beside me, a move both brazen and benevolent considering the things I have done. Her gentle breath lulled me to the eternal rest of awarness that I appear to be condemned to. Soft curls tickled my cheeks, but I wished not to blow them away even if I could.
Sometimes, when she awoke, she would regard my sleeping form as though I was concsious. Then realization would wash over her, and her breath would become broken and uneven. She would unsheathe only what I can deduct as a blade and walk away.
I would eagerly await her return during that time. Sometimes I would try to remember what I was doing before I came into this vegatative state. More times than not, I wanted to think of who I was. All I truly remember was that I was feared by many, yet known by few.
When the young woman would return, she would feed me. My gratitude was much, though it was not audibly acknowladged. Typically, she would bring some form of vegatation. It slid down my unresponsive throat easily enough, though it would sting ever so slightly. Every so often, she would feed me an poignant tasting herb. My nose would twitch and wrinkle subconsiouly at the overwhelming aroma.
She would apologize when she brought me it. She would explain that it was to help me escape this hold over my body. And her voice when she spoke... Her tongue was laden in a rich accent foreign to me. I do not quite recall such an accent being heard by my ears ever, and yet I obviously must have known this woman. Yet, If I cannot remember the past, then perhaps I speak out of bewilderment due to my condition rather than true recollection.
And while I was wondering, my mind would disregard the water that cooled my throat and soothed the passing of the herb. It washed away the vile flavor and sent a slightly fresher undertone of taste to my tongue.
Some nights she would beseech to me, begging me in a rather piteous and heart-wrenching tone to wake. Her voice would erupt into sobs, and I even felt at times a sharp sting across my face. Sometimes she would repeat the action,the sounds of livid palms making fast contact with my cheek would echo abruptly and break the silence of the room. Her face would bury in the crook of my neck, and I would try with all my mght to apologize, to wake.

Zeros and Ones

Hello! :D So I know it has been a while since the last post, but here is another story. This one is a little hard to follow sometimes due to the ideas spawning at different times, and the writings are separated by spaces. This is definitely not complete yet, but is something that is extremely fun to write about :) Hope you enjoy!

ZEROS AND ONES

                The night was cool and the air was blustery the day that the executives of the Earth declared the discovery of fresh, potable water on Mars. Billions worldwide listened with attentive ear to the broadcasts, scientists clutched their fellow man in ecstatic haze, and the world itself laughed with joy. Truly nothing could have dampened the spirit of that glorious day.

                The next day, however, was another story.

                The first assault occurred on March 18^th, 2087, when the nations Germany and Russia broke out into a heated altercation over the land disputes and investments in their scientific departments, already seeking to stake out land on the planet. Soon, America, France, Canada, Italy, and Israel leapt into the quarrel, kindling the fire of the dispute. From there, chaos ensued. Progressively, more and more countries began to take sides, be it another countries or their own. The battle of words soon became a battle of fists and weapons, leaving diplomats of six countries dead and hundreds more injured.

                The world was shocked at the news, never before beholding such an outburst in an intended meeting of peace. With the given violence instigated by the planet of war, scientist around the globe decided to fund an underground project: Project Quercus. From it, great innovations were made. The advanced magnetic motor, the solar powered filtering system, and, most importantly, the ship ‘Libero,’ a ship capable of transporting five million people to Mars in an estimated twelve years.

                In order to escape the sinews of a corrupted Earth, twelve million voyaged on the ship, which made two separate trips over the span of two years. Somehow, they had remained discreet, their station at the Galapagos Islands, transporting animal and plant species of practically endless variations.

                Sam’s eyes widened, awestruck at the pure wondrous innovation of the Mech. It stood about twelve feet tall, its appearance angular and sharp, like the blades on its hands. It was painted a deep blue and silver, like the colors of the Quercus flag. Its mask, a horned helmet and faceplate, with dim aqua eyes that had not yet come to life. Sam ran a hand through his dirty blond muss of hair.

                The young man scaled the Mech, wanting to examine the intricacy of its design. He was not an engineer; far from it, actually. He was not stupid, by any means, but he certainly did not comprehend how the hands of men could craft such mechanical perfection. Sam shook his head and frowned. This was a bad thing. A very bad thing. He shouldn’t be marveling at its detail, nor welcoming it on the planet. He should be wary. But somehow, he was too enthralled to really care.

                Sam touched the metal gingerly, his hands brushing the sleek iron of the robot’s leg. His eyes wandered up to its torso. There, engraved and highlighted with dark blue paint, was the name ‘Colossus 303: Decimus.’ Sam smirked at the name.

                “Decimus, huh?” Sam muttered to himself softly. His eyes fell back down to where his hand rested on the machine. Suddenly, the leg jerked, and Sam flew backwards in fright with a startled yelp.

                The robot’s eyes glowed. It looked down to Sam, who now was on his back staring up in shock and fear at the metal being that towered above him. From beneath the metallic mask over its mouth, the Colossus’ voice rasped from its speakers.

                “Hello, companion. I am Decimus.”

                Decimus’ circuits spat electric current, his eyes flashing faintly from the blow. The other Mech, a large, grey robot with a hearty, cubic structure and blazing eyes of yellow and red, bellowed at him, for the robots were sentient, and this one was quite clearly enraged.

                “Why do you assist them?” The Tank crooned wickedly in a low bravado. “When it is quite clear that they shall die? Why do you shield them with yourself when you could just as easily turn and sweep them away with a bat of your hand? Do you not want liberation?”

                Decimus’ voice cracked, his speakers damaged by the force of the Tank’s attack. “We may all have different roots, but we grow together. Together, as a team, we form the trunk that supports the tree boughs, which in turn support the branches, which in turn support the leaves, which one day will flower and bear fruit and a haven for all beings.”

Lab of The Dead

Hope you enjoy! :D

For Doctor Fletcher Jackson, zombies were the least concern of the team at Base Delta. For instance, the blood-stained floors were really quite a haggard sight. And the canteen could do with serving more meal options.

Persistent groans disrupted Fletcher’s train of thought. The scientist turned to behold his latest specimen cocking its putrefied head at him quizzically, obviously confused by his master’s lack of interaction with him. Fletcher grinned at his grimy prodigy. His favorite specimen, Grim, had already learned more in one week than any of his subjects had picked up in a month. It was his fifth week of experimentation, and the rotting lab rat had begun to grow on Fletcher.

Grim groaned lowly and pointed to a damp cardboard box of miscellaneous objects Fletcher had scavenged for experimentation. Fletcher looked to the box and chuckled.

“Oh, so you’re ready to get started?” Fletcher asked the shambling corpse light heartedly. Grim’s dead, clouded eyes had a small glint in them, and he responded ‘enthusiastically’ with a rumble.

Isle of Bone Chapter One

Kent Henderson was just an average man caught in the midst of a war, like so many billions of others. He sat in a white tiled room, where the air was still and chilly. He grimaced at the ambience of the hall he sat in. It consisted of pens clicked by anxious hands; chaste whispers of large, Latin words he assumed had to do with medicine, and the rancid smell of various chemicals. 

Shifting on the faux leather bench, Kent could not help but feel misplaced at the scene. After all, he was only an undertaker. He never went to college, nor did his family prior to him. This rave about neurology baffled him. He silently regretted that. If Kent had become at least someone adept in the art of such skills, he would at least learn how to ward off his splitting headache.

The insistent beeps of the machines around him gave unsettling, echoing pings in his mind. They ricocheted unbearably in the vast concoction of irksome sounds. Kent grumbled low, cupping his hands and covering his weary head with them. Four hours. That was how long he had sat there, stagnant and stiff. And on top of that, he couldn’t leave until the doctor approved the body for examination.

Kent’s eyes shifted from his palms to the bench beneath him. It was an atrocious shade of green. He grimaced upon setting his eyes on it. Just the sight of it made him feel nauseous, not that the entire institution did not make him feel nauseous enough as it was. Kent snorted. He had grown so bored and grouchy he began to criticize the furniture. The doctor needed to hasten, or he would outright leave to go home and sleep, regardless of whether or not that was morally apropos.

The lights in a cracked door across from the bench in which Kent sat became brighter and blinding as the door swung open. Kent shielded his eyes, not expecting it to move for at least another two hours. A man in mint-colored scrubs and a mask held the knob firmly with his right gloved hand while his left tentatively clutched a clipboard.

“Mr. Henderson?” The nurse called. Kent rubbed his eyes with his thick forefingers. He yawned as he contracted his left shoulder and rolled it back. The nurse turned to him with impatient eyes, almost lecturing him to stop wasting time.

Kent muttered as he parted from the bench. “ ‘Bout time someone got me…” He was just loud enough for the nurse to be in earshot. Kent expected the man to narrow his eyes, but he simply stood there looking, daresay, quite visibly shaken by something.

Kent paled slightly at this. As he approached the door, Kent addressed the man in the walkway.

“What’s the matter with you, lad? Looks like you’ve just met a ghost.” The nurse shook his head, but said nothing. This only confirmed Kent’s skepticism on what the subject of interest was. Kent himself felt a knot forming in his throat, though he dismissed it with an edgy gulp.

Jack and Al: Party Animals

 Here are two pictures that I made from 7th grade. Enjoy! :D

The River Monologue

Hello! Sorry it has been a while since my last post :( But I hopefully will make it up to you with some more pieces!

Thank you for your support! Your advice is very helpful, and I really appreciate it! :D I just don't know how to respond directly to comments, but please see that your comments are beneficial and impactful!

Anyhow, here it is! I got inspiration from Passenger's "Feather on The Clyde" It is a beautiful song. Check it out! :)

It is the spot, I think, that makes me calm. Away from cars, away from empty sympathy, away from the smell of cleanliness. Rather than bright LEDs, I can see the where night drains the color of day. Rather than sympathy, nature knows what it’s like to suffer pollution. So we sit in a sense of mutual acceptance. In content silence. Rather than the smell of sanitation, I smell earth. No anxious hands clicking pens, no repugnant beeps of machines, no needles or radiation treatments. No… Just the sound of cicadas and the distance that the river bank has put between me and the troubles of the world

Westward Movement Song!

Hey! :D This is a song I made last year for history class regarding Manifest Destiny. Needless to say, it was a fun lesson!

Well, have you heard the wheels a’turnin’?

Have you heard the horses bray?

Have you set a boot,

Just for a hoot,

On the red, red western clay?

The West is the best and the place to be,

Where the Sun always shines,

And the men are free!

Where bountiful wealth is always found,

Just take what you need from the gold-filled ground!

So saddle up on your stallion,

Pack some boots and beans!

Take some knives,

Your kids and wives,

And anything you need!

The trail, it starts in Oregan,

Or in sunny Santa Fe!

And the Mexicans out there on the trail,

Will offer good, fine trade!

Beware of the bears and the predators,

As they might just make a meal,

Of you while you sleep,

They’ll softly creep,

And eat anything they kill!

There’s plenty of plants found on the way!

Berries of blue and pink and gray.

But I think that it should be said that some of those plants

Will kill ya dead!

So gather your pals,

Ask them to see,

The shining new land

For you and me,

The Hound and The Cat

Hello! :D Yes, I know: It is a terrible name. This is something I came up with last year in December. Enjoy! :)

          There once was a knight, bold and gallant. His talents exceeded those of his fellows and because of his capabilities, and the quality of which he performed his tasks, the young man became quite smug and vain. He would often gloat of his physique and agility and endurance and almost every quality he possessed to the fellow villagers of the town he occupied. Word carried of him fast on the wind, and his deeds were well known beyond vicinity of the town.

          This drew plenty of attention to him, inevitably, some quite positive. Others who were attentive to him, however, did not always harbor admiration for the knight. Rather, they saw a challenge. Rather, they saw a devious opportunity.

          One day, a group of thugs approached the town. They wielded weapons large, cumbersome, and blunt with expressions to match. Aside from their colossal hammers, small daggers as sharp as a bramble were nestled by their belts. Even sharper yet were the eyes of the massive men. Varying from grizzled to gruff, from sneering to seething, the men hobbled down to the pub, where gossip poured as freely as drink.

          They knew what they sought, and they knew where to expect him to be. As soon as the pub door swung open, the ambience of the outside world was drowned by the tavern’s jolly music and the sound of intoxicated chortling. The group of chaps strode over to the barkeep, receiving several dirty and curious looks. One of the Thugs had a glint in his eye as it caught sight of a man adorned in silver armor, jesting and complimenting himself.

          With an exchange of crooked smiles and gnarled teeth, the men lumbered towards the boisterous knight.

          The knight could hardly notice the towering figure looming over the crowd around him. Perched upon his barstool with a glittering, pearl-like smile, the knight gleamed amongst the commoners that were infatuated with him and his stories. At the conclusion of his tale, after a wave of praise and murmurs of astonishment, the knight dismissed the scraggly folk and was granted a pint of ale on the house.

          Sitting across from him was the leader of the menacing mercenaries. He called himself Thag the Horrible. The knight sat scouring the scene, occasionally raising his mug to his lips. Thag hunched over the maple bar top. With a thick, calloused hand Thag motioned the bartender to serve up a drink. The bartender faked a courteous grin though his eyes betrayed his wariness and scuffled off to make his pint.

          Thag’s good eye wandered over to the knight, a smile similar to a waxing moon began to form on his features. His tan, scarred skin only intensified his ominous appearance, as did the dangerous glint in his sea-green eyes that looked as though they desired to drown the knight.

          The knight caught his glare, and shifted in his seat in a mixture of haughtiness and edginess. Thag simply smirked, craning his head towards the bartender, who placed a foaming pint of the strongest ale available in front of him. Giving a nod of appreciation, Thag slid the pewter mug to his right hand, sipping the heady brew, nursing it while preparing his fighting sense.

          The knight glanced back at the man. A surge of intimidation coursed through the knight against his volition. He may have had a sturdier set of armor, crafted of fine delicately carved silver, but in the back of his mind the knight doubted he could even slice through the man’s bare skin should a conflict arise.

Thag, only attired in commoner’s clothing and leather pauldrons and greaves, still looked as though his defenses were impenetrable. His eye rested back on the knight, and he cocked a brow as if he were oblivious to the knight’s fear. Thag, with a conceited grin, winked at him tauntingly.

The knight grimaced, narrowing his eyes at the display from the burly man. His fingers rapped on the bar top with boiling emotions, and his jaw clenched. The knight’s stomach twisted indignantly. Turning his attention back to his glass and gingerly sipping his drink, the knight tried to regain his composure, not willing to show his discomfort. It would shame him and his pride.

Thag saw that his attempts were successful, guzzled the contents of his cup until no more liquid sloshed in mug, and slammed it down with an abrupt clatter. Patrons nearby turned to investigate the source of the sound. Upon seeing the haggard sight of the thug, they quickly turned away in alarm.

Realizing no matter how much he provoked the knight, he would remain sitting quietly in his chair, Thag leaned in to address the young man. Sick of playing coy, Thag spoke to the man in his thick, husky accent, the sound of which would make the toughest man tremble ever so slightly.

“ ‘Ey you. Lad in the fancy garb, ‘ere. Wot are ye doin’ to make ‘ourself them riches you obviously got?” His voice was kind, almost mockingly so, as the knight turned to him with disdain.

“I earned my glitters by defending this charming town, sir.” Thag smirked at this, admiring his feistiness. The knight sniffed, raising his chin.

“The Governor of this town, as a matter of fact, congratulated me personally and assigned me to go about slaying vermin.” The knight spat the last word harshly, as if he was indirectly referring to Thag. The mercenary chuckled, pawing at the stubble on his throat.

“Well, congrats then, my friend! The name’s Thag. I would be delighted to ‘ear of your name, considering you are an ‘ero and whatnot.” With a bicep wider than the knight’s thigh and an outstretched meaty palm, Thag presented a greeting. The knight sneered with disgust and looked back to Thag’s thick face.

“Sir Fredrick Braun.” Thag shrugged at the lack of a handshake but quaintly smiled anyhow. At least he had gotten a name, right?

“Well, then, Sir Freddy,” Fredrick cringed at the sound of the abbreviation. “I ‘ave a request for ya. You see, me and me mates keep ‘earing that you got an ego as big as your pockets. Now, we don’t want anyfing to do with ‘armin’ ya, understand? But we got a request from our boss tellin’ us ‘at we be’er take ya back with us. It insures good pay and good fame. But listen ‘ere, laddie. Normally I wouldn’t give two lashes ‘bout killin’ a man if it meant me gettin’ paid. But with your supposed ‘skill’, I think we could find use for ya in our posse.”

Fredrick shook slightly with apprehension. Thag leaned in closer, his breath reeking of alcohol and power.

“Ya see, I’m willin’ to make a bet wif you. If ya think you could win, we’ll let ya walk free. If not, there are grea’er things at stake than your life.” Fredrick resisted the urge to gulp down the knot forming in his throat. Nevertheless, his pride resisted the attempts to scare him, and he looked the thug dead in the eye.

“What are the consequences?” Thag’s mouth curved up at the corners approvingly.

“You win, like I mentioned, an’ you’ll be able to stride around at yer own leisure. If I win, though,” Thag licked his lips with delight. “I get to take wha’ever I want from ‘ere. That includes you, mate.”

This time, Fredrick made no attempt to suppress an audible gulp. But his confidence outweighed his logic, and before he could stop himself, the words slipped from his tongue.

“Consider it a deal.” Thag’s eyes did not widen, to Fredrick’s surprise, but merely met his amber irises with a satisfied gaze. A giant paw clasped Fredrick on the back with bruising force as Thag gave a throaty laugh.

Fredrick, for once, felt as though he made a flawed decision.

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After the conversation between the knight and the mercenary ceased, Thag rose from his seat and stretched his tendons. Galumphing towards the exit, he parted the large, brass doors to meet his group standing in the middle of the stone walkway. Evening had begun to fall, casting a pink hue on all of their faces.

Most of the men, mainly the younger, newer members of the group, appeared bored and stagnant. The more experienced members were occupying their time by sharpening their blades, practicing their parrying with a partner, or simply chatting. The eldest of all, Kidle, was napping against one of the wooden beams holding up the tavern overhang.

An attendant of the bar went to illuminate the lanterns hanging by the door. When his eyes met Thag, he quickly stumbled away, tripping over his own heels. Thag merely snorted and approached his gang.

Their eyes lit up instantly, and all the men gathered around. Eager to earn a handsome sum of gold, many questions flew from excited mouths. Thag chuckled. It’s like my wolfhounds when I get home.

Thag raised a hand, silencing them all within a matter of a minute. He, with cheer and positivity, then relayed the news.

“Listen up, dogs! We ‘ave our man in the midst of an agreement! Problem is, we need to figure out somethin’ that he’ll never win against us at! You lot ‘ave any ideas?” The men scratched their heads, having only seen the man for a few seconds before being dismissed outside.

From the crowd, a voice piped up. “Is he strong?” Thag nodded curtly.

“Slightly. He’s strong, but he’s lean strong. Like a cat, almost, ya know?” The men nodded, trying to resume their quest to find a weakness.

Another voice, this one more tentative, arose from the group. “Ummm…Oh! We’re strong, right fellas?” Most approved, beating their chests as if to prove and acknowledge it. “Alright…Then-uh-what if w-we challenge him to somethin’ like…Oh, I don’t know-a disc throwing contest?”

Some of the men growled in disapproval, saying that discus was a sport for posh weaklings. But at that moment, Thag’s eyes lit up.

“That’s brilliant, lad!” He flashed a smile to the boy, who nervously grinned back in gratitude. The crowd turned to Thag, blatantly bewildered.

“I-It is?” You could see the gears churning in Thag’s head, and he formulated his plan.

“Yeah, it is! Wot if, mates, we go ahead and challenge him to, not a discus contest, but an ‘ammer throwing contest!” At the mentioning of hammers, the men began to grow enthusiastic. A handful of the thugs cheered at the plan, ecstatic for the mounds of gold that awaited them.

Thag beamed eager to test the water of their new plan. “Alright, it’s settled ‘en!”

“Wait a second, Thag!” Exclaimed a raspy, high-pitched voice. “Does the lad know the challenge?” Thag grinned widely, the word ‘sly’ plastered on his features.

“Ah, but ‘at’s the thing, Horace! He already agreed!” The mercenaries howled with laughter at the knight’s misfortune and haste. The sudden guffawing caused Kidle to wake with a start and catch his long, white beard on the splintery post he rested on.

“What in blasphemy?!” He cried, causing the mercenaries to roar even harder with laughter. The old man rambled at them, as usual, claiming the silliest of things like how the pole was talking to him and they were rudely interrupting their telepathic conversation.

Even the grumpy thugs smiled despite themselves. That is until they were vacated from the property by an angry and sleepy housewife who lived nearby.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The gold glittering sun had risen to stream through the stained windows of Fredrick’s bedroom. Fredrick himself, however, had risen hours before, pacing and perspiring with anxiety to the dilemma before him. His pride masked it as training his nerves for the challenge ahead, but the young knight’s subconscious acknowledged it as something else.

Fredrick, he found to his own agony, was afraid.

In all his life, from slaying a variety of bandits and vagabonds and other assortments of criminals, never once had Fredrick batted an eye. He would lash them into submission and drag them to the dungeons, further improving the validity that he was the savior of the town. But even just one look at the coarse, granular Thag…

Fredrick growled to himself, trying an abysmal attempt at composing his fear. Remember all the ballads the folks sing in your honor! His head shouted in encouragement. You are their savior. You are the chosen stock of hero, grade A, so rich in ability your blood is pure gold! Remember! Fredrick sighed in exasperation.

Padding out of his room, Fredrick craned his head to see the home he had netted. He remembered that time, festering and burning like an old leaf caught in the sun, when he had first gotten this homestead.

Fredrick grinned to himself, critiquing the elaborate wooden depictions of his own deeds so carefully etched in the living room by the grateful carpenters and woodworkers who he had assisted. His fingertips drifted over the flowered, fruited borders on the stone walls. It was the work of grateful masons, chipping in (literally) to repay his benevolent acts.

Drifting over to the musky scented cellars, Fredrick lowered his head to avoid a calamity of possible unconsciousness and goose eggs on his crown. After all, it had happened many a time before, the knight reminded himself with embarrassment,

Browsing the wines in the dusty hollow below, Fredrick saw multiple that he had been rewarded with not even a week ago. The bottles varied from volume and design, color and shine, and the accumulating films of dust forming on them. Each had a story, an adventure. That is what Fredrick admired so much about them, and himself.

Fredrick owned dozens and dozens of items, hallowed by the friar and gilded of their craft by capable hands. Every single one was due to his own charities. A familiar sense of pride welled within him, filling his core with warmth.

Fredrick traversed the steps leading back to the living area. Early dawn sunlight met him as he treaded back to his bedroom to exchange clothes. He wouldn’t want to venture the town in nothing but silk underclothes, he should think.

Snorting at the thought of him arresting felons in his pajamas, Fredrick pulled on some more decent and suitable threads. Once he commenced draping himself in his dark green velvet shirt, it suddenly hit him, and his gleaming smile faded.

Fredrick might just lose it all. Everything, from the house, the followers, the noble standing, the fanatics, and even his own egotism, he could potentially see it all vanish before his very eyes. He found his heart ache at the disturbing and unnerving thought.

Worse yet, Fredrick might have sold his soul, and in this case his fighting arm, to a group of rascals. Living a life of luxury is not all Fredrick might lose. He may also lose himself…

Vexed, terrified, and possibly staring a life of forced banditry in the face, Fredrick put out a prayer and proceeded through the front door of his house.

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The breeze greeted Thag as he ventured atop the hill overlooking the grassy knolls outside the town. He inhaled, reveling in the merry scene and the lukewarm sun lathering his skin.

Thag’s feet found themselves pushing forward, tramping westward toward the leveled fields of emerald green. He was greeted to the awesome sight of distant glens and quagmires and streams. The shimmering rivers were like veins, all flowing back to the heart of the lake nearby. Thag grinned.

It was bad enough for poor Fredrick that he would have to be condemned to a life of serving Thag, let alone being shamed in his gorgeous homeland. Thag almost pitied the man. His scarred, lifeless eye as well as his hungry sea-green one wandered over the clearing, devouring the image before him. All his in a matter of minutes…

That is of the lily-livered knight in shinin’ armor shows up. Thag thought to himself, snorting while twitchy movements compensated for his impatience. The dappled sun fell through the trees not thirty feet away from the clearing and the hills, casting a silhouette on the tall oaks. Thag turned to the shadow with raised brows, not expecting and not believing what he saw.

A tired, thickly built fellow clad in the mercenary group’s symbols was making his way over with a more petite, shorter man squirming in his grasp. The scraggly bearded man plucked the knight up by the arm, thrusting the latter of the two towards Thag.

Without his noble fittings, Thag had hardly recognized him. A flustered Fredrick was currently ranting to the large thug, pushing himself up to his feet while wiping away at the dirt on his pants.

“Do you call that courtesy?! First you dare to put your filthy hands on me whilst you invade my property, uninvited might I add, and then you drag me out into the wilderness without even engaging in civilized conversation-!” Thag stifled a laugh, biting his bottom lip so that it almost bled. The other mercenary gave a teasing glare before childishly sticking his tongue out. Meanwhile, Fredrick continued to list his frustrations.

“-not to mention that such your resinous oaf hands had violated my personal space without minimal consideration for my feelings! I am appalled at your misconduct! Why, I should smite you now and save some air for decent individuals to breathe!” Fredrick walked right up to the man, blaring at him with obvious frustration.

“And you, sir, have still not told me what you hauled me out here for! No, no, you just assume I wouldn’t want to know, is that it?! That I-“ The thug swung a mighty hand at his chest and pushed him to his bottom.

Thag could not hold in his laughter. He split the air with barks of joy, to the extent where his complexion turned a shade of violet for a few moments. Fredrick rotated his torso to see him, taken aback by his presence.

The other man rolled his eyes, but was grinning with contentment. Fredrick got up once more, not bothering to dust his trousers. He glared daggers at the two, his face flushed with humiliation.

“Finally some’in actually shut ‘im up!” Warbled the fellow thug at the relieving revelation. Fredrick drew back his lip in a crossbreed between a snarl and a pout. This caused Thag to hoot louder, boisterous booming frightening a deer paces away in the forests.

With crossed arms and an averted gaze, Fredrick steamed silently and awaited a 

Some Big News :D

So last Thursday, I actually had a play produced and performed at my school! This may not seem very significant in the eyes of some, but to me this rocks! I want to thank all the kind folks in this world who support me in life and who support others in life. Thank you: Live long and prosper! :D

Survival

So I thought of something today: Something I'm sure several people have pondered before.

"Why does zombie media fail to recognize that a cure to the 'disease' won't cure all the conflicts that are bound to have happened in between?"

For those of you who have wanted to fill those gaps, this is the story for you!

LA Quickwrite Amendment

“Don’t you see?!” Josh snarled at Reggie. His face contorted into a calmer expression, realizing that Reggie was rather taken aback. He inhaled slowly, a weathered palm covering the upper half of his face.

“It isn’t about preserving humans. This is about preserving humanity. Or better put, morality.” Reggie wore a baffled but bristling look on his face, as though he couldn’t believe what Josh had just spieled.

“What are we supposed to do if there are none of us left, huh Josh?” Reggie countered, with a frown on his face and a knit brow. His fists clenched at the same moment his jaw did.  Josh groaned into a sigh. Reggie simply turned an octave louder and a tad more aggressive at the reaction from Josh.

“What then?! If we all die, there’s nothing to save! If we all die, there’s no one to save! If we all die, what will we accomplish?! Tell me that!” Reggie bellowed. His face was a dark shade of scarlet. Josh eased him with a gesture.

Josh peered up at him from his seat, eyes filled with much melancholy. “Look, we both know that if we make this about survival, we cannot truly live. Our souls will wilt and die before our bodies do. We will wither. We will perish. And, if we are too busy watching our backs; we’ll miss the problems that are right in front of us. “ Josh shifted in his chair, still maintaining his stoic expression.

“This is not merely about the infection, Reg. You know that. More people, up to date, have died from our own ilk than…those things. We have waited, what, twenty years? No vaccine. And even if we do find one, the world will never be as it was before.”

Reggie looked like a fire that had been stepped out, the few glowing ambers ceasing to burn. He opened his mouth, but then it snapped closed. He made a soft sound in the back of his throat, a pitiful, wistful sound.

“B-but there is still a chance, man. There has to be something to live for! Heck, even something to die for would be fine! Just something to remind us that our existence isn’t in vain.” Josh gave a small smile.

“There is something to live for. Preserving our morality. Instead of worrying about individual things, we should focus on saving the next generation. We should focus on finding better lives. Think about it. Even if tomorrow the infection ended, do you think the rioting would just end?” Reggie pondered it, and then shook his head, reluctant to admit the unsettling truth.

Josh nodded. “Exactly. After what the armed forces did to us, murdering us just because their commanding officer promised them a gold star if they finished up the job, or the more loving ones that did it to save their loved ones; people won’t just forget that. Leave it to the stains of time and the pains of hunger to change an entire civilization.”

The two sat there in silence for a few minutes, perhaps digesting what had been said, or perhaps planning the next step in what they were to do. Whatever the case, a much more level-headed Reggie piped up after a lifetime of quiet.

“So, are we heading to Checkpoint B in Key West and taking the next boat out?” Josh gave a tired grin. He scratched at his beard and sighed.

“Key West, here we come.”

Quickwrite

Hey everybody! Dug up an old quick write from the beginning of this freshman year and felt that it'd be fun to share. I hope you like it!

Isabel Babel

Ms. Mayer

7^th Class

Cormac had never beheld the harrowing sight of red rains before. In the pale pink light of dawn, the drops sparkled as though they were red rubies descending from the hazel clouds above. The air was thick, ominous, and deathly humid.

Despite his eager attempt, Cormac’s spruce colored cloak became drenched with the crimson liquid. One observing from a distance might have assumed he had been bloodied from a fierce fray.

Cormac, perched upon a craggy cliff overlooking the emerald and ivory knolls of Triarichi, simply stood there for brief moments, struck by awe. The entire sight seemed woeful; the cliffs were stained like the hands of a child caught snacking in a berry bush.

The cries of distant crows nestled in decaying trees and the baying of hounds wilting in the summer heat echoed from the grand stone walls of the mountain’s face. Cormac, once stoic and mirthful at the tales of the land of the Red Rain, now quaked and buckled as though he had just greeted the Morrigan* herself.

*The Morrigan is the Celtic (Pagan Irish) goddess of war.

Trampled Rose

Hello! :D Another songfic based on Robert Plant and Alison Krauss' song "Trampled Rose." Enjoy!

Trampled Rose- Robert Plant and Alison Kraut

The moon rode high above the willow trees of down by the bayous. Humidity was sticky and heavy in the summer air. A caravan rode along, wheels clacking on the jagged makeshift roads. The horses clopped along, sweating as they rode at a brisk pace. Lanterns swayed above the hitch on the cart, frightening some of the chirping frogs by the swampy banks.

The stained glass windows of the wagon shone bright with buttery light, making the dull, blue and grey and green of the swamps appear even more ominous than before. The rickety frame creaked as a corner was turned.

Half parted wine colored curtains hid the face of the woman within the cart. The only thing one could see should they be standing by the street side would be long, elegant fingers clutching a pendant resting on the bosom of the lady. And opposite of her was another woman, gnarled fingers intertwined with the other woman’s petite hand and the hint of a wretched looking face.

The swamp water sloshed as the shadowy man driving the cart dove into a small section of bog to cross over to the banks. Even outside the cabin of the carriage the pair’s laughter could be heard. One was a hearty chuckle and the other feminine and endearingly obnoxious.