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Aetherion, the Eye of the Forgotten Gods

Aetherion, the heart of an abominable system, is no mere star – it is the blazing embodiment of madness, born in the darkness of space and fuelled by the forgotten nightmares of the eons. Those in the know, those brave enough to gaze upon its sinister glow, see a giant resembling an opal, driven in its depths by hell-born helium in a dance with a dragon's breath of hydrogen. But such words cannot capture the horror that comes with it. It is Aetherion, the pulsating embodiment of the entropic, a star whose young heart began beating about 500 baktuns ago. And yet those who understand the ancient secrets of the great counting know that Aetherion is both infinitely young and ancient, in a constant dance of becoming and passing away.

Its radiance exceeds the splendour of Helios by a myriad, illuminating the cosmos like the shimmer of a relentless galactic beacon. Its diameter is six, perhaps eight times greater than that puny star that once shone over the mortal world. Yet the wise man beholds through the gates of hell, in the face of the madness that rages within the accursed star. The Aetherion's skin glows like a crazed god of fire, with four times the power of the life-giving Atum. An inflamed nightmare that glows blue-white, as if the pure embers of the universe had been drowned in ancient evil.

But the fate of that star has long been sealed, cursed to a short existence! Its infernal end, as planned by the great ancients, will happen in 1014 cycles of the great counting. But the angry fire god will not pass away quietly, but thunderously; The worlds that revolve around him will tremble under the fiery breath of his last gasps before they are thrown into the cold and emptiness of space.

All the ignorant who look at Aetherion from afar may pay little heed to the fiery god. But those who have gazed into the unfathomable depths of madness know that Aetherion is far more. He is a beating heart, an impending armageddon. Aetherion is the Alpha and the Omega, and those who exist in his terrible radiance will see the last thing the universe has to offer.

And one day, his end will herald the return of the great ancient ones, in all their cruel glory.

© 2024 Q.A.Juyub alias Aldhar Ibn Beju

[aldhar-ibn-beju]

The epic tale of the drunken king of the thieving parcel delivery men

Now hear the tale of Jerry, the parcel-carrying man, who despised his illicit employment and also received the welfare assistance. He was not virtuous, nor was he just in his dealings, yet among the heroes of Absurdistan he nevertheless strode along as if he himself were one of those ignorant representatives of the people, crowned with strange glory and rewarded with undeserved riches.

Whiskey, oh whiskey, was his most loyal friend, the flowing nectar of the wretched, in the fight against boredom. A drop full of happiness, purchased for a few coins at the discount store. The divine drink of Hades also cleansed many a rusty kettle. So Jerry enjoyed the simple stories of state television in his drunken stupor, which in his state of desolate sobriety would have wrung many a bitter laugh from him.

In the rusty vehicle of the parcel service he drove through streets of dust and lack, but always with a wry grin on his lips, which smelled of cheap gall. Gladly also enjoying the beloved drink to soften the burden of work. But alas, the nectar of Shiddl also brought many a serious illness. Jerry, driven by the residual alcohol, did not show up for work, abusing the blessings of sick leave. However, the giver of the work overlooked those afflictions of the phantom, since there were few volunteers and many preferred to receive only the assistance of Absurdistan's welfare.

Oh, the parcels, those precious loads, were not considered sacred to him. Much rather, Jerry thought, would they be safer in his hands than with those foolish recipients who understood nothing of how valuable their treasure was, or even their wallets, which so carelessly slumbered in open houses. His gaze wandered listlessly, but watchfully, into strange rooms. He saw the hidden treasures and snatched them like a wolf that had found an unguarded lamb.

But he carelessly left his work, claiming that no one was there. If he lacked the desire to continue the toil. With a mischievous grin, he praised his own deeds. He summoned the neighbourhood, ringing all the bells at once, just to see the confusion with cheerful eyes. Leaving parcels on the street, without owners, without destination, surrounded by dogs and laughed at by the gods of chaos.

But Jerry took care of the sweet, lethargic Tom, whom he loved. The animal was covered in fat, but remained loyal at his master's side, purring, eating, shitting and sleeping while his master plundered the taken packages. So Jerry lived, unnoticed and unloved in the shadow of the city, but he was content, so much so that he laughed at the absurd game of life that did not include him.

In his sleep he lay, Jerry, the never noble hero, on the damp bed of rotting sheets, his breath heavy from the after-effects of the cheap nectar. He awoke, buried in his dreams of fog and frost, and his brain still resonated with the afterglow of intoxication when the morning hour tore him relentlessly from slumber.

But with no gold in his pocket and only half of the month gone, bitter poverty forced him out into the world, to the work he did only reluctantly, so that he might return to whiskey, to gambling, which had not been kind to him. With a heavy head and limbs as tired as stone, he dragged himself to the door and shuffled out, to that miserable place he called the place of work.

Oh, what a cunning game began there in the morning sun, when Jerry, with his tongue heavy and his words sluggish, cheated his simple minded master out of an advance, the stupid, pale master of the office, who fell into golden dreams and took Jerry's request as the truth. What's more, an unwise minion lent him money, and Jerry laughed to himself, like a wolf in the night, for those coins, as surely as they were given, were never to return.

He did as he usually did, rummaging through the packages, hoping to find the treasure that would redeem him from the hardships of life. And lo and behold, a package, large and heavy of a special design, shimmering like a treasure, fell into his hands. ‘Astaroth’ was written on the cover, and ‘Hermes Trismegistos’ – but what did Jerry, who had never seen the light of education, know of those names that fate had written in stone?

And so his working day ended, like many before – with stolen goods and the hope of a fat profit. He returned to his cave, his dwelling, a grave of rubbish and stench,and opened the package with trembling hands, as if he himself were a child under the Yule tree.

But no gold or silver, no jewels did he find, but a black and heavy book, with a title that revealed nothing: Necronomicon. Oh, Jerry, who did not know the curse that weighed on the pages like the hand of death! For Astaroth, the demon from ancient times, had damned those words and cursed them for anyone who dared to read them without right.

Then Jerry opened the book, and the darkness struck, like a bird of prey seizing the lamb. His form, once plump and lazy, became tiny, crooked, and naked as a mouse, and the disaster began. Tom, the lazy cat, whose stomach rumbled like a storm in the night, saw Jerry, now weak and small, and the chase began through the stinking halls of the clutterbug.

Nimble as the wind, Jerry fled, but Tom, in his heaviness and cunning, pursued him, until finally, after endless chase, the cat's claws seized him, and the animal's teeth, which had once been dormant, tore him away. And Jerry, now in the belly of the cat, met his end – or so the doomed thought.

But oh, the curse of Astaroth, how terrible it is! Forever, in a loop of time, Jerry must now suffer and die, again and again, cursed to the end of the world, as a mouse, hunted, caught and devoured, by the cat he once fed, until the stars go out and the light fades away.

And so ends the story of the perpetually inebriated petty king of the thieving parcel drivers; that nemesis of all postal deliveries, the hero who wasn't a hero, the fraud who fell victim to fraud, the man who damned himself and and who is eaten by his cat forever, cursed by the dark art he didn't understand.

© 2024 Q.A.Juyub alias Aldhar Ibn Beju

[aldhar-ibn-beju]

Das Auge der vergessenen Götter

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The epic of the godlike peasant

Now listen to the song of the earthbound Shorty, the labourer of the field who suffered under the yoke of fate, the ploughman who walked in the dust day after day, surrounded by rubble, stone and weeping skies. Oh, praise be to Joe, the ox, his most faithful friend, now snatched away by the merciless hand of old age.

There was Shorty, the dust-covered farmer, bent by life. His heart as dull as the iron of the plough, his hand as rough as the field he ploughed. His wife was anaemic, emaciated and trembling, but she pulled the plough at his side, She laboured where once the ox broke the ground. Oh, how Shorty sighed, the wretched bovine, heavy with thought and yet without wisdom, he liked to compare his fate with that of faithful Joe, who, like him, had served blindly in life. 

Then he looked up, the servant of the field, at the dark firmament, at the signs of doom. The clouds were black, hovering like death itself, threatening, trembling, ready to send the floods. A flash of lightning, purple and wild, split the sky, slashed the zenith like Odin's sword. 

And Shorty, the ox-like one, stared upwards, felt the wrath of the gods in the firmament. His wife, the weak one, mumbled words, nothing but stupid chatter, hardly worth the air. But then a thought came to him, pure and simple: The lightning, the messenger of the gods, might bring blessings, power and wealth, as the ancients said and it was written in the holy book of elaborate ignorance. He was granted a wish, strong and terrible. 

He spoke without meaning to, full of rage at the moment: ‘Oh, that the woman would drop dead!’ - And behold, there she sank to the ground, lifeless, soft as a feather pillow she fell to the ground. Shorty, the stupid man, scratched his head, Death came quickly, but even wisdom stayed away. ‘Well then,’ he said, ’it seems to be true, I am a god, and anything is possible!’ 

What followed was folly born of power, for Shorty, the king of fools, began to wish. The cows became as colourful as rainbows, the chickens began to learn to talk. His pigs, oh wonder, rose gently, flew high above the land, like birds in the wind. Then he grew a beard as long as a rope, and his boots became golden bowls. Grain grew from stones, the rats began to sing, and water flowed backwards, the rivers gushed out of the mountains. 

But with every wish his misery swelled, the farmer, the labourer of the field, was lost in the chaos. ‘Oh,’ sighed Shorty, ’I've had enough. The flying of the pigs is no longer a comfort to me. What good is power to me if I remain a fool and not stupid enough to enter the absurdistani parliament that even the gods drive to despair?' And so he made his last wish: ‘Gods, I beg you, let me be mortal again, without desires, without power, just a simple man.’ 

And behold, fate was fulfilled. Shorty, the half-wit, was now back to his old self, a poor, dull farmer, but free from the burden. He stood in the field, alone with the stones, his plough without power, his wife without life. So he returned, humble and small, to the life that was meant for him, with nothing more than the earth and the plough's burden. 

© 2024 Q.A.Juyub = Aldhar Ibn Beju

[aldhar-ibn-beju]

Das Epos vom gottgleichen Landei

[aldhar-ibn-beju]

Song of the stygian twilight

Sing, O Muse, of the suffering of Franky, the Officio Assistanteides, who, plagued by fate and despised by the gods, followed the dark path of life until he fell into the abyss of the shadows.

The plight of the Officios Assistanteides

In the golden Eshek, the place of noise and beguiling sounds, Franky, weary of life, sat sipping the drink that carried before his eyes the illusion of a better existence. But the brew of oblivion tasted bitter, and his head began to buzz like the wings of Hermes, the messenger of the gods. It was not the gruelling price of the earthly nectar in the halls of Eshek that made him sway, but the weight of the many drops he had swallowed in the hope of escaping the twilight of the spirit.

The despondent sufferer often thought like a forceless old man of the tyrant of his everyday life, the master of the pen and the endless documents, whose hard rulership bent him like a stalk in a storm. He wielded the sceptre of the office with powerful hands, and Franky, the lowly one, dared not rebel. In the evening, when the lights went out and the stars twinkled in the firmament, Franky lay in his lonely bed, his tears bitter as salt, and sighed at the cold that reigned not only in the air but deep in his chest.

But that night, as the stars made their course across the firmament, he sought solace in the disco of Eshek, among the luminous figures who honoured the gods of dance with rhythmic movements. Desperate, but with a spark of hope, he strove for the warmth that was denied him in the nights and desired the closeness of a muse whose favour was not granted to him by fate.

The deceptive favour of Aphrodite

As if in a dream, half drunk, half awake, Franky, the slave on record, suddenly caught sight of a figure whose beauty made the rays of Helios pale. She was as slender as the cypresses on the hills of Arcadia, and her eyes shone like the stars above the snow-covered summit of the Donnersberg. Her gaze fell on him, the clumsy one and resembling Hephaestus in appearance. As if in a miracle, the servile Officios Assistandides felt the warmth that his heart had been without for ages.

The lady, like the foam-born goddess, dressed in a robe that carried the colours of the night, approached him like the moon to the still waters, and spoke to him with a voice like the song of the sirens. Her hands, gentle as the breeze that blows over the seas, clasped his, and she drew him into the round dance. Oh, how his heart throbbed, like the one of a warrior in his armour preparing for battle!

With every step, with every glance, the confidence grew in him, the downtrodden sluggard of forgotten files, that fate was finally in his favour. Franky, the despised man, found himself in the arms of a goddess, and the gleam in his eyes reflected the joy that the gods rarely grant to men. Her words wrapped around him like the snakes of the Gorgon, and he fell for her charms, drunk and dazed.

‘Come,’ she whispered, her lips so close to his ear that his blood began to boil like Peleid's in anger. ‘Come with me, let us flee into the darkness, where no eyes can see us and no ears can hear us.’ And Franky, mesmerised by her spell, followed her as if he were one of the unfortunate ones who obeyed the song of the rock-born.

The frights of the night

Their footsteps led them into an alley, far from the lights and sounds of the golden Eshek, into the shadows that even Hades knew to fear. The laughter died away, the footsteps faded, and the darkness fell like a veil around them. Franky, in his folly, still believed in the happiness that the night promised him, unaware that a merciless fate accompanied by the laughter of the gods awaited him.

Suddenly the air changed, the warmth disappeared and a chill crept over his skin that would make even the fearless son of Peleides tremble. The lady, so divine in her beauty, began to change like the Proteus of the seas, and what was once soft skin turned to scaly darkness. Her eyes, once so radiant, now glowed like the coals of the underworld, and from her mouth, which had once seduced him with sweet words, came a hissing as from the mouths of Hydra

The unfortunate lover boy, caught in the embrace of horror, realised his fate, but the realisation came too late. The figure that was once the image of beauty now revealed its true face - a creature from the deepest nightmares, a creature that did not belong in this world. Her body expanded, becoming a monster that surpassed even those lost ones, punished by the wrath of the gods, in its hideous form. The claws of the cursed, sharp as the blade of Ares, dug into his skin.

Frozen in horror, without the strength to scream, The flesh watched as the world around him disappeared, swallowed up by the darkness emanating from the creature. No hero stood by his side, no God answered his silent prayers. Alone and abandoned, just as he had spent his whole life, Franky was absorbed, his life extinguished like the flame of a candle in a storm, and the night swallowed him whole. So the cursed man sailed into the world of shadows without Charon's tribute, doomed to walk forever on the desolate banks of the Styx, wailing.

However, the creature moved on along stygian paths, insatiably seeking the next delicious meal that was foolish enough to follow it into the darkness

But the gods, indifferent to the suffering of mortals, averted their eyes.

© 2024 Q.A.Juyub alias Aldhar Ibn Beju

[aldhar-ibn-beju]

Der Gesang des stygischen Zwielichts oder das traurige Schicksal eines knechtischen Bürogehilfen.

[aldhar-ibn-beju]

A sapphic romance (Chapter 5)

Happiness in love and insect extermination

For some time now, the unlikely duo had been wandering through the park, which resembled a grotesque nightmare, dodging excrement and all kinds of rotting relics of human decay. The wind carried with it the nauseating stench of rotting leaves and old rubbish - an olfactory proclamation of desolation. The trees, bare and stunted, reached up into the gloomy sky like the cursed fingers of a long-forgotten deity. An abysmal darkness, which could not only be explained by the blackness of the night, lay like a dirty shroud over the run-down location.

Meanwhile, Sappho regretted that in her haste to leave, she had neglected to take her service weapon with her so that she could keep the vermin at bay if necessary.

"Not far now, copper. You'll soon see your sweetheart."

Isca grinned mockingly and presented the ruins that adorned his mouth. The pestilential odour and the sight of teeth that would have done credit to the legendary Viking king Harald Bluetooth almost made the enamoured policewoman's stomach revolt. Doubts gradually gnawed at her mind, but the erotic thoughts of her beloved drove her on. Finally, they reached a clearing where Styx, more beautiful and aloof than ever before, waited for her junky customers in an aura of danger and attraction. The eyes of the black goddess of love with the mind-expanding job narrowed when she saw Isca Riot.

"Well, well, cockroach and baby cop! You little bitch should get better company when you get the chance."

The drug dealer's voice dripped with mockery, while her body language betrayed contempt and mistrust. Sappho, overcome with romantic feelings, intended to rush to her, to sink into her lover's strong arms, but a cold stare from Styx held her back.

"So, Riot, what do you want?"

Instead of an immediate response, the cockroach quickly grabbed Sappho with a rough movement, pulled her to him and put a knife to her throat. The humanoid insect's eyes glittered with ominous anticipation of the planned coup. The guardian of order, who had now really become a hostage, froze, but her gaze remained fixed on Styx.

Isca grinned broadly, aware of what he thought was his inevitable triumph.

"A simple transaction. I have your sweetheart, and you give me what I ask for. Besides, I saw you take care of her colleague and everything else. So for now, move the stuff and the cash over!"

Styx laughed dryly, a cold, harsh sound. How could this wretched creature think she could get away with her attempt at blackmail? She, who had already experienced many a trauma as a child soldier in her old homeland, had already sent true warriors to Hades in hopeless situations.

"You idiot. Do you really think I'm going to let an insect like you blackmail me?"

She took a step forward, her eyes as merciless as the dark depths of hell, giving a silent promise of death and corruption.

Isca was visibly unsettled, but he pressed the knife even harder against the hostage's throat, causing a small trickle of blood to ooze out.

"You have no choice, you black slut. Stay where you are or your lover dies."

Styx contorted her facial expression into a dangerous, almost maniacal smile. With a speed that reminded Sappho of a lithe predator whose lethal grace was emphasised by fluid, elegant movements, the black Amazon queen charged at Isca. She grabbed him with her bare hands, twisted his arm and disarmed him with a skilful movement. The blackmailer cried out, but it was too late. The dealer's hands closed around his neck, her fingers like iron clamps, a deadly embrace that knew no mercy. Isca Riot's eyes widened, his face turned blue and finally his body collapsed like a pile of worthless flesh...

"I'll see you again in hell, cockroach, and I'll crush you there for all eternity."

Sappho, ignoring the slight bleeding, breathed heavily, her eyes fixed on Styx, who now stood before her, the corpse of Isca Riot at her feet. Although the inspector struggled against it, the dark aesthetics of the act of killing had aroused her sexually and revealed another, unknown side of her true nature.

As if conjured out of nowhere, Styx suddenly held a hemp rope in his hands, picked up the lifeless body and tied it to a single dead tree with inhumanly elegant strength. Thus Isca Riot now hung from his Judas tree as a macabre beacon of failed betrayal and extremely fitting to the ambience of the park; another human sacrifice to the dark abysses of the forgotten.

"You must decide now, baby copper. You can follow me into the darkness and perhaps perish, or you can continue your boring life in your monotonous world, only to wonder when you're old and ugly whether you ever lived at all. Then it will be too late! Will you now follow me into the fascinating depths of my universe?"

Sappho, enchanted by the harsh, seductive voice of the goddess of death in human form, nodded wordlessly, ready to immerse herself in the dangerous beauty of gloom.

"Welcome to my cosmos," Styx said quietly to Sappho, "now let's explore the world beyond banality."

Together they disappeared into the darkness, hand in hand. The night seemed to engulf the lovers, as if it wanted to protect the unlikely couple, bound together by the whims of fate, in its shadows.

© 2023 Q.A.Juyub alias Aldhar Ibn Beju

[aldhar-ibn-beju]

A story from the dark side: The romance (Chapter 4)

"Hey cop, looking for a fix or your new girlfriend?"

The words, uttered in a shrill, slimy voice, made Sappho jump in horror. For hours now, she had been scouring the squalid shadow world of the Deafendwarven Park in search of the love of her life and had already received clearly dirty offers from all sorts of illustrious figures. With astonishing luck, it had remained verbal assaults - probably partly due to the clearly labelled tracksuit of the well-proportioned inspector. In terms of ugliness and lack of personal hygiene, the creature she was now facing far surpassed the heroes of the night she had encountered so far on her trip.  It was not for nothing that Isca Riot was affectionately referred to in informed circles as a 'cockroach', a nickname that did the poor insects a gross injustice.

The policewoman looked at this parody of a human appearance with disgust.

"Excuse me? What does that even mean?"

Isca giggled shrilly and contorted his face into a mimicry that was probably meant to express derision, but was also quite suitable for passing a job interview at any freak show with flying colours.

"What do you think I mean? You're looking for the bitch who shot your cop mate like a mangy mutt. Don't get the idea of denying everything.  I've seen it, really the whole mess! But don't worry, I think it's great when a cop goes to hell. I can take you to Styx if you want me to."

"Why would you do that? I wonder what's behind it?"

Sappho, noticing how the unsteady eyes of this repulsive figure glittered with greed and deceit, felt a chill run down her spine.

"Do you want to see your girlfriend or not? I can lead you to her, to your Styx."

Riot's dissonant, hissing voice enveloped the enamoured vigilante like a sickening breath from the putrid depths of betrayal.

Piggenhead had an extremely uneasy feeling about the services offered by her untrustworthy interlocutor, but her longing for Styx was stronger than her mistrust.  Her eyes fixed on Isca, penetrating his unattractive façade, searching in vain for a spark of truth in the darkness of his nature. Despite knowing better, she nodded curtly.

"Okay, take me to her! But don't you dare betray me."

"By my father's wedding ring Gollum, I will and much more! Just follow me!"

The rasping voice of the cockroach resembled sandpaper on rusty metal in its timbre. With a cackling giggle of exquisite ugliness, Isca Riot turned and disappeared into the bowels of the Deafendwarven Park with Sappho in tow.

[aldhar-ibn-beju]

A recipe for blackstone beer á la Thrór's curse

Greetings, lovers of fine beverages and many a good drop. Today we delve deep into the sick world of the mad dwarf king. Some claim Thorin Oakenshield's grandfather was possessed by dragon sickness, but the ancient writings of the sage Raldha of Ejub from Gelsum - also known as Mordor Minor - prove that the royal craziness possessed a miraculous correlation with the consumption of Morgul-Psilos. However, his drug-savvy majesty had even more fun in the head than with the miracle mushrooms and occasional lucid moments exclusively when drinking blackstone beer, which was reserved only for the noble members of Durin's gender.

As we all know, at the end of the Fourth Age, the dwarves went mad because a powerful sorcerer called Primus Amazonias Idioticus forced upon them a mind-numbing spectacle called 'The Rings of Power'. Eventually they made the most stupid and incompetent their leaders, destroyed their high-tech forges and, through all manner of folly, their prosperity. In the end, they stuck themselves in their mines to demonstrate against global warming under the earth and thus transferred themselves united into dwarf heaven.

But enough of the history lesson, let's now get down to the preparation of the Blackstone Beer. We need the following ingredients from the shop of the Druid of Tingeltangel (today's offer is a free 'Dulldwarf' branded pointed cap only for a mega-small handling fee of a measly £99.99):

- 5 litres of beer (stout, porter or a mix of both)

- 1 litre of whiskey (the Druid recommends Laphroaig with a minimum age of 10 years)

- 0.5 litres of mulled wine (but please not the cheap stuff from Shiddl or similar food abusers)

- Peel of 2 lemons

- 200 g 'magic mushrooms' from your local chemist. Okay, if you're not keen on studying jailology and don't want to run a bit afoul of current law, you can also replace the magic mushrooms with the same amount of cranberries, but they should be soaked in 250 ml vodka (at least Smirnov) a day before.

- 1-2 teaspoons cardamom

- 2-3 cloves

- a pinch of black pepper

- 250 g obsidian

If you are too stingy to finance our needy and climate-loving druid's next Bali holiday, you can also buy the ingredients elsewhere.

First of all, let's dig out the magnificent jug of the great kings of the dwarf kingdom from the royal junk room. If this is unfortunately not available, the druid of Tingeltangel offers you the model 'Moria Deluxe' in his shop, which was produced completely climate neutrally by industrious Indian orphans for the fair price of 50 cents, for only a tiny £9999.99. If you do not want to support the selfless druid in his development work of his fortune, simply offer a suitable container with a capacity of at least 8 litres.

Normally, suitable courtiers would now supervise the production process of the delicious swill, but since they unfortunately live in the dwarf graveyard at the moment, as many garden gnomes as possible - if necessary, you can steal them from the stuffy neighbour, but please none that ride a wutz (Palatine for a truffle-loving proboscis animal) - should be distributed in the kitchen regarding the ambience.

Now fill the energetic gems (obsidian) and the whiskey into the jug. Stir according to an old custom in honour of the seven dwarf gods the mixture for 7 minutes with a suitable utensil - you don't have an original dwarf axe(?), you can also get it from the druid as the brand 'Gimli's Shame' for only £999.99. Now add the beer by the litre and stir the noble drink for 77 seconds each. Do not forget to make an appointment with your therapist or take your psychotropic drugs before continuing the process.

Then we send a suicide squad of volunteer heroes with a short life expectancy from the tribe of militaristic 'dimwits' into the mines of Moria to get Balin's Cauldron for the mad king. Let's leave the druid out of it this time, we don't want to make one-sided advertisements in an attitude journalistic manner. So we quickly get an ordinary saucepan and fill it with the mulled wine, which we now heat up on medium heat until it reaches a temperature of 77° C. Now we add cloves. Now we add cloves, cardamom and pepper and let the mixture simmer for 7 minutes.

While the mulled wine cools down afterwards, we use the time to cut the lemon peels into the smallest possible pieces - in memory of the ritual slaughter of hobbits by the mad dwarf king during the brewing process to appease the gods of the Morgul-Psilos. Then we put the cut-up hobbits (citron peels) with the miracle mushrooms (cranberries) into a mortar and pound them - well, how do you think?- for 7 minutes.

To crown it all, we combine all the components with the brew in the ceremonial jug and stir the mixture for seven minutes. Afterwards, the delicious potion should be kept in a cool, sinister dungeon for 77 minutes to refine the flavour, while his psychologically deviant majesty cruelly tortures recalcitrant high elves for pleasure. Less insane people can, of course, keep the blackstone beer in the fridge instead.

Cheers then

© 2023 Q.A.Juyub

[aldhar-ibn-beju]

Methanophyta Titania on Nyx

Methanophyta Titania forms the basis of the ecosystem on the extrasolar planet Nyx. Externally, this plant resembles a dark green, spiky bush with a shimmering surface that is reflected by frozen methane, which plays the role of water in solid and liquid states on Nyx. The plant also has robust, flexible stems with rather needle-like leaves.

An extensive underground root system absorbs methane and ethane from the soil, as the plant uses a form of chemosynthesis instead of photosynthesis. Methane serves as an energy source and is combined with hydrogen produced by chemical processes in the environment. The following mathematical formula could be used to illustrate the chemosynthetic process:

CH4​+H2​S→CO2​+H2​O+E

The root network also absorbs other necessary chemicals such as ammonia, which then serves as a source of nitrogen.

Reproduction takes place via spores that are resistant to the extreme weather conditions on Nyx and are transported by the wind. Methanophyta Titania produces special proteins and molecules that act as an antifreeze to protect it from freezing. Overall, this plant has more compact and stable cell walls than a possible terrestrial counterpart in order to withstand the high pressure and low temperatures on Nyx.

[aldhar-ibn-beju]

A story from the dark side: The romance (Chapter 3)

Inspector Piggenhead lay awake in her bed and wept bitter tears of loneliness, enduring an overwhelming feeling of inner emptiness. The realisation of her own sexuality had plunged her into an abyss that brought her bourgeois mind to the brink of being overwhelmed. Gradually, the blonde policewoman realised why her previous romantic relationships with men had been so unsatisfactory and why she had never experienced an orgasm despite her lovers' best efforts.

Despite the hurricane of lesbian feelings and the resulting confusion, the conscientious law enforcement officer had been able to plausibly convey her tale of the hostage-taking as well as the subsequent emergency slaughter of her partner. Now, her colleagues were not exactly blessed with abundant cognitive abilities and immediately began to hunt for the Sapphic phantom to the amusement of the local dealers, but their corrupt superiors accepted the crudely woven story without asking any annoying questions. Well folks, a hero is always good for the image and business life goes on after all.

The inspector was rewarded with several days' special leave to allow her to adequately process what had happened. Sappho had not yet seen much misery in her job, but the death of the unpopular Hasso did not particularly shock her. However, the eruption of long-suppressed emotions was traumatic for the curly-haired policewoman. Since that night, they had blurred the boundaries of reality and erupted violently in many an erotic daydream, the protagonist of which was the black drug dealer.

Finally, five minutes before midnight, the once staid policewoman could not resist the mysterious attraction of that coloured dealer. Her emotions switched off every trace of rationality, so that she was dominated only by the thought of seeing this free and wild creature again. Sappho hurriedly slipped into a tracksuit provided by her office, which accentuated her feminine curves to great advantage, and finally set off in her stuffy little electric car to the scene of her sexual awakening.