#OR i must conclude the entire royal family had dark skin

[worstloki]

I need answers

[secret-engima]

Axis, Shield of Nox Izunia, meets Axis, traitor Kingsglaive. Just, for once, it's not Nox/Noctis tripping across dimensions, it's Axis. But it's an Axis who's barely accepted that he doesn't want his idiot LC to disappear from his life entirely, never even to brush shadows, who's barely ADMITTED he has a LC. And then, meeting his canon counterpart, bitter, traitor. N!Axis: Where's Nox? MUST FIND PERSONAL IDIOT! C!Axis: Nyx is over there, but he's more of Libertus' personal idiot.

Oh.

Oh boy.

Ohhhhhh boy.

Angsttttttt. Prepare for angst and lots of rage and insults coming your way because Axis has a temper and this turned into a ficlet.

So this is non-canon, but would hypothetically take place pre-Axis learning Ardyn is an LC in the Nox verse and just a year or so before the Kingsglaive movie in Canon.

-It’s a very short meeting. No more than a day or so. Of course all the glaives are very weirded out when Axis accidentally cuts himself on a rock and the Solheim ruin they’re passing through glows at the touch of his blood before spitting out a very confused double dressed in Hunter garb rather than glaive garb. But after some shouting and wary staring, both sides conclude the other aren’t demons trying to steal any souls.

-That’s when Tredd notices that the new Axis is not just dressed in Hunter Garb he’s ... younger. Years younger. This Axis looks just on the border between teen and adult. Only a year or so out from the Burning. They ask and N!Axis confirms their suspicions, then looks around in agitation, as if expecting to find someone. They assume he’s looking for his Tredd and Luche. But some searching reveals no one but N!Axis and he ends up going with them through the ruins toward their outpost. Since he had no idea how to get back and they couldn’t just let him wander off and get hurt.

-N!Axis meets C!Axis and feels ... unease. There’s something about his counterpart he doesn’t like, something dark and bitter. And yes, N!Axis knows he’s bitter about a lot of things but this feels different. This feels ... poisonous.

-He notices with dread that C!Tredd and C!Luche feel the same way too.

-That evening in the outpost, the Glaives get to talking over (smuggled) drinks while N!Axis lurks and frets internally (Nox was in those ruins when he got pulled, had Nox come too? Or was he out there all alone, looking for Axis and getting into trouble without him? Did N!Axis really care? (Yes, yes he does, so badly it hurts and he refuses to think why) and then N!Axis tunes back into the chatter when Crowe angrily tells Tredd to “knock it off”. “It” being some astonishingly hateful diatribe against Insomnia and Insomnia nobles. It’s not slander against the royal family, not treason by the letter of the law, but ... the intent is there. The intent is there and N!Axis can see agreement in his counterpart’s eyes, burning and bitter and deadly as a snake and something inside him goes very, very cold.

-Nyx (who is male in this world, weird) tries to defuse the situation, but Tredd is drunk and on a roll now and N!Axis knows only Luche or C!Axis could stop him but they- won’t. They AREN’T. Tredd out and blurts something to the order of how “They” (possibly meaning Insomnia nobility in general but everyone knows he means the royal family) don’t have any clue what it’s like out here, that none of them can fight worth anything, none born of their blood have ever had a hard day in their lives-

-And N!Axis thinks of Nox. Of Nox who has so many scars. Of Nox who can’t remember when to eat or how to take care of himself. Of Nox who watches the world with inhumanly old, broken eyes sometimes that make him seem a hundred thousand years older than he really is. Of Nox who fights, who wades into Imperial Bases, alone save for when Axis finds him and tags along. Of Nox who has already lost so much (a blindspot the shape of a man, his innocence, his ability to care for himself, so many hints Axis tries not to notice but can’t help seeing anyway). Of Nox with a Niflheim Chancellor for an uncle who is just as much of a broken human disaster for all he doesn’t have the magic burning under his skin like his nephew.

-Of Nox who’s magic burns him. Carves him up so that all that’s left some days is a shell working on instinct, staring out at the world like it is a stranger while thunder and wrath and grief as deep as Leviathan’s tides press against mortal skin, trying to shatter him from the inside out and break free into the open air. Axis has seen it, the suffering that comes with magic, and while the Glaives hold only a portion, only enough to use without hurting, Nox is an LC of blood and soul and Axis has seen the toll that takes. The way he looks like some days he’s one step away from burning up and turning to dust in the wind unless he does something to bleed it off and out even when so many spells in a row leave him shaking from pain-.

-N!Axis is in the crowd of glaives, knuckles stained with blood and Tredd gaping at him from the floor before N!Axis is even aware of leaving his corner, “You take that back,” he growls and all the glaive take a collective step back because they have never heard Axis use that tone at a fellow Galahdian, a fellow Glaive. Let alone directed at Tredd. N!Axis breathes and can feel his blood pounding in his veins, a faint ringing in his ears from trying to suppress the red in his vision. Maybe it’s his Amicitia blood acting up, loyalty imprinted into his bones after generations of magic and oaths. Maybe he’s just stressed from being in this parallel world.

-Secretly he knows it’s neither. It’s all him. It’s all Axis Arra, the refugee and Hunter who stumbled across a Lucis Caelum teen outside a ruined Nif base and somehow can’t seem to let go of him not matter how much he tries not to be attached in the first place.

-In the astonished silence that follows his words, N!Axis bares his teeth, voice a near-Coeurl snarl that sends shivers down more than one spine (the wrath of an Arra is a rare thing, the wrath of an Arra given sound is an even rarer, more dangerous one), “You. Take. That. Back.” A breath, a flex of the fist with Tredd’s blood on it (he’s broken Tredd’s nose, he’s broken the nose of one of his oldest friends for Nox and he doesn’t regret it), “How dare you. How dare you pretend to know what it’s like. How dare you wish our fate on anyone, let alone the Chief who took you in. Maybe our conditions could be better, and maybe he doesn’t do enough but at least he tries. You hold his magic in your skin and you think that gives you the right to curse his entire Clan and say none of them ever suffered?”

-Tredd bristles on the floor, but lying there holding his broken nose he seems too afraid to speak up. C!Axis breaks the silence, stepping forward and moving to rest a hand on N!Axis’s shoulder, “All he means is-.”

-N!Axis swats the hand aside, looks into his counterparts eyes and sees the same venom, the same ignorance. And he knows- he knows in a heartbeat that Nox does not exist in this world. That he died before C!Axis could meet him, could know him, could learn because otherwise this counterpart would never agree with the poison coming out of Tredd’s mouth. “I know what he means,” snarls N!Axis, “and I know he’s full of pyre-ash. If you had any idea what it’s like to have been born with their full weight of magic, the full touch of the Draconian’s Blessing rather than the pittance you think makes you impressive-.”

-Tredd sits up, but still doesn’t dare stand, “What and you do?”

-N!Axis growls down at him, wordless and warning and Tredd stills in shock.

-Nyx and Libertus intervene, push their way between and Nyx starts nudging N!Axis away, “Ignore Tredd, he’s just drunk and trying to start something. We all need to take a minute and cool our heads, yeah?” N!Axis lets Nyx nudge him a few steps away, breathes past his rage and tries to let it go-.

-“Someday,” Tredd says as Luche finally helps him up, “someday you’re gonna think just like me. You might think he’s kind and just trying his best now, but give it a few years and you’ll know that he doesn’t care beyond making sure we’re good little soldiers.”

-“Tredd!” several glaives snap in horror, because now he’d definitely gone too far.

-N!Axis looks past Nyx’s arm to lock eyes with Tredd, his rage suddenly going from burning to freezing as something in his mind replaces King Regis for Nox in the “he” of Tredd’s words. He pushes Nyx’s arm very slowly down so that it isn’t in the way, looks Tredd, then Axis, then Luche all straight in their eyes before refocusing on Tredd-

-And spitting on the ground at his feet, “Storm-Father as my witness,” N!Axis intones with far more calm than he actually feels, “I’ll gut myself with my mother’s blades and feed my entrails to the Voretooths before I become a filthy little Pink-Tongue like you.”

-Tredd roars and lunges, because this time it’s N!Axis who has pushed too far, said too much, and while all the glaive freeze in astonished horror that any version of Axis would call his best friend a Pink-Tongue (not referring to the color of the mouth, but the colors of Galahd, of poison and betrayal. Liar, Axis has called him, Poisoner and Betrayer of Clans, because a tongue dyed in poison is a single step away from hands drenched in the colors of Kinslayers), N!Axis lunges to meet Tredd halfway. Tredd is bigger, more experienced, he’s been a glaive for years now. N!Axis can feel his lip split and his cheek get cut open by the force of the hits. But N!Axis has been traveling with Nox for months, fighting Nifs and keeping up with a wayward LC despite having no magic of his own. He fights hard and dirty and doesn’t flinch as he brings his knee up into Tredd’s groin, rides the screeching Glaive down as he falls and begins beating the redhead’s skull against the ground before he’s forced off and winded by Tredd’s brutal kick.

-The Glaives snap out of their shock and fall on the two en masse, pulling them apart, shouting and struggling to stop the two from going at each other’s throats and N!Axis thinks his own voice might be in the clamor, screaming at Tredd and Luche and his own counterpart, calling them Pink-Tongues and White-Wearers. Traitors to their Chief, blind to what they’ve been given and what that gift must cost.

-In the end, N!Axis has to be dragged to the far side of the outpost and kept under guard by Nyx and Libertus for the rest of the night, far away from the three he has just given full grounds to challenge him to a death match.

-He sits and broods the entire night, listening to the daemons scream far past the lights and contemplates his hurts (he refused to take the potion Libertus had stiffly offered, he picked that fight and they were soldiers, they would need it more than he did).

-He contemplates the fact that he just called the counterparts of himself and his two best friends the worst kinds of traitors.

-He ponders over the fact that he doesn’t regret a single word of it.

-The next morning, he’s woken from his doze by an alert going up from the watch. Someone is approaching the Outpost. A civilian kid by the look of it. He hears hubbub and chatter, confusion and disbelief and then suddenly Nox is there, right in front of him in all his tiny, scraggly glory, a gaggle of Glaives following behind and staring in confusion as he smiles at N!Axis, “Hey, Axis,” he says easily, as if they just ran into each other in the wilds like normal and aren’t in another dimension.

-He stares, sighs, stands up and he sees Nox eyes sharpen on his injuries, “What are you even doing here, idiot?” N!Axis grumbles because seriously, how.

-Nox is still staring at his injuries as he answers, “Called in a favor from a friend. We got an hour to get back, so we should start walking.” He pulls a potion out of his pocket and shoves it at N!Axis with a scowl, who would laugh at the hypocrisy of Nox fretting over injuries when he’s the one always halfway dead from fighting things too big for him to handle alone. Instead he takes it and uses it, feels his lip heal about halfway before stopping, it’s been hours since the injury was inflicted after all, potions lose potency the older the injury is. Nox’s eyes glitter red for a fraction of a second and then go back to blue as he starts leading N!Axis out of the base. The Glaives trail behind, whispering over the kid and a few calling out goodbyes to N!Axis even though he’s done the opposite of making friends.

-N!Axis hears angry footsteps behind him and a furious curse that is probably supposed to be his name and starts to turn, braced for a last-minute punch from the counterpart of Tredd.

-Instead Nox is suddenly there and the air is seething with magic, heavy like storm clouds and churning like waves. C!Tredd and all the other Glaives freeze at the sight of a ghostly blue-white armiger, rotating slowly in the air, all blades pointed directly at Tredd’s heart. “Are we going to have a problem?” Nox asks with a false sort of serenity, his voice rumbling with the faintest undertones of Other. Other voices, older voices, cold and cruel ones that Axis has only heard bleed into Nox’s voice once before.

-N!Axis rests a hand on Nox’s arm, “It’s fine. Let’s just go.” Nox accepts the dismissal, lets his armiger fade as he possessively grips N!Axis’s hand and resumes leading the way. A glance over his shoulder and N!Axis meets the eyes of his counterpart and his counterpart’s two best friends one last time.

-Mine, he knows his eyes say, and I will fight to keep it that way.

-Traitor, their eyes say back without words, bootlicker. Naive.

-N!Axis turns his head and resumes looking forward. He tries not to feel the yawning chasm between himself and the counterparts, uncrossable and deadly, that he leaves behind. They’re wrong. Wrong to think that, wrong to say and agree to what was said last night and Axis will not be moved from that stance. Perhaps if he’d never met Nox, their words would have seemed like the truth. Perhaps if he’d never seen Nox and all the things both great and terrible and eerie his magic could do and in turn did to its wielder, he would have believed their poison. But Nox is here, having crossed dimensions to find him and bring him home, Nox is here and ready to fight an entire outpost of Kingsglaive if they threaten Axis.

-And Axis knows he will not regret his own choice. His own opinion. His own loyalty.

-Nox leads them back to the ruins, there’s a flicker of magic like thunder and ozone, and when Axis opens his eyes, they’re back in their world where they belong.

-A few days later, Axis meets up with the others- with his glaives, and doesn’t breathe a word about what he saw and said. He just watches his Tredd and Luche and feels something tight in his chest unwind in relief when he sees no poison in their eyes or on their lips.

-Words echo in his memory, Someday ... someday you’re gonna think just like me. You might think he’s kind and just trying his best now, but give it a few years and you’ll know that he doesn’t care beyond making sure we’re good little soldiers.

-Leaning on the shoulder of his Tredd and listening to them laugh over something that happened in their training, Axis snorts. Maybe when the Rock of Ravatogh freezes over. But until then? He might not like King Regis that much, not when Axis’s father was the King’s Shield, but the way he saw it, Nox had to get his idiotic levels of compassion from somewhere and ... well.

-He hadn’t gotten it from his Izunia blood. That was certain.

[loki-fanfic-whore]

Green Eyes in a Dark World

Loki x original character

Warnings: abuse (descriptive)/ suicide attempt (descriptive)/ bad grammar

Chapter 2

Hushed lies lie on their lips.

" I am also not of this world my dear....soon we will be able to speak openly, but not now." The voice was clear in Alessa's ears but she knew Torra had not spoken this aloud.

Torra brought Alessa to the classroom and they concluded after hours of book work.

At dinner that evening Alessa looked out the balcony of their dining hall to see the rain pelting the marble banaster. She ate very little as she contemplated all. Startled as a hand slid around hers.

"Mon cheri? What ails you?" Celeste spoke gently to her.

Alessa met her golden gaze with her dark emerald eyes.

"Celeste what was mama like?" She spoke randomly.

Celestes blinked slightly taken aback by the question.

"She was beautiful and graceful and had hair of spun gold and gold eyes. She captured fathers heart." She spoke softly. This was something Alessa had heard a thousand times.

"Did she practice with the workings?" Alessa asked feeling her heart beat faster against her chest.

"No. She did not have such a gift. She was not lucky enough to have been chosen to have that power. She passed away birthing you. Why do you ask dear child?" Celeste asked following Alessa's gaze to the balcony.

"Just wondering..." Alessa whispered. She stood up and excused herself. Recieving a glare from her father as she removed herself from the room.

As soon as the door closed she was running. Running through the crowd of servants and guards and civilians running out of the palace to the garden grounds and out of the gardens to the cliff. Her tunic and body soaked from the pouring rain as she stood at the cliff. Looking at her reflection in the rough waters.

'Their eyes' she thought.

'Their eyes are of gold....He cannot be my father'

She felt tears sting her eyes as her chest felt like it would crack. Sobbing she dove head first off the cliff into the water.

She felt the familiar icy stabbing as she began to sink. Her hair and tunic ebbing and flowing in the water. She focused as she sank head first to the bottom.

She felt another splash behind her. Her eyes widening she swam upwards temporarily to see.

A male was swimming towards her, his pale body naked save for dark trousers. He swam to her and grabbed her. Alessa began to panic and struggle. Why couldn't she breathe right now?! The boy began trying to swim upwards but Alessa was fighting hard. The boy cupped her chin hard to force her to look into his eyes; her own going wide.

His eyes were an emerald green. Like her own, but his hair was golden. The boy was looking into her eyes pleadingly trying to save her. She felt the burning in her veins as her skin glowed with blue once more. She gasped gently.

"Your eyes.... You are like me...who are you?!" She mouthed not knowing if he could hear it. The boy shook his head unable to practice the workings so he could not respond. His face turning pale and his body becoming ridged with lack of air he motioned up. Alessa shook her head no and moved forward. She cupped his face hard and pushed her mouth to his and parting her lips forcing air into his lungs. She could feel his body sucking the air greedily from her. The soft blue lines glowing onto his skin from her own lips before dissapearing.

Torra had said "To be able to heal herself and others. This was the blueworkings."

"I am called Maddox here your majesty, but ny real name is Loki..and these are my natural eyes. My hair is naturally black, but for obvious reasons it is blonde here." He spoke warmly into her mind. While connected like this they shared her workings. He could speak to her telepathically.

"Why did you jump? Surely you do not want to expire your highness." He asked her looking into her eyes as she breathed for them.

"..although it has crossed my mind before.... I am trying to grow in skill with this." She motioned to the blue glow under her skin swirling away. She felt herself beginning to get weak. Loki cupped her face and kissed her deeply.

"You are too beautiful to expire. Since I have seen you I have wanted to take you into my arms. You do not know it yet...but you and I are destined to wed." He kept eye contact as he spoke telepathically to her. Her eyes widened as she pushed from him feeling weakened.

"Loki...Maddox...I need you to swim. Please. I cannot keep breathing for us. I am losing my stamina quickly trying to keep us both breathing .. Once we are to the surface we will not be able to speak freely. My father watches me like a hawk especially near males." She whispered it to him as she felt herself burning alive inside. Everything ached. She closed her eyes and her body collapsed against him.

Loki's eyes dialated in fear as he felt her go limp. The blue fading from him. He pulled her body to his and kicked off the floor of the water swimming up to the surface. Once he breeched the surface he saw guards and the royal family were waiting.

"What took you so long?!" Snapped Lucreetus.

"Forgive me sire." Loki sputtered out of breath.

"She had sank to the bottom and was tangled in weeds. " he lied effertlessly.

The guards pulled him from the water and extracted the limp girl from him.

Celeste was screaming at the horror.

Alessa's body was unresponsive.

"Lay her down flat. Quick!" The voice came from behind Lucreetus. Torra stepped forward and took her gloves off. Her hands swirling with multiple colors. She placed her palms to Alessa's chest and closed her eyes. Focusing she breathed in and out. The blue in Alessa's skin moving towards where Torra's hands were placed.

A gasp sounded as Alessa began spitting and sputtering water. Torra flipped her quickly and rubbed her back as she retched.

Celeste was upon her side instantly. Trying to hold her wet hair back.

Lucreetus stepped up to Loki jabbing a finger in his face.

"If you touched her in any way inappropriately so help me." He said jabbing a finger at him again.

Loki straightened and looked at him with innocent golden eyes.

"Majesty. Maddox is my son. He would never harm the lady Alessa. He simply saw her fall over the edge and acted quickly. Had he not been near I would have feared a much darker outcome." The response was from Torra and not Loki, who stood with a clenched jaw.

Lucreetus straightened and turned to leave.

"Yes well, get some clothes on. You are not to be near Alessa again." He said curtly before marching off. The crowd of guards and civilians moving with him.

Alessa looked up at Torra trying to hide the tears that burned her raw eyes.

"I was just trying to-"

"I know... You were trying to get a run in to enjoy the fresh air and salt of the water when you accidently slipped and fell. I know your majesty. It is okay, no one blames you." Torra cut her off and answered for her. Alessa nodded accepting the lie as she looked to celeste.

"Alessa you scared me! You must be ice cold. Let's get you in a bath and to bed." She spoke standing. She motioned for guards to pick Alessa up.

As she felt strong arms under her lifting her up she looked to the still half naked man. His hair was golden and hung to his shoulders in wet locks. His jaw and shoulders both broad and his chest was muscular but not buldging. His eyes were a honey gold just like Torra's. Alessa blinked and looked at Torra.

"His eyes..." She spoke softly looking confused.

"What about them majesty?" Torra spoke aloud

"What you saw was no illusion. He is of your world. Do not discuss it now Alessa." Came the voice in her mind.

"They look like yours." She finished as Torra beemed at the compliment.

The guards moved quickly pulling her into her room and leaving. The maids took it from there stripping off her wet clothes and getting her into the hot bath. She had just relaxed and was warming up when the door crashed open and her father stepped in red in the face.

Alessa stood at the noise but quickly tried to cover herself.

Whack.

A hand reached out and smacked her face jerking her to the side. Alessa fell into the side of the tub with a shriek. Lucreetus went on to beat her until he left in a huffing rage. Alessa had cried out in the beginning but realized it was fruitless. She whimpered hoarsly as he continued to hit and kick her, even smashing something over her body. She laid in the water that was now chilled and surveryed the black and blue in spots. She sobbed softly. Only when Lucreetus was gone did the maid come in and help her from the bath. She dried her and dressed her and put her in bed. Acting as if nothing was different. This was soemthing all of Alessa's staff had seen many times. They knew to keep their mouths shut. Alessa's entire body ached now and she was sure she had a cracked rib. One eye was puffy and she had a pounding headache. Lucreetus would hide her away with excuses until the bruises healed. She prayed swiftly for sleep, but sleep eluded her until dawn barely krept over the edge of her windows. Illuminating just how dark her skin could get. She laid sore and aching as her last drips of tears had dried long ago. She was left in silence for her brain to continue to abuse her far worse than Lucreetus ever would.

There was a knock at her door. She hissed as she stood from the side of the bed. Breathing hurt and she could taste bile and blood. She definitely had a broken rib. Her head pounding harder than the impatient knocking at the door she moved to answer it slowly as it became louder still with insistance.

"Lady Alessa I will not have you lat-" the sentence was cut off as Torra stepped in the room and closed the door keping her back to the door staring in shock at thr young girl. She moved her hand behind her back and flicked the bolt latching the door shut. Alessa stood with her hands together in front of her looking to her feet trying not to move or show her face. Torra took a gently slow step forward and lifted a gloved hand moving Alessa's black hair from her face and lifting her chin to survey the damage.

Alessa met her gaze with one blacked eye and a busted lip. Her cheeks hot with embarrassment.

"Dear Gods....what has he done to you?" She whispered aloud.

[alixzandriapaige]

Grimcliff Court - Chapter Four

Summary: Prince Quinton of Grimcliff has watched misunderstood magic destroy his Kingdom for 24 long years. When he finally finds a Knight righteous enough to defy the kingdom for its own good, Quinton and his Knight, Alixzandria, must trick the king and save the world from the nightmarish monsters Grimcliff Court has created.

Words: 3.1k

Alixzandria is bewildered and entirely out of her element; she eyes Sloan for guidance. 

Sloan nods his head so vigorously that for one demented second, Alixzandria worries he might suffer a fate similar to that of the recently defeated lich.

“Thank you for the honor, Sir,” She bows awkwardly, her knees trembling slightly in her small platform heels.

“You’d thank me for the honor of a dance, when you just granted me and my men our lives?” He asks, the glistening intelligent wit of his sapphire eye peeking from between his chestnut curls.

“Perhaps we both have something to be thankful for, then,” She amended, careful to choose the correct words in the face of royalty. 

It is normal for her to feel the warmth of blood upon her skin and clothes, but she suddenly feels self-conscious under the scrutiny and tries to kick away the stained part of her dress so that it is hidden behind her.

He holds out his hand for her to grab. 

She hesitates, having never danced before. She throws a quick glance to the dozens of people high in the stands watching them, frowning down at the inappropriateness of it all. 

Prince Quinton clears his throat, calling her attention back to him. There he stands, tall and serious, eyes dancing with mystery as he looks at her. 

He extends his hand another inch. 

She breathes in heavily, takes his hand, and is suddenly whisked away with his experienced footing. 

Her soul takes a moment to catch back up with her body. She stumbles more than once, but with immense concentration she is able to understand the moderately-simple footing. She follows along now, delayed only a second so that the dance is awkward but not impossible.

“You don’t dance much?” He asks her, glancing at the lace glove decorating her hand, still sprinkled in blood. 

He follows along the surface of her arm until he met her face. There he finds a delicate blend of endearing flushed cheeks, dark furrowed brows, and determined almond eyes boring right into his. 

Quinton finds it strange but delightful to hold something in his hands that is not the dead leather of a book. He presses his hand tighter against her waist and is delighted at the warmth.

“No sir, I have no need for it in my life,” She reports, calculating when she will be able to make her escape. 

He raises a contrary eyebrow. 

“And yet, here you are, dancing,” He responds.

She nods, glancing down at their feet to make sure she has it right, waiting to respond until their eyes are focused on each other. They experience a shock of unexpected familiarity in each other’s arms. 

“Surely you must understand how tonight is a bit of an outlier for me. Truly I suspect this will be the first and last dance I ever attend.”

He dazzles her with a smile, exposing her to a challenging and somewhat pretentious appearance. 

“What do you spend all your time on that keeps you away from dancing?” He asks. 

“Training,” She responds, indignant. “As I’m sure is very clear, my goal is to become a Blessed Knight,” Alixzandria proclaims.

Or, perhaps ‘was’ is a better phrasing, She thinks.

The light in her eyes and the determined set of her face strangely appeals to him, but her words do not. He had heard this a million times, saw the waste of millions of Knights, and knew the whole system to be flawed. 

After all, his entire life’s mission was the destruction of this very system.

“What is it you seek, gold or glory?” His words were dismissive. 

“Perhaps you want the safety of a connection with the royal family. Well, I tell you, that won’t get you far,” He offers with a sardonic chuckle. 

Alixzandria braces herself against the Prince; he had spared her life so she will hold her tongue against his dismissiveness.

“I do not seek a connection, nor gold, nor glory,” She offers back, her indifferent eyes stunning Quinton. 

He raises a brow at her. 

“Notice I asked what you seek, not what you do not.” 

His face is still solemn but his eyes are ablaze with curiosity.

Alixzandria loses herself within them for a moment, but then pulls herself out with pure will. The effort exposes itself with a quick squeeze of her slender fingers around his. 

His eyes flick again to where they are connected. There is a quick bolt of strange emotion, then he returns to her gaze.

“I seek to help families find their way back to one another; I seek to help old women into their homes before the legions attack; I seek to help keep Grimcliff intact.”

He inspects her; her eyes shine with honesty and passion. 

He blinks his intelligent eyes, inspired for a quick moment, quickly assembling the pieces of a puzzle. This piece, hers, might finally conclude the portion of his life spent on waiting. Alixzandria could very well be his weapon to strike if she fit into the mold. 

He has tried to pursue this goal with others before, but their ambitions did not match. He was ambiguous enough to never be caught in pursuit of his goal, but the other candidates had never been willing to turn away from the current magic system or king. 

Alixzandria, however, was not attached to anyone in the Knight system but was still an excellent soldier; was evidently raised low enough (he drew this conclusion from her fashions and manner) to have nothing more than a basic sense of devotion to the king, and if to the king, then surely to his son, as well; she was currently seeking a master, though he would never honor that. She seemed capable of his needs. There were a few more things he needs to check, but one more important than the rest. 

He needs to know where her loyalties lie. If they could be with him, he would have found his champion.

“You’d die for Grimcliff?” He continues, looking for a weakness in her.

She stares at him as though the answer was obvious.

“I intend to.”

Her frame in his arms is firm, awkward in its movement, whereas his movement was fluid and natural, and yet they danced nearly perfectly in sync. 

He watched her feet move, feeling the energy flow between them. There was an undeniable connection, a familiarity between them that neither could explain. Perhaps he would have to search his arcane books for evidence of fate. 

Facing the matter at hand, though, he decides his path. He would push forward with his self-appointed destiny, declaring her as his sword - her bravery, instinct, skill, and ability to unlock the magics of his grandfathers was enough to recommend her.

“If you could still do that, protect Grimcliff and its people, but in the name of another goal, would you consider it?” He asks her.

She is clever to be cautious. She holds her tongue longer than she should have, guards her expressions.

“I know when I am being propositioned, Your Highness,” Is all she would offer back. 

Of course, he thinks, she is letting me lay my cards on the table before she offers up any of hers. 

He holds her away from him. She executes a stiff twirl then returns to her proper place beside him.

She waits with bated breath, wondering if her impulsive slaughter had impressed the unorthodox prince. However, if he does not approve of the Master and Knight system, what could he possibly need from her?

“I seek a goal that differs from my father. Where he continues on a path that I predict will lead Grimcliff to its damnation, I intend to save it,” He concludes. 

Alixzandria is shocked; her mouth is slightly ajar and her chocolate eyes widen. She quickly glances around her, once again taking in the stiff, displeased audience that watches them and takes a miniscule step closer to the Prince. 

“You may be safe from the consequences of Treason, Your Highness, but I certainly am not,” She whispers at him, her body growing more rigid in his arms.

He shakes his head vehemently. 

“Not treason, I wish my father no harm, and none shall come to him. I seek to leave,” He finally admits. 

He is unsure at that moment whether to feel liberated by the weight that lifts off of him, or damned by his confession.

Once again her face is shocked. As he looks down at her, he notices that he likes the way her full raspberry lips pulled apart as though her body acted of its own accord.

“You’re easy to read. Not a becoming trait for a soldier, but I like honest people,” He admits, surprising them both. 

This is an extremely dangerous conversation to be having, and truthfully she doesn’t know what is keeping her rooted to that spot, a prisoner to that conversation, but she suspected that it was more than just the responsibility she felt to hear him out; it had something to do with the magnetism of Prince Quinton’s gaze on her face and the pull of his hand against hers.

She blinks away the shock and forces her mouth shut, apparently resolved to show nothing more than necessary in her reactions. Her body vibrates in warning, urging her to run away from this conversation, but she recognizes that was just the self-preservation talking. 

“Where do you intend to go?” She asks, a fresh flush against her cheeks.

“Some secrets are best to keep until you agree to join me.” 

That’s right, he thought, I’ll keep a few of these cards close. It is time for you to offer some of yours.

Alixzandria knows that she is crazy to even consider it. 

“Will your father know about your journey?” Her voice is quieter than before, barely audible.

He shakes his head once.

“This seems infinitely riskier for me than for you,” She whispers at him, thinking of the wrath of a King who has had his son stolen from him.

Prince Quinton rolls his eyes, offering a light chuckle as he spins Alixzandria. 

The sound draws her gaze, the distraction causing her to stumble slightly, but he pulls her safely against his chest while she collects herself. 

“Do you think so? I am headed out into the wilderness with nothing but my books and relics, and you of course, but my point is that you are a trained soldier,” Alixzandria considers how true that was, “and I am nothing of the sort. Does that not make this more dangerous for me, then?”

She frowns. 

“I’ll keep you alive, your safety is no issue,” She begins, his eyes lighting up with the promise. 

She catches this and backtracked. “If I agree!” 

He nods once, understanding that this was all conditional. 

“So if we factor that in, that you will get where you intend to go and back again safely, that means that, once again, this journey is more dangerous for me. I’ll be an enemy of the Kingdom!”

Prince Quinton’s face is suddenly serious. 

“You’ll be saving the Kingdom.”

She mulls that over. Her personal sense of righteousness wins over her apprehension, deciding that if that fact is objectively true, if whatever cause the Prince has taken against his Father’s wishes, will save precious Grimcliff, that she would have no choice but to accept. 

“How?” Is all she could ask, questions swimming in her head.

“It is this very ceremony. It needs to be stopped.”

Alixzandria shakes her head and raises her brows as if to say please go on.

“The magic that they use, they don’t realize how dangerous it is. I have spent my life studying it, locked away in the library learning its history and secrets. The system that we have now, that my Father refuses to stray from, will damn us all.” 

He speaks with conviction, but it isn’t enough to convince Alixzandria to walk away from her dream and potentially betray her King.

“I need more,” She says with meaning. 

She is already upon death’s door, what else is there to fear. She may as well cross all the lines. 

“The magic system of the Royals, I don’t even know it.” 

What is left unspoken was that her ignorance is for good reason; she is forbidden to know it unless she is invited to become part of it.

Prince Quinton sighs heavily. 

“They are fools, here. They believe the magic is in their blood, which is true, but they believe that the more they pour, the more powerful their magic will be. They believe they have all the secrets unlocked and that there is no danger to be had,”

“I’ve seen as much to believe that to be true, as well.”

He shakes his head forcefully enough to wipe away the misinformation. 

“You don’t know any chemistry, do you?” He asks plainly.

Her eyes widen in shock. She leans closer to him, hissing across the distance from them.

“Alchemy! It is too dangerous for us to discuss that, let alone study it!” 

Of course, by “us” Alixzandria means the commoners of Grimcliff. The elite were left to their devices, and if they sought to study alchemy in the name of progressing modern magics, they were left to it.

He suspected her reaction and ignored it, holding her eyes to see if she would stay. She does.

He continues, hoping to get through to her - to get through to anyone. 

“It is not the amount of the blood that dictates the strength of the spell, but it is the alchemic elements inside of them,” He whispers back, dancing her along.

“Inside blood? Do you mean carbon? What were the others…?” Alixzandria thinks aloud, trying to remember any of the mysterious knowledge that she is forbidden to know.

She is following him along the path of forbidden topics. His eyes soften as they behold her. 

“Yes, exactly! In all of our blood there is carbon, oxygen, iron, nitrogen, and hydrogen. When extracted and purified, when the correct quantity is combined with the alchemic elements of certain herbs, certain liquids, under certain moons, something miraculous happens,” He explains.

He spins her in circles, the heat of her waist beckoning his hand to return to its place. He turned his attention to anything else - her face. The heart outline of her face, her determined jaw, the faint scars and knicks against her olive skin. It is by no means traditionally attractive, and yet Quinton found this part of her to be just as distracting. 

He wills himself to focus on her gaze; she is determined but distant as she follows along mentally. 

Her large brown eyes lock onto his, seeming to have understood something.

“Then, it is not just the royal families that can do magic?” She whispers against his skin, knowing that these words could damn her to a most immediate hanging.

“Clever observation, but not true. When the universe expanded those many billions of years ago, very few stars contained a mysterious, rare element. When those stars collapsed and exploded into new planets and organisms, only a few contained this element. That is what is inside the royal families, whatever it is. The combination of the elements of our blood, with the inclusion of this one as well, that is the combination that allows for the miracles of magic,” He spoke passionately, then at the very last moment he seemed so bitter. 

“You seem quite disappointed with these miracles,” She points out, drawing his attention back to her. 

“I can’t say that I don’t see why; what happened earlier,” She looks down to where blood stained her gown in remembrance, “It probably seemed brutal to you,” She begins but he interrupts.

“Don’t be patronizing,” He pouts at her.

Her face is slightly taken aback but innocent. She had been speaking freely, trying to keep up, trying to understand, not to patronize. 

He holds his tongue and tries to calm down.

She bows slightly in his hold as a form of apology.

“It was not my intention to be patronizing, sir. I only meant that the people of Grimcliff Commons see such sights daily; too often to be disappointed anymore. For you to still be so passionate about it, it must be a rare occasion.” She points out, waiting for information on this topic.

His eyes fall, sympathy for his people evident on his face. His mind was caught up in facts of history, the mystery of his blood, the disastrous sight he saw tonight…

“Does that happen often?” She continues. 

He blinks heavily to clear his thoughts then shakes his head lightly. 

“Not often.” He reports, finally getting to the true cause of Grimcliff’s damnation.

Her eyes flick away in thought, then back to him.

“The magic did not work right. It must be so easy to get it wrong. It was just a single drop of blood that was included in the ceremony; what could have caused so much trouble as to turn something as righteous as a Blessed Knight into one of the devil’s legion?”

He sighs, “There is but one magic system in place. A terrible one,” He mutters with discontent. “A system of trial-and-error. A system of thinking we know best and running rampant with ignorance.”

“What changed in the magic to make it into something so horrible?” She asks him, the curiosity beckoning her so close to him that her sweet breath fanned against his neck.

The heat scrambles his thoughts for a speedy moment. He clears his throat.

“I don’t think it is on purpose,” He concluded. “But as you saw it today, it can happen without anyone intending to, during the very same ceremony that creates Blessed Knights. What, then, would be the difference?”

Alixzandria’s face crinkles in thought. He watches her concentration, seeing her face alter with realization. 

“The elements in the blood, is it possible there are variations?” She asks, her breath against his face.

He nods, smiling at her quickness. “It’s possible, but no one knows.”

She squints at him. 

“You intend to find out,” She accuses. 

His mouth opens to say the words, but the silence of the band's discontinued music forbids him from speaking another word on the matter.

“Wait for me,” Is all he offers. 

Quinton takes a wary step away from Alixzandria. He bows stiffly while maintaining electric eye contact with her the entire time. 

She curtsies, head dizzy with thoughts. 

More than anything, she cannot stop thinking about his belief in her. Someone is finally willing to take a chance on her, and she could finally do her best to keep Grimcliff safe.

Prince Quinton turns away from her and returns to his high perch above the events, eyes careful not to meet hers. 

Alixzandria understands, and because of this, returns to Sloan wordlessly, tugging on his sleeve to indicate an early dismissal.

[kyndaris]

Sneak Peek

A sneak peek into the second chapter of my story. It’s been a couple years in the making but I hope all those that follow me will find it enjoyable. Or not.

--

Kiralt skimmed through the report one last time, a heavy scowl decorating his mien. Reaching the end, he rolled up the parchment and roughly shoved it back into his saddlebags. Two patrols lost in just as many days. What had seemed a simple reconnaissance mission had now taken on a direr tone. These were not simple bandits. At least, Kiralt did not think so. Yet the other possibility sent a chilling shiver down his spine. He had his suspicions. The Aethali that had been found in the north quarter was only the beginning, concluded Kiralt. If the beastman’s ramblings held even a grain of truth, it meant that disaster was spiralling towards Winchesa.

At first, they had questioned how the Aethali had managed to elude the guards stationed at the gate. The second mystery came from the beastman’s wounds. He had been all but dead when they had found him, sequestering the suspicious creature into the Wards.

Why had he accepted this commission, Kiralt quietly chided himself. Gods knew he had a comfortable and steady position as master-at-arms for the Ylsven branch of the Protectors. A glorified instructor, perhaps, for the recruits that flocked to join its cause but the pay was decent, he had his own quarters and a freshly minted badge of office. What else could he have asked for?

Alas, the thrill of danger, the promise of something greater, had beckoned. Kiralt should have known and yet he had cast a blind eye to the cravings that drove him. Even though he had abandoned the mercenary life, he knew a small part ardently hoped and wished like a constant whisper in the back of his mind. He had learned to ignore it. When that failed, Kiralt had found it effective to rationalise the few joys he found with the risk of a knife in the abdomen or contracts drying up after a bad run. The thought he would return to a similar lifestyle was laughable.

Yet here he was. The ‘Captain’s’ silver tongue had proven to be as sly and cunning as any serpent.

With a sharp kick, he urged his mettle bay mare on.

Alistair snorted at the command and pulled lightly on the reins. Absentmindedly, Kiralt leaned over to pat her gently on the neck, sensing that the sedate pace he had set only served to aggravate the fiery horse. He ducked under a branch as the road dipped and meandered through the King’s Wood.

“How curious. I believe I spy the lieutenant lost in the glorious memories of yester year,” said a voice, accompanied by the clops of hooves. Kiralt looked up and spied the beastwoman as she rode up on her black mettle bay mare. He gave her a wry grin as she came astride him. The horse nipped gently at Alistair, who huffed but allowed the familiarity. Snowboots, the beastwoman had named her own mettle bay, for the white socks that marked all four of its legs. “Divined any new information after the last twenty times you’ve gone through it?”

“Only that it’s added to my frustration,” replied Kiralt. “If I didn’t know the man, I would have thought he actually preferred vague non sequiturs.”

“Looks like someone has had their feathers ruffled,” observed the Aethali, her dark hazel eyes glinting with mirth. “The promotion not to your liking, sir?” She teased out the last word, placing special attention on the honorific.

Frowning, Kiralt said, “I’ll have you know that I never asked for the promotion, Kulori. I had never hoped to be an officer and I doubt a love for paperwork will suddenly flourish under the guiding hand of the ‘Captain.’”

“A valid reason,” said Kulori though she was fighting back a laugh. “Why be trapped behind a desk when there’s excitement to be found in the wilds. Oh come on Kir, you must be revelling in the power you’re holding over us.”

“Indeed corporal,” he drawled. Kulori flinched and the look on her face could only be described as mutinous. Kiralt bit back a snort as he chuckled quietly into one hand.

He had known Kulori for only a couple of years. She had been a reluctant sparring partner when he had first enlisted with the Protectors. She had managed to disarm him twice and cap out a knee before the day was through. Her injuries, however, had been far more severe and he had treated her to a drink out in the Jewel as an apology. The bruises could be seen for days, darkening her rich sienna dusting of fur.

“Aye, aye,” Kulori finally conceded.

“No jibes?” asked Kiralt as he managed to arch a brow.

Kulori flashed a wolfish smile before a deep furrow appeared on her forehead. “While I’m chomping at the bit for another go, what little you’ve told us is concerning. The Red Suns are nothing but thorough it comes to jobs. Last I heard, the bandit camps stationed from the outskirts of the Jewel to the Gladstone River had been swept clean. The smoke could be seen from miles.”

“We shouldn’t have lost those men.”

“Exactly, sir.”

“And it’s no secret that the Protectors are spread thin. What had once been the royal guard has evolved into a policing force for the entire kingdom,” added Kiralt. “Who do you think could be responsible?”

The beastwoman simply shook her head, “I wish I knew.”

Unsatisfied but unable to press further, Kiralt settled back into the saddle and allowed his mettle bay mare to set the pace, his gaze wandering to the forest paths he had known since he stood as tall as his father’s knee. Sunlight filtered through the thick canopy, bathing the leaves golden and refracting from the early morning dew. A rustle in the underbrush drew his attention. Tension hunched his shoulders forward and one hand crept to his blade.

Before he could cry out a warning to the men behind, a small creature leapt out before darting beneath the overhanging fronds of another fern, its fluffy tail the last to vanish into the surrounding shrubbery. His lips tugged upwards at the sight. Perhaps when his good days were behind him and he finally settled down with a family he could take his son and teach them how to hunt. Or perhaps abscond from city life altogether and take on the life of a ranger with the freedom it entailed.

The King’s Wood bordered the north of the Jewel, serving as a veritable hunting ground for the nobility as well as trackers. And while the aristocracy saw it as a game, it was a livelihood for those so blessed by Orthrox.

For Kiralt, the hunt was a test of skill. Often in his youth, he had ventured into the forest with his brother at his side and a bow slung across his back. Together they had brought down deer, trapped rabbits and collected what herbs mother had needed for her simple remedies.

Caught in his memories of the past, Kiralt did not notice when the burnished copper Aethali slip behind. He kept his focus on the mare beneath him and when she quickened into a canter, he was ready, freeing up a little of his tight control on the reins. The mare leapt forward, eager. Besides, rationalised Kiralt, they could not afford to wait any longer. For close to two bells, they had tarried in the King’s Wood, hoping that the ‘Rogue of Ylsven’ would join them.

As the trees began to thin and the gravel path, worn smooth by wagons and the thundering hooves of horses, disappeared into the rolling plains beyond the arched exit of canopies, Kiralt slowed Alistair to a brisk trot. Kulori rode up, flanked by two others. One was a hulking giant of a man. His skin was a dark tan and his scarred face was flanked by stringy strands of light brown. Just from a glance, it was clear he was from the Southern Bay. It was clear from a glance that this particular Protector was more familiar with the deck of a ship, though he rode his dappled stallion with ease.

The second was a grizzled beastman that had seen better days. What had once been black fur was now greying at the tips. A scar traced the Aethali’s down from his left eyebrow to his snout. He kept a tight hold on the reins of the feisty mare. From the distinctive head shape to the high tail, the Protector rode a kaendar, if Kiralt knew his horse breeds correctly.

Arnath and Nyris, respectively. Both had been mercenaries in the past and it showed in how they carried themselves to the way they gripped the pommel of their blades. Kiralt was no different. The mercenary guilds trained their men well. Since he had joined the Protectors, he had come to know the two quite well, oft times sharing a drink after a beat through the winding back alleys of the Jewel or a particularly dull watch at the city gates. When he had heard they had both been assigned to his squad, Kiralt had felt both a sense of trepidation and a flare of excitement.

“From there, it’s a straight road down to Bronstone,” said Kiralt, pointing towards the edge of the King’s Wood. “If memory serves, it’ll be at least two days ride.”

“Kulori was just telling us that we might be fighting off more than just bandits, sir,” said Arnath. Kiralt thought he could detect a hint of worry in the large man’s voice. “Do you suppose it could be the Movement?”

“A possibility,” dismissed Kiralt with a wave of his hand, injecting a confidence he did not feel into his voice. “We’ve lost two patrol teams in the area, that’s true. Recent reports, however, indicate that they’re in Berallgor, recruiting for the cause.”

Nyris grunted in agreement. “It’s a fool who would pick a fight with an armed squadron of Protectors. Ain’t that right, Dithe?”

“I wouldn’t put it past any brigands to attack a supply convoy out of necessity or risk a merchant escort,” answered Kiralt. “But I do acknowledge attacking a patrol would be highly irregular.”

Satisfied, Nyris turned to Arnath. “Just as I told ya, Arnath. For a great ol’ shifter, I’m surprised you’d be nervous.”

“Shove off Nyris. A family man like me should be worried. I’ve a wife and three kids to think about back home in Ylsven.”

As the beastman was about to retort, a different set of cadences overlayed their own soft tattoo of hooves. Kiralt pulled on the reins and held his fist out for silence. He looked over his shoulder, scanning the depths of the King’s Wood. The short banter between Nyris and Arnath ceased. Kulori reached for her unstrung bow that nestled just beneath the saddle. The remaining four members of the squad also tensed, reaching for their swords.

Minutes passed as a heavy atmosphere descended over the party. The beastman’s ears twitched at the slightest break and rustle. Finally, Kiralt caught a flash of familiar auburn hair, tied into a messy ponytail, amidst the fresh green buds of green. For a moment, fear seized his throat and he prepared for battle. The command was on his lips before he managed to spy a kaendar stallion racing through the abandoned paths of the King’s Wood, dodging past heavy pines. At last, both horse and rider were visible on the main road, slowing down to a trot.

Seated atop the midnight black creature was Lathin. From the leather coat that fluttered in the wind to the pair of braod swords strapped to the man’s back. With a grin, Kiralt called out a greeting. Chest puffed out, he brought the proud horse to heel even as it snorted heavily, invigorated from its gallop. Where once there had been an old cantankerous palomino the mercenary had kept for years was gone, in its place was a young gelding.

“What? No welcoming party?”

“I’m afraid you just missed it. We’re the only ones left after you spent the bells before dawn negotiating for your pay. I’m actually surprised you caught up with us so quickly,” retorted Kiralt. “We’d just finished the biscuits and wine.”

“A shame,” said Lathin. “I had so wanted to taste that delightful vintage you had hidden under your bed.” The smirk he had first sported now transformed into a frown of dismay. On any woman, it might have moved them to pity. Kiralt, however, had seen it far too many times.

“Perhaps next time,” replied Kiralt, arching an eyebrow. Amused contempt clearly visible for all to see.

He had always envied his friend’s simple charisma that oozed from the chiselled jaw to the high cheekbones. While Kiralt had always been known as the ‘Whirlwind,’ Lathin had been simply termed the ‘Rogue.’ It was an apt moniker even if Lathin had proven his inability to steal anything but the hearts women everywhere in the kingdom.

“Not even a little sip?” wheedled Lathin.

“If you’ve forgotten, we’re on patrol,” said Kiralt, digging his spurs into Alistair’s side. “I may occasionally play the drunk when I’m off-duty but I’m afraid when the ‘Captain’ personally assigns you command of a little soiree in the back-ends of the Kingdom, you’ll do it sober or by Trebessia’s grace, you’ll die trying.”

“Liar. You just want it all to yourself,” said Lathin with a knowing look.

Caught, Kiralt offered a sheepish grin as an apology. “I suppose you brought yourself a healthy dose of brandy for the trip.”

“Whiskey. But are you sure you have nothing hidden in those saddlebags of yours? You know, in case there’s cause for celebration?”

“Bitter herb poultices, if you’re interested,” interrupted Kulori, riding Snowboots between them. She cast Lathin a scathing look, steel grey eyes flashing. “We also have some distilled ethanol to serve as a disinfectant. Care for a taste?”

“I-I. Kulori—“

“Lieutenant,” said Kulori tersely. Despite his best efforts, Kulori pointedly ignored all of Lathin’s contrite overtures. “Shall I scout ahead?” Her tone was cool and she barely battered an eyelid when Kiralt finally gave his consent, glancing up at Lathin who desperately shook his head.

With a nod, she brushed forward on her mare without a backwards glance. As she passed, the mercenary flinched, his entire body tensing up as if he expected a blow. None came even as a palpable silence took hold. Finally, Lathin drudged up what little remained of his courage.

“She’s still mad, isn’t she?”

Kiralt grimly nodded. “After what you did the night before last? I’m afraid so, Lathin.”

“Durnham, strike me down. You know, she kicked me out of her quarters when I even brought her flowers. And a platter of the finest cuts from the Jolly Dwarf.”

“Give it time.” Kiralt shrugged. “Besides, the two of you are the only trackers we have. I would have preferred it if we rode with a small company of soldiers to this godsforsaken town but I’ll play the hand I’m dealt.”

“You know as well as the ‘Captain’ that sending out a search party would only bring unwanted attention,” chided Lathin. As they reached the edge of the King’s Wood, they ducked under a few low-lying boughs and emerged onto the rolling plains that the city state was infamous for. Known as the breadbasket of the Kingdom, it was home to the bustling metropolis that shared its name. Ylsven.

In the distance, Kiralt watched as Kulori crested a hill like a speck of shadow among the green. He had never been one to judge his friends but it was clear from the Aethali’s recount of the events that Lathin had hurt her deeply. The infidelity had cut something deep within the beastwoman. A small part, however, rejoiced though he gave it little voice.

He looked back over at Lathin and the beast he now commandeered. A question rose to the fore of his mind and begged to be asked. “What happened to Jyll?” he finally asked. “Granted, my memory may not be as sharp as it once was but I doubt she was a kaendar, let alone a gelding.”

Enthused by the change in topic, Lathin sat up in his saddle, his lips twisting into his patented debonair smirk as his eyes glinted. “Curious, Kir? This here is Varhn. Bough him off a horse merchant who couldn’t tell the difference between a bridle and a horse shoe. Let alone realise he had a kaendar on his hands.”

“I suppose you sold Jyll then?”

Lathin nodded. “The last time I was out on a mission for the Black Steels, she went down. For a moment, my heart was in my throat and I thought I’d lost her forever. Still, it was a nasty break but instead of putting her down, I’ve put her out to pasture. The old girl deserved at least that much.”

“At least she’ll be free from your corrupting influence,” said Kiralt.

“I resent that remark, Kir. I loved Jyll as much as my own mother.”

“You rode her like a possessed daemon. And I’ll bet Varhn here will be treated no different.” At his words, the young gelding snorted. Kiralt thought it sounded much like agreement and pitied the proud creature. “A kaendar’s wasted on you.”

“Ha,”Lathin growled playfully. “You just wait Kir. One of these days, I’ll prove you wrong.”

“Of course,” Kiralt said with mock deference. “Should we bet now or later?”

 ~

Tents were pitched as dusk has fallen. At first the hills had shone a vibrant gold. By the time the last one had been hammered into the soft mud, the hills seemed like misshapen purple lumps as the sun crossed beyond the western horizon. Kiralt had allowed the men to light a fire and even inside the small cramped tent he had claimed as his own, Kiralt’s mouth watered at the whiffs of roasted rabbit. A welcome surprise when Kulori had finished scouting the surrounding area with three rabbits in tow.

The fire also served a second purpose. Though spring had come to the breadbasket, the nights still held a chill. Wrapped up in a heavy fur cloak, Kiralt relished the warmth of the flames as they permeated through the thin canvas. As he unrolled his bedroll for the night, he could not help the intrusive thoughts of the morning creeping into his mind. What had been a lax afternoon on the plains of Ylsven, questioning villagers as they passed through small hamlets, presented itself in a new light.

Yes, they had seen the blue and gold of the Protector’s colours. No, there had not been word of any recent attacks in the region, bandits or otherwise. The only unusual wrinkle in their daily lives had been the two patrol parties passing through in quick succession.

Again, Kiralt found his thoughts circling the puzzle that had presented itself. The information they had pieced together made no sense. If the men were alive, why had they not sent word? Yet, if they were dead, why had no curious shepherd stumbled upon their bodies? He wished he could have accepted Lathin’s offer for a drink but the promise he had made to himself still held sway. The tremor in his hands had all but subsided though there had been many a day that did not go by without him craving one. Sobriety would have to see him through this particular obstacle.

For all he knew, the men had simply forgotten to report in. Why waste good ink and parchment to send a missive? He had done it a few times back during his mercenary days, especially on long expeditions where the tedious journey lulled them into a sense of security and boredom. Their clients had been furious but at the time, Kiralt had brushed off their concerns with a warm drink and a laugh.

But that had been then. The Vipers had not been beholden to a city state or a kingdom. If they had failed to return, clients would have cursed and grumbled on good coin going to waste before seeking out another company. The Protectors, however, were men of the realm, loyal and steadfast in their service to the Crown. He could only pray that the men were hale and hearty. Perhaps they were holed up in a tavern, enjoying a glass of the finest brandy.

Kiralt could only dream it would be so simple.

He was interrupted from his musings by the casual grumblings of his stomach. Pushing out of the tent, Kiralt found his way to the fire pit.

Keeping an eye on the rabbits was Nyris. The old Aethali looked up at his approach, stirring the pot a final time. Kiralt could feel his mouth salivating as the scintillating smell of broth wafted over.

“Smells good,” he said, wiping his hands on his sweaty tunic.

“Nearly ready,” grunted the beastman. “Give it a few more minutes, Dithe. Need to let it simmer.” Despite Nyris’s appearance, he was an excellent cook even as he grumbled over his assigned duty.

“I’ll take your word for it, Nyris.”  

“Kulori has a good eye. These rabbits are fat enough to be a good meal,” said Nyris. Leaning close, the beastman continued in a whisper, “And, between the both of us, that woman also has good taste. I raided her personal stores for a few spices. Adds just the right amount of kick. What would make it better is if we had a good vintage of red wine to go with it.”

“Alas,” agreed Kiralt with a grin.

With a friendly nod, Kiralt left the Aethali to tend to the fire. Instead, he negotiated the haphazard camp to the pinions where they had hitched the horses for the night. In the flickering flames of the fire, Alistair’s coat shone red. The mare snorted as he approached. She impatiently nudged at his arms as he drew level, snuffling at his hands for a cube of sugar or treat. With a smile on his face, Kiralt gently patted the mettle bay mare, cooing out platitudes. He brushed one hand down through her mane.

“Sorry Ali. No apples today,” he said. “You’ll just have to make do with the oats, like the others.”

Whether or not she understood, Alistair backed away, tossing her head as she did so and let out a sharp whinny of disappointment. Kiralt allowed a smirk to cross his features. He always did spoil her rotten. It was funny, now that he recalled their first meeting, that he had drawn his sword on the sweet animal. Fingers trembling with sweat cascading down his forehead, rendering him all but blind.

Out of the darkness, she had emerged. Back then she had been a young curious filly. To Kiralt, she had been a monster from the depths. Kiralt remembered Lathin laughing along with Adur. He had awkwardly followed suit once his nerves had calmed, trying to diminish his embarrassment and fear with mirth. That had been in his younger years when the mercenary life still had its appeal.

From there, he had come to trust in the horse and found enjoyment from both her greedy ways to her independent spirit. In turn, she had come to know his moods.

Two years after he had acquired her, they had become nigh inseparable partners. She had been with him through thick and thin. Kiralt would be hard pressed to envision another horse to replace Alistair.

He watched as the mare joined the others as they grazed. She took particular care around the unfamiliar kaendar gelding though it was clear that she accepted the young stallion into their midst. With a knowing smile, Kiralt left Alistair to her own devices and returned to camp, this time accompanied by the saddle bags he had removed.

As he negotiated his way back to his tent, Kiralt greeted all the Protectors he passed, from the fresh-faced sergeant Dresdin to Arnath. He knew all of them by name, even if he might not be able to place each face. The men assembled had been handpicked by the ‘Captain.’

“Dithe, over here,” called out an Aethali. Though he looked fairly young with burnished copper fur, Kiralt knew the beastman had seen his fair share of battle, stationed in the Southern Bay during the skirmish with the corsairs.

Kiralt hesitated for a brief second. Swiftly, he sifted through his memories for a name. He was certain the Aethali shared a name with one of Winchesa’s heroes of old. Finally, he acknowledged the beastman with a nod. “Rolad.”

“It’s Ragast,” the Protector corrected with a suffering sigh.

“That’s the one,” Kiralt said, quickly recovering and hoping to hide his error with a cocksure grin.

The Aethali refused to bite. Instead, Ragast seemed amused at his attempts. “Whether or not you have the head for names, I just wanted thought it might be best to bring up that your friend over there,” at this he nodded towards Lathin who was struggling with his solitary tent on the far side of camp, “tried to smuggle in some moonshine. He’s a mercenary so I gave him a bit of a pass. I did confiscate a bottle of the 1452 he had. Should have seen how he mouthed me off for that one.”

“Are you cracking it open for a drink later on?” asked Kiralt, a little curious.

There was a knowing smile on the beastman’s lips. “Think I’ll save it for a special occasion. Just tell him that if he had only been one to share I would not have thought twice about it. We’re all King’s men here.”

“I’ll be sure to tell him,” Kiralt said over his shoulder, a chuckle in his voice as he entered his tent, ducking under the flaps.  He threw the saddlebags atop his bedroll and as he was preparing for dinner, he heard the rustling of canvas. Lathin poked his auburn covered head through, a half-empty skin of wine in his hand. Cheeks flushed, he all but stumbled inside, ready to divulge the day’s woes.

[kickstarter-promotion]

Another Amazing Kickstarter (The Land of Elpoep, YA Fantasy (teen author) by Charles Areson —Kickstarter) has been published on http://crowdmonsters.com/new-kickstarters/the-land-of-elpoep-ya-fantasy-teen-author-by-charles-areson-kickstarter/

A NEW KICKSTARTER IS LAUNCHED:

This project is to see The Land of Elpoep published. Elpoep (people spelled backward) is complete and with beta readers but money is needed after for editing, and if possible a professionally designed cover and with illustrations. The current cover was put together by my dad (whose name this project is under since I’m under 18). 

Current cover

“The world is always different than it appears, Usually in more ways, than we could ever dream, or imagine, or learn about in a lifetime,” Terek

The Land of Elpoep is changing forever, and the only thing for certain is that nothing will ever be the same. Reus learns that all she had thought to be true was a lie as an old friend’s reappearance shakes her into action, realizing the fate of the world as she knows it is on her shoulders.

Now Reus and a small band of friends, old and new, must unite the people of Elpoep before all is lost. But how can the warrior Rarela and the farming Commona be united? The journey will be fraught with danger; the tension between the Rarela and Commona will only make it more challenging.

Can Reus fulfill her destiny to unite Elpoep and the people that live there? Will the trader in the castle be her undoing or will he be her ally in the time of need? Will loved ones die to leave her forever? Will her friends stay loyal, or will her plans, and the entire land of Elpoep, fall to the rising darkness?

Just Finished And Coming Soon! By Elizabeth Areson

Elpoep is in a world much like the middle ages technologically, but with people and creatures, you’re glad aren’t in our world. Elizabeth has a special wit and charm that you will love.  I would tell you more but I don’t want to give away any spoilers.  C. S. Areson

Where is the money going?

1. Kickstarter

2. Pay the editors (content, style, copy)

3. Pay for the rewards

4. Pay an illustrator

This is from the appendix of the book. A school assignment by Princess Reus after she has been restored, it seems, to her proper place but before her real adventure truly begins. 

A History of the Land of Elpoep

By its Princess for Lady Nifsara

Long ago the land of Elpoep was inhabited only by the Rarela. Though once they had a more central government it is believed that about three thousand years ago, they split into the five tribes they are today. It is though that the different tribes were centered on different powerful families but this is unknown for certain. The five tribes are the Iya, Yhi, Eif, Deia, and Roland tribes. They each live in different parts of the land and have different lifestyles.

The Iya tribe is the smallest tribe and most known for the Suzerain. The Suzerain is rather like a king but with a different means of passing down the throne. A Suzerain comes to power in one of two ways. Either he is the son of a Suzerain and after his father’s death having proved himself in battle, or he challenged the former Suzerain to a fight to the death and won. The Suzerain can only be a member of the Iya tribe meaning when a Suzerain marries his wife undergoes a ceremony to insure in children she bears will be considered members of the Iya tribe. Also, if a challenger to the throne emerges he must be a member of the Iya tribe. Another interesting fact is if a challenger to the Suzerain defeats him the victor must take the dead Suzerain’s wife as his sister. The Iya tribe lives mainly in the south-eastern corner of Elpoep

The Yhi clan is known for their ability with ships and fishing. They are the largest of all the tribes and this gives their leader much authority. Unlike the position of the Suzerain, the position of leader of the Yhi clan passes down from father to son. The Yhi clan lives along the western coast of Elpoep were they have several villages. The largest Yhi village is called the Warf and is considered the Yhi’s stronghold. They are the tribe most like us Commona, however, they also have a barbaric enjoyment of violence.

Very little is known about the Eif tribe. They live farther north than any other people in Elpoep. The Eif tribe is a completely nomadic people, living only in temporary tent-like dwellings. They are known as hunters of many northern monstrous beasts that live only at the foot of the Nowhere Mountains. Though they keep mostly to themselves they are known to be very observant of their environment. They are usually a head taller than most Rarela and deadly with a bow.

The Deia tribe is most known for their wonderful stonework and weavings. No one has seen a member of the Deia tribe for many years and according to some sources, they have died out. Whether this is true or not no one knows but in the days, they were common to be seen, the Deia were noted to be rather pale and usually bald. They were the original architects of both the Castle and Summer Castle; thought later repairs have been made by Commona. It is believed they lived somewhere in the Endworld Mountain at the southernmost tip of Elpoep.

The Roland tribe is the most hostile to outsiders, whether Rarela or Commona. They live only on Fire Island off Elpoep’s eastern shore next to the Forge. They are very well known for their metal-working skills. Their ways are not only a tribal secret but it is said that if any Roland tells an outsider the secret he will be cursed. It is reported that the Roland are most easily identified by the many scars on their body from various accidents with molten metal.

About a thousand years ago, the first Commona came to Elpoep. It is unknown where we came from because there is no life above the Nowhere Mountains, and no inhabited islands other than Fire Island to the east. Originally there were four main Commona cities that each claimed a portion of Elpoep. The four cities, often referred to as the patriarch cities, were always having many feuds. The four patriarch cities were Minstrel, Silliam, Touyal, and Pinedom. The many feuds were hurting the Commona, and finally after almost a hundred years of the cities fighting a movement to unite the cities started.

The revolution was led by my ancestor, King Commona. His true name was Emit and we call him the Great Ancestor. He was born a slave to a Commona in Minstrel. After a dear friend of his was sold to a man in another city Emit journeyed to be reunited with her. On his adventure across Elpoep, he made a deal with the Suzerain of the Rarela. The deal was that for their support in uniting the cities of the Commona he would put in place a system that would allow the Rarela to be their own nation.

After a war, lasting for only about three months, the cities successfully signed a treaty ending the fighting. Emit had a vote of the cities for king and out of all who voted only one was against him. He became king and married Queen Saffee, the same girl he strove to be reunited with when he first started on his quest. They had three children and the reign of King Emit, often called King Commona, is widely accepted as Elpoep’s golden age.

I am a direct descendant of King Commona through his eldest son Clarigan. There have been nineteen generations of kings since King Commona and I the twentieth generation of his descendants. Apart from the mysterious disappearance of Lady Reus, third daughter to King Gorri, over fifty years ago, and the Scandal of Sir Lamberkin’s five wives the royal family has managed to live without disgrace or secrets.

With one final thought, I conclude this paper. So much happened in the early days of Elpoep that attempting to remember it all gives one a headache. Very little of interest has happened in Elpoep for almost two hundred years. I can only say I hope something interesting happens in my lifetime. It would be a shame if such a wonderful land as ours was never remembered by the bards for anything but a land with nice scenery in places.

(imagine what it will be when professionally edited)Spoiler Alert: Yes Reus will be traveling to most of these places in her travels over the entire series. 

                                Chapter 1

                          The Day of Change

        Reus was a slave. That was common knowledge among the people of the Rarela tribe. As she tended the fire she thought about her past. When she was a small child the suzerain of the Rarela tribe and his hunting party had found her as a small, defenseless baby that had not even learned to speak yet. The suzerain, known to all as King Volf, had compassion on her and taken her home for his wife. The only reason King Volf had known her name was because of a golden neckless and pendent with an emblem on one side and the name Reus on the other.

King Volf had a son only a year older than Reus and for a short time King Volf allowed his wife to treat Reus as the daughter she didn’t have. However, when Reus was no more than seven, King Volf’s wife died suddenly. He became a harder man after that. He decided Reus would start acting like a slave, rather than a member of their family.

King Volf’s son was named Terek, after his great-great-grandfather. Terek was not a mean boy by any standards, at least when you really got to know him. He put on a tough face to make others think he was tough, but Reus knew he would be dead in a matter of seconds if he ever got in a real fight.

Terek tried to be strong. He would run long distances to build stamina. He lifted heave objects to gain muscle strength, and he spent as much time in the sun as he could to darken his already dark skin. But it was no help. Even though he was getting stronger; for the present, he was the weakest of all the boys his age.

Reus and Terek were as good as friends as there could be. They had much in common; they both were very good at sneaking up on people. They enjoyed taking walks in the woods, and they enjoyed reading. They were social outcasts, Terek because he was weaker than the other boys and Reus due to the fact she was a slave and an outsider.

Terek and Reus also had many differences. Reus was a fantastic swimmer, while Terek could barely swim. Terek was an astounding artist, but Reus could not even draw a straight line. Reus was tall, had long blond hair, sky blue eyes, light skin and always wore the same brown dress made of spare pieces of material. Terek was also tall but had short brown hair, dark brown eyes, a light brown skin that was not nearly as dark as he wanted it to be and wore a brown tunic with gray pants underneath. The same type of clothing his father wore, the clothing of the suzerain and his family.

They had both lived in the same log house for their whole lives, or at least most of their lives. A typical log house was 12 feet long by 14 feet wide. The walls were made of vertical log posts that were about 9 foot tall. The roof was made of thatched brush intertwined with living vines to help it blend in with the forest. A log house usably had one floor and a loft. On the ground floor of a log house, there was a large fireplace, a small cooking area, and one or two bunks in the wall under the stairs. The loft of a log house was the bedroom of the person who owned the house.

However, King Volf had a special log house. His log house was 17 feet by 19 feet, and the celling was 14 feet high. King Volf’s log house also had two lofts; one for him and one for Terek. Reus had a small room on the ground floor in the back corner of the house. King Volf also had a large table for guests to eat at.

Reus was sitting next to the fire place tending both the fire and a breakfast stew. The smell tempted her to eat some but even at ten Reus knew how things worked. She made the meals, but Terek and King Volf ate first. Only after she had cleaned up after their meal could she eat. This was fine with her. Slave or not, she was happy and well looked after.

King Volf was a good master, even if he had a nasty temper. He would get angry enough to through things and hit the table or walls. Yet, even so, he never hit Reus or Terek. He was hard on both expecting them to be the best at everything simply because how they did reflected back on him. She heard starring upstairs.

“Please let it be Terek,” she thought.

        On mornings were Terek woke first King Volf usually didn’t yell at him first thing after he woke up. When Volf didn’t yell at them first thing Reus and Terek had no trouble going off to do their own thing. However, when King Volf did wake first he would yell at Terek they both were given work to do for the rest of the day.

        She heard soft, light footsteps and knew them to be Terek’s. She smiled, he was still trying to be quite enough to sneak up on her. Terek had always said one day he would get the best of her and finally learn to appear out of nowhere like he claimed she could.

“Good morning,” she said not turning around.

Terek sighed, “Good morning.”

        She heard him pull out a chair and sit down. She heard him nosily tear a piece of bread off the loaf on the table. Carefully she took a couple of bowls and poured the stew into each one.  Hanging the ladle on its hook, Reus stood up and carried the bowls to the table.

“Looks good,” said Terek putting his finger in his bowl then puling it out to lick it.

“Terek! You were not raised in a barn, don’t act like you were.”

He laughed, “You’re not my mother. In fact, I’m older.”

“Age does not guarantee intelligent,” She said crossing her arms.

They both smiled. Any other boy would never have been her friend. Any normal slave would have never dared to tease a free man or even a free boy for that matter. But they were different, they didn’t care what people thought. Volf soon came down and ate breakfast, he didn’t pay them much attention and they soon were given permission to leave.

Lord Ares was still visiting with his three sons so Reus and Terek decided to take a walk in the woods instead of getting in another fight. The sons of Lord Ares were called the Ares Brothers, and they were also so of the biggest jerks Reus had ever meat. They walked along not really caring where they ended up, just enjoying the time without other people around to bother them.

 “Terek, I don’t think we should be heading this way,” Reus said to her best friend.

 “Why?” asked eleven-year-old Terek turning to look at her.

“Because there is a path up ahead and it was not made by any Rarela that I’ve ever seen,” Reus told him nervously.

“Why do you say that?” questioned Terek.

“Because that path was made by wagon wheels, and last time I checked all Rarela walk everywhere,” Reus explained.

“O come on; what could it hurt to see what is up  ahead?” Terek argued, crossing his arms as he always did when he was disagreeing with her.

“A lot if we are killed by some Commona,” Reus continued trying to look him in the eyes

 “You worry too much! What is the worst that could happen; we find some hidden castle out here?”  Terek said as he turned and walked onto the path.

Terek suddenly gasped.

“What?” asked Reus as she stepped on the path and suddenly saw what had shocked him.

        Up ahead was a hidden Commona castle. It was small for a castle probably only two stories tall; it had no towers or large stone walls, only the castle. The design of the castle made it look like a manor, but the type of stone work and the bared windows made it clear that this was for royalty. The castle had a large wooden gate and lots of small windows.

“Do you see that?” Reus asked Terek with disbelief.

“Yeah, a really, big castle that’s probably filled with lots of solders ready to kill trespassers,” said Terek sarcastically. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Wait”

“Are you crazy? Why would we want to hang around this place?” Terek practically yelled.

“Look at the emblem above the door,” Reus said as if she were in a trance.

“It’s a big circle with some funny looking birds whose wings are touching.”

“Terek, look at my pendant,” Reus said referring to her necklace.

“Its’s a small circle with some funny looking birds who’s wings are touching,” after he said that it only took him a minuet for it to dawn on him. “O no. No. No. No! We are not going to knock on that door and ask them, ‘excuse me did you lose a baby in the woods about ten years ago?’ that would be asking for them to execute us for trespassing!”

“Terek…”

“Please Reus, don’t ask me to. You know I can’t tell you no,” Terek pleaded.

“Terek you know that my pendant is the only clue I have to who I am. We have got to see if they know anything about it; who knows if might be my family crest. And maybe I might have family that lives there. Wouldn’t you love to meet my family?” Reus implored Terek.

“If you have family that lives there I would like to meet them. But you probably don’t, and even if you did they wouldn’t like me,” Terek reasoned.

“Please.”

“No way in Elpoep, am I going to let you knock on the door of a castle filled with solders,” Terek declared.

“You have no proof that there are solders in there. And even if there are you will not stop me!” Reus proclaimed as she began walking toward the castle.

“Reus!!!!”

Reus looked back for a moment and said, “You can’t stop me.”

“Then I guess I’ll go with you,” Terek said walking towards her. “But it’s not my fault if we get killed.”

“Ok then. Let’s go,” Reus said joyfully.

“If you insist.”

  Bookmarks

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[clubofinfo]

Expert: You Consume Fear: Then You are What you Eat! Endless ignorance, presaged by fear, hate, suspicion, paranoia, misanthropy, and then all galvanized to the constructions of neutering culture of consumerism. Fear for the typical American — one paycheck short on the rent, fines, threats of eviction, on the streets or in the car. America!  Fear of the mortgage floating into some variable interest rate hell. Fear of not having, not choosing, not getting. For Americans, possessing is the power they think they have wrested from the faulty system of governing and management. Anything, but especially a car/SUV/pick-up/boat/RV/motorcycle. When a country is run by con men and con women (Epipen, male CEOs, female, CEOs – criminal minds, steal hearts) set on a course toward oblivion, contextualized by the greed of the arms dealers (almost all of America is in the business of war, crime fighting, prison management, selling invasions and propping up lunacy of resource stealing, all facilitated by arms – you name it, Burger King or Halliburton, Blackwater or Booz Allen Hamilton) and ramified by the insanity of the majority – 80 plus percent of us – being screwed by the uber rich, the elite managing their trillions, and the sycophants and little Eichmann’s toeing the controllers’ line, well, then that country – USA/USIsrael — is nothing more than a jumble of disenfranchisement, a circus of penalties, perversions, pornography at all levels. In a blink of an eye and giga-second of a download, these companies, shareholders, families, offshoots, handlers, the entire ranch, they are criminals, mass murderers, felons, tax cheats, family and country wreckers, and come on, liberals, demons with no demons in the world to match (making Charles Manson look sane, these hyper millionaires and billionaires). The insanity is we don’t just overthrow them – the Betsy DeVos kinds of the world, his Eric Prince murder mafia brother, heads of all those corporations, those insurance companies, and law (sic) firms. Off with their heads, now, don’t you know, from Trump and Clan, Obama and Clan, Clintons, all of them. But, we are a strange fruit hanging, now are we not? We plug bullets and shrapnel into wedding parties, children and babies in bassinets, and facilitate cholera genocide, and we blow up mountains and denature rivers and entire swaths of the only places humanity can live, but, we just let these DNA anomalies of the royal and National Security kind go, go, go, and gawk at their tabloid adventures with Rolls Royces, Rolexes and Rotten hate against us, the 80 percent! Oh, the lacking white/Caucasian race, oh where oh where has the pineal gland gone? The pineal gland is responsible for the production of melatonin, a hormone that is secreted in response to darkness, and is also the site in the brain where the highest levels of Serotonin can be found (Sun et al, 2001). In the pineal, 5-HT (Serotonin) concentration displays a remarkable diurnal pattern, with day levels much higher than night levels. Serotonin plays an important role in sleep, perception, memory, cardiovascular activity, respiratory activity, motor output, sensory and neuroendocrine function. Racial differences have been noted in the rate of pineal calcification as seen in plain skull radiographs. In Caucasians, calcified pineal is visualized in about 50% of adult skull radiographs after the age of 40 years); other scholars argue that Caucasians, in general, may have rates of pineal gland calcification as high as ¬60-80% Murphy (1968) reported a radiological pineal calcification rate of 2% from Uganda, while Daramola and Olowu (1972) in Lagos, Nigeria found a rate of 5%. Who Is the Ultimate Terrorist? The Cancer on Humanity! You can believe that the white race with its ravaging Western Medicine, Western Toxicity , Western Diet, Western Mores, Western Business, Western Education, Western Diseases, Western Superstitions, Western Racism, and Western Capitalism is really the cancer on earth, if we were to really look hard at history, numbers, and the rapine and destruction the White Race (sic) has had on humanity! Susan Sontag: If America is the culmination of Western white civilization, as everyone from the Left to the Right declares, then there must be something terribly wrong with Western white civilization. This is a painful truth; few of us want to go that far. … The truth is that Mozart, Pascal, Boolean algebra, Shakespeare, parliamentary government, baroque churches, Newton, the emancipation of women, Kant, Marx, Balanchine ballets, et al., don’t redeem what this particular civilization has wrought upon the world. The white race is the cancer of human history; it is the white race and it alone—its ideologies and inventions—which eradicates autonomous civilizations wherever it spreads, which has upset the ecological balance of the planet, which now threatens the very existence of life itself. You can see the devolutions on so many levels, in so many camps in this society: Here’s just one — glyphosate hooked to every molecule in the recipes for bread, pasta, all the shit in the food stores that announce instant gratification, from Cheese Nips to Red Baron Pizza, and in poultry and any other tortured animal raised for human gluttony. Imagine this experiment legitimized and protected by the US government and hack scientists and academics protecting Monsanto and the hundreds of other purveyors of cancer who have a pass to destroy fetuses and geriatrics and anyone in between. Just with the morphing of fetuses and then the continual hormonal-gut-mental disruption the intake of so much Round-up and nanoparticles, we are a doomed species way before climate change does justice to our withering species. Here, just a tip of the iceberg for personal care products causing cancer — Make-Up, Die-Up! Ripping up Our Children’s Guts Second-by-Second — Monsanto, et al The great big Joseph Mengele experiment to the 10th power, across all threads of this wasteland culture. This Monsanto and glyphosate. Celiac disease, and, more generally, gluten intolerance, is a growing problem worldwide, but especially in North America and Europe, where an estimated 5% of the population now suffers from it. Symptoms include nausea, diarrhea, skin rashes, macrocytic anemia and depression. It is a multifactorial disease associated with numerous nutritional deficiencies as well as reproductive issues and increased risk to thyroid disease, kidney failure and cancer. Here, we propose that glyphosate, the active ingredient in the herbicide, Roundup®, is the most important causal factor in this epidemic. This is the age of more than just being stupid, or the century of the dumb. It is more than see, hear and speak no evil. Much more mitigated toward an ever expanding and multivariate insanity, in both the collective culture of the damned – us, the 80 percent, mostly wage slaves, working the plantations of the elite and their stinky bosses – and the individual so denuded of honor and rebellion, so stripped of tribal and sane roots, that daily, I see in every walk of life more and more reason to believe the white race is the living dead. Can we really square the experiments carried out by the elite and the controllers, on us, and with our complicity, since we are, in this country, especially the whites of Judaeo-Christian persuasion, the facilitators of our people’s slow, gruesome death? One out of three with diabetes. More than 60 percent of all deaths caused by the consumption of the Soylent Green these marketers and chemists have concocted for their own fellow citizens? The authors concluded that the ingestion of Roundup-contaminated feed could be a significant factor predisposing poultry to diseases caused by Clostridium botulinum. It could also explain the now widespread contamination of poultry products with pathogenic Salmonella and E. coli strains of bacteria, which can make human consumers ill. It is possible that glyphosate and Roundup’s negative impacts on gut bacteria could contribute to other toxic effects seen in animal and human epidemiological studies on these substances. In humans, disturbed gut bacteria is found in people with irritable bowel syndrome (IBS), diarrhea, and malnutrition, as well as in a subset of autistic people. It may play a role in multi-system organ failure and colon cancer.3 This is at the human level. Every child, mother, father, thief in high office, murderer on the boards of Fortune 500 companies; every peaceful, human person; every person of color, all of us, spat out like yesterday’s sour milk. So in every sense of the panic we come to daily – climate change, war, poverty, structural violence, murder, rape, Sixth Mass Extinction, desertification, the shackling of free speech, free thought, an alternative to the Shadow World of War and Murder, racism, Jim Crow 3.0, the power of billionaires with fourth grade retrograde thinking – how completely insane is this world of environmental pollutants and food commodity toxins? As all things boil down to the stomach and the alimentary canal, just imagine how quickly Homo Sapiens is not only morphing into a crippled species, but one with continuous disease, from fetus to grave: The human gut microbiota is a dynamic ecosystem formed by a pool of 400–1000 adherent and non-adherent bacterial species belonging mostly to two dominant phyla, the Firmicutes and the Bacteroidetes. Although the composition of an adult microbiota remains relatively stable, it is well known that the microbial diversity is acquired very early in life within the first hours post birth, and is shaped over time as the diet becomes more complex and the immune-system matures. Hence, the combination of multiple factors including genotype, mode of delivery, early antibiotic therapy, diet composition, lifestyle, social interactions and environmental exposure to various xenobiotics shape the gut microbiota to make every individual microbially unique. This is of importance because the gut microbiota fulfills many critical roles in essential host functions such as protection against pathogens, immune-system modulation, fermentation of non-digestible dietary fibers, anaerobic metabolism of peptides and proteins, interaction with the host’s circadian clock and biotransformation of xenobiotics. Such a complex symbiotic interaction is the result of a remarkable metabolic activity driven by a genetic pool whose size is a hundred times larger than the human one. Alterations of the microbiota composition (called dysbiosis) and/or optimal functions are associated with various prevalent metabolic and immune diseases, including obesity, inflammatory bowel disease, diabetes, hepatic diseases, Crohn’s disease, colorectal cancer and allergy. The truth is placated, in a 90-minute package, and surprisingly, this flick, “What the Health?” is compelling my friends and my charges (I am a social worker or young to adult foster youth) to rethink their Oscar Meyer, Cheetos and Ham, Bacon Encrusted Double Whopper lives. Imagine, information that was already available decades ago, and now, on that bastion of pabulum, Netflix, this documentary, not of the most sophisticated or dynamic kind. This film is broken from the beginning and in many ways just typically so stupid. It fucks up a lot of information, and, well, if it takes a film like What the Health to sway anyone, then my point is made – we are in an age of stupid and absurdity. There are enough studies and real examples of why eating processed flesh kills people, or how seafood with mercury and PCBs kill brain cells and nervous systems, or how all those billions of gallons of processed udder juice cause heart disease and plethora of other diseases. This sort of dumb-downing from yet another loser documentarian is the example after example I give that speaks to the humiliating nature of the human condition in the Western World. Diet and pollutants, hmm. Round-up in everything we eat. Hmm. But, as always, what about ecosystems, and the rights of wolves and wolverines and bats and beetles and creeks and prairies and watersheds to exist? Here’s a more forceful reason a movie like What the Health falls short-short, and this from a vegan nutritionist, Ginny Messina, Ahh, the paleo-devil, here, Robb Wolf, selling his brand of animal abuse and environmental shit — more BS stuff about man/woman evolving because of meat-meat-meat! Water, Land, Pollution, Ocean Dead Zones, Species Extinction – That’s the one-two-three-four-five punch of eating meat, Robb. And, the Zionist aggregator billionaires’ response to meat and the dying planet? Money, money, money, and more age of stupidity – laughing all the way to the bank of insanity: “Around 30 labs in the world are working to create cultured meat” Most scientists are focusing on one particular part of the problem,” says Genovese. For example, he’s working on creating the best, non-animal medium in which to grow the cells. The process of creating meat in a lab is a complex one. In the simplest of terms, the most common procedure begins with extracting stem cells from a live, adult animal. A growth serum (Post’s contains animal blood but future growth mediums will be animal-free) is then added to the cells, which are grown on a scaffolding (like a skeleton) to form a muscular structure. This muscle is often exercised to create a richer, tastier flesh. At Mark Post’s London tasting, both Hanni Rützler and Josh Schonwald noted the same thing was missing from the meat: fat. Post calls it a “technical bottleneck,” and it’s one of the next phases of research. “What we love about meat is the fat, that’s what makes it taste good,” says Ethan Brown, “but it’s also the least healthy part of the meat.” For people developing cultured meat, however, the goal is to get it as close to the “real” thing as possible, fat and all. “They’re going to get there,” Isha Datar, director of New Harvest says, “it’s just a question of when.” Post estimates that within 20 to 25 years, we could have a commercial product: lab-grown beef which is indistinguishable from that which comes from an animal, grown in a lab. Theoretically, one crop of stem cells could create a huge amount of meat, with no animals harmed, no grazing land needed, grown in a sterile environment. “This product would address all of the major concerns of large-scale farming today,” Datar says: environmental, health, and ethical. And founder of Google, Sergey Brin, is backing this bizarre stuff – and we know how great Google is — NOT! Fairy Tales and Lies — War is Peace, Lies are Truth, More is Less These are just a few of the examples of how broken-down humanity is – at its richest and most corrupt level is. You think maybe income inequity, wage and land theft, resource plundering, planet scrapping, war making, and shitty education are more important than some Okja Google backed bullshit T-cell homemade on an industrial level beef? See the review of the bizarre and sentimental but good movie, Okja, here at DV by Randy Shields. This is the age of hubris to the 100th power. An age of confusion, followed by rampant denial and delusion. Geo-engineer the ocean with iron shavings to create ocean choking algae blooms to soak up some CO2. Or how about the rocket ship and U-Haul Grapes of Wrath trip to Mars, because the billionaires and millionaires and militarists and chemists have fucked up the world? So, we can spend decades arguing the value of Capital in the planetary immolation. But the bottom line is species extinction, habitat destruction, cultural genocide, and structural violence/murder by the capitalists and their sycophants of every stripe have to be stopped with an entirely new way of thinking about our relationships with fellow humans and all non-humans on earth. De-industrializing and retrenchment and resilience and resuscitation of simpler but highly refined lives/lifestyles are our only hope of co-existence on a planet where we are the minority species. The Rights of Nature is the right of regular man, woman and child to live smart, small and connected lives. Tourists going to the moon, or cruise ships to mars, this is the height of stupidity. Disneyfication and Hollywoodfication of the mind. Like Mad Cow’s disease of the soul; ALS of the spirit. Read – And be ready to adapt! “Climate Crisis, the Deindustrialization Imperative and the Jobs vs. Environment Dilemma.” The truth comes back around to what we consume, what we see, what we choose to hold as art-culture-entertainment-knowledge. What I see more and more are the young people, sculpted by the amazingly zombie and empty Facebook, all the InstaGram, all of this stuff in the digital dungeons of our youth’s hearts. They are warped and unsteady and never ready for a big-time changing world. They don’t know how to rebel, how to challenge their parents, and they cannot understand any context outside their own rooms, their shitty places of work and the barrage of crap coming through their phones and in the racist games they play on line and in their Play Stations and XBoxes. All Thought in the West is Scripted by Ad Men and Movie-TV Makers The food they eat is tainted through and through, and the scripts and junk on/in TV-Movies are their only way to understanding nothing. This is the age of not knowing, and the age of misunderstanding, and one of missed opportunities. Here, John Steppling on TV-Hollywood: The truth was that you could see what you wanted to see in almost any script. But it served as a justification for ignorance. For none of these decision makers in Hollywood read. None of them. Big agents and producers, executives and show runners even, none of them read. They read script. They may have read a few required books in college, but they certainly don’t read now. I mention all this, and I’ve discussed a lot of it before, or aspects of it, because there has been a new intensification of the non-quality of narrative. Without wanting to sound cute, it is non story, non character, and non world. For they are interdependent. Marvell Comics and DC work so well for Hollywood because these are not real characters, they are comic book characters (once a pejorative observation). In a sense the *reveals* work best when the audience is only mildly surprised. To be hugely and genuinely surprised induces a kind of suspicion. Often a mild sense of paranoia. Having no surprise doesn’t work either. No surprise means its simply too predictable. Today’s audience expects and anticipates these reveals, but they don’t want to be ahead of the writer. Not completely anyway. They want the story to surprise them…a little. Or rather, to be more precise, they want characters who are not fully characters to surprise them by turning out to be someone else who is also not really a someone. They want the actual narrative to remain familiar. There has evolved a kind of cultural familiarity that is specific. It is the recognition of style cues and allusions to brand and trending vocabulary. The growth of brand mentions and allusions to pop culture has grown to the point where often entire conversations revolve around discussions of earlier TV shows. Often ones fifty years old. To mention Karate Kid again; a reference to Mr Miyagi has taken on all sorts of associations, but primarily as a tribal identifier. It is a white male under forty reference. An allusion to, say, Pretty Woman would elicit the expected nods of recognition from a mostly female white audience in their thirties. And so on, and on and on. To watch, say, an American film from the 1940s is to suddenly be dropped into a world of language and discourse that seems almost alien today. Hence the treatment of old films as kitsch. Always, as kitsch. As quaint. For today’s audience for the most part can’t *read* those films with any genuine engagement with character. You Can End Where You Wanted to But You Can Never Go Back to the Middle This post was supposed to start off with the haze over Portland, and these 106 degree temperatures. This endless traffic, and this giant migration from California (and other parts) to Portland and the encompassing three counties. As is true of all American cities, Portland is microcosm of why everything about Capitalism is wrong and why agnotology and willful ignorance rule the day. You see, those thousands of fires in Canada (anyone thinking maybe global warming — more understory, more rapid growth of fuels in forests, clear cuts, and, less moisture and hotter temperatures?) ended up in our local Health Department air advisory warnings — limit time outside, limit exercise, and the young, elderly and sick, please be very careful. Those heat island waves of 110 degrees, in a place with hundreds of thousands of homes with no air conditioning. Ground level ozone maxed out. The entire ranch sold down the river for the developers, and those endless nomad Americans with a few million in the bank, in the case of Californians, made through working for the war/aerospace/California brand industries, and then, with cold hard cash from a shit sale of a shitty house for a shit-load of greenbacks. This is a mass migration to the Pacific Northwest. Note the carrying capacity of a city like Portland is limited, but you’d never know it from the politicos and Chamber of Commerce, Movers and Shakers, and the other tax dodgers. According to the logistic growth model, the animal population growth can be constrained to an upper asymptote, i.e., the carrying capability, because the population increase leads to negative effects during interaction among the members, which is often manifested as a high density and the associated crowding effects. Another reason for the control of population growth is the limited world energy sources. For example, the unregulated growth of given animal populations, exceeding the carrying capability, will damage their habitats, deplete available energy supply, and eventually result in a reduced population density. By contrast, if a certain animal population density is controlled by predators, keeping it below the carrying capability, the available food for that species of animal becomes more sufficient and their capability to resist environmental fluctuations increases [21] (for details, see [22]). Ecological carrying capacity forms the basis for derivative concepts, such as human carrying capacity, tourism carrying capacity, Urban Carrying Capacity, and others. The insanity is we have no smart, real, dedicated and truthful urban and rural planners anywhere. I mean, do we have anyone in high office or in bureaucracies who understand we HAVE to manage population distribution, growth, consumption of resources, social constraints, and so much more to manage building and land use. We fucking do it intentionally or unintentionally with every other species on earth. We determine which mountain gets blasted, stripped of coal, deforested, bombed, or saved. That power is what is killing the planet. And our insanity — the drive to believe all capital is good and to believe Americans have the right to do and produce and sell and steal anything we deem necessary for our collective pursuit of happiness. So, fire, smoke, coughing Portlanders, and the youth I work with as a social worker, confused about climate change — I let them know it’s global warming and more importantly resource destruction and air-water-soil pollution. Add to the mix, first, war, and the attendant deprivations strategically planned and managed by the superpower and her allies like EU, Israel, Japan and Australia-UK-Canada. These young people are hobbled before conception, as foster youth in state custody for many variations on a theme — incapable, failing, or diseased parents/family situations. I know youth well, having taught since I was 23, at colleges, universities, alternative high schools, prisons, K12, special programs for youth with developmental disabilities, and with young people experiencing homelessness and addiction.  To name just a few venues out of many more. I know youth are looking to elders or adults to give them signs of alternative pathways of living. I know I am tapped daily as some sort of soothsayer, mentor, wisdom factory, and inspiration. I do not take these laurels lightly. Serious shit is hitting the fan for these youth in the arena of jobs (shitty and shittier ones coming down the pike), housing (there is NO housing sanity for individuals who want a decent one-bedroom place to call it his or her own), cost of living (no kid can afford to go to a movie, a museum, a concert, camping without a huge monetary outlay). Shit hitting the fan daily, as their bodies are malforming from the stress, the high fat-salt-sugar diets, the High Fructose Corn Syrup slurps, the pollution, the environmental toxins, the bio-accumulation of every chemical and compound not meant for ingestion by any mammal. Their choices to live and learn and be community-centered are almost extinct. Add to that the general ignorance of American society about almost ANYTHING other than prices and sports statistics, and we have a generation and one to come with as much backbone in the making as a squid (not to knock cephalopods). My work daily is pounding away at ignorance — with my clients, with the systems they live under, with educators, with the community leaders that hold sway over my youths’ destinies, and the general public which is head in sand or stiff arm saluting the fourth grader president. I warn the youth to arm themselves, now, with an arsenal — knowledge, debate skills, movie (video making), reading acumen, communitarianism, passion, no fear, and becoming stealth in their anti-authority selves. Work the system, screw no individual over and screw up and screw with all those layers of corporate malfeasance and government collusion. They need to strip themselves of the individualism that has been beaten into them, this false narrative of me-myself-and-I-and-maybe-a-family . . . but no one else comes first! The world is burning, or, As the World Burns is more like it, what do they do, and how can old codgers like myself help? Teach your young friends and family and students and kids on the street, that all corporations lie, and lie big with their PR firms, and all governments hide and lie, with the marching orders of the Corporations and their PR firms. Teach young people that there is an apocalypse of real dimensions on the horizon. Prepare them to march against the rich and the powerful. Hombres del Sur! Mejor morir a pie que vivir en rodillas. “Men of the South! It is better to die on your feet than to live on your knees!” –Emiliano Zapata (c. 1877-1919) http://clubof.info/