A Preeminent Truth.

“A preeminent Truth of this life is that we, the human race, are inherently interim residents of an existence that we presuppose obtains the utmost longevity, but is in fact just as temporary and finite as we are.”

“Our lives are paintings. Each a different style, a different color scheme, theme, angle....
Some vibrant, some dim, some edged, some faded, some realistic, some abstract, but all beautiful. Each with it's own voice, idea, and purpose in the grand collage of the Universe.”

“When you try and fix somethin’ that ain’t broke, you get every shade of screwed up.”

“Every minuscule, solitary second was fashioned to function as an inconceivably versatile piece of the foundation of time upon which innumerable events and happenstances are built, which, once they have occurred, and seen with an open, sensitive heart, reveal themselves as perfectly crafted parts of the machinery of life that guides and directs us, in exact synchronization, to the unfathomable wisdom of God.”

“No matter what race, what culture, when, where, or how, all of Mankind feels the same emotions; the same pain, the same heartbreak, the same love, the same hope.”

-----
Some things to mull over.
I wrote these little thoughts out at various times....

Wow.
I haven't posted anything in 4 months or so....

Time to remedy that.

What if everyone cared?

The world can be a horrible, terrible, awful place....
There are just some things that I can't believe have happened.
They're over now, yes, but that doesn't mean they can't happen again.
That doesn't mean they aren't happening right now...
...to someone else.
I pray that God would protect all that he can.
I pray that the world may become better; filled with a bit more hope and kindness and compassion.
Like that Nickelback song....
If everyone cared.
What if everyone cared?
The world would be so much better.
I can't believe the pathetic, cowardly, disgusting acts that mankind is capable of.
It sickens me to my very core.
...and these abhorrent things always happen to wonderful people (or children) who deserve every bit of good in this world.
I don't think anyone on this earth really completely grasps how much suffering and pain there is in the world. I am not excluding myself in any way....
...I'm just as guilty as anyone else.
The only thing I can do is believe, hope, and try my hardest to make the world a better place.
It's just such an intimidating task....
Why must we be so corruptible?
Why must we destroy ourselves and our loved ones; our fellow man?
It doesn't make sense.
It will, though. One day.
God will show everyone exactly how the world is, how it works- how it's supposed to work.
I am so glad that I can count myself among the ones who know the truth; who know what it is to be saved and enlightened and comforted.
This world is a cold, dark place; but it doesn't have to be.
Why can't we allow the light and warmth that's in every single human soul to show?
Why do we have to act so...
...evil?
I know the good in the world isn't completely gone yet; there are so many good things still around. I just know that it won't get better anytime soon. The world is in a downward spiral that cannot be repaired until that final day.
Frankly, I can't see how God could even remotely think about the world and mankind without being repulsed. But, you know, that shows how good He is. We're sick. Mankind is sick...
...we have fallen so far from what we should have been.
It will be righted- one day.
I'll be happy when that day comes.
When death, suffering, anger, greed, and every single destructive, negative, despicable thing that brings us down is scorched away by God's fury.
We did this to ourselves. We are accountable.
I welcome the day when the world is corrected, when everything is how it should have been.
Hopefully, it will come soon- for the sakes of all those who suffer, and for those who wish the world was better.
Oh, the things we could accomplish; if everyone cared.

A Merry Chase.

A huntsman is running down a deer with a spear and a bow. He has a boot knife as well. The deer leads the huntsman a "merry chase" through the woodland. A bear emerges unexpectedly, either drawn to the noise, or by the smell of blood? Depends on if the deer is killed or not.

Dark and gritty atmosphere.

Man kills bear? Bear kills man?

What does this story represent?

..........
Work in progress.....

The Wolf.

Three part series.
Short stories.
1. Hunting of the Wolf
2. Duty of the Wolf
3. Death Song of the Wolf

1. Neophyte must hunt a snow wolf and kill it with his hunting knife. Skin it, bring back the pelt. Ascend to the station of Templar.
2. Templar goes out on a mission. Slays beasts and saves a castle.
3. High Templar dies in battle while singing the battle song of his order.

---------
Work in progress.....

A Frosty Encounter.

------
Work in progress....

Silent As The Grave.

"Open it", boomed the knight.

"But, lord, I cannot", the gravekeeper squeaked, "it is unthinkable. I could be burned at the stake for such heresy."

"Do not", intoned the knight dangerously, "I am a knight of Leichtengart, and as such, my word is law. Open it."

..........
An unnatural shriek of unimaginable fury pierced the sepulchral silence of the chamber, resounding off the walls in a deafening cacaphony ripped from the throat of something horrifyingly inhuman.

-----
Work in progress....

A Song Inside Of My Soul.

There is a song inside of my soul
An anthem that God hath wrought
The tune to which the spheres deftly waltz
Music that sets my soul right
No other melody will compare
To God's hymn of love and might
Seas undulate to the rise and fall
Of chords that shine with God's light
Mountains voice their rumbling timbre
In harmony with the night
Angels soaring, twirling, wings afire
Heaven singing out, as bright
As the sun, when God first made it shine
My soul hums along; whole, white
Keeping the tune, living the way God
meant, 'til the day I alight

---------------
I was listening to Switchfoot this morning and this just jumped on me....
So, here it is.
Repeating 9-7 syllable count.
A-B-C-B-D-B-E-B-F-B-G-B-H-B-I-B rhyming scheme.

Blueberry, Why?

Sometimes I wonder
Why, why, why
The world is a blueberry
Yet, is not sweet

-------
Yep....

A Shadow On The Wall.

Phantom man
Life but a shadow on the wall
No sight, no feeling

Hollow man
Dark and brooding, imprisoned
Life, not worth living

Sorrow man
Lost to love, despairing soul
No solace to find

-------
I wrote this about someone....
Hopefully, things will get better for him.
Prayers would be nice. =)

Life Given.

How much life wasted
Never regained, lost always
Meant for so much more
Twisted pathways, lead us on
Plowing through the sea
Emotion, thought, tempest tossed
Veiled to mind and soul
Live for a part, remember
Time, with greed, consumes
Find that with meaning
Embrace it with cheer and joy
Know, 'fore you go, love
This little time, life given

--------
Started out as a 5-7-5 haiku, but I just couldn't stop....
I suppose that's a good thing. =)

Beyond The Wood Eternal.

The Forest Glade
Undisturbed
Whispering leaves
Green, alive
Gnarled bodies
Creeping sap
Beautiful, all
Full of Life
Secluded, deep
Never to see
Beyond the Wood
Eternal

----------
Nature poem!
Woo!

What You've Known.

Eyes lead you astray, ne'er-do-well
Things are shown, meant not to own
Live for now, today, heart to swell
How you've grown, each other's own
Love to love
Give to give
Hold on to what you've known

Sith Lords can have southern accents too....

Darth Brooks! The most evil country singer in the galaxy!

I got this from a friend's facebook album, he altered the picture in photoshop. You'll probably have to log in to see it; even then you may not be able to get to it, but hey, I linked it. Give credit where credit is due.

It rocks my socks.
'Nough said.

Joe the Jack and the number 121.

This is just a post about the significance of my blog's url.

Basically, it's an allusion to the character Joe Gargery in Charles Dickens' novel 'Great Expectations', to the nickname that my girlfriend calls me from time to time, and to the number that keeps appearing in anything that has to do with me and my girlfriend.

I've always dreamed of being a blacksmith, or metal worker of some sort. I guess you could say it's my "fantasy job". I've always had an attraction to the craft of smithing, and to any tales or stories relating to it. Actually, I'm interested in practically every scrap of information I can get my hands on. It's kind of a romanticized subject for me. There's just something about it. Maybe the fact that my last name is 'Smith' could have something to do with it. Anyway, the point of all of that is this: in the book 'Great Expectations', Joe Gargery is a blacksmith; as well as a kind, honorable, and humble individual of fine moral character. In high school, when my english class was given the assignment to read the book, everyone, including my girlfriend AND the teacher, said that I was just like Joe Gargery. I took that as a very nice compliment, although I seriously doubt that I could ever be as upstanding and moral as Joe. The point is, my girlfriend and a few others called me Joe as a joke.

(A funny little anecdote: I called my girlfriend Biddy, Joe's second wife. Biddy is a wonderful person, just like Joe, and is also a teacher, my girlfriend's fantasy job.)

My girlfriend is not very patient; so, when she says my name (Tay-lor), it comes out a bit too slowly. Apparently, two syllables isn't fast enough. So, she started to call me Jack, a nice, one syllable name (that is actually pretty cool). That's where 'Joe the Jack' comes in.

The number 121 seems to appear everywhere that me and my girlfriend look. She lost a game of tetris on line 121. We both scored 121 on a 'How romantic are you?' quiz type deal thing. Um. There are a few others, but I can't think of them....
Anyway, it's kinda of creepy. The number just keeps showing up....

So, yeah.
Joe-the-Jack-121.

Cause and Effect.

Every cause is followed by an effect. Every action is followed by a reaction. Those effects and reactions then become causes themselves and the whole process starts over again, much like a never-ending game of ‘tag’. Our lives are essentially the combined experience of everything we have ever done or been affected by. My life, although relatively short so far, has been affected by teachers of all sorts who have shown me the true value of learning and pursuing knowledge. This awakened love of learning, combined with an innate affinity for reading and writing, words and language, became a major influence on my personal interests and academic pursuits; an influence that will affect me for the rest of my life.

The accumulation of knowledge is paramount to a mind possessing a passionate love of learning, and what better place is there to find something you want to know than in a book? Reading has always been a thoroughly enjoyed pastime for me, sparing me from many hours of boredom and flooding my mind with many thoughts and ideas. I would even read the dictionary from time to time just to see all the different words. From Tolkien to Faulkner, Hemingway to Camus, Dostoyevsky to Hawthorne, I have been immersed in a world of literature throughout my time in school, and I have loved every second of it. I have always felt that books are an amazing invention, capable of influencing every emotion you could possible feel, as well as instigating thoughtful contemplation of every facet of life. This love of the written word, caused by my pursuit of knowledge, led me to another of my passions.

Amazed and entertained for hours on end by the eloquence and skilled story-telling of authors when reading prose; and moved by the emotion, grace, and beauty of poetry, I began to practice my own hand at the literary humanities. From reading, I learned many techniques and forms of writing, some of the finer points of grammar, as well as a formidable array of vocabulary. Writing short stories from time to time, either for school or for pleasure, I began to get a feel for my own abilities. Poetry was a little harder to get into, but the simplicity and freedom of it soon swept me away in a torrent of artistic concepts. With the more technical areas of composition learned in school, I soon developed my own style. This passion for writing and creating soon lead me to another train of thought.

When I find something truly wonderful, such as a beautiful flower or a breathtaking sunset, I try to show or tell as many people as I can, because there is bound to be someone out there that will appreciate it and possibly carry on telling others about it too. That was my reasoning when I made my choice to become a teacher. With my love of learning, my familiarity with literature, and grasp of writing and composition, I feel as though I am a suitable candidate for a career in teaching. Much like I mentioned before, I wish to share this passion for the english language and its creative components with others, so that they may find their own inert talent or appreciative mindset. Literature is an extremely important proponent of culture and society, and as such should be bolstered with the talent of any possessing it. If culture never moves forward, how can we? If not a soul sits down to write, how will we remember what has happened? As a teacher, I would try my hardest to awaken the love for learning in my students, so that they may go on to contribute great things to society, or teach the next generation the wonders of language and writing.

My love of learning is the effect of the instruction I received in school by an assortment of teachers, which in turn became the cause for some of my personal interests and my academic pursuits. My love for prose and poetry never would have come to being without the intellectual awakening that I experienced. My passion for creating and writing never would have existed without first reading and learning, so that I would know how to go about it. My urge to share my enthusiasm for literature, language, and writing would have lain dormant without first discovering those things for myself. Without my love for learning, I would have most likely never discovered my talent with language, which probably would have led me to another career. Without the cause, the effects do not take place; without my love of learning, I would not possess the same personal interests or academic pursuits, and, in all probability, would not be the person I am today.


------
This is a cause and effect paper that I wrote for my English Composition 1101 class. It had a few good lines in it that I liked.

Anyway....

The Morn Gently Knocks Upon Night's Door.

Desk of oak
smooth and dark
left without a use
Gleaming lacquer
dulled with time
Swathed in candlelight

Sheaf of papers
aged and yellow
Unsharpened quills left lying
Inkwells long run dry, deserted
Creativity sighing
Pen needing its mate and friend
Papyrus crying out for help
Loneliness shall never be alone
Both longing to meet again

Crystal lenses, wire-framed
piercing the veil of life
rendering all entirely clear
when placed before my sight

These things left derelict
smothered in time
within my deepest thought
Left prey to degeneration
hope cannot be sought

Stained glass, iron-braced
window to the soul
Yawning wide
unrestrained
letting in the Void

Inky tendrils, black as death
reaching for my joy
Despairing, without hope
drowning my Self in doubt

Light ahead
joyous, bright
Distant, but soothing
rays of gilt
coming nearer, nearer
scything into my heart

Morning brings new hope, new life
borne upon its wings
Soaring further, faster
upon the swift Northwind

Through the gaping portal
light springs forth, bright
Banishing acerbic visions
gathered throughout Old Night

Oaken desk, warmed to the touch
timber freshly polished
Vermillion papers, stacked with care
awaiting their creator's solace
Eyeglasses rest upon my nose
dispelling the blurred scenes of Life
All is well, all is bright
within this life
devoid of strife

------

I haven't decided if this is the final version yet....
We'll see.

SWIFT DEATH!

In the night
Swift death come for you
Ninja laugh

------
Haiku.
3-5-3 syllable count.
Don't ask.

Power Windows, Hurricane Winds.

Two trips to Kentucky down, a lifetime more to go. Jeep rides, seven hour drives, blackberry cobbler, spiced Polish sausages, mountains everywhere one may look, and the explosive grandeur of touch-me-nots. Kentucky is a great place. Deep in the hollows between mountains, Meg’s family lives in quiet harmony, until those certain times throughout the year when everyone and their dog cranks up a four-wheeler, cracks open a beer, and rides out through the hills yelling, whooping, and having a grand ol’ time. When the ATV shenanigans, great home-cooked meals, and games of cornhole end, everyone goes home, saying heartfelt goodbyes until the next time.

As we ride home to Georgia from one such fantastic event, Big Brent, Meg’s father, drives. He looks like a particularly displeased biker, with an almost scowl-like expression on his face, a bristly beard, a half bald head, a face full of freckles, and a never ending supply of humorous retorts to anything you could possibly say. Despite his mean appearance, he’s the biggest teddy bear any toddler could fall in love with.

With Big Brent at the steering wheel, me and Meg sit in the back. I watch mountains march in and out of the window I’m staring out of, each one with their grim, stoney faces looking back at me. Meg, with her whole body stretched out across the backseat, naps away, catching the sleep that we both missed on the floor of Aunt Lenore’s house. We’ve been driving for a while, currently making our way through North Carolina where Gustav’s long reach turns the sky from a vibrant azure to a dull, soft gray that appears like the softest feather down.

With Meg snoozing away, I’m without a companion to pass the time, so I commit to watching the yellow and white lines race each other over the pavement. The yellow lines hop and skip, keeping pace with the unerring, always straight, white lines. It’s not much of an interesting race. I decide to take a nap, or try to at least, in my sitting up position. I’ve done it before, back at home whenever I watched TV (not that I watch much TV). With thoughts of home running through my mind, I manage to nod off. I wake up, much to my displeasure, about ten minutes later when the truck hits a bump. Big Brent has the XM radio on the comedy station, chuckling at Mike Birbiglia. He’s a great comedian, but in my current state of mind, no one is funny.

With all of my time-passing options exhausted, I watch Meg for a while. A stray beam of sunlight that managed to get through the clouds makes her near-black, curly hair look brown. She lays on her back, breathing softly, her legs across my lap. She’s beautiful. A fading tan from her trip to the beach a month or two back. A face full of freckles just like her dad. Oval eyes (that sparkle when she smiles) the color of lacquered wood, the edges like fresh spring leaves on a young tree. A round face, full lips, well-defined, arched eyebrows, and a sweet demeanor. She’s my best friend, the love of my life, and (little did I know) the perpetrator of an event in the near future that will give me a heart attack.

After the homicidal thoughts that follow being woken up from a nap fade away, I listen to country and bluegrass bands jam away on the radio, rings of fire and all. The radio whispering away, mountains slowly crawling by, Big Brent occasionally singing to himself quietly, not much was going on in this little microcosm of the world in the cab of the truck. Now, I’ve always been a little skiddish, easily surprised one might say, but for some reason the following events affected me in a more extreme manner. Meg, lost to reality in her dream world, moved her feet about, perilously close to the button that operated the power window beside my head (I’ve had a few bad experiences with power windows, such as my mom almost closing one on my head, so they already unnerved me a bit). God, in his infinite wisdom, decided it should be very windy outside at this very moment. Gustav, the wily hurricane that he was, gladly supplied the wind, letting it fill the valley. As this all transpired, I was utterly oblivious, watching Meg’s cute, little toes wiggle.

My quiet, serene existence was thrown into upheaval in a matter of milliseconds. An explosion of air whipped across my face, causing me to jump in my seat. My mind reeling from this onslaught of cold mountain air and roaring noise, I manage to catch a glimpse of Meg’s toe on the power window button, causing the window to descend, letting in this cruel zephyr. Meg is a very heavy sleeper, so when I grabbed her foot and tossed it away, she didn’t care in the slightest bit. With that obstacle removed, I launched my hand at the button, smothering the little painted, upward-pointing white arrow with my finger. The window immediately started closing, but the damage was done. With my combination of no sleep, hunger, and interstate-driving anxiousness, my mind was in no state to defend against this abrupt attack.

Meg would not know of her handiwork for an hour or two, whenever she woke up. Big Brent just laughed about it. I sat there pale-faced for a while, slightly embarrassed. Kentucky trips are the best.


-----------
This is a narrative essay that I wrote for my English Composition 1101 class. It's about a trip to Kentucky that I took with my girlfriend and her dad. It was a good trip. =)

Through the Wood, Darkly.

Twilight gave up its fight with the night, the sun’s rays drained from the sky, the trees whispered amongst each other upon the gentle breeze, and Sylvanya grew weary from the day’s travels. She searched for a good spot to camp for the night, coming across a serene copse with flat, soft turf. The elf slung her pack onto a large rock, carefully propped her long, slender Wychblade beside it, and pulled out her sleeping roll. Another peaceful night, she thought as she listened to the rustling of the trees. With her sleeping roll placed on the most level space she could find, Sylvanya spoke a word of power.

“Crous.”

A bright orb of violet light leapt into being in Sylvanya’s palm, casting a dim glow around the copse. Gesturing for the orb to stay, she withdrew her hand from its warm glow, and set about gathering rocks for a fire ring.

“Drae terrum.”

There was a rustling in the surrounding undergrowth as scores of palm-sized rocks began rolling towards Sylvanya. They stopped in a rough circle around her position, humming and vibrating slightly with arcane power. With a wave of her hand, they grew still. She knelt and arranged a few of the rocks more precisely, then motioned for her glowing sphere. It drifted to her lazily and set itself down in the middle of the fire ring. Stepping back, Sylvanya whispered again.

“Rehrvre.”

The small globe of light exploded into purple and blue flames, filling the copse with brilliant color and illumination. Sylvanya smiled to herself. She never ceased to be filled with pride when she exerted her powers, it was an amazing thing, and she was the one doing it. Looking up into the sky, the elf gazed at the face of Cirdraoth, the largest of the three moons that were ever-present in the firmament. She gazed at the majesty of the celestial bodies, appreciating their beauty, then turned away and walked to her pack. After a minute of rummaging, she took out a wafer of crisp waybread and a slice of pungent cheese.

Settling herself on the large rock beside her pack, Sylvanya ate in thoughtful silence. Her journey had been fairly uneventful so far. The forest was calm and oddly quiet, and the roads nearly abandoned, which was worrying considering the season. Merchants and farmers should be flooding the trade routes, heading to markets and cities, farmers bartering their harvests and merchants selling their wares. Was there something scaring off the traders, or was it just a low-yield season?

A noise. Brutish, careless, standing out from the near-silent lull of forest sounds. Something was wrong. In one smooth motion, Sylvanya wrapped her makeshift meal in a cloth, stowed it in her pack, and deftly snatched her spearlike Wychblade from its resting place. She spun it at her side and held it in a loose grip behind her, spreading her feet apart in a defensive posture. Eyes darting from tree to tree, Sylvanya intoned a calming rhyme taught to her by Altheon, her mentor. A minute passed. The thumps and cracks grew louder, as if someone, or something, was trampling everything they came across. The sounds grew to a crescendo...

...and there it was.

A figure, dark, tall, and broad, emerged from between two old yews, pushing branches out of its way. It was repulsive. Sylvanya’s mind reeled. This creature was unspeakably wrong, as if some evil force had produced it to mock the laws of nature. Dark waves of evil magic exuded from its body, visible only to the elf through her magical senses. It was half man, half beast. A twisted, malicious face, with a fanged maw, a long, bovine snout, curling horns, and a mad gleam in its puffy, black eyes. Massively muscled, this creature could easily tear Sylvanya limb from limb, and she knew it. Covered in shaggy, dirty hair, it reeked of foulness. Thick, pillar-like legs with backwards-bending joints and hoofed feet smashed through the undergrowth. It stopped, sniffed at the air with a horrible liquid sound, and let out a bloodcurdling bray of bestial rage.

“Fomor.”

Sylvanya spoke the name as if saying it could taint her very soul. It was an old name. A feared name. The name of a race of terrible creatures so twisted and cruel that not a single soul would not shiver when they heard it uttered. The demon lord Beelzroar himself was said to have created them from his own blood, when the Gods had battled for dominion over the world at the beginning of time. An abhorrent mockery of nature, the fomori were created to be the foot soldiers of Beelzroar’s demonic hordes. After the banishment of Beelzroar, the fomori, as well as many other unspeakable horrors fashioned from Beelzroar’s malicious imagination, were left to wreak their never ending wars and destructive nature upon the world.

Sylvanya had read many tales involving the foul creatures, but none of her previous scholarly pursuits could have ever prepared her for the horror of this encounter. With her Wychblade in hand, she opened her soul to the magic around her, drawing it to her in writhing eddies of arcane power. The fomor cautiously circled the camp, unsettled by the gathering of power before it, but clearly ready to tear Sylvanya to bloody ribbons. The cantrips she had performed earlier were simple spells that barely put a strain on her magical reserves, but the spells she was would soon unleash required a greater amount of energy. Brilliant colors swam before Sylvanya’s mage-sight, swirling into unspeakably beautiful shapes and forms that she dutifully ignored as she was trained to. One lapse in concentration, one careless mistake, and she could lose herself forever.

“Aigeros trohtal.”

At her word, the arcane energy being drawn to her began to weave itself into a protective cocoon, not only to shield her from the evil that saturated the form of the fomor, but to act as a physical aegis as well. The overlapping pieces of Sylvanya’s leather armor began to glow with a weak blue light as the spell flowed over them. Eyes alight with eldritch fire, Sylvanya completed the protective spell and centered the storm of magical power within her into her palms. With a thought, she could unleash a terrible maelstrom of destructive might.

With the apparent retreat of arcane energies, the fomor found its courage again. With a derisive snort, it began to move closer, brandishing its rusty, bloodstained axe. Sylvanya adjusted her grip on the haft of her Wychblade, spun it in an arc above her and brought it down before her, point aimed directly at the fomor’s heart. With another angry roar, the fomor charged forward, its slab-like muscles tensing in anticipation of the kill. It crossed the distance between them in three bounding steps, faster than Sylvanya expected. The beast launched itself at her, swinging its axe two-handed in a downward arc. Sylvanya barely had time to react, but managed to throw herself out of the path of the fatal axe blade. The fomor leapt at her, aiming to stomp her to death with its massive hoofed feet. Sylvanya rolled away, sweeping her Wychblade out around her to slash its legs.

The elven blade bit deeply into the fomor’s left thigh, leaving a ragged, weeping gash. The demon spawn screamed out in frustration, kicking at the elf as she deftly regained her footing. Sylvanya smiled wickedly, allowing the witch fire glowing in her eyes to grow in intensity. The fomor growled at her menacingly, sizing her up like she was its next meal. That isn’t going to happen, Sylvanya told herself, I will strangle this thrice-damned fiend with my bare hands if I have to. The two combatants circled each other cautiously, searching for weaknesses in the other’s defense.

A loud, crashing clamor resounded from out beyond the trees at the edge of the copse. Two figures, massive and horned, emerged from the darkness carrying large bone cudgels. An odd noise issued from the newly arrived fomori, a wheezy, coughing sound. The first fomor began to make the noise too. Perplexed, Sylvanya stood ready for anything; then, it dawned on her. This was some crude form of laughter. Sylvanya gritted her teeth and leapt at the fomor before her. She swung her Wychblade in a deadly slash, attempting to disembowel the foul beast before her. The fomor parried the blow easily and followed up with a crushing downward swing. Sylvanya sidestepped the attack and slid inside her opponent’s guard, butting the fomor in the face with the haft of her Wychblade and quickly severing the bicep of its right arm. The dirty axe fell from the beast's grip, its arm no longer capable of grasping the handle. The fomor screamed in rage, its face contorting grotesquely. The elf pounced on her opening and rammed the point of her Wychblade into the fomor’s heart. The beast dropped to its knees, blood pumping from the mortal wound to its chest. Sylvanya looked down into the black, malicious eyes of the fomor, raised her hand before its face, and spoke.

“Thorrarc.”

A brilliant bolt of white lightning leapt from Sylvanya’s palm, plunged straight through the skull of the fomor, obliterating it completely, and blasted a blackened, smoking hole into the ground behind the body. The headless corpse of the demon spawn fell over onto the ground, smoke pouring from its scorched flesh. Tiny globules of glass, created by the searing heat of the lightning as it struck the ground, rained down like tiny red gems. Sylvanya turned her burning gaze towards the remaining fomori; her raven black hair billowing out behind her, riding the invisible zephyrs of arcane energies. In the violet glow of the fire, the elf looked like the avatar of an angry elven god, sent to the mortal plane to exact judgement upon the world. The brutes stood, no longer laughing, fixed to the spot in fear. With a piercing battle cry, the elf charged forward, her Wychblade bursting into a flaming spear.

“Vrenthos!”

A violet firebolt flared from her outstretched hand, streaking towards the fear-stricken fomori. The beasts had no time to react before the firebolt slammed into the smallest of the two, completely incinerating it in a firestorm of eldritch fury, drowning out its screams in a roaring maelstrom. The larger fomor was spared the brunt of the spell, but was thrown like a rag doll into a large oak, breaking its spine on impact. Sylvanya reached the paralyzed fomor in a few leaping bounds, raised her flaming Wychblade high above her head, and plunged it through the beast's chest. She poured her fury into the blow, sending a blast of eldritch energy racing down the haft of her Wychblade and into the body of the screaming demon spawn. The fomor was reduced to a smoking pile of ash in a matter of moments.

Panting from the exertion of her abilities, Sylvanya managed to stumble back to her campsite, kicking the smouldering body of the first fomor as she passed it. She rummaged through her pack for a moment, pulled out a water skin, and drank deeply of the sweet liquid within. She drew a small amount of power to her to soothe her aching muscles, and gently eased herself onto the large rock. Retrieving her unfinished meal from her pack, she began eating again. The food was much needed, although hard to enjoy because of the reek of the fomori and the stench of burnt meat. After catching her breath, and resting for a time, the elf looked to the heavens and thanked her elven gods for their favor. This wood was not safe from the evil of the fomori, and Sylvanya swore that she would not rest until that evil was purged. Pausing only to gather her things and burn the remaining body with her magic, Sylvanya disappeared into the world of shadow beneath the boughs of the trees.

Another peaceful night, she mused a bit sardonically, as she set out to hunt the beasts of Beelzroar.


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Fomor - a goat-headed monster in Irish mythology believed to be a race of nature gods or some such thing. Fomori is the plural form that I decided to use. It's kind of outlandish, like you would expect the name of a race of creatures created by a demon lord to be. Fomorian is another plural form.

This story is based on a D&D character (I actually made it for my girlfriend) that I randomly tested out one day. The encounter that I made up turned out to be really cool, so I decided to type it up into a dark fantasy tale type deal thing. Yeah....

What Once Was.

Many, many seasons ago, all was not as it is now. The land, the sea, the people; all strange and unfamiliar. One Land, unified and massive, made good by The-One-In-The-Sky, teeming with His beasts and His forests. One Sea, dark and deep, undulating to the sound of the Great Spirit's voice, never-ending waves dancing and moving to the Music of the Spheres. One People, from whom we have come, molded from the essence of the Earth and made guardians over the hunting ground created by the Spirit Father. This is what once was, but would not remain.

A Fall; the disgrace of the guardians and their offspring, from whom we have come. A Curse; the descent of all that was the One People into corruption. One guardian was left with honor. One out of many.

He was chosen.

He was commanded.

He obeyed.

The wrath of the Great Spirit descended upon the One Land, the One Sea, and the One People. All was destroyed in a Maelstrom of unimaginable fury. The Music of the Spheres crashed and blared, frantically keeping pace with the furious heartbeat of The-One-In-The-Sky. A Great Canoe, built at the behest of the Spirit Father, saved the Last Guardian and his tribe from the destruction that was the Maelstrom.

The One Land was torn asunder into many lands; the land beneath our feet but a fragment of the land that was once one. The One Sea was parted into many; the sea that was crossed by Those Before but a tiny stream compared to the sea that was once one. The One People were all but destroyed for their dishonorable ways; not but the virtuous Last Guardian and his tribe survived the wrath of the Great Spirit.

When the Maelstrom was ended, the Last Guardian ventured from his Great Canoe, bearing with him the Totems of the Beasts and the Forests. The spirits of the beasts and the forests were released from the Totems into the divided lands of the Earth, where they made dwellings. The tribe of the Last Guardian grew and separated into many tribes, much like the One Land and the One Sea that are now many lands and many seas. One branch of the Great Tree that was the many tribes crossed the sea that was also land. That branch was the tribe of Those Before, the ones from whom we have come. All is not as it once was, but all shall remain as it is now, for the Spirit Father's Bow of Light still dwells in the sky when His tears are shed upon the Earth, for that is His promise to us.

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This is basically some sort of Native American oral tale passed down through the generations to explain the Great Flood. I thought it would be cool to maybe see it from an Indian shaman's point of view. It isn't an exact parallel to the original Flood story, but it's close enough to get the point across while still maintaining the feel of an oral tale passed down through the ages (which would make it extremely susceptible to small changes and twists of the wording). It isn't about a particular tribe, or set in a particular time period (although it would be a great deal of time before the white man came, long enough ago to still remember crossing the land bridge from Siberia to North America). Anyway, it was fun....

The dark reaches of the Frorenwald.

Froren - Part of a German word meaning 'frozen' or 'freezing'. I cut off the rest of the word for easier pronunciation and flow.

Wald - German word meaning 'forest'.

Holtzen - 'wood'. Modification of 'holz'. Added 't' and 'en' for variation and rhythmic qualities.

Kalt - 'cold'.

So....

Frorenwald - "The Frozen Forest".

or

Holtzenkalt - "Wood of Chill". I interpreted 'kalt' as meaning 'chill'.

These could be two names for one forest, or possibly two small forests, in the northern reaches of Leichtengart. I need some names for temperate forests to the south....

Lichterwald - "Forest of Lights". From the word 'lichter' meaning 'lights'. The forest may be haunted or be the dwelling place of fey creatures, thus the lights.

Sommerholtzen - "Summer Wood". From the word 'sommer' meaning 'summer'. It's just a temperate forest...complete with deer and all the other fuzzy woodland creatures (that I must vaporize with lightning bolts and fireballs!).

Anyway....

More wizardly things....

The Morrholt family is one of the oldest in all of Leichtengart. Their bloodline can be traced back to the participating clans of the Eihrepakt that formed the Reichsburg. They are known for their skilled practice as artificers of every craft, as sailors, explorers, for their inate arcane abilities, diplomatic skill, proficiency in tactics and weaponry, and scholarly pursuits. They are Jacks-of-all-trades.

Eihrepakt - "Honor Pact". German words, ehre - honor, and pakt - pact. I added the 'i' for some variation. The pre-Reichsburg clans signed this document, binding the clans together and outlining the nation of Leichtengart.

Reichsburg - "Bulwark of the Realm". German word meaning 'realm castle', or 'castle of the realm'. A castle is a bulwark of sorts, so 'bulwark of the realm' made sense to me. 'Bulwark of the realm' is referring to an ordered government protecting society from chaos, poverty, lawlessness, and other such distressing predicaments. Basically it's Leichmund for 'government' or 'empire' or some other ruling body.

Wizardly stuff.

Oron Morrholt is the name of one of my D&D (Dungeons & Dragons) characters. He's...complicated. He's a human wizard, but I tweaked him a bit so he's not JUST a wizard, even though I didn't multiclass him. I guess it's a house rule thing. Anyway, this is more of a note to myself to remember some stuff about him, so...yeah.

Oron Marius Auerbach Draven Jaccoby Ulrich Morrholt, wizard, engineer, alchemist, magical artificer, linguist, arcane theorist, swordsman, marksman, explorer, and adventurer extraordinaire, son of Lord Adavar Aurelius Bjorni Sven Matthias Apollos Morrholt, Castellan of Morrholt Keep, Baron of Reichstadt, and Count Aberstein of the Leichtengart court of Emperor Arnulf the Wise.

It is a Morrholt family tradition to give six names to every child born. With the addition of Morrholt as the surname, this gives a total of seven names, which the child must repeat to anyone asking their name. This practice continues into adulthood.

Leichtengart is the land that Oron is native to. It is paralleled to the culture of the Holy Roman Empire and the name is just my own twist on the name, Leichtenstein. People from Leichtengart are called Leichtengarters, which is commonly shortened to Leichters by natives of other cultures for easier pronunciation. The language of Leichtengart is Leichmund.













This is the banner of Leichtengart (above). It's actually the banner of the Holy Roman Empire, but that's okay, because, well, they aren't around anymore, and Leichtengart is paralleled to that culture. It's commonly found on shields, tapestries, doors, flags, standards, sword hilts, sword pommels, flasks, tankards, helms, door frames, altars, heraldry, and an assortment of other paraphernalia.

I think that is all I have at the moment....

Four Corners of Existence.

Live. Fully, with compassion, kindness, respect, and honour.

Love. With all your heart, mind, and soul.

Learn. Without bias, to remove yourself from the shackles of ignorance, and into the sorrowful arms of knowledge.

Die. With courage, regretting nothing.



(Thanks to Atreyu for the idea. Listen to their song "Lip Gloss and Black".)