An exercise in world building - snippets of a growing background tale

"It is said that on the day the other Lords of the Arbitrations refused to bow down to his glory, Thamsa-Hathu-Misan tossed down his own tower in disgust, renouncing his draconic heritage, and taking a mortal form."

A smile creased the scars of Tam-Hattu's deep brown face. "You talk too much of ancient history, Zotikos. I prefer the present." Stroking the rust stained boulder made of rotting steel and nickel, the killer faced his companion. "Or the future."

The ebony face meeting his stayed solemn, a bare inclination his only acknowledgement of the human's words for a moment. Turning, he stared at another of the high, broad hoodoos of metal, stone, and gems rising from the floor of the wide valley, thoughtful.

Tam-Hattu grunted, knowing that pose. "Damned if you will lecture me on things I know as well as you, healer."

"Perhaps." Raising a hand to shove silver streaked jet hair off his pointed ears, the elf smiled as he looked back at the other. "Or perhaps, mine foe, I ask the one who knows the tale best to tell it to me."

Head shaking, the assassin held up his left arm, decorated with many designs carved and stained onto his mahogany skin. "Doubtful. You know much, youngling, but lack the wisdom to sit through all I would tell you."

"Though some believe I am but the latest to serve a certain heir to these columns, you know better." Corners of his mouth turned down, the elf gazed upon the rubble pile, one of many. Some cast down by those that raised them, others destroyed by others who sat upon the hoodoos. "I ask it, now, before our final conflict. I would know why we fight, Thamsa-Hathu-Misan."

Dead eyes met the healer's gaze. "Since when does the physician seek dominance, boy."
Silently, the healer held up his left hand, as his right drew the golden scalpel from his belt, letting the precious metal crease his left wrist faintly. Small droplets of golden blood oozed past the exposed green sinews and muscles, evoking a gasp from his companion. Three tiny drops rippled down the healer's forearm, leaving the impression they rose and fell away from that flesh like a stream over flat boulders well worn by her passage.

"Which whelp of his are you, boy?" Tam-Hattu hissed.

Smiling, the healer waited as the drops touched his elbow, then leapt to the ground. Rumbles of thunder echoed in the amphitheater, despite the absence of clouds. The earth resonated to sky's utterance, shaking beneath their feet. Tam-Hattu stepped in closer, fast, his own black knife drawn.

"Fool! You would dare raise a tower here?"

Grinning impishly, the healer thrust his hand up, and the only tower that rose to a shattered peak shook, yellow and green lightning flaring from its shivering summit. "Merely show you which I already have."

Warily, the assassin stepped back, eyes doubting what he saw. The knife stayed low, ready to strike up, still in ways few humans would be able to mimic. Moments later, he laughed, sheathing the blade. "Clouds of Athalan, boy you surprise me. I never thought you would stoop to healing those you once vowed to slay."

Corners of his emerald eyes dancing slowly, Zotikos slid his blade back into the belt pouch at his side. "Really? Then you never truly knew me, uncle."

"I guess not. So,  your proposal, failed Arbitrator?" The title rang with harsh sarcasm.

Sighing, the elf turned away. "No. I know now I was not the one to restore the Pact of the Arbitrations. Call me as I am known, or by the name burned into my shell. But that title I refuse now."

Tam-hattu let his knife settle back into its sheath, face curious. "But you want to make a deal? With the one who would kill you as he has others?"

"Aye, Brother of mine Father's father. I would know the truth of this place and those days. In return, I offer any knowledge you wish that I have, save two bits."

Frowning, the assassin settled onto a small boulder. "What are those bits you will not speak of?"

Carefully brushing off another boulder, several spear lengths away, the healer spoke softly, barely audible above the faint susurrus of the random breezes dancing amid the towers. "The name of the Arbitrator of Restoration, which I know not, but have clues to. And the true meaning of seeing without eyes."

Shaking his head, the human chuckled. "So. That is why we fight, Ankara-Keweii-Ghani?"
"Yes. I have chosen to let the fates have their way, you still seek to bind them to your will."
 Whispering something else, that the breezes tore apart.

Tam-Hattu waited, knowing those words meant something important. His companion waited as well, refusing to repeat it.

"As my ears do not burn, I take it that was no insult or challenge, so we'll let that slide." Chuckling, the assassin leaned back a bit, settling in for a long rest. "But to speak of such days amid these pillars is dangerous."

Zotikos was less restrained, throwing his head back in mirth. "Indeed, they will tremble to remember their masters, now long gone, shaking the bones of this orb mightily. But, I do not fear that. Let them know some dared enter the Amphitheater of Arbitrations, and speak of those days amid her abandoned thrones."

Tam-Hattu smiled at the thought of chaos in many places as the trembling earth tossed down buildings of lesser beings. "We of Athalan must always enjoy such terror in the prey this orb gives us."

Both fell silent, waiting for the blazing orb known as Jzhan to fall beneath the western rim of the great bowl. Night was the time for such tales, not the warmth of day, when one really should ride the thermals high, to hunt prey or wealth.

"Sanding the Past with Reverence" - A poem of regret and hope

Every stroke of the paper destroys the past
ripping away the layers of varnish and stains
taking it back to a nearly clean slate.

I feel so guilty doing this part now
eliminating decades of deeds, misdeeds and rich character;
leaving the wood naked as a newborn babe.

Dust rises around my moving hand in clouds,
falling like a rain, finding every crevice below
becoming part of the floor until the cleanup.

This has happened before, oh so many times
the removal of the impressions of the living
upon the long dead parts of trees surrounding glass.

At least I know one thing for certain,
with a new family, they will build here
new things onto the wood frame over time.

So I keep sanding away the past gently
trying to give the cracked varnish my respect,
filling in cracked wood, to prepare this palimpsest.

10October2012 - Dyfedd Rex

Regrooved - An Improv Prompt Inspired Poem

So, I hang at this place on the web, a forum board, where we have an ongoing contest of prompts, where you take a word, phrase or line from the poem before you as inspiration. Your choice of which words, just make something. When I saw the word "regrooved" something from my past cropped up, watching Grandpa working with wood. Then it gelled in about 15 seconds, cramping my brain, fingers and eyes, but DAMN, I like it.

Hands stroke the wood
seeking the grain as he works
shaping the repair to the dining room table
broken as the grandkids rough housed
despite grandma's loud protests.

Each motion forms boards
into the shapes needed for now
to make the shattered heart of the family
whole once more for next week
when they gather again.

One board with tongues
and another salvaged to be regrooved
then all locked back with his great skill
that built not just this table
but other things too.

Like the china cabinet
the buffet stand holding the food
and most importantly of all his many achievements
the knitting of strong family ties
that hold like glue...
with love.

Don Juan vs. the Naughty Naked Ninja-Nuns

With a flick of the thumb
cards riffle out on the table
the players relaxing for a while
their wimples pushed back off hair
left mussed and really charged up
sipping Gin and Tonics while playing
a game named for the booze.

When enters from Hell's broken gates
that wicked libertine of worldly renown
the man from the Iberian Peninsula
seeking more wenches to be remade
as notches in his notorious belt
and thinking these sultry sinful sisters
might just fill that bill nicely.

Now these were no mere mortals
yet not raised up to goddesses,
still to dare make a pass
at Naughty Naked Nuclear Ninja-Nuns
is not something I would recommend
heed this tale to understand why
oh secret reader of perverted tales.

Now Don Juan made his offers
not to one at a time
but all in bed at once
which rarely stirs the ladies hearts
outside certain shady literary genres
which lead to a flat rejection
voiced by all in unison monotones.

But that wicked and horny Spaniard
could not get the message connected
to any part of his mind
and pressed his suit (and body)
over the ladies despite earlier warnings
from demons so dire even Satan
leaves them to their own devices.

Gentle ones close your delicate ears
for that sparked the violence indeed
setting in motion flesh and wood
in the dance school children fear
as knuckles and more delicate parts
were sought out by whistling rulers
striking with Atomic Bomb powered smacks.

Now here is what sets fools
apart from the rest of us,
for this only made our villain
more aroused and determined to succeed
instead of severely psychologically traumatized forever
as he presented his case again
only to offer a new target.

Bared flesh now glistening with exertion
blazed through the air like birds
doing an intricate ballet of pain
as feet and fists lashed out
seeking groin and their foe's backside
specifically the part used for sitting
as highly explosive impact bull's-eyes.

When latter he recovered back below
unable to get off his feet
for the next many long weeks
he found out about modern tech
as the video was endlessly replayed
showing his inglorious and embarrassing defeat
being de-pantsed by Ninja Nuns.

The moral to this woeful tale
is never disturb the naked ladies
for they may be deadly servers
of the Fate you richly deserve
for actions against the fairer sex
that were never solicited or encouraged
thine fundament may indeed be kicked.

(28Apr2010 - Dyfedd Rex)

　

Myths Like Mist - a short I did for a less than friendly competition.

The tales surround me, misty fables drifting in the morning fog as I walk the paths the gods decreed for me. Each tale wafts by, begging me to tell it again to the children, the hunters around the fires, the people at the gatherings, or even carve them again into the stone for eternal preservation.

Each tale has a song or many that go with it. Tunes and notes, pacing and beats they must be relayed with. Some I learned at the fires and hearths, in my apprenticeship. Others the gods relayed to me, sending the Muses to inspire my fingers and lips to tell the tales, weaving mists of Faith into enchantments to bind the listeners for the time it takes me to tell the story or sing the song to the magical world the gods foretell will come again.

Sometimes I meet others in these mists, gathering their own tales from gods I never knew existed. They bear strange instruments to my eyes, not the harps and flutes, not even the ram's horns, but other devices for music, some small and compact, others large and bulky. Some come with just their memory, others with stones to use their chisels and hammers on, a few use a crow's quill to make marks on shaved bark or trees, and stranger ones have their fingers dance across bizarre devices that magically make their marks on a crystal plate set upright before them.

Yet we all walk this foggy realm for the same reason, to gather some of its mysteries, and bring them back to our dreary worlds, sharing them as bright moments in the descending darkness the evil of our times and places are oppressed by.

Yes, the myths are from the mists, but the mists arise from our yearning souls. Thoughts and dreams, seeking release. And when we bring them back home, the ring out in out hearts, raising them.

Now, girl, take my hand, and I will show you the way to the Fogs of the Forgotten Dreams, and how to gather in the mists, and bring back the tales the gods want us to tell.