Tempting the Fates Again

So, I'm tempting them,
those evil witches Billenius fears,
daring the Parcae: do your worst,
as I try again writing
for NaNoWriMo this year.

Each year now past,
doing this unleashed their wrath,
as they tossed too much trouble
down upon this ol' boy
for him to succeed.

But this time around
there is already a job,
and shelter around my worn body
so I have a chance
no matter how slim.

Cheer me on, gang.
I'm letting my fingers dance
once more across this old keyboard,
and tell a tale
long percolating inside me.

A dash of Horror,
across broad brush of smut,
as I dabble into Erotica's realm,
on Science Fiction's broad canvas
trying for the win.

Fifty thousand words? No.
Aiming higher than that total,
say double this time around, folks.
But in the bitter end,
the Fates will decide.

For they are wicked,
those mean old weaver women,
spinning out skeins of my damnation
with challenges I never anticipated,
at least past years.

But, this time around,
I will keep on trying,
striving to meet the goals set
and surpass them if possible,
Lady Luck willing, hopefully.

See you in thirty,
or there-abouts depending upon
how much rest is needed afterwards,
for my annual griping session
about editing in Dismember.

29October2015 - A hopeful Dyfedd Rex, bracing for the worst three witches can toss his way.

Murphy Deals Nothing But Nineteens - a Poem of Life as Cribbage

(been a while since I spoke of the cribbage game I so often see life as... bear with me, ye who know not that counting by fifteens is important somehow.)


Murphy showed,
took a seat,
shoved the board over,
and started to deal
without cutting first,
to decide.

Foolish me,
I accepted challenge.
And now stare hard
at cards that are useless
unless he plays wrong
during the peg,
unlikely event.

Nineteen hands,
all I see,
no matter who deals,
as my luck fades away
into the convective debris
cloaking night sky
rotating above.

Can't peg,
cannot even score,
even the crib's crap,
touched by a sinister hand
of his fickle mistress,
ol' Lady Luck,
joining in.

Life watches,
as does Fate,
God's too busy elsewhere
to interfere this time around,
so I slog on.
Each hand draining
away hope.

He rounds
that First Corner,
steamrolls across Double Skunk
as I creep down holes
that try to suck
me into Hell
each move.

Each failure
echoed in Life
who snarls over this
despite her best efforts lately
to let me recover.
Murphy's ideas, though,
are different.

Anger flares,
as he passes
across the Skunk Line,
with me eking out points
only when his ego
over-extends cards
he holds.

Mugged him
twice along way,
but still his pegs
keep their bloody, damned distance,
And the cards refuse
to cooperate any,
never delivering.

Three hands
it takes him
to manage to win,
pegging out by baiting me
into seeking six points
for three fives,
fourth his.

Another loss,
and anger rising,
I reset the pegs,
snarling at that distant cousin,
knowing it won't help
but needing to
vent steam.

No clue
how next game
will yet play out,
but looking at my hand,
I got an idea
I won't like
the results...
anymore
than
last
time.

17July2015 - A pissed off and desperate Dyfedd Rex, seeking at least an eight or twelve hand, to break this drought of luck.

Paths of Damnation 2 (Kragyevozar)

Why I and my axe brothers were here in Tyrosht is something of a long tale, and one I have told elsewhere. It is good enough to say we have reasons to be here, each of us different yet similar. And all under the same bans of exile. Condemned to walk Zagroneichnie, without the borders of the homelands. It is an awful fate, to be denied the homeland, denied succor in any land from danger by others still within the borders of the Zhakon.

It would have been more dangerous, but we were accompanied by those who had chosen the path of ezgnaneiye with us. Among them two of great standing in the land, the Runabrost Grimdarzog, and the rising star of the diplomatic corps, Zefdarfan. That they had chosen to ride away from the gate of the exiles with us had left avalanche of turmoil behind us, And the crossing of the sea of treachery to this port had stirred so much ill-will against us all I was sure the bans would never be lifted now.

Here in the port of the Council I found the attitudes still against us. That we had faced pirates, beasts, undead and more crossing the sea, to reach this place mattered not to those here. I was known, not just as Keilroi of the Mountains, but as an  ezgnanst now. Outcast. Unlawful to speak with. I ignored the catcalls from the dwarven quay we had been denied the right to tie the ship to, though some of my companions felt the sting in their souls from the words. Words which ended when I uncovered my prisoner's head to the master of arms at the Gate of the Docks.

"I believe you have an offer of some coins for this one's head...how much for his whole body?" I was arrogant, cold and mean as I knocked the pirate LeGiles to the ground on his knees before the soldier. A soldier whose eyes lit up with a fire like that of a forge well stoked.

"There is only one corsair of these seas I would rather see here in chains before me. But Muirgant has disappeared yet again at the word of a hunter of pirates so fierce." The old man's smile was warm. The first warm smile I had seen. "What name shall I take to the Council to issue the coins unto?" The query was normal, but my answer would shock him.

"I am Keilroi, these are my friends and companions. We give you the pirate, his surviving crew, and their vessel. One less pirate clan to raid the sea." I let the name spread across the stone road and up the quays behind us. It was known to the Karleekie. It was known to all. My exploits in my youth still were told, and here I was, wearing the brand of exile on my forehead, the chain of a penitent and dragging in wanted men like a bounty hunter.

The gasps from the dwarven quay told me the name had struck home. The Keilroi had come to the west. As he came, he brought the Zhakon of the seas with him, still acting to enforce the Laws, not disruption and chaos as most did. The catcalls at us died, and instead the cheers for a hero began. With a few catcalls for the pirates as they began to be unloaded from the hold of the sailing vessel we had taken. Keilroi was still Keilroi to the dwarves. Someone to hope to see, not fear seeing. Unless one walked the path of the NyeZhakonst, then one had better still fear me.

I felt the hand of my old mentor, 'Darzog, on my shoulder. "Less grim, smile some malchik. Keilroi is a happy Karlykn, remember that. It does not hurt to smile from time to time."

And with those words, I was again just a malchik, being chided gently by his mentor to proper behavior. Some things never change, and never should.

/***

Three days it took to get the coins from the Council, but I begrudged them not a bit of that time, for they were being more than fair, we got the bounties on each pirate, coins from the sale of the ship, and rewards from those whose stolen cargoes were identified in the holds. We had enough for most adventurers to retire on,  but as we still had further to go, to reach the lands of the Lorsan Coast, where so many of our kindred who were also exiles had settled over the ages.

During those three days, as the others were treated to drinks and food, I sat at our inn thinking, making lists of things we would need, and meeting with the local liaison from the Knights of the Grey Sands to arrange joining a caravan on the northern route west, around the desert they patrolled and kept peace in. If one could call a life of danger peace. It was time well spent, even if I would have preferred to sit before the ochags and drink like the others.

In the darkness of the nights I sat and drank alone, if I could avoid 'Darzog and Dyadya Jaochim. Which was becoming more difficult of late. They meant well, but it still bothered me that they felt my isolation was wrong. I needed to think, and not about the past, but the future. We had made it this far by luck, not planning, and while I was not a great believer in plans, I knew we had to have at least a skeleton of one, or be caught with our shtani around our knees.

This night, had they known, they would have worried at the lack of vodka at my table, not the presence of it. Downstairs in the main area there were many revelers, but here in the balcony area around the main open room, there were few. Our crew and axe brethren were enjoying some of the spoils of our war on the way here, the younger ones learning the ways of the myrmidons we now were.

But I sat in the gloomy booth, recessed away enough to break some of the noise, thinking, and staring at the map before me. The Lorsan Coast, and Kelevfalashch, were still a long ways to go, and after our experience on the waves of the Veleky Vod, we had no desire to continue travel by sea. But there were only two routes west left from this island, three if one wished to take the more dangerous path across the heart of the Grey Desert. That one had no water that one could guarantee. The south caravan path had water in abundance, running down from the great gorya that rimmed the Rift of Dihn and the dry basin of the pustinya. But that meant crossing the lands of the Byezborodnei, and we had already been warned of a rough reception by those folk from some of the Alfs here.

We all had some experience with wastelands, and the problems of finding vod safe to consume, from our own adventures in our youth around the lands of the Lead Hills and the vast wastelands around them, or entering the Krasny Styepzei to hunt the great beasts or Vyeleikan-Ludoyed, the tusked giants of those prairies. The northern road was the one controlled by the Knights of the Sands, and open to all for its whole length. It was fraught with many dangers, from dragons to orcs and the lamia of the central desert who from time to time came out to raid the caravans.

But it was the only option, in a sense for us. Which meant our enemies, both from the homeland and here Zagroneichnie, would know our path. As Karleekie marked for death by some of our kin, no true caravan would let us join them, I was sure. Even without asking the Knights or any of the merchants or caravan. Few would want to add to the dangers of their own crossing of that part of the world.

As I sat there sipping the strong kophye that came from Rahab, thick with cream to take out the bitter blades from the taste, I pondered ways to cross the distance. Normally I drank mine without cream, but the syrupy brew made in this place was so strong and bitter, cream was a necessity. As so many times before, I had so much of mind focused on the problem on my table, someone was able to approach me unnoticed. I was lucky that I did not spill the pot or cup at hand when I started when my visitor cleared his throat.

He was an older karlykn, one I knew from my few times in court. He acted as the head of the local members of our race here and in the lands ruled by the Council. Some said he was even an advisor to that assembly on things related to our kind. His face was worn with the marks of worry I myself had begun to carve in my own face with the frowns of concentration. It was a deep brown, an unusual color for our kind, but it was the warm brown of the sun baking his flesh, not rot or some malady of the skin. They called him Gyevard Blednei, for the white hair he had since his youth. It was like a snowy mane on a lion from the north. His eyes were solid black marbles, glittering with humor and joy, despite his stern mime. He reminded me of ‘Darzog in that way, with the stern outer shell hiding the warm person inside.

“Poklonei, my kniaz.” The voice was not the rough one of most of our folk, but a softer one, filled with a sound more like the descent of water in a cascade in the mountains, not the rougher rock tones of my homeland.

I grunted. “I have no claim to that title anymore, Gyevard. Sit, take a cup of this foul brew.”

He smiled wider, and slid into the bench opposite me. “Spacebo, tovarishch. It is rare to find one who drinks Kophe in the evening, but I appreciate it. As I grow older, I find that vodka and veiskei do not sit well on my stomach afterwards.” He poured a cup of the syrupy brew straight, making my own stomach wonder at the iron lining his must have despite his claims otherwise.

“What brings you here, Glava.” I used the old term for chief of several clans, not the more modern appellation of boyar. He chuckled at the term, which meant he was in a good mood.

He sipped his tea, eyes turned to the few on the balcony, waiting patiently for all around to have their attention turn from a meeting of lords to the entertainments below. Such patience he used left me wondering if I could ever have such a calm attitude of waiting for the right moment. His eyes seemed calm, but he leaned back and they never stopped scanning those near and far. It was a gaze I remembered well from my bodyguards of my youth. One that weighed the threats of each it rested on in that single glance, marking the dangerous, the safe and the unknowns for when trouble would break out.

But this night there was no such tussles, the merriment at best were a few wrestling matches, but they were the good natured kind. I could see Joachim below at the end of the bar from which the drinks were served, he was sipping cha, and watching us. There was a look on his face I rarely had seen of late, since he had left his own children behind in his own exile for having spoken for me before the Dvoryets, the assembly of my folks governing councils. It was the smile of relaxation amid friends. But then, 'Darzog had told me once that Joachim was the kind of karlykn who could be happy anywhere, as long as he had friends or family around him.

I waited, trying to match the patience of the dwarf across from me. But I fidgeted to much for it to seem the same. My hands kept seeking the map, tracing the northern caravan route, trying to visualize the path to come in my head. As I did my companion sat nearly perfectly still save the slow oscillation of his head, as he continued to watch as life went on around us.

When at last he spoke, it was softly, so quiet I almost missed the words. "There is word among those who walk the shadowy paths beyond the Zhakon that your life has a new threat to its continuance, young man. There are whispers that the ubeiyotsyei have let a blade be made for you."

The room was no longer warm. It seemed as cold as a windswept peak of the (iron mountains) in the middle of winter. Ubeiyotsyei was a word rarely spoken among our kind, save in talking of the affairs of the other folk of the world. Assassins were rare in our people's doings, we who lived mostly within the Zhakon. For one to be unleashed on us even more infrequent, as any slain, even an exile, was likely to be avenged by his friends and family.

I felt my eyebrows seeking my hairline, as I tried to silently convey both my curiosity as to whom would try such a foolish action and the way this word had leaked from a tsyech as secretive as theirs. Their guild was known for killing those that spoke of its inner workings, or even rumors of its clients or contracts. That Gyevard had heard such, and lived to speak of it to the target told me something of the internal war going on inside that gathering of professionals we called a tsyech. A war within that guild would cause chaos everywhere, as contracts were taken against the codes of their rules. Not that rules were as strong a control as the Zhakon, the Law we Karleekie lived by.

He said no more, still watching, with the eyes of a warrior on guard duty, no longer the lazy gaze, but a more intense one. And his eyes were on one person, an alf, one of the byezborodnei, who leaned against the far balcony wall with an air of arrogance one could only find among the worst of that race. The arrogance of one not afraid of even the gods. I had seen many of his kind in the past half century, those who had walked away from gods and ethics in pursuit of power and wealth. They were no longer the people of honor they had been even just before my birth. Too many had taken upon themselves prejudices against others, feeling superior to the rest of the world.

This one, though, was more dangerous, he had weapons in evidence on his body, including a strange knife. One with a red lacquered handle. Even I had heard in my sheltered life, of the blades that marked one of the ubeiyotsyei on a mission. The way the elder with me was focused on him suddenly told me this was the threat I had to pass in this place to move on. But the alf's focus was not me, but the bar. He watched me from time to time, but it was Dyadya he was targeting.

I reached down and touched the topor leaning against the bench between me and the wall. I found the cold steel reassuring, knowing that even the slightest touch of it on this foe's flesh would pain him dearly. This was my only advantage, for while I was a warrior, this one specialized in leaving his blade between the shoulder blades of unsuspecting recipients of his skill. I needed to get up and move about, yet a simple hand gesture kept me in my seat for a few moments longer, as Gyevard motioned me to hold.

"Not yet, let his arrogance grow some more, and he will be apt to make mistakes." The words came from a mouth that barely moved, and was in the yazik, the speech of our people, but a dialect rarely heard outside the hills I had grown up in. The tongue of the Choelm was one few outside the clans of the hills knew, and thus safer to use for such a warning.

So I tried to learn a warrior's patience. To find the moment to strike that would turn the battle we now would be engaged in. I kept my face towards my companion, speaking of the trail to come, trying to keep my face from showing any hint of my observation of this foe. A fighter's mime is very difficult to maintain, I learned that day. Doing so while spying was harder yet.

As we sat, the alf became used to us there, relaxed even, yet it was the relaxation of a lion on the hunt, the disinterested act that belies his purpose in walking or standing in some place near the prey. There was a look of bored his face, but the eyes carried his hatred of all around him. Occasionally he scratched various places where it was obvious to a person familiar with carrying weapons that some deadly tool rested there, and he was more interested in checking to see they were there and ready to use.

I found myself doing much the same, with my axe beside me, not to mention knives and other toys I had learned of late. As well as finding my hand touching the kurok on the table before us in passing. Discharge of such a weapon in this town was forbidden, but I knew that if they were forced to choose between the hell to come of Jaochim's death or injury and my firing the kurok's small lead projectile, the latter would be more easily dealt with. But it would let someone know that one of our guns was able to come past the gates of the docks, compromising a vast smuggling empire, and ruining the ability to have our folk trade here.

There had to be a way to mess up this one's plans. Plans or the ruining of them, were the meat and potatoes of my own history. Keilroi was known all over as the wrecker of plans, hence LeGiles impending appointment with a noose at the docks. I felt my face scrunch up, remembering the words the pirate when I took him, that he would never be hung. This was a diversion, and if the Council had half a brain, they would not respond to any call for the guard here. There had never been a breakout from the tyurma here, but there was always a first time for everything. And as I realized this was just a diversion, that old wicked smile came to my face, as my eyebrows began to dance up and down with mirth at a plan that came to me. Weapon dancing is often associated among my kind with merriment and celebrations like we were in here. And few save the forge lords danced with a hammer. My hand sought out my own hammer, the great heavy thing with the arshen and a hand haft. It was heavy, with a large block of metal, topped with a spike.

"Excuse me a moment, I think I should join the merriment." I stood, leaving my axe, but picking up my hammer. "It seems a bit dead here, perhaps a hammer dance?"

The look of shock on Gyevard's face was a joy. He was a warrior of the careful school, but I had been raised and trained amid the wild hill clans of the Choelm. And they tended to have a different feeling about battle, it was something to enter into with a recklessness to shatter the enemies will, and break their courage with the wild battle rages. I knew better now, knowing that they did plan their battles, as carefully as the other warriors, they just refused to use formations in combat. Or to have inflexible plans, the way some did.

There would be a fight here soon, so the best way to deal with it was to take the initiative, in a way the enemy would least expect. I spun my hammer twice in front of me, and leaped to the broad banister on the balcony's edge. Just the motion caught the eyes of many below. But I needed all eyes on me, so the fool would think his time had come to strike. The malot crafted  on the Heart's Forge began to leave a trail of steely blue in a ring as I began to swirl it with a purpose to my right side. That ring was of the magics from the Forge, and a touch of red for the heart's blood I had shed in its making.

"Let us celebrate the victory over piracy! Give me a beat, tovarishchie! Let us dance the hammer's beat!" And with that I began to shuffle seemingly without care along the railing, to the beat of the many hands and suddenly produced hammers on the tables below. I paced my steps to the beat, letting the rhythm claim me as I went. It is an old dance, the forge dance, that I tried to do, and not suited to the rail, obviously so. And this let me jump to the stairs nearby and dance down them, gently tapping the louder strikes on the banister as I descended. I could not help but smile, and it was one that Steffan and Zeffan knew well as I reached the main floor. I saw their looks of shock, they could tell I was up to something, but had not noticed the lurker above yet.

The hammer was swirled above my head, as the beat picked up to the steady forge tapping of a smith at his task. I no longer had to entice the beat, but still took the hammer on metal strike with gentle force on the supports of the balconies above. Each step seemed unplanned, but was made with a goal in mind. At last the whole of the bar was singing the forging song, the Pyesnya Kovalnya, that we had all heard some time in the past, at festival or sung as an item was crafted over anvils all round the world. At last I stepped out of the ubeintsya's sight for a moment, and laid into the support holding up his perch with all my might.

The reward was not all I wanted, the wood was not as solid as I had thought, old and dried out, it shattered easily, splinters sailing throughout the bar like the shards of a ship struck by the ball from a cannon. He had already started his move when his footing had been taken from him, stepping forward to leap down to our level. I was out of position by luck of the rotted column of wood, spinning under the might of my own miscalculation wildly, as the hammer came back towards the center of the building, it rang on metal, and something red danced up to ricochet off the falling balcony back to my foe, equally off balance from the unexpected fall. The alf was face down on a table, stunned, as his own crimson blade found his buttocks. His shriek was of fear and hate, mixed with shame as he tried to reach back to remove it. The song died as the balcony  finished its slow descent, and blocked my view.

It was only a few beats of my heart later that I was free of the mess I had made, my hands finding Dyada and 'Darzog's arms to guide them to safety. I found there was no more threat, only the shambles I had made of a place I found suddenly I liked more than I had before. The old runabrost stopped me firmly, and pointed at the bloody blade, still embedded in the seat of the assassin, whose body was twitching as only a poisoned man could do.

"Malchik, there is no threat left, this kind acts alone." His voice though soft, carried through the suddenly silent hall. "The marks on those blades are said to tell the tale for all to know."
I walked over to the body, looking carefully, my hammer firmly held at my side, ready to block a blow if needed. He was dead by the time I got there, even though the blow could not have been fatal. Save for the coating on that damned blade.

Poison, the mark of the deadliest of the assassins, and the colored blade said it all. This was meant for someone feared by some other. Some coward who did not wish to face their foe fairly, but desired their death by any means money could buy.

As 'Darzog said, there were three marks on the hilt, at the blade was the crest of my family, marked with the bar sinister. I had been the target. Not Joachim, not the runabrost. Me.

The next one I did not recognize, it was a crown wreathed in flames, but that was the mark of the foe who wanted me dead. I would have to puzzle this mark out, to understand who my real foe was. Last was a single dagger, with a drop hanging from its tip. Assassination by poison, one attempt. I would face no others, for now. But my grip on my hammer tightened rather than loosening. Someone wanted me dead, and it was not those in Ovozyest. This boded ill for me.

I reached to my belt and carefully took out my gloves donning them, but never letting my hammer leave my hands. I had been sent a message, and the gods had protected me against the death this blade had promised. But now, there was only one thing left to do. The symbol for my foe burned like the flames that were part of it into my mind, as I removed the dagger, set it on the floor and struck it with my hammer, which was enchanted to break weapons safely. No shard flew, no other paid a price, yet, for this action. But now the assassins would know their alf had failed. And I was alert to the threat.

When I met the eyes of my companions, they were all filled with worry. Zefdarfan wanted to say something, but I motioned him to silence. I needed to think about this, and deeply. There was no more celebrations that night, as we made the repairs to the balcony and sought a new support for it, and several others. All this and more we did in silence, as we each thought hard on the message I had been sent.

Crossing of the Shadow - A Billenius tale - chapter 5, as far as I got.

Settling back, holding that cup of kaf tight, Specula on my lap, I pondered where to start.
The Triari must have sensed that, and chuckled. "The Augurii I have dealt with tell me to just take things in the order they are seen, boy. The gods and gifts use that order for reasons, even when it leaves us confused and clueless."
I let a puff of breath out, inhaling slowly afterwards to find that point where normal dreams turned prophetic last night. They let me do this in peace, uncle from lack of knowledge, and Bentarius's experience with priests and seers obviously guiding him in waiting. Eyes closed, my ragged shields held tight against the intrudiong auras of my companions and those nearby, I at last spoke.
"These night-visions center of late around brooms, scaly beings, flames, darkness, and pain." I admitted. "Each starts differently, but at some point the theme of the last few years worth..."
That got me cut off fast. "Years. Gods, Billenius." Uncle gasped. "You said only the last few hebdomae."
"Pacio! Let the boy speak." That command voice, something the Praetor apparently never lost, rumbled softly, but with authority. "Continue, Varus."
I swallowed a bit, knowing matertera's next missive to me after hearing this from uncle would be one of advice, chiding, and sharp words. "The juncture of roads centers around hooded figures, some scaled, some not, but all with a taint of darkness around them. Seven figures move about, amid a throng of folks, doing actions that border on... evil." I used that word lightly, and kept the actions I knew to myself. No sense leaving uncle spun up about the town being host to such soon.
Two long sips of the kaf gave me the calm to move on, despite the jitters that brew gives me. "These robed ones, they move towards a place. Given the hints I see of mountians and walls, I believe it is here. Each walks along different roads, but all those roads come to one town, on the edge of the Shifting Grey Sands. No hint lies in when, but I see the blades of the butchers, as the walkers in darkness enter the town, so it must be a Carnifex, the slaughter day.." That got a reaction from Bentarius.
"Perfidio." His soft whisper interrupted my relating of the dream. "Too close to what I've already heard, son."
Letting my lids open a bit, I handed over Specula. "This is about the point she struggles to hold control for me, when walking this dream." Clearing my throat to get his attention, once noting his hand pressed to his own eyes. "she fears these walkers, for some reason."
Accepting my acinicas after a moment of confusion, the Triari nodded. "Go on."
Another long swig, draining the cup, which I set upon the desk. "Once in that place, they meet, not to unite, it seems, as there are conflicts within this group, but in the end, they all depart together. Under a set of claws grasping in the skies above them, casting a long shadow over the world. Scaled claws, red, blue, grey and green scales, some mingled with other colors. Two loom larger than the others at this point, one of sapphire and onyx, the other flames, gold and smoke." That evoked a his. All knew only one of the draconis scales held those three hues. She already held enmity towards me for foiling several of her plans.
"Anathi-Faruth-Glathin, Blaze-upon-Angered-Mountains." Uncle's words barely stireed the air after a moment. "Billenius, given your history with the Queen of Flame..."
"Let it rest for now, Mattio." Bentarius injected. "We'll parse it out after we have it all."
Yet, I could almost hear the wheels turning in his head, unable to preven the roils in his aura driving upon my perception. I dared not stop, after this bit. "I see myself then. I know, you cannot trust visions of your own future, but I see me, out on the desert, seeking a trail of one walker in particular. Yet, other hunters seek this one as well." I shook my head. "Then it really turns on me, beyond my control. I see the Dunes, footsteps leading into them, under the long shadow, with me following that trail. Through it all, onagers dance along beside me, wild beasts of the desert, not the tamer ones from home."
I tapped the cup. "Mind if I refill this?"
Uncle grasped it before I could. "Dammit. Sorry Billenius."
"I'm the junior here, sir." The laugh at uncle being the servant in his own office lightened the darkness I was about to deal with. "Besides, this is the only part that I feel to be imminent."
"As a soldier, I'd tell you to trust that gut feeling, boy." Bentarius spoke softly, words nearly drowned by the rush of kaf back into that mug."The last few years leading the Triatium tend to speak differently, though. Too often, seers over-estimate their ability to understand what the goddesses show them."
I let the nod of ascension be my only answer, accepting that cup carefully. The next part would be something more disturbing to them, I was sure.
Three long, slow sips later, I took up the dream again, fortified against what I'd seen. "There comes a period of long blackness, then faint light, under which I see a time when Pelori lies in the hands of Athalanic demons, allied with the Flame Queen, and Radixium falls to raiders from the Sands. Over it all hovers a number of spathas, repeled only by a constantly fading number of spears. In the end, the spears fail, the swords descend upon the lands of the Empire, destroying the peace, upending the world as we know it. Then, once more, hunters come into view, fighting the blue and black scaled claw seeking dominion over the central lands, two daggers rise against the sunrise slicing darkness with their shadows. When it all settles down again, there lies before me a choice of paths. My decision leads to a place of flame, smoke, and pain, then utter darkness. There was no more." That last a lie I intended to stick to.
A lie, I knew, the Triari was aware of. His solid stare tried to pry more from me without asking directly. I met his eyes, daring him to ask.
Remarkably, he looked away first. "Not good omens. Nor all of the dream, I dare say. Keep the part you refuse to speak of, boy. I have hints from the temple augurs enough to sense that the Ordo Triarium will suffer in times to come."
Finding one held holds their own breath often is surprising as the reasons to discover it. Given his history with the Centuria Sinistra, I expected him to press for more details, not to mention the omitted portions of the dream.
"This is why you call your doni curses, rather than gifts?" Uncle whispered.
I held my peace. The time to deal with my reluctance over training was not after dealing with those powers lain upon my shoulders. Or so I hoped.
"Given this vision, and the echoes of fear I sense this blade still resonates, boy, I'd say you saw much more after that." The Triari grumbled. "Things my sources hint at. Like a scepter lost amid grass and rocks, the claws of other draconis you dare not speak of here, and a darkness that never lifts."
Too close, I thought. I opened my mouth to discourage the line I sensed he would walk, only to be silenced by a gesture. "Your face says it all, Varus. Perfidio." He whispered.
Uncle sat back, confused by his face. "Bento?"
"Later, Mattio. After the boy decides if he dare trust us." His gaze came back to me. "One thing he does not mention is which spears hold off the spears. That speaks volumes by itself."
I sighed. He knew already. "The greatest spear falls from hands here. Soon, sir. Sorry."
That snort made me smile despite the bad news. "Knew that before coming here. But, the hand to lift it up again may be here. Or so Doma Velina warned me when I left her."
That small reminder, that his own lover suffered the same curse as me, to know the futures, possible and probable, chilled me. His refusal to marry her, or her to marry him, often figured in court gossip that managed to travel to this distant borderland.
When he spoke next, I almost missed the warning tone. "Caution I admire, but you tread on the edge of rebellion against the godesses, boy."
I let it sit a few fingers of sand before answering. "Somethings, I am not sure I should speak of yet."
His nod let the matter drop. Though I was sure he would bring it up later. "I will only ask one more thing, then." His eyes locked to mine as he spoke. "Do the spears break, or go into hiding?"
My brow crunched up. That question I failed to anticipate. "I will say that I see a time they arise again, when light perhaps returns. But that part felt uncertain, Triari."
His face held worry. But no further did we speak of the dream. I wished later he'd pushed more.

Crossing of the Shadow - A Billenius tale - chapter 4

At least they let me drink half the cup before beginning the big discussion. While not tea, many meetings with the dwarves left me innoculated against the kaf. Too many of their negotiations were held over the brew from ground beans, not enough over the gentler drink tea leaves make.
But that respite ended too soon for me, even given the beverage.
"So, which of our eastern kin managed to convince you to accept training at last?" The Triari asked.
Uncle stirred, having some idea, I am sure, but not all the details. I laid a wager with myself over what other extra duties I'd wind up with by day's end, for omitting such details in my report on the issues in the Grey Mesas five hebdomae ago.
"Galen and Amoria of the Brasidius gens. Orientii, though one of the Sylvani assisted them in what they taught me." I admitted after a few more sips. "Amid the Mesas, something stirred up my donum, the foresight doni more than others, but I wound up seeing only auras for a while again." I grimaced, remembering that last time came from events during a visit from the former Praetor. "No head injury this time. The powers just surged up, on the heels of the foresight dreams. Powerful enough to leave my eyes useless to reality."
"Boy, I warned you it might happen, as did your family." Bentarius handed his cup to the Dux. "This probably will take most of your urn, Mattio. Start another."
"Drink an elf out of his kaf? Still hard on your former subordinates, Bento." My uncle's laugh belied his displeasure.
"Teach you to keep more on hand." Bentarius waved his hand at the rather barren room. Then he sombered up.  "Those Brasidius twins are damned fine teachers. Anything to break even a little training from them must be bad news."
I refused to answer for a few moments, hands cupped around the cup, much as at a campfire amid the Mesas, when the Brasidius siblings offered me what little training in my donum I possess. Memories of those days, disoriented at the lack of real sight, forced to deal with my ability to perceive auras alone, I'd relented, taking just some basics, nothing more, during those many days of confusion. The shields against such, raised with such difficulty, held for a time. But over the last two hebdomae, the erosion they suffered led to my current problems.
"Their teachings worked. The dreams just over came the barricades and controls they taught me." I admitted. Looking up, Bentarius met my gaze with a nod. "The dreams are random in timing. No connecting triggers in life, or so it seems to me."
"Often is the case, Varus." The older man shook his head. "So, shields and grounding. Barricades against dreams. And yet..." He reached to the desk, turning uncle's notes about. ".. storng enough to make you seek dream walking to find the source."
"I'd thought Specula, being a spirit bonded weapon, would be a sufficient focus to keep things in check." The deep olive of my face burned brighter, as the blood rushed there in shame. "Obviously, she made things worse."
"Or the visions proved beyond her ability." The Triari whispered. "Happens, when the Parcae touch we Numeni."
The mention of the goddesses of the Fates, ordainers of the will of all our gods upon us, made me shiver. Twice before, this elf guided me past such touches.
"Guessed it, did you?" His voice rose back to normal.
"Yes sir." I admitted. "Suffering their brooms into my life thrice, I have a good idea which stokes are random, which are theirs, by now."
Uncle sat silent, his brow taking on the aspect of a field being plowed, furrows of worry across his forehead. His duties in the Custorii kept him absent through much of my life, though I am sure his sistes, my mother and aunt, posted him updates and the tales of my troubles.
Bentarrius broke the silence after that admission. "Tell me of these dreams, my vagrant Varus. Somehow, I now believe my journey here involves consulting your doni, not delivering a warning from the visions of others." His eyes narrowed, the thin vertical slits his pupils  creased in the golden eyes just a trace wider as he thought this aloud. His hands gestured to Specula, asking without words to handle her.
Reluctantly, my hands unfastened her sheath from my belt, sending warnings through her hilt to behave, before handing her over. "Very well." I held out my cup to uncle. "Please, avunuclus, this will take a while."
I used the few falling sand grains in the horarium behind him as he poured me a fresh cup of kaf to draw forth the dream and other visions of late.

Some Parting Thoughts

One last post after this one, that is all, folks, unless some miracle occurs.

So, here are some parting thoughts.

I hope those who visited more than once did so for enjoyment, not obligation, spite, or for proof the homeless are worthless. I wish more of my favorite poems had more hits, but such is the ways of the Fates, cruel wenches they are. If you want to see my best, it is called Deerboy on a Bicycle, in my opinion. A firm "Tip of my Hat" to those who read and enjoyed, spreading the word by sharing the blog. Thank you.

I'm sure many felt my "drama-queen" attitude the last few weeks was just a cry for attention, and they are right, but not as thought. The posts were to bring your attention to the fact that your Society is broken, terribly. I've been saying for the whole time I was homeless that you cannot end homelessness without giving at least those trying to rejoin your world a chance, and few gave me the chance, none offered the time it would take to repair the breach between me and your Society. Yes, YOUR Society, not mine. The one I stood up for, wearing woodland camo on one weekend a month for nine years, believed in "Justice for ALL" not Injustice to the poor, and Corruption's Rule.

Yes, Corruption's Rule, the corollary to Mob Rule, where those with influence use it to enrich themselves at the expense of the freedom, dreams, and lives of others.

So many I knew screamed about Mob Rule, and how it would destroy America, all the while using Corruption's Rule to ensure that the Mob Rule would be indeed unruly, rancorous, and tainted with crimes, to hide their own.

I was trying to get your attention to the issues, and that treating only the symptoms, not the root causes, dealing with only the "experts", not those in the situation, while trying to fix it might make things worse. And does, to be honest. You want to reduce homelessness, talk to the homeless, get their take on what road blocks are there, what they endure in getting off the streets or out of the shelters, and be supportive of them when they do, don't just forget them and move on.

Also, to those trying to help other homeless out of their situation, if they have an artistic skill, and try to use it for getting out of the pinch they are in, LET THEM! Don't decry those attempts, especially, if like me, they say it is a fall back plan, to have at least some way to earn a few coins to eke by their miserable lives on. Urging them to use it as supplementary income is okay, but do NOT block them from moving on with those skills, and trying to gain back some cash for their art.

Last, I've spoken my last bits about your messes, folks. They are your messes now, not mine. Today is the drop dead date for a job. That said, I have little faith in any appearing, and less in my ability to hold it, as part of the agreement I settled out was to hit the streets, or hills, so there is no place that is stable in my life to live from, if I were to accept one. I'd try, but without showers, laundry, and the like until that first paycheck? No, it would not be fair, to the employer, their customers, or me.

Like I said, one more to go, no more rants, no more anything really, left in me. Save two things.
Goodbye, good luck, and take one last whiff as I pass of what belongs in a pipe.

oh, and yeah, I am burning, and will keep burning via canned postings here, the rights to much of the writing I did during this last few years. I that pissed off, I'm tossing all this to the winds, forgoing the money I might have had a chance at, just to show a few people I thought were my kith and kin that I was not just sitting on my ass doing nothing. At least, not most days. Bestcase, them being right,  this was a few hundred bucks, worst case, I just burnt a few million, and fame, to show them up. Yeah, when I get pissed, the monetary loss for a little taste of vengeance, which I've held back, numerous times from taking, and they knew it, is something I will stoop to. Congrat's, people. You finally have me furious.

Urges and Gut Feelings

Folks urge you
to keep the Faith,
fight off Fate's evil hands
and keep pressing on
not seeing things.

Others know not
what you might face
in the daily trials Life
tosses you about with
as you survive.

The speak loudly
about it being Depression
not hearing that you passed
that point long ago
progressing to Disgust.

Born of Anger,
fueled by other's attitudes
I now walk more carefully,
as their minefield attitudes
leave me worried.

Hear the lament of the outcast
who denies the urges of others,
instead following those baser Gut Feelings
to find a new path ahead.

They walk the streets you do,
but have no hopes left inside,
only anger and distaste at what
their Nation has turned into lately.

Fools dare judging,
even against their Commandments,
what others must do now
to find some Redemption
back to Society.

Idiots speak loudly
accusing the fallen often
that losing Faith is Depression
failing to see faces
twisted with Disdain.

My path ahead
is not yours, morons.
It is mine, and lonely.
I will walk away
not in fear...

...but in Disgust
at how we failed
the dreams of our ancestors
of a better Society

Hear the Lament of the Outcast
Damned by foolish Judgement of others
who know not the roads walked
to reach this point of surrender.

We walk into the dark shadows
not seeking oblivion and final solutions
but to regain our own grounding
amid the storms that ruined lives.

We seek not your medication bottles,
but a peaceful place to meditate
upon the road to that point
and where we also went wrong.

You can ignore
the words I lay
here into the electronic "Cloud",
but not the Truths
I speak of.

We were exiled
for many, varied reasons,
but all seek but Redemption
not at Society's bench,
but in mirrors.

I need time.
Time to heal wounds,
time to reflect on actions,
time to choose words
for my return.

I will return.
Not avenging angel style,
nor as Doom's Dark Prophet,
but an outside observer
of your Society.

Hear the Lament of this Exile,
cast out of your vain Society,
and realize your own parts involved
in my fall from high places.

I speak now the last words,
Lay out the final, sad poems.
One last yet to share here,
then I fall into brooding silence...

...As I reflect upon the failures
not just of my own self,
but the Nation once so great,
and how we let Her fail..
.
The Promises made in Her name...
The Oath about Justice for All...
The Dreams of Land of Opportunity...
The Hopes of Better Days Ahead...
The Future now tarnished so vilely
by what we all let happen...

Not just to me...
but others also,
fallen aside,
forgotten.
Cast Out.
29September2014 - Dyfedd Rex, ready to walk away, pull out his soul, and give it careful scrutiny for damage and ability to repair.

Grinding it out - A poem of life, writing, and the hunt for a job

Demons and ghosts haunt me,
as fingers do their dance,
seiving the tale from slime
that sloshes in my skull.

Dark thoughts bounce around, wildly.
The day of job applications,
and nights and monrings writing
are piling up without results.

Some is my stubborn attitude
about learning new fangled things
that morph about faster yearly
beyond my keeping up easily.

Each thing that goes wrong
seems like an evil indictment
against the paths I choose
to walk these gloomy days.

Characters' dialogue spins the wheels
amid the slippery brain matter
forcing me to slow down
instead of driving to end.

This is my long haul,
still going on these days.
Sixteen tons of doubt, despair
that leave you without hope.

Save those brilliantly clear moments
when things just fall right,
as the leaves up high
set the mountains on fire.

Fall is never my best.
Give me winter or summer
when I can do things
due to heat or snow.

Keep tossing out the apps,
persevere to finish the stories
and offer advice and help
for other writers out there.

This is my life, now.
Just a gathering of randomness,
set out by cruel fates
and the schedules of others.

Still, the words continue flowing,
burbling over the literary logjams
that my thought stream becomes
when things weigh me down.

Those words hold the promise,
and dreams still drive me
towards goals others laugh at,
even as I make progress.

Another tale accepted just recently,
and cajoling from some corners
that I crank out more
shows I was absolutely correct...

Writing my way back up
will work, before a job.
Though I have been wrong before.
And hope I am now.

18September2014 - Dyfedd Rex

Questions to deal with in Writing

As one writes a story, you find yourself asking more questions about it, of the characters and yourself.

First, does it read well? You deal with that later. That is the kind of thing for the edit sessions. I find that the dictum many writers speak of, write the story, stupid" works best. Write the damned thing, then go back and edit. "Journey to Freedom" would not have taken six years and 10 drafts had I listened to that advice.

Second, Where the HELL did that come from? And what relevance does it have to the tale? This happens when some bit of the character's back-story creeps into the story, as  you write it out, and that is something you do NOT stop to deal with right then, either. Just drive on, but jot down notes on your shock at what dances off the fingers as you move the pen or tap the keys, depending upon preferred method of first drafting. Deal with that later, too.

Third: Should I stop here? Only if you absolutely have to. Never break a streak of words when you have a good run going. Even something you feel may be destined for some forgotten stretch of literary wilderness might have the rough gem you just need a touch of cutting and polishing on to convert it into a magnificent jewel.

Fourth: Is this paragraph good enough? Delay, prevaricate, and drive on with the streak. Never stop, save to top off the coffee/tea/soda cup and get right back at it, fast. A quick peek at social media is fine, as long as you keep it quick, don't linger, and keep the cursor away from those blasted game icons.

Last: Will it sell? Just tell the tale, you can fix marketability of a tale in the edit, or change your target audience/market as needed.

In other words. Butt in seat and write. Make your daily/project word goals, pad that number all you can, and pray Life, Lady Luck, and the Fates don't notice you are having a good time.

Oh, save and back it up frequently. Murphy loves to vex writers by applying his law to us.

Why I write - A commentary on Life, Myself, and Society

This blog, the tales and poems on it, and the few times I rant and rave about things, all have purpose.

They get me through the travails Life tossed my way, the hurdles the Fates, evil wenches they are (sorry, ladies, but those three gals, no matter which Incarnations you chose, are wenches, serving up dishes oft better left untasted), lay on my path, and the many frustrations stemming from the seemingly (to me, and others in similar situations) excessive application of Murphy's Law to events affecting me.

I write to keep my sanity, to vent frustrations and hopes both. I write to show I won't give up, that I will find some way out, no matter how much rubble, trash, and other offal get thrown into this pit I'm in, cause I'm just too ornery to totally quit. Step back to regroup, maybe. Stand aside while assessing a situation, definitely time to write, just to see if what rolls out has an answer or that analysis gives you a better understanding of the wasteland I stand in.

And this is a wasteland. A place where Society has tossed aside members to, ignoring their concerns and the reasons they fell from grace. I see the dirty underbelly of our Nation, and it ain't pretty. In fact, the sight is mighty revolting. Not just the rampant crimes, garbed in clothes with blue and white collars both, but the foolish ideas, blind ambitions that drive us into bad situations, and worst, the pure, uncaring hearts of stone that so many have, while spouting words of Faiths that condemn that very attitude.

We can be better. All of us. You, me, our kith and kin, our neighbors, even our enemies and allies. But we fail to see where we can improve.

For me, it's all about the attitude. After over 8000 (yeah, let me emphasize that a bit, that is EIGHT THOUSAND, not a typo) job applications over the last four years, more than required to obtain the benefits many survive such a stretch for a period via Unemployment checks, I'm still trying. Yes, I often tell folks now I have a bet with myself that writing will start giving me money to live on before a job materializes, but that is just my pessimism talking, not optimism. That part of my attitude makes me keep tossing resumes to the winds, trying to find a steady job to live off of, instead of wandering away as I often threaten.

How does writing lift that optimism. Simple. Each view of this blog, and my others, tells me folks do care, might cut me enough slack to get a shot at rising back up, and best of all, it lets me take out frustrations, instead of on real folks, upon characters and words, to relieve the tensions between my ears and shoulders, that ache for some release. It also reminds me, each time I get a sale, a hit, or even just a comment, that I have skills never tried, ones just getting their first real shots as these fingers do their dance across the keys. A slim opportunity to use those skills to haul myself out.

So, don't laugh at the writers. At least they keep trying, plodding forward with determination and grit so many lack, who start something, or only talk up an idea, then let others do the work for them.

I'm here, I'm still trying, and will keep on writing, until the cold fingers of some destiny I have no clue about close on my throat, fingers, eyes, and mind, to rip me down as worm fodder.

So, lead, follow, or preferably, get out of my bloody way. If you don't, well, we writers have another form of revenge. Writing you into a tale, then claiming the resemblance is purely coincidental (that coincidence being you irked me just as I needed a character or event in a tale, and thus got immortalized in verse or prose). Or, better yet, to poke fun at you, and remind you that Satire is protected speech, and has a long, great history of being an agent of change.

So, tonight, when I write, don't laugh. After all, it might be something you'd enjoy, either reading yourself or watching others read, just for their reactions. And remember. I write to show I am not dead, not broken, just frazzled, but still slogging onward, to some goal I myself have no clue about, but it's out there. That, and to shut up the characters that my dreams and daydreams seem to keep spawning, having a fairly fertile imagination.

28August2014 - Dyfedd Rex

Waiting to Rise - A poem of Life

The waiting sucks.
Period, it just sucks.
Look, there are some limits
to the patience applied
to Life's long travails.

You sit there,
waiting for phone's ring,
and pray good news comes.
But the silence wears
your nerves out.

Still holding on
to Hope's slim threads,
wishing for better rope strands
to lift you up
from the depths.

Waiting to rise
out of disaster's ashes,
you sit doing small things.
Write some short stories,
play a game.

Each day stretches
your abilities a bit.
Testing limits set by personality
on just how long
you can persevere.

The ashes stir,
as Fate's winds gust
and you hope that call
comes pretty damned soon,
lest you collapse.

I ain't Job.
That fellow's patience excelled,
where mine stagnates in mires
that I wandered amid
seeking some redemption.

Still, I wait.
Pandora's box lies open,
Hope still peeking over rim,
checking for safe exit
to lift me.

Legs bunched up,
I'm ready this time
to leap back into Life
and take up loads
that She assigns.

So, call me,
Mister Opportunity who knocks.
Your raps get drowned out
by the woodpeckers hammering
on my supports.

Yeah, they drill
at those thin poles,
seeking their own chosen moment
to take away things
I'm left with.

I am waiting.
Waiting to rise again,
not like the old Phoenix,
but with Thunderbird's wings
beating back up.

Glance at phone,
check the empty inbox,
and still you feel Hope
despite lacking any missives
to sustain Her.

One more try.
And another, ad nauseum.
You plow on through fogs
that hide Fate's weaving
from your eyes.

Others make choices
that decide my destiny
in tiny, imperceptible ways
unless you're the guy
standing right here.
Waiting nervously,
but hoping
this time
is
IT.
28August2014 - Dyfedd Rex

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.

Status of Soul, Faith, Heart, and Head - A poem of hope and warning.

If my soul were a drum set,
then folks keep playing 'Wipeout' on it,
whacking away with sticks, heads, and clubs
until my spirit crumples under those blows
and the man around it falls apart.

If my faith is a tall mountain,
then others heap their trash around it,
hiding the lower slopes, only seeing heights
they cannot understand, blinded by their wastes
that hide the bedrock it rises from.

If my heart truly were a pump
the gaskets would be facing factory recall
from the start and stop stress tests
the Fates toss my way of late,
that reveal the defects in my chest.

If stone truly comprises space between ears....
Wait a minute. I do have that.
A head made of solid stone, for battering
on tables, desks, walls, and Life's challenges.
Time to thump out my own rhythm.
Ya'll might want to grab earplugs and helmets.

:P Dyfedd Rex - 26 August 2014

(Life better remember, She gave me this noggin of toughness +5, Unholy Stunner... and enough hair to headbutt my way through it all.)

Fairer Winds Blowing - A poem of better times that came at last

After the long cold,
true warmth enters my life
giving me hope of better days
as the winds of fate
shift to fairer directions.

I've done my time
of being a homeless bum
and won't need to hold signs
this winter for hot coffee
as a job came.

And that started avalanche
of change in those winds,
as they kicked me from duldrums
back onto the trade lanes
where things look hopeful.

A short story sold.
A poetry e-book almost ready
to offer for sale real soon,
and that was the flap
of Fate's butterfly wings.

Now, I steer careful.
Have the stars showing clearly
where I am, where I'm going,
and just have to remember
where I once was.

This ends one chapter
in the tale I'm living.
The one that tore me up,
beat me down to earth,
then lifted me up.

There are friends waiting,
ones still needing that hand,
like I once did, during this.
Folks I need to thank
when I get chance.

Including my readers here.
For lifting my spirits up,
for keeping my passions burning bright,
and most of all believing
in a homeless bum.

I'm free of it,
others are not, so remember
when you pass some worn panhandler,
this poet has been there,
and asks most kindly
that you not
ignore them,
insult them,
but give them hope.

Like you did me.
17August2014 - Dyfedd Rex, Riding some good waves and winds, headed.... to a home.

Too many "Nineteen Hands"
dealt out by ol' Fate
and she wonders why I duck
when she moves her hands,
dealing more cards out.

The pegs sit still
back behind that awful line
marked by two nasty minded skunks
who want to spray you
to mark your failure.

This is what's faced
when the cards don't fall
in patterns you can make work
to dig yourself out slow
from this worldly grave.

The cards don't lie,
they just fail to show,
and you pray to peg some
just to move those pegs
on God's Cribbage Board.

Each hand plays out,
and with it, my luck.
Fortune being so fickle a gal,
she loves to watch me
squirm at the drought.

But those ladies fear
the day the cards turn.
For give me one good hand,
and play your cards wrong
and I'll deny victory.

Tens, no fives showing.
Sixes, lacking any nines around.
These are the hands I keep seeing.
No runs, no fifteens, nor
taste of a flush.

Still, I keep playing,
striving to get across lines
that only God and I know,
marking life events, some great
most too damned small.

Wait a minute, here.
It's my turn to deal!
Despite the dismal showing to date,
I resist temptation once more,
and refuse stacking deck.

If not by hand,
then by that lonely crib,
or perhaps a bit of "muggin's",
I'll to one-twenty-one
and win out, perhaps.
15August2014 -  A grumpy Dyfedd Rex.

Amid the Joyous Tumult Tonight - A poem of the streets

New Year's Eve
and I find myself
still waiting for better days
the fading year promised,
back last December.

Still camping out,
homeless and jobless soul
wandering about the cold streets
looking for that break
to rise up.

I won't craft
any damned, annoying resolutions
this night to have fall
victim to my circumstances,
learnt that finally.

Amid the joyous tumult tonight
this boy will be quiet,
sitting in hiding some place,
seeking just a peaceful smoke.

The debate's on
about what to do
when the sun rises tomorrow.
Go to the feed
or wander around.?

Both have advantages,
but the latter sounds,
to my worn out spirit,
a bit too dull
as I ponder.

Dare I go
after a warm place
to sit and nibble foods
throughout the long day
when all's closed?

Amid the joyous tumult tonight
this boy will walk about,
wishing he'd had better luck
as the year dies away.

Things I know
for certain about tonight
are few and far between.
Will it be wild
or relatively tame?

There will be
none to party with,
as I gave up such.
And no midnight kiss,
lacking gal pals.

One thing's certain,
as others ring in
amid happy celebrations the new,
I will still worry
at the old.

Beyond the joyous tumult tonight
this boy looks for hope,
just a single break needed
to end this unlucky streak.

Come the morn,
when sun at last
warms up the winter air,
I'll be homeless still
and probably jobless.

Unless a miracle
rears its head up
over the milling folk shortly
and brays triumphant call
of job landed.

What will come?
I cannot say, surely,
for I am not seer
despite writing about one,
so, who knows?

After tonight's joyous tumult settles
into the grind of January,
I'll keep on slogging forward
just to piss off enemies...
... and tempt Fate's tempered blessings.
31December2013 - Dyfedd Rex, setting up folders for next year's works, poems, and other sundries.

The Hat Was Retired - A Poem of Worry and Thanks

Retired.
The best way
to describe what happened recently
to my hat.
Retired.

Unceremoniously.
Tossed aside casually
by my friends who cared
just about looks.
Regretfully.

Gone.
No case awaits,
despite my plans to contrary
for it's residency
within.

See,
I wanted her
to stay around to remind
this boy of
travails.

But
others had plans
that leave me pondering deeply
if she got
Respect.

So
I sit writing
under the new hat slowly
praying others recognize
me.

For
my Identity Card
she was for these years
as I wandered
streets.

Yet
A new hat
leads me to hope fervently
that better days
await.

Still,
I miss it.
She had character and memories,
despite worn brim,
cherished.

Hope.
That remains now,
for me to grasp firmly
as I tip
replacement.

Rest in Peace, old oilskin,
and may your successor
last as long.
Farewell.
30December2013 - Dyfedd Rex, with thanks and misgivings both.

Scorched Earth of the Spiritual Flamethrowers of Rejections - A Poem of Jobhunting and Loathing in America

Unless you've been here
you ain't got a clue
about how it digs in
eating your soul from inside
when jobs finally reply
months after applied for
with that form rejection
saying they are moving on
with other, more qualified folks.

This is my dilemma,
the pain I deal with
as I try moving forward
only to get kicked hard
in that awkward place
that makes one walk
lopsided, even just spiritually.
Hope dies with each one,
as hate and disgust grow.

Been expecting it, really.
This total turn away
from a guy who tries
to keep his own faith
while dealing with others,
and not intruding in theirs.
Temptations abound about me,
drugs, booze, or others.
But I still drive on.

Phone is back on.
Against my better judgement,
and I have to try again,
diving into the web tomorrow
to find a job of some sort
even just something foolish
as asking about fries or drinks
to go with that entree.
Not sure I want to try.

Been nearly three years now,
and not sure I have
what it takes to come back
from this ass-whupping
I've been taking all along.
The spirit is broken,
the body is worn,
and my mind is wandering
amid dreams burnt to ashes.

Rejection is so awful,
like a spiritual flamethrower,
aimed into the heart
of each person you see
who is down on their luck.
Maybe Hump-day, perhaps,
would be better choice
to dive over this cliff
and give it another shot.

Not today, that's for sure.
Still stinging from two more
silent killer cruise missiles
launched by soulless drones
called Human Resources departments,
filled with uncaring munitions
that create scorched earth
where once hope and imagination
laid out a bright future.

Yeah, you do that damage
with each of those letters
sent to one without anything
to get by on now,
save that piece of cardboard
I promised not to hold
on some street corner
for another month or so
and give it one more try.

Then again, who knows
maybe this is the week,
month or year I break
this long losing streak.
Yeah, and perhaps this year
the Cubs have a shot,
the Utes win through
and I get a job.
Well, one out of three?
...Please?

23September2013 - Dyfedd Rex
(who's still pretty disgusted with America and society)

The grey skies arrived.
Sneaking in overnight,
cloaking the stars above
from our upward gazes
to adore Heaven's Vault.

Wet and cooler air,
aleady I see the hints
of color on the over east,
where Fall's first touch
lays out colorful dots.

Campsite was trashed
and where it wasn't,
the herd staked claims
on the little coves
where I prefer sleeping.

Cleaned what I could,
left the rest for Nature
to scrub away this week
with expected rains
these clouds promise.

This is the warning:
find a safe haven folks.
As Winter starts stretching
for his cold marathon
across us pretty soon.

Ain't where I wanted
this old boy to be
back in the spring.
No built up place,
no home in offing.

But, I enjoy cold,
as long as toes
ain't freezing until dead
or nose running constantly
to keep the pipes clear.

Third season of snows
I will spend homeless,
less the world relents
and Fate convinces Karma
I've paid for my sins.

So, when you pass by
some person holding sign
on a cold, windswept corner,
remember, it could be you
or a loved one there...

...for you're only a mistake away,
even if you don't admit it.

10September2013 - Dyfedd Rex

Quiet in the Campsite - A Poem of Escaping Homelessness.

First time it hits me
comes amid the quiet
as I load my pipe,
up at my higher campsite
happy to be back
but missing that companion
who walked along side
for the past year and  ahalf.

No conversations,
no long diatribes on life,
no snoring wakes me
during this first peaceful night
as I learn again
how to walk this dark world
with no wingman near.
Not really alone
amid the trees and grasses.

He managed to leave,
and now his spot is empty
here in this high place
where we spent some nights
hiding from our fate
as just another damned set
of homeless folks out
seeking a safe, tame rest place.

I'm happy for him,
he's getting out of the mess
just as the fans spin
to shred the fertilizer
that so many spread
out here on the lonely streets
where he was stuck at
for way too long over years.

My buddy got free,
Wishing him the best of luck
as I kick back now
take a puff on my old pipe
and gaze calmly up
watching the stars roll on by
clouds dancing amid
their splendour above my place.

He got free at last.
Which gives me hope, I will too.

9September2013 - Dyfedd Rex