A new origin of evil. - Talking out the story part two.

Delving into my brain, I realized about two years ago that Scorpio was born, really, from what I know call the "Walkers in Darkness" cycle of stories characters. The Necromancer, Zisura, is the greatest bane that not only seeks to craft him as her tool, but fails to see she makes her bane as well.

So, we start the tale in the ruins of occupied Kvaeg, a city on the dark continent of Domorushtuu, once ruled by Afreet, cruel masters of the humans there, but now held by the sorceress and her brother, the one who thought he would ascend to be the head of the Allegiance of the Blades, the guild of the assassins.

Here, I show the crafting of evil knives and tools, meant to warp souls to Zisura's domination. And her brother's. I also lay the ground work for something else, if you can see it. While still in first draft, I'm sure the telegraphed blow to fall in future stories is obvious, so once the tale is done, we'll work at cloaking it better. For now, get the story out, and fix it with the chainsaw and Bondo putty later.

As I have said before, there is a strong tie between the tales of Billenius and those of Scorpio, not just the setting of the world, but in the weaving of the Parcae, Billenius's mistresses of Fate. I lay that out in revealing somewhat of the nature of a side character in this tale, who figures strongest in one to come, that I call "The Knife Has No Forgiveness". At the chapter's end, I intend to reveal who, and what, Tam-Hattu, blood brother of Adresh Tesh is. And toss in hint about others I write of.

Call it telegraphing the punch. Call it many things, just let me explore it.

Aromatic Sorcerous Enchantments and My Blends!

Dave's Tobacco Blends....

Rum Raider = 2:2:1 ;  Black Cavendish, Natural Cavendish, Buttered Rum Burley
Hobo Cherry Balls = 1:2:2:5 ; Cherry Cavendish, Black Cavendish, Black Truffle, Whiskey Cavendish
Hat Wizard's Mocha =1:1:1:1.5:0.5 ; Black Truffle, Mellow Mocca, Black Cavendish Natural Cavendish, Whiskey Cavendish
All based off a 2.5 oz pack at purchase. 
What will I tinker with next? Who the hell knows... Thinking a Chocolate Whiskey thing straight up or a Pure Black Cav Mocca... but letting the mind perk this over a bit more. These smoke great in briers  but were best in my Osage Orange wood brier from Kansas.

Black Cav is still my goto tobacco
but here of late, I've been experimenting
touching on other flavors and different cures
seeking that perfect blend for all occasions.

From the under the hat it drifts
the smoke from my last few pipes,
seeking to enthrall folks by aromatic sorcery
to make them see someone not here.

This is now my Life's great mission
to show the world I still exist
a lonely gentleman from forgotten past era
walking among the world still, with pride.

So I tip my hat at the ladies,
make the kids laugh at my faces
and wander amid streets of Yule's joy,
leaving some to wonder if Grandpa returned...

... or Santa wants his own pipe back.
Season's Greetings all! And No, I won't share,
save the bits of odor left behind
as this homeless bum walks amid you.

20December2012 - Dyfedd Rex

Playing with Weather Magic - A poem of Warning

They asked, despite my warnings...
Knowing I can touch clouds
twisting them to my desires
my family begged for precipitation
even as I reminded them
of the storms such stir.

Cupping hand over trembling hand
I felt the ley lines
racing through the skies above
hairs raising as power surged
through fingers that twitched about
seeking to make them respond.

Now the results land there
the weather folk speak up
about the mixing of elements
to build a storm there
but I know the Truth...
I touched the forbidden powers.

Our storm faltered out here
shredded by my questing reach
to bend the weather around
make it do my bidding.
So now the fury roars
across the prairies of home.

So, tomorrow as you shovel
amid the cold, howling winds,
I remind my kinfolk sternly
and my kith as well
be careful what you wish
for Murphy messes up magic.

19December2012 - Dyfedd Rex

Guillotine Jim's Tale - A ghostly poem from a few years back

Gather close my kin, lean in to the fire
as I tell this tale of woe and the wages of sin
for Washington Irving's tale of the horseman
can only hold a dim candle indeed to this yarn
of the fate of Guillotine Jim the gangster ghost
who is damned to wander in Hell's fires forever
brought low by the curses of many young girls
whose ponies he defiled to scare them senseless.

Now Jim was the one you hear the tales of
who did the deed few would confess to
of chopping of the heads of many lil' Flicka's
and leaving them on preteen girls beds as omens
to their daddies to keep their mouths shut
about what they had seen or heard in bars
when drinking beneath their station to find
some silly floozie to take the place in bed
of the frigid wives they had married in haste
or over bad gambling debts they could not pay.

After decades of ruling the streets of the Big Apple
with his chainsaw and the heads of too many mares
he chopped into the wrong thoroughbred herd
and made enemies with a wicked coven of girls
who had found the paths of darkness in grimoires
better left unmentioned, untouched, and forgotten
Those gals had been scarred by Jim's evil in their souls
and sold them to Satan without a single regret
for the revenge of which you are about to be told

Satan heard the offers, and took their souls,
and for once held up his end of the bargain
heading out to the pastures of Sheol to find
the stallion of midnight's darkest moments.
He loped off its head and sent it to gather in
a sinner long unrepentant for his actions
and torture him with his own worst fears
to keep the souls of thirteen young pure hearts
to quench his lusts in forever and ever.

The beast had screamed when its pate was torn
from his sleek shadowy neck that night
and tore off as charged to gather up a rider
and take down to meet his damnation
Fire blazed up from that trachel exposed
as he trod the avenues and alleys searching
for the man who destroyed little girls' hearts
to bring him down to his proper level.
Night after night, once the hunt began
Jim lived in fear of being caught by the beast
for on his first glimpse of that ghostly creature
he knew it was crafted to be his fitting end.

At last after months, the horse caught the mobster
and kicked him out of his seat in some bistro
before a crowd that stampeded out in fear
as the headless stallion claimed his rider
by tossing Jim aboard its razor spined back
to be cut in a million places dear to the man
who soon was sheathed in Hell's fiery blaze
to scream in fear as borne along the roads
he had taken his own prey down in days before
to chop their heads off in Central Park
leaving the bodies to rot, and leaving the heads
in the beds of innocent young children.

They say the Stallion took him deep into Hades
others claim he rides the plains of Purgatory
I heard a tale he races in Newark against bullet bikes.
But all know his fate, and reason the mobs stopped
leaving the pates of ponies in beds these days
As Guillotine Jim still does ride at the head of the parade
every All Hollow's Eve for now and eternity
leading thirteen girls who sold their souls to see
him burn in hell for harming their ponies
down to damnation for ever more.

2010- Dyfedd Rex

Long-term Forecast, still doubting - a poem of lies, damned lies, statistics and WAGs.

Lingering dusting and more
lying up above me
warns me to remember
that Meteorology, despite claims
is not a Science.

Rather, she's an Art
inspired by capricious muses
who ask us all
to tell whopping lies
whilst keeping straight faces.

So I glance warily
at that long-term forecast
knowing it mostly guesses
that make up details
that promise warmer temps.

Better to place trust
for the next season
in the migrating birds
who sent clear message
Why stay here, fool.

Cold toes, frozen fingers
broken zippers, mismatched gloves
down the check list
my fingers shiver along
for heeding mans' prevarications.


28Oct2012 - Dyfedd Rex, the shivering despite warming sun.

New Project Alert.... A short story of CRAPP...

So, this idea has been bouncing off the rocks in my head for a while now, and its flowing out today...
Imagine if the EPA had a special division to do the cleanups behind all the Vampire Slayers, Zombie Killers and Wizards that roam around in fantasy these days...
Then give the main character all my worst tendencies, amplified... and an attitude about bureaucracy that is beyond even mine. Make him a Luddite (Technophobe), only able to love women unavailable to him and hate paperwork even though its his mealticket.
Then toss in a division of the Army that creates problems all the time he has to clean up, two demons who follow him around and his dog, which has allergies to paranormal phenomenon and those with abilities in such.
Not sure where its going yet, other than out to Dugway Proving Grounds.... This may get ugly.

Zombie of the Sexbots' Revenge - A poem of having your email hacked

Zombie now I am.
tool of those I mocked.
Held forever more in durance vile,
until I find a way
to break these chains.

Their cries I ignored
until their filthy claws struck
taking over body and soul fast
in the night's darkest hour
when the demons roam.

My fingers never move
yet the messages are sent
seeming to originate from my hand
yet composed of black magic
moving around like snakes.

Beware opening that mail
for my condition is contagious
and your soul will be imperiled
if eyes fall upon text,
enchanting your as well.

Run away from me
seek the safety behind fire
for the disease seeks to spread
and take us all down
to burn in Hell.

I wander the wilderness
seeking a cache of salt
to lay under my tongue swiftly
and break this dark spell
freeing my virtual soul.

But I quest vainly
suffering agonies so damningly dark
as my browser roams tabloid pages
locked in on celebrity "news"
which poisons me more.

At last I stumble
upon a method of freedom
staggering into an angel's arms
as lasers burn out infection
I am free now....
..... but a bit brain-dead.

(23Apr2012 - Dyfedd Rex)

Cauldron of Conversion to Evil - a poem I am thinking of revisiting

Twelve witches gathered that night
among the hemlock choked woods
around their black cauldron of sins
to welcome another to their coven
unwilling though she may have come.
Bound in the tree above that pot
suspended by the rope used to hang
those who commited heinous crimes
she squirmed in her hemp constraints
as below her the hags began their craft
to warp her into one of their evil kind.
Three sisters stirred that pot laughing
as two more chanted the spells hoarsely
to transform the sweet young thing
into a wicked enchantress of men
to be the new leader of their numbers
and make them strong as once they'd been
before the Inquisition found their queen
just a few weeks afore their Blackes mass.
They named each of the cardinal sins,
tossing in the ingredients to maker her over
clothing, tools, and other things imbued
with the sins banned by the Fathers
as being those of the points of Evil's Compass.
then the lowered the screaming virgin down
into the boiling broth of foul enchanting
all chanting and pouring out their hate
for the girl to absorb into boiled skin
amid the frothing green concoction.
Those with paddles held her under
as others struck her with cat'o'nines
when she lifted arms or legs, even back
out of the soup she was now part of
Then came the moment of the midnight hour
and the owl and raven cried out above
The let rise the green skinned hag
they had just created to joine them
She thanked her sistern for freeing her
from the bounds of purity and good
casting her first dire spell upon the ground
as at last the trees died, shedding all
leaves and bark as well to mark the woods
as being haunted by the ghosts of those
slain by their spells, starting with her own mother.

　

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.

Twisted Offering - a strange poem of the season and job hunting

I will save the commentary for after you read this, just read it all before sicking the authorities upon me, please...... you might regret doing so.


In throes of near Economic Depression
when desperately searching for gainful employment,
one resorts to means more resourceful
in imagination than in easier times.

Yes indeed, one finds one must
turn to the forces of darkness
and offer up a precious sacrifice
to obtain a job more swiftly.

Decisions made in night's middle hours
come to pass with rising sun.
I grab several small wooden spikes
and kidnap the unsuspecting innocent lambs

Then off to find an altar
to do the terrible deed upon
and seal the deal I made
with forces beyond your mortal comprehension.

With luck it is found finally
a place left momentarily unattended
for me to do foul deeds,
I lay the forfeited ones out.

Chanting a complex prayer, voice soft,
I raise up my weapon high,
as the priest comes back out
hollering for me to please stop

Too late, the spear is fallen
piercing the skin like thin foil
allowing the ichors to flow out
filling the air with sickly sweetness.

Father Gilliam lays stern, shaking hand
upon my shoulder as he gazes
upon the gift I have bequeathed
to the next world so brutally.

A deep sigh, the hand stills,
then whips my shoulder around wickedly
so I stare into mournful eyes
"Son, you cannot keep doing this..."

His voice trails off into chokes
as laughter rises up from within
both of us looking back again
at a toothpick impaled Carmello bar...
           ..my sacrifice to God for Employment.

Okay, now that you understand I was not sacrificing children or small animals, we can discuss the origins of this poem without spoiling it.

I have a friend who lives in terror of his black cat getting out in the fall, especially the closer it is to Halloween. He was telling me of his fears, of never seeing the poor kitten again she were out, and what some sickos might do to her. That same day, I had a conversation about this is the season for offering up gifts to the gods and costumed children of small pieces of chocolate... you get where this is going, yes only my mind could combine these two ideas, then again who knows... maybe my slimy brain actually was resonating in tune with the thoughts of others. Who cares... but seriously, other than a candybar, what else does God really need?

You can all shun me now, or share this around if you liked it.