Corr Adi

RIP 02/01/2016, he was the hero the rift deserved, but not the one it needed.
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Corr Adi

Once again, I asked forgiveness; forgiveness for those brethren fallen. I cross myself and thank the darkness. Haunting memories of past selves swirl in a choking fume. Every death a cherished ending, a blessing of freedom from the tumult of living. Each passing a desperate appeal to Grace, To hold her with these withered arms; To feel its breeze caress burning scars and to steal away the heaving sorrows. By the hundreds, by the thousands, the din of the dying echoes. Regretful moans, silenced only by the ring of the swift blade, by brunt of the shattered axe. Once again, shall I ask forgiveness as this cold metal grasp takes hold; forgiveness for those brethren fallen. I cross myself and thank the darkness.

The Minion's War: A Memory

Good ideas really do come when you're in a comfortable bathroom.
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Sometimes I see it. Scenes of a life. A quaint house on a hillside overlooking rolling waves of emerald and gold. The pitter-patter of feet echo through the hillside as they run to me. So precious. They call to me, tugging playfully at my hem,  skipping and pointing at a door. Someone emerges from the way; a woman. The children, ecstatic, run off to the beautiful figure, hugging her legs tightly as they continue to beckon for me. They all shined a light so bright, growing more overwhelming with every step. I can see her face; as a twinge seizes my heart. A slender hand strokes my cheek and supple lips mutter words unheard. I want to ask her to repeat it, but the words are stuck, an acrid taste taking their place. Tears surface within her auburn eyes. My fists clenched hard enough to numb my hands. Why do you cry? Who are you? Do I know you? Why does it hurt? I find myself farther away. I want to turn back, but something keeps me. I can hear cries as I depart. Further and further away, slowly being consumed by the blinding light. I cannot hear. I cannot see. I cannot feel. Nothingness. Except a longing. I hear a voice stained with longing and, as always, brings the familiar twisting pain to my heart. Yes, I know this one: "Minions have spawned."

Juxtapose: Part 1

This is something I wrote a while ago, but never posted it. It's a rewrite of something I found in a journal from many MANY moons ago. I'm talking that stage when all you wear is black and listen to grunge metal and old  school hip hop. Regardless the nostalgia got me.
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I was 18 when the draft finally grabbed me. In this country, Metahlia, there is a constant need of soldiers to fuel the cabinet's age-old bloodlust against their rival, the province of Aseria, and they grab us ripe the millisecond we hit adulthood. Thousands of young men and women are funneled into the military against their will to serve a minimum of two years, while unfortunately very few make it out. To survive was to win, and during those battles you had no insurance, but to pray that Fate herself that she had you within her reach. When I was 16 the military had made an appeal to the public; They claimed they had found a way to end the bloodshed, a way to quell the fighting and the endless deaths, and offered a deal during a press conference: any who joined their new recruit program would only have a single year of service and be granted wartime draft immunity thereafter. Several young souls leapt at the opportunity for a shorter service time, but what awaited was unfathomable. The recruitment drive was nothing but a scheme; a filthy facade for a chance to create human weapons. They had created nanomachines that could replicate and take the place of human cells; a living metal.

Journal Entries from a Scholar: Entry 3

I swear I'm trying to get back onto updating this -_-
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January 25th 21XX

I thought she died, but she only seems to have fallen into a deep sleep as she had suddenly fallen limp while mid-bite into the poor rumpus of a cow carcass. It's strange, however, that even the most savage of beasts can appear peaceful at rest. I've moved her to a cordoned section of my house for when she wakes. She was much lighter than what I expected, especially considering how much she ate. Maybe this whole ordeal is finally taking its toll on my sanity, but she definitely seems to have grown since yesterday.

The Minion's War: Part 3 - Caster

Been a while since I posted. I'm alive...sort of.
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Nashor. That name floated among us after the sinister howl traveled across the river's waters. Heavy axes propped upon strengthened shoulders swayed as they marched. A dread hung from the utterance, but even still, Proud were they, the warriors of our front line. Heading our company striding even before the siege, they stood defiant; steadfast. First to battle, only the strongest were chosen, borne to hold axe against the blade, unlike the kind that I am.  A lowly staff is all I was given alongside knowledge of the arcane. It resigns me to the shadows of the mighty and the smoke of the siege. Our cowardice makes us less valuable to the cause. Weak, we stand farthest from the bloodshed, and often last to remain of the fallen. Even so it it was fear that pushed our cause. Fear that pervades every bolt cast to sear those who cannot reach me and protect those who do not see me. Though our brethren will fall; their proud shoulders slump a midst the dust and blood, as the opposing trod harshly upon their pieces. The loud crashes of metal scoring metal echoed across the field as the siege is torn apart, its rider mangled just as his ironclad machine. A blood lust both foreign yet familiar to those who have braved the fields and survived to see beyond the second guardian. Their eyes glowed viciously as they towered over our own front, and just as quick as they had arrived, they had reached us in background. The cowards now stood foremost, standing behind naught but the corpses of the fallen. The bolts frantically cast were merely waived by the vigor of their swings when I was met by a clean cut. Worn wood could not bear the weight of  wrought metal. What should be inside flowed outwards and mingled with the dirt. It was always an unsavory death, a baptism in blood as I closed my eyes and let the core take hold of my soul.

The Minion's War: Part 2 - Tower

This took a while but here it is.  I had some trouble on figuring out how I should go about writing the story but after going to bed early and belong alone with my thoughts some good ideas came out of the scary ones. Srsly don't do it. Being alone with your thoughts is some scary shit.

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There was dust; A hazy storm illuminated by strikes of the axe and blaze of the siege. It fell upon us as we drew near. It stood not a man, or machine, but a devilish construct made for desolation. It sought prey,  appointing the one meant for an end. Energy crackled up the behemoth from its feet,  hissing as it spun up to the apex centering on a charged point before hurtling in a burst of fire. And the shot reached its destination. My armor melts, glowing white hot, scalding flesh underneath. I swung again, my axe crying loud as it landed feebly. The beast waited in repose until the familiar hiss of mana filled the air, it's energy billowing my cloak and spurring the storm as it surged skywards. Blood beneath my gauntlets undermined my grip, denying the axe the privilege to cleave. The sky grew brighter. My axe fell to the ground. I scrambled to retrieve it but my fingers found no familiar metal. My fingers were not found. My flesh crackled as immense heat devoured me. My tabard crumbled, turning into a fine char as it fell from my mangled frame. I writhed. My allies feverishly, stealing glances at their possible future, but I had survived. My brethren carried me on. I was clutched in hands firm and perched upon shoulders as they took care not to let me fall away; There was dust.

Alone Artist: Part 2

I had visited this estate previously. It was a visit which luckily bore witness to the stipulations of my commission. Messages crudely painted onto several relevant surfaces throughout the massive manor served as a guide in lieu of the host. Inscribed on the front door over the weathered gargoyle knocker was a terse message: "Knock thrice, Name and place". Just as I had seen my master do two years ago I followed the prompt. I knocked three times, paused and stated my name, "Hello. This is Sean Penn."  I could feel a presence looming behind the door as I continued, "I am from The Lone Atelier for your commission today, Mrs. Dawnseer." As fast as I had finished my introduction, the lock on the door clicked open and the presence dissipated. I reached for the tarnished doorknob and, with a deep sigh and shaky grip, turned and pushed. The weathered wooden door resisted before boisterously creaking open, its loud rasps echoing as it revealed an ominous portal into the quaint house.