Poetry and other writing

1nsan1

1nsan1

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Orange Star (100 Posts) Legacy User (Silver)
In which Insani commits #edginess. I'll post some of my good stuff here.

The Puppet King

The Puppet King, he rules us all,
He guides our flight and guides our fall,
He takes us off the stage at will
Our souls, our hearts, are his to kill.

Are you afraid to meet your fate;
To die when comes your judgement date?
Or are you just afraid to say
That you needed another day?

The Puppet King, he rules us all,
He'll give you flight, then make you fall,
He'll give you wings, then those wings take;
And burn you at the Devil's stake.

Whispers
The fields of green speak words to me
Whispering of things to be
Imparting their prophecy
And all to come is hell I see.

The words they sing are hard to hear
The wind blows and brings wisdom near
Yet all the words, these words I fear
These words, these fields to me are dear.

They speak in tongues I do not know,
Though all their words their wisdom show
It's not the words, and not the flow
It's all the meaning found below.

It is the song that makes me think
Makes me to the future sink
Makes me of prophecy drink
And takes me to hell's very brink.

These fields of green are free of man
Disturbed by no majestic plan
These fields are free, rather than
Cities in bonds from which I ran.

Live a lie (NSFW, censored swearing)
There's plagues and s~~~ it's killing us and we don't really care
We know the truth we know what's right but never really dare
We don't stand up we sit right down and try to have our fun
But we'll be crying and be dying when it's time to run.

But come now brother theres no point in fighting for the poor
Death's already on his way why pull him to the door
Look at those who've died like men and learn from their mistakes
Let's sit around like idiots and have fun for our sakes.

Who cares for those who are not us I really need to ask
Who in charity and good takes up this noble task?
Never me and never you hoping you are unwise
For there is pain in honesty and glamor in our lies.

Come now my friend and sing with me and let us live a lie
And let us live with greed and pride until the day we die
If we are scum upon the earth who really gives a f~~~
Caring is for chumps and fools so let us try our luck!

And here's some stuff from a novel I started working on. Probably won't actually go in since I've scrapped the chapters they appeared in.

There was a time, an ancient day...
There was a time, an ancient day
When all the children learned to say,
"Gods above us, Gods below
Gods upon us gifts bestow."
And we still retain the gifts of old;
The Gods remain completely bold;
But the Gods are here no more;
Bound and beaten in the war.

We used to know them, were acquainted;
We knew those pure and knew those tainted;
They walked among us, Gods and men;
But many years have passed since then.

Initiation
Upon the light of Goddess bright I firmly take this pledge
To follow truth and fight for it until I meet the edge
To try to fight against the night and every friend of it
And defend with everything the kingdom that She lit.
And with these words and with our swords we light the holy flame
And may the light of Reshamot all of the demons maim.

Prayers
Generic prayer (unfinished)
=======
Our Goddess bright of Truth and Light;
I offer praise for all the days
You've given me and for the chance to be
Your willing slave unto my grave.

I ask your light to grant me might;
To make me true always to you;
To give me peace that shall not cease;
To guarantee prosperity.

Prayer of War
=======
Goddess bright deliver might and cleanse my mind from sin
Deliver strength to fight the world and all the dark within
Clear my thoughts and still the fear and bring to me your truth
And bring to me the heads of those who fight me claw and tooth.
 
Ha, thanks. I have some more I can post.

A Product of an Evil World
A product of an evil world;
Which at a man it's burdens hurled-
He rises at the crack of dawn-
He goes to work without a yawn.

He has a dream, and with his wit
He might succeed, gain none of it.
He's worked so long, he never sleeps;
He never laughs and never weeps.

He may be top inside his field;
All other players lose or yield-
He's won the race and gained first place,
And wonder's present on his face.

He now sees his life at end;
The race, it seems, had willed to send
All of it's hounds to total naught;
It's prize was death; who would have thought?

A Star is Borne
A star is born upon this day;
A hero who has gone away -
He lived his life, never astray,
And paved for us our current way.

And right before our very eyes -
We can see his spirit rise -
And, to no very great surprise,
He takes his place up in the skies.
And everybody, near and far;
Will know, today, was born a star .

Freedom
There is a chance that I will seize;
Despite the weakness in my knees;
I won't let life just pass me by -
But I will stretch and reach the sky.

These chains I've made I'll also break;
For they aren't real - they're merely fake -
And if I beat myself completely
I may just make myself to see
That I will be my dream of me.

I won't sit by and bite the dust;
But I will try, and maybe just
Become a king and own my throne.
And, when I die, I will have shone;
And to this end my skills I'll hone;
To beat the world with words alone.

Hear me, world, and tremble now;
For you shall soon wonder how
This chief of fools gained victory;
Over one as fierce as thee.
But looking back, you shall see
That it was always only me;
And that I've made myself to be
Utterly, completely free.

Corruption
He stands upon the beaten shore
Standing now forevermore
His brows of bronze tell our sad tale
Tell everyone of how we fail
Of how we fail to conquer hate
And avoid a fatal fate.

Passerbys look upon him
They see him standing, though now dim
He tells them that we were once here
That our cities were once near.
His missing arm does testify
That we in conflict then did die
And that we destroyed everything
And fell victim to our own sin.

This man is now our legacy
Our only work that men will see
His face is scarred and rusted now
And passerbys will wonder how
A nation of ideals could fade
Destroyed by gun and by grenade
In pursuit of a greater good
Which seemingly ahead had stood
But which eluded us as we
Forgot what morals made us free.

We thought those 'round us were unclean
Feces on praries of green
And charged ourselves to clean the world
Of the vomit that Satan had hurled
And in our bright hypocrisy
We became far too blind to see
That in fighting those we hate
Monsters in us we did create
Monsters which us would soon destroy
As war became a treasured toy
Used freely to rob men of life
And peace gave way to total strife.

Our people were undone by greed
By all the demons they did heed
And so our mighty cities burned
And as we lay dying we then learned
That all our hatred was for naught
That our wars were vainly fought
For corruption had not ceased
Even with our foes deceased
It had simply migrated
And we had been given hatred
And so the hate we'd tried to kill
Became the force of our will
Turned us into our own death
And took away our dying breath.
But all of this was good and well
For we to hell from heaven fell
And rightly earned our bloody fate
For we had sown the seeds of hate.

Aaaaaand here's a random pokemon poem I did.
I want to be the pokemon
To serve the very best
To travel journies hard and long
I really do not jest!

To catch me is his real test
To train me is his cause
And I will battle for him, lest
I fall to boredom's jaws!

Lyrics
The lyrics are inside of me
And I just feel completely free
All of my cares just wash away
And I find peace, if for a day.

Wrinkled Sea (one of my first poems)
Hello to the wrinkled sea;
My last and only friend.
Little more is left to me-
On the shore of world's end.
 
Bumping. Didn't want to make a new thread for fiction. So putting some of my old fiction here. And I guess some poetry.

Here's the first chapter of a novel I was / am working on. Heavily improved the setting, though, so this version of the first chapter is meh.

There was a time, an ancient day
When all the children learned to say,
"Gods above us, Gods below
Gods upon us gifts bestow."
And we still retain the gifts of old;
The Gods remain completely bold;
But the Gods are here no more;
Bound and beaten in the war.

We used to know them, were acquainted;
We knew those pure and knew those tainted;
They walked among us, Gods and men;
But many years have passed since then.

                                                          -Kaid

Chapter One

He was an orphan, Hapara. Homeless for most of his life, even in Hallar, capital city of the Blessed Kingdom, Resh. The amount of orphans would cause one to wonder how genuine the city's prosperity really was - yet every part of the city reeked of wealth and luxury. The city's richness and relative safety was undeniable, as was it's heartlessness. Hapara was, at the age of fourteen, having borne more than his fair share of trials, adopted by a priest, and initiated into the service of his Goddess, Reshamot, the Goddess of Light, and of Prosperity. She was the Goddess of truth, and of good. Yet in her absence, it seems all the good had fled, perhaps to some distant land, perhaps to the realm in which it's Goddess was.

But Hapara had not allowed his trials to overcome his faith. He was devoted to Reshamot, with all of his heart and all of his soul. Though he had lived a troubled life, he had never given up his hope. He did not have much else. He was of a frail, small, feminine figure. As one forced to scavenge for food, or to beg for what little the prosperous would spare, he could hardly be expected to show wonderful health. Living on the streets had not spared him from disease, either, and he had been starved and diseased when the Lower Priest Porin had found him and subsequently taken him in. The priests, seemed to be more compassionate than the rest of the populace - quite appropriately, Hapara thought, as it would be a terrible irony if the Angel of Light, as She was sometimes called, were served by cruel wretches. Hapara soon learned, unfortunately, that while sometimes kinder, many cared for orphans only out of duty, and were as cold as any other.

Growing as one of the many servant-boys of the temple, Hapara was assigned rather tiresome and menial duties. He would clean, prepare food, and assist with the worship services. He would help bring sacrifices and candles. His role was not one to be envied. It was filled mostly by orphans such as himself, and his fellow temple-boys were not given anything close to luxury, though their conditions were an obvious upgrade from the streets and orphanages. The orphans were looked down upon by most of the priests, and Hapara did not particularly enjoy the company of the other orphans. He shared the opinion commonly held among the priests - that most of the boys were distasteful and blasphemous folk. Regardless of his dislike for his fellow servants, he appreciated the opportunity to study the ways of his Goddess, and the honor - for he thought of it as such - of staying in Her Temple.

None of his companions stayed at the temple past adulthood - religious service, it seems, had not borne any appeal in their eyes. Some had taken up regular jobs and some had become warriors - though Resh was not currently engaged in any major wars, it still fought off bandits and went on occasional crusades. Hapara alone had remained at the temple, and had formally initiated the training of a Priest, though he had been prepared for it since being taken in. After a year or two or training, he would be expected to trek into the mountains, to seek a personal connection to Reshamot - a priest was required to have communicated with his Goddess. And he, having chosen the path of a priest, would have gone. He would have gone, if he had not talked with Reshamot far earlier than expected. Far, far earlier than expected.

Hapara had grown into a young man - nineteen years old. He bore short, dark brown hair, dark enough to appear black when not under a sunny sky. He bore eyes which glimmered with hope, but which reflected nervousness, hesitation, at nearly all times. They were a solid green, save for a single slice of red in his left. It's presence was unexplained - perhaps the result of a previous impact to the eye, or perhaps it had always been present. Growing in the temple, he had not ventured outdoors enough to receive any noticeable tan or tinge. He was quite pale, and he was no model of strength. He was shorter than most, though not far from average. He bore some muscle, mostly due to his days in the temple, where he was well-fed and where he was given much work to build his strength. He was evidently well fed, and although far from fat, he was not the starving orphan he had once been. He wore a robe colored gold and white, the colors associated with the Angel of Light. He wore a necklace with her symbol, that of the sun, made of gold, and multiple golden bracelets upon his wrists. Priests, even priests in training, were dressed as one would expect from what was called 'the golden city.'

And Hapara had been chosen. Chosen by his Goddess, Reshamot, and for a task of unprecedented honor. It was early in the morning. Early enough for most of the city to be asleep. The sun had not yet woken - it still slept under the dark outline of the towers of Hallar, and of the mountains surrounding it. Hapara was kneeling in front of Reshamot's Throne - named so despite the fact that She had never actually sat on it - praying. The prayer room was one well illuminated at all times - when the sun did not shine through the glass ceiling, the torches covering the walls were lit. The room was beautiful. Golden walls with jewels embedded every here and there. The room was located at the top of a small tower, and every side possessed huge windows which stretched from floor to ceiling. At this time, however, the windows did little to improve the atmosphere. He had come early, so as to not get in the way of the priests' devotions, and as such he was unable to experience the full glory of the prayer room. And yet, he was content. To pray was enough. And praying he was - he offered up familiar, established verses of praise:

Our Goddess bright of Truth and Light;
I offer praise for all the days
You've given me and for the chance to be
Your willing slave unto my grave.

Hapara's mind wandered somewhat. He could not help but think that these verses, though with words which shone with devotion, were utterly impersonal, damaged beyond repair by the mere fact that they were being repeated, and not simply spoken. He thought that, maybe, having a personal connection with the Angel of Light meant being able to talk to Her. Knowing how. But, couldn't he talk to Her regardless of whether or not he 'knew' Her?

I ask your light to grant me might;
To make me true always to you;
To give me peace that shall not cease;
To guarantee prosperity.

The priests themselves used verses such as these - though ones considered to be of a higher level, unsuited for the common worshipper. Hapara's mind continued to wander; if the priests use these memorized verses, there must be something to them - they wouldn't repeat these ancient devotions if they were any less worthy than simply talking to Her. As a mere apprentice, Hapara reasoned that his understanding was limited. He thought of asking one of the priests about this matter. Porin had always been sympathetic to him - the other priests might react harshly to any attempt to question their traditions. Hapara realized he had been thinking a bit too long - that he'd been thinking an awful lot in between the verses, much more than would be acceptable as a slight wandering of the mind. He was ashamed, and mentally scolded himself.

Light my way and bless this day;
And-

Hapara had barely finished the first line when a pain struck him. A horrible, terrible pain. It came from inside of his head, and he could barely resist the ever-increasing urge to scream. Light flooded his vision, and opening his eyes had no effect - all he could see was bright, perhaps the brightest he'd ever seen, white light. His hands came to his head and he pressed on it's sides - the pain was incredible, and... and it was gone. The light was still there, but the pain had subsided. Reshamot came into view, and he realized this must be some sort of vision. She was magnificent. Her hair was bright, and golden, reaching the ground and laying on it. She bore two magnificent angelic wings. Her skin shone. She wore armor, if it could be called that, consisting of plates of golden metal, on her chest and on her legs, and underneath that white cloth. And all this despite the fact that, in a fight between Gods, armor really had no purpose. Her eyes were a bright red, and there was a fierceness in them. She was not an idle Goddess, nor a cowardly one.

Hapara really had very little time to observe the Angel of Light's features before She spoke. And she began speaking, her tone gentle and strong. Wise and knowing. "Hapara."

She paused. Hapara breathed hard, his heart pounding. He spoke with nervousness infiltrating every syllable, venturing to ask, "You... you know my name? How?"

Reshamot smiled, and replied, "I am the Goddess of Light - you know this much. Truth, like light, reveals the hidden, and I control both. Even in my captivity, though my hold on them is weakened."

Hapara gulped hard. He spoke, though he spoke trembling, shaking, and stuttering. "My... my Goddess, why have you contacted me?"

Reshamot spoke once more, saying, "We Gods are trapped. Sealed. You know this, of course. Our seals are magical artifacts, hidden around the world in places known to none of us. Destroy one of our respective seals, and he who that seal imprisoned shall return to this world. I had intended to wait, to prepare my kingdom for my return, and to learn the exact locations of all the seals. However, Tega's human kingdom, Ornos, is moving to release Tega as we speak. They know where his seal is. We have very little time. The Trickster God of Wrath could unleash unspeakable evil if not challenged."

Hapara listened, speechless, and amazed. After a rather long pause, he ventured to say, "And... you... you want me to help with releasing you? But... why me?"

Reshamot replied, serenely, "Yes. I do. Do you really question why? It's because you're special, Hapara. You are innocent. Pure. Undefiled. Even in this city, the city of light, corruption is present. You know this. You lived your life as an orphan while everybody else enjoyed the blessings and pleasures of prosperity. I'm afraid my power over morality has weakened, and humans require constant guidance. They are evil by nature, and without me...

"You understand, surely." She continued, "I need somebody pure. Somebody who can resist the callings of the Dark Gods. They are all well versed in deceit, and weaker men would fall to corruption. You, however, are pure! Gold hidden in the dirt. And this is why I need you. You lack strength, and you lack knowledge. But you have purity, and that is the greatest trait of all. I wield great power, and great wisdom, and they will be yours. You will help me, Hapara. I know it, because I know you."

Hapara looked up, and managed, "Of course, my Goddess. My... my life is yours! Tell me what I have to do, and I will do it."

Reshamot smiled once more, her smile bright and serene. She replied, "I know, Hapara. You are not yet experienced. I have mentioned this. Normally, I would have you train with the priests first. There is not, however, enough time for this. I will speak to the High Priest, and he will know of your quest. You will need to prepare for a long journey, and he will help. You will also need allies, and I am sure you can find these among the few just Gods.. You will need money, and you will need food. The priests will provide these, and I shall have to triain you myself."

Hapara managed a few words, "Yourself? But... h... how?"

She paused, and then she said, "Through your dreams. It is an easy task to make your dreams identical to reality, and an easier task to make you remember all you learn. I will speak to you again soon, Hapara. For now, speak to Porin. Begin your journey to the capital of Daisha's kingdom. Kren." She smiled one last smile, and it was serene. And it was beautiful.

Hapara's vision faded to reality, and he found himself on his knees, sweating hard. He rose, trembling, shaking, and looked out of the window at the now rising sun.

My Goddess...

Some random writing I did based on a sentence that came into my head.

She was much like a withered flower. Her appearance was far from appealing or beautiful, yet there was every possible indicator that she had once been glorious, though perhaps a long time ago. Though now withered and scarred, one could almost take a glimpse into her face of the past - almost, but not quite. The structure allowed it, but the damage was too great to heal by any mere effort of imagination. Her form, once splendid to behold, had reformed itself into something else entirely.

"Chris," she spoke. Her voice was rough, coarse, though as with her appearance, there remained a hint - a hint, and nothing more - of some former seductress's voice. She spoke with an edge, an edge which she drove hard, an air of dominance and of power in her tone. She continued, her voice rough, "do be a sweetheart and fetch me some tea. And call Mose. I'll have a discussion with him. A private one. You have no objections, yes." The question was, of course, rhetorical, though she did not allow it to sound anything like a question.

Chris, a somewhat fat man, rose from his seat. It was a plain metal chair, in a room which was much like the chair. There were no windows in this room, and for good reasons, for it had once been used for purposes which were extremely private. The room once had contained many decorations. There were some charred remnants of what was once a bright red carpet on the ground. Splinters from what was once a frame lay in several places among the wall, the hooks still remaining in the wall.

She waited for a few minutes. She thought. She had much to think about, for there was something of a war raging. The war was not one of soldiers, however. It was one of mages and machinery. The woman was a sorceress, an incredibly powerful one. She had been born with gifts, great gifts. She was what was called a Prodigy, a sorceror capable of not only using magic with great skill but also understanding the unfathomable force of magic. Most could hope to achieve only a very minor understanding - perhaps enough to randomly alter spells, though usually without any hope of predicting their results. She, however, was capable of inventing spells from scratch - a legendary feat, considering that most mages operated purely on a basis of memorization. Understanding, however, is not exactly the right term for her gift. In truth, she understood little of magic itself. However, she had a feel for magic. She could instinctually bend it to her will. Though she could not explain the depths of magic, she could very easily manipulate it.

Chris returned with a cup filled with something barely resembling tea. In truth, it was a few very old leaves boiled in what 'water' they had available, really more like filtered, irradiated mud. Compared to the alternatives, it was something like fine wine. A pale old man entered with him, his appearance making him appear much older than he was, though he was very old nonetheless. He was a man of experience, and his experiences had failed to benefit him more than they hurt him. At the very least, however, he was an experienced spellcaster and made up for all his weakness in his intellect. If not for his disabilities, he would be a mage far surpassing the woman. Her name was Rose. It was a fitting name, some would argue.

He cleared his throat. His voice was nothing like his appearance - it would be hard to believe he could possibly have been the speaker. There was, however, no other possible speaker in the room. He spoke in a commanding, masculine voice, overflowing with willpower. "What is it, Rose?"

Rose smiled, her scarred and well withered face taking on a somewhat brighter and more attractive appearance. She took the tea from Chris, took a sip of it, and thanked him. He walked away, and when he had left, she spoke. "Mose. You know the situation, do you not?"

Mose smiled a smile of his own. It was a grim smile, with no joy whatsoever. If anything, the smile only darkened his weathered face. "All too well. I assume there's been some change?" He smirked and remarked, voice deep in sarcasm, "Perhaps we've a magical spell to destroy robots? Oh, that would be the day."

Rose's smiled took on a darker tone as well. She replied in a voice much softer and friendlier, an obvious sign of her affection for the man. "No. We have reason to believe that CR is on to us. Their machines get closer and closer to our bases. Some of our outposts have been raided. We've little choice but to attack. But how?"

The old man shuffled a bit, and walked over to the chair Chris had sat on, one of two. Rose chose to remain standing. She was in an inquisitive mood, and she much preffered to stand. She felt much more thoughtful when on her feet. He thought for more than a few minutes, before replying. "Evidently, we have little hope of fighting him. As soon as we make ourselves known, his robots will come down on us like demons from hell, come to raid us of our souls. Until we can train the apprentices to a better degree, we can only try and inconvenience him to some degree or another. Has he upgraded his software, yet?"

Rose thought for a moment, then spoke once more, her tone deeply serious. "Not to my knowledge. The robots can still be reprogrammed. However, they are easily detected and I doubt they are worth the effort. Many fall simply trying to deploy them safely. Nearby jetpacks come like flies to a corpse."

The old man thought. Neither he nor Rose could think of anything to say. Finally, Mose spoke. "You have a taste for the dramatic. What edge are you hiding? Or did you really disturb my old bones just to ruin my day?"

Rose smiled. "You know me too well, friend." She waited a minute or two, and then finally spoke. "We may have a small edge. While I was... meditating, thinking, really, I came in touch with the flow. I believe I have something. It's... powerful. Call it a miracle, if you will..."

Aaand an experiment in train of consciousness.

Jale looked upon the mountains in all of their beauty and he thought for a moment that this was all he needed. That this was what he'd fought to protect and this was his prize. This - this beauty. The world. The mountains, the sky. The sun rising, sending light through the mountains, sending light to the world. And he dropped his sword, his hand as bloody as his blade, and he stood upon the corpses of his enemies, and he cried. And he looked around. And he saw the dead. He walked through the plains. They were beautiful. So very beautiful. He'd tainted them with blood, and why? To protect this. To protect the world. But why? Was he protecting anybody at all? Had he simply killed for any reason at all? He saw his friend. Kirlia was dead. He'd loved her, at one time, but she hadn't shared his feelings. She fought with him. He couldn't save her. And he cried more. And the sun was setting now and the sky was red and the light streamed through the mountains and he was the only one alive. He'd fought the kingdom. And maybe he'd done right, but had he, really? To protect a few small tribes. What of all the families and all the villages? The kingdom had done wrong and the kingdom had tried to end this - this beauty, this everything - but what of it's civilians? Had they deserved the scars of wars and the horror of death? He was now a hero and a monster but he wasn't sure what he was. But there was this beauty. Even with the smell of death and with the blood and with the dead and with his friends and with his enemy. All of them dead. And him responsible. And he looked at the sky again. Tears stained his cheek. He'd won but had it been worth it? He couldn't say. His friends were dead and he was a hero. He had defended the innocent and he had destroyed the unrighteous but he'd killed those who knew no better and whom he couldn't save. And yet it was necessary. He'd fought evil. But he'd fought evil with evil and maybe this was the problem? Was there anything else he could've done? Had he not intervened, would the world be any better? Would the march of the dragoncasters unite the world? But the scars of war and of magic would destroy this. This beauty. This beauty. This beauty. These mountains. And he turned, and he saw Mount Harren, and he saw it. And it bled. And it burned with the eternal fires of magic. And maybe if war had continued, everything would have been like this. And he had saved this. And yet was it worth it? Was the blood of the many an appropriate sacrifice for a tribe and it's trees? But he saw the blood of the magic and the scars of the magic. And was it worth it? And was it worth it? He couldn't tell. He couldn't tell. Was it worth it? His chin was soaked. He tasted salt. It was the bitterness of victory. And was it worth it?

He couldn't tell.

AAAAAAAND a poem. I think this one turned out really well.
Give life to me, and I will take
And grip of death; I shall forsake.
Give wings to me, and I will fly
My mortal chains I will deny.

Deliver me to freedom true
To greener grass; and brighter blue
Take pains to save - my soul from hell
And all your pains, I'll repay well.

Vanquish all wrong, in world I love
And we will soar; to sky above
And save us from the lies we sow
And protect us, from lies we know.

Deliver me, to people free
To greener grass, a place for me
Deliver me from earthly doom
This earthly world, my mortal tomb.
 
worldbuilding

The sands of Flaanar were harsh, and unforgiving. Dune-spiders, blind and deaf, waited, only feet below the surface of the sun-scorched sands. They were weak, easily fought off, but there were thousands - no, tens of thousands - and they all waited. A step too heavy or a stumble could mean the death of any unwary traveller.

This is why they were careful. This is why they didn't walk at all. Neik was not a magician, himself, and as with all of untainted blood, he held a fear of magic. Yet he had travelled with Ran for a long time. Or, no, not a long time - a few weeks. For him, it was long. In his line of work, he made few friends, and kept less. They walked, or so it appeared, but the spell (which Ran had dubbed 'featherfoot', much easily pronounceable than it's arcane name) kept their steps inches above the ground. It was useful. No spider would awaken from it's sleep - for they slept long hours - and were one to surface, it would sense nothing to alarm it.

They were travelling together. Neik, career thief, and Ran, magician by curse. Neither was particularly fond of the other's occupation, but they both were vile enough to enjoy the company of the other. Ran was no seeker, though he mirrored a seeker's ruthlessness and knowledge. Yet he was no magician by choice - no grim reaper - and the thief recognized this. He was an immoral man, of an immoral trade, but he would partner with no seeker! They were vile, and somehow, he felt better than them. It was an obvious conclusion to make - they murdered, and he stole, - but there was something deeper. An obvious something. A lack of empathy for the betrodden, for the poor, with all their misery and death. Their lono and their sweetleaf, their eye-rot and their sand plague... He wasn't much better than the seekers. He was self-restrained.

He liked to think there was more to it, though.  He liked to think he did what he had to do, and that he was a common man, enemy to the noble. These were lies, of course. He was friend to himself. And, maybe, to Ran, by virtue of shared vices. But they couldn't travel indefinitely. Cursed or seeker, he was a magician, sorcerer, patron of death. His art was cancerous, and it would, inevitably, afflict his surroundings. It had to. The danger of sorcery was well known - the 'root and fruit of death' was an aptly given title. Shadowbrights or selfishness, his art was the same, and Neik worried for his own safety.

But they were almost there, and he was sure his departure could wait. They were travelling to Highguard, footstool of the great mountain. It was the closest city from Sandcreek, and the thief hoped to find some safety there. He knew not of Ran's motivation for travelling there. He knew magicians travelled often, unwilling to dwell in their own blight, but Highguard was hardly an obvious choice. Many sorcerers would take to the plains, entering villages only for harvests. Accumulated souls were problematic, building up misfortune and eventually forming wisps. This alone would be enough to deter magicians - that they could hear the voices of the dead was only the icing on the cake.

For these reasons, Neik didn't understand Ran travelling to Highguard. It was a den of chaos, wellspring of poverty, where the smell of urine was almost as strong as the smell of death. An entire city addicted - be it to sweetleaf or lono, dune-fang or drakescale. The guild made sure of that. Lono in the water, dune-fang in the air. Breathe too hard and you'd get a quarter-high. No freebies, of course - that would be bad for business. But just enough. And then they had you, and you'd be hooked, and you'd pay 50 stones a day - and that for an ounce. An ounce! Any other city, and you'd get two for a stone, but Highguard was special. And it was insulated. Few could get in, and few could get out - the dune-spiders made sure of that. Add to this misery rumors of magicians and the occasional wisp - sometimes a great wisp - and you had Highguard, city of hell, guard of the mountain.

So why did Ran want in?

Neik didn't know.
 
this one was fun

There was a man, young Braxton White, who lived only to see
The day that whites and blacks alike would dine at KFC
He tired much of eating there and seeing negro skin
And only black, no trace of white, and God, this was a sin!

He was no judge of character, or not, at least, by race
But for the kind that were his kin he hungered for a trace.
He only sought for skin as white as cock-flesh that he ate -
Or perhaps hen, he couldn't tell, 'twas trivial to debate -
But hungered he, oh, sought his soul, to see a fellow white
To see his pearly skin shining under the dining light.

What joys he'd have, what greatest glee, to see one of his kin!
To maybe share a glance or two with man of kindred skin
Or woman, Lord, what greatest joy! What happy circumstance
For man and girl to meet and eat and with their glances dance.
But this was just not meant to be and he was all alone
A whiteskin there in KFC, in nation not his own;
Yet hoped he did, each night and day, for sweet diversity!
For races mixed with kin and not, for sweet whiteskin equality!

But forces mighty, more than him, were in the playing field
And these forces no compromise or victory would yield
There was a plot, conspiracy, of this he had no doubt
And in his KFC he knew there were devils about.
He was a man, and only one, but he would not desist
He'd preach and shout this gospel truth and he'd always resist
On tabletop, 'tween breaks to feast, he'd preach to brothers black
'Resist, dear brothers! Fight our foes, and bring the white man back!
Dear brothers black, do you recall the times when we were young?
When there was no one dining caste, when KFC was fun?'

His preaching fell on tired ears and few would heed his call
Yet some, black angels, would respond and rise before them all
And they would shout, 'Equality!' until the sirens rang
And out they'd go, Braxton and them, but they'd be back again.
They didn't hope this fight to win, for hoping was in vain
They knew their hope was vanity and hoping was insane
So casting off the chains of hope, they fought with wills of steel
And Kings of KFC to them, if they fought hard, would kneel.
For what a hope, oh, what hope did they fight so hard for
To go beyond equality and bring something that's more
Not simply equals to the blacks, but fellow diners too
To bring about the kind of peace that all the Elite rue.

Oh what a world, what grand illusion did our Braxton picture
A world wherein all races formed a single stable mixture
Where cock or hen could be devoured by races black and white
Where looking to a table near, he'd see a pearly sight
Be it a man or woman white, he said he didn't care
(Because to say he'd want the latter he couldn't quite dare.)
Imagine it! A KFC where more than blacks would eat
Where all races could sit and eat, and more than that could meet
Where no forces of darkness bred and kept the whites at bay
Where justice had prevailed and sent the overlords away
Away with all their test subjects and hideous desires
Leaving a haven where pure good many poets inspires
A model for utopias to in the future follow
Free of hatred and other emotions that are hollow.
 
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