man_of_culture3030

This is a story of a guy who loses everything, and then gets it back.

Same old new world story, just a different kind of story teller.

***

They took away our hunter tags.

They had us grow our hair.

They gave us a new brand, when we were over there.

They staged us out of Dragur, East of the Olim Horn.

I guess they call us Slaves, but no one calls us much anymore.

There is no fun in killing.

I don't want to do it anymore.

Karn brought Sorrow.

Pookie brought Fear.

Milk brought the fly boys.

They did work in Undia.

I worked mostly clandestine.

Some Legends I should not say.

We played with better wands.

I could use the extra pay.

Did Mara give the order?

Did venom pay the way?

They said we were slaying demons, but it was kind of hard to tell.

There is no fun in killing.

I don't want to do it anymore.

This was before HALO, and Codex was king.

Hej atop the rider, he never felt a thing.

When our rider caught a spell, and both the mages killed.

It pitched us over sideways on some cold Sylph hill.

My back felt like it was broken, my legs I could not feel.

I kept on slaying demons, but it was kind of hard to tell.

There is no fun in killing.

I don't want to do it anymore.

I never did heal up right from injuries sustained

Officially in Torin, unofficially we train.

I remember all their faces.

They dream about me still.

I guess I'm slaying demons, but it's kind of hard to tell.

There no fun in killing.

I don't want to do it anymore.

I speak the cold logistic, that old boys speak so well.

Veni, Vedi, Vici.

I'll see you in Hel.

Maybe it's bravado, or an unspeakable guilt.

That village, they were demons, but it was kind of hard to tell.

There is no fun in killing.

I don't wanna to do it anymore.

I've done plenty.

What is one more?

-Corb Lund


***

Come guess me this riddle.

What beats shire leaves and fiddle?

What is hotter than pleasures touch, and whiter than cream?

What best wets his whistle?

What is clearer than crystal?

What is sweeter than honey and stronger than steam?

What will make the lame walk?

What will make the dumb talk?

What is the elixir of life and philosopher's stone?

And what helped Pookie-Baba dig up a tunnel, that runs from Shalamanda to West-Torin?

When you are digging a crater, It is the best thing in nature, for sinking your sorrows and raising your joys.

Sometimes I wonder, if lightning and thunder, is made out of the plunder, of the reddest hiski and oils.

***

If you can keep your head when all about you, are losing theirs and blaming it on you.

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, but make allowance for their doubting too.

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, or being lied about, don’t deal in lies, or being hated, don’t give way to hating,

And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise.

If you can dream, and not make dreams your master.

If you can think, and not make thoughts your aim.

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster, and treat those two impostors just the same.

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken, twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, and stoop and build them up with worn-out tools.

If you can make one heap of all your winnings, and risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss and lose, and start again at your beginnings, and never breathe a word about your loss.

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew, to serve your turn long after they are gone, and so hold on when there is nothing in you; Except the Will which says to them ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, nor walk with Kings, nor lose the common touch.

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you.

If all men count with you, but none too much.

If you can fill the unforgiving minute, with sixty seconds worth of distance, run.

Yours is the World and everything that’s in it, and which is more you’ll be a Man, my son.

- Rudyard Kipling

To Sleep In The Sea Of Time

Telm'en the shaman raises his hands and the crusty black paint on his pale skin cracks and chips.

The vol-skin loin cloth he wears around his waist is the only garment covering the thin frame; every inch of his body is covered in dried black paint.

He addresses his tribe, hidden within the thick and humid forest that houses a branch of the river Kiti.

Those listening to his words are all so pale that they hide from the sun underneath the cover that is expertly made from the large leaves and vines available.

Many shrill voices cry as if struck painfully.

"Without God Grajia, we will be attacked by the Scale Tribe, and the Mud Tribe!"

"They will come during the fire moon! When we are at our weakest!"

A woman high off spotted mushrooms shout wildly, receiving beast-like noises of agreement from others.

"Those that killed God Grajia must die!"

Depth Of Mankind