STILL THE POETIC IRONY REMAINS:

For Rhea:

I have nothing but my weariness
As I weakly wander: lost, afraid;
Searching for the hidden answers
To this deception I have made.

At last my vengeful shadow
Could no longer be contained,
As my grief and hate errupted
Both wild and unrestrained;

But measured 'gainst your beauty,
It ceased, and then refrained.

My vengeful shadow paused:
Repentant and ashamed,
Betraying my intentions,
It learned to love again ...

From the longing fear-filled cries
Of your streaming tear-filled eyes ...

Thus, renouncing wasteful wretchedness,
And forgetting all my woes,
I am healed by your forgiveness,
And the grace that it bestows.

Laurence "Valhenstrogg" Hay

REUNION UPON THE RIVER STYX:

The Wretched Passage Of The Damned:

I gave my ticket to the boatman to pay him for my passage. I found his features both pleasing and profound, in that stark and fleshless manner so oft befitting of his kind. To pass the time he would amuse himself by laughing softly, as one distracted, by both the untold darkness of this, his unnamed dwelling place, as well as the ageless tedium of performing this, his dark and thankless task.

Once his laughter had subsided, and the silence within which he brought his dismal craft to drift across The Channel of Forgotten Souls had for some moments been resumed, I braved so much as then to ask him the sacred question, which had been burned with the might of The Infernal Heat of Irons, upon my bare and wicked flesh; however, cautious as I was, not to reveal to him the untold secret of my journey, I could immediately perceive that he was both afraid and loathe to answer.

His eyes wavered, deep pools of madness, solitude and memory, looking ever inward toward himself, searching his vast forbidden knowledge of the past, as the sudden dark import of the unholy message, enshrined so boldly now upon the weak and wicked flesh of the figure standing at once before him, brought an ancient shriveled tear unto his pale and fleshless visage.

Never before, within the long unnumbered years of time, had The Seven Words of the Abomination been written in their pure and truest form, scrawled within the fresh-bleeding wounds of The Lost Child of the Divine. Never before, within the unfathomed sufferings of each and every untold age, had one such as I been chosen to bear The Wretched Markings, upon his mortal flesh. Never before, had The Mighty Hand of Death been swayed, reduced to bitter tears of shame and glistening smiles of gladness, by the quiet innocence of a weak and forgotten child, to allow me this most forbidden passage.

Upon the apt completion of our crossing, as the huddled weeping figure of the boatman knelt dejectedly before me, murmuring prayers in ancient long-forgotten tongues and bestowing gentle fleshless kisses upon my blistered feet, he seemed at once to know, that at long last, his lost and once-forgotten master had returned.

AN EMPIRE FALLS:

Or, Yet Another Evening At The Table:

The command went forth: "Hold your ground at all costs!" For the war had been raging for year after year, and now, slowly but perceptibly, the empire was crumbling.

The lizardmen of the south, their scaly green coats covered with slime -- they were the first to invade, bright spears and mirror shields coming out of the very waters around us, surrounding us on all sides. Our soldiers were strong and brave, but what could we do against the encroaching horde? It was all we could do simply to cut our way through. Retreating to a stronghold, we gathered supplies and prayed that they would not break through.

Of course, in the face of this terrible threat, our allies to the east came to our rescue! Prince Azule, Leader of Hosts, came to aid us with his tall, proud warships, filled with mighty men. Or so we thought...

Treachery was afoot. The Blue Prince was not come to aid us -- he was come to destroy us. Slaughtering the royal welcome, the eastern invading force fell upon our flank and crushed it.
We fled for our lives.

But this is history now. All we have left is this small piece of land -- there is no more room to retreat. With our backs to the western sea, we fight only to hold the coastline, nothing more. If we lose it, we are lost.

The battle lines were drawn up, lizardmen and false eastern allies together, facing our small, sorry force. The trumpet call to charge went out from their lines, and the huge army lumbered forward to engage us. Each of our soldiers readied weapons, and prepared to meet the charge.

All of a sudden, the charge stopped -- the massive army halted in its tracks. We stared - had we been given a reprieve? Had peace talks been going on without our knowledge?

Puzzled, we looked around for some clue to explain. No other armies were in view, neither allied reinforcements coming to our rescue, nor even more soldiers come to join our enemies.

Then we looked behind us, and stopped, horrified. Black ships with black sails filled the ocean. Mishar of Sable, Emperor of the Western Sea -- our ancient enemy -- only he had such ships. Hope sank within us. Trapped between forces, we broke and fled.

That was yesterday. Today, our empire is no more, only a broken dream, a half-formed thought that might never have been.

NAUTICAL CATASTROPHE:

Sailing Upon The Voyage Of The Seasons:

The spring had come, and many were well pleased by its promises of warmth and gracious mercy from the bitterness of winter's cold: the wind was both vibrant and alive with the sounds of laugher, friendship and flowers' blossoming; the sun above seemed stronger in the sky, providing life unto all the lowly green and growing things; and the water from the mighty engines of the fabled Lucitania burbled almost happily, as she stirred from her gentle night of slumber, upon a nearby sandspit, containing both untold mysteries and secret dreams.

The summer had arrived, and many were most gladened by its promises of certain joy and respite from their toils: the mountains sharpened in the valiant light, as myths and legends of both long and forgotten times were told during the bright and starry nights; the rivers traversed and travelled by the fabled Lucitania coursed through simple lands with their elusive, shimmering whiles, attracting all who loved relief and sparkling things to be captured by their bold allure; and the forests slowly swayed and grew, as the children of the gentle peasant folk would frolic beneath their lean and twisted branches.


The autumn had arrived, and the many who had once had reason of gladdness, dance and song, were now slowly saddened afterwards, by its promises of ruin and decay, which seemed now to threaten and consume all that which they had once held dear: the falling stars grew dim within the failing wonders of the night, as laughter turned almost suddenly to anger, sacrifice and tears; the naked ones lie still, lifeless and afraid, prone within their meagre wooden prisons, buried beneath the harsh and hardening earth; the once-clean and vibrant waters of this weary world are usurped now of their former strength and gladness, as the deadly and enfeebling passage of the fabled Lucitania draws them on, with grave abandon, toward their own inescapable and ever-present doom.

The winter has come, and many who had once lived to breathe the clean and refreshing air of these clear and contented days, linger onward only as whispers and vague perceptions, obliterated and undone by the wrath contained within the atom itself: as their shadows deeply burn into the brickwork, and their bodies quickly melt, flowing at once together through the decimated streets, at the dawning of this sudden artificial sun; coursing briefly, for but the slimmest shred of immeasurable time, as the mountains crumble inward upon themselves, and the oceans are at once emptied by the force of things to come, the fabled Lucitania, lowly harbinger of the apocalypse, traverses these innocent, embittered souls; sailing swiftly, through the running, liquified remains of those which she had slain.

A SIMPLE SOLDIER:

That's all we want, ale and whores. Preferably whores without fleas, to take our minds off things. The world's coming to an early end, and we're the first in line to die tomorrow.

Oh, I know. We're supposed to be the Honour Guard, the master strategists, the elite tactical infantry force that can take any punishment and still complete the mission. But tomorrow we die. And tonight, I'm only a simple soldier, and my wants are simple. A little forgetfulness and a little pleasure.

I've never been a fatalist before. We've fought uncountable hordes of enemies, and my resolve was strong. We would prevail. You see, it doesn't matter what happens. After tomorrow, no children will ever be born again. Our pleasure slaves and professionals cannot provide for us, and all the others are against us.

Perhaps we did wrong. Perhaps we were too harsh to them, when we held sway. Perhaps we were fearful of their power over us.

I don't think so. If our positions were reversed, if we served them, then we would have rebelled faster.

Forget all this.
A simple soldier, that's all.

Oh, Adonis, why? I loved you. I loved the music our bodies made as you thrust into me. I gave you everything I could, even to bearing your child. No slave had better. And now you sentence us all to oblivion.

A PICTURE OF PEACE:

A figure, silhouetted against the night sky, reaching out to the stars. Around her, a pile of bodies, lifeless marionnettes, strings cut long before time. Each with the same shocked, horrified expression. What puppeteer would make such terrifying dolls? This scene of carnage, of brutality and destruction far beyond description - what artist would paint this picture?

The tyrant, of course. She for whom ships would sail, for whom countless men would fight and die. True Helen of Troy, in all of her bloody glory, her angelic halo only given more vigour and beauty by the lives stolen, the bodies broken.

At the centre, she stands, reaching out to grasp even more, the artist of destruction, with beauty beyond beauty. What would men say of her delicate features, of her luscious curves, high, pointed breasts and firm, rounded buttocks? And yet, how many men have fallen into the whirlpool of her gaze, mesmerized by her eyes, and remain trapped forever, to become just another body on the growing pile? And how many women, courageous and proud, fighting to save their weak men from drowning, have looked, just once, and found the beauty that could not be overcome, the deathly grace, alluring, sinuous and deadly?

The weapon in her hand is an afterthought, thrown hastily in. What need has she of rifles, she whom no one would harm, for whom all would bow and die? A goddess she was, death incarnate, come in power. Death and beauty, and no thought remains.

FROM "THE JOURNALS OF A MINOR PRIEST OF THE SACRED OUTER CHAMBER":

She Came As One Transfixed By The Very Depths Of Wickedness:

"Your search for happiness within these broken sheaves is not yet utterly in vain; despite the overwhelming danger of these dreary and disheartening times, each seed of innocence and hope shall grow, to yeild the righteous fruits of heavenly reward."

Another humble messenger from the dusty fields, come unto The Sacred Outer Chamber, seeking to disuade those who would place their faith within The One Light and Wisdom of the Golden Calf, our only true benefactor, our only solitary care-taker, our only taste of the divine, promising salvation.

"I have seen his mighty face, and I have heard his voice in dreams. He grants us the bounty of his harvest, and provides for us as guests, at his feasting table. All the long years of our lives shall be savoured, within the wonderous blessings he would see bestown upon his people."

Her voice alive with fervour and conviction, her eyes alight with some dark unholy fire, she strives to see all that we have built condemned; she labours that our teachings, and the will of the divine, be written simply upon the hearts and minds of we, The Sacred People. She scoffs at our knowledge, our purpose, our resolve, and desires that others may be lead astray, to the doom she has prepared for them. We cannot allow one so blasphemous and wretched as she to live a moment longer upon this, Our Sacred Earth.

"Your bands of flame and hatred cannot hold me, for I am sent from he of whom I speak; and it is but his sacred message which I have been bidden, upon this monumentous day of days, to share with you, in all the fulfillment of its glory. Your whips and irons, flails and chains will not drive this holy message from my tender heart; I will not be corrupted by your lust for blood, nor gold, nor power."

A raving lunatic, contented by her madness, in need of the firm correction of our ever-loving and judicious hands. A helpless, demented fool, shattered by some dark unholy vision, spawned from her long life of commonness and sin. We felt no pity for her, nor any shreds of reason behind her lying tongue: which is why her tainted blood shall feed the righteous thirst of The One Most High; which is why these unholy visions shall be soundly forced from her broken body, with staves and stones and knives; which is why we find her worthy of this most sanctified and loving punishment, that The Sacred People might learn from her delusion and mistake, to seek the peerless visage of The One Most High.